Tag Archives: foster children

An Unhappy Future

A new home. It was so dull, living with a normal family. His foster parents were irritatingly normal, and they could do nothing to enforce their rules. His foster father refused to call him Vinnie, and his foster mother refused to let him skip the piano lessons she required of him. He was good enough, but his teacher refused to let him advance at his own pace, and after a month, he was still doing scales.

The new home was made all the more miserable by a pre-existing basement and an underground lake not far underneath. He had no place to work, and no place to play– especially not with all of the pine trees around, with their long, thick roots. The boy did manage to install a lock on his bedroom door, and that gave him a modicum of the privacy he once had, although it felt like he was always naked. He was told he had to dress normally– leave his goggles and lab coat home when he went anywhere, brush his hair every day, and even more pointless tasks. Humans just didn’t understand. Read the rest of this entry »


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Magical Wands

Fifty dollars arrived in a box today.  The package was seven inches wide by about fifteen inches long, perhaps a bit more.  Charles saw me grab it off the porch and tried to follow me into the bathroom to demand he should get it, because he’s Charles, and every day is Christmas in his mind.  Finally, I hid in the bathroom and used a children’s nail clipper to cut through the tape.

Inside, shitty brown paper blocked my view, so I tossed it aside.  There it was– at the bottom.  Fifty dollars of what was claimed to be a super sex toy.  It was a Hitachi Wand and a single attachment, meant for ‘deep muscle massage’. Read the rest of this entry »

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Posted by on May 4, 2013 in Nonfiction


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Insert Generic Title Here

Busy weekend. That’s an understatement. I ran up and down the stairs so many times. Weren’t weekends my breaks? Not this time, it seemed. Every time I settled in, I heard the call of my mom, begging for help with Charles. She couldn’t watch him. She had to finish the taxes of a dozen or so people who couldn’t use turbo tax themselves.

The bruises on my back and legs multiplied, and scabs appeared from the scratches that little boy left on my hands when I released him for a moment after he’d been naughty. I couldn’t punish him long because every time, he screamed bloody murder and Mom swooped in to save him from his time outs. I was hardly able to do a damn thing. Read the rest of this entry »

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Posted by on April 15, 2013 in Nonfiction


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