skynamir

[skynamir]

[skynamir]

Think Happy Thoughts

The twisted strands of rebar protruding out of the piles of concrete and debris gave an eerie image of hands reaching out into the misty darkness. I began to shiver, the biting cold reaching my very bones. I pull my poncho tighter to me, though its plastic material would do nothing but protect me from the incoming storm rumbling towards us. I walk up the hill to the only island of untouched, green land amid the scarred, brown-grey landscape flooded by the soft moonlight. I throw my gun and rucksack down and slump down the side of the only tree standing for miles, feeling the bullet-holes with my hands in doing so. I reach into my pack for my canned "food" that could've probably kill a rat, and tasted like one, too.

Eating and surveying the unimaginable damage, a slap in the face of Mother Nature, I spot a little cow by a pile of something in the no man's land. It was prodding the pile, and I could see it look up at the heavens after the pile wouldn't move and crying out in sorrow.

"That would suck," I mumbled to myself, not expecting anyone to hear.

"What would suck?" A voice behind me asked in a heavy French accent

"Well, that calf---" I looked right into the face of a very, very pretty girl. Startled, I jumped back and began to slip down the hill.

"Woah!" I yelled, trying to get my balance. When I finally stopped, I could see her giggling uncontrollably. "What's so funny?" I asked, feeling a little self-conscious about my thick New York accent.

"You," she said, smiling, "You're funny." Well, at least she had good English.

"What's your name?" she asked, finally.

"B-Bill Walters," I stammered, "My name is Bill Walters. And you? What's your name?" She giggled again.

"Catherine Dupont," she responded, saying it in her native French accent. It was a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Not being the adventurous type, I merely asked what her address was.

"Why do you want to know? Do you want to come over to my house? And what would I say to my parents?" She gave me a wink and I blushed furiously.

"N-n-no," I displayed my stress-induced stutter that I'd supposedly gotten rid of with extreme effectiveness, "I just want to w-w-write you a letter when I get back States-s-side." Then I added, "IF I get back." She raised an eyebrow, laughed, then grinned.

"Sure," she said, "I'd love to hear from the skinny little Yankee soldier I met on a hill in the romantic moonlight." She winked again, and I correspondingly turned a deeper shade of red. She seemed thoroughly amused. She began advancing toward me, and I steadily receded from her vicious advance. She caught up to me and gave me a deep, powerful kiss. I could feel her tongue attempt to grab mine. It was my first one (no, I hadn't kissed my first date the year before). I panicked and shoved her off of me.

"I have to l-l-leave now," I said, grabbing my sack and gun, marching as far away from her as I could. My heart was racing and my face was positively smoldering.

"How old are you?" I could hear her ask as I began to march away from her.

"S-s-seventeen," I replied, waving back and giving her a toothy grin. Suddenly, I saw a figure running out of the darkness behind her, shaking his fist and yelling.

"Oh, shit," I said, then began to sprint back to camp.

"You know, you missed a great opportunity," Shifty said after I'd told him everything. He grinned at me and I smiled.

"Well, I'm just not that kind of guy," I said, ripping the slip she'd written her address on.

"C'mon, man, it's 1918, we're not like our parents. We don't have to be prudes anymore," he tried to explain to me.

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with prudence," I said. He smiled at my disastrous misuse of the word and attempt at a pun.

"Well," he began, tossing me a bottle, "At least you drink a little." He offered me a smoke. I refused it.

"Only a little, buddy."

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Holy shit, stuff's making sense

The Sexy Lie, Caroline Heldman at TEDxYouth@SanDiego

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No

My dad

(Most inspirational quote of my life)

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What the hell is this?

Inquisitive self: How is this any different than a text?

My inner New Yorker: Shaddup and write something

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Maybe there was a glitch in my brain. (par BethLems)

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The gift shop

I looked out of a window adorned with child's paintings into the sea of people walking by the shop. All were dressed in black or gray trench coats, maybe a hat or two, and the ever-present Yankees cap, in all of its innumerable variations. The vwoom-vwoom-vwoom of the nearby fan lent a little background noise to the monotony of the city as I wasted my life in this little gift shop, catering to fat tourists from Nowhere, Texas or Georgia, stomachs bulging out of white "I <3 NY" shirts three sizes too small, ordering things from my in a thick Southern accent or trying to not look like tourists. It pissed me off.

Then, a sound pierced that utter monotony and melancholy. A sound so horrific, it made me cringe and sent chills throughout my body and curdled my blood. The sound of something scratching styrofoam. The sound stopped. I whirled around to yell something offensive toward the culprit. There stood one of the most welcome sights I'd ever seen. A girl in an identical uniform as mine. She was so beautiful. No, she was someone sent from heaven.

She was my sister, and she was taking over my shift as I quickly sprinted out of the door into the rushing current of fellow peons looking for a place to eat lunch.

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insta-cowardice.

"why is your face so goddamn dirty", yelled the belligerent man to the one legged woman lying on the street.  he picked up her worn out walking stick.  he looked carefully at it.

"one more hit and I can own you", he chuckled.  

she looked so sad in that moment.  her hair disheveled, her clothes in tatters.  the princess of dejection.  

i wish i could help, i thought to myself. but, I’m too busy talking a sad photo to do anything meaningful about it.

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I met a man who sat in his room and folded paper all day. His face was cracked like worn stone and his smile had a child-like wonderment, but hidden deep in his eyes were pain and sadness. Like it was something he kept buried in a shallow grave, afraid that a hard rain would unearth.

I sat...

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For my little sister

Erase her. Erase her from the earth. I knew it. I knew it deep in my bones. Cut her off!!! She should burn in whatever pit of hell there is. And I Can take her there. She allowed you to tHink some way, to think that she could maybe love you. She could have just said "no, there's no wAy." But the bitch didn't. So you should erase her from your memoRy.

You should hope that the same fate befaLLs her. That someone leads you On and destroys your very hopes and dreams. You should move on. And allow iT To happen once morE. You should do the same thing to others. And when you see her, if you see her, she should be eliminated from this game of life.

No, that's not what I want. I want her to live. To live long enough to be destroyed, to have her very heart ripped, still beating, from her chest. Have someone seduce her, use her, and then leave. Or better yet, have her be in love with someone who's in love with a friend of theirs.

Your name is in the letters, dear, in all of its French glory. You know who you are. And this will be my last message to you

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Hey look. It's me XD

Brazilian musician Antônio Carlos Gomes (July 11, 1836 — September 16, 1896) was one of the first opera composers from the American continent to achieve success in Europe. After studying in Rio de Janeiro and Milan, Gomes composed a total of eight operas, of which Il Guarany—based on the novel O Guarani by Brazilian writer José de Alencar—was the most popular. The work, which dealt with the interaction between indigenous Guaraní and Portuguese people in early colonial Brazil, premiered on May 1870 at La Scala in Milan. 

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Another part of my book

    A collection of short stories and poems     There were horizontal sheets of rain pouring down from a blackened sky. The usual pitter-patter of the incessant rain crescendoed into a full onslaught of deafening white noise. The atmosphere shifted from gloomy to downright depressing.     The impact of each raindrop appeared as if it were a bullet, causing a massive amount of the now-saturated mud to become airborne. The ambient mist thickened and mixed with the rich, dark green of the foilage that surrounded us.     Human language flew through air that no sane creature would, connecting each open-air bamboo shelter to others by invisible lines, transmitted by little raised patches of dirt alonside the roads, each within earshot of at least one other, each manned by one or two of the chocolate-colored men of the region.     A tiny grey shape towered over a vast dark green ocean. A small group of harebrained birds, unfazed by the rumbles of thunder and flashes of lightening, flew past the gigantic monument, accentuating the form's immensity.     "Muevent <They're moving>." the man near me pointed at a small group of dark, low figures moving slowly in the tall grass, like snakes silently stalking prey. He slowly reached for an AK-47 he had stashed by his bedroll. Checking the magazine and inserting it into the well, he slowly cocked it and brought it to bear.     Before he fired, I motioned to the next link-post that there were enemies. "Émìcs!!" I said, attempting to keep my voice as low as possible. The listener nodded and transmitted the message to the next post. I then made sure that I was in a position to run like hell away from our shooter.     Being armed with only a pen, a journalist's pad, and survival gear stashed into a Western-style knapsack, I was in no way, shape, or form equipped to withstand a firefight. I would have to stay as close to the front lines as possible without putting myself into direct danger.     I unsheathed my survival knife and began to sprint to the next outpost the instant the shooter fired. Fire was returned almost immediately. Bullets whizzed past my head, my arms, and my feet, hitting objects all around me. I heard a scream from the outpost I had left. Pleas for a medic never to be answered. I made a beeline straight for an outpost and dove behind it. The fighter manning it tossed me an M1911. I cocked the heavy pistol and sheathed it between my jungle pants and the combat belt. He tossed me a pair of extra magazines which I tossed into my pockets.     Bullets hammered into the pile of raised dirt behind which I sook refuge from the hail of bullets that was reducing it to nearly nothing. Unholstering my pistol, holding it with my left hand and my combat knife improperly with my right, I again bolted towards the next pile of refuse. The bullets stopped the instant I touched the ground. I peeked above the tree stump that made the majority of the shelter and a bullet careened toward my head, narrowly missing it by millimeters.     The fog made it damn near impossible to see, let alone effectively hit targets. The interminable pop-pop-pop of Kalashnikov's great contribution to human death filled the air as I tried to scan the area for the next outpost. Scrambling to a running crouch, I dove toward a fallen log by the side of the raised mud road.     Again diving into the thick Indian mud, I thought I saw a figure three meters to my left. He appeared lost, a Kalashnikov in hand as he probed through the thick grass. While scanning the grass, he seemed to have spotted me, but I wasn't quite sure. His eyes were fixated onto my position, and he slowly approached me, aiming his rifle directly into my face. I was paralyzed by fear, the blood draining from my face. My fingers tingled and his movements became slower and slower.      I quickly brought his head into my iron sights and pulled the trigger. A flash from the barrel point. I could see the slide begin to rear as the man's head exploded into a massive shower of bone and grey matter. The casing ejected. A piece of brain fell onto my left eyelid. The slide pulled back forward, and time resumed its standard flow. I scrambled to my feet as the sound attracted much attention and a hailstorm of flying lead.     Ahead, I spot two figures with blue heads. No, not heads, helmets. UN peacekeepers. I was saved! They were running toward the firefight, armed with SA80's and a light armored vehicle with a small main gun.     "Halt!" the one on my right said, brandishing his weapon at me. He had a thick Cockney accent and a frightened look on his eye. I had to choose my words and actions wisely. Anything could set him off.     "Who are you?" the other one asked in a more refined accent, also brandishing his weapon, but looking calmer than his teammate.     "I'm a Massalian war journalist. I was covering some of the atrocities here in Pondicherry from the recent genocides when my escort and I were attacked." I pointed in the direction of the ongoing firefight. "Sont cassi veinte soúdâus aci nes hierbes. Aye causôn. Ils án AK et yo pienso que grádes. There are about twenty soldiers there in the grass. Take care. They have AKs and I think grenades."     They nodded and pushed onwards, leaving my mud-covered self to walk back to the harbor to board the next ship back to Djibouti.

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Sometimes You try so hard to take care of everyone else That you forget to take care of yourself

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if heaven is falling into love and hell is falling out then purgatory is waiting for the phone to ring (you never did call me back)

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One World Trade Center, Manhattan, New York City

[skynamir]

This shit's terrible

Civil war in Syria