Sometimes You Don't Have to Change the WorldAres is not what I imagined her to be. The great man of myth, muscular and imposing, shining in his armour, with crested helmet and mighty spear, does not stand before me. Instead I face a young woman, hardly more than a girl. She is soft and delicate, with eyes so large they will soak up the world, and skin like spun glass, that glitters in the darkness. A warm glow radiates from within her, not quite visible, but strong enough for me to feel the heat on my face.
The sound of traffic wafts up to us from the street far below. Heavy clouds block out the night sky, reflecting back the poisonous orange of streetlamps and office blocks. The rooftop is high above it all, and we are invisible. That’s why I chose it, to be alone. The last thing I expected was a visitor, proclaiming to be a god.
“Ares?” I scoff, looking her over with something I imagine to be petulance. If not for the fact that she was so decidedly un-human, and that she had materialised on the rooftop with n
Eco turquesa. [Cierre del arco II]La bruja de la arena hace un esfuerzo inmenso por seguir avanzando después de haber abandonado aquella batalla tan súbitamente, se sentía en su límite. Mientras avanza torpemente alucinaciones auditivas amenazan con quebrantar el espíritu que le queda.
Son voces de niños, adultos, un pequeño tumulto, el asombro se convierte en gritos.
Son los ecos de un pasado que se acerca reptando tras de ella.
No podrá seguir por mucho tiempo, requiere llegar y precisa hacerlo ahora. Necesita lograrlo si quiere evitar que ocurra lo impensable.
Está terriblemente cansada, robó algo de energía a aquél soldado, pero eso sólo le ha dado la oportunidad de conservar algo de fuerza, fuerza que a ratos parece abandonarle por completo.
Quizá estaba destinada a fracasar, quizá era su castigo por no oír las palabras del gran señor, por acudir al hombre de la máscara, pensado que le ayudaría, sin saber que sería
The Scariest Monster of AllIn art class, the teacher instructed us to make a monster.
“It could have eighty heads and five hundred wriggling tentacles, if you like,” she said. She started using her arms in an animated mime as she tried to show the students what she wanted. “Bright purple, thirty six eyes and three tails. Whatever you like. It’ll be fun, you just have to draw in it whichever art style you prefer. You have to write a description of it as well, and why you chose to draw it that way.”
“This teacher’s a nutter, Alf,” my friend Tannon whispered. “Sometimes I've got absolutely no idea why she waves her arms around and all that jazz.”
“Yeah, she’s a little…” I thought for a moment. “…eccentric.”
We got on with the task. I sat thinking for a little while, but no ideas came. I tried flicking through the books the teacher showed us, all stories about scary monsters snatching princesses and terrorizing king
Thy Own PoisonTo willingly ingest the dark poison that has been handed to thee, to allow it to fill thine up and pull thee under, is a fool’s doing, and still no more noble am I for the action than a common thief, he who takes what he wants and bids no thought to those whom he hath stolen from. For it is I who has cast the pain upon the unsuspecting victims, dragged them into the dark lair of the hunter that feeds off of pain, the hunter that hands thee thine own poison for an attempt at redemption. Death or damnation, but is death not thine own damnation in itself? Death can not reverse thy wrongs nor can it bring thee any peace, for thy place in death is none other than the hell I wish to escape while living. His poison I shall drink anyways, for death by thy own willing hand seems better than death by anyone else’s.
Yet they will mourn, and cry why shall I in response. Hath thou not felt my nails digging into his back? Hath my venom soaked words not struck deep enough? Do they not fea
Trial of the Zodiacs - An ExcerptSilence slowly gave way to the gentle brushing of a distant evening tide against a distant shore. There was a cold breeze against his face, soft and yet it sent chills down his spine, like the kiss of a devil. He could not quite make out the scents, save for the faint aromas of grass. The ground under his feet was soft, but not like sand; perhaps he was in a field, but why? He could not remember being in field. For that matter, he had no recollection of anything. Where was he? Who was he? Wake up. Where was he? Wake up. Who was he?
“Hey, wake up.”
Conversations with an old friend (during school).
You're sitting on the teacher's desk. Why the hell are you doing that? I always knew you had a funny way of acting. You observe the other students. You're eyes met mine. Hi there.
Hey, do me a favor and strike fear into the kid behind me, will you? Please. He keeps jostling my desk with his feet. I think he likes me. Sick. He smells like the inside of that nasty dresser downstairs. You know, from my aunt's house?
Why can't you make yourself visible to him? Why only me? You said before that it would be no problem. Oh yeah. We wouldn't want him screaming in the middle of class. Those eyes aren't too inviting.
C'mon, I'd love to hear him return to school the next day, claiming his house w
Life and Death
Life and Death sitting beneath a tree.
Death picks up a fallen leaf and says to life, “do you know the difference between us?” Life responds “No I do not”. Death holds the leaf in his palm and watches it turn from green to brown. Death says “You’re and easy lie and I’m the painful truth.” Life says “I still don’t know the difference between us, brother.” Death says “yes my brother, I lead only to you that is true, but you cannot exist without me, as I begin and you end and nothing would die if it did not live.” Life takes the now mulching leaf and places it on the ground, to where he takes a seed from his pocket and buries them both together. Life puts his hand on the now unearthed ground, where the ground splits and a tree, although a sapling starts to rise. Life says “both of are roles portent to one anoth
The Lord and his Bird - Talks at life's edgeI – Dying
As on every Saturday, she entered the libary. Accurate to the second. Her Lord was already sitting in his green armchair at the window, a glass of wine in his hand, like always. As she made a noise, he turned his head and smiled. Like always.
„Come here, little bird“, he said, remotely waving at the red armchair in front of him. She followed his invitation, took the few steps towards him and sat down. Then she looked at him again.
His short, black hair was kind of messy, wisps of it falling over his forehead. She could see some of them slowly turning grey. The years slowly left their marks on him, turning his hair grey in a process that was very much like autumn turning the leaves of trees golden, orange and red. Slowly, and then all at once. But for now, it was still black. Also black was the leather coat he was wearing and also his shirt. As were his pants. Black. He was all cloaked in darkness. Had she before thought that he'd get old, because of his hair
thingswhen things go bad. its not fun. you feel out in the cold. like theres no-one to help you, rather like you're falling and cannot do anything, even worse, theres no-one to help you. no rope, no net to catch you. just helpless falling. its worse though, when you can see someone else falling away, away fron you, and you cannot help them. you cant put out a net. its either not possible or you just have to leave them too it. thats the worst. i hate leaving people to fall to their death. and all you can do is watch. just watch them fall, away, away.