The lonely alley

Sing, sing in my endless tunnel

jolie-laide [jol-ee-led]”

—   (idiom) Only the French would have such a way to describe beauty. A wonderful slang expression, it literally means “pretty and ugly” but describes the type of feminine beauty that is human, and not manufactured by plastic surgeons. It’s a kind of fascinating quirkiness implying charisma, a face you want to keep looking at, even if  you can’t decide whether it is beautiful or not.   (via hylophobic)

(Source: wordsnquotes, via coersis)

Only You

'Only you!', a parched cry echoed all over the marble hall, filled with ash and black smoke. A man in tattered armor, partly charred and dented, walked shaggily into the hall from the dark tunnel, oozing smoke and flaring ruddy fires, he would have crawled if it wasn't for his long sword, forte as thick as oak bole. 'Only you can stop this nightmare, Lucili,' he puffed words of request in despair as smoldered dust glided off his beard. His eyes were reddened as if tears were forced off his black pupils.

Lucili, the last lady of the Thri-Lani, bloodline of Threi-Nani, the fire eater, was mending all survivors of this madness; elders of high council, guards, cooks, maids moaned in pain as they clustered in fear of the terror they had never expected to face in their short span of life, serving under banner of the Fire of the north; some lost their sight, askewed were their faces as if each was melted away ’ So he does awake, timely is he not? ’ She muttered and grinned as she finished tending the wounded, leaving the rest for the unharmed to take care.

'Milady, don't go! He will swallow you with his raging fire!' Many exclaimed as she made her way across the hall to the tunnel, her white robe swept the floor like the dawn of hope was again renewedly ignited. She was set in her determination to face the lord of Death, mocking him in front of his presence, and to meet with her long dead father, Bathaleni, the Red Hand.

Twas her family’s .. ‘tradition,’ to put it bluntly according to social norms. The Thri-Lani were widely respected, feared, for their ability to create fire from their emotion, channeling it through their organ ; Her uncle, Bathroci, unleashed inextinguishable fire by stomping his feet. Bathaleni, her father, the Red Hand, could turn everything into ash by touching. He was gifted, best of the best, he could, unlike his kin, channel fire from every weapon he wielded, as if it was one part of his body. The fire within all Thri-Lani was said to be given by Death, as told in her family’s history; ‘Death is fair, he gives exactly what he would take.’ Every 10 years after the death of any of her family, the dead would return to the mortal realm with their mind hazed in greed, thriving frantically for life, for Death would offer each of them the ‘chance’; ‘A skull of thy child upon my hand, an eternal life thou shalt be rewarded’ scripted in her house annal by her great great great grandfather of his wicked dream, 3 days before his actual death.

She walked fairly into the tunnel of smoke that never seemed to reach the end, where her ancestral tombs laid, just beyond the confine of her castle, within the north mountain. ‘Only you!’ She laughed with sweats of fear dripping down her lovely face, as those words were first said unto her by her father on his deathbed. Clutching on her robe, she met with the end of the smoke, at the very source of fire. There stood her father, a rotten corpse, short of an eye and some fingers.

'Welcome home, father.' She uttered in her trembling voice as she leapt forward to him with her arms growing in blazing flame, reaching to her father.
‘Let me hug you one last time, dad.’

writeworld akahitter

radgreymon:

*thinks about you*

*doesn’t text you*

(via anjalika)

thedailydoodles:

"Stranded on the Moon, High on Blur, and Watching World War 3 Destroy the Earth"
Funding for the International Moon Base had hit an all-time low. 
Though it was long his childhood dream to live upon the moon, the missions have become longer, rations and supplies scarcer, and a quirk in the rotations schedule has left him alone upon the moon for the last 8 months.  
He’s now nothing more than a glorified caretaker of an expensive relic that no one wants to pay for.
To pass the time, he has developed a strong addiction to “Blur”— an opiate-like hallucinogen administered through an eye dropper that creates warm soothing visions for hours a dose. 
He rationalizes his addiction by telling himself that the drug causes him to breathe less of the air supply, and eat less food… which are both true, but only helps obscure the lie. 
Month after month, the scheduled date to bring him back to Earth is pushed out further into the future as a tense political climate back home has made him a low priority.  8 months in solitude on the moon become 12, and then 16.  In month 18, World War 3 erupts across the globe.
He watches the bombs destroy everything he once loved all through the blissful haze of Blur induced visions.  The indescribable mix of sheer horror and pleasure will haunt him for the rest of his days. 
By month 34, he is the last human in the galaxy.
(Starring the Timetraveler Ki! Click here to download his new song “Nebula” on iTunes)
Wanna appear in your very own Daily Doodle?  CLICK HERE!FAQ  TWITTER  FACEBOOK  SOCIETY6

thedailydoodles:

"Stranded on the Moon, High on Blur, and Watching World War 3 Destroy the Earth"

Funding for the International Moon Base had hit an all-time low. 

Though it was long his childhood dream to live upon the moon, the missions have become longer, rations and supplies scarcer, and a quirk in the rotations schedule has left him alone upon the moon for the last 8 months.  

He’s now nothing more than a glorified caretaker of an expensive relic that no one wants to pay for.

To pass the time, he has developed a strong addiction to “Blur”— an opiate-like hallucinogen administered through an eye dropper that creates warm soothing visions for hours a dose. 

He rationalizes his addiction by telling himself that the drug causes him to breathe less of the air supply, and eat less food… which are both true, but only helps obscure the lie. 

Month after month, the scheduled date to bring him back to Earth is pushed out further into the future as a tense political climate back home has made him a low priority.  8 months in solitude on the moon become 12, and then 16.  In month 18, World War 3 erupts across the globe.

He watches the bombs destroy everything he once loved all through the blissful haze of Blur induced visions.  The indescribable mix of sheer horror and pleasure will haunt him for the rest of his days. 

By month 34, he is the last human in the galaxy.

(Starring the Timetraveler Ki! Click here to download his new song “Nebula” on iTunes)

Wanna appear in your very own Daily Doodle?  CLICK HERE!
FAQ  TWITTER  FACEBOOK
  SOCIETY6

intangiblepetrifications:

Norman Rockwell (American, b. 1894 - 1978)

Charwoman in Theatre - Oil on canvas

intangiblepetrifications:

Norman Rockwell (American, b. 1894 - 1978)

Charwoman in Theatre - Oil on canvas

(via thenearsightedmonkey)

“I put you first and you also
put you first. This is problem
number one. I love like a leaky
faucet, just always dripping
out care and doing, doing,
doing for the people I love.
I guess that’s great for people
like you. But the people that
are good for me are the ones
that will put me first sometimes
because they know I don’t. I’m
jealous of your selfishness. I
wish I could take care of myself
the way you do instead of waiting
for you to make time for me.”

—   Rebeka Anne, It must be great not to constantly think of everyone else (via anneisrestless)

“Do you ever pull into your
driveway and stay in your car
until the song on the radio is
over? We were midway through
the chorus when you jumped
right out with a wave over your
shoulder. I know it was easy
for you to leave, but you’re
still my favorite song and I’m
not ready to turn it off yet.”

—   Rebeka Anne, We don’t feel done to me (via anneisrestless)

Missed Call

Hey, pretty, it’s me again.
I just wanna tell you about the rain,
Set harsh in my head
Since you told me I am dead.

I am dead to your love,
Lingering as wind around your curves.
I am dead in your eyes,
As the dust swirls on the empty kitchen tiles.

The tiles where we once danced,
Where I had been enmeshed in your lovely glance.
The dances. the kisses. the verses
You sang like everlasting are the mirths.

I do miss all,
And I do crave for more.
If you have listened to this call,
Please set a stop to this rain, my love and my all.

“I hope missing me isn’t
something you get over.
Maybe that’s selfish, but
I’m just afraid you’ll realize
how small I am compared
to the whole world. I hope
you have all the adventure
you need, but that you’re
still excited to come back
to me at the end of it.”

—   anne, long distance (via anneisrestless)

(via coersis)