Hullo, you! <3

Hm. I'm just here to say hello, and to wonder how you are. It's been a while since I've talked to many of you, and I know I have a whole lot of lurking watchers. Talk to me! I don't bite (most of the time). I  miss you guys.

Tell me something about yourself. Link me to your favorite deviation (or one of your own and one of someone else's). Link me a secret. Give me an emoticon!

In the mean time, I'm going to feature the first ten people who comment on this journal! So go, go, go!

I got the idea from *SkysongMA, so here are hers:
TW4--Legacy The moon grew fat too soon. Had Sokka and Toph really been home for almost a month? It felt like hours. But they couldn't risk delaying any longer. AS Sokka had predicted, the intermittent attacks by the Fire Nation ground to a halt as the waterbenders defending the city heard the call of the moon. This was the best chance to return to the Earth Kingdom they would get.

And Sokka still hadn't told Katara about him and Toph! Toph had threatened to do it herself, but both of them knew she didn't mean it. Toph loved Katara, but this was a delicate matter, and Toph was about as delicate as a stampeding komodo rhino.

Sokka bent down over his pack

More features!

and above the ten of you I will feature, there are a few things worth looking at:

bloody bedsheets and bloodless knuckles she is a rhythmic gasp
sighing softly through the years

    aah – hh

    hh

    hhh

in the beginning:

hope

a blooming flower, soft-
petaled, a white
maidenhead,

  no, daddy, no daddy no daddy please

    aah – hh

    hh

    hhh

she sports
the baggy sweaters of a boy
and the dark eye-circles
of a ghost

the legs of papa's little marionette
twisted in blankets;
her arms twisted like rope.

she clutches herself at night and prays he is sober,
spends the days getting grabbed by boys
and the evenings with thrusts and bruises

fair-haired and pretty-lipped

she sports
the curves of a woman
and the staring eyes - easily one of the most powerful things I've read in a while.

let's go to mexico. i stare into my pasta. why did i make this shit? it's not like anyone's going to actually eat this. it's like a lump of glue after the horse is killed or whatever it is that they do with the poor things. i stab a mysterious looking glob of possibly shit that is supposed to be a meatball and flick my fork. the glob of brown goes flying and hits the flat screen with a splat. i sigh and drop my face down onto the table. my hair is in the pasta but i don't care. no one's looking. no one ever looks.

"uhm," a male voice says. clears throat. "excuse me...person. but what the fuck are you doing? that's food, not some moisturizing kit."

"it isn't fo :thumb277155101: Too Big for the Cradle, Too Young for the Grave They say I've grown too big for the cradle.
That my legs hang out like stubborn weeds
and my hair spills across the border like a
weeping willow.

But that's just my body- that clambering,
clumsy enclosure that's far too large for my childish soul.
My self rattles within the hollow flesh,
desiring a tighter cocoon- not this awkward fit
that's far too big and still growing.

I need the cradle, for I cry in large crowds and
rush into my mother's bosom or
under the table where everything is supposed to be
invisible.

They say I've grown too young for the grave.
That I can't count enough wrinkles for the dirt to
fill comfortably and Lady Depression I am getting fat and complacent.
I sup on the riches of your labour and
spit the bones back in your face.

You are not worthy of anything.

You are a fly buzzing in my ear,
neither here nor there.

I can fell you with one slap,
end you with one loud clap
of my hands together and you fall,
like a marionette puppet whose
strings have been cut.

Pitiful thing.
You are easily killed.

I think I'll play with you a little more.