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Literature
For AsheRhyder
4:30 pm
When Sarah entered her apartment the afternoon of March 1, she found Christine and Raoul in the kitchenette, sharing a private moment (although thankfully not so private that Sarah had to shield her eyes and run for cover).  Raoul was holding Christine around the waist while obediently licking frosting from the rubber spatula she was holding up to him.  He was making the pleased noises of someone pretending to have not eaten in days and Christine was giggling uncontrollably.  They didn't see Sarah until she cleared her throat.
"Oh, hi, Sarah!" Christine said.  She stuffed the spatula in Raoul's mouth and skipped away from him while he spluttered.
"What were you two doing?" Sarah asked.
"We're baking James a cake," Christine said.
"Did he get killed again?"
"No!  It's his birthday!"
"Oh."
"He's been gone since early this morning," Raoul said, having recovered.  "And he won't be back until tonight.  So w
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Mature content
Steel :iconby-loosh:by-loosh 8 6
Literature
Pais's Place
The wolf pulled Red across the street and into the darkness of the restaurant, where they were greeted with a welcome sign and a smiling hostess whose teeth flashed towards him.  She asked him whether his was a party of two and he said no, he was meeting a man named País and she said why sure, he came here often with the blind girl, let me show you to his booth.  So she did.
The day was bright, but inside, the walls disappeared into gloom.  Was it because of the smoke rising from the candles, which were, as was sometimes the case in Boston pubs, real?  Or was it just the pattern of the wallpaper, gray with grease from an older business and yellow with its water damage?  Maybe the patterns were supposed to be silver flowers; maybe they were saw blades.  The windows were clean, but mesh blinds had been drawn so that the only light came from the candles and the red fixtures over the bar.  The tables were almost bla
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Mature content
Notice to Appear :iconby-loosh:by-loosh 1 9
Literature
Rainy Day
It's because they shot Old Mange today.  He'd been in that cast for a while.  You know, the one on his leg?  Told me it burned all the time.  I didn't think much of it.  It is Old Mange, after all.  Said he couldn't stop walking on it, though, and scratching at it.  Itched all the way up through his hoof.  Today I woke up and saw him chewing the cast straight through.  And I tell you, Redwood, it was not a pretty sight.  It was all yellow and red, like an apple if it could bleed.  Scared the shit out of me.  I screamed for help.
Old Mange told me to shut up, for pity's sake, it hurt worse than a sore back when someone's on it and he was perfectly capable of helping himself anyway.  But what good is the help here, he asked me.  No good at all.
But Mange, I said, they got the medicine.
Swear to you, Mange said, it makes it worse.
What are you suppose
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Literature
Swords
The walls are blue and the floor is brown,
like shit and grit and sand,
and I am standing just inside the door.
I came in here because I'm seeking refuge
from the weird shit that goes on downstairs.
You know how it is: he tugs on your hair
'til your neck cranes back and your shoulders burn.
When he pulls on your clothes and toes
you just want to die 'cause Mom thinks he's playing,
but even when you've been playing in the mud you don't feel so dirty.
Now that I'm here in this room, I remember that my brother isn't.
He's away at school and I forgot.  It's an innocent mistake.
He's got swords in his room, hanging on the wall.
They're not gonna do me any good, though;
no one ever taught me how to use them.
And I guess I'm sort of scared to touch them anyway,
even though they're the reason I'm here,
because that other guy in my house
has bent my wrist back enough times
to make me realize a sword would just make me weaker.
He's behind me now, isn't he?
God, why did I even bother?
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Literature
Letters
He's listening, but he doesn't know me.  For all he does know, I'm the next nurse.  I'm going to give him a sponge bath.  (And if he's really thinking that, if he's delighted by the prospect, I can't really call him dirty.)  He might be nervous about it, though, because somewhere deep down he might remember that I'm his granddaughter.
He never kept a diary, otherwise I'd read it to him.  Instead, Mom kept his letters, the ones from Korea.
"Hey, Doll," one starts.  "Everything's fine."  And he goes on to tell Grandma all about how he spilled coffee on his crotch, and how he can't wait to kiss her everywhere below her bellybutton, and won't she please send him a lipstick mark like she did last time?
The letters don't help as much as a diary might.  He thinks I'm reading him an epistolary novel.  (Sometimes I have to wonder whether or not, scratched under the ink, there's something he'd rather
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Literature
The Dare
or, In Which High School Melodrama Turns out Fine, for Once
It started with a dare.  It was a simple, innocent, run-of-the-mill dare, and because she was loyal, because she promised that she would never ever turn her back on any sort of dare, she was bound to do it.  It shouldn't have been a problem.
But now she was sitting in a bathroom stall with her pants pulled down way past her knees, pretending to be constipated when really she just had a headache.  Somehow her simple, innocent, run-of-the-mill dare had turned sour, so she'd gone to sulk on a toilet.  She'd been there for the past fifteen minutes.  She had goosebumps running all down her legs from being exposed to the air for so long.  She'd been there for fifteen minutes out of the hour she had free after science today; fifteen minutes after she asked one of the people who had stopped laughing at her by now to watch her things; fifteen minutes after s
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Mature content
Beth :iconby-loosh:by-loosh 110 62
Mature content
State of Affairs :iconby-loosh:by-loosh 0 0
Literature
I Love You
It happens in succession,
the moment after.
After that, it's far too long.
I only want that
only; more is too much.
It's not a number,
can't be counted.  It's simple
but theatrical,
the way earths turn and suns rise:
inescapable,
immeasurable moments.
As soon as it's caught
it's gone, so I need
to let you know about it.
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Literature
Out of the Rain
Into the car, with oil and water
and gravel, because you're going
home, where there's a fire.
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Literature
Brahms
Sun has pink cheeks from his mother who died but of course she lives on in him that's what ancestors do after all live on in their descendants so even when they're dead they'll still be alive but what does that leave us the mentality of a past which, though it might matter, no longer directly applies.
But Sun is here for Dawn, his wife of a thousand moments.  He jokes that he is Ra, in his boat of a thousand years, and Dawn says "Yes, you do sit in me."  But this is only nature, and love has never thought of anything but harmony, something for which ancestry strives but can never attain.
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Mature content
Red :iconby-loosh:by-loosh 13 59
Literature
The Bridge
At first it's obvious.
The first haven't rotted yet
and I could walk across safely
if there were some left at the end.
The first is still polished
with the private days of war
and nails shine like soda tabs or dog tags.
The second and third are still the same
until a strip of splinters lays it bare:
no more polish, no more shine.
Just rust and red wood
and those fraying edges
that reach to kiss the sky.
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Literature
Don Giovanni Overture
If she moved one step closer to the edge, the wind would buffet her face and the ocean spray would snap at her eyes.  The sun had almost finished setting, and it wore a frilled collar of venomously purple clouds that sucked the energy from the eyes and made the soul weary.  This would be the last thing she would ever see, this moment of austere beauty when the sky looked like a viper curled and waiting with a glassy stare.  The grip on her wrists was painful.  Was the man pinching her bones?  She couldn't tell.  He'd wedged her arms in an upside-down V behind her, and she could swear they would pop out of their sockets before he was done.  It was effective in keeping her from struggling.  There was another man reading a paper, and her brother stood some ways off, behind and to the right.  A clump of grass was directly in front of his knees.  It was a pathetic hiding place.  She
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  • Listening to: Emancipator
  • Reading: The Year of Magical Thinking - Joan Didion
  • Watching: Smallville
  • Playing: Final Fantasy VII
First 9 people to comment here get three things from their gallery that I choose as a feature. Anyone who does this has to repost this in their journal with me as the first spot. C:

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2.  EMort
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by-loosh
Li Goldberg
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
The second hat rim is Bezoar-10

I love her lots. :aww:

Current Residence: MA
Favourite genre of music: Blues, Jazz, Swing
Favourite style of art: Traditional Semi-Realism
Operating System: Windows XP
MP3 player of choice: Chocolate
Favourite cartoon character: Batman
Personal Quote: Everything you think is a state of being is really a form of literature.
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Add a Comment:
 
:iconbrookierulestheworld:
Thanks for the watch-back! 'O'
Reply
:iconby-loosh:
by-loosh Featured By Owner Nov 30, 2012  Student Writer
Derrr, it's Lith <3
Reply
:icongroecs:
Groecs Featured By Owner Apr 14, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
hello thanks for the watch my freind
Reply
:iconby-loosh:
by-loosh Featured By Owner Apr 14, 2012  Student Writer
No problem! I love the designs you have for adult Mako and Bolin, and when I saw the adult Mako one I started imagining what it was like when he started going blurry and how he reacted to it. He probably freaked out, poor bb!
Reply
:iconxarratha:
Xarratha Featured By Owner Apr 8, 2012
Happy birthday!
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