Shuffles101

Name: Beatrice Lillian Stitch, will often go by Bea Gender: Cisgender woman Physical Description: Beatrice is a small woman. Some may even go so far as to describe her as appearing frail. Standing at her full height, she reaches about five foot, four inches. She keeps her hair cut short in a modest pixie cut and, since the accident, dyes it lavender in an attempt to maintain some control over her appearance. However, if she’s busy and forgets to touch it up, her mousy brown roots will begin to show. Bea’s most noticeable trait is presence of her wheel chair or forearm crutches. Which she chooses depends on how her legs feel that

She was always such a precious child With bright eyes Laughing lips And an ignorance We all grew to envy Over time though Our flower began to wilt But yet those eyes were still bright Those lips still laughed Up until the end

Better safe than sorry, better safe than sorry, better safe than sorry... Francis read the line again and again as the lantern's light flickered in the gentle breeze. He bit his lip. Despite what their author had put them through, he didn't find himself hating the man. He was only trying to survive, just like the rest of them. He had been bitten though. He had to die. A twinge sent a fresh wave of pain over his torso. The man gasped in pain, clutching the wound, and by extension, the faded tattoo over his chest. A quick glance sent a new sort of anguish over him. Francis gritted his teeth and looked away. There was no way he'd be weak! Not n

Version 1 (Present, first person)- I sit there on the ground with the dog curled up at my side. His paws wiggle slightly as dreams flit through his mind. To be honest, the child-like bloodhound has started to grow on me. I liked dogs, but this breed always had a special spot in me. I'm not sure why, but the king-like stature had always amazed me. I had been chased by hounds dozens of times, bitten by a few naturally, but that never tainted my attraction to the class. I scratch him behind the ear. His eyes open slowly, and his tail begins to wag. He nuzzles my arm and I keep scratching his ears. Something slightly war touches my forearm and

Rain hit the ground with terrifying force outside the cave. Ixo sat at the mouth of their shelter, his soaking wet hair plastered to his face. He made no move to clear the mass from his vision. Grief weighed down his arms. Quietly, he mourned Lunear. He couldn't bring himself to talk, afraid that his voice would betray how shattered his mind really was. So there he sat, crying silently, letting the rain mix with his tears. 'Dead' He thought. 'He's dead. We're never going to see him again. He's dead.' These thoughts bounced around in Ixo's head. The battle replayed over and over again in his mind. It was like the pain Andrew's death had left

The air smelled of whiskey and self indulgence It wasn't the most pleasant of scents But accurate enough As he sat on the dark end of the bar A cigarette Hung limply from his fingers Powdering the ashtray like the tainted snow Broken homes got on Christmas He remembered those holidays The barman came over and refilled his glass Offering formalities In a voice That reminded him of his brother The man may not have known it But he was the only hero his customer had now And it was pathetic He tried to swallow the thought But it stuck in his throat Fighting its way out As a strangled 'Thank you' Causing him to lower his eyes in defeat The

Transformations Eventually I will fall to a fate To most would be tortuous But I find it fitting My fingers will Grow long Thin And hard Becoming pencils And blue ink pens My skin will become fragile And pale into White Lastly It will fold into Paper Blood will dry up And my veins will Flow with ink Finally my New inky blood Will bleed Onto my Snow-white paper skin In small Unnoticed letters Forming words Forming a story Forming emotions Forming me ~ Samantha Nance