:PPC: Making Music TogetherMaking Music Together:PPC: Making Music Together2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
++ A oneshot of Katrina Lau (Tygerlander’s OC) and Kira Izuru (Bleach) ++
It was quiet in the Third Division office, as Rose and Izuru worked in companionable silence. As Rose looked up from his work, he couldn’t help but notice that his lieutenant (whom he offered referred to as “his muse”) seemed to be feeling down and out of it.
“Is something the matter, Kira?” he asked.
Kira looked up, his blue eyes widening in surprise. “Err…no, nothing,” he said, coughing awkwardly as he pushed some of his blonde hair back. “I’m probably just feeling a little tired, is all…”
Rose clucked his tongue against his teeth. “I know you better than that,” he said. “Tell me what’s really going on,” he pried. “It’s all right to even talk about personal things with your captain, you know.”
Kira averted his eyes, looking back down at his papers. He
Merry Christmas! -WIP-Rei sighed as she sat in a room wearing a red and green dress, attmepting to be festive for the holiday. The room was full of chatty Shinigami and Christmas music from the human world. There were multiple Shinigami from every single squad, all smiling and drinking eggnog, or straight sake. It wasn't crammed, but it was enough to make Rei irritable how close everyone was and bumping into each other. She and Renji had arrived together and had somehow been split up throughout the night, and that over everything annoyed her. Everyone around her was giggly and having a good time, while she sat on a couch like there was a dark cloud over her head. She sighed and her eyes continued searching the crowd for any sight of Renji so they could leave. Without any luck she dropped her head back, and shook her head. When she sat up and looked again a set of breasts crushed against the back of Rei's head, her face lighting up a bright red.Merry Christmas! -WIP-2 years ago in Humor More Like This
"Guueeeeess whhhhooo!" a high and happy voice said behind Rei.
Religion and Computers 2005Religion and Computers 200510 years ago in Humor More Like This
Christianity is Linux
Countless versions exist, with most of them sharing common ideals. Founded on the principle that any person can modify the code in any way they see fit and present it as a competing product. This has resulted in countless distributions vying for space on hard disks. In the West, there has been a drive to reduce the effort needed to install Linux in order to increase its user base. Derived from Unix. Not as popular in English-speaking countries as the developers would like, but spreading fast in the developing world. The decision by American and Canadian Linux distributors to allow homosexuals to contribute to the source code has caused uproar among traditionalists. They insist that while Linus Torvald loves homosexuals, there's no way in hell he'd want them to go anywhere near the source code.
Judaism is Unix
Disciples of Unix can often be seen with large beards. Hard to understand and sometimes eccentric, the followers of this operating system claim
The ruleShe wouldn't let him make love to her on the bed. Beds are for sleeping she told him adamantly, when he tried to lead her there. Caught in the grip of a feverish, school-boy lust, Mekhi didn't care. It was enough that she wanted to have sex with him at all. He'd do it on a mound of shit if that's what she wanted. Inside a meat locker. Any damn where.The rule2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
When it was over and they lay on the rug in post coitus languor, he found himself curious about her no bed rule. "So you've never done it on a bed?" he asked, voice hushed at 2AM.
She was a long time in answering. Her voice was soft, on the edge of sleep as she confided, "Not since I was ten years old."
Regards, The Abortionist.A letter came in the mail from a return address I wasn't sure existed for some time. It still did; the address was the exact same. The handwriting was quick and short, and the request seemed simple enough. I put on my coat and found myself walking down the street under a thick grey sky, one hand in my pocket and the other keeping my hat from being claimed by the wind.Regards, The Abortionist.2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The buildings grew dirtier the further east I travelled. Grime crawled up the sides of the walls from the sidewalk, and the sewer drains gurgled with yesterday's waste. A homeless man in a tattered version of my own coat held a tin cup out to me, mumbling something about spare change. I gave him a handful of nickels and buttons and wished him well before arriving at the old brownstone.
The sign that had once stood in front was marred with rust and beaten up by time, all of the letters missing except for an M and a D.
A For Sale sign hung in the window in front of a thin white curtain.
I rapped a closed fi
Over a Wasp, Down a MountainDuring the years before I stuffed a Ford Taurus full of my earthly belongings and pointed it toward Texas A&M, my family had an annual ritual involving a dying piece of technology. Every year, never at the same time, either Mom or Dad would find some kind of reason to go shuffling through the Buffet, an ancient piece of furniture with which I grew up, guarded for decades by an ugly ceramic frog that Dad won in some contest or another.Over a Wasp, Down a Mountain4 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
The Buffet was festooned with drawers, one of which was solely devoted to stacks of tiny boxes of Kodak slides. What are slides, you ask? You see, kids, before we could take pictures with our telephones, our cameras burned images onto thin strips of delicate and temperamental material called film. When we had filled up the film with photos, we would take it to some disgruntled teenager in a tiny booth in the middle of a parking lot somewhere, and about a week later we go back and collect the results, either in Prints or in Slides. Prints wer
Room 313His head felt likeRoom 3133 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the floor of a Greyhound bus
and he couldn't remember
the name of the breasts
poking into his back -
two idle threats
poised to wreak havoc
on his morning.
He could feel
her broad hips
and wondered if her name
and if the smell of her perfume
was too early for him
and why the carpet
made so much noise.
A Dinosaur for AprilHeart in her throat and belly in knots, April Kinsey knelt in the grass and straightened her finest dress over her knees. The surrounding group of family and strangers remained silent, watching her every breath.A Dinosaur for April4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Shirtless beneath his tribe's blue plaid, her future mate knelt, towering over her. He stood taller than even her grandfather, who was the largest man April had ever seen. A young man of seventy-two, his broad shoulders and thick muscles intimidated her. A large gold amulet with his family's crest hung around his neck and glinted in the moonlight.
Roy McGregor, third son of the Drago Tribe leader, intended to mate her of all people. He was a full blooded shifter. She was a foundling, whom he had never met before this moment, and yet he had chosen her. Like in her storybooks, his tribe had appeared unannounced on her grandfather's doorstep two nights prior and demanded a promise ceremony.
Her adopted parents had refused upon learning she was the female they wanted. At seven year
Early WinterDeath drives a green Packard. Depression era, with modern bumper stickers and parking tickets which, if you look closely, were written out by Hammurabi. I met him once, he’d pulled up outside my house and hopped out for a smoke break on the street. He looked like he didn’t have anything to do when, far as I know, somebody dies once every few seconds, somewhere. I went outside and asked him who he was after.Early Winter4 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"You. But not for a while. Y’know Arnold Rothstein got shot just three blocks from here?"
"I thought he was killed in New York. Definitely in America."
"Who you gonna believe?"
Death flicked his smoke to the asphalt and crushed it with a casual twist of his purple dress shoe. Then he drove off, leaving me feeling a little melancholy and a little drained. Never could get the hang of snow in October.
Carrier LostYellow emergency lights make Chrys look like an elf as she gazes up at them, her eyes flashing with reflections.Carrier Lost1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Shut that shit off." My voice is robotic. Still not used to it.
Merlin's already at the panel, jacked in through the conduit in his temple. The yellow flashing turns to yellow ambient, the sirens are silent. I can hear Chrys' heavy breathing.
"Just a couple more floors, babe." She doesn't say anything, just squeezes my hand. I know she did that because the pressure registers across the display in my retinas. I turn and look at her. Vitals are going apeshit. She's gonna pop at any time.
Spider pounds up the stairs behind me, grim look in all six eyes, slamming fresh ammo charges into his gun harness. I heard him unload downstairs. If he's empty already, then the company jackoffs are serious about this. His pacer drones whirr behind him, past us, then ahead, barrels smoking, lasers fanning the stairwell above and below.
I'm getting Spider's readout from the cloud
I'm Already ThereI'm Already ThereI'm Already There5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I sit with you on the deck of our house.
We cuddle from time to time,
Enjoying the scenery.
Birds sing, squirrels run up and down trees.
More than once we kiss deeply.
The phone rings, I go inside to answer it.
I told you to stay there do not move.
You smile at me with the gorgeous of smiles.
As I got off the phone,
I walked up to you slowly.
I once again sat next to you; my heart is bursting into tears.
I whisper in your ear, the news I got from the phone.
Your eyes water as you heard the news.
A few days later.
I pack for Afghanistan; you came to me hugging me tight.
You were wishing for me not to go. But I have to.
Your eyes begin water; I can't stand the fact of your crying.
When you cry I have to sometimes give in. Because I hate seeing a woman cry.
I shook my head and said to you gently.
This is what I have to do, I have to protect others.
You smile and kissed me on the cheek.
We drive to the airport where I head to Afghanistan.
A few months pass, I try calling
KokytosThey hate me. They hate me. I don't know what I did wrong.Kokytos7 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Mother's eyes are bright and hard. Her lips are pressed together, thin, tight, like anger, like a coiled spring. She doesn't look at me. She doesn't speak to me. Even when I tug on the hem of her shirt, she doesn't listen. She just keeps washing the dishes with hard angry strokes and when one breaks from it her lips tighten even more, and she doesn't talk to me and she doesn't look at me.
Father sits silent, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He pours himself a drink and then throws it out. Maybe he's just tired. Maybe that's why he doesn't look up at me, doesn't smile, doesn't pull me onto his knee and hug me. Even when I kiss his cheek he sits silent and stony, and pretends that I'm not there.
My sister comes into my room, but she doesn't talk to me, doesn't look at me. I don't know what I did, I don't know why she hates me, but she hates me more than the time I stuck gum in her hair, this time. She hates me more
KoreaThere is something inside herKorea5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(Stupidity? Naivety? Contrariness?
that tells her to make a difference.
she smiles at the enlisters with shoes full of pebbles
and weights sewn into the hems. she meets the requirement;
she is recruited.
She is a nurse, and where war goes,
She will follow.
Korea is not America. Korea is not home.
She screams the first time a rodent crawls into her tent.
The next night, she slaps it away. She learns quickly.
Letters to Mother and Father are censored:
She doesn't want to scare them.
(There is enough fear in this war)
Bugging out is a hassle. As soon as they're settled,
The PianistA warm, lilting melody wafted through the nightclub, nimble fingers dancing over crisp black and white keys as the song of the grand piano drifted down from the stage, filtering between the irregularly spaced tables to fill every niche and recess of the dimly lit room. The lone figure in the spotlight moved gently with the music, her long chestnut hair billowing down her back in loose waves and her wine red dress fanning out around her knees as she sat on the worn leather stool. It was not a complex song she played, with no difficult notes or intricate rhythms, but there was something about it that was so enthralling, so entrancing, as if each sound touched you, clung to you, whispered to you.The Pianist4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
As the tune swelled, as the notes danced, and as music came alive beneath her fingers, the pianist began to remember.
She met him at a cheap, backwater club on a cool autumn evening while playing yet another of those low paid unambitious jobs that she hated but needed to make ends meet. While
Equation with HorsesHe keeps seven black horsesEquation with Horses4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Ready to go,
He won't ride one
The horses are done,
His pain is too great
Like his pride
While he feeds them
And opens the gate,
He won't ride
His horde of horses,
Who move so slow,
So slow, across the floor,
Lined planes on his face,
He can't do this anymore,
Equate to the movement
Of his seven black horses still
Kept ready to go.
FallenYears ago I put on my uniform and boarded that plane.Fallen3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I left, as I saw my wife crying, and cradling her swollen stomach.
I wrote everday, holding her picture close.
I hope she is doing well, and that our child has grown well.
She doesn't know it, but just because I never came home doesnt mean I left her.
Every day, even though my body is forgotten I am with her.
I hope they find me soon, so she doesnt have to worry anymore.
I know its not how she wanted me to come home.
How she wanted her child to have to greet me, and say goodbye at the same time.
The shallow grave cannot contain the lonelyness or regret I have for leaving.
She knows I had to though... I heard duty calling me.
BeaumainsSince the AI Liberation Movement, almost all forms of artificial sentience had been given the option of self-definition. This met with cries of "foul!" in a few divisions of the United Confederation of Worlds' military branches. One of the most lenient branches was the CASEDConfederate Administration for Space Exploration and Defense. These men, women, and others among the service welcomed their AIs as partners and neighbors. Most of the ships chose Fabricated Interaction Units that were ideal for working with their crews. The androids usually had pleasant, well-sculpted faces with superior physiques and were almost universally beautiful; this is not to say, however, that many warships avoided choices that were decidedly more warlike or domineering than was really necessary.Beaumains4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The CASEDS Gareth (known unofficially as the Beaumains, and with several instances of discreet graffiti courtesy of the crew dubbing her the Cute Bruiser) was due for the installment
Thank YOUThank YOU4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
To my devious friends on deviantART,
This letter's for you, which came from my heart.
Whether we've talked or met or not even that,
Or maybe I stole your tinfoil hat.
Without a word, I fav'd and ran.
(I have a short attention span)
Maybe I gave you your 500th llama.
Or maybe we split due to all that dAmn drama.
I could have critiqued and gave you a tip,
Or donated points for a membership.
Whatever the case, I just want to say
Your art is the reason I'm still here today.
Beautiful photos of places to see,
They spark my senses, they make me feel free.
Wooden birds and marble trees
Somehow blowing in the breeze.
Fashion trends like paper dresses
Flowing forth with ladies' tresses.
Prints and paint and oils. Pastels,
Of the family collecting shells.
Looking upon further inspection
One can see the digital perfection.
Sestinas, stories; all with good plot.
A single piece that's only a spot.
Horror, abstract, illustration.
Tell the world your orientation.
Thank you all for doing your part
Routine 23BioCorp AmericaRoutine 234 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Max listened to Emma's soft voice strain after reading aloud for two hours. Settled in her bed with her feet tucked under her, Emma read to him every night. A hint of rasp scuffed the lyrical recitation and she turned the page of the printed book. The paper had cost her a week's pay, necessary because the novel was unspoken contraband, but he treasured these moments. Hearing the controversial tale in her voice settled warmth inside him and, he suspected, the emotion was contentment.
At the end of the chapter she looked up. Her mahogany colored eyes were soft and the corners of her full mouth tipped up. "Are you sleeping?"
He shook his head and leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "Please continue."
She fulfilled his request and tucked her flaxen hair behind her good ear. The left one, burned off in combat, she kept hidden and tilted away from his gaze. Feminine gestures of that nature had been his first indication Emma had feelings for
Lem and the Oil DrumSmoke landed on Lem's tongue. He was close. This is where homeless and travelers converged, with makeshift cookfires, camps struck from tents and plastic tarps and cardboard and grocery carts. He saw the flames from a glowing pit. It was cold tonight. They were burning anything they could find.Lem and the Oil Drum2 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Shadows milled in the light. Lem entered the clearing, made sure they saw him, and stood quietly.
Most of them turned their backs. A couple shuffled toward him.
The first was Jaye. He was a prostitute sometimes. Another was Maisie. She had a son uptown, in some law office. She hadn't heard from him in years. The third was Cowboy, on account of his hat, his beard and the crags in his skin.
Lem produced his baggie. A few joints. A few rocks. Some painkillers he'd lifted. Cash. A fifth of vodka. Not much, but times were hard, and they didn't complain as he divvied it up.
He knew their tastes, like fingerprints in the air that he caught on his tongue like snowflakes. But there was something else. A
I've Got A NameI've Got A Name3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You call me a pit bull,
but I've got a name.
It may not be my first name,
it may not be my last, either,
but I do have a name.
I am not some nameless creature
for you to tag a beast -
I've got a name.
It may be Seth today,
and Vegas tomorrow,
I have a name.
I am not just "dog"
I am not just "pitty",
I've got a name.
and have feelings too.
If I am just "dog"
then what are you?
Can I call you "false hope"?
Can I call you "prison"?
Can I call you "not understanding"?
I am not just "a bully"
I am not just "a pit",
I've got a name.
A heart in the mirror fogI would draw you a heart in the mirror fog,A heart in the mirror fog5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It would quickly fade but re-appear every time you showered.
We'd toast marshmallows on the gas stove because as city people that's as close as we'd get to camping.
Or we'd sleep on your fire escape imaging what the stars would look like if the buildings weren't in the road and the 7/11 sigh would stop flashing.
Imaging what it would be like to do our own washing without $10 in $1 coins and a weird guy trying to see what colour underwear you wore.
We'd dream of days where we could have pens that didn't come from the local bank and didn't have chains around them still.
Where a fire would actually kick out heat and not have to be started every 25 minutes after the DVD stopped.
Where we would have known our neighbors, even had a gate in the back fence so we could share the pool they got for Christmas, or play practical jokes. But instead it's a guy named Steve, who smokes something that doesn't smell like what my dad use to smoke and has a on
PersonalityYou drink your coffee black, today. Four sugar. No more, no less. The weight of the knives on your person help make you feel like you have some control, some sense of power. You know it's an illusion, one you've convinced yourself is real. It doesn't matter; it helps you make it through the day.Personality3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
You're wearing a certain outfit again today; button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled almost to your elbow with a black t shirt under it, jeans, work boots and an attitude that no one wants a piece of. You hold yourself with faked confidence, joke about how amazing you are. You fade into 'concerned friend' mode only briefly before the egotistical bastard rises up again and takes complete control. Today you are steel, only slightly rusted around the edges. Nothing can get in, nothing can get out. And that's okay. That's best, for now. Anything else is too much, and you can't take 'too much' right now.
You're starting your day with a glass of juice again. Instead of pie, you've decided to make egg