CompanionAs I walked along the frosted sidewalk, my black shoes scuffing on the concrete and my knee-length pale pink dress ruffling in the breeze, I freed one arm from my stack of books I was holding to adjust my wool hat and my scarf. The late fall sky was a clear bluish-gray; patches of snow blanketed the lawns and trees I passed. School was really turning from good, fun years to bad ones; the bus systems were being held up because of the snow and hail, and teachers were becoming increasingly furious at the bored students and bad weather.Companion by Dovelie
A strong gust of wind blew across the street, and a shiver went through my body. I tugged on my slightly frilled sleeves a bit so they came closer down to my wrists. It seemed like the walk home was going to freeze my skin off.
A few motorcycles whizzed down the street to my left, and some street slush landed on me. A chill went deep into my body; I quickly attempted to wipe off my arm and dress but I got myself soaked furthermore as the gray
(copied from ff.net)|
Today, writers are scorned because of those too unversed to know.
Disdained, because of those too ignorant to believe.
Despised, because of the realists who are too afraid to dream.
Misunderstood, because others are too unsure to try.
But we, as writers, know them to be wrong.
A writer is a person who dreams.
A writer is a person who wishes.
A writer is a person who escapes.
A writer is a person who lives.
A writer is a person who is not afraid.
A writer is a person who strives.
A person who expresses.
A person who believes.
A person who understands.
A person who knows.
I am a writer.
I dream of a world where anything is possible.
I wish for a world where war is just a myth.
I escape into a world where I can predict the future.
I live in a world of joy and mystery.
I am not afraid of the world I create.
I strive in the world where others give up.
I express myself in ways others dare not try.
I believe in things others are too afraid to trust.
I understand things others cannot, in a way that others cannot.
I know, in ways that others deny.
I am a writer.
Fanfiction is what literature might look like if it were reinvented from scratch after a nuclear apocalypse by a band of brilliant pop-culture junkies trapped in a sealed bunker. They don't do it for money. That's not what it's about. The writers write it and put it up online just for the satisfaction. They're fans, but they're not silent, couchbound consumers of media. The culture talks to them, and they talk back to the culture in its own language.
—Lev Grossman, TIME, July 18, 2011
Each journey gives rise to chance encounters, and each encounter brings forth a farewell.
When a farewell leads to a journey, the worlds open their hearts.
Those chosen by the light, or ensnared by the darkness. Friends who share the same bonds, though their paths may differ.
When you doubt the path trod thus far, when the hand you held is lost to you, gaze anew at the heart that once was…
For all the answers are within.
A long dream.
A sad farewell, hanging in the air in that “world between”.
What is reality? What is illusion? The path chosen by the young boy leads to his memories.
When caught in the stream of the days and nights going past, gaze anew at your steps…
For there all confusion will end.
The Future Story
Will the day come when this battle, born of confusion, will end?
It is different things to different people.
Can the reality be that which is hidden?
The reason is mere existence. Still, memories can be believed.
Be not afraid. Entrust your body to the soothing waves of your memories. By and by, your fleeting rest will be over…
And everything will begin.