Well, I have one for portraits, so here's one for my general writing (I am allowed to, yes?)... a lot of this will probably be a bit old, since all writing I've done in the past year or so has been for Omerta, and I don't want to spoil anything for you kids.

First up, poety. Oh my god.

This is actually part of a mini-story I did... I think it was two years ago? This is the poetry section of it, which is better than the actual story. Yes. Enjoy.

I really like your poem--it reminds me a classical poem you would read and study in an English class. I have a hard time writing poetry as story-like as this one is, so I really appreciate those who can. My favorite line is: "Please bury me shallow so I can feel the rain", you can really sense the longing in the subjects voice and your heart goes out to him (or her).

Thanks, ink.

Here's another.. more humorous. This one was an English assignment, actually. From two years ago. XD

I like this poem even better I think! The sounds and rhythm are excellent and makes the whole thing flow very nicely. Your poems are perfect for Halloween!

Those are fantastic, Derange! My favorite is the first one. Please, post more if/when you can! :D

Thank you to you both! Unfortunately, that's where the poems end. I never was much of a poet, more of a short story person. Here's one of my favorites.


He stood by and watched his sweetheart, so young and thin and beautiful, sitting on her front stairs and waiting for the mail carrier; she would often sit there for hours, waiting for this one person to bring her one simple thing. When she would see him pass by the house next door, she would leap to her feet and rush out to meet him, the long, delicate locks of hair floating about her head and shoulders as she ran; he would hold out a yellowed envelope and she would snatch it away and thank him excitedly before checking to make sure the handwriting was his and running back into the house to respond.

Time passed in the blink of an eye, and he watched her enthusiastic snatching of his envelopes slowly etch away until he saw a sophisticated young woman sitting before him, this time on the porch instead of the steps. She wore brightly-colored and often white dresses that fit her curves well, standing tall and erect and perfect with her hands folded neatly in her lap, and upon the arrival of the mail carrier she would slowly rise and walk out to meet him and thank him with a smile and a nod. Today he gave her a small package; he watched her glide back up the stairs and sit in her chair as she opened it to find a silver necklace inside. He had sent it to her for her twentieth birthday.

More time passed; she grew taller and thinner and her hair and dresses did with her. She began to wear her fine locks of hair back in a chignon, letting a few strands fall loose around the sides of her face and proudly displaying the necklace she had received. He now saw her walk to his home every other day to speak with his family, her head held high and her posture perfect, her hands lifted to show off the engagement ring he had given her before he had left for war. For her twenty-first birthday, he sent her a pair of golden earrings.

And then, one day, his letter failed to arrive. She waited for it until dusk, thinking that perhaps it had come late; when it didn’t come, she went back inside and told her mother, “His letter didn’t come today. Perhaps it is late; it will come tomorrow.” And still, after her mother and father had retired for the night, she took her coat and sat in the rocking chair on the porch, waiting and hoping until she fell asleep at around three in the morning.

He stared at her sleeping form and broke down in sorrow; with silent tears, he knelt next to her chair and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, chanting, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. When he placed his head on her shoulder, she woke; staring at the places warmed by his touch, she neither moved nor said a thing. He felt her worries and hidden distress being soothed away by the warm embrace and knew that she could feel the tears drip onto her arm even though there was no wetness there when she looked. She fell back asleep with a feeling of comfort, knowing that someone, somewhere, was watching over her with love.

And still, with the next passing day no letter arrived for her. Fearing something had happened, she walked calmly with her head still held high and the diamond flashing on her finger to his home. She told his parents that she had not received letters from him, and they were concerned; they promised her that she would be the first to know if any word of him came.

She waited for a week with no letters to comfort her, and then one morning his sister came running to her doorstep and collapsed, sobbing, into her arms. They had received a letter notifying them that he had been killed in France on April 18. Through the shock, she said, “No, perhaps it is wrong; London must have found the wrong person. It must be a mistake.” His sister told her that it could not be; with the letter they had sent the half-written message that they had used to identify his body, and it had been addressed to her.

Not wishing to believe, she accompanied his sister back to his home and read the letter herself; upon seeing the message that they had sent with, her name written at the top, she broke down in tears and held the letter to her chest, bent over with her head near her knees; it was true. Her love was gone. That night, wearing a black dress, she fell asleep on the porch yet again, waiting for his letters and not wanting to accept his departure. When she woke the next morning, and for every morning she slept on the rocking chair afterwards, she woke to the feeling of a warm pair of arms around her shoulders and the strange feeling of fresh tears on her arm.

your story was amazing and so touching!

Thank you, leos_pride. It is one of my favorites.


"Strangest thing."

He grinned as she came near, gazing up at him with one eyebrow slightly raised in curious inquiry. Vlad's hand reached back for the passenger door handle as he leaned against the glass, feet crossed. "I’m on my way over here, and lying on the side of the street, there’s this..." As Tracy came to a stop near him with one hand on her hip, he gently pushed himself back to his feet and opened the door, turned, and reached in. "...beautiful bouquet..." He stood and turned; in his hands was a large carnation bouquet, pink and white, in a beautiful glass vase. He heard his love make a quiet noise; he held it out before him, studying it from every angle in falsely contemplative manner. "Well, these were far too lovely to keep on the side of the road, so I had to take them in. But I couldn’t take them home, I’ve no use for such pretty things." He peeked up at her and gave a grin. "Now correct me if I'm wrong, but carnations are your favorite, right?"

Tracy moved in closer and smacked him lightly, playfully, on the chest. “You’re such a sap, you know that?”

Vlad, his lips parted in a mischievous grin, shrugged helplessly. “Can’t help it. That’s what ya do to me, babe.”

She stood on her toes and gave him a kiss, then gently took the glass vase from his hands, still smiling. "Well, I guess I have to forgive you."