Picnik

I've been a bit obsessed with picnik recently. I just think it's awesome. (If you don't know what it is, it's a free picture editting website: Link ) 2 of the things I made are below
Don't Blink:


I also made a cover for this fanfic: The Pandorica Seen Through Time

That's awesome! I had a go;

I got this;


From this;



And this;



From this!

I done another one. Sort of inspired by KoolKidPaige's Morgana one.



from

wow........

I couldn't help but notice that Annie hasn't got a pic for Dhanpiris on her website yet, and I wanted an excuse to procrastinate on my homework, so I have a few suggestions...







Just a few ideas! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm very behind on my homework...

I'm on a ROLL now! Type 2.5; didn't come out as well as I'd hoped, but... i used these two;

and

To get;

This one sort of failed, but here is Lancelot du Lac (the latest episode of Merlin):

Here's a Young Dracula edit.
I got this:

from this:

I likez that one...

A quick YD one with 2 variants.
1)
2)

from this:

Nom.

That's actually adorable

Nameless Child wrote:FYI: All Picnik Premium features are now free until the site closes down on 19th April

i was just about to post that
and i did these

kira wrote:

Nameless Child wrote:FYI: All Picnik Premium features are now free until the site closes down on 19th April

i was just about to post that
and i did these

Awesome

Wait! Why is the site closing?

koolkidpaige wrote:Wait! Why is the site closing?

dunno

kira wrote:

koolkidpaige wrote:Wait! Why is the site closing?

dunno

apparently they're "moving to Google+" whatever that means.

and

became:


Also, everyone's favourite maniac:

Please, someone tell me I'm not the only one to just notice this but this picture made me realise that David TENnant played the TENth doctor. It was meant to be!!!



But right now I'm feeling very silly for only just noticing.
This is just like the time about a year ago when I realised that 'kanga' and 'roo' (the characters from Winnie the pooh) together made 'kangaroo'. My friends never let me live that one down.

Just playing around with a mixture of picnik and powerpoint...



from

and

Spoiler:

dont look unless u have seen the last episode of being human big spoiler

I randomly thought i'd have a go at this:

(I also have a version which is the same but without the text.)

from


P.S. Imma be watching Sea Wall when I'm in Berlin (Sat - Tues) so I'll review it afterwards.

EDIT: I'm not going to be doing that because for some reason it won't sync to my iPod. I will watch it some time in half term though. Hopefully.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^epicness^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I did this, then decided to write a short little fanfic to go with it. Putting it in a spoiler box so as not to clog up the whole screen;

Spoiler:

The first time Jim Moriarty killed a man, it had been an accident.
He was fourteen at the time, and he'd been cultivating a dangerous habit for three years. At least once a week, he'd sneak out of the house, and find something to burn.

Jim Moriarty was a serial arsonist.

He didn't like the term, personally. It made him sound like he had some kind of condition. Maybe he did, but it wasn't fire he was addicted to.

It was danger.

Or, more accurately, the feelings brought on by danger.

You see, Jim Moriarty had understood for a long time that he was different. Because he had an uncanny ability to know things. Some people called it amazing, what he could do. Incredible. Brilliant.

But Jim Moriarty didn't see it that way.

It wasn't amazing, or incredible, or brilliant, or even astonishing.

It was hard.

It was hard to know the punchline to every joke before it was said. Hard, to know the secrets behind the magic tricks which fascinated all of his peers. Hard, to sit through endless lessons of the same work which he had understood the first time around, but which was being revisited to help the other students who couldn't grasp the simple concept. To know how anybody would react to anything, because really, aren't normal people just so predictable?

It was hard. And by the time he was eleven, Jim Moriarty felt numb. Nothing surprised him, because he saw it all coming miles beforehand. Emotions in general were weak and washed out, because everything was so pointlessly dull.

So he'd started a fire.

Fires were wonderful, in Jim's mind. So chaotic and changeable and so gloriously unpredictable. This first fire had spread further than he had expected, to his delight. A passerby had seen. Police had been called, and Jim had run from them.

And after he'd escaped, a rush of feeling hit him. Adrenalin, possibly, but also fear and excitement so intense that it made him jittery.

For the first time in his life, Jim Moriarty could truly feel.

And he loved it.

And ever since that first time, he'd kept going back for more.

The fires had escalated, as he'd grown. From a few twigs and leaves in the woods near his home, to full trees, to entire fields. He'd treated himself to an old barn full of straw on his fourteenth birthday.

And soon, he found another. He set it alight with practiced ease, sitting back to watch the show and wait for the authorities.

Then he heard the shouts.

There was somebody trapped inside the barn.

He knew that there was no way that the doors would open - the heat would already have caused the metal hinges to warp and twist out of shape. Breaking a wall was out of the question too - the whole barn would collapse, tenuously balanced as it was. There were no windows.

Jim knew, by now, that whoever was trapped was as good as dead. That fact was proven seconds later, when, with a groaning splintering sound, the roof caved in.

The screaming stopped abruptly.

He simply stood and walked away. The sirens were further off than they usually were when he left a fire, but this was no ordinary night.

He made sure that his trail was unidentifiable - almost a reflex now, he was so used to it.

As he walked, he catalogued the sweet rush of concentrated feelings surging through him. They seemed so much more powerful than usual - it was exhilarating. A smile grew on his face, and he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, basking in the pure, unadulterated sensation. There was a new one now, too. Sharper than the others. Slightly bitter and twisting like a snake as it coiled through him. He wasn't sure what it could be, unfamiliar with emotions as he was, but it was a small price to pay for the concentrated burn of chaotic feeling shooting through him.

Jim Moriarty had just killed a man.

And he felt more alive than ever before.

koolkidpaige wrote:

I did this, then decided to write a short little fanfic to go with it. Putting it in a spoiler box so as not to clog up the whole screen;

Spoiler:

The first time Jim Moriarty killed a man, it had been an accident.
He was fourteen at the time, and he'd been cultivating a dangerous habit for three years. At least once a week, he'd sneak out of the house, and find something to burn.

Jim Moriarty was a serial arsonist.

He didn't like the term, personally. It made him sound like he had some kind of condition. Maybe he did, but it wasn't fire he was addicted to.

It was danger.

Or, more accurately, the feelings brought on by danger.

You see, Jim Moriarty had understood for a long time that he was different. Because he had an uncanny ability to know things. Some people called it amazing, what he could do. Incredible. Brilliant.

But Jim Moriarty didn't see it that way.

It wasn't amazing, or incredible, or brilliant, or even astonishing.

It was hard.

It was hard to know the punchline to every joke before it was said. Hard, to know the secrets behind the magic tricks which fascinated all of his peers. Hard, to sit through endless lessons of the same work which he had understood the first time around, but which was being revisited to help the other students who couldn't grasp the simple concept. To know how anybody would react to anything, because really, aren't normal people just so predictable?

It was hard. And by the time he was eleven, Jim Moriarty felt numb. Nothing surprised him, because he saw it all coming miles beforehand. Emotions in general were weak and washed out, because everything was so pointlessly dull.

So he'd started a fire.

Fires were wonderful, in Jim's mind. So chaotic and changeable and so gloriously unpredictable. This first fire had spread further than he had expected, to his delight. A passerby had seen. Police had been called, and Jim had run from them.

And after he'd escaped, a rush of feeling hit him. Adrenalin, possibly, but also fear and excitement so intense that it made him jittery.

For the first time in his life, Jim Moriarty could truly feel.

And he loved it.

And ever since that first time, he'd kept going back for more.

The fires had escalated, as he'd grown. From a few twigs and leaves in the woods near his home, to full trees, to entire fields. He'd treated himself to an old barn full of straw on his fourteenth birthday.

And soon, he found another. He set it alight with practiced ease, sitting back to watch the show and wait for the authorities.

Then he heard the shouts.

There was somebody trapped inside the barn.

He knew that there was no way that the doors would open - the heat would already have caused the metal hinges to warp and twist out of shape. Breaking a wall was out of the question too - the whole barn would collapse, tenuously balanced as it was. There were no windows.

Jim knew, by now, that whoever was trapped was as good as dead. That fact was proven seconds later, when, with a groaning splintering sound, the roof caved in.

The screaming stopped abruptly.

He simply stood and walked away. The sirens were further off than they usually were when he left a fire, but this was no ordinary night.

He made sure that his trail was unidentifiable - almost a reflex now, he was so used to it.

As he walked, he catalogued the sweet rush of concentrated feelings surging through him. They seemed so much more powerful than usual - it was exhilarating. A smile grew on his face, and he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, basking in the pure, unadulterated sensation. There was a new one now, too. Sharper than the others. Slightly bitter and twisting like a snake as it coiled through him. He wasn't sure what it could be, unfamiliar with emotions as he was, but it was a small price to pay for the concentrated burn of chaotic feeling shooting through him.

Jim Moriarty had just killed a man.

And he felt more alive than ever before.

OK, That was possibly the best thing I have ever read. I love it!

Nameless Child wrote:

koolkidpaige wrote:

I did this, then decided to write a short little fanfic to go with it. Putting it in a spoiler box so as not to clog up the whole screen;

Spoiler:

The first time Jim Moriarty killed a man, it had been an accident.
He was fourteen at the time, and he'd been cultivating a dangerous habit for three years. At least once a week, he'd sneak out of the house, and find something to burn.

Jim Moriarty was a serial arsonist.

He didn't like the term, personally. It made him sound like he had some kind of condition. Maybe he did, but it wasn't fire he was addicted to.

It was danger.

Or, more accurately, the feelings brought on by danger.

You see, Jim Moriarty had understood for a long time that he was different. Because he had an uncanny ability to know things. Some people called it amazing, what he could do. Incredible. Brilliant.

But Jim Moriarty didn't see it that way.

It wasn't amazing, or incredible, or brilliant, or even astonishing.

It was hard.

It was hard to know the punchline to every joke before it was said. Hard, to know the secrets behind the magic tricks which fascinated all of his peers. Hard, to sit through endless lessons of the same work which he had understood the first time around, but which was being revisited to help the other students who couldn't grasp the simple concept. To know how anybody would react to anything, because really, aren't normal people just so predictable?

It was hard. And by the time he was eleven, Jim Moriarty felt numb. Nothing surprised him, because he saw it all coming miles beforehand. Emotions in general were weak and washed out, because everything was so pointlessly dull.

So he'd started a fire.

Fires were wonderful, in Jim's mind. So chaotic and changeable and so gloriously unpredictable. This first fire had spread further than he had expected, to his delight. A passerby had seen. Police had been called, and Jim had run from them.

And after he'd escaped, a rush of feeling hit him. Adrenalin, possibly, but also fear and excitement so intense that it made him jittery.

For the first time in his life, Jim Moriarty could truly feel.

And he loved it.

And ever since that first time, he'd kept going back for more.

The fires had escalated, as he'd grown. From a few twigs and leaves in the woods near his home, to full trees, to entire fields. He'd treated himself to an old barn full of straw on his fourteenth birthday.

And soon, he found another. He set it alight with practiced ease, sitting back to watch the show and wait for the authorities.

Then he heard the shouts.

There was somebody trapped inside the barn.

He knew that there was no way that the doors would open - the heat would already have caused the metal hinges to warp and twist out of shape. Breaking a wall was out of the question too - the whole barn would collapse, tenuously balanced as it was. There were no windows.

Jim knew, by now, that whoever was trapped was as good as dead. That fact was proven seconds later, when, with a groaning splintering sound, the roof caved in.

The screaming stopped abruptly.

He simply stood and walked away. The sirens were further off than they usually were when he left a fire, but this was no ordinary night.

He made sure that his trail was unidentifiable - almost a reflex now, he was so used to it.

As he walked, he catalogued the sweet rush of concentrated feelings surging through him. They seemed so much more powerful than usual - it was exhilarating. A smile grew on his face, and he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, basking in the pure, unadulterated sensation. There was a new one now, too. Sharper than the others. Slightly bitter and twisting like a snake as it coiled through him. He wasn't sure what it could be, unfamiliar with emotions as he was, but it was a small price to pay for the concentrated burn of chaotic feeling shooting through him.

Jim Moriarty had just killed a man.

And he felt more alive than ever before.

OK, That was possibly the best thing I have ever read. I love it!

Thank you!

Some things I've editted since I last posted a thing on here: