- Invitation Status
- Look for groups
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- One post per day
- Multiple posts per week
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
- Writing Levels
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Douche
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Nonbinary
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Primarily Nonbinary
Florence decided that maybe the other was just bluffing. He closed his eyes, and listened to the other's breathing. He sounded so at peace, even if it was just after a few minuets. He opened his eyes, and watched him. He watched his hair fall over his eyes, and his nose flex gently with each breath. He looked so much like his sister.
But he didn't.
He had so many different characteristics. He was so original. He wasn't a copy, he was just related. Florence watched his eyelids flutter softly, and he wanted to touch his cheek. He looked soft. He looked warm. Florence placed a hand gently over the other's, taking in how very soft it felt against his calluses.
He pulled his hands away. This wasn't right. Florence turned his body, and sat up slowly in the bed. He needed a smoke. He let the dog replace his weight in the bed, and he made his way out. Atleast, he almost did, before he thought of what lurked under the bed. Florence had always wondered what atleast one of the letters said, but hell, it wouldn't hurt to read one, right?
Florence slowly crept under the bed, and flipped open the lid gently. He grabbed one of the latest letters, and slithered back out from under the bed. As he exited the room, he grabbed the package of cigarettes, and made his way towards the living room. Florence made his way out the door slowly, and took in the sweeping twilight that covered the city like an ill omen.
It must have been atleast three in the morning. Florence lit his cigarette, and sat on the porch.
As he sucked on ash, he played with the letter between his fingers, not entirely ready to open it. It had been given to him on his birthday, right when he turned 16, and he promised himself he wouldn't read it. Florence slipped his fingers between the fold and the envelop, and tore into it. There were few sheets of paper, and a few other items, but he only grabbed the papers for now. The letters were written on front to back, in messy cursive. It looked almost like Florence's chicken scratch. He read to himself as he let the ash fall onto his glow-in-the-dark boxers.
My god, it's been ten years since I last saw you, and possibly longer since I last heard you speak! How you must have matured. You must be taking care of your mother, my strong boy. You must have learned to fly with wings made out of newspaper clippings. I'm so sorry it's been hard on you both, but I was sick. I still am, and the dosages aren't getting smaller. I still see God sometimes, but never have I trusted that Holy Ghost.
He looked just like him. He was Florence if he was a brunette and had more facial hair. He saw the blue eyes, and the blue veins, and felt himself popping. Vincent was wearing a white shirt stained with dust and marker smears, with big orange letters marking the front of the shirt with "EVENT STAFF". He was wearing a bright orange safety hat, matching the colors on his shirt. His brown hair was in a tangled mess, peaking out and curling away from all sorts of danger.
Vincent was doing a half-smile-half-wave, like he was taken off guard. Florence could tell why she fell in love with him. He placed the picture down, and looked at the family picture. Florence was about two or three in this picture, and he was being held by two tired kids, aswell. The date on the picture said '199--", but the rest was scratched off from years of wear and tear. Vincent was there, more clean-shaved, with less wrinkles and moles. His mother had longer hair. Florence was crying in the picture.
He didn't look at the drawings. Florence could tell they were just blue-prints for some house or something. He was going to be sick. He flicked the butt of the cigarette to the side, and shoved everything back into the envelope. Florence tried to keep himself together, but he felt like he was drowning. Florence wanted another cigarette, but he knew the other would wake soon. Florence stumbled into the house, placed the envelope under the TV, and waltzed into his bedroom, laying closer to the other than ever before.
He watched Nathaniel. He fell asleep.
But he didn't.
He had so many different characteristics. He was so original. He wasn't a copy, he was just related. Florence watched his eyelids flutter softly, and he wanted to touch his cheek. He looked soft. He looked warm. Florence placed a hand gently over the other's, taking in how very soft it felt against his calluses.
He pulled his hands away. This wasn't right. Florence turned his body, and sat up slowly in the bed. He needed a smoke. He let the dog replace his weight in the bed, and he made his way out. Atleast, he almost did, before he thought of what lurked under the bed. Florence had always wondered what atleast one of the letters said, but hell, it wouldn't hurt to read one, right?
Florence slowly crept under the bed, and flipped open the lid gently. He grabbed one of the latest letters, and slithered back out from under the bed. As he exited the room, he grabbed the package of cigarettes, and made his way towards the living room. Florence made his way out the door slowly, and took in the sweeping twilight that covered the city like an ill omen.
It must have been atleast three in the morning. Florence lit his cigarette, and sat on the porch.
As he sucked on ash, he played with the letter between his fingers, not entirely ready to open it. It had been given to him on his birthday, right when he turned 16, and he promised himself he wouldn't read it. Florence slipped his fingers between the fold and the envelop, and tore into it. There were few sheets of paper, and a few other items, but he only grabbed the papers for now. The letters were written on front to back, in messy cursive. It looked almost like Florence's chicken scratch. He read to himself as he let the ash fall onto his glow-in-the-dark boxers.
"Dearest Florence Jean,
I can't believe you're turning sixteen. I remember like it was yesterday when I would tease you, and call you humming bird. But look at you, my little Birdy, growing his big boy feathers. Growing his wings! You're going to leave the nest soon, and migrate to the north and live happily ever after. Atleast, that's what I expect from a free-spirited flyer like yourself.
Florence, I know you won't read this. I can tell by the way you spoke to me the last time I tried talking to you. I still hear you, Florence, in everything I do. But that was from days gone past. You were a boy, but now, you're a man. You're going to make some people very happy some day. But Florence, even if you never read this, just remember; It's hot in the summer, and cold in the winter, but dammit! You have to be nice, baby.
They give me so many pills here. I've been moved about four or five different times- I lost count after they gave me this pill with a blue band around it. I have to take nine in the morning before I go to work, and six in the afternoon with my lunch. At night, I take two to help me sleep. I need a picture of you, Florence. I need one of you and your mother. I think I'm forgetting what you both look like.
My god, it's been ten years since I last saw you, and possibly longer since I last heard you speak! How you must have matured. You must be taking care of your mother, my strong boy. You must have learned to fly with wings made out of newspaper clippings. I'm so sorry it's been hard on you both, but I was sick. I still am, and the dosages aren't getting smaller. I still see God sometimes, but never have I trusted that Holy Ghost.
Enclosed I have a picture of myself, your father, and a picture I kept of all of us before the bombs fell. I also have a few drawings. I have been getting better, I swear! Please keep in contact, Florence. I
I hope nothing but happiness comes through your doors. I love you kindly. Vincent F. Birdwhistle.
P.S: I'm in the Sacramento Institution for the Criminally Distraught and the Mentally Disabled, room 205 B, with a lovely view of the parking lot in sunny Calli-For-Ni-Ay, if you ever decide to visit.
P.S: I'm in the Sacramento Institution for the Criminally Distraught and the Mentally Disabled, room 205 B, with a lovely view of the parking lot in sunny Calli-For-Ni-Ay, if you ever decide to visit.
P.P.S: Tell your mother I love her. Tell her I'm sorry. Hug yourself for me. Hug her twice.
Florence flicked ash from his cancer-stick, and placed the letters to the side, his hand shaking gently as he did. He didn't know when he stopped breathing, but he had to intake fresh air after reading that. He looked inside the envelope. He first saw the picture of his father, and he had to keep his breath again. He looked just like him. He was Florence if he was a brunette and had more facial hair. He saw the blue eyes, and the blue veins, and felt himself popping. Vincent was wearing a white shirt stained with dust and marker smears, with big orange letters marking the front of the shirt with "EVENT STAFF". He was wearing a bright orange safety hat, matching the colors on his shirt. His brown hair was in a tangled mess, peaking out and curling away from all sorts of danger.
Vincent was doing a half-smile-half-wave, like he was taken off guard. Florence could tell why she fell in love with him. He placed the picture down, and looked at the family picture. Florence was about two or three in this picture, and he was being held by two tired kids, aswell. The date on the picture said '199--", but the rest was scratched off from years of wear and tear. Vincent was there, more clean-shaved, with less wrinkles and moles. His mother had longer hair. Florence was crying in the picture.
He didn't look at the drawings. Florence could tell they were just blue-prints for some house or something. He was going to be sick. He flicked the butt of the cigarette to the side, and shoved everything back into the envelope. Florence tried to keep himself together, but he felt like he was drowning. Florence wanted another cigarette, but he knew the other would wake soon. Florence stumbled into the house, placed the envelope under the TV, and waltzed into his bedroom, laying closer to the other than ever before.
He watched Nathaniel. He fell asleep.
