IgneoBern

         She told me she wanted to gather up the stars and blanket herself in a surreal luminescence. When we were younger, these wistful dreams were our only tether to each other. I remember the days when we could talk about the heavenly presences as if they were only an arms length away. Yet always a certain yearning was present, as if some unknown friend waited beyond the cosmic lights.          When each of us was twenty-nine, we joined the Armed Forces of the Republic, hoping one day we could see those distant dreams. Both of us, recognizing the rarity of opportunities for space travel, focu

It's the black day. Every preparation has led to this. Flowers picked, the colours match the dead bees that lie around the vase. She's even picked the bees. She's donned her dress of purity, false reversion to natures lost. Her maiden's crown hides the lively red flowing down her back. The feet slide into nostalgic heels - memories. It's all new until it hits the floor. It's the black day, and so many stories are lying. The sock beneath the bed would lie and say it's never seen the rose surrounded by the bees. The broken file, red in hue, suggests a panic had ensued, But every preparation has led to this. The brown and orange bott

What is in these veins of blue? Just sand? Yes... sand. The hourglass is now shattered; that figure which once housed complex cities so vile waste dumps cannot compare. So disposable who would give it a second thought? That stagnant sand has vacated its sorry home. Swirling and sinking in a puddle of quicksand drowning any who bring themselves closer to examine the shameful remains of a time once sophisticated enough to call itself human. Where is it now? Tipped over and spillt so the animals may tear their pickings from the most tasty morsels of a formerly healthy psyche. Spit in its direction and turn around. Walk away, walk away.

Sirens wailing, the heart's subtle pulse fades. There's a silent scratching of fingers against the gravel. They're reaching for something. But what? A witness. Walking away slowly. "STOP! Don't leave me! Can't you hear me?" But all the wind whispers is, "No." The earth warms as its lifewater cools. Pitter-patter of raindrops slice the skin like that blade I'd been so envious of. Even dressed ornately in blood it shone so brilliantly. Smell the sweat, the grime, the rust under fingernails. Flesh peeling, flaking. Haha come squealing cars! Laugh with me while the mud slides over my skin and the slicing rain tugs on my matted hair. No

A shelter. Just a few walls, an entrance. Perhaps a light fixture or a place to rest a weary body. A retreat from fatigue. It's just a shelter. Except when there's a hand. When there's a face, a lingering smile that becomes as much a fixture as the walls. When the familiar scents cling to the air and merge with the foundation itself. It is not the light that we see, but the reflection of light off these familiarities. It's only a reflection. Except when the reflection is magnified. Without surface to reflect it, the light could as easily be darkness. Therefore the light cannot be seen alone. Since we cannot find it, that light,

Shawn "Walker" is the sister of Allen Walker. She is two years younger than him, making her currently 13. When she was 5, their parents abandoned young 7-year-old Allen because of a "cursed" and deformed arm he had. As much as she carried on, her father and mother kept her as their "only" child. However, throughout her life she was plagued by strong memories of her brother. She grew to resent him for leaving her, not fully comprehending the situation. At age 11, an incident occurred, and since that day she never used her last name again. Her father had passed away, and, like so many tragedies in the past, her mother tried to revive him by fo