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Literature
Fiction Writing Exercise 2: I wonder why
     There are only two pages left. My elbows are propped up on one arm of the chair, keeping me afloat while my knees sink into the blue and red plaid cushion. I lean at a ridiculous and uncomfortable angle, trying to catch the last orange rays of sunlight spilling in from the window behind me before the sun sets. I hate the thought of having to drag myself out of the chair to flip on the electric lights when I'm so close. My fingers rub against the rough, puckered and yellowed leaf as I turn the page, ashamed of my excitement to see if the Atlantian prince's treacherous brother is truly dead.
     I'm intoxicated by the faded, sweet scent of cigarette smoke that seems particularly strong whenever I open to a page that likely hasn't been looked at for fifteen years. It makes me think back to the thrift store I frequent; the place I bought this book and the other bizarre romance novels before it. I have a collection of these—my boo
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Literature
Fiction Writing Exercise 1:
     I don't why I remember changing the channel. A naked posterior is displayed prominently on the screen and my family screams while I fumble to push a different button. Everyone but my brother, that is. He turns away from rifling through the suitcase on the bed to look at us. The hotel room we occupy is nice, but like everything in Chicago, it's probably overpriced. I could never understand why I have to pay three hundred dollars a night for two beds and a cot with clean sheets, ice we have to get ourselves, and cable TV that exposes a family to someone's rear end.  
     My brother asks us what we were shrieking about. I can't bring myself to look at my mom, my dad, or my sister, but we all say it was nothing almost in unison. I finally decide to watch a game show while my sister brushes out her hair, while my mom complains about how long my sister takes to get ready, while my dad figures out the best way to get somewhere,
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Literature
Fiction Writing Exercise 5: Three PoVs
     My fingers start to tingle in the cold, so I shove them in my pockets. In the left one, my hand brushes up against what I think is a penny, a paperclip, and a candy wrapper. I pinch the wrapper, but I can't even hear it crinkle over the loud shuffling of the leaves. It's pretty creepy out here. There doesn't seem to be anything else in the forest besides me. No crows or ugly brown songbirds are hiding behind the bright orange and red and yellow leaves. No squirrels scurry about with nuts, looking for a place to bury and then forget about them. I don't even see any worms crawling up from underground to meet the rain. No. It's just myself, and the fallen leaves, and the drizzle and the candy wrapper in my pocket. I try to think of something else, like how the wood of the old boardwalk seems to bend under my weight and how, every so often, I come across a newer-looking, yellower one. I keep my head down, occupying myself by counting the distances between the
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Literature
Fiction Writing Exercise 4: False Epiphany
     "No," I scold, pointing my finger at the papers and dingy notebooks that line my shelf. They pause for a moment as if they're taking stock of me the way toddlers do with their parents. Then, evidently deciding that what I can do to them if they disobey is not worth fretting over, they slip from their upright position and land with a thud on the stained carpet. Expressing myself with a cross between a hum and a growl, I reach for the shelf and remove the miniature, white paper shredder that had served as support for my ideas and unfinished stories.
     "Try to narrow down your search for graduate schools. Visualize what you want to do in the next ten years." That's what my academic advisor had said. She was a petite blonde woman who, I think, was not very good at her job. The only times I've ever spoken to her were on the days reserved for her to analyze my progress in college—which was always "good"—and in our recent mee
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Literature
Fiction Writing Exercise 3: Beijing
     Beijing is a bit bizarre. At its heart are skyscrapers crammed in with slope-roofed, bright red buildings that were made to look old, and only from the road can one catch a brief glimpse of the slum's flimsy shack houses. I can hear the instrument cases rattle in the compartment below our feet as the bus begins to pick up speed. Ignoring the buzz of conversation from my high school band mates, I watch it maneuver its way in between two cars in the next lane. I will always be impressed by how the Chinese are able to turn a two-lane highway into four lanes. The high-speed bumper-to-bumper traffic sends car exhaust sweeping in through the open windows to overpower the smell of sweat and bleach that was rubbed into the seats.   
     The band passes by warehouses, the restaurant where I first had sour jellyfish, open air markets and McDonald's. Then there is construction, including the almost finished Water Cube, where M
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Literature
Storymatic Exercises 2
(9) A gaggle of fans, men and women alike—but mostly women—surrounded our young main character as he was making his way to a fairly unimpressive place in an impressive but undisclosed city. Squeals abounded, almost deafening him, and he was jostled about in the small circle by people reaching to touch him, shake his hand, grope him, even get a whiff of his hair. He hadn't heard exactly who these people thought he was, but his explanation that he was certainly not 'he' was ignored. Starting to become claustrophobic in this circle of foreign hands trying to pet him, he reached for his phone and dialed his parents.
"Dad, hi," he said in a rush. He had just narrowly escaped an enthusiastic fan's dive for his legs. "Tell these people I'm not their idol or whatever."
To his father, the man was wholly unimpressive, and he agreed, "Well, you're certainly not whoever they think you are. But, uh, your mother and I were planning to tell you later tonight…you're not exactly our son,
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Literature
Dinah
     Dinah was dead, curled up on the floor. A pasty white—as white as the sheet that was draped over her. She was haunted, her friends asserted. Or had a stalker or something. She was fine when she was out at the clubs. Or when she went to the theater, or even to work. But when the day (or night) drew to a close, she would plead to not have to go home. She would beg to stay with her friends. She would beseech the heavens for more time, getting down on her knees and shaking clasped hands at the sky. God never yielded to her cries.
     
     "First things first," the chief investigator said. And he brought in an old man with pepper-colored hair and caterpillar eyebrows wearing a stiff black suit with a white collar. The investigator was a very spiritual man, but not the priest, and the exorcism was only performed half-heartedly. A booming voice was employed, yes, and the holy water was thrown. Prayers were
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Literature
Of a Friend
I don't need you to save me
When I don't need to be saved.
I am who I want to be.
There are many things I've braved.
I cannot help but wonder
What it is like on my own.
To tear this love asunder
But still hope that you atone.
I cannot be without you
No matter how I would try.
To be just how I used to
yet without you I would die.
Although you tear me apart,
I know you still hold my heart.
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Literature
WW: Oasis
Most would refer to this crowd as a 'sea' of people, but not I. To me, each face that looks past me is dry and empty and barren, and each body that pushes up against mine in an attempt to walk through me I fear will turn to dust. I once thought of this place as something just short of a circus. The colors and bravado was something I thirsted for, something I lusted for and longed to be a part of. But after having been here for a time, my opinions have changed. The city's colors have faded, and each performer, once young and beautiful and bursting with life, is just as fragile as a shape made out of sand. I may not have lived here long, but it was long enough to know everyone's dirty secret, or at least recognize that everyone has one. And everyone else knows them, too. It seems to me that one more bump against a shoulder, or one accurate suspicion voiced, would bring these lifeless creatures crashing down. They all wait for it to come. They dread it, and then hope for it, because the r
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Literature
WW: Perdition
"Subjectivity. That's what it all comes down to. And when I say 'all,' I mean 'all.' Pain is relative. So is time. Pleasure—even sex. Have you ever wanted to feel exactly what your partner was feeling during sex? Yeah… Memories can even be subjective to your mood. Your brain's really weird like that. You seem to remember the bad stuff as being worse when you're in a bitchy mood. And the good stuff… well, I don't know. I don't feel like I have a lot of good stuff to go off on lately. Perdition. Well, that's… yeah, that's subjective, too. I mean, there's no denying that. It's a pretty word for a world of hurt for 'unrepentant sinners.' I think that's the most subjective thing about it. For most people, I mean, guilt is pain enough. And then when people punish us on top of me—I mean, us—having that guilt, well, that makes it pretty miserable. But if you're not sorry, then what is it like? If you're truly and completely NOT sorry. Not even sorry enough to PRET
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Literature
WW: Magic
Magic is a peculiar thing. It takes many shapes, sizes and colors. How someone wields it also differs. For some, using magic takes an enchanting word, and for others, it is found in strange, licorice-tasting liquids. Still others can summon its power with just a thought. Finally, magic can be used for good or for evil. What is not often discussed, though, is where the magic comes from. Any wizard or witch worth the salt of the earth will know this, put trying to get them to speak plainly about anything quite commonly requires a knife to the throat.
Magic is a force of nature. And, like any force of nature, it does not just simply happen. As mystical as it seems, a whispered word from a dead language cannot really create a loaf of bread or inspire the heavens to sprinkle rain on the lands below. The rain and the food must come from somewhere. It is impossible to say how many bakers have somehow managed to 'misplace' some of their stock, or why the rain does not come when the weatherman
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Activity


deviantID

Queen-and-Azriel
I'm Batman.
United Kingdom
Current Residence: Wouldn't you like to know!
Favourite genre of music: Alternative Rock/ classical
Favourite photographer: OhyourFace
Favourite style of art: Writing/ Illustration and Concept art
Operating System: The greatest system ever, Icucumber.
MP3 player of choice: Iphone!! /Pie
Shell of choice: A Conch...Lord of the Flies, anyone?/the invincible kind that Mario hates.
Wallpaper of choice: Pattern: tacky, Era: the 1920s
Skin of choice: Human >=) /Burlap
Favourite cartoon character: Shaoran form CCS/Aeris, courtesy of SinBad.
Personal Quote: Rawr/No one can stop me now!
Interests
  • Listening to: Typing
  • Reading: Well, it's not my homework!
  • Watching: You. Always.
  • Playing: Waiting for March 6th this time around!
  • Eating: I'm soooooo hungry.
Hey everyone!
I was hoping to really improve on my writing this year. And I was hoping that some of you would be able to critique my work.
So here's my first question: Should I start writing short stories for my DA, or should I start a mini book and unload a couple of pages at a time?

((It's almost been a year since my last journal and very little has changed!))

Edit:
Thanks for the help, ladies (and guy). I am going to aim to write about one short story a week then. And thanks for volunteering to help me! I really want to improve.

Comments


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:iconradthorne:
Radthorne Featured By Owner Apr 28, 2013
Thanks for the :+fav:!
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:iconginas-cakes:
ginas-cakes Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2013  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
Thankyou for faving....:aww:
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:iconradthorne:
Radthorne Featured By Owner Jan 22, 2013
Thanks for the :gallery: watch!
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:iconcaen-n:
Caen-N Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2012
Hey :) thanks for faving my work :)

I do appreciate it :tea:
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:icontuffpuppy101:
tuffpuppy101 Featured By Owner Oct 18, 2012  Student Artist
thanks for the fav.!
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:iconqueen-and-azriel:
Queen-and-Azriel Featured By Owner Oct 19, 2012
Not a problem! Great work!
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:iconzombiearmadillo:
ZombieArmadillo Featured By Owner Oct 8, 2012  Professional Artisan Crafter
Thank for the :+fav: on Sweet Chocolaty Mini-Me. Much appreciated! :)
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:iconqueen-and-azriel:
Queen-and-Azriel Featured By Owner Oct 10, 2012
Not a problem. It's a pretty amazing piece of chocolate!
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:iconmcgillustrator:
McGillustrator Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2012  Professional Digital Artist
Thanks for the fave!
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:iconqueen-and-azriel:
Queen-and-Azriel Featured By Owner Oct 19, 2012
I was my pleasure. =)
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