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Just An EndingThe clouds are low,
The crowing's loud,
The end's approaching.
The rain is cold,
The pain is sharp,
The wind is howling.
The thoughts are far,
The breathing's hard,
The wound is bleeding.
The forest's dark,
The shadows near,
The life is slipping.
The burden's heavy,
Regrets are many,
The curse is lifting.
The fear's gone,
The hope is dead,
The quiet's coming.
The body's stiff,
The soul is free,
And nothing's changing.
The sun comes up,
The iron rusts,
The warrior's forgotten.
Tipycal cowardClose your eyes,
Let me close them for you.
Warm skin under my cold fingers,
Sweaty palm doesn't run smooth,
Keeps sticking on your dry cheek.
Why do you shiver?
My lips barely touched yours.
To be honest, I think it's me,
My whole being is trembling
Fear, anticipation ...
Wait, something's not right.
Now I understand, pathetic,
My eyes were closed too,
It was all a dream.
Stupid mind and lonely heart,
They've ganged-up on me again.
One look in the mirror and I win,
Better said, I lose.
Days pass, then I forget
Hope takes over and fools me,
So I fly, only to drown.
I start to want and run away from it,
Then I don't want, but pray for it.
So, in the end, all I do is freeze
And just ask myself why, WHY?
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
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,
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