February62013

Time as a woman

I write everyday as an outlet. And, while writing, I found that this was something that could quite possibly be shared.

So, time is the ultimate judge, for only she will tell. And, thinking more on that matter, time is often referred to as one who passes judgment, one who makes decisions. But time is inconstant, it is always in flux. Following that logic, Time has to be a woman. Time is feminine—fleeting, frail, and subjective; it can be the longest and most painful aspect of life, it can be short and savory, like chocolate that was starved for on an empty stomach. Time is judgmental, rude, coy, and loving. Forever is a curse. Forever is a blessing; a desire, for some. She is everything. She is nothing. She is. No matter what she embodies at a particular time, Time IS.

figmented fabrication writing personal Time time personification feminine Time as a woman Beautiful Personal writing sample Diary Journal or sorts Sarah 

May182012
“Dear Mello, I know that you’ve always seen us as rivals, but I never saw it us as such. You idolized L, but I idolized you.” Near stared at what he’d wrote, before sighing and crinkling up the white lined paper and putting the compressed ball into his pocket. He looked up at the high ceilings of the SPK building. Then he looked at the circular train set that moved around him; a toy that he was steadily growing bored of. It had been three months since he had all traces of himself, Mello, and Matt removed from Whammy’s house. Truthfully, he didn’t think there would be much left to remove, considering Matt’s hacking skills. And there wasn’t. All that was left was a photograph of each one of them and a one page summary of their life there. The files were locked in an old, broken filing cabinet in the basement. Near burned the photograph of himself and of Matt. He’d never been particularly found of photographs, and he knew that Matt had to be forced to take this picture. Mello, on the other hand, had always been found of pictures. Near couldn’t bring himself to burn Mello’s. The blonde would never believe that his rival would destroy the evidence of his face. He debating keeping it, just to remember what Mello once was: the happiness that emulated from him, the way the other kids admired him, how smart he was and how hard he tried. Mello fought hard for everything he did. Near admired the effort Mello exerted for everything. Near himself didn’t put effort into anything. He just played, plotted, and passed off his analysis to others. Those who worked below him were responsible for all the actual leg work. Near just made observations and put pieces together. It was Rester, Lidner and Gevanni that acted as his legs and arms to move the SPK forward, and to grasp the ungraspable. Near picked up another sheet of paper, using one of the Gevanni’s pens to try writing something else. “Dear Mello, L can’t be succeeded by just one of us. We can only succeed L together.” Again, Near pulled out the sheet of paper and ripped it, tucking the pieces in his pocket. He sighed, twisting his fingers through his hair. He was about ready to give up. Then, he realized the only thing Mello would understand. I’m sorry. He grabbed the picture, writing, “Dear Mello,” “Near!” Rester’s voice sounded. “Huh?” Near glanced up from his trains and the picture in his hand. His dark hues went to the screens behind him. Mello was escorting Lidner with a gun. A sigh escaped him. He should have known. He tucked the picture into his shirt, keeping it out of sight. “What should we do?” Rester questioned, glancing back to him. “Let them in.” Near said, as if that was the obvious answer. The lock on the door opened. “Mello. Welcome.” Near greeted.

“Dear Mello,

I know that you’ve always seen us as rivals, but I never saw it us as such. You idolized L, but I idolized you.”

Near stared at what he’d wrote, before sighing and crinkling up the white lined paper and putting the compressed ball into his pocket. He looked up at the high ceilings of the SPK building. Then he looked at the circular train set that moved around him; a toy that he was steadily growing bored of.

It had been three months since he had all traces of himself, Mello, and Matt removed from Whammy’s house. Truthfully, he didn’t think there would be much left to remove, considering Matt’s hacking skills. And there wasn’t. All that was left was a photograph of each one of them and a one page summary of their life there. The files were locked in an old, broken filing cabinet in the basement.

Near burned the photograph of himself and of Matt. He’d never been particularly found of photographs, and he knew that Matt had to be forced to take this picture. Mello, on the other hand, had always been found of pictures.

Near couldn’t bring himself to burn Mello’s. The blonde would never believe that his rival would destroy the evidence of his face. He debating keeping it, just to remember what Mello once was: the happiness that emulated from him, the way the other kids admired him, how smart he was and how hard he tried.

Mello fought hard for everything he did.

Near admired the effort Mello exerted for everything. Near himself didn’t put effort into anything. He just played, plotted, and passed off his analysis to others. Those who worked below him were responsible for all the actual leg work. Near just made observations and put pieces together. It was Rester, Lidner and Gevanni that acted as his legs and arms to move the SPK forward, and to grasp the ungraspable.

Near picked up another sheet of paper, using one of the Gevanni’s pens to try writing something else.

“Dear Mello,

L can’t be succeeded by just one of us. We can only succeed L together.”

Again, Near pulled out the sheet of paper and ripped it, tucking the pieces in his pocket. He sighed, twisting his fingers through his hair. He was about ready to give up.

Then, he realized the only thing Mello would understand.

I’m sorry.

He grabbed the picture, writing, “Dear Mello,”

“Near!” Rester’s voice sounded.

“Huh?” Near glanced up from his trains and the picture in his hand. His dark hues went to the screens behind him. Mello was escorting Lidner with a gun. A sigh escaped him. He should have known.

He tucked the picture into his shirt, keeping it out of sight.

“What should we do?” Rester questioned, glancing back to him.

“Let them in.” Near said, as if that was the obvious answer.

The lock on the door opened. “Mello. Welcome.” Near greeted.

(via ninjabelle)

Death Note Near Mello Oneshot Drabble figmented fabrication 

April172012

SuteNia 100 Theme Challenge

Happy Birthday my lovely Artist-san!

Yeah… I’ve been forgetting to post these…  Mostly because this theme in particular declared war on me. I hope you like it!

This was supposed to be Gevanni’s POV, but Near’s inner voice leaks in toward the end. Oh well.


3. Flirting

Gevanni thought himself good with people. Before he joined the FBI and CIA, he was always surrounded by people that he loved; he’d always had a lot of friends, especially in college. He was told that he was a good friend that could recognize a problem as well as be there to listen and give advice. It was much the same whenever he was in a relationship. He was attentive, dedicated, slightly clingy, but affectionate and caring. Truthfully, he had all the makings of a successful person.

Until the secrets started to consume his life and he couldn’t afford the socialite lifestyle anymore. But he loved his job too much to give it up. Or, he did most days. Except today.

Since they had arrived back in New York, Near had been irritable and mouthy. Normally Gevanni would contribute it to Jetlag, but Near didn’t sleep often and they had gotten back seven hours ago. If he was cranky, then he could take a damn nap. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in a place where he could tell his boss to take a fucking nap and piss off.

So, he sighed, working on some police reports that needed to be sent in before start of business tomorrow. At his desk. Quietly. While his boss sat ten feet away, glaring. This wasn’t exactly strange, considering that Near never slept much when there was work to be done. But Gevanni couldn’t just make another pot of coffee and bear with it. It was starting to get late. Or, perhaps it was better to say that it was starting to get early. A quick glance at his watch revealed that it was 1:16 am.

Normally, Gevanni didn’t have much of a problem with Near’s bratty nature. Once in a while, Near grew frustrated with something, which was usually a case or a particular person, and he’d sulk about it. He’d make card or dice towers, then destroy them. He’d throw his toys around, sometimes breaking them, or he’d just start arguments with those he worked with. Rester and Lidner tended to avoid him when he was like this. But Gevanni was the one in charge of watching him. Normally Rester flew with Near, since he preferred it that way. But they needed to get L out of China as soon as possible. So Gevanni escorted Near back to the United States.

Of course, the trip had been hell. Gevanni knew that if he told anyone that, they’d roll their eyes, blowing off the cliché of his words; but literally, it had been like hell. The turbulence knocked everyone around like popcorn in a bag. The one time that Gevanni managed to fall asleep he was awoken soon after by some woman publicly announcing her divorce with her husband. The plane fell about a thousand feet, which was probably the only time he’d ever seen Near look afraid, to make things better, Gevanni was sure that the flight he chose was going to cost L his life; and, to make things even better, there was this drunk woman sitting not far from them that kept trying to get Gevanni to get Near to have a quickie with her in the bathroom.

Yeah… helping his boss hook up wasn’t something he was into. That and he was sure that Near wouldn’t want to. So that just made the ride totally amazing. Oh, and he forgot anything that Near liked to do in the packed luggage. So Near spent the entire flight reading on the computer.

“Are you finished yet?” Near asked, his tone low and sharp.

Never, in Gevanni’s thirty two years, had he wanted to slap someone that he dearly wanted to see naked. Until this moment. Instead of letting it go, as most people would have, Gevanni pushed himself to his feet, out of his chair and walked over to his boss.

“What? What did I do that has put you in such a foul mood?” Gevanni demanded. “Was it when I fell asleep? When I forgot to take out the toys you usually play with during long plane rides? Was it because I picked the flight and we suffered the whole way through it? What is it? What the hell pissed you off so damn much that you’ve done nothing but sulk and bitch the entire time we’ve been back in New York?”

Near’s eyes widened, in what Gevanni assumed was shock, and his pale lips parted.

Fired. Oh god, Gevanni was so fired. He should just hand Near his gun and walk out before he could get yelled at, or before Near threw anything at him. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at his boss. A shuttering breath escaped him, realizing what he’d just done, the person he’d just insulted.

“I-I’m…” Gevanni choked out.

“You flirted with her.”

Air cascaded out of Gevanni’s lungs in a way that it had only done when some criminal threw a trunk at him when he was a rookie. “W-With who?”

Near was curling his hair around his finger. “The red-headed woman on the plane that was sitting across from us.”

“I wasn’t flirting, I…” Gevanni felt dazed. It was like someone reached into his head and turned his brain around the opposite way. Why would flirting bother Near. “What’s?”

Near shifted his weight so he was sitting on his butt, then one of his legs come out, foot slamming into the back of Gevanni’s knee, causing him to fall forward. Gevanni, unable to stop himself, tumbled forward, almost crushing his boss. Thankfully, he caught himself on his hands, breathless. He wasn’t sure if it was the shock of the fall or his tie tightening around his neck.“W-Why did—”

The whitenette twisted himself under Gevanni’s body, a small hand clutching the white and blue tie. Near then used said tie like a leash, pulling Gevanni toward him, their lips meeting awkwardly.

The kiss was brief, but not unpleasant. When Gevanni moved back, Near was looking away from him, but released his tie. He started to curl his hair around his finger once more. Pale cheeks seemed slightly pink, and Gevanni smiled.

“Do not do that again.” Near slid out from under Gevanni’s substantial frame.

The Italian watched his boss, dumbfounded. “D-Do what?” Gevanni stammered, still confused by the whole interaction. “The telling you off part, or the flirting part?”

Near turned to look at his subordinate and smiled. Now, Gevanni stared, a smile meeting his lips as well. He loved his boss’ smile; but Near smiled so infrequently that the brunette could count the number of times he’d seen such a sight; this was the fifth.

“Both.”

suteNia 100 theme challenge Gevanni Near figmented fabrication 

March212012
An exert of description from a story I’m writing that is based on the image above: I sighed, frustrated that I couldn’t see anything but trees. What was out there? Just as I’d given up my search and bent down to assess my soiled sneakers, (which were hopelessly dirty and would never be white again, tan, maybe, but never white) the glinting light caught my eye once more. I looked up, eyes narrowed in frustration and caught sight of an owl. A large brown and white barn owl; her body was mostly white, but her front was stained as if someone shook a black paint brush at her; droplets sprinkled her white plumage. Her wings were a form of art all their own; a light tannish color coated the tips, with more splattered black dots, the concentration of which increased at the tips of her feathers. Her face was outlined in golden plumage that reflected sunlight. The golden feathers framed her heart shaped face, in the center of this great canvas were her black eyes, empty and everlasting like the apocalypse in which I was trapped. And those eyes stared at me with an inquisitive wonder. All I could do was stare back like a newborn who saw its mother for the first time. Everything about her expressed pose and elegance. Except her eyes, they radiated some kind of knowledge that made her  worthy of being Athena’s symbol of knowledge. I was mystified to be this close to a bird so large. I froze, unsure of what to do. If I moved too fast, I might startle her. What if she attacked? What if she flew away? A chance like this was so rare that I wanted to savor a bird of such beauty being so close. So I just stood dumbly, much like a toddler faced with opposition.

An exert of description from a story I’m writing that is based on the image above:

I sighed, frustrated that I couldn’t see anything but trees. What was out there? Just as I’d given up my search and bent down to assess my soiled sneakers, (which were hopelessly dirty and would never be white again, tan, maybe, but never white) the glinting light caught my eye once more.

I looked up, eyes narrowed in frustration and caught sight of an owl. A large brown and white barn owl; her body was mostly white, but her front was stained as if someone shook a black paint brush at her; droplets sprinkled her white plumage. Her wings were a form of art all their own; a light tannish color coated the tips, with more splattered black dots, the concentration of which increased at the tips of her feathers. Her face was outlined in golden plumage that reflected sunlight. The golden feathers framed her heart shaped face, in the center of this great canvas were her black eyes, empty and everlasting like the apocalypse in which I was trapped. And those eyes stared at me with an inquisitive wonder. All I could do was stare back like a newborn who saw its mother for the first time. Everything about her expressed pose and elegance. Except her eyes, they radiated some kind of knowledge that made her  worthy of being Athena’s symbol of knowledge.

I was mystified to be this close to a bird so large. I froze, unsure of what to do. If I moved too fast, I might startle her. What if she attacked? What if she flew away? A chance like this was so rare that I wanted to savor a bird of such beauty being so close. So I just stood dumbly, much like a toddler faced with opposition.

Original story description figmented fabrication image writing 

December172011

The Voice of Reason

The Voice of Reason

Survival was like fighting in a partially frozen pool; the frigid water made him sluggish, wearing his muscles out. He was exhausted, desperate to reach the other side to climb out. The strife would be worth it, he reminded himself. Just push forward, keep moving. Fight! Only the weak give up… only the weak fail. But he couldn’t climb out. Instead, he was caught in the thickness, trapped by it, being pulled, deeper into the darkness that had been consuming him for years: wondrous years, painful years.

Those years brought Soul confined to this frigid and cramped apartment he shared with his fiancé, Maka. His crimson eyes watched the heavy rain that ruined his Wednesday evening. But it was abnormal for the region. Nevada suffered infrequent showers, assuming it rained at all. Flood advisories were in effect. Rain reminded Soul of Maka, of a time long ago where they’d lie in bed, sleeping in one another’s embrace.

That’s right. He used to sleep. But, sleep was a sign of weakness, a disgusting human need. The dark rings that clung below his eyes, like a toddler to its mother, were testimony to the sleepless nights he spent trying to remember something aside from the confusion that now consumed his mind. Before, he crafted elegant music, scripts, and novellas. He wrote stories detailing his fairytale-esque romance with Maka. A passage of their engagement read like a Disney story.

Maybe that’s why she loved him and why she remained at his side.

After a long pause from his artistic expression, the desire to create was coming back to him. It might have been guilt, which was something he hadn’t realized until later. His love for Maka was forcing him to make amends for what he’d done and show her that he could be the person she wanted him to be. He could be the normal, mentally sound, soon-to-be-husband without the help of medication.

He didn’t need medication, he reminded himself, which perhaps was why Soul was standing in his bedroom, idly; looking at the music he’d crafted before locking himself away from the world. He’d bought the Sharpie rainbow, which became the tools with which he used to stain his walls. Paper was temporary; it burned, ripped, and could be destroyed with time. In an effort to make the art Maka loved immortal, he crafted music on the walls.

His love for her had not yet waned, and he knew that deep down, she was right. There was another voice however, that haunted the caverns of his mind.

“She’s wrong you know,” said the airy voice that slithered into the room. “You don’t need medication… You’re better as you are now, the perfect husband for Maka.”

Soul found flaws in those words, wondering if the demon was out for his well-being, or if it was a parasite. A one way relationship between himself and the disembodied voice seemed likely, considering everything it had convinced him to abandon. He postponed the ceremony because the demon told him to. He stopped going outside because the demon’s voice yelled louder each time he dared to venture toward the door. How much was this demon willing to take, before it finally delivered the power and unmatchable skill that he promised?

Alcohol was the only thing that eased the pounding in Soul’s head, caused by the voice’s loud monologues.

The voice suddenly yelled. “No drinking! That weakens you, every drink takes away from your strength!” The demon’s voice boomed.

A pain came to Soul’s temples as the monologue continued, so he stopped listening. “I don’t care, I just want a fucking drink.”

 “Soul, who are you talking to?” The front door of the apartment was ajar, holding within its frame his young fiancé.

Maka was a young woman of nineteen; her blonde hair messy around her shoulders, the strands dripping water. She didn’t have a car, and since Soul wasn’t driving anymore, she was on her own for transportation. She walked, for the most part. Her soaked uniform clung to her thin frame: the thigh length teal skirt had lost its pleating, a white shirt that gave him a glimpse of the matching bra clinging to her thin chest, and the striped tie that was partially undone around her neck. The sound of the door closing caused his crimson eyes to leave her body and finally wander to her face. Her eyes were focused, staring at him, her lips slightly parted, tears lining her eyes, fighting against flesh to fall. She repeated her question.

“No one. I’m hungry.” His reply was his solution to distract her from his flawed existence.

“R-Really?!” Maka exclaimed, moving toward him lovingly. “What do you want?”

“Something small,” he mumbled, realizing that he would have to eat now. “Food can be poisoned or laced with chemicals.” He restated the explanation the demon had given to him when the voice started a little over a year ago.

“Of course,” she agreed. There was no point in arguing, so she simply let the comments pass idly, as she’d been doing for the past few months. “Do you want to make dinner together like we used to? Then things can start to get back to normal…” Maka sounded hopeful at the prospect of normalcy.

Soul started to rummage through the groceries she brought home. “What is all this shit? Bread, oranges, scallions, fish. Ew! I don’t like fish.”

 “What do you mean you don’t like tilapia?” Maka asked desperately. “You love seafood, and tilapia is your favorite! Do you remember the dinner party we had last year? The entire menu was Asian style seafood a la Soul!”

“Don’t make up stories,” Soul mumbled standing from the worn couch. He walked over to his fiancé, arms lacing around her waist. He wondered, at times, if she still loved him.

The coy voice return to the forefront of his thoughts, “Test her.”

Soul heard the dare and tightened his arms around Maka’s waist, wanting to protect her from the voice. He could feel her ribs poking into his arms and a sharp gasp was forced from her body.

“Soul!” She yelped in pain. Her uneven nails, sharp and worn from biting, scratched at his arms in an attempt to free herself.

Soul let her go, realizing what he’d done. A sorrowful expression filled his eyes. She turned to face him, damp hair falling over her shoulder. Fists raised and she slammed them into his shoulders and chest, crying; loudly; whaling and desperate to make him understand her frustration, her fear, and her love.

Soul stood, taking the beating she offered. He knew she wanted more than this. She deserved more too. He tried desperately to make her happy, but all his attempts failed miserable to please her.

They were best friends, partners, and lovers. But, now, they were fighting one another for a love they both wanted, but couldn’t grasp. All they could grasp was one another, in an emotional brawl that she believed would fix him and he believed would give her an outlet for her frustration.

Maka’s voice was twisted into fits of sobbing, and he stumbled when a fist found itself into his stomach. The world became small; his field of vision narrowed as if he was looking through a tunnel the size of a quarter. It widened seconds later, his vision returned. He was sitting in a chair, panting, trying to understand what had befallen him. Maka was strong; she’d taken years of kickboxing classes with her mother as a teenager.

Maka swung out her arms in defeat and frustration, desperate for him to understand why she felt as she did. One of her delicate hands caught a glass, knocking it from the counter. He watched the cup slide from the surface of the cheap plastic counter, spilling Sprite onto the floor, unsuccessfully cushioning the glass that chased the liquid. On impact, the glass shattered, jagged shards dancing through the soda.

“Damn it…” She mumbled, shoulders shuttering, hand supporting her head, covering her once brilliant olive eyes. “Damn it… Damn it…” Her voice hitched, and a frantic cry escaped her lips. Her weeping continued. The golden trestles’ that obscured her face trembled like long branches of a weeping tree; her slender frame hunched and twisted like the trunk of a tree, protecting itself from the cold outside world, seeking isolation and solace. Her legs were inches from the shattered glass, knees saturated with carbonation and syrup.

Soul ignored her display and walked toward his bedroom. Seeing the emotions he caused compound within her made him wonder what exactly he wanted. Medication was out of the question, of course, because that would ruin his genius. But where did that leave him? Marriage, which was their postponed arrangement, was about compromise. If he couldn’t compromise, surely she’d find someone else that would love her. Which one could he deal with easier?

“Make her pay,” the slithering voice returned. “Show her the man you are; the man that made her scream.”

“I’d never hurt her, and I know she loves me.” Soul attempted to defend himself.

“She loves who you used to be…” Weightless and heavy hands pulled at his neck, messing up his collar that stayed flat against his shirt.

He couldn’t bear with the horrific manic feeling that was starting to consume his mind. It gave him the inspiration to write music again. Did this demonic parasite give him anything at all? Was Soul reaping benefits, or sacrificing his wellbeing to the creature that consumed him?

Maka entered his room in a casual outfit: a low cut long sleeve shirt to protect her from the January cold and sweatpants that she’d adopted from his wardrobe when their relationship changed.

Olive eyes, filled with tears, found no safety or love in the crimson hues that once radiated both. His protecting nature, dedication, and love, was gone; swallowed by the cold that had been consumed, rather violently, by the change in season. “I miss you.”

“I’m still me,” he mumbled, staring at the messy notes on the wall behind her.  

“You’re not…” She whispered.

Then, Soul felt a surge of anger, not at her, but at himself. He hated seeing this hopelessness becoming a part of her, the lifeless nature of her fake smiles, the way she begged him to do anything. He hated himself for making her this way, but he also hated her. The responsibility for their crumbling relationship wasn’t only his fault, so as she took out her anger on him, he took his out on her.

But it was not as therapeutic as he’d expected. He was in pain; his knuckles ached, lined with bruises and cuts. He was standing above Maka, looking over her slender body. Her messy hair, which was once shiny, was now dull and oily. Her cheeks were mismatched; both were flushed, but the left was dark and ugly; warped into a sickly purple bruise. The lipstick on her downward facing lips was smudged on her cheek, from the corners of her lips. But it looked damp, so perhaps it was blood? Her purple shirt was torn, red dots staining the white lace underneath. Bruises were on her arms where he’d violently gripped her.

 “Please just take the meds.” She sobbed. “It will stop what you feel.” The tears started to spill from her bloodshot eyes.

“No!” The weightless voice boomed in anger. “No pills! Pills will destroy me!”

Maka’s hold tightened. “I-I can’t do this anymore, Soul. Make your ch-choice…” Her words caught within her throat, choking on her sobs. “Me or this.”

Soul closed his eyes, his full weight falling against her. He knew the right answer, and he didn’t want to live to find out what was hidden behind door number two.  “This.” He answered, hoping she could understand.  

“Okay,” she mumbled, pushing him away. Maka stood and turned her back on him, taking a few steps toward the door.

His hand shot out and started pulling her back.

“You made your choice.” Maka said thickly, willing herself to deal with her lover’s choice of madness.

Soul nodded. “This.” His grip tightened on her hand. “Us.”

 “I choose us.” He repeated, pulling her down to her knees on the floor in front of him.

Maka desperately wanted to believe that he was choosing her. She had to believe that he loved her. So she opened the bottle and two pills dropped into the palm of her hand. “If you choose me, you have to take these.”

Soul studied the blue capsules. Maka offered them to him and he took the two into his hand. He rolled them around in palm, as if they were the jelly beans he loved as a child, and with this new visual in mind, he brought them to his lips. He took the two onto his tongue and swallowed, hoping that this would reinstate her love for him.

I love you Smina <3

Dark Fanfiction Love Maka Ogre Romance Sarah Soul Soul Eater The Voice of Reason figmented fabrication Soma 

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