x. jóga

all the accidents that happen
follow the dot

Nakuru woke with a start, her thin chest heaving under her dove gray school jacket as she sat up quickly, cold sweat on her brow, and the blue-black light of the sky bathing her in its hues.

"I thought you would never wake up," a voice said. Nakuru looked up. It was her conscience. It was standing on the ground (a first), and its bright outfit seemed to glow in the dark, its hair swaying and shimmering in the breeze and the light of the silvery scrap of the moon.

Nakuru gasped for breath. "I just had the worst dream in my life," she whispered fretfully.

The conscience tapped its foot impatiently on the firm brown ground. "Too bad," it said indifferently, "It's time to go."

"Go where?"

"To...the Mountain."

Something in its voice seemed to capitalize the "m". Warily, Nakuru stood, clutching the suitcase.

"Go on that road," her conscience whispered, pushing her along, "And be careful! Danger lurks..."

"That's really corny, you know," Nakuru complained before she broke out into a run. Something about the night instilled a sense of dread in her.

When she was out of sight, the conscience turned. "You," it whispered.

A figure emerged from the shadows. "Yes," it sighed. "Me."

The person was in the shape of a woman, with long black hair and pale white skin that seemed stretched and all together too tight over the pointed bones. A rusted chain with a spiked ball hanging from it was in the woman's hand.

"Despair," the day-glo girl whispered.

"Yes, indeed...Hope."

Hope raised her head, the raspberry hair hanging in front of her eyes. Slowly, she brushed it back, and a sword appeared in her right hand. "And now it's time for our battle, isn't it?" she sighed, weighing the weapon in her hand.

"Unfortunately, yes," Despair said.

"And the victor follows her...and decides which thread of fate she will follow..."

"Yes."

Hope straightened, looking determined. "Then let's get it over with."

Despair leaped into the air, her weapon high behind her shoulder. Hope dodged just as the spiked ball ground into the dirt, leaving a miniature crater in its wake.

"You don't seem too into this," Despair noted, hopping towards Hope, who parried her attack deftly.

"I could care less what happens," Hope responded, nearly splitting Despair's head open.

"Why?" Despair swung her weapon in a deadly arc, scraping pieces of fabric from Hope's outlandish skirt, who in turn swept her sword in a reverse butterfly sweep, scratching Despair's smooth arm. The thinnest trickle of blood seeped out.

"Humans will die either way, won't they?" Hope forced Despair into a position that gave her two choices: block or die.

Of course, Despair couldn't really die. She would always turn up somewhere, lurking in the depths of mortal's hearts, prepared to strike at any moment. Hope, however, was not as persistent; mortals could forget her, and with great ease.

Despair smashed her weapon right at Hope's head, who hurriedly danced away. They fought for what seemed like eternities; one always managed to break free of the trap of blocking and assault her opponent.

Finally, though, Hope pinned Despair. "I'm kind of sorry, you know," she whispered, just as she drove her sword deep into Despair's heart. Blood stained the purple tunic-dress that Despair had been clothed in, and turned the front of it black. Hope slowly drew her sword out, the blood sticking desperately to the metal, and, sighing, turned and disappeared.

Despair nodded off to sleep, plotting where she would appear next.

coincidence makes sense
only with you

The road was like a modern highway: hot, hard, and seemingly endless. Nakuru scraped her feet along it as she slowed to a walk, her head pounding.

She wondered if she would ever get to wherever the hell it was she was going to.

you don't have to speak
I feel
emotional landscapes
they puzzle me

It was a sterile, cold room, with light blue tiles interlaced with cream ones. In a corner of the room, a washing machine and dryer stood, silent.

The Superego was rummaging through a sheet that was crumpled up inside a plastic pale blue laundry basket in her arms. Satisfied, she dropped the last of her "laundry" into the machine, where it hit with a resounding thump.

The Ego crept past her, stopping and watching. Without even turning, the Superego replied, "I'm doing the wash."

The Ego didn't say anything.

"What is it?" the Superego repeated. "Nothing much."

A pause.

"Just...Sakura-chan."

Dots of blood formed a crazy mixed-up pattern on the discarded fabric that lay rumpled in the basket as the Superego began whistling to herself, turning the washing machine on, ignoring the Ego as it slid out of the room.

then the riddle gets solved and you push me up to this

I'm so sorry for making everyone wait so long! I hate writers block. And school.

This weekend I'll be going to Mt. Hood for my jazz choir festival. Wish me luck! Don't expect an update for probably a week. And thanks you SO MUCH to everyone who has read and reviwed this! looks at how many reviews she has and screams ohmygod I have so many supporters!! Thanks, everyone! Thank you, thank you, thank you!