My art!

[stardustonsable]

To fulfill some of you guys' wishlists....My Art!
As some of you may know, and quite a few people probably don't know, I should probably put something about that in my intro post...I'm a writer. So, here is an excerpt from one of my more recent stories and a poem. :)

“Come here often?” The kid, young man really, asked and laughed wetly. It changed into an equally wet cough after a moment. 

“More often than I’d prefer,” the woman said, settling on the crate that hid the boy’s upper body from the view of the street. She crossed her legs and pulled a carton of cigarettes from one of her coat’s pockets. 

“Hey, can I have one of those?”

“Bad for your health,” the woman replied, distractedly. Her hands slid across her coat and pants searching for a lighter. 

The kid laughed again and pushed a sheaf of blue-black-green hair away from his eyes. “I’m dying. I don’t see how it matters.”

“You sure? She asked, staring at the opposite wall of the alley. It shined from the last rain and the yellow-orange street light that was angled in from the alley’s opening. 

“Two years of med school gives perspective on things like that.” He shifted and hissed in pain. “You don’t get stabbed a few times in the lungs and live.”

“You could call for help,” she said and made a triumphant sound before pulling a cheap purple lighter from her front left pocket. 

“Nah. If it’s my time, y’know.” He shifted again until he was sitting upright against the wall. There was blood dribbling from a hole in his shirt, staining it and surrounding cloth a dark red-black color. 

“You’re a lot calmer than the others,” she said, and pulled out another cigarette. He was silent as he watched her light the new cigarette with the tip of her own, looking at her reverently.

“I never imagined Death would be some hot chick that spent too much time in a basement.” He said, and took the cigarette. 

“And I never imagined my eighty third million six hundred thousand and fifty-six hundredth death this month would be some sniveling punk that got killed because he never learned how to shut up. I think we can agree that surprises are nice.” 

“You think I’m punk? Cool.”

She gave a surprised laugh. “You remind me of someone.”

He smiled. “Really? Someone good I hope.”

 She nodded. “My brother. I thought he was pretty much the best thing ever thought up.”
 “Oh,” he said quietly. “Do that many people really die in one month?”

She shrugged and tipped her head back to exhale smoke. She attempted a few smoke rings before looking back down at him. “Maybe. Maybe not. Sure does put perspective on life though, doesn’t it?”

He nodded and put his own cigarette to his lips. He inhaled once then blew the smoke out of his nose. “I would’ve liked to see a show in England. Birth place of punk, y’know.”

His breathing was slowing, growing labored.

She smiled and slid off of the crate to kneel beside him. “You don’t strike me as the med school type. You really want to be a doctor with that hair?”

He laughed lightly and leaned his head against the brick. “Wanted to be a musician. Can’t you tell?” His eyes slid close. 

“No,” she said softly. “I generally don’t judge by appearances y’know. If I did, I’d figure you were stupid, because your rook is at a bad angle, which means you probably got it done somewhere cheap. Did you?”

He smiled and nodded. “Yeah. You don’t make too much money as a med school student. Just enough to eat, maybe go to a show for a few hours, get a shitty ear piercing, forget that you’re supposed to be saving the world.”

Death kissed his forehead softly. “Its cool, y’know. You can let go, fall asleep, all that stuff.”

He shook his head. “Like talking to you better.”

She sighed and ran a cool hand across his wound. He made a pained face and arched up against her hand. He staid still, trembling for a second then slowly relaxed until he was slumped against her, his head on her shoulder.

“Punk started in New York,” she said softly to herself, and a little to the corpse. “I was there.”

I have no idea what LJ does to my formatting

Somewhere, away, they are there.

Armed, searching.

We do not care.

Here, there is nothing but the thundering sound,

the sky growling out to us, its face flashing orange,

Elaborate curls of the darkest gray to never be black

frame it. It’s grin is the sparkling of the stars, here, there

anywhere you chose to look, it has a smile for us, you

muse it sinister, I think it cynical, we don’t dare guess inviting,

we have no trust for this sky, nor any other. It growls to us again,

you spare a look to away, do not strain to hear over the growling,

purring I tell you now, to calm you.

Somewhere, away, they are searching.

We do not care.

The sky flashes its orange grin to us.

We do not care.

They are here.

We do not care.

^ that really reminds me of Under the Bright Lights by Empires, which is weird because I wrote it months befoer I ever heard Howl