Drafts

Awesome thread. :D

According to most people we share the planet with, there is a time and a place for everything. Life, undefined, has a purpose. There is a reason. When the time is right, supposedly, everything is revealed. This belief is so tightly held onto, there are no doubts. Our belief is welded into our hands by the generations above us. But if, when, where, it fails, what will befall us then?

Such a good idea.

Asher. The name, to him, still felt like a dagger to the heart. He wished he had done something to save his friend, and yet at the same time he wondered what would might have happened if he had. Would they both be gone or would that have been an opportunity to grow old with his best friend? Even now, sitting in his room with his nurse he wondered what could have been.

Asher, Raymonds oldest and seemingly only best friend. He died at age eight, and Raymond didn't do a damned thing about it.

It's rough. :file:

Cerulean boy was beautiful, all luminous paper skin and gilded bones. The watermark of a finer maker. The most luxurious of all the parchment boys. He was aching to look out with his copper penny eyes and watch his world unfold before him. They told him he'd wear a silver string of stars about his weary collarbones and rope the sun with a celestial string and he would rule all. He was beauty, he was grace, he was new. Then someone tripped and cracked the sky and the moon fell down and crushed him. And his glory was never known, never seen, never relished.

the start of a one shot called cerulean boy, which I could never get to go anywhere I know the end of this sounds like an end but it's actually a start...long story which doesn't make much sense :tehe:

I will never, ever be able to continue these:

Like a kite spiralling out of control,
She's head over heels for you,
but the blue skies wonder,
does the wind ever tell the truth?

~

There she goes again,
Waving her crown around,
But when you're at the top
there's no other way but down.

—and that is enough.

It’s gray on the other side, nothing more and nothing less; Munich is wet and slippery on cobblestone streets and dreary on smoke summers. Sometimes he forgets where he is, sometimes, but only sometimes. It’s quite silly of him, really, to think this whisper-world can replace the one he left behind, with these ghost faces of people he’ll never see again. He claps too, sometimes, a force of habit, but it doesn’t make much sense here. Nothing makes sense here, without alchemy or his brother or—

No, no. He doesn’t let himself think it, not that name, not that man—no. It already far too much, being an entire universe away from everything he has ever known, ever loved. He does not even know if Al is alive, if his sacrifice was worth something, if he should have just taken Roy’s hand and—

Too late, too late, way too fucking late to take anything back. He made his choice (mistake, mistake), and goddamnit he wasn’t a child anymore. He’d spent a good portion of his life chasing his sins and standing under a downpour of guilt, and… and…

He tilts his head, a windmill trapped in time, and welcomes the taste of dirtwater on his lips. The rain on this side of the Gate has been nothing but, but his boots kiss every speckle of mud that greets his footsteps without a racing beat, the lone violinist without his eyes on the conductor, and arrives at the apartment as if he’d just emerged from the swamp. The stairs are especially uncooperative, squeaking protests like a whining lover; his knuckles nearly connect with the door before it

It's driving me crazy :XD


He always wanted to be the one to help somebody and for it to not be the other way around. Gerard. That is-or well maybe it was his name.
He was a doctor at the Newark Hospital in New Jersey; one of the bloodiest hospitals in the state. I wish I knew what happened to him, you see there were certain events that took place last year and Gerard disappeared out of thin air, nothing left but a journal.

Halfway down a slimy side street in the soul of London, footsteps echo off dank labyrinth walls as a looming figure turns away from a writhing mass of hormones. A suggestion of a twitch hooks on the man’s lips, and they squirm tightly to hug a thin package crammed with burning hash. The embers crawl slowly up the spliff skin as he leans against the brickwork, grimacing slightly as he feels the icy dampness try to penetrate his leather jacket. A streetlight flickers and casts splatters of orange light over his features, reflecting boldly on the lenses of his shades. A wide hand riddled with veins under a membrane of taut, tanned skin reaches up to remove the glasses, slipping them inside his jacket, and then pulls a grey beanie from his head. Sprouts of multi-tonal hair scatter themselves across his face and he shakes the blonde tips from his eyes, depositing the hat in another pocket. He looks round at the gabbling group of teenagers in the open street behind him, checking he hasn’t been noticed or recognised, and drops the end of his smoke on the cobbles at his feet.

Want to use it so bad, but I have nowhere to put it.

Everything around me was black, even the sky, there were no stars to light it and the moon was covered completely by an abysmal cloud. The cloud was covering my one last hope of salvation, of humanity. He dragged me in, unwilling to let me scream or see a thing. There was no glow of street lamps or shuttered light from a basement. The alley was completely black, smelling of muck and blood.
The blood was directly under my nose, egging the bile in my throat on. My face was shoved into something hard and gritted, something rough, and something that tore the skin on my cheek directly off. His hot breath landed on the back of my neck as his fingers roamed over my stomach and the front of my pants.
There was something boiling inside of me, something screaming to come out. It was something bad, something terrible and dangerous. I braced my hands on the wall, feeling the crevices of brick beneath my fingers as I held my breath and waited for the on slaughter of my rape. But it never came.
My hands were no longer on the brick wall but around the man’s throat. I could feel the sadistic smile on my face, though it was not I who controlled the muscles in my cheeks. Nor was I controlling the limbs that was choking the life from my would be rapist. The force moving my body was much stronger than I was as well.
“Not so tough now, are you?” Said the voice that was not mine. It came from my voice, used my voice box to let the words travel, but the voice…the sound and texture was not mine. The voice was something much darker and sinister. The voice was evil.
Somehow the man’s knife ended up in my hands and the force that I did not control slowly gutted the man leaving his blood on my hands and a dead body at my feet. My breathing came hard and my eyes dilated with nausea. My knees gave out and I was kneeling in the warm, red liquid. Sobs racked my entire being; tears that would not come blurred my eyes. I choked on the cries and slowly realization came to me.
I curled myself into a ball, wrapping my arms around my knees as I allowed the dead man’s blood to slowly soak into my clothing; to rot through to my skin and forever stain me with the murder that would not be my last.
“What’s happening to me?” I gasped, asking to anyone who would listen. I clutched my head, trying to control the screaming, trying to control the bursting flames. “What’s happening…?” I whispered, more controlled but not less terrified.
Hello Abbey. The voice whispered the same voice that had killed the man. The voice that was named Drusilla.

I'm once again lost, in that endless black abyss.

Don't ask :shifty It's been stuck in my mind forever, not even good.

The warm evening sunshine poured down on the back garden of the Booth household. The patio slabs burned and the grass was slowly becoming dehydrated. The tiny poind in the corner of the garden glistened, the water still and calm. Chester the cat prowled around the pond, keeping a green beady eye on the fish swimming innocently in the water below. All manner of meat products sizzled on the barbecue, emitting savouring scents, enough to make any vegetarian's mouth water.

Start of a oneshot. I haven't gotten round to writing anymore yet.

I'm shaking and salty water is falling into my eyes in stinging drip-drops and I can't breathe. I slide to the floor and look at him, hoping that I'm not going crazy.
"Mr. Baker?"
"I told you that you can call me Zacky. I don't mind."
"But--"
"You're my personal assistant. You're going to have to learn to take orders."
"Fine, Zacky. What the hell was that thing?" I ask. The gash on my arm from where the thing tried to grab me is throbbing.
"You mean you don't know about them?"
"About what?"
He hands me a towel, and casually, like he's asking me to get go and get him some coffee, says, "The zombies."

ZombieBeth:

jim sturgess.:

This is such a good idea. :cheese:

-

I thought of this in the car today. :shifty

Spencer and Ryan were in love. Not with each other, of course, but they had both found something that held their heart. Spencer loved his dogs, seeing as they seemed like the only thing that wanted to be around him, and Ryan loved old books, with the yellowing pages and black-and-white photography. Spencer was in love with that girl, too, the one he had known forever. The one that didn't know that he existed.

^ I love that. I don't even likee uh..patd? stories, but that's really good ^_^

This is really late, but thanks! :tehe:

-

I guess everyone considered me relatively intelligent. Most people would assume, because of the way I sound right now, that I’ve had a full education and perhaps – This has happened a few times – I grew up in the U.K. “Are you from England?” No, why? “The way you carry yourself and the proper grammar. Where are you from?” Burbank, Oklahoma.

I moved here in an attempt to finally find where I belonged, but all I found was fashionistas, and those punk rock kids that hate their lives and smoke outside of clubs they can’t get into yet. All these people unnerve me. It’s worse when you’re there, not just thinking about it; when you’re surrounded by high heels and plaid and everyone getting drunk on Friday nights. At five o’clock, the pubs have already been open an hour.

I worked out of my apartment, which was almost a relief, as it gave me a reason not to have to leave my apartment at all. The few times I did have to leave for work were just the short cab rides to the publishing company, to meet with my agent and discuss things. I lived above a little tea shop that was almost part of my home; I didn’t consider dragging myself down two flights of stairs to go to it leaving the apartment.

The owner, an aging woman who had lived in London all her live, seemed to have decided that I would be like her daughter for the time that I lived in London. She eventually just handed me a cup of tea in the morning and a bagel at lunch, and called me up on the nights that she was ordering out. Her name was Gloria.

:shifty

Wow, what a spiffy thread idea :XD

The sunset could be our dawn, and no one could tell us no. We wouldn’t have to hide away, we could dance and be ourselves and no one would care, because no one would know.

...Yeah, don't ask. :shifty

I want to uuuuse this. D:<

“Chop chop chop chop chop,” Frankie gurgled in a fragmented sing-song, his small body shaking with sick anarchistic glee. Gerard could feel the feverish heat of his damp skin burning through the thin sheet between them like an acid spill, or blood from a fresh wound seeping into the mattress

"It's over."

That's what she said, and it hurt him. He gave her everything, he gave her his heart. He was foolish for believing she loved him the way he loved her. He gave her his all, and what does he get in return? A text message. Two words, those two simple words, and his world was shattered. His true love was gone, and she didn't care about him anymore. She was off to bigger and better things. Thing's that didn't require his arms around her. Thinking back, she never really did care about him, and he didn't even notice.

"Fuck this," he thought, "There's got to be something more." If this was love, he didn't want it. There has got to be something more, something more to love, something more extravagent, the kind of love you hear about, but might never have the chance to see.

He looked down at his phone, re-reading those two words, no explanation, just a simple sentence. A declaration that he didn't agree with, one he'd never agree with. "It's over." No. It has just begun.

Rhys is all long limbs and perfect cheekbones. He talks too much about music no one knows anything about and has a record player more expensive than Josh's car. Rhys has strong opinions (pro-choice, anti-religion) and doesn't like being told what to do. He has days where he doesn't talk to anyone, from when he wakes up until when he goes to bed. He yells and cries when he's angry and is all smiles and hugs when he isn't. Josh kind of adores Rhys.

I don't know where it came from. I was bored today in Business Management, and typed that out on my phone, but I've no idea where it's going.

The word hero is thrown around a lot these days; I guess you could say it’s lost all its meaning. People say that you have to have superpowers to be a hero, but what about ordinary people that save and improve other people’s lives? Doctors, fireman, police officers, they’re all heroes. Ordinary people who decided to make themselves extraordinary.

I thought I could be extraordinary once.

But I became infected. It was many years ago, when it first happened. The first time I took a swig of my dad’s whiskey, the burning sensation down my throat felt so good. I didn’t realize that first mouthful would lead into an addiction. I didn’t just drink whiskey though, I drank whatever I could get my hands on. It got worse when I joined the band, I couldn’t go on stage without drinking myself into oblivion. I thought it would make me extraordinary, make me a hero. How could I be a hero when I was just an ordinary guy? I could barely stand on stage without throwing up, alcohol made me a hero. At least I thought it did.

It didn’t make me a hero, it made me weak. It made me a wreck, and one night I wanted to take my own life. That was the first time I gave up drinking. I didn’t drink for years after that.

I had a fic which I was going to use this in, but it's not really working and is just bits and pieces of general crap that just weren't working and now I dont see any point in trying to make it work as I wont ever post it, but I like this bit.

Brendon is the only person Ryan knows who sends postcards in envelopes.

It's been bugging me for days and I can't find anywhere for it to go.

Gabe Saporta:

Brendon is the only person Ryan knows who sends postcards in envelopes.

It's been bugging me for days and I can't find anywhere for it to go.

I love that!

i defy you stars.:

Gabe Saporta:

Brendon is the only person Ryan knows who sends postcards in envelopes.

It's been bugging me for days and I can't find anywhere for it to go.

I love that!

Thank you! :tehe:

If planning ahead is a sin then Ryan should be in hell by now. He’s got his presents wrapped by August, Turkey ordered by October, and the tree is collected on the first of December every year. His decorations are blue and silver to match his wrapping paper and ribbons, and the angel that goes on top of the tree was made by Brendon in second grade.