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Event 4: Sentimental Stories



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Mon Aug 08, 2016 3:20 pm
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Sujana says...



Expectant

Spoiler! :
​Three is the law of the universe.

There are always three bears, three brothers, three tests to win the princess, three lines before repetition becomes significant. There is the body, the mind, the soul. The land, the sea, the sky. Biology, Physics, Chemistry. Three is the most beautiful number, a number of eternity.

The one is the birth of the Universe.

Imagine the darkness before the light, the contentment of nonexistence, the peace of silence. The first particles, fusing, merging. Changing. Violently changing. It’s a revolt, fiercer than the Devil’s, louder than life’s, more insignificant than any war waged by man. Imagine you. Imagine me. Imagine the battered copy of Republic against your purple knuckles, the red in your cheeks. You called me “geek” because that’s what everybody else calls you. The bus stop is quiet. Evening sets, and the lamp lights flicker on. Your face burst to life.

Four is the number of construction.

I know, because when I was four-years old there were four pillars holding up my room, four legs holding up my chair, four feet raising my bed, four limbs allowing me to function in everyday life. So the second time I met you, I bought you four books about philosophy, and I told you four jokes about mathematics, but you didn’t laugh once. But I didn’t mind. I can’t mind, not with you. I’d try as many times as I’d like, as long as it was for you. And besides—I made you laugh the fourth time we met, at least.

I first recited pi when I was fifteen-years old.

Because you were never impressed by how I could calculate the height of a skyscraper by looking at its shadow, or the distance of a most certainly dead star. You were never impressed by me calculating how fast we could accelerate on your parents’ Volvo without hitting a tree, or how much friction you’d need to hit the brake. I sung, but the notes were only dissonant to you. I was reading a story in French, dripping mathematical splashes you called ‘meaningless’. But pi isn’t mathematics. Pi is a story. And I knew how much you loved stories.

Nine is for that time someone called nine-one-one when I broke your window.

I swore to your parents I was only passing by, but admittedly I could’ve been more convincing if I hadn’t stored so many pebbles in my jacket. It was a mathematical error on my part; I forgot to take into account the shape and weight of the pebble before throwing it. “You’re capable of mistakes?” You laughed after I got out of the precinct, ten minutes before my folks would give me the standard admonishment. “And here I thought you were just a good-looking calculator.”

And I looked at you, brow arched, amused. “You call me good-looking?”

You shook your head. I thought I saw a familiar red on your face. “I have low standards.”

Two is for two A.M in the morning, when you caught on.

Maybe I had recited a hundred and two digits too much. Maybe you realized the peculiarity of having a mathematician constantly trying to impress a writer. It didn’t matter, whatever it was. The bus stop was there. The bus stop would always be there, for the both of us. You weren’t holding the Republic anymore—Carnegie replaced Plato. “Why are you still here?” You asked. Concerned. Eager.

I had arched a brow. Concerned. Eager. “Shouldn’t I be?”

Your eyes were steaming blue, the hotter colors of fire, studying me like a test problem. “Not for this long,” You concluded, zipping your jacket up. “Not for people like you.”

We stood in silence for a little while, unexplained. Content. Your eyes flickered, again, before turning back to the book. “I can’t satisfy you,” you said, “I can never satisfy you. If I could, I would. But I don’t. I don’t understand what the numbers mean. I don’t understand what you see.” You paused. Perhaps out of guilt. “I don’t understand why you haven’t left already.”

In that moment—in that short moment where the only thing that stood between us was the descending evening and the inevitable bus stop coming to carry us both away—I realized I didn’t, either. I never did. I had recalled the numbers, over and over again in my mind, and they never stopped. They stretched out, too far for me to understand, too far for anybody to understand, too far for the entirety of human existence to comprehend. But that wasn’t the point of pi. That wasn’t the point of numbers. Understanding was never the point of us.

“Three,” I had began, slowly, as the sky turned black, “Three point one, four, one, nine, two…”

And I continued. I continued, for what felt like a peaceful eternity, surrendering all hope of meaning or explanation. I chanted and recited, until I had felt your lips pressed against mine. Until the streetlight flicked on, and we both understood.
"For with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief."

Ecclesiastes 1: 18





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 3:51 pm
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Lightsong says...



Optimistic

Spoiler! :
Today, the scorching sun became a Pluto, ignored. The thought of getting the things out of the store, the effort to do that, didn’t disturb him. The gas cylinder felt light as he dragged it out to the pavement. It felt like only seconds had passed when he took out thirty containers of flavors to the upper surface of the store, acting as the table at which he placed the necessary items and made the cool beverages.

He should’ve complained as usual of how there was no fan to cool him off and avoid his shirt from getting too sweaty it could be noticed by the customers. He should’ve complained how the first customer only arrived after an hour the stall was set up. Most importantly, he should’ve complained about this job when knew he could take a better one.

But he didn’t. He didn’t complain about all of these because on that day, he thought they were all irrelevant details of his everyday life. The sky wasn’t dominated by the sun’s brilliant light. Most of it was painted a clear blue with misty clouds as decoration. The towel he had was enough to wipe off the glistening sweat on his face, and he wouldn’t be wearing the shirt for too long.

He would change his clothes soon, because it was time to grab the opportunity he’d been waiting patiently. He would ask his brother to send him to the bus station opposite the CIMB bank, and from there the bus would take him to KL Central. He would go to a popular bookstore in the shopping complex and listened to the panel discussion made by acclaimed authors.

And that wouldn’t be the best thing ever. After that, he would submit the short story he had been working for a while - it was around 10 000 words - to the authors for a chance of it being published. He wouldn’t give only one, though. Two more short stories were ready to be printed. The more the merrier.

He knew there was no guarantee they would choose his over other submissions, but this was a chance he’d be willing to take. He didn’t lose anything if they didn’t accept his works; he would find other opportunities that would sure fall like rain. He would come back to his job as a beverage maker and seller, and to be honest, it was a noble deed to help your parents like that, even if the environment wasn’t exactly accommodating.

If his pieces won the authors’ hearts, then he could smile to those who doubted him and say, ‘I told you so.’
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 3:55 pm
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Rydia says...



I don't think anyone has repeated an emotion yet and I shan't be the first!

Absorbed

Spoiler! :
Mike Peters was on his thirty-fourth petri dish of the morning and his pen moved fluidly over the page as he recorded his findings. 5ml of the thirty-fourth adaptation of the anti-CD47 drug had caused the tumor cells to shrink by 2% when combined with the macrophages; a pitiful movement if truth be told.

“Mike?”

The pen stopped moving but Mike did not look up; he placed his pen parallel to his note paper and filled a pipette from the bottle, tipping it slightly to get the last of the liquid. Mike squeezed three precise drops into the petri dish and then it was back into the laboratory water bath with that one. Mike took out sample thirty-five and picked up his pen.

“One percent tumor shrinkage. Underwhelming.” Mike’s hands moved like clockwork: write with pen, put down pen, pick up bottle of solution and pipette and-

“Mike.”
The voice was clearer this time but it wasn’t what caused Mike to break from his work but instead the realisation that his pipette was now useless when inserted into an empty bottle.

“Always on the thirty-fifth – I must remember the solution runs out on number thirty-five,” Mike insisted as he crossed the laboratory to the small cabinet beside the door. He didn’t fail to notice that also beside the door was his colleague Georgina, the one responsible for repeating his name in such a distracting manner.

As Mike’s fingers closed on the bottle of solution, Georgina pressed her hand over his and the bottle was cocooned under their layers, like the inner most segment of a Russian doll. She probably meant it to be a protective gesture but Mike frowned at her hand as he waited for her to say her piece. Always on number thirty-five; he had to write that down.

“Mike, I think you’d better take a break for a moment, I- Mike, it’s not good news.”

“Then dispense with it – quickly. I don’t have the time.”

Mike did the math efficiently in his head: 92 more of this particular experiment and 35 to a bottle meant 3 more bottles would see him through to the end. He took them from the cupboard with his free hand, even as Georgina placed her second on top of the first.

“Mike, your dad, he- your dad passed away last night.”

Mike said nothing for a moment as he felt the warmth of her hands on the top of his own and the coolness of the bottle against his palm. Then he pulled his hand abruptly from the heat and returned to his desk.

“Thirty-five, that’s all a bottle’s good for.”
Writing Gooder

~Previously KittyKatSparklesExplosion15~

The light shines brightest in the darkest places.





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 4:03 pm
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PenguinAttack says...



lonely

Spoiler! :

Meet me at the corner, that's what they said in the movies. Girl licking her top lip, unsure and a little excited, looking away and toward all at once as she sets out the plan. Across from her, grinning and sure, zipping and unzipping the bottom of his jacket, the boy is already outlining what he'll tell his parents to get out late.

It didn't happen that way for me. I sat cold and awkward in the back of Mark's lime green ute, hair whipping in my face. I heard a girl giggle somewhere to my right, squished between three other people and a dog. When I closed my eyes, I could hear the tred of tyres on the road, could hear the soft breaths from the boy pressed to my side. He didn't look at me; I watched the flatbed in the window reflection, not bothering to make out faces in the dark. It was twenty minutes in the cold, my right side the only warm part of me, my thigh burning where his had been. Then it was the cold, dark beach.

It was his hands, lithe pianist hands, artist's hands. Sitting on her shoulders they were spiderweb soft. I was watching them as the tide came in, backlit by the ute’s too bright lights and someone’s brash laugh. Sitting on the embankment the cold set tremours into my knees, my shoulders, until the sensation in my fingers disappeared. Mark called for me somewhere in the darkness, just beyond the ute’s thick shine. Looking away, I rubbed my lips, warmth seeping into the whorl of my fingers. The call felt like an echo of a wave, a riptide in the moment of pulling away. Mark felt a lot like that too, and when he found me by the dunes, I swept away.
I like you as an enemy, but I love you as a friend.





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 4:56 pm
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NympheaLily says...



Lost
Spoiler! :
I found myself in a void of darkness. There was no light, no life, nothing at all. The place smelled of grief. How...? I reached out, trying to grasp something, anything that would bring me back to the world I knew but nothing was there. I called for help, but no one came. I curled into a ball, squeezing my eyes shut. This had to be a dream...

"Oh but it isn't." I opened my eyes and looked around. In the darkness, there floated a figure, who was glowing. It was a feminine figure who was very good looking. However, her beautiful figure was corrupted by her demon attributes. She had scary wings, a tail, and her eyes were red.

"Who are you?" I asked, shaking.

"Who am I?" she purred, "My dear, I am you! I am a fragment of your mind. My name is Desire. I'm everything you wanted." I opened my mouth to say something, but another figure appeared. This one was a bit different. The figure was male and was hunched over. He seemed to have a huge weight on his shoulders that was impossible to let go of.

"I am Burden," he said tiredly, "I am everything you have to do and everything you must bear." After Burden spoke, more figures appeared around me, all facing me and trapping me in a circle. All of them had a demonic appearance, giving me chills.

"I am Greed. I am everything you couldn’t have.”

“I am Envy. I am everything you saw in others that you were jealous of.”

“I am Pain. I am everything that hurt you.”

“I am Guilt. I am everything you could’ve saved.”

“I am Depression. I remind you of everything wrong with you.”

“I am Anxiety. I am everything you are nervous about.”

“I am Phobia. I am your fears.” As every demon introduced themself, I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness. My legs were absorbed and I could no longer float. I was no longer free in my own thoughts. Each of the demons told me they were fragments of me, every thought I had. All of them had a name, except one. When this one spoke, I felt an icicle of fear shoot down my spine. This demon was an exact replica of me, but with red eyes and a demonic smile.

“I am Suicide,” she chortled, “I am the one thought prominent in your mind at all times. I’m very appealing, aren’t I?” I was speechless. Suicide descended from the circle and walked in a circle around me.

“Do you remember anything good?” she purred, “Anything about your old, happier life? No? That’s because it’s all your fault! You became so dark and sad, you turned all of your thoughts into demons. Me?” Suicide laughed. Her laugh was a harsh, crazed laughter that echoed throughout the darkness.

“I used to be Hope,” she said, “But look at what you’ve done to me, to us. You’ve drained all the good, and now, we want justice.” The demons closed in, their glows growing brighter.

“Just take my hand,” whispered Suicide, “Then all of your pain will be over. We’ll return to our happy state, but the price is, you have to die in the mortal realm.” I stared at all of my thoughts, gathered together in one place. All their sad, pained faces. Taking a deep breath, I took Suicides hand. Just then, I felt a tether snap, and I was free. As I looked over at the demons, they were looking at me, an expression of horror on their faces. Desire, Burden, Greed, Envy, Pain, Guilt, Depression, Anxiety, and Phobia, they all looked scared. I turned and looked at Suicide, who was smiling cruelly.

“You idiot,” she spat, “You really are weak. You listened to me, Suicide. All of those things I told you, they were lies. Now, since you are dead, you are one of us. Welcome, Lost.” I felt nothing. I was just… lost. I couldn’t remember my past life, my name, only my purpose.

“I am Lost. I am everything you gave up on.”
Will Solace IRL





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 7:16 pm
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WannabeWriter112 says...



Guarded
I slipped through the throngs of student in the hallway as I hurried to my next class. I didn't want to be here in the slightest, but I supposed that a new start would be good. At least here I don't have to face the jeers and leers of my fellow peers. That would be the last time that I trust my soul and feelings to others.

As I opened the door to my math classroom, all eyes fell on me. The new kid. A source of entertainment as they watch me attempt to navigate my way through the school they grew up in. I quietly settled into a chair at the back of the classroom. A guy sat in front of me in a blue hoodie turned around and gave me a perky smile.

"Hey! I'm Jake. Welcome to Mountain Top High!"

"Hey Gaylord! Trying to pick up a new man toy? Give him a rest and go dirt some other kid."

There were jeers and laughter as a few guys slapped the back of a burly 17 year old. Jake rolled his eyes and turned back to me.

"Sorry about them. They don't understand that gay guys can be friends with other guys. But, while I've got you here, there's the gay/straight alliance meeting after school at four if you want to come."

I swallowed. This was exactly what I needed to avoid. I can't let anybody at this school know who I really was. As much as I would have loved to join, I couldn't associate myself with who I really was.

I nodded tersely. "Thanks, but no thanks."

Jake's eyes widened with hurt. Then he smiled tightly. "Fine. It's okay, I was just offering. But whatever."

I sat back in my seat as he turned around. I couldn't come out again. Not after last time at my old school. Judging by this class's reaction to Jake, anybody who even shows support for the lgbt community would be persecuted. That's something I couldn't deal with again. I came to this school for a fresh start. I wasn't about to mess it up by bearing my heart for everybody to see.
WannabeWritter112 8)





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 7:59 pm
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km1717 says...



Hopeless

Spoiler! :
It had gotten to the point where he couldn’t live with me anymore. I had to give him away.

I visited him every other day, and he still remembered me, or at least parts of me. I would show him pictures of our old dog Baxter, or the piano where I taught him to play. The nurses say that he still loves to play, and is still quite good at it, though he can’t always remember who taught him.

I taught him.

Once, he said that he recognized our daughter. It only happened one time, though. After that, he would just say “oh, there’s that pretty young girl again, I wonder who she’s here for.”

I never imagined something like this would happen to him. I’ve read about it, about the consequences of living long, but I never imagined that it would actually happen. At first, he looked so out-of-place there. The rest of the patients were old, withered beings who had lost whatever was left in their minds years ago. The pastel color of the place never suited him either, his favorite colors were red and black.

Now, he wore a baby blue sweater wherever he went, and adopted the same look in his eye as the rest of them. It’s like he was a husk of something that has long since evacuated. Like a hermit crab that had abandoned its shell in search of a better one, but the shell was left behind with nothing inside it.

“Murray, do you remember Cleo? The neighbor's cat?” I sat next to him on a overly softened couch. His veiny hands trembled as he held the picture. There were still calluses from years of work in his skin, but he dosn’t remember where he got them. How sad must it be to forget what happened to your own body?

“Cleo…” he mumbled, eyes searching the picture of the tabby cat, as if looking for something to read, something that would tell him who it was, who he was. He shook his head.

I sighed and put the picture of the cat back into the pile, and tapped them on my knee to even them out. Murray was smiling at me, like it was a game. I gave him a tepid smile back and placed my hand on his knee.

“Thats okay, we can try again next time.” I put the pictures back into my purse and rubbed my thumb across his knee. He put his hand on mine. He still wore his wedding ring. When I looked up, his eyes were watery and barren, like only a shadow of memories remained inside his brain. Murray wasn’t the same anymore, he was barely a man anymore.

I stood up and helped him back into his wheel chair, and a nurse came to help. He smiled at her just the way he smiled at me, as if we meant the same thing to each other. She wheeled him over to the TV set, and walked back to me.

“Is the medication helping?” I asked, rubbing my face with my hands. The nurse put her hand on my forearm and gave me the same smile I had given Murray, a half-hearted, forlorn expression.

“It’s doing something,” she said, looking back at him, sitting in the wheelchair. The TV was on, but he was looking out the window at a tree branch, where a bird’s nest was. There was only one egg inside it. “But there is no cure to alzheimer’s. We can only improve the symptoms.” Her hand dropped from my body.

“I know that,” I said. “That’s what they’ve been telling me from the start.”

It had been 8 months. Things weren’t getting better.

The nurse flashed me the same dull smile, and turned to help an old woman in her wheelchair. The room was filled with people who weren’t really people. What was a person when they couldn’t remember what made them who they are? These were simply living bodies, technically human, but to be human is to remember. They did not remember.

I continued to come back with pictures, photo albums, old CD’s and records, some old clothing, anything that could possibly help him to remember anything. A few things worked, but not much. He was starting to forget all of me, everything that we had been through, everything that made us who we were. He was getting worse, and I was getting tired.

When I came back the next time, I did not bring pictures. I waited on the couch for a nurse to bring me Murray, looking out of the window, onto the bird's nest. It had been sitting there for about a week and a half, but today it was missing. There was no cracked shell to indicate any bird had hatched. I figured another bird must have stolen and eaten it.

When Murray was wheeled to me, the look in his eye had changed. He was addled, lifeless, barely there. He did not smile at me, he did not even look at me. I just sat with him for a while, looking at him as he looked out of the window.

When I left that day, I asked if the nurse would bring me his wedding ring the next time I came. He didn’t know what it was, what it meant, who was wearing the other. He didn’t remember me, or our daughter, or our grandson. He didn’t remember the summer nights when we used to catch lightning bugs, our first kiss, or when we used to sneak out as teenagers to see each other. Our honeymoon, our first house, all of it was gone.

He was gone, and I couldn’t get him back.





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 8:44 pm
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ty7lucky says...



Peaceful



Spoiler! :
She sat in the light of a flickering fire. Wrapped in a large fuzzy polka dot blanket. The fire warming everything that wasn't covered with soft fabric. She stared intently at something in her hands. Her eyes flicked left to right, hair dangled in front of her face. She didn't bother to put the hair behind her ear as she fell in love with the book in her hands.

The world seemed to disappear as she became more and more intent on reading. The paper reassuring in her hands, as though because the book was there she would be happy.

Stains dotted the paper making it ripple slightly like the calming waves on an ocean. She felt like she had never had bliss before. Her lips formed a smile and tears brimmed in her eyes once more. Warmth spread from her head to her toes and fingers. Leaving a tingling feel in her body.

She let out a deep breath and shut her eyes to preserve the feeling. She couldn't think of anything or anywhere she would rather be. Snow began covering the lawn. She barely noticed. If she went outside the snow would melt from all the warmth she felt right now. The light of the fire made the pages glow red. She continued on, sinking farther into the world of her book. There she left the world behind; she became free from her troubles.

Her mind left her body. The words seemed to flow into her mind making a world as vivid as the real one. How could she ever feel calmer than right now. There were fifty more pages. Then ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one. The cover closed of its own accord. The feeling of warmth amplified, she smiled. Her eyes shut and her mind wandered making a world and story of its own. She slept, her breath evening out. The only word that would come to her mind when she looked back on this moment would be peace.
"Anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job."
-Douglas Adams





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 10:14 pm
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alliyah says...



Love (Nurturing wasn't on the list but that's the sub-feeling)

Spoiler! :
It had been a hard day to say the least. I thought to myself as I wiped the perspiration from my forehead. When I had been called in to work earlier this morning; I’d had a pit of guilt settling in my stomach for having to put off my plans with Ben for the third time this week. Now as I was finally home, having walked home because my rusty car wouldn’t start, I couldn’t help but think of myself and how sick I was of my job, and honestly my life in general. I had completely forgot about my son, Ben, and how we were supposed to watch that movie that he’d been looking forward to. I kicked at the flower pot that was sitting outside our apartment door but missed and hit the brick wall instead. I cursed and dropped down to hold my aching toes, while tears that had more to do with my disappointment with the day than with my pain slid down my cheeks.
“Mom? You’re home!” a small boy’s voice greeted me as I wiped at my face to try to hide my sadness.
“What’s wrong?” Ben asked a little quieter almost in a whimper when I looked up and touched his hand.
“Nothing, honey, it’s been a long day, but I’m so glad to be home with you now” I said back quickly attempting to sound cheerful.
“How can a day be long, Mom? Isn’t every day the same length?” I laughed at the logic of my son that probably had some truth to it. I sighed and looked at his six-year old face. Auburn brown hair with a long slender nose that was a miniature mirror of me; but also hazel-gold eyes that twinkled like his father’s. He had only gotten to see Ben as a baby really and then had taken off half-way across the country when the burden of money and maturity had settled on our new family. I hadn’t spoken to him in 4 years, but sometimes, especially when Ben said something especially honest or encouraging (as only a child can) I longed to know how his father would have responded.
Ben now had stooped down to pull at the struggling marigold plant that had been the target of my anger moments ago. Remembering the movie we had surely missed by now, I crouched down to be closer to the boy rather than tell him to stop. “What are thinking, Mr. Ben? Did you have a good day?” I asked.
Ben nodded holding a yellow petal between two small fingers. “Yeah, Jeffrey was gone today so recess was boring, but there was pizza for lunch so I loved that so it was awesome”.
I smiled encouragingly as he babbled about his day; saying a silent prayer that he would always find some way to find the positive in life as I so often struggled to do. The child’s delicate fingers patted the petal back into the soil then stood up so our faces were now level. “Look, Mom! Look!” he pointed behind my head to the sky.
I turned and looked at the darkening sky and the other shabby apartment building next to ours trying to decipher what he was pointing to. “What?” I exclaimed, after ruling out the nearby scenery items as the target of his amazement.
“The sun! Look at how beautiful it is. Oh… the colors, they’re all there” Ben pointed again excitedly with eager amazement.
I turned and realized that while on my walk home I had been foolishly bitter towards the sun and the discomfort it was causing me, the skies had become painted in a beautiful array of colors. The sun had set with deep pinks, magenta, orange, and teal streaking the sky with their bursts of shades. I sighed and sat back down on the front step to take in the view. I beckoned Ben over with a wave of my hand saying, “It is absolutely breathtaking, I’m so lucky that you were here to point that out to me”.
Ben sat next to me on the narrow step and laid his head against my arm while taking my right hand in both of his. “Mom, does the sunset make you happy?”
“Yes, honey, it’s beautiful” I said back to him.
“Do I make you happy?” he asked.
I held his hand closer as tears formed fresh in my eye and said, “Every day, Ben. You are more special than the sun set and the marigolds and the whole world to me. I love you.”
Ben snuggled closer and looked up into my blue eyes with his golden ones, “I love you too, Mom!”
you should know i am a time traveler &
there is no season as achingly temporary as now
but i have promised to return





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 10:32 pm
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Werthan says...



I want to write about all of these, can I make a bunch of alts and do these all? Just kidding, anyways, here is my attempt.


Estatic

Spoiler! :

I spring from my bed - I do not know what it is that has overtaken me, but I feel so light I could float away. I open the window to let in the fresh air, which rushes to me like a greeting from the world, and I gaze at the clouds that drift overhead, and the golden Sun, who beams down across the land. It seems that the grass is greener, the sky bluer, the tree-trunks a richer and warmer brown than they have ever been. The outdoors beckons - won’t stop beckoning - but I do not wish that it would, anyhow, because it draws me out as if it had a physical hold of me. I get dressed, quickly, ever so quickly, and scuttle out the door to greet the world who had greeted me. “Oh, hello, beautiful World!” I cry out, the thought of how silly I sound barely skimming across my mind. I feel the gentle breeze, which I see leading the trees in a waltz to the tune that the birds twitter as they hop from branch to branch. What can I do, but burst into song? What can I do, but dance down every street, down every sidewalk, out of town, to the edge of the wilderness? That is really what I do, utterly carried-away as if I were in fact so light the wind were carrying me. And when I, in my absence of mind, take a rather long stride, I glide over the ground yards from where I started, and as soon as I realize that, I do it again, and again, now on purpose, until suddenly I am soaring through the air, far above the ground.
Well, what would people say if they saw me now? I thought, those who stand under me certainly wouldn’t understand. But I see no one standing under me - only other people leaping through the air like I did, for miles around, as if the whole world had been made weightless.




EternalRain wrote:I went with plain 'ol happy.


@EternalRain

"Happy" doens't appear to be on the list. I would change it to "content" or something before you get disqualified.
Last edited by Werthan on Mon Aug 08, 2016 11:16 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Und so lang du das nicht hast
Dieses: Stirb und Werde!
Bist du nur ein trüber Gast
Auf der dunklen Erde

(And as long as you don't have
This: Die and become!
You are only a gloomy guest
On the dark Earth)

- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 10:51 pm
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surrealbroken says...



Furious
Spoiler! :
I can’t keep the screams in when they leave. When they leave me with nothing but the photo on the mantel left of us. They left with you- cold and unfeeling, lips still sewn shut- they didn’t understand that it was me with the needle that sewed you shut. They didn’t understand that they left me with you’re murder weapon.

“Words don’t hurt the same way when you can’t say any yourself.”

You used to whisper words to me at midnight when you thought I was asleep to see if they could break me. Sometimes I wonder if I was your first lab rat. Your first experiment, your first person to break. Then I remember the stories you used to tell and the way the edges of your smiles would curl, just ever so, and I’ve never seen a killers smile but I think it would look the same. I wonder if I’m smiling, if thats why they took you away so quickly.

I didn’t even get to say good bye before they whisked you away. Isn’t that a thing people do? Say goodbye. I remember saying those words, saying them until I couldn’t breathe, until I couldn’t taste life anymore, until I thought you might be gone. But you were always there, always tracing your fingernails down my neck, always ready to snap my fragile bones with iron fingers.

I think that I would be smiling if they take a picture right now. That the edges of my lips would curl just like yours did.



They think I’m demented. That there’s something wrong with me, though the way my chest is hurting I think that they might be right this time.

You used to trace to curves of my chest and say that everything in, under, and around it was yours. Everything was yours. I was.



They say it’s my heart. I simply nod, words aren’t something I can understand anymore. You took them from me. Just like how you slowly tore me apart and left your marks on my heart, the same heart that can’t beat without you pumping it full of your lies, your half truths, and mumbled apologizes.

Your lips left marks on my heart that I’m scared they’ll find when they cut me open. I’m afraid they’ll see the puppet strings that replace my veins. That they’ll see the cracks in the paint that you colored me with. That they’ll see that I was only ever your puppet.

–-

Depression, suicidal tenancies, and self mutilation. Things that you discovered about me long before they pushed the pills in my hands and told me to swallow.

You learned about the depression on the third day. I was pumped full of thoughts that weren’t mine and had torn through the stitches on my stomach.

You tended to the suicidal thoughts in a manner that I can’t remember. I can remember the poking, prodding fingers that twisted me up inside. I can remember more then you ever wanted me to.

You handed me your favorite knife. You showed me how to tear and plunge, how to take out the evil in me.

I swallow anyway, but your pills were always better. Your cures always ended in torn sheets, bleeding mouthes, and the sounds of heaven not far off.



They think that asking will get them answers. That one day I’ll tell.





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 10:58 pm
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TheSilverFox says...



Listless
Spoiler! :
When I first woke up on the floor, wearing my funeral clothes, I imagined I was sleeping in a cozy bed and went back to sleep.

So much for that dream.

Light poured through the cracks in my head as I joined the awakened and realized reality’s joke. At the edge of my vision, there was the strewn trash and knocked over trashbin on the floor, which was now oozing last night’s booze-induced vomit. The sturdy floorboards refused to give way to my feet and send me crashing into the concrete basement below, which was inviting to somebody who felt so heavy. Hands scrabbled frantically for a grip where there was none, desperately trying to pull myself up, and they fell limply at my sides as I tried in futility to pull myself up. Sighing, I blew a strand of hair away from my eye, though I immediately wished I hadn’t done that. Pain shot up throughout my skull and left me cringing and grimacing, the blinding light of the morning sun coursing through the opened curtains in my bedroom. I swore; I’d sworn I left it on midnight.

Toes wriggled free from the soles of worn out leather shoes – the ones I’d been most able to afford – as I continued to stare up at the endless expanse of popcorn ceiling. Specks of dust and flecks of paint danced around my forehead in the midst of the sunlight’s scale. Treble and bass notes to a song that I’d forgotten too soon, and wasn’t planning on remembering anytime soon. Just like I didn’t remember where I was, or how I’d gotten here.

This is…an apartment, right? A friend’s. A good friend’s. Where were they? Hadn’t she known that I was going to need help? No, no, this is the guest’s room. I was drunk, she drove me here. Gave me somewhere to sleep for the night. She’s at work by now. Relieving.

I groaned, my head feeling like it was being constricted by a massive boa, and all my brain wanted to do now was explode and splatter itself across the walls of this dingy place. Yet I couldn’t move – there was an elephant on me. I couldn’t see it, but there it was, pressing and pushing and mashing a grimacing stomach. My legs twitched, toes asleep, and my arms waved about helplessly.

Was this what death felt like? Had he felt like that?

Last night was still a blur. Fading colors, black hats, sunny skies dying away in light-strewn cities. Walking on the streets too dazed to think, half scared to death. I had thought it had been a joke. He couldn’t have left so early, there had to be some kind of mistake, it had to be a prank. But…everyone had been there. Family members who I’d never seen before, crying themselves senseless. Mutual friends joining the frenzy with their own quiet and pale contributions. I still didn’t know if the priest’s sermon was real, if the words of family and friends were correct. It felt like my mind was treating it like a dream, obfuscating it in questions and doubts that I hadn’t the answers to. I half believed it.

Today was an even greater mystery. Fiddling at the holes in my frayed jacket, I cursed at the sun, and its gall for daring to rise. The pain that it splayed across my face and body was most certainly not life. Eyes blinked furiously, wiping away tears. My face turned red with rage, although my helpless limbs refused to do anything else but lay there in silence, and my emotions eventually went south with it. Gritted teeth shifted to drawn back ones. Bloodshot eyes became more misty and pale. The elephant’s reflection on the ceiling shifted to my own, looking at me with a blank stare and a ruined mind.

Did I ever cry for him? I remembered having sat there, silent, contemplative. A mask draped over me. Nothing. Not a word spoken between friends who couldn’t speak one. Was that it? Was he the one trying to pull me downwards, holding me against the earth in desperation, clasping onto me as though the endless abyss lay beneath his feet, and he was looking for one last means by which to hold on to reality? Those other fools must’ve forgotten him by now, of the course they had, he wasn’t famous or special or notable or…

I stared back at myself, and sighed. They had been his friends too; they had been his family too. They were likely still weeping, trapped in the corner of their homes with no consolation but the dawn’s unwelcome light. Maybe a few tissues, a tissue box, a glass of water, and a personal picture or two. The only person searching for excuses with a battered, half-asleep mind hopelessly trying to wake up and pretend it was all a dream was me. The sun was peaceful, and well-meaning, but ignorant. It kept rising and setting forever onwards, neglecting to count the number of people basking in its light, or rushing away from it. The only elephant in the room was myself, pushing down upon me and forcing me into a dreamscape I doubted I wanted anymore. It was too unreal, too pathetic. Tiredness blossomed across my face and body with his unsettling and dreary revelation, and a saddened devotion and cause came with it.

A tear fell across my face as I stood up, shrugging aside mental shackles.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
a persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero,
senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Inferno, Canto 27, l 61-66.





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 11:02 pm
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Masquerade says...



Yearning

Spoiler! :
You wait all day for Willow. You know she won't be here for hours, but that didn't stop you from making the twenty minute walk down to this particular stretch of beach at 7am on a Saturday. Because this is your beach. The two of you. And there's a spot up on the top where you've always sat, in a niche between two rocks. You know when she gets home that this is where she'll go, so this is where you are. This is where you'll be until her train arrives. You imagine it pulling in to the station downtown San Diego, slowing to a stop, imagine her breathing in the familiar salty air. You know her train probably hasn’t left yet, but here you are.

It's okay, though. You've brought entertainment. When you get to the cliff top you sit down and pull out a book. Ender's Game. It's a gift from Willow; her favorite book printed in a strange font your dyslexic eyes are supposed to be able to read.

Not that it matters. You're eyes are prying through the words, but they never quite make it through to your brain. The cool air from the ocean is filling your lungs, and all you can see is her.

Willow is coming home. You can almost feel her sitting next to you already. How warm her thigh feels pressed up against yours. The way her wavy hair cascades down her shoulders and tickles your arms. The thought fills you with purple. Everything about Willow is purple. Purple like a plum. Purple like the flowers that grow in the garden your mother helped you plant in the backyard when you were eleven. You close your eyes and can believe she's already there.

Vaguely you wonder if she'll be very different when she comes home, and then berate yourself. She's only been gone three months. Three months isn't long enough to really change a person is it? She’ll have some new experiences, yes. But when you make a lame joke she’ll laugh the same laugh. She’ll smile the same smile, one corner of her mouth quirked up higher than the other, blue eyes sharp and bright.

The sun has already started it’s descent in the sky. Sitting there with the book closed in your lap, you don’t notice until you hear soft footsteps in the grass behind you. You turn.

And there she is. All barefoot and blue eyes and a graceful mess of ebony hair blowing in the breeze coming off the sea. You stare at her, and she laughs. And it is the same laugh. But it feels softer somehow, lavender and full of bells.

"How did I know you'd be here?" she asks, still laughing.

You open your mouth to say something, but find you can't say anything. Your heart is performing some strange escape act under your rib cage. And it hurts. She's here, and yet you've never longed for her more.

She takes a few more steps, closing the gap between you. You reach out a hand towards her, and as she takes it you realize that this feeling swelling in your chest is reaching for something beyond friendship.


Spoiler! :
Decided to do a little second person vignette using characters from a novel I'm working on. :smt001
"Many people hear voices when no-one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing."
-Meg Chittenden





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 11:12 pm
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artybirdy says...



Regret

Spoiler! :

He gives me a glass of water and sits back in his chair, playing on his phone.

Time flies, doesn't it? It's a shame I realised it now.

His hands are no longer soft and tiny, I notice. He doesn't give me a toothless smile, or a gurgling laugh, or a hysterical giggle like before - not even a piercing wail. In fact, he doesn't even look at me. And if he has to, for any unavoidable reason, his sharp, accusing stare shakes me to my core. Oh, how I wish I could reverse the time! How I wish I could drag those days back, fix them in place, and relive those precious moments - cherishing every second of them. I wish I had a chance to learn from my mistakes before it was too late.

Those were the days. He stuck to me like glue. He was like a cute puppy, always wagging his tail for my affection and care. As soon as I used to return home, he'd run to me and engulf my legs in his long, thin arms, blinking at me with his gorgeous wide, curious eyes. He'd insist on playing with me, and I'd push him away.

"I've work to do."

Every. Single. Day.

I'd the same old excuse.

That continued for as long as I can remember until, finally, he cracked. He became distant, grew hostile towards me, and never once glanced back.

Curse the power-hungry man I was. I'd sold my son's happiness, his time, in exchange for few notes. How I wish I could embrace him tightly one last time and tell him that I love him. I love him more than I can ever describe. He's a part of me, my son. I can never hate him for the way he's behaved. I just wish . . . I wish he'd sit close to me, by my side, and hold my frail hand.

"I'm here for you, Dad."

Just once. I've seen other sons reassure their parents, and I can't help but be selfish enough to yearn for the same, even though I don't deserve it. I yearn for him to call me "dad" again. Just once before a final goodbye.

However, he's my son. He has my blood. I know him well enough to say he'd never forgive me.

I'd lost my son in the days I'd left him disappointed. I used to arrive late on his grand birthday parties, upsetting him; sometimes, I never even attended them. I missed his basketball matches on multiple occasions. He scored the highest among his classmates many times, and I always dismissed him with a curt nod. I didn't even give him a pat on the back for his hardwork, or even a simple congratulations. I was a business man, aiming for great profits. Sadly, it took me years to notice I had already made a great loss.

A tear rolled down my pale, wrinkled cheek. I lean back on the bed and flutter my eyes close, gulping loudly.

I don't blame him, for I had neglected him in his childhood. He had a right to leave me in this damned old age, where regret is my only faithful companion. But . . . would he miss me after I'm gone? Would he cry over my grave? Would he ever let me meet his family?

I wish for more time with him. I wish to beg him to forgive this oldie. I wish I . . . I . . . I---

Beeeeeeeeeeep.
Last edited by artybirdy on Mon Aug 08, 2016 11:40 pm, edited 1 time in total.
[center]Previously known as ArtStyx[/center]





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Mon Aug 08, 2016 11:38 pm
Holysocks says...



Err, yeah.

Enchanted

Spoiler! :
She sat in a meadow at midnight. Her chin raised to the sky, tiny light bulbs flickered in the distance- or were they stars? Darkness fell over her like a sea of black ink, swallowing her toes, legs, arms- all the way to her her voice box, where she hummed the language of the Alps. A sound that pulled at you, like it needed you to listen. Really listen.

She got to her feet and stretched, her gown falling into place at her heels. It was a deep ebony dress that mirrored the beauty of the forest at night. The air nipped at her as she walked but she wasn't going to stop because she had to see it. She had to see it or she'd never forgive herself- she couldn't just leave without saying goodbye, after all. That would be like leaving your best friend forever and not even bothering to tell them that you'd miss them more than anything.

Grass crunched under her bare feet from the ice crystals that had began to form. It was almost time! She had thought the frost would hold off a little longer but it was here. The fine hairs on her stomach bristled as she tried to contain her excitement. She started running and then saw the first of it. She ran faster, trying to see beyond the trees that were so tall they seemed to tickle the clouds. Green light shown through the gaps in the branches. Finally a clearing appeared and she stopped so fast she nearly did a summer-salt. She froze completely, staring at the horizon. A faint glow floated above the mountain-tips. Green, then a vibrant blue and then it intensified, and danced from peak to peak- remembering, with grace, to kiss the valley goodnight.
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If you don't know it's impossible it's easier to do. And because nobody's done it before, they haven't made up rules to stop anyone doing that again, yet.
— Neil Gaiman