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From the edge of failure.I considered what I had in my pockets for a second, and then plunged my hands deep to thumb through my materials. Serviettes, badly bent paperclips, shavings. I digged deeper-- I had to know what my crimes have been. A poker chip-- I'd been down to the river. Rent would have to deal with itself that month, my gaming clears me out everytime the spirits take me. Even the cash I kept inbetween the tea-leaves or underneath my mattress had suddenly found itself preoccupied and unable to fulfill my sober request.
I always get knocked aside by my addictions. They take hold, strangling my resources to their lowest ebb. I lay there, drowning in the gutter as my bills wash away into the hands of reptilian mouth-breathers and banshee wailing whores. It's been this way ever since I could pick my tipple at the bar and it hasn't shown a hint of breaking. The day I hit the age of legal consumption my suitcase was packed and my ass was irreversibly kicked out of the family domicile.
I'm twenty three n
Writers BlogWhat the hell goes in this field here? The one marked 'Title'. I've jotted down a thousand utterances into this field before, why is today being difficult? Several hundred dots line up in rows as i firmly hold down the period key. No, this isn't going to inspire me. This is just a trail of idiocy, of stupidity. Get a fucking grip, you're a writer not an abstract artist.
Rapid clicking concedes the world thats waking around me. It's 5AM and I've got a deadline to hit. Scour newsgroups, forums and articles hoping for a little glimpse at todays inspiration. Could today be a colloquial witticism about society's spiral downfall or could today be a satirical blast at the entire concept of doing such an article?
Today is not a good day to try and write a blog.
It's time to go into a self-imposed catharsis, it's time to let go of last nights lack of literature and knock up a damn fine piece of dramaturgy. Hold on, that's not even the right medium. Dramaturgy is the art of play-wrighting, I'm n
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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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