#dark shorts

[sfde8871]

Andy 0603

[impressionim-paintings]

Watching the Bees

Artist: Julian Alden Weir (American, 1852-1919)

Date: 1896

Medium: Pastel and charcoal on wove paper

Collection: National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, United States

[mpregstuff]

Bouncing with Baby Bump | There's a basketball court buzzing with energy. A man with a round belly is not just standing around; he's shooting hoops! Dressed in a gray tank top and dark shorts, he's leaping high to make that shot. Friends cheer him on, filling the court with laughter. The trees sway gently in the background, adding to the fun scene. Everyone on the court loves the joy of playing, even with a baby bump! This isn't just a game; it's a celebration of life and friendship. The thud of basketballs keeps the good vibes rolling! More images are also available at https://mpregstuff.com.

[rebfile]

In the heart of a sun-drenched beach town where the waves hummed tunes of old seafaring legends, there was a girl named Maribel who could weave sunlight into threads of gold. With hair as dark as the stormy seas and eyes as deep as the ocean, she was the town's living melody, a symphony of grace and beauty.

Maribel wore her charm like a cascade of summer blooms, her top a canvas of orange and blush, splashed with the hues of sunset skies. Flowers adorned her hair, pink and merry, a tribute to the wildflowers dotting the nearby meadows. Her shorts were the color of twilight shadows, clasped together by a single silver button that shimmered like a star against the dusk.

Every day, Maribel strolled along the beach, collecting whispers of the ocean, which she fashioned into trinkets and baubles that sang of the sea. Today, she was gathering the giggles of children and the secrets of the sands, her fingers adorned with rings that caught the sunlight in a thousand playful prisms.

Maribel was the weaver of joy, a dance of light on the water. And as she walked, the townfolk would say that to see her was to witness the daybreak itself, a moment when the world seemed to pause and bask in the pure, unabashed wonder of life.

A scene from Azura Isle.

[carman-a-sky-author-blog]

Been away for a while

Due to unfortunate circumstances I was unable to write for over a year. I do not wish to go into personal issues at this point in time. But I'm glad to be back! Noira is still in the works. I plan on doing a slight revision, and Dark Lair Shorts Volume 2 are set fir this year. The other works I had planned are on the back burner for now, but hopefully I can get to Marcus for the White Lady series this year as well. I have missed the writing, the interaction with my characters was almost more than I could bear. They were pushed to the background for so long I have to relearn all about them and who they are. But it's a process I'm working at whole-heartedly. I will keep updates on how the books are going. If you have any questions about me, my books, or my characters feel free to send them. God, it's good to be back!

[macs-works-of-fiction]

Dark Shorts: A Gift

  I guess I sort of wrote this based on me. Well, it started out that way, and then quickly turned. 

Once upon a time, there was a girl, not too young, and not too old. And she loved music.   She would dance when no one was looking, and sing when no souls were around to listen.    But what she really wanted, was to be able to play the guitar.   Plenty of her friends knew how to play, and she loved watching them. Their fingers would fly over the strings and create the most amazing tunes ever. She loved the feeling of energy the electric guitar gave her. She was allowed to strum it once, her friend instructing where to move her hands. And when she pulled the strings, a pure rush of adrenaline boiled in her chest.   She loved it; the best feeling in the world. She begged for a guitar, which she was given as a present for her birthday. And she sat down that evening and began to play.   Months passed, but her skills never improved. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get her hands to move the way her friends did.   Angry, upset, and defeated, she laid the instrument down to sulk. When a figure in a suit appeared at her doorway.   Surprised, she asked who he was. He replied with being a friend, and said he could offer her a gift. He said he could teach her to play. Excited, she agreed immediately. He pulled out a slip of paper, a scroll, written in a language she’d never seen before. Pulling out a pen, he gave it to her and asked her to sign it.   She was about to press it down when the pen turned into a blade, and cut her palm. Blood dripped down her wrist and onto the paper. The figure yanked the objects away, smiled, shook her hand, and then disappeared into smoke.   When she woke, she wondered if it were a dream. She looked at her hand. The was a raised, pink slit running diagonally across it. Curious, she picked up her guitar.   Music flew through the air with melodic perfection. She didn’t know how she was doing it, it just happened; the notes lingering in the air with a soft but strong thum.   She progressed with her music career. And slowly, but surely, she became famous. It must sound cheesy, but she did.      She often thought about that strange figure and wonder if they’ll ever meet again. But over time, he slipped from her mind. She became obsessed with her career. Stuck up, over confident, and arrogant.   And she did what every insanely popular and cocky individual did; she fell.   Fell all the way back to the bottom.   The needle in her arm didn’t provide the high she wanted anymore.   Sitting in the cell, she thought about her fuck-ups. And she thought about the figure; when he suddenly appeared at the door.   He unraveled the contract she signed many years ago, and held out his hand. She took it, and now she wore the suit.   The next day, she saw a young boy sitting by a fence post, pencil and paper in hand. He was trying to draw, but would become irritated and quickly rub the markings out with his eraser.   She approached him, and said she was a friend. She could help him, and provided him with a scroll.      

[macs-works-of-fiction]

Dark Shorts: The Perfect Being

  Imagine some huge creature, with a wide toothy smile and horns jutting from their skulls with lanky, bony, sharp bodies and long limbs with massive claws. Crimson and rugged and terrifying. Now imagine them controlled, living in our places, civilized with morals and laws. Imagine one, very old looking creature, with wrinkles and drooping eyes and sitting on an armchair, looking down at you, when you ask for a story. The very old one sighs, clears his throat, and begins...

Oh, so you want a story, eh? I don’t think I’ve told you this one before, and it’s quite a tale. So sit down, grab your tea, if you must, and listen closely.   Many years ago, there were these creatures called human beings. They were weak and dumb and lacked any sort of natural weapons. Instead, they stole from other beasts; taking their fur to shield themselves from weather or claws and fangs to hunt and defend. Later, when they became not so dumb, they stole from the earth, precious minerals to form loud sticks that would hurt your ears.   They were power hungry; staring wars and demanding the earth’s blood to fuel their machine beasts. They were slowly destroying themselves. Yes, there were a few who weren’t like this, who were good and kind to one another and treated the soil well, but the malicious ones outnumbered them.   The Divines quickly realized they needed to be punished, more than what they could do to punish themselves. So they placed us inside the humans, every single one of them. We were raised on hate and lust and envy and sins. We fed on these and grew with each passing one. And when we were too big, we burst from their bodies with claws and teeth and scales and had everything that they didn’t.     The humans didn’t understand; tried to keep us bottled up inside, but inadvertently just adding to our creation. After we tore out way out of their chests, we thrived, feeding on their soul. They were still alive after we came, oh yes, but they were left with no purpose. Walking corpses. Outcasts and seen as diseased filth to others. Filth with a huge gaping hole in their ribcages. Another reason why we became more populous. We could feed off their greed, and continue fester in them.   Our numbers grew, and the humans fled underground, into vaults. Into hiding. Away from us? Ha! They were the cause, you see! They couldn’t understand that they ALL had us! We weren’t some virus that you caught! We were everywhere.   Of course, under there, their sins continued. Gluttony and sloth and wrath. And we continued to grow and expand them until we lived. They dug deeper and deeper, trying to escape us, until they were so deep that they suffocated, and died.   Us? What became of us? Well, on the surface, we sucked the soul out of every living one, ones that still had yet to sin so greatly. They became our servants, our slaves. And we tore down their hideous buildings and towers. We created a civilization of our own. No wars, no violence, and no bloodshed. I think the Divines realized they screwed up somewhere when they made the humans. And I think they’ve realized that we are the perfect lifeforms. Oh yes, perfect. Intelligent and humble and kind and equal. Things that the humans could never be.  But I smell something in the air. It’s thick and smells sweet, and it makes my throat burn. Sometimes I fear for our race, and that the Divines will think poorly and send a creature to brood in us.   Would they do that?   They wouldn’t do that to the perfect beings, would they?