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6 amBlack in my head
I hear a watery sound in the distance
The soft sheets below me
The temperate humid duvet above my head constricts around my body
My clay limbs start to solidify slowly
The watery sound gains more syllables and becomes painful babble in my ears.
It ripples in my ears and spreads outwards across my face.
Wake up sweet heart, time to go to work.
The Eleventh Hour
Jane Austen was 39 years old; The doctor had told her of her upcoming death. She was ready. The cance was spreading and there was nothing to do about it. She had no regrets as most women of the early 19th century who had written 6 books in their life time would. She had no regrets
Or at least none that she hadnt given up at 29. But now was not a time to think of such memories. She had to keep herself strong and she had no energy to waste on blue eyes that belonged in the past. She had to finish her last book.
Its this stuffy room. She stripped off her nightgown and proceeded to cloth herself with a melancholy green dress and a cream colored shawl.
She glided among the trees. As it awoke, the damp smell of the forest filled her lungs and seemed to drag downward into the ground puling disease down with it. Oh the sorrow in being mortal.
As she floated across the virgin ground her eyes clung to every little thing that she passed
The mossy bark
A Parent's CrimeAs the dreary phantom night falls,
The crime of the century has awoken,
Glaring down and howling at its freedom and mocking the fool who set it free
And where did something so vial and putrid emerge from,
Could its red eyes have been dyed and drowned in the blood of murder?
Its broken and deformed body sculpted by the ungraceful hands of explosions?
No, for as inhumane as these tragedies appear,
Only the cruelty and harshness to the young minded and insocent could make such a vial creature.
As we cower in fear of this monster,
Down in the shadows of alleys lays a child who's soul, but a moment ago, was innocent and pure and a mind clear and ready to be sculpted and trained for the ideas he would create and the journey his imagination could take.
But as the hands which would guide it prepared to train the innocent young lamb,
They betrayed their prey and lunged for the vital and fragile young heart,
They pierced it with icy blow,
As the precious heart turned to dark and closed ice,
How could you?
How Could You?
When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" -- but then you'd relent and roll me over for a belly rub.
My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs" you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.
Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comfort
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More