Shousetsu Bang*Bang

by Shuua (シューア)



It was a late November evening, and already wreaths hung from streetlamps and a variety of Christmas decorations adorned the window displays of shops. As if to encourage the illusion, snow was falling picturesquely in thick, fluffy flakes. A lone figure made his way through the streets, a muffled crunching under his footsteps, his breath following him like wisps of clouds. He was tall and slender, his bulky winter jacket hugged tightly around him as he steeled himself against the cold. His not-quite-blonde hair was in need of a trim, and reached a little above his shoulder. His thick glasses were wet from melted snow and continually slipped down the bridge of his nose.

( ... )

( Author's Notes )
 

by Roselia Grimm



In the upper part of the town there is a school where all the boys wear red coats. The coats are made of thick wool, crimson and soft, lined with black satin and fastened with grey steel toggles down the front. The boys of the lower town shuffle and mutter when a boy wearing one of these coats passes by but they don't dare do a thing.

( ... )
 

by Shikagawa Hebiko (鹿皮へび子)



Summer school at St P___'s always felt like a bad idea; lazy and yellowed and made forlorn by too much sunlight at ten in the morning, the echoes of the emptier corridors, the sound of other people having fun punting down the river at the end of the football field. By the end of June Ioain was left with three distinct groups in student halls: the other handful of students who were staying to train with the new music teacher, the slightly larger handful of students who did not, for their own reasons, wish to go home for summer, and the space between them. ( ... )
 

by Shiretoko (知床)



Joss doesn't understand why he's here.

He doesn't understand why he's walking down these streets, at this hour, smelling of someone else's blood and dying to drown in the shower.

This evening has been unkind to him. His mark was a fighter. Even as wire wound tight around the straining throat, fingers anticipating the final sharp jerk severing head from neck, it had not been over. It amazes him, how strong is the will to survive; after the crying, after the pleading, the garrote cut clean . . . and he bled from a new puncture wound. Hidden dagger. How careless of him. The wire danced again before Joss fled clutching the hole at his hip, leaving a gore painted office behind.

( ... )
 

by Tohsei Suoh (土星　朱)



I spot the redheaded kid as I'm walking home from one of my later classes, and it's that time of year where it's four in the afternoon and the sun's already squatting on the horizon like a fat, rotten tomato about to explode.

It's around four-thirty now. Everything is dark already, and you can't see for shit unless you've got really good night-vision or something; it all looks this smudged, indistinct not-color. I can see his hair, though. It's brilliant and poppy-red, too bright to be natural, and I can't keep myself from staring.

( ... )
 

by Kubaru Suki (少年好き 配る)



Everybody said that Soketani Daisetsu was cursed.

He wasn't sure it wasn't true.

And that worried him.

---

The curse goes like this: Daisetsu was one of only two people (that he knew) who had a living mirror. The other person (the only other one he knew) happened to be his living mirror and everybody said that Doigami Saisuke was just as cursed as Daisetsu.

Daisetsu wasn't sure when the curse had started, but by the time he'd reached his last year in primary school, everybody in the school knew about it from the littlest kid to the oldest of the teachers.

( ... )
 

by Nara Kagerou (奈良蜻蛉)



The wind howled like a symphony of sick dogs trained to sing commercial jingles. Jason slumped into the ski lodge, cursing God, snow and his uncle Errol, for sending him to some god-forsaken corner of the world where they still had fresh-air and blindingly white snow, which usually came in the form of ass-freezing blizzards. While he was shown up to his room, he added in some choice words about his taxi-driver and the general accessibility of the lodge, and then went back to cursing God about the weather in general.

He was--rather wisely on the part of some of the long-tempered staff--completely ignored.

( ... )
 

by Tsukizubon Saruko (月図凡然る子)



"What are you doing?" Keitaro was already calling, as he broke into a jog across the parking lot, his furrowed brow sharpening into a full-fledged scowl. "Stop that! Let him go!"

At the sound of an adult's voice the boys broke apart, milling away from the one at the center of the cluster in an effort to look casual. It was Nakamura, he saw, and supposed he should have known; the small boy had a purpled black eye, a trickle of blood running from his lip, and a dazed expression, and was groping vaguely for the pair of glasses lying on the asphalt not far from his hand. Keitaro strode into the semi-circle of teenagers and scooped them up, handing them to Nakamura and helping him to his feet.

( ... )
 

by Natsuno Owari (夏野オワリ)



A small shop in Harajuku, he'd been told, down an alleyway between a crepe stand and that store which sold those disgusting lacy maid outfits. All lace and sex, she'd said, bought by young girls who had an inappropriate desire to express themselves...

Tanaka-san valued her pet dog as much as she did her collection of expensive kimono. Every free morning she had, she would take the train to Asakusa and peruse the market there, under the shadow of the giant gate of Kaminarimon. Her dog, Foofoo, was as highly decorated as her clothes and would not be able to go. On the one occasion that he did accompany her, he struggled along behind her, trying to keep up with the brisk click-clack of her geta, his half-shorn tail bobbing in the breeze.

( ... )
 

by Koizumi Shinme (恋墨新芽)



Outside, a Gulf wind blew the rain into sheets like some old B movie effect, lines of water rippling and splatting against the storm windows, gusts rattling the back door where the latch still held, barely, fingers of damp wind trying to sneak in where it was warm and dry.

Inside, the storm-dimmed light of late afternoon was enough to see but not to read. Michael sat hunched over the coffee table, book spread before his knees, its fine black print wavering in the light of three short candles, each labeled 'pine', their slightly different smells warring in the back of his mind as he read of Maria, of Galileo, of letters sent through time and desperation between two minds who might as well have been mirror twins rather than father and daughter, the way the bright and dark lines of their lives intersected.

( ... )
 

by Morokoshi Katsura (唐 桂)



For the first few weeks on Alba Venne dressed in layers: woolen stockings and quilted silk jackets and rivers of sable fur, long gloves and tall boots. The attire was necessary, as much for form and semiotics as the function of the outdoor ceremonies that marked his arrival, but he could not get comfortable. The least physical effort while bundled up caused him to overheat, which caused him to sweat and itch maddeningly in public, but remove any of his bulky outer garments and straightaway he was chilled. He had to show his face to the crowds, and the bitter air chapped his lips and made his eyes water. It was as well he did not care to appear lordly; charisma was difficult to achieve with a perennial runny nose.

( ... )
 

by Tamari Erin (玉里えりん)



Bobby stared at himself in the bathroom mirror and adjusted the headband another time. try as he might, he just wasn't able to get the mistletoe to hang straight. When it wasn't listing to the left or to the right, it drooped down in front of his face, which kind of defeated the purpose.

He'd borrowed the headband from his room-mate's girlfriend ("I hope you don't expect this back, J, I will do horrible, horrible things to it." "It's okay; I never liked that one anyway."), and he'd bought the mistletoe -- plastic -- at one of the dollar stores in town. ( ... )