Little wonder we stumble in life.

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The Ivan Project, #61

She didn’t know what to do.

Hate was better than love, wasn’t it? At least with hate there was some control, at least it was easier.

Only it wasn’t. Either emotion had a way of blinding you, each emotion had an intensity that she couldn’t control. So what made hate so much more appealing to her?

Maybe it was the hate she felt towards herself. Maybe that was what fuelled her.

“I love you,” her brother told her, his eyes glistening, vulnerable.

She hated feeling vulnerable. And she hated him for loving her. Love was disgusting.

“Don’t,” she said, “I’m not worth it.”

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The Ivan Project, #60

She looked back down at her homework, his voice echoing in her head over the question. “I can only think you’re not facing up to something.”

Not facing up to what? She wiggled the pen with her thumb and forefinger, thinking. She stopped.

She crossed out her previous, rambling answer and started again.

“I have a friend,” she wrote, picturing another, snob voice, hands on her hips, “who was fined for something she didn’t do. Her best friend is lording it over her and everyone else, when she was the one who did it.”

There. Now the teacher was gonna wanna talk about this. She’ll want to talk about this, and she’ll have to get involved in this.

She squeezed her eyes shut. This might all not work out. Sally’s best friend was pretty manipulative. She was scared of her.

It was the right thing to do. Right?

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The Ivan Project, #59

Too many times she wondered if she was being transparent, if they could see right through her to the haunted child within. Haunted by her own father’s bigotry and violence, the fear for her life.

It was a cruel world. If there was any justice, her father would be in jail and she would be free to be herself. But there wasn’t, and never could be.

His crimes had been on the news. Even his trial had been. Her mother had done a good job keeping her away from the cameras. But she was always watching, always knowing.

It wasn’t by nature, but she was convincing in her hatred for gay people, anything to keep herself safe.

If he ever saw through her, she was as good as dead. That’s all he’d see in her, anyway.

So she was the fly on wall. She was used to it.

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The Ivan Project, #58

Tears flowed from his eyes. There was no need for him to be crying; his girlfriend was saved, he had sacrificed me to do it. And he didn’t need me anymore.

She, in the short time he knew her, shared a far stronger bond with him than I ever could. I was just another scrap in the bin.

He turned to me. “Thank you,” he said.

“Anytime,” I replied. I would always let him take advantage of me.  I guess I had no self-respect. Maybe I should go back to being a loner. I was always stronger then. Rather be thought of as a bitch than a wuss.

“I needed you.”

Now I was crying. “Thank you,” I said.


Write On Edge – Knees

She kneeled before him, seductive eyes glaring. This was the deal; she dressed up for him, got down on her knees, and… the rest of it was too dirty to do more than think the words.

She was beautiful. She also was not a whore.

She had no shame, though, so perhaps she was well on her way. She would never admit out loud how good she felt dressed like this, how sexy.

He disgusted her, though. Which really spoke about how much she needed what he was offering for this… service.

Until yesterday, she didn’t even know how to lap dance. And now this pervert was making her suck him off. He was just lucky he was such a valuable source, or else she might have to drive a knife through his black heart.


Trifecta – Zombies

He staggered, eyes closed against an ugly painful world.

At least he could shut out the horrors. My death flashed before me.

I cried, screamed. Kicked. Funny that, clinging to my misery.


Prompt taken from Trifecta, where you can vote for the next seven hours. Written based on the picture alone; I didn’t read the story behind it until later.

In 1937, a naked woman was found limping through the streets of Haiti.  Upon interrogation, she was unable to give any details as to her identity.  The woman was eventually identified in hospital as Felicia Felix-Mentor.  The only issue is that Felicia Felix-Mentor had been dead for nearly twenty years.  Felicia was, therefore, a zombie.”

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The Ivan Project, #57

“Why are you acting like this? When we knew each other, you were so sweet. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. And then they took you away –”

“I had to. I was needed –”

“They changed you –”

“No,” she said, dropping her head and sighing. How could she possibly explain to him? “They didn’t change me. I changed.”

“Same thing –”

“No, it isn’t!” she shouted fiercely. “I’ve… always been like this… it’s just, the way I was raised… forced me to suppress it. I was full of self-hatred. You remember that, you were gonna help me through it. Well, as it turned out, I didn’t need you. And I don’t need you now.”

“Why?” he asked helplessly.

“I can’t remember. And I can’t get it back. I wish I could, but I can’t remember how I felt. Before.”

“Before what?” he asked.

“Before,” she replied. “When I wasn’t so self-aware. Of how I feel. What I want…”

“Which isn’t me.”