There's nothing more annoying then you. There you sit, staring at me while you tap your pencil on your side of the desk. Waiting for just the right moment to reach across and yank my braid down as hard as you can, then as I call out to the teacher hurt yourself to blame it on me. So while I get reprimanded you smirk to your friends about how you got me good.
No, there is nothing more annoying than you. There you stand, huddled in a group of friends, laughing along with them as I get pelted with their snowballs. When I come up to you, you smirk yet again and turn back to your friends. When I call out to the teacher, you tell her I instigate
Desperation crept up on you as you panted, taking refuge behind the lifeless aspen trees. Your chest, your wrists, your neck, every part of your whole pounded along with your heart as you held your breath, listening quietly. Hoping, praying, they wouldn't find you. They couldn't find you, no, not you. How would they find you? You had that safe haven, hidden amongst the bare trees, surrounded by dead, crumbling leaves.
Then, a twig snapped and leaves crunched somewhere behind you, fear gripped at your mind. Your body freezing as the grip tightened. The sound inched its way closer, slowly. Stopping every now and again, toying with the ever s
Hospital-As done as it gets- by Ichaotic, literature
Literature
Hospital-As done as it gets-
The doors slid open silently, letting me and a gust of autumn leaves into the pure white walls of the hospital. I walked down the hallway, the smell of sterilizer filled my nostrils and the brightness of white blinded my eyes. I passed several doors, some reading numbers and others opening to other hallways. An elevators ding sounded as several nurses stepped in, each pressing a number and waiting impatiently for the other to get on so they could go to their next job. Finally, the hallway ended at a set of swinging doors, both reading Waiting area. I pushed through the doors, into a bright yet gloomy room painted yellow. A y
Anticipation. It can eat you alive if youre not careful. Mother always says. Its only fear that you build up, impatience for the worst to end, or the worst to come and be done with. She always looks at me after saying it, wiping a non existent tear away before adding on: Love gives the worst anticipation. You fear for them, need them to be okay, are clueless as to what to do when theyre gone. I never look her back straightly, I always know that she uses the word incorrectly. Or maybe not, maybe in her lifetime shes invented her own, safer version of the word. Maybe when shes at
What is it about fiction that we find so addicting?
Is it the fact that we can confide in it, hiding from reality? Or maybe its the fact that any and every character has a story we can relate to or the life weve always wanted. But why? What makes it desirable to become a character, to live those imaginary lives, to hide from our fates as a boring person with no life.
What is it about fiction that we find so addicting?
What is it about the dark that makes it so scary?
Is it the fact that very simply put, we are blinded from sight? Or maybe perhaps its the fact that in the dark we are just as useless and weak as the prey
Dreams are dreams. They are only the things we sweep under the carpet and torment ourselves with at night. I thought, running a hand through my damp hair. This dream was unusually realistic, though.
Whats the matter? Dont want to play with us? A figure asked, its serpant like voice slithering into my ears. I looked at my legs; they were moving. Why were they moving? Id not given them my consent.
The poor child is fearful, loved one. A second figure sang out, its voice childish and haunting.
I stopped, turning around. This is just a dream. Ill be awakened to my alarm any
The lips which will be markedly full and red are drawn back from the teeth which gleam long, sharp as razors, and ivory white.
-Montague Summers
The clock read six AM, and the calendar had every day but the twenty-fifth of December crossed off. Snow drifted aimlessly outside of the window tinted black. Her cold cheek pressed to my neck, warmth seeping from her open mouth. We sat in silence, her content breathing filling it. A trickle of blood traced its way down my neck to my shoulder. Quickly, she pulled back. Clotting my new marks and licking them clean, including the dribble.
All done? I murmured the question, keeping my eye
Four PM, Tuesday:
I pulled her into a hug, wrapping her up and refusing to let go. Wed fought, again. Over nothing, like always. Now tears of sorrow lined the bottoms of her eyes and drew thin, damp streams down her cheeks. Why was I so stupid? I never even realized the pain I put her through. Nor the hell she put up with, just to stay at my side. I was her hope, a fleeting glimpse of a brighter, happier future. I was stealing it from her, in my re occurring acts of selfishness and carelessness. I whispered Im sorry repeatedly, trying to get it through to her.
Its okay, it was nothing. Its just an
Once upon a time, there was this woman who dreamt of a husband.
One day, she came across an English speaking, buck, elk.
He very calmly stated that she was beautiful and they got married, had two children and then divorced.
Devastated, the woman, now divorced, single, with two children desperately looked around for another man.
One day, the woman came upon a Spanish speaking dragon.
He called her beautiful, learnt English and they got married.
They, too, had two children. But a tragic thing called "extinction" happened and the husband died.
Now tortured at the loss of two husbands and tormented with four children, the woman took a wal
There's nothing more annoying then you. There you sit, staring at me while you tap your pencil on your side of the desk. Waiting for just the right moment to reach across and yank my braid down as hard as you can, then as I call out to the teacher hurt yourself to blame it on me. So while I get reprimanded you smirk to your friends about how you got me good.
No, there is nothing more annoying than you. There you stand, huddled in a group of friends, laughing along with them as I get pelted with their snowballs. When I come up to you, you smirk yet again and turn back to your friends. When I call out to the teacher, you tell her I instigate
Desperation crept up on you as you panted, taking refuge behind the lifeless aspen trees. Your chest, your wrists, your neck, every part of your whole pounded along with your heart as you held your breath, listening quietly. Hoping, praying, they wouldn't find you. They couldn't find you, no, not you. How would they find you? You had that safe haven, hidden amongst the bare trees, surrounded by dead, crumbling leaves.
Then, a twig snapped and leaves crunched somewhere behind you, fear gripped at your mind. Your body freezing as the grip tightened. The sound inched its way closer, slowly. Stopping every now and again, toying with the ever s
Once upon a time, there was this woman who dreamt of a husband.
One day, she came across an English speaking, buck, elk.
He very calmly stated that she was beautiful and they got married, had two children and then divorced.
Devastated, the woman, now divorced, single, with two children desperately looked around for another man.
One day, the woman came upon a Spanish speaking dragon.
He called her beautiful, learnt English and they got married.
They, too, had two children. But a tragic thing called "extinction" happened and the husband died.
Now tortured at the loss of two husbands and tormented with four children, the woman took a wal
Four PM, Tuesday:
I pulled her into a hug, wrapping her up and refusing to let go. Wed fought, again. Over nothing, like always. Now tears of sorrow lined the bottoms of her eyes and drew thin, damp streams down her cheeks. Why was I so stupid? I never even realized the pain I put her through. Nor the hell she put up with, just to stay at my side. I was her hope, a fleeting glimpse of a brighter, happier future. I was stealing it from her, in my re occurring acts of selfishness and carelessness. I whispered Im sorry repeatedly, trying to get it through to her.
Its okay, it was nothing. Its just an
The lips which will be markedly full and red are drawn back from the teeth which gleam long, sharp as razors, and ivory white.
-Montague Summers
The clock read six AM, and the calendar had every day but the twenty-fifth of December crossed off. Snow drifted aimlessly outside of the window tinted black. Her cold cheek pressed to my neck, warmth seeping from her open mouth. We sat in silence, her content breathing filling it. A trickle of blood traced its way down my neck to my shoulder. Quickly, she pulled back. Clotting my new marks and licking them clean, including the dribble.
All done? I murmured the question, keeping my eye
Dreams are dreams. They are only the things we sweep under the carpet and torment ourselves with at night. I thought, running a hand through my damp hair. This dream was unusually realistic, though.
Whats the matter? Dont want to play with us? A figure asked, its serpant like voice slithering into my ears. I looked at my legs; they were moving. Why were they moving? Id not given them my consent.
The poor child is fearful, loved one. A second figure sang out, its voice childish and haunting.
I stopped, turning around. This is just a dream. Ill be awakened to my alarm any
What is it about fiction that we find so addicting?
Is it the fact that we can confide in it, hiding from reality? Or maybe its the fact that any and every character has a story we can relate to or the life weve always wanted. But why? What makes it desirable to become a character, to live those imaginary lives, to hide from our fates as a boring person with no life.
What is it about fiction that we find so addicting?
What is it about the dark that makes it so scary?
Is it the fact that very simply put, we are blinded from sight? Or maybe perhaps its the fact that in the dark we are just as useless and weak as the prey
Anticipation. It can eat you alive if youre not careful. Mother always says. Its only fear that you build up, impatience for the worst to end, or the worst to come and be done with. She always looks at me after saying it, wiping a non existent tear away before adding on: Love gives the worst anticipation. You fear for them, need them to be okay, are clueless as to what to do when theyre gone. I never look her back straightly, I always know that she uses the word incorrectly. Or maybe not, maybe in her lifetime shes invented her own, safer version of the word. Maybe when shes at
Hospital-As done as it gets- by Ichaotic, literature
Literature
Hospital-As done as it gets-
The doors slid open silently, letting me and a gust of autumn leaves into the pure white walls of the hospital. I walked down the hallway, the smell of sterilizer filled my nostrils and the brightness of white blinded my eyes. I passed several doors, some reading numbers and others opening to other hallways. An elevators ding sounded as several nurses stepped in, each pressing a number and waiting impatiently for the other to get on so they could go to their next job. Finally, the hallway ended at a set of swinging doors, both reading Waiting area. I pushed through the doors, into a bright yet gloomy room painted yellow. A y
Power Strip
Oh my gosh! The young girl groaned when her English essay was constantly deleting itself every time she tried to save it to her documents. She has been at it for a good half hour. She searched and searched for a potential problem or reason it would be erasing all on it's own. There hadn't been a virus detected in her computer at all either. When the computer wouldn't reboot or shut down when she tried to restart it, she bent down to unplug the computer, receiving a jolt of electricity against her finger tips. She jumped back, surprised by the sudden shock, holding her tingling fingers to her chest, staring wide-eyed
Can you hear me? you whisper across the phone.
I dont want to listen, I say. Your words could hurt me.
Can you see me? you say, pressing your face against the glass
Squishing your nose in the way that
I cant help but laugh at.
I cant see you, I reply. I cant see beauty.
Im crying, you tell me one day.
I can see the tears running down your cheeks
But still, I say, Youre not crying. Its your imagination.
Do you care? you ask.
No.
Do you love me? Today you are at
The sound of my breathing reverberated in my ears as I ran up countless flights of stairs, trying to reach the top. How many stories did I have left? I turned the next corner, and there it was: the last level. Sighing with relief, I pushed open the door and stepped onto the roof.
The air was surprisingly calm, but the cold bit into my skin, making me shudder. I closed the door behind me, moving slowly towards the immobile figure kneeling on the edge of the roof.
Wilbur I whispered, the name lingering in the still air. The shape didnt move. I wondered if he had heard me. And then he spoke, softly and almost ina
Current Residence: No where Print preference: Small sounds nice. Favourite genre of music: Mixed. Favourite photographer: See answer above. Favourite style of art: Mixed. Operating System: All. Systems. Are. Go. MP3 player of choice: ipod Shell of choice: Sea shell? Empty. Wallpaper of choice: Ringo currently. Skin of choice: No preference, we're all people aren't we? Favourite cartoon character: Don't got none. <BAD GRAMMAR!!! DX Personal Quote: Life's too short - spend your time writing.
Favourite Visual Artist
See answer below.
Favourite Movies
I am david, any disney classics and several more.
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
I tried to put a list...it didn't fit. :[
Favourite Writers
I prefer someone human - Don't want to read something from a monkey.
Favourite Games
UHM......?
Favourite Gaming Platform
My bed, you can jump on it.
Tools of the Trade
Keyboard, Pen, Notebook, Word documents, and a moniter is probably a novel thing.
No seriously, a few months? *Sigh* Well, I've come back with a story done to the full amount I have patience to write it to. Cast a glance and leave a comment or two. :]
Yes, the title speaks the truth. My new addiction is my story "Anticipation." Or abnormal writing, if you'd like to go by my Deviant title. I just can NOT get enough of it, and I've been working on the continuation. Though, the name will be changed when I feel that piece has reached a satifactory limit to the reaches of it's words.
I've decided to keep it in present-future, and though the process of writing is dreary, due to demolishing, change of person and tense, rebuilding, I feel that the home for it is in present-future. It's the most fun I've ever had in writing a piece, and that says something considering on August twenty-third I'll b