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Valcon Sky Chronicles: Chap 1Chapter One: Within An Endless Sea Of Green.
A distant land. So very, very far from home. How? And...why? Was it all truly destined to be? To wander these strange and unforgiving lands...forever? Without food, without water, and the only possession held close; Hope. A hope that this was the path. A hope that this was what he was truly meant to do--to accomplish. A hope that the path he threw away all those years ago...was not the rightful one. A hope that he could make it all change. Forever.
Nothing but a wavering landscape as far as the eye could see. An illusion caused by heat. He had been wandering aimlessly now for what seemed to be days. Was it? No, indeed it was not! It was merely but a few hours. However, to him these hours passed by in the slowest possible manner available. It was if time it's self just wished to torture him and chose the slowest route it had at it's dispense while still holding the power to make his body feel so very tired.
For miles it just seemed
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
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