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Literature
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
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Literature
turkey, my sister
My therapists have always been obsessed with the fact that I was an only child for ten years. They’re certain that’s what messed me up, being the centre of my parents’ world for so long and then suddenly, having to share their attention with another. Professionals always pounce on that explanation, eyes shining, without listening to whether it sits right with me. They say ''You starved yourself half to death to regain your parents’ attention from your younger brother,'' and ''you shrank to be smaller, and therefore cared for in the same way as him.'' They are interesting interpretations, and maybe there is a grain of truth in them. But growing up for those first ten years, I never really did feel like an only child. For me there was always- and still is- an emotionally naive, vulnerable, self-destructive and volatile sister looming, liable to go off the rails at any moment. That sister is the other half of my identity. The Turkish half. Maybe she is my twin, and
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Literature
PANTSED BY THE SEA

This embarrasing story happened when I was 16 years.
It during the summer holidays. We went with my parents to the beach. I didn't know at this time, but it was the last time I wear a two pieces swimsuit.
It was the afternoon, and my beach friend and I was playing at Jump into the waves. It was a fun game for me until a more powerfull wave than the other come.
I jump into this one and she smash me like an insect. I've been totally shaked by the sea and I recover, I was a little dizzy.
I walked to the shore but the people around me was spirit to laugh. In first time, I was thinking, it was about my fail with the wave.
But a boy said to me :
“It's a little early for show the moon upper the bush.” With a big pervert smile. And at that moment I Looked down and I see The disaster.
The wave pulled my trunks on my calf !!! So everyone can see my white butt and private bush !!!
I blushed like a fire stop, pull my trunks back and run to hide my shame un
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Literature
Story of an Aromantic Asexual
As a child, I was often told about this wonderful thing called "love".  And told that everyone "falls in love".  If you didn't, something was wrong with you because being alone was worse than anything.  But I actually liked the idea of being alone...
I told my mom that I didn't like boys and didn't ever want to get married.  She just laughed and promised me that one day I would change my mind.  Of course I didn't believe her- what child my age would?
Soon, I began middle school.  It surprised me a little to hear people that I had known my entire life calling others "cute" or "hot".  In truth, I had no idea what they meant.  How could a person be cute?  People began asking me who I liked. Still as confused as ever, I replied that I didn't like anyone.  Which was okay with most people.
By time I got to high school, my parents began worrying about why I didn't like guys.  They seemed to think something was wrong with me or that I was afraid to tell them that I liked someone.  My mom went
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Literature
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
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Literature
Last sketch - Jack!America X Rose!Reader
~Last sketch~
*Jack!America X Rose!Reader*
"I did it!We did it!" the sandy blonde headed male happily proclaimed,throwing his cards onto the table as well as his fists.
"Yes,we did!" the quiet voice of his partener came,as he was squished into the embrace.
Receiving the two tickets which he bet for everything he had into his hands and the ten dollars,he proceded in going outside only to be met by the sight of the large ship harboring into the port.
"(Name)!Please honey,hurry up!" the elder female's voice came as a delicate arm reached outside,gently taken by a male's who helped her out of the chalett.
A creamy coloured material came into view,the dandy broding from down the waist in small waves,a big,feminine hat covering the female's porcelain face as she watched in ore the gigantic ship which she was to step on to get to New York.
Breathing deeply,the (e/c) eyed female accepted the supporting arm,getting onto the board of Titanic.
Hearing the words 'First class,please',
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Literature
Discovering Who I am
I have been doing a lot of thinking this past week about a number of things but mainly about who I am. I am a rock chick, a country girl, someone who will listen, someone you can have crazy fun with because you know everyone is crazy even if they do not admit it. I am a 24 year old white girl, who is 5' 3" an average build. I have blue eyes, wear contacts, my hair is dirty blond. I like anime/manga, I like to sing, read, write and draw. I am all this and more. To most who know me I am a girl and I like guys. That is not a lie but that is not the whole truth either. I am a girl who likes guys but I am also a girl who likes girls. Saying I am straight is not correct although that is what I commonly refer to myself as. Yet saying I am lesbian is not entirely true either. It took awhile for me to understand but I like both guys and girls.
I never thought about it until now but like most little girls I had Barbies. I had one or maybe two Ken dolls but the rest were all Barbie. I do not reme
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Literature
Do you know the taste of the universe?
One day, when you’re five years old and made out of fractured sunlight and mirror shards, you sit down on the bench of the MAX train. You’re dressed in your winter coat and boots that are too big and one of your parents has pulled your hat too close over your ears.
You’re sitting next to your mother, and on the other side is a man that smells like loneliness, something that you’ll later know as cigarettes and alcohol and homelessness. He’s crying quietly into the top of his jacket and you’re scared to look because you’ve never seen an adult cry.
The train ride goes on for five minutes, which is a long time to you, and eventually you sneak a look at the crying man who smells like Portland and loneliness, and he sees you. He leans down until you can see the red lines in his eyes and he whispers to you.
“Do you know the taste of the universe?”
And you look up at him with your little-girl eyes and shake your head because you can’t
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Literature
Metastasis
98.00
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.
94.00
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:
one,
two,
three,
and hope my heart stops.
92.00
The leaves have been carted away, pummeled into dust, and blown away in the wind.
Your lu
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Literature
An old man's death
Wearily he sits in his usual chair. Maybe no one will notice how tired he is and how much it hurts. His oldest granddaughter knocks on the door and opens the door.
"Hi grandpa. How are you today?" She gives him a hug and sits the plate of cookies in front of him. Her fiancé steps in behind her with a gallon of fresh cow's milk. He hadn't had that since he was a boy. Yum!
He smiles. "When are you getting married??"
She pauses. A different reaction that usual. Usually she says, "Not sure yet. We'll let you know."
"October the eighth."
For a split second he thought there was hope after all. October wasn't too far away. He could make it until then. That would only be a month after the six month mark the doctors gave him back in March. Then she adds….
"Next year."
He didn't know what to say. He'd never make it that long. He knew he couldn't. For a moment, she caught the distress in his eyes, but he looks away quickly – back at the cookies and milk. "Thanks for the cookies." H
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Literature
All Authors Have God Complexes
     The ability to vocalize the deepest yearning of a person is every writer's most longed for and nearly intangible goal in life. The ability to reach so far into a person's mind and write clearly and distinctly the thoughts of one such person is by far the most noble and humbling of all accomplishments.
     When that standard is achieve it can then be said that that writer can be considered among the greatest. The Nobel prize is within your grasp. You can only hope.
     My house is a scattered mess and that's always how it will be without my mother around to make us clean up. Every morning I wake up and brush my teeth and take Claritin so I don't spend every ten minutes sneezing and I sit down at my computer, or perhaps I lie on my stomach as I'm doing now to type this out, something I've thought about for a long time but have never been able to vocalize until this moment.
     And
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Literature
The discovery of my fetish [non-fiction]
To tell you the truth I don't know how and when exactly my fetish started... But I'm sure it took place in my early childhood and I can point the person who is responsible for this.
This person in my cousin, let's name her Monica. A cute, skinny girl, with straight blonde hair and blue eyes. She is a year older than me, so in our childhood we used to spend a lot of time together, sometimes even sleep in one bed (cause we were kinds only). And this cousin was very special in a particular way. Every time we were seeing each other, during every single game we played together... there was almost no situation which was not interrupted by her farting and our laughing. That's right, she was always gassy and found it so hilarious. And the weird thing was the fact I quite liked when she was doing it, but had no idea why...
Everything was fine and innocent until that day. I suppose I was about 7-8 years old then and she was 8-9. That day we were just playing together, as usual. Suddenly she free
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Literature
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.
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Literature
Grandma Rose's Story: One
Oral Tradition
     She told this story one day while she did beadwork and a few of her grandchildren played nearby. She remembered her own grandmother, the one who raised her as a little girl. She talked about a time many years ago, the last time she saw her grandmother.
     "My grandmother lived on a place where she had a barn and grain holders and chickens and horses. She used to let me help her take care of the chickens. The horses roamed out to pasture, coming in sometimes for hay she always had ready for them. She and I lived there together. My older cousin, a young man then, stayed with us from time to time.
     "My grandmother had adopted my mother a long time ago, see, and then when my mother died, just thirty-four years old, my grandmother took me to live with her. My sisters and brother went to my other grandmother but my grandmother wanted me with her. I was just a little girl then, not even old en
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Literature
It Bit Me
"And tomorrow we'll install the kitchen cabinets along this wall here," the man gestured into the adjacent room.
My mother nodded in agreement as the construction contractor spoke. All the while, I sat slouched in boredom against the unpainted drywall of my newly-constructed home, my eyes wandering around the unborn living room as I searched for something, anything, to pique my interest. I desperately prayed for any form of entertainment or distraction, but the room loomed in desolate quietness. The scruffy man with my mother turned and stretched his hand out towards the wall directly across from me, redressing the cryptically dull conversation into that of the addition of a new fireplace. I gave another sigh of boredom and rested my small chin on top of my crossed arms. But just then, salvation presented itself to me in the form of a slight glinting atop the nearby counter dividing the two rooms.
I returned my gaze to my mother, who still stood with her back to me, nodding on occasion
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Literature
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
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Literature
Trauma
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
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Literature
Six Word Story
my mother kept smiles in bottles
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Literature
Hearing Half of a Conversation
                    Forgive me for helping you understand
                    you’re not made of words alone.
                         —Roque Dalton; Clandestine Poems
I first learned how to build a house of playing cards in an adolescent psychiatric unit in suburban Chicago. A roommate taught me a trick, a mindset really, to have while placing the cards themselves— that a house of cards is always stacked against itself to stand. My trial-and-error attempts led to a lengthy row of playing cards
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Literature
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
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Literature
Science? Or God?
An atheist professor of Philosophy was speaking to his class on the problem Science has with GOD. He asked one of his new Christian Students to stand and . . .
Professor : You are a Christian, aren't you, son ?
Student : Yes, sir.
Professor: So, you believe in GOD ?
Student : Absolutely, sir.
Professor : Is GOD good ?
Student : Sure.
professor: Is GOD all powerful ?
Student : Yes.
Professor: My brother died of cancer even though he prayed to GOD to heal him. Most of us would attempt to help others who are ill. But GOD didn't. How is this GOD good then? Hmm?
(Student was silent.)
Professor: You can't answer, can you ? Let's start again, young fella. Is GOD good?
Student : Yes.
Professor: Is satan good ?
Student : No.
Professor: Where does satan come from ?
Student : From . . . GOD . . .
Professor: That's right. Tell me son, is there evil in this world?
Student : Yes.
Professor: Evil is everywhere, isn't it ? And GOD did make everything. Correct?
Student : Yes.
Professor: So who created
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Literature
No Longer Anonymous
No longer can I remain anonymous, just another girl checking in for her doctor's appointment.  The moment I tell them the visit is to be billed to the state, and present this voucher, which might as well be painted in bright red blood, dripping and leaving a breadcrumb trail for all, with a neon sign that reads "sexual assault," I become that girl.
I see the way their eyes change.  I see how they look at me.  The hardness of the day, painted in the lines on their face, softens, just a bit.  Their eyes, normally cold and focused, now try to melt my heart with their temporary concern.
I sit in the waiting room amongst the anonymous people.  There's the elderly couple across from me; the Hispanic family: three kids occupied by the mom while the dad talks loudly on the phone, his bulbous body exceeding the chair he sits on; the blonde woman with her adorable blonde-headed daughter in the white linen dress; and all the other an
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