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A very beautiful manipulation you got going on here =D The model is gorgeous, her dressing I like. (Is it Gothic, not sure?) Anyhow, to ...


I just saw this while scrolling through a web page. Though it's a story two and a half weeks old, sharing was imperative. Enjoy.

February 24th, Christy Perry, an Idaho Republican, has said that a proposed ban on faith-healing could violate the religious rights of her constituents Ė many of whom eschew medical care for themselves and their families.

She continues by saying "
They have a clear understanding of what the role of government should be Ė [and it] isnít how to tell me how to live my life [...]Ē

For the reader's dismay, she's carries on with "
Children do die. Iím not trying to sound callous, but (reformers) want to act as if death is an anomaly. But itís not - itís a way of life."

To compensate for this statement, she adds, "[
Followers of Christ] do not look to the government to help them at all. Theyíre very self-sufficient and know how to take care of themselves. In Canyon County, people hunt to feed their families, they fish, [and] they grow their own food."

On the side, somewhere in her interview, she says that
 faith healers are caring parents who simply trust in Godís will.

But to put the proverbial nail into the proverbial coffin, she says "
They are comforted by the fact that they know their child is in heaven," and then puts forth a thought-provoking question, "If I want to let my child be with God, why is that wrong?"

Finally, from the article (that I'll link at the end), she finishes, "
Is it really because these children are dying more so than other children, or is this really about an attack on a religion you donít agree with?"

So... thoughts? :|

My thoughts?…


Another article, same story:…

A search on "Christy Perry Faith Healing" on YouTube finds a lot of videos discussing this.
DO NOT LITTER, OR ELSE! declares the red sign above Mike and his friends’ heads. Mike, the self-proclaimed leader of the group, reads it over and over, sipping from his can, tapping his foot to a rhythm in his head.

“Or else what?” scoffs Mike. He takes another sip of the can. Gasps in joy.

“Ay you heard the news? The government have got these robots that come after ya now if ya litter, a hundred people have—”

Mike eyes him thinly. “You meaning to tell me that if I drop this can on the floor, right, a heap o’ metal is gonna come rolling down after me, nagging me to put it in the bin?”

“Not nagging. But—”

“Watch.” Mike necks back the can—the acidic liquid stings his throat—and scrunches it up.

Drops it.


Stomps on it—really flattens the can—becomes a part of the ground.


Seconds pass.

Mike’s eyes dart about. He hears nothing. His friends hear nothing either. Eventually, he says, “Whadda load o’ crap!”

Mike marches off, chin up, away from the sign, the taste of victory in his mouth. His friends follow him. Mike thinks he’ll go and play football now. It’s what they intended to do in the first place, well, until they saw the sign that Mike didn’t like. But now they’re going. Mike thinks he’ll play good today, score a few goals, trip up a few people, the usual business. After the can, his legs feel alive and—

“Halt.” A mechanised voice calls.

Everyone turns around.

Before the flattened can stands an eight-foot robot, all metal, human-like. Just without clothes. Mike comes in front of the group, his chest puffed out, arms out to the side like a cowboy in a duel, ready to grab his gun (there is no gun). He frowns at the robot. Then laughs. Mike thinks there is someone inside the suit with one of those voice changers.

“It ay Halloween yet, mate.” Mike says. His friends, on cue, laugh.

The robot examines the can, hunched over. It stands back up and faces Mike.

“Are you the owner of this can?” The machine asks, its pronunciation clear.

“All yours, mate. Keep it. Sell it. Shove it up your arse, even.”

“Are you the owner of this can?”

“Yeah, what ya gonna do about it?”

“Mike, that’s the robot I was on about.” His friend whispers.

“You have ten seconds to comply. Pick up the can and put it in the bin. Or else.”

Mike just stands there. He folds his arms. His friend, the news watcher, warns Mike to pick up the can, but he has none of it. He just stands there. His friend backs off, fearing the worst.

The robot’s hand transforms into something, the fingers form a hole, and the palm morphs into something of a barrel, the thumb shaping into an iron sight – a crosshair – something one would find in a futuristic FPS game—bang!

A blast splits Mike’s body in three: a pair of still-standing legs, his arms and the remainders of his torso and dangling head. Blood paints the ground and his friends’ faces.

Everyone ignores the blood around them, on them, and stares at the legs. Standing. They drop. And they scream. They run—sprint—in different directions.

Mike chose “or else”.
Do Not Litter
Well... he did litter.

Hey, if you got five minutes to kill, check out some of my other stories:

Bullet; Red The Transmundane Anomaly -
Bullet; Red Free Will -
Bullet; Red Friend -

Read. Enjoy. :)
It’s raining.

Heidi’s feet take her through the door and into the bus station. People line up at the sliding doors, her mind notes, all have their bags in hands from daily shopping. They wait to go home. Blank expressions, aimless gazing—one of them takes a sneaky peek at their phone—a split-second glimpse—nothing about them sparks interest in her.

A bus driver pulls up outside the sliding doors. People flood out, some in groups, some alone. Heidi’s eyes scan the bus’s exterior. They find the number. 131. Not her bus. No doubt it’ll come in another ten, maybe twenty minutes, Heidi’s mind ponders. Thirty—stretching it. Forty is plain silly, her mind tells her, unless there’s traffic.

After a bit of manoeuvring – squeezing through gaps of people, sidestepping, walking around close-together groups – Heidi finds herself sitting down on a bench. A metal bench. An unmanageable chill races up her back; her shoulders shudder. Then a gasp. The damp coat and trousers don’t help the situation.

Heidi’s hands open up her phone. The time reads 14:12. The battery reads—“oh, that’s fantastic,” her voice mumbles—6%. Not enough battery. The thought of listening to music to pass time vanishes from her mind. Disappointment reigns.

Instead, Heidi’s mind passes the time by watching, observing other people, eyeing them intently. Making mental notes. As a born writer, Heidi’s mind can’t help but create short stories for them. The story behind that little girl's shoes; the story behind that angry man’s conversation over the phone; the story between the couple sitting across from Heidi; the poor looking woman sitting next to her, reeking of stale cigarettes; how her mind buzzes at each story, their—

Dun. Dun. The intercom rings monotonously. An inarticulate message blares throughout the station. Heidi’s ears pick up not a word.

Her head cranes to the left, and through the rain, the watery windows, the plethora of car lights, and the greyness that holds it altogether, a red bus. Her bus. The bus. 121.

Heidi's body straightens, hand holding ticket.

Several people make a straight line. Heidi finds herself near the back.

The bus pulls up. Door slides open. The line moves on.

And Heidi goes. Wherever her feet take her.
He finally has his kill. Stabbed it straight through the chest with a sharp piece of wood – and some brute strength. It’s dead, this animal, beast, he heard its final yelp.

But he’s making sure: he circles the animal ritualistically, watching for movements. None. He makes an advance, eyes firm on the animal’s carcass. A gust of wind rushes pass the man and animal. The fur waves—shock fills the man. He thinks it’s moving. Stumbling to the floor, grunting, the man finds a rock and lobs it—thump-crack—the carcass budges. The rock rolls away.

He pants. Watches.

No movement.

The man doesn’t know any better. He doesn’t know the wind moves the fur or when an animal roars a dying cry it means death. If that carcass moves once, he’ll think it’s still alive. So he waits. He plays the waiting game. Eyes thin. Stare unfaltering. He expects the carcass to move. But after a minute, it doesn’t. Not even the fur.

He tries another rock. He tosses it. Misses.



And another.


Another minute passes. The man’s stomach rumbles. He hasn’t eaten for two days. And when he did eat, it was only a few berries. His stomach rumbles again as if protesting, ordering the man to make a move. He gets up. Takes the wooden spear out the animal’s chest. Grabs a leg. Walks.

He heads back to his personal spot, a depression under a tree, surrounded by bushes and an overhanging canopy. The man finds unexplainable comfort in the small space; there’s this cosiness he gets nowhere else. He heads through the small gap between the bushes, one he created himself.

He hauls the carcass before him, near the depression, and sits next to it. He snaps the spear in half, taking the pointy end – now basically a wooden knife – and starts hackings and stabbing at the fur, grunting and groaning with each strike. He hits guts, the treasure he needs. Discarding the wooden knife, he stuffs his hand through the hole and rips some flesh out, plops it in his mouth, chews, swallows, repeats. The smell of iron seeps into his nose. He doesn’t recoil in disgust, it doesn’t bother him. He’s starving.

Soon enough, the man stops eating and sits back. Blood covers his lips and lower cheeks in the shape of a deformed clown smile.

The bushes rustle.

And it’s not the wind.

The man becomes alert, his pulse thumping. More rustling. And then emerges an animal, grey fur–a bit scruffy—pointy ears, large snout, small gem-like eyes, yellow. The animal is small, thin, and definitely hungry. It’s a wolf, a whelp even.

Rage builds up in the man’s hands, they begin to quake. He hates them. Despises them. One took his hard-earned kill a few days ago, a bigger one at least. He searches for the wooden knife. He tossed it aside, he remembers. Then he sees it: next to the whelp.

The man, instead, starts to growl, bark; he makes unintelligible rabble in an attempt to scare the whelp off. Along with the growling, he waves his hands, strikes out into thin air. Nothing works. The whelp just stands there, eyes on the carcass, afraid to advance any further; fear stills its paws; uncertainty shakes its legs.

The man digs his hands into the soil, gets a handful of it and throws it at the whelp. It flinches, retreats a bit behind the bushes, and then sits, eyes on the carcass.

Finally, as a last resort, the man rips open the carcass and finds a bone. He’s used a bone before to hit an animal, to great effect as well, and since he can’t eat it – he’s tried numerous times, it just cracks his teeth – he’ll throw it. He yanks the bone free from the meat and throws it at the whelp. To the amazement of the man, the whelp leaps for the bone, and before it even lands, before it evens hits the leaves of the bushes, it catches the bone in its mouth. The whelp lies down and eagerly begins gnawing away at it.

There’s silence.

Confusion sets in. The man had predicted the whelp be scared of the oncoming bone. From what the man remembers, they’ve always been scared of things being thrown at them. But not this time.

Something clicks in his mind. He plunges his hand deep inside the animal’s carcass and retrieves another bone. Waits. The sound of content grunting and peeping drowns out the tweeting birds. And the man just waits, watching the whelp devour the bone.

After a few minutes, it’s gone.

The whelp comes up to all four and sees the bone in the man’s hand.

Instead of throwing it, the man, while crouched, approaches the whelp, making the comical movement of a penguin. Then, from punching distance, the man extends the bone to the whelp—sniff-sniff-sniff—the whelp examines it, its wet nose rubbing against the man’s fingers.

The whelp takes it and begins eating it.

And the man watches. Something stirs within him, an ungovernable emotion, one he hasn’t felt before, one that makes him smile and at ease.

Hours pass. The carcass remains half-eaten. And next to the carcass, in the depression under the tree, lies the man, and next to him, in complete bliss and content, the whelp, asleep, its tail cushioning its head.

Tonight, they sleep together.

And tomorrow, they awake together.
Yesterday, the UK voted in favour of supporting three-parent babies 3 to 1, 382 MPs voting yes and 128 voting no. The method was developed in Newcastle and should "help women like Sharon Bernardi, from Sunderland, who lost all seven of her children to mitochondrial disease."

You can read the rest here, explaining the method and what the Prime Minister and MPs have said -…

A short video explanation of the method -…

Some advocates from both for and against this method have said:


Bullet; Blue Prof Doug Turnbull, Professor of Neurology, Newcastle University: “This is very good news for patients with mitochondrial DNA disease and an important step in the prevention of transmission of serious mitochondrial disease"

Bullet; Blue Professor Dame Sally Davies, Chief Medical Officer for England: “The intention in making these regulations is to ensure that mothers who carry faulty mitochondria can have healthy children free from devastating and often deadly conditions caused by serious mitochondrial disease.

“It is important to remember that mitochondrial DNA represents less than 0.054 per cent of the total DNA, and is not part of the nuclear DNA, which determines our personal characteristics and traits such as personality, hair and eye colour.

“It is only right that we introduce this life-saving treatment as soon as we can so we can give hope to hundreds of UK families."


Bullet; Red Dr Trevor Stammers, Programme Director in Bioethics and Medical Law at St Mary's University: “Even if these babies are born they will have to be monitored all their lives, and their children will have to be as well.

“We do not yet know the interaction between the mitochondria and nuclear DNA. To say that it is the same as changing a battery is facile. It’s an extremely complex thing.”

Bullet; Red Dr Ted Morrow, Evolutionary Biologist, of the University of Sussex: "using donor DNA would be ‘unwise’ and cause even larger effects than previously seen.

“Remember Dolly the sheep? She died prematurely of an infection but the method used to clone her is similar to MR techniques

“There are a number of published studies that indicate genetic variation in the mitochondrial DNA influences an individual’s personality

“So swapping out the mitochondrial DNA from one person and replacing it with another will undoubtedly influence many different characteristics of an individual.”… - more for and against here.

The church of England, ahead of the vote, says the method (and the law) is "irresponsible". -…

What're your thoughts on three-parent babies? :?

Further Reading…… - Study by Professor Doug Turnbull… - Studies on animals (Provided by skulkey)

Edit: Thread layout
Edit 2: Added two further reading links
Edit 3: Added another FR


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Matthew Peter Wilcox
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
Howdy-do folks,

Matty is the name and using Photoshop and writing books is my game!


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REINPEIN Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday my good man Yukari Smile Icon 
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Dec 11, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank ye, thank ye, my good man :)
Rainbow-Flames24 Featured By Owner Oct 24, 2014  Student General Artist
Thank you for the llama! Rest assured, it will be well cared for.
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Oct 25, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome :D
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In addition, thank you for the watch!
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Thanks for the :llama: :hug:
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You too =) love llamas :hug:
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(: :hug:
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Thanks for the watch. Much appreciated. :)
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You too =D
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Thanks for the +fav 
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You're welcome!! =D
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Hey there Mattchewbackaar I was wandering if you could take a look at another short writing of mine to critique the grammar on it. I would so very much appreciate it.
Mattchewbackaar Featured By Owner Mar 9, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Of course! =) I'll get around to it as soon as. Is it the note you sent me?
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Thank you for the fave and Happy New Year!!
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No problemo! =) And thank you very much. Happy new year to you too, hope it's a good year for you =D
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Happy new year ! :party:
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Thank you very much! Happy new year to you too! =)
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Hey dear, happy birthday!! :party: :cake:
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Thank you very glad!! =D Had a great day!
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You're welcome, dear! :dummy: I'm glad you did! :)
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Happy Bday! :heart:

happy DA B-day :3  KimRaiFan's Bday Cake 
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Heyyyyyyyy hey!!

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hahahah you're welcome friend!
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