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If you would be kind to review my writing and I would review yours(repricocity) :)

Dimitris Tzoytzoyrakos Thea Tomaini  English 261 November 14, 2016                 A Kingdom of Leaves   “Where does a wise man hide a leaf? In the forest. But what does he do if there is no forest? He grows a forest to hide it in.”  -G.K. Chesterton  William Shakespeare’s King Lear depicts a monstrosity that lurks beneath the skin like a creeping poison until the heart of its victim befalls a sudden halt. Unlike the Bard's more animalistic creatures such as Richard III or Caliban, the monsters within King Lear, along with the victims who suffer their dreaded poison, all share the same exterior commonality: they're all human. Contrary to the more Machiavellian and deceitful villains of King Lear, the tragedy’s title character undergoes a rather personalized and transformative journey into the realms of monstrosity. By utilizing the fourth and first theses of Jeffery Jerome Cohen’s Monster Culture as a means to dissect monstrosity, the complex timeline of King Lear’s abhorrent character can be factored down into three disparate elements: arrogance, madness, and physical deterioration.  King Lear’s first tragic step into monstrosity occurs when he gives into his pride by masking a necessary political act with fatherly love. Lear is aware of his old age and breaks his kingdom into three parts, ready to disperse them unto his three daughters: Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia. Rather than simply passing on his land unto his bloodline, Lear presents his gift of land as a symbol of love for his daughters. He shifts from being an image of a loving father and into one who seeks admiration through political gratuity. Furthermore, he asks which of the three love him the most and to what extent:   “Tell me, my daughters–   Since now we will divest us both of rule…   …Which of you shall we say doth love us most,    that we our largest bounty may extend    where nature doth with merit challenge.” (Shakespeare I. i. 52)                                         Lear’s pathetic attempt to show-off love (though known only unto himself), can be viewed through the lens of Thesis IV of Monster Culture: The Monster Dwells at the Gates of Difference. Cohen states that “monstrous difference tends to be cultural, political, racial, economic” (Cohen 7.) This suggests that a monster is at the cusp of birth when culture or politics become entangled in human folly. By using political action as a conduit for gaining affectionate admiration, King Lear’s act perfectly reflects Cohen’s observation of difference in monstrosity.  Oddly enough, King Lear’s act of arrogance simultaneously triggers Cohen’s first thesis: The Monster’s Body is a Cultural Body. Lear’s failure to show true love to his daughters becomes apparent when Cordelia, his youngest daughter, answers honestly when asked how much she loves her father. She responds with,  “Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty According to my bond, no more nor less.” (I. i. 100)                                       Cordelia’s honesty comes across as a witty backlash to King Lear, making him (along with Goneril and Regan), look like fools in lust for admiration and power. The image of a daughter revealing her fathers flaws by way of intellect contradicts the expected ideals of a royal family in public affairs. This rift in royal behavior ties in with Cohen’s assertion, “The monstrous body is pure culture” (Cohen 4) and conjures a monster of pride within King Lear. The collision of publicly-seen dissonance in a royal family and the arrogance of a king creates a metaphor of chaos in political power, which corroborates until the final act of King Lear.  Madness, an often explored enigma by Shakespeare, seeps its way into King Lear once he has left his kingdom and joined the Fool and Kent in the wilderness. While intertwined with these two, King Lear expresses his entire spectrum of emotions without any fear of punishment or embarrassment, seeing as he no longer has a kingdom to represent. This, along with the wrath and sorrow within him, causes Lear to crack through the thin ice of sanity and into the depths of madness. Lear himself says,
  “When the mind’s free,    The body’s delicate. This tempest in my mind   Doth from my senses take all feeling else   Save what beats there.” (III. iv. 13)                                                                                                He has allowed for this mental tempest to take control and thus, delineates Cohen’s warning of the monster at the gates of difference: “Difference that exists outside the system is terrifying because it reveals the truth of the system, its relativity, its fragility, and its mortality” (Cohen 12). Cohen argues that a severe change outside normality is something to be feared, as its contrast exposes the flaws and weaknesses of the status quo. Lear’s insanity acts as a gateway into his innermost thoughts and monstrous tendencies, leaving him vulnerable to the examination and influence of strangers, fools, and madmen, thereby, increasing Lear’s upward curve of insanity. (This is further expanded upon, since he is always at the side of the Fool during his embark to the wilderness.)  Stuck between a Tempest and an equally crazy Fool, King Lear’s mental state is challenged by a cultural question: does one who falls slave to madness become a monster? It is important to pay careful attention to the sayings of the Fool in the scenes regarding the tempest, as Shakespeare hints at the true metaphor beneath Lear’s madness. In one particular exchange between Lear and the Fool, the Fool makes a joke:
Fool:  “Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a              gentleman or a yeoman.”  Lear:  “A king, a king!”  Fool:  “No, he’s a yeoman that has a gentleman to his              son, for he’s a mad yeoman that sees his son a              gentleman before him.” (III. vi. 9)                                                                                               The punchline to the Fool’s joke is a metaphor for King Lear’s true sorrow with Cordelia. Lear sees Cordelia, with her honesty, integrity, and love, as a ‘gentlemen’ before him, while simultaneously recognizing himself as a fool before her. Interjecting Cohen’s argument that “the monster is born only at this metaphoric crossroads, as an embodiment of a certain cultural moment––of a time, a feeling, and a place” (Cohen 4), it is understood that King Lear’s madness is a reaction to Cordelia’s true and noble character juxtaposed to the monstrous nature that is his own.  King Lear’s arch nemesis in this play is the deadly monster that he himself became: the deteriorating product of age. His physical appearance begins its early phases of monstrosity at the start of the play and grows until his death in the final act. Cohen states, “the monster is difference made flesh… the monster is an incorporation of the Outside, the Beyond” (Cohen 7). King Lear comes face to face with what Cohen calls ‘the Outside’ and curses nature for giving him his current deformity.    “Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! Spout, rain!  …Then let fall your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave,  a poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.” (III. ii. 20)                                                         At a point where Lear is nearing madness, he invites the thunder of the heavens to singe him down, rather than to have him rot alive as an old man who has lost his family and kingdom. His power is subject to his age and therefore, lacks the youthful spirit of his young daughters, whom he curses along with Nature. Lear has unleashed the rage within him that is reflected in the skies above and accepted his monstrosity as an old man.  Beyond having accepted his own monstrosity, King Lear has come face-to-face with a far darker reality. In the first scene of the play, Lear states,                  “ ’tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age,  Conferring them on younger strengths, while we    Unburdened crawl toward death.” (I. i. 40)                                                                    Lear, having foreseen the future of his death, attempts to pass his kingdom to his daughters while slipping smoothly into a respectable and honorable walk to the grave. His arrogant nature, however, results in his downfall and he is left with the skin of an old man, struggling for a final battle against the curse of life, only to come to terms with Nature’s bargain. Cohen’s first thesis states that   “the monster signifies something other than itself: it is always a displacement,     always inhabits the gap between the time of upheaval that created it and the   moment into which it is received, to be born again”  (Cohen 4.)                                                           The foundation of King Lear lies in the chaos of a kingdom that sought young blood in exchange for its dried up, wrinkled father. The metaphor of a withering King Lear’s failed attempt to reclaim his kingdom, dignity, and power waits to be revived again in the hands of a new, youthful king.  When searching for a leaf in a forest, the task becomes exponentially more difficult when the leaf is inevitably surrounded by thousands of other leaves which all bear the same resemblance. Much like Chesterton's analogy of the leaf, one must be wary when seeking monstrosity in a kingdom of monsters. William Shakespeare brilliantly camouflages monstrosity in King Lear by building a forest of monsters to surround it, while simultaneously morphing the flaws of culture into magnificent metaphors. The carefully crafted architecture of King Lear stands as a literary monument for understanding the macabre reality of culture and its monsters. 

Dimitris Tzoytzoyrakos Thea Tomaini  English 261 November 14, 2016                 A Kingdom of Leaves   “Where does a wise man hide a leaf? In the forest. But what does he do if there is no forest? He grows a forest to hide it in.”  -G.K. Chesterton  William Shakespeare’s King Lear depicts a monstrosity that lurks beneath the skin like a creeping poison until the heart of its victim befalls a sudden halt. Unlike the Bard's more animalistic creatures such as Richard III or Caliban, the monsters within King Lear, along with the victims who suffer their dreaded poison, all share the same exterior commonality: they're all human. Contrary to the more Machiavellian and deceitful villains of King Lear, the tragedy’s title character undergoes a rather personalized and transformative journey into the realms of monstrosity. By utilizing the fourth and first theses of Jeffery Jerome Cohen’s Monster Culture as a means to dissect monstrosity, the complex timeline of King Lear’s abhorrent character can be factored down into three disparate elements: arrogance, madness, and physical deterioration.  King Lear’s first tragic step into monstrosity occurs when he gives into his pride by masking a necessary political act with fatherly love. Lear is aware of his old age and breaks his kingdom into three parts, ready to disperse them unto his three daughters: Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia. Rather than simply passing on his land unto his bloodline, Lear presents his gift of land as a symbol of love for his daughters. He shifts from being an image of a loving father and into one who seeks admiration through political gratuity. Furthermore, he asks which of the three love him the most and to what extent:   “Tell me, my daughters–   Since now we will divest us both of rule…   …Which of you shall we say doth love us most,    that we our largest bounty may extend    where nature doth with merit challenge.” (Shakespeare I. i. 52)                                         Lear’s pathetic attempt to show-off love (though known only unto himself), can be viewed through the lens of Thesis IV of Monster Culture: The Monster Dwells at the Gates of Difference. Cohen states that “monstrous difference tends to be cultural, political, racial, economic” (Cohen 7.) This suggests that a monster is at the cusp of birth when culture or politics become entangled in human folly. By using political action as a conduit for gaining affectionate admiration, King Lear’s act perfectly reflects Cohen’s observation of difference in monstrosity.  Oddly enough, King Lear’s act of arrogance simultaneously triggers Cohen’s first thesis: The Monster’s Body is a Cultural Body. Lear’s failure to show true love to his daughters becomes apparent when Cordelia, his youngest daughter, answers honestly when asked how much she loves her father. She responds with,  “Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty According to my bond, no more nor less.” (I. i. 100)                                       Cordelia’s honesty comes across as a witty backlash to King Lear, making him (along with Goneril and Regan), look like fools in lust for admiration and power. The image of a daughter revealing her fathers flaws by way of intellect contradicts the expected ideals of a royal family in public affairs. This rift in royal behavior ties in with Cohen’s assertion, “The monstrous body is pure culture” (Cohen 4) and conjures a monster of pride within King Lear. The collision of publicly-seen dissonance in a royal family and the arrogance of a king creates a metaphor of chaos in political power, which corroborates until the final act of King Lear.  Madness, an often explored enigma by Shakespeare, seeps its way into King Lear once he has left his kingdom and joined the Fool and Kent in the wilderness. While intertwined with these two, King Lear expresses his entire spectrum of emotions without any fear of punishment or embarrassment, seeing as he no longer has a kingdom to represent. This, along with the wrath and sorrow within him, causes Lear to crack through the thin ice of sanity and into the depths of madness. Lear himself says,
  “When the mind’s free,    The body’s delicate. This tempest in my mind   Doth from my senses take all feeling else   Save what beats there.” (III. iv. 13)                                                                                                He has allowed for this mental tempest to take control and thus, delineates Cohen’s warning of the monster at the gates of difference: “Difference that exists outside the system is terrifying because it reveals the truth of the system, its relativity, its fragility, and its mortality” (Cohen 12). Cohen argues that a severe change outside normality is something to be feared, as its contrast exposes the flaws and weaknesses of the status quo. Lear’s insanity acts as a gateway into his innermost thoughts and monstrous tendencies, leaving him vulnerable to the examination and influence of strangers, fools, and madmen, thereby, increasing Lear’s upward curve of insanity. (This is further expanded upon, since he is always at the side of the Fool during his embark to the wilderness.)  Stuck between a Tempest and an equally crazy Fool, King Lear’s mental state is challenged by a cultural question: does one who falls slave to madness become a monster? It is important to pay careful attention to the sayings of the Fool in the scenes regarding the tempest, as Shakespeare hints at the true metaphor beneath Lear’s madness. In one particular exchange between Lear and the Fool, the Fool makes a joke:
Fool:  “Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a              gentleman or a yeoman.”  Lear:  “A king, a king!”  Fool:  “No, he’s a yeoman that has a gentleman to his              son, for he’s a mad yeoman that sees his son a              gentleman before him.” (III. vi. 9)                                                                                               The punchline to the Fool’s joke is a metaphor for King Lear’s true sorrow with Cordelia. Lear sees Cordelia, with her honesty, integrity, and love, as a ‘gentlemen’ before him, while simultaneously recognizing himself as a fool before her. Interjecting Cohen’s argument that “the monster is born only at this metaphoric crossroads, as an embodiment of a certain cultural moment––of a time, a feeling, and a place” (Cohen 4), it is understood that King Lear’s madness is a reaction to Cordelia’s true and noble character juxtaposed to the monstrous nature that is his own.  King Lear’s arch nemesis in this play is the deadly monster that he himself became: the deteriorating product of age. His physical appearance begins its early phases of monstrosity at the start of the play and grows until his death in the final act. Cohen states, “the monster is difference made flesh… the monster is an incorporation of the Outside, the Beyond” (Cohen 7). King Lear comes face to face with what Cohen calls ‘the Outside’ and curses nature for giving him his current deformity.    “Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! Spout, rain!  …Then let fall your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave,  a poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.” (III. ii. 20)                                                         At a point where Lear is nearing madness, he invites the thunder of the heavens to singe him down, rather than to have him rot alive as an old man who has lost his family and kingdom. His power is subject to his age and therefore, lacks the youthful spirit of his young daughters, whom he curses along with Nature. Lear has unleashed the rage within him that is reflected in the skies above and accepted his monstrosity as an old man.  Beyond having accepted his own monstrosity, King Lear has come face-to-face with a far darker reality. In the first scene of the play, Lear states,                  “ ’tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age,  Conferring them on younger strengths, while we    Unburdened crawl toward death.” (I. i. 40)                                                                    Lear, having foreseen the future of his death, attempts to pass his kingdom to his daughters while slipping smoothly into a respectable and honorable walk to the grave. His arrogant nature, however, results in his downfall and he is left with the skin of an old man, struggling for a final battle against the curse of life, only to come to terms with Nature’s bargain. Cohen’s first thesis states that   “the monster signifies something other than itself: it is always a displacement,     always inhabits the gap between the time of upheaval that created it and the   moment into which it is received, to be born again”  (Cohen 4.)                                                           The foundation of King Lear lies in the chaos of a kingdom that sought young blood in exchange for its dried up, wrinkled father. The metaphor of a withering King Lear’s failed attempt to reclaim his kingdom, dignity, and power waits to be revived again in the hands of a new, youthful king.  When searching for a leaf in a forest, the task becomes exponentially more difficult when the leaf is inevitably surrounded by thousands of other leaves which all bear the same resemblance. Much like Chesterton's analogy of the leaf, one must be wary when seeking monstrosity in a kingdom of monsters. William Shakespeare brilliantly camouflages monstrosity in King Lear by building a forest of monsters to surround it, while simultaneously morphing the flaws of culture into magnificent metaphors. The carefully crafted architecture of King Lear stands as a literary monument for understanding the macabre reality of culture and its monsters. 

fdf

Howdy! I'm trying to write a modern fantasy type deal. The main character can basically be described as "Local man just wants to bake, world says no". 

Just thought I'd start us off. 

Hello!

how's about getting the ball rolling. I have written a couple of stories, I have wandered in here to acquire some idea's as to what I have to adjust in this matter of writing? To make ir being able to advance the story.

If nobody take any interest in this group. I will gonna make interwiev with myself.

If nobody take any interest in this group. I will gonna make interwiev with myself.

Surrender. Her eyes opened with the patience of death. Liquid grey fog received her like a broken army spilling under a rising portcullis, illuminating a coastline shameful of its drab attire. Jagged brown cliffs descended into frothing steel-blue brinewater, inexhaustible in their rhythmic strife. The plight of elements. The dirge of tides. Sorrow. She slid from her gilded wool saddle with the weight of silk. A breath escaped her, seasoning the petrichor with her sullen beauty. Droplets of rain left by a faded storm fell in unison from her velvet robe. Water shattered upon terra. The strife of opposites. Gravity’s destructive guise. Her child, mewling in consternation from the absence of his mother’s gossamer silhouette, was wrapped tightly in wool, bryle cloth, and a soft leather swaddle behind her perch. She removed the ties holding her treasure secure and drew the infant to her breast. Their hearts called to each other and harmonized. Together they fashioned one void within the mists. Her stallion brayed with valiancy born from thousands of years of royal breeding. Its companions, fourteen other steeds of equally impressive resolve, guffed in reply as though conducting roll call. They bore men draped with war wisdom and life-absolving oaths, the woman’s blood debtors and vanguard. Men whose identities have already died, they rode eight before and six behind, holding still now as their queen, without utterance, had ceased their journey home. They had all immediately come to halt, their minds never wandered beyond attentiveness. Nary a mote went unnoticed before their sentinelled eyes. One of the leading men dismounted as a shadow of his liege. His eyes predicted her path and surveyed it, allowing his intuition opportunity for alarm. The forest stood back from the cliffs edge as though the sea had taken a bite from it. Shadows amongst the formations of alder, blanchwood, and aspen were quickly sifted with attention. The sounds of insects and birds were inventoried for disturbance, the fog for deepening grey. Feline instinct remained astute, yet docile. The fields of war laid a horizon away, yet danger wages a boundless conflict of ambush and surprise. The soldier’s destrier pivoted a quarter-turn away, the product of perfect training, readying the stirrup for urgent use. The beast’s haze colored caparison, fashioned by the steelweavers of Achalaed, brandished the same integrity, every stitch meticulously placed, every metal thread carefully positioned by a master’s hand. The image of the mother bear rearing before a battered shield was squarely center, the artistry refined. Perfection was the backbone of the Achalaedians, and it found its greatest embodiments within the accoutrements of war. Shame. Aenani nul’Ikyriel, Queen of the Warriors of Achalaed and sealed by marriage to a lineage spanning over three dreams, kissed her child upon his forehead and smiled. He was the opus of her happiness and sole product of her loins, having been born under a night sky shedding stars in the center of a sea of thirsty steel and screaming men. This tiny soul is the greatest gift her husband has delivered unto her. He is the blessing of her womb meant to emblazon the spirit of the Warrior Mother, as the prophesied Akeil nul’Ikyrien. The Blood of Secrets. The Formless Tempest. The Battleborn. She walked cautiously, softly across moistened plains grass. The air carried the chilled chorus of waves crashing against stone, tumultuous and bold, far below. The fog hid the suns above, diffusing their light across the environment like a lullaby. Runeset would soon be upon them. The dasher whips swirled in their evening feeding frenzy, while the hooded rose curtsied the waning light. The heralds of twilight ushered the ensemble to set camp, but Aenani wished to share the currents of sea and the roiling evening fog with her son. She wished to inhale the peace of battles freshly won. Her steps, lithe and pure, traced crescent paths across the slickened foliage, a sign of feet inherently heeding the imperative of balance and grace. The tiny prince cooed, eyes brightly observant of his mother, the image of his needs and desires. Together they stood before a world they ignored. Mother and son, stem and flower, wisdom and joy. The mother queen’s feet planted with the firmness of an oak nurturing a glade. The darkening sea spread with churning eternity unto the curve of Aia before them. The sunsset approached an audience of two. Scars. Capricious and damnable war, vile and gnashing strife, standing before all horizons and absent the experience of rest, with the exception of this cliffside perch of green and grey. Her husband had added exclamation to glory before the last fall of the suns, the diadem of Achalaed had been secured. Men had spilled bowels and grit teeth against splintering bones. Women had armored wombs pierced and endured against depleting blood… to end the life of at least one more enemy... to heal this land via lacerations and bruising wounds. Warriors, just the day before, had watched the suns set and followed their descent with death colored eyes. They were forgotten today, hidden behind the ink painted strokes of a historian’s quill and the fading woes of mourning. One of the many curses of humanity, to always genuflect unto our gains and rarely our costs. Aenani stood within the eye of the storm cossetting her son. Death squalled about these lands, subduing love to shadowed corners and making laughter a blasphemous task. Serenity. Behind the mist woven veil, the first of the twin suns touched the edge of the world. Sune, overwhelming the daytime sky with golden light, was snuffed by the watery horizon. Gold smeared into orange. Strokes of red fused into the deepening scarlet twilight. The red sun Rune thickened the sky, the air, with crimson arousal. Runeset glared. Aenani married two of her fingers and placed them on the forehead of her babe. The child struggled to focus, arms flailed, as his world shrank to the expanse of his mother’s touch. Her fingers traced a dry tear-path across brow. Down the tiny bridge of the child’s nose. Nailed digits skipped across lips, over chin. They leapt to the infant’s chest, over his heart, and ceased the moment into eternity. Stillness. The witch-red twilight glazed the air with frozen fire. All things blazed. Silent and still. The queen removed her fingers and pulled free a sash, dyed with soot and ash, stowed within the layers of the babe’s leather cocoon, then laid it across his eyes. It was perfumed by the scent of waxed stowage parchment and cedar, a contrast to the moistened aromas of second twilight. The sash was made of softened yak wool, the weave was perfectly uniform minus a few rebellious strands. It crudely represented the world. Harmony always gives homage to the abstract. Imperfection always carries the greater weight. But chaos, often, lets slip its hidden design. A voice, quilted by muses, whispered past velvet lips. The child’s mouth opened slightly in recognition. His heart saw clearly what his eyes could not. “I love you my feather, my soulsong, with the intensity of a smith’s brand,” the Queen spoke to her child, eyes staring into the infinity of memories. “I would for you.” Rune slipped towards the horizon as a water droplet reaching a window’s pain. It hesitated, poised for a plunge into darkness. Ruby luminescence steamed from the soldier’s pauldrons, it coiled slowly upwards from prostrated grass. The horizon inhaled the dwindling light.

Surrender. Her eyes opened with the patience of death. Liquid grey fog received her like a broken army spilling under a rising portcullis, illuminating a coastline shameful of its drab attire. Jagged brown cliffs descended into frothing steel-blue brinewater, inexhaustible in their rhythmic strife. The plight of elements. The dirge of tides. Sorrow. She slid from her gilded wool saddle with the weight of silk. A breath escaped her, seasoning the petrichor with her sullen beauty. Droplets of rain left by a faded storm fell in unison from her velvet robe. Water shattered upon terra. The strife of opposites. Gravity’s destructive guise. Her child, mewling in consternation from the absence of his mother’s gossamer silhouette, was wrapped tightly in wool, bryle cloth, and a soft leather swaddle behind her perch. She removed the ties holding her treasure secure and drew the infant to her breast. Their hearts called to each other and harmonized. Together they fashioned one void within the mists. Her stallion brayed with valiancy born from thousands of years of royal breeding. Its companions, fourteen other steeds of equally impressive resolve, guffed in reply as though conducting roll call. They bore men draped with war wisdom and life-absolving oaths, the woman’s blood debtors and vanguard. Men whose identities have already died, they rode eight before and six behind, holding still now as their queen, without utterance, had ceased their journey home. They had all immediately come to halt, their minds never wandered beyond attentiveness. Nary a mote went unnoticed before their sentinelled eyes. One of the leading men dismounted as a shadow of his liege. His eyes predicted her path and surveyed it, allowing his intuition opportunity for alarm. The forest stood back from the cliffs edge as though the sea had taken a bite from it. Shadows amongst the formations of alder, blanchwood, and aspen were quickly sifted with attention. The sounds of insects and birds were inventoried for disturbance, the fog for deepening grey. Feline instinct remained astute, yet docile. The fields of war laid a horizon away, yet danger wages a boundless conflict of ambush and surprise. The soldier’s destrier pivoted a quarter-turn away, the product of perfect training, readying the stirrup for urgent use. The beast’s haze colored caparison, fashioned by the steelweavers of Achalaed, brandished the same integrity, every stitch meticulously placed, every metal thread carefully positioned by a master’s hand. The image of the mother bear rearing before a battered shield was squarely center, the artistry refined. Perfection was the backbone of the Achalaedians, and it found its greatest embodiments within the accoutrements of war. Shame. Aenani nul’Ikyriel, Queen of the Warriors of Achalaed and sealed by marriage to a lineage spanning over three dreams, kissed her child upon his forehead and smiled. He was the opus of her happiness and sole product of her loins, having been born under a night sky shedding stars in the center of a sea of thirsty steel and screaming men. This tiny soul is the greatest gift her husband has delivered unto her. He is the blessing of her womb meant to emblazon the spirit of the Warrior Mother, as the prophesied Akeil nul’Ikyrien. The Blood of Secrets. The Formless Tempest. The Battleborn. She walked cautiously, softly across moistened plains grass. The air carried the chilled chorus of waves crashing against stone, tumultuous and bold, far below. The fog hid the suns above, diffusing their light across the environment like a lullaby. Runeset would soon be upon them. The dasher whips swirled in their evening feeding frenzy, while the hooded rose curtsied the waning light. The heralds of twilight ushered the ensemble to set camp, but Aenani wished to share the currents of sea and the roiling evening fog with her son. She wished to inhale the peace of battles freshly won. Her steps, lithe and pure, traced crescent paths across the slickened foliage, a sign of feet inherently heeding the imperative of balance and grace. The tiny prince cooed, eyes brightly observant of his mother, the image of his needs and desires. Together they stood before a world they ignored. Mother and son, stem and flower, wisdom and joy. The mother queen’s feet planted with the firmness of an oak nurturing a glade. The darkening sea spread with churning eternity unto the curve of Aia before them. The sunsset approached an audience of two. Scars. Capricious and damnable war, vile and gnashing strife, standing before all horizons and absent the experience of rest, with the exception of this cliffside perch of green and grey. Her husband had added exclamation to glory before the last fall of the suns, the diadem of Achalaed had been secured. Men had spilled bowels and grit teeth against splintering bones. Women had armored wombs pierced and endured against depleting blood… to end the life of at least one more enemy... to heal this land via lacerations and bruising wounds. Warriors, just the day before, had watched the suns set and followed their descent with death colored eyes. They were forgotten today, hidden behind the ink painted strokes of a historian’s quill and the fading woes of mourning. One of the many curses of humanity, to always genuflect unto our gains and rarely our costs. Aenani stood within the eye of the storm cossetting her son. Death squalled about these lands, subduing love to shadowed corners and making laughter a blasphemous task. Serenity. Behind the mist woven veil, the first of the twin suns touched the edge of the world. Sune, overwhelming the daytime sky with golden light, was snuffed by the watery horizon. Gold smeared into orange. Strokes of red fused into the deepening scarlet twilight. The red sun Rune thickened the sky, the air, with crimson arousal. Runeset glared. Aenani married two of her fingers and placed them on the forehead of her babe. The child struggled to focus, arms flailed, as his world shrank to the expanse of his mother’s touch. Her fingers traced a dry tear-path across brow. Down the tiny bridge of the child’s nose. Nailed digits skipped across lips, over chin. They leapt to the infant’s chest, over his heart, and ceased the moment into eternity. Stillness. The witch-red twilight glazed the air with frozen fire. All things blazed. Silent and still. The queen removed her fingers and pulled free a sash, dyed with soot and ash, stowed within the layers of the babe’s leather cocoon, then laid it across his eyes. It was perfumed by the scent of waxed stowage parchment and cedar, a contrast to the moistened aromas of second twilight. The sash was made of softened yak wool, the weave was perfectly uniform minus a few rebellious strands. It crudely represented the world. Harmony always gives homage to the abstract. Imperfection always carries the greater weight. But chaos, often, lets slip its hidden design. A voice, quilted by muses, whispered past velvet lips. The child’s mouth opened slightly in recognition. His heart saw clearly what his eyes could not. “I love you my feather, my soulsong, with the intensity of a smith’s brand,” the Queen spoke to her child, eyes staring into the infinity of memories. “I would for you.” Rune slipped towards the horizon as a water droplet reaching a window’s pain. It hesitated, poised for a plunge into darkness. Ruby luminescence steamed from the soldier’s pauldrons, it coiled slowly upwards from prostrated grass. The horizon inhaled the dwindling light.

Hi! Still learning how this site works. 

Hey, guys, I'm new to the group here and posted my 3 stories. Any reviews and tips are greatly appreciated and I'll be sure to review you back! :D

Hey I hope you enjoy my story if you decide to read it, any reviews and advice is greatly appreciated. I will review everyone who reviews me! :D

Good this group was create. But not so much on life now. I am here around about 5 years. I can see how some people without reason give me reviews or block me without reasons. Reviews are here mostly like personal attack or you are the best writer ever. I mean what kind of write community is this. When nobody is honest or just mean. I have so many friends here but after while . I dont get any reviews . You know is just like on facebook have so many so called friends but dont care about them. I think thats really sad. We need be real at our writing and our actions not like puppets of our laziness. There lot of critics about your poetry dont have logic. Since when poetry must be logic. Since when poetry must have rhyming. Poetry is about be free not about rules. If you dont like something just leave . I mean we here to support each other. Not to make harm right. 

Hi. I'm new to the group and a total novic.. I need friends and I need their honest opinions to help me.cos I believe friend's are the most true critics one can ever have