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Changes ComeOn that hill that day, as the sun swallowed the sky whole in its warm light, she stood. The warm evening breeze playing with the long stands of her hair as the tiny butterfly hair-clip tried desperately to hold together what strands had not managed to escape its clutches. She turned her head slightly to acknowledge my presence and smiled once her eyes provided her with the proof she needed. Her smile however, wasn’t the smile that I had grown so accustomed to, it seemed more like a memory of a smile that she tried desperately to bring up. It was then, in the bright summer evening, on the hill that we used to spend all of our after-school hours in, that I realized that the girl standing in front of me was not the one with the smile that rivaled the warmth of the sun. It was then that I realized that she was broken, that her heart had been trampled on and her body used.
We sat down, back to back, under our favorite tree that had now proudly started advertising names of young and ol
That One Fleeting MomentI try to remember you time and again but my memory betrays me so easily these days. Your picture comes to me but in a hazy blur, like a dream dreamt too much. It feels like your stay in my mind has over extended itself and is slowly trying to fade away into the recesses of my mind, slowing blurring away. I can remember your hair, how softly they fell to your shoulders and that tiny butterfly hairclip that tried so hard to keep it in place. I remember you smile and how warm I felt just watching your happiness overflow onto me. I remember a lot of things, things that I know aren’t important anymore, like how the trees danced with the wind that one chilly November night. I remember that make of the car that sped by so fast it has difficult for us to see, I remember that street-dog calling out to his friends but I can’t bring up for face, in all its entirety. This is all I can do now, all I can do is write to keep that memory of you alive.
I remember that night we spent on the
To an EndI want to be part of a festival and see hope spring anew. I want to watch as the night burns into day, I want to see little babies with tired eyes wake up to the brightness of the sun. I want to watch buildings rise, from the nothingness to the monolithic beauty of human achievement. I want to listen to folk singers tell their tales of days gone by. I want to run through a field of nothing only to find life budding at the roots. I want to be something, something more than a carcass of a man, more than just the envelope to an important message. I want to be like the night lights that sparkle like diamonds on a sea of darkness, I want to be that hope that keeps a broken man running. I want to live like the jaybird that sings because it has beauty to admire. I want to be someone who inspires, more than a thought, more than an idea.
But there is no beauty for me anymore, there is no sliver-lining. There are no lights that shimmer like diamonds, no stars that shine so bright. No air that br
And Now I Think of YouI miss you more today, more now than ever, more here. Fifteen days away from you and my heart cries out for release, my mind gets fogged up and my heart threatens to break out of my ribs. I long to explore those familiar mountains on your body; follow those light marks on your skin. I want to run through your lanes, marvel at the night lights that glow like fireflies through your alleyways. I miss you, I miss your cold breath on my skin, I miss all those strangers that I’ve known, all the people that I’ve grown to love. I want to grow to love your mysterious ways again, I want to taste the spices on your tongue again, I want to grow familiar with you again. I want to savor your food, want to taste your sweet sweet breath again. I miss you more, today more than ever, here more than at home.
She smiled that familiar smile that faded with every wave I waved, her happiness glowing colder with every swing. Her eyes sing a song that my being can never forget and in a moment that
OnceOnce I thought I could rule the world. Once I thought I could grow, like the branches of a tree always seeking out the sun. Once I thought I could be anyone. I thought I could sweep the table clean, thought I would wipe the white dust off the black. Thought I could climb higher and marvel in its grandeur. Once I thought I could rise like the rays of the morning sun. Once I thought I could shine like the lights in a diamond only for the trained eye to see. Once I thought I could survive, like roots always seeking out life. Once I thought I could always find my way back home. I thought I could rise, like the smokes of cigarette long forgotten. I thought I could fall, like the rain, always on the certainty of the earth. Once I thought I could fly, without wings. Thought I could find places to hide, places to turn in the mask. Once I thought I could see for miles. Once I thought I could be, more than what I am, more than what I wanted to be. Once, I thought I could be magnificent.
Unspoken ConversationsShe rested her head on my shoulder and spoke to me that night, as the night slowly drooped into darkness and silver star-dust sprinkled itself like ambers across the cold night sky. She spoke of days gone by, of childhood lost and redreamt, of lingering love lost, of better days to be lived, of the darkness. She told me about the little sparkle in the corner of her eye, of the little fold on her cheeks everytime she smiled, of the little man with the clenched fist that ruled the chambers of her heart. She spoke of the broken-winged bird caged but singing for freedom, of the pianist with broken fingers and a masterpiece on his mind, of the little girl with bombs to be dreamt. Our souls fused into one that night, as the lonely street dog started to sing, as the lonely man with skin drooped with age sent out a heavy sigh into the emptiness of his empty room, as the lonely young boy with tear-stained cheeks cried for a mother in a sea of wolves. She told me about her fears, about the queas
A Greater SorrowYou came to me in my dream last night and my heart slowed. You were as radiant as I remember, full of life smiling a smile too big for that little mouth of yours. You weren’t doing anything special, just standing there, in a light too bright for my eyes but I didn’t look away. Even if the light burned my corneas, I wouldn’t look away. Maybe that part of me turned numb at the sight of you, the part that told me that I was in pain. The hole that my heart had learnt to skip over, the hole that had drown my life in.
There were so many things I wanted to ask, so many answers that had floated within the dark chasms of my mind that I could never be sure. I wanted to talk to you then, like we’d never spoken before. I wanted to tell you things my mind wouldn’t. I want to relearn your existence to find those hidden valleys in your body again but you never came. I ran to catch up with you, ran with every molecule of my being but you never came any closer. I pleaded w
Numb“Why are we always so numb,” she said to me, watching the trees pass by. The autumn leaves were turning and the forest floor was a carpet of forgotten greenery. She didn’t turn to me as she spoke, she just eased into those words so effortlessly. Birds sang somewhere in the distance, a tree branch creaked, dogs barked.
“I think people are so busy in their own lives, so busy finding wealth, so busy trying to be someone that we turn numb to everything else. We have nothing, nothing to complete us, nothing to feel,” she said tapping the glass separating the outside world. Fumbling around the insides of her brown leather handbag, she produced a box of cigarettes. Flicking the flint of her lighter, she inhaled long only to breathe out a cloud of grey smoke. She slightly rolled the window down and the watched the cloud find freedom. “We are always filled with anger, with hate that we need to brush with people just to feel again. Feel, even if only for a sec
MusicThat night you sang to me, your words felt like a thousand unopened love letters. I told you stories like secrets and your chords stuck just the right corners of my heart. And i missed you then like I thought i never could, in those silences in between your songs. Your images flooded these old caverns of memories in my mind. And I knew I wanted to hold you like the moon does the sea. Those stars in the emptiness of the sky hanging like promises we never kept. Like promises lost in between those oblivion folds of time. Our souls like flickering flames of light, I traced your regrets like shadows in the night. And I wrote an ending then like the full stop that soon followed your music.
make me proud. kageyama tobio x reader
Kageyama Tobio x Older Sister!Reader ;;
"Tobio. Can you toss for me?"
The young boy of 9 looked up to her older sister who gave him a small smile. He didn't mind giving tosses to her sister; it was fun — and it helped her practice. As far as he knew, his sister was volleyball player in her middle school and was the ace. She said she needed to work on her spikes, but he didn't understand why she needed to keep practicing it — considering that her spikes were the best. Well, in his opinion, anyway.
He shrugged his shoulders loosely. "Sure."
She grinned and went to the backyard, Tobio following in behind. And as they arrived in backyard, she turned to him, the grin still plastered on her face. "You ready?"
Tobio nodded his head and [Name] passed the ball to him and as the ball was coming towards him, he extended his arms up above his head, positioned his hands in a diamond formation, spread his feet about shoulder width apart, and as the bal
birthday kiss. oikawa tooru x reader
"Good morning, [Name]-chan~!"
Oikawa gave the girl a wave, but the girl merely looked away, trying her best to ignore him at all costs. Knowing that she was avoiding his presence, Oikawa entered the classroom and grabbed a chair and scooted next to her. Really close to her. Too close for her own comfort. But did Oikawa care? No, of course not. He never cares about anything but himself.
Which is why [Name] hated him.
"Do you know what day it is~?" he asked, paying no attention at how the girl was extremely uncomfortable by the space between them. Oikawa, however, saw the tint of blush appearing on her cheeks, and that only made him want to get closer to her even more.
"Friday." [Name] simply replied, or at least, tried to.
"Nope!" he exclaimed, that sadistic smile of his still plastered on his dreadful face. The students stared at the two
lovebirdsstudents, blinking at the scene. Though, this wasn't the first time Oikawa barged into their c
runaway irony (FFM 22)Twenty minutes after finishing the documentary on New Zealand, Nicole had a plan worked out. She wrote it all down in gel pen, an itemised list of all the things she needed; then she got to work.
It wasn’t easy to convince the man in Bunnings to sell her nails, but she put on her best innocent face, and told him it was for her father’s garden shed. It wasn’t easy to convince the neighbour to let her have the old fence palings, either; nor the logs that had been earmarked for a bonfire, but a few hearty fibs and her best “I just want to help my daddy” smile went a long way to convincing them.
Two weeks later, she had bruised hands, a lot of knowledge about how not to use a hammer, and what she hoped would pass for a half-decent raft. She packed herself a bag with some clothes and spare underwear, then packed another bag, this one larger and wheeled, with as much canned food as she could carry. Before she left, she remembered to grab the can op
FFM 18: Friday NightAnother friday night. Burnt coffee, stale cigarette smoke, and a bunch of assholes that Vlad didn’t like any better than himself. If there was a silver lining here, it was that this would be his last meeting. That almost brought a smile to his tired, pallid face. Almost. Instead, he peeled off one last sticky tag, wrote his name, and sat in the circle with the rest of the guys.
Rat King was up first. Blah blah, all the usual bullshit about ruling the sewers. Honestly, who cared? That guy wasn’t a true monster. As far as Vlad was concerned, they should’ve sent him packing ages ago, but this was a place of support, so he’d never said as much. Twitching and fidgety, he waited for his turn to stand at the podium.
“Hello,” he began. “My name is Vlad. Of the Family Macnair.”
“Hi, Vlad,” the assorted murderers and thieves replied.
“As most of you know, I
A ConversationI told him he smells of coffee and thrift shops. He said, “Is that a good thing?”
I said yes, very. Or better than smelling of cheese and ammonia.
“Who smells of cheese and ammonia?”
This lady I work with. And not good cheese, either. Roquefort, that’s been sitting on the dash of a car on a 100 degree day.
“Why do you suppose the ammonia?”
I assume that she cleans with it.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Who cleans with ammonia? Unless she’s getting rid of evidence?” He cocked an eyebrow.
And who smells of cheese if they clean with ammonia, is what I want to know. I tell him I can never eat stinky cheese again, but that being near him always makes me want a coffee, badly.
“What do thrift shops smell like?”
I ask him if he’s ever been into a thrift shop.
“I don’t think so. Old bookstores. I love those. Is that close?”
I thought about that. Yes, yes that wa
SplitI didn’t know what to do for her. Or to her. Or with her. She cried, a lot. She thought I didn’t know, didn’t notice, or maybe just didn’t care.
I saw her dancing in the rain one Saturday afternoon, nude. Not a stitch on her, and dancing by the creek, red welts rising on her skin from the biting mosquitoes. She never danced. I watched, and marveled that she could dance and still look sad.
When the rain let up, she stopped and stared at the creek flowing and bubbling over big flat mossy rocks. I called her name without using my voice, and she turned, but then looked away again. I wondered where she was in her head, that she could stand there and ignore the itchy bites and not worry that she was naked.
I envied her lack of self-consciousness. I pulled my heavy cardigan around my shoulders, even though it was hot and muggy out. I hid in its folds like a turtle hides inside its mobile home.
Sometimes I could feel her tugging at me, begging. I was stubbor
Giving the Bride AwayThird Person Plural
Father: Teenagers are too immature to know what’s best for them.
Third Person Neuter
Mother: This country just doesn’t have the same standard of morals.
Third Person Masculine
Father: He’s the perfect choice for her.
Third Person Feminine
Mother: She’s not too young. It’s normal to be nervous.
Father & Mother: You should be excited on your wedding day.
Bride: This isn’t what I want.
:: GULA :: Charles Grey x Reader
gula ; latin for gluttony.
"Ah, I'm so hungry! [Name], get me something, will you?"
"Must you eat all the time? You just ate an hour ago!" the girl said, raising her voice. It still surprised her at how this man could consume any food with a blink of an eye. He kept eating, eating, and eating, it made her sick to the stomach. Just watching him eat made her stomach churn in disgust. "If you want food, then go get some yourself."
"That's a lot of work," Charles complained. "that's why I'm asking you, silly!"
"I'm not," [Name] began, walking towards him and sticking her sword in front of his face. "your maid."
"Course, you aren't." he mumbled, removing the sword away from his face. "Must you always stick your sword in front of me? You know, one day you might end up slicing my face in half! And it will be all your fault, [Name]."
"Oh, please. I would have done that if you weren't the Queen's butler."
"Still cruel as ever, I s
The Bird Lady FFM20I’ve lived in NYC for over two years, and for so many people living there, it’s an awfully lonely place to be. Everyone is very focused on themselves, no one makes eye contact in the streets, and even the cabs ignore you. My job is the only thing that keeps me here. I make so much money, it would be stupid to move back home and work at my dad’s store for only a fraction of what I earn. That, and I have an old lady to take care of.
She’s one of those bird ladies in the park. She’s a sweet old thing, and it would kill me to leave her alone. It would probably kill her too.
We became friends because I was sitting alone in the park one afternoon, watching the clouds and daydreaming. She jumped out of nowhere and said, “Feed the birds?” I nearly fell off my park bench, I was so surprised.
“Sure, sure,” I said, pressing a quarter into her wrinkled hand. Gums showing, she smiled. She handed me a paper bag of breadcrumbs and sat next to me.
Words and DreamsI create, I imagine, I write. I bring eloquent memories to life, tell stories about beautiful girls with hearts that would melt in the summer sun, talk about nature in fascination. I am a creator, I breathe life into people and plan memories like an architect constructing a complex ideological heart that beats like the ones in real life and breaks like the ones in real life. I can create eyes that curve like the beautiful eyes of newborn kittens, I can write about the warm breath of a teenage girl, I can bring back people that have already turned into ashes and blown with the wind but always in dreams.
I die, a little, every time I write. My heartbreaks every time my fingers long for the familiarity of a pencil, my eyes swell every time my mind longs for escape. Where are the people I long to create? Where are the people I spend hours of my time breathing life into? Where are the beautiful girls whose hair smells like oranges and whose eyes shine like the millions of stars in the sky?
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