Dreaming the Impossible Dream since 1997

Terry Farmer


One Hundred Years of Solitude
He was buried in the spring and married in the autumn. He kept inside a silver ring a pill of poison if they caught him. An eye fixed upon his fate, Peter calls him to the gate. He was buried in the spring.

His sister’s daughter raised the dead or so they spoke of her beauty. With no simple mind she did not hate or feel affection or sense of duty. She shaved her head and of her name her very legend says the same. She simply rose and flew away.

Now his brothers they were twins. One was heavy one was thin. They could never think about why he kept himself so within. One of their children bore his name, and grew to be the same he too was buried in the spring.

He rode off to start a war. He knew his people to be hungry. About the time his sister born, he won and lost with desperate fury. He should have died out on the field with his solitude and shield, but to time he had to yield… and age in misery.

His very home had lost its face. More then once been laid to waste. His mother who outlived them all, tried to keep the place in shape. But with the ticking of their fate, she grew old withered away, died alone and in disgrace.

No there has never been a trace, only phantom waves and shapes. Of any force they left behind or any history in time. Pre-designed to be confined buried in forgotten mines, a tiny shadow on our race.
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I’m thinking of putting these people in my novel.

Well, people with these attributes.

Been thinking about it for quite a while. lots of good places to start.

if I can’t hit it with them… then I’ll fall back to this

posted under Writing

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