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LPTW: The PuzzlemasterHe sat in his seat upturned, nestling himself between the violet seat grand throne he had created. He certainly hadn’t intended to sit in such a manner. He’d unfortunately gotten a bit carried away with his placement of the other furniture in the room, staking chairs and tables one on top of the other to create spires upon which sat a a collection of biographies interrogating a company of fiction (the tomes most likely convicted of sedition or false pretense). Most of the fiction was contained in the bastille of the tower, their rooms separated and varied to prevent escape or suicide. The history had been ordered to remain perched upon the edges of the lower scaffolding; surveillance was much less difficult if one could catch the culprits during the act.LPTW: The Puzzlemaster by *AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
But by the time the tower was complete, Brink had come to the late conclusion that, in his raptness, he had accidentally built his tower in such a way that his tomes of choice only fitted in their respective slots and posts
Let Me Introduce MyselfI'm going to be honest. I don't really have that much to say. I'm just a kid from the states that happened to find he could link a few words together and make an adequate story or some poetry that could technically not be poetry. I jumped onto the train of writers a bit late and I've been fumbling with hot coals in my hands trying to get the engine running fast enough so I can keep myself on the tracks. I don't have some tragic backstory outside of the typical run-of-the-mill douche-nozzles I confronted in middle school and high school. But if there's one thing that I will say, it's that attention is everything. Absent or not, it's always something that I try to keep.Let Me Introduce Myself by *AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
Now, on to the questions. I enjoy writing for quite a few reasons. For one, it gives me purpose. I guess you could say I'm a jack-of-all-trades, master of none, but writing is where I can put everything I know to use. I don't have to be perfect the first time, but I can still set off an atom bomb and re-use the rubble as
A Penny for Your Thoughts“A penny for your thoughts?” I was asked one day. I wasA Penny for Your Thoughts by *AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
Sitting on the corner of Rainy Day Road
And Gray Brick Place when I was
Approached by a woman named Tori De.
She had met me at the front entrance
At a library on Wide-Eyed Way. It was the same day
I had burned a journal for showing me
The truth behind my imperfections.
I had told this story and she replied
“Did you try using spell-check?” I laughed and said no. It’s a little unreliable.
“Well?” She asked, wondering when
I would start whining like a hyena that
Find some weird form of fun from dumping
All of my belligerent angst on another
Random stranger. Bu she had already given
Me the penny.
She didn’t want to hear a story worth a
Thousand bucks, like today was her lucky day
To find philosophical enlightenment in a man
Chewing on the last piece of gum
In the back pocket of his jeans.
So I talked.
I started with an exposť on the human condition,
The condition of being in
The CloudwalkerMarks left upon the feathery surface ofThe Cloudwalker by *AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
An amalgamation of pure serenity, kept from
The reach of normal men. He wanders throughout
His kingdom, governing his people with infallible sovereignty.
Judgement is his tool, humanity is his advisor.
The people are his pillars, and the sky is his stronghold.
He is the Cloudwalker.
His power is never constant. His reach can stretch
As far as the endless blanket of blue, or be as minuscule
As a ruby marble that has rolled onto the sheets.
His emotions shift and twist with the winds,
A torrent of melodrama and uncontrolled wrath in a minute,
Subsiding with the drifting remnants of a catharsis that have
He is the Cloudwalker.
He goes as he pleases, coming and leaving
Whenever he so chooses. Whom he leaves in command
Is up to the gales. Whenever he returns, the people do not
Rejoice, neither to they weep. They merely greet their king
As they go about their business, conversing and consorting
As two people should.
The Magician - PrologueThe bar stinks of stale cigar smoke and spilt alcohol. The light is dim, barely scattering dull yellow flickers on the grimy walls as tinny melodies from the jukebox mingle with hushed dealings and growled threats. It's not a nice place, but it's not a bad place. It's even a good place for those who know the comforting arms of the gloom.
There's a man at a table, black hair and heavy coat blending in with the backdrop, one who has spent the last half-decade dancing in the shadows of Europe. He's like an artist in his own way, one who works with the whims and frailties of human greed rather than the paints or the clay. But rumour has it now that he's leaving, melting away. Which is what brings the other man.
The second man, pale, flits at the counter, barely a spectre in the murk. He doesn't belong, comes almost close, but doesn't. He stands on the other side of the scene, after instead of with. And he's after that first man there, before it's too late, because it's been too long alr
RhythmbreakerOn the first day of school I rode the bus with all the other children from my town
There was a rhythm on that bus. The driver would drive to the next neighborhood and stop near a kid's house. The student would then say goodbye to her friends and calmly walk home. It was a constant rhythm. Drive, stop, walk. Drive, stop, walk.
There was a little boy on that bus, no older than nine, who would always break that rhythm. The bus would stop, and he would leave without saying a word to anyone. The moment his feet touched the pavement though, he would run as if the devil himself were on his heels.
Every day as the bus pulled out, I would watch the boy run. One day, I caught a glimpse of his face. He didn't have the gleeful face of a child caught up in the vision of how he would spend his next hours of freedom, as I expected. Instead, he set his jaw in determination and anger and maybe even a little bit of fear. He didn't run like most children; he ran with mission.
As the months went by, the l
The knife dragged down her spine, pressure being applied; enough to make her scream out in pain, but not hard enough to pierce through the skin. If it was to be dug into the skin, the one behind the knife, the one who was wielding it, wouldn't be able to gain control. Wouldn't be able to stop from digging it so deep, it would kill her. A smirk formed on the lips of the holder, just playing on the lips like it was no one's business. Slowly, the knife was dragged away from the young girls back, she struggled against the ropes that had her bound to the bed in the strange house as the psycho laughed loudly, the evil cackle filling the room and taking away her breath. She screamed again, tears leaking out of her eyes and flooding down her soft cheeks. The person slowly turned the girls head to face her, though she couldn't look into the eyes of the monster, not only because her vision was blurry, but because the person had a dark black hoodie on. Slowly, the dark black figure dug its nails