riddeul-blog
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@krystalesque:
Rejection, when unexpected, can elicit a certain lunacy. A cocktail of denial, frustration, and hopelessness clouded her psyche. Paired, of course, with one-too-many doses of alcohol. Lips bled from both the cold and her anxious habit, fingernails scarlet from prior picking.
Pathetic were the footsteps that trawled through the backstreets, palms raking over the contours of brick– in an attempt to maintain her balance. How many shops did she visit, pleading them to consider her designs? How many flyers did she distribute, urging passersby to visit her exhibits? Krystal knew her efforts were all in vain. Yet, she lacked a voice of comfort– of reassurance. The more she dissected herself, the more she accepted how alone she was.
It was perhaps a blessing that another human crossed her path. Whilst he was nothing but a shadow in the alleyway, Krystal was too intoxicated to be fearful. She needed solace, granted by a body against her own, knuckles bone-white from clutching at his shirt. With his back against the wall, she had lost all sense of control. She seized his lips with her own, paying little thought to the blood spilling from raw flesh. Inhibited tears contributed to her breathlessness, parting with both a gasp and a choke as her emotions fell fast down her cheeks.
“ T-Tell me… everything is going to be okay. That I… didn’t make the wrong choice. ”
The night was dark, quiet, grim. Walking around the side and back alleys, it seemed to stand for promises of all the worst night terrors of the world, and yet, in that moment, to him, it brought peace. When the entire earth went to its collective sleep, it was when his mind started working: coming up with various scenarios, with ideas, riddling his very own brain. That small ritual of having late evening walks was like a passage between the two parts of his life, a literal and metaphorical bridge to cross -- from the day to the night, from the man to the self-proclaimed god.
It was very rare for anyone or anything to cross and stop him on that simple, straight path.
Unlike most of the other nights, his arms were suddenly full not of brilliant ideas, but tousled hair and soft materials, the weight of troubled body exerting his muscles and a cascade of scents and tastes straining his senses. Her lips--her, he knew it, it had to be her, because no man could ever smell so sweet and feel so fragile behind the heavy cloud of alcohol--were moist, and slippery, and he felt that peculiar taste that he knew all too well to mistake. It’d digust majority of people, once they shook off the surprise, but it seemed almost normal to him, the man who saw enough scarlet pools and lifeless bodies in his life to feel resentment of any sorts towards it.
He held her, because he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
He wasn’t a bad person, a cruel person, a selfish person.
It’s been a very long time since he felt that specific sort of another body’s warmth, so close to him.
Ilwoo barely saw her in the dim lights, but the dark stains around her lips and glass eyes, spilling its liquids onto the rest of her small face, spoke all about who she was, what she was -- a broken person on the very edge of the precipice, desperately reaching out to hold onto whatever came her way. His hands reached up, palms pressing against her cheeks--wet cheeks, soft cheeks, warm cheeks--and he turned it up, making her look at him; focus, his own eyes said, calm down, they seemed to follow up.
“You wouldn’t be such a mess if it was the right choice.” He said, the words cruel, yet truthful. Only the truth can save you. His thumb rubbed at the blood stains at her lips, tongue tasting the very same scarlet off his own ones at the same time, and it was like yet another kiss, a whole another kind of intimacy that would be alien to any couple. The man wasn’t sure if it pulled them back up on the surface, or even deeper in the darkness of the night’s terror. “But it doesn’t mean it was the wrong one either. Life isn’t black and white. There’s an entire spectrum of grey in you.”
#krystalesque#█ every 𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒍𝒆 has its 𝕒𝕟𝕤𝕨𝕖𝕣#( i honestly loved this. )#( replied basically with his reaction; but we could totally plot something further for this? )
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OOC: I read and watched some amazingly disturbing things these past few days, therefore now I’m more than ready to write something equally grim. I’ll probably work on another chapter of the canon story and look for some plots/threads. Hit me up if you want to write something sinister (either psychologically or physically) together?
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Am I the prettiest? Say yes.
He’s a bit of a slave to her, he knows it;her newfound existence like a prison glamoured by a shiny web of feelings and emotions, flowing in waves like her soft hair does on the mid-spring winds. Do this, she says; and he will. Come to me, she requests -- and he flies.
*
Yes. It’s always a yes with you. Aren’t people telling you this enough? I wouldn’t believe even if it was true.
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Lips curling upwards in a warm smile, tiny steps leading to him. Ara leaned down, placing chin upon his shoulder; left hand being reached out towards him as she was holding a cup of milk ( which she put on the table, next to his pencil ), the right one placing a plate of chocolate chip cookies in front of him ( not upon the puzzle papers he was currently occupying himself with, but above them). A kiss on the top of his head, his sweet scent being deeply inhaled by her. ''Rest for a bit, oppa.''
There was this thing about work–his day job, or the other one, or the duties he took upon himself in the name of the greater good–that had him completely focused and zoned out each time he sat down to it. It was his way of working – of living – to give the subject of pursuit his full, undivided attention, aiming for nothing short of absolute heights of perfection. He often neglected the world around him in those moments, whether they were other plans or his body’s needs, as the time flew in its own pace and his mind was too preoccupied to have any sense of it at all.
There usually wasn’t anything to pull him out of it, anyway. No distraction, no outer incentives. It was just Ilwoo and his work, whatever goals he wanted achieve, whichever paths he aimed to take; thoughts echoing through the silence, every breath audible in his ears, soft pitter-patter of the rain hitting the windowsills completely uninterrupted.
He was all alone one second.And then the warmth embraced him whole the next.
It still baffled him, surprised him, impacted him – every time there was a movement, each moment that was filled with another presence. A warm presence. Friendly presence. The kind of presence he had not expected to feel in his presumably short life again.
Pulling his head up a bit from the pile of papers, keyboard buried somewhere underneath it, Ilwoo eyed the newest additions to his desk: the plate of cookies–his favorite, no less, the cup of milk, and the gentle breeze of comforting scent overwhelming his senses. It was odd, and it was nice, and it tugged at his heart in a way that was still new to him.
“Are you bribing me? Think I won’t comply otherwise?” The male asked with a small smile that matched the playful words, shifting around a bit to take a look at her. Her ethereal-like beauty never quite failed to put him in the state of awe. “I can play smart too, you know. Rest is merely optional–unless you stay and rest with me.”
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‘’EVEN IF WE ARE NO LONGER IN THIS WORLD, I WILL FIND YOU.’’
These scars are my documentation of the mistakes I’ve made in trying to overcome them. I am both the things I’ve done to myself and the things done to me. Along these nerve endings, you will find a history of me.
— Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You
{ riddeul x oculvus }
#oculvus#✷ 𝐒𝐇𝐄 blossoms in 𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓮𝓽 and 𝓫𝓵𝓪𝔃𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓮𝓵#( I love you m o r e okay. Such flawless. Much talent. )
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riddle me this, what is riddeul: a) a blessing b) an angel c ) a & b
One may think that “a)”, “b)”, “c)” are just meaningless meta-operators of the riddle, but if we assume that they do hide a meaning, the answer may or may not change drastically. The “a)” option seems to be merely “a blessing”, but if we assume that it’s actually “a)(not)a blessing” and “b)(bloody)an angel”, the entire question changes its character. In that case, the “c)” would mean “not a blessing, bloody angel”, but if, following the logical order, “c)” is not just a meta-operator either, but, presumably, it’s “c)(death)”, then picking the obvious last answer, changes everything drastically. Death, not a blessing, bloody angel.
Naturally, it doesn’t change a thing for you or me anyway, but for all the rest of the world and its people…
The amazing thing about riddles is that they are all about the things that are not visible.
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조선일보
Mysterious murder of the 17th floor’s office.
by 김형섭
6th February 2015
A mysterious, yet merciless incident happened yesterday in the very heart of one of Seoul’s busiest districts, Yongsan-gu. It was revealed that in the morning hours, a member of the sanitary crew of one of the business scyscrapers found a body, securely tied to a chair, in one of the executive’s offices. Although no official information has been forwarded to the media, it is said that at the time of finding, the unknown person had already been dead and there were no visible injuries that could’ve caused it. Inside sources say though, that the cause was internal, complication of an injection of a yet unidentified substance, the unmistakable mark of which was found at the side of the victim’s neck.
The motive, circumstances or a potential criminal perpetrator has not yet been determined at the time of writing this article, but an unusual setting of the crime’s scene leads us to believe that there is much more to this incident than a simple murder. The victim died holding a wooden pencil, their presumably fainted head resting on a single piece of paper -- a page printed with nothing but a logic puzzle. There were visible efforts of the victim’s trial of solving the riddle, pencil scribbles and calculations drawn all over it, but the final answer was not found.
1
11
21
1211
111221
312211
What is the next number in the sequence?
Aside from the puzzle, one more paper was found -- another carefully printed page, thrown beside a small safe box with a classic dial combination lock.
The answer of the puzzle is the key to your salvation.
Live through the power of your mind or die.
The puzzle’s answer indeed is the keycode to the safe -- one of the police officers who solved it, found inside a single, full vaccine of unknown contents. It is yet undetermined if it would’ve counteract the cause of the victim’s death, as the mysterious note suggests.
While the investigation is still in motion and no more confirmed details are known, our reporters promise to keep the readers updated on the matter.
#◢ you still call yourself 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 if you do not 𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕕?#( Yes; this is the first test he created. )
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010101000110100001100101011100100110010100100000011010010111001100100000011011100110111100100000011001110110111101100100001000000110111101110101011101000010000001110100011010000110010101110010011001010010111000100000010000010110110001101100001000000111100101101111011101010010000001100011011000010110111000100000011000110110111101110101011011100111010000100000011011110110111000100000011010010111001100100000011110010110111101110101011100100111001101100101011011000110011000101110.
#◢ you still call yourself 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 if you do not 𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕕?#◢ the 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕕 is our greatest 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒏
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12th September, 2014
It was a good day. A warm day, the end of the week, sun shining down the heads and shoulders of people who were slowly passing by the square, rested and relaxed as if the small break before the next working week meant all their worries disappeared. An illusion, without doubts, but a peaceful one, happy one, therefore nobody minded it clouding their minds. If there was something like a perfect morning, then that would be it, in Ilwoo’s mind.
The gentle breeze rustled the pages of the small issue the man was holding, shifting his attention back to it in an instant. It was the size of a regular notebook, nice paper, black ink and blue pen’s scribbles already here and there.
Crosswords. Schrödinger puzzles. Cryptograms. Crossnumbers. Sudoku. Nonograms. Numberlinks. Trigon puzzles.
He remembered like it was yesterday, his mother curled in the corner of the sofa, a huge volume of various logic puzzles in her lap, so very lost in the world of numbers, letters and their connections. Back then, as a mere kid, he hadn’t quite understood what was so interesting about it--it reminded him too much of his homeworks, and even a kid who likes school and studying, isn’t too keen on doing homework in his spare time--but now he knew. She was a smart person who took pleasure in exercising her mind, just like fitness junkies loved the strain of their muscles after a solid round of gym workout. Her brain was her pride, and now, years later, it was also his pride.
He remembered, too, how just a year ago, she stared at the very same volume with empty eyes, some hidden frustration behind them, unable to even figure out what it said.
The pen, held a little too tightly, with a bit too much force, slipped off the page on his thigh and made a long, thick line across the entire diagramless crossword. A soft curse, gentle hand smoothing the page, a delicate caress, as if the issue was a prized possession, an object with feelings, something one of a kind and dear to him. It wasn’t. Or maybe it was.
Ilwoo often did this: just sat there, at home or outside, with all these logic puzzles and a pen or pencil in his hand, filling them in usually without much trouble. Althout it was an activity typical for people at least twice his age, it was his--the 26 year old Ilwoo’s--nearly daily ritual. He treated it a bit like a connection to his mother, the action akin to paying a tribute to her--and on the other hand, subconsciously, it was a desperate act of bewitching the reality. Of deceiving the fate. Of trying to survive.
“The series of genetic tests performed between 2013/11/05--2013/11/12 established that their subject, Kang Ilwoo, aged 25, has inherited the HTT gene.”
Of course, he knew that no matter how many of those he completes, he will never be able to make the disease, slowly crawling at the base of his spine, to simply disappear -- but it didn’t stop the despair. The grief. The frustration.
These puzzles were his link to sanity, ensuring that he doesn’t go berserk, doesn’t go down the path of a desperate self-destruction.
As long he had them, he was going to be okay.
He will go through it, his body following the healthy mind.
He will.
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