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About Deviant ÆthelstanMale/United Kingdom Group :iconalternate-worlds: Alternate-Worlds
In the sea of time
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Literature
Sweet
1996
Carl had stared at the small corner of the newspaper all morning. When he had first laid eyes upon it he had thrown it down in a rage, though he had known the moment one of his staff entered the office with a wan face. He had always known.
Surrounded by the headlines of local politics, celebrity gossip, and the economy was a lone paragraph in a box. It read: ‘Prominent Grove Street member killed in altercation.’
Sweet was dead.
He had read the words over and over again, torn between disbelief and a twisted sense of relief. The seemingly inevitable had finally come to pass, and yet the loss brought on a keen, almost physical pain. His thoughts drifted back to the last great tragedy of his short life.
It had been nine years since Brian died. The distance seemed strange, even unsettling. Now Carl found himself in surroundings he could not have imagined; he had been on a journey at once amazing and impossible, certainly for someone of his upbringing. Death pr
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Stauffenberg's Folly :iconholocene-dawn:holocene-dawn 27 2 No Wendish Crusade :iconholocene-dawn:holocene-dawn 24 5 Editable Europe base map :iconholocene-dawn:holocene-dawn 21 23
Literature
The Shield Wall
The day dawned crisp and clear
as we took up the shield and spear.
Not one of us burdened by gloom,
marching proudly to our doom.
The snow crunches under our feet
as upon our shields we strike a beat,
pounding the drums of war
calling upon Odin and Thor.
The enemy met us by the lake
amidst the mountains of the fire drake
Our lives they make take,
but our reputations they will not break.
The call goes out to form our wall
Our line long, deep and tall.
The thud of shield against shield
defying our foes
we will not yield.
And now comes the long wait.
Breathing, staring, awaiting our fate.
Looking to see if they will move first,
too eager to quench their blades' thirst.
Now come the cheers and the jeers,
that it is shameful to live long years,
that none of their kin shall shed tears,
that the Norns have known for years.
Then, at last, with sun up high
The foe gives a mighty cry,
And charges toward us, prepared to die.
Our arms tense,
our legs dig in,
our minds turned to slaughter,
our will
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Literature
The Siege
Amina crawled forward on her hands and knees with her stomach aching and her head pounding. She fought the urge to vomit at her own stench, the matted, greasy curls of her self-cut hair stroking her neck like Death's waiting hand. She was hungry...so hungry.
Straining to peer through the cracked window, the sweltering August afternoon smothering her haggard face, she saw what she already knew – they were still there, watching, waiting. Flashes of images and sounds came back to her: the first time that she had been woken up by the artillery batteries that had pounded the mosques, and the hospitals, and the shops; the booms of the petrol stations and cars as they were hit; the screams and pleading answered by the machine guns.
The thick black columns of smoke had subsided, but she saw at least a dozen thinner but no less alarming plumes across the city from her flat. She wondered how the people there felt, if they were alive – death seemed a relief at this point. Often she th
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Literature
The Hangman
None of them could have said what life was like before the war. They recalled the first news of the invasion, and the retreat into the forest; now it seemed to have become their entire lives. That two out of four had been city-dwellers seemed distant and alien now; the dense greenery had become their home, a hard and unforgiving abode from which they pillaged and harried the enemy.
Hours, days, weeks, months – such measurements were meaningless. They only counted their ammunition, and how many of the fascist invaders they maimed and murdered with it. Every shot fired was one less person to rape, murder, plunder and burn. Each day they woke invigorated by the thought of cleansing the world of monsters.
The gallows was a crude thing, hastily built just outside Polotsk. The sky was grey and sullen, the air dry. A small crowd had come to watch in silence, giving the four of them looks that ranged from pity to contempt – spineless traitors, the lot of them. One of the enemy was
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1996

Carl had stared at the small corner of the newspaper all morning. When he had first laid eyes upon it he had thrown it down in a rage, though he had known the moment one of his staff entered the office with a wan face. He had always known.

Surrounded by the headlines of local politics, celebrity gossip, and the economy was a lone paragraph in a box. It read: ‘Prominent Grove Street member killed in altercation.’

Sweet was dead.

He had read the words over and over again, torn between disbelief and a twisted sense of relief. The seemingly inevitable had finally come to pass, and yet the loss brought on a keen, almost physical pain. His thoughts drifted back to the last great tragedy of his short life.

It had been nine years since Brian died. The distance seemed strange, even unsettling. Now Carl found himself in surroundings he could not have imagined; he had been on a journey at once amazing and impossible, certainly for someone of his upbringing. Death propelled him upwards even as it laid his kin low. He would never again be prey for ghetto thugs, if only because his new foes were more prestigious. He had sworn that no one would meet such an ignominious fate.

And yet Sweet was dead.

He wondered how it had happened. The report was vague as well as brief; who really cared about just another gang-banger? Had his brother been shot, stabbed, beaten? Was it a drive-by or a home invasion? The mind raced to unpleasant thoughts without concrete evidence. He imagined he would know eventually – he always did. Money bought eyes and ears.

And then there was the fury, not only towards the perpetrators but towards Sweet as well. Whatever else might have happened, Carl knew that his brother could not be entirely free of blame. They had all been born into a culture that Sweet had embraced most enthusiastically. Endless petty feuds and quickness to aggression could only end one way. In his new luxury, Carl liked to think that he had taken a more cautious attitude to such a life, and he was thankful every day that Kendl had rejected it.

With his last brother cold and pale, Carl did not think he would ever forget that day they had met on the steps of the police station. He had escaped, travelled across the state, made friends and allies, and become wealthy. He had driven down in a nice car, worn a modest suit, and offered Sweet true freedom. And he had had it all spat back in his face.

Instead, Sweet had dragged him back to a place he had only just realised he was glad to leave: back to dilapidated state housing, vicious drug addicts, and the cycle of violence that doomed so many young men. Sweet despised good food, hot running water, and clean clothes, and seemed perfectly content to live the miserable, ‘honourable’ life championed by the radio and television.

And, Carl realised, he hated him for it. The arrogant, deluded bastard! He was actually proud of never amounting to anything, of just being another statistic. He had almost been pathetic enough to give in to the drugs that had ruined half of the city. What was the point of saving him from addiction when he had always been high on machismo?

Kendl was expecting again. Despite his initial misgivings, Carl was proud to see how happy and safe she was with Cesar in San Fierro, far from the home that was no home at all. They had made a newer, better one, and they would never worry about money. Their children would not have their minds addled by poison or be taken away in one moment of gunfire and screaming tyres.  Their classrooms would be calm and civilised, free from the likes of Ryder. Their lives would be enviably normal.

Carl took hope from that.

He had a lifetime to think. At last he tore his eyes away from the paper, pushed the chair back from the desk and went to find his biker leathers. A long ride would clear his head.
Sweet
Carl reflects on another loss. 

I purchased GTA: San Andreas for my PS4 via the PSN, and have been enjoying it enough to be inspired by it again. Since I recycled my laptop, I found myself writing this by hand, which was a refreshing change of medium. It's presented here more or less as I wrote it, with minor alterations. Feedback welcomed. :) 
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i've just deleted a couple of short stories i submitted to this account. i was in the middle of a second draft for another one, but that too is gone. in that case, i realised that i wasn't being original; i was just copying pornography i had watched. my writing was terrible as a result. i told myself that i would write better and that any writing is better than none, but i suppose that doesn't sit well with me anymore.

over the last few weeks and months, i confess that i have become somewhat addicted to porn as a masturbation aid. i would get in bed every night, automatically find what i wanted and thrust under the covers until ejaculation made me feel better about myself for a short while. i suppose it is a symptom of my feeling terribly lonely and isolated, and distracts me from the fact that i haven't continued research for my 'elusive novel' for months and that there's a voice in my head saying i'll never achieve anything, that i should have ended it years ago, that all i do is keep living without purpose. i feel that writing erotic stories has negatively affected my descriptive ability, my characterisation, and my dialogue. i struggle to think of something 'normal' to write about at length.

with the results of the US election, i have made a promise to swear off porn. the first night it took effort not to go straight to a video archive, but perhaps it will get easier. next year i will be officially in my late twenties, and soon afterwards 30. and what have i done? it increasingly troubles me.

i left my old account here because writing erotic content became its focus, and i wrote dozens of private stories for people i considered friends that utterly exhausted my enthusiasm for certain things, or made me outright hate things. i let myself get close to them, then was told i was 'an ugly piece of shit' when i refused to keep in contact after i was severely let down and humiliated. i don't want this account to be consumed by petty pornography as well. so i guess i'll try to write interesting things, throw out maps, and the like.

just felt like writing this for anyone who reads. hope you're all doing well wherever you are.

J.
  • Listening to: Marina and the Diamonds
i've just deleted a couple of short stories i submitted to this account. i was in the middle of a second draft for another one, but that too is gone. in that case, i realised that i wasn't being original; i was just copying pornography i had watched. my writing was terrible as a result. i told myself that i would write better and that any writing is better than none, but i suppose that doesn't sit well with me anymore.

over the last few weeks and months, i confess that i have become somewhat addicted to porn as a masturbation aid. i would get in bed every night, automatically find what i wanted and thrust under the covers until ejaculation made me feel better about myself for a short while. i suppose it is a symptom of my feeling terribly lonely and isolated, and distracts me from the fact that i haven't continued research for my 'elusive novel' for months and that there's a voice in my head saying i'll never achieve anything, that i should have ended it years ago, that all i do is keep living without purpose. i feel that writing erotic stories has negatively affected my descriptive ability, my characterisation, and my dialogue. i struggle to think of something 'normal' to write about at length.

with the results of the US election, i have made a promise to swear off porn. the first night it took effort not to go straight to a video archive, but perhaps it will get easier. next year i will be officially in my late twenties, and soon afterwards 30. and what have i done? it increasingly troubles me.

i left my old account here because writing erotic content became its focus, and i wrote dozens of private stories for people i considered friends that utterly exhausted my enthusiasm for certain things, or made me outright hate things. i let myself get close to them, then was told i was 'an ugly piece of shit' when i refused to keep in contact after i was severely let down and humiliated. i don't want this account to be consumed by petty pornography as well. so i guess i'll try to write interesting things, throw out maps, and the like.

just felt like writing this for anyone who reads. hope you're all doing well wherever you are.

J.
  • Listening to: Marina and the Diamonds

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:iconjstreel:
jstreel Featured By Owner Apr 3, 2017
Thanks for watching!
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