Thread: Stolen Virgin's Wings [Scribble Journal]

Stories are fine things, really. The more you try to write them, the more they disappear. I write about interactions. I write about chemistry. I write about the shapes and colors of a creature's behaviour. I write about the moment and what comes to me as peculiar. I write about the mundane as I ponder its abnormalities. What do you write about? Let us not be one who rules over the other, or have the latter follow the first. To trust as we write is that not the hardest? Let us not hold each other's tongues but inspire each other's pens. It is our ink that will weave our imaginations together. Try it with me. ---- Nothing but the tower on a moonlit night. Pitter patter pitter patter roar thunder roar Nothing but a lightning bolt tearing half the sky. Zipper zapper crickle crack spark me red ---- Do you see the irony of your own conceptions being broken by those of others'? One limited conception followed by another, each one clashing against someone else's and eventually finding a breaking point where the pieces scatter. Yet no matter what we do or where we go, these pieces are regathered. They are never truly whole again, for the glue we use to reunite them may allow us to follow the blueprints, but the cuts, the tears, and the smudges will be left imprinted upon the paper and there is no way to erase them. New ideas are old ideas broken and repaired in this manner. What once was is melded with the present, thus presenting us with what is now. Can you break your conceptions? ---- Kamila The Witch Imbeciles. You'll all die. Arrogant creatures. Filthy creatures. Rotten creatures. You're dead. You're all dead. Touch me and I'll burn the flesh off your bones and feed you to my dogs alive. As if you can comprehend the meaning of pain anyway. Imbeciles. Demons. Horrific creatures. God's worthless, spoiled children. He abandoned you so long ago, pitiful orphans. So long ago. Such meaningless pride. Such aggravating grief. Such despicable heartbreaks. Idiots. You never had emotions to begin with. Stop bickering over yourselves. I've lost everything, and look at me. I'm not a tad sorry for myself. Imbeciles. How dare you hate me. How dare you love me. How dare you. ---- Charlotte The Savage Slave You came to our lands, pillaging, raiding, killing. Pale-skinned monsters , you could not be content with having slayed my father and raping my mother. You could not be content with her hatred-infused love of me, her terror's offspring. You could not be content with my village's pity for my mother and their fear of me. Pale-skinned demons , you had to sweep through our village a second time and burn down our straw. You had to burn down our homes, behead our elders, and chain our parents for labor. You had to steal our children for your armies, and take my generation's people for your profits. You had to take women like me for our youth, our health, and our beauty. Pale-skinned devils , you have enslaved me for your pleasures and embedded your sperm in my womb. You have taken my freedom, you have taken my duties, and you have taken my family away. You have given me a child to be my joy, my sorrow, my rage--then stripped the child of birth. Pale-skinned beasts , you shall regret my wrath one day. -SVW