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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.
The Best Spitter in World HistoryOnce upon a time, there was a young boy named Jimbo who always dreamed of becoming the world's best Spitter. He trained every day for 603949 hours in order to beat his rival, The Goopy Menace. The day of the big competition arrived, and Jimbo came armed with a sheet and his unstoppable determination. They were pitted against each other in a battle of wits, and Jimbo emerged as the sniff victor! His achievement is celebrated every Chanukah.
Casey's InspirationA young woman named Casey loved making art, and practiced Sketching all day long to become the very best in all her town. But one day, she was completely stumped. She looked around her room, full of art pieces featuring mystical Books, sci-fi landscapes of a futuristic New York, and a portrait of Josh Hutcherson that looked so real, you could start a conversation with it. But nothing inspired her. Had she really created everything there was to create? Depressed, she looked out her window, and made a wish on a nearby Chocolate for inspiration to return to her. The next morning, she sprung out of bed, and used her skill in Sketching to create the most beautiful deviation depicting cellphones flopping anyone had ever seen. That night, she shouted out the window, "Thanks, Chocolate!"
MercyOh sweet God how the grassland
ignites in moonlight tonight
I must thank you for creating
her tangled fingers' slow pace
through the handsome rain Her
trochaic kinesthesia to rhythms
in Stravinsky's The Rite of
Spring Is this how you meant
for us to love you Yahweh
Tumbling clumsily down hills
of sheets into perpetually
immutable silence I could love
you like that I think I've been
practicing on this Savanna
for days and months Lost in
her crystal canvas Rolling crests
and troughs And when she touches
me Oh fair Lord I'm dragged into
your city past Gethsemane's
pulsing green and gold
Please hold us together
under this luminous stretch
Oh Father We are live
unclothed Our reflections awash
with the skin of your sun
Life is but a DreamWe are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded bo
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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