Hi, said Lacrosse, in Swedish rainbow colored stockings and pigtails tied off with two mismatched big bows, with ecstatic grins and punches in the air. Hi, they said, and if you weren’t prepared you were never going to be when they exploded, sparks and fireworks and guitars that raced and drums that kicked, synchronized claps and a chorus that danced in your mind, the world is full of Saturdays but it’s always Sunday around here.
And it’s so hard to believe them, watching their bright expressions, the colors of their clothes, the energy with which they picked at their instruments, but these songs speak another story, of graveyards with streamers flowing overhead, of futures stabbed a hundred times with a butcher knife, bleeding vivid catchy red. Hopeless twinkling of bells and catchy lines, optimistic pleads with a cheeky grin, a cheeky grin that says, hi, we’re Lacrosse, and we are endlessly cheerful even when we are convinced that we, and the rest of the world, are utterly fucked.
When we sing of the happiest of moments, we sound genuine, it sounds like it should be, but when we sing our chorus and the despair punctures our major key melodies, and while you’re at it, get me a job. One that pays loads and one that I also love, with a perfect snappy rhythm that doesn’t relent until that fake plastered smile and that endlessly enthusiastic mantra of negativity that is their chorus becomes so overwhelming in its happy conviction of hopelessness that you believe it too, skull and cross boned balloons, over saturated hyper colored loss.
please stop posting cliches. please. like those photos with some vague abstract sentence across it that everyone loves so much and reblog incessantly: it’s NOT applicable, it’s not relevant, it’s not meaningful simply because there is text across a pretty picture.
and all those stupid fucking quotes you guys don’t stop reblogging? again. not, meaningful. not, relevant. not innovative or inspiring. in that moment, we were not infinite.
(hi, I am writing a bit of fiction again, and for the first time I’m posting it. It is very short but vivid when it happened in my mind. Please read it.)
When she smiled the stars danced, and sometimes I had to remind myself that I had to execute her, just like the others. We talked long into the night and she was the only one who ever laughed at anything I said. Then I realized that she laughed because she thought them jokes, and we learnt only ever to be literal. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her, so I let her laugh, and sometimes she’d reach out her small hands, her light fingers and rest them against my skin, and I’d smile, slightly, back.
I considered transferring, to another regiment, then I thought of another fifty girls with quick fingers and a waltzing, quivering sky. Then I thought of her face and the way the freckles peppered around her nose and stretched to the tip of her cheeks. When I brought it up to my captain, he looked surprised. He said they were quicker, a larger volume, but he thought I’d like it here, this was the smallest regiment because we were picked out especially to enjoy not the mass of executions but the details in each one. We took our time and perfected every single death as if it was the most delicate of watercolors, and cherished the product as much as the end. He said a transfer would be easy but to think of it, carefully
I thought about it. And then I thought of leaving her to another’s hands. And so I stayed, and each night she’d brush her finger against some part of me, and one night her lip, soft and tender and quick, a second of wetness and then a hand to cover the culprit.. (…the rest)