moving

(( here we go

That’s right! I’ve finally made it to 200 followers! And to celebrate, I’m giving away the only goods I can give: a fresh piece of writing from yours truly.

HERE’S THE SCOOP:

There will be three winners: first, second, and third place. First place wins a long piece of writing, second wins a medium piece, and third place wins a short piece (which could turn out to be a poem instead, depending on your prompt).

The winners will give me a prompt to write by. It can be a word, a phrase, a piece of dialogue, a theme, a song, a movie, a book, a musical, etc. Basically, anything that is non-specific to any character.

But Vanessaaaaaaaa, I hear you shout from the heavens: I want you to write something about my favorite character/OC with Liu!

Well gosh diddly darn it, you didn’t let me finish! Yes, you can add on specifications to your prompt such as characters, setting, and stuff like that. That doesn’t mean I won’t take some liberties with whatever it is you give me. Also, just a fair warning, if you want me to write for an OC I’ve never interacted with, PLEASE provide ample information.

RULES

> This giveaway is for FOLLOWERS ONLY.

> I will NOT write ship-related stuff, especially not smut.

> Chances are, I won’t write for a fandom I haven’t heard of (unless you’re REALLY willing to info-dump me). Sorry.

> Reblogs AND likes are encouraged, but you will only be entered once.

> No reblogging to sideblogs for extra entries. I will check this when I pick winners, because I’ll ask you to send me an ask with your desired prompt. Just reblog to your main, please. No shame in that.

> Giveaway ends 12:00 midnight (EST) October 9! Notes after that will not be counted.

With all that being said, MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOR!

Jerry, you goober!

    Oh how she adored the games her dearest father played. Eyes kept a close watch on the transpirings between her arrival and Jeffery’s departure from her side. This version of the idolized being had such a funny way of interacting with his friends– if this pathetic excuse for a man could be described as a friend. Alessa could not quite understand the worthiness of this being. Jeffery seemed rather abhorrent towards him considering the manner he so violently drove the chair from beneath this fiend.

    Alessa briefly lifted her gaze towards Jeffery in an attempt to decide whether this being was necessary or not; there was no easy way to read the man, each twitch of a lip could mean one thing or another, and every glance held the makings of either approval or the deepest of discontent. He gave only signs of malice towards this man, thus she would do just the same should it be necessary.

     Her eyes shifted once more to narrow at the man who smelled sharply of bile and hard liquor despite his seeming soberness. What a foul creature to interact with– unworthy of her dearest Jeffery’s presence. Her attention was sharply cut by the gentle nudge enacted by the father figure next to her in sign that he was leaving her side. It was rather tempting to follow the killer and watch the masterpiece that was his work; each bloody slash brought forth such brilliant shades of crimson, and every villainous act only seemed to serve the true beauty of this realm.

    A smile was cast to him upon his departure in reassurance. She would be just  f i n e. A brief shadow of doubt clouded that confidence at the sudden sound from the filth that decided it could speak, eyes flitting to it in a most unfriendly manner. How crude in its mannerisms, Daddy would disapprove of such foul language.

                    "Nobody you’ll remember.“

The frustration that crosses the junkie’s face has an insultingly apparent root- confusion and fear from the inexplicable presence of a serial killer and child couldn’t manifest beyond dumb anger. He almost sees himself spitting, pushing the girl out of the way and killing the man, but stupor prevents the false courage.

A correction of posture would be enough to shatter this fantasy. Marco instead seethes at the girl, and finds that his own eyes cannot find hers, Alessa’s young face eclipsing the yellow light. The foulest of thoughts bubbled, but were somewhat restrained from apprehension and inebriation. It doesn’t stop him from half-coughing, “You’re never going to see your mama again.”

He wheezes under the assumption that Jeff has kidnapped her. Of course, he has less than no idea as to who and what Alessa is and her history. Less crucially, Jeff would not go out of his way to kill a child while he’s an adult. Perhaps to make the parents suffer, but otherwise he would not dedicate time to a practice he considers unfashionable. 

Marco begins to shuffle upward, yanking at Alessa’s wrist, malevolence present but unrefined in purpose.

Meanwhile, Jeff is a busied silhouette against the storm that unfurls outside. Illuminated by distant lightning flash, he pulls the glass knob of a door shut. He has counted six other inhabitants, not including Alessa and himself, and throughout the house has taken it upon himself to corral these semi-conscious persons down the stairs and into a single quarter. The journey of the more difficult people could be overheard from the kitchen as they were yanked down the stairs. 

The room that Jeff picked was windowless, and off-white. It was empty save for an ajar closet and a disassembled rocking horse. Soon, the place became a red-brown, much to Jeff’s conflicting moods. Simultaneously he wanted to paint something pretty but the grime under his fingernails induced a cold discomfort. While the storm continued to rattle the weaker shingles on the house there would be no opportunity for disposal.

Be warned that these are very scary sentences. If you can’t handle horror, or get nightmares easily, these sentences probably aren’t for you.

The halfbreed could smell every spice he opened; oregano, basil, thyme, cinnamon, curry powder, nutmeg, ginger, and several others. Oh goodness. And there goes her bottle of olive oil. Now she had to get more after this whole ordeal.

This mess he was making was only aggravating her if anything. This brute was ruining everything and putting her things out of its usual orderly arrangement.

Carefully she moved about the kitchen, continuously hidden and quiet. The darkness was always easy for her hide in, shadows adding extra cover to reduce chances of detection. And while he kept himself occupied with a search, she took the paring knife from the dishrack, snatching the knife block as well to prevent him from obtaining any of her blades. There was no way she would allow him to use them; with them in her possession, the paring knife was set in the block and exchanged with a bread knife before she allowed the shadows to hold the set for her.

Just because it wasn’t a regular cooking knife didn’t mean it wouldn’t do any damage. The serrated edges would cause extra tearing although the blade would need a little more force in order to pierce the flesh and meat. Oh how she wanted to damage this man.

She cringed at the sound of the match being lit, light following quickly after. No.Not good. Still, there was the advantage of the rest of the house being dark, the tiny little match only bringing so much illumination; not only that, but those matches were limited. For once she was glad she didn’t buy an extra pack of something.

“Three Little Birds is no nursery rhyme, Jeffrey,” she replied, voice coming from the blackout.

She needed an opening to bring harm. The shadows could just dispose of him, kill the man off for her, but she didn’t want to risk the chance of losing control. The entire house was already clouded by the dark creatures she ordered here to keep everything out of light on a moment’s notice. For now she kept a distance, staying behind him, waiting for the moment that he put down his guard just enough for a strike.

“How about I sing to you Ten Little Indians instead?”

He watched the environment that came to clarity around the match, trying to see if the sudden lone source brought comprehensibility to the shadows’ forms. The mess he left in the kitchen were turned a different color and it is noted that the knife rack is missing. 

“I never heard Ten Little Indians,” the small flame underneath his face blackens his eyes, save for a reptilian glisten and makes his mouth a canyon. He moves slowly, in a manner to ensure that he is near the kitchen exit. Oddly enough, any malice previously held looks subdued, artifice and rigidity banished. He is in is element, in which he plays himself- there’s not so much a consideration for hatred as there is the assumption that events are falling naturally. 

Unless he finds something he doesn’t like, Jeff being many things, including arbitrary. 

He spends no time standing still, chit-chatting lest Red take an opportunity to strike, or those shadows. No longer speaking in an affected lilt, his tone falls monotonous as he ghosts across the tile. “I’m sure it would be a treat. But I want to see you, Red...” The second sentence is spoken with a tenderness not previously thought capable considering the lowness of voice. There’s a twinge of what looks to be benevolence of all things, but that would require one to look literally past bared, gnashing jaws for acceptance. “The game’s been fun while it lasted...”

Compassion may make fate seem all the more crueler when Jeff knows only how to deal warmth of one brand- stifling, charring. Just as the kitchen will be. 

He throws the match into the oil, and peers into the orange scene.