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Written by a060147 in portal Publishing

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i.

Her teeth looked human once. I'm sure of at least that much.

This girl, with her dusky, sun-kissed skin and dark, bouncing curls, is staring curiously into the edges of my mouth, rounding her chubby fingers into the hollows of my cheeks, pulling and pressing and drawing the ends of my lips up and down, side to side. Lets out a giggle at her own childish creation. There's enough light filtering through the windows of the nipa hut to play at the soft, untarnished curves of her features, and for a moment I can almost see a perfect reflection of her mother's dimpled, wide grin plastered over the youthful visage, as inquisitive and attentive as I had imagined it to be. Her mother is gazing back at me now with too bright eyes and the beginnings of hunger rolling off her small child's body in waves, the points of her own inhuman maw just barely developing under the cupid's bow -- and I am answering the little beast's gaze in turn, reciprocating the young girl's subconscious show of dominance with a presentation of a much larger, much more mature one. Evidently her mother is not one to take her daughter out among the other villagers. And the modest home, rundown and bare and nestled deep, deep within the far reaches of the mountain, had been difficult enough to find. But I'm here now. This girl, with blunted claws and budding wings, has become fixated on this strange intruder with features so like her own, sticky fingers ceasing their exploration for a moment, and I find myself able to speak again.

"Anak," I begin, throat slightly heavier than I had expected, "Saan naroon ang ina? Where is your mother?"

She startles somewhat at the strange trill of my voice, its melodic, birdsong quality nearly echoing off the walls of the small abode. Even with my masked appearance I had never been able to master the true nuances of human speech. The small child blinks once, twice, and I'm almost about to repeat the question when she finally quirks her lips to one side and raises her brows, wordless and poignant in her assessment of my presence. So she knew, but she wasn't willing to tell me. Amusement almost catches at the edges of my mouth at that, the familiar gesture -- forcing me to swallow most of it before the child could take it as a game. Liway had always been a cautious, observant woman; it is no wonder she had tried to raise her daughter to be the same. The child's immediate reaction to inspect my maw upon arrival, of course, stood as a bit of a contrast to that nature, but that hardly mattered when it had taken me at least four weeks to follow the cold trail so far from her village. Four long weeks of traipsing about in dirt roads and sleepy towns and wondering, always, if the woman I loved still loved me back after all these years, if she had already been taken by another man in my absence, if her child would ever know who her father was. What her father was. And I find myself wondering now if she had ever been taught the lessons her priestess mother had been led to believe, if her mother had told her tales of feathered, man-eating beasts just as the elders of the village had done to her child. Our child.

The thought rests strangely on my tongue. All these years, and I'd barely given any thought to the possibility that I could ever refer to this little beast as such. Our child, our daughter, the beloved bastard offspring of a priestess and the diwata of the mountain. Our tiny piece of the world, sitting right here with a petulant pout and a bright yellow sarong.

It occurs to me that this little thing should have a name.

ii.

The first and third Fridays of the month are always the worst days. Not because they're the days Mama expects me to be done with my books, because I'm not allowed to play in the stream by myself, or because I can't talk to any travelers wandering around outside -- no, that would be harebrained, as Mama would say -- but because they're the days Mama has to go walk all by herself to the marketplace the next village over to trade baskets of furs and skins she collects. It's a long walk, she tells me, one that I shouldn't have to do because I can't fit as well on her back anymore, and it would be much more fun if I just stayed inside and read until she returned in the evening. It isn't, of course. I'd much rather be skipping along beside her the whole way there, a basket under each arm, and yell back at the hawkers and traders, but it makes her happy when I agree. I'm a big girl, besides; I can take care of myself. The room was barely lit this morning when she kissed me on the forehead and told me to be good, her small, work-worn fingers smoothing my bird's nest of hair, and by the time I'd managed to come to completely, she was already gone.

I wonder, sometimes, what the outside world is like. The outside world is where Mama comes back with food she can actually eat, lamps she needs to see, and smaller things, like matches and handkerchiefs and parcels of spices. And she doesn't like her meat the way I do -- not with blood sticking to the roof of her mouth, not with the creature only barely breathing at first bite. She says it's impolite. In my few visits to the outside world I've counted at least seventeen things Mama has listed as inappropriate to do in polite company, which is everyone, about eight that she considers worthy of scolding, and up to exactly three that are most definitely, absolutely, unquestionably unacceptable. Showing myself without wrapping my wings in layers of cloth, for example, and letting my teeth make themselves known in front of anyone but myself or Mama.

I figure that touching and talking to this familiar and unfamiliar man would be among those things, but she isn't here at the moment.

He looks like me, almost. Skin as dark as mine, hair as feathery and black as mine, smile as toothy and piercing and wide as mine. Wings large enough to graze the wall behind him, claws overgrown and sharpened to a point, powerful, not quite human feet digging themselves into the floorboards. He's asking me what my name is in that odd warble of his now, tone bobbing up and down to the rhythm of some unknown song, and I can't help but stare at him for a moment before trying to answer.

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Juice
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by a060147 in portal Publishing
summit
i.

Her teeth looked human once. I'm sure of at least that much.

This girl, with her dusky, sun-kissed skin and dark, bouncing curls, is staring curiously into the edges of my mouth, rounding her chubby fingers into the hollows of my cheeks, pulling and pressing and drawing the ends of my lips up and down, side to side. Lets out a giggle at her own childish creation. There's enough light filtering through the windows of the nipa hut to play at the soft, untarnished curves of her features, and for a moment I can almost see a perfect reflection of her mother's dimpled, wide grin plastered over the youthful visage, as inquisitive and attentive as I had imagined it to be. Her mother is gazing back at me now with too bright eyes and the beginnings of hunger rolling off her small child's body in waves, the points of her own inhuman maw just barely developing under the cupid's bow -- and I am answering the little beast's gaze in turn, reciprocating the young girl's subconscious show of dominance with a presentation of a much larger, much more mature one. Evidently her mother is not one to take her daughter out among the other villagers. And the modest home, rundown and bare and nestled deep, deep within the far reaches of the mountain, had been difficult enough to find. But I'm here now. This girl, with blunted claws and budding wings, has become fixated on this strange intruder with features so like her own, sticky fingers ceasing their exploration for a moment, and I find myself able to speak again.

"Anak," I begin, throat slightly heavier than I had expected, "Saan naroon ang ina? Where is your mother?"

She startles somewhat at the strange trill of my voice, its melodic, birdsong quality nearly echoing off the walls of the small abode. Even with my masked appearance I had never been able to master the true nuances of human speech. The small child blinks once, twice, and I'm almost about to repeat the question when she finally quirks her lips to one side and raises her brows, wordless and poignant in her assessment of my presence. So she knew, but she wasn't willing to tell me. Amusement almost catches at the edges of my mouth at that, the familiar gesture -- forcing me to swallow most of it before the child could take it as a game. Liway had always been a cautious, observant woman; it is no wonder she had tried to raise her daughter to be the same. The child's immediate reaction to inspect my maw upon arrival, of course, stood as a bit of a contrast to that nature, but that hardly mattered when it had taken me at least four weeks to follow the cold trail so far from her village. Four long weeks of traipsing about in dirt roads and sleepy towns and wondering, always, if the woman I loved still loved me back after all these years, if she had already been taken by another man in my absence, if her child would ever know who her father was. What her father was. And I find myself wondering now if she had ever been taught the lessons her priestess mother had been led to believe, if her mother had told her tales of feathered, man-eating beasts just as the elders of the village had done to her child. Our child.

The thought rests strangely on my tongue. All these years, and I'd barely given any thought to the possibility that I could ever refer to this little beast as such. Our child, our daughter, the beloved bastard offspring of a priestess and the diwata of the mountain. Our tiny piece of the world, sitting right here with a petulant pout and a bright yellow sarong.

It occurs to me that this little thing should have a name.

ii.

The first and third Fridays of the month are always the worst days. Not because they're the days Mama expects me to be done with my books, because I'm not allowed to play in the stream by myself, or because I can't talk to any travelers wandering around outside -- no, that would be harebrained, as Mama would say -- but because they're the days Mama has to go walk all by herself to the marketplace the next village over to trade baskets of furs and skins she collects. It's a long walk, she tells me, one that I shouldn't have to do because I can't fit as well on her back anymore, and it would be much more fun if I just stayed inside and read until she returned in the evening. It isn't, of course. I'd much rather be skipping along beside her the whole way there, a basket under each arm, and yell back at the hawkers and traders, but it makes her happy when I agree. I'm a big girl, besides; I can take care of myself. The room was barely lit this morning when she kissed me on the forehead and told me to be good, her small, work-worn fingers smoothing my bird's nest of hair, and by the time I'd managed to come to completely, she was already gone.

I wonder, sometimes, what the outside world is like. The outside world is where Mama comes back with food she can actually eat, lamps she needs to see, and smaller things, like matches and handkerchiefs and parcels of spices. And she doesn't like her meat the way I do -- not with blood sticking to the roof of her mouth, not with the creature only barely breathing at first bite. She says it's impolite. In my few visits to the outside world I've counted at least seventeen things Mama has listed as inappropriate to do in polite company, which is everyone, about eight that she considers worthy of scolding, and up to exactly three that are most definitely, absolutely, unquestionably unacceptable. Showing myself without wrapping my wings in layers of cloth, for example, and letting my teeth make themselves known in front of anyone but myself or Mama.

I figure that touching and talking to this familiar and unfamiliar man would be among those things, but she isn't here at the moment.

He looks like me, almost. Skin as dark as mine, hair as feathery and black as mine, smile as toothy and piercing and wide as mine. Wings large enough to graze the wall behind him, claws overgrown and sharpened to a point, powerful, not quite human feet digging themselves into the floorboards. He's asking me what my name is in that odd warble of his now, tone bobbing up and down to the rhythm of some unknown song, and I can't help but stare at him for a moment before trying to answer.
#fantasy  #fiction  #romance  #adventure 
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Thirty-six. Two kids even Satan would disown. Squeezed into size 10 skinny pants while my hips beg for size 12. Attending a wake with a spread so large it puts all you can eat joints to shame and my size 10s to the test.

Even on the wrong side of thirty, this wouldn’t be the worst place in the world if I hadn’t killed the guy eternally sleeping under the closed mahogany casket.

Involuntary Vehicular Manslaughter.

Court’s words. Not mine.

Stupid woman posting on Facebook while driving a Range Rover would’ve been more accurate.

In my defense, people shouldn’t use social media to rehome puppies because they pee in the house. It warranted an immediate response.

Show some responsibility people!

“Thanks for coming,” a young twenty-something said. I think she put on her eyeliner while driving.

Bet she didn’t kill anyone while doing it, though.

Size 2. Kendra Scott earrings. Green Lily Pulitzer sundress. At a funeral? Tacky. One kid and that outfit will become a distant memory tucked deep in the huge guest bedroom closet of her sugar daddy’s McMansion.

But she has the body and no one even seems to care she’s not wearing black.

Of course, I’m jealous. I would kill for her body.

“Who knew my uncle was so popular. And you are?” She left a pink lipstick ring matching the off-year Rosé on her plastic glass waiting for me to answer.

The crazy bitch who ran over your uncle who wishes she could figure out how to change the past.

“Tessa Gilbert.” I offered a full hand, unmanicured nails and all. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” She pinched my index finger between her fingers and thumb like I was a shrimp. Creepy. As if I weren’t uncomfortable already.

Can we get some cocktail sauce over here?

A flock of Vera Wang designer knock-offs swept her up in a flurry of selfies and Instagram posts and I found myself alone in a perfectly crowded room while Dan, my husband, huddled in the corner with five other men checking their fantasy football teams.

Remind me not to die during football season.

Dan led a chorus of collective groans from the men. Judging by his eye roll and grinding teeth, either the Steelers or his make-believe team was losing. I prayed it wasn’t both. Today was hard enough and I didn’t need him pouting until bedtime.

Service ended thirty minutes earlier and already half the arrangements wilted.

Seemed everything died around me these days.

A blast of over-zealous air conditioning cleared out the area around the casket offering me a chance to say my goodbyes alone. Goosebumps sprouted on my arms and I regretted handing my jacket off to Dan when we arrived. Like my pants, it didn’t fit any longer, but it matched my outfit.

Funeral Chic

It didn’t exist in my wardrobe. Hell, this was the first I attended in my life, but I wasn’t about to buy something to wear it to a funeral. I’m sure it’s bad luck to wear it again.

I laid my hand on the oak casket. Smooth. Clean. Peeling?

Veneer.

“You deserved better,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. The rain. The wet road. Kids arguing. You know. Life.”

And death.

“Were you close?” The funeral director encroached my personal space. A bit heavy on the Old Spice, but I watched earlier as he glided from person to person, offering an ear and a kind word.

I yanked my hand off the casket, but my print remained. A ghostly handshake goodbye.

“I saw him jogging.” I inhaled deep, clearing the congestion in my sinuses. “Every day. Rain or shine. He never missed a day. At least, I don’t think he did.” I wiped a tear and most of my mascara from my eyes. “I didn’t even know his name until the day he died.”

“Paul—”

“I know it now!” I snapped. “Oh, my God.” My hand found his forearm. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know. I don’t…”

“It’s alright.” He patted the top of my hand.

His skin. So soft. Softer than mine.

“I’ve heard worse,” he said. “It’s an emotional time for everyone. It helps to talk. Can you tell me about the last time you saw him?”

Pinned against my front grill and a concrete barrier. You know, the barriers where they are doing road construction out past the Jiffy Wash and the new self-storage place. His head looked like a pumpkin after a Devil’s Night prank. I screamed at my kids to stay in the car. So much blood. I wanted to do CPR. I’ve taken classes. But his chest. How do you do chest compressions when the chest is already compressed? These folks are lucky they can’t see under this casket. It’s a nightmare. My nightmare.

“Jogging.” I inhaled deep. “Jogging. The day he died.”

“Well, take comfort in knowing he died doing something he loved.” The funeral director pulled his arm free. “We should all be so lucky.”

My Coach handbag vibrated against my thigh. I regretted skipping Pilates this month, too busy feeling sorry for myself and worried what women in my class were saying under their breath.

Gah! Stupid Facebook notifications. I always forget to silence them. Dan says it’s going to get us kicked out of the movies one day.

One-hundred Seventy-three?

I didn’t think the little number on top of the Earth icon could show triple-digits. The irony being all one-hundred seventy-three of those notifications were comments from people in my kids’ school district.

That hussy posted a picture of me at the casket. Could she have gotten a worse angle?

Dan slipped his hand onto the small of my back. His touched made me smile. I pulled it off my face when I realized this wasn’t the best place to be caught smiling. People were watching.

“Don’t look, ‘hon.” He peered over my shoulder.

“Let’s see what the world has to say about Tessa Gilbert.” My thumb trembled above the iPhone’s screen.

“Looks, it’s Cedar Lake’s Most Wanted.”

Liked twenty-eight times.

“How come she’s not wearing orange?”

Liked sixteen times.

“Bet she’s only there because the court is making her.”

Liked nineteen times.

“Her fat ass should have been the one out there jogging.”

Liked one-hundred two times.

Are you kidding me? One-hundred and two people, one-hundred and two neighbors, think I’m fat.

{{{Vrrr}}}

One-hundred three.

{{{Vrrr}}}

One-hundred four.

{{{Vrrr}}}

{{{Vrrr}}}

{{{Vrrr}}}

“Remember how I said I just want to be liked?” I silenced my iPhone and shoved it deep in my purse. Dan nodded and pulled me in closer. “This isn’t what I meant.”

Everyone in the funeral parlor exchanged glances between their phones and me. The funeral director wiped down his arm where I had been touching him.

“Take me home, Dan.” I crumpled in his arms. He was my grill, my concrete wall, holding up what was left of me. “Please, take me home.”

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by DarkNovelistTim
Liked
Thirty-six. Two kids even Satan would disown. Squeezed into size 10 skinny pants while my hips beg for size 12. Attending a wake with a spread so large it puts all you can eat joints to shame and my size 10s to the test.
Even on the wrong side of thirty, this wouldn’t be the worst place in the world if I hadn’t killed the guy eternally sleeping under the closed mahogany casket.
Involuntary Vehicular Manslaughter.
Court’s words. Not mine.
Stupid woman posting on Facebook while driving a Range Rover would’ve been more accurate.
In my defense, people shouldn’t use social media to rehome puppies because they pee in the house. It warranted an immediate response.
Show some responsibility people!
“Thanks for coming,” a young twenty-something said. I think she put on her eyeliner while driving.
Bet she didn’t kill anyone while doing it, though.
Size 2. Kendra Scott earrings. Green Lily Pulitzer sundress. At a funeral? Tacky. One kid and that outfit will become a distant memory tucked deep in the huge guest bedroom closet of her sugar daddy’s McMansion.
But she has the body and no one even seems to care she’s not wearing black.
Of course, I’m jealous. I would kill for her body.
“Who knew my uncle was so popular. And you are?” She left a pink lipstick ring matching the off-year Rosé on her plastic glass waiting for me to answer.
The crazy bitch who ran over your uncle who wishes she could figure out how to change the past.
“Tessa Gilbert.” I offered a full hand, unmanicured nails and all. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” She pinched my index finger between her fingers and thumb like I was a shrimp. Creepy. As if I weren’t uncomfortable already.
Can we get some cocktail sauce over here?
A flock of Vera Wang designer knock-offs swept her up in a flurry of selfies and Instagram posts and I found myself alone in a perfectly crowded room while Dan, my husband, huddled in the corner with five other men checking their fantasy football teams.
Remind me not to die during football season.
Dan led a chorus of collective groans from the men. Judging by his eye roll and grinding teeth, either the Steelers or his make-believe team was losing. I prayed it wasn’t both. Today was hard enough and I didn’t need him pouting until bedtime.
Service ended thirty minutes earlier and already half the arrangements wilted.
Seemed everything died around me these days.
A blast of over-zealous air conditioning cleared out the area around the casket offering me a chance to say my goodbyes alone. Goosebumps sprouted on my arms and I regretted handing my jacket off to Dan when we arrived. Like my pants, it didn’t fit any longer, but it matched my outfit.
Funeral Chic
It didn’t exist in my wardrobe. Hell, this was the first I attended in my life, but I wasn’t about to buy something to wear it to a funeral. I’m sure it’s bad luck to wear it again.
I laid my hand on the oak casket. Smooth. Clean. Peeling?
Veneer.
“You deserved better,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. The rain. The wet road. Kids arguing. You know. Life.”
And death.
“Were you close?” The funeral director encroached my personal space. A bit heavy on the Old Spice, but I watched earlier as he glided from person to person, offering an ear and a kind word.
I yanked my hand off the casket, but my print remained. A ghostly handshake goodbye.
“I saw him jogging.” I inhaled deep, clearing the congestion in my sinuses. “Every day. Rain or shine. He never missed a day. At least, I don’t think he did.” I wiped a tear and most of my mascara from my eyes. “I didn’t even know his name until the day he died.”
“Paul—”
“I know it now!” I snapped. “Oh, my God.” My hand found his forearm. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know. I don’t…”
“It’s alright.” He patted the top of my hand.
His skin. So soft. Softer than mine.
“I’ve heard worse,” he said. “It’s an emotional time for everyone. It helps to talk. Can you tell me about the last time you saw him?”
Pinned against my front grill and a concrete barrier. You know, the barriers where they are doing road construction out past the Jiffy Wash and the new self-storage place. His head looked like a pumpkin after a Devil’s Night prank. I screamed at my kids to stay in the car. So much blood. I wanted to do CPR. I’ve taken classes. But his chest. How do you do chest compressions when the chest is already compressed? These folks are lucky they can’t see under this casket. It’s a nightmare. My nightmare.
“Jogging.” I inhaled deep. “Jogging. The day he died.”
“Well, take comfort in knowing he died doing something he loved.” The funeral director pulled his arm free. “We should all be so lucky.”
My Coach handbag vibrated against my thigh. I regretted skipping Pilates this month, too busy feeling sorry for myself and worried what women in my class were saying under their breath.
Gah! Stupid Facebook notifications. I always forget to silence them. Dan says it’s going to get us kicked out of the movies one day.
One-hundred Seventy-three?
I didn’t think the little number on top of the Earth icon could show triple-digits. The irony being all one-hundred seventy-three of those notifications were comments from people in my kids’ school district.
That hussy posted a picture of me at the casket. Could she have gotten a worse angle?
Dan slipped his hand onto the small of my back. His touched made me smile. I pulled it off my face when I realized this wasn’t the best place to be caught smiling. People were watching.
“Don’t look, ‘hon.” He peered over my shoulder.
“Let’s see what the world has to say about Tessa Gilbert.” My thumb trembled above the iPhone’s screen.
“Looks, it’s Cedar Lake’s Most Wanted.”
Liked twenty-eight times.
“How come she’s not wearing orange?”
Liked sixteen times.
“Bet she’s only there because the court is making her.”
Liked nineteen times.
“Her fat ass should have been the one out there jogging.”
Liked one-hundred two times.
Are you kidding me? One-hundred and two people, one-hundred and two neighbors, think I’m fat.
{{{Vrrr}}}
One-hundred three.
{{{Vrrr}}}
One-hundred four.
{{{Vrrr}}}
{{{Vrrr}}}
{{{Vrrr}}}
“Remember how I said I just want to be liked?” I silenced my iPhone and shoved it deep in my purse. Dan nodded and pulled me in closer. “This isn’t what I meant.”
Everyone in the funeral parlor exchanged glances between their phones and me. The funeral director wiped down his arm where I had been touching him.
“Take me home, Dan.” I crumpled in his arms. He was my grill, my concrete wall, holding up what was left of me. “Please, take me home.”

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by ALifeWitArt in portal Publishing

conversations with my muse

Her eyes dropped with the weight of her thoughts. Marbles shifting and darkening with her insight, "I used to always write dialogue."

"Really?" He half grunted masking the comedy in his voice. He was either surprised or humored. And as he winked at her with his empathetic blues and signature half-smile, he picked a piece of tobacco from the tip of his tongue, "How so, darlin?"

 

"When I was a kid. Those stories I used to write. Actually, they were more like books." She laughed like a shy child: embarrassed, but willingly baring her soul. There was something about him that allowed her to be who she once was. Someone she thought would never resurrect.  

"I didn't know that, darlin. Well, you'll have no problem. Just write the conversations as you hear 'em. I mean, writing dialogue doesn't usually come natural to anyone, hun."

She looked at him and she saw God. Not God as in the paperdoll image she cut along the lines as a child, but God as a metaphor.

She smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth to taste his dip. Then, slowly, she licked the remnants of him from her lips.

Savoring all of him.

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by ALifeWitArt in portal Publishing
conversations with my muse
Her eyes dropped with the weight of her thoughts. Marbles shifting and darkening with her insight, "I used to always write dialogue."

"Really?" He half grunted masking the comedy in his voice. He was either surprised or humored. And as he winked at her with his empathetic blues and signature half-smile, he picked a piece of tobacco from the tip of his tongue, "How so, darlin?"
 
"When I was a kid. Those stories I used to write. Actually, they were more like books." She laughed like a shy child: embarrassed, but willingly baring her soul. There was something about him that allowed her to be who she once was. Someone she thought would never resurrect.  

"I didn't know that, darlin. Well, you'll have no problem. Just write the conversations as you hear 'em. I mean, writing dialogue doesn't usually come natural to anyone, hun."

She looked at him and she saw God. Not God as in the paperdoll image she cut along the lines as a child, but God as a metaphor.

She smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth to taste his dip. Then, slowly, she licked the remnants of him from her lips.

Savoring all of him.
#nonfiction  #romance  #poetry  #philosophy  #spirituality  #amwriting 
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by AlexTheSeeker in portal Publishing

Man without talent

Here he stands. His hand were little shaky but he done pretty good job to calm them down. The more he was looking at the city from height the more his concisness expand until he blends with the city. He was the city. Whatever happends there happends inside him and he could feel every step of walking people, he could heard laugh of people in restaurants and coffee shops. It was one of the most satisfying feeling in his life. He finally truly lived. After all these years of floating through life, after all pain and flashes of love he can just stand there and do nothing and the universe would handle everything else. When he closed his eyes he saw colours insted of depressive thoughts and he wanted to capture all this movement and beauty on canvas. He was experiencing something what many artists only dream off, inspiration flew throught him and wonder if he could wrote a book on the spot but he was so worried that even the slightest move would destroy his pressures mood that he rather stayed without move and just observe. Then he spread arms and fall backwards. The anonymous viewer would held his breath as the man made 450 defree flip and land in the little pool full of foam cubes on the next roof which was separated from this one only by a 10 centimeter gap, but the difference in height could be more that 10 meters. This was very brave and in the same way very stupid.

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Written by AlexTheSeeker in portal Publishing
Man without talent
Here he stands. His hand were little shaky but he done pretty good job to calm them down. The more he was looking at the city from height the more his concisness expand until he blends with the city. He was the city. Whatever happends there happends inside him and he could feel every step of walking people, he could heard laugh of people in restaurants and coffee shops. It was one of the most satisfying feeling in his life. He finally truly lived. After all these years of floating through life, after all pain and flashes of love he can just stand there and do nothing and the universe would handle everything else. When he closed his eyes he saw colours insted of depressive thoughts and he wanted to capture all this movement and beauty on canvas. He was experiencing something what many artists only dream off, inspiration flew throught him and wonder if he could wrote a book on the spot but he was so worried that even the slightest move would destroy his pressures mood that he rather stayed without move and just observe. Then he spread arms and fall backwards. The anonymous viewer would held his breath as the man made 450 defree flip and land in the little pool full of foam cubes on the next roof which was separated from this one only by a 10 centimeter gap, but the difference in height could be more that 10 meters. This was very brave and in the same way very stupid.
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Written by ErinT in portal Publishing

Shatterspell

When the taboo spells that bind Hulgardt to serve the ruthless Duke of Temborough break, his newfound conscience prompts him to rescue the duke’s heir from her father’s deadly schemes—unaware that Edrienne has a few schemes of her own.

CHAPTER ONE - HULGARDT

I arrived at Thasgar Manor near dusk, on horseback and alone.

The manor’s wrought iron gates stood open, crusted in snow, but I didn’t encounter anyone until I passed the nearest outbuildings. Even then it was only a stable boy hauling a rake who froze when he spotted me. His eyes jerked toward the house, no doubt torn between greeting the duke’s castellan and his duty to warn the widowed Lady Thasgar of my arrival. I waited until the boy finally came and took my horse, reaching the conclusion that he feared me more than the wrath of his mistress.

Wise choice.

Inside, a maidservant took my gloves and heavy fur-lined cloak with shaking hands. “Please sit, m’lord. I’ll fetch her ladyship.”

I frowned as I surveyed the manor, silent but for groaning floorboards as the maid scurried ahead. An estate like this should have had more servants to spend on maintenance, most of them ethnic Lsalfians, but instead, every door pushed aside dead leaves and a cold fireplace lay at the heart of the main hall. The state of the house gave weight to the duke’s suspicions that Fiona Thasgar was using her income to fund some faction against him.

As I was considering my options, Fiona Thasgar swept in. She was dressed in drab, layered wool, and her sharp blue eyes were the only color about her.

“What’s this about, Hulgardt?” she asked, shoulders stiff. “You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you for six weeks or longer.”

“I’ve come to fetch His Grace’s daughter.”

---

#fantasy #fiction

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Written by ErinT in portal Publishing
Shatterspell
When the taboo spells that bind Hulgardt to serve the ruthless Duke of Temborough break, his newfound conscience prompts him to rescue the duke’s heir from her father’s deadly schemes—unaware that Edrienne has a few schemes of her own.


CHAPTER ONE - HULGARDT

I arrived at Thasgar Manor near dusk, on horseback and alone.

The manor’s wrought iron gates stood open, crusted in snow, but I didn’t encounter anyone until I passed the nearest outbuildings. Even then it was only a stable boy hauling a rake who froze when he spotted me. His eyes jerked toward the house, no doubt torn between greeting the duke’s castellan and his duty to warn the widowed Lady Thasgar of my arrival. I waited until the boy finally came and took my horse, reaching the conclusion that he feared me more than the wrath of his mistress.

Wise choice.

Inside, a maidservant took my gloves and heavy fur-lined cloak with shaking hands. “Please sit, m’lord. I’ll fetch her ladyship.”

I frowned as I surveyed the manor, silent but for groaning floorboards as the maid scurried ahead. An estate like this should have had more servants to spend on maintenance, most of them ethnic Lsalfians, but instead, every door pushed aside dead leaves and a cold fireplace lay at the heart of the main hall. The state of the house gave weight to the duke’s suspicions that Fiona Thasgar was using her income to fund some faction against him.

As I was considering my options, Fiona Thasgar swept in. She was dressed in drab, layered wool, and her sharp blue eyes were the only color about her.

“What’s this about, Hulgardt?” she asked, shoulders stiff. “You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you for six weeks or longer.”

“I’ve come to fetch His Grace’s daughter.”

---
#fantasy #fiction
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Written by jgonzalez5671 in portal Publishing

Careful What you Wish For

 I often sarcastically remark, "I wish all could be as smart as me!" and imply I am the most brilliant, insightful human alive. This morning, however, I woke up with knowledge- encased in a pounding headache- the certainty that I was now the most intelligent person alive. It hurt.

As figures arranged and calculated themselves in my head, my toes curled and cramped. As philosophies swirled, I hurled- retching over and over. As complex chemical recipes of mass destruction weapons were illuminated, my shoulders hunched in muscled knots. Questions of humanity were asked and answered, twisting my belly.

"Oh, God," I murmured. Just as quickly, a piercing in my chest robbed me of a belief in a Higher Power and replaced faith with fact. I ran to the kitchen and splashed water on my face. I was about to pour myself a glass when the process of plumbing, and residual deposits suddenly made it unpalatable. I reached for an apple from the bowl on the counter. Knowledge of farming pesticide chemical components swam in my esophagus and threatened my gag reflex.

I ran to the bedroom. Walking suddenly became useless and unproductive. Once there, I laid down and tried to collect my thoughts. But they just swam in my head, multiplying and unable to be contained. I picked up my phone. Every number I thought to dial, however, became a beginning to a complex math problem. What was the number divisible by. How much is the square of that number. And so on. Oh, my head!!

I looked at the newspaper on the bedside table. A headline about President Trump. Now, my head pain was excruciating!! I folded the paper in half, no more Trump. Palms pressed to temples, I shut my eyes. Sleep wouldn't come. Instead, trigonometry and modern art battled for attention in my thoughts. (They are amazingly dichotomous!) My eyes searched the room. Surely, with all this knowledge, peace wouldn't elude me. Peace couldn't elude me. Could it?

I could tell you how the universe started, but could no longer entertain the question- Who started it? I could tell you the circumstances around Jesus' birth. I could explain, scientifically, all that many espouse as miracles. I could define for you the tenets of the world's religions. But, none provided the solace I used to receive.

Underneath that folded newspaper on my bedside table is a single drawer. It was haphazardly assembled in a factory several countries away from lumber cut from a tree in Maine. One of a depleting population of trees. I'll spare you the number and get back to the point. In that drawer is a gun. Again, I'll spare you its specifications, production, assembly and bullet velocity. I opened the drawer. Beside the gun, unloaded (even before all this, I wasn't a moron!), was a box of bullets. I opened the chamber and loaded a single bullet. Solace.

I put the newspaper, open, to my right temple. Raising the gun, I pulled the trigger. Bang. The bullet went right through Trump and into my skull. Two birds with one stone. Solace.  

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Written by jgonzalez5671 in portal Publishing
Careful What you Wish For
 I often sarcastically remark, "I wish all could be as smart as me!" and imply I am the most brilliant, insightful human alive. This morning, however, I woke up with knowledge- encased in a pounding headache- the certainty that I was now the most intelligent person alive. It hurt.
As figures arranged and calculated themselves in my head, my toes curled and cramped. As philosophies swirled, I hurled- retching over and over. As complex chemical recipes of mass destruction weapons were illuminated, my shoulders hunched in muscled knots. Questions of humanity were asked and answered, twisting my belly.
"Oh, God," I murmured. Just as quickly, a piercing in my chest robbed me of a belief in a Higher Power and replaced faith with fact. I ran to the kitchen and splashed water on my face. I was about to pour myself a glass when the process of plumbing, and residual deposits suddenly made it unpalatable. I reached for an apple from the bowl on the counter. Knowledge of farming pesticide chemical components swam in my esophagus and threatened my gag reflex.
I ran to the bedroom. Walking suddenly became useless and unproductive. Once there, I laid down and tried to collect my thoughts. But they just swam in my head, multiplying and unable to be contained. I picked up my phone. Every number I thought to dial, however, became a beginning to a complex math problem. What was the number divisible by. How much is the square of that number. And so on. Oh, my head!!
I looked at the newspaper on the bedside table. A headline about President Trump. Now, my head pain was excruciating!! I folded the paper in half, no more Trump. Palms pressed to temples, I shut my eyes. Sleep wouldn't come. Instead, trigonometry and modern art battled for attention in my thoughts. (They are amazingly dichotomous!) My eyes searched the room. Surely, with all this knowledge, peace wouldn't elude me. Peace couldn't elude me. Could it?
I could tell you how the universe started, but could no longer entertain the question- Who started it? I could tell you the circumstances around Jesus' birth. I could explain, scientifically, all that many espouse as miracles. I could define for you the tenets of the world's religions. But, none provided the solace I used to receive.
Underneath that folded newspaper on my bedside table is a single drawer. It was haphazardly assembled in a factory several countries away from lumber cut from a tree in Maine. One of a depleting population of trees. I'll spare you the number and get back to the point. In that drawer is a gun. Again, I'll spare you its specifications, production, assembly and bullet velocity. I opened the drawer. Beside the gun, unloaded (even before all this, I wasn't a moron!), was a box of bullets. I opened the chamber and loaded a single bullet. Solace.
I put the newspaper, open, to my right temple. Raising the gun, I pulled the trigger. Bang. The bullet went right through Trump and into my skull. Two birds with one stone. Solace.  
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Written by albertaj in portal Publishing

A STRANGER IN MY HEAD

I hid behind the curtain as a stranger entered my domain. He acted like he owned the place!  I, trembling, held my breath and slowly crept toward the hallway closet and hid myself amongst the lifeless coats. He had the nerve, this unwelcome guest, to sit in my favorite chair and reclining it back, closed his eyes and was soon fast asleep. I was trapped! I was nearly frightened to death and tried to still the pounding of my heart. I had no cell phone as I had never figured out how to use one. There was no lingering odor of moth balls surrounding these clothes I was enveloped in and the stranger must have replaced all of my coats and old umbrellas with his. I hated him now for disrupting my life and taking over my humble house. Little though it was and alike the others in this cookie-cutter neighborhood, it was mine. My ears picked up the snoring sounds leaking from the hole in his face which now looked a little familiar to me. No, that couldn't be. No one I knew would creep into my house and invade my private space. Could I now escape and find some help? Now I heard the meowing of a cat; but I don't own a cat. Was the cat his or did it also enter my home without an invitation?  I took a deep breath and crawling like a cat, I escaped out the front door. Running through the yard, I turned my head towards the house and was caught in the lights that had just been turned on. A loud voice said, "I'm calling the police, what are you doing in my yard"? I was bewildered and then saw a house next door that looked just like the one I had just left. The door was open and I stumbled through it. This place looked more familiar to me than the one I had just came from. The stranger, called 'Dementia', had followed me home and wouldn't leave me alone, wouldn't let me escape from it's hold on me.   

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Written by albertaj in portal Publishing
A STRANGER IN MY HEAD
I hid behind the curtain as a stranger entered my domain. He acted like he owned the place!  I, trembling, held my breath and slowly crept toward the hallway closet and hid myself amongst the lifeless coats. He had the nerve, this unwelcome guest, to sit in my favorite chair and reclining it back, closed his eyes and was soon fast asleep. I was trapped! I was nearly frightened to death and tried to still the pounding of my heart. I had no cell phone as I had never figured out how to use one. There was no lingering odor of moth balls surrounding these clothes I was enveloped in and the stranger must have replaced all of my coats and old umbrellas with his. I hated him now for disrupting my life and taking over my humble house. Little though it was and alike the others in this cookie-cutter neighborhood, it was mine. My ears picked up the snoring sounds leaking from the hole in his face which now looked a little familiar to me. No, that couldn't be. No one I knew would creep into my house and invade my private space. Could I now escape and find some help? Now I heard the meowing of a cat; but I don't own a cat. Was the cat his or did it also enter my home without an invitation?  I took a deep breath and crawling like a cat, I escaped out the front door. Running through the yard, I turned my head towards the house and was caught in the lights that had just been turned on. A loud voice said, "I'm calling the police, what are you doing in my yard"? I was bewildered and then saw a house next door that looked just like the one I had just left. The door was open and I stumbled through it. This place looked more familiar to me than the one I had just came from. The stranger, called 'Dementia', had followed me home and wouldn't leave me alone, wouldn't let me escape from it's hold on me.   

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Written by jessandthesea

Pascal Said Always Keep Something Beautiful In Your Mind

Raindrops on roses, Angels on MDMA, to feel the boundaries of your skin, you know who you are, expansiveness, singing nothing lasts forever while knowing full well everything we are is at every moment alive in us, thanks Arthur Miller, who is thanking California, and I’m thanking Barcelona.

Did I ever think Guns N Roses would find in me the honest questions? No, I didn’t. But that’s the magic, like the sunrise, all there alone, just the new light and me, walking to the metro in a big red backpack to catch a flight to somewhere, a window seat, close my eyes.

When I discover that DMT is the same chemical as dreaming, when I hear four-hundred-thirty-two is the frequency that can heal you, when I find light conversations about semicolons and the emotional impact of pauses, when I know for sure that transparency really works, so keep trying, I’ll keep trying. I’ve been making myself say all the hard things. Music enters me like walking into a church, I have a center it can find so easy easy.

Do you know how often I sit among the clouds? Once I saw moonlight flashing through them like a flame. When I say I love you, what else does it mean? Living with all the transluscents is ok, let them go. Don’t think about them every day.

Keep something beautiful in your mind, the way of swaying in the dark on a stowed bed beneath the wooden planks of a sailboat, out there, the big smell of water, Chaos, that’s real, too, every minor wind a gate ajar. More honest and it’s quieter, it’s July, you fell asleep in my lap, your feet were touching mine.

In a previous life, someone says what the fuck is this between us, a face so disgusted by it like it was ugly instead of one of the great wonders of the universe. It killed me inside, bombed one of my rooms. Confession and confession and still so much is secret. I dream in sliding, muffled, mythic electric guitar on my best nights, me quedo enamorado del mundo en español, falsetto, emoji corazones, el vino (ya sabes), el mar, the bag of teeth that materialized after Maria’s hijo realized the tooth fairy isn’t real.

Barcelona, I cried for the first time today since I arrived. Do you know how often I record the silence? This is all there is. This. Do you know I’ve photographed the teeth marks you left on me? That I’ve let my fingers rest there falling into sleep? Do you know how I’ve been afraid? Pascal said always keep something beautiful in your mind. The moon is full in this moment, and night makes me feel alive, I’m going to sit on my balcony and drink Rioja, and you know, I like being alone, I’d even call it loneliness.

I remember when we met, my soul and me. Now it’s easier to see everyone.

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Written by jessandthesea
Pascal Said Always Keep Something Beautiful In Your Mind
Raindrops on roses, Angels on MDMA, to feel the boundaries of your skin, you know who you are, expansiveness, singing nothing lasts forever while knowing full well everything we are is at every moment alive in us, thanks Arthur Miller, who is thanking California, and I’m thanking Barcelona.

Did I ever think Guns N Roses would find in me the honest questions? No, I didn’t. But that’s the magic, like the sunrise, all there alone, just the new light and me, walking to the metro in a big red backpack to catch a flight to somewhere, a window seat, close my eyes.

When I discover that DMT is the same chemical as dreaming, when I hear four-hundred-thirty-two is the frequency that can heal you, when I find light conversations about semicolons and the emotional impact of pauses, when I know for sure that transparency really works, so keep trying, I’ll keep trying. I’ve been making myself say all the hard things. Music enters me like walking into a church, I have a center it can find so easy easy.

Do you know how often I sit among the clouds? Once I saw moonlight flashing through them like a flame. When I say I love you, what else does it mean? Living with all the transluscents is ok, let them go. Don’t think about them every day.

Keep something beautiful in your mind, the way of swaying in the dark on a stowed bed beneath the wooden planks of a sailboat, out there, the big smell of water, Chaos, that’s real, too, every minor wind a gate ajar. More honest and it’s quieter, it’s July, you fell asleep in my lap, your feet were touching mine.

In a previous life, someone says what the fuck is this between us, a face so disgusted by it like it was ugly instead of one of the great wonders of the universe. It killed me inside, bombed one of my rooms. Confession and confession and still so much is secret. I dream in sliding, muffled, mythic electric guitar on my best nights, me quedo enamorado del mundo en español, falsetto, emoji corazones, el vino (ya sabes), el mar, the bag of teeth that materialized after Maria’s hijo realized the tooth fairy isn’t real.

Barcelona, I cried for the first time today since I arrived. Do you know how often I record the silence? This is all there is. This. Do you know I’ve photographed the teeth marks you left on me? That I’ve let my fingers rest there falling into sleep? Do you know how I’ve been afraid? Pascal said always keep something beautiful in your mind. The moon is full in this moment, and night makes me feel alive, I’m going to sit on my balcony and drink Rioja, and you know, I like being alone, I’d even call it loneliness.

I remember when we met, my soul and me. Now it’s easier to see everyone.
#philosophy  #reality  #prosepoetry  #dreamscape 
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Written by nadya

The GLADIATORS

The world has not changed a bit.

The Ancient Rome has become the Modern world now.

The Walls of colosseum has stretched it's barbaric territory to the edges of this planet earth.

Vulgar Roman mob 

masked itself into the aristocratic civilised elite of this world.

"Mother where do we stand then?"

Where are we?

In this hypocritical and unjust society?

I gave a little pause to let her absorb and then 

"That's the million dollar question my dear!

WE ARE THE GLADIATORS OF THIS NEW MODERN WORLD".

She looked at my dertermined face. The face she trusted like God. She was reading every word coming out of my mouth with curious eyes.

"Now We are the GLADIATORS mother?" She was trying to read the meaning and message between the lines. 

She was a very intelligent, curious and daring soul from the start. I used to call her "WARRIOR PRINCESS" when she was small.

I took a deep breath and continued "yes we are the FREEDOM FIGHTERS now fighting  for our survival with crude and crucial options given by these inhumans.We can't give up sweet heart?

Like Shakespeare said so "To be or not to be"

In simple modern words my "PRINCESS WARRIOR" be the "sushi"or provide "sushi" to this so called aristocratic man. Even Just make "sushi" out of him if there is no option.

They kill HUMANITY just to get entertained and have controll on us, what a pity indeed............

Though God has made man FREE and given him a FREE WILL my dear. These pathetic greedy parasites just can't absorb the idea of a just society. So they make conspiracy theories to control human mind and expression. To block the free will of a free man, the biggest gift of all.

Today man has slaved man. Man wanted to become God to satisfy his greed and pride. So, in this global world, where you have all world organisations of peace and human rights!

She started listening more attentively to me. Her beautiful deep innocent but daring eyes became more deep.

So "mama we are the Gladiators fighting for our survival with the options these inhumans gave us?"

"YES, BUT WE HAVE TO EARN THE FREEDOM TODAY WHICH WAS ONCE GIVEN TO US BY GOD. We can't give up to these mindless ethicless race. All must fight for what is ours.

"WE ALREADY STARTED THE FIGHT MOTHER". 

Then she stopped like preparing me for something to absorb. While smiling calmly her lips moved "MOTHER WHAT IF WE MAKE THE "SUSHI LOVERS" THE "SUSHI PROVIDERS" FOR THE NEEDY."

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Written by nadya
The GLADIATORS
The world has not changed a bit.
The Ancient Rome has become the Modern world now.
The Walls of colosseum has stretched it's barbaric territory to the edges of this planet earth.
Vulgar Roman mob 
masked itself into the aristocratic civilised elite of this world.

"Mother where do we stand then?"
Where are we?
In this hypocritical and unjust society?

I gave a little pause to let her absorb and then 
"That's the million dollar question my dear!
WE ARE THE GLADIATORS OF THIS NEW MODERN WORLD".

She looked at my dertermined face. The face she trusted like God. She was reading every word coming out of my mouth with curious eyes.

"Now We are the GLADIATORS mother?" She was trying to read the meaning and message between the lines. 

She was a very intelligent, curious and daring soul from the start. I used to call her "WARRIOR PRINCESS" when she was small.

I took a deep breath and continued "yes we are the FREEDOM FIGHTERS now fighting  for our survival with crude and crucial options given by these inhumans.We can't give up sweet heart?
Like Shakespeare said so "To be or not to be"

In simple modern words my "PRINCESS WARRIOR" be the "sushi"or provide "sushi" to this so called aristocratic man. Even Just make "sushi" out of him if there is no option.

They kill HUMANITY just to get entertained and have controll on us, what a pity indeed............
Though God has made man FREE and given him a FREE WILL my dear. These pathetic greedy parasites just can't absorb the idea of a just society. So they make conspiracy theories to control human mind and expression. To block the free will of a free man, the biggest gift of all.

Today man has slaved man. Man wanted to become God to satisfy his greed and pride. So, in this global world, where you have all world organisations of peace and human rights!

She started listening more attentively to me. Her beautiful deep innocent but daring eyes became more deep.

So "mama we are the Gladiators fighting for our survival with the options these inhumans gave us?"
"YES, BUT WE HAVE TO EARN THE FREEDOM TODAY WHICH WAS ONCE GIVEN TO US BY GOD. We can't give up to these mindless ethicless race. All must fight for what is ours.

"WE ALREADY STARTED THE FIGHT MOTHER". 

Then she stopped like preparing me for something to absorb. While smiling calmly her lips moved "MOTHER WHAT IF WE MAKE THE "SUSHI LOVERS" THE "SUSHI PROVIDERS" FOR THE NEEDY."
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"Snippets of Cinnamon Paige" - intro and brief  snippets from my manuscript, "The Journal of Cinnamon Paige, Un-Death by Chocolate" 

                                                     

                                                          intro...

     Each night as I lay my head down to sleep, I try to nurture pleasant thoughts in the hope that they will stay with me until dawn. But the happy images that I am able to summon, disappear quicker than a politician’s promises, and I am left with a darkness that clings to me like bitter treacle, until daylight.

     The gentle pitter-patter of rain that would once have been like a lullaby to me, and would have conjured up images of jewels dancing against my window pane, soothing me into the folds of sleep’s gentle embrace, now assaults my senses with the subtlety of spent bullets. The raindrops turn into a monsoon of blood…and drench my mind with monstrous memories…

                                                            excerpt...

     As far as I’m concerned you basically have two choices. You can either take me or leave me; that’s what I say. I’ll get by just fine whichever you choose.

I think it’s because of the way that I look, and the things that I like, that I kind of inadvertently chose to be an outsider. I’m not saying that it was totally intentional, or otherwise, but I’ve always been a little bit of an introvert, feeling most comfortable when in my own company and the company of a close circle of family and friends.

     Some people tend to assume that I’m a Goth. Some people think that I’m more of an Emo. I used to think that was a flightless bird from New Zealand until my mum explained what it meant. I don’t like being categorised or labelled. Labels are for food as far as I’m concerned. If I’d wanted to be labelled, I’d have gotten a barcode tattooed on my forehead.

     I don’t consider myself to be neither a Goth nor an Emo. I don’t self-harm, I don’t hate the world and I’m not overly EMOtional. I’m just a quirky, slightly misunderstood girl who enjoys horror movies (classic black and white in particular), scary books (graphic novels especially) and of course that most wonderful time of the year. No, I don’t mean Christmas, silly; although Christmas is pretty awesome. I am of course talking about Halloween, which brings us nicely, or not so nicely as the case may be, to where all this began...

                                                           excerpt...

     Also, sharing our home, and our lives with us, is my 3-year-old Siberian Husky, “Duke”. I say “my” as opposed to “our” because I truly believe that Duke and I are kindred spirits. He is the yin to my yang, the egg to my bacon, the cheese to my cracker. You can think of us as Shaggy and Scooby if that makes it any easier for you to grasp.

     I love animals, particularly dogs and especially Huskies. They really are like no other dog. It is quite simply the closest thing to having a wolf roaming through your house, other than obviously having a wolf roaming through your house, which let’s face it, is really rather dangerous and totally impractical.

     I mean, it’s not like you’d really want a wolf sleeping at the foot of your bed (as cool as that may sound), and you can’t exactly lie on the floor next to a wolf and give it a big hug, can you? Unless of course, you want to lose part of your nose or one of your ears.

     Personally, although I don’t consider myself pretty by any stretch of the imagination, I still like to have my nose attached to my face, and I like having an ear at either side of my head. I find them quite useful in that position, and there’s something about the symmetry of having two ears that I find quite pleasing...

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Juice
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Written by RyanWoods in portal Publishing
"Snippets of Cinnamon Paige" - intro and brief  snippets from my manuscript, "The Journal of Cinnamon Paige, Un-Death by Chocolate" 
                                                     
                                                          intro...
     Each night as I lay my head down to sleep, I try to nurture pleasant thoughts in the hope that they will stay with me until dawn. But the happy images that I am able to summon, disappear quicker than a politician’s promises, and I am left with a darkness that clings to me like bitter treacle, until daylight.
     The gentle pitter-patter of rain that would once have been like a lullaby to me, and would have conjured up images of jewels dancing against my window pane, soothing me into the folds of sleep’s gentle embrace, now assaults my senses with the subtlety of spent bullets. The raindrops turn into a monsoon of blood…and drench my mind with monstrous memories…

                                                            excerpt...
     As far as I’m concerned you basically have two choices. You can either take me or leave me; that’s what I say. I’ll get by just fine whichever you choose.
I think it’s because of the way that I look, and the things that I like, that I kind of inadvertently chose to be an outsider. I’m not saying that it was totally intentional, or otherwise, but I’ve always been a little bit of an introvert, feeling most comfortable when in my own company and the company of a close circle of family and friends.
     Some people tend to assume that I’m a Goth. Some people think that I’m more of an Emo. I used to think that was a flightless bird from New Zealand until my mum explained what it meant. I don’t like being categorised or labelled. Labels are for food as far as I’m concerned. If I’d wanted to be labelled, I’d have gotten a barcode tattooed on my forehead.
     I don’t consider myself to be neither a Goth nor an Emo. I don’t self-harm, I don’t hate the world and I’m not overly EMOtional. I’m just a quirky, slightly misunderstood girl who enjoys horror movies (classic black and white in particular), scary books (graphic novels especially) and of course that most wonderful time of the year. No, I don’t mean Christmas, silly; although Christmas is pretty awesome. I am of course talking about Halloween, which brings us nicely, or not so nicely as the case may be, to where all this began...

                                                           excerpt...
     Also, sharing our home, and our lives with us, is my 3-year-old Siberian Husky, “Duke”. I say “my” as opposed to “our” because I truly believe that Duke and I are kindred spirits. He is the yin to my yang, the egg to my bacon, the cheese to my cracker. You can think of us as Shaggy and Scooby if that makes it any easier for you to grasp.
     I love animals, particularly dogs and especially Huskies. They really are like no other dog. It is quite simply the closest thing to having a wolf roaming through your house, other than obviously having a wolf roaming through your house, which let’s face it, is really rather dangerous and totally impractical.
     I mean, it’s not like you’d really want a wolf sleeping at the foot of your bed (as cool as that may sound), and you can’t exactly lie on the floor next to a wolf and give it a big hug, can you? Unless of course, you want to lose part of your nose or one of your ears.
     Personally, although I don’t consider myself pretty by any stretch of the imagination, I still like to have my nose attached to my face, and I like having an ear at either side of my head. I find them quite useful in that position, and there’s something about the symmetry of having two ears that I find quite pleasing...
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Juice
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