Recent entries from The Timeslip - the blog of DrakePendragon
NOTE: This blog has been rated FR18 by the author. Blog content is not moderated by TtH
(Knights of the Old Republic)
as told by: Revan
Ivy clung tightly to the crumbling walls of the Jedi Enclave Ruins on Dantooine. Bright beams of sunlight poured in through the large holes in the stone roof. Masonry lay in piles on the floor, illuminated by the errant light. No one tended the decrepit halls anymore. Everything remained ruined as a haunting tribute to my actions. I sucked in a frightened breath and brushed the dust off my old, brown Jedi robes. It had been over five years since I had been here last, and that was before it was laid to waste. All my fault, everything for the past decade has been my fault. I slowly walked down the hallway that used to lead from the spaceport. I reached the first door, still sealed closed. I sighed and hung my head. I closed my eyes and for a second pondered the thought that I should of entered from Khoonda. But no, I need to enter through the same way I entered eight years ago, the same way I entered when I was just five years old as well. Each time I passed through this door, not know what was going to be on the other side. It seems that I shall be thinking that yet again.
I lifted my head a bit and looked over to my left. For a fleeting moment my mind's eye saw a green twi'lek standing there by the door's edge. I shook my head slightly and ran my fingers over a groove running from my shoulder up the back of my neck. The scar still made my neck pinch from time to time. 'If only I had listened' passed through my head, a frequent thought as of late.
I sighed and raised my hand up into the air, snapping my fingers loudly. I turned my head to look down the slanted hallway at my companions."Carth! Bastila! Whenever you two want to speed up, I'd be happy!" I called back to them. I shook my head, laughing silently at them. I twirled my lightsaber hilt on my wrist in my off-hand as I bumped the door with the palm of my hand. The tell-tale pneumatic hiss came from the edges and t...
Genetic: Eclipse (Heroes)
as told by: Michael
“To get what one wants, there are but three ways to obtain it: Learn how to get it, Receive it, or –and this is the least desirable way— Steal it,” I told everyone, looking out at my classmates in my Psychology class. I hated presentations on things I’m damn sure everybody understood. I ran a lazy hand through my hair before reaching for the clicker for my PowerPoint show. “The easiest example, of course, is money,” with one click the screen lit up and showed examples of currency from across the ages and around the world.
They flashed on the screen and assembled on a black background in a hazy circle. For a second, I paused, not realizing that my design looked like that. It looked vaguely like a solar eclipse. “First way to get money, learn how. I.e. get a job,” I clicked again and a well done drawing of a young man –me— with my sketch book drawing a picture under the sky, a sky with a full solar eclipse hanging in it. This time I frowned. I don’t remember putting that there. The class chuckled and I snapped up my personable façade. I flashed a grin at them. I’m an artist for hire, a lot of my classmates throughout high school and now into college have hired me do to commissions. I’m damn good, if I do say so myself.
I clicked the remote again and a drawing of another young man opening a letter with money inside. I paused before speaking, looking at the man’s face and hair. I feel like I should know this guy, beyond the idea that I drew him. The way his hair fell in that dark, brooding manner of a side of his face just reminded me of someone. To top it all off, the design on the guy’s shirt was the same solar eclipse. I filled a mental note to examine my damn drawings before I present them. I coughed lightly and looked back at the class. “I apologize, a spaced out for a second. Kinda wished I was the guy opening the letter. Must be nice to get mo...
Through the Looking Glass
as told by: Abby Wynters
I walked into my bedroom, shutting the door and the real world out behind me. The smell of acrylic and oil paints filled my senses and my body immediately relaxed. This was my world, the world where I left who I was. When I entered this room I was no longer Abby Wynters, a simple sixteen year old, introverted girl. I had no friends outside this room. This room was everything to me. I painted a world I felt apart of, but never lived beyond my canvas. I flipped the light switch and looked around, everything had paint on it. The room itself was painted fully like the metropolitan New York. I scribbled a note in bright orange acrylic paint in the corner reading: "Kirby Plaza, New York City". After the room painting adventure, I needed to know what I painted, it was just too real for me. Easels of a variety of sizes stood in the center of the room in a spiral outward, tallest at the center, all painted the same color of orange. I do not remember organizing my equipment that way or painting them that way, but I feel too compelled to let it be to change it. Oil water was painted on acrylic green tile at the base of the stands, giving it a fountain look. A few feet away lay a man with spiky hair, a pool of blood around his torso, his head cocked to the side and his blank, white eyes staring upward.
His name is Sylar, but I do not know him. That's how my gift works. I mix up my primary, secondary and tertiary colors with a side of black and white, pick up my brush and approach the canvas. I don't remember painting any of the paintings in my room. All I remember is closing my eyes and focusing on the gift and letting it out. I blink and I have a full painting in front of me and I'm down on paint. More often than not, I don't understand what I painted. I notice that I have a set of recurring characters, all but two painted on the walls around me.