Unfortunate Misfits: Screaming -
I can’t take this anymore, I scream and I shout, I do everything I do to get help from someone who really cares, but all I keep running into is a whole bunch of walls of people who hate me, who wouldn’t give a shit if I died. What do I have to do? Do I have to run through all of these walls, and…
And this was my second post ever on tumblr..
Unfortunate Misfits: Until I Fit -
I can’t help but feeling like i’m worthless, like no one cares. I just can’t help it, no matter what I do, no ever seems to like me. I just want to feel wanted, but that’s a hard thing to feel when your parents are constantly fighting, so much that they barely even notice you. And when you have…
This was my first post ever on tumblr.. from about 2 years ago. I haven’t changed much.
about tomorrows Musical Theatre performances because I have the same song as Chloe, and Chloe is so much more talented than me…
(Source: unfortunatemisfits)
This story was one of great length; one which starts before it even begins: A drop of liquid, a good intention warped and twisted. And so too shall it end, but for now see a grave. Simple a grave is it, and it sits on a small hill bare of all markings, and smoothed and worn by ages of weather. More a part of nature than made has it become, the headstone is barely visible in the moonlight. A stillness falls, remains, the entire absence of noise replacing the mere silence of the night. Blades of grass stop swaying in what wind scrapes over the hill A drop of liquid falls to the dirt, eagerly devoured. The soil begins to shift.
Now, a look out from the hill, time shifts forward two weeks.
In the distance can the shape of a castle be made out. Turrets gleam and shimmer in the sun, bubbles gently rise into the air above as small townsfolk move about their daily routine in the city below. A stranger moved among the crowd, taller than most of the candy people surrounding him. A white hat covered his head, torn in several spots and patched in far more. He waved, a wisp of pale yellow hair gently fluttering across his face, free of it’s woolen confinement. A sword is strapped to his backpack, past the point of being well used, and more into the realm of scrap metal; it dully shines, edges chipped away by far more than just age. A dog walks beside the boy, and surprisingly is the one who is talking currently.
Observe now the heroes of this story…
——
“I’m just saying, it’s not that hard.”
“Jake, I told you. No.”
The dog casually reached up and stretched an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “You know you want to, Finn.” A faint blush crept up onto Finn’s face at the words, saying much more than his shaky rebuttal. He shook his head. ”Sh-she said no once, and that’s enough for me. Besides, I’m thirteen, and she may as well be thirty then.” He stopped, as he caught the distracting glint in the dog’s eye. ”Meta… metarfo…” he stuttered, searching desperately for the word, then gave up. “I didn’t mean that, so don’t tell her. Or Lady.” The dog adopted a look of innocence that only puppies can usually achieve. Big, saucer eyes looked up at Finn. “What, me? Tell everyone you just called PB thirty? I’d never!”
As the debate raged back and forth, the two managed to wind their way towards the castle’s front door. Heavy set, it loomed before them. A guard standing beside the door came to a sharp attention, his armor rattling in many place it probably should not have; pieces of the armor moved strangely, and the guard’s figure wobbled and shook. The only logical explanation might be that the guard was melting, made of some sort of moving substance, or made up of more than one person; perhaps a lot of small people trying to be one big person.
“State your business,” said the knee.
“It’s the heads job to say that, idiot!” retorted the stomach, followed by a dull thudding sound.
The face tried to look apologetic. “Excuse that, good sirs. Please, state your business.”
Finn tried to keep a straight face, as he answered, “Our business is with the princess. She asked for us.”
The guard nodded, and motioned them inside, the heavy doors swinging shut behind them. Before them led a short hallway into the Great Hall; the scene of many fancy banquets and diplomatic meetings. Servants darted to and fro, nearly invisible to the untrained eye. One servant the pair did miss, though, was Peppermint Butler. Usually he was there to greet guests of the princess.
“Hey, Finn, where do you think Peppermint Butler is?” Jake asked.
A shrug was all that Finn could give as they worked around towards the stairwell. Only their footfalls broke the silence as they proceeded upwards, the soft murmur of wind barely whispering through minute cracks in the mortar. A door was at the top, which Finn knocked on lightly. ”It’s us,” he called, “Finn and Jake.”
Bubblegum’s whisper barely reached them. “Come in.” She sniffled.
Had she been crying? As they slowly pried the door open, they saw the princess on her bed, royal dress on as always. Her smooth face was streaked in rivets of pink tears, which she hurriedly wiped away with one of her dainty hands, and plastering on a smile. “I-I’m glad you’re h-here…” She stuttered after a moment’s hesitation. With an immense sigh, followed by a shudder her figure produced as if to try and hold back tears, she stood…. But she seemed weak, as if something weighed on her mind and her body enough to make her walk in an unstable way. Finn caught her as she swayed slightly. Worry creased his face as the boy walked the princess over to the bathroom, in case she was or would be sick in some way; it was in fact the way she wanted to lead him anyhow, but she did not give hint to that the bathroom was where her problem lied, literally, yet.
“What’s wrong, PB?” he asked, voice full of concern. She motioned him away from her a little, as she gripped the handle on the bathroom door. It almost seemed as if the handle was a pin holding her to the wall of life, and health.
“It… It’s P-Peppermint Butler.” She pushed the door open a crack. Finn and Jake peered in, and quickly wished they hadn’t.
Oh Glob, the blood…
“He’s dead…”
I know this blog has been silent for awhile, but I am changing that! And allow me to introduce our two newest members: unfortunatemisfits and asksodapopprincess! I hope to be updating at the minimum of once a week, with fics from all of us. So any suggestions or ideas are fully welcome.
Okay.
So, I want to know if anyone here also likes to write? Because, I know I don’t update that often, and plus I wouldn’t mind a second set of hands to make some of these stories better. In essence, I want to make somebody a member.
If you would like to, send me an ask saying you would like to. (And maybe an example of your writing)
Anybody can try!
(only one or two people will be made members, though)
This is what I love seeing. Thank you guys for following, and for the likes/reblogs! I hope that you enjoy my writing, and are not discouraged by my slow update times. Thank you.
Fionna shot upright in the bed, sleeping bag pulling tight around her face. Another thump sent her rolling onto the floor, surprisingly quiet as she pried the sleeping bag off. She could still hear Cake snoring - the cat could sleep through near anything - as the third thump sounded from below.
Creeping over to the ladder, she peered down, trying to catch a glimpse maybe of the intruder. “Who would break into this house?” she wondered aloud, silently. Another thump, far quieter, sounded, and then a shuffling, like that of a bag dragging along the ground. The room was too open to move down the ladder quickly and undetected, so Fionna moved over to the window.
A chill wind hit her as she opened it, slowly so as to avoid it squeaking too loudly. The tree had few handholds on the exterior, the branches covered in thick leaves. She made it down, though, and soon was peering in through a window on the first level.
Moonlight gleamed off of it, and her eyes took time to adjust to the darker corner of the room. First she noticed the sack. A deep color - it was too dark to say precisely what - and obviously stuffed. The man, rather large, was pulling things out of it, and setting them on the floor in a heap. His giant beard made it rather hard to discern any other facial features, and the hat on his head hid the rest.
He glanced over at the window, and Fionna hurriedly ducked under it. She couldn’t see his smile, or the way he moved the itchy beard off his pale face for a second before replacing it, or the faint gleam of fangs. When she did look back inside, he was gone. But as she moved to climb back up to the window, she could see a lone figure flying across the sky.
Once inside, she woke Cake up. “What goin’ on?” the cat mumbled, bleary eyes trying, but not hard, to remain open.
“Some guy just left stuff in our house. Gifts, I think. Anyways, come on!” Fionna pulled the cat towards the ladder. “I want to see what’s inside them!” Cake mumbled a response, lost in the clatter as Fionna slid down the ladder. Two stacks were on the floor, each marked with signs saying ‘Fionna’ and ‘Cake.’
The colorful wrapping shredded away to reveal a pair of throwing axes. “Totally math,” whispered Fionna. The next box had a target in it. Cake opened one of hers, finding an odd tube inside. Pressing a button on it, the wall suddenly sported a red dot. Dropping the tube to pounce, the dot disappeared. Cake picked it up aiming at the floor, and pressed the button. She was entranced the whole while as Fionna finished off her own pile. Sitting back, the girl noticed a card on the ground.
“Dear Fionna and Cake,
In response of your good deeds, you have been given these gifts. Every year I give them to all the nice people in Ooo. Keep up the good work. P.S. I really enjoy cranberry juice and strawberries, if you have any.” It didn’t have a signature. But it didn’t really need to. The next day, when Marshal woke up, he found a glass of cranberry juice outside his door, and a litle note that simply read, “Thank you.”
If anybody missed it the first time around.What was wrong with him, his mind? He was mad, crazy, and going deeper and deeper into that insanity every day. A hole in the wall to his left had gradually grown from his repeated attempts at simply beating the thing out of his head. The person in his head. It was darker, meaner, scared and alone. It was him, now.
Simon leaned back in the chair, wood groaning in protest, not because of the weight on it, no, it was due to the erosion. Snow blanketed the whole room, the window having long ago been blasted open by the wind. It was a miracle the desk and chair still stood, but Simon did not care for miracles. Miracles were no longer available here, in this land of ice. Ice was ruler here, ice was god. Ice was King.
His pen scratched over the paper, which was already covered in words, all crammed in so as to save space. His thoughts, which were many, and his feelings, which were few, he wrote down. He would occasionally glance at the crown, then catch himself and return to his writing. Not that it mattered, anyways; he had already put it on once.
“Dear, come and have some soup.” Her voice rang clearly from the door,
“Yes, my love, in a moment. I must find the secret behind this crown.” Simon turned to grab it, carefully bringing it into his lap. “What power does it contain? What is it’s purpose?” He turned to face the doorway, and found it empty. He shook his head, and put the crown back onto the table. She still haunted his thoughts, always her voice calling to him, but she was never there. How many times had he heard her, only to find his mind had played yet another trick on him?
No matter, though. He sighed, and after a few more scribbled sentences, pushed himself up from the chair. He grabed the crown, and after a moments contemplation, put it onto his head. The streets were covered in heavy drifts of snow, but a small path wound it’s way down to the corner, marking Simon’s previous walks. The crown began it’s gentle whispers; shards of ice and smooth snow constantly filling his mind. It went through the usual patterns of aggressive anger at his inattentiveness, then taunting him back towards it with images and thoughts of her. His princess. And now he heard something new from the crown, an utter lie but a welcome one at that.
“She can be brought back.” The gem in the middle of the crown flashed, casting a brief red glare over the snow. Simon’s voice rang out in the dead silence, echoing through the dead city.
“How?” To this the crown fell silent, and Simon snarled, tearing it off his head. “How?” he bellowed at it, his blue hands visibly shaking as they griped the edges hard enough to draw blood. “Tell me! Tell me your grand plan; tell me what I gave up everything for!” It fell to the ground, and so did his knees as he openly wept. “What I lost everything for.” For hours it seemed he knelt there, waiting for it to respond.
“Ice.” it whispered. “Frost and snow that covers all, and takes all. Ice is cold, and unforgiving. Frost seeps into all and destroys all. Snow shall cover the ruins, and keep forgotten that which should not be remembered. That is the mantra of the King of Ice, he who wears the crown. Simon Petrikov, you are now cold. All that you loved is gone. And we shall together bury that which you need not remember.” A dagger of ice formed in his hands, just as sharp as any steel blade. “Or you may join your beloved.”
Simon griped the blade, his blue skin turning white at the knuckles. “No,” he whispered. “I’ve lost it all, and now that the price is paid, I want what I paid for.” He reached out, gingerly picking the crown from the snow. “The King of Ice you want me to be, so the Ice King I shall be.” He threw the dagger into a pile of snow to his right. “But you said she can be brought back. How?”
“I lied.”
“I hate you. I never should have bought you. That matters not, I suppose, though. What now?”
The crown seemed to glow as if content, and gently whispered, “Now we cover the ruin. With ice it shall be coated, and piled under snow.” Simon’s hands glowed an erie blue, and he pointed one at the dagger. A flash of light shot out towards it from his palm, and the hilt began to grow in size. Soon the area around it was all ice, and it spread further every moment. Simon ran back to the house, gathering his notes and what few possessions he still had. He opened the desk’s drawer, taking out the recorder inside. He turned it on.
“Entry fifty-six, last entry of Simon Petrikov. I have discovered the crown’s secret. My research into it is over, and therefor the last thing I have been living for passes away just like everything else. Everyone else. Simon Petrikov is now dead. End of entry.” He turned the recorder off.
Through the window he could hear ice popping and cracking as it rolled over buildings and down streets. Simon rushed out the door, and ran until he was past the last ruined building. Turning around, he saw the ice shooting straight up, forming an intimidating mountain. As the last of the ruins were covered by the ice, a heavy blizzard rolled in. Snow piled on the immense ice form, covering that which it hid in several feet of snow. When it passed, Simon stood ten feet above where he previously had, his feet seeming to levitate above the snow. The crown glowed it’s satisfaction.
“Do you still miss her, Simon?”
His simple response drove the final nail hard into the coffin of Simon Petrikov.
“Who?”
((Read this! All of you!))
(via asksodapopprincess-deactivated2)
What was wrong with him, his mind? He was mad, crazy, and going deeper and deeper into that insanity every day. A hole in the wall to his left had gradually grown from his repeated attempts at simply beating the thing out of his head. The person in his head. It was darker, meaner, scared and alone. It was him, now.
Simon leaned back in the chair, wood groaning in protest, not because of the weight on it, no, it was due to the erosion. Snow blanketed the whole room, the window having long ago been blasted open by the wind. It was a miracle the desk and chair still stood, but Simon did not care for miracles. Miracles were no longer available here, in this land of ice. Ice was ruler here, ice was god. Ice was King.
His pen scratched over the paper, which was already covered in words, all crammed in so as to save space. His thoughts, which were many, and his feelings, which were few, he wrote down. He would occasionally glance at the crown, then catch himself and return to his writing. Not that it mattered, anyways; he had already put it on once.
“Dear, come and have some soup.” Her voice rang clearly from the door,
“Yes, my love, in a moment. I must find the secret behind this crown.” Simon turned to grab it, carefully bringing it into his lap. “What power does it contain? What is it’s purpose?” He turned to face the doorway, and found it empty. He shook his head, and put the crown back onto the table. She still haunted his thoughts, always her voice calling to him, but she was never there. How many times had he heard her, only to find his mind had played yet another trick on him?
No matter, though. He sighed, and after a few more scribbled sentences, pushed himself up from the chair. He grabed the crown, and after a moments contemplation, put it onto his head. The streets were covered in heavy drifts of snow, but a small path wound it’s way down to the corner, marking Simon’s previous walks. The crown began it’s gentle whispers; shards of ice and smooth snow constantly filling his mind. It went through the usual patterns of aggressive anger at his inattentiveness, then taunting him back towards it with images and thoughts of her. His princess. And now he heard something new from the crown, an utter lie but a welcome one at that.
“She can be brought back.” The gem in the middle of the crown flashed, casting a brief red glare over the snow. Simon’s voice rang out in the dead silence, echoing through the dead city.
“How?” To this the crown fell silent, and Simon snarled, tearing it off his head. “How?” he bellowed at it, his blue hands visibly shaking as they griped the edges hard enough to draw blood. “Tell me! Tell me your grand plan; tell me what I gave up everything for!” It fell to the ground, and so did his knees as he openly wept. “What I lost everything for.” For hours it seemed he knelt there, waiting for it to respond.
“Ice.” it whispered. “Frost and snow that covers all, and takes all. Ice is cold, and unforgiving. Frost seeps into all and destroys all. Snow shall cover the ruins, and keep forgotten that which should not be remembered. That is the mantra of the King of Ice, he who wears the crown. Simon Petrikov, you are now cold. All that you loved is gone. And we shall together bury that which you need not remember.” A dagger of ice formed in his hands, just as sharp as any steel blade. “Or you may join your beloved.”
Simon griped the blade, his blue skin turning white at the knuckles. “No,” he whispered. “I’ve lost it all, and now that the price is paid, I want what I paid for.” He reached out, gingerly picking the crown from the snow. “The King of Ice you want me to be, so the Ice King I shall be.” He threw the dagger into a pile of snow to his right. “But you said she can be brought back. How?”
“I lied.”
“I hate you. I never should have bought you. That matters not, I suppose, though. What now?”
The crown seemed to glow as if content, and gently whispered, “Now we cover the ruin. With ice it shall be coated, and piled under snow.” Simon’s hands glowed an erie blue, and he pointed one at the dagger. A flash of light shot out towards it from his palm, and the hilt began to grow in size. Soon the area around it was all ice, and it spread further every moment. Simon ran back to the house, gathering his notes and what few possessions he still had. He opened the desk’s drawer, taking out the recorder inside. He turned it on.
“Entry fifty-six, last entry of Simon Petrikov. I have discovered the crown’s secret. My research into it is over, and therefor the last thing I have been living for passes away just like everything else. Everyone else. Simon Petrikov is now dead. End of entry.” He turned the recorder off.
Through the window he could hear ice popping and cracking as it rolled over buildings and down streets. Ice King rushed out the door, and ran until he was past the last ruined building. Turning around, he saw the ice shooting straight up, forming an intimidating mountain. As the last of the ruins were covered by the ice, a heavy blizzard rolled in. Snow piled on the immense ice form, covering that which it hid in several feet of snow. When it passed, Ice King stood ten feet above where he previously had, his feet seeming to levitate above the snow. The crown glowed it’s satisfaction.
“Do you still miss her, my King?”
His simple response drove the final nail hard into the coffin of Simon Petrikov.
“Who?”