Moving fan fiction from my personal journal to the Fishbones community.
Fishbones (c) Jisuk Cho
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Ferris knew that something was wrong the minute he spotted Demos.

The emaciated Italian was cradling a cup of steaming espresso and gazing vacantly out the window. Maria's Diner was a lively establishment. Waitresses bustled between the tables and glassware clinked as a guest spontaneously announced a toast. However, Demos remained oblivious to the laughter around him. He appeared to be completely absorbed in thought. Dark shadows had developed under his eyes, which suggested a combination of worldliness and weariness that was uncommon among men his age. The Giorgetti family had experienced a drastic shift in power over the last four years. Demos accepted his ever-growing responsibilities without complaint. He had been groomed for this line of work from the time he was a child. It was in his blood; he was born to kill.

Ferris silently understood his best friend's struggles. Demos and Ferris had experienced the joys, heartbreaks, and fears of adolescence together. They had narrowly escaped death several times during their teenage years. Demos had irrevocably changed his Jewish friend's life, forever. The two planned to either grow old or die young together.

Ferris passed several faux granite tables before sliding into a red, patent leather booth at the back of the diner. Demos acknowledged him with a lifeless smile. His untouched espresso had grown cold. Ferris's dark eyebrows involuntarily quirked upward. He wasn't overly concerned by his friend's baggy eyes. The dark circles had gradually become a permanent feature against Demos's ghostly white skin. No, it was something entirely different that alarmed him. It was a red flag that screamed “bad news” louder than a blaring ambulance siren.

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Moving fan fiction from my personal journal to the Fishbones community.
A light fan fiction inspired by Jisuk Cho's novel, Fishbones. 
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Ferris involuntarily crinkled his nose as black smoke drifted from the kitchen. It was completely unlike the rich, bitter-sweet aroma from Demos's hand-rolled cigarettes. No, this was the breath of an angry fire dragon. Ferris eyed the rickety metal fire escape. He observed Demos from the corner of his eye. The young Italian mobster appeared to be completely at ease with the situation.

A tall, lean figure emerged from the kitchen doorway. The ends of his bleached hair were singed. He carried a shallow baking pan with a blackened oven mitt. A kitschy teapot, decorated with cats and British flags, was in his other hand.

“My cooking has improved! I made some toast to go with your tea this time.” beamed Seamus. After a brief coughing fit, he continued. “Toaster's broken, but I'd say that the oven got the job done. They came out nice and crispy,” bragged the British teenager.

“More like burned to a crisp,” muttered Ferris under his breath.

Seamus acted oblivious to his friend's sour remark. He found Ferris's disgruntled personality to be somewhat endearing. “Marmalade and cups are already on the table. I've got your usual Earl Grey, Fer, but mum drank the last of the Darjeeling this morning. Sorry, Demos. What other teas do you fancy?”

The pale Italian shifted his focus from the outdated floral curtains to his friend. “I'll just have whatever Ferris is having, thanks.” Demos returned his attention to the hideous parlour décor. He was tempted to call Nicky, drop by the warehouse, and deliver a new set of “free” furnishings to Ms. Shuttleworth. This home was obviously in need of a complete makeover. Ferris needed one, too. However, Demos suspected that it would be easier to re-style the Astons' parlour than Ferris's wardrobe.

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Moving my old fan fictions from my personal journal to the Fishbones community.
Characters (c) Jisuk Cho
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Ferris frowned at the brass key that was jammed in mail box #214. It wasn't the first time that his key had gotten stuck; the narrow tin mail box could be very temperamental at times. With a loud sigh, Ferris dropped his messenger bag onto the worn carpet. He grabbed the stubborn key with both hands and yanked hard. It flew out of the hole with a loud pop.

What a worthless piece of shit.

The landlady had insisted that the key was perfectly functional, but Ferris didn't have the patience for another attempt. He discretely scanned the shabby apartment lobby. The entryway was vacant and the arrows above the two steel elevators were stationary. A security camera was stationed beneath a revolving ceiling fan. The genius who installed the security system for Magnolia Apartments failed to recognize that there were eight blind spots in his design. The camera's field of view didn't include the stretch between mailboxes 100 and 500. Ferris resisted the urge to roll his eyes. What was the point of installing such an incompetent system? It was likely that the landlady begrudgingly had the work done to comply with state regulations. She obviously went with the cheapest bid.

Ferris rummaged through his coat pocket until his fingertips made contact with a tiny bobby pin. He withdrew the object and carefully fed it into the mail box. It was a trick that Demos had taught him. Ferris could pick any lock in the mail room, but it was vital that the other tenants remain oblivious to his skills. The lock opened with little resistance. He smirked. Sometimes it was useful to have connections with criminals.

A credit card statement, two ads, and the newest issue of SCIENCE magazine were shoved in the narrow box. His eyes instantly brightened when he saw the outline of an adult T. Rex on the glossy cover. The headline read: "Sue Revolutionizes Paleontology." Ferris briefly wondered who Sue was before stuffing the magazine into his messenger bag. The young Jewish man shut the door and approached a tin garbage bin between the two elevators. It was filled to the brim with fast food wrappings, crumpled newspapers, plastic water bottles, and un-crushed soda cans. Ferris inwardly winced at the unrecycled materials. The landlady was too lazy to order a recycling bin for the lobby.

Ferris slipped the junk advertisements onto the foul-smelling heap. One pamphlet slid down to reveal a small red envelope. It had been wedged between the two advertisements in the narrow mail box. The crimson envelope was addressed to "Mr. Levinstein." The sender did not leave a name or return address.
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Fishbones (c) Jisuk Cho
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A handful of students milled around the east wing of Saint Basil's Private Academy. The echo of slamming lockers reverberated in the narrow tiled corridor. Books were shoved haphazardly into backpacks as quick goodbyes were exchanged. Most of the underclassmen had gone home early to study for finals, APs, and SAT exams. However, two seniors remained rooted in the hallway. The pair appeared oblivious to the students around them.

"It's your fault that you're in this mess. Stop being a lazy ass!"

Demos ignored his friend and casually flipped through a dog-eared, water-stained, navy blue tome. It easily weighed over 4.5 pounds. His thumb stopped roughly midway through the book. "I think that the final covers chapters one through sixteen. Or was it nineteen? Oh well, whatever. I already studied chapters one and two, so I only need cheat sheets for fourteen chapters!" The slender Italian retrieved six sheets of lined, loose-leaf paper from his designer briefcase and slid them into the open textbook. He wore his most charming smile. A trio of girls near the doorway noticed Demos and swooned. However, Ferris wasn't buying it. The Jewish nerd glared at his best friend like a hawk. He closed his eyes, adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose, and ground his teeth. Invisible steam spouted from his ears.

"Fourteen chapters!? You expect me to learn a fucking year's worth of Japanese in four days? What the hell are you thinking!?" Ferris struggled to regain his composure. He sensed an incoming migraine; it was a shame that the aspirin bottle in his briefcase was empty. Seven AP classes and involvement with the mob would give anybody a headache. Sometimes Ferris wondered if he was becoming addicted to painkillers. He leaned his head against a locker and groaned.( Read more...Collapse )

Strobe lights danced across the Radio City Music Hall. The venue was packed; over two thousand fans were yelling, screaming, and crying as the curtain opened. A pyrotechnics display skyrocketed from center stage. The blinding sparks sent the crowd into a roaring frenzy. Seamus rose, cupped both hands around his mouth, and shouted, "HAVE ME BILLY!". Ferris dropped his face into his palm. He wished that he could be anywhere but here.

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Semi-crack fiction for Fishbones, (c) Jisuk Cho
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What's in a Name?


When Demos and his four-eyed skivvy had left the shooting range, Brian O'Brien tightened his fist until the veins on the back of his hand threatened to explode. The Irishman grabbed his opponent's neatly punctured target and shredded it from head to toe. That girly little wop would pay. Brian's weathered face burned redder than a branding iron. He slammed his fist through a thin wooden wall that separated his station from the next. A dark grin flickered over his features. Splintering the wood had felt like cracking a skull. Several regulars lowered their guns and looked curiously in his direction.

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Fishbones (c) Jisuk Cho
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Little Italy was usually bustling with activity, but tonight, the streets were vacant. Powdery snow dusted the large gold letters above the restaurant's grand entrance. The crimson curtains were drawn, and the crystal chandeliers had been extinguished. A small sign was propped against an elegant French window. The neat calligraphy was illuminated by an antique street lamp. "CLOSED."

Ice filled the cracks between the empty stretches of sidewalk. Snow fell silently around the store fronts. The scene was tranquil yet melancholic. Gino lowered the brim of his fedora and exhaled a puff of warm, moist air. His breath hung in the atmosphere for a moment before disappearing like smoke from a quenched birthday candle. The old man smiled whimsically as he slipped past the restaurant's polished facade to the back entrance. Keys clanked against a series of locks until the heavy bolted door reluctantly creaked open. He reached into the darkness and flipped a switch; the kitchen was instantly flooded with incandescent light. The clock read 5:03 AM.

Gino occasionally cooked at Ristorante Giorgetti, but such occasions had become increasingly rare. He had not donned the executive chef's hat for months. The old man hung his fedora on an iron hook beside the door. He traded his fur overcoat for a double-breasted jacket and matching white apron. The heavy white fabric had been crisply starched and ironed by the compound's housekeeping staff.

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75 icons
- 20 Watchmen
- 19 Little Nemo
- 10 The Mentalist
- 10 Eureka Seven
- 10 Fishbones
- 6 Lost



( M O R E )

There's only one chapter left to fishbones.
What do you think will happen in it?

Just a reminder: One week (and a day) until the icon/art contest closes.