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Sometimes I lie awake at night, my alertness spurred by a dream: A distant memory from long ago. I can't bear the thought of sleep but after a long while I can't stand to stare at the white ceiling. Before I can protest my own actions, I drift off to another place, a place far from here .
"Prussia?" I say quietly.
I lay sprawled on the soft grass, only wet from the day's earlier rain. From where I am lying, I can stare at the stars. As always I am amazed by how such beautiful things can exist in a world as cruel as this.
"Prussia?" I asked again.
A soft rustling in the grass next to me tells me he is listening. I turn my head away from the stars; my soft emerald eyes meet his deep crimson eyes. He notices me looking at him and smiles.
"I have a dream Hungary." He says, is voice no louder than a whisper.
"You have a dream." I repeat laughing.
Smirking, Prussia points towards the sky.
"Look at them, look at those stars." He orders his hand moving as if to captu
I would lay down to sleep at night; I would close my eyes and dream. It is the same dream every night; a beautiful but sad dream. I would be sitting at piano, a white piano, fingering the keys, playing forgotten notes; I would be daydreaming hitting keys making no real sound. But it feels to me like I used to play, play beautiful songs that I now have forgotten. I can feel hands on mine but they are not real they are ghost hands, a fleeting memory, guiding me to the notes I once knew. My face is full of wonder as the keys began to make a song; a song that I can't quite remember. Was it my song? The notes that I play are like a haunting memory; I can't stop because these gentle hands guide me. I can almost feel the warmth of someone behind me but I know no one is there.
On one key I pull back, the broken note reverberates through the quite room. On that strained note, in which continues to play in my ear, I pull my hands to my face. Tears began to fall on the silent keys, the warmth has
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