The idea is to start with an image and each person writes about it as s/he sees it, in the writer’s choice of style. See the original thread for clarification and inspiration.
Current prompt: someone or something on the border between wilderness and civilization
Previous prompts:
a dog lying in the street
Next up:
I’ve never done this.
It looks like a cold, windy day, and…wait, the clothes aren’t quite right.
OK, I don’t know what to do. It’s a nice drawing, Rebecca (I guess? whoever…)
And with a chopstick! I have trouble using them sometimes for food!
Red-tailed HAWK
ooh! ooh! ooh! I love these threads and the idea of using images as our inspiration now.
Yes, the image idea is fantastic! I never really got into the original thread, but this seems like fun so I’ll jump in. The image is really awesome–none of my chopstick drawings were even close to that good.
Pan – You did chopstick drawings? Heh.
I don’t completely understand the original thread, and I am very confused with this one. Could someone help me out?
THP (4): Yes, don’t you remember? I kind of took over the entire dining room. It was around the same time I got the Chinese watercolor painting kit, and I used the same paint. (the stuff you grind from a stick into a bowl)
(1, 4) Have you ever watched people in a restaurant, at a park, or just on the street and wondered what was going on in their lives? Or even made up a story about them?
Write about whatever the image suggests to you in whatever way you’d like. Just a few sentences or so, a snippet of a story, a few lines of dialogue, a description of what you think is happening, even a poem. You don’t have to account for every detail, maybe pick one person and write from her or his point of view.
Heh, I got kicked off the computer before I could start typing, but I wrote part of something and have more to add to it. I’ll type it up when I get back home.
Beatuiful picture, I love it! I’ll have to think some, but I’d like to try writing something….maybe I’ll get back to it in a little bit.
I can’t think of anything to write . . . yet.
I think I’ll try this. It reminds me of last year when my English teacher would put up a photograph and have us make up answers to questions about it (everything from “What is her job?” to “Why does she no longer speak to her Uncle Max?”)
Sarah stood on the sidewalk, the sun catching her messy auburn hair. She was impatiently waiting for her father to stop talking for when you are 9, there is so much to do and so little time to do it. With a sigh, she looked at the new strip mall, remembering when once there stood a tall oak tree, the most perfect climbing tree Sarah had encountered. She looked at her brother Sam swaddled in his stroller. What would his life be like? Would it be like hers with happy days of frolicking in the woods or much more urban with strip malls and McDonald’s?
Hmm. Interesting. *ponders*
Yes, Dad, I’m getting off at 11:30! Gawsh. Goodbye. GOODBYE. Thanks.
“Are they still following?” hissed a soft voice. It belonged to a skinny girl in summery clothes. The autumn wind whipped through her whispy hair, although she seemed not to feel the cold as she pushed a stroller through the streets of Hauton.
“Not to worry, Calli,” the man who stood beside her purred, stroking the baby boy who lay nestled, asleep, in the stroller, clutching a small, blue blanket – really no more than a square of cloth – in his tiny first.
“Don’t get to attatched, Satch,” the girl, Calli, snapped, slapping his hand away from the baby’s head. “Only a day or two and then we’re rid of our little burden for good.” Suddenly, she glanced up.
Unbeknownst to the two, another woman had walked into their path and was glancing at them. “That’s a beautiful baby,” she said softly, almost shyly. “What’s his name?”
“Keal,” Calli said dully, shooting a look at her partner as though she was daring him to argue. “His name is Keal.”
—
Okay, now I really want to continue this story…
I came up with the idea to do a story like the drawing, quick and fleeting, but capturing events and emotion. I also love forest scenes for some reason.
She’s walking
in a haze of anger
shoes
direction
world
forgotten.
She’s sitting
on a
cold hard
bench.
Surrounded by
soft grass.
She’s wandering
amidst
trees,
the dark forest light streaming down.
She’s turning
at a noise.
She’s seeing
the father she never knew
who abandoned her
years past.
Now with a new family
a new daughter, a new baby.
He turns away from her harsh glare.
As if ignoring could change
everything.
What are the chances?
A quiet wood
and a nearly
impossible
meeting.
Then again,
life is like that.
Okay, now am I supposed to add to the story being written or write my own?
(15) Normally people write their own, but there aren’t any rules to say you can’t pick up from someone else’s or use a similar idea with a different style, point of view, or format.
16 – Thanks!
Baby = Ann (not a name I like, but one that I think suits the baby)
Girl = Susan (again, I don’t like the name, but she seems like a Susan)
Man = Gregory/Pa
Barefoot girl in the front = Tom (She’s actually named Louise, but she hates the name, so she dubbed herself Tom)
I have to do other stuff now, but that will be the basis for my next post.
HMMmmmmm…. Ill be back, but I need to leave now…………
I’m reading “The Fruit Bowl Project”. It seems sort of like what we do here, only more structured.
I’m still thinking of what to write.
Brisk wind. Red-gold leaves, jack-o-lanterns leering at us out of windows and from front porches. “Dad,” I whisper, shivering.
“Yes, Mae?”
I look down at Ally, fast asleep, her wispy hair ruffled by the wind. “Aw, nothing.”
We pass a woman as we walk by the park, and she looks up at us and smiles. Her hair is the color of caramel. I smile back.
That’s not really finished, is it?
Continuation of 13:
“Oh,” the young woman said softly. “That’s a very nice name.”
Calli looked at her as though her very presence was a crime. Suddenly she noticed that the girl was barefoot. “We’ll just be going now,” she said, rudely pushing her way past. Satch followed her, his heavy shoes slapping against the sidewalk.
The girl watched them go, and then bowed her head. “There’s something funny about that boy, and his parents,” she whispered softly to herself. “But I’m not sure exactly why.”
(End of prologue)
That little girl doesn’t know how much she’s got going for her. She has a father and a baby brother and probably a mom back home. I hope she grows up better than me. She’s just like all the other kids out here. They think that life can’t get any worse but they want more and more for themselves. I bet her parents spoil her too. She’s never going to know what it’s like not to be loved…
Ehhh… Not my best but I guess it’s ok.
GAPAs: I’m going to send you a picture if you want to use it on here.
they all look like they’re staring at a ufo or a ufg (unidentified flying guitar) or even a mythical *gasp* uf…f (unidentified flying fuzzball)???????!?!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?
I walk past, a bubble brushing their world. They hardly notice me, bent on the time and whether they will make back home in time for the next rushed step in their busy lives.
“Dinner will be soon, and Daniel’s almost asleep. We could just make it to the store before it closes. You need a new coat and it is almost fall.”
The sound of the father speaking half to himself, half to his daughter reaches my ears but doesn’t really register. Here, I observe. Here I watch and wait for one who is different. One like me, unnoticed, forgotten.
You may have half-seen me before, felt a breath of hope draw into you, a whiff of relaxation and contentment. It isn’t often that you pause for a breath, no, most of you run, breathless, sprinting through your lives.
I smile as I watch the girl, while her dad waits, stop and grab a dandelion, blowing its seeds in the air. As she smiles, watching the patterns, I slowly float back up to my perch atop the tower in the center of the park.
25-That’s really good!
You titled the picture “family-in-Chinatown”? I don’t think I’m going to write about Chinatown, but I can definitely see that!
Is there sun?
Annie had always wondered. Coming from a family of scientists and doctors, she had a genetically curious mind, but Annie took her curiosity to the next level. She leaned her arm on her brother’s stroller, and looked towards the blank sky. Books had told her that a beautiful golden orb had once graced the sky, but she couldn’t imagine it.
What is golden?
Living in a world without color wasn’t strange to Annie. It was the way things had always been. Her parents told her stories about the day the world went “neutral,” but she didn’t see why it was such a bad thing. Yes, she had read about color in books and heard about it in stories her parents had told her, but she just didn’t understand. Her mother told her that she had black hair. Well of course I have black hair, mother, so do you!
Her mother told her that she had red hair.
—
Wow, this is really fun! I think I’m going to enjoy writing a story about this. This thread = *utter brilliance*
27 – That reminds me of The Giver.
27- That is a very entriging idea.
27 – That’s a neat idea. It sort of reminds me of The City of Embers. It’s a great start!
—
Continued From 13 and 22:
“Leila, wake up! It’s time for school!”
The call rang through my ears like a shot. Thumping my pillow bacinto place, I slowly sat up and rolled out of bed, the sky blue covers trailing behind me.
“Leila! Don’t make me call again!”
My brain finally registered who was yelling at me, and why, and I mentally hit myself.
“Let’s see,” I muttered to myself. “For Dad to be yelling there must either be a fire, the FBI at our door, or the first day of seventh grade. To be honest, I’d prefer the FBI to school.”
“Leeeeeeiiiiillaaaa…” my dad said, his voice rising and nearing a screech.
“Coming!” I yelled. I pulled on a plain yellow T-shirt and jeans, and stomped loudly down the stairs. My bare toes clutched the shaggy blue carpet, as the stairs protested loudly to my aggressive pace.
“Stop that banging!” my dad yelled.
Inside my head I protested, but I had already made him mad enough today, so I slowed my pace way down until, I swear, a dead snail could have been moving faster than me.
When I finally entered the kitchen, my dad barely glanced at me before returning his gaze to the Stoneway Gazette, the local newspaper.
“Do you expect me to let you leave the house like that?” he said blandly, sipping his coffee.
“What’s wrong with the way I look?” I shot back angrily, grabbing a box of Sugar Crunch cereal from the shelf and pouring it into a bowl.
“Your mother bought you all those nice clothes, and you still go out in a T-shirt and jeans?” he retorted. “I at least expect you to wear them.”
“No,” I said, thumping the Sugar Crunch box down on the table so hard that sugary flakes flew all over the kitchen. “I never want to wear them.”
“Look, I know you’re still upset about what happened, Leila, but you’ll have to get over it some time.”
Without waiting to hear another word he could say, I grabbed my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and left through the front door, making sure to slam it tightly shut.
(27, Purple Panda) I meant to change the name of the picture to something more generic, but it doesn’t have all that much significance, anyway. It’s from one of hundreds of photos I took in and around D.C.’s Chinatown and environs, mostly of people on the street.
Then I drew about seventy or more chopstick sketches with various inks, assorted chopsticks, and all kinds of paper. I added watercolors to some of them. It’s a most liberating way to draw, and I am immeasurably grateful to you for mentioning chopsticks and ink as a medium.
Wow, all these are so good I’m wondering if the idea I had last night is quite as briliant as I thought it was…..anyway, here goes.
——–
Mary always thought of herself as different, and she liked it. It was strange then, that she wsa worrying so much about her hat. When she left the house she had thought it looked cute, something spontanious and unique. Now she was starting to feel a bit silly, to be honest.
It was in the midst of these thoughts, (“should I take it off and carry it? No, because I left my sunglasses in the car, but no one else is wearing one…”) that she noticed the little girl.
There was nothing remarkable about her, she was a slim girl, probably about nine or ten, and with a mop of flaming red hair. She was pointing out something to her father. Mary glanced over and saw that it was a seagull.
“I wonder what it would be like to fly like that. daddy, what do you think the seagulls think of us? Do you think they watch us and wonder what we are thinking? Oh look! doesn’t that little boy look funny with cotton candy all over his face?”
“Norah, it’s rude to point, how many times must I tell you that?”
Mary noticed the annoyed tone of the father.
“But Daddy, what do you think the seagulls are thinking?”
The father looked down at the little boy sleeping in his stroller. “I don’t know. Maybe the birds are thinking about how they are going to find something to eat. Let’s get going, Mom will be expecting us soon.”
Mary continued walking, and trying not to appear as though she had been listening in. She felt almost as though someone was wathing her, and half turned to see. She just caught the little girl watching her intently. turning back around, she heard the child say in a whisper,
“Daddy, she looks so nice. And I like her hat, no one else is wering one today. I think it’s special.”
With that the little family was gone from Mary’s life forever, but she did smile to herself, and decided to wear the hat for the rest of the day.
32-That’s a cool story.
It’s very sweet.
33~ Thanks, I like yours too. Are you going to continue it? *hopes you will*
I got the idea in the shower, and originally it was a bit different. It made sense to me, but i’m not sure it would have made any sense to anyone else. I hate it when that happens.
34 – Yeah, I’m trying to write a new section every day, and when more images and stuff show up I’m going to try and integrate those into the story as well.
—
Continued from 13, 22, and 30:
My feet slid through last night’s snow like stubby little skis, although by and large the snow had already turned to slush.
Every morning will be the same, I thought. I would wake up, Dad would yell at me, and then I’d have a long, drawn out day of school to look forward to.
“Only this time of the day is quiet,” I said aloud to myself. “All the rest of the time, everybody is loud, even me when I’m trying to annoy my Dad. Why can’t everyone just shut up for a while?”
As though to illustrate my point, a car drove by at just that second and sprayed slush all over me, and then screeched away, sliding dangerously on the icy roads.
“Idiot,” I muttered, and then turned up the pathway to the school’s front steps. The yard was deserted, so I assumed that I was late. “I wonder if the teacher’s going to yell at me for being late,” I mused as I tried to brush the snow off me at least a little bit. “Probably not. She’ll probably be angrier at me for getting snow all over her classroom.”
I grinned a little maliciously at the thought, and checked in at the office on the way to my first class, math. I pushed the door to the math classroom with one gloved hand, and suddenly all eyes were suddenly on me.
“Sorry that I’m late,” I said, grinning wolfishly, the slush dripping off my arms and forming puddles on the floor. “I had a little run-in with an Eskimo, a snowball gun, and some pirates. But I’m here now – you may all return to your work.”
I slid into the only empty chair in the back row, and proceeded to pull out a piece of paper and began to work. Not on math, naturally, but on a drawing of an Eskimo, a snowball gun, and some pirates.
An Eskimo, a snowball gun and some pirates. I like it.
35- Ha ha!
Ahhh… I have a few ideas, but I’m too lazy to write them.
Lovely sketch, by the way.
I’ll just read YOU GUY’S.
Phew! Glad I didn’t! I’m still in alter-ego form. Close one.
36 and 37 – Of course, by this time I’m completely off the subject of the picture and the characters in my original prologue thingy, but I’ll get back to them eventually.
I hope.
Continued from 13, 22, 30, and 35:
The boy who was sitting at the desk next to me leaned over and looked at what I was drawing. Glaring at him, I flipped the paper so he couldn’t see what I was doing.
“What are you drawing?” he whispered, brushing the brown hair that had fallen over his eyes away.
“Nothing!” I hissed. “I’m doing my math, just like you!”
“Whoever’s talking in the back row, would you please stop?” said Mrs. Rose, my math teacher.
I rolled my eyes, and flipped my paper back over, curling the paper so the boy next to me couldn’t see my drawing.
A second later, a folded note landed on my desk, hitting my arm. At first I ignored it, but then a pencil jabbed into my side. Again I ignored it, but a second later it came again.
“Will you stop that-” I started to say, but then I clamped my hands over my mouth.
“Miss…” Mrs. Rose said, checking her attendance book. “Miss Leila Stellion?”
Silently I nodded, swearing in my head that I would get the boy back later.
“I will thank you to be quiet and do your work,” she said, and returned to her lesson.
Wordlessly I picked up the note and folded it open on my desk.
“What are you drawing?” it read in neat letters.
“NONE OF YOUR BEESWAX!!!!” I wrote back in block letters sprawling across the entire note. With expert motions I folded it back up and flicked it right at the boy’s neck.
Ugh, I just posted the next part to my story, but my computer malfunctioned or something and deleted it. It wasn’t very good anyways, so I’ll recreate it later.
Is anybody but me posting here still?
—
Continued from 13, 22, 30, 35, and 41:
The boy just gave one, solemn glare at me, and then turned away again. “My name is Keal,” he finally said. “Welcome to Douglas Adams Middle School.”
That day at lunch, I sat at one of the back tables, trying to avoid attention as much as possible. I was already starting to think that my entry “speech” in Mrs. Rose’s class had been a dumb idea, and I was rather convinced that any chances of surviving at this school were next to none. Of course, it probably wouldn’t matter. My dad would get transferred again, we would pack up and leave, and nobody from Douglas Adams Middle School would ever see me again. As usual.
I heard a slight noise, and I looked up. “Hey there,” said the girl that stood there. “Mind if I sit here?”
I nodded wordlessly, and she slid her tray onto the metal table and sat down. She had a round face and pretty blond hair that was hanging down around her shoulders, and I thought I recognized her from my math class.
“I’m Kaitlyn Miller,” she said cheerfully. “You’re the new girl, right?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, still focusing on my turkey sandwhich.
“If you have any questions about the school or anything, just ask me.”
I looked up at her face. It looked sincere, without any sense of maliciousness.
“Okay,” I said, trying to smile just a little bit. Kaitlyn beamed at me, and began to nibble on her lunch.
Lunch passed in silence for a couple minutes, and then I decided to try and make some sort of conversation. “So,” I said. “Who was that kid that was sitting next to me in math?”
“Oh, him?” Kaitlyn said, laughing a little. “That’s Keal Burton. He doesn’t talk.”
“He WHAT?” I said, not believing my ears.
“That’s right,” Kaitlyn said, leaning towards me and whispering now. “I’ve been his class since second grade, and he’s never made a single sound. He hasn’t cried, he hasn’t talked, he hasn’t laughed.”
I jerked my head up, startled. “But-” I started, and then stopped, frowning. “Oh, I see what it is,” I said quietly. “Is this some sort of hazing? I’m not dumb, in case you haven’t noticed.” In one motion I picked up Kaitlyn’s half-full tray, and dumped it on her head.
“I’m not going to fall for that,” I said fiercely, and stalked off to find somewhere where I could eat in peace.
I would post more, but I already did the prompt.
44-Oh yeah. In that case, we need a new one. -*idea* eyes-
(Not hpb eyes – it was a hot pink bunny item)
I apologize for the length of mine.
It’s a free-form poem.
The Mirror
At the orphanage, there is a mirror.
It is very tall.
It is quite narrow.
It is covered with grime and dust from old age.
It is scratched and cracked.
And yet,
It shows the truth.
Sam had always wondered who he was.
He knew his name was Sam Jenkins.
But he didn’t know who his mother was.
He didn’t know who his father was.
He didn’t know if he had any living relatives.
And if he didn’t know his family,
his own flesh and blood kin,
how in the world could he know himself?
Well.
This was a difficult problem.
But it had a very simple solution.
Sam just imagined up his family.
He’d read lots of books.
Some were about children who were in fact the next in line to the throne.
Some were about children who were princes raised by a fairy godmother.
Some were about children who were stolen away at birth by elves and such.
So Sam had a jolly time.
He pretended that someday, he would be made king.
He pretended that someday, he would meet the Indians who had killed his parents.
He pretended that someday, his parents would come looking for him.
The mirror at the orphanage was hidden in the attic.
No one ever went up there.
It was dusty and dirty.
It was filled with old trinkets.
No one ever went up there.
That is, until Sam found the trapdoor.
Sam found it by accident.
He was looking for a hiding place,
somewhere to read his book,
when he found the trapdoor.
He knew that curiosity had killed the cat,
but curiosity shall overcome fear,
and so he went up the step ladder into the attic.
Sam walked up to the mirror.
He could see his reflection in it.
His reflection was gray.
He held up a hand and wiped away a bit of grime.
Now he could see his face.
Brown hair,
brown eyes,
freckles galore.
Was this the face of a prince?
The boy looked closer at his face.
Was this the face of a boy stolen away by goblins?
He examined his eye,
staring into the depths of his iris.
Perhaps the brown did have a princely tint to it.
Was it the eye of a boy raised by fairies?
And then his reflection changed.
His face was not there anymore.
Instead, a picture.
There was a tall man.
There was a young girl.
There was a baby.
The man and the girl were both looking at something in the distance.
Neither looked at the baby.
The baby sat in the carriage.
He was looking solemnly at his surroundings.
His eyes were brown.
His hair was brown.
He didn’t have any freckles.
And suddenly, Sam didn’t want to see this.
Sam didn’t want to see the truth.
He didn’t want to see the girl
who could not support him when she herself was so young.
He didn’t want to see the shame so apparent on her face.
He didn’t want to see the grandfather
who refused to have him.
He didn’t want to see the way the girl’s father ignored the child.
He didn’t want to see these people,
people who were waiting for the matron to come and take him away.
At the orphanage, there is a mirror.
It is very tall.
It is quite narrow.
It is covered with grime and dust from old age.
It is scratched and cracked.
And yet,
It shows the truth.
46-That’s awesome!
46- I love the last line especially. Excellent.
47, 48 – *blushes* Why thank you! It’s a very unusual poem by me. My poetry is usually much more abstract and choppy. This is the first time I’ve ever told a story through poetry that’s made sense!
Who made the painting? It was incredibly inspiring!
So in related news I seem to have lost the journal I wrote a story for this in. So. *stabs self* I may try to rewrite it later, but… yeah. *sigh*
I like it also, Faye.
I had such a good idea for my story, and now I seem to have lost it! ::cries::
Well, I guess I’ll wait until “inspiration” strikes again. Either that, or I’ll force myself to write more. Though I don’t really like that idea.
We need a new prompt.
GAPAs? I have a picture in photobucket (it’s a drawing I made a while back), can I put the link to th epic here so it can be used for a prompt at some time or other?
[I meant to change the prompt earlier and forgot. Unintended Pun sent in a picture, which I’ll set up in a few minutes, then yours will be next. I’ll copy it from the photobucket page. –Rebecca]
there is a really good song that might match this beautiful picture called ‘Rain’ by…… guess who, the beatles!I’ll try and repeat most of it.
If the rain comes
they run and hide their heads
They might as well be dead
If the rain comes
If the rain comes
When the sun shines
they slip into the shade
and sip their lemonade
When the sun shines
When the sun shines
Rain, I don’t mind
Shine, the weather’s fine
I can show you
that when it starts to rain
everythings the same
I can show you
I can show you
Rain, I don’t mind
Shine, the weather’s fine
Can you hear me
that when it rains and shines
it’s just a state of mind
Can you hear me
Can you hear me
oh wait i forgot the last part o here!
If the rain comes they run and hide their heads
They might as well be dead
If the rain comes, if the rain comes
When the sun shines they slip into the shade
(When the sun shines down)
And drink their lemonade
(When the sun shines down)
When the sun shines, when the sun shines
Rain, I don’t mind
Shine, the weather’s fine
I can show you that when it starts to rain
(When the rain comes down)
Everything’s the same
(When the rain comes down)
I can show you, I can show you
Rain, I don’t mind
Shine, the weather’s fine
Can you hear me, that when it rains and shines
(When it rains and shines)
It’s just a state of mind?
(When it rains and shines)
Can you hear me, can you hear me?
Sdaeh rieht edih dna nur yeht semoc niar eht fI
(Rain)
(Rain)
well i don’t know y i posted the whole thing again! SORRY!
I like the picture… it looks like one place we saw in China. I think you went there recently too, was this from there? Looks like it.
Hmm… let’s see…
Ooh!
Continued from 13, 22, 30, 35, 41, and 43:
I finally found a quiet place where I could eat. That was the good news, and the bad news was that it was outside, the chilling November wind barely blocked by a bike rack to my left. “At least it’s not snowing,” I said to myself, thanking my lucky stars.
My turkey sandwhich tasted like cardboard in my mouth, and I felt like retching on the carrots. Nothing ever tastes good when you’re angry.
Then I heard voices coming from nearby, and they were moving towards me. I scurried behind the bike rack and prayed to nobody in particular that its thin bars would block me from view, since I wasn’t sure I could take any more humiliation.
“So, you gonna talk today?” said one voice, rasping like sandpaper.
“Don’t shake your head at us!” said another. “Talk, you freak! Talk! Scream! Cry!”
Three large boys, probably 8th graders, moved into my line of view. They were all large and buff, and had crew cuts that made them look like soldiers on the march. I noticed that they seemed to be carrying something – and then I saw what it was.
Keal Burton, the kid from my math class and the kid Kaitlyn had been claiming couldn’t talk, was draped over their shoulders. Every couple seconds the boy that was carrying him would say something. Keal would shake his head no, and then the boys would yell at him and cuff him on the ears.
Keal looked like he was silently crying. Crying. Something that I have no patience for at all. I was about to pack up my lunch and make a break for it as soon as the boys turned their backs, but then Keal met my eyes with his huge brown ones.
“Help,” he said feebly, his eyes pleading. “Help me.”
Normally I would have drawn my eyes away and ignored him, but something about the scene made me hesitate. Maybe it was the look on Keal’s face, or maybe it was the sight of the boys cuffing his ears every time he shook his head no, but whatever the reason, I suddenly found myself standing up and walking towards the crowd.
“Stop,” I said, my voice tight with anger.
“Oh, lookie here!” the biggest one said, a look of stupid delight appearing on his face. “This must be your girlfriend, huh, Kealie? Too bad you won’t be able to tell her how much you love her.”
“Scram,” I said fiercely. “Leave him alone.” I was starting to doubt my sanity at this point, but something made me keep talking. “I have no idea why you’re picking on him, but stop. Now.”
To my complete and utter suprise, the boys obeyed. They dropped Keal on the ground, and then walked away, laughing.
“Have fun with your girlfriend, Kealie!” one of them said, a smirk on his face. Then they were gone.
“Are you all right?” I asked Keal, who was sitting on the ground, a mass of limbs and dust.
“I’ll be fine,” he said softly, brushing himself off. “Thanks.”
“Why were they picking on you?” I said as he got to his feet.
“They think I can’t talk.”
I started to say something, but he continued, “Please don’t think I’m lying. I swear to you, on my life, my honor, whatever it is you want, that I’m telling the complete truth and nothing but the truth.”
I looked straight into his eyes, and there wasn’t a hint of malice in them: just pleading and sorrow.
“All right,” I said with only a little hesitation. “Explain.”
Continued from 13, 22, 30, 35, 41, 43, and 57:
Keal looked at the sky as though words were going to fall down from above and into his mouth.
“It’s true,” he said at last. “Nobody has heard me speak since I was three years old.”
“I have,” I said, still searching his eyes.
“You’re different,” he responded. “And I don’t know why. See, even when you were talking to me in the back of the room, nobody else could hear me. To everybody else it just looked like I was moving my lips.”
“So am I crazy?” I said, my mind not wanting to believe him. “Or what?”
“I’m not sure,” Keal said softly. Then he looked up at me. “Look, can I tell you something without you thinking I’m crazy?”
“I already think you’re crazy,” I said, only half kidding. “So go on.”
“I’ve been having dreams,” he said slowly. “Weird dreams. For example, for the past month, I’ve dreamt of you.”
I started to back away from Keal, a little weirded out.
“Calm down,” he said, a little flushed. “I know it’s weird, but you have to listen to me. Don’t you think it’s weird that I dreamt of you, knew exactly what you looked like, a month before you even came? And you’re the first person that’s been able to hear me since I was three! Isn’t that weird?”
“I think it’s very weird,” I said hoarsely. “And I think you are very weird as well. And I don’t believe you, either.”
55-I went in July. This was when I was there. I think it’s the best picture from the trip except maybe one of the Great Wall.
It’s really hard for me to think of anything to write about this picture because I took it.
This is off topic, but the picture reminds of a conversation I had today, concerning an art project we were doing:
J: “Okay, it’s been a minute, take off the paper!”?”
me: “…it’s been exactly 18 seconds. I’ve been timing it.”
J: “Arg!”
me: “You must learn patience, young grasshopper.”
J: “And how do I learn patience, oh wise master?”
me: “You must climb the tallest mountain and visit the wise man who lives there.”
J: “But how can I do that, it will take too long!”
me: “Patience, young one.”
J: “… THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE. I must have patience to climb a mountain in order to visit a wise man who will teach me patience? What the
me: “…I will meditate for you.”
sorry, but it was funny.
The picture inspires me of meditation, learning, and peace. A haiku would be sutable here, but those aren’t my strong point.
60- Haiku? Do you mind if I use that idea? Several interpretations of the picture:
slowly grow the leaves
pool reflects a cloudy sky
peace is in the world
alternatively:
she is in the house
if only she knew of ponds
kisses, lilypads
(frog prince)
another:
I want to be free
no white makeup, no bound feet
ceremony-less
(or were geishas Japanese? Oh well, whatever. Something of the sort.)
…I was going to write some kind of free verse, but I like these better.
I absolutely love the second haiku, c+q!
Thanks! It’s my favorite too.
Urgh. Now I know how NaNoers felt during the Second Week Slog or whatever it’s called.
64-You should compile that in the writing or book in progress. It’s becoming more than a variation, more like a project. I’d like to see it like that…
65 – Yes, I noticed that. As soon as I stop being distracted and start writing again, I’ll move it there.
The out-of place sounds of classical music drifted across the pond, and I looked up, a melancholy grin on my face. Chopin , I thought, swinging my bare feet lazily out over the almost too-calm water. Perched, sitting, atop the railing, I grasped the pole with one hand (The pale nail polish was wearing off into half-moons of lavender paint) and pulled out my hair elastic with the other, dropping it onto the boards of the porch. I waited. The last note of the funeral march lingered, as though the musician was waiting, too. I could almost hear him sigh as the piano bench scraped away, and the instrument lid scraped shut. Stepping into my view, through the window, he bowed, simply but with elegance, towards the house… towards me. When he rose, our sad smiles mirrored each other almost as perfectly as water displayed the sky. Sliding around and landing softly upon the smooth wood, I lifted my light aqua suitcase, and padded away, through my own door. With a choking breath, I turned. But he was already gone.
Bitterness choked her throat. Why, why was it that everyone else got all the adventures? Why had she had to stay and take care of the dog, while her neighbors went to far off places, places that she could only dream of? When they came back, she hungered for stories, descriptions of places she dreamed of going. Instead she got a few weak comments on the weather, and how their hotel room was too small. The boys were okay, but not too good looking. She groaned inwardly at all this. How could this be all there was?
It was ground into her by the others of the family, too. Her grandmother had to rub it all in whenever she saw the girl. It was painful, yes, but she delt with it. Silence, that was her escape. She hid herself in books, and dreams. She made no effort to fit in with the rest of her family, and they didn’t care.
But now, for some reason, looking at the picture, she wanted more than ever to have been there, to see those places, to look across that water and admire the curving roof of the buildings across the pond.
In her mind she felt the stone under her feet, saw her reflection in the calm water, heard the gentile sounds that really weren’t much, but still were there. In amazement, she looked around her, taking in all the sights–the funny little buildings, the stonework, everything. As soon as she had looked her fill, she realized that she was back on the couch, looking at the book.
Sighing, she closed it and went outside, no longer jealous of the ones who got to go to far off places. No, she wasn’t jealous anymore, because even though thy went to places, she had gone on an adventure.
“I dare you to jump in.”
“No.”
“I double dog dare you.”
“No. Hey!”
Jess heard a spash, and looked up from her book.
It appeared as though her ten year old brother had pushed her nine year old (but much, much more sensible) sister into the pond.
“That’s enough. Avery, go inside, make yourself useful. Do homework. Ana, get out of the pond.”
Ana clambered out, dripping from her curly blonde hair to her green socks. “He pushed me,” she said matter-of-factly.
“So I heard,” replied Jess. “Get inside and change your clothes. In fact, you might as well take a shower.”
Ana gave Jess the Bambi eyes.
“Go. Now!” It was a strange twist to the Ogden family that the guys were better at the Bambi eyes than the girls.
Making sure that her sister went into the house and not to play in the mud or something, Jess followed Ana through the large sliding back doors of the summer house. She had been left in charge of her three younger siblings, and she aimed to do her job well. After all, she was being payed two dollars an hour.
Louise flipover neatlt, her tail rippling against Nathanial in the water. he quivered.
‘he always quivers,’ she thought.
I AM gonna do it. she bubbled.
Ooohhh. Gotta go, but I’ll be back tomorrow. AFTER THE EXAMS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WISH ME LUCK!
Could we do some with phrases or images sometime soon?
A girl looked out from the bridge. she stared into the glassy surface of the pond. she watched her reflection. The face staring back at her was pale. The eyes were draped with shadows. The hair, dark and grimy, fell across the face. The pale mouth opened and a small cry came forth. The girl lept from the bridge into the water. it rushed around her and she cuold feel the indescribable cool of the water embracing her skin. She surface, gasping. Looking around, her eyes fell upon the lilly pads. An unnameble (sp?) fear swelled within her. She scrambled onto the bank of the pond and stared back across it. Her heart stopped. where her reflection should have been was a terrible face. it was plae with translucent skin. and the eyes looking balck had no pupils, simply bloody white. As she stared, too terrified to scream the jaws of the creature opened, showing long pointed, pale teeth. it smiled.
Louise flipped over neatly, her tail rippling against Nathaniel in the water. He quivered.
‘He always quivers,’ she thought.
I AM gonna do it, she bubbled.
He rolled his eyes and swam a litle deeper, pretending to go to sleep. Louise growled and swam furiously towards the surface. She looked back and saw him quivering again. She speeded up and crashed through the surface of the water, her scales rippling in the light. A hand reached for her and missed. She daintily slipped into the water. She smirked at Natheniel.
I told you I would be all right, she bubbled.
He rolled his eyes again and stopped quivering.
New prompt time!!!!
The water is dark, deep, mysterious, cloaked by cheer and water lilies. But she knows. It isn’t all just fun and games and flowers. It doesn’t work like that. Her reflection on the mirror-like surface ripples. She looks up sharply. No one there.
A sigh breaks from her lips. There is the water below her, the element to which she belongs. I am not a girl, she thinks. I am not.
In the pool, there is a flicker of gold. A fish surfaces, its tail shimmering orange, and then it is gone, into the darkness.
New Prompt time!
First of all: Vixen, the arms and paws of your fox are amazing. I’ve never been able to master the physiognomy of foxes and dogs – I can do almost every other animal besdies them. It’s weird.
Secondly, I regret to say that nothing precise is coming to mind at the moment.
Lemme see.
The fox
whirling, twirling
he bats at the moon with his paw
The moon
drifting steadily in the night sky
covered sometimes with the shadow
of the fox’s paw.
The fox
fleeing from the rising sun
pushing the moon away
to play another time
The moon
disappearing from the heavens
to be replaced
with the glorious
sun.
Really, it’s just a lot of images that are floating around in my head right now. It’s all scrambled up. Perhaps this can inspire someone else…
WHY THE WOLF HOWLES TO THE MOON
back when the sky and the earth were newly formed, there lived a wolf. the wolf was very arrogant. he was so arrogant that he proclaimed himself the king of the forest. this did not bode well with the rest of the animals.
the animals held a conference. the wise owl spoke up.
“If we are to save are selfs from the wolf, we should make him go away. I say, We ask him what he wants most in the world.”
The next day, Rabbit Went to the wolf
“O, Wolf! What Do you most Want in the world!”
“The Teeth of the shark.” asnwered Wolf.” so that I may eat the most tough meats.”
“O, but they are not good engough for the king of the forest!”
“Then I say The Moon. ”
the next day the Animal met with Father Sky.
“I will let Wolf Come, But HE may not stay!”
The animals asked the wolf to climb a ladder to the moon.
as the wolf had the moon in his paws, trying to remove it from the body of Father Sky, Father Sky shook. Wolf Fell, and Fell, and Fell down to Earth, landing in a pond.
And that is why, to this day wolfs howl at the moon:
To get revenge on Father Sky, and Remember what might have been.
~~~
Sorry. I felt a bit mythological with that pic.
The random thoughts of a fox:
Moon yum I like moon it is yummy yumyum moon! Moon is good it tastes like food i like to eat the moon! Will you play with the moon with me? I like to play with the moon and it gets scared and then I play with it more and it likes me so i eat it because there is a moon there and it tastes goooooood!
That is what this fox thought. Concentration is not a strong point of this fox.
Emily stared at the moon. So high up, in that black sky, all alone but for the stars. They clustered around it like children…
The wind blew through the curtains, obscuring the night sky from her view. She closed her eyes, and dreamed of the moon in the sky, no longer alone.
76-Thanks.
The wolf chased the sun, feeling th epower rushing in front of him. Below him, on the ground, the human’s chaos reigned. The rain fell,poisoning all it touched as abomb exploded a block away. He glanced down, wondering how many humans were still alive. A human screamed somewhere as a shot rang out. The smoke was thick and hung with a solemn air.
The sun blinked slightly and rushed away from him. His paws pushed the air as he pounded forward. He gained on the sun, and ran ahead of it. He slowed, twisting around the sun as a cat plays with a mouse. He batted at it slightly, and then opened his jaws. The juice of light and fire warmed his mouth and ran down into his fur. He glæanced over, and saw that hismate was busy devouring the moon. He smiled asallwent black.
Ten Years Later
A cloud passed over the silent earth. It was cold, and a blanket of ice pocketed the world. The cloud blinked, and a shallow beam of light shone. The wolf rose slightly in the sky, turned once, and exploded with light as the sun rose and the wolf god reigned once more. A flower pushed its way up through the ice as the moon was born on the other side of the earth.
These picture prompts are hard.
81- why?
82- I’m not sure. Perhaps they’re less open-ended than the others.
83- I think you mean more.
84- Well, that works too I guess.
Well, if you have a written prompt idea, then post it. I think the picture prompts are less open ended.
I know what you mean though… it’s harder for me to come up with an idea for these than it was with the phrases. Though with those, they would put an image in my mind and I would write of of that.
I am writing something else from a different idea I may post here though, as the writing thread seems to be dead.
I AM HAVING WORDCOUNT ISSUES. I can’t write sort things. Can’t.
This is the story I have, but it’s too long (must be ≤ 500 words, it has 705). the second one is the edited version, but the only thing I could cut is description, which is my favorite part. I need help.
The woman slowly walked through the forest, her long white dress slightly fraying at the edges and slightly stained where it brushed against the fallen leaves that littered the ground like so many tiny corpses, testament to the tree’s silent bow to winter. She absentmindedly traced patterns in the frost along the bark of an old, twisted willow tree, before stepping out the forever twilight of the woods and into the morning sun. She was young, almost a girl rather than a woman, really. Looking about seventeen, her skin was pale against her dark brown hair, which fell in lightly tangled waves halfway down her back. Her features were pretty, but to sharp to be considered common beauty. Cheekbones a bit to high, eyes slightly too hollowed, the angle of her jaw softened by clear skin but still sharp. Her face was shadowed, the overall effect giving her dark brown eyes a haunted look.
She walked from the shade of the forest up the slope covered in grass beginning to turn brown; if she looked to her left she would se the outline of a village silhouetted against the steadily rising sun, beginning to stir and prepare for the day. Her eyes focused straight ahead, to where the rising ground leveled off just in time to meet with a sudden drop, towering cliffs stretching down into the sea where, if you were brave enough to glance over the edge, you would see the broken waves crashing against the jagged rocks.
Mere yards before this terrifying edge, she stopped her walk. In front of her lay a woman, her breath shallow, quick, and pained. Her dress was stained red, wet and fresh. A man knelt next to her, sobbing. His breath was ragged and sharp, his eyes red and burning while his hands trembled and a breathless moan escaped his lungs. His head shot up as the strange lady’s shadow brushed against his features.
“Who are-“ He started, but then stopped as he gained a proper look at her features. She was instantly recognizable, even if he had never seen her before.
“No.†He breathed. “No. She’s not- not yet. She shouldn’t be, no. It’s not her time.â€
The woman stood, features reminiscent of stone.
“No. Please. It’s my fault, if I had- if I hadn’t-†He broke off as fresh sobs tore from his chest. “It’s my fault.â€
There was a story here. It would be long, and sad, and filled with bittersweet. So many were. But it was not her burden to carry; she already had so, so many.
“There has to be something I can do,†He tried. “I’ll- I’ll give you anything. But please. Don’t take her. She… she shouldn’t have been her, I shouldn’t have.â€
The woman spoke now, her voice surprisingly soft and low. “You would bargain with Death?†She asked.
He stared out at the sea, watching the waves fight and foam against each other.
“She is suffering.†The silken voice stated. “ I will not wait.â€
“Yes.†He said suddenly, quietly. “Yes. I would.†A pause. “What… do you want?†They both knew her answer already.
“I came here for a life.†She said, simply.
He nodded. Slowly, painfully, he looked down at the woman lying before him. Her breath had all but stopped now, her heart barely beating. He bent down and kissed her, softly, on her lips. He raised his face, eyes closed and streaming silent tears, before he stood and faced Death.
“Are you ready?†She asked, quietly. Her eyes were sad too, for the man, for mortals, for life.
He reached out and took her soft-skinned hand in his, not saying anything for a moment. “I’m scared.†He finally breathed.
She nodded, saying nothing, and gently squeezed his hand before she began walking forward. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed, and when they stepped off the edge of the cliff they did not fall to the sea, but the lonely stars.
The sun rose softly over the village, to cast it’s light upon a hill by the sea. Atop it lay a woman, her heart beating strong, with breath filling her lungs. Next to her was the quiet, still warm corpse of another mortal.
******
-Shortened/bad version-
******
The woman walked from the forest and onto the dry, browning grass of the hill, stretching into cliffs. Her features were pretty, but slightly too sharp for common beauty. Cheekbones to high, dark eyes hollowed and shaded against pale skin. Her dark hair fell in lightly tangled waves halfway down her back.
Mere yards before this terrifying edge, she stopped her walk. In front of her lay a woman, her breath shallow and pained, dress stained red, wet and fresh. A man knelt next to her, sobbing. His breath was ragged and sharp, his eyes red and burning while his hands trembled and a breathless moan escaped his lungs. His head shot up as the strange lady’s shadow brushed against his features.
“Who are-†He started, but then stopped as he gained a proper look at her features. She was instantly recognizable, even if he had never seen her before.
“No.†He breathed. “No. She’s not- not yet. It’s not her time.â€
The woman stood, features reminiscent of stone.
“No. Please. It’s my fault, if I had- if I hadn’t-†He broke off as fresh sobs tore from his chest. “It’s my fault.â€
There was a story here. It would be long, and sad, and filled with bittersweet. So many were. But it was not her burden to carry; she already had so, so many.
“There has to be something I can do,†He tried. “I’ll- I’ll give you anything. But please. Don’t take her. She… she shouldn’t have been her, I shouldn’t have.â€
The woman spoke now, her voice surprisingly soft and low. “You would bargain with Death?†She asked.
He stared out at the sea, watching the waves fight and foam against each other.
“She is suffering.†The silken voice stated. “ I will not wait.â€
“Yes.†He said suddenly, quietly. “Yes. I would.†A pause. “What… do you want?†They both knew her answer already.
“I came here for a life.†She said, simply.
He nodded. Slowly, painfully, he looked down at the woman lying before him. Her breath had all but stopped now, her heart barely beating. He bent down and kissed her, softly, on her lips. He raised his face, eyes closed and streaming silent tears, before he stood and faced Death.
“Are you ready?†She asked, quietly. Her eyes were sad too, for the man, for mortals, for life.
He reached out and took her soft-skinned hand in his, not saying anything for a moment. “I’m scared.†He finally breathed.
She nodded, saying nothing, and gently squeezed his hand before she began walking forward. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed, and when they stepped off the edge of the cliff they did not fall to the sea, but the lonely stars.
The sun rose softly over the village, to cast it’s light upon a hill by the sea. Atop it lay a woman, her heart beating strong, with breath filling her lungs. Next to her was the quiet, still warm corpse of another mortal.
88- Oooh. The first is lovely. The second is not so good, but still good if you didn’t know what had preceded it.
88 – Yay! Clapclapclap. So good. And sad. *tear tear*
The sun was glistening, like the tear waiting to fall.
The night was gathering, like the storm before the calm.
And I was running, faster than I can.
The sun was before me, a burning land.
. Stationary.
And I was running, faster than I could stand.
I gained on the fire, aproaching my prey.
. Stationary
And I was running, faster than I can.
I caught my prey, in my icy jaws.
It’s warmth heated me, and
. nothing was stationary.
NEW PROMPT TIME!!! A scarecrow in an abandoned field should do it.
92- Okay. Soon as I stop being in a bad mood I’ll write.
93 – Aww, why are you in a bad mood?
94- Dunno.
95- That’s the best reason.
Is it the fox thing now?
97-Yep.
NEW PROMPT TIME! POST 92!
92.
GAPAs! Read the past two posts, please!
(101) I hear you, Vixen, it’s just when I’ve thought about it, I’ve been in too much of a rush to do anything about it. Just assume thats the new prompt, and I’ll switch it out as soon as I can.
I will draw a picture for it maybe. I feel like I should draw something.
Sure. You guys heard her, now get writing! ;D ;D ;D
I did start a picture, actually. It’s not done yet though.
105- What’s it a picture of?
Since we are not using my picture as a prompt, I can tell you guys that it is a picture of one of Odin’s wolves, preparing to eat the sun at Ragnerok.
106- Your prompt from post 92 actually.
And coooool… now I want to try to draw that scene too XD Only different, of course.
Well, this wolf also has a mate, who is eating the moon.
107- neat. I can’t wait to see it.
there’s a ryme I learned a while back,let’s see if I recall…
At Ragnarok, At world ends
When Loki breaks his chain
and Fenris god Odin kills
and wolves devour the sun
and world serpent does run
And the ocean overspills
And what the world will gain
Something better at world ends.
Ok GAPAS, promise that you will post me a new picture, I can only write this ONCE!
———————————-
(written in the style of an old english fable)
The soft and brief crunch of a soft paw greeted the ears of the night, as through the forest there wandered a beautiful creature. The trees, old and wise, bent to see his sleek allure shadowing the fallen autumn foliage. The dark of the night was his cape, the silence his throne. Thus, the majestic fox appeared from a grove between the willow boughs. As the leaves departed from his silken rouge fur, his full glory was exposed. A long, bushy tail followed his slight body from the brushes. The ears placed meticulously upon his marvelous head were acute and tensed for any hissing of serpents or rushing of the stream ahead, navy blue flow encased with the shadowy blanket of early evening.His dark, damp nose sniffed loftily through the cool air, filling his nostrils with the scent of fresh twilight. As his pale amber eyes turned upward towards the twinkling black blanket of the sky, spangled with shimmering starlight, he saw a large, jewel-like object which procured a piece of the darkness from shedding the earth. It was glowing and iridescent, opalline and creamy, yet it seemed to be solid and firm, good to finger and roll about. The cunning fox wished this treasure for his own, and pondered wittingly how to get it. Using his quick-witted mind, he immediately chanched upon his great ability to leap. If only he could leap so high! At this moment, he spotted a rock, which went a great distance into the air. He bounded to it, and skillfully weaved up the rock. From this high point, he thought, surely I will be able to reach my jewel! He took a great plunge off of the rock, pawing his way into the sky, But he was short by a great deal, and fell into a heap upon the forest floor. Shaking away this mishap, he spotted a hilltop, much higher up than the rock off which he had just sprung, for this peak was certainly steep and spingy! He sprinted the length to the tip of the green, grass-shrouded hill, and took another large soar into the air. Yet he could not reach the sky, and fell short by many a yard. The fall caused him great pain, yet the dazzling circlet in the sky beckoned him with the wondrous lure of it’s rich smoothness. As he peered up from the ground at his lustrous jewel, his eyes caught what seemed to be a rip in the air. The darkest shadow of a clifftop crooked its finger at him from the highest point in the sky that he had ever seen.Maybe, he thought, I could have my lovely bauble if i dared to thrust myself from this precipice! So he amble, however gracelfully, to the summit of the eminence and stared upward into the air. The looming crest of the mountain winked him in the face, sneering down at him as though he were a pitiful creature, not worthy to have the lovely white stone for his own. This infuriated the agile fox, and he leapt upon the jagged stone as if it were prey to his superior keen, and ascended the ridge with the aptitude of a proud beast. In no time at all, the fox had tacled the enormous mountainside and stood sentinel, a glorious signal in the depths of the night, at the very top ledge of the mount. The wind swirled his silken fur around his body and his legs, making him a true creature of the dark.And, taking an enormous bound, he sprand like a beacon from the hill and into the sky, and to his surprise, his paws caught the air about the glinting jewel, and he held it as though it were his own delight and nobody else’s. He was quite so in love with the marvelous bauble that he never fancied to let go, and so it happened. And every day from that, if you gaze into the stars, you will see a precious cluster of them surrounding the moon, earth’s most cherished jewel.
The wind blew cold on the traveler’s back, biting through his thin coat and numbing his fingers and toes. The road was dry and chilled, like the surface of some foreign planet. The trees had dropped their leaves, the sun still showed its face but cast no warmth upon the November ground.
A scarecrow stood in an field of stubble, its face and clothes worn and faded by the weather and the years.
The traveler thought, This is as good a place as any, and so thinking, he jumped off the road and into the field.
More later.
A raven landed on the shoulder of the scarecrow. It pecked at its stuffed face and its talons bit into its weathered clothes. The straw from the scarecrow pricked the bird, who flew off at the sight of an aproaching figure.
It was a young woman, dressed in linen and silk with a broad white hat placed jauntely on her head. Her dress was white and the skirt of which she held lifte din her hand, revealing white fish net stockings and high heeled shows. A carrage drawn by two bay horses stood waiting at the road.
“Charles!” she cried when she neared the scarecrow,”Charles!”
The scarecrow made no reply. However, the woman continued to speak.
“Charles, oh it’s horrid! father died yesterday, we all knew he would, the breast disease was so far gone. But Charles! He said he was sorry! right before he died he looked at me and he said, ‘You go tell Charles I’m sorry, and I’ll see him in heaven.’ And then mama started crying and everyone was crying and the neighbors said to Mrs.humphrey “like that man is going to go to heaven! Just the idea of it! What he did to that poor boy!’ she was talking about you, Charles, you know that, right? Oh, I never liked Mrs Humphrey or that Penny woman anyway. But I think he’ll go to heaven because he did apologize, and where would we all be if everyone held grudges against each other, now! ”
The woman paused, glancing at the cloudless baby blue sky while fiddling with her hat strap.
The memory of the house on fire and her father sitting on a fencepost, singing and drinking whiskey rushed into her eyes and she shook her head to clear the image of it.
“Charles, you know he never meant to hurt you, I have told you that before. He only meant to teach you a lesson, just a little smack on the head, it was the drink that made him use too much strength. Well, we can all be thankful that you were out cold when the chimney caught fire. at least yoiu didn’t feel anything. Can you try to forgive him?”
The scarecrow made no reply.
“Charles,” said the woman, softly, “the count has asked me to marry him. I just had to say yes. All of father’s money is long gone, and just what will become of Mother and Jane and me? But the Count can take care of us, it’s a very practical decision. ”
The woman sat down on the ground, softly stroking the ground.”I’ve brought you something,” she said. She took a small wrapped package out of her pocket and started digging a shallow hole in the ground. “It’s father’s watch, it’s old and broken and not worth anything. There’s also a pair of Mother’s broken earings, Jane’s baby spoon, three of my silver buttons, and the last tooth you lost. I thought you might like that. But here’s the most special thing of all!” she said, pulling out a piece of paper from her pocket,” Look! It’s a photograph of Jane and Mother and Me and Father, too, he said he was sorry! ” She placed the package and the photograph in the hole and covered it with the little pile of dirt.
“Charles,” she whispered, “I don’t want anyone to find you. The cemetary washed away in the last flood, It was only that tree I planted above you that was standing. The county keeps saying that they’llmake a new cemetary here, but the other one over by Ridge Creek is getting all the attention. I think it was a good ide sathat they turned that tree into a scarecrow, it keeps the buzzards away. But Charles, listen. It’s time to forgive and forget, and evryone says that this here scarecrow is nothing but bringing up bad memories. We can’t keep dwelling on thepast, it’s time to move on, Charles!”
The woman stood, a steadfast look on her face.
“Charles, I’ll always love you and I’ll never forget you. I always havethat dried flower that you picked me, it’s right here in my pocket, in the empty matchbox. Or, almost empty, anyway. But, Charles, you’ll alway sbe with me, and I’ll sea you in heaven. I know you are watching over me. Goodbye, Charles.”
She turned and walked out of the abandoned field, it’s grass yellowed by the sun. She turned back at the edge of the field and lifted the matchbox out of her pocket.she took the last match out of it, lying next to the flower, and struck it on the box. It flared up and she dropped it in the field. She blew a kiss to the scarecrow and got into the carrage.
“Drive,” she told the driver.
111- Hahaha, my picture actually has a crow on the shoulder of the scarecrow.
And I like the story. And how you understand what happened before without you actually coming out and saying it.
Oh where oh where has the scanner run off too…
111- ARGH MONOLOGUE OH NO HELP!!!! Sorry. It’s a very good story, and one of the better monologues I’ve read in the past week. If it was published and in monologue form, I think I’d read that instead of whatever dramatic monologue I’m reading right now, Fire Dancer or something.
These days, it’s a little hard for him to see–painted eyes aren’t made to last forever, after all. He still gets the impression of a pale blue sky, and the green-brown of weeds, and sometimes a bird. This suits him fine. Not much to see out here anyway, never was.
Crow flying in, he notices. Maybe it’s a raven; he never could tell the difference, even when his eyes were fresh and open. It’s welcome to the weeds, if it wants them. He wouldn’t have cared if it had tried when there was corn here–or was it wheat? Whichever, it hardly matters.
The crow (or raven) perches on his shoulder, picks at the straw where his left ear was, before the other birds pecked it off. It doesn’t hurt, which maybe is supposed to be odd, but pain is for things that die. The scarecrow can’t; he just gradually loses his senses until he is de facto not there. He doesn’t know how far down that road he is, or how long he’s got left until he can rest. Should this bother him? What continues will end, eventually. He never could move, so he can’t exactly stop it. These things happen to some people.
The raven (or crow) flies away. Obviously, the scarecrow’s eyes don’t follow it. It left some straw on his shoulder, which does bother him. Probably it’s going to be there for days that feel like years in his darkening perception. His half-present eyes stare out on the weeds. This will take a while.
—
Eh. It’s a work in progress.
Sent in the pic. It’s not done, the sky is too empty and needs shading or clouds or something, but it’ll probably never be really done. Anyway. I’ll write for it later.
(115) I’ve posted it above.
The wind blew cold on the traveler’s back, biting through his thin coat and numbing his fingers and toes. The road was dry and chilled, like the surface of some foreign planet. The trees had dropped their leaves, the sun still showed its face but cast no warmth upon the November ground.
A scarecrow stood in an field of stubble, its face and clothes worn and faded by the weather and the years.
The traveler thought, This is as good a place as any, and so thinking, he jumped off the road and into the field.
He nodded courteously to the scarecrow, and sat down cross legged. He pulled the knapsack off his back and rummaged in it until he found a half loaf of bread. A crow that had been watching him from a nearby tree and it flew down in hopes of receiving some bread. The traveler shook his head, stuffing the bread back into the bag. The food would have to last him until he reached his destination, wherever that was. He swung the knapsack onto his back again, and trudged off down the road. He turned around once, and saw the bird staring intently into the worn face of the scarecrow, as if in conversation. And then he turned, and clouds came down as he walked. The crow flew away, towards its home if it had one, and the scarecrow was all alone once more.
He did not scream. He had long since given up screaming. No-one could hear him, anyhow. None except the crows. He was blind and deaf now, but he heard their muddled scavengers’ psyches drifting around in the endless field of green plant-dreams. They sensed him, and kept away from him. But nobody thought that was unusual, of course.
Someday he would rot. What passed for his body now would disintegrate under the onslaught of mildew, shedding straw and cloth. Ten years into his imprisonment he had begun looking forward to it. Until then, he had not given up hope that he might be freed. He now knew that his wish had been folly. What little the human race had once known, they had forgotten, and were easy prey to the things encroaching on their little bubble of mundanity and rationality… as he’d learned too late.
He didn’t think much now. Thinking was painful, and remembering was even worse. Mostly he slept, letting the slow, unconscious dreams of the corn ease his pain.
Sometimes, though, he wished he hadn’t shot that crow…
Well, I’ve written a poem, but it needs fixing.
The only line I know I won’t delete is this:
“the old Strawman bent in the resemblance of a punished messiah upon a cross”
119-Ooh, I really like that.
I’m going to get around to doing something for the other prompts, but I haven’t decided what yet… I really like them all, though.
He sit-stands; slumped
A chiropractor would be ashamed
Hanging – dangling – swinging
Arms bent at unnatural angles
Echoes of a distant past
Reminiscent in those cold stoney glass eyes; chipped, but shining still by the light of the moon
Black trenchcoat man is envious – you have what he does not
The perfect accessories fail to hide that which is shown
You would sweat
If you could.
But you can’t.
So you don’t.
Thistledown floats
More stimuli without response – ignored, like all the rest
In this field you are god – supreme, omnipotent deity
Nothing that small captures your attention
Or is it an inability?
Pish tosh – nothing of the sort
Turn back to your work
Intelligently designing
While the crows keep watch (roles reversed)
/gradster(1)/
P.S. Jesus, I surprise myself! I’m not a good writer…. I think I have an alternate identity.
No comments from anybody?
/gradster(1)/
121- I liked it. I don’t know why.
By the way, I don’t think the illustration needs clouds or more added detail. Right now it gives an impression of lonliness and an eerie peacful calm. In other words, it’s perfect.
121 – I liked it a lot.
Vixen in the eyes of the moon (do you have to have such a long username??) is right. The picture is perfect, as it displays the idea of loneliness and basically the concept of being alone.
Oops sorry, didn’t see it was this kind of thread, could ya edit that out adminastrators?
(129) I’ll move it to the Books in Progress thread, as that’s where fiction writing is hanging out these days.
127- call me Vixen, dear.
Well, new topic time.
A starved dog in the street. You decide if it’s alive or dead.
I’ll have another try with first person.
Black is the Absence of Light
I can’t remember how I got here. I was alive and well at some point, I remember it well. Now I see the horse carriages jingleing past, and the first snowflakes dancing downward on the wind. The street urchins rush past, chasing some escaped chicken from the farmers market. It squawks in terror as the older of the boys catches it by the wing and swings it at the wall. I suppose I ought to feel sad, but sadness escapes me.
My thoughts wander to my days as a puppy. I never knew my father, my mother always said that he was a purebred. ‘A real dem fine hunting hound’, she always said, and she a wild street dog. She had dark brown eyes that glowed green in the moonlight. Her eyebrows were a light shade of brown, and her coat was blacker than the shadows that chase me in my nightmares. She had only four claws on her left front paw. She tore it off in a fight, I guess. Her ears were tattered and her tail broken, but she was a brave bitch. I remember well how she would fight the other street dogs over a moldy clump of bread behind the bakers, or the head of a shark down on the harbor. She won her quarry, often enough. She took good care of us, my sister and I.
My sister. She was such a sweet little thing. She had three legs, having been trampled by a horse when she was still little. The butcher was nice to her- he took away the dead and sewed her right up. She got around well enough without it. She had one blue eye and shaggy grey fur. My mother was so proud of her eye. She said that it was a lucky eye. Like the eyes of my father.
My mother says I look like my father. I have the shaggy black fur, but I have my mothers brown eyes. I have a tattered ear, but I think I’ve kept myself in good condition.
I am confused. My mother used to tell me that when we died, we went to a place where there is always food and water, and we dogs are the masters of the people. and everyone is worth the same, mutts as well as hounds. ”The Star knows not the difference, for we are all his children and he has made us the way we are,” she would whisper to us when the food was scarce.
There was the day my sister went and did not return. My mother walked to the sea and sat on the rocky beach and looked out to sea. A fishers wife threw a rock at her. I sat a little bit off and watched my mother. Then I went on my own way.
I am older now. I have been through four winters, and this is my last. I feel the cold seeping into my bones, and my stomach is feeding on my body. I am a shadow. I am black. Th elight hates me. It burns my eyes. I am dying. I want to. I am tired of my life.
A street urchin walks by, shivering in the cold. She is skinny and worn, but she holds a large chunk of venison. I see by the fear on her face that she has stolen it. The butcher will not catch her. He will not notice.
Th ecold grabs for her. She will not make it through the winter with only a thin shawl.
She notices me.
She walks over to me and stays a safe distance a way. I want to bite her. I do not have the strength.
She takes a bite out of the meat. It is dry but she does not care. She swallows and takes another bite. She spits it out in front of me. I have not the strength to go for it. She bends down and asks me, soft as a shadow, ”Are you dead, too?”
She picks up the meat and forces it inside my jaws. she has already chewed it a bit. I lay there, and gather my strength. I swallow. She smiles. She feeds me some of the venisen. Enough to keep me from death, but not enough to make me sick.
she pulls me into an alley a few paces away. There we lie together. My head is in her lap. I can feel her cold skin bebeath her skirt. She curls into a ball, and I manage to crawl next to her. She burries her fingers and her face in my fur. I feel her breathe. She falls asleep as the snow makes a blanket on top of us. I am going to sleep as well. I do not know if we will awaken again. If we do, then I shall always be at her side. If we don’t, then we have died peacefully. And, as my mother always said, the Star willl watch over us and lead us to the land where it is always warm and there is plenty. I close my tired eyes.
If someone has the time, would you mind giving me some feedback on 131?
131- That’s sad. I’m crying right now.
I’d write, but I don’t have time, so I’ll do it later. Now I’d better stop crying before K— gets here to pick me up.
133- It made you cry???? (success!!!!) I can’t wait to read your story! I like yours, or at least those I’ve read!
Anyone else?
It whined slightly and tried to pull itself away from the cabs that rattled past, but it was weak and its attempt fell short. It whined again, watching the horses and people rushing by. No one stopped to give it aid. No one ever stopped for small starving mutts in the street. It was going to die here, and as if it knew that, it laid its head down on its paws and gave one last sigh.
•••
Earlier in the day, Pete had decided that they would all be less hungry if they fended for themselves, and he had pulled the piece of bread from his dirty pocket, turned it over once or twice in his grimy hands, and ate it. Having thus declared his freedom, he found that when dusk came on and all the lamps had been lit, that they had nowhere to go, and had turned to the alley where he had left his friends that morning.
He was sorry then, when he saw the sleeping tearstained faces of Meryl and Janey and Hugo, and Ralph informed him grimly that this was the third day without food and that Nellie had not yet returned. Pete nearly confessed then, if not for the thought that Ralph and Archie would have jumped on him and likely pulled him limb from limb, if he had done so.
More later, I have to go soon…
Ugh, this has developed past what I wanted and into short-story-without-a-conclusion land.
136- giggles….
135- I like the beginning.
Could someone read 131 and give me feedback?
I am satisfied with it.
Also, GAPAs, the topic is now ”Dog lying in street”.
138- Yes, it practically made me cry, but I don’t cry when I read. It was greater than great.
Dog lying in the street huh? Ok.
139- Alter-Ego Alert! hehehehe…
The sunlight beat down on the worn, cobblestone path, heating the stones like a giant oven turned on high. Crows circled overhead, swooping and diving, investigating the weary, forlorn figure down below as though they couldn’t wait until it was dead to have their meal. Their caws intermingled with the honking horns of cars and the whinnies horses; the symphony of the city enveloping, ensnaring the motionless shape.
A single bird decended from the gray sky; a black knight on a quest to scout for his peers, hovering above. He perched on the still dog’s shoulder, nipping a tuft of mangled golden fur from his ear and displaying it to his fellows like a trophy.
One could almost sense the excitement from the rooks. What willing prey, to lie down in the middle of the road like a helpless banquet! They dove at him, cawing like the frenzied beasts that they very nearly were.
Only the slightest motion from the thought-dead dog – hardly more then a puppy, really – sent the birds scattering, in terror, their valor shattered for the slightest instance as their terror overcame them. Then they came again, more reluctant, but still unwilling to pass up this readily offered meal.
Again, the shape moved, its worn paws struggling to lift the frail body from the road. For a moment, it seemed as though the crows’ feast was about to walk right out from their talons; they screamed in definance at the thought.
But, no – it could not be. His paws collapsed, and his weary mind resigned itself to death. He simply did not have the strength to continue fighting the endless sleep that longed to claim him.
He awaited the sensation of millions of tiny claws, snatching at his fur and picking what little meat there was off his bones with forced acceptness. Yet, it never came.
Moments later he had the oddest feeling he had ever had in his life. With a tingle of joy he felt warm for the first time in ages. Was this death? Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad afer all!
He felt the warmth release him, as quickly as it had come, and settled onto the stones again with a deep sigh. It was a few seconds before he realized that he was not on the same road that had sentenced him to death. He opened one eye, and then another, to find himself perched near a crudely made brick fireplace.
The small dog sniffed at the flames, recoiling at the sudden heat, and turned his large brown eyes at the noise of someone returning to the room. A young lady, hardly more then a pup herself, with ruddy cheeks and blue mittens squatted by the fire and laid a tenative hand on his back, stroking him.
Startled, he yelped in surprise, and she recoiled, but he allowed himself to relax and her hand returned, eventually forming a gentle rhythm. He remembered something like this, once, but perhaps that was only a dream he had had. Perhaps this was a dream as well, and he really was dead.
Glancing up, he saw a ray of light strike the broken windowpane, blinding him for a moment or two. Surely even Heaven could not have something that so resembled the sun!
Resigned to living, and delighted all the same, he closed his eyes and snuggled against the warm hand that caressed his back. He supposed, in that moment, that things might turn out all right after all.
—
It’s not very good, and rather cliche, but I felt like writing something.
139- What happened to the story?
138- Thanks!
142-Naw…….
I walk on the sidewalk to my destination. Today I am meeting a friend at Cafe Lundenheart for a cup of coffee and perhaps a chat. I don’t usually pay much attention to my surroundings when I walk; just an occasional glance upward from the pavement to see where I’m going.
I stop at a busy intersection and stare at the light, waiting for it to shine with a white man instead of a red hand, when suddenly, I notice–something not right. Something out of place, something that does not belong here in this picturesque city scene. I scan the traffic looking over cars, trucks and–Ah! There, on the road, in the turn lane, a dog. A dead dog.
It’s breed is a Sheperd/Lab type thing. I’m not dog-savy, since I don’t own one myself. It has pointy ears, a smooth face and snout, and a long tail. Someone loved this dog, I think, looking at its brown pelt with a big white spot in the middle. And now…It’s here. Cast aside in this street, like it’s nothing but a child’s toy. In all the cars passing by, I see no faces turned to the side, I see nobody who cares about this once loved pet.
The light turns to the white man. I want to do something for that dog, but I know I’ll probably end up killing myself instead. I cross the street, at a fast pace, craning my neck to look at the dog, as if all my staring could perhaps make it all better, make that dog happy again, make him live again.
((I just realized that’s a good ending, but I want to continue this. Tschus!))
Ummmmmmmmmmmm- I am a dog playing with a ball that is actually a time bomb that was meant to blow up a scarecrow whose owner is at a lake side cabin which used to belong to a family with lots of kids. I am lying in a street.
I saw the dogs light shine green and walked over to it. It looked at me. It saw me. That’s the annoying thing about dogs. They can see me. It makes me uncomfortable to be seen. Dogs are so loyal and trusting, though, that they are almost always happy to see me. they trust me in that it will not hurt. Life hurts. It’s filled with the pain of love and sorrow, of suffering and slow pains. Death does not hurt, it is the cure to all ill. I am the cure to all that ails ye.
I reached down and began to pick up the dog, not the physical dog, but the real dog. I cradled it in my arms, its soul small and feeble in my vastness, and I could have sworn that the dog struggled to get closer to me, like a puppy to its mother.
I was thinking that the next prompt, could be, if there are no other suggestions, a vixen on the boundary between wilderness and civilization?
(146) Ah, The Book Thief. Well done.
148- I love the book thief. It’s pure magic. I’ve read it three times now, in danish and english, and I always cry throughout the book.
148- I just finished reading that. I’m going to read it again near the end of the year because we can actually choose it from a list of classics.
Me: *Reads down extrordinarily long list of books, looking for ones she’s read (seriously, I’ve only read three out of more than 100)*
Me: White Fang, reading that now. Flowers for Algernon… too weird. The Book Theif??? NO WAY!!! XD XD XD
Sorry, I should have saved that for the Books and Reading thread.
147- Don’t kill me but– What’s a vixen?
I can’t do canines. It just doesn’t work, I’m a cat person. But if it was just someone or something on the border between wilderness and civilization, that would be brilliant.
150- *kills* *is just joshing you…* A vixen is a female fox.
151- Agreed.
Here goes nothing…
Lucy Topkins was walking home from daycare with her mommy when she saw a big tan labrador on the street. This dog had been nicknamed by the poorest in town as Scruff. He was about to be squished by a car. Lucy cried out. The old dog’s eyes blinked open and ran out of the street just in time. I blinked. This happened every day.
You may be wondering who I am and why I know so much. I can’t tell you the answer to the first question, because I have spent my life alone, without a mother. But I call myself Scavenger, and everyone who’s caught me has called me that too.”Caught you?” you say. “What do you mean, caught you?” You see, I have hid in everyone’s house one time or another, as I don’t have a house of my own. I steal a loaf of bread, an orange, whatever I need, I steal it. I listen to the occupant’s talking on the phone and to each other, so I learn a lot about the town.
I’m a scruffy twelve year old, a thief, a fly on the wall. I have blond hair that’s never been cut, never been washed, now black and long. I know how to steal, how to eavesdrop, and how to survive. Many times I considered killing myself with the knife I keep handy, but then I consider all the information that will be lost. Information that could stop murder, information that could save the town. But what do I care about this damn town, and the damned people who live here? I need no one, and if the town’s destroyed, why should I care? I can relocate to another town, and start over.
I do more later. This is fun!
working with the theme of something/one standing on theboundery between civilization and wilderness.
I stand on the edge of the world and teh sun begins to set.
I would like to call it the precipice of death.
I cannot. It is not a precipice, but where a valley falls away from the highland. Bellow, in the valley, the humans lie in wait. Their towers reach like jagged fingers towards the face of god, as if in a desperate prayer of salvation, shined upon by the fiery red sunlight.
Behind me, I hear a dog growl.
I scent the presence of hundreds of hounds, wolves, foxes, and the rest of the feral furred creatures, exploited by the humans over centuries of time. I stand and feel the forest behind me grow as the lust for blood grows in the veins of the trees. The sunlight turns a looming violet.
I breathe in the tart freshness of the breeze.
Darkness falls as the last rays of the sun fade sharply.
We descent with the fury of hell behind us.
The forest, vibrating a few moments before, stopped. The only sound I could hear was the tread of my own boots, and my short, quick breaths. The moss was glistening with the early morning dew, and everything was fresh and green. It was like the forest knew spring had arrived. The trees were standing, tall and green, the moss, becoming thicker and thicker, and the plants were taking over the dirt walking paths. Rodents scampered away, waiting until the “danger” passed. The leaves rattled in the trees, while the wind blew softly. Roots twisted and winded, exposed after the first rain had washed away the dirt. How peaceful the forest was, though life surrounded me. I turned and looked back at the lights, and people rushing around busily. A soldier shoved me. “Remeber kid. You have 5 minutes.” I sighed and walked quietly into the forest. Oh great. Exiled. For good. This was not my day.
155- wow! a surprising ending.
it is set not in stone but in the quiet that slinks in. always searching for peace but finding boredom when it is achieved, unable to absorb or respire or close your eyes. there is no city din and there never was, it is muted beyond recognition in the constancy of your day to day. like the lidded eyes of a child watching the world go by at forty to fifty miles per hour, you have lost the cognition and consciousness that should strip away the bubble skin of these false realities. your skin hurts, your eyes and hair and fingernails are nothing in the light, nothing in the dark. there is no city’s din but still you pass towards those grasslands, towards the mountains and the sea.I head towards what I have always wanted, is the thought, I am going to to thing that will realize my dreams. your steps are worthless. the concrete and plants photosynthesizing dirty air dissolve and people become irrelevancies set down in the unread history of your life. what fable was it that spoke of ties and destiny and the hand of fate? what is this place you wish for and comfort yourself with as you dawdle in glass towers, with ballpoint pens wailing technology? someday, someday, towards the rivers and the valleys. somehow towards the dome of the sky. but here there is nothing, here there is you. here it is not set in stone but in the quiet that slinks in.
157 – I don’t think I understood a sentence of that, but it was still very, very good.
158) yeah I tend to lean towards incoherency when I’m writing late at night or can’t think well (aka always). thank you!
It is a run-down little inn; the stable is collapsing around the rotting straw and cobwebs, but no one cares, except perhaps the mice that inhabit it, because there is almost no one left to care, certainly no horses. The inn itself had never been anything but cheap and dirty, and now, with the landlord and his wife growing old and dusty, the filth of age and neglect are added to the already dirty, cracked tabletops. No one comes this way anymore; it’s a marvel the landlord and his wife are still alive, considering the meals they’ve skipped, and, even worse, the meals they’ve had–molding potatoes and the scrawny feral chickens that roam the courtyard, pecking at the insects hidden in the moss and straw.
Now the old people regret having no children, no one to take care of them and the inn and bury their bones when they are dead–that can’t be long now.
But they did have a child once, a lovely little girl, with chestnut curls and green eyes, as pretty a child as anyone could want. But the inn was dangerous, no place for a child–people came here that could not go anywhere more respectable, and drank until they should not have been allowed to remain in even the most disreputable of inns, had anyone been brave enough to throw them out–and they had sent her to her aunt in the city, where she had lived happily enough until she was six, and died of a fever.
And so their regrets and the dust pile deeper, and the potatoes grow moldier and the soup thinner. The narrow road by which the inn lies is no longer traveled, not even by the landlord in his mule cart–what good is a mule cart when the mule is dead?
Winter is nigh, and the food is almost gone. The old people are very old, nearly eighty, and the landlord’s hands shake too much to chop firewood, not that there are many more matches as it is. And so they go to bed, and lie there under the blankets, the only thing that is plentiful, and gradually sink into sleep. Perhaps they will never wake, or perhaps they will, and brave another, colder day, waiting perhaps for some long-lost daughter, or perhaps waiting merely for death.
I turned away. There never was anything here for me, there never will be. My family, my friends, are nothing. They cast me out, without a second thought. I would find a better life, a life I could live without depending on anyone. People are not to be depended on. They always betray you. The forest loomed before me. Moonlight dappled the ground, breaking up the endless shadow. I hesitated a brief moment, then plunged in. Perhaps the life I sought was in the forest. I’d never know if I didn’t try.
Wow, these are
allmostly depressing. I’ll write a non-depressing one now.I stared into the forest. Long ago, it had been my refuge when life was frustrating. Before we moved. Then, I had learned to live with frustration. Times were better now. Now, I didn’t have to either cope or use a refuge. But I still remembered it with fondness. I smiled, and ran inside. Running through it, reliving the joy, the relief. Suddenly, I stopped short.
I had come to the end of the forest.
I was looking out over city.
No!, I cried out. No!
You can’t destroy my refuge. You can’t!
But it was no use. No matter how much I denied it, it had happened.
(Annoying voice: But this was supposed to be cheerful.
Me: Shut up. It’s more effective.
Annoying voice: But you wrote it so it would be cheerful.
Me: FINE! Now shut up.)
I turned and walked back. All the joy was gone. The forest used to go on forever. There was no end to it. And now it was gone. I looked around myself suddenly. This was the clearing I had loved so very much. My tree, my rock. Mine. But– This was much farther into the forest, right? It had been the limit of my territory. Beyond that, there was only unexplored territory. No. Beyond that, there was the end. Beyond that, there was more city. No forest was endless, and this was no exception. I knew that. This forest hadn’t shrunk, I had grown. I knew that now. This forest was still my kingdom.