One of the things that I love about writing, and reading other people’s creations,
is that sometimes all that it takes is one sentence or even one
word to hit a spark right to your heart.
A burning little flame to light the candle with in.
You can carry it with you for days or month to come.
Those words that warped your mind spun the illusion that took you places.
Those stories that made you feel, weep, cry, laughed and sighted.
Almost as if the writer has read your mind. Made it personal and just for you.
That happens here and that is why I come, to Fan

As a Dyslectic every thing I read is a conquest, a victory for both the author and me.
And believe me today I am a world class conquistador. A Paladin and an Ambassador to
those stories I wrestled won and took with me throe life as wisdoms and great trophies.

There is a glitch, a mystical and magical space in-between the tip of the author’s pen and the eyes and mind of the reader. Here is where the magnitude of many interpretations begins. Here is where the author becomes the painter, the master of color, tones and light. The reader as the observer is the one that defines the masterpiece. Throe personal preferences and experiences we partake in these creations. And they become journey, an expeditions. Portals to magical realms that don’t exist, gate ways in to people’s minds,to experience there tremolos and struggles, there elations and passions and joys. They say words travel. Is that rely so or is it us that can travel by words. Every explorer knows that what is beyond the horizon is worth finding and exploring. And throe that journey threw the words we all become conquerors and conquistadors of our own and very personal and unique vision of the story presented.

So whether you are Marco polo, Leonardo da Vinci , a founding father, a landscaper,reviewer for the tribune ,or a building inspector. You will have your part to play as a visionar.

05-31-2012

Ok, It has been some time sens I updated my profile. Well I still come here to read almost religiously. I am a big fan of tv shows and the fictional creations you all post on this sight. The major differences is i do most of my reading on my Galaxy tab. I have it with me where ever I go. I fill it up with downloaded stories. I tag the story here on FF. net and run it threw flag to make them in to E-books or epub files. It is a superb way or reading and saving your all time favorites as books on your book shelf.

So for anyone that has a pad in any format or stile that has come on line to read good fiction I recommend the sight FLAG to make them in to your favorite e-books for snappier reading experience. I know how it is reading on line and you have to update your link to get to next chapter and then next...it is annoying when it is truly tens in the storyline and you are so egger to find out what happens next.

Her is the link to the FLAG sight if you haven't found it already for yourself. http:/// or you can search Google for FLAGFIC and you will find it there.

Thank you for checking out my profile, and thank you for writing.

"Who am I, if you are not here to listen?"

by D. A. huber

Who am I, if you are not here to listen?
Does my whispered frail breath fail,
falter and fall on deaf ears of the illiterate?

With nectar words I multiply,
I grow in your bosom, in your very soul.
My ancient tongue utters incantations lost,
words lost, to ages passed and faded…
into simpler days, bore by the Ferryman
cross the fabled Styx, into the eternal night.

Simple men, average women, children,
and all others understood my tongue,
my words, my stacking of language,
my due creations to the Gods above:
I, the Knight of ages forlorn– forgotten.
Scrawling feebly with my dull feather,
these words, which you utter now.

From the depths of the ancients,
my mind stretches, transcending time,
transporting my illustrations of passion
to my pen, and from my pen to your eye.

Each stroke drifts up, as incense
to the blunted nares of your eyes.
Steadily, my iron hand, works the bowl,
pouring cleansing water steadily
over the choice ingredients– perfectly.

From my soul stirs the fires which burn,
fire that smelts all, refining emotion,
purifying motive, drive and will.
Each waft of silver dreams drifting
up from the intoxicating concoction
pounds, sledges and rings out…
Rolling across the plains of life,
streaking through the halls of time,
forcing my ink slathered quill to dance,
slamming ink across the parchments face–
Smearing ivory fibers with blackened blood.

Who am I without you to listen?
I am but a madman, without an audience,
a poet without a pen, or scroll to scribe,
an author without drive or motive,
a desperate pawn without a king,
or an instrument without a skilled hand…

So mad I am, and write I do,
speak and cry, hoping that you listen,
begging that my weapon fails not,
that my bowl is full, and the smoke thick.
I write as I love, I pen as I love,
I speak as a lost drunkard in love,
I love as life moves, as life lives!

So what moves me, what makes me cry?
What makes me dance, sing, scream?
What forms and makes me– me?

And I give you this answer: Life.

With the dawn I arise from my bed,
I drift through my humble home,
my subtle mind echoes words dreamt.
I ready my armor, my sacred sword,
and scribe the fables and dreams of old,
letting my deepest desires dance–
I, the Sir of shadows of ancient times,
the Archon of my holy chambers,
pen what may be, and is, by my clay hand.

Tease me not, test me not,
bear not my words unheeded,
bear them not without their due weight.
For lead they are, or gold possibly,
disguised in the frail, tattered shroud.

So, by my earthen hand I write,
by my burning desire tested and true,
by senses undeniable, words strike deep.

So, I stand amid the misted air,
wrapped in the incenses of my words,
bound in the steel of my armor,
armed with my dulled feather,
bleeding my darkened blood
across the woven ivory fibers;
I scream the words of my life,
which echo from the halls of time,
from the days of chivalrous passion,
from the evenings buried and forlorn–
I scream the words, I scream the words!

Who am I, if you are not here to listen?
A madman with a bowl of smoke,
who stands amid the herd of the blind?
A powerful speaker with dire words,
who stands amid the crowd long deaf?
A scented harlot, wreaking of lust,
who lies in a bed empty and cold?

I am misplaced, displaced from time,
And I long to return home–
To the days of chivalry and honor,
to the time when men stood tall,
when women were loved and cherished,
when steel was tested and gold earned…
Yet, I am here, echoing dreams,
screaming across the heavens,
over the ceiling of the clouds and sky,
hoping, only that one may hear me:

For who am I, if you are not here to listen?