calthyechild

Don't give me a reason to sell my soul, she should have said. Instead, she just stared at the man on the screen in front of her, the man with his long, drooping skin, tired eyes, haggard face and balding head. He was hardly the admiral we had once known. She said "I don't have any desire to do it," and then quickly, "but I'll follow my orders, if you give them to me." There was fright in her eyes. She gripped the edges of the captain's chair and bit her cheek, fighting off inevitable tears. But not here. She couldn't cry now. People relied on her to be strong. What people she wasn’t sure, but someone, somewhere, surely. She had to bel

Master of Ravens 1 My little brother is nine years old the first time I decide to kill him. During the night, snow fell over the jagged wreckage of our land. In the morning I realize he will follow me outside if I call to him. Like an awkward-limbed colt he'll stumble through the snowdrifts, and I can leave him to the ice and wind in the shadow of a three-walled building. No one will see me. Our father will think he has gotten lost on his own. I too will cry when they find his body. When the mourning is done, however, I will be my father's true and only son. 'Cam,' he will call to me, and I'll kneel down before him. My father. Master of

I don't know when we first went underground. I don't even know if it was one mass exodus, a swarm of mankind trickling through the earth's crust so vehement we carved our own caverns by the force of trampling feet, or whether it was a gradual process, perhaps even a repetitive one, a family here, a neighborhood there. For all I know, the echo of the damp subterranean machine has always reverberated off the cave walls, created long past by the Angels, who think of our well-being even while they shake their heads helplessly at our flaws. They say that those who remained on the surface were raptured away in a great flash of light, like a millio

Once upon a time, a young woman was so in love with books that she decided she wanted to become a writer so she, too, could create loveable stories. She read everything she could about writing. Then, one day, she found herself in a book store where she bumped into an old man among the shelves. Turning to apologize, she discovered it was a venerable, much-loved author. As soon as she could find her voice to speak, she said, "Oh, sir! I know you are very busy, and so I would just like to ask you one small question: what is the best piece of advice you have for a beginning writer?" The old man smiled and said, "Certainly, young lady. In fact,

These Words Aren't Pretty: My verses are ugly and I admit to the fact I can't use pretty language when I'm working with rap Because the things that I write, are just the things that I feel I ain't an Edgar Allan Poe or a Danielle Steel And I'll be honest with you, I've got an envy inside Because some poets got a flow that's as smooth as the tide I read some stuff that they write, it's just so dope I ignite Burning shame and my anger at the beautiful sight And like birds of a feather, they're flocking together These poets are the Gods and I'm nailed by the weather But as the rain pours down, lightning resound; I try to write pretty

new millennium toothache w feeder hand, aluminum bubblegum knuckle muncher bumpin' phoenix plumage...    & I rock the Rings, now! supernova falcon flipper - was-a-real-boy chicken shitter - fist-fuck photon vision sifter -   soullost, anon forgetter -   so lost, rewind protector -   dead princess bone collector -   hopelessly tethered to the Ghosts, remember?     Nah, man, I don't know any of the Ghosts by name    but I've been following the will'o'wisps     chasin' knowledge, speed & blame     try