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My Account

~ A link to my account. There you can read more of my fanfictions. 

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Wasteland Perspectives:

Chapter 2: Living On A Prayer

It’s so hot out here. Wish the sun would just quit for the day. I’d prefer the crisp bite of nightfall to this sweltering desert. I can almost feelmyself melting; each step of mine leaving a dense pool of sweat in its wake. This damn filthy perspiration gathers in pools under my armpits, circling painfully around my thighs. I have a heat rash, making my bikini line throb in dull irritation. Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful.

If only there were an easier way to traverse these damn wastes than by walking. I can barely sense anything other than screaming muscles anymore. I’ve also run low on supplies, thanks to my inexperience in survival training. I thirst too. Badly. I have no water whatsoever. None. Nadda. Ran out of that sweet elixir last night. I swear, my throat has become a dried out fossil. The taste buds on my tongue fair no better. They’re shrunken in, withered and acrid. I can’t even spit.

A part of me is tempted to cannonball into the murky ripples of the Potomac. Say fuck it all to sense and propriety, so I can guzzle needed water. Poisoned radiated water, sure, but water nonetheless. Yeah, I’d die, agonizingly too. Radiation poisoning is a terrible way to meet your end. Still, I would be contented. I’d go with a belly full of fluids and a smile upon my face.

Balls. But, I do tire of this endless walking. Why am I even doing this anyway? I’m no adventurer. (I’m hardly qualified to be called a wanderer). Perfection to me, is the stillness of solitude paired with a subdued evening of reading in bed. What was dad thinking coming out here! He had to have known Alphonse was going to blow a Goddamn gasket when he deserted the vault. I mean, Jesus Christ dad! The Overseer was, is and forever will be a deranged lunatic. Of course Alphie would target me after you left. That would be the only logical recourse for him. He had to eliminate his imaginary rebellion, which included me.

This lifestyle, this harried existence doesn’t suit me. I know I didn’t yearn for a vault dweller’s way of living, but I sure as shit didn’t ask to be a wastelander either. Every day among these elements is a day of risk, struggle and possible death. Violence reigns supreme here, while peace is a word barely spoken or known by the haggard populace. I resent this new atmosphere. I loathe the strife it claps around my wrists like wrought iron shackles. I despise myself too, for I am becoming no better than anybody else. I am becoming more and more a slave to the rat race.

Absently, I flick away at an imaginary bug. I tiredly gather up my hair into a quick ponytail, relishing the exposure of my neck. With muscles throbbing, I begin to worry my lower lip as I make my way into the downtown area. I can’t seem to remember how long I’ve been living outside 101. What’s worse, I can’t even recall how long it’s been since I’ve last seen my dad. With all this damn chaos surrounding me, dates have become insignificant. At least I now knew where pop had run off to. There was at least that. Such knowledge had to count for something, right?Right?

Thanks to that Irish prick Moriarty, it was revealed that dad-o was determined to visit Three Dog, the Capital Wasteland’s most celebrated radio personality. Yes, I did have to help the bastard to get this intel, but I think the grunt work worth it. I finally knew the whereabouts of my father. Did I like harassing Silver for the creep? No. Yet, it had to be done. I couldn’t afford Moriarty’s information on my own. Silver may be down 100 caps in currency now, but that setback is a small price to pay in exchange for one’s freedom. If the junkie had remained in Colin’s debt, who knows what he would have done to her. I mean, the man is a genuine creep. I’ve even been told he pees in his own bar’s still. Blech.

I choke out of my reverie. It’s suddenly getting hard to breathe, which is causing me to cough like a well seasoned smoker. Lack of food, water and rest can do that to a person. I’m lightheaded, nauseous. Can’t seem to retain any air within my lungs. The organs feel constricted, stiffening with each stiff stride I take. I need water. Need it like Wally Mack needs a brain. I’m shaking. Shuddering. At this rate, I’ll pass out before the hour’s up. Damn my stubbornness! I should’ve listened to Moria and stocked up on necessities, instead of following dad without so little preparation. Fuck me sidewise, but I am sure paying for my ignorance now. Paying for it in spades.

“Lord,” I croak, ” If you can hear me, please send a merchant my way. Any merchant. Doesn’t matter if he specializes in junk, oddities or spoiled brahmin meat. Where there is people there is water. Please, please do this for me. Please. Grace me with a miracle.” Silently, I promised to stop stealing from Jericho and Moriarty. I would no more take what wasn’t mine, nor would I justify said acts because the men I robbed were rotten characters. Blindly, I went onto whisper my entreaties in hushed tones. Then I hit a jagged rock. . . .

And I’m ass-over-teakettle. Knees scrapped badly; flesh raw and wincing. Tentatively, I try to stand, cautiously applying pressure to my right foot and then my left. I bite back a squeal, finding that my left ankle cannot withstand any pressure. I grimace, knowing I’ve twisted the limb. Okay, it’s official, God isn’t answering any of my calls today. Just peachy. Fucking peachy. I curse animatedly and without abandon, hating my ability trip over anything and everything I come across. Look at me! I transformed an already crappy situation into an impossible one. Great. Abso-fucking-lutely great.

Agitatedly, I tear a piece of my t-shirt, placing the fabric inside my mouth. As much as I’d like to rest here, I’m a sitting target. Anyone can see me. With no other choice available, I force myself to keep moving. Shelter has to be found, and, frankly, the sooner it’s claimed, the sooner I can elevate my throbbing ankle. Alrighty, Gemma. Okay. You can do this. You. Can. Do. This. Just focus on the progress you’re making. Take each step as it comes. Tune out the jolting sting of your wound. That’s it. Good. Almost there. . .almost to that empty RV. Almost. . . . There! Made it.

I cry then. Relief sweeping over me, as I relax each exhausted limb. I lay in the rusted hull of my newly discovered camper until I sizzle in the stench and stink and ache and wetness of myself. I curl up into the fetal position to sleep. Despair beginning to envelope me. This delapitated place of refuge could very well be my last residence. I am lame, dehydrated, as well as starving. The odds are not in my favor. In the distance, voices of varying tempos start to grow near. Raiders. I am positive of it. As slowly as I can, I peek out a window, spying five men with wicked tattoos, weapons and purified water. I have to reach them! But, how can I? How?

Sighing, I decide to contemplate my options. Option 1.) I could limp towards them, barely able to move, thusly ensuring my demise (or worse yet, servitude as some sociopath’s sex toy). Or, Option 2.) I could continue rotting away silently, hoping I will not be detected by said neighboring criminals. Yeah, both choices equally sucked. Both left me vulnerable as well as easy prey. I was screwed. Royally screwed.

Wink. Wink. A flash of light hit me square in the face. Wink. Wink. There it was again, bombarding my vision. Wink. Wink. Wink. Where was it coming from? Rolling over onto my stomach, I blindly crawl around the tight confines of the RV. Eureka! I touch metal. Grinning wildly, I wrap fingers around the familiar hilt of a syringe. I’ve found a stimpack. An actual stimpack. This, this gives me the edge I need. This can save me from ruin.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I plunge the needle deep into the swollen skin of my ankle. A rush of warmth tingles the area, absorbing any infection instantaneously. Swiftly, the pain is absorbed too. Luck, sheer luck has offered me my salvation. I had received my miracle, giving me the strength to struggle on.

Deftly, I load fresh bullets into my shotgun, while making sure the katana I’ve procured is firmly secured around my hip bones. Feeling reassured, I begin to stalk the bullshitting cajolers outside my hideout. No courage seeps into my heart at what I am about to do, only the rapid pounding of adrenaline moves me. I inch closer to the laughter before me, ignoring any second thoughts about murder. These were raiders; they were my enemy.

With a mission to complete, I fire my first shot. It bursts a bearded man’s head in two. I fire my next bullets, a flurry of responding fire ricocheting past me. I take shelter behind a boulder. I shoot. Another buckles, then falls. I keep at it, until only one remains. He’s cowering, pleading for forgiveness. I almost let him live, but when my back is turned he tackles me. I reach for Ronin, my sword quickly. The belly of Jacob (or was it Jackson) is soon slashed. Innards seep out, he wails. I finish him without any hesitation, so as to not prolong his suffering.

Alone, I begin to survey the camp sight. I see packs of water bottles, rations and medical supplies. I lunge for them. Eagerly, I drink two bottles of fresh water. Sun still high, I pour a third over my head. I allow the cooling tendrils to soothe my sunburned skin. Everything else I pack away to reserve for later. I strip one corpse loose of his armor, exchanging meager clothing for mercenary duds. Huffing and puffing, I then place each deceased man back into the camper. My conscious won’t allow me to leave them as they are. This is my apology to their broken forms; this is my version of a gravesite.

Sun sinking close to the mountains, I once more head in the direction of Galaxy News Radio. It’s time I continued my lonely travels, ready to wander closer to my destiny. Closer to hope. Closer to home. Closer to a father I have never truly known. Closer to oblivion.


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‘Life Tone Changed’ | Ken Dereste Dorcely

'Life Tone Changed' | Ken Dereste Dorcely

(via thatlitsite:)

American poet Ken Dereste Dorcely vents an upheaval of emotion in his debut publication, Life Tone Changed. Chronicling love lost, the death of his mother, and other afflictions, Dorcely’s debut is raw, unfiltered, and genuine.

Click here to download the anthology:

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I took all my notebooks, all my manuscripts
and ate them page by page so I could take my words with me
I can finally control my life and even death


~ From Holy, by Nicole Blackman

“I took all my …

“The first time I read an excellent work, it is to me just as if I gained a new friend; and when I read over a book I have perused before, it resembles the meeting of an old one.”

  James Goldsmith 

“The first time…

The 100 Must Read Graphic Novels (Pt. 4)


Anytime graphic novels get exposure, I like it. Thank goodness for these posts! =)

Originally posted on Funk's House of Geekery:

Aaaaaand we’re back! The age of DC is over and this weeks list will be all about the Marvels!

Remember to check out Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3!

More Marvels

#31 Marvels

#31 – Marvels

Entry written by G-Funk

One of the many titles that have achieved widespread recognition due to the artwork by Alex Ross. In order to recap and celebrate the long history of Marvel superheroes we follow an everyman photographer as he witnesses events from the sidelines. He’s in the crowd when the Human Torch fought Namor, Galactus attacked the Earth, mutant appearances cause riots and the age of The Avengers. It’s a stunning volume for both long term fans and newcomers. The incredible artwork alone is worth the price.

#32 Origins

#32 – Wolverine: Origins

Slam Adams

Wolverine started out as a Hulk villain before joining the X-Men and becoming the most popular character at Marvel comics ever…

View original 1,271 more words


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