fate's a cruel mistress, girl

August 2009 November 2009 December 2009 January 2010 February 2010 March 2010 April 2010 May 2010 June 2010 July 2010 August 2010 September 2010 October 2010 November 2010 December 2010 January 2011 February 2011 March 2011 April 2011 May 2011 June 2011 August 2011 September 2011 October 2011 November 2011 January 2012

ericamay, 25may1995, single forever, devoted to peter pan

charlieissocoollike, doctor who, peter pan, you me at six, i see stars, andy oliver, devin oliver, ribbons, bows, drummers, bright colours, black and white contrast, people who smile a lot, laughing, beats, rhythms, being good at something, fireworks, writing, sketching, details, internet, photoshop, graphic design, coding, paint, crayons, paper, plain goldfish, the colours green and blue, prince phillip, princess aurora, tinkerbell, neverland, disneyland, disneyworld, crush the turtle, chemistry, storybook romance, arctic monkeys, britain, irish accents, every accent, scottish boys, skinny boys, pale boys, collarbones, freckles, gingers, photobooths, madina lake, billy idol, chocolate chip cookies, toffee, tiny marshmallows, hot cocoa, good memories, bloodrushes, laughing, singers, musicians, good headphones, punching the backs of car seats while listening to hardcore music in parking lots, hugs, kisses, winter, sweaters, hoodies, scarves, snowflakes, eyelashes, pretty eyes, dark hair, blonde hair, straight hair, wavy hair, offensive humours, people who don't take things seriously, heated debates, awkward moments, having private concerts home alone, red pandas, sharks, weasels, minxes, puppydogs, kittycats, post-it notes, caring reminders, strawberries, raspberries, william beckett, matt smith, karen gillan, david tennant, alex turner, joe brooks, noah and the whale, mumford and sons, los campesinos, french people, foreign languages, magic tricks, illusions, photographs, macros, doodling people i know, doodling people i wish i knew, pens that flow smoothly, shortbread cookies, tapping my feet, high fives, pokemon, laughing so hard i cry, being told people love me, winning, swedish fish, candies, neil patrick harris, nerimon, frezned, danisnotonfire, alexisonfire, billy talent, taking back sunday, john gomez, brian dales, alex pettyfer, logan lerman, tumblr, squareenix, old names, music class, good friends, late-night confessions, hanging out anywhere, eccentricity, spontaneous people, people with good memories, being unforgotten, lyricists, air heads, scissors, kicking, unicorns, rainbows, miss rainicorn, adventure time with finn and jake, flapjack, we came as romans, architects, joy division, two door cinema club, emma watson, george craig, emma watson and george craig together, the hoosiers, old photos, chalk drawing, graffiti, skateboarders, bmx riders, comic fanatics, superheros, guys, candy in tin cases, pastel stars, pointless wishing, sweet dreams, morning messages, text conversations, honey on toast, apple jelly, internet memes, advil, motion city soundtrack, vampire weekend, rolo tomassi, people named connor, people named sebastian, william, james, oliver, owen, eoin, alexander, joshua, andrew, aaron, christopher, jackson, hunter, and the like, the afterlife kids, downloading music, new downloads, video games, rpgs, shooter games, screaming, all forgotten, arcade fire, the asteroids galaxy tour, kick ass, aaron johnson, christopher mintz-plasse, devon werkshire, thick rimmed glasses, flickr, hipsters, cute kids, never growing up, beastie boys, we are the ocean, blink182, chameleon circuit, john green, hank green, paper towns, the perks of being a wallflower, lewis carroll, c.s. lewis, absolute brightness, the chronicles of narnia, lockets, trinkets, mimes, golden pocketwatches, nifty antiquities, halloween, sewing, the click five, parkway drive, cold war kids, obscurities, confessions, bookstores, candy stores, inside jokes, walls of wonder, being awesome, skins, kaya scodelario, luca pasqualino, jack o'connell, nicholas hoult, max hewer, hannah murray,

and a number of other things...

have some writing, and a lovely photo i photoshopped myself

10.12.10 at 6:38 PM

He wasn’t shot, didn’t get in a bar fight, wasn’t put to sleep during the Spanish Influenza.

It was lung cancer that did him in.

Since Silas was around fifteen he found comfort in nicotine – oh, sweet cigarettes. Perhaps it was the lack of attention at home, or the stress at school, or peer pressure, but nowadays he couldn’t even remember anymore. All he knew was that they put him on his deathbed at the ripe age of just twenty-six. Sure, maybe it was the fact he used his parents’ wealthy assets to pick up packs of Camel and Marlboro that he’d chain smoke while skipping class to laze about Leicester Square, but only twenty-six years? Damn, that wasn’t such a fair bargain! The boy barely even had a living; he didn’t marry his high school sweetheart, elope to California or have wee little tykes running about him. He didn’t even bother going to university. ”Life’s too fucking short!” he’d say. Reckon he was right about that – would’ve been a waste to spend years in educational establishment after establishment, learning the rules of life and the textbook descriptions instead of just live and let die, like he did.

Albeit, even on his deathbed, while his mother wept at his side and his father held her, while he took his last breath and glanced up at the heart rate monitor, one thing remained constant: he wouldn’t rewrite anything if he could. That was his life how he wanted it. As the tears soaked his cheeks when at last he realized his wheezing, mortal body would never open its blue eyes again, he welcomed death. ”Fuck it,” he thought. ”Fuck it all.” Hell, for dramatic effect, maybe he would’ve even celebrated his “procession into eternal living” with another cancer stick – just for kicks – but he was out like a candle in the wind.

And then, he came back.

You see, Silas Julian Sheffield was never a religious boy and neither were his parents; nihilists, the bunch of them. The boy simply didn’t believe all the slander preached on Sundays about the immortal life and the All-Forgiving God (who would still send you to hell if you didn’t follow his little rules)... That is, until it happened to him.

It was like waiting in traffic without the radio, the seats or the company for more or less eighty years – more or less because, frankly, who has time to count years? It certainly wasn’t a skill that Silas possessed. The wait was nice though; not as tedious as it would sound. Not like prison. For him, this waiting line to heaven was equivalent to waking up early on a school day, but finding out the schools are closed. Sleep, sleep, twiddle thumbs, lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, try lucid dreaming, try nothing at all. There wasn’t anything to do and no pressure whatsoever.

All he needed were some Sloans or something and he’d be a happy bloody camper.

Lo and behold, there it was – the wait was over. Maybe not the gates of white he had expected, but he was an angel. That was, like, a whole level above saints, right? No martyrdom necessary! Perhaps he’d even get to impregnate a young virgin with the next son of God. And he didn’t have to do a thing, right?

WRONG.

Before he can step his sneakers onto blessed land, he’s sent back down to earth. Why would someone wait eighty years in a lineup and then just not do anything? Apparently he didn’t learn valuable lessons. Didn’t he get purgatory or something for that? He didn’t even have a chance to see what his sweet-ass wings looked like. What a stick in the knickers. Back on earth, whoop-dee-doo.

Silas had no clue where he was going, to be honest. The big man didn’t tell him much – all for the mysterious, proverbial pseudo-answers. The wind drifted around him as he looked up and down streets like a newborn. Technically, maybe you could say he was such – new born, only not. He had no clue where he was, actually. The front page of a newspaper caught itself under the toes of his shoes and he looked down to read the easily distinguishable NEW YORK TIMES. A message from God, clearly; in thankful revelry, he gave the sky a great big thumbs up, sarcastic for the most part.

Thin, ivory fingers slipped into the back pocket of his trousers and latched onto a carton of cigarettes and what felt like a few wads of billed currency. Ah, that was much better. Now all he needed was a light and he was good. And as luck or God Himself would have it, Silas could make out the tantalizing scent of his favourite drug and the silhouette of a woman up ahead. Once he was nearer, he joined her, easily. But before he could introduce himself, his nose twitched and he caught a whiff of her. ”You smell like a proper mojito, don’t you know?” His voice was husky and accented, highlighting his outright impulsive attitude to a tee. ”You don’t happen to have a lighter or a match on you, yeah?” Hey, he lived life once already – God never said he had to be well-liked.