07 November 2012 @ 11:57 am
 Snow storms should not have names. It takes away from the severity of a hurricane. Plus it sounds stupid. 
How does that make you feel?: annoyed
Helping the neighborhood stalker...: Luch
07 November 2012 @ 03:41 pm
 The building is dark. Dark and empty. Save for miniscule laser beams whose reflection is nothing more then a glimpse in the stainless steel moulding along the office suite. Though these seemingly infinitesimal rays of light are highly lethal, top of the line corporate security. Containing enough (beam) to sever one's limb cleaning in half. It is this sole reason one a simple hit-man could not be hired. 
No the corporation of the pigs dug deep into the underground to locate the one and only allusive Dustman. A  renown death for hire in the most elite of circles. 
The target is as perfect as an imperfect world can get for a perfect assassin. The ideal distance from arrival, peripheral vision blocked just enough. 
07 November 2012 @ 04:25 pm
 "There lays a graveyard of ships just beyond these hills." The tour guide recites monotone.
"And to the left is the ruins of the old castle of-" She continues speaking not even noticing that one of the tourists ventures away from the group. It's not very difficult you know, slipping away from everything. Being invisible. 
There's slight coastal wind, rustling the leaves. The shadow pauses, inhaling the heavy sea air as though one could absorb a past long forgot in a single breathe and expel all the memories on a single exhale. The drifter ambles along a slightly neglected path. The soil new, untouched and turned by many a storm and erosion, though the trees seem to part and embrace a long lost friend. A murder of crows encircle the aspen, serenading a spectral force, with their demonic cries. It's been too long, they mourn. 
"Over here lays the bodies of..." The tour guides shrill voice carries in the air, as if relayed by an unseen force. The drifter pauses and turns their head. Disgust permeates the atmosphere around them. 
The sun is momentarily blocked by raging clouds and upon reemergence a second figure joins the first. The force of the waves increase, swelling with newly kindled purpose, perhaps anger. Its mist sprays, dusting the leafs and tangling grass. 
The two figures weave between the trees effortlessly never once acknowledging each out, but neither unaware. 
The clouds swirl over head again, the sun's rays caressing the end of the path. Each time a new figure joining. 
They halt upon the waters edge. Various masts and hulls of degrading ships stand out from the ocean. A whole fleet of fine artisanship left to rot unseen from the world. Out of touch with the times. 
The murder of crows and figures move onwards through the tide. 
Gradually disappearing beneath the surface. 
07 November 2012 @ 05:22 pm

Incorporate three of the following:

bloody kisses



dead trees

cracked pavement

a window which won't open

an old calendar


The sound of the vintage record player, some underrated Russian composer drifts out unto the empty streets through the backdoor that's left swinging in the gentle breeze. Occasional gusts creep through the kitchen. Like intruding phalanges ruffling a calendar dated a few months ago. Pages are scattered about the room, matted to the floor with rain from the last storm and congealing blood.

An old birthday card tugs free from grim and flutters out the door. Weaving haphazardly around the street, caught mid-flight by a gloved hand. It pulsates in the hand, longing for freedom once again as it's message is violated under intruding eyes. Til its crushed between two indifferent fingers and discarded once again imprisoned in various fluids and matter mantling the street.

The gloved being moves on towards the empty house, whose belongings have trashed this portion of the street. He walks with purpose, altering everything in his path, without touching a thing. Neglected shrubs and tangling grass blades seemingly wilt beneath his cold gaze.

He slams the beckoning door shut, causing photo frames to slip from the wall and shatter. The room embraces it's latest intruder, curtains stretching out caress him arm, only to be torn from their rods. With control force, board-lining on anger he attempts to open the window nearest to him, with the intent of dulling the offensive smell. The glass does not budge. There's bloody hand prints all over the window, he's momentarily caught off balance at his blatant over sight.

The stair case is old, in need of a list full of repairs that will never be tended to. It shifts and groans reluctantly supporting his weight. The second floor is slightly different than the first. The orchestra music still emanates through out the house, but its off beats are dusted with another sound.

The door at the end of the hallway is left ajar. There's anther new sound, something is disturbed and presumably falls from a shelf. The Hallelujah Chorus rings out from room. He picks up his pace and shoves the door open.

On the middle of the once white carpet, now a ghastly red lays two withering figures. Are creatures of some sort, something mangled and alive in all the wrong ways. He clinches his fists, it is time.

The things do not acknowledge his presence perhaps are not even aware.

Withdrawing a lighter from his pocket, he slips off a glove and flicks it open. The flame emerges and dances in approval of being temporarily unleashed. It stretches, folding itself over to graze the tip of his finger, prompting him to terminate its presence.

The creature, with a decomposing woman's face shrieks as its pulled from it's bloody lip-lock and begins salivating, teeth snapping at the flesh wrapped around it's neck. With a quick muscle contraction it's head rolls to the ground. The other body responds differently cowering beneath the man's formidable presence. He bludgeons this one back to death shattering its skull.

The flame returns, and clings to the ugly flowered curtains. It spreads hungrily, desperate for anything it can consume within its reach. Expanding its territory until the flame owns it all.

The house burns to the ground. He swipes his finger through the ashes and wipes it off on the left shoulder of his jacket and left.