He spoke with the calm banality of a person who'd run this script several times today alone, the throaty sort of disinterest that can only come from a man whose forehead sheen almost matched the glare in the glasses masking his eyes. I imagined the way he cited regulation was as boring as the way he fucked. I couldn't be bothered to pay more than half a mind to his prattling on about safety issues; part of me pretended not to stare at the sweat stain forming under his man tits, and most of me feigning enough concern to not quit and walk out of there. God, I wanted nothing more than to jump on his desk and kick him in the teeth.

Fuck, it's hot in here.

"Do you want me to get you a water?" He asked suddenly. Fucking mind reader.

Shaking my head I muttered a negatory, I think it might have even been a word of some sort. It got the point across, whatever it was. He nodded and went on again.

I just wished he would get it over with. It's pretty obvious that what I did was stupid. Sam, Juana, and I all knew what was going to happen when we got started, but none of us really cared. Retail is retail, we could just get a job elsewhere if we wanted. Anyway, it's not like anyone got hurt. And they could easily just eighty-six those bottles of soap and send them back to the manufacturer no problem.

Worst part of this was that I'm the last he's talking to about this, and I didn't get a chance to hear what happened to Sam or Juana. I don't know if we're getting fired, fined, arrested, or what-the-fuck-ever. Probably not arrested, I didn't see any cops. And we did clean things up, so I don't know if that'll work in our favor.

Not that I even like this fucking job. I hated this guy, especially. Such a kill joy. Just look at him, man's so dark I can't even tell his eyes from his eyebrows. Probably a Nubian prince sort when he was younger. Now his wife is wondering who this fuck that replaced him was.

He's just going on. Fuck, it's hot.

"Can you explain," he breaks my adamant lack of concentration, "why you thought it was worthwhile to do what you three did?"

I'm rambling, now. Trying not to say something too stupid to get me fired, though I'm battling inwardly the temptation to just be honest and tell him I don't give a fuck. All I really remember about last night was talking to that British guy I allegedly fucked in his car. If I think real hard, I can almost hear that weird way he begs me to push deeper, and can almost smell the lube. God, British accents are weird when in the throes of fucking. I can only imagine what we slack-jawed Americans sound like to them. Thinking now, I can almost hear him calling me a tiny-cocked American for something. I dunno, I can't remember, but I can almost hear it.

I guess it was some time after that that the three of us decided it would be a good idea to use aisle nine as our own personal slip-and-slide. God bless twenty-four hour convenience. God bless poor drunken decisions.

I just don't understand why they decided to let us all come into work like this before doing anything. Leading us on, making us think everything was okay because we cleaned up-- and we really fucking did. The place was immaculate after that. Desperate drunk cleaning gets results, sometimes.

British moans play on a loop in the back of my head.

He's looking at me funny. I think I lost my point, and I can't remember what I was saying. I don't get hangovers, not normal ones. I usually just get stupid for the next few hours, then snap back-to. Time to apologize.

Only, I think I might've just quit. I just accidentally quit, and now I'm accidentally kicking his trash can over. Well, better make the most of this. Always wanted to make a scene.

Out of that disgustingly hot office and back down the aisles of a store I'll totally never come back in again. Knocking things off shelves, and telling customers to go fuck themselves. I've always wanted to do it, and I'm riding high now that I am. It doesn't even feel real, just fun.

"Thank you for shopping with us, laxatives are in aisle three, and please go fuck yourself." Service with a smile. Never did like that old bitch, anyway.

I'm nearly out the door when I see someone I recognize. I hear his voice in the back of my head, and the British just permeates the air around him. I pass by, spinning as I do to face him. "Didn't I fuck you last night?" Service with a smile.

As I leave the doors I pull my shirt off over my head, wincing at the bruise on my shoulder from a bad slide last night, and throw it in the garbage. It's too fucking hot for restrictions.

Trimmed my beard for the first time in ten months, finished my daily exercise regiment, weighed myself for my weekly weight-in -- 268 (seriously? wow.)-- and brushed my teeth. Now, it's time for some fiction before bed.

( An Social Duality )

( Who I'd Like To Meet )

Please to blame thunder_nari for this. It's all her fault.

Hot Harlots Of Hiroshima (or; how I gave up and learned to love the bomb... and my brother)

This was their punishment. This was their blessing. It was in the moment that they gave into their carnal desire, the moment of that final thrust into climax of a dual taboo-- the unthinkable happened. Years of pent up frustration. The longing looks, those certain words that lingered just a bit too long giving it a near double-entendre. It was gone in a flash.

So bright that even through clenched eyes they couldn't block out God's gaze. But even God couldn't squelch this release. This moment of honest love, honest lust, plain honesty, was given the opportunity to last seemingly forever.

A tingling in his loins as he spilled into the other man writhing beneath him. The peeling of the flesh off his back. The heat rushing through his body, then through the other. Bringing their souls together.

He opened his eyes one last time, and even through the intense heat and light he could swear he could make out the black orbs of eyes staring back at him. Lovingly. Only the love a brother can offer.

Their bodies would never be discovered, and their deed never uncovered. But in the dust that settled, the two brothers would remain embraced in a nuclear kiss.




A/N: The lack of humor makes this all the funnier for Nari and I.

Death Head, Issue 0 narritive drabble. About half the issue. SPOILERS


It is just too damned warm in this bubble. The snow doesn't even reach the head level in the area, barely even lets sprinkles of water through even. No, instead the water just collects in the air, thick and sticky like a swamp. It's completely unnatural, and Detective Marcus Campbell hates magic for this very reason.

The agency Magi seals the bubble back up, so as to keep the crime scene intact. Campbell looked over at his superior officer-- his trainer, really-- as the man listened to one of the local PD who was on the scene first explain what's going on.

The alter wasn't large exactly, but large enough that it must have taken a month to be put together. And even then it was in haste, as the sloppy job indicated. They were on a time crunch, and possibly undermanned. Didn't have to be a seasoned veteran to guess that much. Still, though, it would take time to understand what the symbols written in the forest floor meant. Some looked like kanji, others like seroscript.

"Temple of Limpieza." The gruff voice nearly startled Campbell. Detective Frank Scheu was as gruff as you could be, which Marcus figured made up for the lack of height. Scheu held out a finger, tracing one of the more complicated symbols near the center of the scene. "That's a bastardization of the character 'jou.' Purification."

Campbell grunted, storing the information away for later use. Scheu went on, "Limpiezas' can be a cracked out bunch, at least the fundamentalist ones like we got here." He took a few steps around another symbol that was taped off, keeping his eyes down on it. "Can you tell me what sort of ritual happened here?"

Campbell, while a detective for about a year now and part of the PD for years prior, had tended to steer clear of the mystic jobs for as long as he could. His personal experience was limited to the past two years after marrying Danii and, subsequently, into her magi line. She steered clear as much as she could, but family lineages were not forgotten by the dead. And so, he quickly became an expert on figuring out this world. As much as he could, at least.

The Temple of Limpieza, though, was still something he was foggy on. Their mainstream face showed a caring group of people who liked to create reasons to celebrate. They weren't one of the big two religions, so like a lot of folks he was still fuzzy on it.

But rather then admit his ignorance, pride forced him to venture a guess. "Well, the temple looks like it was rushed indicating to me that there was a specific time limit that had to be met. The symbols are about cleansing and--" he looked at the seroscript below him, which he marginally recognized, "starting something."

"Restarting." Scheu chimed.

"So, cleansing and restarting." Campbell went on. "I'd say it's probably an initiation ceremony."

"Are you sure?" Scheu asked, walking away toward the alter. Campbell had to rush to catch up.

"No."

"Good, never speak in absolutes unless you're absolutely certain." He stopped about five feet from the foot of the stone alter and analyzed the ground. Campbell watched him for a moment, unsure of what the silence meant. Scheu looked back over his shoulder, a frown on his face. "Anything else you want to add?"

Campbell wasn't sure what to make of the question, which must have played on his face as Scheu pressed on. "The boxes?"

And just like in a dream, the large wooden box Scheu was perched over came into view as if it had existed there the entire time and Campbell had simply forgotten until that moment. That was the one thing about being in that aspect of the force he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to.

"What are they?" Campbell asked, swallowing his pride in favor of learning something valuable.

"These," Scheu reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves and pocket knife. Donning the gloves now, he pried open one of the panels on the box, releasing the sickly stale yet putridly sweet scent of decay. Inside was the decomposing body of a newborn. "These are what we in the business call 'abortion boxes.'" He replaced the panel and signaled for one of the local PD to come over.

"And this," Scheu said, mostly speaking to the other officer, "means we have to call in the bone patrol."

Campbell grimaced. He still wasn't used to working alongside the death heads-- or Gorramed, as was more politically correct.

Alright everybody, I'm gonna be doing NaNoWriMo again this year! That's National Novel Writing Month to the uninitiated, when during the month of November a bunch of sadists try and write 50,000 words in a month. I've done it every year the past few years but never get past 10,000-- in large part because I have no gameplan. This year I plan to change that... somewhat. Below is the basic idea of my story, and the characters within.

The story is based off this round robin with kippurbird, and the very short story The End Of Time... Again.

Very brief synopsis: When Time ends, Jon and his cat Sasha are thrown into an alternate universe where he finds he's the one prophesied by Phangril the Mumbling Prophet to do... something. He's not been quite able to get that part of the prophecy out of anyone just yet. Along the path he'll meet The Lover, The Warrior, The Wise, The Children, and The Other who are meant to journey with and help him fulfill his destiny. But of the people he meets, who's whom?

( Meet The Players )

I'm going through an 'emo' patch right now. One of those 'not good enough' kind of things. Take a situation, and tag on a 'I'm not good enough' and you'll get me right now.

My art? Not good enough.
My writing, both fiction and article? Not good enough.
My photography? Not good enough.
My music? Not good enough (irritatingly so).
My singing and lyrical skill? Way not good enough.
My drive and ambition? Not good enough lately.
My feels of self worth as far as the dating world goes? Not good enough.

Emotions are for gaymosexuals. I hate 'em. I hate when my feelings of self-worth plummet like I'm bipolar or some shit, which I'm totally not. I'm just bored and shiftless, and ergo depressed. Laaaaame...

What is with me and the end of the world, lately?
( Keep Turning [fiction] )

Minding The Bridge, pt. 1
28 May 2058
By Jeremy Alva

Mankind, in the scientific breakthrough of the millennium, has landed on Mars. This is the sequence of the groundbreaking achievements from that point on.

( Minding The Bridge, pt. 1 )

I got pretty curious, now that I'm doing this 100 Words A Day thing, about how many characters I was picking from for all this writing. So! I decided to map it out.

( It's a bit boring, and unless you have a real interest in what I'm doing not incredibly interesting. )
Altogether that’s 41 main characters for five stories. This does not include the story ideas ‘Able, Colorado’, ‘Grey Boy’, ‘Cheshire Murder Brigade’, or ‘David Keller’s story’ which are at various stages of contemplation with no solid design to actually do them just yet. But they, too, are already insanely thought out.

I reeeeally need to start outlining these stories on the real.