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Okami_No_Heishi

Guest
I like how a lot of music nowadays has a bit of a latin vibe and beat. Something that CAN be danced to.
 
Yakamaru

Yakamaru

Silly McFly
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Okami_No_Heishi

Guest
Yakamaru said:
I love rain. Gives me an excuse to sit next to the window and read a book. >_>
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I don't need an excuse for reading. Love to read. Reading a book right now called Arc Light, by Eric L. Harry. Great book about an accidental WW3.
 
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Okami_No_Heishi

Guest
That moment when you, a four star general, are about to go home from work, and you get a call from the Russian general in charge, who is a friend, telling you he is about to launch a massive nuclear attack on the Chinese, who the Russians have been at war with. Thats the opening of the book.
 
Yakamaru

Yakamaru

Silly McFly
Okami_No_Heishi said:
I don't need an excuse for reading. Love to read. Reading a book right now called Arc Light, by Eric L. Harry. Great book about an accidental WW3.
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I'm a bit lazy on the reading front. Only finished Isaac Asimov's "Foundation" thus far, and working on The Alchemist.
 
theawakening

theawakening

The lazy fox... what else?
Banned
Okami_No_Heishi said:
That moment when you, a four star general, are about to go home from work, and you get a call from the Russian general in charge, who is a friend, telling you he is about to launch a massive nuclear attack on the Chinese, who the Russians have been at war with. Thats the opening of the book.
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Does war count?
 
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Mikazuki Marazhu

Mikazuki Marazhu

I hate you all
Of all the places in which a boy might find himself orphaned, ninth-century Iceland was among the worst. Sigurðr Sigurðsson’s parents had arrived with the first wave of Norse immigrants and decided the land had a strange beauty that would be suitable for raising a family. But when Sigurðr was only nine, his father disappeared on an ice floe and, not long after, his mother went to sleep never to wake up. The boy took over the family land and resolved to make his way in life, but he failed: he was just too young, and soon found himself scavenging a living from the dead whales that washed up on the shores. In truth, it was not a bad skill to possess: the flesh was used for food, the blubber for lamps, and the bones for any number of household items. All these things, Sigurðr could trade to support himself. Still, he felt there was something missing from his existence; even as a child, he knew it was not enough to carve a life out of the carcasses of the dead, and he longed to be strong and valiant. So, when not cutting apart beached whales, Sigurðr dove. On the edge of a fjord, with the entire ocean stretched in front of him, he would take a moment as the world around him seemed to disappear. Then his legs would push him up into the air and there would be a moment of brief weightlessness when the battle between sky and sea was deadlocked, and Sigurðr would—just for this one beautiful moment—imagine himself floating near Valhalla. But the sea always won, and the boy would cut the air like a dropped knife. The water rushed up to meet him, and when he sliced through the transparent surface he felt as if he’d come home. Down he would go, searching for the bottom, before emerging from the ocean with the feeling that he’d been cleansed. But the feeling never lasted. When he played with the other boys, because there was still a little time for this, he always felt one step removed from them. He liked to wrestle and run just as they did, and he even enjoyed drawing a little blood in a sporting contest, but there came a time when all the other young men found young women with whom to wrestle. Sigurðr, poor Sigurðr, remained content to wrestle only with the boys, and soon people started to wonder why he didn’t seem to have the slightest interest in taking a wife. Sigurðr took to spending his evenings in the local tavern in an attempt to display his manliness, but try as he might to keep his eyes fixed on the breasts of the waitress, his gaze would invariably wander to the hairy knuckles of the bartender. From there, his eyes would go to the strong curve of Höðbroddr’s buttocks and then, always, they would settle upon one man, a little older, named Einarr Einarsson. Einarr was a block of granite disguised as fur, with a massive chest and thick forearms that could tame a man—or so Sigurðr liked to imagine. Einarr’s eyes reminded Sigurðr of the icy water into which he dove, and his flaming mane was like the passion in the younger man’s heart.
 
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theawakening

theawakening

The lazy fox... what else?
Banned
Mikazuki Marazhu said:
Of all the places in which a boy might find himself orphaned, ninth-century Iceland was among the worst. Sigurðr Sigurðsson’s parents had arrived with the first wave of Norse immigrants and decided the land had a strange beauty that would be suitable for raising a family. But when Sigurðr was only nine, his father disappeared on an ice floe and, not long after, his mother went to sleep never to wake up. The boy took over the family land and resolved to make his way in life, but he failed: he was just too young, and soon found himself scavenging a living from the dead whales that washed up on the shores. In truth, it was not a bad skill to possess: the flesh was used for food, the blubber for lamps, and the bones for any number of household items. All these things, Sigurðr could trade to support himself. Still, he felt there was something missing from his existence; even as a child, he knew it was not enough to carve a life out of the carcasses of the dead, and he longed to be strong and valiant. So, when not cutting apart beached whales, Sigurðr dove. On the edge of a fjord, with the entire ocean stretched in front of him, he would take a moment as the world around him seemed to disappear. Then his legs would push him up into the air and there would be a moment of brief weightlessness when the battle between sky and sea was deadlocked, and Sigurðr would—just for this one beautiful moment—imagine himself floating near Valhalla. But the sea always won, and the boy would cut the air like a dropped knife. The water rushed up to meet him, and when he sliced through the transparent surface he felt as if he’d come home. Down he would go, searching for the bottom, before emerging from the ocean with the feeling that he’d been cleansed. But the feeling never lasted. When he played with the other boys, because there was still a little time for this, he always felt one step removed from them. He liked to wrestle and run just as they did, and he even enjoyed drawing a little blood in a sporting contest, but there came a time when all the other young men found young women with whom to wrestle. Sigurðr, poor Sigurðr, remained content to wrestle only with the boys, and soon people started to wonder why he didn’t seem to have the slightest interest in taking a wife. Sigurðr took to spending his evenings in the local tavern in an attempt to display his manliness, but try as he might to keep his eyes fixed on the breasts of the waitress, his gaze would invariably wander to the hairy knuckles of the bartender. From there, his eyes would go to the strong curve of Höðbroddr’s buttocks and then, always, they would settle upon one man, a little older, named Einarr Einarsson. Einarr was a block of granite disguised as fur, with a massive chest and thick forearms that could tame a man—or so Sigurðr liked to imagine. Einarr’s eyes reminded Sigurðr of the icy water into which he dove, and his flaming mane was like the passion in the younger man’s heart.
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Why did you write down that text? This is more like a story of Epic bibles
 
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