Pagan Writers

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Comment by nurul azam on July 14, 2010 at 8:20am

i like this picture,its indian, god of crafts[gonesh].i am a worshiper of his father
LORD SHIVA.

Comment by KimReyes on January 9, 2010 at 8:49pm

Hey guys and gals >.>

Comment by Gawaine Caldwater Ross on April 12, 2009 at 5:27am

If you send me a few poems I'll send you some of mine!
Gawaine

Comment by Gawaine Caldwater Ross on April 9, 2009 at 5:21am

Good to meet you, Nicole. The world needs more people like you. I'm glad you're having success as a writer. Very few people enjoy what they do for work.

Comment by vargr on March 14, 2009 at 11:09pm

Nice ta meet you all.

Comment by Gawaine Caldwater Ross on March 14, 2009 at 5:08am

Lenore, that is one good story. Really good! It's also one of the shortest short stories I've ever read. I hope you've entered this in a contest.

Comment by Lenore on February 17, 2009 at 5:56pm

This was one of my first.. it is also one of my favorites, i have won a few awards for it as well! This basically puts you in the shoes of someone being accused and then hanged for being a witch.

To Feel Life Slipping Away…
By Lenore

You sit alone in your cell waiting as the clock slowly ticks by. You can’t understand how the world can still be spinning, how you can hear the faint cheers from the streets. Something you would never hear again, sweet children’s laughter. You wait, with death creeping ever closer. You realize the horror that once you’re born you start the journey of death. You walk a path hardly paved, death at the end. You are destined. Some people’s paths are longer some are shorter. Your path has been cut short. Cut short as well as so many others. The trial is soon, but how soon? Why are you being accused of this? Will no one save you? Will God himself save you? For the first time in life you question, is there a God? If there is where is He now? Where is He when you need Him most? Would He really allow this? Silently you pray. You pray for yourself and all of the other innocent souls blamed for this hideous crime.
You hear your named called. It’s time for the trial. You are taken from your cell; from those who have spent this horrible summer with you. Slowly you walk towards your fate. The questions are fired rapidly…
“Are you a witch?”
“Why do you torture your friends?”
“If you are not a witch as you clam not to be, how do you know?”
“We don’t fall for your tricks.”
“Why did you sign the Devil’s Book?”
“What did he offer you?”
“Confess!!!”
“Do you work with the devil?”
“Why aren’t you confessing?”
“Last time! Are you a witch?”
You don’t give in. You know you’re not a witch. But the girls are awfully convincing the way they scream and carry on when you make a simple movement. You turn your head and they scream that you are trying to break their necks. How could they fake that? Could you really be a witch? Of course not! “Don’t think of such a thing!” you tell yourself. But there is still that hint of doubt. You then stand in front of the court and swear to the Almighty that you are not a witch. You’re sentenced to hang the next day.
No matter what you do, everyone is convinced. Guilty. You watch the ever dying sun set for the last time. Wishing you could run free, as if nothing ever happened. But you know that is only a fantasy. You do fall asleep that night but only shortly. That night you have the strangest dream. You dream that you are a kid again, at church with your family, everyone kneeling and praying. Then, out of the organ, pours a black fog. No one notices, for they are all praying. But you let out a scream as the fog encloses everybody as they silently pray. Never knowing a thing, they vanish. You beg for mercy. The black fog, instead of enclosing you, absorbs into your skin. A single word is uttered from your lips as you collapse onto the floor. “Witch.”
You wake sweating all over and breathing hard, not able to believe what is happening. You are now convinced that you are a witch. What other reason for the dream? You will face your death. Quietly you pace, trying to put all the pieces together, but in the end, you realize you lost a piece somewhere. There’s nothing you can do.
Morning; it’s time for the end. You along with all the people you have known and shared this horrible summer with lined up ready to be hanged. One at a time, your friends are being hanged. The fear of death slows each of your limbs. The universal clock seems to speed up as your death approaches. It is your turn. As the rope is placed around your neck, you think of everything that has happened. You think of your family, who you’ll never see again, and your friends. The platform drops from under you without warning.
The pain! The agony! You are only able to breathe out as you slowly suffocate. You feel your soul lifting. You will yourself to face your death. Don’t fight it. Let it happen. Ever so slowly, life slips away. With the last of your strength you look to the sky and see the sun rising, the giant fireball spreading light over the earth. Without it, nothing could survive. You feel the sun warm the goose bumps on your skin. Then you feel nothing.

Comment by Earth's Outcast on January 26, 2009 at 10:55pm

I've made several short stories, but alas I only have 1 of them, the rest were for school and I didn't keep them. Here's one I made up. Called Seth on the Highway

A few white clouds glided across the azure sky, pushing against the whispering breeze. The trees seemed to dance in the wind as the car drove past. The sun shone brightly as a blinding torch, bringing its’ light to the world. The sun’s light playfully reflected off the vehicles as they sped on the highway. The one-way road was empty except for a few light coloured vehicles going at one hundred kilometers an hour. Inside an orange four by four highlander, a single occupant drove with smooth control. The highlander was created due the genius of Ptah and Vulcan. He was six foot two inches, had a red t-shirt, denim blue jeans, a pair of Nike running shoes, a leather jacket, a NASCAR baseball cap, and black sun glasses. His hair was blue with red highlights; he had a pointy chin, slanted eyes, elf like ears, muscular body, long legs, and strong arms. It may be impossible, but it is. Seth, God of chaos, hostility, and war, is on Earth and he is searching for something terrible. Bang! Bang! Shots have been fired and now Seth’s vehicle has started to surve violently, so he decreased the speed of the highlander, drove into the ditch, collected his weapons, that where hidden in the interior of the vehicle, and walked out of it unharmed. He checked the damage and it was minimal, only the two rear tires were shot. Seth saw that a portal had opened, took cover behind a few trees, and loaded hid ammo into his semiautomatic and automatic weapons. Sheathing his long sword, dagger, machete, cutlass, samurai sword, and scimitar on his belt, Seth got ready for battle. All he needed was an ally, he used telepathy to contact any deity who would help him, but out of the thousands of gods and goddesses, only Hermes came to help. Hermes came with a crossbow, a double bladed one handed long sword, His personal favorite weapon, and two magic rings. Seth put on the rune covered ring and was enveloped in platinum armor, covered with runes of protection, strength, agility, and stamina. Seth and Hermes, now ready to fight the people who shot at Seth earlier, got out from behind the trees and saw that thousands of demonic Raksha warriors were lined up in demon fashion, and the portal was gone. Hermes thought to himself, Since Seth asked me to kill the Raksha; technically this was going to be fun. Seth thought, With the portal gone, when I kill these demons, they won’t be respawned in Hell. How much fun is this? The demons of course, were all sleeping, and dreaming of eating human flesh. So Seth and Hermes, unsheathed their daggers’ and started to kill the Raksha. The sleeping Raksha were all oblivious to the two Gods, so it was easy For the Gods to stab the Raksha in the heart and kill them. After an hour, the Raksha saw the Gods and took their weapons in hand and started to attack. The Raksha fought as bravely as demons do, but because of Seth’s weaponry and Hermes’ rune engraved rings, the Raksha were all killed. But before the last demon fell, Seth fought hand-to hand combat with Dalerg. Dalerg and Seth circled around, keeping their eyes’ on their opponents. Looking for an opening in the others’ defenses. Dalerg had a bear skin shield, indicating that this Raksha was a nomadic demon and shunned the use of more advanced power and weaponry, and a bronze long sword. Seth had his steel machete; things were going to be interesting. Dalerg knew he was going to die because this was Seth, lord of war, and he was a simple imp in comparison to him. When he was thinking that and wasn’t paying attention to his enemy, Seth killed Dalerg quickly and he felt death for the first, and last time. After the battle Seth and Hermes took of their rings. Seth was going to give the ring to Hermes, but he stated, “No, no! Keep the ring; Odin gave them to me after I left Asgard. You deserve it.” Seth replied, “Thanks Hermes, you are okay for a guy who flies around a lot.” Seth replied sincerely. Hermes then helped Seth with the tires and flew back relieved that he was not captured during the battle. Seth, meanwhile, put his weapons away, put the ring in his pocket, took his vehicle out of the ditch, and drove away. “That was bloody fun!” Yelled Seth, through his driver's side window.

Comment by Taliesin Soladraig on December 20, 2008 at 8:26am

THE BATTLE FOR THE--WINTER

The misty dawn has broken on this shortest day.
The Holly King, in winter's green, is ready for the fray.
For half a year the leafy crown has rested on his brow.
To take the crown and cut him down is his brother's vow.

For six long months he ruled within his forest hold.
Throughout his reign, the foliate king, felt himself grow old.
The crown of leaves grew heavy still, the end was in his sight.
His weapons honed and armor shone, he readied for the fight.

The younger king was born, to issue challenge bold.
And take his place, with youthful grace, his brow to wear the gold.
His battle skills sharpened, the verdant crown, is his by right.
With shield of yew and sword new he went forth to show his might.

Twin brothers take the field, to battle for the crown.
The steal blades sing, they fight to bring each other to the ground.
With fatal strike the crown of green falls from his regal head.
He's proved his worth, the blood pours forth, his brother lies there dead.

The misty dawn has broken on this longest day.
The Oaken King, in summer's green, is ready for the fray.
For half a year the leafy crown has rested on his brow.
To take the crown and cut him down is his brother's vow.

Comment by Driretlan on December 9, 2008 at 10:35am

*smile* My only regrets with writing are that I don't do it often enough and I'm too much of a perfectionist. I've had a book-in-progress for about 9 years and I have ideas for quite a few more. I also write songs - both music and lyrics - poetry, and I'm a musician (bass, acoustic and electric guitar). I hope to lend my own experience on top of adding to it.

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