Based on a friend and a saint (not the same person). A mod's choice before the crash, so I thought it was worth reloading. If you didn't read it before, then the game is to figure out all the saint references in the piece. The commenters before did a pretty good job. Rewrite 6/27/05.
Story 7 For a book I call 'The Angels of Whitewing County.' Sometimes we must be angels unto one another.
This isn't finished yet, no. No! How could it be?! So dun even THINK it. -pokes.- It's just chapter one and two, and even those are relatively short, 'cause I worked on them in two separate places, so there. Hrmph!
This is one of my newest stories. I wrote it for a friend's b-day. It is a little more romancy than I usually write. The plot is good though. If you have read 'A Lesson' and enjoyed it, you'll probably like this one too. Have fun! And keep smiling.
Inspired by Janja Nicolic's picture 'Give Me Back My Wings' Go have a look at her gallery while you're in the Woods!
My friends and I have weird experiences. This particular friend has a strange ability to...well go ahead and read the story. Like I'd tell you!
Cycle of Life:Prologue Armoured knights trampled the village green to mud. To those caught in their path, they appeared to be bizarre monsters, their humanity hidden beneath hard, chitinous shells; razor-sharp swords gilded red in the most precious of substances - life’s blood.All around, the air was thick with despair as the wounded reached out to one another with open hearts. The dead pretended to ignore their fate. Some lay with their ears pressed to the ground, as if listening to the slow heartbeat of the earth. Others directed their eyes upwards, watching cinders trace a lazy arc through temperate skies.A shrill cry cut through the clamour of battle as an Arch-Mage, dressed in bright ceremonial robes, gave a renewed call to arms. The animalistic scream took to the air: a symbiotic blood-cry fashioned from a living soul, savagely pried loose from its corporeal holdings.The invaders moved in a grim dance as they engaged the unarmed villagers in combat. Each wore a filthy white surcoat emblazoned with the twin signets of faith. The ancient symbol, which comprised of two interlocking rings enclosing a stylistic pattern, represented the link between heart and mind. Some of the village elders recognized it for what it truly was: a powerful sigil designed to unify the men in single-minded combat. Such tactics rendered them unstoppable, as it was easier to control men through magic than the archaic bonds of brotherhood and loyalty.The invaders marched towards their defenceless foes; gazes filled with righteous indignation; cold hearts ablaze with lust for battle.Death it seemed possessed its own voice. Its horror rent the still morning air. Everywhere, horror overlaid beauty - a grotesque juxtaposition of life and death. Then, the wheels of time unfurled a new day - a day as bright as the blood spilled freely beneath it.As one, the army came to a complete halt. The soulless invaders coldly perused the battlefield. Bloodied and battered helms concealed deadpan faces and unseeing eyes. As a new and monstrous future was ready to be born,
I was at the book store looking through art books and saw a painting of a statue coming to life. This story was born from that inspiration.
This was mainly an experiment. I was trying to write about a character I find highly intruiging, but it was (in my opinion) a horrible failiure. It's set in the same Empire as the 'Choices of Murkha' series, but the similarities end there. I was trying for a disorienting, desperate and fear-inspiring feel to this, with a healthy helping of melancholia. But I eally despised it. you might disagree, though
13/04/2001-After reading a story of Psyche and Cupid, I thought it was far from complete. But I didn't want to rewrite that one but create a new one.
Chapter three, not much to say which I haven't already...
This is a little more personal than I normally get, but I guess we can get personal every once in a while. This is because of Someone (you know who you are, and I hope you're proud of yourself) but it's for all of us who've ever heard these words but have never been able to cry ourselves.
This story is about an aspiring artist named Carry who's artwork seems to be trying to tell her something...
In a world in which all forms of art have long been forgotten, a girl tries to recreate a scene the only way she knows how.
working title. Based off a dream I had. I call it a storem, cause its a mix between a story and a poem. Thanks for the Mod's Choice! It really made my day!
I had a lot of fun writing this one. Hope you'll get a laugh from it, and better yet, choke just a little on that laugh... hehe. You can easily substitute color pencils with keyboard if you like, the analogies still applies :) It’d be interesting to know if anybody can relate to the content, one way or another, or if it’s only me whose head is slightly screwed up... :P *dodges an ethereal arrow* When I wrote it, a picture belonging to Ursula Vernon, and called 'Angel of Babylon II' kept returning to my mind. I think the picture and her comment to it add something to the story. Don't expect it to be obvious though. the motif is nothing like what I wrote of :) Actually, if you have your own fantasy story or painting of your version of the battle with your muse, nemesis, spouse or whatever, drop me a note and I’ll come running over to your place to have a looksee and comment.