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Anomie and Cheese PuffsJack's neighbour was the smell of rotten eggs. Halfway down his alley, a rubbish bin stood open. He could see a deflated pomegranate cradled in a nest of silver wrappers. A doll with a broken arm, dressed in a pinny speckled with forget-me-nots and brown stains, looked out at him every time he rose from his bed of newspapers.
In the night, he had covered himself with his only blanked, red and green and woolly, to escape the smell and had sweated through a layer of clothes and one of newspapers. Last week's NOW, sans cover, had stuck to his face, and a Daily Mail from 2009 had left small letters on his right hand and a large W on his index finger. Like a bad tattoo, it had refused to be scrubbed off.
Now the smell moved in his left nostril as he opened a red and yellow wrapper. It hadn't been sealed, but the edges had stuck together, so he'd had to use a fingernail to rip it open. The Daily Mail W contorted on his finger as he stuck his hand inside. The doll watched h
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More