Part 1: Diagnosis

            Amid the sunshine, breezy air, and chirping birds, I sat glumly. Normally a winter day like this would have brought joy to my heart. But today I wondered if I could ever be joyful again. I drove another nail into the cart. My papa had been to the priest today, to be examined. He had found a sore on his arm that morning, of the kind that could make him unclean. The priest had declared him ceremonially unclean. Papa was sent outside the camp. I did not know if I would ever see him again.

END OF THE OPERA

Charles crouched over Diana, holding her limp in his arms.

Another explosion erupted behind him, and crouched more over her, feeling the heat wave and pieces of concrete spattering off of him.

His scarlet overcoat smoked as the heat settled, and he looked down at her face.

It was pale, her eyelids shut. Her lips were limp and she had a peace about her face. A moment before she was in agony from the bullet-wound. Now she was as calm as if she were merely sleeping.

After a LONG hiatus, I'm back! Hope ya'll enjoy :)

THE DYING ATHEIST

*A/N* I am Myself will probably be continued under a different title. Hope everyone likes these!

Closing her eyes

and

emptying her head

letting the silver dream-mists

converge

over her, bringing

memories

of loved ones

never to return

Grandpa,

with his smiling face

Grandma,

with her womanly grace

Knowing she was

their pride and joy,

that in their hearts

she had a place,

a warm partial

place

whatever she did

they loved her

unconditional love

She smiles as she

sleeps

letting the dreams

{post-sermon musings on a Friday evening. The sermon was on Leviticus chapters 1-7 and 17.}

Part 1: The Wilderness, Moses’ time.

            Small fingers wrapped around my hand, and I felt a gentle tug on my sleeve.       “Papa,” my six-year-old son said. His big brown eyes looked up at me, filled with love and curiosity as they always were. Dark curls tumbled around his forehead. I smiled. My son looked so much like his beautiful mother.

            “Papa,” he said again.

            “Yes, my son?”

      Frigid waves rock like a cradle.

      They enfold like a sheet.

      The torrents caress stilling limbs.

      Her only comfort from life

      the roaring swell

      that she embraces, sinking deep.

      Her fey mind sings its blighted tune.

     She opens her arms to rest,

     a place apart from violent ends

    and strife.

    Her dampened brow lies pale.

    Lifeless lids do not wake.

    She said good-night to the ladies

    and bid her last

    farewell.

Normal 0 Chapter three: Shallow Breathing