Piano MagicDarkness whispered outside, and frosty stars sparkled in the windows. Bits of fake snow and glitter were scattered here and there, with crumpled-up programs lying in the pews and the last strains of "Joy to the World" echoing in my head. The Christmas concert was over, and my family was off in the reception hall snarfing down sugar cookies with everyone else. Normally I'd be with them (I have an awful sweet tooth)...but this time, something had told me to stay behind.
I glanced around the sanctuary one last time. The dim lighting combined with Christmas-sparkle gave everything a sort of dreamy, enchanted feeling. There was no one else in this magic room no one but me, and that gorgeous baby grand that stood on the stage, tilted oh-so-invitingly in my direction. Like a moth to a flame, I made my way down the aisle to have a better look at it.
An aching longing to play filled my heart. My old clavinova back home was nothing compared to this glistening instrument, the
The Lost One - PrologueAlone she sleeps in the shirt of man
With my three wishes clutched in her hand
The first that she be spared the pain
That comes from a dark and laughing rain
When she finds love, may it always stay true
This I beg for the second wish I made, too
But wish no more; my life you can take
To have her please just one day wake
To have her please
Just one day
--"Gaeta's Lament" (Battlestar Galactica)
And it was from those haunting words that she was conceived. She was little more than a spark, a whisper, the ghost of an idea...but she was there, nonetheless.
It was a long time before her ethereal presence finally took on a solid shape, and longer still before I gave her a face and a name; but at last, she was ready for her test-run.
"Let's go, let's go!" she sang, hopping in place from one foot to the other in happy anticip
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.