apples, dammitThe Big Secret to Learning How to Draw:
In the Beginning... You see an apple, and you draw an apple. You look at your drawing, and it's utter crap. It looks nothing like the real thing, and you wonder why. "Hey, a real apple is red and round. My drawing is red and round. Huh. What's wrong?"
You draw some more apples. Many times.
And finally, one day, you have a Eureka! moment. You realize, *d'oh!* a real apple isn't entirely round! It's wider at the top, narrower underneath. It's got funky little lumps at the bottom. It's got a dip like a crazy deep belly button at the very top. You draw another apple. The result is better, but it's still crap. Much nicer crap than before, but still.... Hmm.
You draw more apples. Repeat.
Another day of drawing, another Eureka! moment. Hello! The red isn't really red. This particular apple is slightly darker than true red. And it's got some tiny tan spots on it. And at the top, the red turns into a pale green color near the stem. You draw an apple once
Modern MagicThe witch Baba Yaga once baked herself breadModern Magic8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
out of spiders and liars and red razorwire
that was garnished with flowers from the vaults of the dead,
and sweetened with lye from a childs funeral pyre.
It was light as the crisp, cracking bones on the fields
and as sharp to the taste as the ash-scattered shards
that were all that remains of the swords and the shields
of the warrior king and his bold bodyguards.
In a chicken leg hovel at the edge of a wood
the witch Baba Yaga licks the dregs from the spoons
that she used to stir soup, spiced and thickened with blood
that the dying ones spilt from their widowing wounds.
But her low kitchen table will never be laid
and her bonewafer banquet will never be served,
while ghostly white whistles pipe a last serenade
as shes swept to the moon by the swerve of the earth.
The witch Baba Yaga in the coldness of space
weeping tears for the cage and her gingerbread home,
but icicled, weightless, they fly in her face
with the regular tick of
Synchro-CityThey breathed in unison. All over the city, all over the planet, the bots were breathing together. They moved and walked and spoke as their individual programming dictated, but their breathing was synchronised, in and out with the constancy of a ticking clock. She was in her twenties when she first managed to make her own working robot and it breathed with inexorable regularity. In out. In out. In out.Synchro-City6 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
"Hello," it said. In out. "Are you my mother?"
"The female creator of my form," it insisted, "The instantiator of my existence. Are you my mother?"
She had to concede that she was, although the term made her uneasy.
In out. In out. It breathed just like all the other bots did.
Without access to the research databases, she had made a very basic effort at its programming, and that meant it needed to be taught.
"Do I have a name?" It asked her, as she was showing it how to clean the windows. It was standing very close. She could hear it breathing in out, in out.
"No. Would you
the cocooning of pangeatell me about continents and oceansthe cocooning of pangea6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and i'll tell you about highways
and i say:
that isn't an ending,
need to change.
and i say:
we all need to change,
even beauty must adapt.
and i say:
Seasons of Violet.We called her Violet, and she was.Seasons of Violet.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We knew her when she was young and pale, during Fall
And when we'd climb old trees, their brittle branches
Like welcoming arms
Would snap in two
And we'd cascade to the earthy ground
Carpeted with golden and red and orange
And as we fell,
Secretly, she'd wish with all the goodness in her heart
That she were a leaf as well
That like a leaf, she could be swept away to some distant place
In arms that would not break
In arms that belonged to people who truly loved her.
We called her Violet, and she was.
And with the changing of the seasons,
Winter had taken away her smile and replaced it with the cold blank
A frown that could only belong to a soul like hers
To a soul that had wished to be a leaf
But had became only the scent of pomegranate and midnight
Perhaps people would embrace her only to get drunk on her scent
But my love was sincere, and it mingled with her berried essence
As I would try to will life and warmth back into her.
A gift sh
omg lol"omg lol w8 4 meh!1" cried Wendy as she hastily grabbed her textbook and slammed her locker door shut. The second bell had rung five minutes ago, and her two friends were already across the hallway. They stood in front of a door with a sign that read "chatsp33k". Mary Beth, the eldest of Wendy's little posse, waved her hot pink painted fingers at Wendy.omg lol9 years ago in Scraps More Like This
"hurry!!11! were l8 lol," she beckoned.
"im coming lol," said Wendy. She trotted down the hall towards the two, who were already heading through the door into the Chatspeak classroom. Wendy panted as she took her seat, which was located directly in front of Mr. Parsley's desk, the Chatspeak instructor.
"u 3 r l8 AGAIN1!" said Mr. Parsley. "wot do i have 2 do 2 get u 3 to com ein on tyme?"
"sry," apologized the three girls.
Mr. Parsley scoffed. "nevre let i thapen a gain." He cleared his throat. "now, az i wuz saying b4 teh interupshon, did every1 turn in teh homwork form last nite?"
Everyone in the class, except for the three girls, who
Happily Ever AfterOft the fairy tale endsHappily Ever After6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
At the part the story truly begins:
The white knights once shining armour
Muddied, rusted and bloodied with the spoils of war
The maidens chaste virginal wedding gown,
Torn and worn away with the years of wait
For her shining knight, bruised and battered
Tired of the battles, the wars
Has forsaken and forgotten the maiden that awaits,
But her love ever aglow and alive
Escaping in silent prayers and pleas to God.
The peasants do not have the heart to tell her,
This vigilant, ever loyal maiden devoted to her temple of love,
Her idol, her god, has forsaken her.
Never will her lips feel the soft compress of his
Never will she know the carnal joys of becoming one with her love
Neither will her womb bear the happy weight of union
Nor the bliss of motherhood or the peace of companionship
Does she know ? They wonder as they stare
The immortal unwed, the rosy lips cold and dead
Pacing back and forth, walking her eternal walk
Eyes to the east with the ris
Holes to HeavenHoles to Heaven7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it's one foot
behind, the other.
mark a map
where you started
only to finish
bathed in beauty
set in stone,
homes dressed as
draped in green,
they all bloom
and I will
the busy currency
and I will
the hole that
you have made.
CrayonsLife is like a box of crayons.Crayons7 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
At birth, you're given a great big box of them to share and add color to your life.
Some colors get used more than others.
Sometimes, a crayon gets broken. A Bright color gets snapped in half and tossed in the garbage can, never to be returned. Sometimes you keep coloring. Sometimes you can't. That color was important.
Sometimes a crayon is gained, shared between two people. That color might be just perfect, and works great! Other times it's a different shade, but it will make do.
But, there is always one color left in the box.
It's normally unused until death. It's used to frame the picture. To add the final border to the coloring board of life.
Some people use it. They color onto other's pictures with it. Sometimes their own.
They use it to scribble out portions of the picture. Sometimes the portion isn't that important.
Sometimes it is.
Sometimes there are multiple blacks in the box when you open it for the day.. Sometimes there's only one, or i
it's all relativetellit's all relative6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
do you only need
you are building
to better see
have you placed
these stars behind
their gathering mass
unable to breathe
at the pane
in your self
but not e-
and unmake and
through which you
do you mean it?
pathos as a punchlineand then, mid-rinse, it hit me.pathos as a punchline6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
there's something a touch more troubling
about quiet desperation
showing its face during the
familiar & commonplace.
weeping in the shower; fully lathered,
red-eyed in the mirror;
shaving cream scattered,
small cut crowning
a procession of teeth.
crying at breakfast;
full stack of pancakes
cooling on the table.
miserable at brunch;
spinach quiche crumbles
collecting on the chin.
it's a fully realized sadness
fit to laugh at, on the screen.
it's a swallowing despair
to bear in skin.
never grow up.I have a monster living underneath my bed.never grow up.7 years ago in Children and Teen More Like This
Hes made up of burnt frog skin, white-red cobweb veined eyes and a collection of missing pebble teeth. Sometimes we play scrabble.
(The first time he was just a mechanical hum beneath the bowing wooden planks, he was just a faint smell of green and he was just a hot cloud of fog around my lips. Its the wind, its the wind, I breathed. Then he breathed back, heavy and loud and monster-like; AM NOT.)
He always spoke in capitals; MONSTERS ARE MUCH TOO SCARY FOR LOWER-CASED LETTERS, he informed me one night under pink covers. I shined the flashlight into his eyes until they changed colour and he bared his teeth.
He sometimes visits my dreams. The grass turns sickly where he trudges and the woodland creatures whimper and scramble in his wake. WHERES MY HUG? He holds his warm monster limbs out, palms snatching me from my happy-ever-after and grins gap-toothily. I manage a chuckle as I buckle in his embrace.
He used to keep me
ManuscriptI have written us down, typed us up, and sent us out.Manuscript8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
they will edit us, and say some parts are no good.
but I want your run-ons, your lack of punctuation; and you are so easy
on my weak binding, my damaged spine.
PROSE What Spies DoMy dad is a rock. He is solid, he is powerful. He can still pick me up and toss me over his shoulder. He is never seen to cry, he can never be swayed or damaged by opinion. He is a real estate agent, and he pushes those deals and sways those clients with confidence and experience. He flexes his arms at the dinner table when I ask him and points exactly which way it is to the beach or the gun show. He is a tree, a mountain, a thick and formidable presence in any room, in any place, against any person.PROSE What Spies Do7 years ago in Literature Submissions More Like This
Hes late, my mom said, and pursed her lips through the steam of her hot dinner plate.
My brother pushed a floret of broccoli with his fork. Cant we just start without him?
Absolutely not. She frowned. God help us if we become one of those families that never eats together. Its an important part of your childhood, and so ma
Heart WasteI loved once (unreturned)Heart Waste6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and could never find a
place to leave those
no receptacle for unwanted
no bin for stifled
When so much love
can find no home,
it pools like welling
a trapped bird,
frantic wings beating
a deep, green illness
that kills so
the body forgets
moth-eaten curtainsI sit on the carpetmoth-eaten curtains6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where gaps are filled
with chewing gum and dead spiders,
it's here, time,
I tell her everything;
use the words that are scribbled
on the paper with bright pink ruled
lines and no margins
kept in a shoebox beneath my bed.
The curtains were moth-eaten.
Damp marks left from leaks
swirl shapes on the
ceiling and the wall behind me,
smelling like clothes
that have flapped in the rain
and fallen in a pile, then worn
too many times;
in here, this time,
the whole building appears
yet with the windows intact
and exterior bricks
The smell of summer
She stares at me with those
with sharp edges still not glittering when
the last of the day's sunlight
sneaks in through closed curtains.
They are fake, not even glass;
ice: melting down her face.
A body of a snow man on
patrol in summer, her posture becomes
increasingly flaccid, the skin on her stomach
ripples, visible through her pyjama vest.
I watched my words eat her,
Warriors for Dummies- Part 1-Warriors- for dummiesWarriors for Dummies- Part 16 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
A look at what the Warriors characters are REALLY like...
Part 1- Original Series
Firestar: I am Firestar. I am brave and noble. I love Spottedleaf but now I love Sandstorm and I had kits with her but I feel like I'm cheating on my beautiful dead medicine cat so now I make out with her in my dreams. And I miss Bluestar, my old mentor, because she was wise and I was attached to her and stuff. I went on a journey to save SkyClan and Sandstorm got mad when I said that Echosong was hot. I am overprotective and I feel the need to prove myself to my Clanmates. I also have a knack for stating the obvious.
Sandstorm: I love Firestar, but I know he's cheating on me with a dead medicine cat who's seasons older than him and flirts with every tom she meets and it's all I worry about, besides my kits and their destinies. I want them to grow up happy and I want to be a loyal warrior but I want Firestar to love me and I want to be a good grandma and I also want to
Faded SonataFaded Sonata9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
There is a place
In a tiny room
In a special house
Surrounded by magic
Some golf balls
And a pond
A mini Mozart
The boxed and ignored
Of years long past
Faded yellow flowers
Peel from the wall
And droop to kiss the old
On which one becomes quite lazy
Beside old papers
Dreams in a chunky pillow
Feet sticking out
Of that considerate hole
In the blue blanket bottom
Waking up to
That are never
And little brown
Fingers tripping over
The little brown keys
And giving special love
To the two keys
That fell asleep mid-song
Like the little Mozart
Her head on the keys
Drifting a taper to her
Let's Hate Age 11Let's Hate6 years ago in Other More Like This
We met in a room full of crowded people
who knew my name
they knew my face
and they knew things I didn't
Most people there knew his parents
and that was about it; the knowledg
to yell to dance to grow...one day I will tell my son to look for loveto yell to dance to grow...6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like a drowning man, to fill his lungs with it. I will
raise him with gentle hands and teach him to touch
a woman or a man with his fingertips. I will
tell my son to cry when he feels like crying and laugh
when he feels like laughing and sing out loud
when he feels the voice of God in his chest.
I will teach him to be unashamed
of his body or his thoughts, to spend days naked
with himself and his dreams, the proper way to throw
a punch and when to walk away. I will tell him
to get dirty, that every human being will spend
at least one night on their knees, value of
humility and of sore muscles. I will teach him to love,
above all other things to love,
to love and love and love until his body aches
with the quivering tension of
holding it all in and I will tell him that second to this,
the strongest thing he will ever do is look into the breaking point
and let go.
The Thing About ClichesI.The Thing About Cliches6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
If this were a cliché,
A poem, or both
It would be about sparkling midnight skies and heartbeats and flowers and sex.
There would be oceanic eyes and rain that tastes like tears. Well throw in anxiety-riddled murmurs and metaphorical bullets and allusions to sharp objects for pity.
This is not a cliché anymore.
So instead I wrote about the flavor of emerald and the fragrance of April hope. I painted pictures of a perfect pencil, poised over a blank page.
If this were a romance,
A message in a bottle, or both
It would still be cliché, to capture electric fingers and longings locked away with skeleton keys, and drugs.
Wed find footprints in the sand and read angels into them. Wed collect rejected roses, tarnished rings, and hopeful held breaths where the tides washed them up, tie them up with ribbon, and cork it all away for someone else to worry about.
This is not a romance either.
So instead I baked coffee cake while it rained, and picked the wee
Eat"Oy, let me see your calorie card!" The skinny man at the hotdog stand demanded, holding my hotdog just out of reach.Eat5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I sighed and dug the plastic out of my pocket, handing it to him with a sour grimace on my face. I was sure I had already exceeded my allotted 1500 calories for today, but I was just so darn hungry. Seriously, what was one hotdog going to do to my figure anyway?
He shook his head as he swiped it through the scanner. "Sorry girlie. This hot dog is 242 calories. You only have 10 calories left for today." He shooed me away in preference of those with enough calories on their card to afford his food.
My stomach grumbled its complaints all the way home. If I had really wanted that hotdog I could have gone to the gym and earned more calories on my card, but I really wasn't in the mood for exercise.
It started in California, taking hold among the mothers who didn't want their kids to become fat
Near is not my nameThis fic was inspired by Anime-2000's fanart "Near is Alone," http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/50579052/ . Go check it out. Go on. Leave her a nice comment. I can wait.Near is not my name8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Okay, back? Enjoy, then. ^^
A small, impressed crowd had gathered around the towers. But the boy in the center, the boy who had carefully crafted each tower out of countless dice, seemed not to notice it. He merely sat among his creations, staring at nothing and unconsciously twisting his hair around his finger.
"Hey, did you make these? New kid?"
Ah, yes—the white-haired creator was new to Wammy's House. Well, this would certainly earn him a certain flavor of respect.
"Hey, new kid?"
That is, as long as his silence wasn't interpreted as arrogance or aloofness.
"Are these seriously dice?" mused one child, reaching out as if to touch the closest tower.
"Don't touch that."
The TempoA while back a colleague of mine brought up in a conversation that somewhere in the world someone dies with every second that passes by. On the other side of that coin, he said, every second someone is born. He said it so matter-of-factly, as though it made perfect sense that there be some sort of universal scale of grief and happiness, life and death. I dont know for sure that what he said was true, but today theres two particular seconds I cant seem to get off my mind.The Tempo7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I used to have this business associate by the name of James Silver. He was pretty young to be as far along as he was. I cant honestly say that he had much of a life outside of his work, at least not that I knew about. Of course you could see him out occasionally, maybe having lunch with friends or partners, and possibly every once in a while it would be a woman. But men like James simply did not have time for a personal life. Guys like him were driven to succeed, maybe by their own will or volit