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Do you believe that art can fundamentally change your sense of who you are?

Vote! (69,750 votes) 891 comments
56,084 Deviants Online
I've been a bit slack on these, sorry! Expect the next few over the next week or so.

Also, for those who don't yet know - I have a poll up about FFM. If you have completed FFM and done all the challenges, please make sure you leave a comment (with your favourite challenge piece by you) on the poll so I can include you in my challenge feature! Feel free to share the poll with others who you know/suspect have completed the challenges, too.

And now, the features!
CloneClones are so underrated. Nestled deep inside where no one can touch me, I sit back, relax, and flick at the controller in my hands. Get up, Clone. Take a shower. Pull on a shirt and jeans. Go to the breakfast table. Slide some eggs onto your plate. Act natural, careful, careful—oh! Down go the eggs on the placemat. The yolks break and run. Good going, Clone. Excellent. Now the parental units are alerted to your presence. No point activating the invisibility shield now.
Far away from where I watch, I poke at the controller buttons in irritation, trying to see if I can undo Clone’s actions. True, his graphics are topnotch, almost an exact likeness to my own features and mannerisms, but sometimes he likes to defy my commands. I’m the player, damn it. He’s just the avatar. Undo, undo, come on ... nope, cannot be undone.
“That’s too bad, dear,” the mother character clucks. “Have some hotdogs?” She slides two on Clone’s plate. The
  Just Eat ItThe cruelest irony of working as a server in a restaurant was not lost on Kristy -- starving at the end of the night, surrounded by food, no time to eat.  She was used to it.  Didn’t mean she liked it.  Her aunt Linda didn’t understand how she could go so long without eating.
She crawled home after a double, a pocket full of cash but a belly as empty has the heads of the customers she served.  All she wanted was some comfort and to not hear anything about it when she walked in the door.  All the lights were off in the apartment.  Linda’s door was closed.
Kristy went to her room, took off her work clothes and put on her yoga pants and tank top.  The kitchen was clean and waiting for her.  She went to the cabinets in search of something just for herself, nothing to worth getting into a fork-fight over.  The night’s tilapia special was split six ways with her hyena-hungry co-workers.
Extra chunky peanut butter with tripl
  FFM20: What Did You Say Your Name Was?Hiring a new assistant was a big deal. The Paranormal Researchers and Investigators Society was so broke, it didn't spring for new staff unless we were stretched so thin you could almost see through us. I should have known it would go wrong.
The first was was a well dressed man who kept spraying himself with Axe body spray.
“You don't really want me to carry anything, do you? Because I'm more a reporter than an assistant. Like, you need someone to make this look legit, some one pretty. I was voted hottest in my class four years in a row,” he said. Somehow, I doubted that. Maybe it was because he looked like the offspring of a bulldog and a donkey
The second was an ordinary looking woman in a sharp suit. She got my hopes up until she opened her mouth.
“I know you said this was an assistant position,” she said, “But I'm on the fast track for management. In two years I will be running this place. We'll just skip all the entry level work and you'll start train

That's the Third One This Week!    “Mirror, mirror on the wall...”
    There was a loud crash and a shower of fairy dust. The face in the mirror flickered briefly, a look of horror upon it, before being replaced by solid blue. The message, “Unhandled exception. Contact your Fairy Godmother or technical support group for further assistance,” appeared in the extreme top left corner.
    “Oh, bloody Hell!” snapped Medusa, stamping her foot. “Now how am I supposed to find out who’s the fairest of them all?”
  The Bird Lady FFM20I’ve lived in NYC for over two years, and for so many people living there, it’s an awfully lonely place to be. Everyone is very focused on themselves, no one makes eye contact in the streets, and even the cabs ignore you. My job is the only thing that keeps me here. I make so much money, it would be stupid to move back home and work at my dad’s store for only a fraction of what I earn. That, and I have an old lady to take care of.
She’s one of those bird ladies in the park. She’s a sweet old thing, and it would kill me to leave her alone. It would probably kill her too.
We became friends because I was sitting alone in the park one afternoon, watching the clouds and daydreaming. She jumped out of nowhere and said, “Feed the birds?” I nearly fell off my park bench, I was so surprised.
“Sure, sure,” I said, pressing a quarter into her wrinkled hand. Gums showing, she smiled. She handed me a paper bag of breadcrumbs and sat next to me.
  Medusa in Therapy“I wouldn’t say my childhood was bad,” Medusa started as she took a seat on the push red couch. “My mother always gave me everything I needed. And if I wanted it, she would move heaven and earth to get it for me. And being a gorgon, she could. One little stare from her and no one could refuse her. No, my mother truly loved me more than anything else in the world.”
She turned over on the couch so she was resting on her belly and drape her arms over the sides. “My father? He was never in the picture. My mom said he was just too cold of a man with a heart made of stone. He’d never have been a good father, so I don’t really miss him in anyway.
“To be honest, doc, it’s the lack of friends that really bothered me. Evey time I’d go out, track down a group of kids having fun, and try to join in their games, they’d get all stiff and not talk to me.” Several of the snakes that made up her hair twisted around and rubbed

The HuntThe naked boys and girls trounced through the valley bushland, grazing as they went. Their feet were toughened from having never worn shoes; their skins were caked in mud. None were older than eight. There was a clear hierarchy, the older leading the younger. Here and there, a girl led a toddler by the hand, sharing whatever berries she picked with it. Boys are more inclined to play-fight, but these wrestling matches rarely get out of hand. A few babbled, but no one said any words. They did not know how. Laughter and tears was the only language they spoke, a crude but pure form of communication.
None flinched when they heard the sound of thunder in the distance, but they instinctively shifted the direction of their grazing, back toward the caves in which they took shelter. As the thundering grew louder, a few began to whimper, growing uneasy. None were old enough to remember the last culling. However, the sight of horses, with men and women atop, with a hundred hooves pounding the eart
  Forest Fires and RosesShe only takes off her pink rubber gloves after forest fires. Her billowy dress is stitched with a hundred magazine cut-outs of flowers dipped into nail varnish. She crouches on the dirt, stroking the soil until wild greenery explodes from her touch. Pine trees spin high into the sky while baobabs lick the earth with fat roots. She runs her fingers over the knobby trunks, leaving a trail of vines heavy with the most exotic of blooms.
I scuff the toes of my boots against one of the newborn trees and watch her as she makes the forest breathe life again. She is standing back and admiring her work when I blurt out, “Miss, may I call you?”
She’s startled, as if I’ve woken her rudely from a wonderful dream. Her eyes search my reddening face. “Of course,” she finally says. “You alert me to an incident, and I come to do my job. That’s how it’s always been.”
I pull off my baseball cap and beat it against my jeans. “I mean . . . y
  Day #21 FFM 2014Cameron Jacobs was nineteen when he jumped.
He was wearing orange Oasis shoes and grey jeans, his hair was gelled, and his backpack had just been dumped in an empty university garbage disposal. At the time, Cameron hadn't known whether it was really him who threw it there. He had listened to it clatter on the metal ground, a collection of pens spilling from an open pocket, the soft scrape of wire-bound notebook, and noted that he hadn't wanted to give anything away, not because he wanted to defy a norm set by suicides, but because he didn't want anyone to assume that his stuff meant something to him. To be honest, Cameron didn't want anyone to assume anything about him, which he realized was going to be impossible when he killed himself, but that certainly wasn't going to stop him.
He put in his headphones and jumped. He tried to remember that trick you're supposed to do at the doctor's office when you're getting a shot: you either chat with the nurse or your mom, or you think r

FFM '14.21 From the DepthsRick and Marta stared at the ruin of their wedding. The plastic chairs had been strewn haphazardly across the lawn, and were, in fact, hardly recognizable as chairs anymore. There was a gaping hole in the garden wall on the other side of where the guests had been seated, and a trail of slime and seawater led through it from the tattered temporary stage that had been the altar and summoning point. Above the distant rumbling of the beast stalking through the city toward the beach, the priest’s whimpers could be heard as he cowered behind the flower-decked arch that was the only thing left standing nearby, mostly because it hadn’t been directly in the behemoth’s path.
“So, I can see where doves would be appealing,” Marta said.
“Hmm,” Rick agreed. “But, hey, at least neither of us have to worry about in-laws now, thanks to the kraken.”
  Inspector Wolf    The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
    Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
    Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
    She’d been expec
  ChimneyBilly awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of scraping and cursing from within the chimney breast; someone appeared to be inching their way down it with a great amount of difficulty. Eventually there was a thump downstairs, followed by footsteps and the crashing of cupboard doors. A burglar.
Billy slipped out of bed and grabbed his wooden sword. Descending the stairs on tip-toes, he worked up all of his courage. He was going to be a hero. They might even put him in the newspaper.
Sooty footprints trailed across the hall carpet, leading into the kitchen. Billy leaned around the door and spied the culprit, a huge bearded man with a red coat and redder cheeks.
“Ho, Ho, HUUURRRRRRP,” bellowed Santa.
“Santa?” asked Billy, eyes wide, wooden sword hanging forgotten at his side.
“Heyyy,” said Santa, making a clumsily expansive gesture. “It’s Jimmy, just who I was looking for.”
“I have a big list of all th

Sparkler LoveWhen Mom comes home, she slams the door and throws her keys across the living room. It just barely misses my head. I pause Heavy Rain and say, “Take it therapy didn’t go too well then?”
She sighs and passes in front of me to pick up the keys. “You think it’s so easy? Why don’t you do it then? I’m sure you need it more than I do. If I have to spend one more minute discussing your father, so help me—”
“That bastard’s not my father. Don’t even remind me that I’m only alive because of his sperm.” I duck my head around her body and start playing my game again. Ethan’s just spinning around in the play park, screaming for Shaun, when my mother plops down next to me on the couch. She has her glasses on as she stares down at a notepad. Up close like this, I can see every line etched onto her once lovely face.
“Guess what I’m writing?” Mom says after a while.
“Another angry le
  BeastlyThe hide was cramped and Hinchcliffe was tired. “I think I might go home,” he said to Anglesey. “It doesn’t look like we’re going to see them today.”
Anglesey glanced at him and then went back to staring through his binoculars. “Just be patient a little longer. They do usually—”
He clutched at his companion’s arm. “Look! There they are!” Anglesey passed the binoculars to Hinchcliffe, who pointed them towards the horizon.
He laughed with surprise and delight. “I see them! I see them!” Ever closer and closer they galloped—the most enormous herd of adverbs Hinchcliffe had ever seen.
He handed the binoculars back to Anglesey. They weren’t necessary any more—it was already starting to be possible to identify the individual words by eye. A happily and playfully were frolicking together; a grumpily was attempting to bite a member of the herd that had got too close; a ubiquitously was— w
  As 'Tis the Custom    Long, long ago in a land far, far away, a knight rode bravely through a dark, dark wood. His armour was strong, and his sword was true, and so when he met a terrible ogre upon the road, he did not hesitate to step down from his horse and prepare to do battle with the evil creature.
    “Hark, yon beast!” he said, levelling his sword at the creature. “I prithee, face my blade in honoured battle. Though thou be but a base monster, you must know this would be better than to turn away, and be run down in ignoble flight.”
    “Sorry,” said the ogre, “I didn’t catch any of that.”
    “Dost thine low intellect wrestle with my noble tongue? Then plain let me be. I challenge you to single combat, as ‘tis the custom ‘twixt knight and villain.” He made a flourish with his sword for good measure.

ChampionRed's Octoghast swallowed the opponent's Sharkadillo whole, and just like that, the fight was over.
“Congratulations, Red!” said the professor. “You're the new Battlepet league champion!”
Red looked at his Battlepet team. He'd dreamt of this moment since he was little, but now that he was here, it felt wrong.
“You've come a long way since you started out on your journey with Splatypus!”
Splatypus had been Red's first Battlepet. A blue little platypus with water powers, he'd carried him around on one shoulder as they went on their adventures. Red missed those days. At some point it had become clear that Splatypus just wasn't powerful enough, and that was that. He replaced him.
In retrospect, that was probably where it had all started going wrong.
Red's current team was frightening to behold. Octoghast had once been Octostar, a bright yellow starfish thing with a happy face. Now it was a monstrosity, bulging with eyes and tentacles. Red watched as his
  FFM 23: Trophies“And this one, I got after I slayed the vampire of Gershon,”  the Hunter announced, pointing at the two holes tattooed on his neck.  “When I battled the Odd Ones in Goblith Forest, I got this one back here.”  He turned to reveal chaotic black spirals twisting up his spine.  “These ones--”
This had been going on too long.
Aloric stood from the bar, shrugging the furs off his shoulder.  The tavern went silent as the audience’s gaze shifted.  Ragged claw-marks tore down his chest, and his right bicep was encircled with a jagged ring that could only have been jaws.  A cluster of arrow-sized dots marred his side, and a net a thin lines wound up one side of his face.
Leaning within inches of the hunter’s face, Aloric let out a low growl.  “Anyone can buy tattoos.  Scars are earned.”
  AblazeAnd so the world ended, not with a whimper, but a bang. Fire rained from the heavens. Few understood the cause of the phenomenon; it didn’t matter anyway. The cause eclipsed the effect. He knew they had only a few minutes left. Why waste those precious few minutes raging against the oncoming fate?
He took her by the hand. He did not rage, but he could mourn. He wasn’t afraid of death… he just wished they’d had more time together.
The pelt of sparks began to burn, each little impact sizzling against his skin. “I just want to say… this year with you was the best of my life. By far.”
She smiled, and popped open her umbrella. It would buy them only another second, maybe two, but even that was enough. A second could be a lifetime with her.
They huddled under the umbrella’s shadow, and, as the world burned around them, lived that lifetime together.

Enjoy! :)

The Ink Stained Quill Vol. VI

Journal Entry: Thu Jul 31, 2014, 11:48 AM

Hello everyone! It's Kelsy, aka SpriteBlayde here. Welcome to the sixth volume of The Ink Stained Quill. This series focuses on the amazing writers we have here on deviantART. Each installment will feature a deviant who you may, or may not know, who is willing to answer some of my questions! Whether you are a long time writer, or a newbie, there is something for everyone in the series who is looking to improve their craft or for some light reading.

Today's guest you may have seen wandering around our wonderful literature community. Please welcome

Before we start, is there anything you would like to share with our audience? Little known facts about you, words of wisdom, information on upcoming projects, etc.?

I like pickles. Learn from other peoples painful mistakes before you make your own. I've sent work out to a lot of places recently, but I'm expecting lots of rejection notes. That's generally pretty safe. Right now I'm working on correcting a major flaw in my character\writing career, which is to actually read poetry. I haven't ever really read collections of poetry outside of what I was forced to read. (other than Bukowski, Whitman, and Dylan Thomas.)

Can you tell us a little bit about your writing habits? Perhaps about how frequently you write, or if you only write when inspiration strikes?

I write at least weekly, sometimes daily. I only write new material when inspiration hits me and I have enough time to inhabit the voice of that inspiration, which takes time. I am slowly getting into the habit of trying to revise or edit during periods in which I do not feel inspired, but editing and revision are too much like work, and I'm nothing if not terribly lazy.

What inspired you to start writing?

I first started writing heavy metal lyrics (terrible, awful, dreadful garbage of course) when I was about 14 or 15. I didn't start writing actual poetry until I was 19, and it wasn't any good until I stopped writing for about three and a half years. I can't tell you what inspired me to start writing earlier in life, dreams of being James Hetfield or my anger and depression maybe. What made me want to write real poetry was going to college, but there I sort of fell in love with the rhyme of the ancient mariner and chuck pahliniuk and sort of did this weird emulation bit, which... well, it didn't really work out well. I don't think I started writing much of anything worth while until a few years ago after my father died.

Do you have a preference between writing prose and poetry? If so, why?

Poetry. I have no work ethic and that's just how I seem to create. Occasionally I'll do a flash piece or try on some prose, I've got some examples of those attempts in my journal.

You've also been the recipient of two DD's. Were you surprised when you received the first one? What were your reactions?

I've actually received three on this account. You may not notice, but it's about ten years old, and about seven or eight years ago, I wrote a poem that Imperfect suggested as a DD and I got it. That poem was deleted, and subsequently burned, after a really difficult period of my life, but anyway, that can go under weird facts. The first DD I got (of the two that are still on the account) is a dance without order. It's an attempt to work with the five stages of grief (though it needs a lot of revision) and my own personal process of grieving after my father died. I wrote it, it got a DD. In a way it felt good, and yes it surprised me.

What were your inspirations for your two DD pieces?

I went over the first(but actually second) in the previous answer. The second answer... Fuzzyhoser had a contest about summer being hot. I'm from mississippi and she's from Alabama, so I thought up the most quintessentially southern summer experience I'd ever had and wrote "Ode to Sticky Crick" with her as my intended audience. It worked, I won the contest. I suppose it also comes from a combination of personal experiences and stories my friends had shared. I did actually get drunk and decide a creek (which was suffering from a drought) ought be renamed gumbo while a buddy of mine puked in our canoe (we brought bottles by mistake and so the boat was full of beer bottles).

Do you have any advice for aspiring or longtime writers that you would like to share?

Honesty. Most writing that I don't connect with is too far removed from the person who wrote it. Too cerebral. I'm not saying go full confessional, but the best prose or poetry feels honest, the voice of the poem fools you into believing them. Like Kevin Spacey in House of Cards makes you believe in his world, in him. A lot of my time writing is spent getting into the voice, inhabiting the character or person or whatever I'm writing from. Once I get there, I just put it on the page, and then spend some time climbing out of the costume I just put on. It's a bit like character acting, but I don't have to worry about actually behaving like the character I've chosen.

Could you please share 2-3 of your own deviations and tell us why you picked them?

All three of these are poems I feel I've worked on a good deal, but they aren't quite ready to be sent anywhere. They also all happen to be based on personal experience. Of course, I might also be looking for some feedback and this is a great platform to ask for it.

Please pick 2-5 deviations from other people and share why you picked them.… -
They are from my favorites and they haven't been put in storage? I dunno. Queenhrosie is a poet to be respected, mercury-the-queen is extremely talented and that poem kind of wins, shadowedacolyte wrote a solid flash piece there, and Vespera is probably tied for my favorite deviant and also happens to be an extremely accomplished writer.

Are there any quotes that inspire you or stick with you?

Eh, nah.

Do you have any favorite books, authors, poets, writers, deviants, etc., that you would like to share with us?

I recently read the god of animals, and love it. I also have discovered a distinct enjoyment of sharon olds and ted hughes.

Any thing else you would like to say to our audience before we conclude this interview?

Don't do drugs?

And that's a wrap! Thanks so much for joining us today. Be sure to go give Braxton-T-Rutledge's work some attention. His gallery is quite diverse. And from some of his answers, it looks as if he would appreciate feedback.

And thank you to my audience, it's been a pleasure having you for the sixth edition of The Ink Stained Quill! If you know of anyone you think would be a great literary guest, please feel free to comment or note me with their username and why they should be interviewed. Thanks guys!

Signing off,


 Los chicos vajaron del avion y,luego de buscar su equipaje, tomaron un mapa y partieron a buscar un buen lugar para acampar.
Jazz: que aburrido el viaje
Dezz: yome diverti mucho hablando con Xavi
Xavier: digo lo mismo
Sam: yo estuve bien... tu Marie?
Marie: oh! yo conoci a un chico muy amable que vive en Danvill...
Todos vieron de reojo a Thomas. El estaba tranquilo. Eso extraño a todos.
Sam: y... que paso con el?
Marie: me invito a salir pe...
Jazz: y que dijiste?!
Marie: dejame terminar Jazz! bueno me invito a salir pero le dije que no gracias...
Fred: por?
Jazz le pego en la nuca.
Fred: hay! Jazz!
Thom: bueno, alli es
Los chicos estaban en medio de un precioso bosque con árboles muy altos y llenos de frutos. Lejos, pero no tanto, se podia ver una laguna tan cristalina que se podia ver a los peces nadando y las plantas que cresian en su interior. El sol brillaba y se escuchaba a los pajaritos cantando. Tambien habia conejitos, ardillas etc. 
Todos: WOW!
Marie: es hermoso!
Xavier: es lo 2do mas hermoso que vi en mi vida *lo primero obvio es mi Dezz*
Fred: digo lo mismo
Thomas: concuerdo
Jazz: y que es lo 1ero mas hermoso que viste en tu vida, Fred?
Fred: n-nada *rojo*
Marie: y ustedes? Xavi, thommy?
Thomas y Xavier: nada *rojos*
Sam: bue, que dice el folleto de este bosque?
Thom. explica como armar las carpas, como cosinar, como encontrar agua y comida, sobre la fauna y flora...
Thomas se detuvo ya que le asusto un poco lo que leyo. El resto lo noto.
Jack: pasa algo, thomas?
Thom: no nada. Solo que dice "PRECAUSION: ACANTILADOS, RAPIDOS (rios) LOBOS Y OSOS"...
Dezz: no pasa nada solo hay que tener cuidado
Jazz: es verdad. Unas precauciones no nos aran nada.
¿?1: Lobos y osos *sonrisa malisiosa*
¿?2: acantilados *sonrisa maliciosa*
¿?3: rapidos *sonrisa maliciosa*
¿?1: creo que tendremos algunos...
¿?2 y ¿?3: "accidentes"

Adorable Girl Anime Emoji (Double kawaii wink) V6Adorable Girl Anime Emoji (Double kawaii wink) V6Adorable Girl Anime Emoji (Double kawaii wink) V6Adorable Girl Anime Emoji (Double kawaii wink) V6Adorable Girl Anime Emoji (Double kawaii wink) V6CONTINUARAAdorable Girl Anime Emoji (Double kawaii wink) V6Adorable Girl Anime Emoji (Double kawaii wink) V6Adorable Girl Anime Emoji (Double kawaii wink) V6Adorable Girl Anime Emoji (Double kawaii wink) V6Adorable Girl Anime Emoji (Double kawaii wink) V6 
"We're here!"I say,as Phoebe and I walk in.
"Hey!Y'all are late,"Cat says.
"Sorry,but who are our partners?"Phoebe,who knew about Cat,asked.
"I didn't assign y'all,but Phoebe can be with Gerald,and Sarah can be with Arnold,"Cat said.
Phoebe and Gerald blush and go to next table while I sit by Arnold.

Helga walks up to me.
"We need to talk,"Helga said.
"What,"I said,like I never knew what.
"WHY didn't you put me with Arnold?"
"Because,you will end up fighting with him,which I don't like."I cross my arms.
"I know you are the author of this story,but really,Sid?"
"Sid and I call each other brother and sister.We look alike,and have the same last name.If I were paired to him,I'd be like marring my fake brother,"I defend myself.
People say Sid and I look alike.We do,really,but I were a hood on my head from my black jacket,and same pants,and with shoes.We also have the same last name,so we're best friends.
"Good point,but why Arnold?"Helga complains.
"Hey don't worry,I think he LIKES you!"I said.
"Really?"Helga thinks a moment.
"Yes,and you don't want to ruin it like in pre-k!"I walk off.
  • Mood: Cheerful
  • Watching: Zoey 101
  • Eating: Pizza
  • Drinking: Coffee

Hey guys!

Welcome to the 1st Edition of Cool Cat of the Month. I wanted to do something monthly to reward active members in this group, so I thought this would be an awesome way.

Here is the rundown:

1. For the time being, Cool Cat of the Month will be chosen by the Admin and myself. Later on I may open it up to suggestions from you guys. Kind of like DD's or DLR suggestions
2. No member can be featured in back to back editions. You can only be chosen every other month.
3. Your prizes will include: An interview that will be featured in the edition, a deviation of YOUR choice to be placed in the Featured Folder, a feature at the end of the article, said article will be placed in both a "Cool Cats of the Month" folder AND on the front page until the next one is chosen.
4. These articles will be put out on the last day (give or take) of every calendar month.
5. Some ways you can stand out: Participating consistently in prompts (or contests/projects), engaging with other members in journal comments etc, sending suggestions to the various journals we have (suggestions for The Scratching Post journal, suggestions for prompts, etc).

So, with that said, let's get our first edition started :la:

Our first Cool Cat of the Month stuck out to me because she has come to me numerous times when I've managed to screw up something in the backroom :lol: She has been willing to be patient with me while I try to fix it, and even be a test subject as I was trying to test it out. She has participated in about every prompt since the revival, and has given feedback and suggestions when I needed opinions on how to better run the group. She's also wicked awesome.

Our first Cool Cat of the Month is: icandotoo


Do you generally have a writing process? If not, can you share how your literature pieces come about?

My writing process is to basically build a skeleton around a phrase or thought that comes to me, then to flesh it out and revise it. Sometimes I pick a poetry form and try to stretch myself to write to the form, sometimes it's just a prompt that inspires me (whether to form or function), and sometimes I just 'feel' the poem/story and let it out.

I'm new to writing, so in all honesty, I'm still learning what 'my' process is.

What inspires you and your literature?

Sometimes I feel like Jeckyl/Hyde:

In poetry, I find I am most inspired by narrative and inner-dialogue. I want to peel back the layers of what 'appears to be' and describe the deeper, hidden nature of people and what 'is.' I find my writing feels most vibrant when I'm speaking from a place of challenge, dissatisfaction, or doubt. I hear that my literature seems most vibrant when addressing societal problems or the truth behind the polite facade we all wear. I am most comfortable exploring the dark, uncomfortable places.

In prose, the reverse is true. I'm driven to write humor and particularly dialogue-heavy humor. I still want to peel back the layers, but in prose I find I want to expose the uncomfortable places by finding what is funny in them and helping others find the humor. This most closely resembles my own daily inner dialogue.

Is there a back story to how you became a writer? What brought you to dA?

When I was VERY young, I told my mother I would be a writer, and I seemed to show somewhat of a propensity for the craft. My mother eagerly encouraged me to share what I wrote, and I know she held high hopes that I would, in fact, be a published author.

Life went differently for me, and midway through college, I changed majors from literature to Family and Consumer Science, emphasizing foods and nutrition. My mom was rather shocked, but I promised her that one day I would write and share that writing with the world. That was almost twenty years ago, and I hadn't written a thing since.

This year my mom got diagnosed with cancer, and that has since developed into an infection. I realized that if I didn't fulfill my promise to her, and she ended up passing away from the cancer or the infection, I would always regret my decision.

I began to write, the day her major surgery was completed, and have promised to write every day for at least the next year, as a tribute to her, and as a way of fulfilling my promise, during this time where she is battling.

I came to dA because I knew a vibrant, encouraging, and honest group of people from all over the world would be here. Not only could I legitimately share my words with people all over the world, but I could hone my skills and learn from people much better than I.

I wanted a community that cared for one another, inspired creativity, and helped one another develop into the best possible writers. dA does all of that for me, and being a part of this community has been tremendously cathartic and uplifting for me.

Feel free to tell us something random about yourself, not lit related!

I am a total foodie, and have been told many times, growing up, by my friends from Hong Kong, Japan, the Phillipines, China and India that I have an 'asian tongue' and can make authentic food. I have no idea what an asian tongue is, but at this point I believe it!! I happen to prefer hot, sour, and very spicy foods, and I eat a LOT of rice, literally every single day.

Please share 3 pieces of your own literature you are most proud of. Feel free to share why you love these pieces so much.

1) Charon

CharonHe sits, new aged priest in his iron shrine
his hand extending, barely touching mine
as I offer oblation to Hermes.
I peek at his space, where a Chocolate Flake,
some change, and wrappers from fresh Jaffa Cakes,
lie strewn on his table. Pause my journey
enough to also see a travelogue,
for Athens. Is this yawning demigod,
cleric of my twice daily offering,
a weekend sleuth, digging in ancient tels?
The lout in the Volvo behind me yells.
I drive. My mind returns to wandering:
I see him, crouched, triumphant, over one
small, silver, sacramental steer, the sun
glinting off its hand-turned horns. He gloats,
this modern Andronikos, turns the bull
in his hands, writes in a sketchbook so full
that the pages are darkened. He notes
the size and shape and outward dimensions,
and probable use, paying attention
to a small signature on the left side.
He stands, stretching cramped limbs and aching back,
the precious find clutched tightly, fingers  black
with ink and callused by stone dust. He s

This was a prompt response, to imagine the hidden life of a stranger, and it's simply one of my favorite things I've written in the history of ever. I personally feel like it's tight, consistent, and tells a tale, and I honestly fell in love with this imaginary toll booth operator just a little.

2) Moving Day

Moving DayI found it, in the corner, when the movers were bringing boxes,
A loose board behind the bedpost, with the far right corner jagged,
As if some small Someone had chipped it, with a butterknife, perhaps,
Prying up the iron nail, laying bare the space beneath.
I couldn’t help it – who could help it? –
Here was food for rumination! I could see inside my head
A cigar box, filled with toys. Worth a fortune, now,
Stored away, and free from rust. Or a 1960 quarter, slightly dusty,
From a long forgotten birthday, worth it’s honest weight in silver,
Slightly more if never touched. Or the holy grail of treasure:
Honus Wagner barely smiling, Mickey Mantle in a picture,
Superman in bright blue tights. So I pulled back on the corner,
Had to pry a little harder – many years of dust had settled
In the iron of the nail. And I reached into the corner,
Like a modern, old Jack Horner, and pulled out
A wad of tissue, filled with baby teeth;
Two bags of well used marbles;
And s

Another prompt response, this one I like because it speaks to all of those failed expectations and disappointments we (particularly 'we' writers) bring on ourselves by building life up to be more than it is with our imaginations. In this the MC is allowing their middle aged materialism to build a castle made of air out of a small hiding place in a house they've purchased, only to find that what was precious to a small boy who-know-how-long-ago is totally at odds with their mercenary dreams. It's supposed to be a reminder of how we all change as we grow older, and lose some of the wonder and oddness of childhood.

3) Leaving Shin Okubo

Leaving Shin Okubo by icandotoo

Maybe I just love this because it is one of my first, but I do think I managed to meet the prompt satisfactorily, and I feel personally that this poem is spare and elegant. Perhaps not as intensely incredible as Japanese poetry I read, but my best attempt at an eastern inspired poem. I used a real incident and the prompt photo to build a tale, both tragic and hopeful and I'm still proud of it.

Now, share 3 pieces of literature from OTHER deviants.

1) Pretty Metaphors are for Pretty Girls

Pretty metaphors are for pretty girlsI told you to stop
spewing pretty metaphors at me,
for with each elaborate comparison,
I feel a bit more
detached from this world
And maybe I don’t feel so strong at the moment,
but would you be
if you felt like the entire universe
was resting upon your shoulders,
and someone was just there saying:
But you’re stronger than the powerful beats
of a butterfly’s wings

And maybe I do need more confidence,
but would you exuberate it
when the part you hated most about yourself
were the freckles that have speckled your face for years,
and someone was just there muttering:
They’re not flaws,
but rather stars that form constellations

Yes, I can’t help but hate
all those unrealistic metaphors
you choose to pelt at me when I’m low,
yet the irony is,
I know that those beautiful words
are realistic in your eyes,
So I can’t hate you.

I love this poem. It is so real, so honest, and so painful. Part of the reason it is one of my favorites is that it compelled me to write a response. When a poem is that

2) The Boneyard

The BoneyardThese twigs have a tendency to break;
Calcium starts its declination and,
the body can't always easily compensate.
The mind and mouth undo their coordination,
Joints start to deteriorate and malfunction.
The passage of time leaves its telltale marks.
It can be hard to take, its shortened longevity,
the sum of time allotted to the physical body.
Throw a wrench into its intricacy,
and the rhythm shudders to a halt.
Or it’ll keep moving on,
caulking up each fault.
Should one face forward and react?
Or swallow one's pride and retract,
whether the end result be foul or fair?
Should a guilty conscious clear the air?
We all weather our own storms,
some of us drifting and blowing away.
Until our reason and motivation is gone,
while others on the path never do stray.
But we must all resign to the heart's decay.
There is no avoiding mortality's finale.
After mouths make their final futile sounds,
bodies are prepared for Hellfire or Heaven.
Then descend in surrender to the ground,
to join f

Maybe it's because I'm now in my thirties, but this poem addressing the inevitability of death and decay really reached me in a deep, deep way. I love the tone, texture, and rhythm of the poem. It's very tasty to me.

3) Letter from William Shakespeare

A Letter from William ShakespeareTWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR

I just love the cheekiness of this in every single way - the lowbrow, twisting of a nursery rhyme - and I can actually imagine Bill feeling this way!! Lol

Full Feature:

WarsI am sitting on a rented cot, in a dilapidated section of the city. The muezzin has just issued the call to prayer, and the streets are silent.  I am less than a mile from the garden my great-grandfather once tended, in the courtyard of the home he once cherished, before things changed, before he fled the country with little but his family.
I am sitting, and I am staring. At these spare, white, plaster walls, chipped and yellowing. I am staring at the embroidered yellow coverlet on the bed, incongruously luxuriant. I am staring, at the lamp, and the ceiling, and the print on the wall, when I see it – the old, weathered chest in the corner under the mirror, another relic - a reminder of glories long since passed.
I am looking, and then I am touching… and then I am touched. The trunk is no empty shell.
There, folded neatly, with cedar balls and tissue paper neatly surrounding it, is a uniform, khaki wool  pewter buttons, deep blue piping still crisp on the sharply p
Interview in a Foreign LandIn the end, there were only two choices:
One; to fade slowly, softly into black.
Two: to join as one with angry voices.
I weighed both options slowly.
At the back of my mind, I knew
this couldn’t end well.
Too many of them, too few of us…
Alas, too late, to leave, I felt
the swell, at my back, of fists and stones.
I discuss this with you, because you seem
Quite careful in your questioning;
and news is made for listening;
and I am trying to get home.
BlueIt's not the street I usually go down. But for some reason, that day I turned down a different road.
The storefronts were generally the same, all except one, sporting a bright blue door.
It was that door – Tardis blue – that sang to me, that called me from my slumbering gait and awakened in me the thrill of possibility.
My feet, once heavy and dull from the friction of daily commutes grown too innumerable to count, now flew toward the door, with its promised of cloudless skies and infinite possibilities.
I wondered, briefly, if I’d open up the door, marked with a hand-lettered  “Open” sign in cherry red, and find, behind cedar balls and musty fur coats, a new Narnia stretched out and waiting. Would there be, I mused, a portal to another dimension, where gods battled brothers and mourned, betrayed, as their skin turned blue and as cold as ice?
What magic bled from the keyhole, that pulled me from my reverie and quickened my steps?
The door, slightly ba
The Fault Lies Ever With Our StarsThe fault lies ever in our stars,
the ones we fix to neon lights,
the ones we worship with our eyes
and slice to ribbons with our lips.
“She’s put a few pounds on her hips.”
“His closet was chock full of lies.”
We help them tumble from great heights
and wonder why they bear the scars.

Last WordsDominion is a young man’s game,
and I’m afraid I’m much too old.
A cup of tea and book will do,
and if, my dear, it’s all the same
Could you please close the door? The cold
is seeping in. I never knew
that these old bones could be so lame,
that these old limbs refuse to fold;
and so, my dear, I’m trusting you
to build the fire and stoke the flame,
and tend the plants and kill the mold,
and pull the blinds and show the view,
and find the truth and heal the lame,
and use my silver and my gold,
to shake the world, and make it new.
What Good Is a Day?What good is a day
when gods deign to play
dice with our hours and minutes?
Now the sand trickles softly
Death, like a lover, clasps at our waists,
grasps us with his cold arms. We bend to his charms.
Eternity calls, as dusk softly falls.
We must lose our fight, and yield to the night.
So tell me: What good is a day?
WrathMark cheated, so Susan castrated him. SlothLazarus died. I scrubbed. Mary napped.  
PrideGod: "My equal???"
Lucifer: "At least."
AvariceHeadline: Hoarder Found Buried Beneath Catalogs. GluttonyShirley devoured chocolate - injected insulin - repeatedly. Truth Is...A few fast facts about me:
Fifteen passengers decided not to fly.
There are 13 less letters in ancient Greek.
Trolls like cheese sandwiches at night.
Once, a boy got lost in hide and seek.
None of these are true – well…one
and that's not autobiography,
But isn’t how this all is done?
deflection and hypocrisy?

I Speak Only in SemaphoreYou cannot know (or do not care)
that the small brown dot
to the left of your lip
is my Polaris. That I chart my daily course
by the Pleiades near your right eye.
You cannot know (or do not care)
that a butterfly in North Detroit
Causes tide-waves in Taiwan.
that one lone sigh released by you
is chaos, and  -unleashed -
flattens the grass-roofed hut
I built to hide you from the storm.
You cannot know (or do not care)
that the weight you now carry
lay heavy, once on me.
Those same lightweight promises,
tied to my frame long ago
lifted just a little bit of weight,
which is why I pass them on.
You cannot know (or do not care)
that what I use is semaphore
I’m waving, desperate, in the dark,
to try to guide you home.
Keeping Faith“Keeping Faith” by Naomi Poe
- After “’Faith’ is a Fine Invention” by Emily Dickenson
The Preacher tells me “keep the faith,”
as if my faith is
Slate-gray lead, a
pencil tip to sharpen. That’s fine
for those who think their faith a rather smart invention,
who wrap their god in packaging. For
those of us (for Gentlemen)
for questioners, like me, who
wish to prove the provenance of things we cannot see,
faith seems a losing proposition. But
place your angels on a pin! For microscopes,
you know, are magnificent inventions. The instruments are
potent tools when used with comprehension by prudent
men; and prudent men will always save the day.  In
summary: doctors like me will certainly agree that an
appeal to higher ‘power’ is key in an emergency!
TriumphMarvel is on the Ascendant.
Hot girls flock to ComiCon.
Stars are smiling and attendant.
Brains are dressing up as Brawn.
Loki’s laughing in his heaven.
Everything is right on earth.
Like Inazuma Eleven,
We’ve unlocked something of worth.
SufficiencyI said to my Self, “Self, you’re quite alone.”
And my Self said, “Self, I need no one.”
And my Self and I, took sticks and stone
And built a lovely summer home.
I said to myself, “Self, what do you need?”
And my Self said, “Self, I have everything.”
And my Self and I, we both agreed
This was a bit embarrassing.
I said to my Self, “Self, what will you do?”
And my Self, said, “Self, that’s up to you.”
And my Self and I, we thought it through,
And put out a welcome mat, or two.

**Important Aforemention**

Greetings Fellow Readers, I will not be entering any chatrooms or critiquing for a good long while. To add, I will barely even be on via on phone and computer. As per se last journal, there has been some problems in getting my writing down. 

You can note me or comment, as the only thing I will be doing is updating this. Nothing further. 
:icontknova-aj:  I will get to your story; I have not forgotten. So do not worry. 

~Metric Guesser~

Scholastic ambitions convivial, deceiving.

~Poetic Term Guesser~

Byronic Stanza

~Lune of the Day~

A hidden child is
Like a lost
Item to be found.


{Post Scriptus}

Word of the Day 


1. N: The winning of every trick or of all tricks but one in bridge. 2. a. A heavy jarring impact: Bang b. harsh criticism c. a poetry competition 3. To throw or strike with loud impact 4. Hit, beat, gain easy victory over.

~Note the Panther thus answers~

{Post thrice scriptus}

~Musical Language~


~For the Reader~

~Rhetorical Question of the Day~

The foremost thing of the imagination is what?
Adventure 1: Their is a Murderer among us
    "Hey Arhi look at my snack shop isn't it beautiful" I said. Arhi replied saying "this shop is small". " So What do U like It" I said. She replied "Die, I want this shop sucker". Ghost Josef Yelled at her "SCREW YOU"

Writers of the Revolution, July

Journal Entry: Thu Jul 31, 2014, 1:11 AM

Featured WRITER

Featured by Vigilo

Elmara writes prose and poetry, fiction and nonfiction, and all of their writing, whichever category it fits into, is absolutely gorgeous. (Which is why I've featured two poems and two pieces of prose, one fiction and one nonfiction, here, so you can see how right I am about this.) I first came across their work through either the last poem in this feature or the last prose in this feature, I can't remember which, but I have no words to describe how utterly delighted I was when I was looking for writers to feature and found that Elmara was a member of this group.

I'm probably going to use the word 'gorgeous' a lot in this feature but Elmara's work is just that, as well as widely varied in topic and theme, but always expertly and deftly written. If you read anything at all today, let it be one of the four pieces (or more!) I've agonised about choosing here (it was really difficult and I'm really sad we only do four), because Elmara's writing deserves your time and your eyes, and you deserve to read it. :nod:

Seriously, go. Read.

The EverydayDearest,
you shuffle like a zombie
in your dreamscape, and you
snore. It makes me chortle; our
daughter opens one milky
eye, irked at the noise, but,
dearest, it was not this
that kept me from sleep, it was
the thought of never seeing
you again. Why must all that
we love be taken from us? Where does love
go when the heart is still and the eyes,
searching, find nothing, and the mind, alone,
conjures up such quiet ghosts, the phantoms
of lives lived out here, in the ordinary, where
all is as it is,
beautiful and mundane.

The Everyday
"Where does love
go when the heart is still and the eyes,
searching, find nothing, and the mind, alone,

conjures up such quiet ghosts, the phantoms
This is one of their most recent poems and it's as wonderful as anything else you'll find in the gallery - simple and lovely in its delicacy of language and style, from beginning to end.

Our Last AzaanOur Last Azaan
I. The Streets of Our City are Lined with Synapses
Islamabad's silent streets are filled with phantoms. Tongueless ghosts raising their haunted eyes to the night sky. The stars fall, one by one. There are no screams in our city tonight. No mother weeps for a son who will never return home. Our city is a tomb, echoing with the tinnitus of oblivion.
The steps of Faisal Masjid are cold beneath our feet. The bone-white shards of the mosque's four towers outline the invisible square of the Kaabah around us. We walk hand in hand to the heart of the mosque. The lights of the central chandelier grow dim, flickering like synapses in a dying brain. Then go out. The mosque becomes a shadowland of ancestral voices, some weeping quietly, some haranguing against the inevitable.
Azrail takes us each by the hand. His hand is warm. His face is the face of a childhood friend, someone you thought you'd forgotten. His eyes are kind. When he speaks your name you hear the sound

Our Last Azaan
"I'm not sure who walks the frigid, Friday-lit streets of Karachi this morning. I'm not sure whose lank frame casts this bleak shadow on the tar-black surface of the cold streets. It could be Iblees. It could be but I'm not sure. The world looks pale through this smoked glass window."
It's a short story and it's a stunningly told piece of fiction, a story of cities and more. I love it. It was incredibly difficult to pick out a short quote from this because the whole piece is so gorgeously rich in language and style - go read it immediately, it's so, so worth it.

The Mundane Magic of Med SchoolThe Mundane Magic of Medical School
Bilbo Baggins and I have a lot in common.
Other than the fact that we're both short, round and love food, I mean. You see, we've both been through quite a trip and now, faced with the prospect of chronicling our respective journeys for all posterity, we both share a common problem. Picture this-- fresh piece of blank parchment (new Word document, in my case), quill quivering with inky anticipation (blinking cursor), mind bubbling over with memories-- and then: where to begin? In 1st year, 2011 seemed so very far off, such a science-fiction year, something that was going to happen to another person. Then all to soon, it was here, starting, middling and now, almost ending.
Looking back, all I can think about is how young we all were. How watching some of the new kids in 1st year struggling with Snell and KLM and Guyton makes me smile as much it leaves me musing about the shifting nature of who we are, how the dusty fingers of time mould everythi

The Mundane Magic of Med School
"There will come a day in your 2nd year, when you'll be whistling as you walk into the Dissection Hall, nonchalantly talk about lunch with your best mates and then still have time to muse about what dreams the brain in your Instructor's hand must have dreamed once."
This is gorgeous nonfiction - the story of a journey, of being a med student and facing the morgue, told in a lovely and heartfelt manner, and incredibly powerful because of that.

A Ghazal for NagaIf I were to marry, I would marry you-- your mother's dupatta, blood-red and gold,
draped across your shoulders as you stood knee-deep in the Sea, colder than a snake.
My father's white sherwaani is my second skin; a security. The unknown writhes reptilian.
I am fearless; the boa of memory does not constrict me, it coils, a nostalgic snake.
You are another degree of descent; you speak of deserts buried beneath our Sea.
There the fangs of our fathers are mountains, you say, the depths are as patient as a snake.
I kiss the tracery of veins beneath your wrist. The sands are not kind to such reminisce.
My tears dry in Sindh's sun to the dust of crusted salt, pale scales on an ancient snake.
Karachi's cold azaans creep upon my bones. You demon-lovers weep from abandoned rooftops.
You are Indus; a liar, shifting with each millennia; a desert-forming snake.
Copper amulets shuddering on your arms, anoint me in the bone-dust of Mohanje-daro.
Wed me in the Sea, eternity coiled around us. Thus, M

A Ghazal for Naga
"Karachi's cold azaans creep upon my bones. You demon-lovers weep from abandoned rooftops.
You are Indus; a liar, shifting with each millennia; a desert-forming snake.
Ghazals are one of my favourite fixed forms of poetry ever. If I had to choose my top three forms, ghazals would definitely be there. Also, I don't like snakes. So, trust me when I say this is an absolutely lovely ghazal about snakes - one that deserves your time and attention.

We :heart: Elmara.


on Heart by annafuru
I would change the fourth line, though. "You can't be awaken" doesn't make grammatical sense to me. Do you mean that the "life once taken" cannot be awakened? If so, I'd use "you can't be awakened" or "you can't re-awaken". If you're referring to another 'you' (the heart-taker, for example) I'd use either "you can't reawaken" or simply "you can't awaken". Also, I don't see whether the second-to-last line fits in with the line before it or after it. It seems to make most sense as being a continuation of the line before it, and if that's the case, you don't need the full stop after 'stay'.
[Read more here.]

on . by Royplayer89
Punctuation. Keep it consistent. I personally think you should not capitalize the first letter of each line because each line is so short, but that's ultimately up to you. (The way it is right now, for example, the first stanza is pretty hard to understand because it doesn't feel like one complete, grammatical sentence. Instead, it feels more like a succession of images. It really worked for me but it took me a while to understand what it actually meant. So, up to you.) However, it's super important that you keep it consistent unless there's a very, very good reason not to.

[Read more here.]


"Here are 102 resources on Character, Point of View, Dialogue, Plot, Conflict, Structure, Outlining, Setting, and World Building, plus some links to generate Ideas and Inspiration. Also, I recommend some resources for Revision and some online Tools and Software."

Tips For the Novice
Tips For The Novice
It's an all-too common occurrence on my periodic forays into the world of internet poetry - writing weakened by a lack of fundamental knowledge concerning the essence of poetry writing. There are no rules set in stone about creative writing. The writer that strikes new trails can make a lasting impact on the world of poetry, but the chances of a writer stumbling upon golden words without a solid knowledge base are slim to none. The following tips for novice writers are intended to help shore up those fundamentals, to help the young writer breathe the essence of life into their poems, and to better share that essence with the reader.
The most important element you can inject into your poetry is imagery.  Imagery is made up of sense data: color, sound, smell, temperature, the feeling of physical contact.  When we remember anything with any vividness, we remember in images.  When we fantasize or hallucinate, it is i

"If you are a novice poet, read on and start building a solid foundation for your creative writing. These are not "rules" that must be adhered to, but rather a few simple pointers to help you get started."

(The scene opens in the school library. Robert is reading a comic book entitled "Robo-Dino and Cave Cowboy", when Linda comes into the scene. She is covered from head to toe in food, some made of plastic and some real. There is even a fork entangled in her hair.)

Linda: (annoyed) Robbie, do you have any napkins on you.

Robbie: Sure, but why would you...? (looks up to Linda  and shrieks). Dude, what happened to you?

Linda: Y' know how it was "Food Fight Day" at the cafeteria?

Robbie: Yeah. (realizes what Linda means) Oh no. Please tell me you didn't try to stop it again.

Linda: I just thought that maybe for ONE day, the lunch girls would decide to keep the lunch room clean.

(Robert hands Linda some napkins which she then uses to wipe her face.)

Robert: Yeah, but the school never puts Food Fight Day on hold. If you didn't want to get dirty, you shouldn't have gone to the lunchroom.

Linda: Thanks. So. What are you doing?

Robert: Just studying. (Points to his comic) I'm already on issue 89 and on the page where Robo-Dino uses his atomic pit hairs to blow up Captain Llama Nose's army of man eating celery stalks...((beat). I did not just say that.

Linda: Oh. Well, Have fun with that.

(Linda sits next to Robert and begins using her phone.)

Linda: What the...? What happened to MyPlace?

Robert: You don't know? That site closed down along time ago. No one uses it anymore. They all go to Headpage now.

Linda: Headpage?

(Robert puts his comic down and link up the site.)

Robert: Just set up an account and you're all set. It's actually better than MyPlace.

Linda: (scoffs) I doubt it.

(The scene changes to later that day. Linda and Robert are walking home from school, while Linda is playing on her phone looking very excited.)

Linda: You were right. Robbie. Headpage is better than MyPlace. I just made friends with someone in France. FRANCE!! That's the city of love. Do you know what I learning about the place?

Robert: No, but maybe if you started taking classes on Headpage, you'd do better in school.

(Robert laughs at his own joke before Linda hits him in the head.)

Robert: Ow! Hey!

Linda: You asked for it. (looks forward) Oh, good. we're almost home.

(Linda types a bit more, then puts her phone away. When Linda and Robert come through the door,both cover their ears upon entering  Sally and Timmy  are singing and dancing along to a new song on the television as loudly as possible, while the T.V. is blaring at max input. The song is to the tune of "ABC" by the Jackson Five)

Timmy: (singing) She's a Martial Artist! Fighting ninjas and samurai!

Sally: (singing) Yeah, yeah! She's got both her swords and karate chops!

Sally and Timmy: (singing) And flaming fingers that will make you cry! Oh yeah!

Sally: (singing) She fights in the shadows!

Timmy: (singing) In the shadows!

Robert and Linda look at each other, then back at their kids!

Linda: (calling) Uh, Sally? Timmy?

Timmy: (singing) Silent, but deadly.

Sally: (singing) Deadly, but silent.

Robert: Hey, guys!

Timmy:  (singing) Enemies are coming in every way!

Sally: (singing) But you can count on this girl to save the day!

Linda and Robert: GUYS!!

Sally and Timmy: (singing) She's Barbara Lee! Fights like a bumblebee! Yes, she is one tough lady! Barbara Lee!

(Linda at last walks to the T.V. and turns it off. Timmy notices this, but Sally, who's really into the song, keeps singing)

Sally: (singing) Chopping up baddies since she was three.

(Timmy nudges his sister, who snaps back to reality)

Sally: Hey, where's the song?

Timmy: Linda turned it off.

Sally: (irritant) LINDA!!

Linda: Sorry, but it was the only way I could get your attention.

Robert: We wanted to let you know we were home, and you two were playing that song too loud to hear us.

Timmy: I told you we shouldn't have been that loud.

(Sally sticks her tongue out at Timmy)

Sally: Anyway, how was school.

Robert: Linda tried to stop Food Fight Day.

Sally: Again?

Linda: Uh...say, have you two heard about Headpage?

Sally: Wait, I thought you already knew about that.

Linda: No, not really. Just found out about it today.

Timmy: In that case, you want to friend me?

Sally: No way. Friend me. I'm your daughter.

Linda: Don't worry. I'll friend both of you. Just let me take a shower first.

Sally: Why? You're not that dirty.

Timmy: Yeah, you know the rules. No baths unless you're absolutely filthy.

(Linda thinks for a second)

Linda: Robert and I kissed each other at lunch today.

Robert: We did?

(Timmy gags)

Sally: Ew, cooties. I don't want you out of that bath until all those cooties are gone.

(Linda puts her bag down and walks upstairs with a mischievous smile)

Linda: Works every time.

(The scene is now night. Linda is on her computer updating her status when Robert turns to her from his bed.)

Robert: Linda, come to bed, already. It's 10:45. We have school tomorrow.

Linda: OK. OK. I just want to update my status one last time.

Robert: (sighs) Fine. but don't blame me when Sally makes you smell the toilet again.

(Linda stops what she's doing and then just stares for a few seconds. The next scene shows her asleep in bed with Robert. We then see that the computer is still on.  The next day, When Linda and Robert board the school bus and sit down, a female student from behind Linda's seat suddenly stares at her in excitement.)

Linda: (confused) Uh, hi?

Student: Hi, Linda. Just read your Headpage status. Is it true that you had an arm wrestling contest with the boogieman on the planet Mars in order to save it from blowing up and when you won, it started raining chocolate ice cream which created a slide that let you make it to your date with Alice in her dream house?

(Linda and Robert stare back at the student with bewildered expressions)

Linda: (Going with it) Yes. That is exactly what happened. Then, we visited a magical land called Equestria where ponies rule over everything and no humans exist.

Student: Dude, you are awesome. I salute you and your awesomeness.

(The student salutes Linda and slowly sits back down.)

Robert: What was that?

Linda: I have no idea.

(We cut to the school hallway where every student who Linda and Robert passes starts whispering and looking at Linda.)

Linda: OK. What is everybody looking at?

Robert: I think it's you.

Linda: Well, yeah. But why?

(Suddenly, the principal, a five year old named James runs over to the two.)

Linda and Robert: (confused) Hi, Principal James.

James: (sophisticated)Hi, Robert and Linda. Linda, since you are hear today, I'd like you to do something for me.

Linda: Of course, I'll get you a snack from the lunchroom today.

James: No, no, no. Not that. The next time you teach the sun monkey how to surf, could you tell me so I may come along?

Linda: What.

James: (Begging) Please. (makes sad puppy dog eyes).

(Linda and Robert look at each other in confusion.)

Linda Uh. Sure.

James: YAY!! (starts cheering until he see the grown ups looking at him.) Uh, I mean, (sophisticated) Very good. Very Good. Continue to class, then. I have some work that must be done.

(James walks away.)

Linda: OK, why does he think I taught Sun Monkeys how to surf?

Robert: I don't know.

(We then see a montage of students treating Linda like she's a god the whole day. In class, the teacher lets Linda sit on a couch in the classroom, that was never there before. At lunch, Linda is given vegetables to eat instead of the "monster ice cream float" like the other students. Linda is given a quiet place to read in the library, and every single person in the school showers Linda with praises and compliments like "You rock", "Linda, you're my hero", "Linda, I want you to be my mommy" and "I wish I was like Linda when I was a child." When Linda and Robert get home, Linda plops on the couch in happiness.

Linda: Best! Day! Ever!

Robert: Yeah, I've never seen you become so popular in school.

Linda: Neither have I. I've got to tell people about this on Headpage. (takes out cell phone) Sure, people have said some weird things to me, but still I can't  imagine- (Linda looks at her phone and stops.) Wait, What?

Robert: What is it?

Linda: Robbie, come here. You have to see this.

(Robert looks at Linda's phone and sees her statuses. They read "I just found the secret of eternal life.", "I went to heaven and beat God at bowling.", "I ran around the world at super-speed and turned back time.", and " I'm Batboy.")

Robert: I don't believe this

Linda: I know

Robert: You're Batboy?

Linda: (facepalms) NO!! That's a lie. In fact, all of these statuses are lies.

Robert: (embarrassed) Oh, right. Well, if you didn't write them, who did?

Linda: I don't know.  But if this is why I'm so popular now, it has to stop. I don't want people to like me for things that I didn't even do. Tomorrow, the truth comes out.

(The next day, Linda and Robert walk into the school hallway)

Male student: Hey guys. it's Linda.

(The whole student runs up to her.)

Linda: WAIT!! (Everyone stops) Now before you guys say anything, I just want to tell you all that whatever you heard about on Headpage is a lie. Everything that was said about me never happened. I'm sorry if you all were told otherwise.

(Everyone stares at Linda.)

Kathy: She's so modest. Three cheers for Linda and her modesty.

(The whole school cheers.)

Linda: No, no. I'm not being modest. I didn't do those things. I can't do those things. You...

(Robert puts his hand on Linda's shoulder.)

Robert: Let it go, Linda. They don't seem to believe you.

(Linda looks at the cheering school.)

Linda: Well, I'm still gonna get to the bottom of this.

(Later that day, Linda and Robert enter their home. Sally, who overhears them, enters the kitchen.)

Sally: Oh. Hi, you two. You're just in time. I've made a new batch of cookies that I want you two to try out.

(Sally holds up a cookie tray, which contains pink cookies shaped like dogs.)

Sally: We ran out of flour, so I tried using dirt and white paint.

Linda: (trying not to throw up) Uh, not now Sally. Robert and I have a problem.

Sally: What problem?

Robert: Someone's been posting lies on Linda's Headpage and we're trying to figure who it might be.

Sally: Oh, is that all? Well, I can help you with that. (chuckles) I made those lies.

Robert and Linda:  What?!

Sally: Yeah. It was me.

(Flashes back to two nights ago. As Sally narrates, we see her actions)

Sally: (Off-screen.) I figured that you two were still awake and wanted to make sure you weren't. When I saw that you were asleep, I saw Linda's Headpage. I thought what she wrote was too boring, so I decided to make it cooler. You don't use your imagination that much, Linda.

(Sally starts typing on the computer. Then we cut flash back to the present.)

Sally: I knew if Linda had a more interesting Headpage, people would think she was cooler. Pretty nice, huh?

Linda: No. Not pretty nice.

Sally: (disappointed) Huh?

Linda: Sally, I appreciate you trying to help me like that, but I don't want to become popular if this is how I have to do it. And I also don't like that you did that without telling me. Next time, you want to help me, do you think you could tell me about it first, instead of just doing it and assuming I'll like it.

Sally: (hesitant) Sure. I'm sorry again, Linda. I promise not make up lies on your Headpage again.

Linda: Thanks.

(Sally and Linda hug each other. Then Timmy comes hurrying into the door.)

Timmy: (excitedly) Linda? Did you really eat 127 worms in one bite?

(Linda and Sally look at each other)

Sally: (embarrassed) Um, right. I forgot. I made that before you came in.

(Linda stares at Sally with her eyes half closed.)

The End