Empty HouseWinter had been mild; fog swirled in the corners of fields and the edges of houses. In Lily's old neighborhood, peeling paint and broken fences had taken the place of neat hedgerows. She stepped out of her parent's home into the cold, dark afternoon. Pushing her long red hair out of her eyes, she squinted against the mist and looked at the old house across the lawn. Spinner's End. She shivered. She had come home for her father's funeral, and she didn't plan on staying more than a night. Being in her home had been little comfort to her, as Petunia had organized the memorial and isolated her as much as possible. Her mother had died a year earlier and the house held nothing but pain now. Lily closed her eyes and felt the cool air wrap around her like a cloak. Life had suddenly become something she could not understand, and she felt the loss of childhood innocence acutely, being back in this place.
DA's Insular Taste PhenomenonIt's been quite a while since I wrote a preachy "THINK ABOUT YO' ART"-type journal, and some of my newer watchers may not know that this is a particular(ly annoying) habit of mine. This is a subject I've had on my mind for quite some time for a number of reasons, and it's recently coalesced into a semi-soluble form so here we go. (As an aside- this journal does have some recycled ideas from a previous post of mine, but obviously I hadn't really said everything I wanted to on the subject.)