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Lincoln LogsLincoln Logs, she said.
You dont like them?
She smoothed out the wrapping paper on her lap and frowned. I asked for that poetry book. You know, the one with the picture of the tree on the front?
And I had planned on getting it for her until I saw the little sticker with the price on the back.
You cant build a house out of poetry, I said.
She burst into tears, and I got the feeling it was the wrong thing to say.
The LispMarietta suspected strongly by the end of the week, but had little opportunity to pinpoint any proof. She spent every spare moment with Henry in the subtle pursuit of slipping him up, jarring the conversation into unexpected turns. Yes became a rather indifferent okay or alright, no matter how many different ways she managed to ask for affirmation. He veered around plurals and possessives as if they were road kill.
How many balloons are there? she asked.
Eight, said Henry.
Not seven? It looks to me like there are seven.
Henry stiffened but didnt back down. Huh. I thought I noted one more.
You mean you thought you spotted it? Saw it, maybe? Noticed it, even?
Henry tied the balloons to the chair and turned to face her.
I didnt note it, he said.
And that was the end of that.
Marietta wondered if she was the only one to detect
The Man in the Bowler HatIn his defense, the man at the door looked more pathetic to Lydia than a red sock on laundry day. He gripped the wet bowler hat with two clenched fists, dripping considerably on her Wipe Your Paws welcome mat. She had trouble keeping her eyes open long enough to glare at him.
Four in the morning, she said. You know, like the little hand on the four, except you have a tad trouble seeing it, what with it being dark outside?
Miss, I know it might come as a shock to you, but-
Shock? No. Surprisingly, things dont seem very shocking at you-must-be-kidding-me oclock. The milk hasnt even come yet. You have me up earlier than the milk.
The man with the bowler hat studied the dahlias hanging over the archway of the front door. They were salmon, the color of doubt. We found her, Miss. And she wants to see you. We found her and she wants to see you as soon as you can.
Lydia was already searching for her shoes
Parable of the Raging RiverOn opposite sides of a river valley lived two farmers with their families- one strong and young, the other a little older. One day a storm rolled in, and the river flooded.
Their homes were destroyed- stone and wood scattered by the raging river. Their loved ones cold and without shelter, both men were angry at the loss.
"I will not stand for this!" the strong farmer cried. "We have the right to live in safety and harmony. We did nothing wrong- but the river struck us. This injustice will not happen again- I will stop the river, destroy it, foul its course!"
He took his sons and prepared, collecting stone, timber, and tools to stop the river.
"Come, help us!" He called to the elder farmer. "The river is your enemy too."
The elder thought, then said no.
"What's wrong with you!" cried the first farmer. "Don't you want your family to be safe?"
"Of course I do. But I do not stand against the river."
"You would allow harm to come
HypocrisyI own great admiration for the blank slate. It possesses many unwritten ideas. They paint my waking dreams with realizations that hide beneath preset realities. What is caged within the sleeping soul that so cowers beneath human concept? The blank page embodies all that is, was, and ever will be--in minds both unwritten and out voiced. There are tears, and laughs, and screams among the blank pages of existence. Pages, which are devoted to un-birthed ideas and colorless worlds, are caressed by the longing, hungry eyes of silent souls. These souls wish to press full against the purity and bleed out across the pages in a raw, timeless voice. I own an admiration for the blank slate, which so presses against the will of writing philosophies within me that, most often, my fingers refuse to mar its innocence with them. Thus, with this bleeding out of soul, I have given life to colorless, un-birthed ideas. Thus, I have labeled myself a hypocrite.
Your servantYour a witch giant who has different servants that your can do what ever you want which one we'll be your personal servant ?
1) max/Lisa - makes your dinners
2) sam/ Alice - plaything
3) Tristan / Nikki- they we'll do anything u want
18+ is allowed
Sitting in Chains. I'm sitting in chains, condemned to my own personal hell, to the darker side of my mind that has withered and aged beyond my years, Whispering my fears to me quietly in the dead of night, edging me further into the abyss of time, time that will eventually throw me at the feet of my inevitable death. But until then I will continue this deadly masquerade until one day I pull the mask off and fall into oblivion.
The VoiceThey tell me that the voice in my head makes no sense.
They tell me it makes me crazy.
I tell them it is a comfort.
It understands me.
I have been prodded, been in rituals, and been prayed over, nothing has gotten rid of the voice it has only become louder.
It tells me what to do, how to survive.
The voice has made me the person who I am now.
The others don’t understand the voice.
It is wonderful and is my only hope of not drowning in a pool of my own blood.
They say that the thing that spilled my blood in the first place should not help me.
But the voice is comforting and loving, while they are hostile and disturbed by me.
Funny how the thing that makes me crazy is the only thing that makes me sane.
Things I never knewI'm not a good person. I'm not a smart person. I'm not pretty, sporty or talented in any way. Everyone tells me I'm useless, even my mother. I lost count on how many times I've been told to die. It's funny how many people there are who try to help me in relation to the people hating me. One person ever helped me, one person was there for me. And that very person was taken away from me. I don't know how to feel anymore, angry because they took him away, sad because he's no longer here or confuse because this all happens to me without any reason.
Why are humans so mean? Actually, why do we say it's inhumane to do such things, if it just expresses a human. Many people would tell a person like me to cheer up or that's at least what they all say. I never heard anything from those people or anyone, until I met him. He was the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me. He pulled me out of the dark despair and showed me kindness and the beauty left in some people. I lost my hope, but he ga
I CareWe exist in a dead world, people have lost the will to live - there is no passion, no goals, no yearning for success. But hear my tale; a story that will change your perception of the world: The Symphony of Life.
It all began one day, one morning when my one and only friend visited me at my home. This was not a happy visit - no … we both knew what our futures entailed … we knew that our world was going to ruin. But I decided at that moment that I would do something about it - I knew not what at the time but I asked my friend to accompany me along the way...
Without a second thought he scoffed and replied: “You? You of all people? What can you change? Our world is decaying, a foul disease envelops it. All I see is suffering and corruption. People view us as the scum of this world - we are treated worse than stray dogs. No one cares for us or the world! Ask yourself this question: ‘who cares’?” With those words he parted, words that stung like a wa
Shadows on the WallsShadows on the Walls
The shadows flickered on the walls, as they did every night. The room was empty save for them, and the stiff, inflexible mattress upon which he lay. The shadows danced a flexuous dance that captivated Ivan's soul. He had come to name them; they were his only friends, after all. He named them by their attributes. There was Pointy Shadow: a shadow with many sinister spikes, which jutted out from its undulating figure, splattered against the dull, blistering canvas that was the peeling walls of Ivan's small apartment. It abided in the left corner of the room. Then there was Elusive Shadow, a shadow that was not always there. It appeared every so often—when the moon reached its zenith. Then there was Wavy Shadow, appearing as a rippling tide in the far right-hand corner of the room. It was diminutive and serene, but when the darkness was at its strongest, it would surge and flow as a tempestuous ocean. One final shadow remained: the Unmoving Shadow. Barely
Made in HollandI had never heard of a music box before she let me hold it. She said it felt too cliché to be real, and thats how she knew that there wasnt any such thing. But I could feel its weight in my hands and hear the tinny tune of its labor, and I started to think that maybe she was wrong.
She said you couldnt trust a musician, and thats all it was. A tiny, plastic, fake of a musician. She even said the sticker on the back had lied, and that it probably wasnt Made in Holland. Probably not any of the other European tourist countries, she said.
When it got so cold that we couldnt feel our fingertips and the sky hurt to look at, I played the music box and pretended I was Made in Holland too.
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