Apple-River

2

The Earth started breathing in Nova Scotia. This weird phenomenon was captured by Brian Nuttall on October 31, 2015 most probably in Apple River. It is thought to be attributed to the fact that the wind is blowing the tree tops, which tugs at the roots as they hold the trees upright. (Video)

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The morning after by Olly Denton
Via Flickr:
Trump won the White House.

Tree Offerings

Crystals and Stones:

Moss Agate, Jasper, Clear Quartz, Rose Quartz, Aventurine, Jade, Opal, Peridot, Petrified Wood, Emerald.

Food:

Water (rain, river, spring), Apples, Cider, Oranges, various fruits, nuts, corn, milk, bread, Hawthorne berries, oats, butter, honey.

Herbs:

Rose, Dogwood, Acorn, Fern, Rosemary, Thyme, Angelica, Garlic, Valerian, Mistletoe, Juniper, Barley, Pine. Sandalwood, Cypress.

Other:

Silver coins, leaves, soil, flowers (planted).

Spells and Magick:

Fertility, love, friendship, abundance, grounding, growth.

At the very corner of this old map is a country I long for. It is the country of apples, hills, lazy rivers, sour wine, and love. Unfortunately a huge spider has spun its web over it, and with sticky saliva has closed the toll gates of dreams” wrote the Polish writer, Zbigniew Herbert. Today, this country is free, independent and stronger than ever! HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY POLAND!

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And Then the Earth started breathing !!!

New footage has emerged showing the ground literally heaving up and down within a forest in Canada. Filmed on a mobile phone by Brian Nuttall at Apple River in Nova Scotia, the strange phenomenon creates the impression that the forest is ‘breathing’ in and out in an eerily rhythmic manner.

The footage has been viewed over three million times since appearing on social media and has been described as “creepy and scary” with some users unwilling to even watch to the end.

Mr Nuttall however maintains that there is a simple explanation for the ground’s movement.

“I believe the larger trees are doomed to blow down but are currently spared, the smaller trees around them help hold each other up, as the wind pushes the trees into one another,” he said.

“The punishing prevailing winds have taken their toll on the side hill, the roots have loosened and the mossy ground from the once shaded forest floor are giving way, soon to be toppled over.”

@captain-f-merivel

The carriage rolls along a bumpy, overgrown road and up across a bridge over the river Hurt. As it approaches, Hurtfew Abbey transforms from a distant blob into a square, stately house. Lascelles takes off his hat to lean out of the small carriage window for a better look, misting his hair in fine droplets of rain. It is a wet, grey morning, the early sun shrouded in heavy clouds, but he can see no candles in the windows, no immediate indication of life within. Drooping, sad apple trees line the river and by the looks of it, the lawn has not been tended to within months.

He withdraws back into the carriage, unselfconscious, for once, of the boyish enthusiasm in his smile. The company is not rarefied. There is his lover, the captain; up on the driver’s seat is Arthur, his footman, who has proved himself as impassive and efficient as ever on their days’ journey to York; and with them in the carriage sits the fidgety Dr Reed, the captain’s favoured companion for dangerous ventures. Lascelles has never paid a great deal of attention to Reed, allowing his first impressions of the man to remain the last. Merivel trusts him, and that is sufficient.

One week earlier, Lascelles had a visit from Davey, the lamented Mr Norrell’s footman, whose loyalty he had purchased soon after the magician had been lost in Faerie. Davey had had a message from Norrell’s old butler, who was anxious for the house to come under new ownership. No servants, not even the gardener, had dared step on the grounds of Hurtfew in the weeks since Norrell’s death had been made public. The house was haunted, they said, and now going to seed, with all its fine old furniture left to moths and worms. Lascelles’s first thought, naturally, was for the books.

Mr Norrell’s books of magic have value beyond reckoning. It has long been his ambition to find them and have them reprinted for his own private collection. They will be difficult to get to, he knows, for the old man would not have left them without some kind of magical protection, but it is certainly worth trying. The books may technically belong to Mr Strange now, but who could blame Lascelles for wanting to rescue them from decay? Should Mr Segundus and his key be located, Lascelles will place them, with all due reverence, with their brothers in the library in Hanover-square.

As for the stories of hauntings, Lascelles is inclined to consider them nonsense, but one does not take tea with a fairy without learning to be at least a little cautious. In his coat pockets, he carries iron medallions and his duelling pistols. In the inside pocket of his jacket there are two vials of ointments from the collection of Miss Volkova, a witch who loved him once and left him her key when she left England. In his boot, encased in a hidden leather sheet, is a knife edged with silver that he purchased specifically for the journey. One never knows. And, of course, he brought Merivel. He turns his smile towards the captain.

Blue and White Porcelain

Characters: You x Chen (Jongdae)
Genre: Romance, Angst, Slice of Life

Warning: This story includes themes about weight loss, eating disorders, self-hatred, and standards of beauty.  Please read with caution.

I am thin now.

Probably still not thin enough for you.

But I take up less space.

I take up less of your air.

I can feel my bones protrude from my wrists and hips.

My ribs grinding against my flesh.

But still not thin enough.

Because of my thighs.

No, because of my stomach.

No, my arms.

My arms too.

Too much flesh.

Too much…

Not thin enough…

The familiar sigh seeps from my lips, washes across my porcelain cheeks, and taps along my jawline as if playing an instrumental along keys, until they reach my ears.  So familiar, for those words, that sigh, that lingering feeling of resentment repeats itself like a broken record everyday.  Because it is never enough.  I am never enough.

We set goals, we look at girls around us and set them as our targets.  If I get to look like her, God, if you can make me as thin as her, as pretty as her, then that is enough.  But it is never enough.  We get to that point and want more because suddenly that twenty-four inch waist is still too fat.  Because there is still flesh.  There is still meat.  The bones have not touched my skin yet.  Suddenly, we begin to hate our own flesh and bones.

Not enough.

My petite hands grip onto my cheap $5 cheval wide mirror from Target that concaved in a specific way so that my height was never my real height and my width was never my real width; an illusion to make the short feel shorter, the wide to feel wider.  Nails carve against the recycled paper that held the body against its frame.  So fragile.  With a forceful grunt, I haul the mirror up and flip it over so that I wouldn’t have to see my reflection that paled in comparison to the gorgeous slim figures of the girls in magazines.  Instead, the inch wide crack, branching from the bottom right of the platinum glass, stomps against my chest and haunts my soul. So broken.

Head spins dizzily.  Stars and gems and phosphenes flutter about.  So addictive.  Only now will I be able to see such enchantment.  Such beauty.  My legs swing helplessly to balance the unevenness of weight, yet ultimately succumbs to the tyrant of head over heart.  Slam goes my body against the 25 year-old wooden bed my mother swore was good for me but in reality she didn’t want to spend money to buy a mattress for someone she says has enough fat to supply her own cushion.  My minute feet knocks against my reflection.  Both illusion and reality collapses against each other like twilight tides casting over ocean crystals.  Shattered glasses meet with vulnerability of human flesh and skin.  So…broken.  But, will the excess fat go away now?  Instead, what is left are more strokes and lines to add to my collection of scars and bruises.

They say if you can’t get over something, then accept it.  So I learned to take pride in these discolorations and wounds.  And illnesses.  And deformities.  And hurt.  And struggles.  And…and…

But the possessions most boast about, in actuality, are the ones causing us insecurity because the simple need for others’ acknowledgment and approval betrayed our inner motives and desire for solace.

So what can I do?

If even accepting and celebrating flaws suddenly becomes the weakness others attack you with?

But life goes on.  And stomachs grumble.  And the shattered glasses tinted in wine do not wash themselves.

Life goes on.

So don’t give up.

Even when no one supports you.

Support…support…yourself.

I’m tired.

Just…keep…going…

You have no choice.

My glossy vision lands on the single apple situated perfectly on its center axis.  Perfect.  Yet, no one wants an apple figure.  No one wants a pear-shaped figure.  Everyone wants the inedible hourglass.  The one that turns time backwards so I could forget I inhaled that whole family pack of Cheetos or devoured five whole servings of Seoul-styled fried chicken.

Two fingers discover their daily position only reserved for my tonsils.  Acid rides up my protesting stomach, up my burning esophagus, and out into the open world again.  Not an apple for an apple.  But an apple for a river.  For a sea.  For an ocean…

No.  Dinner.  For.  A.  Month.  I make the promise that I knew I’d break but even if I break, I didn’t want to go down without the stars and gems and solar systems.  A galaxy.

What for?

Because…

My gaze follows the path where the class jock clothed in shoulder pads and a helmet rushed forward.  His Air Jordans bulldoze the field down with so much ease.  Take more space.  His shoulders bulk out, chest broaden as he slams his body violently against another football player.  Crowds cheer as the familiar sigh evacuates from the pit of my stomach.  It is only fair for a perfect guy to be paired up with a perfect girl…

And I am not…

…perfect…

So I’ll hide, not daring to show even the tips of my hair to the man who had stolen my heart so that I am only left with the heaviness of my head.  Dainty feet trail against the mud once occupied by the athlete, retracing his steps as if they were magical spells or ancient artifacts worth a fortune.

Wind brushes my long hair against my white porcelain as my body closes its distance against Mother Earth but the arms that had pushed me off the cliff, quickly jotted forward, catching me securely around the waist.

“Haahaha!” the familiar harmonious laughter of Kim Jongdae flows through one ear and out the other.

I snap my neck back and throw him a death glare for his prank that had left my heart flying fleetingly back from God knows where my crush is, back into the center of my chest.  His rising cheekbones and kitten smile greet me with so much passion and genuine euphoria that I couldn’t bear to stay mad.  But even as the heart softens, the head tells me to at least throw a few punches and kicks for revenge.  His sniggers continue to wrap my feeble frame with warmth and consolation.

“How is my favorite dongsaengie, today?” Jongdae rounds his arms around to support my back before pinching my cheeks playfully outward as if I am made of Play-Doh.  I swat his hand away and gift him a tantrum pout.

“Hmm…my dongsaengie has lost all her baby fat.  She used to have the most adorable chubby cheeks,” the young man teases.  His eyes hood, brows cave, and lower lips protrude forward.  Lights flicker in my eyes as an internal battle instigates.  Sparks ignite in happiness at the confirmation that there were some type of progress in my diet but they were soon dispelled by the rush of acid that left me covering my own efforts out of embarrassment.  Because…it was embarrassing.  So shameful to be struggling when all my pretty friends ate all the food in the world and still were half my size.

Arms envelope around my figure as I unconsciously begin to build a shell to hide from the guilt…Guilt of what?

Of not being enough.

“Come on, let’s go clean the music room,” Jongdae halts my toxic thoughts with the kneading of my shoulders, easing the muscles, tensed and dormant for too long.  With another pat, he nudges me ahead to the North Campus and further and further away from the soil that held my footprints, so light and barely visible to the naked eye.

Sheets of black lines and notes, on white, flow wistfully down in circles as Jongdae pushes the metal doors open to reveal the untidy orchestra hall. One lands perfectly at the center of my feet.  Naturally, I bend over to pick it up, only to be intercepted by the grasps of my mischievous sunbae.  Grinning cheesily, he scans the notes, humming every tune and beat to perfection.  A music genius.

“Hey, didn’t you perform this piece at a recital before?” he questions, beaming happily in my direction.

I rub my neck, wondering how in the world he still remembered something from five years ago.  Even I had tossed the memory down into a ditch.  With a quick nod, I begin to work my way around the room, picking up this, picking up that, pushing stands aside, and loading chairs up into a neat stack.  Jongdae hastily dashes over to catch a chair before it smashed my dainty frame into dust.

“Be careful, okay?” he warns with his tone still chirpy, but less so that it held an ounce of worry.

Already overcome with half shot of embarrassment and twice guilt, I quickly nod and scurry off to collect the instruments into their rightful compartments.  The handsome upperclassman trails along, whistling to a song I knew but couldn’t quite name.

“Pabo-yah, a viola is a string instrument, not a wind,” he picks up the miscategorized instrument and tussles my hair.  His vision briefly stalls along my pale chapped lips before he excuses himself.  He returns with a warm cup of water.  No.  Even water is weight…  But, out of courtesy, I take a short sip.

As I stand up to haul the large contrabass back into the storage room, stars and crystals line up in zigzags, floating aimlessly before my two eyes.  The weight of barrels and sandstorms rock against my chest as the wind knocks right out of me.  My name rolls panic-strickenly out of Jongdae’s lips as he races against distance and time to catch me securely against his strong arms.

“Hey,” he breathes, shaking my feeble form, “Don’t scare me,” the smoothness of his brows dive into knots as he calls over and over again for my response.

Whimpering, I claw my nails into his arms, willing for the dizziness to both take me whole and pardon me with a bit of mercy.  Because it hurt.  So, so much.  Crystal dewdrops fill the center of my irises and needlessly escape from the meshed up corners of skin and bones.  From the reflection of the sleek white grand piano, I spot the haunting corpse of my skin, the decrepit twitch of my malnourished muscles, and the fragileness of my dying heart.  Blue porcelain.  But I was pretty, I thought.  I was at least prettier than that overweight girl I used to be.

“Hey!  Hey!  Don’t give out on me!” the distraught young man wheezes as he cradles me and sacrifices his own warmth to melt my icy skin.  Another minute passes of nonresponse, and he’s up at his feet, rushing with me down the narrow halls of the school campus.

“Sunbae,” I weakly call out as he stops in front of a vending machine, literally punches buttons, and retrieves a snack.

Setting me carefully onto a bench, he kneels down in front of me and offers me the neatly packed granola bar.  My stomach begs for its love but my head shakes, only increasing my vertigo by inches and miles.  I slump back against the wall.

“Please,” his flawless, angelic voice begs as he tears the wrapper and holds the snack up to my lips.  I could taste the sweetness of raisins and jam but the counter-reaction of salt and bitterness sends acid rushing up my stomach.  Again, I shake my head.  Tears stream uncontrollably down my eyes as blotches fade in color.  Exasperated, Jongdae rips small pieces of the bar, pushes it into my clamped lips, and orders for me to chew but I shake my head over and over again.            

“Okay,” he finally gives in.  In seconds, my weightless body is lifted back into the warmth of his arms.  “I’m bringing you to the hospital,” he concludes.  I wheeze and summon my remaining ounce of energy to thrash around, only, my feet shuffles a mere two inches.  Hospital fees.  Documents.  Worse of all, notifying parents.

“Sunbae-nim…” I uncontrollably bawl into his chest.  At the sound of my sobs, his heart clutches in utter torment.

“Eat,” he pleads.  This time, I obediently begin to nibble on the grain and sugar.  The powerful aroma of cinnamon, along my bland tastebuds, causes me to succumb in a fit of hacking coughs.  My guardian angel pushes me closer into his chest and strokes my back with such tender, love, and care I had never imagined attainable in my life.  Fearing it to be just another one of my illusions, I cautiously glance up to dispel my own dreams.  Jongdae sniffles, masking away his worry as to not guilt-trip me.

As calories, proteins, vitamins, and minerals soak into my cells for the first time in a long time, the blueness of my skin gives way to a pale white.  Blotches sharpen into imperfect blurs and oxygen reenters my bloodstream.  But Jongdae’s caress remains just as tight.

“Sunbae-nim, I’m fine now,” I inform but he shakes his head.  The veins along his neck protrude out as he presses me even closer.  He’s warm and cozy and everything I had ever wanted but I am disgusting and unworthy.  Biting my trembling lips, I tug on his sleeves and call for his attention again.  Finally, he slowly releases and places me back down against the bench.  He takes a seat down on the floor, directly in front of me.

“When was the last time you ate?” he tosses the first of many questions.

I lower my head.  I don’t even remember…  My lips quiver.

“How much did you eat?  What did you eat?” Jongdae strains his vocal chords as the sourness of his heart sabotages his God-given voice.

My head bows further down as the interrogation progresses.  Such a disappointment.  Such a shame.  It’s the same conversation I desperately vowed to avoid.  That reminder that I was still not enough.  Because standards were that one had to be effortlessly and naturally thin.  That trying was shameful but being fat was too.  No way out.  No way to please this society.  Droplets trickle from my glassy orbs, creating a dotted trail along my thighs.

Jongdae clutches his fists and sighs.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” his voice carries the pain of a wounded heart.

My lower lip bruises in purples and blue from my excessive gnawing.  Even Jongdae sunbae-nim is disappointed in me…

He slips his hand through my boney ones and nudges me to look him in the eyes.  “From now on, I will be booking your breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”  Automatically, my mind protests but the vocalist denies me the right.  “Then, afterward, we can go to the gym,” he sternly adds.  Despite my will to keep my sobs in check, I let out a soft rasp.

Jongdae squeezes my hand and forces on his signature kitten grin.  “Oppa knows a few things about exercising.  How else do you think I have these?”  Wiggling his brows, he flexes his biceps, earning him a quiet giggle that manages to escape from my lips.  He tussles my hair and tugs my hand.  “Now let’s fill up that deflated tummy of yours.  You poor thing, your owner has been abusing you,” he says in a baby voice and pokes my belly button.

~

So many choices.  So many food.  The smell of toast, burgers, fries, grilled cheese, honey cinnamon rolls, and pure grease creeps into my nostrils.  Adrenaline races through my bloodstream like released lions in a rabbit forest.  Naturally, my tongue glides along, moistening my dry lips.

“What do you want to eat?” the handsome sweetheart asks.

My eyes study the endless options but halts at the single last row on the overheard menu that read “Calories”.  I gulp and automatically scan for the lowest number as if I had been given the option to how much student debt I would owe the darn government after four years of college.

“Salad…” I mumble.  Jongdae throws me a pointed look, squeezes my hand, and tugs me forward to order.

“Two turkey sandwiches with lettuce, mushrooms, Swiss cheese, ranch, onions, and sweet bell peppers please,” he orders.  My heart pulsates as my brain calculates the numbers and amount of fat.  Could feed me for a week.

The lady behind the counter hands Jongdae the tray with two plates of sandwiches neatly displayed like that of five-star hotels.  My tastebuds begin to salivate.  Just one bite.  I must have stared at the sandwiches with eyes of hunger and desire, for Jongdae fans his hand to further temp my appetite.

But the number 99 strikes in my head.  Under a hundred.  Then, I will be pretty.  

“No,” I push the tray away from me.

Jongdae’s face falls.  “Stop counting calories,” he sternly orders and pushes the tray back toward me.  “And we aren’t leaving until you finish the entire sandwich.”

My head whips up in disbelief.

“Every.  Last.  Bite,” he emphasizes as he starts to chomp down on his own.                    

The fresh smell of pure goodness swirls from his lips over to mine.  Swallowing my saliva, I meticulously pick the bread up with my thumb and index finger.  Flour soaks into the crevices of my tastebud.  Immediately, they perk alive, swooshing about at the contact of substance and energy.  Ahh.  Food.  The taste of food.  I inhale the sandwich like a starving beast.  My fingers coat in saliva as I lick the very last crumbs and sauce.  In front of me, Jongdae sports the most handsome grin of satisfaction I had ever seen in my life.  Instantly, my cheeks heat in tickle-me-pink for the first time in a long time.

“After lunch, we rest a bit, take a relaxing walk along the park, feed some birds, and then Oppa will teach you how to lose weight the healthy way,” the sweetness of his voice surpasses the honey sauce along the tips of my tongue.

~

Weeks passed, then months.  During the weekdays, the residential choir singer allowed me to tag along to the gym.  On weekends, we hiked up the hills and ran down bumpy roads.

“Ah!” I squeal as I stumble on a random hump on the road.  Beside me, the briskly jogging Jongdae skids to a halt and backtracks to check up on me.

“Be careful,” he cautions as he kneels down and examines for any scraps.

“I’m fine,” I reassure.  My personal trainer nods, summons the muscles in his quads, and stands back up.  The twinkle of his flawless smile reflects the warm colors of my face.  Unable to control the flutter of my vulnerable heart, I reflexively turn around and run off.

“Hey!  Wait for Oppa!” he chuckles as he chases after me.

Why are you so good to me?      

Everything seemed perfect.  Except, the number on the scale.  Five pounds.  I had gained a total of five pounds in under a month.  I stare critically at my silhouette on the wide mirror, targeting every flab or excessive meat.  On my thighs.  On my stomach.  Under my arms.  Everywhere.  Everywhere!  My shoulders slump over in defeat.  Unable to handle my own flesh, I slip my shirt back on and lumber out of the locker room.

“Hmm?” Jongdae questions and nudges me slightly.  “Something wrong?”

Quickly, I shake my head but the half ripple of my lower lips betrays my utmost insecurity.

“No, something’s wrong,” he concludes, slides his hand through mine, and walks with me to a quiet corner.  “What’s wrong?”  Jongdae’s hand softly brushes my cheek, causing butterflies to flap their wings freely in my chest.

Again, I stubbornly shake my head.

“Hm…let’s go grab dinner then.  Oppa knows a place that sells delicious fried chicken.  Once in a while, we can have a guilt-free meal!” he chirps but my stomach drops.

Seoul styled fried chicken.  520 calories.  Eat enough and gain a pound.

“Something’s definitely wrong,” Jongdae concludes.

Forcing on a wide smile, I brush it off and shake my head again.  But the moment I catch those gentle, wavering, and worried eyes of his, my heart drops.  And with it, my façade.

“Did you go on the scale again?” he deduces.

I look away to hide my guilt.  However, instead of raging for going against his instructions to pay no heed to numbers, he simply tugs on my arm for my attention.

“Don’t.  I repeat, don’t look at the scale anymore,” he starts and instantly my body begins to retreat but he grips onto my hands tightly.

“Look at me,” he instructs, “Look into my eyes.”

Ashamed and weary, I bring my eyes to meet his flawless ones.  They glitter with diamonds and crystal gemstones.  So beautiful.      

“See yourself through my eyes,” he persists with the intense gaze, “Mirrors lie.  Scales are but manmade numbers.  But my eyes tell the truth,” he continues as I study my own reflection in his perfectly sparkling orbs, for the first time ever.    

“It’s so sad, how we are never able to see our true beauty – when we laugh, our trustiest smile.  That is why I am here to tell you; to show you,” Jongdae cups his hand around my small face and states with pure geniality in his faultless voice.

My body quakes as my heart threatens to drown in emotions.

He takes my hand and sweetly brings it up to his lips.  “In my eyes, you are beautiful, not because of a number on a scale or the measurement of your waist, but because of this,” he points to the center of my chest.  Tears stain my cheeks and runs down Jongdae’s hands.  “This girl who always puts others before herself.  Who secretly cries to herself so that others don’t worry.  The girl who feeds stray cats without boasting to anyone for credit.  The girl who listens to others’ pain and piles others’ burdens onto her weak shoulders even when they are about to snap.  The girl who picks up other people’s trash instead of tattle-telling on them.  I love that girl.”    

I burst into tears as Jongdae envelopes me within the warmth of his chest.

“I loved you for a while now,” he pauses, “but I knew you only had eyes for the class jock,” he admits as I supplied his chest with an abundance of tears.  “I wanted you to be happy, even if it was with someone else, but seeing you forcefully diet and torture yourself for him makes me lose my mind!” Jongdae voice lines with a pang of hurt.  “Maybe I can never replace him in your heart but please, please don’t hurt yourself anymore.  Because I’ll hurt,” he finishes and slightly loosens his hold around me so that I could take a quiet gander at the beautiful woman in his eyes.

She was not only pretty in the dulcet coral of her cheeks, the honesty of her eyes, swiftness of her soft brows, but she possessed a heart of gold.  A true beauty.

“Oppa…” I burst into tears again.  Smiling until his crescent mooneyes only created a shining halo around my reflection, he leans in and gifts me a light innocent peck on the corner my trembling lips.

My heart skips a beat and I finally realize, with him, I never needed to be someone, who I was not.

Forehead against forehead, he brushes his nose teasingly against mine.  From the close distance, I could see every sparkle, every tint, and hue, and utter beauty of the lucky girl before him.  For beauty truly lied in the eyes of the beholder.  And well, for me, it also lied in the eyes of Kim Jongdae.  Naturally, my neck inclines forward for another kiss as his laughter colors my world with undying affection.    

For a heart of gold beats the fragileness of a blue and white porcelain.    

a/n: AYOoo!  I’m back for another update!  YAY THREE IN A ROW ~dances in joy~.  This was a scenario I started, perhaps, back in May or June but couldn’t finish until last night.  I’m not going to lie, no matter how many times I read this, I still cry a little because this one really hits home (not that my other stories don’t).  Recently, I also realized that this problem resonates with many girls.  Even the ones I thought were confident about their bodies because, in my eyes, they were so, so damn gorgeous.  But they don’t see that.  It’s a problem.  A real big problem.  I am a fully grown woman, and I still struggle so, so much.  That is a big issue and it hurts a lot to know that most of us forget the true beauty within us because we tend to focus way too much on the distorted image we see in the mirror.

Hope you guys enjoyed!  

Like, comment, share, follow for more updates.  SPAM MY INBOX TOO, I swear I don’t bite.  

For more of my stories: Master Story Archive

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PMMM theory

I thought of something the other day, and decided to share it here. It’s either a coincidence, isn’t accurate, or means bad things are happening next PMMM installment (of course they are, but work with me here).

At the end of Rebellion we get a scene where Homura silently tells her familiars to not take the apple from Kyouko. There are a few different meanings that could be seen in this, such as: that Homura is trying to push everyone away from her (which she probably is; she almost always has); could have some Biblical significance, though this time the Devil is saying do NOT eat the fruit; or that we’re getting some more witches next movie.

In the cake song, Kyouko says “I am the apple”. The fruit she throws to the Clara dolls is an apple, but Homura shakes her head and allows it to fall into the river. Ophelia in Shakespeare’s play Hamlet killed herself, and floated down a river. Kyouko’s witch form is also named Ophelia, and her character arc in the main series bears some similarities to Ophelia in Hamlet (dead family, suicide due to love).

Summary: Kyouko’s witch is named Ophelia, Kyouko is symbolically represented as an apple, Ophelia in Hamlet dies and floats down a river, and Kyouko throws an apple in the river which floats down stream. This could hint at Kyouko throwing her life away or committing suicide again (something seems to be going down with Sayaka, which might force Kyouko to be reckless), and turning into a witch.

Either that or this means nothing (aside from other reasons stated earlier).

Maybe (A NaLu One-Shot)

Pairing: NaLu

Rating: K+

Words: 2455

Summary: This is another request sent in by assnologia (thank you so much for the requests!), based off of the AU prompt from this list: ‘Every morning you walk in and inhale deeply then walk back out seriously just buy something already.’ Enjoy!

The first time, it was weird.

Scratch that – it was weird every single time he did it.

Lucy Heartfilia worked at this cute little bakery on the corner of Apple Street and River Road, planted smack in the center of Magnolia. Business was constantly buzzing, regular customers as well a first-timers darting in and out of the shop for some of the delectable sweets. Fairy Tail was its named, known widely for their out-of-this-world cake.

One of the reasons she enjoyed the job so much was because all of her coworkers were so easy to get along with. Erza was a bit terrifying when she got angry – or hungry – but she was still very loyal and nice to talk with. Levy had become her best friend, since they worked nearly every shift together, and Gray wasn’t too bad either – except for the stripping habit. The owner of the shop, Makarov, was like a grandfather to them, and Gray made it apparent in the way he addressed the old man as “Gramps.” Overall, the workers had welcomed her with open arms, were super patient with showing her the ropes, and became close friends of hers.

Sometimes she thought they were a little too close, since every time she arrived at her apartment, she would have to sneak around and check to see if any of her friends had sneaked in. They always did.

It was a Saturday the first time it happened. Someone burst into the shop, throwing the door wide open, drawing all attention to himself. The first thing Lucy noticed was his messy mop of pink hair, and then the blue cat perched atop it. He stood there, in all his obnoxious glory, before taking a huge whiff of the air – and then he walked out.

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