plz revive. this place was awesome... and... I've been in a drabbling mood lately... and yeah. so, if anyone's still interested, (and i know you are)let's play again?
the artist formerly known as Shortie
Anyway, like I said, I was in a drabbling mood, so I have a couple here. They don't follow the previous challenge at all, but yeah. Still wanted to post.
Swifty was sixteen his first time. It was supposed to be a routine job: in and out in minimum time with maximum cash. It started to go wrong the second he slipped on spilled motor oil, practically giving the gas station attendant time to press the silent alarm.
He had expected to feel remorse, he’d just ended someone’s life; but looking down at the old man with blood seeping fluidly from the bullet lodged in his chest, he realized he felt nothing; nothing but pride.
He wondered when the fuck he’d gotten so heartless. He wondered when he stopped caring.
Title: Parting Gifts
“Well, I guess this is it,” Jack said weakly, trying to stifle the bout of hoarse coughing that followed. “Now, I know it’s going to be hard without me, keepin’ this place runnin’ smoothly an’ all, but if anyone can do it, you can. Here Kid,” he reached for the stolen Stetson hanging on his bedpost, “I want you have it. And when you wear it, remember me.”
Kid Blink stared at the hat in his hands, flabbergasted. “Christ, Jack. You have a case of the sniffles. It’s not like you’re dying or something.”
Jack could never do anything quietly.
Title: Hitting Hard
A hand covering yours.
The brush of stubble against expanses of skin.
A chaste kiss.
Two blue eyes, one covered by a patch of black fabric, pass over your body and into your mind.
Lips, soft as silk, move fluidly against your own.
You’re falling quickly. You put a hand out to soften the impact, but it does nothing. You hit. Hard. In more ways than one.
It doesn’t make sense, you know it doesn’t. He knows it doesn’t.
Yet it does. It makes perfect sense, really.
How you got here, you’ll never know.
He’ll never know.
But you did.