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About Literature / Hobbyist Ryan KoyanagiMale/United States Group :iconthe-hakurei-shrine: The-Hakurei-Shrine
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Literature
Like Math, but with Less Numbers
She was like a New Yorker cartoon without the class. Dry, unfunny, and useful for impressing people who were easily impressed. We met outside a bar named after an Ivy League at five past two, when no one's in any particular hurry to grab their car before the pay lot closes.
We had a grand total of nothing in common. She wore her hair short and smoked reds, I wore my hair long and smoked Spirits. She read Dostoevsky, I read Kafka. She liked her martinis shaken, I, stirred. She struck a match as I grabbed the lighter from my cigarette case.
"Show was pretty eh tonight, huh?" I said, realizing both of us were waiting on DDs who probably weren't sober enough to find their cars.
"You kidding? I haven't heard anyone butcher a Wren Harper cover that bad since Eli Reed meets Bloodstalker." She exhaled through her nose. "I'd say it was the worst three hours I've ever spent, but competition's real close."
"No way, not even top ten," I said. "You haven't had a bad three hours til - you know Perry
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Literature
FPCK
"So I had this dream," I told Mike.  "This guy, this cowboy, was yelling at me."
"Like, a cowboy cowboy?" he asked.  "Or like the Lamasini guy?"
"A cowboy cowboy," I confirmed.  "Hat, red flannel shirt, bandanna round his neck, a cowboy."
"Was he Mexican?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Lamasini guy." He waved his finger at me while he smirked.  He always did that whenever he felt like he just blew your mind.
"He's more like the Malboro Man, only he happens to be Mexican." I countered.
"Or like the Lamasini guy took the Malboro Man's outfit." He did the finger smirk thing again.
"Do you have a dream you want to tell me about?" I shrugged.  "Because I can just put this on hold."
"Nah, nah, keep going."
He looked pretty pleased with himself.  I gave him a "go fuck yourself" look and got back to it.
"So anyway this cowboy's yelling at me, right?  With this piece of aloe.  He's all, 'What the hell is this?  You wasting aloe?' and he's shaking it and juice and li
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Literature
Firewalker
Here's the first thing you need to know: Trust falls are bullshit.
Count to three, fall backwards, let some guys catch you, and all the sudden you're the best of fucking friends.  Standing there, back to a crowd of IT guys, HR guys, PR guys, any group of guys you can stick a two-letter acronym in front of, waiting for the over-paid motivational speaker to count to three before you lean backwards off that little platform and end the night laughing over canned fruit punch and plastic-wrapped crackers.  You don't need to trust anyone for that.
Trust falls are a fucking camp game.
If you really trust someone, you'll be perfectly fine being in the same room as them and a loaded gun.  It doesn't matter if you're armed yourself or not.  If you turn away for a second, that's all it takes for you to end up with a bullet in your spine.
Here's the second thing you need to know: Bullets aren't the painless instant-death TV makes them look like.
It doesn't take a lot of trust to count on somebody t
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Literature
Charlie
We're all just kids playing a part.  That's what it boils down to.
I'm the kid who gets to play hitman today.  The other kids, they're playing guard.  Hands in their pockets, feeling up their guns.  Makes them feel big.  Calms them down.  A security blanket in a holster.
That's what it boils down to.  Dressing for the part, having the right props.  If you're running around in your street clothes, you're a thug, a hood, a gangster.  You put on a ninety-dollar suit you picked up at Ross, and all the sudden you're a mobster, a wiseguy, paisano.
You're still just playing Cops and Robbers, Cowboys and Indians, Thugs and Mafiosi.
Rule of three.  Say it enough times, and you'll convince yourself of it.
Look at yourself in the mirror, jacket and tie and shoulder holster.  Tell yourself, "I'm a badass."  Wash, rinse, repeat until it sticks.  Get into character and stand around, chest puffed out, one hand on your gun, one on your cock.
Repeat the lines you learned watching other people pretend t
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Literature
Walks Into a Bar, Day 3
'Look,' Abby said an hour later.
Nobody ever started a good sentence with "look".  Your parents never said, "Look, we're going to skip the trip to the dentist and get you a puppy instead."  The doctor's never said, "Look, not only do you not have cancer, but all that smoking's made you immune to tear gas."
It's always, "Look, we're going to the dentist, and last time we had a dog, you killed it."  Or, "Look, I've told you to at least try not smoking while I'm giving you checkups, but given how terminal this cancer is, it wouldn't matter anymore."  Or, 'Look, Charlie, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I'd like it if you left.'
Which, coincidentally is what she said.  The only thing worse than a sentence that starts with, "Look," is a sentence that starts with, "Look, I don't want you to take this the wrong way."
I didn't make her say it twice.
-
I didn't feel like going home, and I didn't feel like sleeping at that point, so I swung by a 7-11 and
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Literature
Walks Into a Bar, Day 2
'You're alright, though, right?' Abby asked.
I paused for a second to take inventory.  A black eye, a bit of swelling where I hit my head on the way down, assorted scrapes, cuts, bruised ribs and ego.  That wasn't an assbeating, that was a Tuesday night.
"I've been worse," I shrugged.  I didn't really have the energy left for a shrug, but it was important.  The sarcasm loses its edge without the shrug, and without the sarcasm, it's just depressing.
'You poor thing,' she smiled.  She cocked her head a bit to the left.
'Now, you keep that bottle on, I'll see if I can get somebody to come in.'
"What?"
She was already on the phone by then.
'You can't stay here like this,' she mouthed.  'Hey, Lor?  It's Abby.'
She really didn't need that second part.  There weren't that many people we knew with English accents.  
'Something came up.  Could you come in and finish my shift?  No, it's Charlie.  Some guys started a fight, and he tried
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Literature
Walks Into a Bar, Day 1
A girl and two guys with baseball bats walk into a bar.  Now, that's either the start to a shitty joke, or the start to a shitty day.  More likely the latter, though, given that it was my bar.
She was the best dressed of the three.  Mostly because she wasn't trying to be something she wasn't.  Either she didn't get the memo, or her idea of business-slash-business-casual was a blue tank and an unzipped hoodie.  Either way, though, it worked.  The other guys, their idea of classy was a blazer that barely fit.
"Mornin', barkeep." She said.
It was two-thirty in the afternoon.
"We don't open for another six hours, guys."  I scanned the three of them.
The first guy, on the girl's right, my left, was completely jacked – the type of guy who benched Corollas for breakfast.  On the other hand, he was also like, five feet tall.  I probably should've mentioned that in the opening, but "a girl, a guy, and a midget, two of whom are carrying baseball bats, walk into a bar" doesn't make for a gre
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Literature
Purple Haze, Purple Prose
There was a war going on. Somewhere, people were dying.
Somewhere, at this very moment, somebody was drawing their last breath on ragged lungs, pierced by bullet or blade, or claw or horn.
But not here.
Here, in the midst of all this death, Mike pulled life from the earth. Here, he grew turnips. To their left, he grew carrots, and to their right, he grew beans. There was cabbage and kale, and tomatoes and peppers and a handful of logs with mushrooms sprouting. He had potatoes and pumpkin patches, pots and planters overflowing with fruit and herb.
This was his kingdom. This was his domain. This was the land that he guarded with a quick hand and watchful eye. And when he wasn't standing watch, he foraged.
When their lives fall apart, people stop tending their yards. In abandoned lots and lawns, weeds grew like yellow-tipped wildfire. And wildfire made for good eatin'.
So Mike picked, and Mike plowed. He pulled the choicest clover and made marvelous mustard and dandelion wine. He made sal
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Literature
All Maid Up
I have not long worked at Pemberton Estate, nor have I had the time to fully digest the intricacies of Mr. Zubrin, but never have I, in all my years as a gentleman's gentleman, seen a man so fully engrossed in the careful selection of his waitstaff.  Nor have I ever seen a man so fully disregard his butler's suggestions on said selection.
From his initial list of fifty applicants, absolutely none of which were suited to a maid's profession, three stood out for their unique and utter ineptitude.
The first, Evangeline Calavera, was a self-pronounced necromancer and free-lance exorcist.  According to her website, and the large number of very similarly worded reviews, she was very good at this job.  Her application claimed she was eighteen, but it hardly seemed a very accurate assessment.
The second was a woman who legally had her name changed to Bloodfeast Deathmaster.  Her claim was that she was a vampire.  She also claimed that she was rich beyond measure, a claim, which, unlike the for
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Literature
The Passenger Pigeon and the Box of Cupcakes
"Doesn't it ever get annoying?" Komura asked.  She nibbled on her cupcake.
"Doesn't what ever get annoying?" I stared at mine.  It was one of those ones made with the white cakebread that was supposed to taste like vanilla, but just ended up tasting like cakebread.  She'd smeared frosting on top and added a single extra large star-shaped sprinkle on the tip of the frosting.  The vanilla frosting.  And despite how red the extra large star-shaped sprinkle was, it'd still taste like plain sprinkles.  This had to be the most boring cupcake I've ever seen.
"Not having a name," she said.  "I'd get pretty annoyed by it."
"I don't not have a name," I said.  "I lost it.  It's completely different."
"Same thing," she said, licking the frosting off the edges.  She eyed me staring at my cupcake.  "Eat it.  I put a lot of effort into making these, you know."
It was hard to tell, g
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Literature
Cat's in the Box
The phone was on its sixth ring when she finally answered.  Of course, answered was the wrong word, seeing as she hadn't said anything yet.
Komura had disappeared by the time I got out into the hall.  Class was about to begin, after all.  It wouldn't have been that hard for her to squeeze between a group of students and slip down a side hall.
I could hear her breathing on the other end, like she was waiting for me to say something.
"Hello?" I said, giving up on her saying something first.
"Yeah?"
It was the most natural "Yeah?" in the world.
"You left your box on my desk."
She paused.
"Who is this?"
"You know exactly who this is, Komura."
"Mmmmm, nope," she said.  "Gimme a hint."
"You left your box on my desk," I repeated.
"Oh!  Right!" She actually sounded surprised.  "So what's up?"
"Well, there's this box on my desk," I said.  "I figured you'd know what was in it.  Since, you know, it's your box."
"Well,
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Literature
Nightshade on the Sun
It was the last day of the school year when Komura talked to me the first time.
"So," she turned to face me, after making sure the force of her bag dropping got my attention.  "What school are you going to?"
I stared at her for a second, mouth agape.  I had my headphones on, music playing at full volume.  Good headphones, too – the noise-cancelling kind.  But I still managed to hear her clear as day.
She gave me a few seconds to answer before resting her chin on her palm, making sure her elbow was on the middle of my notebook.  I was doodling a girl in a striped jacket.
"Whatcha drawing?"
"Nothing," I said.  It was hard to tell just how loud I was speaking with the headphones on.  I went to turn my music off.
"I'd guess a girl in a jacket," she said, spinning my notebook around so she could get a better look at it.  "But I'm not an artist."
"Mm."
"So, what school are you going to?"  She spun
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Literature
This Lamb Sells Condos
This is Ava's dream.
Every night, when Ava sleeps, she dreams of being a bird.  Only not exactly a bird; closer to a harpy, but without the man-eating conotation, and not ugly, if you were using the later Greco-Roman tradition.  Her whole body is still intact and rewound back to the days of her post-graduate diet and exercise regimen.  So basically her, but with wings, and younger.  So not a bird or harpy in any sense of those words.
For ninety to one-hundred twenty minutes out of her six to eight hours of sleep every night, she was a not-bird not-harpy younger winged Ava.  For ninety to one-hundred twenty minutes every night, she was free.
A bird wakes her up.  The bird, rather.  It is the same bird that wakes her up every day.  The same bird that was always on her windowsill.  The same bird that would sit there and chirp at her every morning until she woke up.
This is Ava's alarm clock.
It is bl
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Literature
Get Yourself High
"Dude, so my girlfriend has like, the best tan right now."
"Uh-huh."  I peeked around a corner.  "Sprinter coming down this way, Mike."
"No, really," He said.  "Like, it's just the best tan ever.  You need to see it.  She's like brown, brown, brown, bam, white.  Like, fucking alabaster white.  Like fucking Greek statue white."
"Whiskey Two-Tango, will you stop clogging our communication lines with this?"
"Sorry, Command,"  He managed a perfect shot into the thing's three hearts in the middle of his spiel before switching his comms frequency to local.
"So she's got tan lines, so what."  I peeked around the corner again, then waved for him to go first.  "She's gone to the beach some time in the last month."
"One-Tango's clear, Two-Tango, hurry it up over there.  And tell Mike that we can still hear your half of the conversation."
"Also, they can still hear us."
"Not through the h
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Literature
White Ladder, Covered in Water
I've always envied people who could read eyes.  They say, the eye is the window to the soul.  And your emotions, your motives, your deepest hopes and dreams you've always wanted to keep hidden, they're like that girl who always strips all the way down when she's changing.  And she always makes a show of it right in front of the window.  She pretends that she just doesn't notice the blinds wide open right in front of her, but it's that paper-thin attempt at keeping up an appearance of innocence that makes the whole thing that much sexier.
That's what they say, at least.  I wouldn't have any idea, given that I haven't seen it.
The one thing I can spot, though, is a twitcher.  Magic users, every once in a while, twitch their eyes.  They just bounce around for half a second before going back to normal.  Blink and you'll miss it.  But time it just right and you can catch their eyes twitching.
On the ou
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Literature
Shady Sunday Morning
"Hey," Komura scrutinized a soybean between her fingers. "Why do you think edamame is so expensive?"
I shrugged.  She was the one who ordered it, after all.
"Dunno."  I reached for one.  She slapped my hand before I could reach the bowl.
"They'll charge us," she said.
"But you already ordered them," I said.  Leaning back into my corner.
"Excuse me!" She flagged down a waitress.  "We didn't order these."
She dropped the one she was playing with back into the bowl and handed it to her.  The waitress apologized and scurried off.
"What the hell was that?"
She held up a finger.  She leaned out of her seat to watch the waitress run off towards the kitchen.  Turning around would've been too obvious, so I was stuck with nothing to go on but what she said.
"She's talking to the manager," she muttered.  She leaned further to get a better look.  "They're checking the orders."
She jumped back into p
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Watchers

Two weeks ago, I wrote a journal saying it'd take me like a week to clear out my gallery of old shit. It only took me twice (three times, maybe?) as long.

To make up for all that, I'll post some of the piles of unfinished work I've done over these last two years to my scraps. Because they aren't trash, and I like the ego-stroking that posting unfinished work gives me.
  • Listening to: Have One on Me
  • Reading: the Sailor who Fell from Grace with the Sea
  • Playing: Neo Scavenger
  • Eating: Six dozen eggs
  • Drinking: Kenya AA

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AnonDesu
Ryan Koyanagi
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
I used to call myself a professional, but that's only because people paid me to tell you why you should hire the local sprinkler repair guy.

This picture is like seven years old now.
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:icontinselfire:
Tinselfire Featured By Owner May 18, 2018
By the heavens, your avatar.
Never thought I would see that picture again. Splendid!
Reply
:iconkrontriolle:
Krontriolle Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2017
Lol is that the reaper big boobed girl from Touhou in ur pic
Reply
:iconoiran:
oiran Featured By Owner Aug 9, 2015
happy b-day week
Reply
:iconhugqueen:
HugQueen Featured By Owner Aug 15, 2014   Writer
Happy birthday. :heart:
Reply
:iconanondesu:
AnonDesu Featured By Owner Aug 18, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks you :>
Reply
:iconhugqueen:
HugQueen Featured By Owner Aug 19, 2014   Writer
You're welcome! How are you?
Reply
:iconanondesu:
AnonDesu Featured By Owner Nov 21, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Would you believe me if I said busy?
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(1 Reply)
:iconraspil:
raspil Featured By Owner Mar 12, 2014   Writer
Thank you for adding Two Rewards to your favorites list -- that means a lot to me. :hug:
Reply
:iconmylittleluckystar:
MyLittleLuckyStar Featured By Owner Jan 28, 2014  Student General Artist
Hope this isn't creepy or anything, but I love your writing style and you're one of my favorite writers on dA. :3 First piece I read was Manic Pixie Dream Girl, and then I read everything with Komura in it because she's just fabulous. You've got great characters.

So.. Yeah. ^^ Love your writing
Reply
:iconanondesu:
AnonDesu Featured By Owner Feb 6, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
It's not creepy in the least, and thank you for the compliments - and better yet, thank you for the detailed compliments. Knowing specifics for what's done well and what needs work is seriously the best.

If you don't mind me asking, how'd you find MPDG in the first place?
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