At first the incursions were small. A couple of ears of corn here would go missing, or a small patch of potato wouldn't come to crop. Nobody worried overmuch - Mother Nature was always due her share of the harvest. Next, a lamb would go, or a calf. Still, nobody paid it much mind. Nature was ever a thief in the night.
Next, sheep and cows would disappear in the darkest hours. As the barrier weakened, They grew bolder and bolder. Night time disappearances turned to daytime thefts, and the people began to worry. They hustled the sheep in, they hustled the cows in, and they hustled each other inside. The old ways began to come back to them, as
When Eliyah and Marion were born, the first thing we did was to count their tiny fingers and toes. The second was to document, clearly, which twin was which -- a job which fell to me, the proud father. This was a more-than-usual necessity as the girls were identical mirror twins, and it struck me that it would not do for the new dad to be unable to confidently say, "this is Eliyah" or "you're holding Marion" when doting relatives questioned me.
Unfortunately, new dads are the second worst choice for such an important document (the worst, of course, being the mother, unrested and still in her delivery gown). The very first thing I did, post d
Xlitewqoafsns (pronounced "Bruce") squinted at me, thumb in maw.
"We're agreed then. In return for one pizza--"
"No, hold on," I interrupt. "You're not going to subvert this by giving me the wrong sort of pizza or something. I do know how this works, you know."
"Okay, okay." The demon looks lightly downcast and amends his speech. "In return for one Eagle Boys pizza of the variety, large, chicken hawaiian, you shall henceforth give your soul unto my keeping. Yes?"
I pause to consider loop holes before nodding my agreement. As soon as I do, Xlitewqoafsns whips out an iPad.
"Right. I just need to enter this, bear with me one mo-- oh, shit.
It's night. There's no movement in the desert air, nothing to suggest that this night is different from any other, and then it happens. The sand heaves. A moment later, all is still. There is no sign that anything has happened except the presence of a humanoid body that definitely wasn't there before.
It's a few moments before the thing sits up. It does so in a sudden movement, hands raised to protect its face. After a moment, the hands drop to the ground, which it scrabbles its fingers through. Sand pours through the digits while it watches and time passes.
Eventually, the thing tires of watching the endless fall of sand, and rises. It mov
She wore layers. I don't just mean her clothes, though she was well layered up in those. She'd come out in a hat, a backpack, an undershirt, an over-shirt, jeans, socks, shoes, and to cover it all, a giant flannelette top that wrapped around her like a hug; and then under all of that she hid the layers of her true self. When she talked, it was a whisper. When she laughed, her mouth quirked upwards and opened in a quiet huff of air.
Six months in, she was starting to thaw. A layer dropped -- her backpack fell from her shoulders and crumpled at her feet. At the same time, she started to talk. It wasn't much of a change, just a slight increase
Flashing into being on my counter, he sniffed the air. As if that hadn't been curious enough, he asked after tonight's dinner -- the bowl he was, unfortunately, sitting in. Mournful, I looked at the remains of my deconstructed pizza. 'This,' I thought to myself, 'would be a great time to come up with some dialogue.' Unfortunately, conversation seemed beyond me just now. The being on my dinner didn't seem too interested in it, either.
I was just forming the impression that in addition to being completely weird, he was also completely mute, when he communicated. His dialogue arrived in my head, a pattern of impressions more than it was words.
Jason tagged after me, his feet dogging my heels. "An' then, an' then, an' then BOOM!"
Sometimes when he was excited or feeling particularly emotional, he stuttered entire phrases. It was annoying, but what could I do? Getting angry at him just made it worse, and he'd start stuttering letters, too.
The good news was, he didn't always need interaction. He'd prattle on for hours at a time, just a long-running monologue. He was doing it now.
"--said I don't have any friends, but me and you are friends so she's really wrong and anyway,"
It was high time I interrupted him, or I'd be treated to a full discourse on just exactly how many friends
His wings were glorious. It was 1985 and my father had just finished crafting another masterpiece. This one was unvarnished, a golden-winged angel, each feather individually carved into the wood. Since my father carved for himself and his family more than he sold, I asked if the angel could be my special gift. I considered it undervalued and priceless and my father, mercifully, agreed to let it stand in a tranquil glade I frequented.
I named him Azrael because I thought it was the most beautiful name I'd ever heard. Each day I would tell him my joys and sorrows, and he would listen patiently. When we studied Shakespeare, I would practice my
Collectively, the crowd held its breath. The champions sat astride their magnificent horses and awaited the command to begin. Some were bedecked in heavy suits of armour, others wore separated pieces, but all were dazzling to the crowd's eye.
Nearby, at the archer's tent, one voice could be heard muttering to a companion. "Is this how you do it? Hand here and pull back and-- oh. Where did that go?"
In the stands, a man let out a small scream and clutched at his arm. Much to his surprise, it had suddenly sprouted an arrow. "Argh," he said. Then, feeling as though it hadn't fully expressed his surprise and pain, he added a second one. "Argh!"
It had been magnificent. Even now, the fireworks continued to fizzle in a half-hearted way. It had been the best display in years, all the people told each other.
Three hours ago:
"Shove over," Phil commanded his brother. "You're taking up all the room."
Looking mutinous, Adrian shuffled over. "I was using that space," he grumbled. "I'm never going to be a rock star if you never let me practice."
Phil vibrated gently with scorn. "You can't play any instruments and your singing sounds like something screaming in agony. You're never going to be a rock star anyway." His brother sighed. "You don't have to put it so bluntly," he objected.
It was almost perfect. One or two more strokes were all that it would take, and as he finished preparing, the young King sighed with contentment and fatigue. He'd been at it for almost 12 hours this time, and his muscles were straining in protest, but he knew in his bones that it was worth it. Art, after all, was a skill that took time to master, and the King was determined to cultivate it in himself until he was the best in all the lands.
He stretched, his bones crackling along his spine and arms, then grasped the picture box provided by his Mage. "Hold still," he admonished his squirming models before giving the box its appropriate command
The large silver serving platter functioned nicely as a makeshift shield. She was wielding it thoughtfully, a rolling pin in the other hand as she imagined herself fighting off hordes of villainous gizmos, when Cook re-entered the room. "Isabelle!" The paunch woman, voice raised over the hissing steam and pounding pistons of the kitchen, was not happy. "Get on with your work, girl."
The stern admonishment loosened Isabelle's grip, and the platter crashed to the floor, spinning across its expanse like a giant coin. The rolling pin followed, slipping into the shadows and knocking into a tiny figure that quickly moved away. Isabelle flushed and
In a house across town, an old man sits on the sofa. He is on leave, and though he used to love his job, this time, he hasn't even noticed its absence. The paper bag beside him spills a dark stain across the faded fabric and he doesn't notice that, either. His eyes stare into last week even as the stain grows larger, threatening the trousers he hasn't taken off since Sunday twice gone. Echoes of a german shepherd's bark catch his attention, momentarily, and a smile lights up his face, only to slide away again immediately. The kennel in the corner mocks the man -- a tain in the wood reminds him of the bullet, and the emptiness is a heartbreak
we don't play board games or
date, we simply rest, pressed
close, a back arched
softly into a stomach,
an inverted comma promising
always, she sleeps early,
my head rests, pressed
to the pillow; i breathe
everything she is, promising
small prices-- her hair
rests, pressed to the sheets,
my arms a circle she still
misunderstands, the flick
of her feet; promising
in his absence, the most devoted
lover; in his presence, the most
gracious friend, banished
to the edge of the bed; her head
still rests, pressed to us, promising
hathi struggles, the shaft
draws at her skin, swelling
with rainwater and sticky with mud.
hathi breathes, paddling
and scrambling, and nobody says
Darwinism, nobody says no.
we see only an infant.
we don't speak, we just move.
hathi tires and we are fist deep,
tunneling a new path,
an arrow to the jungle.
hathi breathes, heaves
herself aground, and nobody says
anything. we watch her leave.
anahita rests, her weary feet
cupped beneath her bottom. doves
nestle between branches and the tree
boughs bow, grace her wild locks
with soft tendrils. the peacock
dips his feet in the flowing waters,
studies the face that stares
and speaks, eloquent as he is beautiful.
the body says,
'i am tired'. it whimpers
and dodges work,
from listless fingers;
the body turns a blessing
to a burden--
the already made cake
nestled in the belly
of our fridge, no longer
a delicious reason
for a night-time raid.
Moist droplets clung together in small groupings. The air around him was liquid with their breath and their being.
Nearby, on the ground below, plants stirred. Their thirsty cores dug roots deep into the earth, searching out water.
Directly below, a fire crackled gloriously. Red-gold flames licked at the sky, devouring morsels of breath from its components.
His final moments would be his glory. Hissing down from his home in the sky, Aitch Tou-Owe extinguished himself.
Three months, and Carlos’ absence still clings to the building like a ghost. Rory feels it most in their flat, of course – the cold of an empty bed, the sink less stained by toothpaste – but even the hallway holds its memories of Carlos fumbling for his keys; even the lift still feels like Carlos leaning back against burnished steel, hands in his pockets, lips turned up in the playful half-smile that Rory so loved. He can’t take the lift anymore without remembering.
He doesn’t want to forget.
Three months, and sometimes it still hits Rory like a storm. He finds himself crying in the lift, stabbing blindly at bu
You guessed it, folks, it's FFM again! Apologies for my continued lack of presence here on dA except for this past week (which will extend into the rest of this month, but still be mainly limited to FFM related activities). I am well and reasonably happy most of the time, but I've started studying towards a Diploma of Counselling, and it takes up a lot of my energy. I'm thoroughly enjoying it, though, and finally making some local friends.
Anyway, onto the first of my FFM features for the year! I know there's a lot of works in here, but I do recommend you read as many as you can as these are the best of the best for each day.
It's January 13th which means it's that time of the year again and your special day is here! We hope you have an awesome day with lots of birthday fun, gifts, happiness and most definitely, lots of cake! Here's to another year!
Many well wishes and love from your friendly birthdays team
--- Birthdays Team This birthday greeting was brought to you by: Viamie