# October 2014 - LM - Paper Children



## Fin (Oct 1, 2014)

Click here for the workshop thread


*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​Paper Children​



The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.


Have the prompt included in some way into your story.


*The judges for this round are:*

*amsawtell*; *kilroy214*; *Guy Faukes*; *shinyford*


*Rules*


*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
*No Poetry!* Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges.
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
*Only one entry per member.*
*No liking entries until the scores go up.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word and Google Drive are the standard for checking this. If you feel it’s incorrect, send it to the host of the competition and we’ll check it for you and add our approval upon acceptance.




*There are a few ways to post your entry:*


If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread* which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.

Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score.

*This competition will close on:*

Tuesday, the 14th of October at 11:59 PM GMT time.
Click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## Kyle R (Oct 1, 2014)

*Creased*
by Kyle Richardson
_(650 words)_


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## Vendetta5885 (Oct 1, 2014)

*His Legacy (522 words)​*John worked tirelessly as he cut and shaped his paper children.  After each one was trimmed to his liking a name was written on it, it was taped to the wall,  then another was cut and trimmed.   

The wall was almost covered, he started from the top and worked his way down. He pinned another one of his paper children to the wall, this one had the name _Angela DeSimone_ written across the body in beautiful scrolling cursive. He scratched his stubbly cheek, displayed a slight smile and remembered a long forgotten memory of Angela.  

The hours passed, the scrap piles grew and the wall filled until there were no more names to place.  His labor of love was complete and his life’s work stood before him.  He leaned against his desk, the realization that he would never walk these halls or may never care for another child within them sank in.  

He knew he did everything he could for every one of them, he smiled and wiped away the tears.  He had decided to do this weeks ago when all the employees were told that the orphanage sold and was scheduled to be torn down. It seemed like the right thing to do. All of the children took a piece of this place with them and it only felt right for him to leave a piece of them there.  They made this place and their memories will keep this place alive, at least for him it would.  It also gave him a great sense of closure, he could move on with pride and confidence.  One door closes and another opens he kept telling himself.

“John?” A heavy set woman with gray hair and a cute face knocked lightly at the door.  “Are you in here?” She asked.

“Yeah, honey… I’m here.”  He replied solemnly.

“They’re giving us the boot, its time to go.” She said.

“Good… Just finished.” He said and looked at her and gave her a forced smile and brushed away another tear.

“If I had a dollar for every tear I saw today, we could retire!” She said in hope that he would crack a smile.  He didn’t. “So how many children?” She asked and admired his work.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” He said.  “Can’t put a number on something like that, just seeing the crowd is enough for me. It wasn’t about the number anyways, never was.”

“Did you really remember the name of each of them?” She asked.  She put her arm around him and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

“Yup.” John said.  He forced a smile again and kissed her on the forehead.  He picked up his jacket and took one last look at the office.

He shut off the lights and locked the door behind him.  They walked down the hall hand in hand for the last time.  No music, no children’s laughter, just the sound of their echoed foot steps.  The hallway was empty, except for the walls which were covered from top to bottom with paper children, each with different names written across their body’s in beautiful scrolling cursive. His legacy.*
*


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## Ephemeral_One (Oct 3, 2014)

*A Child's Day*

One by one each one of the paper dolls danced. Some spun wildly as if caught on an upward draft, while others simply folded under their own weight. The symphonic crunching of them underfoot sounded to the child as if angels had begun to sing. So, he made the puppets dance some more. Though their entertainment value was limited, there seemed an almost limitless supply. He was sure there'd be no end so he'd be entertained for the rest of his life. And so the mockeries of human form were made to dance again and again.

Halting by a puppet that had its arm bent around another, the child asked the paper, “Are you having fun?” As paper is wont to do, it only shivered in the wind. The other paper that was being protected didn't move though. Finding this uninteresting, the child moved on to find something new.

Coming across a new mockery of human form, he picked it up and examined it. This one was colored oddly to the child as he surmised, “It must've been made out of construction paper.” Taking his conducting baton, the child made it dance for him. Unlike earlier, it was a sad flamenco that only frustrated the child. As children are wont to do, he grew bored and dismissed the paper puppet.

Thoroughly bored of the fake people, the child ventured outside to feel the sun on his bones. Amid a whirlwind of colors, the child waved his baton but the puppets he saw outside didn't listen to his orders. He suddenly grew sleepy and closed his eyes happily. The child looked forward to playing with the paper children again. And, maybe this time, he'd figure out why he couldn't be made out of paper as well.


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## W.Goepner (Oct 4, 2014)

Paper Children


Each police, sheriff and detective agency has an area of files call cold cases. Every one of them are categorized by age, gender and crime, whether missing persons or death. There is no exception in most every city.

Officer Lee worked in the the file room, his most hated section of this room, the cold case file area for children. When he took over the job from the last officer in charge of the room, he walked in with the hopes of never having to visit them.

In his tenure of this room, the department needed the files held in hard copy, uploaded to computers, officer Lee had to face what he dread the most. Much of the time, it was a simple matter of scan and save, the exceptions were when the programs did not recognize the print and he had to read the cases and correct them before saving, it was then he began to get involved with the people within, for officer Lee it was only in his mind.

One night, one of the cases came to light, as officer Lee floundered through the social-network. Right in font of him he saw the face of one of the victims, or missing persons. An eighteen year old boy had post a story of how his parents had stopped him from getting married right after high school. The boy accused the parents of being repressive and many worse allegations. The one outstanding thing that caught officer Lee's eye, was the words 'adopted parents'.

The next day officer Lee went through the files looking for the the one that he knew, was this was this boy. When he found it, Lee read it thoroughly through, comparing it to the social page he found the boy on, printing out everything officer Lee thought pertinent to the case. By noon he presented the case to the chief detective, and how he came to the conclusion the boy and the case were the same. After an hour in the chief's office the chief was on the phone to the commissioner. 

A two city effort, at different ends of the nation, brought a long lost child to his troubled parents. In less than twenty-four hours, officer Lee was accommodated for his efforts. Going back to the file room he transferred the file of the boy to the solved section and went back to the grueling task of digitizing files. 

At the end of the day when he closed the drawer to the children files, Lee noticed the file tag of the drawer was askew. Pulling it out to set it strait a second tag fell to the floor. Picking it up he read. 

"Paper Children," Puzzled, officer Lee replaced the two cards. As he closed the door and headed to the locker room, he ran into the previous officer in charge. Officer Lee asked them what the second file tag meant. The other officer simply stated. 

"It is an easier way to think of those children, rather than being lost or gone. More over, it is all that is left of them, a paper trail, a paper trail of missing and lost children. 'Paper Children.'" She abruptly turned leaving officer Lee to ponder what she said.

Officer Lee simply smiled, for he knew there was now, one less.


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## godofwine (Oct 6, 2014)

The Orphanage - By Godofwine (640 Words)


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## Pluralized (Oct 8, 2014)

*Disregard the Cipher
by Rob E*Tumbled down, landed on the pavement next to Mom Dukes’s car. It didn’t breathe, didn’t move. Pupils narrowed and breath held, it was time to move. Window slid shut. Three doors closed with soft clicks as the three siblings met in the hallway. Sixteen socky-footed steps down into the living room, careful and times three.

“Is it go?” asked the small one, its voice weak in the dark. 

“Quiet,” the one with narrow pupils said, reaching into a bag and withdrawing a roll of heavy-duty duct tape. “For when the layers start to peel.”

Third one, tall and lanky, still no hint of hair anywhere on its head, stood shivering, hugging itself tight. “We’re gonna get caught, you guys.” As if ashamed, its eyes didn’t dare look in the direction of Pupils. 

“Couple of scared units, you two. Never heard Mom Dukes so drunk as she was last night. Let’s take advantage. On with it!” Pupils slipped on a set of foot-covers and held its breath, flipped the lock on the sliding door. It squealed open, chattering in the worn-out groove. “C’mon.”

The small one went out first, followed by Pupils and Lanky. They stood outside in the unhealthy silence of winter’s night, breathing through mouths full of unbrushed teeth. 

“The thing isn’t dead,” Pupils whispered. “It’s just playing so we’ll come close. That’s why I brought this.” Out came a silver pistol, glinting off the dim porch light. 

“If you have to shoot it,” said the small one, “make sure not to hit one of us. That’ll wake Mom Dukes for sure, and she’s already going to kill us when she finds out.” 

The three tip-toed out into the driveway and around Mom Dukes’s shiny new car. The thing lay still, heaped in a pile. Lanky looked up at the bedroom window and whistled softly. “Bet that’s fifty feet or more.” 

“Don’t be a dimwit,” said Pupils. “Can’t be more than forty. Now stay still, and watch for Mom Dukes.” Up went Pupils, careful not to touch the car. The heap of tissue, all it was. It didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, didn’t make a sound. Peeling.

Just the week prior, they’d been up there in Pupils’s room, mixing up various chemicals, messing about with household cleaners. Trying to make a solvent to get the permanent marker off the small one’s clothes. They succeeded in making a solvent, admirable one. Reality solvent, apparently. Powerful one.

Presently, Pupils jabbed the heap with a stick unscrewed from a plunger. “Giddup,” Pupils whispered sharply. “Giddup and git, you old demon.”

Lanky stood behind the little one and together, they formed a mini-forest of limbs and pasty flesh. “Popo,” whispered the tiny one. Smaller and tinier it got, slipping quietly under the edge of Mom Dukes’s car. 

Lanky stiffened, face lit with blue light. Smoldered, head pointed into a sharp, whirled and curled down into a knotted mess. Rolled up under the car too, right beside tiny one. Here came Pupils, madder than a hot-damn tornado, spitting and a-sputtering. “Should’ve kept the heap away from the solvents.” With that, Pupils went black, unseen by the popo blues. Up gathered the heap into a red box, out came the popo beat-sticks. Pounded on the entrance to the domicile of Mom Dukes. Loud. 

Footsteps, cursing, tying of robes. “Yes, popo. What this time?” In behind the old crone, up against all walls, there it all was. The cop’s mouth made like a flopping fish’s, hands went instinctively to the weapons and sprays. 

 She talked about the onions. “Peeling the layers,” she cackled, and the popo turned to look at the other one, whose mustache twitched with disapproval. The mustached one sprayed the pepper right into her eyes and mouth, and smiled with clenched teeth.

Upon the walls were her paper children, plastered and pasted all around, every color, eyes screaming and mouths open in silence.
​


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## Fin (Oct 9, 2014)

*The Collector
Anonymous Entry
(646 words)​*


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## spartan928 (Oct 9, 2014)

Paper, Children

by Spartan 928 (612 words)


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## thepancreas11 (Oct 9, 2014)

Charity (641 words)


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## Fin (Oct 9, 2014)

*Children on Paper
midnightpoet*​


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## Ibb (Oct 10, 2014)

*Papa (650 Words)*

On his eleventh birthday, his father, after the last few presents had been unwrapped, handed him a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied in simple string. The boy received it with all the caution the man’s presence had reared in him through the years; though each often crossed unexpected in front of the other’s path, the two seldom spoke. The family of three lived together in a small rented apartment on the third floor of an old building. The boy could remember nothing before the apartment and had not developed the capacity to imagine anything beyond it. If he had dreams of an old house, or was reminded by certain smells of sights and events he could place to no memory, then he did not mention it. His mother would change the subject, and his father, taking a rare pause to assess him, would say nothing. He’d learned to keep to himself.

     His father encouraged he open it; his mother nodded, smiling softly, when he turned to her. The wrapping was hardly compact and fell sloppily away the moment he undid the string, confirming his suspicion of his father’s handiwork. The sharp rustlings of paper sounded louder than they were. A small leather book peeped out, in the front slot of which was a faded photograph of a young man holding a child. The boy did not recognize either one.

                “That’s you,” his father said, touching the child. “And that’s… Me.” He touched the young man, who smiled sheepishly at whoever stood opposite the photo. “I wanted to wait to give you this, but I… Your mother and I feel you deserve it now. You’re becoming a very mature young man… And I thought… Well, enjoy it.” 

                He spent the weeks of summer pouring through the photographs, cross-legged on the floor of his room, studying elements of the backgrounds he thought he identified. His father’s appearance had changed radically since his youth. His mother appeared nowhere in the photos. He did not ask anymore of the picture’s origins than he did of his dreams. 

                One day he stood opposite of the corner where children his own age could be seen waving papers in the air, hollering at businessmen in black suits and top-hats hurrying anonymously past each other. He approached one, birthday change in his pocket, and asked for that day’s issue.

                “Why do you want a paper?” the paperboy asked him, suspicious.

                “I’m… Mature,” he countered. “It’s what mature folk do.” 

                “You’re nuts,” he said, and traded him the paper, saying no more and pocketing the change. The boy sat on a bench and tried to insinuate himself into the world’s gossip, but faltered beyond the bold and ludicrous headlines. Dazed, and uncertain what to do with the paper, he dragged it home, mourning the coin’s loss the entire way. 

                He heard a commotion coming up the steps that swelled the nearer he approached. Turning down the hall, he spotted a small crowd gathered before his door. Two officers were speaking to his mother, who nodded silently, trembling, tears streaking down her face.

                “Mama?”

                They turned to him. His mother let out a small groan and covered her mouth. A woman on the officer’s side looked at him as though he were a ghost, and began trembling the moment he looked at her. Beside her a man he thought he recognized studied him, mouth agape.

                His father was escorted out of the apartment a moment later by two separate officers, handcuffs secured around his wrists. 

                “Papa?” he said. 

                His father looked up. “Oh, God,” he whimpered. “Oh, God.”

                “Son,” one of the officers started. “Listen…”

                The boy kicked at him. “Let go of my papa!” he cried. 

Almost convulsively the other woman began to sob. The man beside her held her shoulders. The officer grabbed the boy, trying to restrain him. “Son,” he said. “Listen. Son, _listen._”


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## Ari (Oct 10, 2014)

*Ashes, Dust and Paper Cuts*


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## EmmaSohan (Oct 10, 2014)

HOPE

by Emma Sohan


"What are you doing, Jennie?"

Tom startles me. I didn't hear him come in. Is he accusing me? "Nothing."

He looks down at the paper cutouts I have on the table. He can tell I'm doing something. I turn red.

"What are you doing, Jennie?" Now he's giving me his soft love look. The Jenny-we-care-for-you look. The Jenny-we're-sorry-for-you look.

I relax. He loves me. "I'm trying to decide how many children we should have."

He looks puzzled, so I rush to explain. "This is you, and this is me." I point to the two largest cutouts. They're already nicely colored. "And this is our three children." I point to the three cut-outs of children, following us like ducks across the table. They are smaller and uncolored because I'm still making up my mind.

"And this is us with two children." I take one of the children away.

"This isn't helping anything, Jenny." I see him start to scowl. I hate it when he's unhappy with me.

"Yes! Yes it does, Tom. Numbers, they're too hard to imagine by themselves. 18 kids. What does that mean? It's just a sound. But when you actually put them out on the table, it's too many." I point to the  pile of cutout children piled on the side of the table with the other scraps. "We can't have 18 children. It's impractical. I know that now."

He gives his huge what-am-I-going-to-do sigh. "We won't have 18 kids. Jennie--"

I interrupt. "I'm still deciding between 2 and 3." Two doesn't look like very many. What if one gets cancer? I put down the third cut-out. Three seems like the perfect number, except then I can't decide if we should have two boys and a girl, or two girls and boy.

"Jennie, you had ovarian cancer. You aren't having any children. You have to face that. _Please_." That's his desperate look.

I want to hold my hand over my ears, but Tom always pulls them off and gives me his angry look. So I sing to myself as loudly as I can. Ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down. I don't hear past the ovarian word, but that upsets me.

"They said it was only a chance of ovarian cancer, Tom. You heard them. You were there with me. A _chance_. That's means there's a chance there's no ovarian cancer."

Now his eyes just look sad. "That's what they said _before _your other tests. _Before _your surgery. _Before _they took your ovaries out."

Ring around the rosy... I only hear the first few words. Tom is being cruel. Did he stop loving me?

I put one of the cutout children in the cutout Tom's arms. "Hi Daddy! I'm so excited you're home." Tom will be a great father. One of our children has to be a boy, I know that now.

He takes my hand. I remember the doctor gently taking my hand to talk to me. I try to pull my hand away from Tom, but he won't let me. "Jennie, look at me."

I look at him. I see the tears streaming out of his eyes.

"You have to face the truth, Jennie. I can't live like this. We can't live like this."

I start to sob in pain, and I can't stop. He stands behind me and holds me. He keeps saying good girl and that everything will be okay. Even though it won't.

Eventually I stop crying. Tom is stroking my hair with one hand and holding me with the other. I feel better. I look down at the cutout figures on the table. And I _finally _realize the truth. Two children will be best for us. A boy and a girl. I start to color them in.


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## Mistique (Oct 13, 2014)

*Paper children (507 words)

*
By Henny te Velde​
They had become paper children; each and every one of them. No longer Lisa – the eight year old who frowned at pink and ponies, but was sure to give a giggle at the sight of a football – or Daryl – the sixteen year old who considered prison home and only got violent on the day of his release. Crayons and hand puppets had been replaced by section 47’s, core assessments and court orders as tools of her trade. Piles and piles of paper dominated her world. They were filled with words that had no meaning to the children and only served a purpose when – heaven forbid – one of ‘her’ children would be murdered and the words would be used to say ‘ it wasn’t us’.  When had she become that social worker? The one who tossed and turned at night waiting for the first to die?

Sharon looked up from her computer.

The small office only barely contained the thirty desks cramped into it, and was buzzing with an activity level that would have put ants to shame. Still it felt empty. Her phone rang, twice.

“You said I could call.”

Only a whisper; a child, but who?

“Yes, I did, sweetie,” Sharon said. “ what’s wrong?”

Her memory merged with the computer searching the fifty plus files of her caseload. Harmony was too young, Evangeline had an accent and Precious couldn’t lower her voice if she tried. Who was this! Sharon had no doubt that asking would mean loosing her as clearly this child expected her to know and had called specifically her for a reason.

“Mummy says I have to play nice,” the voice spoke. “but that man isn’t nice.”

Sharon gasped for air then exhaled slowly.

“Ellie, sweetie, are you in the bathroom?”

A tiny yes was the only response.

“Is the door locked like I said?”

A second yes made the iron hand release her heart.

“Don’t open the door to anyone, hun,” Sharon said. She could no longer maintain the honey voice she reserved for kids. “I will be right there, Ellie.” With her coat in one hand and her phone practically pushed into her ear with the other, she rushed into her manager’s office nearly crashing into the woman. Only a few words were exchanged, but enough to ensure the police would follow. Half an hour later Sharon carried the shaking girl in her arms covering the child’s eyes with her coat so she wouldn’t see the police officers who were holding both her mummy and ‘the man’ to the ground. Ellie’s case had been closed months ago as they lacked the evidence they needed to prove sexual abuse. In her hand Ellie was clutching a piece of paper with a flower drawn onto it. On each of its pedals Sharon had written one of the digits of her phone number knowing the mum would be too daft to understand. With all the piles and piles of paper on her desk, it had been this little snippet that had saved a child.
​


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## InkwellMachine (Oct 13, 2014)

*She Gave Me No Tears*


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## ASWright (Oct 14, 2014)

No Refunds (648 words)​ 
'I'm sorry sir but we can't refund without good reason.'

Always the same whenever you go to any shop with something that ain't no use anymore, the dense girl, well pretty and dense girl behind the counter objects, claims they can't do anything and after pontificating for a bit runs off for the manager. The manager who it turns out would rather have food poisoning, then give up one of his precious notes almost like they are his little paper children.

I look into her blank eyes, a sigh almost escapes my lips, but it's not her fault everything went tits up. Gotta try and be nice.

'Do you really think I would be returning these things without a reason? Considering?'

My words actually seem to spark off some neurological activity.

'um, no, sorry, ill um just get the manager, I've never done a refund before when things haven't been damaged.' she splutters and rushes off.

This time I actually do sigh, though it's not Karen, the poor lass has been as 'happy to help' as her badge suggests, its more me. I just can't seem to be nice at the moment, I try, I do, but everything is irritating me, and as if on cue here comes the manager.

'Hello sir, what seems to be the problem?' His voice cheery where his gaze is pure hate. Seems my guess was right.

'I would like to return these items I bought in June, if possible.' I reply all the time thinking, be nice, be polite, he doesn't know.

'June? that was two months ago, is there a problem with them?'

'No they are fine.'

'Then why do you wish to return them?'

'They aren't needed anymore.'

'Not needed anymore? We can't give money back just because you changed your mind'

Sanctimonious prick. Why is it that these people always assume you're trying to pull a fast one? There are lots of reasons to return things and sometimes it isn't about the 
money.

'No we wouldn't buy something else, we loved these, they just, just aren't going to be used anymore.' It's hard to say, I almost have to spit the words.

'Oh,' His look softens, seems understanding has dawned at last, 'I'm very sorry sir, I really am, but we won't be able to offer a refund due to the date of purchase, my hands are tied.'

'Is there nothing you can do?' I probe.

'I'm afraid not, can I just say how deeply sorr-'

'Thank you.' People don't seem to realise just how irritating sorry can get. My patience is fraying. I try to force myself to be civil as it isn't his fault. Its no-one's fault. I just need someone to blame and Robert here seems the type of arsehole I could rage at. I bite my tongue. I just want rid and to get home, 'Would you at least take them back?' I ask 'We dont want them around.'

'I understand, yes we can, no problem at all sir.'

'Someone may as well get use out of them' I say as I leave, trying to be strong about getting shot, but it breaks my heart. Again

Sandra is in the den when I get home. I notice the tissue box on the stand by the door. She is no better today.

'Did you get the money back?' she asks.

'Nope'

'But they're gone?'

'Yes'

Tears, fresh hot tears spill from her face she drops the magazine she was poring over as I walked in. The magazine for Baby dreams, the shop I just left. Babies and beautiful nursery furniture are strewn across the pages. It's like being shot and all I can think about is James. Our little boy that never was.

'We lost out again babe, we lost out again' I say as I hold her tight.

For some things, there are no refunds.


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## Fin (Oct 14, 2014)

*The Paper Children Escape the Great Broken Heart
Anonymous Entry *(649 words)​


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## Fin (Oct 14, 2014)

*

Run
Anonymous Entry*​


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