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About Deviant Core Member Jake Ristic-PetrovicMale/Canada Groups :iconmilitaryaddicts: MilitaryAddicts
Military, war, ww2, soldiers
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Deviant for 6 Years
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Where'd everybody go? 

46%
6 deviants said Kidnapped by Russian cosmonauts, taken to quasar
31%
4 deviants said Directly behind you
15%
2 deviants said Away from your page, ya douchebag!
8%
1 deviant said To a place hidden between two ancient towers...the back alley.

Activity


I met the witch
Behind the porno shop on 118th
You know, the XXX Liquidators
Where you always see middle-aged
Grotesque looking men
Who couldn't afford to be johns
Going in to sit in a booth and jerk off.

She was sitting there with what I thought
What I thought
Was a crack pipe,
Twisting a screw in the glass back and forth
With a Phillips-head screwdriver
The cross screwdriver
The one that my girlfriend in tenth grade thought
Was called a T driver.

I asked her what she was doing
And she glanced at me with that look
The one that says “no,
You can't return underwear
Yes, I am playing cards,
For fuck's sakes,”
The one that tells you to stop making small talk
And say something somebody gives a damn
About.

She answered,
“Come here, young man, and take hold
Of this pipe, keep it steady.”
“All right.” I said, wondering why
A crack pipe would need a screw
Why a screw is needed
When there's nothing to hold together
In a cast tube of glass.

She tightened it good while I held it
So much I thought it'd crack
I thought it'd break into a million pieces
Chop up my hand like the time mom,
Pissed at me for practicing pyrotechnics
Squeezed her wine glass so hard it blew up
And spilled the cheap beer she'd poured within.

It didn't break.
She placed a few grains of white powder in the bowl
And told me that if I lit it and breathed deep
She'd take me to a place beyond the stars
Someplace outside the universe
Where there were plenty of witches with pipes
And not quite so many porno theaters.
I said
“All right.”

It wasn't the craziest thing I'd ever done.

Once, a year before, I was coming home from the bar and this young Lebanese guy told me he knew a great party on the North Side and I figured what the hell, I'm already three sheets to the wind but the girls there are probably drunker so maybe I'll get laid, and I hopped into a cab with him and we went to this place just past Refinery Row where all these fucking teenagers were mingling with Indians with bags on their head making spooky music, and the next thing I remembered was waking up in a hole filled with dirt, coming off an acid trip, still kind of drunk and wondering where my pants were.

But the witch wasn't bullshitting; that was no crack pipe.

I was someplace where the sky is black but every surface is lit as if the air itself is the source.

The witch told me to fuck off,
She had business and would come get me later.
So I fucked off and walked around this place.
My elementary teacher was there
The one who blew her brains out when her husband
The youth pastor
Got caught having a mutually beneficial relationship
With that guy who hangs out at the gas station
Dancing with the sign
The meth head they call Topsy Turvy.

My grandpa was there too,
And he told me he was ashamed of me
Because he saw every time I smoked a joint
But he was also proud
That I got fired from the warehouse for knocking that one prick
The supervisor
To the floor when he told me it was overtime or go home
And don't come back.

There were birds there, too
I suspect they were people's pets
Budgies and parrots and a crow or two
It was a place much like this story
Without any real substance
Running on like the Creator lost inspiration
And just wanted to keep clacking away
At his latest script
Plot be damned.

The witch came back, and sent me to the porno shop.
I was in the booth where the guys jack off.
It was scuzzy, so I left
Went home
Took a nap
Went out hunting for a new job.
Witchcrack
Just a little stream-of-consciousness.
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We knocked him out of the sky with the first shot. I couldn't believe it; our missile went straight up and arced along the edge of a cumulonimbus, and from the ground it was impossible to tell if it was anywhere near the target. There was a flash of green light in the sky and the CO cried out "gotcha!"

I rode in the turret on the lead Humvee, sweating bullets and barely able to exercise trigger discipline when we got a visual on the target's crash site. The storm front was passing over now, and a torrential rain came down on the farmer's field where our convoy pulled off the road and gathered round a crater. It was a deluge, truly fitting what we had done, and most of the platoon dismounted from their vehicles and descended the crater. I stayed on my gun, providing cover that I knew wouldn't amount to shit if our target was still breathing.

They brought in a stretcher and a moment later carried out the body. It smoked and smelled vaguely of...well, all I can say is it smelled green. You couldn't recognize the man it had once been, our protector gone rogue. They loaded him into the two-and-a-half-ton cargo truck, the MLVW, and had the convoy reform on the road. By now the storm had turned it to a mud lane, but we four-byed it all the way back to base.

I got out from behind my gun not long after we parked by the missile launcher that had brought him down. My legs felt weak, I was having a real hard time of it. It seemed perverse, to celebrate what we'd just done, but already the booze and music was being broken out. Our CO slapped me on the shoulder with a big grin. His bald head shone in the rain.

"C'mon, son, let's see a smile. You should be proud of this moment--we finally completed a combat test of the world's first surface-to-air Kryptonite missile!"
Live-Fire
A super-duper weapon's test.
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I've got a problem, I know. And hey, I'm really sorry you had to come to my neighborhood, my home, with your obnoxious yappy dog and obnoxious yappy kids and obnoxious yuppie wife. No, it isn't your fault that I was brought into your life. But now that you're here, well, you know, I've got this problem. This, uh, itch that must be scratched.

I'm very old. You people, when you get old, you get grumpier, usually a whole lot eviler too. You think the world owes you something, you think morality is just a fairy tale the big man used to tell you to keep you in line. Imagine if you could grow as old as I. If you could watch eons pass as I have. Do you believe you'd take any solace in acts of heroism and charity? You're an idiot. You'd think of human life in the terms I do.

So, in a sense, it's you who has the problem. You can't understand me. You can't conceive of the ancient years that have blurred past me. Might as well try to hold a steady conversation with somebody plucked out of Stone Age Vietnam—you'd probably have more common ground. The place I was born, the time I was born, that's something you won't understand and so there's no use trying to understand this hunger of mine.

You tucked in your little girly and your little boy, you gave them their night lights and checked their closets and under their beds. I watched you do it. I was right next to you. And you couldn't understand why your children were so anxious, so desperate to have you stay. It's because they've got that residue that I live for. The stains of souls that have changed vessels or lost their homes forever, clinging to the darkest recesses of their psyche like the tiniest grains of sand to your shoe.

Fuck you! Arrogance is what brought this about, you're just as guilty as I. You told them to hush now and sleep tight, you told them there's no such thing as monsters. You're right in a sense—I'm no monster. I'm no demon, no angel, no soul or djinn or eurynomos. There is no word for me, there hasn't been for a very long time—not since the earliest dawn of your languages.

I wish I could stay to savor the expression on your face when you open the door tomorrow morning, first on the girly and then on the boy. The stains of immortality that clung to your kids for their brief lives may have been invisible and temporary, but the vitality I sprayed across their bedroom walls is clear as day and will never, ever wash off. But I left once my work was done. I had to leave.

I've got a problem, I know. And it's high time I took it to another neighborhood. Another of my homes.
Night Terror
After a little bit of editing for better flow, I think I'm going to record this and post it on Youtube. Will keep people posted.
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A tranquil scene in a desert canyon landscape was broken by the thunderous roar of an interstellar shuttle crashing through the atmosphere at terminal velocity, its nose white-hot and its fuselage leaking a long tail of smoke and water vapor. A herd of strange creatures with five-fold symmetry watched its descent toward the crest of a rocky ridge, their eyes and hides a shade of reddish orange very close to the color of the sand. They drank from the oasis at the center of the canyon, and though they were intelligent enough for curiosity, they did not have the patience for the drama unfolding miles away.

The shuttle's pilot had no patience or concern whatsoever for the animals far below him, though he too was more than intelligent enough to consider things with wonder. His name was Oswald Ferdinand-Rogbert, and his only concern at that moment was trying to survive the last few seconds of his long ride across the galaxy. He fought the controls for stability, gripped its handles and played its switches, swore through his teeth and sweat from his forehead to his toes. He didn't stand much of a chance; the retrorockets had been blown away by particle beams, the ailerons were mostly cosmetic and the antigrav generators were fried.

The shuttle struck the top of the canyon ridge and skidded along it like a stone hopping across a pond. It bounced three times before it ran out of canyon and plunged in a long arc down, down, down this Valley of the Shadow of Death and Five-Fold Creatures. Now the herd of peaceful water-drinkers were far more concerned with the shuttle's troubles than they had been a moment earlier. They scattered as it was flung right into the center of their oasis, hitting the water with such force that the shuttle bounced off the oasis floor, ten meters down, and shot back up onto the surface, up a few meters, and then slammed back into the water.

The shuttle bobbed, as it was designed for water landings—albeit not as rough as this one, and the damage it had suffered caused it to list quite a ways to port. Oswald, still breathing, stayed stiff and mortified at the console for a few seconds. His mind rushed through a wide array of emotions before rational thought materialized in the haze of terror, relief, confusion, and profound melancholia. His first thoughts were, Oh, not dead. Good. That is good.

A series of emergency gravitational dampners built into his seat to protect his spine from being pureed by the rollercoaster of extreme G-forces he'd just endured shut off. Oswald slid out of his seat, a little unsteady, and stood tall behind the cockpit, in the small storage bay behind it. He ran his hand through his hair—thick and black, but thinning as he entered his forty-fifth year.

Many people, he thought as he rummaged through the storage crates, survive one of these things and have a religious awakening because it's so monumentally improbable that anyone would make it out of an improvised orbital landing. I've lived through so many that I don't even have to think about what to do next. I don't even panic. And let me tell you something else, me. I don't think God's sparing me from anything special. He's up there right now looking at me, and he's shaking his head and thinking, You Lucky Fucker.

Oswald gathered the necessary supplies: rifle, pistols, ammunition, freeze-dried food, a cartographer, and a pair of sunglasses. He threw the last item, the first aid kit, into a bag on his back and opened up the shuttle cockpit window. He waited for the vessel to ground itself in the shallow mud at the edge of the oasis, he hopped down, and he nodded respectfully to the host of odd animals watching him from afar.
4242: Rough Landing
A short-short I did as a possible introduction to a series of webcomics myself and Vaahlkult and Weissidian have been working on for the past century or so.
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I always thought that if I was going to die before my time, it would be in the middle of a blizzard or late at night or in some terrific natural disaster. I always thought the weather would be awful and help would come right away without serving a purpose. I was wrong.

A rain storm was on its way out, and on the horizon the sun grew purpler and purpler in its slow descent. The air was warm and smelled sweet, the fields of canola were a brilliant shade of pink in the twilight. It was the sort of day I would take my kids to the park or have a beer on the porch.

Instead, I laid on my back, two neat holes in my chest and a big, gaping mess on the other side, blood pouring into the dirt. I could feel my life draining out of me, and once the initial panic faded all there was left to do was watch the sun set. It was such a nice day.

I reached into my pocket and slipped out my cell phone, dialed 911. It didn't matter that I'd be long gone by the time the ambulances arrived. It didn't matter that they wouldn't hear my final breaths. They would hear the men jimmying my front door, they would hear them throwing my possessions in the back of their pickup.

They made a mistake, killing me. Killing my father. Killing the dog. In death I could feel the weight of God pressing down on my shoulders, urging me to exact some sort of vengeance on these blackmailers and thieves. Life is unfair, but in death I would even the score.

The dispatcher picked up and said she was sending cars to my location, to try to remain calm. I could hear it through my pocket. A few minutes ago I wouldn't have been able to, I would have been distracted by all the debates and jokes shared between my father and I. The smell of rain. The dog running after its ball. Thoughts about a future which no longer existed and a past which never mattered. I could hear her through all that. She could probably hear my labored breathing.

They're starting up the truck and getting ready to move out. Joke's on you. Death evened the score. God evened the goddamned score. Those are sirens, you...
Vapor
Thinking about writing a quick and pretty much pointless noir story with the intent of sending it off for publication. This is how it will end, more or less.
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So I got myself another DD. Counting the one I deleted, that's number five. Thanks everybody who read it, I greatly appreciate your feedback. Good timing too, it's a horror story and it was featured on the first of October.

Anyway, I saw a Tumblr post where the person mused "how would a writer describe me in a story? Not just the way I look, but my personality?" So, my writer friends, I ask you to describe yourself or someone close to you as you would in a story. Third-person narrative. I'll start.

He walks with a slight limp and the shoulder swagger that would say he was someone, once, if it weren't for his youth. When he talks he adopts a sarcastic tone--it doesn't matter if he's contemplative, angry, really joking--as though he wants to cut you off before you can trick him. He's a profoundly insecure bastard, but there's no better drinking partner than he.

It doubles as a way to let out a little vanity!

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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:iconthemaninroomfive:
themaninroomfive Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday mate!
Reply
:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2015
Thank you!
Reply
: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:
Reply
: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!
Reply
: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.
Reply
:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014
Dood broods over oodles of food.
Reply
:iconsincebecomeswhy:
sincebecomeswhy Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
You've been working on that all week, haven't you?
Reply
:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Oct 4, 2014
...Mayhaps.
Reply
:iconmyriadwhitedarkness:
myriadwhitedarkness Featured By Owner Jul 4, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave! :)
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