chefodeath89

Captain Marique quietly sat in his personal quarters, his gnarled old hands laying humbly laced over his desk. He only very lightly felt the rock of the wooden deck below him; the sea was being cooperative today, a most welcome change to the venomous contempt with which it usually treated seafarers. Indeed, the old barnacle encrusted ship was very much skiing across the waves, a breath of fresh wind held in her worn sails. The Captain closed his eyes and smirked, reminiscing about how the sun would dully bounce off the hull. It was under no light that anyone would mistake the aging merchant ship as anything but worn, but if such a feat wer

It was a beautiful day in northern Fermanagh, a day where every one of Ireland's forty greens cried in exuberance. Green number 27 shone particularly brightly in the eyes of Eibhear Macolly, as he observed some flocks traverse the fields from under an old patch hat. Even as Eibhear's strong arms became weak, and his dark rooted hair gave way to gray, that green in his eyes never diminished. He did his observing from atop a thing of wood, so atrophied by age that it was only a fool's guess whether it was originally made by man or nature. From where he sat, he could just make out a falling pile of stone that marked some forgotten lord's castl

If I could do anything, is that the question you ask? My one personal paradise in which I would bask? I would like to write, that would be fun. But a book or a novel? Which would drawlingly run? Now don't get me wrong, longer works are fine They offer their wisdom though it begs for refine So what form of literature would my people read Just a small shot glass full of Suttung's Mead Short stories or magazine? Through which people would skim? Poems and haikus? Even they need a trim Aha! Now I have it, its perfect I say! Upon your calendar! I write the quote of the day! You want to prove why a thief is so wrong? I quote "The hand

Chop the Trees There was a place once Nestled somewhere in your thoughts Between care and concern And hope and despair It was a beautiful place A place of gossamer crystal singing to God And philosopher topaz, whispering in their caves There were towering redwoods that brushed the stars And childish clouds, laughing above But then came the words Like a wind from the north Cold dead things, those words Like the yawn of a Siberian tomb They are my words The words that made debating topaz into rocks And the crystal fall silent in shame Chopped down the trees that touched the sky And made the laughing clouds cry Rain, endless r