Friday, April 29, 2011
Wax paper.. Continued..chapter 2..
This story hasn't vanished! It's now available for purchase at Amazon.com at the Kindle store (7, 2011) in the book: Llothcat's Fictional Portal, by Debra Colvin. You don't even need a Kindle device to download the book, as you can download the free program to any pc. I happen to have the free application on my blackberry phone. Any questions, comments,etc.can be e-mailed to directly at: llothcat@sbcglobal.net
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Another bad poem
A/n: Just sick tonight--
Soft kitty warm kitty
Little ball of fur
Pouncing on a bug chomping
Purr
Purr
Purr
Sent via Blackhole
Soft kitty warm kitty
Little ball of fur
Pouncing on a bug chomping
Purr
Purr
Purr
Sent via Blackhole
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
burst of wind...
A/n: eh... i know i know... this one's reaching a bit. they can't all be winners...:P
---ooo---
Quinn gripped the wheel and swerved as a stray cow flew across the van's path.
"...did you see that..?" she barely heard above the wind's roar. She spared a glance to Joe. He sat in the passenger seat, and she knew he had to have yelled.
"..it's a f 5..!!" she yelled back, barely hearing her own voice.
"...it's huge!!"
She eyed the width of the swirling debris, and how it seemed to dwarf the local stadium it was passing by. The corners of her mouth pulled downwards as she thought of the people. She then squeezed her eyes shut tight for a moment, took in a deep breath, and looked at the monster funnel cloud once again.
This was something she never spoke of, but for the town, her home, she had to try. She trusted in the faint whiskers of raging power she felt huming in her bones, surely caused by the thrum of the storm. The hairs rose up at the back of her neck, but she forced her awareness to expand further than the accepted norm. Liquid light, flowing over and through the land, sparkled up her spine first, fresh and new and old all at once. The cycle of life, the very song of creation, rung soundly just out of her range.
Quinn smiled widely as she watched the dancing wind spirt. She could see it plainly in the very center of the flying debris, arcing and leaping as gracefully as any salamader would within a fire. It swirled about with grace and power, and if asked she would never be able to describe it in words. It looked over at her, and widened its eyes. Then adjusted it's dance. She took in a breath and swore in to the roar that filled the van. It looked as though the tornado lurched towards the van.. towards her.
Of course its curious just what the hell you are!! Stupid stupid. If you can see them, that must mean they can see you. It's never seen a human in its life!! And its life only lasts until the end of the storm..!
She startled as she felt a meaty hand on her shoulder. She looked over at Joe, and saw him pointing at a low structure that the river of life flowed over. Ah, she thought. A bridge. And nodded her understanding, and pressed down harder on the gas pedal.
She glanced back at the spirit. That a thing made of wind could have eyes was surprising enough, she vaguely wondered if it had ears too. With some effort, she tore her eyes away from the obviously joyful creature, away from the towering spiral of chaos kicked up by the furious winds of its passing, and back to the road before her.
"Please," she said and swallowed. She had to choose her words carefully. She knew the stories. An offering would be expected, some sort boon, a gift.. just something had to be exchanged for the town's safety. What could she offer though, that would satisfy such a creature?
She saw the answer in the local bid of energy independence, standing tall and churning here and there in the hills. The giant white eyesores the enviromentalists in the local college recently declared they desperately needed to tear down for fear of their negative effects on the migrant bird population.
"..you dance so beautifully." she said. "but if you go much further, you will destroy your biggest fans."
---ooo---
Quinn gripped the wheel and swerved as a stray cow flew across the van's path.
"...did you see that..?" she barely heard above the wind's roar. She spared a glance to Joe. He sat in the passenger seat, and she knew he had to have yelled.
"..it's a f 5..!!" she yelled back, barely hearing her own voice.
"...it's huge!!"
She eyed the width of the swirling debris, and how it seemed to dwarf the local stadium it was passing by. The corners of her mouth pulled downwards as she thought of the people. She then squeezed her eyes shut tight for a moment, took in a deep breath, and looked at the monster funnel cloud once again.
This was something she never spoke of, but for the town, her home, she had to try. She trusted in the faint whiskers of raging power she felt huming in her bones, surely caused by the thrum of the storm. The hairs rose up at the back of her neck, but she forced her awareness to expand further than the accepted norm. Liquid light, flowing over and through the land, sparkled up her spine first, fresh and new and old all at once. The cycle of life, the very song of creation, rung soundly just out of her range.
Quinn smiled widely as she watched the dancing wind spirt. She could see it plainly in the very center of the flying debris, arcing and leaping as gracefully as any salamader would within a fire. It swirled about with grace and power, and if asked she would never be able to describe it in words. It looked over at her, and widened its eyes. Then adjusted it's dance. She took in a breath and swore in to the roar that filled the van. It looked as though the tornado lurched towards the van.. towards her.
Of course its curious just what the hell you are!! Stupid stupid. If you can see them, that must mean they can see you. It's never seen a human in its life!! And its life only lasts until the end of the storm..!
She startled as she felt a meaty hand on her shoulder. She looked over at Joe, and saw him pointing at a low structure that the river of life flowed over. Ah, she thought. A bridge. And nodded her understanding, and pressed down harder on the gas pedal.
She glanced back at the spirit. That a thing made of wind could have eyes was surprising enough, she vaguely wondered if it had ears too. With some effort, she tore her eyes away from the obviously joyful creature, away from the towering spiral of chaos kicked up by the furious winds of its passing, and back to the road before her.
"Please," she said and swallowed. She had to choose her words carefully. She knew the stories. An offering would be expected, some sort boon, a gift.. just something had to be exchanged for the town's safety. What could she offer though, that would satisfy such a creature?
She saw the answer in the local bid of energy independence, standing tall and churning here and there in the hills. The giant white eyesores the enviromentalists in the local college recently declared they desperately needed to tear down for fear of their negative effects on the migrant bird population.
"..you dance so beautifully." she said. "but if you go much further, you will destroy your biggest fans."
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
tuesday poetry
a/n:bad poetry night once again...! regarding an event in my life whichi will likely be explored in prose another time..
---ooo--
sinuses knawing on my skull
I try so hard not to seem so dull
to all my loyal constituents
of the California senate
I cut funds,
the deparment i hate
one, kevin luke, cps,
I say, deserved his fate
his position cut
his election lost
transferred he was
to the local post
oh it was tragic
and a little bit sad
the rotweiller munching his leg
didn't think he tasted bad
---ooo--
sinuses knawing on my skull
I try so hard not to seem so dull
to all my loyal constituents
of the California senate
I cut funds,
the deparment i hate
one, kevin luke, cps,
I say, deserved his fate
his position cut
his election lost
transferred he was
to the local post
oh it was tragic
and a little bit sad
the rotweiller munching his leg
didn't think he tasted bad
Monday, April 25, 2011
quick...! zombies..!
A/n: In honor of a few things that recently happened-- "zombie jesus day" the fertilizer my friend uncovered in the garage, and my own personal pride of an accomplishment-- all poured into my tired brain and mixed thoroughly.
--oo--
At any other time Mark would have left the old mess alone, but he figured this was an emergency. Mark had no intention of becoming the revived Smith family's next meal.
The old 250 motorcycle sat dully by the rusty container, and Mark quickly found the back tire balding but servicable. The tubes for the gas and brakes fluid were in reasonable condition, and inspite of the clinging clusters of spider nest throughout the chassy, the various vacuum tubes sported no visible cracks.
He turned the cap of the gas tank, and judged the fuel as this side of good. The only problem remained was the pathetic, empty skeleton of the front forks.
Old man Smith was lazy, Mark thought as he gazed at the block box. Maybe he put inside?
The metal door creaked dangerously loud in protest, but it couldn't be helped. Mark frowned and swept his eyes over the various piles, vaguely recalling where the old man had last placed the spare tire he desperately needed.
Palm tree fertilizer. Zombie plague. There has to be. A connection. Mark thought darkly as he regarded the great pile of brightly colored plastic bags. They were stacked neatly in the very back and reached the ceiling, easily towering over the white porcelin dog lamp missing the shade and the pile of discarded encylopedas from 1932.
He quickly found a pile that looked to be mostly "mechanic" things, blocked in by blocky metal tins filled with some mysterious pungent liquid. Mark reached his arms into the back of the pile of rotting newpaper, and felt something round in shape back against the uneven wall. His gloves brushed against a rough surface which reminded him of alligator skin. He wiggled his fingers beneath the promising smoothness of spokes, and yanked the spare free.
To his dismay.. It was not only bald high on the left side, but completely flat. He heard a creak of the metal door behind him, folloed by the shambling sort of footstep the no longer living made.
"Fukk." He breathed, and looked over his shoulder. He gripped the tire firmly and rose to his feet. "I'm fukked..."
Sent via Blackhole
--oo--
At any other time Mark would have left the old mess alone, but he figured this was an emergency. Mark had no intention of becoming the revived Smith family's next meal.
The old 250 motorcycle sat dully by the rusty container, and Mark quickly found the back tire balding but servicable. The tubes for the gas and brakes fluid were in reasonable condition, and inspite of the clinging clusters of spider nest throughout the chassy, the various vacuum tubes sported no visible cracks.
He turned the cap of the gas tank, and judged the fuel as this side of good. The only problem remained was the pathetic, empty skeleton of the front forks.
Old man Smith was lazy, Mark thought as he gazed at the block box. Maybe he put inside?
The metal door creaked dangerously loud in protest, but it couldn't be helped. Mark frowned and swept his eyes over the various piles, vaguely recalling where the old man had last placed the spare tire he desperately needed.
Palm tree fertilizer. Zombie plague. There has to be. A connection. Mark thought darkly as he regarded the great pile of brightly colored plastic bags. They were stacked neatly in the very back and reached the ceiling, easily towering over the white porcelin dog lamp missing the shade and the pile of discarded encylopedas from 1932.
He quickly found a pile that looked to be mostly "mechanic" things, blocked in by blocky metal tins filled with some mysterious pungent liquid. Mark reached his arms into the back of the pile of rotting newpaper, and felt something round in shape back against the uneven wall. His gloves brushed against a rough surface which reminded him of alligator skin. He wiggled his fingers beneath the promising smoothness of spokes, and yanked the spare free.
To his dismay.. It was not only bald high on the left side, but completely flat. He heard a creak of the metal door behind him, folloed by the shambling sort of footstep the no longer living made.
"Fukk." He breathed, and looked over his shoulder. He gripped the tire firmly and rose to his feet. "I'm fukked..."
Sent via Blackhole
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Fma-naruto crossover..chapter four cont..
Icy fingers brush down his arms and tapdance down his spine. He repeats a series of numbers in his head, followed by names that form the basis of all reality.
Twenty. Calcium...twenty steps. Ed shivers, feeling the sweat dribbling down like tears on his cheek.
Twenty one. Scandium..steps..of alchemy... He clutches the dull brown tunic he wears a little tighter about his body. He blinks the stabbing brightness away from within the folds of his stolen--no, borrowed-- headpiece. First step..Understanding..
A little girl, feet bare skin, quickly dances her way across his path in into the shade provided by a smooth round awning. The shrill cries of a colicy baby in a cooing mother's bare arms. Round buildings like sculpted beehives.
A desert. He's in a desert, and dully aware that he shouldn't be this cold, shivering on such an obviously warm day, in a place filled with hot sand that he can feel beneath the thin layers of cloth wrapping his right sole.
He gasps as his shoulder roughly brushes the sandstone wall on his right, and suddenly numb fingers drop the cloth. Funny bone, he thinks, as he looks down and flexes his unfeeling fingers. It's oddly comforting to not feel them. I wonder why? He places his hand against the friendly warm wall, and pushes himself more upright.
Thirty four.
Thirty five..
It's far easiler to make his way with his hand there to steady him, and he glances about once more, curious.
This place is utterly unfamiliar-- from the people to the style of buildings to the very smell of the street food sizzling in the air.
He senses rather than sees movement along the arcing towering wall across the way, and by instinct darts his eyes at the slight movement. He expects a chance observation-- the passing flight a strange bird, or perhaps even a variety of cat he has never seen leaping upon its chosen prey..
(Oh how his Al would love the soft purrs of a cat!!)
He widens his eyes in alarm at the unexpected shape of the dark shadow splayed against the blazing orange of the distant rock: Outstretched arms well behind the upright torso held aloft by pumping legs.
Eyes locked to the increadable sight of a person blithely running UP the distant great wall, his heart pounds against his ribs when he sees a glint of metal on the tiny forehead.
Ed stumbles forward hurriedly and scrambles around the rounding wall. His unfeeling left foot slips on a rolling something he somehow knows is glass, and his legs give way from beneath him. He tumbles hard, breathless, landing soldily on his back.
Head pounding in time with his racing heart, he sees more of the headbanded people-- this time slowly WALKING up a nearby round building.
His pride balks at the strewn refuse about him, but he drags himself behind the scant shelter from view offered. He hears the wafting of their voices, and, by they way they gesture in his fleeting glimpses of the pair, he concludes they are in deep discussion over something. Since there are no shouts or grabbing hand directed his way, he breathes out a breath that its something that is not him.
"What the shit.. Kind of alchemy...?" He mutters, pulling up his legs to his chest. Or is it alchemy at all? The thought winds its way through his pounding skull, and in time he owlishly watches more people wander up and down the round walls as though it was a completely natural form of travel.
"Am I in Xing..?"
Sent via Blackhole
Twenty. Calcium...twenty steps. Ed shivers, feeling the sweat dribbling down like tears on his cheek.
Twenty one. Scandium..steps..of alchemy... He clutches the dull brown tunic he wears a little tighter about his body. He blinks the stabbing brightness away from within the folds of his stolen--no, borrowed-- headpiece. First step..Understanding..
A little girl, feet bare skin, quickly dances her way across his path in into the shade provided by a smooth round awning. The shrill cries of a colicy baby in a cooing mother's bare arms. Round buildings like sculpted beehives.
A desert. He's in a desert, and dully aware that he shouldn't be this cold, shivering on such an obviously warm day, in a place filled with hot sand that he can feel beneath the thin layers of cloth wrapping his right sole.
He gasps as his shoulder roughly brushes the sandstone wall on his right, and suddenly numb fingers drop the cloth. Funny bone, he thinks, as he looks down and flexes his unfeeling fingers. It's oddly comforting to not feel them. I wonder why? He places his hand against the friendly warm wall, and pushes himself more upright.
Thirty four.
Thirty five..
It's far easiler to make his way with his hand there to steady him, and he glances about once more, curious.
This place is utterly unfamiliar-- from the people to the style of buildings to the very smell of the street food sizzling in the air.
He senses rather than sees movement along the arcing towering wall across the way, and by instinct darts his eyes at the slight movement. He expects a chance observation-- the passing flight a strange bird, or perhaps even a variety of cat he has never seen leaping upon its chosen prey..
(Oh how his Al would love the soft purrs of a cat!!)
He widens his eyes in alarm at the unexpected shape of the dark shadow splayed against the blazing orange of the distant rock: Outstretched arms well behind the upright torso held aloft by pumping legs.
Eyes locked to the increadable sight of a person blithely running UP the distant great wall, his heart pounds against his ribs when he sees a glint of metal on the tiny forehead.
Ed stumbles forward hurriedly and scrambles around the rounding wall. His unfeeling left foot slips on a rolling something he somehow knows is glass, and his legs give way from beneath him. He tumbles hard, breathless, landing soldily on his back.
Head pounding in time with his racing heart, he sees more of the headbanded people-- this time slowly WALKING up a nearby round building.
His pride balks at the strewn refuse about him, but he drags himself behind the scant shelter from view offered. He hears the wafting of their voices, and, by they way they gesture in his fleeting glimpses of the pair, he concludes they are in deep discussion over something. Since there are no shouts or grabbing hand directed his way, he breathes out a breath that its something that is not him.
"What the shit.. Kind of alchemy...?" He mutters, pulling up his legs to his chest. Or is it alchemy at all? The thought winds its way through his pounding skull, and in time he owlishly watches more people wander up and down the round walls as though it was a completely natural form of travel.
"Am I in Xing..?"
Sent via Blackhole
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Fma-naruto crossover, chapter four
Ed cracks the door open, and let his gaze sweep the hall beyond. He coolly observes the ebb and flow of people dressed in shades of tan and brown clustering here and there within his limited range of vision. He notes a great many gather about what looks to be a desk at the end.
He widens his eyes at weird headbands upon the foreheads of those suddenly rounding the corner, and eases himself back into the closet. A few heartbeats later, he hears the rustle of paper and catches a bare glimpse of rather hurried strides. He lets out a breath.
Good. He thinks. They didn't notice me.
He swallows his bile and tastes a supremely awful flavor. He makes a face. His mind helpfully supplies that the nastiness in his mouth is from one thing. He wrinkles his nose and reasons that the tube in his nose had to have been filled with the stuff, especially if he hadn't been eating for a while. It's only logical, he thinks. Feed someone milk when they've been starved.
But... Cow juice?!? They fed me cow juice for how long..?!?
He spits the flavor out and shudders, roughly pushing the thought away as too nasty to think about. He then leans the back of his head back to rest on the wall, and winces at the painful complaint of his many wounds.
The sound of metal shattering to a hallow nothing where he feels the very real solidness of his right arm fills his ears with a ghostly whisper. He flexes his right hand and feels his nails bite into his palm over and over. Faint visions of unkind metal rods sticking through his left biceps follow, and he finds he can't breathe. As though he is pinned down, his heart flutters, then pounds in his chest, and he longs to just--move!
He takes in a startled breath at the phantom sensation of the stabbing, restraining, pain, and with a feral growl, pushes his arms free away from the flat surface at his back.
He stumbles, kicking a metal pail with an unfeeling left toe. The empty container clangs noisily against the wall, and in his panic, he backpedals past the unresisting door.
Stunned at his own stupidity, he barely manages to stay upright on his wobbly legs in the hall. He peers about its brightness with hunched shoulders. He sees startled eyes rising to meet his. The one behind the desk only lifts his gaze slightly before taking another sheet from a great pile set before him and looking to the group standing there with a blithely bored expression on his face.
He glances at his unfeeling left leg, searching the dead limb for any hint of the shine of metal through the bloody bandages. Finding none, one corner of his mouth rises.
"Bakka."
He stiffens at the venom of the tone more than the unfamiliar word.
He darts his eyes to the voice and sees a girl sitting on a bench. Her dark eyes flare coldly as she folds her arms, and she leans back against the bench. He's watching her familiar mouth frown, allows his shoulders to relax slightly. His mind supplies a name for her, and he narrows his eyes as he tilts his head.
"Sheska..?"
She says something he can't decipher-- Quite a lot of something actually, said in a hushed angry whisper. He thins his lips in a brief friendly gesture and slides eyes across the weird headband tied at her neck, and feels ice wrap about his stomach. He shakes his head slightly at the nonsense filling his ears, and raises a clumsy hand to his head to adjust the draping head piece he had found in the closet back over his scalp. He breathes in, getting a noseful of the alcoholic reek soaking his own garments.
"Matsuri desu..!" She finished at last in a hiss, and he turned his attention back to the girl. He shrugs and waves a hand over his shoulder as he turns.
He is awarded with an immediate unladylike snort. By the corner of his eye, he saw the girl turn her head away and return her attention to the papers on her lap.
Satisfied with the strength of his disguise, he raises his eyes and reads the scribbles at the top of the arch down the hall. With a lurching sort of stumble worthy of a drunkard, he makes his way to the promising warmth beyond the egress.
---ooo--
Matsuri grumbles to herself in irritation, scratching the pen hard against the visitation papers as she wrinkles her nose in disgust. She watched the weaving strides of the departing blond. Not only was the boy obviously staggering about, but his forehead protector cloth wasn't even folded properly. Instead, it was stupidly draped over the boy's head, nearly obscuring a loosely bound, long blond pony-tail.
The nerve of some nins, she thinks, falling into the vices at so young an age!
Finally, the last of the forms filled in, she rises to her feet with a great cleansing breath.
"Can't be helped. I suppose there's no man like Lord Gaara." She says softly in admiration of her teacher.
She dutifully hands the forms to the med-nin at the desk as the need to report the drunkard burns hot in her belly. She schools her face into a polite smile, putting a tight reign on her raging emotions. She knew the med-nin didn't want to deal with her irate mood, and besides, she is here to cheer up her injured friend with a surprise visit.
"What room is Sari in?" She asks.
"Room 156" comes the reply.
"Thanks."
She is halfway down the hall when she realizes she can't really place where she has seen the offensive drunkard nin before. Matsuri well knew that Hidden Sand is not that big of a place, having lived within it all of her short life. She certainly had not met all the nins residing in the village personally, as she is only a genin, but she is sure knows the boy somehow. She puzzles over the enigma, mind turning in slow circles which revolve about the boy's briefly seen, yet distinctive features.
A step away from her recovering comrade's door, she stops with a sudden burst clarity. She takes in a sharp breath as she turns to look over her shoulder, back to where the drunkard had gone.
"Golden irises.. " She breathes. "He had golden irises...!"
Sent via Blackhole
He widens his eyes at weird headbands upon the foreheads of those suddenly rounding the corner, and eases himself back into the closet. A few heartbeats later, he hears the rustle of paper and catches a bare glimpse of rather hurried strides. He lets out a breath.
Good. He thinks. They didn't notice me.
He swallows his bile and tastes a supremely awful flavor. He makes a face. His mind helpfully supplies that the nastiness in his mouth is from one thing. He wrinkles his nose and reasons that the tube in his nose had to have been filled with the stuff, especially if he hadn't been eating for a while. It's only logical, he thinks. Feed someone milk when they've been starved.
But... Cow juice?!? They fed me cow juice for how long..?!?
He spits the flavor out and shudders, roughly pushing the thought away as too nasty to think about. He then leans the back of his head back to rest on the wall, and winces at the painful complaint of his many wounds.
The sound of metal shattering to a hallow nothing where he feels the very real solidness of his right arm fills his ears with a ghostly whisper. He flexes his right hand and feels his nails bite into his palm over and over. Faint visions of unkind metal rods sticking through his left biceps follow, and he finds he can't breathe. As though he is pinned down, his heart flutters, then pounds in his chest, and he longs to just--move!
He takes in a startled breath at the phantom sensation of the stabbing, restraining, pain, and with a feral growl, pushes his arms free away from the flat surface at his back.
He stumbles, kicking a metal pail with an unfeeling left toe. The empty container clangs noisily against the wall, and in his panic, he backpedals past the unresisting door.
Stunned at his own stupidity, he barely manages to stay upright on his wobbly legs in the hall. He peers about its brightness with hunched shoulders. He sees startled eyes rising to meet his. The one behind the desk only lifts his gaze slightly before taking another sheet from a great pile set before him and looking to the group standing there with a blithely bored expression on his face.
He glances at his unfeeling left leg, searching the dead limb for any hint of the shine of metal through the bloody bandages. Finding none, one corner of his mouth rises.
"Bakka."
He stiffens at the venom of the tone more than the unfamiliar word.
He darts his eyes to the voice and sees a girl sitting on a bench. Her dark eyes flare coldly as she folds her arms, and she leans back against the bench. He's watching her familiar mouth frown, allows his shoulders to relax slightly. His mind supplies a name for her, and he narrows his eyes as he tilts his head.
"Sheska..?"
She says something he can't decipher-- Quite a lot of something actually, said in a hushed angry whisper. He thins his lips in a brief friendly gesture and slides eyes across the weird headband tied at her neck, and feels ice wrap about his stomach. He shakes his head slightly at the nonsense filling his ears, and raises a clumsy hand to his head to adjust the draping head piece he had found in the closet back over his scalp. He breathes in, getting a noseful of the alcoholic reek soaking his own garments.
"Matsuri desu..!" She finished at last in a hiss, and he turned his attention back to the girl. He shrugs and waves a hand over his shoulder as he turns.
He is awarded with an immediate unladylike snort. By the corner of his eye, he saw the girl turn her head away and return her attention to the papers on her lap.
Satisfied with the strength of his disguise, he raises his eyes and reads the scribbles at the top of the arch down the hall. With a lurching sort of stumble worthy of a drunkard, he makes his way to the promising warmth beyond the egress.
---ooo--
Matsuri grumbles to herself in irritation, scratching the pen hard against the visitation papers as she wrinkles her nose in disgust. She watched the weaving strides of the departing blond. Not only was the boy obviously staggering about, but his forehead protector cloth wasn't even folded properly. Instead, it was stupidly draped over the boy's head, nearly obscuring a loosely bound, long blond pony-tail.
The nerve of some nins, she thinks, falling into the vices at so young an age!
Finally, the last of the forms filled in, she rises to her feet with a great cleansing breath.
"Can't be helped. I suppose there's no man like Lord Gaara." She says softly in admiration of her teacher.
She dutifully hands the forms to the med-nin at the desk as the need to report the drunkard burns hot in her belly. She schools her face into a polite smile, putting a tight reign on her raging emotions. She knew the med-nin didn't want to deal with her irate mood, and besides, she is here to cheer up her injured friend with a surprise visit.
"What room is Sari in?" She asks.
"Room 156" comes the reply.
"Thanks."
She is halfway down the hall when she realizes she can't really place where she has seen the offensive drunkard nin before. Matsuri well knew that Hidden Sand is not that big of a place, having lived within it all of her short life. She certainly had not met all the nins residing in the village personally, as she is only a genin, but she is sure knows the boy somehow. She puzzles over the enigma, mind turning in slow circles which revolve about the boy's briefly seen, yet distinctive features.
A step away from her recovering comrade's door, she stops with a sudden burst clarity. She takes in a sharp breath as she turns to look over her shoulder, back to where the drunkard had gone.
"Golden irises.. " She breathes. "He had golden irises...!"
Sent via Blackhole
Friday, April 22, 2011
Clang..! Continued..part 6
A/n: felt bad about leaving ms jones and chief smith wandering in the dark. So I set aside the "wax paper" piece in favor of updating their little adventure.
--oo--
"You said there are others...more..?" She heard herself say.
Chief Smith sucked in a cheek.
"Ye--ap." He scowled as he looked to the floor. "They..uh.. ain't all, y'know. Like us. Promise me not to stab anyone..?"
Her hands felt too empty, and she flicked her eyes about the ground. As swiftly as she visually swept the broken concrete, a fluttering butterfly of sheer panic quickened her pulse. The precious knife was not where she could easily see, and with a horrible realization she was certain her only defense had utterly vanished. She stared off beyond the beast to the familiar broken wall, and thought that the darkness never felt so heavy. Worse, she suspected that some rather sharp and unpleasant teeth were hidden within its all concealing folds.
She was getting nowhere this way, she knew, and took in a stuttering breath. A heartbeat passed. Perhaps two. The chief had been here longer, she reasoned, and slowly, the fluttering butterfly in her chest stilled.
Cecilia swallowed, and climbed to her feet. She tore her eyes from the quivering whimpering beast before her and looked to Chief Smith as she fisted her empty hands and frowned.
"As long as none of 'em crushes me beneath them, then yeah." She said tightly. "Deal?"
He narrowed his eyes as he watched her. Then tilted his head towards the looming darkness.
"Come on then. I'll introduce ya."
Sent via Blackhole
--oo--
"You said there are others...more..?" She heard herself say.
Chief Smith sucked in a cheek.
"Ye--ap." He scowled as he looked to the floor. "They..uh.. ain't all, y'know. Like us. Promise me not to stab anyone..?"
Her hands felt too empty, and she flicked her eyes about the ground. As swiftly as she visually swept the broken concrete, a fluttering butterfly of sheer panic quickened her pulse. The precious knife was not where she could easily see, and with a horrible realization she was certain her only defense had utterly vanished. She stared off beyond the beast to the familiar broken wall, and thought that the darkness never felt so heavy. Worse, she suspected that some rather sharp and unpleasant teeth were hidden within its all concealing folds.
She was getting nowhere this way, she knew, and took in a stuttering breath. A heartbeat passed. Perhaps two. The chief had been here longer, she reasoned, and slowly, the fluttering butterfly in her chest stilled.
Cecilia swallowed, and climbed to her feet. She tore her eyes from the quivering whimpering beast before her and looked to Chief Smith as she fisted her empty hands and frowned.
"As long as none of 'em crushes me beneath them, then yeah." She said tightly. "Deal?"
He narrowed his eyes as he watched her. Then tilted his head towards the looming darkness.
"Come on then. I'll introduce ya."
Sent via Blackhole
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Wax paper..
This story hasn't vanished! It's now available for purchase at Amazon.com at the Kindle store (7, 2011) in the book: Llothcat's Fictional Portal, by Debra Colvin. You don't even need a Kindle device to download the book, as you can download the free program to any pc. I happen to have the free application on my blackberry phone. Any questions, comments,etc.can be e-mailed to directly at: llothcat@sbcglobal.net
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Regarding "Paw" the cat
a/n: today is tuesday...which means it's--bad poetry night!!!
---ooo---
Regarding "Paw" the cat
--oo--
a ball in white fur
far back the room
raises its globular,
bloated dome.
spindily weak legs
bones jut paper skin,
yellow orange drool,
hauches too thin
rotting teeth, green slime,
yowling wail of doom
stench of foul pus
not long for the tome.
---ooo---
Regarding "Paw" the cat
--oo--
a ball in white fur
far back the room
raises its globular,
bloated dome.
spindily weak legs
bones jut paper skin,
yellow orange drool,
hauches too thin
rotting teeth, green slime,
yowling wail of doom
stench of foul pus
not long for the tome.
Monday, April 18, 2011
In the company of..
A/N: I am often asked why I work graveyard shifts. Trying to capture an event that actually happened.
--oo--
"Anything new..?" Mike called out towards the departing shadowy figure he knew had to be the previous shift.
"Nope, same old same old." Came the reply before the metallic slam. A screeching rumble began the awakening rumble of the engine.
Mike vaguely waves in imitation of a friendly neighbor. The blinding flash of the headlights turns away, and the red taillights soon vanish. Tires crunch noisily along down the lonely gravel road, but fade before long at all.
"Ok.."
For not the first time, Mike clunks his way into the tiny circle of golden light by the door, and breaths in the coolness of the night. He eyes the great swaths of peeling flakes of questionable color on the squares of the windowsills, the proud but sagging portal of a barren wooden door, and finally, the many carded boxes thrown haphazardly about the sole thing that could be remotely considered a piece of furniture.
The ancient planks of the old bench on the porch creak their whining complaints, but the seat holds his weight well enough. Rough veins of wood scratch against the calloused pads of his palms, and he eases himself back. He decides that it is not a comfortable perch, but it will serve for the duration.
He takes in wind and lets his eyes roam watchfully into the surrounding shadows. He pick out up lighted greenery of trees in the enveloping shadows, and he knows from experience it is from the previous guard's car as it makes it way to the highway further along the dirt patch that serves as a road. It was unmarked, and he recalls that almost missed it on the way here.
He hears a chirp of something, so tentative, and Mike is careful to keep still. The rising song of the night bugs begin once the last tree has been swallowed by inky darkness. He slowly leans his elbows onto his knees, and let's his lips thin.
A faint rustling in the distance tickles his ears, and Mike raises his useless gaze. He sees a glowing of innumerable red pinpoints, low to the ground, and holds his breath. This is new. This is new. He thinks, and fingers the nearest box nervously as he hopes those many eyes are not, say, hungry foxes or starving coyotes. He knows cardboard makes a lousy weapon, crumpling in rather than causing harm; however, it feels far better to hold than the tiny blue plastic pen in his hands.
The brightest pair, like of red buttons, emerge from the gloom.
A pop, a hop. A drag of long haunches. Tiny noses incessantly wiggle, testing the air for any danger. Pink, not red, eyes seek the shine above him with a bare tilt of their fuzzy brownish heads that sport twin long ears.
Mike slowly raises his hand from the cardboard in wonder, watching them in careful silence. He knows his mistake when the family of rabbits freeze. With the slight movement, the fragile spell of rodental caution is broken like so much glass.
As one, they all swim back into the black from which they came, leaping and bounding nearly joyfully. A few skirt the halo of dim light in their panic, but scramble away just the same.
Mike grins, and chuckles. He knows he is far from alone on this watch now. Before long, he begins his report, and dull scratching of the paper blends with the music of the night.
Sent via Blackhole
--oo--
"Anything new..?" Mike called out towards the departing shadowy figure he knew had to be the previous shift.
"Nope, same old same old." Came the reply before the metallic slam. A screeching rumble began the awakening rumble of the engine.
Mike vaguely waves in imitation of a friendly neighbor. The blinding flash of the headlights turns away, and the red taillights soon vanish. Tires crunch noisily along down the lonely gravel road, but fade before long at all.
"Ok.."
For not the first time, Mike clunks his way into the tiny circle of golden light by the door, and breaths in the coolness of the night. He eyes the great swaths of peeling flakes of questionable color on the squares of the windowsills, the proud but sagging portal of a barren wooden door, and finally, the many carded boxes thrown haphazardly about the sole thing that could be remotely considered a piece of furniture.
The ancient planks of the old bench on the porch creak their whining complaints, but the seat holds his weight well enough. Rough veins of wood scratch against the calloused pads of his palms, and he eases himself back. He decides that it is not a comfortable perch, but it will serve for the duration.
He takes in wind and lets his eyes roam watchfully into the surrounding shadows. He pick out up lighted greenery of trees in the enveloping shadows, and he knows from experience it is from the previous guard's car as it makes it way to the highway further along the dirt patch that serves as a road. It was unmarked, and he recalls that almost missed it on the way here.
He hears a chirp of something, so tentative, and Mike is careful to keep still. The rising song of the night bugs begin once the last tree has been swallowed by inky darkness. He slowly leans his elbows onto his knees, and let's his lips thin.
A faint rustling in the distance tickles his ears, and Mike raises his useless gaze. He sees a glowing of innumerable red pinpoints, low to the ground, and holds his breath. This is new. This is new. He thinks, and fingers the nearest box nervously as he hopes those many eyes are not, say, hungry foxes or starving coyotes. He knows cardboard makes a lousy weapon, crumpling in rather than causing harm; however, it feels far better to hold than the tiny blue plastic pen in his hands.
The brightest pair, like of red buttons, emerge from the gloom.
A pop, a hop. A drag of long haunches. Tiny noses incessantly wiggle, testing the air for any danger. Pink, not red, eyes seek the shine above him with a bare tilt of their fuzzy brownish heads that sport twin long ears.
Mike slowly raises his hand from the cardboard in wonder, watching them in careful silence. He knows his mistake when the family of rabbits freeze. With the slight movement, the fragile spell of rodental caution is broken like so much glass.
As one, they all swim back into the black from which they came, leaping and bounding nearly joyfully. A few skirt the halo of dim light in their panic, but scramble away just the same.
Mike grins, and chuckles. He knows he is far from alone on this watch now. Before long, he begins his report, and dull scratching of the paper blends with the music of the night.
Sent via Blackhole
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Under the influence
A/N: I have no idea where this came from. Maybe I should declare sunday smutty fragment day?
-ooo-
She was first vaguely aware of the downy softness beneath her bare skin, and the sheer feeling of draping fabric over her shoulders. Gentle silvery light warmed and swirled through misty nothing dreams, and gradually, smoothly, the world approached.
Tonight, she knew the moon was full.
Cindy opened her eyes and looked to the far wall of the room. She was utterly unconcerned with the naked back she saw hunched over the desk. She lifted her head from the puffy pillow, and thinned her lips in a wry smile as she watched the intricate play of muscles sliding under the bronzed skin. She realised she had missed such a sight for many week, and her grin widened as the familiar face turned to meet her gaze.
"I'm sorry I ignored you", she said softly, voice rough with sleep, and reached out her hand. He leaned in closer. She saw his nostrils flare as he breathed in her scent, and she devoured the sight of his hungry expression. He was so controlled, face full of concern as he looked her over. On impulse, she boldly arched up and slid her lips over his, greedily stating her every intention.
The pads of her fingers brushed over sensitive nipples, and she heard a needy groan rise deep from his throat.
"Please" she said as she breathed into the nape of his neck.
Sent via Blackhole
-ooo-
She was first vaguely aware of the downy softness beneath her bare skin, and the sheer feeling of draping fabric over her shoulders. Gentle silvery light warmed and swirled through misty nothing dreams, and gradually, smoothly, the world approached.
Tonight, she knew the moon was full.
Cindy opened her eyes and looked to the far wall of the room. She was utterly unconcerned with the naked back she saw hunched over the desk. She lifted her head from the puffy pillow, and thinned her lips in a wry smile as she watched the intricate play of muscles sliding under the bronzed skin. She realised she had missed such a sight for many week, and her grin widened as the familiar face turned to meet her gaze.
"I'm sorry I ignored you", she said softly, voice rough with sleep, and reached out her hand. He leaned in closer. She saw his nostrils flare as he breathed in her scent, and she devoured the sight of his hungry expression. He was so controlled, face full of concern as he looked her over. On impulse, she boldly arched up and slid her lips over his, greedily stating her every intention.
The pads of her fingers brushed over sensitive nipples, and she heard a needy groan rise deep from his throat.
"Please" she said as she breathed into the nape of his neck.
Sent via Blackhole
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Fma-naruto crossover chapter 3
Baki shakes his head in dismay as he reads through the report, then raises his gaze to the genin before him. He keeps his face still, like an unreadable stone, as he watches the young man. Baki can see the sweat beading on the smooth brow as the silence bloats the uncomfortable atmosphere in the room to intolerable levels for the young med-nin currently under hard scrutinty.
"...and then he.. He just melted the wall.." The genin completes, then studies his toes sticking out of his sandles with great interest.
"Sensor nins have been searching the hospital grounds for the small golden one since his medical equipment set off alarms a day ago." One of the council members provides. "He could be out of the village by now."
Baki graces the man with a cursury glance with his one visible eye, but turns his full attention back on the young mednin.
"Is that all..?"
"..um y-yeah."
"Thank you." Baki says firmly. "You may go."
As the council door swings closed with the nin's departure, the incessant buzzing of worried whispers fills the room.
"I've seen the surveilance tapes. It looked like Lord Gaara's sand technique except for all the lightening..." A council member supplies.
"A lightening technique that malipulates sand..?" Baki hears another say incredulously. He chews his bottom lip as he considers the implications of such a notion. None of them are very good.
"So he is a missing nin after all." Baki says gravely, and feels the weight of eyes as the council's attention settles upon him. He allows the silence to stretch a few breaths as he slides his eye about the room, then folds his hands before his chin.
"To be able to combine those two elements, I think perhaps he posesses a kekkei genkai that interested Orichimaru at one time. To have the skill to hide his true chakra amounts so well as to fool even the most experienced med-nin, the boy is obviously a highly skilled nin. Likely a jonin."
"A Sound jonin? I've never heard the like." On council member comments.
"Whatever he is, I for one consider him a huge security risk to the village that we can't afford to have. He needs to be found and detained. Immediately." Another says with a pounding fist on the table.
"What is your decision, acting Kaze-kage?"
Baki rises to his feet and says.
"I will alert the hunter nin."
---ooo--
In an empty heartbeat, Ed starts, and jerks awake. He listens to his own panting breath, and widens his eyes to warm velvety darkness. Slowly, he works out what happened, and finds he is glad he has no eyes on him. No one needs to know that he passed out while in the midst of a dramatic escape.
His stomach knaws his spine and rumbles in displeasure, sending queasy dizziness to his pounding temples as he tries to move within his small... SMALL??.. Not small!!!.. chamber. He created it for himself, he knows. It does not make it small.
Of course you passed out. Idiot. You haven't eaten for..! How long? The answer flutters from his grasp on butterfly wings. How much time has passed anyway?
He wrickles his nose in disgust at himself. Fool! All transmutations take their toll on the body!! What use will you be for.. For...
His spinning thoughts come to an abrupt halt, grasping the name that feels as important.. No.. More important. Than even his very selfhood.
Al. Alphonse. He fists his shaking hands, forcing them to be still. The name tastes sweet on his tongue.
Where is he..?
Where am I?
He mentally kicks himself to his unsteady feet, and breathes in fresh air as he sways. He marvels that he managed to make an airhole before the embarrasing black out. It's within easy reach, as wide as two of his knuckles, and he sees light shining like a small star from it. He holds his breath and presses one of his eyes close to the life-giving opening.
All is still in the room beyond, and he can clearly see a draping cloth hanging from what looks like a hook on a smooth wall. He sniffs in the air experimentally, analysing it carefully for any clues. He exhales his disappointment at the anaseptically clean odor.
Still in that damned hospital, then. Can't do anything right, can I?
With a self deriding snort, he eyes the rooms beyond carefully.
His patience thins as his quivering straining muscles force him to lean on the curve of the rough sandstone ..no ..transmuted.. sandstone wall. He sees no movement in the room, and grits his teeth to steel himself. He has no choice but to chance it, and hopes he doesn't faint from the strain of the reaction this time.
He touches his palms together, and presses his hands against the rough stone. Warmth fills his being, and the bright discharge dances harmlessly up his arms, momentarily blinding him. He holds his breath as he hurriedly blinks away the afterglow.
Icy fear grips him for a breath, and his shaking muscles tense. He darts his eyes around.
He sees a closed door in the far wall, and realises his luck is holding. He tilts his head in silent observation of the room: smooth sticks attached to stringy masses; more draping cloth, hanging upon hooks; the odd empty bucket; bottle after bottle capped on the floor. He reasons why he is alone in this room, and allows a corner of his mouth to lift.
Afterall, in a hospital, who would bother to occupy a supply closet?
He shambles unsteadily towards the welcome door, but leans heavily on a wall before he turns the knob. He looks down at his hospital garments then considers the cloth hanging on the wall at his side.
They will likely be looking for a patient, he reasons, and narrows his eyes. It's best that I don't look like one. He recalls the loosely fitting garments of his captors, and pulls down a long tunic off the hook with clumsy fingers. He judges he can figure out how the strange clothes should go together.
As he peels off his thin hospital shirt, he winces at the twinge he feels thoughout his left shoulder and arm. He glances down, and widens his eyes at the seeping dark stain on the large white bandages taped to his skin.
"What the shit happened to me..?" He says softly.
Sent via Blackhole
"...and then he.. He just melted the wall.." The genin completes, then studies his toes sticking out of his sandles with great interest.
"Sensor nins have been searching the hospital grounds for the small golden one since his medical equipment set off alarms a day ago." One of the council members provides. "He could be out of the village by now."
Baki graces the man with a cursury glance with his one visible eye, but turns his full attention back on the young mednin.
"Is that all..?"
"..um y-yeah."
"Thank you." Baki says firmly. "You may go."
As the council door swings closed with the nin's departure, the incessant buzzing of worried whispers fills the room.
"I've seen the surveilance tapes. It looked like Lord Gaara's sand technique except for all the lightening..." A council member supplies.
"A lightening technique that malipulates sand..?" Baki hears another say incredulously. He chews his bottom lip as he considers the implications of such a notion. None of them are very good.
"So he is a missing nin after all." Baki says gravely, and feels the weight of eyes as the council's attention settles upon him. He allows the silence to stretch a few breaths as he slides his eye about the room, then folds his hands before his chin.
"To be able to combine those two elements, I think perhaps he posesses a kekkei genkai that interested Orichimaru at one time. To have the skill to hide his true chakra amounts so well as to fool even the most experienced med-nin, the boy is obviously a highly skilled nin. Likely a jonin."
"A Sound jonin? I've never heard the like." On council member comments.
"Whatever he is, I for one consider him a huge security risk to the village that we can't afford to have. He needs to be found and detained. Immediately." Another says with a pounding fist on the table.
"What is your decision, acting Kaze-kage?"
Baki rises to his feet and says.
"I will alert the hunter nin."
---ooo--
In an empty heartbeat, Ed starts, and jerks awake. He listens to his own panting breath, and widens his eyes to warm velvety darkness. Slowly, he works out what happened, and finds he is glad he has no eyes on him. No one needs to know that he passed out while in the midst of a dramatic escape.
His stomach knaws his spine and rumbles in displeasure, sending queasy dizziness to his pounding temples as he tries to move within his small... SMALL??.. Not small!!!.. chamber. He created it for himself, he knows. It does not make it small.
Of course you passed out. Idiot. You haven't eaten for..! How long? The answer flutters from his grasp on butterfly wings. How much time has passed anyway?
He wrickles his nose in disgust at himself. Fool! All transmutations take their toll on the body!! What use will you be for.. For...
His spinning thoughts come to an abrupt halt, grasping the name that feels as important.. No.. More important. Than even his very selfhood.
Al. Alphonse. He fists his shaking hands, forcing them to be still. The name tastes sweet on his tongue.
Where is he..?
Where am I?
He mentally kicks himself to his unsteady feet, and breathes in fresh air as he sways. He marvels that he managed to make an airhole before the embarrasing black out. It's within easy reach, as wide as two of his knuckles, and he sees light shining like a small star from it. He holds his breath and presses one of his eyes close to the life-giving opening.
All is still in the room beyond, and he can clearly see a draping cloth hanging from what looks like a hook on a smooth wall. He sniffs in the air experimentally, analysing it carefully for any clues. He exhales his disappointment at the anaseptically clean odor.
Still in that damned hospital, then. Can't do anything right, can I?
With a self deriding snort, he eyes the rooms beyond carefully.
His patience thins as his quivering straining muscles force him to lean on the curve of the rough sandstone ..no ..transmuted.. sandstone wall. He sees no movement in the room, and grits his teeth to steel himself. He has no choice but to chance it, and hopes he doesn't faint from the strain of the reaction this time.
He touches his palms together, and presses his hands against the rough stone. Warmth fills his being, and the bright discharge dances harmlessly up his arms, momentarily blinding him. He holds his breath as he hurriedly blinks away the afterglow.
Icy fear grips him for a breath, and his shaking muscles tense. He darts his eyes around.
He sees a closed door in the far wall, and realises his luck is holding. He tilts his head in silent observation of the room: smooth sticks attached to stringy masses; more draping cloth, hanging upon hooks; the odd empty bucket; bottle after bottle capped on the floor. He reasons why he is alone in this room, and allows a corner of his mouth to lift.
Afterall, in a hospital, who would bother to occupy a supply closet?
He shambles unsteadily towards the welcome door, but leans heavily on a wall before he turns the knob. He looks down at his hospital garments then considers the cloth hanging on the wall at his side.
They will likely be looking for a patient, he reasons, and narrows his eyes. It's best that I don't look like one. He recalls the loosely fitting garments of his captors, and pulls down a long tunic off the hook with clumsy fingers. He judges he can figure out how the strange clothes should go together.
As he peels off his thin hospital shirt, he winces at the twinge he feels thoughout his left shoulder and arm. He glances down, and widens his eyes at the seeping dark stain on the large white bandages taped to his skin.
"What the shit happened to me..?" He says softly.
Sent via Blackhole
Friday, April 15, 2011
Clang! Continued.. Part 5
Cecilia swung madly with the blade in her hand, and with a savage grin, it thunked into something meaty.
She heard a deafening bellow, and something struck her fingers so hard that they went numb. She lost her grip on her blade and she heard a clatter of metal skipping across stone.
With a muscle straining lurch and a hearty shove of her feet against the cracked concrete wall, she squirmed away from under the weighty thing on top of her.
"Miss Jones..!" She heard Chief Smith say, and watched the flashlight beam angle at the low ceiling before the man's face hovered into her view. She took in a breath in the dimness, and huffed freely a few more moments before she rose to her elbows to look at what had trapped her.
Flaccid pale flesh with tufts of brown fur thrown in odd patches. Four knobby legs that ended in hooves. She eyed the boney skull, and the squiggly pulsating mass upon which a small weeping wound dripped a dark liquid. The thing had no eyes, no mouth, and yet it sounded like it was whimpering.
"What is.." She breathed.
"Mind cow." The Chief said tonelessly.
"Mind cow." Cecilia repeated dully with a wrinkled nose, finding herself unable to tear her eyes away from the thing for several breaths. She then took in a sharp breath, noticing just how large the creature was. The hole it fell from should be at least as big, she thought hopefully, and darted her glance upwards.
The low ceiling was just as smooth as ever.
"How in the world.." She began, and glanced towards the chief. "That thing fell on me.. But there's no opening.. no.. "
The chief's gaze fell, as if he were examining his shoe with great interest.
"Chief." She snarled. "You said this was your lab.. How did it get here? To squash me..?!"
"Um.. I didn't know.." He said.
"You don't know?"
"I didn't know what it would do.. I think I.. Well I love gadgets, see? I found this thing in a shaft by my garage that seemed to be made from all sorts of bits and, well, pressed a few of its buttons and...uh.."
Cecilia narrowed her eyes.
"I found myself here. All sorts of..Things...people.. have been popping in down this old corridor ever since." The chief continued.
Cecilia swallowed thickly, and turned her attention back to the whimpering beast. She recalled the blinding flash she had been enveloped by before the world as she knew it became this damp hall of broken concrete and darkness.
"This isn't on my property, now is it?"
"No." He answered softly. "I suppose it's not. Nor on mine."
"Where then.?"
"No idea." He said. "I'm sorry."
She nodded stiffly.
Sent via Blackhole
She heard a deafening bellow, and something struck her fingers so hard that they went numb. She lost her grip on her blade and she heard a clatter of metal skipping across stone.
With a muscle straining lurch and a hearty shove of her feet against the cracked concrete wall, she squirmed away from under the weighty thing on top of her.
"Miss Jones..!" She heard Chief Smith say, and watched the flashlight beam angle at the low ceiling before the man's face hovered into her view. She took in a breath in the dimness, and huffed freely a few more moments before she rose to her elbows to look at what had trapped her.
Flaccid pale flesh with tufts of brown fur thrown in odd patches. Four knobby legs that ended in hooves. She eyed the boney skull, and the squiggly pulsating mass upon which a small weeping wound dripped a dark liquid. The thing had no eyes, no mouth, and yet it sounded like it was whimpering.
"What is.." She breathed.
"Mind cow." The Chief said tonelessly.
"Mind cow." Cecilia repeated dully with a wrinkled nose, finding herself unable to tear her eyes away from the thing for several breaths. She then took in a sharp breath, noticing just how large the creature was. The hole it fell from should be at least as big, she thought hopefully, and darted her glance upwards.
The low ceiling was just as smooth as ever.
"How in the world.." She began, and glanced towards the chief. "That thing fell on me.. But there's no opening.. no.. "
The chief's gaze fell, as if he were examining his shoe with great interest.
"Chief." She snarled. "You said this was your lab.. How did it get here? To squash me..?!"
"Um.. I didn't know.." He said.
"You don't know?"
"I didn't know what it would do.. I think I.. Well I love gadgets, see? I found this thing in a shaft by my garage that seemed to be made from all sorts of bits and, well, pressed a few of its buttons and...uh.."
Cecilia narrowed her eyes.
"I found myself here. All sorts of..Things...people.. have been popping in down this old corridor ever since." The chief continued.
Cecilia swallowed thickly, and turned her attention back to the whimpering beast. She recalled the blinding flash she had been enveloped by before the world as she knew it became this damp hall of broken concrete and darkness.
"This isn't on my property, now is it?"
"No." He answered softly. "I suppose it's not. Nor on mine."
"Where then.?"
"No idea." He said. "I'm sorry."
She nodded stiffly.
Sent via Blackhole
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Clang! Continued.. Part 4.
She wasn't sure how much time has passed as she trudged along in the dark. When her fingertips felt clinging slime on the tunnel wall, Cecilia quickly wiped the sludge on her jeans with an air of disgust. She glared at the shadowy form of Chief Smith as he darted the flashlight beam about, highlighting great jutting cracks here and there in the wall as his echoing steps crunched against the stone.
She decided then that the darkness beyond the man was enormously volumous.
"How far does this go?" She asked.
"Hmm?" He paused, and chewed on his cheek as he appeared to think. "A few miles at least."
"Great." She said, fingering her knife.
A buzzing noise wafted into the chamber, slowly rose in volume, and in the space of a few breaths, made her teeth rattle. She hunched down, and cupped one ear with her hand as the light seemed to spin. She chanced a glance to the chief. He held both his hand against the sides of his head, and squinted his eyes closed tight.
A blinding flash later, and she sprawled on her belly against the cold concrete. The sudden weight on her back kept her pinned and breathless, and she bucked upwards by pure panic. Arms tangled with too many legs, forming a hopeless struggling knot.
"Miss Jones!" She heard chief Smith call out, voice thick with some emotion she was beyond being able to decipher. She swung madly with the blade in her hand, and with a savage grin, it thunked into something meaty.
Sent via Blackhole
She decided then that the darkness beyond the man was enormously volumous.
"How far does this go?" She asked.
"Hmm?" He paused, and chewed on his cheek as he appeared to think. "A few miles at least."
"Great." She said, fingering her knife.
A buzzing noise wafted into the chamber, slowly rose in volume, and in the space of a few breaths, made her teeth rattle. She hunched down, and cupped one ear with her hand as the light seemed to spin. She chanced a glance to the chief. He held both his hand against the sides of his head, and squinted his eyes closed tight.
A blinding flash later, and she sprawled on her belly against the cold concrete. The sudden weight on her back kept her pinned and breathless, and she bucked upwards by pure panic. Arms tangled with too many legs, forming a hopeless struggling knot.
"Miss Jones!" She heard chief Smith call out, voice thick with some emotion she was beyond being able to decipher. She swung madly with the blade in her hand, and with a savage grin, it thunked into something meaty.
Sent via Blackhole
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Clang!..continued.. Part 3
With a sudden flickering much like a bolt of lonely lightening, the darkness vanished.
For a heartbeat, Cecilia blinked dumbly at the man crouched before her. She then slid her gaze about the dull gray concrete walls that appeared, and rose her eyes to the low ceiling with her top lip curled back. She glared at the mess of dough splatter there, and noticed it was hardly the only one up there. They looked like mud puddles, hanging side by side with the exposed floresent lights.
The ceiling looked like solid concrete should. Not that she held much of a hope of climbing out, but there should have been something. She could see no opening there to show how she had fallen in.
"Come on, manic-depressive mind..." Chief Smith drolled with a smirk splashed across his face. Cecilia looked at him hard.
He wasn't much to look at by Cecilia's estimation, just one of those guys that was considered handsome only because there wasn't anything wrong with any of his facial features. He wasn't even that tall, because the top of his head almost reached her shoulders. As she watched, he adjusted his grip on the long flashlight in his grubby hands.
"What'd you call me..?!" Cecilia snapped.
"Tch... Ah. Nevermind." He said with an off wave on one hand. He turned to the side and revealed a dark tunnel. He jerked his head. "Let me show you what before you do anything stupid."
Cecilia's brows knitted together. The pit of her stomach knotted as she reasoned that she was underground, in the middle of freaken nowhere, and with a guy she hardly knew. She could easily end up chopped into tiny meaty bits...and no one would ever know.. She took in a sharp breath, and hoped that her folding knife in her pocket was...
"I promise to kill you later, if that's what you're thinking." Smith chuckled.
Cecilia rolled her eyes.
"As I was saying, manic-depressive mind cows're this way." Smith said, and shuffled out into the tunnel. She patted her back pocket, and withdrew the tool. Glancing up at the dough splatters, she knocked the blade against the closest. To her dismay, smooth concrete lay beneath it.
With an unladylike snort, she ducked low, and shuffled along after the chief.
Sent via Blackhole
For a heartbeat, Cecilia blinked dumbly at the man crouched before her. She then slid her gaze about the dull gray concrete walls that appeared, and rose her eyes to the low ceiling with her top lip curled back. She glared at the mess of dough splatter there, and noticed it was hardly the only one up there. They looked like mud puddles, hanging side by side with the exposed floresent lights.
The ceiling looked like solid concrete should. Not that she held much of a hope of climbing out, but there should have been something. She could see no opening there to show how she had fallen in.
"Come on, manic-depressive mind..." Chief Smith drolled with a smirk splashed across his face. Cecilia looked at him hard.
He wasn't much to look at by Cecilia's estimation, just one of those guys that was considered handsome only because there wasn't anything wrong with any of his facial features. He wasn't even that tall, because the top of his head almost reached her shoulders. As she watched, he adjusted his grip on the long flashlight in his grubby hands.
"What'd you call me..?!" Cecilia snapped.
"Tch... Ah. Nevermind." He said with an off wave on one hand. He turned to the side and revealed a dark tunnel. He jerked his head. "Let me show you what before you do anything stupid."
Cecilia's brows knitted together. The pit of her stomach knotted as she reasoned that she was underground, in the middle of freaken nowhere, and with a guy she hardly knew. She could easily end up chopped into tiny meaty bits...and no one would ever know.. She took in a sharp breath, and hoped that her folding knife in her pocket was...
"I promise to kill you later, if that's what you're thinking." Smith chuckled.
Cecilia rolled her eyes.
"As I was saying, manic-depressive mind cows're this way." Smith said, and shuffled out into the tunnel. She patted her back pocket, and withdrew the tool. Glancing up at the dough splatters, she knocked the blade against the closest. To her dismay, smooth concrete lay beneath it.
With an unladylike snort, she ducked low, and shuffled along after the chief.
Sent via Blackhole
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Tuesday's poem
Drained to nothing
Sick and puking
Dogmeat on broil
Sunlight ignored
World closed off
Locked and waiting
I build no rhyme
Sent via Blackhole
Sick and puking
Dogmeat on broil
Sunlight ignored
World closed off
Locked and waiting
I build no rhyme
Sent via Blackhole
Monday, April 11, 2011
Clang! Continued, part 2
"Ah.. Welcome." A raspy echoing voice says. "Welcome to my lab-or-it-tory."
Inky darkness swirled around Cecilia, and sprawled on the cold floor, she couldn't tell if her eyelids were open or shut.
She tried to stand, but painfully smacked her head against something low and solid. As she crouched low and hissed, she gingerly touched the bruised area with the pads of her fingers. She felt something thick and sticky amongst the stands, and rubbed her fingers together.
It clumped into a ball quite easily. On impulse, she brought her fingers beneath her nostrils, and breathed in. Sweetness. The ball was strong with vanilla.
She rose her eyes to the mystery black on black spot too near to her skull, and saw nothing. There was cookie dough on the dang ceiling, though, she was sure of it.
"Laboratory." She said with a snear. "For what, explosive snacks? Who are you? And what.."
Sudden white brightness stabbed her. She squinted her eyes closed and curled her lips back to show her teeth as she defended her eyes with a single raised hand.
"I'll ask the questions, since you're intruding in my place and all." The voice said crisply.
She thought it sounded vaguely familiar, and struggled to place where she heard it before. Surely not in the town, she thought. I haven't met that many..
She took in a breath, and lowered her hand back to her side.
Oh.. I know exactly who this is..
"This isn't your property.." She snapped. "It's mine. And has been in the family for.."
"That's a lie!!" The voice said. "You only own what's on top not below..!"
"Nope. Deed's for minerals too. Before you start, it's always been that way, too."
"Minerals?"
"Hello? Something that's usually found in the soil..? Y'know...Dirt?"
She heard an intake of breath, and continued.
"Anyway what are you doing on my land? What does the fire department need me to do now, Chief Smith?"
"Tch." The brilliant light dimmed a little, and she could make out a shadow behind the brightness. "Dammit. How do you know it's me?!?"
"I have my reasons." She said airily.
Sent via Blackhole
Inky darkness swirled around Cecilia, and sprawled on the cold floor, she couldn't tell if her eyelids were open or shut.
She tried to stand, but painfully smacked her head against something low and solid. As she crouched low and hissed, she gingerly touched the bruised area with the pads of her fingers. She felt something thick and sticky amongst the stands, and rubbed her fingers together.
It clumped into a ball quite easily. On impulse, she brought her fingers beneath her nostrils, and breathed in. Sweetness. The ball was strong with vanilla.
She rose her eyes to the mystery black on black spot too near to her skull, and saw nothing. There was cookie dough on the dang ceiling, though, she was sure of it.
"Laboratory." She said with a snear. "For what, explosive snacks? Who are you? And what.."
Sudden white brightness stabbed her. She squinted her eyes closed and curled her lips back to show her teeth as she defended her eyes with a single raised hand.
"I'll ask the questions, since you're intruding in my place and all." The voice said crisply.
She thought it sounded vaguely familiar, and struggled to place where she heard it before. Surely not in the town, she thought. I haven't met that many..
She took in a breath, and lowered her hand back to her side.
Oh.. I know exactly who this is..
"This isn't your property.." She snapped. "It's mine. And has been in the family for.."
"That's a lie!!" The voice said. "You only own what's on top not below..!"
"Nope. Deed's for minerals too. Before you start, it's always been that way, too."
"Minerals?"
"Hello? Something that's usually found in the soil..? Y'know...Dirt?"
She heard an intake of breath, and continued.
"Anyway what are you doing on my land? What does the fire department need me to do now, Chief Smith?"
"Tch." The brilliant light dimmed a little, and she could make out a shadow behind the brightness. "Dammit. How do you know it's me?!?"
"I have my reasons." She said airily.
Sent via Blackhole
Sunday, April 10, 2011
fma naruto crossover, chapter 2 continued..
Gaara sits at the large round table and folds his hands before him as his most trusted advisors speak.
"On the matter of the freed nin, I believe the language barrier to be nothing but an act." The older council man says solumnly as he flips through the med-nin's report. "That left leg is very like what the Village Hidden in Sound had installed in their chunin."
Gaara listens, and nods before he slides his eyes to Temari.
"Golden eyes are very rare, and the only nin known to have had them was the Snake Sannin." She says with narrowed eyes "Perhaps he is related in some way.."
"..or he was experimented on. Orochimaru was well known for his body modification techniques. If this child is a missing nin from there, then he would be a valuable commodity..." Interrupts their old teacher.
Gaara is expressionless as he rises to his feet, and shoulders his gourd.
"As always, I will take your concerns under advisement. " Gaara says and lifts his gaze to Kankuro. "However this matter can wait until after the Kage Summit is over."
"Yeah, I suppose that you're right. Even after all the drugs they've pumped into him, he has next to no chakra." Kankuro says with a confident shrug. "What kind of damage could he do if that poison's left him too weak to even stand, much less gather chakra?"
Gaara turns from the table, a silent action which wordlessly adjorns the meeting. He entrusts the council with the protection of the village as he accompanies his siblings to the balcony, and with chakra enhanced strength, leaps off the edge into the setting sun.
---ooo--
His nose itches, and Ed wrinkles it up in a feeble attempt to stop the incessant tickle. By instinct his muscles twitch, and to his astonishment, his fingers scratch his irritated skin.
He awakes to dull darkness, and mindful of the many tubes in the tender skin, carefully rubs his right wrist with his left hand in wonder. He feels the rough binding on his arms, but the straps that were looped to the bedside hang loose.
He listens to the silence, and idly watches a leaf of paper fluttering on the bedside table. The paper looks annoited with many mysterious markings, and he reaches for it. His blood pounds in his ears as he lifts it to his face. In the shadows, he can make out the stained rings from someone's beverage on the forgotten sheet, but the orderly scribbles remain a mystery.
He pulls himself up to sit, and not unexpectedly, the world spins. The alarms remain silent, and the halls beyond his closed door whisper quiet nothings. With a determined grimmace, he tries to swing his feet over to stand.
He tugs against something, and hears the muffled clinking of metal beneath the sheets as he scowls. He lifts the bedding and scoots down to the end. His ankles are bound, but the knots about the living flesh of his right are easy enough to untie. He then turns his attention to the chain, feels the structure with his bare hands, and looks deeper.
"Simple..iron and aluminium.." He mutters, and touches his fingers together.
The pattern shines brightly in his mind, and the tiny crackle of the discharge as he cut through the metal lights up the room for a heartbeat. He holds his breath at looks to the door.
He has no idea what time it is, but judges it is late enough to be past the night watch's last round. He grasps an irritating tube, and gently pulls the dripping needle free. By the forth one, his clumsy fingers fumble at the terrifying sight. His breath quickens as he continues the horrible, necessary task. Needles... Why always needles..?
An alarm rings out and he hunches down. He grabs a handful, just yanks, and slides to his wobbly feet. He sways as the world pounds and spins at once. He takes one step on the cold tile. Then another. The world tilts, and he bangs hard against the side table.
His gut freezes as he hears a click of metal at the door, and leans on his hands as he blearily watches the plane of wood swing inwards.
He takes a breath, slaps his hands together, and with a wild guess, slams both palms against the wall. The pattern shined so brightly in his head that he grins. He has guessed correctly.
An elderich wind rises up from below and blows his long curtain of golden hair clear off his neck. Flashes of blue lightening dance through the air, and he sees panicked faces looking on past the door. He no longer has to worry much about not being able to stand. The floor beneath him rumbles and shifts, and like a tidal wave, envelope him in the cool darkness of his own making, tunneling his way downward, towards his freedom. Towards someone terribly important named "Al".
Sent via Blackhole
"On the matter of the freed nin, I believe the language barrier to be nothing but an act." The older council man says solumnly as he flips through the med-nin's report. "That left leg is very like what the Village Hidden in Sound had installed in their chunin."
Gaara listens, and nods before he slides his eyes to Temari.
"Golden eyes are very rare, and the only nin known to have had them was the Snake Sannin." She says with narrowed eyes "Perhaps he is related in some way.."
"..or he was experimented on. Orochimaru was well known for his body modification techniques. If this child is a missing nin from there, then he would be a valuable commodity..." Interrupts their old teacher.
Gaara is expressionless as he rises to his feet, and shoulders his gourd.
"As always, I will take your concerns under advisement. " Gaara says and lifts his gaze to Kankuro. "However this matter can wait until after the Kage Summit is over."
"Yeah, I suppose that you're right. Even after all the drugs they've pumped into him, he has next to no chakra." Kankuro says with a confident shrug. "What kind of damage could he do if that poison's left him too weak to even stand, much less gather chakra?"
Gaara turns from the table, a silent action which wordlessly adjorns the meeting. He entrusts the council with the protection of the village as he accompanies his siblings to the balcony, and with chakra enhanced strength, leaps off the edge into the setting sun.
---ooo--
His nose itches, and Ed wrinkles it up in a feeble attempt to stop the incessant tickle. By instinct his muscles twitch, and to his astonishment, his fingers scratch his irritated skin.
He awakes to dull darkness, and mindful of the many tubes in the tender skin, carefully rubs his right wrist with his left hand in wonder. He feels the rough binding on his arms, but the straps that were looped to the bedside hang loose.
He listens to the silence, and idly watches a leaf of paper fluttering on the bedside table. The paper looks annoited with many mysterious markings, and he reaches for it. His blood pounds in his ears as he lifts it to his face. In the shadows, he can make out the stained rings from someone's beverage on the forgotten sheet, but the orderly scribbles remain a mystery.
He pulls himself up to sit, and not unexpectedly, the world spins. The alarms remain silent, and the halls beyond his closed door whisper quiet nothings. With a determined grimmace, he tries to swing his feet over to stand.
He tugs against something, and hears the muffled clinking of metal beneath the sheets as he scowls. He lifts the bedding and scoots down to the end. His ankles are bound, but the knots about the living flesh of his right are easy enough to untie. He then turns his attention to the chain, feels the structure with his bare hands, and looks deeper.
"Simple..iron and aluminium.." He mutters, and touches his fingers together.
The pattern shines brightly in his mind, and the tiny crackle of the discharge as he cut through the metal lights up the room for a heartbeat. He holds his breath at looks to the door.
He has no idea what time it is, but judges it is late enough to be past the night watch's last round. He grasps an irritating tube, and gently pulls the dripping needle free. By the forth one, his clumsy fingers fumble at the terrifying sight. His breath quickens as he continues the horrible, necessary task. Needles... Why always needles..?
An alarm rings out and he hunches down. He grabs a handful, just yanks, and slides to his wobbly feet. He sways as the world pounds and spins at once. He takes one step on the cold tile. Then another. The world tilts, and he bangs hard against the side table.
His gut freezes as he hears a click of metal at the door, and leans on his hands as he blearily watches the plane of wood swing inwards.
He takes a breath, slaps his hands together, and with a wild guess, slams both palms against the wall. The pattern shined so brightly in his head that he grins. He has guessed correctly.
An elderich wind rises up from below and blows his long curtain of golden hair clear off his neck. Flashes of blue lightening dance through the air, and he sees panicked faces looking on past the door. He no longer has to worry much about not being able to stand. The floor beneath him rumbles and shifts, and like a tidal wave, envelope him in the cool darkness of his own making, tunneling his way downward, towards his freedom. Towards someone terribly important named "Al".
Sent via Blackhole
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Fma naruto crossover ch 2
Revised:
--oo--
Freezing hotly so hard he shivers. The deep aches in his port cry out, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight against the onslaught of infinite knowledge spilling through his mind. Gripping grasping black hands of the gate hold him, wrap around him uncomfortably tight, and he struggles and squirms. The noise of all languages roars his ears full, but he understands none of it. It scours away who he is and he's afraid.
Alone. So alone.
Stray hands, no fists, struck the side of his face hard, and he landed on something so solid he's breathless.
Wait. This isn't right...this isn't..
This isn't that place.
He breathes in. Breathes out. Cracks open his eyes. He is in the world, he can see that. But something's not right. A fuzzy white haze creeps into his vision.
There was a boot near his face, and he followed it upwards to the face of the bald man speaking the nonsense. Why was he speaking nonsense? There was another beside the man, one with longer hair, and he decided he didn't much like the look of that leering smile.
He pushed himself up off the ground onto his hands, and swungs out wildly with his feet. He heard rather than felt his left heel strike something, and he remembers why. Automail. His left leg was sacrificed long ago to a mistake. He hears the clinking rattle of metal on metal as he tries to curl in on himself, but something prevents him.
He flipped back to his feet, and completed the move his body seemed to remember more that he did: he doesn't know why it was so natural to slap his palms together, and follow that with a lunge to the ground. A piece of himself rises to the muddy soup of his mind, and he briefly sees the beauty of the shining blue pattern that appeared before devastation came to the world at his command.
The earth rose in great towering spikes, and dust billowed. He couldn't see his two attackers as he darted within his creation, but he felt the single pinprick at his right shoulder before darkness took the world away. Soupy mottled gray wisps of garbed language blend with shifting lyrics and luted voices.
He dragged his feet as he was pushed along from his left shoulder, his arms prickly numb and bound apart behind his back. He heard the pounding of a gavel on solid wood echoing around him, and the voices hushed. The remaining port in his left leg ached deep as bone, and his welling pride, another piece of his lost self, told him to cover up the limp. He stumbled on an upward step he couldn't see, and he teetered forward. An unkind strike was his reward, and he can't remember ever hitting the ground.
How much time has.. has he lost? For some reason, time seems terribly important, and his breath catches in his throat. He shifts his pounding head against the soft pillow.
Light stabs pounding pain into his closed eyes, and he swings mad vengeance at the world. Pounding slaps of sandles on tile, bells and alarms defen his ears. Soon after, unwelcome grasping hands pin him to the board of the mattress, and he snarls.
"Hey!! Stop..! Stop..! Let me go!!"
Swirling vertigo jumbles colors together much like the garbled language, and solidifies into a pattern of red bloody scars. The expressionless face of a boy wavers into his sight. He doesn't remember learning to read exactly, but he knows the crude tattoo on the forehead says "love".
Another piece of himself rises in his exhaustion. He can't move much beyond shivering, but he knows now that he has a name. It is Edward Elric.
Ed trades fairly with the "love" carved "Gahraah" before he drifts off uneasily into muddled slumber.
Days pass, marked by the rising and setting of a golden sun he can see through the tiny squares high up on the thick wall. Little disturbs him here. It is peaceful and warm.
He hears and understands a few words. "Slave" seems familiar as the cotton wool of his mind knits itself into a semblance of order, and Ed mulls through what he has experienced upon returning to the world as he stares listlessly at the unkind intrusion of tubes and needles in his bound arms.
He breathes in the aneseptic smell that identifies this place as a sort of hospital, but beyond that..? Hazy recollections of the bare wood of the stage he stumbled upon, and the striking sound of the gavel give rise to a nagging horror.
That was a market. A slave market. He must have been sold as a slave. The more he thinks of it, the more it rings true. He feels the deep rage rise from his belly at the sheer indignity of not being sovern over his own self.
The undeniable impulse to leave is difficult to hide, and he clenches his hands.
He watches the pattern flow around him to pass the time. The metal of the headband seems to be the only identifying real feature of any kind uniform here, and people have it on in the oddest of places while fluttering in and out of his room. Sometimes it's tied about their heads as the things was clearly intended, sometimes draped upon a belt, or wrapped about a wrist.
A girl enters the room, carrying a tray of broth. His stomach recoils from the beefy smell. He eyes her loose sleeve, and notices how oddly rigid the cotton looks. It reminds him of something, a memory of someone that is frustratingly just out of reach. He pathetically presses himself back into the furthest corner of the bed as she sets the tray on the nearby table with a falsely kind smile streching her lips.
Like with the red scar, he doesn't know how he knows. Visions of a sharp knife, or or more likely many knives, rise from the murky depths of his unconsciousness as he eyes that sleeve. That such sharp deadly things are kept handy, and well hidden upon her body while she works at hospital of all places disturbs his sensiblities. Over the hours of quietly watching, he finds that she is not the only one with such devices.
He duly notes the threat for what it is, and coolly calculates that he is too weak to try for a go. The fever has him shivering again, and he impatiently clenches his teeth to wait until the time is right.
He will not be anyone's slave. At least not for long.
--oo--
Sent via Blackhole
--oo--
Freezing hotly so hard he shivers. The deep aches in his port cry out, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight against the onslaught of infinite knowledge spilling through his mind. Gripping grasping black hands of the gate hold him, wrap around him uncomfortably tight, and he struggles and squirms. The noise of all languages roars his ears full, but he understands none of it. It scours away who he is and he's afraid.
Alone. So alone.
Stray hands, no fists, struck the side of his face hard, and he landed on something so solid he's breathless.
Wait. This isn't right...this isn't..
This isn't that place.
He breathes in. Breathes out. Cracks open his eyes. He is in the world, he can see that. But something's not right. A fuzzy white haze creeps into his vision.
There was a boot near his face, and he followed it upwards to the face of the bald man speaking the nonsense. Why was he speaking nonsense? There was another beside the man, one with longer hair, and he decided he didn't much like the look of that leering smile.
He pushed himself up off the ground onto his hands, and swungs out wildly with his feet. He heard rather than felt his left heel strike something, and he remembers why. Automail. His left leg was sacrificed long ago to a mistake. He hears the clinking rattle of metal on metal as he tries to curl in on himself, but something prevents him.
He flipped back to his feet, and completed the move his body seemed to remember more that he did: he doesn't know why it was so natural to slap his palms together, and follow that with a lunge to the ground. A piece of himself rises to the muddy soup of his mind, and he briefly sees the beauty of the shining blue pattern that appeared before devastation came to the world at his command.
The earth rose in great towering spikes, and dust billowed. He couldn't see his two attackers as he darted within his creation, but he felt the single pinprick at his right shoulder before darkness took the world away. Soupy mottled gray wisps of garbed language blend with shifting lyrics and luted voices.
He dragged his feet as he was pushed along from his left shoulder, his arms prickly numb and bound apart behind his back. He heard the pounding of a gavel on solid wood echoing around him, and the voices hushed. The remaining port in his left leg ached deep as bone, and his welling pride, another piece of his lost self, told him to cover up the limp. He stumbled on an upward step he couldn't see, and he teetered forward. An unkind strike was his reward, and he can't remember ever hitting the ground.
How much time has.. has he lost? For some reason, time seems terribly important, and his breath catches in his throat. He shifts his pounding head against the soft pillow.
Light stabs pounding pain into his closed eyes, and he swings mad vengeance at the world. Pounding slaps of sandles on tile, bells and alarms defen his ears. Soon after, unwelcome grasping hands pin him to the board of the mattress, and he snarls.
"Hey!! Stop..! Stop..! Let me go!!"
Swirling vertigo jumbles colors together much like the garbled language, and solidifies into a pattern of red bloody scars. The expressionless face of a boy wavers into his sight. He doesn't remember learning to read exactly, but he knows the crude tattoo on the forehead says "love".
Another piece of himself rises in his exhaustion. He can't move much beyond shivering, but he knows now that he has a name. It is Edward Elric.
Ed trades fairly with the "love" carved "Gahraah" before he drifts off uneasily into muddled slumber.
Days pass, marked by the rising and setting of a golden sun he can see through the tiny squares high up on the thick wall. Little disturbs him here. It is peaceful and warm.
He hears and understands a few words. "Slave" seems familiar as the cotton wool of his mind knits itself into a semblance of order, and Ed mulls through what he has experienced upon returning to the world as he stares listlessly at the unkind intrusion of tubes and needles in his bound arms.
He breathes in the aneseptic smell that identifies this place as a sort of hospital, but beyond that..? Hazy recollections of the bare wood of the stage he stumbled upon, and the striking sound of the gavel give rise to a nagging horror.
That was a market. A slave market. He must have been sold as a slave. The more he thinks of it, the more it rings true. He feels the deep rage rise from his belly at the sheer indignity of not being sovern over his own self.
The undeniable impulse to leave is difficult to hide, and he clenches his hands.
He watches the pattern flow around him to pass the time. The metal of the headband seems to be the only identifying real feature of any kind uniform here, and people have it on in the oddest of places while fluttering in and out of his room. Sometimes it's tied about their heads as the things was clearly intended, sometimes draped upon a belt, or wrapped about a wrist.
A girl enters the room, carrying a tray of broth. His stomach recoils from the beefy smell. He eyes her loose sleeve, and notices how oddly rigid the cotton looks. It reminds him of something, a memory of someone that is frustratingly just out of reach. He pathetically presses himself back into the furthest corner of the bed as she sets the tray on the nearby table with a falsely kind smile streching her lips.
Like with the red scar, he doesn't know how he knows. Visions of a sharp knife, or or more likely many knives, rise from the murky depths of his unconsciousness as he eyes that sleeve. That such sharp deadly things are kept handy, and well hidden upon her body while she works at hospital of all places disturbs his sensiblities. Over the hours of quietly watching, he finds that she is not the only one with such devices.
He duly notes the threat for what it is, and coolly calculates that he is too weak to try for a go. The fever has him shivering again, and he impatiently clenches his teeth to wait until the time is right.
He will not be anyone's slave. At least not for long.
--oo--
Sent via Blackhole
Friday, April 8, 2011
Clang..
A/N: spent all day yesterday getting volume one set up for the kindle. Now on with today's piece.--oo--Cecilia Jones watches the squirrel run off with incredulous brown eyes. She sees the final roll of garbage bags trailing along like a shiny black ribbon, and the bushy tail of the furry little thief is halfway up the half-dead mulberry tree by the time she yells out in protest.
"For the love a.." She exhales at the tree's base, and squints upwards. The squirrel leaps fluidly from branch to twig, tugging the black plastic along in its mouth with an unknown purpose, and soon vanishes from sight within the gloom of the canopy of leaves.
Feet sinking down into the soft soil, Cecilia huffs out a breath, and drops the hoe from her gloved hands. She reaches out to the plastic, then jumps in surprise. TING!
She slips on the slick fallen leaves of years gone by, startled by the sharp ringing sound of metal striking metal. The sound she least expects to hear in such an clearly wild area, where a mere squirrel is so bold to burgle around a human being.
"The hell...?" She whispers.
She takes up the rough handle of the hoe, and rises from her crouch. She taps the metal hook firmly down twice:The first gives the expected dull thump of soft dirt; the second, the clean song, "ting!"
With a puzzled frown, she makes quick work and scrapes the dirt away.
Maybe someone left behind a gun? She thinks, and fantasies briefly of ridding the world of at least one rat with a fashion accessory. She then wonders where the nearest pawn shop would be, and her mind whirls in useless circles. She chews her cheek and mulls over the fact she has only been in her new place for barely a week, and doesn't know a damn thing about the one horse of a town she is now a part of.
She raises her brows at the reddish-brown metal square nestled a foot down within the mess of dirt and molded leaves.
"Maybe it's recyclable?" She mutters under her breath, and squats down. She tries to pry it up, but it stubbornly resists the flat of the hoe. With searching gloved fingers, she swipes at the caked dirt, and finds hidden grooves. She tilts her head, and playfully raps her knuckles on the rusted metal plaque before her.
Silence fills the next few moments, and she snorts her derision. Who would put something this stupid out in the middle of nowhere, she thinks as she rises to her feet.
With a stomach twisting nausea, the sturdy ground vanishes. Inky darkness fills her wide open eyes as she lands hard. Her breath knocked out of her lungs, she hears clang of finality somewhere above her head.
"Ah.. Welcome." A raspy echoing voice says. "Welcome to my lab-or-it-tory."
Sent via Blackhole
"For the love a.." She exhales at the tree's base, and squints upwards. The squirrel leaps fluidly from branch to twig, tugging the black plastic along in its mouth with an unknown purpose, and soon vanishes from sight within the gloom of the canopy of leaves.
Feet sinking down into the soft soil, Cecilia huffs out a breath, and drops the hoe from her gloved hands. She reaches out to the plastic, then jumps in surprise. TING!
She slips on the slick fallen leaves of years gone by, startled by the sharp ringing sound of metal striking metal. The sound she least expects to hear in such an clearly wild area, where a mere squirrel is so bold to burgle around a human being.
"The hell...?" She whispers.
She takes up the rough handle of the hoe, and rises from her crouch. She taps the metal hook firmly down twice:The first gives the expected dull thump of soft dirt; the second, the clean song, "ting!"
With a puzzled frown, she makes quick work and scrapes the dirt away.
Maybe someone left behind a gun? She thinks, and fantasies briefly of ridding the world of at least one rat with a fashion accessory. She then wonders where the nearest pawn shop would be, and her mind whirls in useless circles. She chews her cheek and mulls over the fact she has only been in her new place for barely a week, and doesn't know a damn thing about the one horse of a town she is now a part of.
She raises her brows at the reddish-brown metal square nestled a foot down within the mess of dirt and molded leaves.
"Maybe it's recyclable?" She mutters under her breath, and squats down. She tries to pry it up, but it stubbornly resists the flat of the hoe. With searching gloved fingers, she swipes at the caked dirt, and finds hidden grooves. She tilts her head, and playfully raps her knuckles on the rusted metal plaque before her.
Silence fills the next few moments, and she snorts her derision. Who would put something this stupid out in the middle of nowhere, she thinks as she rises to her feet.
With a stomach twisting nausea, the sturdy ground vanishes. Inky darkness fills her wide open eyes as she lands hard. Her breath knocked out of her lungs, she hears clang of finality somewhere above her head.
"Ah.. Welcome." A raspy echoing voice says. "Welcome to my lab-or-it-tory."
Sent via Blackhole
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Coyote laughs
John's fingers hovered over the unopened envelope, and he chewed his lip as he read the sender's address.
"California Lottery Commission" he whispered.
His fingers nimbly tore through the thin barrier, and in moments he breathlessly leafed through the contents. A printed check neatly enveloped within looked too tempting to ignore, but he impulsively eyed the official looking print of the letter.
"Congratulations! You are the winner of the jackpot." His eyes crinkled up with joy as he thought of the windfall. He vaguely remembered the jackpot amount as somewhere in the millions of dollars.
With a shout of joy, he turned his attention back to the check. In the little box printed in far corner was the total amount: $2.00.
The corners of his lips tugged downwards as his nostrils flared.
Two dollars...?
He glanced to the paper attached to his winning check. At the top a goodly amount of zeros followed that 2, showing this is was indeed 2 million at one time. That morning in fact, he supposed. To his dismay he saw a terribly long list that mathematically removed all but 2, and every one printed declared itself a fee.
He snorted in amusement, then turned to his refrigerator. He smacked the check, with the fee list still attached, to the cold metal. He found a lonely magnet in the shape of the letter "c", and tapped it in place.
He could nearly hear a low cackling, as though some old coot had gotten drunk and slid off the porch. He grinned wide.
"C" for coyote. That was a good one, you old trickster." He whispered, and sipped the coffee from from his mug. Sent via Blackhole
"California Lottery Commission" he whispered.
His fingers nimbly tore through the thin barrier, and in moments he breathlessly leafed through the contents. A printed check neatly enveloped within looked too tempting to ignore, but he impulsively eyed the official looking print of the letter.
"Congratulations! You are the winner of the jackpot." His eyes crinkled up with joy as he thought of the windfall. He vaguely remembered the jackpot amount as somewhere in the millions of dollars.
With a shout of joy, he turned his attention back to the check. In the little box printed in far corner was the total amount: $2.00.
The corners of his lips tugged downwards as his nostrils flared.
Two dollars...?
He glanced to the paper attached to his winning check. At the top a goodly amount of zeros followed that 2, showing this is was indeed 2 million at one time. That morning in fact, he supposed. To his dismay he saw a terribly long list that mathematically removed all but 2, and every one printed declared itself a fee.
He snorted in amusement, then turned to his refrigerator. He smacked the check, with the fee list still attached, to the cold metal. He found a lonely magnet in the shape of the letter "c", and tapped it in place.
He could nearly hear a low cackling, as though some old coot had gotten drunk and slid off the porch. He grinned wide.
"C" for coyote. That was a good one, you old trickster." He whispered, and sipped the coffee from from his mug. Sent via Blackhole
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
turtle
This poem is based on a rhythem. sorry it's late, I was dead asleep for hours.
--oo--
I rose my fist gripping tight
the stake of cherry redwood
drove it deep into the chest
of the beast draped in a hood
when the stake of redwood split
I watched lips curl back slowly
l cringed and fled fast but the
blood turtle laughed deep and mocked me
--oo--
I rose my fist gripping tight
the stake of cherry redwood
drove it deep into the chest
of the beast draped in a hood
when the stake of redwood split
I watched lips curl back slowly
l cringed and fled fast but the
blood turtle laughed deep and mocked me
Monday, April 4, 2011
Awesome..continued..part13
This story hasn't vanished! It's now available for purchase at Amazon.com at the Kindle store (7, 2011) in the book: Llothcat's Fictional Portal, by Debra Colvin. You don't even need a Kindle device to download the book, as you can download the free program to any pc. I happen to have the free application on my blackberry phone. Any questions, comments,etc.can be e-mailed to directly at: llothcat@sbcglobal.net
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Brain fart.
A/N:
My brain has turned into mush
There isn't much I can do
I tried write something "awesome",
But it's like I'm pushing a mule
I'm having a lazy brain fart sort of day. I couldn't even remember the name of what the heck that kind of plant I walked past was on my way to a lunch with some old friends. It was a fig. A damn fig plant. I pride myself on being able to identify the wild sorts of plants around me, and I brain farted on a simple fig plant.
Sigh.
Since I can't think on much, I'm working on organising this blog. I can do that at least. I think I will declare Saturday posts "fanfiction day" since that crossover fic I did was so fun to do. Of course, it helps the ego that it's been received well at fanfiction.net, too.
Tuesdays are usually poetry. Bad poetry included.
The rest, I think I will leave open for prose stories. I wish to finish "awesome", since it's nice a weird, just the way I like. It is plotted out, but the characters have fled my mushy brain.
---ooo--
Sent via Blackhole
My brain has turned into mush
There isn't much I can do
I tried write something "awesome",
But it's like I'm pushing a mule
I'm having a lazy brain fart sort of day. I couldn't even remember the name of what the heck that kind of plant I walked past was on my way to a lunch with some old friends. It was a fig. A damn fig plant. I pride myself on being able to identify the wild sorts of plants around me, and I brain farted on a simple fig plant.
Sigh.
Since I can't think on much, I'm working on organising this blog. I can do that at least. I think I will declare Saturday posts "fanfiction day" since that crossover fic I did was so fun to do. Of course, it helps the ego that it's been received well at fanfiction.net, too.
Tuesdays are usually poetry. Bad poetry included.
The rest, I think I will leave open for prose stories. I wish to finish "awesome", since it's nice a weird, just the way I like. It is plotted out, but the characters have fled my mushy brain.
---ooo--
Sent via Blackhole
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Naruto Fma crossover...
A/N: These two manga do not go together very well: I know this because I once tried to write a crossover for both about a year ago. Long story short, the naruto manga went all wacko, I got disgusted, and so I tossed my little fic out. Anyhow, I blame the plot bunny went and bit me for this one.
--oo--
The terrible news that Leaf is destroyed by the Akatsuki arrives just as this joint team trudge to the walls of Sand. By the droop of their shoulders, he can see that the genin of both villages are greatly saddened at the awful news. The six young ones bravely face the Kazekage as he looks over them from the tower's balcony.
The report of the successful raid in his hand, he reads what the team leaders, both jonin, have to say of the bandit stronghold they discovered at the border. His face is expressionless, but even he despises what the bandits really were: slave traders.
It doesn't take him long to reach the very hospital that the group is heading to.
He watches with his arms folded over his chest as the large scroll in unrolled onto the hospital tile. The calloused hand of the lead jonin smacks onto the seal, and as the sudden poof of smoke slowly disperses, the first thing he notes is the fact that the wrists of this liberated slave are chained well apart.
He eyes the shivering form of a pale long haired boy dressed in a ragged pair of breaches, gazing at the many round intricate tattoos that vaguely remind him of seals.
"We found him this way, Kazekage. Drugged and chained up."
Gaara nods. He can see with his own eyes why the jonin considered the boy a possible missing nin. Gaara mind whirls, assessing the dangers to Sand that the boy represents.
"Extremely low chakra." The Leaf jonin says dully.
"I think he struggled mightily before he was overwhelmed.." One of the genin supplies.
"Or he was tortured." Another says darkly.
Gaara narrows his eyes, watching the boy jerk his arms hard as if unaware, or uncaring, that they are bound behind his back. The genin gasp, and there is a flurry of hand signs.
He watches the lids of the boy rise, revealing irises of shocking gold which are fever bright and highly unfocused.
Before any jutsu takes effect, the boy arches his back and kicks out. He sweeps his legs at them all in a wild sort of taijustu, and all just manage to dodge out of the way of the mad strike. The boy's left foot breaks uselessly through a sturdy wall.
"Low chakra." Repeats the jonin, watching on as the mednin descend on the feverish boy. Even with his foot stuck in the wall, it takes ten to pin him. As they pull the foot free, the dull shine of metal glints in the hospital light.
The boy struggles so wildly, so blindly, that it takes even more to move him to a proper bed for any sort of treatment. Gaara wonders if the boy has entirely lost his wits as he sees the many scars about the boy's torso. Who knew how long the slavers had him.
Gaara listens to whispers as the med-nins list off the many challenges to the boy's well-being: Severely infected gashes. Puncture wounds. It takes a day for medical nins to successfully reverse the poison they had found coating a sebon embedded in a particularly long scar that snakes it's way around the right shoulder. They stab many needles into his arms, dripping charka stabilizing solutions into his bloodstream.
Days pass. Gaara paces restlessly, absently reading through a chart that says the boy's chakra never seems to rise very far, as if the body is burning chakra as fast as it develops. The head mednin speculates that perhaps the boy is dying. Gaara nods and trusts them with their task.
He considers the boy a threat no longer, and he has paperwork awaiting his signature back in his tower.
Days later, Gaara reaches a lull in the mounds of papers. He long since assumed the boy had passed on, but could not suppress the urge to go for a simple walk. He relishes in the warm desert breeze that brushes his skin. It is one of many feelings he has now that Shikaku was violently taken from him.
The imposing building which holds the hospital goes nearly unnoticed in his pondering, and before long, Gaara wanders by the boy's door. He widens his eyes slightly at the crashing sound within.
With a glance, he sees the boy is still alive.
As he watches, the boy struggles and jerks halfway out of the bed in spite of the fact he is strapped down in with sturdy leather straps. His progress is only halted by the tubing stuck in his arms, leaving him dangling over the floor for a few breathless moments. The golden head wobbles, and he paws at the many tubes. He firmly grabs a hand full with a white knuckled fist, and with a grimace, yanks hard.
The dripping of tubes on the floor set off all sorts of screeching alarms and ringing bells. As the red light above the bed flashes, the hall fills with the pounding of sandled feet. Several med-nins rush by Gaara.
"Oh! Lord Gaara.. Kazekage..!" Gaara gives a small wave to calm the girl who stumbled into him in her rush to help the other med-nins.
"The boy lives.." Gaara prompts.
"Y-yes." The med-nin stutters. "It seems that.. Um. E-even without chakra, he's stronger than he looks."
Gaara lifts is gaze to the boy. Long golden hair is dulled down to brown, and slicked down. His sweat covered face is red and twisted in fury as the boy yells out things that Gaara doesn't recognize.
The mednins yell back.
"Shut up!"
"Stop that!"
"idiot!"
Fever bright golden eyes slide about. The boy pants. A heartbeat later he yells out something else.. vowels harsh and a great mouthful to his ears. Another language Gaara supposes.
Three mednins pin down the left leg, and Gaara hears the chilling rattle of chains, perhaps slipping under the warm blankets. The boy arches his back and squirms under the grasp of the med-nins once more as he is manhandled back under the leather straps.
During a fleeting, lucid moment, Gaara strides into the human maelstrom to stand before the foot of the bed. It takes a few moments, but the boy's bright gaze settles warily upon him, and the wildly swinging slows. The med-nins snap down a new strap across the boy's bandaged chest, and tentatively lift their hands. The boy scowls down at the restraint, and pants from his enormous, ultimately useless struggles. He then glares at Gaara, and waits.
The med nins back away, stepping to the wall. Some flinch as if expecting Gaara to lash out in anger with his sand, even though he is plainly not angry in the least.
"You do not understand what I am saying, do you?" Gaara says emotionlessly, arms folded across his chest.
The boy continues to glare, but Gaara watches the flickering expressions on the boy's face.
Gaara then gestures to himself, and says "Gaara."
The stranger's golden eyes focus slightly, lingering on the Kanji, "love", carved onto his forehead. Then, with a nearly unnoticable jerk of his chin, says, "Ghaaahaaarha." As if tasting the word.
Gaara replaces his arm into his fold, and stares at the boy in expectation.
The boy swallows, and pants a few more times before passing his glare about the room with an air of displeasure. He then glares back at the Kazekage, and in a huff, grunts something the sounds like "id."
"Id-" Gaara says experimentally, adding the affectionate"- kun" to the end. It was a strange name, if it was a name.
The boy shakes his head slightly, and blinks a slow blink. Gaara wonders if that's a no.
"Ed." The boy says firmly.
Gaara nods.
Sent via Blackhole
--oo--
The terrible news that Leaf is destroyed by the Akatsuki arrives just as this joint team trudge to the walls of Sand. By the droop of their shoulders, he can see that the genin of both villages are greatly saddened at the awful news. The six young ones bravely face the Kazekage as he looks over them from the tower's balcony.
The report of the successful raid in his hand, he reads what the team leaders, both jonin, have to say of the bandit stronghold they discovered at the border. His face is expressionless, but even he despises what the bandits really were: slave traders.
It doesn't take him long to reach the very hospital that the group is heading to.
He watches with his arms folded over his chest as the large scroll in unrolled onto the hospital tile. The calloused hand of the lead jonin smacks onto the seal, and as the sudden poof of smoke slowly disperses, the first thing he notes is the fact that the wrists of this liberated slave are chained well apart.
He eyes the shivering form of a pale long haired boy dressed in a ragged pair of breaches, gazing at the many round intricate tattoos that vaguely remind him of seals.
"We found him this way, Kazekage. Drugged and chained up."
Gaara nods. He can see with his own eyes why the jonin considered the boy a possible missing nin. Gaara mind whirls, assessing the dangers to Sand that the boy represents.
"Extremely low chakra." The Leaf jonin says dully.
"I think he struggled mightily before he was overwhelmed.." One of the genin supplies.
"Or he was tortured." Another says darkly.
Gaara narrows his eyes, watching the boy jerk his arms hard as if unaware, or uncaring, that they are bound behind his back. The genin gasp, and there is a flurry of hand signs.
He watches the lids of the boy rise, revealing irises of shocking gold which are fever bright and highly unfocused.
Before any jutsu takes effect, the boy arches his back and kicks out. He sweeps his legs at them all in a wild sort of taijustu, and all just manage to dodge out of the way of the mad strike. The boy's left foot breaks uselessly through a sturdy wall.
"Low chakra." Repeats the jonin, watching on as the mednin descend on the feverish boy. Even with his foot stuck in the wall, it takes ten to pin him. As they pull the foot free, the dull shine of metal glints in the hospital light.
The boy struggles so wildly, so blindly, that it takes even more to move him to a proper bed for any sort of treatment. Gaara wonders if the boy has entirely lost his wits as he sees the many scars about the boy's torso. Who knew how long the slavers had him.
Gaara listens to whispers as the med-nins list off the many challenges to the boy's well-being: Severely infected gashes. Puncture wounds. It takes a day for medical nins to successfully reverse the poison they had found coating a sebon embedded in a particularly long scar that snakes it's way around the right shoulder. They stab many needles into his arms, dripping charka stabilizing solutions into his bloodstream.
Days pass. Gaara paces restlessly, absently reading through a chart that says the boy's chakra never seems to rise very far, as if the body is burning chakra as fast as it develops. The head mednin speculates that perhaps the boy is dying. Gaara nods and trusts them with their task.
He considers the boy a threat no longer, and he has paperwork awaiting his signature back in his tower.
Days later, Gaara reaches a lull in the mounds of papers. He long since assumed the boy had passed on, but could not suppress the urge to go for a simple walk. He relishes in the warm desert breeze that brushes his skin. It is one of many feelings he has now that Shikaku was violently taken from him.
The imposing building which holds the hospital goes nearly unnoticed in his pondering, and before long, Gaara wanders by the boy's door. He widens his eyes slightly at the crashing sound within.
With a glance, he sees the boy is still alive.
As he watches, the boy struggles and jerks halfway out of the bed in spite of the fact he is strapped down in with sturdy leather straps. His progress is only halted by the tubing stuck in his arms, leaving him dangling over the floor for a few breathless moments. The golden head wobbles, and he paws at the many tubes. He firmly grabs a hand full with a white knuckled fist, and with a grimace, yanks hard.
The dripping of tubes on the floor set off all sorts of screeching alarms and ringing bells. As the red light above the bed flashes, the hall fills with the pounding of sandled feet. Several med-nins rush by Gaara.
"Oh! Lord Gaara.. Kazekage..!" Gaara gives a small wave to calm the girl who stumbled into him in her rush to help the other med-nins.
"The boy lives.." Gaara prompts.
"Y-yes." The med-nin stutters. "It seems that.. Um. E-even without chakra, he's stronger than he looks."
Gaara lifts is gaze to the boy. Long golden hair is dulled down to brown, and slicked down. His sweat covered face is red and twisted in fury as the boy yells out things that Gaara doesn't recognize.
The mednins yell back.
"Shut up!"
"Stop that!"
"idiot!"
Fever bright golden eyes slide about. The boy pants. A heartbeat later he yells out something else.. vowels harsh and a great mouthful to his ears. Another language Gaara supposes.
Three mednins pin down the left leg, and Gaara hears the chilling rattle of chains, perhaps slipping under the warm blankets. The boy arches his back and squirms under the grasp of the med-nins once more as he is manhandled back under the leather straps.
During a fleeting, lucid moment, Gaara strides into the human maelstrom to stand before the foot of the bed. It takes a few moments, but the boy's bright gaze settles warily upon him, and the wildly swinging slows. The med-nins snap down a new strap across the boy's bandaged chest, and tentatively lift their hands. The boy scowls down at the restraint, and pants from his enormous, ultimately useless struggles. He then glares at Gaara, and waits.
The med nins back away, stepping to the wall. Some flinch as if expecting Gaara to lash out in anger with his sand, even though he is plainly not angry in the least.
"You do not understand what I am saying, do you?" Gaara says emotionlessly, arms folded across his chest.
The boy continues to glare, but Gaara watches the flickering expressions on the boy's face.
Gaara then gestures to himself, and says "Gaara."
The stranger's golden eyes focus slightly, lingering on the Kanji, "love", carved onto his forehead. Then, with a nearly unnoticable jerk of his chin, says, "Ghaaahaaarha." As if tasting the word.
Gaara replaces his arm into his fold, and stares at the boy in expectation.
The boy swallows, and pants a few more times before passing his glare about the room with an air of displeasure. He then glares back at the Kazekage, and in a huff, grunts something the sounds like "id."
"Id-" Gaara says experimentally, adding the affectionate"- kun" to the end. It was a strange name, if it was a name.
The boy shakes his head slightly, and blinks a slow blink. Gaara wonders if that's a no.
"Ed." The boy says firmly.
Gaara nods.
Sent via Blackhole
Friday, April 1, 2011
Awesome..continued..part 12
This story hasn't vanished! It's now available for purchase at Amazon.com at the Kindle store (7, 2011) in the book: Llothcat's Fictional Portal, by Debra Colvin. You don't even need a Kindle device to download the book, as you can download the free program to any pc. I happen to have the free application on my blackberry phone. Any questions, comments,etc.can be e-mailed to directly at: llothcat@sbcglobal.net
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