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The Field of the MindBeyond the halcyon sunset
Lies a vibrant, floral heath,
I often go and sit to rest there,
In its timeless, drowsy sheath,
For the air lends me to musing,
And the sounds goad me to write,
For I am always quite alone there,
Save the birds that twirl and song there,
For I have other kinds of friends there,
In that haven out of sight.
There are colours that resound,
Blues and Reds that sound like Violets,
A sheet of tulips that like sirens
Sing with voices wrought of dreams;
Airborne sheets of vibrant yellows,
From the songbird's whistle spun,
From the wind's breath on the lilies,
From the prelude of the sun,
From the vernal scent of morning,
Whisp'ring white when all is sung.
The shadow there still comes,
Just as often as it should,
The lunar sphere its dark hem weaves
Casting quiet o'er the wood,
Yet is stayed in part by memory,
Safely kept at bay by light,
That nature in her total wisdom
Ruled should ever wait behind,
To shine in leaves, in songs, in memory,
'Til the passing of the nigh
An Eternity In Grey.There was no sound in that glen where her grave lay - the woman I only knew so very briefly yet who I owed my existence to. My memories, what little I had of her, were fond, yet the headstone was almost bare, save for her name and the wear of eighteen years. No memorial phrase, no decoration or love adorned its cracked face. The rose I had cast down had already begun to wither; its lively carmine hue crumbling tragically into a shallow, livid brown. The snow, which fell in cascades, never fell directly upon the grave, only touching the sacred ground and stone as the wind mischievously coaxed it. Time seemed faster there and the air always seemed colder.
A man had been standing here longer than I had, staring, as I was, at the old grave. The snowflakes danced upon the lapels of his pressed white jacket, like tarnish on an unmoving statue. I knew not who he was, as the unnaturally dark shadow of his white, broad-rimmed hat covered the details that might have elicited a reaction of famili
The Antechamber Ex.2 : JayBang clank clank clank clank
A deafening grating sound, followed by an explosive crack, ringing in her head as the walls morphed, stretched and slid across the stone and iron floors, leaving behind fragments of stone and lighting the gloom with red sparks. They were always fast; moving and closing in just over a second... but this time it felt like a whole minute. She gasped, quietly, as the walls finally closed in some directions and opened in others, mixing up the labyrinthine hallways for what seemed like the thousandth time. After that, there was only the sound of her shallow breathing and the faint whistle of a draught coming in from some distant corner of the maze. She stood unmovingly in that faint cold, her lantern flickering hopelessly and her eyes staring just as hopelessly at the stone wall, where only a few seconds ago there had been a hallway, a window and a boy about her age with a panic-stricken expression.
"Kane!" she screamed, between sobs, staring a
The Antechamber: Book OneIn the dim light, a page turns, upsetting the long dormant dust of forgotten years.
"The window, as I have called it," one book reads, "is a curious room crafted completely from an indestructible, green and glass-like substance; the substance is is quite thin, yet it is so remarkably durable that any force I have yet attempted against it has been completely ineffective in breaking it. It was fairly warm in there when Renard and I visited it; perhaps due to the mechanical whirring not unlike clockwork which can be heard, continually for the most part but stopping in short, twenty-second intervals. Renard said he felt the ground shifting, but I think it may have just been the way the floor was rumbling.
"Beyond the glass, which seemed to be shaped into a circular room with a rounded point at one side (perhaps not unlike a drop of water) we saw nothing but a sheer black void that stretched as far as could be seen. No point of reference within that murk was visible, although we admit that
The Antechamber Ex.1 : HallwayI do not know what happened. My memories of that day seem to recollect a grand feeling of pressure and of cold. I remember the wind and I remember those words she said to me; keep your eye on the mirror. I remember looking out of a window, seeing the snow fall in malign torrents as though the world itself was decrying its people's right to comfort and warmth. I remember a distinct song playing in endless repeat; a tune, unfinished, but of such ambient buoyancy as to evoke feelings not dissimilar to the calm after a difficult storm.
That night, I had a dream, which I do remember very well. It was by no means an ordinary night-vision; whose sleepy, nocturnal depths feel as if they are perfectly real until one awakes. In this dream, I was in a hallway that neither seemed to end nor begin. My footsteps rung hollow and vague; not the slightest echo reached my ears . The dark, aged timber that comprised the floor and the walls was like ice to the touch. I could feel nothing else. Even
The Winters' Cafe: EdgeThere was a time, you see, when the gun and the bullet were considered the weapons of cowards and thieves. A blackhearted sort of weapon, they'd say, with some degree of truth to back them. The gun has a particular sort of ease to its operation, the bullet has a range able to best the swiftest and truest arrow and the wound it leaves is rarely a trifling one. To the untrained, it all seems too easy.
The bullet leaves the chamber and subsequently leaves its deadly signature on the victim's heart. To those watching on from the sidelines, there's a sharp crack and a thud as the body hits the floor. It's all over in an instant. What happened? Not a lot. Where's the glory? There isn't any. That's what they say.
But times change, of course. The world isn't as simple as it used to be. Targets become faster, skin becomes harder, reflexes become sharper... and soon the simple act of point, click becomes a little more like fencing. An endless stre
Kiya Holmes: For CC123.The standard order of things was, I noticed, rarely the best way to get things done. A bumbling squad of ill-trained 'officials', doing some ridiculous dance around the crime scene, tipping and disrupting all evidence, causing all sorts of havoc, removing all chance of ever finding a satisfactory verdict. Conjecture would be tossed to and fro, attention paid to the most irrelevant details, and eventually the inspector would stand up from whatever seat he had fallen asleep in and yell;
"I have found the murderer! It was clearly the butler, for he was in the room with the victim and his clothes are stained with his blood! Besides the victim, he was the only one with access to this room! It is in-discussible! It is in-debatable! It is in-refutable!"
Nodding agreements would follow, a shuffling of boot-clad paws would fill the air, irons would be clasped on the butler, the scene would be tidied up and they would all start to go home.
Of course, that is normally when the usual order of thin
Your sweetness is wasted upon those who care not.
I shall stand by,
As one observes a painting,
Able to see,
But not to touch,
Nor to claim.
They pass by as one passes in a museum;
One hundred faces,
Each one noting the beauty,
To forget in a moment.
I shall not forget.
I shall admire you, malcontent.
They shall love you with their simple love,
Whose crude baseness
May be spent on any just as well,
While I admire you and all that you are,
From this, the safest distance.
Beneath.Pacing trepid through the ruins,
Dust and cobbles crush beneath,
Torpid winds creep 'round the rubble,
As the moon shines down beneath,
Smoky drifts flow low and sallow,
Drifting up from shafts beneath,
Take a whiff and try to swallow,
Fetid air that dwells beneath,
Swirling 'round a mighty tower,
Whose remains now lie beneath,
Rushing up from buried hallways,
Roiling restless from beneath,
Churning vapid cries of mourning,
Call from broken tombs beneath,
Disturbing plaited cloth and chalice,
In the grander rooms beneath,
Deftly climbing gilded stairwells,
Where railings rust and fall beneath,
Breaking loud upon the surface,
Rustling grass and soil beneath,
Spreading voices on the airwaves,
Screaming tales of blight beneath,
Dissipating on the landline,
Finding cleaner ground beneath,
Forever lost of sunken prisons,
That writhe and tear the Earth beneath,
Forever free of tainted tower,
Which I now stand lone beneath.
And yet a single flower blooms here,
Roots now grappling deep beneath
I Belong To You I hate rain. Not really, I love it. Just not when the most beautiful, perfect, wonderful, perfect, comfortable, waterproof, perfect coat in existence has been savagely butchered by my so-called friend’s Dalmatian. Every slap of rain on my naked arms is a stinging reminder of the irreparable hole in my wardrobe.
Some people might try to fill the void with lesser coats but I can’t bring myself to betray Valentino, even after her death. Instead my slippery arms grapple with each other in wet shock as I stumble to the op shop, clinging to one last thread of hope. I know in my deadened heart that I’ll never have another coat like her. Yet here I am, blundering through the elements in my vain search for the acceptance and warmth I found wrapped in Valentino’s woollen sleeves.
Thud. My body slams into the door, making the ‘open’ sign quiver and the bells tinkle in offense. I fight for entry, the door’s assault doubled by the stale funk of
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More