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The Transmundane AnomalyThe trio – an archer and two swordsmen – stagger through the door, panting and wheezing. They made it. Goodness. They made it.The Transmundane Anomaly by Mattchewbackaar
“Close that door, Soren,” orders the leader, his voice shaky.
They can hear ghostly shrieks from beyond the door. They get closer. Somehow the trio outran them. They don’t question their feat, just accept. Soren musters whatever strength he can from his oxygen-deprived muscles and closes the colossal door. Thud – echo-echo-echo.
Soren keeps his back to the door, gasping. He looks at Ander, a beefy guy clad in steel and a mammoth of a blade in his shuddering hand, and nods his head at a stack of thick boxes. There’re no words. Ander shuffles, leans his blade against the wall and drives the stack toward the door. As Ander positions them in front, he backs off and breathes in deeply through his nose.
His nose picks up a smell. Not his sweat, though there is that, but something else. Iron. It’s profound, nose-curling,
Survive- Part 1 George gave a yawn and a great stretch as he awoke to the sound of his Darth Vader alarm clock.Survive- Part 1 by Dragonic-Paradox
"No, alarm clock, I am YOUR father," he said bemusedly as he unplugged it- he could never figure out where the button was to get it to shut up, so he just unplugged it every morning, and then plugged it back in at night; he had his computer and phone to tell him the time, so he only really needed it for the alarm anyways.
Standing and stretching his arms, he made his way to the bathroom, where he took a quick shower- the water was freezing cold, of course, but he wouldn't let something so trivially annoying bother him on such a momentous day. Practically flying down the stairs, now wearing jeans and his favorite Batman t-shirt, he then rushed to the kitchen where, as with every Saturday, his mom had left him a post-it note on the fridge.
"Took extra hours at work this weekend, went shopping this morning so you would have food while I'm
AnswersI don't write poetry.Answers by xxdraxx
I just let the pen
Across crumbled pages.
I let my soul
Bleed into ink.
As my way of asking
Statues and glowing
But They never answer.
The Value of WorkYour art is beautiful, unique, horrid, terrible...The Value of Work by CuriouslyAlone
What does it take to dignify value?
The ability of my mind to comprehend
Peoples creations through the lens of my own.
We can all demote or praise works made by the people
But where does this process come from?
A line on a portrait capturing the essence of simplicity
Or the detailed work of a landscape setting
Why do we put so much effort into finding the value?
Materialistic in nature
Maybe this is the wrong thing to say
Perhaps anything I say is false.
So then, I shall ask again
Love is PredictableWhat have you done?Love is Predictable by MissObsidian95
Like a worm you burrowed
Deep into my chest’s thud.
But to yank you out
Would cause my core to leak.
Like a stone spilling blood.
What have you done?
Like a child you released
My marshmallow root.
And softened it further
With your campfired words.
There is no more old boot.
What have you done?
Like a serpent you tempted
My smitten soul.
Now it is ensnared
In your coils of comfort.
I swallowed the apple whole.
What have you done?
Like a disease you infected
My thoughts and mind.
Dwelling in the corner
Of my clustered worms.
Though I turn my eye blind.
You know what you have done.
Like a faulty engine I chunter
And may have lost a screw.
But with your love as fuel,
My furnace will continue to burn.
Until the cows turn blue.
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