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*｡:ﾟ averyxparker:

“Everything between?” Avery retorted, “Which would be… what, exactly? The living room couch?” They weren’t exactly sure what they believed in in life, and now that they were… what, living in the afterlife? Was this an afterlife? Were they the between? The idea brought up too many questions. Pushing away their thoughts, they picked up the tossed aside piece of paper, and glanced at the box that still held the Ouija board. “Well, the paper doesn’t say it explicitly, but I’m pretty sure the first step is to take the board out of the box. I mean, I’m no psychic either, but it does stand to reason.”

“Yes, that’s EXACTLY what I was referring to, fellow misplaced soul. I’ve always taken the energy force inside domestic furniture very seriously, I believe it’s the key to all of our philosophical questions over the centuries.” Sarcasm kept light but stubborn. They don’t possess an ounce of faith or philosophical intrigue themself, never have, never will, but when in Rome, do something to make the apparent afterlife not quite so DULL. “I had no idea you were an expert. See, what would I do without you?”

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*｡:ﾟ viismajor:

Defensive in spite of his own impulsive need to demand answers through provocative interrogation, skeptical expression connoting a degree of separation from responsibility as he takes a few appropriately paced steps backwards to give the stranger more wandering room. “ Were you blind before or after cremation? ” he hadn’t planned on being hostile but he couldn’t restrain his personal vendetta against the worst residents—-the ones who compromised his single minded loyalty to making it out of here alive.

“Did you become a dick before or after your dog bit yours off?” Slapping the blunt side of their umbrella into the other’s leg with a good guess of distance (under the guise of clumsy navigation), Marge keeps features turned towards him despite how unnecessary it is. Too easily riled to consider the cold shoulder a better alternative to persistent confrontation. They don’t actually know how to be blind, if there is any uniform way to do so; they were given no warning before being thrust into this unsettling emptiness, and now they’re equal parts bitterness and ignorance, though their bitterness is less of loss than it is of appearing incompetent to all of these seeing people. “What happened, did you slather on a bit too much peanut butter this time and Fido just couldn’t get enough?”

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*｡:ﾟ confidcncerae:

      rae nods slowly, lips pursing as she mulls over his suggestion. “i’d go for it. but only if it was like in that movie, yanno bruce almighty?? morgan freeman as god. who am i kidding ?? i just wanna meet morgan freeman.” the redhead rambles, sucking at the split in her lower lip that will never disappear. “you know i’d kinda like to meet the little man downstairs too. just to compare. i gotta know if the horns and cloven hooves are a legitimate representation or if he’s more like…robert de niro with extra flair.” she twists a loose strand of hair absentmindedly, stirring her tea with her other hand. “if hell was a sauna, i’m pretty sure nobody would want to be bumped up to the middle ground.”

“If I ever stand face to face with god and it’s not Morgan Freeman I’m demanding a refund, and an immediate return ticket to this dump. In that case we should also probably file a report about a stolen identity, there’s just too much evidence to pretend god isn’t Morgan Freeman -- we can probably file that with Susie Sloth, they have serious connections.” The last thought is tacked on under their breath as they needlessly shift where they’re seated. Uncomfortable with not being able to read her visual cues, the importance of which strikes Marge differently per person. Sometimes they forget they used to rely on it wholly, others it consumes them within minutes. “Is your nearest guess for Lucifer really New York’s lovable and murmuring mascot? I’m shocked.”

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*｡:ﾟ onahighwaytopurgatory:

He finally noticed that they seemed to be bling, and Ashley hummed pensively. “Yeah. I did it at a friend’s place, because we were bored and there were no beers left. We didn’t really have any luck, but then again, at the time I didn’t believe in ghosts.” He made a face and shook his head. “I am not sure I believe them yet, but… Apparently my car decided it wanted to hug a tree… Or was it a pole? Doesn’t matter, that’s how I… clocked out. And ya?””

“So basically you drunk dialed a ghost and they didn’t pick up? That’s cold.” They don’t seem to comprehend the other’s last two words for a few moments. It sounds like a question but it’s been weeks since anyone dared to ask -- dared to hold a conversation long enough to feel they had to. Forwardness, even callousness often takes Marge off guard. It’s like getting hit with the scent of home, unexpectedly. “Oh, you mean, where’d I get this five star face-lift done?” Last time they told the story about a burning cruise ship, and they’d lost original zeal for the fighter pilot lie, (no one ever seemed to buy it anyways. With the wardrobe choices they make, they have to reach for the Klinger defense to convince anyone there was even a chance anyone handed them the reigns to a high powered military vehicle at one point). They don’t know which story they’re going to tell until it’s coming out of their mouth. “It didn’t involve any trees, or cars -- which, by the way, were you inside or out of it when yours made that decision? Just curious. I was out cold when my thing happened, actually. In bed. Building caught on fire, and I slept right through it. Woke up deep fried and butt-ass-naked, like a wild Shrove Tuesday hangover but the blindness wasn’t temporary.”

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My baseline’s pretty good, I think, aside from a few pretty intense anxiety hiccups over my life. I wouldn’t say I’m quantifiably happier now than I was when I lived in my shithole studio apartment on Wilcox in Hollywood. I’m also old enough to understand what’s an illusion and what’s real, and that it’s foolish to try to think that I can control anything from here on out.

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i cannot believe u would steal a pen... in this... the economy

“Whaddya want me to say, punk? I’m a REBEL and a SICK SON OF A BITCH. Laws are meant to be broken so I’m just doing my civic duty and I don’t care who I hurt, or who I inconvenience in the process. Go ahead and try me -- Nothing, and I mean nothing, can stand in the way of me and my diary.”

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*｡:ﾟ hamptonandrew:

“Oh poor you having to listen to my voice in all eternity” he said and once again ended his sentence with a click of his tounge. A genuine laugh escaped his lips when he heard their words. “Now that I can agree with” he said and hummed, nodding a little. “Hm, that’s true. But why gather information, isn’t that too boring for you?” he asked in a teasing tone, tiling his head to the side.

“Sure you’re not SPELL-BINDING, sweetheart, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re inveterately boring.” Honeyed reassurance expertly blended with unconcern; studying people is all they do, even more so since getting offed by one of nature’s more overtly sinister elements. You can’t control something you don’t understand. You can’t predict what you don’t research beforehand. “What else do you have besides involuntarily offered information? Like I said: I know how to make things interesting.” Maybe not for others, but Marge doesn’t cater to anyone besides themself, that would be taking on extra, ugly responsibility, which they don’t believe in doing. Pragmatic egotism unrestrained and ever-flourishing. “ -- Even with people like you.”

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*｡:ﾟ deadclari:

 Clarissa was stuck in a vicious cycle that she couldn’t seem to escape and this had been prominent in her life. Even in death, she was still living the exact same days and reliving traumas that she couldn’t seem to get over. HE was supposed to love her but he showed her anything but love. Hearing the voice shouting at her, the little blonde looked towards them before shaking her head. Unable to see the relevance of their words, she was left to her own thoughts as the tears rolled down her cheeks. Eyes squeezed shut, Clarissa crossed her arms. “It wasn’t for you, it was for Him.”

“I probably shouldn’t ask, but -- WHO IS HE?” Milky eyes scan the area as if that action will bring Marge any more information; an instinctual gesture they don’t realize they still perform. Hands propped up on the roof of the vehicle. Staying still themself to try and discern if she’s muttering, moving, or anything at all. They’re not far enough away that they can’t hear each other, it’s only a yard or so, but it’s enough for Marge to have difficulty pinpointing what exactly she’s doing over there, if anything. She could just be standing over there, idle and empty handed -- or maybe she’s not even alone like they had assumed due to the OPEN SOBBING. Not every one was so lucky around here to keep those moments to themselves.

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desactivated:

when you see a pen on the ground and you steal it

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*｡:ﾟ evelynjoncs:

She thought they were going to leave their response at that and she lifted her head, the tiniest bit surprised, when the conversation continued. Even though Evelyn was aware of the situation she still glanced around the cafe for a moment before turning her attention back to them. It felt a little silly to be chatting so far apart, but she didn’t quite feel like offering an invitation to her table. “Really, I’d rather serve myself anyway.” If she could have jumped over the counter at Starbucks and made her own cappuccino she would have.

“You don’t trust the baristas either?” Candid curiosity easy to spot amidst all of their previously contrived interest -- a means to the end of their distraction from being dead; tediously, permanently dead. All of the amusing parts of being alive burnt away, numbed and made plain. Despite the woman’s indifference to any of this, Marge knows if you say enough THINGS, someone eventually has something to say back. They like to work in guarantees. “I don’t like their little hats, and their t shirt uniforms. I know they’re up to something and there are too many gadgets back there with them. I don’t like those odds.”

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💞

A MEMORY ABOUT THEIR CHILDREN.

“Mhmmm.” They’re not listening, and it’s always crystal clear when attention disengages, because they don’t even try to disguise it. Eyes frozen to their own feet, watching the little ball of fur that resides there now. “Yeah. Right. – What’s this?” Abrupt change of topic, their voice rising in pitch with the innocent question.

Mid speech the man across the desk, standing to sift through folders and misty plastic containers, stops and looks over his shoulder, appraising the situation. There are animals everywhere around here, but they’re not usually so young, and abnormally normal looking. There are even spiders crawling up the textured walls of  their habitats, lit up by a charming red and blue glow. The shadows they cast unnerving but not lacking in aesthetic contribution, Marge has to give them that. “Stray.” Dubiety clear, disinterest even clearer. It’s probably been here for days. Marge doesn’t take their eyes off of the four pawed foot warmer staring back at them – little mouth agape, with no sound produced from the motion. 

“You mean orphan.” The man doesn’t hear this, or chooses not to; he’s busy with something unseemly Marge similarly chooses not to witness (like usual). Orphan might not be the right technical word, but it packs the right punch of isolation; of abandonment. 

Crouching in place, all six feet of them folding and hugging into their own knees. Marge goes eye to eye with the scrawny cat. A black and white mix, they don’t know what that’s called. It sits up due to the disruption. Spins around and touches the invisible layer of skin animal’s have around their nose to Marge’s calf a few times – it has to be real, because they always flinch away before they’ve even touched you, and it can’t be this one’s whiskers, they’ve been clipped. “Coochie coo, kitty.” The fur from the imposing bookie’s coat tickles the feline’s curiosity, but loses its appeal when two paws find leverage enough to lift minuscule weight to nose at blue strands of hair this time (washed out, in need of a fresh dye). 

A sweet mewl mixes with a snort, the kitten’s mouth caught up in a loose-hanging curl, warping the noise. Big, kohl lined eyes cross with Marge’s attempt to keep the animal in focus despite closeness; it smells like engine fuel, or something equally greasy that would stain badly. They try to forget all they know about automotive know-how, everything about their modern habits just feels more natural that way. “I know a thing or two about that too.” Pinkie finger replaces dry tresses, allowing pin-prick fangs to rub across cracked skin a few times until it’s red (not a healthy practice with street strays; not important right now. or later. marge died like two years after this,, maybe they had rabies. maybe they didn’t. i’ll change cause of death to cat disease). 

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i got bored,, ,,, so here’s a (kinda quick?) edit of living!marge 4 ur viewing amusement.

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💜

A MEMORY ABOUT ONE OF THEIR LOVED ONES, HAPPY OR SAD.

Body language can divulge so much about a person, deeply private or loosely publicized, there’s no choice between them. If you give up one, you give up the other. There is no conscious filtration for such innate systems as bodily tells – you may be hard to read for some, but you can’t make it impossible. Marge’s ‘c’ shaped hug of the smaller individual beside them says it all; possessive, protective, affectionate, a CLINGING entanglement neither takes offense to. Heat between them comfortable and consistent; Marge’s face pulled tight in concentration, the other’s loose for the same reason. Both very different examples of LOVE – the smaller of the two, Anthony, has one hand laxly circled around Marge’s exposed arm, commending the tight embrace, his ankles crossed at the other end of the couch below the larger’s raised and heavy knee propped up on flat thigh. More diminutive head lolled to the side, tucked cozily between Marge’s bleached-white tresses and the black couch cushions. 

The whirring laptop sat on the coffee table quietly displays flashing images of torture, and then a screaming protagonist – one of the later SAW installments, Marge forgets which already. Densely inked hands clasped around Anthony’s slender opposite shoulder, their own hidden arm pinched and numb below him but uncomplaining. Firm physical contact has always reassured themself, as well as their friend, that they are mutually secure. Sating for the time being (only to the best of their ability) their need for any kind of assurance of safety, whilst projecting the same hungry want onto Anthony, who possesses barely half of the same dire impatience and deficiency. 

Friendship of eight and some plus years, an intermittent, off and on again arrangement. The both of them withdrawn and clumsy with one another, but never forsaking. An intimacy unbreakable as long as unspoken rules are always obeyed – never underestimate the rejuvenating power of distance, keep your rage directed elsewhere, and, fondness should always be confessed as loud and as consistently as possible. In all these years the two of them have managed, nearly heroically, to avoid lashing out at one another. Preserving the peace, and putting off the usually INEVITABLE break up Marge is always skittishly anticipating.

Shifting another inch closer, Marge presses clean shaven cheek to Anthony’s, eyes still on the screen as they chew mindlessly on the inside of their mouth. Receiving no movement, pleased or disgruntled, as a response; Anthony limp and pliable like a kitten in Marge’s tender clutches. 

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💗

A MEMORY ABOUT A GOOD DEED THEY DID.

“Well don’t make a big deal of it or anything.” Timorous gaze falls in repeated patterns across the other’s face, soaking in the detail they immediately pick apart – placidity signifies resentment, sideways glance signifies irritability. Slack mouth and low brow signifies CONTEMPT. A particularly biased examination. Mallory reaches down and pushes the item under question farther across the speckled counter. Fluorescent lights bzzzzinng overhead like unimpressed audience members, bored with the patterns of this relationship. 

There are no customers, and it’s not due to the time of night, or the sticky warm month, but chance. Jasmine works nights and early mornings mostly, Mallory never sleeps. They come around here mending, or messing things up worse every few nights. There’s usually no other staff around in the little 24/7 convenience store to disapprove of Jasmine’s blue-maned, manic visitor, but, it didn’t always take a disagreeable bystander to bring the wronged girl to kick Mallory back out into the night; conflicts are turbulent at best between the both of them.

“It’s even better than your old one.” Tactless but hopeful, painted nails nudge the still boxed smart phone closer to Jasmine’s side of the counter. Mallory has a temper, and they don’t tend to strike others, but they do tend to destroy prized possessions for a similar reaction; same effect, less damage. More of a chance for forgiveness. “So… you’re actually replacing my old one? – The one you threw?” Specification made by the dark haired girl to stress the reason for exhausted lineaments and a lack of enthusiasm.

“Mhm.” Mallory leans in, elbows on counter with chin perched on top of inked knuckles. Tiny grunt of confirmation sweet and small, self effacing in the pursuit of favor. Watery, intense eyes set on Jasmine’s – the only eyes they’ve met with such adoration and imploration for months; Sincere but fleeting, the story of their life. They need control, almost at any cost, but between affronts and tirades they are struck with the draining terror that what they see in those mesmerizing eyes is what they really deserve. A good deed can’t wipe away the truth, but they hope it can bury it for just a little longer.

 “Look – it’s even your favorite color, did you notice?” Apologies aren’t their strong suit, callousness and self congratulatory tones unable to be abandoned for even the time it takes to try to redeem themselves for just the same problematic habits, but, that doesn’t mean they don’t TRY.

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rp-meme-glaceon:

❤️- A happy memory that makes them smile

💙- A sad memory that makes them cry

💛- A memory that makes them feel angry

💚- A memory that makes them feel guilty

💜- A memory about one of their loved ones, happy or sad

💔- A memory that leaves them feeling lonely

❣- A memory that leaves them laughing

💕- A memory about their significant other

💞- A memory about their children

💓- A memory about their friends

💗- A memory about a good deed they did

💖- A memory that made them feel special

💝- A memory that made them feel loved

💘- A memory that gets their heart pounding

💟- Wildcard!!!

Peer into my muse's memories

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