Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak]

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Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak] Aug 1, 2013 9:39:32 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Aug 1, 2013 9:39:32 GMT -5

•TRIUMPH O'BRIAN•

[/color] You must thing I’m just a son-of-a-gun for not even wanting our own tribs to come back. Well, it doesn’t impress me if you stab someone in the neck or jab out their eyes or slit their throats. Seriously[/color]. It’s like people turn off their brains and become zombies the way they forget about what the games really means. So what if it’s fight or flight?[/color] Yeah, I get it, they don’t have any other choice. Boo hoo hoo.[/color] Their lives suck and they’ve got to do what they have to do.

I have more respect for the ones that don’t feel sorry for what they’ve done. I sure as hell wouldn’t feel sorry for what I’d done if it were me. I don’t know about anyone else, but I want to fucking live[/color], not just go down with my head held high. I wouldn’t need to mutilate anyone or do anything sick, but I wouldn’t bat two eyelashes if given the choice. It’s the thing I don’t understand: they all feel so sorry during the games, they go so far as to apologize. And what usually happens to them after they’ve so thoroughly apologized? They get stabbed and tossed away like garbage. So skip a step, stay alive, and don’t be sorry. It makes for a more interesting viewing experience, when you can see that tribute that has gone full animal; the ones that act on their instincts and kill have more respect for me than the whimpering, apologetic messes.

Tonight I’ve slipped away from the games coverage because I just can’t stomach all the cheering. Our tributes are long dead, both dead in the bloodbath. All that’s left is a smattering of people that I hardly paid attention to. I did like the tribute parades, and some of the interviews didn’t make my eyes roll out of my head. I head out along the streets of the district, cigarette in hand, my bag of tricks tucked snugly on my back. For as much as I complain about it, I can’t get the games off my mind. I should head home, my sister is probably waiting for me (I like to read to her before she goes to bed[/color]). Instead I trace my hands along the old iron fence of the cemetery and let the night air wrap around me. I come along the entrance and wrap both hands around the decaying metal bars.

Morbidity isn’t cool with me; I don’t go out babbling about the dead. It’s not interesting, it’s creepy. People that have a fascination with the dead don’t spend enough time living. I wouldn’t ever focus on the past that way, I’m too busy marching in the present. The graveyard holds something different, something that calls out to me in a mix of mischief and malaise. So I unwind the lock and push past the screaming gates. I give one shiver—maybe my only warning that I shouldn’t enter—and press further along the paths of the dead. See, that’s the thing, people are so afraid of this sacred ground, like the people who’ve been put under the ground are going to rise up and shake their fists. I would tell them to fuck off[/color] anyway, what right do they have over us? They were the ones that went and died, they don’t own this world anymore.

At last I stumble upon the real reason I’m here: the tribute graves. There are plenty of them, even from my lifetime. In all my seventeen years of life, there’s not been one victor, not to my memory. That’s thirty-four dead bodies buried here just in the time that I’ve been walking the earth. That’s thirty-four families without their kids. Thirty-four sorry displays of handiwork in the games. Thirty-four losses. You’d think by now people would realize we should stop cheering for our own tributes.[/color]

Take this year for example. Akina Hooper and Sam Tulius: two undertrained, unequipped, and ultimately disastrous tributes. I don’t fault them for not being able not to die. But looking around at the rest of our recent tributes, you’d think we were all little bitches that couldn’t hold a knife to save our lives. Am I caring about this again?[/color] I reach into my bag and pull out one of my prized possessions: a nicked bottle of whiskey. It burns with the same fire that powers my caterwauling’s against the current state of things. I take a long drink, swallowing down the fire until it splashes into my stomach. I let out a sound as I expel a rush of air, suddenly aware of how strong the brew is that I’ve chosen. Alcohol tends to help dull the senses. It helps in especial to hide the thoughts of a created contradiction. Now that August has fallen, the night air’s grown cooler, and I, in my tank top, heat up with the liquor in my veins.

The names read like a sad playbill. Aria Wolfe[/color]. At least she got close to the end, too bad she pussed out at the end. Bran Wolfe.[/color] He couldn’t even walk! Ashby Twilken[/color]. Who? Exactly. I let out a sigh and take a seat along the grass of one of the graves. I continue taking drinks from my bottle, and puffing away at my poorly rolled cigarettes. “I have to say,” I take another sip. “Life sure is a whole lot better living, guys.”

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zakattack
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Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak] Aug 2, 2013 12:21:51 GMT -5

Post by zakattack on Aug 2, 2013 12:21:51 GMT -5

[/center]

It wouldn’t be the first night that Mayzie had spent in the cemetery; it wouldn’t be the last either. Floating between the headstones and markers in a long flowery dress like some lost ghost who couldn’t find her own final resting place. She scarcely cared where her feet landed, on who’s grave they treaded on so lightly[/color], the dead didn’t care either. They were cold and hard and shriveling away to nothing just like the ones above, only the dead could finally rest. Her hand traced along a broken wing of a statue shaped like an angel. It had to be a tributes marker; they were bigger than the rest, Ember HIlbrook[/color][/i], she noticed looking down. The name didn’t even trigger a moment of remembrance. There were too many markers in the distance, too many children gone too soon…yet no victor to even give them a glimmer of hope.

We’re all going to die.

Letting her hand linger a bit longer on the name she moved forwards hearing the rustling of the breeze in the old willow tree. Some people would be frightened to be here like this, but not her, and not Triumph. There was a certain beauty she found in the cement ruins of the graveyard. A solitude and restlessness that didn’t fit anywhere else in the warehouses and sweatshops of District 8. Everyone was too busy to see what was right here in front of them anymore. A soft melody slipped from her lips as she swayed through the grass and death, ”A tisket a tasket a green and yellow basket… “ there was something soothing about the childhood hymn and the vacantness of her surroundings that Mayzie couldn’t deny.

The rustle of the branches again brought her mouth into a smile, she wasn’t alone[/color], and her pace quickened. There was no doubt in her mind who it was out here in the darkness with her. She could feel him before she could see him and she let herself dance between the deathly stones. ”You better not be hiding from me… “, her voice called out with the singsong teasing it always had, ”I’ll find you and make you pay for it if you are.” Her head popped out from behind a stone cross, Agatha Mirill[/color][/i], Mayzie’s nose wrinkled at the faceless name. Who names their child Agatha?[/color] Looking ahead she could make out the faint outline of him in the distance.

She knew that he could hear her before he sees her as well. Her dancing and singing and childish teasing making her an obvious presence in the peaceful silence around them. The scent of alcohol hung in the air as she approached him as he proclaimed how life was better living than dead. Though she wasn’t sure how much she agree with him she didn’t want to start the evening out dealing with his endless droning. As handsome and entertaining as Triumph could be he was often cold and whiny. I’m too cool to deal with life. Nothing ever goes how it should and that’s why I’m so deep and brooding She mocked him in her head as she moved closer to stand over him.

Her dress whipped around her legs while his smoke danced and snaked around her and she laughed, ”Try telling that to Rubik Woodards or any of these other failures family. “, before leaning down and pressing her lips to his in a mash of lust and boredom. ”Now are you going to share or do I have to just take it? “, she questioned looking as his flask as she sunk beside him.

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Last Edit: Aug 2, 2013 12:29:26 GMT -5 by zakattack

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Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak] Aug 3, 2013 14:15:12 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Aug 3, 2013 14:15:12 GMT -5

•TRIUMPH O'BRIAN•

[/color]). Mayzie is the type of manic pixie dreamgirl that I wouldn’t mind entangling my limbs with, if that meant I wouldn’t have to speak to her afterward. That was the trouble with most girls (and boys of the receiving variety[/color]), they got all clingy after having a spot of fun. If there’s one thing I don’t need it’s someone hanging off my arm all day telling me what I should wear and what we should be doing; a relationship is kind of like a noose that way. And like I said before, I want to live[/color], not die. I close my eyes and scratch my head. Mayzie, at the least, didn’t seem like the type of girl to obsess about the games, or any of the idiotic capitolites that were on television. I swished my flask and moved to offer her a sip of ambrosia.

“A toast,” I lick my lips, still tasting her kiss. I stand from my spot on the grass and sniff. The graves are illuminated by the stars, and fire’s starting to burn through my brains. Because nothing celebrated the dead more than a bunch of words said that they could no longer hear.[/color] I clear my throat and raise my flask.

“We stand on the graves of those that just couldn’t hack it.” I motion to the nearest stone, Yaron Raiden.[/color] “People like her that lost ears and turned on their own brothers. You’ve got that one that can’t even spell her damn name right.” I shake my head. “The girl named Enigma that was so mysterious people can’t even remember who killed her. The pregnant bitch that didn’t even get into the top half—not that many of them did.” I let out a laugh at the thought that anyone would so much as give a second look at our district. “Oh—yes, let’s not forget Mr. Pandora Woodards. Big, strong, warrior that he was.” I clasp my hands together and grin. I flutter my eyes for the full effect of becoming a fanboy. “So much so that he fell down and chopped the head off his ally and then exploded to pieces.”

What a fucking joke.[/color] It’s all I can think when I think about the games. The odds are terrible, and they certainly aren’t ever in our favor. I won’t even hear the argument that it’s all luck or pluck. You put these kids into the arena without so much guidance and it’s no wonder they wind up dead. Who could ever really care about any of them?[/color] The lousy little phonies that cheer for them for the sake of cheering for them. But we all know that there will be no district eight winner. We know it as soon as the gong sounds; we know that there’s someone else that the odds will select and divine. It’s not as though there’s some special magic—you only have to have eyes to see that there was no way any of the names on these headstones were going to wind up with a laurel.

“So tonight let’s celebrate their defeats. Let’s—let’s have a party for how awesomely bad all of them were. Let’s dance on their graves and write on their headstones and fucking… let’s celebrate them the way that everyone here should be celebrated. Every single one that buys into this damn bullshit. Let’s show everyone that this is exactly how they should think of people that die, the same ones that they celebrate in the games.” I’m close to Mayzie now, and I reach to grab her hands. The cold of the flask presses between us and I give a wild grin. “We ought to give them the best damn celebration they’ve ever seen. Everyone knows that there’s only been crying going on here, anyway.”

I grin again. The cigarette hangs out of my mouth, and the smoke trails up and past my eyes. What I’m asking, it’s criminal in every sense of the word. Why on earth would anyone celebrate in a graveyard? We’re a bunch of loonies, but I’m nothing if not completely serious. Mean what you say and say what you mean. That’s all I ever ask for from anyone. And I know that if anyone were to join me in spitting on tombstones and pissing on the sacred and profane, it would be Mayzie. My only hope is that she doesn’t puss out as badly as our tributes did. I take another drag of my cigarette and let out a puff of smoke. “So…” I give a little whisper. “To our tributes…?”[/size][/blockquote][/justify][/font]

zakattack
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Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak] Aug 5, 2013 11:21:13 GMT -5

Post by zakattack on Aug 5, 2013 11:21:13 GMT -5

Mayzie Bartholomew ran night and day,
Nowhere to go, nowhere to stay.
Because she was sure that everyone must
have written her off in total disgust,
over and over again in her head,
These are the words that poor Mayzie said:
"I can never go home. Nobody loves me. Nobody loves me."

[/center]

[/color] she thought as she gagged a bit and watched Triumph stand towering over her with a manic grin. Surrounded by the beauty and death he couldn’t have been more desirable, the long sinewy limbs of his that dangled like the smoke from his lips, the frantic and apathetic glimmer in his eyes as he looked around the graveyard just woke the lust in her.

His words were electric, the taunting and teasing of reality versus what they truly felt. The hopelessness of the situation. They both could be next. didn’t nullify or dull the spark of carelessness that drove Triumph’s toast. Taking another sip Mayzie spread her arms wide and spun in a circle her skirt flaring out around her while she danced on the graves of the ones she didn’t know. There were old people buried her, young children who couldn’t survive the struggles of the factories and pains of hunger, and then there were the tributes. Their gravestones higher and brighter than the rest. Because they’re more important than the rest of us…or because we’re supposed to know they died with a purpose…or because the fact that their deaths were public[/color] Mayzie would never know, but something about the way the angels smiled with her as her feet skirted over the side by side graves Yaron Raidan[/color][/i] next to Shrol Raidan [/color][/i], let her know that this was what she should be doing. Celebrating life and forgetting about death.

Faster and faster she spun as she saw Triumph coming closer before stopping and listening to the last few words of Pandora Woodards, ”He was bloody beautiful… “ she whispered with a smirk. There was no denying the beauty that came from their districts, it was something that seemed to scream the more beautiful you were the more likely you were to die, which Mayzie directly felt was why she had never been chosen. Her words were drowned out by the final lines of Triumph’s desperate toast to their viability, and she felt his hands twine with hers as he stepped closer her breath ragged already from the dance, the chill of the flask against her chest and his and his face so near hers.

She wanted it. Wanted him. There wasn’t a reason behind it other than the adrenaline pumping through her. Reaching up and plucking the cigarette from his lips she held it to hers and took a drag. ”May we never be as useless as they were. “, The words breathy as smoke and song slipped from her mouth while her hands pushed his shoulders back to the cold mossy dampness of the crumbling cross behind him, ”and for all the pleasure they’ll never have.” One hand holding the flask the other reached for the smoke before tossing it aside and mashing her mouth to his once more.

To us, to us, to all that should be.

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Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak] Aug 5, 2013 23:24:30 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Aug 5, 2013 23:24:30 GMT -5

•TRIUMPH O'BRIAN•

[/color] I stare at her through the smoke. It snakes around her face, making her look like a ghost in the light of the moon. Fucking beautiful.[/color] What’s beauty, anyway? It’s a fleeting sensation, all that is. From the sinews on his arms to the way his back curved, I could see how someone thought Pandora Woodards was beautiful. A tall boy with shaggy hair, he had the look of someone strong, someone that could bring honor to this shithole of a district. I liked that cocky attitude he had in the interviews—what was that about not making friends? Fuck yeah, don’t make friends when you’re trying to slit their throats. It’s what I’ll never understand about the whole lot of them. Simpering fools, that’s all the tributes are (ours, anyway[/color]). When your whole world looks about as long as the beads in an hourglass, who the fuck cares about whether or not you’ve got someone’s back? I see the strategy. Don’t get me wrong. You let them all think you’re theirs, and then in the middle of the night, when they’ve drifted off to sleep—you slip a knife across their neck.

But he was ugly, just like the rest of them. A child.[/color] A part of me shiver at the suggestion and I shrug my shoulders. He was more boy than man, you could see it in his eyes. That’s the trouble, even with the big dumb lugs that go into the arena. They’re not real men yet. You see them on screen with bodies heaving, and sweat dripping down their faces. Their spirits haven’t been worn down to the bone; their eyes still have life to them. It’s what I watch for most of all—that moment when you see the camera pan on their eyes, and the last little glimmer flies out. Fuck me.[/color] They’re just kids, man. Just kids that want to live for another day. And none of them—not Ichabod, not Pandora, not Chole—none of them wanted it enough to be alive. Because as much as you can be a warrior, the odds have never been in our district’s favor. Instead we get boys that fall over swords and girls that give up just when they’ve reached the end.

“I’d stick it where the sun doesn’t shine,” I say with a grin. What my fancies are switch from one day to the next. I’m the sun and I have many moons.[/color] When I shine as bright as I do, there’s no reason to be eclipsed by anyone. When she takes the cigarette from my mouth I give another grin. There’s a fire between us and it’s not just in my throat. It’s not that she’s even pretty. She’s kind of plain, with big eyes and a squished nose, and a top lip too small for her face. But what makes her hot is how alive she is, hanging on every word as though it’s magic. It’s me maligning a bunch of idiotic dead people, but she’s acting like it’s the sermon to end all sermon. That gets my undercarriage humming, root toot tooting, and I step towards her, not wanting to spend more than an inch or two apart from her. I want her to be mine and for me to be hers.

May we never be as useless as they were… and for all the pleasure they’ll never have.[/color] It’s lightning in a bottle. Or better, it’s a light at the end of a tunnel. We’ll never be like them, not the two of us. Our names will never be drawn from the bottom of the bowl because people like us live forever[/color]. Fucking phonies, losers, wimps, sycophants, bullies—the people that don’t live their lives—they’re the ones that get their names drawn out of that bowl. We’re the cockroaches that stayed after the bombs fell. We’re the rats that scamper through the dark of the streets and into the sewers. People are people, but the survivors are the ones that live in the real world. The difference between me and them, besides that I live and breathe and swear, is that I don’t give a damn about anyone but myself. Not the capitol. Not my family. Not Mayzie. Just that I live—that everyone I love lives their lives—to the fullest. It doesn’t mean being stupid for the sake of being stupid. That’s what too many people believe. That you can go through life just doing whatever all you want to do without consequences. You still have to be smart. No one is god.

I kiss her back, my tongue pressing into her mouth. She tastes like the whiskey and I grunt. I push her back toward one of the headstones with a grin. “We’ll never be like them.” I say with a heave. "None of them would have spent one moment living like us.” As if we’re the end all, be all of special, the cool kids (too cool for school[/color]). Even I don’t believe it, but I know I’m not wasting another minute with a long soliloquy. “Just like neither of us would apologize…” I say before moving in to kiss her again. My hands brush against the cold stone of another grave but I don’t even stop to see who it is. I can worry about who I’m offending when I’m dead.[/color] “You’ve never been hotter, Mayzie,” I slur out last, a big grin on my face. Even with all the headstones around her. [/size][/blockquote][/justify][/font]

zakattack
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Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak] Aug 6, 2013 12:35:46 GMT -5

Post by zakattack on Aug 6, 2013 12:35:46 GMT -5

Mayzie Bartholomew ran night and day,
Nowhere to go, nowhere to stay.
Because she was sure that everyone must
have written her off in total disgust,
over and over again in her head,
These are the words that poor Mayzie said:
"I can never go home. Nobody loves me. Nobody loves me."

[/center]

[/color] with the way he ranted and raved. He didn’t care and neither did she as she let his tongue invade her mouth. They’re dead and gone and ages below us without a care in the world. There was no such thing as ghosts, not in the since of haunting and spooks, but she felt that the ghost of a life not lived could be felt under her as Triumph move to press her against a tombstone. Let me live it for you. Let me live the life you shouldn’t have wasted.[/color] She wanted to scream at the rock at her back. Who cares who it was below there, they needed to have fought to be alive, to wanted to have come back with the living and feel things the way life was meant to be done. Instead they were surrounded by quitters and losers who just couldn’t hack it.

We’ll never be like them. Triumph said like it wasn’t so obvious already. They would never be like us she wanted to tell him but his mouth found hers again and she gave into the stirring in her thighs. Reaching down and hiking up her skirt she laughed as he claimed she’d never been hotter. There wasn’t anything better than booze and lust to blur a man’s mind; and while Mayzie down another dreg of the burning booze she realized she didn’t care either. ”We’ve never been more alive... “ she whispered with her lips against his ear and her leg slinking around his waist pulling him closer. ”Lets live for us. “

Dropping the flask she twined her arm around his neck bringing his mouth to hers again the clash of teeth and tongues and moans slipping through made it all more the worthwhile. Her hand shimmied down his spine before a manic grin crossed her face and she shoved him away hard. ”Show me how alive you are Triumph. Come show me. “ the giggles slipped out as she took off sprinting through the tossed headstones and crumble piles of angels wings. Tugging off her flats she tossed them aside and climbed over a rock hard heart with the name so worn she couldn’t make it out. Spinning another circle she sung out ” O empty belly it's time to feed you
O my future with these quiet people
O you and me dancing on your grave.” Her voice echoed around them ringing off of the tombs and mausoleums like a melody from beyond.

Darting behind a ragged cross she sung out again ” But oh lord, I know what I've done
And oh lord, I ain't afraid.

Hold me baby, cause your eyes are
Hold me baby, cause your eyes are
The prettiest eyes I've ever seen in my life, honey we're
Bound for the night. “

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Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak] Aug 12, 2013 23:13:52 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Aug 12, 2013 23:13:52 GMT -5

•TRIUMPH O'BRIAN•

[/color] It’s what’s been missing so long in this place, I can feel it right down to my bones. Why do we even leave bits of flowers and stupid relics from time gone by here? The fucking dead have withered and rotted and turned into pulp by now. My veins are on fire with whiskey, but with power too. There’s a certain sense of entitlement that comes with living. While you don’t have all the answers you certainly feel more knowledgable than the ones that didn’t make it. We’ve got all our sense—most of us—and can put words to reason. Granted, some people can’t think worth shit, but I only fault them for the amount of time their mouths hang open. My eyes don’t take much to glaze over from a bunch of stupid words.

“Oh I love it when you’re saucy Mayzie,” I say. My fingers clench around my pants as I pull them and myself up off the ground. She saunters off past headstones and all sorts of crumbling accoutrements to celebrate the dead. Me with my eyes on her body, not on the dead, I roll my head from side to side and debate whether to give chase. She’s all heat and sparks. The type of girl that gets your gears ground down before you’re ready if you’re not too careful. There, in the night, she’ll steal you away if you’re the type of boy that doesn’t have his head on straight. For the twinge of second, that’s all it takes, you could feel attached to that lump of flesh like she means something. Good thing she doesn’t mean shit to me.[/color] Mayzie was a place for me to brush all the feelings off from my sleeve. “Slow the fuck down, Mayzie.” I say as I pull my hands out of my pockets.

It’s easier here, where there’s no one else to bother us or weigh us down. I think people get too caught up in their own day to days, it makes everything else heavier for everyone. Like my kid sister coming home and crying about what some fucktard said at school, or my Pa having to work late in the shop because of all the sewing that needs doing. And my mother giving the sign of the cross, an old superstition that should be dead and gone, but believing that if I go out at night and she does it I’ll be safe. All these little things that weigh us down, I feel like running through the graveyard is like strapping a bunch of balloons to my back. It’s not permanent, because eventually they’ll pop or die. But for now I’m light as a feather, giving a laugh as I run down Mayzie and through the headstones in my weigh. I slide down past one of them, muddying my jeans, but I don’t give two shits.

“Come here and I’ll show you how much life I have to give…” I snicker as I round another corner. “Promise it won’t be more than you can handle…” I launch myself at her then, looking to grab her by her legs. I give another tumble with a laugh and move to strike with my lips. I pull back and sneer. “Tell me how you want it, huh? On top or below?” I wiggle my eyebrows, then motion to the nearby grave. I’m nothing without words, after all. “Because this whole place is ours tonight,” I say with a grin. It’s better this way. Not that we’re trashing this place, or vandelising the headstones, or painting shit all over everything. We’re spending the night the way it should be spent—being kids. Except we’ve probably got more brains than half the people in all of panem. I let out another laugh. “And I don’t want to waste one fucking inch.”[/justify][/blockquote][/size][/font]

zakattack
Merchant

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152 POSTS
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Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak] Aug 21, 2013 15:42:03 GMT -5

Post by zakattack on Aug 21, 2013 15:42:03 GMT -5

31.media.tumblr.com/893caccfae091be710b248033214d843/tumblr_mnav90YI7a1s6ulglo1_400.jpg

[/IMG][/center]

Mayzie Bartholomew ran night and day,
Nowhere to go, nowhere to stay.
Because she was sure that everyone must
have written her off in total disgust,
over and over again in her head,
These are the words that poor Mayzie said:
"I can never go home. Nobody loves me. Nobody loves me."

[/color][/center]

[/color] echoed through the centrifugal motion and she laughed harder. Why should I slow down, if you slow down you end up like those miserable dead fucks under my feet[/color] A few more turns and Mayzie could feel the slosh of the booze in her belly and she gradually slowed. The world was still off kilter and her body swayed as she blinked her big eyes in the dimness of the graveyard trying to regain some semblance of steadiness. ”If we slow down we’re no better than them. “ she laughed trying to pick out Triumph from the statuettes and crumbled headstones. ”Come on Triumph show me… “ before the taunt could finish her lips they pulled into a smile as the object of her current desire stumbled into view.

A snarky comment and teasing grin from him was all it took as she felt his arms wrap around her legs as he tackled her to the ground. There was a rip as the hem of her dress tore a slit up the side to just below her waist and she laughed. ”Are you saying you’re not too rough or are you saying you don’t think you’re enough to make me happy… “ she smirked her hands tugging at his shirt as she rolled on top of him pinning him down letting her lips brush against his ear. ”However you want it Triumph, just don’t start what you can’t finish.“ Her hand slipped to the waist of his jeans teasing the bare flesh of his stomach before rolling off of him and laughing again.

Letting her hand brush against his face Mayzie couldn’t help but smile. There was a drunken glee to her touch and Triumph’s blatant acceptance of just how perfectly fucked[/color][/i] everything was around them. They couldn’t fix the world they lived in. They couldn’t change the fact that unless they were plucked out of a glass bowl (that probably costs more than their lives were actually worth) that they’d spend our eternity in the polluted and disgusting factories making clothes and fabrics and cushy things for people who could give a shit about them. Yet Mayzie didn’t care. As long as she wasn’t put here to rot and waste she was okay. ”Lets wake the dead “ she whispered as she moved to kiss him once more letting her tongue slip between his lips and pulling his hands to her body.Because they deserve to see the show too.

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Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak] Aug 27, 2013 23:30:42 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Aug 27, 2013 23:30:42 GMT -5

•TRIUMPH O'BRIAN•

[/color]. They tell you not to really care about what other people think and go on and do what you want. But how often do you get the chance to really turn your back on the world? Which doesn’t mean that I’m saying you should be an ass for the sake of being an ass. That’s what people turn into when they become lousy for the sake of being lousy. Self-centered know-nothings run the world, and that’s why we’ve gotten to where we are today. Instead, it’s about that carpe-diem-seize the moment type of attitude that fetches the worms in the morning. You got to grab them by both hands and pull them up before anyone else gets the chance.

However you want it Triumph, just don’t start what you can’t finish.[/color] It’s like she didn’t even know me at all, which was both infuriating and intoxicating. People that are phonies are my worst—I can’t even begin to say how awful those kind of people are. They’re the ones that say one thing but mean another, and showboat about what they can do only to come up half short. Never in my life would I lie about what I’ve got up my sleeve if I couldn’t produce the good. I bury my tongue in her mouth for good measure, just to show her how much I intend to start. They might all be good and dead but even the ones buried down deep will be whispering about how good Triumph O’Brian was. Not that I need any kind of approval from anyone. That sort of thing is what gets you in trouble in the first place.

“You might now know what I want, Mayzie,” I say before stopping to finish off my cigarette. I toss it carelessly behind a headstone. I blow a cloud of smoke behind her right ear. “But I got you pegged. You’re a good time girl, that wants to get held down and make some noise.” I wiggle my eyebrows at the end because that’s what any red blooded male would do. They would make her feel like she’s got something to prove, even though she doesn’t. Girls were easy that way—the easiest way to make them want you was to make them feel like they weren’t good enough. It was a dirty trick, and it was child’s play, but then, I never said that I fought fair. “I mean, you do want to wake the dead after all. I heard you can be quite loud.”

I tap a hand softly onto her cheek before going in for another kiss. Boys were easier though, easier still than girls. They didn’t even want the romances (unless you count the ones that sigh a lot and are more girl than boy[/color]) but just the rough housing fun time. I didn’t so much care for this—even though I’d done it a few times—since it left me feeling a bit emptier than when I was with a girl. She could be sweet, and could make me want to wake up next to her. I think that’s what it’s supposed to feel like, not the drunken humming that I have for her now. That’s not the real kind of love, though it’s probably more real than anything that could be found in the arena. I always get a good laugh when a couple of hormonal kids about to die think they’re in love with each other. If that’s the screwed up notion of love I’m supposed to believe in, we ought to all be having sex in public like dogs because apparently it only takes a few hours before you find your soul mate.

I grab onto Mayzie’s shoulder and pull her into me. “We’re going to have to be extra loud, of course. Some of these people have been asleep for a long time.” I grin. “We might have our work cut out for us. Though I don’t think any of them were deaf, were they?” I think back for a second. “No. Most of them were just either fat or stupid. Or both.” I lean in again to get a good, wet sloppy kiss on Mayzie. She was looking more beautiful with every passing moment, just as sure as my balance was getting worse.[/size][/blockquote][/justify][/font]

zakattack
Merchant

[M:-450]

152 POSTS
last seen Dec 31, 2013 14:15:27 GMT -5

Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak] Sept 4, 2013 13:16:24 GMT -5

Post by zakattack on Sept 4, 2013 13:16:24 GMT -5

31.media.tumblr.com/893caccfae091be710b248033214d843/tumblr_mnav90YI7a1s6ulglo1_400.jpg

[/IMG][/center]

Mayzie Bartholomew ran night and day,
Nowhere to go, nowhere to stay.
Because she was sure that everyone must
have written her off in total disgust,
over and over again in her head,
These are the words that poor Mayzie said:
"I can never go home. Nobody loves me. Nobody loves me."

[/color][/center]

[/color] Her lips moved against the soft sensitive skin at the crook of his neck. ”You’re making me antsy when you talk like that... “ She wanted more, he knew it too, the way he talked about pinning her down and making her scream. It wasn’t hard for them both to figure out exactly what way this was heading.

Triumph lit another cigarette and Mayzie ached to feel it in her mouth as well. The way he puffed and huffed about just how manly he was didn’t do anything for her, but it was the beauty of the shapes of his lips, the way he just didn’t give a rats ass about anyone but himself that was driving her mad with lust. Take me now. Don’t keep up this endless prattle but actually show me what you are made of.[/color] she wanted to scream as the cloud of smoke and the burning butt flicked past her. Her fingers fumbled with the button on his jeans and she smiled. . Lets see what you’re hiding under there...for someone so confident you ought to be packing a large one…[/color]

Of course they’d be loud, they were drunk on booze and power, they were alive with the lust of the dead. Did Triumph really think that she was afraid to go through with this? was he that naïve?[/color][/i] Letting go of his jeans she brought her hands to her dress once more as his lips met hers and she joined the dance with a slip of her tongue. She wanted him, she wanted him now. The skirt of the dress hiked up once more and her left hand slipped to slither around his neck guiding his kisses down the slope of her own, wanting to feel his mouth explore the landscape of her body. ”Well we had a cripple, how he made it so far I’ll never know, and this year a fat lard who probably needs a double wide grave…but they were all stupid. They were all failures… “ she giggled as she felt the stiffness of his body against her hip bone. Maybe he was as much of a man as he claimed, maybe he wasn’t just all hot air and aimless soliloquies…

Biting her lip she pulled him down with her in a tumble of flesh and fabric to the cold earth below. ”Want to play a game… “ she whispered with a nip of his ear and a rake of her nails up his back. Come on Triumph be my own personal tribute. another whispered promise of, ”I’m sure you’ll be the winner “ with a grasp below the belt and she knew that he was all hers.

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Deleted

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last seen Jun 2, 2024 16:05:16 GMT -5

Sacrilege Is My Middle Name [zak] Sept 15, 2013 16:24:42 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Sept 15, 2013 16:24:42 GMT -5

•TRIUMPH O'BRIAN•

[/color]

“Touch me—” I whisper, my mouth hot against her ears. “Don’t be afraid to dig your claws in,” My voice is soft and reassuring. I don’t start off bold and brash. I prefer a slow build to a solid crescendo. The explosion of fireworks should be saved for the moment when—two souls fumbling through the sweaty pains of adolescence—discover the truth that pleasure isn’t anything more than that: pleasure. The animal in me pulses and I brush against Mayzie’s leg. I’ve been told a thousand times by my mother and father, cousins and teachers: sex is evil, sex is bad, sex is for adults—don’t do it until you’re ready, don’t talk about it, and certainly don’t do it in graveyards[/color]. I think it’s that they were so effusive in how much it wasn’t for me that made me want it so. You turn thirteen and a switch turns on in your brain, one that doesn’t shut off until the day you die. For me it was that boys and girls could have my heart racing and hair up on the back of my neck. What are you supposed to do when you see a body covered in sweat, or feel a hand brush back against your own?

I close my eyes. The first time is clumsy, like a toddler learning to walk. Hands move and touch everything that shines like new. Then comes the whispers from lips, hymns of yes[/color] that escape even the narrowest reaches. A jolt of tangled limbs and a long sigh. Two hearts (sometimes three[/color]) beating quickly, speaking nervous confessions to the world. It’s over all too soon, like a fading sunset over the edge of the mountains. You wish for the sun to come rolling over the hill next time, a little longer, and just to the right[/color]. You are not the same because you’ve discovered the sunset in all its beauty, and never want to go without again. And so they tell you not to stare at the sun. It’s a distraction, and it’s dangerous—why waste time on an illusion that only leaves suffering? Because suffer the children born to this world out of something so beautiful.

“Yes,” I whisper again with a hand against my neck. I push closer and grin. There are some that say it’s about love. We share this embrace because we’re supposed to share some eternal bond, as though in my seventeen years of life I’ll ever know what that’s supposed to mean. I’d rather focus on her voice, the beating of her heart, how her hair cascades over her shoulder, and all the thousand little things that make my heart race. The stars above and the dead below are the only ones that share this secret. I don’t love Maysie, but I love her body. Her hands against my neck and lips against my own cloud my mind as much as the alcohol flowing through my veins. We are the young and stupid, the ignorant and the damned. But that doesn’t forbid us any less pleasure; we’re emboldened by our youth. “Oh god that’s heaven…”

That’s the truth of it all. We’re just fucked up kids sprawled overtop the ones that didn’t make it, living our days like tomorrow we’ll be the ones buried. The vigils that should have been never-ending don’t exist. They burn bright onscreen but tucked away in district eight, Pandora, Aria, Sam, all the rest, they mold into mush and dirt. Better to hear the moans echo between tombstones than the sadness that sticks to them. I move onto my side with another sigh. Maybe we get it all wrong, wanting life over anything else. Maybe I should be spending this moment with someone that cares. But then didn’t all of them have someone, in one form or another that did the same? And how many have been disappointed by dusty graves and broken families? I much prefer Mayzie’s warm hands and the rhythm of our hips to finding someone to disappoint me. [/justify][/blockquote][/size][/font]