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Literature
Reel Terror Preview
Reel Terror
Written by Brandon Leclair
Part 1: Crazy Uncle Istvan
There is a quality that silent films have which is impossible to capture in the digital era.  Committing images to Nitrocellulose was like leaving a sepia toned relief of the soul, like conducting the ghosts of the period into a choreographed dance of pirouetting projector spools, preserving the director's vision of the times, leaving the artist's dreams congealed in feverish amber light. For cinema enthusiasts like myself, the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer film vault fire was a bigger tragedy than the burning of the Library of Alexandria, and the intentional destruction of “unmarketable” silent films that were too costly to store was nothing short of wholesale genocide on the part of the film companies, who would rather commit their own poor guncotton children to the landfill than find a home for them.
Whenever a rumour surfaces that any such historical film has been unearthed (be it either salvaged from a landfi
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Grim Cat Switch Axe (Axe Mode) by Taiomah Grim Cat Switch Axe (Axe Mode) :icontaiomah:Taiomah 11 3 Grim Cat Sword Mode by Taiomah Grim Cat Sword Mode :icontaiomah:Taiomah 27 20
Literature
The Morning Artist
My Eyes made her beautiful
I painted the morning light on her pale skin as the blood of wakefulness flushed in her cheeks
I parted her lips and breathed out from her the first kiss of morning
And I was the warmth that filled her as she stretched, drawing over the delicate curves of her naked shape
And I brought the blush to her freckled shoulders, and that light to her eyes, as though sleep was longer than she could stand to be apart
And I was the happiness in her smile and her security in my embrace and the softness in her breath against my neck
And when she asked for forever I promised it to her
Even now that I am nothing
:iconTaiomah:Taiomah
:icontaiomah:Taiomah 2 2
He Who Fights With Monsters by Taiomah He Who Fights With Monsters :icontaiomah:Taiomah 1 7 The Telescopic Sassacrusher by Taiomah The Telescopic Sassacrusher :icontaiomah:Taiomah 5 7 Bibbles On Guitar by Taiomah Bibbles On Guitar :icontaiomah:Taiomah 2 0 Bibbles On A Stump by Taiomah Bibbles On A Stump :icontaiomah:Taiomah 4 8
Literature
After So Long
Even if there were a language with a thousand words for beauty, nothing would sound as good as simply hearing your name.
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Rough Love by Taiomah Rough Love :icontaiomah:Taiomah 2 4 Society by Taiomah Society :icontaiomah:Taiomah 0 0

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Part 1: Insomnia

The entirety of the human experience has been saved and tucked away on a hard drive buried under a desert of smouldering silicon waste. Even those facets which we scorned to witness- those cul-de-sacs of disquieting mental condition that we used to mitigate to asylums to avoid the horrors of reflecting upon- have wormed their way into the cracks in the foundation of the information superhighway. This is why lately I haven't been able to sleep until the first breath of morning casts my room in cold silver light- because a dark curiosity compelled me to lay bare the hidden secrets of the Deep Web, and paradoxically I am too afraid to turn back to my monitor to face the wretched worms I've unearthed, yet too afraid of the dark to let my computer sleep and starve me of its unnatural light.

It was several weeks ago that a harsh, irritating ringing in my ears kept me from sleep, and a soreness behind my eyes made it unbearable to lay my head down. On nights like that I normally swallowed altogether too many painkillers in an attempt to force myself into a drugged sleep, whereupon I would wake in the morning feeling only half alive, like a premature burial pulled from the earth after a neurotic grave-keeper heard the sonorous ring of my snoring resonating from my twin-sized coffin.

On that night, thanks to my overly lucrative consumption of over-the-counter medicine, I found my stock of sleeping aids deplenished, with only a double dosage of caffeine pills left in the mirrored bathroom cabinet. After briefly weighing the options of pulling a nightlong session or attempting to sleep without the assistance of painkillers, I downed the caffeine tablets with the remainder of the energy drink that I had left out for God knows how long.

Resolving to do myself a much-needed favour and find an alternative product to help me sleep at night, I flipped my laptop open, rousing it from its own slumber. Compared to the rest of the dimly lit single-bedroom apartment (the ceiling light had been pulled out, wires dangling carelessly, leaving a single table lamp as my only other light source) the cobalt light of my screen background was strident and severe on my aching eyes.

It normally took a long time for my age-weary laptop to boot up, but this time it seemed endless, the loading icon flashing mockingly at me as an uncomfortable sweat formed on my brow. After what could have been half an hour, I finally managed to force my browser open, just in time for my combined caffeine and sugar rush to take hold. I immediately got to researching solutions- something to fix my old college conditioning of rejecting sleep when I needed it most, only to experience living death when I needed to stir myself awake.

The sleep deprived brain excels at misproportioning things. In this instance I had managed to convince myself that not only was the solution to my problem a chemical one (that is, indulging in more chemicals rather than attempting to fix my unhealthy habits with a regiment of healthy food and exercise) but that it required me to obtain a more drastic compound than what was available over the counter.

My preliminary search results only came up with a series of homoeopathic remedies- teas and brews promising energy, awareness, and virility. My first promising search result came in the form of an experimental drug- the kind marketed to students on fliers and posters around campus when exam time was making its dread approach. The drug, called Stimbien, was (according to the host website at least) proven to induce periods of enhanced wakefulness and concentration while the user was exposed to UVB rays during the day, and act as a soporific otherwise.

Unable to find testimonials on the product's own website, I navigated to a separate forum, where I authored a post enquiring as to whether there were firsthand accounts of Stimbien's effectiveness. Within only minutes replies flooded in, lauding the drug's ability to turn lives around, followed almost immediately with people bemoaning that the drug was no longer available commercially. By that point I was already too intrigued to let this pursuit go, so I tried to get a response as to whether the drug were still being held or manufactured anywhere. At this second enquiry, however, the up until that point enthusiastic commenters fell silent. Before I could become discouraged enough by their hesitation to move on to another solution, I received a private message from an anonymous user, detailing instructions for the acquisition of said Stimbien.

The compound was not available for sale offline, thanks to an incident where large quantities of it were discovered to have been smuggled south of the border by the volition of a drug ring, as Stimbien quickly became a popular compound to cut cocaine with. The drug's rejuvenating effects fostered a dependance on it when consumed via insufflation. Quantities of confiscated Stimbien, however, made their way back into circulation, surfacing in private shops, accessible only on the Dark Web.

I'll admit that when I first learned about the Dark Web I was beyond excited. The internet as the general population knows it only contains a minor fraction of the content accessible online. Conventional browsers and search engines can only access what has been officially catalogued and indexed, which is to say, they only skim the surface of the web's inky depths. For someone such as myself (that being a product of a generation that traded away goals and aspirations for the ability to ingest a constant, seamless flow of distractions as relief from the horrifying burden of introspection) the possibility of exploring an even larger expanse of inane information and hour-consuming trivialities aroused my enquiring mind in a way I'd not experienced since my college education swaddled and tucked it away behind a skein of safe spaces and cynicism.

In order to access the Dark Web, I would first need to download a specialized browser capable of connecting to those unindexed webpages, collectively known as the Deep Web (of these unindexed Deep Web pages, the Dark Web refers to the portion which is intentionally hidden away due to the illicit nature of their contents). All of the Deep Web browsing resources I found on offer had fittingly stygian and mysterious names. The one I settled on was simply titled “The Abyss Network.” The program had a rich deep grey background, which coupled with its mix of bone white and sanguine red text made it abnormally inviting. Topping off the layout was a perpetually displayed header that proclaimed the client's sole privacy statement: “In The Abyss, no one will know who you are.”

As I was about to be drawn in by the insidious siren call of the black browser, the first symptoms of caffeine crash bluntly reminded me of my initial purpose. Reconsulting the anonymous message I received, I navigated to the domain recommended to me by that mysterious benefactor, which hosted a self-proclaimed private online drugstore by the name of “Mind Candy.”

As though I were expected, I was greeted with a flashing image that guaranteed the site still carried Stimbien despite the apparent worldwide shortage thereof. Selecting the image, however, simply brought me to a storefront where the list of goods was displayed in full. I couldn't help but feel this deceit was intentional, likely a way to boast their selection of assertedly pure and powerful narcotics. The shapes and colours of those pills must have been designed to psychologically induce feelings of cravings by merit of their appearance alone, presumably to entrap some perusing tire-kickers' curious appetites as they scrolled by them. In the state I was in, I was unequivocally  susceptible to such subliminal sales tactics.

Despite the admittedly seedy nature of the store and its contents, it was only when I located the listing for Stimbien and opened the online order form for it that I noticed something amiss. Where there should have been an amount displayed in dollars, there was only a single digital character- an outline of an octagonal coin encircling a capital letter S. Hovering over the symbol only awarded me with a tooltip prompting me to utilize this payment method.

Baffled, I temporarily lifted my head out of the Dark Web's waters. That octagonal symbol left an impression on me, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I was somehow familiar with it. A quick search for the symbol's description on the Clearnet revealed that it was the logo for an online payment system- a kind of digital currency built for private traders on the internet, which operated under the name “Salt.”

Suddenly, that vague sense of familiarity turned into a realization. Years ago, having been a fan of Orwellian science fiction (although profoundly missing the point), the little renegade that I was decided to invest in such crypto-currencies, purchasing a small sum of each individual type of coin on offer. The idea of owning a digital credit chit made these online currencies something like wish fulfilment for me, as fantasies rave-danced in my younger self's head, of living in a dystopian future, armed only with tech savviness and a deep wallet of decentralized, untraceable cyber-currency as my arsenal in my protagonal plight against the overbearing dictatorship-du-jour.

What I found when I logged in to the service shocked me. When I first purchased a small amount of Salt currency (which, I thought, was cleverly measured in units of weight to give a better sense of impact to the value of quantities of it) I initially only procured a single pound of it, or the equivalent of ten dollars worth back then. However, thanks to its worth as an anonymous method of transacting, the criminal elements picked up on it almost immediately, causing the crypto-currency to skyrocket in value. When I checked my account, somehow thanks to a combination of its sudden unchecked inflation, combated by an increase in value and a convenient rewards program for early adopters such as myself in the form of growing interest, I was now staring at a dozen tons of Salt, with the equivalent value of over ten-thousand dollars.

I had suddenly found myself holding what I felt at the time was an unlimited supply of wealth (wealth that could only be spent online, mind you) and I had no patience not to start exploiting it. I hurried back to The Abyss and opened Mind Candy's ordering form, filling out a purchase for several dozen grams of Stimbien. In my combined excitement and sleep-deprivation, however, I neglected to take any precautions which would have, in hindsight, been necessary to protect my identity. Having the order shipped to a local post office, or even arranging a clandestine rendezvous would have been a more reasonable course of action than what I did, which was giving the seller the address of my apartment complex, for the no doubt seedy package to be delivered right to my front door.

When I did sleep, my dreams were typically either fetid nightmares or the basest and crudest wish fulfilment. My dreams that morning, however, were vibrant and frenetic. My starved mind constructed visions to satisfy its cravings for distraction. For the first time in forever I ran, though I hardly had lungs with which to breathe. For the first time in forever I read a stack of novels, until the friction of the words burned my eyes. I breathed in the very vapours of vitality while expelling the condensation of anticipation. I wiggled my toes until the bell above my grave rang off the hook. I was ready to wake up from death.
The Dark Web Preview
My second book titled The Dark Web is finally out and available for purchase

This is a preview of the first chapter of the book

Read/Buy it Here:

www.amazon.ca/dp/B06XZ5X13C

Also please check out the gallery of the lovely
:iconsmudgethistle:
She's the one who did the cover art for this story
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My second book, titled The Dark Web is now out and available for purchase 

It's up on amazon for those of you interested in reading it. 

www.amazon.ca/dp/B06XZ5X13C

I'll be posting a little preview to my gallery, so look out for that

Also please check out the gallery of the lovely
:iconsmudgethistle:
She's the one who did the cover art for this story
Reel Terror

Written by Brandon Leclair

Part 1: Crazy Uncle Istvan

There is a quality that silent films have which is impossible to capture in the digital era.  Committing images to Nitrocellulose was like leaving a sepia toned relief of the soul, like conducting the ghosts of the period into a choreographed dance of pirouetting projector spools, preserving the director's vision of the times, leaving the artist's dreams congealed in feverish amber light. For cinema enthusiasts like myself, the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer film vault fire was a bigger tragedy than the burning of the Library of Alexandria, and the intentional destruction of “unmarketable” silent films that were too costly to store was nothing short of wholesale genocide on the part of the film companies, who would rather commit their own poor guncotton children to the landfill than find a home for them.

Whenever a rumour surfaces that any such historical film has been unearthed (be it either salvaged from a landfill's foul undertow or found ungracefully ageing in a private collector’s cellar), a host of amateur cinema sleuths (myself counted among their number) can be relied upon to investigate in hopes of extracting such a lost treasure from its charnel house, for the public to revere it once again. This being the case, when my uncle Steve provided me with an anonymous tip (he called it anonymous, although he imprudently betrayed his privacy by encrypting the message using his and my own private system) as to the existence of a cache of lost films, I could hardly contain my rash excitement, gathering my fellow film aficionado and the most adventurous of my cohorts, one Susan Landis-Welles, in order to seek my uncle's counsel immediately.

Although being dragged through the familiar mossed-over railyards of eerily calm and scenic Poughkeepsie, New York, was hardly her idea of an adventure, Sue was always enthused to visit my eccentric uncle in his trailer tucked away under the wooded canopies. My hermetic uncle Steve had the uncanny ability to make you just the right kind of uncomfortable to form fond memories of your time together, granted you were the type of person who could spurn halcyon small town days in favour of an  unhealthy exposure to the singular interests of a man consumed by ravenous popular culture.

Sue tripping over the gutted remains of a discarded barbeque was the sign that we were entering uncle Steve's territory. Like a wild animal marking its turf (and yet somehow managing to remain hidden from Poughkeepsie authorities despite syphoning all his utilities), uncle Steve had carved himself an expanse in the woodlot near the derelict train tracks on the outskirts of town, trimming the place with skeletons of lawn chairs, out-of-season seasonal decorations, discarded garden gnomes, and other miscellaneous kitsch memorabilia. At the very back of the clearing, practically built in to the forest wall, was his trailer, with an archaic projector perpetually focused on the broad white face of it.

Upon our approach, likely in response to the sound of us stepping onto (or, more accurately, stumbing over) what could be considered the trailer's porch, the slide to a metal peephole skated open, and a voice that sounded like it decided to forgo smoking and just eat the cigarettes altogether, echoed from just beyond.

“Password.”

It was more of a demand than a question. I checked the date on my watch and quickly responded, “My bones are tin, and my blood is nitrate.”

“Is it October already?” the voice from within mused, barely audible under the sound of a multitude of clicking locks.

Finally, the door slid open to the right, revealing my uncle from the nose down. His lanky figure, like that of a smaller man that had been stretched out like taffy, caused him to just barely loom above the door frame, his eyes comically out of sight.

“Are you ready to cross the threshold of sanity once again kiddos?” He crouched down to greet us, indicating the door frame at his feet with a sweeping motion, the threshold of sanity as it were.

“How are you, Uncle Steve?” Sue greeted him first. Everyone among my friends referred to my uncle as though he were their own family.

“That's Crazy Uncle Istvan to you, miss!”

Pushing aside various obstructive beaded curtains, and duct-taped boxes of movie paraphernalia, Uncle Steve led us through the single narrow corridor of his trailer, into what I suppose he would call his home theatre, which was actually set up in what was originally the trailer's kitchen. Against the wall was pressed a refurbished (by some loose definitions of the word) sofa, opposite a grid of CRT television screens nestled in a tangled web of wires, protruding with a mess of antennae. Makeshift shelves stored an unorganized slew of VCRs, each of which was adorned with a valuable replica or statuette from about any horror franchise you could name (I spotted each of the dolls from Puppetmaster, and at least three bloody hockey masks on stands), all out-of-package and caked with admiring fingerprints. All at once, the sight would make an avid collector of movie merchandise envious and disgusted, stifling their cringes and winces at the disregard for the trade value of such items.

The entire trailer interior was a monument to an era of film entertainment that I'm sure some professor would decry as the death of cinema as an art form. However, despite my half-decade of film school conditioning me to elevate the medium as a second intellectual renaissance, my heart still remained with my upbringing in exploitation horror films, a passion which was cultivated by my Crazy Uncle Steve. Under his watchful eye I witnessed my first pair of breasts, during a six part marathon of the prolific Night of the Living Co-Eds series of slasher flicks.

“You kids came at just the right time to give me a hand with something,” my uncle began rambling, rifling through a re-purposed shopping cart full of old VHS tapes, “I think I've almost gotten to the bottom of the true identity of this Alan Smithee character. Do you two have any idea how many films this fellow has directed? And over so many decades...”

I didn't have the heart to break it to him that he was chasing after a pseudonym, so instead I inquired about his message.

“Actually, Uncle Steve, we're here about that note you sent.” Upon hearing me bring it up, my uncle froze, still hunched over his collection of films. There was a long pause, one that I had a feeling he wasn't going to willingly end, so I continued, “Did you really find a stockpile of old film reels? I'm surprised you didn't immediately invite me to crack it open and haul them back here.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” my uncle sidled over to the window to drop down the blinds, peering nervously in between a small opening where they had gotten tangled in their own chord.
There was a beleaguered expression on my uncle's face that I hadn't seen since we decided to sit through all four of the horrendously vile Trolls and Goblins series of schlock films.

“Why else would you have sent me that note?” The only way I was ever able to get anything out of my uncle while he was in his paranoid state was to corner him until he broke down either in admiration of my tenacity, or in realization that he couldn't move the goal-post any further back. “I know it's you who sent me that message. The encryption we worked on is water-tight, you said so yourself, one-hundred percent uncompromisable.”

“I was really hoping you'd have let that letter remain anonymous,” my uncle sighed, defeated, “It was only supposed to be a hint to push you in the right direction, but I should have known you better, you're too inquisitive for my own good,” he gave a sarcastic laugh, collapsing on to the couch in exaggerated slow motion before continuing, “Alright, I'll let you two pick my brain to your heart's content.”

“You almost sound reluctant to tell us anything,” comically understating the facts was a strong suit of Sue's, “Why would you bother sending us such a cryptic tip if you didn't want us to follow up on it?”

“Well, to tell you kids the truth,” my uncle paused, his eyes wandering without him moving his neck in the slightest, as if seeking a teleprompter's support, “Initially, I was unsure whether or not what I'd found was genuine. I mean, a collection of film reels older than the building they were stashed away in, somebody must have moved them there as a bundle, so somebody must know that they're there. And that got me thinking, maybe these were left there on purpose.”

Uncle Steve paused to examine both mine and Sue's obvious confusion, “It may have just been my old nerves, but something didn't sit well with me when I looked over those reels. They were almost all silent films, and not just local ones. There were French ones, German ones, Swedish ones, all that kind of hokey stuff you academic types are enamoured with, which is why I thought I would do you the courtesy of letting you in on the discovery. But, you see, when I first sent you that note, I wasn't sure as to whether or not I wanted to trifle with these tapes any further myself.

“Because of the way those films...” another pause, this time completely still, as my uncle tried to find the right words, “Haunted me. The way they haunted me for even looking upon them, I know for sure now that I want no further involvement in this. You see, I was scared of what I'd found. Those film tins carry far more personality than objects ever should. Of course, your generation is far less superstitious than mine, so I doubt I'd be able to keep you from poking your nose into this with or without my help. So, the least I can do is make sure you two are prepared.”

My uncle concluded his rant by flipping the top of his coffee table over, revealing a tourist's map of the greater Poughkeepsie area that had been pinned to the underside. The map was marked with several key locations- a small star marked off our current position, which was accompanied by spots circled in blue indicating places to syphon electricity from (in rotation, so no one location would become suspicious and catch on to his mooching utilities), establishments boxed off in green to indicate that the proprietors of those shops or restaurants were most likely aliens, or at least reptilians, black crosses over every video store in town, and finally a single red question mark on an out-of-the-way spot of no immediately apparent importance some way down the train tracks from my uncle's trailer.

“Now I'm only going to ask you this once,” anyone who didn't know my uncle better could have sworn that the seriousness in his voice was simply a charade, “Are you two absolutely certain that you want to investigate these film reels?”

Clearly something had deeply disturbed my Uncle Steve. Whether it was the onset of senility causing his paranoia, or something less tangible, I had to find out. My goal then became not only finding the films, but also setting my uncle's mind at ease.

“Of course,” I nodded, “If there's a chance that even one of the reels you stumbled upon is a film that's supposed to have been lost or destroyed, then it'll be a huge discovery,” Placing a hand comfortingly on my uncle's back I urged him on again, “So where did you find them?”

With a deeply ridged finger my uncle traced a line down the train tracks of the flat 1:1000 Poughskeepie before us, “Quite a while before you two were born, the railroad tracks were still being extended into the state forest. Back then not every single standing structure in Poughkeepsie was an official historical landmark, so occasionally an old university building or two that was in the way of development would be torn down. Now, one building on the forest's edge was sitting right where they planned on rebuilding the Metro Train Station.”

His finger finally made its way down to the red question mark on the map, and he continued, “This was the Hudson Memorial Library, which went up back in the fifties. Now when some old alumni found out that the library was set to be demolished, they tried having it named a historical landmark. The only thing the rail company could do at that point, if they wanted to use the land, was have the building condemned as a safety hazard, which they did, albeit through some pretty illicit means. They set fire to the interior.”

Part of me wondered if any of this were grounded in reality, or if it was just an elaborate fantasy that my uncle constructed to give some kind of history to an old husk of a building he found along the tracks.

“Now when it came to finishing the job and tearing the rest of the library down,” by this point I finally noticed that my my uncle had been gradually leaning in to us and lowering his voice, “there were so many accidents reported, that eventually even the construction crew wouldn't go near the place. The rail company ruled that it was far too big a hassle to use that location for the new train station after all, and the remains of the Hudson Memorial Library were abandoned, to eventually be reclaimed by the surrounding forest. Now all you see from the tracks when you go by is a wall of overgrowth, perfectly masquerading the old husk as a natural rock formation. That's where I found the old film reels- in the storage cellar connected to the projector room in that old dead building.”

My uncle let us borrow his Poughkeepsie tourist map for our expedition and, satisfied with our intel and equipment, we did our best to leave early and hang on to the midday light for as long as the journey would allow.

“Now I want you kids to be careful, keep your wits about you” my uncle sent us off with one final apprehension, “You need to be prepared for anything when visiting a stranger's home.”
Reel Terror Preview
A free preview of my book Reel Terror, available now on Amazon

www.amazon.com/dp/B01MDJ9KBY

Cover art done by the lovely

:iconsmudgethistle:

Please check out her gallery

You can see the full version of the cover here

smudgethistle.deviantart.com/a…
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Finally decided to put a book out. It's a spooky short story for the Halloween season.

It's up on amazon for those of you interested in reading it. 

www.amazon.ca/dp/B01MDJ9KBY

I'll be posting a little preview to my gallery, so look out for that

Also please check out the gallery of the lovely
:iconsmudgethistle:
She's the one who did the cover art for this story

deviantID

Taiomah
Brandon Taiomah Bear-Leclair
Artist | Literature
Canada
Interests
Finally decided to put a book out. It's a spooky short story for the Halloween season.

It's up on amazon for those of you interested in reading it. 

www.amazon.ca/dp/B01MDJ9KBY

I'll be posting a little preview to my gallery, so look out for that

Also please check out the gallery of the lovely
:iconsmudgethistle:
She's the one who did the cover art for this story

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:iconomegachaino:
Omegachaino Featured By Owner Oct 1, 2016
heeey thanks for the watch, greetings =D
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:iconduckinson:
duckinson Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the support man :) really appreciate it!
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fan-heart Featured By Owner Apr 11, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
thanks for the watch <3  
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:icontaiomah:
Taiomah Featured By Owner Apr 11, 2014   Writer
No prawb
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:icontheresahelmer:
theresahelmer Featured By Owner Nov 27, 2013  Professional Photographer
Thank you so much for adding me to your watch list, i am utterly flattered :heart: ~Theresa
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:iconsmudgethistle:
SmudgeThistle Featured By Owner Nov 24, 2013  Hobbyist
Thank you very much for the favorite on my Doctor Who drawing, "RUN!!"! :D 
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:iconyarnheart:
YarnHeart Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for the favourite!
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:icontaiomah:
Taiomah Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2013   Writer
You're welcome! You looked like you were having a lot of fun.
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:iconyarnheart:
YarnHeart Featured By Owner Jul 30, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
I was! It took three tries, but we got it.
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Horace-Bulregard Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2013  Professional General Artist
Thank you kindly for the favourite. ^^
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