Looking ForwardLooking back, Harry had to admit that searching for a Death Eater nest alone, unarmed, and slightly intoxicated was, perhaps, a poor idea. He tried to recall or fabricate some rationale for his actions, but the best he could come up with was "it seemed like a good idea at the time". Well, making excuses didn't get him out of the trouble he was in.Looking Forward9 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Problem number one: he had no idea where he was. It was dark, without even the dim outline of a door or a window to use for reference. Someone had gone to a lot of bother to make the room completely dark.
Problem number two: he was tied to a bed. Harry supposed that this point could be either a good thing or a bad thing. At least he was comfortable. The last time he was kidnapped and held captive, he had been chained to a cold stone floor. His captor was at least somewhat humane. However, he still couldn't get away. Yes, t
Je t'aime Je TaimeJe t'aime8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I guess when writing a story, one should start from the beginning, so as to allow the reader to understand who the story is about. I suppose it is only fitting.
Bernard Tourmaline was never one for shooting the breeze idly such that many people find exceedingly exciting and pleasurable. At the time of his fourth year he had barely even spoken more than four words to a single person (other than that of his imaginary friend Jacobo, with whom he spoke for hours on end when nobody was paying attention).
crucifictioncrucifiction11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lifeless but for
he awaits the whips,
the screaming and writhing
all that sex and violence
is left to linger
with the legacy of silence
her faith has left behind
she stands at attention
ready to vociferate, to hold
in restraint, in detention
in the name of her lord
built in the name of sin
saved by a bloody god
born in the hay of an inn
sentenced to suicide
she wallows in his mercy,
folds her hands every night
forever longing and thirsty
for his divine prize
yet tears of perfect piety
embrace the flesh
of her idolatry
down on her knees again
why hast thou forsaken me?
BeautyYour eyes.Beauty9 years ago in General More Like This
I will never be able to forget your eyes. Fathomless pools of beauty I could lose myself in for hours. When they open, they cast a vibrant light, as though nothing in this world could be hidden from you. They shine and glitter like a roomful of diamonds, all of which I would trade, just to receive the smallest glance from you.
Your hair, each strand more valuable than gold and worth infinitely more to me. Every lock perfectly contoured to your face, adding to your beauty. The sight of their delicate dance as the wind blows against them, gently caressing your creamy skin is irreplaceable.
Your face, flawless in every aspect. The flush of your cheeks, your full and tempting lips, your enchanting smile that leaves me speechless, immersed in your angelic presence.
Your mesmerizing laugh. A melody that controls me, drives me to do anything possible to bring that euphonious sound to grace everyone around you.
And your body. It seems impossible such a form can be bound to earth, ra
Looking UpEvery person that I pass on the street either looks at me and smiles, or looks down at the passing cracks and scuffed boots that refuse to look back. Not one ever looks up. As a human I feel restrained in this two-way world, and as a stranger I feel helpless.Looking Up8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Did you see the man with the tattered work gloves? How he hid his fingers in his sweat-stained blue jeans and held a staring contest with his steel toes? I wish he knew that I walked by, that if he was to pass by me a second time, a that man looks more tired than the last time I saw him thought could run through his mind. He cant even imagine where hes going because he is too busy stuffing his mind with personal guilt. Nobody blames him but himself: for his menial job, his workaday routine, his solitude.
But I am just assuming here. I couldnt pinpoint this mans face in a lineup, or greet him by his predictable nickname. He would tell me (if he could see me), that the brim of his cap simpl
LullabyDraco saw him fall. For a moment, he hesitated as thoughts of punishment flew through his mind. But only for a moment. Damning the consequences, he ran through the smoke, tripping over unconscious bodies and fallen tree limbs in his haste.Lullaby8 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
Hush my love, now dont you cry
Everything will be alright
Harrys face was a mass of blood. It looked like someone had taken him down with a strong Diffindo. Draco kneeled beside him and cast a quick Aguamenti to wash the blood away. God his face was torn to bits. On closer inspection, Draco saw that Harrys chest was covered with the familiar lines of Sectumsempra. Only three people on this battlefield knew that curse. One was lying in a steadily widening pool of his own blood, while another tried to staunch the flow. The third
Draco hadnt seen Snape since the melee beg
Dancing She closes her eyes and rests the side of her head against your chest, listening to your heart. Its rapid pitter-patter like rain against the window fills her senses while you both continue dancing. Dancing to the music that exists only in your heads. Sway from left to right in an unnamed waltz of adoration. Kiss the top of her head. Feel her hold you tighter, and return it. She needs you, just as you need her.Dancing8 years ago in General More Like This
Smoothly slide your feet, let the soles tease the floor, never staying heavy for long (as though you're floating) while the angelic music envelops your being. Hers. It's all the same now, your two souls are as tightly bound as your hands, so desperately clenched in love. She pulls away, and gazes up at you. Those look like tears. Pull her back in and don't let go. Lightly press those quivering lips to yours. The warm wetness falling onto your joined lips further fires your passion. Just kiss the girl, and nev
When I Die...When I die...When I Die...8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
When I die I want a Viking Burial.
Take me out to sea.
Shoot me with a FLAMING arrow!
Let the fire take care of me .
Or maybe you can cremate me;
Put me in a cheap wood bin.
And when I'm finally naught but ash,
Toss me to a strong North wind!
Maybe I'll have a reg'lar burial,
Done the normal way.
I'll rest my skull on comfy pillows
While the rest of me decays!
Instead, why not have a celebration?
Followed by a PARADE!
Then hand out bits of all my things
So all the kids can trade!
Or why let my body go to waste?
Feed it to the beasts!
Then turn my bones into dice and pieces-
For games after the feast!
Donate me to science, even!
They can carefully cut me open;
And nod, take notes, and say "mmhmm..."
as they're elbow-deep in organs!
Oh! I know! MUMMIFY ME!!!
You won't need to rent a hearse!
Just throw me in a pyramid,
And leave a note about my curse! ;
If you want to make things easier,
Just put me in a sack.
Throw me in the rive
EuphoriaHer bright eyes smile back at him.Euphoria8 years ago in General More Like This
He cups her chin with delicate fingertips. Her head tilts towards his while his hand slips down, grazing her neck, rounding her shoulder. His hand opens to a palm, pressed against her back and she inches even closer to him, eyes still smiling.
She had done a lot to get here. Only after months of debate and discussion, tearing down the foundations of everything he thought he knew, she effectively broke him. Now it was up to her to build him back up.
His hand returns up her back, traveling down from the base of her shoulder along the arm resting on her side. The two smile as their fingers intertwine. His other hand was content to prop up his flushed cheeks. Words continued to elude him; anything he could say would ruin the simple beauty of their closeness.
She knew him well. Even without any change in his expression, she could tell what he was thinking.
He found a gentle finger pressed to his lips. His chest swelled with serenity and he exhaled a sigh o
Margot is a writer.Margot is a writer.Margot is a writer.10 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Margot wanders through her days crafting heart-stoppingly wondrous stories in her head, but is too slow a handwriter to preserve them on paper in undiluted form. She sends thousands of words and ideas spiralling out of her mind and into the night sky because her hand is fabulously lazy and her memory is brief. Margot is a writer, or so she tells company. In reality, with an excellent education and above-average intelligence (her words), she works in a clothes shop, mocking the idiots and refolding endless tables of poorly made jumpers. This is not something she would enjoy us pondering on, and so we proceed.
She does not write much but suffers the occasional bright idea or compelling phrase. An endless cast of characters lives in her head, all of whom she loves so well that they have each become an extension of her own personality. When she feels angry, she becomes the glacial young widow. When frightened, she is the curator haunted by ghosts of the past. Mar