Schools of sirens sing their songs
Schools of sirens sing their songs
Come sailors it won't be long,
The stewards of the sea,
Will perform their symphony
Our master the mighty sea,
Lends us power and company,
To guide you to our shore
You're ours forever more...
No you cannot row away
With the tides under our sway
We invite you to the sea,
Become one with us and see
The beauty of the deep,
Your ours to keep
We steer you to our shore
You're ours forever more
Shush now our precious sailors
With us theirs no toil or dangers,
With us, the children of the deep,
You only need to sleep
With us beneath our shore
You're ours forever more
Elusive EndsI told him living
was driving drunk at night
without a seat belt—
the signs blurred,
the road swishing—
and that I felt like a car
with a burnt-out headlight
speeding in the dark
down curvy, narrow roads—
a wreck waiting to happen.
“So long as you get where
you need to go,” he said.
“That’s all that matters
in the end.”
And for the longest time
all I cared for
was that “end”—
the top of the mountain
the finish line
whatever the fuck—
that elusive place
where I could
say I made it.
But all I did was lose myself
and realize I prefer the journey,
in all its inebriation,
doubt, and close calls.
Too much is made
Insomnia Poem IISome nights
the world feels empty.
A building burns around you
and you hear no sirens
There are bad seeds
planted in the sticky grey
soil of cerebrum -
there is no one around
to stamp out the shoots.
Designer Jeans Mutagenic jeans worn out by the time
that the scene gets seen, the blink of an I.
Enact extraction of inactive facts,
in active acts, extra action attracts.
Smokey stacks smoke stacks smoking smokers stack.
Genetic hacks hack hacking lungs in half.
Designer genes worn out (also worn out)
are worn without knowing what their about.
Money, Politics, and Quentin LindbergContent warning: Homophobic slurs
There are only three things in life that truly matter: money, politics, and Quentin Lindberg.
Coincidentally, these are also the three subjects that you should, at all costs, avoid broaching during a family dinner.
Unfortunately, my father was never particularly tactful.
“Did you see the sign the Lindbergs’ put up in his front yard? Probably the son, the little queer. Frickin’ liberals. All they want is to take away our hard-earned money,” my father says, somehow touching on all three subjects in a single breath.
I lower the fork in my hand to the white tablecloth. “I’ve only been back a few hours, Dad. So no, I have not had time to inspect a random person’s front yard since you picked me up from the train station two hours ago.” I focus on this fact rather than pointing out that my political views don’t actually conflict with those of Quentin Lindberg.
The Shape of a StarLast night I dreamt of Starrie again. The last time this happened, she had materialized in the city just the next day. I had been out shopping with my mom, staring through a storefront window at the wedding dresses inside, when she had called my name. I hadn’t seen her in six years. At the time, I had been convinced that I had somehow conjured her. I mean, what are the odds that a person from your past—someone you hadn’t seen in over five years—would call your name in the middle of the street? A street in a city you had moved to just to get away from her?
She doesn’t know that I left because of her. How could she? I was a tiny insect on the windshield of her life. I was nothing to her, but she had been everything to me. She had been my whole world. My project, you could say. I had been her guardian angel.
I watched over her. She didn’t know it, but I did. I checked that she was still coming to school every day. I checked the state of her hair—w
Mana Burn TG - Chapter 1-1 - The Outset
Chapter 1 - The Outset
I was not prepared for the humidity to slap and smother every inch of my body like an invisible mask the moment I stepped out of the safety of the terminal.
After texting the entire group that I was on the ground, it only took ten minutes to find Harley Campbell by baggage claim. His height helped.
Hearing that someone is six and a half feet, or just slightly under two meters, is one thing. Seeing them in the flesh is something else.
His hair appeared a little lighter in person than in his videos, while still darker than dirty blond. Maybe. I wasn't an expert on hair.
He turned around when I called his name. Before I could say anything else, he easily guessed, "Ark?"
It felt both right and disconcerting to hear my online handle said by someone I'd just physically met, even though it was also my initials. I nodded. "Yeah. Good flight?"
After helping him wrestle two large bags off the carousel, Har
An Endless HellIs it a sin to miss the hell,
That you survived with best of friends,
At worst of times?
I never got the answer.
Endless Night // Trivium
The evening wind caused the leaves to flutter, high in the trees, above Kris Dawes' head. A long-expired aluminum bottle of beer perspired in his hand as he watched the birds floating over the field before him. The perspiration gently dotted the steering column of his vehicle as he sat parked behind a closed gate. Red and yellow hazard signs denoted the presence of unexploded ordnance in the open farmland east of El Campo, Texas. The fact that the first shipment of fresh alcohol hadn’t made it on this day had Kris fuming behind the steering wheel.
Had Kris wanted to, a decent sized rock thrown into the area probably would’ve set something off. The land had been subject to several armored vehicles skirmishes. Beyond the vibrant warning signs, the field held several burnt-out hulks of American Abrams and Russian T-series battl
The Watch [Prologue]That day should have never happen. Anything would have been fine, as long as this life restarted. With these hands, this tool…
Ashen Drayford back fell on the damp icy lamp pole. Head up, the droplets of water that fell on his face blurred his vision. He was only aware of one thing, the thick scarlet liquid dripping off his hands and the smell of wet metal that filled the air.
He held his head with both hands and spoke to himself in a crazy manner.
“I can’t save a thing, I couldn’t save the world, I…”
….When was the last time or the first time you will ever waver from which is morally right.
Blackcross Chapter 1She had come here in a moment of desperation, searching for something mentioned in storybooks called hope. But it wasn’t to be found. It had been here, of course. She could sense the ghost it left behind, knew its name: despair. The girl didn’t know a lot of things, but she knew you couldn’t have despair without once having hope. That’s what the storybooks had said, anyway.
The room she found herself in was remarkable only for its ugliness. Patches of mould rendered the walls and ceiling into a gigantic Rorschach test. A couch and matching recliner, both riddled with cigarette burns and milky stains, were the only pieces of furniture. The previous owner had left tools, dumped in a bleeding-rust pile. If this didn’t seem homely enough, there was also the prevalent stink of cat urine.
The girl wasn’t concerned. The semi-detached house had been picked purely on the basis of necessity and not materialistic means. She was lying across a threadbare rug, st
Nevermore II“We loved with a love that was more than love.”
“Is that you, mijo?” Andre’s father called groggily through his bedroom door.
“Yeah; it’s me, papá,” the boy replied. He grimaced and looked away when his father emerged from his room at the end of hall, dressed in only his tighty-whiteys and white tank top. “Dude, some pants, por favor.”
The older man waved him off with a grunt as he disappeared into the bathroom.
Andre took the chance to duck into the kitchen, setting his things by the wall that divided it from the living room. He frowned at the dirty dishes in the sink, wondering why it was so hard for his father to take the extra step of putting them into the dishwasher, and went straight to the refrigerator. Nothing could replace his mother’s cooking, but Andre had gotten pretty good at making simple and instant meals.
Nevermore IV“Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.”
“You can head on home, Andre,” Ernest offered at a quarter till ten. “I’ll finish those up.”
Andre looked up from putting away the comics people had left strewn about the store. “I’m in no rush to get home. It’s the weekend.”
“Yeah, but it’s dead in here,” Ernest said, taking the pile the boy was holding. He was a pot-bellied man in his mid-forties with crew-cut red hair that was fading to silver and kind blue eyes behind silver-framed glasses. “No point in you sticking around. Don’t worry; I’ll still pay you till ten.”
“You’re just trying to get me out so you can wrap up and head to D&D,” Andre accused with a smile.
Ernest laughed; a nasally sound. “Guilty.
Nevermore III“When I was young and filled with folly, I fell in love with melancholy.”
The bell rang at the end of the day on Friday, releasing the students of T. R. Miller High School for the weekend.
“Yo, Andre; you headin’ to work, man?”
Andre looked up through the crowded hallway to find his closest friends, Hector and Will, heading toward him. Hector was Andre’s cousin, with whom he had grown up, and Will, he had known since third grade. The three had been near inseparable for most of their young lives, up until Andre’s mother had wound up in the hospital. Hector’s father blamed Andre’s dad for what had happened to his little sister. It had taken a few years for his roiling hatred to settle into barely-smoldering resentment, which had put a strain on Andre and Hector’s relationship.
“Is it all right if we tag along, homes?” Will asked
His World is Shaking III [Burning] “Leonhart!”
“Where are you, Leonhart?”
The voice was calling to him in his dream again, but something was different. Normally it was hot in his dream; stiflingly so. A crushing heat, like gravity, weighing him down.
But not this time.
Instead he was… cold. Freezing, actually.
It was dark, too. He could tell as much even behind his closed eyelids. Was it nighttime? In the desert? That would be a first – a pleasant first.
Or what if it was something else. There was another possibility that could cast that burning bright desert dream into darkness and chill the boy to the bone.
Black and ominous.
When he’d first starting having the dream, just the sight of the p
[One Piece] Silent Act (Roci poem, now performed!)Exiled from the sky where fake gods reside,
I played the part of the quiet, smaller child.
With my elder brother I struggled to survive:
we hid from people, nearly starved to death,
and when mother died I silently wept.
Then two years later my silence broke:
I also lost father, killed by my own blood.
I screamed in despair and then ran away,
was found by a man to whom I'm indebted.
I became a marine, as a pirate disguised,
to my brother I returned, there were wine ‘n smiles.
I was welcomed back, no questions were asked,
and in the spider's nest I acted quietly,
whilst my brother's shadow becoming
to stop the madness of my own blood
—because I too was a fallen dragoon,
but my own feathers were made of ash
instead of brother's glossy pink glass.
For a while I observed my brother's life:
he had a new family he seemed to like
and that made me recall that forgotten time
when we were a family albeit living in grime.
However back then I missed to see
what'd really ha
Words of Another Misunderstood StepmotherThe world can be so cruel, especially for women.
Everything is dominated and decided by men.
Here I am now, managing to rule a kingdom in my own right.
There are plenty of injustices I intend to strongly fight.
So many men only value women for physical beauty.
Bringing an end to this closed-mindedness is my first duty.
Being the fairest isn’t exactly what it is cracked to be.
It’s the only thing a woman is noticed for, you see.
Making countless men completely lose their morals and minds.
They forget what else in a woman they could possibly find.
Luckily I’ve proven to be quite a capable leader and decision-maker.
Unlike several kings, who rule simply because of their gender and are such fakers!
My stepdaughter, Princess Snow White has such elegance and charm.
I must admit, this brings me great alarm!
Like I mentioned, being the fairest isn’t exactly all sunshine and rainbows.
Closed-minded and perverted guys very easily become your worst foes!
I know this all to
Words of a Misunderstood StepmotherMyself and my daughters had Cinderella do housework, that is true.
However the story has been greatly twisted and exaggerated, so please allow me to start anew.
Cinderella’s father was a genuine gentleman and truly loved his daughter, the greatest husband a woman could find.
Unfortunately, his devotion to darling Cinderella caused him to become blind.
He pampered the girl with gifts and service, which led to her becoming spoiled.
That isn’t the end of it, what comes next would make anyone recoil.
My stepdaughter would scream and curse for no obvious reason.
Her mind often wandered and she couldn’t pay attention, so unpredictable just like the late winter and early spring season.
I was devastated when my new husband fell ill and died, don’t get me wrong.
But I hoped that with new rules and discipline, Cinderella would improve before long.
My daughters and I merely wanted her to be able to do things on her own.
Surely the satisfaction of self-service could not be
The CallingA song whispering gently
Sweet tidings in my ear,
Bidding me come quickly,
To a place so dear.
Haunting me in dreams of night,
While I rest beneath
The stars that shine forever bright
Above the world of Thedas bleak.
Archdemon slayer, I have been
Known for many years,
But my time has come, my fate is set,
I must meet the foe I've known.
Sharpening sword, preparing armor
I know that I must go
Into a land of darkness deep
To answer the call of old.
Grey Warden they call me,
Commander of brave,
Courageous in battle,
And never afraid.
Traveling through Orzammar,
City of dwarves,
I bid them open doors
To darkness of hordes.
They say farewell, solemnly they know,
I will never return again,
And will forever lay beneath
Eternal tombs of stone.
Unsheathing sword, wielding shield,
Oh grimly hear the song,
Singing loudly now, calling me fiercely,
To become the illness of death.
Darkspawn come in hordes,
Overwhelming my sword.
Slaying hundreds I begin to tire,
With wounds so fatal I know.
Drunk Love [Erwin Smith x Reader]8AM is a punishment.
It's a spillage of grinning sunlight, voices climbing on top of one another, and a large, heavy hangover, dragged out of bed and into the abusive morning.
Waves of nausea shudder through Erwin Smith's uniform. A headache smears his vision and dismantles his thoughts. His body is exhausted, sagging with regret.
The Commander of the Survey Corps is certain he's going to die in about five minutes. He suffers through the slow seconds, retching into his trashcan.
Suddenly, someone knocks on his door. He sees the sound burst on the dark ceiling of his eyelids; three sharp eruptions of noise.
He tries to collect his voice. It flops out of his mouth in a pitiful, "Come in."
The next time he looks up, he finds her unsympathetic eyes staring him down. "Wow. You look like hell shit you back out," she says.
He groans and leans back in his seat. "That's nowhere close to how I feel."
She laughs and he does his best to dodge the explosive sound. "Poor baby." She takes the trashca
Closer [Erwin x Reader]She wakes up to a smudge of murmurs that disrupt the silence of the room.
Sleep is rarely kind to Erwin, especially on a night before a deployment.
He is writhing next to her, wrestling against another nightmare. She can feel his heartbeat against her skin as his arm tightens around her, pulling her closer, closer still.
She strokes his hair and tries to soothe him. Eventually, the nightmare leaves and he settles into a peaceful sleep once more.
The beginnings of sunrise are approaching the city.
They're closer to the next day now.
Closer to another mission.
Closer to danger.
They're well acquainted with the fear of death; it's always present. It punishes every touch, every kiss, every word they exchange with the dread that it might be their last; a bittersweet poison.
And yet, they pull the other closer.
Because they're both aware that this is rare — to find small fragments of heaven in hell. And they're greedy enough to take it.
A commander and his soldier, falling in th
Eclipse [Erwin Smith Drabble]I saw Death that night.
It looked like the acceptance that settled over her weathered face, and the in and out struggle of her breathing.
She breathed like paper — thin, and crumpled, and trembling. It dragged through the stillness around us.
I sat next to her and her last moments of awakeness.
It killed me, to watch her die.
I had her hands in mine. I could still feel the war on her palms — callouses and scars, but warmness and gentleness.
We stayed like that for a long moment.
"It's a waste, darling," she said, "crying over an old woman like me." A string of coughs caught onto the end of her sentence. "I've lived a good life. I've tasted victory and felt the freedom we fought for. It's better than what I deserved. It was a very good life. There's no need to be upset."
I felt full and hallow, and warm and cold, her company and my loneliness, all crowding that little moment. I tried to smile but it dissolved
March-to-May Make-a-Script Contest [ENTER HERE]IT IS TIME. IT IS TIME FOR THE CONTEST.
In case you've forgotten, or you're here for the first time, the March-to-May Make-a-Script Contest has some wonderful prizes!
For Best Overall Script, the prizes are given:
1st Place: 6 months CORE Membership (CM) & 1 Critique (2400 points)
2nd Place: 6 weeks CM & 1 Critique (600 points)
3rd Place: 1 Critique
For the categories of (A) Best Opening Scene or Monologue, (B) Best Mid-Play Scene or Monologue and (C) Best Closing Scene or Monologue, the following prizes are given:
1st Place: 2 months CM & 1 Critique (800 points X 3)
2nd Place: 2 weeks CM & 1 Critique (200 points X 3)
3rd Place: 1 Critique (X 3)All you have to do is write a script within the three months of the contest from March 1 to May 31! The script you write
Kruna ''Dry Bones'' Vatru When the skies reach out through choking sands,
demands meant to be heard by a skull capped nomad's
hand, delivering its message scrawled into his palm.
Powerful magics once rode the winds, helmed by spirits
and freely given. Now, the well spring runneth dry and
the cracked lips of the shaman struggle to discern their
Still respected, yet regarded with a mixture of
curiosity and fear, he remained the solitary link to their
old gods...their old ways. A beacon that had begun to
dim, he feared, for the winds hadn't carried messages
for quite some time.
Then, a twinge pierced his palm, inciting it to write.
Long trenches of forgotten tongues were drawn into
the cordoned soil, safely sitting inside the shaman's tent.
Images, symbols, and shapes were carefully executed
into the ground. In that moment he saw portents of his
We found his dry bones only a
The World of Deltarune (and the real world)I think I understand a bit more of what Deltarune is about.
It puts the real world in contrast to the fictional world: basically reality vs fiction.
The dark world is a world that makes you feel all giddy inside, like a child. You play games. You literally play games, as there is evidence that the dark world is a made-up world based on the games inside the closet (cards, chess / checker boards, stuffed toys).
The over-world on the other hand is the portrayal of reality. School, work, friends or no friends, people can get sick (Noelle's dad) or die (Gerson). Like when reality hits you in the face. Berdly also tells you he's "contributing to society", implying that Kris isn't. It's not so nice out there.
You want to escape this real world to a fictional world. You want to go on an adventure, with your friends, battle "bad guys". You dream about doing that (= you can go directly to the dark world if you go back to sleep). Or you play games (chess board) to forget the dreary reality.
Confluence of Dread and ShameHarvey Kipper knew it was coming long before anyone else. He thought that gave him an advantage.
On December 20th, 2012, he sped down an Illinois interstate in his bright red Plymouth Fury, knowing every time he saw the skies get a little grayer and the satellite radio get a little less clear that he was being vindicated. After years of warning those in his community outside Springfield that the end was nigh, after nearly a decade of being laughed at, called a loon, and suffering the misery of failed relationships, he was being proven right.
Perhaps they had had a point; perhaps his belief that there was a real connection between the works of mad shamans and the apocalyptic predictions of dozens of cultures throughout history were based in speculation alone. Perhaps it was true that the final days of humanity would not be brought about by the inconceivable events that haunted Kli'upto's dreams and at some point had formed the basis for all religions of Man, but that did not change that
|Please comment the literature pieces you can find in the Gallery! Writers love when their deviations get comments!|
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June 2019 Make-a-Monologue Contest [Details]As promised, here are further details on House-of-Playwrights's upcoming (June 1-30) contest!
First, the thing everyone is MOST concerned about: PRIZES1st Place: 6 months CORE Membership (CM) & 3 Critiques
2nd Place: 3 months CM & 2 Critiques
3rd Place: 1 month CM & 1 CritiqueThese prizes will be given out for Best Comedic/Funny-ish Monologue, as well as for Best Tragic/Serious-ish Monologue. It is possible for a contestant who writes multiple monologues to win in both categories—that is, someone who writes one funny monologue and one serious monologue could (theoretically) win first place twice—so the prizes can really stack up!
How to win these wonderful prizes?
From June 1 to 30, you will have 720 hours to write between one and four Monologues. The monologue(s) you wri
Month-Long Make-a-Monologue Contest AnnouncementHear ye! Hear ye!
Announcing the dates for House-of-Playwrights's Month-Long Make-a-Monologue Contest:
June 1-30, 2019!
There will be up to 12 months of CORE Membership up for grabs, as well as multiple critiques, so mark your calendars now!
More details will be released, as we move closer to the time of the actual contest.
This contest will be open to all members of House-of-Playwrights and its affiliates.
Comment on this journal to enter!
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