senri
in
bedlam_mix
AND MINI-FICS AGAIN.
Some of these really have no point.
JTHM; Johnny
He sleeps. He wakes.
It gets hard to tell the difference.
He sleeps, he wakes. The room is filled with butterflies red as lips, opening and closing like mouths, mumming worthless words. A language he doesn't know, and nothing to understand.
Nny walks to his kitchen through the haze of butterflies. His sink is full of greyish rotten-smelling sludge. There are human teeth lined up on the edge of the counter, and he can hardly see for red wings.
He wakes up. There is a worm moving ropily under his skin.
He wakes up. He spits a white lotus into his hand.
He wakes up. Squee is hanging upside down from the ceiling from a meathook, all pale, drained of blood.
He wakes up. He wakes up. He wakes up.
---
Xiaolin Showdown; Omi&Chase
The kites lift up like leaves; find slipstream breezes and win them over and rise upon them until they brush at the verge of the bright skyline. Omi runs with his own kite, releases it. The string cuts at his fingers. It takes to the air like it was always born to fly.
Chase hasn't indulged in this youthful pasttime in many times the handful of years that Omi has been alive. But he watches, anyway. Omi stands on the edge of the rooftop, balancing nimble as a cat, head shorn and robes saffron gold. He's no child of air, but he's good at this. Then again, air is a little like water. Both have currents. Both flow.
Omi's blood smears the kitestring ruddy. He steers his kite towards the others, yanking at the string so taut it twangs, shouting when he maneuvers well enough that another boy's kitestring gives way and the kite flies free and without direction to land somewhere in the city.
The boy is laughing, bright and fierce. Chase breathes cumin and smog, corruption and the lively bloodstream of the city. Omi's cart darts like a swallow, dips beneath another, unleashes and defeats it. "Do you want to try?" he asks, generous, but he blinks with surprise when Chase takes the string from him after all.
It's been a long time, and the pasttime is frivolous enough that Chase isn't in practice - if he ever flew kites, his body doesn't remember the skill. But he always fights to win, and he looses three other kites before one swoops down on him, agile enough to beat him out and cut his string.
Omi jumps up and down and cheers for him, and covers shudders sympathetically when defeat is imminent. Chase reels in the remaining string and looks at the frayed end, almost rueful, irritable. He does not like losing. His fingers come away bloody, cut by the ground glass coating the cord, and he glares out at the city - how impossible it would be, to find the boy at the end of that kite, and it's pointless, a frivolity.
His companion stands on the roof-edge. His feet peep out over a narrow alley, a long fall broken only by clotheslines and laundry. Omi shades his eyes and peers out after his errant kite. "I don't think it landed," he says. "It must still be flying!"
Unlikely, Chase thinks. But in the russet evening, the dome of the sky turning monk-robe-saffron-gold overhead, it's impossible to say that it's impossible.
---
Invader Zim; Dib
He's not quite right, the child of the future, the light of a new generation. He knows it, the homeless boy who returns to an empty house each night. He was made with a meaning in mind, and he's failing it with every breath he takes.
When a scientist goes to net a soul for his mad creation, he might not always get what he bargains for - life's a crapshoot, after all. And said misplaced soul might not always get what it wanted either.
Changelings hadn't really been associated with the extraterrestrial, but he always feels out of place, a step behind, a world - a galaxy - removed.
---
Prompts from Wallace Stevens' "Dutch Graves in Bucks County"
JTHM; Johnny
He sleeps. He wakes.
It gets hard to tell the difference.
He sleeps, he wakes. The room is filled with butterflies red as lips, opening and closing like mouths, mumming worthless words. A language he doesn't know, and nothing to understand.
Nny walks to his kitchen through the haze of butterflies. His sink is full of greyish rotten-smelling sludge. There are human teeth lined up on the edge of the counter, and he can hardly see for red wings.
He wakes up. There is a worm moving ropily under his skin.
He wakes up. He spits a white lotus into his hand.
He wakes up. Squee is hanging upside down from the ceiling from a meathook, all pale, drained of blood.
He wakes up. He wakes up. He wakes up.
---
Xiaolin Showdown; Omi&Chase
The kites lift up like leaves; find slipstream breezes and win them over and rise upon them until they brush at the verge of the bright skyline. Omi runs with his own kite, releases it. The string cuts at his fingers. It takes to the air like it was always born to fly.
Chase hasn't indulged in this youthful pasttime in many times the handful of years that Omi has been alive. But he watches, anyway. Omi stands on the edge of the rooftop, balancing nimble as a cat, head shorn and robes saffron gold. He's no child of air, but he's good at this. Then again, air is a little like water. Both have currents. Both flow.
Omi's blood smears the kitestring ruddy. He steers his kite towards the others, yanking at the string so taut it twangs, shouting when he maneuvers well enough that another boy's kitestring gives way and the kite flies free and without direction to land somewhere in the city.
The boy is laughing, bright and fierce. Chase breathes cumin and smog, corruption and the lively bloodstream of the city. Omi's cart darts like a swallow, dips beneath another, unleashes and defeats it. "Do you want to try?" he asks, generous, but he blinks with surprise when Chase takes the string from him after all.
It's been a long time, and the pasttime is frivolous enough that Chase isn't in practice - if he ever flew kites, his body doesn't remember the skill. But he always fights to win, and he looses three other kites before one swoops down on him, agile enough to beat him out and cut his string.
Omi jumps up and down and cheers for him, and covers shudders sympathetically when defeat is imminent. Chase reels in the remaining string and looks at the frayed end, almost rueful, irritable. He does not like losing. His fingers come away bloody, cut by the ground glass coating the cord, and he glares out at the city - how impossible it would be, to find the boy at the end of that kite, and it's pointless, a frivolity.
His companion stands on the roof-edge. His feet peep out over a narrow alley, a long fall broken only by clotheslines and laundry. Omi shades his eyes and peers out after his errant kite. "I don't think it landed," he says. "It must still be flying!"
Unlikely, Chase thinks. But in the russet evening, the dome of the sky turning monk-robe-saffron-gold overhead, it's impossible to say that it's impossible.
---
Invader Zim; Dib
He's not quite right, the child of the future, the light of a new generation. He knows it, the homeless boy who returns to an empty house each night. He was made with a meaning in mind, and he's failing it with every breath he takes.
When a scientist goes to net a soul for his mad creation, he might not always get what he bargains for - life's a crapshoot, after all. And said misplaced soul might not always get what it wanted either.
Changelings hadn't really been associated with the extraterrestrial, but he always feels out of place, a step behind, a world - a galaxy - removed.
---
Prompts from Wallace Stevens' "Dutch Graves in Bucks County"