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Heavy IronIt's heavy, this necessary chain
About my neck,
The cold, un-yielding iron that slowly
Wore me to the bone
And left me stooped.
But you mustn't take my chain from me.
It's holding me together,
Don'tPay no attention,
To the man behind the curtain.
You never bothered to before.
Pay no attention
To the pain behind the smile.
It never bothered you before.
Pay no attention
To the face behind the mask.
He doesnt want it,
Didn't want for it before.
Do not weep for me,
There is nothing due your tears.
Mine, I spent
To pay my debt.
Now I'm saving for a rainy day.
The QuestionI must have sat here hours. It was light when I settled onto the bed, sketch pad in hand, headphones blaring. Now its dark and the music has stopped. I didn't even notice.
It's bitterly cold but I cant bring myself to move, to reach out for the jumper beside my bed or even to crawl under the covers. I just sit. Un-moving. Un-caring now. I don't know why.
It's as if, having stayed in this position so long- legs crossed, shoulders hunched protectively over the page- I have forgotten how to move. Maybe, if I wait long enough, I'll fall asleep.
I can hear my breath, slow and calm, but it feels removed from me, as though its someone else's breath and not my own. My legs went numb some time ago and I really should stretch out, rub some life back into them, warm up. I don't.
I'm still holding the pencil, 3b, my favourite, I like the soft grainy lines it makes, but it hasn't touched the page again. Not since I scratched out those three words. They stare back at me from the crisp white page now
revenantFrom the rot
A flower blooms.
Pale pink and paper thin
It gives itself entirely
And asks nothing in return.
When winters cruel frosts come
The flower trembles,
But she will not stay hidden long.
From the rot
She springs again.
lost namesIf I were no more,
If I ceased to be
and faded from existence,
would I become but a passing thought?
Would you remember
or would I slip away?
and left to wander
as a name on your tongue,
beyond your reach,
forever running to catch up,
and never gaining enough ground.
I loved you once,
and in death I love you still.
But as I fade I slip your mind,
you forget my face,
and you dismiss the thought
as merely a dream.
I am blindI am blind
Because I made it so.
I veiled my eyes with wishes cast on Dandelion smoke
And turned my back on the embers left behind.
Let them smoulder as I walked in darkness,
Back into the arms of the demon
I thought I cast aside so long ago,
But who's creeping fingers bring comfort now,
Even as they drag me into drowning.
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
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