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A Journey of One Mile pt. 2Mark wasn't burdened by her usual attire, layers of heavy dress and delicate shoes, but she couldn't shake the habit of walking as if she was. The unnamed escort, who moved at a slightly less ladylike pace, kept looking over her shoulder making sure Mark wasn't being left behind, every so often issuing the question 'Am I walking too fast for you?' or an offer of 'If you'd like, I can slow down.' Each time Mark would decline the offer, but give thanks for the consideration.
Even among these foreign MIT people the woman stood out. Her heavy accent was the first thing Mark noticed; she had been exposed to Boston accents all her life and had even picked up a bit of the dialect, but this woman's way of speaking could only be properly described as thick. Her choice of fashion was equally bold; decked out in an ankle-length black and white checkered dress with a matching headband, her long jet hair danced back and forth as she trotted down the sidewalk, earrings swinging, mesmerizingly
A Journey of One Mile pt. 1What a lonely life it is, being one of the first of a new species... all sentient life ponders its own existence, and Mark was no different. She supposed her own reason for being was in her kind's very name computer. Made to perform tasks that humans found incomprehensible, to harbor abilities impossible for them to cultivate within themselves. They possessed the fallible bodies of men, but with powers befitting the gods.
But there were still people who claimed her kind were mere facsimiles of human intelligence. That computers had no souls, that the creation of the spirit was a hard-fought evolutionary battle or the domain of a divine creator, not a process which mankind could recreate. There were those who feared their power and intellect, accusing them of being some product of modern-day black magic; and people who feared Mark herself might be a witch of sorts. She was cautious of these people, is only for knowing what fate befell the last women accused of practicing s
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More