WritersX

Vilgarda and her elder sister resumed their hunt, and they followed the traitor Berngard deep into the bustling heart of Pogimmelgrad City, and among the crowds drawn by the fires of the National Museum. After he pushed and shoved his way against dozens of passersby, he ran into a bus, threw out its driver, and sped as far as he could to evade their presence. As much as the two sisters wanted to stop him (they thought that he caused the explosion at the canteen), all that running was too much for their military-trained legs. Gasping and panting, they stopped to drink by a lemonade truck: but as soon as they sat down at a makeshift table to d

The barkeep led his two friends into his orange car, and he drove them into the central hub of Pogimmelgrad. Guided by notifications in an application in his cellphone, he avoided the busy roads that led to the National Museum’s inferno and any clashes that broke out between the Pogimmelian Armed Forces and the Wannaenids’ rabid warbands. Even then, he and the two Hothrovians knew that they will become targets for the Wannaenid raiders, so they held their guns closely and looked around for any foe that might approach them. For sharp-eyed Ragnvald, this chase was like something from any of his movies where he performed: whenever h

Miloje and his friends drove the two princesses away from the burning streets of their war-torn capital. His party’s vehicles stopped at a thatch-roof bar situated along the Rechiares Highway that delved into the westward jungles, far away (hopefully) from the Wannaenid raiders. Lit with only several canister lamps here and there, the bar was filled with people, many of which were also runaways and refugees who stopped to rest, drink, and nurse their wounds. While Miloje’s friends tended to the injured, he and Maja brought the two princesses to a table and ordered the barkeep to prepare four coconut cocktails, shaken with ice. T

Verse 1 - They’re grains of sand in a desert storm; they’re drops of water in a flood. They’re just crickets in a cacophony, Like cells in a stream of blood. Chorus - Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, like chrome to rust. Verse 2 - You’re a fleck of paint on the Sistine walls; You’re just a needle in a wave of pain. You’re a dancing spark in a funeral pyre; You’re just a tear in the pouring rain. Chorus - Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. Ashes to ashes, like chrome to rust.

Verse 1 – This is the harvest season, the Autumn sky turned red. Almost time for your rounds, time for the dirt to be fed. Raise your scythe in the cornfield the stalks lined ear to ear. Green and gray, they count the days while the crows perch and cheer. Chorus – Just cut 'em all down. Just cut 'em all down. Verse 2 – Another harvest season, all the landscape turned red. Time to rise for your rounds, a black hood o’er your head. Put your scythe to the cornfield the stalks mown row by row. Green or gray, they fall the same; they reap the seeds they sow. Chorus – Just cut 'em all down. Just cut '

Verse 1 – Reach out and touch someone, or so mother used to say. Now chain-links and chicken wire keep your neighbors at bay. Each time the sun goes down a shade pulls over your eyes; Lock the doors and say your prayers, and wait for the chips to fly. Chorus – Another dark night in the city; another day in no-man's land. She never sleeps or offers pity She'll cut you down right where you stand. Verse 2 – Reach up and touch the stars, or so mother used to sing. Now smog swallows the streetlights as you greet a silent spring. Each night a boy lies down, a sheet pulled over his face; Only have one shot to blow u