- Last Seen: 7 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Raid
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 319 (0.08 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Raid 11 yrs ago
Status
Recent Statuses
9 yrs ago
Current
GOLDEN WEEK.
Bio
Yo, folks.
Call me Raid. I don't care about pronouns. I'm kinda curious which one ya choose anyways.
I've been role playing since...jeez, I guess about a decade now. I've learned that I care more about: action, adventure, sci-fi, fantasy, plot execution and wicked characters. I'm pretty much always up to role play, though I work full time. I'm a once a week post kinda person unless I have a break from work. Then, it might be every day. I currently live in Japan, though I'm from the USA. So time zone wonkiness happens as well.
Call me Raid. I don't care about pronouns. I'm kinda curious which one ya choose anyways.
I've been role playing since...jeez, I guess about a decade now. I've learned that I care more about: action, adventure, sci-fi, fantasy, plot execution and wicked characters. I'm pretty much always up to role play, though I work full time. I'm a once a week post kinda person unless I have a break from work. Then, it might be every day. I currently live in Japan, though I'm from the USA. So time zone wonkiness happens as well.
Most Recent Posts
Wicked. That'll make Monday a bit better.
I'm very happy to hear this. :)
Hope the move goes well. They're always crazy.
So...do we sail off into the sunset, now?
heads up: Kisshot & I are in the process of creating a collab.
The drawbacks of role playing.
Sunset it will be. And live it will. This is one of the few role plays I've joined that actually survived passed the first few posts. Especially now that school has started in the United States, too, people tend to disappear.
I'll have a post up Tuesday/Wednesday.
Should I finagle a time-skip in my post?
Should I finagle a time-skip in my post?
No worries, my friend.
Your request is being processed.
Arrios would be lying if he told you that he always went to church. He’d also be lying if he told you that he felt guilty every Sunday he missed mass. So he probably never actually said that. He will crawl into the confession box between tours of the canyon and even tell the priest. Father Tom gets it though. How when you wake up with the moon flower tree’s seed spinning all around you you feel like for a second your up in the sky, with the clouds a your feet. They smile at each other across from the confessional screen. Who is Father Tom to deny that God wasn’t out there just as much He was in His House last Sunday? Instead, Arrios is told to come to one of the daily masses instead to atone. If he can’t make it to those, he doesn’t go to confession. Father Tom also knows that in this tourist town the only way to survive to be flexible.
(Like getting a call at five in the evening about taking a tour of ten overweight adults down the Colorado river at ten the next morning.)
But how does he survive on a raft, in the middle of the ocean, with a stomach so weak that he’s afraid to talk because he just might throw up again. That’s how he’s been sitting here, with his back aching because he’s slumped against the side of the life boat, for the last ten minutes undisturbed.
He closes his eyes again because he can’t take the color of the raft. Or the vast sky line. Where’s the La Sal mountains with the thunderstorm clouds crowding over their peaks? Where are the orange walls of the canyons that glow at sunrise and shine a sunset? The color of the water is also wrong, here. It’s not brown like the Colorado after a rain storm and it’s not green like the other meandering river through the Canyonlands. Even if both of them are silt-filled (probably uranium-filled) and need to go through a rigorous purification process before anyone (even the bum that likes to occupy the bench near Moab’s visitor center and smoke pot on another one along the bike ways) drinks it—at least that water was still fresh and didn’t smell like Miami. Never could he handle the smell of Miami. Maybe that’s what’s upsetting his stomach so much?
It can’t be the medications. It took a few seconds of him looking down at his pant leg to know that he’s completely healed (he’s terrified to see the scar left from the screws and staples, though). So he presses his thumb to a finger and starts a round of Our Fathers and Hail Marys punctuated by the extended version of Glory Be. He doesn’t say it out loud, but when a vicious swell makes him gag, he starts his prayer to Saint Micheal like he’s swearing.
)o(
Saito doesn’t know that the other man is awake now. He doesn’t care too much about it either way. He’s torn between shoving that Doctor into the ocean or just jumping in himself. So he sought comfort another ways: tore through the bag with Nijinsky printed on it; smelled his MMA wraps and pretended they reeked of sweat; and then piled anything soft into the tube that constituted as a bed before crawling between an actual blanket and some extra underwear.
As a kid, he used to curl into the clean laundry with the dry heat of the dryer still clinging to the fabric. In JDC, he was tempted a few times to crawl into the large, industrial dryers during his duty chores and do the same thing. He should have just done it, he thinks as squeezes one of his hands into a fist to watch how the fabric of the blanket crinkles between his fingers. It’s too synthetic and sticks to the back of his neck.
His mother loathed buying materials that weren’t one hundred percent cotton (even though she just wore her bathing suit all summer long and then her wet suit during the early spring and late fall months). His grandparents had the tendency to buy what was cheapest—which was almost always fake fabrics that stretched or didn’t keep their shape after one wash. Saito’s father never spoke out against his parents, but he also steered towards linen pants that creased so bad in the humidity that he never ironed them.
Saito is crying and this time he doesn’t try to stop.
)o(
Deepti didn’t go back inside, deciding that she prefers having the sky above her head instead of rippling fabric. But she doesn’t like the lull that envelopes their rafts. Doesn’t like how people have retreated inward instead of finding a solution. For more than a half hour there’s been minimum conversation and for her that means minimum communication, too. Like how to get on land and why Dr. Bates doesn’t seem so concerned about getting there.
That also means more time to think about other things besides drudging up everything she knows about the tides, the moon cycle, and star mapping. Mostly, she keeps on thinking about how if baked just right, gulpoli flakes away in your mouth.
)o(
Maybaleen retreats back into her room for less innocent reasons. The doctor talked about other people in the program, but she didn’t elaborate on everyone else. (Where’s my son. Where’smyson. Where’s. My. Son. presses hard on the back of her eyes.) So without any alcohol to help dull things out, she unzips her pants and starts thinking about Kim and how he liked to watch her masturbate after they’ve had sex, but she’s still hot and ready to go. She thought about asking Mr. Clueless back with her, but she doesn’t think she could handle all the eyes tattooed on his body staring at her, judging her. Her breathing increases, but she doesn’t moan or groan or swear or make any extra-ordinary noises. She’s not sure if she’s having a hard time catching her breath because her orgasms right around the corner of if it’s because she’s getting ready to cry.
(Like getting a call at five in the evening about taking a tour of ten overweight adults down the Colorado river at ten the next morning.)
But how does he survive on a raft, in the middle of the ocean, with a stomach so weak that he’s afraid to talk because he just might throw up again. That’s how he’s been sitting here, with his back aching because he’s slumped against the side of the life boat, for the last ten minutes undisturbed.
He closes his eyes again because he can’t take the color of the raft. Or the vast sky line. Where’s the La Sal mountains with the thunderstorm clouds crowding over their peaks? Where are the orange walls of the canyons that glow at sunrise and shine a sunset? The color of the water is also wrong, here. It’s not brown like the Colorado after a rain storm and it’s not green like the other meandering river through the Canyonlands. Even if both of them are silt-filled (probably uranium-filled) and need to go through a rigorous purification process before anyone (even the bum that likes to occupy the bench near Moab’s visitor center and smoke pot on another one along the bike ways) drinks it—at least that water was still fresh and didn’t smell like Miami. Never could he handle the smell of Miami. Maybe that’s what’s upsetting his stomach so much?
It can’t be the medications. It took a few seconds of him looking down at his pant leg to know that he’s completely healed (he’s terrified to see the scar left from the screws and staples, though). So he presses his thumb to a finger and starts a round of Our Fathers and Hail Marys punctuated by the extended version of Glory Be. He doesn’t say it out loud, but when a vicious swell makes him gag, he starts his prayer to Saint Micheal like he’s swearing.
Saito doesn’t know that the other man is awake now. He doesn’t care too much about it either way. He’s torn between shoving that Doctor into the ocean or just jumping in himself. So he sought comfort another ways: tore through the bag with Nijinsky printed on it; smelled his MMA wraps and pretended they reeked of sweat; and then piled anything soft into the tube that constituted as a bed before crawling between an actual blanket and some extra underwear.
As a kid, he used to curl into the clean laundry with the dry heat of the dryer still clinging to the fabric. In JDC, he was tempted a few times to crawl into the large, industrial dryers during his duty chores and do the same thing. He should have just done it, he thinks as squeezes one of his hands into a fist to watch how the fabric of the blanket crinkles between his fingers. It’s too synthetic and sticks to the back of his neck.
His mother loathed buying materials that weren’t one hundred percent cotton (even though she just wore her bathing suit all summer long and then her wet suit during the early spring and late fall months). His grandparents had the tendency to buy what was cheapest—which was almost always fake fabrics that stretched or didn’t keep their shape after one wash. Saito’s father never spoke out against his parents, but he also steered towards linen pants that creased so bad in the humidity that he never ironed them.
Saito is crying and this time he doesn’t try to stop.
Deepti didn’t go back inside, deciding that she prefers having the sky above her head instead of rippling fabric. But she doesn’t like the lull that envelopes their rafts. Doesn’t like how people have retreated inward instead of finding a solution. For more than a half hour there’s been minimum conversation and for her that means minimum communication, too. Like how to get on land and why Dr. Bates doesn’t seem so concerned about getting there.
That also means more time to think about other things besides drudging up everything she knows about the tides, the moon cycle, and star mapping. Mostly, she keeps on thinking about how if baked just right, gulpoli flakes away in your mouth.
Maybaleen retreats back into her room for less innocent reasons. The doctor talked about other people in the program, but she didn’t elaborate on everyone else. (Where’s my son. Where’smyson. Where’s. My. Son. presses hard on the back of her eyes.) So without any alcohol to help dull things out, she unzips her pants and starts thinking about Kim and how he liked to watch her masturbate after they’ve had sex, but she’s still hot and ready to go. She thought about asking Mr. Clueless back with her, but she doesn’t think she could handle all the eyes tattooed on his body staring at her, judging her. Her breathing increases, but she doesn’t moan or groan or swear or make any extra-ordinary noises. She’s not sure if she’s having a hard time catching her breath because her orgasms right around the corner of if it’s because she’s getting ready to cry.
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