09-26-2016, 04:14 AM | #1 |
Shrewd as evearthed
Join Date: Aug 2014
Location: Wolverhampton, England
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FINAL FOUR: Eng vs Vulgar
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- Netcees Rebuttal Tourney - Art of Writing League (x 4) - AOWL Season 11 Champion (Undefeated Season) Last edited by sral; 09-26-2016 at 04:45 PM. |
09-27-2016, 12:51 AM | #2 |
Razor-thin derision
Join Date: Jan 2013
Posts: 4,422
Battle Record: 40-25
Accomplishments - OM HOF
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Scanning terrain...
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09-29-2016, 07:49 AM | #3 |
rhyme capsule.
Join Date: Sep 2018
Posts: 2,146
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i pretty much forgot about this.
that img is fucking tiny?! even when clicked on. Last edited by Eŋg; 09-29-2016 at 07:53 AM. |
09-29-2016, 09:28 AM | #4 |
Mad fucking dangerous.
Join Date: Jul 2013
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I'm just swinging swords strictly based on keyboards, unbalanced like elephants and ants on seesaws. |
10-01-2016, 03:28 PM | #5 |
Razor-thin derision
Join Date: Jan 2013
Posts: 4,422
Battle Record: 40-25
Accomplishments - OM HOF
Champed - Fight Night LIV
- Gimmick Battle League (2x)
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Rep Power: 49604317 |
Chapters Yet To Be Written
In white headcloth, black gown - no beads for decorating The holy nun hovered next to the boy’s bed, she seemed to be levitating Hamsho was wide awake. “Sister, can you tell me a story tonight?” he fiddled with his thin blanket, eyes imploringly bright Sister Greta was a rough looking woman with a gracious voice “From the Bible?” She asked, waiting for him to make his choice “No,” Hamsho replied. “That book is too thick... something else instead?” She touched him on the nose, playfully. “Thick book? You have a thick head.” the nun’s eyes suddenly became glassy. All of the candles blew out in the room “I can tell you a story, but never repeat it. Not even from the tomb.” Hamsho gulped and quickly nodded his head. and his body seemed to sink a little further into the bed. "In the land of Heliodor, there was once a boy, about your age only he was slightly more brave, more cunning, and carried more rage Their countryside was different from ours. The land was a series of books big, small, and miniature - the roots of all jungles, forests, and woods Hard cover books became mountains. The highest snow peaks cold winds whispered avalanches; the sound of lies from old priests Soft covers were swamps and springs. Treacherous for anyone wandering. A wasteland awaited anyone who had an excessive want of things In Heliodor, if a book was burnt, out of its spine grew a volcano mercilessly hot as Sister Sandra’s jalapenos... If a book was lost, it became a desert. The sky was made of saintly quilts. clouds were clustered manuscripts, it rained when we felt pangs of guilt and the pages filled oceans comprised of expired library cards The life of a sailor on these seas, like any long read - the journey was hard. if a librarian gave you a cold stare & said 'We’re closed,' a glacier appeared The core of the Earth was laughter, and every frozen basin was tears the holy way was so clear. Yet for the boy, he scouted through the clearings & flew his kite over grasslands, harnessing the wind like a cowboy of the spirits He found joy in the lyrics he discovered when he dug into the ground consuming endless amounts of magical literature when a shovel was around During a lightning storm, his kite was badly damaged, so he set up his tent While digging small holes for the beam supports, he discovered a dark gem He raised it up with a grunt; it turned out to be a heavy book made of onyx The title was 'The Book of Darkness' with ominous medieval symbols on it Thunder rumbled outside his tent. The book glowed, it started to shake After he read through the first pages, the ground parted from a horrible quake but he couldn’t take his eyes away, hundreds of pages, so enraptured by it while he was spellbound, the landscape became a series of fractured islands Angels and demons began attaching to his tent posts They acted as bookmarks, tracking his moral progression as he got close... ...to the end of the book held in his red hands, where blood clung He licked his lips, and found that he now had a forked tongue But before the scholarly Devil could fully get to the boy, his time was spent As the open book of the land suddenly shut upon his idle tent." “That’s the end of the story, my child. Please do not repeat it again. Just remember, for your own sake - Heaven is the Table of Convents. Hell is the Index, the source of all sins. I’ll try my best to raise you ‘by the book.’ This teaching is the best kind” Hamsho, petrified, pretended he was fast asleep Before Sister Greta got up to leave, she left the Bible and a kite by his bedside. Last edited by Vulgar; 10-03-2016 at 01:39 AM. |
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