Diamond Dust

I watch as diamond dust

falls to the ground.

Softly and silently,

beautiful to the eyes

but chilling to the touch.

It’s scintillating shimmer

is out of place

with the dead trees around it.

The wind whispers in my ears,

nipping at my toes

as it blows into the distance,

leaving as quickly as it arrived.

Only a faint reminder is there

that it even existed.

The frosty air fills my lungs.

The snow freezes my bare feet

as I trudge along

this icy path.

I may slip,

and I may fall.

But this ice ignites passion,

and I will get up.

I will always get up.

Winter seems

immortal, infinite, endless.

But I know this isn’t true,

for in the divine desert of diamonds

lies a vivid patch of emerald.

Although feeble and frail,

it will outlast this boreal winter.

For when snow melts,

it is not water that is made.

It is spring.

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Not Mine

Before the events in this tale took place, creatures of differing species only united with others of the exact same species. Other than trading and other necessary interactions, the association of different breeds was considered to be a nefarious sin among all.

However, this was the only similarity in rule that they shared with one another. Their cultures diverged upon many paths, from advanced to modest, from religious to atheistic, and from communal to solitary.

And the species most known for isolation were the dragons.

They were humongous, serpentine beings with wingspans that could block out the balmy rays of light and cloak the land with shadows, sending shivers down the spines of the sacred. Slits peering from underneath lids of scales glinted ominously with some mix of vexation and loathing, and, as the ophidian beast let out a roar of inferno that scorched the surrounding terrain, it exposed its prolonged fangs that were more often than not stained with crimson. Even among their own kind they remained isolated from one another, as from the very second their mother deemed that they could survive on their own, they would be exiled from the nest with no more than a hostile glower.

Thus was the story of Aeron, who was taught from the moment his first breath was inhaled that love was something that did not exist. Fleeing from his brethren at a youthful age, the young dragon had taken refuge in the murky swamp where trees long since barren loomed from above. The few forest sprites the woodland had left were driven out with the wings on their backs slightly singed.

It was only then that Aeron had what he had always longed for: solitude and silence.

But then why was this silence so ear-splittingly loud?

That was the particular question the rung through his scaly chest on that gloomy evening. The dragon had been attempting to shake off his insomnia and drift into slumber, when he heard a sound. This faint sound would have gone undetected by others, but Aeron had long since trained his ears to pick up this distinct noise.

It was the sound footsteps.

Immediately the dragon’s eyes snapped open and his claws were instinctively unsheathed. He glowered at the rustling bushes and tried to recall which striking points were most fatal.

And that was when his life had changed completely. Forever.

For Aeron’s hostile glare, for the first time since his feet had touched the earth, faltered as a scrawny fawn stumbled into the clearing.

This young deerling was no bigger that the crooked claw on his smallest toe, yet it foolishly sauntered up to him and sniffed his hide. Although it trembled on its four legs, Aeron had a suspicion that it was not out of terror.

What was wrong with this creature? Did it not know that a dragon such as him could easily swallow her up in a single gulp?

Determining that this feeble creature needed a reminder, Aeron tilted his head to the heaven and released the conflagration building up in his lung, roasting the nearby forestry until they became the color of obsidian.

Though this would normally send grown centaurs scuttling away with their stony eyes brimming with tears, the fawn that stood before him did not even so much as flinch, but rather nuzzled closer to the drake. Letting out a somnolent yawn, her brown eyes disappeared under her furry lids.

Stunned utterly speechless, Aeron could only gaze upon the tranquil sight in awe. Not only was it inconceivable that this frail deerling did not tremble in terror before him, but their was this feeling of warmth swelling inside of his chest, but it was not because of the fire in his stomach. It was something hotter than hatred.

“Perhaps you were not mine to begin with,” Aeron thought as for the first time in years the animosity within him dispersed and warmth settled into his heart. “But now, you are my family.”

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Tightrope

Change is like walking forward on a tightrope. Blind.

When you shift your weight forwards on your step, you never know if their is a solid foundation to support your decision. Every second on that thin line is a gamble; even if you think you remain steady, you could still easily fall into the abyss.

But the most important thing to remember about change is that you have to keep moving forwards.

Remember why you are crossing the tightrope in the first place. Remember what you are leaving behind.

Remember what is on the other side.

And as I pack my bag, being careful to keep my sobs silent, this is what I remind myself.

Everything will be okay on the other side.