Roesavlon

Water is quite an interesting substance, the bringer of life. But the sound of it the back and forth sway almost like a gentle crashing of the waves makes it almost calming, when heard right against your ear. Slowly getting further away almost like the ocean itself is moving slowly but surely away from where it began. But is it truly water or the mind immediately making any sound of liquid turn into water, in order to soothe to comfort. The smell of home or what I had dreamed were to be home. A citrus sweet sending me back to the jungles, the rainforest, anywhere exotic I had ever been, or would it grow on beaches? Someplace warm at the very least. I can practically picture it growing on top of a tree. The tangy citrus sweet brings creatures from all around to take a bite.

Three hundred and sixty five days. All amount to a year of time, a year that one can be hard to describe or fit in a comprehensive rhyme. So complex and all knowing no, more like all going forever going, never ceasing, only marching. With such complexity how can one shirt, now nearly four years old, tell part of the story. But a story only few would understand if told, no matter the means of which it’s told. Three hundred and sixty five days all combined into one shirt, like the strains of fabric making it whole. The matter of how can be expressed by just laying it out on the bed and examining, no remembering each tale made up in the strains. On the back are letters like those one might see in boys scouts, but meaning so much more than any pledge or verse. “Remember the Buddy System '' the white words proclaim, surrounding two hands clasping each other in friendship and endless ending memories. The remnant of barely tangible memories. The word “Staff” is printed on the front like

Scene 1: First Kiss His lips stung from the recent pressing of lips against his own. His eyes follow his partner who is walking down the street striding confidently like he owns the place, not at all phases of what had just occurred. He supposes that’s what happens between first kiss and what was likely his number twenty six. Even still, his cheeks were flushed from the recent encounter, head wheeling from every last detail. From when his partner decided to wrap his arms around him, pulling him close, to when he put his hand on his cheek, sending a tingling sensation throughout the rest of his body. The taste of his lips still lingers, a sweet cinnamon from the cinnamon bun ate but moments before the interlocking of lips. It tastes lovely. It tastes like something he can’t describe. It tastes like home. Scene 2: Broken Lips Rome wasn’t built in a day, but the heart can shatter in just a moment. The kiss was like a dance, twirling closer and closer together until the

The army general walks into his office as the sun begins to sink low on the horizon, painting the sky with a pinkish hue. Though this night it looked almost like streaks of blood trembling on the sunset. Slowly the general approaches a man sitting on a cot whose arm is in a sling. As he nears the man he tries to keep his face expressionless, but any who knew him would be able to tell that he was nearing the end of his rope, as every few seconds he would tap his palm with his middle finger. Taking a few moments to gather his thoughts he focuses on his breathing as he moves to stand right in front of the man on the cot. “What happened?” He watches the man on the cot shrug his shoulders like the fool he was, pity it seems like even now that man couldn’t see pass his own fucking stupidity. The man would then meet his eyes with an unphased grin. “Simple, your plan went astray.” This was the last straw for him, he could no longer keep his anger under control, so damning it all he

As the night waxes on, a magician retreats to his tower after a tiring day of collecting herbs and ingredients for his next batch of potions, requested by the king himself. With quite a peculiar selection of potions some that would make even the newest magician raise an eyebrow. Who in their right mind would request a hundred potions of the deadliest poison? With one being strong enough to topple ten grown men and an elephant. The magician ponders as he makes his way into his chambers, storing the herbs and ingredients on the shelves right above his trusty cauldron. Morally the magician is well aware that he couldn’t in good conscience just hand over the deadly potions, even though it would be as simple as stealing sugar cubes from a baby. For an aged magician such as he, any sort of potion making is mere child's play, though with a constant threat of being swallowed by the fires of hell if he were to make one misstep. There is only one sure fire way that the magician knows

Part One : The Immortal Protectors In the land of Luzu, the home of an ancient race of immortal beings, feared by all and loved by none, there is told of a token of sorts that holds the power for eternal life. Being hidden somewhere in the thick underbrush in the densest of forests on the planet. Guarded by the immortals who call this place home. It is because of this token that many men have come to this land. Desperate to live forever, or to give the gift to others so they may live forever. All their stories end the same, they head for the island with ideas of glory or hope in their heads. Only to end up dead never to be seen again. None of them even knew what the token even looked like. A foolish oversight on their part. How would they even know that they were within reach of the key of immortality if they couldn’t discern it from a gold coin on the ground? Not that it’s even coin shaped, or has even remotely a golden

There once was a dragon, a very lonely dragon who lived in a cave on top of a mountain overlooking an old kingdom. A kingdom of peace and harmony is what their neighbors say, but the dragon doesn’t say the same. Sure it started off fine at first. The children always welcomed the dragon with cheers and embraces, while he was young, when he stood only three feet tall, and his talons weren’t sharp. During that time he stayed with the king's royal sorcerer who raised him since he hatched out of the egg, and helped him gather all the ingredients he deserved for the magic that allowed him to even control fire. He did this job with joy, and with ease. For his sense of smell was greater than any other beast, being able to detect even the slightest hint of herbs in the deepest underbrush. Once he had found them, he gently picked them up with his massive jaws, and carried them by the stems, allowing the top part of the herb to hang loosely outside of his jaw. During his trip back he

Tied by strings on what to be standards set throughout history. Changed by time but change is slow and we're pushed to fit the mold. To be a mother brave and bold despite the desires the women hold. Either that or a career she must hold but be careful not to be too bold or she'll be pushed out of the mold. And once she's out the stage is set for her sisters to go for her neck.

Antiques on a shelf history unfurled painters and sculptors from long go. Who made each piece with love and care each crave a caress and each brush stroke a gentle kiss. Some were useful a time ago pots and pans decades old made to impress the passerby guest. While others were less so made for art's sake and the passion of the soul like the chicken and the deer hanging on the window sill. Some are symbols an impression of the heart or a religion's spark often hung close to heart. But regardless of the use or the lack thereof no creator is ever spoken or even given a passing thought. At least the poet gets a flower and the painter a glorified final hour. But the creators of the antiques often get lost to history while their work is cherished for its history.

Rose petals fall on the ground all around without a sound. Marking the days of joys from yesterday before the betrayal that took our hearts away.