Caw hurls the 143rd corpse onto the platform, his face contorting in disgust. His hands are all slippery, reeking of human stench. He cannot, for the love of his future, understand why he’s picked to intern for a lowly Mortician when, taking Caw’s rank into account, he could have chosen any prestigious job. Instead here he is, hauling corpses after corpses onto the Body Dock, before the waves manage to wash them up on Bone Beach and scare the sunlight out of the tourists.
Where do these dead humans come from anyway?
It isn’t until he takes off his hat and calls it a day (night, whatever) that he notices a barrel bobbing in the middle of the black ocean. The Mortician never told him about floating barrels, and for the three months Caw had been labouring his haughty arse, a barrel is the last thing he expects to see.
The moment Liam falls into Neverearth, the Mirths take him in. Berndt Mirth, a brother only in title, tells him that his attempts to return to his past life is more trouble than they are worth. And he would be lying to say he hasn’t once thought the same, back in Dolemrok, when he had been upset and alone with a dying mother, three siblings and an estate to look over. He had been barely of age when father abandoned him to serve the country. He couldn’t understand it then.
A compilation of well-known fictional characters I have so far typed, ranging from English books to Japanese comics. This is the most reliable list, if I say so myself! Laughs. Even so, these are open to changes. Continue reading…
I never really expected to find myself giving advice to people graduating from an establishment of higher education. I never graduated from any such establishment. I never even started at one. I escaped from school as soon as I could, when the prospect of four more years of enforced learning before I’d become the writer I wanted to be was stifling.
I got out into the world, I wrote, and I became a better writer the more I wrote, and I wrote some more, and nobody ever seemed to mind that I was making it up as I went along, they just read what I wrote and they paid for it, or they didn’t, and often they commissioned me to write something else for them.
Which has left me with a healthy respect and fondness for higher education that those of my friends and family, who attended Universities, were cured of long ago.
Liam is well liked everywhere in Neverearth not because of his achievements but in spite of it.
Liam is perfect, it is all he knows how to be, and if there is despair behind it that is his business. Liam notices that his kindness intimidates some of his classmates, so he responds, moulding himself automatically to present the type of perfection they prefer. He modulates his speeches and actions accordingly, and after a while they forget that his eagerness to throw himself in the path of danger used to frighten them, that his curiosity had once been the talk of the school.
He is just like them now, if not always a little above, and he feels himself slipping into the role with despair. It is nothing, really, just as his life is nothing.
He is still as capable as he ever was, spotting the tiniest of inconsistencies and following them, leaping across the landscape of suicidal impulse, but he slows his thoughts, picks his words with meticulous care and is careful in how he presents himself. Hard work, devotion and dedication, not the fact that he simply is willing to die, is the reason he rises above them.
Liam Mirth will go far, they say, and Liam knows it also and does not care. Liam knows that if he just has the right tools he could leave this world, never mind being the greatest wizard, and all his achievements mean nothing with this knowledge.
He knows there has to be a way out, that there must be something else to strive for, but he gave up a long time ago, perhaps even before he fell into Neverearth — what does it matter? He might be broken inside but his veneer is perfect.
Here I was, once again, looking into MBTI and coming across an interesting thread on the internet. What is new?
It is pretty amusing that the users were trying to describe each type with only one word. I applaud their brevity and of course they’ve got to be doing this on an INTJ forum. Conciseness and INTJ do walk hand-in-hand after all.
I am an INFx so I wouldn’t know anything about that. Or, I try to but my indulgence with proses seem to get in the way. Maybe I could ask an INTJ to mentor me to be as profound as they are. I have just got to find one who won’t emotionally wound me too much.
Being stuck in South Korea and having your flight cancelled was the worst thing that could happen to a socially anxious college kid who wished more than anything that she was at home reading century-old novels for the heck of it.
I am not sure how I survived. But I did, and this is a late revelation but isn’t it amazing how we think we can’t do something until after we did it, then realise we can actually do it? Not saying that surviving a cancelled flight is a big accomplishment or anything, but I managed to do that without even being unnecessarily grumpy.
Most of the time I feel like there is something inherently wrong with me. I give in to self-doubt and anxiety and the nausea of the very thought of life. It is not that life is specially hard, it’s just the idea of it, the tasks expected from you and the way you are supposed to behave and the very notion of existing. Existence pains me. I am not even depressed anymore, at least not clinically. I do not wish to ever return to that state after having endured it for half a decade. It’s just that I am always completely lost. I have forgotten how to live like a competent human being, or at least society’s notion of competency. I keep looking for ways to modify my own head to fly by each day unscathed and productive. I do a lot of thinking about things, of never knowing when the chaos will end or if I would ever be able to grasp the notion of life on earth at all. I do not feel human. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid of my own thoughts.
Knowledge is such a dangerous thing. The more I seem to know about the world, the more I try to understand its people, the more dangerous I become.
War meant little to them. All they knew was that it took lives and that, in itself, was unjustifiable. That didn’t mean much though; everything grown ups did always was either cruel or unjustifiable, but their War meant both.
All Rue knew about War was that it robbed the softness of eyes and the gentleness of hands; War did worse than end people, it twisted them. And Rue knew this because she had seen it (Mrs Platt lost her son to War – she now used hands instead of heart to deal with Rue and the rest of the children), heard it (no longer could any of them bother between rainstorms and gunfires; this was how Rue knew that even she was War-damaged) and read of it (a selected few from the Home were taught to read at an early age; it all stopped after Enemy bombed System one night; any pretences of peace crumbled along with the wreckage. Rue learned much from the books she could get her hands on; she imagined the rest, filling in the gaps where words and phrases meant nonsense to her—what was Tranquility? It sounded a lot like a sister of Quarantine).
there are nobody to save us. we are already ghosts here, bearing the weight of memories, regrets, lost hopes and dreams. all the heroes have killed themselves, are killing themselves or have already been killed. the age before death is now a broken film reel — memories, across these hollow sockets, flickering; the bittersweetness of names still linger on rotten tongue, past laughters pelt onto trodden skulls like rain. the doom and gloom of happy days — the blind faith, bounded youth and the world, a war-field in disguise — flood these long spoiled lungs.
and we have all been fools, thinking war was the good against the evil, the light and the dark, the rights and the wrongs; if only reality is that simple.
the real battle begins as evil corrupts evil, light burns light, rights and wrongs forming allies to murder part of themselves instead of each other. that is the war — the fight without soldiers, men nor women — the children, devastatingly alone with no one to turn to, grapple for the wrong kind of attention, because any is better than none at all.
to define war is an offer of alias to the demons in us.
deaths have never been the worst of it; war is about hopes dreams and futures long shrivelled under blood and gore, trodden and rotten beyond the marrow of our bones.