The Trees Used To Sing_Raindrop Race_Fever_The Devil and Sin
Catalog Guide:
The Trees Used To Sing
TW: Death, Descriptions of Death, Gore/Violence, War Themes, Descriptions of Corpses, Some Language---“Where I come from, the trees used to sing,” the Old Man told me, “The Oak would start and the Hickory would join, the Willow would harmonize, and the woodlands would be the center of music and chorus, of love, and of joy.”I snuck away from home every day, avoiding my chores, to hear stories from the Old Man about where he came from. He told me about Varengar, about the city of song, the city of gold, and how every morning the sun shined off of marble roofs. The city glowed every dawn and ever...
Raindrop Race
The dew hanging on the foggy glass glides its way down, the race won by my chosen raindrop. The car moves slowly along, as well as does my raindrop. I close my eyes, putting my hand on the window and trying to feel the cold. I feel the cold and push my hand out of the window, hoping to feel cold once again. Nothing. My hand feels nothing. I ask mother if we can get ice cream. She doesn't hear me. She doesn't know I am here. She never would. She never has.She drives to the funeral. I watch from the window, seeing her crying. Her speech about me. Telling them how I was a fighter, a survivor. Her...
Fever
*This story contains a physically painful event*Present dayAs I take my daily evening walk, I savor the sound of crunchy autumn leaves under my boots as crisp fall air breathes on my cheeks. This is my favorite time of year for many reasons, one of which being the change of weather. It's late October in Massachusetts, and the night of a new moon. The flashlight I'm carrying illuminates the low hanging fog as I make my way through rows of apple trees. My feet have always lead me to this orchard with a magnetic pull that I don't resist. It's magical; a pwww.onedoor.cclace to tune out the busy world and hear n...
The Devil and Sin
TW: violence Big Stevie Sinclair was a tattooed demon with biceps the size of melons. He stopped marking the days on the calendar a long time ago. His stint on the inside was wearing him down slowly. He slept with one eye open and a blade underneath his pillow. He never knew who would be next, the guards, other prisoners or, his cellmate. In here, the days were the same but people's behaviours and motivations shifted like the skin of a chameleon. With chilling regularity, at 3、33 am, his nightmares awoke him from the dead. The jolt of electricity reminding him of his fate in the chair. His...