MuffinMania

Hey, I'm not a wimp, or a geek. I don't wear chainmail bras or leather g-strings, and my skin isn't white all year round, thank you very much. I don't know Twinkleberry the Spritish Pegasus, Heironeous the Happy Monk, or Flynn, though I'm sure I can't read his damn book. I'm in a human relationship, not one with a half-orc. I enjoy running around in plate mail and swinging a sword, not shopping for stupid furry boots. And "LARP" means "Live Action Role Play", not "Lazy Asses Rolling Pies". I can proudly wear my garb to school. I believe in chivalry, not asshole-ism, that guns don't kill people, my sword does, and that people who whi

She gazed over the bowl of plump, ripe peaches sitting on the kitchen table, just waiting to be succulently devoured by her full, luscious lips. She picked the one she wanted, its faintly orange skin mottled with yellow, an orb of colour rivalling the sun. She felt the slightly fuzzy exterior between her fingers, petting it, each lingering touch never wanting to let go, not willing to be ripped from such absolute beauty. As she lifted it to her lips, she smiled. She bit into it, savouring the tingling sweetness of the ripe flesh and juice melding on her tongue, perfection in one bite. She'd waited so long for this very moment, the bites seemi

The secretary sat at her desk, typing frantically on the keyboard, a pen being idly chewed by her plump lips. Her deep brown hair was pulled up, held in place with a pencil. I imagined the feel of my fingers on her cheek, the soft plump flesh stretched taut over elegantly curved cheekbones. The pair of eyebrows furrowed animatedly as she concentrated. I noticed the gold nametag on her left lapel said, "Verna". Her bright brown eyes peered over the cat's-eye glasses she wore. A string of pure white pears sat on her swan-like neck, and a black cardigan covered her shoulders, showing just enough skin. I looked out from behind my newspaper to see

Heartbeat. The soft slow thumping A metronome of life Speeding the tempo Screaming the music as the Conductor the fear Plays his wicked song. The beat is slow, Steady, rhythmic the shifting of shadow, the sounds heard in silence. The twitch of wide eyes Shifting relentlessly Restlessly watching. Watching for that Figment of light Whisper of wind Rustle of leaf. Breathing, seething the metronome quickens the blood runs its feet coursing Pounding Pounding Raking its claws down the sides of the skull, scrape on the bone. The music rises Reaching its cruel crescendo The silent screech Heartbeat, senses All peak

I stand tall, though they beat me. I don't cry out, though I bleed. I stare, though my eyes scream to close. I am strong. I am rewarded in my silence with fresh pain. I look down, seeing pallid flesh streaked with red. It is nothing I have not endured before. I am above this. I am strong, I show nothing to them. My head rests against the wall, savouring the sensation of crisp air on fresh nerves, Feeling the desperate want to destroy and not having the power to. I can break these chains. I will kill them all for what they've done. I see their sick grins, like children torturing a kitten. Little do they know how hard this kitten