FutureNovelist887

It’s occured to me - only recently to be honest that artists have an ability Now I know artists have always had abilities from hand drawn grenades to the explosion of writing on a page. But I finally noticed looking at the rain at a simple grocery store That artists have the ability to see past what people see. they see the soul.

Bubbles. The toddler loved to blow bubbles in his bath water, and as he splashed around, blowing bubbles and squeezing his rubber duck, he wondered where his mother was. Normally she stood, lingering over him, constatnly babbling in that way of hers. "Aiden!" Right on schedule, the deeply red headed woman entered the room, carrying a yellow fabric he knew well. Suddenly, a frown enveloped his lips. "What?" she asked. "No." Ah, No, the shining star among his new list of words. Aiden gripped the sides, turning to his mother again. "No." "Yes." She replied, smiling, unplugging the drain. "No!" Aiden cried, reaching for the stopper, only to

When I imagined falling down into Tartarus, I imagined a few moments of falling and then crash landing. I envisioned Annabeth falling far away from me and hitting my head, hard. I saw myself passing out, waking up to monsters attempting to kill Annabeth. On all accounts I was wrong. Annabeth leaned against my chest, boredom in her face. “How long have we been falling?” she asked quietly, her eyebrows furrowed with the pain in her ankle. I smirked, wrapping my arms around her further. “I don’t know. My watch doesn’t tell time.” I cracked up as she slapped me. “Can’t you be serious for one sec

Hands Dark Evil Awful things Hands. Beautiful Wonderful Loving Good Amazing things Hands. Two sides of the equation the dark of night and the sun’s bright light mixed together for a single right a fight. And still the question remains how something so beautiful and so amazing can be so horrendous and awful. The power in human hands their power to create and to destroy boggles this human mind to no end. The crazily delirious Hands.

Can’t we just pretend that life isn’t full of failures Can’t we just pretend that everything’s okay? Can’t we just pretend these clouds are just another sunny day? Can’t we just pretend that none of this went down? Can’t we just pretend that we aren’t screwed up and turn our lives around? Can’t we just pretend that for one special day we aren’t pretending?

I once knew of a book tree. Its letters were soft and small. One day the tree called out to me, and so I went. I spoke with the book tree and it said, "A story in a story A letter on a page A song inside of lyrics A dance upon a stage." I understood not what the book three said - it was awfully hard to hear from the ground. "Pull me up!" I yelled to the book tree, my hand cupped around my mouth. Its branches, long and curly, descended at my will. I grasped an old Dickens, and I thought, What a thrill. The book tree lifted me high into the air among its letter leaves. P's and Q's and A's were the first to stand out to me. "Hello, Book Tree,

It started with a trickle that soon became a fast paced rain. Like the snow before the blizzard, or the Warning before the Hurricane.

I take her there, the Book Thief, And oh all the people she sees. Her papa and her brother, Her mama and her other Me And a boy. A boy with lemon hair. "Rudy." Her arms open wide. A kiss, Saumsench? He smirks and holds her hands A frown is on his lips. You grew old, Saumsench, he whispers. He runs a finger of her lips Through her silver strands His voice chokes. I missed you, Liesel. Her hands tremble and her voice cracks. "I missed you, too. Kiss me, Rudy." She grips his collar. "Kiss me, Saukerl." A simple statement, "Please, Rudy." "Kiss me, Rudy." Always, Saumsench. He moves closer Anytime, Liesel. And he kisses her and h