|Don't forget to check out my scrapbook!|
He WavesHe waves. It's a friendly little gesture, almost a two finger salute to an old friend. He's watching you through your window.
The Boy has fine, burnt umber hair that shines like silk in the midmorning sun. It's almost a shame to see it in the unisex, unflattering buzz cut of the OldGens. He is obviously one of them; the OldGens. No self-respecting NewGen would be caught dead in this kind of state muddy face, torn knees, his empty collection sack over his shoulder. It is the NewGens who are expected to keep themselves neat and orderly. They are the only ones for whom it is worthwhile doing so.
As a NewGen child, you have been raised to behave exactly as your parents tell you. And your parents behave the way the GenWatch tells them. But in all your years, the one thing they have not been able to straighten out of you is your curiosity. So you stand up. You leave your desk exactly the way it's not meant to be covered with unfinished homework and you
Wings“You know,” the young man began. “When we first met, I had high hopes for you.
He shook his head slightly, shoulder length hair falling somewhat greasily over his face.
“Such high hopes.”
Nitya could only stare, her dark eyes wide, as he raised the ugly metal gun to aim unwaveringly at her.
“But I guess...I was wrong,” he said sadly.
“I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”
Nitya’s body felt simultaneously hot and cold - her frozen fingers trembled, but the sweat was dripping down the side of her neck even as her heartbeats blurred together in their accelerated rhythm.
Only one word came to her leaden tongue. A name: his.
The young man opposite her sighed softly. For a moment his gaze wandered to the orange horizon beyond the barren cliff’s sudden drop, and a ghost of the old half-smile showed on his lips.
“I thought I could teach you,” he said. “Change you. Show you the trut
The LetterThe letter was the smallest money could buy, but to Allen it felt much, much lighter. Rather than burning a hole in his pocket, or weighing it down like lead, the almost imperceptible weight left him paranoid, constantly sliding his hand inside his jacket to check that it was still there.
He felt ridiculous, meandering the empty sidewalk at a quarter to nine in the evening, still dressed in his black pinstriped work suit. His hand floated out of his jacket, and fumbled with the already perfect knot of his green satin tie - a gift from his girlfriend, and patterned with four leaf clovers. It was the one that made his co-workers laugh, and tell him with a playful wink that if it were not for his gravity defying black hair and dark almond eyes, they might have taken him for an Irishman.
Allen knew it was silly, but he had quite taken to the tie, and it had now been completely integrated into his courtroom routine.
Perhaps it had been overkill to begin the morning with not only his shamroc
so closePhoebe looked down - past her scuffed boots, past the fork in the tree where her body was wedged, and past the raised tendons of roots between which her backpack sat - and wondered when the space between herself and the ground had grown so short.so close by ResidentBrain
The balcony of branches had lost its leafy frame, and was bare for the winter months. Beyond it, the skyline too was no more. Now, the sacred offspring of an increased budget and architectural excitement blocked the early morning sun. With blinded windows pointed at metal bars, the building was lifeless. Red brick did not glow the same way as glass and wire. It did not care for light.
Phoebe edged herself forward, the bark crackling and scraping at her pants. Sliding the last few centimetres, she felt herself begin to fall. Woodchip mulch crunched in the spaces between roots that it filled. She landed on two feet. Where she had perched was barely above the inflated bulk of her hood.
A personal mountain reduced to three steps.
Or was it four? E
|Don't forget to check out my scrapbook!|
|Jack of all trades right here.|
I write, paint, photograph, doodle, and sometimes try my hand at digital art,
so what you see isn't all that you get.
Please take a look around!
Working on an extended project right now. Draft 1 currently complete with chapters 1-6 posted on dA for anyone interested in the concept; editing in progress.
The Sound of SilenceAre you mad at me?The Sound of Silence by Jsaren
No answer. It was no use: Kenneth had removed his Ear Ports, which linked Lukia into his mind. She couldn't connect with his brainwaves now. Bottom lip curling into a pout, Lukia sniffled at the rejection of contact. It was so unfair when Kenny got like this, cutting off mental transmissions so she couldn't understand what he was thinking.
It was unnatural to live in such silence. That empty period when thought streams ceased and when the only words in her head were her own terrified Lukia. But Kenny enjoyed it. He had once even claimed that the real silence was in the air, and that words were supposed to be formed with lips, teeth, and tongue to be spoken out loud, not passed from brain to brain. He had tried to show Lukia, but the loud, jarring growl that Kenny had labeled a "Whisper" had hurt Lukia's head so much that she'd had to clamp her hands over her ears. Though Kenny had apologized, Lukia had vowed never to take her Ear Ports out
|...gawd, why do my most lame favorites always end up appearing here?!|
But seriously, I don't favorite in any particular direction - be it spectacular canvases of artwork (both digital or physical), cute little pixel animations, imaginative literature or anything else dA offers, if it speaks to me, you'll find it in my favorites.
What do 5 different Primary school by age 8, 3 countries, a 250 page/hour reading speed, and far too many doodles in my textbooks have in common? Duh - Me!|
Originally Australian, Dad’s job as a pilot has helped me grow up in a multicultural environment where I’ve learned to be myself; confident and a little crazy. I consider myself a hobby artist, with great interest in cartooning, watercolor painting, words, and sometimes photography. My future ambition is to be an author/illustrator. I’ve been told it’s tough to make a living off that, but then, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?