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FallowWhen I was a little girl, we lived in a house with a nectarine tree. My father tended to it faithfully, watering it and pruning away the dead wood and the branches that would grow too heavy with time, sealing the trimmed edges with care. Each spring, it bore a can-can line of frilly, fragrant petticoat blossoms, cast away wantonly beneath the carnal attentions of buzzing cyprian bees. Each summer, it groaned beneath the weight of fruit, ripening in heavy round golden bellies, basking in the honeyed California sunlight, serene and assured in its fecundity. For a glorious few weeks, we would eat nectarines all day long, in as many creative applications as we could think of, canning the excess for a taste of summer in the fallow months to come.
One spring, the tree dropped every one of its leaves, instead flowering in a veritable nova of blooms… somehow, it sensed the end of its long, slow life, and in one last tremendous effort, it sank all of its energies into posterity, producing
She used to owe God gratitude for her every achievement, by the colour of her life did she pray for jumping stars to chase the sky. Her destiny was to be Mulan, a disciple, a paladin who wielded life; a hero - pillar of humanity. Yet she wondered if stained glass was as messy as her pastel drawings, layers of struggles under layers of hues, did visitors look at those crooked contours and praise it as a work of genius?
She always preferred to use pen rather than pencil, albeit she loathed to admit her flaws, she thought that it would make her seem more grown up. Still, did those erratic scrawls substitute inked apologies? Has she been waiting for adulthood, where her pulse is flat like her waiting, waiting for second chances?
She loved how there were infinite respawns and infinite time she planned to spend on video games. Monsters were engineered to be defeated and players were drones on suicide missions, dropping full stops on the confusion which she
TopangaMy Favorite Rabbit Story
I tell this story often to speak to the intelligence of rabbits from my own personal experience. This involves my first rabbit, a big orange doe named Topanga. It was the late nineties, so Boy Meets World was on the air, which was where we got the name. We had made it a family tradition to name our pets alphabetically after I got my first two mice, Albina and Beatrice. After them, it was the parakeets Cecelia and David, then another mouse, Eric. After Albina and Beatrice passed, we bought two more, Falene and Ginger who I bred to Eric, resulting in a number of babies, whose names I can’t even recall, up to the letter S. So, when we got our rabbit, we were at T and I went with Topanga.
My stepdad was the one who spotted her. He was looking out the window and said there was an orange rabbit in the yard, which we didn’t quite believe until we looked for ourselves. There she was, just about as orange as a carrot. She was quite ta
The EncounterI saw him at the grocery store on a Thursday. His hair was cut shorter then before and he looked as pale as the moon. He was wearing that gawd awful jacket with the brown stripes around his thin frame. It had been 6 months. Maybe more. To be honest it felt like a million years was passing between the minutes.
Some would probably accuse my actions of staring at this man for so long rude. And it was, so please don't argue with me. Now...you don't know this man. But I do. Or....I did. He was someone very special to me, but I soon realized that the entire relationship was nothing but fake smiles and pretend make up on his end. Which hurt. Although I did fight through it and I still tried to be helpful, even though I knew it was in vain and he didn't give two fucks about me. I wanted more then anything to be close to him. Even if he pushed me away.
He had attempted suicide on countless days the year I met him. He would talk to me every night, and we would stay up until dawn talking. For so
Everyone was a bully somehowWe've probably all bullied someone at some point, no matter how much we deny it. Whether directly through angry, thoughtless comments, or indirectly by standing aside and saying nothing, we've all been a part of this horrible practice. We didn't mean for it to hurt, but it did.
Sure, everyone hates that annoying kid who constantly yells "I'm single!" whenever someone's talking about relationship problems, but that doesn't mean you have to pick on him.
Sure, everyone judges that girl for her lengthy dating history and skimpy clothing, but that doesn't mean you should call her a slut.
Sure, that somehow-popular guy bullies everyone, but that doesn't mean you have to be mean to him in return.
Sure, that girl isn't as athletic as the rest of the team, but that doesn't mean you should refuse to acknowledge her very existence for years on end.
So what do you do?
Be that one person who apologizes for bullying the poor kid. Tell people that enough is enough. Listen to him (although maybe you'r
16. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'11/10/71
This day was like one in June, clear and bright and 65o; a wonderful day to be outside in. I looked forward to putting in another window, but Ronnie said he wanted to work with Winnie and learn how to do it, and Mike and Laura were already a team. There're only enough ladders and tools for two teams. For a while I indulged in some blues and loss of temper. When Ronnie said he wanted Winnie specifically to show him how it's done, I said to him, "You're a pig" (implying male chauvinism) and he said in his usual laughing manner "Why? Winnie can explain it better" and I said I could show him just as well, and was he telling me I was bad at explaining things, and he said no, just that Winnie knew it better. I continued to throw a few bad vibes at him, convinced it had something to do with me being a woman and thus inferior. Also, I was upset at being out of a job and barely listened to Winnie suggesting a third team, which was unrealistic, and I said I'd find somethin
IntroductionThe sleeves of my flannel shirt are caked in mud, but I but it on anyway. It hides my arms really well. Lara has been up for about an hour already, putting her collection of pastel coloured soaps in order for the millionth time. She’s a clean freak and is probably OCD but I don’t want to say that in case she thinks I’m rude. We've only been here a few weeks and I don't want her to hate me already.
Monica’s still in bed. Her eyes are open and she’s staring at the assignment we were meant to have completed last week. The wooden panels of her bed are covered in itchy rainbow yarn which annoys the shit out of Lara because it’s not symmetrical.
The David Bowie poster on the wall aloofly surveys our daily routine, overlooking every move we make over his sunglasses. There’s a Ramones poster next to him but it's been splattered with so much nail polish on it you can hardly tell it’s them.
I looked at my face in the mirror. Every day, I beg
Funny Antics: Children: Part 1I'm in the process of changing to a new job, but, like with most jobs, you do collect those few little laughs. And with children these moments are always dancing around waiting to be caught and savoured. So, whilst this is not a formal piece of writing, there are a few little examples of what I've collected over some time.
1. Child: When I first started I was worried you would be the mean one.
Me: Me?! What made you think that?
Child: Because you were the room leader, and you never did your hair.. it was always in ponytails.
Me: And now?
Child: Well you're my favourite, I soon got to know you
(Really I should have stopped here)
Me: But.. but.. I STILL wear the pony tails.
Child: Oh yeah, I know, don't get me wrong, your hair still like, seriously needs a doctor or something! You honestly can't spend your life just in pony tails! Who even still wears them these days? It's sooooo uncool.
Well. That Tells Me. AND WHAT'S WRONG WITH PONYTAILS!?!?!? D: It was like getting a lecture off my mu
The CallThis is a written record of what happened on October 16th, 2013. My mother received a Kidney-Pancreas Transplant that day and this story is written from my point of view.
It all began around 5:55 A.M., my mother received what the family referred to as "The Call." I don't know what woke me up , but I remember my mom saying "No I haven't eaten anything... yes, I'll be there. Ok... goodbye."
I fell back asleep as my mom went into my little brother's room and told him what was going on. I heard her say that it was probably going to be a false alarm (meaning that she had been called to the hospital, but laboratory results said that something was wrong with either her or the organs) and that she would be home by noon. She came into my room and repeated what she said.
The day was also the day that my school took a major test (I believe it was the ACT. I am not sure). So you can imagine that my nerves were pretty thin by the time I was halfway through the dar
Profile: Jesse P.
Name: Jesse P.
Favorite Bands: Metallica, Nine Inch Nails, Foo Fighters, Avenged Sevenfold, Powerman 5000, Union Underground, Dragonforce, Elvis Presly, The Offspring, Nirvana.
Hobbies: Writing Lyrics/Music, Drawing Funny Pictures, Altering Photos, Playing Guitar, Playing My Video Games, Annoying Lycan.
Favorite Theme of Art: Creepy, Scary, Humorous, Photo, Pencil.
Personal Email: email@example.com
Profession: Editor, Design Artist, Sketcher.
Completed Courses: Multimedia Collaboration, Basic Design, Digital Photography, Basic Drawing.
Programs Knowledge: Adobe InDesign, Adobe Photoshop, Adobe Fireworks, Adobe Flash, Adobe Dreamweaver, Microsoft Word, Microsoft Excel, Microsoft Power Point.
If you have any questions for Jesse feel free to email them or comment them on this page.
Other Deviant Pages: www.luckynumberslevin.deviantart.com
Xbox Live: Spyderdemon187
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More