I take commissions:
I take commissions here:
my adopt account:
I like asking cool people if I can draw their OCs
even though it will probably take me a while to upload the finished pictures since I'm lazy and my scanner is stupid
-aka- people I practically worship
This is obviously polytheism
I got broke commissioning SimplyOnions
Helen is a spade"Helen is not just a spade, she is the ace of spades", he said, and I knew he was in love.
I asked him why he said so.
Her eyes, he answered before going on to tell me why they were like candles.
I stopped him and said "nothing is that beautiful".
I didn't tell him why, because I truthfully didn't know.
After he logged off,
-because the internet is the only place he'll talk about love-
I thought about it
and I'll tell you now that candles are not like us,
they can love everyone
and i in particular would not be living without that
exchange of body heat
MedicationThe medicine cabinet (hurt cabinet, memory cabinet), she hid in there. When she did she felt fear, it had followed her out and taken over. It followed her back now, as she sat, with her knees tucked into her chest.
Bonnie did her best to keep quiet, to refrain from nervous tapping (and finger biting), as she waited, and cried. That by itself was quite loud (waiting and crying). When the yelling stopped (turned into quiet sobbing) she quietly climbed down, onto the countertop, and from there slid to the ground.
She was met halfway upstairs, in an awkward embrace, from a tear-stained, tear-soaked mom. She said she was sorry.
Never TellIt was almost five years ago when you told me your secret, and I promised that I would never tell anybody. I admired you because of that, although I was only nine you had told me the truth, without the thick sugarcoating.That was when I last saw you, in all of your messy faced glory, after your eleventh birthday party, while we sat on the porch step of your grandmother's house, eating the last of your chocolate cake. I had known you for three years and you were still the disorganized child you had been when I met you.I still remember you grabbing my wrist and pulling me around back, then us running back up front before your mother came outside, our hair threaded with cherry blossoms. I can still see you put a finger to your mouth, and the smile you gave me when I returned the gesture, as my mother pulled
out of your driveway. And when I got home that evening my mother asked me why I had grass stains on my pants, while she wiped my face with a warm washrag. I had lied and told her that
For His SisterI hate the taste of reality, and the taste of fiction, one of which is too sweet (It's hard to tell which). They burn my throat, so I settle for inhaling the smoke (not literal, it's only his thoughts) as it seeps, ink laden and indebted from underneath the bedroom door.
Joel sits on the bed, typing out page long articles about the risks about bone marrow transplants. He includes more pros than cons of course, for his sister. The bedroom is Joel's until around twelve, when he slips into a coffee induced coma. He always leaves the window open, I don't know if it's because it helps him sleep, or if he's waiting for his Romeo to throw him a rope (he's always been such a girly-boy), or if he just forgets to close it.
It's twelve-thirty and he's still there, typing, a red college dictionary open to his left, somewhere in the i's. He doesn't blink for a long minute, yawns, and opens up a new document. He titles it "Thank You" and pauses. He thinks about his sister, and her dreams, and her ho