story on tumblr :3

@wednesdai @goddessofgiggles @loshinoshinashitroid @kezzster @shiiloveswaffles @thevoicesilencedxxx
 
[c]
 
It started snowing that afternoon. I went down to the lobby to the little bookstore and bought several novels for fifty percent off. One of them, a book I was dying to read, was Dance Dance Dance by Haruki Murakami, a native of Japan. Iso recommended it to me.
 
There was a cute, slender girl behind the counter of the hotel. She had glasses and big almond eyes. I walked up to her.
 
“Hello.”
 
“How can I help you, sir?”
 
“Oh, you’re the girl from the room service call!” I was so pleased. I remembered the click and dead tone on the phone last night when she hung up on me.
 
She didn’t seem so enthused. “You’re Mr. Room 2258.” Then she turned to walk away.
 
“Wait!” I called after her. She pivoted to look at me and hissed, “No personal talk during work time!” And then she strutted away. I followed her to the other end of the counter, where she was scribbling furiously on a note pad. When I reached her, she ripped the page out of the pad and folded it, stuffing it in my hand before walking back to her station by the hotel phone.
 
I looked down at the paper. Even though she had done it swiftly, the folds were perfect and crisp, with the edges only very slightly askew. It reminded me of Iso, back home. He’d been having a hard time adjusting to not doing any kind of drugs.
 
How Shrooms Work In A Nutshell:
 
Shrooms contain a chemical called psilocybin, which is a psychedelic. It’s basically a toxic chemical that poisons your brain into seeing distortions. You also have inner distortions....
“Users who are in a poor mental state or a highly structured environment are more likely to have a bad trip, which is when you feel paranoid, anxious, nervous or even terrified instead of euphoric. The only way to get over a bad trip is to wait it out. New users are often advised to have an experienced friend with them to guide them through the experience.
Taking mushrooms can cause dizziness, nausea and other stomach problems, muscle weakness, loss of appetite and numbness. These symptoms subside as the trip comes to an end. Some mushroom users smoke marijuana to combat the nausea.
Mushrooms aren't considered to be addictive, but tolerance builds up very quickly -- taking mushrooms two days in a row often results in a less intense experience the second day, for example. (http://science.howstuffworks.com/magic-mushroom7.htm)”
 
I unfolded the paper and discovered that she had written her hours down. I could call when she was closing.
I took a nap after putting my dishes in the hall, and woke up at 4 in the afternoon.
The afternoon brought golden sunlight all over Tokyo, glinting off concrete walls and windows. The scattered clouds were dense and gray looking, but they were long off.
I called room service.
 
“Room Service?” It was the same girl.
 
“Good morning!” I said cheerfully.
 
“Hello, Mr. Room 2258.” She said resignedly. I was pleased she knew my voice.
 
“Can I order?”
 
“Sure.”
 
“I’ll take a ham sandwich on whole wheat with provolone and lettuce, mayonnaise and Dijon mustard, and several small boxes of Lucky Charms, and a liter bottle of Coke.”
 
“Is that it, sir?”
 
“Is there a bar in the hotel?”
 
“Yes, sir.”
 
“Will you meet me there after you get off tonight?”
 
“No personal calls!”
 
“I’m asking it as a question about the hotel!”
 
“Very well then, sir.”
 
“See you at 10.”
 
-click-
-dead tone-

I woke up at 4:30 in the morning. The glass wall looked upon a foggy Tokyo cityscape. Airplanes flying in and out waved hello with their lights. I reached over and plucked the room phone from the receiver.
DIAL TWO-ONE-ONE FOR ROOM SERVICE
 
-dial tone-
-two tone-
-one tone-
-one tone-
-rrrrring-
 
“Room Service.” A polite girl’s voice came over the phone.
 
“Uh. Hi. Can I get three fried eggs over-easy on top of three pieces of toast, whole grain with butter? And a glass of orange juice, please.” My voice was groggy and thick.
 
“May I have a room number, sir?” She asked.
 
“Uh....” I looked all over the room, my eyes finally landing on my room key-card. “Two-two-five-eight.”
 
“It will be there in 10 minutes, sir.”
 
“Oh and a strawberry yogurt and some grapes.”
 
“Anything else, sir?”
 
“What’s your name?”
 
-receiver click-
-dead tone-
 
I set the phone back down and lay back on my pillow. My stomach felt queasy and upset, partially from hunger and partially from the fact that I was jetlagged as all helll and also adjusting to a new elevation. I dozed in my nest of blankets until room service knocked.
 
I rolled myself onto the floor and over to the door, using the knob to pull me up. When I opened it, though, it wasn’t room service.
Instead, it was a short, wide woman with unsettlingly pristine gray curls and a purple maid’s uniform. She was holding a basket.
 
“What the fuuck do you want?”
 
“Watch your tongue, boy. You leave hanger outside door, but no laundry.”
 
I glanced at the doorknob, where that stupid wire hanger still hung. The label had shifted and I could see now that it was indeed a label, but not worn off. In fact, this label was completely, fully functional and it read, in neat block letters,
 
LAUNDRY SERVICE.
 
“Ahah!” I laughed out loud. The maid gave me a startled look.
 
“No, see, I put that there by mistake. It was just in my way.” I tried to explain. The woman looked at me with doubt and confusion, and I realized that she probably had no idea what I was talking about. She spoke Japanese. I wondered briefly how she had known the words to reprimand my cursing.
 
I weighed my options and decided to agree and leave my clothes out for her to collect. After she was on her way with yesterday’s t-shirt in her basket, my room service guy showed up and handed me the platter and the bill. I paid and tipped him before closing the door, my stomach more upset than before. I set down my food on the table in front of the glass wall and sat in one of the accompanying chairs. I felt the contents of my stomach revolting, burning, jumping and twisting. I leaned my head back, and so slowly that I didn’t realize at first, I was tipping backwards. My back and the chair back hit the floor instantaneously, with a loud echoing clatter on the tile. I had held my head up to avoid damage. I laid on the floor for a while with my eyes closed. A helicopter flew by. Three people walked down the hallway.
 
When I opened my eyes, I saw my bag of illicit things poking out of my suitcase.
 
---dingdingding we have a winner---
 
I sat up at the table with my tray of food, a remote for the flat screen, and my kit: pipe, weed, lighter, and sploof.
 
Sploof, n.
A container, usually a bottle or tube, with ventilation in the bottom and a mouthpiece at the top. Stuffed with drier sheets, Kleenex sprayed with Febreze or Axe maybe, and very complexly designed for prime filtering. Used for the expulsion of smoke from the mouth into the item, which rids the smoke of all odors and replaces them with a pleasant smell, optimally. Usually wrapped in fabric (i.e. socks, scarves, etc.).
 
I packed the bowl and lit up, watching the gray fog and clouds descend upon the city; nestle between skyscrapers, spread like fingers over windows and walls, obscure cars until they were merely blobs of shadow. I blew out through the sploof, watching the smoke twist and furl back out, smelling like fresh daisies or some shiit.
 
As I waited for the weed to take effect on my nausea, I flicked through channels on the television. Pristine pictures of people sculpted to perfection doing news reports assaulted me. I changed it to a baseball game and turned it down, instead plugging my phone into the stereo and playing some Pillows, which I thought was appropriate.
 
I sat and smoked and alternately watched the city outside, the silent game, and my own room. The shadows slowly shifted as the sun burned through some of the fog. Somebody won the game.
 
Somebody lost.
 
@goddessofgiggles @thevoicesilencedxxx @wednesdai @loshinoshinashitroid @shiiloveswaffles @kezzster

what

I made this on my iPhone :3 the app is pretty good quality.

There was a mouse in my room.
It was small, and white, with little beady red eyes and creepy toes.
There was this crack in the wall, in the corner, where the molding had been installed years after the original construction of the house and had therefore been smashed nonplussedly into the drywall. Very unpleasant. Quite the eyesore.
Anyways, I’d been staring at this mouse in the crack in my wall for the better part of an hour.
It was a Tuesday, I think.
I was at Mason’s.
 
“Mason.” I entered the kitchen to see my companion leaning his forehead against the cupboard. A soft rain was pattering on the floor-to-ceiling window facing the street below. They’d turned on the streetlights. The sky was a dull, clear, quiet gray. It barely rippled and waved in the air currents. Trees shivered and swayed but held their leaves.
The distinct sound of a coffee cup being set down brought me back. Mason had moved to the table in the next room with all the mismatched chairs. We rarely spent time there anymore.
 
“Mason.” I repeated.
 
Mason sat very meticulously in his preferred red velvet armchair. His face angled toward the table, he beckoned me over with two fingers.
A car drove by. Upstairs, one of the girls was taking a shower. The water in the pipes was a harmonious addition to the quickly growing squall outside. The tones and rhythms in the water combined and morphed into something completely new.
Mason cleared his throat. I padded across the carpet and took a seat in the hard yellow egg chair opposite him. After realizing I would have to adjust my legs so many times per minute to stay comfortable, I swapped it out for a regular wooden dining chair. Then he spoke.
 
“Mr. Lexos, it has come to my attention that you haven’t been working any cases for the past few months.”
 
My heart stuttered to a halt at the high, girlish voice that echoed from beneath Mason’s face. I stood abruptly, my thighs hitting the table. It bumped the person across from me, which turned out to be......
 
Kit. Dressed like Mason.
What the f.uck.
 
“What are you doing here, Kit?” I coughed several times, my voice coarse.
 
“What do you think I’m doing here, moronn? I’m here to give you a case.”
 
+++
 
The light outside threw yellow bars onto my bedroom floor through the battered shades. Rain was still falling lightly, just enough to make a little white noise.
Truly pleasant.
 
In my hand, the manila folder was thick and smooth. Its heft was unusual, given my current instructions.
 
“Find this guy, get this suitcase, and then come back for more instructions?” I had repeated to Kit in the dining room earlier. She had nodded eagerly. Her orange hair bounced along. She’d held the manila to her chest like her most-favorite childhood toy before she’d given it to me.
 
For now, this was only partially my case. Kit was working a lot in the background area, and I was basically her field pawn. Oh joy.
 
I was going to fly to Barcelona the next day. I had packed all my things after dinner, and now, too wired to fall asleep, I was starting the case. I had taken out a sub-folder from within the main one (Yes, subfolders. The file was f.ucking huge.) and spread out all of the pictures it contained on my floor. I kept the lights off, letting the light outside shine on the black and white prints arranged before me. I dangled my fingers into my shirt pocket, retrieving a carefully rolled join.t and a lighter.
When I opened the window so the smoke would have a place to go, a cool gust of rich, wet air blew my face. It wasn’t freezing, but rather relieving in the stifling heat of the townhouse.
 
I lit the join.t and blew a puff of smoke out the window before turning to look at the pictures on the floor.
Somewhere below me, maybe in the kitchen, somebody had turned a radio on to an old slow jazz classics station. Piano meandered through the rain sounds, saxophone slid with the thunder.
 
All of the pictures were of a man I needed to meet, an older gentlemen named Ricardo with hair like Fabio’s but grey. He was a heavy cigar smoker, he always wore a full suit to work as host at the cigar lounge and dancehall on the corner of his street, and he absolutely hated strawberries. Like, with the burning passion one usually reserves for childhood bullies and the soggy mushrooms your grandma makes you eat whenever you’re over. I don’t know why they tell us these things, I think it’s just to scare you because they have so much knowledge.
So anyways, this guy apparently had a package that was due to be delivered to a mo.b boss at 6 tomorrow night, and I had to pose as the mo.b guy picking up the package and then take it with me on an immediate flight to Tokyo to await further instructions. Just a pawn.
 
For lack of anything better to do, I studied his face from about 10 until about 2, until his face was as familiar to me as my own, and then I went downstairs for tea. Sometime while I’d been killing time, whoever had been listening to the radio had turned it off and gone to bed, but I turned it back on.
 
It was still raining consistently and heavily, with the occasional clap of thunder. The kitchen was cool and had a beam of yellow light pouring in the enormous window from the streetlight outside. As I waited for my tea water to heat, I stood and stared at the streaky rivers on the window, midnight blue and gold and black and grey. I let my eyes unfocus, and it wasn’t until the teapot started whistling that I realized something was written on the window, smeared into the condensation.
 
Completely deaf to the whistle of the electric teapot (which eventually went quiet by itself), I strode over to the window and dropped to my knees so my eyes were level with the message. It said, simply,
 
p i n k r i b b o n .
 
To say it was cryptic would be an understatement. So I’ll just let you imagine the adrenaline that was pumping behind my ears, the dryness of my mouth, the clamminess of my hands and feet. It was a nervewrackingly neutral message, connotation wise. And without anything else, it meant nothing.
 
Shaken, I finished preparing my tea, turned the radio off with a click, and headed back upstairs. On the landing, I noticed a bar of light under Mason’s room door. I knocked softly with my knuckles.
 
“Come in,” was his muffled reply.
 
He was slumped in his office chair at his desk, the computer screen stark and bright behind him, but aimed at the ceiling. All the lights were on. On his bed, Becca lay asleep on her stomach in a skimpy nightgown that barely covered her as.s. I enjoyed the view for a while before moving further into the room. Mason turned to look at me and smiled somewhat sadly.
 
“So what, you’re leaving us?” He said. He didn’t bother to keep his voice down for Becca.
 
“Not permanently, man. I have a case. I have a goal.....” I trailed off. And it rained and rained and rained, and we didn’t say anything for a while.
 
“What are you going to do while I’m gone?” I prompted after ample silence where we both just listened to the rain.
 
“I dunno man. I’ll probably get a different job, move us to a smaller place that’s easier to afford if I can. I love this house a lot, but it’s a bi,tch to pay for....” Mason said. True, none of the residents of the townhouse had very high paying jobs, except for Mason. But with Elliott gone too, it still wasn’t enough.
 
“Why do you want to get a new job?”
 
“You think I want to be a cop anymore?” He let out a sharp laugh. Becca rolled over, still asleep.
 
“After the way they treated Elliott? Are you kidding? There’s no justice left in this world, mate. And I don’t want to be part of that corrupt system any longer.”
 
A clap of thunder punctuated that sentence. It hung in the air like a wet towel.
 
“I get that.” I said, patting his shoulder. “I’ll call when I’m free to get caught up while I’m away.”
 
I was about to leave when I remembered the message from downstairs. Maybe it would mean something to Mason.
 
“Hey...” I said.
 
“Mm.”
 
“Pink ribbon.”
 
“What?”
 
“Pink ribbon.”
 
“No, I heard you mate. I mean, why did you say ‘pink ribbon?’”
 
“Does it mean anything to you?”
 
He paused for a while, then said, “Are you fuckiing insane? Why would something as obscure as a phrase like ‘pink ribbon’ mean something to me?”
 
“I dunno.”
 
I made my way back to the door and was almost back into the hallway when Mason grabbed my wrist. I turned to look at him.
 
“You know, I’m gonna be all alone here... With Becca and Namie, I mean. I don’t have any bros left. At least when I l-lost Elliott I had you...” He paused and sniffed, then stood up.
 
We hugged and he gave out a little dry sob before saying goodnight and pushing me hastily out the door. In the hallway, I thought for a minute about what had just happened. I felt really bad about leaving Mason alone, but the truth was that I had fallen into an unhealthy pattern of not accomplishing anything at all, and I had to step it up and take control of my life. It would be a nice change.
 
The next morning (it was still raining) I said goodbye to Mason and Becca at 6 (Namie had spent the night at her new boyfriend’s place) before loading my suitcase into the bug and heading off for London International Airport. I had called Isosceles the night before to tell him I had a case and that he would have to come up with the next person coming into Winchester to get the bug from the airport parking lot and take it back to Whammy’s.
 
The drive was monotonous and went by quickly. I listened to a tape I’d found in the trunk of some Miles Davis songs. The old bug wipers barely kept up with the steady flow of water over the windshield.
I made it to the airport with an hour to go before my flight.
 
At Customs, Whammy’s kids have a different routine than the average passenger. We have to put all our various shiit, illegal, deadly, whatever, into a duffle bag to take as a carry-on (you don’t want that stuff falling into the wrong hands). You ship any necessary ammunition to an ally in your destination. You talk to the Customs Head, show them the badge, etc. And then you get to bring a bag of illegal substances, firearms, knives, and whatever else you want to bring (they’re not allowed to search our bags) onto an international flight. And that’s Customs for Whammys.
 
The flight was painless, no screaming babies or seat-kickers. Flying Economy class has long been a choice of mine but maybe I ought to start doing things a little more streamlined.
In Barcelona, my limo driver held a sign that said
 
N U C L E A R L E X U S
 
I snorted. Radioactive car my as.s.
 
The hotel I was dropped at was beautiful, all peach marble and white roses. I freshened up in my room, arranged my jacket with some gadgets, and set out. I got keys to a rental car at the front desk. It was four in the afternoon.
 
I drove down to the neighborhood adjacent to the downtown commercial district (where my hotel was). The houses there were big and old and beautiful, but mixed in were ugly, ramshackle apartment complexes from the 70s and harsh neon gas stations.
 
On a sheet of paper in the file had been this address:
 
3818 Calle Baila
 
with instructions on how to get there. I followed them slowly and carelessly at the same time, waitingwaitingwaiting. Then I pulled into the driveway at 20 to 6. My headlights cast over a dark figure on the porch. This was cutting things very close, as the real mob guy could turn up at any time.
 
I slammed the door, walked up to Ricardo, and stared him up and down. I thought it would give the appearance of a mob guy. I don’t know.
 
He smiled and held up a suitcase. It was sleek and metal. I grasped it and took it from him. The guy was pleasant enough. I got back in the car and pulled out. My heart was beating fast. I sped away back to the hotel to collect my things and then back to the airport. With the suitcase an added component to my duffle bag, it was a lot heavier to lug to my Tokyo flight leaving in six minutes.
 
When I flopped down in my seat, duffle bag in my lap, I accidentally elbowed the girl sitting next to me. She was pretty, with long brown hair and a long, slender frame. I had hit her in the shoulder and apologized profusely. We were the only two in our row, being first class this time (I’d switched at the last minute). Eventually I offered to buy her a drink, which she accepted, although we were both underage. My alias ID says I’m 25.
 
I bought us a bottle of champagne
and we turned the long flight
into a classy dinner party.
With some kissing.
And some other...
things.
And
a flight
attendant who
apparently didn’t like
PDA on the aircraft so we had to stop.
 
In Tokyo we parted ways, one-time thingers. I didn’t even know her name.
I took a taxi to the hotel and checked in without any problems. It was fancy and futuristic, but I didn’t feel like exploring, I was exhausted from traveling, so I just checked in and went up to my room on the 22nd floor.
 
The room had a wall of glass looking out at the lights of Tokyo. There was a waterfall on the bathtub. And a flat-screen across from the bed. I took a long, hot shower. At some point during the day my concealed arm knife had slipped down in its holster, rubbing against my skin. The chafing was incredible. My feet were sore and red from walking in my ridiculously flat Converse all day.
 
When I washed my hair,
A bit of the red pigmentation from my hair dye ran in the water.
 
++++
that’s the first part of his adventure.

making sets at school like a boss

so this is a crap set and for that i am sorry
semester coming to a close
portfolio reviews are soon x___x
i'm mainly writing this to see if i can get this out in words
 
c•c•c•c
 
So life, it's kind of at a standstill.
Felt like this for a while.
 
Sure, I've been going out, doing things.
I've read magazines, I've danced with girls, hell, I've taken a couple back to Mason's.
 
I have a feeling that I'm going to be pushed away from Whammy's. I've become useless. And the weird thing is, I'm okay with it.
 
I'm okay with not being needed. I'm having fun, existing. I don't think I've really began to live yet.
 
This morning was gray and cold, with a vicious bite in the air. My breath clouded in front of me as I closed the house door behind me and skipped down the steps to the bug. I started to pat my pockets for my keys, but stopped.
 
The air was crisp, refreshing. I didn't need to take the car. I could walk to the coffee shop and get a coffee and read a book and come back. It wasn't like I needed to go anywhere else.
 
I started up the sidewalk towards the coffee shop several blocks away, shoving my hands into my pockets and scrunching down into my scarf. Around me, there were barely any signs of life. Every now and then a car would pass, or somebody would open their curtains, come out for their newspaper, walk their scruffy little dog wearing a stupid sweater.
 
Soon I started to regret not taking the bug. My fingers itched with cold, and my breath was fogging up my classes.
 
I was pulling my scarf up when I collided with something strong and small. Footings were lost, air was grasped at, and next thing I knew I was flat on my ass on a frozen cold sidewalk with a large ball of warm red coat and long dark hair cradled in my lap.
 
She looked up as I tried to utter my apologies, and I found myself looking in the most amazing brown doe eyes. She was wearing a red puffy coat with a polka dot dress on underneath.
 
Ohshitsocute
 
"Hi, I'm Cole."
 
"Aliyah."
 
"Sorry for knocking you over."
 
"It's okay."
 
"So.. come here often?"
 
"Please let me get up."
 
I helped her up and scrambled to my feet, and as I opened my mouth to talk to her, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
 
tobecontinued

@goddessofgiggles @thevoicesilencedxxx @shiiloveswaffles @loshinoshinashitroid
 
“How’s he doing?” I asked Mason. He placed the phone on the table and sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose. Elliot had just called from the Pen. We didn’t know when his trial would be, so for now he was stuck in a holding cell indefinitely.
“He’s alright. First time he’s been sober for more than two consecutive days in a while....” he trailed off.
“Rude awakening,” I chuckled humorlessly. We sat in the kitchen with the tungsten light immersing us in a pool of gold. It was about dinnertime.
Mason said nothing for a minute, just fidgeted. Then he said, “I don’t feel right, not being there too. I mean.... fuckk man. Why am I not there too?!” He slammed his fist on the table.
At the noise, a blue-haired boy appeared at the door to the kitchenette. “What’s the fuss?” Iso said to no one in particular. Then he made his way to the fridge and began pulling everything out. The counters were soon entirely covered with food items. Iso pulled the shelves from the fridge out and placed them carefully on the floor.
 
Then he climbed into the fuckking refrigerator and closed the door.
 
Mason and I had been watching our friend the entire time. Without a hint of change in emotion, Mason pushed away from the table and picked a red bell pepper off the counter before leaving. I sat alone in the darkening kitchen, staring at the refrigerator door. Every now and then the thing would shake as Iso readjusted himself inside.
What was I doing? I needed a case. I needed somebody to tell me to get a move on.
What were we doing? Sitting holed up in this dark house, keeping ourselves on the edge of reality so the full force of living didn’t crush us.
 
--
 
Namie, Becca, Mason, Isosceles, and I pulled a mission to the pumpkin patch in front of the main church in town the next afternoon. The air bit at my face and hands, and I burrowed deep into my scarf to avoid the wind. The sky looked like snow. We jostled through the crowd of people with their little kids and elderly folks trying hard not to fall on their asses. Against the gray sky, the main steeple of the church cut an eerie silhouette. How fitting.
In the bug, seating arrangements were... compromised to say the least. Iso sat in the passenger seat, with the three others in the back. This was not well thought out, as Becca and Namie were fighting the entire time.
“Just because he chose me doesn’t give you the right to pick on me,” Becca sniffed.
“Just because you’re a bitchh doesn’t give you the right to torture the poor guy.”
I had to agree with Namie on that. Mason was looking more haggard by the day.
“You’re the bitchh here!”
“How dare you!”
We were at a stoplight. The bug was purring under us. Iso sat motionless next to me, pumpkin cradled in his lap. His pupils were gigantic and he was breathing deeply. Every now and then he’d bring two shaky fingers to his lips, holding a piece of popcorn from the bag I’d made him before we left. He’d rest the piece of popcorn pensively on his bottom lip before slowly ingesting it. I wondered briefly what he saw.
Then things got a bit raucous in the back seat. Becca, being the obnoxious blonde bitchh that she always has been, decided that the best way to win the argument would be to punch Namie in the (enormous) tit. We made it another block and were at another stoplight when Iso snapped.
In two seconds, the pumpkin was rolling on the floor amid staff paper and old soda cans, and Iso was holding a huge black knife aimed at Becca. She gave a stupid squeak and sat back, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the blade. Namie hardly seemed fazed, brushing her bangs out of her face and patting Mason absently on the shoulder. Mason gave a weak smile.
“If you don’t shut the hell up I will stab you right between the eyes, you fuckking bitcch.” Iso growled. I hadn’t heard him say more than a couple words since Elliot left, so even I was taken aback at the outburst. We finally pulled up to the front of the house and everybody departed quickly, except for me. I stayed in my seat, hand on the keys waiting for a sign to tell me what to do next.
I stayed there all night.
 
-------
happy Halloween motherfucckers.