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Finish this sentence “I’d love to _____ but my _____ just _____!” (And then write a story that follows it.)
Written by ruffmiriam in portal Fiction

Bee-ing Helpful

"I'd love to help you plant your vegetable garden, but my green thumb just turned black," I informed my neighbor regretfully.

Seriously, my thumb turned black, or more specifically some lovely shades of black, blue, purple, green, and yellow. You see, I was trying to put together an apiary in my backyard, but the bees couldn't seem to wait until I was done to molest me. As a result, I wasn't paying close enough attention to the hammer while I was driving in the nails, and I ended up smashing my thumb against the wood. I said a lot of words that my mother tried to make sure I didn't learn when I was a kid, and the whole digit swelled up within a few seconds. Multiple ice packs, several asprins, and a healthy slug of whisky later, I was grumbling and grousing around the yard, kicking the planks of the partially built structure.

Why was I building an apiary? I'm so glad you asked. It was because of my neighbor, the one that asked me for help. Nasty old crone by the name of Ms. Betts. Single, never married, no kids. I think she had a cat once, but it ran away. Not at all surprising. She'd spend her days sitting on her porch yelling at the kids whizzing by on their bikes or coming to her gate to snatch a passing adult and recounting her very long list of medical conditions. It got so that people would deliberately cross the street several houses before hers just to avoid getting in her clutches. Living next door to her, it wasn't so easy to avoid her daily visits, and I desperately needed some relief.

Well, as it turns out, one of her medical conditions is a severe allergy to bee stings. If I had an apiary, I knew my bees would love to pollinate her garden, especially since it wouldn't be a long flight between it and their home in my back yard. The kindest thing I could do, I reasoned, was to help out my dear neighbor by building a structure to house those wonderful bees. And, as an added bonus, they would keep Ms. Betts inside her house and away from the rest of the neighborhood. But now my thumb was all kinds of colorful puffiness, and building my apiary would have to wait, probably longer than my tolerance for Ms. Betts' chatter.

I wonder - does anyone rent them out for the season?

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Finish this sentence “I’d love to _____ but my _____ just _____!” (And then write a story that follows it.)
Written by ruffmiriam in portal Fiction
Bee-ing Helpful
"I'd love to help you plant your vegetable garden, but my green thumb just turned black," I informed my neighbor regretfully.

Seriously, my thumb turned black, or more specifically some lovely shades of black, blue, purple, green, and yellow. You see, I was trying to put together an apiary in my backyard, but the bees couldn't seem to wait until I was done to molest me. As a result, I wasn't paying close enough attention to the hammer while I was driving in the nails, and I ended up smashing my thumb against the wood. I said a lot of words that my mother tried to make sure I didn't learn when I was a kid, and the whole digit swelled up within a few seconds. Multiple ice packs, several asprins, and a healthy slug of whisky later, I was grumbling and grousing around the yard, kicking the planks of the partially built structure.

Why was I building an apiary? I'm so glad you asked. It was because of my neighbor, the one that asked me for help. Nasty old crone by the name of Ms. Betts. Single, never married, no kids. I think she had a cat once, but it ran away. Not at all surprising. She'd spend her days sitting on her porch yelling at the kids whizzing by on their bikes or coming to her gate to snatch a passing adult and recounting her very long list of medical conditions. It got so that people would deliberately cross the street several houses before hers just to avoid getting in her clutches. Living next door to her, it wasn't so easy to avoid her daily visits, and I desperately needed some relief.

Well, as it turns out, one of her medical conditions is a severe allergy to bee stings. If I had an apiary, I knew my bees would love to pollinate her garden, especially since it wouldn't be a long flight between it and their home in my back yard. The kindest thing I could do, I reasoned, was to help out my dear neighbor by building a structure to house those wonderful bees. And, as an added bonus, they would keep Ms. Betts inside her house and away from the rest of the neighborhood. But now my thumb was all kinds of colorful puffiness, and building my apiary would have to wait, probably longer than my tolerance for Ms. Betts' chatter.

I wonder - does anyone rent them out for the season?

#prose  #challenge  #darkcomedy  #Idloveto 
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Written by gemnahmaleybray

out of sight, out of mind

he folded his soul into quarters, tucked it into a drawer overflowing with memories that burned and thoughts that hurt, and jammed it shut. out of sight, out of mind, he said to himself, knowing it'd be back in the night to get him again—just like every night before.

Gemnah Maley Bray

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Written by gemnahmaleybray
out of sight, out of mind
he folded his soul into quarters, tucked it into a drawer overflowing with memories that burned and thoughts that hurt, and jammed it shut. out of sight, out of mind, he said to himself, knowing it'd be back in the night to get him again—just like every night before.

Gemnah Maley Bray
#poetry  #prose  #prosetry 
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The last time you saw her...
Written by ruffmiriam

Travelers

The last time I saw her was on launch day. The wind blew bitterly cold, but the sun still shone brightly in the winter sky. She carried only one suitcase, as if the whole of her life were not important enough to take with her. As if I weren't important enough. There. I admitted it.

We started off so promisingly, or at least it seemed so to me. We met in that little bar down in the Village, a quaint little holdover from the vast building boom of New York's early 21st century. She looked at me coyly as I made my way up to the bar, and I bought her a drink - a vodka martini, two olives. Her lips and tongue played with the olives as if she were kissing them full throttle, her eyes darting to me every few seconds to see my reaction. I turned away slightly so she couldn't see how excited I was getting, but it didn't seem to make a difference. A few drinks later, I took her home, and we writhed like hermaphroditic worms until the sun came up. She was even more beautiful in the light, deep-set brown eyes and arched brows, her features fine but not delicate against the softness of the pillow.

We were together two years. Or maybe I should say, we were a couple for 1 1/2 years and barely connected individuals the last six months. Something changed. She became restless, distant. We stopped going out. She quit her job, got another, quit that one too. We yelled, we screamed, but we stopped communicating. Then she dropped the bombshell. There was a freighter leaving for Mars in a month, and she had already booked passage on it. No "should I go?" No "want to come with me?" It was the same gypsy blood I had never questioned when it had brought her to me. She needed to move on now. Move away from me.

I rode to the spaceport on launch day to catch one last glimpse of her, or maybe, if I was being honest with myself, to try one last time to convince her to stay. It didn't matter - the passengers were boarding so far away from the gate that she couldn't hear me over the crowd scream "I still love you!" to her. But I swear I saw her head turn just a bit, the little impish smile playing once again across her lips. It didn't matter if it were real; it was a fine snapshot to remember her by.

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The last time you saw her...
Written by ruffmiriam
Travelers

The last time I saw her was on launch day. The wind blew bitterly cold, but the sun still shone brightly in the winter sky. She carried only one suitcase, as if the whole of her life were not important enough to take with her. As if I weren't important enough. There. I admitted it.

We started off so promisingly, or at least it seemed so to me. We met in that little bar down in the Village, a quaint little holdover from the vast building boom of New York's early 21st century. She looked at me coyly as I made my way up to the bar, and I bought her a drink - a vodka martini, two olives. Her lips and tongue played with the olives as if she were kissing them full throttle, her eyes darting to me every few seconds to see my reaction. I turned away slightly so she couldn't see how excited I was getting, but it didn't seem to make a difference. A few drinks later, I took her home, and we writhed like hermaphroditic worms until the sun came up. She was even more beautiful in the light, deep-set brown eyes and arched brows, her features fine but not delicate against the softness of the pillow.

We were together two years. Or maybe I should say, we were a couple for 1 1/2 years and barely connected individuals the last six months. Something changed. She became restless, distant. We stopped going out. She quit her job, got another, quit that one too. We yelled, we screamed, but we stopped communicating. Then she dropped the bombshell. There was a freighter leaving for Mars in a month, and she had already booked passage on it. No "should I go?" No "want to come with me?" It was the same gypsy blood I had never questioned when it had brought her to me. She needed to move on now. Move away from me.

I rode to the spaceport on launch day to catch one last glimpse of her, or maybe, if I was being honest with myself, to try one last time to convince her to stay. It didn't matter - the passengers were boarding so far away from the gate that she couldn't hear me over the crowd scream "I still love you!" to her. But I swear I saw her head turn just a bit, the little impish smile playing once again across her lips. It didn't matter if it were real; it was a fine snapshot to remember her by.

#scifi  #prose  #challenge  #lasttime 
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My first love
Written by ruffmiriam

True Love

My first love was a word, or two, or ten, all wrapped up in a cardboard cover and decorated with pictures inside and out. It was a book my parents read to me and then I learned to read myself. I don't remember which book it was, and that doesn't really matter. What does matter is that it was the first of many, many stories I encountered over my lifetime.

I am a monogamist in that I love reading, pure and simple. I love nothing else with the same depth or breadth as I do the printed word. I know what I like, and I read a lot of it. I do have dalliances, though, as I stray from my primary genre of science fiction to other genres, testing out the connections with mysteries, drama, romantic suspense. Maybe I'm best described as a serial monogamist, in that I have a favorite book and read it over and over, savoring the deliciousness of the language, but then I find another book and go through the process all over again.

Love can't be contained, though, nor should it. I revere the beauty of language, and reading has brought me to my love of writing, my need to express myself through the same words I found within the books' covers, and others I discovered elsewhere along the way. I also teach, to share my love with others struggling to find their way in the world of words. To be separated from my love would be akin to cutting away a part of myself. It is to my parents I must look to and thank for giving me a loving gift that could and has lasted me my entire life. Muchas gracias, mis padres. Se amo por este gran regalo.

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My first love
Written by ruffmiriam
True Love
My first love was a word, or two, or ten, all wrapped up in a cardboard cover and decorated with pictures inside and out. It was a book my parents read to me and then I learned to read myself. I don't remember which book it was, and that doesn't really matter. What does matter is that it was the first of many, many stories I encountered over my lifetime.

I am a monogamist in that I love reading, pure and simple. I love nothing else with the same depth or breadth as I do the printed word. I know what I like, and I read a lot of it. I do have dalliances, though, as I stray from my primary genre of science fiction to other genres, testing out the connections with mysteries, drama, romantic suspense. Maybe I'm best described as a serial monogamist, in that I have a favorite book and read it over and over, savoring the deliciousness of the language, but then I find another book and go through the process all over again.

Love can't be contained, though, nor should it. I revere the beauty of language, and reading has brought me to my love of writing, my need to express myself through the same words I found within the books' covers, and others I discovered elsewhere along the way. I also teach, to share my love with others struggling to find their way in the world of words. To be separated from my love would be akin to cutting away a part of myself. It is to my parents I must look to and thank for giving me a loving gift that could and has lasted me my entire life. Muchas gracias, mis padres. Se amo por este gran regalo.

#prose  #challenge  #words  #reading  #firstlove 
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We lost a lot with the passing of Chris Cornell. To many, he was a mentor, a brilliant writer; an inimitable voice. Until June 30th, this challenge is for the friends and fans to write their stories, poems, tributes: anything about him. We will be putting together a book for the Cornell family, of the posts entered, as well as making copies available for purchase, donating all proceeds to suicide prevention. In partnership with Seattle Refined, the most shared post will be read on air, and posted on seattlerefined.com.
Written by Thirstypen in portal Seattle Refined

Blood Brothers

     As a boy, my big brother and I seldom found ourselves on the same side of anything really. We fought over video games, the front seat, and who sat where at dinner. He tortured me for having a night light and sucking my thumb. I told on him for just about everything in return. 

     Back and forth we fought, as brothers do, until one fateful day I heard a subtle, wasteland-heart, crooning notes over a rock guitar. The voice sounded both lost and fearsome at the same time, and the melody droned on, melancholic and penetrating. I crept down the hall to hear more and found myself in my brother’s room while my big brother V and his best friend Mike nodded in unison to Sound Garden’s “The Day I Tried to Live.”

     I knew I’d catch a beating for even thinking about being in V’s room without a good reason, but the voice called me from the hallway and pulled me in. I was powerless. The voice soared over the dissonant guitar riffs, wrenching away from the melody with crystal clear rebellion. I was changed. I closed my eyes and imagined what the singer looked like. He must be tall. Defiant. A hero, fighting against something bigger than himself, but fighting bravely anyway. Saturday cartoons had taken hold and I was very into super heroes back then and imagined him like that. “V, what the hell?” I opened my eyes to see my brother and his six-foot behemoth friend gawking at my bravado.

     V sat up and stood but instead of throwing me out, he said one of the first non- threatening things to me in our short history at the time. “Come here Hanif. What do you think of this, huh? You don’t like it do you?” Mike laughed his dopey laugh and shook his head.

     I piped up, “It’s awesome! I love it!” I’ll never forget how my brother grinned. Like I’d passed some test. Mike laughed and said, “Start it over bro! See what his favorite is!” We spent the next hour listening to Superunkown, ironically enough, it's how my brother and I got to know each other.

     To this day the album takes me back to a place of discovery and understanding like nothing else, and though I’ve grown up some, now I don't think, but know, the singer who cranked out those noble notes was a hero. He was fighting against something larger than himself, and he held fast decades passed when a kid heard those cries in the hall and heard sounds of a battle. 

     Not all wars can be won and, "The lives we make never seem to ever get us anywhere but dead," but Chris gave us the soundtrack to the fight and showed us the meaning of perseverance. For that and so much more, we will miss you Mr. Cornell. Your voice will never die.

Rest in Power,

Hanif

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We lost a lot with the passing of Chris Cornell. To many, he was a mentor, a brilliant writer; an inimitable voice. Until June 30th, this challenge is for the friends and fans to write their stories, poems, tributes: anything about him. We will be putting together a book for the Cornell family, of the posts entered, as well as making copies available for purchase, donating all proceeds to suicide prevention. In partnership with Seattle Refined, the most shared post will be read on air, and posted on seattlerefined.com.
Written by Thirstypen in portal Seattle Refined
Blood Brothers
     As a boy, my big brother and I seldom found ourselves on the same side of anything really. We fought over video games, the front seat, and who sat where at dinner. He tortured me for having a night light and sucking my thumb. I told on him for just about everything in return. 
     Back and forth we fought, as brothers do, until one fateful day I heard a subtle, wasteland-heart, crooning notes over a rock guitar. The voice sounded both lost and fearsome at the same time, and the melody droned on, melancholic and penetrating. I crept down the hall to hear more and found myself in my brother’s room while my big brother V and his best friend Mike nodded in unison to Sound Garden’s “The Day I Tried to Live.”
     I knew I’d catch a beating for even thinking about being in V’s room without a good reason, but the voice called me from the hallway and pulled me in. I was powerless. The voice soared over the dissonant guitar riffs, wrenching away from the melody with crystal clear rebellion. I was changed. I closed my eyes and imagined what the singer looked like. He must be tall. Defiant. A hero, fighting against something bigger than himself, but fighting bravely anyway. Saturday cartoons had taken hold and I was very into super heroes back then and imagined him like that. “V, what the hell?” I opened my eyes to see my brother and his six-foot behemoth friend gawking at my bravado.
     V sat up and stood but instead of throwing me out, he said one of the first non- threatening things to me in our short history at the time. “Come here Hanif. What do you think of this, huh? You don’t like it do you?” Mike laughed his dopey laugh and shook his head.
     I piped up, “It’s awesome! I love it!” I’ll never forget how my brother grinned. Like I’d passed some test. Mike laughed and said, “Start it over bro! See what his favorite is!” We spent the next hour listening to Superunkown, ironically enough, it's how my brother and I got to know each other.
     To this day the album takes me back to a place of discovery and understanding like nothing else, and though I’ve grown up some, now I don't think, but know, the singer who cranked out those noble notes was a hero. He was fighting against something larger than himself, and he held fast decades passed when a kid heard those cries in the hall and heard sounds of a battle. 
     Not all wars can be won and, "The lives we make never seem to ever get us anywhere but dead," but Chris gave us the soundtrack to the fight and showed us the meaning of perseverance. For that and so much more, we will miss you Mr. Cornell. Your voice will never die.

Rest in Power,
Hanif
#prose  #ChrisCornell  #SeattleRefined 
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Written by gemnahmaleybray

The sea, drunk on rain,

The sea, drunk on rain, smeared his finger across the bare skin of the roaring wind as if to put her out as easily he would a candle. She growled with elegance and said,

It is you who cannot see the beauty in my heaves and the song in my invisible radiance and it is I who will not change because of such.”

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Written by gemnahmaleybray
The sea, drunk on rain,
The sea, drunk on rain, smeared his finger across the bare skin of the roaring wind as if to put her out as easily he would a candle. She growled with elegance and said,

It is you who cannot see the beauty in my heaves and the song in my invisible radiance and it is I who will not change because of such.”

#poetry  #prose  #love  #sea  #hate  #wind  #storm  #gemnahmaleybray  #gmb  #gemnah 
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Define Poetry using Prose Essay Format Only. No Fiction. 75 - 150 words. Mass tagged posts will call for automatic disqualification.
Written by ChanelleJoy

A Poet's Tale

Poetry is pure, raw, emotion. The poet reveals their most secret self. They rip themselves open, spill their own blood and write with it. You read a lifetime of a poet's work and you have read their soul.

Poetry, like a tree, has many branches. It's the rose of love, the thorns of hate. It's the warmth of fire, the freeze of ice. It's the blue skies of hope, the storms of grief, the sunshine of joy, the deepest oceans of depression.

Sometimes, I want to ride poetry's magic carpet forever, drifting between the lines of rhymes, metaphors and profound symbology. Other times, I want to grab its neck and choke it.

Poetry is sweet torment & masochistic torture. Poetry hurts. But it's worth it because, poetry is everything and everywhere. Poetry is soul.

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Define Poetry using Prose Essay Format Only. No Fiction. 75 - 150 words. Mass tagged posts will call for automatic disqualification.
Written by ChanelleJoy
A Poet's Tale
Poetry is pure, raw, emotion. The poet reveals their most secret self. They rip themselves open, spill their own blood and write with it. You read a lifetime of a poet's work and you have read their soul.

Poetry, like a tree, has many branches. It's the rose of love, the thorns of hate. It's the warmth of fire, the freeze of ice. It's the blue skies of hope, the storms of grief, the sunshine of joy, the deepest oceans of depression.

Sometimes, I want to ride poetry's magic carpet forever, drifting between the lines of rhymes, metaphors and profound symbology. Other times, I want to grab its neck and choke it.

Poetry is sweet torment & masochistic torture. Poetry hurts. But it's worth it because, poetry is everything and everywhere. Poetry is soul.
#poetry  #prose  #challenge  #poet  #tree 
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Written by JRose

Too many thoughts.

When I close my eyes I can picture it.

The blue sky, how warm the day is, how it feels to breathe and take in the beauty of life.

I can be anything, do anything, see anything, as long as it's in my own head.

My hands touch the keys and with the usual click-clack I type away a world which I have imagined. To others writing may not seem important. Maybe it's just something to pass the time. That's fine. If you enjoy it, then keep doing it. To the shy girl who has always kept her thoughts to herself. And who still second guesses whether or not to post anything it take courage to write.

It takes courage to give a voice to herself when she's always been the one in the back never speaking always daydreaming. It takes time for someone like this to take a risk that to other might seem easy. Giving people a look inside your head, inside your thoughts; that's what I think about when I write. Not as any character that I've created but as myself. 

I've learned to grow, and to mature as I write. I can look back at things I wrote at the age of eleven when I had not found my voice and I can laugh in embarrassment at it and smile brightly because I have grown. While my characters remain frozen in time forever each and every single one of them reminds me of phases in my life. Good, Bad, Ugly, the really ugly and moments of peace which linger as memories that make me smile.

The scars I bare on the inside I pour on to pages that I can later go back and cry about and then forget. The happy moments the good memories of being with family, laughing with friends, loving someone. These are moment I capture in books as well; reading them over and over again until my face hurts from smiling. When I'm done I feel a sense of peace and I know it will not only be in my memory until the day I die but it will be part of something bigger now that I have shared this hidden part of me with the world.

It seems silly to some to smile and to find happiness in a world of books but bringing life experience to what you write is what makes things better. It is what makes people want to read what you have and it is what makes some want to do it too. And as I pour these thoughts to no one and everyone I feel happy. This is why I write not for anyone just for me. 

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Written by JRose
Too many thoughts.
When I close my eyes I can picture it.
The blue sky, how warm the day is, how it feels to breathe and take in the beauty of life.
I can be anything, do anything, see anything, as long as it's in my own head.

My hands touch the keys and with the usual click-clack I type away a world which I have imagined. To others writing may not seem important. Maybe it's just something to pass the time. That's fine. If you enjoy it, then keep doing it. To the shy girl who has always kept her thoughts to herself. And who still second guesses whether or not to post anything it take courage to write.

It takes courage to give a voice to herself when she's always been the one in the back never speaking always daydreaming. It takes time for someone like this to take a risk that to other might seem easy. Giving people a look inside your head, inside your thoughts; that's what I think about when I write. Not as any character that I've created but as myself. 

I've learned to grow, and to mature as I write. I can look back at things I wrote at the age of eleven when I had not found my voice and I can laugh in embarrassment at it and smile brightly because I have grown. While my characters remain frozen in time forever each and every single one of them reminds me of phases in my life. Good, Bad, Ugly, the really ugly and moments of peace which linger as memories that make me smile.

The scars I bare on the inside I pour on to pages that I can later go back and cry about and then forget. The happy moments the good memories of being with family, laughing with friends, loving someone. These are moment I capture in books as well; reading them over and over again until my face hurts from smiling. When I'm done I feel a sense of peace and I know it will not only be in my memory until the day I die but it will be part of something bigger now that I have shared this hidden part of me with the world.

It seems silly to some to smile and to find happiness in a world of books but bringing life experience to what you write is what makes things better. It is what makes people want to read what you have and it is what makes some want to do it too. And as I pour these thoughts to no one and everyone I feel happy. This is why I write not for anyone just for me. 
#prose  #opinion 
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She was beautiful but nobody saw her...
Written by ruffmiriam

Surface Tension

I realized my jaw had dropped to the ground as she stepped from the cab, and I made a conscious effort to close it before I started drooling. My eyes moved hungrily from the black stiletto heels to the shapely calf and the muscular thigh peeking out from the slit in her form-fitting red dress. Then I caught sight of the scars on her hand, her bare right arm, her neck, and across half of her face. I couldn't look away from the horrible sight, not even to meet her eyes as she gazed at me inquiringly. When she smiled, it came across as a twisted grimace, the scars pulling down one side of her mouth, and I felt revulsion like a skin of dirt forming over my body.

"Peter?" She held out her hand to me. I didn't take it.

"I'm Marla," she continued, arm still outstretched. I still didn't take it. Finally she dropped it to her side, marring the beauty of the tight lines of her dress. My eyes dropped to a vague spot on the ground.

"I see. Well, I'm sorry to have wasted your time." There was a sadness in her voice, but no anger.

I forced myself to look at that face, though my stomach flip-flopped. "Sorry, no, it's just that Janet ... Look, sorry. I gotta go."

And I left her standing by the curb, hurrying down the street. I didn't see where she went. As I rounded the corner, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed. After three rings, Janet picked up.

"Peter, shouldn't you be on a date right now?"

"You told me you were setting me up with a knockout," I accused, sensing my own face contorting in anger.

"I did. Janet's got two doctorates, one in biochemistry and one in linguistics; she's funny; she's insightful; and she's got a figure to die for."

"But you didn't tell me, well, you didn't say ... she's a freak!"

"Her house burned down when she was ten, and she barely got out alive. She's fought every day against prejudice, and she's made a great life for herself. But you know what? You don't deserve to know this. I had no idea you were so shallow. I am so disappointed in you." And the phone went dead.

Janet was my closest woman "friend," and her words felt like a fire against my own skin. A guy had to have some standards, right? Then why was I standing in the middle of the block with a feeling of guilt so heavy in my chest I didn't think I'd ever move again?

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She was beautiful but nobody saw her...
Written by ruffmiriam
Surface Tension
I realized my jaw had dropped to the ground as she stepped from the cab, and I made a conscious effort to close it before I started drooling. My eyes moved hungrily from the black stiletto heels to the shapely calf and the muscular thigh peeking out from the slit in her form-fitting red dress. Then I caught sight of the scars on her hand, her bare right arm, her neck, and across half of her face. I couldn't look away from the horrible sight, not even to meet her eyes as she gazed at me inquiringly. When she smiled, it came across as a twisted grimace, the scars pulling down one side of her mouth, and I felt revulsion like a skin of dirt forming over my body.

"Peter?" She held out her hand to me. I didn't take it.

"I'm Marla," she continued, arm still outstretched. I still didn't take it. Finally she dropped it to her side, marring the beauty of the tight lines of her dress. My eyes dropped to a vague spot on the ground.

"I see. Well, I'm sorry to have wasted your time." There was a sadness in her voice, but no anger.

I forced myself to look at that face, though my stomach flip-flopped. "Sorry, no, it's just that Janet ... Look, sorry. I gotta go."

And I left her standing by the curb, hurrying down the street. I didn't see where she went. As I rounded the corner, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed. After three rings, Janet picked up.

"Peter, shouldn't you be on a date right now?"

"You told me you were setting me up with a knockout," I accused, sensing my own face contorting in anger.

"I did. Janet's got two doctorates, one in biochemistry and one in linguistics; she's funny; she's insightful; and she's got a figure to die for."

"But you didn't tell me, well, you didn't say ... she's a freak!"

"Her house burned down when she was ten, and she barely got out alive. She's fought every day against prejudice, and she's made a great life for herself. But you know what? You don't deserve to know this. I had no idea you were so shallow. I am so disappointed in you." And the phone went dead.

Janet was my closest woman "friend," and her words felt like a fire against my own skin. A guy had to have some standards, right? Then why was I standing in the middle of the block with a feeling of guilt so heavy in my chest I didn't think I'd ever move again?

#prose  #challenge  #beauty 
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Written by WriterLady

I am jealous of -

<p>People who let things slide. People who can be happy. Who don't take things to heart. Who don't obsess over everything. Who don't need coffee to keep them up and alcohol to keep them down. Who don't need workbooks and weighted blankets and to ask for goodnights. Who don't feel most comfortable living in bed. Who don't choke on their sobs all night, waking up looking like they beat the shit out of themselves. Because they beat the shit out of themselves. They continue. And it's exhausting: the no sleeping, the fitful sleeping, the early waking up but not being able to peel yourself up, the&amp;nbsp;artificial high of caffeine, the shitting out all the caffeine, the sluggishness of fried, greasy deliciousness, the eyes closing on the bus, the eyes wide open in bed, the "in an hour, in five minutes" turning into the whole day in bed, the forcing yourself to go outside and pretend to be alive,</p><p>the pretending to be extra alive because that’s how everyone remembers you, the need of someone to hold you when no one cares to hold you, the softness of the blankets hurting too much, the&amp;nbsp;piles of stuff&amp;nbsp;on the left side so you can only sleep on your side. </p><p>

</p><p>Beating yourself up because you know what you should be doing: going to the gym before work,&amp;nbsp;cooking your yourself; when you did that you had real energy and were able to fit into all of your clothes. Going on dates and seeing friends and doing things, when you did that you didn't feel dead. Now if only you could get out of bed.</p><p>

</p>

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Written by WriterLady
I am jealous of -
<p>People who let things slide. People who can be happy. Who don't take things to heart. Who don't obsess over everything. Who don't need coffee to keep them up and alcohol to keep them down. Who don't need workbooks and weighted blankets and to ask for goodnights. Who don't feel most comfortable living in bed. Who don't choke on their sobs all night, waking up looking like they beat the shit out of themselves. Because they beat the shit out of themselves. They continue. And it's exhausting: the no sleeping, the fitful sleeping, the early waking up but not being able to peel yourself up, the&amp;nbsp;artificial high of caffeine, the shitting out all the caffeine, the sluggishness of fried, greasy deliciousness, the eyes closing on the bus, the eyes wide open in bed, the "in an hour, in five minutes" turning into the whole day in bed, the forcing yourself to go outside and pretend to be alive,</p><p>the pretending to be extra alive because that’s how everyone remembers you, the need of someone to hold you when no one cares to hold you, the softness of the blankets hurting too much, the&amp;nbsp;piles of stuff&amp;nbsp;on the left side so you can only sleep on your side. </p><p>
</p><p>Beating yourself up because you know what you should be doing: going to the gym before work,&amp;nbsp;cooking your yourself; when you did that you had real energy and were able to fit into all of your clothes. Going on dates and seeing friends and doing things, when you did that you didn't feel dead. Now if only you could get out of bed.</p><p>
</p>
#nonfiction  #poetry  #prose  #depression  #mentalillness 
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