Tips for Improving and Enriching Your WritingTips for Improving and Enriching Your Writing2 years ago in Reviews & Guides More Like This
Tips for Improving and Enriching Your Writing
Know the fundamentals of writing. If you don't know these or need help with them look copy and paste this link into your adress bar http://magicuser5656.deviantart.com/art/Things-Everyone-Should-Know-About-Writing-286645736
Know your audience. You need to be aware of the audience your writing is targeted towards. You'd never catch a zoologist using a children's picture book to learn about zebras!
Have an engaging opening sentence. This is your big chance at getting the reader interested after the title, and possibly a description! Use it well.
Shorter can be better. Shorter paragraphs, shorter sentences. A sentence doesn't have to be a run-on sentence to be considered too long. If your writing becomes too long you may loose the interest of some of your readers. Think short and sweet, but keep in mind short sentences make time fly by. Having longer sentences will slow tim
Hema Tytto: BioHema Tytto: Bio11 months ago in Profiles More Like This
Name: Hema Tyttö
Personality Traits: Bossy, impatient, strict, motherly, sweet, loyal and very protective of her kingdom and her friends
Likes: Archery, cute animals, strawberry shortcakes and lemon pies
Dislikes: Pepper's refusal to bathe, men's chauvinistic behavior towards her, being perverted and getting seasick over the oceans
Attributes: Excellent archery skills, knows a few healing skills and marksmanship
Not much is known about Hema Goldstein yet... She's the princess of Eclian
A Christmas Miracle: Johnlock"Happy Christmas, Sherlock! Look, Father Christmas came!" Mycroft was bouncing on the edge of Sherlock's bed, beaming with excitement. "I bet I got that set of night vision goggles!"A Christmas Miracle: Johnlock2 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
"Hey! I was the one who wanted those!"
"Too bad! They're all mine!" Mycroft's voice grew deeper, and his face began to change into another all-too-familiar face.
"Moriarty? How'd you do that?" Sherlock squeaked.
"I owe you a cookie, Sherlock,"
"Sherlock, wake up! You're yelling in your sleep again!" John's voice roused Sherlock from his sleep. He sat up, spreading his long arms above him, yawning loudly. His pajama bottoms had little penguins on them. Sherlock wondered why Mycroft had given him the trousers, but they were flannel, and very warm. Sherlock's mind was devoid of all emotions, a clear slate, as usual. Today's Christmas, he realized. No wonder he had dreamt so festively. But Moriarty refused to leave his dreams, always present in one way or another. He had stopped shooting him
memories, making glorious mudhis memories are making a glorious mudmemories, making glorious mud6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it is a lumberjack's wife whose veins are budding twigs,
arms feeble as every dried branch to soak a shining star.
it is her who bares such troubled wrists for oven mitts,
so ardently delivers her hoggish assembly some hulking bird
whose body cavity is crammed tight to the sphincter
with a spiced bread. instinctively, she goes for the knife.
there is some raucous applause as she serrates
its oiled, peppered and flightless skin and on
into its succulent chest meat as every spectator
dreams of flying. her blade burrows farther in
and under enough to dredge up a pinkish marrow,
where she stops, lets the carver out
to start again from the beginning...
no lumberjack lives here,
no whiskered axe-man wakes to the rooster.
a daring cedar deadened him flat as toads who nap
beneath some winter stones. his brain was stapled to earth
with a mighty red branch and there have spread rumors.
the truth? his memories are making a glorious mud.
Hippogriff Amigurumi PatternBuckbeak the Hippogriff AmigurumiHippogriff Amigurumi Pattern3 years ago in Profiles More Like This
Pattern by Bandotaku
You will need:
-F hook (main body), G hook (wings)
-Light gray yarn (head, wings, and upper body)
-Medium gray yarn (lower body and back legs)
-Dark gray yarn (front legs, beak, wing tips)
-Black yarn (hooves, tail)
-White or cream yarn OPTIONAL (for chest and upper-front-legs. It's m ore difficult to do, but it looks very pretty.)
-plastic safety eyes, approx. 12 mm. (felt or button eyes would also work)
Feel free to choose colors other than what I have directed. How about a brown hippogriff? A black one? Multi-colored?
Please make as many cute little hippogriffs as you'd like for you or your friends or sell them locally, but please do not sell them online.
The toe design I tweaked from this pattern http://sarselgurumi.blogspot.com/2011/05/toothless-amigurumi-pattern.html
The wings I borrowed from the same website, which was borrowed from a different source.
Because this is a free pattern, it has not been offici
The Death of a MetronomeI know your lot is loathe to write in forms,The Death of a Metronome7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You think of rhymes as manacles cast off
By modern poets. False archaic norms.
A metered work? A paradelle. You scoff
To think that any bonds could aid the hand
To which they bind, in drafting verse.
A ruler curbs an architect's command
Of ink and pen, and, for it, he is worse.
A shame that drivers steer within their lanes,
That children learn to shade between the lines,
That tracks enslave the best and fastest trains,
That every room has width a wall confines.
In light of such examples, your unrest
Inspires my inner poet to protest.
This is not a sonnet.
A low slung sunA low slung sun8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A low slung sun, the tide of winter
retreating with a colourful regalia
of leaf-shaped sailing ships, blown
by a North wind sweeping low, weeping
into newly bare-branch hands.
over my neighbors fence—
The sad sky blues a one-four-five,
deepening into that summerless groove,
jet-streamed smooth & shaped in streaks—
cirrusly in need of an audience, to applaud
that fall-song dirge of slow-death tones.
PassionIn the quiet hours, IPassion1 year ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
lose myself within your soul,
A Memory for an Old FriendI knew an old man - a hunched eucalypt,A Memory for an Old Friend7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
back bent away from grass-tearing storms
that my mother hid from in her youth.
He was private, would not speak of the past
sunk into wrinkled bark and knotted knees,
the arthritis of ages holding him still.
Nor did he raise voice, his benevolent limbs
were shelter from the crack of an open palm
and the cacophony of a kitchen in ruins.
He was the quiet times, the calm hours,
the sun-watched sleep when dusk was just an idea
and the air carried no bite nor chill.
I grew, forgetful, until a rambling sunday reacquainted us
and I remembered him - the kindly old eucalypt,
back bent to break the winds that threatened
the peace of a small child.
CreepyPasta: YoungBlood - Chapter 3CreepyPasta: YoungBlood - Chapter 31 year ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
The Dark Realm. In this horrible place, monsters come here for refuge after dealing with the humans. Once they are done with their duties in the Human Realm, the monsters simply go through a portal to come here. No human in their right mind would dare try and find this place. If they did... who knows what horrors would be there waiting?
Inside a large, dark castle, that stood eerily over a large town, a figure with flaming hair could be seen walking towards the throne room. Two guards with black and red hooded robes blocked his path with their spears. "Who are you? And state you business," one of the guards said in a deep voice.
The figure glared at the guards. "Fools. Do you not know your own Dark Lord? It is I, Lord Severo."
The guards gasped, and stood straight. "My lord," the guard on the right said, "the Dark One is discussing business with his commander. No disrespect, but we can not let you enter without--"
Suddenly, Severo reached out his hand, as an invisible force strangled t
The Loss of PeaceSophia learned early on to spread her studies over different usernames, to use them a few times and then abandon them for weeks at a time, never researching long enough to send up red flags. At the beginning shed only used her own login, looking up school subjects and then going deeper, doing searches for terms she didnt know.The Loss of Peace6 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
It was a cyclical endeavor. Every new document she read brought up more questions, more searches, more questions. In this way she transitioned from division, to the history of numbers, to Pythagoras, to Ancient Greece, to democracy, to war, and so on.
War was still one of the strangest concepts she had come across in her years of infodiving. She simply couldnt wrap her head around it. The closest she could come was thinking of it as a sort of wide-spread, indiscriminate assassination between cities. But what was the point of assassinating a Mass? Sophia tried to imagine someone ordering her to be killed, and couldnt. No self-respecting Gun
On ParabolaOn Parabola9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
With subatomic subtlety settling on his brow,
he said 'Time's a broken arrow
that points from then to now.'
Once a grain, I entreated him
to stop this flow of sand,
'You're immersed in the irreversible
until, entropical, I land.'
In that glass all is hours,
the busted bucket and the spade,
and each collapsing castle
that our spilt ice cream made.
Since his hands are tide
we can all be shore,
when the sediment slides
there is no more.
Queen BeeEven in my dreams, dear, I am sick of yourQueen Bee5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You haunt me when my eyes close,
amidst the candy cane trees my mind
makes up; You stroll along the sea grass
laughing, like a hyena. You grab my hand
And I have to remind myself: this is only a dream,
a dream! I scream, I scream. Your laughter is thick
as honey now. I can hear the bees.
They swarm, and I think suddenly that I can
feel pain in dreams, can you? You are silent,
I am under the buzzing wings, floating
Away from you. Your ghost is farther away
than ever, now. Sometimes
I wake: a bee stuck in my throat.
Poetry is Not...Poetry is Not...10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Poetry is not a competition
to see whose voice can out-bellow
It is not the mock elevation of baristas,
waitresses, and coffee girls.
It is not referring to grown ass women as girls.
Poetry is not performance.
It is not the trapeze.
Not the spotlight, limelight,
or a long, harrowing limo ride.
It is not an intricate courting dance.
Not the irridescence of peacock tails
Poetry is not a cockfight.
It's not a dating service for the pretentious
Poetry will not stop war.
Will not feed the hungry.
Will not build homes from shoddy rhyme schemes.
Poetry will not score you any points
for the afterlife, nor with women.
If you are an asshole, no stack of verse
will hide that fact. Poetry in its artifice
will not deliver to you a happily ever after.
It will not glue your marriage.
It will not shield you from his drunken
misogynist fist. Even if he writes poetry.
Poetry is not an elixir or a tool.
It is decorative, like sheer linen curtains,
and that is all.
Half-Penny ThoughtYoure a half-penny thought in the back of my mind,Half-Penny Thought6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
just a whimsy, a waste of a fragment of time.
Youre a telephone number I forgot to write down;
youre the least of my worries, the last in a line
of a long list of wishes Ive wished for.
Yes, your voice is a song that I hum now and then,
not for long, just for fun, never starting again
round and round in my head, nowhere near my top ten,
this refrain wont remain, when its over - Amen
just a tune that I once mightve danced to.
Youre a memory, fading, a faraway sound
hardly there, barely heard, just a wisp on the wind
like a melody played on a merry-go-round
when Im walking away from the carnival ground
- in my heart do I wish Id stayed longer?
Youre a face, youre a friend, youre a photograph framed
on the wall of my make-believe home, in the end
youre not here, youre not anywhere near, lets pretend
that its all not for real, that it
the debts of John-Lisathe debts of John-Lisa11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We are the debts of John-Lisa.
Enter past mailboxes nailed shut
or just ignored. Step by oil marks staining
the sidewalk in slick tailpipe drips,
framed by rails in dead-brain paint.
Scrape your shoe on our welcome,
cheque your tricks at the door.
on our upholstered yawn-chair,
eat our boring bread (coated
in cold butter).
Miss, judge these two-eye-toasts
paid by His truly. Thanks.
It was stale and sharp,
the talking, and each left scars
on too-old wounds. Excuse yourself
splash water on boiled skin - avoid
grease fires. Leave your putdown
footprint inside. Shiver out the
threshold, past the porch
and a flag, caught in the wind's
Maybe tomorrow. [then:]
John-Lisa take a last car ride
to the teller. In a bank, a
Miss shelling mass stacks
finds the key to takeout attacks -
Glasseyes roll flip-back jacks
Metre 101So. Metre.Metre 1019 years ago in Editorial More Like This
It has become a dirty word in some poetry circles.
It conjures images of withered, grey-haired men laboriously counting out beats and stresses whilst coughing up phlegm because of all the dust in their cramped and quasi-arcane libraries.
It really isn't all THAT bad, trust me.
So, without getting too 'old-man' technical - What is metre? what is it good for?
And, importantly, how does one use it?
Well, let's see if we can come up with some workable and easily understood answers by the end of this.
#1: What is metre?
Technical Language: The most well known metre, 'Accentual Syllabic Metre' is the rhythmic arrangement of syllables and patterns of stresses in a poetic line.
Translation: Metre is a poetic device that allows you to consciously orchestrate the flow of rhythm in a poem by paying attention to the natural rise and fall of the spoken word, and how to align those patterns of word-emphasis in an effective way.
#2: What is metre good for?
From Far Away and Deep BelowFrom Far Away and Deep Below4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Walter had felt cold before, but nothing like this. In the hours since sundown the temperature had dropped steadily, but in the last hundred yards it had been dropping twice as fast.
He had to find shelter quickly or risk freezing to death.
Cresting a small hill, Walter came upon a door stuck as if by accident in the side of a tall snow drift. A smooth metal oval was clearly cut into the side of a wall buried in the ice. Walter, too cold and desperate to be cautious simply pushed on it, and when it retracted out of his way, he fell in a heap to the floor inside.
Walter struggled to regain his footing, and with difficulty managed to stand. Turning, he realized the oval shape had closed behind him, sealing him off from the cold and the wind outside.
Before him a round tunnel stretched away, smooth walled and featureless.
Walter cleared his throat noisily and was startled by a voice.
"Come, come, bring it to us please."
The sound was nothing if not unnerving.
Realizing there was nowhere t
Uncle Mark and the FilthI had been charged with the dubious pleasure of total exposure to the living conditions of the human dregs. My uncle and I were getting 10 dollars an hour to enter and clean these crusted grottos abandoned by their tenants, mostly second-generation Hispanic immigrants of questionable legality and straight-up poor white trash. Few of them had the money to make the rent. Most of them had welshed out of paying the security deposit in that desperate, pitiable way that can only be learned through a lifetime of destitute ignorance, and had left so quickly they didnt have time to gather all the rotting garbage they had the gumption to call their belongings. This was where we stepped in.Uncle Mark and the Filth6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
My uncle is a bear of a man, taller than me and at least a hundred pounds heavier. He is barrel-chested and solidly built, with huge slabs of muscle for arms, watery eyes, and the paunch-turned-beer-gut that designates middle age in America so frequently that it borders on mandatory uniform. Uncle Mark w
New Orleans MinuteNew Orleans Minute10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Time sashays like a creole strumpet,
barefoot and brown down Rue Madeleine
past this window, this table,
where gumbo steams and shrimp tails
clutter my plate.
A molasses haze fogs the lamplight.
A young man too full of libation
succumbs to this damp heat,
bent nearly double,
splatters his feet.
A coasting cabbie slows to say,
Laissez le bon temps rouler
and laughs until his brakelights fade.
WintersWintersWinters6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A common scene, Canadian geese necking
south, arrowing against the wind.
Every winter it happens but this winter
I see one, the leader, produce a rolling fold
in his wings, and hes slipped to the tail of the group.
Soon enough we took the sky, we built planes, and their shadows
swallowed birds, whose shadows crossed fences
and rested in the black, broken feathers
of trees, their wise eyes staring.