tumblweeds [noooofo)

[cinder]

murrough, MARE

Sometimes I try to memorize my own face by taking stock of e-ve-ry flaw time's lashed into my skin. For example, have you ever noticed the two great, wide holes stamped into my skull, where two overflowing pools of blue spurt salted things I've heard are called tears? And there's a curious black hole that sucks in air and blows out perspiration, like sweat underarms. I've snorted out onto the cracked mirror hanging on my bedroom "door" four times in sixty-five second counts. The liquid never ends! Even my knows starts to get into the shape of the game by the time I'm entering my forth minute. I feel an overwhelming hand-impulse jolting my fingers up to shmeer the wetness across my skin. If I'm right, there are other holes scattered across that blank canvas, unfilled by water and salt. For fairness' sake, I should distribute the spurted liquid across my face, shouldn't I?

But I'm diminished into a state of uncaring boredom after too many minutes and seconds spent staring. I am after all the dictator of this sole body, it is not in my business to treat the tiny, hidden holes across my skin as fairly as the large and useful ones. So, without a second doubt, I run my fingers over the stains of wetness near the eye-holes and the mouth-hole, even the flared things between, "nostrils." My legs itch to take me outside. Apparently, the world is boring, yet I find my own company less than engaging - I don't speak enough to even capture my own interest. My ears suffer from lack of whitenoise, or any noise, bluenoise, blacknoise, popping fuschianoise, for all the`holes`in`the`side`of`my`head care! I need. To leave. Now. Movement, movement, more movement. It's the cure to silence and sadness. They are one and the same.

I drop out of my window, and idly wonder if leaving my window cracked open is very smart - my family is disliked, and the smallest fracture in their united front, a crack in their strong-home could be as lethal as pulling a card from a paper-house. But, "they" are the united front. "I" am not. I am different, and I walk alone metaphorically, just as I walk down the dusted, winding road to town now, as I think. My family love me, but it is all the same as the love they bear each other - a pitiful, half-remembered instinctual bond between those`who`share`blood-ties. I have the vaguest regard for myself that tells me I am worthy of more than love. I desire the fire of passion: hate, or at the very least, a strongly-attracting acquaintance from beyond the borders of the Murrough stronghold. For there is nothing natural about a strong aversion to another human, I find that dissonance with the pattern of the world... admirably original. Albeit, I am no discordianist. I don't like it when something shocks me with its unpredictability.

Morning walks should be lonely, silent stretches of time for contemplation and only contemplation. Strangers aren't supposed to make entrances on a winding road. Not now, nor ever.

ooc- do you think of any color when you read this? idk what I want mare's color to beeee, also shell seem more evil when she plays with your toy

[Nofo]

Hurlee's pale slender fingers reach up, brushing against the white paint of the ceiling. He brushes against the imperfections in the paint, holding onto some sense of dreams. He's sleeping still, he tells himself as he tries to close his eyes again. Inside his minds, it's dark and lonely. He's a lone soldier working for his own cause. He knows the taste of blood and relishes in it. Hurlee is a monster and that carries on in his dreams. In his dreams, however, he is dressed in a white suit, clean and a bit more attractive. The only imperfections in his suit are the blood that comes later on, when he stands over the body of his bunkmate. He could kill the younger boy below him now. He knows he's the only one awake at this point in the morning. He's studied the books over and over, but there's no real way to go on unnoticed. Choking will provoke coughs and gagging and muffled screams. Lethal injection would give away the intellect and everyone had seen Hurlee's test scores. He'd have to settle for killing in his dreams. He rolled over and sighed, giving himself back over to his dream.

The blonde hair ruffles in the stagnant air as he shakes the younger brunette beneath him. The room is large and white, vacant and strange. It's a dream scape that appears often in Hurlee's dreams. The knife of choice is rough and sharp, stainless steel. Perhaps he had seen them used in the Games, but he'd never seen the Patten on the knife before. Hurlee was sure there wasn't that pattern of a horse nestled onto the outer edges of the knife anywhere else. He wasn't a very creative person, but he was sure he knew how to kill and would be good at it. Hurlee's monotone voice was like his talents, spectacular and clear but lacked the emotion. His writing seemed a bit bland and disconnected. His music compositions are violently terrifying. He didn't play sports but he knew all he knew about fighting from books. Hurlee knew his way around the human body. As his knife found home again in between a rib, Hurlee enjoyed the familiar and distant sound of a shortened and sharper breath. If the boy could talk, Hurlee imagined he would be called a monster. Perhaps he was, but Hurlee thought of himself as bored.

Soon enough, the boy died and Hurlee found himself drawn to life. He growled and eyed the chip paint above him and sat up, bumping his head on the ceiling. The dull morning light came through the ratty and worn blinds hanging on the window to his left. The paint of the Community Home was white but looked grayer as it aged. It was due for a new coat of paint but the keeper really didn't have anything to do about it. The Community Home was full of poor children and housekeepers the same. He let his feet hang off the side of the bed and hopped down, eying the boy from his dream beneath him. He watched him for a moment or two before heading down into the closet, grabbing onto one of the few clothing articles he had. Hurlee never went anywhere without his dark trench coat. He had it since he was fifteen and wore it on a daily basis ever since. He also held onto a small old wooden ring he had found along a dirt road once.

Today, Hurlee planned on going for a walk. He hardly ate breakfast so there was no need to eat or prepare before leaving. He made his way into the living area where the front door was. No one was there, not that it mattered. There was a matter of alerting the woman who ran the Home but Hurlee suspected she was too afraid of him to say anything. So he opened the door and made his way into the dirty District covered in sawdust.

Hurlee made his way along a dirt winding road. He'd been down this particular road hundreds of times before. The road ran through the forests several times and he always found himself finding lumberjacks chopping away. He sighed and looked straight in front of him most of the time, preoccupied with himself. He never found real enjoyment in anything except pain. That was always fun. It was hard to find anyone he could connect with. Even harder to find anyone he wanted to connect with. Animals were the worst. He'd killed several cats and two dogs but was never found. He didn't care if he was, but it saved him the trouble of killing a few people and risking his future career as a tribute by becoming an avox. It was cold in the morning but Hurlee felt more at home in the cold winter air.

As the road carried on, Hurlee could make out a human figure. He smirked to himself confidently as it became a sharper picture. A girl, maybe a little younger than he was. Still, a girl could be easy prey. He kept on, walking closer and closer. Soon, their paths met and he began to speak.

"It might not be the brightest idea to walk alone."

Her features weren't unlike his own. Blonde and her eyebrows sharp and angry. It was almost like looking in a gender-swapping mirror, not that he gave it that sort of thought. His choice words were, 'She stole my face.' He stuck his pale hands into his coat pockets, feeling the blade of a knife that had been there for months know. There was blood caked on it even know from a few animals killed for enjoyment. His idle hands played with the blade, waiting for a moment to strike. Until then he had to manage conversation.

He sighed outwardly and opened his mouth again. "The bad guys seem to like abandoned roads like this. Next time, you should try avoiding it if you can."

[/justify][/blockquote]

[cinder]

Lips are twisting around my face, but I'm none too accustomed to expressions other than impassivity, so I can't say whether I frown or smirk. Maybe my face split in half, and on one side I am an angry, tired woman harangued by a taunting youth she wants to kick away, while my other half-lips look teasingly lustful and the flecks mixed in with my blue pupils are spelling out come hither. My body tremors, sudden flurries of chemical bundles being delivered every which way. Some hair bristles, a couple of points in my eyes dilate and my heart selfishly runs ahead of my body, wishing with all of its might to leap right out of me. I'd lash it - call it a coward, if I could muster the strength of my bones and head and face certain, lacking
- oblivion.

While I'm not sure what my face expresses, finally my lips pull together tightly and whitely, my head composes white-lies and pick-up lines taken from my past, defense mechanisms I say. With ivory lips, I am a pale ghost drifting down the lonely country lane. What fear lies in me? My heart skipped out of town, remember. I am an insubstantial creature escaped from a closet. Even less than a skeleton, but with more sex appeal, I'm hoping.

My eyes are kept straight ahead, except for the slivers of clear-watered pupils that ebb and flow from a peripheral viewpoint to center, searching obscured, thick wood for threats. "Please, I couldn't care who shares the road with me. There's a theory - one you wouldn't know, its centered around the many-worlds interpretation. Every possible future and every past exists alongside our own present," I say, feeling every bit my well-suited part as a puzzling nightMare.

"So while I'm walking with you, you see I'm also walking alone. Sorry, you're probably rotting in the ground as a corpse. And even as we stand here now, there are so many ghosts everywhere. Imagine our path polluted by the bodies of the past, present, and future. Twisted, isn't it? If we could see into the other worlds, we'd probably see someones having sex right now."

I don't know why I'm speaking. Words are wrong. Words hit my throat and knot my mind up into tongue-tied disorientation. But I have desperation in my blood, boiling over the witches couldron and out of my lips. Perhaps he reminds me of myself, I am a vain shadow casting shapes on a wall, and wondering if I can take his life force into my own, we are similar. Kindred spirits, kindred bodies.

"I don't care what you do or where you do it, sir. There's a superstition, as reliable as any theory, that the dead always come back when they're ill thought of. You'd think ill of me someday, and I'd be there. As a nightmare, or maybe not even! Maybe right now, in one of the many-worlds, I'm killing you.." I say, but lacking vivacity. There's no emphasis on my words, except for the unheard threats of a blade hidden in my coat, one I would prefer not to draw, because I cannot draw. I can speak. And only sometimes.

Words, like a pulse, ebb and flow in me. Sometimes so strong thump, and other days completely lost in emptiness. Its not an uncomfortable sensation to be wandering through my own mind, but the disorientation after that mental slip of ideas and images. The quick-lightening inspiration of loss leaves me deprived of something "necessary" in my core. To be utterly alone, without the so-many-worlds around me, leaves me tired by deprivation.

But its an artificial need to crave the manipulative properties of spoken-word. Withdrawal ebbs and seclusion creeps back into my many-boned network of cells. Oxymoronic in its duty, solitude greets me like an old friend I cannot close out. We coexist beautifully. We stray down the winding dead-ends, loose ends of mind and memory hand. ` in. ` hand.

Hollow chest-cavity and dark-diluted mind peer curiously though the curious holes in my skull. Stranger, unbelonging in my heart a few moments ago, I now see is just another wandering ghost. He's probably a kid "like me" who can't get out of his own mind for long enough to commit the dirty things he likes to do in his dreams. I like that stirred-up tornado kind of thing, the buried urges scratching at their satin-lined coffins. Wanting above all to be expressed. Uncorrupted dosage of potential to do harm, and possibly good.

He has the mind of an artist, and the hands of a wastrel. I lick my lips. I believe in some circles, he's called a dreamer. And I've always wondered how easy it would be to reproduce the seeds of a nightmare in the head of another. I want to tamper with him.

[Nofo]

loljk