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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
Poor PatThere once was a man called Pat,
Who was rather fat.
He had a cat,
And it slept on the mat,
But died because
Pat had not bought GabriaXorp's latest product, "CatSaver" (© 20&&) which resulted in the cat's untimely death. Don't be like Pat. Save your cat. Buy GabriaXorp's latest pet-orientated resurrection machine, "Cat Saver". It is completely safe!*
*The cybernetic supplements used in the ressurection process may malfunction and result in the cat's eventual evolution into a pyramid-headed three eyed god occurring a lot faster than your feeble human mind can cope with.
I call it passion. My mother brings me a soother, incased in a miniscule pearl pink circle.
As she walks into my room she hears a few verses of the spoken poetry titled "My thighs":
Sheepishly she asks me to refrain from watching anything that may cause' disturbance to my character.
Spark me off because for her and for many my body is constantly dripping, buttery with gasoline.
A supposed 'defect' that has caused many to label me as "Bitch" because unlike many ladylike girls I don't zip my lips.
In fact any jagged zipper teeth that may protrude from my plump lips have rusted, the zipper itself is broken.
She doesn't understand why I rage against subjects that shouldn't bother my ideal, pubescent mind.
To stop calling my brother "homophobic" because the word faggot rolls down from the tip of his tongue
with stomach-tightening ease.
(but she doesn't tell him to be quiet).
When I tell her I am a feminist she tells me to do my re
Steal their voices
In this dead
City you rule
With unfair laws.
Living on the floor
Begging for food
We only received
An empty dish.
Smiling you are
In our misery
You bring corruption
To all that you
We need someone
To free us from you
But your evilness
Will hide the sun.
The pen is mightier...You may have every firearm in the world.
With every bullet carved and flags unfurled.
But It is by words that true fights are made.
It is by the pen that new stones are laid.
You may wield a sword sharpest of blade.
With daggers many and soldiers stayed.
But it is by the words read that worlds are torn
It is by ink and quill that revolutions are born.
You may kill and ravage the land.
Steal from the many to keep in your hand.
But by the writer's craft you shall be forgotten.
With treasures forfeit and powers fallen.
Never doubt the power of the writer's craft.
For it is by our hands that the world is draft.
Should you forget this simple truth.
The world will rot by ignorant youth.
Remember this simple cord:
The pen is mightier than the sword.
The ResistanceConfined their eyes
To the darkest place
A world where
The justice has died.
Has been declined
And the screams
Are just wind.
Change the history
They won’t have
To lead us
We will burn
Around the world
Smother the law
With your protest
Create a new age.
The stolen freedom
Replaced with fear.
You can pull
Down the fate
Soon the sun
Algorithm - *For GazaThe world ends where the world begins
Infinite loop of insanity
Moment is the hope
And yet go back to one
1492 SUGAR DADDYColumbus is famous because
he thought the earth was smaller
than Venus, and he didn’t know
that America existed,
and after he found it, he still thought
it was Cippangu, off the coast of Cathay.
Father of Our Times!
History’s Great Dumbass!
Certain PeopleCertain People
wonder why I get so passionate
about things like
yet those same people want to call
certain American programs akin to communism,
don't they know the difference
between communism and socialism?
didn't Jesus go out of his way to help
the poor, the sick, the handicapped?
didn't Jesus say
help your brother as if he
were your own family?
where's the compassion in this world today?
where's the kindness that's needed?
where's the love that's wanted?
where's the wisdom that Jesus taught?
and where's the common sense that we need within our lives?
does someone need to show that reflection
of what we are,,.
instead of what we pretend to be?
or does the truth need to slap us in the face
to make us realize that we're only wearing masks
within the real world
and think about
what's really needed
Glorify the ProfaneSet it up as "art," parade it proudly.
Make your campaign to remove it's "stigma."
Take your shame and replace it with pride.
But don't blame me when they mock you in the streets.
Take the disgusting, pretend it's beautiful,
Dance around your perverse cardboard kingdom.
Force us all to accept your twisted lies,
All in the "truth" of your mocking "tolerance."
Throw your vulgarities across the wall,
Shout your obscenities at the top of your lungs.
Be awful, and suppress anyone who disagrees.
After all, you fight for freedom - to be the oppressors.
Write your gibberish and call it poetry.
Pen your drudgery and say it's a masterpiece.
Give me the old art, the old poets, the old writers.
Deliver me from the founts of depravity.
Don't let beauty or art inspire what you make,
Follow your slavers - decadence, perversity, hedonism
Beauty and truth shine brighter than your corruption.
Quick, smother the truth, and no one will find it!
Don't call what you make art, or poetry.
Take care in your wo
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
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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