Bobartles

Cynically idealistic.

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Life, through a shot glass

If whiskey ran inside our veins, and burned away our past, then maybe we could break these chains and free ourselves at last. We'd talk about the good times, of the way things used to go. We'd lock our hands in darkened rooms, and no-one else would know. With no bad blood to hold us back, we'd build our lives anew. In happy times or hardship, those fires would see us through. Though silence leaves its bitter stains; uncertainty and fear, if whiskey ran inside our veins, then maybe you'd be here?

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72 deviations

Literature

Life, through a shot glass

Featured

71 deviations

Baldur's Gate stuff

2 deviations

CH concept art

3 deviations

Literature

Life, through a shot glass

Poetry

45 deviations

DevID

6 deviations

Literature

35.1

"You're cold," she says. I shift my hands in my pockets as she appears at my side, not taking my eyes off the shifting lights of the motorway beneath us. She crosses her arms and leans back on the railing. I feel her eyes on me. "I'm fine," I lie. She keeps staring at me, brown-blonde hair catching the feeble rays from above and shining as bright as the headlamps far below. I don't meet her gaze. "No," she murmurs after a moment, "You're not. You're really not." I don't reply. "Are you going to the funeral?" she asks quietly. "Maybe." The words haven't even registered. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice starts scr

Other stuff

9 deviations

Life, through a shot glass by Bobartles, literature

Literature

Life, through a shot glass

Message in a Bottle, Part III by Bobartles, literature

Rx by Bobartles, literature

35.1 by Bobartles, literature

Literature

35.1 Dark Heresy: The Reckoning by Bobartles, literature

Literature

Dark Heresy: The Reckoning

--- Message Received--- ---K. Rannock, Mech-Wright Second Class--- ---Encryption Level: Vermillion--- It was hard to see the old man in the darkness of his personal quarters. An observer could judge that the meagre scattering of candles in the corners of the sparse chamber, along with the placement of the structural pillars and the lack of windows, created an ambience that made spotting the hunched figure at the desk surprisingly tricky. A particularly suspicious observer might have noted that the task was made all the more difficult by the old man's clothes, which, a closer inspection might have revealed, bore an interesting resemb

Harplands by Bobartles, literature

Literature

Harplands

Just down the street, at the edge of the town, there's a jumble of buildings, old and run-down. Behind steel-plated doors a full three inches thick, lies Ward Number One, where the sick heal the sick. There's a man dressed in white with a comforting stance, whose father disowned him for being a nurse, and a sister in blue with a phone in her hand, and twenty-five packets of pills in her purse. The man with the clipboard and half-hearted smile, whose girlfriend bled out after something he said; the cleaner who sweeps down the halls all day long to drown out the sound of the voice in his head. The day's rounds are done, but still

Astbury Mere, September 2011 by Bobartles, literature

Literature

Astbury Mere, September 2011

It's been one year since the message; since the day my mind fell through, with reconciliation lost and nothing I could do. Three hundred days and sixty-five since the needles burrowed in; vicious accusations of some uncommitted sin. It's now fifty-two short weeks since the ending of that day, when every joy and every hope, it seemed, were snatched away. It's been twelve months since the lake; since the waters stood so still, mocking the waves inside my mind, as I carried out my will. It's a year now since the words I found buzzing in my hand, that pulled me back, and dried my feet, and helped me understand. Though now the

Crisis. by Bobartles, literature

Literature

Crisis.

He's lying, you know. On his knees, the words on his lips are empty; once born from ignorance, then from fear, now nothing but echoes in the wind. He knows, too, and yet he still says the words. Perhaps he still feels the pull of the hooks in his head, planted far too young to ever really be gone. Or maybe he's just waiting for another world, another life, where blood won't be spilled for honesty, for saying: 'I disagree.'

The Morning After The Year by Bobartles, literature

Parallel by Bobartles, literature

Literature

Parallel

We'll stagger onto the grass at five past midnight, swap calls; grin at our respective lack of orientation as we try not to let too many words out. We'll find harmonies in the car, eat junk food; find metaphors for our existence in a list of expensive pizzas. We'll exchange wit in public places, meet new friends; laugh at their inevitable conclusions about whatever we may be. We'll exist in parallel; mirror images of broken glass. In imperfect symmetry, we'll blunder our way through life and pretend it's still worth living.

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