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Posted 29 April 2011 - 07:31 PM
*runs off to read more*
Posted 04 May 2011 - 10:13 AM
I tried to read El Orden Alfabetico, but my Spanish is just not that good yet. But I know I would absolutely love that book. I need to become fluent in Spanish.
I love your stories.
Can you tell me a story about something blue?
I'll write you a story, but only because it's you. <3
Holy f'in shit. You make me wanna play A Game.
*runs off to read more*
Awhs, thanks. : )
Posted 08 September 2011 - 11:20 PM
- Siren likes this
Posted 14 September 2011 - 06:02 PM
This is for Holly, if she ever checks this place.
Sometimes she wished she was a fallen leaf, lazily floating downstream. She closed her eyes when her feet could no longer touch the bottom of the lake. She stretched out her limbs and sighed, laying between air and water, enjoying how things are "heard" when your ears are underwater.
She bathed every day or two, mainly at night. The other villagers thought she was crazy. Some made up the rumor that she was royalty; an orphan princess for another region.
People made small talk when they'd buy her kimonos. She was always warm and friendly which dissapointed those who expected eccentricities or otherwordly wisdom. They'd find she was just a young woman, a skilled seamstress.
That night she slowly disrobed, with the intent to slip into the lake when someone violently swung her door open. HE ran towards her, crashing against her. She didn't fall, didn't feel her body hit the ground. SHe was weightless, he had enveloped her.
It was like being underwater. She panicked fearing she'd drown, but she wasn't out of air. There were faint traces of humanity to him, rare glimpses of glistening grey skin, a voice like a roaring river.
He surrounded her, moved her, seeped into her. She was entranced. Time had slowed down. She was suspended in ecstasy.
The villagers found her a few days later. Blue, green, and purple bruises scattered her body. Naked, seemingly dead, near the shore.
People stopped making small talk to her. Stopped opening doors for her.They began looking away when her belly started to grow.
As time passed she still went to the lake. Only now she had a little girl and a slighty taller boy. Both with blue hair.
- Scarlet Rakoczy likes this
Posted 23 September 2011 - 02:46 PM
(Also, now that I see it again, it needs editing. That's what I get for writing in the spur of the moment.)
Edited by Siren, 23 September 2011 - 02:48 PM.
Posted 13 October 2011 - 02:21 PM
A friend of mine's doing comics and he might use/illustrate a couple of my stories! YAY.
Edited by Siren, 13 October 2011 - 02:22 PM.
Posted 07 November 2011 - 06:38 PM
Posted 21 December 2011 - 02:30 PM
Posted 28 December 2011 - 07:49 PM
Posted 25 January 2012 - 12:05 PM
I miss the word anonymous. I miss what it used to represent. I liked the intrigue it raised when it rested under a great piece of literature, quote, article, artwork. I rarely want to know who anonymous is nowadays.
I used to picture anonymous. It’d be a nostalgic looking man too insecure to write his name at the end of a heart-wrenching impulsive confession of quiet and observant love. It could be a housewife who let her dreams run away. It could be more than one people. A whore that fell inlove with all her clients, a sad pianist, an average person who wasted all the beauty of their life in a couple of verses. A drug addict who never closed the window that all his stories flew out of. A myriad of people, or faces, of possibilities.
Nowadays anonymous makes me uneasy, makes me feel sorry for it, irritates me, automatically makes me lose interest. It’s a sad bully, a shitty teenager, a coward, an empty person. It’s a mask sometimes, but a mask that’s lost it’s meaning. It’s a Che Guevara t-shirt. Everybody can wear it and hardly anyone remembers or knows what it used to be.
Anonymous used to be a better word, not one to hide behind. Anonymous was an ancient nursery rhyme, a selfless act, a word for the timid, for those who didn’t really care for the praise. Anonymous used to be beautiful for the most part.
Do you think you could be anonymous?
(Needs editing and whatnot, but you get the point.)
- Leven likes this
Posted 03 July 2012 - 03:26 PM
A wall of my living room is made out of glass. The glass is cold, it’s 4 am. I am alone.
I’m still wearing the clothes from last night, I got home a couple of minutes ago. I’m still a little high, the city shines. I start crying.
The sky changes from purple to blue with light blue streaks. I have to go to work in a couple of hours. The memories are ashes in my lungs. I want to sleep for years.
I hate the fluorescent light in the bathroom. I close my eyes, the cold tiles feel good. I turn off the lights and sit, waiting for the tub to fill up.
I undress slowly, my dress is stuck to a few cuts. I don’t remember much of what happened last night. I submerge in the water and breathe deep. I fall asleep a couple of minutes, dreaming of storms.
I feel like I’m back at sea. I’m with my father and sisters. It’s warm, lulled by imaginary waves. I don’t want to go out, I can’t talk to people. My chest hurts.
The alarm clock blares in the distance. The sound is distorted underwater, it’s beautiful. Sounds like seagulls.
I grab his toothbrush by mistake. I don’t put it back. My tears are mixed with the mint toothpaste, it tastes weird. I spit out the foam in the sink, I realize it’s red. There is a piece of something, of meat, tissue, between the foam. I remember the night before.
“I want nothing in exchange this time.” She says, serious. I’ve never cared about the consequences, not the first time, not now. Her hands are wrinkled, as if they had been under water for years. She grabs my face, wiping away my tears with her thumbs. Suddenly, her hands hit my chest so hard that I fall to the floor. She’s gone by the time I get up.
I keep washing my teeth. Everytime I spit another piece of my heart comes out. I stop crying when I see what I assume is the last piece. My chest doesn’t hurt anymore. It doesn’t hurt anymore.
I go to bed, I lie on his side and breathe his scent. I smile. If I close my eyes I see him. The sun’s coming out soon.
This is the second time I’ve worn my wedding dress. It’s simple, soft, turquoise. It looks like watercolors. It’s been a little over a year. I remember his face, his body, his voice. I feel as if he’ll walk in the room any second.
I go out, barefoot. I cross the street and walk a few blocks. The sky is purple, orange, with red streaks. I hear the sound of sea, the waves.
I slowly walk over the sand, towards the shore. I have not stopped smiling all this time. I go into the sea, I dissolve into the foam with the first rays of sun.
Edited by Siren, 03 July 2012 - 03:41 PM.
- Phenozain likes this
Posted 12 July 2012 - 10:42 AM
Posted 21 August 2012 - 06:39 PM
Posted 31 August 2012 - 12:34 PM
Posted 21 September 2012 - 11:12 PM
"It’ll be the first time I touch his hand” I thought as the carriage went down the street. I was afraid I’d blush at the thought and give myself away. He was looking out the window.
It was certainly an odd hour to go out, my mom had given me a dissaproving look but my dad had hurried me out the door. He thinks I spend too much time with books and kittens. I wonder where we’re going.
Vincent is quite handsome, I don’t know what to say to him most times. His profile is beautiful. Just as I mustered the courage to ask him something trivial the carriage came to a stop. As soon as he gets out I quickly slid my gloves off, hoping he didn’t see me.
I really like his hands. I couldn’t look straight at him without my cheeks burning up at first. I used to see his hands. They’re big and look strong. Also, they have raised veins. I’ve often daydreamed about tracing them.
His grip is strong, it lingers for a bit after he’s helped me get down. I grab his hand for as long as I can, feeling every finger slip away. For a second, I picture those fingers tightening around my throat.
We’re in a part of town I’ve barely been to. I carefully raise my skirt and start walking towards a beautifully crafted green glass door. I can’t help but tense up when I feel him place his hand on the small of my back, gently guiding me. It feels as if his fingers are curled up in the lace of my corset, like he could undo it any second. Everybody greets him as we walk in.
A sickly young man stops dead in his tracks at the sight of Vincent, dropping the box he was carrying. “Hurry up,genius!” says his fat friend, pushing him. Why did he react that way? The hostess takes my coat, and Vincent’s cane and hat.
We sit at a candlelit table. It doesn’t feel proper. I should have declined his invitation and waited for my chapperone to get back into town tomorrow.
They bring us a magnificent meal. The flavors are unreal. Strawberries for dessert? I can’t fathom how he managed to get them in the dead of winter.
He leans towards me. His eyes are so blue. He takes a strawberry and lifts it up to my mouth. I don’t know what to say or what to do. He had always been such a gentleman. He smiles as I take a bite.
I’m stunned as he does it again, grazing my lips this time. At the last bite I find myself sucking on his fingers. I push away from the table abruptly and get up. “I want to go home, now. Please.”
I find myself recoiling as he helps me get off the carriage. He offers to walk me to my door and I accept for the sake of politeness. He places his hand on my waist, and I swear it feels like he’s directly touching my skin. I find myself hoping he’d forced me to stay with him. I shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine.
He tells me he hopes we meet again, and says goodnight before I can answer him. I go in, not knowing what to make of tonight. I peek out through the window and watch him walk back to the carriage. Top hat, ivory cane, and red tail.
Posted 29 September 2012 - 02:22 AM
Edited by Ransom, 29 September 2012 - 02:43 AM.