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Epileptic sensualists“Hellfire awaits you” tiny naked women danced around her when she came back. And she laughed. As if the gods didn’t know that sensuality was part of her? She played around with her long hair still around her beautiful face.
She looked at herself in the mirror, putting kajol on, rolling her tongue over her lips, seeing her soft thin lips getting wet and shining; she looked at the shape of her body, the round bulges, the subtle curve till her torso and her slim legs. Delighted in her voluptuousness, she laughed as a crackling sound mingled with her laugh. Astonished, she turned around to see an old hag of a man laughing. He was more of a silhouette but from what she could see, the man was revoltingly hideous. “You belong to me now, my love!” The crackling sound tore her ear drums. “Who are you?” She moved away. He moved swiftly and overtook her. There was a sound of crackling of her bones, a convulsion and his laugh. There were shadows, som
United states of corrupted mindsThe sensualists, the sadists, the broken the corrupted of the lot. Vagaries of nature and its cruel jokes on human mind. The disoriented eyes, the shameless behavior, devoid of inhibitions you walk huddled together you vermins of the world. There you can see her exposed bosom and the dark pink disgusting lipstick on chapped lips. She has returned like a ruffled bitch which has been with tens of dogs. The bulge under whatever is left of her dress is either going to be reduced to blood after an abortion or will soon materialize into another of those dead bastards.
That man with disoriented eyes, touching himself in the middle of the road is another one of them. His kurta and shalwar have stains of mud and oil. His overgrown beard is entangled like a mesh of steel wires. He doesn’t care if that lady in the car is disgusted by his utterly inappropriate behavior. A man passing by spits at him and swears at him.
That pockmarked face boy has ran away from home. The peeping tom was
A womanSome women are only women by nature. Not wives, not mothers. Just women. And they delight in their womanhood.Reproduction to them is the death of their femininity.
Why is it so unnatural to imagine that a woman abhors her child. She gets stuck in the menstrual cycle while she is still in her frock and plays with dolls. The little bastard is ever ready to come out if some child molester decides to fuck the little girl. There is always a chance.
Now then when she turns into a beautiful teenager, she can't be promiscuous like her male counterpart. The small piece of crap straitjackets her sexuality. She has to suffer the intense pain of menstruation every month and gets sick and nauseous every time. She has to throw away lumps of clothes soaking with her own blood, she has to flush her blood. It is like she is flushing her dead baby, which she could give life to had she chosen to sleep with a man. The little mean th
Die my darlingDie, will you, please?
Can I kill you, please?
for us both it is not a bliss
but at least you will die
leaving me alone
craving for sun to scratch my ugly darkness
till it turns to red
the crimson red, the color of your blood on my knife
or on yours, whatever you wish.
But die, please. Pretty please with cherry on top.
Letter to the belovedDarling - thank you for all you have done. If ever in my bearing you encountered any bitterness, please know that it was all well-intentioned and out of my unchecked loving expectations of you. My dearest no day ever did or ever will fade away the tenderness and love that I feel towards you.
Sweetheart you may not comprehend my love fully but know that as long as I am alive I have the longing to be safe in your arms. See my love, its hard when one has experienced completeness and then one has to let go of it. I can not explain fully but I know dearest that you'll understand it for have you not always understood me?
My beloved, I have thought about what you said and I am in complete accord with you. Sometimes even though you love someone the most, you just can't be with them. And in that know that I have acquired meaning of love. Mortality of the beauty makes one love and I love you in all the brief spasm of completeness.
Not a day passes, not a place I go keeps me from remembering y
One eye cries One eye laughsQuietly does she ascend from the well with thousand snakes.. Naag devta follows her.. obsessed with her every move.. charmed by gaiety of her manners. She walks with her long brown hair trailing behind her on the coarse ground. She chuckles and her delicate voice chimes through the old deserted city. Femme fatale that she is, the people of the city told tales to young men of the countless unsuspecting victims of the enchantress, the snake-woman that resided in the well. She knew, she knew all, for those objects of immolation could not escape the Goddess. She knew and she laughed knowing nobody could combat the temptation. She didn't allure, that was beneath her, no, she was sin herself. Where could the man run from a rogue god unless some other god would save him, but don't we all know gods don't speak, they do not intrude on man's behalf. They are silent diabolical spectators laughing at the silliness of people heaving bundles of prayers, deriding the expectation of imbecile human tha
I know I'm damned Godoverpowering sorrow... makes me scream and cry at times.. while i'm crying i hear weird sounds of creaking coming from inside me.. shattering and creaking and sounds of metals thrown on ground with full force.. or complaints of the old women in a vague shaky language.. I scare my reflection
I am damned and I know
I smell of roses though
like a bride on the first night absorbs the smell of roses around her on the bed
or a dead body covered with itr('pure' perfume) and rose petals...
I scare my reflection..
I am damned and I know
I smell of roses though...
Fucking Bedtime storiesMy rapist told me the best bedtime stories. He told me tales of sadhus(mystics of India), their love for the supreme being, the spiritual journey that ends in salvation, the journey to discover impossible, to solve mysteries unknown. His hand would move down my spine and keep fidgeting on the hook of my bra and I'd innocently look at him thinking its to make me sleep. I'd put my head back on his shoulders lovingly and close my eyes. He'd kiss on my head slightly, and then my cheeks, my eyes, my nose(lol he called it nosy) and then my lips. He would keep telling me stories... He told me a story of a bookish stepdaughter of a sadistic army officer, Ofelia. Ofelia found out that she was a lost princess of the Underground Realm. According to the faun she meets, she was curious about the world above so escaped to the Earth, where she forgot her past. Ofelia's mother conceived a child and was severely ill. The faun tells Ofelia of a way to restore her mother's health: placing a mandrake root
naked raceSilently looking at the naked corpse beside the old sewage pit at the far end of the slums.. bruises at her rising-tomb like breasts.. the right breast has cigarette burn on the pink taut nipple ... once her bosoms must have been supple and beautiful... oh but they are still as beautiful... the charred patches just seem to adorn her private parts.. they add a teasing mystery to her otherwise bare brutally denuded body... she must have had put a lot of struggle... there still remain blood drained dregs of her clothes scattered around... she is around sixteen since the rest of her unscorched body is still supple with signs of youth that were yet not drained out of her even after the excruciating torment she must have had to put with... she is lying there as if she is still gestated in the mother's womb... its as if she is attempting to contain herself.. her beautiful bare disfigured legs all crawled up to her bosoms... she has a serene grace on her face though... she is drained in blood
Secrets of a DreamWhen you wake up from a dream, what is the first thing you do?
You remember as much as you can.
But how do you remember your dreams when you have them the first time?
You tell someone, you write it down, or even draw things that were easy to recognise.
When you wake up from a dream, what is the first thing you say?
I reckon it’s something like “What was that all about?”
Now I will ask you, have you ever understood any dream you’ve had?
Think carefully and maybe you’ll realise something…
I believe the dreams you remember most are the ones that may affect your life.
Ever dreamt of your greatest fear before you realised what your fear was?
Well, that dream may have caused you to be scared.
Falling from a great height, running from something that wanted to hurt you, you get the idea.
Ever dreamt of something you enjoy and realised it has or will affect your life?
Computer chair racing on your school leaver’s day, meeting a famous person where you
Apocalypse Artist - A short story (WIP)I didn't know how to feel about the way the war ended. It felt sudden. Surreal. Sure, there were signs this might happen. Our economy failed almost overnight, it seemed. Chaos shortly followed that. When people didn't have the means to get by in our damaged society, violence became the new normal. What really did it were the raids. I never thought they would come to my city. When we saw the bombers overhead...
Another stroke of white paint here... to highlight the bombshell...
I scratched my nose, smearing some of the paint on my face, and stepped back to look at my newest painting. The wall of the old warehouse now held a fresh mural depicting the war. Bombshells hovered just above the ground. People were running from the impending blast, though they wouldn't escape. Fear was captured in all of their faces in that terrible moment.
I peered over the three buckets of paint I had used for this mural. There wasn't much left, but I could use them again. I placed the lids back onto th
Shadow of a memory
Long has the time passed for us. We see our future, a shamble of the illusion we once held. The memory of what could have once been, and now, nothing more than a dream just out of reach. We reach out to the memories of childhood, desperately grasping onto the simpler moments of those times. Oh how we long for those days when the world still held wonder and endless possibilities. But we are grown now, and must move forward. Past the memories and into the shadows of the now. And sometimes I can’t help but wonder; what lies beyond these shadows? Will the light be my salvation, or my own damnation?
I am your constant follower.
I am the one who cleans up the mess the humans create, making sure all the souls goes to the place they belong.
I am the master of time, I will always now when your time has come.
I might even be your saviour, making sure that you won’t go until the right hour has struck.
I am your fear, the fear of dying, and I am the creator of your agony and doubt about the afterlife.
I am the one you might hate, you hate me because of the life’s I have taken from you.
I am walking beside you when your last days are approaching.
You will only be able to see me when your time has come.
Then you might beg me to spare you, you will tell me all the things you have left to do, all the people you want to love for just a little bit longer.
I will only listen to your words and give you the same answer that I have given to so many humans: “Your time has come, and nothing can change that.”
But until that day, I will be around, wa
Words on a Page I was alone on the bus, curled up against the window with my backpack on my knees, and surrounded by people who were too tired to realize I was among them. I didn’t blame them; everyone just wanted to get home. And besides, I got the seat all to myself.
I always find it ironic that I choose to be near people when I shove them away. I’m most comfortable alone and yet I chose to sit in the most popular seats. Which then became invisible the moment I took one. Everyone passed me by, not even meeting my gaze as they walked on, grinning and shouting half a car length to their friends and holding conversations loud enough I could hear them through my headphones.
Like I said, I was alone. It made me wish I had friends. But even my brother didn’t want to ride the bus with me. If I had been the one to get out of class early, I would have waited for him. The one other person I knew who was heading to the same general area of t
Help Me I'm Dying Here- An English AssignmentRead the description before the story, and please, please try to help me
Ibrahim clutches his stomach in an attempt to silence its obnoxious growling, this action proves to be useless and he knows he has to pay a visit to the Grand Bazaar.
Visitors to the city of Constantinople see the Grand Bazaar as a place of beauty. The array of bright colours, the various smells of local cuisine and the mixing of many cultures are all viewed as a marvel, something to commit to memory so it can be shared as a wonderful experience once tourists return home.
Ibrahim’s views on the Grand Bazaar are not nearly as wonderful.
Walking into the Grand Bazaar, he takes note of the fact that yet another body has been added to the collection of corpses swinging on ropes tied to the branches of a large tree just to the side of the entrance to the Bazaar. The bodies are hanging as a warning against rebellion, but they no longer scare anyone, people here have become use to death.
Poverty, hunger and cruelty
PeripeteiaTwas' the two strangers who beheld the masks of sheep and the coats of shepherds that threw her to the wolves. It was the men who's names were "Hezekiah" and "Zedekiah" that succeeded into blowing out a single flame of her only candle; leaving darkness to dominate the light.
It was because of their ravens and their crows that led to insanity and retaliation, and it was because of their red and black cards which entitled her to trust them-to love them. For it was then that blood was shed and the cries of many were heard, some lucky and others not so.
Though it was because of she that was thrown into the wolves which led them to change their nature and silence their fangs from being bared-because of truth and because of sincere consideration. Through one single, pure, and innocent soul did those wolves bow down and repent their sins to a single flame. It was because of the eyes of someone who they were demanded to kill found forgiveness and life thr
BloodThe huge bugs crawled up on her ceiling. There were ugly grey hives all over her room. She'd repaint the hives bright yellow, she thought to herself while tiny droplets of slime kept falling upon her. She feared she'd get buried in the slime of those ugly bugs. She couldn't weep, couldn't move; this usually happens when you develop a certain level of queer intimacy with your tormentors. Her long hair spread around her, with her beautiful face particularly still and her eyes fixed on the bugs, she lied there. She wanted to blink, her eyes were paining and she did; the poor dear. It could have been a moment or infinity she didn't realize, as it gave so much relief to her eyes. Buzz.. She opened her eyes to see all the bugs flying towards her. Her eyes widened and came out of their sockets while blood poured out. Her blood followed a weird course; it spurted out of her eyes, made its way down the bed in streaks, crawled on the floor zig-zag like a red snake, hopped up the wall and a
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More