feathers and buttons and words and stars
I have a box full of glittery treasures!
I've still have bits of blue sparkles on my hands...
Thank you.
You've made me smile for the rest of the day, and most possibly, the whole week.
And I got your books today!! Thank you thank you!! Not just for the books, but for everything...
Isn't this beautiful?
Fade: The Hue
by this talented faerie. She has the most interesting handwriting...
Imagine the trees as the mirror of the forest, each leaf reflecting a thousand different angles, a thousand different views of peace and serenity.
One wretchedly glorious day, during the heat of the summer, the sweat of the humidity, a girl so young and lush, with curls as golden as spun silk, walks warm swan grace through the forest, smiling at the waving forms of her lovely face dangling from tree limbs like tiny fingers.
Somewhere... from somewhere deep and hidden, the bowels of the wood, she met her match. Face-to-gorgeous-face with the child of dirt, long, mud soaked black locks twirling through the golden curls, tearing, shrieking, shattering the leaves, letting them crumble and fall, rotten forever in their reflections.
The deep red hue of blood-shed, the dark, dead shades of brown and gray settles in, a touch of golden curls locked forever in the jagged, fallen leaves, scattered amongst the atrocity.
With the death of this child came the summer's end. And the banishment of warmth brought the cold, dark cold. The child of dark wept and fell, madness in her youthful mind, the disease of death.
A death that brought with it a rainfall of white. A blanket thick and wet made to suffocate. To blind, to vanish the remnants of both summer and winter alike.
I've still have bits of blue sparkles on my hands...
Thank you.
You've made me smile for the rest of the day, and most possibly, the whole week.
And I got your books today!! Thank you thank you!! Not just for the books, but for everything...
Isn't this beautiful?
Fade: The Hue
by this talented faerie. She has the most interesting handwriting...
Imagine the trees as the mirror of the forest, each leaf reflecting a thousand different angles, a thousand different views of peace and serenity.
One wretchedly glorious day, during the heat of the summer, the sweat of the humidity, a girl so young and lush, with curls as golden as spun silk, walks warm swan grace through the forest, smiling at the waving forms of her lovely face dangling from tree limbs like tiny fingers.
Somewhere... from somewhere deep and hidden, the bowels of the wood, she met her match. Face-to-gorgeous-face with the child of dirt, long, mud soaked black locks twirling through the golden curls, tearing, shrieking, shattering the leaves, letting them crumble and fall, rotten forever in their reflections.
The deep red hue of blood-shed, the dark, dead shades of brown and gray settles in, a touch of golden curls locked forever in the jagged, fallen leaves, scattered amongst the atrocity.
With the death of this child came the summer's end. And the banishment of warmth brought the cold, dark cold. The child of dark wept and fell, madness in her youthful mind, the disease of death.
A death that brought with it a rainfall of white. A blanket thick and wet made to suffocate. To blind, to vanish the remnants of both summer and winter alike.