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Mr. Abbine Speaks
Mr. Abbine, I'm going to show you a few pictures. I want you to identify the people for me.
"I'll do what I can."
Can you tell me who this is?
"That's my good for nothing neighbor. He sits around his deck and smokes all day. Then he goes inside and probably gets high from pot or something stupid like that. I'll bet that guy is living off Welfare, the scumbag. Don't even get me started on the whore he keeps around-"
Mr. Abbine, please try to keep your answers focused on the subject. Can you identify this woman for me?
"That's my mother. She calls me three times a day to complain about how something 'isn't as great as it used to be.' I once told her she sounded old, and she started crying. Then she started calling me more often. Even though I've moved out twenty years ago, that woman continues to be a drain on my life."
Very good. This younger gentleman, tell me about him.
"That's Gary. He's a needy pain-in-the-ass. I swear, he follows me around work all day. Every day, with this guy. I
The White Parade: I of VIChapter I: The Patient(s)
They call him The Patient.
No one is really sure what his real name is, save the doctors and nurses who treat him, I guess—but really, what sort of shitty general nickname is “The Patient” in a place like this? This hospital is full of patients—most of them running out of patience for their diseases and the treatments that are supposed to help them. But somehow… It doesn’t matter who you’re talking to, or who is talking to you; say “The Patient” with the right amount of inflection and people automatically know. It doesn’t matter how they know—they just do.
It isn’t that he’s remarkable in any way. He’s tall, thin—the thinness in him probably more from his treatments than his diet or lack thereof. His hair is so blonde that in some lights people must think that it’s white, or that he doesn’t have any. There is the possibility that some
The White Parade: FinaleChapter VI: And on the Sixth Day...
His heart gives out in the emergency room. Doctors rush to fulfill their Hippocratic Oath. Intubate him first; get him breathing. Get the air in his lungs. While they do that, determine that this is the situation for the defibrillator, then get someone else to wheel it out so they can get his heart working. Charge it up…
The girl screams at the way his body jerks on the table. The heart monitor displays a sudden spike of green, stalling in its sound for a second before the spikes even out again, returning to the comfort of being a flat line.
She screams again. Again, there’s a spike on the monitor; again, it flattens out into an even line. They wonder why she’s still here. Silent messages get sent at light speed, even as thei
The White Parade: II of VIChapter II: Perfect
“Why is she here?”
He’s sitting on the bench across from the elevator, waiting for me like he has been for the last week. There’s a square patch of cotton gauze taped to the inside of his left elbow, the telltale sign of the recently needled. His clothes are still the same (or perhaps, more believably, a different set) of cotton hospital pajamas in plain, standard white. He’s at the height of fashion in his clothes, at the very peak of classic American hospital chic that will never in a million years die out. If it ever does, then God help the masses without any other way of telling the difference between the medically experienced and the medically ignorant.
It’s the first time since our first meeting that The Patient has said anything to me, and the sound of his voice comes as a shock. The look of genuine interest etched into the permanent intensity of his face only serves to shock me further.
“Well? Are you gonna te
The White Parade: III of VIChapter III: The White Parade
A day passes. I find myself in his room again, taking more pictures. I don’t even think about it anymore; right after the last class is over, I catch the subway to the hospital, take the elevator to the fifth floor and knock twice on door 515. He never seems to mind. He never asks why I keep coming. He just lets me in when I knock and closes the door behind us—locking it to keep the unwanted medicals out. I bring the scarf this time, hidden inside a black gift bag I found in my closet the night before. When I give it to him, he seems rather…shocked. Not because it’s a scarf, but because it’s a gift for him.
He whispers a shy “thanks”, and then we get down to brass tacks.
“Did you hear about the girl in 522?”
It was only yesterday; how could I forget?
“I was in Claire’s room when the doctors ran past.” Click. “They said it was a…a ‘cod
when spring comes - one.his bedroom is dimly lit, with a musty smell that reminds me of my grandparents old house. the curtains are dark and thick; allowing only small, fragmented beams of light through the dust-coated window. he has mattresses on his floor, slathered in thick, patterned blankets and old pillows. in the corner he has an old stereo system, with two large speakers sitting on top of it. from it plays a quiet, scratchy 1920s band - a jaunty and jazzy tune that scares away the silence that usually hangs gloomily over his bedroom.
the paint on the right hand wall was cracked and peeling in places but for the most it was covered with old photos that stretched from the floor to the roof. some of them made me smile as i ran my eyes over them, still trying to remain conscious of his movements behind me. i turned to face him and saw that hanging on either side of the windows were large, cracked mirrors in dark wood frames. i told him it was probably dangerous to have them there, and he smiled and told m
My Little Pony - Hospice I
Before diving into this, I think some background would be useful. When she was young, she had dreams. Dreams of shining and of making others shine. She made herself and others look beautiful; for that initial interim she held high. When she fell (south of Ponyville, Old Manehattan-land) her dreams became nightmares, seizing her by the hoof and never letting go. She was taken and put into a bed of rust and red crosses. I was one of the few who had the time to give. She wanted me dead but it pained her to see me walk out those sliding doors.
Now, I won't pretend I understand. I never will know what she went through for those ten months and two days. She had a constant sting in her side that she claimed she could only numb by sticking her head in the stove. Her nightmares became easier during this time. And I like to think that I did my best in the time that she had to make her comfortable, even when the sting became too painful to breathe.
But let it be known that this w
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IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More