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About Literature / Student Official Beta Tester VigiloFemale/Unknown Groups :iconthewrittenrevolution: theWrittenRevolution
The words are the spark.
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Literature resources (with the odd things that amuse and/or intrigue me) for your perusal. If you're looking for more poetry to read that's not on dA, I had a poll with wonderful suggestions here.

How to suggest a Literature DD:
Send a note to our Community Volunteers (Literature Gallery Moderators)! (GrimFace242, IrrevocableFate, ShadowedAcolyte, SingingFlames, and neurotype!)

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theWrittenRevolution is pretty and gorgeous, go admire and love it. :heart:

Comment with one of your favourite line(s) of poetry, and I'll reply with other poetry. 

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13 deviants said :heart:

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Vigilo
Vigilo
Artist | Student | Literature
Hi, I'm V. It's not my real name - not even close - but I'm Vigilo here, and I've been other V-beginning pretentious Latin usernames elsewhere on the internet for around six years now, so V works!

If you need anything, or if you just want to talk, feel free to comment / note me. :note:

:iconthewrittenrevolution:

:heart:

I haven't replied to you yet because
- I reply at a glacial pace
- I accidentally deleted your message and can't find it
- I've awkwardly, silently backed away
- I've already replied to you by somewhere else
- I mentally replied to you and considered the matter closed
- I love you and I don't want to lower your opinion of me any further

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Writers of the Revolution, January

Fri Jan 2, 2015, 3:46 AM


featured ADMINS


theWrittenRevolution

:iconthewrittenrevolution:

So, it's 2015 and to (slightly belatedly) celebrate that, this is a special New Year's edition of Writers of the Revolution where I'm going to feature all of the wonderful admins of the group because they're fantastic and deserve a lot of appreciation, particularly because of all the hard work they've all put in recently for the upcoming Mentorship Project! (Fair warning: our admins are great writers whose work will make you feel things.) Don't worry, though, it's not going to be all admins - this is the first article that'll start including features of DDs or DLRs earned by members of our group, because you are equally awesome and deserving of appreciation. Heart 

This is a special New Year's edition, which is why for this article, there won't be any featured resources or critiques - the Mentorship Project's coming up soon, so you'll have a lot of both there, as it is. Also, this article would be super long if I included resources and critiques. We have a lot of brilliant admins and a lot of talented members. It's terrible, really. No, I disagree!

Here's to another year of a great revolution. Ahooooy Matey!

HowlTHE GIRL
On the porch, she felt safer. The warm light high on the wall, next to the rocking chair that was cradling her seemed to tell her so, with its golden reassurance.
Inside, though...
Imustnotthinkthat, she repeated in her head, pressing her eyelids shut. Daddy will be good, hepromisedhepromised. She'll be all right.
She hugged her legs as a scream and a bark came from inside the house, making her flinch. Daddy?
"Daddy?" she called out, already forgetting that he had asked her not to make noise. The silence extended until she could no longer stand it. She stepped down from the rocking chair and went inside the house, walking slowly, her steps and breath on a single beat.
The living room door swung open, her daddy coming out of it and hurrying to close it back with a gasp once he saw her; he didn't want her to see, even she understood that. He's scared. "Daddy, are you okay?"
He sighed. "Yes, sweetie, I'm fine."
"But - but I heard you scream..."


Howl.

I thought it was just a puppy, god forgive me, god forgive me.
First and foremost is obviously our wonderful wordsmistress and overlord, HtBlack, who is probably a transcendent being of a superior world, with this great piece of prose that has a lovely triptych of point-of-views that results in an fantastically eerie and unsettling story.

Ghosts on Magnetic Tape        And you know that I love you,
                  here and now,
             but never for forever;
   The future is not, and it never will be.
What We Love
When I was born,
           I opened my eyes.
I said, “I am value in a world of appreciation.”
Thine Sanctum, Darkness
There are two kinds of people in this world,
                       black and white,
           Those terrified of darkness,
Who scurry to shoo it away with the sob of a lamp,
As unable to cross their boundaries as they are
           Unable to see beyond them.
                          &
     


Ghosts on Magnetic Tape.

God’s clay before the kiln.
Carmalain7's poetry is good. You should go read it. OK, no, that's not all I have to say about it, but it's difficult to be concise here, so: powerful imagery, creative repetition, and an intricate structure are only three of the many wonderful parts of this poem. Now, go read it.

Toy Soldiers     When Chester was a boy, he and Will O’Leary next door used to play with toy soldiers. Some were standing with bayonets poised, others lying down, others throwing something that the boys had, at one point or another, accidentally broken off and lost. They were little and made of lead, and Chester loved to paint them far more than he liked to play with them. But he did, with William O’Leary, because that is what little boys do.  
    They came in wooden boxes, though Chester’s came in a paper bag when we rescued them from the charity faire on his sixth Christmas. I remember that there were only soldiers, not a complete set; no machines, no cook’s cart, nor medical tents. I suppose he didn’t think of those things as part of the army, or didn’t know what an army really was, because it didn’t bother him to only have soldiers. He painted them in rebel gray and dress blues, and made sure every stripe and symbol was

Toy Soldiers.

William told him he didn’t understand how to play soldiers.
doughboycafe knocks it out of the ballpark as usual with her military, historical fiction that at once takes you away to another place and another time and then refuses to let you run away because the content is just so good. This is a gorgeously heart-wrenching look at what happens to the mothers who stay at home in wars.

Contact LightThere is a shiver along my circuitry when he comes in to check on me. I hear my gears whirr faster, but only for a moment, before my system re-adjusts their speed. I watch him from the corner of my eye, the task before me boring, monotonous, while he is exciting, lively. Lively. I run the word through my processor, its meaning sparking along my wires, slithering between my circuit board. He stops in front of me, glasses falling against the bridge of his nose.
He scribbles something on the clipboard he is holding and I watch as the ligaments and muscles flex in his arm. I rotate my vision down to my own arms, similar in design, but slimmer, more delicate. My shiny copper exterior glints, but I can see the spider web of veins on his skin. They pulse with vitality and intensity.
I remind myself that I only have circuits, wires, gears, metals. He looks into my line of vision, eyes blinking as he pushes his glasses up.
"C9, how are you functioning today?"
I run a systems diagnostic, careful

Contact Light.

There is a stir within the wires of my fingertips that travels to my main processor. I lie.
I get to do two admins in one go with this, as this was written by both IrrevocableFate and DrippingWords - and it really shows, because wow, what a story. This is a fantastically done science fiction short that has robots and feelings. One day robots will rule the world and I have no doubt that IrrevocableFate and DrippingWords will be the ones to save us all.

The camp-followers“And they named you Blanche?”
The girl’s hands, holding the pot underwater, stilled in their scrubbing. They stood out against the sandy bottom of the creek like stains. “Blanche-Lys,” she said, “like the King’s flags.”
“But the lys is blanc, not blanche!”
At the puzzled glare the girl shot her, Aglaé understood and laughed. One couldn’t expect one of Blanche’s kin and station to speak well. Her father might have been a honest Frenchman, who stood all his life behind a cannon in a hurricane-battered fort, but the mother who’d given her that dark chestnut skin...
Blanche looked down; her hands resurfaced with the pot, dived again, resumed the scrubbing. Adorable, shy creature. Yet, laid within her arm’s reach and out of the water’s, were a powder horn and a pistol; slung on her back, a cartridge pouch.
“So,” said Aglaé, “Monsieur de Meynet says you o

The camp-followers.

“I sure did, Madame,” said Blanche in the tone that, when spoken by soldiers to gentlemen officers, earned the former a week of corvée.
VFreie is another master of the historical fiction form and has created two really wonderfully portrayals of characters here that, along with the excellent dialogue and sharply done setting, make for a fantastic story. Read it.

A Battle of Extremes(MR. CYNICISM, MS. SINCERE, and DR. PASSION congregate for battle.)DR. PASSION
Where's all the booze, guys? Where's the music? I thought this was supposed to be a party.
MR. CYNICISM
This is a battle, not a party, good doctor. You may want to remove your lamp shade so you can be prepared to fight.
DR. PASSION
I didn't hear anything about no violence at this here get-together-battle-party-what-have-you.
MR. CYNICISM
That is the definition of battle: Where two or more parties come together and -
DR. PASSION
- come together and make a whole lot of excitement between them. See? That's what I'm saying.
MR. CYNICISM
I should have anticipated such a gross misinterpretation of the facts, given your appalling track record with regard to such things as facts.
MS. SINCERE
I'm sure it was an honest mistake, a result of a miscommunication. We can all be friends still, right?
MR. CYNICISM
Aside from the battle, of course.
MS. SINCERE
Indubitably.
DR. PASSION
I wouldn't have it any other way.<

A Battle of Extremes.

You may want to remove your lamp shade so you can be prepared to fight.
This skit by Same-side is fantastic, with interestingly portrayed characters who are emotions and archetypes personified engaging in witty banter and. It's a piece that, after you finish reading, leaves you thinking.

FlyWith the covers pulled over my head, my room darker than the city night and the steady breath of my sister in the bed below me, I would put my hands together, close my eyes, and pray. I’m not sure who I was praying to. I knew God then, I suppose. Each night asking for the same thing. Never receiving, but I’d never stop. I couldn’t sleep unless I prayed. Dear Lord, I thank you for such a nice day. Please let us all have good dreams tonight and a good day tomorrow. And please, please, please let me have the power to fly. In Jesus name I pray, amen. I thought these words each night, and each morning I’d wake from my nightmares to find that I, in fact, could not fly. I was always disappointed.
“Jezebel, what are you thinking about?”
“Flying.”
There is laughter. “Flying is for the birds, dear.”
“Then I’d like to be a bird.”
“And what would you do as a bird? You couldn’t speak, or walk.”
“Bu

Fly.

“Jezebel,” She repeated. She laughed. “We’re both bells.”

“No. I’m Jezebel.”

“And I’m Annabel. But we can also be bells.”
MadHat11D6 has a wonderfully whimsical story here that, together with its fantastical elements, great characterisation, and subtle humour, creates a gorgeously introspective and intricate work that really soars.

VIII. it took a long time to get there, tooi was halfway to the edge of the universe
bent on destroying the idea of nothing,
when i remembered i forgot my soul
deep in the flower beds at home,
so i gasped; miniscule fragments
of stars got stuck
in the dips of my teeth and on my tongue
and the universe filled the gap of my soul.
and i think i might have discovered a god there,
sitting on the precipice into nothing
and laughing at the prospect of mortality.
we all join them in the end,
but even a god cannot exist
without existence to be had.

it took a long time to get there, too.

and i think i might have discovered a god there,
This is a lovely poem by bubblemoth that is out-worldly in every sense - philosophical and thoughtful with macroscopic and microscopic thoughts of the flowerbeds, the universe, and gods.

Moon HaloThere's a halo 
on the moon tonight.
String another feather
snipped too soon
'round the leather grips
of a scythe 
curved heavy with souls.
Remember:
Death is not like the SIMs.
There are no warning labels.

Moon Halo.

of a scythe 
curved heavy with souls.
TwilightPoetess has created what's a really, really lovely and emotional poem here: at times direct and blunt, at others, subtle, and with all-around wonderful, gorgeous imagery, and with a really killer ending line.

fathersi never again want to wake up and find
that someone else has gone in the night.
when i was 8, my father’s body decided
it was no longer vital, so it stopped
giving him signs, instead, a fistfight
he didn’t survive. i only ever succeeded
in burying him at the back of my mind.
at 16, when my brother drives home
at midnight, i fear a car crash,
i fear him closing his eyes, so i never do.
i don’t want him to be awake late alone,
so i sit up in bed until he gets home.
i can sleep when i’m dead, but neither of us
is ready for that yet.
Kuya, you
are my architect, for when it felt like
our world had ended, it was you who stood
to save us from the wreckage,
from all the nothing that came of everything
our father built. it was you who stirred the dust,
who laid the floor on which we found our footing,
you who built the bridge from his life
and what came after.
Papa, you
faded from our days like a distant figure
through a window in the rain;
i am your bad weather daughter

fathers.

because the thing about loving a dead man is
you never truly bury him.
This is a fantastic free verse poem by flummo that absolutely deserves your time. It's an incredibly honest and touching piece of work that's rife with rough emotion and the more beautiful for it.

tell me baby, what's your story?                                         i love you to the moon
                                         and back again, babycakes
                                         were the words you tattooed
                                         on the inside of my eyelids
                                         and waking to see strands
                                       

tell me, baby, what's your story?.

i love you like a loon,
Last of our main admins, but in no way, shape, or form least, Sammur-amat has done an amazing job here of creating a lyrical, emotional piece of verse with some lovely imagery and excellent use of enjambment. Give it a read!

We also have two pretty great guest-revolutionaries, LiliWrites and Beccalicious, and you should read the two works by them as well, because they are fantastic:

Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
'til we remove from our snooze. We
forgot the tink-tinker or
bleep-fuck-bleeper
and emerge the same.
The same commute to work:
Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by
thumb movements. Our ears dumb
locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not
a glance of the changing scenes; 
the only birds we see are angry.
The same office echoes with
tip-tip-tip-tapping
of emails blaming others and smack-talking.
instead of actual talking. We fall for
the hype of Skype and only Siri’s
voice drones narrow answers
we accept as truth.  
The same playground, huddled corners;
Children pick a blackberry instead of 
picking blackberries, for their late-night
Facebook fights. Words will always hurt see:
no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unless
there’s an app for it.
What do we do when stop?
Orwell you're too late
took thirty years to demonstrate your
doublethink and we all cling to 
the
And Eager Are We to SingA simple man's wants 
can crush dreams into splinters,
but accidents happen
and our dreams have not come
to blame us.
Dirt roads understand skeletal poetry:
this wreck, this petty pursuit of a place
somewhere between honest and outlandish, 
where the impossible seduces
and we sing corn row lullabies
to a memory in Iowa
of weeping willows drowning
in a craven sea of dreams:
timeless, meaningless
yet ineffably present
as the universe in sight;
quintessence of dead space.
A ghost once said that death is relative,
so if I die let it be for more
than a temporary carnage because
limited success settles deep
and what I know of closure
tastes like ink kisses from jigsaw lips.
What a fool I am for this stranger good.
I write my secrets and listen to crickets screech
as a faithful error becomes our king
and we forget all the truth we've hidden below,
that terrible weight removed.
The memories are wrong; there is no origin story.
It is unlikely there is a key, but th


featured MEMBERS


As with admins, so with members. Not are our admins unfairly talented with their writing, but so are our members. So, without further ado, here are DDs and DLRs earned by our members - that's you people - recently (admittedly for a given value of recently - all in 2014, anyway) - do feel free to submit any that you've earned to the folder for that exact purpose! There are more works in that folder that are also definitely worth your time!

The Sum of InfinityI don't know if I'll ever tell my children about you.
(I don't know if I'll even have descendants.)
A family was never on my to-do list,
 
until you came along.
 
You made me wonder if I wanted kids, just so I could say to them
"You know, the day your dad and I met…"
because I thought we could last forever,
 
and I'm still not sure if we have.
 
Our friendship endures, even as I fall asleep
picturing her arms around you,
 
and I wonder if you'll ever come back to me
but spend every day noticing the reasons I'm glad you left
 
and hoping you'll return.
 
Never intending to fall in love,
we were an item
before you knew my name.
 
She reclaimed you,
and yet
 
you still belong to me
 
by virtue of the ampersand connecting our names
in the mind of every person
who watched us walk,
 
tall & short,
monochrome & kaleidoscope,
yin & yang,
 
through the winding, leaf-littered pathways
that are our life.
 
This sto
AnomicI wish I took more time to notice how lonely Isaac was. Loud and witty, one would have thought that he would constantly be surrounded by hoard of laughing friends. In a way, he was… but they laughed at him more than with him.
People made fun of his reactions more than anything. Describing him as expressive just covered the surface of how he showed his feelings. When he was surprised, everyone knew he was surprised. He just had this way of saying, “What?!” that made it seem like it was the first time he’d ever heard of what he just did. His laugh was just a bit too boisterous for anyone’s taste, whether the actual one or the one where he emphasized “HaHAHa”. It was always a bit too much.
He was eccentric, to say the least. While he shared similar likes and dislikes with us, he always stood out in the wrong way. When asked, no one could really define what made him so different -- he just was. He was tall and a bit on the chubby side
The BeginningHe told them, of course. He told those idiots everything, the whole damn story, including the blunder he'd made, and its consequences. Looking back on it later, he realized he had probably been in shock the whole time. It made sense, anyone would have been.
Soph was about twenty years old, and he'd been that way for a couple of years already, ever since the Hoarde had started attacking humanity from the past. Every day that passed, they ate at another day in the past. It sickened him. Those creatures had absolutely no regard for proper time and causality protocols.
It didn't seem to affect anyone else that way, though.
The Hoarde was the result of a human creation, of course, like everything bad in the world, though no one else knew about them. Then again, no one else had undiluted access to the power of creation. Even he didn't know much about the Hoarde, only that they appeared through some tear in The Fabric of The World and started killing people off. They appeared at some point in

Show It, Don't Tell ItOne of the many things that make me hit the back button, put down the short story, or return the book to the library is "telling". The minute the author decides to state that "X was angry" or "Y was bored", I get angry or I get bored. I've seen this issue for years--heck, I used to have this issue myself--in both fanfiction and original fiction alike, and while many reviewers/commenters often call out the author on it, they never really explain the concept. Thus, the poor beleaguered newbie gets hate over something he/she may not fully grasp.
After years of seeing this unfold, I've decided to make a writing resource about it for :iconWriters-and-Editors:, in hopes that maybe, just maybe, it'll help somebody, somewhere.


What is "Telling"?
"Telling" occurs when a writer either:
a.) states a character's emotions;
b.) summarizes the setting; or
c.) summarizes situations that can be inferred or would have more impa
Cold CoffeeThere’s a cold cup of coffee on the table by his hand. He can’t stop picking it up and tasting the liquid within, only for it to slide out again with his breath. The man sitting across from him wrinkles his nose at this, but won’t stop talking about the very important Paper in front of him and how everything would be so much simpler if Mr. Staden would just sign, thank you very much and enjoy the rest of your coffee without me.
Mr. Staden just looks back at the man and the papers, feeling the pen that he holds loosely in his left hand. It’s heavy, but looks cheap. He scribbles it against the napkin coaster and it doesn’t leave a mark, moving it faster back and forth just tears the paper.
“This doesn’t work,” he says, and he watches as the man—the lawyer—reaches inside his bag—his briefcase, where the other Papers are—and produces another pen, this one lighter, blue ink instead of black.
“Here, try this,
Charm“Here we are,” I told her. “My haven, my sanctuary. Harbin.”
My mother’s eyes were bright with interest, as well as her perpetual enthusiasm, as she took in the dusty wooden buildings under the oak woods, the stone labyrinth, the fountain of opposing elements, the old Victorian dormitories. She smiled at the brightly-garbed denizens, ambling lackadaisically through the summer heat. Still, she was quiet — more so than was her wont.
Death had flown overhead on owl’s wings, the near-miss stirring her hair in the wind of its passing. She still wore its shadow.
She needs Harbin’s particular magic, I thought, glancing sideways at her. I had been coming here for years — broken, battered, trying to piece myself back together each time love and life cast me onto the rocks. And without fail during each stay, there came a moment of absolute sublimity, epiphany, that became the pivot point in the process of healing. My horizons expa

Test Tube MermaidIt was completely dark in the science labs. Adam had come down in search for a document for Dr. Alvastein, and noticed that a soft greenish-yellow light shone from one of the doorways. He stuffed the papers unceremoniously into his backpack and walked into the room.
At first, he couldn't reconcile what he saw as reality. A huge tube stood in the center of the room. It reminded him of the incubation tubes from Avatar, only this one was vertical. Inside was a mermaid. Her gray eyes snapped to his as soon as he entered the room.
As if he couldn't help himself, he walked towards her. Her eyes dropped, but he couldn't stop moving towards her. Her hair floated in front of her face, obscuring it from easy view. He slowly raised his hand to the glass, but she didn't look up again. She just floated in the water, her dorsal fin slowly waving in the water. Every line of her body spelled exhaustion.
He tapped on the glass softly. Instantly, her head snapped up and her eyes locked with his. She bar
The Trundler
The waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot...  the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
The Lotus Woman's ChildThe fruit blossoms and flowers that grew near my father’s house in Che Chiang province stopped blooming that year in 1941. My father’s house near Ch'ien Tao Lake was always full of flowers, especially the white lotus, the sweet smelling flower that never had thorns. My neighbours said that it was because winter was at hand, but I think it was the Japanese military occupation that made it so. The fragile flower was to me, the soul of the serene province that I once called home as a child. Many asked me why I decided to leave the place that I had loved and grew up in.
When asked why I left Che Chiang, I simply replied that I was restless. I couldn't stay in my family’s house for long, and as soon as I was old enough, I left for a whole new city. I moved to Shanghai as a police officer in 1935, two years before the horrible nightmare in Nan Qing, when thousands of troops from the Imperial Army ravaged the capital. Thousands died in that


We Heart theWrittenRevolution and you. Like, a lot. Ridiculous amounts. Happy (belated) New Year, everyone - have a good one. I am a dummy! 


>>All hail ginkgografix for this beautiful skin.

Journal History

Comments


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:iconirrevocablefate:
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2015   Writer
:tighthug: ILY
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(1 Reply)
:iconsammur-amat:
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2015   General Artist
Tag a quality deviant: You’re it! Quality doesn’t mean that you have a lot of followers, or a lot of messages. It means that you’re nice to other people, and you deserve to be happy. If you get this message, someone is telling you that they love you as you are, and they don’t care how much followers you have. Send this to 10 deviants who deserve it. If you break the chain, nothing will happen. But it’s just good to let someone know that you love them! Heart
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(1 Reply)
:iconsolarune:
Solarune Featured By Owner Dec 21, 2014   Writer
TWO DAYS! :iconlachoirplz:
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(1 Reply)
:iconsolarune:
Solarune Featured By Owner Dec 15, 2014   Writer
8 DAYS :la: 
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(1 Reply)
:iconmonstroooo:
monstroooo Featured By Owner Dec 1, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
V, that feature is absolutely ridiculous. I'm going to be smiling for days on end. 

Thank you so, so much.
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(1 Reply)
:iconchsehd41:
chsehd41 Featured By Owner Nov 23, 2014
The winter winds blow and we shall have snow
And what will the robin do then, poor thing.
He'll sit in the barn to keep himself warm
And tuck his head under his wing, poor thing.
Reply
:iconsolarune:
Solarune Featured By Owner Sep 14, 2014   Writer
I am so sorry for the lateness, but HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I hope it was wonderful and full of sunshine and nice things. :tighthug: I hope you're enjoying London, and that all is perfect in your life. :heart:
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconarithenorseman:
AriTheNorseman Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2014
Far from home, time zone-
ing across the sea, new home;
happy birthday, you.


Welcome to London! Enjoy the rain~ :cake::heart:
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(1 Reply)
:iconvfreie:
VFreie Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2014
Happy slightly late birthday! c:
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(1 Reply)
:iconpazlowq:
pazlowq Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2014   Traditional Artist
Happy Birthday!
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(1 Reply)
:iconirrevocablefate:
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2014   Writer
Happy Birthday, Ilo-bear. <3
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(1 Reply)
:iconyouinventedme:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2014   Writer
Happy Birthday!!! :cake:
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(1 Reply)
:iconcristinewakesuphappy:
cristinewakesuphappy Featured By Owner Edited Sep 6, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
:iconcakeplz:  (advance) happy birthday! have fun. :party:
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(1 Reply)
:iconjoe-wright:
joe-wright Featured By Owner Aug 31, 2014   General Artist
Thanks for featuring me at Written Revolution! Every comment was really thoughtful, it was lovely to read =)
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(1 Reply)
:iconxlntwtch:
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2014   Writer
Thanks for the :+devwatch:
:heart:
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(1 Reply)
:iconcarmalain7:
Carmalain7 Featured By Owner Jul 30, 2014
comment here for you, miss.
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:iconvfreie:
VFreie Featured By Owner Jul 2, 2014
Hi! This is right out of the blue, but I just thought this upcoming comics anthology might be of interest to you: teamparvelo.com/lepakkoluola/e…
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:iconcarmalain7:
Carmalain7 Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2014
It's been a breath of fresh air to see you around again, V. You know we missed you more than any of us - even those that are writers! - can put words to, right?

Anyways, you favorited a piece of my writing, and seeing a favorite from you always makes my day. Actually, just seeing anything from you makes my day, but don't let the diminish my appreciation stemming from the fact that you actually took the time to read a piece from me. ;p

All the :heart:s, V.
:iconhugplz:
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:iconladyofgaerdon:
LadyofGaerdon Featured By Owner May 26, 2014  Professional Writer
You've been featured on my blog:la: Come check it out if you'd like. :heart:
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:iconhtblack:
HtBlack Featured By Owner May 12, 2014
PS SOUND NEEDS TO BE TURNED ON.
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:iconhtblack:
HtBlack Featured By Owner May 12, 2014
Thank you SO much for the points! :hug:

Also random link: www.omfgdogs.com/ .
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:icondoughboycafe:
doughboycafe Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2014  Professional Writer
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:iconazizriandaoxrak:
AzizrianDaoXrak Featured By Owner Oct 21, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Darling, I was looking for that lovely poem you wrote based on Federico Garcia Lorca's poem about green. Can you point me in the right direction? Or possibly remind me what the form is called? I'm thinking of writing something like it :)
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:iconarchelyxs:
archelyxs Featured By Owner Sep 26, 2013
Thank you, love. :coffeecup:
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