Dare

Posted: October 23, 2017 by WaywardDaughter in Poetry
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Apples to apples, heart to heart,

Touch the surface, watch the ripples.

Move a heart, invoke a laugh,

Create a movement to better us all.

We go through life, for just a short while,

Hoping to maybe make a ripple in the universe,

But still do what we wish

Hoping juggling will work.

But how does it ever? Don’t we fail?

We try to juggle school and friends,

Work and family,

Kids and activities and just all of life.

We struggle to be the model citizen

But still make ends meet and stay sane.

Sanity is the problem, isn’t it?

A “normality” forcing us into a box?

DARE to be different.

DARE to do things your way.

DARE to show the world you deserve love

Despite your non-cookie-cutter shape.

“Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

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The Usual Business

Posted: October 23, 2017 by ashyoconnor in humor, Miscellany, Short Stories
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A small mouse roamed the streets as night fell. Street lamps flicked on with a low buzz. Blinds were closed to keep out the chill of the dark. Rats came out, sniffing near restaurant garbage bins for any type of leftovers. The mouse avoided those rats. They’re usually up to no good. As he made his way toward the river, he noticed a stray cat on the prowl. She searched the street with a gleam in her eye, looking for anything that would make a tasty snack. The mouse stayed in the shadows; he couldn’t be eaten, he was a busy mouse with places to go and things to do. He was finally able to make it to the river uninterrupted. He went into an old drainage pipe that wasn’t used anymore, ready to get things started. He paused as he heard voices drifting through the opening, but still he went on. As he entered a larger part of the pipe, the chatter echoing around him died. All eyes turned to him, swinging in the low light. Rats, mice, and even a few possums were gathered. He was the smallest thing in there, but he simply waltzed right in. They watched as he took the place of the apparent leader, the biggest possum in the group.

“Alright boys,” the mouse began, cracking his knuckles, “We ready to get this party started?”

“Sure boss,” the group of miscreant alley-runts replied. The biweekly gang meeting had begun.

There once was a witch who went to watch a marriage hitch. She was filled with gloom when she wanted the bride’s groom, so she came up with a plan. She cursed the bride and made her wide and unable to cook with a pan. She arranged her face and began to erase. She made her mouth go to the right and her nose stick up to a new height. She made her eyes uneven until she looked like a man named Steven.

Her dress of gold began to look old, and the bride became mad. She walked down the aisle, the groom saw her, and what a terrible day she had. He left in a rush, and over the room fell a hush when the bride began to cry. They had tried to console her but couldn’t control her, and they all gave up with a sigh.

She looked in the mirror, and saw her face, now much queerer. Who was to blame? The witch was filled with shame, and tried to reverse the curse. She couldn’t reverse it, and the bride took a hit. She would always be ugly while the witch escaped smugly!

The witch found the groom, and they rode off on her broom. The groom thought the witch was hot, but later realized she was not. She had made a spell to make her look swell, but when the spell faded away, the groom suddenly became gay. He saw a man who’s name was Stan, and they confessed their love. Their love didn’t last long when with a “Dong!” Stan was hit by a dove. He passed away on that terrible day. The groom cried and contemplated suicide, but at the end of the day, he just moved away. He lived out his life without a husband or wife.

As for the bride, she had way more free time and decided she was ugly but still at her prime. She strapped on her skates and followed her fates. She started as a beginner but became an Olympic Figure Skating winner! With all of her money, she got herself a honey. On their wedding day, the witch was jealous again of her new fiancé. She tried to find a spell to take the bride’s money swell, but the bride was smart with her riches and had her security stationed in niches. By the end of that day, the witch was locked away!

The Cemetery

Posted: October 23, 2017 by daphne3100 in Miscellany
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In response to one of Douglas Gayeton’s photos, based around using the five senses of sight, smell, hearing, taste, and touch.

I stand at a cemetery, holding my camera. To my left I see just one headstone, one soul’s resting place. It reads “Bogi Giuseppe.” What happened to this person, I do not know, but I cannot help but wonder… Was he a military general who died for his country, sacrificing his personal eternity here on earth for thousands of others’ lives? Did Mr. Bogi rob banks, stealing to get by, to survive just one more day, eventually losing his battle? I wonder if he was a father, living until a ripe old age, seeing his baby girl wed, watching in pain as his baby boy died from illness. Did he wonder where he was going after he died, or did he not even have time to wonder? I can’t help myself from thinking these things as I stride up to it and capture the scene in a photographic jail.

I breathe in deeply, smelling the dryness of the soul, the leftover pieces of life and vegetation that died too. I can smell the blood from the battle that may have went on in this very spot, smelling men’s distress and tears and torment as they fade away. The scent of a picnic wafts through the air, lovers having set it up long ago. Their hearts and stomachs were full as they nibbled on pickles and tiny sandwiches. I can even still smell the lemonade. Next, I smell the sad scent of a mourner grieving poor Mr. Bogi’s death, her perfume masking the stench from the emptiness left inside her. She just isn’t the same without him.

Birds chirp. I hear birds chirp. I hear them gossiping about one another, singing songs to their betrothed, bidding their children goodnight. I hear grunting as a long gone farmer works his field, hoeing and heaving and wheezing all day long. Now farmers have machines to ease their labor, but not in time for this poor sap. I can also faintly hear laughter of children as they run and gallop through this field, this cemetery for one man. They chase each other around Giuseppe as he mutters and complains in his grave from all that darn noise.

I taste the tears running down a man’s face as his lover for the last time walks away from him, never to turn back or even glance. I taste blood from my nose… why? Oh yes, because I made Elliot, my brother in some past life, mad at me. He punched me square in the nose. I believe it may be broken. I taste meat fresh off the fire pit’s turner as I grunt my approval. Apparently, I am now a caveman from thousands of years ago. Dinosaurs and tigers chase their prey, but I pay no attention to the dodo’s demise. I just eat.
I touch the arm of my child as I try to gain her attention, seeing as the cloud’s formations today captures her gaze, and we must keep moving. I touch the dirt… with my face? Yes, with my face! Elliot shoved me into the ground. Typical. My bare feet hit the soil as I relax, taking a leisurely stroll through my property one last time before moving far away. These moments are what I try to capture with my camera, I suppose.

Walls

Posted: October 23, 2017 by rsparks222 in Miscellany
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I’m walking through a vast room in which many faces are hanging on the walls. As I walk around, I wonder what each person did to deserve their face painted, let alone put on a wall for everyone to see. As I look at each individual painting, I start to generate stories in my mind that possibly could have been true. For instance, I see a very tall man who is wearing a red and white shirt. The man appears to have a little smile on his face, so I infer that he lives in a little cottage near a pond and lives a peaceful and simplistic lifestyle. He is somewhat skinny, so I may guess that the economy was not very steady or his farm was not producing the necessary amounts to feed both him and his small family that lives in the cottage with him. I also see murals of battles. I assume these battles are civil wars among the people and a tyrant’s army. I imagine that this tyrant does things such as take unfair taxes and steal from the people. I also think about who thought these people were so important that they felt the need to devote an entire room to them. We may never know.

The Perfect Shot

Posted: September 27, 2017 by ashyoconnor in Reflections
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The summer breeze brushed past her sundress as she walked down the lane. Her hair flew gracefully around her head, almost like a halo. Her silhouette moved as if it were water, flowing into the orange, burning sunset. I knelt on the dirt behind her, camera at the ready. Each shot I took enhanced a different element in the scene. One of them showed the rays of sunshine reaching out to anything and everything. Another captured her dainty, barefooted steps and the smile she flashed as she turned to look at me. My favourite one caught the wind as it swirled her hair into beautiful abstract patterns and tugged at the hem of her dress. I smiled as I looked through them.

She ran over to me, eager to see my work. I showed her the best ones, and she laughed as she saw one where her hair slapped her on the neck. Her expression was priceless. As we parted and said our farewells for the day, I promised to send her prints of any of the photos she wanted. We set a date for another shoot and hoped that it would be as magical as this last time. She was the perfect model: beautiful, graceful, and full of joy. Every time I shot her, I tried to capture that, but I couldn’t even come close. After all, there isn’t much more I could do than to keep trying, right?

Time For School

Posted: September 27, 2017 by WaywardDaughter in Miscellany
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The wail of the passing period bell echoed through the near-deserted halls of the school, ushering the few stragglers away from their lockers and friends and into their first period classes. Riley, however, was pulling into the parking lot. He closed the car door, flicked his collar up against the brisk autumn wind, and strode into his first hour. He opened the door to his English class and took in the room, pushing his shades up onto his head. He strode forward to his seat and plopped down, throwing his feet onto the desk, lacing his fingers together behind his head.

“Okay class,” he said as thirty teenagers stared at him from their seats.

“Open your books to chapter three.”