This is a poem I found on the Internet which I found funny! :)
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Some poems rhyme
But this one doesn't
Violets are blue
Some poems rhyme
But this one doesn't
20 March 2013
15 March 2013
Writing Prompt 15/3/13
Time: 10 minutes.
Write a short piece using these 5 words. You must use all 5.
The darkly clad figure slipped stealthily through the window, a dark blue turtleneck pulled up to meet his balaclava. Moonlight licked the wall as he parted the curtains, landing on an oil depictment of a tragic battle. He hurried across the room and into the nursery, stepping carefully over children's toys. A ragdoll so grass stained and raggedy it appeared to him as a cucumber tripped him as an airplane roared overhead but he recovered. His first heist would not be his last.
Write a short piece using these 5 words. You must use all 5.
- Cucumber
- Airplane
- Hurried
- Stealthily
- Tragic
The darkly clad figure slipped stealthily through the window, a dark blue turtleneck pulled up to meet his balaclava. Moonlight licked the wall as he parted the curtains, landing on an oil depictment of a tragic battle. He hurried across the room and into the nursery, stepping carefully over children's toys. A ragdoll so grass stained and raggedy it appeared to him as a cucumber tripped him as an airplane roared overhead but he recovered. His first heist would not be his last.
Prologue
Hey guys! Fun Roscribblers today, right?
Here is the prologue for my novel, Baker's Detective Agency: Trial By Murder. i put it up on my blog on Punchwood, which those of you that are on it may already know (you know who you are). So, please read it and comment on it, tell me what to improve on, or just comment for the heck of it. Thanks!
***PROLOGUE***
Roger Flamle had a bad feeling when he left his house this morning.
It wasn't something he could explain, but he knew it, as sure as he had known his own name. As a still able bodied man of 78, with all of his hair intact in a buzz cut, Roger was skilled in several areas, including trusting his hunches. However, his senses had deteriorated over the years due to old age, so he decided to pass it off as the after effects of the root beer he had drank yesterday, at his grand daughter's birthday.At this age, just root beer was enough to upset his stomach, so he wasn't particularly concerned. He had pulled little Annie aside to give her his gift; a beautiful necklace with a deep red stone, very precious metal, set in it. He had told her: "This little gem has been in our family for generations, lass. My grandmother gave it to me, and now, at your fourteenth birthday, I'm giving it to you. Keep it safe for me, eh??" Annie's eyes were as wide as saucers, and she thanked her grandpa with all her heart, and promised that she would keep it safe. Her beaming face warmed Roger Flamle's heart, and was still keeping it toasty during the freezing cold of the winter. All the leaves on the trees were icicles, all the roof tiles were snow, and one could lie down and sleep in the blanket of snow covering the ground, if they wished to die of hypothermia.
As he exited his house (rather big, could easily host a few families and gatherings) and walked towards his car (a 1994 Jaguar Coup, to be exact), he checked his pocket again for the note, the note that had asked him to come. It had looked quite earnest, and who was he to deny someone in need? The note said:
Roger Flamle,
Please, I beg of you. I need your help, badly. I beg of you, please come to the address of 13 Old Wood Drive, or it shall be the last day of someone's existence.
From,
A friend.
Roger must admit, as he stroked his snow white beard, the note was certainly authentic. There was even a drop in the corner of what he had examined to be tears, and the note looked like a suicide note, meaning he had to get there in time, or someone would die.
He put the peddle to the mettle, burning across the snow, and arrived at the given address in less than 10 minutes. The building seemed old, as if no one had lived there in a while, but he could see a light open. It was one of those small side-by-side houses you get on a a narrow street. There was still lichen on the roof tiles, even though it was winter. The door was unlocked. He suddenly felt an ominous feeling, coming through the door ,but he put it down to the cold air.Cautiously, he went in.
Again, it was all but empty. No furniture, no ornaments, nothing. There was a staircase in the corner, which most likely led to an equally empty upstairs. There was, however, one person in the house. In the bare living room, the person was sitting on the floor with their knees curled up to their chest, a cloak around them, so he couldn't tell if it was a man, or a girl. They saw Roger, their head still covered by the hood, and croaked, in a voice indistinguishable by gender: "You came."
There it was again. The ominous feeling, the chill at the back of his neck, the immense bad feeling was upon him again. But he didn't pay it mind. A mistake, so it was."Yes," Roger said as he bounded forward, and knelt by the hooded figure." Now, what is it."
The hooded figure held out a gloved hand. "Can I see the letter?"
Roger nodded, taking it out of his coat pocket and giving to the hooded figure. They held it in their hands, and studied it, with what appeared to be microscope glasses (very weird fashion accessory) and a small scanner, a blue laser bar going across the little slip of paper. "You touched it last, so it has your DNA on it. Hmm."
Suddenly, they moved in a flash, a knife against Roger's neck, and a transmitter like device in his hand, pressed to Roger's forehead. "Where is it?" They hissed.
"W-w-what are you talking about?!" Roger stammered.
"Don't play games with me. Drop the act. I can tell that you were the last person to touch it, and I could trace it, but make it easier on yourself, and I'll let you live.Where.is.the STONE?"
Roger's face relaxed, dropping all pretenses and theatrics. "Never gonna tell you. Any person who would demand something of another while they hold them at knife-point cannot be up to any good, eh? And you're just going to kill me either way, aren't ya? Even if I tell you, I still die, don't I?" The hooded figure hissed. The transmitter that was being held to Roger's head was meant to pick up brain wave patterns, meaning it was supposed to read Roger's thoughts, to find out where the item was. But Roger's mind was like a steel wall, no thoughts were being picked up by the transmitter except some choice words and insults that Roger had deigned satisfactory to pelt him with. The man's mind was focused so utterly that nothing he didn't want coming through would go through.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Roger continued, making sure that if these were his last words, he was gonna make them count. "So, I figure, why should I? Which means, basically, that I will help you when Hell freezes over. So good luck, lad. Oh, wait. No amount of luck in the world will help you find, use, and keep that stone. So, I'll just tell the devil to keep your space warm and ready for you."
In a fit of anger, the hooded figure stabbed Roger Flamle through his heart, leaving the neck. As he lay dying, Roger realized several things. One, the tear on the letter was a tear of joy, probably, because the hooded person thought that they would have achieved their goal. Two, the person that would have died today was not the person sending the letter, but the one receiving it. In other words, him. Three, he almost laughed at. He reeaally should have trusted his bad feeling today. Fourth, he probably just did his ancestors proud. A joyous last thought, as soon his body would fail him, his heart would stop beating, and Roger Flamle would live no longer. But, as he stealthily drew his hand up to his chest, took some blood, and began to write with it underneath him, he could still be of some use to someone else.
The hooded figure stood over Roger, panting, not noticing Roger's still moving hand, not noticing when Roger finally drew his last breath. In their anger, they couldn't notice anything, but their own heart, beating a tattoo, their eyes, seeing nothing but red and his goal, and their mind, which could think nothing but their goal. " I..will.. find.. that which I seek." The figure vowed. "And none of you can stop me! Whoever thinks they can.. YOU ARE WELCOME TO TRY! But who thinks that they can beat me?!"
And on that note/cue...
Here is the prologue for my novel, Baker's Detective Agency: Trial By Murder. i put it up on my blog on Punchwood, which those of you that are on it may already know (you know who you are). So, please read it and comment on it, tell me what to improve on, or just comment for the heck of it. Thanks!
***PROLOGUE***
Roger Flamle had a bad feeling when he left his house this morning.
It wasn't something he could explain, but he knew it, as sure as he had known his own name. As a still able bodied man of 78, with all of his hair intact in a buzz cut, Roger was skilled in several areas, including trusting his hunches. However, his senses had deteriorated over the years due to old age, so he decided to pass it off as the after effects of the root beer he had drank yesterday, at his grand daughter's birthday.At this age, just root beer was enough to upset his stomach, so he wasn't particularly concerned. He had pulled little Annie aside to give her his gift; a beautiful necklace with a deep red stone, very precious metal, set in it. He had told her: "This little gem has been in our family for generations, lass. My grandmother gave it to me, and now, at your fourteenth birthday, I'm giving it to you. Keep it safe for me, eh??" Annie's eyes were as wide as saucers, and she thanked her grandpa with all her heart, and promised that she would keep it safe. Her beaming face warmed Roger Flamle's heart, and was still keeping it toasty during the freezing cold of the winter. All the leaves on the trees were icicles, all the roof tiles were snow, and one could lie down and sleep in the blanket of snow covering the ground, if they wished to die of hypothermia.
As he exited his house (rather big, could easily host a few families and gatherings) and walked towards his car (a 1994 Jaguar Coup, to be exact), he checked his pocket again for the note, the note that had asked him to come. It had looked quite earnest, and who was he to deny someone in need? The note said:
Roger Flamle,
Please, I beg of you. I need your help, badly. I beg of you, please come to the address of 13 Old Wood Drive, or it shall be the last day of someone's existence.
From,
A friend.
Roger must admit, as he stroked his snow white beard, the note was certainly authentic. There was even a drop in the corner of what he had examined to be tears, and the note looked like a suicide note, meaning he had to get there in time, or someone would die.
He put the peddle to the mettle, burning across the snow, and arrived at the given address in less than 10 minutes. The building seemed old, as if no one had lived there in a while, but he could see a light open. It was one of those small side-by-side houses you get on a a narrow street. There was still lichen on the roof tiles, even though it was winter. The door was unlocked. He suddenly felt an ominous feeling, coming through the door ,but he put it down to the cold air.Cautiously, he went in.
Again, it was all but empty. No furniture, no ornaments, nothing. There was a staircase in the corner, which most likely led to an equally empty upstairs. There was, however, one person in the house. In the bare living room, the person was sitting on the floor with their knees curled up to their chest, a cloak around them, so he couldn't tell if it was a man, or a girl. They saw Roger, their head still covered by the hood, and croaked, in a voice indistinguishable by gender: "You came."
There it was again. The ominous feeling, the chill at the back of his neck, the immense bad feeling was upon him again. But he didn't pay it mind. A mistake, so it was."Yes," Roger said as he bounded forward, and knelt by the hooded figure." Now, what is it."
The hooded figure held out a gloved hand. "Can I see the letter?"
Roger nodded, taking it out of his coat pocket and giving to the hooded figure. They held it in their hands, and studied it, with what appeared to be microscope glasses (very weird fashion accessory) and a small scanner, a blue laser bar going across the little slip of paper. "You touched it last, so it has your DNA on it. Hmm."
Suddenly, they moved in a flash, a knife against Roger's neck, and a transmitter like device in his hand, pressed to Roger's forehead. "Where is it?" They hissed.
"W-w-what are you talking about?!" Roger stammered.
"Don't play games with me. Drop the act. I can tell that you were the last person to touch it, and I could trace it, but make it easier on yourself, and I'll let you live.Where.is.the STONE?"
Roger's face relaxed, dropping all pretenses and theatrics. "Never gonna tell you. Any person who would demand something of another while they hold them at knife-point cannot be up to any good, eh? And you're just going to kill me either way, aren't ya? Even if I tell you, I still die, don't I?" The hooded figure hissed. The transmitter that was being held to Roger's head was meant to pick up brain wave patterns, meaning it was supposed to read Roger's thoughts, to find out where the item was. But Roger's mind was like a steel wall, no thoughts were being picked up by the transmitter except some choice words and insults that Roger had deigned satisfactory to pelt him with. The man's mind was focused so utterly that nothing he didn't want coming through would go through.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Roger continued, making sure that if these were his last words, he was gonna make them count. "So, I figure, why should I? Which means, basically, that I will help you when Hell freezes over. So good luck, lad. Oh, wait. No amount of luck in the world will help you find, use, and keep that stone. So, I'll just tell the devil to keep your space warm and ready for you."
In a fit of anger, the hooded figure stabbed Roger Flamle through his heart, leaving the neck. As he lay dying, Roger realized several things. One, the tear on the letter was a tear of joy, probably, because the hooded person thought that they would have achieved their goal. Two, the person that would have died today was not the person sending the letter, but the one receiving it. In other words, him. Three, he almost laughed at. He reeaally should have trusted his bad feeling today. Fourth, he probably just did his ancestors proud. A joyous last thought, as soon his body would fail him, his heart would stop beating, and Roger Flamle would live no longer. But, as he stealthily drew his hand up to his chest, took some blood, and began to write with it underneath him, he could still be of some use to someone else.
The hooded figure stood over Roger, panting, not noticing Roger's still moving hand, not noticing when Roger finally drew his last breath. In their anger, they couldn't notice anything, but their own heart, beating a tattoo, their eyes, seeing nothing but red and his goal, and their mind, which could think nothing but their goal. " I..will.. find.. that which I seek." The figure vowed. "And none of you can stop me! Whoever thinks they can.. YOU ARE WELCOME TO TRY! But who thinks that they can beat me?!"
And on that note/cue...
13 March 2013
Alleyway Torture
Again and again the rough hands shoved her head forwards. Her face was numb but her eyes stung as the icy, salt water hit her, cascading down her drenched shirt as she was pulled to the surface. She no longer shivered, nor felt the scars searing her skin; they were past hurting but her whole body ached. Remembered and real pain were one.
Though her eyes were sealed closed, she knew there were two barrels and noone to hear her scream. Time blurred as hot water and cold water blistered her skin and softened the lacerations across her skin, tearing them open. They bled heavily, mixing water and blood in a foul concoction. Her lips burst too, spilling blood down her chin and across her face. She coughed, her clogged nose ripping and ending the vile chain reaction.
She gasped as the blood flowed down her throat, bile rising to meet it on its way down. The man slowed his rhythm as she retched and swore in a tongue she did not know. She growled back, copying the strange sounds so foreign to her before lurching forward and emptying the last of her food onto the concrete. The man laughed as she blinked at him in the dark.
He muttered something in her language, but his accent was thick and his arms moved to her stomach, forcing her to retch again. She emptied her stomach of bile too many times to count, until she could barely move. The man just laughed. She felt him lift her and set her down on a sterile bench, but noone came to heal her. The crack of the whip as it arched toward her was all the warning she received, a day later, that he was back.
A knife drew patterns up and down her arm and dangerously close to her eyes. The blood crusted on the lashes, sealing them closed, but the pain never ceased. Once a day stale bread was forced down her throat, and a cup of water was sloshed after it. It was all the kindness she received.
She ceased.
Though her eyes were sealed closed, she knew there were two barrels and noone to hear her scream. Time blurred as hot water and cold water blistered her skin and softened the lacerations across her skin, tearing them open. They bled heavily, mixing water and blood in a foul concoction. Her lips burst too, spilling blood down her chin and across her face. She coughed, her clogged nose ripping and ending the vile chain reaction.
She gasped as the blood flowed down her throat, bile rising to meet it on its way down. The man slowed his rhythm as she retched and swore in a tongue she did not know. She growled back, copying the strange sounds so foreign to her before lurching forward and emptying the last of her food onto the concrete. The man laughed as she blinked at him in the dark.
He muttered something in her language, but his accent was thick and his arms moved to her stomach, forcing her to retch again. She emptied her stomach of bile too many times to count, until she could barely move. The man just laughed. She felt him lift her and set her down on a sterile bench, but noone came to heal her. The crack of the whip as it arched toward her was all the warning she received, a day later, that he was back.
A knife drew patterns up and down her arm and dangerously close to her eyes. The blood crusted on the lashes, sealing them closed, but the pain never ceased. Once a day stale bread was forced down her throat, and a cup of water was sloshed after it. It was all the kindness she received.
She ceased.
10 March 2013
Mah Poem. (in a Texas drawl)
Noooo! Where's the Sarcasm Post??!!
Here is a poem I wrote last year. We were studying nuclear warfare, so I hope that explains it. I never gave it a name, just called it: "Nuclear Aftermath Poem,but here it goes:
Nuclear Aftermath Poem:
As the days go by,
People around me start to die,
Corpses fill my line of view, people pass away as I am telling this to you,
and soon I fear,
That I shall become one of them too.
As I lift myself from my possible grave,
I survey everything that could not be saved,
I crawl in vain, as the next blast reaches me,
And I lay there in agony,
as I wait for the pain to relinquish me.
Suddenly, I feel no pain,
And realize my time has come.
and I close my eyes one last time in relief,
and rise to go to my companions,
In Kingdom Come.
Hopefully my next piece of writing will be cheerier. ( In my defense, it is quite difficult to make anything cheery about nuclear warfare unless you're an evil psycho, so... it's the topics fault, I guess.)
Here is a poem I wrote last year. We were studying nuclear warfare, so I hope that explains it. I never gave it a name, just called it: "Nuclear Aftermath Poem,but here it goes:
Nuclear Aftermath Poem:
As the days go by,
People around me start to die,
Corpses fill my line of view, people pass away as I am telling this to you,
and soon I fear,
That I shall become one of them too.
As I lift myself from my possible grave,
I survey everything that could not be saved,
I crawl in vain, as the next blast reaches me,
And I lay there in agony,
as I wait for the pain to relinquish me.
Suddenly, I feel no pain,
And realize my time has come.
and I close my eyes one last time in relief,
and rise to go to my companions,
In Kingdom Come.
Hopefully my next piece of writing will be cheerier. ( In my defense, it is quite difficult to make anything cheery about nuclear warfare unless you're an evil psycho, so... it's the topics fault, I guess.)
I've been working on this for a few months
When space was invaded, you took up arm,
With quarters in hand, our protection from harm,
Humanity saved, then across streets frogs run,
How could such weird acts be so much fun?
Years later, you found yourself fighting on the street
With one last "Hadouken!", M. Bison was beat.
Fleeing from ghosts, as fast as you can,
You provided some nom's for your friend Pac Man.
Out of the arcades and into the home, you go.
The NES, Genesis, and Atari making it so.
Pixels on screen danced like fireflies,
Oh look, you've found yourself ten extra "guys".
You were king of the world, at least from where you sat,
And not a person in the world, could beat you in Kombat.
For years you had trained, to stomp turtles and such.
You tried RPGs, and enjoyed them very much.
Then the world shifted, a third dimension was here,
And a new tone of game, one that invoked fear.
Flesh eating dead and demons and gore,
Or settle back, play golf, holler out a "Fore!"
Your world was evolving, faster and faster,
It didn't matter, because you still were the master.
Playstation, Xbox, 64, and Dreamcast
While new, they still held the heart of your past.
Things kept growing exponentially, building on the old
The internet would make it better, or so you were told.
But then you heard people insulting each other.
Yelling and screaming, a beating, to bother.
You tried to wage war, with grenades and guns,
But people were acting like they should unclench their buns.
Casting magic and spells, you would get met with hate.
When did these games, make us act so second-rate?
Gaming used to be fun, you and friends goofing around.
It seemed as though everything was getting beating into the ground.
So you travel to forums and websites, to find like minded folk.
Discuss the past, the future, maybe even crack a joke.
And while you found some of those, who still had your heart.
It would seem that the hate was now always a part.
How you longed for those days when it wasn't about graphics,
Which system's better, or coming up with tactics.
It was all about fun, be it alone or together.
You can't help but wonder: are things really BETTER?
Well of course they are, the games are still worth it
Including return of an age-old friend, named Pit.
And even with opinions, your favorites beat upon.
You know in your heart, you'll just soldier on.
Even if you lose the game, you won't lose your cool.
Or you'll end up another childish fool.
So as you sit behind your glowing screens,
I hope you understand what this all means.
We're all gamers here, and we love what we do.
With all this in mind: What kind of gamer are you?
I just wanted to know what people think about this.
Maybe I shouldn't really do poems.
With quarters in hand, our protection from harm,
Humanity saved, then across streets frogs run,
How could such weird acts be so much fun?
Years later, you found yourself fighting on the street
With one last "Hadouken!", M. Bison was beat.
Fleeing from ghosts, as fast as you can,
You provided some nom's for your friend Pac Man.
Out of the arcades and into the home, you go.
The NES, Genesis, and Atari making it so.
Pixels on screen danced like fireflies,
Oh look, you've found yourself ten extra "guys".
You were king of the world, at least from where you sat,
And not a person in the world, could beat you in Kombat.
For years you had trained, to stomp turtles and such.
You tried RPGs, and enjoyed them very much.
Then the world shifted, a third dimension was here,
And a new tone of game, one that invoked fear.
Flesh eating dead and demons and gore,
Or settle back, play golf, holler out a "Fore!"
Your world was evolving, faster and faster,
It didn't matter, because you still were the master.
Playstation, Xbox, 64, and Dreamcast
While new, they still held the heart of your past.
Things kept growing exponentially, building on the old
The internet would make it better, or so you were told.
But then you heard people insulting each other.
Yelling and screaming, a beating, to bother.
You tried to wage war, with grenades and guns,
But people were acting like they should unclench their buns.
Casting magic and spells, you would get met with hate.
When did these games, make us act so second-rate?
Gaming used to be fun, you and friends goofing around.
It seemed as though everything was getting beating into the ground.
So you travel to forums and websites, to find like minded folk.
Discuss the past, the future, maybe even crack a joke.
And while you found some of those, who still had your heart.
It would seem that the hate was now always a part.
How you longed for those days when it wasn't about graphics,
Which system's better, or coming up with tactics.
It was all about fun, be it alone or together.
You can't help but wonder: are things really BETTER?
Well of course they are, the games are still worth it
Including return of an age-old friend, named Pit.
And even with opinions, your favorites beat upon.
You know in your heart, you'll just soldier on.
Even if you lose the game, you won't lose your cool.
Or you'll end up another childish fool.
So as you sit behind your glowing screens,
I hope you understand what this all means.
We're all gamers here, and we love what we do.
With all this in mind: What kind of gamer are you?
I just wanted to know what people think about this.
Maybe I shouldn't really do poems.
Poem: Killing a Mind
Just here to kick off the writing sharing then I'll step out of the spotlight :ooo
Killing a Mind
A thousand claws
On the inside
A thousand voices
In whom to confide
Terror's grip
More deadly than man
For what man can't do
Terror can
And when you worry
It's power will grow
And in that terror
A small seed they'll sow
That fear will drive you
To glory or pain
But glory is short
And pursued by rain
As you stand on the bridge
A thousand feet up
The calls of the people
Will fill glory's cup.
A thousand voices
On the inside
A thousand voices
In whom to confide.
But you're lost on the road
A path going nowhere
Your only guide
A map with a tear
And slowly your blundering
Will come to a stop
When the voices move in
To harvest their crop
A crop that was planted
In the seed of fear
And terror and wonder
At how you got here
When did the path
Become your home
And for how long
Have you been alone
A thousand claws
On the inside
A thousand voices
In whom to confide
But none are the voices
You needed to hear
To console you and comfort
And make your mind clear
Instead here you stand
Alone at the end
With naught but your terror
Of Death as your friend
Killing a Mind
A thousand claws
On the inside
A thousand voices
In whom to confide
Terror's grip
More deadly than man
For what man can't do
Terror can
And when you worry
It's power will grow
And in that terror
A small seed they'll sow
That fear will drive you
To glory or pain
But glory is short
And pursued by rain
As you stand on the bridge
A thousand feet up
The calls of the people
Will fill glory's cup.
A thousand voices
On the inside
A thousand voices
In whom to confide.
But you're lost on the road
A path going nowhere
Your only guide
A map with a tear
And slowly your blundering
Will come to a stop
When the voices move in
To harvest their crop
A crop that was planted
In the seed of fear
And terror and wonder
At how you got here
When did the path
Become your home
And for how long
Have you been alone
A thousand claws
On the inside
A thousand voices
In whom to confide
But none are the voices
You needed to hear
To console you and comfort
And make your mind clear
Instead here you stand
Alone at the end
With naught but your terror
Of Death as your friend
8 March 2013
Adding Contributors!
Today this blog was shared with and opened to members of the Roskillian Writers' Club! Thankfully it was welcomed kindly, and was even blessed with a Draft "Writing 101" post consisting of anti-rules and Bohemian Rhapsody lyrics. In general I felt we were all okay with the look of the blog, but if anyone has any suggestions feel free to comment.
Anywho...
Since it has been seen and accepted in its current state, I was able to send out email invitations to those who noted themselves down on the contributors list. Hopefully we'll be seeing a whole stack of writing piling up from you people soon. The idea so far is that anyone can post anything as long as it is relevant to writing, the writers' club or works of writing in general.
So enjoy, new contributors! Post as you will! ^_^
Anywho...
Since it has been seen and accepted in its current state, I was able to send out email invitations to those who noted themselves down on the contributors list. Hopefully we'll be seeing a whole stack of writing piling up from you people soon. The idea so far is that anyone can post anything as long as it is relevant to writing, the writers' club or works of writing in general.
So enjoy, new contributors! Post as you will! ^_^
5 March 2013
Writing Prompt 1/03/13
!~Unfortunately I could only track down one of the two pictures we were presented with.~!3rd Meeting Prompts
Working On: Character Developement.
Task: Develop a character from these pictures.
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