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My Little Creepypasta pt1.My Little Creepypasta
It was a cloudless autumn night. The stars shone brightly, clearly defined in the dark sky above Ponyville as midnight drew ever nearer.
The town itself was quiet. Most of its population was already asleep, except for those unlucky enough to have to work the late shift. Two bakers, husband and wife, were putting the finishing touches to a large order that had to be shipped to Canterlot early the next morning.
Apart from that, everypony had retired to bed the only other lights in town were coming from the lower windows of Twilight Sparkle's library, where she was hosting her second ever slumber party with her five closest friends.
They were giggling at the expense of Rainbow Dash, who had fallen prey to one of Rarity's famous makeovers her colourful hair had been styled into bangs and she was wearing a frilly white dress.
"Ugh! I don't see why you had to dress me up like this," she snorted.
"Sorry Rainbow, but we have to stick to the rul
My Little Creepypasta pt3.My Little Creepypasta
"Come on then, Pinkie. Let's hear this super scary story of yours," said Rainbow Dash, with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
The pink pony grinned: "Alright! Here we go!"
It was a beautiful sunny day in Equestria and Rainbow Dash was still alive.
She loved being alive, because it meant she could do loads of really neat tricks like that one where she zips really close to the ground then POW! she zooms right up again, or that one where she spins round and round and goes wee-ooh wee-ooh wee-ooh.
She had a fun morning practising her skills, then remembered she was supposed to be meeting her bestest buddy Pinkie Pie that afternoon. So she flew off into Ponyville, where the pink pony was waiting for her outside Sugarcube Corner.
"Dashie! You made it! Yay!" she squealed, joyously bouncing into the air, "Oh, we're gonna have so much fun today! I've got the oven ready and I've brought all of my equipment up from the cellar."
Rainbow Dash was a little
Blood BrothersBrookie always holds my hand when we cross the street. She's never given a reason for it, she just does it. It's become this unspoken rule with us that whenever we cross the street together, she slips her hand in mine and I lace my fingers through hers and we walk hand-in-hand until we reach the other side and she drops her hand and we both wipe our palms on our jeans. Brookie's a little scared of crossing the street. Her poppa died in a car crash when we were six. He was a pedestrian. She's never gotten over it.
Brookie is my best friend going on sixteen years now, which is pretty impressive considering we're both sixteen. We don't have some cute little story about how we were born in the same hospital on the same day or about how our mothers were best friends long before they were pregnant with us and somehow passed on that bond while we were still in utero. No, Brookie and I met the same way ever
Life is but a DreamWe are just unnourished frail bodies,
overfed with white lies and short-lived-euphorias.
Books filled with black letters,
etching lurid images into our utmost dreams.
Veering us from the big picture...
the one we fail to paint ourselves.
Our fists much too busy with fights,
that we are bound to lose.
Too occupied in line waiting,
for creativity to be let loose like a stray dog.
As if we will find home in this pursuit of happiness...
but we only enclose each other in small rooms
with nothing but old laptops.
How many times I've guessed which letter could it be...
Which letter could it be?
To free us from havoc-stricken-thoughts?
They come and go, unending like 24 hour subway stations.
There's no break for this lonely man,
heaving every breathe of stale air
into my overused lungs...
Living in confined walls of flesh
held up with brittle paper-mache bones.
Which day is it that I will burst out from this cage of a life?
And hover with the Gods found in carefully binded bo
MercyOh sweet God how the grassland
ignites in moonlight tonight
I must thank you for creating
her tangled fingers' slow pace
through the handsome rain Her
trochaic kinesthesia to rhythms
in Stravinsky's The Rite of
Spring Is this how you meant
for us to love you Yahweh
Tumbling clumsily down hills
of sheets into perpetually
immutable silence I could love
you like that I think I've been
practicing on this Savanna
for days and months Lost in
her crystal canvas Rolling crests
and troughs And when she touches
me Oh fair Lord I'm dragged into
your city past Gethsemane's
pulsing green and gold
Please hold us together
under this luminous stretch
Oh Father We are live
unclothed Our reflections awash
with the skin of your sun
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A two-time Community Volunteer for the deviantART Related category, Anne is well-known as a positive, helpful force. She is the community's resident expert when it comes to CSS (Cascading Style Sheets), and her personal gallery offers a wide variety of tutorials for new and experienced coders alike. In addition, each winter she hosts a calendar project encouraging members to create Journal designs for all to use, bringing more creativity to the community.
It is with immense gratitude that we acknowledge Anne as the recipient of the Deviousness Award for October 2014. Read More