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The Fire (Chapter 1)This is what happened on the 29th and (most of) the 30th of June. I will upload another section tomorrow, and when the story is finished, merge it all together. I would say enjoy, but its perhaps not the best of stories.
The story begins in the early hours of the morning, on Saturday the 29th of June, 2013. I've just come back from a trip to Belgium, a school trip, and the coach has just arrived back at school. Since I have to walk home through a, let's say, sometimes unsavory town at 3 am (my mother doesn't have a car, and I can't drive...) I am accompanied by my dear mother. Walking past a stupid person who just so happened to be on the same trip, we head off home.
We talk about relativity un-interesting things, that I can't really remember, as we stroll through the neighborhood. I think I mentioned the rainbow lolly pop that I purchased there which was full of E numbers and kept me awake for part of the journey.
At home, I walked upstairs, past the kitchen (that was still fun
EightEight is a number, but it is also many other things.
It is a bar in my hometown.
And a date on the calender.
It is the asterisk symbol on the keyboard
And a symbol that appears like this: 8
There are figures of eight
People aged eight
Eight more days to go...
Eight more days until my birthday, on the 8th day of the 8th month.
My mind is missing :3Mr.iTunes was sitting at his desk. Suddenly, his 'unhappy customer' detector beeped.
He looked at it and saw something from deviantART.
It was a journal entry, by TheIrritatingPenguin.
'Bob?' He called his assistant.
'What now? Another one?'
'We may need to leave the country for a bit.'
Bob sighed. 'Again?'
Bob walked over and read the journal entry.
'That's worse than usual'
'Yeah, I know' Mr.iTunes replied.
'You know, you could actually make them happy?'
'Where's the fun in that?'
TheIrritatingPenguin sat at their desk.
They sent a message to Mr.iTunes.
'REMEMBER THIS MESSAGE, FOR IT SHALL BE YOUR LAST.
With an evil, evil, evil, evil, evil laugh, they set off...
Only 11.You know, since the series finale of Doctor Who, I've been thinking...
'How many Doctors are there?'
I've found the answer.
Now, we saw John Hurt at the end of that episode, but he isn't the Doctor. He was the one who broke the promise. There may be 12 regenerations of him...
But there are only 11 Doctors.
What ever 'he' did, we should never find out...
But I have a feeling that we might.
Preview of a tale.I traveled in time.
Once upon a time I was walking along, when I saw a portal like thing. I tripped over a banana skin and fell into it, therefore traveling in time. I knew this because I saw dinosaurs. I then woke up and realised that I wasn't dreaming.
My blade swims in a crimson lagoon,
It's feel tasting the blood slip from cold steel.
Dagger deep in my ribs,
The fire waters my eyes and leaves me with chills.
I rip the tip from my abdomen,
And wonder what’s real.
Goosebumps cover my skin, fingers muddied in dirt,
I rise from the heap and clutch the wound with steel might,
Finishing the only thing that can kill me…
reliefi sold myself to
the solitary delight of charisma
and saw the white devil
stretching his skin stainlessly
before taking off.
he was hovering for a moment
then he said:
"you won't be back
and she will never know".
blackout and screams.
4/19/14I have been looking at things a little differently of late
The something in them that attracted my attention
Or was simply present when my gaze first fell upon them
Shifts, changes shape and colour establishing a new mood a new form
Whether parlor trick or simple mimic of illusion
I know not or care merely victim of interest as to where
The path will lead me next, some new hell or forest
Caught in the folds of a jacket spread across a mans back
A grimace or a smile is quick to come depending on the length of time
Before the visions wear off and reality is once again still
For though I come back stronger I fear some day I never will
Come back at all lost in the mazes of the vines upon the wall
From Me, to YouHere I stand,
Looking at the world that I hold in my hand,
So much to understand,
Yet I'm just trying to live a life that I can brand.
I observe closely,
Looking for purpose mostly,
Trying to find a way to make everyone bliss, more than verbosely,
For longer than eternity,
For when I depart I'll just be an entity,
Hoping to leave behind pure quality,
For what I say is straight honesty.
Getting in touch with old roots,
But after awhile I go back to my new suits,
Losing it, like a baby losing their first tooth,
Feeling closed in as if I'm in a phone booth,
Meeting expectations killed the truth.
Only in time would we learn to regret,
For we all believe our future is already set,
I was given the talent to help you comprehend, there is always a reset,
But for some you may have to work hard before you rest,
For others, you may have to acquire a quest,
While others work their way up to knights from a lowly squire,
Yet the only request I require,
Is whatever category, when it comes about time
Bring to Rest My Weary SoulBring to rest my weary soul,
Let me sleep 'fore I grow old.
That hallowed place of swaying grass
Before my eyes shall never pass.
Bring to rest my weary soul.
Day is gone, burned like coal.
Now is here, but when I leave
all will fall in dreamless sleep
Cursed are you, my dreadful friend.
Can't you see I'll bring the end?
All is well inside your sleep,
My wounds are harsh, the cuts made deep.
Sing with me, my vengeance tune.
Fires clash inside the Moon.
Worried is your beating heart,
that soon from it all life will part.
Bring to rest my weary soul.
I want the peace, I crave the calm.
Voices scream inside my head
I tell them 'No, I'll sleep instead.'
My lips are cold, my heart so numb
I fail to see what I've begun.
While in this dark I see no light,
I will not give my will to fight
A goodbye kiss in my hair
Snowflakes fall while I stare
Finally it's come to pass
My sweet depart, this breath my last
But still the voices scream and shout,
'Set us free! Let us out!'
'No,' I tell them, swee
extremophileson a path we cut with strange
precision through the swarm
we thrive in places much too warm
for those with perfect skin
for we are not the normal
denizens who haunt
this vitrified collective
cut our teeth on cryogenics
and anodyne we tried to change
the outcome by re-measuring
but there are things that you can never learn
without complete surrender
without full capitulation
to an adolescent animal
so find a sturdy vector on the fringes of some phylum
complete the forms
and pass the quiz
and be set free to feast
on horizons once reserved for only
the greatest of we lesser beasts
The love of the dhammaThe dhamma has excellent quality
It shows the morals to live by.
The dhamma reveals the mysteries
of the buddha.
It shows a good code of conducts.
The dhamma is an excellent code
Still we should honor what the
dhamma says. The dhamma should never
be taken so lightly.
The study of the dhamma reveals the
code of love and peace.
MeThis is me.
I am me.
I don't know what me is.
Me is me.
I don't know me.
Who am I?
I wake up.
And I think.
Well, I don't, but you don't know that.
Well, you do now.
When I feel me.
Is this life?
We are all dying, which is true but a little pessimistic.
Every second you live every time you smile every time you see anything, you get closer to dying.
We live, we die. What is the meaning of life?
To have fun, to live, to see stuff.
Oh look it's a glass, either half full or half empty.
Apparently, it tells you how you look at life.
'It depends, *GANGNAM STYLE JUST CAME ON YAY ITUNES * on whether it has been filled half way...
Or filled fully then half drank.
Why am I writing this? I got inspired by Viva la Vidi, because I love it, but my Mum says stuff about it.
Which I don't like.
And I listened to it, and I was...me
But now Gangnam has changed me.
This is gonna get a different feel. But NOW gangnam
SweepAs soon as he stepped into the open field, he slung the minesweeper from his shoulder and pointed its nose to the ground. It was old, worn and heavy, and old and rough, calloused and breaking, and old. The metal between his hands was cold and chilled his fingers. If he was not careful he could step on the very mines he was trying to find. They would have to pick up the pieces of his body and to send the tags home where his wife would cry and hold his son and daughter close with nothing to show them of their father but a piece of metal engraved with "Ajeet Singh".
One sweep, than another.
This war had taught him to never trust open spaces. Open spaces were where the mines were planted, where Prets lay in wait. France was green and damp just like the uniform he wore. It had been days since he was separated from his unit, and now the Allies were breathing on his neck, searching for POW’s, searching for the enemy of which he was one. &
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