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Literature Text
her face was painted
a soft hue, but I knew
the emptiness underneath
Literature
Consciousness
Dream-like thoughts And thought-like dreams I can smell a glimpse of Myself between the moment frames An elusive shadow Or perhaps a wish whispered to the wind The earth pushes from all sides Until breathing is succeeded By sporadic spasms of the chest Barely worth the effort Master of words rendered silent Wondering, in her uselessness Why the stars went dark And why the moon is oh so silent Why the noise of daylight Ever-present Penetrates all consciousness
Literature
Hilda and Mercedes: A Haircut Helping Hand
The Officer’s Academy was buzzing. It was finally time for the annual Garreg Mach Ball, the one time of the year when all three houses could put aside their differences and rivalries for a night of pure fun and revelry. The finest young men and women in all of Fodlan would be there, dancing the night away in a setting of fine food and fancy clothes. Best of all, if sparks flew in the right direction, a happy pair might head off to the Goddess Tower, the certified spot for blessed confessions and declarations of undying love and emotion. Every girl in the monastery was, therefore, dressing up to their fullest, praying that their looks would land them a trip to the Tower. In a plush dorm room on the second floor of the monastery, two of the most fashionable girls in the Officer’s Academy were getting their preparations in order, too. The room was strewn with all manner of beauty products, with compacts and brushes and scraps of fabric lying around, all in the interest of
Literature
Divining in the Dark
I. It is Summer and Cecelia dreams of Magpies. Omens flock to her at midnight -- another night, another nightmare -- dark wings crowd her and she is increasingly claustrophobic. The winged visions never let her sleep for long. Cecelia wakes with a start, heart hammering against the walls of her chest. She still hears their croaking calls. Buzzing about her brain is a relic from her childhood, learned and abandoned on the playground, the words emerging from the depths of time like cicadas refusing to be silenced: The Magpie Divination Rhyme. One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret, Never to be told. She looks over at her husband, and longs to wake him, to give his shoulders a shake, but pulls her hand back. What would she say that she hasn’t said already? What could she say aloud that she can’t say to herself, that only her dreams can articulate?
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