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About Literature / Hobbyist KrissKross AwesomesauceFemale/United States Groups :icontrollian-coffee: Trollian-Coffee
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The smell of armpits is everywhere.

Under that, there’s the smell of piss and vomit. Cigarette smoke. People’s breath. Traces of liquor. The dish soap the girls on stage are wrestling around in.

My clothes are wet and reek of the beer that some cumshot spilled on me a few minutes ago. The drink in my hand is half-empty and I haven’t taken a single sip. It’s all just spilling out on my fingers and rolling down my arm with every shoulder that slams into me.

I hate clubs.

I hate club music. I hate the people who come to clubs. I hate the smell of clubs. I hate the flashing fucking lights and the goddamn lasers in clubs.

I squint toward the DJ booth, at Jackson, with his shades on even though it’s dark as fuck in here, his clothes glowing under the black light, one hand raised over his head, pumping to the beat of the music. I want to hate him for dragging me here, but I can’t.

So I hate everyone and everything here instead.

By the time I find Zane and Alexander, my drink is nearly empty and there still isn’t a drop of alcohol in my system. Fifteen fucking dollars to give my hand a sticky whiskey-and-cola coating.

Goddamn,” Alex shouts over the music, “You lookin’ salty as fuck, bro.”

“It’s the club, motherfucker!” Zane smacks me hard on the back, rattling the ice cube in my almost empty glass. “Ya ain’t got shit to be sour about!”

The floor is sticky under my feet. And, somewhere in this fucking madhouse, over the music and screaming, I can hear someone throwing up. Heaving, violently, like he’s hurking up all his fucking organs.

Everyone here is just trying to be louder than everyone else. Even the asshole who can’t hold his liquor.

“What happened to yer drink, Frank?” Alex yells in my face. His breath smells like sour beer and there’s some orange Cheeto dust in the corner of his mouth that’s been there for God only knows how long.

Part of me wants to smash the glass in his face.

I look back to the DJ booth–at Jackson, still glowing and pumping his fist to the music–then at the door, where Zane’s stepbrother Chazz is stopping people to check IDs. When meatheaded Chazz Fisher isn’t turning away hopeful teens with phony IDs, he’s standing guard, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed, waiting. Waiting for someone to shout too loudly. Waiting for someone to spill a drink on someone more violent than me. Waiting for a punch to be thrown, just so he can throw some of his own.

Zane and Alex are watching the stage. More specifically, they’re watching the blonde and the brunette “bikini babes,” as they’ve been so lovingly referring to them as, slipping around in a blow-up kiddie pool full of soapy water. That’s the appeal of this place, I think. There’s not much else it could be, honestly.

And maybe I should be sad about that. Maybe I should be upset that this many dudes are clamoring to squeeze into this tiny, stinking shithole, bumping and shouting and stepping in vomit–just to watch these two girls fake wrestle. These two girls–probably not even old enough to buy drinks at the bar. Barely eighteen, at the oldest.

Skeazy is the first word that comes to mind. The next one is subhuman, then filth. For some reason, the last word to come to mind before I turn and start shoving my way back to the bar is livestock.

Back at the bar, I order another drink and try to take a few deep breathes to calm myself down, but the stink in here only makes things worse. By the time the bartender hands me my drink, I’m fighting the urge to strangle everyone I can get my hands on.

I look back over my shoulder, trying to find Zane and Alexander in the crowd, but it’s useless. Deciding my drink will be safer if I stay put, I get comfortable and take my first sip of legal alcohol. And it’s absolutely terrible. There’s too much whiskey. Not enough Coke. It burns my throat and nose and I’m just so ready to throw the damn thing on the ground and leave this shitstorm.

And then the strobes stop blinking. The music dies. The whole club is pitch black for a second before a spotlight hits me. I wince and cover my eyes, squinting up at the DJ booth. Jackson is grinning like an idiot, pointing straight at me.

“This next one,” his voice booms through the speakers, “goes out to my lil bro! He’s turning twenty-one today and this is gonna be his best birthday ever, courtesy of the best big bro ever! Now let’s hear it for the birthday boy!”

The music booms back to life and the club erupts. And I lean forward on the bar, cradling my throbbing head. I hate this place. I hate these people. These lights. This noise. The smell. The taste lingering in my mouth. I hate it all. And I want to hate him too.

But I can’t.

Brotherly Love
Frankie hates clubs.
His brother lives for clubs.

one more old short story about my OCs from my writing blog…

He finds it under my bed. He’s hanging upside down with his head on the floor, laughing and snorting the way he does when he’s been drinking too much. Which is pretty much always. Then he goes quiet.

I look away from my screen and he’s reaching under my bed, still upside down, his pierced tongue poking from between his lips the way it does when he’s concentrating. The smiley face decal on his barbell grins at me from the center of his tongue.

When his arm snakes out from under my bed, he’s holding the folded piece of newspaper clipping I’ve been toting around for the last eight years.

Sliding his legs off my bed, Jackson rolls upright, shakes the dust off the bit of newspaper, and unfolds it.

I already know what it is, so I just go back to staring at my screen. Mindlessly killing aliens at the press of a button. Killing zombies. Killing Nazis. Killing police officers. Killing civilians. Killing whatever they’ll let me.

“They spelled your last name wrong,” Jackson says, slurred and sloppy. “The E and the L are in the wrong place.”

Cadle instead of Cadel.

“I know,” I say back, lobbing a grenade into a horde of aliens. Of course I know. As many times as I’ve held that damn thing, my fingerprints are probably stamped on the paper.

Ever seen your mother bawl her eyes out over a typo?

“How old’s your dad in this picture?” Jackson’s asking, flopping down on his back, holding the clip-out up so the light shines through it.

“About my age now, I guess.” I blow the heads off another bunch of aliens and florescent blood sprays out of them. He’s twenty-three in that picture, a year older than I am now. It’s the same year he married my mom.

“Y’know…” Jackson rolls onto his stomach and crawls closer to me, looking from my profile to the black-and-white picture, wrinkled and faded from my fingertips. “I think Terry takes more after your dad than you.”

“Imagine that,” I say, killing an NPC on my side just for the fuck of it. Terry has Dad’s jawline and nose. He has Dad’s big green eyes. Dad’s soft, smooth chestnut hair.

All I have of Dad are his freckles. The little dots on my cheeks and shoulders that I hate so much—that’s all I have to show of him.

“You look more like your mom, I think,” Jackson says, then burps and grunts, pushing himself upright and sitting on his ass beside me. “Can’t be layin’ like that, man. Makes the room all spinny and shit.”

“Have another shot, why don’t ya?” I mutter, more to the giant alien I’m gunning down than to Jackson.

I have Mom’s softer jaw. Her nose that turns up at the end a little. Her dark, curly hair, so thick you can lose things in it.

My long hands with their big knuckles—they’re hers.

My wire thin frame and the deep-set of my blue eyes—all lifted from her.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jackson gets up with a grunt and wobbles to my dresser, to the bottle of whiskey, half-drained with two shot glasses beside it. Still holding the clipping, Jackson fills both glasses to the brim. “You guys ain’t right. You and Ter-Bear. Twins and all—y’all should look alike.”

“You and Frankie don’t look anything alike,” I say and I instantly regret the low-blow. Might as well have just said yeah, and your mom’s a whore.

But Jackson—sweet, drunk Jackson—he doesn’t hear me, or he doesn’t care, plopping down cross-legged beside me with a shot in each hand, dribbling whiskey down his arms. He has the newspaper clipping pressed between his lips.

The eight-year-old public announcement of my dad’s death. In Jackson’s mouth.

Another NPC falls to friendly fire.

“Here,” he says, with liquor dripping from his elbow. The clipping flutters onto his lap.

My dad’s faded, fingerprint-stamped ghost. Smiling up at us from Jackson’s crotch.

I put my controller down long enough to swallow the shot in one burning gulp, then shiver and kill another handful of aliens.

“Your mom’s pretty though, so I guess take it as a compliment,” Jackson says before shooting back his tiny glass of whiskey.

“You tryin’ to call me pretty?” I grumble, slashing an alien’s neck and getting another spray of glowing blood as a reward.

Jackson wipes his hands on his shirt and picks the clipping back up. “Why you still got this thing, man?”

I shrug. Throw another grenade. Unload another clip. Slash another throat. Killing, killing, killing, killing to keep myself from doing something awful.

“I ain’t gonna tell ya how to live your life, man,” Jackson tells me. He drops the clipping back on his lap, digs his cigarettes out and lights one, saying, “But damn, dude—it’s been, like, forever. Keepin’ this kinda thing around ain’t gonna help you move past it.”

Jackson, forever trying to be my drunken savoir. My messiah reeking of whiskey and pot. The dysfunctional, pierced therapist I always needed.

So I gun down another member of my team.

a conversation between my OCs Gene and Jackson

another old short story from my writing blog…

The first time he saw me, it was through a webcam.

I’d seen him before, in the pictures he sent me. Pictures of him and his brother. Him and his sisters. His parents. His pets. Pictures of just him, smiling into the camera just for me. But he’d never seen me before. Because I didn’t want him to.

I was afraid. Because I thought he’d be afraid.

He knew about my—uhh—condition. Sort of. I was pretty vague when I told him about it, back when he first asked if I’d send him some photos. He never asked for photos again after that, but kept sending his own. I didn’t know if he was respecting my privacy, or if he didn’t want to know the truth anymore.

Maybe, I’d think to myself at night, maybe he had a picture of me in his mind. Maybe I was handsome and perfect and everything he wanted. And maybe I messed that up when I told him…

I had an accident a few years ago. It messed me up, I guess, and I don’t exactly look great right now. It’s pretty bad and I’m sorta self-conscious about it.

Of course, I left out all the details that would really chase him off. Like that little bit where the accident didn’t just mess me up—it killed me. And not in the ‘I was dead for a few minutes and doctors revived me’ sort of way.

I died. And there was nothing medical science could do for me. Black magic, however—that fixed me right up. Aside from the rotting and all.

So yeah, had I been completely honest with him that night, I would’ve said something along the lines of, “I died three years ago and my dad used some kind of voodoo to bring my soul back and bind it to my dead body and now I’m just a walking maggot factory, falling apart and stinking up the place.”

You probably see why I didn’t tell him that.

But about a year later, my phone buzzed.


And goddamn it—if my heart was still beating, I’m pretty sure it would’ve pounded right outta my rotten chest. I must’ve reread those messages three dozen times.

Falling in love.

With me.


Jimmy Taborski. A dead guy.

I don’t even fucking breathe and those two messages left me completely breathless. Because, as a dead guy, I’d pretty much accepted that no one would ever love me. Not romantically. Not in the ‘I wanna cuddle and watch movies and listen to the rain’ kinda way.

But then he…

He just…

And I…

I felt so wrong. And wonderful. And scared. And excited. The emotions those two messages put in me—they were hideous and magnificent all at once.

In the back of my mind, I thought I’d done something terrible. Led him on. And that when he found out—when he saw me—I thought for sure that he’d feel cheated and used and disgusting. He’d be repulsed with himself for being tricked into having feelings for a corpse.

But part of me…part of me wanted to think he could accept me. After all, I’d seen him. I’d seen the red and pink scar tissue curling up from the corners of his mouth. I’d seen the deep, sliced-in reminders of his past. He’d shown them to me in dozens and dozens of pictures and I’d never thought he was anything less than wonderful.

Perfect, even in his imperfections.

So, even though I was so scared I wanted to have the biological functions necessary for throwing up, I said yes.


I was so nervous. I couldn’t talk, even though I’d spent a year talking to him so easily. I pulled my hood over the bad side of my face through the whole thing.

I knew he could see some of my stitches. That he had to see the purple and green rot spreading across my dead skin.

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to be able to cry.

But he…

He never stopped smiling. The scars on his cheeks made his smile devour his face and I thought he looked so perfect.

And neither of us said a single thing. We just sat and looked at each other for what could’ve been a lifetime.

And when we finally said goodbye, I still wanted to cry. Because there was never a trace of disgust in his green eyes. No fear. No judgment.

Just love.

The First Time
i uploaded this a while ago on my writing blog…

figured i'd upload it here too.

quick lil fluffy story about my OCs Jimmy and Fink
i wasn't tagged but this looked like fun soooo....

1. Answer the questions.
2. Tag at least two people.
3. Have fun, and make the answers as short or as long as you like!

1. When did you discover you enjoyed writing?
When I was 10 or 11, I decided to give fanfiction a try and I was shit at it, but I had a lot of fun and started writing original stories instead. I got really into it when I was around 13 and gave writing a novel a shot. Again, didn't go very well, but it got me to where I am today, so it's all good.

2. What are your strengths in writing?
Character development. Like, hands down--that's my greatest strength as a writer.

3. What are your weaknesses in writing?
Well, for someone who likes to throw romance into all my stories, I'm kinda shit at writing it. Like...fluffy scenes and all that. I'm just so, so bad at it.

4. What is your favourite genre to write in?
Fantasy, urban or high. The vast majority of my stories have at least a few fantasy elements in them.

5. Do you consider yourself a good writer?
Yeah, I'm pretty solid. I can always get better, but I feel like I'm at a pretty good stage with my writing.

6. Do you like to let a lot of people in real life read your work?
Oh yeah, I love letting people see my stories. I don't exactly have a lot of people anymore who are into reading (which is a grand tragedy), but all the people who do read totally get my stories waved in their faces.

7. How often do you write?
I try to write at least a little everyday. Sometimes I take a couple weeks off, but that usually has something to do with writer's block or stress.

8. Who are your favourite authors and why?
Chuck Palahniuk is my all-time favorite writer and I'm pretty sure no one will ever be able to contend with him for the top spot. I just really love his style and the characters he creates (even though most of them would be horribly shitty people).

9. Do you have any OC's? If so, describe your favourite ones.
Oh. My. God. I have about 9 billion OCs. And asking me to pick a favorite is like asking a mother to pick her favorite child. I love all my little losers pretty equally.

10. Do you write fan-fiction? If so, for which fandoms?
I don't anymore. Back when I was just starting out, I wrote a lot of Harry Potter fanfics. A couple for One Piece, DBZ, FMA...that kinda stuff.

11. Do you prefer writing by hand or typing?
Oh, typing all the way. I'm doing a project right now that requires a lot of writing by hand and it is just killing my wrist.

12. Are you a huge critic when it comes to writing?

Sorta. I wouldn't say I'm a HUGE critic. A constructive critic, maybe.

13. What format do you like to write in the most? (Prose, short story, vignette, poetry, etc.)
Mostly novels, with a few short stories thrown in here and there.

14. Who do you tag?
  • Mood: Neutral


KrissKross Awesomesauce
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Name: Kay

Hobbies: Kicking ass, taking names, chilling, being completely awesome and criminally lame at the same time

Dank Stuff: Minecraft, Homestuck, meeting new people, comic books, writing, good tunes, coffee

Lame Stuff: Buzz kills, haters, and generally just anyone else looking to harsh my chill

Anything Else? If you take me seriously, you're doing it wrong.


--Commission pricing

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Mia-Sehana Featured By Owner Oct 6, 2015  Student Writer
Wow, I've been absent for a long time. Sorry about that! Anyway, happy late b-day!
FancyPancake55 Featured By Owner Jan 9, 2015  Student General Artist
Hey buddy I haven't talked to you in a while wow. But beside that.

(1 Reply)
Hetalia31 Featured By Owner Jun 26, 2014  Student
Hi, haven't talked to you in a while.
(1 Reply)
Unicornlover10 Featured By Owner May 1, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
Thx for the llama :D
(1 Reply)
Andreanable Featured By Owner Apr 7, 2014  Student Digital Artist
Thanks for the :+fav: Have a nice day! :D
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