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Deviant for 14 Years
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Walk-Taking - Krillin Excerpt
"Hey, wait up! The heck you thinking, fiddling at me like that? What's puking about in that head of your's?"
Twenty smiled. He had sufficiently riled the short human, thereby ensuring he would be interested in whatever the Android would suggest. Of course, he had no reason to doubt that Krillin would want to train his abilities, especially since he had so many promising attacks with too little of their potential fulfilled. Twenty was, nonetheless, slightly prideful regarding his own abilities, however. His sensors had picked up an…anomaly, in his own structure. Somewhere, there was something untapped. A large amount of unused energy that, if let free…
Twenty smiled to himself. Yes, whatever it was seemed very promising indeed. And, what better way to search for it than to train with a good friend, and fellow warrior for a year? Even despite his eccentricities, Krillin was more than sufficient to keep him entertained, though he often had enough data to keep himself occupied in combat si
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Fantasizing - Krillin Excerpt
Amidst dangerous rubble and deadly natives, one man alone is capable of digging a hole and providing enough material to make a blockbuster movie of it. Donning his signature striped beanie, only Krillin is courageous enough to excavate the land in search of a bizarre religious artifact that was, of course, pure gold. He gazes at the sun, allowing a close-up of his perfectly sculpted face. His mouth hangs open slightly as his eyes dance around, looking desperately for something to focus upon besides trees.
His sight falls upon his loyal native slave. When he had first found Zarbon, the poor savage was playing a game of septic tag (a quickly growing hobby that was currently being considered for the nation's national sport, which was odd, considering no one else in the world was willing to play against them). Being a white man, Krillin thought everyone would treat him as a god, give him neat stuff, and cryptically point him in the right direction of the artifact he coveted. At his arrival
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An Engulfed Garden
A man once lived high up in the mountains. He was a well-to-do man, always keeping his garden in proper order, and making sure the shrubbery was free of caterpillars and other critters. For years he lived on like this, tending to his flowers, and getting by on the produce he grew out back. It was a wonderful and almost perfect life, free from change and uncertainty; day in and day out, the same beautiful, melodious life. At this point, it should be noted that every flower in his garden had the same hue: white. Without exception.
It wasn't too peculiar to find new sprouts growing in his garden after the pollination season, so when he saw them come up, he thought nothing of it. Days went on as they always did, until one day, he saw the most remarkable thing in his garden.
A red flower. Indeed, not just any red flower, but a rose, as beautiful and tall as the mountains he lived upon. He had never grown roses before, and being a man of such simple living, he spent the rest of the day marve
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Teleporting - Krillin Excerpt
Krillin never did like teleporting. The sudden change in gravity always made him look idiotic when he came out, either bracing himself too hard, or sprawled out on the floor. After picking himself up, the first thing he noticed was that there was no one manning the incoming booths. In fact, the entire station seemed deserted. All of the lights were shut off, and the stale taste of an unused ventilation system seeped into his nostrils. Krillin stepped onto the dirty metal tile, constantly checking behind him. The entire experience was somewhat eerie. Vegeta-sei was nothing like this last time he had visited. They were neglectful, sure, but leaving an entire station unmanned?
Something was wrong. Upon further inspection, two of the teleportation receivers had been burnt out, though two others were still active. As he watched, a third one began to slowly flicker, blared a high-pitched siren, and shut down.
The computers were still active, apparently far less fragile than the receivers. Sl
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Pogo Steals from a Drunk
"Ai! Bob, c'mere and look at the wee one! He's downing his grog quick as any else!"
Pogo apparently was drawing quite a crowd. He was currently in one of the dingy bars of a dingy city, filled with dingy people all chatting about their dingy lives with equally dingy grunts. Nothing new.
Pogo never planned to come back to this particular bar. He wasn't really a big drinker, but he was a good faker, and he loved money. To that end, he was an outstanding actor, and had more than one way to filch a few people out of their money. Especially the dingy ones.
Tim Tiglis was not an average barkeeper. He was rather thin, carried no mustauche, wore bright clothes, and always kept his hair combed. If nothing else, he looked as though he belonged behind a large desk somewhere, perhaps in Customs, checking great big boxes for small little illegal things. But, as luck would have it, the unofficial "caste" system threw him to the bar, and left him to scrounge up a living. He
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September 11th - Five Years
It was an ordinary class. Nineteen seventh-graders, glancing wistfully outside, watching a beautiful day melt into English class. No one particularly liked English class, except the teacher. So, when the principal entered the room and called her outside, we all silently cheered. But when the teacher walked back in, we could tell that something was wrong.
"Class, the World Trade Centers have just been struck. Let's pray."
And we prayed. Not as a class, not as children, but as twenty collective souls bent towards heaven, and interceding for the innocents. None of us knew the particulars, but we didn't need to. We knew enough to pray for them, and trusted God to know the rest. When we stopped speaking (for we never exactly stopped praying that day), we all went down the hall and huddled around a radio spewing static and crackle, and the news. The station didn't matter, no one was playing any music anyway.
Our hearts chilled when we heard that the Towers fell. Few of us knew what they were
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Second Place Murder
It was simple. I was meant to kill a young man with a loose mouth. There had been a few remarks made that Griff didn't take so kindly to, and he wanted the guy muffled. Somehow or another (I can never quite figure out how he knows these things), Griff figured that our soon-to-be-dead acquaintance was a regular at the local nerd haven. I was all set to head in, do the job (discreetly, of course), and get out. It's a big city, and as long as I covered my tracks, Griff said, I'd be fine. 'Course, it was the threat that I wouldn't be fine if I didn't do the job that got me goin'.
The choice for the murder was easy. A gun would be too obvious and easy to track. A knife would be much more covert, but that wasn't quite my style. I'm a thinker. Always have been, always will be. And, though some of those fuckers would laugh afterwards, my blade was an icicle salvaged from the junk kept in the upper room. A bit of tinkering with a fridge, a cooler, and a quick entry was all I needed to have the
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Arbor Heights
Arbor Heights is another one of those projects I'd been telling you about. Sure you've heard of it, but since there's nothin' else t'talk about, we'll go with it.
A town, in a tree. Great idea for th'richy folk that live in them mansions and have nothin' t'do with the rest of us. They'll pay for dang-well anything, cump'ny said. They's right too. After year and half it took'em t'build it, lots sold like a hooker in Congress. Billions of dollars t'make it all. Landed 'em in all those super-somethin' magazines, Forbes 'n all. Anyway, things going real, real good for them, right? Scientifically grown tree or whatever with a buttload of that super fancy Miracle-Gro stuff, construction, then sales. New tourist spot, cha-ching!
And, y'know yer gramma. Somethin' glitzy shoot up, she's gotta goin' see it. So we went. Huge hassle, you wouldn't believe. All that money into flashyness, and the very best they can manage is a poor-paved, windy road? We saw the blasted thing, marveled a bit, and spe
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Paint Me Otherwise.
On a certain balcony,
Above a certain field,
Two hearts were pointed at heaven.
One was the younger,
One was the elder,
Incontent with what they were given.
The younger cried:
"Paint me old.
I'm tired of waiting to live!
I want to be set free!
Youth is too little. I want more.
Paint me old, I pray."
The older's was likewise:
"Paint me young.
I'm tired of waiting to die.
I want to be set free.
Age will kill me. Bring me back.
Paint me young, I pray."
Both possessed what the other desired,
Yet both left unfulfilled.
When nature heard what they'd inquired,
It stopped itself, and stilled.
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His Last Battleground
Night was creeping on the horizons, weighing heavily on the land. Before long, it would be even tougher to see who was an enemy and who was not. The two armies took notice, but could not devote too much thought to it for fear of being picked off by the opportunistic archers lining either side of the valley. All it took was a single lapse. Just a single hesitation.
The training had never prepared them for this. For one, the superficial simulations seemed efficient enough, but there was always something in a real fight that the cadets never accounted for in their fantasies, and usually, they eventually succumbed to it. For some, it was the incessant cries of combat, and the dull moans of the dying. For others, it was the worry of death, bearing down on their soul, making one's heart heavy. But thoughts of death and pain were usually absent during battle, pushed off to a forgotten corner of the mind and continuously resalvaged for the rest of a man's life, however long that might be. Each
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Poetic Insult
You're like thick air that doesn't fit my lungs.
You're like hair strands that clump together.
You're like pens that leak but never write.
You're like fish with one less rib that normal.
You're like a bellybutton filled with red shirt lint.
You're like a no-edged sword with a spoon on the end.
You're like splinters that bash rather than pierce.
You're like a new-coat sticker that peels off the finish.
You are so incredibly frustrating, that nothing
Less than a poem could say it.
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Miserable Paper
a small, poor paper-piece
torn: jaggedy, raggedy.
what would you have been?
scrap, that's what. more?
no. just a lonely, wifeless
your edges are harsh.
your tint is wrong-color.
your lines end at the edge.
what good are you?
were you not the keeper of this delightful piece,
i might throw you away with other's that host failure.
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Just a ramen noodle. A lone
Ramen noodle, left behind after its cooker
Had eaten the rest. Through clumsiness,
The artificial worm fell to the waiting
Towel, where it lay for the
Remainder of dinner.
Silently, it weeps soy sauce, knowing that it
Deserved something more. But, for this noodle,
Life is over. Without a second thought, its to-be consumer
Scoops it up and throws it away
To rot.
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The swipe, swipe, swipe of a woodsman
Sends litter to the floor.
Already his work is taking form,
While formless chunks fall.
The crafty old man thinks of
Flakes off his design.
Left scattered on the floor.
Part of something more?
No. Just shavings.
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Using the Right Tools
It's hard to make a slender knothole,
If given a cord too thick.
It's hard to craft a dainty dollhouse,
If given a pyramid brick.
It's hard to make a flying machine,
If given the smallest of birds.
It's hard to lift a Broken-Heart,
Without the right words.
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The Pole
A metal pole, rusted and spent, stands honored in a Maryland backyard.
It was a meat-hanger for ancient tribes, when they first began the hunt.
It was a factor in Ericson's hut, built short after he arrived.
It was the second pole for a lacrosse goal, back before it was called lacrosse.
It was the man-made branch Chief Growling Fox laid his headdress on at night.
It was part of the barricade for two American wars.
It was a hunting support for families during the Depression.
It was what helped Old Lady Wilkens up after her nasty fall.
And now, a tetherball hangs from the top, adorned in simplicity and stripped of due honor. Its owner knows nothing of the pole's history.
But the pole does, and it can smile as it thinks of its testament to a life of changing history. One day, it will be a forgotten piece of scrap metal, withering amidst withering weeds, but it will still stand strong. Remembering.
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The walk home....
It wasn't an extraordinary day. He left work at the same time. Got off the stairs instead of the elevator, as usual. Swiped his access card. Waited for a taxi to the station. Did not find any. Started walking to the station.
The only thing probably different about the day was the shade of grey around. It was of course the monsoon season and so, there wasn't anything unusual about the grey. He crossed the road and walked to the sea face. He hated crossing the road at Marine Drive. The cars would just whizz past like the road wouldn't exist if they didn't speed. But he managed. He had never been hit by a car on this road. But there was something he liked about this place nonetheless. The headlights and taillights of these cars provided some relief from the constant grey.
As he sat on the ledge, a little girl, not more than eight, came up to him, "Bhaiyya, ek paani ka bottle le lo na." She was shabby. It looked like she hadn't had a bath in days. Her hair had lost its colour. It looked br
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The donkey's name was Quick.
His front hooves were neat and dexterous and opposable, and his back hooves were the size of dinner plates and had unassuming steel shoes. He had a pale grey hide and pale pink nostrils, and ears like enormous fringed fans, and if you lifted up his cowl far enough, you would find large, slightly worried brown eyes, with the devastatingly long eyelashes reserved for beauty queens and large ungulates. He was a small, neat-footed donkey who kept his elbows tucked in and could vanish into a crowd much more easily than a bipedal donkey wearing a yellow robe with checkerboard edging had any right to do.
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The most brilliant thoughts of the century
Thrown in a garbage can,
Wadded in a paper ball.
People walk by
But they don't,
They keep on moving,
Past the wisdom of ages.
Crumpled the meaning of life,
As rain patters around.
Ink on the paper runs,
Leaving only a blank sheet,
And only the memory left,
The meaning hangs in streams.
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More Than A Belief
They preached it
when they were crucified in rome in their arenas; when the word martyr came to mean someone who died for the substance they lived for.
A faith
that was more than words and symbols.
She was someone who had done more than just live with a little white angel being brushed off her shoulder,
A longing that could not be ignored.
while they were fed to lions in front of the people they had shared bread with the day before,
A hunger that life could not satisfy.
and they burnt them in the city streets to light the way for the lost below.
A passion that fire could not quench.
It was more than a belief as they laughed at him and turned their backs to him,
as they laughed because he wouldn't condemn them, wouldn't compromise now because of his promise to someone they couldn't see.
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How to live
A candle-filled room contains a sacred book;
it's pages hold treasure that kings would buy with gold
blood of sacred human life is spilled for just a minute's look.
For ages, stories within are repeated.  For years, each line is retold.
The book of wisdom, prudence, truth without bound
from chapter to chapter, knowledge is found
From pages of this book, I would study every day
instructions of the right thing to do in every situation.
The lessions I would learn from it would hold me in sway.
Each day I would grow more perfect, falling less temptation.
Truth be known, I do not store my treasure-book in a sacred chamber
I fail to search it end to end, that's why I doubt, and succumb to anger.
My hope to do better next time crumbles to the floor.
I could free my mind from ignorant chains but instead I cry myself to sleep
wisdom from dusty pages is forgotten, memories carefully ignored
will I ever give up my carefully sheltered excuses crumpled in a heap?
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The Once Dark Of Night
Protection in the eyes that see,
Redemption  in the times of flight;
Reflection in the wounds that be,
Connection in once dark of night.
Protect: From what? From who? And how?
Redeem: Why not? Who's hurting now?
Reflect: Times past, times broken; forgot.
Connect: Reconnection; I live as you rot.
This is the reason I stand as you fall,
The reason I wake as you're sleeping.
This is the moment I fly as you crawl,
The moment I laugh as you're weeping.
Protection from the eyes that saw,
Redemption from the times that flew;
Reflection from the wounds - once raw,
Connection, pure, minus those I 'knew'.
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raining inside
It's dim in here
The blue light plagues the rain outside
It's a solo night
Can't move because of the pain inside
They left the house
Silence falls with the rain
No floods of Noah
Can cure this nation
It can't move anymore
It won't flood no more
It's at an end
Seizing the tears of the hurting men
It's a solo life
Better move on because the rain's inside
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Artist | Literature
United States
Current Residence: Houghton College, NY
Favourite genre of music: Christian Rock
Operating System: Windows XP Professional
MP3 player of choice: Tungsten (My PDA)
Shell of choice: Koopa
Favourite cartoon character: Hobbes
Personal Quote: Good stuff.
Well, after a very long hiatus of very little creative fiction/poetry, I am currently in London with a small amount of emotional stress and a large amount of mental stress. Under some circumstances, this can be highly inducive for poetry.

It just so happens that this is one of those circumstances. Expect a lot of poetry from me sometime soon. Can't promise that it will be any better than my earlier stuff, or any good at all really, but take it for what it is.


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