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Part 2: the Magician’s Daughter and Her New Pair of GlovesThe next day, Anfisa opened her eyes, still drowsy from sleep. However, the fatigue disappeared, only to be replaced with childish delight as she saw the figure next to her. She did not question how or why the doll was once more in her grasp. It was there, and that was that.
Anfisa began to murmur again.
She held it close, even as the door opened, revealing the sharp features of her nurse. She did not speak as the doll was ripped from her grasp. She did not cry when she was accused for stealing back the doll. Anfisa did nothing but walk down the stairs and into the kitchen where her oatmeal lay on the round table, despite the emotions that were buried in her.
~
Nurse Annie Adams stood in the den, perplexedly staring at the ragdoll within her fingertips. Anfisa had said nothing, as always. The woman scowled, brushing a grey strand from her face. Martin had warned her of this, though he hadn’t said the whole truth. He’d warned her of ‘strange and weird things’ when she signed the contract, though she hadn’t given the matter much though. She had assured him that with her experience, nothing would be considered ‘strange.’
Until, of course, that doll had showed up and Martin claimed he’d been hearing his daughter’s voice.
Annie had tried to assure him it was nothing, though he had told her the most absurd thing: “Take away the doll, and make sure it’s hidden away. Do not let Anfisa touch it.” She began to question, though she was silenced. He knew something, Annie was sure of it, and it terrified him.
Annie simply assumed the man was beginning to go insane from God-knows-what.
She turned the limp doll over in her hands, trying to figure out how in the world it could have gotten out of the den. Everyone had been in bed, Annie made sure of it. It had been in a shelf she knew was too high for Anfisa to reach, even with a chair. One highly irrational reason crossed her mind: magic.
Annie snorted. Magic. Preposterous.
~
Anfisa ate quickly, she herself wondering how the doll could have gotten to her bed. She doubted Nurse would have given it back to her, especially how she had acted when she saw it back in her bed. She wondered who would have given it back to her. Perhaps it was a fairy, like in the fairy tales Nurse would read to her. Or perhaps it was a maid, feeling pity for Anfisa. Or perhaps it was magic. Anfisa always did like the magic her father would perform for her.
A hand rested on the girl’s shoulder. Anfisa peered up at the brooding grey eyes of Nurse.
Nurse sat across from her at the round table, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers and her elbows on the table.
“Anfisa, tell me how you got the doll back.”
The girl shrugged. “I didn’t. I woke up and it was there.”
Nurse narrowed her eyes, “Do not lie, child.”
“I’m not,” Anfisa protested. “I woke up and the doll was there.”
Nurse’s frowned deepened, though she said nothing more.
~
Annie rested the doll on the desk as she sat down in Martin Cumley’s office chair. She dialed his number, and waited.
“Annie?”
“Mr. Cumley, if you would kindly explain to exactly why you are keeping a doll from your daughter, I would much appreciate it.”
A laugh sounded at the other end, though there were traces of nervousness in it.
“Annie, don’t worry yourself—”
“She was in tears when I left her, Martin,” she snapped.
There was a long pause.
Annie pressed on. “This morning, I went to check on her, and it was back. How do you explain that?”
“That’s why I heard her,” came a scarcely audible murmur.
“Pardon?”
There was a long sigh, followed by a pause of silence.
“If I tell you, do you swear to me that you won’t tell Anfisa?”
Annie’s brow furrowed at the question. “What exactly is it that you’re about to tell me?”
“Swear, Annie,” Martin insisted.
And so she did. The old nurse swore, and Martin Cumley told her the story of Hecate. From the day they met and onwards. He told her about the baby who had appeared at his doorstep. He told her everything. Did she believe? No, not necessarily. She simply fell silent, an incredulous look on her face.
“So Anfisa has magic—”
“Magic does not exist,” Annie hissed. “You very well know that.”
“Then explain to me how—”
He was interrupted once more by a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Annie called impatiently. The door opened a crack and the girl in question slipped in. Her eyes were read as she made her way down towards her nurse. “I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she hissed into phone before focusing her attention on the little girl. Anfisa stopped a few steps away, lip quivering.
“I had a nightmare, Nana,” Anfisa whispered, running into her nurse’s outstretched arms.
With her newfound understanding of the child in her arms, Annie Adams picked up Anfisa and marched out of the room.
The door closed shut. The doll jumped to its feet. It fixed the black tie around its neck, staring at itself in the computer screen through black button eyes. It picked up the black top had and placed it on its head. The ragdoll jumped down from the mahogany desk and out the door. It traversed up the carpeted steps and to the white door where a lullaby could be heard from the other side.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder where you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky…”
The voice stopped short. The light flickered out. The Doll pressed itself against the wall, waiting for the nurse to pass, its frozen smile hidden behind felt hands. Moments later, the doll crept into the room. It slipped into the bed, and snuggled into the little girl’s sleeping form before falling limp against her chest.
A smile replaced the frown. Hands pulled the doll closer. Anfisa slept soundly.
~
And so it began. Anfisa would awake to find the doll lying beside her each morning. She would whisper things to the doll that vaguely reminded her of her father. Nurse would always come to take it away.
She stayed up one night, to see how the doll returned each night. Anfisa was shocked to find the doll climb onto the bed and snuggle up against her. She thought it was magic. The doll went limp as soon as she touched it with her little index finger. Anfisa giggled, quietly, though, so that she would wake no one in the silent night.
“Magic,” Anfisa whispered. “Like Daddy.”
Then she remembered.
“If only Daddy would come back.”
Anfisa looked out her window and into the crisp spring night. She climbed out of her bed and made her way over to the window seat beside her playthings. A book rested on the foot of the seat. Nurse must have left it, thought Anfisa. She propped the doll against a pillow before reaching down and picking up the book. She sat across from the doll, legs crossing.
“Criss-cross-applesauce,” Anfisa told it, as if it could hear her, understand her. Lately, her murmurings to the doll about her father had stopped, and now, she’d treated the doll much like a person. She stared down at the cover of the book, though the words were… strange. They weren’t in a line, like how Nana said. They were scattered, jumbled together around the picture of a cutout caterpillar.
Of course, she wouldn’t know she had dyslexia for a very long time.
A package arrived the next day, addressed to Anfisa. Inside laid a pair of brown gloves that matched the color of her coat. From that day on, she wore them. The doll never returned at night. It was returned to her weeks later, as she constantly awoke to nightmares without it.
She wore those gloves from that moment forward. She obeyed her nurse’s instructions, for they were the words of her father.
Speak only when spoken to.
And Anfisa Cumley silenced her whispers to herself, her murmurs to playthings, and questions to her nurse.
Suggestions:He
tells me
that I
am dumb
so stupid
so naive
and demanding.
would
so stupid,
so naive,
so demanding
be better?( he is 'continuing' to point out faults..)
------------------
He
claimed i
as his own
and tormented
and taunted
and terrified
me.
He claims 'me'
as his own
and torments
and taunts
and terrifies me
------------------
He
claimed i
did hell
to myself.
He
claimed I
brought Hell
upon myself.
________________
I loved 'One' - multi -level comparison!
---------------------------
(not sure if these alterations are required)
The masks have disappeared,
Leaving nothing but the silent sobs.
For those who care
Don't care enough
To lend a hand,
And give back the masks that have fallen
Into
Oblivion.
The masks have disappeared,
leaving nothing but the silent sobs.
For those who care,
don't care enough
To lend a hand,
and give back the masks that have fallen
into
Oblivion.
(shall continue a little later..)
The whole point of "Him" was to end up not capitalizing anything but Him. When I say "He/ claimed i/ did hell to myself", I'm implying a lot more. It's what many people would consider to be "emo".:/
And then, I kept it in past tense for my own purposes. I wanted to keep the "He/ claimed i/ ..." pattern. I thought about 'me' when I first wrote it, but decided against it in the end.
Mod
tells me
that i
am dumb
so stupid
so naive
and demanding. "
i think the word "demanding" runs down the character that the reader should feel empathy for. It lightens the mood of something that is supposed to be dramatic. I loved your poem (and it was the only one i read) the only thing that i thought needed changing would be the word demanding.
I probably should have added a line. :/ I didn't go back to edit.
I just meant I would have made "demanding" a new line. He
tells me
that i
am dumb
so stupid
so naive
and
demanding.
Like that.
Isn't it funny how that simple 'new line' change actually changes how we perceive the poem's flow, adds an invisible stress without actually using 'so'...I think the new line version is an improvement
(S) Asami So Young 화재 wrote: "재밌는 영어가 그 방법입니다"Yes. It is.
But so is Google.
Turned this in already.
sorry! i said english is funny that way.how is google funny?
(S) Asami So Young 화재 wrote: "sorry! i said english is funny that way.how is google funny?"
ha!ha! Google is funny in the way it translates...if you enter your Korean ...it'll translate it as :
How funny is that English is
Oh... that is odd. If i were speaking korean or japanese it would be said: That that way english is.
Mod
He
tells me
that i
am dumb
so stupid
so naive
and
demanding.
Like that."
for the poem. Who is the one that is demanding?
The narrator.Thank you all. I should've mentioned this months ago when I found out, but: I got into the conservatory. :)
Conservatory: It's like a major in college.
really!! Wow congradulation!!! erm... what do you do if you conservitize?
Thank you.Conservatory is a thing, and conservitize isn't a word.
oh sorry!!! erm.. so then.. umm it's like a major so what do you learn?
Don't be.My "major" is creative writing, so in the afternoon, after academic classes are done, I go to classes that focus on creative writing.
oooh!!! that amazing!! I wish i could go lol!!!
~
Him
He
and I
go hand in hand.
He
and I
are two different things.
He
can't speak,
and I
speak for him.
He
says I
should silently cry.
He
says I
should fall away.
Go far
Away.
He
says I
am weaker than all.
Which
i am
i don't
deny.
He
tells me
that i
am dumb
so stupid
so naive
and demanding.
He
tells me
that i am a child.
He
tells me
that i
am worthless.
Which
i am
i cant
deny.
He
claimed i
as his own
and tormented
and taunted
and terrified
me.
He
claimed i
did hell
to myself.
He
claimed i
stood and did nothing
as she cried.
which
i did
i know
i did.
He
knows i
did nothing
He
knows i
know nothing
He
knows i
can say nothing
He
knows i
am nothing
Music is Might
Fifteen-year-old Arianna stared at the now blank wall in front of her. Lighter rectangles represented the spots where posters once were. Her blue eyes were red, and her light cheeks were tear-stained. Arianna stared down at her hands, her long fingers curled on her lap, inept. She shuddered as she recalled Friday: two days ago.
The piano missing.
Her parents’ faces: their grim expressions.
Books in the corner, sheet music stacked.
Tears in her eyes.
Arianna shook her head, as though the memories would fade. Instead, they came faster. Stronger. More painful.
Parents talking.
Dad laid off.
Mom working overtime.
Dad searching.
The piano gone.
Arianna sniffled. She curled up under her olive green covers.
Music books sold.
Trophies stored in the back of her closet.
Hiding countless sheets of music.
Posters of musicians torn down.
A bird twittered somewhere outside. Arianna sighed. And school starts tomorrow, she thought bitterly.
Scales
C D E F G A B C
Through the keys,
My fingers fly.
D E F# G A B C# D
Through the scales,
My fingers go.
E F# G# A B C# D# E
Through the sequence,
My fingers dance.
F G A Bb C D E F
Through the flats,
My fingers play.
G A B C D E F# G
Through the pattern,
My fingers learn.
A B C# D E F# G# A
Through the sharps,
My fingers leap.
B C# D# E F# G# A# B
Through the scale,
My fingers start,
Back to the beginning
Of the sequence,
C D E F G A B C
One
A boy bows. He then turns to the grand piano, waiting for the applause to die down. He rests his hands on the white keys, breathes, then plays like he's never played before. His eyes are shining with passion as beautiful music spills from the large instrument.
A girl stands alone on stage. Music plays. She dances. Dances the night away. She pirouettes alone, for she is a prima ballerina. An applause brings pride to her eyes.
A flower blooms in the desert. It is night time there. White blossoms as the moon rises higher and higher. Streaks of pink line the inside of the little flower. Its leaves, thin and delicate, are curled at the ends. The flower is a symbol of beauty in the bleak landscape.
Three things. One similarity.
As the boy plays, his finger misses a note. His entire scale becomes off beat. Dissonance. A horrid sound leaks from the piano. The boy freezes, hands locked in place, his eyes wide with fear. The audience stares. Some have incredulous looks, while others have looks of pity. It is clear, though. The boy is petrified.
The girl turns. Her heart is racing. She turns one too many times, causing her entire dance to be off a beat. She tries to slow down, but in doing so, she loses her balance and falls. A loud snap echoes through the theatre. The music falls flat. The crowd gasps. She lies on the floor, crying not because of pain, but because her dreams have been shattered.
With the rising sun, the flower begins to shrivel. White turns to yellow as its once beautiful petals dies away and fell to the ground. Green turns brown and the dead flower sinks into the sand.
Three different things.
One similarity: all have lost their beauty.
Bells
Ding... Dong...
Ding... Dong...
A bell sings.
Children laugh.
Ding... Ding…
Ding... Dong...
The bell,
Large and strong,
Singing its wondrous song,
The wonderful shell.
Ding... Dong...
Ding... Ding...
Snowflakes fall,
The children's laughter
growing louder and crisper,
Just how the snowflakes fall, fall, fall.
Dong... Dong...
Ding... Dong...
The ground shakes,
Only once,
Lost in the absence,
Of horrid panic.
Ding... Dong...
Ding... Dong...
A deafening sound,
Of utter horror,
And the bell falls,
Its final ring,
Lost in the blizzard of screams.
Masquerade
Silent tears,
Silent cries,
Silent sobs in the night,
Forever muted
Hiding behind the masks.
The mask of happiness
Is dying down,
And the silent sadness,
Has come alive.
The mask of laughter
Is slowly vanishing,
And the silent tears
Are quickly appearing.
The mask of lies
Is finally gone,
And the bitter truth
Is here to surface.
The masks have disappeared,
Leaving nothing but the silent sobs.
For those who care
Don't care enough
To lend a hand,
And give back the masks that have fallen
Into
Oblivion.
Happiness,
Laughter,
Lies.
All keep playing on.
The masquerade plays on.
Those who have dropped their mask,
Have already given up.
Anfisa Cumley; Part 1: The Ragdoll
A girl stood at the bottom of a white stone staircase leading out to a paved pathway to a black iron gate. Anfisa Cumley stared after the fading form of her father’s bus before her, ice blue eyes gloomy. A hand rested on her shoulder, signaling her inside. A small sigh escaped her as she turned to follow her nurse back into the manor. Anfisa shivered despite the heat outside and her thick brown coat. Stubbornness kept the girl’s jacket on her. Questions circled the five-year-old, though she remained silent until they reached her large bedroom up on the second floor. Play things were neatly stacked in drawers on the left side of the white-walled room. A few feet in front of the drawers lay a bed with a brown leather chest of drawers filled with clothes for the little-girl. Pale blue covers lined the bed, a color that matched Anfisa’s ice blue eyes. A doll lay on the edge of the bed. Anfisa sighed softly, causing a strange look to appear on her nurse’s sharp features as the door closed.
“Nana?” Anfisa asked tentatively, as if she were afraid.
“Yes, Anfisa?” Nurse replied sharply. She flinched, though continued.
“When is Daddy coming back?”
“In a few months.”
And that was that. Anfisa walked over to her little playthings, picking up the little rag doll that had mysteriously appeared on her bedside just days before. Her father claimed he hadn’t made it, nor bought it or placed it on her bedside. Nurse had said the same. Both swore they would never lie to her. Coincidentally, several pieces of cloth, as well as two black buttons from one of the maids’ sewing kits, and perhaps a few bits of feathers from her pillow inexplicably vanished.
Anfisa held the doll close to her chest as she sat down by her playthings. Nurse had left, gone to take care of other business. Anfisa stared down at the pudgy pink fingers that wrapped around the torso of the little ragdoll, silent as ever. However, she was listening. Listening for any sort of noise outside her bedroom. Silence. A smile crept onto her lips as she sat against the foot of her bed, whispering things to the doll.
“Come home, Daddy. Come home.”
~
Martin Cumley had quite literally been hundreds of miles away from his estate—and daughter— when he heard a soft voice. Now, one may think him insane, for he thought himself to be as well. Shrugging, he lay back in his seat, and closed his eyes. Then it came it again.
“I miss you.”
A soft reminder. His blue eyes flew open, glancing around the back of the bus where several of his stage crew, his friends, was gambling at a table. No one else.
It wasn’t that Martin didn’t love his daughter, no. He simply couldn’t be with her. Busy schedules kept him away, which was why he’d sent the nurse to take care of her. Annie, she’d told him. Annie Adams.
Martin blamed Hecate in some ways, for forcing the little girl onto him when he couldn’t possibly spend any time with her. However, he of course would never voice these complaints aloud.
And then he’d have to tell Anfisa the whole truth eventually.
He heard her again, though now her voice was desperate, pleading. Martin felt a pang. He reached for his cell phone.
~
Minutes past before the door of the playroom burst open. Anfisa jumped to her feet, pulling the doll close to her chest. Nurse took long strides towards her, grey eyes cold.
“What have you been doing, Anfisa?
The cowering girl flinched, and backed into the corner. “Nothing, Nana,” she whispered.
“Tell me, child.”
Anfisa whimpered, pulling the doll closer. Grey eyes fell to the limp figure hanging from her arms. A flicker of… fear? Could it possibly be? Too late to dig deeper. It had already disappeared.
“Give that to me,” she growled. Anfisa asked no questions, nor did she protest. She simply stood where she was. After seconds of waiting, her nurse stepped forward, raising her hand as she did so. Before Anfisa had time to register what was happing, a hand had slapped her across her cheek, and the ragdoll had been pulled from her grip. Unlike most children, who would cry out in protest, or have a tantrum, or have a breakdown of some kind, Anfisa sat down where she was in her corner, clutching her cheek with her fingers. Her head was turned away as she felt salty droplets form in her eyes.
That night, as Anfisa laid in her bed, sleeping, a shadow slipped into her room. Its eyes glinted in the moonlight, revealing two black buttons for eyes. The figure cocked its head, and then stumbled towards the bed. It clutched the top hat with two felt hands; when it reached the bed, it simply hopped underneath the covers and onto the mattress, snaking its way into Anfisa’s peachy fingers as the little girl slept.