#writers Tumblr posts

  • This is my official book summary post, so that I can just pop the link to this in my bio and let you all access it whenever. I might change this later down the road.

    Raven is the worst country in the world. 

    Under the everlasting Council of Aethel, the holy oligarchy, those who are poor are deemed impure and sent to suffer in the Wilds. The Wilds is a large stretch of land in the far West, rumored to be riddled with bloodthirsty spirits, monsters, and a mysterious force that causes exiles to transform to savages. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

    The Ravenese government has secretly controlled the Wilds for centuries under the group named the White Marked Force. They are the saviors for these exiles, the providers of food, stability, and warm community. Carmen found hope in the White Marked Force, but that optimism was short-lived when she realized that the same evil power corrupting Raven was operating within them as well. And that the rumors are, in a way, true.

    After fifteen years of isolation from both Ravenese cities and the White Marked Force, Carmen must face her unresolved past. The people she loves are taken up into the White Marked Force and she must return to the cursed compounds to save them from a fate worse than death, and to save herself from the corruption of her soul.

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  • “You. You’re h-here.” I stutter my way through the simple sentence. He looks just like I remember him. His quiet voice is formed by those soft, full lips. Kind eyes lie underneath dark eyebrows and hair. A gentle and hesitant touch, so out of character for his muscles and calloused hands. There he stands right in front of me. Barely even six feet away. If I stepped forward I could reach out and touch him.

    I wasn’t ready for this. For years I had imagined this moment: what I would say, how I would scream at him, and I would let him know how he’d hurt me. But now faced with him my heart has stopped. It has jumped straight into my throat and lungs, filling me up with him.

    “Um, yeah?” His voice has grown deeper with our years apart, but it’s still quiet. I still have to lean towards him in order to hear his words clearly. He seems confused by my reaction, as though he can’t imagine why I would hate to run into him.

    “Oh.”

    My voice comes out small and my palms are sweating. I look down at my feet readjusting my back pack. Once again, I am a high school junior, walking next to him and wishing that I could hold his hand. How I wish that I could change what I had done after that day; how I wish that I could disappear from this moment.

    I’m oblivious to the people walking around us. It’s been so long that when I look up I only have eyes for him. I can’t look away. I want him, hate him, love, miss, and hurt for him all at once. I want him to leave, but never want to leave his side again. Now that he is back I can’t imagine a room without him. It’s like he’s leaving for college once more. It’s like having my heart ripped out and stomped on. All I can do is watch, and lament that I don’t have the strength or desire to stop it.

    Seeing him now, just reminds me that I can never say no. My heart will not let me. I see him and any reason or rhyme is lost. For better or for worse, I have come to love him unconditionally.

    “It’s been a while.”

    His voice breaks the silence, and I take my first deep breath since we bumped into each other. My heart hasn’t gone back to its proper place, but I force myself to speak.

    “Yeah. What’s it been, two years?”

    “Something like that I’m sure. How have you been?”

    In a moment the last two years flash before my eyes. All of my mistakes. Texting him, bothering him when I shouldn’t have. Obsessing over him and the moment that I realized he wouldn’t respond to me anymore. Realizing how much I actually missed him now that I couldn’t talk to him. Deciding to block him for my own good. All of the sleepless nights crying, and all of the scars that had stopped only to multiple among themselves once he was gone.

    “Pretty good,” I lie. “How about you?”

    “Great.” There is an awkward silence and I don’t think either of us knows what to say. I have too many feelings to speak and I’m sure he has too many angry questions that he wants to ask. I can’t imagine how much he hates me – after all of my immaturity in high school.

    “I thought you wouldn’t come to this university.”

    I look at him confused. Why is he bringing up college choices?

    “You told me this was your last possible choice,” he elaborates.

    I feel my cheeks turn bright red. I had told him that years ago, and he had remembered. On that last when we were ice skating, I’d told him I would never come here. My heart skips a beat; he remembers that. He remembers us. But that shouldn’t be what I’m focusing on.

    “I’m kinda embarrassed about that now honestly.” I look right in his face as I choose my next words. I want him to understand that my college choice was made in spite of him – not because of him. “I meant it when I said it. But I also meant what I said about not going to a school in my home state. This university was the most affordable for me. So here I am.” My back pack shifts again, but I don’t take my eyes off him, and he doesn’t look away from me. He’s watching my face and motions – judging if I’ve matured or not. Have I really changed or have I gotten too good at pretending?

    “That’s the only reason?” he pries.

    “Yeah. What other reason would there have been?” I can’t stop myself from asking it. The anger I feel towards him is bubbling to the surface through my shock. The spite creeps into my voice, and I wonder how much of it he can actually hear.

    “I guess you’re right.” He looks away like he’s embarrassed. He should be after all. Didn’t he just assume that he was the reason I choose to attend his college? “Umm, about when I graduated high school …”

    “I’m sorry.”

    “What?”

    “I’m sorry for everything that I did after you graduated. I had liked you a lot and it never really hit me until you left. All of a sudden you were in another state, city, and had a completely different life. I became afraid that I wouldn’t see you again. Especially if you were anything like me, and would just cut some people off.

    “I freaked out, and that led me to some really stupid decisions. I let my friends egg me on, and I  texted you, had them text you, and everything. I’m sure you thought I was really weird and obsessive, and you were right. I was really wrong in everything that I did.

    “So I know that you had every logical reason to stop talking to me. I want you to understand that I get it, and there are no hard feelings. I just wanted to apologize for my actions because I am sorry, and I should’ve apologized a long time ago.”

    I want someone to clap a hand over my mouth, but the words just came out. I looked at him and it just gushed out and I wasn’t able to stop. I guess that’s what happens when you bottle up strong emotions for two years. I clamp my mouth shut into a tight hard line before more absurdity comes out. I want to ask for his forgiveness; I want to keep explaining myself, but it wouldn’t do any good. I have already said too much. All I really needed to do was apologize because my actions were still wrong, regardless of my reason.

    I have said my piece. It’s his turn to speak now. But he just stands there with his mouth hanging slightly open. Whatever he was going to say is now forgotten. My words either shocked him, negated the point he was bringing up, or both. And it’s killing me not knowing what he’s thinking, but I don’t trust myself to open my mouth again. Who knows what else will come out.

    “So you really did like me in high school.”

    My breath catches. I’m not sure if he’s making a statement or asking a question, but it makes my heart jump higher in my throat. He’d wondered about it. About whether I liked him. I bite my lip and look back to my shoes. Out of everything I’d said, why is that what he focuses on?

    “Yeah.”

    “Wish I’d known that. You know, I almost asked you out?” I look up expecting him to be joking, but his voice is serious, and his face gives no indication of humor. “Would that have changed how you reacted when I left?”

    “I can’t say. It was in the past, and I was a different person then.” The silence that follows my words speaks volumes. He didn’t want that raw and honest of an answer. “I like to think that it would’ve,” I tack onto the end. Is that the answer he’s looking for?

    “So,” he drags out the conjunction – no doubt choosing his next words cautiously. “I made the right decision not asking you out?”

    “I can be proud of who I am now. Who I became without dating you.” I take a breath. “I don’t want to go back and change the past – that doesn’t make anything I did right. I’m tired of looking backwards.”

    “Then what do you see in the future?”

    I can’t answer him. I open my mouth but no words come out. I can see so many futures. There are too many choices and most of them are good.

    “Sorry, that was a pretty vague question,” he apologizes. “I mean, you look good. Would you want to try dating now?”

    I want to break down and cry. How many years had I waited for this question? How many ages had I wished for this? Looking at him, I know that I love him. I can’t say no to him, but something from high school has changed. When I think about my future and all of my opportunities – all of my perfect lives – I notice they have a common thread. None of the futures that I imagine involve him. He is nowhere in my life. No matter how much I love him, when he cut me off, I also cut him out off my life. And now I cannot see one with him.

    “Yes.”

    My mouth moves quicker than my thoughts. And I back track by adding, “yes, about that. We should talk about that.”

    “It’s a yes or no question.”

    “I suppose,” I say quietly. He really doesn’t understand everything I went through does he? “But you were right to ask me what I saw in my future, because I don’t see you. So I don’t think we should date.”

    “Do you not like me anymore?”

    I feel my eyebrows scrunch together because this is a loaded question. “I-I think I still like you.” The stutter returns with my heart beat picking up. At least my heart is back in my chest now. “But I can’t see you in my future. And if I can’t imagine a future with you, what is the point in dating you, and getting hurt again?”

    “Ah,” his voice sounds disappointed. I can only imagine what he’d been hoping for, but I find myself not caring. It is enough that I don’t have to imagine this conversation, I don’t have to imagine his voice still speaking soft and low, saying, “that makes sense. So your answer is no?”

    “Yeah it is.” I say quietly, not quite believing it myself.

    “Ok,” he nods his head and looks around. It’s like he’s just now realizing that people have been walking past us this entire time, as we stood here in the middle of the campus path way. He begins to walk down the path again – continuing on to his dorm room. “We’re just friends then. I’ll see you around.”

    “No.” Confidence creeps into my voice, and he turns back around. It’s his turn to scrunch his eyebrows together as he processes my words. “We don’t need to be friends. I’ve said everything that I need to say to you. We went two years without talking – why do we need to start talking again? I’m alright going back to how it was before this.” My hand gestures to imply that “this” is our conversation, but what surprises me more is that I whole heartedly mean what I said. I don’t need to keep him as a friend. I think it would break me too much, and what I need now is to live without him – completely without him.

    “So?”

    I shoulder my back pack and smile. “Goodbye love. Have a good rest of your life.”

    I walk past him without looking back, and for once I don’t want to look back. All of that anger and hurt isn’t there anymore. I know that he liked me in high school just like I had liked him. I know that he is living a good life, and now I have gotten to apologize for all of the things that I regretted doing. I really have nothing more to say to him.

    I know in my heart that I still love him, and I always will. My scars will remind me of him, but they won’t hurt. I have the closure that I so longed for. There will always be a corner of my heart reserved for that boy that I’m walking away from, but now I have control of my heart. I can lock up that part, and just let it be there; it won’t run my life anymore.

    I close my eyes as I write down the last word – imagining how it would feel in real life. I shut the book and hold it to my chest. Then I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror before turning off the light and going to sleep.  

    #writing#creative writing#short stories #writers on tumblr #writers #oops im rambling #this is longer than i thought it would be #missed connections#love#young love#high school/college #this is what i get for writing at 3 am
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  • I hate my writing with a passion but that’s because I’m in a real rough mindset with myself. So, I’m gonna post an excerpt of something I wrote a month ago:

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  • i deadass planned a story for a year+ and i could fully just be like “oh ___ would ___ in that situation.” now that i actually go to write i’m sat with a 404 error going on in my head. what the heck

    #writing#writers #writers on tumblr
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  • And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.

    #poetryriot #writers of tumblr #vintage#wise words#words#my words#true words#spilled words#wordswithqueens#wordsofwisdom #i say things #sayings#writers#writer#writeaway #writers on tumblr #writeblr#free write #excerpt from a book i'll never write #l writes#spoken word #truer words have never been spoken #the great panda has spoken {ooc} #thumblr#thumbtack#feelin it #how i feel #feelings#feelgood
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  • —Jason Gray | BROKEN PEOPLE

    #writers on tumblr #writers #writers and authors #writers and poets #spilled poetry#spilled poem #spilled in poetry #spilled in writing #spilled ink#spilled prose#poetsanonymous#poetsandwriters #poets on tumblr #poetry#short poem#poemsworld#poemsociety#short poems#poemsoftheday#poemsofig #poems of the heart #spilled heart#spilled pain#spilled feelings#wordsandpoetry#wordsthatheal #words that matter #wordsthatinspire #words of emotion #words on a page
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  • I feel very small. I don’t understand. I have so much courage, fire, energy, for many things, yet I get so hurt, so wounded by small things.

    Anaïs Nin, Nearer the Moon: The Previously Unpublished Unexpurgated Diary, 1937-1939

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  • How crazy it is that you have no idea about how they are and where they are, the ones you thought to spend your life with, now they’re not even in touch with you anymore. They’re gone. It sucks. Life is funny. It’s painful. It’s a blend of both.

    Sparkandashes

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  • i have never drowned
    or swam much
    or dove under

    but i can imagine
    the feeling it must be
    to struggle for air
    to stay above the water

    except my water line
    is a darkness
    it is black water
    a misery

    in that blackness
    there is pain
    and my thoughts
    the worst of all

    it is physically exhausting
    to tread the water
    that is
    the threat of falling under

    it is now sunday
    and i have stayed above
    all weekend 
    with drugs
    and you
    and target

    how long can i 
    sustain? 

    6/28/2020
    5:09PM

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  • Urla

    È brutto sentire mia madre ridere dall'altra stanza quando io in camera mia sto morendo dentro..

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  • Kadwa drifted in an out of dreamspace behind the dumpster, in a little corner they called home—until they heard the word ‘poison’. Kadwa couldn’t place the voice rightaway, but it was from that neighbourhood alright. They examined the stolen bottle in their hands, and then set it down on the ground.

    “No one’s going to poison anyone,” the voice in the alley said. “I’ve changed my mind.”

    Kadwa looked off the side of the dumpster, taking care not to make too much sound. Too much sound attracts bad people, or worse, the cops.

    “Cold feet, bitch?” Someone asked. This speaker was rougher, spoke faster, sounded like their words had an edge.

    “No, just redemption. I changed my ways.”

    Kadwa exhaled, and in a moment of recollection and deja vu rolled into one, they remembered who the voice belonged to. It was the balding man in the ground floor flat, Mr Barker, the one who’s usually working on the bottles in the basement. Illegal hooch, Kadwa had always figured.

    “Redemption,” the edged-word man said, and then he laughed with his colleague.

    “I’m sorry to waste you guys’ time. Can I pay you lads to take care of all the bottles?”

    “How many are there?” This time, it was the man who hadn’t spoken yet.

    “Seventy-five,” Barker said.

    Seventy-five?” Both of the other men spoke at once, with the same emphasis. Then the sharp-edged man spoke first. “You trying to poison a whole fucking town with that? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

    “That’s some terrorist shit,” the other man chimed in.

    Kadwa struggled to get to their feet, and then they struggled to stand.

    “Look, it’s all over now,” Mr Barker said. “I just want to get rid of it all now. No poisoning, no deaths… I told you, I’ve changed—”

    Kadwa took a few steps forward, then turned back and picked up the bottle they’d forgotten.

    “One death,” they announced from beside the dumpster. “There will be one death.”

    The three men down the alley turned and stared at Kadwa. Before Mr Barker could react, the other two drew their guns. They looked ready to fire.

    “What did I tell you?” Kadwa struck their chest hard, thumped it several times. “One death.”

    “It’s the same bottle,” the quieter man said, noticing the bottle in Kadwa’s hand.

    The other man grabbed Mr Barker by the collar. “The fuck is going on here? Is this a set-up?”

    Mr Barker shook his head earnestly.

    “Bro, I’m gonna shoot,” the quieter man said. “Fucker’s getting closer. I’m gonna shoot.”

    The other man groaned and turned around again, lowering his gun.

    Before he could make the call, a loud 'thunk’ sounded as a filled bottle connected with the man’s head. Going off-balance, he tripped on his friend, and a gun went off.

    Kadwa’s bottle exploded from the bullet, and they stumbled to the side from the shock.

    Mr Barker picked up both guns and aimed them at the men. Kadwa, for their part, wasted no time in charging the men with what remained of the smashed bottle.

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  • 2 января - 100 лет со дня рождения  Айзека Азимова (1920-1992), американского писателя-фантаста, популяризатора науки, биохимиа. Автора около 500 произведений, в основном художественных и научно-популярных. Многократного лауреата премий Хьюго и Небьюла.

    Когда Айзек Азимов родился, он с удивлением обнаружил, что родился на территории Советской России в местечке Петровичи под Смоленском. Он постарался исправить эту ошибку, и три года спустя в 1923 его родители перебрались в Нью-Йоркский Бруклин (CША), где открыли кондитерскую лавочку и зажили припеваючи, имея достаточные доходы на то, чтобы финансировать образование сына. Айзек стал гражданином США в 1928 году.

    Страшно подумать, что было бы, если бы Айзек остался на родине предков! Конечно, не исключено, что он занял бы место Ивана Ефремова в нашей фантастической литературе, но это вряд ли. Скорее, все сложилось бы гораздо более мрачно. А так он получил специальность биохимика, закончив химический факультет Колумбийского университета в 1939 году, и преподавал биохимию в Медицинской школе Бостонского университета. С 1979 года — профессор этого же университета. Профессиональные интересы никогда не были им забыты: он автор многих научных и научно-популярных книг по биохимии. Но не это прославило его на весь мир.

    image

    В год окончания университета (1939) он дебютировал в «Amazing Stories» рассказом «В плену у Весты». Блестящий научный ум сочетался в Азимове с мечтательностью, и поэтому он не мог быть ни чистым ученым, ни чистым писателем. Он стал писать научную фантастику. И особенно ему удавались книги, в которых можно было теоретизировать, строить заковыристые логические цепочки, предполагающие много гипотез, но лишь одно верное решение. Это — фантастические детективы. В лучших книгах Азимова так или иначе присутствует детективное начало, и его любимые герои — Элайдж Бейли и Р. Даниел Оливо — сыщики по профессии. Но даже романы, которые нельзя назвать стопроцентными детективами, посвящены раскрытию тайны, сбору информации и блестящим логическим выкладкам необычайно умных и наделенных верной интуицией героев.

    Действие азимовских книг происходит в будущем. Это будущее растянулось на много тысячелетий. Здесь и приключения «Счастливчика» Дэвида Старра в первые десятилетия освоения Солнечной Системы, и заселение дальних планет, начиная с системы Тау Кита, и образование могучей Галактической Империи, и её распад, и работа кучки учёных, объединившихся под названием Академия, над созданием новой, лучшей Галактической Империи, и перерастание человеческого разума во вселенский разум Галаксии. Азимов по сути создал свою собственную Вселенную, протяжённую в пространстве и времени, с собственными координатами, историей и моралью. И как всякий творец мира, он проявил явное стремление к эпичности. Скорее всего, он не планировал заранее превратить свой фантастический детектив «Стальные пещеры» в эпический цикл. Но вот появилось продолжение — «Роботы утренней зари» — уже становится ясно, что цепочка отдельных преступлений и несчастных случаев, которые расследуют Элайдж Бейли и Р. Даниел Оливо, связана с судьбами человечества.

    И все же даже тогда Азимов вряд ли собирался связать сюжетно цикл «Стальных пещер» с трилогией «Академия». Это случилось само собой, как это всегда случается с эпосом. Известно ведь, что поначалу романы о короле Артуре и рыцарях Круглого Стола не были связаны между собой, а тем более с историей Тристана и Изольды. Но с течением времени они объединились в нечто общее. Так же и с азимовскими романами.

    image

    И уж если создаётся эпический цикл, то в нем не может не быть центрального эпического героя. И такой герой появляется. Им становится Р. Даниел Оливо. Робот Даниел Оливо. В пятой части «Академии» — романе «Академия и Земля» — он занимает уже место Господа Бога, творца Вселенной и вершителя человеческих судеб.

    Азимовские роботы — это самое поразительное из всего созданного писателем. Азимов сочинял чистую научную фантастику, в которой нет места волшебству и мистике. И все же, не будучи инженером по профессии, он не очень-то поражает читательское воображение техническими новинками. И единственное его изобретение — скорее философского плана, чем технического. Азимовские роботы, проблемы их взаимоотношения с людьми — это предмет особого интереса. Чувствуется, что автор много думал, прежде чем писать об этом. Не случайно даже его конкуренты-фантасты, в том числе и те из них, кто нелестно отзывался о его литературном таланте, признавали его величие как автора Трех Законов Роботехники. Законы эти выражены тоже философски, а не технически: роботы не должны причинять вред человеку или своим бездействием допускать, чтобы ему был причинён вред; роботы должны подчиняться приказам человека, если это не противоречит первому закону; роботы должны оберегать своё существование, если это не противоречит первому и второму закону. Азимов не объясняет, как это происходит, но говорит, что ни один робот не может быть создан без соблюдения Трёх Законов. Они заложены в самый базис, в техническую основу возможности построения робота.

    Но уже из этих Трёх Законов вытекает масса проблем: например, роботу прикажут прыгнуть в огонь. И он будет вынужден это сделать, потому что второй закон изначально сильнее третьего. А ведь азимовские роботы — во всяком случае, Даниел и ему подобные — это по сути люди, только искусственно созданные. У них уникальная и неповторимая личность, индивидуальность, которая может быть уничтожена по капризу любого глупца. Азимов был человеком умным. Он сам заметил это противоречие и разрешил его. И множество других проблем и противоречий, возникающих в его книгах, были им блестяще разрешены. Создаётся впечатление, что ему нравилось ставить проблемы и находить их решения.

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    Мир романов Азимова — это мир причудливого переплетения неожиданности и логичности. Вы никогда не угадаете, какая сила стоит за тем или иным событием во Вселенной, кто противостоит героям в их поисках истины, кто им помогает. Финалы романов Азимова столь же неожиданны, как концовки рассказов О'Генри. И тем не менее любая неожиданность здесь тщательно мотивирована и оправдана. Ошибок у Азимова нет и быть не может.

    Так же причудливо переплетены в азимовской Вселенной свобода личности и её зависимость от высших сил. В Галактике по Азимову действует множество могущественных сил, гораздо более могущественных, чем люди. И все же в конечном итоге все решают люди, конкретные люди, подобные гениальному Голану Тревайзу из четвертой и пятой книг «Академии». Впрочем, что там в конечном итоге, так и не известно. Азимовский мир — открытый и вечно изменяющийся. Кто знает, куда бы пришло человечество у Азимова, проживи автор ещё немного…

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    Originally posted by cure-your-delusions

    Читатель, вошедший в чужую тревожную, огромную и полную противоборства азимовскую Вселенную, привыкает к ней, как к своему дому. Когда Голан Тревайз посещает давно забытые и пустынные планеты Аврора и Солярия, на которых много тысяч лет назад жили и действовали Элайдж Бейли и Р. Даниел Оливо, мы чувствуем грусть и опустошение, как будто стоим на пепелище. В этом — глубокая человечность и эмоциональность такого, казалось бы, лично-умозрительного мира, созданной Азимовым.

    Он прожил по западным стандартам немного — всего семьдесят два года и умер 6 апреля 1992 года в клинике Нью-Йоркского университета. Но за эти годы он написал не двадцать, не пятьдесят, не сто и не четыреста, а четыреста шестьдесят семь книг, как художественных, так и научных и научно-популярных. Его творчество отмечено пятью премиями «Хьюго» (1963, 1966, 1973, 1977, 1983), двумя премиями «Небьюла» (1972, 1976), а также многими другими призами и премиями. Именем Айзека Азимова назван один из популярнейших американских НФ-журналов — «Asimov’s Science Fiction and Fantasy». Есть чему позавидовать.

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  • Me: *drops multiple hints that this character was abused by his ex-girlfriend and that she broke up with him*

    Readers: hm.

    Me, two chapters later: *drops one(1) hint that he might have injured his ex-girlfriend, more likely just blaming himself for something that happened to her, and she definitely injured him*

    Readers: OH MY GOSH HE GOT IN A FIGHT WITH HIS EX-GIRLFRIEND AND KILLED HER AND THAT’S WHY HES SO SCARED OF HURTING (Y/N) AND *more theories about what he did to her*

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  • Keep going. Your hardest times often lead to the greatest moments of your life. Keep going. Tough situations build strong people in the end.

    Roy T. Bennet, The Light In The Heart

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  • I’m in pain because the day is ending and somehow l am never healing.

    Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait In Letters

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  • Perks of writing whatever the hell you want:

    • you get to write about whatever the hell you want
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    Based on the prompt: It still makes me so mad that Buck was slapped by one woman and had water thrown on him by another when his picture was used to catfish. Buck goes to this support group from catfish victims and lo and behold he runs into one or more of these women. Instead of being gracious he lets them have it for daring to lay any kind of hand on him. They harp about being victimized, when they themselves victimized him and he was totally innocent. Reduce these ladies to tears. Firefam apologize too.

    Read On AO3

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