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PanaceaJoshua Hammer was sitting alone in his small tract home, eating microwaved Stauffer's lasagna out of the box when he got a call from the President of the United States. Although Joshua knew that the President of the United States was calling, he let the machine pick up. He didn't particularly feel like being nagged at the moment; he had told the president not to call during dinner, but his requests had fallen on deaf ears.
"You've reached the home of Doctor Joshua Hammer. I'm not home right now, so leave your name and phone number after the beep." Beep.
"HAMMER!" grunted the Chief Executive. "You finished Project X, right? The government needs Project X as soon as possible. Your country needs you, Hammer."
Joshua rolled his eyes. He was taking special caution with Project X, and he couldn't be rushed to complete it. The prototype had to be absolutely perfect before
Only you can prevent disasterAs the holiday season approaches, it brings with it a tie of anxiety for many teenagers. Young people worry "What if gain weight from all this holiday food", "What if Aunt Miriam embarrasses me in front of an attractive member of the opposite gender", and "What if my hair catches on fire". However, as digital technology becomes more popular, so does the danger of mixing adults and electronics. A few pounds or an unexpected new hairstyle are minor complaints compared to the mayhem that can be caused when an unqualified adult attempts to reformat a hard drive. Throughout history, mankind's greatest disasters have been created when adults meddle with technology: the Titanic, the Hindenberg, and the last Matrix film are only a few examples.
Unfortunately, we have little to no influence over our parents' digital purchases. But with a hearty cocktail of patience, determination, and common sense, even the most old-fashioned teenager can h
I Don't Believe YouYou tell me I'm pretty
You tell me I'm smart
You tell me that I
have some talent at art
You tell me that I
Should always trust you
But I really know
That it's all untrue
I don't believe you
I don't believe you
So what are my parents
Paying you for?
You say it's not me
You say that it's them
But we both know
That's a laugh, that's a gem
Is it biochemical?
Or some stimulus?
It seems like you're making
A whole lot of fuss and
If I'm so normal, like you say
Why do I come to see you every other day
And pardon me for making this sound too theatric
But I feel that I'm living at Blue Ridge Psychiatric
You say I have so
Much that I can give
Rouse up youthful blood
Be valiant and live
And if you put me
On three kinds of meds
Then you can silence
That voice in my head. But
CHORUS x 2
I think I feel happier already.
A Harmonica StoryFor hygienic reasons, and for the good of the sound, real harmonica players never use a secondhand instrument. It's one of the fundamental rules of the craft. A man's harmonica, they say, is his temple. Clay had never heard this before, and it didn't keep him from buying his piece on a whim at a dubious pawn shop with five dollars he had found in a gutter. The harmonica, though a little tarnished, played just fine, and in the four years that Clay had been riffing on his park bench, he hadn't had so much as a cold.
A man's harmonica, they say, is his soul, and it isn't hard to believe that the harmonica itself has an ability to form thoughts, opinions, and emotions as well as any human being. With the proper force exerted, a harmonica can screech like a woman scorned, coo like an intoxicated lover, or roar like a train ripped full force from the tracks. The technique, Clay found, was all in his head, his heart
Crickets of GloryEveryone who walked past 15 Solomon Street knew there was something wrong with that house. It was a nice enough place aesthetically, built to look like the other homes on Solomon Street, with brick siding and a raised front porch, but 15 Solomon Street was no ordinary home. The other estates in the neighborhood were teeming with life, the essence of barbeques and birthday parties. During the day, though, 15 Solomon Street sat in silence and the shades were drawn. According to the residents of 14 and 16 Solomon Street, it seemed as if no one had entered or left the house in months. The children of the neighborhood thought of the place as haunted, although the house's grim diurnal silence seemed far more sinister than a simple case of poltergeists. On most cold winter nights, anyone who listened carefully could hear squeals emanating from down the street, so highly pitched that human ears could barely detect them, like dem
PsychomachiaEliza1: The end of the world! The very end! Can you imagine?
Eliza 2: Yes, and it doesn't look pretty.
Eliza 1: But the end of it all! We'd go down in history.
Eliza 2: There wouldn't be a history.
Eliza 1: We could make one! We can make people, and buildings, and everything.
Eliza 2: Why remake everything when we've got everything already?
Eliza 1: We don't have a pony.
Eliza2: We don't need a pony.
Eliza 1: I want a pony.
Eliza 2: You have the human race in the palm of your hand. The last thing you need is a pony.
Eliza 1: I would name her Clarabelle, and she would be my Clarabelle, and I would feed her sugar cubes and carrots, and we would trot through Pittsburgh and be worshipped.
Eliza 2: Fine. Make your pony. You don't have to destroy all existence.
Eliza 1: I do so. It sounds like an awful lot of fun.
Eliza 2: Probably not. Sure, the explosions are nice to look at and all, but then you have a
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More