The FacadeThe Facade by ~shadowsmokeandfire
My cousin had stolen my diary from me, probably for lack of a better diversion. I chased Joel Chetai around the house, attempting to wrangle my sacred book from his claws. He held it just out of my reach, making me beg for it. After ten minutes, I gave up hope of ever seeing my diary again. I began to walk away when Joel Chetai started reading my latest entry.
“Don’t tell them any of your interesting facts, D.E.L.A. I know you’re not trying to, but it makes you seem like a show-off,” Dad instructed, keeping both hands firmly on the steering wheel in front of him.
It was Thanksgiving break, and we were headed somewhere for dinner with some family. Half an hour into the car ride, my dad decided that this was a good time to educate me on the proper decorum when visiting someone’s house. Because there are more unwritten social rules for a Knanaya than there are brown people on this planet, my parents needed to teach me Indian etiquette, for fear of me
The Gifts My Father Gave MeThe Gifts My Father Gave Me by ~shadowsmokeandfire
I cannot sleep if my room is not in pristine shape. Some may call me anal, some obsessive, but I need my room to be neat and organized, free of clutter and other paraphernalia.
I guess you could say my room represents my philosophy on life- cut out the extraneous. That’s easier said than done though. There are four gifts from my father just sitting in my room, and I cannot get rid of them. It feels wrong to throw them out, as if they were nothing more than old socks or rotten meat. They hold too many memories. It would be too painful to let them go.
My Stuffed Dog
A brown and white creature creatively named Puppy 1, this stuffed dog had been Dad’s present for my third birthday. It was wide-eyed and soft, a child for a child.
My parents were arguing. Again. So far on our three day trip, they had argued at least twice a day. Well, I suppose arguing is not really the right word. It was mostly just Dad yelling at my mom for the most trivial things. Currently, he was bera
Introduction to Who I AmHi y'all. I am D.E.L.A., and I am from the states. I prefer to keep my age and gender a secret, but they are pretty easy to guess. As for what D.E.L.A. stands for, it means "Doing Everything Like ..." You can put whatever you like in that blank.Introduction to Who I Am by ~shadowsmokeandfire
I'm from the States, and in real life, I do not have a southern accent. I just prefer to write like this, because I'm pretty sure I was a southern belle in a former life.
I would say something all poetic about how one does not love writing because one does not love breathing, but ain't nobody interested in that. In all honesty, I do not know why I write. I just do. The first time I wrote something that wasn't for school was in third grade, when I wrote a story about an orphan who worked in McDonald's until the fateful day she caught tuberculosis and died a slow, painful death. I was a rather morbid child.
Anyway, that's me. I did not want to make this very long, because trust me- you'll become sick of how much I talk about myself.
Trapped In My BodyTrapped In My Body by ~shadowsmokeandfire
I trudged through the rain-slick grass and mud puddles in my cousin’s backyard, the edges of my bubblegum puke party dress carefully lifted up to prevent stains. I had just escaped from a boring birthday party, filled with drunken uncles and gossiping aunts, and I was looking for something to occupy my five year-old mind.
I wandered around for a bit before I spotted them. They were a gang of boys playing a game of pick-up soccer. They yelled curses at each other and fouled every twenty seconds, getting grass stains all over their fancy party clothes. They looked as if they were having fun.
“Can I join you guys?” I asked them confidently. They all stopped the game to stare at me, unsure what to do. A reedy boy stepped through them, the crowd making way for their representative.
“Sorry kid, but it’s guys only. Why don’t you go play with some Barbies?” He taunted me, smirking.
“But I am one,” I said innocently.
“I don’t k
A Conundrum of EggsMara sat on the edge of reality, dangling her feet over the border and watching them fade out and return to existence. "Hello, feet," she said as she swung her leg back toward her. She thought for a moment about what grand adventures they may have had without her, but ultimately decided she couldn't have missed out on much if they stayed connected to her knees.
The grassy knoll Mara sat on separated the city of Locana from Fordham Forest. It stood in the shadow of a tall, obelisk structure. Part of the knoll jutted into the woods, forming a little cliff that overlooked a dip. When she first peered over the edge, she saw nothing but a dark abyss. This must be the edge of the world, she thought. Nothing exists beyond this point. It is a blank canvas on which anything can be created.
Mara closed her eyes and listened to the gentle trickling below. The world is rushing out, like a waterfall.
Earlier in the day, Mara came up with the idea of fishing from the void. She s
Pool PartyTom was giddy. Here was his chance to prove himself capable to his friends! As a new homeowner, he had not only a place to host parties, but also an above ground pool and deck. Rather than be late to everything, he could take credit for organizing everything. His best friends, Jack and Stephen, were somewhat skeptical.
"You haven't even unpacked, and already you want to host a party?" Stephen scoffed.
"You've heard of a housewarming party!" Tom insisted.
"Tom," Jack interjected, "you don't throw those for yourself. That's telling people to get you gifts."
"Fine," Tom said. "We'll call it a cookout, backyard barbecue, whatever. Pool party."
"Do you even know how to operate a pool?" quizzed Stephen.
"How hard can it be?" laughed Tom. "Fill it up with water, and all the pool stuff's in the garage."
"Give him a break," Jack told Stephen. "He's got a point. How hard can it be?"
Stephen avoided eye contact but relented.
Saturday, Tom was almost ready. He had ribs to barbecue, napkins, the go
What is Love?The way I see it, love is a fear.
It's mistrust and trust all in one, an escape in which to fling yourself upon the one who was trying to catch you in a daring attempt to be free.
Love is heartfelt devotion, yet a quiet distance. The staring from afar at the one you admire can often be considered love, though the love I see is passionate and wild and contained and meaningful all at once. It's empty and thoughtless, careful and just, and never passes a moment in which it is forgotten.
The love that I wish to feel I have never felt, only in my daydreams. The love that I wish to feel is a love that the written word could never fully describe, one that is so romantic and casual, tamed and adoring, all in a perfect balance that lifts you upward into the sky like a feather where it could otherwise hold you chained to the stone if weighed incorrectly.
The way I see it, love is a fear.
It is a fear of the unknown, of the things that have not yet been experienced, and the thin
Aftermath - Entry One"I'm still lost out here. Lost and alone in the aftermath..."
Jan. 8th 2045
Today was no different to any other. I've still seen no sign of hope in anyone who passed by. That's all they do now; they don't even check the hospitals now. It's all been looted. You can tell by the bodies lining the doorways and broken windows from where they broke in and grabbed what they could to take away the pain, to take away the reality of all this. Needles still stick out of their infested, maggot riddled arms, their veins almost entirely eaten away and their eyeballs plucked out by the crows.
The crows are no different to them, the 'people'. You know what they call a group of crows? A murder. A murder of crows.
That's what they all are; murders. Packs that work their ways through city after city with no aim other than to pillage goods and slaughter the remaining survivors. You'd think we'd be few in numbers, humans, but there'd supposedly been 10 billion before this had happened... It shows