Chaos and Calamity (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rootsofthestories) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic2014-07-09 11:09 am
rootsofthestories) wrote in rainbowfic2014-07-09 11:09 am
Halloween orange, split ink
Name: Mallory
Title: you always remember that night when...
Story: And The Devil Makes Three
Colors: Halloween Orange: It's just 'til my evil plan comes into flower.
Spilt Ink: Ask yourself "What do I want to be remembered for? What idea do I want to become?"
Supplies: None
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count; 353
Notes: And then I just babbled on about Percival and words. Because I'm easy.
Also! If you happen to dig this universe, go poke atasworldsspinon. I'm going to be writing the main three stories in a proper order over there, starting with the angelpocalypse.
He never wanted to be remembered until the day he did.
Until the day he found stories in his brain, until the day he realized if he didn't get those stories out, he would implode.
He didn’t want tot be remembered, he didn't care about people enough and he didn't care if they knew he existed.
But then he learned to love something besides himself. Then he realized that the stories needed homes inside the heads of people besides him.
So he sent them out into the world, wondering the entire time why he wanted to be remembered now. Why the stories mattered so much that he had to tell them.
He didn’t understand it, he doesn’t understand it.
But he realizes that stories cannot survive if he doesn’t tell them and they are his children and he’s learned, somehow, to treat them with care.
So, he’s going to let his kids play. He’s going to let them grow and explore and be free. He’s going to set them loose upon the world to grow up, and spread.
He’s going to tell stories.
Because as much as he loves other people’s stories, he knows that his need to be told just as much. He knows that he has to spread them out, spread the word, spread as much as he can across whatever he can to whoever he can.
Because stories grow inside the hearts of others. Stories are a disease as much as they are children. They’ll spread, infect and make you catch fever, spend nights awake, get sick to your stomach.
They’ll do so much and you’ll always remember that time you got sick with stories like the time you got the chicken pox.
And that’s what he wants, to be a memory, to be something that lingers. He wants to sit in the corner of your brain, being ‘that one time’.
If he has to be remembered for anything, he wants it to be for spreading words like plagues, for infecting, for letting them loose on the world and having them survive long after he’s dead and gone.
Title: you always remember that night when...
Story: And The Devil Makes Three
Colors: Halloween Orange: It's just 'til my evil plan comes into flower.
Spilt Ink: Ask yourself "What do I want to be remembered for? What idea do I want to become?"
Supplies: None
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word count; 353
Notes: And then I just babbled on about Percival and words. Because I'm easy.
Also! If you happen to dig this universe, go poke at
asworldsspinon. I'm going to be writing the main three stories in a proper order over there, starting with the angelpocalypse.He never wanted to be remembered until the day he did.
Until the day he found stories in his brain, until the day he realized if he didn't get those stories out, he would implode.
He didn’t want tot be remembered, he didn't care about people enough and he didn't care if they knew he existed.
But then he learned to love something besides himself. Then he realized that the stories needed homes inside the heads of people besides him.
So he sent them out into the world, wondering the entire time why he wanted to be remembered now. Why the stories mattered so much that he had to tell them.
He didn’t understand it, he doesn’t understand it.
But he realizes that stories cannot survive if he doesn’t tell them and they are his children and he’s learned, somehow, to treat them with care.
So, he’s going to let his kids play. He’s going to let them grow and explore and be free. He’s going to set them loose upon the world to grow up, and spread.
He’s going to tell stories.
Because as much as he loves other people’s stories, he knows that his need to be told just as much. He knows that he has to spread them out, spread the word, spread as much as he can across whatever he can to whoever he can.
Because stories grow inside the hearts of others. Stories are a disease as much as they are children. They’ll spread, infect and make you catch fever, spend nights awake, get sick to your stomach.
They’ll do so much and you’ll always remember that time you got sick with stories like the time you got the chicken pox.
And that’s what he wants, to be a memory, to be something that lingers. He wants to sit in the corner of your brain, being ‘that one time’.
If he has to be remembered for anything, he wants it to be for spreading words like plagues, for infecting, for letting them loose on the world and having them survive long after he’s dead and gone.