(Untitled)

[ricordi]

Minibang's coming up, and I don't know about you, but I've only got a few sentences written and a vague, soggy idea on what to write. I know a lot of you are writers too, and uhh IDK. OKAY IDK why exactly I'm doing this but I AM. SO. Let's... try this.

SLAM POST

★ poetry, prose, art, combo,  on whatever you want, is allowed. this is more to get the

Comments

gay gay gay gay gay

[sei_kou_ki]

There's that sting from the wind that leaves tears fresh and wet in the corner of your wide open eyes, that burn in your legs when the soles of your bare feet slap the concrete road beneath you, and the thump thump thump of your heart beating too fast in that pretty white bone rib cage in your heaving chest, but you keep running. Summer's radiation is set to HOT on your head and forearms, and the sweat seeps like acid in the cuts on your stomach. The grin on your face's worth a million and one bucks, and you think, fuck.

Fuck, I'm so happy.

Anything is better than standing still. You aren't just a bruise black shadow; you're the sun.

[deru_kaiser]

you don't think it's really funny when he tries to mess up those little annoying things that are just minor, really, but nevertheless piss you off anyway: when he forgets where he put his keys, or when he forgets which flavours of ice cream you do and do not eat (you don't eat that caramel-green apple crap, what the hell), which song you most definitely not want him to be singing in the car. It's annoying when you know that he purposely does it to piss you off. It's annoying that you have to remind him.

What you don't tell him is that you actually like fussing over him, and heaven help you if he actually finds out.

&

[anonymous]

Your eyelashes flutter once, twice, and then he starts to think, wonder.
Is
           it
                        all
                                  over?
Then the moment passes, and he doesn't think anymore.

[anonymous]

This is crap and it's most definitely unfinished

[anonymous]

"Don't touch -"

"Too late," she's taken out a cigarette and held it against her breasts, smile quirked tight and controlled. "I hope you don't mind."

"You're going to get yourself killed that way," he smiles, tipping his hat down past his brows. "This isn't a hair salon."

Her hands sneak up her dress, letting him glimpse thigh and pistol and -

She's suddenly close, her cigarette touching his. "Mafia. Born and raised." She leans in further, so he brushes his nose on her neck and she's sugar like any other girl, so sweet he almost forgets the gun pressing against his knee.

"I like you," he drawls.

"Good."