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Wolf's ChildrenWhen the Creative Spirit left the world he left Wolf with an emptiness he could not leave unfilled. Each animal spirit mourned the loss of the creator in his or her own way, but eventually all turned their thoughts to the joys life had to offer. All except for Wolf. The memory of his father's disappointment nipped at his heels, driving the feet of his soul to pace relentlessly with worry.
He had been selfish. He had been cruel. It was a wonder the other animal spirits could stand to have him in their presence. He felt, though part of him insisted it could not be true, that the ugliness he brought into the world was responsible for driving their father away. The aching feet of his soul prowled the deepest tracks of his mind for answers that would let them rest.
The fondest memory Wolf had of the creator was his reaction to the new coats he made for the animals he looked after. His father merely had to say, "Show me a wolf," and he could lead him to something new and beautiful. No longer
DevotionOn the fifth of November I heard a loud shriek
T'was a cry of despair, a baby mouse squeak
A mountain of angels came down from above
To hear of the racket, their beloved young's love.
An answer was met by a mole in a cape,
The angels did follow by the cloth at his nape.
Blindly the mole, carved in a pace,
Quicker than lightning, by the prod of Light's gates.
All of a sudden, from all sides around
The keeper was tapping on the bridge below ground
Hoping the moat bridge would lower to see
The baby mouse rescued from misery.
Near and far all did come
The termites surrounded,
Sworn by the sun;
A path they did trod,
From North to southeast
To the baby's fine call,
A bunion retreat.
Wrapped in a sock and carried inside
The mice were bewildered, by the aids' absence of pride.
"Come with me dear fellows, you brave souls at heart.
I'll bring you to heaven, the gates are apart."
The blind mole of cape, said "No, I must stay,
For the little one needs me, and the sea bird will slay."
Fight for the
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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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