The Friends of the ChampionThe Friends of the Champion4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Complete antidote to my last fiction, haha. This little bit of silly takes place long before the previous post when Kirkwall sat in the eye of the storm. Hawke and his companions enjoy the peace, unaware that - between them - it is they who will bring about its end.
Just a bit of stupid fun, but bitter sweet if you know what's to come ^_^
"Okay so - stop me if you've heard this one."
It's late, probably very late, in the Hanged Man. Cortland Hawke looks absently around the room, as if the time might just leap from the boarded walls and make itself known.
Heaving another draught from his tankard, the newly-dubbed 'Champion of Kirkwall' gives up any pretence of caring what time it is anyway and lets his head rest on his arms, his gaze moving toward the party's resident healer. Anders is holding court, having seemingly nominated himself as entertainer for the latter part of the evening in the absen
Hate"I hate you."Hate4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Klaus smirks, sucking more fumes from his cigarette. It floods his lungs, coating them in a thin layer of comfort, before exhaling. The calming chemicals linger, though, and that's what he's after.
"Love you too," he replies, sarcastic, obviously not thinking about what Ben is really saying; not thinking, or just not caring.
"I mean it," Ben says, voice heightening slightly from Klaus' nonchalance.
Klaus rolls his eyes and flicks his dying cig off the roof. He doesn't need to look to see the thin, glowing trail as it falls; it's a brief thing, and he doesn't care for those things any longer.
He leans back against the roof, lingering warmth of the tiles against his back. Ben is diagonal to him, on his left side, sitting huddled by one of the many chimneys. Klaus can just make out his figure, cloaked in his dark uniform; his hair, though, catches the moonlight, making it easier to distinguish.
"And why, pray tell me, do you hate me now?" Klaus drawls out, remnants of smoke
ghosts in a slideshowghosts in a slideshow5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
the skysick sun, fading woozy, throwing up.
dripping on the backs of conveying camels.
bodies of water, yes, every touch moves through.
grassland often. skinny belly atop the garden hill's slope.
train-track thap-thapping. smile, God's tap dancing on a saturday sundown.
you're watching the show frontrow. i'm watching you.
i say, "those mistakes on your arm look nice in this light." but i don't. not aloud.
instead i say, "do they hurt when it's cold?"
and you say, "it's not cold right now."
so i say, "i didn't notice." but we don't. not aloud. not allowed.
so i say, "you look hurt." no. i say,
"you look pretty."
yeah. i said that.
then you looked at me. then you cried. because i'm a liar. only to you.
i mean, to you only, i am a liar.
i mean you see me as a liar.
but you know what? everything's alright in my mind.
and that's good for me for now.
"hey, V?" that's what you said.
"yeah?" i said.
"where are we?"
"we're here, dear. we're right here."
tell me i'm lying. tell me there's a me a
I Found Your Lips In The DarkI Found Your Lips In The Dark11 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
"Good things come to those that wait."
A night full of smiles.
I can't look at you without getting weak in the knees.
Grasping onto my hand.
Running your fingers slowly across my palm.
Deep conversations about nothing.
Making me giggle.
Being so completely comfortable after a few drinks.
Poking your belly.
My leg touching yours as we sat next to each other on the couch.
We're at the peak of our innocence and something's bound to happen.
I tell you I have no talent.
You share a story.
I share my praise.
Sharing a drink.
Lingering over the thought that your lips touched my straw.
Would those lips meet mine anytime soon?
The songs played on.
I wanted nothing more than to imitate a feline.
Pounce on my prey.
Devour it whole.
You gave me:
A kiss on the hand.
A kiss on the forehead.
A kiss on the cheek.
Nothing would suffice.
Staring into your eyes and seeing the way you look at me.
Like I'm something amazing.
"Kiss me you fool" would have been innap
the greatest show on earthlast night, I glimpsed a great white egg,the greatest show on earth6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
in the dark behind my eyelids. it was being
broken open by a dull, green beer bottle. out
poked the snout of a drunk, under-age Tyrannosaurus
Rex. he spoke in a spray of tiny bubbles.
"I've decided that 'The Kensington Landlord' is
a hilarious title for a fake, black & white, British,
horror film. at first, I didn't know if it was hilarious
or if it was only funny to me. then, I realized they meant
exactly the same thing."
"back in the 1940s, Webby was a tough, bright yellow,
baby duckling who wore a faded brown cabbie hat. he
took no nonsense. he ruffled a lot of feathers
...things are different now."
"it is unusual for a panda and a lion to go out on
a blind date. however, it is more unusual for them
to hit it off over a few drinks - only to discover
they share a close family relation, make identical
flimsy excuses for sudden departure, and leave
the bar, awkward & ashamed."
"in a fight between a giant squid & an angry cow,
location is everyt
Done Because it was a dream, it didn't seem quite real. The dreamer slept lightly under an equally light quilt.Done3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
When the dream was over, the dreamer woke *snap* wide awake, and sat up to think about that dream.
There wasn't much to it.
There was a hand holding a white rose.
There was another hand reaching for the rose.
There was a voice like a narrator.
The voice said this...
Consider this flower. No, not the half-bloom of the rose, though it is a single flower and is to be noted. No, consider the leaf on the stem of the flower. It is also single, just one deep green leaf. There is only one leaf. Why is that? Leaves are usually surrounded by others. It is the single leaf you must see, not the single rose.
The dreamer, awake
David FirthThere was a little boy named Sheila. He didn't like the name very much, but it was what his parents gave him in pretty Hanukkah wrapping paper for his third birthday (in June), and he lost the receipt a while ago.David Firth4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sheila lived a few houses down from me, and you would often find us shooting at whatever living things we could find at the park till the sun got bored and fell down behind the ground-pimples.
One day, Sheila got very sick. He went to the hospital, and I visited as soon as I could and came into his room. There was a very old man in a dusty coat stroking Sheila's forehead, but Sheila didn't know him so he asked the man to leave. The man revealed that his name was Death, and he told Sheila it was time to go. Sheila couldn't prove the man wrong, so he got up and left with him.
To this day, I haven't seen Sheila again.
But I have tea with Sheila's tortoise, sometimes. Her name is Thomas. It seems the apple fell closer to the tree than Sheila would have liked to know. Hehe. He.
Ah Ah Ah Mic TestIt's 8:34. I wake up covered in covered morning light. I don't know where I amAh Ah Ah Mic Test5 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
but I feel that this should feel very familiar to me, there are bottles strewn
all about and the bed is unmade, I am sleeping on a pile of clothes on a pile
of mattress. The shutters are down, I can't see outside and I think, "this is
all very symbolic".
I think of drifting back to sleep but don't tell myself any stories.
I don't get up until 10:11. This is appropriate. The cradle's too warm, the
world's too cold, I am bored with myself and there is nothing for me here. I
wonder why I stay. The chill doesn't strike me much, even in December this
place never freezes. I walk to the bathroom, my parents' room's door is
closed. My mother works, she is not home, my father does nothing, he is always
at home. The obligatory bathroom is next door. I don't turn on the lights, the
fractured relay of mosaic glass is comforting, mesmerizing. I look in the
mirror and see dreams filter through in recollection of myself an
brobdingnagian.planets on top of covers on top of atoms,brobdingnagian.4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
with rings like sheared tutus around them with
vibrant colors. off kilter and running wild, your
sayings are all just so generic. watching the
screen for hours on end causes vertigo, so
you stick to the telly.
picking back up regular, every day to day life
is so strange after a significant event. even
watching the leaves drift with the wind and
the branches shake at their loss doesn't
hold your attention anymore. only numbers
in orderly rows on crisp cream paper,
preferably bold type, make you happy. we
all know why. they assure you that this isn't
a dream, that your reality isn't out of your
grasp just yet.
strung up lights around shop fronts and
trees are the picture book image of town.
i show the shots to you, giving you a
magnifying glass so you can go people
watching. i don't care if you stay in here
all day, all year, or all your life; just please
don't ever stop creating your reality. the
numbers keep us both sane.
Sounds of her selfThe pantry is quite empty, so I decide that I'm going to head off to the store today, rather than thurs-Sounds of her self5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
(Ingrained my mind, deep whispers;
myself at ten, and I'm
with my mother, moving about; slow feet;
slow thought; slow, listless lungs breathe
in--through the nose--the scent of
cabbage, carrots, cardboard and meat kept
bloody; draining red through foam, black
plates; Every day Thursday these are the
sites; the things I see, the things
that might tell me that my stomach
is empty and my home is running
low on the fuel that runs it-)
day. This is a bit of a break from the usual routine, but such things are somewhat arbitrary, and I remind myself that total order is impossible. It's not like I have the ability to control everything.
I find the shrill voice of hunger i
a spiritual agnosticismthe search for truth in the universe,a spiritual agnosticism3 years ago in Editorial More Like This
is not a denial, but an affirmation -
that there is a mysterious 'godliness'
in the way the cosmos proceeds in
its endless evolution:
- 'bending toward justice'.
- spiritual, not religious, pervading
every atom, therefore pervading us.
- common to everything.
- connecting everyone.
- a patient faint consciousness,
in touch with all sentient awareness.
- no 'one' answer; each of us connects
in our own way... or fails to.
not having a need to believe in 'a' God,
leaves one open to have common faith
with everyone, to think of all others
as brothers and sisters.
we are all 'of' the universe.
if, there comes a time when one feels
a connection to a special religion
or concept of a God, then one may,
without dogmatically condemning others,
'decide' to accept that as one's own form
it must be done voluntarily... and
with true humility, in that one keeps
in mind that faith is a personal choice,
that there is absolutely no honest way
one can 'kno
ouroboros.ouroboros.2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
White and gold still dressed her spine.
Those chains and gems criss crossed her shoulder blades in absent patterns, slung across her skin with a careless air. She was a creature of laces. Lace. Cream coloured filligree. And in this new home that didn't yet feel like hers,
she felt so small
alone on her wedding night with only years upon years of flowers to keep her company.
Arehtet went to the window and pushed it open, let it yawn wide open like the maw of the manticore. Her perfume called, white smoke with the lull of desert roses and dragon's blood on its tongue of deceits. She pulled her veil back and she blinked.
This kingdom could fit in the palm of her hand. She reached out. Closed her fingers around all those twinkling lights and crushed them to the dust of an hourglass.
The night wasn't so dark.
But it was vast.
The halls of Caeronvar Rock echoed under his feet as he stalked through them, gold softly clinking against his wrists and chest.
They called it the Rock and that was e
taxicabThe fragile glass that held happiness within, cracks; the spirits escape. Doors fallen off rusted hinges let modern air that never knew the bricks before, heat and cool them as it will. The bricks remain, sleeping and dreamless. It is time to go; I cannot live here, but can only die slowly, oh so slowly, as memory dances circling the ashes. This house will never know firewood again. It's moving day; I call for a taxi.taxicab4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sittin' at the soda fountainI walked into my old favourite hang-out today. The name of the place had changed again. The patrons in the booths were reading menus that looked like obituaries and the ones at the soda fountain were all sitting on headstones. The names on the stones were familiar; I had known all of them.Sittin' at the soda fountain4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Somehow I don't feel like eating ice cream today.
The Hard Work of PoetryPoets are constantly crippled, creatively. It's the way it works. You write a line and, just now, right now, it seems like it's the best line in the world to date. It's a shiny, beautiful line, a thought, an image so remarkably profound that you are in awe of yourself, or (if you are a seasoned poet) in awe of that angelic being which sits on high in your mind and occasionally drops little scraps of poetic manna into your head. Now, you only need to write a poem around it.The Hard Work of Poetry5 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Because the poem takes over, sprouts a million legs and scurries in directions you had no real intention of it going and now the Wondrous Line of Glory and Poetic Win doesn't fit. You have to either change it or take it out and save it for another poem. Or make it a haiku-like short poem on its own, so all those other words don't assault it again. If you're an experienced poet, you'll probably just store it in a .txt file or on a post-it note somewhere and lament it until you're old and nothing matte
Dear Will Smith,Dear Will Smith,7 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Hi. How are you? Doing well, I hope.
First off, I'm going to level with you. The Willenium hasn't been all that great for me so far. Sure, I've gotten jiggy with it a now & again. I've gone down to Miami a number of times for a variety of reasons...some of which I'm sure you and your wholesome family image wouldn't approve of. Hell, (pardon my French) I've even made it out to that wild, wild west you were so crazy about for a little while but, I'll be honest with you, Big Willie - the past 8 years, overall, haven't been that dope or even ill. I suppose I'll give it at least another two years before I make up mind completely though. I'm hoping in 2010 the Willenium rises again. Now that would be an odyssey.
I'm glad we can talk like this, Will. I just hope I didn't upset you at all. I mean, I know you're a hell of a nice guy but I wouldn't want to get on your bad side. I've seen the damage you've done to all sorts of evil-doers, from vampires to aliens to robots to talking dogs (
at intervals of twothe man with the backwards baseball capat intervals of two7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
visits the same grocery store
every thursday, buys exactly three items,
and then leaves quietly. he doesn't want
to cause any problems.
"always the same old thing", he says to
the undercover cop posing as the
lady at the check out counter - it's quite odd
for him to tell her this because he's been gone already
for over five hours and she doesn't speak
meanwhile, on the other side of aisle six,
a woman discovers something is very
"this won't be the last you hear from me." she
yells defiantly into the camera. the director
yells cut, but going through the motions
has become all too natural and unfortunately
the caterer has brought only egg salad sandwiches
for lunch. they wash this down with ink from a nearby
quill and, though the timing is perfect, no one seems too
happy about it.
I can't say I blame them. But secretly, I do and,
publicly, it's all their fault anyway. It was, of course,
the fourth and final time we ever heard
LostI walk this desert, no stream in sight, my beliefs dead. With myLost3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
dreams far, I see mirages everywhere from what I could have
been if my morals still existed. From there I saw my old threats.
Soul for sale, it said.
That was hardly ironic. I had no use for it, and the predators
already made their bids, darkness staring me in the face. That's
alright. I've survived long enough, ready to fade.
Slowly, I kneel to the ground, the warmth of the sun thrown
away like an old rag. I knew, because all around me the desert
was burning. When you've lost everything, what could you do
but watch it turn to ash?
Words Never SpokenWe all stood up to say goodbye to Anna Lee. As we did, I finally saw my chance to break away and see you. I looked toward the front of the room. You lay there, your face above the lip of the white casket. Pale and thin, but just as I had last seen you. My throat was tight. I didn't want to talk anymore with your other friends who I had just met a few weeks ago. You were the one I came to see. So as they were all turned, I walked up behind the old couple in front of you. They moved away after a moment and I got a clear view of you.Words Never Spoken4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
You looked like you were only sleeping. Last year, you were so plump and full of life, but laying here, your face was thin, cheekbones sticking out, eyes sunken, and your hands... Your hands were at just the wrong angle. There were bruises on your fingers. Did you notice? Where did you get those? I wanted to touch you. I wanted to talk to you. You looked as if you were about to sit up and say, "Boo!" because that's exactly what you would do. I couldn't believ
InsomniaDreams. Nightmares. Unforgettable nights of longing for the things so far away. For the things that scare me. Pleasant tales of love, overthrown by stories of hell itself - all unfolding around my bed. My red sheets are the bloodstains on the gray wall one night, a bouquet of roses the next.Insomnia6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
What are dreams? Imaginary places of make-believe happiness, as if some form of natural prozac? Realms where fantasy is pushed beyond the borders of our very imagination?
I can't tell. I don't want to. My dreams are chapters of the book of my life, they're the red ribbon on the edge of the next page. Never managed to do much reading with my eyes open. Why, God why, would anyone want to live in something as shallow as reality?
Being awake is torture. It's a red car flashing over the gray asphalt, it's the fast lane with me behind the wheel - pointless and fatal. I never got my license, you know. And for good reason; I don't want to control things. I don't need any kind of control, all I need pure fr
quest for the almighty dollardrug company ad:quest for the almighty dollar2 years ago in Editorial More Like This
take these little pills; you'll feel
better, stronger, sexier... whatever.
if they don't destroy your kidneys,
drive you flat out of your mind,
or just outright happen to kill you.
llp - aug2012 - dA
FFM 3: The Great ProcessSilence spun out on the grassy hill, and the boy analyzed his grandfather for some sign of a reaction. Cholas granted the boy a bemused half-smile, chewing on the mouthpiece of his pipe.FFM 3: The Great Process5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"It's horrible, isn't it?" Tian finally blurted. "You're not gonna tell my mom are you?"
Cholas chuckled softly. "Calm down, boy. Calm down. It's only horrible if you act upon it." He glanced down to see if it helped. It didn't. "Look, what you're feeling is perfectly natural for boys your age. Grown men get the same impulses, but we're used to it, we don't let it torture us."
"No, no. Listen for a second, child. It's just a part of nature. Like honey spiders gathering pollen in their great nets, or hawkflies snatching them away to feed their maggots. It's all a part of the great process: life, death, reproduction."
"But my own sister?"
Again, that throaty chuc
Imperialism and ObesityImperialism and Obesity4 years ago in Historical More Like This
First, the political cartoon itself: http://podcasts.shelbyed.k12.al.us/kvarner/files/2010/08/Bellringer-2-Imperialism.jpg
So, what is this cartoon by Judge magazine saying? (Judge magazine is a satirical
publication that produced some of the best political cartoons of the 19th and
20th centuries.) The cartoon depicts a progression of Uncle Sam,
personification of the United States, growing progressively over time. Though
the early growth of the US is depicted as healthy growth, that of empire is
contrasted as unhealthy growth or fat.
So, why is empire unhealthy to the body politic? Between 1783 and 1861 the body of
the US can be interpreted as merely that of a nation (if perhaps an
enterprising and industrious one). This early growth can be defined as nation
building. But looking into it more closely, this definition is slippery. It
implies that the Amerindians have no nation, or that their nation is the United
States even if it is an alien European nation. Were the Amerind
I've taken you for granted.Momma,I've taken you for granted.4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I couldn't fall asleep last night. As my hands wandered aimlessly over the wrinkled topography of my bed sheets, my fingers drunkenly ambled their way into the crevice at the head of my bed, and I pretended that your dream spirit was there. I took your transparent glimmer of a hand, and I whispered to you. I said, "I miss you. Although I've fallen in love with the frozen wasteland surrounding me, the familiar memory of your warmth is fading, and my first goal upon getting home will be to throw my arms around your shoulders."
I talked about how I wish I could have known you as a teenager, young and spunky and beautiful as the butterflies that flit though our backyard, the butterflies you're so very fond of. I imagine you in tattered jean overalls, a "country girl" with hair as golden as the sun-soaked wheat you'd help your father harvest every summer. You'd have two brothers, but you'd have more balls than the two of them put together and then some, and you'd work just as hard as