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Literature
Comic Sans
He wrote his suicide note in Comic Sans.
He folded it up nine times.
He placed it under the rabbit's foot, beside the pottle of wax and jar of feather.
He set his paper boat down in the ocean and sailed off without a rudder.
He saw the doves with their rose thorn branches.
He left paradise without taking a pomegranate seed.
He came out of hell whiter than asbestos.
He left an eagle chained to a rock, palms encased in snake-skin gloves.
He enjoyed life, and now he's barred from heaven.
He made friends with the seven sins.
He wrote a note to God in Comic Sans.
:iconSessils:Sessils
:iconsessils:Sessils 1 0
Literature
Nostalgia
Nostalgia
n. asentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time.
I shift only slightly, as too much may draw attention of the watcher.
I can see him through the eyeglass affixed to my head, the monocle-like device strapped tight as I peer through one eye. He sits upon the rooftop- I can only see his muzzle and the occasional flash of fur. For what beasts they are they do hold intellect, for he has been watching for some hours. His back is now to me, and as such I find myself relaxing somewhat more into the snow, tense muscles allowed to breathe for what is the first time in hours. This location, this place, it remains far, far from familiar territory- what once was obviously a small town has been taken, by both tundra and beast. In the clear blue light of the new day it almost looks peaceful, a simple place for what may have once been a simple life. The snow is fast to claim what is rightful its however, for the snow banks have already crep
:iconSessils:Sessils
:iconsessils:Sessils 0 0
Literature
vita incerta, mors certissima
vita incerta, mors certissima
The interrogation room was cold, unnervingly cold. Water soaked into the woollen blanket that sat on her shoulders as Iosefka stared at the table before her, eyes unfocused, body shivering hard. A cup of something hot sat to one side of hers, the book to the other, its thickened cover marred by welts of leather, etched creations of gothic detail. Despite the water that clung in its rivets and dragged down edges of the pages the young woman knew no liquid would ever stain its form; it was untouchable, a source of immense power. Of ambiguous intent. It almost physically pulsed beneath her hand that white knuckled against its spine, breathing into her flesh, and yet unable to pull herself away Iosefka merely breathed along with it, finding her own breath beginning to waver with its. The warmth it had given her the first time she removed it from the Great Library’s shelves was missing, a luke-warm attempt at a replication. Was it really gone forever?
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:iconsessils:Sessils 0 0
Literature
I do not understand
I do not understand.
When we were young and fill of trust, we thought every promise must be kept. Neglecting of course, the simple ones, like promises to buy sweets or promises to marry when we were running through playgrounds laughing. They were just forgotten about- Not in a bad way, but merely drifted off through the passage of time, an elderly couple living their end days.  
We remember them not as broken nor forgotten, not with hurt feelings but with wistful smiles, or chuckles at how childish we were.  
They did not harm when they passed the due dates and flittered by- No more then a sting of sorrow or a pang of regret for the friends who primary school friends who drifted away, never to be heard of again except from your friend's friend who knows them on Facebook, so many years later. They are sweet losses, broken promises which you are at peace at, because when you were young the term 'broken' did not how it's emotional connotations, in such negative ways, that it does when you
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:iconsessils:Sessils 3 6
Literature
Bridge
The sky was grey. It clung to the atmosphere above her head, a curled and twisted moss that only the paid or the fanatical would clean. The wind was little better, silently screeching as it buffed against her black jacketed back, gripping and dragging her brown hair outwards to frame a paled face. She cared for neither, distant ice eyes staring at the landscape in front of her, the chopping waves of the sea hiding a peaceful gut. She is the same but upside down, the only sign of the malicious storm the white knuckles that grip her journal to her heart. They both have been violated, her organ and book, to the point where she trusts neither and either. They are just pawns in the games she plays with her and herself.
Her balance is perfect, her ballerina feet keeping her rooted to the railing. Still the girl wears the white dress beneath the black jacket, the beauty tainted only by the wearer herself- For she wore her heart on her sleeves, and now that they have burst the draping arms are
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:iconsessils:Sessils 1 3
Literature
Leto's Inversed
closed eyes but broken hearted
mine, a thousands tons of lead
a fabricated illness was their dismissal
but she was the only one dismissed
their hate and pity pounds upon me.
as broad as it is long
but their minds are just too human
that of marble hearted women
and those of pig headed men.
jealously like a Barbary pigeon
for that i am kept at bay
peeking through aloof white fences
my fingers taint them grey.
my presense poisons their rose-smattered views
but not of their wrath i am made afraid.
i am god's unwanted
but this isn't my valedictory speech.
for me the church bells didn't play
for her god's ethereal home she will stay.
this was her love-fueled reaction
to my actions that only gossipmongers would say.
i am Leto's inversed, a once brightened image to fade
closed eyes but broken hearted
mine, a thousands tons of lead
suicide was my dismissal
but she was not to be dismissed.
:iconSessils:Sessils
:iconsessils:Sessils 0 2
Literature
She
She makes Raro drinks in her mouth with me.
It was my idea really, though truth be told I did not expect her to trust me. We probably should have stopped after inhaling those tiny white specks of Raro crystals by accident and began to cough. But we did not, and adding water we sloshed the combination in our mouths and swallowed.
The result was less than satisfactory, but she laughed for so long that I'm glad I told her about it. I can not help but be thankful that she is used to my oddness.
She comes to me to get her away.
Into my dingy car we clamber, and on my restricted license I drive us away from the horrid music and chaos that is our highschool prom. I take her to my thinking place, and for the next few hours we lay in the dewed grass and stare at the stars, the water seeping into our beautiful dresses like nebulas beneath us. The acolyte I am holds the truth, which whispered to the sky sound sweeter than kept in my head, and as she leans against my echoed form I know she is list
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:iconsessils:Sessils 2 6
Literature
I will tell and have told
I have told myself I am not callous
[for I am not callous]
And I have told myself I am not selfish
[for I am not selfish]
But in a creeping, sobbing, incoherent moment
[I am not callous]
I, for once, thought on my own
[I am not selfish]
And cut you down to shape
[I am human, and above I am all.]
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:iconsessils:Sessils 2 12
Literature
Taste of Freedom - Chpt. 11
Title: Taste of Freedom (Chpt. 11)
Game: Dragon Age 2
Author: Blissy-Kills, aka Sessils
Characters/pairing: Anders, Varric, Leandra, Fenris, Orana, Bodhan, Sandal and Cinnamon Hawke
Author's note: All characters belong to Bioware, except Cinnamon Hawke. Yeah, I'm not going to apologise for this wait this time, because it's become clich'e. All I will say is: Wow. I am sorry Cinnamon- It'll get worse before it gets better.
_________________________________________________________
It was her little secret, the mirror. Not its existance, but her reluctance to stare into it. The inability to face herself. The scars that stained her features brought back memories, painful ones, and the tired smiling eyes seemed to better haunt than heal. And all the while, the absent colours would run though her mind, a desperate attempt to keep them alive. The red of her family's crest, the blue of her mother's eyes. Cinnamon could see the shades, the transition from one hue to another lighter or darker one
:iconSessils:Sessils
:iconsessils:Sessils 1 0
Literature
Averil
Rain drips slowly down the side of her face;
Her eyes don't see no clouds today.
Soft feet whisper on supposed green;
It's the mind, swirling in its sleep,
And softly, gently forgetting.
She has walked this path before,
but now, in dreams it is alive.
Afraid the love has been squandered
In the pursuit of her long years
Now she sits, alone, breathless and cold.
Who wants to live forever?
:iconSessils:Sessils
:iconsessils:Sessils 4 2
Literature
Taste of freedom - Chpt. 10.5
Title: Taste of Freedom (Chpt. 10.5)  
Game: Dragon Age 2  
Author: Blissy-Kills, aka Sessils  
Characters/pairing: Anders, Varric, Fenris, the three wise spirits (together again) and Cinnamon Hawke   
Author's note: All characters belong to Bioware, except Cinnamon Hawke and my adaptations of the spirits. And once again Freddick, the unsuspecting cheesewheel. He is always watching. Enjoy, and sorry for the wait. Again. Again. Again. c:  
_________________________________________________________  
The absence of air tickling her skin was worse than its presence, and the feeling pushed Cinnamon into awareness. Instantly she wished she was back in her dreams, where it was blue sky of Kirkwall, not the emotionless and empty expanse of the Fade, that greeted her eyes. Because the sight of reality proved to the mage that she was wrong.
The sight shifted as Cinnamon sat up, blue eyes sweeping to prove she was back at the starti
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:iconsessils:Sessils 1 3
Literature
The Thief
     'Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.'
~ Dalai Lama

There was a door.
It was a very nice door. Someone, God knows who, had taken their sweet, precious time to carve out intricate designs of gears, swirls and abstract lines before defining said indents with gold paint. The wood itself was so old, so cherished and polished that the rich mahogany colour stood out like a painting. It was so beautiful one could have licked it and tasted the heritage, though door licking was not encouraged in modern day society. Of course it was not the front door- such a door did not desire to be locked up like a nun's innocence just so the esteemed bank that lay behind its gateway was protected. No, it was more or less the second door, as the first door was a metal, lockable excuse for an entrance and about as attractive as a moldy, slimy slab of granite. In a dress.
Still, it was a bloody impressive second door.
And it may well have continu
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:iconsessils:Sessils 5 12
Literature
Preview - Work in progress, name needed
' It's me against myself this time
Me against the world I hide
Can I overcome and find a way
To be alive.'

There was a door.
It was a very nice door. Someone, God knows whom, had taken their sweet, precious time to carve out intricate designs of gears, swirls and abstract lines before defining said indents with gold paint. The wood itself was so old, so cherished and polished that the rich mahogany colour stood out like a painting. It was so beautiful one could have licked it and tasted the heritage, though door licking was not encouraged in modern day society. Of course it was not the front door, as such a door did not desire to be locked up like a nun's innocence just so that the esteemed bank that lay behind its gateway was protected. No, it was more or less the second door, as the first door was a metal, lockable excuse for an entrance  and the first-and-a-half door was a sophisticated metal detector operated by one of the many service androids.
Still, it was a blo
:iconSessils:Sessils
:iconsessils:Sessils 0 19
Literature
Nothing is constant but change
A single step
A moment's leap
Without a thought
Nothing to keep
Would you lose
To gain another?
Would you keep
But kill each other?
If doves that crash
Were made to die
Would you stay
And sing goodbye?
Who are you
To give your life
Without a thought
Of grief or strife
Oh...
In a thousand years
The streets are white
Painted so
So they can't fight
Over
Our
Wars.
:iconSessils:Sessils
:iconsessils:Sessils 4 4
Literature
Taste of freedom - Chpt. 10
Title: Taste of Freedom (Chpt. 10)
Game: Dragon Age 2
Author: Blissy-Kills, aka Sessils
Characters/pairing: Fenris, the Spirit of Compassion, a Rage Demon, other peons and Cinnamon Hawke
Author's note: All characters belong to Bioware, except Cinnamon Hawke. Enjoy c:
And please forgive me, I know it's been nearly two months since I lasted posted, I am so sorry. I am finally getting back into writing so the next will be quicker. Thank you so much for your paitence.
_________________________________________________________
They were screaming. Loudly. To precisely tell who 'they' were, was impossible at the moment, but an unwanted suspicious grew on Cinnamon that those who were fighting and dying at the moment were mages. And the cause of such misery was a certain important elf.
The little voice that told her to run was a strong one in Hawke about now. She ignored it, like all the other times, and instead continued to trek down the cavern's passage way, determination creased into the lin
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:iconsessils:Sessils 4 4
Mature content
Twenty-carat gold blood :iconsessils:Sessils 1 4
Warning:
Your eyes might burn. You know I love you all.

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:thumb177479889: Procrastination Stamp by SweetDuke

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Greetings and salutations!
So, I have not been active in a long, long time- for many a reason. But I'm starting to come back, and I'm not even sure who is around anymore- or if anyone still follows me. If you do, hello there!

I've been meaning to ask of those that do or those who read my things, what would you like from me? More short stories, bigger pieces, a continuation of my Dragon Age fanfic?

I'll keep writing my own stuff, just curious if there is anyone who is wanting anything in particular.

Sincerely,
Sessils
  • Listening to: I'll Be Good- Jaymes Young
He wrote his suicide note in Comic Sans.
He folded it up nine times.
He placed it under the rabbit's foot, beside the pottle of wax and jar of feather.
He set his paper boat down in the ocean and sailed off without a rudder.
He saw the doves with their rose thorn branches.
He left paradise without taking a pomegranate seed.
He came out of hell whiter than asbestos.
He left an eagle chained to a rock, palms encased in snake-skin gloves.
He enjoyed life, and now he's barred from heaven.
He made friends with the seven sins.
He wrote a note to God in Comic Sans.
Comic Sans
Just a silly little poem.

[Have I posted this up already? Apparently not]
Loading...

Nostalgia


n. asentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time.


I shift only slightly, as too much may draw attention of the watcher.

I can see him through the eyeglass affixed to my head, the monocle-like device strapped tight as I peer through one eye. He sits upon the rooftop- I can only see his muzzle and the occasional flash of fur. For what beasts they are they do hold intellect, for he has been watching for some hours. His back is now to me, and as such I find myself relaxing somewhat more into the snow, tense muscles allowed to breathe for what is the first time in hours. This location, this place, it remains far, far from familiar territory- what once was obviously a small town has been taken, by both tundra and beast. In the clear blue light of the new day it almost looks peaceful, a simple place for what may have once been a simple life. The snow is fast to claim what is rightful its however, for the snow banks have already crept up high around the town’s roads, the piles right against the upper windows of the homes. And yet the corpses are still fresh to some degree, their blood still staining the bared walls of the barn and the trodden rooftops, the signs of the beast’s massacre not so hidden in places. I shift my gaze away, lifting the eyeglass for a moment to glance down. This is not the first time I have seen blood.

My uniform keeps me warm even as the cold wind tugs a strand of brown hair across my face. Once more I am grateful for the Academy’s foresight on my newest mission; they have given me thick winter gear, a military snow-camo jacket and matching pants, a fur hood that presses around my face and a scarf around my neck. The gloves on my hands are not the warmest, but they allow me to hold my flintlock musket tight- I can move my fingers and yet still feel them, if only enough to feel that they are indeed very cold. My hair curls around my neck, uncombed and uncouth; the thought amuses me, that if my mother were to see me now she would grasp me by my ear and pull me back home, to sit within the powder room and be brushed within an inch of my life. The thought however leaves me with a sombre feeling as I consider what else she may think if she were to see me here, laying in the snow, tracking beasts miles and miles from home.

“Effie, you do no-.”
“I said I’d take this mission.”
My head is heated, my cheeks burning, and yet standing within the Academy’s headquarters I cross my arms and glare. No one in the room will meet my eyes- they know my anger, understand it, even if they do not feel it. Even I know the change within myself since Theodore passed away- I am aware that my offer comes from anger. I do not hide it; I own it.

“I need this mission.”


The memories stir a need, and from my breast pocket I retrieve my fob watch, a glance spared to the world around me. Even without my eyeglass I can see the watcher’s tail- it swishes along the rooftop as he stares at the world beyond him, away from me. I give myself a moment to glance down upon the watch, popping its top with a push. The clock is ticking slowly, silently, long hand kissing two, small hand caressing six. Opposite to the watch, tucked within the lid, sits a small photo. It’s new, replaced, a dozen smiling faces peering up from the creaseless paper. I smile back at myself and my classmates, our fresh faces all ready to faces the challenges the Academy had taught us, and yet even in the face of happiness and mirth despair creeps into my head. Half of them are dead- killed in various ways and forms, all too often return back in pieces. Mother always said I was daft to do what I did.

Behind the photo sits another portrait, older, before these new photo-taking devices were made. A picture of my family when we were all still so young. My mother and father in the background, my brother and I in the fore- I do not even need to take the photo away to see the elegant drawing of our proper faces. And I do not, instead shutting the lid, slipping it once more into my breast pocket. I feel the bitterness that claws at my head as I shift my eyeglass once more over my vision, teeth gritting as I survey the landscape before me. It is better to focus. It is better to focus and let go.

“You cannot leave!”

Her words are screeched in anger, shouted as I stand defiant upon the doorstep. In one hand I hold my briefcase, the other wrist holding a canvas bag of supplies upon it- in my fingers I clutch the letter still, nearly ruining it in my grasp my mother and I remain glaring at one another. Behind her my father; he looks stoic, but I can see the tears already running down his face as I pray my mother won’t do the same. She is only shouting, not staring in disappointment and pain.
“I am going.”
“I forbid it!”
“Mother-“
“Don’t you ‘mother’ me!”
The tone is fuelled by rage but I can hear it cracking, the sound making me want to turn and run. I want to get out- I have to. If she cries, maybe I’ll cave, and I can’t do that. The Academy of Monster Hunters calls me, their acceptance letter firmly in my grasp. Seeing me half-turn mother changes tone, now no longer cracking with grief but with anger.
“Just go then. If you are so determine to get yourself killed then just go.”
Now it is my turn to feel anger, the rage swelling inside my lungs. She doesn’t hate me; I am not a daft teenager, believing my own blood to be against me, but still the anger at her betrayal of my wishes is strong. ‘My choice if my own’ I shout in my head- ‘what I do is what I want to do.’ But the words die on my tongue as I simply breathe in, meeting Mother’s gaze as I speak with apathy.

“I’ll write when I can.”


Oh mother, I-

A growl snaps me from my thoughts, and instinctively I tighten my grasp upon my musket. From my vantage point I can see the doors opening- more beasts stalk out, hulking masses of hatred and fur. Their bodies are bipedal, humanoid, but their muscles are different, formed differently, strengthened differently. Long arms and two-jointed legs, the powerful muzzle filled with teeth, their claws and fangs both enough to tear bone apart. Through my eyeglass I can see their ears are pricked towards one another as they growl, bark and cough. They are beasts, through and through; whatever humanity they once held is now lost, only the need to eat remaining and yet they communicated like beasts would. The watcher upon his rooftop turns as I count those that amble out- in total with the watcher added there is four, unless one hides within still.

The time has come.

My fingers slip up to cock my musket as I aim through my eyeglass, calculating. Two shots- I can get two shots in before the beasts are upon me. That leaves two- one to be taken down by my pistol, it’s weight pressing into my right leg, pre-loaded. One left, and all that remains is my hunter knife and the bayonet that I have kept fixed to my musket. I feel the shiver that accompanies the thought of fighting even one of the beasts with a knife, close enough to smell the rotten meat that may linger within their teeth, but there is little I can do about that as I watch and shifted just slightly in the snow. Waiting for my chance as I watch the beasts, waiting for just the right moment.

“Theo?”
I stare at my friend, my lover, my classmate- my eyes rest upon him as he crouches down above the corpse of the young woman, her meat within his claws. His teeth have paused, half way through the flesh, and tearing his head up to stare at me I find myself unable to stop the tears. He has been bitten, turned, but only recently- I can see his eyes still, not yet fully bestial. His blue, beautiful eyes, staring at me from a face of fur, flesh and fangs, of anger and hunger. He rises as I raise my musket, my voice clogged with sorrow.

“I am so, so sorry.”


The moment comes as the beasts separate, leaving two the fore-runs as one bounds across what may have been the town square, retreating to the watcher. The fore-runs turn, facing the extra and the watcher; and in my moment I take aim at the two that remain, their backs to me while I caress that trigger. A last second of silence lingers before I squeeze.

I see blood. The ball has hit the head of the first beast, braining it as gore and mucky splatters across the snow before it and across its companion. I waste no time in rising to a knee, hoisting my gun before me, barrel end pointed to the sky- there is no time. The powder measure is within my hands as I jostle the black dust from it down the barrel, the cold working against me as I attempt to do it all calmly. The baying of the beasts is loud, but the longer they take to mourn their fallen brother the more time I have, and time is so precious now. I push the lubed patch against the top of my barrel, the second ball pushed against it, and with struggling fingers I yank the ramming rod from its holder. The tip I press against the ball, against the muzzle, pushing down at the ball with a starting panic. I dare not glance up- there is no time for already I have taken too much, able now to hear the crunching of their paws, the heaving of their angered pants dim but growing louder. It is all in front of me, loud, pulsing as the ramming rod jars in my hand, as deep as it can be. It is tossed aside without care before I flick my musket up and horizontal, the stock pushed to my shoulder with one hand, the other fumbling for my primer. They are closer now.

Blackpowder dispensed, frizzen down, gun cocked I lift my head in time to see a beast descending upon me. I have taken too long, and without thought of my own safety I jab the gun forwards as the bayonet pierces the breast of the beast. It howls but the weight upon my weapon is heavy as it falls down, pain flaring where stock meets my flesh as I, without thought or concern, pull the trigger. The spray of blood falls upon me- I taste it on my tongue as the ball is fired through the beast, the muzzle having been kissed to its chest when I pulled the trigger. The wet sound of its exit an added feature echoes in my ear as pain digs still against my shoulder until I push gun and beast sides with all my might- they slump against the snow beside me, my pristine white uniform now a mess of blood and insides. I care not for now, unobscured, I can see the other two; and by the Gods they are nearer then I had hoped. Hands push into the redden snow as I struggle to my feet, my shoulder at the moment the centre of my agony even as I forgo it, reaching for my pistol with the injured limb.

The first of the last two is upon me as I raise my weapon, cock and fire, but I have relied too heavily upon my pained limb- the fire misses the beast’s heart, skewering its lung or muscle or whatever organ remains in within its unhumanised anatomy. It howls in pain, staggering back, but I have no time to finish the job before the fourth and last beast lunges at my form. Together we go down, the snow embracing me first as the full weight of a six foot humanoid beasts falls upon my body. Its muzzle caresses my cheek for a moment before I feel teeth, sinking deep within my uninjured shoulder. The stock of my pistol meets the temple of the beast, blood almost immediately rupturing from the wound, and stunned its jaws release me. It did not nick an artery for I can feel no sudden rush of blood but even the pain is the worst of my worries.

I have been bitten. I have been contaminated.

Anger rages. Without thought I toss aside the weapon, hands reaching for my hunting knife as I launch myself upon the beast that lays beside me in the snow. I have made my mistake at landing upon its front, and as it roars in fury at me I feel the bite of its claws in my hips, teeth digging through my uniform to cut into my breast. The pain is paramount, but as it happens I drive my blade against its exposed neck. One stab, two, three, I end each blow with a twist as blood splutters up upon my fingers, my grasp of the blade growing slippery. The beast is howling, dying, it’s wails loud within my ears- but with one last stab I feel both my strength leaving my arms and the blade slipping out of my grasp, firmly buried within the beast’s larynx. With a sound that leaves me shuddering the beast twitches and slumps, the last of its life sprayed across my arms and upon the snow. The only sound that still echoes around the tundra is that of my heavy breathing and the beast I shot with my pistol; I can hear it gurgling, choking, the sounds growing quieter by the second until-

Silence.

I push myself from the beast’s chest when my body has the strength to do so, after what feels like decades of simply breathing. Even that is pained, gasped, wheezing; I am bleeding out from my breast, from my hips, from so many places. My side hits the snow as I topple from the beast, and with effort I roll myself away from it; I will not lay dying beside the body of my enemy. I do not get far, for strength has abandoned me, but we are far enough away for my body to relax. Upon my back, my eyes on the sky I gaze at the blue ceiling, the cloudless day so pretty and pure. Innocent. My own blood is warming my numbing chest, pooling upon the white snow, but the gaping holes my uniform are letting the cold seep in. My wounds are many, I cannot check them all, but I know. I have been bitten- I should turn. But there is comfort in the knowledge I will die of blood loss or cold, or both, before the cruel grasp of bestiary takes me. There is only calmness as I wheeze, my hands finally empty as I struggle to bring them up to my chest.

The watch- my fob watch. It remains somehow, nestled within my breast pocket- I can feel it, but have neither the strength nor mobility to grasp it. After the fight that I have endured I am sure it is broken, perhaps cracked, but even now I can see it. Plastered behind my eyelids I remember the ceremony, my friends, classmates, lining up for the photo. All a dozen of us grinning, laughing, side by side as we joked and waited for the man with the device to take the picture. All new, in a world so very unforgiving.

“Please, take care of yourself.”

I glance at Theodore for a long moment as we stand to the side of the stage, the crowd dispersing to seek out their loved ones, for congratulations and warm wishes. Before us most of our friends clamber around the man with the device, asking all sorts of questions; I can see Marcus standing over him, the boy so tall as he so politely asks when the photo may be ready. May is as loud as ever, seconding his questions, and even I find myself straining eagerly to hear from this distance.

“Of course Theo. I would not be a particularly good hunter if I did not, now would I?”

Ours eyes meet as I reply, and what lays in his makes my heart thud. He wants to say more, I can see his intake of breath- but before he speaks action takes me, and stepping in I press my lips to his. Love, affection, innocent need and want, they fill me as I feel his hands touch my shoulder; and although our kiss is quick and chaste, I can read that look in his eyes. Both our cheeks are flushed as I pull back first, watching him pause before grinning- and turning to the others he calls out for a trip to the nearby bar for a celebration, almost all of our friends hollering in agreement.


But I am no longer focused on them, staring at the back of my lover, my hand in his as he pulls me along.

Perhaps one day, in this distant future, I would have gone home, repaired my relationships, embraced my mother and made up for our angered parting words. Perhaps I would have told my father the truth of why I left for this tundra that I lay dying in; perhaps I would have taken that offer to be a teacher that the Academy gave to me. And perhaps I would have found gone to see Theodore’s grave, said my goodbyes whilst holding back tears, looking down at where the parts of him were buried. But I can no longer do those things. All I can do is lay here and wait to die, dreaming, thinking as time crawls on, as my blood oozes from my slowing heart.

For at my twilight these memories return, in great waves of nostalgia.
Nostalgia
Another piece I wrote for my folio. I'm not used to writing in first person, and wanted to challenge myself to doing so- came out rather interestingly I thought. Also wanted to challenge myself to writing in a very mechanical-sort of action into a piece without forcing it. Not sure how I did really.
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Greetings and salutations!
So, I have not been active in a long, long time- for many a reason. But I'm starting to come back, and I'm not even sure who is around anymore- or if anyone still follows me. If you do, hello there!

I've been meaning to ask of those that do or those who read my things, what would you like from me? More short stories, bigger pieces, a continuation of my Dragon Age fanfic?

I'll keep writing my own stuff, just curious if there is anyone who is wanting anything in particular.

Sincerely,
Sessils
  • Listening to: I'll Be Good- Jaymes Young

deviantID

Sessils
Sessils
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
New Zealand
"Hope is like money - when you have it, you have so much.
But when you've lost it, you've lost it all.
Until you look into the deepest pocket of your least favourite, one-hit wonder jeans, and find 10c.
And that's all you need."

~ Me

Not much to say. I'm an aspiring writer with a taste for fantasy, whom also wishes to be a vet, a mechanic, and the first girl to land on pluto. I intend to never completely grow up mentally, but I god damn hope to grow up physically. No one wants to be 5'2 forever.

passion stamp by MechaBerry It's my Opinion, Not Yours. by Haters-Gonna-Hate-Me :thumb155355351:

:iconnocommissions: :iconrequestsopen: :icontradesopen: :icongiftsopen: :iconpointcommissionsopen: :iconcollabsask:
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:iconsimmra:
Simmra Featured By Owner Apr 21, 2017  Student General Artist
Happy Birthday :3
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:iconsessils:
Sessils Featured By Owner Apr 23, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you! ^-^
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:iconjust-caro:
just-caro Featured By Owner Feb 10, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Hey there!  Thank you so much for the favorite, have a super awesome day :) 
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:iconsweetcake15:
SweetCake15 Featured By Owner Aug 10, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
thank you so much for the favorite c:
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:icontitusweiss:
TitusWeiss Featured By Owner Jul 23, 2015  Student Digital Artist
Thank you for the favorite ^^
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GrimHoroscope Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2015  Student Digital Artist
Thanks so much for faving my work Meow :3 
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:iconsessils:
Sessils Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Teehee, no problem. Totally worth it ^^
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:iconry-spirit:
Ry-Spirit Featured By Owner Jun 24, 2014  Professional Digital Artist
nice meeting you in armaggeddon wellington :3
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:iconsessils:
Sessils Featured By Owner Aug 21, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Late reply, but it was nice meeting you too :3
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Mirax3163 Featured By Owner Mar 26, 2014  Student Digital Artist
Thanks for the watch! :heart:
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