He Understands, My Latvia DoesI heard a saying once, that the best gifts come in small packaging, or something along those lines. I never gave it much thought; I was always so certain that bigger was automatically better. Bigger meant wider, longer, fuller, thicker, anything along those lines, and anything along those lines was better for whichever country was obtaining it; Wider and longer space for land, fuller populations and trade, thicker income, all for the betterment of a nation.He Understands, My Latvia Does4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Yes, in my eyes, bigger ways always better. However, that was before I'd obtained my little Latvia.
His body is small, both short and thin, and though he's often the color of the snow I despise so much, somehow he makes it beautiful. Alluring. And of course, he isn't white all over. His lips and his nipples are pink, especially after I've gotten my mouth on them. He tastes just as sweet as he looks, like a mix of pure sugar and powder.
People often reprimand me for how I feel for my Latvia. Lithuania and Estonia especially; they alw
I Look At Your Body And...Sometimes I look at your body and it makes me want to kiss you.I Look At Your Body And...4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
You look like an angel, a true and pure angel. Every color about you is soft, comforting almost, like your hair; blonde in a shade that could've been lightened by the sun, where a halo wouldn't look out of place, or your eyes; blue in a shimmering way that reminds me of rare jewels and even the sky itself. Your skin could blend into the clouds, if they were lit only slightly with sunshine, is that strange mix of pale and peach you exhibit. I wouldn't be surprised if one day I found you with translucent white wings sprouting out of your back. I wouldn't be surprised, but I would be terrified. With wings like that you could lift right out of my arms and fly away, leaving me alone. You know then I'd have to do something about them, clip them maybe, or even cut them off altogether.
Sometimes I look at your body and it makes me want to cry.
You're riddled with spots and bruises and cuts half the time I look at you, and every on
As If Nothing HurtIt had been just another Saturday afternoon in the peaceful state of Virginia, site of Alfred's oldest and most historical of all his houses. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky as the trees and flowers waved in a slight breeze. Birds sang from branches above and squirrels chattered busily, and the grass in a nearby field danced elegantly in a surprise gust, sending butterflies free-flying into the air.As If Nothing Hurt4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Nothing about that day could have yielded a warning about the horror Arthur was going to find when he finally reached Alfred's colonial home.
Outside the house, the birds still sang and the frogs in the pond still croaked happily, going about their daily business. The sun still shone. There wasn't an ominous darkness about the place, and it wasn't locked up or shut in either. All the windows were uncovered and open, filling the house with the fresh air and natural chorus. The world was utterly peaceful.
That is, until a gunshot rang out.
The sound sent Arthur at least two feet int
Of A Night in A MotelThe room was painted a dark mix of maroon and red, the curtains across the window a dreary forest green hemmed in faded gold. The ceiling fan with a bent flap was a dusty grayish-black, sporting a single broken light bulb hanging from the middle. The only light sources came from the blaring red numbers on the clock beside a broken lamp, and from the tiny door-less doorway which led to the bathroom.Of A Night in A Motel4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Gilbert's eyelids were heavy as he listened to the shower running. His body felt like dead weight; just a collection of useless lumps and limps attached to his neck, and even that felt tired. To be blunt, he was exhausted. He just wasn't the man he used to be, and it was taking its toll on his entire being.
His mind drifted back to his glory days; the days when he, Gilbert Weillschmidt, was just as strong as Alfred Jones was now. Back then he could war with Roedrich for months on end without a break; he could take hundreds of thousands of smacks across the head by Elisaveta's frying pan; he