A Writer and Her Character Click, click, click, click, goes the keys under my fingers. Usually I write slowly but today I’m inspired so today I’m beaming at the screen and enjoying the sounds of the quick clicking.A Writer and Her Character by Rebel-of-Argon
I feel a little guilty though, I’m writing a musical rewrite of a story I haven’t even finished writing in the first place so what could be more pointless than that? But wherever the inspiration leads, right?
I ran the idea past my characters last night, they’re not completely on board but I don’t think there will be any major problems.
I about jump as my door slams open and suddenly my character Luke is standing next to me.
“You can’t make Cam do this!”
I stop typing and just stare into his wide scared eyes. I should probably feel sad for him but instead I
Child's WingsThere once was a little girl,Child's Wings by Wydra-abr-draumar
Who sat high up on the tallest mountain,
Over leaves and over trees,
And saw a green forest beneath her.
She wore a blue dress,
Like the skies and the seas,
She had eyes like ice,
And hair like sunbeams.
Across the skirt of green,
Above the grasping boughs,
A white creature coursed,
With great beauty endowed.
Curios was she, the girl up on the mountain,
Can I journey there?
Much to her surprise a sparrow alit,
Upon a twig,
Wings are what I need,
thought the girl to herself.
But how shall I acquire them,
I am in need of wit.
So she told the sparrow,
What fine wings you wear,
Tell me please, where I might find,
Feathers of my own to bear.
Oh silly child, do you not know?
You find wings upon the wind,
And only those whose dreams are contraire,
Can catch them as they fly!
Quite confused the girl closed her eyes,
And tried to dream a dream,
Of dragonflies, and crystal eyes,
Of fire and of stone,
Yet though she tried, she could not spy,
A beautiful MessAre we not,A beautiful Mess by Wydra-abr-draumar
A beautiful mess?
Atoms, molecules, starstuff,
Broken down and recreated,
No more, no less,
Than firing neurons,
Our components rearranged,
With each death, each life,
We are both selfish,
is that simply the extension,
of our ability to survive.
We are great architects,
Monuments, achievements, discoveries,
Yet we are the ultimate destroyers,
Power the individual cannot or will not, acknowledge,
And the many subvert, divert, shy away.
For they, we know,
If we cannot change ourselves,
How could we change the many.
We are some of the greatest communicators,
Thoughts, emotions, knowledge,
In many ways going beyond the simplicity of survival,
Yet even so the disarray,
Of those not so distant from us.
We breathe different air,
But we need the same oxygen,
We drink different water,
But we require the same hydrogen dioxide.
Many of us are tainted,
By pollution, toxin
the twentieth winter (colorblind)December.the twentieth winter (colorblind) by Seilf
the snow hardens to ice
quiet thoughts pressed into white;
the stars grow brighter
as water is siphoned from the atmosphere
woven into the blanketed ground.
the sun has stopped
trying to press through the clouds
white light from a gray sky,
black ice beneath my feet--
i am tired of watching where i step.
they wrote me another prescription
trying to stop me from dissolving
into the road-salted floor.
white pills to white teeth,
white tiles to white noise.
the crows are darker in the sun;
white snow to gray water
licking the salt from the sidewalks,
stars growing rosy with the heat--
only the bay knows better than to thaw.
The Gardens of OblivionVerdure stains on light filter to uncompressed earth,The Gardens of Oblivion by DeiSophia
fertilized by broken bones buried in their final berth
and mulch that sighs rhapsodic scents unto torrid, musty air
surrounded by plants so high, low and fair.
Gilded by humus, rainbow colours en-weathered
Untended by savagery yet still unwithered.
Boughs bow with untasted fruit
hoarding tastes of knowledge and thought so acute
bitter-sweet flavours ensconced in lively, liquid pulp
that man can not consume of such with only one gulp.
Removed from time, growth halts, no decay
touches and blemishes leaves left green and gay
Plants ripple their unchanging forms
untouched by swarms of insects, or storms
Perfect as they were once created
on the day that God's lust was sated
Cycadic dreams reminisce of this immemorial age
when man strode about this measureless stage
'fore his departure to diverse other pastures
filed with their own multitudinous disasters
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