Lullaby by Kira

January 30, 2010

I wrote this this morning at like eight..and didn’t start editing yet. I’ve been working on three song lyrics at the moment, and am deciding if I’m going to post them or not…
Anyway, I hadn’t posted in a while so here.
-Kira

-

Sweet lullaby stroking my ears
Relaxing my mind
It brings me to tears.

The voice of a lover I’ll never meet
Chanting he loves me
Calling me sweet.

I wish I could hold him
But all I have is his song
Lullaby telling about him
It’s got to be wrong.

While I listen to my lullaby
My heart is melting away
Melting out through my eyes
Wishing I could say
What he means to me
But he’ll never know.
So
I fall asleep to his voice.

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

What I Didn’t See

January 28, 2010

Here it is. Kind of like an audio blog – but fictional. Thought it would be fun to shake up the format a little :D
Entry 1.

One

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

FEARTHEENOT!

January 25, 2010

Haha, the name of this post sounds all silly. It basically means: Never fear, a new story idea is FINALLY here! Yes, Jules has now got herself a story to write, and hopefully this one’ll last a little longer, maybe even get finished. Eh? Sounds good? Well, you’ll just have to wait until you read it. I… haven’t gotten much time to start it cause I got the idea last night and have loads of homework tonight, so maybe you’ll find it later. I don’t know. Uh, yeah. BYE!!
Hearts!
Jules

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

The Undead Dead

January 23, 2010

Blood covers our lips
That’s why they’re red
And we are anything but dead
Our skin is pale
Our breath is gone
But our hearts beat on and on
Under the bed
Inside the box
Hiding when the humans knock
The door is locked
The only sound is the clock
Sputtering towards its final tick-tock
Enchanted world
Inside the books
I dare you: take a second look
We are sheer
Your greatest fear
Yet we are what you hold so dear.

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

Rum-a-tum-tum

January 21, 2010

He’s got nothing but a drum,
A squeaky shopping cart,
A lonely tune to hum,
And a sad, empty heart.

A tattered hat beside him
Contains his salary,
Though most have simply eyed him
Then walked past hastily.

Their wealth makes them feel guilty,
Far too rich and greedy.
They push aside their pity,
And forget the needy.

They heard the rum-a-tum-tum,
And saw his smiling face.
They heard the sound of his drum;
But no one showed him grace.

One boy in particular,
Whose pace was very slow,
Stared down, where the puddles were,
And let his head hang low.

“Getcha head up, boy!” he heard
-It was the homeless man.
The child, speaking not a word,
Ignored him – nearly ran.

He watched as the boy walked
Away without response.
Though each passerby gawked,
Very few saw his want:

More than enough food to eat,
A roof over his head,
Shoes to cover his two feet,
And a soft, cozy bed.

The boy had all of these things,
Yet he slouched wearily.
But the man kept on drumming,
And did it cheerily.

They heard the rum-a-tum-tum,
And saw his smiling face.
They heard the sound of his drum;
Would someone show him grace?

‘Twas but a small girl of four
That first showed sympathy,
Though she could give nothing more
Than her dimes and pennies.

She skipped up to the stranger
And dropped it in the hat,
For she had seen the danger
Of living just like that.

The girl who showed such kindness-
Nobody knew her name,
But they saw in their blindness
She’d put them all to shame.

They heard the rum-a-tum-tum,
They saw his smiling face.
They heard the sound of his drum,
And each one showed him grace.

~Sandy

Categories: Poetry.

Tags: ,

NOTICE NOTICE NOTICE!!!!!!!!!

January 21, 2010

READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS HEY EVERYONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I just published Chapter Two of ‘The Life of One Anna Willowford’ and it’s not at the top of the post box because I accidentally published it a few days ago or something, and Sandy commented on it, so now it’s returned to it’s original place with Sandy’s comment.

It is now right under ‘Don’t Forget How Your Muse Works’ – I think.

And if you can’t find it because many posts are posted before you can find it – ha ha :D – then search for:

Chapter Two (Anna Willowford)

Just letting y’all that read my story know :)

Ta!

Over and out,
Myth

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

Tags:

It’s Back

January 21, 2010

My cold is back
My head I want to whack
On the hard, white wall
And never stop at all.

No, it probably wouldn’t help
I mean, I could try eating kelp
But I just want this to stop
Before my head goes ‘POP!’

I am oh, so tired
I feel oh, so wired
Wired to detonate
Man, do I feel “great”.

Someone PLEASE PLEASE SAVE ME
Or else I know I will be
Unable to go on
Yes, I simply shall be gone.

Sleep is coming quickly now
I’ll probably dream of being a cow
But at least sleep is better than pain
So, for now, ta ta again.

HA HA HA HA now THAT is worse than ‘A Rather Strange Market Day’. but hey, i have a cold and i. am. tired.

so.

hope it brought some amusement to you :D

-Myth

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

The Stranger

January 20, 2010

by miracle

I was a stranger today.

I laughed, spun my arms in the air,

blew kisses to the open sky,

declared all my hoarded opinions,

forgot to be careful, be quiet, be still.

I was a stranger today.

*

For a moment I caught my reflection, mirrored in melted ice

and saw a beautiful girl, arms raised to the sky

skimming like a swan, alive and awake -

then I was me again,

not any of these things.

But before that -

I was a stranger today.

*

Categories: Poetry.

Dying

January 20, 2010

Where was the beginning?

In the same place

where friendship and love begins.

Steps, moments, choices,

gradual. At first

it could’ve been caught.

At first

it could’ve been stopped.

But once you’re in it,

you’re in it

too deep

to end it.

Categories: Poetry.

Sometimes There Isn’t A Miracle

January 20, 2010

by Miracle for her creative writing class.

She stared at the rainwashed sky and did not cry. A quiet scent of opening flowers shivered in the air before it was swept away by the rich cry of satisfied earth. Worms squirmed from their muddied tunnels into the clean air and the birds, who had been patiently perched among the leaves, descended to pluck at their warm bodies. The dog chased some rat or mole across the field, announcing his find with gusto. The calico cat slunk away in exasperation.

She noticed all these things because they distracted her from the others. The sagging, brown house at the end of the horizon. The long, dusty road running from it. And the two classy vehicles halted in the dust by three cows who were determined to graze at the pockets of trampled grass that grew there. Perhaps the cows were fighting in their own way. She smiled, then clenched her fists. She was thinking about it again, she had promised herself she wouldn’t. Not yet.

“Ma’m?”

She turned, saw the worn face of Abraham. His wrinkles were in all the wrong places. They were arranged around a smiling face, not a frowning one.

“I’ll be fine, Abe,” she said in a voice that sounded almost confident. “I’ll find a job somewhere, maybe the city.”

He rubbed the dry handle of the wheelbarrow he had been pushing to the stables. “You won’t be happy in the city.”

She stood straighter, stared directly into his eyes. That was the only way to lie to Abraham. “I’ll manage. My sister called, she said there’s a position for a nanny. I’ve always been good with children.”

“But what will you love?”

She shrugged slightly, tilted her head sideways to look at the big, beautiful gray sky. She would miss the sky. “I’ll find a handsome actor to love and a best friend to drink coffee with.” She smiled. “Most people get along fine just loving people.”

“Not you,” he said.

“I’ll manage,” she replied, looking back at him. “I can’t stay with the farm. If I could, don’t you think I would? But there’s not enough money. Even you have been working on half a paycheck for the past year. Don’t you want a new situation, some place you can actually live fat on?”

He shook his head. “If I wanted that, I wouldn’t be here. But I don’t.”

She stared down at her rough hands, calluses and dirt jammed under her fingernails.

“It’s falling apart anyway without my father,” she said. “After all these years, to think it was him who kept the place up, him and his greenbacks.”

The cows had been finally coaxed off the road. They chewed lazily at the green-yellow grass beside it, content. Ignorant. The cars finished their journey to her house. It looked old and used next to their sleek professionalism.

“I have to sell it, Abe. I need to go.” He watched her as she tensed with determination, locked her eyes on the old house, and walked.

Categories: Modern Fiction, Short Stories.

What I Cannot Do

January 19, 2010

I want to break.
I want all the smiling faces to see the blood,
to find me ripped and bleeding on the floor.
I want them to know
that there was something wrong.
That after all, she really was hurting.
That after all, she had enough depth to hurt.
I want to break
And it is selfish of me.
I don’t want them to cry – or even to care
I need them to say yes, she was breaking,
yes, she was hurt.
I want to break.
*

I don’t want to break
I want someone to see the cracks
and come rushing close to hold me.
I don’t want to break.
I don’t want to bleed.
I don’t want to die.
I want
to be held.

anonymous.  the topic is unrelated to the WE chaos.

Categories: Poetry.

I See

January 19, 2010

I am the weeper
Of published dreams
And in return
I see your seams

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

You Can’t

January 18, 2010

You’ve taken my heart
You’ve had it for years
You’ve taken it with you
You’ve never known about my tears
I cried on my bed
As I thought about the future
The salty tears ripped open
The hardly sewn in suture
In my chest where the heart was
Where still a heart must be
You took it someplace with you
Now what’s to do with me?
You were never aware of how long I stared
At your letters, written in
That familiar handwriting that I know so well
Which left me quite word-ridden
“I love you” you wrote
“I’m going” you meant
You’re leaving
You’re leaving
You’re leaving
You can’t!
I won’t let you!
I can’t let you!
I don’t want to
Forget you!
I want to love you!
I want to cherish
The life we’ve shared
Don’t let it vanish!
You’ve been so wonderful
You’ve been so kind
Just, please,
Don’t leave me behind.

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

HEEELLLPPPPP!!!!! Story-wise

January 17, 2010

So, since it’s been like several months since the last time I actually did any big work on Dream Come True, and since it just sort of died a couple days ago when I tried writing it but couldn’t… I think we need a proper burial for it. Or something. I’ll probably just never touch it again.

Which means that I need a new idea for a story. Any suggestions or ideas? I’m thinking it’s got to go with the theme of love, loss, and fantasy-creatures. I think I want to get off the fairies for a while. Too much of that. So maybe dragons (I don’t know how I would go with that) or witches.

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

This Old Man

January 16, 2010

This old man
Doesn’t sing
He cries all day in his room
He’s confined to his room
Because when he was young
This old man came rolling home

This old man
He played games
He knew everybody’s name
He’d play on the hill
And fall back down
This old man came rolling home

This old man
He remembers still
The time when he fell down the hill
Broke every limb
Give a dog a bone
This old man came rolling home

This old man
Doesn’t have a wife
He’s been loveless most of his life
He asked a girl
Gave her diamonds and pearls
This old man came rolling home

This old man
Had a garden
But the plants all died
And now they’re rotten
The vines overgrew
The branches broke
This old man came rolling home

This old man
Used to love
As I said many words above
But she was too good
For a loser such as he
This old man came rolling home

This old man
Sits and cries
As he looks back upon his lies
That he was told
“You’ll be better soon”
This old man came rolling home

This old man
Was ninety-seven
He played knick-knack up to heaven
Thought his luck was out
Played out every card
This old man came rolling home.

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

In Response to the Poem, “Allahu Akbar!”

January 16, 2010

Excuse me, but I find this poem highly hurtful and offensive. I’m not Muslim, but I’m truthfully offended. Think about what would happen if a Muslim did see this. I’m hurt that you could do that to anybody. Sure, I wrote something political a long way back, but it wasn’t offensive or anything, I was just voicing my joy. But this is about religion, and I want to warn you to never, ever do this again. People get really touchy about religion. I can’t believe that you did this.

And Sandy– don’t say a word to me about Christianity. I already know how you feel.

And Em and Myth– don’t tell me to sign my name on this.

And Miracle– if Anonymous doesn’t take it off, take it off. Immediately.

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

Don’t Forget How Your Muse Works!

January 16, 2010

last night i happened to run across this old thing that myth posted back in april… man. i laughed my head off. anyway, if you never read this, YOU MUST. and if you already did, well, read it again! it’s so hilarious i almost DIED laughing… myth does have a way of doing that. this post must not be forgotten! it shall not be lost in the sands of… posts! WE MUST REMEMBER HOW WE NEARLY DIED LAUGHING! :D

~Sandy (and i couldn’t decide what to post it under, so it’s in all the categories :D )

http://theworstending.com/?p=2178

——-

Dedicated to:

Em-you helped me come up with this on the phone. Well, you didn’t say really any of it (a line or two), but you still inspired it :D :D :D Miss ya, ’sis’! (And yeah, Sandy, you got on the phone later or I dunno…but the point is you heard it too :D LOL!)

The way I see it, your muse is like a person.

To be more specific, it is like a human in the sense that it has different moods and different sides.

If your muse whispers to you “Kill this person” or “Make this horrible thing happen that you really don’t even want to make happen”, then it is being evil.

On its best days, it is a majestic eagle, or a graceful unicorn.

On its worst days, it is like a munching parasite, or a greedy termite.

When it is evil, it eats at your mind and turns what it eats into dark energy.

This is bad.

When your muse runs away, it is like a disobedient child. It leaves you feeling empty and confused, and it loves to make you feel so. It relishes your discomfort.

It will come skipping home, an evil grin on its face. You may think that punishing it will just make it run away again, but really that will only make it think, “Well, ‘Mother dear’ didn’t punish me. It must she doesn’t really care…which means I can do whatever I want, all the time!!!!”

Trust me-that is a bad idea.

When it does come home, you ought to spank it and send it to bed with no supper.

Sober it.

Then hopefully by morning it will come to you with its hands clasped behind its back and its head down. It will say, “I’m very sorry.”

You can then forgive it and give it breakfast. It will be quite hungry by now.

However, I am not telling you to punish it eeeevery time it does something-because there will always be a time it does something. That’s the way most muses are. They are rebellious, and they like to have their say and go their own way.

But you do need to punish it every now and then to remind it who is in charge.

Because you ought to be in charge.

Most of the time.

I say ‘most of the time’ because there are, in fact, times where you can let your muse lead, and when you do so, you will find it leads you to a most agreeable place.

But don’t let it rule you.

You’re boss.

Step up.

Crack down.

When it runs away, don’t coax it. Don’t write a poem that says:

Musie, Musie, where have you gone?

Musie, Musie, please come home!

Musie, Musie, I feel so alone!

Musie, Musie, please hear my song!

If you coax it, it will make you pay some price to get it to come back. You don’t need to pay to use your imagination or muse.

You own it. You get to say whats what in good ol’ Museville.

‘Musie dear’ is your child. You are its mother.

You are its ruler.

You are its owner.

Let’s all remember that, shall we? Because if we don’t, we’ll let our muses take over.

Very, very bad thing to do.

Usually.

Also, if it runs away, don’t go looking for it. Just let it come.

Of course, if it really won’t budge, then you can always get a friend or two to threaten to kick its butt into next week.

Next year.

Next century.

And try to pick some of your more intimidating, stronger friends.

That oughta scare little ol’ Musie good.

*Ghostbusters theme song*

When Musie runs away

And you can’t find him

Who can you gonna call?

Buttkickers!!!

(Your friends would be the Buttkickers by the way-and you would also be one because I’m sure you’ll wanna kick Musie’s butt when it runs away and then comes home and acts like nothing happened.)

So, when Muse acts up, you’re just gonna ignore him.

When he tries to get attention, you’re gonna pretend he doesn’t exist. Never did.

When Muse runs away, you’re not gonna panic.

Because you know your muse the best, and you know how to trick him into coming back.

Besides, you can always tell him you’ve just met a new muse and might forget about him now. The new muse is soooooo nice…

Trickery might sound terrible, but your muse is really untameable. So you can only do to it what it does to you.

Remember, your muse is like a disobedient, rebellious child.

Maybe it’s going through puberty.

Whatever the case, you’re its parent.

You’re in charge.

When it comes home, ya spank it and send it to bed with an empty stomach.

And ya move on with life.

Muses may seem to come and go, but there will never be a time when they’re gone completely.

They’re just hiding around the corner, waiting to see if you’ll come looking for them, stinky little buggers that they are.

Don’t.

Curl up in your LaZBoy, sipping your hot cocoa (in the dead of winter; your muse will probably be quite cold wherever he is hiding from you, and if its summer, he’ll be hot). Wrap yourself in a blanket and read a book.

Muse’ll come back.

Always does.

He can’t resist.

I’m done singin’ ma song now.

Oh wait.

*dorky weather person voice (imagine dorky weather person with dumb smile)* The weather today was hot and sunn, and tomorrow should be the same! Yay! Partaaaaaaaaaaaay!

Now I’m done singin’ ma song.

Peace out, ya’ll, and remember not to let Muse control you!

And if it tries, who ya gonna call?

*faint in background* Buttkickers!!!!
Yeah. Random. I admit it.
But still…
Peace out!

Categories: Fantasy Fiction, Historical Fiction, I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P, Journal, Lyrics, Modern Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, Romance, Science Fiction.

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Chapter Two (Anna Willowford)

January 14, 2010

hey, y’all, em said the title of this story was okay but sorta boring or something – it was only meant to be a temporary title – so do y’all have any ideas for a diff. title? please lemme know if u do :) ty! -Myth

“Father, please,” I said in a wooden voice. “Y-you’ve got to be joking.”
“I’m not joking.”
I stared at him. “Please – I . . . I’m not ready for courting, Father. For marriage. Really.”
“You are perfectly ready. Now stop arguing with me.”
“Father, I’m not arguing – you just don’t understand – ”
“Anna, enough. I don’t want to hear another word from your mouth unless you are agreeing with me. Now, Delmont Chevalier is going to court you, and you are going to let him. You are going to be polite. You are not going to complain and try to get out of it. Am I understood?”
A ball formed in my throat, making it painful to swallow. My vision turned blurry and I struggled not to cry.
“I said, am I understood?”
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.
“Anna Katherine Willowford, do not play games with me.”
My mother, softening at my obvious distress, stepped in. “Edward, I think this conversation should be ended until the morning,” she said. “We’re all too exhausted to think straight, and it’s not helping anything.”
No, Mother – you’re wrong. I can think perfectly straight, I thought. And it seems I alone can see what an awful airhead Delmont is!
“Very well,” my father said reluctantly. I knew he wanted to keep pushing me until I agreed with him – but that was just the thing. I was never going to agree with him . . . not ever.

~

I didn’t sleep at all that night – I just sobbed. This could not be happening. All in one short night my life had, in my opinion, ended.
I was going to be forced to court and most likely marry a man that couldn’t even keep his eyes on just one woman. I was being forced to marry a man that thought only of himself.
This. Could. Not. Be. Real.
“Miss, your father requests your presence downstairs immediately,” a maid said. I had been standing and staring out the window, lost in thought, only to be yanked from my thoughts by her voice.
I turned, thinking, You mean he demands my presence. “Thank you, Hazel,” I said. She bobbed in a curtsy and then left just as silently as she had come.
I turned back to the window, whispering, “It can’t be real. It can’t.”
I went downstairs quickly then, knowing better than to keep my father waiting.
My father was sitting at the breakfast table by himself. He doesn’t want Mother here telling him he’s going about this all wrong. He wants to be completely in control, I thought.
“Good morning, Father,” I said softly.
“Good morning, Anna,” he said from his seat at the head of the table. His voice was not kind or warm in any way – it was hard and cold. “Sit down.”
I shakily pulled out a chair at the foot of the table.
“Now, Anna, you know what high regard I hold for Delmont and his parents,” he began.
“But, Father – ”
“Do not interrupt me,” he said sternly. I fell silent once more. “You know, yes?”
“Yes,” I said sadly.
“Then you also must know that I would never ask you to marry a man I did not approve of.”
You mean demand! I thought once more. “Yes, but – ”
“No ‘buts’, Anna Katherine Willowford. Answer the question with a ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
“Yes,” I said. This conversation was pointless if I couldn’t speak my mind!
“So, you know that I have high regard for the Chevaliers, and you know I’d never do anything that would harm you, so why don’t you trust me?”
“Because, Father – you’ve not seen the real Delmont like I have! He flirts with every woman he sees – and I witnessed this all last night, Father – and he is stuck on himself.”
“Anna!” my father roared. His face was red with rage. “I cannot believe one of my daughters, who I’ve taught not to lie, would sit there and do just that – spout lies about a perfectly good young man just because she doesn’t want to give up her ‘little girl freedom’. But that’s just it, Anna – you are a young woman now, whether you like it or not.” His voice was softer now, but it did not hold an ounce of sympathy . . . a shred of love or caring.
Unable to hold them back any longer, I gave my tears free rein and began to sob. I stood and fled from the room, my heart breaking in pieces.
“Anna, you get back here this instant!” my father shouted – but I couldn’t stop. My feet and legs moved of their own accord, carrying me back up to my room where I shut and locked the door, afterward collapsing onto my bed and sobbing my eyes out.

~

I awoke later (apparently I had cried myself to sleep and been out for quite some time) and went downstairs to discover my family had gone out (they’d been gone for a few hours now, apparently). My father had left me a message, written on a piece of paper that I discovered on the table, that I hadn’t been brought along firstly because of my disrespectful behavior and secondly so I could stay home and think about how he was really correct on this.
“It’s so unfair,” I said aloud softly.
“What’s so unfair?”
I spun around to find, of all people at a time like this, Delmont Chevalier.
Embarrassed – even though it was just Delmont – about my disheveled appearance, I put a hand to my hair to try to smooth it. “Delmont,” I said.
“Anna,” he replied, giving a small bow. He smiled charmingly. “How are you today, my dear lady?”
My dear lady?! my mind squeaked. “F-fine,” I said. “Just fine.”
“Ah. Well, I came to see if you’d like to go on a carriage ride with me.”
Just then, of course, my father, mother and sister returned. “They’re in the parlor, sir,” I heard Hazel, the maid say. “Mr. Chevalier is here – the young Mr. Chevalier.”
“He is?” I could hear the excitement in my mother’s voice. “Wonderful. Hazel, please bring us some tea.”
My family swept in then. “Delmont – so good to see you!” my father said.
Delmont turned. “It is good to see you too, monsieur.” It was ridiculous to me, really, how they acted as if they hadn’t seen each other just last night.
“Do sit down,” my mother said. “I’ve asked the maid to bring us some tea.”
“Actually, mademoiselle, I came to inquire if young Anna might go on a carriage ride with me. My friends and I are visiting the art gallery this afternoon.”
My father’s and mother’s faces brightened even more so. “Absolutely!” my father said gaily.
“Anna, go get ready so you may leave with him, my dear,” my mother said.
I gave her a pleading look with my eyes. Please don’t make me do this, I let my eyes say to her.
She gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. Don’t argue, her eyes said. I knew it was half because she didn’t want me to get in trouble with my father and also because she was starting to like Delmont just as much as he did.
I left the room, clenching my hands into fists as I did so. I resisted the urge to punch the wall (yes, even we ‘young ladies’ want to punch things every now and then).
Ida, one of our other maids, came and did my hair once I was changed. I dilly-dallied as much as I could, but, just as it had been yesterday, soon there was nothing left to keep me upstairs and I was forced to go back down.
To my fate.
To my doom.
“Anna – I was beginning to think you got lost up there!” Lillian said. She smirked at the expression of disgust on my face when I looked at Delmont’s back. Once more her eyes seemed to say, It’s alright, little sister; I know the truth.
“You are back!” Delmont smiled.
I gave him a small, plastic one of my own in return. “Yes,” I replied. “Why don’t we get going?” Why don’t we not? I added in my head. I’m perfectly happy right here.
“Very well,” Delmont said, standing up. He looked pleased as could be.
“Goodbye, Mother,” I said. “Father. Lillian.” I glared slightly so that only my sister would see, and she smirked in return.
Delmont extended his arm to me and I took it reluctantly, thus being led out of the house by him. I glanced back at it as if was my only hope of rescue . . . but I knew my fate was unchangeable now.
“Bye, dear!” Mother called from the porch as Delmont helped me into the carriage. “Have a good time!”
“Oh, I will,” I muttered.
“Excuse me?” Delmont said. “Did you say something to me?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Just talking to myself.”
Delmont sat – amazingly not next to me – and closed the door, and then the carriage was off, Delmont giving the driver directions to one of his friend’s houses.
“So, Anna, how has your day been so far?” Delmont asked genially.
Dreadful, terrible, horrible, wretched, awful – I thought. Then I noticed him waiting for an answer. “Alright,” I replied at last. “And yours?”
“Alright until I got to your house – then it turned wonderful.” He smiled in the charming that he always did.
I smiled back before pretending to happen to look out the window and see something very interesting. I pretended to study it, although that couldn’t keep Delmont from talking to me.
“We’re going to my friend Ralph’s house next,” he said. “He and his younger sister will be joining us for the day. Then we’ll go to my friend James’ house and pick up him and his fiancee.”
“Oh,” I said simply.
“I’m sure you’re going to get along very well with Ralph’s sister, Edith, and James’ fiancee Catherine. Both of them are lovely young women.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I replied absentmindedly.
I was silent then, interjecting a few ‘ohs’ and ‘reallys’ as Delmont chattered on . . .  until at last we came to Ralph’s house.
Then the “good time” really began.

Categories: Historical Fiction.

Tags: , , ,

Myth’s Helpful Hints

January 14, 2010

Hi. Myth here. This is a post with a few helpful hints in it – things telling you how NOT to mess up in many little ways like I do.

Hope you enjoy it.

-Myth

When you step on a really big lump of frozen snow and gravel in a parking lot, so big and hard it’s like a boulder, accidents are bound to happen, such as slipping and wrenching your right ankle. It hurts, let me tell you.

When you stick your full, regular-sized-cup rootbeer on the rather slanted arm rest thingy next to the window in the back seat of a car, it will slip and fall onto the first back seat (the back seat has three seats) and get the surface gross and fall between cracks and fall under the seat and many lovely things – because all the rootbeer in the cup has to go somewhere once it spills. That little bit you see on the seat is definitely not how much was originally in the cup. Really.

When you’ve got to clean underneath the seat – at night, in the snow, in 15 degree weather, with normal winter clothing except for gloves – and remember you’re carrying a wet, soapy rag – your hands tend to get cold, especially when the car has been sitting in the garage and is FREEZING inside. Therefore, when you’re wiping underneath the seat, your hands will grow even colder – so, so much colder – and they will begin to really hurt. Bumping your right hand on something metal beneath the seat will make your hand feel like it has been cut – again with the hurting. Then, as you get out of the car and lock it using the remote key with your freezing hands and begin to walk back toward the house, your hands will feel like they have frost bite.

(and apparently most of the above I last wrote on the 29th of december.)

Well, those are just a few helpful hints for now. When I think of (or rather act out what you shouldn’t do) some more, I’ll let you know.

Over and out,

Myth, the Great Hint-Giver

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

Chapter One – The Life of One Anna Willowford – Myth

January 12, 2010

“May I have this dance?” a deep voice (with a French accent) said next to me, making me jump. I sat in a balcony chair, and I could hear a new song starting inside the ball room.
Still, I was startled by the voice because I had thought myself alone. Turning I found a young man with perfectly combed curly black hair and blue-gray eyes. His features were, although surely not the most handsome I’d ever seen, pleasing to the eye, and his aura seemed purely charm as he smiled down at me.
“No, thank you; I’d much rather stay out here,” I said politely (though what I really wanted to do was snap, “NO! Now go away!”).
“Well, then, forgive me if I intrude, but may I sit out here with you?” The man was very persistent, I’d give him that.
Not really able to say, “Yes, you are intruding on my small bit of solitude”, I made myself say, “Certainly.”
He pulled up a chair close to mine and sat down. “So, you’re Anna Willowford?”
I looked at him. “How do you know that?” I asked.
He chuckled like I was stupid. “I’m the son of the couple throwing this ball,” he said. His parents were French, hence his accent.
I didn’t even know they had children, I thought. “I see. And yes, I’m Anna Willowford,” I finally replied. Just go away for pity’s sake! I shouted at him in my mind.
“Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I’ve observed you often and I must say, Miss Willowford, you’ve quite caught my eye.” He smiled.
I felt sick. “Oh?” I said faintly, having to clutch my chair to keep from getting up and running for dear life out of this terrible place.
“Yes. In fact, I’ve talked to both your father and your mother about you, but neither of them seems able to arrange a meeting with you for me. You must be a very sociable person,” he said.
I nearly snorted and shouted, “Ha!” There were many things I was nearly doing tonight that I had to stop myself from doing. Instead, however, I once more replied differently than I wanted to. “No, sir. In fact, I don’t go out much.”
He looked mortified. “Well, madam, that is something I shall have to remedy in the future!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, no, please – don’t burden yourself. I enjoy my peace and quiet,” I said.
He didn’t seem to hear me. “Yes, in fact I shall simply have to bring you along tomorrow when some of my friends and I take a carriage ride to Glenfolk,” he continued.
“Really, don’t bother,” I said, making my words more forceful this time.
I was ignored once more. This man was so insufferable! I wanted to hit him in the face or stamp on his foot or . . . or . . .
“My name is Delmont, by the way,” he said. “Your name, ma cherie?” sanders, be this how ye say it?
I wanted to gag. “Anna,” I all but spat.
“Anna. What a lovely name,” he said, staring up at the sky as he pondered it. I stared at him like he had grown five extra ears – on his forehead.
He looked back at me then. “So tell, Anna,” he began. I never said you could call me that, I thought, annoyed. This man was much too bold for my taste. “Why aren’t you dancing?”
I forced myself not to sigh. “Because I enjoy a bit of solitude every now and then,” I replied, turning my gaze to the starry sky. Or rather, all the time, I added in my head.
“Ah, so do I,” he said. He looked at the sky for a moment but then started to stare at me. I could feel his eyes as if they were burning a whole through me, and the feeling sent chills up and down my spine.
“Well, I do believe I shall go for a walk in the gardens,” I said. Then I inwardly cursed myself – why hadn’t I made up excuse as to why I was leaving and then gone to the gardens?!
“Do let me join you,” Delmont said. “It would be my utmost pleasure, and, after all, it is my birthday.” He smiled.
“Your . . . birthday.”
“Yes – that’s why the ball is being held here tonight,” he replied.
“Well, of course,” I said before getting up and plunging back into the claustrophobic (for me, anyway – there were so many people) ballroom.
I thought to myself how utterly funny it was that I had managed to entirely miss such a detail. I hadn’t known why the Chevaliers were throwing the ball, but most importantly I hadn’t even known the person they were throwing it for existed.
I laughed out loud accidentally. “What’s so funny?” Delmont said from beside me as we wove our way through the dancing couples.
“Oh, it’s nothing – I was just thinking about something,” I said.
“What is this something?”
Thankfully I was saved from having to answer the question because, just as we got the to front doors of the Chevaliers’ house, Delmont was distracted by a pretty woman walking into the mansion. “Good evening,” he said charmingly. I rolled my eyes and walked quickly, hoping that, by some miracle, I could escape him.
I made a mental note in my head to go back later and hug that woman, because apparently she had answered and now she and Delmont were discussing something, giving me plenty of time to flee.
I got to the farthest-from-where-I’d-left-Delmont part of the gardens there was before sitting down on a marble bench and staring up at the moon. How I wished so desperately that I could sprout wings and fly up into the sky . . . up into the glow of the moon.
“There you are.”
I jumped, startled, at the sound of Delmont’s voice. Really – did he have some sort of ability to sense where I was?!
“Why did you leave? I would only have been a minute,” Delmont said, sitting down next to me – and, therefore, having to sit quite close, because it was a small bench.
“I – ”
“No matter. We are together now,” Delmont said, smiling at me.
If you only knew how that statement frightened me, I thought. “Mm, yes,” I said, a plastic smile spreading on my face.
“So tell me, Anna,” Delmont said. “What are your favorite hobbies?”
“Music, art,” I began. The look on his face told me he greatly approved of these two . . . but I had a feeling he wouldn’t approve of the next ones. “And exploring forests, getting my hands dirty in the garden – being outdoors. In fact, I think it would be nice to live outdoors. Well, maybe not in the colder months, but . . . ”
By this look on his face I could tell he considered me outlandish. In this day in age women were to remain clean, neat, tidy, prim, proper – shall I go on? – all the time.
“How . . . nice for you,” he said. Yes, I’m outlandish, so you shouldn’t be seen associating with me. You should leave now and find some girl that’s mannerly and stuck up and flirts outrageously as you do, I thought at him, as if I could convince him with my mind.
But he didn’t let his disconcert keep him from liking me for long, because just a moment later he was asking me another question.
“And what do you think of marriage?”
I nearly choked as I inhaled. “I-if you find that special someone – if you’re truly in love, then it’s wonderful,” I stammered. I was going to continue, “If it’s forced upon you for the sake of culture, then it’s not wonderful” – but I didn’t get the chance.
“I absolutely agree,” Delmont said, looking at me strangely.
I squirmed inwardly under his gaze.
“And do you want to be married in your lifetime?” Delmont asked me.
“Delmont, I really – ” I began, intending to either tell I really didn’t think we should be talking about this or that I really wanted to see his family’s library when someone saved me again.
“Good evening!” a voice said.
Both of us turned our heads to find a young man standing in front of us.
“Sorry to interrupt your . . . talk,” he said, his eyes going from our eyes to how close we were sitting. He smirked knowingly, and I instinctively scooted away from Delmont until I was half on the bench and half off it. “But, Delmont, your mother and father are requesting your presence in the ballroom right away. I think people want to start giving speeches soon,” the man said.
“Of course – I must leave,” Delmont said, rising. “Do come with me, Anna.”
“Ah . . . I’ll be right in,” I said, rising. Something about the other man’s face made me suspect he’d known I was in need of saving and had come to do just that. “I need to go see something else in the garden first – your mother’s roses, actually. They’re renowned for miles and mi – ”
“Well, see you in there,” Delmont said, cutting me off. It sickened me that he was stuck on himself he was rushing to get inside the mansion and hear people say things about him. Quickly kissing my hand, though, he took his leave.
I scrubbed at my hand with my dress, wishing I could scrape the top layer of skin off. I shuddered at the memory of his clammy lips on the back of it.
Finally, some peace and quiet, I thought, walking even deeper into the garden.

~

When my family finally deemed it time to go home, Delmont made it a specific point to come and say goodnight to me. “Thank you so much for attending,” he said, addressing my family. He glanced at them only very briefly before bringing his gaze back to my face. “And goodnight, Anna.” He smiled secretively.
“Goodnight,” I said hastily, all but running out to the carriage.
Once the whole family was inside the carriage the driver got the horses going right away. It was already nearly five in the morning – that was something else I despised about balls. You stayed for hours and hours only to go home and feel like a slug for the remainder of the day because of how late you’d been up.
“Delmont came and spoke to me tonight, you know,” my father said after a time of silence (all of us were weary).
“Oh?” I said simply.
“Yes. You know, Anna, he’s been intrigued with you for months now. He’s been asking everyone about you ever since he saw you in town one day,” my father continued. “He says that after meeting you tonight . . . well, he says the two of you have already formed a bond – and he’d like to court you,” he finished.
I gaped. “He what?” I squeaked incredulously.
Lillian laughed. “Stop pretending to be so innocent, Anna. All girls flirt – and you’ve obviously done a rather good job of it tonight. So don’t pretend you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t!” I said angrily. “And I did not flirt with him!”
Lillian smiled smugly, her eyes seeming to say, It’s alright, little sister – I know the truth.
I glared at her.
“Now, Annie dear,” my mother said, quickly intervening so I didn’t start a screaming session. “He’d be a wonderful choice for a husband. He’s rich and he’ll inherit his father’s business in just a few years.”
“That doesn’t mean he’ll be a good husband!” I protested. I turned back to my father. “Father, I was only with him for a maximum of ten minutes tonight! I hardly know the man!” And the part of him I do know I don’t like, I added in my mind.
“That’s no matter, Anna. He’s smitten with you,” my father said.
“I’m not smitten with him!” I said hotly. “Father, please don’t tell you said – ”
“I said yes to him, Anna. It’s time I put my foot down with you. You need to grow up and act like a young lady – and a young lady of your age should have a beau,” he replied firmly.
And that was how my life changed forever.

Categories: Historical Fiction.

Tags: , , ,

Prologue of “The Life of One Anna Willowford” – Myth

January 12, 2010

hmmm . . . well, jules and em, this is what came from your suggestions ;) it’ and the first chapter i’m about to put up are quite obviously first drafts x) and btw, just so ya’ll know, i did look these character names up on a victorian baby name site – so they ARE in fact victorian. ;) lemme know what you think . . . :) btw, categorized this as historical fiction coz it’s in the victorian day in age. lol. there’s not really any other category that matches ;) well, ta! over and out, Myth

I took a deep breath . . . or at least tried.
It was rather hard whilst wearing this ridiculous corset Mother was forcing me to wear to the ball.
Actually, I’d rather wear ten corsets at one time than go to a ball.
Balls. Parties. Where young men my age thought I looked like I desperately needed someone to dance with (when what I desperately needed was to run far, far away). Where I was paid about fifty compliments every hour. Where I was told I looked like I was so bored; why didn’t I come on a stroll with some of the young ladies?
The whole thing made me want to scream.
“Anna Katherine Willlowford! You get yourself down here this instant!” my older sister shouted. “I don’t want to be late for the ball – Ralphy’s expecting me!”
I felt sick. “Ralphy” was my older sister’s – Lillian’s – beau, and watching the two of them act like lovesick puppies was just one more reason I didn’t want to go to the ball tonight. If someone had given me the option of eating a cow’s brain instead I would have taken it gladly.
“ANNA!” My sister’s voice was even shriller than before.
“Coming!” I called down, being as slow as I possibly could; doing every little job I could think of to prolong having to leave. But at last there was no reason left for me to remain upstairs, so I reluctantly left my room and descended the stairs.
“Mother, do I really have to go?” I asked her just before we went out the door. I knew what her answer would be, but sometimes she gave unexpected answers . . .
“You absolutely do!” she said. Then she stopped, turned to me and straightened my dress. “Such a beautiful young lady you are, Anna,” she said absentmindedly, in her own little world. “My baby is no longer a baby.”
“Mother,” I said. I didn’t need her to get all weepy right now.
“Well, it’s true! When did you grow up so fast?” she said.
“I wish I knew,” I replied. If it were up to me I’d stay ten years old forever.
She suddenly seem to realize that if we stood here talking any longer we’d be late. “We need to go, darling!” she said, all but pulling me out the door.
Thus my fate had been decided . . . thus things had been set in motion.
For little did I know it but this was the night that my life was going to change irreversibly . . .
And not in a good way.

Categories: Historical Fiction.

Tags: , , ,

“Allahu Akbar!”

January 12, 2010

To kill Christians and Jews they yearn,
Because it is “Allah’s will.”
A flame of hate in theirs hearts burns,
And their duty is to kill.

A religion of evil, spread by the sword;
How blind and misled they are!
Their hearts have been so hardened against God’s word,
And all for “Allahu Akbar.”

To crash a plane into buildings,
Setting two towers ablaze…
They’re called heroes for murdering,
And for their sins they are praised.

Imagine a god that would truly delight
When thousands of people die!
Who would teach his people that bloodshed is right…
Yet “Allahu Akbar!” they cry.

But this “god” has called them to spill
Much unnecessary blood.
Yes, this “god” has told them to kill;
There is no message of love.

Now they’re spreading the empty faith of Islam,
Though true hope they are without.
They’re spreading the false message of the Quran
“Allahu Akbar!” more will shout.

Lord, to these people show Your grace;
May the gospel be heard.
Oh, cause them all to seek Your face
Send more to preach Your word.

May they one by one see Your light forever,
And worship You instead. Then
They will proclaim “Hallelujah!” but never
Say, “Allahu Akbar!” again.

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

Miracle’s Hideout!

January 10, 2010

Miracle has begun to (semi)diligently blog. Which basically means she talks about her quirky life with a little seriousness and a lot of sarcasm. Okay, so she DOESN’t have any seriousness, but who wants to listen to Sermons On Bekah’s Day anyway?
Read, laugh if you want to, cry over her punctuation, and ENJOY!

http://tamethewind.blogspot.com/ <—- THE LINK!

btw- FEEL FREE TO COMMENT!!! :D :D

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

The Marvel: A Short Story

January 9, 2010

AN: yes, this used to be a novel. no, it’s not anymore. thank you.
EDITATIONS DESPERATELY NEEDED AS I MAY BE TURNING THIS IN TO MY CLASS!!!
-
The Marvel

I am afraid of people. The women with perfumed necks and purple eyelids and teeth that leer at me behind fluttery smiles. The men who stand behind them, hands on their women’s elbows, protecting them from me and my kind. The Ringmaster with his whip and his shouts and the skinny dancers with pretty faces and twisted hearts. The clowns with the devil in their prayers and the acrobats with their drink that they consume until they can’t see my face and think they want me. I don’t mind the animals, the lions or the bears or the horses. The Ringmaster says they’ll eat me, but they’re just as trapped as I am. Just as sad.
It is still dark. The branches bend around me in the hard wind, scraping my bare stomach against the tree trunk’s bark. My breath rushes in and out of my throat and my heart pounds. It is hard for me to climb.
Here I can watch the circus deflate, the canvas tents folded and the poles stored, the bright flags and signs stacked, the money boxes counted and emptied, all the cheerful, noisy, brilliance stowed in wagons quickly and quietly.
Take down is so different from set up, which is just another show. Unpacked at dawn, everything bright, clear, shining, the performers walking candidly about the construction, in one hour an empty field transformed into a motley production. Everything, the time, the speed, the people are all orchestrated to pique the interest, to lure the curiosity. Setting everything away is more real, less magic. I like that better.
They will call me soon, and if I do not come, they will find me. Then I will be given nothing to eat, and I am hungry. So I carefully grip a thick branch with my right hand, push myself down the sloping trunk, pause, clutch a different branch, slide a little, the same again, then let myself fall into the dark grass.
I am still for a minute, the grass cool against my skin, my stomach burning from scrapes, my back aching, my crippled left arm trembling. I close my eyes, open them again. I stare at my good arm. It is so skinny I can count all its bones and muscles. It scares me when I’m able to see my own skeleton.
I slowly stand and walk to the freak box. That’s what they call the wagon that the Marvels ride in. Everyone is preoccupied with closing the circus, so they do not watch a skinny nine-year-old freak walk to the caravan.
The other Marvels are already sitting stiffly beside each other. I slide in as quietly as I can and tuck myself into the closest corner. No one acknowledges my presence, so I relax. People will turn in their children in if the reward is a coin or a crust of bread. Mr. Cutts would not like it if he knew one of his freaks had been wandering alone.
The wood of the wagon chafes the bare part of my back and my bad arm aches. I close my eyes and concentrate on listening. It is something Jo taught me to do when I am uncomfortable. There is the sound of the final canvas tents being tied down, lifted into wagons, falling with a muffled thump. The wheels creak as people and things are loaded over them. A horse pants, stomps the ground. Men talk quietly and someone is snoring near me. I open my eyes briefly. It is the Midget, wearing only one boot. I close my eyes again. And suddenly, all I hear is Jo laughing. Are you happy today, Tam? I can hear him, whispering in my ears as if he hadn’t ever left. Tambourine. What a beautiful name.
I had the dream last night, I think back. The dream where I am beautiful.
I always have the dream after a show. In the dream, my hair is long and dark, falling in curls down my perfectly straight back. I am tall, strong, with soft skin I cannot see my bones through. My smile is as radiant as the sun, and I stand, stretching beautiful arms to the sky, the wind rushing over me like a cold, furious waterfall.
Then I wake up.
These are the hardest mornings, the mornings after a show, the mornings after the dream. They are the mornings I remember every finger ever pointed at me, my skin burning with their fingerprints. They are the mornings I hear words ringing in my ears: “Mama, mama, what is that?” and the embarrassed silence that is just as loud.
Jo always understood. But he is gone.
The freak box lunges forward and I grip the side so hard that I feel splinters breaking into my hand. My eyes fly open just as the Midget topples. The Contortionist smirks in her sniffy way that lets us know she deserves to be sipping tea with the dancers. I wonder if she realizes how pathetic she looks, contriving fake airs while dressed in a dirty, ragged costume. She ties it tight, trying to look sensual, but her form is as starved as mine.
The Midget struggles to sit and I notice his lone boot again. When he manages to wrestle his body to where he wants it to go, he notices me staring at his boot and winks clumsily at me. I drop my head and stare intently at a brown stain near my own feet.
We are moving now. The circus caravan plods over the field into the gray dirt road and begins its journey to the next town. My hands start stinging and I start picking the slivers of wood out of my skin.
Young ones run out onto their front steps to stare at us while the older ones watch from windows. Some mothers join them, brooms or dust-cloths in their hands, a few with babies on their hips. The freak box has only a rough, plain cloth frame over it, but some of the wagons have wood walls and roofs like square houses on wheels. Their colorful paint is chipping, but they depict such wild pictures of tigers and whips and teeth that they draw wide eyes anyway. They are banners, roaring advertisements, crying out with many voices: the circus is here!
I like our plain wagon. It gives me a kind of invisibility among all the color. For once, I know that they aren’t staring at me. I am hidden.
The sun begins to approach the horizon. The light turns teal as I scratch the last trace of wood from my palms and close my eyes.
Tambourine. What a beautiful name.
I imagine the sound of Jo’s voice, the sturdy seriousness of his face, his startlingly light eyes. When he said my name, he said it like he would the name of a precious flower or the title of a royal lady. Like he would call his own daughter.
You would be a good father, I said once. I wish you were mine. I thought he would be pleased, but his eyes got bright like when he was angry.
I’m not your father, he said, his voice hard.
I nodded and stared at my feet. Then he stroked my cropped hair, very gently, something he didn’t usually do. You already have a father, he said.
I looked cautiously at him. He was staring at the stiff line of the horizon and his hand dropped from my hair back to his side.
I do? I asked, feeling strangely elated and afraid.
Everyone has a father, he replied. Then he motioned to the circus camp and we walked back in silence.
The Midget is snoring again and I hear an elephant trumpet angrily. The animals hate travel, except for the tiger who adapts to anything. I open my eyes. The wagon is bright now, the brilliant blue sky seeping through the coarse cloth.
The One-Eyed Man is rocking, chewing his left thumbnail, talking to himself or one of his friends who live in his head. The Siamese Twins are looking in opposite directions, trying to convince themselves that the other twin doesn’t exist. The Giant is bent over, his chest on his knees, slobbery with laughter, drunk. The Contortionist sits primly, her nose slightly in the air, but her hands fidget anxiously in her lap.
We all have our ways to hide. It’s easier than finding a way to face the truth everyday, that we are freaks.
I look at my arm, backward and crooked, bones sticking out at twisted angles and my hand a shriveled, trembling spider at the end. I remember when I was five, when I ran away from The Marvels to the Fun House, determined to be a normal girl.
People stared at me, disgusted and ashamed, moving subtly away or even leaving the tent. For the first time, I understood something was wrong with me. I hid my crippled arm behind my back, but they still looked at me. A soft sob broke from my mouth and I fled deeper into the tent, losing myself in the maze of mirrors.
I saw what I was. My face, my body, my whole self was ugly, twisted, crippled like my arm. I was a monster.
Every corner I turned, there I was, the Ugly. I couldn’t escape. All the twisting corridors mocked me with a thousand reflections of my disgusting face. Weeping and screaming, I attacked one of the mirrors, trying to shatter it with my good fist until Mr. Cutts came to get me. He smacked me hard across my face, but I ran into his arms. He picked me up, grimacing, and carried me back into the freak tent.
I sobbed for an hour before I fell asleep, still perched on my show box. I had been rescued from the mirrors, but not from myself. That was the last time I wondered why people pointed at me. The last time I tried to escape. The last time I cried.
Remembering, my throat feels tight.
When it is dark again, the circus stops beside an abandoned gypsy camp. It has been deserted for more than twenty years, so caravans often use it as a resting point. Jo used to tell me stories about this place, unraveling exotic mysteries of the gypsy men and women and children, the Travelers. I loved these stories, partly because they were frightening and strange, but also because of the gypsy clans. They were a family, a tribe of brothers and sisters. That was beautiful to me.
Dead leaves and grass have blown into the fire pits, workers clear them and light fires. The Marvels slowly congregate beside the furthest fire. While the other fires are crowded and loud with jokes and laughter, we sit silently and alone. Even though we are always together, we are not a family. We are silent because we are mirrors of each other. None of us dare to look at another’s face to see the reflection.
The fire crackles hungrily as the flames rise. I am still, waiting for the warmth to heat my skin and thaw my bones. The wind is sharp and cold, making sparks sputter.
The One-Eyed man sits on the dirt beside me, his face scrunched into a queer expression like a baby makes before breaking into squalls. “It’s very cold, very cold, very cold,” he grunts. Then his strange expression vanishes and a joy lights his face, making him look young and handsome, despite the lack of a right eye. “Come to the fire, Millie. It’s warm here. You’ll be cold at first but it’ll warm you. Nice and warm. Come and sit with me, Millie. I missed you.”
He looks so eager, his left eye so bright and dancing that it makes up for the strange, smooth skin where his right eye should have been. For the first time, I am not afraid of him. I wonder who Millie was and if he had loved her. I want to ask him these questions, even though I never cared before.
I am lonely now. I never used to be lonely before Jo. There were harder days, when I saw girls giggling together, buying cotton candy and whispering in each other’s ears and wanted desperately to be their friend. But no normal girls would play with me. I accepted that.
Then Jo came, a solemn stranger who walked up to Mr. Cutts, the owner of the circus, and offered to work as a handyman. He became very popular, despite his grave demeanor. The dancers seemed to believe him handsome, often walking beside him and fluttering their fake eyelashes. The acrobats taught him some of their tricks, which he executed with artless precision, making them laugh. You jump like a scientist – all physics, no springs. Even the clowns befriended him, it was said that they had offered him a membership in their cult, which he politely refused. Mr. Cutts and the directors liked him too. He was skilled at mechanics, carpentry, finances, problem-solving, was quick to learn what he didn’t know, and always remembered everything.
He found me one night after a show when I had climbed into the low branches of a tree.
“Are you hiding?” he asked me. He had a serious voice, but it was warm, like a friend instead of an enemy. A dangerous voice, because it made you feel safe.
“No,” I whispered.
“Would you like me to help you down?” he asked.
“No,” I said again, my voice trembling.
He stood still for a moment. It was too dark to see his face.
“What is your name?” he asked me.
I was petrified. “I’m a Marvel,” I said.
“I know you are,” he replied quietly. “Is your name Tambourine?”
I nodded, but he could not see the gesture through the darkness and the tree branches.
“You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to,” he said gently, and began to walk away.
“Yes,” I said loudly. “My name is Tambourine.” It was the first time I had ever told anyone that. I knew it was my name, because Mr. Cutts had told me so when I was little. I used to chant it to myself when I was afraid.
I heard him move back.
“Are you happy, Tambourine?” he asked me. When I didn’t reply, he changed the question. “Are you sad?”
I was startled. I could have told him if I was cold or warm or hungry or tired, but happy? Sad? The concept of emotion was utterly detached from my life. I moved from one point to another, from the wagon to the showbox, only concerning myself with immediate physical signals. I am hungry. I am hot. I am tired.
I thought for a moment. Happy was the girls who wore ribbons and laughed with each other, and happy was the boys who wrestled by the popcorn stand, and happy was the parents when their children were busily entertained and they shared a quiet glass of lemonade. I was not happy. Sad was when you cried, and I hadn’t cried since the mirror maze nearly three years past.
“No,” I answered finally. “I am not happy or sad.”
He was silent for a moment. “I see,” he said. Eventually he left and I slipped back into the circus.
Jo found me again the next day and every day after that. He would bring me things, lemonade, candy, a little rag doll, a pink ribbon. Sometimes he would take me around the circus and show me other things, like the butterfly cocoon in the corner of a wagon or a flock of blackbirds nestled in the leaves of a tree. Once he showed me a picture of himself with a beautiful young woman holding a squirming toddler.
After that first day, I didn’t talk to him. I would not answer his questions or respond to his presents. He seemed to understand and did not pressure me to talk. He would give me small opportunities for speech, but I ignored them. Instead, he held long one-sided conversations. But I began to anticipate his visits. I would be excited during lunch break or the free hours after a show, knowing he would come.
Then one day I spoke. He had been talking about dyeing, the work that it took to create the colors in the bright fabrics of the circus, describing the herbs and barks and weeds that must be gathered and the tools used. I said: “I wish I could do that. Make color.”
He looked at me quickly, then smiled, just a whisper at the corners of his mouth. “Someday you could learn,” he said.
I shook my head. “I’m a Marvel.”
His eyes became bright. It was the first time I saw him truly angry.
“You can do whatever you want to,” he said quietly. “You are a beautiful person in all the ways that matter.” Then he cursed.
I looked down at my feet.
“I’m sorry, Tambourine. I am not angry at you.” I looked back up at him and he smiled that whisper smile again.
I felt a warm, wonderful feeling stretch from my heart all the way to my toes.
I liked him. And he liked me.
It was friendship.
And now I cannot be who I was before. I am different, now that I’ve had a friend. Now I watch the One-Eyed man. Now I am lonely.
And now, for the first time in five years, a tear slips down my face.

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

The Voice

January 9, 2010

by Sandy

To myself I said,
“You certainly should
Sit atop your bed
And write something good.”

I was quite disturbed
When an answer came:
“My mind is perturbed,
So empty my brain.”

Startled as I was,
I answered the voice:
“You MUST write, because…
I give you no choice!”

“Ha!” was the response,
Then, here’s what I heard:
“Who CARES what you want?
Not another word!”

“Goodness!” I shouted,
“Don’t you use that tone!”
For I really doubted
That I was alone.

The voice thundered back,
“In what galaxy
Would something like THAT
Sound like poetry?

And why’d you write down
Each word that I’ve said?”
I answered the sound,
“You are in my head!”

“I’m not!” the voice called,
“I’m here and I’m there!
I live in the walls!
I am everywhere!”

I said to the noise,
“I thought you were me!”
Confused by the voice
-Well, wouldn’t you be?

A strange response came
Which puzzled me more:
“I fall in the rain,
And live in the floor.”

“Listen up, dopey,”
I told the unseen.
“You’re confusing me…
Just what do you mean?

“You know, whatever.
Now let’s both indite
A poem together!
So what shall we write?”

“How dumb, how clueless!”
The voice uttered, “How
Could you not notice
You wrote one just now?”

——————————-

ha ha this writing style actually reminds me of dr. seuss :)

i wrote this sitting on my bed yesterday. it started off with me trying to write a poem about how i didn’t know what to write, and how i was gonna just like, name things to write about… then it became me arguing with myself… then it was me arguing with a mysterious voice… lol and here’s what i ended up with. :D

Categories: Poetry.

Tags: , , ,

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