[Siren]

I've always loved writing short stories, here's a some of them:




Red Ink
Thomas is late, he runs down the stairs with his prescription clutched in his right hand. He left the tv on, and his cat's eating his bagel. He runs graciously to the bus stop, but it's too late. He puts his hands on his knees. He hasn't run since highschool, his face is flushed. He leans backwards now, hands on hip hips because his back hurts. A single raindrop falls on his left eyelid. He stays still, he just felt it. He has no idea what this is. He feels as the raindrop slides down his cheek and joins his tears. He has no memories of ever doing this. He just tastes the salty water at the corners of his mouth. The young man standing next to him doesn't even realize the emotional caos unfolding next to him, he just stares blankly into nowhere waiting for the next bus to come. Thomas smiles for the first time in his life, but not because he thinks he's dreaming since he never has. All he knows is that something's bursting inside of him. If he knew the word euphoria it would dwell behind his teeth. Thomas enjoys every single one of the next seven raindrops that fall on his face. There's no one around. The young man took cover under a building's tent and looks in his direction coverd in apathy. Thomas spreads his arms and starts to raise them slowly, he cries laughing. The red ink from the government's stamp in his prescription runs down his left hand and wrist. Thomas couldn't care less about the beautiful turquoise pills his president gives him.




Marie
She sat next to me while we wondered what we were going to play this time. “Do you think he’ll come?” but as soon as she finished asking we heard the door knob turn. My dad came into the room, saw me and asked about her. I could barely say a word because his cell phone rang; he grumbled and went out. He had just closed the door when Marie came out from under the bed fixing up her braids. My dad argued in the hallway. After a while Marie exclaimed “I know! Let’s play made-up countries” - “Okay” I closed my eyes and concentrated on creating something because we had played this many before. I heard my dad say goodbye “Quick! He’s coming!” Marie ran to hide in the closet. As soon as she was out of sight he entered the room and looked at me with worry in his eyes. “If you know where she is please tell me son. She needs help, she’s sick.” I lowered my head and looked at Marie out of the corner of my eye; she was spying from the closet, begging me not to tell. As soon as my dad noticed he asked angrily “�Where is she?” Not wanting him to get any angrier I just answered “Grandma’s in the closet.”






Chlorotic*
Crimson light seeped between the windows, the sun was dying outside. You could hear muffled weeping in the room. Her family sat on the first benches. A friend approached the casket and whispered some secret before going back to her seat. The illusion of silence was heavy and dry. She could hear everything from suppressed tears to the candle’s wicks burning. She could hear her mother’s dress brushing against a stranger’s suit; smell the alcohol in his breath. She was desperate but stood still, she couldn’t move. Her throat ached of trapped screams and her angst crashed against her inexpressive face of dry tears. Everybody spoke words, but nobody was really talking to her. The penetrating scent of incense made her nauseous, the scent of never again. Sad men surrounded the casket and placed it of their shoulders, she stays still and desperate. Now the casket lies on the ground. Something tears apart inside her as she hears the shovel go in the ground. And she begs, she begs she’ll be able to open her eye so they know she’s alive.


*Chlorotic means weak and /or pale in spanish. It's some sort of pathology in english. I decided to keep it since it still sorta fits in with the story.
Def: Pathology An iron-deficiency anemia, primarily of young women, characterized by a greenish-yellow discoloration of the skin. Also called greensickness.




Untitled
The judge's cat yawned as he banged the gavel. He arched his back in a very Haloween-esque way while someone's mother was given 10 years. "I wonder how many they'd give him if they found that boy he chained up in his basement" the cat wondered. "Eh...I'm not telling, he just tastes so damn good".




Untitled
She watched his lips curl in a grin that he stole from the devil. He tapped her knee with his cane, made from her former lover's femur and spoke "I always thought Lola was a good name for you". She felt a tear escape, run away from her tearduct and panicked at the thought of him noticing. He darted towards her and grabbed her face as he licked the tear away. "Lola..." The name swirled up from his cavernous voice and tainted her dress. His fingers started to sink behind her ears as she closed his eyes... "Lola..." he groaned as her flesh writhed in his hands, against his pores... and detached from her skull. She felt her eyelashes fly off and her lips getting torn off but didn't even flinch. He defaced her with a passion reserved only for art... And growled as the last bit of flesh was removed. He stood back and glared at the empty sockets that once held her amatist eyes. The blind doll took a step towards him and he grabbed her by the waist. His long fingers wrapped around her neck...and traveled up to her bleached skull. He covered her face and slid his hands off slowly admiring her lucious lips, and the mole that rested on her right cheek. "Lola..." he whispered and her red eyes opened up to smile at him.





Another Trick
His thin pale arms wobbled for a bit as he tried to maintain his balance, the other kids clapped and cheered as he slowly walked along the wire. "Do a back flip!" Said a chubby girl "No! A somersault!" said a blonde boy. The petit entertainer smiled, crouched to gain impulse, and did a back flip-somersault - back flip combination that left the kids in pure awe. "Hey! Watcha doin' there?!" growled a tall obese man that stomped his way to the crowd. The other kids ran away laughing and screaming. The thin pale boy stepped off the wire and muttered "Nuttin'". "Well I've had this circus for 36 years, that ain't no nuttin, kid. Hey, interested in joinin' this joint? Got any more of them neat tricks?" The circus man asked. The wonder kid nodded excitedly. "Well lemme see it, boy" The stray child smiled and vanished into thin air.





Last
Her lips parted to expell a gray sigh as her eyes squinted. It was one of the few moments in which there was no one around. Loneliness had eaten aways her insides over time, making her will succumb to tainted thoughts. She closed her eyes and pushed off the chair; her neck broke right away. It wasn't long before they found her, a couple of maids went into her room and fell to their knees, mouths wide open. They were silent for a few seconds as lilac tears streamed down their cheeks. Their eyes did not waste a second going over her pale skin, her sad lips, her dead eyes... They were stuck to the knot that descended from the celling and hugged her neck. It was the most beautiful piece Arachne had ever made.




The Worst Kind
She walked across the room quietly, layed beside him, and closed her eyes. She couldn't sleep, but this time his glass of whiskey (which she used to stare at) wasn't on her nighstand. Her thoughs drifted along her childhood and all the people she never ever saw again... That afternoon she met him, when he pushed her swing. It had been so long since that day. She knew how to cry without making a sound now. She moaned a bit as she tugged the thread that came out of her skin, between her breasts... She was the worst kind of puppet.




How Could I Refuse?
His lips brushed against my eyelids as he shushed me. "I can stop it" he said, his voice was intoxicatingly exquisite. I'm one for voices, they just make me tingle, and his made me feel as if he was licking my brain. I stayed quiet for a while, just to quench my craving of his faded whispers. "I can stop it" he groaned as his hands gently wrapped around my neck, he made me feel like glass. I nodded while one of his hands tangled in my hair, grabbing the back of my head. My lips parted a few milimeters as he tilted my head back. His other hand crawled up my collarbone, slid up my neck and stopped at my lower eyelid... I felt his nail slice up my tearducts, slowly and almost tenderly. I stopped crying for the first time in 2 months.






Soft
I noticed you since I walked into the room. Of course I didn’t go straight to you, no. I talked to Mrs. Pinnault and her French accent first; it hadn’t left her after 34 years of living over here. I didn’t hesitate to accept, using the little French I knew, to take care of Azabache, a gorgeous, fat, black cat she claimed was part panther. I let my pupils wander to the corner of the room as I put her lilac-scented, wannabe granny hug in my skirt’s pocket. You’re still there.

I walk through the room conversing with who I find in my way, being a good hostess; pleasant, delicate, and polite. I must confess I can hardly concentrate, I imagine you watching me as my back faces you, speculating my name. I’m sure you have no idea I already know yours, I know everybody’s in this room; you’re all in my folder. I let your name slip off my brain and tickle my palate without letting it get tangled in my voice, yet. I think about what to tell you as I move forward. A simple hello is… Simple. I wonder if you like me, at least physically.
Do you like me? You haven’t seen me so far, or at least I think so. I go over details about me you might like. I’m 17, I study by day and help my dad in the family business at night, sometimes I sing in that blues bar around the corner, my mother left us when I was 15; no, not that. Do you like my dress? I made it; it’s one of my hobbies. I had to wait a whole week to get the lace that’s around my neck and shoulders, but it was worth it. I walk towards your table feeling a little nervous and I’m bold enough to sit beside you; you’re beautiful. I guess you’re 25, well, I know so. My folder contains more than your name.

You’re still impassible to my presence, or at least you appear to be. I’m happy to be close to you, demanding nothing, adoring you in silence. A copper lock has slid from behind your ear and I’m holding back the urge to intertwine mi fingers in your hair: it must be your style. An unexpected yawn surfaces from my sternum and I take the chance to give you a subtlety from my part. I let my hand softly caress your knee, telling you I’m fascinated by you. You say nothing; maybe it’s no use to be femininely timid with you. I feel my blood rush to my face as I lean towards you; I’ve decided to let you know of my soft lust. I’m going to kiss the corner of your mouth, taste your lips hoping you bite mine. I won’t talk; I’m going to be delicately audacious.

“Irina!” my father calls from the basement’s door. A cold sigh emerges from my larynx, I know he’ll scold me. Here I am, wasting time when you’re the only one in the room left for me to embalm.





Wow, you read everything? :P

This post has been edited by Siren: 17 July 2009 - 02:38 PM

[Darkness]

I enjoyed these, and several of them made me grin as I finished with them. I didn't understand Red Ink, but the rest were wonderful. Thank you for sharing.

[Siren]

Thanks, I have a habit of adding a twist at the end. :)
Oh, Red Ink is quite simple. Thomas has been getting pills from the government, since forever. That day Thomas was going to get a refill (I suppose he's a day or two late on doing so) and then it hits him; he can feel. The government has been keeping everybody numb for their convenience, blah blah. Hope that helped.

[Darkness]

Ahhh! Wonderful.

[LeannanSidhe]

I especially liked Chlorotic - proper shivers down the soine stuff.

[Fatal_love_syndrome]

Excellent imagery in all of these.
I specifically like The Worst Kind and Untitled (the second).

I hope you'll post more. You have a real gift for wordplay.

[Siren]

Quote

I especially liked Chlorotic - proper shivers down the spine stuff.

Thanks, gorgeous. :)

Quote

Excellent imagery in all of these.
I specifically like The Worst Kind and Untitled (the second).

I hope you'll post more. You have a real gift for wordplay.

Thank you. :)
I do intend on posting more, I have three stories floating around right now.

[Siren]

So it's short and it tells a story, but it's not a short story.



You look at me
And you don't
I feel you thinking about me
Your mouth crackles with words you want to spit
My lost eyes exhaust you
Dry silence
Monosyllabic answers
Programmed
Vacuous
Abandoned
Your frenzied longing for my reactions
The despise to my coldness
The happiness in my sporadic warmth
Words that slip from my ears
My hands don't chase yours
Doubting what you feel
What I feel
If I feel
Your thumbs sink into my clavicles
You kiss me
Insensitive!
Your scream slaps me
Leaves me on my kness, in a corner of your room
Your gelid sigh wraps around me
I can smell your tears
And you hate me
Because you love me
And you don't know about your schizophrenia

[Robin]

wow that was crazy. I like it

[Siren]

Talk about procrastination. Here's something I started today.



It starts with subtle movements in my arms and legs, one or two low sighs. I’m slowly slipping away from whatever calm dream I was having, and I see you through the slim openings my, still dormant, eyelids permit. You’re still asleep.

The lines that make up your face slowly go from smudged to undeniably existent, and by then I’ve mustered up enough alertness to slide the tip of my finger from between you eyebrows to the tip of your nose; it’s a bit big, but it suits you. I stretch my limbs, shredding the last veils of sleep, so slow it almost makes me feel as if I’m underwater. As my back arches, I suppress half of an involuntary moan, careful not to perturb the stillness of your face. I slide off from between the sheets so delicately any observer would surely give me ethereal qualities.

This post has been edited by Siren: 21 January 2010 - 02:26 PM

[Robin]

wow..that is a great visual of waking up in the morning. especially for you. this is beautiful.

[Siren]

Thanks, Robin. It's nowhere near finished, though.

[Siren]

Ok, here it is:


It starts with subtle movements in my arms and legs, one or two low sighs. I'm slowly slipping away from whatever calm dream I was having, and I see you through the slim openings my, still dormant, eyelids permit. You're still asleep.

The lines that make up your face slowly go from smudged to undeniably existent, and by then I've mustered up enough alertness to slide the tip of my finger from between you eyebrows to the tip of your nose; it's a bit big, but it suits you. I stretch my limbs, shredding the last veils of sleep, so slow it almost makes me feel as if I'm underwater. As my back arches, I suppress half of an involuntary moan, careful not to perturb the stillness of your face. I slide off from between the sheets so delicately any observer would surely give me ethereal qualities.

The coldness of the floor seems to go in through my feet and push out the little goose bumps in my arms, as I walk through the corridor. The little light that's seeping through the tinted kitchen windows makes it look as if I've stepped into another dimension; like gold fish are going to swim out the cupboard when I get the coffee. Differently colored patches of light slide all over my arms as I get things ready for when I hear your voice. If you were to walk in right now you'd make up a name for the kind of creature the kitchen has turned me into.

A slice of bread, covered in egg, slides unto the warm, molten butter, making me aware of just how hungry I am. It doesn't take long for the familiar scent to reach the bedroom, where, I'm sure, you're smiling. I know you love to wake up smelling breakfast.

A couple of slices of bread later and I hear you yawning in the corridor. You walk in and sit down, but I don't turn around. I feel two, ice blue marbles slide down my skin as your eyes travel from the nape of my neck to my lower back. You don't see me smile. This is one of my favorite parts of breakfast.

I feel the warmth of your proximity as I sprinkle a pinch of cinnamon over your French toast. You lower your chin to my shoulder, and wrap your arms around my waist as you say: "You're a sweetheart." I turn back, and grab your face, you haven't shaved yet. We rub noses and I practically whisper: "You know, there's a giant strawberry where my heart's supposed to be".

We sit across from each other on our kitchen table. The colored patches are all over you as well now. I'm thinking up names for our new race when you interrupt me, asking me who's going to ride the dragon to work today.

[Robin]

wow..I love your descriptions....this is an awesome story...I can close my eyes and see so vividly your vision.

[Siren]

Thanks. I hope to illustrate or animate it one day.

[Robin]

I have no doubts that you can.

[Holiday]

I like the short stories, I read the first post so far. I liked Another Trick. These are brilliant, short but evocative. Some of them especially scary and haunting. Bravo.

[Siren]

Thanks, Holly. I´m glad you enjoyed them. I´m working on my narrative at the moment, writing down the stories behind some of these little snipets. In the meanwhile:




Visitation Hours

Her keys jingled in her hands while she waited; she looked a bit uneasy. A nurse walked past us in the hall. “Who are you here for?” I asked. “A friend” she answered.

A doctor sat next to me, making me scoot closer to her. She sighed and I noticed a cut on her lip. The doctor jotted down the absent minded answers I gave him, using the usual unintelligible “doctor’s handwriting”. A nurse called him. He set his folder down next to me. There was a low, buzzing sound; probably from the fluorescent light bulbs.

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “What happened there?” I asked, vaguely motioning towards her mouth. “Oh, this… I was lucky (she smiled). An animal ran into the road and I ended up hitting a tree”. She was born to smile. “What animal?” I asked. She looked at me, “A unicorn.”





Birds of Paradise

I’ll never forget it. I’d stick my head out from beneath the covers at midnight, everything was quiet. I had a clear view of our living room, our huge empty living room. I waited, almost holding my breath, excited.

Bit by bit, the moonlight twinkled and bounced off a procession of beings that seemed to have walked out of another dimension. I looked at their pretty faces with eyes that were all kinds of colors and dresses I had never seen before… They were beautiful. They’d whisper, and sometimes I’d hear one of them laugh. I felt special knowing I was the only one who got to see that secret parade. They fixed their feathers in place, combed each other’s hair, and I’d watch, completely fascinated.

I remember one night one of them looked at me. I got scared and hid under the covers. I could hear her walk towards my bed. She pulled my covers down; I had my eyes shut tight and couldn’t move. I felt her hand lift up my chin, and I saw her. I was hypnotized by her big turquoise eyes and her long lashes. I held on to her hand, which had purple nails; she was smiling at me. She leaned forward and kissed my forehead; I sat up and hugged her. I watched her walk away join the others as they were going out the door, until all that was left was feathers. They were real.

I’d wake up at nights, trying to catch a glimpse of those birds of paradise; always so mesmerizing and delicate. This was my most precious secret. I must confess, to this day, the word “transvestite” swirls up memories.

This post has been edited by Siren: 28 February 2010 - 03:56 PM

[OutsideTheShadows]

Unfortunately, due to homework and lack of time, I didn't read all your stories. However, the few that I did were really great. Your descriptions are wonderful, and the ending twists are even better. ;)

You inspired me, which I don't get often. It's a real shame I have to do my assignments now.

[Siren]

Thanks, OTS. : ) I don't think I've inspired anyone before.

Here's an old little thing:

Scratch

She doesn't know what she feels. It's dry, weird. Maybe it's his words, somehow they still lingered in her left ear. She couldn't figure out that ghost of ataraxia (she had to admit it was close, but not quite as empty). It was stuck to her palate. It was like a unicorn had, imperceptibly, scratched her with its horn. "Maybe it's the gastritis" she thought, while she burried the corpse.