Interview of Pablo Fernandez Angulo WSG Pablo Fernandez - aka TheBastardSon in deviantArt thank you for this interview. You're a young comic book and concept artist from Spain ; and also author of "Valkyrie", recently elected "Warrior of the Season" by the members of the Warrior Spirit group. How do you usually describe yourself as a person ?
PF - Hi Xavier. First of all thanks to all the people there in your group that voted for Valkyrie. Im not really sure how to describe myself but I would say im a normal guy that loves to draw and go out to party and drink some beer and wishkey (laughs). I think my close friends would describe me better than myself but I rather not ask them (laughs).
WSG About "Valkyrie", how did you come up with such a kickass piece ?
PF - To tell you the truth, it wasn't my idea. The idea for this piece was of the commissioner. He told me he wanted a Valkyrie, described the background and few details more and as a Norse mythology fa
The Ghost from the ClosetThis is a story bout my buddy Mistgod :iconMistgod: and his childhood ghost from the closet. It is a true story. This story illustrates the double edged sword of a powerful imagination.
As a child Davie (Mistgod) would have trouble sleeping, just as he does as an adult. His dreams were extremely vivid and colorful and often the dreams continued for a while even after he awakened. It was terrifying to a seven year old. One of those waking nightmares was the ghost in the bedroom closet.
For a while, each night he would hear shuffling noises coming from the closet. He would cry and scream, waking his brothers up and his parents. They would tell him it was only a dream or his imagination. Eventually they tired so much of this they quit consoling him and just ignored him. So he suffered in terrified silence. Something was definitely moving in that closet!
He would fall asleep and dream bout it. In t
CarterBeautiful minds are found in the strangest of places. Today, I found one wandering about in a place where most beautiful minds are found: the library.
The day had gone from bad to worse. One argument, one robbery, one piece of startling news. By the time my second period of freedom came, I was inches from tears and ready to end my day. I was fifty five minutes away from the freedom of home, and the promise of no teachers or schoolwork the next day. I moodily shuffled over to a table in the nook of the library and sat down at the table to list the various tasks I had to complete over the course of the next few days.
Hannah, a dear friend, called me over. She appeared to be stamping books. For what, I did not yet know.
"If you have some free time, could you help me stamp these books?"
I politely refused, saying that I had other engagements, and returned to my table. However, said engagement quickly was finished, and I returned to the table with the girl and her enormous stack of books.
ChrisHe always had the penchant for the poetic and the photographic. His Twitter profile had the following words: Bare in the forest, pen on the page, note to a key, and a dream on a cinema screen.
But for what we could have become, it was never to be.
As with all things significant for me, it started on the Internet. On Facebook. On Twitter. I volunteered, somewhat bravely, to be a mentor to a bunch of first-year journalism students. They were fresh out of high school. I almost wish they could read my mind. What they think journalism is will be forever shattered by the first year I had just endured.
But there's always an exception to the rule. Chris. In the 2014 first-year journalism group on Facebook he was asking questions, running polls, cracking random jokes. He amused me. I stumbled across his Twitter account, and with stalkerish ease I gathered more information about him. He was an actor, a photographer, a musician and a self-published novelist. He modelled for
Her"Why would someone as brilliant and nice and good as you be friends with me?" I asked her, mumbling the question to my desk. We watched the math class play board games and cards, with a chess set between us. I was winning, but she was able to keep up with my moves, and she could see the motives behind some of my more complex manuevers.
I wasn't surprised.
She thought for a moment, and with hardly a beat, she replied. "I don't know." We moved on, and I ended up beating her in chess. Afterwards, we sat on the floor and talked about the world, politics, possible cures to diseases.
"I could rule the world." I told her suddenly. "The question really is, what I'd do with it." She didn't doubt me.
"You'd need help in diplomacy." She told me, smiling. I laughed.
"Imagine all the people I'd offend. My poor secretary; all the apology letters and speeches..." A thought occurred to me. "You'd be good at those things. We could do it together." She smiled.
"I'd be your translator. 'My sincerest apol
Daily Quickie #18: Camp Tie-UpsThis is a true story. Names have been changed for the sake of privacy. This story involves minors and light bondage, but no sexual content. If that is what you are looking for, you're in the wrong place. With that said, enjoy!
In my job as a camp counselor, I have the express privilege of seeing some weird stuff. Every summer, I spend a week surrounded by about 120 boys between the ages of eleven and seventeen, with the wonderful smell of hormones in the air. And it was this last year that prompted one of the more interesting events I have ever seen there.
I had been reading a bunch of TUG stories all over DA and the like, and decided to try a little social experiment. I set up a knot-tying tutorial for any camper that wanted to take part, and got a fairly large turnout, much to my surprise. When I was a kid, those kind of things tended to generate groans. Apparently, this group was a lot more interested. I would soon discover why.
I spent about half an hour teaching them basic kno
Liberty's LocksI'd be lying if I said that I remembered all the details, but I think I knew even then that the maxims of conversation had been violated. I indicated no interest in Princess Diana or Great Britain, but the conversation kept turning back to those subjects. Aunt Betsy—who was actually my cousin, not my aunt—made a diligent effort to introduce me to Princess Diana through picture books we flipped through on the floor of the musky basement apartment. “This is a real, live princess,” she told me. I was at an age where I asked a lot of questions, but I don't remember being particularly interested in Princess Diana. I marked, however, that her hair was very short.
I would soon be sobbing ostentatiously as my fine brown hair dropped onto the floor in clumps. My aunt would halt the barber to lecture me about the inappropriateness of the racket I'm making, and console me that when the nice barber lady is done, I will look like Princess Diana.
“I don't want to
my thanksgiving memoirEnglish Block C
November 26th, 2014
It was a dark day. The suns overhead ached with a dull rain that wanted nothing more than to fall; but it was given no such pleasure.
A little brown house sat on a street with many other brown houses, and though it was no different than the others, someone strange was inside.
He clicked the mouse faster than most people and typed faster than most people and he was stranger than most people. He took a bite of his frozen pizza and stared at the screen illuminating the dark room.
How fitting, he thought. That I should be doing such a thing on Thanksgiving, when people are supposed to be happy and thankful...I guess it’s just who I am.
A piece of pepperoni lodged itself inside his throat. He choked a little bit and reached up to try and get some water down, but before long he was seeing black dots in his vision. He finally breathed when he coughed some more. Dammit…
His fingers slammed against the keyboard. His father, Spe
The CallAs a sophomore in high school I was a little lost. Correction, completely lost. I hated Robert, a man who never earned the title of Father, I hated who I associated myself with, I hated God and especially I hated myself.
Robert, my biological father and I never saw eye to eye. I call him my biological dad because although he helped create me, I stopped considering him my daddy at the age of ten. This was mainly because he was a pathological liar. When he saw a chance to hurt and belittle someone, I was the one to clean up the emotional. He was and still is a low life man who feeds on the sadness and pain of those he inflicts it upon. Yet my mother stayed married to him in denial of the awful person he was all because she “made a commitment not just to your father, but to God when I married him.”
Speaking of commitments, I thought that was the way it worked. If you love someone you stay with them even if they treat you like dirt. It started spring
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