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Fingers prowled the lipstick smeared rim of her wine glass, teasing shallow dips into the sanguine liquid. Seven cups, six empty of fermented grapes and Oprah sponsored tablets. Liquid death, a miracle blend of cyanide and artificial strawberry flavouring, advertised on lifestyle blogs and cheery hardback self help books alike - never had eternal oblivion been marketed quite so effectively. 

  She'd registered in the D.C. facility, 50% percent off for junkies, 10% off for recovering addicts. If only physical cancer was as easy to dissect. Her coat and boots had been taken on arrival, as had her antidepressants, the ones that managed to make her float off the grimy, bubblegum-caked sidewalks.

She was then lead into a white room that smelled like disinfectant and paper gowns, like the ones she'd seen the other participants sporting. The sheer amount of people still surprised her, she'd never realized how many degenerates the city housed in its many dark, shit-stained places. 

  The girl knew she'd die sooner rather than later but she'd always figured it'd be caused by that one extra hit of smack or that bit of molly rolled off the wrong tongue, never a government sponsored mass-suicide in the name of the greater good. And now here she was, sprawled on a red leather couch as the laced wine took effect, being stared at by some unfeeling bastards behind bulletproof glass. Scientists, fucking psychopaths.  

   A few minutes later her heart stopped and the girl in whiskey flavoured lips and ripped tights was no more. She was not included in history books and nobody ever knew who she really was. She was no one.

Valete, Fratres

"Valete, fratres": Goodbye, brothers
Haven't posted in forever, hope I haven't lost my touch haha
Have been dying to write this, it was based on a 2011 FFM prompt by edzull 
As always, thank you so much for reading, feedback is greatly appreciated I am a dummy! 

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   We hadn't been humans since they took us from our homes, dragging us across a bullet soaked main street to the sound of government issued combat boots and savage cries.

   For three weeks we were held in a glorified basement, fed sunlight through a small window high upon the filthy wall. Women wept over hollow children bathed in flickering electric lights and fat, buzzing flies.

   But then the Doctor came and people started draining off the cracks on the floor. Suddenly, we were only ten and began developing a pavlovian response to the click of the door latch. I was the last to be taken, my stomach sewn onto my back and my stench crusted over layers of dead skin and miscellaneous fluids, M14s hurrying my shaky steps.

   I was finally delivered into a dark room and strapped onto a padded chair. The harsh lights were turned on when he arrived, forcing wonky shapes to writhe beneath my eyelids. My eyes swam in boiling tides as his fingers hiked their way up my thigh, his nose buried in my collarbone.

   “I've never had one like you before”, said the blade as it drew its way across my chest, telegraphing his pleasure onto my skin.

   I used to want to understand human nature, wanted to know if we are nothing but primordial killing machines fashioned out of flesh and bone or if there’s more to the rotting miasma of our existence. These are things I no longer wish to understand.

   Oh God, please don’t let me know the answer. 

Inhuman
People are taken in order to be subjected to vivisections.
This was inspired by Apocalypse-writing Sentence prompt - "These are the things I no longer wish to understand."
However, I don't think I can submit it as it is hardly apocalyptic in theme Sweating a little...  
(M14 is a kind of rifle) 
As always, thank you so much for reading, feedback is greatly apreciated I am a dummy!  
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Here it is, as promised, TwilightPoetess I am a dummy! 
I found this a great way to provide more exposure to some great pieces, hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

HOW IT WORKS
Go to your favourites and share...

The first deviation on page 1 of your Favourites:

Blue sky thinkingMy parents always knew I’d be a salesman.  I can sell ice to the Eskimos and do them a pretty good deal on four years’ interest-free credit for a low low deposit.  Oil to the Arabs, I could do that too.  
I’m doing alright in here.  It was more of an adjustment in scale than attitude.  Some could see it as a comedown, going from brokering multi-million deals to haggling over the price of an ounce of snout.  The stakes are, if anything, higher.  When it’s you, personally, that’s on the line, there’s more excitement.  It’s all about risk.
I am not a fundamentally dishonest person, contrary to popular belief.  I sell stories.  I believe wholeheartedly in my version of events and, if that version of events diverges somewhat from accepted wisdom, well, I’m sure I can swing accepted wisdom around to my way of thinking eventually.
I started selling land; tiny worthless parcels of greenbelt land t
  Shutter05 cover by leilasedai

The second deviation on page 2 of your Favourites:

i am made of nights like theseativan boy, you cannot empty out this skull -
not with a pen nor with a bullet. you can
be my hallowed head(case) for spitting out
words like teeth; oh, but i will only love you
when you're weary. i will keep crows caged
between your lungs like veins, like palpitations.
i will rot you through bones & car radios,
but i will never get (you) out of your skin.
  Rocket Raccoon by GENZOMAN

The third deviation on page 3 of your Favourites:

Day 210i'm caught between the cliff and sea
listening to the shuffle of boxcars, roads tangling up like veins, the fire-snap-and-crackle of sleep-stiffened hips, spines and a jigsaw of limbs clinking like wine glasses.
i'm watching the glacial sheets lap between the tips of your ivory fingers reaching for an indigo-stained ceiling, the bow of your broken lips, the sea salt marbling your eyes.
you’re crumpled in half like a comma while you hold my heartbeats and type out a pulse, swallowing a tide of heretics and venture capitalists and and cliches and Shakespearean quotations and psychology textbooks and forgotten laundry, just for the two of us
and i wonder if we’re all not just pulled out to sea in the end.
  Beast by DavidRapozaArt

The fourth deviation on page 4 of your Favourites:

GangrenousThe bloated tongue full of helium
that escapes the ephemeral and lifts up, skyward –
is stuck in a congealed throat
draped with the closed curtains of bile and blood
souping a dam across her vocal chords. No more words.
The hair is brushed, later, out of its nooseloops
until it is straight and lies flush with the velvet,
in a box only just big enough to bury the dreams of a life
lived without pain
bubbling out of the now dead lips with each breath.
Skin soft turns hard – in the way that all girls do as they age
but she does not age.
She couples only with the wooden box, painted falsely white,
that covers her body and face.
It is the concealer, the mascara, the war paint never worn.
The chemicals of her unusually sewn-together body,
combine in a way geneticists cannot explain
to exude the only smell it can. Of her –
but it is not the familiar any longer. Not the smell of milk and dust.
Now, the acids boil together, to purge her of her pain.
The familiarity of her fades
  Storm by mikemaihack

The fifth deviation on page 5 of your Favourites:

Untitled Spur of the MomentNo matter when she got there or how, at any point in time a stray might have thought her dead from a distance and never bothered to go up and see the cause. She was a pale-milk color, skeleton like already, not a scrap of hair on her head but lovely enough to be known as a young girl on first sight. Like an unfinished China doll, painted and glossed, waiting for finishing touches, she lay breathing slow, shallow puffs. Her arms stuck out from her sides palms-up, her legs barely apart, not so much like she had dropped out of the sky, but that she had been gently placed there by some mystical hand.
            I should say that she was very peculiar indeed—in this world of such hungry, boney few—to have a healthy frame and glow. Stranger still, her arms up and down seemed to be carved with the writing of either gibberish or some language long destroyed…but only her arms and no other part of her. These carvings on a
   deadpool : showcase by m7781

The first deviation in your own gallery:



  • Listening to: Cherry Bomb, by The Runaways
  • Reading: Memorial do Convento
  I've been a member of this site for 2 years and only now have I started posting my own stuff. Shameful, really. To me it was just somewhere I could look at beautiful pieces, favourite and run haha 
  Well, you can blame my sudden appearance on the lit pages filled to the brim with lovely stories and poems and ahh the community...all amazing, encouraging people. I just got inspired, dammit.  And so I posted my first very short story and I mean the first thing I actually felt confident enough to post here that was more than 3 lines, "Charred remains of a modern society". Never in a million years could I have guessed the attention it got, I mean, God, it earned me my first DD! How cool is that? Wow, I still can't believe that happened. And everyone was super nice and ahh. Awesome.
   Anyway, from what I could gather people actually right some pretty personal things here but as I have a bit of a sharing phobia this is all you get from me for now haha
   Thank you so much everyone that read my stuff...wow you guys are the best. Oh and thank you again GrimFace242 for featuring my story, it changed pretty much everything for me here Hug 
  • Listening to: Add It Up, by the Violent Femmes
  • Reading: Memorial do Convento
  • Watching: Castle reruns
Here it is, as promised, TwilightPoetess I am a dummy! 
I found this a great way to provide more exposure to some great pieces, hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

HOW IT WORKS
Go to your favourites and share...

The first deviation on page 1 of your Favourites:

Blue sky thinkingMy parents always knew I’d be a salesman.  I can sell ice to the Eskimos and do them a pretty good deal on four years’ interest-free credit for a low low deposit.  Oil to the Arabs, I could do that too.  
I’m doing alright in here.  It was more of an adjustment in scale than attitude.  Some could see it as a comedown, going from brokering multi-million deals to haggling over the price of an ounce of snout.  The stakes are, if anything, higher.  When it’s you, personally, that’s on the line, there’s more excitement.  It’s all about risk.
I am not a fundamentally dishonest person, contrary to popular belief.  I sell stories.  I believe wholeheartedly in my version of events and, if that version of events diverges somewhat from accepted wisdom, well, I’m sure I can swing accepted wisdom around to my way of thinking eventually.
I started selling land; tiny worthless parcels of greenbelt land t
  Shutter05 cover by leilasedai

The second deviation on page 2 of your Favourites:

i am made of nights like theseativan boy, you cannot empty out this skull -
not with a pen nor with a bullet. you can
be my hallowed head(case) for spitting out
words like teeth; oh, but i will only love you
when you're weary. i will keep crows caged
between your lungs like veins, like palpitations.
i will rot you through bones & car radios,
but i will never get (you) out of your skin.
  Rocket Raccoon by GENZOMAN

The third deviation on page 3 of your Favourites:

Day 210i'm caught between the cliff and sea
listening to the shuffle of boxcars, roads tangling up like veins, the fire-snap-and-crackle of sleep-stiffened hips, spines and a jigsaw of limbs clinking like wine glasses.
i'm watching the glacial sheets lap between the tips of your ivory fingers reaching for an indigo-stained ceiling, the bow of your broken lips, the sea salt marbling your eyes.
you’re crumpled in half like a comma while you hold my heartbeats and type out a pulse, swallowing a tide of heretics and venture capitalists and and cliches and Shakespearean quotations and psychology textbooks and forgotten laundry, just for the two of us
and i wonder if we’re all not just pulled out to sea in the end.
  Beast by DavidRapozaArt

The fourth deviation on page 4 of your Favourites:

GangrenousThe bloated tongue full of helium
that escapes the ephemeral and lifts up, skyward –
is stuck in a congealed throat
draped with the closed curtains of bile and blood
souping a dam across her vocal chords. No more words.
The hair is brushed, later, out of its nooseloops
until it is straight and lies flush with the velvet,
in a box only just big enough to bury the dreams of a life
lived without pain
bubbling out of the now dead lips with each breath.
Skin soft turns hard – in the way that all girls do as they age
but she does not age.
She couples only with the wooden box, painted falsely white,
that covers her body and face.
It is the concealer, the mascara, the war paint never worn.
The chemicals of her unusually sewn-together body,
combine in a way geneticists cannot explain
to exude the only smell it can. Of her –
but it is not the familiar any longer. Not the smell of milk and dust.
Now, the acids boil together, to purge her of her pain.
The familiarity of her fades
  Storm by mikemaihack

The fifth deviation on page 5 of your Favourites:

Untitled Spur of the MomentNo matter when she got there or how, at any point in time a stray might have thought her dead from a distance and never bothered to go up and see the cause. She was a pale-milk color, skeleton like already, not a scrap of hair on her head but lovely enough to be known as a young girl on first sight. Like an unfinished China doll, painted and glossed, waiting for finishing touches, she lay breathing slow, shallow puffs. Her arms stuck out from her sides palms-up, her legs barely apart, not so much like she had dropped out of the sky, but that she had been gently placed there by some mystical hand.
            I should say that she was very peculiar indeed—in this world of such hungry, boney few—to have a healthy frame and glow. Stranger still, her arms up and down seemed to be carved with the writing of either gibberish or some language long destroyed…but only her arms and no other part of her. These carvings on a
   deadpool : showcase by m7781

The first deviation in your own gallery:



  • Listening to: Cherry Bomb, by The Runaways
  • Reading: Memorial do Convento

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desenhogiro
Filipa
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
Portugal
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:iconayeaye12:
AyeAye12 Featured By Owner Nov 17, 2014  Student Writer
Thanks for the watch! 
Reply
:icondesenhogiro:
desenhogiro Featured By Owner Nov 17, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome and thank you :)
Reply
:iconthedaydreaminggirl:
thedaydreaminggirl Featured By Owner Nov 16, 2014   Photographer
Thanks for the fav.
Glad you like my work. :heart:
Reply
:iconempresstuila:
EmpressTuiLa Featured By Owner Nov 13, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave on my Guide to Writing Fanfiction! I hope it helps! :D
Reply
:iconhtblack:
HtBlack Featured By Owner Nov 5, 2014
Thank you for the points. :hug: 
Reply
:icondesenhogiro:
desenhogiro Featured By Owner Nov 5, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome, keep up the good work :D
Reply
:iconhtblack:
HtBlack Featured By Owner Nov 5, 2014
:heart:
Reply
:iconbookloverblue:
bookloverblue Featured By Owner Oct 10, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave!
Reply
:iconshadowedacolyte:
ShadowedAcolyte Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014
Thanks for the recent fav on one of my works!
Reply
:icondesenhogiro:
desenhogiro Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome :)
Reply
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