I know, I know. I haven't updated in a while. I'm so sorry! I've been so busy, but now I'm on break from my courses so I should be able to post a couple things here and there. In the midst of a conversation with a friend, I ended up writing a quick fanfic. Yes, a fanfic. I'm still not sure if it's a joke or the product of my insane love for Andrew Hussie's "Homestuck". Anyway, here it is. I wrote this in ten minutes, so try not to die if there is one word that is grammatically incorrect. Very little editing was done.
SS climbed up to the top of the large ambiguous green apartment. The mood was soft--the mist of uncertainty was in the air, as cold as the touch of the pistol that cue ball fellow had entrusted him with.
He knew what he had to do. It was hard, for SS knew the consequences. There are two things you never do under any circumstance: eat the mind honey, or kill Snowman. Both have dire consequences, but the latter had far worse ones.
But this was it; this was all happening for a reason. SS knew, or rather had been convinced after his beating from the cue ball host, that this mission had to be carried out. SS examined the gun. It was entirely white--not an ivory white or graphite white, but a pure white, as perfect as winter's snow. Not that SS knew what snow is. Human snow sure is weird!
SS gripped the cold, devilish weapon into his hand, and continued up the stairs. He knew what awaited him as he finally reached the top. A figure clad in a dress of black and green, of darkness and flourishing beauty, of the void and jade. Snowman, a member of The Felt. Snowman was the last of her kind, as SS's team was successful in two missions: killing most of The Felt, and destroying 1001/1000 clocks.
After their sloppy make out session earlier, SS had no idea what to expect from Snowman. Her face was black as the center of darkest void, white two beady white eyes within. Snowman finally spoke. "What are you waiting for?" said the enigma. "Draw, Spades." SS knew it. This was it, the ultimate effect of kismesitude.
SS readied his weapon and drew. He aimed carefully at a seemingly careless woman of Derse, sharing his origin.
But the gun fired an unusual bullet. Not of metal, of tin, or of copper. In fact, the projectile was not even a bullet at all; rather, the object that was imminently released was a miniature detonator, like a tiny sun star filled with a green, radioactive energy. Ironically, this complimented Snowman's dress, before blasting through her heart carelessly.
Blue blood gushed out, like the cascading of a waterfall or, more appropriately, the Critical Moment that was taking place. The black and green dress was stained forever, and the effect of Snowman's death began to take place. SS knew this was inevitable, but he had to do it. Someone had to, and according to Mr. Vanilla Milkshake, the time to do so had come.
The blue universe, so large in comparison to this tiny murder, began to take the effect of Snowman's death. Explosions the size of galaxies occurred, rupturing the very fabrics that bound star to space, hole to nothingness. The universe was being destroyed, as Snowman, a symbol of the universe itself and Death's messenger, had been.
SS knew that this was it. He did not move, rather he watched as the world around him became nothingness. The death of this universe would do him no justice, other than the fact of its inevitability. Perhaps this was the only way it could be. SS could never love Snowman. They were bound to kismesitude, and only by insane Alternian troll logic could they have so passionately embraced each other.
The universe, destroyed. The Snowman, melted. The Sun, created. The host? Excellent.
Fin.
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