Dwellers in the Dark III: Labyrinths of Tangier by HelenaCarter, literature
Literature
Dwellers in the Dark III: Labyrinths of Tangier
The ceiling was like a labyrinth of lines forming a geometrical maze of beauty to be lost in for years. One could have spend eternity only to overcome the paralysation of marvel given the artistic aspects of this canopy of curves, before beginning to read all kinds of stories into them.
Mystical creatures were crawling next to tragic heroes and clamouring clowns, while the plot changed with every bend and every bow as Sheva tried to follow as best as she could.
It was fascinating and capturing and whilst Kit engulfed himself into his work it was her only occupation and not a bad one.
At the end of the night Bilal would visit them with the &
I Believe in Original Characters by Angeli-The-Icefairy, literature
Literature
I Believe in Original Characters
I Believe in Original Characters
Meghan - Charleston SC
I believe in original characters and the “admins” who made them. These are people who are created from purest of human imagination. The more they are interacted with the better they develop and grow, just as the people who made them do.
2 years ago I discovered art websites and joined one. A little less than a year later I saw OC’s popping up with personal accounts created by their administrator, or “Admin.” Later on I had an Idea, and it kept shifting from one thing to another to another, again and again. I realized I should probably write it down or some
I could feel the warmth of it dripping down my cheek, down my neck, and my body too. Small droplets fell from my chin and onto the space between my legs, the sound of it hitting the hard concrete was oddly soothing.
Drip, drip...one by one, and at a steady pace as well. The dark red fluid fled the wounds on my body eagerly, staining the area around me. I had no idea the human body was capable of storing so much blood...and it just kept pouring out of me. I felt my corners of my lips twitch upward into a bitter smile.
Why? Why was I smiling? My body ached, the wounds throbbed relentlessly, the scent of copper and iron was pungent. All of the
There’s something different about the way he walks now. Honestly, I don’t remember the last time I saw him walk with his shoulders straight, big strides like that, chin up as if trying to keep his head above rising water. It genuinely surprised me. There’s something odd about it, too, something serene yet strangely tragic. I know it won’t be long until I see his shoulders slumped again. It won’t be long until I see him cry again.
The first time I ever saw my best friend cry was when we were both seven. There was a treehouse in his backyard, up tall in some enormous, thickly-branched tree. I remember that you cou
You shouldn’t cry for the dead; they’ll be sad in the next world if you do.
Wynn remembered hearing that phrase from her grandmother. It hadn’t come to mind for years, truthfully - not since she’d first heard it at her uncle’s funeral as a small child. Those words had been meant for her cousin, but the little girl hadn’t been able to help overhearing them as she sat in the church pews, too young to fully comprehend the situation. She’d forgotten about them for so long, but now they came back to her with the force of a train, reverberating in her head.
It probably had something to do
As I look down at my blood stained hands, all I can picture
in my mind is her lifeless body lying on the kitchen floor.
A wall of metal bars separate me away from the drivers, am I the monster?
Alcohol can drastically change an individual, but I never thought
it would end like this...
August 7th 2008 was the happiest day of my life.
As she walked down the aisle at the village church, her beauty mesmerized me.
When the words ‘I do’ floated from her lips, I felt a sense of relief.
I’ve finally met the woman of my dreams and we’re in love.
As the years went by her lips became dry and the dreams turned to nightmare
My dreams swirled down the drain with the murky dishwater that had built up after another monotonous day. My coworkers, dragging their feet, shuffled around the restaurant, occupying themselves with various unimportant tasks, one in the back among the coolers, one up front by the register. At the sink, I was right in the middle, and I sensed the tension in the air as it fluttered patiently back and forth between the three of us, sailing in and out of our ears, planting itchy gossip in our shallow brains. I did not allow it to affect me, but they always did, and the awareness that they had of me, and of each other, was painfully clear to me. I
All my life, I felt that I was watched. Everybody told me I was crazy, but I could've swore that, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hooded figure in the shadows. I never thought much of it, soon dismissing the figure as a figment of my imagination.
Until that dark, stormy night.
I was walking home from an evening class when it started downpouring. "Damn rain," I said to myself, sprinting down the sidewalk. I glanced down the road and saw the figure under the shadow of a lamppost. "Just your imagination, Dakota," I sighed, looking for something to shield me from the rain. I ran under an overhang and slid to the cement. From a long ways up