Kakikotoba means "the written word" in Japanese.
This group is dedicated to the written word! Anything related to the written word is accepted here.
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Peace RiverA rough-hewn canoe slips through the tannin headwaters
Past groves of tamarack and birch; jumbles of mossy boulders
Also sit along the banks, their angular planes chiseled...
Formed perhaps as God pondered the drift of blue stars across
A black void.
The void drew His eye as the whirlpool draws the soul across the river
To dare its jealousy, following the errant maple leaves
Spinning down, gently in the current:
Sighing as it revolves:
The leaf is watching the sky turn
Field to sky to birch to sky to rock to dark folds enclosing
As the velvet current closes the curtain for good.
the lion's tooth grave of pragueThe sidewalk is dyed green again
with dandelion blood:
white wispy limbs litter the cobblestone
alongside the scars of bony stems.
I am not a witness,
only a passerby. I stand
in awe but not in sorrow
of the departed dandelions,
their souls crushed under street mower hell.
I pull a survivor from the grass
and breathe to strip it of its flesh
so that its wish is granted:
to not be left alone.
.Absent man, lurking in the shadows.
It was March when she said her final goodbyes
by laying awaken in a locked gaze.
I did not see you that day nor at her day of remembrance.
my rose never approached her grave.
But approached your hands instead, and was left
to die when you decided to reunite with her.
The question of death was on your mind and you
found the answer through experimentation; I hardly knew
you, but the pictures on the walls told stories about you and
your family, and these smiles were as artificial as your paranoia.
And that note you hung on the basement door gave your son
mistaken hope that you might still be alive. Was she worth the asphyxiation where your
son discovered your animated body almost touching the ground.
Dear father in law, almost but never; I see you haunt these hallways
in picture frames; if these walls could speak, they'd say nothing.
Among The CloudsHold onto me.
If you don't,
You will fall.
I am the one who has the wings.
Guess why I never gave you any?
I'll just fly higher.
Enjoy the view.
You are mine.
You will always be mine.
advice on loving a wolf treedon’t look at me
the way you look at the wolf tree:
roots abound, wild and astray,
my base unlike, dissimilar—
my crown charred, snapped,
broken like my mind.
yes, i once grew up in a open space
only to suffocate those who came after me.
so i am unruly
but please don’t try
to saw my branches,
don’t make me fit in
your enclosed embrace.
don’t look at me
the way you would at something broken,
through a castle of ivy,
behind the shadow of a rock wall.
you should try to stop looking through cracks:
lower down your guard
to see me,
not to fix me
but to love me—
the wolf tree.
Yellow Hearts (Critiques and feedback requested)And as this passed, two children walked in the woods
Laughter rang out through the woods, the source being that of two children. A pair of twins they seemed to be; a girl and a boy. The young male strode confidently in front of his sister, a skip in his step and his hands behind his head, a position of relaxation. His sister trailed not too far behind, a hand over her mouth to stifle a few leftover giggles.
“Too funny!” she chortled.
“I know, right?” her brother exclaimed, “I totally tell the best jokes, don’t I?” He finished his sentence with a dramatic flip of his short, fluffy hair.
The girl giggled once more. “You certainly tell some good ones, I’ll give you that.”
Exit, Stage Left"You're lonely," he said.
Thelma jumped, startled. She might not have even heard his voice over the thumping dance music, but it was just at that moment where there was a temporary lull between songs. He stood nearby, his head slightly tilted. Thelma glanced behind her, his words ricocheting in her mind - she wasn't sure what was more surprising, what he'd said or that he'd noticed and bothered to relay this observation to her at all. He was good-looking, tall and thin with artfully spiky hair, but something about him struck her as unsettling. Perhaps it was the way he spoke, or that his eyes were oddly piercing, but either way she felt herself straightening, suddenly alert.
"Yes, I am talking to you," he said, looking amused. "You're Thelma, right?"
"Yeah..." she replied, trying to play off her momentarily confusion, tucking a strand of her auburn, shoulder-length hair behind her ear. "Sorry, and you're...?"
She smiled hopefully, but though her tone was apologetic, she herself
Royal Academy EP6Royal Academy 為生学園
Episode 6 – Rush Week
The window was rolled down just enough for the lens of the camera to get a good shot of the gates. The car was black and nondescript with tinted windows, parked just outside the manor. The house was traditional, everything from bonsai trees, stone gardens, sliding doors and tatami flooring. It looked just as expensive as it probably was. Tall walls hid the inner grounds of the manor, allowing only its brown roof and the tops of hedges and trees to show. He snapped a few pictures of the outside, just for reference, and waited. It was morning, and the birds sang while the morning sun dried the early dew.
A car pulled up. It was dark blue and polished. It only took a few minutes for the black gates to final
Stalker's Gray Area: Prologue The gray area between right and wrong mattered even in situations of love. Armin and Mujal, the best of friends since they were elementary school kids, were laughing up everyday life with another friend during weekdays when they didn’t have classes together. Sometimes they’d shoot up their arms in the bathroom, and other times they’d try to challenge each other to hook up with a particular hottie.
Even as they had their fun, never seeming serious about anything in their lives, Garnet, one of their coolest and smartest friends, was the one object of admiration and affection. He always said interesting things, or intelligent things, or fun things, or thoughtful things. Armin remembered once when he’d said he lost his running shoes somewhere in his huge house, and asked Garn where else he should look. Garn had said, “If they aren't where you can see, look where you can bury." He didn't understand at first, but l
Letters to Marileen | 3 ~ Your Friend, the Reaper Three days after her initial arrival, Marileen tended toward bounding around the house in an attempt to hang out with both of her roommates at the same time. She talked quickly and couldn't sit still, leaving Handwing in a dizzied, tired state. He often felt the urge to nap after his interactions with her. What really irked him, though, was she always seemed to get into his stash. He tried to talk to Vilkas about it and was met with a response that infuriated him.
“Uh, they’re technically mine,” he’d said matter-of-factly, “you used my money to buy them.”
Vilkas was just lucky he had a point, and that Handwing’s arm was still broken. He had to clench his fists and grit his teeth to stop himself from punching Vilkas right in the jaw. But it wasn’t the only thing that infuriated him…
“Hi Codry, how are you?”
Silence in the White Noise(A couch is centered in the room, a table with neat clutter such as books, notepads, etc is in front of the couch. There is a desk on the left side with a computer, beside that desk are multiple milk crates filled with radios. Everything in the room is of neutral tones besides a bright red radio on a lone side table. ENTERS RADIO, he wears bright colours that do not match and clearly clash with each other. Patterns are acceptable replacements. RADIO turns on the radio to a low, static filled tune that fades out and becomes a background noise. RADIO begins dancing.)
RADIO: (dances to static tune)
ELIZA: (ENTERS) Can you turn that down a little Radio? I’m trying to write an essay.
RADIO: Oh, okay.
(ELIZA EXITS. RADIO goes to the milk crates and begins to pull out more radios. He turns each one on, volume a little louder for each radio. He dances
Treadmill(A couch is centered in the room, a table with neat clutter such as books, notepads, etc is in front of the couch. There is a desk on the left side with a computer. Everything in the room is of neutral tones besides a bright red radio on a lone side table, this radio quietly plays a static-y tune. ELIZA sits on the couch, reading, also wearing neutral colours. ENTERS RADIO, he wears bright colours that do not need to match and clearly clash, stands behind the couch with his back turned to audience and ELIZA. There is no eye contact between the two.)
ELIZA: Hm? (continues reading)
RADIO: Listen, I um..I um wanted ta like say I’m sorry.
ELIZA: It’s fine Radio.
RADIO: Well, I don’t really honestly think tha
I'll Stick to RadiosOkay. So I realize that old, busted radios aren’t cool. They just aren’t man. They’re broken pieces of junk. And you know what. I’m okay with that. They’re ratty, broken, dusty, dirty, and boring. AND NONE OF ‘EM EVER FUCKING WORK……sorry. Anyways. Anyways, anyways. Radios. Back to radios. Always broken, always malfunctioning. Always a hunk of shit in the corner of your basement or attic or outside on your lawn rusting away and goddamnit are they ever fucking broken.
But I. I love ‘em. I have hundreds of ‘em. Stored properly! On tables. On shelves. Never on the ground. I’ve got big ones and little ones and ones that work less than others. But that’s okay, because I can fix ‘em. I reach inside their shells and take all the wires out and replace ‘em and clean the insides and add new things and old things and un-rusted things to make ‘em work. I make ‘em real. I let ‘em breathe. I let
One Little Spark- Chapter 24 The shrieks have echoed throughout the room of a den where Rachel and her friends have been taken. Stalagmites and stalactites tower and dangle from the ceiling and the floor below. Along with them, dark colored sand dunes are piled all around as well as stacks of remained carcasses of beings who have previously visited the cave and have been tragically devoured. A green haze is floating in the atmosphere, much like the one Rachel and her friends inhaled when they got deeper into the cave. It definitely smells the same and the consistency is much thicker down here. The den is dark all around with no source of light except for the light of the eyes of the creature the tentacle holding Rachel belongs to, to which Rachel felt the need scream at.
Below her is a horrific creature unlike anything she has ever seen. The eight tentacles that resemble the amount of an octopus’ rise up to the ceiling are connected to a gia
Trust in the Familiar“People trust the things they know, things that are familiar,” observed the mage. “Sword and steel are well-known to you, and you trust them. But for someone like myself…” She trailed off for a second. “There is a universal truth that once you become aware of something, your interaction and involvement with it changes. Once you’ve experienced something, the physical memory of it stays with you, even if the conscious recollection of it fades to some obscure corner of your mind. It’s the same with magic. Even if I was naked and unarmed, THIS-” she lifted a hand and moved her fingers slightly, fluidly, as though she were trailing them shallowly through the surface of water that had been suspended above her, with subtle, incandescent ripples of arcane energy appearing in response “-would still be familiar to me. I would still be aware of this, and know how to use it.” She lowered her hand. “Not that either is better th
One Little Spark- Chapter 23 The fog in the cave aroused the dreams that have conjured in Dreamfinder, Figment and Rachel’s minds. With their minds fully active, their bodies have become too numb and motionless to move. Nothing good or bad is happening to them at the moment; none of them can tell if anything is happening at all. They are not noticing themselves being dragged away by their legs and Figment’s small body. Their arms, upper halves of their bodies, and their heads dragged behind making a trail as they went along. Even the dirt of dirt running by their cheeks could not wake them up. If they would wake up, they would likely faint again from smelling the green gas above them. The lower and deeper into the cave they went, the heavier the dose of the gas is. At this point, there is no way of the three traveling adventurers to wake up and avoid whatever possible dangers lie ahead of them.
Some moaning grunts are heard from the th
One Little Spark- Chapter 22 The heat of the desert has increased in temperature to near extreme measures since the Dream Machine arrived with its passengers. There is no sign of an oasis anywhere and chances of finding any natives lurking across the sand for help are very slim. The Sun grew intensely hot on the crew as if it were no less than 100,000 feet away in distance.
Rachel’s shower definitely served a purpose for her tempered body from sweating and continuing her argument against Dreamfinder. Her only thoughts were of Yuna taking refuge in the necklace Dreamfinder specifically made just for her. It’s an accessory, not a hotel room. Occasionally, Rachel would hear Yuna humming and watch her necklace glow a bright blue every time she giggles. Not since they met had Yuna shown herself out of the necklace. At least it gives Rachel a little privacy and a fresh peaceful mind…for the time being.
Open: English Tutoring and Editing/Proofreading
Story commissions can be found here.
English Tutoring for Reading and Writing
I would like to tutor people online who have trouble with English writing, reading, or speaking, or think their child needs additional help. Sharing my passion for English and writing has always been a dream of mine from when I was a child.
What you are looking for:
✧ English writing and reading comprehension✧ Speaking English✧ Homework help in understanding English terms, vocabulary, phrases, spelling, grammar, and/or punctuations
✧ High School basic Spanish help?How my schedule looks:
✧ I am flexible for now. I am still looking for a regular job, so that may change soon.
✧ I am in PST time zone wise.
How the process will go:
✧ We will discuss w
Closed: Story Writing CommissionsTutoring, editing, and proofreading:
Status: CLOSED until I finish my list.
Commissions are a priority because I need to repay my student loans. Please keep in mind I'm somewhat of a slow writer and will run into unmotivational walls with writing. I'm also going to be working at a job when I find one and on Patreon/free stories.
Terms of Service
You may not cancel or get a refund after I have done 25-50% of the work. I will cancel or refund if it is necessary for you or if I offer it.I will take all orders as your agreement to all of my stated conditions.There are no self-inflicted deadlines for now. Until I can write with deadlines, I'll do commissions before you send payment. I might follow this pattern: I'll show you 25% to see if you are satisfied with my style/portrayal, you approve, show you about 75% of the work, you pay, then
Drowning Sirens: Chapter One
Chapter One: Voyeurism
"How many kids do you have?"
A voice crowed from across a large maroon fence separating all the neighborhood's front yards. Deanna Finnegan accidentally dropped the large box marked "breakable" and cringed at the sound of shattering dinner plates. She clenched her fists nervously and caught the eyes of her disapproving stepmother in her peripheral vision.
"Just pick it up, Deanna." The immediate Mrs. Finnegan ordered, raising her tone at the end of the sentence to intensify her disdain. Deanna scowled and watched curiously as her father crept towards the large fence until he came face to face, so to speak, with a large, gray eye. He knocked on the wood which caused the voyeur to turn away.
Deanna followed her father to the end of the fence and listened as the new neighbors made their introductions. "Hi, my name's Liam Finnegan, and this is my daughter, Deanna." Deanna nodded politely, grateful to be out of her stepmother's line of vision.
Drowning Sirens: Prologue
Prologue: A picture is worth a thousand words...
Just off the Gulf of Mexico Mrs. Waverly was peeling the skin from a boiled shrimp she had bought at the market that morning. The steam had begun to rise in her quaint kitchen and she had raised all of her windows to thin the air. The smells of the sea rushed into her house, mixing with the hydrangeas and lavender she had planted outside.
She inhaled deeply and strolled into the living room, wiping her hands on a damp rag. Mrs. Waverly stopped just in front of the bay window facing the ocean basin. Off in the distance she could see the docks and a few fishing boats barely returning from their day's work. She pressed her fingertips against the glass and smiled warmly as the small heads of her children bobbed across a hill of murky white sand.
Mrs. Waverly waved to them generously as they held up their toy buckets in triumph. The face of her eight year-old son was smug and confident while her four-year old daughter's was f
Conversations "Do you think I'll ever get good enough," I whisper in the dark.
"I don't know. It depends.. How hard are you willing to try, how far are you wiling to go ? To what heights will you climb?"
"...there's just so much to explore.. I don't know if I can ever even find it all."
"It's not finding it all, seeing it all, or knowing it all that counts. It's the thrill of finding it.
It's the hidden feeling you hear in a word. The secret crevice so unexplored by society. Be the one to search it out. Find it's hidden meanings. It's waiting for you, to make it your own. So step up, claim it. It's your right. It's anybody's right willing to try hard enough. Be different; be yourself."
Taking the first step of my journey, I toggled out. Sure I was a little unconfident, but I was going. That's what counts.
Soavist Quote: Internal TimebombAs ourselves, only we have the true power to disable our personal explosives. Sadly only too late do we realise this, so when one (another person) wishes to attempt such a feat- allow them. No, they may not have attained the true means to diffuse you, but neither do you more often than not. Even you alone do all this for temporary measures with shoddy tools- you know not how to utilise; for they are yourself.
Someone will too possess these shoddy tools and lack of experience, but just because you cannot does not mean they cannot. It is greatly astonishing to see how observing from differing points of view, frequently gives one an alternate perspective, and so a, perhaps not the, means to do the seemingly unexpectedly impossible.
Ulterior Motives in StoriesSubjectivity relates to what we prefer. Objectivity relates to how something is despite how we feel about it. Some stories are objectively better quality than others. If we enjoy or get something out of a bad story it's because there was something good in us, not the story.
A story that fails to live up to the standards it set for itself or has a foundation built on the sand is failing in quality. We can debate whether or not it fails in this way. Refusing to acknowledge that there can be real levels of quality in storytelling because everything is "subjective" is the thing that's close-minded.
The best stories are the most particular. The authors have certain things they will and won't do. Their reasons for doing so may be different, but there's thought behind it. It's wheedled down to exactly what the author knows they want. Their stories aren't interesting because they said, "Everything is subjective, therefore I don't need to have beliefs at all, and I'll just carelessly
Capitulo IX - El Scourge de Elwynn
En el capitulo anterior...de Las Crónicas de Azeroth...
"Y bien". Gabriel pregunto, "¿lograron aprender su profesión?, soy herrero y minero".
"Si". Davis respondió, "alquimista y una reciente profesión, inscripción".
"Costo encontrarlo". Nailock dijo, "pero ya soy de primeros auxilios".
"No fue exactamente como lo pensaba". Alexandros dijo cabizbajamente, "igual considero que los dueños exageraron".
"¿Que te paso?". Gabriel pregunto.
"Pues...". Alexandros respondió después de un profundo suspiro.
"¡Hey amorshito!". El borracho llamado Bartleby le grito, la mujer se inquieta al oler su aliento de alcohol, "...¡hic!, ¿vamosh a bailar?".
La mujer mueve su cabeza con negación rechazando la oferta, y ya a punto de irse de la taberna, se le acerca un grupo de maleantes: una mujer de pelo largo, negro y armadura de cuero negra, y un hombre de pelo corto café con hombreras de púas.
"¡Hey, tu!". El bandido cono
PFC - March/April 2017 - Voting Time!
Logo designed by *007Balel
"A non-judgemental, safe place where writers can submit poetry, prose, prosetry, phoetry, or anything they have written, without fear of prejudice or criticism."
Forms Challenge Winner for September-October 2016
This month we focused on
Star Struck by OneWithTheStars
5. 2, 1, 3, 4 by nicmas97
My Soul Bleeds Ink Stamp by copper9lives by MagicalJoey :thum
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