Callida
The little planter hung from the ceiling. Every day Hermione would grab a stool and check on the geraniums' progress, making sure to water the pretty flowers. Her blonde hair would become streaked with dirt, and her glowing countenance would be enlightened with the sincerity of caring for something and fulfilling responsibility, combined with the pure fun of helping something grow and playing in the dirt.
She drew the outline of the cat, realizing that the person her friends knew was only a stencil. The outline she'd created, her facade. Come to think of it, did anybody, even in her family, truly know her?
She slapped on her watch. She was late. She slung on her backpack as she ran. Boots would have to wait, she needed to get to Blueberry Hill immediately.
The machine zapped, and just like that, their bodies had switched. Keira knew who she was, yet she was in Jen's body! Looking at her own body from afar, she suddenly saw less to criticize. Maybe she wasn't so ugly and misshapen, after all.
A badge of a policeman is a badge of honor. A badge they deserve for protecting out country. A badge that should not be shunned merely because of a few rotten-albeit headlining-apples.
No, it is not okay for policemen to hurt unarmed people. It never was, and it never will be. But most policemen are men who've worked for this country, protecting you and me, and they deserve respect.
It's always yay
or nay
no why now how
they answer they already know
but somehow
they cannot show
her how
to get to where she yearns to be
she cannot find they key
she needs it desperately
the answer lies in wait
but oh how to reach those golden gates
You don't have to conform to other's beliefs.
I get mad at those who ask me to tolerate them (and I do) because they actually expect me to conform.
In return, they won't tolerate my views.
Tolerance is a two-way street.
It's not like I'm sacrificing babies.