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BD1: Diary Day IThis time round the challenge has posed a few difficulties for me. Firstly I sprained my wrist whilst doing the garden work, and then further damaged it at work. This has made typing and using the mouse sheer agony, and at times, darn right impossible. Nonetheless I promised Hypermagical I would participate so I was determined not to back out just because of a that…I still have one fully operational hand right. Then once I found myself starting I soon noticed I actually had an attentive audience awaiting for my daily submissions and so my promise to Hypermagical quickly found itself extended to my fellow participants who I have drawn on for that extra boost of ambition to see it through to the very end.
The second difficulty came in the final week (flashbacks) as having wrote submissions before of each of the week’s topics I was in rather a pickle as to where to go with the topics without being repetitive…I’m sure others shared this dilemma. Having this problem
BD2: Diary Day IIThis time round I have really felt a sense of community between us fellow Souljournalists throughout this challenge. The conversations with Bloodawni, VickyandRaq , Quina-Chan and Eremetik have allowed me to delve into the lives of others whilst simultaneously revealing my deeper layers without fear of judgement, helping us forge out new friendships. Particularly with Eremetik who I think for my most part we are on a similar wavelength.
Having said that it seems that our community has become a small, tight-knit one as there was a very limited number of participants this time round. However as the old mantra goes ‘Quality over quantity’ and I’m sure we can all agree that the quality of the content has been an absolute marvel. Truly top rate entries time and time again by everyone who has taken part. Add to that the commitment and drive that has gone into this challenge by the participants to make it work is testament to how hard Hypermagical has worked to put it all to
W4: D7: Pens/SwordsThe final day (well proper day) of the challenge, and for me the most challenging as having already written about pens before I am now stumped about what to write this time round *screams madly at screen*.
As a poet a pen is to me what a wand is to a wizard or a witch. It the tool through I channel my energies, cast my spells, and bewitch my victims. My emotions, thoughts and imaginations are compressed by the pen into a thick, jet coloured ooze which flows silkily across the snowy pages as they sit on my desk in suspended animation, hearts frozen, life not yet established.
It is the pen which activates the spark of life and sets it ablaze across the sheets awakening their souls, bringing them into a quasi-existence where they breathe my very spirit, and sing my words.
Unlike their partner in quote the sword. Swords do not take life but destroy it, a simple, but swift movement can tear apart an ink sodden page, extinguishing the fragile slice of life it was given by that murky, black b
W4: D6: HomeIn the twenty-four years of my life I have had seven homes. The first was a one-room apartment where I spend the first couple of years of my life along with my mother and father. Then Sarah, my eldest sister, came along so we moved into a three bedroom house in the middle of a cul-de-sac just off a main road which had a park on the other side, at the time this open green space seemed to be a completely different world with its trees, small stone bridges and babbling brook.
Then Lisa was born two years later so we up-sticks again to another three bedroom house on a different council estate. I refer to this period as ‘the dark ages’ which lasted for the next eleven years seeing out my childhood. During these years a third sister, Tracy was born and my parents divorced leaving me to head up the household and take care of my father whose long-term physical disability was by now beginning to take over. On top of the constant bullying that occurred, which only ever got worse as t
W4: D5: SelfHaving this topic pop up once more has forced me to go back to read back over what I said last time, and I have to say a few changes have occurred.
Alas I am still a meagre five foot so my vengeance on the cookie jar is yet to take place, but as I am now on a low-fat diet to reduce my cholesterol not being able to reach said prison of biscuits it no longer bothers me that they remain out of reach. Furthermore I no longer don the black rimmed spectacles. Instead I now wear a rimless pair of designer Ben Sherman frames.
According to one online quiz which determines what Final Fantasy job is best suited to you based on personality and outlook on life I am a black mage, this delights me as many a morning I have spent riding the bus to work thinking to myself how wonderful it would be to just sit and watch the world burn…I’m much more cheerful once I get to work and have my first cup of tea of the day…honestly I am.
I have since then found myself to be an uncle to Harrison
popsicleSummer forever frozen
An orange popsicle
Sold from an icebox
dry and vaporous
atop a tricycle
Four tingling bells
rung by the little man pedaling at the back
announcing the coming
Framed in trees
always green in the light of the sun
Lancelot Price 2014 August 26
No crappy songs on a loudspeaker loop
just the sweet sweet cold refreshment
I will always live there.
Diminuendo“Why did you quit band?” My friends would ask. Some were betrayed by my decision, some saddened.
Every time, I would change it: the director was disagreeable, I wanted to do other things, it took up too much time, etc.
Every time, I would think of the moments, the emotions I thought I could handle.
But they became too heavy, too much, too painful.
i. Air conditioned rooms were a luxury after hours under the summer sun, even if the room was just a small practice room. We had new music to learn after all.
I was excited, why wouldn’t I? New music were like new books, new adventures.
Then the sheet was plopped onto the stand in front of me.
It made no sense whatsoever.
“Let’s play it together!” The bubbly teacher would say, her tone more appropriate for kindergartners.
I looked around the room, wondering why I was the only one who couldn’t get past one measure.
“Maybe I wasn’t as good as I thought..”
Memories I was excited. Plastic continually crinkled in my fidgeting fingers. Dad couldn’t open the door fast enough. Stark black handle against the white screen door. Click of the handle. Creaking protest if the hinges. Metallic clinking of keys against the shiny metal doorknob. My little sister whining behind us. I danced impatiently from foot to foot on the dirty and worn welcome mat, tucked between my dad and the screen door. I could see my breath. A softer creak as the back door swung inward.
The tile floor groaned under our weight. I darted past Dad, kicking my boots off. Behind us, the screen door closed with a SSSSSSSSS, clunk! My feet slapped on the tiles, past the white refrigerator with the freezer door I could still fit underneath. Soft, blue carpet of the dining room. Light splashing the wall from the small, stained-glass chandelier. Wallpaper I watched Mom put up. The wooden table, covered in scratches and aged. Past the hall a
Child, ChildOnce there was a little girl. She was small, with long brown hair and deep-set brown eyes and always smiled at everything. Her mother was an average sized woman with long brown hair and not-so-deep brown eyes, whose entire world was her daughter. Her father was an average sized man with short brown hair, and wild, wide gray eyes.
The little girl’s father had some problems he couldn’t handle, however, and the mother took her daughter away, to live on their own in a small apartment. They didn’t have very many things, because they were rather poor, and the little girls mother worked very hard to make sure her daughter had enough to eat and a few toys to play with. But even though there was no television or expensive toys, the girl was happy to live there with her mother. She knew that since her mother loved her more than anything, it would be okay. They had a routine: every morning the little girl would eat breakfast, go to preschool or grandma’s house, and her mot
confessions full of jack 20I do not go to the hair dressers that often and I get my nails done only once in a while. Don't get me wrong; I do comb my hair every day, and care about being presentable. I do cut and file my nails regularly and put on nail polish if I feel like it. I just do not go to a place of business to get these things done to me. People think it is because I think badly of women who visit those places often. More than a few people have commented "Yes, you are not vain," to me after I told them I do not have such an habit; thinking they are actually paying me a compliment. I do not connect all hairdresser visits with being vain. Maybe I might connect it with conformity; conforming to the society's standards of how a woman should look like. But I am aware how hard it is to ignore those standards while trying to survive in this system. Women are expected to look nice. Well, no, not just expected; it is demanded of us. And it takes time to look nice. It takes even longer if you try to do it all on
Sara's Stories: Nanook On The RoofSara's Stories | Episode 8: Nanook On The Roof
It's been a good while since I've posted a memoir story, and I thought of a good one.
Back in 1997 and 1998, I had to stay at a daycare while my parents were at work, and I would often bring a favorite toy of mine to play with and help me feel less lonesome. One day, I decided to take my plush Nanook the Husky (an original Ty Beanie Baby) with me to the daycare. All was going quite well for me and Nanook... until I went outside after lunch.
There was a boy in my class who wanted to borrow Nanook so he could play with him for a few minutes. ...I was actually rather reluctant to do so from the start, but to be fair to him, I said yes, as long as he would properly return Nanook to me when he was done.
Soon after I lent Nanook to that boy, he began tossing Nanook in the air and then catching him as he came back down. But unfortunately, he began walking close to the side of t
On Gender Dysphoria“Why do you always dress like a boy?”
Confused, I looked up from where I was pulling my shoes on. “I’m sorry?” I asked, frowning at my mum where she was washing dishes at the sink.
“You,” she said, turning to me and leaning back against the bench. “Why do you always insist on dressing like a boy?”
“I… don’t,” I replied hesitantly, still confused.
“Yes, you do. You’re always dressing like a boy, or wanting to. Why?”
Thinking for a moment, I remember Shaylah’s sixteenth birthday party, 60’s themed, which I’d wanted to attend as a classic gangster. Then, I remembered last weekend, when I’d gone to the Sugar City Comicon, dressed as Femlock, then looked down at myself now, wearing a black dress shirt and slacks for Film Friday of the school’s Spirit Week, probably the best, most entertaining week of the year. “Not really.”
“But you do! Why c
I Never Even Got to Say Goodbye (Marcello)Once upon a time, in Kindergarten, I had a friend. His name was Marcello. We were the best friends, as we would always play together, talk to each other, and, of course, get in trouble together. Then, one day, Marcello announced that he was moving. I saw him gather his stuff and walk out the door. It hit me hard. I felt as if I'd never see him again.
Fortunately, I got his new address.
One day (I was in first grader at the time), I went to his new house. It felt really good seeing him again. We played Sonic and did a bunch of other random crap. I believe on that visit Marcello got scolded by his mom for complaining about something. I felt bad seeing him sad. Eventually, the bittersweet visit ended as I had to go home.
A little while later, something terrible happened.
My mother had heard from Marcello's mother that he and his father were in a car crash and had to go to the hospital. I was shocked. He could've been dead or something, for all I know.
It turned out that nothing serious ha
YesteryearWhy do we long for the things we left behind in the past? Of roses plucked and tucked away within the pages of a favourite book, only to fall into your lap years later when old stories and memories seem larger than the promise of future.
Is it wrong to turn back and wonder and linger a bit on the past? To breathe in the air of yesteryear, graze lonely fingers upon the walls that have seen and heard it all, and steal a moment from time.
Our old melodies are the sweetest… happy, yet bittersweet. When love is young, and so is the world, every small heartbreak feels like the end of the road; yet the only thing that doesn't end is regret… of words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
W3: D2: CampingI have only ever been camping once and that was on a long weekend to Hemsby (near Great Yarmouth). Me and a mate went as a treat to celebrate my GCSE results (mostly A grades except for geography and IT which were B grades). Even though it was mid-July it was cold and rained most of the time…typical British weather, as the old joke goes “How do you know when it is summer in Britain? The rain gets warmer.”
I remember one funny incident happening during the first evening as we were pitching up the tent. We had managed to secure the first couple of pegs into the ground and were working on the third when suddenly the first peg launched itself from the ground, shot up in the air then plummeted back to Earth smacking itself on the car bonnet and bouncing off. We both stood there in a state of surprised paralysis momentarily before erupting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter as the bizarre event took place.
All in all in was a good few days and as soon as I got back home
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More