E.S. Wynn's Blog, page 55

The Cygnus War

If you haven't yet had the chance to check out my long-running online series "The Cygnus War", you've been missing out on something special! With over a hundred episodes available to read for free online, its one of the largest quality sci-fi serials available on the web. Not a fan of reading online? The Cygnus War is also available in print as seven separate mini-novels which you can buy here or

Smiling

In the waveform haze, our hands meet, linger, dance and touch. Hearts sing, thrill with the contact. In the instant, time becomes a phantom, freezes idea-like at the edge of reality. When it passes, we don't notice, don't feel it. It doesn't matter. We exist beyond it, outside of it, each electric encounter drawing us deeper into the haze, deeper into the divine reality that hangs alive between

Artemis Ink

For those of you who missed it, check out the work of Brita over at Artemis Ink Tattooing! Amazing stuff!Check out her site here!

sky

. . .what if the sky were just a painting,the world upon which we move, mate and die just a stage,a treadmill moving endlessly beneath us,keeping us fromever really moving forward,ever really going back. . .

Time

Flying

Flying over the water for the first time, I can't help but smile.Winds sing along the cables, flex through canvas wings. I see her raven-black hair spilling out into the wind, long and flickering. She smiles down at me. Her long, golden fingers release my wings, and then I am gliding, gliding.On long, elegant black wings, she soars off into the endless heavens, laughs in a wind of pure joy. The

Take Time

Control

When the last piece of technology built to censor the free speech of the masses was done away with, the masters who controlled the flow of ink and page turned to magic. One by one, men of power changed the messages within films and books, glossing new graphics into magazines and games. Greed and power worked steadily at the foundations of art, eroded the classics, replacing the strokes and words

Good

Arrows

Like the wind and rain, we run.Shouts drown, die in the slapping reeds, edged grass. The sing-song cries of arrows, an orchestra of bowstrings that we cannot see, cannot escape.Death comes sudden, life brought to a point, pinned to the darkness. Last breaths are labored, a counterpoint to the soft trod of running feet. Hands reach out in the falling night, reach for stars,hope for something more.