Micah Park Biffle

The Council   I stood in the door way as Count Dreygon lit the candles. His long neck stretching over the wax hugged wicks. Lifting a match so carefully as not to disturb the flame even the slightest. It was odd, how he wished us to be in silence the moment we reached this cathedral like structure.  Our conversation prior had extended from his stead to the very entrance of the building. Before we entered, he turned from the door way placing his index finger upon his lips in gesture to keep silent. I had no reason to not agree nor be concerned. As I had agreed to meet those that had helped him to obtain a position among the council.  His mentors, I was told. And I, one with ambition to be a part of the council was willing to do as Count Dreygon asked. So my ambition and curiosity have drove me to this very chapter of my life.   As I stand in the doorway, a draft of wind soars into the building with what feels like the need to be noticed. The ...

  The Wretched   I hear them knocking on the door, their voices acting in kindness. But I know their intentions their wants. Their need to calm their craving of this false way. They are putrid to our earth, rodents that feast upon the feeble and spread disease of our touch.   I can feel them, their cold empty presence, just as I. But I did not bow to the corruption. The naive lies of their power. And now here we stand, me against them. Me against my own, how odd. How unsightly that we have drove ourselves into this.  Into this chaos all for the sake of their incessant need to be all. To be the deciders of the world. They were once nothing, just as I. We were once the subtle voices in the night that preyed only upon those who wished for such. Who approached us with peace.   But now, now we are vermin loitering the streets with our madness. Our corrupt fever of existence. I can smell them, I can smell them as I smell blood. Their tongues cove...

   A Spanish Paradise  It is a start, a new seeking of life. Her heart has never been the same and how badly she wants it back. How dearly she wants to caress the moon with her lips and the sun her heart. Delicately letting her soul unfold like the blooming of a flower beneath the cool rain of spring.   And so Melody takes to the skies with a one way ticket to her paradise. To a small town in South America where she had gone once before as a child, visiting her grandfather. She remembers the buildings, how warm their sandstone colors were.   How elegantly the sun danced off the artistry of the horizon against the mountains covered in the lushness of nature. How beautifully the glow of the moon glittered upon the stone streets after a rainy day.   So much beauty, so much history in each curve, each arch, each stone. Everything is painted so well in her memory. She looks down from her seat through the window of the plane and sees the cascade of fl...

Sammy and the Tear   Have you heard the story of the girl who made her own world? If not, I suggest you lay back and let your heart and eyes take to the journey.   Sammy, only eight years old grew up in a home far from the rest of the world. A place pinched between two massive mountains. Mountains so high no one has ever seen the top of them. Even on clear days the highest points vanish to the sky.   Growing up, it was only her father and mother. Both whom loved her very very much. But as Sammy grew in age, she found herself to be lonely. She could not explain this concept nor understand the feeling that rested at the bottom of her heart.   But she knew something was amiss in her heart. Reaching age five she had amassed hundreds of imaginary friends. But as time progressed in the world changed in her mind, the imaginary did not suffice as well as it did a few years before.   Sammy had asked her parents numerous times if she could have a brother or...

My fading Words I don't know where these words will bring me. I know not if they shall ever be more than scribbles upon a canvass. I know nothing of what they shall ever be, I merely spill what I feel and move on. But what I do know, is these words are what gives me hope, faith, and resilience to my ever dissolving body. My words may be only echoes that shall only be spoken till death has claimed me. My words may become like that of a forgotten book to the halls of a library. Covered in dust, bridged in the empty silence. As these thoughts cross me like a stream upon my skin. I begin to worry, for my lineage is at threat of the fading winds of my lungs. I am dreadful of what shall come of me, as these days are only quickening their pace. I see myself age with each passing day as does fruit. My words, mimicking my decaying breath. Slowly becoming nothing more than vaped and in-congruent sentences. Held in the underlining of my misery, pleading in the secretive archives ...

Abused But Not Hopeless Three children and alone, abused in the last torment of what she thought was the opportunity of blooming lilies. Hoping to string them across her neck in the display of artistry between her and the love she had for her relationship. But quickly were the flowers trampled on beneath her mans lack of self-esteem. Bridging his hate for himself upon her and her children. And oh did he show it well, his hatred for himself. Sly in his words but weak in his actions. Raising his hand not only to her, but to the children. Leaving bruises, welts, eyes that would bring one to shiver upon seeing such brutality. His ever so false chivalry would play well after the fact. Creating his sorrow to be theirs, reaching for forgiveness but with horns. Hiding his scars, creating the children to be a burden to his wealth and his mental well-being. Nights would pass and not a single plate of food would be served. For she had no job, and his tongue would speak ugly to her own...