Logic"The logic behind love is cruel, unbelievably so," Francis muses out loud, hand curled elegantly around the stem of a fragile wineglass, rich crimson wine sloshing around inside. His blonde hair is tied back with a blue silk ribbon, the same color as his eyes, and the edges of it curl on his linen shirt.Logic5 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
Gilbert cracks a weary smile. "We agreed on no rambling." He takes a swing of his bitter beer and winces as he forces it down; Ludwig drank all their good quality stuff the day before. He sets his bottle aside and scrubs vigorously at his mouth.
"But I'm not," Francis murmurs, swirling his drink around before sipping at it gingerly and exhaling heavily. His wine is heady and rich, aged to perfection. His head is spinning pleasantly, and the colors of his living room melt together into a lovely blend. "I have something I was going to add on after that."
Francis leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stares deep into Gilbert's bloody red eyes. He sips at hi
SecretsThey were freaks of nature.Secrets5 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
Ancient Greece realized this first as she watched her city, her lovely, lovely Athens, fall to the plague. It became clearer as Socrates committed suicide, and Sparta took over her once intellectual, gorgeous city and things began to crumble apart. She was quietly grateful when the old ways began to fade away and she could leave the burden of being against the laws of the world to her son.
Germania figured it out second while studying Rome his roots as a small town owned by the Etruscans, his start as a republic that shifted to a monarchy, his battles. Rome fell, and as he watched Rome sicken and waste away, Germania mused that it was unnatural for someone human in form to be so connected to the land.
China thought about it for years as he silently stood witness to the falls of Greece, of Rome, and even most of the Germanic tribes. They were unusual, he concluded. It was strange for them to feel the pains of the population as a whole, and yet, when st
FluteThe song blasting out of the radio contained tints of baby blue and a wisp of lavender. Beauty in liquid form; it dripped colors into a pool of swirls, mixing them together as they spread out to fill the blackness of his mind.Flute5 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
Sound made life beautiful, for all the hell he'd been through.
He couldn't play the piano. His fingers were stiff, clumsy, ungainly on a violin. Guitar strings dug into his fingers so deeply that he could feel his pulse, beating an incorrect rhythm against the strings. For one who loves music as much as he does, it pains him how so many instruments do not respond to his touch the way he wishes they would.
Flute is all he can play. The sound is crystalline, as blue as winter ice and just as fragile. When he plays, in his mind he can see the strand of blue stretching through the darkness of his mind like a bridge, though he knows it never leads anywhere. The flute's song is a delicate one, translucent and ethereal, and if he makes one mistake, the ice bridge
The Great AdventureThe Great Adventure5 years ago in Drama More Like This
"Avast! Man the sails!" The Great Captain Miguel Antonio yelled as he pointed his sword to the sky. "Mr. Rufus, are we on course?" he demanded, addressing his first mate only to get a nod in return. Soon their beastly target peeked over the horizon as the brave captain gave the order to ready the cannons. "On my order." he instructed. This might be the only chance he would have to defeat the sea monster once and for all.
Around him, his crew stood silently, loyally.
"Ready, Aim, Fire!"
Becky looked up from her homework when a rolled up sock bounced off her head. The usual suspect was there, peeking at her from the back of the couch. "Michel, you can't be out of bed." she said, setting her pencil down, "You've been sick for, like, days." she started to get up to escort him back to his bed.
Little Michel lifted his teddy bear so it spied at his older sister as well. "I think it spotted us, Mr. Rufus. Prepare for fire two." he said quickly to his toy, making it nod in agreement. His siste
MasksCan you see through the masks; Each one more hidden than the last.Masks5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Love is the favorite mask. It's the one with the least lies.
There are holes, however, for the disgraceful eyes.
It's marked with swirls of affection and compassion for the wearer's lover.
A set of red lips match the face that is covers.
Love is not the only mask with an obsession. There is another called Free Expression.
It's a mask that hides half the face. A mask that no one can erase.
Here is the artist's heart; the visionary mind can go far.
The mask of the troubled one; revealing scars that can't be undone.
There is the last mask after the one that expresses most. Its called the Mask of Boast.
It claims no fault with nothing to hide, but it is the mask with the most lies.
No second thoughts on anything in mind; thinking others are so blind.
Show confidence but fear failure; living in lies of the boastful speaker.
So these masks line along the shelf on the wall, waiting for the wearer to fall.
Choose the next mask
Log - SwedenSweden says no every time Germany asks him if he will finally write in the log.Log - Sweden5 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
It isn't that the log is a bad idea actually, Sweden quite likes the thought of preserving something for the future generations. It gives everyone else something to work for; to make sure those future generations will have a chance to read it. The log makes Prussia spend hours finding still-whole bricks they can use to rebuild homes. The log has Austria digging 'til his hands drip crimson. The log needles America into not boasting and finally accomplishing something beyond swelling his head up even more so.
But if Sweden puts pen to paper, and gives form to his thoughts, he know what will come out. He can't let it come out, either it's painful, very much so that he wants to banish it to the back of his mind and never think of it again.
That reminder hits him after a day's hard work, when he's heading back to the Nations' shared underground room, and the sky is painted sc
ViolinHe always waits for West to leave. It's usually early evening by the time he does, and their shared home is coated with a haze of gray shadows and the cool breezes of early evening. West will pull on his favorite leather jacket by the door, picking his keys up from the table as he walks by it, still covered with the remains of their dinner. His keys always jingle as he drops them into his pocket.Violin5 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
He will tell Gilbert to put away the leftovers and call the dogs in as he stuffs his wallet into his jeans, but both of them know that Gilbert'll put it off until it's too late and West's already home, dead tired, and irritated that his brother can't follow a simple direction. Gilbert doesn't know why West keeps trying, but he always nods, grinning, and slaps his brother on the back as he slips out the front door, telling him to have a great time at Feliciano's place and to always remember to use protection.
In summer, West just rolls his eyes and wheels his bike out of the garage so he can bi
Three Quarter BeatRavis isn't exactly sure why he is here.Three Quarter Beat5 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
He's standing in the middle of a spacious ballroom well, a makeshift ballroom. The building was a warehouse, but the city council had bought it three years ago and converted it into a meeting room. Right now, the huge conference tables are shoved up against one wood-paneled wall, and a blonde, tall, imposing woman with eyes like chips of ice is teaching a class of ten girls, two other guys and Ravis how to dance the waltz.
He blames Toris for this. "Ballroom dancing will be fun!" his brother had insisted, shoving the neon blue flyer advertising Miss Louise's Beginner's Ballroom course into his hands. "You'll have fun, maybe meet a girl..."
"Felka talked you into this, didn't she." Ravis didn't even need to see his brother's face to know that he was looking sheepish.
Toris had smiled apologetically, green eyes warm with affection. "Yep. And if you don't go, I'll probably be the only guy there. Please come share my misery with me?" His smil
LiveHe'd lost count of how many times he'd ended up here in a starchy white hospital bed with the too-stiff sheets scratching his legs and the ugly sterile white light beating down on him because of another relapse.Live5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Alright, that wasn't true. He'd come to the hospital nineteen times. Nineteen times of eating bad, bland hospital food and having his arm be poked by the IV on the days when he couldn't eat. Nineteen times of having get-well flowers be stacked on his bedside table. Nineteen times of his mother's tear-stained face and the gentle scraping of pen against paper as nurses in uniforms as clean and starchy as his sheets asked him how he was feeling.
Nathaniel Samuel Gunner was thirteen, a week going on fourteen, when he entered the hospital for the nineteenth time. Acute lymphocytic leukemia had been destroying him from the inside out for the last two years, and sometimes Nathaniel felt more like he was waiting to die rather than fighting to live. He didn't have anything to be fightin
Dancing With MyselfThe desert was, in his opinion, the ugliest part of America.Dancing With Myself4 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
Now, he knew about the diverse wildlife and the delicate ecosystem and how everything was held in check, in balance, like the feather that Egyptian god used to weigh the dead's souls and how messing up just one thing sent everything else spiraling downhill. He knew it was a part of his legacy, part of the Wild West. Cowboys roamed the desert, chasing dreams across the red sands. Ladies had haughtily stalked down the streets of little nowhere towns, skirts held up daintedly out of the dirt.
But the desert was dry and the desert was endless. It was repetition of a boring song, a mixing of reds and oranges so close to each other in shade that they were nearly the same color anyway. The desert was bright blue skies hanging over dull dead dirt with fading flora and hiding fauna. It was cacti struggling for life off an inch or so of rain, coyotes looking to make a living off the remains of those animals stupid enough to wander duri
71. The True YouI saw a girl today.71. The True You5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
She didn't look too happy,
so I told her "Hello," and smiled widely at her.
She nodded, her expressionless eyes staring at me.
Her emotion didn't change,
but that is because you cannot change what is not there.
I asked the poker-faced girl who she is.
She shook her head.
I asked her if she knew how to talk.
I asked her if she wanted to talk.
She shook her head again.
I held out my hand.
She mimicked me.
I gently grabbed the girl's hand.
It was cold and almost lifeless, just like her eyes.
I asked the girl her name.
She had the same name as me.
We walked through the park, me asking questions and her not answering any of them.
Not with words.
She spoke instead with nods, shakes of the head, and gentle hand squeezes.
I didn't get to know her very well.
She whispered "Good bye" all of a sudden, leaving me to assume that she was going to leave.
I nodded and tried to let go of her hand.
But our hands were stuck together,
She was holding on tight
I looked up at
Of Flowers and Fallen Rainbows"Uncle Francis, Uncle Francis!"Of Flowers and Fallen Rainbows5 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
"Hm?" The Frenchman, Francis, turned around and saw a little blond boy, no older than three, running toward him. He grinned as the child jumped onto his lap, holding on tightly to the stem of a red rose.
"Uncle Francis, look! I got you a flower!" He grinned widely. "This is your favourite kind, right? That's why I got it. It's even red to match the rest of your flowers! It's not all red, though... some of it is white." He shoved the flower in Francis' face.
"Oh? And why is that?" Francis asked, taking the rose and looking it over.
"...Dunno. But there was a man there, and the red was all around him."
The Frenchman's eyes widened a bit with realization, and he dropped the rose. "Oh. I see."
Alfred's smile instantly disappeared. "Wh-what's wrong, Francis...? Do... I picked that flower just for you! Did you not like it?" He sniffled a bit.
"Non, Alfred, it isn't that I don't like it. I just... erm..." How the heck was Francis going to explain it to A
Olive TreeOnce upon a time, there was a young farmer. He was nice and generous enough, and fairly handsome in a bright-green-eyes and curly-brown-hair short of way, but because he was human and humans are all flawed, he also oblivious and had motivational issues some times, preferring to sleep away the day rather than work in his fields.Olive Tree5 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
But on the whole, he was a good person. His name was Antonio, and he'll be our protagonist.
Antonio was a fairly decent farmer. Some years he had huge crops, others smaller, and some years there was drought and some years there were fires, but his life was mostly uneventful.
But one day, as he was harvesting tomatoes, the summer sun beating down on his back and the dirt worming it's way in between his bare toes, the earth split open. It wasn't dramatic. It was more that Antonio looked down, and saw a winding, lightening bolt shape wiggle between his feet. His eyes followed it, and he dropped his load of tomatoes as he began to follow it across his field.
Magic - FrUK"Hey, frog, come here!" a young Arthur, clad in a white toga, demanded.Magic - FrUK5 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
"Oui?" Francis walked up to the boy. "What is it?" He then looked Arthur over, noticing that he looked different than usual. "Did you get a new outf--" Francis started to say, until the Brit spread his feathery angel wings. The Frenchman gasped. "Mon dieu, Arthur, what happened?"
"I thought I'd show you the real me," Arthur said. "But anyway, that's not why I called you over here. I-- Hey! Don't touch them...!" He blushed heavily and flapped his wings in anger, causing the young Frenchman to pull his hand back.
"Désolé, mon petit la-- mon ange," Francis apologized. "Okay, so why did you call me over?"
"Because... Because I need to tell you something." Arthur pulled out his wand. "I can do magic."
The older child blinked twice and burst into laughter. "Magic isn't real, petit ange."
"Yes it is...!"
"...By doing magic?"
"Okay. Well what spell do you want
Half LifeWho would ever thoughtHalf Life5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I'd end up here
Several toppled pedestals later
I find myself dirty in the sand..
Who could of guessed
I'd be standing on tracks
Wishing to find a way home
When I never had a reason to leave..
Can I find the gasket to fix the situation?
The unknown cause of my problems; I'm still not sure
But in the meantime I'll keep sipping my coffee
Hoping to find the meaning of my half life
How to be a HeroOctober was such a wretched time of year. Dark and gloomy, forever overcast skies, a gray world filled with gray people. This time of year, the leaves had all dried and were dropping to the sidewalk faster than the street cleaners could sweep them away, and evenings were too cold and long to sit on the back porch and listen to the rush of traffic and the whistles of the train.How to be a Hero5 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Mazer hated it. He was old, joints creaking every time he moved, and he still lived in this gloomy little town. He had wondered why he just hadn't joined the floods of elders flocking down to the warmer climates of places like Florida or Hawai'i, but he knew it wasn't possible. He'd agreed to live his life in the bloody town with it's bloody awful weather and terribly dull people in exchange for quiet and peace.
So another year found him carefully ambling down Cherry Avenue, tugging his ancient Jack Russell terrier, Niels, along with him for their evening stroll. Mazer had his long beige overcoat on, a red scarf
A New Order: Chapter 2A New Order: Chapter 23 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Alessa didn't know how long she knelt next to her sister's body. She cried until her eyes couldn't produce any more tears. She finally looked up and was surprised to find the man in white still standing there. He knelt beside her and he reached forward. He closed Lia's eyelids and she could barely hear him whisper, "Requiescat in Pace."
Alessa gulped back the lump in her throat. The man slowly stood up and he said, "If you want to bury her and your parents, come with me."
Alessa looked up at him in awe. The sun was starting to rise. The light made his robes seem to glow. He looked like a guardian angel. "Who are you?" she asked.
The man smiled sadly. "You'll have plenty of time to find that out later. But now, you need to focus on your family."
Alessa nodded. She knew he was right. Alessa tried to stand with Lia's limp body in her arms. Her feet cried out in protest and her legs started to shake. The man took Lia's body from her arms. He held the little girl gently and he let Alessa le
KayleeHer feet ache from a day of walking and her throat feels raspy from hours of talking. Her shoulder-bag, heavy and falling apart at the seams, with pencils sticking out through the tough puke-green canvas and holes ripped in the black netting, is digging into her bare shoulder and bunching up the strap of her soft orange tank top.Kaylee5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
Her hand rests on the doorknob for a moment, as she stares at the pale beige wood of her garage door. Then her head slumps forward and rests against it, in the cliched I'm-so-fucking-tired pose. She knows it's cliché, and she hates clichés, but right then she's too tired to give a damn. Her hand is still resting on the golden doorknob. It's cool to her already cold skin, and under her heavily callused palms, it feels like the finest spun silk.
"I'm a Kaylee," she whispers to herself, blinking to try and rid herself of the dryness in her eyes. Her eyelashes brush against her cheek like a murmured promise. "I'm a Kaylee."
Then her head is up and the do
forsaken child.Pastel glass shines down among holy ground.forsaken child.4 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
While rafters high hold their place.
My senses tell me I don't belong.
Have I fallen that far from Grace?
Angelic figures stare through stone eyes.
Reminding me all of my secret shame.
Though their lips are still,
I feel their blame.
Have I refused the chance at paradise?
Just to be left in the darkness I embraced.
Do they forsaken my being like I did His?
Am I to be that easily erased?
Little Miss AliceLittle Miss Alice you're here nowLittle Miss Alice5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The rabbit hole of insanity has no bottom and we've captured you now
You'll fall and fall and fall
You'll never stop falling
For there is no bottom of insanity
We hear you've come to play
We hear that you're going to be our new friend
Little Miss Alice we've got a friend here for you
Her name is asylum
I'm sure you'll like her a lot as soon as you do as she says
Swallow the meds like they say
There's no poison label on the bottle
And down you fall, one by one
Little Miss Alice you're losing your mind
We're here to take you away
Little Miss Alice those bloodshot eyes and little spots on your arms are no longer needed
You're drugs won't work here
Little Miss Alice
Poor Little Miss Alice
You're drugs are fading and now it's time
The rabbit hole is above and still you fall
It's time to let your last hope for sanity go
Surrender to our purple sky
And ignore the meds
Little Miss Alice you're here now
The rabbit hole of insanity has no bottom and we've captur
Rewinding Utopia PrologueHe does not like the silence of the country. He grew up in a bustling metropolis; he grew up surrounded by the chatter of people and the squealing of brakes. At night, puddles of dull white light from the streetlamps provided shelter against the crushing blackness with the glow of houselights to illuminate the streets. There was food in the freezer and a heater in the basement and all of life was good.Rewinding Utopia Prologue4 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
But the bombs took it all took the chattering people and the cars with the squealing brakes. The bombs took the streetlamps, the houses, the freezers and the heaters. The bombs took his sister, his mother, his best friend, and levelled his world to stacks of bricks at the corners of streets covered in rubble and old skeletons lying in the road. The scattering remains of the bomb, the radiation, seeped into the one thing that remained of his old world his watch, given to him by his mother for his twentieth birthday and nearly took him too.
Now, he is weak. His hair fe
Log - DenmarkDenmark thinks the winter sunrises are the best. They are late enough in the day that he is awake to see them, with fog hanging like a thick curtain over the dark expanse of deep gray ocean. The sun is a sliver of molten orange gold as it drifts over the horizon, turning the world shades of lavender and pale pink. It's late, although time is relative now with no real working clocks. Maybe if the world was normal, it would be close to eight in the morning. Denmark used to like to rise at six, but his grasp on time and reality is a little shaky these days.Log - Denmark4 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
The beach is empty except for him, damp sand crunching softly under his worn and torn thick black coat. His breath forms clouds in front of his face, white and ephemeral.
It is silent, except for the gentle lapping of waves on shore and the gentle howl of the whispering wind breezing by. The gloom of the early morning and the quiet is eerie, for there is no usual rushing of traffic. There are no city lights to pollute the sky. There is