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NightOne can hear the whisper of the night
A subtle sound
A guiding light
The deer’s paws as they hit the ground
Rustling leaves respond from all around
A call of nature
It expresses no danger
One can see the painting of the night
The dotted stars
The moonlight’s bright
A simple canvas, no planes, trains, or cars
Illuminating the reach of nature’s might
In the sky there’s the distant Mars
A wondrous nightscape
Not a wound or scrape
One can hear the desecration of the night
A deafening sound
The animal’s fright
Motors screech and trees are downed
One can see the destruction of the night
No one sees destruction from afar
Now no one knows the beauty of the night
Can and OughtDoes ought imply can? Does can imply ought? Well, let's look at it from an English standpoint. When someone ought to do something, they are morally obliged to. When someone can do something, it means that they are physically capable of doing something. The two words ought and can obviously have different meanings.
Can someone commit murder? Yes. Is someone ought to? Generally, no. But that depends on the system of morals used. If one follows Hammurabi's code, if the victim commits murder, it is justified under the eye for an eye principle. If one follows Christianity, then they ought not to. If according to Mark, Lisa ought to do something that is within her physical bounds, but according to Jared, she ought not do it, does ought imply can? To Mark, can implies ought, but for Jared, can implies ought not. So, does can imply ought? It depends on the circumstances.
Say a deadly and incurable disease is killing off the human population. According to a humanitarian, someone ought to develo
2020The year was 2020 and Ray knew his type of folk almost were nonexistent. Their views were deemed as obsolete and part of the Old Way. Unable to communicate in the now common dialect of English, containing very little variety in vocabulary except for the originality of the obscenities used between every other word, his kind was generally looked down upon, shunned, or worse.
This kind, once looked upon as the upper class of an educated society, has now been cast off as nonconformists. As opposed to the newer generations who seldom read except for the closed captioning on televisions, these people knew and honored the classics. They knew a Beethoven piece from a Mozart, a Da Vinci from a Michelangelo, and a piano from an organ. Sure, they viewed movies and television shows, only not as much as a New Way person. The Archaics, as they were called by the members of the new society, or Currents, lived a life that they viewed as higher quality; in that they still had the p
The Poor Man's BurdenGive away the Poor Man's Burden
For avarice is a sin
If life's a race to heaven,
Then you're letting others win
Give away the Poor Man's Burden
It's a fair trade for what they own
When you end up more than six feet under
You'll take up a different tone
Give away the Poor Man's Burden
Making them pure will do the trick
But you will discover later
Who really got the short end of the stick
Give away the Poor Man's Burden
It's a good use of your time
Their vaults for you to steal
You're not the only one who's one committing that crime
VainMarty was a vain man. He grew up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He still lives there now. His parents owned a prospering law firm and made a lot of money. His parents passed their entrepreneurial prowess to him and it shows. He is the Chief Executive Officer of his own health care company. Obviously, he has always lived the material life.
One day, as Marty got out of his limousine right in front of his office, his empty coffee cup in hand, he noticed a young girl, about 18 years old. She had mousy brown hair and hazel eyes with a green tint. She held a bucket in one hand and a sign in the other. The sign read "Millions of people die from cancer each year. You can help."
"Please sir, help find a cure." She begged as he walked by. He just chuckled and dropped his empty coffee cup in hand. The girl's hopeful smile faded and was replaced by a frown. He walked into the building as if nothing had happened.
Marty spent the rest of the day doing dull paperwork and checking up on his empl
The TripTy had an ordinary life. He had normal hopes, normal friends, and normal parents. However, once a year, his dad took a mysterious trip to who knows where. Whenever he asked his dad about the trip, his father would jump into a soliloquy about personal sanity. Ty would always think that his dad, a renowned philosopher and author, was just having an idea about his next book. This pattern would repeat for a few years until Ty was thirteen.
One summer morning, Ty was awoken by an incessant repetition of his name. "Ty, Ty, wake up!" The voice sounded familiar, so he woke up to find his dad by his bedside dressed in an unusual assortment of clothes. A pair of hiking boots, a netted hat, and a tan vest was being sported by the man who considered going to the diner a black tie formal event. "Ty, I need you to get dressed in outdoor clothes and get ready to go on a journey," his father instructed.
"Wait, what? Why? Where are we going?" Ty inquisitively replied.
"You will see when we get there."
Impaled By One's Own SwordIf a dead corpse could show emotion, Todd's would show shock. He knew that Jasmine's father despised him, but he had no idea how much. He forced his spirit to move; to view the grotesque scene that was his house. Tables overturned, glass broken, a bloodstained carpet. Worst of all, his remains looked disgusting. The dried blood all over him lead to his chest. He saw a crescent blade with a ruby hilt the color of his blood.
Todd, furious used all of his ghostly willpower to go on a long trek. Of course, he did not notice the passing time as a ghostly essence. At last, he arrived at his destination during what looked like the dead of night. There, he passed a room where he knew quite well. The handcrafted sign on the door said Jasmine. He lingered there for a moment to remember the times he had with her. He slowly crept up into the room next door. There, he saw a man, obviously asleep.
La Noche TristeI never thought that it would come to this. My soldiers, my friends, are all dead. They were killed by the Aztec savages and their satanic deities. It should have been me. For I, Hernán Cortes, the leader, the oppressor, the conquistador, have been the real mastermind behind this terrible ordeal. We obtained gold, but at what price? This sad night, this noche triste, will live in infamy forever. But how did it happen? I have to think back to the events of the day.
After a week of debate, my advisors and I had decided to leave the city of Tenochtitlan due to civil unrest. We planned to begin our journey when the city was asleep; carrying all of our gold and what we brought with us. From there, we would swim across the canals and reach safety. If only we knew what would be waiting for us.
We spent the rest of the day preparing and briefing the soldiers for the escapade.
Finally, the moment of truth had arrived. We assumed that the Aztecs were asleep because there were no people on t
Brutal HonestyLeon constantly contemplated what his life would be like if he had never lied. Would he be sitting in this small jail cell that has been his "home" for the past month? Would he have never been charged with obstruction of justice and been sentenced for two months in prison? Would he be on good terms with the bureaucrats at the district attorney's office? He tried not to dwell on what could have been; but he just could not help himself. Leon can still remember every detail of why he went to prison.
As a young boy, Leon Smitherson was not a genius or a fool. He was average except in one area of his life. He often had a knack for trouble. He never went to look for it, for his father, a prominent fine arts enthusiast, would often coin expressions. "We would be fools if we thought that we had to search for mischief" was one of his father's favorites. Instead, trouble usually found its way to Leon. When havoc occurred, Leon would cover it up with lies, lies, and more lies.
When he was in Kind
Creepypasta x Depressed!Reader - ZombieI frown looking at the small red droplets covering the bottom of the bathtub. Hearing three louds knocks on the bathroom door makes me look up from my wrist. I didn’t even hear him coming down the hall. Who am I kidding, I never hear him when it most matters.
But I hear the now, going back to the living room. I hesitate for a moment, cleaning up the tub and pulling my sleeves over the soon-to-be scars. I exit out of the bathroom, cigarette smoke instantly filling my lungs, making me want to tear my skin off and cough so bad that it makes throat ache. But I can’t. He is already standing there, eyes narrowed, making his face look much older than it actually should. I walk up slowly, aggravating him more.
He probably wouldn’t have been this angry if Vanilla was here.
She had left a few weeks ago, all while killing our mother. She was just abusive as our father, maybe worse. The police were called before she could get to our d
Eren Yeager x Reader One-Shot: His Hero
Being forced into training after being attacked by the Colossal Titan has caused all Hell to be released into Wall Maria and threatens all inhabitants of Wall Rose. It's only been two years since you, Eren, Mikasa, and Armin were pushed in the Trainee Corps. Just being there the first day was harsh enough to drive people to their limits, sending them back into the fields to work hard labor. The sincere intimidation from Keith Shadis had shown the wretched truth as to why some people had signed up in the Trainee Corps in the first place. It made you sick to see that people joined only to live in the luxury of the Military Police Brigade where none of them had to face the horrific creatures known as Titans. You, on the other hand, were planning to join the Survey Corps where you would be serving a purpose; whether it meant you would lose your life the next day.
"WHAT'S YOUR NAME, MAGGOT?!" Keith continued on with intimidating the Trainees as he w
UnableEmily leapt out of the car as soon as it was stopped and her fidgety hands could undo the seat belt, she excitedly ran straight over the lush green verge and into the pebble-dashed sand. Falling to her knees she clamped her hands around fistfuls of the warm little stones and threw them, delighted, into the air. The beach! Emily loved the beach, she had loved it her whole life. It was her second favourite place to be (after her pillow fort with Jennie, her polar bear teddy).
Emily’s Dad scooped her up off of the sand and held her upside down, making her shriek with laughter. He scolded her for running off but she knew that he was as happy as she was to be back at the seaside, so she laughed until he put her down again for wriggling too much.
Right way up again Emily scampered up and down the golden sweep of beach front looking for the absolute perfect place to watch the tumbledown waves of water. Emily knew her
Illustration by :
When I was younger I had many imaginary friends. Short ones, tall ones, some looked like cats or dogs, but none of them could compared to Mr. Thing. Mr. Thing, when I was younger, was a cute little teddy bear my mother had given me when I was three. Despite my imaginary friends he was all to real, cuddling me at night and keeping me company during the day. I carried him everywhere, and had refused to go anywhere without him up till the age of seven. Though even after I had stopped taking him everywhere I had still carried him around the house as if he were able to save me from dangers.
I had explained to him that I didn't want to take him to school anymore because he'd get dirty, and of course he had understood. Patiently waiting for me to return home to play with him. When I would come home he was the first thing I went to; where he would then sit, and help me with
WonderlandThe woman called Alice walks alone through the hollow streets, a seed planted in her sterile heart and a rifle sleeping in her belt. Last night, she'd witnessed the popping of Pérignon, and a dazzling display of fireworks, complete with alcohol-polished emotions and hundreds of thousands of citizens pulsing rowdy fanfare. She'd netted her highest number of kills that fateful day. Blood still rests in the creases of her palms.
A streetlamp greets her brightly with its mild glow, and alerts her to a dirty and disheveled homeless man groveling for money on the other side of the street. The young couple next to him give a feeble attempt to back away, claiming they have none to spare.
"Lies," Alice whispers. She can easily see the pearls jingling from the lady's neck, and a well-crisped suit guarding the young man from the night chill. Money is more than expendable to them. And this city could do without this attractive mask of a couple. They, too, are expendable. Alice begins t
Suicide and RebirthI stumbled upon a beautiful girl who was listening to loud music. I asked her,
"What kind of music do you listen to?"
She took out one earbud from her ear and replied,
"I listen to many things, sir."
"Like what?" I ask with curiosity.
"I listen to the breeze of the wind and the sound of the rain slamming on the roof during the stormiest of nights. I listen to the laughter of children when they play on the playground. I listen to the humming of the birds and the buzzing of the bees." She says.
"What beautiful things to listen to." I smile. "Do you listen to anything else?"
She smiles. "I'm glad you've taken an interest to my taste of music." She continues. "I listen to the pecking of woodpeckers and the howling of the wolf."
"The heart has its own song as well, sir. Do you hear it?" She asks in a tender voice.
"I do not." I say. "What does your heart sing of?"
"My heart sings of the rattling chains coiled around it, constricting it tighter and tighter as life drags on. It
Water Runs in My Veins I break the surface and feel the waves embrace my into their icy, yet soothing arms. Once I am completely immersed, every inch of my skin tingles. My bones seem to melt to match the temperature of the water, and my movements become fluid. I deftly plunge deeper, feeling both the cold and the warmth rush past me with every stroke. The pulse of the ocean beats against my skin; it is alive. I open my eyes to take in the scene. I can't see clearly, the images are blurred. Still, I can make out soft hues of color. I reach out and feel the hard, smooth surface of a rock, resting amongst others. I feel a rigid plant, and my hand even grazes the backs of a couple of slimy fish. With each connection made by my senses, I feel a rush of adrenaline. I am truly unlimited when I'm under the sea; my fears have been washed away by the white waves.
Growing excited, I continue to venture deeper into the dark depths. Soon, I feel wisps of seaweed brush up against me, tickling
23. Befriend Me - Jake English x Reader
It was you 17th birthday, you didn’t want to do anything with your friends this year, for one they were all busy and didn’t really have time to go. You didn’t fret though. Your parents promised you that you would get to go on a special trip, just the three of you. You arrived at the campground, the forest trees a dark shade of green, and the sky, a beautiful shade of blue, not a cloud in sight. You all set up your tents, your parents are giving you space, so the tents are spread quite far apart.
You stepped out of your finished tent and looked around, there were other families in the area as well, most with younger children than yourself. You told your parents you were going to check out the forest for a bit, they replied with their favorite line “Be Careful.” You walked slowly taking in the scenery, until you bumped into a taller looking boy.
“Ow… I’m so sorry!” You said softly.
“It’s quite alright dear.” He look
The Bowie Knife "What are you going to do, kill me? I'd like to see you try, Thomas!" Spat a bald man, obviously toughened up judging by the scar on his face that went with his bald scalp.
"That is my intent, Joseph!" Thomas sneered back with equal ferocity.
"Okay." Joseph put his hand behind his back and pulled out a pistol. "This should be interesting to watch. You don't even have a gun, only a silly little knife."
"This silly little knife has killed more people than you can imagine. It represents more than you and your pathetic gun can ever comprehend."
"Fine. Enlighten me. Show me the glory of your old decrepit Bowie Knife." Joseph challenged.
"This knife represents courage." Thomas explained as he was transported to twenty years earlier. He remembered meeting the abusive husband of the woman h
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More