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Literature Text
There were always bruises on your knees. When I came home from work with sweat slick in my hair and a grease burn running the length of my arm from my wrist to my elbow, I lay down on the kitchen floor and watched the brick red and white tiles while you scrubbed dishes above me without a word. Knees worn thin, floor wearing thin, and patience long gone. I wanted to tear the bruises out of you, to break the exhaustion inside of you, to... and I slept in my clothes with lancing pains in my arm as i waited for you to come home from work in the morning so I could go back to work remembering the bruises on your knees and the learn only words we had left.
Literature
The Dirt Path Not Taken
My best friend and I were going through town one Sunday. Michael was off of work and was taking me to Old Chicago like he always did. As we went along, Michael stopped at the edge of the town. In front of us lay two roads; the one on the right would take us to the nearby city and Old Chicago. The other… well, I didn’t know where that path lead yet. “I’d like to see where this other road leads to,” Michael said as he started down the path. I didn’t reply, but I went along with him. The road wound around a lake and eventually became nothing but a dirt path. I hoped that Michael and I would be able to find our
Literature
Home.
Home.
As a kid, my house was noisy. At least.. that was one way to put it.
You could here the loud pangs of the pots and pans from the kitchen while my mother was cooking dinner.
You could hear the slow but steady melody of my sister tickling the ivories on her piano, but most of the time battering the keys indignantly, because she couldn't quite get the right notes.
You could hear the the resilience of my brothers basketball slamming the pavement; even from the inside of the house.
You could hear the ear piercing creaking sounds my cousins made when they scampered up the stairs.
All that and more.
I craved a place where I could sit for hour
Literature
Winter Queen (prompt)
Grey eyes stare blankly into the white. They are softened, filled with pain. The winter queen grasps the flute in her hands, tightly. Paint chips gather under her fingernails and dot her silk dress with red. Her expression is cold and hard, like the ice beneath her feet. It stings her toes as she anxiously draws figure-eights in the snow. She closes her eyes and sucks in cold air. It burns her lungs and pricks at her nostrils. She stands, allowing herself time to steady her aching body, and calls out to the women of the forest. Nothing happens. Nobody comes. Once again she calls and there is no answer. She receives only silence in ret
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