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.
Halloween heartYou carry it in your veins, o autumn child.
You have black cats and witchcraft dusted on your soul
as the trees fade to gold
you are blooming
Summer sparks and fades like ember
but you have the scent of dying leaves in your hair
and a Jack-o-lantern heart
Samhain sings as you sleep
a lullaby of bones
dancing with the departed souls
You breathe in candlelight
and exhale magic
O autumn child
You have a Halloween heart.
What Could I Do...?I'm sorry is all I can say.
What else would you want to hear, anyway?
No matter what I do, I can't help feeling like I'm nothing to you...
We were young when we met and fell in love.
But now, I question whether I'm running out of luck.
What is it you want me to say?
No matter what, it would never candidly convey
The pain I experience when I see
how little you care for me...
If I turned back time and gave you a second chance,
Would you honestly want to try again?
If I said I love you, again and again..
Would you really believe it than...?
Why are we still together...........
When we both know we could have something better?
a walking poem at nightflashes of golden oranges in the tints of glass
where you see shapes of squares and rectangles
against darkness and blank walls wishing to be painted,
drawn on. moving shapes which are quicker than the blink
of an eye, or gradual like the turning of rubber wheels
on gray cemented grass. it's a solid piece of furniture to walk
where hints of a muddy and beady eyed monster steps before you
either at a halt to seek its meal or waiting for its time
to chase you off. branches that scratch you, distorted mirrors
which perplex and puzzle and destroy you, entrances that say "not an entrance" that do more than invite you (they welcome you), and you want to step in, away from the natural sights that you have been immersed in, but you can only gaze, create a story where someone comes to rescue you, hug you, while within hoping that they turn you away instead and off you must go. and when you turn, there's a black figure walking, rapid, like the shadow that follows you at the same
pace. with the f
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.
Speechless - (C)Looking at the picture made Lexi shudder. The black and white photo was unnerving enough on its own, but the way the wide, smoldering eyes stared at Lexi made her feel like she was being pulled into a skin crawling trance.
Lexi tore her eyes away and glanced around the cluttered attic wildly. Come on, Lex, just grab the frame and go! Lexi thought to herself.
Her mother had sent her to look through the box full of scrapbooks and family albums in search of pictures of her deceased grandmother.
So far the only photo of the old woman Lexi had come across was the one currently boring holes into the back of her head. It sat idly on the dusty shelf in an almost mocking way.
Lexi jumped up from where she was kneeling down and banged her elbow on one of the many boxes piled around. Her head whipped around searching for what made the loud noise.
Lexi stood stiffly and her eyes darted back to the picture frame just in time to see her grandmother turn her head with a crooked smi
Last Man to The Moon The last man to the moon stayed behind to see the others off, every ten years, a new batch flown across the stars. Sixty years he waited, till the last Human was sent to Titan.
The last man to the moon prepared his pod, and waited for affirmation from the colony. A new life awaited him, though he was old, he had done his duty and was ready to leave Earth; an empty, dying planet.
A signal came through, to the last man to the moon, a message from the colony on Titan. Suited up and ready for launch, he played the message. A female voice, a scientist he bet, voice distorted by static.
Do not…come. Colonization…failure. Dying…dying…abort…
To the last…of us alive…and those on their way…we want…you to know…
The Last Light of Borgir Hollows The darkness writhed across the barren ground, peeking over the hill slopes that rose on either side of him. The mass of shadows crawled, chasing him as he fled. Liann had his sword at the ready. The shadows dove at him and his blade cut through inky, dark bodies; halted by his attack until they could rejoin again.
The shadows were everywhere, even the sky seem black with it, the stars hidden from sight. The only visible object in the above was the pale, yellow moon, cracked with dark fissures that stemmed from some malignant, pulsing growth.
Sweat ran down the side of his face, his heart pounded as he ran, yet he kept swinging his sword at the creatures trying to capture him. In the distance was his destination; towering spires of a once glittering castle, now grey and seized by vines and thorns.
The sounds of growls came as faint, vicious whispers from the shadows that leaped at Liann. Hi
Royal Academy EP7Royal Academy 為生学園
Episode 7 – Fire & Ice
The student council chambers were silent. The twilight of dawn cast a blue gloom over Isei. Sarako Himise stood in the dimly lit room knowing she had arrived at school early enough to not be interrupted by anyone else. She stood behind the council president’s desk, tapping her foot, arms crossed with her back facing the door. She didn’t like to be kept waiting; perhaps this was well known because the door to the council room opened as she finished her thought.
Sarako turned around to see a man of average height. He had dark, slightly curly hair pulled into a small, low ponytail. His face had the shadow of scruff and there were dark circles under his eyes as if he didn’t sleep much. Despit
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
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
MarksOver and over and over again, Aranya would trace Halenvar’s tattoos and scars with her fingertips. She still had so many to ask him about. They had not had much time with each other, recently. It had made them miss each other a great deal.
Softly the arcanist would trail her touch over the many marks on the canvas of the warrior’s skin, and just as softly he would paint warmth on hers in return. Even the slight buzz of magic from her red mana tattoo did not deter his caresses, he didn’t avoid or hasten away from any inch of her.
Only three marks had she to show.
“The unicorn’s head is old,” said Aranya, her coal-black hair lifted up from the back of her neck. “The phoenix emblem is newer, gotten after the Betrayer’s gift was taught to our people and I recovered from the withdrawal brought by the Sunwell’s absence, and we began to rebuild the kingdom.” The wings of the immortal creature lay inked under her fair wrist. “Yo
JadeThings had gone well in Silvermoon. Aranya was able to find exactly the kind of connections she was looking for in Lady Phoenixheart and her associates.
Kaitheros had some interesting things to say about smuggling, which made Aranya smile. It was possible that she could put fewer necks in the Eclipse at risk, if smuggling within the Broken Isles was outsourced to a partner. Meanwhile, Kaisuraz the troll had been very agreeable to the Eclipse Syndicate getting him more widespread buyers for his jewel-trading, which would be a good start for some of Aranya’s associates in Outland.
Outland… How the blood elf loved that broken world. It felt like a reflection of herself in many ways. It had been shattered, warped, saturated with chaos and would forever exist hanging between the stars of the Great Dark and the Twisting Nether. Yet it remained wondrous, beautiful, full of amazing vibrancy, even in the places that held more magic and raw energy than organic life.
It was her refuge
Waking Up in ParadiseThis place was too beautiful.
Aranya stood on an open balcony, and breathed deeply as a soft breeze carried the fragrances of different flowers and oasis plants, with the misty scent of water, weaving over her skin and through her raven hair like invisible ribbons caressing her. Rariv’sha Muerte’s island truly was a paradise, with it’s natural beauty, its marvelous architecture, and the hospitality of its queen leaving nothing to be desired. The night spent here had been restful and content, the morning dawned in breath-taking views of the rising sun and a delicious breakfast.
This was an exotic realm that Aranya would not dream of saying “no” to re-visiting.
The magical defenses that the madame had hired the arcanist for had been executed perfectly.
Aranya reached out to the enkindled core with her senses, getting a feel for the pulse and pattern of its power and raised one hand in a arcane gesture, keeping sync with it. She shifted her focus t
Weaving Secret ThingsMadame Rariv’sha Muerte had picked Aranya’s brain with questions about methods of magical defenses, what was feasible, what was the trade-off between what it took to construct it versus what it would take to break it down. Primary concerns that came up were how such a system could be sustained with power, and how it could remain hidden.
Immediately Aranya thought of the self-sustaining runestone system that she had done for Sunspire Port, but she already knew that there was far too little chance of her ever being able to pull off a stunt like procuring quartz from the heart of Deepholm again. The Stone Lords had allowed it once, it was unwise to push their graces. And yet, the inspiration that they came from - the runestone monoliths of Eversong Woods - still presented an interesting track of thought.
The monoliths were inscribed with the runes that accomplished their never-ceasing purpose, yet the tremendous power that was needed to accomplish that purpose wa
Open: English Tutoring and Editing/Proofreading
Edit: Okay I decided. For now until I delete this notice, I will tutor anyone for $5 per session. This means for however long you can set in your schedule for tutoring, whether it's two hours or three hours, I will only charge $5. That's cheap for a tutoring session. I might do $3 an hour as well, if you need that for your situation.
Also, another reminder I'm willing to do any kind of proofreading or editing at a low rate. Due to my debt I need to start earning. I'm always going to be open if you need me in the future! Please keep me in mind!
Story commissions can be found
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
Closed: 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
Cap XVIII: Segunda puerta, Sneed el Lumbermaster
En el capitulo anterior de…Las Crónicas de Azeroth…
“La ley se debe cumplir sin excepción”. Tescio pregunto ya cerca de ellos.
Los tres voltearon sus miradas hacia el paladín. Avonlea, la pantera de Myanna está sujeta en una garra del grifo montado por su ama, hace un rugido.
“¿Tescio?, creía que no estabas a gusto con un mago “fracasado””. El mago hizo un gesto de comillas con sus dedos.
“Hmf, solo estas en mi camino”. EL paladín apunta su mano derecha hacia ellos, “ustedes tres deben acompañarme como los refuerzos de la milicia de Westfall”.
“¿Y qué paso con Surena?”. Sarnura pregunto con curiosidad.
“Fue ejecutada”. El guardaespaldas respondió rápido y frio.
Todos sintieron la mirada oscura y satisfecha de Tescio, pensaron “él lo hizo”.
“Vaya, pero si quien me arruino mi rostro resulto ser una mujer”.
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