† Ģrim Řeaper †

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 01:19:23 GMT

It was not it Katsumi's nature to be aggressive or dominate in her interactions with the living world. She had no dominion over the living, just the dead, and even then she had very little power or sway. Long ago she had come to understand her nature and her duty and to question it now made her stomach tighten. Wherever that was at the moment because it certainly wasn't inside the shell of the skeleton that stood in front of him.

"Answer me."

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 22:51:34 GMT

The dying sun, the dying flesh.

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 22:10:58 GMT

Always look, always watch, never touch.

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 20:34:16 GMT

*Combs out hair, watching a window.*

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 01:53:54 GMT

Said Death to passion: "Give of . . ."

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 05:52:10 GMT

Katsumi's house had rarely been used in the last year. Despite that fact it was spotlessly clean. Her house sat on the side of Mt. Naeba-san- she had found the house years ago and had ever since wanted to make her own. For it reminded her so much of her own childhood home. A long wooden porch wrapped around the entire house that was set in the side of the a large hill, and supported by thick beams and a smaller rocky outcropping. Inside was soft, dark wooden floors - long hallways that followed the same path as the porch - a square that led to each room of the house - separated by sliding shoji screen doors.

There was the faint smell of rain, of some sort of wetness - and green. The green of the trees surrounded the house and soaked into the wooden frame and slowly snaked its way into the inner most rooms covering everything in a sweet, wood smell. Leaves, dried leaves - that's what it smelt like, crisp and cold, and even though the house was thoroughly warm there would always be that ever present scent that clung to the fabric and the walls.

They arrived in the sitting room where bamboo mats covered the floor and the furnishings sat low to the floor. In each corner were lit red paper lanterns, that warmly illuminated the room. The first thing she spoke to him when she opened her eyes was: "welcome to my home, may I get you anything?"

Sat, 26 Sep 2009 18:20:42 GMT

I'm the lover who keeps appointments. . .

Re: this

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 20:32:10 GMT

I'll admit: I miss the pain.

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 02:59:43 GMT

He really was a brilliant pervert.

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 21:07:06 GMT

All memories are traces of tears.

250 -|- Write page 57 of your 300-page autobiography.

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 05:35:28 GMT

The first time I saw him I thought he was beautiful. I had seen many men, many women and everything in between - but there was something special about him. Perhaps it was the eyes or the lips, or it was something inside that drew me to him, whatever it was I could not name it but I longed to possess it and put a name to it. Even now that I look back on those days I can not name what he possessed that made fall so deeply for him. I have lived many, many years and I have seen many, many more men that have come after him but nothing seemed to compare to that first feeling of endearment and love. Perhaps it is true what they say, that your first love is your greatest - it seems silly for me to wax philosophical about such things considering I have no heart or soul.

But this is a story about the past and a time when I still possessed wide eyed optimism and innocence when it came to certain things and sex and love were two of those things. He taught me many things about both of those. He taught me how to feel good and made me into a woman, and made me feel like I was the only woman in the world all though I was certainly not. After so many years of being invisible and cold he saw me and made me feel warm, it was amazing to close my eyes and to pretend to feel my heart beating in my chest.

After we no longer saw each other, or spoke to each other I sometimes would go to his house in Greece and lay on his bed. To press my face into his pillows and smell him on his sheets and covers and pretend that my heart was beating once more.

The pages are scribbled and inked up from this point forward covered mostly in names, dates, and places.

343

OOC

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 05:06:07 GMT

I know I have been MIA in the last couple of days/weeks/months but I will try to be a little more constant with this journal from now on. It seems a bit pointless now and I suppose that's my fault but that whole self loathing thing and abuse just seems to keep going and going. Either way, if you want to abuse Death for any of your story lines, feel free to drop me a line, she's not doing much of anything except sitting around and watching life go on as she remains stationary.

To amuse you, I present this Youtube VID that I didn't make of Zhang Ziyi looking stunning as usual with the score from 2046 in the background. It's an amazing movie you should really go and watch it.

247 -|- Cleaning up messes

Wed, 10 Sep 2008 01:13:02 GMT

She cleans up his mess, the dinner he found unsuitable. So unsuitable, he declares, that he wouldn't feed it to pigs. That doesn't stop him from throwing it on the floor and sticking her face in it.

Bad dog. Disgusting pig. Look at what you've done.

She cries, not because she's hurt, or even humiliated. No, she lost all pride years ago, he beat it out of her. She's crying because she tried so very hard and now it's going to waste. He kicks her in the side and she wines like a dog, scurrying away from him and cowering against the corner cupboards.

Clean it up, this shit, this mess. Clean the whole fucking thing up. He turns to leave the kitchen but pauses, and stop your fucking crying. Jesus, it's annoying.

There have been other messes before this one, small ones, big ones. Messes having to do with money, with kool-aid, and sometimes blood. She says nothing but cleans up what he demands she clean. So she begins, she searches for her rubber gloves, for the sponge and Comet that really can get the most appalling stains out of almost anything. Except she can't find them.

Marinara crusted around her mouth, drying on the floor, and she can't find the fucking Comet. Life as she knows it, comes to a stand still.

if the police asked her, after the incident, why she did it, she probably would have told them the truth, she couldn't find the Comet, or the gloves, or the sponge. The necessities of her life.

So, she did what any sane woman would do. Blow her abusive husband's head off with a 12 gauge shot gun and then turn it on herself. Because while it might not be right to cry over spilled milk, sometimes you just have to get a little homicidal over chicken marinara.

Now it's my mess to clean up.

(327)

245 -|- What is the first thing you remember?

Wed, 10 Sep 2008 00:44:22 GMT

I remember very little firsts, and I believe that is because my memory was ruined in the last overhaul I received. They took many things from me, and gave me back the scraps of my childhood and a few other random memories that I hold very close. So now they flicker upon the wall like some silent, eight millimeter film that has been tapped together from cuttings on the floor. There is no noise, no music or voices to play along to the movie and so I press my ear upon the stone wall as if the voices of my brothers and mother were trapped in there. I find nothing but silence.

I find nothing but silence when I close my eyes and go back in my current memory, searching for my mother. In moments of weakness I wish to hear her voice once more, to feel her arms around me and to smell the perfume she wore. I do not even know if these sense memories are bogus, I could have made them by simply by watching people around me. It is foolish to ache for made up memories, but the little girl on the film looks so happy, and the world looks so bright that it is hard to want differently.

I see her run, I see shadow puppets on the wall from brothers fingers and a bed side lamp. I see him give me a hasty kiss before he sneaks back to his own room. From my eyes I can see the stars in the darkness, and I can see my little brother laying next to me, and I teaching him to count the stars, making sure not to miss a single one. He follows my finger with his own, and I can imagine my mouth moving, and his following in chorus.

ichi . . . ni . . san . . . yon . . . go . . . roku . . . nana . . . hachi . . . ku . . . juu

Ten little stars, all in a row, watch them now and see how they glow!

I tire of my movies now, these memories do nothing for me and so I turn my back on them. Nothing but paintings in a museum, real or imagined pictures in time. I do not turn it off though, I do not leave the cave, just turn my back and hide. Like a child, I think that if I am not paying attention, it will come to life, like dolls in a cupboard, or fairies. What a stupid game.

Death & Dying -- enter_darkness

Fri, 05 Sep 2008 21:55:56 GMT

The one story house is set into the side of a mountain, surrounded by forest with a path that leads to a large meadow filled with tall grass and wild flowers. It is a very traditional Japanese house, with wooden floors that are covered with bamboo mats, and sliding doors that separate each room from another. There are five major rooms, a sunken living room, three bedrooms and in the back a kitchen with a door that leads out to the porch. The porch wraps all around the house, so at any time one could step outside and relax on the dark wood deck and look out into the bright green woods.

The only signs of life are of her and various cat toys, large cat toys. Not some domesticated animals, but beasts one would see in the zoo, however those cats are not around. When she sets down, it is in the living room, there a low set couch and multi-colored pillows that look a little dusty from lack of use. Red Japanese lanterns hang from the ceiling, and light up the house when the sun goes down. There are more rooms, sectioned off, full of various, well organized item that were either collected or made by her through out the years. She rarely shows those rooms to anyone, why bother?

She turns to Lance and smiles slightly, her head bowed, the perfect hostess. "Welcome to my home, may I get you anything?"

The Chapter ends.

Thu, 10 Jul 2008 19:16:48 GMT

shimekiri
Lesson learned.

Good bye.

The Story of Botan Dôrô

Thu, 10 Jul 2008 19:05:16 GMT

This is the story of, Botan Dôrô, and it begins like this: There was once, long ago, a brave samurai named Ogiwara Shinnojo. His wife had died many years before this story, but it is important to remember, for he was very lonely.

On the first night of Obon, he sees a beautiful woman and her maid walking past his house carrying a Peony lantern. I should explain that Obon is a Buddhist holiday that is meant to honor the dead. The girl he sees that night is named Otsuyu, and he falls madly in love with her. They vow to be together for all eternity.

But something was odd about Otsuyu, she only came to him at dusk, and leaves before the sun rose. Still, Ogiwara is in love with his beautiful girl, and continues to see her. It is not until one night, when his servant peeks into his room, does he see Ogiwara having relations with a decaying corpse.

Of course Ogiwara does not see this, does not believe it until he is visited by the local Buddhist monk. The monk shows him the tomb of Otsuyu, and convinces Ogiwara to guard himself against the spirits that torment him. He puts up charms around his house to keep the ghosts at bay, but he is miserable, for he still loves his beautiful Otsuyu. . .

One night, Ogirwara can stand it no longer. He is weak, his skin is pale and his eyes are hallow. He has not been eating, for his heart has been sick with longing, with grief. When the heart is sick nothing can cure it but the one thing it longs for. So he takes the charms and the wards off the house, he invites Otsuyu back into the house, back into his bed.

The next morning, his servants find him, the skeleton of Otsuyu in his arms, a blissful look upon his face. For in death he found a way to truly be with his beloved ghost.

235 -|- Home is where the heart is.

Tue, 08 Jul 2008 22:55:02 GMT

My home is empty, barren; there is nothing there besides walls and floor. Once I tried to make it a home but through my own mistakes and foolishness, I let it fall into ruin that mimics my existence. Now it is nothing, and now I leave it empty and deserted for while it holds no tangible items, it contains many memories. Many of them happy and warm and some of them very angry and violent, painful. I am unable to face them, so I run from them.

I hide in the mountains, and in the forest, in swamps and in the dirtiest places I can find in order to lose all sense of what I once was. I would cut out my tongue, if I did not need it to beg, and I would gouge out my eyes if I did not need them in order to see what I have done.

My being is my punishment, and now I make my home in a world that fears me, surrounded by people who do not see me, following after a man who I have wronged.

I have no bed to lay my head, and no bowl to eat from, but those were just acts to begin with. I fear now that everything is just an act, motions I perform in order to give myself some meaning besides what I was meant to do. I sometimes wish for my old home back, my old life, but I know that if I had it back I would simply ruin it again with my incompetence.

But still I move, still I beg and plead for forgiveness. Perhaps if I am contrite, if I am absolved, then my being will be a little less painful. I do not deserve such mercy, but one day I might.

(311)

For thetenspot 100. TEN fictional Characters

Tue, 20 May 2008 02:00:16 GMT

100. TEN fictional characters that you'd like to meet and what one question you would ask them.

10. Hope -|- Why have you deserted me?
09. Faithfulness -|- Have you become so rare?
08. Joy -|- Have you been forgotten?
07. Innocence -|- How long have you suffered?
06. Goodness -|- Do you miss us?
05. Rage -|- Do you enjoy your throne?
04. Truth -|- How does it feel to become obsolete?
03. Courage -|- When did you lose your foot hold?
02. Beauty -|- When did you become so ugly?
01. Mercy -|- Where are you?

230 -|- Black and White

Tue, 20 May 2008 01:40:24 GMT

No one really appreciates the versatility of tar any more. Oh, everyone hears in history class about people being “tarred and feathered” but no one really understands how horrific it is. No, people just see it in the cartoons, some caricature of a person or an animal toddles around half covered with tar with a hand full of feathers thrown in for good measure. This thing isn’t screaming in pain, or desperately trying to get the impossible stuff off of them.

That’s a real shame.

The great thing about tar is the pain and suffering it brings along with it. It seems relatively harmless until applied in great quantities to the human flesh. What was pure as snow, becomes filthy and black. Pores begin to clog, skin begins to sizzle because you have to heat the stuff up to at least three hundred and fifty degrees in order to apply it the correct way. Think of the smell as construction workers having a cook out while they repave your street.

Oh, it’s truly horrific. Watching people trying to breathe against the fumes or even better, trying to some how roll around in the dirt to stop the pain. I should just tell you now, that stuff is never, ever coming off. Especially when it hardens fully. I mean I suppose you could burn the stuff off, but that would be subjecting the human body to extreme heat. You may as well put a bullet between their eyes, it’s the most humane thing to do.

If you aren’t into that kind of stuff you can pose them once they’ve gone into shock and stopped flailing around like an idiot. You could put them in your back yard, tar sculptures. You could sell them at art galleries to pretentious assholes who look down their nose at you, but tolerate you because you produce: “great art.”

Or, at night, when you get lonely, you could set your creations on fire, you could watch them melt away. Everything you’ve worked hard for, everything you strove to perfect. Dripping down into nothing but a puddle of black brittle and sharp with the fragments of broken bones.

It just goes to show you, that nothing lasts forever.

(387)

228 -|- 3am

Sun, 18 May 2008 15:07:56 GMT

    "It's 3am and my baby's gone. . ." The old blues man moaned while his fingers moved easily over the strings of his guitar. "She left me sad and lonely - and she left me black and blue. . ."

    The room is smoky, filled with people who, by this time, were good and drunk. Slumped over the bar, and the tables they sat at, listening to the old man bemoan the loss of his love. The half empty beers at their side, and the old twangy guitar sound the only thing to keep them company. Death sat, motionless and waiting by the stage, listening along with the other patrons, but refusing to feel the effects of the music as they did.

As the last notes faded, a few of the more sober people at the bar clapped, and the old man nodded his head in their direction. Very slowly he reached out and picked up his glass of water, drinking the cloudy liquid he had time to pause and reflect. When he sat the glass down, he finally turned his blind eyes to where Death was sitting. For a long time, the man did not move, he simply watched - and Death could see his milky white eyes flicking behind dark glasses.

Finally, he nodded as if coming to an agreement with himself and then cleared his throat. "One more song, then we can go, now? Is dat okay with you?" No one else in the bar seemed to hear, or maybe they weren't meant to hear, they certainly hadn't heard anything else the man had said. But Death nodded and responded.

    Turning back to his guitar, the old musician and entertainer nodded very slowly before starting his song. His last song was about heading back home, about bein' all around the world and seein' a lot of things, but not really bein' seen. Now he's old and he's broken, and he's headin' back where he belongs. Gonna lay his head down on a pillow white, and sleep the last sleep, he's ever gonna need.

When the last notes faded, he took a moment to gather himself - standing up, he took a few shuffling steps toward the edge of the stage. Years of practice, helped him get along fine, and with guitar in hand he made his way to the rooms in his back, waiting for that pillow of white.

(426)

forthetenspot 96. TEN people you're angry with and why.

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 05:52:14 GMT

10. Every
09. Single
08. One
07. Of
06. You
05. Worthless
04. Pieces
03. Of
02. Shit.
01. I don't need a why. Fuck off.

Death gets dumped . . . again.

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 05:48:58 GMT

Following THIS post.

Death was weary, as if she had been walking for a very long time with no real destination, with no real purpose. Death would have disliked this ache if not for the fact that it was the only thing she currently truly felt. If she thought hard enough about it, she could remember a time when she was happy, when she smiled and laughed in the arms of a man who told her he loved her. But that seemed like a very long time away, and as if she was watching some foreign film, shot in a language she could not understand.

It was a poetic metaphor, but a rather cold truth. When she had been upgraded, she had taken the corrupted memory and tried to salvage it as much as possible. Picking through the bits of information in order to come up with a film, a show of the moments they had spent together. Trying to mimic the movements, the smiles, and the way she placed herself in his hands. Perhaps if she could no longer feel those emotions, she could fake them. So she tinkered as she worked, snipping and cutting each frame so the movie would flow seamlessly together. In the end, she hoped to present it to him, perhaps as a wedding gift, some sort of token of herself – what was left of her.

Not like she was sure that they would get married now. It seemed like something that was spoken about, but never truly came to fruition. Perhaps he did not have his heart set on it, he never really did in the first place. Set in his ways, she was sure that the ring was to appease her, to make her happy. Now the rock and band seemed to weight heavy on her finger, a sign that she had asked too much from him, and not enough of herself. What was she to give? If Death thought about it logically, if she assessed the situation correctly, her assets were nothing. All she had was her body, and that she gave freely, if rarely these day.

Back when she felt, she missed him, finding him where ever he was currently located to comfort and console him. Now, things had changed, a switch had been thrown and she was more intent on doing what she was made to do – rather then focus on what she wanted.

Here at the house she stood, listening to the silence that surrounded her, smelling the faint traces of the man she remembered as her lover. The smell of his sweat, of his fur, the stale odor of sex and blood, all smells that should have evoked a memory of them – but instead brought up visions of her work. Pictures of places she had been, things she had seen, and various task she was forced to complete.

As she walked, she held in her hands a small box that contained her finished work, the story of them, of her promise that she could once again return to that. In her mind, in the rational thought processing center, she knew that it had been a long time since she had seen him. She knew that humans enjoyed contact, and Grady especially so, without it, they would become depressed, withdrawn and very upset.

Knowing this, she still felt something akin to surprise as she read the note that was left on the bed. His letter was a logical response to the situation he found himself in, still, she found that she was not happy with this new piece of information. Very slowly she sat down on the bed and continued to read the note, analyzing every word, every place she found a flaw in his writing. This was his decision, but his logic was flawed. If he loved her, if he missed her, why did he leave?

Delving deep into her memory, in her knowledge base, she worked hard to try and figure out why if someone loved another person – they would leave. Can a person truly be in love and unhappy at the same time? It was impossible to understand, two subjective things along with human nature, left for an unsolvable and unsteady equation that did not seem to have a stable or constant outcome.

In an uncharacteristic response, she could feel her eyes become wet – two oily tears ran down her cheeks and landed on the paper she was holding. The steady ache that had filled her bones seemed to become more heavy, and she was forced to bow her head. Deep down, past the program she had been fitted with, was some little piece of memory that told her that she did not want to be without him. That, even though it was not the logical course, she wanted to be happy, to be human like the video showed, what was written on the slip of paper.

Could she be happy once more? What was happiness? Everything she had seen had shown her how to act happy, what was harder to find, what had been lost was the emotion of happiness.

Confused, and disoriented, she stood up and walked to the door. Uncertain of anything except that she need to find Grady in order help her understand. Perhaps there was something she was missing, something she had not factored into the equation. If he could not help her, perhaps he would be good enough to give her one last kiss, to let her share his warmth one more time before he left her alone.

225 -|- Stendhal Syndrome & Moments of Silence

Sat, 05 Apr 2008 21:41:37 GMT

Stendhal syndrome is when a person becomes physically moved when exposed to beautiful works of art. Their body shakes, they become dizzy, their heart rate increases and they can even have hallucinations. To see something so beautiful it really does, literally take your breath away. Something so powerful that it moves people to tears, to make them at a loss for words.

At eighty-six years of age, Klara Sofiya had waited her whole life to travel to Paris to see the amazing works of art she had only read about in the ancient books she had borrowed from an old neighbor. The old man had traveled around the world before settling down in the small Ukrainian village. He would tell her stories as she flipped through the brittle yellow pages, looking over the black and white photos that enthralled her.

It took her seventy years to finally make it to Paris, the city of lights. Hunched over, her body frail, bones weak and brittle. Her fingers warped with arthritis wrapped around the head of a cane she used to move slowly from one room filled with paintings to another. All around her, in bright color were the paints that inspired her when she was a little girl. After all the dreams, and the fantasies she had about this moment, she felt like a little girl again.

Her back straightened and she moved more easily, her words came fast, and in French to her nephew who had gone along with her on the trip. In her lightness she moved through the galleries to the one she was specifically looking for, finding at long last the painting that she had always adored. Standing very still, she stared at it for a long time, allowing herself to fall silent, to shut everything down besides her eyes.

There were no words, no sounds, nothing except the beauty that was in front of her. The beauty brought an ache to her heart, to her head, and she found it hard to breathe, hard to stand. In the presence of beauty everything stopped, including her heart. On the floor of the Louvre, she died, smiling at a perfect work of art.

(375)

Happy birthday, Hiro

Sat, 05 Apr 2008 08:25:48 GMT

Ooc: This is set in bendy time, whatever time, and just a general little birthday gift to Hiro, who's birthday was on the first of this month!

Death always felt slightly bad about breaking into the homes of the living, of course the guilt never lasted very long - no emotion lasted very long these days. Still, she was very much aware of the customs surrounding birthdays, and she had such fun with Hiro, that she thought it would be a shame to not do something fun for his birthday. On the nearest table, she set down two bags of fresh ground Kona Coffee. It smelt so good she almost wanted to open it herself, but resisted. Next came the helium balloons, everywhere, tied to various pieces of furniture and lurking behind doors.

With the coffee and the balloons, she figured that he would realize who had left the small gift, and so left no card.