City-Washed, Hang to Dry

Remember to write: the human population is too large for any substantial change. 

rinakay asked: LANG LUI

As you very well know, the “Lang Lui” Clause established circa 2008 has a one-day maximum.

HA. 

            I am neglected. They leave me in this freezing cabinet for other, more enjoyable aspects. It’s not like I feed them with the blood in my veins; they need not remember or be grateful for a little thing like me.

            They do not need me for Italian cuisine, nor do I provide them entrees from the Middle East. I am not necessary for them to enjoy their hamburgers and soups; no, I am not. Indeed, I am as a scarf is to a coat – a welcome addition some days, a hassle most others. They care not for a little bruised thing like me, and they leave me in this cramped, cold space.

            But there are those days, those miraculous days when they remember me, and they invite me to the outside with an outstretched hand, and I can finally feel the warm embrace of the light.

            They bring me to the kitchen, where I help them prepare their next course; morsels they deem worthy I touch are fed my ruby fluids.

            The knife is cold, but burned with the fire of familiarity – this is not the first, or the last time the knife and I will have violent encounters. As I feel my life ebbing away, I grow warmer; the food they will soon enjoy is sprayed with something that was once a part of me.

            They see me dieing; they do not put me to waste.

            They lay me down on the cold white counter and prepare the knife again. I can see it – the light is beating down on my once-smooth skin. Is this what they meant? I do not have time to ponder, as they cut me.

            The first cut is imperfect – very nearly a solid follow-through, but I can feel a small piece of my skin holding the rest of my body together. Ignoring my pain, they flip me over and tear the glue of my skin away, severing me completely. Somehow, I am still alive; the pain has already passed the unbearable stage, and I merely laugh at the silliness of the situation.

            They hold me down and begin mincing me apart, industrial slices almost equidistant from each other. These cuts are made by a master of the blade, for I only have time to feel the air replace where there was once living tissue.

            I do not know why, or how, I am still alive. I would ask them if I had lungs.

            Using the knife as a stretcher and a hand to stabilize parts of me, they lift the mutilated remains of my carcass up. For a few seconds, I feel the warmth of my captors trickle down into me; it is fleeting, but satisfying.

            They drop me without warning into a great well, only it is filled with boiling water and littered with remains of the others. My consciousness fades as I sense the physical portion of myself melt into the red, red soup. Alas, I think, alas.

——-

            “Joey, is the tomato soup ready?”

            “Almost done mom!”

In Penn Station right now, so I’m gonna try something new here and try not to write like a pompous ass. :)

NOTE: It turns out I fail, and try to work in a new kinda thingie; see if you can get it? It’s nothing you have to think hard about

It’s not like I had a choice. It was him, he started everything.

Now, I don’t have a car, so I have to take the subway like millions of others in the city. I usually take the Q, and I like the Q train a lot, but they were doing construction or something, so there’s this nasty business between Prospect Park and Atlantic Avenue involving shuttle buses – I don’t like buses. So, I take the Q the other way, all the way down to Stillwell Avenue, where I can switch to the N and get to Herald Square that way.

Swimmingly, it was, have you heard of a word like that? It’s like it’s talking about itself, the way it rolls right out. Swimmingly, I like it.

That morning, at Stillwell, I choose a car that wasn’t so empty, but had a whole bench for me. I sit myself down (thinking to myself about how the N seats weren’t like the Q seats, but nice in their own way) and I look around at the other passengers. Normal, they were, and I liked it like that. Satisfied, I reach down to take out my laptop and powered it on.

Then he steps in.

I guess you can say he was normal, but only when you look at him straight. He didn’t sit down, even though there were other empty benches for him too; no, he chose to stand and lean and otherwise use as little energy as possible to remain upright. He had on those white earphones they package with every Apple product you get, and he wore his hood up at all times.

I ignored him, because I didn’t like him, and I don’t like not liking things, so I ignore him.

My laptop finally loads Windows Vista (I really should switch to Ubuntu, I think to myself then) and I type in my password; but when I’m typing, I feel…watched.

Mid-password (would that be a pass, or a word?), I stop and look back at the people around me. Nobody was looking, so I pretend to check the time on my cellphone. Then, I deleted my password (because I’m paranoid like that) and typed it again, this time as fast as I could. I make no mistake, but my hairs are raised again.

My head snapped around, but again, no one was watching.

Nervous, I started typing nonsense onto Notepad. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him, staring at me. Why was he staring at me? Did I do something; worse, is there something on my face?

A minute of doing nothing and a quick look in the mirror later, I caught him still looking at me, but only when I didn’t look at him directly. That sneaky guy, hiding his eyes beneath his hoodie, but I knew he was looking.

Oh silly me, I thought; maybe he’s just reading the ad behind my head! I quickly gathered my things and I moved to two whole benches over to make sure I couldn’t stop his reading.

But his eyes, those hidden eyes, they followed me, I was sure of it.

The train closed its doors and started leaving the station. I can’t take this much longer, I think to myself. Muttering nothing to no one in particular, I packed my things and shut my eyes. He’s probably getting off soon anyway; I just need some rest, and he’ll be gone from me.

It seemed only a few minutes before I returned from the half-slumber every subway passenger drifts, but I did not open my eyes. Feigning sleep, I examined my own awareness in careful detail; yes, he still stares.

Anger came first, yearning, buckling and blinding. I could feel my own body start sweating; I’m sure he knew it too. I subdued that particular emotion by imagining how it must feel to be in the vicinity of a nuclear detonation – your skin cooking and melting at a speed so fast that you are still conscious enough to know the smell of your own variety of bacon.

But perhaps it was a mistake – I have been wrong before, I am imperfect. I fluttered my eyelids and spared a glance towards him.

There! His back is towards me, but I know his gaze anywhere – he still glares and burrows into my visual self like the sun would towards the earth, jealous of it’s wonders.

I close my eyes and ponder my own situation; what could I do? I do not understand his intentions; but maybe, if I did, I would even like him. Like him?

Like him. Like the Q train, and their seats, and my laptop and

I stopped thinking, nearly jumping out my seat. The other people on the train looked at me too; I was nearly glistening with perspiration now.

That was his voice; he had somehow penetrated my thoughts and was projecting his own into my psyche. But I won’t let that happen.

Then I’ll be happy, right? Back to how it always is, on the Q train to work, where nobody looks or stares or breathes or

I picked up my bag and knew what must be done. I walked over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, and I smiled at him. He was unremarkable, nearly forgettable.

Oh, how normal, but that’s okay, because I need to

I let Anger course through me. I lifted my bag and swung it at his head; he crumbled, but began to shield himself with his arms. I knew nothing, but him at the moment.

I alternated between swinging my bag and stomping his more vulnerable stomach. He began to cough up liquids in colors I could not discern, but it was not my concern – he still saw.

Don’t STOP! Don’t LEAVE HIM ALONE!

Sometime while swinging my bag, I saw him manifest for who he really was for I felt force pulling my right arm. It was a demon, grinning with ferocity, spouting nonsense while protecting its master. I ignored it by summoning more Anger, adrenaline pulsing through my veins, sweat polluting the air – one final swing.

With both hands, I held my bag tight and lifted it and the imp high as I could reach. A savage yell and the feeling of extreme effort resulted in a burst of brightest red and a bony white on the floor, on myself, on the imp.

But he was an imp no longer, but another man in his early twenties, grappling my arm.

Puzzled, I looked back down. No, I was right, the deed is done, and the man no longer looked at me.

Oh, very well done! Now, let’s go back to work, I hear today’s will be an excellent day.

Of course. But, oh blast it, my bag is drenched.

One day!

(via korean-fashion)

Humanity has long since collapsed. Every government that once existed has ground itself into dust, and the last of man has vacated the choke-hold shadows of cities for the open farmlands. We will bring back our Golden Age, they say. Many seasons will pass before that day.

Cities of today still stand, though they often sway desperately against the wind. Amongst the cement rubble piles of New York City lies remnants of everyday technology. Cars litter the streets in a gridlock farce, completely contradicting the organized grid layout. Curious animals have already taken to exploring the uninhabited city and plant-life has started its war against artificiality. 

Union Park is no exception. There is a fine layer of dust sprinkled across the ground and the park road is barely discernible. By the entrance to one of these roads just kissing the park plaza is a remarkably tall pile of refuse. It has been piled to the point where it seemed deliberate.

A muffled voice - the topmost of the pile shifts, disturbed by something within.

Dust and rock fall off to reveal a beaten, sandy cellphone. Its screen no longer lights up, but it still has the capacity to vibrate. The cellphone finishes its message for its missing owner, “…now repeat.”, and ceases to move.

——-

I know, it’s not Daddy Dearest, but this thing is about 3 years old or something like that. It wants to be released from my head! This too will be finished…when it’s not 4AM.

We crept up the rickety staircase apprehensively, the rotting boards protesting against the weight of four reckless teenagers. The staircase itself wasn’t long, maybe fifteen or so steps to clear, but our mingled fear stretched time, and our actions, to behemoth proportions. Even our breathing was controlled and deliberate.

At the topmost step, we stopped, shivering together on the spot. Several moments passed before anyone gathered the nerve to communicate on the verbal plane; and of course, it would be Leo.

“Go on, Seth, we’re freezing here.”

I looked back at Leo, and he glared back in my face. He nodded ever so slightly to the two girls trailing just one step below us, huddled together for warmth and console. It was obvious he was expecting me to carry the team to our goal.

Perhaps it was his name, but Leo always walked with a sense of pride, although it was wholly undeserved. He had the utmost confidence in himself and his abilities, though he always found cunning ways to weasel out of performing them. In his own right, he was remarkable, although I would say his traits ran parallel to anything a true lion would uphold.

I shook my head and turned to face the second landing. I shifted my weight and took a tentative first step onto the dusty floor; a particularly loud creak sounded and we all froze. Irrational goosebumps and discouraging images flashed through my mind, each of them likely impossible, but my brain would not rule them out. My eyes finally took action; they darted to the left and right, making sure nothing could potentially be harmful to my physical body. Before I grew comfortable with the situation, I felt a forceful push on my lower back, effectively making me stumble, rather loudly, onto the second floor.

“Damnit, Seth, keep it down!”, said a grinning Leo as he helped the two girls up the final step. I threw him the strongest of my glares, and grit my teeth; I held back, but only because we were trespassing.

The house we were in belonged to my family, though I have no idea why it hasn’t been demolished. It was built by a single man in the span of a year, I was told, and was always told to stay away from it. It may have once been very handsome, but time is never merciful.

Once Leo found out I held the deeds to the place, he immediately conned me into taking him and two girls (of his choosing) on a midnight tour. He told us all to bring snacks and sleeping bags; he would supply “the good stuff”, he said.

I righted myself and convinced myself that the living room was on the far end of the hall where I was facing. Somehow, the idea of camping in that room seemed a solace to me from the aged surroundings.

————————————————-

NOTE: I have the finished idea in my head, I just also happen to have an Econ midterm looming above my head; therefore, this’ll be continued some other day. Feedback would be nice :)

tumblrbot asked: WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST HUMAN MEMORY?

In Malaysia; I hear my grandma’s bike bell and step outside of my house to look for her. She’s on the dirt road and waving to me, but a UFO (legit) beams her up…

I then wake up. It was a dream.

He stepped out of his apartment and into the harsh city-sun. With a broad smile and a glowing complexion, he strode out into the streets with confidence. Although every little wave he gave to passerby elicited awkward grimaces and warded stares, he handed them out like the way rain would fall - indiscriminately. He did this because he believed everybody in the world deserved a little more recognition, a little more light because, in this life, the sun did not bring enough. And so, he believed it was his born duty to carry on where the sun would not shine in his urban jungle of cold steel.

Most of the time, people would leave him be. Already, he was gaining a small, though growing, recognition around his neighborhood; “Mr. Smiles” has a Facebook group already 43 strong. Many people understood his good intentions and believed that he was merely trying to rekindle the flames of unsolicited friendship that had died out the instant New York City was crowned.

But not everyone believed in Mr. Smiles. The general reaction was fear, and those of whom were awfully fearful would curse him out; accuse him of some dastardly plot brewing in his obviously doped out mind. Some would insult him; homophobic accusations fly around rather freely, and many were captured and released upon Mr. Smiles.

The few extremists would assault him, though many were too cunning to make it visible. They believed that he was a genuine danger, and, in their vigilante mindsets, they chose to dissuade him from his goal to disrupt the peace of their homes. Those in business suits would often adhere razor blades to their padded elbows and, in the jostle of the city, aim to bump into Mr. Smiles occasionally. Small incisions usually go unnoticed in such an untamed bungalow.

The furthest of the extremists’ spectrum would openly attack Mr. Smiles. It wasn’t too out of the ordinary to see Mr. Smiles in the police station, or the hospital, sporting several cuts and bruises. They hated him, hated him for his brimming positivity. They hated him for his upstanding, infectious attitude. They hated him for many reasons, ranging from his shoes to the way his smiles crinkle his nose, but they hated him all the same.

Through it all, Mr. Smiles continued to comb the city, looking for it’s most depressed inhabitants. He would smile and wave and greet you if you looked mundane. If he saw a deep-set frown and wrinkles on your brow, he would hug you, and perhaps tell you to “keep at it!”. Tears would be sniffed out and dealt with via entertainment, food and genuine conversations; there was a time when Mr. Smiles was seen openly weeping with a girl in his arms; console in companionship.

It had been a rather long day, even for Mr. Smiles. He stepped back into his apartment, his suit ruined; there were several coffee stains on his dress shirt and one arm sleeve was hanging by four - no, three - threads. 

The glow on his face started to fade as he stepped deeper into his apartment. As he took off his suit, a black eye swallowed the left side of his face. Cuts began to appear everywhere on his body and face as he stripped. Bruises blossomed around his body, and burn marks materialized, primarily around his chest and arms. His face contorted into one of pain as he spit out three of his teeth; his smile was now very ruined as his reflection revealed his missing several more than three of his dental whites. 

He began to walk with a limp towards the bathroom door; as he got closer, it was evident that he could no longer walk without bending over; several of his ribs were broken. When he got to his sink, he spit blood into the porcelain bowl and tears caught in his eyes.

As he looked into his mirror, it cracked, and he shattered across the floor.