So, I know I hate hunting down old work, or having to hunt and scroll and sift to find something someone wants you to read, so YAY A NON-SCATTERED SOLUTION.

Most of these aren't very RHG centered, some are. So an arrangement of plot bunnies and my own take or twists on exercises or plots...that may stray from their original destination.


EITHER WAY, I hope they are enjoyable! Please do CnC if you see fit! Thanks for reading!


An older piece I've touched up abit.

Occasional screams or desperate curses were cut off mid way by various explosions.

War. The painful, violent game we humans tend to play to win land, lordship, power, or freedom. At the very least that’s what I think we tell ourselves if only to make it easier to run into a pointless blood bath.

What am I fighting for? Hell, forget the CO's endless rants of “motivation”. Every pep talk to tear our eyes and minds away from the gore and death don't mean jack shit anymore. I’m here cause war tore my family apart, it destroyed my life until it was the only thing I had left.

I glance to the right at my comrade. He had saved my ass almost as often as I save his. Both had our fair share of scars, trauma, drunken brawls, and less than sober laughter. He’s the only one I'd share it with though. Selfish or not, maybe the only reason I fight this war is to be with him.

He had true heart, and a wellspring of life. Perhaps it was jealousy, or just the chance to be able to bask in his warmth. Our CO called to pull back to the barracks the enemy had retreated for now. He turned to me with a ridiculous grin plastered on his face.

“We got ‘em on the run now!”

I roll my eyes at the almost naive excitement in his eyes but can’t help but smiling as well. Soon we head to the barracks. A large majority of them had been rendered useless or unsafe from the endless over head barrage, so what was left was obviously coed. I was among one of the few women in the platoon, and also the last one to waltz in the barracks.

No bunks were open, not even a pathetic cot. Most of us were asleep already, or out in the hospital wing.

I sigh and search for a decent spot on the floor, then he waves me over. I pick my way through the dismal room to him as he yanks me down next to him.

“What are you-?” he covers my mouth with his hand and proceeds to wink at me and grin like an idiot.“You needed a bed, so share mine.” I force his hand from my face and shoot him a disbelieving glare.

“I do not want to get a demerit for listening to you!” I try to roll off and sleep on the floor next to my bag, but he wrapped his arms around my midsection and pinned me to his chest. I was too angry to feel the blush involuntarily creeping up my neck. I writhed against his grip, only to receive a quiet chuckle and a stupidly content sigh.

“I swear I’m gonna kill you!” I whisper this angrily over my shoulder, and he leans over to make eye contact. “Why? Is it so wrong to want a night with a woman in my bed?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “When we've go the bitchiest CO on the planet and could be under fire at any moment, yes!"

He only shook his head and lay back once more. I struggled again before sighing and surrendering to a frenzied sort of restless sleep. I prayed that our commanding officer wouldn’t find us, or that any of our fellow soldiers would report us.

For once I felt I had something, maybe it was just the fact he was so close…. I had early medical duties the next day, so when the natural alarm of the first light of dawn arose, I slipped from the bed to attend to the broken.

So much pain was evident in this place, dying men, crying women. All afraid of never making it back home to love. Not happening, not on my watch. I stitched, wrapped, dabbed, and glued together all my fallen comrades. I was just changing my last bandage as more wounded poured in; Scouts who had been trailing the enemy.

I cleared the way for as many as I could as space was scarce to begin with. I shouted for help as a man inches from death was placed on a bed. He had lost his legs, one arm, and was bleeding out and quickly fading. The hardened and more experience medics shoved past me to treat him. After a moment I tore my eyes away and attended to the others.

There were to many for me to take care of, but all the other aids were needed for that one man. Then he walked in, I ignored him, still angry about the previous night. He walks up and helps apply pressure to the wound I was treating. “You left me in a cold bed.” He stated.

“I had duties to fufill-The CO would'a had my ass if I was late.”

He looked up at me, a small smile playing on his lips. “Such a goody-two-shoes.” I glare at him and finish my treatment, moving on to the next broken body. “I’m a soldier, fighting in a war,fixing my comrades who have been broken in the fight we are all a part of.”

“What are you fighting for?” He returned.

I didn’t look up but continued my work. He leaned closer, expecting me to answer. “What are you fighting for?” He pushed.

“Life.” I replied rather bluntly. It wasn’t a lie, but not the truth. More nurses suddenly rushed in, relieving me of my duties. He pulled me outside, behind the barracks. He looked me in the eye as I leaned against the feeble wall.

“No, something more...” he leaned closer staring at me intensely. “For love?” I averted my gaze and shrunk away from him. "Don't tell me you've got the hots for our Sour Puss CO!" He was too close. He crept closer still I pushed him back away from me, rolled his collar up in trembling fists and stared him in the eye. “For you.” An explosion had us on the ground right as the words rolled off my lips.

He stared for a moment before I tore off to assist in putting out fires.

When base camp was restored to it’s usual order, I retired to the Barracks as most were out enjoying their free night. The reinforcements arrived and were sent to finish off the enemy while we held down the fort. Most of us were going home soon, I would for awhile…

Just hole up some cheap apartment I could find until they needed me again. I found my bag and laid beside it on the floor. I had told him. He was out probably drinking with his buddies forgetting I'm even here. Some bum who’s only purpose was to fight for a life she didn’t have.


I didn’t see him that night, or any other night for weeks. His bunk remained empty, and I had been relieved of early-morning duties so I slept in until I heard the trucks and helicopters land for transport. We had plenty longer to sleep, so I lay there until the bugle blew loud.

I got up, pulled on my pack and headed to my transport area. He stood next to me as role was called, and then we were allowed to socialize while the wounded were loaded on.

He turned to me, an unreadable look on his face. “The War's over,” He smiled, taking a step closer. I looked up curious at his statement. "Nothing left around here to fight.” He leaned down to my eye level. “And I think I am most certainly up for grabs.” I gave him a grin.


“Then I guess we won.” I fisted my hands in his shirt and pulled his lips to mine, finally, I'd won the war.
[/spoiler]

as carried, supported in every fashion, taken care of, coddled and hidden and sheltered as they showed me only light, only good, because The only bad I could comprehend was when the lower regions of my body were suddenly uncomfortable or soiled.

Then I aged, and I was led, pulled and directed by a hand, warm and large, and as I remember some things, occasionally harsh, and tight and cold. But I learned why. I learned many things, because I was lead to them, the hand was my life line.

Then the hand let go and I was walking on my own. It was still around, the hand. It directed, it pointed and patted, swatted, spanked, redirected. Now I marched. Only then did I realize when it drew away that when I was smaller it had also once blinded. It still did, but I didn’t really mind.

Next was running, forced to surge ahead and avoid so many hands that now pull at me. I realize I have hands which can touch others. I have carried I have led and directed, I have blinded and it scares me. I am running because the only hand I have and want to believe in is my own because so many others confuse me. So many reach out to take and to hit, to injure me for reasons I cannot understand. I run for fear of no origin or origins I never knew applied to me. I run for things I shouldn't have to.

In short pauses I take moments to rest, and allow hands to gently cajole me, caress or comfort me. I understand some now, I don’t fear some now, I can trust some now. I strike back at those which strike at me and I have stopped running. I have resisted pushes and pulls. I have endured strikes of rage and delivered my own. My legs are scarred and strong and tired of running. I eventually step up and away. Now my legs are stone.

I look back at things that have made me run, for confusion and fear and hurt and hate. I ran because I cut my hair. I ran because I wore a skirt that day. I ran because he said he loved me. I ran because she died before I said I love you. I ran because i didn't know the answer. I ran because I knew the answer too well. I ran because I thought was different. I ran because they thought I was the same. I ran from myself, and others. I ran from assumptions. I ran from names. I ran from nights. I ran from friends. I ran from strangers-so many strangers. I ran from lies. I ran from hate. I ran, and ran, and ran, and ran. I ran from you.

I fell too, into periods of rest, or forced confinement. Once or twice someone else helped me back up. These moments never lasted long. They were never peaceful, they were never real. Even then, when I was held down I would still run.

Today I my feet are rooted. My cement limbs un-moving, my position undaunted by any fist which comes at me. My skin is thin, my blood still leaks, but you aim for old stone which is of no use to me. My legs don’t matter when my mind is free. You stoop so low you can’t reach my knees. Your eyes are level with my ankles. Mine are level with the stars.

So hit me. Thrash at me, bash my weaknesses, throw me for a loop, I’m not moving. Place the barrel in my mouth and pull the trigger-I’m still standing. Tall enough to reach down and help others find their pedestals.

I have become stone. I have remained oh-so breakable, but unlike before I will not by floored.

I’m scarred, cracked, vandalized, broken, and disliked. I’m an eyesore, I’m a nuisance, I’m something you want nothing more than to drag down to your level and smash to pieces. I’m what some need to see so they know whose hands they can hold. I’m what has little ones constantly peeking through your fingers. I’m everything some people need to see to want to be free.

I’m everything I need to be until you can learn to keep your hands to yourself.
[/spoiler]



Deals with the bitter self-loathing and hurt of a relationship gone wrong

orgeous. Photogenic. I am none of these.

Beautiful. What does that even mean? And this ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder” bullshit, what?

Let me ask you this. Like the tree that falls in the forest, does it make a sound? If someone’s beautiful and no one sees it. Are they beautiful? If no one says it, or writes it, or thinks it, are they?

It sure doesn’t feel like it. To girl who was never called pretty as a child. Who was mocked for small things. Who didn’t always look like the conventional girl. Who didn’t want to wear dresses or play dolls. Or for a girl who did all these in secret because no one would do them with her, or notice if she tried. To a woman who hates society for bringing us down with fabricated beauty. To a woman who wants to be strong. To a girl like that, 'beauty' seems unobtainable.

Have you ever told someone they’re beautiful? Truthfully? Someone, non photo-shopped, or not in a magazine. Someone normal? Maybe.

Now let’s get a little crazy; Have you ever looked at someone who’s at their breaking point that still pushes on, who hasn’t slept in days, or brushed her hair. Someone who can’t afford the materials and time to put on makeup, or style their hair. Have you ever looked at someone like that, and thought 'beautiful'?

No, you haven’t.

Now, I don’t want you to suddenly open your eyes and apologize, or claim me to be a hypocrite, or shut me up because I’m whining. Say to the world I’m an overreacting teenager battling against society. All I’m doing is talking.

I’m envious, of pretty hair, and make up and perfume and clothes.

But know what? I’m jealous of guys

….Maybe that’s why I hang out with them so much. They don’t have to experience the pressures of a girl. Be skinny, be smart, be dumb, be quiet, be loud, be pretty. To be everything you ask for. To be beautiful…..

No, they just have to be men. They get to pick and choose amongst us who they prefer. Say who’s pretty and whose not. I know there are many who aren’t like that...but to the rest who are….who gave you the right?

The right to kick us away like trash because we don’t look like models, or airbrushed magazine covers? To tear us apart with glares or mocking faces. Like we’re creatures behind the bars of a carnival cage.

Let me tell you something. It burns. It hurts, it claws and eats and aches inside of us until we believe it. Until we know it’s true. Until you’ve proven we’re unwanted.

Then you suddenly appear, saying you’re sorry you didn’t see it sooner, that you were blind, that we’re beautiful.

That fixes some of us…The girls who suddenly 'know' they won’t be compared to anyone else ever again. The beautiful ones.

Me? No, it’s not that easy. No, I’ll sit there and glare inwardly, then laugh and shake my head and deny you. I’ll tell you that I’m not pretty, and to go try someone else. I’ll show you I’m broken, unsavory. Ugly.

Say it again and I’ll say that I’ll never believe you. What proof do you have, hm?

Your word? Well we’ve both seen how reliable that stands, Mr. I-was-blind. What proof, I mean cold, hard evidence can you show me?

None.

So why should I believe you? You’ve obviously been mistaken before, or, was she just “not the one for you?”

Then, if you insist, I’ll beg.

Please, don’t tear me up anymore. Please, don’t feed the ache. Please, just no more. I can learn to accept this. I can!

It’s easy really. Just don’t tell me I’m beautiful unless you can prove it. Cause I can’t believe you even if I wanted to.

Even if I tried…..

Now, I’ll break down, further proving my point.

I tried. I promise, I swear I did. But….I couldn’t, I just-For you, just- It all seemed too much like a lie. I’m sorry. I tried to believe. I tried, so hard….I tried….

“I tried to be beautiful.”
[/spoiler]



in south Florida; two vibrant creatures suddenly fluttering into view, dancing around each other, bumping, jittering, twirling in some exquisitely silly choreographed dance. It makes you smile or giggle or simply watch in an odd sense of peace, but then after one final twirl they turn away, and fly off in completely opposite directions, never to see each other again. What would you feel?
It made me sad, watching them coast away from another, wondering where that bond they had seemed to share disappeared to. It made memories bubble up from their corners in my head. It made me think.

What if that is what my life is like?


What if life is just beautiful silly moments that should last forever but then are suddenly gone? Is life just moments of two people finding each other by chance, dancing around one another with smiles and laughs and pure silliness you might think is love and then gone, as the lazy south breeze moves?

Not that it’s bad so far, if that’s my life. A compilation of pure fleeting moments and few periods of shared adoration. The endings are swift, and may leave the hint of a bitter sweet taste in your mouth. But maybe I’m not meant to love one for all of time. Maybe I’m made to love as many as I can, at l

So uh *coughcough* bumping this dusty old thread cause I created and found some stuff I kinda wanted some opinions on~ please to read and enjoy, I promise some new content in coming times~

Please and thank youuuuu

After a week and a half of unstable internet access, I'm back in business and would like to impart some opinions.

On several of your works it seemed to me like you lapsed into and out of a 'steam-of-consciousness' mode of writing on the fly. When done well, steam-of-consciousness can give us the experiences felt by a character directly from the mind, but since it specifically eschews normal rules of grammar in the process, it can be a little haphazard.

That's not to say I didn't like your entries. Your 'Butterfly' and the question it posed from a unique perspective were quite enjoyable, and I found the 'house of words' to be a lovely little journey, combining both the figurative and the concrete to be a sort of celebration of language.

Some nice work overall! I would be interested to see any developments arising from the House of Words concept. Keep it up!

I can tell you that my favorite was "Poke it with a Stick".

The rest was awesome as well. I'll just comment for now.

The Butterfly, short as it was, delivered nicely. I liked it for its brevity and its directness in handing the question. Simple and sweet. :)

Beach Scene was okay, but I feel it might have been overshadowed by my liking to Poke it with a Stick. Maybe.

Your rant, I agree on. I won't press on it further. Haha. Yeah.

House of Words is another one that I like. You have a way with abstract things, I think, and it catches my mind's interest. Its lovely to read these kinds of things, stories that make you wonder or reflect.

Overall, thank you for the wonderful read. I should've read these sooner. :)

I enjoyed your brain babies.

So I critiqued them- or reviewed them... Explained why I liked them, basically.

But overall, 3/10 due to a major shortage of gray matter fetuses.

Quote from TwitchyPidge

Most of these aren't very RHG centered, some are. So an arrangement of plot bunnies and my own take or twists on exercises or plots...that may stray from their original destination.

Quote from TwitchyPidge

So an arrangement of plot bunnies and my own take or twists on exercises or plots...

Quote from TwitchyPidge

an arrangement of plot bunnies and

Quote from TwitchyPidge

plot bunnies

Wait- plot bunnies? That's an INSTANT 10/10. Reviews are in the Reviews spoiler thing that says Reviews
Though I might have messed up the titles...

Thanks for all the Feedback, gave me the warm and fuzzies only CnC can! I've dug up another little diddy and polished it a bit, still working on some others in between school and art and all that lovely stuff.

Please to CnC~

Much affection-
Pidge

So I super duper hate to double post, but I wanted to bump this so's you could see my latest update: Janice survived *gasp* Please do take a gander and keep an eye out for more additions coming soon!

I'm fairly certain that I've told you it before, but I really like Janice! She's a really interesting character and I look forward to seeing more of her! Ya got a few little grammar things going on with the wrong word or whatever, but I assume you were just hyped to get this posted up here!

These stories is either purposeful for character or expression, and these characters recount a story behalf '90s teenage realist emotional' attitude. But particularly, the characters deprive post modernist style on oppression (negative or positive) with unnecessary small talks. None of which provokes any dynamics towards the situation. The short dramatical writing still needs personality, even with a plotless case about metaphorical verse and descriptive exaggeration.

I question the mental vitality for My War. The first story 'My War', and the character who implies with specific imagery. Soldiers disregard details, literalist who experienced war finds greater good. I would think, war men don't abundantly describe everything with adjectives. It is stylised and considerably repetitive about keeping a collective mind. It's as if the character throws himself anywhere he wants, the transition of scene however discourse the momentum of a poetic like story. Which is initially impure to the necessity in characterisation.

This kind of writing originally was quite common for war poets of centuries, but I believe you have used this depiction of post modernist. As a medium for implementing 'fascination', I don't necessarily demean your work. But it appears for me that you like sucking out juice shafts of low esteem characters who thinks every inch of movement is a significance.

(Edit Infil) Changed matter

Well... I'm sorry Mr.Mien, But I thought each story was quite beautiful.
Each one probed my mind, and I especially liked the house of words. It was quite interesting.
2nd would be Poke it with a stick. It was bittersweet, and I can imagine it in my mind very well.