The graffiti on the park sign was so cleanly written that from a distance Jack could have sworn that it had been professionally contrived. Well-centered and clearly printed it was unlike most of the wild and illegible graffiti he was accustomed to seeing on various edifices and rock faces during his journeys on the freeway, and truth be told he had seen his fair share of such vandalism. The white paint was dulled and faded with age, but even so there was no blotchy attempt at a white wash, no evidence at all of anyone ever having tried to wash it off. It gave off the strange essence of normalcy, and it gave Jack the feeling that this particul
I often wish to just leave this place
This wilting world comprised
of money and car alarms
of plastic and deadlines,
of disasters and bombings,
of conveyor belts and jail cells,
of keyboards and software,
which isn't even really there to begin with--
They say it's the end of an era,
The end of the world.
The truth is if anything else happens
we're all just going to explode,
into a million little bits of information and stardust,
because the human mind was not meant to withstand
the horrors of this modern day
the traffic jams and lost car keys,
the typos and error reports,
the missed calls and broken headsets,
I read something I few days ago
That perturbed me. It was a comment
On a website. A young girl was thanking
A musical artist for writing their music,
Because it had inspired her to write again.
It angered me.
There is inspiration, and then there is plagiarism,
And this girl went on and on about how all her work
Is based off this artist's songs.
I doubt that would be in the dedications page.
But, I digress.
I knew my anger was irrational,
And I tried, somehow, to justify it.
Many people do this;
Music is an easy source of inspiration.
Why must it bother me?
And then, I realized, that I was not angry...
But bitter.
B
The sound,
The whir of the gleaming blades.
Waking me.
Shaking me.
All the snow has fallen,
and I lie frozen in my bed.
The sound,
The whir of the gleaming blades.
It keeps me up at night.
I pray and tremble with fright.
It's passing me by
(I sigh. Relief.)
only to swing around again.
The plow.
It keeps me up at night.
NO FRUITS!
The graffiti was written so cleanly that from a distance I would have bet that it was what the sign actually read. The white spray paint was dulled and faded, and there was no evidence of anyone having tried to wash it off. It gave off the essence of normalcy, and it gave me the sense that the graffiti had been there for almost as long as the sign itself had been.
When I saw the sign it took me a moment for the term to make any sense to me. No one called them fruits where I was from. In Hazard, Kentucky, a town of just under 5000 residents, they were called everything from fairies, to dykes, to faggots, to abominationsjus
On the day he was born with his eyes open, she decided that she would not just let him go as she had let all the others. As his tiny hands grasped the air, mindlessly searching for something to hold onto, she held them, and promised him the world.
He was her twenty-first pregnancy, and her eighteenth child. She knew that if she was to spare him the death that all of his siblings had faced, she would have to do it soon. From the moment of his birth, he was on borrowed time, and he was her last chance, because she could never have another child. The three pregnancies leading up to her last one had been miscarriages, and her menses even before
He is beautiful
and he is wretched
He is black
and he is white
He is Christian
and he is Jewish
He is male
and he is female
He is me
and he is you.
He is Dorian Gray
and he is Oscar Wilde
He is Victor
and he is Victor's creation
He is Viola
and he is Cesario
He is Tom Riddle
and he is Voldemort
He is all the roles
and he is none of them.
He is Michael
and he is Lucifer
He is the Nazis
and he is the Jews
He is a democrat
and he is a republican
He is Catholic
and he is Protestant
He is one
and he is the other.
He is passionate
and he
You are my distant muse.
My shy, and elusive mentor.
You seem so far away, and I know so little about you.
I've gathered not near enough, through your poetry
your prose, and brief palaver,
during which no words were actually spoken,
but written-Dare I call us friends?
I think so.
You inspire me, day by day.
Your remote presence, it
comforts me,
and I know that
and you must know that too,
right?
You are there.
In essence at least.
The Silent Witness to my mediocre
stab at creating something
utterly beautiful,
utterly meaningful,
utterly there.
Adeptly hidden you then come out
only to reassure me, like it was nothing-
They're the ones who dig up graveyards at night.
They're the ones who steal your late wife at night.
They're the ones arrested, fined, and beaten.
But they're the ones trying to cure your children.
[Disease,
The Black Death,
Cholera, and
Plague
Are all things from which
we cannot be saved]
They're the ones who say that the world is round.
They're the ones who say gravity's why we're bound.
They're the ones killed and executed without a fight.
But they're also the ones who end up being right.
[Cynics,
Heretics,
Scientific
fools
Against God you are
nothing. The Church rules.]
They're the ones who put faith into equation
Old King Misanthrope by StephethxLoser, literature
Literature
Old King Misanthrope
Your misanthropic paradoxic reign is at an end.
We'll take you over, make it over, make you break and bend.
How dare you swear to hurt those who have had it so damn rough?
This wicked, twisted fantasy, has gone on long enough!
Death to the one who let us suffer.
Damned be the one whose name we utter.
Old King Misanthrope you spawn of Cain.
You will not be the cause of our pain.
Our plan is to claim your land, and your country and your pride.
Your life too, we want that, and your hat, your crown and your bride.
Don't worry you'll die quick, but we'll mutilate your carcass.
Your pretty bride will soon follow, praying to Sain
The graffiti on the park sign was so cleanly written that from a distance Jack could have sworn that it had been professionally contrived. Well-centered and clearly printed it was unlike most of the wild and illegible graffiti he was accustomed to seeing on various edifices and rock faces during his journeys on the freeway, and truth be told he had seen his fair share of such vandalism. The white paint was dulled and faded with age, but even so there was no blotchy attempt at a white wash, no evidence at all of anyone ever having tried to wash it off. It gave off the strange essence of normalcy, and it gave Jack the feeling that this particul
I often wish to just leave this place
This wilting world comprised
of money and car alarms
of plastic and deadlines,
of disasters and bombings,
of conveyor belts and jail cells,
of keyboards and software,
which isn't even really there to begin with--
They say it's the end of an era,
The end of the world.
The truth is if anything else happens
we're all just going to explode,
into a million little bits of information and stardust,
because the human mind was not meant to withstand
the horrors of this modern day
the traffic jams and lost car keys,
the typos and error reports,
the missed calls and broken headsets,
The sound,
The whir of the gleaming blades.
Waking me.
Shaking me.
All the snow has fallen,
and I lie frozen in my bed.
The sound,
The whir of the gleaming blades.
It keeps me up at night.
I pray and tremble with fright.
It's passing me by
(I sigh. Relief.)
only to swing around again.
The plow.
It keeps me up at night.
I read something I few days ago
That perturbed me. It was a comment
On a website. A young girl was thanking
A musical artist for writing their music,
Because it had inspired her to write again.
It angered me.
There is inspiration, and then there is plagiarism,
And this girl went on and on about how all her work
Is based off this artist's songs.
I doubt that would be in the dedications page.
But, I digress.
I knew my anger was irrational,
And I tried, somehow, to justify it.
Many people do this;
Music is an easy source of inspiration.
Why must it bother me?
And then, I realized, that I was not angry...
But bitter.
B
NO FRUITS!
The graffiti was written so cleanly that from a distance I would have bet that it was what the sign actually read. The white spray paint was dulled and faded, and there was no evidence of anyone having tried to wash it off. It gave off the essence of normalcy, and it gave me the sense that the graffiti had been there for almost as long as the sign itself had been.
When I saw the sign it took me a moment for the term to make any sense to me. No one called them fruits where I was from. In Hazard, Kentucky, a town of just under 5000 residents, they were called everything from fairies, to dykes, to faggots, to abominationsjus
You are my distant muse.
My shy, and elusive mentor.
You seem so far away, and I know so little about you.
I've gathered not near enough, through your poetry
your prose, and brief palaver,
during which no words were actually spoken,
but written-Dare I call us friends?
I think so.
You inspire me, day by day.
Your remote presence, it
comforts me,
and I know that
and you must know that too,
right?
You are there.
In essence at least.
The Silent Witness to my mediocre
stab at creating something
utterly beautiful,
utterly meaningful,
utterly there.
Adeptly hidden you then come out
only to reassure me, like it was nothing-
"Hear the keys as you press down?"
Click, click, click.
Click, click, click.
Click, click, clack.
"Your nails are getting long."
Play in order from C to C:
[Chromatic scale]
white, black, white, black, white
White, black, white, black, white
black, white, white--Thirteen
Those ivory keys are turning yellow.
Pages of books. The smell of age.
Tears shed over wrong notes.
[Whole Notes] Stick to the Repertoire.
Tone, tone, semitone,
tone, tone, tone,
semitone.
Don't skip that flat, the key is D minor
Do, Re, Mi, Fa,
Sol, La, Si, DO!
[Do, a deer!] Don't bang.
Lighter in the left hand.
The melody's in the right
The Journey of a Calculator by StephethxLoser, literature
Literature
The Journey of a Calculator
Calculator, science calculator
My heart goes out to you, and all of your kind
Life on a shelf, wrapped in cardboard and thin plastic
Isn't the best quality of life.
But life in our hands is worse.
I bet you heard stories, up on that shelf.
Horror stories about screwdrivers and of
grabby little fingers. (They were scary as hell.)
Of what happens on the day that your
tiny button cells give out.
You sit there for years, trying not to think
About the the cruel, dismal fate that is to come
But panic still strikes you as you're rung through the cash
The day this happens you know your fate
Nears quicker than expected
The day co
The Movies Never Get It Right by StephethxLoser, literature
Literature
The Movies Never Get It Right
We tried to get her to give you an interview. I mean, you gotta be cool. You read the Fiddlehead! But youre a student, shes looking for fulltime.
I had laughed at that but it had still hurt to know that Michael was probably just humoring me. I left soon after that, after having hung around the popular section in the bookstore simply because it was placed near the cash. I had biked home, trying not to think about it, thinking about the Fiddlehead instead.
Im thinking about that when I see a big makeshift cardboard sign that says SAVE THE WOODLOT, and it takes a moment for it
I read something I few days ago
That perturbed me. It was a comment
On a website. A young girl was thanking
A musical artist for writing their music,
Because it had inspired her to write again.
It angered me.
There is inspiration, and then there is plagiarism,
And this girl went on and on about how all her work
Is based off this artist's songs.
I doubt that would be in the dedications page.
But, I digress.
I knew my anger was irrational,
And I tried, somehow, to justify it.
Many people do this;
Music is an easy source of inspiration.
Why must it bother me?
And then, I realized, that I was not angry...
But bitter.
B
The sound,
The whir of the gleaming blades.
Waking me.
Shaking me.
All the snow has fallen,
and I lie frozen in my bed.
The sound,
The whir of the gleaming blades.
It keeps me up at night.
I pray and tremble with fright.
It's passing me by
(I sigh. Relief.)
only to swing around again.
The plow.
It keeps me up at night.
They're the ones who dig up graveyards at night.
They're the ones who steal your late wife at night.
They're the ones arrested, fined, and beaten.
But they're the ones trying to cure your children.
[Disease,
The Black Death,
Cholera, and
Plague
Are all things from which
we cannot be saved]
They're the ones who say that the world is round.
They're the ones who say gravity's why we're bound.
They're the ones killed and executed without a fight.
But they're also the ones who end up being right.
[Cynics,
Heretics,
Scientific
fools
Against God you are
nothing. The Church rules.]
They're the ones who put faith into equation
Old King Misanthrope by StephethxLoser, literature
Literature
Old King Misanthrope
Your misanthropic paradoxic reign is at an end.
We'll take you over, make it over, make you break and bend.
How dare you swear to hurt those who have had it so damn rough?
This wicked, twisted fantasy, has gone on long enough!
Death to the one who let us suffer.
Damned be the one whose name we utter.
Old King Misanthrope you spawn of Cain.
You will not be the cause of our pain.
Our plan is to claim your land, and your country and your pride.
Your life too, we want that, and your hat, your crown and your bride.
Don't worry you'll die quick, but we'll mutilate your carcass.
Your pretty bride will soon follow, praying to Sain
Alchemist: Chapter 2 by Whothehellisthat, literature
Literature
Alchemist: Chapter 2
Their lips touched, gently. Greg froze for a second, but then kissed back, doing as he was told, and closing his eyes. He'd never kissed a girl before. A peck on the cheek, sure. But a real kiss... this was his first.
The warmth in his heart returned instantly, as did the quickened and heavied heartbeat. He breathed in deep through his nose, taking in Taffy's faint perfume. It filled his mind; all senses attuned to her presence. He leant forward, pushing away from the wall, and wrapped his arms around her. The warmth spread between the two of them, intensifying and drawing them even closer together.
As he stared through closed eyes, he saw
As may have been noticed by a few,
I have not been around for awhile.
The only justification I can put forth for
such an absence is a change of character,
my christening into the 'real' world, and
the grave illness of my creativity. The block
has been devastating, but I feel as though
it may be lifting. I cannot be sure yet.
Time will tell. I just wanted to inform all of
you that I have cleaned up my profile a little
bit, and that I may be on here a little more
frequently as of now, and that I have missed
you all very, very, very much.
I'm seventeen now, and happy about it.
My birthday was a couple days ago, and
my friend PocketSam (https://www.deviantart.com/pocketsam) drew someone
I hadn't seen drawn in a long time as
a present. A deserves to be drawn more.
And I was also drawn, by my good friend
the-math-magician (https://www.deviantart.com/the-math-magician). I was surprised
and flattered, and it came as a wonderful
addition to my bedroom wall. Art makes the
world go 'round people!
Thank you for all of your support, and
all of your birthday llamas. XD I really
felt good, getting all those llamas, but
the art really was the icing on the cake
Sam! Owen!
On another note, summer's been a big fat
slump for me. I'm sorry, I'm s
Yo Steph! I dunno If you're around anymore around these parts, I know I haven't been basically since summer, but since I've kinda decided to poke around here again, I was wondering how you are~ I hope all is well. You're a talented guy, I hope you are being recognized for that~ But yeah, if you read this/even if it's waaaaay in the future, drop me a line/note/ wharves I'd love to hear how you've been. deviantART muro drawing