a/n: time for another really bad, awful poem. attempting a new rhyming pattern, and maybe a smidgeon of a metaphor, if you squint. 'Think I'll have to revisit this sometime.
--ooo--
my brain pounding
between my ears
throat dried, tired and sick
in times of trying
full unfounded fears
and empty skulls, all increadably thick
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Fma naruto crossover chapter nine continued...
His body feels weak and off, but he steels himself. He needs all of his strength for this fight, and he focuses his mind to the task of overcoming his body's sickness.
He eyes the kid with the spiky dark pony tail carefully. Darting his eyes to the cloth at his hip. He doesn't know what the significance of the swirly pattern on that plate means, but it's definitely different that the blocky mark that he's seen so far. It marks the guy as different. Special. And the mass of wreathing shadows beneath him can only mean one thing:
Of all of them -- of all the homulculi-- Pride!! Ed thinks, and as the spiky haired boy raises his hands in mock surrender, Ed just moves. The equation shines briefly in his mind as he slaps his left palm to his right forearm, the rushing flow draining him a bit, but by some miracle, he keeps his steps steady.
In this crowd of people, he's the only one that can take the shadow freak down, now while its many eyes are closed. He has to break its container fast and hard before it can take hostages, or kill to add lives to itself.
He charges, lifting his right fist, ignoring the wave of dizziness from his pounding head.
The sudden force of the wind, strong enough to bowel over his not-small! frame is certainly a surprise.
His bare skin stings from thousands of shallow scrapes, and instinct forces him to somehow direct just where his tumbling body will land. His muscles in his shoulders wrench from the effort, and he knows its a bad thing. He won't feel the pain from the exertion just yet, and he manages a bone jarring landing on his rubbery hands and knees.
He hears a familiar voice barking out words in that language he can't understand, and catches glimpses of a really cool green mask worn a dark haired woman. He also can see the flash of a metal plate at her throat which proves the lady's one of them.
It takes a moment for the air to return to his lungs, and though his arms quiver, Ed pushes himself back onto his wobbling feet. Blood drains from his cheeks as he flicks his eyes to the rooftops, knowing he's done something stupid and foolish in his sickly daze.
Feeling more like himself in what seems like weeks, he realizes that he's completely in the open, which therefore means he is absolutely vulnerable to more than the threat of the homulculi before him.
Guns. Snipers. I won't even know they're there-- if they're there. He thinks and swallowed his dust filled saliva. If they wanted me dead.. I would be already.
He breathes in and out, hyper aware of the slightest movement around him.
---ooo---
Shikamaru widens his eyes at the golden haired boy raising himself from the dust.
The rags of the hospital's shorts are the only garment remaining on his pale thin frame, revealing angry swollen red wounds along the left chest and biceps. Shika frowns at the many tattoos in plain view, placed on the belly, chest, biceps... Roughly everywhere he knows major chakra points are supposed to be located.
The eye-catching left leg shines in the setting sun as the last of the concealing bandages fall into the dust, and even through Shika already knew of the leg's existence, he still finds himself impressed. The boy hadn't limped in his charge, after all. A red fluid dribbles down the boy's chin and beyond, and Shika warily watches him swipe at his bleeding nose with the back of his left hand.
As he sees position four land behind the target, Shika notes that the boy's right has some sort of dark, highly articulated gauntlet strapped to it, and wonders if that was the dark thing that his chakra knife struck moments ago.
Shikamaru's gaze meets the fever bright golden eyes that are set in a furious scowl.
"The slavers you caught were eliminated before they could reveal much." Shika says to position three, a statement, not a question.
"It was unfortunate, yes." Position three replies. "Can we get on with this?"
Shikamaru makes no remark, but remembers the slavers were supposedly moving constantly around Wind. Which made them harder to catch. Moving like the travelers, right? He thinks. From that assignment years ago. Having to do with the stone of Gelel thing? Whoever they were, they had to have had him for a while, and maybe they were switching from narcotics to something more long term. Like seals.
"What a drag. Looks like they had as much trouble getting him cooperative as your mednins.." Shikamaru mutters.
"And your point?"
The target sways, and slightly turns his head. He doesn't stiffen, but rolls and straightens his shoulders.
Position four and three move as one: three reaching into her pack, while four dives forward.
Red lightening sparks and dances across pale skin. The target moves, rolling back and savagely crashes both heels into the chin of position four.
"Get back! He's not masking his chakra! " Shikamaru calls out belatedly.
The target tosses position four with his feet, straight into the path of three's tossed sebon needles.
Red lightening arcs again as the target moves, rolling smoothly back to his feet. Shikamaru blinks as the infected wounds vanish, as if healed. The boy staggers a step, looking over at the slumped body of position four. Shikamaru narrows his eyes, wondering if he was imagining the target appearing even more pale and feverish than moments before.
"Dis fukken shitu glirr!" The target says, voice so thickly accented that Shika barely made sense of the curse. The boy then glares his way.
"He's not using chakra at all!" Shikamaru continued. "He can't. See those tattoos?"
"What about 'em?" Three snapped over her shoulder as she began to warily circle the target, a kunai in each hand. The target's eyes slide her way, face stony and decidedly unimpressed.
"I'm no expert, but they're similar to some I've seen back home. I think they're chakra seals."
"Chakra seals.." The target and three circle one another, both in some sort of taijutsu fighting stance. Shikamaru wasn't exactly an expert at taijustsu, either.
"If I'm right. His chakra is sealed beyond use. He shouldn't be breathing, much less..." Shikamaru says, pausing as he sees the target makes a face, squeezes his golden eyes closed, and mutter in a language that Shikamaru has never heard.
"Yeah. Got it." Three lunges forward, pressing the advantage.
---oooo---
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
He eyes the kid with the spiky dark pony tail carefully. Darting his eyes to the cloth at his hip. He doesn't know what the significance of the swirly pattern on that plate means, but it's definitely different that the blocky mark that he's seen so far. It marks the guy as different. Special. And the mass of wreathing shadows beneath him can only mean one thing:
Of all of them -- of all the homulculi-- Pride!! Ed thinks, and as the spiky haired boy raises his hands in mock surrender, Ed just moves. The equation shines briefly in his mind as he slaps his left palm to his right forearm, the rushing flow draining him a bit, but by some miracle, he keeps his steps steady.
In this crowd of people, he's the only one that can take the shadow freak down, now while its many eyes are closed. He has to break its container fast and hard before it can take hostages, or kill to add lives to itself.
He charges, lifting his right fist, ignoring the wave of dizziness from his pounding head.
The sudden force of the wind, strong enough to bowel over his not-small! frame is certainly a surprise.
His bare skin stings from thousands of shallow scrapes, and instinct forces him to somehow direct just where his tumbling body will land. His muscles in his shoulders wrench from the effort, and he knows its a bad thing. He won't feel the pain from the exertion just yet, and he manages a bone jarring landing on his rubbery hands and knees.
He hears a familiar voice barking out words in that language he can't understand, and catches glimpses of a really cool green mask worn a dark haired woman. He also can see the flash of a metal plate at her throat which proves the lady's one of them.
It takes a moment for the air to return to his lungs, and though his arms quiver, Ed pushes himself back onto his wobbling feet. Blood drains from his cheeks as he flicks his eyes to the rooftops, knowing he's done something stupid and foolish in his sickly daze.
Feeling more like himself in what seems like weeks, he realizes that he's completely in the open, which therefore means he is absolutely vulnerable to more than the threat of the homulculi before him.
Guns. Snipers. I won't even know they're there-- if they're there. He thinks and swallowed his dust filled saliva. If they wanted me dead.. I would be already.
He breathes in and out, hyper aware of the slightest movement around him.
---ooo---
Shikamaru widens his eyes at the golden haired boy raising himself from the dust.
The rags of the hospital's shorts are the only garment remaining on his pale thin frame, revealing angry swollen red wounds along the left chest and biceps. Shika frowns at the many tattoos in plain view, placed on the belly, chest, biceps... Roughly everywhere he knows major chakra points are supposed to be located.
The eye-catching left leg shines in the setting sun as the last of the concealing bandages fall into the dust, and even through Shika already knew of the leg's existence, he still finds himself impressed. The boy hadn't limped in his charge, after all. A red fluid dribbles down the boy's chin and beyond, and Shika warily watches him swipe at his bleeding nose with the back of his left hand.
As he sees position four land behind the target, Shika notes that the boy's right has some sort of dark, highly articulated gauntlet strapped to it, and wonders if that was the dark thing that his chakra knife struck moments ago.
Shikamaru's gaze meets the fever bright golden eyes that are set in a furious scowl.
"The slavers you caught were eliminated before they could reveal much." Shika says to position three, a statement, not a question.
"It was unfortunate, yes." Position three replies. "Can we get on with this?"
Shikamaru makes no remark, but remembers the slavers were supposedly moving constantly around Wind. Which made them harder to catch. Moving like the travelers, right? He thinks. From that assignment years ago. Having to do with the stone of Gelel thing? Whoever they were, they had to have had him for a while, and maybe they were switching from narcotics to something more long term. Like seals.
"What a drag. Looks like they had as much trouble getting him cooperative as your mednins.." Shikamaru mutters.
"And your point?"
The target sways, and slightly turns his head. He doesn't stiffen, but rolls and straightens his shoulders.
Position four and three move as one: three reaching into her pack, while four dives forward.
Red lightening sparks and dances across pale skin. The target moves, rolling back and savagely crashes both heels into the chin of position four.
"Get back! He's not masking his chakra! " Shikamaru calls out belatedly.
The target tosses position four with his feet, straight into the path of three's tossed sebon needles.
Red lightening arcs again as the target moves, rolling smoothly back to his feet. Shikamaru blinks as the infected wounds vanish, as if healed. The boy staggers a step, looking over at the slumped body of position four. Shikamaru narrows his eyes, wondering if he was imagining the target appearing even more pale and feverish than moments before.
"Dis fukken shitu glirr!" The target says, voice so thickly accented that Shika barely made sense of the curse. The boy then glares his way.
"He's not using chakra at all!" Shikamaru continued. "He can't. See those tattoos?"
"What about 'em?" Three snapped over her shoulder as she began to warily circle the target, a kunai in each hand. The target's eyes slide her way, face stony and decidedly unimpressed.
"I'm no expert, but they're similar to some I've seen back home. I think they're chakra seals."
"Chakra seals.." The target and three circle one another, both in some sort of taijutsu fighting stance. Shikamaru wasn't exactly an expert at taijustsu, either.
"If I'm right. His chakra is sealed beyond use. He shouldn't be breathing, much less..." Shikamaru says, pausing as he sees the target makes a face, squeezes his golden eyes closed, and mutter in a language that Shikamaru has never heard.
"Yeah. Got it." Three lunges forward, pressing the advantage.
---oooo---
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Fma-naruto crossover- chapter nine..
A/n- this is as far as I got tonight.. More to come as tomorrow is a boring. Boring shift.
--ooo--
Shikamaru prides himself in being too lazy to fight. He slowly lifts his hands apart, and spreads his fingers in surrender.
Blazing golden eyes dart, searching the shadow laden ground, but at the same time the left hand touches the sleeve on the right arm. Though Shikamaru never witnesses a single hand sign, bright blue lightning discharges all over the boy's body. What lightning technique is this? A bloodline-limit? Shika's mind whirls, analyzing all the raw data as he witnesses the long dirty tunic, draped loosely upon the boy, move, strangely, of its own accord. It glows and wraps about the boy's right forearm, slithering along almost like it was alive.
A puppet technique of some sort? No. A bloodline limit puppetry technique based on a lightening type chakra..? Shika's brows twist in the absurdity of the notion.
The boy is in motion before the showy sparks and glow fades, bandaged legs pumping in a near blur. Shika back pedals instinctively from the fierce charge, one arm seeking his fanny pack, aching to clutch his chakra knife. His hand is on the cool handle as the thin body darts far too close, the boy moving faster than he ever expected.
Shikamaru is not a close range type-of fighter, but his analysis declares that apparently, this boy is. Three steps back, and the boy is five steps too close, but instead of a direct strike, suddenly the blond lunges to the side and down.
A feint? A taijutsu feint? What a drag. The boy is an experienced close range fighter.
Shika's chakra knife pulls free of the pack and he brings it protectively up before his chest, just as a dark pale blur descends in from his right. The clang of the impact against something very hard vibrates down and through his all his bones.
Shikamaru doesn't get a chance of see what his knife struck, but his teeth rattle anyway.
A gust of wind from behind nearly blows Shika over, but blasts the boy solidly, sending him tumbling heels over skull.
The boy drops like a rag doll into a heap as position three, the dark haired woman in a green demon mask, drops down from above the wagon. Shika hears her voice barking orders and, she gestures sharply to the remaining crowd. It's quite the show. The crowd moves back obediently, following the frightening nin's commands.
What a drag. Why are women-nin always the scary type anyway?
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
--ooo--
Shikamaru prides himself in being too lazy to fight. He slowly lifts his hands apart, and spreads his fingers in surrender.
Blazing golden eyes dart, searching the shadow laden ground, but at the same time the left hand touches the sleeve on the right arm. Though Shikamaru never witnesses a single hand sign, bright blue lightning discharges all over the boy's body. What lightning technique is this? A bloodline-limit? Shika's mind whirls, analyzing all the raw data as he witnesses the long dirty tunic, draped loosely upon the boy, move, strangely, of its own accord. It glows and wraps about the boy's right forearm, slithering along almost like it was alive.
A puppet technique of some sort? No. A bloodline limit puppetry technique based on a lightening type chakra..? Shika's brows twist in the absurdity of the notion.
The boy is in motion before the showy sparks and glow fades, bandaged legs pumping in a near blur. Shika back pedals instinctively from the fierce charge, one arm seeking his fanny pack, aching to clutch his chakra knife. His hand is on the cool handle as the thin body darts far too close, the boy moving faster than he ever expected.
Shikamaru is not a close range type-of fighter, but his analysis declares that apparently, this boy is. Three steps back, and the boy is five steps too close, but instead of a direct strike, suddenly the blond lunges to the side and down.
A feint? A taijutsu feint? What a drag. The boy is an experienced close range fighter.
Shika's chakra knife pulls free of the pack and he brings it protectively up before his chest, just as a dark pale blur descends in from his right. The clang of the impact against something very hard vibrates down and through his all his bones.
Shikamaru doesn't get a chance of see what his knife struck, but his teeth rattle anyway.
A gust of wind from behind nearly blows Shika over, but blasts the boy solidly, sending him tumbling heels over skull.
The boy drops like a rag doll into a heap as position three, the dark haired woman in a green demon mask, drops down from above the wagon. Shika hears her voice barking orders and, she gestures sharply to the remaining crowd. It's quite the show. The crowd moves back obediently, following the frightening nin's commands.
What a drag. Why are women-nin always the scary type anyway?
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Friday, May 27, 2011
Wax paper...chapter six continued..
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, May 26, 2011
Wax paper..chapter 6
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
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
bad poetry...
A/n: tonight's bad poem is hardly inspired at all.
---ooo---
I was meaning to write a poem,
but instead I browsed through a forum
filled with bicking and fights.
so out of spite
I joined in with a yell
something like " y'all go to hell!!"
and wasted more time
than it takes to make a rhyme.
---ooo---
I was meaning to write a poem,
but instead I browsed through a forum
filled with bicking and fights.
so out of spite
I joined in with a yell
something like " y'all go to hell!!"
and wasted more time
than it takes to make a rhyme.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Today's post..
I wrote it. I really did write it down, what I had plotted out in my head. You don't believe me, do you? I can see that frown on your face.
Alright. I'll come clean. Here's what happened.
I typed the story onto the flickering screen of white, an act which converted my latest installment of imagination into nothing but pure light wrapped about an incriminating code of ones and zeros. Or was it zeros and ones?
Whatever.
I pushed a button to send it on its way here, and then I went and pushed another to see how it looked online.
That turned out to be a mistake, see?
I suppose the post must have been naked, because after I raised my finger, I glimpsed a flash of embarrassed white that dashed away off the screen. I heard the bathroom door slam in the hall soon after, and the post, I think, never actually left a mark on this blog.
Welp. I did I knock on the wood of the door, but the light within flicked like a shy blush. I don't want the poor thing to hyperventilate, so I can say that I don't think the post is going to be ready to be seen any time soon. I will be waiting to hear the toilet flush, though, just in case I'm wrong.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Alright. I'll come clean. Here's what happened.
I typed the story onto the flickering screen of white, an act which converted my latest installment of imagination into nothing but pure light wrapped about an incriminating code of ones and zeros. Or was it zeros and ones?
Whatever.
I pushed a button to send it on its way here, and then I went and pushed another to see how it looked online.
That turned out to be a mistake, see?
I suppose the post must have been naked, because after I raised my finger, I glimpsed a flash of embarrassed white that dashed away off the screen. I heard the bathroom door slam in the hall soon after, and the post, I think, never actually left a mark on this blog.
Welp. I did I knock on the wood of the door, but the light within flicked like a shy blush. I don't want the poor thing to hyperventilate, so I can say that I don't think the post is going to be ready to be seen any time soon. I will be waiting to hear the toilet flush, though, just in case I'm wrong.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Wax paper chapter 5
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
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Fma-naruto chapter 8 continued..
Shikamaru dully notes every slight quiver of muscles as the target blithely chewed, which logically pointed to a clearly ill individual to anyone with common sense.
Shika sighs. What a bother. This is Hidden Sand, a ninja village. Of course, common sense doesn't apply here.
Besides, given its recent destruction, Shika finds he doubts that even his home village, Leaf, wouldn't react much the same. But it would still be a bother.
Heck. This whole assignment is such a bother, he thinks, wondering at Sand's overly cautious nature. Can't we try to speak to him instead of this whole bother of deploying five man special tactical force?
Shikamaru takes in a breath, but chomps back his words as he sees an ugly bothersome scowl flicker on the target's face. Followed by an entire shoulder rounding, and nearly striking his nose. Heartbeats later, the target rises to his feet, and, chopsticks tinkling within the porcelain cavity, stomps his way from the low table.
With all the grace of a raging rhino, the target rudely pushes, and in a few cases shoves, past all the others lined up before the wagon to stand at the very front. Shika watches in amazement as the target, dwarfed by nearly everyone around, waves imperiously at the vendor, and demandingly gestures to his empty bowl.
Instead of the expected rightful snap of a reprimand at the sheer audacity of the boy, the vendor cheerfully bellows,
"Ah friend. Of course of course. Another bowl coming right up."
Shikamaru raises his brows. He never heard of Itchiban to give out seconds of his ramen. Well, certainly not for free.
"Position two: copy?" Hisses the radio in his ear. Shikamaru frowns as he presses the radio button.
"Yeah." Shikamaru drolls.
"What are you doing sitting there."
"Recognizance."
"I remember your performance in the chunin exams, boy. You're wasting the daylight your technique needs. I remind you that your sole role on this team is to quietly acquire the target."
Shikamaru rolls his eyes before he blows out a gust of wind.
"If you're just going to sit there, at least clear the area of civilians so that the job can be done properly. Copy?"
"Bother. Fine. Copy."
Shikamaru frowns, and quickly makes the hand signs he needs to shape his chakra. His shadow beneath his feet, long and blue, thanks to the setting sun, slithers forth just as the target reaches for the heaping bowl of noodles with outstretched arms. Easy. Shikamaru thinks. Very easy.
"Shadow stitching..!"
How? Shikamaru thinks, widening his eyes in disbelief as, within the span of a single inch, so very close to successfully stitching their shadows together, the target's moves. His arms abruptly swing back, away from the proffered bowl, and the rest of the boy follows in a smooth graceful arch of a leap backwards: a high hand spring.
Several civilians startle at the unusual movement, and cry out as they lunge out of the way of the leaping boy. Their shadows mingle with that of the wagon, and his, and the tangle of their chakra is a difficult distraction to navigate through at the best of times. Here, it costs him several seconds.
Along the dust of the ground, Shikamaru's shadow stretches, the uselessly swipes at the oblong blob of a shadow as the leap away isolates the target's shadow from the rest. Unfortunately, Shikamaru finds it is quite safely out of the immediate reach of his shadow stitching technique.
Amazingly, the boy continues on, backhand springing a few more times before landing perfectly balanced on his feet, and crouched low to the ground with a feral scowl on his face.
Shikamaru faces the boy's heated gaze, and for a heartbeat, neither moves.
"What the hell, Nara?" Shikamaru hears over the radio. "I said quietly!!"
Shikamaru frowns, vaguely aware of the noisy shouting rush of fleeing bodies around him, as the civilians flee the area, not daring to tear his gaze from the boy. Not now that he is locked into a what is sure to be a nasty, and bothersome, ninja battle. Feeling quite exposed, wishing, not for the first time. that he was only a puffy little cloud in the sky, a part of him wonders if perhaps common sense is not completely absent from Hidden Sand after all.
"How bothersome." Shikamaru says aloud to no one in particular.
He hears the boy spit out a low and guttural snarl, like the strange word that follows is nasty sort of poison.
"Pride."
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Shika sighs. What a bother. This is Hidden Sand, a ninja village. Of course, common sense doesn't apply here.
Besides, given its recent destruction, Shika finds he doubts that even his home village, Leaf, wouldn't react much the same. But it would still be a bother.
Heck. This whole assignment is such a bother, he thinks, wondering at Sand's overly cautious nature. Can't we try to speak to him instead of this whole bother of deploying five man special tactical force?
Shikamaru takes in a breath, but chomps back his words as he sees an ugly bothersome scowl flicker on the target's face. Followed by an entire shoulder rounding, and nearly striking his nose. Heartbeats later, the target rises to his feet, and, chopsticks tinkling within the porcelain cavity, stomps his way from the low table.
With all the grace of a raging rhino, the target rudely pushes, and in a few cases shoves, past all the others lined up before the wagon to stand at the very front. Shika watches in amazement as the target, dwarfed by nearly everyone around, waves imperiously at the vendor, and demandingly gestures to his empty bowl.
Instead of the expected rightful snap of a reprimand at the sheer audacity of the boy, the vendor cheerfully bellows,
"Ah friend. Of course of course. Another bowl coming right up."
Shikamaru raises his brows. He never heard of Itchiban to give out seconds of his ramen. Well, certainly not for free.
"Position two: copy?" Hisses the radio in his ear. Shikamaru frowns as he presses the radio button.
"Yeah." Shikamaru drolls.
"What are you doing sitting there."
"Recognizance."
"I remember your performance in the chunin exams, boy. You're wasting the daylight your technique needs. I remind you that your sole role on this team is to quietly acquire the target."
Shikamaru rolls his eyes before he blows out a gust of wind.
"If you're just going to sit there, at least clear the area of civilians so that the job can be done properly. Copy?"
"Bother. Fine. Copy."
Shikamaru frowns, and quickly makes the hand signs he needs to shape his chakra. His shadow beneath his feet, long and blue, thanks to the setting sun, slithers forth just as the target reaches for the heaping bowl of noodles with outstretched arms. Easy. Shikamaru thinks. Very easy.
"Shadow stitching..!"
How? Shikamaru thinks, widening his eyes in disbelief as, within the span of a single inch, so very close to successfully stitching their shadows together, the target's moves. His arms abruptly swing back, away from the proffered bowl, and the rest of the boy follows in a smooth graceful arch of a leap backwards: a high hand spring.
Several civilians startle at the unusual movement, and cry out as they lunge out of the way of the leaping boy. Their shadows mingle with that of the wagon, and his, and the tangle of their chakra is a difficult distraction to navigate through at the best of times. Here, it costs him several seconds.
Along the dust of the ground, Shikamaru's shadow stretches, the uselessly swipes at the oblong blob of a shadow as the leap away isolates the target's shadow from the rest. Unfortunately, Shikamaru finds it is quite safely out of the immediate reach of his shadow stitching technique.
Amazingly, the boy continues on, backhand springing a few more times before landing perfectly balanced on his feet, and crouched low to the ground with a feral scowl on his face.
Shikamaru faces the boy's heated gaze, and for a heartbeat, neither moves.
"What the hell, Nara?" Shikamaru hears over the radio. "I said quietly!!"
Shikamaru frowns, vaguely aware of the noisy shouting rush of fleeing bodies around him, as the civilians flee the area, not daring to tear his gaze from the boy. Not now that he is locked into a what is sure to be a nasty, and bothersome, ninja battle. Feeling quite exposed, wishing, not for the first time. that he was only a puffy little cloud in the sky, a part of him wonders if perhaps common sense is not completely absent from Hidden Sand after all.
"How bothersome." Shikamaru says aloud to no one in particular.
He hears the boy spit out a low and guttural snarl, like the strange word that follows is nasty sort of poison.
"Pride."
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Friday, May 20, 2011
Fma-naruto chapter eight
A/N: O.O
Lot's o watchers for this here fic. Veeeeery intimidating:) ahem.. This is as much I got done tonight. I know. I write far too slow. I do want to get to a battle, but Ed has to know himself a bit first.
--oo--
Having chucked the stupid sticks away as useless, Ed hunches his shoulders and sloops in another great mouthful of the wonderfully strange long thin noodles. The salty tang of the thin broth tickles his throat in an oddly dreadful way.
Why? Why is such a flavor so very very familiar? He keeps his eyes fixated on the relative bore of the sagging wagon's side, managing to block out all distractions found on the lively street in his utter focus of his pursuit.
At first, just past the hazy confusion, all he sees is white. He remembers turning his head, gaping at the endless nothing of the place. He wondered what he was doing to get there, and startled at the thought that he nearly forgot his own name. Then came the echoing boom of something ancient and so very final, filling him with the foreboding sense of doom that resonates throughout his very being.
Somewhere between the last bite and swallowing, he widens his eyes in breathless horror. That thing. How could he EVER forget that thing: the dark monument of all knowledge in the world and the cruel heart of alchemy itself?
He feels a stabbing throb in his thigh and. He sees the blood. Endless torrents of blood flowing across an elegant design scrawled in chalk upon a dark basement floor. The lifting fog revealed a bloody horror he alone visited upon his innocent mother, and he watched as it gasped its last wet gasp, at the same time mourning his childhood as it came to an abrupt end.
All his fault. It's all wrong, and it's all his fault, because it was his idea to in the first place. He shivers, and clutches at the dirty tunic he wears, throat tightening as he recalls his desperate, futile cries for his missing brother.
He slides his eyes slightly when a body slouches down into a nearby stool on his left, but shifts away as his right shoulder begins to ache as badly as his left thigh. He rubs at the throbbing juncture with the hearty meat of his left hand, and his brows meet as he sees just how much paler, and thinner, his right hand seems.
The wrist is bonier, too, he thinks as he flexes his fingers, as though I haven't used it in years.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Lot's o watchers for this here fic. Veeeeery intimidating:) ahem.. This is as much I got done tonight. I know. I write far too slow. I do want to get to a battle, but Ed has to know himself a bit first.
--oo--
Having chucked the stupid sticks away as useless, Ed hunches his shoulders and sloops in another great mouthful of the wonderfully strange long thin noodles. The salty tang of the thin broth tickles his throat in an oddly dreadful way.
Why? Why is such a flavor so very very familiar? He keeps his eyes fixated on the relative bore of the sagging wagon's side, managing to block out all distractions found on the lively street in his utter focus of his pursuit.
At first, just past the hazy confusion, all he sees is white. He remembers turning his head, gaping at the endless nothing of the place. He wondered what he was doing to get there, and startled at the thought that he nearly forgot his own name. Then came the echoing boom of something ancient and so very final, filling him with the foreboding sense of doom that resonates throughout his very being.
Somewhere between the last bite and swallowing, he widens his eyes in breathless horror. That thing. How could he EVER forget that thing: the dark monument of all knowledge in the world and the cruel heart of alchemy itself?
He feels a stabbing throb in his thigh and. He sees the blood. Endless torrents of blood flowing across an elegant design scrawled in chalk upon a dark basement floor. The lifting fog revealed a bloody horror he alone visited upon his innocent mother, and he watched as it gasped its last wet gasp, at the same time mourning his childhood as it came to an abrupt end.
All his fault. It's all wrong, and it's all his fault, because it was his idea to in the first place. He shivers, and clutches at the dirty tunic he wears, throat tightening as he recalls his desperate, futile cries for his missing brother.
He slides his eyes slightly when a body slouches down into a nearby stool on his left, but shifts away as his right shoulder begins to ache as badly as his left thigh. He rubs at the throbbing juncture with the hearty meat of his left hand, and his brows meet as he sees just how much paler, and thinner, his right hand seems.
The wrist is bonier, too, he thinks as he flexes his fingers, as though I haven't used it in years.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Bad poem...What to do.. What to do..
I sat before an old mother distraught
With fears for her son, who went out and bought
A great bunch of flowers,
And spent too many hours,
Wooing a woman, with all the ambition
Of being of the nunish condition.
Sighing as she told me of her complaints,
I began to see the depth of my mistake
For of the nunly woman, I knew her all too well
And if she lied, then tonight she would very likely be off to hell
For denying the facts, of what she had done
For in the previous year, she had birthed her own son
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
With fears for her son, who went out and bought
A great bunch of flowers,
And spent too many hours,
Wooing a woman, with all the ambition
Of being of the nunish condition.
Sighing as she told me of her complaints,
I began to see the depth of my mistake
For of the nunly woman, I knew her all too well
And if she lied, then tonight she would very likely be off to hell
For denying the facts, of what she had done
For in the previous year, she had birthed her own son
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Monday, May 16, 2011
Today's post..
.Grew legs and scrambled away from my grasp just as I was about to push the 'send' button. No really. It did. I jerked my hand back just as it started to quiver a might too eagerly for my liking, anticipating my touch. They were ugly, spindly, green-polka-dotted-like suckers, roughly a foot long. Can't miss 'em, and I really wish I could cut out the portion of my brain that recalls seeing them sprout.
Maybe it's the full moon? Or the stupid cat in the hall, rowling loudly because it's in heat?
Welp. Whatever it was that caused it, I'm happy to let the disgusting thing cower there in the far corner, keeping the dust spiders and earwigs company by the closet. Perhaps it'll meet a convenient end by morning, when I may dispose of it most discreetly. I hope the pesky feline is hungry enough that she will devour it for me.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Maybe it's the full moon? Or the stupid cat in the hall, rowling loudly because it's in heat?
Welp. Whatever it was that caused it, I'm happy to let the disgusting thing cower there in the far corner, keeping the dust spiders and earwigs company by the closet. Perhaps it'll meet a convenient end by morning, when I may dispose of it most discreetly. I hope the pesky feline is hungry enough that she will devour it for me.
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Fma-naruto chapte seven continued
--oo--
She gives her order, managing a polite smile as she plays the role for the vendor. He turns away, by a quick turn of her head, she sees a number of civilians forming up in a line behind her. Her back stiffens as she notices a few more milling about the far end of the low table. She watches one particularly large civilian, dressed in flowing white robes, block her immediate view of the target.
In her ear, the radio squawks to life.
"Position one. Status." The Leaf nin says.
"Standby" she whispers, and quickly leans over to see around the lardish fellow. She worries her low lip, knowing the thick civilian crowd is not such a good place to confront or capture anyone. That is not her role, she knows, but the possibility of injuring anyone, however unintentionally, frightens her.
"Ninja. Feh." The vendor says, startling her gaze back with the thunk of the heavily laden bowl. She swallows sheepishly, and reaches for her payment."Still on duty, are you?"
"Lunch break, actually." She replies.
"You lot are good for business." The vendor nods, and smiles genially. "Come back again, alright?"
"Uh, sure. Thanks." She says with a grin of her own. Both hands on the great bowl of her ramen, she turns. She darts her eyes to the target, and lets out a breath. The mass of noodles he was currently chewing nearly matched the golden ponytail gracing his dirty tunic.
She kept her eyes on him, and, once she was in a relatively clear area, set her steaming bowl on the ground.
"Position one.. Target located." She said. "Repeat. Target located." She then settled down and proceeded with her description.
"Copy." The leaf nin said. "What a bother, but too easy. Ok. Proceeding with operation, stand by position one."
"Copy that."
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
She gives her order, managing a polite smile as she plays the role for the vendor. He turns away, by a quick turn of her head, she sees a number of civilians forming up in a line behind her. Her back stiffens as she notices a few more milling about the far end of the low table. She watches one particularly large civilian, dressed in flowing white robes, block her immediate view of the target.
In her ear, the radio squawks to life.
"Position one. Status." The Leaf nin says.
"Standby" she whispers, and quickly leans over to see around the lardish fellow. She worries her low lip, knowing the thick civilian crowd is not such a good place to confront or capture anyone. That is not her role, she knows, but the possibility of injuring anyone, however unintentionally, frightens her.
"Ninja. Feh." The vendor says, startling her gaze back with the thunk of the heavily laden bowl. She swallows sheepishly, and reaches for her payment."Still on duty, are you?"
"Lunch break, actually." She replies.
"You lot are good for business." The vendor nods, and smiles genially. "Come back again, alright?"
"Uh, sure. Thanks." She says with a grin of her own. Both hands on the great bowl of her ramen, she turns. She darts her eyes to the target, and lets out a breath. The mass of noodles he was currently chewing nearly matched the golden ponytail gracing his dirty tunic.
She kept her eyes on him, and, once she was in a relatively clear area, set her steaming bowl on the ground.
"Position one.. Target located." She said. "Repeat. Target located." She then settled down and proceeded with her description.
"Copy." The leaf nin said. "What a bother, but too easy. Ok. Proceeding with operation, stand by position one."
"Copy that."
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Fma-naruto chapter seven
Matsuri strides along, moving with the press of bodies of the crowded food court. She darts her eyes about, sweeping the crowd as she approaches great arc that heads generally back where she entered. She has no intention of heading back, just yet. She sees what she seeks: At the edge of the curve slumps the sorry looking wagon, bold black letters upon plain white signs declaring "World Famous Ichiban's".
She slides over to where the crowd is relatively thinner, and presses the button of her radio. The vendor fusses with a low table, placing a number of simple folding stools within easy reach before he climbs up, with heavy footsteps, entering his wheeled stall.
"Team leader." She says.
"Go."
"Postition one. In position."
"Copy. Position 2. Status."
"What a bother." Drawls a male voice. She narrows her eyes slightly, recognising it as belonging to the Leaf nin she had seen on the roof. "Sigh. In position."
"Postition 3?"
"Ready." replied another male voice. Matsuri supposed it belonged to her Sand teammate. On impulse, hoping to catch a glimpse, she darts her eyes at where they were supposed to be. She recalls her orders, that she is not supposed to give them away with such wistful looks, and squeezes them shut instead. Just for a moment.
"Position one, begin operation."
Matsuri takes in a steadying breath, reminding herself of her cover story: she is only a nin, simply here to buy ramen.
"Copy." She said, struggling to keep her word even.
A mere genin, hunting down a truly dangerous jonin of unknown capacity and mysterious motivations. The kind of jonin she, and other Sand nin, have faced far too often of late. She remembers the terrible powers which nearly destroyed the village and Kazekage both, and swallows down her fear before it blossoms into outrage.
There is no indication of what village he's from. What his techniques are, exactly. She thinks as she steps up to the wagon, arching her neck and making a show of eyeing the menu.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees a small figure, long golden hair tied up in a loose pony tail dressed in the long dirty brown tunic she recalls quite clearly.
He slouches upon a stool, fingers clutching a single chopstick as its mate suddenly flings up and slops a mess of noodles into the large white bowl set before him. She startles as he slaps his palm down upon the low table, pinning the errant stick in place. The curtain of unruly bangs covers his eyes, but Matsuri catches a bare glimpse of gold.
We know so little of him, maybe. Before she can complete that errant thought, he growls something low in his throat. The harsh sound cuts through the bustle of the crowd behind her. She tries and fails to work out the words.
Brows meeting, she blankly watches his clusy fingers fumble the sticks time and again. Minutes pass, and Matsuri finds she is unable to look away from the strange specticle. She recalls a neighbor's baby having similar difficulties, but never, ever, someone who looks to be over the age of 9 years.
With a rather loud snarl, he savagely stabs a thin piece meat with the end of one stick, and, with shaking hands, brings up the uneven edge to his lips. She finds herself facinated by the play of muscles in his jaw as he chews. Glistening, sallow skin hinting at too sharp cheek bones.
Doesn't he know how to use utensils? She thinks in amazement. If this is a sort of act, a play on being a foreigner as her team leader believes, she has to admit it is quite a convincing detail. She certainly would never have thought of performing such an indignity, especially not in public.
"Can I help you?" Matsuri tears her eyes away, startling at the vendor's intrusive voice.
"Uh.. Sure." She says, forcing the corners of her mouth upwards. "You're open? I thought you had an explosion today."
"Yeah. That. Uh." The vendor rubbed the back of his neck. "Stove's fixed now though. Good as new. What'll it be?"
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
She slides over to where the crowd is relatively thinner, and presses the button of her radio. The vendor fusses with a low table, placing a number of simple folding stools within easy reach before he climbs up, with heavy footsteps, entering his wheeled stall.
"Team leader." She says.
"Go."
"Postition one. In position."
"Copy. Position 2. Status."
"What a bother." Drawls a male voice. She narrows her eyes slightly, recognising it as belonging to the Leaf nin she had seen on the roof. "Sigh. In position."
"Postition 3?"
"Ready." replied another male voice. Matsuri supposed it belonged to her Sand teammate. On impulse, hoping to catch a glimpse, she darts her eyes at where they were supposed to be. She recalls her orders, that she is not supposed to give them away with such wistful looks, and squeezes them shut instead. Just for a moment.
"Position one, begin operation."
Matsuri takes in a steadying breath, reminding herself of her cover story: she is only a nin, simply here to buy ramen.
"Copy." She said, struggling to keep her word even.
A mere genin, hunting down a truly dangerous jonin of unknown capacity and mysterious motivations. The kind of jonin she, and other Sand nin, have faced far too often of late. She remembers the terrible powers which nearly destroyed the village and Kazekage both, and swallows down her fear before it blossoms into outrage.
There is no indication of what village he's from. What his techniques are, exactly. She thinks as she steps up to the wagon, arching her neck and making a show of eyeing the menu.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees a small figure, long golden hair tied up in a loose pony tail dressed in the long dirty brown tunic she recalls quite clearly.
He slouches upon a stool, fingers clutching a single chopstick as its mate suddenly flings up and slops a mess of noodles into the large white bowl set before him. She startles as he slaps his palm down upon the low table, pinning the errant stick in place. The curtain of unruly bangs covers his eyes, but Matsuri catches a bare glimpse of gold.
We know so little of him, maybe. Before she can complete that errant thought, he growls something low in his throat. The harsh sound cuts through the bustle of the crowd behind her. She tries and fails to work out the words.
Brows meeting, she blankly watches his clusy fingers fumble the sticks time and again. Minutes pass, and Matsuri finds she is unable to look away from the strange specticle. She recalls a neighbor's baby having similar difficulties, but never, ever, someone who looks to be over the age of 9 years.
With a rather loud snarl, he savagely stabs a thin piece meat with the end of one stick, and, with shaking hands, brings up the uneven edge to his lips. She finds herself facinated by the play of muscles in his jaw as he chews. Glistening, sallow skin hinting at too sharp cheek bones.
Doesn't he know how to use utensils? She thinks in amazement. If this is a sort of act, a play on being a foreigner as her team leader believes, she has to admit it is quite a convincing detail. She certainly would never have thought of performing such an indignity, especially not in public.
"Can I help you?" Matsuri tears her eyes away, startling at the vendor's intrusive voice.
"Uh.. Sure." She says, forcing the corners of her mouth upwards. "You're open? I thought you had an explosion today."
"Yeah. That. Uh." The vendor rubbed the back of his neck. "Stove's fixed now though. Good as new. What'll it be?"
Sent via a stray supercharged nano particle of unobtainium....
Friday, May 13, 2011
wax paper chapter 4 continued
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, May 12, 2011
Wax paper continued..chapter 4
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
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Poem
Got busy in the garden today, so here's a bad poem..
---ooo--
I can't give a shit
about your fuck up,
Just be a man
And grow the hell up.
Sent via Blackhole
Monday, May 9, 2011
Blood turtle, revisited
Rhythm poem based of 7 beats and some rhyme.
Blood turtle, revisited
--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
My blow thunked solidly, thick
Boney plates revealed, chin high
jutting monstrous proud. Flicked
A pink tongue out, lips curled back
Grinned wide. Deliberate licks
Slimed my face, arms, and neckline
l cringed back, turned 'round to flee,
Clawing, wildly, hands out
eyes wide, glassy, and empty
Feet thudding the ground, beast but
Breaths behind! Ravenously
Growling, jaw snapping red, blood
turtle was gravely hungry
Blood turtle, revisited
--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
My blow thunked solidly, thick
Boney plates revealed, chin high
jutting monstrous proud. Flicked
A pink tongue out, lips curled back
Grinned wide. Deliberate licks
Slimed my face, arms, and neckline
l cringed back, turned 'round to flee,
Clawing, wildly, hands out
eyes wide, glassy, and empty
Feet thudding the ground, beast but
Breaths behind! Ravenously
Growling, jaw snapping red, blood
turtle was gravely hungry
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Long life..
A/n: Happy Mother's day!!
--oo--
Number 115 was a boxy sad affair of a trailer house, with avocado paint, of a shade not seen for at least two decades, peeling off the sagging siding.
Marge let herself in, and strode into the small kitchen, sucking on the inside of her cheek. She glanced at the stacks glossy magazines on the round kitchen table, and placed her case binder and car keys next to her cup of tea on a relatively clear spot at the very edge. She let of a breath as she took up a few pamphlets in her hands, and settled down into a creaky wooden chair.
Her mind was not on the cheerful articles that declared miracle cures, or amazing ways to melt off the extra pounds gathering about her thick middle. No. Her thoughts swirled about the radio program she had listened to intently on her drive over.
Studies say the average life span of marriage is 42 years. This is theorized as men wishing an 18 year old woman in their latter years, rather than the usual complaining shrew most women turn into by age 40.
She looks at the old couple sitting together before the television, glassy eyes staring at the vibrant images flickering across the screen. The volume was up quite high, and nearly made Marge's teeth rattle.
"Hello Mr. and Mrs Smith." She greeted, speaking loud with a tight professional smile stretching her lips. She hoped her voice was louder that the T.V. this time, but it was hard to tell.
She watched the silver head of Mrs.
Smith bounce back, and jerk to life. A turn of the ancient wrinkled neck, and she met the wide vacant eyes sliding her way.
"Oh.. There you are. How are you dear..?" Mrs. Smith greeted, and Marge strained her ears to catch her soft words as the woman spoke in something a normal volume.
"Fine. Can't complain." Marge replied.
"What was that dear..?" Mrs. Smith asked. "You youngun's always mumble.." She muttered as her bushy white brows met at her lined forehead.
"I said, I can't complain!" Marge said, feeling something scrape painfully inside her throat. Her voice had to have been a much louder volume though, for Mrs. Smith smiled a wide pleased smile and a nodded.
Marge leaned over to better see Mr. Smith, and shook her head in disbelief at the silvered head dipped back into the cushions. She eyed his jaw slack and marveled at the thin line of drool dribbling down the stubble sprouting on his chin.
"That man can't hear a thing, can he..?" She said aloud, her own voice a mumble with the terrific cacophony filling her ears.
"What..?" Mrs. Smith replied. "What was that?"
"Nothing!" Marge replied brightly, and darted her gaze back to the open magazine in her hands.
Scientist don't know a thing. Marge thought, and chuckled to herself. I suppose the secret to a long marriage is to live long enough to not be able to hear any complaints.
Sent via Blackhole
--oo--
Number 115 was a boxy sad affair of a trailer house, with avocado paint, of a shade not seen for at least two decades, peeling off the sagging siding.
Marge let herself in, and strode into the small kitchen, sucking on the inside of her cheek. She glanced at the stacks glossy magazines on the round kitchen table, and placed her case binder and car keys next to her cup of tea on a relatively clear spot at the very edge. She let of a breath as she took up a few pamphlets in her hands, and settled down into a creaky wooden chair.
Her mind was not on the cheerful articles that declared miracle cures, or amazing ways to melt off the extra pounds gathering about her thick middle. No. Her thoughts swirled about the radio program she had listened to intently on her drive over.
Studies say the average life span of marriage is 42 years. This is theorized as men wishing an 18 year old woman in their latter years, rather than the usual complaining shrew most women turn into by age 40.
She looks at the old couple sitting together before the television, glassy eyes staring at the vibrant images flickering across the screen. The volume was up quite high, and nearly made Marge's teeth rattle.
"Hello Mr. and Mrs Smith." She greeted, speaking loud with a tight professional smile stretching her lips. She hoped her voice was louder that the T.V. this time, but it was hard to tell.
She watched the silver head of Mrs.
Smith bounce back, and jerk to life. A turn of the ancient wrinkled neck, and she met the wide vacant eyes sliding her way.
"Oh.. There you are. How are you dear..?" Mrs. Smith greeted, and Marge strained her ears to catch her soft words as the woman spoke in something a normal volume.
"Fine. Can't complain." Marge replied.
"What was that dear..?" Mrs. Smith asked. "You youngun's always mumble.." She muttered as her bushy white brows met at her lined forehead.
"I said, I can't complain!" Marge said, feeling something scrape painfully inside her throat. Her voice had to have been a much louder volume though, for Mrs. Smith smiled a wide pleased smile and a nodded.
Marge leaned over to better see Mr. Smith, and shook her head in disbelief at the silvered head dipped back into the cushions. She eyed his jaw slack and marveled at the thin line of drool dribbling down the stubble sprouting on his chin.
"That man can't hear a thing, can he..?" She said aloud, her own voice a mumble with the terrific cacophony filling her ears.
"What..?" Mrs. Smith replied. "What was that?"
"Nothing!" Marge replied brightly, and darted her gaze back to the open magazine in her hands.
Scientist don't know a thing. Marge thought, and chuckled to herself. I suppose the secret to a long marriage is to live long enough to not be able to hear any complaints.
Sent via Blackhole
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Fma naruto crossover chapter six cont..
"That's...! Squad Leader!" Matsuri hears over the radio in her ear, and lowers her brows as she takes in a startled breath. "Squad Leader..!"
"Go."
"Food court! He's in food court!"
"What that close..? The hell..?" Matsuri silently agrees with the sentiment as she glowers at the lifeless alley she is watching. Just the street over..? What kind of jonin does that..? "Team check in at position one! Now."
"Where?" Matsuri hears and shakes her head in disbelief. Even though she is a lowly genin, she knows where position one is at least. Gaara, the kage himself, had assigned numbers to all the basic landmarks of Sand years ago, for the betterment of organised defense of the village, and those same numbers were drilled into all Sand academy students.
"Sigh. Hospital roof.. " Came the reply, and Matsuri thought she could hear the speaker's eyes rolling. "Newbies.."
"Oh.. Shut it.. Just say what it is next time ok.!? Enroute."
"Enroute." Matsuri says and gathers her chakra to the bottoms of her feet. As she sprints to the top of the hospital wall as quickly as she can, she frowns. Too slow, again! she thinks as she sees the dark forms of the hastily assigned squad squat low on the flat surface, stark against the orange light of the setting sun. She wonders briefly if they have been there for hours, and counts three: two males, one female. One of the males, curiously, wears a dark green Leaf flak jacket and forehead protector.
"Explains much." Remembering the odd question. Leaf nins certainly wouldn't know Sand's defensive arrangements any more than Sand knew Leaf's. She wonders why this Leaf nin is even here, considering that Leaf was destroyed a few weeks ago. Didn't they recall all their people to help rebuild?
The woman leans low by the edge, elbow on her knees with a pair of binoculars affixed to her face. Matsuri is startled to find she wears a porcelyn mask, shaped to resemble a green, snarling, saw-toothed demon with a pair of sharp horns draping down from the forehead. Such a mask, she knows, is assigned to those who specialise in the violent disposing of people. Matsuri swallows a sudden lump in her throat.
She dispises violence. Greatly.
"That him..? Is that the target..?" Matsuri hears the leader say over the radio as she winds the rope of her weapon, a johyo, back into place.
"Standy by." Replies the masked woman. "The light show's definitely like what was on the vid, but.."
"But what?"
"Could be nothing. It's from that soup wagon that had the explosion this morning... The one from Leaf. The merchant might just be making repairs."
"Copy." the leader squaws over the radio. "Don't want an international incident. Get a firm visual before proceeding."
"Copy." The masked woman says, "that's makes this difficult." She turns the horrible mask Matsuri's way, and Matsuri swears she is being judged under her weighty gaze. She struggles to school her face into the sturdy expression a nin should have, regardless of rank.
"Matsuri!" The woman calls out.
"Hai.!"
"You were the last to see him.." The masked woman begins as she rises to her feet. Matsuri tries not to look at the unnerving porcelin mask too closely, an focuses her eyes upon the woman's forehead protector tied about her neck.
"Yes." She says.
"You reported that he called you by another name, then turned away, correct?" Before Matsuri can nod, the woman says,
"Good. We have to do this quiet."
Sent via Blackhole
"Go."
"Food court! He's in food court!"
"What that close..? The hell..?" Matsuri silently agrees with the sentiment as she glowers at the lifeless alley she is watching. Just the street over..? What kind of jonin does that..? "Team check in at position one! Now."
"Where?" Matsuri hears and shakes her head in disbelief. Even though she is a lowly genin, she knows where position one is at least. Gaara, the kage himself, had assigned numbers to all the basic landmarks of Sand years ago, for the betterment of organised defense of the village, and those same numbers were drilled into all Sand academy students.
"Sigh. Hospital roof.. " Came the reply, and Matsuri thought she could hear the speaker's eyes rolling. "Newbies.."
"Oh.. Shut it.. Just say what it is next time ok.!? Enroute."
"Enroute." Matsuri says and gathers her chakra to the bottoms of her feet. As she sprints to the top of the hospital wall as quickly as she can, she frowns. Too slow, again! she thinks as she sees the dark forms of the hastily assigned squad squat low on the flat surface, stark against the orange light of the setting sun. She wonders briefly if they have been there for hours, and counts three: two males, one female. One of the males, curiously, wears a dark green Leaf flak jacket and forehead protector.
"Explains much." Remembering the odd question. Leaf nins certainly wouldn't know Sand's defensive arrangements any more than Sand knew Leaf's. She wonders why this Leaf nin is even here, considering that Leaf was destroyed a few weeks ago. Didn't they recall all their people to help rebuild?
The woman leans low by the edge, elbow on her knees with a pair of binoculars affixed to her face. Matsuri is startled to find she wears a porcelyn mask, shaped to resemble a green, snarling, saw-toothed demon with a pair of sharp horns draping down from the forehead. Such a mask, she knows, is assigned to those who specialise in the violent disposing of people. Matsuri swallows a sudden lump in her throat.
She dispises violence. Greatly.
"That him..? Is that the target..?" Matsuri hears the leader say over the radio as she winds the rope of her weapon, a johyo, back into place.
"Standy by." Replies the masked woman. "The light show's definitely like what was on the vid, but.."
"But what?"
"Could be nothing. It's from that soup wagon that had the explosion this morning... The one from Leaf. The merchant might just be making repairs."
"Copy." the leader squaws over the radio. "Don't want an international incident. Get a firm visual before proceeding."
"Copy." The masked woman says, "that's makes this difficult." She turns the horrible mask Matsuri's way, and Matsuri swears she is being judged under her weighty gaze. She struggles to school her face into the sturdy expression a nin should have, regardless of rank.
"Matsuri!" The woman calls out.
"Hai.!"
"You were the last to see him.." The masked woman begins as she rises to her feet. Matsuri tries not to look at the unnerving porcelin mask too closely, an focuses her eyes upon the woman's forehead protector tied about her neck.
"Yes." She says.
"You reported that he called you by another name, then turned away, correct?" Before Matsuri can nod, the woman says,
"Good. We have to do this quiet."
Sent via Blackhole
Friday, May 6, 2011
Fma-naruto chapter six..
A/n-- got stuck with a long boring shift, so I decided to begin working on this a bit sooner.. More to come..
--oo--
Ed scowls as a meaty hand grasps his right shoulder, then jerks his head up off the wall. He lifts his heavy eyelids and sees a low table before him, and frowns in his confusion. When did he ever sit down? He slides his eyes to the helpful wall that had supported his head, dully recognizing its composition as wood.
He hears a male voice grumble nearby, but fumbles the meaning of the words. Groggily, he traces the sound to its source: a man dressed in a white apron and paper hat standing before the awsomest stove he has ever seen.
Overall humanoid in form, its hunched shoulders tower over the vendor. Many spikes protruded from the back, and Ed surmises they were functional smoke stacks. He watches the vendor tentatively turn one of the ten eye-like dials on the sculpted face looming above his head, moving with care to avoid touching the jagged teeth within the gaping mouth, and sharply tap a ladle against the side of a great pot. The corners of Ed's mouth tug upwards as his foggy brain recalls that the demonic metal box is his handiwork.
His hands are still free. He is still free. He let's his shoulders relax. His brother Al..
He recalls golden eyes trapped in a bony thin frame. Golden hair shifts to bright red and back, and he squeezes his eyes closed. Brother.. No..
Before he can yawn, a great steaming bowl filled to the brim with slices of meat, long noodles, and a delicious smelling thin broth is set before his nose.
His gamble has paid off.
He owlishly drools in delight as his stomach roars in eagerness, and, hands on either side of the soup, darts his eyes around for silverware. Finding none, his brows meet at the bridge of his nose.
"Are you supposed to eat this with your hands..?" Ed says softly at the tasty looking puzzle. Unsurprisingly, the great bowl does not reply.
Impatiently, he picks up a slice of hot! meat with his fingertips, and just as he brings the morsel to his lips, the man loudly yells out. Ed glares at the thin pair of sticks roughly shoved into his free hand, and turns the gaze to the scowl of the vendor.
The vendor says an incomprehensible mouthful as he jabs his finger at Ed's chest. Ed frowns, turns his gaze to the sticks in his hand, and narrows his eyes.
Of course. I'm in Xing. Xingese eat with sticks. Somehow. Ed thinks, and nods once at the angry vendor as he awkwardly arranges the sticks between his clumsy fingers. I wish I learned how to use these stupid things earlier.
"Ah well." Ed muttered in a grumble of his own. "Can't be helped."
Sent via Blackhole
--oo--
Ed scowls as a meaty hand grasps his right shoulder, then jerks his head up off the wall. He lifts his heavy eyelids and sees a low table before him, and frowns in his confusion. When did he ever sit down? He slides his eyes to the helpful wall that had supported his head, dully recognizing its composition as wood.
He hears a male voice grumble nearby, but fumbles the meaning of the words. Groggily, he traces the sound to its source: a man dressed in a white apron and paper hat standing before the awsomest stove he has ever seen.
Overall humanoid in form, its hunched shoulders tower over the vendor. Many spikes protruded from the back, and Ed surmises they were functional smoke stacks. He watches the vendor tentatively turn one of the ten eye-like dials on the sculpted face looming above his head, moving with care to avoid touching the jagged teeth within the gaping mouth, and sharply tap a ladle against the side of a great pot. The corners of Ed's mouth tug upwards as his foggy brain recalls that the demonic metal box is his handiwork.
His hands are still free. He is still free. He let's his shoulders relax. His brother Al..
He recalls golden eyes trapped in a bony thin frame. Golden hair shifts to bright red and back, and he squeezes his eyes closed. Brother.. No..
Before he can yawn, a great steaming bowl filled to the brim with slices of meat, long noodles, and a delicious smelling thin broth is set before his nose.
His gamble has paid off.
He owlishly drools in delight as his stomach roars in eagerness, and, hands on either side of the soup, darts his eyes around for silverware. Finding none, his brows meet at the bridge of his nose.
"Are you supposed to eat this with your hands..?" Ed says softly at the tasty looking puzzle. Unsurprisingly, the great bowl does not reply.
Impatiently, he picks up a slice of hot! meat with his fingertips, and just as he brings the morsel to his lips, the man loudly yells out. Ed glares at the thin pair of sticks roughly shoved into his free hand, and turns the gaze to the scowl of the vendor.
The vendor says an incomprehensible mouthful as he jabs his finger at Ed's chest. Ed frowns, turns his gaze to the sticks in his hand, and narrows his eyes.
Of course. I'm in Xing. Xingese eat with sticks. Somehow. Ed thinks, and nods once at the angry vendor as he awkwardly arranges the sticks between his clumsy fingers. I wish I learned how to use these stupid things earlier.
"Ah well." Ed muttered in a grumble of his own. "Can't be helped."
Sent via Blackhole
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Wax paper.. Chapter 3
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
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Today's piece...kittens will cure most anything
A/n: Is delayed. Sorry. This will be replaced as soon as I manage to finish it.
Sent via Blackhole
--oo--
I heard the heavy thump above me as I took my first tentative step into the lowest stairwell. I knew it could only be one thing, and stooped to grap the nearest of the kittens from the sagging cat tree as I went by. Noisly clomping up the steps, scatching the fuzzball behind her ears as I pressed her small body against mine, it wasn't long before I could hear the high whine of the computer screen. And another thump.
"Are you ok..?" I called, rising to my toes to peer past the false wall.
"..fine." Came the reply from my roomate. "fine."
Thump!
I felt my brows nearly touch. The voice of my roommate sounded quite muffled. Another step up, and I had a clear view of the computer chair. Upon it was my roomate, but he did not look at all comfortable: the ankles of both feet touched the back of his neck. Another step up and I saw an arm pinned to the small of his back. I swallowed, and glanced at the flickering screen.
I could easily see he had surfed to a messege board, where a newssite declared in bold letters: "Osama Bin Laden is Dead". It explained much to me. Only events that big could possibly tie my friend into such knots.
"meow..?" I looked down at the fuzzball, and saw the wide frightened eyes looking right back. I scatched her head absently, and approached my knotted up roomie. For a few moments, I looked on in amazement as he rabidly typed several paragraphs with his one free hand.
I took in a breath, and let it out. I had to wait. Things like this had to be timed just right.
I watched as he angrily jabbed the return key, sending off whatever message he had written. I held the kitten firmly with both hands.
Just as he managed to turn his head my way, I lifted both hands, and balanced the fuzzball between them. When he slid his eyes towards me, said fuzzball squirmed. I saw the corners of his mouth lift slightly when the kitten squeeked in protest to the awkward handling of her form.
He scritched her head with his free hand, turning away at last from the blasted screen. The hand behind his back came out next, taking hold of her round furred belly. I turned away and desended the stairs before the legs came down from his neck with a pair of much softer "thumps'.
Sent via Blackhole
--oo--
I heard the heavy thump above me as I took my first tentative step into the lowest stairwell. I knew it could only be one thing, and stooped to grap the nearest of the kittens from the sagging cat tree as I went by. Noisly clomping up the steps, scatching the fuzzball behind her ears as I pressed her small body against mine, it wasn't long before I could hear the high whine of the computer screen. And another thump.
"Are you ok..?" I called, rising to my toes to peer past the false wall.
"..fine." Came the reply from my roomate. "fine."
Thump!
I felt my brows nearly touch. The voice of my roommate sounded quite muffled. Another step up, and I had a clear view of the computer chair. Upon it was my roomate, but he did not look at all comfortable: the ankles of both feet touched the back of his neck. Another step up and I saw an arm pinned to the small of his back. I swallowed, and glanced at the flickering screen.
I could easily see he had surfed to a messege board, where a newssite declared in bold letters: "Osama Bin Laden is Dead". It explained much to me. Only events that big could possibly tie my friend into such knots.
"meow..?" I looked down at the fuzzball, and saw the wide frightened eyes looking right back. I scatched her head absently, and approached my knotted up roomie. For a few moments, I looked on in amazement as he rabidly typed several paragraphs with his one free hand.
I took in a breath, and let it out. I had to wait. Things like this had to be timed just right.
I watched as he angrily jabbed the return key, sending off whatever message he had written. I held the kitten firmly with both hands.
Just as he managed to turn his head my way, I lifted both hands, and balanced the fuzzball between them. When he slid his eyes towards me, said fuzzball squirmed. I saw the corners of his mouth lift slightly when the kitten squeeked in protest to the awkward handling of her form.
He scritched her head with his free hand, turning away at last from the blasted screen. The hand behind his back came out next, taking hold of her round furred belly. I turned away and desended the stairs before the legs came down from his neck with a pair of much softer "thumps'.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
tuesday's poetry
a/n: another bad poem...
--oo--
putting things into words
is awfully hard
when buzzed by a bird.
--oo--
putting things into words
is awfully hard
when buzzed by a bird.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Fma naruto chapter five continued...
Matsuri adjusts the ear piece of her radio as she half jogs down the street just beyond the hospital's entrance. Eyes darting about searchingly for the unkempt long brown tunic moving amongst the milling civilians, she then grips the rope of her only weapon. The golden eyed boy is a jonin, she reminds herself, and chews her bottom lip. What chance do I have against the likes of him? I'm only a genin...
As she expected, she sees nothing out of the ordinary. Her eyes dart upwards to the tops of the surrounding buildings and she sighs at the leaping nins that walk up and down the walls in such a casual ease. And waste of chakra. She knew well that her own pool of chakra was pathetically low, and her chakra control wasn't exactly considered adequate.
If I were a jonin...why would I ever bother staying on the ground. She thinks bitterly, and let her eyes sweep the street in defeat.
A glint low to the ground catches her eye, and she lowers her brows. She rushes over to the spot, staring in disbelief.
Oh..
A nin's forehead protector, and rather than being folded properly at all, it drapes on the ground like a discarded rag. She darts here eyes about, knowing it could only be very forehead protector the boy jonin had on when she had last seen him. An empty glass bottle of sake slowly rolls out from the dark alley she is standing in front of, clinking to a stop against a wall.
So he went this way? She thinks, and peers into the alley. Nothing moves amongst the strewn garbage for several heartbeats. Or this way..? She looks up and down the street. Did he use a time-space justu or maybe used a jutsu to jump...
As her thoughts whir through all the jonin jutsu possibilities, she carefully scoops up the discarded forehead protector, and attaches it to her belt. She then hurries off down the street to a corner where she could eye the alley entrance.
...or is this a genjutsu he cast and I'm caught in..?
With that horrifying thought, she squints her eyes closed and concentrates, focusing on the flow of chakra through her body. She takes a deep breath, and says, "Release!"
She feels her muscles shudder in protest from the disrupted chakra, but nothing changes. The street remains a street. The garbage strewn alley remains a lifeless garbage strewn alley.
"Squad leader, I think I have something." She says into the radio.
"Copy." Came the brisk reply.
Sent via Blackhole
As she expected, she sees nothing out of the ordinary. Her eyes dart upwards to the tops of the surrounding buildings and she sighs at the leaping nins that walk up and down the walls in such a casual ease. And waste of chakra. She knew well that her own pool of chakra was pathetically low, and her chakra control wasn't exactly considered adequate.
If I were a jonin...why would I ever bother staying on the ground. She thinks bitterly, and let her eyes sweep the street in defeat.
A glint low to the ground catches her eye, and she lowers her brows. She rushes over to the spot, staring in disbelief.
Oh..
A nin's forehead protector, and rather than being folded properly at all, it drapes on the ground like a discarded rag. She darts here eyes about, knowing it could only be very forehead protector the boy jonin had on when she had last seen him. An empty glass bottle of sake slowly rolls out from the dark alley she is standing in front of, clinking to a stop against a wall.
So he went this way? She thinks, and peers into the alley. Nothing moves amongst the strewn garbage for several heartbeats. Or this way..? She looks up and down the street. Did he use a time-space justu or maybe used a jutsu to jump...
As her thoughts whir through all the jonin jutsu possibilities, she carefully scoops up the discarded forehead protector, and attaches it to her belt. She then hurries off down the street to a corner where she could eye the alley entrance.
...or is this a genjutsu he cast and I'm caught in..?
With that horrifying thought, she squints her eyes closed and concentrates, focusing on the flow of chakra through her body. She takes a deep breath, and says, "Release!"
She feels her muscles shudder in protest from the disrupted chakra, but nothing changes. The street remains a street. The garbage strewn alley remains a lifeless garbage strewn alley.
"Squad leader, I think I have something." She says into the radio.
"Copy." Came the brisk reply.
Sent via Blackhole
Fma-naruto crossover chapter 5
Ed feels his stomach gnaw incessantly on his spine, rousing his nose to search past the miasma of old piss, puke, rotting food, and stale alcohol filling his hiding place. Wafting in with that breath, something delicious and brimming with salt and grease and oh..my..
...is that beef?
His mouth waters in eagerness as he shifts his weight. He pauses as he hears the pounding of sandled feet, and glances behind him. A girl runs off along the street in the normal sort of way, but he waits an uncertain moment. His mind spins through the many many unknown variables to this Xing place-- that gravity defying mode of transport likely the just the tip of what he hasn't seen of what his new owners are capable of -- two, no three, hazy figures he is sure are from this Xing, whose faces linger beyond the grasp of his memory, would find him with maddening ease.
His stomach grinds painfully about his middle enough that he presses his right down to quiet it. He has to eat. He has to eat. He grits his teeth and frowns. It may mean a chance of recapture, but he has to eat.
The sky glows a cheery orange when he shifts woozily back to his bandaged feet, and leaning one hand against the curved wall to hold himself properly upright, he shuffles further down the corridor. He hopes it is away from possible view.
With each step, the noise of joyful chatter fill his ears, and he widens his eyes at the crossroads of sorts that the alley's end. Brightly colored flags with bold blocky print drape over wheeled carts and wagons lined up on either side of the wide curving street. One man dressed in what looks to be a blue bathrobe hands over colorful paper notes, and a heaping plate of steaming dumplings graces his empty hands from the one with a white apron standing within the spare shelter offered by a wagon.
It is an ordinary and familiar pattern: the way of the world. Ed sighs out a breath quickly works out what is happening; equivalent exchange in action. This must be a merchant district, he reasons, and watches the thick crowd of people as the bumble past.
"Fast food." Ed breathes hungrily and quickly checks the buildings for the "weird" walkers before stumbling forward into the press of bodies.
One vendor drops something on his left with a harsh tone of phrase. He hears the distinct sizzling of fat on hot grills, and eyes the sudden flames flaring up, and the hateful scowl of the man as he shakes his reddening hand. He mentally notes those words down, not entire sure just what they are but liking sentiment alone.
He eyes the lettering on the flapping fabric around him and, although it is completely unfamiliar, finds he can read it.
"Shibu shibu.." He says as he stumbles to a halt, and the sizzling beef smell jumbles the words' meaning. He wonders a moment if his frequent trips through.. Something dark. Horrible. he can't.. won't ...recall.. He shakes his head and stumbles on. Maybe he's screwed. Maybe he scrambled up his mind so much that language is beyond him now. Not that it matters much.. His palms pat the no pockets at his hips, the thin hospital bloomers hiding nothing.
The fingers of his left twitch as if expecting something heavy to be chained there.. But the fact is fact: no money means he can't buy any food. Which brings up a whole new problem.
The crowd pushes him along, and he scowls up at them, noticing for the first time that most tower over him by at least a foot. He pushes past at group of such freakishly tall girls at a hearty stumble, and finds himself at wagon sagging to one side. He works out that one wheeled wooden rim shattered on a rock on the furthest side.
Ed narrows his eyes at the signs which proclaim "first comfort famous ramen", and then watches the sullen looking balding vendor, in a white apron and paper hat, pull down a shade that says "closed. please come again".
Wheels are broken. His mind echoes, swirling about the fluctuations of equivalent exchange and by his calculations, he may be able to make a trade for a single serving of whatever this "ramen" is. He stumbles to the wagon to stand at the vendor's side. The vendor glares down in displeasure.
The vendor says something.
Ed points to a big bowl, supposing "ramen" is a sort of soup.
The vendor repeats the same something. Ed folds his arms and makes sure he glares right back, then darts his eyes to the crowd flowing by with a raised eyebrow.
The vendor reaches for the second blind and Ed reaches up to stop him. Then peers over into the open flat. This close to the inside of the wagon, he can see another-- yet bigger problem-- likely the true reason the vendor is closing. The boxy metal stove, much like the ones each of the other wagons sport, sits away in the corner, only its shape bows outward in a no longer quite boxy manner. An obvious, gaping wound on the roundest bit splays jagged metal, and finger like shards stick into the wood just below his gaze.
Ed thins his lips and slides his eyes slyly back to the vendor, jutting his chin once more towards the large bowl.
The vendor lowers his face so that his nose touches Ed's, and he growls that same phrase that Ed is now sure means "go away you fool idiot".
Ed lowers his brows, and says in a low voice.
"Alchemy."
He clamors into the wagon, squirming past the vendor's reaching hands. Kneeling before the former stove, hands pressed together as if in prayer, he juts his chin firmly again towards the bowl.
The vendor's brows press together as Ed splays his fingers before the blasted metal. And rise to his hairline as the light of the reaction sparks a furious blue.
Sent via Blackhole
...is that beef?
His mouth waters in eagerness as he shifts his weight. He pauses as he hears the pounding of sandled feet, and glances behind him. A girl runs off along the street in the normal sort of way, but he waits an uncertain moment. His mind spins through the many many unknown variables to this Xing place-- that gravity defying mode of transport likely the just the tip of what he hasn't seen of what his new owners are capable of -- two, no three, hazy figures he is sure are from this Xing, whose faces linger beyond the grasp of his memory, would find him with maddening ease.
His stomach grinds painfully about his middle enough that he presses his right down to quiet it. He has to eat. He has to eat. He grits his teeth and frowns. It may mean a chance of recapture, but he has to eat.
The sky glows a cheery orange when he shifts woozily back to his bandaged feet, and leaning one hand against the curved wall to hold himself properly upright, he shuffles further down the corridor. He hopes it is away from possible view.
With each step, the noise of joyful chatter fill his ears, and he widens his eyes at the crossroads of sorts that the alley's end. Brightly colored flags with bold blocky print drape over wheeled carts and wagons lined up on either side of the wide curving street. One man dressed in what looks to be a blue bathrobe hands over colorful paper notes, and a heaping plate of steaming dumplings graces his empty hands from the one with a white apron standing within the spare shelter offered by a wagon.
It is an ordinary and familiar pattern: the way of the world. Ed sighs out a breath quickly works out what is happening; equivalent exchange in action. This must be a merchant district, he reasons, and watches the thick crowd of people as the bumble past.
"Fast food." Ed breathes hungrily and quickly checks the buildings for the "weird" walkers before stumbling forward into the press of bodies.
One vendor drops something on his left with a harsh tone of phrase. He hears the distinct sizzling of fat on hot grills, and eyes the sudden flames flaring up, and the hateful scowl of the man as he shakes his reddening hand. He mentally notes those words down, not entire sure just what they are but liking sentiment alone.
He eyes the lettering on the flapping fabric around him and, although it is completely unfamiliar, finds he can read it.
"Shibu shibu.." He says as he stumbles to a halt, and the sizzling beef smell jumbles the words' meaning. He wonders a moment if his frequent trips through.. Something dark. Horrible. he can't.. won't ...recall.. He shakes his head and stumbles on. Maybe he's screwed. Maybe he scrambled up his mind so much that language is beyond him now. Not that it matters much.. His palms pat the no pockets at his hips, the thin hospital bloomers hiding nothing.
The fingers of his left twitch as if expecting something heavy to be chained there.. But the fact is fact: no money means he can't buy any food. Which brings up a whole new problem.
The crowd pushes him along, and he scowls up at them, noticing for the first time that most tower over him by at least a foot. He pushes past at group of such freakishly tall girls at a hearty stumble, and finds himself at wagon sagging to one side. He works out that one wheeled wooden rim shattered on a rock on the furthest side.
Ed narrows his eyes at the signs which proclaim "first comfort famous ramen", and then watches the sullen looking balding vendor, in a white apron and paper hat, pull down a shade that says "closed. please come again".
Wheels are broken. His mind echoes, swirling about the fluctuations of equivalent exchange and by his calculations, he may be able to make a trade for a single serving of whatever this "ramen" is. He stumbles to the wagon to stand at the vendor's side. The vendor glares down in displeasure.
The vendor says something.
Ed points to a big bowl, supposing "ramen" is a sort of soup.
The vendor repeats the same something. Ed folds his arms and makes sure he glares right back, then darts his eyes to the crowd flowing by with a raised eyebrow.
The vendor reaches for the second blind and Ed reaches up to stop him. Then peers over into the open flat. This close to the inside of the wagon, he can see another-- yet bigger problem-- likely the true reason the vendor is closing. The boxy metal stove, much like the ones each of the other wagons sport, sits away in the corner, only its shape bows outward in a no longer quite boxy manner. An obvious, gaping wound on the roundest bit splays jagged metal, and finger like shards stick into the wood just below his gaze.
Ed thins his lips and slides his eyes slyly back to the vendor, jutting his chin once more towards the large bowl.
The vendor lowers his face so that his nose touches Ed's, and he growls that same phrase that Ed is now sure means "go away you fool idiot".
Ed lowers his brows, and says in a low voice.
"Alchemy."
He clamors into the wagon, squirming past the vendor's reaching hands. Kneeling before the former stove, hands pressed together as if in prayer, he juts his chin firmly again towards the bowl.
The vendor's brows press together as Ed splays his fingers before the blasted metal. And rise to his hairline as the light of the reaction sparks a furious blue.
Sent via Blackhole
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