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My Lady LilithShe walked barefoot upon the snow, the biting and cruel winds buffeting her tiny form, her fiery hair billowing like a tiny candle in the vast Siberian wastes. So seemingly insignificant and tiny in this wilderness she appeared to be too fragile and delicate to live beside the jagged and ancient Ural peaks. But rather than shying away from the majestic strength of the storm and the even harsher landscape, she embraced both; opening her arms wide and closing her eyes.
It should have hurt her. The snow should have frozen off all of her toes; the wind should have flung her across the crags. The tempest should have murdered this ostensibly fragile piece of humanity. But neither happened. She felt the gale like a lovers caress upon her cheek, the snow seemed pleasantly cool, like the gentle lapping off the sea around ones ankles during a beachside stroll. The violence of the storm made her pulse race so vigorously that it caught her breathless.
It felt wonderful.
She burst out laughin
Matters of ConsequenceThe flowers have been growing thorns for millions of years. For millions of years the sheep have been eating them just the same. And is it not a matter of consequence to try to understand why the flowers go to so much trouble to grow thorns which are never of any use to them? Is the warfare between the sheep and the flowers not important? Is this not of more consequence than a fat red-faced gentleman's sums? And if I know--I, myself--one flower which is unique in the world, which grows nowhere but on my planet, but which one little sheep can destroy in a single bite some morning, without even noticing what he is doing--Oh! You think that is not important!"
His face turned from white to red as he continued:
"If some one loves a flower, of which just one single blossom grows in all the millions and millions of stars, it is enough to make him happy just to look at the stars. He can say to himself, 'Somewhere, my flower is there . . .' But if the sheep eats the flower, in one mome
God's Not HereThey dragged him into the room; a wretched and foul little thing. The man sobbed pathetically and tried to wrench his arms unsuccessfully from their vice like grip before he was flung at the feet of Maximilian Vasile.
Maximilian regarded the pitiful creature at his feet with the most passionate loathing, despising the man with every inch of his being. He snarled and kicked the man back with his boot, using his toe to force back the mans chin, making him look into the horrifying and awful gaze of the vampire.
Michael Fulton? he demanded, daring the hunter to disagree.
Please dont hurt me, Fulton begged, his whole body convulsing with fear, oh please. Please.
Maximilian kicked him in the face and the man fell backwards, one hand rushing up to protect the now broken nose, I asked you a question!
Im not please dont.
Are you, or are you not Michael Fulton? The murderer of the undead, the tormento
Fathers and Their SonsDmitri was crying.
The little boy was so incredibly thirsty that he could not stand it and he sobbed uncontrollably.
Dmitri you have to stop crying, He begged him, Please, you have to stop or hell find us.
But Dmitri could not stop. He only wailed louder, his face red and tired as he clung to his big brother.
Theres no blood left, he tried to soothe the child. His heart felt broken, ripped in two by Dmitris sickly sobs that he could do nothing to stop, But if you keep crying then Hawthorne will find us!
Dmitri buried his face into his brothers jumper, pain and frustration shaking his tiny frame. The jumper quickly became soaked with the childs tears but there was nothing his big brother could do. He looked anxiously around for Hawthorne, expecting to be found at any second.
Please Dmitri. Please stop crying. Please!
Maddeningly thirsty, he kept sobbing.
A Very Good Place To StartDespite what some people say, there are those in this world that would be better off dead.
They would be far more useful and far less irritating if they were six feet under the ground, their decomposing bodies providing handy nutrients for the soil above. Down there they would remain out of sight and out of mind for the people that actually deserve to live. And all those alive would enjoy far simpler, far more tranquil and enjoyable lives than they do when wretched folk stalk the earth.
Triple-glazing salespeople are amongst that unhappy little lot and Nicholas thought to himself that he would have preferred to put this miserable sod out of her misery. He was not used to thinking such thoughts but he supposed he had to get used to it as he grew older and more cynical.
Read my lips, he seethed, my Dad is sleeping because he works night shifts and my Mum is out.
Youre a strange little child, the saleswoman glared back, wrinkling her nose in dista
Bloody Bloody MaryNicholas opened one eye.
He was not even sure why he had woken up, at what? Five oclock in the morning or something? He still had two hours of sleeping time to enjoy and yet he suddenly felt wide awake, awareness creeping into his senses that something was quite wrong.
He lay for a few moments curled up on his side, one arm half hugging his pillow, just listening to the sounds of the night. The occasional car whooshed past in the street outside; a few early birds chirped annoyingly. But neither of those noises was usually enough to waken him. He shivered and pulled the covers tighter around himself, waiting for what had disturbed him to start up again.
Minutes later it happened. A soft, little giggle. An almost maniacal, soft, little giggle. It sounded like it was coming from Alexanders side of the room but he was not due to be home quite yet.
Nicholas sat up when the giggle rippled throughout the room once more and was taken aback by the sight of his brother sitting cross
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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