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Mother Natural :icontheepicravenchild:TheEpicRavenChild 0 0 Princess :icontheepicravenchild:TheEpicRavenChild 0 0
Literature
Two-Hundred-Eighty-Six
This is a journal.
This journal is secret.
Journals are banned.
I am not supposed to write things that are not notes.
Thoughts are bad.
I cannot help having thoughts. I cannot say them. I must write them.
Please forgive me.
I write until I cannot any longer.
Day 1:
Today I woke up. The morning bells rang at the time they do every morning. I got up and went outside. I met my classmates. We walked to school. We said the pledge. I was asked to answer a question. I answered it correctly. My classmates clapped. We ate lunch. It was pizza. I sat with my friends. We went to math and science. I answered more questions. I got them right. Then we went home. I did my homework. I walked the dog. I went to bed. I wrote this in the dark. I am afraid. I do not know of what. Now I am going to sleep.
Day 2:
Today, the morning bells rang distantly. I woke up from a dream I no longer remember. I got dressed and left, meeting my classmates on the sidewalk. We walked to school together. When we got to scho
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Photographing the Photographer :icontheepicravenchild:TheEpicRavenChild 0 0
Literature
Eliza Sanders
Eliza Sanders
Our Mother
Died October 27, 1923
Age 100 years
AT REST  
Mothers find their children irresistible.
Children find their mothers even more so.
Families get torn apart.
But mothers always love.
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Literature
Look, I'm an Alien
     KITCHEN WINDOW
Wood laid out in slats
And smooth floors where people are sweeping
crying
melting
The browning of meat
and tiny elbows
They eat.
      BATHROOM
Fish run through the air
And wet-magic flows through metal spouts
To white, clanging bowls that catch your spit
I can smell you now.
      GARAGE
Grey, as though long ago it was the color of my face
Masses with long lines of squiggles running them,
Trying to form things called words,
Line it.
Small, thin ledges where dust collects and nothing else.
Blue.
"Pooh was here".
     CHILD'S ROOM
A fuzzy noise emits from its caged face
Black knobs rest on top and a
large, metal rod protrudes and
Points to my hometown.
"Save the baby," it crackles.
I run.
    PARK
They gurgle unexpectedly.
And lash out
running fast
their tiny flanges get
caught in
webs.
They scream.
      BAKERY WINDOW
I'm breathing in the smell of burnt flour.
This is inedible.
I mu
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Literature
Coming Of Age
There is a place
Stacked together in plasma soil
Melting our beliefs into one
Continuous flow of energy.
It is a place where candles breathe
In sunset wine glasses
we call
chalices.
This is a place where we don't cultivate verity,
but variety
And we forget the label of truth.
This is a place to call home.
But where you
and you
and you
and me
Gather in one room to discuss the meaning behind truth,
You all are the heat of the hearth,
Loving, playful, yet maternal,
Caressing each other's skin with the
Love of familiarity,
While I
I am the seabird burning in your flames.
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Literature
Liar
She is a liar she is,
A confused woman
Uncertain of fate
or presence.
She laughs at her own death
And lies to her own heart
And promises the noose
To all who reveal truth.
So today, I saw, she didn't cry
She didn't smile either
But she knew that vanity
was her only virtue.
She's a poet, she is,
Looking for ways to entertain,
to build her circus
To romp in the light of the moon.
She yells to the sky
And kisses the earth
knowing that's where she's going
When she decides to die.
So today she prayed to nothing
And wished no prayers to to others
She dressed as though she cared
But knew life would end tomorrow.
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Literature
Faerie Maker: Castles Prologue
Prologue:
Warmth.
We were.
They only saw.
We could only understand.
Warm breezes and empty grasslands.
That is all that awaited us.
None of us had any more words.
Our brains were mute and our tongues forgotten. We seemed to have lost our ability to believe. Life was no longer an issue in our disintegrated minds. We were no longer together in our camp of forgotten woes. We had become separate in our journey so that together we were not and could never be again, and like a bouquet of bubbles, we were heading our separate directions, directed by the wind of insomnia, intolerance, and pain.
We were now individual.
We could no longer fathom that another person stood next to us on the flat, grey grassland - we were alone.
I was alone. My brain had gone quiet with fatigue. We had the woods next. That was where we were now going. Maybe in rain we would awaken. I had lost my precious items far back. I could no longer remember where I was going. Just that I was going. And going.
Our caravan no l
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Literature
Sad Night
“This is where I hang up now,” she said, her voice condescending, cold, and arrogant.
“Okay,” I laughed, “I love you.”
The phone was silent, and I realized I had been talking to no one. I sighed and continued up to the front steps.
I put my key in the key hole and turned slowly. I heard the click and I removed the key, turned the handle, and opened the screen door. As I inserted the key into the bolt lock, I heard the door unlocking from the inside and my dad opened it.
“Have a nice walk?” he seemed almost sorry that I hadn't collapsed on the ground from the cold outside. Maybe he thought that I had, I had been gone so long.
“Yeah,” I nodded, going up the inside stairs to be met with my clothing scattered on the hallway floor.
“You can’t bend over, so I’m doing your laundry. I hope that walk was good for you. You were gone for a long time and it was cold.” His words were nice and worrisome, but almost a
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Literature
Time Wizard: Amber
Blue were the girl's eyes. Blue with tiny specks of violet. She was pale, and cried little. I was just 2 years old.
"Anna Ray," Mrs. Oden said her name was.
Anna Ray, I repeated in my head. She was pretty - unnaturally pretty - unlike me. Her skin was so pale, her hair so soft, while mine was dark and coarse. Her name was also pretty. "Amber" some said was "pretty", but "Anna Ray" was like the moon glowing above a purified lake with the stars specking the sky. Yeah. Anna Ray was a portrait, a painting with every intricate detail planned so that she looked so real, yet almost plastic.  I felt jealousy, hatred - want.
Soon I was 14, and I wanted her. I wanted not only to be her, but to love her, to kiss her, to have those beautiful, soft, magical hands hold mine. But she was still like a baby, 12 years old and naive.
When I expressed these feelings to my best mate, Johnny we called him, 'cause he didn't come with a name, he said that this want was wrong, that a girl could never love
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A long time ago, my mother bought the very first season of MASH for my father to enjoy. Immediately, my brother and I became attached. For each of my brother's birthdays and on Christmas, a new MASH season was added to the collection until we owned every season on tape and DVD. I was the main one with the obsession; I sorta thought of the MASH family as part of mine - familiar faces, that though they were characters, I could understand them and be close to them as though they were real. I skipped the very last episode and only saw the very end scene. I knew what it was about. It was the end - the war had finally ended and people who had lived together for years and years were being split up and sent back to the states or around the world to live their own separate lives and possibly never see one another again. So, today, I decided to watch it, and I bawled more than I have in years. Thank goodness no one else was home.

I once read a book about a young adult who had gone to Iraq for Operation Desert Storm. There he stayed for three years, encountering dangers and perilous adventures that include secret missions; driving across enemy lines in an open jeep with nothing but his helmet, his friends, and his gun; trying to save a group of orphan hostages, one of which was blind; and falling in love with one of his comrades in arms. His best friend died during the orphan event - saving a blind orphan from the trap that the platoon had been invited to - he had wanted to open a blues club when he returned to the states. I cried during this book as well and it somehow ended up slamming into my wall.

Now, I'm not one for war films or war books, especially ones with male leads, but reading this book and watching this series, I've come to realize the creative advantage to setting a story in the middle of a war. First, it touches people. Maybe everyone doesn't know someone who has been in combat or been involved in a war effort, but everyone knows someone who's been touched by the war. Reading a story about a war makes people feel anger, sadness, and helplessness. We hate it, yet we keep reading because we want to see how it'll end. A war setting also provides the author with instant conflict. There's a big conflict between two sides, and realistic ways to kill the characters, give characters thoughts, drive characters crazy. There is also conflict between strangers who are forced to live with each other for unreasonable amounts of time. There, too, is the end. When the war ends, the book ends. This is what drives people to cry in the end of war books and movies. War brought together people from all over the world to live together, fight together, love together, eat together, starve together, and feel together. In the end of a war, the emotion between characters who may not ever see each other again, brings tears to our own eyes, because we know that they probably won't. Or we pray that they will. When war is real, we cry, as civilians, when our family comes home and we can finally be with one another again. When war becomes an entertainment, we can see a side of war from the soldiers emotions, and we cry because their family is being pulled apart. We cry because we are sad the war has ended, because "they" have ended. But we also cry because each one as an individual has learned something, become something, or showed themselves as something different that as they started. They have become stronger, or weaker, or somewhere in between.
The emotions, the feelings, the full out effect of war causes all of us to feel something, and to remember, that there are no sides to war. In reality, everyone is fighting everyone and everything, even themselves. And there are no good people or bad people; there are just people.
  • Reading: Sunrise over Falluja
  • Watching: M.A.S.H

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TheEpicRavenChild
Jo the Dragon Lord
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
Favourite genre of music: techno
Favourite style of art: realism, poetry, music, photography, manga
MP3 player of choice: Zen :D
Favourite cartoon character: Ash Ketchem
Personal Quote: "Who I am is who I am, and is not always who you want me to be."
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:iconpurph:
Purph Featured By Owner Jul 28, 2014   Photographer
Thanks! ;)
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:icontheepicravenchild:
TheEpicRavenChild Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
You are very welcome! 
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:iconpurph:
Purph Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2014   Photographer
Happy soon to be new year! Thanks for the faves :)
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dysfunctionalberries Featured By Owner May 20, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
psssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst
hi
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:icontheepicravenchild:
TheEpicRavenChild Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
*whispers* 'ello govna!
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:iconpurph:
Purph Featured By Owner Nov 9, 2012   Photographer
Thank you for the faves! All 17 of them :hug:
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:icontheepicravenchild:
TheEpicRavenChild Featured By Owner Nov 10, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Oh You're welcome! Thank you for all the work to favorite! :glomp:
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:iconpurph:
Purph Featured By Owner Jul 18, 2013   Photographer
Thanks again! ;)
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KokoManiac Featured By Owner Oct 17, 2012
Happy birthday!!!!!!!! :D
:iconcakeplz:
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:icontheepicravenchild:
TheEpicRavenChild Featured By Owner Oct 17, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Oh, thank you Dear! :glomp:
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