- Last Seen: 7 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Raid
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 319 (0.08 / day)
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Username history
- Raid 11 yrs ago
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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
Right back at you!
Inside Feelings
Simon’s not the emotional type. When he was young, around twelve his grandfather died, they were sort of close, but not so close. At the time he didn’t really understand why he wasn’t crying because everyone at the funeral was. His brothers and sisters who were equally distant or close were crying a river. His parents were the same, they were crying and he was not. Simon felt sad of course, someone he was close to died, but for some reason there was just no tears. Back then he wondered why he didn’t feel sadder, and now he was asking himself the same thing.
The walls of the raft were pretty thin so Simon could hear other people on the outside. When he went inside he wanted to do something, cry, bawl, sleep, anything really. Sleep was always an option for him since he was so used to sleeping off his anxiety and pain, but when he got to, what should be his room, he just felt so defeated. It was like he was eight and lost at his first and only peewee football match. He felt so tired that not even sleep was an option.
The only thing that Simon wanted to do was do something. He wanted to use his hands to do something, he wanted to move around using his feet, and he wanted to do something, anything. Instead of just lying there in the cold, plastic, and annoyingly soft surface he just wanted to do something. “LIfe sucks.” Simon groaned. In his heart he knew what he should have done. He was mature enough that he realized what he needed to do, but too immature to actually do it. Instead of looking for supplies and gathering his belongings like he had planned SImon just sat there in the corner, lost, waiting, quiet.
)o(
Deepti pauses at the first flap leading into a room. Should she knock? She has a hard time balancing as they begin to row. It’s a jarring push that she has to adjust to like the rocking of the boat as it drifts over the waves.
“I’m coming in,” she announces through the door. She chose at random and is relieved to see that it’s Simon with his soft hair and soft eyes. She doesn’t enter into the room. It’s small and the items of his pack fill up the space more than he does, curled in the corner.
“Dr. Bates and some of the other men are rowing the boat to try to get to shore faster and if you like, they could use your help.” She grips the strange fabric of the dome. “The sick man woke up too.” She smiles, thinking of what a smile should look like if she was actually happy and trying to imitate it. “That’s a good thing, right? Anyways, I’m going to tell the others.” She holds on to the dome and then drops the fabric back so that Simon is obscured again. She can’t linger. She has more work to do.
)o(
The girl comes in. The one that is small and shouldn’t have been brought onto the program. Didn’t the government see that her eyes were too large and that her elbows too bony for this torture? And she’s annoying as hell, telling that the good-for-nothing doctor is having people row to shore. The girl leaves as fast as she came. Saito never looks up at her. He keeps his nose to his wraps. Smelling the sweat and rubbing the dark spots where blood from torn skin and broken bones stained them. He lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He watches as the light brightens as the fog lifts, allowing more of the sun in. He could go out and help. Work out the hurt he feels inside because he just wants a hug from his mom, but he won’t because his hands shake and his tongue is dry.
)o(
Deepti calls into the last room like she has done with the other three and enters, but she flees, because Maybaleen is naked and sleeping in the pod. Maybe she can just lie to Dr. Bates and say that she didn’t want to be bothered. Yes, that’s what Deepti will do.
)o(
Saito holds the oar. He pants are damp as he paddles the way Aarios showed him. The man smiled so much and clapped a hand on his back. Saito shook him off to work because then he doesn’t have to talk and although his stomach rolls with the thought of the types of drugs Dr. Bates might have to help settle him into a place where he could smile as much as the Mexican...well, it was very appealing. So he keeps rowing instead.
Deepti stares at him as she reports to Dr. Bates. She watches him because she is afraid. He knows this because she leans away from him and won’t look him in the eyes. Well, good. Maybe she’ll stop talking to him soon, too.
)o(
Simon still didn’t really know how to feel about this whole thing yet, but good news that the Indian girl brought made him feel better even if only for a little bit. He was already feeling embarrassed that he was sulking while the others were being productive. Sure, there were others who went inside, but those who didn’t he felt somewhat insecure towards them. It was that gut wrenching feeling knowing that others are doing better than you, and it made Simon feel like crap. It was a feeling he knew how to handle. The trick to handling unbridled feelings of guilt, embarrassment, and failure was very easy to Simon. The only that worked for him was to push away these feelings into a corner and focus on what he needed to do. Simon wiped his face off and slapped his cheeks. He decided that he’ll feel like crap later for now it was time to do something. He needed to get to work or he’ll just feel worse.
)o(
The Indian girl’s message was unprecedented and annoying. Summer didn’t want anything to do with this whole place in the beginning and now they were trying to involve her? It was not her business. Summer, of course, was lying to herself. Her way of dealing with pain was denial.
People often told her that she was brave for accepting the things that happened to her family, but Summer wasn’t brave. Summer was just a big fat liar. She still hasn’t really coped and accepted with what happened back then, to her everything was just a temporary problem that she was going to solve. In her mind, everything was normal, but of course, she was wrong. She’d deny what she knew and what she was feeling to a point that she may never accept the situation, but progress nonetheless, but for now she’ll be quiet, bitter, and cry in her room.
The walls of the raft were pretty thin so Simon could hear other people on the outside. When he went inside he wanted to do something, cry, bawl, sleep, anything really. Sleep was always an option for him since he was so used to sleeping off his anxiety and pain, but when he got to, what should be his room, he just felt so defeated. It was like he was eight and lost at his first and only peewee football match. He felt so tired that not even sleep was an option.
The only thing that Simon wanted to do was do something. He wanted to use his hands to do something, he wanted to move around using his feet, and he wanted to do something, anything. Instead of just lying there in the cold, plastic, and annoyingly soft surface he just wanted to do something. “LIfe sucks.” Simon groaned. In his heart he knew what he should have done. He was mature enough that he realized what he needed to do, but too immature to actually do it. Instead of looking for supplies and gathering his belongings like he had planned SImon just sat there in the corner, lost, waiting, quiet.
)o(
Deepti pauses at the first flap leading into a room. Should she knock? She has a hard time balancing as they begin to row. It’s a jarring push that she has to adjust to like the rocking of the boat as it drifts over the waves.
“I’m coming in,” she announces through the door. She chose at random and is relieved to see that it’s Simon with his soft hair and soft eyes. She doesn’t enter into the room. It’s small and the items of his pack fill up the space more than he does, curled in the corner.
“Dr. Bates and some of the other men are rowing the boat to try to get to shore faster and if you like, they could use your help.” She grips the strange fabric of the dome. “The sick man woke up too.” She smiles, thinking of what a smile should look like if she was actually happy and trying to imitate it. “That’s a good thing, right? Anyways, I’m going to tell the others.” She holds on to the dome and then drops the fabric back so that Simon is obscured again. She can’t linger. She has more work to do.
)o(
The girl comes in. The one that is small and shouldn’t have been brought onto the program. Didn’t the government see that her eyes were too large and that her elbows too bony for this torture? And she’s annoying as hell, telling that the good-for-nothing doctor is having people row to shore. The girl leaves as fast as she came. Saito never looks up at her. He keeps his nose to his wraps. Smelling the sweat and rubbing the dark spots where blood from torn skin and broken bones stained them. He lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He watches as the light brightens as the fog lifts, allowing more of the sun in. He could go out and help. Work out the hurt he feels inside because he just wants a hug from his mom, but he won’t because his hands shake and his tongue is dry.
)o(
Deepti calls into the last room like she has done with the other three and enters, but she flees, because Maybaleen is naked and sleeping in the pod. Maybe she can just lie to Dr. Bates and say that she didn’t want to be bothered. Yes, that’s what Deepti will do.
)o(
Saito holds the oar. He pants are damp as he paddles the way Aarios showed him. The man smiled so much and clapped a hand on his back. Saito shook him off to work because then he doesn’t have to talk and although his stomach rolls with the thought of the types of drugs Dr. Bates might have to help settle him into a place where he could smile as much as the Mexican...well, it was very appealing. So he keeps rowing instead.
Deepti stares at him as she reports to Dr. Bates. She watches him because she is afraid. He knows this because she leans away from him and won’t look him in the eyes. Well, good. Maybe she’ll stop talking to him soon, too.
)o(
Simon still didn’t really know how to feel about this whole thing yet, but good news that the Indian girl brought made him feel better even if only for a little bit. He was already feeling embarrassed that he was sulking while the others were being productive. Sure, there were others who went inside, but those who didn’t he felt somewhat insecure towards them. It was that gut wrenching feeling knowing that others are doing better than you, and it made Simon feel like crap. It was a feeling he knew how to handle. The trick to handling unbridled feelings of guilt, embarrassment, and failure was very easy to Simon. The only that worked for him was to push away these feelings into a corner and focus on what he needed to do. Simon wiped his face off and slapped his cheeks. He decided that he’ll feel like crap later for now it was time to do something. He needed to get to work or he’ll just feel worse.
)o(
The Indian girl’s message was unprecedented and annoying. Summer didn’t want anything to do with this whole place in the beginning and now they were trying to involve her? It was not her business. Summer, of course, was lying to herself. Her way of dealing with pain was denial.
People often told her that she was brave for accepting the things that happened to her family, but Summer wasn’t brave. Summer was just a big fat liar. She still hasn’t really coped and accepted with what happened back then, to her everything was just a temporary problem that she was going to solve. In her mind, everything was normal, but of course, she was wrong. She’d deny what she knew and what she was feeling to a point that she may never accept the situation, but progress nonetheless, but for now she’ll be quiet, bitter, and cry in her room.
I'm here! I'll get the collab up, then. And yupp, that's where we'll go from there. Would you like me to initiate the next post?
fo sho. I had a morning shift so I'm good to work until I gotta get some shut eye for work tomorrow, too.
I know that I just finished finals at university, so it's possible that Yorg has his own rounds of finals to go through.
Good luck with finals. They're not going to know what hit 'em.
Nope. Got it.
Solid. Also, can you clarify exactly where the wound is? The chest is mentioned, but did it go to the left compared to the right. Is it distal or proximal to the stomach? I just need to know so that Esra can take an accurate account of the trauma of his body.
I hope what I've posted is substantial enough to get us moving along. I'd be happy to either collab at this point or just be the one to move things along at this point.
The Trouble with Ignorance
Samy wakes with pressure in his belly. He wants to sleep so he tries to readjust. A jolt runs down his stomach to his penis. He has to pee. He scrambles over his brothers’ legs and clambers down from their bed as piss dribbles down his legs. He can’t find the pot. Not in this darkness. He drags his hands against the walls feeling the rough and smooth ridges of the door. He reaches around for the metal latch, his legs shaking with the effort to control himself from making a mess. He makes it three steps out into the hallways before he lifts up his robe to pee. Some of the hot liquid splashes on his bare toes. He wriggles them, uncomfortable.
A bang and a flash and Samy stops, dress hiked up so his bum is showing in the withering light. The noises continue. He doesn’t look back at the door he left ajar. He creeps forward down into darkness, right hand against the wall the whole time. His feet are still wet from the pee, but they are cold now. Everything is cold. He struggles up the steps, leaning forward to grab the slabs of wood because reaching for the railing is too difficult and everything is steep at five years old.
Someone blacks his view, though. He crouches to look between the older boy’s legs. Samy licks his lips, trying to bring back the sweetness of one of the new fruits he tried. The smooth deck juts up in odd places and the purple bruise of the night sky presses down on the yellow glow encompassing the imposing monster. More piss dribbles down Samy’s legs. He pushes his thumb into his mouth. And he screams. The Captain-but-not-Captain-Sharkas has something sticking out of him. Samy knows it hurts because that is how his father died and that is what his father kept saying as he died. “It hurts. It hurts. Make it stop.”
His mother could make it stop. She knows how to make the pain stop. So he rushes away, screaming. Because it hurt to have something like that in your chest and you screamed when you hurt.
)o(
Esra moves. Her legs stumbles and she hits her knees on the bed frame. Deena cries and Shahid whines about what is going on. Ahmed laughs. She’s out the door and then scrambles back inside grabbing the fabric she used for her head covering to make a cradle for Deena against her chest. She couldn’t leave the baby there with her brothers. Her daughter falls asleep again as Esra toes forward into the dark hallway. She still hears Samy’s screaming. It sounds so far away, but then he stands before her, swollen eyes from crying. He looks up at her sniffs and runs off in the other direction.
“Samy! Stop. Boy.” She tries to catch him before he gets too far ahead. It doesn’t work. She follows him instead, beguiling him with promises to get him to stop moving. She needs to make sure that he is okay. It is hard to go up the steps with Deena strapped to her chest. It is like Esra is pregnant again and with the waves, she has a harder time correcting for her lack of balance and the constant movement of the ship and sea.
Her boy races across the deck. She looks ahead and sees the weapon before she sees the man at the other end of it. Samy points and wails. Esra’s robe catches on the debris of the deck and Deena woke up again and presses her fists into her mother’s sides. It is the man, the captain who spoke to her and made promises of safe passage. If he dies, will she lose all of that? That security and hope?
Esra is not willing to find out. She wedges her way into his gathering comrades. The spear pierced through. She unwraps Deena from her breast, shoves her daughter at the nearest man and uses the fabric that was once her head covering to staunch the blood leaking from the exit wound. She tears away the Captains shirt and presses her fingers along the entry wound and listening for the wheezing of a collapsed lung. She pauses. The red and swollen skin around the spear pulses and she feels the creeping movement as skin closes in around the shaft. '
“We must remove it,” she says in Berber. Grasping the shaft, she grunts, bracing her muscles. It must be fast. It must be quick. She doesn’t guess as to why the wound is healing. If he lost too much blood or if what she was doing sullied her soul by touching a man in such a way. Her hands a slippery and her hair keeps blowing in her face because she was not able to tie it back in her haste to get to Samy. Deena cries as much as her brother now. He grips the back of his mother’s jellaba as she crouches on her knees over the man who is suppose to bring her back to Morocco. To Rabat and its corrupted streets and pirates and crumbling buildings. She wants to go home and this man will not die and ruin her chances of such a thing happening.
She grunts and rips the lance away. It drops from her grip and she tears at the Captain’s shirt pushing the fabric into the hollow of the wound. “Fire,” she says in Spanish (or maybe it’s Portuguese). “Fire,” she tries again, shaking the man with the strange, shaved head.
A bang and a flash and Samy stops, dress hiked up so his bum is showing in the withering light. The noises continue. He doesn’t look back at the door he left ajar. He creeps forward down into darkness, right hand against the wall the whole time. His feet are still wet from the pee, but they are cold now. Everything is cold. He struggles up the steps, leaning forward to grab the slabs of wood because reaching for the railing is too difficult and everything is steep at five years old.
Someone blacks his view, though. He crouches to look between the older boy’s legs. Samy licks his lips, trying to bring back the sweetness of one of the new fruits he tried. The smooth deck juts up in odd places and the purple bruise of the night sky presses down on the yellow glow encompassing the imposing monster. More piss dribbles down Samy’s legs. He pushes his thumb into his mouth. And he screams. The Captain-but-not-Captain-Sharkas has something sticking out of him. Samy knows it hurts because that is how his father died and that is what his father kept saying as he died. “It hurts. It hurts. Make it stop.”
His mother could make it stop. She knows how to make the pain stop. So he rushes away, screaming. Because it hurt to have something like that in your chest and you screamed when you hurt.
Esra moves. Her legs stumbles and she hits her knees on the bed frame. Deena cries and Shahid whines about what is going on. Ahmed laughs. She’s out the door and then scrambles back inside grabbing the fabric she used for her head covering to make a cradle for Deena against her chest. She couldn’t leave the baby there with her brothers. Her daughter falls asleep again as Esra toes forward into the dark hallway. She still hears Samy’s screaming. It sounds so far away, but then he stands before her, swollen eyes from crying. He looks up at her sniffs and runs off in the other direction.
“Samy! Stop. Boy.” She tries to catch him before he gets too far ahead. It doesn’t work. She follows him instead, beguiling him with promises to get him to stop moving. She needs to make sure that he is okay. It is hard to go up the steps with Deena strapped to her chest. It is like Esra is pregnant again and with the waves, she has a harder time correcting for her lack of balance and the constant movement of the ship and sea.
Her boy races across the deck. She looks ahead and sees the weapon before she sees the man at the other end of it. Samy points and wails. Esra’s robe catches on the debris of the deck and Deena woke up again and presses her fists into her mother’s sides. It is the man, the captain who spoke to her and made promises of safe passage. If he dies, will she lose all of that? That security and hope?
Esra is not willing to find out. She wedges her way into his gathering comrades. The spear pierced through. She unwraps Deena from her breast, shoves her daughter at the nearest man and uses the fabric that was once her head covering to staunch the blood leaking from the exit wound. She tears away the Captains shirt and presses her fingers along the entry wound and listening for the wheezing of a collapsed lung. She pauses. The red and swollen skin around the spear pulses and she feels the creeping movement as skin closes in around the shaft. '
“We must remove it,” she says in Berber. Grasping the shaft, she grunts, bracing her muscles. It must be fast. It must be quick. She doesn’t guess as to why the wound is healing. If he lost too much blood or if what she was doing sullied her soul by touching a man in such a way. Her hands a slippery and her hair keeps blowing in her face because she was not able to tie it back in her haste to get to Samy. Deena cries as much as her brother now. He grips the back of his mother’s jellaba as she crouches on her knees over the man who is suppose to bring her back to Morocco. To Rabat and its corrupted streets and pirates and crumbling buildings. She wants to go home and this man will not die and ruin her chances of such a thing happening.
She grunts and rips the lance away. It drops from her grip and she tears at the Captain’s shirt pushing the fabric into the hollow of the wound. “Fire,” she says in Spanish (or maybe it’s Portuguese). “Fire,” she tries again, shaking the man with the strange, shaved head.
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