What I am aiming for is definitely not a story for children. The main character is a fey woman, someone born of dreams, and cursed with immortality. And I plan to make use of the immortality. If any of you happen to have seen Mnemosyne, you know what you are up for. As for all the others, I just can advice you to read the disclaimer in the PDF and heed it.
You can get the story here. Please note: The PDF is a work in progress and also contains my comments for development. Your comments are highly welcome.
Here is a short preview ...
Under the tree
When she opened her eyes, it was all above her. The great tree. Its leaves were black clouds. Through the dark wood ran veins of pulsing magma. It was the greatest tree she had ever seen. It was the last tree she would ever see.
The woman at the foot of the tree was badly wounded. Each passing moment would bring her one step closer to the ferryman. The pain was long gone. There was only this feeling of cold left.
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Why was she here? Where was she? Should she not already be dead?
A man bent over her.
Your time has not yet come. You are too beautiful to allow to die just yet.
She saw into the eyes of her killer? No, she was not dead, or was she? But that sticky feeling on her belly the woman lowered her glance and gasped. Her eyes turned wide. Blood! Destroyed flesh! So it was true. It was not a dream. That man's blade killed her! She gasped, unable to speak.
No, no, stay calm. You are not going to die. I won't let you.
He stretched his arm, his fingers and plucked something from the tree. Her eyes were drawn to it, away from the wound.
This is the fruit of life.
He let it go. A small thing, like a glass marble. Inside it was a small glowing worm, slowly writhing as the marble rotated. It touched the woman' flesh, her mutilated womb and sank in.
And she screamed.




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"The BladeMan Cometh!"
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"Art is art, it is perception, vision and passion; it is the unfettered expression of our souls. And it is all beautiful, each in its own way. We should never forget that." ~ Me
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As I row my ship of solitude the fire grieves and gathers
In this hollow world a myriad of arias echo.
(Kalafina, Aria)
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How do I inject dignity into the word help? - Illya Kuryakin
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