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(Contains: violence/gore)
Zarah and Klax dash down empty, yellow-lit corridors. The half-human's scarf and cloak stream behind her, a river of red in a black sea. The Small Folk skates ahead, his eyes glowing white, frowning and whispering something to himself. He points down another hall when they reach an intersection and Zarah follows him around the corner.

The squad of six soldiers in spiral shell armor stand in their way. Every soldier looks up from the ground at the same time, their eyes glassy and cold. They pull out clam shields, lock them into a wall, and advance with their sea pikes forward.

Zarah laughs, grabs Klax by the back of his vestments, and throws him behind her. “You said this was the right way, short stuff!” She pulls out her Cleaver and starts backing up, using the wide blade to block the pikes trying to stab her. “Though I could use one more warm-up fight.”

Klax sits up and fixes his collar. “Light tells me this is the right way, Zarah.” He stares at the soldiers advancing on them, his eyes still shining white. “Light also tells me those soldiers are asleep. They may be innocents.”

“And I care why?” Zarah tries to bring back her sword for a wide swing, but the tip bangs against the hallway wall. She sighs, flips the blade, and holds the sword lower. With a thrust forward and a short downward swing, she slams the flat edge of her sword through the forest of pikes, ringing against the armor of the nearest soldier.

The spiral shell cracks and the soldier stumbles backwards. The other soldiers advance to surround Zarah, but she disappears before they can close the circle. Zarah appears beside Klax, the Cleaver against her shoulder. She grabs him by the collar again and drags him farther away from the soldiers.

“I kill people. Most of them deserve it, but you never know. And these ones are in my way.” She glances down at Klax. “Do you have a better reason?”

He frowns. “If you will not, I will make this my responsibility. Light will bring them to their senses.”

Zarah raises an eyebrow and shrugs. The soldiers turn to face them, bringing their pikes forward. Klax stands and spreads his arms wide.

“Light, please grant me a host of your angels.” Twenty or so small bubbles appear around his hands, shiny and translucent. “Please grant them your first blessing. Please grant them your speed. Please grant them the power to end sleep. All this I humbly ask, O Light.”

The bubbles glow bright, each twinkling like a star in the night sky. Klax throws his hands forward and they streak away, some popping if a pike or shield catches them, though the majority reach the soldiers. Two or more enter each helm through the eyepieces and pop against the soldier's eyes. The soldiers' legs shake and wobble, as one after another the squad collapses.

Klax bends over and supports himself with his hands on his knees. “There. Thank Light I got them all. They will soon wake fully and we can ask them what has happened here.”

Zarah snorts. “Don't care! Let's go!” She grabs Klax around the waist, picks him up under her arm, and leaps over the pile of collapsed soldiers.



In the room of hanging cocoons, the Drunk wanders amongst the people standing idle at the walls. He waves his hand in front of their eyes, blows in their ears, and pinches a few feminine backsides. Nothing that he does causes them to move.

O-Rem and Wo-Yang pass through the illusory wall. The Drunk crouches down behind some of the motionless people, watching them. The innkeeper's hands are up near his chest, his fingers curled into claws, while the armored man has his greatsword ready.

The large innkeeper thumps farther into the room and lifts a hand to the nearest cocoon. “Nothing is disturbed. My troublesome guest may have left here, but he cannot escape. My Inn is locked down.” He turns to Wo-Yang. “Search every room. Find him. Discretely kill him.”

The armored man bows his head. “Yes, sir. And if he's spoken to his companions?”

O-Rem grunts. “Knock them out. I will decide whether to modify their memories or add them to the stock.”

Wo-Yang sighs. “Yes, sir.”

The Drunk steps out of hiding, takes a swig from his hip flask, and returns the flask to its pocket. “Ya may as well stay here, lad. I won't run.” The two other men turn and gape at him. “Sounds like there's some evil afoot.” He takes off his shawl of furs and hangs it on the back of a motionless person. “I'll have ta put a stop ta that.” He pulls out a heavy golden ring from the pocket of his shawl and walks toward the other two.

The innkeeper points his finger at the Drunk and snarls a few long, guttural words. Every person at the room's walls lifts their head, settling their glassy eyes on the Drunk. The common workers pull out knives and clubs, while the guards ready their weapons and shields. They all advance on the Drunk.

Wo-Yang braces his feet, pulls back his massive sword for a swing, and whispers, “We are water. Water flows through.” He vanishes and appears behind the Drunk.

The bare-chested man catches the armored man's wrist and stops the blow coming for his neck. The Drunk twists his upper body and slams Wo-Yang against the floor. The armored man gasps and drops his sword, and the bare-chested man kicks him. Wo-Yang flies across the room and crashes against a section of the oncoming horde.

“Please don't do this.” The Drunk turns to O-Rem and smiles. “Stop this while ya can, lad.” As the crowds converge around him and swing with everything they have, the Drunk darts through them in a blur and stops in front of O-Rem. His fingers close into a fist, around which flames appear as he pulls back. “We'll go for drinks.”

The crowd of people turn as one toward the Drunk, but O-Rem snaps his fingers and they become still. The heavyset innkeeper shakes his head. “You have seen too much, my troublesome guest.” His hands contort into claws and he speaks sharp, echoing words.

The bare-chested man coughs and staggers backward. Solid, red spikes pierce out through his skin, then melt to a liquid and splash down on the floor. He sways on his feet. “We can drink ta forget.” The flames around his fist disappear. He coughs up blood and drops to his knees.

O-Rem smiles. “You should have stayed hiding, my friendly fool.” Lightning sheathes his arms and gathers in the palms of his hands.

The Drunk shakes his head and smiles. “A bondman of the Rose does not hide.”

The innkeeper sticks his claw fingers into the bare-chested man's shoulders, who bellows as the lightning arcs through him and his skin blisters. The blood on the floor around him boils and evaporates; the red mist clings to the skin stitching itself together again. In a second he looks whole and uninjured, though he remains on his knees, his eyes half-closed.

The heavyset innkeeper's form wavers in the lightning's brief flash. The air cracks around him and falls away. A squat and hulking body is revealed, with green and slimy skin like a frog. The thing's head is large and bulbous, with bright red eyes.

“Annoying feedback.” The large humanoid grimaces, and then stares down. “But what are you, my troublesome guest?”

“Old is all I know, lad.” The Drunk chuckles. “Though I know what you are. I was once wed ta one a your kind. Ogre.”

O-Rem blinks; multiple clear lids come in from the sides of his face and back again. “Unlikely, but not impossible.” His eyes glow and he tilts his head to the side. “There is a most powerful spell nucleus within you, my strange guest. I will study it before killing you.”

Wo-Yang appears six helms behind the Drunk. He shoves his longspear through the kneeling man's back and out through his chest. No blood sprays out. Wo-Yang breathes out a sigh. “That should kill him, grand-uncle.” He pulls out his longspear. No blood is on the blade.

The bare-chested man snarls, baring sharp teeth at the ceiling, eyes closed. Flame rolls out from its clenched fist to enshroud its entire body. Its skin burns and heals, again and again. Standing, the infernal Monster licks its lips and smiles.

“What have you done?” O-Rem glares at Wo-Yang. “Now I must subdue it again! Stand back, idiot!”

The Monster pulls back for an uppercut aimed at the ogre's large stomach. The ogre's cheeks bulge and let out a croak which blows away the Monster's flames and sends it flying backwards. O-Rem scratches two clawed fingers together; the crowd of people raise their weapons in a wall of pointed steel. The Monster crashes through them and rolls against the floor, swords and daggers now sticking from its back.

“Grand-uncle, allow me to help!” Wo-Yang pleads.

O-Rem grunts. “You are useless. You do nothing but try to seduce the lower races.” He sighs and shakes his head. “My brother should never have allowed a half-breed son to live, never mind it couple with yet another human slave and produce something one-quarter that of a true ogre.”

“What? No. You have it all wrong.” O-Rem and Wo-Yang turn to the doorway. Zarah shakes her head, as behind her Klax pokes his head through the illusionary wall. The half-human points her Cleaver at Wo-Yang. “Us halfies aren't lesser. We're the best of both. Haven't you ever heard of inbreeding?”

O-Rem snarls at Wo-Yang, “They've seen the room! Kill them!” He thumps towards the Monster. The crowd of people close ranks behind.
High War - Chapter 19.4

Ugh. I'm going to finish this chapter, but here's what I have so far.

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This is a true apocalypse. Not one of those pretend ones where a lot of people die and the world goes on without them. Where the world is brown and dusty for a while before life returns in a miracle of green. Where everyone goes back to leather armor and handmade weapons and banditry. The bomb didn't drop, a scientist didn't break reality, someone's god didn't vanish their faithful.

The End began with a wedding. A man - the hero of a thousand worlds, who defeated the forces of anti-life, who beat all odds with the courage of his conviction - stood atop a dais with his love at his side. She was no longer human, or so they say. After their vows were said, as their lips met and the audience cheered, she faded into faux light. And the audience became silent. And the man walked home.

Many years later, the man wandered the lands alone and forgotten. His cloak was brown and ragged, his walking staff topped by a shining blade. The story goes that the hero of the last war met a small child playing in the dirt atop a hill. To the young boy he taught a simple lesson of peace, courage, and ideals. In the distance behind him, mankind's spaceships leapt for the heavens on a voyage of exploration and new adventures. After watching them pierce the heavens, the old man walked away.

The hands of every clock froze. That was the End. Time ceased.

No one grew hungry or thirsty. No one could move or speak. No one needed to sleep, or could do so. But we could still think and see and remember. Some claim they could move their eyes. And so we observed the world around us, which had become still as well. Birds hung in the air. Insects waited above bright flowers. Carnivores stared at their prey.

Little by little, Time started moving again. Time, after all, exists because we observe the world around us. But Time did not come equally to everyone and everywhere.

The first was a truck driver. He had been sitting atop the cabin of his rig on the side of the road, waiting to watch the spaceships leave. We can guess what he was thinking. What will a road mean, when mankind lives among the stars? Is this the end for me? Is that dark voyage our future? When Time began again to move for him, he sighed, shook his head, climbed back inside his truck, and drove onward to his destination.

Wherever the driver traveled, Time began again for everyone and everything he saw. Whomsoever was moved by him, moved others as well. Time spread like a virulent disease, bringing back to the world pain and rot and death. But there was hope as well. No one knows for how long our world's Time was stopped. We now hoped Time would not freeze again.

The second of these unfreezing events took place within a cave deep below the earth's surface. Mankind had once hidden in such sites, and now a sole undiscovered village remained. There lived a girl who dreamed of that thing which some still called the blue sky; her sky had always been the brown dirt and shadows of the cave roof. When Time began again to move for her, she gasped for a lungful of air and grasped her drill. Despite the warnings of her friends and the fear of her village's leaders, she aimed high and broke the ceiling.

The third and final of these events was aboard a satellite, within which lived a solitary Philosopher. This Philosopher had been sequestered in space to live and think undisturbed, and there had written down a few simple sentences upon a piece of paper: Are you there? Not the gods of religion, not the spirits of myth, not the ghosts of spiritualism. Are you there, that which Observes? When Time began again to move for the Philosopher, a single word had appeared: Yes.

A different kind of event began to occur. The first of these, or so they say, happened to the old Hero. By some coincidence perhaps he was also the last to be released from Time's grip; a woman had come looking atop the hill for her boy, who unfroze and turned to the old man, who turned again to the stars. He stared up at them with a frown etched across his face. Then he spoke to the mother and child behind him of endless war, forever regrets, and broken dreams.

Those to whom the second kind of event happen, of which there are now many, describe them almost as if Time had frozen again. They could only think and see and remember, though their bodies moved and their mouths spoke. They were not in control of themselves. Everything they did happened without their willing, as if they were possessed by an alien presence.

For some, the second kind of event is over quickly. For others, the event can last for years at a time. They have grand adventures, or complete ordinary tasks, or make love. Everyone they meet suffers the same condition for as long as they are near. And when the event is over, they regain control as if they never lost it. That is, the ones who still live at the End.

There are many theories for these strange and fearsome occurrences. Some, to whom they have not yet occurred, say reports of these secondary events are a massive hoax. Others, led by the old Hero, claim they are caused by the forces of anti-life, returned and seeking vengeance. But I have another theory.

We can't pretend we're real anymore.

And so again I call out to the Observers, they who left me that single word so long ago. What do you want? Why do you torment us so? And please do not cause Time to stand still ever again. Thank you. Respectfully yours, the Philosopher.
Flash - We Can't Pretend We're Real Anymore
This is my 999-word contest entry for this: fav.me/d8y4elj

So the prompt says no word limit flash fiction, but I read it as being between 1 and 999. And isn't there a six-word stories meme? So that's the title, a six-word story all by itself, which I almost submitted since that's all I felt like doing. A nice and simple breaking the fourth wall declarative. But then I decided to really be a jerk and go for the maximum word count, which is how six words became 999. And it's sort of fanfiction? I hope you know the series being referred to, as it's one of my favorites.
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The lights in the bar turn a forest green. The tables and chairs have been pushed to the walls, with half stacked on top of the others. A few of the inn's guests still sit at their tables, others have left for their rooms, and the remainder stand around the empty space.

Zarah and Wo-Yang face each other in the middle of the room. Scarfenstein and the black cloak hang across a stool and the Cleaver leans against the bar near Zarah. A collection of weapons has been left at the bar near Wo-Yang; a longspear, a greatsword, a coiled whip with multiple heads, a cloth-covered truncheon, and a metal gauntlet.

Wo-Yang licks his lips. “So all I must do to learn your name is catch hold of you? You make this too enticing, milady.” He stretches out his fingers and grins at her. “To get one thing that I want, I must only do another thing that I want as well.”

Zarah grins back. “You won't be able to.”

They stare at each other, and the spectators turn from one to the other. Klax stands with the crowd, wringing his hands. A Small Folk in black leather armor exchanges coins, all copper and silver, for torn slips of paper.

The steel-clad man reaches for his waist and pulls forth a length of white, silken rope. “Grasping you will be too easy in this small space, milady. I will hogtie you instead.”

The woman's blue flecks darken, and her eyes narrow. “You want to make this harder on yourself?” She shrugs. “Fine. But I'm not letting you have as long as you want. It's over when I punch you.” After a breath she smirks. “No, it'll be a slap. You should be used to that.”

Wo-Yang nods his head to the side. He raises his arms, the rope held taut between them, and bends his knees to crouch a little. “We are water.”

Zarah raises an eyebrow. She crouches down as well and stretches her legs. “You'd better make this interesting.”

He smiles. “Water flows under.”

Wo-Yang vanishes and appears behind Zarah in an instant. She dives forward as he tries to wrap the rope around her legs. He turns his lunge into a forward shoulder roll, his armor thudding against the floor; she cartwheels ahead of him, lithe and silent. She doesn't go far in the enclosed space and a loop of his rope catches around her outstretched arm. He stands and tries to pull the loop tight, but her hand wriggles free and the rope closes around air. She swings her other hand at his face, but he steps back to safety.

The spectators grunt and clap and cheer. More geld flows to the Small Folk taking bets.

Wo-Yang stretches the rope taut again. “Trying to end the game so soon?”

Zarah crosses her arms. “I don't believe it. You can move in that armor?”

He shrugs. “Footwork is the first principle a warrior learns. My armor is heavy, but I am used to it.”

The room's lights turn the light blue of an eggshell as Zarah sighs. “Okay.” She flexes her hands and straightens her fingers. “I'll get a little more serious.”

She kicks off, sprints the few paces between them, and leaps. Her left foot bounds off a barstool, her right foot plants atop his shoulder, and even as he tries to bring the rope up to wrap around her leg, she leaps again. He staggers and falls to one knee. She grabs a rafter beam above and swing upward, where her feet stomp the ceiling. For a breath she seems to crouch there, on all fours and upside down. Then she falls, twisting in the air to land on her feet behind him, her open palm swinging toward his face.

Wo-Yang catches her slap against the white rope. Zarah darts away in a black and blue blur, around to his other shoulder. He drops his chin to his chest and throws himself at her. She sidesteps out of his way. He rolls across the floor, his armor thudding. She kicks out at him, but her foot hits only air.

He stands but doesn't face her yet. “Water flows through.” The rope is pulled taut in his hands.

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “I get it, you fight like water. Know what I fight like?”

Wo-Yang turns to her with a grin. “A rabid beaver, milady?”

Zarah shakes her head. “Nothing and nobody. I'm free to fight as I please.”

“Nothing?” The armored man stares at the woman, his red eyes dim and muted in the blue lights. “You are mistaken, milady.” His smile wavers. “What can we do but flow in a channel carved by others?”

She laughs. “Do anything but that! Live different from those people. Some of it won't work, some of it will be difficult, but if the best way is how others already do it, at least you discovered that on your own. And sometimes you'll discover something new that no one ever thought of before.”

Zarah turns her back on him. “Be a leader, never a follower.” Her arms cross behind her back and she stares at the ceiling. “And when no one follows you, be a lone wolf.” She spins back around to face him, but the man is gone.

Wo-Yang appears behind Zarah and coils his white rope several times around her wrists. “I will consider your words, milady.” With her hands tied behind her back and the rope held in his grasp, the man leans close to whisper. “But I should attack from behind. The warrior who approaches from the rear will win.”

She smirks and turns to him, her blue flecks pulsing. “Hold on tight.” She hops up a few inches, and then drops down to the floor – into the floor, down through her shadow.

The armored man's red eyes go wide as the rope pulls him to the floor. His fists gripping the rope pound against the stucco floor and he grunts. The rope slips out of his hands and vanishes through the closing shadow.

Above him, the shadows of the ceiling converge and Zarah drops out. She lands feet-first on his armored back. He flops down, arms and legs spread wide, pressed flat to the floor. She sits down and gives a ringing slap to the side of his head.

Klax closes his eyes with a soft sigh. The bar crowd around him claps and hoots and whistles. They all turn around and search the bar as the lights in the room take on a day-like yellow color. The two Small Folk in black leather armor are gone. The crowd begins to grumble and mutter as Zarah stands.

The door at the back of the room swings open and O-Rem thuds out. “Yang!” The innkeeper stares around, his dark eyes resting on the crowd. “Where is Wo-Yang? I must speak with him.”

Wo-Yang groans and picks himself up off the floor. “Here, sir.” He nods to Zarah. “Your victory, my nameless lady.” The armored man collects his weapons at the bar and follows the innkeeper from the room.

Zarah frowns. After they are gone she turns to Klax. “Wanna bet this involves the old man?”



The Drunk stalks the halls, his eyes closed. His nostrils flare wide as he takes a deep sniff. “Rot and filth. But where?” His eyes open and he stares at the walls. “This place is bigger than it seemed.”

Many footsteps echo from around the corner ahead, and the Drunk slips to the side of the hallway. He darts forward and vanishes as a squad of six soldiers in heavy armor march around the corner. They carry tridents and wear armor of spiral shell. Their eyes are on the ground.

In another hallway, the Drunk stops running and leans against his knees. “Aye, this is definitely worse than that time I found myself in a palace a mirrors. At least here I know where the exit is.” He glances back behind himself. “I think I do.”

The hallway splits ahead in three directions. To his left the path is straight and well-lit and clean, with more intersections beyond. Ahead is much the same, though the hall curves to the right further on. To his immediate right is a dead end after ten or so helms. The walls and floors there are covered by a thin layer of dust.

“All the same,” mutters the Drunk. He closes his eyes and takes another deep sniff.

His eyes blink and start to water, and he convulses in silent gasping. The Drunk staggers in to the dead end, his feet dragging tracks across the dirty floor. He puts out a hand to lean against the end wall. His hand passes through like smoke and he tumbles out of sight.

On the other side is a wide room, a mirror to the inn's bar. The floor is white stucco, empty of furniture, and a thick yellow mist floats everywhere. The room is lit by dozens of pale white canvas cocoons hanging from the ceiling; the cocoons have glowing red sigils woven into their sides. Each cocoon is weighed down by a horizontal shape the size of a person's body. Clear tubes emerge from them filled with yellow, brown, lime-green, orange, and purple liquids.

The Drunk remains curled on the floor, choking and coughing. He vomits, rolls over to lay on his back, and covers his nose and mouth with his hand. At last he opens his eyes.

Around the edges of the room stand men and women, humans and orcs and Small Folk. Some wear armor and have weapons. Others look like maids and cooks and laborers. All of them stare at the ground, their eyes glassy, unmoving.

The Drunk stands and stares at his surroundings. The cocoons do not move, and neither do the people around the room. The Drunk removes his shawl of furs and wraps it around his head for a mask. His voice emerges thin and muffled, “What do we have here?”
High War - Chapter 19.3

Okay, that's the prep-work done, now we can have the fight! I wonder if anyone can guess what the five tubes have in them? I'll give one away; the purple is a magical drug known as Coma. Drink some and you'll fall fast sleep, completely free of dreams. The time spent sleeping is based on how much you drink; take exactly such and such amount, you'll sleep for such and such hours. Also no one will be able to wake you in the intervening time (thus the name) and you'll wake up feeling refreshed. It can also be used as a poison in combat, but the effect is reduced when not ingested.


This is a part of my High War project, a story set in a fantasy-ish world. I think my preview image comes from a free image site; if you know otherwise then please tell me so I can take it down, although I would be happier to use it with the permission of its creator. This will be a story for somewhat mature audiences; there will be occasional violence, language, and adult themes. Thanks for reading, and I would be happy to discuss this chapter with you.


First: fav.me/d5znp9c


Next: soon ...

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Go to sleep, small child. Your mommy and daddy cannot wish you good night. I will, if that is what you need. You must lie in bed and I will do so.

Go to sleep, small child. Your claims of thirst do not impress me. I do not want you needing to pee during the night. You will not die without a drink.

Go to sleep, small child. Your hunger cannot be helped. I did not have dinner today either. You will learn to ignore it.

Go to sleep, small child. Your bed is soft, I promise. I have cleaned the sheets and patched the holes in the mattress. You will disappear to dream land in no time.

Go to sleep, small child. Your room cannot be made warmer. I have a space heater in my room, but you cannot sleep there. You will be cozy under your blankets.

Go to sleep, small child. Your teddy bear is not here. I understand, but stop crying. You will be returned to him very soon.

Go to sleep, small child. Your pajamas are at your house. I gave you that shirt to wear, don't you like it? You do not need to know what those letters mean.

Go to sleep, small child. Your friends at the park are fine. I know because the news said so. You can watch the news with me tomorrow.

Go to sleep, small child. Your parents will send the money. I won't hurt you if they don't. You would be more trouble dead.
Flash - Taken
Just to be clear, this is not a confessional piece :) This is for a contest fav.me/d8xbsf3
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You are incredibly clever. No one else has thoughts like yours. Everyone says you're highly intelligent: your parents, their friends, the neighbors. They say you can do anything. They are correct. Your mind is sharper than a diamond; the facets sparkle in Plato's sun.

The only ones who don't see it are your teachers. And what do they know? They struggle to teach lessons you comprehend in one reading. You score high on every test they give. They expect you to do their homework?

Cindy takes your virginity at Senior Prom. After coitus she implies she wasn't listening to your clever lines. She says she wanted a cherry for the evening and not to expect a second date.

You don't pass high school. You don't need their diploma. Its called a GED and you'll get it if you want to. You don't apply for any colleges either. Why waste four and .5 years?

You teach yourself the noble art of writing. People need you to tell them how to live. No one knows you yet, but they will. You're too clever to not be good at this.

You invent the online dating page. Or at least the idea of one. You teach yourself to code, but actual coding feels like homework. Two years later someone else will be first.

When you were sixteen, you took apart a car and put it back together. Your resume has that and a few references. The big name auto body shops don't call back. But Big Al hires you.

Women say you smell like gasoline. They are often drunk before anything happens. Living with your parents is another turn off, no matter how much financial sense you tell them it makes.

You meet Mahogany at work. Big Al is her dad. She's pretty hardcore, but she's the first person you've met almost as smart as you. And she has an impressive trading card collection.

Mahogany is pregnant. Big Al says you'd better marry her. Knowing how much you make, he says you can afford a cheap wedding. Your parents don't approve, but what do they know?

The twins Tye and Rone keep you up every damn night. And they don't look like you. You sneak a paternity test and discover that crack snorting whore cheated on you.

Now you need a new job, a new woman, and to get away for a while. The forest service is hiring. You agree to spend five years in the middle of some woods. You meet Hannowah River Crest on a bridge over a waterfall.

Hannah doesn't leave the forest with you after the five years, even though things were really great. She says you're too tied down to the past.

Mahogany asks you to watch her twin boys. She vanishes.

Laura has a daughter already, she's a big help with the twins.

You run in to Cindy at the high school reunion. She's a supermodel, runs a non-profit, writes wildly successful self help books. She's sorry.

You and Laura have four more children. The last two might not be yours, but you're busy at the paper mill. Besides, all the kids are clever like you.
Flash - You Are

I know a lot of clever people, but if I had to point to one person who most inspired this piece, it would be this guy from high school who rode on my school bus. He had terrible grades in all of his classes because he threw away all of his homework. Why? He told us it was enough that he aced all of the tests. In other words, he was willing to show how smart he was in school, but he wasn't willing to put in any work after that. But hey, it was only high school, that doesn't matter for much. Though I wonder sometimes, when I drive past his house, what happened to him? Did he become a genius who paved his own way through life without a high school diploma? Or did he go on only being clever like we all are?


This piece is for a contest fav.me/d8wasym And there is just a bit of bad language

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deviantID

Cobrateen
Ian Chisholm
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Favorite Quote: “Take chances, make mistakes, get messy!”

I'm here to tell my stories; I love Anime and I'm aiming at a career writing animation scripts, but for now I'm a writer-in-training creating worlds and characters and telling stories with them for my amusement. I'm also searching for a visual artist to collaborate with; if you read something here that inspires you and you can make dem perdy picture things, I would be interested in enlisting you for a creative partnership with the goal of collaborating on something awesome. And I'm here to learn; I want advice on how I can improve, I gladly work with, co-author or even take on requests to sharpen my writing skills, and if you'd like a critique or some proofreading you only have to ask.

I upload something new every week, either part of an ongoing story I am writing, or something more random like a character piece or personal opinion paper. I also try to do prose critiques every week, and I write webcomic reviews semi-regularly for my Journal section and collect them in archived compilations of ten. Occasionally I look back at something I have uploaded to DA (at minimum a year old) in the hopes that I can glean something useful from it, and when I'm bored I hang out in the Philosophy forum. Of course the busier my life gets, the less of all that I do.

My 2015 avatar is me, writing down by the lake! Of course you can't see much of me, especially not the sweet hat I'm wearing, and this image is from forever ago, like high school or something, and I'm writing data findings on the water for science, some project my Grandpa gave me to help his fishing club ... but it's me!

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:iconhlwar:
hlwar Featured By Owner Jun 7, 2015
Wow, thank you kindly for stopping by and taking the time to look over my gallery! I truly appreciate the +fav. :la:

And: Thanks For The Llama Emote 
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:iconrhekya:
Rhekya Featured By Owner May 20, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
thanks for the fav!
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:iconpuzzlingpredicament:
PuzzlingPredicament Featured By Owner May 18, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the fav~! <3
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:icongroundspiritminerva:
GroundSpiritMinerva Featured By Owner May 7, 2015  Student General Artist
thanks for the trade!
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:iconthearchosaurqueen:
TheArchosaurQueen Featured By Owner May 7, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Happy birthday ^-^.

And no I haven't forgot your questions on my righting, I've just been busy with other things again, so I'll answer it eventually.
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