This is my nest egg, hang around, watch me incubate it. Don't even think about stealing it, because if you made it here that means the soul of it is also yours to expand upon.
Writers, do your part and comment, thank you and have a nice day.
There is a voice radiating from the heart of the city: the voice is heard as a whisper on the wind passing through the raiders, traders and caravans. It is a voice demanding lamentation and weeping, the voice is weeping for the loss of the children: the voice refuses to be comforted because the children are no more. And then this happened, like a ripple of concentric rings extending out beyond the source of sadness, the greatest of the men rose up in answer: We will purge our voice of weeping, and our eyes from tears; we will never cease from seeking our indebted reward. The lost ones are all worth redeeming, from the enemy—they will return… there is hope for our future, each wise and noble man said, in turn. Both baffled by his outburst, and believing himself to be the only screaming one. In silence an image traces itself from a glint of sand on the breeze reaching into the darkest shadow of his mind to etch with the flash of flint a silent film: starving, broken children cracking through the gates of time as their will finds their way: home.
