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What is home? Create a poem or a short story about home. Bring me there. Make me feel at home or not.
Written by desmondwrite

Sumatra, Indonesia

Chevron landed the oil camp in the center of a village previously unspoiled by Western advances except for Disney Princess shirts and dirty motorcycles. There, they placed us, protected from brown-skinned neighbors by fences and barbed wire and border guards armed with clubs and slingshots until the Bali Bombing when they upgraded to rifles.

It was always raining except the days they burned trash. Then the misted air filled with the green acids of plastic. Sometimes when it rained I would let out the cats. There was a gray sidewalk that wound around the house, kept dry by an extension of the roof and gutter. The cats, mewing softly in dialogue, would scour the perimeter for shelter-seeking beetles. We didn't have to watch them; the rain made an excellent cage.

At night, the windows went chak chak chak. Mom thought the villagers were tapping sticks against the glass. I will return to this.

My room takes some explaining. Our house was a one-story American imitation, but it had a porch that made an L across two sides, and this porch was enclosed, sealed by walls and long windows with metal bars that made a lattice instead of stripes. My room had been created by partitioning some of the porch, so it had incredible length but a squat waist, and I had a strip of glass that peered outside but also a strip of glass that looked into the living room, and I had two doors, one that led into the house and the other onto the cement path and green furry grass.

I made the discovery in the middle of the night. Lying in bed, two cats forming a ying-yang on the covers, woken by the purple-white call of lightning, I heard beyond the tah tah tah of rain the relentless sound of chak chak chak.

Now, there's a sort of deathlessness you get when you are young and have a theory and animal companions (even if they are selfish little cats). I crept to the window and peered into the wine-dark. Finding no one, I unlocked the external door and pushed until the wood-rust cracked and it swung open. My memories of this moment are faint: wetslick air, the cascading wall of water, the creep of feet and paws, meows emitted by cats (or meong meong in Bahasa), no one in sight but me, and still the sound of sticks.

I paused, the cats padding softly around me, and looked to the window. There, a brown lizard with splayed legs emitted the sound: chak chak chak. The chee chuk noticed us and leaped, was caught by the cats, squirmed out of its tail to distract them, and, dignity lost, escaped into the grass. Relieved, I closed the door, and as I fell into slumber, I return from the backwaters of memory to my home in Texas – a place far-flung from the fantasy of the jungle, but no stranger to mystery and the hug of humidity.

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What is home? Create a poem or a short story about home. Bring me there. Make me feel at home or not.
Written by desmondwrite
Sumatra, Indonesia
Chevron landed the oil camp in the center of a village previously unspoiled by Western advances except for Disney Princess shirts and dirty motorcycles. There, they placed us, protected from brown-skinned neighbors by fences and barbed wire and border guards armed with clubs and slingshots until the Bali Bombing when they upgraded to rifles.

It was always raining except the days they burned trash. Then the misted air filled with the green acids of plastic. Sometimes when it rained I would let out the cats. There was a gray sidewalk that wound around the house, kept dry by an extension of the roof and gutter. The cats, mewing softly in dialogue, would scour the perimeter for shelter-seeking beetles. We didn't have to watch them; the rain made an excellent cage.

At night, the windows went chak chak chak. Mom thought the villagers were tapping sticks against the glass. I will return to this.

My room takes some explaining. Our house was a one-story American imitation, but it had a porch that made an L across two sides, and this porch was enclosed, sealed by walls and long windows with metal bars that made a lattice instead of stripes. My room had been created by partitioning some of the porch, so it had incredible length but a squat waist, and I had a strip of glass that peered outside but also a strip of glass that looked into the living room, and I had two doors, one that led into the house and the other onto the cement path and green furry grass.

I made the discovery in the middle of the night. Lying in bed, two cats forming a ying-yang on the covers, woken by the purple-white call of lightning, I heard beyond the tah tah tah of rain the relentless sound of chak chak chak.

Now, there's a sort of deathlessness you get when you are young and have a theory and animal companions (even if they are selfish little cats). I crept to the window and peered into the wine-dark. Finding no one, I unlocked the external door and pushed until the wood-rust cracked and it swung open. My memories of this moment are faint: wetslick air, the cascading wall of water, the creep of feet and paws, meows emitted by cats (or meong meong in Bahasa), no one in sight but me, and still the sound of sticks.

I paused, the cats padding softly around me, and looked to the window. There, a brown lizard with splayed legs emitted the sound: chak chak chak. The chee chuk noticed us and leaped, was caught by the cats, squirmed out of its tail to distract them, and, dignity lost, escaped into the grass. Relieved, I closed the door, and as I fell into slumber, I return from the backwaters of memory to my home in Texas – a place far-flung from the fantasy of the jungle, but no stranger to mystery and the hug of humidity.
#nonfiction  #home  #Indonesia 
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I have been feeling so very dull and uninspired lately, I challenge you to write a prompt for me to do. Be sure to tag me! I will try to complete as many as I can.
Written by desmondwrite

Occupy Hurricane Matthew

Activists plan to protest the devastating power of a tropical cyclone which has been targeting disadvantaged communities in Haiti and Jacksonville, Florida, by occupying the storm until it wrecks havoc on the rich and poor equally.

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I have been feeling so very dull and uninspired lately, I challenge you to write a prompt for me to do. Be sure to tag me! I will try to complete as many as I can.
Written by desmondwrite
Occupy Hurricane Matthew
Activists plan to protest the devastating power of a tropical cyclone which has been targeting disadvantaged communities in Haiti and Jacksonville, Florida, by occupying the storm until it wrecks havoc on the rich and poor equally.
#satire  #environment  #occupymatthew 
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In Adrian Barnes’ “Nod,” the apocalypse occurs over a month as 99% of the earth’s populace loses the ability to sleep and slowly goes insane. In Sandra Newman’s “The Country of Ice Cream Star,” the world is full of children because everyone above the age of 21 mysteriously dies. For my challenge, invent your own strange take on the end-of-the-world story. Tell a story set in an apocalypse never or rarely seen. 200 coins to the most original work :)
Written by desmondwrite

Freedom and the Word Machine

Fearing the 60s and the riots, when everyone from academics to assholes were in the streets protesting against the CIA and their machine that could kill words, and wanting to keep their seats in the House, the Republicans in charge of the Science Subcommittee on Research and Technology focused their budget on the antithesis of a dictionary-demolishing weapon: a thing designed to promote and propagate words important to the American people, specifically the Republican party.

A test-run on the word "Recognition" (randomly selected from a Thesaurus) yielded funny results. Peering into a basketball-sized biosphere, the Subcommittee watched an army of ants retire from service and sweep across the fauna, examine every leaf, touch softly the heads of aphids, squint at flowers, knead antennae diplomatically, before they turned rust-red eyes up toward their observers, making the Subcommittee very uncomfortable.

Next the Subcommittee fired "Limited, Representative Government" into a vacuum-sealed glass of bickering Syrian hamsters, and watched the rodents form a Republic of little Ciceros and Caesars, with great orations delivered from the wheel, and mobs of bites behind the igloo. "Technology" led to spiderspun cities of silver, dung cars, silkworm sweaters and sweatpants. A lobbyist suggested "Consumer," and all recoiled as the experiment's population decreased from 19 cats to a groaning one.

I'm not sure what happened next. Possibly there was a leak in the biodome or a fingerprint. Or the machine, in materializing the abstraction, was affected, along with anyone who touched it. But "Freedom" found itself spilling over the planet like an endless, invisible acid, and the Republicans in charge of the Science Subcommittee on Research and Technology found themselves the careless architects of humanity's dissolution.

First, the effects were tolerable. Free from law, we did what we wanted. Free from daily schedule, we enjoined the chaos of self-pleasure. We stayed home, we made love, we took the kids to the park. But soon the acid touched the bonds of family, and we found ourselves wandering away from connections, apathetic to distance. People cried bitterly as they walked, until they were free from emotions as well; free, free, free from logic and madness, from vices and virtues. We ceased speaking the languages. Wild calls, babbling. We ceased needing to breathe, or eat, and our hearts made their own rhythms or crawled from our chests. Some people floated into the sky; others fell through the Earth.

The chair of the Subcommittee tried to turn off the machine, but her interest waned, and free of ration she began to lick the floor, before her tongue fell out, and then she curled up into a spider-like obscenity and screamed in strange bursts. I, free of perspective, or present-ness, of my own life's narrative in Hyderabad, never having met any of these people, watched her.

Our atoms stretched like cigars and detached. We became plasma clouds of skin tones and white gaseous eyes and an internal dispersing pink mist – and then we dispersed.

Free of death, the people persisted in their unraveling.

Free of time, the people unravel.

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In Adrian Barnes’ “Nod,” the apocalypse occurs over a month as 99% of the earth’s populace loses the ability to sleep and slowly goes insane. In Sandra Newman’s “The Country of Ice Cream Star,” the world is full of children because everyone above the age of 21 mysteriously dies. For my challenge, invent your own strange take on the end-of-the-world story. Tell a story set in an apocalypse never or rarely seen. 200 coins to the most original work :)
Written by desmondwrite
Freedom and the Word Machine
Fearing the 60s and the riots, when everyone from academics to assholes were in the streets protesting against the CIA and their machine that could kill words, and wanting to keep their seats in the House, the Republicans in charge of the Science Subcommittee on Research and Technology focused their budget on the antithesis of a dictionary-demolishing weapon: a thing designed to promote and propagate words important to the American people, specifically the Republican party.

A test-run on the word "Recognition" (randomly selected from a Thesaurus) yielded funny results. Peering into a basketball-sized biosphere, the Subcommittee watched an army of ants retire from service and sweep across the fauna, examine every leaf, touch softly the heads of aphids, squint at flowers, knead antennae diplomatically, before they turned rust-red eyes up toward their observers, making the Subcommittee very uncomfortable.

Next the Subcommittee fired "Limited, Representative Government" into a vacuum-sealed glass of bickering Syrian hamsters, and watched the rodents form a Republic of little Ciceros and Caesars, with great orations delivered from the wheel, and mobs of bites behind the igloo. "Technology" led to spiderspun cities of silver, dung cars, silkworm sweaters and sweatpants. A lobbyist suggested "Consumer," and all recoiled as the experiment's population decreased from 19 cats to a groaning one.

I'm not sure what happened next. Possibly there was a leak in the biodome or a fingerprint. Or the machine, in materializing the abstraction, was affected, along with anyone who touched it. But "Freedom" found itself spilling over the planet like an endless, invisible acid, and the Republicans in charge of the Science Subcommittee on Research and Technology found themselves the careless architects of humanity's dissolution.

First, the effects were tolerable. Free from law, we did what we wanted. Free from daily schedule, we enjoined the chaos of self-pleasure. We stayed home, we made love, we took the kids to the park. But soon the acid touched the bonds of family, and we found ourselves wandering away from connections, apathetic to distance. People cried bitterly as they walked, until they were free from emotions as well; free, free, free from logic and madness, from vices and virtues. We ceased speaking the languages. Wild calls, babbling. We ceased needing to breathe, or eat, and our hearts made their own rhythms or crawled from our chests. Some people floated into the sky; others fell through the Earth.

The chair of the Subcommittee tried to turn off the machine, but her interest waned, and free of ration she began to lick the floor, before her tongue fell out, and then she curled up into a spider-like obscenity and screamed in strange bursts. I, free of perspective, or present-ness, of my own life's narrative in Hyderabad, never having met any of these people, watched her.

Our atoms stretched like cigars and detached. We became plasma clouds of skin tones and white gaseous eyes and an internal dispersing pink mist – and then we dispersed.

Free of death, the people persisted in their unraveling.

Free of time, the people unravel.
#scifi  #horror  #apocalypse 
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Give us a little piece of your wisdom. Create your own proverb or quote. This is the quote you'll be remembered by, the quote that will go on fortune cookies and quote books, so make it a good one. 50 coins for the winner. Happy quoting!
Written by desmondwrite

Ruthless

Don't be ruthless with my heart

and I won't be ruthless

with my

farts.

- Desmond White

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Give us a little piece of your wisdom. Create your own proverb or quote. This is the quote you'll be remembered by, the quote that will go on fortune cookies and quote books, so make it a good one. 50 coins for the winner. Happy quoting!
Written by desmondwrite
Ruthless
Don't be ruthless with my heart
and I won't be ruthless
with my
farts.

- Desmond White

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The first line of almost any story can be improved by making sure the second line is, "And then the murders began." Give it a try!
Written by desmondwrite

Fort Dew High School

In an unprompted letter to parents, the new principal wrote that "everything's under control." This was followed by an equally enigmatic: "Oops, too early."

And then the murders began.

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The first line of almost any story can be improved by making sure the second line is, "And then the murders began." Give it a try!
Written by desmondwrite
Fort Dew High School
In an unprompted letter to parents, the new principal wrote that "everything's under control." This was followed by an equally enigmatic: "Oops, too early."

And then the murders began.
#fiction  #mystery  #murder 
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Arachnophobe or arachnophile - I don't care if you love or hate 'em, just write about 'em. Prose only (no poetry) and TAG ME! Happy writing.
Written by desmondwrite

"To Paradise First Tending," a Tale of Chief Inspector Henri Moreau

I woke to the impression of fingers tapping against my chest. Crouched on my gown was a scorpion battering its seven tails against me. These scaley tines struck with the blur of a harpist, the fury of Xenophon on the Hellespont, and I immediately, once conscious, struck back, slapping the thing into the window.

A green smear on the pane. The scorpion squirmed where it fell, wriggling down into jerks and then an armored stillness. I pulled down my collar to check my chest – only bruises, no expansion of wine-colored boils. As banal as it sounds, I sighed in relief. It had been the same scorpion I found nesting in my papers, seeking refuge from the cold. The one I neutralized by snipping its sacs and putting it in a container on the desk with my insects – the worms which produce garrote's rope, the fireflies in a fireproof jar.

Only a poor assassin would use a useless scorpion. No, deduction led me to pursue other designs which led the arachnid from the crown of glass on the floor to my bedside. Perhaps utter accident or a want for warmth carried it to the plains of my being, followed by the recognition of a great living enemy. The thing may have had some memory of its gelder. Maybe God is a playful devil.

This was before I knew of my enemy – the man who hides behind the wasps.

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Arachnophobe or arachnophile - I don't care if you love or hate 'em, just write about 'em. Prose only (no poetry) and TAG ME! Happy writing.
Written by desmondwrite
"To Paradise First Tending," a Tale of Chief Inspector Henri Moreau
I woke to the impression of fingers tapping against my chest. Crouched on my gown was a scorpion battering its seven tails against me. These scaley tines struck with the blur of a harpist, the fury of Xenophon on the Hellespont, and I immediately, once conscious, struck back, slapping the thing into the window.

A green smear on the pane. The scorpion squirmed where it fell, wriggling down into jerks and then an armored stillness. I pulled down my collar to check my chest – only bruises, no expansion of wine-colored boils. As banal as it sounds, I sighed in relief. It had been the same scorpion I found nesting in my papers, seeking refuge from the cold. The one I neutralized by snipping its sacs and putting it in a container on the desk with my insects – the worms which produce garrote's rope, the fireflies in a fireproof jar.

Only a poor assassin would use a useless scorpion. No, deduction led me to pursue other designs which led the arachnid from the crown of glass on the floor to my bedside. Perhaps utter accident or a want for warmth carried it to the plains of my being, followed by the recognition of a great living enemy. The thing may have had some memory of its gelder. Maybe God is a playful devil.

This was before I knew of my enemy – the man who hides behind the wasps.
#fantasy  #mystery  #bugs 
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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by desmondwrite

Star Liquor and Chevron on Techniplex and Skywood Road

The man opened the door for his wife and, seeing Duke Hudson, kept it open. Duke walked faster but called out, "You don't have to. It hurts, y'know?"

 

"Take your time," said the man, remaining at his post. The old man still hurried, and you could see Duke had a crick in his step, the kind WD-40 can't fix.

"Thanks," said Duke when they were inside. "Just did three shows and I'm not your age anymore." The man didn't ask what kind of shows but nodded and followed his wife. Spurned, Duke went over to appraise cigars, only to find himself with the man again. Eh, what the hell.

"This place is an oasis," said Duke as if they were returning to an earlier conversation. "Been living here a few years, and this is the nicest thing they built."

He wasn't wrong, either. Other than apartments, the Techniplex was one of those boring business parks with storefronts like Carpets & Floors and Greater Houston Shipping Services and Billiards Galore. Everything was brick ranging from smokey gray to bright blood-cream, standing like tombstones or bloody teeth on palisades of grass.

"Not bad," said the man, before slipping away again.

Now Duke was no Socrates, but he felt the potential for rapport, if at least the fleeting affirmation that they were two potent and interesting men. One more time, thought Duke, feeling conspiratorial. He scanned a Twix Bar’s nutrition while he found the couple. The wife was headed for the register while the man was behind the island of coffee machines. Faking an interest in frozen burritos, Duke slinked around the other side of the island, but the man was onto him and turned to the cashier: “Where do you keep cough drops?” The cashier indicated the wall behind the counter, a quilt of yellow and red bags, and the man doubled back. 

But discouragement didn’t come easy to Duke. He’d been outwitted, but he saw another opportunity to greet the man. Duke could plant himself by the newspapers and on the couple's way out he could get the door and say, “Just paying it forward” or the winner, “Take your time.” 

It started. Duke headed down the freezers, trying to keep out of their periphery, but the couple saw him, and quickly swiped their card, realized the machine took chip, pushed in chip. The old man navigated three men in jeans with white paint flecks on their legs and as he passed the wine the couple punched no don’t want cash back and yes that’s the right amount. He swung by auto parts and the ATM like the meticulous, painful revolution of the second hand as it scrapes the bend of the clock. No, don’t want to donate to kids missing kidneys and parents. Bags, receipt? No.

They were out the door. As Duke opened it a second later, another old man slipped in and said thank you, sir. Duke told him to fuck off and hobbled out.

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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by desmondwrite
Star Liquor and Chevron on Techniplex and Skywood Road
The man opened the door for his wife and, seeing Duke Hudson, kept it open. Duke walked faster but called out, "You don't have to. It hurts, y'know?"
 
"Take your time," said the man, remaining at his post. The old man still hurried, and you could see Duke had a crick in his step, the kind WD-40 can't fix.

"Thanks," said Duke when they were inside. "Just did three shows and I'm not your age anymore." The man didn't ask what kind of shows but nodded and followed his wife. Spurned, Duke went over to appraise cigars, only to find himself with the man again. Eh, what the hell.

"This place is an oasis," said Duke as if they were returning to an earlier conversation. "Been living here a few years, and this is the nicest thing they built."

He wasn't wrong, either. Other than apartments, the Techniplex was one of those boring business parks with storefronts like Carpets & Floors and Greater Houston Shipping Services and Billiards Galore. Everything was brick ranging from smokey gray to bright blood-cream, standing like tombstones or bloody teeth on palisades of grass.

"Not bad," said the man, before slipping away again.

Now Duke was no Socrates, but he felt the potential for rapport, if at least the fleeting affirmation that they were two potent and interesting men. One more time, thought Duke, feeling conspiratorial. He scanned a Twix Bar’s nutrition while he found the couple. The wife was headed for the register while the man was behind the island of coffee machines. Faking an interest in frozen burritos, Duke slinked around the other side of the island, but the man was onto him and turned to the cashier: “Where do you keep cough drops?” The cashier indicated the wall behind the counter, a quilt of yellow and red bags, and the man doubled back. 

But discouragement didn’t come easy to Duke. He’d been outwitted, but he saw another opportunity to greet the man. Duke could plant himself by the newspapers and on the couple's way out he could get the door and say, “Just paying it forward” or the winner, “Take your time.” 

It started. Duke headed down the freezers, trying to keep out of their periphery, but the couple saw him, and quickly swiped their card, realized the machine took chip, pushed in chip. The old man navigated three men in jeans with white paint flecks on their legs and as he passed the wine the couple punched no don’t want cash back and yes that’s the right amount. He swung by auto parts and the ATM like the meticulous, painful revolution of the second hand as it scrapes the bend of the clock. No, don’t want to donate to kids missing kidneys and parents. Bags, receipt? No.

They were out the door. As Duke opened it a second later, another old man slipped in and said thank you, sir. Duke told him to fuck off and hobbled out.
#fiction  #adventure 
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Short and sweet challenge. Write a story--a horror, thriller, drama, comedy, tragedy, etc.--in 15 words. See how much impact you can make with such few words. Winning prize: 50 coins
Written by desmondwrite

Vestige

"Fear, hope, desire, despair," droned the technician as he cut them out of my head.

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Short and sweet challenge. Write a story--a horror, thriller, drama, comedy, tragedy, etc.--in 15 words. See how much impact you can make with such few words. Winning prize: 50 coins
Written by desmondwrite
Vestige
"Fear, hope, desire, despair," droned the technician as he cut them out of my head.
#scifi 
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Written by desmondwrite in portal A Writer's Path

Bad Writing Advice: "Don’t read this. Write instead."

[Censored: I replaced all profanity with references to “Deepthroat” by CupcakKe.]

Why are you reading this? What the Deepthroat by CupcakKe is wrong with you? WRITE SOMETHING. ANYTHING. Get your Deepthroat by CupcakKe off the internet and onto Microsoft Word, or better, a yellow legal pad. Come put it down. Why are you still reading this Deepthroat by CupcakKe? What do you think is going to happen? You’re not going to magically become some kind of Deepthroating writer by reading CupcakKe advice columns. GO CAKING WRITE, you stupid cup. Get the lick, lick, lick, lick out of here. Why are you staring at me with your mouth wide open like I was a dentist? GO.

Okay, now you done cupcakKed. You done cupcakKed now. You cupcakKed up. You must be some kind of dumb mother-deepthroater. You must have an IQ of 1.3. One point to know how to read, and .3 to be smart enough to do it with your eyes open. You probably can’t even speak a sentence.

Okay, so what I’m going to do, is end this article early so you can go write. And you better do it. Throw your phone into oncoming traffic. Toss your computer monitor into the county morgue. Get away from people. Take off your clothes. Arch your back. And keep only one thing – this poetic advice on writing by one of the world’s most profound writers:

“Don’t need a pen or a pencil

All I need is my body

… My fingers in it, gentle.”

[https://badwritingadvice.com/2017/03/24/dont-read-this-write-instead/]

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Written by desmondwrite in portal A Writer's Path
Bad Writing Advice: "Don’t read this. Write instead."
[Censored: I replaced all profanity with references to “Deepthroat” by CupcakKe.]

Why are you reading this? What the Deepthroat by CupcakKe is wrong with you? WRITE SOMETHING. ANYTHING. Get your Deepthroat by CupcakKe off the internet and onto Microsoft Word, or better, a yellow legal pad. Come put it down. Why are you still reading this Deepthroat by CupcakKe? What do you think is going to happen? You’re not going to magically become some kind of Deepthroating writer by reading CupcakKe advice columns. GO CAKING WRITE, you stupid cup. Get the lick, lick, lick, lick out of here. Why are you staring at me with your mouth wide open like I was a dentist? GO.

Okay, now you done cupcakKed. You done cupcakKed now. You cupcakKed up. You must be some kind of dumb mother-deepthroater. You must have an IQ of 1.3. One point to know how to read, and .3 to be smart enough to do it with your eyes open. You probably can’t even speak a sentence.

Okay, so what I’m going to do, is end this article early so you can go write. And you better do it. Throw your phone into oncoming traffic. Toss your computer monitor into the county morgue. Get away from people. Take off your clothes. Arch your back. And keep only one thing – this poetic advice on writing by one of the world’s most profound writers:

“Don’t need a pen or a pencil

All I need is my body

… My fingers in it, gentle.”

[https://badwritingadvice.com/2017/03/24/dont-read-this-write-instead/]
#badwritingadvice  #deepthroat  #cupcakke 
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Cat
Written by desmondwrite

Snakes and Spiders

When I wake, the cats are at the door – they want to slip into bed and lie in my warm vacancy. One is black with a teacup on her chest, the other gray as elephant's breath with muted stripes. In the darkness, I fumble against their fur, locating rump, scruff, finally head, and I pet what I can find until they roll over and expose their tummies – a trap. Under the bluing shade of early morning they are furry dead spiders. 

Cats aren't the only parasite squirming in the bedwaters – my wife, snorting like the Union Pacific, snakes her cold fingers and toes toward me, seeking flickers of heat like sausages over a campfire.

Shower. Toothpaste. Size 40 pants instead of last year's 38. An XLT button-down that's starting to hug. The cats follow me to the living room as I pick up a satchel and keys. Jenny lets me pet her back – she has a funny habit of bursting forward when my hand reaches her tail, to circle around for another run. Remy sits on the couch, feet tucked under his chest like a chicken in a coop. I think of saying goodbye to the snoring pile of hair in the other room, but my wife doesn't work until 9. Still, what if I never see her again?

I open the door and step into a world devoid of Julie and Jenny and Remy and the little routines of morning before the light.

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7
Juice
96 reads
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Cat
Written by desmondwrite
Snakes and Spiders
When I wake, the cats are at the door – they want to slip into bed and lie in my warm vacancy. One is black with a teacup on her chest, the other gray as elephant's breath with muted stripes. In the darkness, I fumble against their fur, locating rump, scruff, finally head, and I pet what I can find until they roll over and expose their tummies – a trap. Under the bluing shade of early morning they are furry dead spiders. 

Cats aren't the only parasite squirming in the bedwaters – my wife, snorting like the Union Pacific, snakes her cold fingers and toes toward me, seeking flickers of heat like sausages over a campfire.

Shower. Toothpaste. Size 40 pants instead of last year's 38. An XLT button-down that's starting to hug. The cats follow me to the living room as I pick up a satchel and keys. Jenny lets me pet her back – she has a funny habit of bursting forward when my hand reaches her tail, to circle around for another run. Remy sits on the couch, feet tucked under his chest like a chicken in a coop. I think of saying goodbye to the snoring pile of hair in the other room, but my wife doesn't work until 9. Still, what if I never see her again?

I open the door and step into a world devoid of Julie and Jenny and Remy and the little routines of morning before the light.
#nonfiction  #cat 
26
7
7
Juice
96 reads
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