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Literature
The Night After
He felt it. He heard it.
Twisting along his flesh – intertwining his limbs in contorted night-lights – thrilling his senses and pulling him forward, upward, through the bubbling and sour breaths.  Light played through his fingers as he lay on his back, hand held to the eye of the window. With his teeth he scraped the dirt from his nails. Bare to the night, he shivered; ribs crack-screamed – howling.
David ran a nail down the middle of his belly, eyes closed. Hand splayed across his stomach, sweat beads sliding, slipping under and he dragged the nails back up to his chest, digging trails through flesh and hair. Colours pin-burst behind his eyes, muscles wrought, pulling harder, rippled under thin flesh. Bone threatened lungs heaved as he released his nails, brought to rest against his lips. Tongue lapped.
Slowly he rolled his shoulder, bringing it back against the coarse case-less pillow. His head twitched, the battered joint snarling, snapping at him, a tooth b
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Literature
A change of heart
He walked slowly down the hall, rifle clutched by his hip, taking a long drag on his cigarette. It'd been three days. Three long days trapped in that house. That god damned house. It was one of those flash ones, like the kind he'd seen on television or in the magazines Glory had wasted their money on, real snobby, a real showoff. With those off white walls, and fancy furniture, really clean as well. Too clean, scary clean, like something was being hidden. He didn't trust it. The walls seemed to ache, groaning, shifting in the dark and Jack hated it. And it wasn't just the noises, he could handle that, but there was something else, something just below the surface that freaked him out.
He'd decided it was the photos. They were all of the same woman - Alex's old bird. His dead missus. She was a real looker mind you, but what didn't sit well with Jack was the fact that Alex had kept all her junk. Had a room full of her shit, dresses, that kind of thing. He'd found them on the first night
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Literature
The Forgotten Pilot
The forgotten Pilot
By Jennifer Anne
At the hospital Alistair leaned against the cool, stark white walls. He hated this place. He felt the death, the sickness, the pain. It was the smell. It burned in his lungs, and gave him a headache.
He watched a small boy in the waiting room, the child's mother reading an old and tattered magazine. The child wound himself around her feet, making a quiet vroom sound as he twirled a tiny plastic plane in his pink hands. Alistair watched smiling to himself as the small plane flew higher and higher, diving and ducking around the small boy and his blonde curls. His light blue eyes dancing in the same delight that Alistair knew all too well.  
It was safe to say the ever since he was knee high to a grass hopper he'd wanted to fly. His father had been a pilot, or so his mother said. Alistair never knew him. But still, the idea of walking in his father's unknown footsteps made him feel closer to the man he'd never meet. He'd often lie in the gras
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Literature
Sonata
Sonata
The piano now sat dusty and forgotten, lost in the rooms of the old house. Sophie hadn't set foot there in what seemed a life time. Old memories reared their heads, often causing her to stop and stare, the flashes coming in waves, stopping her from her mission. She walked into the piano room, pulling the edges of her coat tighter as she noticed that one of the windows had broken, the snow from outside threatening to enter, breaking her near perfect memory of the room.
She sat at the bench, running her gloved hand over the dust covered keys. She couldn't count how many days he'd spent in here, perfecting his craft. It had always been said that Alan was a great pianist. And he defiantly worked keeping up appearances. Sophie had come second to the music; she knew this, even if he never outwardly said it. She knew.  And she understood the need for perfection. She strove for it in her own endeavors. Keeping up appearances was key. For him it was the music, for her the house
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Literature
Never, ever land
We're off to the never, ever land,
like a moth to the flame,
where angels fear to tread,
and the devils are to blame.
We're off an adventure,
finding chaos at every turn,
with the blaze of the multi colour,
the cigarettes starts to burn.
We're off to the never, ever land,
gliding on Morpheus's sweet tune,
with a finger on the trigger,
and a shadow across the moon.
We're off to the never, ever land,
like a moth to the flame,
where angels fear to tread,
and the devils are to blame.
We're lost in a trance,
digging around in the dirt,
hiding from the sirens,
the zombies start to hurt.
We're trapped in the bars,
slapped on our wrist, a monotone band,
like the products of Entomology,
we forgo the never land.
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Literature
The Pub Of No-Hopers
The pub of no-hopers
Characters:
Heath
Donald
Ignatius
Agremanthrea
other extras sitting at tables and booths
Scene:
Set in purgatory, in a dank and dark bar, smoky and with a few people sitting at tables or booths. The sound of a door opening and slamming. There are two visible doors, one behind the bar with a sign "staff only" and the other right next to it, with a sign above which at random intervals numbers(completely out of order) appear.  Enter Ignatius (co-owns the pub with his Wife, Agremanthrea) from off stage, bearded and large, wearing a heavy trench coat and hat. He staggers in, shaking off the rain from 'outside' and takes off his hat and coat, hanging them on hooks. He wanders over to the bar, putting on an apron as he does so, perhaps nodding to some people in greeting, and hands a full glass to a man in a rumpled suit (Donald, his back Is to the audience)  
Iggy It's a bit nippy round the bits and pieces out there…
He wanders over to the end, le
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Literature
ANE - chapter two draft
-2-
Cyrus tore himself from the fire, feeling the warmth snaking through his clothes, his skin, muscles and bones, causing a shiver to run through his aged body. He looked to the clock. A large grandfather standing at the end of the elongated room, his gnarled face of bronze and gold showing not only the time of this world, but those of worlds past, of lifetimes gone. Cyrus had had the clock constructed on his three hundredth birthday, and he found the constant count down, the metronome tick of time, comforting. Cyrus was a man of science, he knew a lot about how life is created, how it is sustained, and how it evolves. He knew how life was supposed to end. A cycle. Never ending, forever moving forward, like the hands of a clock, counting down the days till extinction. Cyrus had an obsession with the mechanics of life. How one is born, how one lives, how one dies. It was death especially that fascinated him. Because it was something he'd seen, observed, yet would never experience. He w
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Literature
Chapter one-ANE
A necessary evil
-1-
Alexander looked over the edge of his desk at the small, wisp of a child trembling before him. And she was tiny too, the orange shapeless hospital gown hung limply over her frame. She refused to look at him. The dark rimmed eyes locked to the floor, head down, hands behind back, she was the picture of obedience sitting in that large chair. She was a ghastly sight, gaunt from hunger, and the stubble on her head barely covering the scars that seemed to map her scalp.
He tore his eyes from the pathetic creature, and looked to the guards at her sides, then to the doctor, his hands like talons on the girl's shoulders. Standing as if a protective father, but shadowed and dark, his love for the girl only shown through his wants to keep her locked, and tested. His own little princess lost in the dark. Alexander tapped his pen on the desk, absent mindedly flipping through the pages on the surface of his desk. The doctor shuffled from one foot to another, and Alexander kept
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Literature
Intro-ANE
A necessary evil
There was a young girl, lost in life and judgments whose father was poor and mother ill. She was a beauty, with wavy red hair and pale shoulders flecked with freckles. She lived on a farm, as green as could be, with a river running true past the white house, from her window she could see the shining water and dipping willows. She would dance under those willows, twirling and twirling, losing herself. Her father would return from the village as the sun began to sleep, walking past those willows, she'd wait for him to pass by, leaping out at him and embracing him. Father would spend all day waiting for her smiles, waiting to feel her thin arms about him, her sighs upon his chest.
One day, under those sighing willows, he paused, awaiting her giggles, her love. But they never came. He waited as the shadows stretched, then died, as the light faded. For years until his death, he waited and waited for her, hunting, moving through the fields and alcoves, searching for his litt
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Literature
The bus ride
It is interesting the things that make us smile, little moments that would otherwise go unnoticed, little glimpses into other people's lives that leave an unexpected impression.
Picture, if you will the scene.   It's a rainy, miserable day. Enter the bus. All aboard! Grumpy faced passengers all sitting visage forward? Backs slumped? Masks on? All in order and away we go.                                                              
Stop, after stop, the numbers diminish, and then regroup, like the ebb and flow. All of them masked and silent plugged in with small dangling wires connected to pockets, bags, fists. Robotic.
Enter, stage left, a small, seemingly frail woman.
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Literature
Prologue
It was her perfume that used to wake me. Fluttering upon the breeze, as she stood by the open window, shoulder resting on the frame, she would gaze through the pane to the dawning world outside, lashes brushing against her checks.  In the pale light she seemed so lovely, so soft, and so simple to love.
I often watched her in those days. The stolen glances between us filled my heart, my soul with such courage, such excitement. Oh, the shamelessness! Our love was made all the more sweet for the secrets we kept, our secrets, playing out our own miniature masquerade under the very eyes of on lookers. On the surface we were no more than close friends, sharing lessons together, dancing, chatting and gossiping like any others. If only they’d known! The wickedness of it all, it filled us to the point of bursting. Our days together were the sweetest of my life.
If only I had known the true secrets that had lurked, the darkness which fed upon her, and soon to be, me. If only I
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Activity


deviantID

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Wuffles
Artist
Current Residence: NZ
Skin of choice: Mine, preferably...
Interests
My other account, for my drawing--> www.wavinghello.deviantart.com

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:iconsminkle:
sminkle Featured By Owner Feb 28, 2010  Hobbyist General Artist
Thx for the fav!!
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social-negative Featured By Owner Mar 1, 2010
Your welcome
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blondBearded Featured By Owner Oct 23, 2009
thanks for :+fav:
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social-negative Featured By Owner Oct 31, 2009
Your welcome!
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:iconharharimapirate:
harharimapirate Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2009  Student
thanks for the fav, and welcome to DA :wave:
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social-negative Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2009
Your welcome, and thank you.
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:icondanni-masquerade:
Danni-Masquerade Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2009
:D Thanks for the fave.
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social-negative Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2009
Oh no worries ^_^
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