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FauxI am a con artist.
Stuck between the world I created for myself
And the one that I find is all too real
I fabricate my existence because in truth,
I don't exist.
Joseph, who was destined to die of pesticide poisoning, wasnt afraid of anything and made a living on that fact. The mud pies were a delicacy and his pockets bulged with silver coins for this dirty deed. The tree stump served as a platter, laced with the green from the trees, and littered with micro red berry beads. We chanted in unison, egging him on as he stuffed the earth into his already plump face. I tiptoed to look over the shoulders of the other children. I only saw a glimpse of khaki britches. He bolted up in the glory of our cheers, laughter and the stomping of our feet on the cold hard ground, its blue blades crunching under our Velcro strapped sneakers. The shrilling sound of the headmaster's weapon of order frightened us, making us snap back to the brutality of reality. Our hero held his stomach almost as if someone had hit him, and we scattered like marbles thrown from a hand, gradually clumped into groups of size.
All but us.
Her, a perfect, pseudo porcela
The Chosen OneNarrator walked on stage, hiding his face from the audience. Looking down.
NARRATOR: A child was how it started. This child would be the beginning of something different, something altogether new. Hidden from the world, until the time was right. Perhaps the time would never be right, because the world is an imperfect place and would never truly be ready for perfection.
Narrator turns and swings his left arm back to reveal the stage
Two cloaked men, one carrying a child, covering it carefully as though if the darkness were to touch her, she would be no more. The other carried loads of paper, instructions.
Man 1: Do you have it?
Man 2: Of course, I have it, what do you take me for?
Man 1: I choose not to answer that question.
Man 2: Wheres the house?
Man 1: Tis not a house, tis a castle.
Man 2: So she is to be a queen?
Man 1: I know not of his purpose, we are just messengers.
Man 2: I know, I know, but its like he doesnt trust us.
Man 1: He trust
Dear Dreaded SilenceDear Dreaded Silence,
I've hated you for so long, with good reason, but in this I find a kind of ignorance. I saw you as the thing that tore my family apart with your common misconception of acceptance. They were silent and behind the doors of their separate homes, they cursed each other and I blamed you. It wasn't entirely your fault. They had grown up with you as a crutch. They would lean on you whenever things got too hard for them. Developing this habit, you became the solution to problems that never even existed.
My father relied on you heavily, still does. You're like a fine wine to him, indulging himself in you whenever he can. He sits there alone, thoughts that are running through his head are trying to get out, but he won't let them go. You taught him that. I put you at fault for my distant relationship with my father, when I could have just gotten to know what made him tick.
There is a permanence in the situation. I have slid into the generational tradition. I despise you but
HowThis Sunday's sundae had no toppings
I ate in bitter anguish because of the vanilla blandness
A river of red sauce and broken little red beads poured onto the once purity of white
How in the world could she have known?
A PlanHow it started I'm not completely sure, but I do know, by the end of it, I was weaved in so many webs I didn't know what to do with myself. That is the only reason I remember it, because it changed my life.
It had been one of those days, hot and muggy, and humanity had reinvented itself, creating a facade to hide the hideousness of its nature. They were being nice, hatred and betrayal ceased, if only for a while, or until I was out of the picture.
Being accepted into the group was inevitable, I was the perfect target. Grateful, happy, and obedient, I was the perfect candidate. I welcomed their invitation with open arms and a smile so big that I imagine it churned their stomachs.
After they publicly announced that I was the new add-in, the group had planned to leave me waiting for them in front of the school. They would smile and wink, driving off, their squeals penetrating the air.
I found a ride with the usual people, so I suppose that when they drove by, they had no one to humiliate.
A Blank FaceShe sat on the porch,
Rocking in the chair meant to be normal,
Yet it rocked back and forth,
Like the rocking chair it wanted to be.
She breathed a long deep sigh.
Rocking back and forth,
Chewing on the black pen, already worn down.
It was her favorite.
The notebook on her lap,
Could only hold the darkest of her secrets,
Was a hardcover, beaten, composition book, black and white.
Its purpose was to keep her quiet.
If she didn't have this
Then she would lash out on anyone and everyone even if they didn't deserve it.
She knew how that felt.
She knew how much it hurt to be in the middle of something
That had nothing to do with you.
She stared off into the setting sun,
Looking for something,
Perhaps ideas or sparks of memories to trigger a rampage of scribbles.
Minutes became hours,
The light had turned to darkness.
Her smile faded. He hadn't come.
She trudged in to the house. To her room.
Where she shelved her notebook and took out another.
Sitting on her bed, she opened it.
Her eyes scan
My MuseAs chills run up and down my spine, I remember my wish to feel something. It's the first thing on the list of things that I regret severely. Someone should have told me that there was a catch, but I suppose I should have known. When your wishes come true, there are consequences. Newton's third law of motion goes for everything. Feeling nothing and wanting to, I wished for something, to feel something, but I wasn't specific. Instead of asking to feel something, I should have asked to feel happiness or inspiration, but I didn't. So for that sin, I fell...hard. It came so suddenly. This feeling, I wasn't ready for it. I wasn't ready for him. But yet he came, and I saw in him everything that I needed. I assured you that I am not one of those girls who will throw everything away at a whim of feeling. I am a researcher, a writer. He became a character. I was fascinated by him. I could fill notebooks just thinking of him. My novel had yet another character and it was better than ever. I spent
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More