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Iím Sorry
By Tony Tran

Dear Son,

Iím sorry I wasnít there for you when it was your 5th Birthday. I wasnít able to see the happiness striking across your face, the anticipation running through your veins at the point of opening your presents. The blissful joy of all your friends and family around you as they sang happy birthday, that day was a memory I never had the chance to remember.

Iím sorry I wasnít there for you when you had your first day at school. It was like a new world for you filled with friendship, independence and above all, fun. Iíll always regret not being there to pick you up after school and having you run into my arms at a thousand miles per hour, as though you hadnít seen me in years. Those days when you came home and started humming a harmonious song that you learnt, it was a tune Iíd never hear.

Iím sorry I wasnít there for you when you were eight years old and just learnt to ride your first bike. The breeze going through your hair as you came speeding down the mountain side. When you fell off, I wasnít there to save you from the aching pain of disappointment. I wasnít there to tell you that itíd be ok, and it breaks me up inside to think about that very fact.

Iím sorry I wasnít there for you when you received your first kiss and needed someone to talk to. Your heart throbbing, a constant smile on your face and yet no sign of me. You were like a bird with no wings, lost in a world with no sense of direction as to where to go next. When heartbreak struck like a piercing dagger and your world came crashing down, still I was nowhere to be seen.

Iím sorry I wasnít there for you when you finished high school, with high honors and a diploma together hand in hand. The moment you stepped up to the stage with a huge applause being granted for your achievement, while sequences of camera flashes lit up the stage. It would have been one of your highest points of ecstasy in your life. Yet, where was I?

Son you must understand why you have received this letter after all these years. For you see, during the time of your birth, your mother was suffering from heart failure and both her and you were in jeopardy of having your lives taken from the depths of Earth. After some time in the hospital waiting area, there was only one thing to do. As I approached the doctor I told him that a heart donor was found for your mother. It was apparent he knew who the donor was and what would be occurring in the next few hours. I passed this very letter to him and if youíre reading it then what occurred next was truly a successÖ

Authors Comments: The love of a father towards his son is stronger than anything in the world. A father would give up everything he had for the well being of his familyÖ.even his life.
don't ask, just read
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His eyes flinched, twitching
Like bats ears.
ďPick up your mother at 7, meet us at the restaurant.Ē

The world seemed an unhappy place,
His placid tears set to fill the Nile in a few short hours,
A half charged cell-phone
&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Bou
&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Nc
&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp ing
On the seat like his blonde haired blue eyed thin framed
Perfectly sculpted

Darkness and obsession a prelude to a needle,
Exasperation, struggling respiration
And an elongated, low pitched sigh.

The slick roads washing like soap suds,
Dry as desert
But in the incapable hands of our main character,
They were as slippery as a bathroom floor
Post bathing.

When he d r i f t e d
Into a lamppost,
Percussion cracked his skull like a sledge hammer,
Each bones fermata captured perfectly with a bass and snare,
Befitted perfectly with the occasional cymbal crash.

An airbag can only cushion your face for so long,
Until it leaves a mark in the steering wheel similar to Christís face on a cloth.

He thought of his mother.
Brown eyes.
She liked baseball and watching the plants grow on Sunday afternoons.
She was a short woman,
Always reaching for things and snapping fingers at him.

Between the metallic strips tearing through his splintering jawbone,
He thought he smelled steak,
&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp His lips trying as hard as they could to drip saliva
But they were currently quite preoccupied with disintegrating.

As his body contorted so far as to fit inside a typical office drawer,
Head whipping madly throw white airbags
And into glass windows,

Saturday afternoon on the pier.
The sun was in the sky, incandescent for whatever reason,
Mother natureís finest gem.
Her dress was a light yellow.
Her hands were fragile, like porcelain.

This whole process of dying seemed entirely too long,
Much unlike the movies but retaining that cinematic quality.
He felt something go through his lower back
And shrugged it off,
Itís momentary excruciation merely a segue to some finer glory he hoped to find.

The cement pillar seemed the titan in this struggle,
Our main character playing whatever anonymous henchman,
Just cannon fodder.

His left ear went dead as he felt a piece of glass
Tear through his ear drum,
Sounding briefly like masturbation but ending too quick to tell.

He wasnít too sure when his rib cage cremated itself
and saved his parents the trouble,
But briefly he felt whatever wasnít crushed rushing to fill the space.

She smiled.
Soon \ | / nooS

He knew what she meant.
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The diary of I M Hormonal

So yeah like i kinda fell out of bed this morning (it's a REALLY thin bed) kinda yeah.††And like, i wasn't in a good mood (i did fall out of bed) y'see.††It kinda all began like.... y'know (getting to the point quickly here), last night where i like... well my girlfriend (well we weren't really going out per say...) is such a whore (not that i'd know of course)...i mean she's my ex now y'know (see previous).

But she sleeps around like (and i found out last night.††Tore my heart in two (well not really but it felt like that once the hormones kicked in... except not as painful)) and like, threw it onto the ground (she didn't really do this either but it makes me feel inntelygant) and (i felt really sad) i cried myself to sleep (but i did wake up in the middle of a night for a poopie).††She says the rabbit made her feel happier than me (rabbits are sexy i'l give you that), like, i must be sooo pathetic (like... i cannot compare to a rabbit (damn rabbits)).††Why am i breathing? (i'll tell you after biology).

But yeah like so *abuse of fillers*.††Even before that my day was (less than amusing) abysmal and lamentacious (wow check my sophistimacated vocabulary [thankyouthesaurusiluffj00]).††That was like yeah cos my step dad (well he's more of a stepstepstepstepdad) came home drunk (actually he was high from sniffing marmalade) and he's a violent man (you should see how wound up he gets playing pac-man) he beat me (actually he sent me to bed without supper) down into the ground (sorry korn i love jonathon davies).††So i escaped out the window (front door in common lingo) but only after taking some webcam pictures (i so seksi) and molesting deviantarts gratuitous (vocabulary again) free space offer (i <3 DA 4ever) so people tell me i iz hawt (y'know it).††

and then i saw my girlfriend (well we weren't together yet) but she was with the white rabbit (damn that rabbit) and he is hawter than me (damn him again) and i felt so jealous (who wouldn't be against such a hawt rabbit?) and then she told me that she was with (in the real way) the white rabbit (damn that rabbit) and then my life felt like nothing (well actually it felt like the chemicals inside of me were producing a rather undesirable effect).

So i ran and i ran and i ran (and i ran and i ran and i ran and i ran and i ran repeat as necessary) and i cried my crystal tears (technically tears have salt in them so yeah like, salt is crystally yeah? wish i studied in chemistry now) and i felt like a lost soul (a big mac in burger king) wandering the empty endless (4meters squared) space of the unknown (my bathroom... well it is kinda unknown since i don't shower often).††

and i made friends (i <3 inanimate objects) with that blade (it's called a razor damn you) and i pushed it into my innocent (i did this the day before too, embellishment is a terrible thing) flesh (they say that a lot in the bible) to set free (i can see why they'd want to escape me) all the lies and misery (i rhymed i rhymed i rhymed i am SO COOL).††i caressed the wound (with my tongue, blood is tasty) and remembered all the times (all four of them) where i'd been hurt so bad.  and i took a picture (this is art) to show to the world (although i don't think they wanna share) my pitiful state (we'll i'l give you that much)

then the drugs kicked in (</i>the spot medicine is working!! hurrah!!!</i>) and i saw the light (we have this weird globe shaped fixture in our bathroom, really quite decorative and i never appreciated it until just then).††And i could almost (i emphasise that word) feel kurt cobain whispering (cos he's so da man) "i hate myself and i want to die" and then i knew (getting think and know mixed up again, sorry) that i was to live by this (technically that's a juxtaposition because if you want to die and to live by this... dude....).

and i was so scared (pissing myself here) of sleeping (the horror... THE HORROR!!!!) and dreaming my nightmares of tomorrow (a real clairevoyant in the making here)

and it's my birthday today (it was last week too) and i'm 14 now (i'm so hawt) and because i'm older (and smellier) than my school friends (we'll say associates) i don't think (KNOW) if they'll accept me (they didn't yesterday anyway) because i'm an individual (a true pioneer of my generation) see?††the pain (we'll call it lack of testicular fortitude) hurts (this is my hypochondriac personality kicking in) so bad of thinking (it hurts so bad).††it's time to bottle it up (like white wine) inside (wine cellar) and hide the bruises (i fell out of bed) and the scars (.... i fell out of bed) of my life (i fall out of bed a lot) because it's another (omg not again) day of my disaster-life (hyphen hyphen hyphen).

So yeah (gain) i wanna kill the white rabbit (damn that rabbit) cos it was he who did this to me (indirectly and not at all) he made me who i am (no not my parents, they never created me).††i'm going to listen (endure) to some the rasmus now (hardcore!!!) to remind me of the hate i feel (hate feels squidgy) inside (damn that rabbit).


yours forever and in several pieces

I'm bored, so i wrote this in about 30mins, just a lil piss-take of the angsty teen culture :)

Thanks to my wonderful younger brother for being the model in the picture, you know it's worth it.

Disclaimer - this is all in good humour, it is not in any way meant to be offensive to any particular person.
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The Complete Journey.

Drifting, drifting.. gone.

Sinking, slowly sinking down.

I wake, I am standing in a forrest, some sorry people are in the branches of the trees above me.

Where am I?

I walk on, come to a gate, a gate of black marble, with blood stained writing.

The writing is old, decayed, and over read.

I can't make it out.

Walking on I find a boat, guided by a lone soul.

I caugh and a coin comes out of my mouth.

The coin has a face, with horns on it, glimmers like blood in the moonlight.

The thought crosses my mind for a minute "Where Am I?", then is blown away like a seed in the wind.

The river man seems to be gesturing to the coin, I hand it to him and get into the boat.

We slowly navigate the river.

Bubbles coming up from the depths, pop, and eminate wild terrible screeches and screams.

I cover my ears and cower in fear.

One of my fellow passengers is dragged into the deep green water and is dragged under by hands.

His screams, muted, by a hand firmly clasped over his mouth.

I watch, witnessing an animal, being draged by its hungry prey.

I gaze on.

Bodys hang, slowly swaying in the wind lingering of blood and death.

The boat, reaches its destination, we are standing at a beach shore.

There are several of us here, standing in a line, waiting..

Waiting for what.... is the question.

A figure, clouded in shadows, walks by each of us, surveying actions, and reactions.

Women crying, men trying not to.

I standing here, look at the figure as a deer would look into headlights.

The pain starts, whipping.. we are forced into a cavern.

The heat begins to eminate from around us.

Fires burning, the smell of rotten flesh and sulfer fills my nose.

I now know where I am, but do not wish to admit.

Admiting would mean defeat.

Defeat means I would submit.

The whiping of my self, and my companions continue as we continue into the depths of the cavern.

People around us, years of being treated as horses with one limp leg.

Cripled by time, and torture.. they look on, at us, the new comers.

New horses, with new legs, just waiting to be broken in.

Suddenly I am whiped, the pain of a thousand fires burns my back and body.

I open my mouth to scream like I've never screamed before.

Yet nothing comes.

I am left bearing the pain, with nothing to say, or do.

Continuing down the heat gets greater.

Hands occasionally dragging others down into pits.

I see the people who are dragged into the pits eyes, glowing like firelight, asking begging for help.

Reaching up for guidance for what to do..

No one can offer anything, we open our mouths to speak, and nothing is said.

Finally when the heat is unbearable, we reach another marble gate, only this one is crimson red, with black writing.

A large wolf gaurds this gate, three heads, salavating at the fresh meat being ushered under its feet.

I cover my eyes as the person behind me is devoured by its gaping jaws.

Its eyes red, dark as the deepest blood gaze at me.

I quickly run onwards, not wishing to become a small morsal of food for this massive beast.

Lost as a balloon drifting in the wind, I follow the crowd.

We are all forced, if not willingly driven, into our own caverns and made to follow the path.

Mine, lined with walls of flesh, pulsates, making me sick.

I try to walk back to the start, but something stops me.

I am forced to walk the way of my path.

Suddenly, the floor drops out from underneath me.



Falling into a pit of no light.

No light, no sight.

I feel something that feels remotely like hands ripping and tearing at my clothes.

Falling and spinning, having unknown things grasp at me.

Mute screams coming from my mouth.

Landing in a pool of blood and cadavers and carcasses.

The stench, terrible.

Grasping for air, reaching for help, the only thing I have to grasp onto, is my nightmares.

Grasping to a dead body that seems to be riddled with bullets, I support my body on its stomach and kick my way to the shore.

I stand, gather my breath and walk on.

My footsteps becoming pools of blood.

Blood dripping off my shirt, down my arms and down into the palms of my hand then on to the ground...

The drips, disappearing into puffs of smoke.

I look on..

A dark forest looms in the distance.

Dark as the darkest night.

Something, pushing me, driving me, forcing me onwards.

I enter the forest, and don't look back.

Trees reaching down, as if alive, pulling at my exposed flesh.

Thorns puncturing, tearing, ripping, tears of pain dripping down my face.

I move on, owls hooting and wolves howling.

Suddenly I'm forced to stop.

Cockroaches, asps and rats crossing my path, in some kind of cruel river.

Crawling, shimmering, and slithering.

Gathering my courage, I step gingerly through the writhing pandemonium.

Feeling the thrashing myriad of creatures.

Suddenly I feel a sharp pain rise in my feet.

This pain, unmatched by anything.

I continue, not caring, not feeling my legs, the crippling pain in my legs.

I crawl slowly out of the river of horrors.

Pain eminating from my foot, I look down, a scarlet welt pulsates slowly, beating with the rythm of my beating heart.

I rip a small remnant of my shirt off, and wrap it around my foot, hoping to calm the discomfort.

I roam on.

I soon come to the end of the black as charcole forest.

I look up and see a citadel.

The citadel, looming in the distance like a spectre.

Climbing the mountain that the citadel calls home, the pain in my foot continues to grow, forcing me to limp.

A horse.. limp, with pain.

Wearing down, I look up at the citdel's distinct features.

Grotesque gargoyles sitting on ziggurats, mouths open, carnage flowing forth.

Pain, grapples my foot and forces me to crawl across the draw bridge.

I crawl slowly, into the citadel.

Crawling slowly I gaze like a hungry animal at the interior.

Torches flicker from the sides of the wall, drawing my view inwards, toward the throne room.

Moving slowly, deathly slowly, I gather what energy I have and crawl to the throne room.

My eyes are drawn to a throne of blood.

Flowing, dripping, pulsating.

What is on the throne, throws me into convulsions of shock.

It is my self.

Sitting, looking with the look of a hungry wolf.

That terrifying grin..looking, staring back at me.

Then the laughing starts.

The terrible maniacal, nefarious, laugh.

Resounding through out the walls of the citadel...

As the laughter grows so does my affliction.

Trying to scream, I cast my head to the moon and open my mouth.

Lifeblood, bubbles to the top of my throat.. and dribbles down my cheeks.

Searing as acid down my body.

The pain, over whelming, I collapse in to the glowing rubicund.

Squirming and worming in dispare in my own blood.

I shake and shimmer, and sweat.

My eyes, my soul and my heart burn.

The smell of rotten flesh fills my nose and I begin to caugh a mute cough.

Tearing at my skin I weep, and my tears only make the pain worse.

My skin melting off, into the puddle of my own blood.

My fears becoming reality.

I thrash about in terrible agony.

I throw my hands away from my body, arms out streched, and open my mouth to scream.

I awake.

I find my self sitting in a throne, guarded by gargoyles.

The area, surrounded by torches.

A welt, pulsating on my foot.

I open my mouth to scream.
The Complete Journey.

The complete poem of a journey.

This is the complete work of the previous 6 deviations.

The Installments:

Part 1: [link]

Part 2: [link]

Part 3: [link]

Part 4: [link]

Part 5: [link]

Part 6: [link]

Irony strikes, this is DeviantArt's 666th day of serving the Online Art community.

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The night

deep slow moans

come from the roots
of the earth

and bend on themselves

fingers of the trees

tormenting cradeling
in a sigh

they stretch out
like the hands of a beggar

they implore

to turn off

the ephemeral



La notte

profondi lenti lamenti

provengono dalle radici
della terra

e si tendono

dita di alberi

straziante cullarsi
in un sospiro

si distendono
come le mani del mendicante


di spegnere


Image: Photoshop ..the girl is ~ BleedingCountess 10 hours
Poem: 2 hours and 20 minutes for the shitty translation

Sorry for my english

Per te contessa :blackrose:
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A tribute to the loving memory of my late fiance, silvermind.
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As the moon
floats through the sky,
I see her light
reflected in your eyes

Next to stars
and fiery sights
All contained
in eyes so bright

Can't look away
but why would I want to?
as you gaze into mine
my heart belongs to you

Saw my bg while talking the Kerry...
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Mass Effect

     He’d never seen her cry before.

     That sudden realization left Kaidan staring at the far wall in a strange hybrid of sympathetic compassion and shock.  This was the first time he’d actually seen his CO cry.  It was like stumbling across some innovative physics law and feeling as if dawn had just broken—enlightenment, he figured.  Having never before seen this basic human emotion from her, it had been as if he’d forgotten that she did have those emotions.  The shock came from realizing that she wasn’t just crying: she was sobbing.  

     But the Shepard kneeling on the cold floor panels and weeping over that unfortunate corporal’s body wasn’t the Shepard he knew.

     The Shepard he knew had the courage to look right into the jaws of death and laugh—and she’d had to do a lot of laughing lately.  The Shepard he knew tended to toe the line between the basic extremes of “good” and “evil”; the Shepard he knew preferred whiskey to beer and never left a supply depot without a new and better shotgun.  The Shepard he knew didn’t quail under pressure; rather, that was when she shone.  That was the Shepard he knew best.

     He’d seen a lot of emotions from her, too: anger upon seeing Eden Prime burning; regret at having to send Jenkins’ body home with little more than her personal condolences to his family.  There’d been hatred boiling in her bold blue eyes at the hearing, when Saren had stood there and so calmly refuted the claims that that turian bastard knew were true.  He’d seen childlike awe and wonder at witnessing the grandeur of the view from the Wards and mild bemusement at that Conrad’s glowing praise; he’d witnessed barely contained pride at her induction.  He’d seen her take on a hundred geth without breaking a sweat and then smile as if that’d been the simplest task in the galaxy.  He’d seen a lot of things from her; tears were not on that list.

     He wanted to kneel beside her and embrace her, to calm her and tell her “Shh” and muster up his best reassurance.  Instead, he just pretended that an old locked crate sitting in a dusty, cobwebbed corner had attracted his attention.  He could tell she was trying to be quiet about this, to reduce her tears to an absolute minimum of mournful sniffles.  He just wanted to tell her that he didn’t care if she bawled like an exhausted, hungry infant.  She’d lost a friend not five minutes ago; that had to be a crushing blow.  

     At least Toombs had gotten his vengeance, Kaidan mused.  But those words “Who am I to argue?” haunted the lieutenant, as did Shepard’s reaction.  She’d lunged forward, trying to knock the pistol away, but the corporal had already squeezed the trigger and slumped to the floor.  That’d been when the tears came; they started flowing about the same time that blood started pooling around the soldier’s head, and they hadn’t stopped yet.  That’d been when Kaidan had come to the abrupt awareness that he’d never seen her cry.




     He almost thought he could remember seeing a tear glistening in her eye when she’d been declared a Spectre.  But that hadn’t exactly been crying, had it?  A tear of joy, of pride, wasn’t the same thing as the ones that he’d watched roll down her face and splatter on the floor to mingle with the blood.

     Her muffled sobs were almost eerie in the stark silence of the room, but the silence was suddenly and frighteningly noticeable when the weeping unexpectedly stopped.  Then there was a gunshot, and Kaidan wheeled about, expecting to see her fall to the floor, blood spattered across her cropped hair.  But she was still standing, her pistol aimed at that scientist’s body.

     Another shot.

     Kaidan saw what she was doing.  He figured he’d be doing the exact same thing were he in her boots.  As far as he was concerned, that son of a bitch had deserved to die for what he’d done.

     Another shot.

     She was standing there, eyes ringed with red and narrowed coldly, firing bullet after bullet into that scientist’s head.  Each shot was ten seconds apart, and each one was as rhythmic as the one before it.  She was almost methodic in the way she kept shooting the doctor; Kaidan could tell that she knew the scientist was already dead, but that didn’t stop her.  Then the shots stopped, and her gun hand fell limply to her side, pistol still clutched in her long, pale fingers; her unmoving gaze was seemingly latched onto the two feet of empty space separating the two bodies.  It was then that Kaidan slipped over to her side, carefully, quietly, and stood just slightly behind her.  He started to reach out for her shoulder because he didn’t have to ask to know what she was thinking about.


     He’d heard the stories, seen the vids.  He’d heard they’d even tried to give her a medal, saying she defended her unit to the very end, but he’d heard she’d blatantly refused to be commemorated while the rest of her unit had gained nothing and lost everything.  She didn’t talk about it much.  He didn’t blame her.  He’d told her more about his weeks at brain camp than she’d told him about that one day on Akuze.  Every once in a while, it was as if she slipped off into thought; it was on those occasions that she stroked absently at the thin, raised scar trailing down her cheek from beneath her left eye.  Kaidan had often wondered if that scar were a souvenir from barely escaping the thresher maws with her own life.

     He neither could nor wanted to stop himself as he reached over and laid his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.  She didn’t respond to his touch, but he wasn’t trying to get her to say anything; he was just trying to offer a little support.

     “Commander?” he asked softly.  She didn’t react.  He tried again. “Shepard?”

     That time, her head turned only a fraction of an inch toward his hand.  He squeezed a little harder and sighed thinly; maybe now would be a good time to call her by her name, as she’d so often demanded from him.


     She turned a little more, and Kaidan saw her gaze flicker toward him.  He tried her nickname.


     Now she turned fully, and Kaidan saw why.  She wasn’t Commander Shepard now; she was Dro.  Her bloodshot eyes latched onto his and held for a few minutes, and Kaidan saw something he hadn’t thought he was going to see: he saw a child.  He saw a young girl, the salt of her tears streaking her face, gazing at him and silently asking for comfort.  In the back of his mind, he remembered what the crew had said when she’d first walked onto Normandy a few days before they departed on shakedown.  “The only sane survivor of Mindoir,” they’d called her when she was out of earshot.  A couple of the new recruits joked that she’d run so fast that she’d become the only one the batarians couldn’t catch up with, but those recruits had been quickly and deftly reprimanded by more experienced soldiers.  Now he saw in her eyes this childlike fear and need of consolation; that must’ve been what she’d looked like after that horrible slaughter on Mindoir.  Kaidan gave her a smile and another squeeze on the shoulder, and she just exhaled slowly, eyes closing for two seconds before they reopened and he saw that the little girl had vanished, leaving not Dro but Shepard in her stead.

     “Let’s go,” was all she said as she shrugged out from under his hand and headed for the door.

     Kaidan watched her go and wanted to run after her so he could tell her that she didn’t have to be quite so strong all the time.  

     Who’re you kidding? he asked himself. She’s your CO.  You should’ve just saluted her and followed rather than stood around, staring like an idiot.

     He sighed to himself and followed anyway, shrugging under the weight of the weaponry on his back.  Vakarian dropped into line behind him; Kaidan had noticed that the turian had pretended as if he hadn’t seen a single moment of Shepard’s meltdown.  Kaidan just wished he’d done a little more.  He almost said “Next time” before realizing that there might not be a next time.  She might never again let herself drop her guard over her emotions like that.  The thought almost made Kaidan wonder if he’d ever see her smile again—like she did when they innocently flirted back on the ship.  Kaidan just sighed to himself and followed her as they returned to the Mako.  Shepard was quiet during the entire ride back to the extraction point.


     Later that evening, when the rest of the ship’s crew was working on quieting down for the night cycle, Kaidan poked his head onto the command deck.  He hadn’t seen Shepard ever since they’d returned and knew she was in neither her quarters nor the infirmary, and, to be honest, he’d gotten a little worried about her.

     He found her sitting on the steps of the CIC, back to the galaxy map.  Her chin was resting in her hands, elbows digging into her knees, eyes latched on the opposite wall.  Kaidan came up slowly, lightly clearing his throat.  She glanced up at him and he nodded despite the feeling of having intruded upon her private thoughts.

     “Commander,” he greeted her.  She nodded.

     “Hey, Kaidan,” she sighed, straightening. “Need something?”

     “Just wondering if you’re okay.”  Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Ma’am.”

     Shepard smiled faintly at him, scooting over on the upper step and patting the empty space beside her.  Kaidan came over and took a seat, being careful not to watch her too closely.  She leaned forward with a sigh and started rubbing her upper arms.

     “I wish I could’ve done something,” she murmured.  Kaidan sighed.

     “You did your best,” he said, trying to be consoling. “Your argument would’ve convinced me to let the guy go stand trial.”

     Shepard sighed again.

     “Yeah, but the point is that it didn’t convince him.”

     She paused and shifted, and her gaze once more latched onto the opposite wall.  She exhaled slowly, evidently in deep thought again.  She didn’t even look at Kaidan when she started speaking again.

     “Toombs was a good soldier,” she said, starting out sounding like the strong leader Kaidan and the rest of the Normandy crew were familiar with and fading into nothing more than a woman in a state of mourning. “He was a good friend, too.  And seeing him there . . . like that . . . it was . . .”


     Shepard turned and just looked at Kaidan for a long time before nodding slowly.


     There was silence for almost fifteen minutes; Kaidan dared not say a word because he saw that her gaze had latched unwaveringly on that wall again.  He didn’t want to disturb her, and he was starting to ease up from his seat and leave her in peace when she reached out a hand and grabbed his shirt in a silent order to stay right where he was.  He turned and saw that she was gazing fixedly at him.

     “I’m sorry about that . . . scene . . . back there,” she mumbled. “I should’ve controlled myself better.”

     “Nah, it’s okay,” Kaidan replied, settling back down. “I mean, you just lost a friend.  I wasn’t expecting you to be all strong and gung ho after seeing that.  And . . .”

     His voice trailed off as he saw that the little girl had returned.  She just looked at him, blue eyes sad, before she looked down at her fatigues and fiddled anxiously with the hem of her half-tucked shirt.

     “Kaidan, I—” she began but didn’t finish.

     The next minute, Kaidan nearly toppled off the steps of the CIC as she flung herself into his arms, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.  At first, Kaidan didn’t know how to respond.  Then his reaction just seemed automatic to him.  He wrapped his arms around her and gently rocked her back and forth, not saying a word, not telling her to calm down.  He just held her for a long, long time.

     He just let her cry.
This is my very first Mass Effect fanfic. Yay me. It's only taken me... *counts* six playthroughs, four still in-progress (YES AT ONE TIME) to get on this bandwagon. XD

Here's the rundown of this fic:
Andromeda Shepard, Vanguard/Colonist/Sole Survivor, Paragon.
"Doctor at Risk"/"Dead Scientists" assignment; Toombs shoots the scientist and then himself.

And last but certainly not least, this fic contains SHENKO! :XD: I do believe it was :iconthemistressspawn: who told me, after I finished my KotOR fic Dark Day, that I needed to write Shenko. Okay, here it is. A Shepard who'll cry when absolutely necessary and then finds comfort in her favorite lieutenant. Aww...

Maybe someday I'll try Shoker. Sharrus seems like it'd be hard to write. :confused:
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Hostility towards the program terragen has always been present, and most likely, always will be.  But let's get down to brass tacks.  What is terragen?  It's a 3d scenery generator.  Right.  There's no real Modelling process involved per se, and it looks and works completely different (to all means and purposes of the majority) to a 3d modelling application such as 3d studio max or Maya.  It is comprised of a series of mostly numerical controls, and a few random generators based on numerical/slider inputs.  

...this means, it's an easy program, and requires little or no effort to pull off good results.  

Here's my favourite word of this article.  WRONG.

The program is as deep as you want it to be, just as many other art orientated programs are.  The quality of the results produced from it are proportional to the artists skill in using it.  Just because a large amount of people don't use the program too well, doesn't mean the program itself is poor.  It's the same with photoshop for example.  A newbie to photoshop would fill the canvas with black and use the lens flare filter, and would no doubt be stunned by the ease at which they can make this rather sexy looking source of light.  But then they attempt to take it further, and see it as a far more complex piece of software than that.  

All evidence you need can be found in the following galleries.
and any of the bolded names over at


Anybody who takes a look at some of the fine examples of rendering in those galleries, and passes them off as poor simply because they're created with a program that is often used poorly, is somewhat blinded as far as I feel.  I've used terragen for a year and a half, and there are still scenes I have difficulty creating, aspects of the program I groan at when I have to tackle because of the level of difficulty about them.  So how people can label the program and more specifically, the more technically impressive pieces that emerge from it as "easy" is somewhat beyond my understanding, and more than a little irritating.  From a personal standpoint, I still see a lot of potential in the program, whether it be solely the program, or coupling it with a program like photoshop to enhance the product further.  Without that sight, terraspace wouldn't have been born.

So, next it's worth taking a look as to why these people so liberally deplore the program at every whim.  What reasons could they have for taking that sort of stance on the program?

Firstly, on the most half they'll have little or no experience in terragen.  I can safely say that I've never seen any person who criticises terragen EVER have an impressive gallery of renders.  Now how you can make an informed opinion on a program without being able to grasp it by the reigns effectively is something of a mystery.  You can't really say "Paris sucks and the streets smell" without going to Paris and smelling the streets.  Same idea applies.

Secondly, they've most likely taken a glance at the scenery galleries on deviantArt, seen one or two of the point and click style renders (you know, the kind of ones where you just begin in the program, hit generate terrain, change one or two numbers if you really want to go in depth, and then render at 640*480 and upload in .bmp format), and made a rather sweeping generalisation on the quality of the images produced by the program based on those.  I won't lie, general terragen quality on deviantart is low, there are a lot of people learning the program, but that's precisely the point, people are learning the program.

Thirdly - they resent the fact that there's no real modelling process visible in the program, and because of this all renders are simply point and click, including the impressive ones.  Why must a program that renders in 3d have a modelling process? it's simply a different way of tackling the problem.  A lot of the really devoted terragen users paint their own terrains, or create them in a third party program, a process that often involves as much work as creating the render itself.  

Those are the reasons that sprung to mind instantly, there could be plenty others, but I believe the first two are the strongest.  I see threads in the forums that bash terragen, I see other artists of other genres flaming terragen users on their own pieces of art, and at the same time, through my devwatch, I see the talent of many terragen users coming to fruition through their submissions.  I know what I hold to be more convincing.  

The conclusion is, I'll admit, in the most case on, terragen art is fairly abysmal.  A lot of people simply do see it as a point and click program much as they would take a snapshot of their dog. But to make a judgement on the potential of the program and the people who do use it effectively is a generalisation that's quite simply ignorant and unfair.  I'm most certainely not saying that other programs aren't harder, or perhaps more sophisticated, but that doesn't make terragen any less of an effective tool for doing what it does.  If terragen is so easy, how come deviantart isn't littered with stotty's?  That's simply what it boils down to.
First of a series of articles I'm writing. This one is moderately brief so to get the point across. It's aimed at the rather brutal criticism terragen receives on this website. I've seen so many forum threads dedicated towards bashing the program, so many misinformed deviants who simply don't understand where this program can go, I just felt spurred.

This is entirely my opinion, I respect yours as you reply, but do not expect me to agree if you disagree. I don't intend on getting into a flame war through this.
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Donít sell me funeral plots
on late night television
if the end is already in sight

am I supposed to pull the sheets up to my neck,
count to zero,
smile, and cease?


keep your pills, in all their pretty colors:
celebrex, propecia, allegra, lipitor, zanex, viagra
keep them for scrabble
keep your rogaine, your facelifts
keep your death insurance
keep your graveyard reservations

hit me running.

let me go down swinging

make it a sport:

give me a ten-minute head start
and an obstacle course.

place a beautiful girl on the far side of a mine field
and whisper, ďshe wants to kiss youĒ

target me on my feet
dodging doomsdayís in slow-mo bullet time

let me duel the grim reaper in a poetry slam

but let me lay where i fall
let the buzzards and coyotes
pick apart my bones
donít stuff me and sew me up
waste my estate on alcohol for my wake
not formaldehyde
instead of wood for a coffin,
build me a funeral pyre
and set me ablaze like a pagan-warrior-king
sing songs,
roast marshmallows,
get drunk,
and recite your poetry
by the time weíre done
the grim reaper will beg for a vacation

i donít have to win,
but let me believe I have a chance at immortality
even if the probability is one a billion.
those are good odds
if Iím the one

those who believe in death will die first

if I believe Iím going to live forever,
if I believe I can fly
I just might

so from the chickens before me,
sucking in their pot-bellies,
grooming their comb-overs,
Iíll craft wings from their plucked feathers
reach cruising altitude alongside Icarus
but outrace the sun

light doesnít have the speed to catch me

these lungs wonít stop breathing,
these cells will break open replacements
this heart will beat out of sheer will
to last longer than timex or twinkies
and endure eternity
just to see how this story ends
and whether
the hero gets the girl
or a bullet to the brain

I will hold onto immortality
by my fingernails and the skin of my teeth
past the all epochs and ages and armageddons
so I can see if the end
begins the beginning all over again
or does the whole thing backwards
or upside down with inverted colors
or just stops
like in the Twilight Zone,
one second before the apocalypse

but my bet is that i
will finally sober up
take my medication
set the alarm
roll over
and turn the television off
2:00AM television offers life insurance, motorized scooters, insulin, body wraps, work out routines, diet plans, medications, hairwaxing, and plastic surgery. I want reruns of the Honeymooners, I Love Lucy, and cartoons. Just let us grow old and die naturally.
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