Post by kohane on Nov 2, 2011 17:28:11 GMT -8
Title: Nothing Can Compare
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Word Count: 251
Summary: Yes. Nothing. Simply nothing, can compare.
Nothing. Simply nothing, can compare to the feeling of the wind blowing through your hair. The force of the magic flowing throughout the tool through which you fly like an eagle. The smooth way in which the brooms magic responds to your own, allowing you to go faster or slower, up or down. To feel the wind whipping your robes about your body. To feel weightless as nothing more than a broom handle separates you from a dangerous and deathly plummate to the earth below.
Nothing can compare, to the freedom. The freedom you feel as you take off from the ground, as if all your worries that chain you down in everyday life, cannot reach you from way up in the air upon your broom. Freedom that seems to flow through your very veins, making you fell high on some wonderful drug. The feeling of nothing, of freedom gained when the only responsibility you have is to your fellow flyers, in finding that golden winged ball, or catching that Quaffle, or smacking that bludger.
Nothing. Nothing can compare to the devistation. The devistation of the loss of that feeling, of that freedom. The feeling of being unable to escape the worries of everyday life, as if your very existence is chained with that broom to that wall, in that teachers office. The feeling of massive loss, as everyday she gloats and brags about how she grounded you. How she clipped your wings, and chained you down.
Yes. Nothing can compare.
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Word Count: 251
Summary: Yes. Nothing. Simply nothing, can compare.
Nothing. Simply nothing, can compare to the feeling of the wind blowing through your hair. The force of the magic flowing throughout the tool through which you fly like an eagle. The smooth way in which the brooms magic responds to your own, allowing you to go faster or slower, up or down. To feel the wind whipping your robes about your body. To feel weightless as nothing more than a broom handle separates you from a dangerous and deathly plummate to the earth below.
Nothing can compare, to the freedom. The freedom you feel as you take off from the ground, as if all your worries that chain you down in everyday life, cannot reach you from way up in the air upon your broom. Freedom that seems to flow through your very veins, making you fell high on some wonderful drug. The feeling of nothing, of freedom gained when the only responsibility you have is to your fellow flyers, in finding that golden winged ball, or catching that Quaffle, or smacking that bludger.
Nothing. Nothing can compare to the devistation. The devistation of the loss of that feeling, of that freedom. The feeling of being unable to escape the worries of everyday life, as if your very existence is chained with that broom to that wall, in that teachers office. The feeling of massive loss, as everyday she gloats and brags about how she grounded you. How she clipped your wings, and chained you down.
Yes. Nothing can compare.
I like this! Excellent job!
