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Needing YouI am writing this letterNeeding You by AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
Two weeks in advance, for I
Cannot pay the fare for anything
Faster. I am unable to deliver this
Myself because I will be long across
The highway. But I have overcome the
Distance, so let me continue.
I am writing this letter as if I would
A vision, because messages are more easily
Remembered when shown, not told.
When the words lose their form and
The ink shifts and morphs into what is
Meant to be seen.
I am writing this to you because
I am going off to war, against
An unbeaten enemy whose backgrounds
Have been burned. I know that I
Must rise up to meet the road,
But I must ask you this.
Will you still be there,
Waiting with a smile and a shrug
Saying “‘Bout time you showed up”
Will you still be sitting
On your front porch steps,
Whittling away like some
Will you still need me
After I’ve left and gone?
Because I’ll still need you.
The Standards to be Upheld at Jr. Oram CourtIf one is expected to be out in the later hours of the night, wearing a gold filigree suit, a silver-chain pocket-watch and a stunning new top hot, then one is expected to both enter and exit the court in one’s Tinderburner. The roof is expected to be down and the windows shut, completely. Doors are to be left locked at all times until opened by one’s designated chauffeur.The Standards to be Upheld at Jr. Oram Court by AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
If one is departing from his premises and is not leaving the estate in the hands of their spouse (if he or she is present and/or exists to begin with), one must be sure to alert one’s house keeper prior to leaving the building. Once the keeper has been notified, they are to immediately report to the court’s proprietor, lest he believe the dwelling is vacant and open for new occupation.
Finally, if one is to encounter any small children or vagrant families, especially those impoverished beyond normalcy, one is to do nothing more than provide coin and sustenance if available. Do not, under a
Scraps of WarIf I gathered everything,Scraps of War by AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
The guns, the garments, the badges and bombs,
From every war that's ever been waged
Would I be able to sew together, to burn with bronze
Wings for the fallen so that they might
Could I give their beloveds enough fire and powder
To ignite the lives that they too swiftly lost?
If I collected every spec of scorched earth
That remained of once-standing cities
Would it be enough to build something
Could I take the shattered remains of
Oceanside bluffs and bustling metropoli
And form something that shall stand eternal?
If I counted the years
That every soldier lost during
His life on the battlefield
Could I finally achieve immortality?
Would I be able to stop my hair
From graying? To stop the clock
From ticking? To stop the world
Losing FortunaMost people have no idea what a fortune looks like. Most people say it's a collection of illustrations on cards or a gigantic manor filled with nothing but the memories of the grandest adventures. Either that or the cliched mountain of gold. More ironically, however, is the fact that not many people know how much that same fortune is worth. Oh, a mountain of gold will certainly get one a seaside castle, two if properly negotiated, but so rarely is a fortune is gained by a simple task or exchange, and even more elusive is a fair trade for such a gain.Losing Fortuna by AnUnfoldedPaperTiger
If the sucker that had given Notch the map and buckskin hadn't calculated his losses by now, he was as far from fortune as a kerosene leak in a coal mine.
'I should've just buried that pick in the old geezer's skull! Could've given the poor guy a break and myself a good laugh!' Notch considered.
His makeshift kayak teetered feverishly between the stone ramparts of the underground and the moat of darkness below as its captain eased his way
The Magician - PrologueThe bar stinks of stale cigar smoke and spilt alcohol. The light is dim, barely scattering dull yellow flickers on the grimy walls as tinny melodies from the jukebox mingle with hushed dealings and growled threats. It's not a nice place, but it's not a bad place. It's even a good place for those who know the comforting arms of the gloom.
There's a man at a table, black hair and heavy coat blending in with the backdrop, one who has spent the last half-decade dancing in the shadows of Europe. He's like an artist in his own way, one who works with the whims and frailties of human greed rather than the paints or the clay. But rumour has it now that he's leaving, melting away. Which is what brings the other man.
The second man, pale, flits at the counter, barely a spectre in the murk. He doesn't belong, comes almost close, but doesn't. He stands on the other side of the scene, after instead of with. And he's after that first man there, before it's too late, because it's been too long alr
RhythmbreakerOn the first day of school I rode the bus with all the other children from my town
There was a rhythm on that bus. The driver would drive to the next neighborhood and stop near a kid's house. The student would then say goodbye to her friends and calmly walk home. It was a constant rhythm. Drive, stop, walk. Drive, stop, walk.
There was a little boy on that bus, no older than nine, who would always break that rhythm. The bus would stop, and he would leave without saying a word to anyone. The moment his feet touched the pavement though, he would run as if the devil himself were on his heels.
Every day as the bus pulled out, I would watch the boy run. One day, I caught a glimpse of his face. He didn't have the gleeful face of a child caught up in the vision of how he would spend his next hours of freedom, as I expected. Instead, he set his jaw in determination and anger and maybe even a little bit of fear. He didn't run like most children; he ran with mission.
As the months went by, the l
The knife dragged down her spine, pressure being applied; enough to make her scream out in pain, but not hard enough to pierce through the skin. If it was to be dug into the skin, the one behind the knife, the one who was wielding it, wouldn't be able to gain control. Wouldn't be able to stop from digging it so deep, it would kill her. A smirk formed on the lips of the holder, just playing on the lips like it was no one's business. Slowly, the knife was dragged away from the young girls back, she struggled against the ropes that had her bound to the bed in the strange house as the psycho laughed loudly, the evil cackle filling the room and taking away her breath. She screamed again, tears leaking out of her eyes and flooding down her soft cheeks. The person slowly turned the girls head to face her, though she couldn't look into the eyes of the monster, not only because her vision was blurry, but because the person had a dark black hoodie on. Slowly, the dark black figure dug its nails
|A slightly less clever man than a clever man, I'm just the writer trying to writer himself, first off, a good bio, and second off, a place in the history books. Give a lexicon and I will weave for you tales that will sing aria's of imagination and stardust. You wanna ride with me? You best be ready to surf the winds because my head's in the cloud's an the only time when it lands is when I go to dream, baby. If you think you can handle that, then climb on board and set your compass to wherever you so please.|