|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
El anillo de la viuda
La pequeña casa de los Ronquinstings es popular por los asesinatos que ocurrieron ahí, aunque yo sé que son mentiras. Es solo otra patética forma de asustar a los turistas y hacer que ellos gasten dinero en recuerdos patéticos sin ningún valor histórico especial. Lo que hay dentro de esa casa es una mujer... una muy hermosa mujer, sometida a estar encerrada para siempre en ese lugar. La soledad alimenta su ira y desprecio hacia todos los del pueblo, pero ella no puede escapar. No mientras siga encadenada a ese odio que se alimenta de su desesperación y angustia.
¿Por qué ser tan crueles con ella? Todo lo que desea es amor y recuperar lo que una vez perdió: Su amado. Una persona que la cuidó, protegió y nunca abandonó.
Pero el cruel destino no quiso que ellos siguieran juntos. Todo lo que le queda para recordarlo es ese anillo... un anillo de diamante más grande y brillante que mi pr
The ring of the widow
The small house of the Ronquinstings is very popular by the murders that occurred there, although I know they are lies. It's just another pathetic way to scare tourists and make them spend money on pathetic souvenirs without any special historical value. What's inside that house is a woman... a very beautiful woman, chained, subject to being locked in that place forever. The solitude feeds their anger and contempt to all the people, but she can’t escape. Not while still chained to the hatred that feeds on despair and anguish.
Why be so cruel to her? All what she wants is love, acceptance of the village and recover what once lost: His husband. A person who cared, protected, loved and never left her.
But cruel fate did not want them on together. All that is left to remember him is that ring... a diamond ring brighter and bigger than my own little body.
Although I do the impossible to convince her to use that ring... she never will use it.
The reason is simpler than it appears. See
longdead leafa longdead leaf
burnt brown in the depth of green
cups a handful of fresh water
a leaf left behind
holds something of worth
forgoing death with its dead body
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
Keep in Touch!
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