Dee

He tells me that, in the spring and sometimes early in the fall, the tree branches intertwine to form a canopy of leaves. I’ve learned that the sun seeps through where the leaves don’t touch so that the warmth and shade feel spotted in the courtyard below. He also speaks of colors, speaks of their vibrancy, so much so that I can associate “red” with the sweet and potent smell of roses and “blue” with the dampened feel of pond water. I’ve been told of his appearance, of his sharp and slender features and his deepened, darkened eyes. But he doesn’t allow me to reach out and feel the angles of his face like I do with most others. Like so many aspects of my life, I’m forced to compensate with my imagination.

“Describe it to me,” I say. The grass below me is wet; I can feel the moisture tickling the underside of my legs. “Please.”

“Again?” he asks.

“I’m so close to seeing it,” I say.

“Alright. So the sunset looks a lot like it feels, warm and welcoming and almost omnipresent. You just stare out as far as you can see—past all the roads and trees and houses that cluster together—and there it is, and it almost devours everything else. But in a sort of pleasant way. Like, imagine a million horrible noises coming together into a symphony. It’s also round like that soccer ball you were holding, all kinds of yellows, far and close at the same time… How was that?”

I’m closing my eyes tight, as if it makes a difference. “Good,” I say. “That symphony bit is new.”

“Did it help at all?”

“Yes,” I say. “Well, possibly.”

“I’m sure whatever you’ve imagined in your head is better than the real thing anyway,” he notes.

“God, I hate it when you say that crap,” I say.

“Why?” He asks. He’s swinging now. I can hear the hinges of the old bench squeaking as he does.

“Because sometimes you act like being blind is some damned privilege,” I reply.

He’s swinging just a tad bit faster. “You get to truly view the world from your own perspective, see things others can’t begin to imagine."

I scoff. “What do you know?”

His sneakers skid on the pavement, coming to a stop. He doesn’t say anything else and I’m left wondering what it is he’s looking at.

1) a gas has a density of 5.56 g/L. What volume in milliliters would 4.17 g og this gas occupy?

2) a textbook measures 250. mm long, 224 mm wide, and 50.0 mm thick. It has a mass of 2.94 kg. What is the volume of the book in cubic meters?

Please help me out with just these too :) thank you!

Hermit Crab help please?! molting?

So my Hermit Crab was molting and something went wrong (my fault) and now he only has one leg. He's still alive and he can crawl around but he only has one leg and zero claws besides the tiny ones. I feel so bad. What can I do to help?

So my Hermit Crab was molting and something went wrong (my fault) and now he only has one leg. He's still alive and he can crawl around but he only has one leg and zero claws besides the tiny ones. I feel so bad. What can I do to help?

I'm beginning to worry that its not captivating enough to hold the readers attention. If you'll just press the link below... you don't have to read it all, of course. Just read as much as you're interested in and leave some feedback? thanks in advance!

http://www.worthyofpublishing.com/chapter.asp?chap...

i wanted a rather mellow start, but now im doubting it's interesting enough to keep readers. opinions?

...

Mr. Lovee had once told his class that there were only two ways to die. You could die like a sand castle being washed up by the shore—fading away unnoticeably, with all the kiddies that had built you up having been long gone. Or, he’d say, or you could die like a skunk on the side of the road. Dead, but still leaving your scent in the world.

Well Mr. Lovee certainty left his scent, like peppermint and pen ink, in the minds of the students who gathered at the front steps of the school. Freshmen, seniors, graduates, all clad in black and holding small, wax candles. The tiny flames danced and flickered, showing much more liveliness then the solemn faces on which they cast light. Some noise from the cars driving past could be heard. And there were some whispering voices too. But mostly it was quiet.

Cyrillus Jones, a creature who looked like a man but always felt like a boy, stood just outside the mass of people. Every day for four years he had walked up those steps at the start of the school day. But somehow they had lost their familiarity. What was different wasn’t the darkness or the silence, he thought. What was different was that, for the first time, the school was exactly how he always wanted it to be. Without stereotypes, or judgment, or hatred.

I guess it takes a death to make people realize how alike we all are, Cy thought.

He had a sheet of paper in his hands. Carefully, he folded the sheet into squares and slipped it into his pocket. With a deep breath, he stepped further into the crowed. He saw girls crying, boys crying, and teachers crying. For a moment, Cy felt guilty for not crying himself. But before he could really contemplate the full scope of his sorrow, a hand tapped him on the shoulder.

Calla’s hair was a mess of blonde curls, and black make-up was smeared beneath her watery eyes. “Hello, Cy,” she said, drawing her hand back. “Gosh, it’s been so long.”

My voice is soft,

So much so,

That I might be speaking

And you’d never know

With footsteps small

Against the track

I’ll trudge on forward

And won’t look back.

I’ll run, escape.

I’ll try to flee

To a town of people

Just like me.

We’ll talk together quietly

In tennis shoes, size two and three.

I’ll run, escape.

I’ll try to flee

To a place where people

Just might see

That I’m no outcast after all

Just a quiet girl, with feet too small.

There’s a surgery that’s become popular in town. I’m not a doctor, but I’m fairly sure the procedure involves removing a high amount of pigment in human skin. The result is transparency. Literally, those who get the surgery become as see-through as plastic bags. All the stuff inside of them, like blood and veins and organs, are died different colors so that one man can look like an abstract work of art.

So anyways, I have this friend Cham who’s all over the idea.

“I was thinking orange blood with a velvet heart, so that I’ll look like a sunset,” he says. He stands before a mirror which scales the entire right wall of his room, and stares affectionately at his reflection. “Wouldn’t that be otherworldly?”

I look at the two of us in the mirror. We’re both covered in Body Paint, a gooey substance used to decorate skin with intricate designs. I’ve kept mine simple today with only one layer of sparkly orange. Cham’s got a replica of this ancient painting called ‘Starry Night’ running across his bare chest.

I look away from the mirror and stare down at my stomach, trying to form an answer for him. I only end up thinking about how cute my dress looks.

Finally, he repeats, “Stella? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, I did. I think it’ll be so otherworldly,” I lie.

Cham and I have been best friends, living next door to each other in the city of Bohem, all of our lives. Together we have managed to make ourselves the school’s leading pair, despite the fact that we aren’t actually a couple. And everyday we meet to decide how we’ll influence our peers next.

You might be wondering how, in a town like Bohem where the streets are filled with painted bodies, surgically enhanced faces, and unusual voices—a town where all is dedicated to self-expression and creativity, the two of us became so notorious. Well, it began like this. I was at a young age when my father gave me some advice. He said, “When you grow up, make sure a lot of people know your name. Because anyone who tells you that life isn’t a popularity contest is either really stupid or bitterly unpopular.”

I don’t remember much else of that conversation, only that I knew he was entirely right. And so Cham and I began manipulating our neighbors into liking us early on. Now they have grown up knowing of our greatness. It also helps that Cham is drop-dead gorgeous and I’m the daughter of well-liked politician.

That’s how Cham and I got to be where we are, sitting around deciding how to display ourselves to the city, how to expose our lives to everyone.

Because like my father, the people of Bohem know that the secret of life is making your life anything but secret.

I’d given up on most things that others might associate with happiness. Happiness, I’d figured, was just a gateway drug to feeling sad. It’s sort of like this—when I was a kid, I spent too much time at this tiny pond that was within walking distance of my house. I’d sit on a rock until my butt got numb, starring mindlessly at the greenish water. I’d bring my books, of course. But when the printed words failed to entertain me, I’d usually end up scanning the muddy, moss-ridden floor for stones. I’d pick up a stone, a shiny one—and no, I wouldn’t try to skip it across the surface of the pond—I’d just drop it into the water. When my stone plummeted down, I’d watch as waves simultaneously rose and lowered in circles around the disrupted spot. From high to low, waves rode outward until the movement disappeared and the pond became as calm as it was before. It’s like happiness and sadness in this way: happiness is the high. Sadness, of course, is the low. And they’re opposite and equal forces. Whenever one reaches its peak, it will naturally begin to transform into the opposite. Happiness to sadness. Just like that.

So why try to be happy? I’d thought.

That’s right. I was sure I’d had it all figured out. Pain was avoidable, and sorrow was avoidable, so long as I stayed indifferent to everything.

But it didn’t take long for me to realize that it would be totally impossible for me to remain indifferent to her.

I was just wondering if you thought this was too wordy, or dull, or what ever. Just keep in mind that the narrator is meant to be very pessimistic and intelligent. . .

I’d given up on most things that others might associate with happiness. Happiness, I’d figured, was just a gateway drug to feeling sad. It’s sort of like this—when I was a kid, I spent too much time at this tiny pond that was within walking distance of my house. I’d sit on a rock until my butt got numb, starring mindlessly at the greenish water. I’d bring my books, of course. But when the printed words failed to entertain me, I’d usually end up scanning the muddy, moss-ridden floor for stones. I’d pick up the stones, the shiny ones—and no, I wouldn’t try to skip them across the surface of the pond—I’d just drop them into the water. When my stone plummeted down, I’d watch as waves simultaneously rose and lowered in circles around the disrupted spot. From high to low, waves radiated outward until the movement disappeared and the pond became as calm as it was before. It’s like happiness and sadness in this way: happiness is the high. Sadness, of course, is the low. And they’re opposite and equal forces. Whenever one reaches its peak, it will naturally begin to transform into the opposite. Happiness to sadness. Just like that.

So why try to be happy? I’d thought.

That’s right. I was sure I’d had it figured all out. Pain was avoidable, and sorrow was avoidable, so long as I stayed indifferent to everything.

But it didn’t take long for me to realize that it would be totally impossible for me to remain indifferent to her.

So I have this assignment in school and I have to write about myself in 3rd person. We're suppose to have 'voice' and sound original. I was just wondering if this sounded good or stupid? Are the commas okay? thank you!(10th grader btw)

There’s a lot that can be said about a person, from weight and size, to desires and ambition. A girl is nothing less then all of those things—those little things—that acquire the least attention: hair color, favorite T-shirts, biggest dreams, or deepest fears. So where is the appropriate place to begin when describing the attributes that make up Carissa Atallah?

The beginnings a very good place to start.

So with the help of yahoo, I came across some awesome finnish folklore recently. I had an idea for a story, but I wanted to know what you thought of my idea for characters. Thank you.

Ajatar (Aj)- She's the spirit of evil. Her beastly brown curls and giant purple eyes give her a very animal-like look. She can take the form of a snake or a dragon. She goes about spreading illnesses and killing people. Since spirits live for so long, Aj seems to think that the life span of humans are so short that killing them isn't a big deal because they'll dies soon anyways. She likes to toy with her victims, making murder like a game. Despite all this, she still has friends amongst the other spirits. They except that sickness and ill is a part of life, and don't exactly hold it against her. One character says, "sure she may be murderous and evil, but Aj does give surprisingly thoughtful christmas gifts"

Luo- She's the spirit of nature. She has a bob of strawberry blonde hair and bright green eyes. She loves to be creative and to see what beautiful things she can make with nature. Luo is always honest. She nevers holds back thoughts or feelings. She cares about other people, but she is so air-headed that she often forgets about their needs.

Peter- He isn't a spirit. He's just a teenage boy. Peter is slighty nerdy, but he still has friends (but they don't get out much). His biggest fears contradict eachother, because he's afraid of change but feels traped in his dull world. After being attacked by AJ, he can see the spirits and all the magic of their world. He's frightened to learn that all he was ever taught about religion and God was a lie and often questions his own sanity.

So, we all know that there are plenty of popular books about werewolves, vampires, and wizards, but are there any creatures that interest you that you'd like to see star in more popular fantasy books? Just wondering :)

Yupp, that's right. Deceased.

Raven is a dead girl who has something like a living pen pale.

Problem is, I'm not much of a poet :/

What do you think of this?

Words are often left unwritten.

Stories sometimes go untold.

You want to write them all down someday

But as for now, the coffee's sitting, getting cold.

Snacks will go half eaten

While books are never read.

You want to finish them someday

But as for now, you take a seat n' sweeten the coffee instead.

Take a sip of that hot coffee,

and 'oops' you burnt your tounge.

Live a little while,

and 'wow' your life is done.

Hi, I'm attempting to write a fantasy novel from the point of few of a pessimistic teen aged boy. Please let me know if it sounds too feminine and if it captivates you. I know its a bit long but I'll return the favor. Thanks.

"Year 1784.

At age nine, his talents were discovered. A prodigy in more ways then one, Samuel Birch learned to read at an early age, he could write with the depth and accuracy of full grown man, and, most impressively, he could paint with more saviness and talent than anyone else in the free country of America.

Awed by the prospect of receiving great wealth and great fame, the parents of the boy sent him off to the best schools that were offered. Young Samuel crossed seas and endured long journeys, going as far as France and Spain, to receive his education. His charms were noticed and appreciated by novelty and religious leaders alike. Back in his hometown, mothers were smacking their incompetent children across the head saying, "Why can't you be more like Samuel Birch?" People were worshiping the name, because he was more then just an intelligent boy, he was the promise of America.

But quicker then fruit, things went sour. At age thirteen, with a favorable internship down the line, Samuel disappeared from his English boarding school. He left behind his books and clothes, and a canvas propped against the back wall. On it was written, very sloppily, a single stanza.: "There is no knowledge to be found in schools. I desire no attention from scholars. I only exist in words and pictures, search for me not."

I read the museum's pamphlet several times, even adjusting my glasses to see it more clearly. There was page after page on Vincent Van Gogh, Pablo Picasso, and other artists that I didn't give a crap about, but there was little to be said on the child prodigy. I flipped through it as eagerly as a middle schooler with a Playboy, but even then I had found very little.

So then I looked up, only to remind myself that I was surrounded by moronic teenagers. This was because I was attending a fascinating and cultural field trip with my A.P History class. Don't ever be fooled by the classes title. A.P. students are stupid too. I walked passed my peers, paying them no mind because I knew what they were doing- flirting with each other or texting on their cell phones. There was only one person worth talking to in the museum, and that was my best friend, Calla.

I shuffled over to her. She was examining a painting that hung on the wall. Her back to the room, I secretly glanced over her curves from behind, then fixed my eyes on her mess of blonde curls. "Hey," I said.

"Oh, hi, Cy," she said, peering over at me. "Have you seen this? It's amazing." She was referring to the painting, some artist's perception of the ocean, realistic enough to be a photograph. There were a thousand shades of blue used to create a wave crashing against the shore. The sun, the color of honey, reflected on the water. "How can a person do that? It looks just like the real thing," she went on.

"Yeah, without the trash, birds, and fat tourists in bikinis," I replied.

She smiled a little, but her eyes never left the wall. Calla had always been interested in art. It's a good thing too, because her love for drawing is what inspired my love for her. I had been living with my uncle in the city when a bright-eyed twelve year old girl began coming over every day for art lessons. My uncle, he's got awe-inspiring talent. (I can tell by the half-finished and half destroyed paintings that line his office walls and floor.) Instead of completing his masterpieces, he chose to offer lessons. I remember too clearly running down the staircase whenever she knocked. I'd pick a book from the bookshelf and peek at her over the pages. I thought it was a nimble plan, until one day she asked me what I was reading and I had to explain what was so captivating about the W Volume of the Webster's Dictionary.

At that moment, however, I had come to her with a purpose.

"Calla, have you read this?" I whispered, pointing a finger at a section of the pamphlet.

She turned toward me then. Her brown eyes shifted over to the words as she read at an inhuman paste. "What about it?" She whispered back.

I scanned the room, careful to avoid anybody overhearing. "This Birch guy- I've heard my Uncle mention him before. He's like me."

Those thin eyebrows of hers rose higher up her forehead. Her lips parted, and she remained on the verge of speak for several moments before saying, "So he was a-a..."

"Or is a Magister."

So, I'm beginning a story about art and magic set during the renaissance in Europe. I wanted to know what you thought of this opening, whether it is too slow, or too wordy. Thank you!

The most brilliant man in the world had a habit of stroking his lanky, graying beard when he stood in thought. One might think that the colorless, old hair would fall out from such excessive tugging. A spectator would likely affirm that the man kept his hand at his chin for many hours at a time, but there were never any people around to make such observations. The man was always alone in his garden, and he did not notice his beard-stroaking habits. When Daxton Tabbart stood thinking, he focused only on the visions in his mind and the blank canvas before him.

He could have painted a number of things. The flowers in the garden, for example, might have made for a lovely work of art. Daxton had planted lillys, daffodils, poppys, and petunias. They were brightly colored and skillfully arranged so that each simple flower complemented the ones around it while still magnifying its own beauty. And at this time of day, with the sun blazing directly overhead, tidy, little shadows were located directly beneath each petal. Bumblebees could be added to the painting too, if they could keep from stinging the painter.

Daxton, however, was not in the mood to paint flowers.

He had the option of painting a self portrait as well. The water in the pond was still enough for him to see his own face perfectly reflected, and he had already mixed the paints appropriate to produce the perfect shade of greenish-gray to use while making his eyes. Also, in weather that was so pleasant, it might have been easy to capture his smile.

Daxton, however, was not in the mood to paint faces.

So Daxton stood, his eyes and mind fixed on the canvas, and his fingers combing through his beard, for an unknown amount of time.

So i've been feeling pain in the teeth in the back of my mouth for some time now, but my family was switching insurance agencies so i had to wait. Today, my mom called to make an appointment and they said i had to wait too months. My mom told her i was in pain so they gave me what is called an 'emergency appointment'. So, i go to the dentist and got x-rays, and they tell me i need to get my wisdom teeth removed. this seemed strange to me because usually it only hurts when i eat something sweet, which implies a cavity, right? Also, they say i only have problems with one side of my mouth, but both sides irritate me. Lastly, I'm only 15, which is sort of young to be growing wisdom teeth.

my mom thinks that, because we called this an emergency, they want to get more money out of the situation. They want to charge us 12 thousand dollars for 'oral surgery', meaning they'll take out 4 teeth.

i really think that i only have a few cavities and don't need expensive surgery, should o get a second opinion?

I don't often write poetry, but it just sorta came into my head and i was thinking of forming a story around it...

There's a monster in my closet, or so I did believe.

There's a monster in my closet, i wish that it would leave.

Perhaps it is the boogman, a vampire or two.

There's a mummy, or a troll! What is a kid to do?

Should i scream or should i shout?

Should i open the closet door and let the monster out?

Should i get my brother, my mother, or my dad?

Oh, but won't they be awful mad...

When everyone comes ruinning in and sees

An unbrave 6-year-old girl hidden beneath her sheets.

What a coward they'll believe me to be!

If there's a monster in my closet, then i'm the one who must go and see.

I crawl out from underneith my covers, and off of the bed

Thoughts of ghost and evil spirts humming in my head.

The carpets cool on my bare toes as i open the closet door,

I see a jacket, a dresser, a man, and then i can see no more.

There's a monster in my closet, or so i did believe.

There's a man hiddin in my closet, with a knife hidden up his sleeves.

My family rushes in, worried as to what they will see.

Oh, but i was couragous, how brave the must consider me

dedicated to improving writers, sharing work and ideas, and collaborating, would you join?

strange question, i know.

I'm writing a fantasy novel. My main character, Cordelia, learns that she is from an underwater metropolis, filled with merepeople, nymphs, and other beings that she thought to be merely mythes. She learns that she is a Selkie (part human, part seal)

should she be able to speak with fish? maybe it could be something rare that only a few people could do... or should everyone? or no one?

i know this is my story, and ultimately i'll choose for myself, but i'd really love your opinion. thanks!

ps it's not as lame a story as this question makes it out to be.