gimanator’s suggestion. The idea is to start with an image and each person writes about it as she or he sees it, in the writer’s choice of style.
The kernel image: after the death of someone or something
the sound of a violin
someone finding a box full of documents
someone kicking up leaves
someone riding a horse
someone walking a dog
someone on a rooftop
someone blowing bubbles
a girl slamming a book shut suddenly in a library
someone buys a cup of tea in a tea shop
a boy playing ball by himself
Next up: ?
“Why,”Arthur moaned to himself,”why do they all hate me?”
he stood up to kick the raggedy ball. “Is it because of my parents,”he roared,”what did they do, kill a few people?”
“So what?!”He kicked the ball with full strength and he bent over so that his long, dirty, brown hair fell over his face. “So I’m an orphan, eh?”Arthur swore and kicked a small rock, too. “So what does that have to do with me, huh?”He picked up a stick and held it as if it were a dagger.”Maybe they’ll get some, too.”
Oliver tossed the ball high into the air, and watched as it sailed up, up, up, into the clear blue sky, and then plummeted back towards him. He swung the bat, a second too late, and missed, while the small white ball fell past his face and landed inches from his toe.
He sighed and picked it up again. If only the other kids would let him play with them! But since the incident last week, they had banned him from the field, and shunned him in school. He was utterly alone, and only because he had ran! Ran faster than most, maybe, and yes, Ashleigh (along with everyone else) said he hadn’t really been running, but still! It wasn’t any reason to ostracize him.
Running . . . he mused on the subject, contemplating the feeling it gave him to run, and was not a little disturbed when the word, “flying” appeared, glowing behind his eyelids.
He stood up again, and tossed the ball high in the air, watching it sail up, up, up, into the clear blue sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Eh, not as good as it was in my head. But it’s still okay, I guess.
Eliaz, just plain Eliaz, gave the emerald ball a harsh kick. That ones for my title he mentally noted, already poising his calf for the next kick. This ones for all of the banquts, he whispered fiercly no longer content with just his mind knowing.
Though it was likely just a product of paranoa (sp?) he thought he spied the dim flicker of an amber lamp from one of the mansion windows before launching another ball agianst the ivy covered gate.
Here, in this house where would could hardly turn a corner without seeing gold-leaf and diamonds playing with “silly balls” was forbidden. “Archery, fencing, those are the sports for a lad of your caliber,” his father insisted. So now, Eliaz the fifth, son of the Duke of Callbertone was playing with a dirty ball he had snitched, under the light of a thousand glinting stars.
This one, he said aloud, is for whatever foolish person made my father a duke. And with that he send the ball flying.
3- Paranoia.
3- Ooh, I like yours best.
very nice, everybody.
The young boy threw the ball high up in the air, and hit the ball hard. The ball went sailing over the fence. He sighed, and began to trot over to the neighbor’s front door.
Once he came back, he put away the bat. “This is too much trouble,” he grumbled. “I’m going to play catch with God. He always throws it back for me.” With that, he began tossing the ball up in the air and catching it.
Charles bounced the ball again. He felt he’d been standing in that same spot for hours. He probably had. How long does it take to buy a new vacuum cleaner anyways? Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Even this rubber ball wasn’t easing his boredom this time. He bounced it yet another time but this time failed to catch it right away and had to chase it as it danced jauntily down the leaf strewn street, finally catching up to it near the base of a nearby oak tree. It had fallen in between some leaves and, as he reached down to pick it up, he noticed a funny movement. It appeared to be something small with four limbs and a vaguely human appearence. Charles squinted at it curiously – it certainly seemed more interesting than a vacuum cleaner!
hmm… I don’t know. I like biblioRose’s. Mine hasn’t really ended…
I really love the concept of this thread though! I like writing excercises! So, when we’ve gotten some boys playing alone with a ball does one of us invent the next prompt? This is fun!
8- I think the next prompt will be this one:
Someone buys a cup of tea in a tea shop.
I don’t know, though. That is in the future.
*runs off to do her other writing projects*
Neil hated basketball. More to the point, he hated the fact that everyone thought he should play basketball for no better reason than his height, ignoring the fact this bequest of fate had neglected to equip him with speed, agility, or the desire to be slammed to the floor by other equally tall persons with the proper accompanying talents.
And yet, with the perversity he lately couldn’t seem to help cultivating at every turn, he came here nearly every afternoon and practiced free throws.
He was good at them, too. In fact, he scored more consistently than any of the boys who actually played the game. This gave him no little satisfaction and a secret sense of superiority every time he watched the team lose by a missed free throw.
10- That first paragraph is priceless!
(11) Thanks! We’ll neglect to mention where the inspiration came from.
12- Aw, now I’m curious! But anyway, you’re welcome!
10- I like it! Are you, perchance, tall?
(14) Just shy of six feet. However did you guess?
15- I take it that people think you should play basketball because of your height? Ach. That’s ridiculous.
4/5/8- Thank You!
8- I like it! It makes me curious and I’m trying to imagine what he’s looking at.
10- This one is cool because you based it of experience. Mine was just sort of made up.
My mother was forced into playing basketball because of her height. She was terrible at it. Once, she and one of her friends, both equally rubbish, were in a game and had the ball by the net. They kept trying, and trying, to score, and eventually her friend got it in. That’s when they found out that they were at the wrong end.
Shall we change the theme?
Thud, thump, slap. Thud, thump, slap.
The same three sounds repeated themselves, almost automatically, as Clark continued tossing the rubber ball against the wall. He wasn’t really concentrating on the ball, or the ever-sinking sun, or even the occasional passerby. In fact, he was nearly breathing to the beat of the ball and thinking about a whole host of ideas that would only make him think more and more…
Thud against the wall. Thump off the ground. Slap against his hand. Thud, thump, slap.
Why was he even throwing the ball at the wall, anyway? Really, what exactly was the point? There wasn’t one, really. It was stupid. Everything was stupid. Everyone doing things as if they mattered. What was so important about doing things anyway? As if you could somehow change something, or make everything better, if only for a moment? Even then, what did it matter? Who was ever satisfied? This was all so… stupid!
Slap. Silence. Sigh.
Clark pocketed the ball and looked instead at his watch. Only eight-thirty-seven… And on a Friday night. What was he even doing here? Or anywhere, for that matter? And, why was he suddenly concerned? No, he wasn’t. It was all stupid anyway. You lived, you did stuff, and then you died, and weren’t any better off because of it. It was all stupid. The fact that he, or anyone else cared, was even more stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why was he even thinking on this? It was pointless. And stupid.
He barely noticed that he had walked all the way back to his car and took only a millisecond to wonder at how his feet had lead him here, with no memory of the journey. Then he remembered how stupid he was being. With another sigh, he unlocked the doors and slid almost arthritically into the leather seat. Shutting the door weakly and turning on the headlights, he began to think again. Clark began to think more and more as he lit up a stolen cigarette and fumbled through the glove compartment.
Sure enough, he found what he was looking for. The cigarette dropped from his trembling hands and he made no move to pick it up. He’d have no reason to do so, in a few minutes or so.
One final thought floated across his mind in the voice of another, before there was simply nothing: Why, Clark? What will this accomplish? He barely had time to relive his reply: Nothing, that’s the point. It’s all so… stupid. Goodbye, Jane.
Charlie felt alone. He lived in a world of sophisticated and snobbish adults and no children lived around. The ball’s continuous rhythm soothed the anger within him. That morning his parents had said that he was going to be homeschooled by a tutor. The one friend he had that went to his boarding school would be lost forever. The phone and computer existed in his house but his parents wouldn’t let him use them. They felt that a secluded childhood would lead to a mature outlook in life as an adult. How could he explain that it would never be that way?
“Charles Jacob Warmin, stop bouncing that infernal ball and get in here. You should be reading your book.”
Charlie groaned. He was supposed to be reading a two thousand page book on how companies make decks of cards.
“Mom! This is my recreational hour!”
“Yes, well, reading is recreation in your your father’s eyes, as well as mine. Now come in here immediately!”
Charlie tossed the ball onto the neatly manicured lawn and slowly trudged towards the enormous castle-like house.
…A boy, in his yard. Playing soccer. He chipped it up, caught it in the air with his right foot, and began juggling the ball. Right, left, right, left… Right, right, left, left… He sighed with contentment as he heard the slap of the ball against the leather of his shoe. All of the sudden his young brother charged into him and his suprised body kicked the ball into the road. No cars. Wait- what was that? No. A car, with a catious old lady driving. When she saw the ball, she didn’t know what to do. The car stopped and the lady was dead. She had died from a heart attack, caught off-guard. The young athlete thought, “I could of controlled that.”
Dribble dribble… Sigh…
Robert didn’t like having to play soccer against himself, but no one would play with him. Even his faithful dog, Rover, would rather play catch with Robert’s sister, Kate.
Robert kicked the ball toward the dip in his yard he had designated one of the goals and raced after it, but the ball reached the dip first, and Robert failed to make the save. Which meant he had scored, but so had the other team, because he failed a save. This was why Robert hated having to play by himself- He could never get anything except a tie.
i like 20, do you think we should switch, now? or is there anybody else.
Mine looks so short compared to all the others…..
Thanks ^_^
Hmm, new topic time? What is it this time?
I have an idea for a new theme: A girl slamming a book shut suddenly in a library.
Great. Now I’m wanting to continue the last exercise… Well, then…
27- Wait! What about my tea topic?
27- perfect
Olivia read the tiny print slowly. She paused and chewed her erasor before writing a long sentence in miniscule print. The Fear of Dragons and the Dark Magics in Medieval Europe Explored: Bed Time Stories and Witch Burnings or Religous Justifications? She glanced back at the large volume of Medieval myths and slammed the book shut. It dropped from her hands and fell onto the floor. The girl shook as her breath came in gasps. The two red eyes in the book’s pages grew and the head of the dragon emerged, followed by the body and tail.
“You are meddling in our interests. You’re over your head.”
olivia tried to scream as the dragon snarled and pounced.
ok. I don’t know what that was.
Someone buys a cup of tea in a tea shop, eh?
Snow was starting to fall as Mirabelle walked into the tea shop. Her watch said it was only 7:30. Plenty of time to get a cup of tea before work, she thought.
She placed her order, sat down and sighed. She had never been very cheerful since her divorce with an older man three years ago. One night they had had a feud over what to spend their money on, and things went downhill from there. She picked up a newspaper and began to read.
“One cup of tea, m’aam,” a waiter said as he set a cup of tea in front of her. Mirabelle looked up. The waiter was the very man she had divorced!
She quickly ran out of the store, forgetting about her cup of tea, and ran until she slipped on a bit of frozen sidewalk and fell and smashed her head.
She lay unconcious for several hours, until the work office called on her cell phone. Her unusual ring tone attracted a passerby, who picked up the phone and answered it.
(27) Alice already proposed the topic of “someone buys a cup of tea in a tea shop.”
Do we need a policy for switching subjects? And should earlier topics still be considered open? We’ll list the current open one(s) at the top of the page.
A New HoverBall
It is the year 3000, and Nolan was alone in his room, staring at his new HoverBall. He gripped it with the tendrils of his mind and smashed it against the wall. 1…2…3…4. He stopped and made the ball start spinning, faster, faster. Why did he think that “playing” with his ball was going to help him? He gripped the ball with his willpower and made it smash against his wheelchair, once, twice. He wished he could really destroy this thing. Three thousand years, and yet there was no cure for paralysis. That’s right, he though, immoblie. God, that word hurts.
So, curious reader, I bet you’re wondering how he got this way. You’re expecting some sob story that you can say “Oh, sorry”, and back away, and run away, from the truth. Oh, you’ll get one. Nolan is a victim of a virus that destroys certain parts of the brain computer. His thinking is fine, in fact he is a genius. But he is completely paralyzed. That’s right. Can’t talk, can’t walk. How’s that for a story?????
Nolan stared at the ball, floating, expectant. He suddenly hated it. It could move, and he couldn’t. He, in a sudden burst of fury threw it against a hook on the wall, where it promptly popped. He felt like screaming, he struggled so hard. He visualized himself kicking and screaming, and, for one moment, wanted that more than anything he had ever wanted. Suddenly, “AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGG”, he screamed, and kicked his leges, and flailed his arms.
Dear reader, you might think this is a happy ending, that he broke free of his invisible bonds through sheer willpower. Sorry to disappoint you, but life doesn’t work that way. Read on…
The broken shape of the HoverBall started twisting and turning, rising into the tall lean, gray shape of a man with tentacles where a mouth should be, and no ears. “Greetings,” it thundered. “Foolish human. All your paralysis took to cure was a simple de-bonding spell. You like to think you are so smart, that you are alone on Earth and Mars and the moon. HA! We are here, we are watching, and we are planning. Let this be a warning to humankind. You are not alone.”
Lia opened the book slowly. She had picked it up in the section of the library labeled ‘Magic, Incantations, and Spells’ and noted that its worn leather cover was covered with dark splotches. What could they be? Blood? Tea stains? She wondered. The book was thin, a tome that seemed insignificant, yet Lia was somehow drawn to it. The pages seemed brittle, as if the mereest touch might make them crumble. She turned the page carefully, and noted what she saw next.
Those few people who posess the abilty as described in the first volume, are regarded as the Magnid. Powerful and often regal, they are the most fearsome of the Extran, and are more important than the most ancient of royalty. They keep the world in check, but outside associations should keep away, for danger will befall them.
Gawd, that last sentence of the book paragraph makes no sense. Will someone please tell me what I wrote?
Oh, tea shop. Here goes again.
Tris sat down in the booth, alone, next to a window which displayed the dreary weather outdoors. She sighed, annoyed at the rain. The weather in Print had never been great, but it had rained nonstop for weeks. Most people had been confined to their houses, waiting for the endless storm to end. The shops in town had mostly closed, since hardly anyone ventured out of doors. Tris had been visiting her grandmother when the rain set in, and her grandmother really was not that exciting. She knitted a lot, and talked to herself. Tris felt she had to get away, and went down the street to the tea shop, carrying a purple umbrella.
” Excuse me ma’am, but would you like to order something?” the waiter said, as he walked toward Tris’ booth.
“Oh!” Tris, startled out of her reverie, glanced at the woman standing over her. “Could I have a few more minutes please? ”
“Certainly.” said the waiter, and walked down the aisle to attend to the next customer. Tris sat in the booth, staring at the window watching passersby. What were there lives like that they were out in this weather? Family business? Was a wife having a baby? An urgent call to work? Tris never knew, but pondered anyway. The waiter returned, and looked at Tris.
“Are you ready to order?” she asked Tris.
“Yes, I would like a cup of the camomille tea, and a crumpet please.” Tris replied.
“Alright, that will be out in a few minutes.” The waiter left the table in a hurry, as the woman sitting to her left had called her over with urgency.
Tris turned back to the window, and saw something strange. There, in the middle of the street, was a shaft of light glinting down towards the ashpalt. But that was not all. The light shone on a puddle, into which could be seen a table with cards on it. Three hands actually, which had been laid down as their owners were called away. The first hand of cards was made up of three kings, the second of a jack, a three, and a seven, and the third of four grinning queens, holding scepters as if about to attack.
Tris blinked, and glanced back at the puddle. when she looked again, there was nothing but dirty water, across which a ripple ran, as if someone had just thrown in a stone.
I shall combine the two! Mwahaha!
Marianne sat nervously, her feet entwined around the chair legs as she opened the book. Seeing nothing right away, she kept it gently open and shook it upside-down until the small note that she’d known would be in there fell out. Slamming the book shut – it had served it’s purpose- she clutched the note and carefully put it into her pocket. She replaced the book – A Guide to Tropical Mosses – on it’s shelf and drew the note out of her pocket again. “Dear whomever I am exchangeing these notes with, Meet me on Thursday at 4 o’clock at the teapot. Yours, your library correspondent P.S. Bring a library book – I will too.”
Now excited she raced out of the library and down the steps. Today was Thursday and it was 3:45 – only 15 minutes to reach the Teapot! Marianne stood at the train station impatiently until the subway came along to take her across the town.
She reached the Teapot at 4:01 and breathlessly purchased a cup of tea. Carefully balancing her cup of tea and her library book she scanned the tables for her correspondant. There! A young woman sat smiling cheerfully and waving her book in the air. Nervous but excited, Marianne walked up to her.
Oh, and after the book and the tea shop one may we do someone blowing bubbles?
32- I think so. Why not? I dunno, I just reloaded the page after typing everything below this… In fact, I missed the tea one the first time. I’ll do it later.
__________________________________
By the time she reached an empty table, her arms were shaking from carrying a stack of seven or so large textbooks. Setting them down with a thud, Jane brushed her hair out of her face and flipped open the top book to its index. An annoyed expression flickered across her face for a moment before it relaxed into its usual, thoughtful expression. No luck with this one…
As she abruptly closed the fourth book, her facial muscles remained tensed for just a bit longer. Perhaps picking such an obscure research topic wasn’t the best idea, no matter how fascinating it may have seemed…
For a few more minutes [and a few more books], she continued her seemingly fruitless search.
Finally, Jane picked up book-number-eight and dropped it onto the wooden table. She opened to the back.
Nothing.
Not one minute bit of information about her topic.
Jane checked her watch. Eight-fifty-three. The library would be closing soon. And now she didn’t have a ride.
No, Clark left nearly an hour ago. And he wasn’t at all right. Ranting on about how pointless everything was… Now that she thought about it, he was probably smoking again, too. Which meant he was stealing… But there was something else, this time. Something about him. She couldn’t quite place it.
In part, she didn’t blame him in the least. Until she remembered how much of an idiot he was…
On the one hand, she absolutely hated how, somehow, she always ended up being the one to deal with his problems. On the other, she couldn’t help it; she loved him. She felt oddly protective of him.
This time it was losing his job. And his girlfriend. Number four this year, if Jane remembered correctly. She just couldn’t understand it.
She also couldn’t understand why she still listened to him. He absolutely refused to take responsibility for anything. She suspected that he had lost his job for stealing, again. Probably the cigarettes…
Why couldn’t he control himself? Why couldn’t she help him?
Jane had known Clark since primary school. He really was very sweet. He simply didn’t know what was good for him. That was her job…
Maybe it shouldn’t be. He was definitely deteriorating. He wouldn’t listen to reason.
At least she was fairly certain she had talked him out of doing anything dangerous… he had simply left to go to the park. Or should have… What did he say before he ran out?
I don’t know! I’ll get Harry’s gun or something… At least you won’t have any more problems after I…
What? Are you mad? There are so many other… What are you thinking? You could… Clark, there is something seriously wrong with you!
What else is there to do?
I don’t know! Get yourself a different job! Show up more often at school! Clean yourself up, honestly!
It’s too late for all of that… I’ll just go away, I think. Maybe for a while.
Clark, why would you do that? What would accomplish? It’s still not too late for you! You only have a few things to work out, and none of them are too big a deal! Really, we can go to…
It’s pointless! Listen, I’ll just leave. I’ll go somewhere, find something to do with myself.
You won’t. You wouldn’t. You know what you do to yourself. Why, Clark? What will this accomplish?
Nothing, that’s the point. It’s all so… stupid. Goodbye, Jane.
Suddenly, it hit her. Slamming the book shut suddenly, Jane got up and ran out of the library, wondering if she were already too late.
29- I”M so sorry! I must have skipped that post! Sorry! Just pretend I never said that!
Sarie ducked cautiously into the lace-adorned shop, the smell of chamomille and mandarin tea wafting through the air. She needed to get a moment a way from the grueling Russian-lit homework that she had been slaving over on the antiique oak desk her roomates shared. Here in “Tea Time” a homey tea shop on campus she could unwind with a tall glass of green tea lemonade and converse politely with Milla, the gentle older woman with mysterious violet eyes. “The usual, dear,?” she chimed happily, which Sarie answered with a weary nod. “Russian literature got you down, eh?” Milla inquired busily slicing a plump lemon. Sarie was continually amazed at how very much the older woman always seemed to know. “Yeah. It’s a real killer,” sarie commented as she was slid her iced tea. “remeber dear your’e always welcome here.” Sarie nodded agian, this time gratefully and a satisfying sip.
38- I meant “and took a satisfying sip.”
38 – Wow, that’s long.
41- It is. but it’s okay. I feel sorry for dial-up people
The Trap
Special Agent Elias Rosenberg stepped out of his car and surveyed the shop. Fortsando’s- Fine teas from around the globe read the sign in peeling emerald paint. This was the place.
Five minutes later, Elias was sitting in the shop’s dimly lit interior on a wobbly stool. He surveyed the workers behind the counter until he caught sight of a short, grinning Asian guy with a violently red tie.
“Rooiboos Chai, extra sugar. Don’t bother taking the bag out,” Elias said to the man, enunciating each word clearly. It was imperative that the waiter understand the agreed-upon password and act upon it accordingly.
The man disappeared into a back room, shouting something indistinct. Elias waited impatiently.
Finally, the waiter with the red tie delivered a chipped porcelain cup and a stainless-steel pot to Elias’ table, then left the shop. After looking around to make sure no-one was watching, Elias pulled off the top of the teapot and deftly plucked the teabag out. Tearing apart the sodden paper, he pulled a tiny, opaque, waterproof bag out of the steaming mess of herbs.
But there were none of the plans on microfilm that had been promised him inside the bag. There was only a note.
It read Look out the window.
Elias did so, a slight feeling of apprehension slipping over him.
The waiter was standing across the street, the grin on his face even bigger than before. In his gloved right hand, he held a black cylinder with a button on it, which he subsequently pressed.
Elias barely had time to fling himself to the ground and cover his head before the teapot exploded, blowing the windows out of the shop.
The young man walked into the shop, a large hoodie making him look faint and skinny. The hood shadowed his face, and the sleeves covering his hands. He walked up to the counter and said “Tea, please” handing over some bills he had fished from his pocket. The person on the other side took the money, and swiftly poured steaming water in a styrophome cup and plopped a tea bag in. He placed the tea on the counter and the young man used his sleeve to hold the scolding cup and walked over to a booth. He places thecup on the table and stares out the rain splatered window. Outside headlights bounce off the rain in little showers of light. He turns his attention to the tea. He picks up the cup and tips off his hood to sip. “Eeeeeeeekk!!!!!!” A woman screamed taking in the figures of his gaunt face, looking like a corpse’s. patches of his blue, stretched skin. The sleeve fell off his equally disgusting hand, showing long, gnarled figernails. He stood up, throwing back his hood revealing stretched ears and hair pulled into a long pony tail on the back of his head. The room was filled with screams as he walked out of his booth. A tail popped out of unnder his pants. Smash! A glass smashed into his head, cutting him up. Swish, slam! Someone else threw a chair at him, wich he dodged with a quick leap. Suddenly evetyone wass throwing stuff at him. He screamed, and ran out the door into the rain. LIfe was tough being part of the new breed.
These are very interesting.
The sign above the door said simply: Tea Shop. A bell tinkled as Sally pushed open the door and stepped through. It was not a normal shop, she could tell. It smelled of dust and lavender and age. Shelves lined the walls, shelves full of jars. In the middle of the room stood a tiny table, and on that table, a tea was laid for one. Sally tentatively stepped over the threshold, and across the worn carpet towards the table. She sat down, and took a sip of the steaming tea. It tasted like the shop, old and dry yet not unpleasant. There was a hint of lavender. Sally closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the warm steam, and when she opened them, she was standing alone in the snowy alley near the library, all illusions of a shop gone. But her hands tingled with warmth, and the aroma of tea lingered in her nose.
46- ooh, I like yours! The style seems vaugely like de Lint’s.
47- Thanks!
As the roar of the street and the brash honking of car horns unwillingly filled her ears, Lucille Gardenfield, highmistress at the school down two blocks, strutted to the large wooden door of one of the local tea shops. Whence she twisted the brass doorknob and pushed open the door, a lovely tinkling bell rang, and, as if by magic, the unsightly soundas of the British town dissapeared as she shut the door behind her.Inside the tea shop, the air was loose and warm and light, as if it were a bright sunny day, instead of a dark and cloudy one, with the wind raging as a storm began to hustle their way.She removed her large white fur coat aqnd sat it on a stool at the small table by a window. Over the windows hhad been pasted the large pictures over sunshine and deep grassy meadows, over light yellow wall paper. The srict highmaster rather enjoyed the idea of not seeing the outside world. A lady dressed in a tight white serving outfit and a yellow apron come over and handed her a cup of tea in a beautiful white china cup embroidered with yellow flowers, before curtsying and scuffling graciously away. It was then that she noticed that she was the only person in the shop. Funny, she thought. This had to be the most lovely tea house she had ever laid eyes on. She took a sip of the tea. It was wonderful, tasting like blueberies on a warm afternoon under the blue sky, with puffy white clouds, exactly like that. She smelled it with a savory sniff, the aroma had begun to fill her entire body. But she had had enough tea for now. She lay a five pound note on the table for the tea and the gracious service, and grabbed her coat, backing out the door, into the harsh, cold world once more.
No,wait, thought Jane as she examined the tea shop. It was a bright, lively place, but seemed fat in her eyes. Too round, too jolly. Like…like…Santa Claus. She glanced down at herself. She was too fat. “Over 80 pounds-that’s not normal,” she muttered. She was proud of herself; she hadn’t eaten anything other that celery and carrots for two weeks. However, she was famished. One cup of tea, she thought, what will it hurt? But someone from school might see me and think I’m fat. Could I let myself do that?
Food seems like the only thing I can control these days, with Tommy and that-that cancer, and mom and dad fighting. The least I could do is make them proud by being thin and beautiful. My friends say I’m beautiful, but they’re just friends-they’re supposed to say that!
She glanced again at the tea shop. O.K., she thought, one cup of tea, but drink it fast, and don’t eat anything for the next week. She slowly pushed open the door and stepped daintily to the counter. One cup of plain tea, she stammered. She had started feeling faint, dizzy, and lightheaded. Shake it off, she told herself. It’s happened before. The lady at the counter brandished her tea. “Mam…your tea is ready…proceed to the checkout counter to pay…mam? MAM?” Jane swayed as everything started to fade. NO, she thought, I have control, of this one thi-, and before she finished her thought, she had collapsed to the floor.
Nat peeked inside the tea shop. It was unobtrusive, she decided, and no one there would be likely to bother her. That was the last thing she needed, someone asking questions.
She ordered her tea and sat down in a booth, wincing as the hot tea burned her tounge. Why did she have to be so impatient? That was what had gotten her here, to London, in the first place. Her own impatience. Nat had been so impatient to see her boyfriend, so impatient to go to New York, that she had forgotten what her parents had told her. And that was why she had been dragged to England, to finish something she had never started.
Ok, so that was bad. Does it even make any sense? I’m not good at coming up with stories in five minutes.
Aria sighed and closed the book that she had been pretending to read. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. First her brother, her dear brother had disappeared, and now… now this.
She blinked back tears of anger, sadness, pure pain, she didn’t know. She reached into her purse for the wrinkled and stained note that had told her about… about… that.
She took a sip of her tea. It was cold and had a sad, empty taste about it. “Waiter, Waiter” she called. A young man with pleasant face came to her table. ” May I help you? Ma’am.” He looked concerned. She swallowed. ” May I have another cup of tea please? Mine’s grown cold.”
“Why certainly ma’am.” He turned to leave, but then smiled and looked at her. “I find when I’m going through rough times, I find strength in the oddest places.” He walked away.
She stared after him in bewilderment. How does He know?
Walking hurridly across the road, the lady entered a tea shop. The mosquito flew in after the lady, attracted to the blood she could see pulsing in the lady’s veins. After a few mouth-movements on the part of the lady and another woman, the lady took out a paper. Strange squiggles covered its surface. Then, the other woman came back with a steaming cup. The mosquito looked at the brown liquid and was delighted to find it warm. She was so engrossed by the strange brown thing before that she didn’t notice the lady roll up the paper. The squigles came crashing down on top of the mosquito.
After cleaning up the remains of the dead bug with a paper napkin, Amanda Winter drank her tea.
Now may we go to the book topic if thats okay?
53- Now that’s strange.
Mandy slammed the book angrily, but only a fraction of a second later, she winced, regretting it. The librarian threw her a reproachful look, and Mandy muttered, “Sorry,” ducking her head as she walked towards the desk. She wordlessly placed the book on the desk, and handed the librarian her card.
“Oh,” said the librarian, “you can’t check this book out.”
Mandy shrugged. She knew that. That wasn’t stopping her. “I have to,” she said simply.
“You can’t.”
“What if I told you that the fate of reality depended on it?”
55- thanks.
57- You’re welcome.
Viola Petrogram fingered the aging yellow pages with a loving caress. The ornate cover of intricate scarlet lines and raised saphire diamonds shone in the dim light cast by a single hanging lightbulb, the sole source of light in the shanty, yet cavernous old library. The librarian, a tedious man in a grey sweater was sleeping soundly in his swivel chair, his snores remniscent of a highly annoyed cow.
Viola could have cared less about the pages. They were covered in a fading russian script, unintelligable to her unskilled mind. Oh no, all she cared about was the promise of a post-it note hidden somewhere between pages 345 and 372. Finllay after a deliberate and thorough search she slammed the book shut suddenly. “Linden promised he would leave a note when he left town!That it would explain everything!” she thought desperatly refusing to believe the man she loved would say such a mean and petty lie. “He said it would be in this book in these pages! he said he loved me!” A thousand other things he had told her flew through her mind like ghostly butterflies. She stood up, and brushed away the tears that had begun from. Turning on her cheap purple stilettos Viola heard a barely audible crunch. A crumbled yellow post-it covered with pencil scrawl read:
Viola my sweet, I am sorry for my abrupt leave. I must admit I am not like you or anyone in this city for that matter, for reasons I long to explain. I know how often my “magic tricks” frightened you, but please believe they were harmless. I love you.
Linden
The book slammed shut and would not open.
“Come on! I am SORRY!” the boy pleaded.
“I am in no mood to talk to a jerk like you, Harry Finkel,” the book sobbed.
“I was talking about certain books! Not all books are dumb and dusty!” he said.
“You are CERTAINLY right about that!” the book agreed, although not happily. And then in a suspicious tone,”What kind of books?”
“Oh, I dunno. Lots, i think. Fiction is so dull, and autobiographies aren’t exciting at all! Horror is so…horrifying, and fantasy is so, well, unrealistic. Historical fiction has such an old-feeling. Comic books are just TV shows waiting to air, and picture books are so short!”
The book’s leather cover turned a bright fierce red. “I can NOT believe you! You just offended about every single genre!” The book flew open, pages flying out of the decrepit book. The book flew right at Harry’s face, and then, Harry was in white. Just white. Nothing but the cold, fierce blankness of nowhere. But on the ground he stood on was something. Something dark, and big. They were shapes, to Harry’s surprise. Wait a second… Harry thought. These shapes weren’t just any shapes, they were letters!
“Where am I?” Harry yelled, to no one in particular.
“In me,” came the voice of the book. “You will be punished for those fowl words you uttered. This is your punishment.”
Harry moaned desperately. How will I get out of a book when I don’t even read them?
Oh, whoops, I just realized it was a girl, not a guy. Sorry!
I think I will write a book off of this!
Night time fell. The small girl, with her pale and sickly skin, stretched taught across her skeleton, opened a door in the library. She’d never seen this room before, and she thought that she had been in every row of bookshelves in the huge library. her father, a congressman, was doing some research in one of the other rooms, and she had sneaked away.
The room had no light, and no windows let in the natural light. She dug in her pocket and pulled out a small match box. She lit one and saw a candle on a small round table. She struck another match and lit it. The flickering candle revealed a small room devoid of bookcases. She picked up the candle and walked to the other side of the room. A staircase led the way down. she took a deep breath and stepped into the large room with hundreds, if not more, bookcases. Several inches of dust layered the entire room, and her delicate lungs coughed. Her feet left footprints as if in snow. She ran small finger across the spine of a thick book, only to find that it held no name. None of the books did. She drew out a book and opened it, only to find that it held one paragraph of small, calligraphic, print.
Elizabeth Rose Hammond was born on December 12th, 2007, at 11:53:09:92 at the Children’s Hospital in West Washington DC, United States, North America, Planet Earth, Milky Way…
The small girl checked her watch. 11:53. She looked back at the book and nearly dropped it as she read a new sentence.
Leslie cried and received a bath by Nurse Emilia Watson.
Before the small girl’s eyes, a new sentence began to write itself, letter by letter.
Leslie Hammond’s mother, received that baby back, and announced that she was happy.
The small girl put the book back and walked slowly down the rows. One book caught her fancy. It was thick, and with a lavender-pink leather bound. It had a fancy decoration of vines and flowers cut into the leather. It was exactly to her liking. She pulled it of the shelf and blew away the dust. She opened the book and saw that this one had much more writing in it, more than several thousand pages.
She read the first sentence.
Ophilia Isabella Johnson was born…
Ophilia felt a lump in her throat and butterflies in her stomach as she flipped past hundreds, thousands of pages, until one sentence caught her eye.
Ophilia was diagnosed with cancer at the age of five, three months, and four days.
She flipped past the page and stopped when there was no more writing. the last sentence read, Ophilia flipped past the page and stopped when there were no more words.
The opposite page, a blank one, wrote, I can save you.
“No one can save me,” she mumbled and slammed the book shut. It slipped from her fingers and landed in the dust with a mufled sound.
The book opened to another blank page.
I know a cure.
“There is no cure.” She picked up the candle from a bookshelf were she had out it while she read. She gasped as a drop of wax landed on her pale hand. She looked at the page.
I know one.
“What?”
A paradise.
“Do you know my future?”
Yes.
“Am I going to be ok?” she asked hesitantly. She closed her eyes and looked at her eyelids. She opened them and read the message.
You are going to die tomorrow.
“I think I knew that.” She felt it in her bones. She was so very tired.
I can keep you alive.
“How?”
I can take you away.
“Where?”
Adile.V
“Is that heaven?”
There is no heaven.
“What is Adile?” she gasped.
It is where you will go when you die.
“Does everyone go there?”
yes , the book spelled. Everyone.
“If I stay, will it be an easy death?” she asked. Wisdom beyond years goes hand in hand with looming death.
It will be full of suffering, and pain.
“Will,” she asked fearfully and hopefully, “will I see Momma again?” The tears broke loose.
She has been waiting for you since the day she died.
The girl, Ophilia, paused.
She ran a hand over her bald head.
She stood.
“I am ready. Take me now.”
The book shone and shook. The candle tipped and went out. A rip in the darkness, then light, a wind went through and then she disappeared. Grass under her feet, a sun in the sky. She opened her eyes and started to cry. She smiled and stretched out her tanned arms. The gentle breeze caressed and kissed her golden hair and her full face. Her blue eyes sparkled and and her lashes laughed. She ran into the open arms of the one standing in front of her.
“Momma!”
Huh. I ended writing a short story out of the core image. It’s full of typo-o’s though. Third to last sentence, it’s her eyes that sparkle, and her father is a congressman, not a cingerman.
[Corrections made.]
Wham! Whamwham! Whamwhamwhamwham wham WHAM! Cecilia slammed the book shut over and over, creating a steady beat. Wham wham wham whamwham wham wham WHAM! Aaugh, she thought to her self, stop that. But then again, why not? It’s the only thing you’ll ever be good at. Slamming into things. She looked at the book more closely. To Kill a Mockingbird, the title read, in slanty cursive. Her favorite! The best book ever for escaping into another world. Just thinking of a hot summer’s day in the world of Scout and Jeb immediately set everything right, almost making her forget about her artist mother, musician father and genius brother. The key word there being ALMOST. That’s what I am, she thought. A freak. When not being teased for having the weird parents, I’m put down by my family for being normal. There’s just no winning. This is my escape. The library. The world of books where the freak has a happy ending. Not for me. Never. She began to devise an extremely complicated plan of escape. Finally, it dawned upon her that she couldn’t hide forever. She would just have to be a little more outgoing. Make some friends. Break down this shield I’ve put up. She took another glance at her book. She set it down, stood up, and headed for home.
62-That’s an amazing story. I don’t write that well…
What about a little kid staring up in amazement? or a woman on the top of a building?
Grace sighed and slammed the book shut.
“I can’t concentrate on anything, not even my favorite book! What’s gotten into me?”
Deep in her heart, she knew what it was. Now that her parents were divorced it distracted her and she no longer heard the normal sounds she was so used to. Her dad wasn’t around so she didn’t hear him humming a jaunty tune or asking her if she wanted something to drink. The smell of his neatly pressed shirts wasn’t around and his worn jacket that felt so good between her fingers wasn’t there. Her mother didn’t ever look happy and she just trudged around the house, though she claimed she felt much better now that he was gone. Suddenly she couldn’t stand it.
“Mom! Why did you divorce Dad?”
Her mother looked at her in shock, then said, “He didn’t love me anymore. I married for love and when that was over, I couldn’t take it.”
“Are you sure you don’t love him? I mean now you’re so mopey and you never smile!”
Her mother began to cry and ran out of the room.
Hey, thanks GAPAs! You saved me! *blows kisses*
64- The story mentions Adile, which is my world that I use. I have a whole mythology in it.
64- I like the idea of a woman on the top of a building. I was thinking of contributing “someone sitting on a rooftop” after the bubble blowing one myself.
68- Oh yes!
68- Ok. I’ll do mine tommorrow.
62-Wow. That is really touching. I could never write like that. I write humor.
SLAMMITY SLAM SLAM! SLAMMITY SLAM SLAM!
That is the noise you hear coming out of the Wickell home garage, when Lisa Wickell, along with her band, the Bookwormers, start playing. So what exactly is causing all the ruckus about this new band craze? Is it the attractive lead singer, Lisa? Is it the band’s nerdy outlook and clothes? No, it is their strange instruments that is causing their wide appeal. Instead of drums, the band slams books closed to create a beat. They also rip paper, and sharpen pencils.
Some local librarians have had enough. ‘No books should be treated that way,’ says Lola Kern, a librarian at the local Jennistown Library. Many library workers agree with her, and they are trying to get a petition started arguing against the band’s use of books. However, due to the Bookwormers’ wide appeal, it is very hard to get signatures.
Lisa Wickell, the teenager who started the band, said she came up with the idea to use school utensils as instruments in the library when she was doing research.
“People have always told me I have a talent with music, and in the school library one day, someone was tapping their pencil. Then, like, four people slammed their books at the same time and I thought ‘That is a good rhythm’ and that is how it all began.”
This is Jarod Helter, News 10. Back to you, Pam.
————————————————————————-
Wow, no idea how I came up with that.
71- That’s funny!
The bridesmaid blew a string of bubbles onto the happy couple, Louise and Mark. louise was her sister, and Mark her former boyfriend. It was a Lancelot-Arthur-Guinevere thing, Mark running away with Louise, her best friend and loveing sister. The aisle had been pranced upon, the kiss been made, the couple congratuated, and now for the toasts. The father, the father-in-law, the best man, all made the toasts. The bridesmaid, Roxanne, smiled weekly and clapped alongside everyone else. She looked out the window of the reception hall, and saw the sun setting in the west. she felt, deep inside her, acceptence, and smiled for the first time at the lucky couple.
NNNNOOOOOOOO! I wrote a really good story, but the computer had a stupid accident when I hit submit. *sobs*
here it again-
Dawn arose. it was beautiful, but also painful for Eos. The sun rose, splitting the night and dimming the stars. Eos position on the roof of a Manhattan apartment building gave her the perfect view of the sunrise. Below her, in the streets, cars began to rumble and alarm clocks buzzed their owners awake. Eos stared into the sunrise and remembered what it felt like to be young and beautiful many millenia before. She had been the dawn, the energy and beauty that rose in the east every morning. She was old, now. She felt her body dieing. she had seen too much on this earth.
Her toes touched the air rush where the building stopped and air began. It was December, but she had only a thin summer dress on. She looked up as snow flakes fell and one landed on her lips.
She jumped gracefully into the air, hovorring for a second, then swooping headfirst down to the approaching pavement. The dawn rushed blindly on. the wind, Eos’s only friend, took pity and took Eos into himself, making her the wind as well. They fly through the world forever, through the busy streets, over the destroyed land, between the whispering trees, across the dieing world. This is the fate of a dieing goddess, Eos, the Dawn.
Dr. Heinman, my science teacher, has to be the craziest person I have ever seen. Not only does he give me detention for no apparrent reason, he’s sitting here, blowing BUBBLES and talking to himself. Now he presses a bunch of things (looks like buttons) on his desk. Wait- everything is turning ,twisting. Are those chains on the wall? Coming at me? What is Dr. H doing now? Blowing more bubbles, I guess… A big one, enveloping me! The ceiling opening! Help! HELP! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLP!
Wow, that didn’t make a lot of sense…
75- *backs… away… slowly*
Eva lifted the bubble wand to her lips and blew slowly, steadily. The bubble grew larger and larger, until at last it broke away, a huge shimmering sphere, floating away over the geraniums. Eva imagined pictures in its ever-changing surface, and whole worlds sprang up before her, inhabited by kings and princesses. But as the bubble tried to clear the garden wall, it popped, and the moment of magic faded.
Eva turned away and dipped the wand back into the little purple bottle. This time she blew fast, and what seemed like hundreds of tiny bubbles rippled out. Eva dropped the bubble solution in the grass and danced among the floating bubbles.
story 1#
Dalcourt Raggs sat boredly on the pale surface, which was a fairly dull landscape for an eleven year old. The old man in the moon had retired recently leaving the coveted position wide open. Dalcourt was beginning to regret his initial eagerness now that he got a true glimpse of the moon up close. He rummaged throguh his back, desperate for means of entertainment. All that he discovered was a glass bottle full of bubble mixture, a pack of banana pudding, a long fishing poll and a kite. He chose the bubble mixture and blowing slowly produced a whole fleat of pearly bubbles rising slowly into the galaxy.
story#2
Lavender trotted quietly through her old backyard, hesitantly taking in all of the overgrown weeds and slumped oaks. A rusted swingset stirred only by the wiind sat in the corner. Oh, how she had loved this backyard, playing with that childless abandon with her twin sister Sage. They were quite a pair, always getting into mis- suddenly the glint of a metal corner caught her eye buried in the dirt under a spindly tree. lavender remebered then their toy box, previously the container for their fathers screwdrivers. her manicured nails dug deep, relieving the box of it’s dirty grave. Once the lid was flipped open she tenderly fingered the small objects, taking only her treasured bubble mixture for herself. Sage wouldn’t believe this. As she exited the dilapidated yard, she clutched the box under one arm using the other to send bubbles into the air each a tiny memory of her childhood.
Caitlyn, Maggie, and Ariel were doing an art project. They thought transperancy was a cool thing to experiment with. They got some “bubble stuff” and brought it outside, there they took turns blowing bubbles and taking pictures of it, then they were going to try painting and drawing it. (Did someone walk by and see 3 highschool seniors blowing bubbles in the parking lot as if they were kidnegarteners? who cares!
)
The boy sat alone in the corner of the playground, blowing many bubbles with the wand and bubble soap he had found in the recess toys box. He watched the bubbles float up – up – up into the sky flying freely through the air. He loved the bubbles. He loved to watch them fly into the sky. suddenly a jolt of stinging pain slammed into his back. He swung around. “Hey kid! What the heck are you doing! EVERYONE is playing kickball! Youir so dumb you didnt even notice!” Then the laughs started. The horrible laughs. The boy’s eyes started to sting and soon after th tears came. He stood up and said “I don’t want to!” and the wings ripped out of the back of his shirt. They were so beutiful, like the wings of a bald eagle. They carried him up into the sky. “Slam!” Balls slammed into him. They hurt like a thousand needles. His wings flapped strongly and he surged up. Life was hard being part of the new breed.
*sobs* No one liked my story. (post 74 :D)
ooh, oooh, after the roof top one, can we do a plant sitting in a windowsill?
74- I thought it was very nice. No one bothered to comment on mine either.
I liked the second one best.
I’m in the process of writing mine but I have to go now so I’ll post it soon!
Vixen- I couldn’t figure out how it was supposed to fit in. And I didn’t really understand it. Why was Eos dying? It was nice though.
Biblio- I liked the second one best. The first would have been better as a short story, because you had to stick all that explanation into a small space, thus ruining the magicalness (purplefinch’s word) of the bubble-blowing.
87- eos is from the old mythologies, she is no longer respected, and trapped in a world that is hitting the self destruct button with its head in a homer simpson fashion.
I reject your reality and substitute my own.
This is an exerpt from a short story like something that I’ve been working on. (well it is similar too it, I re wrote a passage so it isn’t quite the same wording.) But anyways it is based on the idea of someone blowing bubbles
She was perched as if about to fly away, her hair wispy and light like a dandelion puff around her head. She was cloaked in a vevelteen or silken robe the color of twilight. In one of her slender hands she held a small twig with a silvery hoop on one end, the sort that small children use to blow bubbles. In the other, a deep blue glass jar of a sparkling liquid. As I approached she drew the twig out of the jar and slowly blew forming one glimmering crystline bubble but no more. She collected this in the lap of her gown and began forming another bubble. By now, I was near enough to be within earshot.
“Excuse me” I said softly not wanting to interrupt whatever it was she was doing, “excuse me, but may I ask why you are blowing only one bubble each time?”
“I am creating soul worlds” she said handing me the round bubble she had just blown, “everyone has some grace inside but some need more help seeing the grace of their world. When you look into your soul world you see the grace that surrounds you, the grace in your world. There are things and people that you pass by every day and discount with barely a glance at them. When you look through the soul-glass you can see their worlds and the beauty and the grace which they carry.”
Noone commented on either of mine
90- I liked it. It would be better continued though.
experimenting a little…
Natalie blew the buubles through the wand. they floated on the air, then popped as they touched the twigs and leaves of the tree that she sat in. None of the bubbles seemed to survive. She screwed the lid back on the bottle, and reclined against the trunk. She looked down the side of the branh that she sat on and was pleasantly surprised that she was at least twenty feet up. Nothing like a little adventure.
A bird chattered merrily, with another of its kind. It seemed that they were argueing, perhaps ovr’ a bit of worm.
A cloud drifted wearily, across the summer sky. It took the shape of beasts and critters, that natalie had never seen.
This all was her legacy, her only love and life. It wasn’t good enough then, it will never be. Natalie sighed and admitted, she needed a friend, not the ind to paint your nails with, underneath a watchful flashlight. More of an advisor, as if to the queen. A friend to call in the middle of the night, and to sob into her arms. A friend to keep you steady, when you are about to fall. With a jerk, Natalie remembered that she was in a tree. She grabbed a supporting branch and leaned into the trunk, “All I have right now is you, and that’ll do just fine.”
89- I LOVE that. It’s so very magical.
89- That reminds me of something . . . *thinks* Hmmm. I don’t know. It’s pretty, though.
91- I like it.
91- im gunna do some more then tie them together in as later writing peice.
94- That should be good.
I like 89… I would make a couple changes, but other than that…
95- please give me suggestions on what changes you would make! I appreciate constructive criticism.
92&93- thanks! Alice, tell me what it reminds you of if you figure it out! ^_^
96- I know this is horribly hypocritical of me, but your descripyions are a flowy, liquid. Really nice. But your dialogue seems slightly coppy and put on. I would concentrate on the dialogue a bit more.
97- i allways find dialouge as the hardest.
Can iI write one for on the roof now?
Ignore my bubble story-it sucked. Hopefully this one will be a little better. Feel free to make constructive critiscisms.
71- Hmm.. I wonder where the book slamming idea came from…
74- Yours was amazing!!!!
A lone girl stared out over the busy city, lights flashing, signs flickering, and, basically, the world going on without her. Who was she trying to kid? The world never cared. Her parents shoved her in this godforsaken hospital, and never visited. Her teachers told her to “get well, Mortia,honey” without really believing it. Even she had stopped believing that there was some remote chance of her getting better. She slowly turned around, away from the city. She took a long look at the sunrise. Oh, how she hated sunrises. It meant another day, being lonely, and sad, and living with the reality that there was no cure for cancer.
However much Mortia hated sunrises, she loved sunsets triple that. They meant that now there came some reprieve from the horrible day, a calm reprieve that might, just MIGHT, have death come. For she knew she was going to die sometime. Well, everyone has to die sometime, just me, sooner than most, she thought. She wanted to die quietly, but sometimes, when the terrible day was new like this, she just wanted to throw herself off the rooftop and be away with it. This, however, was the first time she had seriously contemplated it. “Oh, death, take me now before I have to do this dreadful, bloody thing!!! PLEASE!”
“How can you be so sure you want this?” mused a voice behind her. She spun around, and saw a short, stocky man in a grey suit looking at her with piercing blue eyes.
“W-who are you?” she stammered.
“I, replied the man simply, “am death”.
” You’ve come for me at last?: she replied.
“Yes”, whispered the man, and pulled her into the sky, up, up into the clouds, and the wispy orange sunrise.
97- yes, I think I’ll work on the dialogue. I sort of rushed when writing it but took my time on the other parts. I’m curious what coppy means, though. I think I have a general idea but I’ve never heard the word “coppy” before…
100- She might mean choppy. I don’t know.
I lay on the roof, basking in the sunlight, knowing full well that when the Winter came, it would vanish for the three long months, until Spring came again. Momma said that once, there was sunlight in Winter, and rain in Summer, too, but since the Magicians had come, the seasons were all the same. Winter was snow, always snow. Spring was light showers every other day, and warm sunshine when it wasn’t showering. Summer was sun, sun, sun, all the time, unless there was a drought, and autumn was more sun, but wind and fog, too. And then the monotonous cycle started again. So it had been for centuries, and so it always would be. I turned and pressed my nose into the new thatch. I was still light enough that I could sit on the roof, providing I kept my back against a beam, but I was gaining weight, and soon I wouldn’t be able to anymore. Perhaps by the time Spring came again I would be too heavy to sit here anymore, and I wanted to make the most of the remaining Summer.
101- eh heh, maybe she does mean choppy… I feel silly now…
The rooftop of a large school flashes light off it. Other than that, it is ocmpletely blank. Shifffsmack! There was a burst of light and a young teenager appeared on a roof. He lies on the roof, looking at the sky, watching the clouds. He had done it again. The bullies had been chasing him and he wanted to hide in the bathroom but then shifffsmack! He was on the roof. He looked up at the sky. The clouds were amazing today. Misty little wisps. Suddenly something cought his eye. There was a splotch of colour moving across the sky. When his eyes focused on it he saw it was a person… with wings! “Better check this out.” he mumbled. Shiffsmack! He was gone. The school roof was again blank exept for the sun shining off it.
102- Yeah. Choppy. sorry, it was half past midnight.
101- I really like that! It’s so…so…serene. Obviously you don’t live in Wisconsin…
Vivian laid back in the warm, sweet smelling grass and gently blew bubbles through the bright yellow wand. She watched as they floated up, up, up into the gathering dusk. A light flickered to life inside her house, and she quickly looked away, toward the gently swaying trees on the other side of the meadow. No doubt it was her little cousin, Zoe, who wanted to play yet another game of save the princess in the big, red barn on the edge of the cornfield. Well, she’d never look out here. “But if she does, she won’t see anything,” Vivian thought fiercely, as she sprinted off toward the trees.
Marlene lay back on the roof of the apartment building. The stars above her glistened and seemed dim against the flashing lights of the streets below. Her tears had long since dried out, and although she was far from happy, she could no longer hear her tormenters. Her parents, screaming at each other in one of the apartments, the kids at school jeering voices, the counselor greedy for information. She stood up, and paced, thinking of all the things she’d like to do but never would. She walked over to the dge of th building and looked down into the streets. The flashing red and green lights dazzled her as always. A rush of excitement swallowed her as she imagined the fall, the flying on the wind. The glory, oh the glory… Flight is indeed a glorios death. She took a tantalizing step closer to the edge…
“You don’t have to jump, you know,” came a voice behind her. She spun around and saw Jake sitting on an aircondition vent.
“I wasn’t,” she said automatically, although she knew it was a lie.
he laughed softly. His brown hair was brushed quickly to the back, or it had been at one point, but the wind had long since blown it randomly to all sides. Marlene noticed for the first time that he was wearing a tuxedo. “Where have you been?” she asked.
“Wedding. Some coworker of my dad’s. We only just got back.” He jumped gracefully from the vent and came to stand beside her. “And then I saw a crazed girl ready to take her life and jump to the crashing depths below,so I rushed up here to save your life.”
“Really?”
“No. I could here some crazy couple argueing, so I came up here for the quiet.”
Marlene blushed furiously and looked away, but Jake noticed.
“Oh, I’m really sorry….” he mumbled. He sat, his feet dangling of into the void. Marlene sat beside him.
“Are they splitting up?” he asked hesitantly.
Marlene shook her head. “I wish.”
“Do you?” he asked quietly. Marlene looked him in his eyes.
“Even you came up here for the quiet.”
“Look, I’m sorry, i didn’t realize-” he apologized.
“It’s okay, it’s fine,” she said guiltily.
“It’s not that fine,” he said, and smiled, wiping away a tear with his finger. “Everyone fights sometimes,” he said, wisely.
“They don’t fight sometimes. It’s constant. ‘Pass the salt.’ ‘You son of a *****! Pass it yourself!’ It’s tiring. It really is.” Marlene smiled weakly. “I don’t know why they bother. Ãt’s not like they get anything done. I’ve had to do laundry twice this week, and I’m the only one who bothers to eat meals. They take bites between yelling.”
Jake sensed that the topic was finished. “How’s school?”
“It sucks.”
“The cup’s half empty, isn’t it?” he said sweatly.
Marlene leaned her head on his shoulder. “There’s not a drop left in the cup.”
Jake laughed softly. He stared up at the moon, and Marlene pushed her lips gently against his. The stars had never been brighter.
99 – that was cool. I liked it. Did you intentionally name her Mortia? I thought that was kind of funny (or maybe not, death isn’t really funny) because mort is the word for death in Latin.
Alexa pushed open the door to the roof. Air was all she needed; air and solitude. Up on the roof she was alone, with no one to bother her and only the big, cloudy sky and her plants to keep her company.She was a solitary person, Alexa decided. Nothing was more comforting than a cloudy, silent place where she was alone to think. The roof was perfect for this and today was a perfect day, rainy, cloudy and as quiet as it could possibly be in the city. When she was on the roof Alexa could almost pretend there weren’t streets with millions of people on them below and that she was the only person in the world.
It began to drizzle after she checked the tomatoes. Alexa turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes, letting the rain wash down her neck. She thought she might have been the happiest person in the world at that moment. The streets seemed miles below her and Alexa could hear nothing but the rain washing down her, falling in her shoes, soaking her clothes and hair.
After a while it stopped raining. Alexa slowly opened her eyes, crossed the roof, and stepped back down into the noise of the city.
Oh, that was really short. And it wasn’t very good in my opinion. Well, anyway, tell me what you thought. Please.
hey, GAPAs! you have to read all these posts, what do you think about our writing? Are there and critiques you can give mè? Us?
108- It was all right, the descriptions could be made a bit more flowy and elegant, since that’s the feel of the paragraph. Other than that, it was good. Short, abrupt, but good.
What did you think of mine? (post 107?)
108- I enjoyed it. It captures the character’s emotions well. as 110, said, the descriptions could be re-worded a bit to flow more. I really like the emotions it portrays, though.
Yes, GAPAs, what do you think of our writing? Give us (me at least) constructive criticism!
Come on, GAPAs!
Can someone please critique 107?
Ok, I will critique 107, since i liked it and you critiqued mine.
I hope that helped.
The end was rather surprising – I got the idea that they were just friends. I know this probably isn’t very helpful but I am not a very good critiquer. I really couldn’t find anything else wrong with it. The dialogue flows smoothly, everything makes sense (except for the ending, which makes sense but still bothers me), it’s realistic and I can even sense Marlene’s desperation in the dialogue. That kind of dialogue is rather hard to do. I’ve tried. You are a really good writer. You could get published!
114- Thanks! Surprising ending, hmmmm. *must think more about this.*
I think that the sitting on a rooftop is officially the kernal image now. What’s next? Someone walking a dog?
108- Yes, I did. I was wondering if someone would notice that!!
Anyone want to critique me?????
Someone else critique 107, please?!
118- Okay. I like it well enough, but it’s not my style. And the kiss at th end is just…a kiss. *shudder* I’d like it better if it were something else. It’s good for what it is, though.
117- I liked it. It was magical.
Sitting on a rooftop? Okay…
Jasper sat on the edge of the roof, long legs swinging idly as he traced his fingers along the cold roughness of one of the stone gargoyles that adorned the cathedral’s bell tower. A stiff breeze swept his crow-colored chin length hair across his face and into his eyes, disrupting his view of the city landscape stretching out below him.
Casually letting go of the stone rim with one hand, he scraped the hair out of his mouth and tucked the offending strands behind one ear, just in time to watch the final adagio of the sunset as it sank gloriously behind the skyscrapers, illuminating the glass structures in dazling colors that burned his eyes and left their echos behind, even as he blinked them away. They lasted only a few moments before their source of illumination slipped out of the citie’s iron and steel grasp, escaping to the ground and faint line of the sea, far off. On it’s way to be someone else’s dawn.
He sighed absentmindedly, glancing down at the citydwellers as they hurried, rushing from place to place. They hadn’t noticed that the burning disk of fire and light had vanished; it would soon be replaced by a thousand cheap copies, much closer and just as bright in their minds. But the light didn’t compete, it only caried a tiny way into the alies and crevices of the city, where dark thrived.
A shadow passed over him, and he gave a slight, croked smile to the girl who was now perched on top of the gargoyle he had been mindlessly stroking.
“Hey, stranger.” He said, his voice low and soft.
The girl giggled, folding her legs so she was perched precariously in a crosslegged position on top of the stone creature’s head. Her pale skin and dark hair matched his own, but her hair was even more riddled with hints of blue and purple and shining then his, making it dull by comparison.
“Hello Jasper,” She replied, her vioce a clear and bubbling brook of energy and life. “Watching the nightrise again?”
He shook his head yes, smiling. It wasn’t ever about the sun for Verdandi, but the moon and the night. “It’s just so peacefull, and clear, and alive,” she had described it to him once. “Not like the nasty burning brightness, far to hot.”
Now, she hummed softly a broken melody as she watched the people below her.
“So very rushed, they are. No time to sit and admire to stars. I used to live on a star.” She informed him. “With my sister. But them we had to go and do things, Elder said. ‘Be useful.’ Wasn’t very much fun, but she’s not yet finished. So I’ll wait untill she is and then we’ll be to gether again.”
Jasper smiled again, such tales were not uncomon from this strange person. There was something off about Verdandi, perhaps the way she apeared so suddenyl ans noiselessly out of the very sky, and when her eyes changed color to match the heavens. Right now they were a light purple with blue at the edges, the puple dark but somehow sparkling like the lonly star the hung in the sky, waiting for it’s comrads.
“What was it like, Ver?” He asked, instead of dismising her wild stories. “The star.”
“Oh, it was lovely. An icy blue, with little purple endrels. And it tickled ever so much, when it felt me with it’s flames. Skuld scolded me for teasing it, when I played with it’s inner Spark, but it was only for fun, not out of spite like someone might, to get it’s energy.”
“And what were you doing on the star?”
“Oh, we’d just constructed a lovely little planet, all purples and greens. And such lovely crystals and caverns there. Life hadn’t come around yet though, so there was no one to play with.”
Jasper took this in stride, gazing up at the deeppening palate of dark blues and purples and a thin line of bright gold. Colors, he had always had a pasion for them. He wasn’t very good at painting or drawing where this might be useful, but he dank them in anyway, tasting them as one might a fine wine.
Not long ago when he had first saw this strange woman sitting on top of the cathedral and climbed up from the bell tower to meet her, he had told her of this secret love. She hadn’t laughed it off or shook her head like the other few he’d shared this with, but listened to him and nodded. “The colors are all you have, living here. No space to breath or be alone, there’s always far to many people. The sky is a sanctuary.” He’d been stuned she could read his soul this way at first, but she was the first person to understand this, let alone put it into words. So he’s stayed and talked with her, and learned of her strange life.
Now, nearly six weeks later, he was still climbing onto the roof and talking with her. The priest didn’t seem to mind when he came here, he asumed he wanted to pray alone. Jasper wasn’t very religious, and couldn’t make himself believe in any diety, even when he tried. He’d seen a picture of the Grand Canyon once, and heard someone say it had strengthened their faith, because how would something like that exist without someone to design it? For him, it spoke the exact opposite. How could someone create that? All the colors and crevices and shadows, the way the light entered and illuminated some parts but not others. But he didn’t mention this, only nodding and smiling along.
Ver watched him as he thought, but he didn’t elaborate as to what he was thinking.
“You’re remembering.” She said decisively.
Jasper chuckled and nodded. Ver could seem so young sometimes, with the way she saw the world, yet there were moments that sent shivers down his spine when he knew she was old, older then the planet and the stars she loved. These times didn’t last very long, but they left him shaken and a little afraid, even as he had to explain such simple things as normal human behavior to her she knew infinatly more than he could ever comprehend.
Ver sat up suddenly, listening intently to the air, and went still. Jasper’s breath cought, and her didn’t move wither, transfixed by the change in the very atmosphere around Verdandi. She stayed this way forseveral seconds, not breathing, not moving, seeming to be as rock hard and unmovable as the snarling beast she calmly sat upon. Something inside him moved, uneasy, and he couldn’t supres a tiny gasp of air as it left his throat, this non-human, this, this-
And the moment passed, Jasper let out his breat as Ver relaxed and turned towards him. “Skuld is done,” she told him, a little sadly. “I will go and meet her now.”
Jasper felt his insides drop a little at this news. Ver would be leaving,and he would never see her again. Even if something like her could remember this short time with him, the earth would likely be long gone before she thought of returning.
“How far away is she?” He asked, a hint of lonelyness and loss creeping into his voice.
“Many galaxys over,” She told him. “Don’t be sad.” She told him, a hint of ditress in her soft words.
“I won’t.” He responded. “I will miss you, though.”
Verdandi nodded. “I’ll miss you too.” She said faintly. And she would, for a time. As she was flying to her long-parted sister of a spirit she would be racked with something she hadn’t felt before, and would remember this place and day. But after a while she would forget, and how could she not, for what were these few short weeks in comparison to someone who was there for the birth of time itself?
Neither of them spoke this, but both of them knew it. Ver swept him a kiss on each cheek, and he hugged her tightly as they stood under the stars.
“Guess there’s no time for you to teach me to fly then.” He said softly. It was one of the many things that she prodded him with, how could he not fly? It was as natural as, well, laughter to her.
She giggled quietly again. “Oh, you can still teach yourself. You always could.” She told him. “It might just be harder without someone to give you a push.”
With that last thought still on his mind, she turned away, leaving him inhailing the deep, sweet air that always encircled her, regardless of the pollution the city spewed out every minute. She lept into the dark purple tinged air, no more than a whisper of breeze swept er up and away, not as a person but a cluster of violet sparks and dreams and memories, growing ever distant s they streaked across the sky, to be mistaken for a shooting star.
And she was gone.
Jasper sat back on the stone ledge, and the last of the sweet night perfume wafted away. The memory remainded, though, and even if Ver couldn’t hold onto it for log, it would never leave him. That was something.
He decided to stay longer than usual tonight, and watch the nightset.
Oh wow, that was way longer than I thought it would be. Hmm.
I yanked hard on my collar, sending a sharp pain up my throat. I growled at one of the people holding the large box thing pointing at my owner. Haris picked me up. “Look! Tinkerbell likes the cameras!” No. This is somekind of really bad dream. She is not honestly letting those things point at me and flash. Tears streamed down my face. Finally, the cameras were distracted by another lady walking down the red fake grass. Haris put me down, a little too quickly, and I tripped and landed on my chin. We moved into a line witha bunch of really stinky people. They were giving pieces of paper to two other people, who looked at them and opened a door. Holy Lassie, I have to pee! Gotta pee, gotta pee, gotta peegottapeegottapeegottapeegottapee! Please, Haris, take me somewhere where I can pee! While no one looked, I pointed my butt at the fake grass and let it out. It felt so nice. We rushed into the building, and Haris sat in a chair. I walked a little bit around her feet, but there were so many people, and they were, honest to Lassie, trying to step on me. I clawed at Haris’s leg, trying to get her to lift me and save me from the evil people. My nail got slightly caught in that removable fur that Haris always puts on her legs, and it kinda tore. But, the tear got bigger, and bigger, and bigger, until I could put my entire head through it! Haris saw, and said a bad word, and then flicked me on my nose. It really hurt. It sent me reeling, and I saw and felt sparks. I yelped, and Haris picked me up and clamped a hand around my mouth. I couldn’t open my mouth, ad I couldn’t breath. I whimpered, and she let go. I lay down in her lap, and to my horror, people came out on a large long table, and cameras started clicking and flashing. I pushed my face into Haris’s shirt and tried to forget all the cameras and people showing off their removable fur.
*Note* This is a story about Haris Pilton, and her dog, Tinkerbell. They have to face poperatzi and the fashion runway. Poor puppy!
Whoops- meesed up the begining.
I yanked hard on my collar, sending a sharp pain up my throat. Haris, honest, I’m your dog. We are going on a walk. I don’t know why I have to wear this stupid, ichy tuttu, or why you need to smile to the cameras, but I need to pee! We are going on a walk. Keyword: pee-time. I growled at one of the people holding the camera pointing at my owner. Haris picked me up. “Look! Tinkerbell likes the cameras!” No. This is somekind of really bad dream. She is not honestly letting those things point at me and flash. Tears streamed down my face.
and the rest is allright.
120- Oh . . . oh, that’s lovely. *shining eyes*
122- Poor dog!
124- *nodnod* Someone take that dog away from her. Now! My chi needs a playmate…
But what does the story about Haris Pilton have to do with rooftops?
Ooh. <3 -uses as shameless character study-thing time.-
Sushi muttered a curse as her foot slipped, once again, from the chink in the mortar she was trying to shove it in. Her head, almost involuntarily, snapped back to see if anyone had heard the noise. The street looked deserted. Maybe the hammering of her heart would drown out her voice, though it was sound all the same. Gritting her teeth, she climbed again, feeling between the bricks for places she could fit her slim fingers. Please, she thought, nearly praying, please don’t let me fall, please let him be awake, please don’t let them hear me. Her left hand scrabbled along the wall and scraped its knuckles on a narrow windowsill. Half the tension left her muscles immediately. She was almost there, almost safe. As safe as she would ever be, anyway.
Then the old brick under her right foot crumbled, leaving her hanging by four fingers and the toe of one shoe. Her other flip-flop slid off her foot to land in the periwinkle plants below. No, nononononono, they’ll see it, they’ll find me, they’ll find me, if I don’t fall they’ll kill me. Her lips formed the shapes of the worst words she knew, in three languages, but if they made any sound she couldn’t hear it. It was such a long way down.
Her hand throbbed. It was probably bleeding where it scraped the concrete ledge. If she could just think about that instead of the long drop below her feet, concentrate only on one part of her body, maybe the rest wouldn’t hurt as much when she hit the ground. Sushi was not a naturally despondent person, but the situation appeared helpless. Her throat was so tight that she could barely breathe: one more way to die.
They were coming closer. Sushi could run and she could hide, but she would be caught eventually. She had decided, some time ago, that her last words would be “And now the world begins,” or something equally enigmatic. But now…now she couldn’t see what was so bad about a world waiting to be born. Her hands hurt.
Had she ever been this scared before? If she had, she couldn’t remember. Her mind was swirling with half-mad desperate attempts to escape death; memory would naturally get lost in the tide.
She swung her left arm up, reaching until her shoulder burned, clamping her fingers around the ledge. It ripped the skin as she fought for a better grip. There was definitely blood; Sushi could feel it, warm and slick, under her hand. She was slipping in it, falling, falling. For less than a second she could feel the universe about to explode, to make a world in which Sushi O’Connell had never lived and would not walk again.
Then it was gone, and her grip was painful but firm. Slowly, barely breathing, she climbed the last two feet until her feet rested on the ledge. It was cold against the bare skin of her right foot, but it was refreshingly solid and horizontal. The mad drummer in her heart gradually slowed and quieted, until she could hear her hand rapping against Sam’s window. He looked out at her, his eyes wide, but he nodded and climbed out of bed to fumble with the latch on the window. Sushi didn’t waste time looking at him. She grabbed the gutter and flung herself onto the roof, where she sat, breathing deep.
Chicago tasted like smoke and water. A siren cried on the next street over; she could see its spinning lights rushing toward an entirely different glow, that of a giant ember that turned all the night around it orange. Something was burning.
Sam climbed up next to her. “They’re here, aren’t they?” he said. Sushi nodded. She wiped her bloody hand on her shorts and with the other found the length of red string in her pocket. I have noticed nothing, she thought, hoping her mind would shape her face. I cannot see.
Actually, I may put that in the book. It has some nice foreshadowing for stuff that happens to Mari later on.
I ran up the stairs, my feet pounding on the cement. I needed to escape. Down below, in the apartment, there was too much going on, too many people. I’d had enough. I grabbed my notebook and a pen and headed for the roof. Unlocking the door marked “roof access” with the copy I’d made of the janitor’s key, I took a breath of the fresh air. Stepping out into the openess, I could feel myself relaxing, my whole spirit spreading itself to occupy the sky. I took my usual perch next to the lone gargoyle the architect’s whims had placed there. Taking out my notebook and beginning to write I was startled by a voice coming from somewhere around me.
“So you’ve returned. I do enjoy your company.”
I turned, expecting to see one of the other residents of the building but instead the voice spoke again.
“No, I’m right here, beside you. The sole gargoyle of the 9th street apartment building.”
“You….talk?” I said slowly. Though I’d read quite a few books where this sort of thing occured often, I hadn’t really ever thought it possible or likely to occur around me.
“Well, why not? It gets a bit boring being the only gargoyle on this building though the crows come to visit me. And the pigeons too occasionally. But they aren’t very good for conversation. However, you are. What brings you here so often?”
I blinked, letting this sink in. Gargoyles don’t usually engage you in small talk.
“I like the simple solitude that one can find on a rooftop. You can watch the world go by, observing but not needing to be there, to be participating. I don’t have to defend myself or actively participate in anything. I can just watch as the world passes by this perch.”
hmm… I feel like I should continue this further but I think I’ll post it now.
127- Wow. Just wow.
120- oh! That’s beautiful. Beautifully bittersweet.
128- Very nice! I like it a lot. But I do understand what Vixen was saying about choppy dialogue. If you use more contractions, that might help.
128- Yay for gargoyles. Talking ones, too. I’ve felt like that before…
but there’s no easy way onto my roof, and it’s not flat. Oh well. For a while I hid under the deck, but the opening to get there’s a bit small now. Maybe I’ll widen it.
give me examples of my choppy-ness! I want to improve! and thank you for the comments!
Someone on a rooftop. It turned out kind of long. I’m not sure. What do you think?
The music is too loud. Always too loud. Why did I even come? I have to wake up early tomorrow, too. I came because he’d be here, and we only have two days left. He’s here, but now he’s talking to someone else. The whole dance, he’s been with her. Not me. And the music is bad. I hate dances. I shouldn’t have come. I can’t leave. He’s here.
I stare down the hallway outside the cafeteria-turned-club. There’s a door going out. I want to go out into the twilight. Anything is better than this thumping noise they call music. It’s too hot, as well. And crowded with people I can’t call friends. They’re not enemies, if they notice me they pull me in, but I’m not one of them. If I left nobody would notice. If they did, they wouldn’t care. I can’t leave when there’s a chance he’s here. I can’t even see him anymore. The crowds, the dark room with strobe lights. I hate it here. The door is just down the hall.
Outside, it’s better. I walk along the wall, and the music fades as I get farther away. I turn a corner, and the playground stands before me, relic from when this was an elementary school. Workmen have left tools here. They’re taking it down. It’s old. The principal says she doesn’t want someone getting killed on it. The superintendent says there isn’t budget for a new one, and they don’t need a playground at a high school. One of the workmen was using a ladder. They leaned it against the school wall. I’m already in trouble; it can’t get much worse. The music is just a whisper now.
I’m not alone on the roof. “What happened to Julie?”
“She wanted to dance. So she danced with Rob. It was a slow song at the time. What brings you here?”
“I don’t belong there. I shouldn’t have come.”
“Of course you belong there. It doesn’t matter, though. Have you been on the roof before? I come up after team practice, waiting for the bus.”
“I’ve never been up here before. I’m usually terrified of heights.”
“So am I, but not here. Not even on the edge. Come sit with me.”
What can I do but join him? “The stars are beautiful. But I feel like I’m going to fall.”
“Just keep thinking about the stars, and you’ll miss the ground. Then we can fly.”
“What will you think about?”
“I’ll find something. I’d like to say ‘you’, but that’s too cliched.”
“I don’t mind that. Julie’s going to kill you, though, if she finds out.”
“We’re not going out. I was just talking to her because she asked about the process of requesting a song. So I gave a detailed explanation. Then she was bored and went off to dance, and I came up here.”
We’re sitting next to each other. He puts his hand over mine. The music is gone. It’s peaceful and quiet.
I look down at our hands, together. My watch says it’s 11:02. “I don’t want to leave, but the dance is over. My parents expect me home.”
“I’ll walk you back inside. We have to do this again sometime.”
“Yes. I love rooftops.”
“You’ve never been on one before.”
“So?”
I’m really begining to wish I’d come to this thread before. It’s brilliant.
134- I feel like that at dances. I’d love to find a rooftop to go to, but they baracade all the hallways and we don’t have ladders. *sigh* Oh well. I liked it, it was nice. Especlly the last four lines. Hehe.
Sorry. Been gone at camp. I am back!
—————————————————————————–
“I DID IT!” she yelled. Then again: I DID IT!!!
She had done it, and she was ecstatic. She had climbed to the roof of 1595 Berrynettle Drive, the tallest roof in the world. No one in her family had done it before. After 768 and a half flights of stairs, she had made it. She was the first person in the world to get to the roof.
She had seen some pretty weird stuff on the way up there. She had seen toxic waste dumps(in her own house!), man-eating fish the size of her pointer finger, an old guy who had gotten lost in her house apparently about 75 years ago when he was “a wee lad,” and had dropped dead on the spot once he said that to her, and even five elephants, a mule, and two hamsters who had been living off of the piles of pizza that were stacked all over that floor.
And there was her dad, coming up behind her, a stern look on his face. He spoke: “Now Jenny, what’s all the yelling for? I didn’t know you were that excited to clean the gutters.”
Sorry. I messed up the bold on the last post. Here it is correctly.
“I DID IT!” she yelled. Then again: I DID IT!!!
She had done it, and she was ecstatic. She had climbed to the roof of 1595 Berrynettle Drive, the tallest roof in the world. No one in her family had done it before. After 768 and a half flights of stairs, she had made it. She was the first person in the world to get to the roof.
She had seen some pretty weird stuff on the way up there. She had seen toxic waste dumps(in her own house!), man-eating fish the size of her pointer finger, an old guy who had gotten lost in her house apparently about 75 years ago when he was “a wee lad,” and had dropped dead on the spot once he said that to her, and even five elephants, a mule, and two hamsters who had been living off of the piles of pizza that were stacked all over that floor.
And there was her dad, coming up behind her, a stern look on his face. He spoke: “Now Jenny, what’s all the yelling for? I didn’t know you were that excited to clean the gutters.”
127-Wow.
128-That is GREAT!! But I agree: you have kinda choppy dialogue.
129 (Alice)/137 (Donaldo)- -blushstammerthanks-
128 (e~a)- Hrm, your prose reminds me of somebody else’s, though I can’t remember whose at the moment.
I hope you don’t mind a spot of concrit? I think your writing has a really lovely, poetic feel to it. It usually flows nicely, too, but there are a few spots where the rhythm seems to get thrown off. I think a lot of the ‘choppiness’ Alice and Vixen (yes, I did read the backlog for this particular thread -shock-) are talking about is because you tend to use a lot of helping verbs. (I don’t think that’s the correct term, just the one my fifth-grade teacher pounded into my brain, but it gets the point across.) I have the same problem, so I can’t offer much help, other than to read your writing and watch out for passages that could be changed to a more active single verb. “Penty was disgusted by the goopy mess,” for example, could be changed to “The goopy mess disgusted Penty.”
On the other hand, since your character seems fairly passive, maybe you meant to write it like this and I’ve just made a fair idiot of myself.
Pay attention to repetition as well; things like “took–taking” and “occurred–occur” in the same or adjacent sentences can often sound kind of odd to the reader. I might change the first one to “I settled into/sat down at my usual perch” and one of the “occur”s in the second to “happen.” That’s just me, though; you might want to look up other words to get the effect you’re looking for. (This is the only time you will ever hear me, even obliquely, recommend the use of a thesaurus.)
Also watch your commatosity.
Overall, though, I like your writing a lot. You should already know that. b^_^d
Will critique others LATAR. A girl can only do so much.
LATAR? You have strange ways of spelling words, Penty…
But I can’t correct because I know it’s on purpose. Oh woe is me!
The raindrops fell as tears from the sky, and I spread my arms and swirled around. My clothes stuck to my skin, but the rain made everything go away. This is my life, and this is forever, me and the rain, the perfect ending. I really don’t want to die, not now, and not ever. It wouldn’t be so bad, but that’s not the life to choose. I swirled harder and faster, the rain drops swirling a spiral around me, this was beautiful, this was forever. I laughed and fell flat on my back. I lay on the roof, with manical laughter. It seemed like my life was complete, happily and finally. It’s impossible to add to perfection and this was perfection, truly and beautifuly. Raindrops landed on my face, one slid down and passed my lips. It tasted as sweet as anything, but also bitter and poisonous. Things aren’t as they used to be, the rain all poison, the land’s all dead. But this was pefection and this was now, and you can’t take from perfection.
Night time falls, morning devoured by the creature of the night. We sat on the roof, staring at the sun’s final battle. Red and glorious, we felt the heat turn to ice.
Foreen turned to spek with me. “Do you want to see the sun die?”
I stared at my feet. They were nearly black with dirt. “I can’t change anything.”
“You know that’s a lie. You can change it,” he whispered.
“I don’t want to die!” I cried. The tears were bitter and salty in my mouth.
“The sun wil not rise tommorrow. It will die. As will everyone on the planet. Darkness wins, and you could change it. Yet you choose not to.”
“We will die anyway. I will fail. I can not succeed,” I said, coldly.
He stared at me, shamelessly, shaming me. “Will you see your sister die? Will that not move that heart ofyours, as stony as it may be? She will starve. No plants can grow without the sun. We will all die, the youngest and the very old first.”
“I do not want to die. I can not succeed,” I said stubbardly, staring into the last rays of the sun.
“You are the only one who can succeed,”he assured me.
“Will it be a hard death?” I asked fearfully.
He smiled and shook his head. “It will be glorious, and you will give evryone a chance at life.”
“I don’t see how dieing is glorious,” I defiantly replied.
“Have you never seen the waves crash onto the rocks? have you never seen the sunrise? Have you never seen the ripples of sun on the forest floor? Life is glourious, but death is even more so.”
“I am scared,” I cried.
“So are we all.”
I looked at my best friend and hugged him hard. “I will miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too, Rhona.” He let me go slowly. He smiled at me as a tear slid down his cheek.
The next morning, the sun rose with a fury more glourious than death or life. Rhona’s little sister,a girl of no more than five, built a castle out of mud in the morning sun.
141- Oh, that’s beautiful. But so sad…
It was happening again. Elizabeth lay in bed listening intently. The Invaders, as they were called, were here. They came every night to the town, she would see their shadows in the streets at night and hear them quietly opening doors, she always feared the day when the door they opened was her’s. She had nightmares where she found thaat she couldn’t move and they came, leaning over her bed, closer, closer. She tried to scream and nothing came out, then she would wake up,, sweating. She had dreamed a million times of it happening, of what she would do, and never did the dream turn out good.
It was happening. Tonight was the night, Elizabeth heard the house door downstairs opening, she knew she wasn’t asleep and she knew she had to do something. She knew sub-conciously thaat the next day her parents would be gone, and if not gone in body, gone in soul. She knew she didn’t want to let it happen to her. The Invaders destroyed people, and running away was pointless if they already were coming toward you. Elizabeth decided the only thing to do was to get out of her room, no, not through the door, she’d have to use the window. Quietly, without a sound, Elizabeth slipped out of bed and out the window. It was a warm dark summer evening. It was very dark, The Invaders would take all light away. She didn’t understand how she did it, but Elizabeth managed to find her way to her window, open it, and slip out onto the porch roof just outside. She huddled there for a moment, hearing The Invaders opening other house doors and sneaking inside. One loud scream suddenly filled the air, and it stopped as quickly as it came. Elizabeth sat there, shaking. She didn’t understand why, or even exactly what was happening, but it was bad.
She sat there for hours, on the roof, not daring to move, not daring to think, just being. She waited ’till sunrise to face the horror of what The Invaders had done to her family, her life.
141- Thanks. Is the dialogue all right? It isn’t too choppy?
Wow, don’t know quite where that story came from, it was rather “out of the blue” I hope I don’t give myself nightmares tonight…
He perched perilessly against the wind in the night. Was he going to fall? But it was a dare. If he didn’t his “friends” would beat up his little brother if he wouldn’t do it. Noah knew he couldn’t let that happen. Suddenly he teetered as the wind blew against him. The gale pushed him off the roof and he slid down. Noah landed with a sickening crunch and lost consciousness
Hmm. I already wrote on the last topic, so I’ll guess I’ll just comment now.
127- Oooh. Foreboding. I was suprized to see that it was in Chicago, then not. Do you know who she was running from?
137- Haha
140- I love rain. Esspecally the way it smells. Maybe put sense of smell into it?
141- You could seperate tha dialauge a bit, but just adding small actios into the sentences. Like,
“”The sun wil not rise tommorrow. It will die.” [He stated bluntly.] “As will everyone on the planet. Darkness wins, and you could change it.” [He paused, narrowing his eyes at her before continuing, hissing as he spoke.] “Yet you choose not to.”
Then again, that’s my style. If you don’t think you should change it, definatly don’t listen to me.
I liked it though, it was sad. Yet sweet.
A young girl stood high up on a rooftop, with nothing more than an umbrella and the clothes she was wearing. He hair was blowing in the wind, and the furious storm raged around her. Her arms spread out, she looked out over the edge. The forboding drop in front of her was terrifying, but she new she must do it. For her sake. Her family’s sake. She, the fourth child, could not stay any longer. And what better place to go, than the place where you can’t come back? She took one step forward, and stood on the edge. Then sh egave a tiny hop, and fell, feet first, with and opened umbrella, off the roof.
Entity stood, barefoot, on the roof top. the streets below her were filled with the bustle of everyday lives.she heard cars honking and the roar of engines. a bird swooped past her, so full of life. Entity followed the bird with her eyes as it flew over the city and she kept watching it untill it was lost in the horizon. she wished she could be as care free, actually she wished she could just be free. the winds wisked around Entity, blowing away the tears that were starting to run down her cheeks. If only she could remember, then mabe everything would be okay, then mabe she could stop searching, then mabe she would have a home. Entity tore her gaze away from the horrizon to stare down again at the streets. a mother and daughter were walking side by side talking and laughing. Did i ever have that feeling? thought Entity. She laughed at her stupid hopefulness, there was no use wishing, her memory wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Entity turned away from the streets and made her way accross the roof, she had to keep moving. mabe one day some one would know her.
Wow there’s a lot of these, and I wasn’t even gone for that long.
_____________________________________________________
A man stood upon the shingles of the house. The grip on his stiff boots barely held him to the roof. He was there, waiting. Casually, he leaned over to veiw his watch. “2:30,” he chuckled, “you’re coming any time now, aren’t you, little pretty. He laughed out loud to himself. “Very well, I can wait.”
An hour later, the man still stood on the top of the household. Still dressed in the same sweatshirt same sneakers, and same dirty, black jeans. Suddenly he leaned foward. In the distance he could make out a black dot on the road. “Binoculars.” He mumbled to himself, happily. Picking up the insturment, he held it to his eyes. “There you are, little pretty.” He made out the distinct features on a familiar face of a man. “Yes, you know why I am here, and who wants it, do you not?”
He chuckled to himself, once again. The car was drawing nearer. He looked closley at the vehicle. It was a neat, stretch limo. Perfectly black, with two, suited, bulky men on the side of a thin faced, nervous man. ” Oh, but your not going to get to the station, are you?”The man on the roof said to himself, much more seriously.
He picked up the long peice of metal he had been carrying with him. He looked down the narrow end, to get a better veiw. He saw and aimed the magnifying glass at the man’s forehead. “Almost…come on…come on…” He mumbled, angrily. The man seated in the car slumped to the ground, the glass in front of him shattered. The suited men on either side of the thin manshowed reasonable concern. The man was dead. “You thought you could get to the station, did you?” he said,”well you couldn’t. Big Jason never forgets, snitch.”
(133) re (128)
widdershins, in answer to your question, two items jumped out at me that someone might consider “choppiness.”
First, the opening paragraph would benefit from more variation in texture and tempo. Many of the sentences repeat similar structures and lengths. It might help to think of pacing the sentences to underscore the action: the sense of rushing, then the release when the narrator arrives at her* refuge.
Second, the exchange between girl and gargoyle seems hurried. Given the character you’ve created in the first paragraph, I expect more surprise, more emotional reaction to the fact a stone carving has suddenly begun to speak.
Give the character time to react. Is she bewildered, frightened, both? Perhaps she thinks she’s imagined it at first, laughs it off. How are her emotions reflected in her speech? If a gargoyle spoke to you, do you think you’d gather your wits that quickly to give a calm, collected answer to its question as your narrator does? Try acting out the scene in real time. The exercise can help you find the right rhythm to make the action convincing.
Hope some of that is helpful.
*I’m assuming your narrator is a girl for purposes of discussion, though I don’t think you specify.
Hmm. I’d like a new toic to write on, though I pretty much used up all my insperation for post 120. It’s good practice though, and that almost resembled a short story. I havn’ seriously or fun-ly written for a while, sadly…
Any sugestions, topic-wise?
SOMEONE RIDING A HORSE! Admit it, it’s perfect.
Someone riding a horse?
Ummmm, what ábout, someone riding a horse? Gallop, gallop, gallop!
A person on an airplane…uh…what else?
oh wait, the page says walking a dog.
Oh, so it does. Didn’t notice that, sorry…
I will write this next piece in verse, for the heck of it…
The slowly rising sun
glanced
over the rooftops
and shone upon
a single boy
being pulled
along
a single silent street
by a single, not-so-silent dog
boy yawns
dog barks
dog stops
boy groans
Why so early?
The day is in
full swing
the boy runs
along
dragged
by the relentless
dog
Neighbors are out
watering lawns
in shimmers of rainbow
no more than
a second long
The sky is blue
the boy is full
of energy
life is good
The night is silent
the sunset slowly fading
away in the distance
tentacles of orange and gold
visible
if you just look
walking, panting
is the boy
tired by the walk
ready to sleep
but the dog
pulls
pulls
pulls
him along
not ready
to give up the day
quite yet
again the boy yawns
again the dog barks
once
twice
again the dog stops
again the boy groans
this time the boy pulls
up
up
the dog trots along
as the boy whispers
Come on, boy. Let’s go home.
Wow, that was longer than it seemed…
Tristan walked through the forest; the soggy leaves squelching as his feet squished them into the earth, then clinging to the sole of his shoe when he brought it back up. He adjusted the straps of his backpack where they were rubbing at his skin through the light material of his short-sleeved shirt
It was midday, but in the cool shade of the forest it almost felt to be dusk. He was mostly the only person to walk these wild woods, everyone else was too busy with jobs or television or hanging out. His parents didn’t let him watch a lot of TV, but he didn’t really mind. He enjoyed being outside best, with his sketchbook and charcoal pencils, away from the world and taunting words thrown at a boy who likes to draw.
That was part of the reason he didn’t have many friends, he supposed, because he wasn’t interested in what other people thought he should be. Maybe it was the way he was raised, maybe he was just different from birth. He honest; didn’t care all that much, he liked being alone, actually preferring it to being in a crowd.
Not that he didn’t have any friends, mind you. There was David, who was smarter than most of the school but not a ‘nerd,’ and Fiona. She was too eccentric for all the other girls tastes, forever running and laughing and speaking bluntly, her wild red hair flying in all directions in a wind that only seemed to surround her. They were an odd group, certainly, might even be labeled as the ‘outcasts’ in the school, but they didn’t view themselves this way.
So Tristan was perfectly content to walk through the not-quiet-silent forest on his own, breathing in the air damp from frequent rains and perfumed with grass and bark and the sweet smell of fresh fallen rain.
After about ten minutes of walking along the sodden path, he ducked under a likely-looking branch, fought his way through a tangle of overgrowth, and arrived at a small space, not quite a clearing, where he could sit unobstructed by plant and out of people’s way.
He sat on the ground with his back against the tree, wincing a bit as the mud happily sucked at his legs. Moms not going to like that, He reflected. Muddy again, and she just washed these.
He shook his hair out of his eyes, and rummaged in his backpack for his sketchbook and a pencil. Sometimes he drew the things around him, sometimes he drew from memory, sometimes he made up whatever it was he was creating on the paper, fantastic lands with stories only he could read woven into them with shading and slight twists of color.
Today he was working on something he had started before, a sort of Celtic tree design, with all the branches impossibly connecting to each other in a pattern. It was very slow going, he had taped a piece of paper with he design on it at the top of the page after printing it from the computer, but the print was smaller than what we was doing. He had drawn lies with a ruler to help with spacing, but all the lines had to meet up exactly so as not to disrupt the pattern, and there was no way he was starting over. Most of the trunk and branches of the tree had been filled in already, now he just needed to finish connecting them, shade it in, and add a hint of colour with his pencils.
When he stopped for a break to stretch his sore and stiff back, neck and cramped fingers, he nearly dropped his notebook in surprise, just saving it from a downward plunge into the mud. He sat, heart pounding, staring at what sat in front of him.
It- no, he- was human in shape and most appearance, but garbed in the strangest clothes Tristan had seen. And he was in High School. The pants seemed to be made of bits of material and thread and- was that fur? All woven together into a strange, lopsided and ill-fitting pattern, and his shirt was merely animal skins- rabbit, maybe, but some of them looked colored enough and big enough to be fox- skillfully stitched together so the seems were hidden from view, unlike the pants, with a cloth belt around the middle. There were feathers and beads decorating this strange shirt, and looking up, Tristan saw they were plaited into The Boy’s hair as well.
And, Truth be told, the boy smelled.
Not really of unwashed body or dung, he was relatively clean but for several mud stains across his skin and rich dark earth beneath his nails, but of forest and blood and something altogether different from what Tristan was used to. Something that didn’t go where other people went, but stayed hidden from view and out of sight, wary of the world.
Realizing he had now been staring at The Boy for several moments, he raised his eyes to this stranger’s (What an apt word, some clear-thinking part of his mind thought, but he ignored this) face. His hair was unkempt but not exactly a mess, more like Fiona’s after a day of wandering and running through fields, caught with brambles but still vaguely in check. The eyes, though. They were a piercing, deep green that he couldn’t tear his gaze from. Like leaves in the spring just after they’ve come out of a branch, or grass after the summer rains.
After a few more hour-long moments, the boy blinked, and Tristan broke free of it’s spell. Taking a deep breath, he phrased the question that had been waiting patiently behind his lips for his body to remember that speech was, in fact, a possibility.
“Who…who are you?” He asked in a whispered breath, as if loud noises might have frightened off this fawn-coloured boy.
The boy, who had been sitting stone still, cocked his head to the said at this question. The move took Tristan by surprise. He had almost expected him to melt away into the shafts of piercing sunlight, like a hallucination brought on by illness and dreams.
The boy considered this, thinking. Part of the time it took may have been used to remember how to talk, for when he did speak his voice was husky and slightly accented, though with what nationality Tristan couldn’t say. Irish? English? Fae?
“Well that’s a rather odd question. How am I to know?” He did speak English though, and well enough to put the words in the right order, something that sometimes gave Tristan trouble around crowds or girls.
“Well, I mean, do you…have a name? Something people call you?” He winced at this, how it must have sounded. This boy doubtless knew what a name was, but didn’t look like he saw to much of people.
“Well now,” He purred, “That would spoil the mystery, now wouldn’t it?” Not giving Tristan a chance to answer, he looked down at the journal still griped in his clammy hands. “What you done there, on that, tha’s magic, ain’t it? The way you put a tree into that little book of yours.”
“What..” Tristan glanced down, following the boys gaze into his lap. “Oh… no, that’s just a drawing. No magic.”
The Boy grunted. “Could’a foold me. And Gr’eth. Not sure I believe yer, act’ly.” He tilted his head again, his impish yet solemn stare sending Tristan’s mind into a whirl.
“Where do you live?” He blurted out. The Boy’s eyes narrowed dangerously for a moment, and Tristan felt himself burn with embarrassment and silent fury. “I mean, not exactly, but, in Kelder or downtown, or back past the woods or something?” He mumbled.
The boy relaxed a bit, the dangerous aura melting back behind his skin. But Tristan was aware of it now, and almost expected the boy’s response when he gave it.
“Here. Thurr. Wherever the forest is and the building’s ain’t.”
This Boy was Wild. But Tristan’s mouth persisted in asking idiotic questions, despite his brains efforts to stifle them. “But…you must have parents?”
The boy was clearly befuddled by this, and after a hasty and slightly inaccurate definition on Tristan’s part he laughed. “Take car o’ may? Punish may? That’s the sun and the rain and the trees. I dun need people to do that. I might’a add them once, a long tiem ago. But no’ anymore. I stay away from people They just make things worse.” He narrowed his eyes again, obviously recalling the various construction sites where they were cutting down large chunks of the woods and replacing them with subdivisions. And noisy, pollution people, Tristan realized with a sort of shame. His people. This boy defiantly wasn’t part of them…
“And Gr’eth.” The Boy added as an afterthought almost. “He watches ou’ fer may.”
Tristan vaguely wondered who Gr’eth was, but having just got his mouth to stop with questions, didn’t ask.
Suddenly, he stood up. “Well, I haffta go now. I’ll leave you to yer magic with the paper.” He stood up, giving Tristan that crocked smile again. Tristan wanted to protest, he hadn’t- hadn’t what? While he struggled to put his thoughts in order, the Wild Boy walked off a few paces, then turned and gave a long, slow whistle. There was a rustle of leaves and Tristan’s head snapped around, wide eyes tracking the lithe and previously unnoticed form of a large grey wolf.
If he thought his heart had been pounding when he first saw the Wild Boy, now it had burst from over-exertion. It passed directly in front of him, he felt the breeze it’s body made as it slid past, radiating power from each of it’s trim muscles.
When it reached the Wild Boy, it paused, turning it’s head back towards Tristan and staring into his being. He stifled a small gasp, if only from fear, and the Wild Boy twisted his fingers into the wolfs fur and murmured, “Comon’, Gr’eth.” Then they disappeared, running soundlessly into the dense foliage, intertwined.
Tristan stared after them, struggling to hold the memory in his head. It kept trying to struggle away, the improbability of it all struggling to escape back into shadows and half-waking dreams. Soundlessly, he picked up his sketchbook again.
**
20 years later, in an art exhibit in suburban Chicago hall.
“The Wild Boy”
Tristan Candlerson
A 5 foot tall painting of a tree, branches interwoven and twisting into the pattern of a Celtic knot takes up the top half of the picture. The background is of a forest, with sunlight and undergrowth hiding most of the forest floor. Below the tree, a boy stands with a wolf, both glancing at the painter as he captures their movement on the canvas. They have matching green eyes.
Early Original on Paper, Repainted on Canvas
$11,000 starting price
There is a dog in there (sort of). I swear. And the image that started in my head had it, even if the story begining didn’t.
Again, rather long…
162 – How much spare time do you have on your hands anyway?
Today, let’s see, I had a Cartoonist summer camp from 8:30 – 12:00, getting ready for the merit badge meeting from 12:00 – 2:30, earning the music & bugling merit badge from 2:30 – 3:45, biked over to piano lessons, had piano lessons from 4:00 – 5:00, biked home, ate dinner, did the dishes, got ready for a boy scout meeting, had a boy scout meeting from 7:30 – 9:00, listened to the NL lose the All star game from 9:00 – 9:30, took a shower, brushed my teeth, and then snuk on MuseBlog for precious minutes.
And now I have to go to bed bye
Can we still submit stories from old images?
A boy with shaggy blond hair sat curled up in the corner of a rooptop. Alone. Always alone.
“Mike!”
He wondered if someone had called his name, then let the thought slip away as a tear slid down his face.
“Mike! Are you there?”
He must be hearing things. No one cared about him. No one would worry about him.
“MIKE!”
The door to the rooptop flew open with a BANG, and the boy looked up to see a girl standing there, breathing heavily. She looked vaguely familiar.
The girl ran over to the boy and began speaking in a worried voice. The boy caught “looking”, “forever”…and then she asked him, almost angrily, “Are you okay?”
Okay…that means…it means…
The boy sat there with a numb expression on his face. The girl was screaming now. At him, possibly. Worried. But it couldn’t be him, no one cared about him…
Oh no. We’re not supposed to do the “kernel image”? I’m sorry. I was confused.
167, 165- submit from any of the images, I guess. Including the current “kernel image” I don’t think anyone really minds, I know I enjoy reading anything you submit!
167- Yes, you’re supposed to do the kernel image. But the people who’ve already written the kernel image are jumping the gun.
163- Not a lot. I was on here for a bout two hours, and I wrote that in one of them. The end was written rather hasitly as I was yelled at to get off by my sister. I had 3 hours of drivers ed in the morning, then a flute lesson, then mom was on and sibling played tetres for an hour, then book club, then I had two hours, which ended at 9:30 ish.
GAPAS! It’s officially walking a dog as the kernal image now,and after that, can we dosomeone riding a horse?
Melanie stood at her window, watching the people below. There was Fiona Wynne playing hopscotch with a piece of french toast in her hand; there was Jamie Kindle walking his Great Dane; the new couple with their pack of tiny, yapping dogs of various breeds; the whole scene below her was perfect and pristine.
But Melanie did not look at them. Jamie, Fiona, and the couple with their dogs meant nothing to her. She glanced at the clock by her bed–the glowing numbers spelled out 7:29–and turned back to the window. Her eyes were fastened on the large sprawling house at the end of the street, and she was waiting.
Every morning she rose and went to the window, and every morning she waited eagerly to see the old man emerge from his house in full Napoleonic naval regalia, walking his cat.
The dog walked carefully along the edge of the water, her owner letting the lead drag along the sand. She stared at the setting sun and licked the water, but it was sandy and salty and bit her tongue. A scent in the sand smelled of food and flowers, and she rolled herself in it, letting the scent sift into her fur. She nosed a crab. She let her tail get wet in the water. She discovered that sand tastes nasty. She licked some seaweed and found that it was tasty. She kicked a stone. She walked over and nosed her owner. She was lieing in the sand, but sat up at the contact. The girl wrapped her arms aruound the sheep dog and kissed its ear. The girlmumbled something in her ear, but the dog couldn’t understand. It didn’t matter. She nudged the girl and did her duty as a friend.
GAPAs, check your email. I sent a new draft of something that has my bubbles story thing as part of it though I revised bits of that too. It isn’t very long, only about a page or so, and if you’d like, I’d like feedback. I’ve sent it to various MBers on a seperate email but I wanted GAPA critique too.
172- Haha! Though I don’t know to many cats who can be walked on a lead. Or does the cat just walk with him and not slip away?
Hmm, no one’s written for awhile. Maybe I’ll do the next image later.
How about after this we do someone playing tag? (Or tig, or touch, or whatever you call it)
I have a good idea we should do a person coloring
There’s an image up there about which ones next. Those are good ieas too, though.
Sadness. No one read 161. Too long?
178- I did! I’m just not in the mood to critique right now.
178- It was nice, but didn’t have enough conclusion. I suppose things aren’t always wrapped up, but I come to expect it. The end part was a bit fast, too.
180- Oh, the part where I was bracing myself against the computer while my sister was yelling at me to get of the computer for a half hour. It does go rather fast, doesn’t it? I think i’ll go edit it.
181- Sounds awfully familiar…
182- Er, um, heh heh… yeah… I opened the document then got distracted and did nothing, actually. But you can’t say I didn’t work on Terra
The large sorel stallion gnawed at the sand. Lia swung herself onto the english saddle on its back and grabbed the reins. She rode forward on the beach for about ten feet, than swung herself off again. She removed the saddle and the reins, and rode on his bare back. They, horse and rider, one being, flowing smoothly together, equestrian and equine, night and moon, walked slowly along the sand.
“You can’t ride anymore, Lia. You are too weak.” The doctors dreaded words pounded in her head. Then, the doctor and her parents had stepped into the hall. She waited for a second, then swung off the bed and walked over to the door. She heard their voices quite clearly. “The cancer is out of control. We will have to stop the chemotheropy. I am sorry, Mister and Misses Jensen, but your daughter will not live to see her fifteenth birthday.”
Lia could feel her body dieing. Her skin was pale and blanched, not even stubble covering her scalp. She was going to die, in a hospital bed, with her parents by her side. Nay, said her heart, I will die in my finest hour.
The fourteen year old kicked the horse in the ribs softly and they were off. The ocean droplets were kicked up by the thunderous hooves. The spray stung Lia’s eyes and face. They rushed, faster, and faster.
Speed- the flight of the hawk. The stallion rode, his body merging and morphing like molten metal. Lia wrapped her hands in his blck mane, and watched the worldbetween his ears. She felt her heart beating, she felt it struggling to keep on beating, her blood was the poison, the blood fooling her heart into spreading the poison.
The hooves landed in the sand, the sand sprayed up as the hooves lifted again. The excitement burned lia’s skin, her eyes watering in the wind. Her smile spread slowly, and her laugh tinkled in the sun. The horse rushed, her heart rushed, beating all too fast, she glanced at thesun one last tie and let herself go.
184- Whoa, that’s good.
184-dude!
184- That’s really good. I liked it a lot, especally the descriptions.
The horse.
legs flying in the air,
yearning to be
free,
bucking wildly,
mane flying,
hooves off the ground,
the horse.
The rider.
one hand in the air,
the other as
his anchor,
he struggles not to
be thrown through
the air
like an unfortunate bird,
the rider.
The horse,
wild like his ancestors,
yet captured,
his spirit is not yet broken,
for he is
the wild west,
the horse.
The rider,
focused only on
staying seated,
his body moves
up and down in rhythm
with the animal beneath him,
the rider.
The candle flame,
flickering in the dark,
it lives eternal,
a rider and a horse.
—
Alright, so I wrote it in about three minutes. It’s not very good, but what can I say?
Maria struggled not to be thrown off as the horse galloped through the night. Its hooves thudded heavily against the dirt road, and suddenly it stumbled. It regained its footing instantly, but Maria no longer cared. Sobbing, she gripped the mane still tighter, and the horse ran on.
Maria had never asked to be sent away. She had never asked to be put on a horse and sent off into the night on a mission that she knew nothing of. Had it only been two hours ago?
“Why me?” she had asked, frantic with fear.
“Because,” replied Mother. “Come on.”
“But why not Will? I’m too young!”
“No, you’re not. And we need Will here.”
“But Mother!”
It had been to no avail. And now, as Maria clung desperately to a horse’s back, she wondered for the first time what she was really supposed to be doing. She was no relation to Sara Farmer, indeed, they were hardly friends. Sara was three years older than Maria, and a quiet, obedient, girl, at that. There was no animosity between them, but their paths just didn’t cross. Why was she, Maria, suddenly sent off to find the oldest Farmer child? And why was the horse still running?
~~~~~~
That didn’t turn out like I thought it would. It seems I kind of have to put it in my story now. Another plot piece…not a bad idea, really.
185, 186, 187,- One must try her best to keep her friends entertained! *bows*
I got the idea for 184 from an instrumental named “Sally’s last ride”. My dad and I were talking about it, and this is what I thought it was about. It’s a chaotic song full of horns and unidentifiable instruments that starts softly and gets completly chaotic at the end, but it’s beautiful.
I was rereading this thread and now I’m all teary from the lovely, sad, sweet stories about death. *sniff*
We need a new topic. How about . . . someone looking at the moon.
~~~~
It hung like a luminescent pearl in the star-studded heavens. I lay on my back in the sweet-smelling grass and breathed in the summer night. A cricket chirped near my ear. Far away, fireworks exploded with a BOOM! I had been so put out, so disappointed to hear that I should miss the fireworks. But now, staring up at the great opalescent disc that was the Moon, I didn’t care quite so much.
“Fireworks are flashy things,” spoke a voice near my head. “So loud, so painful to the senses.”
“Yes,” I said. “But beautiful.”
“Fireworks are beautiful,” the voice agreed. “But so is the Moon. Fireworks are short-lived. The Moon is Eternal.”
“Eternal?” I asked. “But soon it will set, and in a little while there will be nothing left at all.”
“Not so,” said the voice. It was deep and smooth and sleek, and it flowed like a languid river.
“So,” I replied. “It is not Eternal. It changes to much for that.”
“Who says that Change cannot be Eternal?” I could hear the capitals as though they were written on paper.
“Prove it,” I said. “Prove that Eternity can Change.”
“Very well,” replied the voice gravely. “Turn around.”
I turned. A huge silver panther sat behind me, Mystery and Magic etched into it’s feline features. In its eyes I saw both Eternity and Change. Still, I refused to believe it.
“Prove,” I whispered.
“Get on my back,” said the creature. “I will prove it, if it is proof you want.”
“It is,” I said, my voice growing stronger. I stood up, suddenly cold in the faint breeze.
“Then mount. Or are you afraid?” There was the smallest hint of a taunt in these words, a challenge, a dare. I didn’t need one. I mounted. The great beast was smooth and sleek beneath me, and its fur seemed to glow faintly, illuminating my fingers.
“My name,” it said, “is the Mooncat.”
I shivered. The word held deep and ancient power. “I am Eliza,” I whispered into its shining ear. “Prove.”
And it leaped up, up, up, into the heavens, and we danced among the stars, with Leo, and Cassiopeia, and Draco, and then we flew onward, toward the Moon, and I saw. It was Eternal, and yet ever-changing, and it held such magic and power that I laughed and cried at the same time, and I leaned down and said into the Mooncat’s ear,
“You have proven it. My thanks to you.” And then the Cat flew even closer, and I was afraid.
“What are you doing?” I cried, and the terror ran like liquid ice in my veins.
“Proving,” said the Mooncat, and I cried with fear and yet awe at the same time.
“Stop!” I shouted. “I have seen enough! Do not go further!” But the creature paid me no heed, and when we were so close that I could see each glowing stone, it dove into the Moon.
White. That was all. Pure, glowing, pearly white. I could not move, I thought, but when I looked down the Mooncat was still beneath me, its silver fur seeming dull and grey in this shining expanse, and my terror abated.
“I will prove,” said the cat.
“You have proven,” I said. “You need not prove any further.”
“I have not proven. What you saw was nothing but an echo of the Moon’s true Eternity and Change. Now be silent.”
I was silent. And slowly, it began to change. So very subtly, the pure and shining white became silver, and from silver it turned to cold, blue-white ice. And then it was a hue that I have no words to describe, and it could only be called moon-color. It was ever-shifting, ever-changing, and the Mooncat beneath me shifted and changed too, and I felt nothing but deep awe.
“Now have I proven it?” asked the cat.
“Yes,” I said simply.
And the Mooncat turned and bounded away, and we danced home among the stars.
~~~~~~~~
Wow. Not what I expected. But very cool.
192- I liked it. Very cool, the descriptions were good.
One tiny criticizm? The name Mooncat. It sort of sounded like a placeholder for a better name (which it might have been). I think you could give him/her a different one that would… echo the tone of the story more.
193- I dunno. It kind of came from Moonflute, and it seemed to fit at the time. But you’re right.
Someone looking at the moon, eh? Got it.
Ok. I’ve never been on one of these, but it looks like I’m supposed to write about the thing that says kernel image. I’ll just do that and pretend I know what I’m doing.
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Miranda huffed and puffed at the candles. There were only 7, but it still took 3 breaths. Miranda’s friends finished singing Happy Birthday, and her mom started to slice the cake. “The birthday girl gets the first piece!” she said in a singsong voice. Miranda chose the “M” in “Happy Birthday Miranda”. The girls finished eating and gathered around Miranda with presents. She began to rip the paper off and squealed in delight, “Yay Barbies!” “Ooooh it’s so shiny” “Thanks Katie!” Miranda was so busy opening presents that she didn’t notice her dad leaving through the back door. He went into the garage and brought out his surprise. “Miranda look outside,” said her mom. “There’s nothing there,” Miranda whined. “Look on the sidewalk!” shouted Hannah. Miranda looked up and down and saw someone turn off the sidewalk onto her driveway. He was walking a tiny dog on a pink leash, “Daddy!” Miranda and her friends rushed outside. She scooped up the dog and hugged her parents. “Happy Birthday Miranda!” everyone chimed in unison.
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Yay. Cheesefest. Ah well it was the best I could come up with, as I am not a dog person.
ooh, yessss…. let’s revive this… yessss….
-wishes for a new prompt-
198- Well, there’s ‘someone looking at the moon’ currently.
198- Agreed.
okay. Prompt: Someone kicking up the leaves in autumn
She adjusted her top hat, tilting it slightly with her slender fingers. She enjoyed the feel of the velvety fabric underneath her fingertips. Smooth. And soft.
She was wearing a sort of a suit. Top hat, vest, dark pants, white gloves, blazer. All bought at a thrift store from the men’s section. She enjoyed dressing up for simple walks such as this one.
Letting the brisk autumn air pour over her she walked, pulling her jacket tighter. Alighting on a bench, graceful as a cat, perched like a bird. Running her fingers though the leaves nearby. She laughed, a high tinkling laugh and, abruptly rose, began to run. Laughing harder, almost skipping through the leaves, she ran kicking them up in front of her untill she collapsed, breathless, laughing, to the ground. Brushing herself off, smiling, she began to walk back the way she’d come.
201- Haha, reminds me of when me and my friend bought the little vests that go under a tuxedo jacket from the drama club get-rid-of-all-these-old-tuxedo-costumes-before-they-tear-the-old-stage-down sale. Just the vests. It was durring lunch, so we just ran around afterwads in our jeans and t-shirts with these little vest things on. My other friend bought one to when we told her it was fun (she had lunch after us), so it was us 3 for about 15 minutes before M decided to do it and her friends all copied her, and of couce she said she’d thought it up and stuff. But who cares, it was a blast.
Leaves swirled around Tina’s face, whipped up by the brisk October wind, and Tina pulled her pea-coat tighter around her. The buttons had all popped off, and though she had always intended to fix it, she had never gotten around to it.
More leaves crunched under her feet, and a blast of wind blew what seemed like a whole tree’s worth straight into her face. She yelped and dropped the shopping bag, which spilled the candy she had bought for Halloween onto the park’s grassy lawn.
“Drat,” she muttered, stooping to gather it up. Now the wind seemed to be blowing in two directions at once, her hair being whipped now in front of her, now into her face. She managed to gather the candy and stand up in the cyclone of whirling leaves; just in time to see an old woman walking across the park get her hat blown off.
And then the wind was skirling around Tina even faster, and her scarf was gone before she could blink, and then Tina laughed. The hat and the scarf, carried across the park as if by some ghost in a madcap dance, bowed and curtsied to her before disappearing into a copse.
“Halloween haunts,” said Tina, and skipped home, kicking up leaves all the way.
~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of Halloween haunts, could we please have a Halloween thread? It’s nearly September.
201 & 203-Good!
Kicking up Leaves…
I swing my foot at the pile of leaves I just raked up. I’m going to move to the desert when I grow up. I’ll never have to shovel snow or rake leaves or mow grass. Yard work stinks. If mom wants her yard neat why doesn’t she rake? Why can’t I just let stuff fall or grow and leave it there? Great. Now the pile is messed up and I have to rake more. Now I have to put the leaves in the bag and put the bag by the street so the garbage truck can take it. I finally finish with the leaves and climb the big pine tree. Pine trees are my favorite because they don’t drop leaves all over the place. “K-T! clean your room!” my mom shouts. Great. More cleaning.
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I hate cleaning! My first and middle initials are KT and my mom said she did that on purpose so she could say “katie” but then she decided I don’t look like a KT. I think I’d like being called KT all the time, but nobody would remember.
203- Yes, Halloween thread. I’ve had my costume planned out since June.
I kick up the leaves by the side of the road. The crisp sound that meets my ears is pleasing, like candy for my soul. Autum is here. The leaves are brown on the road, but above my head they turn the sky red and gold. I kick the leaves again, I shuffle my feet through them. I envision getting home, going to the garage, getting out the big green rake. I would rake all the leaves into a big pile. I would jump into them and send them flying. I would dance around like an autum whirlwind. My soul would rejoice at the crisp sound and the cold air burning my throat. Coming out of my fantasy I drag my feet through the leaves, slowing down time and slowing down me. Autum is here. I don’t want to reach home just yet, outside is so beutiful and fresh. All that awaits me inside is work. I sigh, resigned to my fate. I savour this last moment and send the leaves flying with my foot. Autum is truly here.
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what do you think of that? I know my spelling and punctuation is realy bad. please give me feedback.
206- GOOD!
The leaves in this place do not wither with the cycles of time: there is no thick draping of crimson and gold and brown upon the ground. Nor do flowers grow limp and lifeless with time. No fruit grows here, a land above eternity, behind it, between and inside it. Evergreen with your wishes, stagnant with my hope.
“Forever,” a simple whisper, and a place stretches into being. Your sentence is finished by the world inside your eyes, and only a sliver of that in reflect back to me.
As if to see everything, the grasp sunlight, eat moonlight, revel in the imagined beauty. Snow slides from mountains and breathlessly becomes water, deft inside the confines of its bank. Remember me, remember me, quiet light upon soft grass, leafless as we walk, kicking up memories.
—
Hmm that was interesting. First thing I’ve written in ages.
208- oh, oh, that left me breathless. Especially the last line; I love the imagery of “leafless as we walk, kicking up memories.”
Comments on mine? (201)
208- Gooood. *drools* I really liked it. It’s like prose, or even poetry, almost. The kind oof thing that can’t be a long story because it’s so great short. I am jealous, I admit.
I suppose this sort of fits here as well. Half of it was written ages ago, half was written today in a burst of inspiration after reading Axa’s. Voila, here you go:
Melanie sat in her room and stared at the maps cloaking the bare white walls, bookshelves lining what was not covered by maps and thought of the ideas she had never seen, the places she had never been to. She had read many of the books, yet there were so many others and the ones she saw reminded her of that. The maps, though some were of places she had been to too many times, reminded her of all the places she had not set foot in. She wished that she could see everything and it hurt her to know that she couldn’t. She walked to the window and looked out onto the tree-lined street and sighed. The orange leaves descending from the trees echoed her feelings exactly. As soon as they reach their peak of color, they fall.
Only… they don’t quite fall. No, they tumble, they dance, they leap. If they fall, there’s a certain joy in that fall forming a descent that is bittersweet.
Descending from her perch, the refuge of the attic window of her room, Melanie joined the wild, swirling, swift dance. Out wandering leaf-strewn paths, whorls of falling leaves dancing in the wind. Flying, falling. Memories half-lost, occurances not yet encountered, swirling, whirling, surrounding her with past and half-forgotten joys, experiances kept hidden, secret. Everchanging moments, fallen as leaves and kicked aside by passing feet. Melanie twirls, laughing in the wild wind and whorls of leaves. There is beauty in the fall as well, one just has to know where to look.
208-Awesome!
211-That’s good!
I already wrote for this one but there’s nothing in the up next. How about complete silence?
Thanks!
201) Very whimsical! I see a very specific image at the bit with the bench, love the detail.
211) The maps, though some were of places she had been to too many times, reminded her of all the places she had not set foot in. Ahh I know exactly how that feels! I liked it ^^
I’ll do the silence prompt soon ^^
208- that was so…i can’t think of the right descriptive word… enchanting? anyways what i mean is that it is really really good.
I’m going to do the silence unless my brain fries.
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How to catch a fairy:
1-Open your mind
2-Open your eyes
3-Open your ears
Tera sat in the forest staring at the grass and the rays of light coming through the canopy. She definitely believed in fairies, and she was listening and watching for them. She sat on the ground for a while, but no fairies came. Tera stood and began walking deeper into the forest. The trees looked bigger and the sunbeams got smaller as she stepped over roots and rocks. Tera could hear the birds and the bubbling creek slowly begin to drown out the sounds of traffic outside the forest. Eventually Tera could hear nothing but the sounds of nature. As the sounds of humans dissapeared, their expectations did as well. Tera was consumed by the sound of the forest, as if it were a magical spell. She was so amazed that she didn’t watch where she was stepping. Tera got her foot caught in a pile of branches and fell at the base of a huge tree. She was about to get up, but a dark hole under the tree caught her attention. It was just big enough for her, so she slid under the tree and found a massive cave. It was completely empty. Not just of posessions and animals, but empty of sounds. Tera hopped up and down, but she couldn’t hear a thing. She bent over and put her ear to the ground. She still couldn’t percieve a sound. Tera looked back at the hole she’d crawled in through, but there were no sounds coming through it either. Just as Tera began to think that the cavern was entirely soundless, she heard something behind her. It was high pitched, but it wasn’t a voice. It was not any language or form of music. Tera turned and saw a tiny white light on the other side of the room. It moved toward her, still making the mysterious noise. Tera felt like she was in a dream. She looked at the fairy, and her eyes began to close. The sounds continued, water flowing over rocks, squirrels running across leaves, birds chirping, rain falling, and then there was silence again. Silence and darkness. Tera opened her eyes and looked at the branch she had just tripped over. She stood up and ran out of the forest.
‘It concerns me,’ I thought as I walked down the path, the crisp autumn weather turning my cheeks red, ‘that I’m much to old for anything, now.’ Fifteen is a lot older than fourteen, I was constantly reminded of. My life, I realised, was slowly but surely turning brown like the leaves on the canopy of leaves that I walked beneath.
A leaf fell. It joined hundreds of others on the floor of the path, and a sudden rush of immaturity, or perhaps life, flew into my heart causingme to run. The leaves around me, those slabs of molten amber and gold whirled around me. I was the wind that makes the sailors fear the November gales, that follows the eye of the Hurricane, the sudden tornado that springs, fully grown, so much like Athena sprang from the brow of Zeus in another time. That time was gone. The leaves sttled when i stopped my running, and the amber and bronze turned to flabbish brown on the forest floor.
It concerns me that the world may die by human hands before I see my dieing day. It concerns me that this is even a concern. It is unfair thta these concerns should belong to me when all my worries should be untroubling, like the concerns of generations before me.
Perhaps itr is my luck. Perhaps it is simply my fate.
A pigeon landed on the path before me and pecked at an invisable worm.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
I stiffened, the lines of Macbeth stirring the leaves in my mind.
A screech owl screamed. Like some dream, or nightmare of a child, a hawk crashed through the air, its wings a thunder bolt as it swooped upon the pigeon, the tidal wave upon a beach.
The pigeon didn’t even have time to scream.
The hawk eyed me suspicously as it picked up the pigeon and flew off.
Perhaps, like the hawk upon the pigeon, our civilization will swoop upon itself, perhaps to clear space for a new civilization, even a new species, that takes its place upon our earth.
I didn’t believe it so.
The hawk was like a calling, an awareness thrust into my stomach, that greatness is something that fate plays with.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, but others have greatness thrust upon them.
The Roman Empire fell, the Ancient Egyptians fell, the Aztecs fell, and they fall like the autumn leaves, one civilization after the other, as insignificant to the universe as the death of a fly. But to the microscopic creatures that live because of the fly, the death of a fly is as the death of a civilisation. We weep for one dead child, but the universe does not weep. Perhaps the death of theuniverse will be like the death of a dustmite, for who are we to say that our universe is not as insignificant to time as the death of a fly? But then, to a creature that lives off a fly, is the death of a child not like the death of a universe, like the death of a god?
And if this is so, then we are all gods, and gods we will remain, and greatness has been thrust into our hands, to do with our world as we want, for better or for worse. It is a calling, and a burden.
~~~~~~~~~
It is my pleasure to announce that the Vixen is back.
The leaves fall.
Red and yellow and sickly brown, year after year. I’m the one that changes, not them.
Remember last year? This time then, you were at the top of the class, surrounded by people you knew. It felt like the top of the world.
Don’t think about the end of that time.
I can’t, it’s never resolved.
Before that, years were just learning. Social life? What social life? The people are all boring anyway. Math problems are where it’s at.
The people are still overrated, mostly.
And now, where am I?
Making a new place for myself in an ever-expanding world. Reaching back to the past, clinging to fragments of what I knew. Hoping the people who matter will catch my hand and help lead me as I try to keep all that I loved in my grasp.
Being overly poetic as I walk the thirty yards from the bus stop to my house.
The leaves fall.
216- Wow, that’s really good.
I’m going to do the silence prompt now.
~~~~~~~~
It felt as if some invisible hand had reached over and stuck wads of cotton into my ears. For a moment I was sure that that was what had happened, but when I touched my ears and found them unobstructed, I knew that it was not so. A bolt of fear rushed through me like boiling hot water. There is no reason to suppose…that… My mental self-reassurances flickered like candles in a gale, and then went out as suddenly as though they had been dowsed with a bucket of cold well-water.
I could feel myself crying, but there was no sound. The salt stung my cheeks. The silence pressed on me, down, heavy as lead, though my eyes still saw bright colors; my tongue tasted the salt of my tears; my fingers ran themselves over the caked and dirty velvet of my dress.
No. It can’t be. Did I speak it, or merely think it? Or…could it have been thought to me?
“NO!” I knew that I had said that, because my throat hurt with the force of my yell.
I shouldn’t have done that, I thought, but I couldn’t comprehend the noise I had made, not when nothing made noise anymore. Now they’ll come for me.
Silly child, said my thoughts, or the foreign thoughts. It shouldn’t be this hard to tell! They would come for you anyway. Why else should your hearing be gone?
An…accident? I ventured. The cold river, the wind on the hillside?
Idiot girl. It is them. You know it is them.
Yes. I bowed my head in acknowledgment.
They’re coming. Very, very, soon.
How soon? This voice was definitely not me. But who? Who knew of me? No one. No one knew, but me and them.
Them? Foolish child, call them by their name.
I do not know it.
No matter. Soon enough you will have no need of it.
I am going to die?
Of course. But it does not matter. Why should it matter?
Will my hearing return before the end? After the end?
Dear helpless girl, there is much more than deafness on the other side.
Oblivion?
Yes.
Who are you?
It does not matter.
There was a puff of wind, a split second filled with unexpected sound, and then there was oblivion.
We need a new prompt. How about the sound of a violin?
Oh yeah.
~~~~~~~~~
A faint strain of violin music drifted down the hall to where Emmeline stood with her hand on the doorknob. One step, through the door, and she would no longer be able to hear it. Oh, how her parents would panic if she were unable to be found, and oh, how they would punish her when they found her, but the call of the unknown, and the sweet, mysterious sound of the violin drove her on. She opened the door and stepped into darkness.
“Uno, dos, tres, cuatro…” Her own whisper in the dark kept her going, up the stairs, her footfalls muffled by age and dust, and the velvet black silence of an unused stairway pressing on her eyes.
“Un, deux, trois, quatre…” French now; she had climbed hundreds of stairs, it seemed, and still she had not reached the top. But now she could hear the haunting melody of a violin, though she had left it behind ages ago.
Emmeline quickened her pace, the music leading her on, for how long, she knew not, minutes, hours, seconds, she climbed on and at last she raised her foot to put it on the step above and found nothing. She had reached the top.
The air was warm on the stairs, she realized, and the music was louder here. She longed to find the source, and yet the dark dusty air seemed to forbid her to speak.
A hand seized her wrist, she cried out, the music grew louder as if to mask her voice, then slowed. Emmeline made no attempt to escape. It was not in keeping with the dark enchantment of the place.
The hand let go her wrist, and something in the blackness at the top of the stairs rustled. Emmeline smoothed her long ornate skirts (how she had fought to avoid them, that evening that seemed decades ago!), and curtsied into the leopard-soft dark.
And she was dancing, dancing on dust. Was there someone with her, or was she alone? She did not know. Did it matter? The music leaped and slowed and sped up again, and she danced until there was no more breath in her, and longer. Sometimes the could feel the unknown hand on hers, and sometimes she spun away, alone, across the huge unlit ballroom, but always the violin played, never growing further, never growing closer.
Light and words and everything that went with them were no longer decades away, but worlds. Who cared what had happened then, who cared what would happen in the future. She could dance now, and she could dance forever, a phantom princess with a phantom violin. Perhaps she would.
~~~~~~~~~
Whaddya think?
Melanie stood in the cold gray alleyway and pressed her ear to the door. “Any minute now,” she whispered to herself, blowing on her hands to keep them warm. “Any minute.” She knew she should have brought gloves. “And a coat,” she thought, as the October wind whipped through her sweatshirt, bringing a fine mist of rain. It would rain later tonight, but hopefully it would hold off until she got home. She calculated the quickest route in her head. Over the last few months, Melanie had gotten to know the city very well. It had so much life, so much energy, that she forgot all about everything that was bothering her.
Soon, the first notes of music were starting to drift through the metal barrier separating Melanie from the orchestra concert. A violin solo was first, she knew. She pressed her ear closer to the cold door. At last! The concert had started.
One, two, three four. One, two, three four.Melanie was no longer standing in a cold alleyway downtown, getting soaked to the bone by the rain. She was surrounded by the swirling sound of the music, lifted off her feet and into the heavens. She could feel the beating of her heart combine with the tempo of the song and carry her away. The sweet, intoxicating sounds of the bow leaping and dancing across the strings warmed her from the tips of her fingers to the deepest part of her soul and filled her up. Surely she was flying, flying far away from the world, above everything.
As her feet pounded the wet pavement one, two, three, four, she ran through the rain, through the streets, and to her house, her mind in heaven and her pounding heart on earth.
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Well, that was considerably harder than I thought. I don’t think there are any words to describe something like a violin. It’s kind of like magic, I guess.
Sure, violin is okay. I have nothing against violins. They sound pretty nice for a string instrument. Some of my best friends play the violin. But that doesn’t mean I won’t blame the orchestra for going onstage before the band. Waiting to go on is an agony of worries. What if I’m badly out of tune? What if the music I have with me is the wrong parts? The things I’ve been working on all year, little things, but a lot of them, what if I forget? I’ll trip and break my instrument walking up the stairs to the stage. I’ll screw up the solo- like I did that one time, remember?- I just know I will. Or I’ll hate myself for not being good enough to play the solo when the other person does a flawless job, or a job with flaws that I know I could have done better, had I just gotten the part. And then there’s the awkwardness of waiting in the library. It feels like all my friends are in some other music group. So, even though I enjoy orchestral music, I’m directing my anger and worries towards the violins. Now, shouting over the din, a chaperone, some teacher giving up their night to listen to us chatter and wait, tells us to line up. My heart is pounding. We file down the stairs, the girls’ heels clicking. I feel incredibly awkward and out of place, all of a sudden. The serious doubts come to call. Why did I even decide to play an instrument? Is it really worth it? We’re lined up behind the stage. I hear, as if it was another person listening, the final chords of some classical thing by some dead guy,what could have been infinitely beautiful gems, unpolished in the tarnished setting of a middle school. They were nice, they were perfectly fine. But a sixth grade orchestra is not the Philharmonic. Anyway, the song ends, the audience of parents applauds, and as I step up to the stage I attempt to think about the music I’m about to play, not the fears I fight anytime I perform.
…
Another three months, another concert gone by. I exit the stage in simultaneously a silent ecstasy and a pit of despair, rejoicing my triumphs and mourning my inevitable mistakes, happy just to have played. In the aftereffects of the rush of joy that comes with a cheering audience, we all whisper to each other, needing to talk. When we leave the hallway right outside the auditorium, we’ll get louder, as always. But for now, a string ensemble comes in front of the stage while chairs are rearranged. Their song starts with a violin solo. I hear the first notes as we walk away en masse, and wonder to myself if they feel the way I did just a few minutes ago…
Oh awesome prompt! I’ll write mine later! yay!
The sound of a violin in visual form…. Challenging….
The Windows.
The violin hummed, the wood vibrating with the sound. It rose and fell, the screaming of a nightingale riding on the wind.
It always feals and sounds this way. For three hours every afternoon, he plays the cursed violin. I love the sound rolling lazily through the open window, the one I always keep open in case he chances to look out his window, directly into my window.
For now, I stare out my window, into his bedroom, where he stands and sways, his eyes closed, bulling the bow across the strings. he loves that violin. For that, I detest it. He pays only attention to it, treating it with oil the way a vet treats a dog’s broken leg: lovingly, passionately, carefully. I curse him and it for that.
I could, of course, close the window, but eep it open, praying he’ll put the violin in its case and come to the window, and talk a few words with me. For he is my only chance at a friend, my bed beneath the window, the polio holding me in the bed. Yet he loves not friendship, and he speaks with songs that I do not recognize.
I reach for my bible by my bedside table and wince as the odd movement hurts me. I tear out the last page, the one left blank for notes, and fold the paper airplane. I struggle into the right position and throw it into the air, through my window and into his, catching the violin on one of the strings. He stops, eyes bursting open, and stares at the paper thing, then looking all around, his eye catches mine through the windows, and his mouth forms the word “Hello.” He puts the acursed violin down in its case and says, again, “Hello.”
press pressing at your ears, and insistent sound, not beautiful like it was before, months ago when you understood, or rather were blissfully aware that you didn’t understand, it was new you were young, the sound was beautiful. past tense is all you can think in now even as you live in “present tense” hoping for a future perfect -tense, muscles tense the couch is uncomfortable vinyl but no, no you don’t need to get me anything I’m fine thank you. falling asleep to the sound of his violin wracking your brain as it shuts off, nothing is right but it’s pretty so it doesn’t matter right now it’s okay it’s okay I’m okay.
i think i’ll write one up later..i don’t have the time and brainpower now…
I’m impatient. What should we write about next?
I wonder if there’s a site that gives a writing prompt a day, or something. I would love that.
I think there is… *vanishes*
Um… I’ll suggest, ….:
Someone finding a box full of documents.
227- Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm……….
I’ll be back later. Now, I will retreat to the comfort of my space-heater-warmed bedroom and do my homework.
il ldo a new one about the new breed soon
The magazine, Vi Unge , lay forgotten sprawled on the bed. The girl, Samira, no longer was interested in how to attach false plastic nails on top of her eal nails. In the bathroom, bottles of vitamins and mascara tubes pushed bluntly aside littered the floor. Behind the basckets of washcloths and soaps, covered with a stack of towels, was a box, the size of an ark of paper. She gently lifted it up and blew the dust aside. She hastily put everything except for the box in its place and rushed into her room.
Melissa went over her mental checklist. Makeup complete? Check. Hair done? Check. Shirt and pants ironed? Check. Papers in briefcase? Check. Mechanically, she went over the rest of her checklist, heels clicking in rhythm with the sidewalk. Wait. Wasn’t there something else? Something was missing, something she didn’t find when she mentaly went over the checklist again and again and, finding nothing, began to go over her life. She was the CEO of the corporation. She was successful, paid well, in the highest position. What, then, was she missing?
Clilck, click. Continuing down the sidewalk she began to hear the faint tones of a violin coming from a man, standing on the edge of the sidewalk. Ugh. She hated street musicians always there begging for money. Annoyed, she began to walk faster, to ignore the busker. clickclickclickclickclick… click… click. Wait. Was that the piece her grandmother used to sing? The lulaby she used to drift off to? Perhaps she could slow down. Just a bit. Just to her usual pace. Listen for a moment. She slowed, click click click. Click………click…….silence. Only her and the music, the song, bittersweet. The violin’s song tugged at her, insisting that she let the shield she’d built up go. The shield she’d built to hide her emotions behind. When had she become so closed off? No wonder she felt like she was missing something. Her life had been missing emotion, color. She had been a robot, mechanically accomplishing tasks. College? Check. Career? Check. Moving step by step down her list. When had she last actually listened to herself? Did she even know who she really was anymore?
Bending, she dropped a few coins and a bill into the busker’s violin case, humming her lullaby with tears and memories in her eyes.
230- My first and very strong impression is that it’s only half-done. Not even half. It could be almost done, but it needs that perfect last line. The current one leaves you hanging.
231- It’s good. It’s very good. One tiny criticism: It doesn’t sing. Perhaps it’s not meant to sing; I don’t know. But a lot of your writing sings, and that seems rather flat against some of your works.
Nobody’s commented on 219.
Now Cappy’s prompt.
~~~~~~
The boards creaked under my feet, and Lindsey made an exaggerated “shut up” gesture from where she stood just inside the door. I pantomimed back, “come on,” and we both giggled nervously. This room was strictly out of bounds to anyone but Gran and Ariel.
Which of course was why Lindsey and I were sneaking in while the rest of the family was out. We had hoped to find some great secret, some inheritance or long-lost craft, but there was nothing. Nothing but dust and cobwebs in the empty room, dust, cobwebs, and one scratched antique chest of drawers.
Lindsey crept up beside me, her light dancer’s feet clad in socks making no noise on the ancient boards. “What’s in the dresser?” she whispered.
“Should we look?” I asked, my heart leaping with the exhileration of rule-breaking despite itself.
“Course,” she said with a sly smile. Lindsey, whatever her appearance – tidy, timely, and sweet – was certainly what Mom would consider a bad influence if she knew. I, however, found Lindsey a great and loyal friend and had no intention of letting Mom separate us because of Lindsey’s escapades.
The dresser’s top drawer was empty, except for a small spider which scuttled into the darkest corner when it saw the light. The second drawer didn’t even have a spider. And the third contained a sizable plain wooden box that looked as though it had not been touched for a decade.
I lifted it out, and the old wood coarse against my hand sent a thrill up my spine.
~~~~~
I’ll finish later.
I lifted it out, and the old wood coarse against my hand sent a thrill up my spine. I shivered. Lindsey, her own hands steady and controlled, her face impassive, removed the lid.
The papers were yellowed with age, and the ink had faded to match them. The script was elaborate, but beyond that I could make out nothing.
Lindsey’s face was shining with wonder, and I knew mine was too. These papers were old, old beyond belief. I could sit here running my fingers over the faded illustrations forever, squinting to make out the undecipherable script, learning the secrets that they must hold.
And at that moment, breaking the spell of age and mystery that surrounded us, the door downstairs opened.
232- My writing usually sings? thank you. Yes, I was thinking of re-writing that one with a notebook and when not under pressure of the submit button. (yes, I did write it in this very box. Bad e~a. Or maybe not. eh.)
234- I write it in the box too. Is that a bad thing?
232- Sorry, it IS half done. I had to leave in a hurry.
Continueing from post 230-
She placed the box on the bed and opened it. Inside, yellowed papers sighed as oxygen carressed them. The script was cursive, done with a type of quill with red ink. The lettering was minute and very neat. She squinted and read.
I know nothing of the name my mother gave me, nor the name of her or my father. My grandmother says i am the daughter of elves, left among humans as the fled from this world, but I long since have stopped believing in fairy tales. they call me Isabella, a name that sounds harsh in my ears, and foriegn. I can not respect the name, yet when I am called, I must come. Isabella, Samira thought. She fanned through the rest of the papers and continued to read the strange girl’s diary, and all her thoughts of makeup and childish wishes drifted as she opened herself and was told the tale of a girl many years ago.
235- I don’t know. Maybe. Perhaps. I know it puts me under pressure to finish sooner a bit.
Ramblings from late last night.
I can fell my heart beating inside my skin, a trapped cadence that fills me, thundering past ears and eyes- but how is this life? How can it beat warmth into be and and at the same time hang heavy with longing, loss- how can it continue when it knows that all must end.
When I look outward,away from this husk of a self I see trees, people, light, whispers and murmers and the ceaseless torrent of bonds. Their reflections play across my skin like moonlight on fog, but it does not penetrate nearly so deep. Unlike the envied droplet which is prizemed into a thousand sparking rays, the shadow-pictures only trace their fingers along my skin int he lightest of touches, leaving my inside craving for more and yet simultaneously drawing away, for it forsees the pain of only a little and no more. A single taste of wine to the parched and dyeing man, a single splash of bright red to the man who knows no color. What if he should have picked blue?
A single moment of bliss to leave you forever longing.
Ho can my heart still flutter, butterfly as I see the one I will never know closer, how dare it torment me so. My mind battles for control, is forced to love along with it (for it controls only the sense, emotion is left to stumble along blindly on it’s own) but knows no good will come. Never only a sigh and a breath away, no mere miles aperate me from what I would long for, but worlds. The ones we are trapped and isolated on. Neil Gaiman* was only partly right, he neglected to mention if we don’t pay close attention our worlds trap us in webs of sparkling dew, the sunrise glorifying imminent doom. “it is better to be a part of beauty/for/one instant and then cease to/exist than to exist forever/and never be a part of beauty.”** But for the moth, it knows that instant will be the last as it is, it never must ponder the life of ash and soot. Wars rage inside, and yet when I look outward-
Still it flutters.
Ivy grows tall, clay consumes; yet in the inside that which we would cover is sunchanged. Unchanged, yet also unviewed and unknown and so, so alone.
I hate myself for loving you, I hate that love can hold me in such a grasp, vice as to wish reality could suspend, time to twist– reliving past moments may bring some reliefbut the ache will ever remain underneath, buired at the back of closets and graves and thornbushes. It is not you I hate after all, but that I have so little control over myself while you…
One emotion brings the other, in the moment we comprehend the enemy before we destroy it we must weep with understanding.
If an artist sketches a picture on a canvas, small and light, but full of meaning; if she then paints over it loudly with color and depth and mockery, a painting others will see and respond too, which picture is the real one? Are the two even seperate?
How does the canvas feel?
What lies beyond the paint is only something we will ever wonder. Do not let others put things there for you.
So still it beats, the rythm unyeilding to my mind but tormented at the merest sights. I may laugh and cry but again, it’s only star-induced shadows, how long before inside the husk is withered, dried —
(how long is the life of a seed? how long does it wait for light, water, life, before crumbling to dust? a jar at the back of a closet filled with dried berries, forgotten tomato plants at the backs of countless stores, how long will they last before giving in? has anyone ever measured, does no one care? they wait for their purpose, and we even forget to deny it from them, and we forget because we are waiting too)
— Not dead, but not alive.
*Quote being: “Everybody has a secret world inside of them. I mean everybody. All of the people in the whole world — no matter how dull and boring they are on the outside. Inside them they’ve all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds…. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe.” – Sandman: A Game of You
**From a poem by Don Marquis, “The Lesson of the Moth”
238- Wow.
Erm… rereadiing it it seems a tad screy. I don’t really feel like that.
239- Is that a good ‘wow’ or a bad one?
…
I killed it.
241- No you didn’t.
240- Neither. Just wow.
We need tpo speed this thread up.
I agree. Though I’m not sure how much is going to get done with eveyone working on Nano in November…
Also, havn’t seen you around for a while Vixen. *pies*
244 I’ve been pretty busy. *Pies*
I can’t wait for NANO. We will have a special writing thread on there for posting excerpts and stuff, right GAPAs?
Also- Finding a box full of documents is the current theme already!!!!
Next up: After the death of someone or something. It’s deep and dark, but challenging.
SAVE THIS THREAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
continueing with the last theme, which is *gives GAPAS a slightly mean look* after the death of someone or something.
I buried Tammie in the backyard, under the oaktree. The grave was deep, and it took me all day to dig the grave. Around four oclock I layed the afghan hound, wrapped loosely in a white sheet, into the gaping hole. I layed a toy in there, and some flowers before I pushed the dirt back into the hole. It’s the one nice thing about living this far out in the country: it’s legal to bury your pets in the backyard. I sit under the oak and look at the sky through the spaces between the broad leaves. It autumn, and already the leaves begin to fall and cover her grave, hiding the dirt mound as if laying a blanket on it t keep out the cold. I wrap my jacket tighter around me and realise, softly, threw the black of losing a friend who was more like a sister, that Tammie would have liked to be underneith the Autumn leaves. She always loved hurteling through them, the leaves snagging on her fur and the sun shining off her eyes. I never noticed before, until that thought struck me, how beautiful the sky is, with the lights causing the clouds to glow.
thanks gapas.
next up…… the ocean.
I’m writing a novel, but it has nothing to do with NaNoWriMo,because it’s and observational piece.
248- I went to the ocean yesterday. It was beautiful. And so wild!
Im going to do one of the after the death ones but not now
Kate walked down the street, her head bent against the freezing rain. Her feet sloshed through ankle deep puddles, and passing cars splashed her already drenched overcoat with slushy water. She walked faster, just to get away, away from the muted corridors and still air of the funeral home. She knew her Nana would want her to remember the good times they had, not those last few months in the hospital. But it was so hard to think of anything even remotely happy in a place that had seen so much death and despair. Nothing felt real in there. Kate broke into a run, glad for the pain in her legs and the cold ice against her face and neck. That, at least, was real.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This was actually a lot longer but I deleted half of it because it wasn’t turning out the way I wanted it to. Originally, there was more description of the street she’s walking on, and at the end she walked into her Nana’s favorite restraunt. I had a clear image of the whole scene, because she’s walking along a street in my city, away from a funeral home (that really exsists) toward a greasy burger joint (that also really exsists). Anyway, the burger joint has always struck me as a little sad, because they serve sad little greasy burgers in a rundown truck stop at the corner of two busy roads where nobody stops to think about anything except their own problems. This was going to be her Nana’s favorite restraunt for some deep reason, but then I realized it wasn’t turning out at all how I wanted. So it got deleted.
let’s have a new on!.
I haven’t done the ocean. The foam rushed in, breathing against her ankles. The world sighed, and the waters pulled back. She stared at the sea and took a step forward, her nightgown pulling heavily at the bottom. The water was cool and comfortable,and it rushed in with deep roars that belong to gaping mouths of gods and deamons. She waded lightly into the water. Moonlight shined and rebounded on the surface, masking everything in a glow of silver and cold. The water was deeper here, and she began to swim,treading water. She glanced at the sky and plunged. The water clutched at her gown, pulling her into its depth. Her skin bleached in the cold whileher lungs were on fire. She opened her eyes, the salt stinging and swam deeper, finding the depths comforting in their deathly solitude. Black spots formed in her eyes, and she glanced up, gazing at the moon. A small minnow passed in front of her eyes, and , suddenly, the thought of death repulsed her, and she struggled to the surface. the water broke around her as she gulped down moonlight, for air and moon no longer seemed seperate.
“Somuch of adolescence is an ill defined dyeing.”
My stories have suicidal tendencies.
;D
Can we have a new thread? This one was started 6 months ago (almost exactly). I miss it, it gave me sme good ideas.
(252, 254) Good idea. Et voilà .