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The Ode to BoyI was in the park one day, with my Bat and Camera,
and I notice a boy with a weird diorama.
I approached the boy: filled with shame
And I say to the boy,
"What is your name?"
The boy looks up with tears, and says very sadly,
"Hi mister, my name is Bradley."
His box was ruined, covered in sand,
So I tell the boy,
"Your box, I don't understand."
The boy looked down at his box,
and more tears flowed down
Hitting the sand that covered the town. (His diorama is a town)
I asked him who did this, and he pointed away,
to 2 girls frolicking away.
I soon take action,
"Wait right here,
I'll make the flee out of fear."
I run at the girls, feelings aside.
I swing my bat, and missed their hide.
They dodged at the last second,
and for mercy they beckoned.
I yell "SHUT UP!"
those filthy whores
They won't know what hit 'em
When I SHUT THEIR DOOR!(
My First Fanfiction in The Works: UntitledF a n f i c t i o n
Hi! My name is Frank Johnston. Two days ago, my 15th birthday passed. All is good, all is well. Except for of course the fact that soon I'm going to be on the road to Japan. Traveling by plane to Okinawa, then traveling on foot to Kitakyushu City.
"Frank! It's time to eat! Get down here!"
That was my mother. Morgan Johnston. I suppose now, she'll return to her maiden name; Yuuki. Morgan Yuuki in the house everybody.
"FRANK! I SAID GET DOWN HERE NOW! IT'S ALMOST TIME TO GO!"
I suppose I could get introductions out of the way before my mom gets too ticked. So I am half Japanese, half American. My parents got divorced less than a week ago, and now they're going their separate ways. Why? Why so close to my birthday? They were so mad at each other that they couldn't at least wait until my birthday was over to break the news? Now I'm going to be separated from my father, Nick, and my sister Rolily. Rolily will be staying here with my dad in America. W
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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