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Literature
Straight Ahead
In keeping with the adage that says,
life is a road,
being in love is a little like watching someone walk away
and naively,
innately,
trusting that they will return.
Being loved,
and loving someone back,
is doing the hard thing
and never,
ever,
turning around.
Because being in love
means,
shouldering the burden of knowing
that the road ahead
is so very dangerous,
and not being cruel enough,
to let the other know.
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Literature
Once More (with feeling)
Once More (with feeling)
Spill
He wishes his life had a pause button, so he could examine it as he went along. He thinks about his non existant pause button even as he acks the last of the boxes into the van. There aren't very many, and the house stands silent and empty behind him. A young couple will move in next week – he doesn't remember their names but she's pregnant, and they will fill the house with laughter and light and erae his family's story from the halls. Giggle children will dron out the memory of rattling coughs, humming mothers and father's bad jokes will shoo out angry fights and dying old men.His mother left years ago, his sister not long after, and he had stayed to watch his father die
Now, it's done and there is nothing for him here so he's leaving. He' has no friends left, they couldn't fit themselves into the hollows of his cheekbones or or  find anything to talk about when faced with dark ringed eyes from lack of sleep, so he has told no one wher
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Literature
Lengthening Streets
He laughed softly, hot air puffing out into the bitter January night. "You never listen do you?" he asked, head cocked.
"I do to," his companion grumbled, skinny shoulders hunched to ward off the cold, nose as red as his hair, "you're the one who doesn't listen."
Dark eyes still flashed amusement even as his smile dropped. "I always listen." he said seriously, "never know when you're going to miss something important."
The red head snorted, shooting him a dirty glance, "I don't think anyone has ever accused me of saying something important," he muttered, before looking around. "It's fucking freezing," he said, glaring up at the sky in a rather accusing fashion.
"You've plenty important to say Dar."
"Flatterer," Darcy said, even as the smile tugged at his lips, "want to go for a pint?"
"Christ yes," a mitten covered hand came up to scrub at shaggy dark hair, "I thought you were going to stay out here all bloody night."
"Even I'm not that stubborn Rhys," he said wryly, "where to?"
"O'Sul
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Literature
Elegiac
Spill
"I am a statue," he muttered to himself as the hoards of people rushed around him. "I am a statue, a mountain. Unmoving. Unfeeling." Someone bumped into him, muttering a half-apology under their breath as they continued on.
"Sir are you-"
"We'll be late hun, just leave him."
"But he-"
"I'm a statue," he muttered again as the girl's friend pulled her away. Taking a deep breath he finally looked up aat his suroundings, sky scrapers and people and trees and cars blurring into each other. "I am a statue, a mountina." he said firmly, stepping forward, "I am unmoving, unbreathing, unfeeling." Each step was like a tug on a wound, he didn't want to go forward, wanted to go back, back back until the past and present blended together into the future or nothing at all. Each step brought him closer to the inevitable, his palms growing sweaty and he scowled. "I," he said with more force than earlier, "am a statue. I am unshakable."
He wasn't, not really, he knew, but it made him feel b
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Literature
Gardens
There is a sadness,
to this parting,
one you,
have cultivated,
carefully,
like tender green shoots in spring.
But this shoot is black and weeping,
and I do not understand,
why you insist,
on letting it grow,
into a horrible,
twisted memory.
I do not,
despite your agricultural habits,
resent this parting,
even as it is overshadowed by,
a dark twisted thing.
Once you are gone,
I, ever looking forward,
will tear your weed from the ground,
and grow,
something new and green,
and remember you that way.
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Literature
A Social History
A hundred lives past,
Someone sat here,
Weaving,
or sewing or simply,
sitting.
A thousand lives past,
People walked here,
Farming,
or hunting or simply,
walking.
And now,
I sit here,
wishing,
to walk or weave or,
hunt.
Hunt,
for answers,
about those lives,
I cannot live,
but yearn to understand.
To sew,
together my answers,
create a tapestry of,
weaving women and sweating farmers,
of what I once was.
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Literature
Post Cards From Rome
After everything,
You went away.
Not forever away,
obviously not,
but away.
I'm not sure of all the places you went,
though I know for sure,
you went to Rome.
I know because you sent me a postcard.
A snapshot of a picture,
a memory of a memory,
one held,
in your writing and
in the photo on the front.
There was a cruelty to that postcard,
whether,
it was in the photo,
or the writing or your sending it or
my reading it,
or in the memory of your going away
or my staying,
I do not know.
But I do know there was a cruelty in it
somewhere. That was,
however, fine,
at least with me.
Because at the time,
we were barely hanging together,
by a thread,
and that postcard,
was, at least,
something.
A good something too, because when you came back,
I asked you,
how was Rome? and you replied by saying,
you preferred India.
And then I knew about India,
which taught me about China,
and Paris,
and finally, or all places, Wisconsin,
and I could pretend,
I already knew these things.
And you,
you could pret
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Literature
Sit and Crumble
unscrubbed (go down for the edited version)
Even now, as you sit,
the clock it ticking.
It ticks constantly, incessantly,
Like a child -
Angry, wanting sweets even though
they are not sweet at all.
Time
is not sweet.
Time is cruel, ticking away such as it does,
building up a sortpower,
a momentum almost,
one hidden behind it's wiley,
predictable
hands.
Those hands which are for hurting,
chasing away confused seconds until
tey turn into minutes
who huddle together in terror to make hours.
And suddenly,
Gone!
All of it,
Seconds and minutes and hours chased across the globe,
forcing it to spin under their feet
A hundred time
over. A century.
And as the world is spenning, a log on a river under times hands,
you sit. And crumble,
forgotten in your chair, hands
still poised on your knitting needles
a hundred,
stiches to go. One hundred,
years past, pushed by nimble fingers,
attached to cruel hands.
And you? Who does not notice this happening,
your own passing,
unaware of times movemen
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Literature
We Saved the World
Unscrubbed
"Good morning Mrs. Hemming," a voice calls, but the old woman doesn't respond, miljy eyes staring ahead. "We've brought you a visitor," the voice says, "you're daughter, Annie and her son. They've rbought you a present."
The voice leaves and two new ones come, one high and piping the other low smooth and deep and soothing. "Mother," the smooth voice says, "I found some pictures in the attic, Darryn thought you'd like to see them. Mother?" When the old lady doesn't respond the voice sighs, opening a large album.
"See Nana?' the boy's voice says, "it's you nd another lady, she's pretty."
"It says her name is Rita, mom, does thaat mean anything, do you remember?"
"Rita," a blonde woman laughs, jogging to keep up with an excited brunette, "slow down!"
"No way!" the bruneete yells back at her, "we did it Nancy! We saved the world!"
"I know we did," th blonde girl laughs some more, "but we're still in the bad guy's lair, we've got to be careful you know."
"Oh come off it
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Literature
Thespian
Unscrubbed (scroll down for edited version)
There is an old man who lives alone. He has not always lived alone, his house is too bg for that. Once upton a time he was young and lived with happy ringing voices and bright smiles, but now, now he lives alone. He sits in a big wooden chair, with a high back and a dark finish, and he drinks his tea and his whiskey, not together of course, and the clock strikes twelve.
The witching hour, that old man uses, milky eyes staring unseeingly ahead. The chiming of the clock, an old clock to fit in with an old man in an old house, chimes all through the house, echoing and and rocking throughtout the house until it distorts and becomes strange and wonsom in the empty halls, much like happy laughter and bright smiles.. Like memories.
The man, the old man, he looks broken, broken despite a straight backand despite hands which are wriked but don't shake.  Voices and whispers dance in his ears, smiles flash in his eyes, and the 
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Literature
An Exercise in Futility
Scrubbed
In, out, in, out.
That's the way it works, he tells himself. Just breath in, and then breath out. Don't stop. Never stop. Just keep going. The boy keep s running, stumbling over protruding roots and small shrubs and pebbles. All around him the forest is silent, but he doesn't stop. He knows a silent forest is bad, but  but is he being chased? Or is he the threat?
Who knows. It doesn't matter, he's got to keep going. Out of no where it reappears, flitting about in the golden green light of the descending sun being flitted through the forest canopy.
He reaches forward, fingers grasping, but it slips away, jerking sharply upwards as if to say "not for you, boy", and he almost falls. Almost, but not quite and so he keeps going, even though he's lost it.
"Shit," he swears, letting it come out of his dry mouth. It feels good, and so he allows another curse to leave his parched throat, followed by another and another until a whole chain of them has come out.
As he cu
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Literature
A Philosphy on Flying
I think, maybe, this is the way we were meant to fly.
Airplanes are loud and so are helicopters. Hot air balloons are slow and big and all together the other options are terrible. Kites, I think, are how e are meant to fly. They are bright and beautiful and they carry you away to places you've never been without even picking you up off the ground. Kites are a form of magic.
But you, you never learned this. Did you? You just sat there, quietly, peering up at the sky. You would say, "some day, some day I'll get away, I'll fly away, you'll see" and then, I would offer you my kite. You always turned it down.
Looking  back, I was hurt. How dare you say no to my generosity? How dare you wait for later, later to fly, when I was right there, offering you the best escape route known to mankind? How dare you? But, in retrospect, because I love the seventies, you just didn't get it.
You spent all your time with your head in the clouds, but you never remembered your strong. The s string
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Literature
BREAK - Ava and co. refs.
The Once Over
Name: Ava Waltz (Ah-vah Valtz)
Age: 24
Gender: Female
Height: 5'9"/ 175cm
Weight: 157lb/ 71.4kg
Build: Fairly athletic, long legs and not terribly shapely. She's lean, so she can hold her own in a fight well enough.
Hair: Platinum blonde and a curly mess. Usually kept up for conveniences sake.
Facial Details: Strong straight nose, high cheek bones, she'd probably be considered quite attractive if she wasn't so ghostly pale. Her eyes are a little narrow, and are a rather cold grey-blue.
Clothing Style: Ava's job isn't very high class but it does have certain requirements. As such, she's always got something knitted on, usually a sweater of some sort and always has knitted socks of various colours and patterns on. Under the sweaters you can find tee shirts and long sleeved shirts in solid colours or stripes. Other than that it's blue jeans, never ripped, or a pair of linen 'yoga' pants, either her Doc Martins or a generic looking pair of green sneakers. Her only 100%
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Literature
BREAK - Shadowed Things
They say please is the magic word. Don't buy it. In magic, please will not get you anywhere. Demons and spirits will either ignore you are see you as easy prey, either way. Don't worry though, there are plenty of magic words in the world. Laws of magic don't really exist. Someone makes something up only to have it debunked, so the idea of just one word is ludicrous.
As it was, Ava Waltz' magic word happened to be a phrase, "fuck it". The platinum blonde snarled as she watched the sky itself crack open and the rain start to come down. She didn't mind the rain, even actually sort of liked it, but it had been a long day and she'd been hoping to get home dry. No such luck. In the back of the small store came a soft crash; soft because refined Alpaca wool can only do so much, and an elderly women stuck a white head out the door.
"Did you say something dear?" she asked, face expectant. Ava suppressed a grimace, shaking her head.
"Just talking to the rain ma'am," she said by way of explanatio
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Lindell is Swedish by WedgeFactor Lindell is Swedish :iconwedgefactor:WedgeFactor 1 7
Literature
This Kaleidoscope is Broken...
“This kaleidoscope is broken, all its colours have spilled out.”
“What are you doing?” The voice that asked this question was soft and young and held a rasping quality.
“Playing,” came the equally soft and young answer, though the voice was smoother, “want to play too?” The speaker looked up as he asked, brown eyes peeking up from behind pale bangs.
“No,” the reply was monotone, the blue eyes bored, and the pale face expressionless.
“Please,” the blond whined, lower lip jutting out, his hands reaching out to grasp his counterparts' wrist. “Just one game?” He asked, wheedling as he tugged on the boy's arm, trying to get him to sit.
“No Ilsi, I will not play with you,” the reply this time was more emphatic, but not cross. The blond wrinkled his nose, face upturned to look at the darker boy. His games forgotten, he quickly pulled himself into a kneeling position,  his hands falling onto his kn
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Activity


So let's play a game ;)

1. Tell you something I learned about you by looking at your DA page for 20 seconds.
2. Tell you a color you remind me of.
3. Tell you an element I think you belong to. (e.g. water, fire, earth, air, etc.)
4. Tell you what character you remind me of.
5. Ask you a question, and you must answer.
6. Tell you something I like about you.
7. Tell you the object that is to the left of me.
8. Tell you what food/flavor/smell you remind me of.
9. Tell you to put this on your journal.
  • Listening to: Dragostea Din Tei - O-zon
  • Reading: The Diamond Age
  • Watching: NCIS season one
  • Playing: Borderlands 2
  • Eating: A muffin and ice cream
  • Drinking: Tea!

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Ellen
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Canada
Current Residence: Canada, The Maritimes
Favourite genre of music: Folk, Indie, Metal and Rock
Favourite photographer: Paul Politis (for now)
Favourite style of art: all
Operating System: Windows XP
MP3 player of choice: Zune
Shell of choice: Sea
Wallpaper of choice: Pretty geographical wonders!
Favourite cartoon character: Stork from Storm Wings.
Personal Quote: I am Ra! The Sun God!
Interests

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:iconokami-rayne:
Okami-Rayne Featured By Owner Nov 2, 2012  Professional Writer
:wave: Thank you kindly for the :+devwatch:, luv! :thanks:
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:iconwedgefactor:
WedgeFactor Featured By Owner Nov 2, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Ah, you're welcome. :hug: I'm in the middle of trying to write a decent review that doesn't consist of ":jawdrop:" for BtB and OtC. It's a work in progress
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:iconokami-rayne:
Okami-Rayne Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2012  Professional Writer
LOL! Aww, bless. :giggle: Thank you, luv! Cheers for reading! :heart:
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:iconwedgefactor:
WedgeFactor Featured By Owner Nov 7, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Yeah, I think those fics gaave me an ulcer, I was just sitting there looking stressed and mom was like midterms and I was like

"NO. Neji's being self destructive and he is torn and their mutual want-do-not-want is TRAGIC and VERY HOT and THANK GOD there's a sequel because it's proof they don't end up deeeaaad even though OH GOD - Neji just beat Shikamaru into a bloody pulp and EVERYTHING hurts bbs why do you do this to mee~. My heart is going to explode, remember mom, I love you and to be cremated *grosssobbing*."

and mom said "..."

And that is why it's been really hard to write a proper review because my brain breaks every time I think about these fics.
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(1 Reply)
:iconsourapples1:
sourapples1 Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2011   Writer
OMG IT'S YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!! How's Mount A?
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:iconwedgefactor:
WedgeFactor Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Well. It's small.

XD

On a more...elaborate note, it's very enjoyable so far. New friends, good classes, cute boys etc.

Only real problem is the text books. +600$ for the whole lot! It's heinous.

But on the much brighter side - I never have to be up before 8, and I have no classes on Friday afternoon.
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:iconsourapples1:
sourapples1 Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2011   Writer
well that seems great :D Wow that is a lot for some books.

Lucky......I have to be up at 6:00 to catch my 7:30 bus. yeah high school is really boring at the moment. I'm so advanced in what we're doing in math and english..thank god i'm taking math 11 advanced next semester
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:iconwedgefactor:
WedgeFactor Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Which English teacher do you have?
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(1 Reply)
:icontackytoast:
TackyToast Featured By Owner Sep 1, 2011
I don't know how, but I missed you! I had my alarm set, I know I did because I checked it like eight times last night, but when I woke up at ELEVEN O'CLOCK FUCKING A M, my alarm was off!

I don't really remember the last time I loathed myself so much! I'm so sorry I missed seeing you off, I really wanted to be there, even if I only got enough time to give you a huuuuuuuuuuuuuug! I won't get a hug for, like, two months noooooow. </3
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:iconwedgefactor:
WedgeFactor Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
It's OK, I told Carole to call next time you were around so we can talk. Sorry I didn't respond, I had no wifi until...45 minutes ago.

I still love you, and I'll be back on the 21st! I can see you then. And also for Thanksgiving, and then again for Remembrance Day. That's plenty. :D
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