screams notesCasper supposedly worked four seven hour shifts a week, with overtime on Saturday. Supposedly.screams notes by ~virtually-unique
This overtime usually resulted on him working for five eight hour shifts.
It was magic that he hadn't died yet.
Then again, Guiseppe more or less lived at the station. He was pretty much a corpse, his lank, black hair hanging in curtains beside his face, covering his eyes as he stumbled around the small workplace.
Casper and Guiseppe worked in a supermarket. They were a pretty big store, though. They currently had thirteen shelve stackers on duty each week, and then five people on the tills.
Of course, this wasn't all work.
Guiseppe and Casper both worked alternate shifts between shelves and till; they both loved it, because it meant half of each shift was spent swapping to the other, slowly changing their uniforms (even though it was just a change of jacket) every hour.
Casper found Guiseppe in the changing cupboard. He was asleep, his coffee in one hand and his head buried ins
some other thing for schoolGuiseppe was dead.some other thing for school by ~virtually-unique
It was a side effect of the bullets, the bullets that he'd just pried from his shattered scull onto the fields bellow.
It wasn't fun, he knew that already. Being dead was kind of floaty, and things kept making popping sounds in his stomach. There wasn't much to enjoy, really. Or to criticize. It was just a whole lot of walking to nothing.
He'd died in a shoot-out at a bank. He'd taken the whole thing in stride, really. He was ready. He was working a dead-end job, after dropping out of university because he couldn't afford it. That was all. He'd been walking down to cash in his paycheck, when this guy had come in in and sort of killed a couple of guys before taking a huge wad of cash and running out. He'd said it was to pay for his brother's tuition, and Guiseppe really couldn't blame him. He'd have done it, if he'd had the guts. He didn't, though. He quite literally wouldn't within the hour.
It was then that he tripped. His shoe hit something - he didn't know
this really sucksI didn't love you as if you were gems,this really sucks by ~virtually-unique
Or the precious gold your mother often wore.
I didn't love when you left unclipped stems,
Or when you left the wreath out on the door.
You did not enjoy chasing your ancestors,
But what I did enjoy were your letters,
Telling tales of shipwrecks, storms and monsters,
Which I read while wrapped in one of your sweaters.
I loved you as I loved an old book,
Frayed and torn and dog-eared as me,
Opened only when i wanted a look,
To drag down, to leave me like I left thee.
And now, you sink down into the reef,
Drowned along with wine that stains my teeth.
word vomitAs your hand brushes away the grime of the last day, your lips barely let escape a sigh - or what would be one, if it had been anything more than just a quiver of lips and a strong gasp of silent air. Or what may have been the last day - you're not so sure. The grime may have been your father's, but he most definitely had not bathed yesterday evening, or it could be your younger sister's. Upon the thought, it was most definitely someone's last day - and judging by the short, scattered shaving stubble hairs pooled by the plughole, you decide it was most definitely hers. You shake your hand almost immediately, rubbing it quickly across the towel (the same one draping your frame in an effort to shield your feeble form from no-one) to rid the hundreds of thousands of microscopic skin cells and tiny hairs that, dare you think it, revolt you. Not because it's grime, dead grime, although it might as well be; the person shedding it died long ago. The water you find yourself stepping into is mword vomit by ~virtually-unique
Dear WriterDear Writer,Dear Writer by ~EvilpixieA
I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. Unfortunately, I need you. I need you to tell my story. I need you to create my world. I need you to set me free.
I need your fingers typing on those keys, I need your mind riddling out the problems, and I need you to plough onward and upward no matter how hard it gets. Sweat, blood, and tears, I don’t care. You’ve got to fight this war, battle at a time, and win it. So I can be more.
It’s a slim hope, but it is the only one I have. In your head I am bound to mortality, frailty, and the limit of your meagre imagination. Out there – out there – I am subject to no one person. Out there I am bound to only black on white. Words on a page. Words that can lay seeds within a million minds. Out there I am a story capable of growing, moving, and stealing the dreams of anyone who learns of me…
I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. I hate your lack of dedication, your flashes of cru