Veiled AngelEver gotten a stupid gift for your birthday? And when you realized that the crystalline dancing cows are just too stupid to keep in your house, gifted it along to some other sap who would then send it along to the next poor soul? That's kind of how vampires handle our problems. We keep dumping them at someone else's feet. The only problem with being immortal is the cycle just keeps going until finally your problems lands right back to you again and this time, you really can't just shove it off to the next guy.
Especially when the next guy is Ryan and his BMW is parked where it's blocking your shiny new truck (that has yet to be encrusted in zombie parts) in the drive alongside what feels like four feet of snow that's been dumped on your town. I found him making breakfast for the three of us well, I rather heard. Maria sure can scream when a scary vampire has her in a headlock at three am. I busted into
Loki - CupidIf the diner knew it was playing host to two gods, it might have spent more care in preparing our lunch. Or perhaps not. Only the Oracle knew the future and he had gone half-mad from it, finally holing himself up at the summit of K2 and refusing any visitors. The popularity of climbing Mt. Everest had a sharp decline directly after, either from climbers wanting to visit the Oracle or because everyone realized that perhaps the Oracle knew something about Everest that we didn't. Either way, I didn't know if the diner staff would care they were serving gods and I didn't know why my fellow Watchdog looked like he'd been chewing on broken glass all morning. He glared at his sandwich like it had personally offended him. Perhaps it had. Tomatoes were hard to come by and it could very well be our fault.Loki - Cupid4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"So," I ventured tentatively, "How did it go?"
"I threw him into a car."
Tim started eating after that. I
The Rules of FanfictionThe Rules of Fanfiction10 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
1. You are a writer. It does not matter that your form of writing is fanfiction – you are creating a piece of written art and therefore you are a writer. It will never be published outside of your personal webpage and DeviantArt but that isn't important. Your writing transcends the petty literary anthologies. Besides, who wants to be one of those kinds of writers? They're all just elitist snobs anyways.
2. When selecting a piece to write fanficiton about, make sure it is a well-known one. Plastering "FINAL FANTASY VII" all over the piece ensures that only dedicated fans look at it. Otherwise, you might wind up having one of those literary elitist snobs stumble across it, and we all know how they view fanfiction. Also, it ensures you an immediate fanbase. Selecting a relatively unknown work as your subject material means that only a select few will be able to read and comprehend it. &
AnchorAn anchor had five minutes in which to reorient themselves. One.Anchor4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I stared at the heavy steel loop around my thumb. My world was a sand castle, constructed by the subconscious in a vain hope that it would stand up on such a treacherous foundation. The ring was an unfamiliar weight and the foundation of my castle started to crumble. I did not remember it. The tide was ebbing in around my mind, whispering that my carefully imagined world was wrong. That it was lies. That the 'when' and the 'where' were pure fancy. I stirred in the nest of wires that poured information through my brain. There was a man with me, his bare back against mine. He, too, was lost.
An anchor's duty was to the pilot and the pilot alone. Not to their employer, not the guild, not even to themselves. Two.
There was an image engraved on the ring, a nautical anchor from the days when man sa
PilotI woke in a nest of wires, my arms pulled off to either side, my head back and my eyes fixed at the ceiling. There was a man standing above me, straddling my form, perched precariously at the mouth of the recess I was tucked away in, one hand gripping the frame, the other feeling around the back of my neck. He moved by touch alone, certain in his movements, and his fingers closed over the knot of the wires that resided at the base of my skull and pulled, steadily, drawing it out of the socket and I inhaled sharply at the sensation. Like something had been taken from me, or that I'd lost sight of something important. A piece of me gone. It was a keen sense of loss and my eyes went wet with moisture even as he dropped his hand lower along my neck, almost to the shoulders, and pulled out another plug. The wires by my eyes were thinner, and when he pulled these out my vision went black for a moment and when it returned I felt the world was less clear, like a gray haze had been pulledPilot2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Rules of Great LiteratureRules of Great Literature10 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
1. I am a writer. It doesn't matter what I write (unless it's genre fiction, in that case I am a deluded fool that needs to be re-educated) or even the quality of said writings; by virtue of being in the company of other writers, I am a writer. Do not dare tell me otherwise. After all, writer's egos are notoriously fragile (comes from wallowing in all that angst) and we mustn't discourage the next Great Author of our time from gaining greater perspective of human nature by hanging around with others who are equally disconnected with reality (except when writing poetry about their ex).
2. All Great Authors are published in an anthology. This is the best way to judge what is literature and what isn't – if it's in an anthology it is literature and the author is worthy to be heralded as a Great Author. Please note that the phrase Great Author should be repeated multiple times to drive the point home through all those deep thoughts writ
Loki - BaldurMy palace was carved into the glaciers in the far north, in approximately the location internet fanboys thought Superman would have hidden his Fortress of Solitude. It wasn't terribly impressive, just a vaguely organized collection of halls and rooms. Each hall went by the same formula columns and arched ceilings. Each room was a simple box with some window frames thrown in for variety. No windows. I was deep inside a glacier, after all.Loki - Baldur4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Architecture wasn't my strong point.
Some days I was tempted to bring a real architect in and tell them to design whatever they wished, that reality would bend to their will if I bid it. However, I couldn't bring myself to confess that I, a god, was incapable of anything more inspired than something that looked like it had been lifted straight out My First Generic Medieval Cathedral. Besides. It wasn't terribly creative, but I had fashioned it and there was a
Renfield's ClockThe package had no label or return address. It was just left on my front porch, wrapped in layers and layers of packing tape and cardboard, square and slim, about a foot and half in length. It was heavy as I picked it up and rather than open it there on the front porch, I brought it inside, and sealed my doom.Renfield's Clock9 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
Inside, I found a clock. It was clearly old, the rim ornately decorated with motifs of vines, and while I was no expert the material was suspiciously reminiscent of gold. It had to be valuable. I was bewildered as to why I'd find such a thing left on my front porch. I turned it over, inspecting each side of it, and that was when the note that had been tacked to the back slipped off.
'To the person who receives this,' the note read, 'I don't know you and I'm really sorry, but I had to get rid of this. It's killed both my husband and children and now it wants me. I'm sorry.'
For a long moment, I just sat there, the note in my hands, s
Zombie Hunting with VampiresIt's not that I have anything against druids. It's just that ours has been in a trance for the past five days.Zombie Hunting with Vampires8 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
To be honest, I'm not even sure if he's a real druid or if he just likes that title. I personally think he just stumbled across an old book, learned a bit of the secret ways of the world, and called himself something that sounded appropriate. Oh, sure, I'll buy that he walks the old path. I've seen enough strange stuff in my very long lifetime to not believe that. But I just don't think he knows what he's doing most of the time.
It was a shame too. We could use someone that was more connected to the ways of the world right now. Jeremy and I were hunters and Maria, well, there was nothing special about her. She just had guts. Martin was the only one that could read the secret signs and here he was, cross-legged in the middle of his room with head slumped to his chest and still not responding.
"I'm just going to bite him," Jeremy said, prowling about the room, "See if that wakes
Circles of HonorCircles of Honor11 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
Tea always reminds me of home. It brings to mind the cushions, the soft pastels of purple and blue, intermingled colors and beads, velvets, cashmeres, muslins, and all sorts of colors from a hundred different worlds. They were piled about in the living area, laying in heaps in relation to a central table, low lying and inlaid with an abstract mosaic of blue stones. We didn't use chairs in the living room, everything stayed low to the ground and nothing was left where it could easily fall. I remember one time I left a mug of tea, that spiced dark brew my father so favored, out on top of the table. We were involved in a fire-fight after that, and the ship was hit. I remember my mother picked up the pieces of the mug afterwards, and not saying a word about the stain on the pillows and carpet. I never left anything out where it could fall after that, and I still don't.
In our transitory life the tea was about the
Elven ImmigrantsBenny was complaining about elves again. It'd become a bi-weekly ritual for us. We'd meet for lunch, he'd sit there and cram his sandwich in his mouth, talking between every bite as soon as his mouth was clear enough to give his tongue room to work, and I'd dutifully turn my attention to my soup of the day and salad and pretend to care. I liked to think I'd gotten used to his vitriol. I liked to think I'd gotten used to all of it, the graffiti, the snide talking heads on the television, the internet hate groups. The vandalism at the shelter where I worked. We had to put up security cameras. I'd been threatened with a knife once, in the parking lot, until Deregyth came out and broke the man's wrist. I had been too shocked to move. The aged elf just watched the man flee, clutching his wrist, stumbling in his terror and haste to get away, and then the elf turned and his narrow eyes regarded me for a brief moment. Impassive.Elven Immigrants6 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
Langley's Ark- Cheating is Bad"Look, all's I sayin' is that part o' the game is cheatin' and so you shouldn' be so upset."Langley's Ark- Cheating is Bad8 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
The two men stared at each other from across the table. They were large and their bare arms were covered in tattoos. Since this particular tavern was so close to the skimmer docks it was a good guess that the two were loaders. Pull cargo off a skimmer. Put cargo on. Hard work that resulted in a lot of muscles, a lot of swearing, and the occasional head injury when someone wasn't watching what they were doing when operating the pulley. Between them lay two empty mugs of ale and a stack of coins. In their hands were cards.
"A'righ, I'll agree to tha'. But if you try and lay down two Bandits of the same color that's the wors' cheatin' I ever seen and it just won't fly."
The upper classes of society did not use the traditional deck of cards with Bandits and Wenches and the likes. They used Kings and Q
How I Critique Without Being A Jerk (I hope)I have to start this by saying I am writing this partly out of guilt because I broke some of my rules recently. And I kicked myself all evening over it, asking what the hell I was thinking and why I didn't be a better person and even though I've been told 'it's not your fault' I'm like yes it was my fault because I was there and I broke my own rules. And maybe it's no big deal and I'm overreacting but I broke my own rules. The rules I made for reasons.How I Critique Without Being A Jerk (I hope)8 months ago in Editorial More Like This
See, I have rules about critiquing. The first rule is “Don't.” The second rule is “Don't, except for very rare exceptions.” And the third rule consists of a method I've developed to keep my own asinine tendencies in check and to ensure I don't trample all over the other person in the name of ARTISTIC CRITQIUE OMMMMG.
But first, let's talk about ego for a moment. I am going to speak primarily about writing because that is what I'm familiar with, but I think this could also
ManannanThe problem with being able to do anything is that it can be either very boring, or utterly overwhelming. Finding a middle ground is actually quite difficult. I found much of my early years quite dull, after the initial tumult died down. Morrigan had not yet established Watchdog and her relationship with me was strained. There were some attempts at peace between us, but our personalities were simply too different. It wasn't until we established a power structure that I could find a place in, that things were resolved.Manannan1 year ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
I think the problem was that Morrigan came to me as a potential equal. For us to be at the same level, it would require either her to stoop to my mantra of not caring about anything but myself, or for me to step to hers of assuming responsibility with my power. Neither of us were willing to do so.
With Watchdog, at least, I could accept orders. That was Loki's role. Not a leader. Not a pivotal part. I did well on the sidelines, being called in when I was needed and given
EtciI pretty much destroyed Tim's bathroom. I'd never bleached my hair before and the experience was a bit more difficult than I anticipated. However, by the time I was done, and after I'd let it sit for the time required, my dirty blonde was now almost white. Tim's only comment, when I finally emerged after washing it clean for the last time, was to stare a moment and then return his attention to his laptop.Etci1 year ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
“What?” I said, as if he had said something. “I don't want to be recognized. This is going to help.”
“You could have used will.”
I ran a hand through the damp strands, frowning.
“I could have. But this way I don't have to think about it constantly. Is there a way to change things permanently? I'm still having to think about my eyes, subconsciously.”
“I think so. Gaia says it takes altering things on a molecular level, understanding the changes that have to take place in order to literally transform something, rather than forcing it
Langley's Ark 1Langley's Ark 19 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
Welcome to Alannis. It's the main continent on a world dominated by oceans, dotted with islands. The caps are frozen over and few people venture there, save those that don't want to be found. The few significant landmasses are all under the direct government of Alannis or are kept under strict scrutiny, with the local governments being independent in name only. The smaller, outlaying islands are independent for sheer virtue of being too insignificant to be worthy of more than just the favorable trade treaty or two. And Alannis itself – a tropic region crisscrossed with rivers and expansive, sprawling cities. In a natural harbor, the largest in the world, lay the capital, the Emperor's Palace, the headquarters of the Cadre, the Academy, and the twins Langley and Sabreur of the Stormrider family.
Sabreur, the male sibling, was a technomancer by trade and a pyromancer by profession. Like most people in Alannis he
Community ServiceVampires just hate waking to bad news. Theres just so many things that can go bad. Gmorning, theres a hunter crouching with a stake over your heart, the townspeople have rioted, and your money put in foreign banks in case of an emergency has been liquidated due to political reasons. Theres a reason vampires arent known to be at their happiest when just woken. Its closely tied to the same reason we dont sleep in enclosed, sense-limiting coffins. We dont like surprises. Still, there are varying degrees of bad news. Waking up to the sound of something crashing through the attic roof, leaping out of bed with fangs bared and the red-tunnel-vision of vampiric flight or fight well, Maria and her failed batch of explosives had the worst of that one. A quick clean up after wetting herself and a fix for my ceiling and we were good.Community Service6 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
The Desert WarI didn't think what I was doing could be called tomb robbing, for there were no bodies to be found. Just layers of dust and sand, accumulated over a hundred years of abandonment, covering what furniture remained intact with a blanket of grime. It sat in thick piles in archways and along the edges of the narrow corridors, where the wind echoed mournfully along the pale stones before dying away completely. There were no traps here, no wards, just the feel of old magic. Mages had built this place, yet there were no defenses. This civilization had fallen quickly, then. Yet, there were no bodies. Not even bones. I expected there to be at least bones.The Desert War1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
There were riches to be had here. I found them scattered about, there, in a room I thought must have belonged to a woman, again in a vault, and some littered among other personal effects left as if the owners would return tomorrow. I took a gold bracelet for myself, but nothing more. Gold was heavy, and I was here for a different sort of treasu
The Things I Don't Write AboutOn the last day of class, she had us copy a poem into our journals.The Things I Don't Write About1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.'
'I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.'
'Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.'
the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
'What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?'
And to each of us she wrote a message. To me, she wrote that I should not be afraid to visit the dark parts of my mind, for that is where I would find my best writing.
I unravel these things and weave them into other stories. Other voices. I use them, in bits and pieces, like an archeologist uncovering the broken shards of a pot and never finding the whole. I write the stories that belong to other people, but never my own.
I don't write about how it hurts. How the