AcuteToxicity

 The Creation of the Blue Earth In the beginning was the darkness. At the heart of this darkness existed a spirit of great light and hope. And the prophet was the messenger of this spirit. The spirit sent the prophet out on a mission, to find an uninhabited world perfect for creation and for life. The prophet was gone many long eons, but when he returned, he showed the spirit a blue earth with all the things necessary to support life. And the spirit was happy with this blue earth. From this spirit was born Unicorn, Dragon, Phoenix, and Serpent. To Unicorn was given seedlings and the intimate secrets of the earth, and knowledge of all growi

My friend, this is for you. We sit and we talk. Many a time, you ask me, what do you get out of this? What do you get out of these chats? In keeping with my nature, I never answer. Sometimes, much to my chagrin and your unhappiness, I cry. You ask if you've done something to upset me. You ask if you frustrate me. You ask if it's your fault. Now forgive my so-called melodrama, as I progress through this piece; bear with me. I am a self-proclaimed 'writer' after all, with a tendancy to ramble. For you, my friend, I will dispense with my lies and shadows, my silly games, and give you at least this one moment of pure honesty; that much, at lea

I miss your smile. I miss the way your laugh made everything okay. I miss your brown eyes and silky brown hair. I miss the way our fingers entertwined. I miss the way the stars looked when you stared heavenward beside me . . . they've never seemed quite the same since. I miss your breath on the back of my neck, as you curled around me in your sleep . . . you always put my fears to rest and made the nightmares go away. I miss your grace, gentleness, and patience. As frightening as it sometimes was . . . I even miss your pain. I miss the way you made me feel, though our days have been long gone. I miss you. You took yourself away; m

Ah, where to begin in a tale that knows neither its beginning nnor has seen what the end may hold? We are the triumvirate of the vale . . . the last of all beings walking the land who remember what the world once was. We remember more than you, who are listening to this tale, will ever be given chance to forget. We, though we remember much, cannot promise you accuracy in this beginning of a tale, which begins as many tales do, with creation. Creation was a distant myth before even we drew our first breaths. Settle now and bide a while . . . for I guarantee that this tale is worth the telling.