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A Study In Real EstateHis palace was beautiful; shimmering marble columns and breathtaking views. Towers climbed beyond the clouds. Architectural styles merged together as different additions were built onto it, resulting in an eclectic appearance that confused some and astounded others. Some went running as fast as their feet could carry them, and some were drawn closer, surprising themselves.
Sherlock Holmes had spent his entire life building the mind palace, annexing and adding whole wings and parlors and floors and towers devoted to different subject matter. It was a cold place, filled with knowledge but no people, no body heat to melt the ice that gathered inside like cobwebs, covering everything with an impermeable clear layer that nobody ever touched.
By building up the beautiful frozen castle, he had neglected his other land; had left his heart empty and filled with dust. A sprawling, wasted expanse rather like a bombed-out warehouse stood there, built as far away as possible from his mind palace. A
untitled poemWhen I was little,
my head was filled with ideas and songs.
Now I've grown into a cliche.
wet coffee grounds in a puddle on the floor,
invisible scars take forever to heal
Home (Destiel)"Dean! There's not going to be any pie left if you keep eating it all!" Mary Winchester admonished. Dean jumped. He had been trying to be subtle.
"Sorry, Mommy. It's just so good."
"I know, I know, but it'll be even better cooked." Mary smiled at him, absolutely radiant. Her hands were wrapped in oven mitts and an oversize apron covered her protruding stomach. She'd been having cravings for baked goods, and Dean was all too happy to help, or hinder, really.
"I love you, Mom," he said.
"Uh, Dean? You okay? you're crying." Dean woke up to Sam's concerned face. He blinked and looked around, taking in the ugly motel room. He was hit very suddenly with homesickness, wanting his mother back. He missed her terribly, more so than he would ever admit to anyone. The fact that most of his memories from that age had dissolved left him with an aching emptiness that he had learned to build up walls against. But when memories came back to him in his sleep, everything hurt anew.
He wanted hi
The Martyred Angel And The Forgotten BrotherSamandriel woke up lying in a field beside an interstate, naked.
The auction. The Winchesters.
He stood up and staggered towards the road, too weak to fly away.
Cars whirled by. Samandriel waited for hours until a beat-up red mini-van stopped on the shoulder of the road to calm a crying toddler.
The torture. Oh, God, the torture.
"Help me," he said. His voice was weak and scratchy.
Castiel. The knife.
"Are you okay?" A mother in her 30s turned around, the child placated with some apple juice.
What if he comes back?
"I'm Sama....Help," he said again, falling to his knees with exhaustion. "He's after me. Going to.... Going to kill me."
The world went dark again.
"He's waking up! Get Dr. Jacobson!" A female voice sounded somewhere at the edge of his consciousness. He found himself being dragged upwards, out of the dark.
More voices. Then, a bit of light, and some shadowy human silhouettes.
"Ah, good to see you awake, Sam."
untitled poemI build invisible towers
on things that never were.
I swim through a waterfall
of thick blue ink.
I'm a dead language.
A bit of graffiti scrawled
under a bridge
twenty years ago
and painted over
"You got a light?" An unshaven man who smells somewhat like a bathroom walks up to me. I toss him the lighter, and he catches it awkwardly. Something about this man makes me sad, and I take a long drag on my cigarette. He finishes lighting his own and holds it out to me.
"Keep it," I say.
"No problem." My American accent makes my voice sound heavy around here. I try to talk as little as possible. The man wanders away and leaves the alley. I watch people walk in the alley, and when I've finished my cigarette I make my way up the fire escape to my grimy apartment. I'm not sure why I bothered to climb down in the first place, and the alley below seems to sway as I look down. Back in my kitchen, I look at the dirty dishes and sigh. Rent's due tomorrow.
I decide that I'll sleep here tonight, pack my bag, and go somewhere else. I didn't give the man in charge of the place my real name. It's easy to escape. Like swimming through a cloudy swimming pool; gliding soundles
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More