Revised Strike Witches TLSlightly revised Strike Witches Timeline.Revised Strike Witches TL4 years ago in Settings More Like This
753 BC: Rome was founded.
550 BC: Achaemenid Empire was founded in Persia.
525 BC: Darius the Great unifies the Orient.
509 BC: The Roman Republic was founded.
500 BC to 449 BC: The Persian Wars with the Greek states.
431 BC to 404 BC: The Peloponesian War occurs.
334 BC: Alexander conducts his Eastern Campaign against Persia.
323 BC: Alexander survives malaria to conduct his campaign against India.
306 BC: Alexander unites the the Middle East and South Asia to his rule. However, he dies shortly thereafter and his heir [who did not survive the civil war] and his generals fight for the control of his empire. The Alexandrine Empire collapsed soon thereafter.
272 BC: unification of the Italian peninsula by Rome.
264 to 241 BC: First Punic War.
218 to 201 BC: the Second Punic War. Rome defeats Carthage in Zama in 202 BC.
168 BC: The Battle of Pydna occurs.
149 BC: The Third Punic War sees Carthage destroyed by Rome.
60 BC: First Triumvirate rules i
:in between words and worlds:i.:in between words and worlds:4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
With amorphous regret in my mind and genesis in my notebook I turn the page and there is the hateful etching of your name a hundred times over and over until its engraved on my wrists and under my eyelids, those crimson marks dispersing into atoms when I close my eyes, there is the slight tremble of the summer leaves and the south birds migration, there are the salmons leaping in ocean's tears and mountain's streams and there are cars whizzing by the empty voids between our words and worlds.
To you, words exist in worlds
And to me worlds live in the existence of words
But you'll only frown and turn away, and accuse me of being philosophical and boring.
Because maybe that's what I am, a cluster of clashing words,
Clashing worlds when I shut my eyes
And clashing sounds like soap water when I just l i s t e n .
In the translucent yellow of this candlelight, the lisp of words soften to words sifting above whispers, and in vain I sketch in my mind the shape of your smi
The Importance of Being FrankThe Importance of Being Frank11 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
The Importance Of Being Frank
At the end of this story, a Frenchman will be eaten by African driver ants.
* * *
Silvie closed the stall door behind her; she closed it timidly, with an empty expression on her face. Her hand shook. She paused for a moment, her mouth half open, her lip curled upward, and a frown on her forehead.
Then she walked over to the wash basins.
A fly buzzed between her and the mirror. She turned on the faucet, filled her cupped hands with water, and splashed it on her face. She looked at the stall's reflection in the mirror, closed her eyes, and slapped herself.
Let us slow down to take in the sights. At the exact moment Silvie's hand hits her cheek, everyth
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 Pianist5 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
midnight, minus threewinter comes to beijing like an old coat,midnight, minus three5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
or perhaps a threadbare tide;
not a hurried cold--no, not yet so old
as an angry man--but careful, slow,
and weaving herself from wind after wind,
snow after snow--
like a shroud for a warm corpse
laying itself out on the street
at last to rest,
then, tugging like a baby at her own sleeve
she sees to them, the hot potato women,
the quiet men crying corn,
to the dusty coats and supplications,
and the sparrows blown like buttons
in a storm.
with a whisperthis is how we rule the world,with a whisper3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the forgotten, lobotom-ised,
of a long lost dystopast.
not with a SHOUT,
we do not argue.
we do not even unsheath
we whisper in your children's ears
the memories of what should have been.
the life we all crave.
the death we all crave.
WE do not discriminate
our opinions onto others
pressing the side of the blade
down onto the flesh
all are bitten
with the fever of our belief.
this is how we rule the world,
we tell stories,
we incite a generation
with their own scar/r/ed lungs
with a whisper.
a conversationi welcome sleep as it is - a long lost friend returning home from battle, arms draped over my shoulders, weeping. i held it close and whispered - as if it were my only friend, being the prince of the sky, asking of why i cling to my possessions like a dog to its territory, why i harbor insane notions about silly things -a conversation4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"we are all barren, stripping the land, looking for love in white-capped waves of our own destruction."
i asked why mother nature was pulling me by the roots of my hair, and being as i am, a girl who speaks vague classroom french and stands at the waterside passing small thoughts
like stones as the brine and tangling seaweed washes over my broad and open feet, i condescendingly believed he would give me straight answers-
"all languages we speak are diligent and binding, we bite our tongues against society, and she is just trying to say hello."
silence like a trainwreck passes on four feet and i wait, breathing, for the hour to come and announce itself to me in a rain-l
tattoo artistone time you compare me to a dancer.tattoo artist6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i ask why.
you claim my every movement is as graceful
as the gentle turning of the earth,
as precise as the path of a raindrop
shattering perfectly into glass.
Where did you read that? Shakespeare?
Ye of little faith. I don't dance.
dumb puppy, soft-headed loser,
i adore you but i do not trust your brains.
it is freezing outside when we walk across
the gap between
cars, and you show me what it feels
like to be touched by numb
lips, pressed against a wall of my reticence
like a bone-chilling wind.
It was just a kiss. Why did you look at me that way?
For once I thought somebody understood.
i close the door
to keep out wind and fear and confusion and you.
it doesn't take me long to explain all
your bad points.
in summary, you are a selfish reckless rock-solid
phony with gossamer insides and armor out
idiot for love, unstable as ripe volcanic magma
and just as passionate.
But I will follow you on destruction's path.
Boy, we'll blaze out
Professional EulogistThe only dry eyeProfessional Eulogist3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Belongs to the perennial pallbearer.
His countenance cold, even in Kelvin.
Pine forests falling,
Fields somewhere filling with his friends,
They're carving out quarries
And ghostwriting eulogies.
People wonder aloud what's wrong with him.
He knows Dionysus drowns more men,
Venus takes more lives than Mars,
Walking on traintracks,
Eyes crossed like stars.
There's no ghosts left in this town.
In a real city of angels,
In a time called black suit season,
Death is a dial tone.
A Timeless ImageA Timeless ImageA Timeless Image4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A mirror's dainty reflection,
A young girl's perception,
of the perfect life to come.
Proud of the fact,
of her ability to attract,
attention for the first time.
Through the looking glass, so new,
Finding an alternative point of view,
where vanity isn't polished.
Warped by life
hit with undo strife
clouds her self image
Without fantasy's distortion,1
She's scared out of proportion,
as scratches change what she sees.
Make-up cannot hide,
her disfigurement genocide,
protruding through the mask.
The mirrors reflected illusion,
A blurred image of confusion,
of what she thought life was.
Distanced from the past,
To the future detached,
Caught in a sad hopelessness.
Weathered now and cracked,
Unable to attract,
anything but pity.
Cuts deepen in her soul
expanding to the whole,
as she falls apart.
Broken pieces on the floor,
Soak My Feet In WineWhen the sun and the earth were in love, ever youngSoak My Feet In Wine5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I was born on a full moon with silver clarity
I'm that woman who sleeps on olive groves
Who makes angels fall in love with men's daughters
And lets herself be tricked by your sweet spells
Who obeys the very impulse of her heart
Do you know who I am, where I came from ?
I live where stars grow bigger on a light breeze
Where butterflies were once flowers
Where God blessed my garden in Eden with peace
There, I lay on a cloud softer than foam
When the day splits into two halves, you see me
My steps are as light as those of a chamois
My hair running wild; wings of an evil crow
My mouth has the roundness of a precious ring
Cheeks, two fields of roses blooming again
Under my feet grow trees, and remain ever green
You need my palms, you seek my blood and fear
Before you crave for more, grant me what I wish for
Kiss the ground before me, show me your loyalty
Borrow the devil's wings, bring me bouquets of stars
I want that purple flo
Story of a ProstituteStory of a ProstituteStory of a Prostitute8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
A graceful woman of a swan
A soul of water to dance along
Her heart is broken but beauty remains
Shes lost among all the pain
Selling her body to forget it all
She calls herself a courtesan
Disowned by family, but loved by foe
The church abandoned all her own
A night of beauty in diamond dusk
Walking down the streets in Prada pumps
She waves at men who pass her by
Pedestrians stare from the corner of their eye
Unspoken words from many glares
Tells her shes useless and that no one cares
She yearns a mother with a loving touch
A place shell adore so much
Instead shes left with the drug
To free her from the Devils smug
Once filled with innocence and such pure love
Her mind now dirtied with fouled doves
Dreams and hopes forever gone
Her life is lost and constantly drawn
A life worth what man will pay
Crystal tears that fall every day
She wishes for it all to end
A silent rest where angels descend
Instead shes left
Avengers: In MemoriamIn MemoriamAvengers: In Memoriam3 years ago in Drama More Like This
in memoriam, a Latin phrase that translates directly as 'in memory of'"Did you mourn?"
"We all did."They all mourn. Just in different ways.
There is a bloodstain on the wall.
None of them ever mention it or show any sign of letting it dwell in their thoughts, but Fury has noticedwith his 'good eye' as Stark likes to refer to it asthat there are a few rare moments just before a mission when they can be found gathered around the mark they refuse to let anyone clean away, and one or two of them at a time can be found giving it more than just a passing glance as they wander by it, fingers outstretched and tips barely brushing the surface.
The stain marks more than another casualty of battleit is a moment of triumph, of death; it is where, separate as they were, they became a team, where they found something (no, someone) to avenge. It is where they go on their own to collect their thoughts, looking into the empty void before them (th
epitaphin the endepitaph8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when i'm almost gone
and all i've left
is a red lamp
and a ragged song
to pave my way
into the thunderstorm
let every raindrop murmur
i loved you and lost
nothing but emptiness
and the company
Death by SeaI left her dead by the sea shore.Death by Sea4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I left her where the waves were sure to pull her out to sea.
This is what she asked of me, you see.
She told me, days before, that she wanted to be buried in the ocean’s gentle, but masterful grasp.
She told me she wanted to always smell of the balmy salt water that always crashed on the shore.
She told me that she wanted to visit the Titanic, and the bottom of the deepest trench.
She told me that it had been her dream to see what it was like under all that water.
I told her that it wasn’t normal to be buried out at sea.
I told her I would miss how she always smelled of lavender after the rains crashed on our meadow.
I told her there wasn’t much to see on the Titanic, or the deepest trench.
I told her I would miss being able to see her, even on a good or bad day.
She sat at the crest of our hill and told me she knew.
She could sit at the crest of our hill overlooking the blue wonder that stretched to the horizon and tell me she knew.
list for ninth october1) your lover is dead andlist for ninth october4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you burn the eggs. grease
streaks the stove. you
sit, stand, switch off
the burner. sit.
the birds chirp. sit.
2) your lover is dead and
the birds are hungry:
the blue-jay funereal
sick ocean grey.
you shore yourself
against the bare mattress,
empty mason jars, your
mother's phone calls,
by desk receptionists.
the author's name
dwarfs the title,
that means it's good.
that means it's popular.
you spill tea
and soak its pages
and sit. sit.
3) your lover is dead and
the tea is cold.
the leaves have settled
in rorschach patterns.
the tea is hot:
when it's poured.
when you walk away.
you open your mouth.
4) your lover is dead and
you can learn no more
languages. dust sheaves
on books, in sunroom-motes.
half-eight, you feed the cat.
she scratches the door.
you say nothing:
5) your lover is dead and
you've fallen asleep.
your lover is dead and
6) you know that mockingbird don't sing
we never had no diamond rings
The Rumour of IcarusIcarusThe Rumour of Icarus4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
there is a rumour that your father killed you, that
he bent your wings until they broke and then
told you, "Fly."
If this rumour is true, then it lives in the throats of
those fragile boys who wear your death like Cain's mark,
whose tender hands split like swollen tomatoes when
they pluck strangled seabirds, whose
arms slump beneath the weight of their father's genius.
And this rumour lives on
the under-skin of their eyelids so that when they die
or simply sleep
they dream of their fathers
or maybe just of Daedalus, standing with
his hands full of feathers and wax,
their blood-flecked down under his fingernails.
your face is gone, icarus, you are a warning & a tragedy &
the patron saint of boys who will not listen but also you are a god, icarus,
a god to these boys and still, when you fell
said Bruegel in oils, Auden and Williams in verse
no one gave a damn.
they also say that your father strained the sunlight into an amphora
and told you, "Dri
Introduction: CharacterFirst lesson about writing: Characters are what makes the story.Introduction: Character5 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
Think about your favorite story. Ever.
Well, I can't think about mine, so I'll go for "Which French anti-hero do I feel like fangirling for today?" Narrowly beating out the story about the tragic relationship between the bohemian sociopath with the amazing set of pipes and unfortunate skin condition (unless he's being played by Gerard Butler) and a Scandinavian soprano is The Count of Monte Cristo. That novel is, in its unabridged printing, thick enough to bludgeon a walrus with. It starts off pretty fast, but gets slow just as quickly. It's not a book for the short of attention span.
So why do I love that novel? For the titular Count. For the cast of cool main characters. For the One True Pairing of Maximilian Morrel and Valentine de Villefort. For duels and revenge and intrigue and character driven plot and a main character who is (and I am using the technical terminology, borrowed from tvtropes.org) badass enoug
The Ring of Blood and FateThe Ring of Blood and Fate4 years ago in Settings More Like This
Awwww. That happened to me, too. Except without the Lady in Black part. I'm to wimpy to go to those things. All it takes are a few trailers, and I'm already fearing the dark again. As, perhaps, it should be. I *DO* believe in some large amount of superstitious things, because some of them aren't that fake. I've dealt with some...things. And this one story I heard from my closest friend: there had been a bunch of missing persons (i dunno where), so authorities went out looking for people. They found this giant metal ring, with mutilated, nearly unrecognizable bodies all over it. On the inside, there was a giant pool of blood, from victims not in the missing case. Someone threw a rock in there, probably to test the depth. Somehow, the blood exploded, covering some people. They were rushed to the hospital to be examined. After a short while, they started screaming, and speaking gibberish about something coming, and then speaking in different languages, then they all died. It's scary stuff
Hell Can Take YouWhere will you take me?Hell Can Take You3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Where I cannot cry.
where we do no die.
I ache to see your face,
To say one last thing.
I live with everyday.
At my still beating heart.
Like the bottom of the ocean
I'd always get lost
Searching for the words to say
My goodbyes to you
I didn't expect this to end suddenly
You went away that day
And I wish I did too
No matter what you do
Try to remember something
We won't meet again
I am positive of that
Don't get the wrong idea
I never loved your ass
You were there
You always were
A itch that could not be scratched
So enjoy your time
This is the day
I bid your memories
A slow, final farewell
Escape VelocityF = G(m1m2)/r2Escape Velocity3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Black – true black – is the absence of light. Darkness is defined by what it is not, by the lack of something else. When we say a black hole, we truly mean that; black. Blacker than black. An absence of not only light, but of time, distance, anything.
The night was scary when I was little. I hated the dark, but couldn’t bear to sleep so long as the light was on, any light, burning on the other side of my eyelids. I used to have nightmares about dark things in dark corners, shadowy figures with shadowy fingers trailing along my spine. I always woke up cold and fumbling frantically for the lamp, but the aura of light just made the shadows deeper and I turned it off quickly.
Black holes are dead stars. Graves. Tombs that bury light, bury it so deep, swallow entire suns, planets, galaxies. Dead stars take all the light with them like rich men spending fortunes on alabaster monuments and marble headstones.
There are four unmarked graves
Haruki MurakamiThe Elephant Vanishes by Haruki MurakamiHaruki Murakami9 years ago in Reviews & Guides More Like This
Published by Random House Pty (Ltd), Vintage in 2003
Quite often, my husband thrusts a book into my hands saying "Stop reading your fantasy rubbish and read something real."
This little gem is a quick-to-read collection of some "slice-of-life" tales set in the author's native Japan. Although translated from Japanese into English, they read well and are, in my mind, reminiscent of some of the Kafka that I ploughed through when I was younger.
Murakami's protagonists appear mostly as individuals who exist within modern society and yet seem somehow apart from the general flow of things, acting as almost objective observers that don't appear to have any impact on their environment. I feel that they watch the world go past them and, although not unable to act in it, they are unwilling, realising that all actions are, inevitably futile. At least that was the general gist that I picked up from this collection. At once depressing, these tales are, in som