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Event 9: Me, Myself And... Challenge



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Sun Feb 16, 2014 12:01 am
LadySpark says...



Me, Myself And... Challenge



Summary: The Me, Myself And... Challenge is simple.

Okay, maybe it's not so simple. All you have to do is write a story in first person without using the word 'I'. Any other word (we, us, myself, me etc etc) is completely acceptable.

How to enter: Entries should be submitted in replies to this post.

Description:

Write a story in first person point of view without using the word 'I'. No less than 500 words, no more than 2,000. Keep it PG folks! Any posts that are not submissions should go in the DT thread.

Enjoy, and may the odds be ever in your favor.
hush, my sweet
these tornadoes are for you


-Richard Siken


Formerly SparkToFlame





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 12:45 am
Sassykat says...



The Words of Billy Joel

Spoiler! :
The words of Billy Joel, "In every heart there is a room, a sanctuary safe and strong," to some people may seem to some like a spewed mouthful of cheese or perhaps scattered sprinkles. Not to me. They resonate in my soul, over and over again, repeating themselves in my own mind-voice every chance they get. Warped, perhaps, sometimes mocking, but the poetry is always there.

There is no joy in this lull of thought. No soft smiles, no sighs of contentment. Why should there be, when they bring me not even the faintest hint of peace? No, they make me want to hit something. It's all wrong. Your words are wrong, Bill. Hearts don't have rooms. Minds do. Padded cells with nice little white hug jackets and belts that never break. It's not a sanctuary, it's a prison, and we put ourselves into it.

My best friend is very sick in this prison, and nobody wanted to take care of him for a long, long time. Except me. But there's only so much one crazy person can do for another. Or any person, for that matter. That's the problem with your 'room,' Bill. Those effing walls make everything so difficult. As much sticky-sweet caring and loving that went on between us, there was no sharing of the rooms to keep each other company. That's dangerous, deadly even. He can't stand being in his room, or any room. Who says someone like me can change that? No, it's too risky, he might hurt me. Like he hasn't already.

When he met me, there were a few weeks of us squirming between the wires that separated us until our fingers caught. On each other's, on the sharp snags in the metal, or what-have-you. Once we got hold of each other, there commenced an epic asylum battle. Wrenching, twisting, straining, pulling, trying to escape our rooms together. After a while of trying without success, he figured that there was only one way to do that, and almost let go of me as he tried to skewer himself on a jagged rod. Only then did the doctors come.

They came and took him away from me, putting him in a new place. A hospital. A prison within the prison he's already got. Maybe he'll be safe there, maybe not, all there is to do now is hope.

Until there's more to know, there's plenty of time for me to figure out how to untangle myself from this web of iron. My arms, my stomach, and my face are all covered in pressure marks and lacerations from when my strength to fight back finally left me and he pulled me closer and closer to him so he could whisper seductively in my ear all the mediocre and second-best qualities he found in me, how he only turned to me for friendship because there was no one else in Hello-Kitty to turn to. Thanks a lot. He had this heart to break and boy did he do his darnedest.

Don't get me wrong, Mr. Joel. Your song is beautiful. All of your music is. It's just wrong sometimes and it makes me angry because someone might take you too seriously.
Shakespearian tongue-twister:

To sit in solemn silence
In a dark, dank dock
In a pestilential prison
With a lifelong lock;
Awaiting the sensation
Of a short, sharp shock
Of a cheap, chippy chopper
On a big black block.





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 1:45 am
Hadj says...



We Stares at Eachother, We Eats in the Dark

They told me "You can't love yourself", and how wrong they were. How else could we stare at each other, so dreamily as we do, in this pond, this window of desire. That is, my reflection and myself. Without one another, we would not be, and so, we are one, yes? We stare at the perfection, always staring. It is not everyone that is one with their love. We is lucky. Yes, we is very lucky. We is the luckiest man in the world.
What is that? We hear noises....yesss noises in the darkness. We do not like to see the darkness. We like to see ourselves, we like to see our attractive light. But we look behind ourselves. Does someone dare to interrupt our romantic gaze? "Worry not my love, we will not let him stay. There can be no distractions when a love is so pure." There he goes, sneaking through the bushes. We bare a moment, looking away from each other's gorgeous facade, and we take a glance behind us. He is a sneaky one, we do not see him. There he is again, we sees him, yessss.. we sees him. We glance once again, into our eyes. We smile, and look back. Where is the sneaky one.... We do not like distractions, me and myself....No, we do not like them. The sneaky one comes out of the bushes. He is a child...children are sneaky. "Go away!" we hiss, and the child begins to cry. We grimace foully. Then we turn, stare back at one another, we smile. As we turn back to the distraction, we do not hide our anger.
"Lost..." he says "Can you help me?"
We hiss again. "Go away!" we shouts.
"Please...." stutters the child.
We do not likes children... "Apologies, my love, but we mustn't let him distract us.... And we is sooo hungry......" Yes...we is hungry. We have gazed so long, never parting from one another, never eating, so it is kind of him to bring it to us. Very kind of him- the sneaky one. We gets up and we face the child. His ugly face glistens with fear, but he does not move. We open our jaws, and our sharp, yellow teeth expand. We grab him by the shoulders, and we bites him. Ohhh yes, we bites him. We has not eaten in days, and he is so fresh. We shares the meal. It is very romantic. We wishes for a candle light, but all we gets is moon. Oh well. The meal is fresh....soooo fresh.... It wriggles though....yessss very wriggly the sneaky one. But that way it's fun... We likes fun. "You look beautiful my love" we says, as the cold, red juice drips from our teeth. "So beautiful."
The world is kind to bring us food. Sometimes we sing, the foods, they like that. We sing about each other, and we sing about our beauty. Very beautiful. Very handsome. They told me "You can't love yourself", and they were right. But myself can love me.
Last edited by Hadj on Sun Feb 16, 2014 12:47 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Lullabies and storybooks
And poems and other lies
Will make you happy and make you dream
But seldom make you wise





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 4:43 am
Dragoon120 says...



Shadow's Desire

We are the shadows that obey the Shadow King Umbram... They are the mortals that deny their truth. The truth, that inside, they are like us. That holds greed, lust, desire, pride, envy, and hatred. They are what makes us, what makes us the shadows that follows Shadow King Umbram's every call and beckon.
Should we hate the mortals?
No, we insignificant shadows of the sins of mortals do not bare a hatred for our creators. We do not attack out of spite toward them for creating us. We attack, because we are all manifestations from one central point of all this. We call him the Shadow King, but in reality, he is no different from us. Umbram only controls us, because we have no direction. We have no thought process outside of the mass of shadows, speaking in we and our, as if one conjoined consciousness. We are what mortals hate, what they deem to try and destroy.
Do we want this death brought upon us? No, we do not wish for our deaths any more than mortals wish for their own. We wish to live in peace, in self-loathing and our own sins... We do not wish to destroy our creators because it would mean death to us, their creations. Shadow King Umbram forgets this one aspect of our being. He forgets that sins only exist when there are sinners... The Nine gods knew this, they sought to destroy sin all in itself, and thus our existences wiped off the face of each and every Plain of Life...
So, as we march into the field of battle that is the soil of the great country Avron, we do not wish to. We will slaughter the mortals without feeling, but we do not mean to. We will bring an end to the Nine of Feathers, but this is not our intention... For we have no choice.
Umbram gives our final order, and we charge the opposing line. We do not speak, for thoughts have no true words. Magic does not utter a resistance to our passing of the veils that separate the Plain of Shadows and the Plain of Vita. We slaughter those that are in the way of our given destination, and we are sorry. We do not speak our apology, but we wish for the dead to know it.
As we head for this given destination, we silently ask the mortals for one thing. We, the shadows of mortal sins, ask for the one thing that all beings ask at one point. We ask for forgiveness, the forgiveness for the crimes we have committed. Not for living, we cannot choose that. We ask forgiveness for an outcome we cannot change.
We ask this as we face you mortals in the wake of Umbram''s end, and we plea for the answer. We beg, even if you cannot see it.
We speak for all the shadows, in our conjoined consciousness, and that is what we say. It is not our end, for mortal kind has not died, but it is why we sulk in our miserable existence in the forbidden places of Nevar. We do this, because you forever remain silent to our deafened ears...
We are the Shadows, hated and despised, but never gone. We follow you from dawn to dusk, at your feet within the candlelight of every night, and this is our story.
Last edited by Dragoon120 on Sun Feb 16, 2014 7:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 6:18 am
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Iggy says...



I don't know what this is. I just wrote it. >_>

Spoiler! :
"Have you ever had the urge to just leave this town?"

It was four in the afternoon. We were outside, at the park, holding hands. A plane had just taken flight above our heads, and we raised them, watching in awe as it flew off until it disappeared into the sky, leaving behind the white lines that slowly faded away.

"Did you really just ask me that?" My voice is soft, holding a tone meant to tease him, not chastise him.

He smiles and gently squeezes my hand. "Hush and just answer my question."

"Pretty sure everyone wants to leave this place, someday." My words are spoken with a sigh, and he nods in agreement.

"Well, just say the word and we'll leave."

"Right now?"

"Why not?"

A small laugh bursts forth from my lips and my eyes find his, those of which stare at me with love in the dark blue depths. "With what money? Where would we go? What would we do?"

"I have money saved up. We could go anywhere. Get married, raise a family. Somewhere away from this town."

"Michael, we can't just up and disappear. They would look for us."

He grins, reaching out to flick my nose, "Or would they?"

"They might.." My voice trails off as my brain whirls, consumed by the idea of running away.

"Just you and me, Samantha," he says, his lips brushing my ear. "This town is too small for a love like yours and mine. Nothing is keeping us here."

"What's the point in leaving? Everywhere we go, life will be hard. It's inevitable."

"But it might be easier in a new town, with a new start, and new people with new faces that don't know our past. A clean slate."

"What about the memories? The laughs and the tears, the pain and the happiness we experienced here? My mother is buried here, Michael. How can-" my voice breaks and my head shakes frantically, suddenly terrified at the idea he proposed. My lips stumble on the words, before managing to say, "-can't."

"You can't?" he says in amusement, smiling down at me.

"No."

"Then we won't leave. We'll just spend the rest of our lives here, visiting your mother's grave and going to that terrible high school of ours, and going to the community college. Then we'll get married and raise many kids and watch as they make mistakes, both old and new to us, and then watch as they bring our grandchildren into the world. We'll continue to come to this park that acts like our only salvation, our barrier against real life and fantasy, and lie down on this green grass and watch as planes take off and disappear into the sunset. Is that what you want?"

Another plane takes off as he speaks, and we resume watching as it closely follows the path of the previous plane. The lines it leaves intertwines with the lines that have almost completely faded, before those, too, fade away and blend in with the fluffy clouds. And then my lips part once more, to whisper, "Yes."
“I can't go back to yesterday because I was a different person then."
- Lewis Carroll





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 7:02 am
niteowl says...



This is a prequel of my "No E's" submission.

Spoiler! :
“Oh, Marta, you are too beautiful. You must go, get a better life in America.”

That’s what my mother had said, sending me to Moscow. They took pictures of me for the website, so the rich men could see what they like. They didn’t look like me—it seemed a man would take one look at me in person and claim the whole thing was a fraud.

It had only been a couple days before the first message came from a Mr. Ron Peterson. He seemed enamored with me instantly, using strange words like “luscious” and “radiant”. He said he was a man of refined tastes. As his wife, anything my heart desired would be mine.

A life of luxury in America would be a far cry from my life of next to nothing in Russia. He insisted on coming to gaze upon me in person. The agency said that he could say what he wanted, but any marriage was my decision alone.

The morning he came, they told me to wear the nicest dress in my possession. My new friend Ivana helped fix me up so my photos perhaps would not look so deceiving. A limousine pulled up and Mr. Ron Peterson exited.

“Marta!” He greeted me with a brief kiss. His lips felt rough, but he did smell nice. Ivana said the men normally reek. He stepped back, appraising me.

“Wow. You look… dazzling. Your photo is dust in comparison.” My cheeks flushed. Though Mr. Ron Peterson was older, he was surprisingly handsome. His hair was gray but styled well, and his green eyes still shined like a younger man. He was one of those men where the lines on his face add character instead of just making him look old. Perhaps being his wife would not be so bad after all.

“Thank you, Mr. Peter—“

“Please, call me Ron.”

“Well, thank you, Ron.”

“You are most welcome, my lady. Allow me to take you to lunch. Anything you want, no matter the cost.”

We gorged on food and wine finer than anything from my previous life. The day went by quickly as we explored Moscow, sharing stories and laughing. On the way to dinner, he grabbed my hand. It felt smooth, warm, like it could squeeze away all of my worries. As dessert came, he went down on one knee.

“Oh, Marta, today has been too wonderful. Let me try to bring you joy that you have already brought me.” The ring he offered with his proposal was large beyond imagination. It seemed so sudden, but wasn’t that how it went? He seemed very kind, and from the stories other ladies told, such suitors as Mr. Peterson were rare. Finally, my lips formed an answer.

“Yes.” He slipped the ring on my finger, then stood up to kiss me. Not a greeting kiss this time, but a lover’s kiss. When boys had kissed me before, they felt timid, inexperienced. But Mr. Peterson was stronger, demanding but not too forceful. When it ended, it was nice to think there would be many more to come.

The next day, he took me to a bridal salon filled with wedding dresses. He watched me model gown after gown, finally picking one and saying it was perfect. The price tag was more than my mother would make in a year. Would everything Mr. Peterson—Ron—owned so expensive?

The church was almost empty—just me, Ron, the priest, a man from the agent, and Ivana. She seemed worried about how quickly this all transpired, but she said Ron didn’t seem like the normal slimeballs that come through the agency. When my mother heard the news, she cried in joy and wished that she could come. But there was no time—our flight to New York would be the next day.

“You may now kiss the bride!” And with that, Ron kissed me for the third time. In exchange for a new life in America, he owned me. From now on, my name would be Mrs. Ron Peterson.
"You do ill if you praise, but worse if you censure, what you do not understand." Leonardo Da Vinci

<YWS><R1>





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 1:34 pm
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wonderland says...



I'm calling this 505.

Spoiler! :
She is so beautiful. The wind is blowing her hair into her face, and she’s laughing as she lets me push it away. We’re walking along the bridge, and the sun is setting. We could look down and see sapphire waves kissing the sand. People pass, and we watch runners jog, and a lady walk with her hideous, tiny dog, the dog licking the woman’s wrinkled lips.
Her little hand clutches mine, and she smiles at me. She has heard me say too many times that her smile is my favourite thing in the world. We sit on a bench together, and she puts her head on my chest. My heart rate slowly speeds up, and my eyes flicker shut, but just for a moment. She jabs her elbow into my side, my eyes opening and following her pointed index finger at someone in passing.
This might be love, the way my heart freezes when she kisses me, how my mind whirs when she’s right next to me. We haven’t even been together that long-a couple years and counting. She’s a commitmentphobe; she told me that the day she agreed to be my girlfriend. She told me that this would not end well, not by a long shot.
We are determined to make it work.
She makes an offhanded comment about something, having to repeat it a couple of times before the meaning sinks in. Then she kisses me on my neck. Her wide brown eyes are searching my face, pleading, almost begging. The sunset pulls my eyes away, and we are unable to make eye contact for several long moments.
Names sit on the tip of my tongue-nasty, brutish names. My hands are shaking and red is clouding my vision. My breathing stops and it is hard to start again. She’s talking, scared, and angry. When she’s scared or angry, her speech speeds up.
Currently, she’s almost talking too fast for me to understand, and she’s shaking her head. She stops to take a deep breath, and she’s off again, explaining things that don’t even really matter. My hands are shaking, and fighting to steady them, she turns towards me.
Her eyes are filled with tears, and it is an all-too familiar look. We could not count how many times this has happened. This relationship was like walking a thin bridge over lava. Neither of us could win, and we would probably end up dying.
People are staring as she is screaming at me, full-blown screaming. Words are spilling out of my mouth, and she’s yelling back, hitting me with everything she has, and she falls to the ground, shaking.
People are still staring. We seem to have drawn a crowd. The woman with the hideous dog is staring right at me, probably thinking what everyone else is thinking as well.
She pulls herself up, and she’s dropped her voice to a whisper. Mine is still loud, piercing the air around us. She screams at the crowd to leave-how vile is it that they were watching this personal moment-we were having in public.
The crowd disperses and she turns to me, chest heaving, tears streaming down her face.
She suddenly going on about how it’s ruined, how we should give up, and she’s collecting herself and my eyes are stuck on her, and how she runs her hands though her hair, angrily wiping tears from her face, not caring as they drip onto the rough wooden planks under our feet.
She kisses me, cutting off another one of my angry, meaningless sentences, and we’re swirled in moments in heated, angry passion. No one could ever say that we weren’t passionate, that this wasn’t some form of twisted love.
She was going to leave, and we both knew it.
It wouldn’t happen that day, or that week, no. It would happen gradually and soon she’d start moving her things back into her mothers. Soon she’d stop laughing at my bad jokes, giving in to the awkward silence that had permanently settled around us. She’d stop kissing me, almost curling away from my lips against hers.
Then she’d be gone.
'We will never believe again, kick drum beating in my chest again, oh, we will never believe in anything again, preach electric to a microphone stand.'

*Formerly wickedwonder*





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 5:26 pm
Elinor says...



THIS WAS HARD.

Here you go.

--
It comes in flashes; pedaling my bike furiously as the crowd cheers me on; being the first one to cross the finish line. Watching the recap later and hearing the commentators.
“Hannah Connor, the first time Olympian from Connecticut, has won the gold medal!”
Then The Star Spangled Banner plays as someone drapes the medal around my neck a crowd looks on. Among them are my parents and my older brother. They find me, hug me, give me a bouquet of flowers. A reporter interviews me. Commercials, photo shoots, a magazine runs a feature…
“Hannah?”
Mr. Isaac’s voice jolts me back to reality. The other students in the class are all staring me. Economics is my least favorite class, but unfortunately it’s required for graduation.
“Yes?”
He points to the table. “How many workers should the firm hire?”
On the chalkboard there’s some table Mr. Isaac’s drawn with something about opportunity costs. It’s all gibberish to me.
“Um….”
Then Mr. Isaac comes over to my desk and takes my notebook out of my hands. My stomach goes in a knot. There are no notes about Economics. Instead, Mr. Isaac sees my pages and pages of doodles.
The class is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
“Daydreaming in my class isn’t going to get you anywhere,” he says to me, throwing my notebook back down onto my desk. “And that goes for all of you. This is a college level class. You are all upperclassmen.”
The whole time, Mr. Isaac’s eyes are laser focused on me. My whole body starts to shake. A moment of silence hangs in the air before he returns to his lecture.
“Alright, does anyone else know how many workers the firm should hire…yes, Elissa?”
“Four.”
“Four is correct….”
Mr. Isaac starts to babble on again. It takes everything to hold back the tears that come to my eyes.
To think, it’s only February. Still four more months of the empty nothingness that is school before the summer. And even then, it’s only my junior year. There will be one more year of high school come the fall.
This summer is going to be amazing. It’ll be warm enough to get back on my real bike, so my physical fitness won’t only rely on the gym. Not that there’s anything wrong with the gym, and it’s still necessary in the summertime, but my favorite part of biking is actually, well biking. That means a lot of time with Natalie, my coach. She’s a real inspiration to me because she was actually in the Olympics when she was a little older than me. She didn’t medal, and was going to come back to the next Olympics but started a family instead.
But none of that is now.
Four more months of this. My grades have been slipping recently just because it’s been growing harder and harder to care about school. Yet my parents refuse to pull me out.
“Hannah, if you want to be in the Olympics one day, you’ve got to at least get your high school diploma,” they said to me. “We don’t want sports to be your whole life. There are plenty of Olympians who had a normal high school education.
The bell rings, finally. My next class is English, which is a little more enjoyable, but still, none of this is the real me. Walking the through the halls makes me feel like a rodent, an urchin who doesn’t belong. Somewhere else happiness will find me, but not here, not this moment.

All our dreams can come true — if we have the courage to pursue them.

-- Walt Disney





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 5:55 pm
Nike says...



It was me and him. All the world surround us, but all the thoughts in my head were of myself. He had this great smile that made my heart do a little dance. And the way he spoke to me made me feel like he maybe thought of me as someone special. It was heart wrenching to see him hold another girls waist, without thinking twice about me.

"He flirts with everyone..." my friend Georgette said. We call her Georgie.

"Yeah, it's obvious. There was something in me always telling me not to fall for it, but it never worked." you could hear the tiredness in my voice.

Gerogie smiled, resting her hand on my back as if trying to make me feel safe. Looking up, he had his eyes on me. My throat closed up. Georgie followed my gaze and and her jaw dropped as she stared with me. Then, she focused her attention on me again.

"Go," she urged.

"He might not even be looking at me." this was better than saying, Yeah, he likes me.

"Don't do that. He might be looking. You deserve to try." she said.

Standing up, my legs began to wobble underneath me. This was it. It's the time to finally admit it. Stumbling, my feet managed to find the floor and walking turned extremely easy. There were only a few steps to take to reach him.

"Lizzie, hey." he said, lifting his hand off of that girls' waist and taking mine. His touch made my body tingle. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you too." my breathing was so quick, it was hard to catch my breath.

"You look great," he sighed, looking down my body. It made me feel naked.

"Thanks," My hands found their way to the back of his neck and my fingers started to play with his hair. He didn't seem to mind at all.

"Wanna dance?"
“There is no need to call me Sir, Professor.”





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 7:30 pm
Storybraniac says...



Me, myself and my bully

So, guess what happened today? My worst enemy, Billy the bully got suspended for three weeks. Three weeks of freedom. Three weeks of doing whatever we want to do. Though I'm not sure why we are so happy as Billy gets suspended every month. At least we don't have to bow down before him for goodness sake. The cafeteria will not be filled with the anoying songs of Billy (Billy actually sings our ears off at school). So me and my friends felt like throwing a party or something.

Guess what happened today? Billy's suspension got cancelled. Billy tortured Ron, one of my friends to go and witness for him to the principal and by hearing what he told, it's obvious the principal would have cancelled his suspension.

"He helped me carry my books which fell down the hallway when Somebody made me trip over a rope." Not true.

"He cleaned the school grounds after school before the workers came." So not true.

"He cleaned the toilets which were stinky as no one cared to flush the toilets." Definitely not true.

So you could have guessed that they are just normal jobs, but not for Billy. He hardly does any work. All he does is eat, sleep, go to the school and warm up the chairs, watch tv and play video games. He is so fat that his shirt might tear up in front of the class. His nose are so big that you might see his boogers almost pop out. His singing is so horrible that you might not be able to sleep for three weeks, and if you would eventually fall asleep, you would have nightmares about him destroying your eardrums. And now we have to go through all his songs, tortures and stupid boogers.

Guess what happened today? Billy got suspended the day after his freedom from suspension for breaking the trophy shelf. He almost broke a trophy given for the best school in the city. And now no more horrible songs, seeing his terrible boogers or his dirty teeth. He eats like anything, even a school cafeteria meatloaf with somebody's bubble gum in it. He's so gross. Me and my friends just hope his suspension doesn't get cancelled.

Guess what happened today? Billy's suspension got cancelled. Nobody can believe he can do such a thing. Another friend of mine, was forced to change the marks on his report card by Billy and the principal actually believed the marks and cancelled his suspension, thinking that he's been spending more time on his studies. But We don't have to worry for too long. I'm sure he'll get expelled tomorrow. And then the same thing will go on and on.
This is the life of Me, Myself and my bully.
Our thing progresses
I call and you come through
Blow all my friendships
To sit in hell with you
But we’re the greatest
They’ll hang us in the Louvre
Down the back, but who cares? Still the Louvre.

- Lorde

In my head I do everything right





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 8:09 pm
CreativelyWritten says...



"Really?" They asked me. Their words assaulted my ears and tears flooded my eyes. "You're a failure, plain and simple."
How could they say such things to me? Being their child you'd think they'd be nicer to me. My body made of theirs, my soul molded by their words. My shoulders hunched around me, my knees gave way and the crying began. Cried in earnest as my mother's harsh laughter reached my ears.
"You aren't our daughter." My father kicked out at me and a yelp escaped me.
'Would anyone care if my soul ceased to exist? Would anyone noticed if the body imprisoning me decomposed?' Words bit into my brain, like angry bugs picking at my morale, at my resolve.
Crawling resolutely, my aching body takes me to my bed. Laying upon it, my soul crumbles and my heart yearns for the sweet release of sleep. A yearning beyond all that can be bared fills me and my body is wracked with sobs. A low moaning resounds in my ears and fills me with confusion. After a while the realization that the moaning is coming from my own body hits me. How on earth did my existence turn so rapidly downhill? One person who loved me, who cared what happened to me, would make me happy beyond compare.
Sleep finally takes me, draws a thick heavy veil over my brain. Sweet release is finally mine. Dreams of better days fill my sorrowful brain. My soul soars.
Unfortunately the harsh reality of day wakes me. A dull throbbing is pounding my skull; this is a consequence of crying myself to sleep. Rolling out of bed takes all of my effort but somehow it is manageable. My feet drag as they take me downstairs, to the table where hopefully none of my family reside at yet.
But of course that isn't the case. My younger sister and older brother sit side by side at the table. Benjamin, like our parents, despises me in my entirety. Rose is too young to know hate and therefore she shows me kindness. Still a certain contempt reaches me from her eyes. But with a small shock the realization that she may actually love me, the pariah of an otherwise happy family, hits. An intelligence beyond her years sits behind her eyes. She pretends not to like me to please Mom and Dad but the small gestures she shows me everyday let me know she does care. Rose always smiles at me when she thinks no on is watching, she passes me her food scraps late at night when everyone else is sleeping and often she asks me to help her with her homework even though it's apparent she doesn't need it. She hides these things not because she is afraid but because she knows it would get me in more trouble, that it would cause me more pain.
Rose casts a furtive glance at Benjamin who is immersed in his phone, no doubt texting a girlfriend that hates me every bit as much as he. She smiles at me and hands me a slice of her toast beneath the table.
"My love goes to you Rosie. Thank you."





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 8:45 pm
TimmyJake says...



And here is my addition!

The Water Cycle


Spoiler! :
A single drop of water clinging so close to others. Vibrating when coming close to heat, and becoming light, eventually floating high in the sky. Expanding when turning cold, and becoming hard and brittle or soft and light, whichever the weather decides.

Yes, the life as a drop of water, but we survive. It is somewhat similar to moving all the time, never being truly home. Like we don’t belong anywhere-constantly shifting from shape to shape-never coming to rest.

Well, that isn’t entirely true. We do rest… for a time. In the ocean, surrounded by countless other water drops, we are finally home. We can finally rest. And when we are deep, deep down in the ocean’s core, with nothing but water and the ocean bottom around me, everything becomes relaxed.

To tell you the truth, life as a water droplet is quite hectic. As you all know, our cycle first begins most likely in the ocean. Come on! Isn’t it glaringly obvious when there is so much water in the ocean compared to everywhere else? So that is where my group of water droplets began, at least as far as we can remember. It has been a while.

Being evaporated is a painful business, almost unbearable to stand. Imagine this: The sun bears down on you, and you are cold because you are on the surface of the ocean, a place that you don’t like to be, but sometimes have to.

The heat just bores into you, as if it is trying to reach your soul and tear it apart. Then you start vibrating uncontrollably, and you start separating yourself from the other water out of pure instinct, not even thinking. A few moment later and you have left your friends down in the cold ocean and the entire world is floating beneath you like a dream.

Seeing the world beneath us is so beautiful, and once we get over the aftereffects of being evaporated, we start to fully appreciate the landscape.
The vast ocean rolled out beneath you, lying there in complete calmness as if it is contemplating the worst. And the worst is something we see quite often.

Roaring waves, torrents of water swelling over each other in endless harmony, working their way towards land, until they crash over and smash into rocks. Swirling whirlpools of bubbling water, lying in wait for unsuspecting ships and beasts to fall into its trap.

And then slowly we approach the land. Hills and valleys spread out in a surreal landscape before me. The sun shines down onto the ground, filtered through the clouds. It almost looks like some artist took his hand and etched the ground into rises and dips, smoothing the ground out in valleys with the palm of his hand. Some stalwart farmer, always at work to carve the earth into a more beautiful place.

But we are that hand. That whole land beneath me was once covered in water. This vast stretch of dry dirt was once thousands of feet below the surface of the water. We carved out the canyons and jagged peaks. And then we quietly withdrew, leaving the world to be etched out in a more subtle way.

We drift closer to the land, until we come completely over it. Here we will begin our cycle again, etching the land out while we travel to the ocean, where we will begin our journey back in the ocean.
Last edited by TimmyJake on Sun Feb 16, 2014 10:28 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Used to be tIMMYjAKE





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 9:29 pm
Blackwood says...



The Fat people.


Spoiler! :
Sigh. This horrible duty has been stuck to me. It is the worst duty you could ask for.
___ Basically, the USA has gone into a state of emergency. The land is warring from the inside out, slowly corrupting everything and everywhere. In response to that, their government has begun to ship hordes of their common classed people to other countries where they are to be temporarily hosted in volunteer bunkers.
___ My patron is one of these volunteers. A rich mansion owner with all the money he could ask for, and all the fun he could want. The job as one of his many assistants had initially come as a great honour to me, but now, being assigned this task, is hell.
___ In our case, there isn’t really a bunker. Instead its one of the large, secure rooms of the mansion, sort of a shallow stone basement with only one door. It’s better than what most of those Americans could ask for, as the conditions are no better anywhere else. At least these ones get a high class building.
___ In short, the Americans are disgusting. You can’t open the door, nor go in, because if you do they will begin to rage and frenzy, trampling you to death. They are all cramped and disgusting and dirty, yet none of them seem to care. We activate the ceiling sprinklers once a day to wash them, and then pump out the fresh warm air of the heaters to dry them, but it’s no use. You can never get rid of the gross stench of their sweat.
___ Although it was something that had wanted to be avoided, for human rights issues you know, it has come down to me locking and bolting the door, simply because they really are uncontrollable.
___ It all started with this one fat whale of a woman, always shoving her 200kg of disgustingness against the simply secured door, and lingering in the hallway, dirtying the carpets, and polluting the interior atmosphere. She was really a sight not to see... the pink floral shirt had stretched so far over her large flaps it was almost transparent.
___ These Americans had signed a contract to allow them to be here while their country was in this state. They were not allowed to waltz around like they owned this place, and had to accept whatever conditions they were given until the time was up.
___ What more, this woman was completely rude to me, which further fuelled my choice for installing the high-tech control system on the door. Basically, you could fit at least five of me into one of her, and she seemed to know this. She took every opportunity to call out of my pleasant weight, clean smell, proper accent, and proper fashion sense.
___ The front security men had to be called in order to shove her back in the door. It took a good three of them.

___ My foot taps impatiently as the updates from America blurt out of the crappy radio. Today is a day to expect something good.
___ “We would like to notify all hosts of American temp-refugees that te contract with the USA Government is now void. All of their citizens have been requested to be deported back from where they came from.
___ The laugh of joy almost overwhelms me. This is great news. This is fantastic news. No more controlling that mass of animals, no more having to list to their complaints. We had tried to give them a healthy diet, but apparently one kid had died because he refused to eat any vegetables. It was not something easily manageable.
___ This was fantastic. All of them will soon be gone. Shipped back. The trucks must be called and prepared. It will commence immediately.
___ Using the microphone to communicate with the mass on the other side of the door, my announcement started.
___ “Attention Americans. The bunker operation is now void. Repeat: the bunker operation is now void. You will be evacuated from the premises as soon as possible. Please assemble in a line according to fatness, with the fattest at the back.”
___ The line of fatness was a result of my genius solution to prevent them from surging the door. After the first horrible instance of the entire house nearly being crushed, a door with retractable stinging blades had been installed. The blades open just wide enough for the next person of the right fatness to pass through, while if anyone pushes quickly, or shoves another, they will be stung by the blade.
___ The evacuation procedure begins. My fingers fun across the control buttons and my own assistants begin to arrange the Americans toward the deporting trucks. This is a good day.
Hahah....haha.....ahahaha.





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 9:39 pm
TakeThatYouFiend says...



Author's note:as a reader you will be very confused. I use both the plural we and the royal we. Hehe! I am a poetry, (mainly dogeral) writer, so excuse the poem-like plotline.


Why did he have to die? We must have been the only two monarchs to have ever really loved each other, and, although we certainly weren't the first monarch to become a widower, (some did so quite deliberately,) it seems quite unfair for it to have happened to us.
We have, we believe, given him a suitable grieving. We have worn black to mourn his death for two years now. Yet for all the time we weep for his death we do not get any happier. We do not bring Albert back. Our whole country, no, our whole empire laments his death. Sometimes we wonder if it makes him feel better, having all those people weeping for him. We wonder if his funeral made a difference, made him weep to remember us. For surely it is as hard for him as it is for me, as we are separated by the same distance. But we will never know.
We have often considered joining him. Were we a weaker person we would have done, we're sure. But, sadly, we have a country to run, an empire to reign, subjects to rule.
We never used to refer to ourselves in the plural. Not before Albert died. Yet when he did, he only lived in our memories. We knew he only lived in our memories, so we had to never forget him. And now we think we refer to ourselves in the plural, so we-that is, me and Albert-are the same person. This way he won't die until we die, and then we will be together, so it won't matter. We guess that is why we never killed ourselves.
But, despite our self consolation; The grieving and the funeral, the singularity of the plural and our memories; We still wish we could be with him. Why did you die. And Albert, your Queen is not amused.
You know that studded leather armour in films? Nobody wore that. I mean, how would metal studs improve leather armour?





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Sun Feb 16, 2014 9:46 pm
Sonder says...



Spoiler! :
Often the dreams become too much to bear. Night after night, they attack relentlessly, tearing in the windows as soon as one eyelid brushes the other, wrestling with my worn body night after wretched night.
My screams are beginning to be ignored. At first, my parents and older brother, Jared, would streak in at the first whimper, quick to shake me from my personal hell. My eyes would meet theirs, feral, like a wild animal, and they would back away in fear. One time my hands had flailed about violently, caught on Jared's face, and broke his nose. He has never looked at me the same way since.
My parents had rushed me to the hospital for emergency check-ups, desperate for an answer. What horrors caused their youngest daughter, the baby of the family, to be seized in such fits and be transformed into a monster when she woke? The doctors had no answers. My sleep-deprived shell of a body was poked and prodded and put through many tests, but each one yielded no results, and only succeeded in making me feel more and more like a monster.
Now, my room is empty, save for the screams, as they attack nonstop. My family has given up on me.
"This world is but a canvas to our imagination."
~Thoreau








trust your heart if the seas catch fire (and live by love though the stars walk backward)
— E.E. Cummings