sparks under the moon [booker/miles] blitz

gamemaker ☢️ ivan korsch
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call me jaded

sparks under the moon [booker/miles] blitz Jun 28, 2018 6:55:06 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker ☢️ ivan korsch on Jun 28, 2018 6:55:06 GMT -5

Another lost day. Hours have escaped me, and all chances of productivity have wasted away, it is just like any other day really. There is no fixing what is already shattered, too many missing pieces and empty voids. I am a boat with a sinkhole and my only remedy is emptying the water out with buckets. A never-ending mission of trying to treat this life but there is no end in sight. It all just fucking sucks.

”At least get yourself a job!”

There is no fucking chance.

I have a resume longer than my street, no position held longer than a month. There is only so much woodcutting that I can stand.

It is the prime time of any day, daylight has settled, and the evening has moulded into night. All that captures the sky is the moon, my only guide for the endeavours that I find myself doing tonight. There is never a plan, even those who I will accompany tonight are a surprise. My stomach growls, father will have set out a meal tonight but there will have been no chair for me to sit at. Eighteen years old and I have been written off from my family. All I do is share a roof with them for three hours of the day.

A familiar face is what I seek, and it is no trouble finding one. A friend in the darkness but sparks ignite him. A reckless arsonist, with no point to his crime that must be someone to rescue. ”Booker, what are you doing?” A closer inspection and a trash can is the victim tonight. A waste of power on something already decomposing. ”What is the point in setting that on fire?” Life rarely has its reasons but it is worth trying to question it.

dars

Last Edit: Jun 28, 2018 6:55:58 GMT -5 by gamemaker ☢️ ivan korsch

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
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sparks under the moon [booker/miles] blitz Jul 9, 2018 4:01:18 GMT -5

Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 9, 2018 4:01:18 GMT -5

Between two lungs it was released
The breath that carried me
The sigh that blew me forward

The air tantalizes hedonism —
I chase after it with a great urgency.

Because, release’s been on the top of my bucket list for an eternity, an unconditional sense of freedom. Open woodlands edge Seven but we’re caged by phantasmagorical boundaries, crafted only with directory symbols on trees telling you where to and where to not explore and one broadcast from a lawnmower-voiced peacekeeper: ‘Citizens may not go into the woods further than the marked area.’

I don’t want to be labeled a citizen or rooted down to sodden earth by their invisible chains. Running feet can venture to wherever landmarks they want to; it’s fucking up to me.

So, a palm locks around the gasoline bottle, tucked perfectly amid two cracks in wall, and I stomp out towards the cool night air, leaving my slumbering brother and sister to an illusory safety. If anyone who dares to trespass into poverty-sickened households targets our faltering shack, there’s a knife on the bedside table, another under my pillow; we’re loaded for this.

Lost children have to school themselves on the horrors of this world; it’s equally a benefit and a curse. The benefit: we know an array of trades from pickpocketing to sewing wounds up. The curse: this dangerous existence in which we’re always running from someone, something, blisters on our feet, lungs knocked out of breath.

Tomorrow or yesterday, could be or have been our last intake of breath. And we’re haunted by those somber thoughts

memento mori,
remember you
have to die.

Under a silver moon, I find him: doe-eyed and as open as a window on a spring night, Miles. There’s something different about Miles I’m excessively enthralled by. He isn’t akin to my gang friends—tender, a soft gaze, never gravitating towards any hazardous activities.

Fingers absentmindedly click my lighter and he thinks I’m about to set this trashcan ablaze, that’s cute.

“Calm the fuck down, Gasly. Ironic how your last name is Gasly and you ain’t letting me use my gasoline.” The darkness should veil my mouth but there’s definitely a grin smeared along its roseate edges. “It’s fun; isn’t that what life’s supposed to be about when you’re nearly condemned to death every year? Fun?” Another click; sparks fly. I could unearth the arsonist within but I don’t want Miles to be entangled in my web of crimes.

“You hungry? We could like, go rob a place or buy street food.”

And my running feet could fly
Each breath screaming
“We are all too young to die”

song: between two lungs

[dars]

Last Edit: Jul 9, 2018 4:08:58 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

堕落天使

gamemaker ☢️ ivan korsch
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4,179 POSTS
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call me jaded

sparks under the moon [booker/miles] blitz Jul 19, 2018 13:58:57 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker ☢️ ivan korsch on Jul 19, 2018 13:58:57 GMT -5

It is funny how I creep in the night, off the radar and away from the flash of life. All the wicked that I rebel, hustled under their bed covers and my bitter self is here with barely a cloth to fend off the shivers on the winter nights. A fight for a better life and yet I am just flinging myself into an early grave. It is not easy turning this catastrophe around.

An ironic name to carry, Miles and yet I am miles away from ever being content with life. No support but the two legs that carry my weight, but they are slowly beginning to scream in pain. All the faces I am drawn too are criminals, the ones with the chisel for my tombstone. It is easy to surrender to those who promise a lie of a better life than to those that don’t promise anything at all.

My gaze drops to the lighter in his hand, such a small piece of equipment and yet it carries so much power. Then there is all six feet of me and I barely carry any influence in this world.

So many tools to make anyone big and powerful, it is a fight to find them and to have the knowledge to use them. Anyone can carry an axe, but it takes strength to swing it. Anyone can make a fist, but it takes guts to swing it at the face of an absolute asshole. A bottle of gasoline can ignite anything, an eruption of smoke to signal the burning soul that it as marked as its victim. A trash can is a waste of that power. Booker carries that lighter, but does he dare flick its switch on something as big as the justice building or the mayor’s house?

A bigger victim to use the power on, that is one way to leave a burning mark.

”At least find something better to use that lighter on, you got any cigarettes?” My father condemned me to a life of inhaling poison, it is only fitting that I carry this addiction and of course I am too damn poor to even feed it.

”I am always hungry, you can take the pick.”

dars

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
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sparks under the moon [booker/miles] blitz Sept 12, 2018 10:28:07 GMT -5

Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Sept 12, 2018 10:28:07 GMT -5

Between two lungs it was released
The breath that carried me
The sigh that blew me forward

I have been burned before: it isn't a good agony, the flare kissing your skin, charring it stygian. There's a leaf-shaped shape across my left finger and if one dared to feel it, they'd know of the coarse texture and the inhumane crispness making that singular patch of skin swell.

A wine-red tattoo of my own disaster;

yet these hands proceed with the arson and the raging blares anyways. Some part of me is broken it seems,

rustic and decaying.

Feet shift inadvertently, putting distance amid us; I don't want this malady to devour Miles too. But, eyes make the mistake of looking — under the silver of moon, he's an echo of divinity, innocence and tragedy fertilizing together to blossom a boy.

Behind those eyes, there's that underlying sadness, there's that holy whiteness even the reddest Devil dares not to tarnish.

“You know, I just decided that smoking isn't too good, the– the nicotine and the particles and all that shit.” A palm fishes out the pack I looted from a blurred-out face and, after staring out at the foreground of yellow fluorescents and how they partly cover the darkness behind, I throw the rolls away.

“Come on, Gasly. I’ll take you someplace dangerously cool – make ya’ feel like a criminal and an eater, simultaneously.” Pearly whites flash, gleaming with mischief. With my arm slung around his neck, we embark, down winding roads, shoes stomping on puddles.

Heated abated by the air autumnal, the sheer fabric of this brown pullover neither provide heat nor act as a shield against the cool drafts. How handy would a makeshift heater be, right now, fingers aching for a spark. I clench my teeth and turn to Miles as a mean of distraction. “You shouldn’t be with me, Gasly – you got a good heart.” Syllables leak candor. “An aloof one, but good nevertheless.”

Ahead, our destination emerges, the restaurant’s neon boards and pipes coruscating dark blues and reds. A stroboscopic signboard flickers its name—“THE WOMBAT.”

Quick strides and I’m the first to reach the door, opening it for Gasly. A cacophony of music instantly strikes us from the red-colored inside. Head leaned against the metal rail, a grin crosses my features for no reason. It’s his face perhaps, and the anticipation smeared across it.

“Maybe I’ll crown you, Gasly, and make you feel like a prince tonight, just to leave you high and dry for tomorrow and forever.”

song: between two lungs

[dars]