HomelessThe old prophets said the world would end in fire, and they were right. They could not have known the truth, the scientific facts behind the Sun's aging, swelling body. They didn't know that Earth would become just another Venus in time. They did not know that no god was necessary for the end.The scientists knew it would happen-they had the facts. They had a plan. They'd get all of us off the planet, we'd go somewhere else. All of us, they insisted, there would be room for all of us. They had plenty of time to prepare.But everyone knew that some would be left behind, because there would always be some undesirable peoples, political enemie
I dance in clown shoes.You compose your conversations.Fitfully gesturing with whatever you hold,ending arguments with a flourish.Make a point, now whirl, quickly.Make it impossible to counter with your unpunctuation.You duck and weave, spin, sidestep, pirouette:One, two, one, two, faster, harder, stronger.You leave me confused and two steps back, just far enough behind to appear lost and unsure.And if I catch up, if I make a point,you spin again, a trail of words falling like pixie dustas you make your escape.And as you storm out, you slam the period behind you,Ending your sentence with a door.And I must follow you, my thuds down the sta
cleverThey say a mind isa terrible thing to waste, but I can’t thinkof anything more delightful then to float away on a cool breeze of gibberish-leave the mongoloids and the suits with their cruel whipsand second hand mockeryone day I’ll hold the whip and redefine clever
Speak UpAnother horrendous act passed,Another angry mob stood silent.“We will fight to the very last!”They would scream,But when the moment came to pass,That comment never existed it would seem.So speak up, speak up, my friend,Speak up to avoid world’s end.Another awful leader chosen.More outraged citizens keep mouths shut tight.Are voices become frozen?When did we become afraid to fight?Has this not happened before?I thought we said not anymore.So speak up, speak up, my friend,Speak up to avoid world’s end.A new war declared,New people born to be killed;The power was in your hands, as you just
Absolution of the manThis is called addiction or abdictationor whateverlove like whateveressentially means" hey fuck, love who we tell you "a perpetual fade indissolve ressolvefor being so steadyi waddle like a good addictfor being so liberalthese bars imprint on my faceSinner!how real this mechanical bandageswaddles mehow this ornate restrictionhas squatted on my entrails2i am gutlessi break on fathomsof sustained pressurethis continous razerfalls between usand holds it's edge at my neckdoing what it has always doneat a blunt edgemy laughter balanceswith tears and hopei am freeing my tongueand burning my
Run AwayRunning Hard breathing fastEscaping from a troubled pastMany things have gone wrongBuilding up a list too longA heart that grievesNo sound but crunching leavesThe pain becomes too much to bearLike a cloak of shame I do wearTo look up at the night skyWishing that these burdens pass on bySo I stop to catch my breathIt's time these burdens left.
The Phoenix's Revival I heard their screams. They sounded like dying animals, helpless, numbered. Doomed. And I watched, equally helpless. I watched them kill my son’s clones one by one. In the beginning, I controlled the world’s most prominent scientists. In the beginning, I changed the course of human history. How ironic then that humanity’s downfall started with my wife’s simple wish. Claudia wanted children, and I wanted to make an infertile woman pregnant. It seemed easy enough. I had the technology, the money, and the power. By the end of the year, Mason was born. I had a son, an heir to my fiscal legac
My FallingYesterday evening, something curious happened: I began my weekly falling, and two people walked right through the mess I made.Every week, I would fall right on that street, because I love the sound it makes against the cobblestones and the quietness that settles because the people are too afraid to walk through it. I would pull everything I had together, just so that I could drop it all once a week and laugh at how all the little humans would scurry for cover while the trees would smile and open their leaves. And it was always fun, especially when my friend Flash came over – she loves to dance down and see how close she can get to the
-Insert Name Here--Insert Name Here-by Olivia Gusmano Today, I was yellow. My name was Samantha. She was a beautiful girl-- a face with flower petals for lips and golden curls shaped like the wind falling from her head. She was the perfect height, perfect weight, and looked wonderful in the bubbly yellow shirt that indicated who she was. She had finished her work early-- Ive always admired Samanthas work ethic. I worked in a cubicle, one that my many masks were forced to share, but Samantha always lit it up and made it delightfully quaint. Walking home in the lush chill of autumn, Samantha smiled to nearly every color, every sh
Enhance Your Artist CommentsHow to Improve and Enhance your Artists Comments Box : The Unofficial GuideIf you want to maximize your Artists Comments Box potential to the fullest, welcome to the unofficial guide as to how to accomplish it!In this guide :Ways to help get your art more attention, through your comments box.- Help get thoughtful comments from the viewers or readers.- Improve the visual impact and aesthetic of your artists comments box.- Actively discourage art theft.Other than the actual art itself, your artists comments are the only thing that might motivate a reader or viewer to comment on your work. That's what we all want, feedback on our w
Character Description TutorialA lot of us have trouble describing things. I’ve heard of some authors that describe too much, but more common are those who don’t describe enough, and those are the authors that have yet to be published. I’ve struggled with the issue myself, and still do on a consistent basis; I have to work at it. And some, like myself when I was younger, can’t really do any describing at all, because there are too many ideas bouncing around in that skull of theirs that they can’t make heads or tails of it. (If that’s the case, write the ideas down first, and then go back, otherwise you may forget everything.) With this tutoria
Story Writing TipsTip #1: Write about what you know. If you're writing a love story in which the main female character is dumped by her boyfriend, think about what you have been through in your own personal experience, and think about how she might react. Does your character have a strong personality? Are they normally quite likeable? Do they have a weak personality, and they let people push them around? Or do they have a personality that is mysterious, and unpredictable? Once you have established a main character, only you, the author, can predict how they will react to a certain problem.Tip #2: When beginning a story, and a chapter, it often helps to start
Lance and EvangelineEveryone knew Evangeline and Lance were gone, killed in the fire; even I did. On February 8th, it would be a year since. Everyone in this small town also knew that they were my friends. All of us were good students, each of us honors, and we were all very happy.Then why does no one act like they're gone?No one seems to notice their absence, no one even mourns their death. It drives me mad that no one cares!At first I thought people were just too upset to say anything, but it's been a while now. Still nothing. It's so upsetting to see that all my classmates don't care. Especially when my friends were such good people.On a very cold Feb
The Snow GlobeI hope against hope that noone ever reads this letter.Where to start… My name is Felix, Felix Bryant. My job… is not important. Actually, all that matters, at least for you, is my name and the name of my wife, Deanna.Writing this… is going to be the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. It all started a a few days or so ago (only a few days? It feels like so much longer…). My wife came home with a snow globe she had bought from the market…***"Isn't it pretty?"I looked at the snow globe sitting on top of the piano. It really did look pretty, to be completely honest. It showed a small village sitting around
For DLD's Contest HalloweenWalk forward and see the flamesAfter following firefliesBlue and yellow lightsLike fireTwitch and expireWood dies as it's burned in the pyreThose who sit turnBecause they know you're there.Red, bloodthirsty eyesGreen, mostly dead onesBlue, so alive it's frighteningOrange, just like the agitated fireBlack, deep and abysmal.They all look at youYou can feel their eyes as you runClimb up a tree--no, takes too longRun, run, try to slice through the nightLike a knifeThen disappear into nothing.But they're much faster And soon they have you by the throatYou can't see as the hallucinations take you--they ha
A String UncutThis is one of those stories of someone, that were written by someone, read by someone, but yet never occurred to someone. Atleast, that's what you'd wish for because now you will hear this story, told by one of those someones who also is one of those such events were not supposed to be happening to. In other words, my story.It all began on a somewhat mild autumn day. The trees looked like a lunatic painter had gone down the avenue, lush green, happy yellow, rotting brown and blood-red leaves sitting next to each other. It was Saturday (and Halloween, by the way) and Thomas Henneth (that's me) left his family's mansion to take the family do
pistol priesti want a dance that destroys the danceras if he is wrapped in barbed wire and as he spinshe is gently shredded, unraveled like a piece of yarn or a piece of clothe or a young smilestopped at the corners of a mouthas a bud. cut as he dancesi want air like a razor, a song like a knifean imagination that limits heaven to a smileimagine that as i dance my legs unravelaround you. around this silenceand religion people, like so many beings i know. i want this dance.i want it in me like a mountaindown by the roadway railwayin my churches vestibule i place my hands on your headand you fall down a footand your hair is
Slay The SunOne by oneWhen all's said and doneI laugh into fearAnd slay the setting sun
Just DanceHere's to a moment of nostalgia. I'm skimming through pages of ballet terminology and admiring the pictures associated with the movements. I find myself drawn to the faces of each ballerina. Some seem to be in no pain, as though the movement they are captured creating is second nature. Others don't hide the pain quite so well, and my heart reaches out to them. I long to tell them that it's okay not to be prefect, and that all that matters is the beauty of the art they create and the story they portray. But they know better. I know better.My brain is suddenly racked with invading memories I've kept stashed away and hidden for so long. As pai
Made In Bad TasteI work at an engineering research firm which specializes in creating mix ratios for concrete. I lead a small team charged with optimizing dry time in hyper-average humidities. The company I work for is located in the middle of a large city with sparse parking and heavy traffic, which is why I take the bus.So I am on the bus this morning, holding a large book to read on the drive. A copy of the seminal work of the one true artist of my generation. Or so the pundits claim. I don't think I understand it.The bus will follow Interstate 82 until exit four. The crust of slums and warehouses growing on the edges of the city float past the window
Chain-Link FenceChain-link fenceBlocks my viewKeeping me away from youTrapped insideCannot get outListen hard and hear me shoutI start to climbI lose my gripSuddenly my foot slipsFalling, falling, to the groundNobody else is aroundI feel my leg crack under meFinally I start to weepTo this chain-link fence I cryHow come I have not yet died?
Take Me Where You Want to BeTake me where you want to beTake me there and set me free.Locked in a cage all dayIt's time we had some play.We will runSide by sideFeel the windCaress your hideTurn your eyesToward the moonToo bad it endsAll too soon.As you wake from your sleep,Falling from a dream quite deep,You look around your sorry cage,And you realize (just as we all realize)That someday you'll die.And when you die,The only memories of happiness,Will rest in the night,When you looked up high,And noticed the moonGlowing against the velvet skyAnd you thought to yourselfAs the wind brushed your sideIf only I were the moon
Jumped UpRestlessly and relentlessly pacingwith seething impatience boiling,A growing pressure felt justbehind his frustration marred eyes.He's a figure entirely at odds withthe decadence of his surroundings,The ladies who lie at their leisureand the gentlemen lax with their cigars.But still he strides from end to end,Twenty one foot steps sounding outeach time he crosses the bare woodthat echoes beneath his booted feet,That finish the smartly shined andcrisp clean uniform that hugs,A spare frame seemingly well used,But powerful and fit for duty nonetheless.He pays no heed to the tapestries,Or the oils that hang so ve
No Soul But HersWhen morning comes, she will be readyNo soul but hers will hear a soundFragile ankles hold her steadyFragile eyes comb moonlit groundNo soul but hers will hear the soundOf fresh earth tear beneathe her feetFragile eyes comb moonlit groundDrift from damp dew to dry retreatWhen fresh earth tears beneathe her feetShe knows her footsteps won't be foundDrift from damp dew to dry retreatNo soul but hers knows where she's boundShe knows her footsteps won't be foundFragile ankles hold her steadyNo soul but hers knows where she's boundWhen morning comes, she will be ready.
Book 1 UnholyBook 1UnholyChapter 1Encounter She couldn’t remember everything, but the important things were burned, in-grained if you will, in her so deep that they were unforgettable, and in the end, it is the important things that one remembers… Aelwon’s hard-leather boots, turned from black to brown by the sun, hammered through the muddy, city streets. She pulled the hood of her black cloak up to cover her ivory hair and down to cover her face, all the way to her nose. She did this partially to block the freezing rain, but it was mostly, to hide the pale, silvery-blue orbs drowned in inky darkness, of her Drow-inherited eyes.
Tick-tock. Run.Tick-tock. The clock’s pendulum swayed in time to the beating of my heart. The minutes drew on too slowly, just like the crimson clouds outside. Sweat beaded on my brow and trickled down my face to join my tears. So close. Too close. He was coming for me. Seeking to take my heart, ripping it from my chest. I could almost feel his hand, cold as ice, gripping my vital organ. My skin crawled at the thought and the sweat turned to ice. Tick-tock. Chime! Tick-tock. Chime! The clock struck again and again, sounding the fall of darkness. The clouds outside the single window in the narrow hall were consumed in ink that poured from wher
Freedom Johan sat at his desk, typing away, watching the clock every so often. His shift couldn't end sooner. Today was his day. Every second seemed to take a minute, as if to say, why hope for anything? The chances are next to nothing for you to be chosen. Forty-three year old Johan had been waiting his whole life to leave his polluted planet, and his chance had finally arrived. The previous month there had been an announcement that five people were going to be chosen to leave their wretched home on the first ever commercial shuttle, and live on the most in demand planet in the galaxy: Earth. All the entrants had to do
Writing Chapters -edit-For a for updated version of this tutorial, please take a look at the link below in the Artist's Comments. Thanks!Step 1: Plan-Plan out all of the important events in the chapter, so that you don’t forget.Step 2: Write (poorly)-Write your chapter based off of your plan. It’s okay if you mess up.Step 3: Draw-Sketch out your comic page(s) that go with the chapter. As you write down important dialogue and narration, change them a bit with better word choice, etc.Step 4: Copy (anti-poorly)-Copy down the story from your comic page(s) and change it as it goe
tips for writing poetryDefinitionsDramatic poetryIn this particular type of poetry the speaker is a persona. They use the word 'I', however this may not refer to the author, more a character the author has created and who is the voice of the poem. The speaker is a persona, a dramatised voice clearly distinct from the authors. The poem is thus dramatic, and is written for effect; it is a dramatic monologue.Narrative poetryThe primary voice is not that of a persona (ie. the words 'i' 'me' 'mine' are not used). Rather, this is an impersonal narrator, who present events from the perspective of a third person.Lyric poetryThe most prevalent genre of poetry is
Positive Critique GuideWelcome to the Emotive-Box's guide to writing Positive Critique. Remember, that these are only guidelines, not necessarily rules and these guidelines do not apply to everyday critique or other groups, just to Emotive-Box.When giving critique to a piece of poetry, you follow some certain steps. The steps are described below and will be the main body, if not all of your critique.Step One: Comment on whether you like the poem, or not.Remember, that liking poems is a personal taste. What one may like, another may not. Don't be afraid to say you don't like it, but remember to state things you think the poet did WELL.Step Two: Point out som
Punctuating Poetry Part TwoShifting GearsThe great thing about punctuation is that there is rarely one single, correct, perfect way to punctuate a poem. Given to a number of different poets, a poem could be punctuated and re-punctuated in as many different ways. So let's take a breather from so many rules and look at Leave the Door Open, by KrystalIce:Crash!=Thud=~~Twang~~*Shatter*+BOOM+Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duht^Pink^,^Pink^,^Pink^,&Clatter&@Rollrollroll@(Ri-i-i-i-i-i---ng).STOP.“…”“Damn; I should've left the door open.”At first glance, this could make a grammarian twitch!
Second Death The shock of solitude had finally begun to sink in. Earlier I had looked upon my furniture with no thoughts but "we often sat and talked at that table," or "that was her favorite chair," as though in some way she still lingered in this house, though she had taken her leave of it, and of me. For a time I could not even sleep in my bedroom, knowing my wife and I had lain there, full of joy, and what I'd thought was love. As my mind settled, I moved back in to my room, but a different thought plagued me- "this bed is unutterably empty." At first there was a feeling of haunting togetherness, now, an almost palpable separation. My house was a vac
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