Monday 27 February 2012

Who Me Is

This is another story about a girl who contemplates the classic question, who am i? whilst sitting in detention.

Who am I?
The question lies solitary on the page, black ink shining with an old tinge. A constant tapping erupts from the pen, bringing forth no enlightenment. I sigh; I don’t know who I am. I am a girl, I am sixteen, but that’s not who I am, that’s just what I am. I glance up at the clock. Fifteen minutes till detentions over, and I have to have something written.
Am I me? The words fall over themselves, smudging on the page. The crisp sheet once filled with three subtle words, now spoiled.
I am not me. But then, who am I? I have to be someone. I looked around the room, at the silent figures hunched over their desks. A chewing could be heard from Erik, always having gum in his mouth. I found gum loathsome, food is there to be eaten, not suspended out to last as long as possible. As I watched, he took the gum from his mouth, wrapping it in his single sheet of paper.
I am not Erik.
In the far corner of the room, Maddy was applying her make-up. Layers and layers of it, glittered eyes and glossed lips. I found that the effort of make-up did nothing to hide my uneven complexion. Her sheet lay empty, no words imprinted to last. Powered flakes covered its once white side.
I am not Maddy.
A step away sat Hayley, head drooping over the desk. A quiet noise came from her, signalling her mind to already be whisked away into the journeys of sleep. I found my mind to afraid to be able to sleep when it was not allowed. A slight drop of drool slipped from her mouth, falling to expand on her crumpled page.
I am not Hayley.
Feet on the desk, Nathan lounged back, arms folded across his chest. He stared off into the near distance, shoes resting evenly on the table. The idea that someone’s feet had been placed on my table stopped me from ever wanting to do it to another. As he shuffled his feet, a slight encrust of dirt fell onto his blank sheet.
I am not Nathan.
Only one person remained in the room, sitting ever so quietly at their desk. That person, who had so examined the others sitting at their desks, found that each had left their mark, each had answered their question. Though it was with gum, powder, drool and dirt, it was all still who they were. And so what was it that the person had, that made them who they were? And as she looked at her page, covered with what she was not, she realised what she had. It was something that everyone had, that she just choose to use.
I am me.

Sunday 26 February 2012

Wonderful world

I now present to you the first two lines of a story I have written. It's not a long story, and if you want to read the rest you can find it at the link below:


The wonders of life are envisioned by those hoping to gain something. But for those who hope to gain nothing, they are the one who see the truths of life.





Wonderful world WritersCafe.org

Furby Attack

Have you ever seen a Furby on a plane?
Actually, let's start with a better question; do you know what a Furby is? Well if you don't, it's a toy that makes all these different noise (it sneezes, snores, says it name and many other things if I can recall). And the best part about them, they can communicate with other Furby's. It looks, like the one thing in the photo that you don't recognise.  And that is a Furby. I loved my Furby, looking back, wow they were annoying.
So, back to the first question; have you ever seen a Furby on a plane? Well I haven't, and I have been on a fair few planes. So some airline (I can't remember which) thinks it's necessary to include it in their safety card, admist radio, phones and what almost looks like a microwave. Maybe, when Furby's where more popular (I haven't seen one for years), it was more of a nuisance. Though Furby's really, were quite a nuisane; the only way to shut them up was take the batteries out (never, never get your child a Furby if you want sleep, and especially not two!).
Back to the plane; I can imagine after a serious crash the pilot pronouncing the cause. Let's set the scene. Hundreds of people watching, a serious but calm expression on the pilot's face. Cameras in every corner. They open their mouth to speak; "It was a Furby." Are these cuddly cute toys really dangerous. Well airlines say yes. I agree, they can easily annoy you till the cows come home.
So really, next time you're on a plane, don't forget tp put that Furby in your luggage and not your carry on. Or better yet, how about accidentally lose it in transit.

Those Coy Little Buggers

I'm sure we all know those birds, that hang round you whilst you're enjoying a nice picnic somewhere serene. Well, the best thing, in my opinion, is to throw a rock at them. Don't worry, they'll move you hit them, and maybe (if you're lucky) they won't come back. But these birds, they're actually quite smart.
People tend to want to feed birds that are injured (from personal experience- I know that I certainly feel sorry for those birds that seem injured). But some of these birds just seem to fake it (aren't they smart). They stand there, on one foot (or in some other guise) and make everyone feel sorry for them. Throw something at them, and out pops another foot, all fine as they walk away content.
So why is it that we feel sorry for these birds? And do we see the same with people? If you saw a person with one foot would you be hurriedly handing them your lunch (I know I wouldn't). But for some reason we feel sorry those these disadvantaged birds and spoil them with latherings of food.
But hey, maybe they deserve it for their smarts.

Tuesday 21 February 2012

When you find it Tell me

So I'm writing what I would like to one day end up as a novel (there's a lot of things I'd like to happen that don't). And then I thought, well I'd love some feedback, so why not plug it here (even though right now, no one seems to be reading anything I say. You never know how things may change). So I'm going to put the first chapter up here (which will also tell you what the story's about), and if you so wish to read the rest (there's two more chapters up at this stage), then you can follow the link below. And now that I have had my ramble I will end with a please and sincere thank you.

I sat on the bus, shaking. Shaking with what? Happiness? Nerves? I knew not which. All I knew was that I had $43.70 in my pocket and a bus ticket to a new life. But was it a new life that I wanted? My old life, it was one to envy. I have two loving parents, a wonderful sister. We never fought. My house wasn't big, but it's perfect for us. I go to a good school, good friends who say I'm smart. My life is perfect. I'm wrong with what I said. I had two loving parents, a wonderful sister. We never fought. I had a house that wasn't big, it was perfect for us. I went to a good school, and had good friends who said I'm smart. My life was perfect. It's all still there, everything still in place. The only thing missing is me.
My parents will ask questions when they see the note on the table. They'll cry. The police will be called. But I don't want them to find me.
I want to leave it all behind. A want to start again. With $43.70 and a jumper. I don't plan on going back. My only plan to make a bench my home. It's not something that you talk with your parents about over dinner. I know that my parents will always welcome me back. But if I'm lucky, I won't be forced back.
So now I sit on the bus shaking. And I wonder, what others would wonder; why would you leave everything for nothing?

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2985979/1/When_You_Find_it_Tell_Me

Monday 20 February 2012

Wish Amongst the Stars

Love story time...

I sat between the trees, heart still as I stared at the girl resting on the seat. A face so full of glory stared out with eyes deeper than the sky, lips so gentle like the lace that covered her. Silent wings lay folded on her back, ready to lift in the wind. A cool-drawn dress flitted silently down her body, layers of white falling over her legs. Sleeves covered arms so delicate that even dove's hid in jealousy, spreading beads down to her hands. I traced my eyes down the shining side, falling as it fell. My eyes paused their time as they came to rest on her hand, a single ring fitting over her finger. Compared to her beauty to ring stood out dull, though jewels covered it round. It had no magnificence, only the bleak lifeless look where emotion did not exist.
She moved suddenly, causing fear into me, making me shrink further into the shadows. I looked away, my mind thinking that if I didn't see her, she wouldn't see me. But I knew that my diverted gaze would not keep me from her eyes. Slowly I turned my head to once again gaze at her. Her movements before had only placed her bare feet on the mottled grass, her eyes still staring straight. I sighed, a deep long sigh that sounded of my fear and wonder. This girl so of grace, she sat without knowing of my desires, of my wishes. She knew not that I had spent every night praying amongst the stars for her to see me. That every wish I had found had been spent on her. I waited for the day when she would notice my yearning eyes, yet feared it more than death.
I could always feel him looking at me, his patient eyes straining to see through the night air. Sometimes, when I knew his eyes had been diverted, I would glance at him, pushing every moment of him to savour in my mind. And sometimes, when he continued to look another way, I would stare. Every time I would watch his smooth face, dappled skin running to eyes brighter than the sun. Silver plate grew around his body, shining to reflect the trees around him. It curved rigid around him, showing how beauty erupted underneath. He would rest so softly amongst the trees, as if he were a part of them. He moved suddenly, and those callous movements were as graceful as a dove's flight. And when he returned his gaze to me he would sigh. A beautiful sigh that came wistfully to my awaiting ears. When he sighed my heart would rise with his upturned voice, then fall as it disappeared with the wind. I would gaze to the stars, waiting for a wish to shoot across the sky. And when it did I would wish for him, the boy so filled with grace. I waited for the day when he would notice my glancing gaze upon his turned figure. And when it never came, I let another boy place a ring on my finger.
The boy sat silently in the shadows, staring at the face that was covered in perfections. On this last night of the girl's freedom she sat, staring into the stars, wishing beyond hope that her single wish would come true. A shooting star played across the sky, both eyes upturned to look as it made its way across the expanse above. But neither made a wish, for stars are but stars and do not hold anything but beauty. With a silent gaze the boy turned once again to the girl, and the girl had but time to turn away. Together they gazed at the one they had so wished for. The girl rose, her subtle dress breathing around her. The boy saw her move, but did not shrink to the shadows as he otherwise would. Silently they both paced their beautiful steps to the other, bare feet striking softly the ground. Neither noticed the ring slip silently off the girl's finger to lay hidden in the dirt. Nor did they notice the colours that sang as they walked. For the first time they saw each other as they truly were, the rags of the boy, the scars of the girl. But neither cared. For she was his angel, and him her knight in shining armour.

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2926319/1/Wish_Amongst_the_Stars

a pointless drabble directed at YOU

Below ye shall find a story. Well, not a story, more like a drabble. It is fictional, but does that make it a story?

I want to ask you a question. Why are you reading this? That's the wrong way to start. I was told it's never polite to start with a question, you have to let a person tell you about themselves before you start to pry. So, what's your life like? There I go again, asking another question. I can't even be bothered to stick around for the answer. Why did I even ask that question? Hey look, another question. But that one's for me, not you, so don't you dare answer that if you don't want to offend me. But I can answer it myself, as it was myself that asked the question. Two myself's except they're both the same person. They're both me. All me. Always me. Oh gosh, my mother always said I shouldn't talk too much about myself, I would bore anyone to death. So, what's your life like? I've already said that, haven't I? Don't answer that. Can you really be bothered to tell me anyway? And think, if someone don't wanna tell, and someone don't wanna hear, no one's gaining anything,are they? Unless it's a life or death situation, when there's a whole heap to gain. You're not dead are you? Sorry, that's just a question that I have to ask, I wouldn't want to be talking to a ghost now would I? Actually, I ain't really having a two-sided conversation am I? Hey, hey, hey; let me impress you with something. Hold your shirts on. Or is it meant to be hat? Or socks? Oh well, just get now will you, and stop listening to me. Here, I'll give a few mo's to get ready. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,9 ½, 9 ¾, 10. There you go, you should be ready now, whatever you're holding. Okay, here goes. I just need to get myself ready now. Three deep breaths. Or nine or ten. I'm ready now. You've had more than enough time, so you should be ready to. Okay here goes, again. The wind I am. Isn't that amazing? So poetic, so, so… inspirational. I've gotta look into the sky when I say that, just so it had effect. Look with me. That line, it says so much, don't it? And you can be honest with me. You have no need to tone down your amazement. I thought of it myself you know. I might be a poet one day. Famous for my one-liners. Or maybe I should just go into pick up lines; your hair looks amazing, but you know where it would look even more amazing? By a beige-green wall and a mahogany lamp. Just like my apartment. Hey, hey, isn't that a great pick-up line? I haven't tried it yet, but I will. Do you think it will work? You might as well use it, it better than some of that old crummy stuff. So I probably seem pretty impressive now don't I? Someone to look up to? A role model? Oh, I'm blushing now. Thank you so very much for the great honour that I know you will bestow me. How's the weather? I was told to always turn to the weather if I needed to make polite conversation. So, weather time. Bright and sunny with a hint of clouds. Do you think I could pass for one of those people that read the weather on T.V? I don't I could, I don't have the hair. Plus I couldn't pass off doing a nice jig in the middle of talking about the hurricane that raining sun. That would be my only problem though, I know heaps about the weather. I was told to always stop whilst I'm head. My mother said that would normally be after I've said one thing, and look at that, I've said quite a few! But it's always best to obey your dear old mother, so I'll stop now. I just want to ask you one more question. Why did you read this?

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2985074/1/a_pointless_drabble_directed_at_YOU

Saturday 18 February 2012

Coffee Mixed Perfume

Hey look, another story.

She came each day, bought the same magazine, with the same cup of coffee. He knew because he could smell it, mixed in with her perfume as she leant to take her change. She wouldn't even glance at him, instead at the headlines of the latest break-up. He would smile at her, which would then turn to a saddened gaze as he watched her pencil-skirt walk away. He could imagine her heels clicking long after she turned the corner. She always came at the same time. 7:43 exactly. And the one time she didn't, she didn't come at all.
He looked as far as his eyes could reach, yearning to smell that coffee mixed perfume. But as he closed the shutters of his little stall, he knew that she wasn't coming that day.
She appeared the next morning though, at 7:43. He smiled extra as he saw her approach. And it was that, which spurred him to speak to her.
"Didn't get your magazine yesterday, almost made me broke." He joked.
But she only raised her eyebrows to acknowledge him and walked away.
The next day, he gave her the wrong change, to see if she'd notice. But she didn't, and he was forced to call out to her. She only took it with another raised eyebrow.
He spent the day contemplating, trying to find a way for her to notice him. Yet he would always stare into the adjacent window, and eye the reflection bouncing back. A balding head, short stubby legs that matched the rest of him. The only thing he couldn't see was the eyes. The eyes that he was sure would captivate the woman's interest. If only she would look.
So each day he would try and hold her attention as he passed the changed to her hand. A few times he'd attempt to engage her. Commenting on the weather, asking how she was, pointing out the latest marriage. But she'd only just raise her eyebrows in acknowledgement, and walk away.
Then one day, she didn't appear in the morning. He began to doubt she ever would as the day wore on, but at lunchtime she appeared. Just like in the mornings, heels clicking, the cup of coffee the same.
"Can't miss out on the finest news?" He laughed a little as he said that.
She didn't raise her eyebrows though. "Why do you talk to me?" Her voice was covered in a harsh sweetness, one that she could not hide even in anger.
"I thought it might be nice."
"Well, it's not. All I want to do is come and buy my magazine. I don't like small talk." And she looked straight at him, right into his eyes. He knew her eyes were gazing at his, and he could nothing but gaze at hers. Then she broke the gaze and turned away, her heels clicking.
She didn't come the next morning, nor the day after. A week passed until she came again, heels clicking, coffee in hand. A different man stood at the counter. She asked where the other man was. Something about too many sleeping pills.
She came each day, bought the same magazine, with the same cup of coffee. He knew because he could smell it, mixed in with her perfume as she leant to take her change. She wouldn't even glance at him, instead at the headlines of the latest break-up. He would smile at her, which would then turn to a saddened gaze as he watched her pencil-skirt walk away. He could imagine her heels clicking long after she turned the corner. She always came at the same time. 7:43 exactly. And the one time she didn't, she didn't come at all.
He looked as far as his eyes could reach, yearning to smell that coffee mixed perfume. But as he closed the shutters of his little stall, he knew that she wasn't coming that day.
She appeared the next morning though, at 7:43. He smiled extra as he saw her approach. And it was that, which spurred him to speak to her.
"Didn't get your magazine yesterday, almost made me broke." He joked.
But she only raised her eyebrows to acknowledge him and walked away.
The next day, he gave her the wrong change, to see if she'd notice. But she didn't, and he was forced to call out to her. She only took it with another raised eyebrow.
He spent the day contemplating, trying to find a way for her to notice him. Yet he would always stare into the adjacent window, and eye the reflection bouncing back. A balding head, short stubby legs that matched the rest of him. The only thing he couldn't see was the eyes. The eyes that he was sure would captivate the woman's interest. If only she would look.
So each day he would try and hold her attention as he passed the changed to her hand. A few times he'd attempt to engage her. Commenting on the weather, asking how she was, pointing out the latest marriage. But she'd only just raise her eyebrows in acknowledgement, and walk away.
Then one day, she didn't appear in the morning. He began to doubt she ever would as the day wore on, but at lunchtime she appeared. Just like in the mornings, heels clicking, the cup of coffee the same.
"Can't miss out on the finest news?" He laughed a little as he said that.
She didn't raise her eyebrows though. "Why do you talk to me?" Her voice was covered in a harsh sweetness, one that she could not hide even in anger.
"I thought it might be nice."
"Well, it's not. All I want to do is come and buy my magazine. I don't like small talk." And she looked straight at him, right into his eyes. He knew her eyes were gazing at his, and he could nothing but gaze at hers. Then she broke the gaze and turned away, her heels clicking.
She didn't come the next morning, nor the day after. A week passed until she came again, heels clicking, coffee in hand. A different man stood at the counter. She asked where the other man was. Something about too many sleeping pills.

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2992175/1/Coffee_Mixed_Perfume

Friday 17 February 2012

Text Talk

EMFBI? YT? WUU2? WCA? I have a VBS coz MEGO now. SOMY?

AISB; Excuse me for butting in. You there? What are you up to? Who cares anyway? I have a very big smile because my eyes glaze over now. Sick of me yet?
So, how many people actually understood me before, my hand ain't up. The only reason I knew those was because I was recently scrolling down a website looking at all the different abbreviations used. It makes you wonder where some of them came from. 1432. Now someone tell me if you see that and think 'I love you to.' I see, 1432, and if someone was going to me they loved me with 1432, I would probably slap them and tell them to man up (more or less). You could have a whole conversation with all these different things, but I would be surprised if someone actually did.
If someone talks to me with a g8, I will spend hours trying to figure out what they're saying. But the one that I hate the most, the one that I loathe (and still don't know why), is dat. Just say that. One extra letter is not going to kill anyone, and it makes reading a lot easier. My limit is normally 'u' instead of 'you.' That is as far as I will go, and even then I won't do that all the time. Sorry, I won't do dat all the time.
So now, I have had my rant on that wonderful language, I will leave you with this to figure out.

QOTD: YABA


Monday 13 February 2012

Lettie's Love | WritersCafe.org

This is a short story about a girl, who when her sister dies she find consolation in her sister's boyfriend. I'm not going to put it all up because it will take up too much room, but if you want to read more you can use the link at the end (if it works). Otherwise you can go to one of the sites on my profile section and find it on there.

I knew he was behind me, but I could not hear his muffled
sobs. All I could hear was my own yearning cries. The ones that tore through my
heart, and ripped away a part of me. As we stared at the stone erected over the
grave, I felt a hand enclose around mine, and looked to see a suffering as
great as my own.

“Matt?” I had opened the door, to find him standing
there.
“Hey Cass. My Mum baked a lasagne, I thought I’d bring
some over.” He smiled, though I could tell that he had to put it on.
“Thanks. Want to come in?” I pulled the door open wider,
stepping aside as he made in way in. “Want a drink?”
We sat at the table, talking easily. Easier than we’d
ever been able to talk when she was with us.
“It would’ve been three years on Tuesday.
“Lettie couldn’t stop talking about it. You were so young
when you were eighteen. We all were.” We paused, a sigh coming from him.
“She was beautiful, wasn’t she.”
“There was more beauty than I ever thought to look for.”
“Did you see it before…” He trailed off, not needing to
finish his sentence.
“Whenever I looked at her. Whenever I commented on her
ugliness people would say that I couldn’t say that because we looked the same,
but I never believed it, she was always more beautiful. Always will be.”
“It’s hard to think of her, down there-” tears choked in
his eyes.
As mine became foggy I reached out and took his hand,
finding comfort in the sense of another.
“Her beauty won’t die with her as long as we remember
it.” The words came from my mouth, and I knew he heard.
“I promise.”
He left when my parents came home. They were tired, as
they always were now, and thanked him for the food before he took his leave. I
waited until he disappeared up the street.
We ate silently that night, as we always did now. It was
good to have real food. Mum hadn’t cooked for a while. Mum didn’t do much
nowadays. Dad had started going to work again. He went per normal, came home as
normal. Dad seemed to be coping the best. I had stopped crying myself to sleep,
instead tossing restlessly. I woke several times, thinking of her. And yet, she
never entered my dreams. I would lumber about in the days, wishing the
university term could start again. But it wouldn’t for another two months.
People would come over occasionally and they creep around the house as if every
step would unleash a ghost. My friends would treat me cautiously,
double-checking before they spoke. All I wanted was my normal friends, I didn’t
care if they cracked a joke that broke me into remembrance. But they never
dared.

The next time I saw Matt was two weeks after. I was
sitting on the bus when he came and plonked himself beside me.
“What’s new?” He said.
“Hi Matt.”
“Going home?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t feel much like talking, not to him right
now. All I wanted was someone I could spill my thoughts to.
“It’s lasagne night on Thursday, do you want me to bring
some over?”
“Only if you make it.”
“Sure.”
“What! No wait, Matt, you don’t really have to cook the
lasagne.” I staggered, trying to take back my challenge.
“Nonna’s over, she’s too eager to refuse.”
I recalled the one time I had met his bubbly Italian
grandmother. “Belle belle belle.” She
had kept repeating as she gestured towards me and my alike.
“Then I’ll look forward to it.”
He brought the lasagne round and invited himself to
dinner that night. And though the pasta was soggy, the meat chunky and the
sauce runny, it was the best lasagne I had ever had.
It was a year since she died now. So long since I’d seen
him. I never thought I would again. Yet I sat on a park bench when he came and
sat beside me.
“Matt?”
“I’m not that unrecognisable am I? I still haven’t grown
that beard.”
It was definitely Matt.
“Lettie always said that she would never let you.”
“I made her promise that you know.”
“She crossed her fingers you know.”
We laughed, together, a sound I had not expected today.
“How are your parents?”
“They were to the cemetery today. They want us to take a
holiday.”
“You didn’t?” I sensed the question in his tone.
“Her body may lie there but her heart doesn’t.”
He was silent, contemplating I think.
“Where does her heart lie Cass?”
“With you. She loved you so much Matt, so so much.”
“I know, I know.”

Lettie's Love WritersCafe.org

Sunday 12 February 2012

That Number

Why is it that deaths of larger numbers seem less heart-wrenching than smaller numbers?
Well at least that's how it seems to me. I heard a number today, one over 10,000 and it was about the number of people who died in a certain crisis. It was just said in passing though and some way on another number was commented on, one in comparision was a mere 80. But it seemed to be the 80 that held the most effect to the people quoting it. And to me even, it seemed more important. It's not that it was any more relevant to my life, both equalling the same. So why did it hold more impact?
Maybe because when the number is larger it is just shrugged off, people do not want to dwell on it and so they don't. There was more deaths and so it is a number too high to believe, to comprehend. Maybe.
It is something that will change I'd say between opinions.

Saturday 11 February 2012

Swinging Minds

A thousand thoughts flashed through my head as my heart raced wildly. The pause had not been noticed a split second all it taking for my mind to be made.
How many times have you read something like that in a book, where all these thoughts go through a person's mind and then only a second has passed? I know I've read it quite a few times, and also never really believed that so many things could be thought so quickly. But now, I'm starting to think about it again.
Just minutes ago I did the wonderfully smart thing and started swinging on my chair, only to have it topple over, taking me with it. But there was a moment, 3 seconds I would say, where I was balancing, realising that I was about the fall. And the number of thoughts that went through my head... I am falling. What do I do? Can I stop myself? Will I crack my head open? Will I break something? What can I hold onto? Why am I even falling in the first place? What's the best way to break my fall?... And that was when I fell. All these thoughts went through my head in 3 seconds. It's odd the amount of things you think of in such a short amount of time. And yet whilst I asked the questions, I didn't give myself any of the answers. So next time I read that in a book, I'm gonna believe it.
And the moral of this story is; don't swing on chairs.

Ever present slumber

The one thing that education has taught me, is that there is always a deeper meaning, even when there's not. A story always relfects a person's life, how they're feeling, the such. And that is when I look back at my stories and find very few of them are like that. They are just ways to escape the boredom. And that is why below, you will find another story, that does not reflect my life in any way, apart from the point that I wrote it.

The words clenched through his lips as a wave of hair breezed across her face. He pushed it back, solemnly, letting the air return it to its freedom before the action was repeated. He looked at her hands, chose not to take them, changed his mind, felt their soft encompass. Her eyes never left the same expression, not darting awkwardly, not gazing with the same that he gave to her. And he cried. With all guard gone from his placid face, with nothing but the truth left to fill through his tears. Though his drops were left to dry on her skin, she did nothing to brush them off, nothing to show they were there. Her lips were cracked, gasping for the moisture they determined. He longed to brush his against hers, but still now waited for the day when she would nod at his eyes. His hands still grasped hers, still held them in the warm grip. The eyes still dared not to dart, the skin still dripping with tears.

No cries sounded from his throat, tears stunting in their flow. He had nothing left to give. So with a swift movement, he reached, touched the knob, pressed without a pause. And so it was he never found out that she was a damsel in distress, waiting for a prince to wake her from her sleep.  

Evil Rising

Now I am very rarely in a state to write poetry. And that is why, if poetry is what you have a hunger for, you move on elsewhere. But I shall one poem, which will probably be the only poem you will see on here. It is about the seven deadly sins, which if you do not know what they are, you can find out if you read below.
These evils of which you speak

Hold me tight whilst I dare to seek

The way in which to go

To find that love that speaketh though

Wrath begins as it comes fast

Reaping the mind that it doth grasp

Envy dares to creep in next

A wary qualm with a deadly hex

Greed amounts as wishes grow

Turning into a toxic foe

Lust for that which cannot be

But never unlocking the secret key

Gluttony comes as hunger rises

Trickling in small tempting guises

Sloth will happen as pleasures appear

Taking away the little fear

Pride it ends with all that is

Facing death as life doth give

Those sins that wrap me in thy arms

To capture me in all its charms

I look on them as they see me

Evil in entirety

What you see on a Twilight walk

Barely an hour ago I was walking through the streets. Night was coming, almost here, but the street lights made the path clear anyway. And sitting there, on the corner by a fenced off area (that still holds no purpose) was sitting a homeless man. He didn't look up as me and my companions passed, and after him being pointed out, our conversations returned to other matters. It was all too simple to just walk past him. Every time I have seen him, with some other person with me, they have pointed him out. He is a regular in my neighbourhood. I do wonder if others have given him a name; 'Oh look, there goes George again.' Right now, I have a great curiosity to find out what his name actually may be. But if I said to my neighbour 'I saw that homeless man last night' they would know exactly who I mean, and I can imagine them not caring one bit. It does not conern them, and really neither us of would have any more to say than an acknowledging nod.
Another thing I was curious to know, was why he choose here, this neighbourhood where he has little to gain, to live. Does he wish to grow further in life? I wonder much about him know, how he came to be there, how long he will be there? So many things, and all I shall never find out.
It did get me thinking though, what would it be like to be homeless? And I do see some advantages in it. Would not it be nice to be able to throw away all the worries that society has placed on us? Work? Education? Taxes? Family? For some, it would be nice to show away the latter, for others it would be the worst imaginable point of life. It seems in a terrible way, wonderful. To be able to forget it all. But really, there are times when people, including myself, only think about the good so they don't have to worry about the bad.
When you walk past a homeless person, sitting on the street, there is always a horrible urge to stare. Their heads bent, their body's slouched, and it's almost like that is permission to glare at them, because they will not look up at you. And so why is it, that you stare? Because they are different? That at this time, is the only reason I can find. It is the same reason that you stare at a person with only one arm. But it is human nature to wonder about different things. Is not it the same as reading but with sight? We are taught to learn, and so we learn by looking, by staring. That though, like most things here, is just my opinion, and my opinion is not your opinion. Another life lesson there?
Well out of all of this, there is something that can be suggested; give to the poor cause the poor can't give to themselves.
But do what you may.

Friday 10 February 2012

Don't stress

I remember the first test where I wasn't happy with my mark. It was 64%, a mark that I would learn to be happy with in other subjects. But at that point in my life, I thought I was pefect at all. How wrong I was. Now, I look back at that mark and realise that it didn't do anything to change me. It made me a little upset, but it didn't count for anything. Nothing, nil, nada. A week later and the mark didn't make any difference to my life. So now I've realised that for five years of my education, none of it would ever matter. A test would just be a test, the next day I wouldn't be any different. It wouldn't give me any more opportunities or any less. So why did I stress so much?
Well compared to some people in my year, I was very laid-back, cramming every in the night before. And yes I failed more tests, I did well in others, but no matter how I did, it didn't make any difference. So five years of education and none of matters zilch. Oh but the learning, you might say. It gives you knowledge for the future years. Not always. Four years of science and when I can finally decide what to do, no science to be found anywhere near my choices. Why? Because I spent four years loathing it with a passion. Even after four years of maths, I go back to learning the same I was learning the first year. I would've been happy to miss those three years.
So, a test doesn't mean stress. I'm not saying it's not good to study. But I am saying that stressing gets people nowhere.
If it doesn't mean you'll die tomorrow, why stress about it?

Oddities

I came across an odd thing today, which I feel I shall share. I do not know why, at this moment it only poses interest to me, and I still recall myself saying I would not share true experiences. (I am sorry but I believe I should take that statement back. I shall share true experiences, but not trivial ones). Saying that, this is quite trivial indeed, but still I will continue to say it.
I had in my hand today, a fresh bottle of water. Not cold. but not used before, still holding the original contents. Usually, I do not drink from such bottles, it is easier to fill an old one up with the tap. But here I had this bottle. And I began to drink from it, and there was something so incredibly different about it. Not just the taste, for there was a distinct taste though tap water seems to present none. But the feeling of it. It was thicker. Now I know this probably seems absurd, how can water have a feeling. But that is the only way I can describe it, it is thicker. I know a person who goes often to New Zealand, and they insist the water is softer there. I am still unsure of whether I agree.
But it is odd the differences of water hold, when still it is all just water. It's trivial though, water is water. And either way, whether it's from New Zealand or Africa, people still thrive from it, and we should be happy that we have it at our luxury.

Somewhere over the ocean

I know I just before said I would refrain from true experiences, but I was looking through my mind, and I came across this photo, this experience. I was there, flying over some ocean, and the sun has begun to rise outside my window. And so I was compelled to write what you will see below. It made me realise, that beauty really can exist in the world.

It’s the starry expanse that draws your eyes, their level fields seeming reachable, like you can pluck them out of the sky. When once you’d raise your eyes upwards, now the shining pinpricks glitter in your natural leverage. And then, when your eyes travel done you see the bed of clouds, sitting like the sea under your eyes. They fold, cutting out all sight of the sea below, but it may be cities, for how would you know with the blanket shrouding over your sight. Through this all the stars continue to dot the sky, falling higher and higher. And out there, lining with thine eyes; the moon. Encompassed half in the dusty clouds, it emanates a soft orange glow. As you placidly move, the moon seems to grow bigger, brighter. Clouds spin around its body, but it still shines large, reigning light into the slickest of corners. Although it presents just a small circle of light around it, you know that the world is singing with the light of the moon, for there is only one.

You close your eyes, just to rest them for a while, and when they open again to look outside, the moon is gone, light beginning its parade.

From below toppled of clouds just lie untouched, until suddenly, a beacon of light from below breaks through its silent reverie. Throwing pinks and yellows across the small expanse of clouds, it stands tall. Other light then begin to pinprick through the clouds, breaks in the rolls letting in the city beneath.

And you think, as slowly the lights die and the clouds again remain untouched, all it needs is a shooting star.

As your eyes close once again, you wonder what you will see when next they open. And when you open them again, light has begun to creep its way in.

The horizon of clouds sings bright with a gazelle of colours. Starting with a red tinge, it transforms to pink, then orange follows in the song. Yellow sounds high next to the following green. But blue appears next to reign over the sky and paint the picture seen. All the colours merge as they change, forming something to never see again.

As you stare out at the dawned horizon, you see a small red line, dotting the sky. Gradually it rises over your line of sight, gaining height over the horizon. As it grows, its colours becomes lighter, brighter, until its fiery shades are too bright for your eyes.

You cannot look out anymore, the fiery globe blinding your sight, but as the seconds grow, it leaves your view to the other side.

Looking down you see gentle blanket of clouds, falling over all your sight. They rise over each other, forming a castle in your mind. And as you look, you can imagine the faeries playing in the fluff, so happily above the land below.

You see much more with your subtle eyes, but there are some things that can only be remembered and never put to words. You never expected the world above to hold such beauty in its grasp, but it did, and you are happy that you were there to see it.

Experiences

I was thinking again about what next I would present to the online world, and then my mind happened across a true experience I thought I would share. As I figured out how I would word it, I realised you probably don't care. It's my life, and how many people out there would be hanging on my every word. What makes my life so interesting that even one person wants to hear the story. A comment in passing may not go amiss, but in full, who wants to listen?
So I think that I shall refrain from my life stories, for really there are barely interesting at all. I have no sad sob story, or a great epiphany that made me realise the true meaning of life. Basically, I was given everything to have the perfect life, the only thing that went wrong was me.
But I am not going to dwell into my life, which I have just said. Maybe, a true story will be found here and there, but it will hold a purpose to it, or at least in my mind it wil.
Whether you choose to read or not is not up to me.

Just a thing

Oh I will say this now. If you have happened on this in some way or the other, and wish to read something, I suggest you read the first post, which you will find if you scroll down and maybe (depending on how you are viewing this) and click on 'older posts'. It is titles 'New Beginning' and that is how you will know it is the first.
Thank you.

Analyse this

When a poet writes a poem, do you think they are thinking of the people out there that will one day tears apart every little word, taking their stories as a reflection on their life, trying to discover a secret?
Well I must say now, that I have never done that, and really, I hope that I never will. But why, why do we analyse these thing, what is it we hope to gain? Is it that we want to know more about their lives, and then so, we presume that because their writing is of a depressing nature, they were going through a difficult stage in their life. It is an easy presumption to make, maybe right, maybe wrong. but really, why does it matter if we know about their lives. What does it all come down to? The point of a story is so someone cane sit down and read it and enjoy Not pick apart each sylablle. Do we do it, because we want to know their secret to success? To know what makes their writing so good? Well I will tell you, it is good because many people enjoy it, and that is the simple answer. Do people want to copy these masterpieces? Maybe, but will picking it apart for years really bring that forward.
I still do not understand why we analyse things. I recall once, watching a video on an author, who is quite very famous (and not living to this date either), and in  this video there was a team, who picked apart their stories. They did everything they could, found common words, looked at history. And not once in this video said why they were actually doing it?
Will it help us go further in life? Most likely not. Is it fun to sit and analyse something for hours? For those who are forced, most likely not?
So, tell me, why do we do it?  Is it because we want to know why?

Stories and posts

I sit here and I wonder (you will find I do that a lot), what is the difference between a short story and say, a blog post. Of course there are the obvious differences, a short story has a story in it. But a post, has it's own story too. If you look hard enough, there will be a story in the words, more likely to be based on truth than fiction, but still a story.
I have read before, that to write a good story, it should be based on true experiences. I look then, at my stories, and out of the many I have, very few of them are based on truths. And the ones that are, are the ones that I, I then find them more disagreeble than the others. When I write a story of the truth, I tend to recount rather than show. And that is why you will find very little of my stories being true. Is not it nice to create a world, that is so very different from your own? To send your mind into a turmoil of the different possibilities? And is it not better to read the ventures of a different world? To imagine for that little time, that people out there really do hold the key to happiness?
So back to what I was first saying, a blog post is truth (more or less). But the truth is a story; it has been told in actions and now in words. So really, a blog post may not be so unlike a story. But the beauty of a blog post, is that there is not someone lurking over you, analysing every word, charging with their red pen.
So now tell me, did you find a story in this?

Newspaper Jacket

Another story now, shorter than the last. I cannot say what it is about without ruining it, but I will say that the one other person (at this moment) who read it, did not fully understand it. I do not find it hard to understand why.

Her newspaper jacket rustled as she dragged it closer around her. The news headlines blared, merging with the next. A murder here, a lost dog there. Good next to bad, bad blurred with good. It was all trivial matters compared to the one who wore it. Trivial matters that would not affect her. The more that came, the easier it was to ignore, until now. Now they were no more than words, barely that left in her head.

She walked, a loose string tugging at her mind. To cut it off would be to unravel the rest, to leave it would present a flaw. Either way a lie. So she pulled at the thread, twisting it, testing it, waiting for it to break of its own accord, instead of leaving it to hang there. Maybe though, it would be better not to do anything. No lies to be said, no truths to break.

But a jacket will remain with a person, even long after all the strings have gone into threads. To throw it out early, would be to leave it sitting there, waiting for someone to come pick it up. To gain the problems, to win its successes.

She sat, as the loose thread began its unravelling. She had chosen. The threads began coursing through the air as the jacket shed its secrets. Truths were shared, lies were made.

And the jacket, that newspaper jacket, became little more than strings hanging on a loom, waiting to be stitched into another story.

Why?

I have been flicking through the different blogs here and it has surprised me by what I found. I wonder now why it surprised me, but still the diversity did. There were ones for travellers, for writes, to churches, to photographers.
But the one that amazed me the most, was the incredible amount for family's. A blog dedicated to the ups and down of raising rambunctious children. And the more I saw, the more I wondered. Why? Is is that these people wish to display their family, for friends just or the passing world? Do their wish for the world to know their child's wants? That makes me think, if I had a child, I would not want to parade them across the internet, sharing unfortunate information about them that may end up in the wrong hands. Another thing I wondered, was that whilst. one women at least, only got 4 to 5 hours sleep at a time, was still managing to find time to post photos with explanations? Do they find it as an escape, to dive into words of the world they just left? Or does it bring them pride of a kind?
Again, I must apologise if what I say seems rude. I do not think bad of these people, I think them quite courageous to continue, and still find the time.
I just, in many things, wonder why. I will always be wondering why. There will be a why for everything.
And that makes me ask the question; Why am I doing this?

Those who wish to see

At this very moment, I am curious to know of the people out there. I have a tone in my voice, of elegance and charm with that unwanted hint of brashnesss, that presents in my mind the need for a statement so elaborately set, that even I do not understand the string of words put together. And that has led me to wonder of the people out there.
The people in question are you, the reader, of whichever other name of trivialties you wish to call yourself (does that sound rude, I do not intend it to be so, and yet I see it as so, I must get to that later). I decide though, that to know of the people out there, is more than hearing of one's history. I could tell of me descendants, my most delectable food, what I enjoy. But would know more of me than anyone else? You might be able to answer these questions after reading, but when asked 'who is she?' could you present an answer. And in the same, could I ask give an answer if asked of you? And my answer would be simple enough; no. One word, but it destroys people sometimes.
Oh I must now recall what I said before. Did I sound rude? You see in my mind I have this tone, I have already described it, and it makes me see things with my nose in the air, and look upon what I saw with a rudeness that may or may not be bestowed. But alas, I cannot answer that question for myself. For you, who does not hold my present air, will see it with whichever voice you may, and may therefore see it as rude.
Tomorrow I will be different though. I will look at this and be happy if no one has seen it so I can delete this post. Will I delete it though? I change my mind constantly. At one moment I am fine with something being shown, the next I am not.
Tomorrow I will have a different tone, and a tone it will be. Tomorrow what I say shall be different from what I have already said. But now I give you a challenge; take my tone, of elegance and charm with that unwanted hint of brashness, stick your nose in the air, and read this again.
Now, do you see what I see?

Blue

Here is the first story of many that I shall post on here. I have one problem arising though; some of my stories are longer than this one, and I do not wish to have incredibly long posts. I do not know how I shall get around it, any suggestions?
Anyway, this story is about a girl who has never been able to see the true world through her eyes. She does however see it in her mind, and the one day, when she is given the gift of sight, everything changes. Here is it:

My name is Calla. It means beauty, in Greek. I never thought I lived up to this name, though I was told I did. It’s not on the outside that matters, it’s what’s on the inside, I was told. I still did not believe them. I always thought the world was full of colours, colours that I made up in my head. I was told the sea was blue. Blue they said, soft, calming, light. Except for dark blue, they said, that’s dark. So that’s what I imagined, soft calming. The sea sparkled they said, little diamonds flashing everywhere. I told them I didn’t know what diamonds looked like, but I could imagine them. I don’t know if I imagined them right, but they were right in my mind. I was told that trees grew from the ground, they had brown trunks and green leaves. Brown, dark, rough, not the most favourite colour. Green, bright, calming like blue, one of the most diverse colours they told me. I asked what a leaf looked like, so they gave me leaves. Some were rough, some smooth. They were all different so I couldn’t get the right picture. So I made up a picture in my mind, of all the leaves. Are trees beautiful? I asked. Some are, most aren’t though, they told me. But my tree was beautiful, absolutely beautiful.

They put shapes in my hand to show me how things looked. I learnt what an apple was, what a flower was. They drew pictures in Braille to show me how bigger things looked. Bumps on a page showed me everything I see.

Someone once asked me what I saw. I told them I saw nothing but what I imagined. Don’t you see black? They asked. Light, dark? Nothing, I answered. Her voice was soft and high, like an angel’s voice would be. You do not know what I look like? Her voice grew softer. You are beautiful, I said. You do not see me, you do not know. You are kind, you have not run away or tried to help me, I told her. That does not mean I’m kind, she was upset but I did not understand why. You are beautiful I told her. So are you. We became friends after that, my first friend who understood I did not like to be worried over.

When I opened my eyes I heard nothing. I was not deaf, but I heard nothing. I heard the voice of the doctor, the voice of my mother. But I did not hear the beeping machines, nor the footsteps pacing outside. I was deaf. The man leaving over me had the voice of the doctor, and I knew it was him. His clothes were light, bright, but his skin was dark. So dark, smooth, almost shiny. I held up my own hand, expecting the same. My skin was fair, light, not at all like the dark beautiful skin I had seen before. But my skin was beautiful in its own way, soft, beautiful. The colour was like what I had imagined the sea as. The sea that was said to be beautiful. And although my skin didn’t sparkle or shine, it was beautiful.

They took me to a mirror. I didn’t understand them when they said, are you ready to see yourself? I had always seen myself, just like I had always seen everyone. But that was on the inside, not what everyone else saw. When they put me in front of it the first thing I noticed wasn’t myself, but the way that light seemed to dance in the mirror, stooping around its frame. Then I noticed myself. My hair was short, straight. I had five fingers, that moved when I willed them. My mother and father stood behind me, I couldn’t see them, but I could hear them shifting nervously. My mother came and rested her hand on my shoulder, her skin like mine. I asked her what colour this was, pointing at my own hand. She told me it was tan, like orange. Orange. I had imagined this colour as blue, not orange. I looked around then, trying to find something that was orange in my mind. I asked what colour it was, pointing at a toy lying on the ground. Green, they told me. I played with the toy in my hand, green. It was orange though, in my mind, orange.

Things were odd to me that day. Colours danced all through my eyes. They told me what everything was when I pointed, what the colours were. I found that grass was pink to me. Pink grass, orange sky. Nothing fit where it was meant to, it was all wrong. They told me it was normal for me to feel confused, that I would get my bearings quickly. I wasn’t sure if they were right.

I was sitting in the hospital one day, in the waiting area. Not waiting to go in though, waiting to go out. A girl came and sat beside me. She looked at me and smiled, then turned her head away. We sat there for awhile, her tapping her foot slightly, so slightly that few people could hear. I knew only one person who always did that. I turned to her, watching her turn to me. Am I still beautiful? She asked. Her face was covered in large swollen scars, configuring her nose. Her left eye was half closed, showing barely the pupil. Her left arm was identical to her face, going down to show a stump where the thumb should have been. It was all red, the colour I had recently learnt. But she was still beautiful. Behind the scars and the lumps, she was all beauty. So that’s what I told her. Do you think fire is beautiful? She asked me. I told her, yes. She frowned at that. It’s odd how a beautiful thing can form an ugly curse.

My parents took me to the sea. I told them I wanted to go, but really I was scared. I couldn’t imagine the sea to be blue, to me it was orange, tan, my colour. But I kept that to myself, and let my parents lead me eyes-closed to the sea. They asked me if I was ready? With the wind blowing through my hair, and the strangest small coming to my nose. Standing like this, with my eyes closed I could hear everything. A dog barking nearby, leaves swinging in the wind, sand whipping round ankles. I’m ready. My eyes opened slowly. My first thoughts were that they were right; the sea did sparkle. But what I saw was not an immense of blue, but an immense of myself. In my eyes the sea was still the colour of my skin, not the new colour here. I held up my hand to the sea. They were the same colour, if only to me. My fingers sparkled as I moved them, finding its way up my arm. I was the same as the sea. Whilst the sea sparkled, so would I. Whilst the sea moved, so would I. Whilst the sea was beautiful, so was I. 

My name is Calla. It means beauty, in Greek. I never thought I lived up to this name, though I was told I did. I believe them now.

Welcome

Have I welcomed you yet? No, that is, I believe I have not.
Welcome. (translate that into as many languages as you wish).
It's odd the things people write in blogs, how they differ so much from the next. The reasons for it all are so very different too. And yet somehow, they all share some one piece that is imbedded throughout. They all want their words to be heard. No matter what these words are, they want someone to read them, they want someone to look. And I know, myself, that I am no different from that. I want my words to be heard.
Take what you think about me, about who you think I am in this very moment, and push it from your mind. I am not that person. I'm never going to be who you think I am, even those that meet me will never really know.
Oh, the rudeness, you might be saying. I am sorry if I have come across rude, I do not intend to be, I just intend to tell the truth. I will say this now, as it seems an appropriate time; if I ever offend you for any reason, I am incredibly sorry and I do not mean to do it purposely. If you ever think there is anything on this make that you may find offensive, please tell me, and I will see about removing it.
Formalities are gone now, but were they ever there? Yes, no, maybe? Well I am sure the answer will be different for everyone, no one ever thinks the same. A life lesson there is you so wish it to be.
I now feel obliged to say one thing about me; my mind is always changing and I will easily go from talking about one thing onto the next in a matter of sentences. If you look above you will see I have gone from words, to me, to apologies, to formalities, to life lessons, and now to this. I can start on one side of the world and end up on the next in a moment.
I really now, do not know if you are still reading. If you just read that line then it must mean you must. Or you just skipped ahead and something from it caught your eye. Either way, I thank you for still reading.
And now it is time for me to end this post of sorts, where many things have been mentioned and very little been said. But what is the right word to end with, be it goodbye. Nay, too simple. Farewell. Nay, too permanent. Is there a perfect word for an end that is not wished to be permanent?
Maybe. And that will now be how I end.
Maybe...

New Beginnings

This isn't the beginning, nothing ever is the beginning. You get one chance to begin, and you take it, against your will as you may. But that is your one beginning.
This now though, this is a new beginning. It's a time to take that chance, take that risk and not start again, but just never let it finish.
New beginnings are wonderful. They're better than that second chance, where last demise weighs on the heart. Here, there is no previous fault, and even if there is, it's forgotten.
So this is my new beginning, my time to take that chance, take that risk, and never let it finish.
I'm just wondering, how many of you will have that new beginning?