|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
When Heven Does Not Hurt 44.
"Are you comfortable?" Christine asked, fussing over Erik's body as he sat buried in the sofa. She had found as many pillows as she could and had refilled his cup of tea more times then he cared to think of. "Do you need anything more?"
"No. I am fine. Please, continue your story, my dear," he said, shifting uncomfortably under all of the attention.
Christine sighed, causing Erik to only tense more, afraid of what her next, fateful words might be.
"Erik," she started, "do you remember when you told me about the bag of life and death?"
Erik closed his eyes against the memory, ashamed of his outburst and his irrational moments of anger following her attempt at suicide. He was beyond himself when he found her on the floor, wallowing in her own blood, so of course he would be irrational. It was just, humiliating that he, Erik, the magician of the Persian court and the Czar's favorite toy was incapable of keeping cool when the one he loved most needed him. And Christine did need him that
When Heven Does Not Hurt 33.
Erik was dreaming. He stood from Christine's bed and wandered into the hallway on wobbling legs.
She was in the kitchen, preparing some kind of stew. Her golden hair was tied up gently to the top of her lovely skull. He approached her silently, reaching for her with his horrible fingers. His thoughts drifted to the kisses she had given him, and to the ones she had allowed to give to her.
It is merely a dream, Erik, he reminded himself. Christine is with her viscount. She will never know.
He snatched at her waist, pulling her flush against him. She cried out, jumping slightly in the air. Erik growled.
"Even in Erik's dreams Christine fears him. No matter how Erik adores Christine she still shuns him like the animal he is. Like he deserves. She will never love him, never! Oh, woe to Erik!"
He pushed her further against him, closing off all means of escape. Curls touched his face, smelling strongly of the flower sent that had once permeated her veil. The smell was much stron
When Heven Does Not Hurt 22.
The first thing that came to Erik's attention as he woke was that he was not in his coffin.
The second was that he was in a silken robe and light, cotton clothing when he was certain he had been in his dress suit the night before.
The third, most important thing was that an angel was sitting in a chair beside the bed, her head burrowed into a novel. Her foot seemed to tap the rhythm of the words into the floor.
"Christine!" he rasped, the burning in his vocal cords strangling the sound of his surprise.
She looked up, her curls swinging slightly before her eyes. The moment she cast her eyes on his face she stood. Panicked, Erik seized her skirts with deft fingers.
"Do not leave " he whimpered.
She unhooked his hands from her dress, patiently pressing them back onto his chest.
"Please. Erik would do anything if Christine would not leave him alone in the dark!" he said.
"I am not leaving, Erik, truly. You are ill and need care. I am going to the other room to f
When Heven Does Not Hurt 1Erik was waiting to die. Christine had promised she would return after he died.
"She will be here soon," Erik whispered his mantra over and over, rolling the words on his dry, corpse tongue. "She will be here soon."
It had been a week since he had met with the Daroga at his little flat. Three days had passed since he had crawled silently into his coffin to await hell. Erik is already in hell, he thought wildly. It is hell without Erik's Christine.
The silence in the house by the lake was think with Death, empty of the music that once ruled the darkness. Nothing existed in the cellars but Erik's home and the miles and miles of corpses left behind from the Commune. And the rats, Erik reminded himself. How ironic, a corpse entombed in other corpses.
He could not muster enough strength to laugh, so he opted to concentrate on every swell of his chest, hoping that it would be his last.
A sound colored the darkness for a moment, startling Erik.
Perhaps a rat has found its way into Erik's home
The Writers BurdenWriters heed your calling,
Bare arms for your right,
Take up your pen in action,
And prepare yourself to fight
Working until distraction,
In you heart it's true
For these things inside
Make the words part of you.
Writers heed your calling,
Words from your fingers slip,
To put bread into your mouth.
For art you would once happily flip,
Will keep you from moving south,
The cold of winter beckons at your minds door
Make sure to prop it open
so they can come inside.
Writers heed your calling,
You read long past stars,
making you intelligent
with words meant to be ours
but beware Astonishment,
for he is a rouge
who bottles you up
and eats you whole.
Writers heed your calling,
remember the meaning of your life,
the point behind it all.
that even in through the strife
you can't afford to fall.
Brush writer's block aside,
take charge of what you know,
and put the hate behind.
Writers heed your calling,
Trust your fellow man,
that when you are writing,
other's are writing your battle plan.
High SchoolBlank white walls,
Lockers sigh as they open,
contents sliding out,
like water in a stream.
You learn things here,
get new information
even if you don't want it
as the sky beckons from outside.
People rush by worried about
and romantic relationships.
They don't notice me,
I blend into the barren walls.
Doors engulf them,
sucking the students into the darkness.
There are so many things akin to,
The JungleMenagerie of hogs and cattle,
No returning from the machine,
Squealing hogs, swooping penalty,
Scraped, severed, slit, cut, chop, jerked
Screaming, crying, and squealing.
Skinning, chilling, boiling, labeling,
Carcasses inch-deep in blood,
Sinclair, Upton. The Jungle. New York: Bantam, 1981
Striking When I first watched the 1943 version of Pride and Prejudice I was already a huge fan of the book. It wound around in my mind like coil, curving and digging into my brain in some palaces while lightly brushing in others. Not surprisingly, I watched it alone, while my parents were out and I found myself captivated by the actors in the movie. The women weren't today's kind of beautiful. The ideal, big breasted, skinny women that men are supposed to fantasize about now days. They were curvy and a healthy kind of plump.
Their features were striking. I love that word, striking. I won't ever be gorgeous, but I have been called striking. That is my word. The one used to describe me. I am not plain or beautiful or ugly. I am striking. Maybe that's why I love older things. Back in the early 1900s, the more striking you were, the more people looked at you, the more you got to sing and dance. The more you got to be an artist and let your hair down as you
Bird The people in my neighborhood stare at me. It's not because I'm crazy like Jordan, who lives down the road in the blue house that her father repainted before we stopped being best friends. She would bounce down the street like springs were tied to her shoes, smiling with crooked teeth that she would hide when you smiled back with your teeth that were straight like cream, brick walls in your mouth.
I am a different girl, some say. Her head is off in the sky with the birds, flitting around ideas that don't make sense, no matter how hard she pulls on them with her beak. She doesn't chirp like a bird, but she sings. They don't talk about it when I'm there, but I can see it in the place in the center of the eye that betrays all lies and feelings. I'm good at hiding that place inside me. That way no one knows that inside I'm braking into tiny, cutting pieces that tear gashes into the deepest part of my soul. Torn into small fragments of myself as the
You Were My SunshineThere, in a too clean room and in a too white bed, lied a young girl. She had very pretty brown hair and very tired brown eyes that she tried to keep open despite everything. In one hand in was a much smaller hand, in the other hand was a piece of folded paper.
Gasping, she tightened her hand, not for a second loosening her grip on the slim fingers in her palm. Sliding her right hand to her left, the young girl deposited the yellowing page in, letting the second hand clench around it. Exchanging the paper from the first hand to the second, the owner of the hand- the young girl's friend- unfolded it gently. Written on the faded slip was a collection of words:
"Hello, my darling, my sweet.
May I please twist you a tale?
Do not worry, it shall be neat;
I can promise you that, at least.
Before I get started,
Let me ask you one thing.
Oh, my darling, my dear, my sweet;
Have you seen the invisible rain?
I know you have painted with
The colors of the wind.
That you have weaved your quilts
Full CircleThe End. The two most powerful words in a writer's arsenal...
But what do they really mean?
It concludes things, it wraps them up, it sums up the entirety of your words. When it all comes tumbling down in an exuberant crescendo of tumultuous recompense...
But it also indicates when the story is over. When the expected actually happens, and things continue on in their natural order... Whatever that order may be is up to the reader. Left to dream, in a nexus, full of dying carbon stars...
That doesn't mean nothing ever happens after that point, it simply means there are no more interesting things to tell those who are viewing the unchained shaded events. Everything after that will be normal, and boring and expected and blah and perchance even blaze'. Business as usual. Nothing more and no less.
What can you do to spice it up? Nothing... Short of writing an entire sequel, that is.
Maybe it was time things came full circle.
And one more thing... I have found the
Lost Have you ever been lost? And I don’t mean you're in the supermarket and you can’t find your mum. I mean really, really proper lost. You’re walking down the hallway of your school, heading on your normal route to your next normal class running your hand normally along the lockers as you normally do when you suddenly realize, you’re lost. You realize that these people all around you, while you recognize their faces, and could probably even list off some of their names, are total strangers. You notice that these halls that you’ve walked a thousand times and will very well probably walk a thousand more are completely foreign to you. You can feel the cold metal of the lockers and while you know that you’ve felt it before, it seems brand new. You know that it is your hand touching the lockers and while you know that it is there, you also know that you did not put it there. Have you ever been lost? So lost that you can stare into the fac
The VoidI sit here with a ledge before me.
As I stare into it, my stomach lurches, but I cannot tear my eyes from it.
I feel the winds coming up from it and wonder if they are not nicer or cleaner than the air I have been breathing, forced to breath here in this desert for so long. The void loves to call, to taunt, to tease, even, to lull.
I do not like depths.
Unknown depths which must scare me for some reason, yet I am at my reason's end. The air up here is rare and thin, pulling at my lungs and harrowing my nerves for the taste of at least one more drop of what my bare existence drives me to need.
But no hope comes.
No hope nor help will ever come.
There are many, and yet there re none.
No one hears the cries.
No one can over the noise of their own.
And yet the continuation is this.
And the air becomes more and more rare.
Clawing at my sides, choking me from inside.
I feel sleepy, powerless and would like to just end it.&
There was a garden.When I was young, I knew that there was an unkindness in this world. There are men who will stand and shout pleasant ideologies. There are women who will lie through the skin of their teeth to save monsters. I learned by trial, and it was taught. All kings tend to be the worst of men. And we judged the witches wrong.
I was told of a garden, and that it was the start of things. They spoke of a tree, and the serpent here be.
When I grew up, I learned by error. They taught that lying was wrong, and
Who am I to coax the snake from the tree?
I must be careful, they said. There are people painted in greed. Whatever I could give would never be enough. You can't satisfy the boogeyman after all.
A elder handed me my escape, and since I've struggled to be free.
They tried to gown me in their tales, tried to paint me into porcelain. Like a marionette with broken strings, they could try to move me.
No, they cautioned, don't reach so far. The stars will blow away like so much dust. Careful, be wary
The RavenThere’s a raven that flies past every day. It lives in the tree across the road. He knows because sometimes, late at night, when he’s lying still and awake in bed, it flies to his windowsill and raps its beak against the glass, gently. It doesn’t have a nest. It just lives in the tree across the road.
There’s a gun in his drawer. He cleans it every day. He tells himself it’s just old habits, years of military service forged into his subconscious. He doesn’t tell himself that he should no longer have it. He doesn’t tell himself that the nightmares will stop eventually, either.
His therapist says they will. She asks him questions he doesn’t want to answer, but has to. He lies to her, because there’s nothing else to do. She tells him he needs to leave the house more. She says he needs to at least try to adjust to civilian life. He tells her he is trying.
He doesn’t have a job. Not anymore. His only income is his woeful army pensi
The Mirror GirlI am crouched over myself, trying hard not to fall over. The nerves in my feet send telegrams to my brain, screaming at it to stop me from moving. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this! My mind is on repeat, the recording forever replaying, over and over. The other girls can just move and she smiles and claps, her fingers the only things that move faster than this endless tempo of music that sets my nerves on edge. I glance at the clock. An eternity until I'm free.
"Moorea!" she shrieks in that voice that is too sweet to be human. To pink to be real. "There you are. Will you try the steps, now?"
I shake my head, praying that it will come off so I won't have to step out there in front of all the other girls and stare at myself in the mirror that seems to portray different people than the people I know. The girl in the mirror who grimaces stares me in the eye. She feels the same thing I do and I can take comfort in that. At least she understands. She turns as I do, the same awkward, clun
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
Keep in Touch!
scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More