Lord knows I won’t wait forever
and with the heat of my soul alone
I will light the pyres of Heaven.
I will boil your waters and turn
your floating rock into nothing more
than a cinder. And the only thing
you will ever be sure of is that you’ll
never know why.

Lord knows I’ll never leave you
and when this eternity cracks we
will fall apart together. And the only
thing I can be sure of is that God will
be there to make this whole again.

Lord knows I’m free. Something no
government could ever give me.
And when the pillars of this Empire
crumble, I’ll be skipping across the
stars far, far away. And the only thing I
will ever know is peace.

Lord knows I’m lonely and angels are always
far behind me. And when the fires of
of a trillion stars burn out, we’ll be making
love in an ocean of darkness, and the only light in
the universe will be trapped in your eyes.

Lord knows I wait patiently. And in an ocean
of crashing waves, I only wait to be swept away.
And the only thing to be sure of is that I will
finally be awake. 

Yep, he's here... talked the boy into joining. So this is my little way of paying back for the invite I was given.

Without further ado (or doo-doo from above, hopefully), let me present to you... the one... the only... SEAGULL!

TheRedneck

I was told that war is an awful profession.
That the blood leaves a lasting impression.
That men die in the arms of one another.
That men cry for the warmth of their mothers...

I saw men crumble the pillars of empires and time helps them forget it.
I was once at the end of a sword and it would cut so deep until I said it...
 
I am preceded by Valkyries, like thunder before lightning, it is death that comes for me.

I am a soldier. I draw my sword for you. My gift is the fading memories of those poor chosen few.
I am not unique, nor am I special. My blood made no difference to the devil. 
I flew away with the rest of my years. Flew far from the skies that swallowed some here.
 
Among the clouds, there are warriors armed with a longing for home.
In the dirt, there are memories of men carried by others to atone.
We beg forgiveness for our sin of pride. It is what we have left of those who die.
It is what we hold onto as we rot through with sorrow. So we will leave it to our posterity 
to carry this burden tomorrow.

As some have been migrating their postings from the other site, I thought I might give it a go.

'Waratah Park' in the burbs.


 
Guess I was the leader of the gang. I mean, the five of us were only fourteen and fifteen and I was the tallest, fastest and strongest.

We lived in Waratah, a middle class neighbourhood, you know, houses next to each other, timber fences between and generally we, as a gang, played in the street together hitting ball, kicking footballs, longest skid contests on our bikes, skateboarding in front of cars and whatever minor silly stuff that we could think about to keep active and amused. Got yelled at occasionally by neighbours, car drivers and most of all the postman. We would stir the crap outta that guy. Skinny man, wore glasses and a bow tie and rolled one sock up over his trouser leg on the chain side of his red bike. Hahahaha. We'd skateboard at him causing him to fall off his bike, put tacks near the letter boxes to make his tyres go down and would steal the letters, especially at christmas as there was money to be found in the cards. And if someone had a birthday. They needn't expect a card. We were right onto it. It was Christmas vacation now so we got up to all types of mischief.

Cops got onto us one time. Said to me dad in one of those drawn out tones, "Yer neighbours, can't say their name, saw your young fella here and his mates taking mail from the boxes."

Well, dad, ha ha, he went off, yelling at these two pigs about evidence and proof. Then mum, oh my god, she was spitting chips at these two. She even spat on the ground. I had great parents and me and the guys just smiled at each other. Even gave the finger to the cops as they left. Mum laughed. I remember dad sayin, "Flamin mongrels, and to think my taxes pay their wages." Not sure what he meant though.

Then we met Gordon Demetrie. Moved in just up the road near the playground park. He was big. Stood head and shoulders above all of us. He was even fatter than me dad. We saw him kicking a soccer ball about. So, obviously we all went up to show him what real football was about. Young Jimmy was the first of our gang to grab the soccer ball and kick it over a house roof. Well, this Gordon just stood there, looked at Jimmy and said, "Go fetch it stupid." Jimmy being Jimmy, just giggled. His dad was a jockey and owned a four wheel drive. Jim was a tough little nut. Gordon walks up to him and WHACK. Got Jimmy right in the nose. "Crikey" I thought, it was just funnin around. Jimmy hit the turf. There was a bit of stupefied silence then young Jim was rolling and squealing like a sheila. And I could see the blood.

Gordon looked at me. "You,,,, go get me ball happyman." And with a kick, only a soccer player could manage, put his left foot into Jimmy's balls while he lay on the ground. That stopped young Jim squealin, he couldn't breath. Just made a quiet "Ugh ugh." I took off, cut a groove in the park lawn, jumped two paling fences, skipped over a dog and found the ball. To the amazement of the people having a barbeque in the backyard where the ball was I then scrambled across a pool fence, swam the pool with the ball and was out of their driveway before a lamb chop was turned on the plate. I sprinted back to the park gave the ball back to Gordon. Me other mates were just lifting Jimmy off the ground. He was mumbling something like, "Mum, mum" and holding his nuts. Blood was running from his nose. Gordon was staring at him with a tilted head. He yelled at Jimmy, "I'm Gordon, do that again and I'll flamin smash you to a pulp. Understand stupid?." Jim simply replied with an "Ugh." The postman rode by, slowed, looked and smugly dropped some mail into the box of the house opposite. We helped Jimmy away to his house up the roadway a bit.

The big kid, Gordon resumed to just kick his ball around the park. The postman went down the street on our side of the road.

We got Jimmy inside his house, his mum lost the plot screaming, "What did you do to him?" "Nuthin, nuthin." we yelled back. Jimmy started crying and through his tears he managed to mumble, "Mum, mum, the big kid up the road kicked me in the cods." "Which kid?" she yelled back. Toby, the quietest of our group uttered, "A new kid, he's too big, looks like a wog too and he's got a fist like a hammer, yeah, knocked Jim to the ground and looks like he broke his nose, then he kicked him in the goolies up at the park."

It was a this juncture that Jimmy's jockey stature dad walked into the discussion. He was always a short angry man. Took one look at Jimmy and said, " A hammer aye, a hammer, I'll show the tough kid a hammer. Hate bullies." He walked quickly out side and into the shed. Everyone was silent, as was normal when this small man spoke. He emerged with a steel hammer and strode up the side of the house and along the street towards the park.

Me and Toby ran outside. I saw Jimmy's dad on his way to the park swinging the hammer around and around. "Strewth!" I cried aloud. The postman was returning up the street delivering mail. He looked at me from across the road, then at Jim's father and shook his head. Stupid nerd postman, what does he know.

I ran back inside Jimmy's house, his mum was on the phone, I yelled, "Better ring the cops!" She yelled back, "I am I am, he's been drinking." I yelled at the boys, "Right, we gotta stop him, come on." We cut through at a pace out the front door except Jimmy who waddled behind us holding onto his nuts. In the distance I saw Jim's dad fronting the new kid Gordon who had his soccer ball tucked under his arm. There was much unintelligible yelling. Mostly from the dad. I saw the postman get off his bike nearby and slowly toe the side stand down.

Too late. Gordon launched his soccer ball at Jimmy's dad who responded with a hammer blow to Gordon's head. The big boy swayed, then dropped like a sack of spuds. Now, it was all happening. I heard sirens, I saw Jim's dad continually strike Gorden to the head. Horrible sight. After about five blows, all of us tackled Jim's dad. Except Jimmy. He just stood there. We landed onto Gordon with Jimmy's dad still swinging the hammer. The man was small but by god he was strong. By this stage Gordon's head was pulverised and, for the first time in my life, I saw brain matter. I started retching. In my mind I was saying "Stop stop."

I was on my back next. Breath knocked out of me. Everything was a blur. I remember hearing Jimmy's dad swearing aloud. I saw a cop looking over me. A voice said. "You alright son?" All I could issue was an "ugh" . Jimmy was screaming, "Dad, dad." In a dizzy spell rolled to my left. I saw another cop kneeling on Toby. I blinked continuously at the site of Gordon's smashed in face and popped eyes. More sirens. I now know it was only a matter of minutes before I eventually gathered my dazed senses. I saw the postman saying to the cop beside me, "Officer, my name is Julian and I witnessed this murder by these thugs upon this poor boy. All of them."

The cop looked down at me and said loudly, "What your name young fella?"

I couldn't think, let alone talk. I'm sure it was Toby who yelled, "That's Bally!"

just saw this while running channels on the idiot box.

D.C. protesters declare 'Black House Autonomous Zone,' desecrate St. John's Church


also saw on FNC that Law Enforcement were able to push them out of the park, but weren't sure about the rest of the area.

if i owned property in one of these zones i'm afraid me and about a couple dozen snowflakes would be dead. especially if they tried to stop me and make me pay some extortion fee for getting into my property. this is getting a more than just a little bit crazy.

the mayors of these cities needs to put a stop to this, if they can't the governors, then if that fails the feds.

@"ABNARTY" 

I see you've found us, Hello 
Come on in and stay awhile, have a chat or read the boards, if you need help just ask or you can go: Learn or site with pictures, I think those are for me

I have an issue.  Well, many, but that's beside the point.

For weeks now, the narritive has been that knocking down statues is justified because racism.  And that's confused me.  

Voltaire once said, "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it". That used to be the rallying cry of freedom lovers everywhere.
But now it's "I disapprove of what you say and it offends me, so shut the hell up!"
Statues are an object of free expression.  Same as the written word.  What is the difference between a statue and a book?  Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.
So I see the statue topplers the same as book burners.

Now some are also saying, "HEY!  Just put the statues in a museum!"  

Really.

A fricking museum.  What museum?  When?  Are you going to control the hours it is open, the days the museum is open?
So now we have authoritarians dictating where and when free expression can be expressed.
Which stops making free expression. . . .free.
Which is what they ultimately want.
I'd like to hear others opinions.  Am I right?  Wrong?

@"Caver78" 

Hi,,,,,,,  and welcome to our little site.
If you need help, just ask, Enjoy.

The Majik was dying.

Mistra sighed and stood up in the crook of her favorite tree to survey her once beautiful forest.

Her grand Cedar was aging as well, the bark fraying, the once shiny needles covered in grey.

Not but a few hundred years ago she was the protector of all she could see here… from the tiny sprites to the ogre that lived in the pond.

When the People first intruded on her lands she had tried to communicate, tried to fold them into the harmony that she had made.

It was a disaster.

They were not a part of Nature and had no Majik.

They were cruel.

War was not an option to those who lived and breathed and loved and learned from each other in the forest. It was a foreign concept.

So they faded back into the places that were still safe and waited, hoping that this intrusion was some sort of anomaly that would solve itself and just go away.

It did not.

Trees were cut, lands cleared, habitats destroyed as the People built homes from the dead pieces of the forest.

The People were frail and weak. They could not withstand the elements and had to cover themselves with the dead skin of the forest’s denizens. They could not feed themselves and had to eat the flesh of the forest’s rightful owners.

But they bred like flies and there was no stopping their slaughter.

It was not long until the smaller Majikal creatures slipped away.

Then the larger ones left as well, moving farther towards where the sun landed at the end of the day.

Until Mistra was alone but she could not leave.

This was her forest, after all.

A noise!

The snap of a limb trod on, the harsh breath of the People on the wind.

They were finally coming for her.

She had listened to them enough to learn some of their language, as guttural as it was.

They feared her.

They blamed her on children dying in their cradles, blamed her on the failure of a crop, a horse that went lame, the spoiling of the milk.

They blamed her on everything that she wasn’t and were going to kill her.

Mistra sighed again and tested her wings.

Like gossamer they once were and carried her everywhere.

Now they were tattered and torn… they would take her nowhere but down.

“So this is my end” she thought.

But it won’t be the end of Majik.

She would give a Gift to the People’s children, that they would see a little bit of Majik and make them wonder, make them smile, make them think about something new and good.

Even a little bit of Majik in the world was better than none.

She dug her claws into Cedar and pulled PULLED with everything she had in her, drawing through the tree to the ground below.

Collecting all the Majik she could find… all the Majik she could hold.

Then even more… until she was too much Majik and not enough pixie to ever be right again.

There was a noise… she realized she was screaming.

No matter.

Mistra focused and said the Word.

Her last memory was the sight of her spell scattering to the four winds.

Of her scattering to the four winds as well.

Thousands of butterflies erupted from the branch of the dying cedar, little pieces of color and sunshine and beauty.

A thousand pieces of what Mistra was.

They took wing and scattered to every nook and cranny of the forest.

So that children could find them and wonder.

The End. 

(From ATS writing contest. Topic "You as Another Lifeform")

This is my favorite part.

The part that makes it all worth while.

Living in a hotel in a new city, blending in, watching, waiting for the perfect person is time consuming.

Trying to live in a world that I no longer belong to is sometimes boring, sometimes lonely.

But what is coming next makes the waiting worth it.

I am sitting in a tired little restaurant in the middle of a tired little town in Arizona. The waitress has already been paid and the coffee is getting cold... almost as cold as the eggs I was served earlier.

The little red Honda I had purchased from a newspaper ad is parked outside, packed and ready. Ten minutes from now I will leave, start the car and drive to… wherever I feel like going next. The few thousand dollars stashed under the passenger seat will get me there, a new false identity will hide me when I get to the next hunting place.

The annoying “ding-DING” of the front door announces the arrival of my pick.

She is followed in by a caricature of a lawyer. A cheap suit filled by a man with a bad comb-over and beady eyes.

She sits down two tables from me and he takes the chair across from her. They accept the steaming coffee offered, decline breakfast and the lawyer (What kind of last name is Smelty?) pulls a binder out of his briefcase.

Mrs. Carla Swanson (I KNOW her now) asks the obvious question. “Why did you call to meet me here? Am I in some sort of trouble?”

“It’s about your finances, Carla. It has been brought to our attention that you are quite late on your house payments, your car is in danger of repossession and the bank has informed us that you have, well, no funds. Your savings account has dwindled to nothing in the last year, all your monies are going to medical bills and there is no real way you are ever going to get out of debt. These are bad times for you.”

Carla slowly lowered her cup of coffee to the table with shaking hands.

“My daughter has been battling leukemia for two years. TWO years! My husband is working two jobs and I work when I can. I have to take her to her appointments and care for her. We have done everything we can to pay the bills. We’re not criminals.”

She leaned over the table and stared straight into his eyes.

“I don’t care what I lose and I don’t care about the bills. We’re good people and we will make do. My daughter is going to be OK and that’s all that matters.”

“As for you and the ‘banks’, you can all go to hell. We’ll pay what we can when we can because that’s all we can do. So what do you want from me? Serving me papers? Taking away something? What is it you want?”

Mr. Smelty reached over the table and gave her the binder.

“Please read through this Carla.”

Carla sighed, took the binder and started reading.

A thrill of excitement shot through me.

THIS was my favorite part.

She read, stopped, read… the binder fell from nerveless fingers onto the table, nearly spilling her coffee.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“No Carla. Your house is paid off, your car is paid off, your medical bills are paid off and there is a rather handsome amount put aside for your daughter’s college tuition, should she choose to go."

“Are there any questions?”

Carla blinked tears from her eyes and in a trembling voice asked “how is this possible?”

Mr. Smelty told her exactly what I had told him to say.

“Because someone thinks you deserve it.”

I left the tired little restaurant, got in the car and drove out of the tired little town.

To find my next town, my next pick.

What just happened, you ask?

What actually happened was years ago.

I won the lottery.

After some careful thought, I decided that what I really wanted to do was help.

Help those who needed it… help a decent person at a bad time. To give because I can without any thought of recognition or reward.

Although the recognition part I’ve had some trouble with.

When I had first started my journey years ago I left a note with a cashier’s check explaining why they deserved it… words of encouragement to someone who needed it.

I rethought that after the first few times… I did not want my handwriting matched to who I once was.

However, dozens of analysts have since scoured over what I had written and although some of their hypothesis were absurd, they all agreed on one thing… that I was a woman.

So the newspapers and tabloids named me Lady Bountiful.

As a name, it will do.

For now.

The End. 

(from ATS writing contest. Topic "You Won the Lottery")