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About Deviant Premium Member Jake Ristic-PetrovicMale/Canada Groups :iconmilitaryaddicts: MilitaryAddicts
Military, war, ww2, soldiers
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Deviant for 5 Years
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Where'd everybody go? 

42%
5 deviants said Kidnapped by Russian cosmonauts, taken to quasar
33%
4 deviants said Directly behind you
17%
2 deviants said Away from your page, ya douchebag!
8%
1 deviant said To a place hidden between two ancient towers...the back alley.

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Do you fear for me when I dance
Between the propeller blades?
Are you worried that one day I might
Miss a beat and slip into halves?

There's no need to be scared for either of us.
You're dancing right beside me,
And if you look long enough you'll see
The same cold steel coming for you.

Just hold my hand
And try not to jump faster than I.
Solid
I can't do romance, except in poetry. And only if it's excruciatingly cheesy.
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I put a bullet in her head, but she keeps coming back to my front door. That's my fault.

But what isn't my fault, what I will never accept as my fault, are the things she leaves on the doorstep for me to find after she staggers back into the lake. They're photographs and diaries, addresses and phone numbers.

It's always something horrible--the first photograph was of four men in hoods surrounding a little girl on a plinth in a large stone room. They had cut her vertically along the belly, and her face was distorted. Another time I decided to go to an address; it was in Pittsburgh, a long way from my home. All it was, was an abandoned project. Barren floors and paint peeling from the walls, broken windows and the smell of mold and excrement. Then I stumbled on a trap door and found a pit to the old sewer line below. It stank of burning hair.

And the diaries. Oh, God. The things some people have seen.

But yesterday she left me a set of keys. I'd long since given up screaming at her to leave me alone, or demanding of her why she left me these things. She didn't rot and she didn't speak. She just looked at me with those big, empty eyes, skin translucent and peeling, and turned away. I watched her black hair flatten on the surface of the water and then disappear.

The keys seemed ridiculous to me. How would I know where the four things--two automotive, two household--could possibly go? This woman had once made me drive to Mexico, for Christ's sakes, the locks could be anywhere on the planet. But the moment I held them in my hands, I could see where they went.

4296 Gordon Street. Sedna, Wisconsin. The car was a blue Volkswagen Beetle, parked in the garage.

As always, I had to go. I had to go. Love of my life, crazy bitch, even in death you control every passing moment of my life. So I got into my own vehicle, the Suburban I had originally used to move us out to the lake, had eventually stashed the chains and weights and body bag in when she told me to park it somewhere it couldn't be seen. I remembered that final drive with her, lying limp under a blanket in the back seat as I drove to the other side of the water, where there were no houses and just one little pier. The last moment of peace I had known was that moment when she was silent and dead back there. The next morning she came back.

Wisconsin was a long way away. I told the neighbors to watch our dogs, I've gotta look at a camper in Minnesota. They were fine with that--we all watched each other's dogs. It was a social atmosphere in that way, but very secluded most of the time. Just the way she had liked it.

I don't remember the drive up to Sedna, really. I was pulled over once, but the cop let me go. In the gas stations people looked at me the way they always do on these trips. They eyed me with suspicion, as though my guilt emitted some aura only I was blind to. I'd learned to be alone without her. Had learned to with her, really.

The house in Sedna was probably built in the 1930s, and renovated a few years ago. It was white, save for a blue front door. There were two garages, the original one and a modern one. The chimney stuck out of the roof, a little brick stub topped with one of those steel pipes that had obviously replaced it in the practical sense. A for sale sign was stuck into the front lawn--the owner was Gerhardt Jurgen, and he seemed to be the realtor as well.

This is now. It is night, and I go around back to the old garage by jumping the fence from the alley just behind it. The garage is not locked--I suspect it is no longer in use. Inside there is the Beetle, its tires flat and its hull covered in a thick layer of dust. I close the doors behind me and examine it with a flashlight. On the front seat is a woman's purse. It is large and old, and I reach in through the open window and grab it.  I rummage through.

There is a pistol inside, and a photograph of Gerhardt Jurgen as a much younger man in West German Army regalia. He stands with his children and smiles brightly. The pistol is the same one I used to kill her. It is still loaded with twelve rounds, the thirteenth having landed firmly in her forehead. She wanted me to kill this happy old man.

I left the garage and slunk up the back porch, pistol in hand, and tested the back door. It was locked, but it opened directly into the bedroom. I need only smash the glass and pop it open, Gerhardt will not have enough time to escape.

I stop.

He's lying there, probably in his late sixties, a retired immigrant who was flipping this house so he could afford a few more luxuries in his life. She wants me to murder him, as if it were so simple, like opening that trapdoor in Pittsburgh or calling the number of that babbling monstrosity on the other side. I will not do it. I took one life, that I accept. But it was the only way to free myself from her, or so I had thought. It was justified. This was senseless.

I turn and leave. I don't bother sneaking about any more--I run to my Suburban and as I drive away I see Gerhardt's lights coming on. Let him ponder the mystery, let him think a burglar lost his nerve at the last second. I'm going back home.

She rises up in the back seat, the blanket sliding off her body. She's watching me through the rear view mirror, quiet but wrathful. No, I say, you cannot make me do that. I will not do it. She reaches over my shoulder and takes the wheel. I let go. She turns it hard to the right when we're going seventy miles an hour on the highway.

Love of my life, crazy bitch. I wouldn't do your bidding so now we are together forever.
Road Trip
A short exercise for my personal amusement. Let me know what you thought!
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Three floors beneath the earth, the Occultist toiled. His work was nearly done and in a room kept at just a few degrees Centigrade he murmured a hundred deranged prayers and spells in a dozen languages. He sat cross-legged in a circle of mare's blood between the skull of a hawk and the tail club of an ankylosaur, the Black Book of Sanghorot spread open in front of him. There was no light save for the soft pulse and flicker of an oil lamp dangling overhead.

The spirits, never slumbering, always flowing through the winds and hiding in crevasses and lurking under beds, answered him. They spoke indifferently of the plans he had laid out before them over the preceding weeks, the only opinion they cast was disdain for the impermanence of man's designs. He listened. He understood.

The Occultist bid the spirits a farewell and bowed his head to the concrete in reverence, smearing mare's blood on his forehead. There was unsettling laughter and agonized shrieks and the gas lamp blew out. For a time, there was silence.

Two sets of fluorescent lights, one over the door and one near the back of the room, sputtered and buzzed to life, and the Occultist stood up. He shed his black cloak and wiped his forehead with a Kleenex, and left the room through a door that had been blessed against the curiosity of dark spirits by a rabbi, an imam, and a voodoo witch doctor. In the corridor on the other side, a group of men and women, dressed as the Occultist was in light shirts and dress pants, waited nervously for his verdict.

“Well, looks like we're good to go.” The Occultist said. “The only spirits worth worrying about are a coupla djinns but I bought them off with myrrh. That being said, the building won't be fully fortified against ancestral ghosts, and there are a lot of them in this area, being as the city's more than a thousand years old. But you aren't likely to have any hauntings, just the usual bullshit with the sightings around the Day of the Dead and all that.”

“Thanks, Bob. We owe you for your great work.” A corpulent man, the Project Head, came by and shook the Occultist's hand. “We all appreciate what you've done making sure my condos are safe and eldritch abomination free.”

The Occultist smiled and showed the crowd out, back up the elevator and into the university where he'd attained his master's in Occult Engineering. Another day, another thousand diseased and tortured souls, another dollar.
The Occultist
Just some goofy shit I threw together last night. I woke up at like one-thirty with the sudden urge to write something, for Chrissake, and this is the concept I came up with.

I tried to edit it and it took some effort, so please, any feedback you can give me would be greatly appreciated.
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Nobody was much older than thirty when we got here. I was nineteen. I jumped out of the belly of an RM-390 atmosphere skimmer, you know, one of those hydrogen sweepers they turned into drop ships. It was fun during training, the drop. Knowing it was a combat jump, I soiled myself at the first sign of enemy movement on the surface. Those Guludeb—they're not ones for subtlety. They know that in a head-to-head fight they've got us whipped.

But I made it. Most of us did, actually. We landed in the hills, the youngest of us eighteen and the oldest of us thirty-two. Another year and the youngest of us will be older than the second extreme. We knew that going in. We just had no idea what it really meant.

They say it takes twenty years to properly colonize a habitable planet. Twenty years to build the cities and the facilities and the economy. Murad had been fully colonized a century before the Guludeb showed up. I wonder what the founders of the colony would have done differently if they'd known a tribe of aliens who looked like little miniature Leviathans were going to come wipe out half the population and put themselves in charge. Maybe they would've given up. Maybe they would've just taken a little longer, been a little more careful to make sure some things survived.

Hard for me to say. I've heard colonial founders are a weird bunch, but my planet's old enough they're all already dead.

Twenty years to properly colonize a habitable planet. Eight months for a tribe of violent alien monstrosities to take over. Earth High Command estimated nine years, six months to retake the world. Guerrilla warfare at its finest: they sent us in to make Murad a logistical nightmare.

From what I understand, thirty-thousand troops were dropped all over the planet. We were so far apart, though, the largest unit my company had any contact with was an independent platoon, the only unit in the area with a proper laser cannon. I remember practically pissing my pants I was so excited when they knocked that orbital repair station out of orbit with one burst from that thing. It's a 5FKS “Mini Boar,” for you armchair generals out there.

It's been thirteen years. I don't remember what my mom's front lawn looked like. I don't remember what I pictured when I was first told we would all be compensated with housing and lifelong pensions for our service. I can't count for you the number of times I've had to inject a temporary sterilizer into my testicles just so I could do the one thing that kept me from going absolutely wodwo.

I'll tell you what I do remember. I remember rendezvousing with the rest of my company in the foothills outside Lyundhill, the local capital. I remember that first ambush, when we massacred twenty-three Guludeb soldiers performing some kind of ritual in the woods—I remember their return fire, those automatic cannons they hold blowing apart full-grown conifers, decapitating soldiers. I remember the day when I stopped remembering every firefight, every roadside bomb, every rocket launch, and it all congealed into a blur punctuated by only the worst horror or the most exhilarating victories. I remember the chunk of shrapnel that took most of my nose. I remember the Guludeb devouring the surgeon who fixed it for me, eating him in public as restitution for an ambush.

I remember a lot. Now I think I'm going to remember today.

The Guludeb leaders were on one half of the table, and there were admirals, generals, and politicians from a dozen earth colonies on the other. I sat on the far edge. One of the Guludeb chieftains stopped the dialogue for a moment and pointed a claw at me. He spoke. I'd never heard them speak before. You'd think with names like Olgkhuptu and Hagrakadacz they'd sound like the way they looked—ugly, scarred, violent. But they don't. Their language is singsong, with all sorts of underlying harmonics that sound just like an orchestra getting ready before a big show. The translator worked slowly.

“Why do you sit at this table with these great men? You are but a footsoldier.”

I didn't smile, but I spoke politely. “I am the highest-ranking footsoldier to fight on Murad.”

“Lies! You are too young! Your rank is corporal!”

“Yes, chieftain. And corporal is the highest rank left.”

I'm going to remember today. I'm going to remember the treaty, I'm going to remember all the ships leaving the atmosphere. And when I remember, I'm always going to wonder what thirteen years and thirty thousand means to anybody else.
Young Man Wants Pension
It's been a while since I've done proper science fiction on this website. This story started off as a realization: an entire planet is a lot bigger than your average battlefield. To successfully nab one back would take a very long time, and incur casualties that I can only describe as truly epic.

It isn't very polished, so if anyone could point out anything confusing, or a jarring break in style, or what have you, let me know.
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A woman calling herself Jo Ann of Archer Street took over the barber shop a year ago today. I don't think she was really crazy. She was just frustrated. Or maybe she had a few too many cups of coffee.

Anyway. She jumped through the storefront window with a pair of pearl-handled revolvers drawn, and told us we were all joining her on an expedition. She pointed them squarely at my eyes, one barrel per pupil, and demanded my compliance. I was in the middle of giving an old customer a quick trim, but I said what the hell, sure. You can't argue with that kind of panache.

Really I wish I'd got to go on the journey she was ranting and raving about. You should have heard her describe it. We were going to hijack a boat and sail to Greenland, where she would proclaim herself empress. She was so goddamn convinced, that Jo Ann, that we all believed she really could do it. We all forgot that we were in a barber shop, us barbers and those customers, and we started cheering her on and laughing at her cracks about the people who might oppose her.

Of course the cops showed up. She didn't shoot at them or anything. They blew her brains out just for having the pistols and, I suspect, for being black. This is Chicago; I've seen plenty of well-armed loonies out there with pale skin who got the taser rather than the bullet. Then they started handing out blankets and coffee and asking us if we needed to see the on-site psychiatrist. One by one we told them off. I said they'd made a mistake, shooting our empress. That got me plenty of funny looks.

I miss Jo Ann of Archer Street, though I couldn't have known her much longer than an hour or two. Such a character. The window in our shop was replaced, and I went back to cutting hair. Someday I'm going to go to Greenland, though, and I'm going to see what it's like in my empress' country.
Barber Shop Boogie
A blurb about mentally unbalanced cops vomited onto a deviantart document in under ten minutes.
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You ever read a book and you love it so much, you wish you could read a thousand books just like it but you can't find any? That's how I feel about The Third Policeman, by Flann O'Brien. I read it a few months ago and thinking about it just makes me manic. The weird thing is; it's not the kind of book I'd normally like. It progresses slower than it ought to (which is the number one thing that makes me completely unable to read Stephen King, the fact that he can't shut up), it's written in very formal language (the number one thing that keeps me away from some Lovecraft stories--I love ol' Howard Phillips, but I can't get through the Mountains of Madness because of the goddamn language) and really it doesn't have much action in it (which tends to turn me off science fiction with a really good premise and good characters--a lack of crazy shit happening). But it's hilarious and unsettling, and I couldn't put it down when I read it. Strange.

So folks, what book or books gives you that feeling of excitement, just thinking about it? And what books do you love, even though they seem like the sort of thing you shouldn't be able to sit through?

Also a sorry in advance to Stephen King fans. I'm not saying he's a bad writer! He's just not as concise as I like. That isn't necessarily a bad thing. If it was, he wouldn't be one of the top American writers of all time.

Double also: that title is a prompt. You people should write a story about a door that knocks from within, or, like, something analogous to that.

deviantID

SgtPossum
Jake Ristic-Petrovic
Canada
A drunk Albertan, I'm a writer. I write stuff, and shit, and other things. Feedback is always appreciated, positive or negative.

I've got a tumblr. SgtPossum.tumblr.com
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:icontomcranham:
TomCranham Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday mate!
Reply
:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2015
Thank you!
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:iconimagineapplescruffs:
ImagineAppleScruffs Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Hello there, Jake. Hope you're having an awesome birthday!!! Drink beer! Eat cake! Have fried ice cream! :P Just generally have a fabulous day! :happybounce:

Hope your b-day yields some creative writing; haven't seen you on dA much lately. Or am I just insane? LOL

Anyway, have a wonderful day, my friend and fellow writer! :)

:peace:
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:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2015
Thanks! A river o' beer will be drunk tonight, that's for sure.

I'm still working on lots of stuff, and actually I did write something last night that I might put on here. So hold off on the straightjackets, at least for the time being. :P

You too!
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:iconarianod:
Arianod Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
:) :iconthnxplz: :meow:
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:iconsincebecomeswhy:
sincebecomeswhy Featured By Owner Sep 25, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Dood.
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:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014
Dood broods over oodles of food.
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:iconsincebecomeswhy:
sincebecomeswhy Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
You've been working on that all week, haven't you?
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:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Oct 4, 2014
...Mayhaps.
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:iconmyriadwhitedarkness:
myriadwhitedarkness Featured By Owner Jul 4, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave! :)
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