NaNoWriMo 2012 - TAS Chapter 3HUNTER
I have no idea what I'm doing, I really don't. I'm in an insane asylum; at least I'm almost sure of that one lingering thing. I wake up in clothes I definitely wasn't in before. A gray tank top, black pants, and high, black, laced up, sturdy boots. There are these dark gloves on my hands, stretchy with a grip on the palm and holes for my fingers.
It's not like I feel as if these things are ugly, I just feel as if well I guess I just find it strange that I'm wearing these clothes in a crazy person refuge.
I'm pretty sure insane asylums aren't like this. I guess I could be wrong.
No one is near me. I'm alone. And I have no idea what is going on everything is blinding white, I have to wonder why I'm really in this place and where the place even is. Imagine running away, getting kidnapped, and being planted in some nut house. Not sure how that all goes together, but somehow it does and I can't stop wondering why.
I swing my legs over the mattress, rubbing my brig
NaNoWriMo 2012 - TAS Chapter 2JAXITH
"He hasn't talked much since he got back."
"Yeah that's because he's been too drunk to form sentences."
"Yeah but what happened to Mattie?"
"He hasn't told anyone."
This is the conversation I can make out as I sit against the wall, hanging onto a bottle of some kind of alcohol that's half empty. My head hangs low, my mind is fuzzy, which I'm happy about. It's better to think nothing rather than to think about reality.
"Do you think we should try talking to him?"
"Nah, he's a torturer. We shouldn't piss him off."
"But he's always so relaxed. I've never seen him mad."
"Yeah well I've never seen him drunk, but now he is. Whatever he saw out there must have been pretty terrifying."
"Yeah. You think they'll send him to a center? He's completely lost it."
"No, they won't send him to a center. But they'll knock some sense into him. Whether it's talk or torture. They'll figure a way out. Now that Mattie's gone, he's the best we got."
"I guess so."
And then the v
NaNoWriMo 2012 - TAS Chapter 1HUNTER
People are loud idiots; I wish they'd all just shut up and move on with their lives.
I come to this conclusion as I sit in class, staring at the front of the room blankly. My teacher, Ms. Lively (who isn't lively at all) is teaching us about something I like to call hell. Writing.
You put a comma here, a period there, add in a few capitals and semicolons and you're good to go! I guess. I can do with science, I can do with math, but reading and writing, well you might as well kill me.
Plus, my teacher sucks. The kids in my class suck. It smells like sewage in that classroom, which sucks.
It just all sucks.
When the bell rings for lunch, I don't go into the cafeteria. I stay in the classroom. Ms. Lively leaves and I'm the only one left, flicking a piece of paper dully across my desk. Then, someone walks in the room, and the day couldn't get worse.
The person I used to call my best friend, Tabby she just won't go away. I know this from experience. She thinks tha
She's Gone He just sat there.
And he waited.
One, two, three, four, and then five days went by, and he hardly moved. Every day I took a walk, every day I saw him, and every day he sat on an old crooked wooden bench, a bottle of booze in hand and a gloomy expression crossed his face.
The bench sat across my house, and most of the time when I peered out the blinds of my windows he was still there. Every once in a while he'd leave, which told me he was actually alive, but for the most part, he stayed planted on that unstable bench, and I'm pretty sure that the bottle of booze he held didn't actually have any booze in it.
Every time I looked at him, my mind was plagued with the question:
Who are you?
For some reason, I felt drawn to talk to him he was interesting. Tan, tall, slim yet muscular with a moderate amount of freckles, he had light brown hair that was slightly messy and fell over his forehead. He even had facial hair, well scruff, he obviously hadn't shaved in days, an
OC Interview - JaxithMe: Hi everyone! Ali here on your favorite show, 'OC Interview'! Today I have with me Mr. Allen from the new novel, 'The Assassin's Selection'. So, how are you, Mr. Allen?
Jaxith: Fine, thanks love. If you want you can call me Jaxith. I mean Mr. Allen works I guess but it makes me sound old.
Me: Well you're certainly not old, so Jaxith it is! Alright, Jaxith, let's jump right into the interview. How old are you?
Jaxith: *turns head as if looking for something* Are we on TV or something?
Me: *smiles* No, no, no. You're just on an assignment for my class. Anyways, back to the question age please?
Jaxith: Well I'll be twenty in November, actually. I'm not really looking forward to it, but I guess you can't stop time, can you?
Me: *shrug* I suppose not. But for all the people out there who can't see you why don't you share with them your appearance?
Jaxith: Are you sure we're not on TV? I just have this feeling
Me: No, no one is watching you. They may be reading you, but
Going and GoneWhat's going on...? Mira thought with her brows furrowed, holding onto a hot cup of something unidentified. The substance inside of the mug was a strange sparkly liquid, which she didn't trust What if it turned her into some kind of weird creature? Something much like the creatures sitting in front of her.
Fahron, the so-called Angel. He didn't really look like he fell from heaven sad blue eyes, dark unbelievably messy hair, and a black, bland, outfit. Aren't angels supposed to be pale, with white hair and white wings? Aren't they supposed to beautiful ? God's creation, right?
Mira wasn't sure where God came into any of this. Nothing was right.
Then there was Fahron's friend Mira had no words for him. His name was Ver and he was even stranger than the angel. He had hair all over his small body, yellow hair not blonde hair. Yellow. It was fur, more of, and his clothes were layers and layers of baggy pants and shirts. Where Mira
What is Writing?Writing.
What is writing? To be perfectly honest here, I'm pretty sure there isn't, and never will be, a correct definition for this word. For some, writing is breathtaking and stupendous, for others it can be horrifying, blood curdling, well, at least to an extent. For me? I like to think of it as expression, as you, as me, as a manipulation as everything.
'Why?' You probably ask inquisitively, with a fair amount of confusion on your face.
Well child, I'll tell you why.
Writing it's my passion. No doubt about it. If I'm sorrowful, I write. If I'm furious, I write. And yes, you guessed it. If I'm as jubilant as a child licking an ice cream cone I write. Those feelings, sorrow, furiousness, jubilance, they all show through my writing. You can tell by the words I use, the things I force my character to do, the scenes I create. In fact, I find it quite funny when I look at all the characters I've ever made. Every single character is some type of variation of me. Everythi
Moist.For deviantART's 12th birthday, the staff decided to throw a moist surprise party for Fella. They gathered at Fella's favorite restaurant, The Fancy Albino Monkey, with presents in hand. Llama brought Fella to the door and once they stepped in, all of the staff screamed, "Crickets!" Fella was so shocked that he instantly kissed me. He opened his presents to find that Llama had given him 12 farts. He was amazed! He would never forget that night.