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Written by Jumotki

Directions After Death

Bury my ashes at sundown, under a crescent moon. Mix the gray swirl of my bone fertilizer with rich, black earth, raise a cairn made of clay, and plant a sapling there. Something strong and resistant—oak, cedar, yew. I want to see your shadow hover over my mound in the light of the moon. I want to see you struggle with shovel, use your full weight on the blade to drive it like a pogo stick into the earth. You use the back of your hand to wipe away sweat, leaving a smear of me across your forehead. Your sweat and blood drips into the dirt. There I’ll flourish. There I’ll grow. Fast forward a few years. You're married to someone else now, with some kids. They don’t know about me, about my burial place. They don't know that you hear my voice rustling on a windy day, my branches tapping like bony fingers at windows when you're lying next to your wife, and how I laugh wildly in storms that lash me with rain and things ripped from clotheslines and backyards, stripping leaves and sloughing off pieces of bark from my thick trunk. Or that, on the days that you tell your new family that you're running errands, you spend them lying between my forked roots, looking up at the dapple of sunlight through my branches, delighting in the cool of my shade, the fan of my leaves. As you grow older, they pressure you to purchase a family plot and look for headstones. At night, you see me more frequently outside your window, swaying and beckoning, with the moonlight shining in my reaching arms, you see my many faces in the whorls of my trunk. In the end you choose me. You have your ashes planted next to mine under the light of a curved nail of moon, by someone hired in secret while your casket is filled with stones in your family plot, and I wait patiently for you to match my height as I have waited for you these many years—we will grow side by side together, rising majestic to the sky, and live forever.  

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by Jumotki
Directions After Death
Bury my ashes at sundown, under a crescent moon. Mix the gray swirl of my bone fertilizer with rich, black earth, raise a cairn made of clay, and plant a sapling there. Something strong and resistant—oak, cedar, yew. I want to see your shadow hover over my mound in the light of the moon. I want to see you struggle with shovel, use your full weight on the blade to drive it like a pogo stick into the earth. You use the back of your hand to wipe away sweat, leaving a smear of me across your forehead. Your sweat and blood drips into the dirt. There I’ll flourish. There I’ll grow. Fast forward a few years. You're married to someone else now, with some kids. They don’t know about me, about my burial place. They don't know that you hear my voice rustling on a windy day, my branches tapping like bony fingers at windows when you're lying next to your wife, and how I laugh wildly in storms that lash me with rain and things ripped from clotheslines and backyards, stripping leaves and sloughing off pieces of bark from my thick trunk. Or that, on the days that you tell your new family that you're running errands, you spend them lying between my forked roots, looking up at the dapple of sunlight through my branches, delighting in the cool of my shade, the fan of my leaves. As you grow older, they pressure you to purchase a family plot and look for headstones. At night, you see me more frequently outside your window, swaying and beckoning, with the moonlight shining in my reaching arms, you see my many faces in the whorls of my trunk. In the end you choose me. You have your ashes planted next to mine under the light of a curved nail of moon, by someone hired in secret while your casket is filled with stones in your family plot, and I wait patiently for you to match my height as I have waited for you these many years—we will grow side by side together, rising majestic to the sky, and live forever.  
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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by apromptaday

Guilt Therapy

You wonder about her sometimes, about where it went wrong. 

The week before you remember sitting together in your office's mismatched chairs. She'd sounded better, and you had commented on her progress. 

She cried but she talked too, and you knew she was holding back, but that was okay because getting better was a process and she was trying. 

She seemed optimistic about life, looking toward the future. You remember noticing that. 

You recommended she watch Midnight in Paris before next appointment. She told you she would. 

You talked about her life: she had finals coming up, and then she'd head back to her parents. She said she didn't want to go home, but she was looking forward to leaving school after the semester. 

She'd asked about your plans. Most people didn't ask - so you told her about finishing grad school, maybe opening a place of your own. She said she thought that was cool. 

You exchanged pleasantries after scheduling another appointment - next Tuesday at 10 - and she headed out. 

She didn't show up that next Tuesday, because by then she'd been dead. 

They told you this was part of the job, and that there was nothing more you could have done. They told you it was by hanging. 

This surprised you. You had expected it to be pills. 

They said it wasn't your fault, but somehow you felt like it was. You were suppose to be helping her.

You knew more about her than her family, friends, or anyone in her life. You weren't invited to her funeral.

You think about her a lot, like you are now. You think about it on good days and bad days and strange days, and you think about how trapped she'd said she felt by all these people mourning her. 

She was your one, like most in the profession have. The case they got attached to, the one that went wrong. 

You open up your own business, like you told her you would, after you graduate in July.

You try and make a difference. That's all you can do. Maybe you couldn't save her, but it's not too late to help other people struggling. At least, that's what you tell yourself on days like these. 

Your mind always comes back to that last appointment. God. You should have done more.

You know it's not your fault.

But you still fucking wish you'd done more.

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by apromptaday
Guilt Therapy
You wonder about her sometimes, about where it went wrong. 

The week before you remember sitting together in your office's mismatched chairs. She'd sounded better, and you had commented on her progress. 

She cried but she talked too, and you knew she was holding back, but that was okay because getting better was a process and she was trying. 

She seemed optimistic about life, looking toward the future. You remember noticing that. 

You recommended she watch Midnight in Paris before next appointment. She told you she would. 

You talked about her life: she had finals coming up, and then she'd head back to her parents. She said she didn't want to go home, but she was looking forward to leaving school after the semester. 

She'd asked about your plans. Most people didn't ask - so you told her about finishing grad school, maybe opening a place of your own. She said she thought that was cool. 

You exchanged pleasantries after scheduling another appointment - next Tuesday at 10 - and she headed out. 

She didn't show up that next Tuesday, because by then she'd been dead. 

They told you this was part of the job, and that there was nothing more you could have done. They told you it was by hanging. 

This surprised you. You had expected it to be pills. 

They said it wasn't your fault, but somehow you felt like it was. You were suppose to be helping her.

You knew more about her than her family, friends, or anyone in her life. You weren't invited to her funeral.

You think about her a lot, like you are now. You think about it on good days and bad days and strange days, and you think about how trapped she'd said she felt by all these people mourning her. 

She was your one, like most in the profession have. The case they got attached to, the one that went wrong. 

You open up your own business, like you told her you would, after you graduate in July.

You try and make a difference. That's all you can do. Maybe you couldn't save her, but it's not too late to help other people struggling. At least, that's what you tell yourself on days like these. 

Your mind always comes back to that last appointment. God. You should have done more.

You know it's not your fault.

But you still fucking wish you'd done more.
#fiction  #nonfiction  #philosophy  #mystery  #news  #culture  #lyrics  #opinion 
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Written by AJAY9979

Wrong Message

You read the last text for the seventh time with a sigh. You said it finally. You were finished being hurt. You didn't want that relationship anymore. You'd hoped a reply would come quickly, but it doesn't, so you threw your phone down and turned on TV. An infomercial was on and the remote was somewhere between Timbuktu and Atlantis. You sighed and watched a blonde lady demonstrate how non-stick the copper pan is and talk about the chemical make up of it. Somewhere in between, you fall asleep, oblivious to your phone ringing.

Dead is the first word you notice on the text. Your ex's mother has been texting you non-stop trying to get you to go see them before everything was said and done. But, by the time you awoke, your ex's last breath had been taken. The white bag was already sealed by the time you pull your jacket on and grab your keys. Driving, you could barely control your emotions. Everything that had hurt you felt so trivial compared to death. The death of someone you still had feelings for. Yes, the bad feelings were probably overshadowed by the guilt that loomed over you. You were the last text they'd seen. This was your fault.

At the hospital, the mother said they were trying to get to you when their car was stuck by another. It caused a pile-up and eight people had actually died. Your ex had been texting you, well trying to, while driving. You peered at your phone and gasped. Ten messages, the latter half misspelled and jumbled, were blinking on your phone. Baby, I miss you. I love you. I'll be better. I'll do anything to be with you. I was so stupid. please aswer. I ned yu. I catn lvie wiouy uo. you al iw gpt. You closed your eyes, tears rushing into them.  The words of a ghost will forever haunt you. 

"It wasn't your fault," your ex's mother said, pulling you into her arms. You could tell she didn't even believe her own words.

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by AJAY9979
Wrong Message
You read the last text for the seventh time with a sigh. You said it finally. You were finished being hurt. You didn't want that relationship anymore. You'd hoped a reply would come quickly, but it doesn't, so you threw your phone down and turned on TV. An infomercial was on and the remote was somewhere between Timbuktu and Atlantis. You sighed and watched a blonde lady demonstrate how non-stick the copper pan is and talk about the chemical make up of it. Somewhere in between, you fall asleep, oblivious to your phone ringing.
Dead is the first word you notice on the text. Your ex's mother has been texting you non-stop trying to get you to go see them before everything was said and done. But, by the time you awoke, your ex's last breath had been taken. The white bag was already sealed by the time you pull your jacket on and grab your keys. Driving, you could barely control your emotions. Everything that had hurt you felt so trivial compared to death. The death of someone you still had feelings for. Yes, the bad feelings were probably overshadowed by the guilt that loomed over you. You were the last text they'd seen. This was your fault.
At the hospital, the mother said they were trying to get to you when their car was stuck by another. It caused a pile-up and eight people had actually died. Your ex had been texting you, well trying to, while driving. You peered at your phone and gasped. Ten messages, the latter half misspelled and jumbled, were blinking on your phone. Baby, I miss you. I love you. I'll be better. I'll do anything to be with you. I was so stupid. please aswer. I ned yu. I catn lvie wiouy uo. you al iw gpt. You closed your eyes, tears rushing into them.  The words of a ghost will forever haunt you. 
"It wasn't your fault," your ex's mother said, pulling you into her arms. You could tell she didn't even believe her own words.
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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by AlSalehi

Sleeping Lions

When using your lips

as a temperature gauge

to gauge the temperature

of your steaming coffee…

You may eventually

come to learn -

that more often than not,

you will be burned

on the path to uncovering

the ‘Truth.’

Copyright © 1986-2017

Al Salehi

All Rights Reserved

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Written by AlSalehi
Sleeping Lions
When using your lips
as a temperature gauge
to gauge the temperature
of your steaming coffee…

You may eventually
come to learn -
that more often than not,

you will be burned
on the path to uncovering

the ‘Truth.’



Copyright © 1986-2017
Al Salehi
All Rights Reserved
#fantasy  #scifi  #nonfiction  #horror  #adventure  #education  #poetry  #philosophy  #mystery  #challenge  #politics  #news  #culture  #opinion 
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Written by SelfTitled

West Coast Boys

You start your day off with a smoke at the bus stop. Your eyes are dark with bags collecting under them from all of the sleepless nights. Your mind has been active thinking about the things that you've seen over the years. The things that you've heard.

The second part of your day is sitting in the back of the bus, watching Baltimore pass by your eyes. It's not like the buses are segregated, but your Nana says that its for your own safety if you want to avoid trouble. There's a cafe a little ways downtown that you've been working at for over a year, probably two years now. Your family has no money to send you to college, but you take all the pay you can get. Sooner or later you'll get there, even it it's Howard University, just around the corner. Your Ma wants you to travel up North where its safer, but no one in the family has the money for those places.

Your daddy off and left you all five years ago with a little lady from Alabama. You swear to God sometimes, even when you shouldn't, that it was that Southern Belle twang that had him jumping out of his skin for another piece of skin. Then you wonder how a man like him with little success and name to himself can draw in a white woman and run off all the way to California. He told you that he was going out to go buy some cigarettes. Cigs in Cali must be better than the ones in B-More.

When the bus stops off for the third time, you know you're getting close to the neighborhood the white boys live. They board the bus in a group, getting comfortable in the front of the bus, saying their good mornings to the driver. You keep your eyes low, but you know they're staring at you. Some of them. One of them.

Out of the five, there's this one that you can't help but to peek up at. He's blonde with green eyes and you don't know his name. Your eyes lower back down when one of them, probably Italian, glances back at you with a raised eyebrow, then back at his friend and slaps his shoulder. He mentions something about his friend staring at a coon making a sort of a growl form at the back of your throat.

You hate that word, but they've called you it for awhile. Not just them, but people. Your high school became integrated in your junior year and you had to deal with all of them for sometime. Some of them, you befriended. Had classes with. Study with. But they couldn't let you over their houses. You couldn't sit with them at lunch. So you stuck with your clique where its safe. Where the unhooded lynch-mob would let you pass.

Your third and so-on actions for the day are at the cafe. You change clothes in the back and head out with a pen and notepad, ready to take orders. Then you see it-- him. The blonde with the pretty green eyes. Sitting next to the windows. They needed to be cleaned, you quickly note, but then you go back to the young man sitting there, waiting for someone to take his order. You wonder if he's waiting for someone, which is strange because the cafe is predominately negro. Someone like him shouldn't come to places like this, you think, but he seemed so relaxed there.

You suck in a breath, ready you notepad, and shuffle over to him. He looks up at you when you clear your throat, and suddenly his eyes seem even brighter with golden specks in the pupils. You're shocked at how intricate a person's eyes could be: all of the wonders in each nook and cranny of that puzzle called the windows to the soul. You can feel your face heat up and you quickly look back down at your notepad, readying your pen.

"What can I getchu?" You ask, darting out your tongue to wet our lips.

"Strange accent," he comments aloud, and you eyes shift back up to raise an eyebrow at him, trying to hide your offense. He smiles and quickly shakes his head. "Not a bad thing of course. I've just never heard one like it."

"Guess you've haven't been in Baltimore that long."

"No," he answers, "comin' from California."

"Oh." You try to keep your baggage against California to yourself. "Come a long way then."

"Got that right," he laughs a little. You can't help but to smile at the way it sounds. He holds out his hand to you, which catches you off guard. "Name's Konrad Schneider."

Hesitantly, you shake his hand, eyes shifting back and forth in the room to see if anyone was looking at them. There were a couple eyes on you, a few tense faces, but nothing to keep you from recoiling from him and fleeing back into the kitchens.

"German?" You ask. He sends you a lopsided grin that nearly has you melting.

"Got me." Then, "what's your name?"

A white boy never asked you what your name is. And no boy made you smile so hard as you head back into the kitchen to get his coffee once the conversation took a recess.

Sometimes, nowadays, you're afraid that he'll want to leave you and your daughter and stop by the corner store for some cigarettes only to find a woman from Alabama and high tail it back to California where the sun would shine extra bright. But he never does. He helps you out through school. He helps bring the bills in to pay for school and housing up North. Your family is reluctant whenever you bring him back down to Baltimore to visit or the occasional funeral. But he stays.

You've stopped smoking to start your mornings. It's easier to sleep at night.

©SelfTitled, 2017

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Written by SelfTitled
West Coast Boys
You start your day off with a smoke at the bus stop. Your eyes are dark with bags collecting under them from all of the sleepless nights. Your mind has been active thinking about the things that you've seen over the years. The things that you've heard.

The second part of your day is sitting in the back of the bus, watching Baltimore pass by your eyes. It's not like the buses are segregated, but your Nana says that its for your own safety if you want to avoid trouble. There's a cafe a little ways downtown that you've been working at for over a year, probably two years now. Your family has no money to send you to college, but you take all the pay you can get. Sooner or later you'll get there, even it it's Howard University, just around the corner. Your Ma wants you to travel up North where its safer, but no one in the family has the money for those places.

Your daddy off and left you all five years ago with a little lady from Alabama. You swear to God sometimes, even when you shouldn't, that it was that Southern Belle twang that had him jumping out of his skin for another piece of skin. Then you wonder how a man like him with little success and name to himself can draw in a white woman and run off all the way to California. He told you that he was going out to go buy some cigarettes. Cigs in Cali must be better than the ones in B-More.

When the bus stops off for the third time, you know you're getting close to the neighborhood the white boys live. They board the bus in a group, getting comfortable in the front of the bus, saying their good mornings to the driver. You keep your eyes low, but you know they're staring at you. Some of them. One of them.

Out of the five, there's this one that you can't help but to peek up at. He's blonde with green eyes and you don't know his name. Your eyes lower back down when one of them, probably Italian, glances back at you with a raised eyebrow, then back at his friend and slaps his shoulder. He mentions something about his friend staring at a coon making a sort of a growl form at the back of your throat.

You hate that word, but they've called you it for awhile. Not just them, but people. Your high school became integrated in your junior year and you had to deal with all of them for sometime. Some of them, you befriended. Had classes with. Study with. But they couldn't let you over their houses. You couldn't sit with them at lunch. So you stuck with your clique where its safe. Where the unhooded lynch-mob would let you pass.

Your third and so-on actions for the day are at the cafe. You change clothes in the back and head out with a pen and notepad, ready to take orders. Then you see it-- him. The blonde with the pretty green eyes. Sitting next to the windows. They needed to be cleaned, you quickly note, but then you go back to the young man sitting there, waiting for someone to take his order. You wonder if he's waiting for someone, which is strange because the cafe is predominately negro. Someone like him shouldn't come to places like this, you think, but he seemed so relaxed there.

You suck in a breath, ready you notepad, and shuffle over to him. He looks up at you when you clear your throat, and suddenly his eyes seem even brighter with golden specks in the pupils. You're shocked at how intricate a person's eyes could be: all of the wonders in each nook and cranny of that puzzle called the windows to the soul. You can feel your face heat up and you quickly look back down at your notepad, readying your pen.

"What can I getchu?" You ask, darting out your tongue to wet our lips.

"Strange accent," he comments aloud, and you eyes shift back up to raise an eyebrow at him, trying to hide your offense. He smiles and quickly shakes his head. "Not a bad thing of course. I've just never heard one like it."

"Guess you've haven't been in Baltimore that long."

"No," he answers, "comin' from California."

"Oh." You try to keep your baggage against California to yourself. "Come a long way then."

"Got that right," he laughs a little. You can't help but to smile at the way it sounds. He holds out his hand to you, which catches you off guard. "Name's Konrad Schneider."

Hesitantly, you shake his hand, eyes shifting back and forth in the room to see if anyone was looking at them. There were a couple eyes on you, a few tense faces, but nothing to keep you from recoiling from him and fleeing back into the kitchens.

"German?" You ask. He sends you a lopsided grin that nearly has you melting.

"Got me." Then, "what's your name?"

A white boy never asked you what your name is. And no boy made you smile so hard as you head back into the kitchen to get his coffee once the conversation took a recess.

Sometimes, nowadays, you're afraid that he'll want to leave you and your daughter and stop by the corner store for some cigarettes only to find a woman from Alabama and high tail it back to California where the sun would shine extra bright. But he never does. He helps you out through school. He helps bring the bills in to pay for school and housing up North. Your family is reluctant whenever you bring him back down to Baltimore to visit or the occasional funeral. But he stays.

You've stopped smoking to start your mornings. It's easier to sleep at night.


©SelfTitled, 2017
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Written by QuinnyQuinn

Wrong

Your tears fall

on the asphalt of

the parking lot

Your years show

Your makeup running,

dripping off

The storm of your emotions,

uncorked

As you fold under the

grey skies

and wonder

where it all went wrong

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Written by QuinnyQuinn
Wrong
Your tears fall
on the asphalt of
the parking lot
Your years show
Your makeup running,
dripping off
The storm of your emotions,
uncorked
As you fold under the
grey skies
and wonder
where it all went wrong
11
3
2
Juice
45 reads
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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by TotalBookNerd

Mirror image

You arrive home from a late night at work. You open your bedroom door and find yourself sleeping in your bed. You're completely petrified and confused. You think that perhaps this is some sort of prank. You step closer to the figure in your bed and notice that it looks exactly like you, save for the birthmark which is on the stranger's right eyelid instead of the left. The figure in your bed begins to stir, until it finally opens it's eyes. You scream when it's eyes focus on you. You run towards the door as fast as you can but are only able to place your hand on the doorknob before the figure grabs your arm from behind you. It lets go and you turn around to face the stranger, feeling frightened yet intrigued. 

"Who are you?" you ask in a quivering voice, staring at the stranger before you. The figure remains silent and stares back at you with wide eyes. "I have come for your soul." says the stranger. Your blood runs cold and you begin to panic. "What?" you say, your voice rising. 

The figure then begins to laugh, taking you by surprise. The sound frightening you even further as it echoes throughout your bedroom. "You should have seen your face!" the stranger exclaims, laughter escaping from its mouth. The figure than sobers up and says, "Did you actually think that I was going to kill you?"

You are frozen on the spot, utterly at a loss for words. "Um... Uh... Well..." you say but the figure than interrupts you by asking, "Who do you think I am? The Grim Reaper? I am not going to kill you, so stop hyperventilating." 

You continue to stare at the stranger in shock. "What.. What are you doing here? Who are you?" you inquire, suddenly getting frustrated. 

"I am you, but I'm sure you have already realized that." she says then adds, "I'm here to warn you." Many questions begin to spur up in your mind but you settle with, "Warn me? About what? How did you even get into my house and who are you? You can't possibly be me if I'm standing right here." 

The figure before you lets out a sigh then takes a seat on the edge of the bed. She pats on the spot next to her and you hesitantly sit down next to the stranger. Up close you now see that you both have the same color eyes, the same hair length and the same amount of freckles. The only difference is the clothes that you are wearing. "I came from there." she says, pointing at the mirror behind your door. "You came from the mirror? How? Why-" she interrupts you by asking, "Have you ever thought why you can't walk through a mirror?" 

You stare dumbfounded at the mirror than think to yourself, It's a flat surface, why would I even think of stepping into it? You shake your head. "Did you ever think that maybe your reflection is there to protect you from what's on the other side?"

To be continued...

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Written by TotalBookNerd
Mirror image
You arrive home from a late night at work. You open your bedroom door and find yourself sleeping in your bed. You're completely petrified and confused. You think that perhaps this is some sort of prank. You step closer to the figure in your bed and notice that it looks exactly like you, save for the birthmark which is on the stranger's right eyelid instead of the left. The figure in your bed begins to stir, until it finally opens it's eyes. You scream when it's eyes focus on you. You run towards the door as fast as you can but are only able to place your hand on the doorknob before the figure grabs your arm from behind you. It lets go and you turn around to face the stranger, feeling frightened yet intrigued. 

"Who are you?" you ask in a quivering voice, staring at the stranger before you. The figure remains silent and stares back at you with wide eyes. "I have come for your soul." says the stranger. Your blood runs cold and you begin to panic. "What?" you say, your voice rising. 

The figure then begins to laugh, taking you by surprise. The sound frightening you even further as it echoes throughout your bedroom. "You should have seen your face!" the stranger exclaims, laughter escaping from its mouth. The figure than sobers up and says, "Did you actually think that I was going to kill you?"

You are frozen on the spot, utterly at a loss for words. "Um... Uh... Well..." you say but the figure than interrupts you by asking, "Who do you think I am? The Grim Reaper? I am not going to kill you, so stop hyperventilating." 

You continue to stare at the stranger in shock. "What.. What are you doing here? Who are you?" you inquire, suddenly getting frustrated. 

"I am you, but I'm sure you have already realized that." she says then adds, "I'm here to warn you." Many questions begin to spur up in your mind but you settle with, "Warn me? About what? How did you even get into my house and who are you? You can't possibly be me if I'm standing right here." 

The figure before you lets out a sigh then takes a seat on the edge of the bed. She pats on the spot next to her and you hesitantly sit down next to the stranger. Up close you now see that you both have the same color eyes, the same hair length and the same amount of freckles. The only difference is the clothes that you are wearing. "I came from there." she says, pointing at the mirror behind your door. "You came from the mirror? How? Why-" she interrupts you by asking, "Have you ever thought why you can't walk through a mirror?" 

You stare dumbfounded at the mirror than think to yourself, It's a flat surface, why would I even think of stepping into it? You shake your head. "Did you ever think that maybe your reflection is there to protect you from what's on the other side?"

To be continued...
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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by aileah

The Life of a Rose

You wake up and look at the small wooden nightstand next to your bed. The pure, white rose has always been there for as long as you can remember, never wilting in its elegant, curving vase. Its silky petals are as fresh as ever, even though it is as old as you are. Its stem is still a young, spring green, with soft thorns that never intend to harm. Ten years old. Your older sister and brother pamper you. Throughout this short decade in which you have been alive, you have never thought of anything remotely unwholesome. Any trouble that might have entangled you was all on accident, or it was excusable because of your childish innocence.

You are eighteen now. The world you live in simply will not allow any one person to be as unsullied as you were as a little boy. The difficulties of life hurtling your way force you to either sidestep them or employ chicanery. The only aspect that remains constant is your white rose. Every night, with troubled thoughts battering your brain, you find it hard to fall asleep, so you stroke the silky smooth rose petals. Although the petals are soft, the stem, still quite fresh, is covered with dark crimson thorns. You are careful to not touch them, yet, inevitably, you prick your finger. A pearl of blood oozes out, but that is not what catches your attention; the stem swirls with jagged black patterns flowing from the offending thorn. Shocked at the transformation, you swiftly return the rose to its crystalline vase nearly throwing it away from your red-tipped fingers.

This year, you turn thirty. You have clawed your way up to the top through artifice. At times of success, you feel no compunction for the deeds you've done, yet alone at night, the rose whispers to you. The guilt and fear of having your secrets divulged continues to keep you up at night while the warm body next to you, an empty husk of a woman you've never known, sleeps motionlessly. Though it reminds you of your vices, your only comfort is the white rose. The black stem remains, but the flower is still feather-white, which relieves you. You stroke it every night. Months later, you realize that grey veins tarnish the white petals. The rose looks as if it is velvet sculpted from impure marble. However, this does not stop you from finding comfort from the rose. As you turn thirty-five, you realize that half the rose is black. This darkens your spirits, reminding you of the falsehoods you have told and the crimes you have committed.

The rose is black, and you are fifty. Living in a fine mansion, you have already achieved everything that you wished for, but you are alone once more. Although the texture of the flower still provides you comfort at night as you battle with insomnia, the pitch darkness of its previously snowy petals sends chills down your back. This last bit of comfort in your life has been pushed away from you, and you decide that although the glamour is surely a perquisite of your position, it is better to confess and live where you truly belong. The next day, you yourself release a public statement confessing all that you have done.

It has been ten years since you divulged your long-held secrets. Having paid recompense to all whom you have wronged and having been released from the soul-sucking prison, you are finally reunited with your rose. You slowly work your way back into society, and you live in a cozy cottage in the countryside, a welcome change from the bustling city life. With the bit of money you have left, you build a modest company and live with solvency. The insidious black blood in the rose slowly seeps away and eventually disappears, and you are glad to see a glimpse of pure white again, bringing you back to your innocent days.

At age sixty-four, you bring your rose with you in a journey around the world to enjoy all the places you have visited but were never able to truly experience. While giving to the needy and amassing pearls of wisdom, you notice that your rose seems to shine brighter than ever in a blinding white gown with only a bit of iridescent grey shimmering near its stem. You sigh, for although your new life could never quite match your previous life of money, power, and glory, this life has an innocent yet profound beauty that cannot be equated by the past that will taint you forever.

A single rose rests clasped to your chest by your two hands. You turned seventy-six yesterday. White lacy pillows and fabric surround you in your narrow wooden bed. While only one man and one woman are attending your funeral, the world will remember you. The lid closes, but the rose lives on, a ghostly, pearlescent-white gown atop a green-grey stem.

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by aileah
The Life of a Rose
You wake up and look at the small wooden nightstand next to your bed. The pure, white rose has always been there for as long as you can remember, never wilting in its elegant, curving vase. Its silky petals are as fresh as ever, even though it is as old as you are. Its stem is still a young, spring green, with soft thorns that never intend to harm. Ten years old. Your older sister and brother pamper you. Throughout this short decade in which you have been alive, you have never thought of anything remotely unwholesome. Any trouble that might have entangled you was all on accident, or it was excusable because of your childish innocence.

You are eighteen now. The world you live in simply will not allow any one person to be as unsullied as you were as a little boy. The difficulties of life hurtling your way force you to either sidestep them or employ chicanery. The only aspect that remains constant is your white rose. Every night, with troubled thoughts battering your brain, you find it hard to fall asleep, so you stroke the silky smooth rose petals. Although the petals are soft, the stem, still quite fresh, is covered with dark crimson thorns. You are careful to not touch them, yet, inevitably, you prick your finger. A pearl of blood oozes out, but that is not what catches your attention; the stem swirls with jagged black patterns flowing from the offending thorn. Shocked at the transformation, you swiftly return the rose to its crystalline vase nearly throwing it away from your red-tipped fingers.

This year, you turn thirty. You have clawed your way up to the top through artifice. At times of success, you feel no compunction for the deeds you've done, yet alone at night, the rose whispers to you. The guilt and fear of having your secrets divulged continues to keep you up at night while the warm body next to you, an empty husk of a woman you've never known, sleeps motionlessly. Though it reminds you of your vices, your only comfort is the white rose. The black stem remains, but the flower is still feather-white, which relieves you. You stroke it every night. Months later, you realize that grey veins tarnish the white petals. The rose looks as if it is velvet sculpted from impure marble. However, this does not stop you from finding comfort from the rose. As you turn thirty-five, you realize that half the rose is black. This darkens your spirits, reminding you of the falsehoods you have told and the crimes you have committed.

The rose is black, and you are fifty. Living in a fine mansion, you have already achieved everything that you wished for, but you are alone once more. Although the texture of the flower still provides you comfort at night as you battle with insomnia, the pitch darkness of its previously snowy petals sends chills down your back. This last bit of comfort in your life has been pushed away from you, and you decide that although the glamour is surely a perquisite of your position, it is better to confess and live where you truly belong. The next day, you yourself release a public statement confessing all that you have done.
It has been ten years since you divulged your long-held secrets. Having paid recompense to all whom you have wronged and having been released from the soul-sucking prison, you are finally reunited with your rose. You slowly work your way back into society, and you live in a cozy cottage in the countryside, a welcome change from the bustling city life. With the bit of money you have left, you build a modest company and live with solvency. The insidious black blood in the rose slowly seeps away and eventually disappears, and you are glad to see a glimpse of pure white again, bringing you back to your innocent days.

At age sixty-four, you bring your rose with you in a journey around the world to enjoy all the places you have visited but were never able to truly experience. While giving to the needy and amassing pearls of wisdom, you notice that your rose seems to shine brighter than ever in a blinding white gown with only a bit of iridescent grey shimmering near its stem. You sigh, for although your new life could never quite match your previous life of money, power, and glory, this life has an innocent yet profound beauty that cannot be equated by the past that will taint you forever.

A single rose rests clasped to your chest by your two hands. You turned seventy-six yesterday. White lacy pillows and fabric surround you in your narrow wooden bed. While only one man and one woman are attending your funeral, the world will remember you. The lid closes, but the rose lives on, a ghostly, pearlescent-white gown atop a green-grey stem.
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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by joyceanne

The Violence of Strangers

Clouds of smoke obscure the horizon,

Fog remembers, rolling down the hill,

Pirates marauding through your house,

Fear swelling through your eyes;

Weep, my darling, weep,

I'll kiss the tears from your heart,

Unwrap this cloak of darkness,

Return the light of day,

Enfold you in my arms,

Shelter you from the violence of strangers

Who stole the sugar from your lips,

Raped the innocence of your flesh.

I’ll lick the salt in your wounds,

Suck the bitterness on your tongue,

Give you nourishment,

Watch the sun restore the morning,

I offer myself to thee,

Love be our protection,

My soul throbs with yours

For deliverance from anguish.

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by joyceanne
The Violence of Strangers
Clouds of smoke obscure the horizon,
Fog remembers, rolling down the hill,
Pirates marauding through your house,
Fear swelling through your eyes;

Weep, my darling, weep,
I'll kiss the tears from your heart,
Unwrap this cloak of darkness,
Return the light of day,

Enfold you in my arms,
Shelter you from the violence of strangers
Who stole the sugar from your lips,
Raped the innocence of your flesh.

I’ll lick the salt in your wounds,
Suck the bitterness on your tongue,
Give you nourishment,
Watch the sun restore the morning,

I offer myself to thee,
Love be our protection,
My soul throbs with yours
For deliverance from anguish.
#poetry 
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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by jwelker76

The Corn Queen

It's eighty-seven degrees, and the parade has barely started. Just after eleven o'clock, and here you are, your armpits already damp and all you're doing is sitting and waving and smiling. You are the Corn Queen, as evidenced by the dress - a bright yellow sequined top, very niblet-like, and long, flowing green husks, with a pale blond capelet that matches your hair perfectly - and crown you are wearing, seated on the back of Chris Henderson's dad's flatbed truck converted via papier mache, streamers, paint and moxie into a rather kick-ass float, mid-position in the Corn Festival Parade now wending its way straight down Kankakee Avenue in downtown Winthrop, Iowa, your hometown, seemingly all its citizens lining the storefronts to wave as you go by.

As Saturdays go, it beats most. You probably would have just spent the day with Cassie and Erica, shopping for swimsuits and hoping to show them off at the Elks Club pool later. And speaking of the Elks Club, that's them behind you, marching in ragged step to the faint strains of the Winthrop High marching band several groups ahead, the band in which your brother "plays" the clarinet.

Being Corn Queen is a big deal, you know that. You get a scholarship, even though you're only sixteen; you get to be in parades all over Wexford County and maybe even Polk; you get to be there if they ever open a new library or senior center or daycare or something, maybe you get to hold one end of a huge scissors with the mayor and cut a ribbon, but you're not sure. The responsibilities of Corn Royalty have slipped your mind in this heat.

The fact that you have to pee is not helping anything. The parade is slow. Fucking slow, although a Corn Queen should refrain from profanity. You sit with your husked legs together, ankles crossed, smiling and waving, recognizing friends from school, neighbors, the bag boy at the Farm Exchange. A dull throb in your lower abdomen drags your smile down a fraction of a millimeter. The parade is not going to stop so you can duck into the Tastee Freeze.

A glance, however futile and torturous, at said Tastee Freeze reveals Adam Lindberg standing next to his cousin Tanner and some girl. Adam Lindberg. Who you asked to Tolo and then after, in the back seat of his car, fooled around with and are now pretty damn certain, excusing the unroyal profanity, that you are, in fact, pregnant. You missed last month, and this month's should have been riding the float with you like a red ear of maize. But you missed this month too. And there is Adam Lindberg and some girl. They're not even looking as you glide by on the float, don't even notice you waving at them, you crossing your legs under the green husks, you squeezing yourself tightly shut.

How did you get into this mess? It hadn't lasted very long, a few minutes, and Adam had seemed as surprised and disappointed as you did. But, if your grandmother were here, and praise god she isn't, she'd have said it only takes but the once. If you're honest with yourself, you'd at least liked to have cum. Not meant to be, and so here you are, a Corn Queen with an heir already cooking.

The Corn Festival Committee will, of course, shit when they find out, and Melissa Swanson will probably have to take over for you. There she is, seated in front of you on a little stool, along with the other Corn Princess, Holly Jorgensen, who you know for a fact gave Tanner Lindberg a handy in church. They're going to hell, you rightly suppose. Well, then, where does that leave you, Miss High-and-Mighty, your blessedly dead granny would say.

Jesus Christ, we're only at the Hawkeye Pub? That's not even halfway down the parade route. You're going to piss yourself, it's a real possibility. You cross your legs even tighter under the husks, forcing the grin wider and the waves more window-washy. Is the baby pressing on your bladder? Is it even able to move in there yet? You really should have paid more attention in human biology class, but the instant Mr. Kuiperfels said the word "vagina" you tuned out. The word "womb" makes you feel nauseous just reading it.

Your tummy's going to be big as a bowling ball come September when school starts, y'know. What, do you think Adam is going to marry you? Mrs. Sasha Lindberg? Not likely. You certainly wish the Winthrop High marching band would give it a fucking rest already, as you have developed a splitting headache. And your shoulder is hurting from holding your waving arm up so long. Time to switch and air out this other pit.

The parade passes the halfway point, the old Gulf station that's now an antique store. You feel completely full of liquid, like your amniotic fluid has overspilled its banks - like the river did last fall - and you're just a blond, perky sloshing bag of wet. You smile, you clench yourself.

A man steps out from the awning of the old gas station, emerging from the shade that hid him into the full blaze of the bright Iowa day. It is your dad. He is smiling and clapping his hands over his head and hooting and calling your name so loud you can hear it over the crashing cymbals and horns of "Oops I Did It Again". You can't help yourself; you stand up and wave with both arms high. The crowd on either side of Kankakee Avenue erupts into applause.

You are pregnant. Jesus. You only threw up once, you remember, and you chalked it up to the potato salad at McPheer's. Fucking Adam Lindberg. Fucking having to pee. What are you going to do, you ask yourself, waving and smiling, waving and wondering, can they see me crying.

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by jwelker76
The Corn Queen
It's eighty-seven degrees, and the parade has barely started. Just after eleven o'clock, and here you are, your armpits already damp and all you're doing is sitting and waving and smiling. You are the Corn Queen, as evidenced by the dress - a bright yellow sequined top, very niblet-like, and long, flowing green husks, with a pale blond capelet that matches your hair perfectly - and crown you are wearing, seated on the back of Chris Henderson's dad's flatbed truck converted via papier mache, streamers, paint and moxie into a rather kick-ass float, mid-position in the Corn Festival Parade now wending its way straight down Kankakee Avenue in downtown Winthrop, Iowa, your hometown, seemingly all its citizens lining the storefronts to wave as you go by.

As Saturdays go, it beats most. You probably would have just spent the day with Cassie and Erica, shopping for swimsuits and hoping to show them off at the Elks Club pool later. And speaking of the Elks Club, that's them behind you, marching in ragged step to the faint strains of the Winthrop High marching band several groups ahead, the band in which your brother "plays" the clarinet.

Being Corn Queen is a big deal, you know that. You get a scholarship, even though you're only sixteen; you get to be in parades all over Wexford County and maybe even Polk; you get to be there if they ever open a new library or senior center or daycare or something, maybe you get to hold one end of a huge scissors with the mayor and cut a ribbon, but you're not sure. The responsibilities of Corn Royalty have slipped your mind in this heat.

The fact that you have to pee is not helping anything. The parade is slow. Fucking slow, although a Corn Queen should refrain from profanity. You sit with your husked legs together, ankles crossed, smiling and waving, recognizing friends from school, neighbors, the bag boy at the Farm Exchange. A dull throb in your lower abdomen drags your smile down a fraction of a millimeter. The parade is not going to stop so you can duck into the Tastee Freeze.

A glance, however futile and torturous, at said Tastee Freeze reveals Adam Lindberg standing next to his cousin Tanner and some girl. Adam Lindberg. Who you asked to Tolo and then after, in the back seat of his car, fooled around with and are now pretty damn certain, excusing the unroyal profanity, that you are, in fact, pregnant. You missed last month, and this month's should have been riding the float with you like a red ear of maize. But you missed this month too. And there is Adam Lindberg and some girl. They're not even looking as you glide by on the float, don't even notice you waving at them, you crossing your legs under the green husks, you squeezing yourself tightly shut.

How did you get into this mess? It hadn't lasted very long, a few minutes, and Adam had seemed as surprised and disappointed as you did. But, if your grandmother were here, and praise god she isn't, she'd have said it only takes but the once. If you're honest with yourself, you'd at least liked to have cum. Not meant to be, and so here you are, a Corn Queen with an heir already cooking.

The Corn Festival Committee will, of course, shit when they find out, and Melissa Swanson will probably have to take over for you. There she is, seated in front of you on a little stool, along with the other Corn Princess, Holly Jorgensen, who you know for a fact gave Tanner Lindberg a handy in church. They're going to hell, you rightly suppose. Well, then, where does that leave you, Miss High-and-Mighty, your blessedly dead granny would say.

Jesus Christ, we're only at the Hawkeye Pub? That's not even halfway down the parade route. You're going to piss yourself, it's a real possibility. You cross your legs even tighter under the husks, forcing the grin wider and the waves more window-washy. Is the baby pressing on your bladder? Is it even able to move in there yet? You really should have paid more attention in human biology class, but the instant Mr. Kuiperfels said the word "vagina" you tuned out. The word "womb" makes you feel nauseous just reading it.

Your tummy's going to be big as a bowling ball come September when school starts, y'know. What, do you think Adam is going to marry you? Mrs. Sasha Lindberg? Not likely. You certainly wish the Winthrop High marching band would give it a fucking rest already, as you have developed a splitting headache. And your shoulder is hurting from holding your waving arm up so long. Time to switch and air out this other pit.

The parade passes the halfway point, the old Gulf station that's now an antique store. You feel completely full of liquid, like your amniotic fluid has overspilled its banks - like the river did last fall - and you're just a blond, perky sloshing bag of wet. You smile, you clench yourself.

A man steps out from the awning of the old gas station, emerging from the shade that hid him into the full blaze of the bright Iowa day. It is your dad. He is smiling and clapping his hands over his head and hooting and calling your name so loud you can hear it over the crashing cymbals and horns of "Oops I Did It Again". You can't help yourself; you stand up and wave with both arms high. The crowd on either side of Kankakee Avenue erupts into applause.

You are pregnant. Jesus. You only threw up once, you remember, and you chalked it up to the potato salad at McPheer's. Fucking Adam Lindberg. Fucking having to pee. What are you going to do, you ask yourself, waving and smiling, waving and wondering, can they see me crying.
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