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Chapter 1: From Monte Carlo to MontezumaMontezuma was always destined to become a warrior. It was obvious from the way he moved, the way he even laughed. When he got old, it was once song by the young that:
On the shore lay Montezuma
With his coca leaves and pearls
In his halls he often wondered
With the secrets of the world
The secrets of the world enshrouded him indeed for he was an evil child. You didn’t have to kill to be evil, and so he didn’t, but later he did. It may seem like an odd choice that I have sat down to even describe this man in a mask, but I am almost certain that it will be read.
I have met Montezuma only once. I was at the roots of one of our great pyramids and he came up to me, put his hand on the top of my head. I couldn’t see him, but in that instant, vision be damned, I could sense who stood beside me.
“You stand at my foundation. What makes you crawl up these grand temples?” he asked.
“The steps,” I answered.
He immediately removed his hand from my he
Prologue - The Railroad that TwistedIt was a hot spring day when the messenger finally reported back about Oliver Twist.
“He’d be building a railroad,” they all said.
“We’ll get to Manchester easier now,” they all said.
We all sat in the shadow of the train stations roof. We’d sat there all afternoon, waiting for the shadows to settle, but here he was, the messenger, messing with our schedule.
“Well then,” one of us remarked. “How far he be?”
“He’s far indeed,” the messenger said, catching his breath between syllables. “I caught a glimpse of him just a few arrow shots from Manchester.”
“Just a few? Boy, are you sure about that? That runt left us here not too long ago, asking about wanting more food and what else kinds of childhood games. He should be a few arrow shots of London, not Manchester.”
“I swear I did, sir. I swear.”
“Bullocks,” another quickly responded. I remember looking at
The Grateful DeadThe Grateful Dead
Among all the flowers, I noticed a rose. It was very uncommon for a flower garden to only sport one rose. I figured that all the others had died long time ago, but the truth, as I'm told by the gardener, is that no other rose ever existed. It grew in the middle of the garden, throwing thorns and other greens of its ever growing body. Even further out were tulips, lilies, different weeds, trees and everything else that you'd expect from a garden this size. It was all finely enclosed by a white fence, and not one leaf crept outside these boundaries. The gardener told me that he'd tried to touch the rose as a child, but he'd never managed to reach it. I asked him if he'd ever touched it since. He laughed at me.
He was an old gardener. He told me that his grandfather once had a bench in the garden where he'd sit and smoke his pipe. It was a nice thought, but the bench was gone now. The grandfather insisted on leaving the garden to itself. He even allowed weeds to g
Banquet of the HeroesOdysseus, the sailor, is stuck again
He saw not too far from himself
"Pray his water to wine," the desperate whine
As his blood it to salt turns to be
He repaired the mast but then soon fell off!
He screamed for help in the sea
But Poseidon just laughed and then sang to him:
"In the blue you were born to be."
Oddysseus swam, but his muscles broke,
broke like the legs of a flea
He speared out his head for just one more time
And screamed: "Penelope, please come to me!"
King Arthur, the ruler, wages war again!
He slaughters the weed, cuts it down
"Place in the gallow, not just every fellow,
for some deserve the shade of my crown!"
He saw not the lance heading for his head!
He saw not the way of the kill!
His head, it rolled down his Excalibur
Propelled to the top of Gods hill
They're separated now, king from the crown
Another one takes on the gold
King Arthur 'the tyrant' lives only on,
'cause history by the victor is told.
At last, Superman, the ridicule
Lives in the books, lives in all
BroughtBy God, he was created
The Devil, destroyed
He still loved his harp, though
that Venus deployed
He played it and guessed on
the future of life
While caped cross crusaders
Pulled out their red knife
His death, it came quickly
in the valley of fools
Reaped by the grim one
with sharp rusty tools
He yelled and he whispered
They heard not a thing
Too busy with hiding
By great bells that ring
And the bells, tolled so loudly
His ashes were spread
They scribed and they signed all
To ensure he was dead
They prayed and they crossed
their fingers in spite
To kill a man wholly,
his soul they must smite
His soul now, sweeps with ashes
It swirls in the dust
The earth is his tombstone,
on which he will rust
Forever and ever
checking both his sides
to cross that one street that
makes lovers collide
Though they meet, in the heavens
he still lingers here
In our age of the Devil
he'll likely appear.
To haunt us and teach us
that harps we've forgot
Remind us of heathens
And the saints that we've shot
Days of Fins and ScalesPlay me a song, oh you wicked one
about the epitaphs of fools.
Speak through me the distance I
need to go to cut the tools
needed for the breaking lose
of this heavy ball and chain.
For I need not another time
To lose when others gain
To play a song that no one knows
is the specialty of man.
Describing why the oceans roam,
and why the mermaids ran
from the book of truth to the one of myth,
taking with them their song.
I do not need to read it in books
to know where they belong
Moving mountains and skipping stones
happens when God, he plays.
Rearranging all the clouds
to banish the shade of grays
He leaves although a little room,
for others to fill in the blanks.
And so the trident hearted ghost
steps forth from nature's ranks
"What would I create?" he thinks aloud
"How can I enchant these seas?"
A memory then came to him
"I know it!" he said and breezed
out to the cliffs of majesty,
where lions earn their crown.
"I know that here I'll once again
make creatures that cannot drown!"
The RagabondHe lives beyond that veil, playing the violin
Painting one rainbow after another
And he wonders a lot, if God exists or not
For he himself grew up without a father
Around his neck is hanged, a sign without a name
Since he is only known as the vagabond
And he wanders a lot, if he should stay or not
For glory seems to drip of the horizon
He begins to pack his bags, fill his pockets, clean his rags
Emptying out the home, he had never had
Tuning out his violin, make it point from out to in
So he'll never forget, where his heart is
And then he ran on off, bringing with him all he owned
So that he, like Noah, could outgrow sin
Then the olive carried doves, made him think of all he loves
But his thoughts came out surprisingly empty
He then found emptiness on the outside, as well as inside
Beating drums that would inspire him
Playing like clockwork in the background, circling around
the poet within that called for him
He started writing, enveloping and then soaking
his own heart, for
Route 61I was waiting for my bus again. It was late as usual. From the bus stop I could barely see the turn in the road where the green monstosity showed itself. It was too distant to be heard, but it soon came close enough.
I spotted an ond gentlemen, who hurried down the street. He was breathing very heavily, and his bones must've been rattling under his sacky suit. In one hand he held a wooden cane that he swung like it was a pendulum, and in the other was a blue umbrella. I looked up at the equally blue sky no clouds to see at all. The old man's effort seemed to be worth it, however, since he made it down to me before the bus did. He made a wide smile at me, while he breathed like a retired locomotive.
"Good you made it," I said to him to cheer him up a bit. Both my hands were in my pocket, as I rocked my body back and forth to the rhythm of the old man's cane. He looked confusedly at me.
"What did I make, exactly?" he mumbled.
I pointed at the nearing bus.
"Well, the bus of course.
She's a WriterShe sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
Do you know what it feels like...To be lonely?
To be bullied?
To be called ugly?
To be unattractive?
To be compared to other women?
To be considered unnormal?
To be unloved even though you give love to others?
To face issues that you don't in reality know how to fix?
To think that your goal you're reaching for, is unattainable?
To feel like the cause of many people's problems?
To be held up on a high pedistal that you can't get down off of?
To realize that people don't like you based on your personailty?
To at no avail, keep up your happy and upbeatness for others?
To look at happy couples and wish that you had someone to be happy with?
To stop fighting for anything anymore?
BetrayedI won't swallow your lies anymore
I can't stand your presence
You used to be my friend
But you're nothing to me now
And soon you'll be
Another bad memory
I won't be able to forget
You AgainOh, it's you again. I must admit,
The crooning has
The lies have been
And mine are like swords
It's just you and me
In this sick game
I can tell
You're pulling me in,
And I don't have
To pull you down
Sometimes, I've had
And all I see is
Then it became
I don't know
How to escape
Dark to see.
And all I can
Wonder at every
Turn I make
When can it be
By the LakeSat beneath a Christmas tree in late-March.
The ground is damp but pliant, it pretends to accept me
and then sneaks its cold fingers through my clothes
to dampen my spirits further with its chilly undertones.
I stare at the river, plump with soon-to-be April showers.
It does roly-polys over the smallest of obstacles and goes on.
It reminds me of what I should be able to do.
It runs as I grind to a full stop, and consider my life sentence.
The sky is blue; not like me, but bright and crisped;
Its been blurred by an amateur around the edges with cloud
But they don’t threaten me with rain just yet so, for now, we are friends.
The sun is missing. No one knows where she is.
She could be dead, by now. At the bottom of the lake.
Could have slunk there in a midday sunset.
She could of drowned her sorrows in the ricocheting tides
of a man made dam and its loosened throat. She could be.
She is not, she is hiding.
The sun hides from the world but leaves a blue sheen behind
to let everyone k
flower petalsi know that when we touch
that my energy is yours
that we are like flowers
because at our roots
we need water and love,
we reach tall as we can
to get to the sun
and stretch our leaves
to welcome it all;
and when we touch
i know that our skin isn’t skin
too soft for this world
when it grows rough with gravel
so i invite you back to our bed,
soft with the earth
where we can lie gently
and sleep until it is time
Reasons We Love Homestuck“Reasons we love H O M E S T U C K.”
Why do this love this web comic, you ask?
Maybe it’s just the way the fandom rolls,
or how mean Andrew Hussie trolls.
It could possibly be Eridan’s accent (WWyeh?)
or even Feferi’s keyboard trident. (---E)
Some people say it’s Equius’ broken bows and arrows, ( D →)
but what about Nepeta’s meows and roleplays? (:33 <)
We really do love Sollux’s lisp,
and also when Karkat’s pissed. (FUCKASS!)
Including Kanaya's fabulous lipstick,
it's also Rose's amazing magic.
How about when Dave starts rapping
and Jade Harley begins napping?
We love Vriska’s eight-pupiled eye,
and how John is such an adorable guy.
Or maybe it’s with all the sprites
or how prospit glows bright.
Can’t forget about Derse’s darkness
or Gamzee and all his soberness. (WHOOPS.)
There’s also this thing with Tav and stairs
which he t
ConfrontationI shed a tear
The damage will be severe
Run away in fear?
I'll fight until the coast is clear!
An artist (revised)
Staring blankly at a white sheet of paper
Can truly be an artist’s worst nightmare
An artist’s duty as its shaper
Their thoughts up in the clouds somewhere
Looking for bits of inspiration
Their eyes searching the skies
Nothing can break their concentration
Nothing can blow out the passion in their eyes
Being an artist does not always mean you are skilled
You do not need to be Picasso or Bach
It means you want to see your dream fulfilled
And that you will never give in to an art block
After our FloodThrough your thoughts and lines, both entangled in wines
Ships dock in your fire that the main co-captain finds
And the slow of the restless live up to tie your binds
Oh how - will I ever resist - just to kiss you?
The street level views that encircle our parade
In this town of old, now by the both of us made
Our masks they are dropped, we've lived the last charade
And now - we'll be bound - to carry us through
Living edges for the last crusade
And the blood bled for hours at the hungry trade
I skipped just that one stone, it a mountain made!
We have finally tunneled through
At the end of it - in my hands - the blue
Out of candlewax and wool, you've strung the main front side
Of our loft bearing fortress in which our hearts reside
Reflected in the moon, we finally steer back the tide
And live - to be nearly - breathing for you
The slow packing sail that unfolds before our sigh
And the wings of the 'gale soaring to the sky
The giants that drank rivers, before your feet they lie
The Parlour IncidentOne day in July, I believe it was, I found myself sitting with several acquaintances in Christopher's parlour. It was one of those deliciously lazy afternoons which only the summer in her full glory can bring. The room had a wan, listless light to it, relaxing the other guests and myself as we languidly chatted over tea and crumpets. The air was also sluggishly heavy, dulling the senses to a slowly-blended calm engendered by the heat of St. Othniel's southerly climate.
At length, after much stimulating conversation, Christopher stood, producing a book of sheet music.
"What do you all say to a bit of music?" he asked.
"Certainly," I answered.
"Oh yes, please do darling!" Tabitha exclaimed, "he's quite the maestro."
Christopher laughed, shaking his head.
"Now, now love, I'd not go that far."
He strode over to the piano as the other guests urged him on. Ida entered the room bearing a merrily steaming teapot and more crumpets.
"More tea sirs?" she inquired, shooting sideways glances at her
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More