arialasinectorruin

She shouts unhushed by the ferocity of the rocky shore, In whispers subtle and sometimes strained To reach unnoticing ears with apprising reminders Of how she tore their houses and tilled their land. She has stirred, sleepless, far longer than we, The leaves of trees her lungs to breathe And blood to draw whenever pleased To shred red wood and hoist green.

When the darkness fell, they would stop their day's toil long enough to put up a tent and build a fire, and Eiko and Quina would typically work together (far too enthusiastically for Amarant's tastes) to make them a quick supper before sleep. Zidane would be the first out—after his belly was full, he took no time to chat at length, immediately splaying out and shutting his eyes. The young ones might converse for a short time before they, too, were asleep, and one by one they all grew still and silent. The only ones not reasonably close to the fire or to each other were always himself and Freya, and he generally thought nothing of it. S

Her heart had raced. It had been so long since her heart had raced from anything other than worry or fear or confusion, but when he sat next to her, it sped so fast she thought it might burst from the mere shock. The entire time it hardly let up, and then when her old friend appeared, when Zidane returned and her heart fluttered with joy and relief, she felt something else seize her heart as he and the queen embraced. Yearning. She had managed to suppress it long enough to celebrate Zidane's return and learn of his escape, how he had help from the moogles from Madain Sari and the dwarves from Conde Petie until he was able to travel back t

"Again." The rain pounded on the top of Freya's head, her hair plastered in stringy curls to her face and neck, her chest heaving. Jeriah watched her passively, and she knew he was ready to deflect her for the millionth time. She swung her lance around and he jumped easily into the air, his foot landing squarely on her chest and knocking her back on her ass, the lance clattering to the ground. Freya gasped for air, the rain choking her. "Your defenses are pathetic, Freya," he decided. "You will practice for another hour." Then he turned tail and walked away, toward the back steps of their home. Freya wanted to cry in her rage at him, at ho

It was the strangest thing. I didn't want her to go, but what could I say? I know it didn't make any sense. I just . . . I just felt something. But I let it go. For now, for the moment, I could ignore whatever weird voice in my head was telling me she should be with me. We both knew there were other things to do. Why the hell did I feel it? I loved when she laughed like that. God, it was the most wonderful thing in the world, like I'd just received the greatest reward in the form of the sweetest bells I'd ever heard tinkling in my ears and the smile that turned up the corners of her eyes where her face started to go red because what I'

Mandy thinks on all her selfishness and how she's not supposed to stay. She turns to walk away. But she can't go. She's holding it up. Mandy's got her home, and it wouldn't be home without her.

 "I'm sorry," the guy's voice on the other end of the phone said, and I ignored it and kept on walking around the pool. He said that to me once before, when Lucy got hit and he had to bury her in the backyard, and I just burst into tears there on the sofa. That was after the first time he hurt me but before the last time. "For what I did to you and Chelsea," the voice continued. I couldn't tell if he really meant it and I also didn't care. He couldn't know what he had done to us, to her. He wasn't there when I told Chelsea what he did to me and how she comforted me that day, and when she stood in front of Mom and told her everything and dem

 The difference between good art and bad art is not as clear cut as the question itself may make it seem. The answer, perhaps, lies in our individual answers to the question, what is art? To many people, art has different functions and purposes; in general, art is much like writing in that it has both commercial application (aesthetically pleasing art like one would find on a book cover or video game) and also more thought-provoking, but not necessarily beautiful, works of art. This is not to say, however, that a piece of art must be one or the other, or that the two cannot coexist. Art as it is known by most people is either art created to p

i reside in perpetual bliss perpetually pressing against my delicate skin every sudden movement digging too deep the happiness never a promise always a threat another slice soon there's nothing left

I am alive. But not as mortals are. Not flesh, not blood, not birthed. But pulsing with a life beyond mortal recognition and understanding, beyond them, as the deepest depths of their cores or the reaches of the ocean. A sense of mind as never mortals could dream, beyond their simple understanding -- chaotic as is, mercurial, ever-changing. Mortals grow complacent, foolish, but I am always watching -- yet never concerned. I am the spawn of their minds, reaching beyond the bounds of limited worlds. I am the daring to explore, pushing past their boundaries. I am forever knowing, forever witless, eternally chambered but with every nuance of free