|
TW Death
The day my mother died was the saddest of my life. My father was depressed, for he'd just lost his wife. We found her on the floor, laying cold and still. I don't know what had happened. She wasn't even ill! I took a picnic basket and sat beneath a tree. It was something we would do-just for her and me. Out of the foggy veil glided down a crow. And with it came emotions of anger, fear, and sorrow. It landed on my knee and looked me in the eye. It shook it's inky feathers and picked up a piece of rye. It ate the entire meal I had taken time to pack. And then it flew away, but I know the crow'd be back. So the next morning, I climbed up to the hill. There was the bird, shadowy and still. It knew what was coming, so as I unpacked the meal, it stayed around and watched-it's thief hands ready to steal. As the bird ate, it's beak flying through fruit and game, I pondered what to call it and decided Misery was his name. Misery ate and ate, but as he approached the last roll I yelled, "Shoo thief! With eyes like lumps of coal!" Misery looked at me, his eyes widened in dismay. But when I flicked my wrist, he got up and flew away. Misery still visits me after all these years. And his midnight coat brings on a sea of tears. But now I have learned that all you have to say is, "I'm stronger than you, Misery. So leave and fly away."
0 Comments
A story by Writerial
CHAPTER 1 In our world, we know not of magic. In fact, the majority of our kind doubts its very existence; the few who do believe don't know how to control, manipulate, or even recognize it. But, there are worlds where there are people who do know. Where towns are built upon the very essence of magic. Where it flows through the veins of some and the minds of others. It is in one of these worlds that we start our story. The land of Golivun. More specifically, we start our story with a baby girl. She was born out of wedlock-the daughter of a common man and a whore who could not afford to raise her. This girl had been abandoned by her father-who didn't know that she even existed-and left to her mother, who was starving, living in a squalid environment, and could barely make enough money to live herself, much less take care of a new baby. The mother-clueless on what to do with the child-walked into the woods surrounding her town and left her there, without so much as a glance behind her. But the girl didn't die. No, that would make for a very bad story. Luckily, someone found her before the wolves did. An elf by the name of Eye of Hawk found the babe. He took her back to his tribe, hoping that something would be done. The tribal elder was not happy. The last thing he wanted to do was let a foreigner-especially a human-into the tribe. But, he decided to consult the tribe's gods and goddesses for further assistance. A vision came to him and the gods told him to let the child stay; to raise her as one of their own. So, he did. The ceremony for all of the new elven children was held just a few days later, and the girl was welcomed into the tribe with open arms-given the name Ashera. Ashera grew up alongside other elves in her tribe. As she was human, she excelled at tests that required strength. She had an aptitude for climbing, swimming, and running long distances. However, she could not keep up with the elves' agility. She wasn't graceful and quick like them, her aim was atrocious, and she was extremely clumsy-even for a human. Despite shortcomings in her training, she worked very hard to keep up with the other elves, and, eventually, she did. She gained many friends and was respected among her tribe-though she was still an outcast. However, Ashera was still unhappy. She felt as though she needed to do something else with her life-something extraordinary. And that is where we start our story. A poem by Writerial
Sometimes it's the proudest that fall down like leaves, a breeze that takes down the tallest of trees, the mightiest mountain no longer tall, sometimes it's the strongest that fall. Sometimes it's sunniest of days that turn dark, the bestest of friends that break down your heart, the prettiest flowers that shrivel and die, sometimes it's the happiest that cry. But sometimes it's the weakest that somehow pull through, the blindest that see like you thought they couldn't do, the harshest of winters that turn into springs, sometimes it's the unhappy that sings. Sometimes it's the hurt that help others heal, the starving that give others their only meal, the dead ones that show us just how to live, sometimes it's the poorest that give. Sometimes it's the saddest with love in their eye, the faint-hearted who jump not knowing how to fly, the depressed who have faith for an upward slope, sometimes it's the broken that hope. |
Archives
July 2022
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed
