MSPA Fanfiction VI: Trashy Rainbow Drinker Fanfiction

[appositeNautilus]

@Evy: Man, that timeship just keeps gathering momentum. Catwalk!Dave is adorkable.

@Katrika: Why did you write this? Now I have all the sad. All of it.

[Jim Groovester]

@PingZing: That was a great chapter. I think Stratet is hilarious. "What did Tarfus do wrong? Nothing! He just sucks."

@anonymousComrade: I like the style you've written this in, like repeating "Get up" and the breaks between sections. I also like seeing a different interpretation of Karkat's ancestor as well.

And I'm hoping there will be a cutthroat fic battle between the two of you but that's probably not in the spirit of the thread so I should probably avoid encouraging something like that so please continue writing excellent Karkat ancestor fics at your own pace to your own tastes.

Fight fight fight fight fight fight.

[zebtrestalala]

Red Dead Sagittarius, Part 3 Part 2 Part 1

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GC: ITS EASY TAVVROS I NEED YOU TO BREAK INTO A HIGH SECURITY PRISON AND BAIL SOMEBODY OUT
AT: That, Um, Doesn’t either legal or s8ne, Are you sure, I have to do this,
GC: HEHEHE DONT BE SUCH A WWHINY GRUB TAVVROS
GC: IF YOU DONT DO IT THEN OUR MUTUAL AQUAINTANCE IS A GONER
AT: Which, uh, aqu8ntance is that?
GC: EQUIUS ZAHHAK
GC: TURNS OUT THAT AFTER ALL THIS TIME HIS CLANDESTINE BLOOD COLOR WWAS CHERRY RED
AT: So you want me to 8ail a mutant out of j8l?
GC: NO I DONT WWANT YOU TO
GC: ITS HIS FAULT FOR GOING AND TURNING HIMSELF IN
GC: ITS NEPETA WWHO WWANTS ME TO DO SOMETHING
AT: And so you’re turning to me to do your dirty work, uh, like usual,
GC: NOWW YOU GET IT
GC: SO WWHATS YOUR PLAN MR MANIPUL8
AT: I don’t think I can do this,,,,,,,,
AT: You know what happens when I manipul8 people,
GC: YES YOU PANIC LIKE A RETARDED WWIGGLER
GC: TAVVROS I KEEP TELLING YOU ITS ALL IN YOUR HEAD YOU JUST NEED TO SLAP YOUR CRAZY BRAIN POWWERS AROUND AND MAKE THEM DO WWHAT YOU TELL THEM
AT: That’s easy for you to s8y!!!!!!!! You just, Keep pushing me around, And I can’t t8ke it anymore,
AT: You don’t know how hard this is Terezi, You can’t understand,
AT: I can’t control Rufio, And he’s a senseless, Uh, Psychopath,
GC: UGH
GC: IF YOURE GOING TO CLUCKBEAST OUT LIKE USUAL JUST GET SOMEONE ELSE TO DO IT
GC: IM DELEGATING THE RESPONSIBILITY TO YOU
GC: BECAUSE IF YOU DONT THEN SOMEONE MIGHT NOT GET FED AS MUCH THIS WWEEK
GC: >:]
GC: > :]
GC: >:]
AT: OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD,
AT: Ok8y, I get it, I get it,
AT: W8, Who am I, Supposed to go to?
GC: USE YOUR BRAIN FOR ONCE NITRAM
GC: JUST THINK OF SOMEBODY WWHO WWOULD HELP YOU
--gallantCourtmaiden [gC] ceased trolling apologeticTarantula [aT]—
AT: I don’t think that sort of person exists, 8nymore,

You are now TAVROS NITRAM. You are a blue blood, and you are cursed with a TERRIBLE POWER. That is, the power to manipulate people against their will. You absolutely despise this power, as you often LOSE CONTROL OVER IT as soon as you begin to use it.

But, sadly, sometimes you have to use it, in order to feed your GIGANTIC RAVENOUS TROLL-EATING LUSUS. You are terrified of her, and it is only out of fear, not of duty to her, that you feed her. Your fear of her has only tripled since she ended up EATING ONE OF YOUR ARMS AND ONE OF YOUR LEGS a little over a sweep ago. It was the most traumatizing experience you’ve ever experienced, and to be honest, you’re kind of glad that your CALIGINOUS RELATIONSHIP with the guy responsible lets you experience some hatred towards him. You couldn’t possibly imagine living without her, though, for as soon as you did all the trolls whose quadrants you’ve wrecked would most likely attempt to kill you. So you are constantly digging a hole for yourself, basically.

You also have allied yourself with the EMPRESS-TO-BE and her ROYAL LEGISLACERATOR CHARGE. The two groups cooperate in order to fulfill their LUSII’S ravenous needs. Two other guys used to be more involved in this matter, but over the last sweep or so, you’ve fallen out of contact with them. Your relationship with other trolls is strained, and your moirail barely even contacts you anymore. It’s heartbreaking. The one troll who is only remotely kind to you is the one who lives across the chasm from you. This is why you feel sort of obligated to help her out now. After all, she did build you a robotic arm and leg after your lusus 8 yours.

And gosh darn it, even if you have to conquer Rufio, your mind-controlling, troll killing alter ego, yourself (which you doubt you can do), you’re going to help out her moirail. You just need to pick out someone to troll. It’ll be hard, considering that everyone you know considers you an unstable, weak hearted guy, but you should at least put in some effort before throwing in the white towel.

How about…you guess him. He’s been acting kind of weird and distant for a while, though, even though you guys were really good moirails before.

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--apologeticTarantula [aT] began trolling thespianCadaver [tC]—
AT: Gamzee?
TC: h0nk
TC: whats up br0ther?
TC: what c0uld y0u ph0nkssibly want?
TC: s0rry y0u kn0w i cant c0ntr0l the h0nks
AT: Umm, I need your help to br8k someone out of j8l,
TC: that s0unds all s0rts 0f illegal
TC: but im pretty h0nkkay with that
AT: You’re ok8y with a lot of, uh, things,
TC: g0t that right brh0nkther
TC: but bef0re i d0 this f0r y0u y0u g0t t0 agree th0nk d0 sh0nkthing f0r me
AT: Uh, Sure, 8nything for my morail,
TC: 0h right i kinda f0rg0t ab0ut that
TC: were we g00d m0irails
AT: I don’t know, I really don’t know now,
AT: I’m sorry for what happened to you, Gamzee,
TC: are y0u
AT: Yes?
AT: I don’t know,,,,,,,,Can we, Uh, Get 8ack to the matter at hand?
TC: thats fine im 0kay with that
TC: but I keep getting distracted
TC: if y0u want me t0 help y0u have t0 agree t0 play a game with me
TC: n0t that y0u have much 0f a ch0ice
AT: W8, Is this a g8me that you designed?
AT: I didn’t think you were, Uh, Into that sort of thing,
TC: n0t me
TC: but the vh0nkices keep telling me ab0ut it
AT: Uh,,,,,,,,
AT: Ok8y, I guess,
AT: Your voices usually 8ren’t all that wrong,
TC: s0 I have y0ur h0nking w0rd 0n this br0
AT: Uh, Yeah, You do,
TC: great
TC: s0 wh0 am i bailing 0ut
AT: It’s Equius, Actually,
TC: 0_0
TC: what the h0nk did he get up t0
TC: i d0nt remember him getting up t0 anything
AT: His 8lood’s red, app8rently,
TC: s0
AT: More red than yours, it’s been descri8ed as “BRIGHT CHERRY RED,”
AT: Which m8kes him a disgusting mutant,
AT: Well, Uh, According to Terezi,,,
TC: well h0nk thats all s0rts 0f weird
AT: Not that, uh, h8ving red blood is wrong, or 8nyth8ng, You know, I still think you're gr8!
TC: if y0u say s0
TC: alright
TC: i g0t t0 get my c0mmune 0n
TC: this w0uld be exciting if i gh0nkt excited anym0re
AT: Th8nks, Gamzee, I owe you one,
TC: y0u have n0 idea
--thespianCadaver [tC] ceased trolling apologeticTarantula [aT]—
AT: }::::’(

You are now EQUIUS again. We took a break from your weird little self, but now it’s time to do some reflecting.

In a few short seconds, you’ve concluded that this ROYALLY SUCKS. Why the heck did you think that this would be a good idea again? Oh right, because you’re a retarded lowblooded idiot who makes stupid choices and acts like a retard all the time. If you weren’t so self-hating, you might delegate all the responsibility to a past version of yourself, but seeing as how you still have SOME STANDARDS, you fully accept the weight to bear. That weight being the fact that you royally suck as much as this situation does.

You’ve lost a lot of blood today, and chances are you’re going to keep losing blood until you have nothing left to give. Predictably, the authorities decided not to cull you on the spot in order to make an example out of you. You spent most of tonight hanging by your wrists in a sort of gallows mock-up, and were beaten and bloodied until day break came. The recuperacoons they have in the holdings cells are disgusting, though, so you’re left with your violent ancestral memories all screaming in the back of your head, calling you a freak, a monster, an aberration from the glorious workings of society. The terrible sunlight only intensifies your paranoia and your insomnia, and overall your body is wracked with mental and physical pain.

Equius: Jail Break!

No. You don’t deserve to break free. Not like you could if you wanted to. Your sylladex has been confiscated, your bows lie broken at your feet, your strife specibus completely useless. There are a few other trolls in here, their horns broken, their faces bruised, and their bodies gaunt and shaking from hunger. You doubt they would be able to talk about anything beyond how much they want food, or how badly they want to die. It’s kind of depressing, but you have other things on your mind right now that don’t include a bunch of criminals. Such as how to make those stupid voices in your head stop.

You look up, towards the window almost 30 feet up in the air. Nepeta surely wouldn’t have any trouble breaking out of here, but she’d never be in here in the first place, since she’s a blue blood who actually belongs in society, unlike you. Blue blood, the memories echo in your head. What did you ever do to deserve her moirallegiance? Nothing. Nothing. NOTHING. NOTHING.

Oh god make the voices-

Gamzee: Jail Break!

Suddenly the wall behind you explodes inward, causing you to leap to the ground. Oh god they’ve finally come for you and you’re going to die you’re going to troll hell you’re getting what you deserve and-

Weird. There’s no one there.

Suddenly, your PDA (Personal Distracting Apparatus) begins to go off. It’s a miracle that they left this with you, but maybe the realized that you didn’t have the gall to use it.

--thespianCadaver [tC] began haunting clandestineTaboo [cT]—
TC: y0u c0ming m0therh0nker?

A/N

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I don't know if anyone actually reads this, but I am having trouble coming up with one quirk, and that's Vriska's. She doesn't have Feferi's sign, or weapon, so her imitating Fef's quirk doesn't really make sense. I can't figure out what would work, and the ideas I have are really crappy. If anyone has any great ideas about this or how I could improve this in ANY way, pleeeeeease tell me I want to make a good fic.

Also, I hope that this doesn't feel too rushed, but I feel like there's not much time that Equius would be able to spend in jail before dying.

Comments on Other Fics!

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I, too like the Karkat ancestor fics. I don't know if Hussie;s going to throw us for a loop with the nature of his ancestor, but the fics so far seem to have a good solid theme of man against the system going on. It's a good story and it has some badass and emotional moments that I like.

Also, that exploration of Rose was good for how far I got into it before realizeing I should study.

The Strider fic was charming, and I can imagine that Texas heat would be hard for a little kid trying to always stay cool.

ANd Rose breaking out of her cool demeanor is always a little heartbreaking.

[mythmonster2]

I read your fic, zeb! As for Vriska's quirk, what plan do you have for her personality? Is she going to be more on the Vriska side or more on the Feferi side or some strange mix? Quirks depend on personality just as much as background, and that can help quite a bit.

[ceruleanTresses]

Oh man. I used to think that Ghost!Karkat would be the saddest possible ghost, but now I think Ghost!Gamzee might be sadder. Poor dead Gamzee.

[MyCurrentObsession]

Hey, so in between my muse taking a temporary vacation and the forums always seeming to be down when I did want to work on this, it's been a while. But hey, I'm back with more Bitter.

Bitter - 5

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Aradia hasn't been on Trollian for quite some time now. At least two weeks, possibly more.

This makes you about fifty percent relieved, twenty-five percent more likely to use the computer, fifteen percent inexplicably irritated, and, for some strange reason, ten percent disappointed.

You've made your choice, so to be doubting it now doesn't sit well with you. But try as you might, you can't ignore that small voice in the back of your head that's always there, whispering to you, telling you you made a mistake, Aradia's the best thing that ever happened to you, you idiot, what were you thinking?

And so, as much as it pains you to do so, you think it might be time to ask Karkat for some romantic advice.

—twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]—
TA: hey.
CG: WELL LOOK WHAT WE HAVE HERE.
CG: WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN LATELY, ASSHOLE?
CG: DID YOU FALL OFF A CLIFF, OR WERE YOU HIDING FROM THE AUTHORITIES?

Hiding from authorities? What? This is a strange thing to say, even for Karkat. Oh well. You'll file it away for questioning later.

Best just get right into it, so as to make it as painless and not-awkward for all parties involved.

TA: 2o ii have a que2tiion.
CG: ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS.
CG: THIS HAD BETTER BE GOOD, I SWEAR.
TA: uh, well...
TA: thii2 ii2 gonna 2ound 2tupiid.
CG: JUST GET ON WITH IT ALREADY, ASSHOLE. I DON'T HAVE ALL DAY.
TA: okay.
TA: when you're really, totally flu2hed for 2omeone, when you're iin a 2eriious mate2priit2hiip...
TA: ...2houldn't theiir need2 and feeliing2 come before your own?
TA: ...
TA: kk?
CG: A;ABEASGA;JJEHA;OJGDJJAWOJGOJD;
CG: OH MY GOD.
CG: OH MY FUCKING GOD.
CG: YOU FINALLY DECIDE TO TALK TO ME JUST SO YOU CAN WHINE ABOUT THE ROMANTIC SHITSTAIN OF A SITUATION YOU'VE GOTTEN YOURSELF INTO?
CG: I DON'T THINK SO, YOU FUCKING IDIOT.
TA: well fiine ii can ju2t leave riight now then, ii gue22.
CG: NO WAIT!
TA: ugh, what?
CG: OKAY FINE.
CG: YES.
TA: ye2 what?
CG: YES, WHEN YOU'RE REALLY FLUSHED FOR SOMEONE YOU SHOULD PUT THEM BEFORE YOURSELF.
CG: KEEP UP, FUCKASS.
TA: ...
CG: BUT, I MEAN, GENERALLY THIS DOESN'T REALLY APPLY UNTIL LATER IN LIFE.
CG: MOST TROLLS OUR AGE ARE STILL EXPERIMENTING, TRYING TO PUT DIFFERENT PEOPLE IN DIFFERENT QUADRANTS CONSTANTLY, SINCE WE'VE GOT A FEW SWEEPS UNTIL THE DRONE COMES.
CG: OR WOULD HAVE COME, ANYWAY.
CG: THIS IS MORE THOUGHT TO BE FOR TROLLS THAT HAVE FOUND THEIR LIFETIME MATESPRIT.
CG: THAT WHAT YOU WANTED TO KNOW, ASSHOLE?
TA: ...
TA: yeah, ii gue22.
CG: OKAY.
CG: ONE LAST THING.
TA: yeah?
CG: IN ALL THE MISCELLANEOUS SHIT THAT YOU'VE STOLEN, DO YOU HAVE A TV?
TA: uh, yeah, of cour2e.
TA: ii don't really watch iit, though.
TA: why?
CG: WATCH IT.
CG: JUST FUCKING TURN IT ON TO THE NEWS, AND WATCH IT.
TA: ?
TA: okay?
CG: GOOD.
CG: I SWEAR TO GOG, IF YOU GET US BUSTED, I'LL COME DOWN THERE AND FUCKING KILL YOU.
—carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling twinArmageddons [TA]—
TA: what the fuck?

It is in these rare moments of peculiarity that you are thankful that you are not Karkat's moirail, as that means you don't have to put up with his shit quite as often as poor Kanaya.

You reach out for the remote and switch on the TV — this is only like the third time you've used it, despite having had it for over a month now — while trying to ignore the rest of the conversation. To say it hadn't gone the way you'd hoped would be an understatement.

As a transparent-closet romantic, you had hoped he'd hold the same view on the issue as you. To know that just one person felt you'd done the right thing would've been a nice confidence-booster.

But no, instead he inadvertently made you feel like a newly hatched grubling. Like it was a stupid little thing, and you'd blown it out of proportion.

You finally find what appears to be a news station after flipping through channels for a few minutes, and freeze at the picture on the screen.

After a full month of repeated small thefts in Houston, it seems we've finally had a breakthrough! An inconspicuously placed camera caught a tub of ice cream being stolen two nights ago, and if the video is anything to judge by, our culprit is a ghost! The public authorities are currently looking into the matter, and...

You stare at the TV, taking in the clear footage of the glass sliding open, the ice cream levitating out, all with your signature red and blue glow around it.

...oh shit.

Well, that's unfortunate.

----------

Perhaps it was a bit misleading to say you simply slipped into a matespritship. It's entirely true that you mostly just let Aradia lead you by the hand on your romantic endeavors, that to the untrained eye the two of you were virtually identical to close friends and nothing more...

But there was also a time, once, when the two of you really thought about what you were getting into, when you decided that yes, you were making this happen.

And that time, you had been the one in control.

It had been just like before; she had kissed you and made to dart away. But not this time. Not after she'd done the same thing once, twice, three times already.

Not when you desperately wanted more.

And so you shot out your hand, luckily managing to snatch her own. She stops and shifts, and you know without seeing that she is turning to face you.

This is the part where the two of you do that whole "seeing the other's soul in their eyes" thing, except you're blind, so you don't feel quite confident enough to dive in, and instead stand there awkwardly, clinging to the feeling of her but hesitant to go further.

And that's when she says: "Seeing as I'm Maid of Time, I could literally wait an eternity for you to make a move, Sollux... but I'd rather not have to."

And that's when you don't hesitate any more, bringing your hands up to cup her face and go for it. It's sort of awkward trying to find her lips at first, and you bump noses, but you trace her hot breath on your face (passionate and utterly sexy, even when it probably shouldn't be) until finally your lips meet.

And just like that, all the nervous thoughts racing through your head vanish, replaced by a hazy wave of contentment.

You don't think much after that.

A/N

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...This chapter seems to have turned out really long in comparison to the others, and it killed me having to go through and highlight all that text and give it color. I mean, seriously, my arm hurts now. *whine, complain*

Also in general WHY DOES THIS CHAPTER SUCK SO MUCH. I MEAN SERIOUSLY, GUYS, WHY. The whole thing just seems awkward and badly written to me, especially the whole conversation with Karkat. Ugh.

But hey, I finally dropped some hints as to what's going on between Sollux and Aradia in present-day.

Edit: Oh my gosh, Red Dead Sagittarius. I read it, and I love it. LOVE IT. I especially liked how you ended this chapter (began haunting). Please don't ever stop.

[crash826]

Katrika:

I

wow

just

brb cybernetic horn pile attachments overheating from overridden weep protocols

[Sporkaganza]

oh god katrika the part at the end is just too sad.

[zebtrestalala]

@mythmonster: oh, she's going to be like vriska x 10. Soon she will have all the power. All of it! And it's kind of going to her head.

@ceruleanTresses: That was going for. Hopefully I'll get the reaction that I intend to from Nepeta!Karkat as well (not sad, just funny).

[ceruleanTresses]

Oh god, an olive Karkat? That cannot possibly be anything but freaking hilarious.

[Captain Whosit]

A Mental Construct And Coping Device Presented In A Charming Letter Format

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Dear Mother,

I am uncertain how to say this, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. It is not, after all, like this is being enscribed in a physical format, as I am currently enveloped in a mental and physical state that is rather unusual for me, and this letter is but a mental construct being used as a coping device. Moreover, it would be most impossible for you to ever peruse this even if I were writing this, because at this moment, your scarlet lifeblood is seeping into the surface under your mangled body.

I digress. What I have to say is this. Mother, the last time I saw you, my only thought was of getting past you. I had recently elaborated on what I now suspect was an entirely onesided war of passive-agressiveness, and you were but a mere obstacle in my way. Furthermore, I now must offer the viewpoint that if genuine, your advances were proof of the fact that you were, I’m sorry to say, more then a little unstable in your mental facilities. It is without a doubt a fact that your consumption of alcoholic beverages was unusually high, however, so perhaps that can offer an explaination. Perhaps, too, you imbibed because you were, as John would no doubt charmingly say, a few cards short of a full deck.

I used to presume it was on account of me, you know.

Yes, I would report you to be an unsatisfactory progenitor, but then I brood over the ‘good times’, and find myself awestruck over how little I appreciated you, which only further cements the-

Oh fuck. I can’t do this. I can’t do this, mommy, I miss you, I love you, I need you, I’m so cold, please wake up please wake up please wake up I’ll be better I promise.

please

Oh, maybe I'll actually leave a comment in the thread for once. Anyway, to rehash some things, yes, the sudden tone change at the end where Rose starts to break down is what sells this. It probably didn't matter a great deal what came before it, even. However, that Rose was trying to coolly and dispassionately analyze her mother's death was probably a good choice.

Honestly, in that last part, the choice to use "mommy" rather than "mother" or even "mom" really cinched it for me, since that really hits home the fact that Rose is still just a little girl. The "I'll be better I promise" line certainly is pitiful, but not as powerful, I think.

There are still a handful of misspellings and typos that you might want to fix. Rose would be very careful about that, especially while she's till keeping her facade up. Tone seems pretty good, though. So, overall, I think that your story had the impact you desired, considering how I felt, and how everyone else seems to have felt.

[ProspitDreamer]

@MyCurrentObsession:

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A/N
...This chapter seems to have turned out really long in comparison to the others,

This is a good thing. I wish it was longer, cause I wanted to read more.

WHY DOES THIS CHAPTER SUCK SO MUCH CHAPTER'S AWESOMENESS GO SO UNRECOGNIZED. I MEAN SERIOUSLY, GUYS, WHY.

Fixed that there.

The whole thing just seems awkward and badly written to me, especially the whole conversation with Karkat. Ugh.

Though I agree that there were some awkward parts with the conversation with Karkat, this does not detract from the overall enjoyment of the chapter. I still laughed at the exchange between two buddies who love/hate each other (platonic love/hate). You have me so curious and already emotionally invested in this story even though I still have no idea what is going on. You drop clues like little bits of crumbs to your starving reader. PLEASE WRITE MORE.

[nikeathena]

Ugh, not being able to log in is so damn annoying. And I didn't even think of changing browsers until now. Argh teaching children makes me dumb.

But enough rl stuff, have some more Strider stuff!

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He’d seen his brother do it probably a million times. He was aware if not intimately acquainted with the mechanics of the maneuver; get in, get out, get it done. Simple as cake, not to use a hackneyed cliché too flippantly, that was. After all, how hard could sliding under a bus and reemerging safely on the other side in midday traffic be?

Dave had all the props; a skateboard (not as sweet at the rocketboard his Bro had, but it would do), a sharp metal object for torque (when and if he needed something to swing him out of the way of wheels), and a shit-load of caffeine in his bloodstream. In short, he felt like a mean little motherfucker. He was ready to go to war with the next city bus he saw. With bottles and chains, man.

He was ready. He breathed out, slowly, jumped in spot like he’d seen Bro do a million times before pulling off some cra-nasty stunt, and shook out his hands, making sure he was completely limber and ready for the job. No one would have suspected that this clean-lined, blond and shaded boy was about to literally throw himself under a bus. And, honestly, if Dave was given the opportunity, he wouldn’t have really believed it himself.

As if on cue a sleek, bullet shaped bus innocently tooled around the corner, completely oblivious to the fact that it was about to have its world rocked by Dave fucking Strider. That, or smear a pubescent boy into baking pavement. Either one.

The bus picked up speed as its tail end cleared the intersection, almost opposite him, and the world slowed down for Dave Strider and he knew it was now or never take the shot, and his blood was thrumming through his veins, his head light and chest tight with too much adrenaline too fast, and he was kicking up the board into one hand, the rest of his body curving parallel to the ground, and he stopped.

Just stopped. It took him a moment, a moment in which the bus passed him by, disaffected commuters glancing at him impassively, completely unaware to the fact they’d just skipped out on killing a teenage boy under their wheels. A moment to realize that someone had stopped him, and a moment more to recognize whose hands those were. And when he finally did, he couldn’t help but feel a faint pang of dread as he swung his head in what he hoped was a completely nonchalant way to view the man that cupped his shoulder in the most fucking metal way ever.

In fact, he couldn’t quite be sure this situation wasn’t topping itself in irony. Bro’s face was completely impassive (or so Dave was wont to think), but his nostrils were tinged with a flush of blood, his mouth a thin line, and his face white under his tan. “What d’you think you’re doing, little man?” His voice was soft, as if he’d caught Dave up in the middle of the night; Dave couldn’t be completely certain it wasn’t due to his acceptance of the fact that Dave was, in fact, growing up to be the man Bro was, or perhaps the fact that his brother was so pissed he couldn’t see straight, or he was so fucking scared he could hardly talk past the pounding in his chest.

“Ah…” Dave fought the break in his that he knew would come, and had to totally lamely clear his throat before resuming an explanation to the completely still figure behind him. “Just…. Punkin’ out Dallas… you know.”

“Dude.” Bro’s voice was so soft that Dave knew he really had fucked up this time, he hadn’t sounded like this since Dave had tried his hand at mimicking a few stunts in some Asian action movie he couldn’t even remember the name of any more. Seriously, he’d been seven, and long, incomprehensible titles in a language he didn’t understand didn’t really interest him at seven. He just knew jumping from the top of a building to the top of a tree looked pretty sweet. “You can’t punk anything out if you’re dead. Though, granted, it would be pretty ironic-“ what the hell, did Bro’s voice just break? For an instant, it pitched before regaining equilibrium, along with a traitorous spasm of his Adam’s Apple. “In summary, you just lost the Game.”

What? What? “Argh, no, fuck, you can’t do that!” Dave allowed himself to howl, as Bro directed him away from the curb by the nape of his neck, and back into the entrance of their high-rise. Though, it was pretty fucking ironic. And what was even more ironic was that he was pretty sure he had pretty badly affected his brother. In the corridor that lead to their room number, Bro had stopped, and reached up to rub his eyes with a forefinger and thumb, knocking his glasses askew briefly and showing flashes of red magnified just slightly with moisture. But that was gone almost as instantly as it came, and Bro was dragging Dave into the apartment briefly (and Dave was no longer even sure what was happening anymore, his mind was a static roar of his brother’s eyes and hands and tears) before punting him out ceremoniously onto the roof.

“Ow, hey, man, what gives?” Dave allowed himself to grit (he had been unprepared for the sudden relocation, and he’d skinned his elbow upon reacquainting himself with the roof outside), before almost simultaneously realizing a weight that had settled on his back, and a pressure looping his torso and pinning his arms. Lil Cal. Oh fuck no.

And then, briefly, Bro’s lips nestled into the top of his hair in what was unmistakably a kiss, and remained that way for a long moment, breathing out as if he were struggling for control, breathing in as if he were drowning, one arm looped around Dave’s shoulders, holding him close. Just as suddenly, the moment passed, and he reappeared in Dave’s line of sight, crouching in the window of their apartment.

“For the next hour and a half, or longer as I deem fit” he declared, voice now level and even partially ironic, face and eyes carefully concealed by the brim of his cap and glasses carefully put into place “you will tell Lil Cal exactly how you were going to avoid being Cream of Strider by way of city bus. In fact, man, just let it all out. Tell him everything and I’ll be back when I think you’re soul is spotless again. Dig?”

And then disappeared. And so, Dave grudgingly succumbed to a confessional to the silent doll draped on his back. Not that he had much of a choice, since he was tied there, to Lil Cal in what was quickly becoming a hot summer day. He’d just have to wait until Bro got it all out of his system and came to find him again. After all, he wasn’t sure he could handle any emotional flipping out on his brother’s part.

Omake:

For Bro, those few seconds had been a few of the most terrifying in his life. Converse sneaker kicks the end of the skateboard, still childishly smooth hand grabs the end, hair separates as a thin, lanky body bends to the pavement, and no matter how fast Bro moved, it wasn’t fast enough, his legs felt like lead.

And Dear God no.

Please, God, no, no, he was not a praying man, but he would do anything right now if this would just not happen.

His fingers made contact with the boney curve of a shoulder. He stood, breathless for the few times in his life Dave made him so, barely able to believe that, cupped in his hand, was his entire life, summed up to a greater whole.

And it was only when Dave turned to look at him, eyes flicking a mirroring scarlet past dark sunglasses, that Bro finally found the air to talk.

“What do you think you’re doing, little man?”

[wilySubversionist]

Oh hi, thread! Some pretty great things happening around here. (Katrika, unbreak my heart. :/)

So I'm dropping this blessedly short, somewhat timely, pretty far out there thing:

Walking Far from Home: Hammer from the Sky

show spoiler

hide spoiler

Listen:

Staccato laughter. A whirring microwave buzz, fuzzy cymbal-snare pop. Helicopter blades. A dog’s bark.

A guillotine arm cutting through paper, scissors sliding on Christmas wrap. A glass door sliding shut. New clean edges. Steam from a kettle before it whistles. A birdcage by a window, a rustle-shiver of feathers, wind in the wires.

A throttled shout, a thick blow to the solar plexus. A crumpled can hitting concrete. Marathoner’s breath in mile twenty-three and then more and then more. Then stop.

Watch:

Twin winged lens-flares pass each other against the murky clouds. One, lime jello shot through with motor oil; the other gilded tangerine. They overlap, an obsidian length bisecting the orange form, then dart apart, magnets repelling. The black-green flares and fades.

The other, the bright orange that was bleeding it’s brilliance and became a rusty gold, hangs in place. Like a sheet of paper, it begins to waft down in a side to side motion, wings splayed like a parachute and making it float-shift: right, left, right, down.

Fading gold wings buckle and it — he — plummets fast towards the gray ground, losing pigment and some sort of substance. Bleeding out traffic cone-colored pixels until, head high above the rocks, he bursts like a firework into birds. Digital sparks flying up, bright then ashy then gone.

A pale and featureless man watch the explosion above, mouth open in a wide shout. He holds a long sharp blade for an instant, and then it drops. A quick, hazy contrast. Sleight of hand, glinting graphite, sword caught by the dark shape and shoved deep into stone. Through the screaming white patch that spills ruddy red out from its — his — center. Pinned, nowhere left to climb or fall. The shadow thing hovers, jaw working in a manic taunt.

Feel it:

Impossible — can’t have everything isn’t — nothing is — no touch, no — not real here—

Process it:

—but this is really happening.

Focus, gather, everything is—

Sound and sight are off and bleeding into each other, all perspectives— but it’s accurate. The crackling and strobe-streaking is factual. And clearer as you focus, pulling yourself in from all angles. Match and focus, the orange is a boy with a bird nesting under his skin. A boy you knew or know. The white, you can’t arrange, but sharpen yourself on, a pastel whetstone— Daedelus, screaming, hit with hot red wax spilling from above and inside—

You’re too loose. You don’t know what that means, and you don’t know why you know it. Pull in, converge, pull.

Black. The verdant bolts, the sizzle and the bubbling-baying cruelty. Jack.

Jack, you remember, and he becomes the singularity you form you around. He: traitor. You: betrayed. He: slayer. You: twice-dead. He: black blade. You: orphaned.

You are yourself enough to feel angry, and to cling to it. It’s not enough to give you shape, no materials enough to build a single spot, a body, but it gives you lucidity. Names are returning, proper nouns they’re called because they are identity-proper, namelessness negating being—

You clamp down tight —John, I John, am— and fold up the impossible wideness of your thoughts. You are John, you are weightless above an oily fireslick, dead a second time and forced to listen and watch and curl around things you don’t know with a fierce perception that overwhelms you. You are incorporeal, drifting on the breeze. You are drawing in denser, and moving farther away.

You’re seeing and hearing a thing that you weren’t sure happened, when you were more sure of things, but it’s clear now — Raven-Dave, Dave-the-Oriole, Dave-in-the-Machine is crashed, no longer is; his Guardian, the same. Even as you condense, more self than senses, you intuit that they are scattered, diffused binary feathers or thick crimson spread.

Your father, that same splatter, what’s left is lifeless. You’re angry again. He can’t gather up what’s spilled, because he is not on the wind and in it. Naïve physics — some things plummet, not float. Stabs mean something to some flesh.

But not yours.

Feel it:

Yes, thicker now, not so spread, coming back together and feeling slimy-viscous rain on skin. You’re retreating from the blue-black sky backlit with chartreuse. The blooming red and the orange like begonia petals scattered recede. You barely know them, but you grieve to leave them. How stupid, your father wasn’t the first, not by any stretch, not even the hardest; you had to be pulled apart to see it.

Not you, you are tide-foam touching shores, you are seeds on the breeze, reforming for always. Changing, change, changed.

You wash into your body, a new breath borrowed from another’s lips and built upon. It’s cramped in your head and hands, a compact space for such an expanse. You are John again, whole, and blink to a new life. This one, you’ll keep, while they can’t.

show spoiler

hide spoiler

I know, it's a little weird and dense, but I hope it's successful in getting across some images. Very much influenced by Lexxy's beautiful work, as well as the following audio tracks (I've decided to just kinda shove these in here, just in case anybody is curious what helped go into these/wants some new music.)

show spoiler

hide spoiler

A Golden Exit
The CN Tower Belongs to the Dead
A Slight Discomfort

ETA: Welp. Update made parts of this uncannytimely. Sorry, y'all.

[fqllve]

Holy crap. That was just fantastic in so many ways that I cannot begin to express them. The rhythm, the imagery, the juxtaposition of the pounding and vibrant description with airy existentialism. And that transition! Just...wow.

"Fold up the impossible wideness of your thoughts" almost made me squeal with delight.

[ScientificFlorist]

Dammit, curse this proxy and its inabilty to open spoilers. I\'ll read all of your fics once I get home.

For now, have an epic dream which I will make an all-out fanfiction of later.

show spoiler

hide spoiler

So basically, Aradia’s God Tier powers allowed her to go back in time and change the timeline. All of the trolls, including the dead ones and the murderers, went back with her to play the game the right way, doing their land’s quest and all. I don’t remember all of their quests, but Karkat’s ended up being really crucial because it had to do with the Black Queen being turned to their side. They all ascended to God Tier, and generally got happy. I think Equius got a bow he could shoot and Gamzee got never ending slime or something. Anyway, the Black King was no effort so they got to the door before Noir even arrived. For the first time in his life, Karkat was happy. He, out of his joy, contacted John to tell him what happened.

CG (carcinoGeneticist) has begun trolling EB (ectoBiologist)

CG: JOHN.
CG: YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED.
EB: …
EB: i’m sorry, who is this?
CG: JOHN?
EB: how do you know my name?
EB: wait, carcinogeneticist?
EB: are you using the trollian title of one of our supreme rulers?
EB: surely you’ll be culled for such insolence!!

So yeah, expect a bitterrsweet fix-fic that details all of their quests and what happens afterward eventually.

[Hazel]

Florist. Oh. That sounds so epic. It will be unbelievable.

Out of despair with the LJ downtime I have also started plotting a more massive fic. If I make it past the first chapter I may come back to plead and beg for a beta.

[lucidSeraph]

@wilySubversionist - oh god yes. surrealism, stream of consciousness, and lavish description so thick I can taste it. This fic is breakfast. omnomnom.

[sarasvati]

Oh hi, thread! Some pretty great things happening around here. (Katrika, unbreak my heart. :/)

So I'm dropping this blessedly short, somewhat timely, pretty far out there thing:

Walking Far from Home: Hammer from the Sky

show spoiler

hide spoiler

Listen:

Staccato laughter. A whirring microwave buzz, fuzzy cymbal-snare pop. Helicopter blades. A dog’s bark.

A guillotine arm cutting through paper, scissors sliding on Christmas wrap. A glass door sliding shut. New clean edges. Steam from a kettle before it whistles. A birdcage by a window, a rustle-shiver of feathers, wind in the wires.

A throttled shout, a thick blow to the solar plexus. A crumpled can hitting concrete. Marathoner’s breath in mile twenty-three and then more and then more. Then stop.

Watch:

Twin winged lens-flares pass each other against the murky clouds. One, lime jello shot through with motor oil; the other gilded tangerine. They overlap, an obsidian length bisecting the orange form, then dart apart, magnets repelling. The black-green flares and fades.

The other, the bright orange that was bleeding it’s brilliance and became a rusty gold, hangs in place. Like a sheet of paper, it begins to waft down in a side to side motion, wings splayed like a parachute and making it float-shift: right, left, right, down.

Fading gold wings buckle and it — he — plummets fast towards the gray ground, losing pigment and some sort of substance. Bleeding out traffic cone-colored pixels until, head high above the rocks, he bursts like a firework into birds. Digital sparks flying up, bright then ashy then gone.

A pale and featureless man watch the explosion above, mouth open in a wide shout. He holds a long sharp blade for an instant, and then it drops. A quick, hazy contrast. Sleight of hand, glinting graphite, sword caught by the dark shape and shoved deep into stone. Through the screaming white patch that spills ruddy red out from its — his — center. Pinned, nowhere left to climb or fall. The shadow thing hovers, jaw working in a manic taunt.

Feel it:

Impossible — can’t have everything isn’t — nothing is — no touch, no — not real here—

Process it:

—but this is really happening.

Focus, gather, everything is—

Sound and sight are off and bleeding into each other, all perspectives— but it’s accurate. The crackling and strobe-streaking is factual. And clearer as you focus, pulling yourself in from all angles. Match and focus, the orange is a boy with a bird nesting under his skin. A boy you knew or know. The white, you can’t arrange, but sharpen yourself on, a pastel whetstone— Daedelus, screaming, hit with hot red wax spilling from above and inside—

You’re too loose. You don’t know what that means, and you don’t know why you know it. Pull in, converge, pull.

Black. The verdant bolts, the sizzle and the bubbling-baying cruelty. Jack.

Jack, you remember, and he becomes the singularity you form you around. He: traitor. You: betrayed. He: slayer. You: twice-dead. He: black blade. You: orphaned.

You are yourself enough to feel angry, and to cling to it. It’s not enough to give you shape, no materials enough to build a single spot, a body, but it gives you lucidity. Names are returning, proper nouns they’re called because they are identity-proper, namelessness negating being—

You clamp down tight —John, I John, am— and fold up the impossible wideness of your thoughts. You are John, you are weightless above an oily fireslick, dead a second time and forced to listen and watch and curl around things you don’t know with a fierce perception that overwhelms you. You are incorporeal, drifting on the breeze. You are drawing in denser, and moving farther away.

You’re seeing and hearing a thing that you weren’t sure happened, when you were more sure of things, but it’s clear now — Raven-Dave, Dave-the-Oriole, Dave-in-the-Machine is crashed, no longer is; his Guardian, the same. Even as you condense, more self than senses, you intuit that they are scattered, diffused binary feathers or thick crimson spread.

Your father, that same splatter, what’s left is lifeless. You’re angry again. He can’t gather up what’s spilled, because he is not on the wind and in it. Naïve physics — some things plummet, not float. Stabs mean something to some flesh.

But not yours.

Feel it:

Yes, thicker now, not so spread, coming back together and feeling slimy-viscous rain on skin. You’re retreating from the blue-black sky backlit with chartreuse. The blooming red and the orange like begonia petals scattered recede. You barely know them, but you grieve to leave them. How stupid, your father wasn’t the first, not by any stretch, not even the hardest; you had to be pulled apart to see it.

Not you, you are tide-foam touching shores, you are seeds on the breeze, reforming for always. Changing, change, changed.

You wash into your body, a new breath borrowed from another’s lips and built upon. It’s cramped in your head and hands, a compact space for such an expanse. You are John again, whole, and blink to a new life. This one, you’ll keep, while they can’t.

show spoiler

hide spoiler

I know, it's a little weird and dense, but I hope it's successful in getting across some images. Very much influenced by Lexxy's beautiful work, as well as the following audio tracks (I've decided to just kinda shove these in here, just in case anybody is curious what helped go into these/wants some new music.)

show spoiler

hide spoiler

A Golden Exit
The CN Tower Belongs to the Dead
A Slight Discomfort

ETA: Welp. Update made parts of this uncannytimely. Sorry, y'all.

seraph's got the right of it, this fic is breakfast. it is that giant stack of pancakes that takes all damn day to digest. i think i've read this like ten times now? this is flowing and beautiful and prosetry at its finest. augh my heart so good

[helloJed]

First attempt at writing Homestuck-fanfiction.
I kinda knew this would happen sooner or later. Unfortunately.

show spoiler

hide spoiler

There's a certain feeling. It's the feeling of someone klinging to your back. It's the feeling of feet walking your way, of eyes watching you when walk alone down a dark street. It's a dark feeling, and Gamzee was feeling it right now.

He took a moment to catch his breath and pushed himself of against a wall, letting the cold concrete soothe the feeling of a predator on his back. The funny thing, he thought to himself as he allowed himself a small smile that only had a hint of the previous madness in it, was that you actually could describe what was after him as a predator. His breathing was almost normal now, but when he caughed blood came out.

Blue. Good. Not mine. Not my blood. Not my blood my blood my blood. Oh crap MY BRAIN IS GOING TO FRICKIN' IMPLODE WHY CAN'T IT JUST STOP I NEED MY sopor oh crap my lusus am i even still alive how why can't she just hurry up.

He pressed his hands with the clubs in them tightly against his forehead, trying to control whatever of himself he still had left. Religious exaltation, thirst of different kinds, fear... He had a lot to keep track of. But it was okay. He just had to flow with the miracles. After all, he was the Messiah. Chosen one and all that shit. He was the guy who had to take them all down, to show them exaclt how TERRIFYING their punishment for ignoring his miracles all along would be. He closed his eyes.

Only now it felt like a punishment was coming for him.

The blessful silence in the hallway was suddenly interrupted. At first he didn't want to acknowledge it. He was tired. He was on a mission. A mission tht Eridan had been so kind to help him with. Now all that was needed was those annoying loose ends. Unfortunately one of the loose ends was making soft noises as it pawed its way closer and closer to him.

"Pawed" you should have been a comedian. But no, just a regular juggler here, BEING MESSIAH AND ALL.

He had really thought that the club hit the right place. Of course he had been surprised by the flash of green and blue as he was finishing that jerk Equius off. He had simply swung one of his trusty clubs, not even thinking, just letting the insanity do its work. His brain was surprisingly capable of tracking his fellow trolls down and finding the most effective way to kill them. With Nepeta, it had seemed perfect. Just one blow to the head and then, dead, bye-bye kitty-cat. Let me take your hat. The blood on his club had dried up now and gotten a darker green colour. A soft thud a few meters from him made him whimper and he looked down the hall in the direction he had come from.

”I know you're there.”

She didn't even bother to answer, just stopped and, assumed he, watched him.

”Look... I just...” Gamzee stopped as he realized that he didn't know what to say. Yes, he had killed her best 'friend'. Yes, he had tried to kill her.
Yes, he would try again.

”Come on,” he said as he rasied his clubs and put himself in the middle of the hall way, and saw the light twitch in sharp metal claws aimed at him.

”LET'S MAKE SOME MOTHERFUCKIN MIRACLES.”

show spoiler

hide spoiler

So, yeah. I like Nepeta. And Gamzee. And insane people trying to track each down in order to commit homicide. Okay not really the last one.

[wilySubversionist]

@fqllve: thank you so much! I enjoyed your Rose-piece too; always nice to see the kids IC but in a more realistic situation. Nicely done.
@Lucid Seraph & Sarasvati (Seraphvati? YES. <3): I think I like the breakfast metaphor more than the fic itself! :D Such a cool way of thinking about it. Thank you both, I was afraid it was a little too weird/impenetrable, but I'm so happy you liked it! Fuck man, I was gonna take a break but then the update and the ideas and the possible embarrassing crossovers... I think I'm addicted to the fanfiction. I'm gonna go hide and think about my life choices. :)

[anonymousComrade]

Walking Far from Home: Hammer from the Sky

show spoiler

hide spoiler

Listen:

Staccato laughter. A whirring microwave buzz, fuzzy cymbal-snare pop. Helicopter blades. A dog’s bark.

A guillotine arm cutting through paper, scissors sliding on Christmas wrap. A glass door sliding shut. New clean edges. Steam from a kettle before it whistles. A birdcage by a window, a rustle-shiver of feathers, wind in the wires.

A throttled shout, a thick blow to the solar plexus. A crumpled can hitting concrete. Marathoner’s breath in mile twenty-three and then more and then more. Then stop.

Watch:

Twin winged lens-flares pass each other against the murky clouds. One, lime jello shot through with motor oil; the other gilded tangerine. They overlap, an obsidian length bisecting the orange form, then dart apart, magnets repelling. The black-green flares and fades.

The other, the bright orange that was bleeding it’s brilliance and became a rusty gold, hangs in place. Like a sheet of paper, it begins to waft down in a side to side motion, wings splayed like a parachute and making it float-shift: right, left, right, down.

Fading gold wings buckle and it — he — plummets fast towards the gray ground, losing pigment and some sort of substance. Bleeding out traffic cone-colored pixels until, head high above the rocks, he bursts like a firework into birds. Digital sparks flying up, bright then ashy then gone.

A pale and featureless man watch the explosion above, mouth open in a wide shout. He holds a long sharp blade for an instant, and then it drops. A quick, hazy contrast. Sleight of hand, glinting graphite, sword caught by the dark shape and shoved deep into stone. Through the screaming white patch that spills ruddy red out from its — his — center. Pinned, nowhere left to climb or fall. The shadow thing hovers, jaw working in a manic taunt.

Feel it:

Impossible — can’t have everything isn’t — nothing is — no touch, no — not real here—

Process it:

—but this is really happening.

Focus, gather, everything is—

Sound and sight are off and bleeding into each other, all perspectives— but it’s accurate. The crackling and strobe-streaking is factual. And clearer as you focus, pulling yourself in from all angles. Match and focus, the orange is a boy with a bird nesting under his skin. A boy you knew or know. The white, you can’t arrange, but sharpen yourself on, a pastel whetstone— Daedelus, screaming, hit with hot red wax spilling from above and inside—

You’re too loose. You don’t know what that means, and you don’t know why you know it. Pull in, converge, pull.

Black. The verdant bolts, the sizzle and the bubbling-baying cruelty. Jack.

Jack, you remember, and he becomes the singularity you form you around. He: traitor. You: betrayed. He: slayer. You: twice-dead. He: black blade. You: orphaned.

You are yourself enough to feel angry, and to cling to it. It’s not enough to give you shape, no materials enough to build a single spot, a body, but it gives you lucidity. Names are returning, proper nouns they’re called because they are identity-proper, namelessness negating being—

You clamp down tight —John, I John, am— and fold up the impossible wideness of your thoughts. You are John, you are weightless above an oily fireslick, dead a second time and forced to listen and watch and curl around things you don’t know with a fierce perception that overwhelms you. You are incorporeal, drifting on the breeze. You are drawing in denser, and moving farther away.

You’re seeing and hearing a thing that you weren’t sure happened, when you were more sure of things, but it’s clear now — Raven-Dave, Dave-the-Oriole, Dave-in-the-Machine is crashed, no longer is; his Guardian, the same. Even as you condense, more self than senses, you intuit that they are scattered, diffused binary feathers or thick crimson spread.

Your father, that same splatter, what’s left is lifeless. You’re angry again. He can’t gather up what’s spilled, because he is not on the wind and in it. Naïve physics — some things plummet, not float. Stabs mean something to some flesh.

But not yours.

Feel it:

Yes, thicker now, not so spread, coming back together and feeling slimy-viscous rain on skin. You’re retreating from the blue-black sky backlit with chartreuse. The blooming red and the orange like begonia petals scattered recede. You barely know them, but you grieve to leave them. How stupid, your father wasn’t the first, not by any stretch, not even the hardest; you had to be pulled apart to see it.

Not you, you are tide-foam touching shores, you are seeds on the breeze, reforming for always. Changing, change, changed.

You wash into your body, a new breath borrowed from another’s lips and built upon. It’s cramped in your head and hands, a compact space for such an expanse. You are John again, whole, and blink to a new life. This one, you’ll keep, while they can’t.

show spoiler

hide spoiler

I know, it's a little weird and dense, but I hope it's successful in getting across some images. Very much influenced by Lexxy's beautiful work, as well as the following audio tracks (I've decided to just kinda shove these in here, just in case anybody is curious what helped go into these/wants some new music.)

show spoiler

hide spoiler

A Golden Exit
The CN Tower Belongs to the Dead
A Slight Discomfort

How did I miss this last night

You are the wordsmith

It's you

[wilySubversionist]

How did I miss this last night

You are the wordsmith

It's you

Sheesh, I'm blushing. Too nice! Thanks.

[ScientificFlorist]

I honestly cannot write critique. I am either nitpicking like a bluh bluh, or saying "oh gog this is perfect!!11" That is why I am not commenting on any of your amazing things.

By the way, here is some weird thing I did when I had to write a sonnet in iambic pentameter for school. Somehow or other I got away with it (though my teacher not knowing Homestuck helps a lot) and I think this made me her favorite student somehow.

Paradise

show spoiler

hide spoiler

The time which cleans away the past long lost
The wind which flows through sky and gives us breath
The doom which bites away like winter’s frost
The blood which in our veins keeps us from death

The heart within our chest that beats with love
The space which lets us be lets us exist
The mind which lets us think thoughts brilliant of
The light which gives us luck and grants us this

The void which gives the way to all is real
The rage which helps emote and sings of fear
The hope which shines of all that we can feel
The life which lets us live and puts us here

These things which come together to make Earth
Tragic and yet a paradise is worth

[nikeathena]

Guys, I love your stuff. All of it. Seriously, would eat it for lunch (if I could. I might anyway). I will give more advanced crit when I'm not at work, so sry.

What's up with this queue thing, btw? I post something, and it tells me I'll have to wait X days and hours for it to get up, and then it is mysteriously lodged behind everything else when it does.