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Coops Cakes and Booth BooksThe sun beat down on Boothville as I strutted across the cobbles of a back street in town. People scurried about, some nodding and smiling as I passed, others too busy with their own business to notice me. Looking up, I saw a camera watching the street. For some reason, it didnt make me feel concerned. It made me feel safe, protected, watched by a friend. I resisted the urge to blow it a kiss.
I stopped outside a bakery Coops Cakes written in curly green lettering on the shop front and pressed my nose against the window. There were rows upon rows of cakes, biscuits and other treats. Little gingerbread men all rested in a row like a police line-up. Little cakes with icing swirls of pink, yellow, red, orange, blue, white and any other colour you could think of were displayed in curious little patterns.
Behind the counter, a girl with thick brown hair collected under a tall white hat put the finishing touches to a six-tier wedding cake, dabbing little white roses all a
Welcome to BoothvilleSomewhere in an unnamed country, lies a small town that many people know nothing about. Surrounded by hills and mountains to the north, forest to the west, ocean to the east and swamps to the south, the little town remains undisturbed, completely self-sufficient and safe from the horrors of the rest of the world.
A grand, nine-storey castle looms large from a hill to the north, overlooking the rest of the town, casting a shadow over the vineyards of the foothills. The shamans hut rests at the end of the largest field, a dilapidated little tent that the vineyard owners wish would move.
Two large housing estates one to the east and one to the west are home to the few thousand residents of the town and as they move towards the centre to join, they are interrupted by the commercial side of the town.
A twisty little maze of paths and roads filled with everything the residents need: a café which serves only the finest in hot drinks and snacks, a restaurant that would
Dailybooth FTWFacebook was king for a while
Its smooth layout would make us smile
Then it got too clogged with apps
Everyone said, This is crap
LJ, Wordpress, blogs on top
Emos took them, would not stop
MySpace thought it held the crown
Twitter came and knocked it down
Enter Tumblr to the race
With its simple interface
Now theyre in the past, not all websites last
And weve got something new
A site thats just adored by every camera whore
And we all know what to do
Now were showing what we read, or what we look like still in bed
Its all blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah
We leave comments by the score, people keep on posting more
This sites cream of the crop, its the best. Yes!
Old Bebo, we loved it so
Tom saw off his rival, now hes had to go
Second Life is abandoned now
Facepartys Rita was such a cow
Jaiku, Friendster, who were they?
Theres just one site that will stay!
Now theyre in the past, some sites just can
BulldogI always thought that the reasoning of it was pretty pathetic but no one ever commented on that. It was a standard tradition that had gone on for years, and probably the most epic sight I shall ever see in my lifetime.
You see, our common room had just two sofas and they were positioned nicely in front of the TV, with easy access to the old-school games console. A throne for sixth form royalty. Im told that seven or eight years ago, arguments about which clique got the sofas escalated to such a level that some of the students decided to do things democratically.
British Bulldog was the only way.
At the beginning of each term once in September and once in January the whole sixth form would fight for the right to have the sofas. The teachers knew it happened, hell, they had been known to join in, but they all turned a blind eye to the aggressive behaviour.
And so it was because of this petty and slightly strange arrangement that I came to be standing on a muddy rugby
Well Dressed BoyTheres nothing about him to mark him as special
That well dressed boy in old London town
A dapper young chap, just minding his own
In polished black shoes, makes a clacking sound
He coats his legs in skin-tight jeans
They might as well be painted on
A vision in white and black and grey
Like a Photoshop painting in monochrome
Expertly tousled, his hair defines physics
The wind never dares move a single strand
He wears large black glasses, you cant see his eyes
And he carries a large, neat briefcase in hand
Yet despite his good looks and aloof demeanour
Hes not that special, not one of a kind
Just another one of those damned metrosexuals
They love buying shoes, but are as straight as a line
He could be a banker; he could be a rent boy
Perhaps hes a wanker; perhaps hes a god
Fine chiselled features, a sense of importance
Theres nothing about him proclaiming him odd
But this lad holds a secret, one he cant share
It burns him and churns him and make
Oh DailyBoothIt was 2009, my thoughts were short, my hair was long
Bored with nothing very much to do
Id climbed a dozen trees and watched a thousand DVDs
It was hell living with nothing fun to do
My books, theyd all been finished
My phone was out of minutes
My life was dull, I felt such great despair
So I logged on the Internet
And man I never will forget
The site that greeted me when I got there
And now were all completely hooked
Snapping pets and food and books
Sharing love online through all of our photographs
Drinking ketchup out the bottle, cant wait until tomorrow
Saying Im not gonna leave you, oh DailyBooth
Saying Im not gonna leave you, oh DailyBooth
We upload pictures by the ton
And stalking you is so much fun
My life will never be the same again
We all bow down to Jon
Worlds greatest genius, bar none
He showed us that were all just really vain
So heres my hair when its not dry
And heres a handstand that I tried
I tell you,
Mr BrightsideIt started out with a kiss. How did it end up like this? It was only a kiss.
It was only a kiss.
We had met back in the summer of 2005 at a party held by a mutual friend. There was a barbecue and it was populated by people of the age somewhere between university and marriage. The floating masses, those who still were in the mindset of a student but knew they should be further ahead.
In our heads, as children, we sometimes imagine we will be married and settled by this age. My parents married and had my older sister when they were nineteen. I guess I assumed the same would be true for me, although, as Id aged, Id thought children would never happen for me. I didnt want them. I was happy being young, free and single.
She brushed past me, chestnut hair cascading down her back, the most beautiful girl Id ever met. My mates, believing me to have no chance with her, bet me fifty quid that I couldnt pull her by the end of the night, doubling the prize if I slept
Some Dance To Remember...Some dance to remember, some dance to forget. Tonight, I was dancing to forget. My right hand clasped his left and I guided his hip around the room as we moved in time to the music. His blue eyes shone out of the darkness, lighting up his whole face. I couldnt help but smile as he looked at me, our eyes joined by an invisible bond I didnt want to break.
I shouldnt be here, I said, and although I knew the words were true, I couldnt stop dancing. I was even leading it had been my idea to dance. What was I doing? My girlfriend sat at home and here I was dancing with the most handsome man Id ever encountered.
You should be here, he whispered. Forget about her. And anyway, you arent cheating. Were just dancing, thats all. Just dancing.
Im not just dancing anymore, I said, unable to believe I was just about to say what I was going to say. I think Im falling.
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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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