Ladies and gentlemen... the WrongPlanet writing showcase
timidme
Hummingbird
Joined: 28 May 2005
Age: 68
Gender: Female
Posts: 24
Location: Somewhere in Oklahoma
29 Dec 2012, 8:00 pm
Don't Touch
If you see me
please don't touch me
the pain cuts me
i'm still bleeding from before.
I'm running from something
If we become friends
can i trust you?
if i do, would you care?
you can't help me
i'm still trying
don't look for me
i'm not there.
Please don't abuse me or use me
it's all been done before,
if you find me
will i know
when you will hurt me
does it show?
the suspense is too intense.
scars still tender
the pain cuts me
i'm still bleeding from before
if you see me
please don't touch me
i'm running from something.
D. Gibson.
10-1996
_________________
If common sense were common, more people would have it.
The obvious isn't obvious to everybody.
29 Dec 2012, 8:45 pm
Clink! Clink! Clink went the chains! Marie couldn't hear them or the other prisoners. The guards came for her, but she did not see them. She was worlds away, and she would never return. She saw herself in a mirror on drawers in her very own room. Her reflection was in the arms of a strong man. Marie seethed with anger at being mocked with what she could never have. She took off her shoe and beat the mirror until there was not a shard left in the mirror. There was a tv in the room. She never had one before. The first thing she saw was herself weeping on channel 6 news. Muskets were loaded. The reporter was calling it a freak accident. They replayed footage of her reflection of the man and the reflection in each others' arms. They were in a lobby of very illustrious hotel. A mirror attacked the man and drove a shard into his heart. The reflection looked down to Brian's body and whispered "Why?" Marie frantically turned off the tv and ran out of the room. She explored the house and realized it was her reflection's house. There were honeymoon pictures, bills, and much of her own preferences. Marie heard the door unlock. HIDE! A blindfold was placed over her eyes She hid underneath the bed and spent the night there. When she finally ran for the back door, she was caught by her reflection. "What were you doing down there? Poor dear, you look starving." Every word she said hit Marie like nails into wood. She refused to eat until she had confessed. "Why?" "I went down the wrong road." A sergeant shouted "3! 2! 1!" Everything flashed and was gone.
_________________
The mind-what's possible in it is impossible to say
12 Jan 2013, 8:40 pm
First free-verse poem I've written in ages.
Her Majesty
Her Majesty surveys from her tawny palace's balcony.
Her father the Sun cozies her with his light's embrace.
Snow-pale linen enwraps her midnight-dark frame,
A slender build but her curves are gentle.
Gold and gems gleam around her neck and arms,
But her cobra-hood crown burns brightest of all.
Her Majesty leans against the columned railing.
Fishers' reed rafts bob on the dazzling Nile,
While crocodiles slither past the ranting hippos.
Papyrus and palms sway along the black banks.
The kingdom's young crop rests below the water's edge.
Mud hut villages chatter in two tongues.
They are the voices of men and the thumping of drums.
Her Majesty inhales the sweet lotus scent.
The twin towers of the temples' pylon gates
Sting her eyes with their holy white glow.
Among these the obelisks point skyward,
Spears of stone engraved with pictures.
Highest of all rise her ancestors' tombs.
These limestone mountains have golden peaks.
Her Majesty sighs with tears glossing her cheeks.
She brings the floods forth and drives the barbarians back.
Her people chant their praises to her divinity.
They all claim to love and thank her.
Yet no one dares step near his or her goddess.
Men may gaze and whistle at her beauty.
But none want a wife with all the power.
14 Jan 2013, 12:20 am
Aging Triceratops
The gray mist cries tears of water.
They drip through the tangled treetops
And pool on the undergrowth's fronds.
Thunder's grumble bounces through the shadows.
Frogs sing their joy for all the moisture.
But one greater being shares not their elation.
Once the earth shuddered from his stomping.
Now his column legs ache as he lumbers.
Once rainbow gems dazzled on his hide.
Now the colors have faded between the wrinkles.
Once a thick round shield protected his neck.
Now the Tyrants have chomped off its edges.
Once two spears thrust from his brows.
Now the first has dulled and the second splintered.
Once a dagger stabbed up from his snout.
Now its blade has worn from overuse too.
The scars of battle still stripe his face.
But all the rains have doused his past rage.
With a hooked beak he prunes vines and herbs.
Only their flavor soothes his inner pain.
Still his limbs wobble under his weight.
Their bones have grown brittle and the muscles slack.
With a final trumpet that breaks into a croak,
He tips onto his flank and crashes with a thud.
The world blurs and blackens.
His heart stills and silences.
The jungle chorus fades from his ears.
All his thoughts leak from his mind.
The birds and lizards crowd around his corpse.
His loss will feed their lives.
equestriatola
Veteran
Joined: 13 Aug 2012
Gender: Male
Posts: 134,409
Location: Half of me is in the Washington state, the other Los Angeles.
25 Jan 2013, 12:56 am
OUT IN THE LOS ANGELES SUN
The early morning sun rises
Six A.M. in this city
No minds are in disguises
A beautiful sunrise, so pretty
In this wonderful town
we love to call L.A.
Nobody wears a frown
Everybody's a star, eh?
I walk around the beach
Not a soul in sight at this time
Every star seems to be within reach
This feeling seems so sublime
As I walk the Walk of Fame
I think about the famous ones
Nobody seems to be the same
A town with daughters and sons
The Dodgers, Lakers and Kings
All with one goal in mind
To win their championship rings
Their destinies so affined
When I walk around Hollywood
I smile and look around
That life is good
And that this is my town
Where it's always sunny
And everyone dreams big
It sometime seems so funny
Some dreams break like a twig
No matter what dreams may come
We all seem to have fun
When we all beat like a drum
Out in the Los Angeles sun
_________________
LIONS-STAMPEDERS-ELKS-ROUGHRIDERS-BLUE BOMBERS-TIGER-CATS-ARGONAUTS-REDBLACKS-ALOUETTES
The Canadian Football League - What We're Made Of
Feel free to talk to me, if you wish.
Every day is a gift- cherish it!
"A true, true friend helps a friend in need."
25 Jan 2013, 2:07 pm
This is a poem I wrote for a girl. I'm planning on giving it to her on Valentine's Day.
Sometimes I feel down,
Sometimes I'm really blue.
I can never feel that way,
When I spend my time with you.
Sometimes I feel empowered,
Sometimes my mood is red.
When I see you are unhappy,
I wish you could have my mood instead.
Sometimes I envy others.
Sometimes it makes me green.
Your family is blessed to have you.
And I'm grateful for my time inbetween.
Sometimes I feel happy,
Sometimes I'm glowing bright.
That's when I miss you the most.
Because I want to share that light.
31 Jan 2013, 5:08 am
3 poems.
Before dawn
came love
In staring Glaze
she was
delayed in motion
No amount of regret
Before Ends
And an everlasting desire
For Love
--------------------------------------
I know you
I see everything
For what it is
I can be you
In a time before time
This is the Spring time
-----------------------------------
The Rain I see
I am
The Rain I believe
I hear
The Rain I knew
I love
The Rain I become
Will always be there
----------------------------------
I had these written in elementary school in a black book.
Much thought was taken to obscure my life.
25 Feb 2013, 9:23 pm
As the world turns on, I'm standing in my room. They tell me it's my tenth birthday, but I feel so much older. They tell me it's time for me to leave, but they don't even know my name.
I don't even know my real name. I've been Red, Blue, Ash, Gary, Brandon, and so many more. I've done this all so many times before. Is it real this time?
The world is black and white. No colours, and all I hear are strange noises from the sky.
For the millionth time, I walk down the stairs. My mother doesn't notice me, she never does. I try to catch her attention, but she just tells me I have to leave.
I don't understand. Why do I have to leave?
I step out the door, and the world seems strange. A girl walks by my house again and again. I don't know where she's going. Who is she? I try to talk to her, but she just tells me she raises Pokemon too.
Pokemon?
I feel something pulling me towards the path, so I let myself go. I wake up in front of Professor Oak. Who is Professor Oak? How do I know his name? What just happened? Why can't I remember?
Another boy is standing beside me. I don't know him, but he keeps glaring at me. Who is he? Is he real? Is anything real? Where am I?
Professor Oak begins to speak. He tells me to take a ball from the table. I don't know what's going on, so I take the middle one. The other boy grabs the one on the right. What's in the ball? I don't know.
I try to leave, but the other boy chases me. He's attacking me! He throws his ball, and a monster comes out! I'm scared, so I throw my ball at his monster, and another monster comes out.
Are these Pokemon? Is that monster mine?
I tell my monster to attack, and he charges at the other boy's monster. Is this what I'm supposed to do? His monster attacks mine, so I guess so.
_________________
A shot gun blast into the face of deceit
You'll gain your just reward.
We'll not rest until the purge is complete
You will reap what you've sown.
01 Mar 2013, 9:12 pm
This is the start of the first draft of a fake teenage diary I'm writing. It's trying to be young adult fiction aimed at gay teens, but I think it's probably going to end up to raunchy for that.
Mum looked like she was about to eat the thing, but then Mum always looks she about to eat lots of things. I call it ‘thing’ because that’s how it seems. It doesn’t seem human yet. Then again, a lot of kids at college don’t seem human yet, either. I sometimes wonder about myself. I wonder if a new species is evolving, or even several – that would explain a lot. A generation of mutants is evolving in this primordial sludge of a town. Soon, babies will be born with tails and super ADHD, where they have the attention span of mosquito that flew up a crack pipe. Then we will form the X-Men and fight all the paedos, gobshites and pit bulls that plague our streets.
‘Do you wanna hold him?’ Mum asked. I didn’t dignify that with an answer. Nevertheless, I found myself holding the thing that my mum had nobly resisted eating. It had milky blue eyes and a vague look of flatulence. It stared unfocusedly at me and squirmed, smelling like talcum powder stew. Then it cried, and did it cry! It knows what a monster I am. Little children always do because they’re more sensitive to these things. Sometimes I think I’ve got my unnaturalness written on my forehead for everyone to read but only the impolite and the very young ever make a comment.
‘Give him back. Oh shush, shush, shush,’ Mum said, snatching the thing away.
‘I knew that wouldn’t end well,’ I said.
Mum didn’t say anything; she was back to her ravenous coo-cooing.
‘He does that with me and I gave birth to him. He came out screaming like that, in fact,’ Sam said wearily, under the false lashes and full fringe.
‘He seems to like you,’ I said to Mum.
It was the sprog of her favourite kid brother, I guess. Her only kid brother. I wonder if she cooed that much over me, her actual kid. I remember when Chris was born, for about a year afterwards, she’d lock herself in the bathroom almost every day for hours and I’d be banging on the door, whining, ‘Mummy, are you coming out?’Then there was the time she threw a plate at my head. I don’t actually remember that. Dad told me. She said she was sorry to me a few years ago and I was like, ‘what?’ Then she cried on my 13 year old shoulder about how she was an accident and her parents never wanted her. I’m lucky because I was apparently wanted. I don’t know by whom. I’m not wanted by me.
Oh, boo hoo. I know my life isn’t particularly s**t enough to justify me feeling like this but it’s not like I can control the way I feel. I didn’t learn that in counselling. I learned that by writing this diary. This is a new book. A brand new shiny book and I’m writing this with a gift pen from Black Moortop Nature Reserve, a fat, heather-coloured pen, no less. In that sense, the pen is a bit like me in my purple hoodie. Alright, I’m not fat. I’m still bigger than Sam is, post-pregnancy, however, but she eats like one wafer a day with a can of diet coke. She’s like those mystics that live off only the Eucharist and holy water. I don’t know how the baby turned out to be such a big bastard. Like father, like son, I guess.
Anyway, my day was that uneventful. I ate beef stew and made a baby cry. Tomorrow, I have a full day in college. Hasta la vista.
05/03/2012
I don’t know if he knows. If he does know, I don’t know what he thinks. Our hands brushed each other’s briefly as I knelt over to type on his keyboard. He smells like warm leather. He just grins at me and I feel foolish and dumbstruck. I reckon his friends would be total dickheads about it if they found out, so there are ethical reasons why I can’t ask him out. He could just be humouring me, anyway. I don’t think Dad would be thrilled about it because to him, all Muslims are the same. He’s West African, though. Actually, he’s British; his parents are West African. I’m hoping (perhaps against my better judgement) that he’s not a dickhead. He seems more mature than his mates.
Chelsea has a crush on a different boy every day. I don’t honestly see the appeal and maybe that means there’s something wrong with me. I can’t help but think of it as a defect. There’s a way to be that’s optimal for the evolution of the species and I’m not doing it. It’s true that at least I don’t get called a slut but I sometimes think I would rather be a slut than be what I am. Jeremy tells me that he’s been there and being a slut isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He’s probably right. Jeremy is infinitely wise.
I’m trying not to think about Ibrahim or Chelsea or anyone. I need to get this coursework done. I can’t work and perv at the same time. I need the blood to flow to the right part of my body. There’s no point in wanting what you can never have, anyway.
06/03/2012
I want to perform FGM on myself. I am disgusting. I was walking past the dance studio today and I noticed all the leotard girls stretching out on the floor, their bodies smooth and glistening like glass but more flexible than I would be even if I replaced my bones with rubber. I overheard Curtis bragging about how flexible his girlfriend is and how he can f**k her with her feet behind her ears. I can’t do that; it’s like I’m made of concrete. Anyway, so I stood mesmerised by these dancers performing stretches for about 5 minutes but it felt like longer. Every movement was like a dance of celestial bodies. It was almost meditative. I had complete focus on those supple thighs and angled waists. Someone would’ve had to punch me to snap me out of it.
I wouldn’t mind if I wasn’t such a minger. My body is totally out of proportion. I sometimes think about slicing bits off my thighs like a butcher carves a ham. I am still really spotty and if I put foundation or concealer over my spots it just looks like rice pudding and I don’t know if that’s better than looking like pizza. My hair is crap. I had GHDs on my hair at the salon once, and it still got mucked-up in the rain half an hour later.
I’m supposed to be at the prime of my looks. I guess I keep getting older men flirting with me but I can’t be bothered with that. They have kids and stuff. I’m scared of doing it with a guy, anyway. I know I have to at some point and I do want to but it just seems like jumping into a pool that’s got both sharks and dolphins in. You don’t know if you’re going to get kissed by the dolphins or shredded up by the sharks. Plus, stuff. I’ll talk about that some other time. Anyway, I think those old men only flirt with me because they know from looking at me that I can’t get any boys my own age. I know I said I don’t really want boys my own age (apart from one) but it would be nice just to be able to get them.
Chelsea makes it worse. She was showing me this picture on her phone of her new ‘boyfriend’ who I can’t remember the name of. He was topless and I was supposed to be impressed by this. He had weird nipples and no hair on his chest. If I like men at all, they’ve got to have a nice personality, like Ibrahim does. I can’t just look at a man’s hairless chest and think ‘phwoar’. Anyway, she wanted to return the favour, so to speak. We went into a toilet cubicle together, then she handed me her phone and lifted up her shirt. I must’ve had a face like smacked arse because she said to me,
‘Hurry up. If you do it quickly enough, you can go back into the library and read books, or whatever it is you do in there’.
I deadpanned ‘You don’t want to know what I do in there,’ but she didn’t get it. ‘Strike a pose,’ I said in imitation of Madonna at the beginning of Vogue but she didn’t get that, either.
‘Hurry up. The central heating isn’t brilliant in here, you know,’ she said. I was trying my best to focus on the screen on not on the live specimen in front of me. I felt like was about to pull the trigger and offload a hot, leaden ball of gayness into her chest. I worried that something about me that I didn’t want to come out would come out. I bit my lip, tasted my saliva, and did it. I didn’t look at the screen after I shot her. I simply handed her the evidence. I hope he enjoys it, whoever he is. I didn’t.
Chelsea will probably make me go to The Devil’s Playground at Cybertrash this Thursday. She’s obsessed with that place because you don’t get IDed and they play rock music. I hate that night. It’s full of girls in corsets, snogging each other whilst their boyfriends look on. I might get a snog out of it, myself, but I won’t feel good about it. I want someone to love. I want someone I can hold hands with and turn to in this cruel world. I guess all I’ve got is this book and I can’t make love to that.
Giftorcurse
Veteran
Joined: 13 Apr 2009
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Posts: 2,887
Location: Port Royal, South Carolina
11 Mar 2013, 10:07 am
A quote from one of the scenes of Redesigning Eva, courtesy of Dr. Klaus Krieger.
_________________
Yes, I'm still alive.
13 Mar 2013, 5:10 pm
Inspired on a train after partying with friends during my study in Australia
I saw my little yellowy room
The real home that I do not rent
Red papers on wood doors read
"Happy New Year" on black ink
Hand on switches and a click
Air-con, TV, I am a king.
What about the school works?
A kid's day have little worries.
Wake to school, back for games,
Stable days seems never end.
Thundering noises opened my eyes
I woke with bottle in my arms
Yellow doors tainted with graffiti
slides open to the Sydney dark
Cooper, homeless, sex and lushes
Where goes the days of fairy tales?
And then I come to realize
I am far, far away from my little yellowy home.
13 Mar 2013, 5:15 pm
Short story on the experience of a German militiaman and a Chinese conscript during WW2
World, war, two
Otto Dekker was hearing news when Helga, carrying a dish of freshly-baked breads, complaining about yet another cut of coffee ration. He kissed his two daughters who were leaving for the Girl's League. Helga was worrying. There were more and more Allied Jabos flew pass the town; but who would bomb this lovely Isselburg? Then he caught the sudden burst of martial music. Men from 16 to 60 must register to the German Home Guard, the Volkssturm. That was 18th October, 1944
--
Li Ssu-mien woke up his five rag-less brothers, and his ailing mother as the blueish dawn leaked into the cracked peasant house. Before his once 11-family, he unloaded a bag of husk-mixed rice he got from miles away - the first in months - and smiled for the joy in their eyes. Despite her illness, his mother toiled to cook, like she always had been for half of century on the farms in the Li Village. Just as the steam irritating their tied stomach, the door was shaken by rapid blows. He was grabbed out by yelling soldiers. You were conscripted into the National Revolutionary Army of China. That was 18th October, 1944
--
Otto was unsatisfied, as was all eligible Isselburg men in the town hall. The trolling speeches of SA men produced nothing but protest. We were to fight without uniforms and weapons, and unprotected by the Hague Conventions? He burst questions against the high-ranking Party officials sat in front of him, for while it was his unquestionable duty to fight, same was his right to fight meaningfully. We were not some Eastern cannon fodders!
--
Ssu-mien was nailed to the sandy road by terror, as was every beaten, ragged farm boys around him. Shouting; cries; men were grabbed, women were pushed; Chiu-chin would not let go of the threshold. His yelling mother was pulling him back with both hands. Ma! Son! Blood splintered to his face as a rifle clubbed on his fists. The bond did not severed, not until another blow, blow, blow, blow, had cracked his twisted fingers from his falling, emptied family. Two grinning soldiers walked pass with her jade Kuan-yin. What a treasure
--
Otto recalled his passionate youth, Watch on the Rhine in 1916. Now, in the heart of his town, they stood as one for the Fatherland again. March, heroic speeches, and in the ensuing solemn silence, they sworn the sacred Oath as one. He felt the bond between his mates, the proud brothers he would share his honor and sacrifice with. His armband stood. Deutscher–Volkssturm Wehrmacht
--
Ssu-mien could not feel his legs. They have been toiling for three days, with little rest, and no food, which the soldiers have ransacked. Men dropped as dead skeletons one by one, while the living skeletons staggering pass, not even glanced. Chiu-chin rushed out of rank suddenly. His hung limbs were swaying. Ma was waiting for me; rice was steaming; I'm home! Angry shouts, clashes exploded. Ssu-mien turned his head for the first time in three days, and witnessed as the blood-stained rifles hammering on what was his best friend for 14 years.
--
Otto was assigned to the Battalion HQ, an elementary school overseeing the Rhine. Though the mountains of paybooks, records, orders, he glanced to the other forested bank. In his youth he dreamt of adventure, but Somme wounded his leg, confined him in offices back home since. What was the world looks like? A classroom poster fell down. History of the Kaiser's East. An Oriental in funny dresses was gazing from China
--
Ssu-mien was told the colorful shops, the dancing lions, and children dressed in elegant cotton garments, but now Guilin was hell. He was lost in a desperate flow of Pekingese, Hakkanese, Cantonese – This he speaks, but only in how it was spoken in the Li Village. Swarms of little beggars were chasing every smart-dressed. 40000 for a shih of rice! 70000 for a melon! Suddenly he was smashed by a drunk American. Chinks and Japs all look the same! Towered above, the gigantic Generalissimo was gazing it all
--
Otto watched the spectacle with unconcealed amazement, as was every new Volkssturmmann. The Wehrmacht trainer had just demonstrated the new MG-42 machine gun, which had just roared a stream of thunders across the field. Who want to use that clumsy Gewehr-1898 rifle I shot every Sunday in the rifle club?
--
Ssu-mien was chilled by his first touch of steel. He never forgot what it did to Chiu-chin, but it was cut short by a blow in abdomen, and a savage scold from his sergeant. He struggled to stand against his starving legs a rusty, crudely tooled "old tube" - the last thirteenth in his platoon - as the platoon head spoke in broken Cantonese: Hanyang rifle, superior than the Jap's "38-lid", based on the German Gewehr-1888...
--
Otto was hiding, like all his comrades in the trench. The sky was dotted by parachutes. Mortars exploded all around them. He mobilized his rusty sense from 1916. Calm down, Johan, all their rounds flew pass us. Tommy 100m ahead! Fire by my order! Ruechriem cocked his machine pistol, as Otto raised and locked his aim.
--
Ssu-mien was screaming, but he couldn't hear. The thousands' cries were drown by roaring shells and machine guns. Dadao on the Devil's head! The platoon head thrust his "box cannon" against the dead sky. They went over the top, their Dadao swords flying, until one by one their limbs and guts went flying. He went down in weak feet. He pulled the trigger – for the first time in his life. The piercing explosion cracked his breaking nerve. Shoot again! How? The platoon head was wandering among fire, eyes-white, grinning. Suddenly an explosion thundered point-blank, and then the world went black.
--
Otto Dekker was eye-wide with joy. After months of detention in the English camp, he was finally released. He returned to Isselburg, and found in complete relief that his home was, among the ruins, intact. Helga! It's me! Otto! I'm home. The stair was pounding, and the house exploded with happiness as Helga and her two matured daughter reunion with their husband and dad, after more than half a year. What were we going to do? He recalled what the Englishmen used to say. You were asking the price of tea in China.
That was 8th May, 1945. The war was over.
--
Li Ssu-mein struggled to see, but he merely felt something warm leaking. He heard sobs nearby; and laughs, foreign, savage. Shells were silenced, gunfires were faltering, but he heard something else. A slice of air, and then something heavy dropped. What happened? Suddenly another slice sent breeze to his side. The sobs ceased. Something rolled to his legs, something round. Then he knew. He jerked in horror as he struggling to stand, but snarling palms thrust him to knee. Someone stepped behind, and his body went icy as a fleeting chill of steel touched his neck. He didn't cry – the tears irritated his wounds. In the blackness, he saw his five sleeping brothers; Chiu-chin looks so naive before the jade goddess. Dinner! His ma called. He heard she screamed, before he ceased to hear.
That was 8th May, 1945. His war was over.
PS.
Kuan-yin: Chinese deity
Box Cannon: Chinese nickname for the Mauser C96 pistol
Dadao: Chinese broad sword
38-lid: Chinese nickname for the Japanese Arisaka Type 38 rifle
The Generalissimo: Chiang kai-shek, authoritarian leader of China during WW2
Otto Dekker is a fictional character took from "Hitler's Home Guard , Volkssturmmann - Western Front, 1944-45", published by Osprey.
FireoftheStorm
Raven
Joined: 28 Dec 2012
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Posts: 110
Location: Knoxville, TN (Home) or Pittsburgh, PA (College)
22 Mar 2013, 7:45 am
Liberty at Oak's Tide
A boy and girl,
Found carving wood,
In the Forest of Elder,
And oh, so fascinated by it were they,
That into their home they stole it.
Between the two,
They began to carve,
Reshape, and break the wood,
And bit by bit the wood lived as a man,
And, aged, became their son.
Years passed,
The boy, now man,
Finished the final slave-chain,
He knew, he knew, no puppet could be his child,
Knife raised, he placed in a jar girl’s heart,
And bound his puppet-son.
Years passed,
The puppet became crafty,
His loftier dreams forgotten,
For tenday he whistled, until chain snapped free,
He grabed girl-mother
He found her heart,
And went out into the world,
Years passed,
Girl, now mother,
Cast troublesome dreams,
Her heart, whithered, saw puppet as pawn,
Whispered cruelty, feigned paranoia,
All in the young crone’s mask of kindness,
Puppet awoke,
He bound girl,
As he bound boy,
And sought healer to cure her,
And left her there,
And finally free to explore the world, Oaken Boy met the River’s Tide.
_________________
"Weren't you banished to Foodcourtia?"
"Oh, I quit."
"You quit being banished?!"
...Everything is insane.
