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[color=deeppink]I wrote this story about a year ago for my creative writing class. I was bored and curious, so I figured I'd post it here. [/color]___________________________________ [color=navy][center][b]The Mighty[/center][/b] Walt Whittaker was disappointed with his eldest son. He sat at the table, eating breakfast and musing over his first son as he often did in the wee hours of the morning when he hadn’t had his coffee yet and couldn’t quite control his thoughts. He was growing increasingly irritated with his son’s sheer abject laziness; he felt as if he could explode any minute just thinking about it. Then he drank his coffee, and the resulting caffeine rush reminded him just where that distant corner of his mind was that he sent his emotions to when they misbehaved. His other sons were already up, and were already arguing over something silly. Walt didn’t care what it was; he had long ago learned to tune out their bickering. Every couple of minutes he managed to bark out a quick “Stop it you two,” mostly without realizing he was even talking. His sons never seemed to realize it either. His head was pounding. He had this problem at least twice a week; the doctors told him it was stress, same as his blood pressure problems. They told him to keep taking his medicine and try to relax a bit more. Walt thought he was doing just fine with that, though there was that project at work keeping him busy most of the time. And there was that leak in the roof he still hadn’t gotten around to fixing. And he had his middle son’s college tuition tearing apart his wallet. His face contorted into an awful sneer at the thought of all the money he was pouring into that damn college. His eldest couldn’t get enough scholarships for a free ride either, or rather he didn’t try to; Walt had to pay every red cent to those money-grubbing bastards at the university of wherever it was he had gone to, and he had never gotten any of that back when that slacker dropped out. It had all been wasted. He had been so proud that his son was finally going to make something of himself, but his hopes were dashed to pieces by with a single maddeningly apathetic shrug. But Walt wouldn’t have that same problem with Paul; he always finished what he started. Walt stared at the empty seat between Paul and his wife, Andrea. “Why isn’t he joining us for breakfast?” he asked her, a question born entirely out of routine. “He’s still asleep, like he always is.” “When I was his age, my parents never would have let me do sleep this long. Hell, when I was that old, I was already living on my own, I had a job, and I was raising a son! Him! When is he going to get a damn job?” “Now, you know he’s not going to want to go for that.” “What does it matter what he wants? He needs to get a job. It’s time we told him to either get a job or get the hell out.” “And what, kick him out into the street? “ “Let him go live with his mother. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled at the chance to coddle him some more.” “Walt, calm down. Your face is turning red. I thought the doctor told you to cut back on the caffeine?” Walt wanted to say something snide and insulting back, but he decided against it. He just went back to drinking his coffee, ignoring the bickering of his sons, and dreading the hassle that he knew awaited him at work. And that’s when he and everyone else were caught completely off guard as his son silently joined them at the table. Walt tried very hard not to stare like everyone else, but he couldn’t help gaping just a little bit. It was simply too early for surprises. No one said a word as his son grabbed a plate of bacon and sat down. “Morning,” Andrea said to him. “You know there’s some scrambled eggs too, if you want them.” His mouth twitched slightly in what Walt assumed was supposed to be a smile and he nodded. Walt was uncomfortable with eating meals with him; there was always this awkward silence that seemed to permeate the air between them, and his son would always stare out the window. It was why Walt stopped making him come out of his room for meals, though Walt never stopped complaining about the empty seat. He had immense dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept for days, and his hair and clothes were both disheveled. Walt noticed that despite looking like an insomniac, his eyes were alive and alert; he seemed excited about something despite the blank look on his face. He always tried to hide his emotions, but he seemed to have let down his guard today. Walt realized that he hadn’t seen his son in days, which was unusual even considering the amount of time that he spent in his room. Usually he would at least appear sometime during the evenings to feed himself, even if he rarely ever interacted with anyone. Walt started to wonder just what he was doing up there, and decided to break the uncomfortable silence. “You’re up early.” “Yup.” The silence returned, thicker and more awkward than before. Walt searched his head for some way to get his son to start talking to him, but he knew it was in vain. Nobody spoke again until he finished his bacon and left the table, at which point Paul and Jordan resumed their quarrel. [center]************[/center] When Walt arrived at work, he was met with a very unhappy supervisor. “Dammit, Walt, where have you been? We’ve hit another snag. One of those fucking freaks got in a fight with another fucking freak and demolished City Hall. The city’s seized all the buildin’ supplies for the next two weeks. We’re gonna hafta cut more corners if we want to get this thing done on time.” “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” “I tell ya’, Walt, these goddamn bureaucrats. Letting those freaks get away with destruction of city property and then stealing resources from hard workin’ citizens. They should all be hung from the highest tree. “Hanged.” “I swear, if I ever catch one of those caped sons of bitches on this property I’m gonna kill ‘em. How are the kids, Walt?” “Oh, they’re fine. Paul is starting college soon, and Jordan’s about to start High School. The football coach is already after him to join the team.” “I tell you, Walt, that Jordan’s quite a little dynamo. You should be proud. And what about the other one?” “What other one?” “You know, the oldest. What’s-his-name.” Walt felt his face growing red. “I’m not sure who you’re talking about, sir.” [center]************[/center] The drive home was tense. The supply shortage was just another in a long list of problems that Walt, and only Walt, had to deal with to keep this project afloat. HeroCo wanted a new corporate office built, but they didn’t want to pay for it; he had been ordered to cut costs at every opportunity, and he did so begrudgingly. He couldn’t risk upsetting the bigwigs. He thought about the low-quality concrete that was used to lay the foundation, and how the building would begin to sink within a decade. He thought about the mostly hollow walls, and how they couldn’t possibly bear the weight of a four-story building for long. He thought about the rush to show HeroCo progress, and how combining that with hiring unskilled teenagers -- children, really – had already caused the building to tilt slightly to the left. He thought about the low-quality wood that would begin to rot in a month, the cheap drywall that wasn’t even supported by any studs, and all the exposed wiring that was already far too tangled to fix without ripping everything out and starting over. He arrived at home to find that dinner was not ready as he had hoped. Andrea had apparently taken Paul to the store to buy him a brand new wardrobe for college, and Jordan was out golfing with his friends. Walt dreaded time alone with his eldest, even if it was for the miniscule amount of time that he would leave his room, though to Walt’s surprise and relief he never appeared. In fact, Walt didn’t see him for a entire week. He didn’t notice for a while; he tended to avoid the awkward silences as much as possible, so not seeing his son for an extended period of time was nothing new. However, when Walt left for work early on Monday morning, he drove past his son walking down the street two blocks down. The shock of seeing his son out in public almost caused Walt to crash into an oncoming car. His son’s appearance was worrying. He wasn’t walking so much as he was limping, and he was favoring his right side. His clothes were ragged and dirty and were torn in several places revealing nasty scrapes and bruises. He looked completely haggard, with roughly a week’s worth of unkempt beard on his face. He didn’t appear to be paying attention to anything around him as he was bumping into the other pedestrians walking by him. One woman holding a baby was shouting something at him, though he didn’t seem to hear Walt’s concern lasted through the day, and he could hardly focus on his responsibilities at work. He even cut out early, much to the surprise of his boss who was so taken aback he couldn’t muster any response besides “yes.” When Walt returned home, he found the house mostly empty, as everyone was at their respective jobs; the only sounds came from upstairs. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, though it sounded like music. As he climbed the stairs, he realized that his son was listening to Rush. Walt was taken aback; he didn’t know his son liked Rush. He briefly considered sharing his old record collection, but quickly decided against it. He pounded on the door with as much authority as he could muster, which was quite a lot. He heard frantic rustling over the sound of “2112”, a personal favorite of Walt’s. His son was taking far too long opening the door, and it was testing Walt’s patience. He knocked again. “Open up.” The music stopped and the door opened. His son’s freshly shaven face was as blank as ever, but he was breathing heavily and was still clutching at his side. He stood there, staring, waiting for his father to say something. “What were you doing this morning?” “Nothing.” “It didn’t look like nothing. I saw you limping down the street, and it looked like you hadn’t showered in two weeks. You looked like a bum. What would people think of me if they knew I let you go around looking like that?” “I don’t know.” “’I don’t know.’ ‘Nothing.’ That’s all you ever say. I have a hard time believing you know so little. What were you doing in there just now?” “Nothing.” “Damn it, I don’t want to hear that word again. Tell me what were you doing in there!” “I wasn’t doing anything.” “Don’t talk back to me.” “Okay.” “And don’t go into public looking like that again.” “Okay.” Walt slammed the door in frustration and stormed down the steps. He could feel the veins in his forehead throbbing from anger at his son’s refusal to communicate. Many times that evening, after he had calmed, he stood at the bottom of the stairs to hear if his son ever turned the music back on. He never heard a sound. [center]************[/center] For the next few days, Walt saw his son wandering about the house. He still did not join them for meals or speak to anybody; he even seemed to refuse to look anyone directly in the eye, a trait Walt thought he grew out of when he went to college. He seemed energized, and his wanderings seemed to be little more than pacing. He would mutter to himself under his breath almost constantly, which unnerved anyone who stood in the same room with him, especially Walt. This all abruptly stopped after the fourth day. It wasn’t until late in the evening, several hours after he got home from work, that Walt noticed the distinct absence of the muttering that he had grown so accustomed to in the past few days. These sudden changes in behavior were starting to worry him, and he decided to talk to his wife about him. “Have you noticed how odd that kid’s been acting lately?” “Honey, odd’s a relative term. Especially for him.” “Yeah, but he seems… odder. He’s been wandering around the house like he’s some lost puppy. He doesn’t even acknowledge us anymore, unless we’re in his way, and even then he just looks at us like he’s surprised to see us and waits for us to move. “So what? You think there’s something wrong with him?” “Maybe. I saw him limping home the other day and looking like he slept in a dumpster. You think he might have gotten himself in some trouble?” “Like what? Drugs?” “Don’t be silly. Drugs are the last thing he’d get himself involved with. He wouldn’t even let us put him on those anti-depressants we spent a fortune on.” “What else could it be, then? Aside from, you know, his personality.” “I don’t know, Andrea. But I bet you it’s something serious.” “Well, fine. If you’re that concerned about it, why don’t you go talk to him instead of complaining about it to me. I’m certainly not going to know what the hell’s wrong with him.” Walt paled slightly, but he soon flushed with anger again. He hated her knowing stare; she could tell that that was the last thing Walt wanted to do. However, Walt knew she was right; he also knew there was no arguing with her even if she wasn’t. With one last look of defiance, he turned and walked towards the stairway, his prideful swagger turning to a skulking shuffle as soon as he was out of her sight. He stood at the top of the stairs for a while, gathering his courage and planning his strategy. He thought it would be best to try and be less forceful this time; not too much, of course, but it wouldn’t serve any purpose to yell again. He wasn’t going to back down this time, and he didn’t want this confrontation to end in a fistfight. He needed to exude an aura of casual friendship; perhaps he would start with an off-color joke? “Honey, quit stalling and knock already.” Walt jumped at the sound of his wife’s voice. He turned to her and found her standing at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on her hip and a very disapproving stair on her face. Walt quickly knocked on the door. Then he knocked again. No answer. He knocked harder. No answer, and no sound came from inside. “It’s your father. Open up.” Still there was nothing. He started down the stairs, giving his wife the familiar “well, I tried” look. She countered with the less familiar “get the hell back up those stairs” look. He decided it would be best to listen to it. He breathed in deeply and opened the door; what he saw was an absolute nightmare. There were dirty clothes scattered about the room, books laying everywhere, and mounds of junk strewn about. The room was a mess, and Walt’s son was nowhere to be seen. Walt approached one of the largest piles of junk and began to sift through it, hoping to find some clue to his son’s behavior. He found nothing out of the ordinary, only random comic books and video games that he didn’t recognize. A copy of The Flash, however, caught his eye. “What, there’s another new Flash?” Walt muttered to himself. “What is this, the eighth one? They should just bring Barry Allen back and be done with it.” He discarded the comic book and decided that the random piles of clutter around the room would probably not result in any great find; perhaps the desk would bear more fruit. He noticed that, even though it still seemed far from clean, the desk wasn’t nearly as disorganized as the rest of the room. There was broken glass all over the desk, which itself was sticky and purple in spots. There were sewing materials scattered about (the sight of which nearly sent Walt into a panic attack), and bits of torn fabric were stuck to the desk, but the area itself seemed relatively clean. What most caught Walt’s interest, however, was the small wooden box. It was an innocent looking box, big enough to maybe fit a stack of papers in, except for the bizarre cage of silverware erected around it. Spoons, knives, and forks all came together to form a wicked looking deathtrap; Walt knew that this was a crude security system. Anyone who tried to simply reach for the box would undoubtedly come out of the situation with a severely nicked hand, and to remove even a single spoon would cause the entire structure to collapse. It was too complicated to try and rebuild; any attempt to do so would be just like spray painting “Walt was here!” all over the walls. He was impressed. A quick flash of red in the corner of his eye seized his attention away from the silver cage of death. Walt crouched down to get a better look, and found the source of the distraction: the trash can sitting next to the desk was filled to the brim with gauze, stained crimson with blood. Walt was taken aback; he had never thought his son would be so withdrawn as to not even tell his own father when he was badly hurt. He realized another stern talking to was in order. He nearly had another panic attack when a loud, vicious thump came from behind him. He turned around to see two gloved hands clutching desperately onto the window ledge outside the house. Quickly and stealthily, Walt moved to the side of the window so as not to be seen, but not before catching a tiny glimpse of the cause of the noise; a man wearing a dark red mask was scaling the wall and was attempting to open the window from outside the house. Walt waited patiently for the masked man to open the window, which eventually he did. Panting hard, he stuck his head in the window only to be greeted by a fist. The intruder was ripped right off the window, and Walt heard a soft thud. By the time Walt looked out of the window, the masked man was already bounding through the trees by the side of the house, and before long he was out of sight. Walt charged down the stairs and nearly ran over his wife. “Walt, what the hell was that?” “Some jackass in a mask just tried to break in. Call the police, and get me some peroxide for my hand. He had a hard head.” As his wife ran to fetch the medicine and the phone, Walt collapsed in a chair, hoping that the burglar didn’t have time to see the mess. [center]************[/center] The police came and went quickly; nothing was stolen and there was no property damage to speak of. The officers found the situation to be extremely funny, and joked about how lucky Walt was that it wasn’t General Catastrophe or Invulnero or some other local menace, or they would have had to call in some new guy to get back all this junk. They made sure to emphasize “junk.” Walt laughed politely, but made a point to roll his eyes as soon as the cops’ backs were turned. “General Catastrophe?” “Invulnero?” Silly names for stupid people, Walt thought. Some guy in tights couldn’t possibly be that threatening, no matter how strong or invulnerable they are. Walt told the cops that his son was out with friends when it happened. They didn’t fully search the room, only checking the window, so they had never discovered the trashcan full of bloody gauze by the desk, for which Walt was thankful. He didn’t want to have to explain that, in no small part because he couldn’t. He ended up telling the cops that his son was out with friends, a lie that would only work on a stranger. They accepted his explanation, and left without another word, undoubtedly laughing at the inept criminal and the giant mess he couldn’t steal. Walt collapsed on the couch, hoping the evening news would take his mind away from his troubles. He was quickly disappointed, as it seemed he caught the last ten minutes of the news when the silly local interest stories ran. Normally they were at least tolerable, but this time they were doing a report on some new local superhero. “Superheros,” the program began. “Homo supremi. Capes. Whatever you want to call them, they have worked tirelessly to protect our fair city from catastrophe, whether it be a retired army general who leaks radiation or the more traditional meteor plummeting towards Earth. They have existed for nearly a century, and today there is a new personality to add to the list of men and women honored with the label ‘Hero.’” “Heroes my ass,” Walt muttered. “Nuisances is more like it.” “This man, clad in crimson and gold, earlier today saved a bus full of children from crashing into the reservoir after a freak accident caused its brakes to fail.” The image switched from the perky reporter to a frail looking man in dark red spandex highlighted by seemingly random streaks of gold. The spandex was slightly too tight, and Walt was stunned that anyone this shrimpy could ever consider himself to be an actual superhero. The man was surrounded by nearly two dozen children, as least two of which appeared to be crippled, and his crimson cape was flapping in the wind as he laughed with the children. Walt thought he was about to vomit. Behind them all was a large yellow school bus sitting on its side; its front end was smashed as if it had run headlong into a brick wall and its back end was crushed as if a giant pair of pincers had clamped down upon it. “Earlier today, this school bus found itself careening over the edge of Justice Girl Bridge, its concrete walls barely enough to slow the momentum of the out-of-control bus. All hope looked to be lost for Mrs. Flaherty’s 4th grade class, when suddenly they found themselves being lifted into the air and carried to safety! They had been rescued by Platinum City’s newest superhero, Mighty! Mr. Mighty, what was going through your head as you lifted those six tons of mangled steel and screaming children above your head?” “Well, ma’am, I didn’t so much lift it as pull it, but I guess what I was thinking was ‘These children are depending upon me. I can’t let them down.’ ‘Then I sort of just… grabbed it real hard and pulled. You know, so they wouldn’t, uh, fall and die. That wouldn’t have looked good on my resume.” He cracked a feeble little smile, visible though the mask covered his entire face. “Weren’t you terrified?” “N-not at all. I, uh, only thought about the children, and how terrified they must be, and how, you know, I should make them not so terrified. I mean, you know, pull them away from the bridge or something. Make sure they didn’t get hurt.” “A brave effort from a brave man. These children seem to love you, and Platinum City will sleep that much more soundly now that it has yet another guardian to patrol-“ The image of the cheery reporter and the scrawny superhero was replaced by a black void. Walt had had enough; this cheese was starting to give him indigestion. [center]************[/center] “Oh fuck, watch the fuck out!” The warning was useless, unnecessary and came far too late, though Walt really did appreciate it. The sudden blast had knocked him completely off his feet, and there was no way he could have dodged the hundreds of fragments of razor-sharp glass even if he were still standing and knew they were coming. He managed to crawl to his feet, cradling a severely bruised and lacerated arm, and turned to see his supervisor standing next to him, looking none too pleased. “You okay, Walt?” “Um, not at the moment, Mr. Dunmar. What happened? “ “That Goddamned fucking freak Sonic Bomb just flew by here at the speed of fucking sound. The sonic boom probably knocked out every single window. Damn it, Walt, I told you to order those speedster-proof windows! It’s going to take at least a week to replace them all!” Walt glared, but said nothing. It had actually been Walt who suggested to him that they should probably install the more expensive reinforced windows in case of a speedster running by, but Dunmar had just shrugged Walt off and told him that HeroCo wanted this place to be as cost-effective as possible, which Walt knew actually meant cheap. The adrenaline rush had dulled a great deal of the pain at first, but Walt could feel it beginning to slowly worsen. He felt around his back and discovered that his shirt was sliced in several places. He pulled back his hand to find it covered in crimson blood. “Jesus, Walt, you’re a mess. Order those speedster-proof windows and head home, get some rest. You’re gonna be busy as hell tomorrow.” “Yes, sir.” Walt was exhausted when he arrived home. He had decided that it would be more prudent to go to the doctor instead of straight home, but he was starting to regret it. They had kept him there for hours, and he came away with nearly a dozen stitches in his back and a couple pain pills that did almost nothing for him. He had just finished changing into a new shirt when he heard someone moving around in the kitchen. He tensed; it was still early, just a little past one, no one should be home. Thinking that another break-in would be the last thing he needed, Walt crept slowly towards the kitchen, hoping to take yet another burglar unawares. When he arrived at the kitchen, he found his son rifling through the fridg. Walt cursed at himself; he had forgotten that his son almost never left the house. “Hey.” Walt could see every muscle in his son’s body tense in surprise, but it lasted for only a second and he kept looking into the fridge without turning around and facing his father. “Hey.” Walt suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen his son since the break-in from the other day. This caused him to remember everything else from that day too, which the attempted burglary had driven almost completely from his mind. He decided that this would be the perfect time to have that heart-to-heart with his son. Then he decided to dance around it. “Someone tried to break into your room the other day.” “I know.” “You know?” “Yeah.” “How?” “Andi told me.” “You should keep your window locked.” “Okay.” “You know, I was in your room when it happened. If it wasn’t for me, that guy would have carted away all your stuff.” “Okay.” “You’re being awfully nonchalant here. Don’t you care that you almost lost all your comic books and video games and whatever other crap you have up there?” “Sure.” “You trying to refrigerate the house?” Walt’s son had not stopped rifling through the fridge since the conversation began. He just sat there, picking things up and putting them down, his gaze never straying from the inside. “Sorry.” He shut the door and began walking away; Walt noticed that he refused to turn around, and seemed determined to allow Walt to only see his back. “I didn’t mean stop looking. Just hurry up. If you’re hungry, eat something for crying out loud.” “I’m not hungry.” “You gonna look me in the eye anytime soon?” He froze, halfway down the hallway. “Come here and look at me. We need to talk.” His shoulders slumped and he sighed as if all life was leaving him. He turned around slowly, head tilted down towards the floor in what was apparently one last futile attempt not to look Walt in the eye. “Don’t look at your feet. When someone’s talking to you, you look at them.” He stood still for what seemed like Walt to be an eternity; Walt was getting angrier and angrier at every second his son didn’t look him in the eye. Just as he was about to erupt, his son finally raised his head, revealing an enormous bruise around his left eye. Walt, struck speechless by his son’s black eye, gaped in shock. He found his own shoulders were drooping at the sudden revelation. “Come here and sit down,” he said dejectedly, unwilling and unable to hide the disappointment and contempt in his voice. They both found themselves sitting at the kitchen table. Now his son seemed unwilling to look away from his father or even blink; they both sat there, hard-faced and determined. “Care to tell me why you were climbing in your window instead of using the door like regular people? Or why you were wearing that mask?” “No.” “Don’t play games with me. I want you to tell me now why you were gallivanting around town in a damn cape and mask.” “I think you already know.” “I want to hear it from you.” “Why? What difference would it make?” “Damn it, son, quit avoiding the situation! You’ve made yourself a goddamn Supremis! What the hell is wrong with you?” “Nothing is wrong with me, Dad. This is what I want to do.” “Would you grow up! You can’t live like this! Superherosim is for children and idiots. You should let people who know what they’re doing take care of things instead of running around in your pajamas and mucking everything up.” “What, like the cops? Yeah, sure, because they’re doing such a great job keeping this city safe. The Red Death hospitalized an entire squad just this last week and I think we both know how effective they are against Invulnero. This city needs superheroes.” “The police aren’t perfect, but the city sure as hell doesn’t need any of those thoughtless, irresponsible troublemakers! They don’t think about the damage they can cause, the lives they can ruin, the-” “They money they could lose?” “… yes. The money they could lose or the money they could cause other people to lose. Whether you like to admit or not, money is important, and people don’t have enough of it that they can replace their houses on a moment’s notice. Is all the destruction they cause really protecting the city?” “Shouldn’t you be happy about that, Dad? That just means more business for you, more money you can make.” “That’s entirely beside the point! I don’t want people to lose their homes just so I can make a quick buck. Besides, I can’t get any goddamn work done when your buddy Sonic Bomb causes sonic booms in the middle of the street!” “There are insurance companies in place for that, Dad. The government itself promises to replace anything destroyed by a licensed superhero.” “And how long do you think that’s going to last, huh? The government was already in debt before your kind came along, and every monumental battle with a giant enemy crab is just another nail in the coffin. They’re ruining this country.” “They’re saving lives, Dad.” “Bullshit. They ruin them. Remember how General Catastrophe became General Catastrophe? He was some small-time punk that crossed paths with Metatron and got himself thrown out a window into a vat of radioactive waste or something like that.” “A gross over-simplification.” “Don’t give me that. When are you going to grow up and get over all of this childishness? When are you going to stop sitting in your room playing video games all day and get a job?” “I have a job now, Dad. I--“ “No! Don’t give me that shit! That’s not a job! You’re playing pretend! You’re acting like a spoiled four year-old kid who doesn’t want to clean his room!” “Dad, calm down, I-“ “You always do this! You never tried out for sports in high school, you never put forth any effort to make friends, you never got a job, you never studied for your classes. I thought things were going to change when you went to college, I thought you were going to start making something for yourself. But no! Yet again you gave up. And now this!” “Dad, you’re turning read, come on, the doctor said you shouldn’t get this worked up.” “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! I have had it up to here with you! You’re twenty-five years old, son, you’re too old for this shit. Either you quit acting like a child or you’re no longer welcome in this house.” “Dad, you’re being unreasonable.” “I see I have my answer. I just knew you were going to do this, you’ve always been a disappointment to me. I wish I hadn’t talked your mother out of getting that abortion.” His son just stared. He showed no sign of emotion; his face was blank. Walt was determined to return the steely stare; he hoped to goad his son into making a response, any response, even if he started yelling or broke down in tears. He wanted proof that his son was human. But it never came. He just kept staring. Walt just couldn’t take it anymore; he needed some air. He turned and walk out of the room, seething with rage. He knew this would be a good time to take his pills, but they were still in the kitchen. [center]************[/center] Walt spent the next few days quietly regretting the fight. He had said terrible, horrible things, and he had meant every word. He told himself it wasn’t his fault. He told himself that every conversation with his son turned into a fight, he couldn’t stop that. He told himself that his son didn’t care, that the words had never really hurt him. But he knew better. His son wasn’t the robot he presented himself to be; it was all a defense mechanism designed to keep people from getting too close to him. Walt had never been able to break those barriers, and he regretted this failure more than anything else. After three days of living in a stupor, barely doing anything, he was starting to feel like his son. This had to change; he needed something to take his mind off of the subject, and he knew just the thing: the lawnmower needed fixing. So he spent most of the afternoon trying to fix the lawnmower. Of course, this didn’t really help his mood; the lawnmower refused to cooperate with him, which only led to Walt becoming angrier and angrier. This, in turn, led to his language becoming more and more colorful. “Walt, honey, you should come in and have a look at this.” The sudden appearance of his wife startled Walt, and he banged his head against the wheel in surprise. “Fucking hell!” he screamed, rubbing his head. “What, what is it? I’m a little busy here?” “You’re not too busy to come inside and deal with this. And don’t curse at me.” “I wasn’t, I was cursing because… you know what, never mind. This thing’s a piece of shit anyway.” He wiped his greasy hands on a rag, which didn’t help much as the rag was more grease then cloth at this point anyways, and followed her into the house. She led him to the kitchen table, and with a look of utter disappointment on her face pointed to a note on the kitchen table. “I’ve left. Thanks for the room and board.” He stared at the note hardly able to grasp the meaning of the words. He looked up at his wife, who was somehow wordlessly telling him what a huge dick he was and how this was all his fault. Even though she didn’t know about the fight, Walt wasn’t quite sure that he disagreed with her. He immediately began calling everyone that would possibly know where he was. This took no time at all; this list was limited to close family members. Once everyone was consulted, he found that he had no idea where to look. He decided to take drastic measures; he had to ask for help from his own children. “Paul! Get in here!” he yelled. It was common for any one member in the family to summon the other like this; Walt suddenly thought this impersonal atmosphere might be part of the problem. Paul didn’t respond, and Walt yelled again. This time, Paul yelled back. “What?” “Get in here!” “What do you want!” “I want you to get in here!” “Why?” “Get the hell in here already!” “Fine!” It was still a few minutes before Paul actually came; Walt wondered if he ever had any authority over his children. “What is it?” “Have you heard about this new Cape?” “Of course not. That stuff’s for kids.” “Really? He’s been all over the news, supposed to be a big new hero.” “Dad, nobody cares about grown men in tights except for people who live in their parent’s basements. Are you going somewhere with this? I’m a little busy.” “Yeah. I want you to get on the internet and look this guy up for me. I’m curious.” “Why don’t you do it?” “Because I asked you to. Now get.” “Fine. What’s his name?” “Mighty.” “Mighty? What, was Insecure Man already taken?” “Just go do it.” Walt hated using a computer. He never knew what he was doing, and that always made him angry. He heard Paul yell from the other room again, but he was too tired and frustrated to do anything about it. “Says here he saved a bus full of kids from falling off a bridge on Monday.” “Anything more recent?” “Uh, he apparently stopped members of the Triple Threat Gang from robbing a bank later that day.” “How about within the past two days?” “Uh, let me see. It says here that he was accepted into the Liberty Brigade yesterday. Damn government. I’d bet they’d sanction anyone with a superpower. I know a guy with super-ventriloquism, maybe I should send in a nomination?” Walt was already out the door by the time Paul finished his joke. [center]************[/center] “Man, this place looks terrible.” Walt was standing outside the Ziggurat, the headquarters of the Liberty Brigade. It was a gaudy building; it was made mostly of glass, which Walt noted made it a terrible place for superheroes to live. It seemed to conform to no acceptable or known design, with useless glass protrusions comprising most of the roof. It reminded Walt of a broken bottle. There was an enormous statue placed on the front lawn. The plaque said it was dedicated to the memory of Metatron and Lady Luck. Perhaps a little outdated, Walt mused. Both Metatron and Lady Luck were discovered alive and well about a week after they “boldly sacrificed” themselves to save the city from something. Walt couldn’t remember what exactly, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the entire thing was a hoax. Walt approached the enormous glass doors, which were twice the size that any door would ever need to be. He almost felt sickened walking through them; it felt like walking into a wall of solid ego. The room was empty and entirely featureless, save for a girl sitting at a desk. Walt would have called her pretty had she not been a deep shade of green with bright orange hair. “Excuse me Miss.” “Oh! Salutations. Your entrance was not of note. May I be of assist to your needs?” Walt just stared back into the seemingly vapid smile of the bubbly green girl. “Uh… I’m here to see my son.” “I am apologizing. Visiting of familiars is not of allowed. The danger is increased.” “What? Look, I’m not sure what you’re trying to say, but I want to see my son, and I’m not leaving until I do.” The green girl continued to smile infuriatingly at him. She lifted her hand to the featureless desk and pressed her finger on top of it. “Metratron Mister, we have a blue situation.” Walt was wondering who this crazy green girl thought she was talking to; he nearly had a panic attack when she received the response. Yes, I’ve been expecting him. Send him to my office please. Walt was more than a little creeped out. No one spoke; he didn’t hear the response so much as it took form inside his own head, as if he thought it himself. The green girl seemed to have heard it too, because she smiled and waved him on. A hallway had appeared directly behind the desk. He didn’t like the look of it, but he figured anything was better than this barren den of crazy monsters and voiceless words, and so he proceeded. There was only one door in the hallway, at the very end. He braced himself, opened it, and found himself face to face with Metatron himself. “Greetings” “Hi. Some receptionist you got there.” “Oh, Hela? Yes, I’m afraid I have to apologize for the any inconvenience. She’s a recent immigrant, hasn’t quite mastered English yet.” “Where’s she from?” “Somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy. I can’t say where, exactly… we haven’t discovered it yet, and her native language is impossible to speak using human vocal cords. I suppose I could tell you telepathically, but it would only sound like a cat being slowly crushed by interlocking gears. Not a pleasant thought to have inside your head. Now, how can I help?” “I… I’m here to see my son. His name is –“ “I know what his name is. We have a policy against mentioning our secret identities out loud here. I must also ask that you refrain from mentioning your name too. Security purposes.” “Er…fine.” “You’ve raised quite a son there. He’s perhaps the strongest member our team’s ever had; he’ll be a wonderful asset when dealing with the more powerful undesirables. You should be proud.” “Hmph. Can I see him?” “I’m afraid he’s made it clear that he doesn’t wish to see you.” “Well, I’m his father, damn it, he doesn’t have a choice. He ran away from home yesterday, and I’m here to bring him back.” “’Ran away from home?’ He’s twenty-five years old. Most parents would refer to that as ‘finally moving out.’ Isn’t this what you wanted?” “You can’t let him go through with this, he’s going to get himself killed!” “Must I remind you of your son’s age yet again? He’s here of his own free will. It is his decision, not mine. Nor yours. He understands the risks, and this is what he wants.” “But that’s just it, he doesn’t understand. He’s never understood how the world works, he’s still just a child!” “That may be true, but I’m afraid you have no right to stop him. For better or for worse, he has made his own decision. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m a very busy man.” “I’m not leaving without my son.” Leave. Once again Walt heard the voice in his head; however, it sounded different. It was harsher, more grating. Walt felt compelled to do what it said. Obeying this voice was the only thing that made sense; a simple, direct order that, if obeyed, would fix everything. Walt stood. His legs were wobbling. No, not wobbling: resisting. His legs didn’t want to go. He tried harder. They resisted harder. Another voice in the back of his head was telling him to stay; this one was quieter, softer. Walt thought it sounded weak and unconvincing. He tried ignoring it, but it wouldn’t go away. It kept getting louder and louder until it was the only thought in his head; it was then that Walt realized that the voice he saw as frail and pitiful was his own. He found himself standing in the middle of the doorway with no recollection of just how he got there. He turned around to face Metatron, who was staring at him with a look of mingled shock and horror. You have an unexpectedly strong mind, Mr. Whittaker. Not many can resist my commands. “Where is my son.” Mr. Whittaker, I suggest that you leave now. I may not be able to influence your actions, but I assure you, you will not be able to remain in this building. You may be able to resist my telepathy, but it is not the only ability I have. And it is the only ability you could hope to resist. Walt understood the concealed threat. He decided that it would be better for his health if he left without a fight; as much as he thought these people were useless and a burden on society, he knew better than to pick a fight with an entire building full of people who could kick his ass a hundred different ways. But he couldn’t resist getting in the last word. “If he dies, his blood is on your hands.” He turned and left, making sure to flip off the receptionist as he walked out. She cheerfully responded in kind. [center]************[/center] Two weeks later, Walt finally finished work on the HeroCo building. The windows had all been replaced (although they were still not speedster-proof; Mr. Dunmar and the HeroCo executives had seen to that), the walls had all been painted, and the lobby was even decorated in those tacky potted plants faceless corporations love so much. Walt stood next to those potted plants, admiring his handiwork. For the first time in weeks– months, even—Walt was finally thinking about something other than his son, and he was happy. Then, to his horror, he caught the faintest murmur of a sound from every architect’s most horrible nightmares: the sound of a body colliding with concrete. The few workers left in the lobby all froze and looked around fearfully. They all knew what this meant, everyone in construction knew, but they all seemed too frightened at the possibility to do anything about it. “Get the fuck out! They’re coming this way!” Walt screamed at the top of his lungs. Walt’s screams jolted his workers back to reality, and they ran screaming towards the door. Walt ran to the wall and pulled the bright orange lever, labeled “Pull here in case of Supremi fight,” and pulled. And then he pulled again. Nothing happened. “Cheap sons of bitches!” Walt told them not to hire those contractors. He’d be surprised if any of the wiring in the building worked. Now he had to climb five stories to make sure everybody knew what was coming. He scoured each floor, finding random clumps of workers too frightened or unsure to move, all while the sounds of furious battle drew nearer and nearer. By the time he cleared out the fourth floor, he was almost completely out of breath. He was sweating, and his skin was flushed red. He didn’t want to move, but he knew he had to. He hurried down the stairs, clutching the rail with one hand and his chest with the other. Fortunately, gravity was on his side, and he made it to the bottom quickly. Too exhausted for an all-out run, he lurched as quickly as he could towards the door. He managed to make it, and he burst through to find a sight that, if he still had it, would have taken his breath away: there, right in front of the brand new HeroCo building was the indestructible criminal Invulnero duking it out with Walt’s own son, Mighty. Mighty’s uniform was shredded in several places, revealing deep gashes, scrapes, and bruises. His cape was nowhere to be seen, probably torn off sometime earlier in the battle, and what remained of his uniform was covered in blood. Walt looked to his left, and saw the trail of destruction these two Supremi had left behind. Gigantic potholes surrounded by smashed concrete speckled the roads, lampposts were scattered about everywhere, and there wasn’t a building in sight that didn’t have some sort of hole in it. Walt stood still in front of the door, frozen in place by the sudden appearance of his son. Mighty and Invulnero were quickly trading punches; despite Mighty’s massive strength, Invulnero was completely unharmed. He was even laughing with every bone-crushing blow that Mighty landed. Conversely, while Invulnero appeared to lack any sort of advanced strength, his blows were building up; Mighty looked like he was ready to collapse. Invulnero was effortlessly shrugging off every single blow, though each one knocked him further and further into the parking lot of the HeroCo building, which was still littered with leftover construction equipment. A quick dodge from Invulnero and Mighty’s back was to Walt; Invulnero went on the offensive, and suddenly Mighty was the one being pushed closer and closer to where Walt was standing. BOOM. Walt bent over and clutched at his ears; something very loud had just happened immediately next to him, but the ringing in his ears disoriented him too much to know what it was. When he regained his composure, he looked to his right to see Mr. Dunmar holding a smoking magnum and yelling about something. The ringing in his ears was still too much; he couldn’t make out what Mr. Dunmar was saying. He followed the barrel of the gun to his target, and saw the body of his son lying prone on the ground. Invulnero was staring at it, a stunned look on his face and a fresh splatter of blood on his chest. His look of disbelief slowly turned into a demonic grin, and he set his murderous eyes upon Mr. Dunmar. Walt, still frozen in absolute horror, could do nothing but stand and gape. Mr. Dunmar screamed, and fired again. BANG. Invulnero jerked back, the impact of the bullet causing him to miss a step, but he only started laughing and continued his slow walk towards Walt’s boss. BANG. Again, he barely flinched. BANG BANG BANG BANG. Invulnero stood within an inch of Walt and his boss, smiling a horrid green smile. He knocked the gun away from Mr. Dunmar’s hands, who was now no longer yelling angrily but was visibly shaking, and grabbed him by the throat. He lifted his prey straight up in the air, and began to laugh as he choked the man who just shot his enemy. Walt saw it coming a split second before it happened, but that was all he needed. Walt leapt at Mr. Dunmar, tackling his boss out of the clutches of the supervillain moments before a steel girder slammed into Invulnero, carrying him with it through the front door of the HeroCo building. Mr. Dunmar screamed and ran off. Walt glanced up as his son hobbled towards him, clutching the gushing hole in shoulder. “Dad, get out of here. You’ll get hurt.” Walt wanted to tell him not to fight. He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to ask him to come back home. He wanted to help his son, but through all the exhaustion and ringing in his ears and pain in his chest, the only words that came out were, “It’ll crumble.” Walt then watched helplessly as Invulnero leapt out of the building towards them, a look of inexpressible rage on his face. Mighty reacted in the only way a hero with super strength could: he socked him back into the building, destroying more of the wall. The sounds of loud cracking filled the air, audible even over the ringing in Walt’s ears, and the HeroCo building started to teeter. Mighty looked at him, and he knew that his son understood. Mighty reached out his good arm and grabbed Walt by the shirt. “Tuck and roll, Dad.” It happened too fast for him to stop it; Walt was flung through the air, and for the first time Walt experienced the raw power of his son. He landed two buildings away, and he landed hard. He felt a blinding pain in his arm. He screamed and clutched at it, the exposed bone cutting jutting into his hand. The edges of his vision were white and blurry, and for a few moments he could barely make out what he was seeing. His vision cleared just in time to see the building that he constructed collapse, undoubtedly falling on top of his son. [center]************[/center] The wake was long grueling, and Walt wanted nothing more than to go home. It was a closed casket; half of his son’s body was crushed completely. The doctors said that if he was at full strength, he probably could have survived, but the extended battle combined with the bullet wound left him far too weak to support the weight of the rubble. The information wasn’t comforting in the slightest. Invulnero was also dead; the rumor was he suffocated before the paramedics could get to him. There was going to be a full investigation. Walt didn’t care. Very few people showed up for the wake; the only non-family members to pay their respects were the group of children that Mighty had saved from falling off the bridge. Every single one of them was crying, and most of them left homemade cards saying “Thank you!” and “We’ll miss you!” One little girl left a small statue made out of Play-Doh and resembling an angel. Not a single member of the Liberty Brigade attended the wake; instead, Metatron mailed a bouquet of flowers with a card that said, “Our condolences on your loss. Your son died a hero.” Walt spat on it and threw it in the trash. It was the last hour of the wake when Paul approached Walt with a gift. “Hey, Dad. I found this going through the junk in his room.” Paul held out a bandaged hand and gave Walt a small, wooden box. Walt opened it slowly, out of both dread at what he would find and difficulty in opening it with only one hand. In it was a smashed bullet, stained with blood, and a note. “Don’t let Dad be right.”[/color] ___________________________ [color=deeppink]FUN FACT: This assignment was supposed to be 10 pages double spaced in word. It ended up being 32 or so.[/color]

A cool wind blows by me as I write this. My MP3 player sounds off with a meloncholy rendition of a grand sonata, and even still, this makes me feel even more grave. A glass of wine sits next to me, hald empty, the color a deep red, reminding me of the blood within my own veins. I suppose I'm wondering where I should be. I don't really know where the path I'm walking on will lead me. I wander the path, leading those who will follow. I hold the lantern, lighting the way. But, no one walks beside me. Long ago, I remember being happy. My life was full of promise. I believed i was here to bring smiles to people's faces, to guide them through their ordeals. Now, I ponder if I must walk my path alone, with no one by my side. Am I able to lead, but never find someone to walk by my side? Truely, is this my destiny? Life and love ever revolve around me, and I find myself lost on my path. I am able to lead, but I myself am lost to the chaos of time. I'm bless with the mercy of the holy mother, and cursed with the grim reaper's heart of stone. That is the self I portray. I am the dark angel, too good for hell, and too bad for heaven. I walk the path of eternity, forever guiding, forever alone. My tears are like ice, they fall from my eyes like precious pearls, glittering and beautiful, but far away from the sights of others. I suffer alone, all they see is a smile. Rarely have I ever let any one see me cry, and to those who have, you better feel DAMN priveledged. Roses in a vase... dead and wilted. How ironic I'm fascinated. So much inide my head, and no one to talk to about it. My curse, my blessing. It's both, and yet neither at all. I think of people from my past now, and wonder how they're doing. But, I lead another life now, and I don't wish to be dragged back into the past. The past is just that, though it makes us who we are. Sometimes, my life feels like a crazy train of which there is no stopping. I myself often say I crash, bash, and thrash my way through life. I've never burnt bridges, and truth be told, I'm a different person now from just a year ago. Such a short time, and yet, so much has happened. To be honest, I didn't think I would make it to see 23. But, things happened, and I met someone who gave me strength to persevere. But, me and them are no more. And you know what? Oh fucking well. Now, thanks to this past year, I have a whole life ahead of me. I'm weak, but my strength carries me forth. I cannot be destroyed. You wanna fuck with me? Come on, let's play. I'll take anything you got, and I'll rock your entire world. Fuck with me, and I'll roll you. I may have to go to the hospital afterward, but trust me, you'll be in far worse shape than me. I'll just have to go to the hospital because my heart might give out from the pressure it's under. You'll be unconcious with broken bones. Of course, I might die while in the hospital, but still. Despite that, I'm far more sweet than I care to admit. I dislike violence, I hate fighting simply because I know too well the power I have. I've taken on guys bigger than I am, smaller than I am, and the same size as me. I lose only when I want to. I'm not human when I fight. There's something else entirely housed within my mortal body, and it doesn't stop. It stops when my opponent isn't moving anymore. Rage is something I'm full of. It's one of my secrets. I've seriously hurt people because of it. And I hate hurting people. It rips me apart knowing what I've done. I'm not trying to be big and bad. All in all, I'm a softie, a pansy. Just don't piss me off, and all will be cool. I'm a sarcastic bitch, yes, but I will shy away from conflict unless I'm pissed off. Why am I babbling now? I have nothing real to say anymore. I have a whole life ahead of me now, and an inheritance I'm starting to tap into. I got money out the ass. I've got nothing to worry about, my health will eventually be just fine. I'm thrilled with myself right now, in all actuality. I've got a life I'm happy with. I've got people who care, and don't shun me for being who I am. That's more than a lot of people have. Compared to some, I have everything. I'm wild and passionate, caring and care-free. I'm a punk, and yet also a gentleman. I'll give everything I can, and keep no secrets. I've had to go through more than more people have, and seen more than most have. I can give advice, more than likely because if I didn't go through it, then I know someone who did. But, I'm sleepy. I'm going to bed now. Good night people

[FONT=Arial][SIZE=3]Hi everyone I am new to OtakuBoards, and I was wondering, in this Anthology section, does every work have to be anime related? For example if someone was to write a poem about love in general, could they still post it? I'm trying to catch on to the rules as best as possible. :animesmil[/SIZE][/FONT]

Alright, anyone who knows me knows that I'm working on a big comic project called It's All Greek To Me. If you don't know me: "Hey, I'm working on a big comic project called It's All Greek To Me". Now, I need some opinions on certain things that are plot related. This is a simple "What do you feel makes a good story good?" question. Please answer to the best of your abilities. Which would you find more interested/appealing: A story that focuses more on smaller, more personal events such as a rivalry between two characters, a romance, or more personal problems that really only effect the characters? Or A story that has a larger problem, a more worldwide or destructive issue, such as a monster attack or someone attacking the world whose connected to the characters in some way? Feel free to give examples or ask questions. I can't really give away anything about the plot, since I'm keeping many details of this hush hush, but if you want me to elaborate, I will say what I can. I know this question is a difficult one, please do your best and give me whatever opinions you can. Feel free to even suggest a different idea that you think it tops those two.

[CENTER]Hello again, and welcome to the [SIZE="4"][B]GREAT OTAKU PROSE CONTEST[/B][/SIZE] [SIZE="3"][B]Round 2[/B][/SIZE] [FONT="Arial Black"][SIZE="4"][B]ANOMALY VERSUS SHY[/CENTER][/B][/SIZE][/FONT] [SIZE="1"] [CENTER]Voting is open to all Otaku members except Anomaly and Shy. Voters, please state your vote clearly. Also, please provide information that shows why you voted the way you did. [COLOR="Red"]The deadline for voting is Saturday, March 28.[/COLOR][/CENTER][/SIZE] [FONT="Courier New"][B][U][SIZE="4"]The Challenge: Joyful and Triumphant[/SIZE][/U][/B][/FONT] This challenge is meant to be the antithesis of that given to Vicky and DeLarge. Each contestant will write a piece between [SIZE="3"]400[/SIZE] and [SIZE="4"]800[/SIZE] words. The goal here is to lift the spirits of your reader. Voters, choose whichever story elevates your mood the highest. [SIZE="1"][COLOR="Red"]All submissions should be in by Saturday, March 21.[/COLOR][/SIZE]

[I]Sorry I haven't got anything 'new' for you. My nerve popped back out again, so it seems the operation was useless. So, yeah... I don't have anything new written because of it. =/[/I] --------- [center][B]Title:[/B] [I]Noodle Shop - That Pest Lune.[/I] [B]Theme:[/B] [I]Restaurant antics.[/I] [B]Series/Book (Based on):[/B] [I]Noodle Shop.[/I] [B]Characters:[/B] [I]Lambi, Mini-Lune, Lune, Luigi, Fat Customer.[/I] [B]Rating/Certificate:[/B] [I]U[/I] (Rating Suggestions Welcome.) [B]Description:[/B] [I]Lune pesters Luigi after threatening to make an overweight customer his pet.[/I] [B]Writers Comments:[/B] [I]This was originally a Ficlet that I decided to extend. It originally only went up to "Oh, my poor stool."[/I] [I]Enjoy! - Axel Alloy[/I] --------------------- [U][B]Noodle Shop - That Pest Lune[/B][/U] [B][I]by Axel Alloy[/I][/B] Lambi rolled her eyes as a big fat customer entered ?Noodle Shop?. He was wearing a big red shirt and had big dark patches under his arms where he was sweating under the weight all those rolls of flab. He lurched his way to the counter and perched on the nearest stool. Lambi honestly thought it was going to snap like a toothpick, but was somewhat relieved when it didn?t. Although, she had to admit, it was making some rather nasty grating sounds. ?The poor stool must be in so much pain?, she muttered under her breath before grinning wildly at the customer, ?Geia sou! And what is it you would liiike!?? The brute screwed his face up over the volume of her voice and just grunted a few words. ?Okay! One house special comin? up!? She turned to wave at the cook and swiveled back to face the lump. After a while of waiting and Lambi grinning nervously over how long it was taking, the food was finally done and so she handed it over. He snatched it off her, grunted and stomped his way out the door. ?Oh my poor stool.? Lune, who was busy watching the events unfold from in Lambi's hair, chuckled to himself as he manifested in front of her with a sly grin. "Want me to go end him?" Lambi screwed her nose up at Lune and stuck out her tongue. "Don't be nasty. I can replace the stool." "Don't you mean I'LL be replacing the stool. It's my magic that keeps this place going after all." Rolling her eyes, Lambi turned on her heels and gave the fire genie a little defiant wiggle from her wooly tail before going to join Luigi in the kitchen. "Oh, yes. Fine. Be like that!" Lune cupped his hands around his mouth to project his voice in a playful manner. "I think I'll go make that tub of goo my pet!" "I CAN'T HEEEAR YOOOU!" Lambi chirped, pretending not to hear Lune's nasty, yet hilarious threats. Luigi, the noodle chef, shook his head. He knew they were only playing, but his nervous disposition made him feel like something bad would come of every mock arguement the pair had. It never did, of course, but there was always that 1% chance that it could happen. Luigi didn't like chance. Chance was his enemy. Especially the 1% chance that Lune would get so hot-headed that he'd cause Lambi's wool to ignite with a simple click of his fingers. It hadn't happened yet, but he wasn't willing to risk it. "Shattap you two! Can't a man work-a in peace?!" His Italian accent always grew more prominent the more stressed out he got. "Cara mia, would you kindly tell that genie to stop-a threatening our customers?!" Lambi raised an eyebrow at Luigi's request and turned her head sharply to face Lune to see his reaction. Unfortunately, he had vanished. "Ah well," giggled Lambi, who was checking inside her bell and in her hair to make sure he'd not gone back home, "At least you'll get some peace now." Luigi was just sorting out a Noodle pizza they had on special order. He put the pizza on the tray and then turned to face Lambi. "I doubt it. I just know he's around here somewhere up to no good." "You worry too much." "I worry the right amount!" Lambi swatted a hand at him, before heading inside the main restaurant to check on her bent stool. It was not long before she was interrupted by a high-pitched, girly shriek from in the kitchen. Luigi had opened the pizza oven to find Lune inside it wearing a big grin on his face holding up a dog lead. "Would you prefer I made you my pet instead? EHEHEHE!" Luigi ran out of the kitchen in terror and hid in the toilets. "LUNE!" Lambi strided in and stared at Lune, who was still crammed into the pizza oven. "THAT WASN'T NICE! Go and say you're sorry this minute!" "Aw, chicky-chick. I was having fun, is all." Lune put on his puppy eyes and slowly slid out the oven. "Hmph." The 'I'm Serious' look formed on her face to counter his puppy eyes. "OK, OK. Fine. I'll go say sorry to the worry-wart." With that he manifested a simple flower made from spectral flames, handed it to Lambi and floated off towards the toilets. "About time he did something nice..." Lambi twirled the flower around in her hand and sniffed at it, just in case it smelled of anything. In the toilets, Luigi was sobbing uncontrollably into a big pile of tissues he had in his hand. Lune, or something else always managed to reduce him to tears. It's why he was never hired by any of the high-class restaurants he so longed to cook in. He had just manged to regain his composure, wiped his eyes and nose and flushed the tissue down the toilet, when all of a sudden, Lune popped his head out of the toilet bowl. "AY UP, MATE! I'm sorry about before!" "ARRRRRGGGGH! THAT PEST!" Luigi raced out of the toilet and out the back entrance. Lambi put her head in her hands. "LUNE!!!"[/center]

Hey, guys! This is my first time showing up in this place, but I have a good reason for a sudden appearance... You see, I'm making a story on Quizilla. It takes place before Shippuden. I have the first three chapters in one section. I'm having trouble coming up with what Akatsuki member/ Naruto character to make my character start to date/fall in love with. I was planning to throw in more characters in Chapter 4 so then I would have a better variety to choose from, but writer's block has struck me pretty hard... So this is where you guys come in: I need your help to choose which one. I'll take any suggestions other than Sasuke Uchiha, because I hate Sasuke. If you think someone will give you a lot of heck for your choice, feel free to PM me. Also, I'll take requests of putting in your own character. Just give me a PM if you want in the story. Here's a link to the story (It might have some bugs I still need to work out involving fonts and pics). [URL="http://www.quizilla.com/stories/8961124/how-did-this-happen-an-akatsuki-story"] http://www.quizilla.com/stories/8961124/how-did-this-happen-an-akatsuki-story[/URL] Thanks for listening!:animesmil

[CENTER]Hello again, and welcome to the [SIZE="4"][B]GREAT OTAKU PROSE CONTTEST [SIZE="2"]Round 2 [SIZE="4"][FONT="Impact"]Vicky VERSUS DeLarge[/B][/FONT][/SIZE][/SIZE][/SIZE] [SIZE="1"]Voting is open to all Otaku members except Vicky and DeLarge. Voters, please state your vote clearly. Also, please provide information that shows why you voted the way you did. [COLOR="Red"]The deadline for voting is Saturday, March 28.[/COLOR] [/SIZE][/CENTER] [SIZE="4"][FONT="Courier New"][B][U]The Challenge: Sick and Twisted[/U][/B][/FONT][/SIZE] Vicky says that she and DeLarge both think in the same odd, dark, and twisted way. With that in mind, this challenge should be fitting. Each contest will write one piece containing [SIZE="3"]400[/SIZE] to [SIZE="3"]800[/SIZE] words. The goal of this challenge is to see exactly how disturbed you can make your reader feel. Voters should choose which story is more likely to instill in them an overall feeling of uneasiness (or dementia, if the authors are up to the task). [SIZE="1"][COLOR="Red"]All submissions should be in by Saturday, March 21. [/COLOR][/SIZE]

[b][COLOR="DarkOrchid"][FONT="Times New Roman"][RIGHT]This is where you can ask me to give you the deaths of your fellow Ob members as you've always wanted them to be. And by 'death' I mean it in the least literal sense. Death can mean death of the mind, soul, body, spirit, pancreas, spleen... If you want to be a berserker killing Premonition for being stupid, ask me and I can write it in the most sensually graphically violent detail. If you want a massacre of everyone just for giggles, let me know. I'll even give you my own death, if you get specific enough so I know what you want to see. But we'll start with something light and cheery.[/b] [size=1]And tasty.[/size][/RIGHT] [center]~~~~~~~~~~~[/center] [i]The mermaids slithered through the water. The deepest pool in the darkest of the dark corners of Ob City. Under the foundations of the Theater building, there was a subterranean lake. The walls streaked with old blood, the water cold and flecked with specks of ice here and there. It was so cool and quiet, save for the occasional splash of a fin on the surface, or the light trills and clicks of the inhabitants. Sometimes one could glimpse a flash of silvery flesh, or a flicker of dark hair before it vanished again beneath the water, but no sane man ever took a closer look.[/i] "We wants to kill you and swim in your blood." "Come closer...and know us better." [i]And who were they you might ask? That's none of your business. And people who try to ask them directly usually die horrible deaths. Heavy, and full of blood and life, they enter this dark place, called by the song of the mermaids. Only to drown and suffer and writhe with the agony of murky water filling their lungs. Let us take a closer look. Someone's entered their territory, and they know. They can feel it, sense it, taste it...so warm and delightful. This one took a step too close to the water's edge, and a clawed, slightly webbed hand flashed out from the surface and jerked hard on the unfortunate soul's ankle. The male felt his body slam hard against the rocky surface just above the water, his head hitting a solid surface, before another hand grabbed him around the knee and pulled him in. He barely had time for a scream, before he was dragged down, deeper, where the water grew even colder than it'd felt before. And he found himself staring straight into the eyes of Crystia and Raiha. Twin mermaids that had made this dark place their home after so many tragedies above. Allamorph. Their prey. He drowned and choked and struggled but their hands were strong, and the smile playing about Crystia's pale, light blue lips was simply perfect. She had the look of a beast playing with its dinner, while Raiha simply looked cool and detached. As if to say, [/i] "He's simply another meal. Let's finish him and be done with it." "But he's struggling so sweetly. Perhaps we should give him hope?" "Don't play with your food darling. It's bad manners." [i]Regardless of Raiha's chiding, Crystia released Allamorph, let him surface, gasp for air desperately. Choking and coughing and spluttering, he made desperate strokes for shore, when Crystia looped lazily around him once, and jerked him down again by the feet. This went on for hours. The silver finned mermaid, with her trailing dark hair and flashing bright gold eyes trilled a sound that did her for laughter. While her little toy struggled for his life. Raiha idly fluttered around, occasionally smacking her tail against Allamorph's chest to knock the air from it, when finally, Crystia grew bored of simply baiting her meal, and dragged him down to the deep and slit him from navel to nose with one sharp claw. And as his blood trailed up to bubble on the surface, the mermaid's clucked and chittered to each other, giggling and happy. In the blood of their prey.[/i][/FONT][/COLOR]

This very-short story is written from Yoko Ritona's point of view as a soldier in the field. Before she aligned herself with Kamina and Simon from Jeeha village, an unfortunate decision for her, Yoko had already amassed considerable war-fighting experience via participation in combat patrols sent out from Ritona village. Many of these combat/reconnaissance patrols were conducted on the surface. This is one such patrol. [CENTER][B][SIZE="3"]The Soldier[/SIZE][/B] [IMG]http://media-worlds.theotaku.com/10582-593586-20090213040802.jpg[/IMG][/CENTER] We've been walking across rocks and sand for six hours now. Combat patrols always move out in the dark here. I don't mind getting up in the middle of the night to prepare. I don't mind soldiering. It's what I want to do, to help end this stupid war. It's what I can do. I'm a good shot. I'm friends with nature and its terrain. I see things before the others and I like to think I'm helping them survive. I'm fit and durable, thank goodness. They've tried killing me and have nearly succeeded on several occasions. They've killed my friends. It's the killing I mind, the wounding, all that blood and screaming, the soul preceding the body into the ground with a sigh. That's unless they're blown to bits right away. When we stop to camp, I check out my equipment first: my rifle first, then my body. It's always dirty. Everything's dirty by then. Sometimes I've blood all over me, but rarely is there a surplus of water. So I stay bloody and dirty a while longer. My name's Yoko and I sweat. Ha! It's a good thing to sweat, sometimes. When there's a breeze the sweat helps cool me off. I don't like clothing all over me. It makes me feel constricted, confined, slow. The word "phobia" springs to mind. So I show lots of skin and I don't care what others think of it. They tell me I'm "a fine specimen of a woman." So be it. I'm a good soldier and the other good soldiers accept me as a peer, even though I'm a young woman they'd rather be screwing than soldiering with. They watch my back and I watch theirs. We're a team. Logic and reason are my friends. They get me through the tight spots, when others panic. I don't panic, I survive. Panic out here and you're dead. Let your concentration slip even a bit and you're dead. The enemy isn't stupid. They're good soldiers, too. We try to kill one another. So much for logic and reason, eh? I don't know why they came here and began killing civilians, many civilians. Many. I wish they'd just go away and never come back. It's my job to encourage them to leave. I've encouraged too many of them already. Did they want to be here? I doubt it very much. You're a soldier and orders are orders. If I was giving the orders, more of us would be alive today. I store those thoughts away for reflection later on. Sometimes the demons come when I'm asleep. They wake me up. They whisper, "We shall be with you always, even until the end of time." They've read the bible! I love reading books, good old-fashioned books with paper pages and hard covers. No chance for that out here, though. After the war, if I still exist after the war, I want to teach children. I want them to be safe, to learn, to learn how to learn. There's always a lot to learn. Most of what I've learned as a soldier I'd rather forget, but not until after the war. My feet hurt. What's new? My joints ache. Sweat helps me remember where all the cuts and bruises are. I keep an inventory. I hope there won't be scars. I want to go to some beach after the war and be rubbed all over with oil. Oh, here comes my friend Ms Libido. Not now, honey. Maybe later, when we've camped. We should have already camped. We passed a good place an hour ago. Walk, walk, walk. We'll be stopping soon, though. I hope. Over there, about two miles away, is a good place for concealment. "Take cover! Take cover!" I shout at the top of my lungs. I saw the flash, just a tiny, barely discernible flash, from that good place for concealment. We hug the ground. Here it comes. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! It's rockets. Concussion, rocks, dirt, parts of rocks, maybe shrapnel -- it all hits me like a whirlwind from Hell. It hurts like hell, too. It'll be 30 seconds until the next barrage. Boulders, a bunch of big-ass boulders, 100 yards away to the left rear. "Boulders!" I shout and point at the same time. "Run! Go! Go! Go!" We run, we go. You can run very fast in combat, even as you can lay really flat. At the boulders we find crevices, holes. We wait. They saw us run and won't waste more light artillery on this hard position. How come I was the one to shout commands? Well, we're all here, so who cares? It's time for an inventory. Rifle, fine, no damage. Body? Let's see. Blood, new blood here. Sharp pain there. "Sound off!" I shout. Nobody's hurt badly. We'll be here for a while and we have water. I'll climb to near the top and keep watch. Out here, we're soldiers. That's all. Maybe we'll go home tomorrow, one way or another. [B][CENTER]~o~[/CENTER][/B] [SIZE="1"][B]Yoko Ritona[/B] is the lead female character in Gainax's 27-episode 2007 anime series [I]Tengen Toppa Gurren-Lagann[/I] directed (for the most part) by Hiroyuki Imaishi, in the 2007-2008 manga series [I]Tengen Toppa Gurren-Lagann[/I] illustrated by Kotaro Mori, in Konami's 2007 video games [I]Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann Chōzetsu Hakkutsu ONLINE[/I] and [I]NDS Tengen Toppa Gurren-Lagann[/I], in the 2008 spin-off manga[I] Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann: Gurren Gakuen-hen[/I] illustrated by Kikkawa Kabao, in Hiroyuki Imaishi's 2008 feature film [I]Gekijōban Tengen Toppa Guren Ragan [Guren Hen][/I] and in Gainax's 2009 premium box set (book, compact disk, digital versatile disk) [I]Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann Kirameki * Yoko BOX ~Pieces of Stars~[/I] directed by Atsushi Nishigori.[/SIZE] [CENTER]:wave: [B][COLOR="Red"]=^..^=[/COLOR][/B][/CENTER]

Humans are fickle creatures, are they not? They have a habit of destroying what they fear, I'm willing to think it's a part of human nature. Homosexuality is seen with so much adversity, it's hard to keep the facts straight. No one knows why it exists, but it's a common occurence, even outside the human race. It occurs in animals too. Are animals ever prosecuted for it? No. Humans focus only on their fellow man. Why do you think humans are solely responsible for the extinction of so many species of animal? Granted, I can't think of any off the top of my head, but still. If I do some research, I'll find plenty. Humans discriminate so readily, due to their own insecurities. I truely believe that whatever 'God' or whatever is up there would never punish his child for finding what made it happy. Isn't that what a father would want? For his child to be happy? But, there are so many people in this world who are not like that. People who would disown their child for being gay. To me, these people are not even worthy of being parents. Life is the greatest gift anyone could ever know. Why... why would a parent do that to their own child? If a parent would do that, then they don't deserve that child, they never deserved to be a parent, if they can't love their child unconditionally, then... Well, they are the lowest form of garbage on this world. And it's not a choice. It's something that just is. It doesn't matter if they do the opposite gender, they know what he truth is. They're afraid of losing people who are important to them. Yeah it's hard, I'm one of the lucky few who had it easy. Maybe that's why I can so readily say these things, But I feel them to be the truth. I honestly feel that this is the greatest truth there is. Know why? Because there is no hate or anger in what I feel. At least about the subject. I'm furious with the people who would have nothing to do with someone who comes out of the closet, but that's because that person is an ass. I can't stand those people. They make me sick, and because of them, there are people who will live their entire lives and wonder what could have been, hating themselves. It is these people that are the victims of that way of thinking. The emotional issues that are caused...I know what they face. I want to cry when I think of them. I wish the victims would get ballsy enough to tell their families, and get it over with. The people that will support them, they are the real family. Am I so judgmental? People live what they are taught. This is a fact. But, there comes a time to choose what makes you happy over what you've always been taught. Honestly, these are the people who are real heroes. Those who face themselves, and admit what the truth about themselves is. But, unfortunately, most lie to themselves even then. Truely, it is for them i mourn. They are the lost ones. But, I suppose, It is my duty to save people. I see goodness where others do not, and light the way for them to follow. I'm no saint. I freely admit it. But, I think I lead the path of acceptance that humanity as a whole needs to accept. But, humans are humans, I fear my voice shall be drowned out, and never heard. These also are merely opinions, though i have proof to back me up.

To fly on one?s own wings is a dream we all have. Once upon a time, I believed I was put here on this world to bring smiles to people?s faces. Many years have passed since then, and now I am torn between what I once thought, and my present beliefs. Am I here to hurt others? To do so eternally even without meaning to? Am I destined to forever throw knives into the hearts of the ones I care for? Eternity is not something I?ve really thought about. I know all that is born dies. That is the unalterable truth. Life ends, but the pain and sorrows of the past are something that can?t be erased with the coming of death. I know this, better than most realize, due to the fact that I pretend to be shallow and upbeat most of the time. Even when I'm cying, the world only sees a smile. It?s not hard to fake one. And then, there is the matter of the heart. It?s fragile, illogical, and yet, is the biggest part of what makes us human. For me, to show you want to care about me, is that you cause me to fall for you. And then, when it?s all over, you hate yourself, and your heart begins to chill, and then to freeze. But a frozen heart no longer has the ability to fly on its own angelic wings. Ironic, isn?t it? It?s crazy, irrelevant, and yet a part of humanity. But perhaps that is what makes us human. The ability to love, and to feel heartache, is that really so unique? Human, to be human, to FEEL human, what does that mean, really? In essence, to be able to ask one?s self those questions is the answer. But seldom is that a satisfying answer to anyone. Kind of depressing, to know that. Humans are ridiculous, that is the never-ending, unbending unaltered truth. And It?s so bleak, people often refuse to even contemplate such things. But still, even I don?t want to accept this. It?s almost painful. By by knowing this to bethe truth, to understand it, isn't that accepting it? And yet, even though this is the truth, humans are not without their merit. The humans species is a dying race, loaded ever more with degenerates and idiots. However, humans are capable of showing such compassion, and generosity. Human kind is not yet without hope. To fly on your wings, is to be free. Untamable, wild, and passionate. That was how I saw myself. But, I still long to feel someone next to me, the warmth of that person letting me know that someone is there for me. I think most people feel this way. And I can?t admit it to anyone. Does that make me foolish? Does that make anyone foolish? No, I don't beleive so. I often wonder if it because of this that I can't seem to fly on my own wings, that I need someone to help me through it....to help me fly on my own angelic wings....

Its just something I've been thinking of lately, actually. When it comes to commenting, what actually [B]compells[/B] you to comment?[LIST] [*]Do you only comment on spectacular work that actually moves you, or inspires you? [*]Do you comment if its of your favorite characters? (Sometimes regardless of skill or effort.) [*]Do you comment on things only when you feel the person deserves it? [*]Do you comment, because the person/artist is popular? [*]Or maybe just to up your post count? :P[/LIST] But, more to the point... What [B]discourages[/B] you from commenting?[LIST] [*]Do you feel discouraged if the person posting writing is better than you? [*]Do you feel discouraged if you see work from a professional writer on the site in question, or if you feel the writing is '[I]too good[/I]'? [*]Or, do you find that you don't like the subject material? [*]Or perhaps you really just can't be bothered to type out a reply? :hihi:[/LIST] Myself, I tend to comment only when I am moved by a piece. This could be anything, from fanfiction to factual texts etc. And I am not picky either when it comes to skill. I also comment if someone needs help, or encouragement. :D As regards to not commenting, well... For me I find that I can't comment on something if the person has not put any effort into it. If they are just banging out random bits of text for the sole purpose of being noticed, for example, I refuse to comment. I won't comment on fanfiction from an anime series that has become too popular for their own good. (IE: Naruto.) Now, yeah... Each to their own, I say, but I am really rather fed up of seeing it (Its everywhere I go X_x) and it doesn't show much... *clicks fingers* What are the words I'm looking for... 'Variety and originality'. Thats it. :) So, what about you guys? How do you see yourself as a comment giver?

[COLOR="DarkOrchid"][FONT="Times New Roman"][size=1][RIGHT]This is the same shit. Profanity, Sexuality, Drug Use, Adult Content.[/size] [/RIGHT] [left]It's 2008 and Otaku City's gone downhill. What was once a city on the move is now a ghetto. It's gone from the haven of the artistic and intellectual to the place where crime has become a fact of life. The depression hit everyone hard, nobody made it through without visible marks. Everyone's lives have changed, even the police can't do what they used to do. Nobody can live safely and sleep soundly in their beds. Not with gangs and other organized crime all over the fucking place. Life in Otaku City, where you could once walk down the street without fear of being killed in a drive by shooting, is gone. It's the state of nature. Hobbes was right. Life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. And I'm Rai. I live with my brother Michael. Parents died the way a lot of people's parents have died. I'm trying to be an artist in a ghetto. My brother says I'm fighting a loosing battle, but he's the one that joined a fucking gang. I stay home when I can, and go to work in the middle of the day when it's safer. I don't like going out at night. Not even with my brother and his gang banger friends. We live in a two bedroom apartment on the West Side where there used to be a working District. That's gone now. So is the Square. That's not a good place to be now. Not if you're someone like me. Just because my brother's in a gang, that doesn't mean he can protect me from everything. Actually, I'm surprised we've made it this far. But I don't think our luck will last. Nothing this fragile can last for long. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center][/left] This is a story that'll involve, thus far, me and Zen. If you want to contribute in some way, remember the over arching theme is going to be simply Crime. The stories don't have to connect in any meaningful way, but if you want to be part of this dysfunctional little family let me know. You can be in a gang, you can be someone trying to survive, or a police officer fruitlessly chasing down criminals. Anything that ties into the basic premise of a dystopian version of the Otaku City. PM me with ideas if you like, since it'd be sad if I had to get someone to delete a story because it made no sense in the setting I've laid out. [/FONT][/COLOR]

Well, I figured I would get some critique/opinions/feedback on my FF fiction. I more than likely wont post the whole thing here, but for now, here is the prolougue. For those familiar with FFVII, this takes place three years after Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII. Hope you enjoy. WARNING: Cloud and Tifa fangirls/boys, you may shoot me for this. ------------ Cloud Strife slowed the motorcycle down as it ascended the steep hill. Once he reached the top of the hill, he pulled Fenrir to a complete stop. Removing his goggles, Cloud climbed off Fenrir, standing on the now solid ground- he had been riding for ages, and his legs had been about to fall asleep. He turned and looked at the very edge of the cliff he now stood upon, glancing at the buster sword that he had placed in the ground several years ago. The sword had begun to rust slightly, and several plants seemed to be covering it. Cloud walked over to it, several memories rushing back to him as he approached. The sword's original wielder, what the sword itself had gone through...and how it had come to be into Cloud's possession... Cloud instantly stopped walking. He looked around, sensing something nearby....and it defiantly wasn't a monster, not your average one at least. He made his way back to Fenrir to retrieve his sword. [I]What could it be...? I've never had problems with monsters up here before...[/I] Cloud thought as the many slots inside Fenrir popped open, revealing a sword in each one. He quickly grabbed one and turned around. ?My, my, how you've grown.? Cloud stared at the person who spoke to him, resisting the temptation to let his mouth hang open. The man wore a long red leather jacket, and had long brown hair, extending almost all the way to his blue eyes. ?You! But...you were killed-? ?'Even if the morrow is barren of promises, nothing shall forestall my return.'? the man interrupted as he drew his sword. ?Loveless, Act V.? Without a moment's hesitation, the man lunged forward at Cloud. Cloud was ready, however. He leaped in the air and raised his sword in the air, and a blue light surrounded it. He brought it down upon the ground as he landed, sending three different waves of energy at the man. But the man simply stepped out of the way and shot a Fire spell at Cloud, followed by a volley of several more Fire spells. Cloud couldn't dodge them all- block some, and maybe dodge a few more, but some where going to hit him. And Cloud did just that- hit sent what few he could back at the man, and dodged another set of them. He leaped into the air again in an attempt to avoid more, but he soon learned this was a big mistake. Once he was high enough in the air, the man pointed at Cloud, causing all the fireballs Cloud had just dodged and reflected back at him. And suspended in midair like that, Cloud was a sitting duck. All the fireballs hit Cloud at once. The man sent a final fireball at Cloud, who was already trapped in the sphere of fire, which exploded upon the new fireball made contact. And it wasn't a small explosion either- it was quite large. Cloud limply fell to the ground, landing hard on the ground flat on his back. Cloud slowly tried to stand, and somehow he had the strength to do so. The man laughed. ?Quiet admirable, Cloud Strife. I think I see why Sephiroth was defeated by you now...then again, Sephiroth wasn't exactly as great as everyone thought he was, now was he?? he said, raising his sword up in the air. The light of the now setting sun hit the man's sword, causing it to glow a blood red. Runes that were engraved upon the blade began to glow and become clearly visible. He charged at Cloud, who had just now managed to stand. Cloud just managed to block the man's attack with his sword. ?Why are you doing this? And how are you still alive?? Cloud asked. The man simply chuckled as he continued his barrage of attacks. Cloud, weakened by the man's Fire attack, was barely able to stand. With each of the man's attacks, Cloud became weaker and weaker. But he couldn't die here....there was no way he was about to die now. Cloud then pushed the man back with all his might the next time their swords clashed, and jumped back to Fenrir. He grabbed yet another sword and again leaped in the air, his body glowing. Once on the ground, he twirled the sword he had retrieved around in a circle. He had to use it- his ultimate attack, Omnislash. He raised the sword up in the air- And then stopped. He stood their motionless for a moment, then simultaneously dropped his swords. The man slowly pulled his red sword from Cloud's now bleeding chest, his face not showing a single hint of emotion. Cloud started to fall to the ground, but the man grabbed his face before he could hit the ground and raised Cloud up in the air. No...I can't die here...not here..not now...I have a family waiting for me... As if reading Cloud's thoughts, the man said ? 'My friend, the fates are cruel. There are no dreams, no honor remains. The arrow has left the bow of the goddess. My soul, corrupted by vengeance Hath endured torment, to find the end of the journey In my own salvation...And your eternal slumber'. The man's hand began to glow. ?Loveless, Act IV.? he said as he fired one more fireball. The explosion nearly took of Cloud's head. The man dropped Cloud, letting him fall to the ground. Cloud could see nothing now- the explosion had blinded him permanently. But that made no difference now- Cloud felt his life slowly slipping away, and he could no longer breath.... His last thoughts before losing his life was- [I]Tifa...Zach....Rayne...[/I] Tifa smiled as her and Cloud's twin children, Zach and Rayne lay in their cribs asleep. She bent down and kissed both of them on their forehead. Zach already looked so much like Cloud, only he had dark, almost black hair like his mother. And Rayne had obviously inherited her mother's looks, only her hair was a light blonde color, almost white, though it would become darker as she grew. Once she made sure one last time that the two were asleep, Tifa slowly crept out of the room and quietly shut the door behind her. Tifa and Cloud had been married for three years now, and the children were only two years old. Tifa smiled as she remembered Cloud proposing to her- it was obviously hard for him to get the right words out, because he kept pausing mid sentence and thinking about what he was going to say. They had decided that once they were married they wold remain in Edge, running the Seventh Heaven bar that they had started along with Barret. And then it wasn't long before the kids came along- but they certainly weren't expecting twins. It was a good thing they had decided on names beforehand though- Zach, after one of Cloud's closest friends from Shinra, and basically his hero, and Rayne, after Cloud's deceased mother, much to Cloud's slight protest. Tifa looked up at the clock. It was 10 pm, and yet Cloud wasn't home yet...Tifa began to wonder if something was wrong.[I] Maybe I should call him...[/I] she thought. She sat staring at the clock for another good five minutes before worry finally set in. Tifa reached in her pocket for her phone, which automatically began to ring. She hurriedly took out the phone and answered it. ?Cloud?? she asked desperately. But there was no reply. ?Hello?? she said again, but still nothing. ?I'm afraid Cloud is unable to come to the phone right now.? came a voice both on the phone and from behind her. Tifa quickly turned around and saw a man wearing a red leather jacket holding Cloud's phone. The man parted his hair from his face, revealing his blue eyes. ?What have you done with Cloud?? Tifa demanded. But the man didn't answer. He simply dropped Cloud's phone on the floor and stomped on it, smashing it to pieces. Tifa lunged forward at the mysterious man, but the man simply reached up and grabs Tifa's fist. Before Tifa could do anything else, the man had drawn his sword. ? 'To become the dew that quenches the land. To spare the sands, the seas, the skies, I offer thee this silent sacrifice.'? and within a second Tifa had been impaled right through the chest. The man released her and she fell to the ground, her blood pouring out on the floor. ?Loveless, Act V.? he said. The next day, Cloud's body was discovered by a citizen of Edge who had seen the explosion from the cliff the previous night. When someone went to inform Tifa of the bad news and tried to call her, she did not answer. The children cried as the phone rang loudly, waking them up, which was followed by people busting into the house only to find her dead....

[FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray]Written for my creative writing class. Take it for what it is. [/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][pindent=1][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray]"We heard what you said."[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][/pindent] [pindent=1][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray]The girl being spoken to looks up at the one doing the speaking.[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][/pindent] [pindent=1][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray]"We heard what you told Ms. Fesser."[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][/pindent] [pindent=1][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray]The girl just sits there in the pale, dusty dirt under the maple tree, looking at the three who have gathered around her.[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray] She sits there in silence, staring at the three girls. She is worrying.[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][/pindent] [pindent=1][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray]"What... what are you talking about?" she asks.[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][/pindent] [pindent=1][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray]"You know exactly what we're talking about, Scout," says one of the girls.[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][/pindent] [pindent=1][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray]She does. She remembers every single word that she said. The intonation, the pauses, the gesticulation. She knows exactly what they are talking about.[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][/pindent] [pindent=1][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray]"We heard what you said, and you're not going to get away with it," said the taller of the three girls, glaring at Scout.[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][/pindent] [pindent=1][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray]Scout knows what this means. She knows what is in store. It's not as if she had lied; it was the opposite, in fact. She had told the truth. Truth or not, however, she was uneasy. Sarah always made her uneasy. Sarah and Alanna and Anita. She doesn?t like those three.[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][/pindent] [pindent=1][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray]This isn't the first time this has happened. Scout tells on Sarah, Sarah gets mad, Sarah spreads rumors. This is why Scout sits alone under the maple tree during recess. It's just that this time it is going to be a whole lot worse. Scout knows this. She knows it's going to be far more than rumors. She doesn't like this.[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT][/pindent] [FONT=Verdana][SIZE=1][COLOR=DimGray] Feedback, please. [/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT]

[FONT="Microsoft Sans Serif"][SIZE="2"]So this Contest is Sort of like the Otaku Prose Contest, but it has a twist. I want to see if anyone can make cool stories here on the OB. This all started in the [URL="http://www.otakuboards.com/showthread.php?t=58817"][I]Funtime Thread of Humor and Mirth (and Junk.)[/I][/URL] when Rachmaninoff posted a link Allamorph showed him. it is [URL="http://www.jesterball.com/Animations/animeplotgenerator.html"][I]The Random Plot Generator![/I][/URL] It creates a mini plot or idea, just for fun. But I want a contest to see who can write the best stories. [/SIZE][/FONT] [CENTER][B]RULES![/B][/CENTER] [FONT="Arial Narrow"][SIZE="1"][SIZE="3"] 1. You can generate 3 random topics, but may only choose one of then.(But I cant enforce it to well.) 2. This is sorta a spin-off of the Otaku Prose, please, don't spite me. 3. please more then 200 words, we all love a mind boggling game. And If we have enough people, we might do brackets, if not just have one thread in it 4. When you enter you story you mus ell what the plot is.[/SIZE][/SIZE][/FONT] So please sign up, just post in this thread saying you'll join and, ill add you to a list, we will leave this up for a week maybe 1 1/2

[CENTER][SIZE="1"]Hello, and welcome to the [/SIZE] [SIZE="4"][FONT="Arial Black"][B]GREAT OTAKU PROSE CONTEST[/B][/FONT][/SIZE] [SIZE="3"][FONT="Arial Black"]Round 1.3[/FONT][/SIZE] [SIZE="1"]Our first contestant has defeated Chibi-Master to be here today. She also crafted a masterful piece that no doubt would have flattened Mr. Maul, who fled from the challenge of competition.I present to you the artful, the applaudable, the amazing [SIZE="4"][FONT="Century Gothic"][B]ANOMALY[/B][/FONT][/SIZE][/SIZE][/CENTER] [SIZE="1"][CENTER]The second contestant topped Sabrina by a single vote in his last match. He brings confidence and heart into this round, declaring to Anomaly, "you goin down dolskeez!" Obviously I speak of the lion-hearted, the lordly, the legendary[/CENTER][/SIZE] [SIZE="4"][FONT="Impact"][B][CENTER]L r b[/CENTER][/B][/FONT][/SIZE] [CENTER][SIZE="1"]Voting is open to all Otaku members except Lrb and Anomaly. Voters, please state your vote clearly. Also, please provide information that shows why you voted the way you did. [COLOR="Red"]The deadline for voting is Tuesday,March 3.[/COLOR][/SIZE][/CENTER] [FONT="Courier New"][SIZE="4"][U][B]The Challenge: Hush little baby, don't say a word[/B][/U][/SIZE][/FONT] Contestants: write a short story between [SIZE="3"]200[/SIZE] and [SIZE="3"]600[/SIZE] words. You may write on any topic you wish, but you may not use any dialogue. This prohibits you from using both spoken dialogue and unspoken monologue (thoughts). [SIZE="1"][COLOR="Red"]All submissions should be in by Tuesday, February 24.[/COLOR][/SIZE]

Just posted about this at theO and can't stop giggling over it. [url="http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/authors/jane_austen_versus_zombies_107139.asp"][u]GalleyCat news link[/u][/url] [quote]Pride and Prejudice and Zombies features the original text of Jane Austen's beloved novel with all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie action. As our story opens, a mysterious plague has fallen upon the quiet English village of Meryton—and the dead are returning to life! Feisty heroine Elizabeth Bennet is determined to wipe out the zombie menace, but she's soon distracted by the arrival of the haughty and arrogant Mr. Darcy. What ensues is a delightful comedy of manners with plenty of civilized sparring between the two young lovers—and even more violent sparring on the blood-soaked battlefield as Elizabeth wages war against hordes of flesh-eating undead. Complete with 20 illustrations in the style of C. E. Brock (the original illustrator of Pride and Prejudice), this insanely funny expanded edition will introduce Jane Austen's classic novel to new legions of fans. [/quote] Unrelated to the book in question, but Maureen Johnson, a popular young adult author, has also demonstrated how [url="http://www.insideadog.com.au/residence/index.php/maureen-johnson/incompetence-is-free/"][u]Pride and Prejudice might be improved by the addition of a zombie or two[/u][/url] (it's the blue text in the lower half of her post). What other classic books would mix well with the undead? (Jane Eyre, for instance, is so obvious that it hardly bears mentioning...) ~Dagger~

[FONT="Arial"][SIZE="1"]This is pretty much the best assignment I've ever received in all my thirteen years of schoolin'. We just read Dante's [U]The Inferno[/U] in my AP Lit class, and now we have to write our own. The only requirement is that we have to have nine sins and at least two sinners per circle. I have complete creative freedom over who is my guide, where my Inferno is set, the sins, the sinners, and the punishments. So here we go.[/SIZE] [B]Canto I: Whoops.[/B] My room is stifling. I can’t think. And it’s a beautiful day for once, so I walk outside, hop on my mom’s bicycle, and pedal towards nowhere in particular. Everything is the same as it has always been: duller than a plastic spoon. I wonder why I ever expect a neighborhood bike ride to be entertaining. And then I approach the empty lot. Which has suddenly somehow turned into a forest. So of course I clutch the handlebar brakes and nearly somersault to my death with the momentum. I stare for a moment, then nudge the bike’s kick stand and dismount. I can’t pass up this phenomenon. I step between two thick trees, and I don’t even realize I am falling until I have landed in another world. I hardly have any time to feel the force of impact before a strange noise from above grabs my attention. I see shreds of daylight disappearing as the ground-turned-ceiling stitches itself together, like wounded skin. The pitch blackness that remains feels like sleep. As I am still conscious, however, the inevitable panic sets in. I grab my phone out of my jeans pocket and open it to bathe the area in dim blue light. To my front is a rock wall. Ditto left, right, and behind. It curves around and meets itself, forming a perfect circle. I am in a dry well. To my relief, my sense of humor is still intact - I immediately want to scream for Lassie. Instead, I scan the circular shaft for some kind of ladder, or maybe a door. When my weak flashlight shows nothing, I grasp at the stone walls in hopeful desperation. I pass over every inch of stone I can touch, and I fly away in disgust as my hand brushes over something warm, soft, and bumpy. “Excuse you!” The indignant nasally voice bounces in every direction, and the only thing keeping me from screaming is the fear of throwing up. “Who’s there?” I manage through my growing nausea. “I should say the same!” the voice scoffs. “Who do you think you are? It’s awfully rude to grab somebody!” Despite my better judgment, I direct my phone towards whatever it was that I touched, and I can hardly comprehend what appears. Stemming from the wall are five gnarled, clammy hands, positioned together in a way that resembles a ghoulish face. The eyes are formed by two pairs of forefingers and thumbs shaping an oblong “o,” giving a comical expression of anger. Two more hands become a down turned mouth, and a fist in the middle is a bulbous nose. I swallow my disbelief and acknowledge what feels like déjà vu. Aren’t you going to say something?” the face demands, the mouth hands moving in perfect sync. I’m wondering where the voice is coming from. It seems rude to ask, though, so I try to come up with something else. “I’m sorry…” I begin. I am speechless. The face turns joyously upward, and raucous laughter erupts all around me in many different voices. I don’t have to move to know what I would see behind me, but out of curiosity…. The entire shaft is covered with decrepit hands, all grouped together, all creating unique, horrible faces. I wonder why I am not completely mortified, and why I feel like I have encountered this before. “What is there to be sorry for?” asks one face. I ponder my response, but have no time to speak: “The poor child is confused!” “She didn’t even land on her head.” “What a marvelous occurrence!” “Quiet!” the first face snaps. I give it my attention. It continues: “Now, you can obviously not stay here, but you are incapable of getting yourself out. We have no choice but to lift you to the top.” I hear some cries of protest, but I can’t join in before I find myself rising up the shaft. The voices groan and laugh as the hands shove me higher and higher. Then I realize: “The ceiling is solid!” I struggle in their rough grips. “Stop!” And to my surprise, they do. “We will have to let go.” I tense up. “No, that’s a bad idea.” Then my stomach flies into my throat as I drop down. But there is no bone-shattering impact when I should hit the floor. I land on something soft, I bounce. Then there is more laughter, but this is not mean or ghastly. It’s oddly familiar, comforting. “Are you alright?” I open my eyes and I’m in a room lit red by torches. The walls are papered, the floors tiled. There is a small wooden desk and tall filing cabinets, and a gigantic steel door behind that. Below me is a gargantuan mattress, and to my right… A cloaked figure is kneeling. As a scream wells up within me, the reaper pulls back its hood to reveal shimmering blonde hair, vibrant blue eyes, and a flawless white smile. Star-struck, I convulse. Ellen laughs again. “It’s nice to meet you too!” I try to maintain a decent level of calm; after all, I’ve already seen some extremely bizarre things. Why wouldn’t Ellen Degeneres show up? That’s a better thing to wonder. All the same, I clamp my mouth shut before the squeal escapes. “So, you’re wondering what is going on right now,” she says. “Basically, I am your tour guide. Come on, we don’t have time to waste.” She grabs me by the hand and helps me stand up, then catches me as my legs buckle from the residual shock. I’ve got to speak sometime, so I do: “My tour guide through what?” She reaches under the desk, and there is a loud beep. Air hisses around the steel door as it slowly swings outward. What lies beyond it is total darkness. “Hell,” she answers matter-of-factly. [B]Canto II: Act Appalled.[/B] Of course I panic. Disbelief, no longer suspended. “Hell!?” Her bright smile does not falter. She looks like she is about to bestow some spectacular gift on her studio audience, not transport someone undeserving into the inferno. Or at least I don’t feel like I deserve this. Sure, I’ve bent the law a few times, but only out of carelessness. I never meant any harm. I am made up of flaws, but stitched together with good intentions. I am not a bad person. She, however, is telepathic. “Don’t worry! It’s just a tour. You won’t be here for long.” I am still very upset with this turn of events. My feet are anchored to the floor and my interior organs are MIA. Ellen’s miraculous presence does nothing to soften the ominous image of hell. “Look, I know this doesn’t make any sense to you, but you just gotta roll with the punches.” She does a little dance, gently beats the air. “I will explain everything as we go along.” And as if I am standing on a conveyor belt, I move forward without trying. The lobby-like room disappears behind me and the door closes. I am alone in the dark. The atmosphere is very reminiscent of Disney World’s Space Mountain: the sluggishness of the moving floor, the total blackness. The anticipation of the first harrowing descent. “Can’t see a thing….” The narrow walls sprout lit torches and flood the hallway with an orange glow. There is nothing else to see. I notice that I am no longer in motion, and I wonder if I had been at all. The thought makes my head spin. Ellen vaporizes by my side, perpetually cheerful, as if to suppress my fears. “How’s that? Not so bad, right?” I am silent as she leads the way. The reality is starting to set in: I am being led through hell by Ellen Degeneres. And I can’t think of anything to say. So I simply follow. “Now, what we are going to do is pass through each circle, and at the very end you will be transported back home. Just think of it as a vacation. Think of it as sight-seeing.” I try to envision this, but I am stuck on the fire and brimstone picture of my destination. Not much else to look at. Maybe some roasting corpses here and there, lots of tortured wailing. Like a trolley tour through World War II. For some reason, I just cannot get excited. Suddenly, the hallway dissipates, and we are standing in another circular shaft. This one is much larger than the one that got me into this mess, though, and is somehow sky-lighted. I can clearly see yet another giant door, and the oh-so-cliché inscription above it: [I]ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE.[/I] “Don’t mind that,” Ellen says, pointing at the message. “It’s really only for the people who are checking in permanently, but the boss thought adding that in would make it less effective.” She reiterates: “You have nothing to worry about.” Unfortunately, I find the warning impossible to brush off. I am pretty sure several of my blood vessels burst from the pressure of my terror, like shoddy water pipes. I am verklempt. Something suddenly obscures the light from above, and my senses vanish. --- [SIZE="1"]It's a work in progress, but I can promise that it will get done because I have to turn it in, like, Tuesday. Eeep[/SIZE].[/FONT]

[FONT="Tahoma"]Well, I decided to write something short and quick. It's like a poem, but built like a short story. In my opinion what I wrote is an interpratation of what a surprise death can be if you least expect it. [SIZE="1"][INDENT]It?s dark. As far as you can see. It surrounds you. Haunting you. Almost like a phantom. You panic and try to hide. But you?re too afraid. Too tense. Too reliant on your instincts to save you. You try and scream, but nothing comes out. Almost as if your vocal chords were taken. Suddenly it becomes clear. You remember that the dark can?t hurt you. You start to calm down. Your ability to think straight returns. Finally you smile, knowing fully well that the dark is nothing to be afraid of. As you turn the corner to return? Snap! Something breaks in the distance. You freeze. Thought ceases once again. You feel insecure. Afraid. Fearful. Regretful. You know you should have kept running, so why go back? It?s too late nevertheless. You could try to run again. But what is that? Your legs don?t work. You can?t even attempt to run away. You close your eyes so you don?t see it coming. You know it?s coming too. It?s silent, it always is. Suddenly a calm takes over and you feel light-headed. You wake up and expect an infinite light to engulf you. Yet, that expectation is soon shattered by a scream. You think of where it could come from. Freight takes over and your breath escapes. You heart skips a beat like a broken metronome. However, you become calm again. You feel at peace with the darkness, you embrace it as if it was the light. You open your eyes and realize it was you screaming. And you know it was you as you look down at something? something all too familiar? [CENTER]yourself.[/CENTER][/INDENT][/SIZE][/FONT]

[b]Take Out[/b] [color=crimson]I told myself to stop at the stop light but I decided to hit the pedestrians first, wait, what? I need to. . . I need the needle and I need to stop, wake up, stop and wake up. I'm sleepy. I need to wake up because the early bird gets the worm, that's what they say at least - I know that because I'm drowning in these thoughts that aren't mine, ya' know? Or do I know? Of course I know! See, I'll give myself a shot of the ol' shit and sit outside the Church with a cigarette half cocked out of my mouth. I'm watchin' some lazy trails of smoke snake just past my brow and stumble up to meet the stars. My grip on the hatchet tenses and I feel my blood flood with all kinds of waker-uppers or stims or whatever the hell kids half my age call them. I can feel the pores on my skin open up and let loose a torrent of sweat. I feel good, yeah, I feel real good. I stagger to my feet and crack my neck to loosen myself up. It's a foggy-fuck-night and I'mma feeling good. I need something to do. I walk out into the parking lot and drop the cig from my mouth onto the ground. The dim light of the embers burns orange and resonates with the burning in my heart ? this is good shit I'm feeling, yeah. I take a few practice slashes with my hatchet and feel the cool night air tango with the sweat across my body. I am alive and I know I am alive because I can feel that I am alive. Not the superficial alive society teaches you, but the primal animal alive that screams and tears into the night with blood red eyes and a thirst for every minute you conquer a bit more of time. Right now? Right now in my time? Right now, well, right now I'm a night owl and I'm flying through the air to the mouse skittering along the ground past the twigs towards his hole but there's no time and I think I'm going to get him and I think I'm almost there and I've almost got him in my claws and ? . . . I crouch over the guy and look at his face. ?Hey, man. Hey. Hey-hey-hey-hey. Hey.? There's no response. The pool of blood around his head spreads slowly to form a crimson halo. ?Hey, MAN!? I slap his face a couple of times to no response. ?Ah, well. I didn't have much to talk about anyway. I just thought I'd ask why you're laying around out here, ya' know?? I say and pull the hatchet out of his face. There's a clean cut straight down the middle that perfectly divides it into left and right face-halves. Half faces? Facehalfs? Whatever - this guy is acting a bit strange for a healthy lookin' fella. ?Behavior like that, laying in streets and stuff, that's a bit worrisome in a healthy individual, yeah? Might need to have yourself checked our or something, ya' know?? I clean the hatchet off on the dead man's button-up shirt. There's a pen in his pocket protector that's bright orange. Bright orange embers of a cigarette I vaguely remember smoking. . . when did I smoke it? I take the pen. It's one of those slick advertising pens ? the ones with a company logo or address plastered all over one side that you never pay attention to since, well, you got the pen to be a fucking pen, not a little billboard with ink. Huh. Tong's Chinese Food. I fucking love this place and it's real nearby. I think I'll go grab myself a little No. 6 special tonight! I smile widely at the thought of steaming piles of rice mixing with fried chicken dripping in sauces I can't remember the name of but, hey, who cares! Time to get some Chinese! I walk away from the man, not thanking him for suggesting a place to eat, and head down the street. The fog cloaks me. It consumes me. I am part of one large collective white mass slowly infiltrating every part of this town and overwhelming your very visions. I am a demi-god. I stand atop the rest of you as a king, I own all of you, I. . . I will not be forgotten again, not this time, not this time, not this time, not this time, not this time. . . no, you'll be fine, you'll take their heads and raise them high and you will know that you are the king and, and, and, and. . . . . . and I'm gasping for breath and stumbling a bit now, but I'm no worse for wear, I promise. This street is long but my belly is rumbling. I want the No. 6 special. Stir fry, yeah, I know that's what I want deep in my gullet. It's late in the evening but they will have to serve me the No. 6 special, yeah? I don't have any money but I'll get them to give it to me somehow. I have this hatchet. Yeah, I have the hatchet and that's all I need. I was alone but now I see ahead of me there's a guy and a girl holding hands walking. Lovers! Young lovers! What a quaint thing, fuck, what a fucking quaint thing to see on a lonely night like this, I don't know if I'll mess with them, I know I shouldn't, eh, but, that sounds, you know, I just like to think that I won't. I will though. I'm the night owl, yeah, piercing eyes going through the haze right down your back and into your soul. I see you and I hear you and I feel you and I know you and I am on you now and you are screaming and my hatchet is through you and your girlfriend is running and I am dancing on the light like a fairy at play right through her body and her legs are flailing and she is crying and all of this time I never knew how good it felt to be alive. Never knew, never knew. That's a shame, that's a fuck ugly shame is what it is. I gotta get that No. 6 though, man, so you relax with your girl here. I tuck them together on the side of the road under a very ugly tree, very ugly like them, very ugly like you, or very ugly like me? I question my question. Ugly like a tree, ugly like me, ugly like a tree! That's a fairly good limerick with a fairly good comparison, I guess. I put them in a kind of last embrace or, eh, I did as much as I could since the guys arm came off somewhere over there. I dunno. Tricky business sometimes, this hatchet phase of mine. Tricky, tricky. I hope it doesn't end too soon, this tricky-tricky business I'm in. I hop away from them and wipe the sweat off my brow. I have a bit of blood on me now but that's okay! High spirits. Morale remains good with the team and fuck if I am going to give up the opportunity to have myself some No. 6 special. Tong's is right over here, just off Broadway, next to the Vietnamese place. I wonder if they ever, you know, hate each other ? Chinese and Vietnamese people have a long history of combat and death and killing and suffering and, you know, between their people. Suffering. I like the word suffering. Say the word suffering and you feel so. . . dirty. S-u-f-f-e-r-i-n-g. I spell it out, say it out, yell it out, sing it out, and I am OUT! It's 11:45 and the lights over Tong's show the closed sign. I hold my aching head and through the sweat, fog, and cold I know that I had missed out by an hour and fifteen minutes my chance to have a No. 6. The workers can't be gone. I slam on the door with my fist as hard as I can. The glass shatters and I hear the sound of someone inside. I grip my hatchet firmly and step inside the restaurant, slithering down and into the darkened room. I feel the pulse of the hatchet in my hand, the cool air becoming staler, the animal life inside of me writhing and fucking and screaming and reaching deep down into my brain to push the little red button that no one should ever push. I am the night owl. I am over the counter and no one is there. I am past the tables into the kitchen and there are three men, two Mexicans and one Chinese, smoking around the back door. The two Mexicans are leaning on either side of the door and the Chinese man is standing outside, looking at them with a big, dumb grin on his fucking face. I pick up a butcher knife from the rack. They didn't hear the glass, did they? They didn't hear the glass! I sneer and now I am flowing past the dishwasher across freshly-cleaned floors gliding with my twin blades glinting as they ask me to deliver blood. I drag my blade across throats beside me and come down on the Chinaman, swooping from way up high like an angel to bring about deliverance on the wilted, wasted soul of the damned. I stand up. I'm gasping for breath. The cool air is on my skin again. The drip-drip-drip of the blood off of my blades soothes my nerves. I'm not sweating as much now. I still feel the animal, though. I still feel him beating inside of my heart and struggling to rip out of my body into the wide expanse of the Earth. I still feel. . . hungry. Shit. I could have used a No. 6. I hear the distant sound of wailing. I feel the flashing lights from blocks away. I can hear the wings coming from way up high of an angel. . . De-liver-y. De-liver-ance? Some deliverance? For me? - I wrote this scene for a creative writing class and I like it. It makes me hungry. The last time I spent some time on OB the blood flowed pretty well in this forum so I hope that's still the case.[/color]

Reading between the lines “Sit boy.” I hissed, feeling a tinge of statistic joy as I watched the young boy’s face slammed into the ground. Turning away from him, I took a deep breath and attempt to calm myself. I hate feeling like this. Feeling so much anger and hurt, but not quite enough to escape a twinge of guilt for sitting him. “Damn it wench, what was that for?” I heard Inuyasha say as he struggled to get up from the forest floor. A stab of pain goes through me. That word. I can’t hold back anymore. “Sit sit sit sit sit sit sit.” I screamed, finally reaching that special point the point where I can watch him hit the ground again and again without remorse. The point that I can finally be satisfied that with each bone jarring impact his physical pain matches the searing ache I feel with every slicing word from his mouth. Despite this satisfaction, I can still feel the humiliating tears begin to gather in my eyes. Suddenly, I can’t stand to be near him anymore, can’t stand to let him see me cry again and to see that look of disgust in his eyes. I can almost read his mind in these moments. He resents me for not being strong like her. In his head, he’s comparing me to his pain-filled memories of Kiko, calculating and analyzing the differences. I’ll never be worthy like Kiko was. He has always pointed out how useless and clumsy I am. How often he needs to protect me for every little terror in the forest. I am not a strong infallible person, able to stand up to a towering demon with merely a bow and arrow. I cannot use my Miko powers to protect whole villages from gangs of crazed demons. In his eyes, I’ll never be as pretty, smart, crafty, or worthy of his love as she is. Hiding my tears, I throw my backpack over my shoulder and head for the well, shouting back at him that I was leaving for good. I run, knowing that if he called out to me I would lose my conviction and come crawling back to him. I hate myself for that. Hate myself for not being able to live without him for any long period of time. So I flee like a weak coward while he is still chocking on dirt, unable to stop me. Flying through the forest I come to the one place of safety from him. The well. Jumping over the side, I feel the soft blue light swell around me, carrying me safely towards the future. Sitting in the bottom of the well in my own time, I am able to let go and sob. How could he say such things to me, calling me a wench? Is that all that I am to him? Does he see me as merely something to be used until I became inconvenient or unneeded, until he could finally throw me back into the street like some kind of stray dog? Yes, I’m nothing but his “shard detector”. He’s never shied away from telling me that. He’s made it perfectly clear that I am merely his tool for getting his revenge on Naraku, nothing more. And knowing that kills me. Even now in my own time, away from his prying analyzing eyes, my heart aches to be near him. I know that no matter how much I threaten, how much I promise myself that I won’t go back. That I will stay here and leave the past in the past instead of tormenting myself trying to stay torn between the ages. I know that I will not be able to stay way form him for long. Dragging that giant yellow bag behind me, I run towards the sanctuary of my room. I know that it will only be a matter of hours before the hanyou arrives to force me back into the feudal era and all the pain that comes with it. Throwing the bag down once I got through the door, I dive into the comforting contours of my bed. I begin to cry fully now, letting go completely to the wracking sorrow that feels like it’s going to tear me apart. My mother hears my sobbing and I can hear her footsteps coming my way. I know she worries about me. My whole family worries about me. They think that I am focusing too much of my energy on my task in the feudal era. They worry about my schoolwork and my future. They plead with me to split my time evenly so that I can go to school like a normal girl and get my education. That way, when our task is completed in the feudal era and I have to come home, I will have the education and the skills to be able to return to a normal life. They want me to go to college, get a job and a husband, and have some children. I don’t have the heart to tell them I can’t. Inuyasha has become much more than a traveling companion to me, he has become my life. I am in love with him, helplessly in love. Once the well is sealed, if I am trapped in my own time and unable to return and visit Sango, Miroku, Shippo and most of all Inuyasha, I won’t be able to go on. How could I? How does one lose four of the most important people in your life, not to mention dozens of friends, and still have the will to live? How could I just return to my old life, go to school, hang out with friends and act like nothing had ever happened, like they never even existed? Even if I could bring myself to do it, it would not be right. My friends are like my family now and Shippo is my son. I couldn’t leave them for the world. “Kagome, you must stop this.” I almost jumped when I heard my mother’s voice behind me. I could only cry harder even with her comforting hand on my shoulder. “You must stop tormenting yourself.” In a gentler voice she begged, “Come with us visiting this month. Take a break from them, please Kagome. I can’t stand seeing you in pain like this. You deserve some time off.” Three weeks? Three weeks away from him would be worst then torture. I was about to refuse, about to tell her that it would be best if I just stayed here. I could make some excuse about having a big test at school or something. But then I caught sight of my reflection shining in the mirror. I looked like a monster. My eyes were red and swollen from my crying. My cheeks were stained with tears and my face was bright red from sobbing so hard. Still, it was the look in my eyes that scared me the most. My eyes were empty, void of the happiness and passion that use to shine like diamonds. I wasn’t myself anymore. Suddenly, I realized that I did look like Kiko, but in the worst way possible. I looked like a corpse. “Yes, I think I will. I will go with you. I think that would be lovely.” I forced myself to say. All the pain that I would have to endure seemed immediately worth it when I saw how my mother’s eyes lit up. I did not realize just how worried my family had been. She looked like a drowning man just thrown a life raft. Satisfied by my answer she rose to leave me alone to my tears. After she left and I had cried myself out, I sat there wondering just how I would go about telling the others that I would be gone for three weeks. I realized with dread that Inuyasha would never allow it. He would bar me from leaving, telling me that I was ruining the mission and that I was being selfish for wanting to leave now. Even if I managed to escape him, he would follow me. Two days after I left he would just show up and drag me back with him, kicking and screaming sit all the way if he needed to. Nothing would stop him from getting his vengeance on Naraku for what he did. He cared for revenge more than anything in the world. I won’t tell him, I decided. I knew that it was cowardly of me. I knew that the others, especially Shippo, would be worried sick about me, but I also knew that if I went back he would convince me not to go and I needed this. I needed to get the life back into my eyes. We left that very day merely hours after my mother had asked me to join them. I think she was afraid that if she waited too long to leave that I would back out of my decision. She made me promise that I would at least try to have a good time and forget about the feudal era for a little while. I was surprised by how easy that was. For three weeks, while surrounded by family and friends, I was able to forget all the worry and stress of chasing Naraku, forget the pain of loving Inuyasha and knowing that he loved someone else. I was finally free from all that. I was able to go to some movies and hang out with some of my old friends around our families homes. I was able to go shopping with some of my cousins and even flirted with a few other boys, but nothing serious. My heart was taken after all. I bought the others a few things out of guilt of leaving them for three weeks. Other then that I did not think about them much. For three weeks, I was a normal girl running about Tokyo without a care in the world. After those weeks were up I felt refreshed and finally ready to get back to work in the feudal era. I had to admit I was very eager to return to the others. Despite the fact that being normal for a while had been fun and relaxing I realized something very important during this time. After spending so much time in the feudal era, facing death on a daily basis, having people depend on you for their very life, life in the normal world seemed completely silly. The worries that seem so important today were foolish compared to the constant struggle to survive and thrive in a demon infested time. Living in the feudal era was much more fulfilling. Even if I could not have Inuyasha, the life I have there is still worth so much. I was looking forward to the chaos waiting for me outside the well. I was also looking forward to seeing the others and to hold my foster son in my arms again. I realized how much I missed them after all this time apart. The only thing that I was not looking forward to was facing their anger. I know they were probably very concerned about me while I was away and I felt terrible for not telling them I was leaving. My mother seemed neither surprised nor angry that I wanted to go back as soon as we got home and unpacked. Perhaps she just needed to know that I could bounce back from my slump and become her little girl again. She smiled at me and silently gave me one of my school uniforms and told me that she would pack me a lunch for my trip over. I nodded and told her that I was going up to pack. Once in my room, I hesitated. I fidgeted and dawdled in unpacking my things from the trip until my mother called up to tell me that the lunch she made was ready. Finally, I decided that I had stalled long enough. I packed my giant yellow bag with all that I needed, closed the door to my room, kissed my family goodbye and headed for the well. Jumping down into the inky blackness, I felt the blue light encompass me at once and deposit me on the other side of the well. Taking a breath of the clean untainted air, I sighed. “I’m home,” I whispered, grabbing a hold of the conveniently placed vine and began to ascend the walls of the well. I was surprised when no strong arms grabbed me and haul me over the side. I expected the moment I ended up in the well Inuyasha would catch my scent and be here to scream at me for holding them up. Instead, I climbed the well’s walls and threw my yellow bag over the side without assistance, before pulling myself over the lip as well. I glanced around and saw nothing but the surrounding forest. I was furious. I leave for two whole weeks and they don’t even know that I’m gone. How else could I explain the fact that there was no hanyou there to greet me? I huffed and headed towards the village fully prepared to kill a certain half-demon. I was partly there when I hear a familiar voice. “Come on mutt, you’re not even trying. Fight me. Tear me apart.” Koga? What is he doing here? Maybe he heard that I was gone and came to look for me. Realizing that he and Inuyasha must be in the forest somewhere fighting, I headed towards his voice, silently hopping that Inuyasha would not kill him before I got there. “Come on, move. Defend yourself. Give a damn about your life!” On that last word I heard Koga’s voice break and was confused. Something was terribly wrong. I could feel it. Dropping my back I began to run towards the sound of his voice, the underbrush of the forest slowing me down. “Fine, I give up. I can’t do this anymore. Damn you Kagome. How could you? Damn you?” Koga sobbed. I stopped shocked by the sound. The sobbing got fainter and I realized that Koga was moving away. Why was he leaving? Why wasn’t Inuyasha fighting him, cursing at him for what he had just said? On the other hand why was Koga cursing me in the first place? Koga usually fought tooth and nail for me just to look at him. The forest was finally thinning out, telling me that the clearing was ahead. I burst through the trees. Koga was gone and for a moment I thought that Inuyasha had left too. I couldn’t see him standing in the clearing, sword thrown on his back as he would be after any other fight with Koga. Then I caught a flash of red to my right. “Inuyasha?” Yes, it was the firerat robe alright. I could see its ruby color shining in the sun. But something was wrong. It was lying on the ground like someone had thrown in a heap, unless. . . I ran forward my heart beginning to pound in my chest. Yes, it’s Inuyasha. He was lying on the ground and he was not moving. “Inuyasha!” I screamed as I ran to his side. What had Koga done to him? When I got to him, I began to cry. Oh my god what had happened to him. Inuyasha was unconscious, lying on his back. He skin was pale as death and he was barely breathing. The first thing I noticed was that his cheeks were sunken in, hollow with starvation. He looked like a war victim. Tears blurred my vision as I took in his tangled filthy hair, his soiled and dirty clothing, and his sunken eyes. He looked like he had not eaten in days. I had to get him to the village, to get him help. “It’s alright Inuyasha, I’m here. I’ll get you some help.” I cooed to him, trying to comfort him. I had to move him. I didn’t know if he had gotten hurt in his fight with Koga, didn’t even know if he had had the strength left to lift a sword, but I feared he would die if I left him here while I ran back to the village. “I’m going to lift you Inuyasha. Don’t be afraid.” I wasn’t sure if he could hear me, but I hoped he could. Carefully I reached over to take his wrist so I could pull him into the sitting position to throw him over my shoulder in a fireman’s hold. I sobbed when I felt his arm. He was nothing but skin and bones. Any muscle that used to rope up his arms had been devoured by his body in an attempt to keep him alive. “What happened to you?” He was so light. He had to weigh less than the bag that I had brought over the well. As fast as I could I ran towards the village. “Hold on Inuyasha. We’re almost there.” I huffed. I could smell the smoke of the village fires nearby. Silently, I just prayed for him to keep breathing, for him to hold on for just a little while longer. I saw the first huts in the distance. “Keade, help! Keade!” I screamed as soon as I saw the first few villagers. “Kagome?!” I heard a familiar voice call out as I ran. “Miroku. It’s Inuyasha. He’s hurt.” I said, almost sobbing in relief when I saw the purple robed figure standing near me. Ever since finding Inuyasha I was sure that the others were dead. That was the only way I could imagine Inuyasha ending up in such a poor state. I ran towards him, hoping he would help me. I stopped in my tracks when I saw his face. He looked furious, like he was about to strike me. He was angrier then I had ever seen him. Stepping forward, he snatched Inuyasha from my arms both as quickly and gently as possible as soon as I came within reach. Then, glaring at me, he started to jog towards Keade’s hut, leaving me standing there confused and alone. He wasn’t the only one giving me angry looks. All around the villagers’ vicious glares met me. Trying hard to ignore them, I ran after Miroku to the healer’s hut. Just as I was coming up to it I heard another familiar voice. “Kagome, your back.” Seconds later I was nearly knocked down by a flying fur ball. I caught Shippo with practiced skill and was quite surprised when the young boy latched onto my neck with all his strength and began to cry. “I thought you were never coming back.” the young boy sobbed. “You left and then Inuyasha got sick. I was so scared,” the young boy trembled with each heaving sob and my heart broke for him. Sensing someone else near me, I looked up to see Sango staring at me. “Sango, Inuyasha’s. . .” I cried out as her hand hit the side of my face hard causing me to reel for a moment. During my dizziness, I saw Shippo launch himself at her. “Don’t hit Kagome.” the boy cried, slamming his tiny fist against her chest a few times. Sango did not try to stop him, just stood there and let the boy hit her. After awhile, he collapsed into her arms, clinging to her shirt helplessly. “Please don’t hurt Kagome. She might leave again and never come back.” My heart lurched in my chest. I looked from the crying boy, to the murderous looking Sango, towards the healer’s hut, and a terrible thought occurred to me. A thought that made me moan as my stomach started to churn, fearfully. Sango seemed to read my mind. “Yes, Inuyasha wasn’t attached. He hasn’t been ill. He’s like this because of you,” she said in a detached voice. I gasped, tears falling down my face as my legs gave out from underneath me and I fell to my knees, my mind whirling in a fit of pain. “Come inside.” She told me, going into a neighboring hut. “When Inuyasha realized that you were gone, he figured you had gone back to your own time, since you guys had been fighting. But after two days passed and you did not come back, he went looking for you. When he got to your house, all the windows and doors were locked. He said that your scent had been gone for at least a day. He could not even smell your cat. That’s the last day he ate. After a week, Miroku and I thought you weren’t coming back. You usually told us if you were going to be gone that long. Since Inuyasha said that he saw no sign of struggle or any disturbance at your home, we figured you had left willingly. We told Shippo that you had to leave and we urged Inuyasha to eat and to except the fact that you were not coming back. Shippo cried every night after that but slowly seemed to understand that he would never see you again. It was hard for him but he accepted it. ‘Inuyasha on the other hand refused to move on. He refused to leave the village in hopes that you would come back. He would wake up every morning and walk to the well to wait for you. At night he would hunt for Shippo and us, but would refuse to eat anything. Then he would go to sleep for a few hours before starting the routine over again. Around a week and a half after you had gone, he left the village altogether and started to spend all his time at the well. I think he did not want to admit to himself that he was getting to weak to walk back and forth from the village every day. By that time Koga had heard that you were gone and had come to see if it was true. When he saw Inuyasha he was appalled. Inuyasha look about as bad as he did when you found him in the clearing today. I don’t know if it was out of a feeling of duty to you or if Koga actually liked Inuyasha, but from that moment on he vowed to help us. Him and Miroku held Inuyasha down and force-fed him. Inuyasha gagged the whole time, but the broth stayed down. His body wouldn’t let him throw it up. Together they could force him to eat, but they couldn’t force him to come back to the village. Every time they tried he would thrash and fight them until they were afraid that he would break something. So they left him there. ‘He sat there by the well all day regardless of the weather and waited for you to return. Sometimes Shippo would join him, but at the first sign of bad weather Inuyasha sent him back. He cares about him like a son I think. Koga stayed close to protect Inuyasha in his weakened state. Inuyasha would not even leave the well’s side to protect himself. Sesshomaru came and tried to goat him into a fight. In a way I think it was his way of trying to help his little brother. Inuyasha didn’t move. Even when Sesshomaru grabbed the hilt of his sword, he did not care. When Sesshomaru left, I was almost sure I saw tears in the demon’s eyes, but I could have been mistaken.” Sango sighed, setting down the now sleeping Shippo on a cot in the corner. She then turned towards me and I saw the depth of pain and suffering in her eyes and it almost killed me. “That’s the way it went on. Every two days they would force Inuyasha to eat. He stopped struggling when they did it after awhile. He simply sat there staring at the well. They would then sit down and talk to him for awhile, try and convince him to come back to the village. Kiko even showed up eventually. Three times she visited him and she tried to convince him to eat. He didn’t even look at her. His eyes stayed glued to that well like he expected you to come climbing out of it any minute.” He ignored Kiko?! But Kiko was the love of his life. He wants to be with her forever, wants to follow her into hell. He would die for her, wouldn’t he? My head was spinning. Images kept flashing through my mind. Inuyasha standing outside my house, the windows dark and empty. Inuyasha staring at the well, ignoring the beautiful women standing at his side. Inuyasha wasting away waiting for me. Suddenly, it all made sense. His anger when I came through the well late, his jealousy every time Koga tried to take my hand, all those attacks he leapt in front of minutes before they hit me, it all fit. “What have I done?” He loves me. All this time he has loved me. Not the way in the storybooks, not all flowers, sweet words, and chocolate, but in his own way he cares and I left him. All those years I envied Kiko and I had what she use to have all along, and I left him just like she did. What have I done? Why couldn’t I read between the lines? I broke down, sobbing harder than I ever have in my life. As I did, I heard someone enter the hut. “Keade says he’s alive. He must have passed out from exhaustion, but she says if we can’t get him to eat anything besides the broth that he is going to starve to death in the next few days,” Miroku said. I could feel his eyes on me though I could not stop crying to look at him. “He is away but barely. You may speak to him.” Keade did not look surprised or angry at me when I walked into the room. She simply gave me an expressionless glance before gesturing towards the curtain in the back of the room. She then left the hut to give us some privacy. I parted the curtain and entered the room. He was lying asleep on a cot. I knelt down, trying not to sob as I looked at his fragile thin face. Gently, I reached forward to brush dirty silver bangs away from his closed eyes. He stirred and opened those honey colored eyes, blinking like he didn’t believe what he was seeing. “Kagome?” His voice was hoarse and weak; it almost broke my heart. “Yes, Inuyasha, it’s me.” Suddenly, he lurched forward, throwing himself into my arms and hugging me with more force than I thought his brittle body could muster. . “Kagome, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I’ll never say it again. Please come back.” Then Inuyasha, one of the strongest persons I have ever met, began to cry. My heart shattered. He blamed himself. He’s laying there half-starved, filthy, and near death and he blames himself. I couldn’t hold my tears back anymore. Gathering him into my arms, I begin to rock him like a child as we weep together. “It’s not your fault Inuyasha. I shouldn’t have left without telling you first. I shouldn’t have made you hurt yourself like this. It’s not your fault.” I whispered into his ear. He cried harder, his whole body wracking with sobs that he was fighting to hold back. “I love you, Kagome, I love you.” he whispered again and again like a prayer, holding me so tight I could barely breathe like he was afraid if he let go I would disappear. “I love you too, Inuyasha, with all my heart always.” I whisper back sending him into another fit of tears. I just held him and rocked him until he calmed down. Finally, after awhile, he runs out of tears and his sobs fade. He’s exhausted and clearly embarrassed by his tears. Carefully, I lower him back onto the mat and stroke his face and hair. He just sits there and stares at me as if I am the most beautiful thing in the world. After we continued this way in silence for a few minutes, he suddenly frowns. “What’s the matter Inuyasha?” I whisper, unable to stand him being unhappy. “Kagome…I’m hungry.” he stated, looking up at me innocently. I laugh, tears threatening again only this time tears of joy. “I’ll tell them to get you something to eat right away.” I tell him, starting to get up. His thin arm stops me. I look back at him and seeing the twinge of fear in his eyes, I freeze.” “Please don’t go.” He begs. Sighing, I lay down beside him. Gathering him up in my arms I begin to stroke his hair again. “I won’t Inuyasha. I’ll never leave you again.” With that, we both fell asleep in each other’s arms.

[center][SIZE=1]In light of DW's recent absence, I've decided to give an amusing OtakuBoards parody a shot. Bear in mind we have different senses of humour, so it will be of a different style, but hopefully still funny.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]It's set in the fictional town of Otakubury, a small English town, and revolves around the misadventures of the various inhabitants, particularly the town council. You should recognise many of your favourite members, but you won't have seen them like this before.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]So, without further ado, Welcome to Otakubury.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]---[/SIZE] [SIZE=2][B][U]Welcome to Otakubury[/U][/B][/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]Volume One: Crime Chapter One [/B] Smart black shoes clicked on hard white linoleum as a man, dressed in a sharp black suit, walked down the long blank corridors. He straightened his tie, cleared his throat and ran a perfectly-manicured hand through his thick brown hair. In the other hand was a manilla folder stuffed thick with papers.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]He finally arrived at a vast set of mahogany double doors, intricately carved with beautiful, flowing designs, and raised his free hand to knock smartly three times on the dark wood.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"Enter,"[/B] came a deep, ominous voice from inside the room, and the door creaked open of it's own volition. The suited man stepped into the dimly-lit office, facing the wide desk in front of the enormous windows.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"I've been expecting y..."[/B] came the same deep, booming, yet slightly giggly voice from the shadowy figure sat behind the desk, but his sentiment was cut off by the suited man interrupting.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"Don't you dare finish that sentence,"[/B] he snapped, raising his finger and pointing it at the desk, [B]"You say that every time I come in, and it's getting old. You called me and ordered the meeting, you imbecile! And turn the damn lights on."[/B][/SIZE] [SIZE=1]The lights flicked on, illuminating a cavernous room, with red velvet curtains, thick shag pile carpets and enormous mahogany bookshelves lining the walls. Sitting behind the giant desk in a black leather swivel chair was a young, tanned man in a dark-blue suit, hanging his head in some semblance of shame.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"Sorry, Des,"[/B] he said, looking up at the suited man sheepishly, [B]"I won't do it again."[/B][/SIZE][SIZE=1][B] "You'd better not,"[/B] Des replied with a scowl, walking the several strides to the desk and slamming the file down on the desk, [B]"You'd better have a long, hard look at this." [/B][/SIZE][SIZE=1][B]"What is it?"[/B] asked the man behind the desk with the attitude of a bored child whose building blocks had been confiscated.[/SIZE] [B][SIZE=1]"It's a report including figures and statistics relating to the levels of crime in Otakubury. It makes for fairly bleak reading."[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]"That sounds boring. Can't I have my building blocks back?"[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]"You can have them back once you've calmed down. I'll have to remember not to give you lemonade again."[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]"It was tingly on my tongue."[/SIZE] [/B][SIZE=1][B]"For God's sake, will you shut up?"[/B] growled Des, [B]"These crime figures are important! We need to come up with a solution to the problem."[/B][/SIZE][B] [SIZE=1]"Can't someone else do it? I've got my personal magician coming to do a show for me in half an hour."[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]"With all due respect, Mr Mayor, this is a big decision. It needs to come from the top."[/SIZE] [/B][SIZE=1][B]"No!"[/B] the Mayor replied, folding his arms and frowning, [B]"Make the town council do it! It sounds boring!"[/B] Des slapped a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes and sighing with despair. Once the Mayor set his mind on not doing something, there was no persuading him otherwise.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"Very well, Mr Mayor,"[/B] he said, a heavy air of reluctance in his words, [B]"Whatever you say."[/B] He picked up the folder and walked out, kicking a man in coat-tails and a top hat carrying a black-and-white wand as he went.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]---[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]Loud, blaring noise erupted from the phone, snapping Phill DeLarge, head of the town council, out of his deep, noisy sleep. He spluttered and fell off his chair, slamming his head on the edge of his desk as he went. Scrambling to his feet, he grabbed the phone off the hook and brought it up to his face, missing his ear initially and slamming himself in the eye with the receiver. Finally, with an inordinate amount of effort and cursing, he clamped it to his ear, and croaked:[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"Hello, town council offices, Phill DeLarge speaking, how can I help you?"[/B] Keeping the receiver close to his ear, he bent down and picked his chair up, taking his seat once again and wiping the thin trail of drool from his chin.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"DeLarge? It's Desbreko,"[/B] snapped the voice on the other end, [B]"The Mayor has some urgent business he needs you to attend to. I'm emailing through the details right now!"[/B][/SIZE][SIZE=1][B] "Right now might be a slight problem, sir,"[/B] replied DeLarge, pouring cold coffee in his eyes and taking a swig of eye drops by accident.[/SIZE] [B][SIZE=1]"Oh? And why is that, may I ask?"[/SIZE] [/B][SIZE=1][B]"Someone dropped the plug for the computer in Mountain Dew," [/B]DeLarge said, wincing in discomfort from his coffee eye drops and looking remorsefully at the dripping-wet plug, [B]"Also I've forgotten my password."[/B][/SIZE][B] [SIZE=1]"Fine! Then I'll get someone to deliver it personally."[/SIZE] [/B][SIZE=1][B]"Carrier Pigeon?"[/B] DeLarge asked excitedly.[/SIZE] [B][SIZE=1]"What? No, not a carrier pigeon, you idiot. I'll just send Chibi-Master over or something, it'll get her out of the office at the very least. She's been bouncing off the walls the past few days."[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]"What is this business James needs us to attend to?"[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]"Don't call him by his first name or I'll fire you!"[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]"You've fired me before."[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]"This time I'll fire you out of a cannon. Into a volcano. Call him Mr Mayor, or the Mayor, or His Mayorness. Just don't call him James!"[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]"Do you have to fire yourself now, Des?"[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]"What? Just shut up, you idiot. God, why do I have to work in a town populated by morons?"[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]"Because when you worked in London they found those incriminating photos of you with a monkey."[/SIZE] [/B][SIZE=1][B]"It was a rhetorical question, DeLarge! Just get it done!"[/B] And with that, he slammed the phone down. DeLarge looked at the phone, a little puzzled, then replaced the receiver and hit the intercom buzzer.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"Send the team in,"[/B] he said. There was no answer. He buzzed again three times, then got up and walked to the door of his office, opening it a crack and poking his head out.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"Team, you can come in now,"[/B] DeLarge said, remembering that he didn't have a secretary. And the intercom didn't connect to anyone. And it wasn't even an intercom, it was a radio.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]Two people followed DeLarge back into the room. One was a girl with an enormous starched mohawk, dyed a number of different colours. Her black clothes were ripped and held back together with safety pins, and she had the legs of a goat. The other was a young man with a red and white maple-leaf-design shirt, tousled hair and a well-chewed pencil behind his ear.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"Right, Vicky, Lrb, we've got a situation on our hands. The Mayor needs us to do a thing and we've only got an amount of time to do it!"[/B] said DeLarge vaguely. Vicky and Lrb looked blankly at each other, then blankly back at DeLarge.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"What is it we've got to do, ey?"[/B] asked Lrb stereotypically.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]"I don't know that yet, you Canadian cretin,"[/B] replied DeLarge rather racistly, [B]"But I do know that Des is going to fire me out of a cannon if I don't get it done."[/B][/SIZE][SIZE=1][B]"DeLarge, are you ever going to put some trousers on?"[/B] asked Vicky, chewing a piece of gum very slowly and cockily.[/SIZE] [B][SIZE=1]"I don't have time for that right now! We need to get the delivery off Chibi-Master and then get to work!"[/SIZE] [/B] [SIZE=1]At that moment, something crashed through the window behind DeLarge's desk, sending showers of broken glass cascading down to the floor. DeLarge jumped on Vicky, who pushed him off, insisting that she was gay, and Lrb felt left out, so he jumped on himself.[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]A strange calm washed over the office, as DeLarge got to his feet and inched his way over to where the object had fallen. He took a deep breath, extended his foot, and nudged the thing which had smashed the window...[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]--- So that's the end of part one. Bear in mind it's not supposed to be a literary masterpiece, just a bit of fun. Stay tuned for part two. [/SIZE][/center]

[FONT="Times New Roman"]Not entirely. I know about DC, Marvel and Dark Horse, but never really read anything from them. As you can see in my sig that I've been watching Wolverine and the X-Men and I think it's really good. Of course, I grew up on the X-Men cartoon from the 90s (Spider-Man and Batman as well.) Saw a character in WatXM (Domino) that I've never heard of before, and seeing how I was playing this card game called VS System for a little bit, and I thought it was time to expand the my knowledge about these marvel characters that I know nothing about. Anyway, I'm looking to jump into the comic world. Just like anime, I'm an artwork freak. I'm looking for more modern age-ish comics. I've been told about Ultimate X-Men and Spider-Man. Are there any others? Any good comics in DC with some good artwork? Oh yeah, I'm a fan of X-Men (I don't mind single character comics either), Spider-Man, Batman, Deadpool and Justice League. I feel as if I left something off.[/FONT]