Obsidian Words
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Fathomless is the mind full of stories.
Achievements (7)
Stories (188)
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Indifference vs Deference
The isolation of indifference versus the denial of deference of self in prescribed preference of faded partiality. The allowance of fractured individuality in placation of those that are ‘other’; those with difficult questions yet no answers.
By Obsidian Words4 years ago in Poets
Kindness is Human Nature
Kindness is not just a human concept, it is written in the DNA of all forms of life - a basic instinct to protect the peace of your home to foster happiness. Contempt and hate however, are a human concept, born from a place of bitterness, a catalyst for anger that self-perpetuates. As the wise proverb states ‘holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die’ and far too many of us are willing to sacrifice ourselves as a way to strengthen our immunity to a sickness only forgiveness can cure.
By Obsidian Words4 years ago in Motivation
Business is Business
His trepidation is evident as his restless eyes linger for only moments on every element within the room. His thoughts displayed carelessly in his expression; discomfort, disdain, disinterest - disaster. He may not be playing poker but he has revealed his hand in the form of a royal flush that has crept up his neck and tints his cheeks with violent rouge. I’ve spent long enough reading people to know the suit well, the diamond edge of frustration distilled in the bitterness of his own lack of power - no chance of a win here and he knows it but even with the cards dealt he tries to deny it, to defy it.
By Obsidian Words4 years ago in Fiction
Sirens of Sorrow
“Many years ago there was a great famine. A blight upon the world when people tried to bend huge swaths of land to the will of their hands without thoughts on how the land was growing ever more sickly.” Elder Sandweaver paused in her telling as a mother left to console her agitated child. Shoredreamer had witnessed this story countless times told by countless others but the grace in which Sandweaver's hands moved and the expressions on her face were so visceral that she never failed to enthral her audience.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
Frosted Breath
My face is a heavy snow cloud numb with cold. My breath condensing into a fog so thick it blurs my vision and collects on my eye-lashes in swollen droplets that quickly froze into icicles. Every time I blink heavy tears drip from my eyes, drawn out with the harsh winds that lash my face. The tears crawl their descent down my cheeks, growing ever slower in the chill until they too freeze and crust my skin. Though I can’t see them, I know my lips are a concerning shade of purple and I dare not guess at the state of my nose. My hands are tucked tightly under my arm-pits but if there was any warmth to find there, they were numb to it. My teeth no longer chatter but the muscles in my jaw ache painfully in my efforts to quell the vibrating assault. The pain made it harder and harder to care about the possibility of shattered teeth despite how violent the clacking had become. I briefly considered tying my own jaw shut just to be done with the issue but the only thing I could think to use was my scarf and there was nothing that would make me expose my own neck to this biting cold, teeth be damned. Everything has a price. It was getting harder to decide what consequences were worth the gain.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
Muse of Time
When we first met there was something in me that believed we had met before, despite living worlds apart. After a time I thought that perhaps it was a past life of mine, a hint of a memory my soul still held onto, that recognised something within her. It is like I am a portion of a reincarnated soul that knows a piece of hers but I cannot tell what time or place it comes from.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
Eyes Cannot Lie
Thirty-four percent of my brain consists of wires, computer chips, and metal. Of the two hundred and six bones that constitute a human body one hundred and ninety four of mine are no longer made of bone. Some sections of my skin have been replaced or covered with more durable substances or at the very least chemically enhanced to withstand abrasion and nullify pain. Any organ considered unnecessary for the survival of my natural elements was removed to make way for enhancements.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
All Beasts Bleed
The air is stagnant, stirred by quivering flank and restless feet; fouled by sweat drawn from heat and fear in equal measure. The taint of blood is subtle but grows heavier with every pounding heartbeat. Bull and man face each other, wide-eyed and frantic. Ribs creak with heaving breath, mouths filled with foaming exhaustion. Flies congregate over pools of seeping warmth, their buzzing delight unfazed between the choice of salt or iron. The crowd is a roaring murmur, fading into the back-ground behind a wall of heavy silence that encompasses the arena grounds. The quiet is punctuated with desperate inhaling and pained exhaling that surrounds the desperate figures like haunted wind.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
Soul Bloom
The ink bloomed on her skin with such vibrancy it could be confused for true blossoms. Even in the soft light of a candle the brilliance was not diminished. Her shallow breathing told me she had slipped into sleep and my heavy eyes warned me that I was not far behind. I fought the pull of drowsiness however, eager to never waste a moment, particularly rare ones such as these. I loved her dearly in the waking hours, she contained more energy than a lake filled with coffee and a laugh that could wake the night. I even loved the sleepy afternoons when she mumbled whatever was rolling through her mind; but the moments of quiet, unfiltered, unedited ‘her’ were something else. Careful to not disturb her, but unable to resist, I traced the tiny garden displayed across her hip; tulip, gladiolus, rose, lavender. Each flower was beautifully hand picked, each represented a unique meaning for her. I traced circles around the marigold with a smile playing at my lips, it was possibly the brightest amongst the garden with its golden splendor. The marigold always made me think of her; vibrant, loud and giving - the perfect home for bees, and for me. Marigolds, like every flower, have a specific meaning and their meaning suited her beyond casual coincidence. It was as if she had bloomed with the first golden flourish before the world realised her splendor and plucked her from the ground. A beautiful curse, petals trapped in bones. A living reflection of warmth and joy. Everything has a shadow however and my personal understanding of the duality of the meaning of marigolds came from knowing her. They are also a symbol of jealousy, grief, and despair; all the colours I would paint myself with if she was ever taken from me. In the shadow of these thoughts an idea formed and I still wore the smile it brought me as I blew out the candle and sleep took me. I swear even in the darkness that flower glowed.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Pride
Even Sharks Know Fear
We can taste their fear, feel it washing over us with each panicked kick, see it in the chaos that one glimpse of us brings. We can feel the shouts and frantic screaming even below the break. We are the horrors of the sea. The shadows that lurk beneath every wave. The blades that cut the tide. They never learnt to read the depth of our eyes, too dark and alien for their soft, warm minds. Their inability to understand us made us a threat, a challenge to be bested, and so like everything else they find in the world - we were hunted. They caught us, turned us up-side-down and in-side-out, took what they wanted and discarded the rest. Then they labelled us as killers.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
Curiosities of a Postman
The package was simply labeled with crisp, succinct handwriting. Merely ‘John’ followed by the address, no flair, no flourish. The paper was a traditional brown, unmarked and neatly wrapped with creased edges and glued down at the folds; perhaps tape was too untidy. Even the delivery driver was impressed at the craftsmanship of an otherwise unremarkable box. It was a medium size, an un-noteworthy weight and made no sound as it was transferred from the postal office to the delivery van. He didn’t shake the package, he would never shake any packages, that would be disrespectful and should be left to enthusiastic gift receivers, not professionals. He couldn’t deny the temptation though, especially not as it sat, the last delivery of the day, on the front seat of his van, bathing in the afternoon sunlight. So unremarkable. So intriguing. As he continued towards the address, so neatly penned onto the box, his thoughts wandered to possibilities of what could be tucked away inside. With the tidy packaging and simple labeling he was led to consider practical items. A toaster perhaps, or another kitchen item; maybe some nice glassware. The handwritten element determined that it was more than likely a personal acquaintance or a small business that had yet to move beyond the quaint hand-addressed stage. The lack of a title or last name made the latter option less likely though. Businesses would also usually include a label which his curiosity was often thankful for. If he delivered to a place frequently enough, he was often well acquainted with the recipient and able to politely inquire about the contents of their package, but he had never delivered to this particular home before. The length of the drive only helped his curiosity to grow and with it a strange courage. He would see if it felt appropriate but he knew already that he would do his best to find out about the contents of this strangely, seemingly benign, brown-paper wrapped box. His hopes shrunk as he arrived to see the drive was empty and the house with no lights silhouetted in the dusk. He walked slowly, frustrated in his inability to satiate his curiosity but unsure what to do to ease his predicament. He had been in the postal delivery service for upward of thirty years and had never once been so intrigued by a package in all that time. He placed the box on the front step of the quiet house and knocked despite the low probability of an answer. He waited for a beat then turned away deflated. He would not sully several decades of professional service for the sake of curiosity. He tried to tell himself it was probably nothing of note anyway. However, returning to his van he took a little longer to log the delivery, unable to let go of the chance while there still was one. Glancing up one more time he swept his eyes over the scene before him. The box looked strange, waiting expectantly on the doorstep in the dimming light. A brown box, next to a red brick house, surrounded by a dry yet tidy yard. An uneasy feeling crawled over him as he continued to study the suburban house. For a moment he could have sworn he saw a curtain twitch behind the darkened window of the front room. The feeling of unease grew at the thought of that and he started the van, quickly pulling away from the curb. His heart pounded with a rush of adrenaline that had spiked with the thoughts of a stranger hiding in the dark, watching him. His curiosity diminished as the home with that strange brown box faded into the distance and he decided that perhaps it was best he didn't know.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
