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Painted LoveI had never gone to the Wishing Well before. It's not that I didn't want to go there; it's just that I had never had the incentive to go, being occupied with my studies, both academic and magical. The latter was a secret though, known only to Mr. Gold, aka Rumpelstiltskin, my elder witch, and myself. It had taken a recommendation from him to finally get me curious about the old well. "A good place to commune with your element," he had said. "Or at least to just sit and think."
And as Saturday was my regular day to drop all my work and have fun, run errands, and/or explore, I had decided to go to the Wishing Well. It was quiet, misty, and slightly chilly as I walked down the main thoroughfare. I knew nothing would open until 9 at least, but it still felt a little strange, walking down the, normally busy, street by myself; it was a good kind of strange though, almost magical.
As I walked past Granny's Diner, the
The Secretive KnightThe stocky, greasy bald man opened the oblong wooden box with great haste. Rummaging through the stuffing of red cloth that appears to protect its true contents, he pulled a long smile, revealing the holes in his set of teeth.
Letting out a raspy laugh, he gently closes the wooden box. "Now this is what I call quality service!" he said, looking across the table at the other person seated with him.
He turned behind him and yelled to a waitress, "Fetch me your best concoction, lass! 'Tis a night to celebrate!" Turning back to his companion, he added, "On me, of course!"
The other person said not a word. With arms crossed and seated straight up, the person was fully clothed in dark overalls. A wide plumed atop the head, it did well to hide the eyes. The rest of the face was covered with a scarf. Hands in gloves and feet in leather boots, there was not an inch of skin exposed to sight. With the scarce lighting that the tavern could afford to give in the time of the dark night, it was nearl
SweepAs soon as he stepped into the open field, he slung the minesweeper from his shoulder and pointed its nose to the ground. It was old, worn and heavy, and old and rough, calloused and breaking, and old. The metal between his hands was cold and chilled his fingers. If he was not careful he could step on the very mines he was trying to find. They would have to pick up the pieces of his body and to send the tags home where his wife would cry and hold his son and daughter close with nothing to show them of their father but a piece of metal engraved with "Ajeet Singh".
One sweep, than another.
This war had taught him to never trust open spaces. Open spaces were where the mines were planted, where Prets lay in wait. France was green and damp just like the uniform he wore. It had been days since he was separated from his unit, and now the Allies were breathing on his neck, searching for POW’s, searching for the enemy of which he was one. &
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More