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This evening.Shall I describe to you my favorite colors?
There are two of them, quite ordinary if you ask.
The first is the shade of the underside of a hawk's wings, as an autumn sunset hits the feathers.
It's liquid copper sunlight, woven by God into a glorious shape.
The second shares the same season.
It's the clear autumn sky, at twilight.
So cliche, I know, but that's what makes it ordinary.
The pale yellow on the horizon, going down the gradient into chilled orange, blue-gold.
And then that first sight of navy, that first instance of stars in the velvet.
That is the second color.
A blue so deep I could stare for hours, did it not last only a few short minutes.
They are my favorite colors.
Mine and my own.
Ordinary, and commonplace.
But fantastic and lovely.
Essay, unnabridgedThe year is 2013 and my high school, the hypothetical last refuge in the area against the undead, has been breached. After the first of the zombie scum entered the building, through a door left open by a scavenging patrol, panic spread quickly. I abandoned my friends in the crowd, grabbed my schoolbag, and sprinted with the flow of terrified people. I broke off into a nearly-empty hallway, populated by similar minded people desperately attempting to find a hiding place. The had nothing with them but their adrenalin-heightened fear; unlike me, they had not planned for a situation like this, a situation where the safety of the last haven in Frederick would be destroyed.
Unlike the sorry souls I turned my back on, I had thought through this scenario countless times. In the corner of the cafeteria, where my friends and I set up base, I found myself with ample time to think. I'd hoarded small supplies, filling my school bag not with the now arbitrary textbooks, but with survival gear.
the Companion taxGive me breath, give me life, but don't give me your validation, I know I'm right.
I know that what I feel is how I should feel, and I don't need you to tell me I should feel guilty or proud of it.
It's my essence and I'm not ashamed and I don't need your opinion of me for support; I stand on my own.
So let me breath and let me live and then I can give you my devotion and myself.
That is all I ask for me from you, from me to you.
Wild RideTry not to lose your place in your life
We'll be returning to this page
But outside the book is a world unwritten
I'm here to free you from your paper cage
Buckle up and strap in
Just fake it for a while
Remove the silicone from your fun-dip
Give me a great big smile
You've always been one to turn
Your stubborn face towards the sun
And question "why" when people said you couldn't
You'll have your answers when we're done
Outside your pages is a world
That they don't want you to see
A world of "why's" and "what if's"
A world where you want to be
By the time our time together is complete
You'll have your answers my dear
This world unwritten has no rules against it
But your answers may not be completely Clear
Find them yourself, I'm only your tour guide
I'll hand you nothing but the means
When I return you to your routine written pages
Pick your book apart at the seams.
New Age SocietyI remember distinctly
Yes, I remember quite well
It was neither the last time nor the first time
That you told me to go to Hell.
It was that middle time,
Somewhere on Memory Lane,
When I said "see you there, bitch,"
and suddenly I saw the insane.
In our New-Age society,
Where even the label-less have labels,
Children are taught from birth
Skewed, hate-twisted fables,
Of greed and strife and hidden morals
That the Only way through life
Is also through battle and quarrel.
You're twice as likely going to find
Someone pointing legislature, rather than a gun.
It's equally as dangerous,
Two-times the reason to run,
Such a major cause of so much anxiety
So much discontent
In this New-Age Society.
In this New-Age Society,
I have no memory of better times gone by
Instead I have a childhood of discrimination
Sweet Nothings'if i could, i would devour you. i would eat you whole, consume you mind, body, and soul. because i am a selfish person. i want you all to myself. no one else may have you.' he said to her, as they lay tangled in each other.
her reply came with a sleepy smile.
'there is a part of my mind which understands the intended romance in your statement. that part is wooed by it. there is also a part which insists upon my realizing the reality, the literal. you, my dear, are a cannibal.'
he placed a kiss on her head.
'well, we'll have to work hard then, to make sure that you are only wooed. we will make you want to be eaten. we will make it so that part of your mind which is literal, is quiet, so when i whisper sweet nothings into your ears, you are completely swept away. lifted off your feet by my obvious romantic intention.'
The Useless PlentyThey pass us every day. On the streets, or in school buildings, they'll nudge by us on their way to some place else. Some place, not here. But we're already there. Our minds have taken us father than their legs ever will.
And they don't understand. They try, certainly, but their have their mundane drama and appearance while we concern ourselves with whatever fills the spaces. The little cracks, filled with stray passions like windows stuffed with cloth in the winter. To keep the empty out.
This is for the girl with cuts up her arms, raised from the skin, and the boy who drinks bottles of cough syrup for the alcohol content. This is for the girl who dyes her hair to hide, but in doing so, says, "Hello, World. Here I am. Suck on it." This is for the boy who lives for his image, cultivates it carefully for the public eye, then will go home and watch anime or a sci-fy show, and doesn't care who knows.
They pass us. There is a distinction, the "us" and the "them." Within the us, there are s
Jerky“Dad, is that guy jerky?” I ask as we pull up alongside a car, towards which my father is throwing dirty looks. He ceases, and exchanges a look with my mother at the comment.
Minutes pass. It may have been days, but it does not matter, because I am again in the rear passenger seat of our first Honda. Strapped into the back, but not into a booster seat anymore; I am a big girl, and the laws are different in Canada. My father is again driving, my mother occupies the seat in front of me.
“That guy is jerky,” I say with conviction, sure that this time, I am right. I even point so they know who I’m talking about, the man in the car that caused father to growl for some reason. Again though, mother and father say nothing. The giants in the front seats simply exchange another look. The kind of look that makes me think I shouldn’t have said what I said. But I don’t understand.
Father calls other drivers jerky all the time, especially when they act like
And best of luck to the boysAnd best of luck to the boys in the band
on the rest of their lives
I wish you all well while we sit here
trying to get by
without the music that kept us alive
And let's give them all a great big hand
a rowdy applause for the boys in the band
we'll manage and make it somehow, I'm sure
sick and dying hospital patients
without the music that was our cure
A Different Sense of RealityReality: The state of being real,
Real: actual, true, genuine
What is real and what is unreal? Where does reality end and fantasy begin? These two realms of real and unreal, reality and fantasy, are not divided but intermingled.
Tell me; when you read a story, a work of fiction, that engages you and makes you feel happy, thrilled, angry or sad are those feelings unreal or real?
When a character in said story dies, are you not saddened?
When injustice is done and the villain reigns are you angered?
So now tell me; does said story cease to be fantasy or does it forever stay within the realm of the unreal?
I say these characters and these worlds that are dubbed as fantasy become just as real to us as the very chair you are seated in right now.
I say reality is subjective, reality is what we make it.
I also say; I live in more than just one reality.
VillainsVillains are generally considered evil or bad. They challenge the status quo, upset the way things are, and don’t seem to care about rules or laws. Not all villains are alike though. Not all of them are wanton killers or trying to end the world.
Take Mega-Mind for example. He was pushed into the role of villain, he didn’t actually hurt anyone, and all he really wanted was recognition. And Dr. Horrible? All he wanted was to change the world, overhaul the system and rule with his love by his side. Unfortunately, in a show down with his nemesis Captain Hammer, his Death Ray broke, and exploded when Captain Hammer tried to Kill Dr. Horrible with his own gun. It killed the love of Dr. Horrible’s love instead.
There are many movies and books about “heros” who are less likeable than some of the villains they face. They are arrogant, rude and obnoxious. One of the most applauded “Villains” of all time is Robin Hood. He broke laws and upset the st
Alexander the FakeEver heard of Alexander the Great?
Do you believe he is real, that he existed and did all things we have been told he did? Of course you do. It is in our history books, so it must've really happened.
Alexander the Great ruled in the 300's BC. We know a great deal about him based on written documents giving us historical accounts of his life and deeds. Did you know though, that the only surviving documents of these historical accounts were written 300 or more years after Alexander the Great lived? Yet we trust these documents and the older sources they cite, even though we do not have those older sources available to confirm what is written.
Now what about Jesus? I know many people who do not believe He existed. Yet we have historical documents, both those of the Bible and those unrelated to the Bible that give us accounts of Jesus.
The Biblical documents were written as early as 30 years after the death of Jesus! And non-Bi
Holocaust Reflection : Reflection on UsVisiting the Holocaust Museum is a difficult subject, especially in Israel. Unlike many museums which are houses of a people's history and triumph, this museum is a walk through a people's history and suffering. The Holocaust stands as a mark of identity for modern-day Jews just as World War II stands as a mark of identity for most Westerners of the past three generations (born 1910-1995).
We are now moving into the third and fourth generations past the Holocaust and WWII, where things such as “Nazi” and “Communist” and people such as Hitler and Stalin have become more of a byword than a warning for future generations. Many people are all too likely to associate government actions with the Nazi party and many people are just as ready to roll their eyes.
When visiting Yad Vashem (the site of the Museum) I entered with a reverent and somber silence, in my mind befitting such a chapter of our human history. I found it odd, then, to find teenagers in there laughing,
Raw hopeThis is raw hope. This isn't structure, this isn't style. This is "universe looking itself through new eyes" - through eyes that are trying to solve a problem, to learn a lessson. This is pure hope, this is believing in future, beliveing that this has a purpose.
This is something that I would delete, throw away, regret. I've written a few; now deleted. I've told myself that I won't delete it. I have deleted them. This is life, this is an attempt to jump into the flow, and in the end think that it was a pretty good ride. This is a permission slip. This is an untamed dream. Of a possiblity.
Not a dream of writing, but possibly. This is a message that says: i'm somewhere. I exist. I want to make you aware of it, I want to see, to feel, to create. I want to be the universe looking itself through new eyes and think to itself that it's okay. That it's allowed. This message is a open-handed invitation to life, hope and dreams.
I have a lot of personalities. I would like to write about them. I
Lessons in Writing III: The Value of TextureLessons in Writing III: The Value of Texture
So much of the information we receive about the world around us comes to us through our eyes. Our sight allows us to quickly and easily judge an object’s size, shape, and colour. When we meet people for the first time, their appearance is usually the very first thing we notice and often what we remember best, long after we have parted.
But our sense of touch is important too, albeit more subtle. As children we love plush toys because of the softness they have in comparison to everything else. When we’re toddlers, we put our hands on everything because we relish how different things feel from one another: the fibres of thick carpet contrast with the smoothness of wooden floorboards; our parents’ hands feel so much larger and rougher than our own; and the graininess of sand stands apart from the clumping of mud.
As adults, we retain our love of textures, particularly contrasting textures. One of the things I love most
The ProblemThe youth today does not know how to talk. We do not know how to talk to one another nor do we know how to talk to anyone outside our age group, capable of articulating but not transferring meaning with out spoken words. Yet we have profound conversations through text messages, using less than 160 words, and know exactly how to transfer our feelings and thoughts into abbreviated words and sentences so that others will understand them easily. However, they have no depth. Any actual conversation, two of us face-to-face, is awkward and harsh, unless there has been left enough time for the two to come to know each other. Upon first meeting, it is rare that eye contact will be made. Jokes and jests are made, in attempt to connect, and numbers are exchanged, maybe. That is when the communication begins. Not when two people have the opportunity to talk, unlimited words, pay nothing, but when they have limited words counts and little chance for actual connection.
The Parlour IncidentOne day in July, I believe it was, I found myself sitting with several acquaintances in Christopher's parlour. It was one of those deliciously lazy afternoons which only the summer in her full glory can bring. The room had a wan, listless light to it, relaxing the other guests and myself as we languidly chatted over tea and crumpets. The air was also sluggishly heavy, dulling the senses to a slowly-blended calm engendered by the heat of St. Othniel's southerly climate.
At length, after much stimulating conversation, Christopher stood, producing a book of sheet music.
"What do you all say to a bit of music?" he asked.
"Certainly," I answered.
"Oh yes, please do darling!" Tabitha exclaimed, "he's quite the maestro."
Christopher laughed, shaking his head.
"Now, now love, I'd not go that far."
He strode over to the piano as the other guests urged him on. Ida entered the room bearing a merrily steaming teapot and more crumpets.
"More tea sirs?" she inquired, shooting sideways glances at her
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More