{ "submission_id": "1018977", "keywords": [ { "keyword_id": "108391", "keyword_name": "memoirs", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "3" }, { "keyword_id": "14107", "keyword_name": "mitch", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "91" }, { "keyword_id": "5387", "keyword_name": "perspective", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "1517" }, { "keyword_id": "63343", "keyword_name": "ramblings", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "6" }, { "keyword_id": "948", "keyword_name": "story", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "14091" }, { "keyword_id": "1655", "keyword_name": "torture", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "5963" }, { "keyword_id": "287139", "keyword_name": "wankery", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "1" } ], "hidden": "f", "scraps": "f", "favorite": "f", "favorites_count": "0", "create_datetime": "2016-02-01 18:02:36.19978+00", "create_datetime_usertime": "01 Feb 2016 19:02 CET", "last_file_update_datetime": "2016-02-01 17:37:37.362267+00", "last_file_update_datetime_usertime": "01 Feb 2016 18:37 CET", "username": "Luso", "user_id": "35623", "user_icon_file_name": "99588_LusoSkav_luso_icon_by_nexsix-d9ggowsmol.jpg", "user_icon_url_large": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/usericons/large/99/99588_LusoSkav_luso_icon_by_nexsix-d9ggowsmol.jpg", "user_icon_url_medium": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/usericons/medium/99/99588_LusoSkav_luso_icon_by_nexsix-d9ggowsmol.jpg", "user_icon_url_small": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/usericons/small/99/99588_LusoSkav_luso_icon_by_nexsix-d9ggowsmol.jpg", "file_name": "1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.doc", "file_url_full": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/full/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.doc", "file_url_screen": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/screen/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.doc", "file_url_preview": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/preview/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.doc", "thumbnail_url_huge": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/huge/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.jpg", "thumbnail_url_large": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/large/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.jpg", "thumbnail_url_medium": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/medium/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.jpg", "thumb_huge_x": "120", "thumb_huge_y": "120", "thumb_large_x": "120", "thumb_large_y": "120", "thumb_medium_x": "120", "thumb_medium_y": "120", "files": [ { "file_id": "1402235", "file_name": "1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.doc", "file_url_full": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/full/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.doc", "file_url_screen": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/screen/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.doc", "file_url_preview": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/preview/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.doc", "mimetype": "application/msword", "submission_id": "1018977", "user_id": "35623", "submission_file_order": "0", "full_size_x": null, "full_size_y": null, "screen_size_x": null, "screen_size_y": null, "preview_size_x": null, "preview_size_y": null, "initial_file_md5": "f0c5c82a4b8054d05c4bb6f3ea24b7c6", "full_file_md5": "f0c5c82a4b8054d05c4bb6f3ea24b7c6", "large_file_md5": "", "small_file_md5": "", "thumbnail_md5": "0c18e38ae5d7a157a5d202ed73009a54", "deleted": "f", "create_datetime": "2016-02-01 17:37:37.362267+00", "create_datetime_usertime": "01 Feb 2016 18:37 CET", "thumbnail_url_huge": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/huge/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.jpg", "thumbnail_url_large": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/large/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.jpg", "thumbnail_url_medium": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/thumbnails/medium/1402/1402235_LusoSkav_3165156.jpg", "thumb_huge_x": "120", "thumb_huge_y": "120", "thumb_large_x": "120", "thumb_large_y": "120", "thumb_medium_x": "120", "thumb_medium_y": "120" } ], "pools": [], "description": "[i]Originally Submitted to FurAffinity.net on Dec 21st, 2009 01:46 AM.[/i]\n\nWords, hit download to view \n\nYa know, i think Mitch here is turning into some kind of heteronym. writing from his perspective is always something i do so fluidly and it's pretty gratifying. yes.\n\nWho knew a character originally created for just raunchy purposes would grow into something like this. hah\n\nso this is supposed to be one of his trains of thought, almost as if someone was sitting in his mind transcribing every thought he had, so that's why it gets kinda random and it seems like he's rambling on and on and constantly changing subject, cos thats usually how people think. or at least like he thinks. because i say so.\n\nSo expect these, sporadically.", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Originally Submitted to FurAffinity.net on Dec 21st, 2009 01:46 AM.

Words, hit download to view

Ya know, i think Mitch here is turning into some kind of heteronym. writing from his perspective is always something i do so fluidly and it's pretty gratifying. yes.

Who knew a character originally created for just raunchy purposes would grow into something like this. hah

so this is supposed to be one of his trains of thought, almost as if someone was sitting in his mind transcribing every thought he had, so that's why it gets kinda random and it seems like he's rambling on and on and constantly changing subject, cos thats usually how people think. or at least like he thinks. because i say so.

So expect these, sporadically.", "writing": "Someday I will write my memoirs. \n\nOr rather, I could. Or even, I should. I know I could read and write, once. I still do, I guess, but barely. Let’s say my mind-or what’s left of it, anyway- is much more preoccupied with something else at any given time.\n\nMemoirs. Such a fancy word, it is. It’s one of those words you’d only expect to be spoken by important people, by very intelligent people. Despite the obvious worldly thing tied to the word, it’s almost as if it holds a meaning of its own, something one cannot touch or see, but something one can feel, and nevertheless, identify. I can almost tell what it is, I guess, but I guess words fail me when it comes to try and describe it. My humble vocabulary, and self-assuring, my wit, can only go as far.\n\nI don’t know. I guess it is kind of presumptuous to ever even think of crafting something as important as memoirs. Who would read them? Who would even want to? Only important or interesting people get to do them, and despite how close I am to the most important being on the land –the closest, in fact, I have heard from her very lips many a time-, I am far from important myself. I am the opposite, in fact. I do nothing great, or brave, or of any importance or influence to anybody or anything. At least that’s how I feel. At least that’s how I feel I am treated like.\n\nThen again, how can I be sure if that is how I feel like and if that is how things actually work?\n\nHow can I?\n\nAs far back as I can remember, in the likelyhood of what I am also told, I’ve been living this life in this situation even as far back before I could talk. I have little knowledge of the outside world and on how it works, safe what is told to me, mostly by Trilla, bless her heart, who was lucky enough to a little more living of the great world out there than I ever was, despite how short-lived that living ever was.\n\nPoint being, I have no real knowledge of… anything. I know only what is convenient. I know only what she wants me to know. Knowledge is a powerful weapon, or so I hear, so it only makes sense she filters it carefully for me. Not that she would have any reason to fear me, oh heavens no, despite how knowledgeable of all martial knowledge I could possibly ever be, my pathetic twiggy frame would be nowhere near hard for her to rip apart. Heavens no. But why should she even give the possibility a chance? She has an entire empire to run, it’s only logical that she doesn’t want to stretch her worries over to a troublesome pet. Over to her dungeons. Over to her personal chambers.\n\nIf she so desires trouble, she will have no objection nor hardship into fabricating one herself, in order to issue me punishment, accordingly. She has no need for real trouble. As long as it is real in her mind, it seems that it is sufficient. Real or not, I am pretty sure the cause is not what thrills her, but the effect. \n\nI wonder if she would enjoy reading my memoirs, if they were ever to be written. If so, I wonder how she’d react. Given some of the things I would probably write there, I am very most certain she would react violently. Not that it is a hard thing to make her do so, but… I guess it would depend largely on her mood. That’s how she mostly works, if I’ve been able to learn something about her behavior throughout the years.\n\nI can’t really decide on whether she would read it or not. The naïve part of me that believes the passionate words she utters when in a good mood, would want to believe that she, somehow still holds some sort of curiosity and interest in me and in how I work, what I think and what I feel. However, the more pessimistic, and albeit, more realistic side of me, that can’t forget the much more pronounced and, truthfully, much more constant, violent side of her, believes she would not want to know what I think, and feel, and am, because she does not see me as such. She does not deem me as someone, she deems me as something. Something that is not supposed to think, nor feel, nor have more sentiency then the one required to acknowledge agony and pain, and thoroughly express it. Loudly, preferably.\n\nI don’t know. She is as unpredictable as she is powerful, so it is impossible to tell either way. Not like it would matter though, as the most likely possibility is that this memoir business will never wander outside this particular delirious rambling induced by blood loss. Truthfully, I believe this entire thought was triggeed by the passing thought of the possibility of me not being able to use my hands at 100% ever again, for particularly dexterity-demanding tasks like say, writing. I’m trying to move my fingers but I can’t, in fact, I can’t feel my hands at all. My lap is drenched in the blood seeping out from the deep cuts on each of my forearms, and not even the cold iron shackles holding me in place are that much of an impact on my nerve endings anymore.\n\nHonestly, I have no idea what she was thinking this time, probably some sort of experiment, like she enjoys doing from time to time, or maybe just an excuse to store some of my blood for whatever ends and purposes she eventually uses it for. Wouldn’t be the first time. However, I would care much more or try and come up with a most plausible answer, if my brain was not so blood-deprived as it is at the moment.\n\nShe turns around, and throws a rag she was wiping her hands with aside, I know this not from watching her now, for my vision comes in and out of focus quite regularly, but from already knowing some of her habits, her blurry silhouette just enough information for me to gather what is going on. She leans in and gently taps my cheek, asking me something. I understand not what it is, my ears flooded with some sort of echoing white noise, her words nothing more than small pebbles upon a surface of a lake. She repeats it, the only part of it that I understand being her favourite terminology when saying something meant for my ears. “Love”. Frustrated for getting no response, she snorts and walks away, tending to a collection of frightening tools on a nearby table.\n\nMy head feels heavy and I drop it forward, leaving it hanging in quite an uncomfortable position, was I in a state to feel it. “Love”. Heh. I chuckle soundlessly, feeling reason and awareness slipping away, soon taking consciousness along with it. Rest.\n\n", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "Someday I will write my memoirs.

Or rather, I could. Or even, I should. I know I could read and write, once. I still do, I guess, but barely. Let’s say my mind-or what’s left of it, anyway- is much more preoccupied with something else at any given time.

Memoirs. Such a fancy word, it is. It’s one of those words you’d only expect to be spoken by important people, by very intelligent people. Despite the obvious worldly thing tied to the word, it’s almost as if it holds a meaning of its own, something one cannot touch or see, but something one can feel, and nevertheless, identify. I can almost tell what it is, I guess, but I guess words fail me when it comes to try and describe it. My humble vocabulary, and self-assuring, my wit, can only go as far.

I don’t know. I guess it is kind of presumptuous to ever even think of crafting something as important as memoirs. Who would read them? Who would even want to? Only important or interesting people get to do them, and despite how close I am to the most important being on the land –the closest, in fact, I have heard from her very lips many a time-, I am far from important myself. I am the opposite, in fact. I do nothing great, or brave, or of any importance or influence to anybody or anything. At least that’s how I feel. At least that’s how I feel I am treated like.

Then again, how can I be sure if that is how I feel like and if that is how things actually work?

How can I?

As far back as I can remember, in the likelyhood of what I am also told, I’ve been living this life in this situation even as far back before I could talk. I have little knowledge of the outside world and on how it works, safe what is told to me, mostly by Trilla, bless her heart, who was lucky enough to a little more living of the great world out there than I ever was, despite how short-lived that living ever was.

Point being, I have no real knowledge of… anything. I know only what is convenient. I know only what she wants me to know. Knowledge is a powerful weapon, or so I hear, so it only makes sense she filters it carefully for me. Not that she would have any reason to fear me, oh heavens no, despite how knowledgeable of all martial knowledge I could possibly ever be, my pathetic twiggy frame would be nowhere near hard for her to rip apart. Heavens no. But why should she even give the possibility a chance? She has an entire empire to run, it’s only logical that she doesn’t want to stretch her worries over to a troublesome pet. Over to her dungeons. Over to her personal chambers.

If she so desires trouble, she will have no objection nor hardship into fabricating one herself, in order to issue me punishment, accordingly. She has no need for real trouble. As long as it is real in her mind, it seems that it is sufficient. Real or not, I am pretty sure the cause is not what thrills her, but the effect.

I wonder if she would enjoy reading my memoirs, if they were ever to be written. If so, I wonder how she’d react. Given some of the things I would probably write there, I am very most certain she would react violently. Not that it is a hard thing to make her do so, but… I guess it would depend largely on her mood. That’s how she mostly works, if I’ve been able to learn something about her behavior throughout the years.

I can’t really decide on whether she would read it or not. The naïve part of me that believes the passionate words she utters when in a good mood, would want to believe that she, somehow still holds some sort of curiosity and interest in me and in how I work, what I think and what I feel. However, the more pessimistic, and albeit, more realistic side of me, that can’t forget the much more pronounced and, truthfully, much more constant, violent side of her, believes she would not want to know what I think, and feel, and am, because she does not see me as such. She does not deem me as someone, she deems me as something. Something that is not supposed to think, nor feel, nor have more sentiency then the one required to acknowledge agony and pain, and thoroughly express it. Loudly, preferably.

I don’t know. She is as unpredictable as she is powerful, so it is impossible to tell either way. Not like it would matter though, as the most likely possibility is that this memoir business will never wander outside this particular delirious rambling induced by blood loss. Truthfully, I believe this entire thought was triggeed by the passing thought of the possibility of me not being able to use my hands at 100% ever again, for particularly dexterity-demanding tasks like say, writing. I’m trying to move my fingers but I can’t, in fact, I can’t feel my hands at all. My lap is drenched in the blood seeping out from the deep cuts on each of my forearms, and not even the cold iron shackles holding me in place are that much of an impact on my nerve endings anymore.

Honestly, I have no idea what she was thinking this time, probably some sort of experiment, like she enjoys doing from time to time, or maybe just an excuse to store some of my blood for whatever ends and purposes she eventually uses it for. Wouldn’t be the first time. However, I would care much more or try and come up with a most plausible answer, if my brain was not so blood-deprived as it is at the moment.

She turns around, and throws a rag she was wiping her hands with aside, I know this not from watching her now, for my vision comes in and out of focus quite regularly, but from already knowing some of her habits, her blurry silhouette just enough information for me to gather what is going on. She leans in and gently taps my cheek, asking me something. I understand not what it is, my ears flooded with some sort of echoing white noise, her words nothing more than small pebbles upon a surface of a lake. She repeats it, the only part of it that I understand being her favourite terminology when saying something meant for my ears. “Love”.  Frustrated for getting no response, she snorts and walks away, tending to a collection of frightening tools on a nearby table.

My head feels heavy and I drop it forward, leaving it hanging in quite an uncomfortable position, was I in a state to feel it. “Love”. Heh. I chuckle soundlessly, feeling reason and awareness slipping away, soon taking consciousness along with it. Rest.

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