Pyro
Bluelighter
I shot at the solid stone wall with my 12-guage long barrel shot gun. 40 rounds of bitter, unbridled destruction. Then the wall came crumbling down and the ash and soot flew up into the air, engulfing me.
When it finally passed I was still standing in the same place, with my gun resting on my right shoulder. I blew the air from my lungs out of my nose and the grey dirt spiraled around in many directions. Somehow it was a pattern, someway it wasn't.
I walked over to the heaping pile of filth and stood atop it all. My face did not change from it's cold, brutal exterior. It was hard and angry and bloodlusting. It was the face of one who had recently exacted some kind of lustful vengence.
There, above the wrecked pile I found myself at peace. I was able to listen to the still quiet water trickling in background. The breeze gently moved the small hairs on my face and ears, tickling my physical perception. The dust settled and I could see clearly again.
The breeze cooled off to resemble something like a cold summer's night. You know, when it's been 115 degrees all day, and now it's only 68? That's what it was like, standing there on top of the broken pieces of the wall.
The gun turned into a feather and I stuck it in my hair. I began to hum a quiet verse to God and I was picked up off my feet, and brought away from the mountianious pile. I grew wings and flew higher than I had ever been before.
From the view above I was able to see my body, now sitting cross-legged in the middle of a field with long green grass. There was a stream near by and some rocks placed in a specific pattern. The pattern of the rocks represented my new defenses against the wall from ever forming around me again.
My body sat perfectly still. My eyes were shut and I could hear myself humming still, this time more passionatly. Each fluctuation of tone meant something specific, as I listened from my position up above it all.
When I realized that I was not flying, but that I was being carried along by the hands of my creator I thought to myself, "What better hands to be in, than the One who crafted me?"
I opened my eyes and was sitting at the computer, writing something to bluelight again....
Pyro
When it finally passed I was still standing in the same place, with my gun resting on my right shoulder. I blew the air from my lungs out of my nose and the grey dirt spiraled around in many directions. Somehow it was a pattern, someway it wasn't.
I walked over to the heaping pile of filth and stood atop it all. My face did not change from it's cold, brutal exterior. It was hard and angry and bloodlusting. It was the face of one who had recently exacted some kind of lustful vengence.
There, above the wrecked pile I found myself at peace. I was able to listen to the still quiet water trickling in background. The breeze gently moved the small hairs on my face and ears, tickling my physical perception. The dust settled and I could see clearly again.
The breeze cooled off to resemble something like a cold summer's night. You know, when it's been 115 degrees all day, and now it's only 68? That's what it was like, standing there on top of the broken pieces of the wall.
The gun turned into a feather and I stuck it in my hair. I began to hum a quiet verse to God and I was picked up off my feet, and brought away from the mountianious pile. I grew wings and flew higher than I had ever been before.
From the view above I was able to see my body, now sitting cross-legged in the middle of a field with long green grass. There was a stream near by and some rocks placed in a specific pattern. The pattern of the rocks represented my new defenses against the wall from ever forming around me again.
My body sat perfectly still. My eyes were shut and I could hear myself humming still, this time more passionatly. Each fluctuation of tone meant something specific, as I listened from my position up above it all.
When I realized that I was not flying, but that I was being carried along by the hands of my creator I thought to myself, "What better hands to be in, than the One who crafted me?"
I opened my eyes and was sitting at the computer, writing something to bluelight again....
Pyro
