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Literature
Once at Night
She woke up late at night—or early in the morning, as she later assumed—and stepped first off their bed, then through the kitchen, then out the door, off the first porch step, and rather than stepping down onto the second as she had so many times before, she simply floated.
It came on impulse. Natural. Like a breath. She breathed a calm in and out before taking the next step into the air, ascending like particles of dust in sunlight. Five steps, and she was above the rooftop of the house. Five steps more and she was forgetting what it felt like to be on the ground. She’d fantasized about flying thousands of times before and it’d always been like swimming in her head, laborious, but when it finally happened it was simply like using a limb she hadn’t been aware of possessing before.
The night was cold and, despite it having been a rainy winter, the stars were naked and unveiled, pressing hard against her head. She stepped up to meet them. The trees were gett
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Literature
A Nice Wash Between the Ears
The first time she suspected something wasn’t when Daddy told her not to care about mothers, or her arm snapped and her brain turned off like a light switch, or the time she found the “Family AI Inc.” card under his bed when she was cleaning his room. No. There was always an explanation waiting for her around the corner. She did not suspect. She did not care to. She did not want to. She did not need to.
The day she found the business card, she tossed it into the trash incinerator, got a lollipop from the hospital-esque jar on the kitchen counter, and went off to meet her new tutor in Daddy’s private zoo. She was seventeen. Her hair was long and licked the crooks of her elbows with wispy blonde tongues, unsplit and soft, which Daddy liked a lot. He said she was very pretty and nice and told her at age ten that he wanted her to be taught at home for a while because she was his precious Riborg, and she did not mind because she believed him. Seven years was a long w
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Literature
Blue
The only window in the city—a small skylight on the roof of Globe Four—has been uncovered today, but all I see through it is the toxic fog. It blocks the whole thing, but that’s what I imagine it's like every day outside anyways: thick, blue, moving but static. They say it’s from the acid rain at night, but I never hear rain like they say it sounds in the movies, or thunder for that matter, or anything at all. The walls of Globe Four are thick, I guess.  
I don’t look for very long.
I wave at my mother as I re-enter the house, seeing her currently poised in front of the handheld mirror she’s set on the kitchen table. She’s already dressed for the ceremonies, wearing a silver dress with a slit to show off her leg (the good leg, not the one made from metal) and her favorite blonde wig, the one that covers her shoulders in strict waves. Wanting to look good for the Progenitor, our leader, no doubt. She’s got a thing for him. The way she
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Literature
Matt and Jub's Glorious Day
Street lamps blaze with their electric harshness, igniting each of their heads with a singular beam of light as the three walk underneath them and up the hill to the nearest bus stop. The rest of the street is darkness.
Anticipation locks their tongues—Jub reaches for Elodie’s hand and squeezes it. She squeezes back, faintly, hesitantly. She slips her hand out of his after a second, giving him a curt smile before looking away and composing herself once again.
Matt keeps stride on Jub’s other side, twiddling, twiddling, twiddling his toothpick. His heart is a freight train. Looking at his friend, he wishes that they’d decided to sleep in.
--
On their seventh day of unemployment, Matt woke up with a hole in his boxers. Probably the result one of the crawling, less visible inhabitants of the apartment, which was his first thought and the first of many things he ignored that day.
Light peeped through the shutters and shot him right in the eyes when he sat up. He bli
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Literature
Just Bugs
It thunders, the first time in his life. Lightning on repeat.
The people in the dustbowl town exit their households, eyes fixated starward, dry lips cracking and bloodying with their change in expression. The ground thirsts; it anticipates rainfall with the loving desire of a virgin.
The sky. Thick with clouds, black, a huge mass glowing with static and rolling, thunderous murmurs. He has not seen the like in his fifty years of religious servitude to the people; he remembers arriving at the town, twenty and verbose and Catholic, and the deterioration since then.  What air conditioning his shack of a house had once had is gone and he lives with dry sweat on his arm and parched dreams in his head.
There is collective shuffling of dried feet across the dirt, drone-people swarming towards the edge of town and further into the desert. Buzzing.
The priest rounds off the back of the crowd, grateful for the night. The heat is less violent.
The people collect, standing in the sunken area t
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Literature
Propensity
It feels like I have been living in a dream for long time.
Life for me, this state of being, it’s like the longest dream; I have no wrinkles to count the years that have gone by, or companions, or even an aging world. Of course, the forest changes, but it’s so hard to tell. Plants grow and trees grow but it always looks young.
I have been alone since the time my memory began.
The mother bear moans again; sickness having blinded her, she searches with her nose until she can feel the soft bodies of her children crowding around her side on the ground. Her limbs are heavy. Her spirit dips in and out of her mortal form.
She glances at me, able to do so because of how close she is to death. She moans loudly at the realization and nods towards her children.
“I’ll take care of them,” I say, “but you have to follow me, first.” She can even hear me, now, as I’m speaking the universal language of the dead. She is that close.
The mother bear shakes h
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Write This Again Meme by willwriteforhearts Write This Again Meme :iconwillwriteforhearts:willwriteforhearts 1 13
Literature
The Middle of Winter
Sugar’s cheeks have the flush of a snowman’s, marble and pallid. It’s the middle of winter, her favorite, and it’s snowing feet bedecking feet in her front yard. It’d come in the night. It is soft and heavy, and slow, but it covered the ground when she woke up and blocked the door and garage so her father has to stay home from work for once. He is in the kitchen with her mother, and they’re making a hot drink together and laughing in undertones.
Sugar is sitting by the window, a ways off from them. She is sitting on a dictionary on a chair because she’s not tall enough to see over the window otherwise. Her father says she’ll grow when she’s older. She’s not a double digit yet.
It’s so heavy. Nobody’s outside. If she wanted, she could open the window and grab a bunch of snow without even reaching very far down; that’s how much there is. Up to her nostrils in snow.
“When can I make a snowman?” She a
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Literature
Within
The first thing she notices are the crowfeet that frame his eyes. They’re not small creases anymore. Her heart flutters when he glances at her, flutters up her windpipe and seems to beat at the back of her throat. She swallows hard. It settles.
“Oh, he’s the nicest,” says the servant, holding her hand and taking her away. “He’ll love you better than any other.”
“Do you care for him?”
The servant lets her go as they reach a bedroom with red curtains sewn from silk; it filters the sunlight darkly into the room. “He’s a good king,” says the servant, “you’re very lucky.” And so she leaves.
The girl sits down at the foot of the bed and flips each thought like a tarot card in her head; each thought is like a picture but the meaning is hard to tell, and she does not know where they will lead her. She thinks it might be easier to be at home again.
Lying down, she closes her eyes and sleeps.
Dreams
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Marceline by willwriteforhearts Marceline :iconwillwriteforhearts:willwriteforhearts 3 5
Literature
Feet
My webbed foot jammed itself in the sand as the paraglider tried to yank me up into the sky, and for a moment I stumbled; my knee scraped the wet shore, then scraped the tip of the water, and then I was in the air.
-
I have never thought much of my webbed feet. I wear socks in my shoes of course, and in the house, even in my bedroom. I only take them off when I sleep, which is okay because I can’t see them in the dark. I don’t wear sandals.
Abril told me that I was going to turn into a fish in a few years, starting from my feet up, and I’d have to live in a dungeon under the water when I grew gills because I wouldn’t be able to breathe air anymore, and all the fish would be afraid of me, so I’d be alone. She’s cruel like that. But then, she’s also my sister.
I believed that for a very long time. Sometimes it wasn’t so bad. I thought that I could teach myself to breathe underwater, and I would duck under the waves when we visited the ocean
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Literature
Oro Valley
This is when the sun comes up, she thinks. The clouds have lightened, a little; the heavy black that’d covered the sky moments before has succumbed to a lulling gray.
Her hands are white like soap, like her mother’s, save for under the fingernails. She taps them on the top of the steering wheel in an effort to stay awake. There’s nothing to run into, though, so she lets her eyelids slip every now and then. The road is monotonously long, straight, empty, and American, all things E.B. has never been familiar with.
Soon, she thinks, and her eyes flick over to the gas meter. The marker’s been tickling that empty line for three days now, obviously broken. When she stole the car to begin with.
--
The two women at the auto shop had seemed so kind when she first met them, flocking around E.B. the moment she’d first arrived at the shop with blood on her nose and dirt encrusting her cheeks. They’d looked very much alike, the two of them, and it was only when t
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Delia Redo by willwriteforhearts Delia Redo :iconwillwriteforhearts:willwriteforhearts 1 1
Literature
She
I fell in love with her through a half opened door. I was eleven, and it was early December in my piano teacher’s apartment room. He didn’t have any working heaters at the time so there was a constant chill permeating the air and at the moment, I’d stopped playing to rub my arms. I could feel the goosebumps through my sweater. And then I saw her.
My teacher had mentioned a daughter but I’d never seen her for myself. She was beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She was standing in the hallway of the building and had opened the door to say something to her father; I can’t remember what.
I couldn’t see her whole face very well because she kept looking down, but she had this long sweeping hair, tan skin, earthy clothing—it was like she’d come out of a sepia photograph.
--
The second time I saw her, I was fourteen. I was walking past the park on my way home from school and she was sitting on a swing next to some boy. I stop
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Literature
The Diamond Headed King
I started awake when the attendant took my hand. His were dry and clean while mine were full of sweat, but cold sweat as I’d been waiting for a few days now. The king is always busy.
“My turn?” I say; my voice is rough from a cold and I swallow a cough uncomfortably.
“Of course.” Says the attendant. His voice is very mild but his eyebrows are pinched together shrewdly. “Go pick your head in the drawing room.”
“Alright.” I follow a girl with golden hair that has been taken apart from the crowd as well. There’s a clamor of voices when they start to notice that she and I have been chosen to see him and a few angered groans and shouts. First come, first serve does not apply.
Drawing closer to the room, a woman reaches out to me with a sob and manages to snag my coat. I pull back instinctively and she stumbles.
“Please let me go instead,” she cries, “please, I need it badly.”
The shrewd attendant rushes befo
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Literature
The Thirties
“I’m sorry.”
His skin looks like a paper bag’s, crinkling like one too. Crinkling around his mouth. My father looks mortal to me for the first time in my life and I hate it.
--
My mother had that evening dress, my father had his Rolex, and I had my coins. They were only pennies and dimes, but they were enough to comfort me. Because I could actually buy something if I wanted. I could. Not anybody else.
I put them on the night drawer by my bed. First thing in the morning, I’d take the piggy bank that held them—a revolting thing, it had big red lips and blue eyes like a clown and the rest was death white—and shake it, and listen to the ting sounds it’d make. It was habit. It was as regular as brushing teeth; my hand shot towards it the moment I woke up.
My mother had habits too; I don’t think she ever had a chance to wear that pretty evening dress but she’d open her wardrobe and stare at it in the mornings. It disappeared a few m
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Just so you guys know. Thanks for everything, note me if you're interested in knowing the new account's username. 

deviantID

willwriteforhearts
Peach
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
Hey!
I'm Peach.

I'm very talkative but I'm pretty bad at these bio things... you can just note me or something ^^;

Also, just because you're interested enough to be reading this at all, here's the link to my online novel: community.sparknotes.com/tag/h…
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:iconlotusjadethorn:
LotusJadeThorn Featured By Owner Jun 30, 2015  Student Writer
Thanks for recently joining :iconnurturing-narratives: :3
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:icondrop-of-flame:
Drop-of-Flame Featured By Owner May 5, 2015   Traditional Artist
Hey thanks for the watch!
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:iconwillwriteforhearts:
willwriteforhearts Featured By Owner May 12, 2015  Student Writer
Sure! Saw your community picture on reddit and really liked the style. 
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:iconjazzy-c-oaks:
Jazzy-C-Oaks Featured By Owner Dec 3, 2014   General Artist
Happy :cake: Birthday!
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:iconwillwriteforhearts:
willwriteforhearts Featured By Owner Dec 20, 2014  Student Writer
I haven't been around in a while so I didn't see this, but thank you :)
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:iconcomedic44:
Comedic44 Featured By Owner Dec 3, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
happy birthday!
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:iconwillwriteforhearts:
willwriteforhearts Featured By Owner Dec 20, 2014  Student Writer
I haven't been around lately so I didn't see this, but thank you :)
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:iconjackofalltrades0097:
jackofalltrades0097 Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
:hugs: Thank you for joining the Authors-Club, and sorry it's taken us so long to give you a welcome message! We are so glad to have you join our group and adding our work to our collection! 

On behalf of the Authors-Club, here's just a little bit of information as to what we're about! :

-- Please familiarize yourself with our Submission Rules before you begin to submit your works of literature into the group gallery.

-- We currently have a contest going on (only one more day left though!), with a cash prize, points, and feature opportunities!

-- Did you know that we've opened up a chatroom?  Check out our main page for that and other goodies!

Again, thank you so much for joining our club! If you need anything at all, do not be afraid to ask! Wither it be about our club, or even about the going on's in Deviant Art!  

I hope that you enjoy this group and if at any time you have questions, concerns, or ideas please contact me jackofalltrades0097 , or any of the other admin of our group!
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:iconcomedic44:
Comedic44 Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
:) I don't feel ashamed to show my face around here anymore! :B
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Comedic44 Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
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