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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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It had been one of those beautiful emerald Irish pastures once, kept low and verdant by livestock grazing. It was overgrown now that the extraterrestrials had gobbled up all the cows, chickens, deer, dogs, cats, pigs, hamsters, hedgehogs, small children, adults with the mentality of small children, sparrows, crows, barn swallows, geese...the list goes on. All there was to plod the earth were the few humans such as myself and old Myles and the dolphins which some sick alien had decided ought to run about on feminine legs.

"Get that glazed look out of your eyes, lad. It wasn't that fucking pretty to begin with." Myles growled. He pulled a mickey of Jameson's out of his blue trench coat and pulled a swig. "Now help me find the old brick shithouse. I buried Flann's treasure out behind it."

"You don't suppose anyone else found it before us, do you?"

"Oh, yea, well everybody goes diggin' around shithouses don't they?" Myles rolled his eyes and grumbled something in Gaelic. Perhaps I should say "Irish." He snapped at me every time I called his language Gaelic.

I never understood Myles that well. He materialized in an amber haze shortly after the aliens left, possessing an innate knowledge of both Dublin and the Irish countryside. Though he refused to tell me who he really was or where he'd been before I met him, he sympathized with me, for I was the only Canadian tourist neither beamed into the belly of a flying saucer nor spliced with an inanimate object. My girlfriend hadn't been so lucky; she was to forever wander the streets of that city as an antique ottoman. Myles told me he knew where there was buried gold, that he had buried it with a fellow named Brian after they murdered Flann--though he left out any other pertinent details about his prior existence.

I followed him through the pasture until we reached the old stone inn, a dirt road leading up to its stout black gates that we hadn't seen through all the tall grass and monstrously overgrown hedgerows. Then he motioned for me to take the lead while again sipping from his whiskey. I looked up and down the area, didn't see anything that resembled an outside toilet, and so went around behind the house expecting to find it there.

Sure enough, overlooking a sharp drop into an ocean strait, across which was a large green island, the outhouse. It had a pair of vultures, minus any flesh--just feathers and bones--sitting on it and having an excited conversation in what I guessed was Tagalog. I assumed this because I'd heard that language spoken a great deal in my days as the manager of a Tim Horton's off the Trans-Canada outside Golden.

"Is this the one?"

"Yea." Myles nodded, and then sat on a bench behind the inn. "Poor ol' Flann. I told Brian we shouldn't do it, y'know. But he was a sick one, that Brian. Totally cuckoo. Told me if I didn't do it he'd have my head. Yea, it's buried right by those two stones."

"Myles..."

"Speak it, lad."

"What are we going to do with the gold when we have it?"

"I always wanted to buy an estate somewhere as far from the English as I could without leaving Ireland."

"But who would you buy it from? There's hardly anyone left."

"Yea. Now I imagine we'll have to use it to get you some women. Repopulation is the ticket now."

While his logic seemed flawed, I shrugged, found a spade leaning against the inn, and started to dig. The vultures chuckled at me, and Myles went into the inn tavern to find himself another bottle. The world is such a strange place, I thought to myself, it's good to have friends who don't think so. I struck the box of gold, plucked it from the earth, and popped it open. Brilliant coins sparkled like hundreds of little suns.
Gaotha Te
What fresh hell is this?
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I stood at the edge of the ice, a perfect line two feet higher than the ocean, and watched the beast attack my ship. The fools had abandoned their captain, thinking I'd led them to their deaths, but when they were not two miles out the creature struck.

It was immense and slimy, black and blue and white, old and toothy. Its tail was like a whip and its maw was like a deep sea cavern. It cut through wood like paper. It popped my crew into its mouth like corn. The whole thing was over in several minutes of thrashing and twisting, throwing up a wall of foam a hundred feet high. And then, like a snake, the creature gently disappeared beneath the surface.

I turned around. Nothing but blinding white snow for hundreds of miles. No food, no fresh water, no salvation. Looking back into the sea, I saw the creature's enormous black form about to slip under the ice sheet, back to its abode. I drew my hunting knife and jumped in.
Lament of Erebus
I like sea monsters. I think I'm going to write a good, long sea monster story soon. This was a warm-up exercise.
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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.
It burns, this old ship
Sailor's dreams are forgotten
But I taste their pain.
Sea Monster
Also known as Message in a Bottle on an Oregon Beach, 1919.
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It's good to be a mechanic. There isn't much gas being refined anymore, except in a few places, so the only people who come through are either real rich or fucking crazy. The rich ones are good because you can get a lot from them. The crazy ones are good because they talk to one another, and pretty soon every cannibal for a hundred miles knows not to chop you up.

Sometimes there are problems. People think they can muscle you, y'know. They'll ask for a breaker bar or they'll demand that you come with them and maintain their convoy. But I'm always firm; they won't kill a mechanic, no matter how wacko they are. It's impossible to rebuild a transmission if you don't know what the fuck you're doing, I'll tell you that much. But if they get real uppity, start waving machetes around and the like, I'm pretty quick with a pistol.

Of course, having a shop you can't just up and move off every time the locusts pass through or chlorinated rain starts coming down. God only knows how many times I've had to patch holes in the walls and ceiling, and I'm still finding plague bugs hiding in my tool boxes. And there's no way to tell when the next load of gas is gonna come through, so sometimes I can't use the generator for anything but the arc welder.

Still, it's an easy life. You meet some pretty interesting characters. Like the other day, these four guys came through on horseback, told me I wouldn't have to do it much longer. Things are going to get worse, they said. I said things always get worse before they get better. One of them, a fella in a big black hoodie, he told me things weren't going to get any better.

Well, what do I care? For right now I got my shop. Life's good.
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.

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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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:iconarianod:
Arianod Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
:) :iconthnxplz: :meow:
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:iconhomunculus888:
homunculus888 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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:iconhomunculus888:
homunculus888 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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:iconedges-to-everything:
Edges-to-Everything Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014
Happy Birthday, Jake! :nod:
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:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014
Thanks!
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:iconhadrianr:
HadrianR Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014
Happy Birthday ! :D
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:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014
Thank you!
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