snarkywriter22
Writing is a must-have in every-day life. At least, for myself and those like me, it is. It's all the trite things in the world rolled up into a neat package, and proffered as a form of self-expression. The beauty, the necessities, the air we breathe. It's my voice in written form, and my companion on days when no one else will listen. It is the must-have I can never abandon, and will always owe a debt to. It is who I am.
I had an axe to grind. His mannerisms were beyond annoying at some points, and tonight's instance wasn't all that unusual. Topics were lost, and conversation seemed to dwindle, so as always his answer was simply to give up. That's not my style. I wanted to hear his voice, to enjoy a conversation with the man, to be with him, but it didn't seem that his mind was at that spot.
I love a good peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I don't know if it's the deep, savory flavor of the peanut butter, or if it's the sweet tanginess of the strawberry jelly I prefer. It could be the rich flavor of the multigrain bread I eat religiously (though my allergies say I shouldn't). No matter the reason, there is no denying, that it is one of my favorite sandwiches. Just talking about it makes me hungry.
It was hard to see, scurrying around in the dark. My eyes were blocked for the most part anyways, so even in the light I would have had trouble. The lack of light just made things worse. Hair danced in front of my eyes in thick, unyielding layers and more than once I found myself bumping into something I'd had no idea was there. After about the third or fourth bruise, I decided that as far as disguises go, a cap pulled down more than necessary was really just a pain in the ass.
I've found through the years that, often enough, sacrifice is a necessity when attempting to reach any goal. No matter the ideal you have in mind, or the ways about you intend to accomplish said feat, it will require a cost of some sort. Whether in coins, in favors, in other assorted collectibles, in actions, or in any other unnamed payment form, you WILL pay. Such is the way of maintaining balance. Such is the way of the Fae.
People automatically assume that, if you're a convict, you're a bad person. This train of thought seems to be derived from negative media spotlights and the overall concession that anyone who's arrested and convicted is inherently BAD. Here's where I ask you, my fellow people -- what of Robin Hood and his Merry Men? Were they not criminals in their own right? And what of those who defend themselves against an intruder, only to be cast as the villain themselves? Or those who are innocent and merely thrown in jail due to a flawed judicial process? What of these?
I couldn't believe the buggering thief had managed to topple over an entire bookshelf. This chase was already hassle enough without me having to clamber my way over the ancient mahogany shelving. It didn't help any that I'd nearly tripped and fallen flat on my face in the process. If it weren't for the fact that the boy intended to commit blasphemous crimes against the book he'd taken from these sacred shelves, I wouldn't bother. But I'd be damned if the kid was going to get away with the burning of literary genius.
The reporter hounded me day and night. I couldn't find a moment of peace from the past with or without her incessant barrage of words. The camera in my face as soon as I left the safety of my home in the morning meant I was tired -- tired, sore, and upset with the world. Slowly, my resolve to remain civil with this woman was plummeting to the level of nonexistent. If she kept this up, I wouldn't be responsible for my own actions.
The car came to a screeching halt outside the apartment. I had seen the taxi fly by a moment earlier and wasn't certain exactly WHAT its issue was. Apparently, the driver either didn't know how to stop, or the breaks were gone, because the "halt" as I observed it only occurred due to a tree standing directly outside the door. The driver had flung himself from his seat moments before impact and seemed to be fine aside from a few scrapes and bruises. A neighbor had dialed 911 and was talking in rushed words over the phone, trying to get an ambulance and perhaps some officers on-scene. I'd had an important dinner date I was trying to get to, and that taxi had been my ride. Now I had to wait for the legal issues to be taken care of before I could even think of calling another or meandering to the subway. I supposed, as far as excuses went, a legal dilemma was one of the few that might keep me from being fired.
Flame blazed everywhere and thick plumes of black smoke clogged every breath I attempted to take. The building that had once stood before me fell to pieces in less than a second. I wasn't sure what exactly had happened, or what kind of stunt the Wizard had pulled to make this catastrophe happen, but I was pretty sure I didn't want to be here when the cops showed up.
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