#nessiwrites

[rhabakoli]

30 Days Of Writing

Hello Friends!

I want to try this, and see if I can get through it.

I'm taking requests, so if you want a prompt send me it's number and a ship. I'll write just about anything.

[rhabakoli]

Winter Aid

She stood there, on the edge of her life. In front of her, all she had ever loved, all that has been ripped from her, all that was lost forever. Behind her, vast darkness, a fleck of color and light here and there. The wind took off, grew stronger, rippled through her clothes, wanted to push her this and that way, wanted her to step over, step back, let go, hold on, live and die. She was scared no more. She spread her arms, took a deep breath, let the winds drive through her hair, ruffle it, play with it, leave it beaten and in shambles. Not unlike her. She was still raw, sucked dry, numb; Flesh and bones exposed, skin pulled back and off, feeling but not, not wanting to, not letting it in, not letting it get to her. A touch to her shoulder woke her, send waves of electric shocks through her, pebbled her skin from her head to her toes, making her turn her head around. There was a small light. It seemed to pulse, to change from colorless, transparent almost, to a vibrant spectrum of rainbow layered upon rainbow; Iridescent, glowing, dulling, but only for a split of a second, before coming back to new glory. It enticed her, pulled, laid a spell upon her. Her skin prickled, she wanted to touch, but it shied away. It seemed playful, not scared. So she tried again. Her back was now to the lost, she faced the emptyness, the darkness, entchanted by this single little glowbug. It flew close to her face, warming it, sending a healty rosy color to her cheeks, nurturing a small smile onto her lips, chased the dark circles under her eyes away. It seemed to heal her, soothe her hurting nerves, pull her skin back where it belonged and flicked it together with loving touch; hiding her bones away, in the darkness where they belonged, made her whole again. She took another step forward. The light flittered about, from left to right and around her, and when she finally touched it, it exploded. Light erupted around her, chased the darkness away, filled it with light and color, with chaste blossoms and warmth. Such a peacefull feeling overcame her, but more. It was divine, it was like years of pain ended. The wind left, took her pain away, carried it out over the edge, and only left the memories, the stories, the good and content. She straightened her back, picked up her shattered heart and left. Three pieces were left behind, casting a warm glow onto the headstones they were laid upon. She'd never forget. But she decided to live on. And it was good.

I want to thank @dreamwritesimagines, again, for kinda pushing me back into my oldest hobby, with the help of outstanding writing and awesome followers who just made it much more fun. THANK YOU, AMAZING PERSON

[rhabakoli]

The Way

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m7OE-EnkIcA

The way he always has to touch her, as if she’d disappear in front of his eyes as soon as he lets her go. As to make sure she is here, truly and for real. The way he looks at her, like she is Christmas, Easter and summer break all at once. As if she’s the best thing he could possibly look at. The way he shifts towards her, as soon as she enters the room. Like flowers towards the sun, or a comet that flew too close to earth and got caught by gravity.   The way he’s fuming when another man just as much as looks at her. Like a volcano short of erupting. The way he’s jealous in the most unsubtle of ways. The way he wants to make her happy. The way he smiles when he catches sight of her. The way he holds her hand when she’s in pain. The way he stays strong for both of them, but breaks apart silently when she won’t notice. The way he tries his best to make it easier for her. The way he takes the burden of calling her parents. The way he keeps visiting her. The way he shrinks, when she doesn’t recognize him. The way he feels her pain. The way he wishes the best for her. The way he keeps hoping. The way he freezes, when they call him. The way he cries, while standing at the edge. The way he allows everyone to see. The way he keeps her in his heart. The way he loved her.

[rhabakoli]

Southbound

The morning sun warmed her front, while the cold concrete of the roof kept her relatively cool. She was starfished on her back with headphones in her ears, the pounding beat coursing through her body. Over the last couple days she started to feel cooped up, caged in, always seeing the same 4 walls, always having the same view from the windows she was not supposed to go near. And, frankly, she was short of going crazy. So, when her protective detail went for a grocery run just 10 minutes ago, she decided to get some fresh air. No one would ever suspect her on the roof, she thought. Her feet wiggled left to right with the beat of the music, a slightly manic grin on her face from finally feeling wind against her skin and open sky above her. That was, until her headphones were ripped from her and she almost peed her pants. She shot up, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun, the other behind her on the roof. Her guy stood over her, earphones in hand and a fury on his face she hasn’t seen since she almost got shot last time they had to change safe houses. "Are you stupid, or insane?", he hissed, as he bent down to grab her arm. "What?”, she protested against his rough handling and slapped his hand. Not that it would do any good; what kind of Ex-Marine would let himself be deterred by a 1.60 woman, with no tactical or fighting experience whatsoever. "I'm asking, if you really, really want to be shot or if you are just that stupid?" His dark eyes pierced through her as he looked her up and down, to make sure she was fine. "I'm fine, Jesus, let me go!" She struggled against his grip, while he just pulled her towards the door. All the while, he was muttering something about crazy protectees and his regretable life decisions. The closer the door came, the more she fought, but he just went on. So, in moment of madness, she just dropped to the floor, shooting him a dark look. He came to a staggering stop, obviously not expecting resistance that strong. "Are you kidding me." His tone was as dry as the environment on his last tour, his eyes were mere slits as he stared you down. "I don't want to go in." "I can't let you be out here." She looked away, started counting the telemasts not too far off and said: "Seems we have a problem, Mister." He dropped her arm, pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long suffering sigh. "I don't think so, Missy." Her eyes went big and round, and before she could scramble away, he had picked her up, thrown her over his shoulder like she was nothing but a sack of potatoes and turned towards the door once again. She started to squirm, punch his back, pinch his butt, but he didn't budge. His arm was like a vice around her thighs, no way she was going anywhere. 

Back in the flat, he dropped her unceremoniously on the bed, went back to lock the door and then proceded to dial a number while pacing the length of the room. Even though it was more of a studio apartment, open floor plan and everything, he didn't have too many strides from one to the other side. But maybe that was just his fault for being that tall and long legged. He came to a stop, when the other end of the connection picked up. "We need a new safehouse." He shot his subject a withering look. "Yeah, she did." She watched him scribble an adress on a piece of paper and study it for a moment. He nodded, still listening to the call, and held it towards her. Already familiar with the procedure, she took it and started to memorize what was written on it. The safehouse was somewhere south, which meant they were gonna sweat their butts off. Groaning, she fell back on the bed. "Someone save me." "That's what I'm trying to do, if you remember." The paper was taken from her fingers, and her protector went to the bathroom for a second. A lighter's click was heard, then the faucet running. He came out again, looking at her, sitting there on the bed, well known pout right in place. He’d dreamt of it, that's how often he got to see it. Nightmare, really. "Get your bag, we're going." Groaning louder this time, she heavily stood up and stomped over to her stuff. "I hate you." "Good. Attachment is not good for the job." He watched his protectee shoulder her bag. "It's not good for my sanity either." "What?" "Nevermind." He opened the door and nodded towards it. "Let's go."

[rhabakoli]

Body

In no way do I want to offend, hurt or trigger anyone. I listened to a song, and this is what has been born from it. I did not go through such struggles, I do not know how it feels to experience anything like it. This is just how I imagine it to be; a softened version of it, I am sure. Feel free to educate me, correct me, tell me of your experiences, as I am curious and want to learn. 

Be warned: Transphobia, mild case of Body Dysmorphia, Parent Issues

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpxIakY3xfQ

The blanket they swaddled her in after an intense and hard birth was soft and rose-colored. She couldn’t remember, of course, but her mom had shown her the pictures too often for her not to know. Her father, proud, crying of joy kissing her little fist. Her mother, exhausted, tired, but so relieved to have a healthy little daughter. The fotographs spoke of joy, of bliss and new beginnings, a new life.

Her room, her clothes, soft pastel colors, nothing bold, just nice and quiet, soft. Don’t dare to be loud, to be seen. Play with you dolls, your stuffies, you don’t need cars, what for, you’re not a boy.

You’ve got scraped knees again, what did you do? How often do we have to tell you not to climb the trees? Those boys will only hurt you with their ideas, honey. Don’t play with them anymore.

In the headmasters office, again. Why so often, child? Why are you so rowdy, don’t you know you’re a girl? Girls don’t fight. Be quiet child, he was just lifting your skirt, but it was just a joke, he didn’t mean any harm.

Dirty pants, skirts she’s not comfortable in, ripped jumpers from falling off the board once too often, inconvenient summer dresses, ruffles where they just annoy her, leery looks from men, when she walks by in her school uniform. Brand new bras and feminine underwear in the charity bin her mother takes to church once in a while, discarded make-up she decides she’ll never use and will give away to friends, her body starting to grow, but at the wrong places. She feels wrong, somehow, she feels dirty in her skin, for feeling that way.

Her first boyfriend. He holds her hand in his, clammy skin against cold fingers, chapped lips on her neck. She doesn’t really feel like it, but her friends were talking about it, how good it felt, how nervous they have been. Maybe it would help her figure this out.

Salt on her skin, cold creeping into her bones, sitting on opposite sides of the bed, backs to each other. He apologized, wasn’t even sure what had happened, what made her so sad. She didn’t know herself, she just felt.

She rebels against her parents, she’s wearing boots, jeans, bomber jackets, hair worn short, buzzed to the skin. Her doe eyes hate to see herself in the mirror, so she hung a sheet over it and walks blindly through the city, smoke trailing behind her, veiling her figure.

Her friends don’t understand, and they don’t even try. They stop asking her to hang out, they stop writing. Last conversation in school was with her ex. He never told anyone, so did she. Clean slate for both of them. She thanked him, wished him luck and happiness with his current girlfriend. She meant it too.

College approaches fast, she needs to figure it out. She knows her body is all wrong, curved where it should be flat, soft where it should be hard and she hates it. But she knows, college means change. She meets her roommate, “daughter of Democrats, fighter for the gays, the poor and animals, fan of Les Mis”. Colorful hair, monochrome clothes, a couple piercings and tattoos. Her parents walking nightmare She likes her.

Now it’s easier. Long nights spent talking, laughing, problem solving. Her roomie takes her to her first meeting with the local lgbtq+ community. She cries afterwards. Her roomie encourages her to be herself. She appreciates it and bakes a cake in the dorm kitchen. It’s a bit burnt, but gets eaten anyways. She feeds her roomie, and maybe feels a bit lightheaded when she receives a bright smile. Next is talks with her doctor, adjusting and remembering to take her meds. Realizing change might bring repercussions. She lets her hair grow out again, it’s soft and curly. Her roomie likes it and asks for permission to shave the sides. Shopping tours, a job in the coffee-shop on campus. Henleys, oxfords, smart shirts, bowties, sweaters that hide her figure, she experiences the wonders of a well fitting binder. She cries. Again.

He fills out differently. His hair’s short, he gets to shave now. He likes the stubble. He takes a look in the mirror, as he walks by, fixes a wayward curl and smiles.

Change is ahead. He knows. He is scared. He doesn’t want to tell his parents, he dreads it. But he can’t come home the same he left it. So he does. His roomie sits outside in the car, ready to charge in and help her friend carry his stuff out. Ready to run in and protect him at any sign of distress. She is ready to fight. So she does.  

They ride back to dorm, she’s holding his hand, warm skin on clammy coldness. Neither is talking. There’s no way to make nice of it. His father was clear on that. He doesn’t have children, what is he doing in their house? He’ll call the police, if he isn’t gone in the next 5 seconds. His mother, crying at the kitchen table, clutching pink fabric in her hands. She mourns her daughter, her perfect little angel, corrupted and stolen from her, taken too soon.   Just like that, he became an orphan.

He officially changes his name, studies harder, takes on a student loan, moves from dorms into a small shoebox with his still-roomie. They survive, barely, on noodles and coffee, stay awake too long, work to long, eat too little. They struggle, but they do it together. He wakes up to her curled up next to him, having held him at night, when he had nightmares again. He brushes a curl from her skin and gets up to make breakfast.

Graduation comes faster than anticipated. It’s the opposite with jobs. He is qualified, he loves what he does, he works his little butt off, but they don’t accept him. He starts to lie. His roomie comes home, tackles him and shoves paper in his face. A position in a local company, with benefits straight out of a dream, work hours straight from hell, but he takes it. It’s founded by a trans man.

He sends in an application, gets invited to an interview. He’s giddy with joy, cold sweating from fear and nervousness, but his roomie tells him it will be okay and he’ll rock them out of their chairs. He comes home afterwards, babbling 100 miles an hour, about the place, the people, how right at home he felt there.

When he gets the job, they celebrate by eating ice-cream straight out of a tub, no pants and no obligations. He’s smiling so much his cheeks hurt, and he realizes, in this very moment, his life is good. It took a minute, but right in this moment, he was happy.

[rhabakoli]

What Will Your Verse Be?

What is your take on life? What will you contribute? What is your passion? 

You live. But what makes you feel alive? You breathe. But what saves you from suffocating? You eat. But what saves you from starving? 

What is your Carpe Diem?

What makes you wish you could freeze this moment? What makes you wish you could bottle it for darker times? What makes you wish the day had more hours? 

What makes you tingle with anticipation and motivation? What stresses you out in all the best ways? What makes you want to spill your guts? What leaves you vulnerable and stronger at the same time?

When will you know? What will you feel, when you do? Will you embrace it? Will you reject it? Don't be afraid. 

What will your verse be?