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After Ogebi was finished, silence overtook the room. The moms were looking at each other, or down to the ground, with a conflicted expression on their face. Had she said too much, gone too far?

Then, after a moment, Clara stood up in silence. It was almost a solemn moment when her claps roared and echoed through the silent room. Then, as a wave, every other mom started clapping their hands, too. Siobhan stood up, a giant smile on her face, cheering her wife on.

She had done it. She had won them over. The reign of Marisol was finally over.

“I wasn’t ready.
The idea of sorrow. The concept of blank.” ― Nicola Maye Goldberg

She comes here often.


Here


to mean the other side of the line:

to the fire before she became ash, to where the long burn of an amber night does not mean choking and choking and choking, but something soft and tender —

to where darkness breathes around rose flower oil and saffron like thick musk, torched by moonlight into a glow like a gentle kind of singing. Here, to a memory held out to the purple-blue darkness like a lantern, to where Asiya calls her daughter through the olive trees, her voice like a lick of oud on a bare wrist.


— Layla!

ليلى! ليلة بلدي، مهرا، بلادي النار.


Her voice stirs the lemons in their branches, bright gold and full of tart, their green paper leaves rustling with the chime of a distant song. The sound reminds Layla of high summer and long shadows — like Baba and his fruit knife, like the bitter white pith of a lemon rind curled between her teeth. Like hours of unending sunlight, beaming and relentless, with a brightness so harsh it shines like grief. My fire. Layla covers the pin-prick holes in her heart with her fingers, running her hands over the colour of this darkness instead, its purple-green stain drawn over her heart like the hardened skin of a fig. My foal. Here, the silence inside Layla gallops and trips; that name runs through her like a team of shadowed horses, hooves pounding radiant impressions upon her heart like echo. My night.

Ha! Ha. Layla stops in the dark, the creases in her white linen sundress gathering shadows around her hips. Her hands, shrewd hands, hands of a sculptor, hands of an archer, curl and uncurl by her sides, palms coated in the fine white dust of a dream.

If it is the night you are looking for, she is not here.

She is over
there

waiting on the wrong side of the line: a perfect, bitter smog like a newborn ghost, howling like a smoke signal, like a crying, like a plea.

She is there and she does not know how to get back.


I know because I carry that night in this vessel,
(this smashed up clay beast, this ceramic at war)
her deep, dark sorrow; her rotten, gnawing prediction.

I know because I, too, am lost,

and I, too, cannot find my way back.

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anonymous asked:

A short fic where roadhog's s/o wants to see his face and call him by his actual name and Mako being apprehensive about it at first, pretty please!!! ^\\\^

Cue the FLUFF

Originally posted by lifetimetv

-After writing the story-
I should write story like this for Reaper
Also, my hEART!

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Wicked White Rabbit

He stalks me through the night. I am his favorite prey. He haunts me in my dreams. What game does he want to play?

Lo, lo and behold the foul demon of my wretched nightmares. That wicked white rabbit.

I don’t know why he played me so. Everytime I see him I feel a mortal terror grow deep in my bones. He conjures up the most frightful feeling deep inside. A stabbing terror. It is the rabbit I fear. He wants to eat my soul, to rip my guts out and spill them on the linoleum floor.

I run but I cannot escape. His frightful eyes, they follow me. Everywhere I go his image haunts my mind.

Oh foul rabbit, will I ever be free?

Who Betrayed Who. .

I pull up to my boyfriends driveway shaking. I couldn’t believe I was about to tell him that I’m pregnant. I know he would be excited to hear the news. The only problem is it might not be his. I been with Raymond for about 3 years, he treats me how every woman is suppose to be treated by their man. This man has never done me wrong, he was always there for me, he loved me for me and he sure knew how to please his lady as well. He’s a wonderful guy. I know, I know, If he’s so wonderful why are you cheating right ? Here’s the thing, he’s slacking in the bedroom and it’s bothering me how he can forever eat my pussy and blow my back out but he would never let me give him head and he would never try new positions, only doggy style and him being on top of me. Those two position gets annoying every time. I wanted something new. I asked him why he wouldn’t let me give him head or at least try something new, he said it’s disturbing to see his woman do something so down grading like that, I didn’t know if to take that as a compliment or not so I left it alone. So what I did, I ended up cheating. A part of me wants to tell him, the other part don’t, but the guilt is eating me up inside. He texted me earlier saying he had something to tell me but it has to be in person. Knowing him he would probably end up getting on one knee asking to marry him. I shook the fears out my body, got out the car and walked up to his house.

*rings doorbell*

The door opens and standing there was this gorgeous hazel eye, brown skin brother with 360 waves staring me up and down licking his pink lips.

RAYMOND: damn baby why you look so good

ME: you know I always be looking good for you babe

I gave him a kiss and walked inside. I’m slowly walking around realizing that he has candles set up around the house and dinner prepared on the table for us. I looked at him and smiled. He always knew how to make me feel special.

RAYMOND: I don’t know about you but I want to skip to dessert

ME: what’s for dessert ?

RAYMOND: your sexy ass

He picks me up and pins me against the wall kissing me with his pinks lips all over my neck. Panties got soaked fast. I couldn’t help but to slightly moan. I wrap my legs around him and kissed this man passionately. Next thing I know he was deep inside of me. I felt every inch of him. I started getting emotional, I looked this man in his eyes and started to cry. I love him so much and he knows that. I came to the conclusion that I’m going to tell him I’m pregnant but not that I cheated. His strokes got deeper, moans got louder. In the middle of our session, it came out.

ME: I’m pregnant.

RAYMOND: HOW ?

ME: what the hell you mean how

He stops and his whole mood changed. His eyes showed signs of anger while he was staring down at me.

RAYMOND: YOU CANT BE FUCKING PREGNANT BRIANNA, ITS IMPOSSIBLE!

now I’m pissed off because the man I thought that loved me is saying this fuckery right now, like is he serious?

ME: of course it’s possible Raymond, your the only one I been with for these 3 years we was together.

Now he gets up off me and we both standing up looking at each other with anger. I can’t believe this nigga right now. He turns his back and i hear something that sounds like Velcro. I couldn’t believe this bullshit. The Velcro was connected to a dildo. This nigga just took off a strap on in front of me. Now I’m standing here with so much fucking confusion.

RAYMOND: you can’t be pregnant by me bri.

He hands me a birth certificate and this nigga name isn’t even Raymond it’s Raynell Myers. I was fucking a female this whole time.

One day I won’t feel like this anymore. 

One day the pain will end, 
and I will be able to look up at the stars without wishing I was one of them.

One day I am going to be okay again,
and I will not let you tell me I won’t be.

—  darling my stars are falling {a.o}
We had a first-class carriage to ourselves — and laying a hand upon each of my knees he looked into my eyes with the peculiarly mischievous gaze which was characteristic of his more imp-like moods.
—  John Watson
(Arthur Conan Doyle, The Problem of Thor Bridge)
“What is it with you and your fascination with the stars?” he asked, slightly mocking the way she kept gazing up at the clear night sky.
“I don’t know,” she sighed, even though she did, “I guess I just think they’re beautiful.” What she did not say was that the word beautiful didn’t even begin to cover it and that the sight of the stars made her breathless and sent her head spinning. With a slight smile she thought of the boy who had once told her that not even the brightest star in the sky didn’t shine as bright as her eyes did. It had been tacky, it hadn’t even been a genuine compliment, but it had been enough to make her blush. He’d laughed and she’d punched his arm because it was his way to take weight off the moment, to defuse the tension that was between them whenever they’d looked at each other. But this time was over, the heat in her cheeks long gone and replaced with the cold winter air.
“You know how you look at them?”
She tore her eyes away and focused on the boy who now stood in front of her. It was his time now, she reminded herself sternly, not the time to be nostalgic and drown in memories. It was not fair. He slipped his hand in hers. It was warm and welcoming.
“How do I look at them?”
“Like they’re whispering secrets to you. Like they’d vanish if you stopped staring. Like somebody you loved put them in the sky just for you.” She squeezed his hand firmly and closed her eyes to stop the tears from escaping. And she felt so very at home: standing beneath the stars with someone who meant the world to her. And one day she would share the story of the boy who was watching her from above, long gone but not really - the boy who had compared a girl to the stars once, who had put them in the sky for her. The boy who was now one of them, the ghost of his smile still visible in the crescent of the moon.
—  Love made of stardust
n.j.
He asked me if I’d go back if I could, if I’d do it all again, with his forehead pressed to mine, with his tears sliding down my cheeks. “Yes,” I said and his body shook with every unsteady rise and fall of his chest. Sympathy and pity alike tore at my heart. He still saw the good in me. He always would, no matter how many times my words hit him like a punch to the jaw, like a knife to the throat. No matter how many times I’d change my mind. He’d never understood that I didn’t want to stay. That I wasn’t one to stay.
“The only reason why I’d do it again is because it made me who I am today. The nights I spent lying awake, tossing and turning. The times I debated whether or not to call you. That hollow feeling in my chest when it was over all of a sudden. Leaving you on your doorstep with tears in your eyes hurt me as much as it hurt you.” But I don’t know how to be different, I added in my head, I don’t know how to stop running. I took a step away from him and wiped his tears from my cheeks. Then I did what I did best. I ran.
—  excerpt
n.j.
The saddest yet most beautiful story,
is when the sun created oceans from his tears,
so that the moon could see
how much he misses her,
when he died every night
to let her shine.
—  Does it take an ocean for you to see how much I miss you? // (Jana, @writtenbyjana on Instagram)
Someday we will forget all about this. I will forget how you looked at me and I will stop dreaming about you every single night, wishing for you to come back. You will forget the way I laughed at every little thing you said and how I was different; happier, with you. We will be too far away from each other and we will have forgotten everything. Someday, what we had wouldn’t matter anymore, and I will never cry for you again.
—  Someday