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The Uniting of Vegas.
Even Boone couldn't be too down as the group entered Freeside at long last; their steps were light, they'd traded all their winter equipment in after descending the mountain and were now back to their signature selves: the Courier in hoodie, boots, beret, cargos, machete dangling at her hip; Boone in cargos, beret, undershirt, rifle slung over his back, sunglasses masking his cold eyes, and Arcade in his long Follower's jacket, thick black frames, his blond hair the brightest thing on the block.
Their smiles and lightheartedness would soon come crashing down when one of the Kings, loitering by the Freeside gate, gave them a very serious look. "King's lookin' for you guys, told me to--"
As the blond girl's smile faded to a look of concern, the King himself came through the once-rail car gateway, walking toward them. Rex was alongside him, and now the dog bolted from the man, recognizing Boone. Recognizing the urgency with which the man was advancing, the
The Thoughts of a GhostThe streets of this place are empty
Vast and cold like the sea
Life is gone replaced by rot
Devoid of life, the Madre stands caught
Standing frozen in time all around
Consumed by the evil that is the Cloud
Bodies move through the streets
Soulless, breathless, they do not think
They capture the greedy, the evil, they then depart
And drag them away into the Villa's dark heart
But in this gloom, a new being lies
A miracles awakes, seeing the world through new eyes
It can feel, see, hear, and know
Viewing everything in a foggy green glow
Curious it wishes to know more
What lies below the Madre's old door
It now travels the land
Trudging through rocks, water, and sand
Looking for a way to clear the Cloud so thick
To find a cure for the Ghost People who are so sick
It has a name, it's name is Seeker
It is a person, I am Seeker
To know, to grow, to think, to feel
I take pride in my name with great zeal
To love, to learn, to live
Hope is the gift I wish to give
I am a Ghost, My name is Seeker
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More