|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.
SunsetThe cold wind relentlessly blew upon the face of the earth, it seemed to Eric Cartman, who lay spread-eagle on his rooftop. The wind made no regard for the fact that it was supposedly the middle of summer, or the hottest hour of the afternoon. It was cold all over, cold inside, where his jacket couldn't keep him warm. Eric fixed his eyes on his zenith, wondering at the interplay of colors on the utterly confused skyline. Dusk was approaching fast, and the pale blue was slowly being overtaken by the fierce orange-red.Sunset by Cezille07
It made him think of Kyle and Stan, and sometimes Kenny when the hue was just right. It made him think, where on earth was his place among those three, if something as natural as the heavens disagreed with his intent to remain with them? It made him doubt—and he disliked doubting. What was he supposed to do with this sky?
The wind stung, and he closed his eyes. A sweet face filled the gap between sight and nothingness: a smiling Kyle, midway between laugh
Knuckle-Kiss'dShe'll never live to see another sunrise,Knuckle-Kiss'd by Cezille07
And tonight's all she has but —
Is there hope to cling to you?
Somebody bring a suction;
She's drowning in her own blood,
Lungs filling to the brim,
Heavy with nicotine and bruises;
Heart sagging, she was a goner since your left arm
hid the truth from your right.
Ice cap girl melting, she chatters her way
Through blazing city streets,
Open palms shining like the ocean surface,
Plugged from within, a well overflown but never known...
Unless you come back,
Around her neck
Shear off her pain with another knuckle kiss.
AnymoreI doubt you'd try, but don't go and miss me,Anymore by Cezille07
It's just not as fun as it used to be.
Before was a time memorialized; yet somehow
Only baggage remains, only lies kiss you now.
Before then it felt real, with you then, the world smiled,
Before then, it was you who made me feel alive.
We're invincible, quite the romantic escape.
No one knew this, but you and I always were great:
You and I were the story that people once told,
You and I were the glory of love, until your
Fragile trust in humanity broke your respect
for all else, and I fell dark into neglect;
Suddenly I don't know who you are anymore,
Suddenly I was useless, suddenly you implored
me to leave you alone, and the naught I could do
broke my heart; and at last I stopped loving you too.
Gotcha, Ch3Chapter 3.Gotcha, Ch3 by Cezille07
Perry gasped. He hadn’t realized it, but it was too late. Doofenshmirtz saw him. He hastily wiped the salty liquid with his hands and stood up. “How did you get here? What do you want now?!”
Doofenshmirtz was pleased with the alarm in his voice, which made it sound...defensive. He successfully displayed an inquisitive glare. Explain those shameful tears! he yelled mentally, willing the platypus to read his eyes.
“You’re...not a baby, are you?” Perry eyed the doctor. He looked no different from five minutes, from five hours, ago. Innocent, not the scheming failure he put up with everyday. “You understand what I say?”
Heinz nodded victoriously.
“Then luckily I told you nothing real!”
Perry pushed the doctor aside, wincing only slightly as the baby hit the floor and cried in pain, and found the keys to his hover jet near the living room’s center table.
No! Wait! Heinz struggled to crawl back to the
|Greetings! Here be my humble works, mostly fanart with a handful of original stuff as well. Hope you take the time to browse!|
Good artI've seen a lot of people claim they know what "good art" is or isn't, so I I'll just add my two cents.
I spent a very long time trying to make my own art more realistic (never got close to realism, but there was an attempt) but then I realized I didn't even like realistic art and the only reason I was trying to achieve it was because others had told me that's what I should strive for.
It's not that I think realistic art is bad or that other people are wrong for liking it. I can most certainly see the appeal of it. It's simply that I'm personally not that interested in it. When I see realistic art I tend to not notice the work put into it. It's more like a photo to me, even if it includes a lot of fantastical elements. Again, that's what a lot of people like about it, and that's great. I just happen to like when a drawing is unapologetic about being a drawing, like the styles of Bjørn Wiinblad and Tove Jansson.
There are only two things I personally think are important to learn wh
today, I am immortalI put off writing this letter
because I was either afraid
or was too choked up and mad
that you were now
a part of me.
And for a time you were just
something I forced on paper
when inspiration didn’t hit
or decided for a hit-and-run.
You were more and less of this false friend
depending on the strength I had
to deal with you.
You rained more than cumulonimbus clouds
and seeped the earth more than
the sun herself,
6/447: God called in sick today.a deafening scream,
oh, another mother's heart is broken -
black smeared against the curb,
another life lost senselessly;
love is lost, stolen away by another,
the cold and frost bite the insides of the lonely
voices in their head, demanding their own death,
and those too blind to see can't stop it;
scorned and thrown bodily,
disgraced on a basis of immoral morals,
left to drag themselves through the door
attempt to find relief, any way they can;
the scream, a prayer
calling it "too late" would have meant there was a chance ...
I wish there was something I could do about it. I'd have to be God, though, wouldn't I?
But I don't think I'd like to deal with all of the rejection.
there is a tear wide in humanity's soul,
tears and aching echo through those vast halls -
but the door is closed, sealed tight:
'Gone fishing', it reads ...
hi momhigh school’s getting a bit tough
and i just wanted to know if you’ve ever
looked in the mirror and thought that maybe
your five year old self was disappointed in you.
just wanted to ask if maybe you’re disappointed in me,
just wanted to tell you that this is a lot harder
than i thought it would be when i was five because
people are a lot more different now than they were then.
they're a lot better. and a lot worse and things are a lot
more complicated now that i realize the gerbil i had
when i was six didn’t just “fall asleep” while i was holding it
and the cat i had when i was eight didn’t really “run away”
while i was at grandma’s house.
i’m still not sure about the line between good lies
and bad lies but my friend told me it has something
to do with intent and i know you hate to
see me cry so even on days i feel like the dead sea
inside, i promise i will not let go.
i just wanted to ask you how it felt when dad told
STAMPED: RETURN TO SENDER Dear Love-Making,
You sound so wonderfully terrifying that I find myself having wet daydreams about you.
I imagine what it will feel to trace the bumps of her naked spine as she lays, naked and free, on my egg-white sheets.
They'll crinkle just perfectly and her lips will be sleepy and taste like tea on a rainy afternoon.
I'll caress every crease in her body, she'll become the perfect canvas for my ink.
Oh, I'll write poems about the way her lips curl when she says she loves me,
or the shape of her mouth like a broken heart that becomes whole when they meet mine.
All I wish now was that I could somehow send her a message, a subtle breeze one evening in late autumn,
or maybe the sweetness of an overly ripe strawberry to remind her of my existence.
That wherever I am I shall find her. And I want her to know that I long to cherish and worship her.
I long to write verses about her. I long to love her and for her to love me just the same.
And finally, that I hope we'll
poem for the girl who told me life was meaninglessevery winter, it freezes so unforgivingly
that i can never believe that next spring
there will be flowers bursting from the soil.
but i know you don’t care
about that. you want footprints in
stone, but all your shores are filled only with
sand and i understand why you said what you said but
i know a man who drove trucks in Vietnam
and now drives a bus full of children to school
every morning. don’t tell me that doesn’t mean
anything, not when i’ve seen the way his hands
grip the steering wheel, knuckles white tight.
not when he carries pictures of his grandkids in his
wallet, like dog tags around his neck.
we have built civilizations on these salted fields.
don’t tell me that doesn’t mean anything,
when it’s the only holy thing i have ever seen.
we have survived. we will keep surviving. we
wear our humanity like uniforms we never hang up.
our wars are never over—we will
always find a cause good enough to hope for.
and i look at the vetera
holding hands in a hospital.he calls it "continental drift."
flat stones stacked
into mausoleums that will seal him in
his sleep shakes,
countries falling to rubble;
his sleep is
a creature seldom seen,
its face etched in
he hasn't smiled in ages
but I remember it
the way I remember
and my own name,
god, how could I forget
those eyes, creased,
this human being
alive and breathing and
in my arms,
in my arms,
I have the luck of a
just to say that I can hold him
in my arms
here we are,
his body, my mind
in a tango, both
unaware of the other's steps,
and his fingers are feathers,
he's unaware of it,
I'm an invisible dance
and every second's
a bomb tattooed
on tired eyelids
pretty soon I'm gonna
final exhaust or
abandoned moth cocoon,
and I will never remember
how that apartment looks
or the way my children's names
will drop from my tongue
FeralHe told of how he'd found her when
a comet streaked by overhead.
While later, people asked where she had gone.
Listing distantly, replied,
with heaven drifting from his eyes:
She's with me now, a patch of blue,
trusting where she takes me to
from a world not meant for us.
I'm by her side, and on the run.
We stop and rest when evening comes
to love her 'neath the stars
when day is done; my feral one.
And when the comet comes, she'll leave
that day, and here I'll lay
where I'll love her 'neath the stars
when day is done; my feral one.
TapestryShe, the departure
Marble rolled on tapestry
Felt the woven loving fine
Of the way she built for me
With longing loom
Comb the coat I wore by day
Dirty with the soiled ground
Felt like leagues I used to stray
Made a world for me
Like the finest picture I was
Left to marvel at her trait
To let the world come home to me
Like a rain of cleansing flame
Wrapt in silk and warmest fur
Fore the fire held me tight
Like the children that we were
Span with treeless forest call
Where the rustle should have spake
To the birds I am devolved
She, a woman of the wise
In a nothing far and wide
Shelter naught a fear of any
The purest love she held inside
Made a home for me
Every log and stone
Travelled longer than I breathe
So more stronger than my bones
Told me stories with her weave
All the shade she caged in cloth
Through the single window pane
Like the light when I run off
Her long embrace
Hands she clasped were shaking still
With the cold so soon to come
Chasing feathered distant tri
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.i.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub:
in the magazine I own that published your story,
they blurred out the crime scene photographs,
erasing your face and
the full curves of your breasts.
some part of me wonders
if you would have wanted this,
or if you would have liked for
the public to see you in your final moments,
half-soaked in grey-looking water,
your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain,
eyes closed and mouth gaping,
no breath stirring, no bubbles rising.
sometimes when I look
into the depths of my bathroom sink,
I hear your voice
(or what I imagine it to be--
after all, we never met).
you sit on the edge of the toilet seat,
and chat to me about the weather.
I would give anything to hear your real, living voice,
to ask you what you were thinking
as you lowered yourself
into the tub, queen of the tendrils of steam,
and let your lungs deflate like old birthday balloons.
on the news they say that your autopsy
revealed three quarters
of a bottle o
i would do anything to get you to love yourselfi know your type, i’ve seen them around here
before, browsing through my poems like
you’re flipping through vinyl records, trying to find
that one disc you were listening to the first time
he leaned over and kissed you.
the only way you’ll ever be able to love yourself
is if he leans over and kisses you again, is if someone
tells you about the seven wonders of your soul, if
someone sits down and writes a list of all your beautiful
fault lines that you’ve never been able to forgive.
you want to love yourself and you want to be loved,
but i know it’s hard to believe that you’re holy,
when your hands still shake when they touch food and
your breath always quickens when you drive
over bridges and no one can look you in the eye
when you ask them if you’re beautiful.
look, you’re stardust, you’re snowflakes, you’re
the sky’s gift to us, you’re comets on a cloudy night
when no one looks up to appreciate how beautifully
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?
- Yup! Note me, and we'll negotiate there. I can do Phineas and Ferb style, or anything cartoony. No mature things!
- I'm considering starting point commissions for everyone. Must...decide...prices...
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 7 w00t~!
MP3 player of choice: iPod
Favourite cartoon character: 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