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Literature Text
Lindsey Stirling blared from my ear buds and I bobbed my head, furrowing my brow. My hand was shoved deep into my purse, searching for my keys. Instead, I found receipts from the Stone Age, a collection of seashells from last year's vacation, and enough pepper spray to blind at least twenty bears.
Frustrated, I dumped my portable landfill on the welcome mat; lipstick tubes and loose change bounced across the wood and disappeared, lost beneath the porch. Spreading objects out with my hands, I sighed. No keys. "Damn it all to Hell and back ag--"
Glancing up, the box near my door caught my eye. Wrapped with neon-colored paper, a large skull-and-crossbones bow held a handwritten "FRAGILE" note in place. The colors were garish, clashing with the ivory siding.
Wrinkling my nose, I pulled the package toward me, keys forgotten. The paper was slick, slipping against the pads of my fingertips like silk. Examining the box, I flipped the "FRAGILE" note over--and gasped.
Yanking the ear buds from my phone, I dialed the number etched across my brain, my frantic fingers finding the keys with ease. I stared at the box as the line connected, then rang. "Han? It's happened. No, no, I came home and found this--this ugly box on my porch and-- No, I haven't opened it, are you crazy?! What? Yeah, okay. Okay! See you soon."
Pressing end, I shoved my head into my hands. Three years, twelve moves, and at least twenty new names and he was still there, breathing down my neck, promising pain. Promising more broken bones to add to my chart, another piece of me scraped off the bottom of his shoe like used gum.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I watched the street out of the corner of my eye, old habits taking over. Tucking my hair into a ponytail, I hunkered into my sweater, a chill working down my spine.
"You won't win. Not again. DO YOU HEAR ME?! HUH?!" Control skittered out of my reach, the daily mantra blazing a trail across my disheveled thoughts. Not again. Not again. Not again.
Hoisting the box up by the bow, I slammed it against the wall once, twice, threefourfive times and then stomped on it, hard, for good measure. Fragile or not, this box was nothing I wanted.
Turning around and pushing my bangs out of my eyes, a grin flopped across my lips like a fish out of water. And then, I collapsed.
They said it must have been the stress. An aneurysm, maybe. But I know the truth. It was my heart in that box.
The piece of me I always forgot to pack when I ran.
Frustrated, I dumped my portable landfill on the welcome mat; lipstick tubes and loose change bounced across the wood and disappeared, lost beneath the porch. Spreading objects out with my hands, I sighed. No keys. "Damn it all to Hell and back ag--"
Glancing up, the box near my door caught my eye. Wrapped with neon-colored paper, a large skull-and-crossbones bow held a handwritten "FRAGILE" note in place. The colors were garish, clashing with the ivory siding.
Wrinkling my nose, I pulled the package toward me, keys forgotten. The paper was slick, slipping against the pads of my fingertips like silk. Examining the box, I flipped the "FRAGILE" note over--and gasped.
Yanking the ear buds from my phone, I dialed the number etched across my brain, my frantic fingers finding the keys with ease. I stared at the box as the line connected, then rang. "Han? It's happened. No, no, I came home and found this--this ugly box on my porch and-- No, I haven't opened it, are you crazy?! What? Yeah, okay. Okay! See you soon."
Pressing end, I shoved my head into my hands. Three years, twelve moves, and at least twenty new names and he was still there, breathing down my neck, promising pain. Promising more broken bones to add to my chart, another piece of me scraped off the bottom of his shoe like used gum.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I watched the street out of the corner of my eye, old habits taking over. Tucking my hair into a ponytail, I hunkered into my sweater, a chill working down my spine.
"You won't win. Not again. DO YOU HEAR ME?! HUH?!" Control skittered out of my reach, the daily mantra blazing a trail across my disheveled thoughts. Not again. Not again. Not again.
Hoisting the box up by the bow, I slammed it against the wall once, twice, threefourfive times and then stomped on it, hard, for good measure. Fragile or not, this box was nothing I wanted.
Turning around and pushing my bangs out of my eyes, a grin flopped across my lips like a fish out of water. And then, I collapsed.
They said it must have been the stress. An aneurysm, maybe. But I know the truth. It was my heart in that box.
The piece of me I always forgot to pack when I ran.
Literature
Advertisements
She was only six when the funeral homes started sending us advertisements, all competing with each other to be the best, to win her business. To win our business, more like; six is hardly old enough to understand what's going on. It's not old enough to understand why everyone is covering their mouths with their hands and failing to hold back tears when you walk into the room, or old enough to understand why people begin to outright sob when you start talking about what you want to be when you grow up. Once it was a doctor, before that it was a fairy princess, but right now it's a policewoman.
And of course all the children have heard about t
Literature
Euphrosyne
dawn.
legs splash from milky sheets.
she rises from the bed like a wave
and crests, just before bare feet touch wood
and fog crawls across the mirror.
midmorning.
footsteps leave damp prints on the floor.
she sings in muted tendrils that float through
hollow rooms.
the sun dries her hair with copper fingers.
noon.
the shadows bunch beneath her feet
and she tosses them across the sky-
painting clouds over the staring sun.
mile-long legs stretch across the world
and she
makes love to the hand-me-down earth.
afternoon.
her quickened breath becomes the wind
and sails ships across the seven seas.
dusk.
when the sun grows w
Literature
Beginning We End
Him, in the very beginning:
He is eighteen when he gets his death sentence. Unlike most death sentences, this one isn't going to send him to the guillotine or maybe the noose. Instead, it's handed to him by a doctor with very clean hands in a stark white room probably very similar to the one he'll end up dying in. And it's not the type of death sentence carried out by an impassive executor. He's essentially going to kill himself. He is dying from the inside out.
He mumbles something at the doctor, and suddenly he is on the street, a white piece of paper fisted and crumped in his hands. He's grateful it has the prescription written on it in
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Day yay for a day of no work tomorrow!
=DrippingWords featured this over at !
Day 7
Word Count--449
Prompt: A box, labeled 'FRAGILE', is on my front steps with no return address. from *NiteMuse
8/04/2013--A DD?! You guys are wonderful! Thank you *xlntwtch for suggesting it and ^Beccalicious for featuring it! I LOVE YOU ALL!
July 7th, 2013
=DrippingWords featured this over at !
Day 7
Word Count--449
Prompt: A box, labeled 'FRAGILE', is on my front steps with no return address. from *NiteMuse
8/04/2013--A DD?! You guys are wonderful! Thank you *xlntwtch for suggesting it and ^Beccalicious for featuring it! I LOVE YOU ALL!
July 7th, 2013
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Comments105
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Oh wow that last line is just... perfect. A wonderfully written twist.
Belated congrats on the DLD and DD!
Belated congrats on the DLD and DD!