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Post by Mayhem on Aug 22, 2007 16:24:54 GMT -5
Beauty… What is it? It is a calming effect on you once you see it, even if it’s just a glimpse out of the corner of your eye. Does it get you excited at the same time- your pulse spiking slightly as you see it? Is it a feeling? A feeling you can’t describe, but you know. And you know that I know. Is it the physical appearance of an object, or is it something more? The meaning, perhaps.
Attractiveness is not beauty. Anyone who disagrees can take it up with me. It is perceived as beauty, but human perception is something that is horridly misguided, isn't it?
Beauty is different to everyone. That is because everyone is different. My conclusion is that beauty, true beauty, can only be seen by people who understand or who have the potential to understand the person of note.
But, my perceptions are human, thus, horridly misguided.
Well, this rant was entirely too positive. Hm...
I'm sick of people. Blind, intolerable, stubborn, rude, disrespectful, plastic, idiotic, and whores(men and women). How do they live like that?
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Post by Mayhem on Sept 5, 2007 18:28:24 GMT -5
A report for my school. The teacher liked it, and I enjoyed how fun it was to write. Don't read it.
Internal Conflict By Grimmeh A lump formed in my throat as the woman at the front of the room spoke. She leaned back in her chair and explained, “I need you to write a report about a conflict; internal or external, between you and yourself, someone else, or nature.” Her way of speaking was calm, but my pulse was racing. Conflict?! Dagnabit! I thought to myself, biting my lips slightly. On the outside I appeared calm, almost eager to write this. But on the inside I was racing against myself to try to think of a conflict that I could write about without looking too silly.
I, like all normal people, have had many, many conflicts in my life. Some were larger than most people would expect, but others were simple scuffles between myself and other people, with the occasional scream/hitting at/of an inanimate object. While I may be a very open person, who is also incredibly stunning, smart, nice, sweet, funny, outgoing, friendly, smart, nice, and of course humble, we all have things we don’t want people to know. As with me, most of my conflicts are internal. Debates in my mind for or against a certain subject, fighting against my demons, and just thinking all are conflicts that happen to everyone daily, thus, boring and bad material for writing and even pondering.
External conflicts are an interesting subject, and would be great to write about if I wasn’t so weird... I tend to not to hold onto grudges or even remember that I was mad at someone, but I do remember someone being mad at me because then I’ll remember not to do what I did to make them angry. I seek harmony, so my external conflicts are forgotten and covered up so people can move on. While I remember not to do something, or to go out of my way for someone, I won’t remember why. So, external conflicts are out of the questions to write the report on… Well, shoot. What am I going to write about? My thoughts were quick, but long winded in wording as was normal. I tapped my fingers on my desk out of a means of multitasking and thus allowing my mind to concentrate better. I never did figure out how that worked.
The bell was about to ring and I was talking with Andrew, Becky, and Zach. On the exterior, I was making jokes and being sarcastically me. On the interior, I was fretting over the report. I was used to knowing exactly what to do. I know how to say things and when to say them. I was used to just knowing. Knowing meant being in control. Not knowing meant feeling out of control, even if it was only slightly. Humans don’t enjoy feeling out of control, normally. If someone was to look into my eyes, then they’d see how quickly I was trying to search through my experiences and memories to find something, anything to write about. Nothing was good enough to meet my standards. Two minutes to the bell and two minutes until my mind pushed the report until the night before it was due.
A quiet, yet triumphant cry came out of m lips while Becky was talking. “Ha! I got it!” I said rather loudly. This caused the people around me to give me an odd look, but they were slightly used to me already, so they just continued talking. My mind calmed and my hands stopped fiddling around. And so, I pushed the report out of my mind until the night it was due, in which I forgot how to double space, and a new conflict began…
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Post by viceroy489 on Sept 5, 2007 22:37:05 GMT -5
I like it
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Post by Malum on Sept 6, 2007 15:42:21 GMT -5
"While I may be a very open person, who is also incredibly stunning, smart, nice, sweet, funny, outgoing, friendly, smart, nice, and of course humble,..."
Ha. Ha, ha. Ha.
Ha.
Very nice. This is certainly the most positive thing you've ever written. No blood or violence involved. It just goes to show you, not everyone's perfect.
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Post by Mayhem on Sept 6, 2007 20:39:45 GMT -5
I know! ;-; My next story for English is a fairy tale with a hippie peasant who frightens the princess with his hippie ways. The princess listens to his screams to help herself sleep after she overcomes the moral and ethical issues.
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Post by viceroy489 on Sept 6, 2007 21:07:14 GMT -5
Vary cool
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Post by That which dwells in shadows on Sept 7, 2007 2:28:13 GMT -5
Sounds like an average day in the life of twidit 0.o
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Post by Malum on Sept 7, 2007 11:20:32 GMT -5
I'd like to see a sitcom named that.
"The average day in the life of Twidit: Starring: Twidit, A kangaroo, and a surfing koala."
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Post by viceroy489 on Sept 7, 2007 21:30:20 GMT -5
that would be cool to see
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Post by Mayhem on Sept 8, 2007 23:59:34 GMT -5
<3 Twidit.
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Post by Mayhem on Sept 15, 2007 22:01:35 GMT -5
I was looking out my back door window yesterday and I couldn’t help but smile… The pre-storm clouds were moving in with their elegant meandering style. It wasn’t even five, but the sun had begun to set in the west, causing the patchy clouds to glow a dull pink on one side and a pure blue-white on the other. It was truly a beautiful sight. But my mind wandered to an old movie I used to watch, with a painted sky. It looked just like it… How odd…
A tightening feeling gripped my gut and my face fell. I knew that feeling too well. The thoughts came slowly at first. Maybe I’m dreaming… I better pinch myself. After doing so and biting my lip, scratching my arm with my nails, and going outside and stubbing my toe on my wooden deck, I sighed. I knew it. It has happened before seven times in the past six months.
My mind slowed and I seemed to be thrown into a haze, much like one you get when you have a headache, but my head didn’t ache or pain. It was like someone had placed cellophane between me and the rest of the world. I went to the bathroom and looked at myself. My eyes… they looked dead. Not sad, not depressed, or even content. Just dead. I almost broke the mirror. That wasn’t me.
Everyone else seemed to be fine… how can they be fine? Can’t they see it? At that time, I’m nothing. You're nothing.
The world just seemed so fragile… so fake… How can it still exist when it’s built upon such lies? The faces that hide… nothing, for nothing is there to begin with. People have hollowed out long before their time. How can the body survive if the mind is gone?
How? Why? What can I do? At times it seems like I’m the only one who sees it. Am I? Do you see it? Something is so wrong with everything. I can feel it. I know it. I know I know it… But what is it?
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Post by Malum on Sept 15, 2007 22:09:33 GMT -5
I wish I could answer.
As I told you, I've been experiencing the same thing occasionally. I haven't looked in the mirror when it's been happening, but I feel so... different when this is happening. I can't explain it better than you did.
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Post by Mayhem on Sept 23, 2007 17:21:18 GMT -5
A story about me and my daydreams. I love Miss Hatchet.
A small girl of about 15 walked into Bishop DuBourg at approximately 7:20 AM with a black backpack that was devoid of books other than the ones she read for pleasure. She kept her head down, looking at the tiles on the floor as if interesting, and not the dull pieces of floor covering that they were. She went down the stairs two at a time and walked into the breezeway, hoping not to be noticed. A few sophomores looked at her as she passed, knowing her in some way that she didn’t remember. Her mop of dirty blonde hair was down to her elbows and had a slight wave to it, and her clothing was the school regulated white shirt and red plaid skirt.
She cringed as she heard a loud yell of “Brittneeee!” Lynne Vu, a freshman just as Brittnee, was just as tall as her and of Vietnamese descent. “We’ve been waiting, for like, ever.”
… A dark cloud passed over the school and the muggy morning seemed like an evening of a cold winter day. The cafeteria transformed into a dank room smelling of cigar smoke. There were tables splattered around, all full of people. Brittnee’s clothing changed into a pinstripe suit with a white rose on the lapel. Her hair was drawn back into a ponytail with her bangs framing her face. A pinstripe fedora topped off her look. She cast a lazy glance to Lynne to see her dressed in a white suit with a similar rose on the lapel and white fedora. “The meeting can’t start without you, you know that. Why are you late?”
“Some bum hopin’ to take out the Roses’ lead dame. He didn’t much like the idea of us modern Robin Hoods, ya’ see? Turned out he was a real piker by the time he saw my Tommy. All talk, kids theses days, I tell ya’.” Brittnee tugged on her suit with one hand and straightened her tie with the other. She walked over to the table directly to the left, a white table cloth covering it and with two open seats. “What’s shakin’?” she asked as she sat down in one seat, Lynne sitting next to her.
Both young ladies looked around. Half the other members of the table were female and half were male. Becky the Bim, Weise the Wire, Mighty Mick, and Clammed Kell were the ones in the light. All had on fedoras of varying colors and a white rose on their lapel. “We got problems, boss,” Kell said with a dust of her shoulder. “The Hightown Chives have it out for us since you threatened to take their boss for a drive.” There was a low laugh that went around the table, but Kell kept a frown on.
“He asked for it when he called me ‘doll’ and asked me to be his moll. I ain’t gonna be no one’s gal until…” … The girl’s eyes were fiery and her fists were clenched as she was brought out of the delightful daydream by the ever cheery Lynne. “Uh… Brittnee? Hello? You tired today or somethin’?” Lynne waved her hand in front of Brittnee’s face. They were by a table close to the front of the cafeteria, on the left side. “I asked if you had seen Ronnie yet.” Lynne shifted weight to her other foot and cocked her head to the side.
“Huh? Oh. No; he comes later, doesn’t he?” Brittnee’s voice was low and slow, as if tired, even though the way she fidgeted it was clear that she wasn’t.
She wandered into homeroom as the bell rang and sat down. She had brought a notebook with her. Blocking out all other noise, she opened the book to be and set her pencil down on the paper. …
A roll of thunder followed a vicious crackle of lightning as a hunched figure wrote furiously with a black quill. A raven cawed from the top of a bust of Edgar Allen Poe, the candlelight shining off the bird’s glossy feathers and blank black eyes. Her hair was pulled back by a leather string and hung loosely. “My dear Raven… What do you think? It’s the story of a little girl, who was ripped apart by the seams. A horrid depiction of flesh and bone tearing in a revolting, terrible manner… but it turns out…” Brittnee giggled, looking up from her paper and to her feathered friend. “It was all in her head! Metaphors and similes abound!” The raven hung its head for a moment before squawking and flapping its wings. Brittnee huffed and crossed her arms, quill set down at the bottom of the page. “Well, I know it’s cliché and melodramatic, but it’s what the people want! As a writer-" The raven squawked again, taking off of the bust of Edgar Allen Poe’s head and flying around the dark room. “Alright! You win. No little girl… Little boy?” The raven practically screeched and dove towards the girl’s skull. She threw her hands up to protect herself.
… Brittnee flinched as Tiffany poked her arm in a very violent manner. “Ouch, Tiffany! What’dya do that for?!” Mildly annoyed to be disturbed by writing, Brittnee didn’t feel like being nice.
“Uh… I dunno. You were kind of having a seizure over here or something.” Tiffany’s intelligent brown eyes twinkled as she saw Brittnee huff. She tucked a chocolate colored piece of hair behind her ear and smirked.
“I was writing… you know how it is…”
“No, but I’ll pretend I do to make you feel better.”
“Thanks?” Before Tiffany could even make a sarcastic, snarky remark, the bell rang and Brittnee was up and out of the sweltering art room. She traveled along at a brisk pace, not paying attention to the people who tried to get her attention. Old Testament first… I should really pay attention in that class and I’m kind of afraid of what the Hess will do if I don’t. Then I have U.S. Government, and that class is always… er… interesting. Then algebra is after that… Then Hatcher! Ha. I love it when English is the last class of the day.
The day remained blissfully blank until the last period, where Brittnee walked in early and sat down in her seat. Andrew Weisse was already there and smiled weakly to her as she looked at him. “Hey.”
“Afternoon, Weisse…” Brittnee was tired, but the day was far from over when the bell rang that signaled the start of class.
…
Atop a hillside in a country that could pass off for Ireland, a girl in plate mail with sun highlighted blonde hair stood with a sword drooping in one hand and a plate helmet in the other. “As the days grow shorter, our enemies grow closer…” she said, a whimsical tweak to her tone and a faraway look in her eye. Two men rode up beside her on horses. “The show down will be in winter. Will we be ready?” She pivoted on her left foot to face them.
One was small and clothed in dusty brown leather, his weapons daggers and needles. His face was covered by a mask that covered his lower face, only showing his eyes. He had on a hood that covered his forehead and cast his eyes in shadow. “Who knows? Maybe. Time tells all, but only to those who know where to look.” He hopped off his horse while he was talking. His smile could be heard in his voice.
The one next to him was dressed in heavier mail than the girl and had his helmet on. He hopped off his horse and laughed. “Well, when looking at a battlefield, it’s easy to see who wins; the one who walks away with honor intact. The metaphoric battle will be easy enough to win… but the physical… We will see. Tomorrow brings what tomorrow brings and nothing can stop it. Our actions for today may effect it, but the sun will set no matter what mortal commands it to stop.”
The girl turned around and looked over the countryside. “Tomorrow brings what tomorrow brings…” … “Brittnee?” Becky asked, poking the poor girl in the forehead. Brittnee winced, rubbing her forehead with a frown.
“What?” she asked, having a good time playing knight.
“The bell rang. It’s time to leave school.” Becky got up and gathered her books. “You’ve been, like, really out of it today… Are you tired?”
“Yeah, I am,” Brittnee answered, not thinking Becky would get the sense of tired she meant. “I really am…”
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Post by Malum on Sept 26, 2007 15:36:42 GMT -5
I really love this one. Especially the ending statement from you. Mostly because I say the same thing, with the same meaning, quite often.
Normally, being me, I would say you should make it longer.
But, I think this fits as a shorter short story. It's a nice quick read. Very fun.
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Post by Mayhem on Oct 5, 2007 15:35:48 GMT -5
O' Quizilla! You stereotyping mass of Harry Potter and Naruto quizziesez. How I yearn for the old days... When your quotes made me inspired to write When you actually said something I didn't know about myself But when I thought on it I found it true
O' Quizilla... You have fallen out of favor from myself. But may still go to thine embrace Free of embarrassment, They take your disgusting quizzes... Trying again and again, Until they get the character they want (fucking 12-year olds)
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