~AngelicAzriel
Kristopher J. Sandberg
Center of the Sun
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Elegy for a Dying StarA boy with yellow skin holds his leg in his hands, trying to keep it a part of his body as blood pools on the ground beneath him, and he understands what pain is for the first time in his life.Elegy for a Dying Star
A faceless creature raises its head, looking out of its den at an empty stretch of wasteland from which it thinks it has heard another living being.
A young man drives his car to work five miles over the speed limit, his thoughts dwelling on the woman at home who seems to slip further out of his grasp the tighter he tries to hold onto her.
A falcon returns to the nest she has made on top of a sky
by ~AngelicAzriel
July FourthWhat’s your favorite holiday? Ask this question of people on the street, and seventy-five percent of them would say Christmas, since free stuff is undeniably appealing. Another twenty percent would probably be split between the two factions of gluttons who prefer Thanksgiving or Halloween (the turkey faction vs. the candy faction), and the final five percent would be split between the rest of the myriad holidays that appear on our calendars.July Fourth
Somewhere in that five percent would be a modest showing from July the Fourth, the date on which our Declaration of Independence was signed.
I don’t claim t
by ~AngelicAzriel
About The AuthorI round the bend that leads to the street that leads to the street by which my apartment complex sprawls. The car’s engine is making a noise that I can’t usually hear over my music -- I can’t decide if it’s a peaceable purr or the beginning of a growl I ought to have looked at, but won‘t. My fingers are tapping against the side of the steering wheel, beating a slightly manic tattoo into the hard rubber and into my brain. It’s been a long day, and now it’s past midnight and I’m going home to my wife, my two cats, and a parrot that would, if given the chance, happily murder me. The moonAbout The Author
by ~AngelicAzriel
In His MemoryThe boy stood in the garage of his parents’ house. Darkness was leaking through the windows and under the crack of the door, carrying the chilly dew scent of 3:00am with it. The boy was standing on top of a chair, an old wooden antique that was practically falling apart, and was entirely capable of doing so under his feet. He was reaching for the top of a shelf, and the battered leather handle of an oblong case, straining and wondering if it were indeed possible to stretch one’s arm an extra few inches if one just reached hard enough. Then he felt a lurch, and his heart stopped for a beat or two -- and then he had it, the handle ofIn His Memory
by ~AngelicAzriel
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- Current Residence: Florida, U.S. of A.
- Interests: Literature, art, philosophy
- Favourite movie: V for Vendetta, 1776, The Last Samurai
- Favourite band or musician: Shinedown, Muse, Nobuo Uematsu, Nightwish
- Favourite genre of music: Classical, symphonic metal, classic rock
- Favourite artist: Mijes
- Favourite poet or writer: Ayn Rand, Phillip Pullman, Ray Bradbury
- Favourite photographer: Jerry Uelsmann
- Favourite style of art: Absurdism, surrealism
- Favourite game: Final Fantasy Series
- Favourite gaming platform: PS3, PSP
- Favourite cartoon character: Samurai Jack
- Personal Quote: "
- Tools of the Trade: Pilot G-2 black ink gel pens, moleskine sketchbooks
- Email: bladephoenix2000@yahoo.com
- AIM: Kosher Ronin
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Pirates!
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K.J.S.
You still writing?
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K.J.S.
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Salima D:~
Ninguno es mejor que el otro, solo...diferente
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