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Showing most liked content on 02/02/18 in all areas

  1. 2 points
    did some arts to feel better....and like. i love yall so damn much <3 (also: check my 'about me' i made it better >:0
  2. 2 points
    if you were here, we'd skate board to the coffee shop and laugh and talk and hold hands. we would listen to music and i would take you on an insider's tour of woods hole. i would show you all the places to trespass for picnics, show you all the secret beaches, take you to concerts. you would lend me your sweatshirt when i got cold and we'd curl up on you couch and watch monty python, like we did in june, when we were almost, kind of holding hands, but then your sister walked into the room. you don't know how much i miss you. you don't know that i check my email every day at study hall, just hoping you'd have emailed after a week of not saying anything. the thing is, you are here. being at different schools doesn't mean we can't ever see each other, and a relationship doesn't work out if the people in it don't talk. i just want to say, i still love you, and i think you still love me, but i find myself thinking, 'if she were here . . ' and then remembering that you could be.
  3. 1 point
    She awakens half in the surf, craggy rocks digging painfully into her spine. Fluid fills her lungs and she turn to vomit into the water, salt stinging her throat and bleeding through her eyes. She stays that way for a while, fog-eyed and gasping. “Ah, you’re awake,” says a voice, and she turns frantically towards its source. It’s a woman, perched on the rocks, or at least something that vaguely resembles a woman. She is low in a squat, spine curved and elbows resting on her knees. She is naked, and the girl averts her eyes but not before she notices the feathers covering the creature’s body and the curling talons that are her feet. A siren. “Am I dead?” asks the girl, and her voice is scratchy like the rocks against her skin. The siren’s orange eyes light up with amusement, and her laugh is like the waves and the song of a seashell pressed to one’s ear. “No,” she says. “Just a bit drowned. You’ll live.” “Oh,” says the girl, for lack of better words. “Good.” The siren smiles with lips like blood. She’s beautiful, in a strange, monstrous way, stunning in her hideousness and compelling in her inhumanity. The girl finds herself staring and turn back out towards the sea. “Why am I not dead?” she says to the waves. “I thought that’s what your job was. To lure in and kill seafarers who stray too close.” “Ah,” says the siren. “Caught that, did you. Well, tell me. How do we lure you in?” “With your song,” she replies, without hesitation. “You sing into the minds of sailors and fill the imagination with the thing we long for most.” The siren nods, smile still sticking to the corners of her mouth. “And then we twist it at the last moment, and break it upon the rocks. Now tell me, my dear, what is it that you most long for?” The girl frowns into the surf. A fish splashes above the water, silver scales flashing like gems and fins fanning out like wings for just a moment before disappearing once more into the waves. She thinks of a dark, musty hold and wrists rubbed raw. She thinks of jeering laughter and words that cut like knives. “Freedom,” she says. Then she casts her eyes about the spire of rock that she sits on, too small to be an island, and feels her heart sink like the ship had last night. “Then is this—” “An illusion?” says the siren. “Not in the sense you are thinking. But in some ways, yes. You are free now, from that ship and those men. But have you truly gained your freedom?” The girl thinks for a moment. At first glance, yes, she is free; her shackles are gone and her captors dead. She can do whatever she chooses, now, but she has merely departed one prison for another; the island is very small and she is without a boat. She is still caged. “No,” she says, and her voice breaks like seashells beneath heavy boots. “No, I am not free.” The siren’s smile widens. “And so the dream has shattered. That is my goal, yes?” The girl nods. At least she’s not dead. “What do I do?” she wonders aloud. She’s not expecting an answer but she receives one regardless. “Whatever you want,” says the siren, and then departs in a breeze of feathers. The girl pulls her knees tight to her chest and gives herself space to cry. She cries until her eyes are clear of ocean brine and her lungs are empty of cigarette smoke. She cries until her blood runs free of mold. When she is done she takes a deep breath and clambers to her feet. She is unbalanced on the rocks, but she does her best to steady herself. Her clothes are already tattered so she pulls them off and releases them to the sea. Then, bare feet rough against the rocks, she follows the siren to the top of the island. There’s a message to be learned here, she thinks, about how the sirens came to be. At the top of the island the siren is waiting. Her eyes are sparkling like so many stars and her lips are still an upwards crescent. “Have you decided?” she asks. The girl nods, hair lashing at her cheeks and skin prickling in the coolness of the sea wind. There’s a freeness to this, standing naked before the elements, surrounded by blue on all sides. There’s a freeness to this, and isn’t freedom what she’s wanted for so long? “I want you to teach me,” she says to the smiling siren, bare and feathered and old as the rocks below their feet. “I want you to teach me how to sing.”
  4. 1 point
    I never believed that it was possible to love so much that pain creeps up. And because for me everything must be literal; I remove it from love language and place it into a safety pin (how ironic) driven into my inner wrist. I never believed I would have such a need to see the feelings I have on the inside, but on the outside. And all I got was blood.
  5. 1 point
    I love this line so much!!!
  6. 1 point
    my gender is a language i'm not fluent in, all i know are words, and a few phrases, enough to know that there's still a lot to learn. there are days when all i want are soft curves and to grow out my pixie cut to something like baby bangs and shoulder-length waves. my gender is a language no one else can speak. there are days when i wish for angles, sharp edges, slim pants that don't hug my legs, but not my curves, a more defined jawline. my gender is a language that i cannot learn from a textbook. it is all fluctuating, constantly changing, girl, boy, human. my gender is a language that cannot translate to or from any other. maybe someday i'll be able to speak it. maybe. for now, i'll stand tall, shoulders back, eyes set ahead, and i'll tell myself that i am human, and that is enough
  7. 1 point
    i feel kinda bad for not responding to the rp threads but the very second i thought i could get in there, about three tons of emotional baggage socked me directly in the head. sorry guys
  8. 1 point
    jan18 hey look I can do it from mobile! also I call dibs on hosting the next one, it’ll be up later today update: as soon as I posted, the link went away. Try this: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Fjabgi8ocTSegWCyZAypChs7l6eTLCqJOQz_RSvls7Q
  9. 1 point
    okay forgive me for the title i didn't have one and i that one made me laugh so hard I had to keep it. Prompt: Your character looks at Death. Death looks back at your character. “You’re early,” they say. I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant: “You’re early,” you said. Death shook their head. “I’m always on time,” they say, and you know they’re right. Silence falls for a moment, and they shuffle their black coat around them. It’s so showy, they had said the last time, voice riddled with distaste. I just want a jacket like yours. At the time, your jacket was white and stiff with newness, and covered in smears of whatever had touched it that day. You remember crossing your arms over your scrubs and trying not to snap back. This was far from your first time looking Death in the eyes, but you didn’t know yet it wouldn’t be your last. Or maybe you did. It came with the scrubs and the fluorescent lights. I will not be ashamed to say "I know not," nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient's recovery. “Is it my turn?” you asked them. Death shook their head. You’d never gotten a good look at their face. Possibly because it was ever-changing, the faces of the millions it encompassed. You could still tell when they smiled, though. “I don’t believe so,” they said with something that might have passed for a chuckle. Their eyes flickered down the hall, scanning the room numbers. For all the secrets they kept, they certainly had their tells. “Not yet. I don’t believe I’m on the right floor. Is there an elevator?” They had no need for an elevator. They could float through walls. They knew the place of every person alive and dead, and they could determine the need for solidity. Gravity. Humans like things to be real, they had said to you once. And if holding their hand makes me seem real, then it’s my duty to try and be so. You had asked if there was anything more real than them and they had shaken their head. Of course, they had said. But at the moment, Death seemed both real and present, so you pointed down the hall with a hand that only shook a little. “It’s that way,” you said softly. It was your job to defy them, and yet, you were showing them the way up. You watched their footprints disappear behind them, slipping into nothingness from beneath the dark shadow of their sweeping, showy, coat that was nothing at all like the one they wanted. You didn’t watch them as they entered the elevator, but you knew which room they were headed towards. You always knew. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.