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"Hope" PrologueAt a time in everyone's life, the thought about living in a world free of wars, hatefulness, and sadness occupies the mind. For some people, the thought beckons them for only a mere five minutes, and others, their whole life.
Those who think about such things are nothing but fools. There is no such thing as a world free of anything. The world is what it is, and there is no way to change it. One person can't revolutionize an entire planet much less a country on their own─ At least I know that now.
Apparently, I've lost hope. And in this world hope is everything. Without hope, there is no point in living at all. At least that's what the young boy with the chocolate brown eyes whispered to me just before becoming unconscious as I carried his fragile body to the nearest camp to nurse his bloody wounds.
I watched the nurse heal his injuries. The life had been flushed out of the boy's once bright and cheerful face. If I didn't know any better, I would have probably th
My Once Ago Friend~My Once Ago Friend~
As I picked up a lonely flower from the earth
I thoughtfully pulled a delicate petal
As I was doing so, I reminisced over you
My once ago friend who vanished
With no farewell leaving me behind
To sink to drown in my memories
Of your existence
My once ago friend, I thought of you
As if you were greater than a field of gold
I would swim in the deepest ocean
To keep the closeness between us
My once ago friend I smiled for you
Even though you cared for me weakly
In return for my kindness to you
As I came back to reality
The wind began to blow swiftly
Causing my delicate petal to drift away
Leaving me behind as I watched it
Move on neglecting the past
I now realized that I should do the same
The Glass BoxThere once was girl who lived in a glass box.
Not because she wanted to, for she was trapped.
She couldn't escape even if she tried.
Her shadow reflected off the solid glass walls,
Back bent in endless despair.
When will someone save me? She asked.
Does anyone care? She wondered.
People she once knew passed her by
Without a hint of concern in their dark eyes,
They laughed, they pointed, and they stared.
She sunk down to the glass floor and began to weep.
Her cries were inaudible from the world outside the box.
Why can't I be free? She screamed.
Why can't I be free? She screamed again.
Her voice echoed until there was a vague silence.
That's when she realized that no one will ever free her
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
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