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Little Wings"So, tell me. If this all ends tomorrow what happens to us?"
"I dunno. Marriage, old age and a lot of little blue children?"
Our conversation from that time on the Normandy is one I could never forget. More so now as I watch the scene that unfolds before me. You sitting on the grass, surrounded by our daughters, as you tell yet another grand war story. Your arms move about dramatically as you act out specific details such as Garrus setting up for a skillfully aimed shot or Wrex as he charges a terrified opponent.
Our eldest, Alyxia, watches you with pride in her eyes. They mirror your own turquoise ones. In fact, she is very much a reflection of yourself, just as I intended her to be. She has your brashness and well developed sense of humor, even our friends have come to call her Little Shepard. The only part of myself she seemed to have inherited is what you refer to as my "doctor mood". That sense of seriousness that hovers around her like a dark cloud. Well, that and my skin tone.
What is a hero?What is a hero?
Is it a keeper of the peace?
Or someone willing to do whatever it takes?
Maybe it is a little bit of both.
So then, what makes them a hero?
Is it the sacrifices they are willing to make?
The lives spared in the heat of battle?
Or the desire to protect those they love?
The path they take is one that shapes who they are.
Because heroes are not born,
They are made.
Silent SymphonySilent Symphony
I sit here in silence. Alone. Forgotten. Longing for the day my vigil ends. Waiting to hear the clicking of her nails as they dance across my keys. Wishing to feel the chill of the breeze that carries the melancholy sounds out into the night.
She plays not for an audience but for herself. An apology for the terrible deed she did long ago. But for now I sit in silence. Until the far door creaks and the dark curtains are thrown open. When I am bathed in the pale light of the moon.
Then, it is time.
Abandoned ChapelThe parish waits now,
the loneliness of corners
crawling outward on walls--
chipped away by the wind,
and held together
by silk spindles;
cobwebs align them like the membranes of memories,
the cut of a jewel in an broken window
against the sun
where beads of rain
gather in a mesh of strands
a new Mosaic
against the backdrop of a cemetery;
My eyes seek out the sermon
in close proximity,
paint no distance
between headstone and cloud;
elegies topple each other
in their climb to heaven
as light trickles
over the shade,
breathes a new glow over snuffed candles.
I feel the weight in these empty rows,
how a breath couldn't cease to be breath
in the midst of prayer.
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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