I'm sort of not too comfortable at publicizing my writing, but I thought this should be here for future references. Most of these are RP samples, some are short stories (which happen once in forever for me).

* * *


He stood there, breathing heavily for a few moments, before the realization of what they had done started to slowly sink in.
You couldn’t even recognize Dick Turpin anymore.
There was blood soaking through the carpet. Blood, and the glass of red wine Mr. Turpin had accidentally dropped on the carpet only a few moments earlier. He hoped it wouldn’t pour down through the cracks to the apartment below; but that thought was gone from his mind as quickly as it came.
His fresh white shirt was covered with spatters of blood. His fist, along with his brass knuckles, were dripping with the fluid. He could feel some of it dampening his beard.
His chest went up and down under the tight shirt in slow, steady movements, as he tried to regain his breath. The Billy Murray record they had enjoyed listening to while getting high and drunk had ceased from playing, probably during the fight, and there was now utter silence in the small apartment, other than the static sound coming from the phonograph.
Calloway wasn’t known to be a man of many words; but if anytime was one to speak - this was it.
“My apologies about your carpet.” Was all he could think to say, in his deep, sullen voice, standing over the body.


* * *


Bill sighed and considered giving up, though God knew what that would have done to his reputation - when, out of the blue, came Mohan to his rescue. His face lit up and a malicious smirk cut across his face, which, for a few moments, made him resemble a shark.
“Mohan! My savior!” He called out with joy, reaching to remove the sack from the man’s hands. “Do me a favor ‘n pick this lady here up.” He shifted his gaze to the seated woman. “We gone take you on a little detour, milady.”
He retrieved the bag he had handed out to one of the passengers and tossed it out the door, where Ming was waiting to catch it. He waited for Mohan to pick the lady up and carry her (kicking and screaming) out the wagon, slung the bag over his shoulder, and spoke to the crowd once more as he made his way for the open door; “People, please be sure to tell all yer friends ‘n loved ones, and whoever else would be interested to hear, that ye have gone through the exciting once-in-a-lifetime experience of spendin’ some good ol’ quality time with the Savage-Flyinghawk Gang!” He ruffled the hair of a young boy sitting with his mother next to the door, removed his hat from his head, and placed it atop the boy’s.
“Bon voyage!” He called and blew a kiss towards the crowd, leaped out the door, and ran, along with Ming and Mohan, for dear life.


* * *


Mike was growing increasingly angry and impatient with the people around him. Sometimes, he scared himself.

I mean, for Pete's sake – the other day he was walking down the street and passed by a Temperance Movement rally. Instead of smiling and politely ignoring them, as he usually would, little Mikey went and, rather abruptly, shouted for them to 'shut their fucking yaps and go home'.

He didn't know what it was. Maybe it was the increasing amount of time he was spending with Jackson; maybe it was the increasing amount of hooch he was devouring while spending time with Jackson; maybe he'd just hit puberty late.

No, the truth was, Mike liked shooting the bull with Jackson. He had a sort of… refreshing perspective for life Mike was only now beginning to understand. He would never admit it to himself - but poor little Mikey was growing forever anxious of the nearing realization God did not like him. That there was a reasonable possibility that God hated him.

He never sounded any of this out, though: because he was polite; because he did not want to anger the people he had to see every single day; and most importantly - because he did not want to lose his job. He liked his job, for the most part. But, even if he hadn't missed a single show - it seemed like all Mike was up to recently was drinking hooch and getting into trouble. Recent experiences have lead him to believe that, well – that no one was perfect. Not that he thought that he was perfect to begin with – but he figured he oughta have lived a little, and besides, it's not like he was doing something that... you know, He found wrong. That God found wrong. God did not ban intoxication; nor did he ban running from the police, either, really. He was just having a little fun. He oughta have had fun; in less than a few hours, he would be two decades old.

He wondered if anyone would remember.

He didn't expect Jackson would – which didn't bother him much, because Jackson has gone through most of his adult life being drunk. With all his respect and appreciation for the man – he doubted Jackson remembered his own birthday. And the people he did expect to remember -- well... on second thought, he didn't really expect anyone to remember. Not on purpose, anyway, but Mike realized he mainly kept to himself and wasn't really as socialized and as liked as he thought he was. He was pretty sure (and terrified) that, other than Jackson, no one liked him. Perhaps Mr. Benson did, but he hasn't seem him around in ages.

Which was why he decided to take the night off and spend his time at the bar, drinking the night away. He figured that was a good-enough birthday gift.


* * *


It had been a long while since Mike'd exchanged any words with Jackson other than a hello and a thank you whenever Jackson was sitting at the bar - which was becoming less and less of a frequency, so really, he hadn't spoken to Jackson at all in a while.

Dolores was irritable at Jackson's changing moods at first, but she gave it up soon enough, once she'd been around him long enough to realize the man was not well. She tried to take care of him as much she could while trying not to show she really gave a shit - which was a hard enough task to begin with. She helped as much she could when it came to cash, but she still had to look out for herself. The fact that Jackson was... with her now was all good and well, but no one guaranteed he'd be there forever. He could either leave her or die, whichever came first. Namely she just tried to sooth his aching muscles and stay out of his way when he was pissed.

And Mike. Aside from the cold shoulder, you could barely even see Mike anywhere (which would actually be a good attribute to an escape artist, if you think about it). He put up an evening show and worked at the bar until midnight, sometimes 1 AM, then attend his 'other job' which no one really knew anything about other than Jackson - which he regretted telling to in the first place - sleep in the mornings, and be up and putting up another show by noon. Seemed like he wasn't doing anything but work.

He was walking down the boardwalk when he noticed something white and somewhat shiny sitting at the entrance to the theater. It was Jackson. He had to squint under his blue fedora to look at the man, he was that pale. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow, he walked down the way to the stoop and took a seat next to the albino. Taking a pack of cigarettes out, he put one in his mouth and held the pack out for Jackson.

The other man couldn't help but be a little surprised at the sudden display of familiarity, however small. He waved the cigarettes away with a slow and gentle gesture, mostly because the last one he'd had had left him a little nauseous.
"Hey, Mikey. How's it been?"

"Swell." The reply was too monotonic to be interpreted as either honest or sarcastic. He resented being called Mikey, but chose to ignore it. Jackson was the only one that called him anything anyway.

He removed his cap and placed it in his lap, having a long drag off the cigarette and letting the smoke waft away from his lips as he spoke. "How come you ain't smoking with me, huh? You quit?" He almost seemed disappointed.


* * *


Mike didn't think Jackson hated dogs as much as he was terrified of them, but 'scared' wasn't a word he wanted to use at this particular moment. The dog made a low sound from the deep of its throat, enjoying the attention, and Mike stood back on his feet and had another drag of the cigarette. "So it would seem."

He stood there in silence for a moment, hands in his pockets, when a dog began barking in the distance. It wasn't playful barking like the mutt's - it was loud, defensive and angry. It was a warning. Another dog joined minutes after, and the mutt perked its ears, turning away from Jackson. It stepped to the tip of the porch and began barking as well.
There were barking coming from inside the house.

Mike knew this all too well.

"Shit." He muttered and turned his head just in time to see his father standing at the door.
"Polizei." Herr Zinner said, staring down at his son. Police raids played a common role in Mike's childhood; they would search through the Barrens every once in a while for thieves and criminals. His father had been arrested more times than he could remember. And with the both Jackson and himself working at the theater where alcohol was obviously sold illegally and with Jackson having a flask on his person at all time - this couldn't have been good news for them.

"We have to get outta here." Mike, still frozen solid in his spot, looked back at Jackson.
Jackson nodded, "Yeah, we better. Your folks gonna be alright?" He looked back over his shoulder at Mike's father.

"Wir sind daran gewöhnt." Herr Zinner had lost all sense of his English by this point; the Frau appeared next to him in the doorway and snatched Mike for a quick, final hug before the boy could do anything else.
"They're used to these things." Mike muttered from over his mother's shoulder. He could not believe this was happening, the one day he has the guts to go back home - but there was no time to cry over spilled milk - not now, in any case. "Ich werde um den Rücken zu gehen." He looked at his mother, then, one final time, at his father. "Ich liebe dich."

He grabbed Jackson by the wing of his coat and went around the porch. "There are a million different ways outta here. With a little luck, we'll make it."
"Ye'd be surprised how visible I am from great distances," Jackson grumbled, searching about in his pocket for his keys, because it was best to have those ready to go. "Just get us to the car and we'll be far away in no time."

Mike cursed under his breath, breaking into a jog as soon as they were off the porch - he didn't think this could possibly make the condition of Jackson's joints any better; but they had to run, there was no other option.
Everything looked the same. Tall pine trees everywhere, a rotten wooden shack here and there; Jackson wasn't all too sure Mike knew where he was leading them. You could get so easily lost in the Barrens; and when you did, you oughta be terrified. There were some things and people Mike never wanted to run into ever again.
Breathing hard, he looked at Jackson over his shoulder and nearly ran into a tree (but managed breaking aside at the last second) when, almost unexpectedly, they had reached the end of the Barrens and found themselves in front of the car. "I am... so sorry."