Thing an assassin does not need to know.

So, I'm just going to slowly add to this... It's for one of my stories, and I need to figure out what a character's weaknesses are. If you think of anything to add, tell me: narglestudios@gmail.com

- Basket weaving
- Cooking (Knows some things about wilderness survival and road food.)
- Stamp collection
- Advanced math
- Some Science (The stuff not useful during murder)
- Calligraphy
- Drawing
- Advanced English (High school)
- Art
- Creative writing
- Farming/agriculture
- Plumbing
- Cleaning
- Dewey Decimal System

I feel clever

“Wings, could you please try to be normal for just three seconds?”
     “But Betty! That’s totally impossible, don’t you see?” Wings said, his eyes the size of dinner plates. Or, you know, the moon or something. Wait… that metaphor is overused too…
     With eyes the size of the blacksmith’s belly. There. Perfect.
     “Well, obviously you can’t be totally normal,” Betty said, effectively reminding us of just what was happening before I went off on a metaphorical tangent.

I feel like crap.

She refused to wake up and smell the roses for what they really were. All she got was the faintest perfume and the stink of the manure beneath. She didn’t smell the green of the grass beyond and she didn’t smell the mold at the bottom of her shoes and she walked blindly through the garden. Soon her eyes became only for the manure, and she began to hate, and the roses began to hate her back because she didn’t understand. She wouldn’t even look at them, only glancing up and complaining that the sun was too hot on her back, for the roses created that heat and that light, the wonderful things that could have cured her of her bad temperament, but she did not look and she did not listen to their cries.

Soon the roses began to keep secrets from her, and she only got more suspicious of them, tearing out their roots and trying to rip out all of the manure. She did not see that it was the dark and smelly things that helped them to grow. Everything is good in some situation, no matter how strange. But she did not see, she only smelled the bad.

The women had another set of flowers. She had chrysanthemums, also bright and with so many petals. But they had so many more petals. And they did not need manure to grow better, only the sun and water. They were more perfect than the roses, or so she thought.

Of course, the roses knew that she was right. The roses could see that the chrysanthemums were better, because they did not need manure, like the roses did. The chrysanthemums did not raise a stink. But they were messier than the rose, and they annoyed the woman with all of the tiny petals they spread across the ground. But the woman loved them despite of that.

She did not feel the same way about the roses.

The roses began to wilt, because flowers need more than food and water to grow. They need love. Sometimes other people would walk by and compliment the roses, but the rose told themselves that the strangers were just too far away. The strangers could not smell the manure. The roses became ashamed of the smell, and when the woman complained about it to the others, the roses felt even more ashamed. The woman did not know that the rose was ashamed of the smell, and so she shared it with everyone, complaining and wondering aloud what was to be done.

And the roses wilted even more.

The woman noticed, as did all of the neighbors. The neighbors but more manure on the roses, not knowing that the rose was so weak that it could not get the nutrients into itself fast enough. No one knew that every night the dew dripped off of the rose, falling to the ground like tears. They thought such things were impossible for roses, because roses were supposed to hold their water. And it was true that, though no one ever saw them, the roses were good at holding the rain inside. But it would spill over all too often when no one was looking and the roses could not help but saw to themselves ‘you are worthless.’

The woman smelt all of the manure, and yelled even more.

Then the roses looked over the fence, and they quickly became infatuated. Over the old white wooden pickets were flowers that were blooming tall and strong. They were flowers that were not ashamed of themselves. The rose tried to mimic them, straightening her stem and putting a rosy color in her petals. But the problem for her was the same. She still smelled, when you got too close. From the outside, in photographs, she seemed beautiful, but when you came close and when you asked the woman about her, you realized that she stank. Strangers used to ask about the roses. ‘How is it that your flowers look so bright?’ but the woman would just point to the places where the leaves had holes, and to the thorns, and she would say ‘they are not bright. They are smelly and corrupt and stupid and lame. They do not have the wonder of the chrysanthemum.’ And then she would lead them across the garden and show them the yellow flowers, and the rose would wilt again.

The rose became obsessed with the world she saw on the other side of the fence. She tried to be like the people she saw, and she became smart. She tried to argue with the woman, to demand that the woman look at her, see her, but the woman ignored her.

The woman did not see how hard the rose was trying to shine.

The rose began to be tossed against the rough brick wall behind it, and the petals along its back began to tear and fill with holes. The rose was sure that people could see its ragged edges, but no one could, because those edges were kept behind, where people’s eyes did not travel. The woman did not notice the rose dipping itself into a pot of bright pink paint. The rose looked right, but the woman only smelled the manure, and she only saw the ragged edges and the thorns.

Many people tried to help the rose, and she tried to help herself. For a long time she held herself from the wall, but then her arms began to tire and weaken because she was once again distracted by the world on the other side of the fence, the world that made her stronger and yet also made her worse. One day she fell against the wall completely, and she was sure that every inch of her was turn. But the people still only saw the pink paint.

Soon, she began to yell, and stamp.

And the roses though they would quite be crushed under her feet. But they survived the ordeal, and they managed to spread their seeds, in the hope that someone would see and someone would help the roses to grow.

But no one ever saw and the rose withered and died, crushed by the one who only ever saw the stink, and not the beauty in broken things.

No one ever sees the beauty of broken things. Broken people are the strongest of all, and yet we choose to lock them away rather than look at them. Broken people are the strongest because they have survived where others have shattered so much that they have died.

So, does anyone else have this problem?
I think I have a certain limit to how much time I can spend around people. Like, if I’ve been in a crowded place all day long and I don’t get a chance to  just be by myself I get really snappy. Normally I manage to be a pretty good friend to my little brother, but after I’ve been at school all day I just want everyone to shut up and leave me alone.
Yeah, sounding similar to anyone? Just wondering.

And this is how i died.
Jess knew the others were asleep. It was strange, the way their mind worked, some parts awake and some parts asleep, all at the same time. As long as she didn't move around too much Stacy, Lyn, and Iris would stay fast asleep.

And Mike probably would too.

She would never admit it to anyone, but she kind of had a crush on the devil boy. He was a dork, sure, but he was sort of cute, and he was edgy enough to make up for it. How many people could truthfully say that they lived in hell?

And she was sort of freaking out, as he was right next to her.

Lazily, she flopped over, without disturbing the others. Their dreams were a little funky for a minute, but it wasn't too bad at all. Jess looked at the dark shadow that was Mike and had a few little dreams of her own. But she stayed awake.

Jess was brave. It was on principle and it was actual bravery. She almost never ran from anything, unless it was a least ten times bigger than her or smelled really, really bad. So naturally, she was inclined to do something daring. Tentatively, she reached out and touched Mike's chest.

He didn't wake, not even when she began to gently move her hand back and forth, feeling the muscles underneath his shirt.

"Oh goodliness, I had no idea he was hot too," she said, the words hissing into the night air. She continued rubbing his chest, in a state of ecstasy. "He needs to take of that sweatshirt more often."

"Um.. what... what are you doing?"

Stitch's eyes flew open an her hand froze. "Er..."

Mike gently pushed her hand of his chest. And coughed.

"So... I sort of have a crush on you?" Jess said.

"Really?" Mike sounded stunned.

"Yeah. I mean, you're sort of cute, in an underworld type of way, and even though you're a dork you're kind of edgy without knowing it. And I didn't know how hot you were before, but now... Man, I need to see you shirtless."

"Um... "

"Look. I actually have no idea how to do this. I've never really... done, romance. And if the others found out... They would never let me hear the end of it. So I guess its not really a good idea for me to make out with you and stuff."

"Okay?"

"I mean, it's hard to keep secrets when you're all in the same head. So I can't have any late night make out sessions, or there would be some pretty serious reactions and restrictions and stuff."

"That's... fine?"

"Okay. Goodnight then." Jess turned over, and after a long, long time, both of them fell asleep.

...oOo...
                                      I SHIP IT!!!

Look a thing!

 (BTW they are all from Endron so yeah)
Silken lives from century to century, apart from the world, though it is he who changed it the most.

Trixie lives from decade to decade, each new end bringing new strife.

Crow lived from year to year, coasting along until a certain someone stormed into his life.

Emily lives from week to week, almost failiing, but never quite.

Summer lives from day to day, always tumbling and just hanging on to the balance beam of life.

so I wrote something..

In English we were supposed to write a satire and so after three days of attempting to find something to write about, my fingers burst forth with inspiration. Actually, in the middle of dinner I somehow became inspired so I just wrote down key points on a napkin because there is no way I would be allowed to leave the table right in the middle of a meal. But then I wrote, and wrote some more, an came up with something that I am for now calling The Angels. It's supposed to be a satire on celebrity, and you can come and angrily comment and say I don't know a thing about what their lives are actually like, but I will not listen unless your name is Katy Perry or Lady Gaga or some such. Until then, I'm going to rely on my years of watching people, stalking people, reading long (And boring) tomes on how people tend to work and make my own assumptions.
     Oh, and part two of this little story is that I printed out my paper, set it on top of my dresser, the default place for 'stick this in your backpack before you go out the door' and then went to bed... and then I obviously didn't bother to notice it this morning. So now I have a late assighnment on top of all those glorious insecurities because literally not a single person in the class told a tale. No, they just exagerated their pet peeves and sounded funny, while I wrote a depressing two page thing about a chick who doesn't even have a name.
     Face-palm to the end of the universe and back.
So yeah. Here it is, The Angels, on celebrity.

They called them the angels.

They were said to live in the clouds, those exalted, their palaces of stone and gems shining for the rest of the world to worship. Always there was the talk. At times it seemed that these people never had a dull moment, never were anything but wonderful, beautiful, to be worshiped. Their clothes were made of the finest threads, their eyes shining with laughter and with the sun in all things. They were said to be different from one another, individual, and surely, surely they tried to be. They were of course different in small ways, in the things they produced. The numbers seemed to move in constant flux, but always there were at least seven. Seven ways to change the world of their lessers.

Once a year they called. Their halls lit up, the light shining through the clouds, and their voice sang out sweet and clear. In those moments, the ones when the eyes of the world were on them, they truly did seem exalted. They seemed more.

But for Her there was only fear. She had never wished to be chosen. Some said that those chosen would become angels themselves, but She knew it to be a lie.

How could one become exalted when all those above the clouds were lies?

With wrists bound to an old column, tears began to drip down Her face. Never again would Her family be Hers, never again would She be able to hope for something normal, and something good. There was only one life for the angel’s and their immediate lessers.

It was not a castle that She found above the clouds. It was a prison, much like the one left behind, the walls covered in words.

Of course, She could not read them. She did not yet know their meaning.

They choose her a guide, and led her through the grungy halls. They were different, every angel. Each had a personality, a look, hobbies and sides of themselves that She had never before seen. But they were all, each and every one of them, broken.

Always they had been idols, and always they had called. Now She knew why. They were not the immortals the world may believe them to be. They passed, replaced with someone much the same. Perhaps this new one wore a cloak, or perhaps they wore nothing at all. But they were all stuck, trapped by a people who worshiped them, trapped by a people that would not let them be released, because it would surely mean that peoples’ downfall.

Yes, some of the lessers rose. But only because an Angel was dying, only because everyone knew that they were soon to pass from the world.

She became a leader of sorts. It was the worst death of them all, one of the oldest, that no one had thought would pass. She was supposed to last forever. The one who had been chosen was charged with the task of living up to the impossible standard.

When She broke, they all saw it coming.

The blood was always cleaned away before the next one came, but they always knew. There were reasons for the coincidences. No death was by accident. All were by choice.

Their clothes were not fine, but pictures, pasted over posters that showed the rags they truly wore. Their lives were lived on the sides of cliffs, always trying to maintain the balance between being amazing and falling to one’s death. Their faces were painted, and only in the dark could they cry and smear the brilliant reds and blues. That was why their eyes shone so. Tears, just held back.

And always, always, that fervent wish…

To go.