Khantara: chapter 1
Khantara: the One who Moves like Shadow
The Thellisian Empire had become too bold for its own excellence and had launched an irreparable attack upon the far island of Mharvholan. The Haanta stronghold which was normally prepared for any assault Thellis could conceive to convey had not expected such an unprecedented attack after they had delivered such a substantial blow to the empire themselves. When seeing such damage done to their home, the Emperor of Thellis order the Haanta island's immediate destruction in order to quell such dissent from the northern lands and when the nations of giants had suffered their last, they had begun to plan their vicious retaliation. The Hakriyaa ordered that a battalion of one-thousand Amghari, the celebrated warriors of Mharvholan and Sanhedran alike, attack the eastern settlements of the Thellisian Empire instead of attacking the capital in the west as was expected.
The military leader of the islands ordered the regiment of one-thousand raging mounta
Anjhali and MhardhosaAnjhali and Mhardhosa5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The Den Amhadhri Khantara had returned and a celebration was given in honour of his long-awaited arrival. Everyone on the islands was called to attend but the Amhadhri Mhardhosa was obliged to remain away. His inability to converse or remain in the presence of others was crippled due to his irrepressible rage and though he was able to conjuring it effectively in battle, to utilize it in any other instance was impossible. One hundred years Mhardhosa had remained in such a besieged manner, only keeping his two beloved brothers and his Odaibha for company for only they would withstand his enforced foulness and only they could suppress his unmitigated rage. They had endured much by him. Mhardhosa required their constant presence when around others and though he knew his situation asked much of them, he could not apologize for the wretchedness of his state nor would they wish him to for fear of his self-loathing causing his ethnaa to surface.
Discourse with those beyond his small and close
Bou and Rau: The NnodainyaBou and Rau: The Nnodainya5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Bou and Rau: Clayn Nnodainya
Gods Day had come again, as it had every last day of the week in the Frewyn calendar, and the Den Asaan was charged with standing watch on the parapets of the castle to replace some of the more devout of the ranks so that they may attend tedious Church services and he may prowl along the tops of the keep accordingly. The giant rather enjoyed his patrol from the high rise of the stone walkway as he could survey and scout the whole of the capital from his position, and as he was master inspector of everything in his path, the advantage of altitude was greatly appreciated by him. He took to his watching with vigilance, observing the denizens of Diras drone about below as they continued with their incessant murmurs and lessened dealings of the day.
However, the Den Asaan's fixed attentions were suddenly drawn away from the bustling hordes by the sight of two families entering the city from the southern wall. They were dressed in an odd manner, wearing long coat
GodplayShe cant tell her blood from his bloodGodplay7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
From the dark gathering on the horizon.
The stenches of death and gunfire and smoke
Dance in the air, mixing with each other
Tangling into her in bursts of realization:
Its finally over. There is nothing left now.
Nothing but the screams of soldiers, the pleas to live
The pleas to die. At the end even the bravest beg to die.
Their prayers are rewarded by bloodstained angels,
Shining muskets, and quick bullets in bursts of smoke.
She would fall to her knees for death
But she couldnt move in this limbo between agony and darkness.
A rush of adrenaline battles the growing fatigue
Warring for her exhausted form.
Her eyes flicker open but all she sees is bodies
Sprawled like rag dolls for some deranged child.
Hes lying there too. Lying dead like he lied alive.
He said, We cant give up. Weve got so little to lose.
But now hes lost in closing eyes and
She of the throne, old versionfirst shardShe of the throne, old version6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sometime we will look back on this
And you will remember how you kissed
Every soiled scrap of me as you found it
And I will remember your warm lips
Meeting my chilled, rotted flesh.
We will both be lying
But I want this anyway.
Come back to me when I am whole.
Darling, when something falls to pieces it shatters
But before you think me glass
Remember I will never be translucent.
My soul is drifting in my own kingdom
In the banks where the sun goes to die
When stillness corrodes the earth,
I stand, waiting, arms outstretched
In the exact way that makes you want to let me go.
I am screaming through the hidden whites of eyes
And open mouths and hollow cheeks.
I dont think youve ever considered
Something more was broken with me,
Unoriginal soul that you are.
Its so cold here
And there are things crawling in the walls
Feeding on my blood,
the aromatic Miss MirandaA blouse turmeric yellowthe aromatic Miss Miranda5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
On a youth, terminally mellow
Lined, crumpled, irregulous
Silk, a fabric to be ironed
She a girl not bothered
By a few creases in her fleeces.
Paprika red tresses, cropped close for convenience
Bristling with potential for lyrical length
By a girl bored of boring.
A herby heathen vegan
The incredible, edible
aromatic Ms. Miranda.
My Nature.I kill.My Nature.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You all kill.
No, that's not right.
We defend a lion's nature when it
Kills its prey,
But what about my nature?
I'm not a lion.
I'm a victim of death shrouded in its very essence.
My breath, my heart, my pulse -
They all depend on the lives I take.
But now I've met you -
My beautiful human -
and the dark hardly tempts me.
Cigarette smoke touches my lips and
Husky words of love tickle my ears.
Days filled with brushing nerve endings,
Fingertips under hems,
Lips on hips and
Kisses in soft clavicle hollows.
This is the stuff of beauty, of absolute exquisiteness, of -
I could kill you.
One momentary lapse and you would be a
Stiff, pale, unresponsive.
These visions haunt me -
They plague me -
But I can't bring myself to leave you.
You are my world.
Credo quia absurdumWell, I believe in closets packed with ghoulsCredo quia absurdum6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and one-eyed spiders
And one-legged centipedes.
I believe in Lazarus rising from his tomb,
in David's slingshot
And Pegasus missing the Ark.
I believe in sunshine and a certain kind of moonshine,
That Poseidon dreams of dolphins with one eye open
And that Venus, in her inner torment, was capable
of cutting wings, and leaving Psyche all alone.
Oh, I believe in the sky's roar when it starts to thunder,
In biblical floods and plagues and measures of wheat
that will one day be measured by Famine.
Well, yes, I believe for the sheer absurdity of it
In cyclops with no eyes,
And in barren trees of life.
Cogito, ergo sum.
Credo quia absurdum.
I think, therefore I am.
I believe because I can
In the galaxies in front and behind of my eyes.
Technicolor HeartIt seems that I grow impatient with each passing moment-Technicolor Heart5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Hoping you will glance my way.
My paper heart is hidden just underneath my sleeve,
Could you capture it?
Would you unfold its exterior
to see the blackness underneath?
My black and white heart
views the world
and it sparkles with innocence,
though my mind is far from easy.
I fear for you,
and for what I have become-
Though the world may never know . . .
the lightI'm not even claustrophobic.the light7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
The thought jumps out at me as I struggle to see something, anything, in the darkness and fail. I know this house. I should be fine. I've left one light switch behind, and I'll wait till I'm in my room before I touch another one of them. Perfect silence, absolute darkness: vital to the art of sneaking home past curfew.
I reach out, fumbling sideways until my hand scrapes along the wall.
OK. Ten steps. I count them out. Get nowhere in the darkness. I take another four, hesitantly waving my foot around. One more... I bump hard against the table shoved into the corner. It rattles, the noise loud, but there's no sound from above. No one's awake.
I feel my way around the edge of the table and then stretch out my leg, reaching for the couch. My toe bumps it and I shift the rest of my body over to it, sitting on the padded arm as I take a breath and prepare to make it up the stairs and down the hall.
I should be a ninja. I half snort at the thought,
Lake WindermereWe are sometime tourists,Lake Windermere7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in open topped buses
tie-dyed amongst Mercedes.
smelling of campfire smoke,
our pockets filled with menthol cigarettes,
and skipping stones.
We find ourselves
basking in the glow of laughter
under the dripdrip
of cave music.
Beers and sticky chocolate bars
fill our tattered canvas bags,
alongside leather flip flops,
discarded for bare footed expeditions
and daisy chains.
Letters to Rautu: Warm WeatherLetters to Rautu: Warm Weather5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Letters to Rautu: Warm Weather
For the beginning of the Frewyn winter the weather outside was not as cold as would be expected for the particular time of the year. Many of the capital's citizens strolled about in their rough wools and thick linens while the nobility donned their costly furs and pelted hats, parading under the beaming warmth of the sun. There was a gentle quality in the air that gave it a coolness but the warmth relayed by the atmosphere was much to bear beneath so many layers of clothes. However, the many denizens of Diras bore the unusual change in climate still wearing their heavy garb for they could not tell if it would later rain or perhaps grow colder once again as the evening set in.
The Den Asaan, usually dreading his patrols in the frigid frost of Frewyn's winter months, had lined his Sindhaara with furs skinned from the elks in the royal hunting grounds in preparation for the coming snows. Though he was not fond of wearing his traditional Haanta apparel when t
OPEN WINDOWSevergreen sifts through open windows,OPEN WINDOWS8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
clear-aired and heady with the promise of mountains;
mixed with the slow drawl of clouds and carwheels
and light hitting the dashboard.
and in this wood-grain scene of tree-tipped timber,
my fingers tap the measured breaths of my parents.
theres string and air stretched taught over every precipice
they vibrate with the mass of mountains.
each breath breathesone, two
the unpredictability of emotion and movement.
and I am good at words and water,
stumble with brushes and bills
my tongue loosed is fast and fire,
evades capture by a meandering mind.
mouths mouth stay afloat,
but often my arms fall fast to flailing.
but belly-up in sun, everything is
incandescent, iridescentcaught and carried in water
a river of raindrops not yet forced into stagnancy.
Switch-Blade Syrup...My petal pretty, flower-baby prince,Switch-Blade Syrup...7 years ago in Other More Like This
rain-dripped in pure ivory
A tiny diamond lining the swollen memory
of blind, brazen milk-misery.
Tasting deliciously, delicate waves dashed
with sparkly specks of wonder.
Dancing under the eve of his own recognition.
Felled in line to the peacock peculiarities
swallowed up in a poison oak ideate.
Drowning himself in liquid love-letter figure,
to the washed up tune of forgotten melodies.
Drop another gem, love-lies-bleeding...
Ode to a PoetBetween a monstrosity and a measly nadir,Ode to a Poet5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A poet is both. His shadow rebels to be the
Longest in the noonday sun, while he sells
Just another poetic embellishment everyday
To live with his beloved pen and parchment.
Thought, his errand boy, lazy at times, and
At others busy bullying stars brings for him
A rustle of vowels and sibilants decorated
With summer's murmured conversations or
A hocus-pocus of his deranged mind's eye.
He leaves no turn unstoned and knows not
What to do with a fork in the road; paradoxes
Everywhere settle dustily on his quest-path,
Zigzagging onward, his footprints leave behind
A trail of bewildering convers(at)ions in wake.
The jumpy machinations of beating a dream
Or practicing contemplation, igniting water,
Are for him a flourish of his pen, and behold!
Recognition found him, raised him to the skies,
Sent him plummeting down to write his escape.
Half of him is equal to most and a half;
Blame a poet for a fancy imitation of a dupe.
After the shattered beginnin
FuelHorace Windsor stood bundled and shivering against the passenger door of his sleek black Rolls Royce. A cigarette was clenched between his bluish fingers. He exhaled, a shaky stream of frozen breath and toxic smoke hissing from his teeth. Christ, it was cold.Fuel7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Come on, come on," he chattered as the ancient gas pump chugged at a painstakingly slow pace. The numbers on the meter showed little progress. If not for his damned wife, he could have just stayed in the car. Four days of tedious corporate meetings and he was expected to make the three hour journey home without a single cigarette? "It will ruin the interior, Horace," she had scolded, "We only just bought the car last month." On any other day, he would have rebelled, but he didn't feel like putting up with her nagging after returning home from such a long week. He just wanted to get home and sleep in his own bed. The hotel had had an
Field Notes.Field Notes9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I snap: a sling-shot
of sinew, tendons whipped
to joints that buckle in lines as cleanly creased
as an origami crane. Poised on a tripod of paper tips,
I anticipate the wind but there is only steel
shearing bone and then it all unfolds
with a scritch-scratch and tickle
of segmented limbs sprouting,
barbed as berry-canes.
once fed on your skin;
sipped at honeyed pores
with a thousand tiny, hollow tongues
and those words you said, the ones that closed
like fists to cinch me mute but for this
thin-bodied whine: please
don't ever speak
They're predicting swarms
this summer: better batten down the hatches,
Letters to Unghaahi:ReflectionLetters to Unghaahi:Reflection5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Letters to Unghaahi: Reflections
The four giants returned from their short hunt, carrying their fresh kills over their shoulders. Unghaahi had wrapped the many carcasses of the deer between two of the cleaned pelts and Otenohi and Rautu had generously given Obhantaa their pelts to that he may in turn give them to his mate. Though Obhantaa had not killed the animal or skinned the pelt, or even cured the hide himself, the assistance and partnership of his hangaara cat was enough by Amghari law to name him the victor of the hunt.
The Den Asaan flouted Otenohi in vicious tenor for having impeded his winning of the event and scowled the entirety of the path returning to Obhantaa's home but he resolved that to see the inquisitor smiling in his wily way once again after he had exhibited so much pain and agitation was his consolation. He had reluctantly lost due to the unfair nature of his failure to win yet gave over his pelt unreservedly. He suspected that the gentle white giant