amkreader

Venice is an enigma She floats on the lagoon A precarious perch, Yet has been languidly resting Atop the uncertain sea For centuries. She's a timeless beauty, A nymph of the sea- Venezia, the laday of the lagoon, Serenissima. She's as old as time itself. Her age gives her mystery. And yet she's clothed in the guise of youth New people, new buildings bustle in her streets And the ageless stones smile still, Almost mocking. Timeless, yes. And vibrant. The canals twist and turn through her face, As is creases to remind us of her wisdom. Their murkiness and brightness both Are there- and show us her true nature. The clouded w

The fire was flickering merrily. It danced across faces and objects alike. It illuminated the many heads of brilliant red hair that occupied the room with warm, blazing hues. It reflected off of the earthenware mugs set out on the wooden coffee table and cast a glow over the comfortable armchairs that were set on either side of the hearth. The smell was wonderful. Freshly baked apple pie and treacle tart mixed with the smoky scent of burning wood. The earthy aroma of the worn leather chairs and the distinctly autumnal breeze wafting through the rain- misted window. Harry couldn't help but grin. The scene was too perfect for words. He, Ron,

The sound of seagulls was faint but persistent. The sea breeze was blowing off of the harbor and through the narrow streets near the docks. Sherlock was in Galway. As his coat billowed around him and his black curls swirled around his head, he listened. He heard so many sounds. The wind whistling, the cries of the gulls, the faint and never- ending hum of traffic in the city center, and people. People walking, running, hiding, buying, selling, losing, gaining, working, laughing, crying, singing. It was a cloudy morning. The sky was filled with swirling gray mist. It looked like it would rain later. Sherlock's lips twitched. The West of

If you've never had that feeling, You can't know what I mean. But I hope with all my heart that, Someday, You will. For, without that moment of magic, My life would never be complete. If you have never felt it, Then, alas, you'll never know. Words aren't enough, But I will try to tell Of something they can't express. I'll try. It's like soaring. It's like flying over the open ocean, New and vast and terrifying. The sound. It vibrates through every fiber, every nerve. There are strings beneath your fingers, A bow in your right hand. There's wood beneath your chin, Cradled there. There's a living thing pressed against Th

John Watson sat down at the desk with a sigh. The room was dark. Rain lashed at the window, but the curtain was closed. Not that it mattered. Rain was better than sunshine. Rain clothed everything in an obscuring mist, an iron grey. The sun gave color and clarity to the world that was almost painful. That sharper image of reality illuminated in painful detail the state of the world. His world. But John Watson's world was empty. Or it should be. Empty of anything that mattered. It was full of senseless, everyday problems, pointless decisions, tedious hours spent doing nothing, or doing something, anything to forget, to distract his mind from