(Please note that I think this author's description is so poetic and beautiful it's amazing something of hers hasn't been published yet (or maybe it has and I never knew).
“Listen. If you listen closely enough, you can hear everything.
“You can hear the whisper of smoke rising over the rooftops, black fog disfiguring the face of the sky. You can hear the hum and grind of rusted machinery, huge metal behemoths gasping and choking and wheezing in strangled industrial death-throes.
“You can hear the sick gurgling of the water, thick as oil, in the harbor, and grunts and curses and snatches of sea shanties on the salt-slick air. You can hear the blood pumping through tattooed sailors’ veins as their ship slices into the dock, hear the thrumming rhythm of their hearts, chanting drink and drugs and sex.
“You can hear crack babies screaming in filthy hospital wards as the acid rain sluices down and gargles in the open throats of sewers. You can hear the strike of a match, the crackle of burning paper, and if you’re really listening hard, you can taste the tobacco in the back of your own throat. You can hear the footsteps as they pound over the steaming pavements. You can hear the click of the gun’s greasy metal hammer as it pulls back, and you can hear the shot exploding. You can hear the bullet thudding into flesh, into muscle, into cracking bone.
“If you listen closely enough, oh yes, you can hear everything. Every cry from every starving mouth, every moan, every whimper. You can hear the whole world dying, abattoir beast in pain. If you listen closely enough.
“So you tell me,” demands the Question, spinning on his heel, invisible eyes hidden behind his featureless face, “You tell me then, Helena. What exactly should I choose to listen to? How do I decide what to hear, and what to ignore?”Santanico's Selective Hearing.
“Whacking someone isn’t exactly a clean lifestyle, Mike. People are filthy when they get whacked. Brains, guts, crap and blood usually gets all over the place.” Jason Bourne grimaced. “I usually wash my hands. HIV exposure being what it is the the world today, assassins should be issued rubber gloves. Personally, I prefer the syringe—more sanitary—if I was an assassin. However, I don’t really do that anymore.”
“Sounds like there’s an element of danger to your job that most people haven’t considered.”
“Most people object to getting whacked, Mike. They don’t exactly take it sitting down,” Jason explained. “They usually put up a fight.”
Humorous parody of the series. Fandomatic's Dirty JobsMinority Report
This girl has some interesting but incredible prose -- it's the kind I wish I could write just because it's so different but will never probably do.
He lay there. Not moving. Not breathing. Not thinking.
He was dead.
Or so said the bullet in his skull. Exploded. In the back. Disfiguring his face. In the front. Once beautiful.
Spittle Pig's Fallopian Addicts
Black Hawk Down
Acceptance is pointless. Approval is a waste of time, a hopeless search for understanding that the world will never grant. The world will never accept your memories of the war.
This is a war that has not yet glorified by Hollywood’s cameras or the appealing actors that work beneath their capturing gaze; not yet rewritten by brilliant scriptwriters, making your dull experiences worthwhile. Those scriptwriters are not unlike you. There is time on their hands to alter your life just as you should have done for yourself
It is a war that is untainted by fearless broadcast crews and valiant reporters risking it all for a six-minute segment on the eight o’clock news. It is your war and his war and everyone’s war. A war in the desert, in the cities, in the mind.
A war that is fought from the planes and the Humvees that brought you to this putrid slaughter. This death is not yours, and for that, you are lucky, but it is for theirs. The enemies, the insurgents, the terrorists.
But maybe you are the terrorist, you and your rifle and your lips that kiss the skin of a son not yet conceived, and maybe those who you believed to be the enemies are the freedom fighters and you are what they say you are. An invader. You are an invader who is not welcome, who does not belong.SuperSixOne's The Tin Soldiers
Pirates of the Caribbean
William Turner has never asked an inappropriate question in his life.
“Did you bed Jack Sparrow?” he asks as he drops the empty bottle of whiskey to the ground, listening to the glass shatter into a million pieces on the wooden floorboards.
Anamaria stops breathing and looks Will straight in the eye. “What did ye say, boy?”
“Did you bed Jack Sparrow?” Will whispers hotly, forcing her against the wall and digging his fingernails into her skin.
“You’d be hard pressed to find a wench on this island who hasn’t spent a night or two in the company of Captain Jack Sparrow, Mister Turner” she replies shortly, her attempt to push the brunette away from her futile.
Will only presses tighter against her in response. “Is that a yes?”
She says nothing.
“Sparrow…Jack… he kissed her,” Will practically growls, his fists clenched as he looks at the ground. “He kissed Elizabeth before the ship was taken down.”
“Is that why you’re here in Tortuga instead of on the boat like a good lad?” Anamaria smirks, a slightly amused tone to her voice. “Is that why you’re here, drinking whiskey with me instead of holding your bonny Elizabeth like a good whelp?”
“Did you love him?” Will counters, ignoring her question.
“Do you still love her?”meeker004's Never.
Umm...that's it. Hope whoever's out there and belongs to this community enjoys these.