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Did this yesterday as homework for my art class. Came out pretty good, but isn't quite done. Tell me what you think.
Thanks.
~Meg
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Pencil Chick
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Did this yesterday as homework for my art class. Came out pretty good, but isn't quite done. Tell me what you think.
Thanks.
~Meg
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Nude in Pencil
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First time drawing a body. Did this last night while listening to the entire Phantom of the Opera soundtrack. XD
Monday, February 19, 2007
Too Much
As Sara McCoy walked out of the police station, she was furious! “They don’t believe me!” She muttered as she stepped into her car. “How can they not believe me? I told them everything. They think I’m psychotic!” She slammed her hand on the steering wheel as she turned the ignition. “I’m never going to get this out. No one will ever believe.”
‘A murder has been committed in Roscoe, Wyoming. A town hardly noticed, a pin prick on the map. Marissa Tremblay was murdered in her own home, her own bedroom; murdered by unnatural causes. Her throat was slashed, and the blood had been drained from her body. ’ The story was forming in Sara’s head again, just as it had that fateful day one year ago. The story that had created the madness, her madness. The memories were flooding in, like a river into a stream, the memories of that day…
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I need this story!,” shrieked Sara, stomping her foot. “I deserve this story!”
“FINE!” Mr. Hawkins squealed, rubbing his temples. “ Fine. You’re right, you’re right. You can have the story.”
“Thank you,” she said, satisfied. “I won’t screw this one up, I promise.”
“Let’s hope not,” Mr. Hawkins muttered as he watched her walk out the door, disappearing into the bright, blinding white light of a morning in Roscoe, Wyoming.
Sara , a cub reporter for the local newspaper in Roscoe, pranced out the door of the Roscoe Times office and into the snowy morning. Stepping into her car, she smiled as she thought, ‘I’ve got that story in the bag!’ Her smile widened, ‘This story is going to propel me into a real career. I’ll be doing the big time stories in no time at all.’
‘I got the story! I got it. I got it!’ she kept thinking over and over, smiling wider with every thought. She walked into her apartment and then to the kitchen to fix some lunch. ‘I’ll start getting the facts together tonight and go to the scene tomorrow. I’ll make this the best story I’ve ever written, and I’ll be up the corporate ladder in no time!’
The next day Sara woke up early and went to the crime scene to get more facts. The murder had been committed in the girls bedroom. She practically interrogated the investigators, and then went right on to the cops. Her hand scratching at a notepad, she listened intently, making sure to get every word.
Sneaking past the guards, she hastily walked up the stairs, ready to hide from a unsuspecting cop at any moment. With no trouble, she got to the room and looked around. There weren’t any bloodstains, no broken chairs. The room was in perfect order. She took pictures, and scribbled away, but she forgot to be cautious, or quiet. Suddenly, the camera fell, and she chased after it down the stairs. At the bottom Sara finally caught it, but more noise than in a hurricane had accompanied the fall. With a tap on the shoulder she turned around to find herself face-to-face with a fairly intimidating man.
“Going somewhere?” The tall man said.
Sara laughed nervously. “I was just leaving.”
“My name is Mortimer, Mortimer Van Hime. I believe you are Sara McCoy, the news reporter for this despicable little city, if one can even call it that. You should not be here, it is not your place.”
“As I said, I was just leaving.”
“You are messing with things that should not be messed with. You must leave now.”
“I was wondering if I…”
His eyes had gleams of red, and with a billowing voice he screamed, “GO!“ Sara ran out the door and raced to her car. She leaped inside and zoomed away, trembling.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the months passed, Sara learned more. She learned of the secret, the secret they had all been hiding, the secret that killed the girl. She was determined to tell everyone the truth. Vampires were real.
They were in the government; the police force, even at the gas station. They were there, but were planning on staying a myth. Fantasy. The girl, Marissa Tremblay, had learned too much; she had discovered the secret. If she had told, centuries of hard work, of trying to stay a secret, would have been for nothing. They could not risk that. To the vampires, the most important thing was to stay hidden, at any cost. For them the only option was to kill her.
Sara learned that Mortimer Van Hime, the man she had bumped into that day, was a cover man, a vampire; one of them. He made sure the cops hadn’t found out the truth. He had done his job well, and had been promoted in his career from a lowly sergeant, to the police chief of the largest city in a hundred miles. In other words, he was the head honcho.
He had intimidated the sheriff of the little town of Roscoe to the point where he had him eating out of his hand. Mortimer had used his power to call off the mysterious investigation of Marissa Tremblay’s death. Sara knew everything, and she was going to write the story.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A year had passed. She wanted it to be over, the madness, the nightmare that was now her life, but feared that it would never end. That night Sara went to sleep with thoughts of death and murder, deceit and lies. She had no idea what would happen next, and she dreaded it.
The next morning, even before the sun was up, a knock at the door awoke her. She groggily slumped to her door, not knowing what kind of evil would be behind it.
“Who’s there?” She asked as she unlocked the door. ‘Who is at my door at this hour?’ she thought. The door swung open with a slow, high-pitched screech. A man stood in her doorway, half hidden in darkness. A shiver went up her spine.
“Who are you?” She asked, terrified of who, or what, might answer.
“It’s me,” The man said threateningly, moving his face into the light. It was Mortimer! Quick as lightning, he rushed inside and threw Sara back, slamming the door behind him.
“You thought you could escape me?” he screamed menacingly with a smirk on his face. “Did you really think that you could escape ME? Well, darling, you will never escape me!” He swooped forward, fangs out, ready for the kill. But Sara was too quick. She dodged his attack, and raced to the kitchen, straight for the knives.
Mortimer stood up and leaped on her back, forcing her to the floor. The knife sprang from her hand, landing a foot away in the middle of the kitchen. Sara lunged for it, but he held fast, pinning her to the ground.
“There are only two options. One, you become one of us, or two, you die. Choose.” he said heartlessly.
“I… I…” Sara stuttered. She couldn’t chose between her own death, and the loss of her soul.
“Too late!” he screamed. He grabbed the knife and cut her neck. He then placed his lips on the slash, and sucked the hot blood from her body, until it ran dry. The blood dripped from his lips, and down onto his neck, soiling his clothes. Sara, breathing jagged breaths, stared at the man who had unmercifully ended her life.
As she felt the warmth flow from her body, and the life drain out of her very soul, she asked, “Why? Why did you do this to me?”
“Because you knew too much.”
Fin
_______________________________________________________________________________
One of my earlier stories. There are probably a few spelling mistakes, but whateve. Funny story to go with it:
I wrote this for a comp class, and my teacher was really horrified. He said that in a story, "The problem should be solved, the bad guy be caught or persecuted, and the Hero wins". I think I was in the 5th or 6th grade. :P Feedbacks always welcomed.
‘A murder has been committed in Roscoe, Wyoming. A town hardly noticed, a pin prick on the map. Marissa Tremblay was murdered in her own home, her own bedroom; murdered by unnatural causes. Her throat was slashed, and the blood had been drained from her body. ’ The story was forming in Sara’s head again, just as it had that fateful day one year ago. The story that had created the madness, her madness. The memories were flooding in, like a river into a stream, the memories of that day…
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I need this story!,” shrieked Sara, stomping her foot. “I deserve this story!”
“FINE!” Mr. Hawkins squealed, rubbing his temples. “ Fine. You’re right, you’re right. You can have the story.”
“Thank you,” she said, satisfied. “I won’t screw this one up, I promise.”
“Let’s hope not,” Mr. Hawkins muttered as he watched her walk out the door, disappearing into the bright, blinding white light of a morning in Roscoe, Wyoming.
Sara , a cub reporter for the local newspaper in Roscoe, pranced out the door of the Roscoe Times office and into the snowy morning. Stepping into her car, she smiled as she thought, ‘I’ve got that story in the bag!’ Her smile widened, ‘This story is going to propel me into a real career. I’ll be doing the big time stories in no time at all.’
‘I got the story! I got it. I got it!’ she kept thinking over and over, smiling wider with every thought. She walked into her apartment and then to the kitchen to fix some lunch. ‘I’ll start getting the facts together tonight and go to the scene tomorrow. I’ll make this the best story I’ve ever written, and I’ll be up the corporate ladder in no time!’
The next day Sara woke up early and went to the crime scene to get more facts. The murder had been committed in the girls bedroom. She practically interrogated the investigators, and then went right on to the cops. Her hand scratching at a notepad, she listened intently, making sure to get every word.
Sneaking past the guards, she hastily walked up the stairs, ready to hide from a unsuspecting cop at any moment. With no trouble, she got to the room and looked around. There weren’t any bloodstains, no broken chairs. The room was in perfect order. She took pictures, and scribbled away, but she forgot to be cautious, or quiet. Suddenly, the camera fell, and she chased after it down the stairs. At the bottom Sara finally caught it, but more noise than in a hurricane had accompanied the fall. With a tap on the shoulder she turned around to find herself face-to-face with a fairly intimidating man.
“Going somewhere?” The tall man said.
Sara laughed nervously. “I was just leaving.”
“My name is Mortimer, Mortimer Van Hime. I believe you are Sara McCoy, the news reporter for this despicable little city, if one can even call it that. You should not be here, it is not your place.”
“As I said, I was just leaving.”
“You are messing with things that should not be messed with. You must leave now.”
“I was wondering if I…”
His eyes had gleams of red, and with a billowing voice he screamed, “GO!“ Sara ran out the door and raced to her car. She leaped inside and zoomed away, trembling.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the months passed, Sara learned more. She learned of the secret, the secret they had all been hiding, the secret that killed the girl. She was determined to tell everyone the truth. Vampires were real.
They were in the government; the police force, even at the gas station. They were there, but were planning on staying a myth. Fantasy. The girl, Marissa Tremblay, had learned too much; she had discovered the secret. If she had told, centuries of hard work, of trying to stay a secret, would have been for nothing. They could not risk that. To the vampires, the most important thing was to stay hidden, at any cost. For them the only option was to kill her.
Sara learned that Mortimer Van Hime, the man she had bumped into that day, was a cover man, a vampire; one of them. He made sure the cops hadn’t found out the truth. He had done his job well, and had been promoted in his career from a lowly sergeant, to the police chief of the largest city in a hundred miles. In other words, he was the head honcho.
He had intimidated the sheriff of the little town of Roscoe to the point where he had him eating out of his hand. Mortimer had used his power to call off the mysterious investigation of Marissa Tremblay’s death. Sara knew everything, and she was going to write the story.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A year had passed. She wanted it to be over, the madness, the nightmare that was now her life, but feared that it would never end. That night Sara went to sleep with thoughts of death and murder, deceit and lies. She had no idea what would happen next, and she dreaded it.
The next morning, even before the sun was up, a knock at the door awoke her. She groggily slumped to her door, not knowing what kind of evil would be behind it.
“Who’s there?” She asked as she unlocked the door. ‘Who is at my door at this hour?’ she thought. The door swung open with a slow, high-pitched screech. A man stood in her doorway, half hidden in darkness. A shiver went up her spine.
“Who are you?” She asked, terrified of who, or what, might answer.
“It’s me,” The man said threateningly, moving his face into the light. It was Mortimer! Quick as lightning, he rushed inside and threw Sara back, slamming the door behind him.
“You thought you could escape me?” he screamed menacingly with a smirk on his face. “Did you really think that you could escape ME? Well, darling, you will never escape me!” He swooped forward, fangs out, ready for the kill. But Sara was too quick. She dodged his attack, and raced to the kitchen, straight for the knives.
Mortimer stood up and leaped on her back, forcing her to the floor. The knife sprang from her hand, landing a foot away in the middle of the kitchen. Sara lunged for it, but he held fast, pinning her to the ground.
“There are only two options. One, you become one of us, or two, you die. Choose.” he said heartlessly.
“I… I…” Sara stuttered. She couldn’t chose between her own death, and the loss of her soul.
“Too late!” he screamed. He grabbed the knife and cut her neck. He then placed his lips on the slash, and sucked the hot blood from her body, until it ran dry. The blood dripped from his lips, and down onto his neck, soiling his clothes. Sara, breathing jagged breaths, stared at the man who had unmercifully ended her life.
As she felt the warmth flow from her body, and the life drain out of her very soul, she asked, “Why? Why did you do this to me?”
“Because you knew too much.”
Fin
_______________________________________________________________________________
One of my earlier stories. There are probably a few spelling mistakes, but whateve. Funny story to go with it:
I wrote this for a comp class, and my teacher was really horrified. He said that in a story, "The problem should be solved, the bad guy be caught or persecuted, and the Hero wins". I think I was in the 5th or 6th grade. :P Feedbacks always welcomed.
Fear
When one thinks of fear, they think of seeing a scary movie or reading a horror story, but fear has a much deeper meaning than that. One can have fear of another person in the form of awe or reverence, as one fears their mother or teacher. Fear can be an uneasy feeling, an anxious thought, or a concern about something, as one might fear for their life, or someone could even just regard something with fear, as a child fears the dark. A few synonyms for fear are to revere, venerate, dread, or apprehend. There are only two antonyms for fear: fearlessness and bravery, both meaning "to have no fear". In the Christian book of Psalms fear is mentioned many times as a way to describe how people feared the Lord in respectful dread.Generally, there are three states of fear: distrust, paranoia, and terror. Distrust is a mild state of fear like caution, usually focused towards a person or object.Paranoia is a form of psychosis where a person imagines that they are being persecuted. Terror is a pronounced state of fear, where someone becomes overwhelmed with a sense of immediate danger. Throughout the ages, fear has meant many things, real and imagined. Fear can be healthy - when you look both ways before you cross the street, or it can be irrational -when you are terrified that the plane you are on may crash, although you realize there is almost no chance that it will.
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Short, but sweet. My teacher loved it. What do you think?
_____________________________________________________________________
Short, but sweet. My teacher loved it. What do you think?
Book Review: Confessions of a Shopaholic
I was pricing books at my church's rummage sale when I found a book entitled Confessions of a Shopaholic. It had a pair of shoes on the its bright pink cover and I was immediately attracted to it. As I opened it and read the first page, I was introduced to a odd character by the name of Rebecca Bloomwood. She is an ordinary woman living an ordinary life in an ordinary flat in London, England. She works for a boring financial magazine writing articles she doesn't understand and going to press conferences that she couldn't care less about. But she has one particular trait that make her stand out from the rest... she is a shopaholic.
This book is a great read, and is relatively easy at that. It is rather long, 320 pages, but it is so good that it seems to be over with in a flash! I love how the author, Sophie Kinsella, writes the chapters as if you are in Becky's head. That characteristic in the writing draws you in to the point where you can't wait to read what will happen next. The best part is that Becky is an average person who has quirks just like the rest of us. By the second chapter I was hooked!
As I was reading this book I was looking for things that I didn't really like, but I couldn't find a single one. This book is very good. The only thing I didn't like was that about half-way through, Becky's friend from work, Elly Granger, becomes a fund manager for Wetherby's Investments. This seems very out-of-character for her and it makes her very boring. It's still a good part of the story, though.
Becky's life works out in the end, but she gets into loads of trouble before the bliss begins. She uncovers a headline-making financial story, makes a name for herself, and ... well, I don't want to spoil it for you. I'll just say there's a multimillionaire involved who could give Prince Charming a run for his money.
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One of my older articles. Written for a comp class, comments welcomed.
This book is a great read, and is relatively easy at that. It is rather long, 320 pages, but it is so good that it seems to be over with in a flash! I love how the author, Sophie Kinsella, writes the chapters as if you are in Becky's head. That characteristic in the writing draws you in to the point where you can't wait to read what will happen next. The best part is that Becky is an average person who has quirks just like the rest of us. By the second chapter I was hooked!
As I was reading this book I was looking for things that I didn't really like, but I couldn't find a single one. This book is very good. The only thing I didn't like was that about half-way through, Becky's friend from work, Elly Granger, becomes a fund manager for Wetherby's Investments. This seems very out-of-character for her and it makes her very boring. It's still a good part of the story, though.
Becky's life works out in the end, but she gets into loads of trouble before the bliss begins. She uncovers a headline-making financial story, makes a name for herself, and ... well, I don't want to spoil it for you. I'll just say there's a multimillionaire involved who could give Prince Charming a run for his money.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
One of my older articles. Written for a comp class, comments welcomed.
The Short Story
My parental units last words were still buzzing around in my head.
"I'll be back in an hour, and don't forget to write your short story!" The words just kept swirling around in my head, blocking out any room for creative thought. I decided that the only thing to do was make an executive decision and take a power break.
As I opened my window, the cool winter breeze blew over me and sent a shiver down my spine. I looked up at the night sky, letting my mind wander away from my pressing responsibilities. I imagined myself flying; the wind blowing through my hair, the fresh smell of the night air, and the damp on my skin as I flew through a cloud. I flipped through the air a few times, making myself dizzy. Suddenly something flew by me, moving so fast that I could barely even see it. It was something small, and I could hear the flutter of its wings as it passed.
I turned in the direction it had gone, searching the night sky, trying to see if it was still there. But all I could see was sky, sky, and then more sky. A vast blackness with dots of white here and there.
"What cha' lookin' fer?" said a little voice. I spun around, startled by the sudden high-pitched voice. I found myself starring eye-to-eye with the little thing that had whizzed by me earlier.
"Are ye daft? I said, what cha' lookin' fer?" said the little thing.
"Err...?" I mumbled.
"Not one fer words, eh? Well, I havn't seen you round these parts, no I haven't. In fact, haven't seen much of anyone round these parts in quite a while. And I've never seen one of you." It kept whizzing around my head, making me feel rather dizzy.
"One of me?"
"Yea... What exactly are ye?" It stared at me quizzically.
"I.. I am a... a... err..."
"You look like one of those 'human' types, that what ye are?" It asked. I nodded.
"Ahhh. Well, that explains it, it does. Well, I'm Lynthia. I'm a pixie. Ave you ever seen a pixie?" Lynthia asked.
"Well, no. I haven't." I answered.
"Thats what I expected." The little pixie sighed. "Ye human types never do pay any attention, do you. We pixie's work hard ever' day, keepin' everythin' in order; we wake the flowers an' spread the morning dew. An', o' course, we have to help up the sun, and put that awful moon to rest, an he's a troublemaker, he is. Did you know that every night that dreadful moon comes out and pushes the sun right to the other side of the earth? We have to wrestle him down every morning and keep him down all the day long. Of course, they put them youngsters in charge of that, and every night they just leave him to do whatever he wants. The nerve. One time, he got it in his mind not to go down, and it took ages until he finally did. That was a dark, dark age. But I mustn't bother you with me troubles." The pixie smiled, "We could really use someone like you, we could... to help us. We are in a war with the imps, retched little beasts. They swarm our trees and steal all they can." Lynthia turned to leave, mumbling to herself about those dreadful imps.
"Well maybe I could help..." I muttered, but before I could finish my sentience, Lynthia had turned back and grabbed me by the finger, pulling me along.
"Thats wonderful, dearie! I was hoping you'd say tha', yea I was." She had on a big smile that filled her whole face. "Let me take you to our woods. They really are quite beautiful, yes they are." Lynthia talked the whole way to the "forest" as she called it. She flew me down to a small park and then over to a rose garden.
"This," She gestured to the flowers, "is the forest!" To me, it seemed rather unremarkable, although It had many beautiful roses with colors of pink, red, and white. Lynthia showed me around her 'vast empire'. Just as I began inspecting a leaf-mobile, I heard a bell chime.
"The Imps are coming!" shrieked a pixie.
"Run!"
"Hide!"
" It's the Imps," cried Lynthia, "They've come." The horizon was covered with dots; small moving dots. The were getting steadily bigger, and the buzzing of their wings grew louder.
"Quickly, you must help us. They will be here soon." Lynthia pleaded with her eyes.
"I'll take care of them." I said.
I strode across the garden to where the Imps were flying. They were mean little things, with horns and axes. I grabbed one out of mid-air and looked at him closely; it couldn't have been bigger an egg. It was jerking in my hand, trying to break free. I wouldn't let go, so it bit me.
"Owww!" I cried. It felt like a bee sting, and was starting to swell.
"That hurt!" I could see the smirk on the little Imp's face as it watched me in pain. I snatched it up again, and, ignoring its demand to be put down, tossed it in my pocket.
"One down, many to go!" I picked the Imps up, one by one, and put them in my pocket. They bit and scratched, and hit me with their little axes, but I still was able to put them all in my pocket.
The Giant had gotten all but one of us. I was the last one, and I was bigger, faster, and smarter. I had seen each of my fellow warriors be captured. I was determined not to get captured by this giant. I held my axe at the ready. As the giant thing reached its hand toward me, I used evasive maneuvers, and flew around to the back of its hand. The thing may have been big, but it was slow. I took my axe and attacked the back of its hand, and a red liquid came out. I liked its rusty red color; it looked like copper. 'Copper is shiny' I thought. 'I like shiny.' I was mesmerized by it.
The Imp had cut up my hand pretty bad, but now it was just sitting there, floating in mid-air. I took advantage of the situation, grabbed the Imp, and threw him in my pocket. I walked to the other side of the rose garden and emptied my pockets of Imps. They would never be able to get to the other side of the garden in this lifetime.
I was a hero. I had saved the pixies from the Imps, and I was a hero.
"Not bad... for a human." said Lynthia, "They're gone for good, they are. We pixies thank ye. If you ever need us, just ring this." She gave me a small bell, as she smiled her warm pixie smile. "Ye must be tired, after that fight. Ye should get some rest. Why don' ye lay down on this here field, rest ye eyes a bit." I did as I was told, and laid down. The grass felt good, and the sun warm; like a soft chair and a wool blanket. As I began to fall asleep, and things began to blur, I looked up at the night sky one last time, feeling completely content. I had saved the pixies; I was a hero.
It was very cold. And damp. It felt sort of like... rain. As I opened my eyes, water fell on my face in heavy droplets. It was raining. But why could I feel the rain on my face? I looked around and soon realized that the window was open. I quickly jumped up and closed it. I could hear the sound of the rain pounding on the roof. I was in my computer chair, sitting in front of a monitor. On the screen in front of me was a blank document. It was titled 'Short Story'.
As I slowly realized where I was, I thought to myself, 'Had it all been a dream? The pixies, and the imps, and... and everything, was a dream? Had I been sleeping this whole time, when I was supposed to be writing a story?' I frowned. 'Well, I guess I should get started on this story.' As I lifted my hand, I realized there was something in it.
It was a little bell.
__________________________________________________________________
I was supposed to be writing a short story for school, and wrote this as a joke. Ended up getting an A. Tell me what you think.
Thanks
~Meg
"I'll be back in an hour, and don't forget to write your short story!" The words just kept swirling around in my head, blocking out any room for creative thought. I decided that the only thing to do was make an executive decision and take a power break.
As I opened my window, the cool winter breeze blew over me and sent a shiver down my spine. I looked up at the night sky, letting my mind wander away from my pressing responsibilities. I imagined myself flying; the wind blowing through my hair, the fresh smell of the night air, and the damp on my skin as I flew through a cloud. I flipped through the air a few times, making myself dizzy. Suddenly something flew by me, moving so fast that I could barely even see it. It was something small, and I could hear the flutter of its wings as it passed.
I turned in the direction it had gone, searching the night sky, trying to see if it was still there. But all I could see was sky, sky, and then more sky. A vast blackness with dots of white here and there.
"What cha' lookin' fer?" said a little voice. I spun around, startled by the sudden high-pitched voice. I found myself starring eye-to-eye with the little thing that had whizzed by me earlier.
"Are ye daft? I said, what cha' lookin' fer?" said the little thing.
"Err...?" I mumbled.
"Not one fer words, eh? Well, I havn't seen you round these parts, no I haven't. In fact, haven't seen much of anyone round these parts in quite a while. And I've never seen one of you." It kept whizzing around my head, making me feel rather dizzy.
"One of me?"
"Yea... What exactly are ye?" It stared at me quizzically.
"I.. I am a... a... err..."
"You look like one of those 'human' types, that what ye are?" It asked. I nodded.
"Ahhh. Well, that explains it, it does. Well, I'm Lynthia. I'm a pixie. Ave you ever seen a pixie?" Lynthia asked.
"Well, no. I haven't." I answered.
"Thats what I expected." The little pixie sighed. "Ye human types never do pay any attention, do you. We pixie's work hard ever' day, keepin' everythin' in order; we wake the flowers an' spread the morning dew. An', o' course, we have to help up the sun, and put that awful moon to rest, an he's a troublemaker, he is. Did you know that every night that dreadful moon comes out and pushes the sun right to the other side of the earth? We have to wrestle him down every morning and keep him down all the day long. Of course, they put them youngsters in charge of that, and every night they just leave him to do whatever he wants. The nerve. One time, he got it in his mind not to go down, and it took ages until he finally did. That was a dark, dark age. But I mustn't bother you with me troubles." The pixie smiled, "We could really use someone like you, we could... to help us. We are in a war with the imps, retched little beasts. They swarm our trees and steal all they can." Lynthia turned to leave, mumbling to herself about those dreadful imps.
"Well maybe I could help..." I muttered, but before I could finish my sentience, Lynthia had turned back and grabbed me by the finger, pulling me along.
"Thats wonderful, dearie! I was hoping you'd say tha', yea I was." She had on a big smile that filled her whole face. "Let me take you to our woods. They really are quite beautiful, yes they are." Lynthia talked the whole way to the "forest" as she called it. She flew me down to a small park and then over to a rose garden.
"This," She gestured to the flowers, "is the forest!" To me, it seemed rather unremarkable, although It had many beautiful roses with colors of pink, red, and white. Lynthia showed me around her 'vast empire'. Just as I began inspecting a leaf-mobile, I heard a bell chime.
"The Imps are coming!" shrieked a pixie.
"Run!"
"Hide!"
" It's the Imps," cried Lynthia, "They've come." The horizon was covered with dots; small moving dots. The were getting steadily bigger, and the buzzing of their wings grew louder.
"Quickly, you must help us. They will be here soon." Lynthia pleaded with her eyes.
"I'll take care of them." I said.
I strode across the garden to where the Imps were flying. They were mean little things, with horns and axes. I grabbed one out of mid-air and looked at him closely; it couldn't have been bigger an egg. It was jerking in my hand, trying to break free. I wouldn't let go, so it bit me.
"Owww!" I cried. It felt like a bee sting, and was starting to swell.
"That hurt!" I could see the smirk on the little Imp's face as it watched me in pain. I snatched it up again, and, ignoring its demand to be put down, tossed it in my pocket.
"One down, many to go!" I picked the Imps up, one by one, and put them in my pocket. They bit and scratched, and hit me with their little axes, but I still was able to put them all in my pocket.
The Giant had gotten all but one of us. I was the last one, and I was bigger, faster, and smarter. I had seen each of my fellow warriors be captured. I was determined not to get captured by this giant. I held my axe at the ready. As the giant thing reached its hand toward me, I used evasive maneuvers, and flew around to the back of its hand. The thing may have been big, but it was slow. I took my axe and attacked the back of its hand, and a red liquid came out. I liked its rusty red color; it looked like copper. 'Copper is shiny' I thought. 'I like shiny.' I was mesmerized by it.
The Imp had cut up my hand pretty bad, but now it was just sitting there, floating in mid-air. I took advantage of the situation, grabbed the Imp, and threw him in my pocket. I walked to the other side of the rose garden and emptied my pockets of Imps. They would never be able to get to the other side of the garden in this lifetime.
I was a hero. I had saved the pixies from the Imps, and I was a hero.
"Not bad... for a human." said Lynthia, "They're gone for good, they are. We pixies thank ye. If you ever need us, just ring this." She gave me a small bell, as she smiled her warm pixie smile. "Ye must be tired, after that fight. Ye should get some rest. Why don' ye lay down on this here field, rest ye eyes a bit." I did as I was told, and laid down. The grass felt good, and the sun warm; like a soft chair and a wool blanket. As I began to fall asleep, and things began to blur, I looked up at the night sky one last time, feeling completely content. I had saved the pixies; I was a hero.
It was very cold. And damp. It felt sort of like... rain. As I opened my eyes, water fell on my face in heavy droplets. It was raining. But why could I feel the rain on my face? I looked around and soon realized that the window was open. I quickly jumped up and closed it. I could hear the sound of the rain pounding on the roof. I was in my computer chair, sitting in front of a monitor. On the screen in front of me was a blank document. It was titled 'Short Story'.
As I slowly realized where I was, I thought to myself, 'Had it all been a dream? The pixies, and the imps, and... and everything, was a dream? Had I been sleeping this whole time, when I was supposed to be writing a story?' I frowned. 'Well, I guess I should get started on this story.' As I lifted my hand, I realized there was something in it.
It was a little bell.
__________________________________________________________________
I was supposed to be writing a short story for school, and wrote this as a joke. Ended up getting an A. Tell me what you think.
Thanks
~Meg
The Pros/Cons of Watercolor
Many people like painting, but aren't sure where to get started. There are many mediums, brushes, papers, and the like. A beginner in the art world would probably be overwhelmed and might start with a difficult medium, like oil or acrylic. Watercolor is an easy medium for beginners (and professionals) to use, so before buying anything, think about the advantages and disadvantages of watercolor.
Watercolors are easy to blend and work with. They are also very versatile and come in many different forms, like watercolor crayons and pencils, opaque paint, tube paint, and tray paint. Paints like iridescent paints, ultraviolet paints, and inks can also be used in watercolor. Acrylic, chalk pastel, and other mediums can also be used to create mixed medium paintings.
However, nothing is permanent in watercolor . It is easy to blot out a mistake, which is another reason it's a good medium for beginners. When I use paint, my brush almost always drips water on my painting. All I have to do is blot it out, and no one would ever know I messed up.
Unlike when using oils, (where you would need large pallets, turpentine, oil, a canvas or board, expensive paint, and more) or acrylics (paint, special brushes, heavy paper, and more), only four things are needed to use watercolors: water, brushes, paint, and paper. Depending on the quality of materials that you buy, this makes watercolor a relatively "cheap" medium to use.
Watercolor has a few disadvantages, too; it is a very messy medium. Certain types of paints, like opaque paints and inks, which can be used in watercolor, are very staining. Because the paint is so wet, it tends to splatter. I always wear a smock to keep my clothes clean, and put newspaper or a towel down to keep the table clean.
Again, nothing is permanent in watercolor. A wonderful fact when you mess up, but not so wonderful when you have just perfected a watercolor piece and your cat accidentally spills your soda all over it. When using watercolor, you must take extra measures to seal against water.
Although watercolor can be bought at many places, craft and hobby stores do not generally supply the best quality paints. They supply the quality and price acceptable for hobbyists and amateurs. Anyone who is above that level must pay more for higher quality supplies from specialty art supply stores.
Water color is a great medium that both beginners and professionals can use easily, but it is also a messy medium that is difficult to keep sealed. However, it is a medium to be considered, and you will be able to use it throughout your art life.
Watercolors are easy to blend and work with. They are also very versatile and come in many different forms, like watercolor crayons and pencils, opaque paint, tube paint, and tray paint. Paints like iridescent paints, ultraviolet paints, and inks can also be used in watercolor. Acrylic, chalk pastel, and other mediums can also be used to create mixed medium paintings.
However, nothing is permanent in watercolor . It is easy to blot out a mistake, which is another reason it's a good medium for beginners. When I use paint, my brush almost always drips water on my painting. All I have to do is blot it out, and no one would ever know I messed up.
Unlike when using oils, (where you would need large pallets, turpentine, oil, a canvas or board, expensive paint, and more) or acrylics (paint, special brushes, heavy paper, and more), only four things are needed to use watercolors: water, brushes, paint, and paper. Depending on the quality of materials that you buy, this makes watercolor a relatively "cheap" medium to use.
Watercolor has a few disadvantages, too; it is a very messy medium. Certain types of paints, like opaque paints and inks, which can be used in watercolor, are very staining. Because the paint is so wet, it tends to splatter. I always wear a smock to keep my clothes clean, and put newspaper or a towel down to keep the table clean.
Again, nothing is permanent in watercolor. A wonderful fact when you mess up, but not so wonderful when you have just perfected a watercolor piece and your cat accidentally spills your soda all over it. When using watercolor, you must take extra measures to seal against water.
Although watercolor can be bought at many places, craft and hobby stores do not generally supply the best quality paints. They supply the quality and price acceptable for hobbyists and amateurs. Anyone who is above that level must pay more for higher quality supplies from specialty art supply stores.
Water color is a great medium that both beginners and professionals can use easily, but it is also a messy medium that is difficult to keep sealed. However, it is a medium to be considered, and you will be able to use it throughout your art life.
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