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From a Broken iHomeSitting on top of a shelf full of testifiers, the scratchy sounds of the auxiliary system bear witness to a life spent in transit. Trips back and forth between three homes in three cities, three families split and rebuilt. Three times you’ve been thrown into a trash bag or suitcase, hauled in the back of a car or bus accompanied by bawling voices and clenched fists. Three times you’ve been the first item yanked out and plugged in, voiced the way it sounds to tear up a life. It sounds like kids who feel like dead ends. It sounds like making do.From a Broken iHome
Sometimes in the downtime it sounds like good times. Like Mickey Avalon,
by ~007-SugarShip
NumbersMuriel’d kissed you eight times before leading you into bed. Later, you learned about Nic. “If you make out with her, TTYN.” She might have meant it. You almost found out, soaking in a tub full of chlorine, rum and girls. Listing firsts, you said “Muriel.” “Ew,” said Nic. Talk to you never, you thought.Numbers
by ~007-SugarShip
idby ~007-SugarShip
Random Favourites
Every ManHe's drunk, so I tease him about prostitutes. His suit jacket is hooked over his knee and his arms are around the back of the couch. Every now and then he loosens his tie; the knot is nearly at his navel. Shirt cuffs bunched comfortably around his elbows, the cufflinks forgotten on the floor, he works at his collar; several minutes (and several curses) later, he's freed two buttons and settled into a sprawl, long legs ending abruptly underneath the coffee table.Every Man
"Pros--prostitutes?" He's genuinely surprised. "Hookers?"
"The very same."
"Where for the
by ~NanoHype
Colours ConfusedColors ConfusedColours Confused
Leaves, leaves falling in shades of burnt red and rusty gold. Muted, washed out Griffindor
(“-bitch”, he snarls and he tastes like everything that’s oh so perfectly wrong. “Is this how you like it?”)
colors, drifting down like dying butterflies. They rest their tired little heads on her robes, pretty jagged edges grazing open wounds. She breathes lightly because it hurts,
(like his kisses, she can remember that much. Violent, intrusive, ones that make her want more because forbidden fruit always tastes sweeter)
hurts in ways she can’t describe.
by ~blurred-reality
we love it because it's harddeviantID
| I'm basically Lord Sebastian Flyte, except that I'm American, broke, and more athletic. Oh, and a girl. |
Devious Info
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- Favourite game: Hearts
- Personal Quote: "oops. that's a wall"
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So here's the deal: January is a new month, and a new year, to start over from scratch and remember what Write-Off is ALL about.
And in good ol' Write-Off spirit, we're kicking off the new year with a brand spankin' new competition. Want more information on entering and prizes? Check out the home page.
Now come on, you WriteOffers, you. Show us what you're made of.
Are you IN for January?
Love and be loved,
BA
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*007-WriteOff - Not such a crazy idea after all.
Beware The Scent of Elderberries!
The Most Shagadelic Writing Club Around.
YEAH BABY!
Dude, your icon is like... the dude... I forgot his name but yeah.
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"Originality is the fine art of remembering what you hear and forgetting where you heard it."
Remember: Make Every Word Count!
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Make Every Word Count.
*WordCount 510 watchers and counting!
The Prose Piggybank.
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Love
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It's too loud; I can't hear you think.
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It's too loud; I can't hear you think.
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