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A Memory's MomentA Memory's Moment
By the amount of dust that had accumulated on every visible surface, it was easy to see that the attic had not been touched in years. The thick grey layer flew into whirlwinds as she gingerly stepped across the floor, heading towards the window while trying to disturb as little as possible. After a few minutes of fumbling with the old hinges, she finally threw the squealing shutters open. The late summer sunlight poured in through the old fashioned glass window, making the flying eddies of dust sparkle like pure gold as they drifted in minute air currents. As if placed there for that particular reason, a solid maple rocking chair sat near the far side of the room, exactly where the light hit the floor. With a reminiscent smile, she shook out a worn quilt and draped it over the back o the chair. She glanced out the window for a moment, as if gauging the time, and then she hurried over to a solid red chest. With only a moment's hesitation, s
At your graduation, I remember thinking about all the time I had watched you grow and mature through the years. When you first stepped foot in the library you thought that no one had seen you slip in, your index card with the barcode clutched tightly in your sweaty hand. Your eyes were almost wild in your excitement, and I could see that it took all of your energy just to walk calmly and not betray your equally strong nervousness. With an anxious expression and stuttering voice, you came to me, asking if you could check out a book. I smiled then, and checked it out for you- the brightly colored adventures of a purple whale called 'Sue'. With a slight blush and a nod that spoke volumes of gratitude, you took the book and fairly ran back to class with your treasure. I wonder now, do you remember that?
Through the following years, you came more and more often to what you once called your special quiet place. Your teachers and I had some mighty interesting conversation
Waiting"With her yella' petticoats and skirts all a mess, the young lass went a-flyin' 'cross the open prairie, 'til them green grasses don hide her from my sight." The elderly man smiled reminiscently, rocking in the creaky chair. "Those were the good days. She was always a right pretty lass, even when she went 'cross the great blue yonder t'be with the good Lord." The old rocking chair creaked again in the warm spring sunlight. The wind carried the scent of the blooming peonies, even though the large rose- tinted blossoms were just out of sight around the corner. Cheerful birdcalls permeated the air, yet another reminder that spring had finally arrived. "I gave her m'heart, ye know .and she don give me hers. 'Twas always my treasure." He paused, letting the weighty silence fall again. "'Twas her time," he murmured, as if coming to a decision. "Ach, I miss the lovely lass, but she's better off now there, where there ain't no more pain nor loss." A small smile creased the
Dear EditorDear Editor,
As a child, I had always admired the freedom of the birds that seemed to float in the air, amazing us with their midair acrobatics. Of all the many species that could be found in my own backwoods, one in particular stood out to me; the golden eagle. I had only seen the majestic bird from a distance, but even that was treat. The woods in essence were my play home. During my childhood I would escape the troubles of home for hours on end to romp through the undergrowth of the oak stand, often barely managing to make it home in time for dinner.
When I was still an imaginative young boy, the woods would become my castle, and I, the king of the realm. At times, I was the loving, merciful king, protector of the forest, guardian to all in my homeland. On other days, I was the enraged king, willing to die for my people- invisible as they were. Then, anything in sight was an enemy, I was more then willing to slay them with my trusted sword that had vanquished armies.
When I grew too
The reunion, shall we say, was bittersweet at best. Long years millennium had passed since our last meeting, the herald and his lord. He of course, had had plenty of time to come to grips with the past, the events that had happened and the choices that he had made. I however, was an emotional mess. Truly, I was glad to reach my final home, but it was bitter news that I bore back to my wife. Our daughter would not join us. It was with joy that I had greeted her, the centuries had been long after her sailing. Even longer though, was that wait that Gil-galad had waited to be reunited with his herald. In those years during the first age, we had grown close, an adoptive family through love and honor. And so, it was after the reunion with my immediate family that I turned to him, searching the halls. When we finally met, we held each other close in an embrace that seemed to last a decade alone. To him, I could tell anything, he was my mentor. In an outcry
Window to the HeartWindow to the Heart
There are only a few times in my life that I really understood the power that you held, what it meant to have an elven lord and a ring bearer no less as an adoptive father
The first time I saw your eyes and was truly afraid was on my deathbed. You were the healer, fighting for my life. You were terrified, angry and wholeheartedly worried, and it all shown in your eyes. Never before had I seen the raw emotion of an elven lord unleashed. The sight lasted only a moment before I blacked out again from the pain, but it was not an experience I ever wish to meet again. I too had feared that day, for you feared that you could not save me. If you could not... then I was doomed to die of the poisoned wound.
The second time I saw your eyes was when I pledged my heart and life to your daughter. It was not until later that week that we met in person, but for every hour those long days, I saw the wrath gleaming in your eyes in my mind. What I imagined
Engraved in StoneEngraved in Stone
The historic site is empty today, as very few people would venture out at this hour of the morning, let alone this far out from the main trails. The early morning silence is not really silent though, as the birds call out their morning greetings and the early autumn breeze rustles through the dying leaves of the trees far above my head. They tower over me, reminding me of my place in this world. Before me, lies a spectacular view of the landscape, the river snaking through the forest in the distance. Here and there, I can already see patches of trees changing into their colorful autumn attire. The river is slow and lazy, grown past it's energetic youth. From here, I feel as though I can see the world, though in truth, it is only miles. This one moment, is mine. For this one moment in the ages that this view has seen, I can claim a piece of time. The world is gone, left back on the precisely trimmed trail. However, the stone beneath my fing
Christmas Socks in AugustChristmas Socks in August
I watch the children romp and play in the schoolyard, completely oblivious to me. The young teacher also watches, but from the children's level as she gently convinces the few children that linger to join their peers. Soon, a rampant game of chase ensues, racing over the equipment. I remember a time, when I was that teacher, on the last day of summer school, enjoying those last few hours with the children that I had grown to love over the course of a few short months. I smile, from my seat at the bus stop as I reflect on that last day before I retired. Little Raedhal had shyly approached me after everyone else had filed out of our classroom, and presented me with a crudely wrapped gift, the wrapping paper made from the last art project. Inside, she had given me a pair of Christmas socks. It was with tears in my eyes that I had said goodbye and sent her on her way, because I knew that it had been a costly gift for my third grade stu
The Study of ArtWhy So Serious
Why this long winded discussion? Why the class to define what is, or what is not? Why must we discuss the ins and outs, rather than simply doing? What has changed so much, that art is no longer art, but an object of scrutiny and something that must be dissected to each piece that put it together?
Forgive my questions, for I do not understand. I once thought art was beauty, inspired from something unnamed inside the self. How is it then, that it can be dissected, taken apart, labeled? How can one be taught to create art? Where then is the imagination flowing from mind to surface? Where then is the free flow of thoughts, the struggles to create perfection?
Art is beauty, is it not? One man's trash, another's treasure? Are there rules then, on what is art, and what is not? On who can create it, and who may not? How is that we study art? How does one learn to appreciate that which counts as art? Who is the greatest judge, to say what is?
And I wonder if you beli
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More