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Literature
Fallen Apples
It was a storm to end the world.
Verdigris hung thick and dense like fog in a valley upon the forest of bronze soldiers frozen for time immemorial in some titanic struggle in the vast lawn-space resting at the foot of Mark Wringler’s imposing mansion. Rain roared down like fire belched from the throat of some ravening dragon, searing the large statues with its thundering might. The apples trees thrashed about in rage, shaking gnarled branches at the heavens for smiting them with such a hellish downpour. Lightning rent the sky asunder, crackling amidst the clouds and throwing sparks among piles of dry lives as casually as a child discards a toy whose minutes-old novelty has already been stolen away by the passing time.
Mark Wringler himself observed the apocalyptic scene from behind the safety of rich fabric curtains and heavy panes of glass, but still trembled with every rumbling peal of thunder which shook the house. The sound of the rain on the roof above was like the marching o
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Literature
Tomorrow's Demons Part 10 End
Dear father Alain,
Please mail this to the post.
Your son,
Alphonse Dawnay
I would like to believe- especially in these troubled times when or nation’s rulers are at war with the very people they claim to represent- that we all live our lives for a purpose, whether that purpose, that goal is one we set ourselves or one that others lay before us. I dedicated my life to a hunt. I sought to capture a killer, a brigand. I sought to bring down Le Spectre. But now I must wonder if I was not chasing after shadows, chasing after a man- a thing- which did not exist.
Many will ask how this can be, when I myself reported Le Spectre dead three days ago, killed during the occupation of my home city. I myself fired the shot which claimed his life. Yet medals and honors and commendations for my service are empty, meaningless. I should know; I dedicated my life to my worst enemy.
You see, I did not kill Le Spectre. Le Spectre died before his heart stopped beating, before that bullet stole the bre
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Literature
Tomorrow's Demons Part 9
Damien grimaced. Curse it all. Anyone who could be accused of supporting revolution would, along with a handful of others who could not. Dozens, hundreds of lives consigned to the guillotine. If he stayed, he would be among them. The invaders would find more than enough evidence to accuse that quiet, dark-haired man, and even Le Spectre could not defeat an entire regiment of French Soldiers.
Oh well. What do I owe this place, anyway? I could never settle down, not even with the small fortune Le Spectre amassed. He’s still a part of me; his heart beats with mine, his hand guides mine. We are one. We always will be. We are I.
“Sir! Sir! We found one!” Damien was flattening himself stealthily against the nearest wall even as the words reached his ears. Cautiously he looked out across the moonlit streets, into the shadowed recesses lining the street. Seeing no one lying in wait for an unwary revolutionary like himself, Damien focused his attention on the group of men blockin
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Literature
Tomorrow's Demons Part 8
“No word on Le Spectre yet?” Alphonse asked. The man sitting opposite him sighed, and asked, “No. You know that there’s been no word on him for weeks. Either he’s dead, or he’s given it up.”
“Or he’s just been inactive,” Alphonse interjected.
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, with revolutionaries demonstrating in the streets and the country moving toward civil war, what is with this fixation on Le Spectre?”
“Gregoire… I can’t explain it,” the small man shuffled in his seat, smoothing down his neat trousers and brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his immaculate suit. “This… this ‘spectre’, that’s just what he is: a ghost. No one can catch him; no one has even come close. Then, after more than a decade he just disappears? Men like that become legends, and legends grow and multiply, breeding new criminals to pursue the passing time.”
Gregoire seemed unconvinced. He rubb
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Mature content
Tomorrow's Demons Part 7 :iconlahb:LAHB 0 0
Literature
Facebook Philosophy- Episode 1
8:39pmFran
time seast to egsist
but what about the thery
that alions put a stradon dna or and organism
that evolved into us
the if they werree alive timew existed befor us
8:40pmLuke
Where did the aliens come from?
No, think about this:
Time is just the fourth dimension, no different than width, depth, or height, except in that we cannot travel freely in it
8:41pmFran
idk were they came from but maby thats the idea or way of finding were we came from
thats true
8:41pmLuke
Think of it as a visible space, not an abstract concept
8:42pmFran
so time always existed we just started the actual recording when we enterd it
and maby we are not abile to travel freely threw time
but other things can
8:42pmLuke
yes!
exactly!
Just so!
To some things, time is probably just another space, which they can perceive with their eyes and other senses even mroe clearly than we do!
Who knows?
8:43pmFran
btu still u havent answeard were we came
form
i see when we came to be
we started time and recorded it
but
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Literature
Tomorrow's Demons Part 6
Unfortunately, when one enters the world for the first time without the shelter and protection of a parent or the comfort of a home, beginning is the most difficult part. When a thousand paths branch out before one’s feet, none can tell which road will lead to which end. So it was with Alain. After gaining a measure of freedom and control over his life- albeit bound by his promise to Alderic- the boy had no idea how to begin. He spent the better part of that day wandering the streets aimlessly, lost in reminiscences of the past and dreams of the future.
This winding path ended at the Silver Saber Inn. It was a modest two-story structure, constructed from rather bland and unadorned timber on the far edge of town, away from the tall stone structures of the city. Alain had never stayed in an inn, but had enough common sense to choose one cheap enough that it would not drain his purse, but wealthy enough to insure his safety from thieves and cutthroats.
The Silver Saber was a perfect
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Literature
Tomorrow's Demons Part 5
Such a cruel turn of events in a life already marred by sorrow and hardship would seem to most random and undeserved, but while it certainly was the latter, an explanation for Damien’s sad story can be found if one looks back to the beginning. His story, however, began as many do: long before he was born.
Alain Dawnay had always had an easy lot in life, though he personally did not think so. On the one hand, Alain had never wanted for the finer things in life- or, rather, his desire had never been left unappeased- but he found great woe in other aspects of life; his career, love, and future in general. His grandfather had amassed a huge fortune by investing in Rene-Robert Cavelier’s expeditions to the new world, of which his father, Alderic, had spent not a penny; The elder Dawnay cared more for money than anything it could buy, and cared more for these potential purchases than his only son.
“You squander the legacy that my father left us; waste his hard work on simple p
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Literature
Tomorrow's Demons Part 4
Once a month, however, Damien’s mother would leave him to play amongst the other street children, and go into the city. He did not know where she went, and never thought to ask. He was careful to watch himself around the other children: Something in them frightened him. Their emaciated arms, haunted eyes, and hollow cheeks made them look like corpses raised from death. Somehow, Damien sensed that this should not be so, for though neither he nor his mother worked, the boy could not remember ever having been wanting for basic necessities; he always had new clothes when the old were too ragged or filthy to be worn, and food enough to sustain him after a long day. Damien thought to ask his mother about it, but somehow sensed that she would not answer him- at least, not to his satisfaction.
Eventually, curiosity became suspicion, and suspicion became a plan. The memory was clear to Damien no matter how hard he tried to forget it: The thick smell of the streets, the warmth of his mother
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Literature
Tomorrow's Demons Part 3
The thought of his mother had still been uppermost in his mind when Damien had answered the merchant. But now, he was thinking of something she had once said to him, something that had hidden in a remote corner of his mind from years before. “Damien, honesty is a thing all too rare in this world. It serves an innocent user, like a blade that can only cut away the wickedness in others.”
And so, the boy had shaken his tousled black hair from his eyes and stared defiantly up at the merchant. “Yes. I am afraid.” The other chuckled in his deep, basset voice.
“Good answer. I would be too. It’s a dangerous world we live in. Now, what’s the matter?” Damien had related to the man his mother’s disappearance in excessive detail that would have bored a less sympathetic ear. However, his audience was quiet and attentive, and when he had finished, said, “Your mother? She’s a tall woman, with shoulder-length black hair?”
“Y-yes.” D
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Literature
Tomorrow's Demons Part 2
They had cooperated, of course. They always did in the end. In his days, Damien had killed dozens. The unusual weapon he wielded had become known and feared as his signature tool: Damien’s ‘katar’. So far as he knew, it was the only one in France. It had been given to him more than a decade earlier, when Damien was still a boy.
He had gone down to market with his mother; they often did so, for even though they lacked the money to buy anything, Damien still enjoyed watching the merchants and travelers, and looking at the unusual balms and contraptions being sold for easily double their actual worth. He used to stare wide-eyed over long wooden counters at curved sabers and bouquets of flowers- the memory was one of the few things that could still bring a smile to his lips.
On one such occasion, when Damien was only six years old, he had turned from his observation of one merchant’s stand to comment to his mother on the wares only to find that no one was there. He turn
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Literature
Tomorrow's Demons Part 1
Inquisitive eyes, piercing blue like a shadow of the sea passing into night, peered out from beneath black locks that had set more than one heart aflutter. Their owner was all but invisible, stooped in a craggy recess that, though the sun had only begun to sink below the horizon, was already shrouded in the blackness of night. He had been waiting for the better part of an hour, making no discernible sound or movement that might attract watching eyes. Now, his target was close, and his patience at last failed him.
The man stepped from his hiding with the litheness of a cat, blue eyes roving restlessly. He was standing at the bottom of a small canyon, carved out untold centuries ago by a river, the only trace of whom that could be seen at present was in the shells that littered the cliff walls. Now, it was used by merchants and travelers to pass through the otherwise steep and treacherous terrain. One such caravan was passing through the ravine now, and it was upon this that the man
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Literature
Infinitely Complex
Why are all these people so complicated? Can't they see I should be the center of it all? I mean, I can think and breathe and talk all at once. I am an infinitely complex being, a conglomeration of hate and love and spite and envy and pettiness and joy and thought and wonder. Can't they see that my heart is a bottomless void, that my every change in mood shapes the world around me?
Can they be so wise, so kind, so cruel, and so wise? Surely not. No such being can exist; such an illogically logical misconstrued construction of vice and virtue would crumble beneath the cold hard simplicity of the world.
So why don't they make sense? I mean, I understand so much. I understand that there may or may not be a god, and that I have the right to choose my own path in life, and that sciences save lives, and the arts make them worth living.
It's so easy to say that, right?
I mean, I understand so much. I understand that there may or may not be a god, and that I have the right to choose my own pat
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Literature
Poetry
It is everything and nothing which is therefore everything which is therefore nothing.
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Literature
Shadows by April Epps
so....as I go
you go and follow my shadow
that does not follow myself
who follows someone else's
and their shadow follows mine
to the dusk, and again when the wind shines
we will find our shadows together
by the pale moon light
and the great star bright
with the sun turned just right
we'll be there
just be..
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Literature
How Love Dies
I love you like flowers love the sun.
I love you like a wolf does the run.
I love you as if I will never love again.
You love me like a friend.
I love you more than you can ever know.
So much that I will find the strength to let you go.
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United States
  • Listening to: We Didn't Start the Fire
  • Reading: I know why the caged bird sings
  • Watching: My life unfold
  • Playing: Nothing
  • Eating: Nectar
  • Drinking: Ambrosia
Do we live in a book? Go through each day as a turning page, each chapter marked in clear unquestionable print? I thought it would be better that way. But now I have to wonder, maybe life is too complex to be a book, the neat, ordered lines of type stretching on and down to the distant conclusion of the page. Maybe life is a library, a library for the dyslexic. Each book alike in it's nature, yet incredibly different in its contents. A library, organized only by outward sameness, and only the boldest of us become the librarians of this ancient place, reorganizing the stacks of books by what they hold, by what they truly mean. Only a select few can look past the covers to see the thoughts and feelings behind.

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