WRITE. YES INDEED. CAN BE DIFFICULT, CAN BE EASY, CAN BE FUN, CAN BE A PAIN IN THE ASS.
But... I want to read it ^^)
So it's time to dig around in your drawers or files, I wanna read everything you've ever written! (Well, that is a slightly exaggerated but I bet you guys are clever enough to not take it literally)
But really, it can be something you wrote yesterday, it can be something you wrote when you were 7, just WRITE.
(Poetry, Short Stories, A chapter of something, A song, Or just some thoughts scrabbled down. No worries if it's just a sentence.)
everything i write makes me seem really emo. but whatever, i guess.
He was dangerous in the same way as second hand smoke, with his dirty eyes and hot fingers; he never meant for any of it to happen like this, for me to become such a mess, but it did. There was just something about him, the way he was broken beyond repair, so tragic but never a tragedy. He was beautiful, in that way that forced you to open your eyes to the things you didn't want to, to reevaluate yourself. Like a trainwreck, screaming at you to take a moment and try to make yourself alright, because this is what happens when you live your life at eighty miles per hour.
I couldn't help but gaze at him on nice days, sitting with the sun sending a ray across his face, whitening out the blackest parts of his hair, at how he squinted as the ash fell off his cigarette, because in this light, he was brilliant and he was falling. He was a lover of such epic proportions, but even more a poet and he wrote about all the girls in the world but I don't think he ever wrote about me. I could lose myself in his words, feel along with him every emotion he had ever had, and no matter how many times it broke my heart I forced myself to keep going, over and over, reading his deepest secrets as I traced my finger along his jawline and soaked his shirt with my tears. Or should I say his tears? I was never quite sure. I cried for the both of us, because I was never as strong as him. I couldn't handle all this loss so I clenched my fists around the fabric of his clothes and begged him to hate me, but he just kissed my forehead and whispered 'I couldn't, even if I tried'.
Our story began both before and after. After he knew death and heartbreak all too well, but before I had ever known love. I hadn't imagined it would hurt like this when he first came into my life, when I first started falling, but I suppose every good story has a twist and ours was just worse than most others. I was, and I still am, much too young to understand any of it. I still lie in bed at night, on the double mattress to remind myself how lonely I am, face wet with tears, desperately searching for answers to questions that seem to be common to me. Questions like why it had to be him, or how it's possible to love someone so much.
At night, I read the things he wrote for me. I never wanted letters that said goodbye, but I wanted his words assembled for me more than anything. And maybe I'm lying, maybe I know he did write about me, even though it was just to remind me to be good to myself after he left us. I try very hard not to cry, but every time I read these letters my hands shake and I wonder if I'll ever be able to stop sobbing, these heaving sobs that wake up everyone else in the house that seems empty without him.
Sometimes I think that I must have been so beautiful for someone like him to have loved me, and sometimes I wonder if I still am and sometimes I think I never was and I never will be. Maybe I was just fascinating in that strange way he would notice and love, like corrupt minds and immoral behavior. Like little girls smoking cigarettes with their grandmothers.
But none of that matters now, now that he's gone, so between sobs I manage to utter 'night night, termite' because he isn't here to call me his strange pet names, and I hug myself until I fall asleep and hope with all my heart that I'm allowed to dream of him.
And I suppose there's nothing left to do but hope there is a heaven, and that one day we'll meet there again.
Triana cradled the red plastic cup in her hand and looked at the rapidly flattening amber liquid inside it. Some party this was. She was hidden away on the balcony overlooking the parking lot and just letting herself feel the bass of the music pump through the walls.
"Hey, you mind if I join you?" Someone said from behind her.
She looked up and smiled Ian was standing there, a cup in one hand, pack of cloves in the other. "Maybe... gotta know the password."
He laughed, his cheeks flooding with color as he gracelessly plopped down beside her, his thigh rubbing against her hip. "I'm gonna take a wild guess and say cheeseburger. I've had too much of this--" he gestured with his cup, "to be playing games."
"Eh," She laughed, setting her cup down. "I'll take it."
She leaned against his shoulder as he put one of the cloves to his lip and took a long drag. They sat quietly as he smoked, just letting the bass pump through them and the night chill cool them off. Triana was content to sit there with him. It was comfortable like this. Just the feel of his warm shoulder against her cheek and the sound of his breathing.
"Um..." Ian started, "Triana?"
"Yeah," she was sleepy and took a moment to take her head off his shoulder and look up at him.
"Would you mind if I...I donno how to say this."
Triana looked away. "I like you, Ian..."
He punched out the butt of his clove and turned to face her. Putting a gentle finger under her chin and turning her to face him.
She closed her eyes. His breath was sour from drinking and smelled like the dark sweet smoke from his cloves. Their lips brushed tentatively at first. His hand slid down from her chin to her throat and across to her shoulder, pulling her closer to him. Triana opened her eyes for a split second looking at him. There was something shocking in the taste of his kiss.
"I like you too..." He whispered on her lips when he stopped for a breath.
I couldn't come out and say beer or cigarettes, because it was for a writing contest on the neopets writing forums and they're censored all to heck. I liked how it came out. Wanted to write something about beer flavored kisses.
"I can cure any ill except for that of the mind." The old man said as he lead a considerably younger woman into his kitchen. The place was a hot mess but a comforting one. The counters and table were littered with everything imaginable that a wizard would keep in his kitchen and everything was in abundance.
The modern age was kind to wizards, though, so he had several miniature iron cauldrons, (now called Dutch ovens) resting on hot plates and four on the burners of the stove. The room seemed to shimmer with the vapor of his various potions. His hand found a switch by the door and the overhead light came on. He crossed the room and flicked another switch and the ventilation hood above his range came on pulling the steam from his concoctions away.
"As I was saying though, what exactly is it you're looking for?" He said, picking up a pair of wooden spoons that had seen some better days and stirring two of the pots on the stove for a moment. "I need to know what it is I'm curing. I'm not peddling snake oil as a cure for all that ails you. Good herbal medicine is as good as anything those pharmacies can synthesize."
The woman watched him, for a while. He was nothing but movement and energy. So very well practiced he hardly looked up as he set one pair of spoons and picked up another to continue going through the potions he was brewing. Each got a precise number of stirs a precise way and he seemed content to do two at once though they seemed so very different.
"My daughter, I'm not quite sure what is wrong with her. She seems very sick and she won't tell me what's going on. Do you think that you could help me?" She stepped out of his way as he moved on to his hot plates. "Should I bring her here so you can see?"
The man laughed for a moment. "Won't tell you what's wrong, eh? Bring her to me and I'll get to the bottom of it. I'm sure to have her right as rain in no time. How old is the girl?"
"She's sixteen. Mr. Warlick, what are all these potions for?" The woman said looking around. She felt a bit overwhelmed in his kitchen workshop.
"Well in the corner is my dinner, it can sit for a bit." He laughed again. "And please, just call me Alistair, everyone else does. The four on the stove are all for colds, each cold is unique and so is each type of potion. These here on the hot plates are for the flu, poison ivy rashes, stomach bugs, and this one's a love potion."
"That was a joke, this is the base for some carrot soup for tomorrow. Mrs. Finnley, I'm sure your little girl is just fine. What symptoms does she have? I'm sure I could whip up a little something for her from what I've got here." He walked over to his pantry and opened the door.
Alaya was absoulutely sure of three things. That her life was about as prosaic as fruit, she was a super-human, and that something interesting was about to happen. She wasn't sure what exactly will get interesting but she knew it would. Her visions were a little blurry.
You see, Alaya wasn't like the other girls at her school, or in the world for that matter. She didn't like anybody and regular life was not exactly enthralling to her. She was something different from other people. She was part of a super-human race, and that was about all she knew on the subject.
She rarely thought to broach it with her parents because they would not talk about it. It was their decision to have their daughter marred for the rest of her life by the haunting scar on her forehead. When people dubiously looked at her, they chose to avert their eyes a moment later to "be polite". Well, it annoyed Alaya.
Besides the scar she was amazingly beautiful. Her hair was long and red brown. Her sinister eyes a haunting red. On her face was constantly a look of resolution. People were afraid of her, to put it simply. There really was nothing to be afraid of except that she could crush you without trying, and probably wouldn't care.
When they inserted the nano into her cerebellum, they had to add extra tissue and it just so happened that it made her super strong. This was not a normal characteristic of super humans.
One day, Alaya went to school and got the shock of her life. She watched a fellow classmate rip off the door of his locker, without even trying. She watched furtively as he put it back on and walked placidly away.
After the little fiasco, Alaya went to her locker and opened it gently. She placed her books on the top shelf and out floated a note. It had her name written in ornate script on the front. It read:
I know what you are. I am one too. My parents just recently told me. They told me about you. I would like to talk about what to do. I'm not exactly sure where to go from here. Please return you reply to locker 507. Thank you,
Alaya had no idea what to do. She could barely deal with herself, let alone another person!
The festivities were about to begin for both courts of Subconscious. In the dark fathoms of Nightmare, crowds of grotesque and scared figured surged toward the blackened stone castle of their faerie queen, Malevolence. She finished preparing herself in her deep obsidian mirror and donned her most embellished and garish gown.
Placing her wrought iron crown upon her crimson curls she seated herself at her throne for a rest before closing her eyes and willing herself to the castle of her future husband, King Industrious. She bit her lip walking over the polished silver of his castle’s clean and spotless floors. Looking at him she couldn’t help but smile.
Industrious was the king of Dream, the longtime rivaling land of Nightmare. The two lands, much like King Industrious and Queen Malevolence were opposites in all regards. Where Dream was bright, pleasant and clean, Nightmare was dark, brutal and filthy. Queen Malevolence looked quite out of place in her red and black, tattered ball gown with her iron crown. She might as well have been a mirage before the king’s very eyes.
King Industrious looked studious as ever in his gold and white tunic with a silver crown on his chestnut curls. He looked like a porcelain doll with his vibrantly green eyes looking over his bride to be. He rose from his throne and pulled the queen into a fond embrace that sent both their hearts racing in lust and love.
“My dark darling, you’re a vision to be sure.” He said, his voice full and deep showing caring and compassion.
“Such things might be said of you, my dear. Are you sure you wish me to meet your nobles first. The Nightmare courts are quite accommodating.” She spoke in a low, scratchy whisper. Her voice held all the power she knew of and spoke of cruelty. “It isn’t too late to change our plans now.”
The king chuckled at his bride and kissed her pale forehead. “My love, the plans are set in stone. I know you are…nervous, but this is going to be fine. There is nothing to worry of.”
“There is everything to worry of.” She sighed, hoping her betrothed wouldn’t hear.