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MusicWords can't begin to capture my feelings on music.
People laugh when I sing along in my soft, high voice a little out of tune. I laugh too, when I would normally want to cry, because the melody compels me.
With fast beating notes surrounding me, their familiar melody as comfortable as my favorite sweater, and boosting my confidence like my prettiest dress, I smile at the world. I feel like I could take on anything.
It's not necessary to be the best – not when my passion could trumph a thousand pop stars.
Even work – boring, slow, tedious work – is actually fun when I hear my song in the background. I don't think I'm very good at any social grace, but my smile is contagious with a harmony on my lips.
I adore the escalating crescendo,
the natural ritardando,
the pounding forte,
and the gentle piano,
and even the mezzo, stuck right in the middle.
It's when the silence overwhelms me that the grin slides from my face. Without my shield of music, the insults penetrate and t
PerfectWhy can't I be perfect?
Why can't I get this right?
Am I not good at anything?
This is so stupid, easy, simple.
There are children better able to do this than me.
I miss another note in frustration, and the tears only add to the anger within.
Why can't I get this?
Why won't my fingers cooperate?
My left hand simply cannot fly any faster over the keys, and my right is such a blur that I start to add accidentals where there are none.
This is when I am at my lowest;
when I become disgustingly superficial.
I'm not pretty, I tell myself.
I am ugly and selfish and worthless but...
But if I could only complete this piece,
If I could do something, if I could be perfect for once,
Then I might have value.
These thoughts are cruel, and they embody something that I do not support.
I never think that about others – they are always beautiful to me. They are not me, so therefore they are perfect in every way; they have no inner voice telling them that they will never, ever be anything but....
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More