An Offer You Can't RefuseHugo ogled at the ochre paper folder thrown carelessly at the dining table in front of him. He looked up.
"Uh what's this?" he asked. Carefully, as if the folder was a snake that was just playing dead, he poked the folder with one finger. Once he was sure that the folder was not something mutated, he picked it up but not opening it yet. His aquamarine eyes rolled upwards, coyly glancing at a dark-skinned man with suit and sunglasses. His long hair was neatly combed back and tied into a tiny ponytail. He looked at himself; he was in nothing but a red and yellow boxers and basketball jersey. His short brown hair was greasy and unruly. A quick rush hour of red blood cells occurred underneath the skin of his face.
"Open it." the man in suit said. His voice was deep like the trench under the sea where sperm whales had their hunt on colossal squids.
Hugo gulped and broke the seal of the folder. As he had expected, there was a few sheets of documents inside it. There was a picture o
Cry No More
I hear them clearly.
Speaking words of
They hug me tightly
Even too tight
The carbon dioxide decides to leave my body wholly
As my diaphragm compressed
This is my day
Why do they talk about it?
This is my sadness
Why do they cry?
The sun retires.
I'm still suffocating
Under other octopus arms
That constantly coming
I isolate myself
Inside my Zen of seclusion
Cotton and fabric are my only friends
As my mind proceeds to lock away the tears
They are still crying,
I've done it thirteen hours ago.
The mask of tragedy still sticks to their visage,
Me, the mask of comedy has returned.
I don't need to cry too long.
He will not accept it, anyway.
But the sadness of lost will linger in my heart.
And although forever
I don't need to show it the way Shakespeare did
I have to keep it to myself
And smile once more.
"Daddy, over here! There's an empty spot!" Clara shouted merrily, pulling her father's bigger wrist and pulled him towards the said empty spot. They managed to get there before someone else stands in it. Clara's father, a thirty-five year-old man named Dewey, panted, tired of being pulled around by her daughter in this suffocating happy crowd. Although tired, he still smiled, joyous just like Clara. The eight year-old raised her hands, demanding for her father to pick her up and put her on his shoulders. With ease, her father carried her.
The city in which they live in was celebrating its anniversary. Parade cars aligned neatly on the road. They were decorated differently and each car was unique in their own way. Some were bright, some were dark. Some were pretty, some were scary. They came in all size-even a car that was promoting an upcoming fantasy movie had a large red dragon breathing real fire once every five minutes.
The band played their instruments on the front of the line, gu
Was There Much Pain?
Was there much pain?
The answer is: plenty. But Ollie was too oblivious to notice it. His head was killing him it hurt so much. He swore he felt like an infuriated Hades was stabbing his brain with some magical knife. He winced at the shrapnel of glass abusing his left cheek.
Groaning and coming up to his senses, Ollie pushed himself up using his arms. They hurt as much as his head, yet they were still functional. He grunted, resisting the pain caused by glass stabbing the base of his palms. He tried to adjust his jumbled sitting position and put his feet from the pedals to the ground. He noticed the seat belt was already snapped off which explained how half of his body ended up kissing the hot asphalt road.
Using the steering wheel to help him regain his footing, he carefully and with much difficulty moved his feet towards where the gravity leads them. He winced some more and his senses were starting to ignite more. At which point, Ollie could feel the hot sticky substan
Under Death's Intimidation
The little fellow shivered, trembling vehemently like every tectonic plates of the good earth were quaking together. The dark, solid and damp wood behind him antagonized at his fate, blocking him from running running from The Slithering Death. Franticness hypnotized his poor fragile mind.
He was panic. Fear began to eat him as death was to drag him.
Drag him to her muscular and bone-crushing vortex of demise.
The Death was a female, and she was pregnant. Who knows how many babies she was carrying at that time? With that lengthy body of hers, there may be more than ten baby Deaths inside it.
Death stood straight. Her sunlight yellow eyes flashed at her target like Terminator on other types of Terminator. She licked her mouth with her long tongue and tasted the particles air. Despite the bright eyes, she was visually blind. Nevertheless, Death needed not an eye; it relied entirely on its other keen senses. The senses even her prey does not own. She was, by far, in advantage.
Five-day Messages to TangoMonday
Oh god, my mind is blank! I need something! HELP! Bring me to YouTube, Tango. I'm going to need it. I just hate it when plot bunnies come at night, right before I was about to sleep and then disappears immediately after I wake up. They're just so mean to me!
No, I can't wake you up as well just because I got some idea shot. I respect my partner.
I'll be right next to you when you have my answer. Don't you start patronizing me!
I just downloaded Adam Lambert's song but I can't play it. There's something wrong with your Windows Media Player. Would you please fix the glitch? Because I need to know whether I just downloaded from a broken link or not. Thanks.
Oh, gotta go at ten. This means we can only play for a short one hour.
Are you alright? My mom needs to print some monthly financial records that I'm not sure I understand. Do you have the file? We shall do it
From Me, To MeDear you,
Hey, younger me! It's me, the older you! Now don't you crumple this piece of message before you read it thoroughly first. I know you can't resist such out-of-ordinary writings-especially letters like this. Well, lucky you, you finally got one!
I know it seems absurd for you to receive a letter from THE FUTURE. Receiving letters from the past is something normal. You don't think so? Well, think: Mr. Yellow writes a letter (or email) at let's say March 25th from Mozambique. Mr. Yellow's friend in Hong Kong, Mr. Orange, receives the letter two weeks later. Now, that letter from Monsieur Yellow is from the past, is it not?
Indeed. Your witty, deceptive and cunning mind develops outrageously in the next five or six years. You're just twelve, barely graduating the seventh grade, even. Everything will go as it supposed to be. Alas, I digress, all thanks to my uncontrollable mind. (Shut the rambling, will ya?!) The reason why I write this letter is to tell you something t
MoribundityShe coughed. She hacked. She tried to spit itthemout futilely. Desperation eating, she panted and wheezed a little as she powerlessly rested her forehead against the bathroom mirror in front of her. Her eyes saggy while she swore she had had a good night sleep. Her muscles felt terribly weak and puny while she and some of her comrades witnessed her training her ass off.
The same cactus scraped at the walls of her trachea again, causing her to hack harder and finally spat the accursed substance that she had been dying to drain with the tap water. Much to her surprise, what she just spit out was none other than her own blood. She inaudibly gasped and gurgled. That single drop of blood did not lieapparently.
Initially, there was only Tobi who waited anxiously in front of the bathroom door. Soon, there came Kakuzu, Madara, Kisame, and Konan. Another few minutes later, everybody was waiting outside the bathroom either because of wondering or worry. All were curious by the