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I-Dont-Like-I-Obsess
2Mins Each
1
ISSUE
Last Words
Updated Aug 23, 2014
PG Completed
15
2315
6

What would you say in your final moments?

Horror
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Solo Work

Last Words

What would you say in your final moments?

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Solo Work
I-Dont-Like-I-Obsess
1Min Each
1
ISSUE
Wings
Updated Jan 22, 2015
G Completed
6
1186
1
Prose

A short poem I wrote in Creative Writing class last year.

General
Prose
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Solo Work

Wings

A short poem I wrote in Creative Writing class last year.

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Solo Work
I-Dont-Like-I-Obsess
10Mins Each
63
ISSUES
Desires of Men
Updated Jan 22, 2016
PG-13 Completed
24
16227
3
Adventure
Romance

~One Piece~

She'd thought it was all over, at least, until they decided to drag her back into the past. But this time around, Summer wasn't going to break. This time around, she had a reason to live. He thought it was all over, as soon as they had taken her away. But Law's conviction to save her was stronger than his sorrow. All he had to do was find her. *SEQUEL TO THE LIFE I LIVE*

Fanfiction
Adventure
Romance
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Solo Work

Desires of Men

~One Piece~

She'd thought it was all over, at least, until they decided to drag her back into the past. But this time around, Summer wasn't going to break. This time around, she had a reason to live. He thought it was all over, as soon as they had taken her away. But Law's conviction to save her was stronger than his sorrow. All he had to do was find her. *SEQUEL TO THE LIFE I LIVE*

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Solo Work
I-Dont-Like-I-Obsess
1Min Each
1
ISSUE
As We Go Up In Flames...
Updated Feb 20, 2015
PG Completed
8
1397
10
Short Story
Romance

Who knew love could be so...artificial?

Young Adult
Short Story
Romance
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Solo Work

As We Go Up In Flames...

Who knew love could be so...artificial?

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Solo Work
I-Dont-Like-I-Obsess
3Mins Each
1
ISSUE
The Tolling Bell
Updated Mar 17, 2016
PG Completed
2
892
7
Prose
Suspense

The bell tolls only at noon. Usually...

General
Prose
Suspense
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The Tolling Bell

The bell tolls only at noon. Usually...

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Solo Work
I-Dont-Like-I-Obsess
4Mins Each
1
ISSUE
One Word
Updated Nov 11, 2015
PG Completed
2
744
3
Romance

Originally written for a contest.

Words can change lives, for better or for worse, and her's changed his.

Romance
Romance
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Solo Work

One Word

Originally written for a contest.

Words can change lives, for better or for worse, and her's changed his.

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Solo Work
I-Dont-Like-I-Obsess
10Mins Each
60
ISSUES
The Life I Live
Updated Feb 27, 2015
PG-13 Completed
24
19644
7
Adventure
Humor

~One Piece~

Summer's idea of revenge never included being forced to join a pirate crew in a yellow submarine. Nor did it involve making friends. But when the Surgeon of Death offers you a chance to help you kill a certain madman, you don't refuse. Now, if she could just keep her past a secret from the nosy Captain, she could stop them all from getting killed. Hopefully...​

Fanfiction
Adventure
Humor
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The Life I Live

~One Piece~

Summer's idea of revenge never included being forced to join a pirate crew in a yellow submarine. Nor did it involve making friends. But when the Surgeon of Death offers you a chance to help you kill a certain madman, you don't refuse. Now, if she could just keep her past a secret from the nosy Captain, she could stop them all from getting killed. Hopefully...​

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Solo Work
I-Dont-Like-I-Obsess
1Min Each
1
ISSUE
Presence
Updated Mar 16, 2015
PG Completed
2
1010
1
Short Story

She left...

General
Short Story
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Solo Work

Presence

She left...

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Kokiri-Hylian-Hero
17Mins Each
1
ISSUE
Linkle is Dovahkiin
Updated Oct 30, 2016
PG-13
0
455
0
Action
Parody

I also wanted to write this, credit to The Unplanner for inspiration...I forget what we were talking about, but something pushed me to this,  as I specified in the ANs.

Fanfiction
Action
Parody
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Solo Work

Linkle is Dovahkiin

I also wanted to write this, credit to The Unplanner for inspiration...I forget what we were talking about, but something pushed me to this,  as I specified in the ANs.

Read More
Solo Work
I-Dont-Like-I-Obsess
2Mins Each
1
ISSUE
A Date With Injured Pride
Updated Mar 12, 2015
PG Completed
1
964
0
Short Story
Humor

The worst day he could remember...

Comedy
Short Story
Humor
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Solo Work

A Date With Injured Pride

The worst day he could remember...

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Solo Work
paul robison
3Mins Each
147
ISSUES
BROKEN DOLLS
Updated Mar 30, 2017
R
7
7769
23
Thriller
Crime

Fools, because of their rebellious way,  and because of their iniquities, were afflicted.

Psalm 107: 17

THEY TOLD HER SHE would die here.  This place that she did not know, this dark, dank, rancid dungeon where nobody wished her well and most spoke languages alien to her....this place she would call home for the rest of her life.  That's what they told her.  It was getting harder to disbelieve them.

There were people in there who wanted her dead, some in retribution but most to establish their own notoriety.  It would be a sure path to fame to kill her or one of her friends, known collectively as the Monte Carlo Actress Killers.  That was the moniker that stuck in the international media.  More imaginative than the Gang of Four, the Falling Stars, the Desperate Glamor Gals.  Less chilling, to her at least, than the one that ran on the front page of Le Mondethe day after the verdict: Poupees Cassees.

Broken Dolls.

So she waited.   For a miracle.  For newly discovered evidence.  A confession from the real killer. A sympathetic ear to her appeal.  Or just the morning when she'd wake up and discover this was all a dream.  The last three-hundred-and-ninety-eight mornings, she'd opened her eyes and prayed that she was back in Hollywood, or, better yet, back in Hammersmith, London, England, her birthplace, studying more acting for the entertainment-starved American masses.

And she watched.  She turned every corner widely and slowly. She kept sitting up. She tried to avoid any routine that would make her movements predictable, that would make her vulnerable.  If they were going to get her in here, they were going to have to do it the hard way!

It began as a normal day like any other.  She walked down the narrow corridor of H Wing. When she approached the block letters on the door's glass window----INFIRMERIE---she stopped and made sure her toes lined up with the peeling red tape on the floor that served as a marker, a stop sign before entering.

"Bonjour,"she said to the guard at the station on the other side of the hydraulic door, a woman named Henriette.  No last names.  None of the prison staff was permitted to reveal anything more to the prisoners than their first names, and those were probably false, too.  The point was anonymity outside these walls:  because of it, the inmates, once released, wouldn't be able to hunt down the prison guards who hadn't treated them so nicely.

"Hi, Mischa."  Henriette always greeted Mischa in her best English, which wasn't bad.  Better than Mischa's French. After a loud, echoing buzz, the door released with a hiss.

The prison infirmary was the length and width of an American gymnasium, but it had a lower ceiling, about eight feet high.  It was mostly one open space filled without about two dozen beds.  On one side was a long cage---the "reception" area-----where inmates waited their turn to be treated.  On another side, also closed off and secured, was a room containing medical supplies and pharmaceuticals.  Beyond this room was a high-security area that could hold five patients, reserved for those who had communicable diseases, those in intensive care, and those who posed security risks.

Mischa liked the infirmary because of the strong lighting, which lent some vibrancy to my otherwise dreary confinement.  She liked helping people, too; it reminded her that she was still human, that she still had a purpose.  And she liked it because she didn't have to watch my back in here.

She disliked everything else about it, unfortunately.  The smell, for one thing---a horrible cocktail of body odor and urine and powerful disinfectant that always bowled me over when I first walked in.  And, well, fuck, nobody who comes to the infirmary is having a good day.

She tried to have good days.  She tried very hard.

It was busy when she walked in, the beds at full capacity, the one doctor, two nurses, and four inmates who served as nurse's assistants scurrying from patient to patient, putting figurative Band-Aids on gaping wounds.  There'd been a flu going around, and at JRF, when one person got the flue, the whole cell block got it.  They tried to segregate the sick ones but it was like rearranging chairs in a closet.  There just wasn't much room.  JRF---L'Institution  de Justice et Reforme pour les Femmes----operated at more than 150% capacity.  Cells designed for four held seven, the extra three people sleeping on the floor.  A prison intended for twelve hundred was housing almost two thousand.  They were packing them in like sardines and telling them to cover our mouths when they coughed.

Mischa saw Rihanna at the far end, wrapping a bandage on an Arab woman's foot.  Rhi, like her, was a nurse's assistant.  The warden ordered that they not communicate, so they were assigned to different cell blocks and different shifts in the infirmary.

She felt a catch in her throat, as she did every time she saw her now.  Rhianna had been my closest friend since she relocated (temporarily) to Salzburg to be with her boyfriend.  They'd been living next door to each other for the past five years, sharing each other's secrets.

Well, not alltheir  secrets, it turned out.  But she'd forgiven her.

"Hey." Rhianna whispered in her lovely Caribbean accent.  Her fingers touched Mischa's.  "I heard what happened.  You okay?"

"Living the dream," I said. "You?"

She wasn't in the mood for humor.  Rihanna was a stunning beauty---tall and shapely with large radiant eyes, chiseled cheekbones, and silky, ink-color hair--which made it all the harder to see the wear around those eyes, the stoop in her posture, the subtle deterioration of the spirit that made her the idol of millions. It had been just over a year since the murders, and three months since the conviction.  She was starting to break down, to give in.  They talked in here about the moment when that happened, when you lost all hope.  La Reddition,they called it.  Surrender.  Mischa, herself, hadn't experienced it yet and she hoped she never would.

"Movie night," Rihanna whispered.  "I'll save you a seat.  Love you."

"Love you back.  Get some rest." Their fingertips released.  Her shift was over.

***********

About an hour and a half later, Mischa heard the commotion as the hydraulic door buzzed open.  She had my back turned to the entrance.  She'd been helping a nurse dress a laceration on an inmate's rib cage when one of the other nurses shouted, "Urgence!"

Emergency.  They had a lot of those.  They had a suicide a week in JRF.  Violence and sanitation-related illnesses had been through the roof with the worsening overcrowding.  It was impossible to work a six-hour shift without hearing urgencecalled at least once.

Still, she turned, as guards and a nurse wheeled in an inmate on a gurney.

"Oh, God, no." Mischa dropped the gauze pads she'd been holding. She started running before the realization had fully formed in her head.  The shock of black hair hanging below the gurney.  The look on the face of one of the nurses, who had turned back from the commotion to look at her, to see if it had registered with her who the new patient was.   Everyone knew the four of them as a group, after all.

"Rhi," she whispered.

General
Thriller
Crime
Read More
4 Collaboration Spaces Available

BROKEN DOLLS

Fools, because of their rebellious way,  and because of their iniquities, were afflicted.

Psalm 107: 17

THEY TOLD HER SHE would die here.  This place that she did not know, this dark, dank, rancid dungeon where nobody wished her well and most spoke languages alien to her....this place she would call home for the rest of her life.  That's what they told her.  It was getting harder to disbelieve them.

There were people in there who wanted her dead, some in retribution but most to establish their own notoriety.  It would be a sure path to fame to kill her or one of her friends, known collectively as the Monte Carlo Actress Killers.  That was the moniker that stuck in the international media.  More imaginative than the Gang of Four, the Falling Stars, the Desperate Glamor Gals.  Less chilling, to her at least, than the one that ran on the front page of Le Mondethe day after the verdict: Poupees Cassees.

Broken Dolls.

So she waited.   For a miracle.  For newly discovered evidence.  A confession from the real killer. A sympathetic ear to her appeal.  Or just the morning when she'd wake up and discover this was all a dream.  The last three-hundred-and-ninety-eight mornings, she'd opened her eyes and prayed that she was back in Hollywood, or, better yet, back in Hammersmith, London, England, her birthplace, studying more acting for the entertainment-starved American masses.

And she watched.  She turned every corner widely and slowly. She kept sitting up. She tried to avoid any routine that would make her movements predictable, that would make her vulnerable.  If they were going to get her in here, they were going to have to do it the hard way!

It began as a normal day like any other.  She walked down the narrow corridor of H Wing. When she approached the block letters on the door's glass window----INFIRMERIE---she stopped and made sure her toes lined up with the peeling red tape on the floor that served as a marker, a stop sign before entering.

"Bonjour,"she said to the guard at the station on the other side of the hydraulic door, a woman named Henriette.  No last names.  None of the prison staff was permitted to reveal anything more to the prisoners than their first names, and those were probably false, too.  The point was anonymity outside these walls:  because of it, the inmates, once released, wouldn't be able to hunt down the prison guards who hadn't treated them so nicely.

"Hi, Mischa."  Henriette always greeted Mischa in her best English, which wasn't bad.  Better than Mischa's French. After a loud, echoing buzz, the door released with a hiss.

The prison infirmary was the length and width of an American gymnasium, but it had a lower ceiling, about eight feet high.  It was mostly one open space filled without about two dozen beds.  On one side was a long cage---the "reception" area-----where inmates waited their turn to be treated.  On another side, also closed off and secured, was a room containing medical supplies and pharmaceuticals.  Beyond this room was a high-security area that could hold five patients, reserved for those who had communicable diseases, those in intensive care, and those who posed security risks.

Mischa liked the infirmary because of the strong lighting, which lent some vibrancy to my otherwise dreary confinement.  She liked helping people, too; it reminded her that she was still human, that she still had a purpose.  And she liked it because she didn't have to watch my back in here.

She disliked everything else about it, unfortunately.  The smell, for one thing---a horrible cocktail of body odor and urine and powerful disinfectant that always bowled me over when I first walked in.  And, well, fuck, nobody who comes to the infirmary is having a good day.

She tried to have good days.  She tried very hard.

It was busy when she walked in, the beds at full capacity, the one doctor, two nurses, and four inmates who served as nurse's assistants scurrying from patient to patient, putting figurative Band-Aids on gaping wounds.  There'd been a flu going around, and at JRF, when one person got the flue, the whole cell block got it.  They tried to segregate the sick ones but it was like rearranging chairs in a closet.  There just wasn't much room.  JRF---L'Institution  de Justice et Reforme pour les Femmes----operated at more than 150% capacity.  Cells designed for four held seven, the extra three people sleeping on the floor.  A prison intended for twelve hundred was housing almost two thousand.  They were packing them in like sardines and telling them to cover our mouths when they coughed.

Mischa saw Rihanna at the far end, wrapping a bandage on an Arab woman's foot.  Rhi, like her, was a nurse's assistant.  The warden ordered that they not communicate, so they were assigned to different cell blocks and different shifts in the infirmary.

She felt a catch in her throat, as she did every time she saw her now.  Rhianna had been my closest friend since she relocated (temporarily) to Salzburg to be with her boyfriend.  They'd been living next door to each other for the past five years, sharing each other's secrets.

Well, not alltheir  secrets, it turned out.  But she'd forgiven her.

"Hey." Rhianna whispered in her lovely Caribbean accent.  Her fingers touched Mischa's.  "I heard what happened.  You okay?"

"Living the dream," I said. "You?"

She wasn't in the mood for humor.  Rihanna was a stunning beauty---tall and shapely with large radiant eyes, chiseled cheekbones, and silky, ink-color hair--which made it all the harder to see the wear around those eyes, the stoop in her posture, the subtle deterioration of the spirit that made her the idol of millions. It had been just over a year since the murders, and three months since the conviction.  She was starting to break down, to give in.  They talked in here about the moment when that happened, when you lost all hope.  La Reddition,they called it.  Surrender.  Mischa, herself, hadn't experienced it yet and she hoped she never would.

"Movie night," Rihanna whispered.  "I'll save you a seat.  Love you."

"Love you back.  Get some rest." Their fingertips released.  Her shift was over.

***********

About an hour and a half later, Mischa heard the commotion as the hydraulic door buzzed open.  She had my back turned to the entrance.  She'd been helping a nurse dress a laceration on an inmate's rib cage when one of the other nurses shouted, "Urgence!"

Emergency.  They had a lot of those.  They had a suicide a week in JRF.  Violence and sanitation-related illnesses had been through the roof with the worsening overcrowding.  It was impossible to work a six-hour shift without hearing urgencecalled at least once.

Still, she turned, as guards and a nurse wheeled in an inmate on a gurney.

"Oh, God, no." Mischa dropped the gauze pads she'd been holding. She started running before the realization had fully formed in her head.  The shock of black hair hanging below the gurney.  The look on the face of one of the nurses, who had turned back from the commotion to look at her, to see if it had registered with her who the new patient was.   Everyone knew the four of them as a group, after all.

"Rhi," she whispered.

Read More
4 Collaboration Spaces Available
paul robison
4Mins Each
16
ISSUES
CHRISTIAN'S LOT
Updated Apr 11, 2017
R
0
792
0
Dark
Mythology

A MARVEL COMICS/STEPHEN KING/

THE HOUSE OF SEVEN CORPSES  (1973 MOVIE) CROSSOVER FANFIC

All rights reserved.  No copyright infringement intended.

Horror
Dark
Mythology
Read More
Solo Work

CHRISTIAN'S LOT

A MARVEL COMICS/STEPHEN KING/

THE HOUSE OF SEVEN CORPSES  (1973 MOVIE) CROSSOVER FANFIC

All rights reserved.  No copyright infringement intended.

Read More
Solo Work