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I held tightly onto the large man's shirt sleeve as we waited for the bus. Between him and my cane, my legs still had trouble keeping me up. It was around noon and I was getting more and more anxious, which didn't help my legs hold me up any.
"Do you need any protein, Eamon?" Kofi asked me.
I clutched harder on his shirt-sleeve, losing balance for a second, "N-no, I'm g-good. Just a little n-nervous."
Kofi was a good man. My father told me he came to America from Kenya, but I always assumed he was from Jamaica because of his accent. When he pronounces my name, it sounds like he's saying "hey mon" rather than Eamon. Kofi has been my aid for about three years now. Since he is close friends with my father, he accepts little pay and only asks for food and shelter otherwise. He has become my best and only friend in the time he's been my assistant.
I heard the bus coming from down the block, but it still made me jolt when it stopped in front of us, letting out a loud squeak as it opened the
It was obvious at first. For weeks people became more and more superstitious at each passing sign. The first week a white owl landed on the Hero's Statue in the center of the small village every day at noon and stayed for an hour before taking off. Many villagers ignored this for the most part, but the elders of the town became nervous at its constant appearance. The villagers were given Sunday to rest before the next omen came.
On the second week, when the clock struck midnight every night, a piercing howl awoke every villager from their slumber. The howl lasted only a minute and stopped suddenly. After the third day a pack of hunters was gathered and sent out to kill the wolf so the village could return to their sleep. They returned empty handed, but they went every day to try to find the nuisance. They were then given peace again on Sunday. So began the new week.
On the third week, a cypress tree appeared in the backyard of Town Hall. The elders pleaded for it to be cut down immedia
Let Old Grandpa tell you a story, young lad and lassie. A story of many mysteries and many horrors. A true story of a young man who did not listen to his mother and her wise words. Let me call this young man Red. Off of the hood he wore, of course! Back in the Nineteen Nineties a young man was asked by his mother to bring medicine and spare food to his sick and frail grandmother who lived in the woods. He set out with joy to be able to help his grandmother, whom he loved so very dearly. He was to stay on the path, that was his only rule, for there were wolves and bears and wild cats in the woods that could kill him in seconds! Not only that, but there were rumors around that the woods were haunted, and the spirits of these woods would torment any who wander on their grounds. This frightened Red a bit, but he swallowed his fear and started his journey down the beaten path
Red walked out of his apartment with his favorite tape playing in his ears, his favorite red hoodie over
The drive to the camp grounds was a long one. Two hours if traffic was good. I stare out the window as my headphones blast All That Remains in my ear. Something jabs me sharply on the shoulder. I paused my music and look at the person behind me who then points at the driver.
"First time camping, son?" The driver, our Troop leader asks.
"Yeah, Mum says it'd be good for me," I reply.
"Well, no MP3 players out there," He teased.
I smiled, "Yeah, yeah."
He chuckled and didn't reply again, so I started my music back up. "For you never shut your eye/ 'til the sun is in the sky "
What the fuck? I looked at the screen, which said "All That Remains Keepers of Fellow Man 2:33/3:11". I pressed play again and ATR blasted in my ears. God damn malfunction must have been from a song I never listen to
"Okay," Scout Leader said, "All set up."
Our group consisted of two adults and ten boys. The leader and his helper assigned us in groups of twos. I got an experienced Scout named
Goodbye, Old Friend
Going home, excited about a new puppy
So small and adorable, the runt of the litter
"Let's name him Butch!" Mother suggested
And that you became.
The adorable moments when raising you
Aside from the annoyance of cleaning
"He's going to be my buddy!"
And that you were
I am thankful
For those moments of sadness
When you would walk up and cuddle
"Thank you, Butchie"
And you stayed with me
Coming downstairs in the morning
You would wag your tail in excitement
"Good morning, Butcher"
And it was heartwarming
Being around you less and less
Especially when you needed me most
"Do you miss Zech, buddy?"
And you did
For the first time in many years
When you stumbled inside and collapsed
"It's okay, Butchie, we're trying"
And you hung on
When the veterinarian told us the news
That you may never walk again
"The surgery is too much" mother said
But we did it all for you
When you came home from
The WifeA good wife would never provoke her Husband to jealousy.
A good wife would not take advantage of His love.
A good wife wouldn't take gifts from her Husband to parade it to attract other men.
A good wife wouldn't lie with strangers.
A good wife would be faithful.
A good wife would be thankful.
A good wife would be an honor to her Husband.
She wouldn't want to manipulate or hurt Him.
She would seek to build Him up.
To be there for Him, just as He is her.
She'd remain at His side and work with Him.
Seeking to please Him.
Not tear down the house He makes.
Not disgrace Him.
But love Him.
A good partner tries to understand His feelings, not shun them.
Conversations with a madmanAm I mad? I guess it's obvious.
For you just believed you spoke to a planet.
So I'd say your insane, if you don't mind.
Well a mind? I certainly don't.
When I left this house,
I had such a feeling, the need
To kill myself.
But now that I have returned,
From my conversation,
I wish nothing of it.
I need a reconnection,
I need a re-calibration,
With our earth, the deceased planet.
Many view madness as a bad thing,
Something, some state of mind, negative.
However only through madness,
Have I found true, genuine happiness.
For what am I,
But a verbose thought.
Wrapped up in skin and sanguine,
Comprised of fleeting moments,
Faux truths and a
Personal spiritual ideology.
My mind a realm of chaos, undivided.
Constantly warping, changing.
A moment of complete silence?
I could never recall.
Yes, a pit of disorganisation,
But yet of organised anarchy
That follows no fixed form,
No certain structure.
Much like this current piece
That I have entrusted to you,
To happen upon.
Do I retain the right
Towards The Beyond
Spirit breath condenses
in the deep chill of the void.
as these great ephemeral towers
drift, they reflect the cosmic glow.
They belong to unreality,
only in imagination can any of us
scale their heights.
The Memory of a Dead Man Walking
Suchlike the will of brimstone beasts,
Is the will of a dead man walking,
In each step is left the prints of carelessness.
Holding the half empty glass with a crack in the side,
stumbling around the dunes in the long wait to become
a savage before the credits roll.
A happy ending was for another tale for another man way
off back in the mirage of the desert that harbors those
dunes as he lies six feet under with a smile by rigor
mortis and a silent song in the beatless heart, there
beneath a tombstone that read,
here lies a memory.
Come Hell or high Heaven, the dead man walking
walks on without a goal or care for the world,
a bottle of dried up whiskey hanging loosely
in hand, gathering sand from the winds of that
coming storm. Illusive would have been his
laughter to sober eyes in that wasteland.
The Memory looks on as a shade beyond the grave,
staring straight at a man of woe, watching those
apathetic trails disappear. The glass fell into
the bosom of those lands beyond greener pastur
Serenaded are the vultures past the
silence of calm demeanor,
where only leaves fall in a quiet Autumn.
The gusts of haunted winds run through a
chilled air that even ghosts choose to
evade in the darkest hours.
No Sunlight had touched the soils below
in any matter of time,
though it had given first light to growth.
Though that canopy cannot keep away the
howls and screams of undead scavengers
which only muffled the sounds of better
birds who sang for the sun.
Third eyes were stitched shut and feet
were bound by illusive chains. How little
the closed treasure chest could ever hold,
where when opened it would have overflowed,
blotting out the haunted sounds and using
the limited light within darkness.
The vultures search only to find with eyeless
sockets, the lively canopy of those growing woods.
Time and all of space could never have grazed those
soils, however wet or dry. Whatever was let in was
by the canopy that guards and shelters.
There were paths in those woods, where many feet h
The Dance.You and I dance as life and death,
unbroken and ever going,
circling and never ending.
As the music dies,
and the song stops,
where our dance is paused.
My sight goes gray,
the light in my eyes dims,
and I fall down forever back.
Your face is the last thing,
I saw and remembered so I take great comfort,
that you're forever there before me as I fall down.
So the music revives,
and the song restarts,
where our dance is unpaused.
The music is all around us and surround us,
like the lives we make and take,
and the dance is going faster to bring life and disaster.
baby stepsit was probably
celsius met fahrenheit
in a sloppy french kiss on frozen ground.
after all the walking,
the skin of my hands started to crack and bleed;
silence, i decided,
was the solution and the cure. i dipped
my hands into its glowing broth:
warmth suffused my body struggling
to sit still.
on marched the sun,
Heart SongI am conscious of
Getting everything in my body going.
I can control everything in it as I need it
And perceive in it every single touch.
I love my heart as it is.
I am certain of loving it.
In my spiritual hand I take it gently
And I always pay attention to it.
It bounces and flutters in my hand,
Almost up to its edge.
My heart is beating incredibly wild
And I give it a calming picture.
With loving words I talk to it:
In a relaxed, peaceful tranquility may you serve my body.
I am full of gratitude in me,
All this love belongs to you.
You have always provided my body good
And I admire your everlasting courage.
In all fears, in all fright
You have been always awakened.
Through my body you pump the blood,
Even at very extreme anger.
All that always in love to me,
For this I thank thee.
I need all my life
Your everlasting song.
Until I have accomplished my work on Earth
And my soul will set out.
Please accompany me with all your strength,
Until the path is reached.
Till then, I will join
D-... Do you see me?
It's just an empty street...
C-... Can you hear me?
There's nobody here...
B-... But I'm right here!
Just keep your mind on the road...
N-... No... NO..NO NO NO!
It's all in your head...
P-... PLEASE! HELP ME!
It's all in your head...
Y-... You have to, PLEASE!
It's all in your head
NO! WHY CAN NOBODY HELP ME???
It's all in your head...
P-... Please sir, not many come here when I'm strong enough to stand..
It's just an empty road...
It's just an empty graveyard....
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More