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Critiques and Writer's Discussion
For more in-depth critiques of stories and story writing discussion.
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I’m actually curious now. From how she reacted to his last question made me wonder. If an adopted Little/Tweener or someone that’s adopted, dishonors the family, especially like in the presence of family, would the parent of said adoptee either automatically get the brunt of the punishment, in some form or could they choose to take most, if not all of the punishment as a way to bring honor to the family, which would negate what their baby did? I guess what I’m wondering is there a cultural way of handling those situations? I too am curious to what he chooses and I hope he acts like a good boy. I’d hate for things to get any worse for him. I’d say things are doing better for him than he realizes. It could’ve gone way worse for him. -
By Snugglebear_69 · Posted
I like when my Daddy pats my diapered bun. It's reassuring and comforting 💗 -
Backstage, awe didn’t just ripple through the air—it wrapped itself around every person like a warm, crackling force field, thick and shimmering and impossible to ignore. It wasn’t the kind of awe you clap for politely or murmur about afterward. It was the kind that made your breath catch before your mind even understood why. The kind that changed the temperature in the room. It felt like the whole building had tilted just a few degrees, like Rosebridge Academy itself couldn’t quite steady its footing after what Libby had just done. The instant her final note dissolved into the air, the wings went impossibly, reverently still. Not even the soft hum of the stage lights seemed willing to intrude. Someone in the lighting booth fumbled a pencil, and when it hit the floor, the sharp crack echoed like the sound had shattered a spell. Dylan looked like the spell was still holding him hostage. His jaw had dropped somewhere around the second crescendo and never found its way back. He stood as if rooted to the spot, posture slack, eyes wide in a way that made him look younger, almost vulnerable. His breath hitched once—loudly, embarrassingly loudly—and Rachel shot him a sideways glance. But he didn’t even blink. “Holy…” he whispered, voice thin and shaky, like he was trying to speak while underwater. “She’s never… I didn’t know she…” The sentence unraveled helplessly in the air. He swallowed hard, cheeks flushed. He looked overwhelmed in a way that held something tender, something quietly undone. Rachel stood beside him with her arms folded tight—not her typical crisp, ballet‑assistant composure, but something rawer, something wide‑open. Her eyebrows were raised so high they looked painted on, her lips parted like she’d just witnessed a meteor crash. “She didn’t just play,” she managed. Her voice trembled in a way she didn’t bother to hide. “She commanded.” It sounded like a confession more than commentary. Even the lighting crew—who'd spent years watching dance recitals, clumsy twirls, brave little tap routines, and the occasional toddler mid‑pirouette meltdown—were frozen. One stared at the monitor like she wasn’t convinced the girl on the screen had actually been real. “Is that legal?” one whispered. “At a school performance?” Another rubbed her chest. “Pretty sure my soul left my body about a minute in. Someone check the rafters.” But the joke came out soft, reverent, like she didn’t want to speak too loudly in the wake of it. Dana wiped at her eyes with her sequined cuff, leaving a tiny smear of glitter just under her lashes. Her laugh cracked like thin ice. “Okay—wow. That was definitely not in the script.” She pressed her palm to her sternum, grounding herself. “I mean, I knew she could play. But that—what was that? A spiritual awakening? A cosmic realignment? I swear I just discovered religion.” Rachel exhaled a shaky laugh. “She didn’t tell anyone. Not even me. And I live for student gossip.” “She didn’t need to,” Dylan murmured. His eyes were still glued to the thin slice of glowing stage through the curtain. “She was waiting for the right moment.” He said it so softly, with such certainty, it made Rachel blink. Like he suddenly understood her in a way he hadn’t before. Dana let out another unsteady laugh, smoothing down her jumpsuit even though it didn’t need smoothing. “Perfect. Love that for me. Now I’ve gotta follow that. Amazing. Truly. I’m thrilled. Overjoyed.” She lifted her chin with mock drama, but even through the humor, there was pride—big‑sister pride, glowing and warm. The crew exchanged looks that were equal parts sympathy and admiration. One gave her a gentle nudge toward the wings. Another whispered, “Godspeed,” as if sending her into emotional combat. Out in the auditorium, the applause hadn’t just continued—it had grown, surged, spilled over itself. It was no longer applause so much as a living force, roaring and echoing and reshaping the air. Parents wiped tears in stunned little swipes. Students were on their feet, clapping so hard their palms burned, some shouting Libby’s name like they couldn’t help it. The energy in the room felt shaken loose, awakened—like the crowd had been collectively cracked open. Libby’s performance hadn’t just impressed them. It had shifted them. When Dana stepped back into the spotlight, she paused—not for effect, not for theatrics, but because she genuinely needed a second to gather herself against the tidal wave of feeling rolling off the audience. Her voice, when it came, was soft at first. Almost fragile. “Ladies and gentlemen…” She took a breath she clearly needed. “I think we just witnessed a reckoning.” A ripple moved through the crowd—stunned murmurs, soft exclamations, a few tearful laughs from parents who clearly hadn’t expected a school performance to ruin them emotionally. “She didn’t just play a piece,” Dana continued, her voice warming, gaining strength. “She played something true. Something she’s been carrying for a long time. And I don’t know about you—but I feel genuinely lucky to have been here tonight.” She paused again. Let the silence bloom. Let the crowd feel the weight of it. “Libby Hemsworth,” Dana said softly, reverently, “has arrived.” The roar that followed wasn’t something that could be called mere applause. It erupted—chairs scraping, hands slamming, students cheering until their voices cracked. Teachers leaned into each other for balance, some laughing through tears. A few younger girls clutched each other’s arms like they were witnessing a legend being born. Dana stood in the glow of it all, letting the sound wash over her, her smile blooming slow and bright. Then it shifted—tipping into something mischievous, theatrical, playful. “Now,” she declared, flicking her wrist with a flourish that sent a ripple of affectionate laughter through the audience, “let’s see if our next performers can keep up with that.” She winked, because of course she did. “The Academy Ballet Ensemble!” she announced, stepping aside as the next performers prepared to enter a room that felt—because of Libby—brighter, louder, more alive than it had been mere minutes before. -
By Alyeskabird · Posted
Cat litter is not soluble, no matter how much they claim it is. -
It's works well for me, for daytime issues. Not sure I can trust it at night yet for capacity. Yep, no snappis, or diaper pins. The pocket diaper holds it all together.
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