DGM Changing World- Chapter 32DGM Changing World- Chapter 324 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Juuri and the rest of the Team Tiedoll had made it to the city of Barcelona, where they got wind of the location of Marshal Froi Tiedoll. On their way, they also met Noise Marie, the brawny build, blind exorcist of Team Tiedoll. To top it all, the city was already on the verge of destruction from hundreds of Akuma and so, the exorcists decided to split up into four and fight.
And as she expected it to be, Juuri and Daisya had met Tyki Mikk, a Noah Clansmen.
I do not own D. Gray Man, Katsura Hoshino does.
"Remembering all of that moment
Naturally repeating that sin over and over
Realizing the reason it all ended
Having to go back to those days"
The Keyhole of Pandora's Box
It was over.
Finally, the frightening night of battle with the akuma was over. The sun was already up on its throne, blessing the world with its light of grace. But by some reason
WaterAll I asked was for a single glass of water. A glass, a cup, an ounce, a single drop would be enough. I knew you could see me dying there, my body draining itself of whatever resources were left, I know you heard me crying in the night, wasting precious tears in the hope of a little mercy. I licked them away as they fell as best as I could. I couldn't afford to waste them. It was a wonder I could produce tears at all, and there came a day when they finally stopped.Water6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
And I thought you had broke, when you came to me in the day, when the sun stole what little I tried to preserve. You held the thing I craved, you held life as far as I was concerned, and I drank without thinking, and you watched as I threw it up and convulsed. You tipped over a bucket of rainwater and watched me lap it up from the floor like a dog.
I asked for food. A crust, a crumb, anything to end the pain in my stomach. You gave me meat, stinking and crawling with maggots. You gave me bread hard as stone, my feeble
MothMy dear, I was never your butterfly,Moth5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I was simply a moth that wished she was beautiful...
Yesterday You Never KnewTell yourself you'll wait until tomorrow,Yesterday You Never Knew7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The yesterday you never knew.
Let the skies wash away in loneliness,
And the air breathe with your heart.
Remember tomorrow as you move
Through the days gone by,
And dance with the bitter joy
That comes when yesterday was tomorrow.
Today is the moment,
Eternity stretched across
The singularity of time.
It's never ceasing, and ever present,
Yet always never here.
Fleeting faster than the light,
And dancing more joyously
Than we ever could.
Tell yourself you'll wait until tomorrow,
The yesterday you never knew.
gabrielle.the first time i met her, she said :gabrielle.6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
when youve been hurt, you dont expect anything from people because youre scared it will happen again.
thats gabrielle. she always has her head in the clouds, why? because its easier for her to get lost and not be found. always thinking she was not original, a teenager oh-so-typical, she tried to stand out from the crowd. converses with white skirts, singing cross my heart and hope to die out loud in the schools corridors and saying she wasnt scared of anything, not even spiders, future, water and peoples thoughts.
but deep down inside, she fears the phantoms from her past.
the first time i tried to had a conversation with her :
hey, just like that, whats your favourite flower?
youre kidding right? its not even beautiful
exactly, it looks just like me
she always wanted to travel, visit
Valentine'sDayatSpringbrookFor most people, the worst thing that can happen on February 14th is a little bit of heartbreak and a maxed out credit card. But, for the residents of Springbrook Camp for the Young and Unstable, suicidal roommates, barbaric parents, overbearing psychiatrists and way-too-creepy-to-be-funny sexual advances are all things you have to watch out for on a holiday such as Valentine's Day. I know what you're thinking: "You're one to talk. You're a resident at Springbrook, too. You're probably just as messed up as everyone else here." Well, maybe I am on some deep level, but I'm functional. Even more than that, I was functional before they decided to put me in this place. I guess just like people aren't ready to accept gay love, they aren't ready to accept a boy's love for fire. It wasn't like I'd hurt anybody--I'd gone inside all the places and checked for people before lighValentine'sDayatSpringbrook6 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
The Non-SmokerIsn't it strange how you can see a person everyday and feel like you haven't known them in years? You know, you see them at school, acting normal when they're not, or you see them on the football field picking the daisies and running away from you as though a rabid dog was on their tail. You would think I should be the one being scared, because dogs chase me more than girls, but the girl I'm thinking about thought differently. A shame though, because she thought I was actually interesting.The Non-Smoker5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Maybe I should start at the beginning.
Amy's her name. Amy Bradshaw, cheerleader, obsessed with miniskirts. She had another obsession.
Every morning at the bus stop, she pretended to read Ray Bradbury but I knew she was looking at me. Or what's left of me, anyway. Tom Harvey, nerd, obsessed with cigarettes. Except I don't smoke them. What started out as an art project became an all-consuming passion to turn every person into a chain-smoker at Salisbury High. It was a money-spinner and a psychology ex
Reflections of MermaidsDo you ever wonderReflections of Mermaids5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where mermaids go
to see their own
Do they gaze up
into the sky above,
to pine away at the shifting
sight before their eyes
as they ponder this strange
world behind liquid glass
which they can never
And as we peer down
to watch ourselves
in the watery surface,
how do we know that we
are real, and what we see
below, is not but mermaids
looking upon themselves
We may be the ones
who live upon the other side
of the mirror, the opposite world,
we are but dreams and specters,
we are the reflections and
but fleeting dreams.
How do we know we are
not the ones living a backwards
world, and that we are the ones
who are not truly real.
And when we die
somewhere inside do we here
the mermaid cry as we vanish
out this illusionary existence.
Perhaps the reason why
we always pray upon a God
in the heavens above, is because
it is the mermaids who always
keep their gazes turned up
to see themselves reflected
within the sky?
Too Gay follow-upAfter all the responses I got on my first piece, I feel like I need to clarify why complaining about people being "too gay" is harmful and the (often unrealized) implications of those words. I present the most common argument I heard.Too Gay follow-up3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
"I have no problem with gays. I have gay friends, but they don't act flaming/butch but rather like normal people. Why can't you just be gay and not have to act like it or let everybody know?"
Implication: "I have no problem with gays so long as they act like me. I am uncomfortable with people who act in a stereotypically gay fashion because it is not "normal". I see gender non-conformity or homosexuality as inherently wrong or inferior and therefore as something to be suppressed or embarrassed of. If you are gay, that's fine, so long as I don't have to be confronted with something that I disagree with."
Why this is harmful: Telling someone to suppress a part of their personality is offensive in gene
bird wings.theres a girl who has irses the colour of running ink. she covers canvasses with blood-red paint and covers note books in everything she wishes she could be. hanging red canvasses on the blue walls in her room sometimes make her feel as though she's burning. when she comes home from school she lays on her bed and she cries, burning from the inside out.bird wings.6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
theres a girl who spends her nights curled in a ball, in the park behind her house. her cheeks are decorated in purple-blue-black bruises and her tights are ripped. i want to hold her to my chest and run my fingers through her sienna hair; hold her hands and kiss her fingers. i want to protect her, keep her in a cage and make sure that no one can get in.
there's a girl who has sand through her hair, and dirt underneath her fingernails. she reminds me of long, crashing waves that you see at the ocean. the kind that you can't fight, the kind that looks so gentle and calm until they finally reach the shore; then they fall and break. vio
The Wrong FaceThe Wrong FaceThe Wrong Face5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The congratulatory smile painted on Sarah's face faded as she watched the argument. The company had been anticipating it for weeks. Muri had made it clear he wouldn't stand quietly in the wings anymore.
'Well Muri, that's a matter of personal opinion' the Director responded. 'But, you're not right for the role. Hamlet well well he's from Denmark and '
'It's the demands of the script, Muri. And there's other factors. Hamlet's a grown man and you, well, you're ' he trailed off. Muri stiffened for a moment, then strode across the room and slammed the door behind him. The bang compressed everyone to their seat.
Sarah moved first, lifting her handbag and Muri's jacket before stepping softly across the
I Don't Believe"You have no faith in anyone."I Don't Believe9 years ago in Transgressive More Like This
I stayed quiet.
"Do you know what happens when you don't believe in things? Bad stuff. Take faeries for instance..."
"What is it with you and these damn faeries?" I finally yelled. "Christ."
He continued on as though nothing was said. "If you say out loud that you don't believe, a faerie somewhere dies. You have to clap your hands to make it right again."
"I don't believe in faeries."
He looked up at me with pain in his eyes. "Don't say that, May."
I looked at him with anger. "I don't believe in faeries."
"Since when, come on May stop kidding around."
"I don't believe in faeries."
"Stop it!" He started getting angry.
"I don't believe in faeries," I said again.
His hand connected with my face just like I knew it would. "Damn it May."
"I don't believe in faeries."
His anger flared again, a fire in his eyes, but this time he left me, tears sliding down my face. I slipped down onto the ground and waited until I knew he was gone. I crawled into a corner and st
Dreamers"Mummy, I want to be a dreamer when I grow up."Dreamers6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The little child sat propped in her bathtub, foam covering everything except her head, which burst with wet golden curls. Her hands scooped at the foam before her, covering her skin in bubbly snow. She threw her hands upwards, letting the bubbles fly, watching them take flight and descend on her mother's hair. They popped, one by one, and she giggled.
"You can't be a dreamer when you grow up," said her mother, sitting on a pink stool next to the bathtub. Her sad tawny eyes surveyed her only child, her mistake. Bitterness tore at her features, turning them haggard and twisted, but the child saw nothing but the hazelnut face of her mother.
"Why not, Mummy?"
"It's not a job. You can't earn money from it." Despite her bitterness, the mother allowed a small smile. Innocence was such a smile-inducing phenomenon.
"Well, I don't care," the child scooped another handful of foam, letting it sag in her petite hands, "I want to be a dreamer wh
Status: Positive Part OneStatus: Positive Part One6 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
Status: Positive Part One
I was born to a woman who never loved me. She didnt bother to give me a name when she was filling out the paper work at the childrens bank. I was marked as Baby 214. When they adopted me, my parents were told little about her. She kept clean during the pregnancy and drank very little. What mattered most to them was that she waved the one-year retrieval rights, which came at an additional fee. If they could fork over the two hundred dollars, I would be theirs (as-is). The contract was unconditional. She could never come back to claim me, not that she ever tried.
When I was older, I looked through my records and found out the woman had been a gambling addict. Her reason for transferal was checked as to acquire additional funds. Funds for what? I didnt know. It basically said my mom sold me for fifty bucks and a bus ticket. Im glad to know I was worth only so much to her. My parents would never allow me to feel li
PraegressusThere's a lot to be said of change. It is pretty much the answer to life.Praegressus5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Change was what happened when the first biotic molecules were created from inanimate matter and electricity. Change was was what happened when Mary Shelley penned Frankenstein and his monster [who, like those protobionts, was created from matter and electricity.]
Change was what happened when the first modern man evolved, and was what happened when he [or perhaps she] discovered the use of fire. Change was what happened when people became civilized.
Change was what happened when we stopped hunting and began farming by the rivers, began building up rather than out, began forming communities rather than herds.
Change was what happened when ice crept over the planet, and when people learned to adapt. Change was what happened when the last mammoth, the last saber-tooth tiger, the last huge reptile moved for the last time.
Change was what happened when we marked our calendar into its days, its months, its seasons. Cha
SecretsLaura walked down the hall, her eyes firmly set on her glow-in-the-dark shoes. Of course, it was impossible to tell they were glow-in-the-dark, what with all the lights, but she thought perhaps it was for the best. It meant that the students milling around her would not know. It was like a secret, a secret only she knew. Secrets were extra special that way.Secrets6 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Except they're not, whispered a voice in her head. Secrets are meant to be shared with somebody--not a lot of people, but somebody. If you keep them to yourself, they're not fun. They're lonely.
She frowned, still staring at her feet. One in front of the other, she moved quickly down the hall, dodging her schoolmates without any conscious thought. She was good at this.
Lonely secrets, she thought. What does one do with a lonely secret?
WingsXx/16/xxxxWings8 years ago in Horror More Like This
I havent written for the last couple days not because Ive been too busy, but because Ive been coming to terms with something in myself. Ive been on edge you know how you get twitchy when theres a noise just on the edge of hearing? Well, its been like that for me; like someone was constantly whispering, just too soft to make out the words
Today I figured out what I was hearing.
Wings. The sound of wings fluttering, like a flock of startled doves taking off, or the sounds of pigeons wasting time around the subway station. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I hear them. Just around the corner. Just on the other side of the wall. Just out of sight. Im scared, but strangely excited. I havent told anyone about the sounds yet, and Im not sure whom I would talk to.
Education is a GunEducation is a gun. When you first pick it up, you may not be sure how to use it. You may not be aware of its potential. Heck, you might not even know what the point of it is.Education is a Gun6 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
But gradually, you will learn. You will learn how to hold it and marvel its body, so mechanical yet so full of life. You will learn to load it, hearing the bullets of knowledge click past your ears. The noise will scare you at first, and doubt will assail your thoughts. Are you really good enough to wield it?
Eventually you learn to cock the gun. The readiness, the excitement that bubbles from the gun makes you smile. At last, you are in control. Your teacher then asks you to point at the target. A boy grins at you. You recoil; you can't shoot a child, surely. Then the child transforms. It becomes square-ish, box-like; it becomes a TV. Propaganda blares out from suited leaders, deluding hundreds of poor, illiterate people clinging to hope rather than fact.
Your teacher steps in and utters the word.
robots are just verbosityyou're no different from the decadent plastic notions sewn into my eyesrobots are just verbosity6 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
enraptured by novels that fill my bed when im not looking,
i thought that if i could dig a hole,
i might find you.
im no different from the fabricated machines glued to your heart
fashioned for calling god and reading books trying to restructure my mechanics,
i thought that if you went to the garden,
you might find me.
The Bitterness of AgingHow bittersweet the aging of childrenThe Bitterness of Aging7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when the last threads of innocence and childish wonder
slip away into reality and rationality.
Losing the possibility to love everyone,
losing the naïveté we hold in our candy-coated world.
Losing the hope that everything every where has a chance.
When responsibility takes over,
and snow is too cold to play in.
When our goals are based on how much money can be made
instead of happiness.
When faeries, Santa Claus, and magic carpets
are no longer possible.
How bitter the loss of possibility.
tickle me pink"i don't know what's wrong, he's just gone limp."tickle me pink4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
that's all i hear, and i guess i'm still coherent enough to take that as a sexual slight. i go to open my mouth to tell helen she's being a cunt, telling someone about our sex life, but my lips won't move.
"uh... coke maybe. ecstasy definitely. i don't know. please, just get me someone here, i don't want to lose him."
i realise she's not talking about my dick, so i'm pretty sure i didn't pass out during sex. no, i'd definitely remember that. i want to tell helen i'm sorry, but my lips won't move.
i hear footsteps, and then hands on my hair until my head is resting in a lap. helen gasps, says, "fuck", and eases my head back down to the cold tile.
next thing i know, there's a towel wrapped on the underside of my skull, so i guess i'm bleeding. i probably fell, but i don't remember. all i know is i wasn't fucking her when i did, so it was ok.
04. ImmortalOld detective movies had lost their punch04. Immortal6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
he had killed them for her.
And as she sat watching the flickering black and white screen she couldn't help but sigh.
She thought she was calling the shots and she never noticed that he was the one holding the gun the entire time.
And as she sat watching an actor, who was probably long dead, she couldn't help but feel slightly alone.
Because he was merely a face, an immortal figure in the character he played and the tape that unwound, but now he was lost under piles of DVDs and Friends' re-runs.
And beside her, her radio wept,
Where'd you go
I miss you so
Seems like it's been forever.
She turned it off quickly, the second she started feeling the pain in her heart.
"How could it have been forever? No one lives long enough for it to be forever." but it felt like forever.
She picked up the photo-album beside her and started flipping through it. She noticed the photos of him and immediately tears came to her eyes.
There he was spr
Diary Entries of a Dead Girl"Wanted: One heart. It must be scarred along the edges, cracked...but only a little." She sets the pen down next to her, ink balled upon the tip in black, and glances at the diary. Torn and tear-stained pages clutter the space between the covers like tissues in a box, the clasp hanging off-kilter. Broken. A steak-knife and hammer lie near the tips of her left fingers. She picks up the pen.Diary Entries of a Dead Girl6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
"It must not age, but stay naive forever. It must be fitting for a girl of sixteen to still be able to dream with. It cannot shatter." The down-slanted scroll, learned over eleven years and many alterations, blares the thoughts of a young girl's life. Twelve pages from the end, the script begins to change, to mutate. The last entry is a mess of jumbled words and half-hearted pencil strokes. Despair.
"Wanted: One heart in mint-condition. I