Sing to Me
There's a song that's inside of my soul
It's the one that I've tried to write
Over and over again
I'm awake in the infinite cold
But you sing to me over and over
And over again...
The young, dark-haired genius put down his book with delicate fingers and tilted his head to one side, ears alert to the faint strain of music that had just floated past him. Somewhere, a floor down and several rooms and corridors over, someone was playing the school piano. He immediately knew who it was; but as he glanced up at the ticking clock, his brow furrowed slightly.
It was 3 AM in the morning. A normal time for hopeless insomniacs like him to be awake, but why would she be up at this hour?
Stepping lightly down from his perch on the armchair, he padded across the carpet and slipped from the dim room with noiseless, barefoot steps, boredom and vague curiosity egging him on. Sherlock Holmes could wait.
He wandered down the stairs and through the long hallways with hands stuffed
Come With MeWords can't go far enough to describe him.
He's like fire and ice and rage. He's like the night and the day, and the storm at the heart of the sun. He is ancient and forever. He burns at the center of time and he can see the turn of the universe.
He came to our world as one of us. He walked among us, breathed our air, cried our tears, felt our joys and knew our fragile hopes and dreams. He reached into our crippled, anguished world and healed our sickness, our blindness, our brokenness; and everywhere he traveled, lives were changed. He had no home and there was no one else like him. He never stopped, never stayed, never asked to be thanked. And when he saw we needed a savior, without one complaint, he took every wound, sorrow, regret and crime upon himself so that we wouldn't have to. For us, he fought Death itself and won.
My life was nothing until I met him. He took me away, kindled a fire inside me and showed me a better way to live. He gave me a n
Diem Mirabilis - Morning
for Morning is made
of mysteries and uncertainties
the hopes of beginnings
the risks of unknowns
the potential for greatness
~ -:- ~
The sunlight of a newborn day peeps through the window behind her and coaxes its way past the curtains, falling across a table covered in sprawling wires and metal parts to touch golden strands of hair. A girl just shy of 17 years stands bent over her work with lips pursed, oblivious to everything but the stubborn bolt she's attempting to wrestle into its socket.
The phone rings from a few feet away, and she automatically reaches for it and tucks it under her chin, still keeping her focus on the new shoulder plates being assembled.
"Rockbell Automail Repair and Maintenance, Winry speaking."
Silence. And then:
The wrench falls from her fingers and clatters to the floor. For a second her mind goes numb, as if those two simple words had struck some kind of mental funny bone, and the only coherent thing she can whisper is his name
Why I WriteI write because...
Oh, how can I put it into words?
(They were there, just a second ago.
So many reasons, darting and buzzing around in my head
Like dragonflies. Flashes of brilliance, difficult to capture...)
Wait a moment...wait...aha! I've caught some.
I write, because I want to take Color
And translate it into Sound, Smell, Taste and Texture
So that perhaps, I can help a blind man see a sunset.
(That was bit syrupy, wasn't it?
The sentiment gives me cavities just by looking at it...
But it's true, all the same.)
I write, because I want to tell stories worth telling;
To take someone on a journey through time and space and worlds unknown.
I want to build an escape door for people to slip through;
To let them get lost in another place and forget for a while...
Yet at the same time, give them the courage to come back and
Wrestle Reality again with the bit of magic they took away.
And that includes me.
I want to put a band-aid on a scraped-up day,
Make it rain when the sky is
Lord of the Dance?Dedicated to my Lord of the Dance,
to the man who inspired this poem,
and to all who seek stardom over servanthood.
May you learn that to possess joy,
one must dance for another's glory.
~ Lord of the Dance? ~
His costume glitters with sequins and jewels
His dancing shoes glisten and shine
The music begins as his dancers dance in,
Feet tapping in rhythmic line
He waits for his cue in the shadows and smiles
Hes hearing the roar of the crowd
The sound of cheers is sweet in his ears
They call to him, clear and loud
(But what is he left with,
When the applause dies away and the cheering ceases?
What is he left with?)
The spotlight dazzles his eyes as he enters
The audience screams out his name
And then with a leap and a blurring of feet
He dances as wild as a flame
Hes the star of his show, this spectacle grand
The stage is his world without end
A vast expanse on which to dance
Where Magic and Realism blend
(But what is he left with,
When the dance is no
Beautiful - A Short Story
For Kay, my dear sister in Jesus. May this small parable help to remind you how beautifully and wonderfully made you are in the eyes of the Great Artist.
~ Beautiful ~
A Short Story
Once upon a time, not long ago and not far away, there lived a wise and skillful artist who loved to paint. He delighted in making magic with color and bringing all the images he saw in his head to life in his pictures.
One day, he was painting something extra special. His brush dipped in and out of the swirling colors and flew across the canvas in expert strokes; dabbing here, blending there, moving swiftly in a joyful, marvelous dance of creation.
And at last, the painting was complete. It was a picture of a pretty young girl on a swing at a park, with a rosy-cheeked face and sweet brown eyes. She was wonderful.
The Artist stood back to admire his latest masterpiece and smiled in satisfaction. It was very good.
Suddenly he gasped in surprise, for something happened! The girl in his painting.
Project FMA: A Sneak Peek
Fullmetal Alchemist - Prologue
A lesson without pain is meaningless.
Lights and shadows flicker together against cold stone walls in a terrible dance, flashing around a young boy on his hands and knees; blond hair clinging to his tearstained face, teeth clenched, palms pressed to a fading chalked diagram on the floor...
Damn it! he shouts, his voice hoarse and desperate. Alphonse! Stay with me!
He inches forward in a helpless, limping crawl, choking on pain and smoke and sizzling air
One cannot gain anything without sacrificing something in return.
Mom someone oh god... The boy sobs out unintelligible words, cursing, praying, pleading, unaware that he is crying out to someone he doesnt believe in. N-no...god, no...they took him! How did this happen...it shouldn't h-have..."
The words melt into a scream as he reaches back with a trembling hand and feels the bloody s
LoveOurs is not made of roses and candles
Or daydreams dipped in sunset's gold.
Ours is not spun of fairytale's flax
Or starry gazes to fix and hold.
For candlelight flickers and roses wither
And dreams, however sweet, will yield to dawn.
Ours is the unromantic romance.
Sprawling, stubborn, untidy,
Covered in bruises and grass stains.
A soft and subtle warmth creeps in,
To temper the rough edges.
We swallow back fear to taste the change;
And with clouts and embraces applied when necessary,
We steer our friendship into deeper waters
For ours is the journey
Comprised of pain and promises,
Tears and joys,
Reluctant realizations, awkward steps,
And a few quiet moments
To drink in the delight of
Knowing another Self.
Ours is the dance
Of blindness becoming sight,
Brokenness being healed,
Strength filling weakness;
To be forged, ever stronger, into
And ours is the mountain, firm and forever;
Standing through the storms of Summ