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Writing Request - Dark Hunter01Ash couldn't help but grin when he walked into the kitchen to find Madea and Simi talking.
"But I need the barbeque sauce."
"Little girl you keep eating all the junk and you gonna be bigger than my house!"
"AKRI! THE MEAN OLD LADY WON'T GIVE ME MY BARBEQUE SAUCE!"
Shaking his head he leaned against the wall, watching as both his beloved Simi and new neighbour/babysitter both looked at him with similar expression of exasperation. The similarity between the elderly black woman and the young female demon was astounding. It made him wonder if perhaps the two were related in some way.
"Simi, Miss Madea is only trying to make certain you eat properly."
"But, akri, I loves my barbeque sauce! Everything so much crunchier with it!"
Madea rolled her eyes and looked at Simi. "Girlie I'm telling you right now that you ain't putting that nasty stuff on my fried chicken! Ruin a perfectly good chicken doing that."
Ash shook his head. "Oh no," he said, holding his hands up and grinning
Your WingsCan you hear all the cries?
Can you see the pain?
Does any of it reach you?
Through the lies and fingers pointing blame?
I opened my eyes
And saw a world full of fear
How can you watch from on high
As I lose all that I hold dear?
I'm down here on my knees
Begging you to hear my prayers
Just need to know that you're still there
Listen as I call your name so please tell me
Do you see my tears?
All I've ever wanted was your love
And to rest under the shelter of you wings
Blood stained pages full of words old as you
Cities falling and children crying
Tell me is this what you wanted us to do?
Are you watching as all mankind is dying?
Will you open your eyes?
Will you see all the pain?
Will you just stand by?
Are all the prayers in vain?
Please, I'm begging you
Take a moment and look
See those of us who still need you
Can you hear me?
I'm calling out to you
Can you see me?
I'm still right here
And I still want to rest
Beneath the shelter of your wings
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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