Skywalker_Heir

As an aside, you might be able to use a crowd funding platform to help you cover some of the costs. (In exchange for, say, signed first editions of the book.) Congrats on getting to the area where you can publish. That's freakin' amazing!

Hrm. An interesting area to start at. Poor Poe: Always getting chained up.

You'd find a few paragraphs of written text.

@DarthBrendo: Thank you very much. I'm glad it had an impact. @Jidai Geki: I like details! I'm glad you seemed to enjoy it. Mi Amour was how I was taught to say, "My love" in French class several years ago. I do believe that it could also be spelled Amor, and also Mon Amour; though I think Amor is actually Spanish and/or Latin for love. @Tiana Calthye: Chills? Yay! The idea behind the piece was to initially bring horror to mind and then 'twist' into sad remembrance. It seems like that's what you got out of it. (If not, sorry for putting words in your mouth.) Thank you! @Amidala Skywalker: It's nice to be back, such as it is. Glad you enjoyed the piece; I think my next one will be lighter.

Sometimes, the sweetest sight that we can see is the sun dipping slowly over the horizon, taking away our vision and pulling us into a realm of darkness. In the darkness, we are hidden from the horrors of our world ”“ the violence is missing, we cannot see people huddling in cardboard boxes on street corners. The fear in their eyes is hidden by the darkness, and we can pretend that it doesn't exist, until the next sunrise. How do we stop the coming of fear and pain? - When we fear what we are There was a flicker of light; a candle, sparking to life. An old, weathered hand looped through the container's circlet, lifting it to the mirror. Over seventy years of life stared back at the man. Deep lines of laughter, sorrow, joy and pain drew a map of a life well spent. The flicker of the candle deepened the dark pools of shadow under his eyes, drawing the face into a gaunt, almost mocking reflection of what it had once been. A tear rolled down the old man's face, as he turned away from the mirror. The tear dripped from his chin, splashing to the wood floor after a drop that, for the tear, seemed to last forever. The soft padding of feet sounded like thunder in the completely quiet house. Every squeak of a floorboard a telling alarm in the dead of night. The old man mumbled something under his breath, a raspy sandpaper voice that had seen too many years of dust and hard work. The candle slid along a groove onto the table; an obvious pattern of wear and tear from a lifetime of repetition. The old man faded into the shadows, his white sleeping gown vanishing smoothly into the darkness, as if he'd never existed. The kitchen was mostly dark and empty. There was a slight rattle of china, and then a brief fire lit on the stove with a soft fwoof. A metal kettle was placed over the flame, and then a clink as a metal cap was placed over the kettle and flame, extinguishing it from view. A few more rumbling footsteps, and the old man was moving the candle to the center of the table. He placed two saucers on the table, on oposite sides. A cup on each, and then he put the honey pot near the one that was obviously not often used. There was some more muttering; a tick from a clock indicated that it was fiive minutes to midnight. The old man straightened his back a little, an audible pop coming from muscles unaccustomed to the strain. A gnarled hand moved through what remained of his hair, pushing back the whisps of faded white hair that still remained. The kettle whistled. The old man took the kettle off the stove, and dismissed the flame. It snuffed out of existance, plummetting the man into darkness again. The creak of a cupboard was all that could be heard for a few moments, and then he returned to the table, setting the kettle down. He placed a tea strainer in each cup and poured the near-boiling water into each cup. The weight of the kettle caused his hands to shake violently, nearly causing him to spill the water. He took the seat furthest from the honey. Reaching into a pocket, a locket was produced. He flipped open the heart and stared at the pictures inside. On the left was a handsome young woman in her twenties ”“ she had long black hair and eyes that bespoke passionate fire. On the right, a young child, perhaps six months old. ”œI miss you,”

Pace - The ability of a story to move forward smoothly so the reader doesn't feel disjointed.

A good, short piece that felt as though it ended too soon, but was clear and perfect. I loved it.

What if that's all the story was, hrm?! I might have to write that now, you know...

Interesting layout for a teaser. Hrm. Could be an interesting read.

Only a Sith could come up with a story like this.

I'm called S_H or SH a lot, (I think the latter is people trying to get me to shut up, though.... <.<) so I know the Nickname game. (And expected it coming in!) I'm also not smart. =p I'm just good at guessing twists.

About 1/3rd of the way through the story, I figured out what the T stood for. =p Nicely done, sir.

Then I think I've done my job, good Scorp!

Blame Tiana... Oh Fett! Dearest Padme! Lovers lost in a time adrift! From the abyss, their love will never again lift. Padme, ripped from his bed... Fett, well... he lost his head... Mace Windu, that man who was so black his nickname was "Shaft" Went around, and made the blastboat skip aft. Lovers, Fett, and Amidala... Went up in smoke... much like the US Dolla'.

American Pie is actually about a 15 minute song; you probably only know the radio version.