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wyr
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A/N: If you can find 'Ashwood', the author on typetrigger, give her a go. She is a strong lady I know personally, and I figure prominently in 'train tracks'.

He was only fourteen when I found it. Shoved deep in the back of his closet, a box half-full(more)
Oh, God. I've never been good at spelling tests. I've never been good at spelling. In class every Friday, standing in front of the board, my tongue chokes me as I try to remember how to spell a popular holiday or some mathematical action.
(more)
It's a case of heartbreak. She is laying on the couch, curled into the end, her pajamas and messy hair blending in with the beige coverings. Empty boxes of tissues litter the ground, shining colorful wrappers sprinkled among them.
Carnival music is playing. I hear children laughing, and a mother scolding her disobedient son. Blond hair flashes from between the bars.

I look to the center, and I can see my dark hair smudged into my skin smudged into my blue shirt in the wavy, clouded mirror.(more)
The waitress at the coffee shop across the street glances around calmly, pulling a small rectangular package from beneath her apron while she backs into the shadows. There is a small metallic sound and he can see her lighting a cigarette.
(more)
I push my way into the small wooden shack, angling my shoulder against it. There are gigantic cracks between most of the wooden planks, large enough to let light filter through, but it was still built with a strong hand.
(more)
I don't have much of a social life. I sit at home, eat popcorn, and listen to some crazy heavy metal.

Hey. I *was* mariaincorporated on here, but when I came back it felt like it had been too long and I had changed too much to go(more)
It's already washing off, thin lines of my dark tan skin showing through the faded black of the intertwined lines. My mother still looks at it disapprovingly, acting like it's the gateway drug to skin mutilation. I thrust my middle finger as high in the air as possible and(more)
I can feel it, swirling around inside me and burning at me.
I stare at my hand set on the cool steel table and try to focus on it, take my mind off the pain.
My skin starts to boil, it is too hot for me.
It is peeling(more)
It's killing me. On my toes, all the time. Bending under an imaginary weight, flexing forwards and backwards, extending my range of movement.

You change your mind faster than my ballet teacher. The music swings, the tempo speeding up, and my hearts beats faster as my legs swing(more)
Hat.
Box.
Kitchen.
Closet.
Coat.
Tie. (more)
Holding hands, sitting next to each other on the bench,  I could tell the old couple were a forever sort of thing. They probably met in their youth, played in the sandbox together, ate cookies and milk. They probably struggled through puberty together. I bet the first awkward admissions of(more)
The trees stretch up above us as we bite into our triangles of watermelon. I feel the juice squirt up and hit me in the nose, and I wince and laugh at the same time. A snort comes out.

My mother points at me and laughs.
We stare at each other across the room. It is a silent challenge, making the air between us thick. I feel like it is solid, that I should warn others not to stray too close because of the invisible wall.  

He sets his wine glass down and says(more)
He stares at me expectantly. It's one of those hot summer days, so hot his dirty blond hair is pasted to his white forehead in stringy tangles. I can feel the thin fabric of my tank top glued to my skin, moving with every one of my movements. (more)