Arts-From-The-Heart

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79 deviations

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38 deviations

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492 deviations

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242 deviations

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32 deviations

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1056 deviations

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53 deviations

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549 deviations

Traditional Art

314 deviations

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36 deviations

Literature

Angel's Recovery: A Night Out

--11-- A night out As soon as the gangway connected the Sangue-Padre with the port of Garon, the majority of the crew went to explore the town. The ship was actually quiet when Angel walked onto the deck. “Are you ready?” Angel asked Aisuru. She had on a pair of leggings, her leather black boots, a loose black shirt tucked in, and a crimson lace vest with black ribbons. She strapped justice and vengeance to each thigh and decided to wear her hair loose and brushed the overly long wavy strands until they shined. Angel stood their excited and waited for Aisuru to answer. He took a deep breath and turned to face her. ”I am

Co-Founder's Art

19 deviations

Literature

NotM: An Angel's Pledge

The sound of the waves crash upon the sand, As Maggie see's shinies upon the land, A thin misty fog is in the air, Making the young Captain unaware, So lost in her collection, She doesn't see, An angel standing in front of her, with black tipped crimson wings, As Maggie walks forward Her eyes begin to clear No more shines are seen But a woman instead Who are you? Why are you in my dream? What sort of magic trick Has brought you here to me? Soft black eyes shine with delight Seeing her dear friend in her daughters eyes Bending down gracefully upon her knee She lowers her head respectfully, I have made this pledge once before To sail

Founder's Art

230 deviations

Literature

When Man is God

I’ll never forget the feeling of the night’s gentle breeze as it ran over me like the soothing touch of a mothers running fingers through my crusted hair. Off in some great distance was the source of that breeze, drifting out from beneath a thunderhead whose top was the snowy mountain on a sunny day, and whose bottom was like a Tesla light show complete with waterworks. “The wrath of God can be a beautiful thing, Joey, ma boy!” said Lenard, “It’s something that man can fear and admire all at once.” He was right. He had caught me marveling at this broad portrait of nature before I did. I turned round

Contest 2

47 deviations

Contest Winners

1 deviation

Technical+Journal

2 deviations

When Man is God by GrubbsWriting, literature

Literature

When Man is God

I Can Only Forgive You by GrubbsWriting, literature

Literature

I Can Only Forgive You

The sarcastic cheer was for the fictional switches in that old biased call to action. Oh naive the pride in unsullied perspective, tested only by what I've envied as temporary. Easy routes and smooth roads were labeled with excuses whereas ours are reasons. Forgive my lack of a desired reaction to the first thing I once tried and found as a rude awakening. I tell you, the sarcastic laugh is more or less a subtle cry of envy from my choking. Any hate is a petty falsity amidst my weariness in the undying fog over my figurative eyes. This is merely that which will only come as phases to you and be a marathon for me.

From a Burning Land by GrubbsWriting, literature

Literature

From a Burning Land

What did in fact come from those lands was plague. We awoke there with broken spirits, taken hostage by hurricanes from the farthest Hell. A man with a whispered name and blurred face then came and breathed fire onto the crops. From him we ran, like frightened sheep. The riddle was worn and obviated by continuous rains, and with hushed rumors and averted eyes, we wrote the ending on the bottoms of our boots.

What Feels like Damnation by GrubbsWriting, literature

Literature

What Feels like Damnation

January was a first within which I quickly lost track of time, when the year began in a ninth circle developed out of treacherous fear. A convoluted scheme that wrapped away my freedom for a man of ill wealth that took fancy to my unfortunate name. I was a gift, and show such love that I did indeed question in that following February. To and from like a breathing Valentine, walking with bare feet, cross country to be presented as god given property to the fiend that I called master against the laws of choice. Free will was suffocated in the wearing of shackles whose rust gave new color to the skin that they met. Marching in March, the road

Tick Tock by GrubbsWriting, literature

Literature

Tick Tock

I have shivered in the warmest days, and sat on the verge of tears of varied names, While staring over the void between restless nights, where my sleeping eyes beheld the nightmares of which I am ashamed to give credit to my own mind, the stories of horrid tales without purpose other than fear. I am hardly journeyed yet already lost within myself like a wandering spirit inside the desolate shell. A heartbeat keeps pace by powers beyond that the spirit walks for, yet the spirit walks in chains, a slave to a past where naive seeds were planted in what should have been hallowed ground. Now that fear from the beginning yanks those chains while

Cry Wolf and Speak Truth by GrubbsWriting, literature

Literature

Cry Wolf and Speak Truth

Rusted are the doors that lock themselves shut by the orders of my hesitant tongue, how it twists with my mood and delivers words away from my racing thoughts. I feel ergo, a lightlessness shadow climbing up the vertebrae, feeding of the chills it brings me as it ascends. Oh, God and all of Heaven, brush that Devil away lest it rip the spine and replace it with a pitchfork. I have seen my demons in the back of my mind, dwelling in dark corners with my temptations and flaws...those are the demons of that legion of swine sent over the edge...the very edge where I feel I am headed. In the adolescence of a nocturnal routine, I sit with eyes off

From Scratches on the Oldest Drawing Board by GrubbsWriting, journal

From Scratches on the Oldest Drawing Board

Apr 20, 2014

Consider this a more detailed version of my other pieces, 'Genesis 1:1-31' and 'Wisdom and Intellect', concerning the ideas and theories behind the origin of the universe. I very much enjoy writing on the subject that God is so much more than many understand Him to be. It's both a way for me to help others understand God (as I see Him, these are just my opinions based on my studies and experience) as well as a way to praise Him and His glory. Here are some links for those who may be unfamiliar with a few things I intend to cover in this exhortation. http://health.howstuffworks.com/ http://science.nasa.gov/ http://www.openbible.info/ http:

The Oldest Trick in the Book by GrubbsWriting, literature

Literature

The Oldest Trick in the Book

The recurring theme of malinger and tomfoolery pushes an envelope packed with counterfeit bills across a desk made by the hands of hungry children. So blatant a sin as to lie to a land of suspecting psyches is that of a rape to every thought crossing the pathways of synapses and morality. The clueless neckties were never clueless, as free will is the truest catalyst to the monsters beneath the skin of miracles, like cannon fire in an orphanage. Deception is a talent practiced while mastered by Hell, and surely the envelope holds origins from places of evil? Bills, from mangled trees, grow into newer roots of evil. Rot can be prove

A Game of Madlibs by GrubbsWriting, literature

Literature

A Game of Madlibs

A part of me wonders, wandering in circles, Screaming silently at the back of the locked room. This fragment questions, off the tongue of curiosity, so grand a spectrum. This part of me grows by passing ticks of a talking clock that can never desist from its natural noise. Going mad as the timeline grows, the circles became a spiral without my noticing, so novice this child of God like every other. Though true wisdom is beheld in knowing I know nothing, yearn I still for a word bank for the riddles of endless blanks on a script in the making. Potential gives every answer the chance to be truth, lie or dare. An effect for every cau

Milestone by GrubbsWriting, literature

Literature

Milestone

I'll toss a few hooks over and into my back, before I yank this fish out of water to lean over a table of acacia wood. There lies a contract and script, in where my lines are only blank for a time to come, but drenching its pages in a multicolored frenzy of times that came and went. I yank the ropes that grasp those hooks in the forward motion for a closer look onto that table and parchment, seeing the macroscopic fine print that never had my eyes seen ever before. It had been written in the dead language of atoms out of time, telling the story still in the works. I was a rough draft and a final copy. The jack of my many trades

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