Deviant Login Shop  Join deviantART for FREE Take the Tour

Similar Deviations

Remember that time, brother, when we were young? When we took off before I was even though high school in your beat-up old whatever-it-was without so much as a goodbye note, dreamed of travelling the country?

There was a place we stayed at, the night before we finally gave up and turned around. It think it may be my last clear memory of you.

It was called the Beaumont Farm.

The petrol gauge has been sitting below empty for the last hour, and Carl Levine doesn't bother trying the key again when the engine splutters one last time before falling silent. He shivers in the cool air as he opens the door, pulling out his phone and cursing when he sees the reception bar empty. The last station he saw was before he turned off the highway two towns back, the last car before that.

The letter from Alicia lies folded in his inner pocket, as it had come in that innocuous envelope. There had been no return address, postmark almost illegible under a dark smudge that covered half the front. It was the first he'd heard from his sister in years.

Carl takes it out now, not reading, just letting himself look over Ali's familiar handwriting—elegant, loopy, forever with a tint of childishness. He slips the thin paper into the outside of his coat as he stands and begins to walk.

It's not far, just a few turns down the unsealed dirt road before the dead cornfields open up before him. It's mid-afternoon by his watch, but with the thick grey clouds hovering above and the sun hidden behind the crest of the next hill it looks close to dusk. There's a lone bare tree off to the side, spidery fingers reaching up from the gnarled trunk as if in prayer, framing the farmhouse in front.

It's not like he remembers.

It has a legend, you know. They say that Lureen Beaumont hung herself in the cowshed after her lover's death, already insane as her neck snapped, screaming how she couldn't stand the world any longer, couldn't live without him.

Only thing was, he had been dead for over ten years.

And now the farm sits empty, the fields lifeless. For that earth lies home to the dead, to the souls that still cling to this world, that won't let go. Or aren't let go of.

Nothing but local nonsense, of course.

The front door is missing, and Carl realises with a jolt as walks down the overgrown path that the dark shape in the doorway is more than a shadow.


The figure doesn't move. Then he takes another step and it's turning away, disappearing into the building. He rushes forward, inside, and stumbles over the mess on the floor.

At least that's what you'd say.

The cracked flagstones are littered with junk. There's a music box, on its side, a rusted-through bucket in the corner. In the pale light from a single broken window he can make out a woman's bracelet, a torn hair ribbon, a man's cane, and countless more things that once had meaning.

The only thing there isn't, is dust. Not a single speck.

It's nothing like he remembers.

"Hello? Who's there?" he calls again. No answer. Not even a sound. Carl kicks a path in the strewn objects, slowly making his way toward the door on the opposite wall which is hanging by a thread on its hinges.

The next room is a kitchen, and there's someone by the stove.

You do know what I'm talking about, don't you? I think about it so often.

I'm there now.


He draws back violently as the person whirls around.



She's not the one he saw earlier, he can tell. Her face is caked in make-up, hair dyed with something dark and red that makes it clump at the grey roots that betray the truth behind the youth she's clinging so desperately onto.

"No," he breathes, already turning when she raises her bony arms and wraps him in a iron embrace. He tries to scream, but his breath is forced back by the scent of her clothing. Foul, decaying.

"Tell me something, won't you, my boy?" she says, voice dripping, sickly sweet. "Was I beautiful?"

"What?" he croaks.

"In the coffin," she croons. "Tell me how beautiful I looked."

"I—I don't know," he rasps. "They said the fire had done too much damage. It was a closed-casket ceremony."

She growls. "That's not true. That's not true!"

Carl throws himself back as the horrid shriek pieces the air, but the limbs around him tighten, crushing. The fetid odour is stifling now, smothering his senses. He just manages to wrench his left arm free as darkness creeps from the edges of his vision, groping back, out, for anything.

There's a crunch as his hand hits the counter, a sharp stab of pain. Blindly, he feels his fingers close around something cold and hard, and swings.

It's a cleaver. He hardly sees the flash of dull silver before it's replaced by scarlet. He squeezes his eyes shut, knife clattering to the floor as the body around him falls away. He hears gurgling, and doesn't wait to see her die before he's running.

The silence is deafening now as he tears back out into the weak sunshine. Carl doesn't even make it to the end of the path before he's falling to his knees and retching bile onto the weed-spattered dirt. He's gasping, that smell still so heavy on his tongue he can taste it, when there's a flash out the corner of his eye.

It's the shadow from the doorway, standing stock-still, like a scarecrow in the middle of the brown field. It's not so much dressed in black as it is that blackness appears to hang off it, draping in seamless waves.

"Hey, you," he says. But then once again, it's off.

Carl pulls himself to his feet, forcing his heavy legs to follow. The form before him is graceful, and absolutely soundless. It dances through the limp stalks, twisting in its path, always just in front. It takes him a moment to notice that they're weaving behind the farmhouse.

When he pushes through the back-door, it's gone again.

He's in the bedrooms this time. There's a splintered double bed frame in the centre of the room, mattress missing, moulded scraps of what used to be clothing plastered to the floor, and a spotless mirror on the wall.

There are two doors leading out. The larger one which presumably joins the corridor is blocked by a wardrobe, tipped over on its back and so thick it reaches half-way to the ceiling. The other is slimmer, to the right, and through it Carl can see a hint of faded wallpaper.

It's a child's room, he realises as he approaches. There's a doll on the floor, half the hair seared off, along with a crimson-smeared pair of shoes. There's a cot too. And a man beside it.

"Jesse, Jesse Munroe."

"Recognise me, Carly-boy?"

He doesn't. He doesn't know where the name came from, not when the face before him holds no traces of the seven-year-old boy that Jesse Munroe had been the last time Carl had seen him.

"Remember me, then?"

He nods, once. "We used to tease you," he says quietly. "Me and my friends. Because your—"

"—daddy was in prison." The man steps through the doorway toward him, advancing. "Then one day you chased me to the closet where the teachers kept their coats, and what did you do then?"

"We were little kids being stupid," Carl forces out. "I'm sorry. I said I was sorry." Hadn't he?

There was a laugh, cold, but eerily high-pitched like a child's. "I would have suffocated if Miss Sandra hadn't forgotten something in her pocket and gone back for it. Nearly did anyway."

"I'm sorry," he says again. It's all he can say.

"Well, maybe you should know what it's like?" He's being backed up, herded like prey against that monstrous wooden box by the door, and he recognises his own words that he'd sneered so long ago. "Maybe you should know what it's like too, to be locked up."

Then Carl is gagging again, but it's not the same stench as last time. This one is dank, musty, like wool left out too long in the damp. A hand reaches out to pin his arms by his sides, or at least what perhaps once was a hand, mangled flesh blackened with gangrene and slick with gore. Before he could try to run, before his eyes could even widen in horror, the crackle of fire erupts through the room.

The cot is burning, flickering orange tongues licking up the once-bright walls. The grip of the ruined fingers loosen at the blast of heat and Carl flings his weight forward, hurling the other man back through the doorway and into the flames.

By the time the screams start he's already sprinting, out, away. He runs and runs and when he stops, fighting for breath, he's still in the field, next to the same barren tree that he saw when he first set foot on this godforsaken land.

And the figure is back.

This time it doesn't wait for him to react, already slipping off and from his sight behind the twisting trunk. He peers around, and his eyes fall on the cowshed that rises like a dark creature against the bleak sky, walls standing strong as if still waiting for their farmer to return.

The doors don't creak as Carl pulls them open in a single smooth slide. The insides are bare, blanketed with shadow. The only thing he can make out is a thin length of rope that hangs from the centre rafters, and the motionless waiting form below it.

Suddenly, even before it turns, he knows who it is.

"Hello, Carl." Ali says softly.

Don't come.

Don't come, Carl. Don't follow me.

"Why are you here?" he asks, near-voiceless. "What are you doing here?"

"Don't you know?" she replies, gliding forward. "Don't you remember?"

"This place is nothing like I remember."

She smiles, but there's something off. "Isn't it?" Something very, very wrong. "But it is, brother, it's exactly as you remember."

"No." The first is a mutter, then he's screaming, frantic, mad.  "No, no, no. No!"

"Do you understand, now?"

"What's happening? Tell me, Ali. Tell me!"

"I don't have to!" She's holding something, a note, her own letter. Carl's hand flies to his pocket, and feels nothing but cloth. "Because you did come, Carl." And she looks almost sad. "You came after me, and now you're here too."

He shoves her away, roughly, almost brutally. He spins, bursting outside, and only makes it three steps before he's engulfed.

There's a white, filmy mist in the air, so thick he can't even see the doors he came from. Then there's a sound, cutting through, and it takes a second to recognise it as his ringtone.

"Who's there? Is there anybody there?" he pants, not giving himself time to check the signal before pressing his phone painfully to his ear.

"Hello? It's Liam." His boss's familiar voice draws a harsh exhale from his lungs. "Hey, I just got your voice-mail, I was wondering if I heard right. You said you're away with your sister?"

"Yeah," Carl breathes, "that's right."

"Well, uh, sorry I have to ask but, what sister?"

And the fog is pressing closer, solid, unbreakable. In the distance he can hear a voice, not quite a woman's, more like a teenage girl's, beckoning.

"Never mind," he whispers, as the phone slips through his fingers.

His last idle thought is 'since when was there fog?' before the world whites out.
For `Memnalar's All Hallow's Tales Contest: Blood Country.

New genre for me. It was fun. Think I've got a new-found love for psychological horror.

Feedback's always great.
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Really, I mean, you ever heard an interesting story that started on a sunny day with mild cloud cover around an hour or so before dinnertime?

Exactly. Moving on.

The air held a coldness that seeped through brick and stone. It crawled through flesh, freezing blood in icy veins, chilling bones like a slithering ghost in the blackness.

...but not so cold that it was a snow-storm. Cotton candy floating down from an inky sky, shining like diamond eyes in the starlight as soft flakes swirl and dance on feather-light feet in the breeze...

Not quite the image we're looking for.

Rain lashed from the depths of the cruel heavens, wind whipping from the starless smothering blanket above. Thunder roared in fury, cracking alongside his bright lover as she streaked her fire to the lonely earth.

Yes, lightning is a chick. It makes sense. Hair of white-gold light from her glowing moon-face, gown of silver thread spreading down her lithe figure, hem sweeping against the cool dirt beneath her feet. Hottest lady there is, literally.

Nature was never forgiving, in rage or mercy. Its offering of rain to a parched land came only wrapped in the force that swept it empty, leaving structure and human imposition torn down, leaving the elements strewn as they always should have been.

Ah, those long-disproved four elements. Goes to show how the ideas of old cling through the dust-laden centuries as the cogs of history creak ever away, how if there is one thing that has never been blown away by ills or misfortune or bloodshed, it is human thought.

When it was over, it turned away from a realm that had been stripped bare, to its heart, to its soul.

There, on the other hand, is the image we're looking for.

And that, was exactly when the Earth was at its most beautiful.

Mother Nature, ladies and gentlemen.
For the contest at #Written-Imagination. They tell us to go all-out with descriptive language, I come up with a touch of satire.

Incorporates the themes of 'fire', 'ice', and to some degree also 'urban.'

Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

Golden flickers danced on the pale faces of the circle, hushed whispers wafting out from the gathering by the glowing coals. It was the third night of the coming-of-age, the no-longer-little ones from each of the surrounding tribes taken out together in the openness of the untamed world. There were a few in the group that stood out, discernible even in the thick coverings of the night. There was Jiu-yeil, son of the carpenters, impressive form already bulging with strength and muscle more fitting of a man twice his size. The brothers, Senniare and Elieten of cloth-maker, sat donned in simple but the finest of all their travelling robes. And very slightly apart from the throng of a dozen others was the quiet Meiella, orphaned as an infant, niece of medicine woman.

The air was cool, but the wind only light. As the flames burned low, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows—Och'jiana, the leader of the rite. She was neither old nor young, hair pulled back in the habit of the female smiths, fingers callused and scarred from metal and fire in the unmistakable pattern of the forge-work of her fathers. She was not beautiful, but her face held that radiant allure of the exotic, and of the far-off hills of her homelands. The children hushed, and she began to speak.

Cast your gaze above us, here, and see how clear the sky is. Yonder is the moon, at its fullest, that grand silver disk. The clouds are few, pulled back from that inky black veil. And there—look there! That streak of white fire, a star from the fields above. Have you seen such before? No? Well, I have, just once, when I was very young. There is a story, in the North, one that my mother used to tell me as a child.

Ah, now it is that the breeze begins to pick up. Feel it, in your heart, in your bones. It is always as so, the night a star falls.

But alas, I get ahead of myself. First I should begin this evening by thanking the brown earth that we walk on, the lush leaves that feed up, the gushing rivers that give up life. This world of ours is old, even if our people are young, for things have not always been as they are today. Once, there was a vast race that thrived on this land, but not one with it as we are. Instead, they were a people of war, living off blood and battle. A brutal people, but also a glorious people. And their centre lay in the all-powerful Priesthood, holy men and women dedicated to knowledge and might, who ruled in their wisdom from their temple up in the Ulfarre Mountains.

Among the many names that can be remembered—the gold-maker Gevaki, Yosimet who slew the beasts, Mayarey the wild mother, and many others—there are two which have earned themselves a special place in utterance. Those, were of the Twins, the greatest warriors that had ever been seen to fight, who in battle fit together as much as they seemed to repel in appearance. There was Efaluac, dark and large, a frightening bulk of a man. And forever at his side was his sister Engeliq, fair hair cropped short from her pale cheeks and bright green eyes, form so thin and spindly that those who had the fortune of laying eyes upon her could scarcely believe she could bear a sword much less wield one. United, they flowed like the river through the silt, the wind through the trees, melding together in a single unbreakable entity. Under their dual command, the forces that they lead pushed out the boundaries of these peoples even further then previous generations had dreamed, and within these ever-expanding edges there lived in boundless wealth and culture.

The day that the Twins turned their gaze out to the wide ocean of Soaulrei, many hearts were heavy, for none who had ever tried to cross those waters had ever been seen again. But when brother and sister set out in their heaving wooden ship, they returned from more wonders than just the rolling waves.

They had found a land, so they told, so far out west that it touched the evening sky. A land where women wore golden rings in their flesh, men carved pictures down their bodies, and cities were built in crystal. From that day on, Efaluac and Engeliq became the bridge to those far shores, those marvellous tales and treasures.

But so it is, that the storytellers never speak of long-thriving peoples, or of prosperous times. No, the words that we remember are only those that tell of beginnings, or ends.

And so it was, that one day they brought back what would pave the next way. It was something the likes of which had never been seen before, sort of a gem, that glowed not quite white but not quite anything else, shining with the clearness of the night.

"It is sky's fire," Engeliq said as she stood before the Priesthood, the wondrous jewels studded in a cold iron chain around her neck, "plucked out, set as a gift."

"And a gift only," added Efaluac from beside her. "They don't give it for trade."

But it was not to be, for the Priests had grown used to the wealth that had flowed so steadily from the Twins' campaigns, and in this brief respite they would not accept mere trickles. For a little time things continued as they were, all except for that brilliant band at Engeliq's throat, but finally the order came.

"We want more," they said simply.

"But there is no more that they give."

"Then we shall take them."

The two refused, for those of the Evening Land were their friends, their allies in peace and honour, but the greed of the Priests was not to be swayed. They pushed, they threatened, but the men had grown to follow their commanders alone through the long toils and victories. And it was then, that the Priesthood made their first mistake.

The next time the Twins were called forward, it was into a trap. Engeliq was seized, and the two lieutenants that had accompanied them as guards were killed as they stood. Efaluac was arrested for treason—but in name only for there was no trial or official dealings, no time for anyone to begin to think.

By the end of the night, three corpses were hurled from the Priests' hold. And the sister without a brother found herself walking down the long steps under the early rays of dawn, head held high and the splatters of her comrades' blood worn on her robes like a badge of honour. She was allowed to go free, the decision made that the woman would be harmless alone, that the effort of removing another so beloved could be spared. That, was their second mistake.

It took Engeliq seven suns and moons to find the bodies of her companions, thrown so crassly into the tangled forests at the base of the mountain. The men who had served her she took back to the capital where they were given the warrior's death they deserved, ashes scattered out over the same fields of battle where their sweat and bile had pooled through the endless summers and winters of bloodshed. But her brother, she left. Around him she built a great silver coffin, above the soft earth, and vowed that he would not be buried until the world had paid for what they'd done.

Engeliq walked until her feet were torn and her eyes were shot with red, not letting herself rest until she'd stepped back into the soil of her own camp. And there she called every man and woman to order, and they followed. For whatever loyalties they had to the state, none could ever be as strong as the ones to their fellows in iron and dust.

They needed no rank or edict, held together by the fierceness of their battle-crafted hearts as they marched down to the beaches where the legions of the Priesthood were preparing to sail. And on the morning that they planned to advance they woke to see a jungle of masts stretching out over the water, the people of the Evening Land who'd heard the tidings on the wind and had come to fight for their honour and that of their betrayed comrades.

What came next could not quite be called a war, but a wild storm of devastation. Even with the loss of their foremost generals, the forces of this race had a thousand years behind their strength, but the far peoples fought like none that they had ever met before. It was a clash of steel against moon-tipped spear, man against being, silhouetted against the blood-coloured western sky.

And when it was done, the once-great order had been ripped to shadows. The rich cities were reduced to pebbles, scattered survivors left scrabbling in the dust, and the victor stood in the ruins of the Temple, breast shining with the beautiful and terrible stones that had driven the priests to their destruction. Among the spilt blood of both friend and betrayer who had met their end on the no-longer-holy ground, she declared "The priesthood is dead!" and the far people who had fought beside her bowed and turned to the sunset, sailing way on their fleet never to be seen again.

Engeliq bore her brother up the mountainside, to the place where he had first fallen. There, she laid him to rest in the ashes of the last age, so that his body could be the root of the new one. An age where people didn't live for the thrill of the kill, where no band of devotees could command the lives and blades of all. An age where people lived for each other, and the land.

And here, our tale is almost at a close. Engeliq stayed on the peak for three cycles of the moon in mourning for her lost sibling, then disappeared from the eyes of history. Some say that she took her ship and set out once more across the sea, becoming the last person who would ever find the land that touched the sky, that the lights she wore around her neck rose her up to become the stars of night. And every now and then you can see one fall, down to this realm birthed from Efaluac's blood. Brother and sister, if only for a moment, united once more.

But that is only one ending, for there are some among the further tribes that whispered of a wild woman who lived in the foothills of Ulfarre. She was fair, and so frail that it looked as if she might blow away in the wind, with a strangely clear gaze that always seemed to see through you, watching, judging. And it wasn't until many years later that a young metalworker, a blacksmith's apprentice, stumbled across a cave in the mountainside. Within he found nothing except for some basic tools, a few shreds of clothing, and an old twisted necklace so covered in grime that the colours of the jewels were no longer discernible, laid out like an altarpiece on a wide silver frame.

And that is the story that they tell in the North.

Come now, the hour is late. It is time for rest, the journey continues in the morning.

So Och'jiana turned away, leaving the weight of the words relayed that night sitting heavy in the air as the young ones settled down to sleep. And as the woman bent down to scoop up a handful of dirt to douse the flames, a small gust fluttered the robes around her neck. In the last flash of firelight, every eye swore that they saw a glimpse of a brilliant band pressed against the soft skin of her throat, studded with gems that glowed not quite white but not quite anything else, shining with the depth of the sky, the land, and the future.
For a "fallen stars" prompt [link] and a "celestial memories" prompt [link]

EDIT September 18 2012: I came second at :iconthewritinghaven:! [link]

Another legend, sort of inspired by my own story In the Shadow of the Guard.

Feedback is very much appreciated :-)
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

1. in eleventh grade, our teacher told us disney was fucked up. she showed us some video where all these little girls said they felt bad for belle, but if she had listened to beast, she would be okay. she should let him hit her so they would be okay. so they could get married. but then all i could think of was how i remembered ariel gave up her fins and her voice for some boy. and all i could think of was how fucked up it was i would give my legs up for you, too, like i was used to strapping them to your thighs. that i learned not to speak, but move and wail. and that’s what love was.

2. meeting you was kind of like meeting that part of myself i had forgotten. like i’d dropped you when i was walking to class one day. then i came back to you, through the arbor of the rain, soaking wet and on my knees, begging, my hair and eyes a collection of weakness and water. and you were a new kind of jesus, complete with blue jeans and a crooked smile, nailed to the bed, your halo a pillow kissing your neck and shoulders. you said hail mary, which was kind of funny, and i hailed mary. i did.

3. but when i had sex with you for the first time, you reminded me of all those old religion classes i had when i was in elementary school, and how the teacher always told us if you touched yourself, you were sinning. then i remembered myself, sitting there, thinking of the irony: you are finding another part of yourself in love, they said. in marriage. but you can’t touch yourself, or you are wicked. hell bound. fucked, they said. and oh, i was fucked.

4. but then as time went on, you reminded me of all those times in psychology where our teacher told us kids knew not to touch a burning stove after it’s burned them the first time. i learned. i did. but i didn’t learn not to touch you. i learned to love the burn, the smolder of my skin against yours. i guess i was a dumb kid.

5. i remember reading the greeks believed you found another part of yourself in love, too. the gods split humans in two so they would have to spend their entire lives finding that other part of themselves. when the gods let you find your other half you were blessed. but all i could think of was how these were the same gods who hid fire from the people, and the titan prometheus had to steal fire for their next winter. he ended up chained to some rock on some mountain, where a bird would eat his liver for the rest of his immortal life. but the humans still had their fire.

6. when i told you there was a chance i didn’t like you anymore, you called me wicked. you are a wicked, wicked woman, you said. you are a slut, a whore. i hate you. but where did that love go? i thought. did it die in your lungs like you had died between my thighs? when i watched your eyes disappear under the smog of weed? when your eyelids died into sleep next to me- almost like all those times i used to sleep next to my mother when i thought i heard the boogie man tapping on my closet door? only coming to stare at me and hurt me when i closed my eyes? except you were the boogie man, i thought: a collection of jesus and sin and beasts twisted in the sheets.

7. but i did understand. i understand love, i said. i watched disney movies too, and i knew when you didn’t love someone you might as well be dead. you might as well give up your legs, your voice and your body, i said. and then i remembered those whispers in the locker room, those bibles under our desks, and i understood i was a slut, too. and i know these things. this was important. important. i know these things, i said. i am in love. i am in love with your burn, your smolder, your inner beast, your jesus-like blue jeans and holy bed. and i am in love, i said.
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

I promised you
I know I did

I am so sorry
I failed you both

I did not keep that promise
I did not protect you

I did not chase away the monsters
I did not scare away the shadows

I did something wrong and only now regret it
I screamed as they said it was you who had to pay

I hugged you close
I said it was all going to be alight

I know
I lied

I heard your please
I tried to stop it but could not

I let them change you
I watched you loose yourself

I watched you prowl and grunt
I watched you whimper and beg

I watched you killed
I watched them collect the remains

I wept and screamed
I let it all happen



I Am So Sorry
The image in my head for this is of Loki, years after this has happened cleaning his house, his guilt for this still gnawing at him because he knows it is his fault, he is going through the boy’s old room, which is still the same as they day they where dragged from it as he desperately tried to stop Odin’s guard’s from taking his youngest boys, his innocent twins. Loki finds a picture of the boys under one of the beds, they are laughing under the sun, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, blond hair messy on there heads and bright brown eyes twinkling with laughter as they press there heads together for the photo. Loki sees the picture and his mind flashes over the times he spent with his boys, over all the times he was doing some trickery when he could have been with his sons. He starts to hear the boy’s dying screams in his mind, holding the picture close to his chest he curls up on the floor and starts to cry whispering over and over the words, ‘I Am So Sorry”.

I know its short and not a very good poem but I wrote it in one night and I think that if you read it with the right emotion and right image in your head that you could just maybe see what I see and cry like I cried while writing this.

This is an entry for the poetry section of :iconlokiliteraturelovers:'s contest Too Many Feels [link]
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

Orange skin

My dearest,
Your orange skin makes me warm in December
like the Sea is a blanket to the sand
and the Sun nurtures youth to our land

i'll be Your pocket -
You may keep all Your secrets inside of me
be shy and be not

there's nothing You should be afraid of
while You're here, with me
on this Pale Blue Dot.
a few simple thoughts,
at school.

be my facebook photographic buddy: [link]
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

“One can tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel.”


            He’s an angel. He doesn't even know it, but he is.

            When I was young, I was told that all people are assigned a guardian angel at birth to look out for them, to keep them out of danger. As I got older, I stopped believing in angels. I realized that there was no one watching my back but me. In the end we’re all alone and there’s no one coming to save you.

            But then…There was. There was a voice in my ear guiding me, and there were supporting arms to lean into when I thought the end had come for me. There were sparkling eyes and tiny smiles and Sencha green tea and something to look forward to every day. He had lifted me out of the darkest depths of my personal Hell and given me a purpose—a chance to redeem the sins that marred my past. The darkness in me had seen a great light.

            It pains me to think that he hates himself as much as he does. He can’t see the good he does and that I can’t do it alone. I can’t do it without him. He actually can’t see how beautiful he really is. He saved my life in every way and sometimes, I swear, I can see his wings. 

...Person of Interest fic inspired by a quote from Doctor Who.
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

Dear Stars,

I have a bone to pick with you. You see, when I was six, I called myself the nowhere girl... and I coloured myself a soulmate. I made him on crumpled sheets, with broken pieces of crayon, on a playground that was too busy wondering whether growing up entailed stealing your mother's cigarettes and your father's dirty magazines (I suppose I was already wise enough to know that growing up meant choosing one of the many ways of breaking yourself in two.)

I hope you remember him, stars...he was important to me (My mother threw that drawing away on my seventh birthday and told me that girls are not supposed to have such dreams.).

He had hair as ebony as deep onyx and a smile that never grew up (Peter Pan would have been proud).  He was magic in soul form, and smelled like cinnamon and the earth after it has rained. His eyes rivaled a lions on the best of his youth, his words were story shaped. His skin was an ink coloured canvas of wonder and even in crayon he was a sight of awe.

I wished upon YOU, stars, when I was six years old but I suppose nowhere girls have no business wishing upon stars that have had homes for a million years. Because almost twenty years later I am still the same old annoying nowhere girl. And I suppose I hide it better now but even crayon made soulmates can see that.
I got a response actually.

It went something like this:

I aim to make the nowhere girl a somewhere girl.. so that your wish may become true, for if stars aren't there to be wished upon then why do we look up when we feel down.. Why do we feel the need to wish upon the stars for all our biggest hopes and dreams, Believe and so shall you receive..dare to dream and never give in because the things in life that are really worth while never come easy..but you will always have my love and care..always. Liebe dich.


So the stars did their job after all. :)

Facebook Page: [link]
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.

Sometimes I cry myself to sleep...
Then again, doesn't everybody from time to time? :(

I swear I haven't uploaded any literature in over a month, which is totally terrible and pathetic considering I've been a writer longer than a photographer or emoticonist or journal css designer :meow: many of my watchers probably don't even realize I write, even though they can find my books in my gallery :XD:

So, yeah, a six word story :meow:

Please leave feedback :aww:
Add a Comment:
No comments have been added yet.