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Story - part 3While Henna and Miky wandered around this huge prison, or whatever it was, they heard someone. "Melt you stupid iron" someone mumbled behind the corner. Henna and Miky went to look who was it. They saw a red hedgehog boy, who had letter M on his chest. The hedgehog looked at them and asked "Who are you and what do you want?" "This seems to be a bad moment, come on, let's go" Miky whispered. Henna looked angrily to Miky and said "Can't you see that he needs help? We can't just leave him, you know what those lizards do to people like us." The red hedgehog looked at the arguing siblings with a wondering look. Miky sighed and said "You know that iron needs over 1000 degreese to melt, right? That will take you a long time to get the heat to that point, and even if you manage to do that, it won't melt fast enough and you'd get caught." "We don't need your smart talk, Miky, can you see a key or something?" Henna said and looked around. The hedgehog boy pointed at the wall where was hanging a
a family portraiti.
my father is an electric guitar.
he spends most of his time displayed on the wall,
shining when the light hits him just so,
hovering in the perfect spot.
he is not new, but neither is he old--
used so rarely, he would gather dust
if he were not kept so pristine.
the only music i’ve ever heard him play is
read off a page of inky black notes,
perfectly following the italicized instructions,
i never understood the words,
but they nestled in my psyche anyway.
i always thought he would be better if the instructions
were tossed away
and he was played instead of displayed,
his strings singing the wordless tune
of a mouth that knew what it would say
if it only had a voice.
my mother is a little black book,
filled cover to cover with tiny, illegible handwriting.
there are notes scribbled in her margins,
lists of wishes both practical and fantastic placed in columns,
some crossed off, some forever untouched.
she has handm
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More