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39. Hero When you think hero, what image comes to mind? Is it a guy in a cape wearing his underwear outside his pants, maybe Spiderman or Batman? Maybe you see something else entirely. Maybe it's a woman of twenty in her military uniform, or a boy letting a stray dog in out of the rain.
If you'd asked me that question in the third grade, I would have answered Wonder Woman, hands down. But not anymore. Early in the morning on September 11, 2001 my definition of the word 'hero' changed.
I hadn't even begun to get ready for school yet when I walked out into the living room, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I stopped dead at the sight of my mom sitting on the coffee table, staring at the TV, frozen. I knew something bad had to be happening for my stoic mother to look so shaken. On the TV screen the tallest buildings I'd ever seen were silhouetted against the blue sky, belching black smoke. In my shock, I dimly note
Writing Prompt 25: Broken Vows Father David works his way among the pews of the old church, picking bits of paper up off the floor as he goes. Technically, this was the janitor's job, but it calmed him to have a bit of cleaning to do after giving a service. Shaking his head, he tosses the handful of papers into the trash bin, turning to survey the room. He sighs, reflecting on the passages they covered today as he heads towards the door. He pulls awkwardly at the neckline of his robe, reaching for the door handle. He debates going to confession, but decides against it. Ever since that little blond lawyer started coming to church, he's been having thoughts that are very un-biblical.
As if on cue, the door flies open, although his hand had yet to touch the knob. "Oh, hello Father." It's Nancy, said blond lawyer, blushing and examining her feet.
He feels heat rise to his own face, clearing his throat. He isn't supposed to fee
56. Help It starts small, a kiss, a touch. Sometimes planned, sometimes it's an accident. Sometimes the world is ready for it, sometimes not. It happens many times a day, all over the world. No matter how it happens, a passionate moment and then, life. Something's there that wasn't there before.
And that's when it starts. A tumultuous beginning that leaves you breathless and confused like a run-on sentence wondering what happened and where the commas are. To abort or not to abort? When is it officially a human? Conception? One term? Birth? Upon its first breath or its first heartbeat? Pro-life or pro-choice? Then it's born. Boy or girl? What to name her? She grows. How to parent her? Do her parents take her to church? Which one? When so many paths to god claim to be the right one, how do you know which is right and which leads to a fiery hell? Or is it all just a rat maze, leading us to a black ending? Is life just a scientific chance
WP 25: Awkward Waffles"What the f-" His curse was cut off by a hand clamped over his mouth from behind, the scent of vanilla drifting towards his nose.
"No cursing in my house." Her voice drifts to his ear, musical and so familiar.
Damn. It shouldn't be this easy, being here again. "Your house?"
"Yes. My house." He can hear the grin in her voice, although his back is still to her. He closes his eyes briefly, suppressing the urge to put his fist through the wall in frustration. Her voice, her smell, the feel of her body heat behind him as she stands, still with her hand over his mouth, all race around his brain. It's easier than it should be for him to picture the scene from the outside, his own tall form, laugh lines around the eyes and frown lines around the mouth, combed-back blond hair that is NOT starting to recede, damn it. She stands behind him, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, tan skin, a laughing face that hasn't aged a day since they first met in college, her violet eyes laughing. She has
WP 10. Dust Maria stands watching a tumbleweed billow past the window, the dusty brown landscape silver in the darkness. She shivers, pulling her shawl tighter around her, eying the drinking glass set on the porch railing outside mournfully. It's been dry as bone since the day her husband set it out to measure the decreasing rainfall.
"It'll be okay." John comes up behind her, laying his hands on her shoulders, "I pr-."
"Don't promise please. You can't promise that." She closes her eyes against the tears. Their children cry with thirst and hunger at night. Their neighbors have packed up and moved, all of their belongings piled on top of their cars. Rain may never come again.
"I promise," He continues stubbornly, "That we'll be together alright when the drought is over. I promise we'll pull through, however we can." She can hear the stubbo
I Belong To You I hate rain. Not really, I love it. Just not when the most beautiful, perfect, wonderful, perfect, comfortable, waterproof, perfect coat in existence has been savagely butchered by my so-called friend’s Dalmatian. Every slap of rain on my naked arms is a stinging reminder of the irreparable hole in my wardrobe.
Some people might try to fill the void with lesser coats but I can’t bring myself to betray Valentino, even after her death. Instead my slippery arms grapple with each other in wet shock as I stumble to the op shop, clinging to one last thread of hope. I know in my deadened heart that I’ll never have another coat like her. Yet here I am, blundering through the elements in my vain search for the acceptance and warmth I found wrapped in Valentino’s woollen sleeves.
Thud. My body slams into the door, making the ‘open’ sign quiver and the bells tinkle in offense. I fight for entry, the door’s assault doubled by the stale funk of
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More