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The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.
It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.
The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.
I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bags
shuffle down the high street between
clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase.
They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers,
the rushed businessmen-- a pinball
machine shopping centre.
A green-robed man, tall with wand and hood
must be a wizard. He’s happily
procuring sushi and sparkling water
whilst his companion;
short with her piercings and jeans treats him
as if he wore the same.
Down the high street,
two track-suited parents
zoom past on their children’s scooters—
half-smoked fags between fingers yell
how fucking amazing this is.
spotted teen raps
his love for Jesus on a muffled
He raps for the Father,
He raps for the Son
and Holy Spirit.
He raps for peace, for hope, for you.
In a corner,
Brown eyes, hefty tears,
a snot-ridden face--
four years old.
A train runs through the mall toot-tooting
as grumpy shoppers move out of the way.
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heaven
and throw the key
into the lions land?
A beautiful girl enjoying
a new fantasy to live.
She'd stopped believing, but
faith stays in a heart longer
than a head.
"She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now,
and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age"
Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because my
hair was brown bobbed and she dated David
Beckham; I wanted to marry him. I
had no internet and recorded songs
on the radio to tape, daring to
pause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sang
to S Club and thought I was the coolest
in my smiley faced top and my yingyang
friendship necklaces. You had to know the
Macarena not just for weddings but
school discos too and then every steps routine
to fit in. Slow dances with boys made me
wish again that they were David Beckham
and not greasy teens with bad curtains for
hair. They pressed themselves against you before
travelling to the next girl in leopard
print skirt. Viva forever was merely
a fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole of
the nineties, hoping my teenage self could
find her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letter
outwitting at last the greatest.
A photograph, filched;
a King’s humiliation.
In your eyes she
holds the highest.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted face
and streaks of black across his chest; he stands
wild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by the
echoes of fallen enemies. He slew
two hundred men and just scars mark their defence.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
who prays to gods mightier than he; he kneels
arms open to implore. He calls upon his army
to pray with him; equals once more. He watches
embers burn before retiring to his tent.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
and inside his heart rests a son and daughter
sleeping. There is a reason he is
Napo 3- Leaving the Train Station
Leaving the train station
alone I watch strangers head home.
The waves for yellow cabs and
stench of fresh-lit cigarettes, I let
the cold cloud white breath.
Even at midnight, a long-coated businessman
hurries past with laptop bag bulging and blackberry to ear. Behind me,
a clip-clack of heels and giggles-
their night hasn’t ended.
Across the road, three youths in hooded
tops kick a can whilst eating chips only stopping
as clip-clacks pass them and swoon
immaturity. Swear words exchange.
In the ice-wind rubbish travels as if taking
a commute, tapa-tapping the concrete.
Exhausted I can only wait with
white breath etching blue hands desperate to be
warmed. Eyes fight; tired and
Napo 2- Zombie ApocolypseTurn, turn, slow turn. Twist bones
broke but drag drag behind, pull
tug flesh ripped. Shuffle, groan desire
only for blood brains.
Undead, unliving, unknown.
To survive a zombie apocalypse don’t be
a hero. Do not fight marauders without
necessity. Attrition; gnawing for bare
minimal (lest you be gnawed upon!). To
survive ravenous army equip your
your wits and an axe.
Moan as much as they moan- both sides are hungry.
Of Demons and PoltergeistsA black silhouette stood in front of the all-consuming conflagration, watching blissfully as the smoke stained the stars out of existence. A low chuckle rose in the pyromaniac's throat, a terrifying noise that built to a crescendo as she bent over double, the golden Glasgow grin on her mask echoing the laughter coming from her mouth. The trees around her burned as stood there laughing, creating more of the horrendous destruction the woman's twisted mind deemed 'artwork'. Her gleeful sounds faded as she regained composure, slinging the half-empty can of gasoline onto her back before Erika Shen began walking from her newest masterpiece; a house, filled with visiting families for a reunion, burned to the ground with no possible chance of escaping. The schizophrenic psychopath stalked past several trees marked with the accursed symbol she so despised. The infamous axe murderer named after the Roman Goddess of the Dawn stood before a great, leafless tree. She snickered, pouring the remainin
autoportret..cine esti..si de unde vii tu..?
si m-am nascut din matasea aprinsa
a nemuririi mele..
inima mea..este o vesnica rebela..
inca de la inceputul creatiei..
sunt maestra propriei mele forte..
si detinatoarea marelui secret..
al lui dumnezeu..
care a crescut tremurand pe un deal inghetat..
..si locuiesc in oaza de lumina..
intr-o lume dincolo de lumea ta..
unde stelele se holbeaza la forta mea..
iar iadul tremura in pumnul meu..
noaptea se teme de durerea mea..
iar dimineata impietrita..
isi culca suspinul pe a mea perna..
am imblanzit supliciul..
si am cucerit infernul..
..si l-am lasat liber prin venele mele..
am tesut imagini din lacrimi de sange..
si am spalat cu ele dorul greu..
am sfasiat infinitul in o mie de bucati..!!!!
si i-am dat drumul prin mine..
si atomii mei ti-i arunc in suflet..
tu ii imbratisezi ingrozit..
vazand prin ei..bezna din lumina mea..
si ii culci in camera din inima ta..
si ii speli de noroi..si ii cureti de spini..
Rainbows and Zombies It was a bright sunny day in the City of Color River. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. The mood at Color Wind High School was cheerful and excited; for the first semester has just started. But not everyone was in a cheerful mood.
At the side of the private school, on the winding stair cases that had stops every ten steps, there was a boy. An 18 year old boy with green hair and green eyes leaned forward on the rails in the second to the top break. He was wearing a white t-shirt with a dark green sleeveless, thin jacket. He was also wearing blue jeans and dark green shoes. His elbow was resting on the rail, and his fist was pressed against the left side of his face. There was a sad expression on his face. He was sad, depressed, and heartbroken.
He let out a sad sigh. Then a girl who looked to be the same age came up the stairs and walked next to him. She had brig
Ama shelnev, Hemlekh shelnevYou were once a Queen.
It is a reminder that Corydon gives her often. A reminder that she did not begin as they did. Hers was a different beginning, a different birth, a different origin. She has always been set apart and he reminds her often that she is not from the same place as the rest of them.
The reminder comes most often when she lowers herself to dirty her hands for them, when she takes the blame for something she need not, and most especially when she bows the whim or pressure of one he deems to be beneath her. Mostly, the reminder comes when he is insulted on her behalf for how they treat her.
I was so stunned by who you were, that I think I gave away more of myself than I meant to....
The memory of his admission made her smile. Then again, so much of what he had said made her smile to remember it. He spoke of how he was taught that it is his responsibility to care for those who were his. He spoke of serfs and servants without the lowering of his voice that so m
The NewbornThe Newborn
Christy Waters was only 19 years old when she learned that she was pregnant. Moreover, she could not know certainly who gave her the cells. Her mother and father felt puzzled as well. Christy was a good girl and never considered being a whore. So nobody knew whose cells had mixed with her eggs.
When the nine months passed and she was due to deliver, more people than her and her parents wondered about the fetus. Furthermore, Christy had no physical signs of pregnancy as would manifest with normal cases. Her weight and shape remained normal. But she lost much blood and felt debilitated. The hospital suggested a diet to help her recover. However, the delivery cost her and the emerging fetus was very peculiar. It had only a few basic humanoid features. It had a face, neck and shoulders of a male child but from the shoulders down to the feet, the appearance was neither human nor other primate. The abdomen sported a mass of inky tentacles and the arms were long and sinewy.
The HuntThe kill was fresh and the hunt had begun anew. The hunter was on the prowl once more; the mighty stalker began by silently scouting the room. He felt the fear of his prey, the warmth of their presence. The primal urges convulsed in his veins, strengthening him. He slowly crept through the rafters, quickly enough to keep up with his prey, and quietly enough for his prey to be unaware. The constant pounding in his head kept him motivated, and the shadows writhed about him. No longer was he human, as being contained in a laboratory for twelve years had changed him.
But something else swirled through his veins, something inhuman, something that was never meant to be. He remembered it all, the test procedures and serums, the cruel testing and the white garbs of the scientists. But now he was free, and nobody would be able to stop him from taking his revenge. His prey was on the move once more, the white jacket drifting behind him. The hunter grinned with delight, and began to move swiftly
The Crimson Duke, Part 2So far, I've actually accomplished quite a lot. I've had to kill a few people to get the information I needed, but that doesn't matter. I guess none of it does.
I'm a wanted man now. Not that I'm a guy, but, you know.
There is really nothing much else to do.
I got up from the smoking fire, deciding that it was time to call it quits. The fire was dying anyway. But something about it caught my attention, by chance. the smoke wasn't black or gray, it had this odd little tint to it, like a dusky kind of red, mixed with brown.
I looked closer. I didn't see anything else of any supposed importance.
And when the plastic explosive went off, I didn't even feel it.
PoliteMy parents trusted in the small town dynamics we had going. My town had about 40,000 people. We lived sprawled across huge lots, with neighbors that were always willing to lend a hand. So they did not expect too much trouble when they left for the week.
My cousin Toni was watching me. She was 21 and rather irresponsible. She left me home alone for most of the week while my parents soaked up the rays in Hawaii. Her version of watching me was to check in every few days and take me to the store as needed. She told me to have fun.
She taught me to drive a stick shift when I was 14. I really loved her.
I heard the scraping in the lock around 2am, I thought it was Toni. I had the windows open upstairs because of the dry heat and I could hear the sound of metal scraping against the lock. I thought she might be drunk, so I went downstairs and looked through the pained glass window.
The face that looked back was not that of a young adult, but a man in his late 30s. He looked at me for a moment
Cry of the JackalsCry of the Jackals
Those who have traversed the Sahara along the Egyptian stretch and wandered through the Valley of Kings might have chanced to hear the occasional cries of jackals. They sometimes hang out near the doors of the tombs. When this writer was at the nearest resort, a traveler such as I mentioned arrived and told me and a few others that he had seen or heard a clutch of jackals at a particular tomb. Naturally, someone inquired,
"Which tomb was it? Akhenaten? Ramses?"
"I am not really sure," he replied, nervously. "Neither did I see a marking nor did my guide know."
An unmarked tomb. An unknown mummy. Something very strange was going on out there. However, I was still on holiday and had no intention to investigate. So the inquirer, Edmond Tulley, an amateur investigator who occasionally worked with Scotland Yard, felt it was incumbent to go. The journey was about two days by rover.
When Tulley arrived, he and his guide, a native Egyptian, camped and checked provisions. Cert
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