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ChristmasNight was falling around Bethlehem, and the stars in the sky watched with interest a girl sneaking out of her home in the dark. They twinkled at each other, as if saying "Oh look, here she goes again", for she had been doing this ever since she had arrived when she was seven years old. Past the houses she ran, until she had left the village behind and could run openly across the meadows, her fingers dancing on the fleeces of sheep as she passed.
The girl slowed down to a careful walk as she neared a cavern. Here and there, geometrically arranged stones hinted at a long abandoned settlement. A sudden breeze sang in the grass beneath her feet, and the stars twinkled more rapidly. "This is the year," the wind seemed to whisper, but only the stars understood and shouted the message back to earth, unheard by the girl.
She hesitated before entering the cave. It was dark and the wind whispered louder in here. The swishing of her hand on the stone was like a reply as she walked, every step an
MagicA long, long time ago, when the world was hot, young and uninhabited, raw life seeped from the ground and rained from the sky to accumulate as a cloud in-between. It wanted more, it yearned for substance, and with a nudge here and a bit of encouragement there, the chemicals around it began to change. Organic vessels for the life force arose, lived and died again, establishing the well-known circle of life.
Not all of the raw life got included in this cycle, though. Part of the initial amount was still free and evolved on its own. It didn't have a mind to think with, just an urge to grow, driving it to glide across the surface of the earth, consuming all life available; and that was easy, considering the small size of the organisms. In response, the first life-forms increased their sizes, but were unable to outgrow the rogue life, which grew stronger by the day. Until... Skip a few million years.
There was a reptile, the name or species of which is unknown. He was huge, and the stronges
Reunion"That was nice, wasn't it?" A tinge of uncertainty coloured Miranda's voice. She wasn't concerned about her own feelings towards the evening; she had had a lot of fun, and up until they had bid the others farewell, she had thought the same of her husband. Now, however, she couldn't help but notice the hard line around Christoph's jaw and the clenched muscles of his arms. His knuckles were white from his grip on the steering wheel.
"Sure, it was great seeing the old gang again," he replied with a forced smile.
Miranda shook her head; it wasn't like Christoph to lie to her. "Let me rephrase the question: what's bothering you?" He shot her a sideways glance, a sure sign of surprise, for he never took his eyes off the road when driving at night. "Oh, don't tell me you thought you could hide your feelings from me! We've been married for almost 30 years now, and I know you well enough to see that you didn't enjoy the reunion like I did. Why is that?"
For a moment, her question made him tense
AftermathThe living room is rather small, but well-lit and comfortable. Two women are sitting on a sofa, turned towards each other. Between them, they make the roomy three-seater look petite.
Oh no, they're not fat, even though the older one's waist isn't as slim as it used to be. They are just big in a round-about way, leaving the impression that their bodies could have grown even taller if only they had been allowed to.
You can see that they are mother and daughter, sharing not only the same figure, but also the straight nose and the curve of the cheekbones. Only the hair and the eyes are different; in both, the mother is darker than the daughter, who has blue eyes and light brown hair that falls to her shoulder-blades.
The mother has been talking for well over twenty minutes before she ends the monologue with an exhausted sigh.
"Well, at least the sex is great."
"What? You're a grown-up, you should be able to talk about sex."
"Did you ever want to hear about your mother's sex life? We
Before I am 30Before I am 30,
I want to be free and independent;
I won't answer to anyone,
but my own conscience.
Before I am 30,
I want to live on my own;
Come home whenever late I want to,
without being scolded.
Before I am 30,
I will learn and grow a bit more;
although we never really stop to do that,
not while we're alive.
Before I am 30,
I am going to be me;
even if it's only for a short time,
and with nobody watching.
I'll meet her again...Its Samhain. The line between the spirit
world and our own is a ray of moonlight.
Its the night when the reluctant soul sticks
to our plane, hovering - a withered rose
whose beauty is the figment of a dream;
a gleam gilding the surface of the lake.
For long hours of idyll would the Lake
poets revel in letting their spirit
soar free on the nightingales wings, and dream
of glimpsing their Muse clad in pure moonlight
but tonight magics afoot: clouds just rose
to blur the moon like fumes from incense sticks.
The Romantics habit of rambling sticks
to mind tonight, as I stroll to the lake
and sit down to recall the violent rows
wed have every night, before her spirit
gave itself over to the bland moonlight
and chose to rest and die, not live and dream.
But perhaps tis I thats strayed in a dream?
For in that small nest, fashioned out of sticks,
I see her visage, painted in moonlight.
I glimpse a lady traversing the
All Hallows' EveShe leaps and whirls to a ritual beat,
Bare feet kicking loose the earth;
None of us, idle by, know her name,
Or why, on Halloween, she comes -
Each year, the same slow night
Each year, her same swift sway.
No vaulted stars illuminate her way,
Lulled or snake-charmed by the beat
Resounding in this deep-well night;
Perhaps they, like us, crashed to earth,
To this place where dream-touched come,
To this place which has no name.
She mouths and mimes the names
Of the countless many who lost their way;
Those who would not, could not come
And herald thunder's echoing drum-beat:
Her hard footfalls on the loam and earth,
Her hard footfalls in the night.
Others curse and rail against the night,
Fearing demons they dare not name,
We feel them, restless, beneath the earth,
And stirred this night, always;
Awakened by the lady's pulse-warm beat,
Awakened by the night, they come.
Our fears, now shaped, are swift to come,
Rising with the tide of slow-fall night -
From chambers low and deep, an ascend
The Spectre That WasThe Spectre That Was
Out I went, searching for a spectre
That would prove to my not so limp
Opposition that something was. Into the night
I sent forth thought after crystal
Thought, only to have them shatter into crimson
Shards of laughing, lightning silver.
Sometimes, though a sliver of silver
Specks would spatter a lovely spectre
Of my ambition onto a dull crimson
Reflection of a crushed,limp,
Me. Light upon light of crystal
I shine, but everything is swallowed into the night.
I am not a disciple of the night,
Its shadows scare me silver
And white while chiming alarms of crystal,
Make my body separate from its spectre.
Meanwhile the absurdly lopsided limp
Form of a thought in my head bleeds crimson.
It flashes upon me, that splash of crimson
Repeatedly blinding me, making the night
Seem almost faint, hazy, limp;
While my life force oozes out in a silver
Splotch only for me to finally spot the spectre
Emerging from its structure of crystal.
After it I went, my shadow forming cr
Post-ghost Toast.One day I saw a ghost
A-sitting on a post,
And he was eating toast,
Not any kind of roast,
So I was feeling grossed
By this ghost with the most.
He really was the most
Face-stuffing, greedy ghost
That got completely grossed
Out while perching on a post
(A skewer for a roast)
By eating red hot toast.
Crumbs fell down from this toast,
And down on me the most,
Till I began to roast,
Shake my fist at the ghost,
All safe up on his post,
Not caring I was grossed.
While I was getting grossed
By bits of burning toast,
I kicked hard at the post,
At the weakest point most,
To dislodge this mean ghost
And hoping not to roast.
Yes, I was scared to roast,
So scared as well as grossed;
Not that coal munching ghost
With carbonated toast,
Which fell on me the most
From top of that damn post.
I grabbed and shook that post;
My anger made me roast:
My face burned red the most
On top of being grossed
By vile, Hadean toast
Ground up by crunching ghost.
I was the most grossed roast
That ever turned to toast
His Oath of FealtyWHEN vaunted skies were torn asunder,
vast mountains stood with faces grave,
then thunder rolled in waves so shrill
fast became their frightened eyes.
Surge thus from moste despairing dungeon:
emerge, you foul-perilous fiend.
Feet canker-ridden, this grotesque fiend
(whose flesh hung, 'twas shred asunder)
beat his chest; limping from dank dungeon
muse in his arms. Features grave,
pale as frost, and see her vacant eyes
rail at death had she once screamed shrill?
Stately castle echoed weeping shrill
but who may say? Odious fiend,
greatly quiv'ring body, his eyes
cut at each edge. Asunder
were the stepping stones, a pit-like grave
stir did his thoughts. Leaving dungeon,
so on he went that long-passed dungeon
and rose to where the winds were shrill,
banned was the use of darkened grave!
O, up battlements, the fiend
thought of his dear late king. Asunder,
brought apart by loss; when fiends' eyes
A Night in the Cemetary.."Bet you won't sleep in the cementary."
Mocked the bedsheet ghost.
"It's Halloween, it's way too scary."
Chimed in the werewolf.
"I'll do it." I said, sounding brave.
But really, I was scared of the dead.
We passed trees, cold and dead
On our way to the cemetary.
Passed bats that looked spooky, knights that looked brave..
But the costumes didn't compare to shadow ghosts.
Or the howls that came from the lips of a werewolf.
When compared with the costumes, they were more scary.
Finally we reached the gates, which only to me seemed scary.
Of course, no one else had to sleep with the dead.
Another howl, another image of a hungry werewolf.
Nothing like the friend in costume, who stood outside the cemetary.
A chill, I thought of all the tortured ghosts.
Could I really be so brave?
I didn't have a choice. I had to be brave.
I had to pretend it wasn't that scary.
I had to believe I was imagining ghosts.
I had to believe there would be no rise of the dead.
I had to believe I would be safe in th
To Die Beautiful....She says; I can still the motion forever, in a moment,
The tireless, and careless carousing of the clock
Whos hands do trace their gluttonous way
Across the timeless, tempestuous, graceful face
Of my brave and valiant Grandfather Death.
For I'm his favorite Grand-Daughter; mortals call me Age;
Whos once-maiden-mouth, now ornery with age
Purses her lips, and then says; I guard the secret of what is meant
Behind Grandfathers talk of veils and vestiges of death.
See, now how she gestures towards the ticking clock;
Each passing hand leaves a line upon your face
In her you may find hope, or choose to tread the other way:
Not towards the beacon light, but the path that points away
From life bitter-sweet swelling into your golden age;
From watching your beauty become slowly defaced,
Until, unprepared, you reach that loathsome moment
She is the priestess-queen of your ticking clock
Allow her, she leads you softly down to delicious Death.
White RainI am insane. In haunted house alone
I wander. Silent, patient... and I wait.
I wish that someone came and shared my pain.
And who am I? Some entity unknown?
I think... I think complexion mine is white,
I am quite sure I like the sound of rain.
The silver scatter sound... oh yes, the rain.
I cannot count the times I've stood alone
The world around me rain-bleached pure and white.
But why I stand? For whom I always wait?
What is my present? What my past? Not known.
And so I am in numb and tiring pain.
It is familiar now... I was in pain
Some time before but never knew I rain...
Still water, though, yes, that for me is known.
I think forever have I been alone.
I am so sick of shadows, always wait,
I wait in lonesome tower, clad in white.
It never was my favourite colour... white...
For some or other reason it means pain.
But who was I? This knowledge still I wait
When sitting by the window, staring rain.
Some curse is cast upon me. All alone
I stay, and why? The reason is not known.
Trick-or-Treat SestinaTrick or- Treat Sestina-Ween
The suffocating darkness
Finally creeps in from the
Never ending void called
The sky. It waits so silent
Until the final day is gone
And the moon is out to play
Only at that moment are the
Terrifying ghouls at last called
The air and space is silent
All trace of day is gone
And the stage is set for the play
As it waits a moment in darkness
The creatures have been called
Howls pierce the silent
Air as all peace has gone
The forest will begin to play
Yet in never ending darkness
And the chilling sound of the
Heartbeats racing like feet yet silent
All wish that these devils were gone
As they pester on doors. Play
Games as they scream in darkness
Little thieves with hands readying the
Bags and bowls that have called
Nothing will stop until they are gone
They do anything to play
For such jewels in the darkness
These gems are gone quick but the
Moment taken is precious as they are called
Names which do not suit the silent
After so many hours at play
Ghosts In OctoberThe night is dark,
The night is cold,
Lit only dimly by the moon,
But light enough to see the ghosts.
It's the end of October
And the night for spooks.
People feel spooked
On this night in the dark.
And they feel cold
In the light of the moon,
Their hearts touched by ghosts,
At the end of October.
Before, in mid-October,
There hadn't been anything spooky
Even though nights had been dark.
Heaters had held off the cold
And bright had been the moon,
Not illuminating any ghosts.
But then had come the ghosts
In the last night of October
And they loved to spook
People in the dark,
Night with no moon.
Behind his clouds the moon
Could not see the ghosts
Which had, in October,
Hidden him for the spook
To make the night dark
And still more cold.
It was this cold,
Without the moon,
Which disappointed the ghosts,
Because people in October
Felt it was too spooky
To go out in the dark.
So the ghosts left and the moon was cleared,
The dark night turned bright but cold,
And nothing was spooky in
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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