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About Literature / Hobbyist echowolfFemale/United States Recent Activity
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He was being carried. Marlon loved the feeling, half-awake, half-asleep, safe in the arms of his father. He was being carried to his bed, to the Transformer sheets and the soft, fluffy warmth of his Thundercats comforter. The long car rides were his favorite way to fall asleep, the hours of road stretching out smooth, mesmerizing behind the glass of the window, his mother and father talking in calm, comforting tones to one another. His brother, Jarvis, older and more inured to the lulling effect would be absorbed by the latest band he'd been taken by, staring into the darkness, living the words of his favorite artists through his headphones. But Marlon, Marlon would drift off almost intentionally, the rhythm of the blacktop droning and soothing him into unconsciousness. His father was so strong, and Marlon delighted in the press of his face against the smooth fabric of his father's crisp, pressed shirt.
He opened his eyes, the light of early afternoon flooding his vision, chasing away the ghosts of his past. He was alone. Almost. Father Charles was in the garden, cutting the last harvest from the ground. Marlon found his mouth dry, his head aching. The sweetness of his memory made the reality seem all the more harsh, his situation even bleaker than it had seemed the day before. Stumbling to the drinking cistern, he decided that as lonely as he felt, the dream had been a small blessing. For a few moments, he'd traded the misery of his life for the joy of the past.
After shaking free of the threads of the dream Marlon splashed a little of their bathing water on his face and went to join the Father in their small garden plot. Father Charles had already picked the beans and pulled the corn from their stalks, and was taking a moment to rest.
"Ah, Marlon, you're awake. Come to help an old man with the pumpkins?"
"Of course! I plan on eating some of this, too, you know."
"Well you're a sight for sore eyes and an aching back. Would you mind getting the wheelbarrow? We'll make a couple of trips, but should get done before dark, with the both of us working at it."
Marlon smiled and started off to the side of the library, where the rusted wheelbarrow was pitched against the building.
Dust. He saw dust, rising in the distance, tracing a faint but certain line along the broken old road to the library. Someone was coming. A lot of someones.
Marlon dropped the wheelbarrow on its side and sprinted around the building and through the small garden gate.
"Father," he panted "Someone is coming, and I think it might be a lot of people. We have to hide!"
"How close were they, Marlon? Do we have time to get to the lake before they spot us?"
"No, I think we should just get inside and lock the doors, they're not far enough away!"
Marlon was already striding toward the back door, Father Charles was close behind. Together they pushed the heavy wooden bolt across the back door and raced to the front. Another few seconds later they had secured the building, throwing the metal bar across the front two doors and quickly closing the shutters on the only open window. In the dark, they took turns glancing through the small cut-out hole in the wooden storm shutters Father had installed after the first raid.
The dust cloud grew in size and soon approached their home. The library was overgrown with weeds, purposefully left untended, in an effort to dissuade further attacks. The pair could soon make out the shapes of two vehicles, a bus and what looked like an old Cadillac sedan in the lead. As they got closer the unmistakable sound of music poured from the small caravan. As the two cars pulled to a stop in front of the library, Marlon could just make out the words in the song. Exultant voices lifted in praise of Jesus, their devotion bolstering the song to a fever pitch. Swift as lightning, the song stopped, mid-phrase, and a voice boomed loud over a set of speakers.
"Friends, we have come to you in the name of Jesus Christ," the voice said, "We have come to offer to you redemption and everlasting salvation! Is there anyone who would come to be saved? We have room on our bus for many, and there is room in Heaven for all!"
Father Charles laid a hand on Marlon's arm, and shook his head silently. This was a dangerous world, and there was no telling what these people actually wanted. Two men in Sunday dress dropped from the bus, seemingly unarmed, and approached the front doors. Finding them locked, the taller man turned to the bus and shrugged. The pair split up and each man passed toward the back of the library. Marlon and the Father lost sight of them, each silently hoping that the garden would remain undiscovered, and if that were found, that the wooden bolt would prove secure.
Marlon could just hear a faint thud as someone tried the back door. Father Charles was holding his breath, and Marlon realized he was too. A flash of color alerted Marlon to the front of the building, where the two well dressed men had reappeared. They climbed back onto the bus, empty handed still. A moment later the voice sounded again through the loud speaker.
"Friends, we can tell someone is in there. Your pumpkins have betrayed you. But you need not fear us. We are emissaries of the Lord, and mean you no harm. You are right to be wary of strangers. We will go and leave you to your peace. But consider our offer, come and join us for mass, so that you too can revel in the light of holy redemption! We will leave you with a guide. Mass is each day at dusk. May the light of the Lord brighten this eternal darkness we have been left to."
Another well dressed man, older than the first two stepped off of the bus, a smile on his face from ear to ear. He was carrying something in his hand which shone white in the afternoon sun. Reaching the front door, he bent to slide it beneath the heavy wood. With a soft swish it came to rest on the floor of the wide entryway. The elderly man boarded the bus again, and the music resumed where it had stopped, Hallelujahs and praise fading into the distance, marking the passing of the two cars back the way they'd come.
Once they were well and truly gone, Marlon ran to the paper and snatched it up. A crude, hand-drawn message was scrawled onto the paper, with a map traced onto its back. Rapture, it promised, a promise for those left behind to meet with grace and be forgiven. He and the Father read and re-read its message. Marlon was ecstatic. In three years the two of them had only seen one other group, and that group's violent desecration of the library and their meager first-year garden had left the pair with bleak misgivings about the state of humanity that remained here on Earth. Father Charles had promised Marlon that they would look into these claims.
"But first, the pumpkins." he had laughed.
He watched with growing hope as Marlon attended to the work with a renewed vigor, beaming and chattering on about the flyer and its promises. Father Charles merely listened and nodded, keeping the dark sense of unease he felt buried beneath his gentle smile.
The moon makes cold marble of the concrete.
My hands are empty,
All the little birds have left the nest
They had called home,
In the bitter spaces of my chest.
I'm drawn homeward
To the dark and damp
Of the soil,
To rest, to return to dust
And the silence from which I came.
I wish I could send a flutter of butterflies to drink your tears,
The ones you cry, lonely, into an all too familiar pillow.
I wish I could send flights of nightingales to you,
To sing sweet songs into your dreams,
Stitching them tightly with woven melodies,
Embroidered through with lilting happiness.
I wish I could throw stardust into your emptiness,
Creating a new universe to fill the void inside of you,
Spanning the chasm of your solitude,
With glittering starburst galaxies.
You, prince of the Heavens,
But pauper on Earth,
Deserve such riches as this world has never seen.
My house, my house,
My crumbling home.
How could a prince,
Born into a palace,
Understand the love I have
For softly settling timbers
Raised with my own two hands?
And how could kings,
Born under the gilded gazes of martyrs
Find the divine in
The gentle rainwater melt of glass in the windows?
How could such soft hands
Understand the love that was crafted
By those so weathered and worn?
Some people burn bright like candles,
A steady source of warm and welcome light,
This dark, hard world becomes softer somehow,
Embraced and bathed in a loving glow.

But those steady lights will flicker,
In the cold wind of harsh truths,
And in the shadows on the wall we can trace the dark curling,
Of their doubts.

The flutters make long the pockets of dark,
And the shadows dance and play,
But in the end these quiet little lights,
Keep all the world's darkness at bay.


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Nawasa's Profile Picture
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Current Residence: Colorado
Favourite genre of music: Progressive, Psychedelic, Post-Rock, Dubstep
Favourite style of art: Poetry, Music
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Personal Quotes:
I was born in Louisiana with Hot Sauce in my blood.
Saving the world, one day at a time.


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BrittanysDesigns Featured By Owner Dec 22, 2012  Professional Digital Artist
Thanks for the fave <3
Paul-Shanghai Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you for adding my drawing 'Melancholy II' into your favourites folder - thanks again for your support :)
lightningtumble Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2012  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the fave! It makes me a happy pony!
BrittanysDesigns Featured By Owner May 5, 2012  Professional Digital Artist
Thanks for the fave and watch means a lot to me <333
BrittanysDesigns Featured By Owner Apr 28, 2012  Professional Digital Artist
Thanks for the fave <3
OnceUponAWinter Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2011
thankyou for the fave <3
Nawasa Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
You are very welcome!
Retrubutionist777 Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for adding my story to your favorites!
Nawasa Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
I'm not going to lie to you, it made me cry.
But in a good way.
Retrubutionist777 Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Wow, really? I'm-shocked. It's that powerful?
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