#hemlock starter

[multiplehatsmanyfaces]

Holiday Season?

I am cold and I have sniffles.  No money, but gratefully a little for a good Christmas meal.  I don’t have a vehicle, but certainly have a lot of heart and desire to go some place.  I am still not trying to be inside through all of the holiday.  Festivities, please.

[slidingskins-blog]

Open Starter: Explain this, scientists

As winter approaches, the days grow shorter. The evenings come quicker, and the days begin to become a precious commodity. The air smells crisp, now, the sun not quite set but almost so, with only vestiges of pink and purple left behind in a dark blue sky that bears a brightly glistening array of stars.

Around the town that bears Hemlock University and it’s thousands of students, there is a forest. A forest that is just as cold as it is warm, that bears brown and orange and crimson leaves both, that is sleepy with the approaching cold season, and which is quiet, now, save for the rustle of trees when the wind howls. At least, that was the case. That was the case, until out of that wood, out of a bunch of bushes, scrambled past a bipedal brown bear wearing a green and yellow birthday hat, clutching a dark jar of honey within two massive front paws.

[slidingskins-blog]

@adrienneblackley Today he’d actually—Wandered into his dorms at a somewhat normal hour, which, well, surprised all that he’d wandered past. He’d even met a few new faces, at two in the morning, people who led actually healthy-ish lives and whom he hadn’t had a chance to introduce his own lovely self too, just yet. But yeah—He’d stumbled in, a little over 2 o’clock, smelling of the musk of sweat and sex and alcohol. He wasn’t even high, nor that drunk, just on the side which would get him arrested if he was driving. But yes, he’d come in, dropping his keys on the cupboard nearby, peering at Philip who sat nice and snugly and with his fat plush lips pouting, like always. Philip was surely fed but—Just to be sure, Koen sprinkled in a bit more food, watching it sink down and get gobbled by the shiny fish immediately. Needlessly to say, Philip was a very round and chubby goldfish, in his nicely decorated tank. Koen copied a few of his little pops, shining and grinning afterwards, before undressing, and dropping into his bed, Adri in the bed right next to him.

Koen slept only in his underwear, and, sometimes, with nothing at all. It wasn’t a habit that was likely to change.

And he’d slept—Soundly and tightly, and just like the dead but, well, not really.

He, despite the tiredness sitting squat over his being, the itch of sleep sitting heavy in his limbs, he just—Something had dragged him kicking and screaming from anywhere close to the world of sleep, and dumped him into the pain of the waking, and no matter what he did or what he thought he couldn’t shake that.

As Koen sat in his bed, wrapped around his pillow and covered by his blankets, hair tussled and mussed and eyes squinting at the wall, he couldn’t help but be plagued by thoughts and—Just. Just, his head was bursting with the power and impact of just one question, and no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn’t explain it, he needed someone to talk to about it and needed someone to drag into this too, just as he’d been dragged out of sleepiness and so— “Pst.” He said, quietly, at first, before Koen realized that it probably wouldn’t do much to rouse the girl. He did it again, louder, and then again, and again, and once he saw motion in the other bed he paused, blinked, and then threw his cuddling-pillow at her. “Hey—“ He started, once he was certain she was awake, flipping onto his other side, feeling empty air near his chest and immediately mourning his pillow. “Do you think that we see colours differently? That my blue could be your red or fuck, something less subtle than that like fuckin’—What if I look at a bright, crunchy red apple, yeah, so far with me? And, and, and you look at it and see that it’s got yellow and orange lines and spots and it’s that simple and—How. How do we know which one is right? Could someone be right?”

[slidingskins-blog]

Koen preened in front of the mirror, putting on the finishing touches to his makeup. A final run of some blue eyeshadow, a tug at his lower lip to check if his teeth were free of lipstick, and a quick glance over his clothes, checking for unnecessary grime.

There was none, so he stood, his grin glowing with teeth, and he made his way out of the public restroom. Just before he left, he grabbed the bat that he’d left leaning against the wall, hoisted it over his shoulder, and changed his manner of walking so that it’ll be a mixture of purely confident, goddamn eye-catching hip sway and the slow, careful approach of someone who was quite willing, and able, to cause pain for any small slight. Sure, Koen could have shapeshifted into the object of his costume—Could have done it down perfectly, made himself indistinguishable from the real thing, but, well, he did that every other day. That wasn’t special, and this party simply was, because it was for his main man, Joaquin, so he couldn’t dare do something subpar. So he’d gone through the effort of making a costume from cloth and threads instead of keratin and skin, of slinging makeup on himself and tying his normal hair in two pigtails, slathering the ends with paint, and what came out was simply magnificent. Truly, the result of all of the painstaking effort and money that went into this was worth all of the pain.

Koen’s hand met the door of the establishment the party was taking place in, and he had a quick, short breath to fuel his excitement, before he blasted the doors open, bat sitting snugly on his shoulders and what came in was— Harley Quinn, à la Suicide Squad’s version, but, well, the only differences between that and him was that his hair wasn’t two long, drooping pigtails, but rather two small clumps of his wavy hair tied up by pink and blue hair ties that were, quite literally meant, for little girls. Everything else, however? Has stayed on point. The high heels, the short shorts, the infamous Daddy’s Little Monster shirt, the coat, the bat, the makeup—Oh, he’d done his absolute damnest at replicating it all with merely internet purchases and, well, well, hum-hum, a bit of friendly borrowing from the lovely ladies he’d spent his last few nights with.

Agatha had concealer to positively die for, alright?

Koen, in the costume of Harley Quinn, sauntered into the party and immediately headed for the bar, or the bar-like area, or anywhere where his nose picked up on that telltale musk. Sure, he’d promised to Joaquin that he’d be sober on the whole drug side of the matter, and wouldn’t drink himself into a flaming puddle but—The night was young! He could sober up in time for whatever events Joaquin was going to throw at him, most certainly! He’d found bright red cups full of beer, blinked at the clichés-ness of this all, before shrugging, and he grabbed one, gulping down the contents like a thirsty man who’s spent the last few days wandering around in goddamn Death Valley.

Koen met a familiar face, just after his face had come out of the beer, and, throwing the empty cup over his shoulder, he made his way to them, slung an arm around their shoulders, and pulled them close. “’Sup, my homie! What I’d miss? Hopefully nothin’ fun--And, oh, I feel like I should say this before someone beats me to it but, get ready for it, c’mon—“ He licked his lips, and then sung, “The party don’t start ‘till I walk in.”

[slidingskins-blog]

Open--An Unlucky Call

The mobile rang. The thrum of the party still going on inside beckoned but—Nah. It was dying down, most of the folks already dead on their feet or black-out drunk and sleeping on each other for a lack of a soft surface. Bless ‘em, sweet little deadbeat tikes.

The mobile rang. Somehow, Koen wasn’t the drunkest fucker around. Maybe it’s because he, somehow, had grown a modicum of restraint in the day that he had spent a tormented, college, uh, uh, um--doing student. Or, most likely, he was just given watered down drinks for flirting somewhat excessively with the wait staff.

The mobile stopped ringing. Mm-hmm, most likely the last option—He is a particular soul after all. “Hey—Hey, Wendy, Wendy, right? You weren’t sleepin’, yeah? I mean—It’s practically still the evenin’ so and yeah.” Bless the wall. It was like a vast, long, single leg which kept him up and steady. Bless her, little Miss Wall. She’s absolutely beautiful. Koen could kiss the wall, honestly, but nah. He’s already going to do his kissing if Wendy decides to be a kind soul.                                                                           

“Oh, but, onto the nitty and the gritty and the titty and all of that—Think, uh, I could come over, hm? We had such a fun time on—“ He squinted. “Friday, right, so we should do it again! Maybe with some, some less folks around?” No one was around, only the evening and the groaning owls. Still, he winked.

What Koen was not aware of, was that ‘Wendy’ in fact, had written the wrong number down. And that at the moment, Koen was calling someone most definitely different from her.