|This seems to be the fanfic people liked/read the most. So, uh, keep it up lol xD|
By himself, Ferb calls Phineas "Mr. Oblivious". Only now does he realize that this odd title was a blessing in disguise. ONESHOT, implied Phinabella.
SP - Awakening 4Wendy took it as best as she could: with one foot out the door, in case any of them were drunk or high, or some other combination of impossible.SP - Awakening 4 by Cezille07
"I understand that strange things happen around you guys," she said, both of her hands on her forehead, as she tried to process the amount of impossible things they just revealed to her.
They had met at Hell's Pass an hour ago. Stan and Wendy walked in together into Kyle's dim room. Kyle was unconscious and wrapped in several heated blankets, and a good pile of hot packs wrapped in clean linens were placed on top of him as well. The only strange thing about the setup was the he also wore Eric's trademark red jacket and yellow gloves. Stan gave Cartman a questioning look, to which he replied hotly, "I HAD TO," before stalking out of the room in a huff.
And Stan had to explain to Wendy what was happening, and why she was involved:
"The spirit of South Park summoned us to perform tasks that would reform the city som
SP - Awakening 3Wendy rarely had time to attend to her physical appearance even if Bebe usually argued with her for not doing so. So this time, saturated with a feeling of emptiness, she sat on her bed and opened her purse.SP - Awakening 3 by Cezille07
Her cellphone sat among this old junk she rarely used anymore. She plucked the compact and the lipstick from the tangle of female products, ignoring the rest, since it was time for bed anyway. It had been a long and busy day, and the second to last thing she wanted to do was delay her sleep. The last thing she wanted to do was check her phone for messages, since Stan still occasionally sent trivial notes to her. It had been six months. She thought of him often, but it stopped there. She was preoccupied, she had to be—she had listed at least a hundred reasons to keep him at a distance.
Her mom was sick too. While she dabbed her face with powder, she recalled her mother's straight-set, lightly made up face and Wendy secretly adored her fortitude. She used to be a pi
|Greetings! Here be my humble works, mostly fanart with a handful of original stuff as well. Hope you take the time to browse!|
if sometimes you can still feel the weight of your bed sheet
around your neck. heaven knows there were days i could count every thread.
last night i was cleaning up my desk, and i found the scissors
i used to crack my skin open four years ago
and when i went to throw them out, it felt like moving mountains
or graves. if you don’t know yet, you’ll learn that some types of grief
leave scars—some ghosts don’t know how to stay buried.
you will stumble through the rest of your life wondering if you will
one day forget how it feels to toe the edge of the cliff and turn the other way.
the answer is no. there is a precipice. there will always
be a precipice. a part of you will always want to throw yourself
over the edge. somehow, you never will. no one will notice.
to them, your race is over. you have cleared the last hurdle.
you have gone one month, three months, six months, a year without
turning your blue blood red. you have won your war. congrat
your poemyou tell me on a thursday that you can’t find
the god inside of yourself anymore, that
you think that you are finally
too much honeycomb and not enough human
because lately everything has been slipping
through your fingers, and you don’t know how you can
keep holding yourself together anymore.
if today is the day that you look
at the stars and you no longer
feel their burn beneath your bones,
i will show you the blanket i tried to make
when i was eight, and i will tell you all i know
about the string theory, which isn’t much, i admit,
but i do know the basics,
and that’s that everything in the universe
is composed of strings that somehow
loop onto each other infinitely.
so whenever you feel like you’re
walking a tightrope without a safety
net below you, know that you are
thousands of tightropes strung together,
and one fall will not kill you.
i have never told you about the way
i can feel my pulse skitter to a stop
in my wrists whenever i hear you laughing
in congratulations on your recent nuptialsi have spent the past three nights shaking and
thinking about how many poems i would write if i knew
where to send them. don’t think that i’ve forgotten you,
please, because i promise i haven’t. i still remember how you
take your eggs on saturday and how you make yourself
fall asleep when it’s four a.m. and you don’t want to leave yet.
it’s more than that too, okay, i remember your body,
firm against my body, your voice in my car,
your hair ties around my wrists, your chest rising
and falling with every one of my heartbeats.
all my poems. you were everything significant.
you were my late night tuesdays and the only thing that
got me out of bed on wednesdays.
you were too risky to let go of, you were always
too much to hold.
i’m sorry i don’t know your new address.
but i still have the old one on me somewhere, pressed
into the soles of my feet and the gaps between my teeth.
i remember who we were there, hiding behind
your garden s
a year in the rearview mirrorDear Past Me,
A couple of months from March, you will forget about this book. You only ever wanted to fill it because your sister gave it to you, anyway. One day you will realize that maybe she never treated you right. That’s not really her fault, but you won’t be able to look her in the eyes for the longest time. You still can’t, not really. You’ve started trying to rebuild bridges that you burnt down between you and her, but it’s hard to create when all you have is a box of matches.
You don’t win your poetry competition—you will tell everyone that you knew you had no chance, but you and I both know you’ve seen too many movies to not have wanted the basketball to go through the hoop from the middle of the court with a second left to spare. You will not keep in touch with anyone from the competition. You will say that you do, but you don’t. That’s okay. You’re okay.
You’re more than okay. You’re loved. I know
when the bullets camethey ask, if you loved her, why’d you
put the gun in her palm. told her to shoot.
and you say, i had no choice. i had no choice.
i loved her more than music, somedays.
more than freckles and laughter. and oh
god, it hurt, when the bullets came, when
metal melded to bone.
but i was’t going to drag her through the mud.
i wasn’t going to bury her next to me
in that lonely shell of a room.
so i swallowed my own teeth and took my
broken body home. cried in the shower and
but, oh, i loved her. i loved her. small body wracking
with sobs in collegiate halls, my arms holding
what little the both of us had left.
loved her more than my own sister.
long after the bullets, after the wounds have healed,
her name still tastes like lip gloss and
cinnamon hearts, burning my tongue with each
smack of my chapped winter lips.
so when they ask, why did she get trampled
by your hooves and left behind, you say,
because i loved her.
i loved her but it wasn’t enough.
The WriterShe entered libraries
the way she would
toes on the tips
of what she calls
but never for long.
Aisles and hallways and steps
and the scent of near-to-be-falling rain
send her to a cascade of a maze
of quills and pens and nibs
wrought into thoughts and dreams
She isn’t the keeper of secrets
on the white lines
nor is she the coffee-table book
when you’re bored.
She is a soul,
a ghost among the pages,
both the pen and the words
and the last stuttered poetry
Vertigoi. You always looked
like you were heaving
bathed in thoughts and rain,
eyes glassy and glazed
with a fire
you stared at
You were nothing short of eternal
but didn't know it.
ii. I remember you as this:
a thunderous whirlwind
stuck in a still ocean breeze,
trying too hard
to be the calm in your storm.
You were cataclysmic,
in a beautiful, chaotic sort of way.
iii. But you forgot that memories
are stored as feelings.
Rosettes but not roses,
echoes and not songs.
And there you stumbled
and relived yourself
as how you thought
you should be,
Indigo GodI have not felt love
Not with my fault-lined hands
I have not danced in circles of rain
And my piano tongue
Cannot talk in hymns for you
As I know nothing of playing the piano
(my knife tongue is only a weapon)
When I see this
This washed out life
My lips purse and I let out
The caged bird masticates its cage
But still it cannot get out from its own
It cannot escape inevitability
And i want to be warm again
I want to be
Bright summer evenings
Hummingbirds in spring
But the fireflies only light me on fire
(Burrowing through wintery rabbit holes, looking for darker things.)
Song of Bliss #64When did I become human?
Patiently waiting to be led away
By someone more seductive
Than I have known before
Was I not once the siren?
Drawing to myself the strength of others
Singing words of suffering
To tunes none could ignore
When did I become embers?
Barely able to remember my flame
What became of my fever
Warm but getting less so
Was I not once the ifrit?
With nothing but a love for my burning
My touch sought by the masses
For to burn is to know
When did this become my best?
A gentle nudge in the wrong direction
Her soft hand on my shoulder
I've no will to resist
Was I not once the victor?
Pure and righteous. With no thoughts of pity
Made beautiful by conquest
Made wise by blade and fist
Character vs. Narcissism in StorytellingThere is something unique about stories today, and in ways they are stronger and weaker than ever.
In Poetics, Aristotle emphasized the importance of plot above anything, and character was considered secondary.
"For the plot ought to be so constructed that even without the aid of the eye he who hears the tale told will thrill with horror and melt to pity with what takes place. But to produce this effect by the mere spectacle is the less artistic method and dependent on extraneous aids."
More often today, people are concerned about the reverse. Characters are what come above everything. We draw pictures of our characters, fill out questions about our characters, interview them, role play with them, but when asked, "So, are you going to make a story?" the response is more often than not, "Well, I didn't make it yet."
In a way, this attitude is refreshing. How many people can't get through a well respected book because they can't relate to it? Many books are worthy of respect for what the
I EMBRACE MY WEIRDNESS. |
- Really lazy. Ugh, too lazy to explain. ;D
- A slow-thinker, one-track-minded, obsessive....
- Corny. Joke. No seriously.
- Easy to get along with. Trust me. ;D
- Transparent. What you see is what you get.
- Not literal. I'm a writer, and language is a huge part of me (yes, include "grammar freak" in my biography). I like idioms and puns and pretty words in varying sentence types.
- A bit technical when it comes to music and literary arts. (Or so I try. xD)
- Too shy for my own good....
- you, Julian!
- Computers. xD
- Awesome stories with kickass grammar, phrasings, and plots.
- Meeting new people from all over the world. Thank you deviantArt and fanfiction.net! I found a couple of great friends from other countries because of fanart.
- Do anything I set my mind to! If I weren't so lazy. -_-
- Draw, write poetry/short stories/songs, and sing decently.
- A lot of writing. Fits my background personality. But from behind the stage I intend to rock the world. ;D
- A bit of campaigning for fanfictions as "literature". Literate-ture, okay? Writing may be a good hobby, but great works don't fall from the sky. They're worked on with love and care. Our software engineering teacher always stresses out that quality should be the utmost focus of any undertaking.
- We should save the Earth and go GREEN!
- Racism is STUPID.
- ...I should've planned out what I wanted to say before I started doing this profile update. See, it's cluttered. Sorry.
Do I do requests?
- No, sorry. Maybe someday.
- ^ That sounds like a Magic 8 Ball response xD
Do I appreciate "fan art" or am I just in it for MY fame?
- I do fanart to express insane love for a series. Also to show the world I can draw and stuff. But I appreciate canon and fanmade works equally, especially if it was a work made with effort and love.
Effort or idealism?
- What does this question mean? Like I said in my fanfiction.net profile, I analyze things from a formalistic viewpoint. I like works clean, structured, vivid. But then,
not everything has to come in meticulously measured packages. Brilliance can hide in the simplest of stories, the subtlest lines in a painting, and even lack of color could express so much.
Current Residence: Philippines, the Pearl of the Orient
Favourite genre of music: Any good music, really. Some metal, some rock...and most stuff in between. ^^
Operating System: Windows 8.1 w00t~!
MP3 player of choice: iPod
Favourite cartoon character(s): ERIC THEODORE CARTMAN (I F'CKING LOVE THIS BAD BOY ), Kyle Broflovski, ZIM, GIR, Dib, Perry the Platypus, Heinz Doofenshmirtz, Ezekiel Zick, Usopp, Sanji
Personal Quote: A life without friends is EMPTY. A life without Love is IMPOSSIBLE. <3