Post by Kiyama Ryuichiro on May 15, 2011 11:32:23 GMT -5
OOC: Important definition. Important picture. Imporant song. Important lyrics. Imporant note: I repeat, I am not on drugs, but I probably should be.
It was strange.
Kiyama looked over the note again.
His eyes fell on the kitchen table, where he found the note, beside a plate piled high with tarako spaghetti. It really was strange; the terse memos in his mother's scrawl made their periodic appearances, but food -- especially fresh food -- was rare. She always hated cooking, yet when he came home that day there was a steaming-hot entree laid out for him. The nori on top didn't even look soggy yet.
A combination of late practices and too much schoolwork had cut into Kiyama's time to scrounge up his own meals the last few days. He didn't really care where the pasta had come from, or why it was so fresh. He was too hungry to think anymore. So. freaking. hungry.
In fact, he was so hungry, he forwent any hygiene worries and immediately sat down to the table, leaning over the still-steaming pasta. As the warm, hearty fumes teased his nose, his insides churned in anticipation.
Then he heard it.
Kiyama gasped. It was faint and distant, but he could've sworn that he heard the sound of children singing. It was well after dark, so he doubted that kids would still be out playing. Maybe the neighbor had his television turned up way too loud? Yeah, that had to be it. He nervously chuckled to himself. It wasn't like him to get so worked up like that, not at all.
Shaking his head, he clasped his hands together in a rushed thanks for the food. When Kiyama opened his eyes again, he noticed what seemed to be a red blur in his peripheral vision. Confused, he spun around in his seat. The only thing he saw was the dark living room, just as empty as it was when he first got home.
He shook his head. He was very tired and starving. His mind was playing tricks on him, simple as that. The best thing to do would be to eat his dinner and go straight to bed. Any homework would be forsaken in the name of his mental health. That thought in mind, he turned back to his plate and reached for his fork...
Kiyama froze. Before, the singing sounded like it was far away, but this time, it sounded distinctly like whispering into his ear.
He shuddered, and he turned his head ever so slightly to see a babyfaced blob perched on his shoulder, its large round eyes and gaping smile making it look very much like it was the cutest damn thing to ever crawl out of the coldest, darkest corner of hell.
It looked just like that tarako paste mascot, complete with the Kewpie face his yankee pride wouldn't let him admit creeped him the hell out. The boy inhaled sharply. His mind was playing tricks on him again. That wasn't there. He was just--
"TARATARA!!!!!"
...something screamed. A very corporeal tarako demon jumped onto his face.
Completely taken by surprise, Kiyama fell out of his chair, and he immediately began grabbing at the thing. It was stuck fast. Soft and malleable, it felt like some type of blob sucking at his face.
Like it was trying to eat his face.
It was going to eat his face and he was going to die.
No, before that, he was going to suffocate; the tarako was blocking his nose and his mouth. Kiyama felt around for the kitchen table, and pawed at the surface. He knocked down some papers and heard his plate clatter to the floor before he finally felt his fingers grace the handle of his fork.
He took it in both his hands, turned it toward his face, and thrust it as hard as he could.
There was a high-pitched, otherworldly screech that made the boy shiver, and it relinquished his face. Gasping for air, Kiyama watched the thing squirmed and gurgled before it went still. A thick, creamy pale liquid oozed out of it's wound... It was bleeding tarako paste.
As his breaths slowed, Kiyama tried to wrap his head around what just happened, but his mind was still racing; the adrenaline was still flowing. By the time his heaving quieted, his felt a sheen of sweat, no doubt a cold sweat, coat his brow. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Then the singing started again.
Slowly, Kiyama turned around. In front of him were a dozen other tarako creatures, all with the exact same demonic toddler faces he'd always hated. No, except for one towards the back.
Kiyama-san~ went a voice that sounded more like it came from inside his head than anything else. But that wasn't the weirdest thing. The voice sounded familiar, like the odd tarako face looked familiar. In fact, it reminded him of...
"Nippori?!" Kiyama gasped. But the second the name left his mouth, the tarako group erupted in a storm of devilish giggles, huddled around the yankee-tarako, and carried it away.
Kiyama jumped to his feet and reached his living room just in time to see the tarako mob jump out of the window, showering the big couch with shattered glass.
The boy just stood there, his mouth agape.
What the hell just happened? Calm down. Breathe. Assess. Sauce mascots had broken into his house and tried to kill him, right. One of them had Nippori's face. That meant that it might have eaten the youngest of the yankees. Or at the very least, it might have eaten his soul.
Mind completely blown, Kiyama trudged back into the kitchen, expecting it to look as clean as it did when he left for school that day. Instead, he saw the floor littered with papers and billfolds, a tangle of pasta and shattered chinaware, and a flattened-out looking blob sporting a face like a European doll. All of it was covered in a pink creamy goop.
He kneeled down and, finger shaking, he poked the tarako. It made a bubbling sound and more of the fish sauce oozed out.
That's when Kiyama made a decision. He didn't know what the hell was going on, if Wataru had spiked his tea bottle or he fried his brain too much studying for that math test or if all that flipping at practice had knocked finally knocked a screw loose in his brain. Even if none of that was true, as far as he knew, Nippori was likely attacked by demon roe babies.
None of that made any sense whatsoever, but Kiyama didn't want to debate that point. He knew he had this somewhat irrational fear of losing the people closest to him, whether it be by violent thugs or fish paste babies. Kiyama wouldn't have it, he wouldn't have it at all.
So the boy took up the sticky fork from under the table, and dashed out of his front door.
OOC: Yeah. Anyhow, though I originally planned this with CJ, I invite anyone else to join in! And feel free to go CRAZY with your posts!
when your stomach rumbles, they come
they come, bringing their friends
they put on their cod egg hats with their faces showing
and effortlessly, effortlessly head out
they come, bringing their friends
they put on their cod egg hats with their faces showing
and effortlessly, effortlessly head out
It was strange.
Kiyama looked over the note again.
Two-week project @ Kyushu this time. Allowance in envelope.
P.S.: Eat up!
P.S.: Eat up!
His eyes fell on the kitchen table, where he found the note, beside a plate piled high with tarako spaghetti. It really was strange; the terse memos in his mother's scrawl made their periodic appearances, but food -- especially fresh food -- was rare. She always hated cooking, yet when he came home that day there was a steaming-hot entree laid out for him. The nori on top didn't even look soggy yet.
A combination of late practices and too much schoolwork had cut into Kiyama's time to scrounge up his own meals the last few days. He didn't really care where the pasta had come from, or why it was so fresh. He was too hungry to think anymore. So. freaking. hungry.
In fact, he was so hungry, he forwent any hygiene worries and immediately sat down to the table, leaning over the still-steaming pasta. As the warm, hearty fumes teased his nose, his insides churned in anticipation.
Then he heard it.
before you know it, they’re outside your window
before you know it, they’re in your house
before you know it, they’re in your house
Kiyama gasped. It was faint and distant, but he could've sworn that he heard the sound of children singing. It was well after dark, so he doubted that kids would still be out playing. Maybe the neighbor had his television turned up way too loud? Yeah, that had to be it. He nervously chuckled to himself. It wasn't like him to get so worked up like that, not at all.
Shaking his head, he clasped his hands together in a rushed thanks for the food. When Kiyama opened his eyes again, he noticed what seemed to be a red blur in his peripheral vision. Confused, he spun around in his seat. The only thing he saw was the dark living room, just as empty as it was when he first got home.
He shook his head. He was very tired and starving. His mind was playing tricks on him, simple as that. The best thing to do would be to eat his dinner and go straight to bed. Any homework would be forsaken in the name of his mental health. That thought in mind, he turned back to his plate and reached for his fork...
before you know it, they’re on your shoulder
before you know it, they’re on your plate
before you know it, they’re on your plate
Kiyama froze. Before, the singing sounded like it was far away, but this time, it sounded distinctly like whispering into his ear.
He shuddered, and he turned his head ever so slightly to see a babyfaced blob perched on his shoulder, its large round eyes and gaping smile making it look very much like it was the cutest damn thing to ever crawl out of the coldest, darkest corner of hell.
It looked just like that tarako paste mascot, complete with the Kewpie face his yankee pride wouldn't let him admit creeped him the hell out. The boy inhaled sharply. His mind was playing tricks on him again. That wasn't there. He was just--
"TARATARA!!!!!"
...something screamed. A very corporeal tarako demon jumped onto his face.
Completely taken by surprise, Kiyama fell out of his chair, and he immediately began grabbing at the thing. It was stuck fast. Soft and malleable, it felt like some type of blob sucking at his face.
Like it was trying to eat his face.
It was going to eat his face and he was going to die.
No, before that, he was going to suffocate; the tarako was blocking his nose and his mouth. Kiyama felt around for the kitchen table, and pawed at the surface. He knocked down some papers and heard his plate clatter to the floor before he finally felt his fingers grace the handle of his fork.
He took it in both his hands, turned it toward his face, and thrust it as hard as he could.
There was a high-pitched, otherworldly screech that made the boy shiver, and it relinquished his face. Gasping for air, Kiyama watched the thing squirmed and gurgled before it went still. A thick, creamy pale liquid oozed out of it's wound... It was bleeding tarako paste.
As his breaths slowed, Kiyama tried to wrap his head around what just happened, but his mind was still racing; the adrenaline was still flowing. By the time his heaving quieted, his felt a sheen of sweat, no doubt a cold sweat, coat his brow. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Then the singing started again.
before you know it, they’re in your mouth
before you know it, they’re in your dreams
before you know it, they’re in your dreams
Slowly, Kiyama turned around. In front of him were a dozen other tarako creatures, all with the exact same demonic toddler faces he'd always hated. No, except for one towards the back.
Kiyama-san~ went a voice that sounded more like it came from inside his head than anything else. But that wasn't the weirdest thing. The voice sounded familiar, like the odd tarako face looked familiar. In fact, it reminded him of...
"Nippori?!" Kiyama gasped. But the second the name left his mouth, the tarako group erupted in a storm of devilish giggles, huddled around the yankee-tarako, and carried it away.
Kiyama jumped to his feet and reached his living room just in time to see the tarako mob jump out of the window, showering the big couch with shattered glass.
The boy just stood there, his mouth agape.
What the hell just happened? Calm down. Breathe. Assess. Sauce mascots had broken into his house and tried to kill him, right. One of them had Nippori's face. That meant that it might have eaten the youngest of the yankees. Or at the very least, it might have eaten his soul.
Mind completely blown, Kiyama trudged back into the kitchen, expecting it to look as clean as it did when he left for school that day. Instead, he saw the floor littered with papers and billfolds, a tangle of pasta and shattered chinaware, and a flattened-out looking blob sporting a face like a European doll. All of it was covered in a pink creamy goop.
He kneeled down and, finger shaking, he poked the tarako. It made a bubbling sound and more of the fish sauce oozed out.
That's when Kiyama made a decision. He didn't know what the hell was going on, if Wataru had spiked his tea bottle or he fried his brain too much studying for that math test or if all that flipping at practice had knocked finally knocked a screw loose in his brain. Even if none of that was true, as far as he knew, Nippori was likely attacked by demon roe babies.
None of that made any sense whatsoever, but Kiyama didn't want to debate that point. He knew he had this somewhat irrational fear of losing the people closest to him, whether it be by violent thugs or fish paste babies. Kiyama wouldn't have it, he wouldn't have it at all.
So the boy took up the sticky fork from under the table, and dashed out of his front door.
OOC: Yeah. Anyhow, though I originally planned this with CJ, I invite anyone else to join in! And feel free to go CRAZY with your posts!