time to relax, love

I am at war with the stars. I used to look at them every night, with all of my soul in my eyes, talking to them because I didn’t know who else to talk to. Music stopped talking to me. Writing stopped talking to me. Life was wrapping its rough and violent hands around me. I looked up, afraid and wishing for comfort. 

Now, that’s all I see when I look up. The misery I had. The way the stars looked down and did nothing else besides give me sad hope. The sad hope took root inside my chest and now I’m afraid I will never feel another fire start inside me.

i’m covered in cute stickers 

i started covering everything that i own in stickers because then those things would become important. no more saving these small papers for something that would never come. my notes, my books, my phone, my car, my laptop, my life. my life needed to become important.

It hadn’t been slow. Or fast. It was just there, the answer she’d wanted for so long. The thing she had been always waiting to hear and to say. 

I love you, and you’re beautiful. 

She’d passed by it everyday, then when realizing that fact, irony was her lover. She went as far as to look at it and frown. Not anymore, finally, the weight that was tied to her mind and happiness was going to erode away. She knew it wouldn’t be that day, when she found her answer, or tomorrow, but she could feel that the negativity she had let follow her around persistently could and would disappear. 

She could and would love herself, and someday, someone could and would love her back. She could be the one that think’s she is beautiful, and would be. 

Someday.

And she, looking into the answer that was her mirror, was determined to make sure it would be soon.

// Slight TW? I talk about death and the aspects/details of death! Do not scroll if you are easily triggered by such subjects! Have a good day!

Hi Tumblr, back for a little stroll. Doubt anyone has seen me on here before, and that's alright! Right now I’m just looking for some ideas or really just suggestions that aren’t mine or my immediate friends! 

I am currently building a world for a story I am writing. I've been putting it together since, well, a little over a year since most of my idea’s started out as little day dreaming snippets. I’ve been making character boards and character shorts for 5 or 4 months now, and written down about the world and such, but that isn’t important for this post!

The story includes ghosts, or ‘spirits’ and ‘the lost ones’ (classic, I know), and have even been writing scenes from their point of views. The ghosts, i mean. In my story, the main protagonists release them and each person has a different skill, so I’m assuming each spirit does as well. Different levels or despair and aggression. How self aware they can be. 

What I’m asking help for is (this is rather sad to ask of strangers but oh well) if you have any details you haven’t seen in a ghost story or in books where there happens to be characters conversing with dead (or undead) people.

 What do you think they always leave out?

What do you think doesn’t get enough representation when it comes to the topic of death? What’s not shown enough in media? 

Diversity is always a big part of my creative process. The only ways for my characters and even the plot to grow is to be exposed to scary or new idea’s and topics. Don’t be afraid to leave a comment (or PM!) if you’re afraid of backlash. 

Zackary’s hands were shaking violently while he continued to stare blankly at the paper, weak and stretched from crumbling it up over and over again. He wanted to tear it up, to scream back at Dax, and run anywhere but here- the oldest gas stop in the city. He currently stood in the bathroom, a single dark room with a toilet in the corner, brimming with filthy liquid. The fluorescent light above the mirror, flickering, as if it too wanted to give up and go out. To make matters worse, the air was heavy with the smell of mold. Zack shook his head, leaning down to scoop up the cold water from the sink, slashing his face with it. He needed to calm down, panicking anymore would probably get the cashier to call the police.  

‘Man up, Z!’ He thought, stomping his foot and looking directly into the eyes of his reflection, ‘You know what got you here and why you need to keep going’. 

He gave the box of red hair dye and electric razor an uneasy side glance, then looked to his beautiful blond shoulder-length locks in the mirror. Groaning, he brushed his hair one last time, as if to apologize. He doubted his hair would forgive him.

 The third bullet point on the paper he had gotten from Dax (the first was to hook up the cash to his mom's bank account and the second was to get far from the old rec center) said to change anything about his appearance he could . He started with throwing away his jacket and stashing his shoes behind a dumpster, in case he needed them again or someone else needed them more than he did. Admittingly, Zack looked like a helpless lanky boy with his jacket on, so after ripping the sleeves off his shirt to show off his toned muscles he looked more threatening than usual, changing his look altogether. He wished it was enough to hide from people who were searching for him.

 He really didn’t want to ruin his hair, he grew it out just to piss his mother off (his car had been taken away for weeks and having nasty hair was his way to rebel back) and became quite used to it, no matter how greasy it looked on most days. 

Though, ‘most days’ seemed to be coming to an end, didn’t it?

Yes, all good things must come to an end, but Zack didn’t regret a single thing. His mother needed whatever money she could get her hands on ever since Harald left, plus Eli would be attending mechanic school, or whatever fancy word he had for it. His smile grew, remembering just how invested his little brother was about getting a real job outside of their small town. The town they grew up in, the town Zachary had come to hate and love. Mixed emotions. 

He huffed a sharp breath, looking back to the razor, its edges shining in the light. It looked like it was trying to be intimidating towards Zack, so with all the spite he had left, he grabbed it and let it buzz buzz away at his hair, the feeling made his spine tingle. He tried not thinking about the truckers who were parked outside, filing their rigs with gas. He tried not thinking about the blaring alarm that went off when he sped away in his car that was stashed in a ditch a mile away from the gas stop.  

One, two, three, more locks of his hair fell to the tile floor, making a frame around his sock-covered feet. 

“No regret…” he silently chanted to himself, biting his lower lip to keep from crying. So what? He was sensitive of his hair, as any self-respecting boy should be. Self respect was a loose term while being used on himself. Especially in the bathrooms dim light.

The next time he came across Dax, he’d make him regret making him cut his hair off. Maybe shave some of his hair off, jokingly but not at the same time. Dax also had a sports car he loved too much, Zack could get away with something there.

Once the first step was finished and most of his hair laid on the floor, he grabbed the bright red box. His first instinct was to throw it, and his second was to stomp it down the toilet behind him, but ‘desperate time calls for desperate measures’. He could practically hear his friends' voices behind him. He turned the box upside down to let the bottle of red dye fall into the dented metal sink, his stomach started churning almost to tell him ‘no, please, your hair was enough’.

He’d agree with his stomach if it wasn’t for the fact he was recognizable by his platinum blond hair, and even though it was cut to be a ‘normal boy haircut’, he needed to change the color. Twisting the cap off the bottle, and dumping a fair amount into his gloved hand, he wasted no time and started kneading the blood color dye into his hair. The smell of bleach consumed the room and he was grateful that at least the horrible smell from the toilet was masked. 

So, after twelve minutes of applying the dye messily and bending over the sink to wash it out  (and a few frustrating punches to the dull grey walls), Zack looked up to the mirror to find a completely new person staring back. His dull green eyes seemed to pop with his new hair color, the color that glowed in the fluorescent light. He inwardly cringed at himself, his split lip and missing tooth making him look like a bum, when really he got it from all the fights he was in to get the money. 

Zackary sighed and nudged his lost hair with his foot, trying to shake the guilt from himself. It was hair- the endgame was what was most important. Zackary knew that, so he took a deep breath and sighed. The newly red-head grabbed the paper that started his horrible day and threw it into the disturbing toilet that was the only witness to his transformation. 

“Our secret?” Zackary directed his tease at the stained porcelain bowl, flinching as it didn’t answer. 

Deciding the fumes had finally gone to his head, he threw his pack over his shoulder and looked at the stranger in the mirror's uneven reflection one last time. It was fitting, the perfect hello. The one he deserved. Zackary let out one final, shaky breath, then stepped out of the bathrooms knowing walls.

Prompt idea from @givethispromptatry

Carter steadied her hand as she shined the flashlight down the steps of the bomb shelter. The doors, after finally opening after much tugging on its heated handles, seemed more like an opened mouth than actual doors. Beyond the entrance were more stairs, which was only appropriate since the whole bunker was half way into the ground. Almost like a sinkhole opened and it refused to go down.

The air that seeped from the new opening wasn’t hot, like the deserts air around them so overwhelmingly was. Instead it was almost stale. Old and tired of being air.

“So?” Her cousin asked from behind her. Carter still sat in the dirt, having fallen over after pulling on the doors only to slip and opening them with all her body weight. The tools their grandmother had given her were pointless, only the shovel had done any good. “Are you going down?”

“Me?! Its your dog!” Carter scowled, coming back to the problem at hand. “If Kingston was trained he wouldn’t have run into the creepy basement! Even a leash!”

Zackary huffed, “Whatever, Bully Pits are very obedient,”

“Well, then it just shows how cruddy of an owner he has. Go! Go get him! Who knows what he could be chewing on, seriously,”

“Cart, you're the one with the flashlight. Besides, you’re coming, why else would the hag ask you to come out here and open it?”

She stared at the flashlight. Their grandmother did ask Carter to go down and check on it. See if the lights still switched on, to check the small windows near the ceiling to see if they were broken and bugs got it. She also wanted Carter to bring a box back, a suitcase sized tackle box or something.

“Fine, but once you get a hold on Kingston, get out. You two could be more damaging to it than an actual bomb. Got it?”

Zackary helped her up while nodding. Carter looked back down the concrete steps, hating the way she felt. She could feel them, the way they wanted Carter to go down there. Maybe it was her overactive imagination, maybe it was the fact the doors has been closed for 40 or 50 years, but the feeling was still there. She swallowed and momentarily second guessed coming out to the shelter.

The first step down, Carter felt nothing. The second step, still nothing. No jolt of electricity, no piercing scream. All the steps were silent. She couldn’t decide if that was reliving, because they had not other intentions, or if it was concerning, because they were still hiding the secret they had.

At the bottom, Carter found the floor to be solid concrete as well. The metal walls looked flimsy despite the strong looking foundation and support poles in every corner they could see. The walls had hundreds of object stacked against the walls; books, boxes, old timey things their grandparents must’ve wanted with them when the ‘war’ started. It never came, of course, but they left all sorts of things down in their shelter.

Baskets filled with different types of paper, a lone shelf ready to give out from the weight of dusted boxes stacked on it, cases covered by piles of blankets and bottles. Cups. Plates and a few chairs. Carter even spotted a mattress, splayed out in the corner. 

“What do you think about all this crap?’

“I think it sticks, Cart.” He complained from behind her.

“Geez, for a guys, you’re really jumpy, you know that?”

“And for a feminist, that was pretty stereotypical of you,” he shot back and Carter gave an apologetic smile, “where’s my dog?”

“Call him,” she suggested as she went over to her right, shining the light onto a framed photo that sat atop a blanket. It was almost completely covered in dust, which must’ve been the reason for the stale air. The photo underneath showed a young man and town women beside him. Her grandparents?

“Huh,” she muttered out loud, “do we have a great aunt? I swear grandpa always said they were the only family living in Nevada,”

“So-” Zackary spoke from beside her, startling Carter and she jumped back.

“Sheesh! Step back, would you?! You’re so god damn clingy- stop touching me!”

Her younger cousin stepped back, hands raised like he was at gunpoint. Carter turned back to the photo, ignoring the family mystery and started searching through the other objects as Zackary called for his dog. whoever was in the photos, she could ask once they got back with the suitcase her 89 year old grandmother suddenly needed. Turning and eyeing the walls a little more carefully, she found the bunker was bigger than the roof on ground level let on. The cluttered entrance turned off to the right after several big strides, so Kingston could easily hide. He could easily break things.

Carter clenched her jaw.

“Did you find him yet? I need you out of here already,”

“If I had light this would go much faster. Do you see a switch? This place has lights, right?”

Carter looked along the wall next to the blistering doors. She smiled once she spotted a small square box.

“Yeah, lemme get it for you,” she responded and strolled up to the entrance. She looked closer and frowned. The switch was just exposed wires, no protective plastic to act as the switch. “Shit.”

Kingston barked sharply from somewhere in the shelter and Carter grit her teeth again.

“Zack!”

“I’m on it! God,” he complained, but shuffled away anyways, “here boy! King, c’mere boy.”

Carter continued to tinker with the wires. Which colors were correct? Being the oldest, she was always her dad's little handyman, but all the work she did growing up apparently didn’t pay off when it came to electrical work.

“Gosh- who’d even rip this off?” She muttered to herself. Something very gently brushed up against her side, and Carter reached the end of her rope with him.

“Hey, I told you to stop!” She snapped, not caring to turn around to scold her cousin.

Zackary sighed from the end of the untidy hall way, “You told me to stop being ‘too clingy’, so I did! Carter, chill out!”

“You’re still touching me!”

Silence, then a careful ‘wrrring’ sounded from the walls. The lights flickered and Carter laughed triumphantly.

“Got it-!”

I felt insulted.  Day to day, I wiped down counters, swept, dusted, even mopped when I stayed late enough. Let me tell you- in a sit down place like ours, on a busy street like this, we always had hundreds of people come in. Retro guys with long hair, vapor wave girls with clear long boards, even a priest in unnaturally dirty sneakers. Of course things were constantly messy and everything was always being used. Though, I for one never knew a holy man could leave behind so many used napkins behind in just one sitting. Things insulted me, of course, but this was my job. To clean and make sure everything was in its place and usable. It cleared my guilty conscience. Then, after a month of small talk with my coworkers I never cared to look at much and a month of looking at the walls I didn’t care are enough to talk to, insulted didn’t fit the shape I had become. 

Mocked. Played with. Suddenly, I was on a stage with the restaurant taunting me from the crowd. 

Surprisingly, the blinding lights were the faces of the customers and the laughing was coming from the objects. 

The heater? It giggled whenever I tried washing off the melted crayons from its warm surface. The Bar that stretched the length of the room would give me judgmental signs when I brought the sanitized water bucket out to clean it off. Why would a bar be judgmental? The ceiling fans snickered every time I stared up at them with a duster in my hand. That I could understand. I’d be laughing at a hopeless man too if I was that high up.

Their taunts only got louder and unavoidable at night. The customers would filter out, the crowd getting thinner and thinner and my patients with it. Jacob would clock out, then the cooks, so it was me locking up 4 out of the 7 nights we were open. It was my job, but it had suddenly become unbearable. 

After two months I caved and informed my manager I wouldn't stay late anymore, telling him I had to babysit nights for my sister that I may or may not have. Who was he to turn my request down? He was so soft towards Amy, the 24 year old cashier. Yes, she wore colorful beads around her neck and never buttoned her uniform, so she was always treated softly. Myself included. I tried to get his sympathy anyways.

“What kind of 30 year old guys babysits kids?” was his response. 

The kind who hears objects talk, I thought. That prompted the table we sat at to laugh. Whether it was at my thoughts or my manager's underlying suggestion, I couldn’t tell.

“A compassionate, helpful guy?” I had answered with a tone just as trying as his initial question. 

Jacob frowned. He did that whenever I clocked in, so I was unfazed until the lamp that illuminated our booth giggled. I frowned back. I told him it would hopefully be for a short month, but really I knew it would be until the lifeless shapes stopped judging me. Until they cut the judgmental noises. 

Once I stopped closing, my wallet became a little lighter, but Amy started talking to me more. She really was a nice girl, I could see why Jacob was easy going with her. It really just made me think he shouldn’t be pointing a finger at me when he asked why I would willingly babysit kids. Jacob was older than me and Amy would’ve been my kid if I had sex in my teen years. 

Scratch that. I’d need to be 12. He was the creep between the two of us.

“You’re just so good and quick at your job,” Amy fussed after the third night I had been ‘babysitting’, “I never knew I could miss a man who wore the same murky green jumpsuit everyday,”

I blinked.

“This is my uniform? Your’s is just black because you represent the restaurant and need to be the first thing people see when they come in. You’re better at your job than I could ever be at mine, mine is just fueled by anxiety.” I rambled. After a few moments, I looked back to her to find her staring at me.

“Um, too much?”

Her smooth lips formed a smile while her sweet voice gave an effortless chuckle.

“No no! That was just, very open of you. I almost laughed!” and she did anyways. 

Amy continued to have her flawless smile on the rest of her shift and Jacob gave me extra jobs and things to clean. I didn’t mind, because for once, it was a person laughing for me instead of the soulless things laughing at me. 

Quickly, it was a daily goal of mine to make her laugh. My mind recorded it every time, playing it to drown out the laughs of the objects around us. I assumed she caught on thanks to how much more I started to chat with her, and amusingly, she played along. She’d more giggles and quiet laughs. I’d go into work expecting to see her colorful beads every time. The vibrant necklaces matched her laughter. Her whole person was composed and fitting, something I never found in anyone else. Never found in myself.

‘You know,’ the door spoke one night as me and Jacob closed wordlessly, ‘you cannot keep her forever. She has a life that isn’t you.’

“So?” I questioned just as quietly as it did. “I want her to have a life, to share her happiness with everyone like she did with me,”

‘That would’ve been fine, but she’s your life. Very unbalanced, don’t you think? You cannot bring the painting home from the museum, nor can it admire you back.’ 

The waxen windows started to snicker among themselves at the door's bold words. I pinched my eyebrows together.  

“You have obviously never been to a museum,” I looked away to resume my methodical sweeping, “that's the point. To come and appreciate beauty. Even when the display changes, or the building is torn down, or I die, the appreciation is there. It stays with me.”