http://slow.writerscafe.org/FadingAmaranth The original writings of author Tabatha P. en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776204031 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 I remember the first moment that I saw him. I was walking through the market place, absently eyeing the goods for sale. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/554366/ Once upon a time there was a tower, in the middle of a forest, filled with intimidating trees and dangerous animals. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/554362/ David Keese loves his job (despite the burns and cuts he often gets) but he absolutely hates what he got for his Christmas gift at the annual party. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/551754/ David is clumsy, shy, and more than a bit awkward. Kira is not at all. But when the two of them get together, there is no music sweeter. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/551749/ The first thing Alfred Hurst noticed on the day he lost his mind was the odd noise. An incessant tone that varied in no way whatsoever. It was like the barely there humming of an electrical appliance. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/534815/ Grass tickles at my sides when the warm spring breeze comes, carrying with it the delicate dance of flower scents and twisted with the clean scent of rain to come. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/470002/ It was summer. The stifling air laced heavy with humidity rolled right off of the Mississippi River spoke well of that. It was almost as eloquent as the man with the megaphone and religious pamphlets that stood on the corner that shouted of lust, of adult http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/470000/ My surgeries, my knives/they aren�t mutilation./They�re a solution. A solution/to the problem of living. Based off of Repo: The Genetic Opera. From the point-of-view of a Scalpel S**t. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/388404/ Their spines exposed for all to see, white and cracked./These books are made of bones, the pages of stretched skin./Horrible red words are scrawled across the yellowing parchment,/the meaning a mystery solved not by knowledge/but by the speeding up of hea http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/384266/ An attempt to find the perfect books among thousands. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/364266/ ~Two~     It wasn’t a dreadfully long walk to the mansion. The dingy apartment complexes, brothels, drug houses, and dark alleyways gradually disappeared and gave way to open space. The empty space was a “park” that the city officials had built to deflect atte.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/246665/ Hell inspires. If it didn�t why would so many novels have been condemned by religious leaders? Why would books have been banned and burned? These things have been considered too sinful for our eyes. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/246661/ The last strains of music faded with the sun and the people began to part ways, heading to their own homes. Their own fantastic lives. The streets were left littered with festive fallen streamers and confetti snow, a mess now but soon to be cleaned up. Th http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/246651/ He was always sophisticatedly dressed. Dressed to the nines, some would say. The suits he wore were made of the most luxurious material and tailored to his well muscled body. his shoes were hand crafted from the finest and most expensive Italian leather. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/243795/ The multitude of faded letters were kept in an old wooden box. The box was covered with leather, its color faded by the passing years, the material torn and tattered in places but the clasp in the front was still strong. The words printed on those pages s http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/243762/ �I�ll never leave you. This is the only thing I�ll ever be able to promise you. I�ll never leave.� http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/127779/ On his back were the scars of perfect circles made from the tip of a cigarette. I could read his history there. The abuse he had to go through almost every day. Typical little orphan boy. Foster parents hurt him regularly. But he also hurt himself. One lo http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/88101/ The creature walked through the abandoned church wondering what it had been like before it fell into disuse. Most of the pews were still standing though they were covered in thick dust. The stain glass windows were covered in grime and broken in places by http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/79168/ The expression on your face when you walked into the room was perfect. The way it went from bewilderment to repulsion to terror. The way your mouth, the one I had so often admired, fell open and a scream that seemed as if it would make your larynx bleed e http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/79166/ They�re so quick to bestow upon me the label of insanity. So quick in spiriting me away from all I�ve ever known. From the warm cream colored walls, gleaming in the soft amber light from the lambs. From the supple carpets and warm wood floors. They b http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/75809/ He was so pretty when alive. But dead, he was breathtaking. The dark lacquer and light satin of the coffin complimented his creamy skin and onyx hair beautifully. His eyes, so empty in life, were now hidden permanently beneath his lids. Slender, deli http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/70126/   ~One~     Long, slender legs. Luscious lips adorned with two metal hoops. Black hair falling into an acidic green eyes fringed by thick lashes. Alabaster skin. Slender fingers gripping a glass full of a drink the same color as the eyes. A gorgeous, androgynous c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/66734/ The idea of Hell inspires. It inspires not only me but has inspired and will continue to inspire some of the greatest artists. It inspires great works of art. Poems. Paintings. Novels. The Christians believe Hell is a place of punishment. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/66732/ Struggling for breath, I swim a sea of broken concrete. Occasionally I pass by a rotted corpse composed of unwanted things. Broken glass. Rusted bottles. Scraps of paper. And wrecked dreams. I�d love to give them a proper burial but there�s no time. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/66727/ Bang, went the hammer against the cold metal of the nail. Bang, it went as it cut through the tender flesh on a young wrist. Bang and tears fell from the eyes of the girl, the tape over her mouth not allowing her to scream. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/66706/ The rain was coming down in heavy sheets but I didn�t pay any attention. My clothes were already soaked through anyway. I stared down at my dirty shoes as I walked. The pounding of the rain on the pavement was an orchestra to my ears. I knew exactly wher http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/FadingAmaranth/65772/