|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
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
I See ThingsI see them walking. I always see them. Maybe it’s because they’re always there. Maybe other people are too busy doing other things to notice that I’m simply, looking outwards. Simply observing the eyes of owls in sharp twig nests. I once saw people being taken into the arms of younger bones under sunken sheets. I saw a painting and stared at it for an hour or so. And they told me that other people needed to see. But I knew nobody else would relish the image as I would so I refused. I wasn’t always like this. Only recently did I start seeing a lot of things. Kept myself out of conversations to avoid arguments. I merely observed them. Kept my mouth tied, my eyes wide. Starting talking in less and less sentences until it all just, stopped. But my eyes, oh never did they stop, never blink for a dark tired world around them. I’ve seen so many things; I’ve forgotten most of them over the years. Time carried memories into darker spots where I couldn’t
What We Thought Was World PeaceI have spent so many years making my way to the top of the legendary mountain to have my one wish granted, world peace. There are so many people in this world that deserve better, and we should all be equal.
I reach the mountain and was greeted by an old man, “What brings you to my mountain?”
“I would like to make my wish. It is just like the legends foretold; I have spent a year of my life climbing up the throat of the world, and now…and now my dream will come true…”
“Now, you should know that the wish you make is final and can’t be reversed. Be careful what you wish for.” The old man told his words with great respect to me.
“Th-the time has come.” I was getting nervous, but at least I knew that there was no wrong way this wish could go.
“Make your wish, young one.”
I clapped my hands together and bowed, “I wish for world peace.” My words were final. And I was proud.
He gave a long sigh an
Old man? "Old man?"
"Could you please tell me of Them? Of your favorite project?"
"Heh. Yes, I suppose I could tell you of them. But you heard this story many times.
Don't you get bored by it?"
The one referred to as Old man is smiling the smile reserved for the quirks of the
young "Alright, alright, settle down." He says "Well, as you know, first I-"
"I don't want to be rude." Said the young one "But can tell me about how it started with Them?"
"Hmph. Oh, alright." Says the Old man with only mild irritation in his voice."Well, at first it was just a hobby, you know?
Something to pass the time. But, as I kept them for longer and longer my interest in them grew: A sociable species is
nothing new, and neither is adapting to your surroundings." The Old man's face spread with a slow grin that was
barely insane "But a species that adapted it's surrounding to itself, not the othe
Winter's Cold TouchI walk to the front door of my house; the cold wind gives me shivers. I grab the golden nob and crank it open. A gust of warm air hits my face, prickling away my goose bumps. When I enter, I strip of my heavy coat and boots to keep the house from my wet clothing. My feet touch the tile and sends jolts up my spine due to its icy resemblance. I walk to the kitchen and warm some water in the microwave to make hot chocolate. I wait as the whirring of the heater turns on, warming the house. The water is done; I drop spoons of starchy powder into the smooth hot wavering water. The exes floating powder entered my nose; I take in the scent of sweet chocolate, but soon close the lid. The couch at the end of the room is beckoning me. As I drift to where it sit, I pass the glass window and watch the meek raindrops beat against the glass. Slowly, I lower myself onto the couch and cuddle with the cushions, which were lightly sprinkled with a cold that soon dissolves by my touch. As the house fell s
What Makes a Fish a Fish?(Written by Anya Marasaka during a spell of boredom)
What makes a fish a fish?
There are many different types of fish, of all shapes and sizes. But they are all, undoubtedly, fish.
The main defining characteristic of a fish is that it lives in the water, but is that enough to go by?
There are birds that cannot fly, and mammals that lay eggs. And there are creatures which dwell in the water but are not fish.
If a fish were to dwell on land and breathe air like we do, would it still be able to classify itself as a fish? If so, then why?
Where can the border between "fish" and "not fish" be found?
There are so many categories in the world that we take for granted, but that are impossible to explain simply without contradiction.
If, tomorrow, I were to meet a creature that naturally walked on legs and did not inject venom nor constrict, yet still called itself a snake...
...how willing would I be to believe it?
El humano y el gato. El gato y el humano. El reloj de pared marcaba las tres de la madrugada. Su monótono tick-tack no le estaba ayudando a dormirse y, a cada movimiento del sonoro segundero, sus nervios crecían más y más, incitados por el imparable correteo del tiempo. Sin poder soportarlo más, Naviel se levantó de la cama con la torpeza de quien ha estado bebiendo. En el escaso espacio hasta llegar a la puerta pudo tropezarse con una lata de cerveza vacía y con algún cojín al que anteriormente le había declarado la guerra, cuando su enfado y el efecto del alcohol todavía eran recientes.
Desarreglado y con bolsas bajo los ojos, el joven salió de su desastrosa habitación para dirigirse al jardín interior de su casa -o, mejor dicho, de la casa que compartía con sus tres compañeros de banda-. Subió las escaleras que se dirigían a la terraza y, una vez allí, saltó un pequeño muro. Así, pudo sen
Escala de coloresTodo parece tan poco interesante, visto desde aquí. Desde mis ojos. Vengo de un mundo lleno de destellos en la oscuridad e historias que contar, y ahora me encuentro esto.
Una exclamación me llama torpemente, como si hacerle caso fuera lo más sensato. Eso es lo que hace la gente. Pero yo miro y miro... y no veo nada. Es todo gris. Impersonal. Frío. Distante. Hasta las luces blancas de la entrada me parecen pintadas en la pared, de imitación, como para dar el pego.
Entro y me encuentro lo que ya conozco. Pasillos, focos reflejados en el suelo, puertas, escaparates, muñecos que parecen personas y personas que parecen muñecos. Todavía no sé distinguirlos muy bien. No les pongo cara. Los veo todos iguales... Grises. Negros. Blancos. Qué más da.
Todo es tan igual, tan repetitivo que me pierdo aunque siga todo recto. Todo distrae, todo engaña y todo grita con todas sus fuerzas para llamar la atención.
Be your own life's MichelangeloBe your own life's Michelangelo
I just had 16 years old, and I just lost two of the poeple I cared the most about : My grandparents. It's the first time that I loose someone I old dear... I don't really know how to react, I always had a tendency to look in the past and grief... This didn't help this habit of mine at all... Once again, I though about what I could have said, or done. What I did, and said, and what I couln't now. Me, that was always kind of the phylosopher, I should have use that time with them, to ask, talk about, what they saw life as... I could have, I should have... I can't anymore, and it hurt me, that I have been so naive to think I could have the time later.
I was always the kind to let myself floating in the river of life, and then, complain about what life had taken me...
It's some month that I use this to shot poeple out...
One day, when I was walking in the city center, I saw a young girl in a street, she seemed to be painting on a wall. Intrigued, I began
One Thousand ClocksI sat in my old desk chair behind the counter, staring at the people walking past the storefront and completely ignoring me. I leaned back and the chair creaked loudly, I grumbled in reply.
“Should get that fixed...” I mumbled under my breath. What would be the point of getting it fixed, though? Why not just buy another chair? I stood up and the chair creaked again. I kicked at it, but it just slid across the floor on it’s wheels a short distance, before hitting the wall.
Slowly walking out from behind the counter, I wandered around my small clock-shop, tweaking hands and tapping glass faces. Some clocks weren’t ticking anymore, in fact there was a large wall in the back of the store filled with clocks that were unusable. The batteries hadn’t run out, they were just not functioning. I couldn’t bear to get rid of them, though. Each clock told some kind of story, and each one was special. A cough rattled my frail body and it t
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.
Keep in Touch!
A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More