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John at 3:16Dear Jesus Christ,

I went to bed at 3:16 last night and started thinking about John—John who pissed away every paycheck he ever made and only fucked virgins, John who beat up a woman's husband and spent a Christmas in jail, John who shot himself on the front porch of his mother's house. I don't think anyone shed a tear except her. I heard she shed many tears as she cleaned up the mess.

I thought about when I first met him. It was at church. He and I were both eight. He sat next to me and we stared at that stained glass image of you in your white robe with your outstretched, loving arms, and he leaned into me and asked, "Do you bel
Never Hit a Lady"Five minutes, Lana!"

"Yeah, yeah. Keep your shirt on!"

Lana turned back to her mirror to finish adjusting her costume. "You're a doll, Lana," she said to her reflection. "The fellas are gonna love this get up." Tonight was the debut of her Lady is a Tramp routine, and she had done up the costume herself.

Sexier than the sequined number by a mile! Who knew that a dame in a guy's undershirt could be such a vamp! It still needed something, but Lana couldn't put her finger on what.

"Lookin' real swank, Lana. Hope ya didn't get all dolled up for me."

She jumped and whirled toward the voice. The large figure framed in the doorway wore a trenc
Nothing But the Blood~Year 2012~

It was evening near the Chapel in the Wood, and the grass was shiny and wet at the site of the Battle of Morning Sun.

The church, with its white steeple and antique bell tower, was revitalized.  A missionary coalition seemed to have drawn everyone back, even me, and we were having a good, old-fashioned revival to celebrate.

The old parsonage across the long lawn was long since bought out by a funeral home.  A will was being read there that night, and some school buddies of mine were in attendance.  They were more interested in hooking up with locals than in collecting an inheritance.  
CycleThis is a story about how gods come to be. About how every element, every ounce of power or energy, of feeling or thought, of belief or faith becomes the possession of one being of ether. This is how love became the jewel of a maid, life became the toy of a child and truth became the shield of one boy.
At first there was nothing, except thoughts, power, energy and beings. First, the beings had to know where they go after they die. And they had to learn who created them. The beings needed something to believe in. They needed a god. And so, from the beliefs of the beings, just as a tulpa is created from intense concentration and endless faith,
You Were My Sky
You met her in the field the day after the fire shrank to embers.  

The whole town had kicked their way out of bed and gathered across the street to watch everything she ever knew disappear into the night.  Plumes of black smoke sucked the stars from the sky.  The hot kiss of ash snowed down on the crowd, smearing bedclothes with the dust of her life.  For a surreal moment, even the firemen stopped their scrambling and seemed hypnotized by the red fingers dancing against the midnight.  At that moment, everyone knew it was hopeless, but like a nest of moths they remained gathered around the li
100 Word Destiel Fic"STOP BEING SO SELFISH, DEAN. You run headlong into battles you know you can't win and one of these days, you're going to die and I won't be able to save you!"

Dean glares at him, blood dripping from the deep laceration running across his chest.
"Maybe I wanna die!" He spits at Castiel.

The angel stares, wide-eyed; shocked.

The hunter breaks eye contact to stare at the dirty cement beneath his broken body. A mixture of blood and spit pools at the corner of his mouth when he coughs.
"Don't tell me I'm the one being selfish, Cas." He whispers. "You're the one who can't let go." And when Dean looks up, the angel is gone.

The hunter just m
you are not godthis is where they broke tree limbs and tied down deer and snapped off their antlers, this is where they tied these objects in a sprawled out cross strung with poison ivy and dead roses. this is where they tied me up from my toes and threw moss covered insults at my five year old face. this is were i lost my sanity and my childhood was gutted and strewn out to dry in the sun.

dance, dance, and dance around when you cut off my toenails and glued them down vines and created scarves from this beauty and strung streamers of my guts through trees, and my organs were disco ball ornaments at our new years eve party i properly renamed after five yea
Profanity of Nature"All life is born of Gaia and each life has a spirit. Each new spirit is housed in a physical body. Through their experiences on Earth, each spirit matures and grows. When the physical body dies, the mature spirit, enriched by its life on Earth, returns to Gaia, bringing with it the experiences, enabling Gaia to live and grow."

- Final Fantasy, The Spirits Within -

I am the womb of life! I am the creator, the mother and the healer! The rain in your face, the sunlight bathing your feet! All exists in me. All is me. One sole soul... one soul energy... There are no dualities... All is balanced...

Men are the seed... The fertilizers of life...
How is it there?"Well, how is it in heaven?"

The tombstone did not reply to the girl's softly suggested query, sitting grey and squat in the dead golden grass. This was no cemetery--only a rock placed in the middle of a vast ocean of swaying prarie, with one tree as shade several yards away.

"Is it nice there?"

The girl was squatting down in front of it, the grey granite staring back silently at her oval face framed with soft chocolate curls that moved slightly whenevery the winds passed through. She sighed, and resigned to sitting down, still attempting some communication with the warm, unliving rock.

"I know, it's silly. You can't hear me from here, ca
the train She looked out the window to see snow covered trees flying by, obscured by the shimmering dust of snow that the train blew up around it as it raced through the countryside. She frowned, confused. The sun was low, casting a bright warm beam of light through the window onto her black pea coat and pale hands, sparking flecks of gold in her hair. There were other people on the train around her, she turned to see a boy and his mother behind her talking quietly while a young couple sat across the aisle, listening to music together. She turned back and froze. In the seat facing her was now a handsome dark haired man whose eyes were sparkling in the
The Catholic AtheistShe says angels are the ugliest creatures. She tells me they're undeniably perfect, an adjective we strive to attain in our world, only to find we are ignorant when it comes to knowing the true meaning.

She says they're so aesthetically beautiful that our eyes bleed when we see them. She is certain they are the reason why the blind can't see.

She says our ears ring when we hear their voices, loud and clear in the night. She swears they are the reason why the deaf can't hear.

She says our hearts shatter into a one thousand and six hundred seventy-nine pieces when we touch them, and then are quickly reconstructed using a hot glue gun. She is
Ghosts: Death, Sorrow, Regret.Haunted.
By momentous things.
Unshared,
Unsaid.
1. VarianceTap.

Click.

Tap, tap, tap.

Snap.

Tap. Click, click.

Tap, tap, click, click.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, click.

-----

"That won't help."

She leaned against the door-frame, a variance of colours following in her wake.

I sighed. Slouching, shuffling to the side a little. "I know." I pushed the mouse away.

She hummed, stepping into the room, taking in the stark white colour, papers scattered around, sketches half-done. A single notepad on the pale desk.

"I know."

The colours around her seemed dull for a moment. Vanished altogether, eyes downcast, while open. "Here." Her hand reached into her pocket, reappearing with a pen and butterfly pin.
The LoversThe silk that was her skin never ceased to amaze him. He took a thick strand of raven hair from her face, where it danced madly, like a coven of witches on their Sabbat, in the wind, and tucked it safely behind her ear. Like a Crow she had past lives rooted in the deep cauldrons that were her pupils, flickering and glinting when it was convenient. She smelled of lilacs and rosemary and he smelled of earth and musk. Their auras mingled and intertwined ravenously with each other.

She was his Crone, his wise one, his Mother and Maiden. Like Mother Holle she would always be there at the bottom of his holy well. She was the pure and unadulterated
a smear of electronsif there was ever a state known to be corporeal, i was far from it.

my mother brought me wrapped in a black and red striped bandana because the cab had an accident and she couldn't afford to lose more blood just for my grandparents to see my face when i was born. the doctor strongly refused to let her but.. where else do you think my insanity comes from?
they weren't pleased, they weren't shocked, they just stared at a ruffled, discarded piece of harshly dyed cloth and failed to understand what she was trying to make them see. they shuffled and dropped me but never knew they did, even when the thud echoed and stopped my virgin heart.

thoug
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November 14, 2012
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Stella Maris

:icontulinuotio:

Holding the egg with the unborn savior, I have walked along the aisles to align myself with the bones of priests. The burning flame in the tower has captured the brass glow of the evening light, helplessly turning around the empty altar.

The light of Heaven trickles through the veil of the sky. I have reflected the slanted rays with a stained mirror.

Somewhere within the glacier is my twin, melting the endless layers with her heart.

One of the trees was painted by the Moon.
Two of the birds swallowed the stars.
Three of the branches have grown together.
The four corners of the forest joined.

Five of the disciples came here.
Six of the eggs were cracked open,
From the seventh, you came.
Eight-winged child of Terra,
Nine times denied,
Held for the first time.
:icontulinuotio:
"Our Lady, Star of the Sea is an ancient title for the Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus Christ. The title was used to emphasize Mary's role as a sign of hope and as a guiding star for Christians, especially gentiles, whom the Old Testament Israelites metaphorically referred to as the sea. Under this title, the Virgin Mary is believed to intercede as a guide and protector of those who travel or seek their livelihoods on the sea."

Inspired by the song by Moby, Stella Maris:
[link] and medieval mysticism.
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:iconazul-din:
*Azul-din Nov 14, 2012
I was prepared to use some discretion before fav'ing , but this is really good. The kalidescopic, shifting images of the first part - I had to read it three times, just to see them in my mind. The spell/invocation that follows- it reminds me of parts of the Kalevala -has an interesting sound progression- soft and gentle in the first four lines, then almost triumphantly harsh in the final declaration. Interesting link, I haven't heard of him before.
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:icontulinuotio:
*tulinuotio Nov 14, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks a lot. It feels really good getting these haunting images out there somehow. I indeed plagiarized the idea of the eggs from the beginning of Kalevala - there the different egg was made of iron and from it hatched the Underworld I think (a sacred material for ancient Finns). I just thought it was such a minor reference not worthy of mentioning in the comments, but left for the adept reader. I think it's great that you recognized it.

By the way, do you think I could've expressed the things in the first part with clearer syntax, perhaps? I know the sentence starting with "the burning flames..." may be a little obscure. I thought about the brass domes of Orthodox churches that symbolize the flame of fervent prayer. The "helplessly turning around the empty altar" was a condensation of many images, but it ended up as an impression of perhaps something missing in the place of worship - something born from mysteries (the egg, another Orthodox symbol) each time.

Moby has some extremely melancholic stuff. You may have accidentally heard him on the radio, I'd believe, but hardly any of his instrumental songs.
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:iconazul-din:
*Azul-din Nov 14, 2012
The only suggestion - and it's extremely minor- would be if you used 'capture'- present tense,and 'reflect', ditto, in the line that follows. It's not that it's more correct, just gives a different feeling which may not be what you intended.
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:iconfanaticalpublishing:
~FanaticalPublishing Nov 14, 2012
I like your work; if you ever want to get published, look me up: [link]
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:icontulinuotio:
*tulinuotio Nov 14, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks. I will take a look at the details and think of it. :)
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:iconfanaticalpublishing:
~FanaticalPublishing Nov 16, 2012
Take your time.
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