writingwithoutfear
A butterfly fluttered outside her window. She watched it's graceful movements, mesmerized by how delicate of a creature it really was. When she was a child, her mom told her that when the butterflies came, it was the spirits of relatives that have passed away, coming back to visit. No one she loved had died. She wondered who's spirit swelled within those colorful wings.
He approached the sacred alter. His hands shook with grief. He had wronged so many. Penance was upon him. Time to be absolved. Two of the dark, cloaked figures behind him moved forward. They placed their hands on his shoulders, pushing him gently forward, forcing him to bend at the waist. The alter's surface was warm against his cheek. The blade was chilly against his throat. [...]
She closed the book. Her hands lingered on the soft leather binding. Where had all of the heroes gone? Where were the noble romantics that would battle monsters and sail across uncharted seas to rescue the women of their dreams? Heroes don't exist, she realized. They never did. They are figments of people's imagination, doomed to forever be fictionalized in the epic poems of yore
It sat there looming, deep in the forest. Deserted and forgotten long ago. Shingles blown away, revealing gaping holes in the roof. The door, no longer hanging on its hinges, lay in pieces on the dilapidated, rotting porch. The few windows that weren't shattered, watched over the forest like sinister eyes. Everything about the cabin warned, "Stay away from here...", yet I couldn't resist. Something evil beckoned. A force stronger than common sense. [...]
She ran her fingers between the delicate skin of her neck and the spiked leather collar that encompassed it. The collar was tight. Stifling. She felt like a dog being forced to heel after an owner she despised. Why did she always try to fit in? This wasn't her. She wasn't a rebel. She wasn't goth or emo or punk rock. [...]
The low, rhythmic hum reverberating within the beehive was captivating. Dangerous. She knew she was allergic. That bees meant death, but she couldn't stop herself. She was drawn to the sound. Drawn to the finality of death. It would only hurt for a moment, then the torture of life would be over. The pain was worth it. One last stab, then an eternity of [...]
Liberty sat in her bed, her soft fleece security blanket draped around her like a protective cloak. Her deep blue eyes welled with tears, but she forced herself not to cry. Her parents were fighting again. Dad was drunk. Mom was too. Did they really think she couldn't hear them? She heard them. Every night. Cursing Liberty. Blaming her for their problems. She hated them. [...]
writing since 2012 · 7 entries · 7 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Dianne showed up.
3longest streak
7days written
2.3entries / week
the words Dianne reaches for
handslibertysatsoftdeepeyesforcedherselfmomdeathdrawndelicateleathercollarforestwatched