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She Is Mine

ecririons_post7She Is Mine

You can see it in his eyes.

You can sense it in his words. 

I know what is on his mind when he says “I don’t know what’s wrong”.

You can hear his regret when he says his goodbyes.

Another man fell for her like I did time ago.

 

Pig, Basted, Son of a gun.

Calling him half-hearted insults won’t gain me much.

I could put myself in his shoes and I should hold no grudge.

But my heart only yields one thing.

She Is Mine.

She Is Mine.

But in the end he is just another man like me

 

I feel for the man yet I can’t take that his eyes are on my pride.

Call me selfish but the fact she makes someone else’s heart pound makes my feet cramp. 

He should have stayed in the shadows.

He should have been strong and kept it to himself.

He knew ain’t got no right but he did it anyway.

 

Pig, Basted, Son of a gun.

Calling him half-hearted insults won’t gain me much.

I could put myself in his shoes and I should hold no grudge.

But my heart only yields one thing.

She Is Mine.

She Is Mine.

But in the end he is just another man like me

 

I saw her first, I loved her first.

I made her laugh and wiped away her tears.

I brought her flowers and sweets, I wrote her kind words.

So what do he think he got that can possibly win her heart?

It doesn’t matter anyway because he ain’t got any chance!

 

Pig, Basted, Son of a gun.

Calling him half-hearted insults won’t gain me much.

I could put myself in his shoes and I should hold no grudge.

But my heart only yields one thing.

She Is Mine.

She Is Mine.

But in the end he is just another man like me

 

He is just another man on the same train I traveled on most of my life.

He stands just three stops apart waiting for the same train and wishing for my seat

I know he never meant to go down this road, most certainly don’t. 

Now that we are here anyways let’s get it over with.

Shake each other’s hand, nod our heads and walk away.

 

Pig, Basted, Son of a gun.

Calling him half-hearted insults won’t gain me much.

I could put myself in his shoes and I should hold no grudge.

But my heart only yields one thing.

She Is Mine.

She Is Mine.

She Is Mine.

But in the end he is just another man like me.

Just another man like me.

Another man like me.

Just another man like me.

The Life That Is – Chapter 3 – The Boy with the Hat

ecririons_post6A little down the road, when my mind was in its right place again and I was ready to start on a fresh. In an ordinary school just like so many others, to me too it ended as so much more. The place I learned who the boy in the mirror really were. The place I grew into something else, something new. To me it is the place where I started to think of all the things I am, instead of the things I’ll never be.

The story starts out small. I was a kid with a hat and big dreams but little knowledge of the world I had been thrown into and the things to come. Tough times lied ahead but with time I earned friends and being safe started to feel a little safer and with those odds there isn’t much that can’t be overcome.

However as it would conveniently show, my old friend and nemesis wouldn’t offer me much of a break before striking down upon me once more. Only this time it hit right where it stings the most. She opened my eyes on a regular Wednesday.

The bell had rung and the classrooms had been abandoned. It had been her turn to have the job of swiping the classrooms floor clean. I was simply late at packing but when I finally stood in the door ready to go home, I suddenly didn’t feel so ready to leave just yet. I looked at her and realized that the ugly duckling from my visit last summer, didn’t quite seem like an ugly duckling no more.  A first move would be made in from of an offering of help with the floors. What seemed like a perfect start on grand love story, but unfortunately she replied “No I’m good”.

What was to follow is a far forgotten story, yet still floating around in the back of our minds along with the myths and what ifs that it created. Once in a while we all stand still for a moment and think back to that time, wondering what actually went down. All I can say is that it was a long walk home.

Although I had lost twice or more to my old nemesis I can’t say I never gained, they do say third time is the charm. One wet windy winter I did finally get that one kiss I had been drying to have for so long. Her hair was black with a strip of blood-red, only a mere glimpse of a burning fire to come. I wouldn’t say nothing good came to us but as humans we tend to only remember the things that hurt, just like the first time you came too close and burned yourself on the fireplace.  In the end her hair and all turned to the unforgettable red and she cut my heart out and stepped on it but there are enough stories about such things to last you till next winter.

They say you never quite forget a true love no matter how small of a high school flirt it might have been. They also say the first one is the one you’ll always hold dear in your mind, for me that was never the case. Sometimes I think to myself why it is like that? I guess that is a question that takes a bigger man than me to answer. Deep inside I know I loved her then, now and always, never quite in the same way but never quite gone either. All because of that crazy stupid thing called love.

(Header: Unsplash.com)

6-15-15

Journal Story - Ellie  by G.B. Gillean

It actually worked! Well… almost. Dorian has been teaching us how to bridge the gap between worlds, and earlier today I actually found myself in the Professor’s research camp.

Apparently, he had made it back before us, but must have left long ago. Quintin will be pleased to know he survived. Assuming he will even register being told.

I just looked at my last entry, I hadn’t realized how long it has been. I guess I should fill in the details for posterity,if nothing else.

After a few days of travel, we were overtaken by the hunters. In the confusion, Quintin and I fled into the woods, and immediately became lost. We wandered for a couple weeks barely scrapping by before Dorian and his men found us. At first, we thought they were more barbarians, but it was entirely moot, as neither of us had the strength to fight.

They took us in, and cared for us, asking for an exchange of information. These people hold stories in as high regard as our own. That was before Quintin shut down. After time passed and we became essentially part of the tribe, Dorian decided we should learn the way of his people.

This meant creating bridges. Of course, we didn’t believe him at first, but he proved it to us. Quintin took it as almost blasphemy. He refuses to speak or leave his tent, and won’t eat more than is required to live. I on the other hand took to the lessons eagerly. I could never pass up the opportunity to learn to create like the scribes of old.

This would completely revolutionize our work as scholars. Of course it took me a week to recreate am existing bridge from memory. A new one will take forever.

Copyright G.B. Gillean 2015

6-11-15

Journal Story - Professor Wells by G.B. Gillean

The founder actually had an original tapestry! At least if his account is to be believed.

The first people, after discovering the ability to travel, quickly realized the need for regulation and standards. The first concern was deciding who could create these bridges, and so the Scribe’s Guild was formed. Literacy was far rarer in those days, so paying up the importance of the written word, left a significant portion of the populace incapable of travel. No evidence exists that this restriction exists for any reason other than dissuading the creation of unregulated bridges.

By further making the process complicated, few, even of the initiated, were privy to the secrets. The artificial complexity ultimately allowed a small handful of scribes to garner almost compete power. This would lead to a class of elders mirrored by us today. Our elders don’t have the ability to bridge worlds, of course, but they still maintain a disproportionate amount of influence. Although, now, I guess the elders are irrelevant. I had forgotten the historical significance of the old ways.

The Scribe inner circle would create extremely elaborate tapestries to act as bridges to the primary worlds. These would be posted in common areas for the use and intimidation of the populace.

The founder’s was the last surviving of these, and he was never able to activate it. I wonder where it embed up.

Copyright G.B. Gillean 2015

6-10-15

Journal Story - Professor Wells by G.B. Gillean

This book is fascinating. I always assumed that, as most great civilizations, our history was harsher than is often portrayed. No group actually desires being the villains. However, according to this, we are on a Roman level of revisionism.

The first people devised the ability to travel between worlds. They used written descriptions to travel to new places. The debate in those days centered around the pre-existance of these places. Common knowledge now dictates that depending upon language used, there is an organic mix of both. This is what the first people decided, and we have accepted it.

However, this narrative exists, within this book, only add editors notes and angry scribbles. The author’s take is an admittedly controversial, if nonsensical, stance that all worlds exist prior to discovery. He explains away designer worlds saying that with infinite possible combinations everything can and must exist.

There are entire sections in here about the first people that were thought lost to time. I can see now why the founder is considered a pariah. How could such an otherwise intelligent person believe such madness?

Copyright G.B. Gillean 2015

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