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because love is a lesson in trial and errorI wish I had the words to tell you what I mean. I used to store sentences between my breaths – things that I couldn’t say at the moment, but wanted to remember. Now I can barely string together enough nouns and verbs to make you understand exactly what you mean to me. And I’m afraid.
I’m afraid that if I can’t get it together fast enough I’ll lose you. It’s like you're water slipping through my fingers and I’m not quick enough to chase you through the currents. I know enough to know that you’re wild and free in a way that I’ll never be and maybe I’m jealous of that. Or maybe I
Futuro-Mamá esa chica se parece mucho a la tía Isabella -cuando escucho decir esto a Amanda, dirigiéndose a la Candace del futuro, una sola idea salta en mi cabeza haciendo eco e inevitablemente tengo que decirla en voz alta.
-Oíste eso Candace, voy a casarme con Phineas!
-O Ferb -me responde ella dejando mi mente en blanco.
Dirijo mi vista al peliverde y este me giña un ojo mientras hace un gesto con su mano señalándome. Bueno lo que dice Candace es verdad, para ser tía de Amanda tendría que casarme con Phineas o... Ferb.
Miro fijamente al chico frente a mí y de pronto todo desa
LindaI’m not what you would call a special woman - I live in a small town, with my husband, have an ordinary job and live an ordinary wife. In one way, however, I guess you could say I have an extraordinary life - because every midsummer’s day, I seem to get robbed in my own house. I don’t know what I do to deserve it, but that’s what happens.
I still remember the first year it happened - we had just moved into the house, with my daughter who was then about twelve, and she had gone to a friend’s house while my husband was out to work. I was taking the day off, doing some things around the house, and in those days
Music Shuffle (Kyrie)Cage the Elephant – “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked”
The sun finally sank below the horizon. Under the cover of a moonless darkness, the proxies slipped stealthily between the trees. The densely packed forest offered excellent protection from peering eyes, and so familiar were they with the many pitfalls and snaring brambles that they glided along effortlessly.
Masky took the lead, guiding his two charges along toward the night’s goal. Hoodie followed at a short distance, his video camera fully charged and stocked with a fresh tape. Close beside him was Kyrie, bringing up the rear and making sure the
The Blood on Our HandsBut it feels so good.
To touch the open slit is pleasurable beyond belief. Of all of my fantasies, it was never conceivable that I wanted this. It was never that I felt so satisfied drenched in the afterglow of my adrenaline-bred homicide.
The swooping curdling in my veins remains beyond the last breath of him. It feels like I need more, like the blood on my hands isn't enough to slake the drought in my bones that vengeance has brought. My fingertips touch at the open gash in the left-center of his chest, swimming there with dainty strokes in the fresh, bubbling blood.
What have I done...? And why do I need more? Why does it feel like the
they marked me blue and yellow, mama.between graffitied walls and a lone, chipped sink, they watched me curl in upon myself and combust. it was the only way i knew of to stop the swirling in my hips and heels.
a week later i found emma, the smallest of the vultures, kneeling at my altar. and with her wing-bones hunching and heaving, she mimicked my combustion.
but her eyes were violet when she saw me. violet and brimming with the emptiness of her heels. and i knew. i knew that this could not hold her the way it held me.
and mama, that hurt more than anything. her heels were empty, mama. empty. empty. empty. the way mine should have been, if only you had kept papa away.
if only you had kept away the first vulture i had ever know. if only, mama. if only.
Sweet Nothings'if i could, i would devour you. i would eat you whole, consume you mind, body, and soul. because i am a selfish person. i want you all to myself. no one else may have you.' he said to her, as they lay tangled in each other.
her reply came with a sleepy smile.
'there is a part of my mind which understands the intended romance in your statement. that part is wooed by it. there is also a part which insists upon my realizing the reality, the literal. you, my dear, are a cannibal.'
he placed a kiss on her head.
'well, we'll have to work hard then, to make sure that you are only wooed. we will make you want to be eaten. we will make it so that part of your mind which is literal, is quiet, so when i whisper sweet nothings into your ears, you are completely swept away. lifted off your feet by my obvious romantic intention.'
The Cat and IA biography of myself.
Real Name: I’m not telling, but KP stands for Kev Pickering
Nickname: I refer you to the previous answer
Birthday: July 16, 1963
Current Residence: North West London, United Kingdom
Height: 5’ 8”
Weight: Trying to lose it, thank you
Hair Color: Dark brown but turning grey as it recedes.
Eye Color: Hazel
Likes: Films, musicals, fine literature, my family, and graphic novels.
Dislikes: Shellfish, Lager, “Scripted Reality” shows.
Personality: I’m very shy until someone gets to know me, but those who do tell me I can be a very kind, gentle and yet silly person.
Smoke-stacked LungsLighting her cigarette, Mara watched the smoke trail up into the sky and block the blue the storm clouds couldn’t reach. She sucked in the unfiltered ash, closed her eyes, and marveled at the warmth that traveled down into her chest. The ash held her closer than anyone in the city had. She smiled, cracking open her eyes, but all that greeted her was wind blowing out the embers of her cigarette as tar slithered down her throat. She coughed, crushing the cigarette on the dashboard. She started her black Ford’s ignition, and watched the exhaust lingering around the car before the wind carried it away. With goose bumps, Mara sped onto
The ThunderstormI picked up the new dial phone I barely used to call her father. Thunder roared as the rain completely drenched my window. I bit my lip and my heart raced as I picked up a signal. The dial rang for awhile, and I was almost a little worried I wouldn't be able to get a hold of him. However, at the last minute, I heard a deep, cheerful voice from the other end.
"Hello, sir. This is Mr. Rob MacLachlan, CEO of the Fitzpatrick Company. I'm just calling to say that your daughter might have to spend the night, here."
There was a dreadful pause on the phone.
"Have you listened to the radio, recently?"
"Nah, we can't 'ford a telephon
I need you home...the ceiling's dirty.Pairing: Phan/Anti-Phan??
Warning: Possibly triggering
Disclaimer: I do not own Dan or Phil (sadly). This never happened and is purely fictional.
Summary: Dan's lost. He doesn't know how long it's been. He needs someone to save him.
I don’t know how long it’s been. 3 days? 2 weeks? 5 months? I can’t remember the last time I got up from his bed. It smells just like him, vanilla and raspberries - it’s like he’s still here. But he’s not.
He left a long, long time ago. We’d been arguing for a while, I’d said - well more like shouted - some mean things, he’d
I hate those infernal hounds.
I can hear them approaching. I regret now that I have not walled off this little corner of the forest that I have chosen to call my own. I am tired, I am hungry, and I am weak from the venom of those spiders. I fear I have just enough time to fashion a spear before they come for me.
Wilson's hands shook as he read the words in the dying firelight. The darkness pressed in against him all around, crawling inward as the fire sputtered.
Those were the last words on the page. Dark spots marred the edges of the papyrus, dried deep into the reeds. A thick swipe of brown streaked along the bottom as
Winter-childi found her in november, wrapped in a sweater.
they wheeled her away on a cart too big for her; two days old, half-dead and blue as the ocean.
i waited, her sweater held in hands that shook and shimmied.
they brought her back to me a week later; nine days old, pink-skinned and plump.
i named her in big letters on a yellow form as she slept in the crook of my arm; mavis.
From Afar, Thunder RoaredLike a bright eyed magpie, I have been scratching out and collecting pieces of Joseph for years, his indecision fuelling my already redundant habit of nest-building.
On good days, I would take the wrinkles around his eyes; filled with memories he had tried to shed, they glittered in the deepest part of the night - beacons for lost hearts and flightless souls.
On days that were just some days, I would take the mishappen, roughly jewelled scars lining his arms, hips, thighs; within their imperfections I found facts, each with one thousand facets.
On bad days, I would take the marrow from his phalanges; in the soft light of morning it turned to mallow and stuck to my own bird-bones, a constant reminder of that which you cannot shed, no matter how many years you spend trying.
But like all nest-builders know, there comes a day when the nest fussing is over and the children must come to it but instead of children, tobacco fireflies fell upon our arms and set us to screaming.
2 am Marissa's arm flailed out from under her covers. Her hand searched for the ringing noise, pushing aside tissues, a water glass, and a radio clock. Her hand grabbed the musical contraption, bringing it back under the warm sheets.
"H-hello," she said heavy with sleep.
"Marissa, you awake," wondered someone on the other end.
"Were you asleep? Sorry, didn't know who to call."
"What time," Marissa uttered, looking at the phone with blurry eyes, making out a 2 and am.
Candice continued on, "are you listening?"
"Sorry, say again."
She sighed. "Don't worry about it."
"Hey, you called me, now say again."
"Amanda left me
Insanity He often compared us to insanity. I could see it: make up, break up, make up, break up. Always said we (meaning I) would do the same thing expecting different results, the definition of insanity apparently.
There was a wasp in the office. No one bothered with it, probably too scared to upset it. I watched it, from my desk, climb up and down the window. It was futile. At the top was a spider web. Every time it reached the top, it would get trapped. It would then try to fly away, to flail away from the sticky trap. The wasp would break free, crash land onto the sill, and try all over again.
Stupid bug, you're not going to get anywhere.
Boys Being Boys "1 2 3 " Randy counted.
"Whatcha countin'," George asked.
"All them bugs," Randy pointed at the log.
"That's alotta 'em." George started to count too.
"Hey, yur gonna mess me up."
"Sorry," George tried to count in his head.
George and Randy counted the creepy crawlers until the sun set. They could hear their mothers calling in the distance.
"How many ya git, Randy?"
"Forty-two, I lost count few times."
"I gots," He scratched his head. "I forget."
The boys laughed as they headed home for supper.
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`ChewedKandi has certainly gone out of her way to keep the vector community on the right path. Always making sure that her talents are infinitely scalable, Sharon has put her bezier curves to excellent use, and firmly anchored herself as an inspirational leader. We're absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for June 2013 to `ChewedKandi. Congratulations, Sharon! Read More