WillaTree

I love watching your smile. It's an art: Lips stretch then curve, then part, bending to meet the contours of your face, whispering perfection into your eyes, making them shine with happiness.

Your words invade my soul gnawing at my heart running their gentle fingers through my hair. And trust me my love, I try    (I do try) to turn them away - but they shower such flattery such tempting promises... I let them whisper me beautiful, and they make me fall in love with shadows on the wall.

 We're both such broken people. The thought occurred to Hanev as he watched Saphyra in her sleep; more troubled than tranquil, her face had something twisted in its features. He could see this even through the layers of greasy hair hanging in front of her face, and the scars slashed across her features. He suspected that months – a year, maybe – ago, the last time they were together, she could see it in his face, too. They were the same like that. The carriage ride was long and bumpy, and the weather was cool and damp. Shadows lurked outside the window, but there was serene fog between him and them. Fog was nice, Hanev thought

 It's really a terrible feeling when you look at yourself and realize that what you have become is absolutely nothing like what you hoped you would be. It is one thing to let down your family, your friends, your lover, but it's something a million times more shameful to let down yourself. Of course, by then, it's a different you. A childish, young, naïve you. My young self was an idealist – so much so that I could have never been happy, like that, my dreams always extending just beyond the horizon. The world would never have been able to reach my standards. For that I look back at myself and shake my head. But then, when you loo

 “Deslin?” “Hm?” He didn't look up. His steady writing didn't falter. “I love you.” The girl said this calmly, almost thoughtfully, but still with an underlying kind of emotion – a dry, cracked yearning, maybe. Deslin paused, turned, and looked at her hazel eyes peering at him from over the back of the tattered armchair in the corner. He didn't show any response, but inwardly he flinched, and the small, dimly-lit room seemed to close in on him ever so slightly. He turned back to his work. “No you don't, Azline” he replied, as if it were nothing more and nothing less than a fact. And it wa

On 24 Seare Avenue They sell coffee Chocolate Candles And ornaments She is a “candle person” The type who loves The smell Of “waterfall” Or “morning mist” He is simply lost. On 24 Seare Avenue He, Matthew Meets her, Jane They sit And sip coffee He forgets to ask For directions But he Does not Care

I felt it before I saw it, the shadow falling across my newest page. The longer I looked into it, the more I thought I saw things moving within it, like a thousand miniscule eyes blinking. It was the third night he had come, and, I presumed, with the same request. “Have you finished it yet?” he asked me in the dull loathsome tone he always used. With a sigh, I kept my pen moving across the page. “No, no I haven’t. You know I can’t work that quickly. I have needs, like sleep, food, and exercise.” At this he laughed, mocked me with his painfully dreary vocals. “You cannot have such mortal necessities until thi

Debris, wreckage. Unadultered, pure in its emptiness, the wasteland stretched before him. Brushing a streak of ebony hair from his fine-boned face, the man's unlined countenance grimly took in the vast. Sammael, son of eternity, heaven's hitman. Mercenary of God. Accross his back was a greatsword, edges limned white in holy flames. The 8th apostle, the final disciple. Scuffed ivory armor, blinding the sun with its own fury, adding gold enamel to marble coating. Messenger. His footsteps stretched back into the wastes, already forgetting their place and returning to the sand. Messiah. His eyes were silver, the whites dull in comparison to the b