write article

Writing Articles

Sort by:   Most Recent | Top Rated
Filter by: 
Showing writing articles (1-3 of 2808)
< Previous   |  Next »
Fan fiction by floraisbest1 posted 13 hours ago
fan of it?
tecna: i love all my gadgets, but i enjoy nature as well
bloom: i totally tecna
stella: ugh all this humidity is making my hair frizzy
bloom: stella!
stella: huh oh yeah i loved sophix powers the outfits were amazing and i loved our bond with nature
tecna: when i think about when we had the sophix
bloom: makes me jelous of floraand just wish
stella: that i had the nature power
timmy: whoah, did you girls just finish eachother's sentece together
brandon: or did you mean totally difrent things
tecna: i was going to say what they said
bloom: same thing
sky: amazing
stella: guys watch out the tree is going to fall
(everone runs to a clear and safe spot)
sky: TIMBER!!
bloom: girls do see that
stella: yup
tecna: i cant belive it
the boys: whoah!!
flora: wha... why... diana... she just, i dont understand?
Fan fiction by floraisbest1 posted 15 hours ago
fan of it?
Ms. Farogonda asked for the winx to come down to her office. when the winx reached ms. farogonda's office she told them that diana wants to speak wth one of you. she didnt tell me who but she told me to pick two extras. ms. farogonda can i go, bloom asked her. flora will be going along with musa and aisha ms farogonda told them. hmph bloom pouted, can we at least go with them bloom said quikly. fine all of you girls can go and im bringing the specialist. ok stella said in a sing song voice. lets go said the winx. they met the RF boys outside and went in the owl. winx: WINX BELIEVIX
flora: let's get going
aisha: see ya winx
bloom: meet back here in an hour k
ok bloom musa said
( diana appears in front of them)
GUARDS take them away
(to be continued)
Opinion by tamore posted 9 days ago
fan of it?
2 fans
The pen is mightier than the sword. Writing is more effective than violence.

Words are all I have but the more metaphors you make the less they mean. I stopped believing them; they're as empty as me. My swan song has sputtered and died, and somehow it wasn't enough. I've never been enough. This gaping hole in my chest is still swallowing me whole. Not enough, never enough.

It didn't save Hemingway, after all. No amount of soul on paper could keep that shotgun off his temple. No amount of desperate scribble banished his demons.

I think I knew how he felt, sitting with the gun in his hands his last few moments. I think I knew how he felt, weak and collapsing. Everything in vain, because the problem was in his veins.

At the end of the day, it's your heart or your head that's polluting you and you can't kill those toxins without killing yourself. Blow out your brains, stop your heart. Channel your frustration into writing all you want, but the poison is never-ending. It owns you, consumes you, slowly drowns you.