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Sealand at the TavernSo, I found a meme that is apparently extremely popular. It's called the Narrative OC Meme or something like that. It's where you pick five OC's or random characters and use each to answer the prompts provided (sounds like state testing but IT ISN'T). It's pretty fun, actually. I've been treating the questions as writing exercises...and the stories I've written so far are kinda too long to post all together, so I'm gonna post em one by one, when I finish them. This is the first one.
4. Sealand. (Hetalia) Technically my sister's OC, even though he's from the Hetalia series and I won't pretend she created him, but she did make up a completely OOC personality for him. Beeb's Sealand is a complete diva. Everything must be done his way, all the time, or he gets very snappy and snarky. Sealand is the spoiled youngest son of England, and the little brother of America and Canada. England dotes on him the most, giving him anything he wants at the drop of a hat, while his other two sons r
America vs. Cleverbot EnglandUser: Hello.
User: I'm America, who are you?
Cleverbot: Some dude.
Cleverbot: No, you.
User: No, I'm America, silly! Are you England?
Cleverbot: How in hades am I supposed to know that? YOU'RE the cleverbot!
User: No, you're the cleverbot. Actually, you're England.
Cleverbot: How do you know that?
User: Because we had sex last night.
Cleverbot: Did you now? Good for you.
User: Yeah, and you did too. Remember?
Cleverbot: No, you had a dog. I had a parrot.
User: No, no bestiality! It was just you and me, baby.
Cleverbot: You don't like psychology, or just freud?
User: I don't care about psychology, actually. I'm American.
Cleverbot: You're American?
User: Of course! I'm the hero!
Cleverbot: You are not the hero this city needs.
User: Of course not, I'm the hero the WORLD needs!
Cleverbot: No you are not.
User: Oh yes, I am.
Cleverbot: You can't go anywhere.
User: I can go anywhere I want.
Cleverbot: Ok, go away.
It's a Hard Knock LifeIt's A Hard Knock Life: What happens when Lynne casts too many orphans
It was production week at the Lyceum Theater in Horton Plaza. The usher opened the house doors and began showing theater-goers to their seats, while actors and actresses hurried to make last minute adjustments to their makeup and costumes. All was hustle and bustle, an excited murmur pervading the tense atmosphere of the backstage workers. But all was hushed as swiftly as if a transvestite had just pranced by in outlandish dress. The overture had begun, signaling the show's commencement.
Then, as suddenly as the music had started, it was gone, a crackling voice from the speakers above taking its place. "Ladies and gentlemen, as a matter of safety, we'd like you all to turn to page three of your playbill and locate the song 'It's a Hard Knock Life'." The sound of pages ruffling filled the air. "At that time, we'd like to ask you to please evacuate the theater and watch the number from some special windows we have pro
IciclesWarm, soft air,
Breath as a ghost on the breeze
condensing into a fine mist,
Dancing bitter pirouettes
and whispering silken omens,
as petals in the snow.
Cold, hard earth,
Crunching miniature cities
with a single, gentle footfall,
Loping, silent, singing
liquid silver racing,
Urgent, fateful missions
as glacial rivers flow.
Delicate, crystal bells,
Delightful, intricate daggers
deceiving battered flesh,
Garnished, bruised, marked
fantastic rainbow shades,
Radiating fractures leak
as veins of shattered pearl.
Harsh, rasping nails,
Driving blizzards shrieking
blue, murderous claws,
Acute fangs clenching
against blasphemous vows,
Fall to the depths
of ostracised perdition.
Trying to HuntThere was a tear sometime into winter
It was deep onyx and browbeaten
Bleeding murk that grayed the snow,
In an unknown portion of the cedars;
Cold filled the sandwich up with slime.
“Time” said Rex, “the seer of all things
has found you out.” (Trudging went the boots)
Winter looked soft but wetly it chaffed, it made
One’s feet miserable; the gun kept slipping
And the jacket decided to forgo its warmth.
There was no grand effulgence amongst the Ether,
There was no “I” in the clouds; what was one hunting?
Geese they flew in an echelon that burned in white
Every year feeling it out, knowing better; ‘they must feel
Love? They bond for life;’ no “I” was in the cloud.
Horrible is a truth that one can find, reflected in
A swath of nature, there is no help in the hollows
Or the brooks, no solace when blood is in one’s ears
Consciousness buzzed along, and breath labored;
One listened to the heartbeat atop the clinkin
midnight aches and inside strangersevery night
I wake up to strangers
(No, it's not what you think.
These aren't one-
or tequila lungs
They're the oaths
kept in the
depths of my
of the fears
the dearest dreams
slithering my spine]
these are the cups
in my sorrows
in the riverbed
of a throat
from the vine garden
they found a way
They are the ones
in my blood
shuddering my bones
There's no fright.
folded like a contortionist
in my chest
while the moon
my sky's pendant,
and just listens.
What if the sky had feelings
And it's clouds were its face
If it rained, it was sad
It it was clear, she was glad
If it was dark and stormy, she was mad
But I wait everyday
For it to one day just snow
Eventually it would snow on a grey sky
The sky was exceptionally sad today
It was winter and no one liked the cold
She felt lonely and empty
And kept her clouds just as grey almost everyday
Because no one seemed to care anymore like they used too
One day she thought maybe it was time to wake up
Maybe bring in something beautiful she recently created
It started snowing, scared that no one would think it was beautiful
It was just a light snowfall
She was wrong, the light ice crystals that fell from the sky pleased many
Finally, she felt welcomed by the fellow people
And her heart had felt warm and less alone
She smiled in the winter
Because she felt accepted
(In general I enjoy winter, yes it's quite lonely and well that's me xD but I think it's a beautiful season, don't judge it by
winterIt is 21 degrees Fahrenheit outside
and the air shudders in its icy grip:
pine needles frosted in fairy dust
and breath lost in the elegance of silver spiderwebs.
Ice, white and black, coats sidewalks,
sliding dogs' paws out from under their owners
and disappointing children in its solidity;
ponds drip like spoiled milk onto the pelts
of voles burrowed in their homes for the winter.
Harrowed birds flutter and squabble
over the remainder of seeds lost
under a bench by the rats' nest.
They wheel and peck above summer-flung stones
hurled on a day when a different kind of pond froze.
SeasonsH-hi my name is Spring..
people like call me Shy a lot..
im the most calm of all 4..
normally I hate to talk but,
ill bring in a little chat..
sometimes if im not making my drizzle entrance,
ill put up a kite in the breezy sky..
its very peaceful during my time,
maybe even putting some freshly new flowers
while wearing my green wispy dress.
even though me and autumn don't have a lot of time,
ill make sure nature will show who i really am by then..
Hello! The name's Summer!
people love to call me outgoing!
I'm the pretty radical season here guys.
haha yo im not afraid of others,
so I ain't worried of chatting with folks!
ill bring in my sizzling heat entrance (whoops!)
with a friendly atmosphere during my period!
eh ill just put on my Muse hat + sunglasses
along with my epic shirt n' pants
luckily me and winter last for a while
so hopefully the heat and fun will help shows me off!..
*Sigh* oh sorry, im Autumn
the complaining folks calle
Fire's TragedyIt starts with a foundation.
New, bright wood
Lacy and delicate pieces of cloud
Fall from the sky to feed the flames
Struck from a match, tip red as blood.
The flames begin as jealous whispers of hatred,
Slowly growing as they blacken the pure flesh of the trees,
Until they are menacing, dancing demons
Greedily consuming all that is virtuous
And unmarred by Death's cold hand.
Though the flame is burning, passionately bright,
The intent is icy in its calculation.
Once all that can be corrupted is destroyed by white rage,
The flames complete their dance,
And retreat to the safety
Of the shelter of the charred remains.
They become twinkling fireflies
Fallen stars, truly remorseful for what they have done.
And the red glows, pulsing,
The red of the misuderstood bringers of demise
The red of the helpless victims.
Embers take refuge from their crimes,
Held in the prison of the ash they created.
There they sit, waiting
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More