ah, yeah for inexperienced, I expected (thought you were talking about playing for keeps).

75. Holding on too tight

Someone once told me, "Hold on tightly and let go lightly." Perhaps he was a desperate man. Only the deprived and mad hang on with no thought of letting go. And when they do, they can only pry one finger off at a time. They let go with a caress, as if trying to persuade the object to come back into their grasp.

How foolish.

If one holds on like a dog with a bone, then the object shall become like bone. It will dry in his grasp and gasp for air. Feed it, pamper it, but you cannot give it true sunshine. Do not be so desperate. If you hold on like that, you'll surely lose it.

Because someone else told me that, "If you love something and let it go, it will come back to you."

He came back to me.

@dragon
Yeah, inexperienced. ...I don't know how in the world puppy could be related to the playing for keeps one. xD

And it was supposed to be a dice game providing symbolism. Of course me and not knowing how to plays craps had to just be vague about it. Yeah, it could sound like a sex game. ^^;

there is a BDSM game that involved chance and punishment versus rewards, amusing idea, but not my type necessarily. that is what it reminded me of.

@dragon
Ahhh. Well, that explains why I didn't think about it. xD

maybe, you shpouldn't hear about half the games I tlak about (shouldn't being other than me being silly).

7. Irresistible

Temptation is fun,
But giving in is more fun.

How can I resist you, my love?

You're a hard-fought battle
That I lost and won.

Doomed from the start
By you, my love.

What a tease but not a scam
You did promise.

Tied by a thread
To you, my love.

You're irresistible,
But I don't want to let go anyways.

Do not resist me, my love.

96. Sensitivity

"You think it's so important, don't you? You think the foremost and primary thoughts in my head should be about how the fucking princeling likes his tea and bloody why he feels that way." Gone was the carefully erected illusion of docility. Endy was no longer that ever precarious picture of sweetness and grace--a shame because her petite frame and long curls called for the look. Now she was the desperate girl that had grown up in the streets. The dress that was tailored perfectly to her delicate frame looked out of place as if it had been stolen. Her curls were a wild mane of fire.

And though her teacher was a full grown man with years of study under his belt, he was intimidated. He was also a bit pathetic. "Not quite..." he managed to choke out.

"Well, I'll tell you what, teacher--I don't fucking care. Do you think all that fucking fluff matters? Take your tea and manners to hell. We don't use those things where I'm from. You try to be kind, and you get robbed. You try to be fucking sensitive, and you die. Understand?"

The teacher had somewhat regained his composure and matched her stare, yet he could think of no answer to give her.

Her pretty pert mouth curled into a disgusted sneer. "I thought so," she said in a low voice and walked away.

38. Hideaway

It's not even really a secret, this place. You can see it from the edge of the village. It's practically a landmark. Travelers say to stop at the village at the foot of the great cliffs.

These cliffs are beautiful. Sheer and steep, they seem to be reaching towards the sky. Most remarkable is their color; there's a strain of fool's gold that runs through the mountain. Because of some miracle or perhaps some ill led minder, the cliffs are shorn right where the strain runs thickest. The cliffs twinkle in the day and blaze at the sun's rise and set. It's the most glorious site in the world.

But the best part is that these cliffs are riddled with holes and pockets. Perhaps the fool miners had dug them out in the vain hope that the gold would become real deeper in. Whatever the reason, the holes are perfect--my hideaway.

No one else comes but smugglers whom stay on the far side of the cliffs anyways. The cliffs are big enough for an entire city to live within. I'd hardly be bothered by someone else's hideaway. The village folk are superstitious and think the holes are haunted by the miners whom pursued fortune in vain. I think that's hosh because I've never found a skeleton or anything anywhere.

I suppose I glory in the haunting rumors a bit; they do guarantee privacy. Without them, I wouldn't really have my hideaway. It's secret but in plain site--like the best of lies. No place could be so well hidden. And it's mine. For whatever it's worth, this cave with shimmering walls of false gold is mine.

66. Tailoring

Claude was a tailor. He sewed together the beautiful dresses the ladies debuted in, the suits the gentlemen conducted their business in, and the pretty apron for the housewife. His clothes made a person. So perfect was the fit and form that one thought he belonged in the outfit.

A young peasant girl asked him to make her a ballgown. And though the girl was not extravagantly beautiful, she looked a duchess when she donned the dress. So much so that a prince made off with her as he caught a glimpse of her in the window.

During the war, a nobleman asked for a disguise so that he might hide his family safely. The tailor made him the clothes of a nondescript peasant. The war was long over, but the nobleman remained on his farm, saying he never really liked being noble anyways.

Claude never knew how such things happened. He was no wizard or magician but only an expert craftsman. He sewed and tailored clothes not lives, he told himself. Such instances were merely coincidences.

36. Sun

I have lived in the sun all my life and have never before thought of it as luxurious. Rather, it was a pain to me. I would always get sleepy if I stayed in its rays too long. It was too bright. It made the air unbearably hot. How I longed for the cold I was deprived of.

But the sun, no matter how I despised it, was my first lover. She taught me warmth and to be carefree.

The cold was not a kind lover. It had a frozen sort of beauty. While the starkly bare trees frosted in ice were breathtaking, everything was dead. There was no life, no warmth.

And I have come back to my first lover for she is all that I ever wanted but never knew.

79. Paradox

"The way I see it, you and me are like a paradox." Lucy put her feet up next to Claire's. Her well worn sneakers contrasted with Claire's immaculate, strappy heels.

"Why?" Claire took a nibble at her sherbet, which was absurd because who in the world nibbles at sherbet?

"Well, we're not supposed to make sense with each other. Tomboy meets prissy girly girl. It's the classic cat fight."

"But also the classic friendship," Claire pointed out, undoubtedly thinking of one of her chick flick movies with that situation.

"That shouldn't work. We really don't have much in common except for the fact that we're both female."

"So?" Claire continued to nibble at her sherbet.

"There's no common ground! No common interest! What in the world do we do together?"

"Well," she took another nibble, "right now you're babbling, and I'm enjoying sherbet."

Lucy shook her head. "What ever am I to do with you, Claire?"

"What ever are you going to do without me?" she responded. "Oh! Come on, my soap is showing in two minutes!"

reminds me of okami and I, but not quite the same,... (has so had friends liek this).

4. Intoxicating

I'm addicted to a bitter poison. A poison called Lacy Blake. She's sharp and darkly beautiful. The girl has a wicked tongue that teases and stabs in the same motion. She'll breathe hot and cold to keep you away. She doesn't like company, but I can't seem to get enough of hers.

She reminds me of whiskey. How she burns so bad on the way down, except she doesn't turn warm after. But she's still so damn addicting. She lights a different kind of warm inside, and I can't get enough. She's a toxic that I crave--that puts me on high.

Oh, Lucy, Lucy, won't you pour me another glass of you?

5. Skin

There's nothing quite like the sight of it. A woman could be wearing a skintight suit, but I wouldn't find her half as attractive as the one with a gaping neckline. It's not just a woman's curves--it's her skin, her color, her texture, her warmth.

I love it when women wear backless dresses, showing off that whole expanse of unbroken skin. It's like that when you can see the golden tans and brown shadows or the fair white sprinkled with freckles.

The feel of it is better than the silk on the dresses. So smooth it's like a dream. The scent is intoxicating. And so, so warm... skin.

11. More than anyone else

Everyone seems to hate you more than anyone else, and I don't know why. Frankly, it puzzles me. Perhaps you have rubbed people the wrong way or simply don't rub them at all, but you seem more misunderstood than malignant.

I do not honestly believe that you are trying to be snobby. Why I was mistaken for a snob myself, but I was simply too shy. I don't think you're shy. Maybe you're just absorbed in other worlds.

It's you that they poke at more than anyone else. It's you that they talk about more than anyone else. I don't really understand it. They say you're ugly when I really think that you're quite pretty. Are they jealous or do I just have low standards? Or perhaps they are poking fun at nothing but something their minds see.

Other girls wear short skirts or sometimes not even a skirt at all. You've always been modest in dress, yet you've been branded a tramp. They say that you act innocent but are really a sneak with your boy toys. I have never seen this side of you, so hearing of it comes as a surprise. I suppose if it's true that they don't really hate the tramp because they themselves are just as bad but the play acting.

I do not know why you are disliked more than anyone else. It seems to me as if you simply do not try to be liked at all. Perhaps you do believe that you are more than anyone else; I do not know. But I did admire you for a time more than anyone else.

37. Vacation

How sweet it is
How it flies
How near is the end
How soon it dies.

How I would love
If it could stretch into infinity
Only to prolong this feeling
Of the sand between my toes
And the sun on my back
With the sight of the ocean.

How I can breathe
How I can sigh
How I can live
How I can fly.

How freeing it is
To simply be obligated to nothing
How good it is!

How I don't want it to end
But know that it must.

71. Jewelry

My adornments, my accessories.

I placed a golden tiara upon my head that sparkled with yellow diamonds. It was truly a masterpiece--delicate wire bent into intricate patterns with its design highlighted by the gems.

My fingers rested upon the fine pendant at my throat. Surely, the world had never seen a larger golden diamond. It was a confectionery of gold filigree that acted as the frame and spanned around the neck.

"Oh how lovely!" I could not resist remarking to myself.

I traced the shape of a different sort of jewelry. The man's face was finely featured and his hair matched my diamonds and gold. His bearing was tall and proud that he seemed to dazzle--so much like a gem itself. Yet, for all his brilliance, he was just another diamond--mine to wear and mine to put away and never wear again. Such was my jewelry.

60. Better off as lovers

Better lovers than fighters. For though there is still the same violent tumult, the end is sweeter. In fighting, the only end is death for one party or both.

This is not to say that lovers aren't fierce. They simply have no reason to be. They love the world; they are loved--why should they fight? They cannot fight for what they love because they already have it.

However, when their beloved is taken away, they become fiercer and meaner than any natural born fighter. They grow mad with loss and revenge. Even the saner ones have a strange light in their eyes as if they are waiting for some chance to jump upon he that whisked away their love.

It is these that throw the fighters off. A fighter fights because he loves it. A lover fights because of his love. If he takes part in a fight on a common day, it is not because he shares the fighters love. He sees it more like a dance--a movement. It is a beautiful yet deadly dance, and he will think in his skewed romantic sense that it is somehow like love. However, he will never truly raise his sword to another. He cannot. He simply doesn't have it in him. It is nothing more than a dance.

42. Too close for comfort

These words lay me bare. First person perspective. No glazing shield of characters and false contrivances. I am me written as me. Not fiction but a journal.

You read over my shoulder as a pen such thoughts. You aren't supposed know any of this. You are supposed to read from a distance and only be able to wonder what I meant. You reading me is too close.

Back away, I say! See only my beautifully woven net of lies. Are they not lovely? Do they not ensnare you? And so you should hang in the world of my fiction, looking through the net holes to see a glimmer of the truth. That way I can hold you at arm's length. That way you can't get too close.

That is how it should be.

aww, too close for comfort reminds me of mine for some reason although they are very different.

Hmm... Don't quite remember yours, and I'm too lazy to go through pages and pages of drabbles. Mine was somewhat inspired by that piece by Le Guin.

A ok, that makes more sense, though I msut admit, nothing much from that class but robbie is interesting enough to write drabble about...

88. Response

A turn to your pull, a step to your step
Every move I make is in response to you
The beat of the music is faded in the background
My ears only hear the rhythm of you.

My feet follow yours without question
No passing word is uttered
Yet, I somehow know all the steps
All I need to know it the rhythm of you.

I can know nothing, but you can guide me
I can overstep, but you can steady me
I can fall, but you can catch me
Because I'm dancing to the rhythm of you.

45. The concept of forever

I never think of forever as forever. Hardly anyone does. When you see those romantic movies that girls seem to love and they say "I'll love you forever" it's not really the forever that gets them. Well, them being girls, they probably focus on the first three words, but that last one matters too because the hero of the story could just as easily say "I'll love you for the next five minutes."

But when you say forever like that, people don't think about years and years stretching ahead where they'll grow old, bored, have all their friends die around them, and see the world they grew up in go to hell. They don't see the endless passage of time that never ends. They don't see the whole line of time. They only see a point. When they think of forever, they think of forever packed into a moment--forever intensified into five seconds. It's a lovely notion--but for a minute. People never really think of forever as forever.