Lycanthus
Joined: May 9th, '16, 11:49
Posts: 286
Hugs: 14611
Mood: tired/busy
Website: https://soundcloud.com/xysander
|
|
|
☆ writing samples.
— — — — — — — — —
- kill your darlings: feat. ruben
Spoiler On most days, Ruben Conway could be found somewhere in the city, around the regular tourist attractions soliciting people for a little bit of their time— no obligations necessary. His tenure as a salesman ended years and years ago, but his tongue was as silver-tipped as it was back in his early twenties, and his well-practiced smile only became more and more ingrained as time went on. He was a hustler thorough and through, and no amount of hardship ever permanently set him back. Although, it was significantly more difficult to conduct business when the authorities were after you, but that was another story in of itself. Thankfully, here, his fake ID worked perfectly fine. The name Russel Irwinston, although not his own, fit perfectly— like a glove. And it was with gloved hands with which he climbed aboard the train, covering the blood dried to his skin.
It seemed that fate was not on Ruben's side this time.
Things started off as normally as they possibly could. It was typical for Ruben to set up shop around the theatre with counterfeit collector's items— photographs with carefully forged signatures, clothing, props, or other memorabilia —but he'd grown bored of that ruse pretty fast. The worker at the ticket booth didn't seem to care that he was there, thus there was none of the usual harassment he faced was present, and... well. Ruben was bored. He figured he might take today off, have a coffee and go down to the library for a while, and so he stashed his things behind the theatre in a little storage shed he'd bribed a worker to let him use.
Or rather, he was going to. This shed was located in the back alleys behind the peaceful facade of downtown's local franchises, where people like Ruben himself seemed to run amok. He considered himself a little better than the others— because, sure, he might have been a criminal, but he was undoubtedly white-collar. Nothing at all like the two men present inside the shed once he opened the door. One was tall, well-built, with a strong five o' clock shadow covering the lower half of his face. His eyes were sunken, bloodshot, and when the man turned to face Ruben, he could feel the inherent animosity in his gaze.
The other man behind him, dressed in a police uniform— well. He was dead. Gutted, to be exact. His blood was all over the taller man's slacks and hands, eyes staring blankly into the distance, as lifeless as the body they belonged to.
A number of things happened in Ruben's head. He'd seen this sort of thing before, but usually days after it happened, when the body had began to decompose and reek of decay. His hands weren't free of blood, but never had he eviscerated someone so brutally. This was the work of a crime syndicate— and one he wasn't familiar with. Another realization: if the authorities came here, Ruben would be the first person to blame. His fraudulent merchandise sat behind the dead cop, covered in his blood. And even if he wasn't an immediate suspect, he'd sure be under close scrutiny, and he didn't want anyone reading between the lines of his fake birth certificate.
In other words, Ruben was fucked. And that was without considering the cop-killer standing right in front of him.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for said cop-killer, Ruben was pretty good with a knife.
When the police arrive at 12PM, they would see one dead officer, gutted horribly, and one wanted criminal, cleanly slit through the neck, collapsed on top of his own victim in a pool of blood. Ruben would be long, long gone, whisked away on the metro before they could even begin piecing together evidence. And what's more, Ruben would enlist the help a certain temporary partner in crime.
Now boarding.
"Hello, I'll be taking this seat if you don't mind." Ruben smiled, not waiting for a reply to sit beside a man scribbling into a notebook. "Marvelous morning it is, wouldn't you say?"
Underneath his gloves, the now-caked blood itched and cracked on Ruben's skin.
It was going to be a long day.
- these buildings are cemeteries: feat. seth
Spoiler Eastland was one of those cities you never really missed when you were away. Friends and family aside, there were few places to go and even less things to do. There was one mall— a relatively new installment within the last twenty years that typically served as a popular hangout with the town's younger generation. A few froyo spots opened up too, dragging customers away from the old, tiny snow cone stand beside the gas station. There was an old vinyl shop, a couple of fast food joints, and... that was pretty much all there was to Eastland. Besides the overgrown pastures on the outskirts, or the abandoned rural buildings from god knows how long ago. Entering downtown, one would be greeted with a rusty sign, arched over the road: DOWNTOWN EASTLAND EST. 1945. A sign once meant to welcome visitors (back when Eastland was still a bustling manufacturing town) was now a sad reminder of decline. Forests reclaimed much of the old factory grounds. People moved away. It was fate, as inevitable as the sun sinking below the horizon, but it did little to change the fact that coming home, after all these months, remained a singularly depressing experience.
This was the situation Seth Rogers found himself in at this very moment.
Summer was a bittersweet reprieve from his studies. It wasn't that he loved school per se, but school meant university, and university meant leaving Eastland, and leaving Eastland meant going somewhere else— somewhere where the thrum of life echoed in the footsteps of a crowd, or the four o' clock traffic or the incessant chatter among city-goers, sitting in road-side coffee shops. There was life in the streets and Seth could spend hours upon hours in the cafes, eavesdropping on nearby conversations. It was a far cry from the old and wizened population of his hometown, which could often be found smoking cigars on their porches, or having whiskey as they listened to sports talkshows over the radio.
He did miss his friends. Not so much his family. He'd have to deal with his overbearing mother soon, but for now he had time. There was still another hour to go on the train, then a twenty-five minute bus ride through prairie grass and farmland before he'd be back home. And he fully intended to enjoy his last moments of full autonomy before his independence would be forcefully snatched away by his mom.
Seth took a deep breath, holding onto his luggage as the train halted, pulling to a scheduled stop enroute to his destination. A small part of him wanted to get up and leave, run back to the city where he could breathe again, but the notion was ridiculous— and he'd been texting Hasley this entire time, too, a girl who was eagerly waiting for him to arrive. Also his best friend from highschool, who was in her senior year at long last. Actually, it wasn't that Seth was texting her as much as it was the other way around. Hasley was always the impatient, overzealous sort which Seth... couldn't really keep up with. And, he changed a little too since they last met.
For one, he got a boyfriend. This, he did not tell her yet.
He laid his head back against the seat and looked up at the ceiling, feeling the crushing weight of monotony bear down on him as his phone continued to buzz. Then, in one quick movement, he turned his phone off.
This was going to be a long, long summer.
- excerpt from golden bells, an unfinished short story: feat. kaj and rafar
Spoiler Kaj sweeps away the crumbs from his shirt with the delicacy of an artist, Rafar thinks. In truth, it seemed that anything he did was wrought with such a gracefulness that one might assume he was royalty, at first glance. The only things to betray him were the very clothes he wore on his back— tattered, off-white, and worn from months of continuous travel. As Kaj always said, it never did him any good to waste money on new things if they were not broken. Rafar was sure he'd wear those rags until they quite literally began to fall off his body.
Clapping his hands together, Kaj stands, stretching in satisfaction. "The bread was good today, don't you think? I thought the poppy seed was a nice touch."
Rafar is still sitting down at the table as he watches. He only takes a sip from his canteen, eyes diverted— now zigzagging through the marketplace crowds as they pass by en masse. Kaj catches this, smiles a little, before leaning down to block his line of sight.
"Hello. You're deep in thought today."
There's no avoiding those eyes of his, golden and sun-flecked. It's almost embarrassing how much Rafar likes them. And to think that Kaj could be blind to it all seemed to be the most impossible thing. How could someone so wise for his years be so completely oblivious?
And yet, maybe it was yet another reason why Rafar could not bear to leave after months together. In retrospect, it was silly. He merely agreed to escort him from Arkaios to the next town over, in order to ensure the young man's safety would not be compromised enroute— and yet, here he was, months later and miles away from his guard post at the palace.
In truth, he was a deserter. He trained his entire life to assume a position of importance as a palace guard. All those hours toiling under the desert sun, skin nearly blistering with the heat, with water barrels propped against his back— solid and heavy. The burns underneath his feet from every step in the sand. And the endless meditation— priests chanting in harmony as Rafar would bite back his howls of pain, each crack of the whip demanding the same thing: clear your mind. breathe. rinse and repeat.
All that, thrown away on a whim as soon as he saw him walk alone, hungry and tired, past the palace gates.
"Are you thinking about the palace again?" Kaj asks, tilting his head to the side. "You know… I never did insist you come with me. That was entirely of your own volition."
Rafar plugs his canteen. No matter what he did, Kaj could read him like an open book. "No, I am not thinking of that, thank you very much."
"Well, you must certainly be thinking about something important. You had that look in your eyes again."
"That look?" Rafar asks.
"You look like a lizard when you think too much."
"A lizard?"
"A lizard."
Rafar looks absolutely unamused as he crosses his arms and reclines against the table. "Care to explain how I resemble a lizard?"
Kaj taps his nose a few times with his index finger. "When lizards sit very still, they look like statues. Always wearing that serious expression on their faces."
"Lizards can't make any other faces."
"Yes, and so they always look serious. Like you."
What a curious feeling. Rafar came to know it intimately— indignation, embarrassment, exasperation, adoration —all astir underneath his careful decorum. He would always turn away, make some show of annoyance, then Kaj would always laugh as if he knew that his companion secretly enjoyed his constant teasing. And he would not be wrong— Rafar did indeed turn away, and Kaj's gentle laugh caught his ears like a string of bells in the wind.
It seemed as if Rafar's fate was inevitable: he was to fall madly, deeply in love.
 (0)  (0) |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
