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Snowed It's all white. White uniforms and white hallways and white people and white everything. White robes on the priests, white hair on the picture of the pope that glares down at me, white floors and white socks and white lies. Sometimes when I look around catholic school that's all I can think and see and hear, the white, because everywhere I turn there's someone who looks perfect. They're all faceless, just different shades of hair and different shades of tans and different shades of smirks and different shades of lies.
The white comes from the little uniform shop that sits like a bunion on the corner of an office supply store. Oh they advertise We're Having a Sale but still a single white shirt costs twenty dollars. Twenty dollars you could spend on a whole trashbag of clothing and a heavy trench coat at Goodwill. Twenty whole dollars for one white shirt to make everyone equal. Twenty dollars to make the uniform shop happy and the school f
Hey Ashely It's Jared You're Black B101. That's my Catholic school locker number. 23-25-39, that's my combination though it doesn't matter any more because it's been a long time since I took my lock off the green door and attached it to a chain around my neck.
My textbooks are nothing worth stealing, with their covers falling off and the pages marked up. Trashed Biology, big thick Lit, Grammar and Comp that I hate, Spanish workbooks all three of them, a Catholic New Answer Bible being bent.
The locker isn't really mine. It's a depot, a convenient place to dump my weight and keep moving. Come the end of the year when I finally leave, nothing of me will be left behind. In and out, no scars left. Leave no trace.
Others have got wire locker shelves and mirrors and cute stickers and photos and papers taped up that say HEY SUZY I LOVE YOU. The inside of my locker is coated with white sticker residue, the rice left cooke
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More