Jan FinleyI was born in Seattle, raised in Seattle, and will die in Seattle. My father is a retired priest at St. David's Episcopal Church. He raised me to be a good Christian girl, but it didn't stop me from getting into some trouble. When I was fourteen I met a boy named Derick. He was sixteen and confident, which made him sexy despite his acne and twiggy build. He popped my cherry in Mineral Springs Park, after I let him beat me at Frisbee golf. It was an uncommonly sunny day in March, and a kiss by the oak tree led to a rushed and unsatisfying introduction to the wonderful world of sex.Six weeks later, I noticed my period was late. I told Derick and he fled the scene, literally. He moved to Portland to live with his dad. I envied him the option. My mother died in a car accident when I was six. My father sometimes wonders if he had re-married whether or not I would have ended up in the predicament I did. I always tell him what ifs are pointless. If I didn't get pregnant, it would have been s
Suggestion: Welcome to DeviantARTIntroduction: Something that I feel has been lacking on dA is an official welcome message for new deviants. There are several visual suggestions for helping new deviants find their way around, but sometimes just a few links in an email will do the trick. Below is one proposed version for how this email could be worded. I suggest it be sent to every new account, regardless of whether the user's email is already in use on another account.--------------Welcome to DeviantART!We are a community of millions of artists and writers from all over the globe. To help you find your way around, we've created a video introduction which gives you an idea of what you can do and see on dA.Please also note our Help and FAQ section. Here are a few FAQs to get you started::faq116::faq15::faq79::faq30::faq90:To help you network, we suggest you check out our groups pa
b. 1954He was born to Elvis' first dreamy hit& a mother who preferred it to the softthumpthump heartbeat of her infant.He was born to a world sufferingthe high-pitched paranoia of racism,the tight lows of war ad nauseam,the slow slaps of McCarthyism.He was born to a family familiarwith the thrilling thwack of ringedfingers on flesh, to a fatherwho fled the frenzy in favorof that mellow bass at death.He was born the first sonand assumed the lead, progressedfrom child to man at percussive speed;Papa was a father long before me.But seventeen brought new birth:old guitar instilled young hands with worth.Those first strings were steel teachers;they taught him that blood forces to lifeimmutable love.Born to the timbre of darkness meeting light,to the cadence of right versus might --my father survived jittery discord,and unwound the melodies only a heartlike his could have found.
On Romantic Longevitycultivate infatuation for each others' potential
Weavethere are people who give infor lack of a feistier fightpeople living to ultimatelydig their own gravesand lay down quietlyand you look at them in pitylook at them in sympathylook at them and saywhat a tragedyif only they had held on a little longertried just a little harderand that's the ugly ironyhow many times have you watched someone slipwitnessed their ebbingheard that shovel kissing dirtthescrapescrapescrapeof despair against hopeand donenothinghow many timeshave you pitied the pitifulinstead of rescuing the salvageablehow many times have you wonderedwhat does she needwhat words precedevalue bestowed toher heart beatand said nothingand i am preaching with no right'cuz my eyes are guilty as anyone'sof seeing a world thrashed by the tideand here i amsecure on the beachlife preserver safely stashedbuthere is my fistunfurlinghere is my minduncurlinghere i
the want of a thing"the want of a thing is always more beautiful than the thing itself."- from cyclic motion by CyneNoirHe will always be the logprostrated across the rocky river bed -skeleton of a microcosmic worlddisintegrating.I imagined him a sapling,youth sprouting from supple branches,roots gladly reaching for secretsin the soil; I imagined him alive -but he is no more than the log,lain slant along the water's lonely lineawaiting the severity of the seasonsin reticence.