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The Civil War
By: Nellie Melton

The war began when a bunch of people in the lower hemisphere of Americaland were ticked off at the ones above them because they ate all the pizza. What really used a straw to break a camel’s back though was when Lincoln was voted to be the president. South Carolina was all “AW HELL NAW,” and separated from the Union. Then, all the other states down there were all “Hey, let’s jump on the bandwagon too!” And so they did. However, the Union was going “OH NO YOU DI’INT”, so they started the war. This made people generally upset.

The first major battle of the war was when Lincoln was trying to open a jar of pickles. Then, the SECOND major battle of the war was called “The Battle of Bull” or something along the lines of that. This battle was important because a lot of people lost and it made the North and South realize that THIS IS A FREAKIN’ WAR AND OF COURSE IT’S NOT GOING TO END RIGHT AWAY. THEY NEVER DO. Unless it’s the Seven Day’s War, in which Sadako fought an army of little tiny Pyramid Heads because they critiqued her video too much. But that’s beside the point, because even then it took seven days. Seriously.

The battles went on for quite a while. There was espionage, guerilla warfare, warfare in general, and many vicious Halo and Dance Dance Revolution matches between the two sides. It was all so tiring that the two sides’ girlfriends got bored of watching the men play video games all the time and left them for the party life. Both the North and South were heavily inflicted with depression because of this, and wrote bad poetry about the darkness of their souls and how their teachers kept them in during recess. Alas, it was dark times.

The South was hit the hardest, however, when many men no longer had shoes to protect their little toesies. Because of this, they could no longer play DDR and were now on the defensive, until one fateful night. They preformed a summoning ritual that summoned the magical rainbow vintage Barbie doll, never removed from box! (NRFB! NRFB!) She granted them all plastic high-heels for which they could continue to fight in. The men rejoiced, for not only did they have shoes again, but they made their legs look sexy.

The southern men’s sexy legs angered the men from the North, for they became jealous. Angrily they gnashed their teeth and smoke poured out of their ears as they charged into the South. They crashed over mountains, deserts, and forests, but then many sank into the Bayou. It was a tragic event. Some smart ones dug a hole through the Bayou though and ended up in China. They ordered some takeout, then swam across the Altantic Ocean from New York to London like MapQuest told them to.

Some people may argue that the Civil War was over slavery. This was actually a cover-up by the CIA. It was actually over oil, ‘cause that’s usually what causes wars. Some say that the cover-up never happened though, and it was only a misinterpretation of “black gold” in old journals recovered from Civil War veterans. Either way, the CIA refused to comment when I followed them around all day, trying to ask stuff. Buncha jerks.

Anyway, after the Bayou incident was when the most horrendous assault happened. That’s right; Jefferson Davis released the ninjas on Lincoln. For a long time, Davis had ninja traps set throughout Japan. The traps were ingenious; disguised as pirates or helpless babies with candy, and soon many ninjas were hanging upside-down from nooses, and man were they pissed. In fact, they were so pissed that anyone who came within a 50-mile radius got their heads exploded from the pure ninja fury going on there. After the ninjas were caught, they were shipped to Americaland, directly to Lincoln’s house.

It was Christmas when he opened the package marked “This is totally not a box full of ninjas”. Suddenly a whole horde of them sprung out of the box, killed everyone in the building including all the bugs that were there, and then left. Fortunately for Lincoln, a phoenix down fell off the table from a gust of wind, landed on him, and revived him. He only had one, though, so in his grief, he built a robot that would replicate his wife, transplanting her brain into it. Meanwhile, the ninjas searched for the one who took them from their homeland, planning to avenge themselves. They found Davis in a supermarket, and ended up killing him with loaves of French bread. Then they teleported back home, to go tell their ninja friends of their excellent adventure.

And so, with their leader gone, the Confederacy lost the war, and the Union was preserved. People flopped about on the streets with happiness, and that’s how breakdancing was invented. Lincoln was shot afterwards.

THE END.
I got an A! :D
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You wake up and it's spring again.  The kids have all grown up and moved out. Your neighbor needs to mow her lawn but she is too seasoned for long exposure to the southern sun.  It dawns on you one night when you're grilling steaks for your family.  Your daughter calls you over to the table. She's on her third glass of wine. She met a man in graduate school.  He doesn't drink.  They clear their throats in unison and announce that they are engaged and plan to be married next January.  You're happy for them but that is getting further and further from your mind.  Your eyes shift over to the tall weeds growing only feet away from your wife's roses.  You think about the fact that your neighbor never mentioned grandchildren.  She never mentioned anyone.  You think about the boy down the street who died in that car accident this winter.  He always took care of her yard…for a price.  Now, there is crab grass growing so close to your Tall Fescue. The last thing you think about for awhile is that you can't remember how long it's been since you have seen her.  Not since spring began.  You hug your daughter and shake her fiancés hand and walk over to the neighbor's front door.  You ring the bell and continuously knock.  You don't think about why she isn't answering because you already know.
Thought about this during class the other day. The title is still a work in progress. If you can offer constructive feedback on this piece I would appreciate it.
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madeline wants to paint a picture on a canvas.
she wants to build a tree house and wants her netball team to win the final.
meet someone new every day. she wants to realise pink's an ugly colour and throw out all of her clothes.
-
she wants to make her first phone call to a boy and hold his hand and go to his house. she wants to get butterflies and wants to share a hot chocolate with him. she wants to have her first kiss.
-
she wants to listen to music until its all she can hear. she wants to fail tests and say fuck studying, she wants to get a detention and wants to tell her parents that she handed in the excursion money, but keep it for herself.
-
madeline wants to get high and get a piercing and tell everyone she's fighting the power. she wants to try being vegetarian for a week. she wants to skip school and go to parties. she wants to stumble home in the early morning.
-
she wants to detox and spend all sunday sleeping. she wants to apologise to her parents and try so very hard to explain. she wants to have sex in the backyard and in the shower and at the beach and tell a boy she loves him and mean it
-
she wants to buy a white dress and say 'i do'. she wants to spend forever choosing a boy's name and a gir'sl name. she wants to get an ultrasound and she  wants be be able to tell her children about her childhood.

-

the doctor gave her two weeks to live.
if i could, i would give her more.
i've been listening to so much jack johnson lately.
i love it.

i just needed to write
:heart:

updated 12/11 11.27 pm
changggggged some stuff.
and added another paragraph.
andd realised i kinda sorta like this.
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it's the day of our anniversary and

i'm reading old love letters and i suddenly miss the sweet scent of daisy perfume curling under my nostrils. i suddenly began waking up every summer morning because you always left for work and you wouldn't ever leave without kissing me goodbye. i'm reading every sentence over and over again while wondering why God sent the only person i loved towards a different direction.
i'll love you until the sun stops shining.
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he has a harlequinade smile and sometimes we fuck under the stars. in the backyard; a mess of drunken, tired limbs shaking in the breeze and shaking under one another, we disregard everything we care about for as long as we want and everything is perfect as long as we keep it that way.

we collapse into each other; our heartbeats slowing and our breaths becoming deeper as we lay next to each other and watch what we can see of the stars from our suburban backyard. he tells me they're beautiful, and all i can remember is the real stars; the real night sky without the purple haze of pollution clouding the sky. i want to show him the real night sky one day.

he tells me he wishes moments like these could last forever, as we lie side by side watching as the purple-black sky fades into blue and the stars cease to exist for another day. his dark, tired eyes stare through me and i haven't slept but it doesn't matter, because his smile is warm and his hands gentle, resting in the curve of my back.

he has a harlequinade smile and sunset eyes and a story written in the palms of his hands and holds me even in his sleep and i think i love him.
maybe.
just a little.
this is more than obviously for james.
because i love him more than anything else in the world.
maybe.
just a little.


yeah im sorry. i can't write lately.
dunno.
also, DEVIN HARLIQUINADE!
:heart:
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Dear Kira,
            I feel it's necessary to say 'dear [insert name]' at the beginning of every letter, because that's how we were taught to write letters, but some people just say the person's name without 'dear' and it makes them sound upset. I personally would like to say 'oh sweet' or 'oh so lovely' in place of 'dear' sometimes.

Oh sweet Kira,
                   Sometimes I imagine being a famous actor, author, or musician's son. How cool would that be? But the more I think about it, the more I realize it probably wouldn't be as exhilarating as it seems if I actually were. Their kids probably don't see them as superstars. And that thought reminds me that the family I have are superstars, even if it's only in my galaxy.

Oh so lovely Kira,
                        I want to live my life like a really good book that's so sweet, it's sad. I know someone else who seems the same way, but she's much more true to herself, and much more ambitious, and much more beautiful. And she doesn't give me as much attention as I'd like her to, though I think I understand why, but still, I have to make up reasons to not tell her everything and to not believe I'm in love with her and to not call her up one day screaming at her. I barely know her, but that's a good start, isn't it?

Dear Kira,
            I like music by Justice, but I hate the crowd they attract. Same goes for author Neil Gaiman's more adult books. And Great Escape. And malls. And Las Vegas. And yo-yo's.

Dear Kira,
            I believe you can't love someone unless they leave a little room for you to hate them when you want to. So when a guest comes over, and some people who usually don't act sweet act sweet, I don't take it to heart, because it assures me that they love me.

My beloved Kira,
                       Have you ever looked at an old photograph of yourself that had strangers in the background and wondered what they were doing today? Or wondered what they look like now, or if they're making something of their lives, or if they're even still breathing?
                       I hope they're doing okay.

Dear Kira,
            I want my headstone to say, “You're next.”
            That was meant to be funny, but I'd actually like my headstone to say, “I really lived life. Now it's your turn.” I just hope the italicized letters don't cost too much extra.

Dear Kira,
            I don't think God is a He, because what would God need with a penis and two testicles? Also, I don't think God's name is God, nor does God have one. I don't think God is a person, or a thing, or a conscious being, or anything else in words or even in our comprehension. But I believe in God.
            And if God really is a He, and angels and heaven are real, and Jesus is really waiting there, I'm sure they'll understand.

Dear Kira,
            I get this feeling every so often when I think everything and everyone is so very beautiful, and every photo I see of a new stranger, I think, “I love them.”
            Also, I've looked at myself so much in the mirror that I've convinced myself I look like Adam. I don't think I'm special. It's just that I've begun to look so plain.

Dear Kira,
            Old people make me sad. Especially the ones who still haven't learned that happiness isn't something you look for and find, but rather, it's a state of mind easily achieved.

My Darling Kira,
                       I cry easily, and I hate it.
                       Also, every time I'm really angry and my brother sees me, he'll laugh, and no matter how mad I am, I have to laugh too. And I hate it because I can't bear the instant change of emotion.

Oh wonderful Kira,
                          If I could, I'd spend a life listening to everybody's problems and showing each of them the love and attention they deserve, though...I really can't.
                          But I'll start with you.

Dear Kira,
            “Wait, wait, don't forget me! I'm just as important as they are, you see!”
            That was the only line I had to say in a kindergarten play, and it feels like my life has been based around it ever since.

Dear Kira,
            I think everything is connected, because sometimes, scenery that I've never seen flashes into my mind for only a second before it hides away and I forget it. I truly believe these places exist though and wish to see them firsthand. I'd also like to live many different lifestyles and not stick to the same routine for too long. I even want to meet many different people, and learn many different things(not just strange/fun facts), and pursue a few different talents. I want to feel many different feelings, and think many different thoughts.
             But I only want to do it all with one person.

Dear Kira,
             When I'm writing, it feels like time stops.
             When I'm writing for you, time doesn't even exist.

Dear Kira,
            I'd like to get rich some day(but not to the point where it's filthy), with a big house, a boat, a fancy apartment, some weird expensive car, a motorcycle(I'll never learn to ride it), a piece of land, maybe even an island, with a whole lot of cash left over, just to one day(and not when I start to get old) give it all away. And I'd be happier knowing I had it and let it go than if I held it tight forever.

Dear Kira,
            Sometimes I feel like going up to a parent and asking them, 'Why did you do it?'
            Why do we want children if life is so confusing and harmful to us? Is it to have something to live for? A reason to feel like our existence isn't all in vain? To love as hard as our hearts will let us and know that when it's our time to go, someone will cry for us?
            If I don't figure it out, I hope when I'm an old man, my kids can tell me.

Dear Kira,
            I want to learn an instrument because I love music.
            I want to play an instrument to get women.

Dear Kira,
             I love growing up, because if I didn't, being young wouldn't be as exciting. Though, I don't think I'll grow up a whole lot in the mind anyway. I imagine having conversations with my kid(s) when they're a few months young. And still playing hide and seek with them when they're fourteen. And singing and dancing in the living room or the front lawn, solo or with my wife or kid(s). And trying to teach my kid(s) something other than 'dada' as their first word. And acting out planned, embarrassing scenes with my wife when they bring their boy/girlfriend over. And getting a band to play 'Do you know the muffin man?' at my wedding, or perhaps never having an official one. And singing 'I will always love you' at the top of my lungs in a field of grass, or the middle of a lake. And teaching my kid(s) when someone says 'thank you' to say 'no, thank yooou!'. And me still cracking stupid jokes when I'm on my deathbed.

My beautiful Kira,
                         I don't think we can change the world. We can't move mountains, or rivers, or glaciers, or islands. Sure, we can cut through them or make new ones, but we cannot pick them up and place them somewhere else. Therefore, we cannot change the world. But we can- I say we can -change the people in it.



                                                                        Love To And 'Til Death,
                                                                                           Vincenzo~
fuck ~PostSecrets ! ...coming straight out with this, haha.
this was a little project between :iconspongexd: and I to kickstart '09 and make it interesting.
it's all true.

here is hers: [link]

~~~~~
=Inked-Page may post this
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It's 8:34. I wake up covered in covered morning light. I don't know where I am

but I feel that this should feel very familiar to me, there are bottles strewn

all about and the bed is unmade, I am sleeping on a pile of clothes on a pile

of mattress. The shutters are down, I can't see outside and I think, "this is

all very symbolic".

I think of drifting back to sleep but don't tell myself any stories.

I don't get up until 10:11. This is appropriate. The cradle's too warm, the

world's too cold, I am bored with myself and there is nothing for me here. I

wonder why I stay. The chill doesn't strike me much, even in December this

place never freezes. I walk to the bathroom, my parents' room's door is

closed. My mother works, she is not home, my father does nothing, he is always

at home. The obligatory bathroom is next door. I don't turn on the lights, the

fractured relay of mosaic glass is comforting, mesmerizing. I look in the

mirror and see dreams filter through in recollection of myself and wonder how

much of this place can be real when so much of dreams are not. The medium is

endlessly more intriguing here, but is it art?

I laugh, my eyes are shaded by red roots on either side. I wonder if I've

slept. I wash my face, I spill water into my eyes. It hurts, I think,

"minerals in the water," but the roots are satiated and sink underneath the

snow again.

I look into the mirror and reach for my face in the glass. It's about as real

as a dream. I touch my face, it is doughy, fleshy. I touch my face and it is a

warm clay. I try to shape it, pushing every strand of skin off-center, I step

back and look at my work and think, "the distortion has an uncanny resemblence

to its maker, but is it art?" In the end I feel that I've failed to make

anything of myself.

I think, "this is all very symbolic"

I laugh but I don't remember smiling. I think I'm still asleep standing up.

This is what a zombie would perhaps feel like, covered in fractured morning

light.

I realize I haven't eaten anything since yesterday's noon. This is a good

thing, I am remembering that I haven't eaten. I would like a double order of

brains or hot pockets. My father is looking away when I come out of the

bathroom, he doesn't look at me except peripherally. Like father like son. He

doesn't say anything to me. Like father like son. I intrude into the kitchen

and decrypt the riddle of modern cryostatic technology. I grab a hot pocket,

we don't allow brains in the house. It is efficiently prepared by me. the hot

pocket is pocketed in its sleeve; it is put on a plate and microwaved.

a minute passes.

I realize that I don't remember reading its label. It is probably ham and

cheese but possibly pepporoni pizza. I don't know what I want. I guess, it

doesn't really matter, essentially they're the same. Same medium, same shape

and form, different textures and intensities. This is art. "People are kind of

like hot pockets," I think, this realization feels very symbolic to me.

another minute passes.

I take out the hot pocket, it is unevenly cooked. Some parts are scaldingly

hot. Some parts are still a little icy. I think "life is like a hot pocket"

and then I'm trying too hard. I leave the scene before I come up with anymore

bullshit and think of sleeping again.
Astream of Consciousnesswork, I think alsothat I should writemore.
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he asked me once, 'are you afraid to die?' and i didn't know how to answer. i'd like to say that i am; that it scares me more than anything else, but i can't help but think that the world becomes a better place when you die. i told him i wasn't and he stared out the window at the dark street. resting his head against the slightly-frosted window pane, he breathed 'neither am i'</acronym>
-
we're all just dying, though, don't you think? we're not living, we're dying. every day is another day we won't ever get back and another day that we won't ever remember. at least we're dying together, though. at least we can say that we've spent time watching our lives pass us by and not doing anything about it. i think that's the best thing we can do, really.
-
i realised the other day that there's nothing to be afraid of. that even if we are dying, that even if we are lost, thats the point. that maybe we're supposed to get lost and find our way out. that maybe if we spend long enough dying when the time really comes we won't be afraid and we'll have beautiful last words. i realised i have a boy who belongs to the sun and people who appreciate the words that spill from my mind onto my computer screen. i realise that the only thing i was ever scared of was myself and i've learnt to write in first person. i've realised that there's nothing to be afraid of.
-
today, i believe you when you say i'm beautiful.
this is for.
this is for.
this is for.
everyone.

for my beautiful boy who belongs to the sun and means more to me than he could ever imagine and checks my deviant art page more than nessecary, to everyone whose name i will one day learn that favourites and comments and i never ever thank your properly, for chloe whos book i accidentally set on fire (i promise you'll still get it though, chloe. burnt and paint plattered and all) for devin whose logic and mind-fucks make me smile, for everyone i've done collabs with who have sparked some words in me, for :devslightlykitsch: whose diary made me smile, for the people who have been here since the very start when i wrote about robot love and the summer, for michele who knows my name and that made me smile, for megan whose work just makes me want to die over and over again because i can't deal with the way it makes my heart race, for everyone who said they'd miss me and then i never really left, for the other writers on here who don't get nearly enough credit, for sibel who has honestly been the most supportive person, for elizabeth who sparked this realisation, for people who will never, ever read this, for people who won't get the chance to read this, for people who are long gone, for people who i still think about almost every day, for the people who invented water colour pencils, for the people who deal with my spelling mistakes and for the people who promised me everything would be okay in the end. because it is. because without you guys i'd be nothing and still lost. it's corny as all hell, but really. i mean it.
thank you.

:heart:
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planets on top of covers on top of atoms,
with rings like sheared tutus around them with
vibrant colors. off kilter and running wild, your
sayings are all just so generic. watching the
screen for hours on end causes vertigo, so
you stick to the telly.

picking back up regular, every day to day life
is so strange after a significant event. even
watching the leaves drift with the wind and
the branches shake at their loss doesn't
hold your attention anymore. only numbers
in orderly rows on crisp cream paper,
preferably bold type, make you happy. we
all know why. they assure you that this isn't
a dream, that your reality isn't out of your
grasp just yet.

strung up lights around shop fronts and
trees are the picture book image of town.
i show the shots to you, giving you a
magnifying glass so you can go people
watching. i don't care if you stay in here
all day, all year, or all your life; just please
don't ever stop creating your reality. the
numbers keep us both sane.
I'm obsessed with The Big Bang Theory. :heart:

[link]
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There is nothing I can give you that you have not already had, no emotions I can explain that you will have not already felt. Yet, comforted by the quiet hum of cicadas, the slow ballet of the clouds that I watch through my window tonight, I can think of nothing else. I'm sure, too, that you will understand that words written, thought out and laced together so precisely only to convey my gratitude, are words that are meant from the very deepest place in my heart.

This place, long ago, felt as though it was sinking away into the yellow and red shades of dusk; chasing the horizon, following the seas until they fade like old film in search of a change. I was cold, shattered by memories and stained with the blood of my own heart, knew only my selfish desires for something unattainable. I was everything that I hated in a person; surrounded by the need only for silence and isolation, their definitions ringing so true as they rolled from my tongue night after night, bitter and neglectful. Held with hands made of water, I tortured myself every day again and again with only thoughts of better things, happier people, stronger loves. A hurricane without the center, a storm without the calm, every word I uttered sending trails of poison creeping like ivy around my mind.
Every face, whether carved from fragile china or rotted wood was the same - ugly people with ugly incentives. To me, the world was a horrible, cruel place. I tried and tried again to find that light, those few islands of altruism in a sea of selfishness, always finding nothing but wider expanse of blue depths. And the further I searched, the deeper the water beneath me got.

I eventually found my fragments of hope, and slowly their light brightened my skin, cleared the murky water beneath me. I never stopped looking though, because I was truly in love with the idea of perfection, the idea that there was always something better out there. I wore on me, and I would leave those little shards of hope behind, so confident now that what I was really looking for was out there. Little did I know, it was right in front of my eyes. It was only when I was sore, aching to my bones with the absence of love and affection, tired and admitting defeat in the form of tears spilled into pillow cases every night that I found it - perfection in its most abstract form.

At first, it was just your voice. The quietness and affection that resonated within it hit me, so abrupt and so bittersweet, a warmth in my lungs that told me, yes, it is okay to feel this way. And so I watched, and slowly I grew. I grew and understood and learned and accepted and so many other things along the way. It was like feeling grass between your toes for the first time in the morning, still heavy with dew, and knowing that these beautiful things had been there all along, you just weren't able to see them. It took time, but the pure love that I saw in you, the pure kindness and good, it showed me that the perfection I was searching wasn't out there. I had deceived myself, and once I learned to not be angry at myself for that, I was happy. I was truly happy, for the first time in years.


This is why you deserve all the words I can think of, all the pretty similes and poetic language I can spill. This is why you are like the sunrise, the stars and the full moon hung against the black curtain of the sky. But above all of these things, you are just you, and the fact that you are so proud, so bold and so strong, so driven, so passionate, so creative - it makes it even more beautiful that the sun or the stars or the moon could ever be.
When you spread happiness, I think, you deserve a world of love. An ocean, not of selfishness or of loss that I had once lived atop, but of care and smiles that really mean something. You have been hurt, you have cried and felt helpless, yet when I hear you laugh, it sets alight a fire in my heart that tells me these things are irrelevant. The hurt and the sadness and the loneliness no longer matters when you see something so beautiful it takes your breath away - and to me, there is nothing more beautiful than those who put others above themselves. Nothing in the world could match what you make people feel - what you have made me feel, how you have changed me - because there is nothing in the world like it.

You have taught me so much, helped me in ways you cannot imagine, and guided me through some things I may not have been able to handle otherwise. I would have smothered you with praise and affection then if I had not been so afraid, but I make up for it now instead with this. The honest words that do not emerge from within my mind, but from my soul, warmed by the fire which you helped light.
And there are a thousand more words I could write, about why you deserve all the hugs and the poems and the art-deco pieces and vases full of rocks in the world, about why you deserve all to feel all of the cool minty stretches anyone has ever done, about my speech therapy lessons with you, but I will end now only with this.

I have found my candle - my happy amongst all of the distraction - and I owe it to you for moving the rocks momentarily from my mind. Thank you, with everything that I have.
to tasha, who means more than she'll ever know.
the kind of person that the world needs more of.
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