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High-functioning Snowflake
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 Posted: Fri May 04, 2012 9:26 am
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Posted: Mon May 07, 2012 6:53 am
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High-functioning Snowflake
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Posted: Wed May 16, 2012 4:48 am
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ALEXX☣XMONTOYA
===================⊰☪⊱ • • • ===================✦
❝ Submission is...
Through the gates of hell...
As we make our way to heaven...
Slowly, Alex walks over the yard. It is a beautiful day, the birds are singing, the sun is shining, a clear, blue sky. The light gives the plain, grey walls an odd kind of... grace. The orange suits of the 'real' prisoners are shining bright, the white shirts... he isn't one of them. He is one of the children. Once, he talked with a man who said that he pities him. Because he doesn't know another world. This is the only place he is used to. Because he never could taste freedom... But Alex just answered that she learned here how to fight for freedom under hard conditions. A knowledge the other man doesn't have. They never ended the discussion. Later, the man tried to take his freedom and virginity. Alex fought for his freedom. The guards labeled it as safe defense. It is good to have certain connections.
In the dawn they will pay
With their lives as the price
History's written today...
That was some time ago. Not long ago and he will see what freedom can mean. He will get out. In the free world. He could've escaped earlier if he found somebody who wanted to adopt him. But this live left scars on his body and soul. He isn't what people would call 'cute'. Never really was. And adopting parents don't take those who have to get out but those they want... it doesn't really matter anyway.
He could just prepare himself for his new life now, lean back and enjoy the time. But he made friends here. And got a responsibility. Though some are trying to damage his position. Now, he wouldn't loose much anymore if they are victorious. But... this is not an option. Not even worth to think about.
He approaches one of the guys, a caucasian male, a little younger then himself but larger, bald head. He grins when he notices that Alex approaches. So do his friends. All white, all having lots of tattoos.
"Ey, scum. Decided to bring your coño over on your own? Damn, getting it alone would've been way more fun..."
He shakes his head lightly. They were a new gang, somehow connected to the AB. They attacked Alex' gang, mostly latin prisoners, injured a few and... took one of the recruits. A girl. Alex looks up to the man, smiling lightly, raising his hands, as a gesture of peace. See, I have no weapon.
"I want to negotiate. I have a deal for you guys you might be interested in..."
The other man just starts laughing and shakes his head.
"Negotiatons? You leave the basketball yard. That's it."
His hair waves around when Alex shakes his head.
"No, the deal is the following. You hand out the guy who raped Nina. And you feet never touch out turf again. Or you all will find out what we will do with that p***k..."
One of the guys steps forward. He has some scratches on his face and laughes out loudly.
"You must be kidding. We are more then you and..."
Nobody will find out what he wanted to say anymore. Alex raised his hand to his mouth, as if he had to cough. Then, suddenly, he moved forward, his hand slashing through the air. Right between the pricks legs. A line of red fluid appears in the air. The color that missed to make the scenery perfect, harmonic. More follows, drops down on the ground. And even more will follow later... probably.
Through the gates of hell....
As we make our way to heaven...
Through the nazi lines...
Primo victoria...
He cried out loud, fell down on his knees. A quick jump brought some distance between Alex and the Aryan Brothers. Goddamn racist assholes... have no balls and just attack in the herd. At least these ones. They are not the hardliners. The hardliners would just have wiped out the latin gang, these ones have no balls. In one case, literally. Alex tosses the razorblade on the guy and waves his hand.
"You have one day to think about the deal."
He is standing in one small room. One of the guards hands him a bag. Some spare clothes, a mobile phone, some cash, the address of a social worker. Everything he needs to have a lousy start in this new life.
"...and you call this number as soon as you arrived in the city, miss Montoya."
She nods, takes the buisness card and turns it around in her hand. They gave her female clothes. The first problem she will have to solve out there. As a girl, she wouldn't have the serious problems out there as in the prison. At least not the direct ones. But... no. She slowly walks to the door, when one of the guards put his hand on her shoulder. She flinched, turned around to grab his wrist but relaxes then.
"Good luck out there. Enjoy your life."
They open the door and she walks out. Into the sunshune. She looks around, looks at her old home a last time. Then she walks straight to the bus stop, raises her hand once to show the building the finger and toss the pieces of the shredded buisness card in the air.
Freedom.
...Not an option.❞
===================⊰☪⊱ • • • ===================✦
Mood:Calm and cold
Company:Her old gang
Location:State prison
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Posted: Wed May 16, 2012 5:11 am
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KayXX✗XXAdamsonXX • • • • ✥ • ✥ • ✥ • ✥ • •
▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄
‘The Scream’ lay on the wall of the living-room of her art-collector father, perfectly posed and poised, among the lush, mild, concrete greenery at its background. Green wasn’t the colour of choice of its palette, and as the casual eye grazed over the wall in cool, unsuspecting comfort, the hysterics of the screaming man bound within the glass frame would strike as a horrid, spell-binding shock. It’s the trick, she had realized much later, of fooling the eye.
In its crude form, art would necessarily become exactly that. Trompe l’oeil. Or so Paris decided to call it. A thousand years later, it would transcend as clockwork in the minds of ambitious graffitists. Be it the urban rats of Banksy, or the smooth scribble of vibrant, three-dimensional slogans of the common gang-member.
She thought about ‘The Scream’. The very realization of art in the nascent, unblemished mind. The man in the glass-frame seemed steadily calm, the non-chalance of his pose a contrast to his wide, popping eyes, and his comical pout. The scream rung through the air and out of his lungs in layers of yellow ochre and moody orange and splashed through the sky in its dismal vibrance, the heavy contorted lines on his face flooding into the horizon in the speed of sound.
The girl would turn in her sleep on the on the rugged, mud-spattered, broken bench in an abandoned park, a piece of discarded newspaper acting as an ineffective umbrella in the light, dripping rain. She used to sleep in an old rusty car, deserted in the junkyard until the authorities sniffed it out. The smooth walls of the city housed many, but not the urban run-offs, armored by false pride disguised as lack of regret. It had been about two months since she found herself here, clueless and purposeless. And yet, old life came revisiting in half-baked naps. Dreams of a sort.
If noise had a face, this was it. If fear had a face, this was it. If sound could ever be drawn by the fingers of a mortal man, this was it.
‘The Scream’ again. It would haunt her dreams like the police would chase her foot-steps during the day and half the night. The wild goose chase that began every midnight, and continued till the next day. For many like Kay, that was passing life. The grainy walls of the city offered no cause of comfort but their exposed expanse, open and inviting to paint their wildest dreams, and their sour frustrations upon. Yes, to them, art, or rather, street-graffiti, was merely a tool for survival, a source of income, a means to rise above the smoke and dust of downtown. They lived on the streets, junkyards and narrow old alleys. Many of them wouldn’t even recall when and why their priorities started changing, and the rumble of the stomach became more demanding than the mild p***k of the ideals. Many of them wouldn’t mind spending a day in jail. At least there are a couple of meals a day and a roof over the head.
After a while, the dreams of the eyes would merge with the dreams of the fingers, and vanish entirely, only to reappear in intermittent dreams, and in the imposed trance of illegal drug joints.
For now, the girl on the bench turned absent-mindedly, happily, even in the rain. The spare change in her pocket jingled, and she smiled, thinking of a full meal the next day. It was a little salute to her courage. The pattern was challenging, so were the colors, and she had agreed just as her client had had raised the offer. The work needed her to be awake long after midnight, almost until dawn, and the client had been satisfied at first glance. This would be her first meal in two days. Happiness was natural, if not slightly over-rated. And she’d go to the Cyber Café across the road. For the AC, and the illusion of escape. Tomorrow, she’d get an egg for breakfast. Probably.
Tomorrow.
▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄
═══════════════════════════
=•=•=•=•={{ THEYXXCALLEDXXMEXXADAMS }}=•=•=•=•=
Mσσ∂: Peaceful
Cσmραny: Alone Lσcαtισn :The old park in downtown.
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High-functioning Snowflake
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Posted: Wed May 16, 2012 5:28 am
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ALEXX☣XMONTOYA
===================⊰☪⊱ • • • ===================✦
❝ Submission is...
The bell rings when opens the second-hand-shops door to leave it.
He sold his old clothes, got new ones. Unfortunately, he didn't get as much money as he wanted. The clothes were new when he left the prison but some punk tried to grab her on the street. Clothes dirty, punk in pain and he didn't even have lotsa bucks with him... almost nothing to loot.
He's dressed with old jeans now, a washed-out leather jacket... He kept his old shirt though, it was better then anything the store could offer. And he took the punks belt and boots. His clothes were dirty and smelly but hell, good boots are hard to find but he got some, just a little too large for him but that's not a real problem...
Slowly, he walks through the streets now, thinking. He knows nobody out here, especially not in this city. He got no job, no future to be honest. Who'd hire a guy like him, no education but what the prison could teach him... Of course, he could get a nice dress and wait on the streets for Johns. Also, he could take a razorblade and cut his veins open but both options aren't quite tempting...
There are few options left. He knows how to handle a knife and is sure that not many of the people in the city do. Stealing is an option as long as there isn't another one but it's always risky, especially in a city where he doesn't know who the people are he can steal from, where the areas are...
A sigh escapes his lips and he heads towards the park. At least, he found a place to stay... it was pure luck, he stumbled over it. For now, let's just relax and think about the future...
...Not an option.❞
===================⊰☪⊱ • • • ===================✦
Mood:Calm and cold
Company:Herself
Location:Streets of Manhattan
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Posted: Fri Jun 22, 2012 11:53 pm
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High-functioning Snowflake
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