Queen of AmethystI am the Queen of Amethyst. A lover for knowledge and a seeker for wisdom. I dwell above the skies where the sun meets the moon as they kiss each other goodnight. I belong into fairytales where I was made from these chapters. My crown were made of purple crystals and broken roots from trees that were left behind. I am the Queen of Ameythst. Bones made of broken constellations and flesh made of rose petals. I carry an ancient heart created by Ancient hands. I wear a dress filled with midnight skies and carry a soul filled with the universe, a soul made for infinity between heaven and earth. I am the Queen of Amethyst, a hunter who hunts the shadows of darkness and locks them up in Pandora's box as I burn it up in ashes. I silence the monsters under children's beds with the help from God, I let the children sleep in peace with angels's protection. I don't live in fancy castles nor live in gold of riches. I live in woods and forests behind that silver gate where it is hiddQueen of Amethyst23 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes
And the Veil Lifts...Spring, Year 764 of the New AgeAnd the Veil Lifts...10 hours ago in Short Stories
Blackwood, Widow’s Hollow
Mentioning: Queen Deyanira and King Skoll
Fresh skulls lined the cave as Skjalddas hummed an idle tune. She was loving in her labor, tucking in various jaws and adjusting wayward teeth. All of the skulls grinned in jagged rows at her. Once she was satisfied that they were where she wanted them, the grullo hind peered into their hollow eye sockets and blew dust from each one with care.
When the arrangement satisfied her, Aldda singled one out and plucked it by the vine woven around its jaw and sticking out through a hole in the top. It was once a stag. Much older than the others, its skull was particularly white from the careful cleaning the grullo gave it. And age.
After summoning a spirit for a few brief moments when she was younger, Al
Broken 9 It's strange. It's strange. It's so very strange. I wonder if it was there the whole time?Broken 917 hours ago in Short Stories
My parents. They... cried. My siblings. Mother. She was very upset. She hugged me a lot and just cried. Father just kept petting my hair. I'm not sure I understand. But... I like it. They say I can go home tomorrow, as long as I start going to a doctor. I don't really want to. But... at the same time... I think it's okay. Somethings different. I'm not sure what. It's just... there.
It's strange. I'm strange. It was there... the whole time.
DeterminismThey talked to me today. I wanted to tell them that I wasn't there, that I had climbed out of the window or sunk beneath the floor. Not that it would have made any difference. I honestly believe that they would keep on talking even if I wasn't there. After all, how relevant am I? I cannot change the laws of physics, and what I am now is the sum totality of my experiences. I call myself me, but really if someone else had been born when I had, where I had... then they would be me too. They would still talk to them, to this other me, or maybe they would speak to the empty air. In the end, it is all the same. If I did fall through the floor or escape through the window, it would make no difference. All I am is me, wherever I go, and wherever I go I am only there because everything led to me being there. It should be wonderfully freeing, to know that nothing I do matters, and yet it is not. I am crushed beneath the weight of history and squeezed into the future. I do not know what awaits meDeterminism1 day ago in Short Stories
Scribble#16 Zwiegespraech"Noch einen Kaffee bitte!", bestellte Niklas mit gehobener Hand. Der Kellner kam heran und sah ihn mit fragendem Ausdruck an. "Einen Kaffee? Espresso oder Cappuchino?", fragte er mit leicht arrogantem Klang in der Stimme. Niklas rutschte auf seinem Platz etwas zurecht. Er räusperte sich. "Mit Milch, bitte. Einen Filterkaffee mit Milch.", wiederholte er, etwas eingeschüchtert durch die Frage des Kellners.Scribble#16 Zwiegespraech1 day ago in Short Stories
Über dessen Nase bildete sich eine kleine, argwöhnische Falte. Er war mit dieser Antwort unzufrieden. "Filterkaffee mit Milch", wiederholte er mit spottendem Ton, während er auf seinem Blog herumkritzelte und dann verschwand.
Niklas, der froh war, den unfreundlichen Kellner los geworden zu sein, lehnte sich zurück und verschränkte die Arme hinter seinem Kopf. Es war jetzt sechs Uhr und er wartete bereits zwei Stunden auf Anna. Er war sich fast sicher, dass sie nicht mehr kommen würde.
Sein Blick wanderte über die drei leeren Kaffeetassen, di