Nothing But Simple Pleasures by Hummerhouse, literature
Literature
Nothing But Simple Pleasures
The door to April’s apartment stood partially open and music could be heard streaming from within. Raph held a finger to his lips, indicating that his brothers should remain quiet. All four approached on tippy-toes and then stopped when Raph lifted a hand. He looked back at his brothers and nodded, receiving a nod from each of them in return. Bolting forward, Raph slammed the door open, cracking the wall next to it. His brothers rushed into the apartment behind him, weapons drawn. April stood next to her couch, in the midst of placing drinks into the cooler that was sitting there. She straightened up and stared at her friends before placing her hands on her hips. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “We got your call and thought you needed to be rescued,” Raph said. “The call where I told you to wear your swim trunks and meet me here for a day of fun?” April asked, brows lifted. Don cleared his throat and lifted the bottom edges of his shorts. “These are not
Tag It “Mikey! Mikey! Damn it, where the hell are ya?” Raphael jogged across train tracks, periodically pausing to look beneath the train cars that were parked in long lines at the Oak Point Yard in South Bronx. He and his brother had managed to elude a couple of railroad police, but had gotten separated. Keeping his voice low, Raph continued to call out to his brother in a loud whisper. Michelangelo hadn’t told him why he wanted to go to the freight railroad yard, but he’d definitely had a reason. When Raph had tried to insist on knowing that reason, Mikey had simply awarded him with his most winning smile and announced that it was a secret. Not for the first time in his life, Raph asked himself why he went along on these mystery adventures with his younger brother. They invariably got into weird or dangerous situations that could easily have been avoided. Raph would be the first to say he liked a good fight, but that was when he was going up against bad guys, not police who were
Warm Color Trilogy part 2 by Hummerhouse, literature
Literature
Warm Color Trilogy part 2
“Ha! Told you I knew where they were hanging out,” Michelangelo said, nudging his brother with an elbow. “Shhh,” Raphael hissed. “Loudmouth. How are ya’ even a ninja?” Mikey snorted. “You’re one to talk. You’re not that quiet either, you just wade in fists swinging.” A corner of Raph’s mouth lifted. “It gets the job done, doesn’t it?” The pair were atop a building in a rundown part of the city. Peering through a skylight, they watched as a group of about twenty Purple Dragon gang members partied. Music was blaring, drinks flowing, and smoke from more than just cigarettes fogged up the air. All around the room lay the stolen merchandise from break-ins at three different pawnshops. Though the turtles hadn’t been in time to stop the robberies, when Mikey told Raph he knew where they’d gone afterwards, the older turtle had insisted he prove it. Raph started to open one of the panels in the skylight, but Mikey caught his arm. “Wait, I’ve got a better idea.” “Better than giving a
Raphael stared at the city through his bedroom window, his thoughts caught somewhere between disbelief and hopefulness. He and his brothers were together again. They had even agreed to move in with Raph, to once more become a family. There was a knock at his bedroom door and Raph said, “Enter”. He was so caught up in his musings that he didn’t wonder at the fact that someone had entered his apartment and made it all the way to his bedroom. Raph heard absolutely nothing following his invitation and thought that whoever it was wanted him to come and open the door. He glanced back in irritation and saw Leonardo standing inside the room, his arms at his sides as he patiently waited. “Still as silent as ever,” Raph said with a touch of gruffness. “A lifelong habit,” Leo replied. The silence that followed that exchange was awkward. The few times they had been alone together had been the same; like an invisible shield was between them. There were many things they needed to say to each
Funding. Money. Resources.
That’s what it always came down to. For almost two hundred years, John Bishop had fought as hard for the monetary means to keep his primary mission afloat as he did in staving off the looming threat of an alien invasion.
He silently cursed the hours spent in budgetary meetings, in secret finance committee meetings, in glad-handing politicians and kowtowing to whichever President sat in the oval office.
Bishop had lost count of how many tongue-lashings he had endured from people he considered his inferiors, merely because those men and women controlled the p