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About Literature / Hobbyist Cody A. Salvas22/Male/United States Recent Activity
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Literature
5:41 P.M., Saturday, November 16th, 2176
"Hey, did you hear? They think the world's ending."
She looked up from cleaning the light machine gun resting on her lap. Even though it was starting to get dark out, she had insisted on sitting out here and cleaning it. The breeze helped her concentrate, she said.
"Why's that? Sounds like a load of shit to me."
"Well, they're building those colony spaceships, launching thousands of people into space in the hopes that they make it to a new home, to start a new life... Don't you think that's awfully strange? To launch them into the blackness of space in the hope that they might find a new home and thrive?"
"Not really," I replied, idly kicking a piece of rubble. "Scientific advancement, Manifest Destiny, it's just that all over again, except, y'know, in space. We have the technology and resources to do it, why wouldn't we?"
I couldn't tell if she was thinking about her response or just focused on cleaning the interior of her weapon. The twilight made the ruined skyscrapers and other bui
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Literature
fond memories of the field across the road
My experiences growing up during the war are probably the opposite of what you'd expect. I have nothing but fondness for the days I spent in my family's countryside home, nestled snugly in one of the valleys of Austria. Although I loved my family very much, as an only child of about eight or nine years, things often got stale at the small house, especially being so far away from any major towns or cities; as a matter of fact, our closest neighbor was still three quarters of a mile down the road. No, I think what broke the days that seemed like any other, days where I looked at the blue sky and wished I could fly off somewhere on an adventure without jet aircraft accosting me, was that small groups of soldiers would often make their camps in the fields across the street from our home.
Contrary to popular belief, or at least in my on experience, soldiers are happy to talk to young children, and only very rarely are they rude or tactless around them. I have happy memories of nights when t
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Literature
durandal
Villiersdorp had long since been abandoned. Its battles had already been fought and its citizens had already fled a year and a half ago. It was an old battleground, and driving our Anti-Durandal Guns through the empty streets felt like we were passing through a temple. If I was still young, I might have expected a ghost to pop out from behind one of the empty buses and scare us all. That didn't happen, of course, and I told one of the men to be quiet when he joked about that. Maybe I was scared of the ghosts, but I'd like to think I'm more mature than that now.
I had the men drive their ADGs into a few alleyways and find anything they could to conceal themselves better. I felt worried. One Durandal on its own might not be enough to punch through the armor of an ADG, but two or three focusing their fire definitely could. Fortunately, the supply convoy we were supposed to be ambushing wouldn't have a heavy escort, so we could count out anything like LAVs or anything more than three or fo
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Literature
a photograph is all i have to remember her eyes by
The funeral had been closed casket. It had to have been, since a rifle round's entry and exit wound through a woman's head has never been a tasteful thing to show  the family and friends of the recently deceased. The procedure was standard fare for a funeral, even for the Witches, who had a habit of doing everything extravagantly and brilliantly. I remember thinking I was glad she had never seen the bullet coming, that she had never heard the round fired -- the smile on her face, the feeling she had just saved everyone's lives, those were the things she died with. Not with fear or grief. With a simple beauty written on her face and emblazoned in her chartreuse eyes.
Medals were pinned to the flag draped over the casket and it was lowered into the ground without much incident. There were tears, I remember, and choked-back sobs, and whispers and pleas to a higher power for some manner of answer for the atrocity that had been committed. And somewhere in the world, there was a group,
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Literature
ignorance is a happy little lie
The war had always seemed like a distant event, something that would never reach me or my family way out in the sticks. All the bullets and cracks of scattered gunfire had been flooding the news channels, but I always had faith (or perhaps ignorance?) that it would never reach us. We lived on sparsely-populated grasslands, outside the sprawling mega-metropolises and densely packed population centers, out in the sticks where the world's news always seemed to be events made up that trickled by like a stream of information that was made up to root us to this world, lest we isolate ourselves and shut ourselves out from the world completely. Of course, on a hot summer day a year ago, when the gunfire became audible on more than just the television, I would have told you that you were probably just hearing things.
We were riding into the nearest town with Mom and Dad, may their souls rest in peace, to go on a big shopping trip. Our family liked to do all of our shopping for a month in one go
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Literature
the sleepless nights are my only real company
we all stood on the plateau overlooking the sea, entrusting our dreams written on scraps of paper to the wind
we often wondered what lay at the bottom of the ocean, but i think deep down we all really knew
the scattered and tattered scraps of hope that had been thrown to the sky since forever ago
and i think that comforted us somehow as the wind took our yearning and our longing and threw them to the waves
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Literature
a candlelit dream on a cold winter's night
We were only human, but our hands reached out and up to the glass planetarium that bound us to this Earth. We entrusted our wishes to the falling stars in the sky, to the heroes reflected in the deep black of night.
We knew they would never deliver, but that was part of being human; to entrust wishes to falling stars, and to reach up and so desperately try to hold the tiny pinpricks piercing the dark ocean, like lighthouses a thousand miles away, in our very hands.
We knew the pain of loss, and the joy of relief and the wanting there are no words for; the thoughts and memories we wish we could live and relive. The times we sat next to each other, watching the snowflakes fall to the ground from Heaven, all quiet except for the crackling of the fire. That is, until you got up and walked to the window, putting your hand against it, looking up at the sky after the clouds had cleared. I remember you staring longingly, as if you had forgotten something important out there.
But then, the drea
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Literature
two
And just like that,
We were the only ones
Left in this world.
When I said that,
She gently grasped my left hand,
Her slender fingers interlacing with mine.
"Just us two," she said.
The landscape of this burned-out world
And the planetarium of stars above.
So as not to forget my promise,
I squeezed her hand tightly.
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Literature
displacement
...19617143064217906433917947646764504557479644720237323773058146009761567934710129
75120708793524465925477174487713032272749002253472850118602594877952965307019646978452482383949803001435599246849502775...

The steady of stream of data flowing through my core jumpstarts the dormant processors.  The optic sensors are the first sensory interface that are fully functional, and I raise the thin shutters keeping them protected. Low-light conditions. There is a dim light; it is a much lower-energy type of light, though still visible to the human eye. They would call it 'red'. I turn my head and try to observe my surroundings. I appear to be in a small room. There is a large in the ceiling above me. Wires of all different sizes are extending from it, and most of them are connected to my body in various places. The ones that don't go from the machine into another machine connected to the wall. I do not know what either machine is connected to, apart from myself.
My self-identificat
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Literature
salvation is subjective
"Just think about it," she said, a gust of cool wind lifting her scarlet hair from her dark eyes for a moment. "You do something I think is bad, but you think it's good. Since you think it's good in your eyes, wouldn't you believe you were going to Heaven, not Hell?"
I couldn't argue with her. She certainly knew more about religious matters than I did; she was one of the few soldiers who regularly attended worship on Sundays. Despite that, she had never been the kind to obey unquestioningly; she was always thinking, always questioning the doctrines set forth by the book. I don't think that made her blasphemous, though. Thinking back on her, I think she just wanted to know for sure she was doing what was right, what she believed in.
"Yeah, I guess. But what if it wasn't good? What if what I did was enough to send me to Hell?"
"Y'see, buddy, that's where your mistake is. You're looking at it in black and white. Me, I think good and bad depend on who's looking at it. Kind of like a mirror
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Literature
individuality
There was once a girl who lived in a nation that assigned a number to each of its citizens for easy identification. This number was to be carried on their person at all times, by way of a locked wristband of sorts, not removable except by key. It prominently displayed the number that individual was assigned at birth, and there were to be no modifications made to the wristbands or numbers. Of course, humans age, and as the girl grew, she went through the standardized education system of that nation, always referred to as her number first and her name secondly by her educators. As she grew and graduated the standardized educational system, she immediately entered the workforce as did all others; occupations were chosen by way of an aptitude test. And she'd been chosen to be a member of the police force.
This was an odd idea for her. As a child, she had been reprimanded more than once for trying to alter the wristband that displayed her number, by way of drawing on it or the like. "Artist
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Literature
handpicked sentiments
wishing for something more, you thought, as the clock occupying the same residence as you struck twelve; wishing for sustenance beyond other's enjoyment, wishing for nourishment other than the bare minimum you received by looking through the windows set in the walls you were trapped behind
but alas, you thought, looking back to the clock; it was almost time for sleep, for dreams to take you to a world where you were free from the chains you imposed upon yourself
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Literature
war story
It was a cold autumn day. Winter was close, and the breeze carried with it Old Man Winter's bite. My ears were thankfully kept warm by the hat the army had provided; made special for my kind's soldiers. Most of the outfits worn by my species were modified in some way to accommodate animal ears or tails. Us operating in the colder regions of the planet wore heavier outfits with longer hems and these wool-lined hats that kept most of our body heat in. My rifle was tethered to me by its strap, and my sidearm felt a little heavy on my leg. No big deal though. I was performing routine scouting - it was my turn, after all.
That's when it happened. I caught a glimpse of a hostile target moving through the trees, watching me. I figured my best bet was to act like I hadn't noticed them yet, keep an eye on them, make a move when they least expected it. I kept marching, making notes on the map I'd brought with me. Paper was more secure these days; GPS systems could be hacked or stolen, and
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Literature
generation
Ever since men first looked up at the night sky, dotted with pinpricks of light, he had dreamed of breaking the barrier that is sky. Of reaching out and touching Luna, of planting our flags in the rock and soil of other worlds; vapid symbols of our accomplishments, flying in the alien atmosphere. We dreamed of breaking our ceiling, of sailing past the infinite darkness that lay beyond the shell that contained us and all that we could see.
"What's that one," she asked, "that really bright one?"
"That's Polaris. The North Star, though that doesn't exactly apply where we are."
"Oh. And what about that one?" Another question.
"Vega," I said, recalling the name after a few moments. "Part of Lyra. You can't see the constellation from here, though."
"Oh," she said again. "And that one? What's that one called?"
"That one is Sol. That's the one Earth orbits," I said, putting a hand on the cold metal wall of the ship as she and I gazed out the window on the observation deck. "Most people know it
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Literature
shadows
The shadow wondered if it was worth it.
To be a shadow, that is.
Always in the background, ignored unless it was blocking the light of something much more brilliant, and always much blander than the world around it. Flat and dark.
Shadows were poor imitations of what cast them, after all, and perhaps it was better that way. But they were certainly real, and certainly felt that they too were important, despite their meager existence.
But perhaps, the shadow thought, the world could be better without them.
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Literature
for a friend
It was concealed mostly by pitch-black robes. They had no shadows, only solid black against a dark, navy blue backdrop, dotted by small points of light and marked with a small crescent directly in front of the young man facing the figure clad in solid black robes. His skeletal face was exposed in the hole the hood had, and it appeared the rest of his body was that way from the skeletal hand gripping the large harvesting scythe. The face didn't smile, or seem wicked; in fact, it seemed melancholy, almost as if the solemn duty the creature carried out weighed heavily on its mind. The reaper held out its hand to the young man, and he flinched.
"But what if I don't want to die?"
"Everyone has to go sometime," the figure said, in a voice that sounded melancholy as well, reflecting its bearer's face. Male or female, the young man couldn't tell -- not from the body, and not from the voice.
"But everyone will miss me."
"Of course. That's what death is. It's loss; for you, of your life, and for
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Cody A. Salvas
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
I write things sometimes.

Art for ID is by atyako.

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CorvusRose Featured By Owner Jul 14, 2015  Student Digital Artist
thank you for the +fav :)
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mitchAway Featured By Owner Jun 6, 2015  Professional Digital Artist
Yo finally able to upload on my profile again lol :D
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harliequin Featured By Owner May 20, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for faving Gratitude
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Thanks for the fave!
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Thanks for the fav!
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