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The Art of EndingThe Art of Ending
He had forgotten what it was to move on, and that made this step all the more vital.
Clasping gloved hands at the small of his back, he surveyed his domain, prizing this desolate vantage he would not be imposed upon by anything save the alone, which paced the perimeter of conscious thought like some impatient cur. The alone, something with which he had always been at ease, something that now seemed more iniquitous, that had discovered its teeth and now wielded them to injurious effect. It gnawed at his very essence, though he suppressed it, plunged it to the nadir of his core, faced the world with a fierce false smile. Only now did he dare acknowledge his suffering, now as the west wind tensed teased the enfolded edges of his cloak. He stood immersed in the wheat, facing the sloped precipice that moved slumberous with the motion of the wind, racing
Chasing ArtChasing Art
He sat, partially reclined in a fashion exquisitely uncommoding, boots occupying the seat opposite him, golden feline eyes matching the motion of the candle's spastic light. In the interval of silence, he tapped an intermittent pen against pursed lips, counting the beats in an idle drifting mind. The pages set before him on the dark oak table in the dark oak room were almost feloniously empty. He had given up starting at them in favor of staring past them, in to them, delving into their essence to discern what words might best be inscribed there. For with every end there had to be a beginning, a phoenix sunk in eternal combustion, and the heady expectation of the book at his elbow fueled his absent vexation. It was an old comrade, that book, someone with whom he had labored, with whom he had battled, with whom he had triumphed. The paper before him was a stranger, but his eyes coveted as they swept across it again
Silvia and the VampireA hand wrapped around her mouth, and the immense strength behind that grip told her she had found her quarry. A voice rank with the stench of flesh hoarsely adjured her into the alley nearby, and she complied, stumbling, whimpering behind his sweating palm. Once released, she spun about to face him, trembling and wide-eyed.
"P-please, don't hurt me."
He grinned a slow smile that spread like disease across his waxen face.
"Oh, I plan to." She scanned him, taking in his abnormally tall stature, his black trousers, his red-lined jacket. His red, red eyes. His black hair, crew-cut in the style of the times.
"You are not a demon." He lifted his chin just slightly, viewed her in a different light. And then, as a sigh gusted from her lips, as she stripped her gloves away to reveal Furfur's seal, he took a wide bewildered step in retreat.
"Wait you "
"You are not a demon at all, you imposter. You almost tricked me." She found herself wearing a tight-lipped grim smile, a stiff triump
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More