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Literature Text
Winner of Lily's Friday Prediction. Girls Club: 100 words. From tomboy to today's reality.
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Turns out, you don't need your mom's knife to cut a dead cat, not if it's been washed up on the riverbank for weeks. It falls apart when Jeannie pokes it with a stick first, so then we all use sticks. Its insides are gray and sticky. Black syrup pours out its mouth. Where's its blood? asks Paula. Dunno, I say. Its tail comes apart from its body and lies neglected in the mud. In its honor, we name ourselves The Tabby Girls Explorers Science Club.
Years later, we reconvene when my husband dies. We don't use sticks this time.
*
Turns out, you don't need your mom's knife to cut a dead cat, not if it's been washed up on the riverbank for weeks. It falls apart when Jeannie pokes it with a stick first, so then we all use sticks. Its insides are gray and sticky. Black syrup pours out its mouth. Where's its blood? asks Paula. Dunno, I say. Its tail comes apart from its body and lies neglected in the mud. In its honor, we name ourselves The Tabby Girls Explorers Science Club.
Years later, we reconvene when my husband dies. We don't use sticks this time.
Literature
the gestalt laws of grouping
1. proximity
this finite summer burns as a unified whole. i watch
starlings and try to unlearn old perceptions. It seems plausible
that nothing can ever truly be categorised.
It is said that the human brain experiences divisions based
on closeness. This theory
Can be applied not just to visual discernment
But to human communication. Is the dot
An outlier, or part of something
Yet uncharted? Thus the nature of God
concludes itself.
2. similarity
Birds of a feather. Physical attributes which are of course
Recognised through faulty mechanisms
Can be arbitrarily decided. This and that. And so on
And so forth. Routine is a myth and so is
Literature
Ritual As Resistance
Thanksgiving week begins
with the Dakota pipeline oil spill--
the unsurprising backfire
of a white man's pipedream
for a land he thought was
his.
This is how we thank
our native ancestors
for centuries of free rent;
though satellites won't show them,
tear tracks scar the plains
we marched them through,
chanting "love thy neighbor"
in their exile.
It is thanks to this
that I sometimes feel strange
ending calls at work
with "happy Thanksgiving,"
because my white ancestors took
advantage
of my native ancestors
and their giving nature,
thieving land and beast and body and
dignity.
This story is timeless.
We keep repeating
these cycles of oppr
Literature
Of All the Places in the Universe
She was a button girl. Thirteen and already too old to be beautiful with grimy cheekbones accented by listless, golden-gray hair. She spent her time trying to sell her collection, dozens of buttons lined neatly in a haggard box. The large one with tiny flowers etched into them, a plain navy one, and the bright pink button were her favorites. They were the ones she hoped would find a home in some little girl's cherished dress or a mother's apron.
With her coat straining around her, eyes crowded with years of cold and unease, she held out her box to a passerby. Buttons flashed in the muted light, but the man scoffed as he continued past her. S
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uwah. This really stroke a chord with me. I'm not so much a fan of this very limited word count, but I learn to make exceptions. Very well done!