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ControlControl is everything. Self-control, that is. Control how you act, what you say, what goes into your body, and maybe — just maybe — you'll be able to control you are. Power is addictive; my drug of choice, but it comes at a cost. You see, what you don't learn until it's too late? Sooner or later, the need for control — controls you.
Generally, I’m a good kid. I pay attention in school, earning the high grades that decorate my report cards. I may not be especially popular, but I certainly have friends. I usually do as I’m told, don’t flagrantly disobey rules, and I try hard to please people. I retrace my steps in my mind, searching for the slip — the fall — that landed me here, on this cool, clammy table, wearing not much more than a requisite thin gown.
A crisp knock on the heavy wooden door to the exam room startles me, bringing my attention back to my predicament at hand. After
False laborI cannot remember the beginning of the labor and I find it hard to believe that I will ever see the end. The contractions are ruthless and turn me inside out against my will. My plea for an epidural goes unanswered, and after a few hours, I'm so exhausted that I find it hard to care anymore.
I have never known this kind of pain before, this agony deep inside of me, tearing at my belly, sinking its claws into my spine. It tries to crawl up my throat, but I choke back the scream.
Nine months of waiting, nine months of anxiety, culminating in a few hours of sheer terror. I am clenching someone's hand tightly, too tightly, but this transference of pain does nothing to lessen my own.
I do not cry until they lay her on my chest. Looking at her, I forget to breathe. Destructive as I am, it seems highly implausible that I made this mewling scrap of life. I can't believe she's here.
And then, just when I reach for her, my baby dissolves like smoke on the wind, and I am left with empty hands and
An Easter memoryImagine the approaching dawn of a crisp spring day, its buttery heat bringing the frosted landscape to life. An Easter morning in the not-too-long-ago past. Consider the cool white kitchen of a nondescript house in the suburbs. Spindly rays of light pierce the ashy cloud cover, casting a faint glow on the dingy walls opposite the glass-paned windows. A sturdy wooden table is its main feature; placidly set upon a dingy linoleum floor, its mismatched chairs bear testament to the whims of its owners. Just today the thermostat was, after much coercion, turned up.
Someone is peeking around the banister at the foot of the stairs. He is wearing green footie pajamas and his chocolate hair is tousled with sleep. He has that slightly gawky look of a child in a growth spurt, like a colt--not quite used to the extraordinary length of his legs, not quite caught up in the rest of his body--but his round face betrays him with its anticipatory expression. His eyes are sharp and blue. After a moment
Wake-up callwhen you're drowning in an ocean of sad thoughts,
you don't trip out onto the beach:
sooner or later, the waves will sweep you off your feet
and you will be unprepared
when the waters close over your head.
instead, you take a deep breath
and say your prayers
and you dive in.
the quickest way to learn to swim
is to have no other choice.
Mah First Contest! xDIt's contest timeee!
"The Darlian Contest"
Okay, so here it is:
Write me a reader insert fanfiction!
Here are the rules:
#1: must be a female reader insert fanfiction.
#2: must be a oneshot.
#3: the character that the reader is paired with must be male.
#4: can be from any anime(but props will be given for originality)
#5: ideas must be completely original. (NO TAKING WORK FROM OTHER WRITERS/ARTISTS/ECT.)
#6: reader-chan cannot be a mythical creature(neko, naga, ect) and neither can the character.
#7: reader and male character must be human(no animals with their personality).
#8: magic and impossible things such as that can definitely be involved, but it must make sense.
#9: reader cannot be tsundere.
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More