Diary of a Martian Patriot

pale, thin beauties

who make the moon and flowers weep for shame

that make the birds fall

fish forget to swim

look now: ducking under an umbrella lest the sun tan her pretty skin - ah. 

the woodcutter has stolen the goddess’s clothes - here she waddles.

wasn’t Yang Guifei quite the portly woman? my mistress is fond of fine cuisine, little dogs, pulling me by the ears 

takes chocolate gladly, only to say “too sweet”

the other week she dyed her hair blonde - no I think black suits her more

the same flat black of her eyes -

But I’ll paint them honey-brown to flatter her

her pronunciation is still very strange after all these centuries.

sometimes she speaks like a seagull.

wearing makeup - white powder is out of fashion,

but when she kisses teacups it leaves a red stain - powdered fish scales.

i only wish she’d quit smoking -

makes her breath smell absolutely awful -

and she spits on the street- 

and there’s all the garlic she eats -

but I’m not one to talk.

While Arthur was dozing off, Yao noticed that something had risen, and, seizing the moment, he took out a permanent marker.

Yao drew a smilie face, complete with bushy eyebrows, on Arthur’s schlong. Now this English dick was a true English gentleman!

They clasped hands and fell drowned into each others eyes like one drowns in a pool of sake over which the cliched cherry blossoms drop their leaves like kamikaze pilots because honestly you wouldn’t be able to float very easily in a pool of sake and you’d get drunk too and lose your motor coordination.

Some mandarin ducks were lapping at the bank of the biggest of these pools, getting drunk with the drunkenness of ducks drinking alcohol. The moon, round and full, was reflected in the rippling water like your first girlfriend, who turned into the moon, watching the two of you lay in a stupor because you two drowned in a pool of sake.

Well the kiss, the kiss reeked of alchohol as well. But it was amazing, bursting into flower like fireworks shaped like flowers.

The rabbit on the moon was earless because his mother, over-attentive with her teeth, had chewed its ears off when it was born.

One night Japan met himself at a night club. Realizing what a good looking old geezer he was, he made the first move.

“Hey hot stuff” he said to his doppelganger. “Let’s get it on,” he said, wrapping a suave arm around the subject of his desire. He straightened the lapels of his chest-bearing white suede jacket with the fingers of his other hand, flashing his straight, white teeth (which glistened in the nightclub’s strobe lights)

“I’m a honored by your proposal” said the other Japan, as he was being groped under the table.

So they had hot buttsex in the bathroom

the end

(inspired by this comic)

(somewhere along the line I said I wanted more historical fic but weeeeh it takes so much research to write that kind of thing but have this banal fangirly kinda fic)

Yao set the package down on his dining table. He’d found it on his doorstep earlier that day.

“生日快乐 - Happy Birthday!“ it read in cursive print. The handwriting was familiar, as was the plain brown wrapping paper, folded with a fibrous string.

He realized it was that time in October again, not that he really had a birthday or felt particularly patriotic about this date. But a gift was always good.

He opened it hastily with a pocket knife, ripping the plain brown wrapping and the string holding it together. From the start Yao knew that it held something soft inside, folded neatly into a square…

Yao unfolded it to its full length. The gift, from Kiku, was a frilly thing. A white wedding dress, with red pink flowers sewn onto it.

“Aiyah…” Yao proclaimed. This had to be a mistake!

He noticed a card had been included with the dress.

“Dear Yao-san, wouldn’t you say this is a fine proposal? I would love to see you wear this.”

Below that was a drawing of the two of them, getting married! The nerve!

But Yao didn’t have the heart to throw it out. He folded the dress back up and stuck the card between two antique books on his shelf. Perhaps he could give the dress to a struggling city girl who’d love something like it.

“At least I’m not England!” thought Mr. Honda Kiku, watching a certain someone’s butt wiggle by in anger.

Sooner or later, Yao would accept him with open arms and reject England. A man who couldn’t make rice gruel in the morning wasn’t worth much, and England hated rice gruel with a passion.

The cherry blossoms

Delicate in bloom

I stumble over the hill to Kane Hall

And wonder

is my life anime

and not merely doomed?

His dream: she is dressed in white, the tsuno-kakushi over her head. Her hands are smooth, pale, the nails painted vermillion. He passes her the first cup. One, two, three. Her lips leave a red mark where they touched the ceramic surface. She smiles, faintly.

One, two, three. The second cup is emptied.

One, two, three. The third.

The shrine overlooks the sea, green and wrinkled like a bolt of glistening cloth turned up at the edges. Her cheeks are tinged the color of the petals littering the stone steps. Behind them family of the Greater East looks on, eagerness in their eyes.

Long live the Fatherland! Long live the Motherland!

A young man in white turns his eyes away, shadows lining his brows.

“I’d never wear those Devil clothes!” she would have laughed, crossing her pantyhosed legs. She lights another cigarette, watching cars and ant-like people on the street below. The smoke drifts towards the ceiling, like downtown factory fumes.

and she’s clenching the flowery fabric of her summer dress her dark bangs obscuring her eyes head hung low and he takes a silk handkerchief out of his meticulous business suit “please don’t cry now” “monster” a slant of sunlight, tinted green by the fluttering curtains and a light breeze with the scent of summer already fading alights in the room the antique wood the lattices a banner with characters written on it for “prosperity” and “long life”. A vase with flowers in it little motes of dust.

she leans against him, smelling the perfume of detergent and ironed wool and hearing his breaths, tense and fluttery in her ear.

Doesn’t she remember that night when they huddled under the stars? The oxherd and the weaver girl not yet obscured by the thick city smog.

“I don’t remember that. I don’t remember you at all.” she replies, eyes lined with dark circles. he’s another stranger.

Ivan looked ruefully at the pair of socks his late Babushka had knit for him. They were worn and frayed and patched over and he knew they wouldn’t last much longer. He frowned, remembering how he’d watch her knit them, bit by bit. The smell of old wood and wool would diffuse into the dacha’s living room.

Pushka looked over his shoulder, perched atop the couch. Her claws fiddled with the gaudy, floral-patterned couch cloth. She shifted her furry body so that her tail was in Ivan’s face.

Mmph. Ivan moved so he could see. He had an appointment in less than an hour. Perhaps he ought to put on a different pair…

He went to the kitchen cupboard, where he remembered he’d put a spare pair. He looked at the fridge. The strange white creature that had been drinking his alcohol…he hadn’t seen it in days. He hoped that Pushka hadn’t eaten it.

He headed out the door, letting the thought of the thing jumble with the threads of wool. Another day.

In the morning Alfred discovered that a strange white creature had lodged itself in the punch bowl and it looked distinctly Russian. Its doughy flesh had swelled from the alcohol, and it had fallen into a drunken stupor.

“Hello?” he said, poking it a bit. The creature did not respond.

“Konnichiwa Minna-san! I’m Honda Kiku. This is mai waifu, Wang Chun Yan!”

“We grow radishes!” exclaimed the happy waifu of Farmer Honda, holding up a long, thick, fibrous, green daikon that seemed to have legs.

“And mushrooms!” said Mr. Honda, holding up a log with big, fat king oyster shrooms on it.

“And…”

“Lettuce!” Mr. Honda exclaimed, holding up a big, juicy head of hydroponically-grown lettuce and I’ll be darned, there was this white creature nibbling on it.