ThePoeticHermit

Christopher picked up the hitchhiker with hopes that karma existed and that helping this poor bastard with his thumb stuck out on the highway would earn him some good favor with the universe. It was, especially at the time, something he needed. The East-coast weather grayed as October retreated into November, and Christopher celebrated his twentieth birthday by secretly moving out of his dorm room, piling up all his junk in his car and leaving New York with the intention of never seeing any of it ever again. He’d driven a couple hours in absolute silence and had almost made it out of New Jersey when he noticed the guy standing on the si

Eric had come for me after we’d returned from a day of work, demanding I follow him, which I did. By this point, the Eric Cartman I’d known had become nothing more than a collection of memories; this person, who wore the uniform and never smiled, never once acted as I had remembered him, was not Eric Cartman, but an imposter who’d stolen his skin and worn it was his own. On the street, our presence would no doubt cause a great deal of trouble, so Eric whirled around the closest corner, leaving me to hopelessly follow behind him. Once we were in confidence, concealed by the dark cover of night, I spoke first. I felt I was en

 Alive and Warm The last few days were treacherously warm. Of course, at the time, I hadn’t known they were the last days in the ghetto, up until the final seventy-two hours. But I was certain none of the others knew the significance of November 15th like I did, and even then, I felt as if I’d cheated. On what was to become the final day, I woke before dawn to the shrill echoes of a whistle from the streets below. It was so cold, and I felt the contrast from days past to the marrow of my bones. My dreams had been pitiless, and the memories wafting from this deep disremembered part of me became all the more impractical upon my w

Today, my sister asked me why I spent so much of my time caring about the love lives of two ten-year-old paper cutouts. With this stupid shipping war currently bugging the hell out of me, with friends in the fandom threatening to drop out altogether, and hateful messages plaguing my tags on Tumblr, I thought I would release a tiny rebuttal about my personal feelings about Kyman (Eric Cartman/Kyle Broflovski), why I continue to adamantly ship them five years after first entering the fandom, and why I continue to stick with my OTP and protect it. For all its vulgarity, offensiveness and, let's face it, absurdity, South Park has become ove

San Francisco- 2009 They chose an isolated place to eat, lit by the neighboring lanterns of the pier and abandoned by the tourists who plagued the daylight hours. Distantly, Avery could make out the laughter and joyful bagpipe music emitting from what must've been an Irish pub, rowdily celebrating the Earth's continuation forward, at least for another year. Gregory's hotdog had been consumed in seconds, and Avery nibbled carefully on his as he lifted himself up onto the metal rails set to secure children or drunks from falling into the ocean. Without the normal sense of rush, Gregory found himself fishing around in his pockets for a casual c

Allen and Sam- 1938 He sighed, this boy with hair the color of brown sugar and caramel and likely other assortments of sweet things. A brat, I decided, one not worn to swaying in the wake of others, and this is why he stayed there sitting next to me as if I hadn't just rejected his presence. Gracelessly, he groped inside his front pocket and pulled out his target, a box of Camels. Popping one in between his lips, puckering them to hold it in place, he handed the box to me, and I finally met his gaze; his eyes were wide with expectation and this peculiar blend of green and hazel that I'd never seen before. His wrists reminded me of mum's, an

Frank/Sam - July 12th, 1951 As an animal with human characteristics, Sam was an unknown creature to those who had the fortune of witnessing him, twenty and starving and dying slowly, the last of a breed of youthful foot soldiers that would not be missed. Sam wanders, exhausts himself, wastes away and is thus seen by fellow humans as a dog. Less than a dog, he knows; he is something dirty, something parents would draw their children away from. He keeps going and the world rapidly changes. Sam has a golden tongue; I could live off his voice alone, and drank his words like the dehydrated animal he'd made of me. "It'd be easier, being dead," S