Taking Back What's Ours, Writing challenges~

[Whitestream]

You know that moment where you sit there and you realise, "writing isn't fun anymore. They've ruined what I love"? Yeah. I do, big time.

So I propose a prompt game. Anyone who feels like it can respond to the prompt in any way they please (following the Final Sunrise rules of course, so no swearing, explicit content of any sort etc.) and post it here, for compliments and constructive critique by their peers. Plus I'm addicted to Aeria's writing and want an excuse to drag more of it out of her kicking and screaming I mean what?

WHY WOULD WE LISTEN TO YOU?

Because I'm a genius Because it's a bit of fun, helps improve our writing and it can be extremely relaxing, seriosuly, taking some time just to write something that isn't RP related, or for school or really for the enjoyment of anyone but you is one of the best relaxants I can suggest.

So, for anyone who's interested, here's the prompt I'm putting forwards as that for week one;;

If it weren’t too late I would......

This prompt can be taken in so many ways, I love it, it was suggested by my roomate Grey and both him, myself and our other roomate, Black took it differently so I'm curious as to how you guys will all take it, remember responses don't have to be perfect, it's not a competition, just some fun, so how would you respond? With a paragraph? A whole one-shot? A poem or a song? Show off your creativity~

OH AND BY THE WAY GUYS, anyone can suggest a prompt for the next week and then members can choose which to respond to but lets make it fun, only three a week and you shouldn't respond to your own~

LET THE GAMES BEGIN

Used Prompts
Feel free to respond to any of these, this is just the master list
If it weren't too late I would.......
If only you knew
Never let me go
"Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep." - by Fran Lebowitz
Forgive me for everything

[Aeria Gloris]

*kicks and screams* I DON'T WANNA YOU CAN'T MAKE MEEEE!!!!!!

But really, you're such a sweetheart, White! This is a good idea!

Now let's see...Let's see how we can begin to tackle this prompt! And just to make it different, FIRST PERSON. OOOOOOH.

If It Weren’t Too Late I Would...

Sandstar's POV

Flowingheart and Snowfeather ran to the Moonpool. Her brilliant green eyes were dimmed with the shadows of her parents' deaths, and the responsibility I'd set in her path.

She was my deputy, against all expectations. Flowingheart, a young warrior, barely having trained Sandfur, her first apprentice, was to be RiverClan's next leader. I knew they all expected Owltalon to lead. But StarClan knew otherwise.

Against all odds, I fell in love with Flowingheart. There were days I wanted to disobey StarClan's mandate and confess my love for her. But it was too late. It was late from the moment she was born.

If it weren't too late, I would have opened my heart to her completely. I would have given her a piece of my heart, and saved the rest for my Clan. I dreamed of the kits we might have had. Kits that would've made her happy, and set her name in the stars for all eternity. Kits that would have been the pride of RiverClan, as beautiful as their mother.

But her destiny was far too important for me to derail. She would become the heart and soul of the Clan, leading it with her love and intelligence.

I see now that Owltalon could offer her so much more than I ever could. He was young, strong, patient, and kind. He would never shirk his duties to her, or their kits. He would never demand anything of her, but wait for her to offer. And most importantly, he would never die and abandon her while she was still young.

I watch her now, my regret forgotten. I open my heart to everything StarClan offered me. I would never leave her, now. I can be with her in ways I never could while I lived. I will wait for her, to welcome her into StarClan, along with her loved ones. I will bless Owltalon, so that he may love her forever, and that she may realize what he really means to her.

I let every pain, every hunger, desire, and worry drift away from me, like leaves from the trees. I do not feel myself waste away. Rather, I am filled with joy! Rapture! Answers!

I walk to Silverpelt, with a ready heart. They welcome me, and I welcome them, knowing I am home at last, where no borders would ever cause strife again.

And when she comes, I will be there to guide her home.

[Minou]

*~ If It Weren’t Too Late. ~*

Ratwhisker's POV

Thornkit was my sister. She taught me things I never could have learned on my own, so full of love and acceptance. I grew apart from her. I didn’t show her I cared those times I should have, I left her to defend alone when we were suffering our parents’ death. I watched her cry for them, but never did I reach over and show her I was still there. I died with them in her eyes. I forgot about her, too focused on my own pain and selfishness. I should have showed her I was there.

Thornpaw was less sure of herself. She grew lost, so unreachable, too far gone. She begged for my acceptance, I remember it in the way she looked at me from across the clearing. Those eyes, so full of dark secrets, ones I could have heard. She needed my guidance. I was the only one to offer it because I was the only one who understood the pain and fear of being alone, she still trusted me even though I put her through hell. I made myself that way, and I made her that way. It wasn’t her choice. It was mine. I should have given her a choice, a chance. If only the clan knew what I could have done.

Thornfang was heartless and cold. I turned the other cheek, too afraid to realise what I had done, what my pride had cost the clan. It was too late for her. I had let my only sister grow into a monster, while knowing the entire time I could have stopped it. She killed, because of me, because of my weakness to comfort her, to show her I did love her.

I thought I learned my lesson of being there for kin. Then I watched it happen all over again. My mate, the blood, the kits. The agonizing thoughts of being helpless, the feeling of failure as Swiftstep cried out in pain.

I thought my life was better again, I thought I found a family who would stay with me forever, but our deformed children, half alive and half dead, it was like a sign, telling me I’d never be able to protect anything. All I could do was turn the other cheek, and so I did.

It took days after Swiftstep was strong enough to leave the den did I, but I was still too weak and tired. If it weren’t too late I’d make myself stronger. I would have comforted her, been there for her, not for myself. I would have stopped her from attacking the badger and killing our children, I would have done it myself, ran the badger out. Then they’d be alive, and we'd be happy.

If it weren’t too late I’d put myself aside, be there for others instead of mourning in self-pity. I’d make the change to protect others around me instead of watching them disappear without a second glance, I’d be strong enough to do that.

[Silver]

If It Wasn't Too Late...



Lottie's POV:

I had never thought that that day would be so eventful, I thought it was going to be just any other birthday, another year of my life wasted.

I had never been so wrong in my life.

It had been early morning, when I came down the stairs the day that changed my world. It was Nicole's and my birthday, and Nikki was suppose to be coming over for cake later. Jamie wasn't home, and Jezebel was still asleep, so I was alone, or so I thought. I came downstairs to see my closest friend, Thrush, sitting on the living room couch. He got up when I hit the last step, taking off his hat and setting it on the couch. I smiled at him, walking over and hugging him. "Long time no talk, how've you been?" I had asked him. He smiled back at me.

"I've been good Lots, and you? How's life been treating you?" The man asked me, letting me go. I watched as he put his hat back on and sat down as I tried to figure out if life had been treating me well lately. Jamie was never home, I rarely ever saw my sisters, I hadn't gone to visit my brother's grave or my father's graves in ages as I had to be home with Jezebel, and I wasn't ready to tell her exactly what happened to them. I wasn't ready to tell her about Poison's assassination, which was done to hurt me, and I sure wasn't ready to tell her about the war. Chespi, who was like a second daughter to me, however, did come to visit often, bringing stories of her adventures and my cousin France with her. I was glad to see her, her company kept me sane. Jezebel didn't exactly want to spend loads of time with me these days, but, what teenager wanted to spend time with their mom.

Thrush's yearly visit was precious to me, his business kept him on the move constantly, but, I loved he took the time out around my birthday to spend some time with me.  I finally found the words I needed, "Life's been treating me alright, I've had worse, haven't I?" I told him, with a sigh. He nodded, "That's sure true." He allowed. "Where's Jamie?"

I sighed then, that was the question I didn't want to be asked, as, I didn't know. Maybe he was on a trip with my brother and his cousin, or maybe he was off with Grace, who I despised oh so much. "He's on a trip." I said finally, after deciding it wasn't exactly a lie. He caught my mood, and nodded, not commenting anymore on Jamie's absence.

I sat down next to him on the couch and we sat there in silence. After awhile I had stood up, excusing myself to go get us sodas.

I only left him for a few seconds.

When I came back he was on the ground, bleeding with a knife stuck in his torso. I, for once in my life, didn't even notice the boot prints on my floor as I ran to his side, gathering him up in my arms. I started to mutter a healing spell, but, he put a finger to my lips, shushing me. 

"No, The angels are telling me it's my time." He whispered, "Looks like I'm not going to bloody hell after all." He added, smiling a painful smile at me. I shook my head, "Let me help..." I whispered weakly. He moved his hand away from his torso, rubbing it on his pants leg quickly before stroking my cheek. "You could sing the song to me, the one I used to sing to you after the arena when you were having all those nightmares." He whispered to me. I nodded, "I remember tears streaming down your face when I said, 'I'll never let you go.' When all those shadows almost killed your light. I remember you said, 'Don't leave me here alone.' But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight.

Just close your eyes, the sun is going down. You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now.  Come morning light you and I'll be safe and sound.

Don't you dare look out your window darling, everything's on fire.  The war outside our door keeps raging on. Hold on to this lullaby even when the music's gone, gone.

Just close your eyes, the sun is going down. You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now.  Come morning light you and I'll be safe and sound." I sang to him, watching as he shut his eyes, and let out his very last breath. I kept singing though, holding back the sob in my throat.  "Oooh, Oooh, Oooh, Oooh. La La La La. La La La La. Oooh, Oooh, Oooh, Oooh. La La La La.

Just close your eyes, you'll be alright. Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound.

Oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh oh oh.  Oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh oh oh. Oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh oh oh. Oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh oh oh. Oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh oh oh. Oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh oh oh. Oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh oh oh." I finished, letting out a cry when I was done. I clutched him tightly, as if holding him would bring him back to me.

This was the little brown eyed boy who had saved my life in the arena, this was the boy who had held me to keep the nightmares away. This was the boy stood by my side as I went through funeral after funeral. This was the boy who held my hand when I gave birth to my daughter.

The man in my arms was the man I loved, I realized, and I had never gotten to tell him I loved him.

If I wasn't too late, he'd still be here with me. If I wasn't too late, he'd know how much I loved him.

If I wasn't too late, we'd be Safe and Sound, like the song.

[Whitestream]

It looks better formatted in my word. By the way the advice at the end was something I was told when I reached out to an adult last year. Not only did I try first person, but disjointed first person in present tense XD

If It Wasn't Too Late

Beep....
What sort of sound is that? One which bodes nothing but pain… This isn’t happening… I can’t… I can’t believe that this is happening. But it is happening… or rather, it’s happened. It was happening for months before it happened. Almost a year. How come no-one did anything to stop it? Everyone saw it, why didn’t anyone care?

Why didn’t I?

Beep...
I’m looking through the window now, there’s his mother weeping silently in a chair, there’s his father leaning against the wall, his head is buried in his hands and he’s crying, I can hear their choked sobs but I don’t understand… no. I do understand but I don’t want to. The boy is still alive, right? There’s still a chance that he can pull through. A movement to my right attracts my attention and there’s a young man, tall, with dark hair. I can see the muscles straining in his arms and his knuckles are white, crossed to grip the opposite arm. His lips are set into a hard line and I can see the tension in his jaw. The look his gives me I’ll never forget, his eyes are burning with his pain, and there inside the depths of those dark blue eyes is an accusation that will never be voiced. There’s no need, we both know what I did. No…

What I failed to do.

Beep..
I look once more through the window, I know that I’m not welcome here but neither is he. If the boy’s parents saw either of us they’d probably call the police… but I can’t leave, not like this, not yet. The boy is laying there, a mess of tubes and wires. He’s unfamiliar now and I can’t stand the way he’s just laying there. But he’ll wake up. No matter what they did this boy had always stood back up. Hadn’t he? He had. But this time it wasn’t them… was it. This time it was us. The ones who could have stopped it, but the ones who found it easier to do nothing, to just pretend that it would go away. His parents are the culprits… but then, so am I. The only one here who is innocent of negligence is the young man to my right. He’s the only one who tried, the only one who cared, and ultimately, the only one who truly realises that he failed. But he was one young man, with no power or authority… there was nothing he could do but offer his support. I had the authority to end it but I didn’t. I didn’t even have the compassion to support.

I did nothing.

Beep.
I see the movement in the room and his mother lets out a shriek throwing herself at her son, she’s clutching his still form and she’s sobbing raggedly into his chest. I could’ve spared them all this pain, but I was selfish. It was too hard wasn’t it? Surely someone else would do it. Surely there would be someone out there who cared enough for the boy to try and help. Well, I mean, it’s not that I didn’t care it’s that… this really isn’t my job, right? To look after young people, that’s for councillors not teachers. I wasn’t wrong when he reached out to me, my advice was sound. I watch as the boy’s father pulls his mother away from him and he looks so much smaller than he used to. The doctors are solemn as they begin checking the machines, searching for any change before their next action. Beside me the young man has his eyes fixed upon the boy, his body is tense and still, I can see the fury in his eyes, he won’t cry, not here. He won’t let them win, not ever. He’s not like the boy in the other room, he’s stronger and he’s madder and as I watch him out of the corner of my eye I realise a depressing truth; I can’t do a damn thing.

I wasted my chance.

Beep
Full Name: Jake Jonathan Abram.
Age: Seventeen.
Cause of Death: Suicide/De-escalation
Time of Death: 7:18pm
Additional Notes: Parents and homeroom teacher present at death.

I watch as the final notes are drawn up about the boy’s death, noting with a sickness which spreads through my gut that the three people there who had done nothing to help him were counted as being present. The only one of us who did anything at all to help the poor boy will never even be considered, to them he isn't human, he doesn''t exist, they will never acknowledge him. After all, who is he? Nobody.

He's just the boyfriend who was there throughout it all.

And as I look over at him the final words I’d spoken to the boy before passing him off as someone else’s problem flash through my mind…

“Sometimes if you behave less different… it’s easier to fit in.”

If it wasn't too late I'd take it back. If it wasn't too late I'd put an end to his torment. But it is too late, for Jake. But it's not too late for his boyfriend. I turn silently and place my hand on his shoulder gently, he doesn't look at me but he doesn't push me away either. I turn back to look upon the wretched scene inside, and I know in my heart that outside, eventually, everything might end up alright.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

[Aeria Gloris]

Prompt:

If only you knew...

[PickeBicke]

(( Warning, a little bit of "hanky panky" in the following post. I will also be doing Aeria's prompt soon so I'll probably be adding another post within the next day or so.

Also, first person hurts my brain. I WILL NOT DO EET D8< Enjoy! ))


If it weren’t too late I would......

A bee droned lazily by, it's gossamer wings beating out the familiar hum that told others to watch out for it. It's path was straightforward. Zoom around the jutting rocks, down into the gorge, and over the milling bodies in a, pardon the pun, bee-line for the gray-and-white tabby basking himself near the riverbank.

Longstripe flicked his ears irritably as the droning grew closer. He had been watching the insect for a few minutes now and, despite all odds, the thing seemed bent on a path straight for him. It didn't matter that the camp was full of other cats, warriors gathering for patrols and apprentices dashing madly to and fro to fetch moss for the elders. He could hear the thing buzzing low over their heads and even saw a few of the younger she-cats shy away from it with a hiss escaping their lips.

He had to admit, bee stings weren't the most fun of injuries. If injuries could ever be called fun. He'd had his fair share of them once as a young warrior, trying to harvest some honey for Gingerface, the medicine cat before Lilystem. His face had been swollen for days.

As the bug drew closer he bristled and tensed up, waiting. Sure enough, the thing flew smack-dab into the center of his forehead. With a strong lash of his fore-paw the tom belted the insect off his face and onto the ground, where he promptly clawed it apart as it lay stunned.

"Don't you have anything better to do than hunt bees?"

Rosebird's harsh tone came from behind him. Flinching, Longstripe tossed the remains of the offending bug away and shuffled about to face her. The ginger and white tabby's face was shaped into her usual frown.

"The least you could do is haul yourself out of this gorge and fetch a pigeon! Or perhaps a snail is more to your liking?" Her hazel eyes flashed, as if she really thought he would say yes. As it were the older tom glanced at the ground and gave an almost in-audible sight.

Thankfully, his mate didn't notice. Caught up in her tirade she just hissed and growled and insulted and plowed right on over his meager mental defenses. "Last time all you brought back was a skinny, worthless little mouse! Even a kit could eat more than that piece of crowfood! Do you even put any effort into keeping your Clan well-fed? Honestly!"

Rosebird's face was the picture of exasperation and rage.

"I don't know what to do with you sometimes." Snorting and lashing her tail, the ginger and white queen whirled about and left him there on his rock without another word.

Which was all well and good, in it's own way. He'd had enough of her ranting before she'd even started.

"...I don't know about you, either," Longstripe whispered as her form disappeared into the warrior's den. His head felt heavy, so he let it fall onto his fore-paws, his tail lying listless beside him.

She had been young when they'd become mates. A full fifteen moons his junior. He had been dazzled by her beauty, by her sharp wit and fierce personality. So different from his shabby form, his gentle humor and laid-back approach to things.

Why she had ever chosen him he would, most likely, never know. He'd had no say in the matter. Rosebird, freshly a warrior and already turning heads as she passed, had marched right up to him and declared herself his mate.

And he, the stupid, ignorant fool, had accepted.

He hadn't been prepared for her competitiveness. Every morning she would try to patrol the most territory, chase off the most intruders, catch the most prey. Criticize her once and she'd be on you like a disturbed nest of wasps.

Longstripe felt more of her claws in the first few moons of their relationship than in all his battles to that date.

It wasn't enough that she excel. She wished him to do the same as well.

She would constantly berate him if he did what she felt was less than his fair share of work. Constantly examine his prey and deem it inadequate.

One time he had lost hearing in his right ear for a week when she clouted him for daring to comment on the scrawny trout she'd fished up.

He had dared to hope one day, for something more. He had, against all odds, found that he loved her.

And so, he had hoped.

One day only.

Rosebird had come to him in an unusually subdued tone, her face a soft and even amicable in appearance. She had pressed herself against him, beginning to purr, rubbing her body along his.

He had been stunned. Her scent had changed, grown sweeter and more feminine, her form more soft and supple than he remembered. Her tone when she spoke to him was borderline friendly.

The two had even gone out for a walk, on her urging no less! They had talked more than they had since as long as he could remember, in such a calm and even sweet way!

In the end, the gray and white tabby even found himself having fun.

Uncertain what to make of this change, Longstripe had allowed her to lead him to the woods, to an overgrown little meadow far from camp. There, she had mewled and licked his muzzle, purring hard, whispering that she loved him, that she needed him. She had apologized for being so snappy. For hurting his ear.

His eyes had nearly popped out of his skull when she crouched down, lifting her rear end and begging him, begging him, to make her his. To show her how much he loved her, to show that they truly did love each other.

Heart swelling with hope, he had complied. Had held her to him and cried out that he loved her, that she meant the world to him. That she was forgiven and that he truly, really, did love her. He dared to hope as he took her softly, there beneath the mottled canopy of leaves, even as she hissed in pain and lashed out at him when they had finished and he pulled away.

She had only been in heat.

He had fallen for it.

Maybe, on some level, she loved him too.

But Rosebird's love seemed to be in a different territory entirely than his.

Within a few days, everything had gone back to the way it had been before, her attitude as poor as ever and her treatment of him still harsh.

The only time he had ever felt truly connected with her was when the kits were born a few moons later. Their first litter. Three gorgeous little she-cat's. One with a pelt as ginger as her mother, with no stripes. Another whose long white fur was covered in inter-mixed shades of gray with bold black stripes. The last with a pelt the palest shade of gray imaginable, but with small patches of ginger and white mixed in.

Sandkit, Badgerkit, and Birdkit. He had named them. Named all three.

All three stillborn.

Their grief in that instance, when her contractions had ended and Gingerface grimly shook his head, had been true. They had pressed against each other and poured out their pain in heart-rending yowls.

But it twisted, her grief. Turned her into something Longstripe couldn't even recognize. Couldn't reason with.

Couldn't understand.

Not even a moon had passed before she demanded another mating. Rosebird's eyes had flashed with fury when he mentioned that he needed time.

"Time?!" she had screeched. "You dare talk to me about time when I spent those moons harboring a litter that only died right after I gave birth to them? All that time I thought I would be a mother? Have kits to present to the clan and raise into proper warriors? And you dare to talk to me about needing time?! You didn't have to carry them with you!"

He never got a moment's peace.

She would follow him everywhere, try to coerce him or seduce him when her begging or demanding failed.

He had refused. And refused again.

So many times, Longstripe had stopped counting.

In the end, he had given in to what she wanted. Had held her below him as softly as he ever had, his teeth gentle on her scruff as he positioned himself over her. His cracked voice whispering that he loved her, his mind wishing that he didn't. His heart, still torn, hammered out a faint rhythm to match his movements as he took his mate the first time. For the second time.

Then a third time.

And a fourth.

Rosebird wanted to make sure of a pregnancy.

They were born near the end of a long and late leaf-bare, with snow still piled in the gorge and the dens the coldest they had ever been. Two little mewling, sickly kits, both with pelts a mix of Rosebird's ginger and Longstripe's gray tabby colors.

She had allowed him to pick the names.

Robinkit, her little mewling cries sounding like the bird's call. And Sparrowkit, her male counter-part with his gentle chirrups.

Those cries soon gave way to deadly coughs, their bodies racked with spasms and radiating fevers. Gingerface and Lilypaw, his new apprentice, had worked night and day to help them.

Rosebird would march out herself to fetch them if they wouldn't come every few moments.

It was at those times that Longstripe would curl up around the two instead, whisper them stories, lick their burning foreheads and pray. Pray for them.

Sometimes, he would be there for hours while the medicine cats argued with his mate, explaining that nothing more could be done.

He would feel their fragile little heart-beats alongside his own and hope that they would still be there when he woke in the morning.

They lived.

A miracle.

Two little miracles that were subject to the same strict treatment from their mother as he had been.

Nothing would ever be enough for her.

Sometimes, lying in his nest alone, watching her sides rise and fall as she (StarClan forbid he tell her) snored, he wondered. Wondered, for a split second, what it would have been like if he had actually said no. Refused that fiery little she-cat's declaration and gone his own path.

He'd never had known the pain of losing his first litter so quickly, so brutally. Would never have had to endure her insults or her blows or her twisted feelings.

But...

Coming back to the present, Longstripe's thoughts went back to his litter.

The one that had survived. Despite all odds, Sparrowkit and Robinkit had survived the kitten-cough they'd contracted in the nursery.

If it weren't too late...would he really change anything?

He leaf-yellow eyes flicked to where Robintail sat, purring, enjoying a squirrel while her apprentice demonstrated his latest battle skills. They roamed over to where Sparrowstar conversed quietly with Raggedfur, the scruffy tom rolling his eyes at something Longstripe's son had said.

Even now, could he give up having known them? Raised them? Worried for them and laughed with them and sobbed for them? ...loved them?

His kits. His. His life, now that he kept getting older.

Now that Rosebird seemed to grow further apart from him. To grow even more angry and hostile.

"No." The single word escaped on a breath so quiet not even a mouse, with it's sensitive little ears, could hear it.

Longstripe would never trade his children for the world.

The End

[Aeria Gloris]

*trembles and starts sobbing*

Longstripe...! Poor, misunderstood Longstripe! DX That mean, crabby-nag Rosebird!

Also makes me wonder what happened to Lilystem if she was that young-ish.

Beautifully written! I empathized with Longstripe, and kind of want to give him the number to a domestic abuse victim shelter.

Her "proposal" reminds me of Isdra's proposal to Epor. xP

[Whitestream]

If Only You Knew.
Why can't I write happy things? XD Finally got this done, it was more fun to write than it should have been, lightly based on the song "Surrender" by Billy Talent.

Careful blue eyes trace over the still form of a woman sitting at a nearby table, her arms resting lightly upon the wooden surface, the gentle breeze stirring her pale chestnut hair. The young man has been coming to this restaurant every day for over a year just to see the pretty woman who he has come to affectionately call ‘Sunset’. After several months of him watching her they had struck up a friendship – or more accurately, a deal; they confess their problems and speak more honestly to each other than anyone else in the world, and to him it is everything he bothers to care about, but, to her he is nothing more than ‘Blue-Eyes’, the man she speaks too when her life becomes too much. Often she ignores his presence entirely, but it’s alright, Blue-Eyes doesn’t mind, because she makes his day better… no, she makes his day perfect.

But Sunset’s life is far from perfect.

The first time they spoke to one another was a warm December afternoon, Blue-Eyes helped her gather the things she had spilled from her purse when searching for the money to pay for her coffee, she thanked him quietly, paid and then left, leaving him awestruck in her wake.

They didn’t speak again for months after that, and he was forced to content himself with quietly watching her from afar, until, one morning in the freezing month of May she approached the table where he sat; he remembers it perfectly, every tiny detail, from the yellow hibiscus pin in her hair to the tears swimming in her eyes. She was wearing a light, long sleeve blue top with a v-neck cut to preserve her modesty, he remembers remarking on how odd that was, wasn’t she cold? She only shook her head, claiming she didn’t feel the cold and then she asked to sit down and proceeded to do so without waiting for an answer, but he didn’t mind, just as he doesn’t mind when she does it now, because she’s always worth listening too and he will never push her aside or turn her away. She was timid then, and her expressive hazel eyes were so desperate that it made his heart ache to see, he asked her what was wrong and watched as she bit her lip, her hands twisting nervously together on the tabletop.

“Can I trust you?”

They were the words which would define their relationship, and he swallowed for a moment, why would she open up so to a perfect stranger? Yet one look at her desperate eyes and he was left with only one answer, so he swallowed once more before offering her a smile which held everything he felt and said, “Yes.”

The following conversation left him feeling sicker and sicker the more she spoke, the floodgates had opened up and the levee which had held so strong for the longest time finally broke.

She was seeing someone, they had been together for over a year and had made the decision to move in together, so they decided on a city which would be a fresh start for them both and together they had bought a unit to the north of the city. It wasn’t a wealthy area, in fact the demographic was quite low and the people often scared her, but her partner assured her she’d be fine because he would protect her. What she hadn’t realised was the cost for his protection, it had begun as small things, cleaning the house before he got home, if it was dirty upon his arrival he’d get mad. So she tried to get home early from her own job so she could clean. Next thing was dinner, he would call her an hour before coming home with what he wanted and it had to be ready when he arrived or he would begin to yell at her, this was new and it frightened her. It just got worse and worse as the months rolled on and eventually he forced her away from all her friends, so she had no-one to talk to. She couldn’t talk to her sister, or her mother because they were happily married – how could she tell them how she failed as a partner? As she spoke, Blue-Eyes had begun to let his eyes drift from her face, down to her breasts where he found the darkened edge of a bruise beneath the edge of her top. Alarmed, he looked further, catching glimpses of yellowing beneath her sleeves. Still she spoke, unaware of her companion’s roving eyes.

Only once did he interrupt her, “Does he hit you?” She was silent, and her hands began to twist again, her teeth digging hard into her tender lip… That was all the answer he needed.

After that meeting she would come to him every time she needed someone to talk to, and he was always there, at his table to listen, because she needed him… and because unwittingly, he had fallen in love with her.

Today he watches her as she catches his eyes and smiles, he smiles back as she arises smoothly, she’s as graceful as a dancer. She settles across from him, in the seat that they both acknowledge is hers, this is their place and neither will ever bring another human being here, it is a silent pact but that just makes it all the stronger.

“Hello, Blue-Eyes.”

Her voice is soft and kind, and her smile in genuine despite what she goes through nightly. His returning smile must be blinding but she doesn’t complain, she never complains.

“Hey, Sunset.”

Talking to her is so easy now, it’s a dance they’ve practised often and they have it perfect, he knows what she will say next, “Double shot of caramel?” It’s their private joke, it was the drink he once spilled on her, and now it is the only thing that either of them will drink, as always, he’s already ordered, but today it’s different, today there’s only one drink which comes from the kitchen and she frowns, this isn’t in the script.

“They forgot one.”

“No.”

His response confuses her and she tilts her head slightly to the left. His heart is breaking but this has to be done, he smiles at her but it’s forced, he’s trying to cover his sadness. She can tell and she frowns further, “Blue-Eyes, what’s wrong?” He takes a deep breath of air and reaches over to the satchel laying abandoned by his chair.

“Here, look at this.”

He pulls out a newspaper and places it on the table, sliding it across, she takes it and for a moment their fingers brush and he hesitates, clinging to the feeling and storing it away; he will never forget that feeling. He wants to lift his eyes to hers as she picks up the newspaper to read, breaking their contact, but he can’t, so he stares down into his coffee. After a moment he hears a moan and then he looks up. Her hazel eyes are swimming with tears, they slide down her cheeks and onto her breasts, leaving dark spots in the purple fabric.

“I’m sorry.”

He murmurs, before he closes his eyes.

When they reopen he’s staring at a white ceiling, the paint is cracking and flaking, this irritates him. His vision blurs for a moment and he feels the familiar warmth of tears on his face. After a moment the tears pass and he looks across at his bedside table, upon it is a glass of water, a small digital clock and a photo frame, but inside the frame is not a photo, it’s a news article.

DOMESTIC DISAGREEMENT TURNS VIOLENT. ONE DEAD.

It’s been two years since he read that, but it’s alright, because every night he returns to the café, and every morning he awakens, the smell of hibiscus in his nose. He beams at the article, it is blinding, he can see his reflection and as always, he speaks three words, the only words he’ll speak until he arrives at work later in the morning.

“Good morning, Penny.”

Because in that article he had discovered her name, the name she had never disclosed… it was written that she was found in a phone booth, her head smashed against the glass, holding phone book open to the B’s.

If he had only told her his real name, maybe she could’ve called him. He sighs softly at the thought, and pulls himself to his feet, feeling the sharp sting of tears on his cheeks once again.

If only you knew, Sunset, if only you knew.

[Aeria Gloris]

Oooohhh, poor Sunset/Penny!!

[FunAdvice]

If only you knew...

I'M GETTING IN ON THIS. It's more prose than regular writing. White, your stories...many manly tears were shed. They were so great!

Just a short spurt of random thought from Leopardheart while I think up a post for RiverClan.

To Snowpaw

I watch you walk towards Cindertail, your sightless, ice-blue eyes wide with apprehension. I'm probably the only one here who knows what you really want. In spite of your curiosity and ability to learn about healing, you really want to be a warrior, not a medicine cat. You want to fight for your Clan, and hunt, and feel like you were worthwhile.

But no one else knows it. And no one else knows what I'm feeling right now, watching you walk the path that doesn't allow you to take a mate. If only you knew how much I want you. Maybe you would have had a mentor who could really help you.

I looked forward to sleeping in the same den with you. I thought that maybe one day, you and I might've been able to be together.

Now I watch you walk further away, burning with rage, jealousy, and aching loss.

To Owltalon

Maybe you pity me. Maybe you think I'm happy as I am. Alone, without a mate and kit.

If that's the case, then you don't know what I really feel at all.

I feel happy. I feel fulfilled. I feel loved, and I can love back. But what makes it all feel worthless sometimes is the fact that I can't tell the world about it. Not even you.

I see you and Flowingstar rejoice in your mating. I see her eyes sparkle with emotion whenever you come near her, and she doesn't hide it. Everyone knows the depth of your adoration for each other. Everyone can see how happy your kits make you.

I see it all, and I want it.

And I know Snowfeather wants it.

But for the longest time, we've had to hide everything. We had to hide her pregnancy, and the fact that she is Swansong's mother.

You were happy when I became a father, but I don't know if you understood why I had to keep her mother a secret, even from you. I swear, Snowfeather was the only secret I ever kept from you.

Everything else I did tell you. Please, forgive me.

To Swansong

I know you're angry and hurt. I know you deserved to know the truth. There were times I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't risk you hating her. I was a coward, too afraid of losing you, my precious daughter.

You never knew Snowfeather was your mother until it was too late. You never knew just how much you meant to her and how letting you go was the most painful thing she had ever done.

What you do know is how much I love you. How proud I am of you. How happy I am that I got to be your father. I want you to love, and be loved. I want you to share your happiness with your clanmates.

They way I never could.

[PickeBicke]

T^T Leopardheart! Poor Owltalon cried many manly tears as well reading this Beautiful.

[Whitestream]

Casually sobbing in the library before school.... THIS IS WHAT YOU'VE REDUCED ME TOO, MR. FUNADVICE.

Leopardheart's laments made me so sad! Why, oh why did they have to die? BAD SPARKTAIL, BAD. >_<

[Aeria Gloris]

Prompt!: Never let me go.

YOU'RE WELCOME, WHITE. =u=

[PickeBicke]

Here's a prompt from me, since I'm bored as heck at work and I think I need to waste another what, hour and a half? Enjoy!

"Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep." - by Fran Lebowitz

[Aeria Gloris]

Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep.

Yeah, I'm sure that's a nice sentiment for the "1000 Famous Quotes" websites, or something a motivational speaker pulled out of thin air. Well let me ask you this. Does life stop when a 29-year-old man goes into a coma after being in a hit-and-run when he was on his way home from the pharmacy?

Life didn't stop. What kind of carp is that? It never stops! It keeps going and it can leave you behind when you're not even expecting it!

Everything ended when that blue Ford ran the red light. In those seconds, from when I was hit to when I hit the ground, I had a girlfriend. I had a thirteen-month-old son who was learning how to say 'Daddy.'

I woke up two years ago. I'm 34. It's hard to remember that I'm over thirty sometimes, but I'm getting better at remembering.

No, my family's not with me. My boy probably doesn't remember me because a year into my vegetative state, my girlfriend decided to move on and gave me up for dead, taking our son with her. Last I knew they're living in Oregon.

I'm seeing a psychiatrist now, trying to work up the courage to get up and get on with this so-called "life" that left me stranded. It's not my life. Sometimes I think this is a dream, and that the only way to wake up is to do something traumatic. I might walk into traffic, or jump into the sea, or fall into a pit. Next thing I know I'll be in bed, and I'll get up so I can check on my sleeping boy. Everything will be back to normal, and I know it will be my life.

My doctor told me to write all of these thoughts and doubts down. In a few hours I have a session with him, all so he can remind me that this is my life.

--

Yeah, I have a tendency to start some tales with males who've been screwed over by their lovers.

Prompt: I have a demon inside of me.

[Whitestream]

This one’s sort a follow up the first prompt response I did =P

I feel my body begin to fall.
It isn’t what I thought it would be, there’s none of the blinding terror and wrenching of the stomach that I prepared for, expected, counted on. It’s actually sort of pleasant; the winds push up against me, sending my clothes flapping out behind me like wings. I feel like I could fly, just launch out from this precipice and take off, soaring above the filth and the pain of the human world. I dream of escaping, of flying far away from everything I hate.

I can almost see him waiting at the bottom for me, I imagine that he’s smiling up at me.

I’m dizzy, lightheaded and everything swims in my vision as the powerful winds burn my eyes but I will not close them, I won’t back away from this. It was my last choice and I am prepared to see it through to the end.

***

I wake up screaming, not in pain or fear like my mother will inevitably believe but in joy. I miss my dreaming world; in that world I am free of responsibility, of pain or grief. I am free to do as I please and I do, throwing myself night after night from the top of the school building but night after night I wake up before I hit the ground.

I have read that some people think your body stops functioning if you die in a dream. I want to test the theory.

I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling and I want to scream again but not from the joy of near death – no, this time I want to scream from the bitter anger of being alive. His face is imprinted in my mind and won’t ever leave it, I can’t forget that face, I refuse to forget that face, nothing else matters to me anymore.

It has been months since the funeral, months since we lost him. I stood at the funeral with the other people he was acquainted with and watched as his parents mourned, his mother screaming and launching herself at the coffin only to be caught by his father, tears streaking down his face. I remember staring at them and feeling nothing but a burning hatred. This was their doing, all their doing.

I didn’t cry there, I wouldn’t let them see it, they didn’t get my tears. I didn’t go back to the reception, I just stayed at the grave and watched as they covered him in dirt, a bitter irony I felt that he had been slammed with all the dirt of the world in life and now in death would never be free of it. I felt sick.

He had wanted to be cremated but no matter how I pleaded, screamed and begged no-one paid me any heed, no, his wished didn’t matter anymore, if they ever even had.

I sat there for hours after they finished, the sun began to set and a chill crept into my body one which had failed to go away since. I cried then, in the gathering darkness, the cold biting at my cheeks as they were stained with my tears. That is the only place I’ll cry now, alone by his grave. I talk to him, though I don’t believe he can hear me. I don’t believe in God anymore.

Now I’m lying in my bed staring at the odd patterns of stains on the ceiling. I can hear my mother bustling about in the laundry next to me bed room, down the hall my brother shouts something to my father and receives a curt reply but I know in my heart that I’m alone.

Wearily I get up, pulling on my clothes and painting a smile across my face; it’s time to face the world. I don’t want my parents to worry about me, I don’t want anyone to worry about me, I don’t deserve that. I retreat down the hall from my room to the kitchen, breakfast is waiting for me, bacon and sausages. I eat it but it’s tasteless on my tongue, I smile at my mother as she walks in and tell her how great it was.

Then I go out.

It’s been over a weeks since I last went to the cemetery and it’s about time I went again. I don’t take flowers, I only take me, it was enough for him when he was alive so it’s enough for him now. The wind bites at me, I’m not wearing a jacket and I can feel the goose bumps rising on my skin. I used to hate the cold, now I welcome it, I don’t know why, Mr Whitefield thinks it’s because it’s proof that I’m alive, that’s a joke. The pain is enough to tell me that.

“Jake?”

I always start by calling his name, one day, I pray that he’ll answer me. I sit down and begin to talk, prattling on about nothing, I’m sure in life he would have hit me for it. I talk for hours, ignoring the ache in my muscles and the light drizzle which has begun. I’m not ready to let go of him yet.

“Johan?”

The voice makes me cringe, Mr Whitefield, he knows when I come to the cemetery, he knows my routine and he seems to always intercept me. I hate him. Before he died I came to Whitefield and begged him for help, told him Jake seemed different, cheerier, he told me that was a good thing. I knew better; people always get happier once they’ve made the choice to end themselves. That they seem worse is a myth, not if it really is depression.

I don’t answer him and he settles at my side. I don’t want him here, he doesn’t deserve to be here, this is my place, the only place I have left and he can’t have it. He was at the hospital when they pulled the plug on Jake and I hated him more than anything then, he has no rights left. Not after all that he didn’t do.

“How is he today, Johan?”

He always overuses my name, but I’ve notice that he never uses Jake’s. If nothing else I appreciate this, I don’t think I could deal with him saying that name, it’s one of those rights he lost. I shrug and look over at the marble stone, something hit it a few weeks ago and already it’s chipped, I’m displeased but can’t really do anything about it. Pain tearing through me I run my finger across the golden letters, tracing his name with my finger.

“Dead.”

I respond finally, ignoring the arm which slings around my shoulders, squeezing gently. I know that he saved me, I understand that. He stopped me from killing two young men at school who taunted me about Jake’s death, I would have killed them, I didn’t care about their lives. They had all but given Jake the pills and I wouldn’t forgive it, not ever, they deserved to die.

They still do but now I can’t touch them, Whitefield is always watching me. I think he feels guilty, wants to protect me from what Jake went through. He should feel guilty, he should hate himself for the rest of his life. I don’t want his help or his protection, I don’t need it.

“Does he ever respond, Johan?”

His voice is gentle now and it infuriates me, I want to turn and hit him. I resist, forcing myself to stay still, it wouldn’t be right to start a fight on Jake’s grave.

Instead I turn to a bouquet of lilies left on the grave by his mother, staring at them with complete loathing. They aren’t a sign of grief, a present to the dead, they’re a selfish whim of a filthy, selfish woman and they sully his grave. Furious, I snatch them away and pull at them, satisfaction burning spitefully in my heart as they come to pieces in my hands, I throw them aside. He’s watching me, I can feel his gaze burning me, but I won’t respond to it.

He judges me but I won’t bow to it, I am not weak and I will not fall victim to my grief. I will live on even if I desperately want to give in because I have to, because Jake left me no option, he’s gone so I have to stay here.

I hate it.

“Johan…”

“Just go.”

I snap before he can launch into one of his sympathetic rants about not going out of my way to hurt Jake’s family, honestly I don’t care. They mean nothing to me, they never have. He rises with a sigh and leaves in silence, he knows that I know where to find him if I ‘need him’. I never have.

I return to tracing the words on the headstone, dull grief throbbing in my chest as I trace the quote at the bottom.

Never Let Me Go.

Don’t worry, Baby, I couldn’t if I wanted to.

[Aeria Gloris]

.......... DB...........*blubbers like a walrus* Johaaaannn!!! GOD, the dream sequence captures the meaning so amazingly!

[Evangelion]

Phrase! :D

Forgive me for everything.

[Whitestream]

Oh you guys are just making it easy for me to write angst with these prompts xD
So since I can’t seem to get rid of Jake and Johan’s story from my brain here’s the next bit, well really it’s the first bit, finally from Jake’s perspective, seeing as he you know started all this carp off, but seriously writing such a numb character is hardd o__o
Just note this one’s a lot darker, I’m warning for uses of words like ‘effing’ (once) and ‘faggot’ repeated a couple of times.
You know what guys? I feel like this ends this. It’s been put to rest in my heart now.


Remember back to when you were a child, the breeze ruffling your clothes making them brush softly against your skin, mud streaked across your face, caking your legs and sticking inexplicably beneath your nails, your hair – so clean and well groomed when you left the house – now tangled with twigs and leaves and some sort of gunk you can’t even identify. Do you remember it?

I can and it makes my heart ache every time I do. Childhood was perfect, before any of my friends began to develop interest in girls, before we ever heard of the term ‘straight’ used in any other way than when our teachers made us rule lines. Before we learned of ‘gay’ and how it made people different, alien, wrong. When I was a child I did occasionally hear my father say ‘faggot’ when provoked but I never paid it any heed.

I pay it plenty of heed now. My head hurts, and my skin feels cold. I can’t remember how long I’ve been sitting here, alone on the roof of the bank my father works at. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I fled here. The sky is getting darker now, the building will close soon and I have to get home before Dad realises I’m here. He’ll want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it.

I stand, my body aches in protest, the scrapes on my knees are bleeding again and the bruises at my hip throb as I take step by painful step towards the ladder, climbing down at a snail pace, unable to manage anything more.

Everything is hurting as I begin the careful walk home, plastering my smile on my face and laughing with people as I encounter them on the street, everything’s okay, I say with my smile, nothing can touch me. I’m Jake Effing Abram. The truth is though, nothing’s alright and it never will be alright, it will never, ever be alright again because it’s all going to be over soon.

My father once told me that every man has his price, his limit, his breaking point and I know that I’m long past mine. It has been a long time now since I bothered to reach out to anyone, bothered to seek help from the people who had promised to be there for me.

I can hear the taunts now as I head for home;

”Faggot.” DeLacey snarls.

“Can the pretty Queen dance?” Reiner asks and I can see his ugly sneer in my mind.

Don’t worry, I tell them in my mind, the pretty little Queen will be gone by tomorrow. I know this; it has to be tonight, tomorrow I’ll see Johan and all this resolve I’ve worked so hard to build up will come crashing back down. How can I hurt him like this?

I enter my house, my mother isn’t home. I knew she wouldn’t be. She never is. I cross unhindered to my room, entering silently and carefully. I’ve done this thousands of times before but this time it’s different. This is the last. I cross to my closet, pulling out the neatly folded clothes from where I stashed in the back last week, they’re my nice clothes; a white dress shirt and simple pinstripe grey vest. I don’t have any dress shows or pants so I wear my nicest jeans and my converse, I’m not going to die without my cons.

Die the reality really hits me then. This is the last thing I will ever do and as I cross numbly to my desk, pulling over my school pen and my journal to write out my goodbyes I realise that this will be the last thing I ever write. It has to count. It has to mean something… something important. It has to mean me.

I don’t know how many times I draft the letter, maybe four or five times before I’m satisfied. I look down and read the first line, that was the hardest of all, how does one start the letter of their life?

Once bitten, twice shy.

I start with an accusation because it’s this which I want to express the most. I want them to remember, forever if they have too, that I came to them for help. I want them to feel it when they read the letter, when they find my body. It’s a horrible, sadistic thing to do, but I can’t leave it out, no matter how torn I am to do so. This is the only part of the letter which I address to my parents. The only part I want them to know. The rest is for him and only him.

Johan, it reads and there are blotches on the page causing the ink to run, my writing here is less legible, my hand shook too hard when I was writing it. I never had a way with words, I was never very eloquent and here I just couldn’t bring myself to write what it was I really wanted to say. I simply couldn’t find the words to express it.

I love you, forever. Nothing changes that, not them, not us not even this. That’s all I write, that’s all I really can write.

One line, one line is all I can leave for the only part of my life which made the pain less. One line for the only light in an eternity of dark. He deserves more than one line. He deserves better than me.

Trembling I stand, and in a final flash of inspiration I grab my iPod, selecting a song and setting it to repeat and then I cross to my bed, sitting on the edge, feeling the familiar dip for the last time and then, I reach into the drawer beside my desk and grab both my phone and a small canister full of the pills my mother takes for sleeping. I don’t know how many will do it so I down them all.

Softly the music plays in the back ground and as I lay back, my phone clasped between me hands with its little wallpaper of a tall, dark haired young man grinning cockily, holding something out to the skinny, fair haired teen behind the camera. I hold my phone so I can send one final message.

hold on to me love
you know i can't stay long
all i wanted to say was i love you and i'm not afraid
can you hear me?
can you feel me in your arms?

I’m screaming now, my hands clutching fiercely at my gut, tears streaming down my cheeks. I’d heard that overdosing was painful but this is nothing like what I imagined. Inside me my stomach churns, my intestines twisting savagely, trying desperately to reject the poison I’ve ingested and I just keep screaming as the pain overwhelms me, I can feel it coming. My end.

closing your eyes to disappear
you pray your dreams will leave you here
but still you wake and know the truth
no one's there

On October Seventeenth 2010, the life of one young man effectively ended. His father came home, finding his son’s body and hour after his return. The boy was alive but barely, he was comatose, to have the life support cute off on the Twenty-Fifth of January 2011.

On October Seventeenth 2010, Johan Kaali received a text message containing four simple words.

FORGIVE ME FOR EVERYTHING.

On October Seventeenth 2010, the lives of Johan Kaali, Jacob Abram, Larissa Abram and Gordon Devereux changed forever.