Megachilidae

A beast for thee, 22, Estados UnidosÚltima visita: maio 2014

42692 execuções desde 14 Jun 2011

305 Faixas preferidas | 0 Posts | 0 Listas | 40 mensagens

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Iron ChicWolf Dix Rd. 15 Out 16h33
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  • KatieBee13

    keepin it real.

    19 Jan 2013 Responder
  • KatieBee13

    sup dood

    17 Jan 2013 Responder
  • ItsGizmo

    Enjoy :0) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNb8wDF7Qio

    16 Dez 2012 Responder
  • GreenPaintIsGay

    You might like Xiu Xiu.

    15 Ago 2012 Responder
  • pammelo

    Fum number one, my special pee pee!

    18 Jul 2012 Responder
  • beforebreakfast

    did you know that natal also means "of or relating to the buttocks," so prenatal vitamins could be vitamins for before you get a butt

    5 Jul 2012 Responder
  • pammelo

    wanna know? me, alright!

    17 Jan 2012 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    The barn caught fire in February and burned half away before they could put it out. She stood among the blackened spars and watched the stars turning hard above her. “It’ll be all right,” she told the baby she held safe in her body under layers of wool. “Someone made this barn with their hands and a sacrifice of trees. When we build it back up you’ll know whose hands remade it.” The baby kicked like a drum under her fingers and subsided. “Take your time,” she told it. “We’re expecting you, and we can wait.”

    13 Out 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    He smiled down his crooked nose and said, “I never did expect you, and for that I thank the rabbit in the moon.” He slid a second ring of moon-bright silver down to her knuckle and she put its match onto his. When she kissed him it felt like surrender and all the seasons all at once. Winter followed after and piled snow on the hill and the barn roof. The space over her hipbones swelled up and they traded the whiskey for nights in front of the woodstove with his ear pressed to her belly, telling stories to the life taking shape under her skin. “Once I told your mother that I didn’t see her coming,” he murmured, the words humming low in his throat. “But you we can see arriving, and I can’t wait to look you in the eyes. I want to know what color they’ll be.” She lay back on the braided rug with her hand wound up in his hair and listened to God’s steady walking overhead.

    13 Out 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    The whiskey hummed warm in her bloodstream and her breathing. When she leaned up to kiss him she tried to press that humming through her tongue and came away with the taste of smoke. “Tomorrow will be another day of me feeling just like this,” she said. “But I’m glad for the chance to say it out loud.” The next day was a warm one, with clouds laid flat between the fields and the slow October sun. She wore her dark hair braided in a crown over her skull with grain stalks woven through the plait. She wore a white dress that fell to just below her knee and he pinned wild asters to his suspender straps. In the barn at the bottom of the hill they stood before a small crowd of people who knew them and said out loud the things that hands on hips and cigarette smoke had been saying the night before. “You are my anchor,” she told him. “When God walks overhead I hear him in your breathing.”

    13 Out 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    The night before they got married the moon was a wheat-gold crescent. They lay out under layers of quilts with a bottle of whiskey and looked up at it without saying much. The gold band sat on her finger like it had always been there and she felt his heartbeat drum against her ribcage down into the earth. “One time I read that some people look at the man in the moon and see a rabbit instead,” she told him. “I like that a lot better than a face.” He drew in on the cigarette in his right hand and sent smoke curling up into the dark. His other hand traced along her hip as he nodded. “My mother called the crescent God’s toenail,” he told her. “It always made me happy to think of God walking up there while I was sleeping.”

    13 Out 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    That was before the wedding but after the proposal, when he’d set a plain gold band on the table to refract the morning slant of sun. It was thick and bright against the gray wood grain. She had a hand wrapped about the curve of a teacup; he traced the knuckles over and over with his fingertip. “I could kneel,” he offered, “but I figured I’d start off on eye level.” She picked up the ring with her other hand and studied it. The band was wide and not much polished; two slender grain stalks were imprinted on the curve. “Good,” she said. “That’s my favorite way to look at you.”

    13 Out 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    “What are you looking at?” “Nothing,” he said. “I just never did expect you.” “Me either,” she said. “I came as a complete shock to myself.” She was lying belly-down on the bed, studying the small soft hairs on her forearms. When she looked up he was looking back at her with his head cocked and his arms crossed. He had green eyes set close above a crooked nose; it was the way he looked through them that made her ask about it. After they’d answered each other he crossed the sort distance and held her hipbones, turned her over so her spine dented the quilt. “Now what are you looking at?” he asked, and she thought that if he’d asked it with any other inflection, any other tone of voice, she might have looked away; might have drawn back. But he said it softly without a scrap of wanting and something came loose in the center of her, close to where his hands weighed on her hipbones. “I always expected you,” she said. “I just never thought you’d show up."

    13 Out 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    In the morning the hills were dark and slick, and the fields were soaked. A man sat by the empty graves he’d dug for the girls, spinning an old arrow shaft between his fingers. He watched the people hammer and saw at the start of a new bridge, at Del’s wife standing amid the birch stumps with her daughter on her hip. He said a word to seal it, and went back to tend his fields for the coming harvest.

    5 Set 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    There were bones strung against the pale limbs of the birches-- ribs and femurs and stacks of vertebrae clacking in the cold wind. In the crotch of the tallest tree, three skulls nestled against each other. The first still carried the brindle of stripped flesh; the second wore dark streaks of dirt dissolving in the downpour. The third was yellow-bleached with age. An arrow protruded from its right socket, the fletching all but crumbled and the shaft worn thin. Del said a word, the one that sealed up the prayers, but he could barely hear his own voice above the pounding rain. He stood squinting up until his skin turned too numb to feel the clench of his wife’s cold fingers. Then he turned and walked down the bank, straight into the river. Some turned to watch him go, and some tried to chant a hymn, but they could not hear each other over the rain and the wind. All the rest kept their eyes on the swinging bones, and said nothing at all.

    5 Set 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    Eight days came and went in the heat, and four more after them. Del held his daughter out on the porch steps every night, watching her fingers wrap their year’s worth of strength around his knuckles and smiled calmly at whoever would meet his gaze. People stayed in the village, or walked the innermost borders of their fields with half an eye out for the dust that had yet to settle on the rocky hills, and sang hymns to cover the faint humming of flies. Crows gathered in the birches and dogs’ muzzles turned dark. On the twelfth day, clouds gathered and a hard rain fell. Del walked down to the river in the first heavy sluice, with a crowd strung out behind him. He gathered the cut ropes back down and coiled them, till his wife seized his arm and pointed up.

    5 Set 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    They marched to a house with lamps all burning in the dim predawn, and they followed him in. The girl they took had grey eyes and brown hair. She went along quietly, with her arms limp in their calloused hands. Del tied the knots to the birch limbs and made the cuts with a steady hand. Her family stood in their doorway and wept with as little sound as they could manage. Del said the word to seal it soft and clear, washed the knife in the river and wrapped it in the cloth he had saved from the previous spring, stained with the blood of his daughter’s birthing. They went back to their houses as the sun came up and sat in their kitchens to wait.

    5 Set 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    The next year, and the year after, the rains came heavy as they always had. The people watched them come with satisfaction and fell back into the rhythm of tending their crops. If anyone cast an eye on the birches they didn’t speak of it. Del Wheeler’s wife pushed their daughter out in a noontime storm of the second spring. Del stood over her cradle, watching her tiny chest rise and fall, and recited the prayers late at night. The grain rooms filled back up, and the river rose back to its steady roar. The third year came with a slow current of heat humming under its skin. When three weeks had passed by without a steady rain, Del gathered the men who would come into the center of town. He stood on an empty crate and looked out at them, memorizing their faces. They looked back at him, some half-certain, and some clear-eyed with a hard conviction. When he started to chant, they all sang along, and followed after as he walked through the village.

    5 Set 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    There was a body to go with the voice but she could not tell if it was male or female; could barely see its borders. It was grey and pale and loose at the edges. She told it, “Yes.” When it kissed her she left the ground and forgot what to say. “I don’t know,” said the sky, before she even realized it had drawn back. “I could use some love,” she told it, “but I don’t know how to go back.” Coming down, she felt like smoke sinking slow into gravity, as her blood found rhythm and salt tears carved out her face. “I could use some love,” she repeated, and remembered her breath.

    13 Ago 2011 Responder
  • DeftAkimbo

    The woman on the shore looked at the woman in the water and said, “Maybe.” The river woman nodded twice, waded to the shore, and kissed her. Her mouth was cool and smooth as the clack of stones in the current, spiced with the salt of rust and living things. The woman on the rock drank in the taste, and when she pulled back said, “I don’t know. It’s hard to know myself when everything smells so alive.” The water-woman nodded again. “Go up to the clouds,” she said. “The sky could use some love.” She slid back under the surface and the woman on the shore walked to the top of the tallest hill. Clouds crowded over the apex of grass and earth, close enough to soak the air in a damp chill. She breathed in and her chest filled up with emptiness. She inhaled till she felt like nothing and when there was no center to the hollowness inside her she said, “I love you,” and the world dissolved. “Do you?"

    13 Ago 2011 Responder
  • Todas as 40 mensagens

Sobre mim


How about I slap your shit.

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