Post by pretzelbender on Oct 3, 2020 22:42:30 GMT -5
The days are becoming increasingly overwhelming. His brain’s apparent gluttony for paranoia and extreme emotion is insatiable, almost as insatiable as he is. Unable to relax, a rattling urging in his bones to move. Every nerve in his body, shot and singing, hands shaking when faced with anything. The anger, the fear, the crying. Situations that pile up, obsessions with minds of their own.
The people who let him down. The mentor that throws himself into positions to directly oppose or challenge him. The Dog, the Dreamcatcher, the Devil. The swelling in his chest for his lady, that makes him almost feel normal enough despite the need to shove her into a box and keep her from all her admirers, keep her for himself, brush her hair, dress her up, hold her close. The furious jealousy toward anyone who kisses and makes a ginger wolf bleed.
The pride of the radio, the impatience with financial institutions, the children and their tribes. Have you read the headlines lately? Jupiter isn’t real.
His social life, his growingly adventurous limbs and mouth, and his possessive nature almost makes him nostalgic for a time where he knew nobody, not even himself. But, unmistakably, he knows himself. He knows himself well. His wants. The deep need to swallow the world whole, to lose his head, to stream a river of tears and float away upon it.
Miles Lucky isn’t getting any better. He hasn’t changed, but he knows he isn’t the same.
It’s hard to explain. He’s a fragile boy, a walking lightning rod with a deeply dug conductive grid for veins, he attracts chaos, he causes it, and then it’s hard to deal with. He closes in on himself, he screams. He understands, for split moments, why everyone is on a fast road to death. He understands why everyone wants the peace of nothingness.
But Miles Lucky doesn’t want peace. He’s a survivor. He wants to live forever. He knows it. He wants whatever he sees. He’s never satisfied, he refuses to be. His organs wail for substance, for blood, for the sound of cringing crunches, for success. For success and success and success nothing else.
Miles Lucky wants the world, and so he will get it, no matter who stands in his way. And should he fail in any endeavor, he’ll mend for it and make it his.
“I can count all my failures on one hand,” comes the voice of our crooked man. Bones and meat in a mass, tall, no matter who disgustingly calls him short and cute, fuck you. “It’s the benefit of having a fresh career, I guess.”
It’s a hot day, insanely so despite the approaching autumn. Partly because it takes weeks before the heat of the concrete relaxes, and partly because Miles didn’t want it to be over.
So, it is still going. Still baking the bodies of those who transverse the streets and parks, as Miles pulls back the drawstring and locks it in a crossbow. He’s been practicing, during outings like this with the Dog, her laying in the grass under the shade of a tree filled with bolts.
“Rookies flood into this industry every day, New faces, new names. They all beg for recognition immediately, they cry and scream their dreams just so you can care. People are starting to say, hey, give them a chance.”
He lifts it and takes aim, following the line of sight to something we can’t see.
“I don’t respect it. My name is something that I don’t need to speak, it’s said for me. I don’t have any cases to plead. I don’t have any dreams. I have needs. From the start of my career, I’ve been clawing and biting. I’ve been tearing others apart, limb by limb. Recognition was never something I asked for, I just took it.”
He’s tracing movement slowly, not keeping his eyes off the target. It’s silly. Despite the blistering heat, it’s actually a very beautiful day.
“Miles Lucky is the name you hear during distant conversation that you’re too awkward to participate in. I’m sniffing out meat, gold. I have people floating in my head, waiting to be destroyed. I’m not afraid to say I’m good at this. I’m so fucking good at this, people forget that this is my rookie year too. Still, I’m not the guy you want across the ring from you. I’m avoided, I started picking straws to decide who to feed to me.”
“Are you talking to me, or them?” Comes an optimistic voice, right behind a pair of binoculars that Miles told him time and time again that he didn’t need. Miles yells out in frustration, making the man look up at him from his own spot on the grass.
“Cripes! MJ, I’m trying to concentrate! You piece of junk!” It’s complete fury, but MJ doesn’t seem deterred. MJ, who was once a mannequin, is filled with bravery and nonchalance in his human body. Also, he is probably used to the abuse.
“Okay, but-”
I’m talking to her. She’ll see this too because in an amazing way, she sees everything in between the lines of conversation. She’s a form of solid energy, on a constant tight rope trick switched and turned from the different notions in her mind. She controls time, and space and whatever’s in between those two things. She forges her own realities, and I’m envious.
I fucking hate it, I fucking hate it.
I hate how difficult it is for you, yet you do it anyway. In between all the fireflies and the scholars and the worlds you create and visit, you do it anyway. What is it? You’re not sturdy, there’s no foundation under your phantom feet. How do you leave your head for a week and come back with it still attached? You’re nearly calm. You’re nearly there. And piled on with failure after failure, you’re not nearly done.
What am I doing? I don’t know. You mean a lot to me, you really do. I don’t want to be you, but if I could have a piece of you, I would be happy.
I hope in this weird, small way, I’m appealing to you because there’s an enormous part of me that believes you can read my mind. You’d probably deny it, who could read the mind of Miles Lucky? Who knows what the fuck turns him on?
You do, your husband too, and that’s fine. You two were woven for each other, it’s really something else. It must be nice, to never have to explain and that’s another thing to be envious of. You’ve been everywhere, you’ve done it all. You have a trumpet named Louis, and you found him on a battlefield. You’re strange, in a different way from everything else I see every day. You’re the first wave, the rat that came on a burning ship. You’re a catalyst, and maybe you created it.
Everything that’s a little bent, is bent because of you.
This is your ode, your ballad, a tribute. Because I’m going to do my best and try to kill you. It’s silly to say it, we’ll both laugh about it, you’ll roll your eyes, but you know it. You know my teeth only go there because I really want to taste your throat.
You’ll see it for the compliment that it is.
Maybe I’m spending too much time here. I think I am, and I think you are too. Let’s get back to it, huh?
“Let’s get back right into it, Anna.” A bolt sails from the crossbow, scaring a woman passing by with a stroller as it skidded right past them. Miles frowns. However, it’s the only reaction he gets as she continues along. Nobody, in the various bodies that seem to be filling the park in a sudden display, seem to care that he’s hunting. Miles huffs and goes to pull the drawstring back into place again.
“I like you. I don’t need to say that, but I did anyway. It’s important that you know that before I explain that I can’t have you in my way this time around. You went ahead and did it, I failed in the wake of your success on a train. I think people may know it, I know it, but in case you don’t, in case everyone is wondering: I’m a sore loser. I’m a real sore loser. I’m a compact box of frustration. You were right, I haven’t been sleeping. It’s a lucky thing, it really is, to get you so soon after.”
The Dog is watching and MJ is eating a sandwich, suddenly. The crowd that has gathered is silent, nuzzling each other like gazelle.
“I can fix it. I can fix it enough in my head so it’s not really a bother. You toss me off and I crush you as you make a grab for my gold. The world spins, days go on and I let go of it completely. I have to redeem myself, to myself. I won’t eat right if I don’t, you know I love to eat and you know I won’t keep this belt forever. I need it to challenge for the next best thing. This belt is my ticket to Indi or Drell, to the Union Crown. Fuck Warfare, fuck everyone’s plans. No one is going to stop me. You’re not going to disrupt my line of sight so easily.”
Someone catches Miles eyes and he smiles maniacally, lifting the crossbow once more and aiming carefully.
“I’m going to bring you the flowers I decided you liked. I’m going to move you out of the fucking way, and I’m going to take what I’ve already decided is mine. To wrap this up, hello, I’m Miles Lucky. Welcome to my Rookie Year. Happy Pigeon Day.”
He shoots, and someone is hit as everyone else scatters. Miles yells out in victory and runs to the man as MJ scrambles behind him to help. The Dog looks on happily as Miles berates the man, and knocks him unconscious. She only gets up when MJ and Miles both grab a hold of the man, making their way to take him to the Warehouse. The warehouse that Miles loves so much.
The warehouse that he destroys and burns the interior of a week from now. Sorry if you were foolish enough to believe that we ever existed chronologically.
The people who let him down. The mentor that throws himself into positions to directly oppose or challenge him. The Dog, the Dreamcatcher, the Devil. The swelling in his chest for his lady, that makes him almost feel normal enough despite the need to shove her into a box and keep her from all her admirers, keep her for himself, brush her hair, dress her up, hold her close. The furious jealousy toward anyone who kisses and makes a ginger wolf bleed.
The pride of the radio, the impatience with financial institutions, the children and their tribes. Have you read the headlines lately? Jupiter isn’t real.
His social life, his growingly adventurous limbs and mouth, and his possessive nature almost makes him nostalgic for a time where he knew nobody, not even himself. But, unmistakably, he knows himself. He knows himself well. His wants. The deep need to swallow the world whole, to lose his head, to stream a river of tears and float away upon it.
Miles Lucky isn’t getting any better. He hasn’t changed, but he knows he isn’t the same.
It’s hard to explain. He’s a fragile boy, a walking lightning rod with a deeply dug conductive grid for veins, he attracts chaos, he causes it, and then it’s hard to deal with. He closes in on himself, he screams. He understands, for split moments, why everyone is on a fast road to death. He understands why everyone wants the peace of nothingness.
But Miles Lucky doesn’t want peace. He’s a survivor. He wants to live forever. He knows it. He wants whatever he sees. He’s never satisfied, he refuses to be. His organs wail for substance, for blood, for the sound of cringing crunches, for success. For success and success and success nothing else.
Miles Lucky wants the world, and so he will get it, no matter who stands in his way. And should he fail in any endeavor, he’ll mend for it and make it his.
“I can count all my failures on one hand,” comes the voice of our crooked man. Bones and meat in a mass, tall, no matter who disgustingly calls him short and cute, fuck you. “It’s the benefit of having a fresh career, I guess.”
It’s a hot day, insanely so despite the approaching autumn. Partly because it takes weeks before the heat of the concrete relaxes, and partly because Miles didn’t want it to be over.
So, it is still going. Still baking the bodies of those who transverse the streets and parks, as Miles pulls back the drawstring and locks it in a crossbow. He’s been practicing, during outings like this with the Dog, her laying in the grass under the shade of a tree filled with bolts.
“Rookies flood into this industry every day, New faces, new names. They all beg for recognition immediately, they cry and scream their dreams just so you can care. People are starting to say, hey, give them a chance.”
He lifts it and takes aim, following the line of sight to something we can’t see.
“I don’t respect it. My name is something that I don’t need to speak, it’s said for me. I don’t have any cases to plead. I don’t have any dreams. I have needs. From the start of my career, I’ve been clawing and biting. I’ve been tearing others apart, limb by limb. Recognition was never something I asked for, I just took it.”
He’s tracing movement slowly, not keeping his eyes off the target. It’s silly. Despite the blistering heat, it’s actually a very beautiful day.
“Miles Lucky is the name you hear during distant conversation that you’re too awkward to participate in. I’m sniffing out meat, gold. I have people floating in my head, waiting to be destroyed. I’m not afraid to say I’m good at this. I’m so fucking good at this, people forget that this is my rookie year too. Still, I’m not the guy you want across the ring from you. I’m avoided, I started picking straws to decide who to feed to me.”
“Are you talking to me, or them?” Comes an optimistic voice, right behind a pair of binoculars that Miles told him time and time again that he didn’t need. Miles yells out in frustration, making the man look up at him from his own spot on the grass.
“Cripes! MJ, I’m trying to concentrate! You piece of junk!” It’s complete fury, but MJ doesn’t seem deterred. MJ, who was once a mannequin, is filled with bravery and nonchalance in his human body. Also, he is probably used to the abuse.
“Okay, but-”
I’m talking to her. She’ll see this too because in an amazing way, she sees everything in between the lines of conversation. She’s a form of solid energy, on a constant tight rope trick switched and turned from the different notions in her mind. She controls time, and space and whatever’s in between those two things. She forges her own realities, and I’m envious.
I fucking hate it, I fucking hate it.
I hate how difficult it is for you, yet you do it anyway. In between all the fireflies and the scholars and the worlds you create and visit, you do it anyway. What is it? You’re not sturdy, there’s no foundation under your phantom feet. How do you leave your head for a week and come back with it still attached? You’re nearly calm. You’re nearly there. And piled on with failure after failure, you’re not nearly done.
What am I doing? I don’t know. You mean a lot to me, you really do. I don’t want to be you, but if I could have a piece of you, I would be happy.
I hope in this weird, small way, I’m appealing to you because there’s an enormous part of me that believes you can read my mind. You’d probably deny it, who could read the mind of Miles Lucky? Who knows what the fuck turns him on?
You do, your husband too, and that’s fine. You two were woven for each other, it’s really something else. It must be nice, to never have to explain and that’s another thing to be envious of. You’ve been everywhere, you’ve done it all. You have a trumpet named Louis, and you found him on a battlefield. You’re strange, in a different way from everything else I see every day. You’re the first wave, the rat that came on a burning ship. You’re a catalyst, and maybe you created it.
Everything that’s a little bent, is bent because of you.
This is your ode, your ballad, a tribute. Because I’m going to do my best and try to kill you. It’s silly to say it, we’ll both laugh about it, you’ll roll your eyes, but you know it. You know my teeth only go there because I really want to taste your throat.
You’ll see it for the compliment that it is.
Maybe I’m spending too much time here. I think I am, and I think you are too. Let’s get back to it, huh?
“Let’s get back right into it, Anna.” A bolt sails from the crossbow, scaring a woman passing by with a stroller as it skidded right past them. Miles frowns. However, it’s the only reaction he gets as she continues along. Nobody, in the various bodies that seem to be filling the park in a sudden display, seem to care that he’s hunting. Miles huffs and goes to pull the drawstring back into place again.
“I like you. I don’t need to say that, but I did anyway. It’s important that you know that before I explain that I can’t have you in my way this time around. You went ahead and did it, I failed in the wake of your success on a train. I think people may know it, I know it, but in case you don’t, in case everyone is wondering: I’m a sore loser. I’m a real sore loser. I’m a compact box of frustration. You were right, I haven’t been sleeping. It’s a lucky thing, it really is, to get you so soon after.”
The Dog is watching and MJ is eating a sandwich, suddenly. The crowd that has gathered is silent, nuzzling each other like gazelle.
“I can fix it. I can fix it enough in my head so it’s not really a bother. You toss me off and I crush you as you make a grab for my gold. The world spins, days go on and I let go of it completely. I have to redeem myself, to myself. I won’t eat right if I don’t, you know I love to eat and you know I won’t keep this belt forever. I need it to challenge for the next best thing. This belt is my ticket to Indi or Drell, to the Union Crown. Fuck Warfare, fuck everyone’s plans. No one is going to stop me. You’re not going to disrupt my line of sight so easily.”
Someone catches Miles eyes and he smiles maniacally, lifting the crossbow once more and aiming carefully.
“I’m going to bring you the flowers I decided you liked. I’m going to move you out of the fucking way, and I’m going to take what I’ve already decided is mine. To wrap this up, hello, I’m Miles Lucky. Welcome to my Rookie Year. Happy Pigeon Day.”
He shoots, and someone is hit as everyone else scatters. Miles yells out in victory and runs to the man as MJ scrambles behind him to help. The Dog looks on happily as Miles berates the man, and knocks him unconscious. She only gets up when MJ and Miles both grab a hold of the man, making their way to take him to the Warehouse. The warehouse that Miles loves so much.
The warehouse that he destroys and burns the interior of a week from now. Sorry if you were foolish enough to believe that we ever existed chronologically.