Deathlyhallows

Maya

United States

Published Work

Of Faries and Fire

She had not tasted a fall this crisp since she was a child. The last time the sun had danced and the wind had spun, the last time this pigmented fire had so enlightened the trees, she had walked by, a smile on her face and a cloud baring her sight. The world was far more pleasant then, when she couldn't see things for what they were. But it was shrouded in light, leaving no room for shadows. As such she could not see the context for things, nor their character.
Yes, it was much better now. The world hurt, but she would endure the pain time and time again if only to revel in the spontaneous beauty of it all.
A knock sounded at the door.

Back when her eyes shone like burnished gold, her hair the color of autumn wind, her grandmother had told her a story.
There was a river in the middle of the woods. It...

Of Faries and Fire

She had not tasted a fall this crisp since she was a child. The last time the sun had danced and the wind had spun, the last time this pigmented fire had so enlightened the trees, she had walked by, a smile on her face and a cloud baring her sight. The world was far more pleasant then, when she couldn't see things for what they were. But it was shrouded in light, leaving no room for shadows. As such she could not see the context for things, nor their character.
Yes, it was much better now. The world hurt, but she would endure the pain time and time again if only to revel in the spontaneous beauty of it all.
A knock sounded at the door.

Back when her eyes shone like burnished gold, her hair the color of autumn wind, her grandmother had told her a story.
There was a river in the middle of the woods. It...

Of Faries and Fire

She had not tasted a fall this crisp since she was a child. The last time the sun had danced and the wind had spun, the last time this pigmented fire had so enlightened the trees, she had walked by, a smile on her face and a cloud baring her sight. The world was far more pleasant then, when she couldn't see things for what they were. But it was shrouded in light, leaving no room for shadows. As such she could not see the context for things, nor their character.
Yes, it was much better now. The world hurt, but she would endure the pain time and time again if only to revel in the spontaneous beauty of it all.
A knock sounded at the door.
Back when her eyes shone like burnished gold, her hair the color of autumn wind, her grandmother had told her a story.
There was a river in the middle of the woods. It...

Open Prompt

Of All Else

    They're everywhere, these fantasticly infintesimal moments that got us to today. When did they all become memories? Why must the past evade us? The solemn creaking of the train on ill oiled tracks, the people with their screens and their music and their blank stares, the children with their glum faces, to old to stare out the window, not yet aged enough to see the irristitable pull of now. 
    When did it all become a figment of before, an unquenchable thirst for "then?"
In the moment, we never think that this, THIS will be the story they tell to reminice. This will be what my grandparents chuckle about, at a dinner table laden with stories to feed the mind, to starve off forgetfulness. Yet it does. They do. This, of all else. THIS. Now. Where you stand or sit, run or play, THIS is what stories are made of. 
    On the swaying train, dancing to the...

Open Prompt

Of All Else

    They're everywhere, these fantasticly infintesimal moments that got us to today. When did they all become memories? Why must the past evade us? The solemn creaking of the train on ill ioled tracks, the people with their screens and their music and their blank stares, the children with their glum faces, to old to stare out the window, not yet aged enough to see the irristitable pull of now. 
    When did it all become a figment of before, an unquenchable thirst for "then?"
In the moment, we never think that this, THIS will be the story they tell to reminice. This will be what my grandparents chuckle about, at a dinner table laden with stories to feed the mind, to starve off forgetfulness. Yet it does. They do. This, of all else. THIS. Now. Where you stand or sit, run or play, THIS is what stories are made of. 
    On the swaying train, dancing to the...

Once

The past haunts us
In ways we cant find until
All to fast, its there.

Its enormous.
Insurmountable.

We ignore it, we push it away
Leaving it to rot in dusty, forgoten, lonley
Silent corners of ourselves.

But these moments shape us.
They change us.
They whisper in the dead of night,
And claw and our window panes,

White paint slinking away,
Cracks revealing the harsh, splintered wood beneath.
The silence slinks between the cracks
Embarased as to what it hides.


 

Once

The past haunts us
In ways we cant find until
All to fast, its there.

Its enormous.
Insurmountable.

We ignore it, we push it away
Leaving it to rot in dusty, forgoten, lonley
Silent corners of ourselves.

But these moments shape us.
They change us.
They whisper in the dead of night,
And claw and our window panes,

White paint slinking away,
Cracks revealing the harsh, splintered wood beneath.
The silence slinks between the cracks
Embarased as to what it hides. 


 

Once

The past haunts us
In ways we cant find until
All to fast, its there.

Its enormous.
Insurmountable.

We ignore it, we push it away
Leaving it to rot in dusty, forgoten, lonley
Silent corners of ourselves.

But these moments shape us.
They change us.
They whisper in the dead of night,
And claw and our window panes,

White paint slinking away,
Cracks revealing the harsh, splintered wood beneath.
The silence slinking into the cracks 
Embarased as to what it hides. 


 

Once

The past haunts us
In ways we cant find until
All to fast, its there.

Its enormous.
Insurmountable.

We ignore it, we push it away
Leaving it to rot in dusty, forgoten, lonley
Silent corners of ourselves.

But these moments shape us.
They change us.
They whisper in the dead of night,
And claw and our window panes,

White paint slinking away,
Embarased as to what it hides. 


 

Six-Word Story

Untitled

1. The moon hung, swaddled in darkness

2. The flames danced, blinding the stars

3. Answers escaped her, questions begged acknowledgement

 

Six-Word Story

Untitled

The moon hung, swaddled in darkness

Burning Ashes

These people are not made of skin and bone,
They are made of ash and light,
Of cold fury and a hope that burns
Bright as the moon.
They twirl and spin,
To long forgotten songs,
For although they only live for moments,
Those few are as eternal as night.
They swell with pride in
Every turn,
A feverishly determined kind of fight
Dwells within their scalding depths.
As the flames rise, they whisper, they dance,
Shadows soaring into the mist,
Arms reaching into the void,
Freed from the home of ash that claims them,
If only for a moment.
Sparks,
Then wisps,
Then shadows.
They drift upwards,
In shards of sparks
And in whispers of smoke
They rise
Endlessly
To go and join the stars
Where these burning ashes
are doused by darkness.

Infinite Snowflakes

They fall from the sky,
Every last one of them.
They fall into my outstretched fingers.
Gentle, yet swift.
Silent, yet deadly.
It’s nothing much.
Only a thin frost covers the ground,
Yet somehow this blinding white storm
Drowns me
In its flurry.
My hand is full now.
Coated in ice.
Such a thin layer.
So many snowflakes.
They burn hotter than fire.
They burn colder than the stars.
My hand, if you remember, is coated in freezing water.
The snow has melted.
I hold out my palms again.
I let the sky fall on them.
As I stand in this cloud
Of infinite snowflakes.

Starlight

Sometimes I wonder if the stars have feelings,
If they have senses.
If they hear our secrets before we do,
And if they keep those secrets locked away in some deep, hidden part of their glow.
I wonder if they, like us, have stories.
Stories of pasts, presents, and futures.
I wonder if they pass these on, if the tales of all but forgotten lanterns of the night
Fill the hollow spaces in all who care to listen.
And what if I could listen too?
What if I could become a carrier of the starlight,
Living alongside my primitive partners in flight,
My fellow guardians of the dark?
What if the stars do not hold our stories,
But have entrusted us with theirs?
If I am just a living counterpart,
A speck in the universe representing something so grandly vast,
So unnervingly huge?
What if the sky is a fabric stretched tight?
What if the stars are pin holes poked...

Watching Darkness

Against the perfect silhouette of the trees,
I see the night.
In all of its glory,
Its vastness,
Its beauty.
I see the night for what it is-
A patchwork of memories,
Layers of clouds and of colors,
Moments of immeasurable joy and
Of unknown sadness.
And of birth
Of death
Of fear
Of the lack of it.
I see all of this,
Embedded in the dark expanse of the sky.
I witness the beginnings of stories,
The endings of heroic tales
I hear the crashing of dreams,
Echoing in my ears
Along with the perfect symphony called hope.
I see seasons passing
Generations looking up into the same sky.
Waiting.
Listening.
Waiting
For the light.
Because, in the end,
It's all we have.
Blank pages.
Empty pens.
And all those people.
Waiting.
With hopes.
With dreams.
With hardships and
Joys
With understanding that as long as they live, this sky has lived longer.
That as long as they are...