#pazwrites

[pazwrites]

impulsive things i want to do

shave my head

tattoo myself

repierce that hole that closed up

dye my hair black

make a scene

tell her i like her

punch a mirror

kick something

get high

stay upon all night

live

[pazwrites]

The fight broke out in the parking lot behind the grocery store, in the small strip of grass between the row of rusty dumpsters filled with old food and the edgeline of the sprawling woods behind the store. It began over something trivial, some kind of don’t-flirt-with-my-girl, you-dented-my-truck sort of thing. They were backwoods boys, raised to be pugnacious. They had always known the sex appeal of black eyes and bloodied knuckles. Maybe they’d lived amongst the trees and wild things too long to think of other ways to settle issues than with hard hands and sharp kicks. It was nature itself, leaching into them as one boy managed to wrestle the other onto the ground, arms around waists and foreheads pressed together like two stags with their antlers locked. There is shouting, and, after a few more long moments of struggle, defeat. The winning boy leans against a tree to catch his breath, his teeth shining with crimson. Wild boys, they are, with their blood dripping onto the forest floor and their hackles always raised.

[pazwrites]

How to Make Soup

Another piece of writing from the workshop I’m participating in this week

My mother taught me how to make my great-grandmother’s soup when I was thirteen years old.

“You’ve become a woman.” She said. “It’s time I teach you how to take care of yourself, and those around you. And what makes people feel better than soup?”

The recipe had given directions on how to make chicken broth from scratch, but tonight I had just bought a carton of the pre-made stuff from the grocery store on the way home from work.

It was an old, traditional family recipe, handed down for generations by my intensely Germanic family. They were an odd type, the kind of people who believed that illnesses could be healed with burning sage, and that the Baba Yaga was still roaming around in the woods somewhere. My mother called them Folk Magic People. My father, a Roman Catholic, called them delusional and disconnected, though he never said that in front of my mother. She had grown up amongst all that, she believed in the zauber, the magic of the universe. Her soup was always delicious.

When my mother had made her soup, she cut up the vegetables with precision and perfect evenness, her blade chopping a breakneck speed from the years of practice. When I tried to do it, I cut myself fairly deeply more than once, and the slices of carrot and celery and onion came out uneven. Some too thin, some too thick.

The soup was my great-grandmother’s concoction. The recipe wasn't written down, though it seemed to be some intrinsic knowledge to the women of my family. Except me, of course. I’d only met my great-grandmother once, when I went to Germany to visit the rest of my family. We drove two hours into the woods to find the small house, where she lived alone. Her husband, her children were all dead, and although I was only six or seven I knew that she was on her way out too. My only memory of her is the first time she ever laid her almost-blind, clear blue eyes on me. She’d looked like a crone, hunched over but still so much taller than me, and she’d pointed one stiff, shaking finger at me and had said:

“She doesn’t have the magic in her. My daughter, had magic. You,” She pointed at my mother. “You have magic. Her? No.” I remained silent the rest of the time we were there, but I had cried all the way back to our hotel room. “Hon, don’t worry about her.” My father had said in a weak effort to console me. “Magic isn’t even real.”

I add the vegetables into the broth and cover it with the pot lid, leaving it to boil. I lean back on my kitchen counter and examine the bandages on my fingers, wondering what it means to have magic.

A few hours later, my soup was ready. I poured myself a large bowl, sitting down at my kitchen table. It looked alright enough, but the setting was oddly depressing now. My mother had taught me this recipe fifteen years ago, but I had grown up with it my whole life. The soup was at every dinner with extended family, made by the different women and eaten amongst those you loved with smiles and laughs. Now I’m alone in my own house, with my own version of the recipe, and nobody to share it with.

I try a bite.

Not nearly as good as my mother’s.

[pazwrites]

Hunting Honeybees

A rather shitty piece I completed in a creative writing workshop I’m currently doing

CW // blood, violence, the bourgeoisie

They stand like vultures, the security guards, watching and waiting with crooked necks and a predatory look in their eye as they watch over the party below. The gathering is the closest thing the upper echelons of society will ever get to a rave, all smoke and mirrors and loud conversation. Exciting on the ground, but to those watching above the party-goers just look like a swarm of rainbow-colored honeybees just buzzing around. Voices rise like balloons and echo off of the vaulted ceilings, incoherent and distant.

Some of the guards fantasize about "potential" problems, just to pass the time. Fires, explosions, terrorist attacks. They think it would be almost poetic, to watch some kind of crazed gunman shoot down party goes like the balloon pop at a carnival. They think of how they'd save the day, shoot down the attacker with their own weapons before applying lifesaving first aid to those drowning in the pools of blood and wine on the dance floor, and then they'd win an award and be on CNN and finally be able to quit this damn job.

Below, the party keeps going.

Around the back of the building, a van pulls up.

Two figures in dark clothes jump out.

They are carrying guns.

[aureliobooks]

hey! saw your last post, i'm sorry if you're having a rough day, i'm having one of those too. we've been mutuals for a bit and you seem like a super cool dude, so if you ever want to talk just hmu!

Thank you so much, I’m sorry you’re having a rough day too! And honestly, right back at you. I’m always here if you need to talk about anything!

[supersaiyansadie]

hey Sadie! congrats! i’m paz, obviously, and i’m a slytherin, leo, and uh... idk how else to describe myself. i love being ~aesthetic~, writing, playing guitar, and going on adventures (though the latter doesn’t happen much). in general i am Dazed™️ and Confused™️ all the time, and in general i’m just a very soft person. thanks! congrats again!

Awesome! Hello Paz :D

I am Paz, the Demon Slayer, the Conqueror of Yraeldasl, King of the Reach and the Netherlands. At least, I am in D&D. In real life, I’m just… me, I guess. I try to make things interesting in my life and to go on a quest and rescue all the people, but… Instead I play guitar and dream of what could happen if the world were more interesting.

At least, that was before I fell through the painting. My class and I were brought to the New York Museum of Modern Art. I’d gotten separated from the group and found myself in Monet’s wing. I’d been looking at one of his numerous landscapes when I tripped and fell face first into his painting. I wasn’t in New York anymore. In fact, I wasn’t even in Normandy. The fields resembled the frenchman’s painting, but the illusion broke when a Dragon soared overhead, spitting fire and decimating the land scape.

I still haven’t found a way back home, but I’m not sure I want to. Because now… now I am a knight. Now I am happily married and on the search for the Holy Grail. I am Paz again. 

[pazwrites]

Vohon (part one: an intro, of sorts)

@killer-badass, happy birthday! It’s crazy how the universe works, and I’m so glad I met you. Consider this your gift! I hope you like it, and I hope everyone else who reads this enjoys it too!

Before everything changed, William Antonovich had always been called the Sunshine Boy. Sonyachnyy khlopchyk, in his native tongue. William was the kind of sun you lay under on a summer day, the kind you tilt your face up to when you need a pick-me-up from the universe. He was warmth and everything good about blue skies, he had the sun inside him and it showed in his face, his gentle demeanor, the softness of his touch. If the world had ever hurt him, he wasn’t angry, and if he had scars he hid them well behind his curtain of light.

William Antonovich had always been the sun. Before everything, and after everything too. After he was broken, however, he simply became a different version of it. Sunshine’s perverted twin. For what is the sun but a blistering ball of fire? From far away it is a golden egg yolk in the sky, but the sun can also burn anything it can touch. It can blister your skin until you can hardly move, makes you sick enough to kill you, sucks the soul out of your very being. People die under the burning heat of the sun, plants rot and dead meat festers under the light that is supposed to nurture us.

How quickly the sun can turn against us. How quickly William did the same.

He remembers the first time he conjured up the fire. The pins-and-needles sensation on his palms, the the skin of his hands and forearms glowing like embers, the way the air shimmered around him just as the flames erupted like a flamethrower. He remembers that directly after that, he had killed the man who had been accompanying him, the man who had given him the powers. Burnt to a crisp. Then he burned more, many more people, anyone he could find who had wronged him even once, anyone who had ever hurt him.

William is a killer now, no more the gentle sunlight he was before. Anyone but he might think this is a tragedy, but William thinks that going crazy was the best thing that ever happened to him.

The old him was weak, could never have done what he needed to do. The old him didn’t believe in revenge, the old him would have forgiven something unforgivable, the old him wouldn’t have the guts to stop this from every happening ever again.

Now, William stays up all night scheming, plotting, tracking, hunting. To him, the deaths were necessary. Eye for an eye. You ruin my life, I take yours. And all in the meantime, in the ages of time between finally finding someone he’s looking for, he hones his fire. William sleeps during the day, it’s easier that way, and he’s practically nocturnal now. But around William, it never really is night. For he is the sun, sinister sun, always radiating just enough heat to sweat you out. He is no longer the Sunshine Boy, William Antonovich is now a terrorist.

[apocellipse]

1-9 for the ask game!

1: Could you go the rest of your life without smoking a cigarette?

yeah boi those shits are nasty

2: Are you single/taken/heartbroken/confused?

i’m taken by my wips. i’m married to my work. thanks

3: What if I told you that you were pretty?

i would be uncomfortable. who are you. i’m in my pjs

4: Ever been told “it’s not you, it’s me”?

in so many words, yeah. alternatively, “we need different things.” i wholeheartedly agreed. 

5: Are you interested in anyone right now?

all yalls ocs!!!!!!!!!!

6: What are you looking forward to in the next week?

um.... my paycheck. and more days off to write

7: Do you want to be single?

yes i fuckin love being single. freedom bitch. 

8: Did you go out or stay in last night?

i went out to an orchestral harry potter showing it was rad

9: How late did you stay up last night?

answered but till around 12:30