From Beyond

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And in this greatest turmoil we gather, to walk alongside men once more.
Too long have we been absent; too long have we witnessed decay and destruction turn this world into a shadow of its former self.
It is time.

We are the past, present and future.
We spin the threads of life that hold the fate of man, and we shall guide you to the dawning of a new age.

Embrace your destiny.
It is time.

(77 words)

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In Norse Mythology, the Norns are female beings who rule the destiny of gods and men.

Written for VisDare33: Indifferent – 150 words or less. Grab a pen and join the fun!
photo credits: leclownlyrique.files.wordpress.com

Evolution

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“So, this is it?” she asks, and stands up on her tiptoes to get a better view. ” I don’t understand what’s so funny about them, Mom. They don’t look funny to me.”
Molly is seven.
How can I explain to her, why those store window mannequins just caused me to laugh hysterically?
She was born in the age of Botox, where people pluck, shave and shape everything. We, as a whole, are evolving from ape to plastic. How can I explain to her, that those plastic figures don’t resemble anything remotely human, when she is surrounded by people looking exactly like them? It takes a lot of effort to hide my tears of frustration behind laughter.
” It’s an old person’s joke, Molly. Maybe someday, you will understand.”
She gives me a quizzical look, takes my hand, and together, we stride through a world of make-believe; a world no longer human.

(149 words)

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Written for VisDare31: Focused – 150 words or less. Grab a pen and join the fun!
photo credits: saatchionline.com

The Long Hours

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She had ribbons in her hair. Purple velvet, nested in a sea of auburn. Small amethyst beads on her neck sparkled softly in the lantern light, complimenting her radiant smile. Her dress billowed and swirled as she danced to the sole violin’s tune, her breathless laughter the sweetest music in his ears. They fell in love beneath the stars; and love, in all its forms, guided them throughout the years, until auburn turned gray, turned white.
When she left, his heart went with her.

On this November day, there is no warmth left in the sun. He gently touches the amethyst necklace, carefully placed on the wooden chair next to his. The tea in his tin cup has long gone cold. Trees shed their leaves in gusts of autumn wind, and his Longing counts the hours, until they meet again.

(140 words)

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Written for VisDare26: Engraved – 150 words or less. Grab a pen and join the fun!
photo credits: graphicmania.net

A Thin Line

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Mother once told me to be a symphony.

Back then, I did not understand why she deemed those words important, yet the intensity of her green-eyed gaze, as she said them, stayed with me throughout the years.
Since that day, I have made decisions that caused me to stumble; decisions that brought me to the brink of the abyss – daring me to take another step. I have made decisions that elevated me; lifted my true Self higher than I could have ever imagined.
It is a challenge to not get addicted to extremes – they singe your insides with bittersweet intensity, leave you wanting more. It takes courage to not lose oneself in the process of finding purpose.

Today, I walk the thin line between black and white, careful to tread lightly.
Today, I take life’s chords and arrange them to inner harmony.

Today, I am a symphony.

(147 words)

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Written for VisDare 25: Precarious – 150 words or less.
photo credits: media-cache-ec4.pinimg.com

Six Days

On the seventh day, he woke to the sting of tears, panting.

The image of her perfect, pouty lips as she had flung those horrid words at him remained etched in his mind; not even the unexpected, yet dreadful gift of a few hours of sleep could keep his thoughts from going back.

Six days.
It still tore at his guts.

Drenched in sweat, wiping the tears from his cheeks while reminding himself to Be A Man, he looked around the room, bleary-eyed. The pillow to his right was abandoned, the blanket crumpled and on the floor. The girl, last night’s ‘bump & grind accomplice’, seemed to have fled the building, along with his watch and wallet, which he remembered to have put on his nightstand a couple of hours ago.

Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
What was her name again? Sarah? Sandra? Oh, hell…

With a grunt, he sat up. He could still taste WhatsHerName on his tongue; the faint, yet lingering stench of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume completed the mental image of her – writhing underneath him. Wincing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, hopelessly trying to keep last night’s memories from conquering his mind. The first tendrils of a splitting headache licked at his temples, a perfectly infuriating addition to the already painfully present mix of guilt and shame.

Six days.

Absent-mindedly, he reached for the half-emptied, half-forgotten beer bottle on the floor and took a hearty swig. Stale and disgusting – but it would have to do, until he could get his legs to do his bidding and carry him over to the fridge.

It had been six days since She had left him.
Six days since the words, “I never want to see you again.” had sprung from her lips and driven their dagger-shaped intent into his heart.
Six days since his heart had been cremated.
Six days… since he had buried her remains a little way off the beautiful riverbed of Camlyn’s Creek; the exact spot where they had made love for the first time.

He stared at his trembling fingers, still clutching the beer bottle, and felt his stomach convulse.

Her words would haunt him forever.
She would haunt him forever.
That, he was sure of.

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photo credits: favim.com

In the Line of Duty

CONTENT WARNING: This piece of writing contains strong language. For mature readers only.

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— photo credits: iletaitunepub.net

“There isn’t much left to say between us.

The Keatons, that’s us.
Suburban home, two cars, one mailbox, no children, and one hell of  a mortgage.
My husband mows the lawn on every Saturday.
I tend to the rose bushes.

After being married for nine years, we barely acknowledge each other anymore.
We go through our routines, and hide beneath the perfectly safe shroud of long-term habit.
We function together – but keep apart.

Our weekly exchange of bodily fluids has long since turned methodical; he knows how to push my buttons, and vice versa.
Mediocre, at best.
I come.
He comes.
The ‘Duty-Fuck’… because, hey, we’re supposed to do it, right?

Afterwards, we watch TV.
He snores.
I do, too, sometimes.

There isn’t much left to say between us.

In the mornings, we sip coffee and read the paper. Sports section for him, Home & Culture for me.
In the evenings, we give ourselves over to mind-numbingly stupid TV shows. He hates them as much as I do, but they help to drown out the cacophony.

There isn’t much left to say between us.

I once said, “I do.”
I meant it with all my heart.

My heart must have abandoned me… somewhere, along the way.
Somewhere, between rose bushes and morning coffee.”

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Written for Picture it & Write over at ErmiliaBlog. Grab a pen and join the fun!

Beacon

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— By Jeffrey Smith

I am.
I am flesh made stone to stand against your crashing waves.
I am the Guardian – the Last Stand of hope in your world of chaos and destruction.

Years of decay have worn away my sentiment, have hardened my skin, have forced my will to battle among the clouds.
And still, I linger.
Still, I fight.

I am flesh made stone to stand against your crashing waves.

One day, my knees may bend to the force of your wrath and my body may drown in the depths of your cold embrace, but my soul will always be a beacon, shedding light across your stormy sea.

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My response to Ermilia’s Picture it & Write Challenge… grab your pen and pay them a visit!