The TypewriterThe TypewriterThe Typewriter3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It began and ended with a word.
Not a particularly strong or powerful word, but a word that changed everything. It wasn't too long or difficult to spell. It wasn't uncommon either. In fact, it was a perfectly ordinary word, but, I suppose, its commonplace origin is what made it so special.
I loved that word.
But the word doesn't mean much without the story along with it and I was always one for telling good stories.
I ignored the call from the other room and remained seated. That tone wasn't unfamiliar. Taking a bite from my toast, I waited for him to call again. It wouldn't be more than ten—
"Sammy! Come quickly! I've gone an' done it!" he shouted. I turned just as he poked his head into the room with a bright smile across his face.
"What did you do?" I asked as I walked towards his study. Chris had said those same words nearly twelve times this week. Every other day he had called me in for some discovery.
I pushed open the door t
Don't Give me a Reason to Sell My SoulDon't give me a reason to sell my soul, she should have said.Don't Give me a Reason to Sell My Soul5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Instead, she just stared at the man on the screen in front of her, the man with his long, drooping skin, tired eyes, haggard face and balding head. He was hardly the admiral we had once known. She said "I don't have any desire to do it," and then quickly, "but I'll follow my orders, if you give them to me."
There was fright in her eyes. She gripped the edges of the captain's chair and bit her cheek, fighting off inevitable tears. But not here. She couldn't cry now. People relied on her to be strong. What people she wasn’t sure, but someone, somewhere, surely. She had to believe that.
"Those are your orders," the man said, sinking heavily into his chair. "I trust you'll carry them out."
She snapped off communications with ill-hid despair. Her blonde hair, thin and almost colorless, hung around her face like a fallen halo, fading with every sin. Her lips were tight, her cheeks drawn, and her eyes stared out of bru
Chocolate ChaosRandom pastry movement: brownie in motion.Chocolate Chaos5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Naughty Irish SpiritsPoor Molly Deegan was so very tired. She had done her nightly rituals in a stupor and when her fiery red head hit the pillow, she was gone into dreamland without a stray thought.Naughty Irish Spirits4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Her corgi's barks jolted Molly back to wakefulness and this, she couldn't ignore. With a muttered oath, she flung the blankets back and swung her feet over the side of the bed. She cringed at the cold air and grabbed a throw from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her self. A blue streak of curses trailed along behind her as she stomped into the kitchen to investigate.
She was momentarily shaken out of her foul mood when she saw that the kitchen was undisturbed. She stood in sleepy dumbness until she realized that there was a glow from the garage window.
Walking outside, Molly saw that the garage door was ajar and peering inside, she saw Aedan heaving the last of the broken shards of glass into the recycling bin, the partial logo on the shard revealing that it was one of her college bar glasses.
Shh.Shh.Shh.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I don't want you to cry.
This is my mistake
I have died.
Forget about me
I am no bird.
No weightless beauty
I find so absurd
Your love for me is strange,
But I cannot deny how loved I felt
To embraced by you
Your love is what I felt
Our hearts in sync
Our breathing the same
You're so sweet
Just a little like poison
You were addictive
I was so gullible.
Now look where we are
All because of your perfection
Your eyes may cry
But I know you're just laughing
So hush my darling
I am not mad at you
This was my mistake
This came of Cat and Mouse
Has finally reached it's bitter end
Look who's left
The greedy mouse
Left empty handed
You took what you could get
And left a champion
The mouse has finally won
But you miss me don't be crazy
You're crying now aren't you?
Editing your writingSo, there are a lot of tutorials for writing; tutorials for character's names, personalities, storylines, and everything else under the sun. Don't get me wrong, some of those tutorials are pure gold. But, and keep in mind I'm no avid tutorial-reader and I haven't read all of them, I have yet to find one about editing. And it's about as important as the actual writing, because what's the writing if you can't read it? So, here I am, making one. If you've already read this far into the introduction, do me and you a favour, and read the rest of it, you might find some of it useful and I won't just be talking in a void. Please?Editing your writing3 years ago in Settings More Like This
View of an Editor
So! You have your piece you're going to edit, haven't you? What's the first step, before you start editing? You have to get in the right frame of mind. Repeat after me! My writing is not perfect. Yeah, that's right. It's not. It won't be even after editing it. Writing can be wonderful, amazing, beautiful, emotional, and brilliant, yes,
AttentionMisha found America agreeable, for the most part there was the Boston traffic, but it wasn't as bad as Moscow's, and the food was overly rich and too abundant. But the people of the city were positively warm compared to the Spartan attitudes he knew, he hadn't had a single dollar stolen from him, and the university kids couldn't keep their eyes off of him. Not even the boys. He'd heard catcalls walking by a gathering of young men, the kind he'd learned to call "bros." It was his hair, maybe, or the way stubble refused to show on his face: in America, you could be anything other people wanted you to be, it seemed.Attention4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He told Sasha about it on the phone, who laughed at him. "You're getting a big head. The Americans are gawking at you because you don't look like them."
"I don't think that's it." Misha took a handful of almonds and threw them in his mouth. He knew Sasha would doubt him he always did, dwelling in what he called his "nativist cynicism." It didn't seem to involve m
Book recommendation 03: Muhammad by Martin LingsBook recommendation 03: Muhammad by Martin Lings2 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
Muhammad: His Life Based on The Earliest Sources
By Martin Lings
Amidst numerous exemplary scholarly works depicting the life of our noble Prophet (peace be upon him), Martin Lings' Muhammad: His Life Based on the Earliest Sources stands out as an exemplary source, providing a whole new account of the life of the Prophet, perhaps new details that haven't been elaborated in other accounts.
Lings provides a wealth of detail on the life of Muhammad, the time and place of many Quranic revelations, and the foundation of Islam, all based exclusively on 8th- and 9th-century Arabic biographical sources and collections of the sayings attributed to Muhammad. General readers will find a well-written, straightforward chronological narrative; Muslim readers will appreciate the favorable treatment of Muhammad; while specialists will find a faithful and convenient rendering of source material.
However, his definitive vivid account of the life of Prophet Muhammad -peace be upon him-,
ButterBreakfast was real oatmealButter3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Every morning in Taos,
Served at the kitchen table
By the window. Ravens
In the courtyard.
You always put a dab of butter
In my bowl, covered it
So it would melt completely.
Literal Futurist FeministEvery so often, humans make an innovation which changes their world forever. Fire, steel and computers are obvious examples of technological innovations. Equally important to technology are ideas which innovate people socially. Galileo's idea that the earth revolved around the sun or the American Founding Fathers' ideas about how government should be run are among numerous other examples. These ideas, often controversial and even revolutionary for their time, tended to require groups of people or movements to keep such ideas from being destroyed before they could be shared. The feminist movement has been both praised and scorned for their efforts to preserve and share numerous ideas to varying degrees. In particular, in her "Feminist Manifesto," Mina Loy helped to share the idea that gender roles were highly constrictive on both sexes with a rather remarkable insight for how things ultimately turned out.Literal Futurist Feminist3 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
According to Loy, traditional gender roles are no longer valid in modern society.
Helicase Helio and I were always sitting on the stairs, chatting about the lamina and occasionally making snide remarks about ribosomes. There wasn't much for us to do. Our job was to simply be, and let the RNA polymerase scribble down the letters on our foreheads when they came around every once in a while. Helio was a G, I was a C. It wasn't exactly fulfilling, I suppose. There wasn't much to be filled. So to pass the time, we talked.Helicase3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"You ever wonder?" Helio asked.
"About...well...what's out there." Helio and I were rooted to the stairs, quite happily, but it was awkward to move in. He kind of twisted in the general direction of the closest pore. "Out in the cytoplasm."
"I haven't," I admitted. "What's there to wonder about?"
"That's exactly the thing. I have no idea." Helio sighed, gazing into the distance. "Somehow it feels like we pl
The Stick PeopleIn a town called Rushing Water, there lived a woodcarver with no face.The Stick People3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
When we were small, my brothers and I, Daddy would sometimes take us to visit her. We would sit there at her kitchen table, amazed, as this woman with no eyes – and indeed no nose or mouth – would pour out our tea without spilling a drop.
I was frightened of her because she looked so strange, so grotesque. All the other days of my life, I encountered people with faces – square faces, oval faces, faces round and smiling like the moon with slanted eyes or big dark ones or little beady bird eyes. Snub noses, Romans or long, thin, birdlike ones like mine. Yet here was a woman with none of that or any of the faculties that come with those organs.
As a little girl, I dreaded our visits to the faceless woodcarver. But now that I've grown up I miss most all the memories of my childhood, even the somewhat unpleasant ones, so I sometimes let them wander through my mind even when they aren't invited. So I remember the woodcarv
lemonwe walk down the streetslemon3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of a city named after the last thousand years.
a breeze floats by
and for a moment your hair lifts off your shoulder.
the way it doesn't touch you,
i want to touch you.
there are traces of lemon in your light,
a vague sense of mint on your fingertips.
the way honey tastes
drifts inside your shirt.
entering the city
walking calmly while the light falls
is like listening to your voice,
like waiting at the bell by the river
for a clamoring to do justice
to the patterns on the water.
the way the bells never end
i want to brush my hand against yours.
the way you drop lemon into your water
i want to live.
SP-STYLE- Normal? chp.2 South Park not normal- STYLE chp.2SP-STYLE- Normal? chp.26 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
Do you REALLY want to know who I like? I was surprised, but I nodded. He sighed and put his hand on his fore head and looked like he was really frustrated and nervous! He put his had down from his face and looked at me like
He wished he didnt want to say anything; instead he fixed his fingers into a pointing position, and pointed, in front of my face.
I stared at the finger pointing at my face. My mind was blank. I didnt know what to do. I looked from Stans finger to his face. He looked serious. His face was also staring at mine with a not joking kinda face.
W-what? I said. Stan then smirked.
HA HA! Dude! You should see your face! You look as scared
Day 3: Protection- SignificanceWake up… Dress up… Eat… Rehearse… Practice… Performance… Sleep…Day 3: Protection- Significance2 years ago in Romance More Like This
Wake up… Dress up… Eat… Rehearse… Practice… Performance… Sleep…
Wake up… Dress up… Eat… Rehearse… Practice… Performance… Sleep…
What was the meaning of life when events occurred in a habitual manner? It had been exciting to discover that I had inherited the family talent, yes, it was a wonderful discovery for me, but I never noticed that twinkle of anxiety in their ruby eyes, nor the sigh of relief when they watched me pick at random notes off the bank of black and white keys with interest and excitement. Back then, I had expected a life of happiness with a blessed family who is known for their musical heritage... It took a decade to finally grasp that life wasn’t as black and white as it seemed.
I lived to please my parents, to make them crac
Complex 57The slick of black, heady oil rolled across the floor, staining the raw surface of the clinic, and the young boy collapsed back into the examination table. He was pale, even for someone who had never seen sunlight, with milky eyes and black spittle hanging from cracked lips.Complex 573 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Of those we've seen, the virus has spread most quickly in this patient." Doctor Ripnar was a tall man who tended to sway when he walked, but had hands as deft and precise as any surgeon and he used them now to steady and restrain the boy. "His blood is turning into the same substance you see at your feet." he continued, "We might have been able to keep him alive long enough to find a cure, but we don't have the resources for everyone."
Adjudicator Lawrence nervously straightened his tie; his pink and sweaty face bulbous with stress. "Everyone?" he asked, "How many have been infected?"
"It's in the air supply, Adjudicator. We're all infected."
The Adjudicator lurched, virulent juices churning in his stomach. He hat
Sonnet 4 for my grandmotherSonnet 43 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Her flowers, softly pressed against her palm,
have lost their quiet gift of sunlit breath
in lieu of gentle summer's song, this psalm
hushed now by looming mute of living death.
The owl's lonely mating cry rings out
against the fjord today, and still I find
her shorn cloth adorning my clouded route
home. Roughly textured skin of night confined
my skin; however, the small trestles built
from earth to hidden light behind the moon
guide me to her in sleep. Her petals lilt
toward my lap, hold me until the room
becomes a slowing top. They fall the way
she falls. The dark blends calmly into gray.
Sanguine in name onlyangre de cristoSanguine in name only3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
bruises things I touch
purples them in spring
when my fire sounds
lilac in fury
it is enough
to push the angry
the fire poppies
into a future sea
Against Nature"Mommy!" The call shatters the peace I fumble to carry like a bell in an abandoned cathedral. I can't stop myself from looking for the little girl whose voice pierces my heart.Against Nature3 years ago in Sketches More Like This
I can't find her. The park is full of children - too full. Shrieks bleed with laughter, buried under the heavy pounding near my temples. Children push against me, protesting as I rush by. Heads raise as nearby adults track me with wary eyes. They see a frantic parent searching for her child, but no amount of sympathy inspires them to do more. The sharp tang of fear burns; no matter how quick I am or how many times I search the colorful maze of jungle gyms, I can't find her.
It's faster to work around the crowd, but now trees block my path. Shadows peek from behind towering trunks, giggling at my misfortune. It's hard to remember if the voice was panicked when she called for me or if I had imagined it. Am I wrong?
A familiar sound stops me. The giggles I hear belon
Such Bitter Hatred...Anger.Such Bitter Hatred...6 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
A steady beat of rising anger.
It was almost as though the primal beat of Zebes' molten heart had fractured, had split, and was slowly but surely making its way up. Devouring all within its path and leaving nothing but fiery caves and volcanic vents; sulphur laden air and a wavering miasma of pure hatred.
Norfair was angry.
And the Hunter did not blame it. She had often wondered if a planet could have emotion. If a compacted ball of rock and mineral floating in its predetermined course around a central star in the dark reaches of space could develop a sort of sentience of its own. Norfair had never been this active, she knew. Not until the Chozo had left. Not until the Pirates had come. Not until the once peaceful twisting maze of alien architecture had been twisted into a technological hotbed of experimentation and abuse. Just as Maridia encompassed Zebes' sadness and Brinstar its abundance of life, still scrabbling for purchase; just as Crateria showcased its desolation and th
The Journal CHP 2 - SP Fan FicChapter Two Keeping SecretsThe Journal CHP 2 - SP Fan Fic4 years ago in Drama More Like This
Hell's Pass Hospital situated far from South Park and nestled back in the mountains had never appeared more cold and uninviting to Kyle. The walls white and glaring closed in on all sides. The doctors and nurses scurrying about the long, empty hallways appeared like ants bustling to and from their work caring little about the short redheaded teen who sat curled in upon himself alone in a stiff plastic chair.
Sitting outside Eric Cartman's hospital room, Kyle stared down at his homework journal. The pages wrinkled and bent as they dried from the snow. Not remembering when he had dropped the book, an officer on the scene had retrieved the item and returned it to the redhead.
Out at Stark's Pond the ambulance had arrived almost the moment Kyle had shut off his cell phone. The boy had crawled back up the snowy bank and huddled next to Cartman's unconscious form. Kyle was glad that the waiting had been brief. The minute the police and medics appeared at th
The Journal CHP 5 - SP Fan FicChapter Five Makes Us SomethingThe Journal CHP 5 - SP Fan Fic4 years ago in Drama More Like This
Kyle sat on the top most step of the Marsh's staircase. Below him in the living room sat his parents with Stan's mother and father. Stan was in the bathroom down the hall, puking up his dinner for what seemed to be the fifth time that evening. Shame, Kyle thought to himself, Mrs. Marsh's fried chicken had been pretty good that night. The redhead propped his chin in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. A few seconds later Stan emerged from the bathroom and flopped down beside his boyfriend. The two gave the other a sideways glance. Stan wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Kyle raised an eyebrow.
"Well, ready to do this?" Stan whispered.
Kyle's hand found Stan's. The redhead squeezed it tight. He stood up, pulling the other boy with him. They eyed the staircase before them, listening to the small talk of their parents drift from the living room. Mrs. Broflovski's nasally voice boomed above the rest. Stan shifted in place when he hear