Confusion, torment, soul bowed, ice falling as rain, drizzling eyes, they shimmered as streetlights on the pavement. Where to go when there was nowhere to go? Who to trust when trusting was dying before it could be said there was life? Veins rich with dysphoric poison, the line to congruence running from nowhere, searching, yearning, knowing it was a line that must be walked. ©January 2018, January 2022 Christina Anne Hawthorne
Christina Anne Hawthorne
Alive and well in the Rocky Mountains. I'm a fantasy writer who also dabbles in poetry, short stories, and map making. My Ontyre tales are an alternative fantasy experience, the stories rich in mystery, adventure, and romance. Alternative fantasy? Not quite steampunk. Not quite gothic. In truth, the real magic is in those who discover what's within.
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