It’s time for Snippets again, and I’ve been writing so much that I have plenty! Wahooo! Now, to narrow them down to my favorites. O___O
There’s a fine line between ‘okay’ and ‘not okay,’ and I had been walking it for three weeks now.
– The Meaning of Always
“Good morning, Miss. Did you sleep well?”
Smoke still hung in the air, just noticeable enough to be distracting. “Well, no,” I said honestly. “Between fire and wind, my night was more eventful and more like something out of an elementalist’s nightmare.” – Painkiller
The shape in the corner lifted its head, and I found myself looking into the greenest pair of eyes I had ever seen.
‘Here, boy’ was righter than I’d thought. – The Boy
I could only nod because the truth was, now that I could see him better, there were the makings of someone attractive. He was too thin from lack of food, and still definitely not as clean as he could be, but the looks were there; strong facial structure, lips that were chapped but full, and there were always those deep-set eyes, watching us from under dark eyebrows.
“At least his hair was naturally brown,” said Mom. – The Boy
Silence, then a crash so loud it startled me and I slipped one rung on the ladder. Heart pounding, I gripped it tightly and stared at the row of books in front of me. Someone, or something, was behind the wall.
The only light coming in was from the doors behind me. The hall stretched in front of me like a tunnel, and against my better judgment, I started walking. I was halfway down the hall before I realized what was so eerie about it – the walls were lined with paintings. Beautiful paintings, from what I could see in the dim light; rich with color and detail.
And in every single one of them, a face had been torn out. Canvas hung in ragged strips, leaving empty holes that only displayed the back of the frame and nothing more. I lifted one of the pieces of canvas, hoping that if I pressed it back where it was supposed to be I could see what had been ripped away. But the pieces of canvas with the mysterious face on them were gone; it was only the surrounding canvas that hung tattered. – Painkiller
I flip the cover open, uncap the pen, and write down the song that beats around me like a living heart. This is what I live for; to slice open a vein and bleed ink over the page. To uncage the thoughts and feelings locked inside me, to give them voice in the only way I know how. – Acceso
The boy looked down at the headstone. There had not been enough time for grass to grow over the mound of dirt, and it lay there like a corpse itself in front of the stone that proclaimed, ‘Hisoka Kimui. Finally home.’ ‘Finally,’ as if he had been waiting for it for so long he could hardly wait to get there. I wanted to scratch out those words, because Hisoka had not been waiting to die, he had been waiting to live. He was only eighteen; it wasn’t like he was on life support, dying of old age. – The Meaning of Always
“It’s okay, I’ll bring her home.” He nodded, the earring in his left ear swinging just a little with the movement. “No problem.” He put the phone back in his pocket and looked at me, then at his bicycle. “Well, I told your mom I’d bring you home.”
“I heard that.”
“Have you ever ridden handlebar?” he asked.
I shuddered. “Heavens, no.”
“Well, all right.” He reached up and ran his fingers over the mole on the side of his neck. “You can ride rumble, then.”
I blinked at him. “Rumble,” I repeated. – The Meaning of Always