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message 101:
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Maggie, Gaea shall smite you all.
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Feb 25, 2011 03:26PM
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So the 'that's so e.e cummings' was a compliment...
Just wrote this yesterday... Tell me what you think. The Mask
The same routine. Every morning.
The sound of the shower makes me flinch. Quiet morning destroyed.
Showers don't appeal to me like they used to. It only caused pain. Putting liquids and soaps on my skin until it burns. The scalding water hurts my wrists and arms. Especially when I reopen things.
The bathroom steams up, but I only feel numb. I dry quickly, barely wincing when the harsh towel scrapes my wounds. I change into clothes that I'm not sure match. They slide over my body in robot-like motions.
I can see into the mirror now. There's nothing much to see. Same old me that no one gets to see. I grab the purple bottle, and dab my eyelashes with tar. The brush stabs my eye, but I don't even pause. I've done worse.
I look in the mirror again. A slightly different look now.
Big eyes, a piercing blue. Full of no emotions. Pale face with an equally pale nose. Full red lips. Pretty much the only thing my Cherokee ancestors gave me. My pride and glory.
Eyes that must be mine roll. Like everybody else, I'm not looking underneath. Almost grudgingly, I do.
And I see me. The real me. The me that is afraid of pedophiles and rapists. The me that avoids a large amount of men, and only trusts a handful. The me with no religion. The me with a short temper. The me who struggles to keep others out. The me that doesn't believe in love. The me that isn't okay with weakness. The me that dissaproves of my secrecy. The me that wants to push away the sun and dance in the rain.
Not today. My first real thought of the day. Followed ny several false ones.
My hand reaches toward the counter. In no time, my hand curls around the cold edge. I pull the object toward me.
Like every morning, I hesitate. Do I really want to keep this up? I don't have a choice. I slip the object over my face.
It feels cold. Oh so cold, even though the bathroom hasn't lost all its steam. Cold and hard. Just like me.
I look in the mirror again, and wince. The mask has done its job.
I look (nearly) exactly the same. Same large eyes with eyelashes covered in sticky tar. Same pale face. Same full lips.
But now my eyes hold emotions. A mischevious, but false, spark. My lips are turned into a large smile that the true inner me wants to slice with a knife.
The pretend inner me has changed, too. At least, until I take the mask off. But until then, it's the oposite me.
Pedophiles and rapists no longer haunt my thoughts. They don't exist. We're all people. I can trust people.
I might as well be the preacher's daughter, now. I'll sing at the top of my lungs to whatever words about so-called-"God" hits the screen. I'll pay attention with wide eyes. Like I really believe.
Love is now the only thing my mind absorbs. Now, I'm all too ready to fall head over heels. All to ready to fall for someone who I know will never catch me.
And now, I have no problem with all the secrecy. I welcome the sun's rays. Being the seceret best friend is a thrill. Being a seceret is great and he even gets to keep his pride. To the new me, it's a win-win.
The false me smiles again, a little coldly. A little mocking. The new me is going to do things I hate. The mask is a curse.
I walk out anyway, cheeks hurting from the large smile.
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*huggles* If you say so. Sometimes, I feel more like dirt.
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"Diamonds are only chunks of coal,
That stuck to their jobs, you see."
~Minnie Richard Smith, "Stick to Your Job"
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But I loved it.
Thanks. :) *hugs*
Awww, Maggie!! You're making me cry!!
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Black Mirror
just a little taste, put it on my tongue,
let me feel it, let me understand.
the difference between one mirror
and two is one thousand reflections.
had you held up a mirror to the crimes
you’ve committed in the cycle of your past
on a black surface of obsidian, molten rock,
translucent ebony, the twisted devil’s nail,
you’d only see the shadows of your
doubt shining white against your eyes.
do you share the dimensional power
that flows, moon blood, from the calm?
** It kinda sucks because it hasn't been edited at all, but enh. Felt obligated to put something up in here ^^
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and two is one thousand reflections."
My favorite part. That was breathtaking, Whim!
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Is that right? It's been three years since French class...
THAT WAS GREAT, WHIM!! Yeah, I thought it was a little eh in some parts, too.
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I thought of the phrase 'black mirror' when my friend James was prancing around in shiny black shoes. So we did a poetry exercise-- two poems both called Black Mirror, and we see what similarities/differences are in them. So far he hasn't written it yet but will soon.
message 124:
by
Kat, Goddess of Dramatic Exits and Strawberry Yogurt
(last edited Mar 14, 2011 05:46PM)
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^_^
This was the result of my Samurai Legend I had so much trouble on. I got a 40/40 and he even wrote a comment! He never does that... Long ago, there was a farmer's daughter named Ayame Kagekatsu. Their harvest of rice was usually the best in their small town. Until tragedy struck.
Aroubd harvest time, a house fire lit the Kagekatsy home. The house was burned to the ground, along eith their rice harvest. The ground was scorched to a point where it was no longer useable. The Kagekatsus were homeless and harvestless.
Knowing that hee family was in serious danger if they didn't find some land for planting, Ayame(me) wandered through the rubble in hopes of finding something that coukd help her family. Her eyes fell on the only thing that had survived the fire. Her older brother's samurai armour. An idea forbes immediately. Ayame took the armour and hid it until later.
In the hour of the rat, Ayame (me) snuck away from her sleeping family of six. She took the armour from its hiding place in the bushes. After slipping on the heavy leather, Ayame (me) is met by her friend Mei Matsushita (McKenzie).
At Ayame's(my) request, Mei (Kenzie) chops off Ayame's raven wing black hair. When they are both satisfied with the length, Ayame puts on her helmet. The two girls embrace, and Ayame(me) goes on her way.
It takes the girl several months before she reaches her brother's rank. He was to return around this time. This was her way in. They had bot yet learned of her brother's deatt in the fire, and took her for him.
Over the next few months, Ayame fought with her fellow ranks, growing better by the day. Ayame quickly gained the trust of two fellow ranks. Ramayana Ukon (Aaron) and Raidon Hyobanishi (Brandon).
The army came up with a plan to take the counter army by surprise. On the night that their plan takes action, the enemy army attacks. Ayame's army fights as hard as they can, but the enemy is pouring in fast.
Ayame fights as hard as she can. She's doing this so her family can have land. Every samurai she meets in battle, falls to her sword. Blood soon stains the blade, but Ayame continues fighting.
After Ayame defeats a samurai, she is jumped on by someone of matching armour. Raidan Hyobanshi(Brandon) has jumped her.
They dance, swords poised and ready for attack. They taunt as they wait, neither wanting to attack. Raidan(Brandon) admits to tipping off the enemy army. They promised him acres of land.
Anger, shock, horror, and hurt radiates from Ayame(me) as she pounces on Raidan (Brandon). She has the element of surprise, so Raidan falls. She says her goodbye, then lets the blade slice Raidan's throat.
Ayame's army wins the battle. Surprisingly, she killed the most samurai.
Ayame's army never knew that she was a girl. She never told them. As she wanted, her family got their land. Instead of returning to her small town as everyone expected, Ayamecfound the nearest temple. It was there that she commuted sepukoo. Takayama Ukon (Aaron) was her Harakiri.
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Title: Gently Down the Stream
Genre: Horror
Rating: T, for graphic scenes
Word Count: 1,632
Summary: What a fucked-up weirdo. I lead her to the living room, farthest away from the door that leads to the basement, well away from the windows, and prop her up on a couch. I should have left her outside but it’s too late now.
The power blackout had swept completely across the city. From my perch on the window ledge I can barely see the glowing outline of the sidewalk running by the house. It seems as if the cloudy sky has swallowed up all sources of light like some gigantic black hole. I’d felt a little dull for wasting the perfect darkness, doing math homework by candlelight, so now I’m on the window seat of the front den.
The song changes to Bohemian Rhapsody, something I usually hum to, but I’m already in a bad mood because of the math and I don’t look up for a long while. I’ve got to keep my average up. Yale’s a-waiting.
When I do look up, my heart leaps into my throat, because there’s a very familiar silhouette by the door. In the pause between the songs a tremendous racket makes me lift the headphones from my ear. My parents are hollering down from their respective basement offices and the doorbell is going crazy—I mean a never-ending ding-ding-ding of impatience. It’s Rowan. What the hell is she doing here? She lives. . . I don’t even know where she lives anymore.
“I got it,” I call to my annoyed parents, slipping down from the ledge, walking over to the door. I hit the emergency porch light and the front steps are bathed in an orange glow. Her figure—tiny, frail, so easily broken—scoots back in a way that reminds me more of a cockroach than a girl’s. Avoiding the light. Wondering what kind of ‘marvellous mind-altering substance’ she’s taken now, because she’s doing the oddest thing (playing hopscotch on the spot and singing to herself), I go down two steps.
“Row, row, row your boat. . .” Her voice is so so high. So loud.
“Hey, Rowan.” I sound tired.
When she sees me, the shadow that is her head gets thrown back and her teeth and eyes glimmer. I can’t see her face properly; the light doesn’t reach her, and I pause, searching for something to say. What are you doing here?
But then she throws her arms up above her head and shrieks, “He tasted so good!”
She spins.
I stare.
She repeats herself.
I go back up two steps. God, she’s such a fucking creep. Closing the door behind me, I lean on it, motioning for her to shut up. The last thing I want is the neighbours watching Little Miss Psycho talk about her escapades.
“Rowan,” I say firmly, “Rowan, that’s fucked. That’s gross.”
She seems to get taller for a moment and I’m alarmed until I realize that she’s just on tippy-toe. She’s standing in a very strange pose: her upper body is tilted away from me towards the street and yet her feet are still close enough to me that the light hits them. Her nails are painted with silver glitter, feet small and dainty, a little bony. There’s mud caked all over the sides.
When she doesn’t reply, just swings her arms a bit, I cross my own over my chest and ponder on what to do. Clearly she’s on some sort of drug. Do I let her in and persuade my parents to let her stay the night? Safer for her, surely. Not so safe for me. Rowan terrifies me. And my parents are going to hear her. The neighbours as well, probably.
She drops like a stone all of a sudden, keening in her high-pitched sugary voice words I can’t understand. Her head is bowed and she’s swaying from side to side—the straggling blonde mane is illuminated bright orange. I panic. My parents are going to hear.
Then she seems to calm down, and I realize that she’s sobbing and laughing hysterically at the same time, hiccupping and coughing and forcing out words all the same. Despite my initial revulsion, I crouch down and lean in closer, brow furrowed.
“Rowan?”
She splutters and sighs and mutters before burying her head in her arms, knees bent. Her pale arms are twiglike, splattered with mud. She’s trembling so hard. My lip is curled from disgust.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
She doesn’t move from my exclamation but stops the muttering. Silence. Good.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. Then, in a low, dreamlike voice:
“He’s dead now.”
And then: “I helped.” A giggle.
The night has gone from strange to chilling. I shiver in spite of myself at her tone. Obviously I don’t believe her. She can’t be serious. The drug she’s on is making her hallucinate as well. I have to get her inside.
“Rowan,” I say, gentle now, because I know I’m talking to a psycho who can’t help it, “let’s get you inside, huh?”
I move forward to lift her by her arms and she doesn’t resist. Her head is kept down, though, and glitter sparkles in it as we pass by under the orange light. She’s very light, very tiny, and I’m glad she doesn’t make any more of a racket. I don’t want my parents to hear. They’re busy with their work downstairs. I feel very responsible and mature. As if I’m trying to prove to myself that she doesn’t scare the shit out of me.
Then she starts mumbling again—as soon as we get inside, where the sound echoes most—and I strain to hear her.
“. . . and merge in different trails, throb under skin and. . . muscles, become the power or the essence or the energy. . . that. . . I behold as I growl, bare my fangs. . .”
What a fucked-up weirdo. I lead her to the living room, farthest away from the door that leads to the basement, well away from the windows, and prop her up on a couch. I should have left her outside but it’s too late now.
“Don’t move,” I say to her sternly, then leave to get some candles.
I come back to the sound of her singing again, singing in a dazed voice. Row, row, row your boat. It's the song they told her to sing to calm down back when she had her seizures. But I see her and she has her fishnet tights down and her dress up and she’s—oh, God, what is she doing—and it’s so disgusting and I want to puke because she’s just so fucked. Fucked.
I like being in charge, though, so I order her to stop and she does, but she still doesn’t look at me. I haven’t seen her face yet, I realize, and the thought is a bit. . . scary. She lifts up a hand and latches with her sharp clawed fingers onto my arm. I jerk away because her touching me is disturbing.
“He was so warm. Soft. Salty.”
Then she erupts into laughter, giggling so hard the table touching the couch shakes with her. My parents are going to hear, and I frantically find her mouth (sticky with lipstick), clamp a hand over it roughly, and force her head up so she stops. And then her face is lit up and looking at me at last and I drop my hand and suck in a breath, because I have no voice to scream.
Dark crimson stains her once-lovely fragile face, like she went swimming in it, sticks to her hair. Something’s dripping onto the couch. Dark. Almost black. There’s vomit stains from her cherub’s mouth, the same black-red stains leading to it. Her hands. . . oh God. Oh Jesus Christ.
And the eyes that had once so captivated me, the ones that used to glint like black stars, contrast against the planes of her white face and hair, focus and unfocus, dream and are aware, are naive and omniscient all in the span of seconds. Then her smiling mouth goes awry and snarls and the hands that I thought were weak grip me in a cold and iron grasp and her heaving lips are on mine and the taste and the smell . . .
I throw up all over the place, I knock over a candle and it falls on the stack of newspaper and ignites and there’s a fire on the table and fuck I don’t know what to do because fuck she. . .
He tasted so good
I’m moaning and I’m whimpering like a baby, like before, like when we first met in the institution and I realize that she’s not on any drugs at all, she’s just
a fucking
psycho
and then she smiles, gets up from the couch, and drags a finger to scoop up the entrails of the mess around her mouth and she sucks on her finger. And she looks at me.
I’m on the floor. Now words are coming out of my mouth. The cross I wear is cold around my neck and I’m praying, I’m praying so hard. . .
She smiles oh so prettily as she takes out a small container of perfume from her bra and pours it on my skin. She leans closer and the horrid mixture of that stomach-turning smell and florals hits me as she massages it into my face. And then she picks up the burning newspaper without flinching and wipes it across my forehead and nose and lips, and fire kisses me.
It’s flames, it’s Hell, it’s death, it’s agony.
She wanted to hear me scream so I scream.
And it’s strange because I can hear my own skin sizzling off and I can hear my screaming and I can hear her singing in that high enchanting voice of hers.
“Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream,
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Life is but a dream. . .”
Ohmygods. I'm going to have f*cking nightmares. Not really, but it was just that good! I loved it!!
I absolutely loved it too! But, it is still extremely creepy, nevertheless.
I like creepy. Creepy/socio/psycho is right up my alley. Kinda. :)
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message 136:
by
Iviana (The Sign Painter), The Goddess of indecisiveness
(last edited Mar 27, 2011 01:25PM)
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Written for Story Week 26 from the group, Writers Who Are Children. Prompt: A torn blue blanket
As I lay on my bed, I can’t help but wonder where the blue blanket beside me has gone. It was there yesterday, the day before, the day before that, and so on. But now it was missing. My hands stroke the empty space where it once lay, fondling the empty air. I don’t care what you think of my longing for that piece of childhood memory that has been so dear to me; I live my life my way.
The memory of it has engraved itself into the back of my mind. The dark cloth with its lighter blue and white and red and orange stripes on one end. The numbers and words on the other end which I never bothered to read, but knew were there. The hole that used to be larger than my hand but is now barely half the size of my palm. All of it. It's all fixed in my mind.
The memory of cuddling with it days ago, the memory dragging it on the wooden floors years ago (which is probably how it got torn in the first place). It's a constant movie playing as I search for the torn blue blanket.
With an exasperated sigh, I look over at one of the three windows of my room. It's still dark outside, though I can't make out the moon. Early morning. Only explanation. I look over at my clock, and I'm right.
3:56 am
I really shouldn't be up right now, searching for something I should've let go so many years ago. But I suppose I still love it for the sentimental value, just like the stuffed animals tucked away in the drawers of my room. I sigh, and curl up under the much larger white cover and sleep.
7 am
I'm awake. I'm awake (thank you very loud gardeners next door. Why are you up this early on a Sunday?) And my foot brushes something cold as I shift position to attempt to sleep again. I peek under the cover. An exasperated sigh escapes my lips.
The blue striped blanket with numbers and words I still don't read on the other side sits in a clump on the edge of my bed just under the cover.
I FINISHED MY POEM!!!! It just flowed out of me, so I hope you like it. Because of you, I danced in the rain
Now because of you and whispers, I'm feeling the pain
You fed my the lies, making me believe that you were someone I could trust
It hurts to know that you were controlled by lust
I walked with my head high like you said
Not knowing that you were tearing me apart until I was dead
Your betrayel has cast a dark, dreary cloud over me
But now, I'm really starting to see
That you can't hurt me if I don't let you
I must learn to give you the cold shoulder, too
You once told me that I was really smart
I am smart enough to now know what you were trying to do, and it made my personality turn tart
You also told me that you thought I had big plans for me
Well, I looked them over and I see
That I would rather my life didn't include thee
So, because of you I felt the pain
But your hurt taught me a lesson that will never wane
That I can make the dark cloud drain
And I may once again enjoy the rain
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As a friend, ... *hugs* >///<
Thanks. In both ways. *hugs*
But as my poem states, he made me learn something about life. And I'm slowly healing. I know some of you might think my reaction as pathetic, but this was the first time someone had tricked me like that. This is really hard for me.
But I'm healing. And I'm ignoring him.
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Yeah. Slowly, but surely. And I'm using my nails like you said. I almost used needles. I almost sliced them across my wrist, but it was really late and I was afraid of waking somebody up. :/
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I will. I promise. I'm too scared to use knives, anyway.
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I'm glad you're healing, Sil. :)
Really? I didn't know that. :) I know. I'm feeling better. A little. :)
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Good.
I did read it out loud. Wasn't pretty. OK, I'll keep that in mind, Whim. Thanks. :)
I did read it out loud. Wasn't pretty. OK, I'll keep that in mind, Whim. Thanks. :)
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Books mentioned in this topic
Flowers for Algernon (other topics)Will Grayson, Will Grayson (other topics)
