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It's nothing"Whatcha doing?" you ask over my shoulder.
I flip the notebook shut, masking the beating of my heart with the abrupt act. Somehow, it works. I don't know how you can manage to not hear the racket that silly organ of mine is making. It's so loud that I'm convinced it can be heard through the floor of the room. I slowly let out the breath you've made me hold.
"Nothing," I mumble.
My mind races. How much did you see? Those lines about your "beautiful blue eyes"did those reach their subject? You just stand there, smiling with that coy grin of yours, the one that makes me want to simultaneously kiss you and bash your teeth in. I want to melt away, melt into those arms, melt into the ceramic floor beneath me.
Oh, stop talking, please just go away. This isn't ready, not yet, give me more time. I know this has been a work in progress for a long time, but you can't know that, can you? You can't be impatient with something I've hidden so well (haven't I?), it won't hurt
19-08-2011Sometimes, when you stay up far too late into the night, just before the dawn eases itself through your window, you hear something not unlike music radiate through the walls of your room. It goes something like this:
You hear the soft murmurs compelling you to do... What? You stretch an ear, trying to comprehend it, but it remains just out of grasp. It starts slow, deliberate, strings plucked, chords struck. You find yourself, though curious, oddly at peace.
You wonder what you are supposed to hear, what is being said in wisps and whispers. It swells; it ebbs. You unconsciously begin following the pattern with your fingers, marking the beat onto the parchment of your flesh, maybe you will remember it that way, once light and clarity and reason catch up to the fleeing night. But you know that you will not, that this is a dream, that it does not want to be remembered; but then, what? Why?
You picture your thoughts so intensely, willing an answer to come with all the might you can muster,
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More