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  • Shen 6:23 am on January 20, 2011 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: always expected to die young,   

    The founder was under no illusion when … 

    The founder was under no illusion when it came to the empire he had birthed. His humble nation now stretched across the continent and spanned seas to distant isles. It took him a lifetime to paint the map purple, and his son spent his own life fighting to maintain his father’s trophies. Dissident nibbled at the edges, but the heir cut them down.

    Some empires last for millennia, or so the legends promised. A thousand years of bloodshed, or a thousand years of prosperousness.

    He expected his empire to die young, the cement hardly dry.

    He confided this misgiving to only one other, his mute concubine. He was confident that she, prize of a raiding party that had traumatized her into speechlessness, would never tell his secrets. Not being a man of letters himself, he never suspected her of possessing this most dangerous skill.

    Orissa, beloved pet of the first emperor, kept a diary every day of her tragic life. The early volumes were lost in the raid. She took greater care with the volumes she filled at the palace, each a work of art. She sewed the books herself with silk, board, and drawing paper used by the seamstresses. The beginning pages of each journal began with an account of her labor.

    //This heavy damask is hardier but it is also harder to work with! My fingers are raw even with the thimble to shield them…//

    She hid them where she knew her lord would never look: in the ceiling of the nursery. Well out of reach of little children, she kept the secret for more than thirty years. She had always meant to tell her two daughters where she kept the old books, but she died falling down a flight of stairs.

    Whether or not she was pushed has always been a matter of great speculation. Perhaps the only person to know what may have happened was her best friend, another concubine, who found Orissa’s last unfinished journal and secreted it away. She ensured that the book went to Orissa’s younger daughter, who cherished it and gave it to her son. Raised to be a man of war, he deposited it on his wife, who wisely hid the scandalous insights it contained from their children. So it went, for seven generations. The concubine Orissa’s final journal was nothing more than a family curiosity.

    In the 175 years that passed the nursery was redecorated numerous times. It was expanded, became a classroom, shrank, was a nursery again. The furniture disappeared in the blink of an eye, but the molded tiles on the walls were slower to change. It was only when the current prince-apparent threw a hard rubber ball that ricocheted against the wall and smashed the aging plaster of the ceiling that anyone bothered to do something about its condition.

     
  • o1iveman 5:43 am on January 19, 2011 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: always expected to die young, death, , hipster, that other prompt   

    Cassie always thought she would die … 

    Cassie always thought she would die young. Her death would be something flashy, but not too flashy, just… different. She didn’t want to end up being a story on the evening news or a fail on the Internet. She just wanted to be someone that regulars at the coffee shop whisper about every now and then.

    Her ideal death would be a pair of jeans so tight, that the lack of circulation would ensure her death. Subtle enough to be under the radar, but cool enough to be talked about.

    The jeans would be a gift, of course, from an obviously unfashionable aunt that hadn’t seen her niece since she was in grade school. she would only be wearing them because the sweater-wearing social elite that was her family told her to. Cassie would begrudgingly agree to wear them to her family reunion, where her father would be telling the family a set of agonizingly corny jokes. He would be telling the joke about the monkey and the toaster when she would fall down on the vomit-colored linoleum– with stark white legs and a dead look on her face. It would be a beautifully ironic– Cassie never liked her father’s jokes, especially the monkey ones.

    She’d be cremated, but not in one of those huge ovens everyone else gets cremated in, she’d have her friends fire up an old barbecue grill and burn her up there. Even after death, Cassie wanted her friends to remember her as a trendsetter.

    Besides, the cremation-by-barbecue grill made it easier to have her funeral on her apartment building’s rooftop, so that it’d be kinda like Clerks but without the hockey. After her family stuffed her ashes in a urn, the afterparty would be on the rooftop, with a bathtub of PBR and burgers from the grill (Another grill, of course.). There would be bands like Audios Muchachos and Sparrow Implosion playing sets. Assuming they didn’t sell out. She promised herself that she’d die before she would see them sell out. Which would turn out to be true- Hopefully.

    It wouldn’t happen like that. Turns out Cassie and her guy friends were having a rooftop party, and she had too much to drink.

    She didn’t even notice the ledge.

    She would be a story in the evening news, and an “LOL” on the internet. She would have her wake in a dreary funeral home and her body would be buried in a old fashioned cemetery. There would be no music for the reception, because presumably, both bands sold out.

     
  • theinkling 4:34 am on January 16, 2011 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: always expected to die young,   

    I always figured he’d die young. I scra … 

    I always figured he’d die young. I scrapped the line and threw it away.

    Why did I have to kill him at all?

    The mad demands of an editor too bloodthirsty for words. I could not bring myself to kill him. We were in love in a way. I damned him, tore him, pushed him into walls, and he still came back to the page, sighing under the invisible direction of my pen.

    The phone rang.

    “Did you kill him yet?”

    My apartment, dark except for the failing lamp on my desk, felt like a funeral.

    I whispered no.

    The raspy voice on the other end turned sour. Within two minutes, my editor cut the call. I took the pen from the drawer (where I kept it, uncapped) and brought my character, my paper love, to the precipice again. And then I pulled him back with ropes of ink.

     
  • taraskelt 2:45 am on January 16, 2011 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: always expected to die young,   

    Julia 

    Sebastian always figured that he’d die young. His death would be spectacular. He’d fall off a careening vehicle in the midst of a car chase, he’d be gunned down by the city police force, maybe even die choking on a bad apple. But he did not imagine that he’d find himself on death’s door at the hands of dear, sweet Julia. She smiled at him over dinner;  more of a smirk, really, as his body began to shut down, his fingers convulsing as he scrabbled at the tablecloth, ripping it down along with him as he half-stumbled from his chair to crash to the floor a mere three steps past.

    “You should have listened, Sebastian dear, I told you the ring was mine.”

    He laughed as a light foam began to drip from the corner of his lip, painted pink with blood. “You’ll never get it, you know.”

    “And why not?”

    Sebasitan merely laughed, choking slightly at the feel of his throat closing up. “I’m the only one who knows where it is,” he said with a toothy grin.

    No, this was not how he’d seen it at all.

     
    • Shen Git 3:59 am on January 16, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      Intriguing! You could certainly spin this into a larger piece. There’s real hatred in here…

    • f 5:07 am on January 16, 2011 Permalink | Reply

      Oooh, this was awesome.
      (I agree with the Git.)

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