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this one's four you three two
her name, if i remember correctly, was laura, melissa and purple.
picture this;
a girl stays far away from the swing, too scared to touch the sky and follow in the footsteps of wax-winged men. her mammy said the branch would give in. her friend crowns the tree with whispered words, and tells the petrified bark never to give up on itself.
they learn how to spell, fumbling fingers holding fat crayons in fists, racing each oh-tee-her, el-ih-ay-ar-ning to-get-her. it doesn't matter to them that they don't get full marks even though "l-e-a-r-anne" and "d-e-c-laura-t-i-o-n" are clearly wrong.
they are four and nothing's stopping them from living forever.
[now picture this;
moving away is so much sadder when it's further than just across your backyard, feels like accidentally squirting lemon juice in your eyes when she was your friend and you promised 'best', hangs like eyebags and premonitions because you left her number to be lost amidst the grass when you sat on that swing
:iconchoirsoftheheavens:choirsoftheheavens 429 252
New Year's Eve, 1999
New Year's Eve, 1999
On New Year's Eve in 1965 a young couple stood before a minister in the house
of the young man's parents. The house, now long since gone, built around the
turn of the century, stood in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia, many miles from
the Charlottesville, Virginia, home of the young woman. 
The gathering there included only the young man's family, all of whom must
have been skeptical about the chances for the success of the marriage beginning
that day. The couple had known each other only about four months, and had spent
most of those four months separated by hundreds of miles of telephone line. 
She had ridden the train to Atlanta a few days earlier, back when train lines
had names; this line had been called the "Nancy Hanks." He picked her up at
Union Station, a magnificent depot, now also long since gone. He spotted her
coming up the enormous marble stairs from the platform to the main floor, also
marble. It was a beautiful scene, this pretty girl coming t
:iconjosephthomas:JosephThomas 259 1,080
I lived with my mother until I was eleven. She once told me that I was a planned child. Yet when I was twelve she told me she doesn't want me to live with her anymore because "she got her own life now". Now, if she would have been the jetsetting type, I might've understood. When you travel a lot a child can be a burden, limiting you in your personal fulfillment. But my mother spent her newly acquired own life on her butt on the couch, infront of the TV.
Why do you want a child when you get rid of it after twelve years? I have my speculations about this. She separated from my father when I was five, first we went from one hotel to another, after she went to the lawyer she received spousal support. Even after I got older, she never looked for a job. She just didn't wanted to work, always had excuses. She was lazy. My father later told me it's always been like that, even though he got her a well-paid job in a big firm (prior to my birth), she always complained about work and later
:iconaenea-jones:Aenea-Jones 492 209
Most people fall in love with the extra-ordinary.
Dear me,
You are not most people; never for a moment try to believe you are. You stand out from the crowd, with your quiet ways and subtle humor, and, in the beginning, that's horrifying. But soon enough, you will learn to lift your eyes and set your jaw; you will learn the word no when it comes to fools; you will live emblazoned over the world like a fiery rainbow.
You will learn many, many things in the coming years.
You will learn to smile with all the vibrancy you have tucked away inside of you, and you will learn to be that other kind of beautiful. The kind that dreamers and thinkers are. You will grow your hair out - yes, down to your waist like you always dreamed - and it will tickle your elbows when you laugh. You will define your own fashion sense - not what's popular, but something entirely unknown and entirely you. And it will be more than ordinary.
You will learn to laugh and cry and love and talk. You w
:iconsepulchral-roses:Sepulchral-Roses 704 376
Pantsed Completely In Front Of Girls
When I was nine I was at home with my older stepbrother and my mom was videotaping us, My stepbrother saw a group of young girls from my school walking by our house, so he picked me up and pulled my pants and undies down and knocked on the window so all the girls could see my bare butt. The window was slightly open so I could hear the girls laughing, whistling and making comments like "cute butt" and my stepbrother held my arms so I couldn't cover.
Just as I thought it couldn't get more embarrassing, one of the girls shouted "turn him around" so he did and my face turned red as a beet watching the girls laugh and point at my little penis jumping up and down as i was kicking my legs trying to escape. The girls never had so much fun in their whole lives and my mom showed the video to every girl who visited our house after that day.
Two years later when a girl i had a crush on came by my mom showed her the video while i was in the kitchen and she asked my mom if my penis was still so smal
:iconsaxo2000:saxo2000 36 5
When I started preschool, I was a loner, because none of the boys wanted to play with me. I only had a few friends, mostly out of the other boys who were loners.
I didn't want to play with the girls. They liked boring games. None of them wanted to play with dinosaurs, and they thought kickball was stupid.
I eventually learned that girls were supposed to like pink, and that boys weren't allowed to. I've hated the color ever since. I don't even know if I genuinely hate it, or if I hate everything society has made it to be. They have become inseparable in my mind.
There was a girl at my elementary school who had short hair. Everyone mistook her for a boy. I tried to hang out with her and acted like we were friends.
We weren't. I was just jealous.
When I started to develop my own clothing preferences, my mom wouldn't let me wear black t-shirts. She said that black wasn't a color for little girls. I was so mad. I didn't see any difference, and decided it was all just unfair.
I'm 22 years ol
:iconrangavar:Rangavar 100 82
The Wedgie Game
    Again, I found myself at my friend Breanna's house while her friend Roxanne was over. Breanna's father wasn't home, and we were just sitting around outside talking. Breanna's house was small, and kind of empty outside except for a few bushes and trees. We sat in a few plastic chairs by the house, next to a huge oak tree with strong, curling branches.
    "Hey..." Breanna said, "You know how we've all gotten wedgies lately? Both of you, me, and even Lacie?"
    "Yeah," I said, "You had cute panties."
    "Well," Breanna continued, getting a devilish gleam in her piercing blue eyes, "How about we play... the wedgie game?"
    Roxanne and I were confused, of course. We asked her how to play. Breanna explained the rules. She pointed to the oak tree, and said that if we wedgied someone, we had to hang them by their undies on the tree. She picked up one of the plastic chairs, and brought it over to the tree, placing it under a part
:iconasmagni:ASmagni 108 22
The Importance of Gold Flecks
        I learned the meaning of the word when I was young on a summer afternoon. Too hot to play outside, I was sitting with my dad on our blue couch with the small white polka dot fabric. In retrospect, it was probably a tacky piece of furniture, but love is unconditional when you are small, and I sure did love that couch. I remember my dad watching Winnie the Pooh with me every Saturday morning on its spotted cushions. That day, though, we had a conversation about eyes that I never forgot, and even then, its deeper meaning was not lost on me.
        "Daddy, your eyes are green like a cat's," I said.
He smiled, and told me that mine were also green, but unlike his, they changed colors. "Sometimes they are blue. Your eyes were so blue when you were a baby! Big and blue.... Someti
:iconthelunalily:TheLunaLily 212 127
Gail was born on the first of August 1942, the elder of two. She grew up in New York City, marrying by age 22 and producing three children of her own.
She'd tried her first cigarette when she was eleven. That shouldn't surprise you; in those days there wasn't a Surgeon General's warning — or for that matter, any other public service messages.
While she enjoyed motherhood well enough, Gail also had a restless spirit; she was happiest when she was working, helping others, or driving her car. Accordingly, just before her 53rd birthday (and with her children grown and flown) she lost forty pounds and fulfilled a lifelong dream: qualifying as first an ambulance driver, then an EMT, for the local fire department.
She threw herself into her responsibilities with newfound purpose, losing even more weight and finally finding the strength to quit smoking. One young woman credited Gail with saving her life when she'd had a seizure at work. And she once made the local papers as one of several
:iconhavetales-willtell:HaveTales-WillTell 89 153
-oh, vamos, no es tan difícil
-lo dices tu señorita
-vamos! , por mi!
- Izzy, para ti es mas fácil tu eres medio latina
-y tu hermano es ingles, y baila perfecto un ritmo opuesto a su cultura ¬¬
-pero, pero, pero ¿porque? D:
-Camina Flynn!los niños nos esperan y tu eres peor de testarudo que Candace.
**con Marie y Thom adentro del salón**
-no lo se Thom. Es decir, mírate, tu padre es bailarín profesional y...
-y tu madre es medio latina, osea que tu eres un cuarto de latina. Vamos, es sencillo.
-no es justo, mamá y tu vienen aqui todo el tiempo.
-pero alguna vez vinimos por primera vez y fue lo mejor!
-esta bien, pero..
-si Marie, yo te ayudo ;)
-"giggle" n.n
Phineas e Isabella entraron al salón y encontraron a su hija y a su sobrino listos para empezar la clase.
-buen día alumnos-dijo el profesor.
-buen día Rafael-respondieron Isabella y Thom.
-Veo que hoy traen parejas!, bueno asi la salsa es mas sal
:iconcataygabypfteam:cataygabyPFteam 56 22
Autumn is the season when everything dies.
The leaves shrivel up and your lungs go with them, tiny dejected organs drying out inside your sternum, crinkling under our footsteps. The doctors pronounce their diagnosis as the leaves fall, listing medical terms and percentages and something about medication options.
The disease is metastatic: it has bored its way out of your lungs and into your bones. Dissatisfied, it's going for your organs, your liver, your heart. The prognosis says Christmas is a pipe dream, likely as the sun ceasing to set.
You promise it anyway.
November comes and I am a fish, breathing through makeshift gills carved into my hips, lopsided and crude.
I make fresh ones twice a day, slice myself open once in the morning and once at night in hopes the air will come a little easier each time. I make three and count them off:
and hope my heart stops.
The leaves have been carted away, pummeled into dust, and blown away in the wind.
Your lu
:iconalloendreams:AlloenDreams 230 80
A Study in Mascara
Mommy is short and thick with wide hips and a wider bosom, complemented by the way her hair cascades over her shoulders and frames her chest with dark curls both slick and wild. She has child eyes—because she is scarcely a grown-up, but I have yet to learn that—and laughs a lot, easy and loud. When I'm sad, she hugs me close and tells me that life isn't always fair but pain is important. She tells me when I'm angry to think with my head first but always trust my feelings. And most importantly, she wakes me up every morning with breakfast and tummy tickles.
In August, the trees are gold, and she paints them on her big canvases that I'm not allowed to touch. She gives me a little square one, like a baby version of hers, and I try to hold the brush like she does, watching her add leaves to the so-far black barren branches. 
She says, "You start school tomorrow. You'll like it, I think. You're a lot smarter than I was."
"Okay," I say, even though I'm very sure that is
:iconmuscularteeth:muscularteeth 60 51
It was apparent that my sense of danger was lacking by the age of three. That year, we were on one of our many plane rides home from my grandparent's home in northern Canada. Close to arrival, we became entangled in an unexpected snowstorm. Visibility was poor and the wind had a mind of its own. The flight attendant tried to sound calm as she alerted us of the "unexpected turbulence" (in case we didn't already know) but it was clear that landing safely would be a challenge. Movement sickness came in the form of 300 foot drops in a millisecond. Some held brown paper bags tightly around their lips while others silently prayed, but not me. I loved the feeling of my body being pressed into the scratchy blue seats during take-off and the thrill of bumpy rides. When the plane finally touched the runway and slowed to a halt, passengers released a collective sigh of relief. My pupils were dilated with excitement and my grin could not get any wider. Surrounded by irritable, green-faced passenge
:iconlittlelottexo:LittleLottexo 204 92
Riding Bikes
Going off medication is like riding a bike.
The doctor holds tight to my handlebars and lowers my dosage. The training wheels are off, and oh hey, look at me go! It's like flying but not, and I'm doing so well but then there's a horrible accident and I'm somehow upside down at the bottom of the sea with both wheels still spinning.
"Help," I say, and my doctor pats my head, puts a band-aid on my knee, and writes a note on my chart.
I've balanced by myself for months at a time, but I always end up hitting a fucking tree or falling off a cliff or something equally catastrophic because I am a catastrophic person. Except that is an exaggeration. I am an exaggeration.
I like to compare mental illnesses to mundane physical activities. Also you should know that I am sick but trying to get better.
Sometimes I relapse and then write poems about it.
It's not even the kind of sick where people bring you soup in bed and soothe your fevered brow. It's the kind of sick where I'm late to work because
:iconestallidos:estallidos 718 397
A Writer
I'm a mere writer. I may not have the weapons to impact you instantly as so many skillful painters or photographers do. My art may not be a rainbow, only white and black.
But unarmed am I not. With words your emotions I will shake. Fear this you must not. Just don't stop reading. Enter my world. Do the unthinkable. Come my comrade in arms, let's make a revolution.
My words will change your heart. My words will do what a picture cannot do. They'll make you cry. They'll describe emotions in a way you'd have never dreamed of. Quote my lines you can, and smart you'll look. A girl heart you'll win, and my credit will it be, plus your bravery.
That's what I do and what I am. Inspiration is not always my ally, but love I'll put in my work. My best I tried, so if this your heart moved or tickled, an "add to favorites" button on your right is. Press it and show your gratitude.
:iconflorchys103:florchys103 246 175
Ursa Minor
In a life that feels so lacking in concrete identity, the one thing that answers the age-old question “Who am I?” is the knowledge that Colorado is the land that gave birth to me. Pride swells in my heart when I see a bald eagle flying so close to the surface of Blue Mesa that its glossy feathers touch the water and make gentle ripples in the lake. There is equal awe when herds of elk and deer walk by me unafraid, and there is laughter when a wild turkey gobbles as he flees from me through a thick evergreen forest. Back east where the foothills give way to the Great Plains, I am humbled by the angry tornadoes that roar across the prairie in the scorching, summer heat. In the fall, I am entranced as pale golden aspens blush in the morning sun, gradually becoming orange and then red, heralding the return of Old Man Winter. I have seen nothing more majestic than the snowpack melting off the fourteeners in roaring waterfalls, and nothing more powerful than a mountaintop blizzar
:iconpoesdaughter:PoesDaughter 74 75
.photography: a love story.
Falling in Love
     I was about eleven years old when I got my first camera. It was instant love, my first love. I took it everywhere with me. Every flower in sight was shot, my friends became models. My dog became an endangered animal in the Sahara that was to be the epitome of my photographic lifetime. Being a  photographer quickly became my dream.
The Truth is Often Disappointing
    One day my father took me for ice cream with a side of let's talk about actuality. Simply put; he told me photography was a wonderful hobby and he was glad I found an interest in something. Then came the harsh reality; it takes a lot to become a professional photographer. Most people only ever do it as a hobby; only a select few ever make it a career.
Putting it Down
    I can’t tell you if it was the disappointment of learning my dream job wasn’t likely to
:iconworldwar-tori:WorldWar-Tori 106 61
Best Damn Woman
When I was younger, my home life wasn't really conducive to having friends. My only friend for most of my life was my cousin. We were only a few months apart in age, but we felt like twins. Finished each others' sentences, would text the same things to each other at the same time, could sense when the other was in pain or just needed a pick me up.  We invaded each others' lives and were the last person we each said "I love you" to at the end of the day.
A little over a year ago, she was killed in a car wreck along with her husband. But there are times I still get those feelings. Still want to grab my phone and send a text. Sometimes, I've actually sent the text and then I wonder who the person is on the receiving end. They've never responded.  Not sure what I'd do if I did get a response.
I miss her more than I've ever missed anything. Even her faults. Like when she'd take over my house and force me to do something I didn't want to do. Joining dA was one of those take overs.&
:iconinknalcohol:inknalcohol 89 88
Caught in Battle
by LJ
     Lately I've been doing a lot of not sleeping at night.
    That is to say, I fall asleep fine, but about one in the morning the dreams turn to thoughts and I'm not asleep anymore.
    I just lie there, thinking too much to even close my eyes.
    My eyes feel bad in the red mornings, so tonight I light the oil lamp and sit up.
     I might as well write what was requested by a friend a few days ago, at dinner together.
     It doesn't kill dream memories, though.
     At that dinner, my friend said, "They're nice stories and nice paintings you do, but they're not you, you know."
     I protested. "They certainly are."
     But she protested last.
    "No, they aren't. They're other people's. You should write or paint yourself, for once."
     I made a joke then, a
:iconxlntwtch:xlntwtch 176 385