red gets the most invitations to the most junior high celebrations. ceasul si olga’s wraith.

The word "wraith" is first attested in 1513, with the meaning of "ghost or spectre" (that is, an apparition of a living or once-living being, possibly as a portent of death). In 18th century Scotland it was applied to aquatic spirits. Over time, it came to be used in a metaphoric sense to refer to wraith-like things, and to portents in general. The word may be of Scots origin, possibly through Old Norse vörðr, meaning "guardian" (cf. the Modern English cognatesward" and "warden"), and related to[citation needed] Irish "arrach, meaning "apparition". An association with the verb "writhe" has also been claimed. Philologist and fantasy author J. R. R. Tolkien held this view [1], and his use of the word in the naming of the creatures known as the Ringwraiths has influenced creators of fantasy and horror novels, televisionshadow-thing, a spirit of another world, or more generally a mysterious being to be feared. shows, and games, who use it with its meaning of a The wraith is a being of power, controlled by a greater spirit to do the creatures will. These creatures are shadows, floating amongst our realm with no purpose but that of their masters. They feed on humans, their emotions and their own strength, without these they would cease to exist. Information considering their lesser-known qualities is difficult to obtain. The classic depiction of a wraith is identical to the image of a tall, humanoid figure shrouded in a black cloak, under which no face can be seen, though a hand protrudes. The word "wraith" is also used in modern fiction to signify the shifting wraiths of T.A. Barron's book series The Lost Years of Merlin and the mortiwraiths of Wayne Thomas Batson's The Door Within Trilogy. Whereas the shifting wraith is a bestial, snake-like predator able to change itself into the form of any animal, albeit always having a feature uncharacteristic thereof, the mortiwraith is an anthropomorphically intelligent, gigantic, cave-dwelling, but also snake-like predator having creased, furry ears, poisonous blood, and many clawed legs whose quantity increases with the passage of every five years. The use of the word "wraith" for either of these is not explained by either author in the respective story. In European pagan beliefs, the wraith is seen as a spirit of vengeance. They are said to be ghostly figures with long, sharp fingers. Wraiths are considered rare amongst the spirit realm, for they consist of pure revenge; yet not all wraiths will be truly vengeful, in that some are merely enraged to the extent of destroying anything they encounter. In a local legend of Cornwall, the Polbreen Mine is said to be haunted by a wraith named Dorcas. In other corners of the world, the wraith is considered to be the reflected image of a person, seen immeditately before death. This side is supported by the elders' stories. A wraith is also described as an image seen just before one dies, like a premonition. (Wikipedia, normal) ma conduc dupa trupurile ravnite ale cetatilor pe care nu le-am asediat inca, ma transform intr-o storyteller obsedata de memoria aia scrisa cu instrumente bivalente, care pot deveni in orice moment arme redutabile. zic tot aceleasi povesti, ale mele mai mult decat ale altora, traite mai mult decat inventate, iar asta ma sperie cumva. e adevarat, ma sperie foarte multe lucruri, poate si sterilitatea mea creativa din ultima vreme, cea despre care, sub camuflajul acestui enigmatic vers din poetele mele preferate (cocorosie), as vrea sa vorbesc. as vrea sa ajung, clovn mic si caraghios, intr-o semi lime-light si sa ma lamentez. ca ma coplesesc tematic serii de imagini nedevelopate, filme expirate, mucegaite, ce-si cer cumva dreptul la un soi de perfida existenta metaforica. sa ma plang de van, personaj eminamente diabolic, dar de undeva din protoistoria lui demian, o ipostaza a lui neslefuita, un manechin innegrit pe care asez hainele de mort ale lui demian si care nu-mi ofera nimic -inca- poate pt. ca am uitat cum trebuie sa-l abordez sau poate pentru ca de data asta van, unlike demian, este un mixaj de personaj asumat livresc (o continuare fireasca a galerie autoimpuse de figuri masculine ciolanoase si grotesti, cu un potetial erotic subminat de potentialul cerebral, si-acesta functionand intr-un sens mereu cu semn schimbat, o ilustrare a ceea ce numesc eu experiente in negativ, ca atunci cand privesti un diapozitiv la lumina becului si ti se pare ca te recunosti in lumea aia miniaturala, artificial reactivata) si personaj fosta persona - sau in orice caz, inghesuit intre limitele astea "teoretice"enervante care, in plus, imi interzic o apropiere mentala de el, care, din pacate, nu-i numai un proiect, nu numai un construct mental ci..hmm…o alegorie. o metafora superelastica. ceea ce imi ingreuneaza munca o data, de doua ori, de trei ori, de n ori mai mult. un barbat cu crestet de viezure. ca in fabule. van a existat, si a fost chiar asa cum scriu despre el, situatiile poetizate, poemele cu el sunt numai ingrosate, sunt numai condimentate. in rest, frigul ireal, intunericul si intalnirile in parcuri darapanate, parul proaspat spalat, inca ud, expus temperaturilor negative, sentimentul unei solidaritati trucate si hainele indepartate de pe un trup urat pe care mi-e rusine ca l-am avut, in care mi-e rusine ca am trait, ei bine, toate astea s-au petrecut, si e rau ca s-au petrecut, si e rau ca nu pot anula toate dovezile ca am suferit si ca am fost obligata sa plang (primisem in iarna aia un ceas alb,modelul acela vetust cu margini aurite, casranul rotund si cifre romane scrise in italic, cu un mecanism minuscul ce indica, totodata, data in care ne aflam. am stat prea mult in frig, intr-o zi, si ceasul a incremenit. 16 decembrie ora 3. credeam ca daca va dezgheta se vor sterge singure, ca intr-o poveste, toate dovezile vulgarei mele tristeti de atunci. ceasul n-a mai mers niciodata. inca e, deci, ora 3 si 16 decembrie 2003, dar numai undeva, intr-un spatiu minimal al camerei mele. presimt acest lucru ca pe un semn funest, ca pe o stafieaducatoare de prevestiri lugubre, o stafie careia nu i-am implinit cine stie ce dorinta aberanta. un corp rece de mireasa a nimanui, un mort care revine si mi se arata doar mie) ai suferit, si inca la o varsta prea frageda ca sa ii tai un touche de autenticitate acestei suferinte pe care tu stii ca ai trait-o frust si necenzurat, nefircalit de schitele fiselor de lectura ulterioare. un gand cutremurator asta. daca ai norocul sa-i apartii unui amant asa de posesiv cum e poezia, poti sa scrii si sa reineventezi suferinta asta, ca si cum ti-ai croi o rochie de seara sau un costum de arlechin. sa pastrezi starea adica. sa asezi elemente intr-un desen in carbune peste care ai uitat sa pulverizezi fixativ vandaemonia vii sa ne ucizi/vii sa ne salvezi (dupa o noapte ca asta simtim oasele surorilor noastre intepandu-ne-n stomac. simtim caldura lor epuizata ca pe balenele rupte ale unor corsete alunecandu-ne sub rochii. o moliciune nefireasca. un corp de animal suprapus corpului meu vopsit in culorile fricii de moarte.