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About Literature / Hobbyist Daniel RedfordMale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
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Literature
Devil (2010) Review
There seems to be, as of late, a renewed interest in making films involving the devil. Whether people are being possessed by him, as shown in the less-said-about-it-the-better rubbish of The Devil Inside, or the devil disguising himself as a face in a crowd, which is the focus of the claustrophobic horror/thriller Devil. (On a side-note, could they not have come up with a catchier title? Like The Elevator To Hell, or One of These Things is Not Like the Other? Just saying.) Clocking in with a running time of 80 minutes, the action very rarely lets up once it gets going, but even then it doesn't really deliver on the frights.
With a story by M. Night Shyamalan, a man that can rarely make a decent movie these days, enhanced with a script written by Brian Nelson of 30 Days of Night and Hard Candy fame, you would be well within your rights to question whether the simple story of five people trapped in an elevator wherein one of them is the Devil inc
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Literature
'Brief Candle' - Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
The Night They Came
The night they came for the cultural elite the air was filled with the laughing, cheering and joyous singing of those assembled in Lord Wentworth's mansion on the outskirts of a humble town. The large forest that surrounded the mansion was dense, thick and dark. A film of fog slithered amongst the gnarled trees and dirty-brown, Autumnal leaves. Such a forest as this, undoubtedly, led to many stories being told in hushed whispers. Tales of lurking monsters, crazed people and creatures of unknown, otherworldly origins populating the darkest regions of the forest were rampant. The stories always had travellers attacked, mutilated and killed during night-time treks down the road that connected their part of the world to the rest of humanity.
Many of the people that had gathered for the New Years Ball at Lord Wentworth's mansion had been raised upon those stories and, while they believed that these creatures of malice and cruel intent were just
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Literature
I Killed Christopher Marlowe
     I killed Christopher Marlowe. My job was to kill people at the behest of the more powerful figures who have deep pockets and immense personal wealth. It is an art; a deadly art that takes years of practice, determination, confidence and a mild amount of luck to survive doing it for as long as I had up to this point. While I was not tied down to one individual person or group of people, I did prefer to work with the same people as those that would pay good money to end some poor soul's life are, most likely, to not blink twice at offing an assassin to save themselves their blood money. Having a sense of familiarity with someone of that persuasion does get rid of some of the paranoia; some, but not all.
     Before being charged with the task of killing Christopher Marlowe, I had only worked two prior jobs for the Council. The first job I ever worked was, coincidentally, the first of the two. It was rather easy; the mark was a lowlife pedaller of women
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Literature
The Painted Painter Paints
Down a poor street in the poorest part of town, an artist stands in the middle of a poor, dusty office space she had stumbled across one drunken night. The outside was rather unassuming; the inside even more so, yet to her it was home, a place for her mind to be open and free. Well, that would be true if she could get into the zone once again. Her mind shoots back to her first day at Art School. She remembers walking into her class for the first time and seeing a neat row of pristine easels and clear, inviting canvases. Behind all but one stood fellow artists, smiles aplenty and excitement abound. She took her place at the rear of the class, put one of her earphones in as she tried to calm the first-day jitters she wish she never had.
"Good morning" said a skinny, almost frail-looking man who must have been in his late thirties yet dressed and moved in a way that belied his age. His general appearance was rather plain and ordinary but she could see, judging by his waistcoat, fob-watch
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Literature
Take This Lead
Don't talk, just dance.
Your brown hair floats,
Your smile illuminates
And your hands,
Your silken, smooth hands,
Touch with unrivalled feeling.
Our waltz should persist
For it is real and true
And so full of love and lust
That the floor is just for us,
Lovers of fanciful art
And visions of brand new worlds
That are just ours.
The pace quickens and you sink,
Sink into me and I into you,
Wilfully and gracefully intertwined
Our dance dances on.
Spins and turns and smiles
Are all we now know;
You, me and our centre-stage waltz.
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Literature
Moment Such as it Was.
A moment, a glance,
Hooked and addicted,
Possessed and dreaming of a face –
A beautiful face –
Such as that of my lady,
My fleeting moment princess.
Few words were audible,
Thousands more whispered by sight
And stance and posture open
With smiles and loose hands.
Signs point to attraction
Whilst brain disbelieves that assertion
Of instant connection.
But yet I wonder how poetic,
How beautiful simple in form
Such a love- if that this be -
Truly can be with so little knowledge
Of paths travelled
And rocky waters bridged over.
Alas, my brain does think feverishly –
To bed, I retire,
Your countenance my drifting wish.
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Literature
Mister Fly, pt.2
Hello again, Mister Fly,
Why are we here?
Pray tell for I see no troubles
Upon your minute brow!
Dearest Mister Fly
Is it really that bad?
You come and you go,
You fly solo, so tell me
Why you're feeling so low?
Is that it, Mister Fly?
Is that all that bothers?
My dearest, Mister Fly,
You have no just cause!
You see, Mister Fly,
I can see with my eye
You just need a friend!
To have and to hold,
To marvel and behold,
To raise you up sky high!
Mister Fly, you are lucky
To have wings and can fly.
You can be here or be there
Or resting soundly anywhere
Yet here you perch,
Forlorn and quite numb!
Mister Fly, don't you see?
Everything you need
Is set before thee?
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Literature
Man - the Necro
Naked she lay,
Alluring, enticing,
Beguiling masculinity to rise
At attention and ready
To consummate her wedding.
The groom is gone,
Bereft of life by my hands,
Just like this image,
This vision of Heaven mortalised
As a fine, young woman
With golden hair and light complexion.
Ne'er more beautiful did she look
In any hour,
In any moment of existence
Than she does here and now
In death and darkness.
The weapon that slew drops and clangs
Upon the cold, marble floor.
Locks upon the door
Keep this infidelity secret,
Hidden from ignorant eyes
Of those mongrel, bastard people
That do not know of my love and life
With she who should have –
And forever now shall be –
My eternal, happy, serene
Dead wife.
I pray God keep her warm,
Nimble and spry,
For now consummation
Shall I delightfully try.
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Literature
My Land
The edge of my land,
Trainquil and serene
Is home to just me.
My land. My ocean.
I am the master and slave
To my ocean and land.
My waves do rock;
Ne'er violent nor stormy
But always welcoming and free.
The boats, my life,
And though they do sway
Never faulter shall they
For my mind, my grip,
Is tight, honed and Godly.
But lonely this solitude is.
Devoid of companionship,
My spirit shall stay strong and afloat
O'er a sea of azure diamonds,
Awaiting the one Goddess
That deserves the gift
Of this ocean and land.
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Literature
Fall of the Poet
A former poet stands, timid and erect,
At the edge of this glorious ball.
His eyes gazed upon beauty unseen
And ears fixed upon beauty unheard
But little falls from quivered lips
that cannot of beauty speak.
His heart tells him of jealous angels,
Of sad cherubs and lovelorn pixies,
Whenever his eyes do catch
a glimpse of her smooth, satin face.
That is all it shall ever be,
Thoughts and feelings and nothing more
That could possibly be uttered
Or be, with pure devotion, bindingly muttered
Before a crowd of guests, beaming and misty-eyed.
So, a coffin does this poet see;
A coffin not for the body nor soul
But for his still-beating heart –
The heart he has given up –
To sit, sleep and speak no more
Of the cause, of the reason
Of its early slumber in land eternal.
Nothing breeds more danger
Than a fallen poet and a beautiful stranger.
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Literature
Mad King Mafis
Beyond the mountaintops
That lie but a short distance
From the Valeyan Stronghold
Doth reside,
In a clearing that the light
From high above dare not illuminate,
An old man and his familiar.
White beard to his waist
And old glasses lining aged eyes,
This necromancer hides –
A force seclusion for heinous crimes.
He casts no shadow
In what little light he possesses.
Black robes draped o'er his frame
Like a veiled skeleton,
Both hopeless and lifeless,
With just an owl -  
Just this single, solitary owl,
To keep this fellow company.
A crooked grin hides anger
That Hades alone cannot equal.
He awaits the day fortold,
From a forgotten prophecy of old,
To stop the mad King Mafis and his brood.
The sky is black with smoke;
A sombre reminder of eternal fire
Wrought by the mindless and the damned
Mafis had conjured to fight for the land.
This old necromancer rued the day they met
On the Great Fields of Sai'Lethic
When both were penned in
By Ents and Elves
And all forms of imaginabl
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Literature
Rewriting the Bible: Creation
The origins of mankind, of our planet and of the species of animals, plants, trees and insects is documented at the very start of the Old Testament of the Holy Bible, a book held in the highest regard by Christians the world over (despite the numerous denominations changing their interpretations of what passages mean) and is still believed to be 100% factual, 100% truthful and 100% undeniable by those that follow in the light of God. This process is known as 'Creation' with its followers known as 'Creationists'. So what is the story that so many people believe to be true despite massive amounts of evidence on the contrary? This is what it is:
Day One
On the first day of God's 6-point-plan of making a loving, peaceful, tolerant world, he created 'light' and 'darkness', without any mention of a source from whence the light will come from, by a simple voice command, and proceeded to distinguish between the two, calling one 'day' and the other 'night'. He then went to bed, proud and conten
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Literature
A Rant on Stupidity
Stupid people annoy me. They annoy me to an extent where I wish someone would beat them with an encyclopaedia in the hopes that some of the facts contained within enter their brain so they're not just an empty, hollow shell that lives off of fart jokes and The Only Way Is Essex marathons. If we were living in the Dark Ages, one could forgive their stupidity as there was no way of bettering yourself if you weren't born into money, but we're not – we're in an age dominated by technology, the internet and 24 hours news channels, so why the hell are we regressing into abject stupidity?
Now, I'm not saying that everyone is stupid, far from it. Those that aren't stupid know who they are. What I'm talking about are those stupid people that are too stupid to realise their own stupidity. It's the little things that really grate on me, really; the inability to use the correct their/there/they're properly, for example. Yes, it does sound rather pathetic to get annoyed by something such as th
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Literature
Gliding Hand
Her hand glides just like mine
yet she speaks more in a single stroke
than I conjure in a lyrical verse.
If Art is beauty then she is a rose
creating a rose upon an eager page,
and if talent be divinity,
O! she must be a goddess,
and if precision were music
then she is a nightingale at Dawn.
Her hand glides more saintly than mine,
and our world is better for it.
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Literature
Monsters
"They're here; the monsters are here" was all she could say. "The monsters are here" she echoed as she shook and shivered outside the three-storey townhouse. Her clothes were soaked through, her hair was soggy and her make-up was running but still, through all of the repetition and the dishevelled appearance, one could still see a youthful innocence behind her eyes.  As the old woman, with white hair and a kind smile, bade the girl entrance to her humble abode, however, she found the innocence was a lie, the repetition a premonition; Death incarnate had come for the frightened, feeble old woman.
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Literature
Prologue
Attack on Neuspirie.
Date: 3.1.36 of the 6th Era
Neuspirie was a small village situated in the Vast Plains to the north of the island. Its name derives from commonspeak ('Neu' meaning 'new' or 'fresh'), and Palace-talk ('spirie' meaning 'soul' or 'life'). Standing proud in the centre of the village square, and almost as old as the region itself, was The Oak Will Inn which was a large alehouse renowned throughout the land for its strong, vintage alcohol and welcoming atmosphere. The latter also best summarised the nature at which the resident of Neuspirie conducted themselves. Travellers were always met with smiles, aid and shelter should they have need for it. The local merchants – fisherman, hunters and handymen – were always stocked, with wares ranging from fresh Caboar meat and Lotar leaves to candles, undergarments and shaving paste.
The whole village, in its idyllic environment, was a welcome break from the harshness of Whitescorne to the south and Lyresong to the east.
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Vincent Price Stencil by kylene13 Vincent Price Stencil :iconkylene13:kylene13 2 0
Literature
Trespasser
"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here;"
There is no place for me inside her house.
The sunlight through the window stirs and swells
To fill the space with warmth and subtle shade.
It compliments her curtains, sweeps her floor,
And deigns to touch me not at all, though she
Has let me in this place; the sunshine falls
Upon her whims, and feels nothing for me.
And every chair is turned to meet her gaze,
Receiving her when rain pounds at the door;
The storms that shake her quickly sink and die
As leather folds to hold her trembling weight.
And do these rains arise with me?  I know
They cannot rise of their own power here,
For she is Lord of all that enter in.
Each stair stoops down to raise her up on high,
And time, her slave, stands still inside her room,
For she devises every moment there.
Are there no moments left for me?  I feel
Her clock's hands striking at me from above.
I do not fit within these walls.  They loom
over my head to chuckle as I squirm
To fi
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Literature
Sunrise
Who are you to touch my life, and leave me thinking more than you'd left me?
You're not special, my dear. But perhaps you think you are,
And perhaps you are, and I am the liar.
Perhaps I have been lying all along.
When something has been asleep for so long, it's shocked to be awake.
But who are you to wake me up? Who are you
to create such questions and thoughts that will no doubt consume me,
leaving me to be, once again, nothing but a chewed up mess.
You are no one. Not yet, anyway.
And yet somehow, I have started to fret on what could be going through your mind.
Somehow, I fear your judgement.
Somehow, I grow wary that I am still the wallflower, and you are the sacred tree.
And if you continued to be no one, if you never confused me like that again,
With the bitterest of rudely awakened hearts,
I know that deep down,
I will be disappointed.
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Literature
Snippet~ Lacey May
Chaos.
That's all we could hear, brought about so suddenly and so violently the both of us had to gasp. The running we could hear above us was hard and desperate. We could hear screaming, yelling, but worst of all was when we heard one of those screams come to an abrupt stop, and we knew the person had come to a stop, too.
"Maria," I whispered, tearing my eyes away from the ceiling that revealed nothing. The girl in question only looked back at me, her wide brown eyes tickled with a fear that I'd never seen. She was trying to work something out, I saw, as her eyes flickered to look at the ceiling. She listened carefully, closing her eyes and wincing as another guttural scream was plunged into silence. There were people jumping over board, or so we could assume, from the cries of terror that came closer and ended with a dull splash from the water. I hoped they got free. It was all I could do.
"Maria," I said again, a little more urgently this time. My grip on her wrist tightened. I didn
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PoZ page 2 by SaintYak PoZ page 2 :iconsaintyak:SaintYak 7 0
Literature
The one that got away
If I close my eyes, I can feel the ghost of your hand over mine. My heart can flutter its rusted wings, making me feel again even though I've worked so hard to make myself numb. I know now, that what's done is done. But that doesn't change the desperate need to change it. The feeling that makes you scream and cry out, beg at nothing to just turn back the time, just this once, and let me change the mistakes I was too ignorant to realise I was making.
When will someone make me feel the way you did again? It's hard enough for me to fall as it is. But you were an exception, with your perfect eyes and your crooked smile. The way you'd be so nervous around me, like I was around you. But we could never cross that line. With every brush of the backs of hands, every stolen, terrified glance, every hug that lasted just a bit too long. We knew it, but we couldn't say. And now it's everywhere, engraved in my heart, but still the words will never be spoken, because that was you then, and you are yo
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ELVIRA by AlexAmezcua ELVIRA :iconalexamezcua:AlexAmezcua 586 40
Literature
Running Lessons
As the gun fires, you are ordered to chase,
But I know that to follow, I must move.
And as it gets further, and my legs feel heavier,
I'm drained of my will, though I wish I was steadier.
For all the things I want are above my reach,
And should you lift me up, I have further to fall,
I'll never know the limit, as I can't see the sky,
When there's so much doubt clouding my eyes.
And yet something keeps me chained to these dreams,
And I wish so badly that I could fly,
For I'm so sure I was meant for more,
So sure I could reach that vibrant sky,
And the clouds so often have been home to my head,
But they're only mere visions to what could be,
So how do I accept that I'm mediocre,
When my eyes close, and everything I see
Is the life I had reached for, so long ago,
Where I really meant something, and I dared to believe,
That this world that seemed too big to fill
Was something I could really seize.
Somewhere my presence could hold meaning,
And I could make that life come true,
And the smile
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Literature
Restrictions
Although isolating, it was not without reason, none of the result were in his agenda or aim, rather to quell his own fears and what he himself disdained. On reflections I feel still, an animosity toward his fleet of censorships, their force and binding, their dividing   the image of his satisfaction, the contradictions he spread upon accusing me of lying. Yet I cannot fault him and though unintended he was protecting my soul for loss and disappointment…
                                                    II
Whence I came of age and the chains, the reigns were broken I came to understand I desired only because I could not have, my pursuits solely intended for what I had become only their minds had yet to conform
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Tauren Crest by ropa-to Tauren Crest :iconropa-to:ropa-to 53 2 Hunter Crest by ropa-to Hunter Crest :iconropa-to:ropa-to 98 5 Stephen Fry and Emma Thompson by humon Stephen Fry and Emma Thompson :iconhumon:humon 6,016 785
Literature
Until
The way you used to look at me,
it was always great.
Until it wasn't.
The way we used to talk and laugh
it was amazing.
Until it wasn't.
I didn't mind you hugging me,
kissing me,
holding me.
Now I do.
You may not like it,
the way you used to and still love me,
but I don't.
We love each other, I loved you.
Until we didn't.
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Literature
The Best Paths Are Lined With Bones
Give me a path and I will take it.
Give me a road that will never cease to amaze me
Give me a road that will be here longer than I'll be
so I never have to pause, so I'm never left sitting
on a dusty plain. Keep me on a trail that keeps me from lighting
up my past, burning drenched in kerosene, gasoline:
something flammable. Don't let me erase all that I have been
Give me a path that leads to the top of a mountain or to a river laced with sunlight
Just give me a path that takes me somewhere so that I can't go nowhere.
Even the faint line of those who have walked before me will offer some comfort.
Lead me onto the fields where the dead once fought.
Because that would still instil some fear and fear is an emotion linked to human behaviour.
Set me a path that makes me human.
Just be my saviour.
Or does that make me too dependant.
If it does just inject me with independence.
Show me a path through a forest but do not guide me
Set me upon a road and I will continue to make it
I will carve a
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Literature
Leap - For Rue
Leap,
So sure of yourself,
If for only now.
I've heard it said
That you can fly
By simply believing you won't hit the ground
When you fall.
I hope you flew.
:iconSakaniMo:SakaniMo
:iconsakanimo:SakaniMo 3 0
Umbrella Corp by RaceCleaner24 Umbrella Corp :iconracecleaner24:RaceCleaner24 1 0

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Daniel Redford
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
Dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
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:iconsuburbanson:
SuburbanSon Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2012
thanks for the fave!
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singer22498 Featured By Owner Mar 27, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks so much for the fav; look at my other work if you would like!
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EloquentSkyscrapers Featured By Owner Mar 27, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I shall do (:
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creepytea Featured By Owner Nov 24, 2011  Professional Artist
Thanks for the :+fav:! :>
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EloquentSkyscrapers Featured By Owner Nov 24, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
No probs (:
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XxQuestionablexX Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2011
Thank you for the fav :heart:
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:iconeloquentskyscrapers:
EloquentSkyscrapers Featured By Owner Oct 17, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Totally welcome :)
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BellaBugia Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for watching, very much appreciated.
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:iconeloquentskyscrapers:
EloquentSkyscrapers Featured By Owner Jul 10, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
No problem, love the work! :]
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