Grand Finale

They tell me three weeks.

I don’t believe them.

As I stuck my tongue down death’s throat sucking my life the hell out of there.

---

And that's it.

Thank you.

Noah was a portrait of all the guys I ever liked.

Exit is the next on the line.

Day Twenty Ninth

I realize that I know nothing of the situation and I don’t want to. I let them inject more, as the liquid goes into my body nearly twenty four per seven. I don’t speak I only cough when my body feels like it. I stroke you, running my hands over the pages receiving a papercut. Now there are bloody stains as the nurse makes out a big fuss out of it.

The blood doesn’t stop. I wait for the doctors to call my parents and say that their son is going to die. I stare at them, wondering if they’ll bite my finger off in order for the blood to spring out with the liquid swimming around in my body who knows why.

In the end they manage to stop the blood, as the nurse strokes my hair. I stare at her puffy lips, wondering her age and if she has a boyfriend. I yank myself from her touch, as stupid possibilities of me dating her once I get out flood my head.

But isn’t that what are life is around?

Flooding our head with stupid adventures, luring ourselves into danger we create ourselves? Create a problem out of nothing and see it unsolvable to cry into our crush’s chests? Isn’t it about it?

Because if that’s not what life is about then about what is it?

To shove our tongue into somebody’s throat?

To have babies?

To –

To-

Just do something.

---

I got dragged away into Script Frenzy and forgot about Wednesday.

I'm very sorry, but now well, tomorrow is the last ever chapter of Paperbag Writer, unless something changes, the Exit prologue will be posted this week and the short stories/poems on Wednesday will be resumed as usual.

Noah is one of my favourite ever chracters, so it's hard.

Grand Finale 

Day Twenty Eight

I get afraid of the thought.

I get afraid of the journal itself.

I shove you in my drawer.

I threw in the waste bin.

I had to walk up, coughing, with the covers wrapped around me, the wires pinning me to the bed, as I knocked the bin down grabbing you with my toes.

I wrapped my arms around you, pulling you closer, realizing that you are nothing.

Empty, blank with my scribbles from earlier. I curl to sleep as you lull me into my nightmares.


---

Basically my thoughts are filled with winning Script Frenzy with The Gray Fear which is a rather sick, humorous and erotic (if you can call weird peeling off skin parts that) script with sexuality stereotypes with a dark tint which everything I write has.

Yes, I'm in love with it, because asexual is cool.

Asexual is the main character, which is a female, which I don't usually do, maybe she is as cool as Roberta or maybe even cooler.

Day Twenty Nine

SCRIPT FRENZY

The Gray Fear
done and yeah, I won :)

speechless, as usual.

Thank you

Day Twenty Seven

I wonder how death is like. I remember people or rather I see them. Screaming, gasping for the last breath, hearing a horrible screech, seeing people in white. I always thought that you’d see death in front of you reveal itself under its hood. What’s under that hood?
It was death itself. Nobody who saw it could say something about it. They were dead, lying there under heaps of tears or disgrace. Why was it a sin to say something bad about the dead? What if we were disgraced by their actions and their further action, the one which wasn’t on then their will? To get buried or burned to ashes. How could you write or ask something like that.

I always imagined death as a figure drenched in black with the scythe pressed against my throat. I feel it pressed deeper as he’d reveal his face.

Who was he?

Or was it a she?

Or a skeleton so dry, that all is impossible to reveal? Would he cock his head sideways as I’d spit the phrase into his face. But then my face would turn chalk white. He’d do whatever follows next for me to collapse, memories flashing as they get sucked out of me.

Does he get them? Does he feed with them? Is that how he kills, destroying our essence as the memories build us to drop off us in another body or another world, destination?

Or does he end it with a kiss, judging how much we cherish that action? Does he end it with a quick brush, as his fair hair would brush my cheeks, as he absorbs me into his mouth, eating my memories?

How does it feel?

To end a life with a kiss?

To drop the body, the tingling self in the mouth, like a remaining, foreign taste in the mouth, as you see people storm into the room. Do you brush them off if it during a middle of an operation? Do you play with the doctor’s hair; unbutton the nurse’s clothes, smirking to yourself as you are completely not interested as you glance towards the victim. He sees you. Lick the lips.

The feast is prepared.

You’d lean closer to get a right angle and start.

Start taking away the life, as other mouths are pressed along with yours breathing in unwanted oxygen giving a satisfying taste to the kiss.

Would you rub your mouth as you lean back?

Would you kiss the forehead?

Or would you just chop his head off?

Day Twenty Eight

Day Twenty Six

It eases me.

I press myself into the touch.

Into the blue-gray.

I wake up to see my sister crying.

She presses the bracelet into my hand. I stare at her.

Whore

She puts it on my arms, the one without the wires.

I’m the Noah who drowns.

I write her that and she cries a lot, as I stare at her, feeling my eyelids drop.

I’ll sink in their tears.

I want the gray blue.

I tell her that.

She doesn’t understand and takes it the other way round.

I see her destroying machines which plump liquid into my body. But she doesn’t. The nurse walks in.

When will I see the blue gray?

You should be Noah’s chosen. The other. The one who-

Floats on the gray blue. The one who-

Day Twenty Seven

Paperbag Writer. Day Twenty Five

I feel worse as I wake up, the pain not bearable.

I want this to end. I consider doing something, as I feel worse.

They tell me it’s the side-effects. I want to sleep, but they hold my eyes opened, telling me to hold myself conscious at least an hour.

I don’t get any visitors asides from my crying parents, wondering how come I was here. They make me feel worse. I ask, I write the nurse to keep them outside when I’m conscious as I feel sick watching their tears dry out as new ones fill their eyes.

I curl awake for an hour, feeling better, before I get another dose of whatever it is. I feel my body burning, but I feel better. I feel numb as I stare into the window, not making out the clouds, but just stare into the blue gray mix, wondering if it will surround me from now on

Day Twenty Six