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Literature
Faerieland
At first the incursions were small. A couple of ears of corn here would go missing, or a small patch of potato wouldn't come to crop. Nobody worried overmuch - Mother Nature was always due her share of the harvest. Next, a lamb would go, or a calf. Still, nobody paid it much mind. Nature was ever a thief in the night.
Next, sheep and cows would disappear in the darkest hours. As the barrier weakened, They grew bolder and bolder. Night time disappearances turned to daytime thefts, and the people began to worry. They hustled the sheep in, they hustled the cows in, and they hustled each other inside. The old ways began to come back to them, as they shod their horses and cowered behind iron doors.
Still, They came. As the barrier broke, They came forward with pointed smiles and sharpened teeth. Iron doors weren't enough to keep the people safe, and they fled from their homes. Alas, Their weapons were in their music and their melodies broke open the night.
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Literature
The Perils of Parenthood
When Eliyah and Marion were born, the first thing we did was to count their tiny fingers and toes. The second was to document, clearly, which twin was which -- a job which fell to me, the proud father. This was a more-than-usual necessity as the girls were identical mirror twins, and it struck me that it would not do for the new dad to be unable to confidently say, "this is Eliyah" or "you're holding Marion" when doting relatives questioned me.
Unfortunately, new dads are the second worst choice for such an important document (the worst, of course, being the mother, unrested and still in her delivery gown). The very first thing I did, post documentation, was to lose the dratted thing. Of course, I couldn't tell my wife. She was still filled with pregnancy hormones and liable to yell at me -- or worse, cry -- if I told her what I'd done. I was pretty sure I remembered which twin had the left-side birthmark, so I crossed my fingers and made a new note. My wife would never have to know, a
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Literature
Soul Sale
Xlitewqoafsns (pronounced "Bruce") squinted at me, thumb in maw.
"We're agreed then. In return for one pizza--"
"No, hold on," I interrupt. "You're not going to subvert this by giving me the wrong sort of pizza or something. I do know how this works, you know."
"Okay, okay." The demon looks lightly downcast and amends his speech. "In return for one Eagle Boys pizza of the variety, large, chicken hawaiian, you shall henceforth give your soul unto my keeping. Yes?"
I pause to consider loop holes before nodding my agreement. As soon as I do, Xlitewqoafsns whips out an iPad.
"Right. I just need to enter this, bear with me one mo-- oh, shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit."
I notice an unusual sensation and look down to see a miniaturised Xlitewqoafsns imprinted on the air just beside me.
The real Xlitewqoafsns looks stricken.
"I've hit the wrong button. It appears I've accidentally sold my soul to you."
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Literature
Spat Out
It's night. There's no movement in the desert air, nothing to suggest that this night is different from any other, and then it happens. The sand heaves. A moment later, all is still. There is no sign that anything has happened except the presence of a humanoid body that definitely wasn't there before.
It's a few moments before the thing sits up. It does so in a sudden movement, hands raised to protect its face. After a moment, the hands drop to the ground, which it scrabbles its fingers through. Sand pours through the digits while it watches and time passes.
Eventually, the thing tires of watching the endless fall of sand, and rises. It moves with a lurch, like it's forgotten how to walk properly. It's an eerie sight, the staggered jerking of limbs making a mockery of human movement.
It looks to the left, where the edges of a town graze the horizon, but it shakes its head and walks the opposite way. Step by ponderous step, the creature makes its way through the desert and the night. Ti
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Literature
Layers
She wore layers. I don't just mean her clothes, though she was well layered up in those. She'd come out in a hat, a backpack, an undershirt, an over-shirt, jeans, socks, shoes, and to cover it all, a giant flannelette top that wrapped around her like a hug; and then under all of that she hid the layers of her true self. When she talked, it was a whisper. When she laughed, her mouth quirked upwards and opened in a quiet huff of air.
Six months in, she was starting to thaw. A layer dropped -- her backpack fell from her shoulders and crumpled at her feet. At the same time, she started to talk. It wasn't much of a change, just a slight increase in volume, and a tendency to verbalise a little more frequently; but I noticed it all the same.
Another three months and the hat came off. That day, I heard a real laugh peel out of her. It echoed in my head that night when I showered, and my thoughts started to change. I'd written her off before -- she was too small, too quiet, too innocent, too pr
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Literature
The Bully
Flashing into being on my counter, he sniffed the air. As if that hadn't been curious enough, he asked after tonight's dinner -- the bowl he was, unfortunately, sitting in. Mournful, I looked at the remains of my deconstructed pizza. 'This,' I thought to myself, 'would be a great time to come up with some dialogue.' Unfortunately, conversation seemed beyond me just now. The being on my dinner didn't seem too interested in it, either.
I was just forming the impression that in addition to being completely weird, he was also completely mute, when he communicated. His dialogue arrived in my head, a pattern of impressions more than it was words. The gist seemed to be that he was almost as surprised as myself, but boy was he angry about it. The air, by rights, should be turning a deep red based on his language. I almost, in fact, expected little swear-bugs to zap into being. They didn't, however, and by now the creature -- for such it certainly was -- had turned its ire on me. He swore. He b
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Literature
Jason
Jason tagged after me, his feet dogging my heels. "An' then, an' then, an' then BOOM!"
Sometimes when he was excited or feeling particularly emotional, he stuttered entire phrases. It was annoying, but what could I do? Getting angry at him just made it worse, and he'd start stuttering letters, too.
The good news was, he didn't always need interaction. He'd prattle on for hours at a time, just a long-running monologue. He was doing it now.
"--said I don't have any friends, but me and you are friends so she's really wrong and anyway,"
It was high time I interrupted him, or I'd be treated to a full discourse on just exactly how many friends this other person had, and a whole lot more besides. "Buddy, whoa. Breathe, man." He grinned up at me, two wobbly teeth hugging a small gap.
Like a squirrel gathering nuts, he filled his cheeks in an exaggerated motion. They puffed out, translucent and cheeky. I make to swat him with my hand and he ducks away, still grinning. It's a beat before
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Literature
Azrael
His wings were glorious. It was 1985 and my father had just finished crafting another masterpiece. This one was unvarnished, a golden-winged angel, each feather individually carved into the wood. Since my father carved for himself and his family more than he sold, I asked if the angel could be my special gift. I considered it undervalued and priceless and my father, mercifully, agreed to let it stand in a tranquil glade I frequented.
I named him Azrael because I thought it was the most beautiful name I'd ever heard. Each day I would tell him my joys and sorrows, and he would listen patiently. When we studied Shakespeare, I would practice my lines upon him, and when I knew nobody else could hear, I would speak in iambic pentameter. Invariably, these would begin with "Verily". I didn't know what it meant, but I had always liked the sound of it.
"Verily," I would announce. "Verily, were I to be born a Queen,
my subjects royal would e'er love me well
for always would I have and have been
k
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Literature
Festival
Collectively, the crowd held its breath. The champions sat astride their magnificent horses and awaited the command to begin. Some were bedecked in heavy suits of armour, others wore separated pieces, but all were dazzling to the crowd's eye.
Nearby, at the archer's tent, one voice could be heard muttering to a companion. "Is this how you do it? Hand here and pull back and-- oh. Where did that go?"
In the stands, a man let out a small scream and clutched at his arm. Much to his surprise, it had suddenly sprouted an arrow. "Argh," he said. Then, feeling as though it hadn't fully expressed his surprise and pain, he added a second one. "Argh!"
Organiser Sandy, currently seated three rows away from the man who'd been shot, made a decision. "This is the last year we're using real arrows for the festival goers," he told himself.
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Literature
With a Bang
It had been magnificent. Even now, the fireworks continued to fizzle in a half-hearted way. It had been the best display in years, all the people told each other.
Three hours ago:
"Shove over," Phil commanded his brother. "You're taking up all the room."
Looking mutinous, Adrian shuffled over. "I was using that space," he grumbled. "I'm never going to be a rock star if you never let me practice."
Phil vibrated gently with scorn. "You can't play any instruments and your singing sounds like something screaming in agony. You're never going to be a rock star anyway." His brother sighed. "You don't have to put it so bluntly," he objected.
There was a pause.
"Big show tonight," remarked Phil. "Heard 'em talking about it all week. They're expecting a good turn-out." Adrian didn't respond. Phil added, "should be a pretty spectacular finale, I heard. Going out with a bang." He turned to face Adrian, ready to admonish him for his sulk, when he discovered his brother was nowhere in sight.
It was
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Literature
The curious wheelbarrow
When they first married, Granny and Pop Pop acquired a compelling garden centrepiece. It was a curious thing, both sturdy and delicate at once and it stood proudly in place. Over the years, as Granny aged and moved through the stages of her life, so, too, did the wheelbarrow.
Gone was Granny's glorious mane of dark hair; the steady hands I'd held so tightly as a child, and the unlined beauty of her youthful smile. Now she had hair that shone silver, hands that quivered like leaves in the breeze, and more wrinkles than a prune. Still, she was beautiful to us.
The wheelbarrow, too, had suffered the ravages of time. Where once had been a solid coat of verdant paint was now a faded and peeling green. Withered vines, grey and dead, now clung to the handles, and wilted flowers crumpled in its tub, hugging the soil. It, too, still had its own kind of beauty.
In years to come, fond tales of Granny will go hand-in-hand with tales of the old wheelbarrow. Both will live forever in the memories of
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Literature
Lazarus Forever
Aladdin's genie remarked that 2000 years in a lamp gives you a real crick in the neck. I wouldn't know about that, but I do know that you see a lot in 2000 years outside of one. Cities rise and fall in that time -- whole civilisations even. I should know. The name's Lazarus. Yep, that guy. Turns out the great Jesus neglected one little thing when he brought me back from the dead -- I'm still alive.
And the things I've seen. You wouldn't believe it. I've seen the fall of Rome and Constantinople. I took part in the Greco-Persian war. I met Alexander the Great, the Vikings and Christopher Columbus. I was part of The Crusades, the Ming dynasty and both World Wars. I was there for the Renaissance and the birth of the Gutenberg printing press. I survived the Black Death. I was there when they built the Great Wall of China and I was there when the Berlin Wall came down. I witnessed man begin to explore space, and to grow in its expansions until there became talk of colonisation there as well.
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Literature
Dark Squirrel
There are some endings you just don't expect, no matter how good you think you are at predictions. Death by squirrel, for instance, would come as a shock to all but the most skilled fortune tellers. It certainly did for Jason.
One minute he was minding his own business placing some poison to deal with the rat problem he'd recently noticed, and the next, dead. The only intervening factor was a squirrel in a dark cloak, and he still wasn't sure just exactly how it'd managed the deed.
He stared down at the slumped body on the ground - the one that, until very recently, he'd considered his own. It stared blankly into space. He stared at the squirrel.
'May the users of Rat Poison beware', chattered Dark Squirrel, Avenger of Rodents. He smiled.
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Literature
Listening
I used to be pretty well known here on this mountain. Once, a long time ago, I chopped a wolf's head off, that an old woman could escape from within his skin. Her granddaughter was mighty pleased, let me tell you. Nowadays, I spend my days among the trees; no longer chopping them but simply listening. Oh, sod off, I have not gone soft.
You see, things got kind of strange after I rescued the old girl. First, she offered her granddaughter's hand in marriage, when the kid was old enough. When I told her I wasn't interested, she placed some kind of power on me. I think it was meant to be a gift.
You see, I can talk to trees. Or rather, I can hear the trees talk among themselves. Every whisper of leaves. Every clacking of branches. And let me tell you, they're noisy. They tell stories among themselves of everything they've ever seen; and they tell the most godawful puns. Every day, without fail, one of them will say something like "'wooden' you be'leaf' it" or "'stick' it to 'im".
Some gift
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Literature
Meeting Mindfulness
Four months had passed with Michael co-facilitating the DBT group. He enjoyed his work, and he believed in the message behind DBT but there was something that always rankled. Michael just could not get behind mindfulness. It seemed a waste of time - his own and that of every participant in the group. Of course, he included it each week. It wouldn't be DBT without it, he knew, but it bothered him all the same. What possible value could there be, he mused, in spending five minutes colouring? In buttering a slice of bread with full attention? In following ones' breath?
Today, though, was going to be a challenge. After four months running the group, Michael was finally attending a professional workshop for DBT facilitators. He was excited but, truth to tell, a little nervous as well. His manner was a touch blunt and his people skills sometimes just a little on the lacking side. Still, it was a fabulous opportunity and he fully intended to take advantage of it.
When the topic turned to mind
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Literature
Tracked
Charlie looked back. He'd been tailing her for the past twenty minutes, but it looked like she'd finally lost him. Unfortunately, it appeared she'd also lost herself -- she had no idea what part of the city she was in, or how to get back to her hotel. She adjusted the handbag she carried; its weight digging into her shoulder was at a level of discomfort that bordered on pain. As she did so, a shadow detached itself from the wall and slunk into view.
"Hands up," the voice said, in a voice that brooked no objection. Charlie slowly raised her hands. "I'll give you anything you want," she said, a light tremble in her voice.
"Your money," the voice snarled. "And anything of value. All of it!"
Charlie reached carefully for her handbag. She could see the gun in her assailant's hand shaking slightly. If she timed it well, she could probably take him, she decided. Reaching into her bag, her fingers clasped a weapon. She pulled it out and used it in one swift motion.
"ARGH," cried the assailant,
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Favourites

Journal
Please STOP ME: publishing for potatoes
Publishing Week
Being dreamers, we sometimes imagine our stories featuring prominently in our favourite magazine or lying in a bookshop’s window waiting to be picked up. The idea of getting published appeals to us... and our egos. Ego is something we have at least a little bit of, or else we wouldn’t trust our prose and poetry to paper to begin with. And as writers we also have a very vivid imagination, but sometimes these two perks can play tricks on us when it comes to the world of publishing.
For this guide, I spoke with:
:iconfuzzyhoser: FuzzyHoser,
professional editor, and
:icongdeyke: GDeyke
:iconakrasiel: akrasiel
:icondamonwakes: DamonWakes,
authors in print.
They're here to stop me from being an absolute starchy root vegetable when jumping into the wonderful world of publishing and doing something regrettable.
Let's get this potato rolling:
Icon - Potato A publisher is someone who publishes stuff. You send h
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Literature
When Grandmother Calls
When Grandmother calls, she says that everything will turn out alright in the end. I haven’t told her that the wolves are at the door.
     Metaphorically and literally.
    I’m not sure which concerns me more.
    At first I thought that it was stress. You worry about a thing—about next week’s work rota, about making ends meet—and you start to see it as an animal skulking about behind the railings across the road.
    Then you realise that there really is an animal, and you think that it’s a fox.
    Then you hear the howling, find the claw marks in the wood.
    
***
    
When Grandmother calls, she says that everything will turn out alright in the end. I haven’t told her that the wolves are in the stairwell.
    Nobody else seems to notice as they step over them or squeeze by. Perhaps
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Literature
Eighty-Seven Days Before the End
They look at the pocketknife every morning. Run their fingers over the handle, tracing the letters of the engraved name. Flip it open and gaze into the mirrored blade, wishing they could see through it to find their love on the other side – but all that looks back from the polished steel is their own haunted stare.
Vivian gave them the knife before she left. It’s all they have left of her: they can’t write or call her, can’t even follow her on tumblr. Viv’s parents know all the passwords, and they’re not the sort to let even a hello go unquestioned.
They had to meet her in secret, before she moved away. She didn’t even dare to tell her parents her new name, or that she had one, or that she needed one.
It’s only for eighteen months. Seventeen. Sixteen. Eight. Five. They count down the days to Vivian’s eighteenth birthday, waiting for her freedom, helpless to help her.
Eighty-seven days before the end, the blade of the pocketkn
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Literature
FFM 2018: Like Magic
Arturo always picks the best songs.
He finds them in the boxes upon boxes of old records that my father left to me, retrieving them with exaggerated care from their yellowed protective sleeves. Arturo doesn’t believe in anyone or anything besides himself, but whenever I see him putting a record on I am reminded of a worshipper kneeling before his holy altar. The comparison always makes me smile.
I know I should clean things up. It has been months now, but I still I haven’t been able to bring myself to unpack all the boxes, and now they just sit in the corner of the apartment, gathering dust. My apartment has become a shrine to the dead, sacred objects stashed in corners, spilling over into the tiny living room, and across the floor of what used to be our bedroom.
Last summer the heat became so extreme that Arturo decided to reduce everything in the apartment to its simplest components. We removed half the furnishings, the curtains, our antique couch. He insisted that we tea
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Literature
FFM 2018 17: The Whirling Teeth
Some tourists expect our island to be total chaos. Can’t say I blame them. A bunch of kids and teenagers running the place all on their own? Sounds like a recipe for disaster. But if you’ve visited the island, you’ll know that’s not the case. We have a system. We have roles. Like, my friend Ani, her role is to net the sea for the trash the tourists leave behind. They’re good at that, these tourists. Sometimes I think it’s all they ever do. Leave their shit behind.
Sometimes the tourists leave babies too. I’m not kidding. See, it’s my job to clean hotel rooms. Mop their sandy tracks. Wad up their shit-stained tissue. That kinda thing. One time I was tidying up a room that had just been vacated, and there was a breathing lump under the covers. I peeled the blanket back, and boom, a baby! That’s how Kidlat and I came to care for Tala and raise her as our own.
The tourists come year-round to the island. They ogle us. We ogle them back.
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Literature
ff17: When They Came for Us
When Congress started sending people to the camps, that was when Ann of the Grey Path had enough. She waited for Shandy to leave for his first class and then she gathered her ingredients.
It had started after the election. Not a week after, not five days, not four. President Strump tweeted the change to the government's mage talent policy, to immigration. When he made his first news appearance to explain, he was smiling. Laughing.
The next day, agents brought the first people out in handcuffs, two by two, and nobody cared. The neighbors laughed and said they deserved it. Should have stayed with their own kind. Magic is wicked and dangerous and must be contained.
Shandy begged for Ann's patience. Let the truth hang them, he had tried, he pleaded. They locked the doors at night and listened for the sirens. Someday, agents would come for her, for Shandy, for the rest of them. And it would be too late to fight.
Agents came for three of the first year students the next morning. They took Pr
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Literature
Sod's Law
“It’s a new initiative,” said the interviewer, leaning back in his chair and toying with his pen. “The job title will be ‘National Scapegoat’, and your role would be to… take the blame for everything.”
“Oh, yes?” said Murphy cautiously.
The interviewer nodded. “Essentially you’d just be a figurehead—a focus for blame, if you like. But you’d still be expected to write the odd letter of apology… appear on TV to read out statements of apology… And you would have to serve the occasional prison sentence.”
He smiled encouragingly.
“What do you think?”
Murphy’s shoulders slumped. “I’m desperate, so... I’ll take it.”
“Excellent!”
The interviewer put down the pen and sat up straight.
“Now, we’ll have to start you on minimum wage, naturally—”
“Naturally,” sighed Murphy.
“—but in three months, if
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Literature
Smiles Full of Secrets
The ladies walk through the moonbeams with their hands laced together, rose-cheeked, rose-lipped, their gossamer gowns floating all round them. Their eyes are dark with secrets, their smiles sharp-toothed, knowing.
A rawboned shadow dances after them, catlike, twitching and pulling at the ladies’ drifting sleeves. “Listen – uh – I’m sorry, but –”
She is a gaunt and pale-faced thing, with stubble growing in along the square line of her jaw, her skirt and blouse well-tattered beneath the grime. The ladies barely deign to glance at her. Beneath their radiance she is nothing, less than nothing: still she follows after them, nimble-footed, a fool’s last hope still shining in her eyes.
At last they turn to her, and speak in voices like shattered starlight in glass:
“Who are you, then, who calls us from behind?
Know you not who stands before you now?
Have you no fear of death? of sharp-toothed smiles?
No wariness of shining in the night
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Literature
Back For Seconds
“I’m hungry,” whined the cash register at Jack’s Quality Fashion Seconds. “I haven’t felt full in days.”
Jack paused in his sweeping. “Yes, I suppose business has been slack recently, Tilly. But I’m feeling very hopeful about the delivery that’s just come in.” He gestured at a free-standing rail with empty hangers waiting ready on it. “I’ve just got to get everything out of their boxes and hung up, and then we’ll watch the money come rolling in!”
“But, Jack,” said the dummy in the window. “Is new stock going to be enough if people still don’t know we’re here, tucked away at the back of the shopping centre? What you really need is some rich idiot to pop in, spend lots of money, and then convince all his friends to come and shop here too.”
Jack snorted. “Nice idea. But I don’t think someone’s going to just wave a magic wand and make a rich
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Literature
FFM18 10 - Blessings
The desert was cooler than usual for the season, and the traveler was grateful for it.  He was a long way from his familiar fjords and stark tundra, a different sort of desert in its own right.  On each of his shoulders, there perched a large raven, and at each of his heels stalked a lean, vicious-looking wolf, but he had picked up another travelling partner along the way between home and here.
“You sure you ain’t lost?”  The little spider whispered, and one of the ravens eyed him hungrily, not for the first time.
“I am still following the Star, little trickster,” The Allfather replied, with a hint of a smile.  So long ago was this, that even he was still young, the scars on his eye still raw and fresh.  He had already drank from Ymir’s well though, and had foreseen the various mischief-makers that lay in his own future, surrogate sons and the like.  “You’re trying to mislead me again.”
“This is b
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Literature
FFM 2018 10: Flight of the Gingerbread Boy
Taking the folded newspaper from her handbag, she flips past the blaring headline (“FOX STRIKES AGAIN: 5 CHILDREN EATEN”) and hunts for the sudoku puzzle she started at breakfast. She winces as the train screeches to a stop. Beyond the window, beings are alighting, getting on. As the train again gathers speed, she scribbles down a wobbly seven.
The sliding door clatters open to reveal a boy. After a critical look around the compartment, he hops on the bench across from her and cranks the window open a notch. Chin propped on the ledge, he screws his eyes shut.
She permits her glasses to slide down her long nose as she observes him. His cotton candy hair wafts in the breeze, while curious scents drift from his skin: ginger and cloves, nutmeg and cinnamon. He curls up in his seat, hugging his legs to his chest.
“Are you feeling ill, dear?” she inquires in honey tones.
He merely grumbles in return, eyebrows knitting together. His eyebrows are green, drawn with peppe
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Literature
FFM 2018, July 6 - Dramatic Irony
It was already getting late when they found the cave.
"Come on, let's check it out." Jeremy said, even though he knew it was forbidden. Nadia shook her head.
"No Jerry. I don't wanna. Mom and dad are gonna worry." Nadia was just eight, the younger of the siblings, but she already thought of others more than of herself. When she grew up, she was going to be a doctor.
"Chicken!" Jeremy jeered. "Besides, I'm going in no matter what." He smirked. "What if I fall down a hole and break my legs. I'll be shouting: 'Nadia! Nadia! Help me!' But you won't be there, will you?" He made his voice as pathetic as he could, and despite knowing he was just trying to manipulate her, Nadia felt a stab of guilt and worry.
"Fine. But not far, okay?"
The cave was quite a find, she had to admit. In the dim light from outside, they found all kinds of things. Opened boxes that looked like the first aid kit they had at home, except all of the stuff in them had been poured out onto the ground.
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Literature
Ashes
She doesn’t dare to ask for dresses and jewels, as her sisters do. Instead she plants a tree on her mother’s grave, and waters it with weeping.
They laugh at her when they see her in front of the mirror, trying ribbons in her hair. It’s the reason for their jeering, their middling cruelties: if he wants to be a maiden, they say, then let him be a maid. She cooks and cleans for them, sorts lentils, fetches water, helps them dress. She sleeps in the kitchen, in the warm ashes of the hearth, where she needs not hear their mockery. Beneath the soot she can barely see her own skin.
There is no question of her attending the ball. She knows better than to ask.
But when she weeps under the tree that night, something falls from its branches: a dress of gold and silver, glowing in the light of the stars. When she puts it on her shoulders thin, her hips swell, her breasts grow round beneath the cloth. Her feet turn small and delicate, wearing slippers of silver sti
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 16 23
Literature
Straws/Hope/Straws
Lucky pennies lie scattered beneath Daniel’s pillow. Daniel has wasted away, thin as a scarecrow, thin as the rabbit’s foot he clutches when he sleeps, but the pennies still shine bright.
In the chair at his bedside sits a lover, a friend, a parent, a sister. It doesn’t matter who comes to visit him: the conversation is always the same.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m dying.” Daniel’s voice is a whisper so thin it doesn’t scratch the hoarseness in his throat. “I’m going to die.”
“You’re not. You’ll keep fighting. You’ll beat this.”
“I won’t. I’m not strong enough. I can’t face it alone.”
“We’re with you, we’re always here for you –”
“It isn’t the same,” he says, and they have the sense not to argue.
“Shall we bring you something? A book? Anything?”
“Luck,” he says. “Bring me lu
:iconGDeyke:GDeyke
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 5 8
Banangon by Benegeserit Banangon :iconbenegeserit:Benegeserit 51 5
Literature
ff9: fall of shadows
When the bell cracked, they died. The whole of the Underworld shifted, the forge split and its fires sputtered and cooled. The Queen of Sorrows had a moment to revel in her triumph before his face betrayed everything.
He could never lie to her. Not truly.
“Give it back,” she said.
The magic was gone. He couldn't pull it from the ether, couldn't shape it into the form she wanted, needed. There was only pain when he called for it.
“I can't,” he said.
When she screamed, the ground split and quaked. Heat seared the edges, the last flames licking up from the heart of the realm. It blackened the stone and sent shivering waves of spirits to bursting.  
The ebonheart silver streamed rivers from the shattered remains of the bell. It drizzled down the cracks. The silver sizzled and evaporated, leaving nothing but trails in the dirt. There would be no reforging. Without the dwarves, how could there be? Without the magic, nothing could charge the metal.
She had damned
:iconNamelessShe:NamelessShe
:iconnamelessshe:NamelessShe 4 11

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camelopardalisinblue
Dawni
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
Australia


I've written this several times, apparently writing about myself is difficult. ;) I caved and asked my partner to help.

30s -- female -- Aussie (Caboolture, Queensland) -- defacto -- diagnosed with mental illness -- mother to 2 butterfly children -- crazy/weird/'special' (not to be confused with the aforementioned mental illness) -- cheerful -- loving -- cheeky -- friendly.


Stamped:

Mental health awareness stamp by Superspud Prevent Child Abuse by A-Sent-Miracle ++ Self-Injury - Stamp by dimruthien ++ BPD Awareness by dimruthien
TWLOHA Stamp by Kezzi-Rose Stop Domestic Violence by f0rtunatef00l PTSD stamp by shadowlight-oak Mother of angels - stamp by xpekalx
Pregnancy-N-Infant Loss Month by jenepooh Stamp: Love Commenters by Flame-of-the-Phoenix Love Stamp by Kezzi-Rose STAMP: Giraffes by zungzwang
TARDIS Stamp by Kezzi-Rose I Foster Animals: Stamp by camelopardalisinblue :thumb199321720: :thumb245986935:
I support BurdenedHearts by PoetryOD Calendar Project Stamp by ginkgografix


I believe in a llama for a llama, but I don't watch people simply because they're watching me & I don't do fav-for-fav trades. Please don't feel obliged to fav my work or watch me just because I gave you a random llama/fav/comment/whatnot. Fav or watch me because you like my work by all means, though! :)

PS, a million, billion thank-yous to the wonderful SilverInkblot who made the pretty boxes for me.
Interests
Time for another FFM feature! :)

Day 4:

RomeAt least one of my forefathers must have been a domestic dog.  From when I was a cub, I felt the pull of the human city, but my mother always told us never to go there.
'They might once have been our friends,' she said, 'but now we disapprove of them because they're civilised, which means that they have too much and they fight and kill each other to have more.'
'Wolves fight,' I said.
'We don't kill each other if we can help it, and only then for something we need.  The humans already have more than they need.  You haven't seen the walls of their city.'
I didn't tell her that I had seen them.
'Their city now reaches far beyond those walls,' my mother went on, 'and really, they are the most vulgar creatures imaginable.  They eat and eat and have a special place to go and be sick in.  And to think they disapprove of the way that we decent animals smell each other's behinds.'
'Why might they once have been our friends?' I asked, and so my mother bega

Mature Content

How to obtain a CerberusOliver was having second thoughts about the procedure, a strong force lured him back as he made his way down the sterile white hall and he looked over his shoulder numerous times, tempted to walk away. He could only hope the severe case of bad luck he'd come down with wouldn't sabotage the work they'd planed for the day. With one final glance towards the exit, he braced himself and entered the room which was the site of all of their experiments.
He knew Dr. Hades wouldn't bother to make his presence known if he'd arrived ahead of time, so Oliver crossed the dark chamber and made himself as comfortable as possible in the worn chair he'd grown to hate. As soon as he was seated the tall, sickeningly thin creature that was the elderly doctor revealed itself to him and strapping him down. Oliver's dishevelled appearance seemed to draw the interest of the allegedly human medic but the young man only shrugged in response to his questioning gaze. It would be too long a story to explain what ha

FFM 04 - The Dream PrisonThe thirteenth bell chimed, and I snapped my pocket watch closed.  I’d been fishing for mythical beasts for weeks in this world of endless night, and knew the shift change didn’t take long.  I knew the paths the guards took, and I knew the layout of their ethereal prison.  I darted forward from the shadows.
What are you doing? the voice whispered in my ear.
“Stopping this,” I hissed.
No.  That is not your place. The voice of The Hat had raised from a whisper to a boom that only I could hear.  
“Shove it.  I’m doing this.”  Pulling my scarf tight, I slipped through the labyrinthine arrangement of holding cells, situated in clusters to maximize neural connection.  It’d taken some work, but I’d found the Gypsy king, and all four-hundred and four of his missing Pied Crows.  The once proud order of dream nights huddled in their cells, their black and white uniforms fading to a fl
Seattle Demigods--Day 4Rome may have been gone, but its monsters certainly weren’t.  And, like the arrogance, sexuality, and gods, the monsters had migrated halfway around the world to its modern counterpart, Seattle.  And that’s why we were there tonight, hunting the Hydra sighted here just last week.  We’d seen all kinds of monsters in these strange days, monsters thought dead for centuries.  Monsters that had hunted the heroes of ancient Rome.
Heroes like us, the modern children of the gods.
“Are you sure this is where it will be?” Clary asks from behind me.  I can’t see her, but I can hear her fiddling with her bowstring—her nervous tic.  She’s a daughter of Apollo, and snakes make her jittery.  I can’t exactly blame her.
“Of course,” Lisa says.  She’s crouched by the water, spear in hand.  She looks bulky in all that armor, with her plumed helmet giving her a Mohawk.  “This is
4.15 Dwindling LegacyIt’s time.
The summer stars had aligned, and the Bard could feel the emotion of the crowd like a cloud of static electricity. The time had come for him to choose a successor, and he started down from the dais into the gathered parents and children.
 
He had been chosen himself, once. He remembered Masters Saloh, Regor, and Grulfow weaving through a similar crowd for what seemed like forever at the age of five, stopping to talk to both the parents and the children. Regor and Gruflow stopped a few times before choosing, but Saloh had gone straight for him.
“What’s your name, child?” Saloh didn’t speak above a whisper, but he heard her perfectly in the anticipatory hush of the hall.
“Eitac, ma’am.” He whispered, too, but more from nerves than anything else.
Saloh smiled and held out a hand to him. “You get to come with me, Eitac. It’s time to say goodbye now.”
He hugged his paren

MiraI drink the last of the willowspirit and screw up my eyes against the migraine. Dangerous stuff. Drink it all at once and you'll be dead before the dawn.
I'm close now. There's a forest shrine nestled in the shadow of the Edzull hills, where the wirewights commune with their dead god. I know it well, and dozens of other such places that litter the Ossifus isles. One by one I visit them, stepping stones on a pilgrimage that ends I know not where.
The willowspirit stings my eyes, and begins to reveal the toxic sunrise. The shadowed treetops are heavy with crows and hunched things. Greenteeth and Grendelows paw at the grass by the stream. Some of these things are real and some of them are the willowspirit in my veins. I keep my distance from all of them.
Thirteen bells I wear on my belt, and thirteen magicks burn at the tip of my tongue. The book of binding sits in my satchel like a cannonball, alongside three black ritual candles that I won't be using tonight. I'll need another candle, o
FFM 4 - The Spine of the WorldHe can't remember when he last took the medication. It could have been weeks. He doesn't know, can't think: skull pulsing with maggots. They've burrowed into the cavity of his braincase, squirmed against the flat bones of his cranium. He hears them sliding, feels them fester in his grey matter. Feels them breed.
He can't go outside. Hasn't tried, too afraid, yet promises each time, huddled in a dull corner, he will do it, soon. He sees a flickering shadow waiting. He hears metal screams. He is cured but they will poison him. To leave was slavery, to stay starvation.
He reaches a hand but his fingers are palm leaves. His body is a knife, too sharp to move incautiously. He has no choice, never had except for the when of his fate. Leaves wrap around the scaled handle of his door-turned-tree. Feels the jolt of electricity when it resists, but he pushes through and turns.
His footsteps fail. He steps outside the monolith. The shadow is behind him, above him, somewhere he can't see. The tree
Day 3- The Rifleman's WalkThe rifleman walked his feet bloody. His boots were hours behind him on the dusty road. His feet, worn raw by the unpaved highway, were a collection of bleeding lacerations and oozing blisters. He bent forward as though he were climbing up a steep incline. Just walking jarred his bones, until he felt he would break himself apart from the force of each step.
He must have looked smart once in his officer’s frock, with pressed trousers, and shined boots. Now he looked like a dead man who’d climbed out of his own grave, bloodied from a past that was only two steps behind.
The lemon yellow dress hugged her curves better in his memory. She wore a bonnet over her hair, but for him, for his memory of her, she undid the strings. She dropped the bonnet to the ground. Her eyes were brown, and for him they were wide and full of love, but he couldn’t remember if she’d really loved him that much.
As a hallucination, her stomach was full and round, and pregnancy suited her. Th

FFM day 4: 4 promisesConversation with Julia Sarnet
I’m so drugged up, Jules
I can’t think straight
it’s okay honey
i’m right here with you
promise?
I promise.
I love you!
Peter’s heart rate monitor beeped incessantly. The room was decorated with little pieces of the different families he’d had: bobbleheads from the precinct, pictures from mom and dad, action figures from Julia, and half a Hallmark store of cards.
babe, Alyn’s wife wants to visit
what should I say?

ask her why Alyn isn’t talking to me
I can tell her this is a bad time
Jules, please
I have to tell him I’m sorry
People swam in and out of focus. Some days Peter woke in the hospital. Other days he woke in a warehouse with smoke in his eyes, pain shooting through parts of him that were barely attached anymore.
He woke with his sister’s head on his chest, o
Heart's EasePetal/ Blossom/ Flora/ Posy/ Sharon, the polyanthus who lived in the garden of Fairy Heartsease, were singing their song to greet the day.
Romance over before it even started?
Well, she’s the one to help the broken hearted.
We all think she’s the bee’s knees
Here she is: Fairy Heartsease!

They looked expectantly towards the door of the cottage.
Nobody came out.
“Er,” said Sharon, “should we..?”
Suddenly the door was thrown open and Fairy Heartsease stomped out carrying a bottle. She scowled at the polyanthus and sang her reply.
Lovers, tell me of your plight
I’m full of sweetness and delight.

She took a swig from the bottle.
There was a pause.
“Have we caught you at a bad moment?” said Petal, eventually.
Heartsease burst into tears. “He’s chucked me!”
“Oh… You mean…” said Blossom.
“That bloody Kaleidoscope Pixie.” Heartsease stared at her bottle. “I


Day 5:

FFM15 - 5: Some Assembly RequiredDoctor Frank tore the tape off the box and began taking all the pieces out, being careful to arrange them neatly by size. He always did love this part: the unboxing. It was almost like Christmas, but better in a way, because he ordered it himself and didn’t have to feign joy when he unwrapped socks from Aunt Marie.
Once Doctor Frank had all the pieces laid out, he gave a little squirm of excitement and reached for the instructions. He didn’t usually need instructions; he was very good at assembling things. And really, how hard could it be? He had put together countless people, and this didn’t have nearly so many parts to it. But, it was a new project and Doctor Frank wanted to do it right. After last year’s Body Building fiasco, he had decided to move into a more specialised field. Building your own pet was a somewhat unconventional practice thus far, but he felt sure the trend would catch on quickly.
He scanned the instruction leaflet, head tilting to one side
The Last Laugh“So what are you in for?”
    “Oh, nothing much.” Carl vigorously chalked his cue, buying precious time. “The boss wanted some stuff stolen from a place, it didn’t go to plan...the usual.”
    “Huh.” The inmate with the prominent widow’s peak lined up his shot, took it, and sent the cue ball spinning into the corner pocket. “Was the place anywhere interesting?”
    “Uh...” Carl put the cue ball back on the table and sank a red into the side pocket. “Not really. You know, standard secret lab. Nothing out of the ordinary.” It was more or less true. He took his next shot, leaving another red covering the corner pocket.
    The inmate took his turn. A wild jab from the cue sent the ball flying off the table and bouncing noisily across the floor. “Frank!” he shouted. “Little help?”
  

Mature Content


JudgmentalGerald stepped out of the fitting room in a floor length evening gown, slinky and figure hugging.
“Oh, God,” said Cynthia. She put her head in her hands.
Gerald frowned and retreated back behind the curtain.
He reappeared in a pencil skirt and pussy bow blouse, both fitting rather snugly.
“Gerald!” muttered Cynthia. “You’re embarrassing me.”
Looking daggers, Gerald disappeared again, reappearing for the last time in a catsuit that left nothing to the imagination.
“Well, I am not going out with you looking like that!” said Cynthia.
Gerald straightened his shoulders. “You know, you could be a little more supportive.”
Cynthia sighed. “Gerald, you are really going to have to face it. You’re just not a size 10.”
FFM 2015, July 5 - SouflikarSabah knew the end had come when the janissaries led him into the garden. Opposite a delicate round table sat the head gardener, wearing a caftan made out of finest Oriental silks, his bashlyk adorned with gems and gold. Although his clothing spoke of wealth, his physique was everything but: he was the largest man Sabah had ever seen.
The man smiled. "Isn't it a lovely day today, master thief?"
On the table, laid out in the traditional manner, were two cups of sharbat, chilled. Sabah licked his dry, cracked lips. The sultan's gaolers had limited his torture to just withholding drink, but in the sweltering summer heat, that was more than enough.
"I'm not a thief." Sabah said finally. "What I stole is nobody's possession."
The head gardener's smile broadened. "Sultan Mahomet disagrees. But I understand you consider yourself innocent?"
"Before Allah, I do." Sabah said. He could imagine the sweet taste of the sharbat against his lips. It swirled, red - perhaps scented with rose?
"Please, d
FFM 5: The Unexpected Hazards of Pet Ownership“Hey!” yelled Alya’s phone. “Hey, listen!”
Alya swore, bolting upright in bed and groping for the phone while her partner, Sam, groaned and tossed in the sheets. “What time is it?” Sam grumbled.
“Before nine, honey, go back to sleep.” Alya stroked Sam’s hair and cursed herself for leaving the volume up on her phone before they’d gone to sleep last night. But it had been late when they’d gotten back from the party, and they’d both been drunk, so she’d forgotten.
Sam muttered something dire—even when she hadn’t been drinking, she never, ever got up before nine—and covered her face with a pillow. Alya silenced the offending phone and  thumbed to her text messages. She frowned. The message was from her roommate, Kelly: also not an early riser.
i hate your cat rite now. this is the worst morning of my life.
Shit, Alya thought, suddenly very glad she’d stayed the nig

Have a Good Day    “Melissa, did you wash your hands?”
    “Yes, Mom.”
    “Show me.” Melissa rolled her eyes and held her hands out for inspection. Gloria nodded and moved on to the next morning crisis. “That’s way too much peanut butter, Louis.”
    Her kindergartner son looked up from his sandwich. He had somehow gotten just as much peanut butter on his face and into his mouth as he had onto the bread. “I know, Mom. That’s how I like it.”
    She smiled and ruffled his hair. “As long as you wash up after you’re done. And take an apple. You forgot to grab one yesterday.”
    “Okay, Mom.”
    That was two children accounted for. The third was probably still in bed.
    “Anthony?” She flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. Gloria looked up and saw why. He’d taken out the light bulbs the night before
Chronicles of Midlurth VII: Beyond our BordersWith a scorched cloak on his back and two arrows in his arse, a dwarf made his way along the Amberlea riverside. He saw the sign of the Golden Dragon ale house and shivered. Dragons. Too soon.
As he passed the door, a ruddy-faced halfling raised his beer thimble in greeting. “Ho there! Here for the vegetable competition this afternoon?”
“Have you not heard?” asked the dwarf. “The Necrolock has raised a world-ending army. Every human able to hold a sword marches west as we speak! The smart races are heading East.”
“You should see Mrs Hurgsplirdle's pumpkins, I'd bet you ten thimbles she'll be walking home with firs' place!”
“Are you not listening to me? Monsters are coming! You need to get out of here now, or you and everyone you care about will be dead within the week!”
The halfling snorted. “What goes on beyond Farmer Gherkin's hill is neither here nor there.”
“No, it definitely is there, and it'll be here t
SarahSarah clothed herself in flame. Her hair was orange and red and yellow, left to fly free when she danced, and her fingernails shone fiery-bright. She called to mind a phoenix, an ifrit, a goddess of the sun. And she was beautiful.
But she was no goddess and no djinni and no flaming bird. Sarah tended bars. She spent half her days and most of her nights mixing cocktails, wiping down tables, avoiding the fingers of drunks who'd later claim they didn't know what they were doing. She wouldn't avoid their eyes: Sarah had fire in her eyes, and when she stared back at them they'd mostly leave her alone, muttering apologies and fumbling for tips.
It wasn't a bad life. But on days when the sun shone bright and Sarah danced barefoot through its beams, her flame-colored hair and clothing sparkling as they swung around behind her, she found herself wishing for more: she wanted fire in her life, something that would move and grow and change. She wanted the glow of destruction.
No one had a

We Buy Gold“Is this real gold?” she asked, pointing to one of the necklaces behind the counter.
The pawn dealer turned in his chair but didn't get up. “Yep. Twenty-four karat. Good eye.”
She leaned in and squinted. “And it's priced as marked? That's the right label?”
He nodded. “All sales final.”
She raised an eyebrow. “...is it cursed?”
So close to finally making the sale, the dealer swore under his breath.
The Watch FlowerFrom the day I was a seed until the day I was last planted, I have seen and heard many things. I was grown close to a beach with waves of rushing blue and white foaming hands that stretched over the sand and sprayed the air with cool sprinkles of salt.
Not far from the shore was a moving forest. It was there where an old, big strange tree with moving branches who collected rare seeds planted me in a pile of dirt at between the sea and the forest. It wasn't too moist, but the old tree cared well for me.
Life was dull while underground, but things changed when a little big flower appeared. Lisa, I heard the strange trees with soft creamy barks call her. Thin black roots grew instead of petals on her receptacle, almost as long as her height. Her stem split into two at the bottom where roots should be, and with those the large flower, covered in a red bell shaped petal, and the long black strings at the top was be able to move.
I was a tiny shoot when Lisa first noticed me. Two big round d
Hello, My Name is Peddy    “Alright iDometer, let’s see what you can do,” Tracy said as she pressed the little on button. 
    The little screen lashed on. It showed a brief animation of shoes running then went to a menu screen. “Hello. My name is Peddy. I think this is the first time we have met. Is this true?” A yes and a no button appeared on the touch screen and Tracy tapped ‘yes.’ “Is this your first time using an iDometer?”
    “Why yes it is,” Tracy responded, again tapping the yes button on the screen.
    “I see. How would you like me to address you? To give the iDometer voice commands, please hold the start button. I will record and memorize your voice so only you may give my commands.”
    Following the instructions, Tracy held the pedometer close to her mouth. “Peddy, please call me Tracy.”
  



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:iconkotava:
KotaVa Featured By Owner Jul 15, 2018  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Untitled by KotaVa  
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:iconsaliumakes:
SaliuMakes Featured By Owner Jul 15, 2018  Hobbyist Digital Artist
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Thanks for the llama :iconthanksllamaplz: :heart:~! Made sure to give one back :)!
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HectorNY Featured By Owner Jul 15, 2018  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the llama. One's coming back to you.

Give A Llama, Get A Llama by HectorNY
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:iconapplemac12:
Applemac12 Featured By Owner Jul 14, 2018  Hobbyist Photographer
Thanks so much for the llama Dawni! :iconthankiesplz:

Have a lovely weekend! :iconhappysunplz:
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:iconvinyosium:
Vinyosium Featured By Owner Jul 13, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Danke for the badge, really appreciate it!
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:iconblackwolf91901:
blackwolf91901 Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2018  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you for the furry, Camel like emoji.
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:icondeerydeerth:
DeeryDeerth Featured By Owner Jul 10, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
A :llama: for a :llama: !
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:iconchrisredfield1994:
chrisredfield1994 Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2018
hello you see me
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:iconpuppyluv1993:
puppyluv1993 Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the llama! :)
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MsCreeptales Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
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