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Literature Text
A love romance,
in love with an ideal
The dreamers game,
hung onto to you
A homeless heart,
blue bird on my shoulder
A song bird without soul
in love with an ideal
The dreamers game,
hung onto to you
A homeless heart,
blue bird on my shoulder
A song bird without soul
Literature
Rock Pool
It was early morning, and the little cove below the coastal cottage was entirely deserted. Finn scampered agilely across the obstacle course of rocks, feeling the day-break sun warming his back as his bare feet slapped across the rough barnacled surface. It was the start of summer breaks, and he didn’t have a care in the world. Aunt Lauren had invited the whole family to spend their holiday at her place in Cornwall. For the next two weeks, it would be nothing but ice cream, sun, and hanging out with his cousins. The boys were pretty close in age - all within three years of each other - and they got on well; though Finn did enjoy messing with Harry, the littlest of them, from time to time. Just yesterday they’d taken a boat trip out to spot seals, and Finn had taken great pleasure in taunting him about the babyish Winnie the Pooh design featured prominently on the puffy yellow collar of his life jacket. The nine-year-old had been so upset that he’d flat out refused to wear it at
Literature
Snapped
You told me I ought to smile more, That I'd look better If I smiled. So I did that. I smiled. And my smile grew wider. And you, as much an abuser As I am to these poor italics, Quivered. You said, "All right, Maybe that's enough For today." I said, "What? I thought You wanted me To smile." And my lips, my cheeks, Grew all the more wide, Eyes bulbous. And you said, "All right, Maybe you should put down That big, scary knife. Wait, where did you—?!" And I said, "Oh! Right. This little thing. Ha, silly me! Silly, silly me, With my inability To smile." "Okay, all right," you said. "I get the point!" "No," I said, my eyes and smile As wide now as possible. "But you will." And I raised the knife— Cleaving my writer's block neatly Into two pieces, which stood At an awkward angle, then Collapsed dully, Hollow insides Billowing out the lilac smoke Of imagination, which I Breathed in, Returning all at once To my former self. "Oh, oops! Sorry about that," I said, Putting away the
Literature
Balloon Club
When I walked in and saw the woman leading the session was bigger than me, I felt my fear abate. Let me back up. I’m pretty fat. When I say that, I mean I’m very fat and I’m pretty. I’m not ashamed to say it. People have told me “You’re hot for a fat girl” and I took that in stride. In some pictures I’ve taken of myself, or others have taken of me, my head doesn’t fit the rest of me. In my current Facebook profile, I look like I might be a cheerleader. Of course, in real life I could be the entire bottom row of a pyramid, but that is neither here nor there. Apart from my face, I’m fat everywhere. I have chubby little fingers and toes, plump feet and hands and, well, it gets progressively bigger. My stomach met my college roommate a day before I did. (I borrowed that joke from an old radio show, when Lou Costello met Lucille Ball. I know, hella old reference). So, when my friends suggested this meet-up, my skinny friend Ashley in particular, I got nervous. I had no interest in
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