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Homestuck Episode 1- TV scriptTEASER
INT. JOHN’S HOUSE - STUDY – EVENING
The study has a desk in one corner and a piano in the
other. A large safe is in the corner opposite the door.
There is a hat-stand next to the desk, and a tobacco pipe
on the desk. JOHN (13), a black-haired boy, sits at the
piano and adjusts his square-rimmed GLASSES. He begins to
play SHOWTIME (Piano Refrain).
My name is John Egbert. My
favorite movies are Ghostbusters
and Con Air; I like stage magic
and computer games. I want to
carry on my family’s legacy of
cunning practical jokes, but I’m
not too clever yet. Hopefully I’ll
get there someday.
Images of puffy white CLOUDS moving in a BLUE SKY are
overlaid with the shot of John and the piano. They seem
to be moving quickly, even though they cross the screen
It’s my thirteenth birthday
tomorrow, and just like on all
my other birthdays, it feels
like something is missing from
my life. The streets feel empty,
CascadeEdmond checked the street address with the GPS one more time– 3, rue Jean Jaurès, 93170 Bagnolet– and got out of the car. Carefully, and with practiced ease, he walked through the door, tipped his hat to the receptionist, and walked up to the third floor. He walked down the hallway until he saw the number he was looking for on his right. Three brief raps on the door, followed by a sharp “Police, open up!”
A few seconds later, the door opened to a girl grinning warmly, twenty like he was, with a loosely kempt bob-cut framing her rounded face. She smirked, standing on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.
“Bonsoir, Edmond. And look at you! You’re not even in uniform. Ca va?” she asked before bouncing back inside, leaving the door open behind her. He followed her in, silently taking note of the new locations of old items.
“Ca va. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Pénélope. I like the new room. More space
StagnationMy mind has been molasses as of late;
concepts to which I sped like mercury
escape my understanding, so I wait
and in the meantime sleep quite steadily.
Concepts to which I sped like mercury
move at their normal speeds as I delay
and, in the meantime, sleep quite steadily;
I am no more quicksilver in my way.
Move at your normal speed as I delay;
escape my understanding as I wait.
I am no more quicksilver in my way;
my mind has been molasses as of late.
Three trees: translationThree trees
by Gabriela Mistral, translation by Ryan Yates
Three felled trees
lay still by the wayside of the trail.
The woodsman had forgotten them, and they commune,
entangled with love, like three blind men.
The setting sun pours
its lifeblood into the wounded logs
–and the winds, they carry the fragrance
of its opened side!
One, twisted, extends
its immense arm of trembling foliage
toward another, and its wounds
like wide eyes cry, brimming with anguish.
The woodsman had forgotten them. The night
still comes. I will be with them.
I will receive in my heart their dying
resins. They will ignite me as would fire.
–And muted and blinded,
the sunrise will find us in a mound of pain!
por Gabriela Mistral
Tres árboles caídos
quedaron a la orilla del sendero.
El leñador los olvidó, y conversan,
apretados de amor, como tres ciegos.
El sol de ocaso pone
su sangre viva en los hendidos leños
¡y se llevan los
AboveThe words with which you once disparaged me
were swords which sliced at my soles
They made every step feel like falling
But now your weapons are grass in November
their glittering blades
like clouds beneath my feet
Every step feels like flying
TempleDaily we crack
our joints free of rust
built up from yesterday’s wear—
this daydream wears me
down to bone, when
I’ve no shelter
myself a tower
out of royal blue and silver, spun
and soldered at the seams
with the mists of dreams
flowing freely where they’re woven
like the waters from the
stream of my
Pompton LakesHow am I to know if I am sick?
My heart beats quickly
at the thought
of how they strictly
said we ought not
to swim in lakes or rivers when I was five.
A comedy of errors, so to speak; rather,
a leak in the disposal
of a sediment they owned
The traces in the rocks
we somewhat mocked.
When we took stock and told the story,
we chalked it up to silly worry—
Now that we know the score,
my hometown sued for reparations
for the traces in foundations
and the cleanup’s still not done.
the river from our park
and the lake from common use.
no lives– thank higher powers– but that’s still not an excuse.
I’m not sick.
But to be strict, I’m lucky I’m alive.
And when I was five?
How was I to know?
our highwaysthat day we walked along the freeway
cars rushed past
and blew your hair in circles
cars rushed past in mile-long arteries
blew our minds in circles
and we both were blushing
minds rushing in circles
we had trouble breathing
as we tried to talk
we were out of breath
yelling as we talked
over the rush of blood
yelling to each other
over the wind in our ears
but we couldn’t hear,
the noise in our ears was
louder than our voices
so we leaned in closer
louder than our voices
as we leaned in closer
rubbed our cheeks together
as we leaned in closer
rubbed our cheeks together
neared the intersection
and a moment just after
the lights turned red when
All in a Day's Work1.
Jaime coughed, leaned out the window of the tenement into the brisk morning air, and spat down to the grass below. He had been recovering from a mild bout of cold since their meeting with Callahan several days prior, and these actions had been frequent over the course of the last few days, though they were now growing less frequent. The bottom of Nat's eye twitched up for a second in its equivalent of a grimace.
“I know you're not feeling well, but there are rooms for that. I'm not going to deal with the situation if you spit on someone's head by accident.”
“You told me that already, Nat,” the Nidoran replied, rolling his eyes. “I'm feeling better today, though.”
“That's good to hear.” Jaime had long ago stopped asking Nat how it was, because although Nat appreciated the formal demonstration of concern, it deemed it unnecessary in most scenarios. Its circuitry hardly failed, and its charging schedule was completely regular, much unlike
Social Scale.Nothing should ever feel guilty
about the way it breaths;
heaving hearts pressure lungs
to fall to their knees.
But what does it matter?
The hierarchy shows that we are
put in our place,
now it is time to face
our fears with dignity
and to fight for our right
to be free.
Words as swordsWords,
they are the swords
no one does see.
They appear so harmless,
yet they can become
the writer's greatest strength.
With symbols as easy as letters,
writers are capable
to breathe life into these
white, dead sheets of paper.
that once were in their imagination
become so real,
And once the reader was free
writers can climb to their minds
like their words are soldiers
holding close their readers.
they are the swords
of the mind.
Jesus Was a GingerJesus was a ginger and he lived in Galway Bay
he had some magick freckles and a love of Guinness Stout
Ma lived in the Village Knock
where she knit him woollen sweaters
everything was fine and dandy
until one day the Bankers came
when they told a sterling lie
that bled dear Ireland dry
so Jesus went to the hardware shop
where he meant to buy a whip
but when he did he left in shame
for he couldn’t foot the cost of tine
I hear he moved to Boston
Another Quick Poem.People often ask me if I’m mad or insane,
If I think this just some sort of crazy game,
A trial and Error fit for a king,
Acting like this is just a crazy fling,
Treating it like our love is worth nothing,
But let me tell you this,
For it be true,
Our love is real,
And it is only between me,And you.
A World That Lost it's GreenOceans crawl back to regain their turf.
We all predicted a land devoured by the surf.
And all the islands that are drowning all scream.
In a world that lost its green.
All life dragged off. Out by the waves.
The omega for the profit we crave.
A science that one chooses to believe.
Is one that houses dangers to which we stay naive.
When we face mortality down on our knees.
When humanity's sun falls into the sea.
It will be far too late to grieve.
In a blanket of algae.
We are given technology for the future's page.
Yet insist on choice fuel from the industrial age.
Choking in a cloud of certain death.
One by one we use up our last clean breaths.
Is M.A.D. what gives it it's worth?
A fitting grave for all of the earth.
Is it possible to live life fully free?
In a world that lost it's green.
With every progress
It is harder to read
I will forget crimes
You saved on my hard drive
I will forget culture
You saved as files
I am not more secure
Than papers or stones
Books do not need electricity,
electricity needs no culture -
only a comfort that stings itself.
Unnamed wolfUnnamed wolf
There is a dark
in the forest.
mercy. No sanctuary.
X's and Y'scomes down to the forty-sixth
I've got oaken leaves on the ashen strips
and they can't tell by looking in my eyes
there's nothing wrong with a simple life
based on anything else in the first forty five
but that's not what they want to hear me say
we could chat here for hours
about Halo or flowers
and there's no shame in liking them both
but at some point you'd ask me
to answer the question
so you could tell me which was wrong
I retreat to a world
made of crystal and pearl
with the beautiful boys
and the beautiful girls
so that I can be friends
with whoever I want
make a life for myself
based on what's in my thoughts
and can cry
at the near-perfect world
where the people are nice
and the morals are closer
to black and to white
it's a mess– pretty, though
and nature and harmony are king
but on earth I'm content
to hold ashes of oak
and of juniper
and hope that no one will ask
and hope that in October
the sixth, the forty-sixth
won't become a crude joke
about X's and Y's
a dangerous hallucinationThe light coming through the window was bright,
much too bright.
Even though my eyes were closed
I could see it-
The skin of my arms prickled,
sweat dripped from my brow.
It was two in the afternoon but…
the sun was setting
through the window facing east.
I should have seen the hutch,
shelves lined with bone china
decorated with delicate leaves and vines.
I was so thirsty
and reaching for cups that should have been there.
Instead I found a billboard of butterflies,
the colors raging
more than any rainbow
I'd ever seen.
Their wings fluttered and flashed
yet somehow they moved in slow motion.
I wanted to stand,
wanted to reach out and touch them but…
I couldn't move,
and yet I laughed
ignoring my dry mouth
and the tingling in my feet.
There was a tempest
on the rise
and in my blood.
A sugar rush disguised
as a riot of butterflies
and they were swarming me.
There was a small vial
of insulin in my pocket
that I nev
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