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Lincoln LogsLincoln Logs, she said.
You dont like them?
She smoothed out the wrapping paper on her lap and frowned. I asked for that poetry book. You know, the one with the picture of the tree on the front?
And I had planned on getting it for her until I saw the little sticker with the price on the back.
You cant build a house out of poetry, I said.
She burst into tears, and I got the feeling it was the wrong thing to say.
The LispMarietta suspected strongly by the end of the week, but had little opportunity to pinpoint any proof. She spent every spare moment with Henry in the subtle pursuit of slipping him up, jarring the conversation into unexpected turns. Yes became a rather indifferent okay or alright, no matter how many different ways she managed to ask for affirmation. He veered around plurals and possessives as if they were road kill.
How many balloons are there? she asked.
Eight, said Henry.
Not seven? It looks to me like there are seven.
Henry stiffened but didnt back down. Huh. I thought I noted one more.
You mean you thought you spotted it? Saw it, maybe? Noticed it, even?
Henry tied the balloons to the chair and turned to face her.
I didnt note it, he said.
And that was the end of that.
Marietta wondered if she was the only one to detect
The Man in the Bowler HatIn his defense, the man at the door looked more pathetic to Lydia than a red sock on laundry day. He gripped the wet bowler hat with two clenched fists, dripping considerably on her Wipe Your Paws welcome mat. She had trouble keeping her eyes open long enough to glare at him.
Four in the morning, she said. You know, like the little hand on the four, except you have a tad trouble seeing it, what with it being dark outside?
Miss, I know it might come as a shock to you, but-
Shock? No. Surprisingly, things dont seem very shocking at you-must-be-kidding-me oclock. The milk hasnt even come yet. You have me up earlier than the milk.
The man with the bowler hat studied the dahlias hanging over the archway of the front door. They were salmon, the color of doubt. We found her, Miss. And she wants to see you. We found her and she wants to see you as soon as you can.
Lydia was already searching for her shoes
Parable of the LanternThere were once two men seeking wisdom under the tutelage of an ancient master. He brought them into a dark room. In the center were two metal lamps, each containing a flickering flame.
"Grip your lamp by the base, endure the heat, and gaze into the flame," instructed the master. "If your faith wavers and you look away, or your strength fails and you let go, even for an instant, you will be lost. You will never be wise. But gaze at the flame and, if you prevail, you will know truth."
And the master left them.
The two men gripped their lamps, and gazed into the light. Soon the lamps grew hot from the fire within, and began to burn their hands.
One man let go and stood up. "Aha!" cried the faithful man, as he continued to grip his lantern. "You have shown yourself too weak to become wise."
"Who is wise, the one who holds fire, or the one who lets go?"
The faithless man's eyes adjusted to the dark, and he saw that
Bottles and Demons“So tell us, where does this deep penchant for ‘pocket sized’ tales of horror and violence come from?” the reporter inquired, pen poised and ready.
Her interviewee, a local musician about travel cross-country on her first tour smiled candidly. Her gaze was thoughtful, even amused at her female counterpart’s question. But of course, her fans, always eager and enchanted by her eerie songs filled with pain and madness centering on ‘them’.
She looked down at the sleek electric piece lying across her lap. She thumbed over the strings absentmindedly, keeping the reporter on the edge of her seat with unhealthy anticipation. Finally the songstress looked up as if the eureka moment finally came to her.
“I think I got it,” the musician spoke in her cordial tone. “Writing songs for me is like bottling monsters. When I perform I let them out.
Then it’s a matter of whether or not they fit back in the bottle, or if more monster
Irregular VerbsI am disputing
You're having a tantrum
He/she/it is a whinging nancy
I am offended
You are too sensitive
He/she/it is passive aggressive
I am hopeful
You are delusional
He/she/it is a selfish prig
I am rugged
You are ugly
He/she/it is evidence against human evolution
I am enlightened
You are snobbish
He/she/it is a cocky pig
I am needing
You are wanting
He/she/it is trying to deprive me of my rights
I am right
You are wrong
He/she/it is unable to compromise
I am capable
You are arrogant
He/she/it is a narcissistic fool
I am knowledgeable
You are misinformed
He/she/it is sane if he/she/it agrees with me
I am culturally sensitive
You are obsequious
He/she/it is a politically correct bolshie stooge
The Wrong Side of the RailingMy palms were sweating.
Funny, right? How I’d pondered for days and years over questions that were forming the world, yet, when it all came down to the very bottom of all things, my world was reduced to my sweating palms.
But it was like that, living this life, wasn’t it?
No matter if we searched for the existence of god or the all-solving raison d’être we humans wanted to know so badly, in the end, what kept us in this world was the need to scratch our arms or something equally dull.
And now, that I finally made my decision to end the life of this human that I was, my palms were sweating as I clutched the metal in my hands.
Standing on the wrong side of the railing, my mind was limiting itself to things that should be pointless.
I closed my eyes and let the wind ruin the hairstyle I’d spent hours on. It seemed trivial, I knew that very well, but was it too much to ask that I wanted to be pretty, at least on the last day I lived on this planet? I’d ev
Soaked Stars [More Doomsday? Of course] The final day was partly cloudy with an 80% chance of rain.
The umbrella-clad crowd swarmed around me. People going about their melancholic lives.
I was the girl who wasn't holding anything. The girl who was out of place.
At first, I wondered- like any other person- why me? Why was I given these memories?
Somehow, I knew.
The crowd opened up their umbrellas in unison. People going about their uniform lives.
I was the girl who stood still. I was the girl who stood in the rain.
A girl who was once another in uniform. Just a black and white shape wandering the world.
Once the same- I'd lived. I'd loved.
That all changed. I was handed the truth. I died.
The crowd thinned. No one was there to watch as an eery smile spread across the girl's face.
Her hair, littered with human ideals, colored with forgotten d
The Other Side Of Fiction
The way I see it, I'm not the first to try to break through from fiction to reality. I certainly won't be the last. You see, there are small windows of opportunity that open up from time to time. More or less in the form of small single use doors. They appear when someone's reality is shattered, usually during a highly traumatic experience in the real world. Something so terrible or unexpected that your perception of reality falters and fiction becomes just as real as truth. In those moments, we figments of imagination can sometimes slip through, into reality. Though from what I've seen, there are a few side effects to breaking into reality. The most obvious being "mental illness" You see, as something that doesn't technically exist, fictional characters don't have physical bodies. So, we must find a "Host" of sorts. This "Host" is typically the poor sod who was used as a door. This can result in full or partial possession of the "Host's" body, though it can render one or both parties
Bubble BubbleAutumn, Year 754 of the New Age
Oakfern, The Warren
Falasnornia, Vawter (NPC)
“Vawter, give me those onion stalks."
As soon as the stag passed the pungent herbs her way, a sleek blade of water sliced them and they fell into the small bubbling crater in the floor. Their scent rose with the steam and Falasnornia wrinkled her nose as she turned to the patient receiving them.
Ah the joys of rut; making poultices for those insane enough to throw themselves at death's door for a doe's hind quarters. Fala suspected she would never understand a stag's mad desire for the fairer sex, though fair her gender was.
She checked the steaming concoction of melting honey and onion juices before gently lulling a glob of it toward the injured stag. His shoulder was sliced open, and although not at all deep; infection could set in quickly without a poultice and a wrapping to keep it clean. Infections sprung up from much less and in shorter time frames.
Vienna Excerpt: The First CigaretteThe First Cigarette
“There was a time when humanity consisted of a large group of over-evolved apes, wallowing in misery, tilling the rotting earth, and slaving over their fruitless bounties. We worked as slaves to fate, slaves to God, and we were never intended to stray from this. God said we weren’t ready. He destroyed us, our efforts, going as far back as the first humans who laid the bricks of the Tower of Babel, the utopia that would be the gate unto the heavens. But God said no. He manipulated us, turned us against one another. And as a result, we fell to each other. We fell to the imperfection of humankind. We fell to ignorance.”
“But it wasn’t hopeless. The ancient Greeks built devices eons ahead of what they were supposed to, the groundwork for machines that could create electricity by using water and steam, the fluid of life. So James Watt revisited this idea and said, ‘I want to create electricity!’ So he created the steam engine. Th
Why Asami Sato is One of the Best Characters (imo)Asami Sato.
Everyone hated her the first time they saw her. And even all throughout Book 1, the hatred only got worse. In Book 2, she was liked more, but Book 2 itself was hated so much, some people gave up on Korra entirely. And now, in Book 3, she's loved.
And why wouldn't she be?
In my personal opinion, Asami Sato is one of the best characters in Legend of Korra. Why?
How about we start with her personality? She's mostly feminine, but not a girly-girl. She's kickass, but not a tomboy. She's a sweetheart, and a tiny bit of a snarker. She has one of the most unique personalities I've seen in a cartoon girl, especially a teenage cartoon girl. How many of them are sweet and feminine yet can handle her own, without any superpowers (bending)? She's a sweetheart, a badass, and absolutely lovable. Of course, she has flaws, like holding grudges easily, but she's more lovable this way, since she's not a Mary-Sue.
How about her going through so much crap, both in and out of canon? She endures
Made in HollandI had never heard of a music box before she let me hold it. She said it felt too cliché to be real, and thats how she knew that there wasnt any such thing. But I could feel its weight in my hands and hear the tinny tune of its labor, and I started to think that maybe she was wrong.
She said you couldnt trust a musician, and thats all it was. A tiny, plastic, fake of a musician. She even said the sticker on the back had lied, and that it probably wasnt Made in Holland. Probably not any of the other European tourist countries, she said.
When it got so cold that we couldnt feel our fingertips and the sky hurt to look at, I played the music box and pretended I was Made in Holland too.
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More