I read a story today, a true one, about a young man who hung himself at the age of twenty-three.
His story was horrific. The abuse he received as a child ruined him both physically and mentally and, apparently, emotionally.
It is so sad to hear about loss of young, talented people; even more so when it's the result of unspeakable evil done to them by pieces of shit that deserve a hell that Dante couldn't possibly imagine.
Hug your kids.
Listen to your friends.
Be kind. Always be kind. There is help out there, but you might not think...
AwesomeAwesome. The goal is to write like the wind? I think not. Friday is a black day for productivity. This is illustrated in our hero, Freewrite. Optimism is a dying breed in Friday, where nothing gets done, and we must relax. we are constricted by it. Freewrite goes on a quest, to the edge of Friday, on a sacred quest to find Work Ethic, said to redeem the last Optimisms in the land. But the victory, my friends, is that Work Ethic is not found, but made. Hard work redeems Optimism, comrades. specially on a Friday, when I could eat...
"Saranghae."
His words made my heart stop.
"What did you say?" I whispered, not daring to look back at him.
" I love you Hye Jin. I said I love you. So please..Come back. Be mine." Sae Joon reached for my hand, but I quickly slapped it away.
"No! I..I'm not good enough for you. I have to leave. I have to get out of here." I stepped towards the plane entrance and held back my tears.
"You can't please!" Sae Joon fell to his knees and hugged my leg.
"Joon..Please don't make this harder than it needs to be....
I was my own villain my own devastating ending
The back of the car has not been cleaned very well, candy wrappers, a dogs toy. None of it speaks to me today none of it means anything. I lie here and imagine stars, the smell of campfires, oceans, sex.
I was my own Hero
The parking brake sticks sometimes the left turn signal works but you can't tell from inside. Let it drift down the big hills, brake pads aren't free.
Run your finger on the fake wood grain, pray for rain, pray for peace. The trick is to let...
She'd always come running when I called. I could have called her to come get a splinter out of my hand, to help me with my homework, to get me out from the tree in my backyard, or just so I could see her smiling face for hours as we talked. I was so use to this that the idea that some day she wouldn't come running when I called never even crossed my mind. I loved her with every single particle that made up my body.
At this exact moment though the only thought I could think was that...
Fault.
It wasn't mine. Maybe I lost the idea of whose fault it was when the map flew over the side of the ferry. Yes, it started to rain, and yes, it was I who had forgotten the umbrella at home, but it didn't matter, Damn it. We were going to have an excellent time, through no fault of my own.
The day went off as uneventful. We disembarked, walked along the road through town to a nice shanty-like restaurant on the water. We could look out over the marina and the moored vessels and smell the brine and brackish...
"You just have to reach."
There was no response. I looked down at Bunny, who had reached a moment before and felt the horror of the moment. He had returned to the down. He was nothing more then the fluff he was filled with any more.
I couldn't reach him, and he could no longer reach me.
We'd been together for so long, and I thought I knew him. But there it was. He was looking down, just a little to the side, and the black buttons of his eyes were no longer bright and interested, but simply buttons.
"Please,"...
"Hello?"
There was nothing on the other end of the line but silence. "Hey, can you here me? Is anyone there?" Martin waited. "I didn't imagine it, did I?" He hung up. He grabbed his bag of food, and went outside, when he stopped for a moment, then turned back to the cash register and emptied it. Besides about $200 there was also an old picture inside, showing three women. Martin inspected the time stamp. Sept. 20th 1922. Just then, he heard a "BING..." as the atomatic doors opend.
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. She had just made it home. It was 11:58 p.m. The night would end in a couple of minutes, and with it, her glittering ruby gown, the silken slippers, and the jade hairpins keeping her silken locks in its elaborate up-do. But for now, she would savor the evening she'd just had: eating the most sumptuous food she'd ever had, mingling with the guests she'd once called neighbors, and most of all, dancing in the yellow throne room with the prince's half-brother.
the pumpkin
I held it at arm's length, pressing the butt of the gun into my shoulder. It was heavy and my muscles screamed and burned with the weight. "Almost there," I thought to myself. A strand of my hair fell into my eyes but I ignored it and kept my focus on my target. Carefully balancing my weapon, I raised a hand to still my partner walking behind me. Three of my fingers held up for him to see.
Three.
Target in sight.
Two.
Ready.
One.
Run.
We ran across the bright grass, firing endlessly in the direction of our intended...