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About Literature / Hobbyist Core Member Donovan Malley45/Male/United States Recent Activity
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Donovan Malley
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
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I am trapped in teh InterWebz! The scanner ate me when I fell asleep on it!

Current Residence: South Puget Sound...or the nearest mountain
Favourite genre of music: ambient, trance...sometimes chill... anything I can nod my head to
Favourite photographer: them
Favourite style of art: ...the kind that makes you think, feel, or be glad about Life!
MP3 player of choice: full
Shell of choice: chocolate
Wallpaper of choice: scenic
Skin of choice: yours
Personal Quote: What if everything you assume to be right and true and real is, in fact, wrong?
I still can't believe that I received a DD.  I remember when I was new to Deviant Art.  I looked at those with awe.  I didn't think I would ever get one of those.  Then in the middle of the week, just before I was about to head off to bed, I saw that my feedback count exploded.  That is when I saw this: 

Coyote Makes a Proposal by Shaudawn is the start of a journey to find answers to the protagonist's inner doubts... or a nice pie shop.

Suggested by neurotype Featured by TheMaidenInBlack

My jaw dropped.  I made it!  I was elated, honored, humbled, and (interestingly) a bit frightened.  I'm very grateful for neurotype suggesting it and TheMaidenInBlack for featuring what was really just a stream-of-consciousness exercise to work out a few inner demons and thoughts at a time of great paradigm shifts.  It is raw, disjointed, and jagged, reflecting my thoughts at the time not only in content, but presentation. 

I'm still catching up on thanking everyone who :+fav:ed my writings as a result, and I hope you like some of the other offerings in my gallery.  I can't say when I'll get back to the Forty-Five Winters, Spring series as other ideas are competing for my attention, but I will see what I can do.  This week, the ideas kept flowing.  Thanks to all my newest followers, too.

Thank you for making this amateur writer a little better.  Thanks to all those who've given me feedback, particularly BrowncoatWhit and Sunnidaez.  My story An Injun in Eavesdown felt like a turning point, Whit, so thanks for both letting me post it and for your allowing me to drift a bit. 
  • Listening to: hungry cats
  • Reading: Sandman (Neil Gaiman)
  • Watching: NevikTheStoryteller on Twitch
  • Playing: Boss Monster
  • Eating: chinese food
  • Drinking: it all in...


Most Western towns were built around something.  Some were built around gold and silver mines.  Others were built around trade posts and lumber mills.  And some were built around crossroads or railway stations.  But the town of Lodgepole was built around Nothing.  

“No, really.  Lodgepole was built around Nothing,” says Coyote.  

“How can it be built around nothing?”  I continue to brood in the back seat as the car slips into the town-turned-county seat.  Sagebrush and cottonwood start to share space with grass lawn and flowerbed.  Buildings cease to be occasional shacks and some gain a second story.  Rounded foothills big enough to be called mountains in other places presage granite up-thrusts to the southwest.  A frantic creek big enough to be called a river in some places breaks and rolls and jounces northeast over rocks big enough to be called boulders in still other places.  The road and the river—an equal sign dividing the town in two.  

We approach the center of the town, and I see both the road and river diverge.  Elk angles towards the right, and we find a place to park the car.  Three old people get out.  We stretch and groan, cracking and popping bones that feel as old as stone and twice as dusty.  The sun shines kindly through thinned air, warming stone into life.  We have been driving too long.

Elk slides his mirrored sunglasses on, straightens his clothes, and runs his hand through his hair.  Any trace of age unfolds, and in the span of a giggle, I see a couple of ogling young women across the street cover their mouths and whisper obvious secrets at one another.  “I need to see somebody,” he says and saunters off.  

Coyote tugs at my sleeve.  “Come on.  Let me show you.”

“Show me what?”

“Nothing,” he grins and tugs anyway.

We return to the very center of the town.  I see that at that point, the paved road turns abruptly as an arrow glancing off a solid boulder.  On the exact other side, the boulder-strewn creek banks sharply, roaring in discontent at the alteration as if dammed.  But there is no concrete diversion.

Coyote pointed at these curves.  “What do you see?”

“I don’t see anything.  Just the road and the creek bending crazy.”

Coyote rolls his eyes.  “What’s in the middle of it?”

I squint as if a shift in sunlight might reveal what’s not there.  I squat and put my elbows to my knees.  “There’s nothing in the middle of it.  It just makes a circle.”  I point.  In the center is just flat, open space.  No flower beds.  No sign with the town’s name in wood and white letters.  No magnificent rock or towering tree.  It looks a bit gravelly.  Bits of wild grasses.  A couple of small, unpretentious yellow flowers on the periphery.  

Coyote rocks back on his heels.  “Precisely.”  He grins his toothy grin at me.

I frown.  “I don’t get it.  Is this some kind of pun?  I enjoy a good, stupid pun, but even this one is pretty bad.”

“Fine.  Go experience it for yourself.”  He gestures at the Nothing.  

I study him, looking for any signs of a prank.  I bet he brings all the stupid White guys here and has them stand in the middle of an open field while he takes a picture and shows it to his drinking buddies.  

Coyote rolls his eyes again and gestures at make-believe drinking buddies.  “Sheesh!  Just do it, okay?”

I sigh melodramatically and trudge off towards the center of Nothing.  I glace around me, expecting to see snickering pedestrians, but I don’t.  So I look up at the sky for some dark cloud ready to unleash lightning and shock the hell out of me.  It is the Afterlife after all, and stranger things happen here.  But I don’t see it.  My pace slows, though.  I realize, the meadowlarks have stopped singing…the swoosh of the wind has stopped.  My feet feel leaden.  My knees start to weaken.  I don’t make it to the middle of Nothing.  I can’t.  The silence.  My vision isn’t exactly blurry and it’s neither dark nor cold, but I realize I can’t see anything.  Even the prickle in my skin ceases, and there’s no taste in my mouth.  No scent.

And it is at that moment, my heart goes light.  Next to Nothing, I can smile.  For the first time since this story began, I smile.  

*    *    *

“Before the Whites came to this land, we had cities and towns,” says Coyote.  

I realize that we’re walking along a sidewalk.  My hands are thrust into my pockets and I feel a tug at my cheeks utterly foreign.  I look at the reflection in a window and realize it’s a smile.  

Coyote continues to speak and he hands me a Polaroid developing and fading into color.  Already written in black marker at the bottom is “Wasi’chu. Forty-Five Winters, Spring.”  It’s me next to Nothing with the same dopey grin coming into view.  

“I should show this to my drinking buddies,” he snickers.  I don’t feel like caring.  I just keep grinning.

I turn my head frontwards again, hand him the snapshot, and put my hands back into my pockets.  That foreign tug stays where it is on my cheeks.  “Yeah, didn’t Teotihuacan have more people in it than London did at that time?”

“There was Cahokia, which had more people than Philadelphia managed to get until the 1800’s.  And there were pueblos, and the Red and White towns of the Cherokee.  This land was filled with millions of Human Beings, with crops and mature orchards and vast trade and social networks before the Whites came.”

The tug threatens to subside, but we keep walking along.

Coyote gestures at the town of Lodgepole.  “Native cities and pueblos were centers of ceremonial life and corresponded the cosmos accordingly.  When the First People saw the cities of the Whites, they saw their industrial nature, and they saw how goods came from them like a never-ending fountain—fine things for trade and living.  But they saw too that White cities were thrown together for economic reasons.  Religion was either in support of or an afterthought to its economics.  This is why Western towns are built around some thing.  Later, the religion became contained and separated from the City in a building they called a church—usually after completion of the stockade to keep the Natives out.  And when the land was sufficiently civilized enough, the church got upgraded to a cathedral for a bishop to comfortably claim as his own.”   

“Why are you telling me this?  Where are we going?”

“If you were to see Lodgepole from the air, you would see a great circle.  You would see it was divided into four parts.  The creek and the path run through, and in the middle is Nothing.  Remember the Prison?”

Now the tug flees so fast I swear I can feel waves of cheek hit the shores of my teeth like a storm’s wake.  “I wish I could forget.”

“The air and hush are there at the Prison because of something, built there out of fear and trembling.”

“Shock and awe?”

“Precisely.”  Coyote puts his hand on my shoulder and guides me towards a rather red building.  Neon lights hum enticement.  The smell of barley darkness bids come hither.  “When we came to this place and saw Nothing, we said, ‘Ah!  This must be the place!’  So my sisters and brothers looked and prayed and thought and smoked on it.  We looked at the way of things—listened to the cosmos.  Listened, listened.  Thought, thought.  And then, in response, the town of Lodgepole came.  

“The center of human life is ceremonial, not economic.  Not academic.  Not political.  Life is a unity, and the foundations must be the unified experience of being a Human Being.  You are always a Human Being first, last, and always.  Your first responsibility is to be a Human Being.  Once you accept that fact and use it as a positive factor, you can then do whatever professional tasks are required of you.  But you will know when to draw the line between professional responsibilities and the much greater responsibility of being a person.  You can earn money, but you cannot be happy or satisfied unless you become yourself first.”

Coyote holds open the door.  Music blasts from inside.  There are lights flashing.

I pause.  “If life is ceremonial, why are we going into a bar?”

Coyote shrugs.  “Nobody’s perfect.”  He tilts his head and I gladly step into the darkness.

[chapter continues]
I have actually had this part written for quite some time, but I wasn't satisfied that it ended in a compelling way.  But I'm also tired of just holding onto it...withholding it from those who might want to read, review, critique, etc. 

My writing has been frustrated due to recent issues of Native identity in contemporary mainstream media: namely a poll by the Washington Post, which I not only found flawed and coming from a completely White mindset, but whose results have been taken by both liberal and conservative American Whites in the wrong way.  Exacerbating that is the equally frustrating, racist, and White name-calling between Donald Trump and Elizabeth Warren regarding indigenous identity.  I've written several articles on these subjects and how Whites of both sides are completely missing what's really going on.  And that zaps my time and energy for writing on this series.  So, I apologize for the long gaps. 

This excerpt was written before all the political junk going on these days.  And while I want to keep this part with the next as a whole chapter, I just want to get it out there.  Thank you, as always, for reading.  Comments and constructive critiques are welcome.


Take the Journey:

[Part 1 : Coyote Makes a Proposal] <-- it starts here  La la la la

[Part 8: A Camping Story] <-- previous chapter :marshmallow: 

[Part 9: Lodgepole] <-- you are here.  Ohm... Ohm...

[Part 9 & 1/2: A Coyote and a Wasi'chu Walk into a Bar] Impatient
“Welcome!  I’m Kathy.”  The comfortably plump woman spreads her arms like an afghan.  Her smile illuminates the Walking-World like a bedside light.  She gestures into the Room.  It is pleasant and spacious.  The chairs have cushions, and the cushions broadcast happy patterns.  A wide window looks out to a big sky.  “We’re pretty informal here, so just come on in and make yourself at home.  There’s beverages on the table, and we’ll have snacks after.”

I just stare out the window.  The Room is for visitors, not residents.  Not us.  It is an interstitial meant as advertisement.  Propaganda.  “All is well within,” The Room whispers.  “Do not think of this place as a repository for your loved ones.  You didn’t dump them here just so they would be out of the way.  This is a place of care.  See?  Your tax dollars are at work.  All is well.  Go on with your lives.  Nothing to see here.  Don’t look behind the curtain.”  

It’s an effective barrier.  The residents here just call it The Room.  It’s probably named after somebody famous and rich, the kind of person you ought to know if you are looking for a donor.  Or maybe it’s named after the meadow they bulldozed to put in the parking lot.  We’re never allowed in The Room except when somebody on the outside—the nonresidents—have some need to interact with us residents (we’re not called patients).  It is a setting so different from the sterile clinical halls behind three sets of swinging doors, two sets of them locked, that most of us can’t help but behave, subdued and in awe.  The luxuriousness of rich color and smell strikes contrast to our Spartan rooms.  Not everyone can handle it.  The bad schizos and manics never get in here.  Most of us are on a sedative or four.  Another different wing dedicated to the seniles and Alzheimer’s shares this space with us.  The depressives seem to like it really well—the colors are not a bright, hypocritical circus, but rather an expansive, hopeful earthen and natural palette.  

But for me, I like the light most.  I nod at the woman, and she smiles and flits off like a curious hummingbird to probe the next victim.  I take tentative step towards the big window.  I don’t have a window in my room.  And the place that doubles as a cafeteria and rec room has barred windows that look out to an enclosed courtyard nobody is allowed into.  The sky is covered in a featureless gray.  I know the Mountain is there, just over the rise of hills, waiting like a white cardinal to sanctify the land.  Grandparent Mountain.  Mother of Waters.  I cannot see, but I feel Takhoma.  And that is a start, at least.

The woman and her companion take out a small metal bowl.  She uses a wooden mallet to skim around the rim, and this humming issues from it.  A few others around the room perk up, but it isn’t until she strikes the bowl that everyone looks to her.  She continue to wear the smile.  Her companion beckons everyone to sit, and like salivating dogs, most of them do.  I look once more at the grey veil as if by some last revelation, the mist will part and I will see the glory.  But the fog remains, so I join the others.  The seat is as comfortable as advertised.  I find there is a mug of coffee in my hand.  

“It is so good to be here,” she says.  “Here, where God has sent us to be among the poor, the homeless, the old, the mentally ill, and the faithful.  Welcome.”

I frown.  There’s a tickle in the back of my brain that always happens when my fellow residents and I are referred to in the prefix of “the.”  Each definite article is a barrier—a buffer meant to shield one category from the other.  “In my father’s house there are many rooms”, and “the faithful” get one apart from the rest of us.

“Let’s go around the room and say our names, what denomination we are, and why we’re here.”  Kathy turns to her companion, a gray-haired man with a beard.  I see the facial hair and I make a guess at his occupation.

“I’m Calvin, but you can all call me ‘Cal’.  I teach theology at the local collage up the hill: ‘Jesus and American Culture’.”  His grin is proud.  “Me and Kathy and several of my students have decided to get out away from the safety and comfort of our own homes and take the gospel to those that need it most.  We also offer studies like this at many of the local churches around the area.”

Close.  I thought he was an ordained minister or priest or something.  I’ve always wondered why so many of them hide behind a beard or mustache or both.  I’d wager Dr. Franks would come up with some explanation from the Church of Freud.  Or Jung.  Probably Jung.  Jung’s popular here.

“My name is Alice,” says the woman to the right of Cal.  She pats her spotted and wrinkled hand on the one owned by the man grinning beside her.  “And this is my husband, Chuck.  We’ve been following Cal and Kathy ever since they came to our church and showed us the true meaning of the Bible.”  Chuck nods and smiles.  He reminds me of a pleasant chipmunk—the non-Disney kind.

They go around the room.  There are retired church refugees like Alice and Chuck—Barbara the poet, Dr. Edward the anthropologist, George the retired Army captain, Frank the former real estate investor.  Young students spout halleluiahs and hosannas: Ricky and Margaret, Stacy, Kim, Luc, and Jackson.  Those who are bored—Pam the housewife and mother who gets her in-laws to watch two grandkids, Pedro the out-of-work house painter, Nicole, a younger woman I though was with the students but is not.  And then there’s us.  The Blessed.  The Poor and Ill.  The Not-the-Faithful.  Our names are proclaimed:  Victoria, owner of Yippy-Dog.  Colonel Jack.  Honey/Sugar.  Coach McGuire.  John Doe.  Other John Doe.  Quiet Claire.

I try to remember the names.  Jot down a few notes.  Descriptions.  Motivations.

“Um…” Claire stammers in the seat next to me.  “So, I guess that’s why I’m here…because of the dreams.  My doctor says that I’m really curious about…”  She makes a small sweeping gesture in the air as if lightly touching the wings of a weary sparrow perched invisibly above her.  “…‘immaterial things’ as she puts it.  She said it might be good for my depression if I meet other people with similar interests.”

I attempt an inconspicuous list on a small scrap of paper I lifted earlier.  I finish with a letter ‘e’ when I look up to see a wall of eyes.  I swallow.  I’m the last one who has not yet spoken.

“So, what’s your story, Rob?”  Kathy butterflies her eyelids at me.  “You are the newest here.”

I sip at the cooling mug of coffee in hopes that it will melt away the lump suddenly taking up residence in my throat and try to remember the formula: name, rank, serial number, troop strength and movements…

“Hi.  My name is Rob W. and I’m an alcoholic.”

Colonel and Coach start to go into old AA responses when Cal makes a motion at them and they obediently fall silent like a couple of worn out dogs.  Kathy keeps her eyes riveted on me and smiles pleasantly as if my words were simply chucked dirt clods falling short of target.  “What denomination are you, Rob?”


“Yes.  Please don’t say tens and twenties.”  The Faithful break their silent fast and laugh at the sanctioned joke.  

Christian Denomination?”

“That’s usually what it means.”  Kathy takes a sip from her own mug, but her eyes never lose their grip off mine.

“Well, I was baptized Catholic in a small Montana town.  But my parents had friends who were concerned for our souls, so I remember the insides of many kinds of churches from Assembly of God to Lutheran when not at Sunday Mass.  Never Mormon, though.  They thought Mormons were a cult, but they weren’t half as bad as Jehovah Witness.  Did you know that the day before one of their Armageddons was predicted, one of them broke into our house and knocked on the bedroom door my mother and I were hiding behind?  Never trusted them since—.”

“So, what are you now?”  Kathy’s tone has a polite but intentional nudge embedded in it.

I feel my face get very small and wrinkly.  I put my mug down and stare at the floor for a while.  The group lets me think in silence.

“Sometimes I have pitched my tent on one side of the River.  Other times, I set up camp on the other side.  I spent a lot of it on the Catholic side because there was place to spread out and walk and wade in the River.  But always in the wilderness—never in the City.  I don’t want to go to the City where they have glass and concrete and marble and steel.  And the gold.  I hated the gold after a while.  Out in the wilderness, there is just simple wood and water and stone and sky.  But the City people kept expanding out…out…out until there was no more room to spread out and walk and wade and sleep under stars.  And there was rumor that soon they would just pave it all over.  I even saw the shovels and concrete mixers.  And then, one day, I just picked up my tent and decided it was time to go camping elsewhere.  I think they made that place into a nice park again complete with benches and a play structure for kids, and it was safe to pitch your tent there once more.  I like the new City manager, but he is still a manager of cities.  And I’ve already gone far up the River now and I think I’ll keep walking towards the Mountain.”  I gesture at the window filled with gray.

Cal regards me.  An eyebrow twitches upwards a few times.  “That is an interesting way of putting it.  You must think yourself a poet.  You know, I’m a writer, too.  I just finished my book called End Times Are Here, People of God.  It’s going to be controversial because in it I say that the Message of Jesus isn’t the message that the government gives.  If I get on Oprah, it’s going to sell like crazy!”

Kathy finally breaks eye contact with me and turns her lasers towards Cal.  She puts her hand on his in a way you’d not expect teachers of the gospel to put hands on one another; but she does and it’s like they enter into a heated debate using just their irises and corneas and pupils while their grins remain plastically upon their unopened mouths.  After megabytes of clairvoyant exchange, Cal and Kathy turn back towards me.

“Could you share with us why you are here?  Your journey, perhaps?”  I cannot read Kathy.  Whatever mind reading went on a moment before, I only sense brick wall.  But maybe that is because I’ve never been a mind reader.  

“Why I am here?  You mean besides Dr. Franks also recommending I check you guys out like the rest of us crazies?”  

Kathy nods, sips, and never breaks eye contact.  Cal winces, but manages to return to a practiced expression of invitation.

“I am here because I’m dead,” I say.  

A few of the young students from Cal’s school hum affirmations.  I barely hear the word “testify” whispered.  One closes her eyes, bows her head, and holds up a hand palm outward towards a far ceiling corner.

I feel my face scrunch again.  “No, I mean literally dead.  Well, I was dead.  But I came back.  Mostly.”

“MM-hmmm…thank you Jee-suzz…”  The moans become a bit more audible.  

“The doctors called it a major psychic hemorrhage or something like that.  You might call it a mental breakdown.  Anyway, they put me on… uhg ...medication until they thought I was better and they tagged and released me back out into the wild.  And since I too have a ‘curiosity about immaterial things’ I decided to go back to college and learn about spirituality.  Except… except…”  I frown.  

There is another bout of silence, the cheering section having gone quiet somewhere between the words “doctor” and “hemorrhage”.  I can’t tell if it’s out of interest or hesitation.  Quiet Claire sighs beside me.

“Except what?”  I swear, Kathy’s got a bottomless mug or she’s not really sipping.

“Well, the more I was there, the more I realized I wasn’t fitting in.  Before I entered the university, I encountered the Sacred tangibly every day.  But the longer I went there, the less I felt it.  I felt more unbalanced.  I wrote a few papers that got me into such trouble, I had to sit down with the school’s dean and we…had a little chat.”

“Ah ha!”  Cal points his finger at me.  My eyes widen as I try to figure out what I just said wrong and brace myself for an all too familiar impact those kinds of pointed objects bring.  “I knew they would’ve gotten to you.  You should’ve gone to a more Bible-based college where they don’t substitute ‘Father, Son and Holy Spirit’ with ‘Creator, Redeemer and Sanctifier’.  Seminary ends up being where too many people like you go to lose their faith, not get stronger in it.  But you know what’s going on, Rob.  You have it all figured out, and those liberals wanted to get to you, and they did!  This is all Empire, I tell you.  Tools of Empire.  Just like in my book.”

I realize that my eyebrows hurt as much as my fingers, which are digging into the armrests.  The young students look at their master doe-eyed; the refugees nod sagely; the bored members copy words in their Bibles.  I look about for an orderly to see if they realize the Blessed have increased their population by one.

“Actually…”  My throat constricts a little, but I press the air out.  “Actually, I don’t know.  I played the game.  I was told I was supposed to study and seek leadership in order to be s spiritual leader.  I thought I was looking for answers.  But that’s not how one becomes a leader.  I’d forgotten the lessons of my heritage.  Actively seeking a position of spiritual leadership and self-promotion as a spiritual leader is highly offensive behavior.  And self-promotion destroys whatever spiritual powers or gifts a person may have been given by the Creator.  I played the game, and so, as a result, I can’t hear the Sacred anymore.  I get what I deserve.  I should have never have spoken up like that.”

Cal shakes his head emphatically and begins to wave his arms around.  “I totally disagree.  You’ve got to put your body where your faith is.  Sit on picket lines.  Protest.  Get arrested in the name of Jee-suzz, ‘cause it’s what He would’ve done…knocking over money-changers tables and whipping sinners and driving out cattle and sheep…  They’re all just sheep needing to be driven out.  In my book, I tell them, ‘Time to get out, y’all!  End times are here!’”

I just shrug and try to see if the back of my chair can get a little deeper.  “All I know is that once I saw, and now I’m blind.”

When I finish my tale, Kathy smiles at me.  Calvin sits back, collects his breath, and imitates her smile.  Their stares are careful measurements made behind eyeballs.  The other participants just look blankly first at me, and then to Kathy and Cal as if seeking what kind of emotion or thought is permissible.  Kathy makes some kind of remark that is supposed to sound wise, but I don’t write it down.  Whatever it is, I sense the room relax.  The refugees and students and bored members offer a few parroted proverbs of their own.  Variations on a theme.  The Blessed remain quiet and still, except for Honey/Sugar who blows a genuine kiss my direction.  

Kathy takes out her Bible and leans back.  “Alright, then.  Let’s pick up where we left off the gospel where Jesus talks about being built up in three days…”  
A Camping Story
Hopping back into the walking-world...sorry this took longer than I had hoped.

I wish this episode was pure imagination, but sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.  Write what you know, right?

The next installment is already being written.  Coyote takes Wasi'chu to meet a few friends in a bar.  What could possibly go wrong?


Take the Journey:

[Part 1 : Coyote Makes a Proposal] <-- it starts here  La la la la

[Part 7: Reasonable and Prudent] <-- previous chapter :EeeOooEeeOoo: 

[Part 8: A Camping Story] <-- you are here.  Ohm... Ohm...

[Part 9: LodgepoleInvisible 


Add a Comment:
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Apr 12, 2015   Writer
Your rather lengthy comment under The Great Water Debate is just what I hoped for when I wrote that vignette. You were clear and answered every point made by others. Thank you! :hug:
Shaudawn Featured By Owner Apr 12, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for that.  I tend to get a little carried away with my writing, so after I hit the "submit" button, I was afraid I was just being too wordy and a bit rantish (though I've had some real fits in my day...)  Again, thank you for your story.  It had a great mix of humor and yet brought up a very good topic worth talking about.  They way you put it helps people to talk about the issues, rather than argue about them, so, again, I thank you for letting me and others into your initial story.  May your future be as fruitful...keep up the good work.  :D :earth:
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2015   Writer
You're most welcome. Thanks for adding more compliments for me. :D I'll try to be "fruitful and keep up the good work."
I hope you do the same.
ambassador-brouwer Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2014  Professional Filmographer
Thanks for the thorough compliment on my picture of Tilly and Cooper of the good ship Jin Dui. I'm so glad you enjoyed it and I always appreciate feedback!
Shaudawn Featured By Owner Nov 2, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
It really looks like a fun little crew.  Keep flyin'!
uki--uki Featured By Owner Oct 27, 2014
Thank you so much for the appreciation! :hug:


▀█▀ █▀ █_█ ▀█▀ █▬█ Я Ξ √ Ω L U T ↑ ☼ N

We are here to help to break the spell of programmed humanity
and change the nature of the experience here what we call earth.

We are here to create a revolution unlike any that has gone before.
A Conscious Awareness Tsunami that will sweep the planet and shake our modern world to its very core.

Breaking the Illusion about what most people in the world believe to be true,
the government lies, banking system scam, main stream media tailored news,
that shapes the mind of all people around the world and creates this illusion of "normality".
A hijacked reality that people can't see because is repeated every day.
Mark-Heather Featured By Owner Oct 9, 2014
Thanks for the fav! :)
Shaudawn Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome!  Thanks for posting this.  It's like a breath of fresh air.  Keep up the good work!  :D
RatherSketchy Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Shaudawn Featured By Owner Mar 3, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
A little slow on the draw, but thanks for the poke!  :)
Add a Comment: