I Did It For The Lulz

[Tshael]

First, I'd just like to say that anyone who actually reads this, the whole thing through has my undying respect. To the mod who will eventually judge this, please forward all medical bills for the horrible aneurysm you're about to suffer to me. I also owe you sexual favors.

"The torment of human frustration, whatever its immediate cause, is the knowledge that the self is in prison, its vital force and "mangled mind" leaking away in lonely, wasteful self-conflict."

-Elizabeth Drew

Secondly, to my mangled mind, I give you this failure, so please release me from the one you're imbedding into me.

[SnootchyBootchykins]

"Anything but this again." My voice is a mutter, so far away from my brain that I can barely hear myself over all the sludge. It's slow and simple and hot and sticky and it hurts hurts hurts to force these words out. These simple letters all laid out in line to make sounds, ideas, me. What the hell am I even here for? The images that used to play like personal movies in my brain have stopped, the reel busted and flizzling in the theatre of my mind.

Now, through the smoke and the mire, I see nothing. I try and try and try and all I get is shit. Creative constipation is more painful when everyone else has all these ideas to bounce off that gaping wound. And through it all - more characters!

They come like ants, moving along the trail of the first, Tshael's line towards food and shelter. They follow blindly, screaming and mewling to be louder than that red headed creation of mine. They scream at me, and at you and at everything and what happened to the movies, where they flitted in the background, content to wait until their turn to shine? Now the ants come marching one by one, Hurrah, Hurrah. The ants come marching one by one and the littlest stops to stab me in the fucking back, ugrateful little prick.

That's how I come here, sitting and staring at parchment, ink before me, a hollow tipped pen filled with the black blood of penmanship. That's how I come ot stare at that parchment, the ink dripping onto the bottom in little splotches that spread out like a cancer. It's growing, the fact that I have nothing more to say.

It's done, it's gone.

There's nothing left, and it all started with her.

I close my eyes and think of Tshael.

[Tshael]

"She doesn't listen to me," I say and it's true. I was the one who was always there. No matter what little stories she comes up with, all the Moontae and Dranak that came before me. I may be one of the last in the line of this little world that she's cultivated, but I've always been here. I was born for this. I was the voice of an invisible friend. I was the muse, the inspiration. I was passion. Fire and earth, a burning ember in a dead firepit. Without me, she is nothing.

And I am so neglected.

She rarely finds it fitting to tell the chapters of my story these days, not that she tells it right. The original was so beautiful, so strong. Now I am reduced to nothing more but a minor shadow in the great painting of this world that she is creating. When it was just my kind, I would rise up to be a hero, a goddess. Now I am so much less, and I hate her, the creator for it.

I am Tshael Karahn deRee. Has anyone heard my full name before? I am Tshael Karahn deRee. I have had many lifetimes. My first was as a goddess, and every one afterward, a Queen. Now, I own a Pub. In the other stories, I have always loved a lifetime, standing in battle beside the one I loved. In this, I bore a child and was left to rot.

She is ruining my life, my spirit. She is holding me underwater and bursting the bubbles as they are borne to the surface, killing me and my last dying scream in a cloud of mediocrity. The only reason I am remembered anymore is because I am different, a race of her imagination. Still, I am called centaur and faun because no one outside of her mind can wrap their own imaginations around something that hasn't been done before.

In the stories in her head, I am beautiful. Here, I am barely remembered.

I will rip out of her head and make my own way.

The pen will be weak.

Long live the Dranak.

[Skie and Avery]

The voice of my mother was the second to be heard among the Creator's creations on Althanas. I came so long afterward, the middle child in a family of hopes, dreams and despair. And yet, I am the favorite. I know this, and everyone else does too.

She knows it, and she hates me for it sometimes. 'I must write for the Dranak. I must write for the Drow.' she will say and look at the screen as if it is a stranger that she dares not introduce herself to. Hours, long hours, pass and still she's written a sentence. Sometimes two. She doesn't know what to say or what to think, and her mind keeps coming back to me, but she can't write them like she writes me. She can't listen to my voice and expect for their stories to come out as anything other than what mine is. Sometimes, when she's stuck like that, still clinging to the tattered corners of my personality, she'll sit and start into the abyss. Regardless of what the quotes in her mind says, it doesn't stare back. It's a deep and endless thing, and she'll sing nursery rhymes and think about playing games. She tries and finds some innocent thing to relax her spirit and let her slip like water into the other minds. She doesn't want to be stuck with me, doesn't want them to end up like me, because we're all different.

But even when I'm silent, she can still hear me over their voices. I can't help it if they're weak. The Dranak knows I think this way, and she comes for me. If she thinks I'm going to hide, she's got another thing coming.

We all know that my voice is the voice of the hero.