.:The Land of Abandoned Tales:. [short stories]

[INK.]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Welcome to....
.:Ƭнɛ Lαи∂ σғ Aвαи∂σиɛ∂ Ƭαℓɛƨ:.
enjoy your stay...

also check out •Glitch• and Land of abandoned poems

On This Thread...
Post one- you are here- *any wip(s)*
Post two- *short stories*
Post three- reserved

What's New...

~~~
Current WIP
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Floating Candles.

Every morning feels the same. Beginning with confusion, and then dread as the memories wash over me. I can still feel the flashes of light, all the images that stream behind my eyelids, all of the terror. Yet these pictures are silent- the images were too much, too much to take in and hear what was going on at the same time.

Crashes. Fires. Running.

We ran. We ran, and we ran, and we kept running. I think we may have screamed, or maybe we simply panted or gasped. I don’t quite remember. I still can see it as if it was a movie with the sound torn away- because that’s how it looked. It felt unreal, but it was something I could feel coming, it felt like a wave of dread. I can compare it to watching a fire creep slowly towards your house, knowing what was about to happen- but no one else sees anything until it spreads to their own property. I wasn’t the only one who could feel it coming, I know there were others though there were very few. So many people were too optimistic about the future, they thought nothing could go wrong. That’s when the attacks began.

The attacks were brutal, but I can’t tell you where they came from. The first part of the attack were the satellites going out. Weird. That was the most common response, but I knew it was no accident. Do you see? It wasn’t one satellite, it was all of them. As much hatred as I have for the people who did this, they are clever. Think about it, the best way to cut off all of the people in a technology based country, the people can’t call friends or family, no social media (good riddance), and absolutely no television or news.

We were all sitting ducks, that is until the real attack came. I guess you could say we became sprinting ducks that day. Have you ever looked in a history book and seen those giant balloon crafts- the dirigible things? That was the first wave that came. There were hundreds of them and they dropped bombs, little ones- no nuclear war for giant balloons I suppose. I had seen this whole thing coming, so I convinced a couple friends to go on a camping trip with me. Perfect timing in my opinion- go out where there is no cell reception when there is no point in using a useless phone anyways.

I am only fifteen, but I was a foster kid, so running off was not unheard of for me, and a camping trip sounded fine to my “parents” and none of my friends would listen to my theories of war anyways. But I did still try to save them. Our second night at the campsite, we all sat down by the creek that was nearly ten feet across but it was more of a slow moving pool that sat about six feet deep in some places. There were nine of us there, and each of us lit a few floating candles until there were around sixty little candles floating around the pool, but the reflections of the flames made it look like more. It was beautiful- one of the last beautiful things I saw.

That’s when we saw it, intruding on our beautiful pool was the reflection of something much less friendly than our flames. Remember those giant balloons? Yeah, you guessed it, the dirigibles were flying directly overhead. One of us screamed, and someone shined a lantern up to the sky, I don’t recall who this was- but I wish they hadn’t done that. The airships were so far away, but I could still hear people yelling from above. They must have seen our location, and they were yelling at each other to do something, but what was- before I could finish my thought my instincts had kicked in and I jumped down into the pool feeling the effect underwater as someone else jumped after me.

The pool was cool, and so quiet for about half of a second, but only that long. The massive shock wave of an explosion hit the water and the sound came a little late, but arrived in it’s own time as a muffled roar. I felt other smaller things hit the water, but everything was becoming fuzzy, and dark, and tired. The last thing I remember was the feeling of being dragged onto solid land and the sharp needles of air in my lungs as well as one last sight. The sight of many of my friends laid out on the opposite bank and many overturned floating candles. Only two candles still sat on top of the water flickering side by side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning I couldn’t figure out what was real, it was as if I was outside of my body. I was reliving what had happened the night before, different possibilities, ones were one of us called out and we all ran, stomping through the dust, and other ones were nothing happened at all as we all watched the airships fly by. Then there was one more. One were we all perished, I could see each of my friends enveloped by flames, or floating in the pool. This was the last scene I had to endure before I grabbed hold of reality.

I shot up to a sitting position on the ground, but I was not where I remember being. There was no creek, no fire, no little candles, and to my relief, no bodies. There was also no one else around me. I sat in a small clearing that had a young tree growing from it’s center, as I looked up through the branches of the small tree- all was silent. That is until I heard a rustle and the crack of a twig under foot- or paw- though I much prefer foot. I can’t express the relief I had when I saw one of my friends, he must have been the one who had jumped into the water after me. It was Bay- that is what I call him, his real name is Benny, but I like Bay more.

~~~~~~~~~~~

We spent the next few days talking sparingly, and walking much. We were heading into the city- walking down the freeway- to see what had happened. We knew very well that destruction was what awaited us- but it doesn’t mean it held no shock. The city never felt so big, and I never felt so small. I have always felt strong but the sights we saw could bring anyone with the slightest bit of empathy to tears.

The great towers were crumpled, and bridges were burned- and this is what we saw from a distance. Smoke was rising and the closer we got, the more sure we became that there was nothing that our former home could provide for us other than despair, and so we turned back to the only slightly scorched forest we came from. We carefully decided our route to avoid our campsite, we knew that the forest was the safest place to hide- given the good chances whoever attacked would come back, and probably soon.

We sat on the edge of the road for what felt like forever until the both of us took that first step into the brush knowing that what was ahead of us was our fate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Soon we came upon little bits of burned wood, and it immediately sent flashes of the first night. The destruction got worse and worse as we began to catch sight of bits of fabric from a tent, and then we saw it. We stepped into the burnt clearing far too similar to the campsite we came from- three? four days ago? How many nights had gone by that we just walked through? I couldn’t remember but as I thought of it, I could feel the exhaustion set in. As I remembered what we were looking at I began to feel nauseous, grabbed Bay’s hand and lead him off to another less charred portion of the forest.

Neither of us knew how to make a fire of any kind, but the nights weren’t too cold this time of year. The stars shone through the leaves of the trees, shining on as they normally do, oblivious to the matters of life on earth being destroyed, the moon looked a little closer and peered down on our green planet doing her usual duties of pulling on far away tides. I realized how earth is such a huge community that’s completely quarantined from the rest of the universe, how the universe never revolves around people and the universe has better priorities than our little wargames.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dreams cursed me that night, full of flashes and visions of the terror in the cities, they kept replaying. I couldn’t help, I couldn’t wake up to relieve myself of the terror. I saw my friends sometimes, they were screaming but everything was quiet, I saw myself, I ran and I ran, I tried to run away. But I couldn’t get away from the tears as far as I ran.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning light was gentle and calm. I could feel the slightest breeze brush my face, the grass clinging to my skin as if it was trying to make me part of the earth. I could hear the trees, they sang as the wind danced through their branches, and I could hear a rhythm, beating in my ear, soft but strong and warm. Taking everything in figured out that it was a heartbeat. I had fallen asleep curled up against Bay with my head on his chest. This realization came with a shock of embarrassment and I sat up slowly, hoping not to wake him so we can go on surviving without this piece of memory, but I would admit that I was reluctant to get up. It was calm and comfortable, and he was my best friend. I suppose my only friend at this point.

I looked back at where he lay, but his eyes were already open fixed on the clouds visible through the trees. I began to blush slightly and I dropped my head to allow my hair to fall over my face, as I did so he raised his head to look at me and he smiled. He didn’t make fun of me, he just smiled in such a calm peaceful way, so I smiled back and we shared a laugh. I couldn’t imagine that I was laughing because in my subconscious my dreams were slowly being processed from the night before, they felt more like memories than dreams, but I could stand to focus on the present and leave those thoughts for later. “Are you okay Faith?” I only replied with a slight chuckle, he has always called me Faith even though he knows it’s not my name, soon everyone else did the same. Bay and I had been close friends for years, and we had a trust that couldn’t be beat, maybe that’s why he jumped in the pool after me- he trusted my instincts.

We sat in our grassy patch for a while not knowing what to talk about. But really, what was there to talk about? School was probably just a pile of rubble, home was out of the question as was family, and the future. So we just looked on into each other’s eyes, I never noticed how deep Bay’s eyes were, they had layers upon layers of golds and ambers with just a whisper of green. All I could do was try to see what he was thinking. I’m sure he was doing the same.

Eventually we broke focus and I pulled my mousy brown hair back into a ponytail that I tied with the hair band that always remained on my wrist. As I pulled back that last piece of hair off of my freckled cheek, Bay asked the one dreaded question. “What do we do now?”

“We keep moving,” then I stood back up and offered my hand.

“But where are we supposed to go? I don’t know if we will survive in the forest,” he replied refusing my hand. We stood there in a state of tension as we took in the reality of our situation. He brought his eyes up and saw my hand still frozen in its offer, and with one swift move he looked back into my eyes with incredible intensity, he grasped my hand and quickly pulled down forcing me back onto my knees in front of him.

“Okay, you’re right, what do we do now?” I said after a long pause. He was right, we had no mission, and nowhere to go or live other than the forest. This was nothing like the movies, there was nothing left to do and searching for surviving communities was impractical where if there were any, they would be a lifetime away, or that’s what we thought at the time.

I dropped my gaze when he didn’t respond until I felt his large hand gently cup my cheek, “We keep living, and we don’t stop. We build camp, we scavenge for food, or,” with a laugh,” we can raid the gas stations. But whatever we do, we will survive.” I could help but smile, living with Bay in the forest, I admit it, I could enjoy it. I covered my face as I began to laugh to feel my cheeks were wet with tears, were they happy tears? Or were they tears of fear? I guess they were somewhere in between.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bay held up his end of the bargain and we headed back to the road in search of a gas station. We started to talk more than we were before- partially to distract us from the hunger that had become overbearing, and also because even though something terrible had happened, the two of us decided that we need to think about the present and let go of our feelings of dread. For this I felt that we were disgracing the memories of those who died as we were joking and smiling as we walked towards our destination, and I felt guilty for a minute. “They are all gone and would rather us try to be happy then spend all day in grief,” Bay reminded me as we push open the door into the deserted mini-mart. It was definitely deserted, and to both of our reliefs there were no bodies either.

Something was not quite right, food was scattered and picked over. This didn’t seem too odd other than we presumed that no one else survived. There would be no reason for the store to be in this condition unless someone- or several someones were in a hurry. Bay felt the same, but we continued inside with no hesitation because whoever was there were not there anymore. Quickly packing a few bags with food unlikely to spoil as well as a few things to eat as we go, Bay stopped short, put his bags down and darted into the back corner returning with a few beers. “Bay, hell no! You aren’t getting drunk on my watch,” I couldn’t help but laugh as I said it.
“What? I’ve always wanted to try one, what better time than now?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, but we were both laughing too much and I didn’t want to fight him on it, so we pack up our bags and headed back into the forest.

After our long trek back into the forest, the light was beginning to dim and we set up a temporary camp under a great old growth tree. Bay had the good sense to pick up a lighter and we built a small fire pit to provide us with some extra warmth and light. I immediately looked into our stash of food and turned back around in time to see my only friend open his beer. I have to say that the idea of him drinking made me very uncomfortable, but I was willing to go with it because there was no one around to judge. He offered me a taste which I accepted but immediately spit out. I swear, that was the most foul thing I had ever tasted, but he seemed to like it. I quickly made him promise that he would only drink one beer. Soon both of us were sitting by the fire, snacking on mini-mart food, making jokes and laughing. Bay, he was laughing just a little more that he normally would have, but he wasn’t quite drunk, he was still pretty lucid.

Knowing that now was the time to ask him questions he would probably not answer if he was not drinking, I had to ask, “Why have you always called me faith? You know it’s not my name.”
“I know it’s not your name,” he slowly replied suddenly more sober than before.
“Then why do you call me Faith?”
“I think it’s prettier than Ivy,” I refused to let this be the final answer, because I knew he was lying, “I have always called you faith because when I first met you, I had no hope in life. You gave me hope, and you became the one person I could always have faith in, you are my faith.”
It took me a long time to say anything back, but eventually I asked another question, “Bay, do you like me?”
“Of course I like you,” I looked back into his eyes and asked the question I could never take back.
“No.... do you love me?”

[INK.]

{un-named}

The worst part of death is there is no warning. No scary music leading up to it. It just happens, a chain of events leaving you feeling hopeless. The scariest part is that after all the fear, death feels merciful. It makes you grateful that your mortal and that death is an option. I guess death isn't scary at all, its just dying that makes us all afraid. The proses. The pain. The torture. The fear. When death its self comes for you, you go willingly and with a smile that the pain is gone.

~~~

I was never the happiest, never the cheerleader, content with little or no friends. Now I'm grateful I didn't have any at this point in time, but I was unaware until now that I think about it. Sure I wore black... every day, but what was wrong with that, black is a comfortable color. Despite how I felt about it, I was still the emo girl, only a freshman in high school. Barely 14 and completely without a social life, most would say that that would be a dreadful life as a young teenager, I disagree. I think that if you have a supportive family, mom, dad, little brother, you can cope with no friends. Okay maybe I didn't even have that... I had myself! ha. Myself counts as some one... so what? I think I'm pretty awesome...

School was the equivalent to hell, I practically was non existent, until people got board and I walked by. Ah, insults. Change a few words, through the insult back at them, your social status lowers. Am I the only person to find this amusing? Well you may not, but think of this, your social status is zero, so lowering it is pretty hard. It was my favorite game, trying to get it to -thirty. I was close, I got -nineteen, yes we had people to keep track. Shame that I never got to my goal... eh its really okay I didn't make it, I already passed the school record of -six. That sounds pretty bad doesn't it? Well I dealt with it, and learned how to become a good fighter. The people at my school and I had a mutual agreement, "Don't tell any one I punched you, I won't say that you have been verbally abusing me," or something to that effect. We were all happy... enough. You couldn't have blamed me for being mad when I was insulted, you can't blame them to be pissed over a black eye. Ha.

Home wasn't great either, I could tolerate it, more or less. It seemed to be more emotionally painful to simply ignored than insulted. Yep, that was life. Be ignored, be fed, be ignored again. This was of course unless I had school, then I get a break of being ignored to be insulted. Then again I wasn't at home unless I had to be, in other words unless I was asleep I wasn't at home. No one cared, that was okay with me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Unheard.

Sadness.
It can be felt throughout the house, sent in waves, effecting everyone

Pain.
The cause of the tears that run down their faces. All of their faces, all but the causer of this pain. The girl, only at the age of seven, her cheek scraped and red kneels on the floor, her big eyes full of tears. Her father above her, belt in hand. What has he done, he shakes his head and leaves her on the floor. Back to the wall, on the other side of his sister, an older brother slides to the floor. Tear streaks carved through the dirt on his face, a tear for every time he heard her wince. A mother, stationed at the oven, her hands supporting her shaking body on the counter. None of this family would dare to speak for days. Surrounded by rolling hills and grass, the tears would never be heard, pain never seen.

The boy of only eleven years became the father to his sister. A man who hurts his children can no longer be called a father. He was her friend, her brother, her father, and doctor. Her mother wouldn’t be able to put herself to the task of tending to the scraped body of her daughter. How could she deal with it? The brother, as solid as he can make himself appear, offers himself as her caretaker. Washing her wounds, dressing them, calming her as best as could. Only of the age eleven, he has been forced to become so much older. If he could, he would leave. He would take his sister with him. With nothing around, with nowhere to go, he is trapped.

The tears of this family were forever stifled. Silenced by isolation. Silenced by fear to speak out. How do you tell the world your pain, the inescapable pain of being trapped, when no one can hear? Like being surrounded by a group of deaf and blind people. None of them know you are there, and none have a way to know unless they run straight-on into you. Until you are found, you voice won’t exist.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clown in the Light

Orange lights flashing, people flying, roars, screams. After it all ends... the world seems silent. Surrounded by my older peers, I sit in front of the vintage mirror attempting to scrub away the make up. The triangles under my eyes, the bright red lip-stick, and all of the white covering the rest of my face. I get to be a clown every weekend, hair fried to a crisp orange puff on my head, people staring and laughing as I get tripped and hit repeatedly by my peers, then jumping up and walking along with a comical laugh. I'm only twelve and I love having a job, putting on a performance, its really fun actually. I travel with a huge family of people, help put up the tents in the next city or help feed the (less meat hungry) animals.

But there is some problems with having such a big family. No one notices if you disappear. If you are crying, no one can tell if its an act or not. Laughter on stage or off eventually sounds the same so faking a laugh can cover any thing, any thing you want to hide can stay hidden with just a laugh. This also means any one can be lying. Lies always come out at some point, for better or worse.

~~<^>V<^>V<^>V<^>V<^>V<^>V<^>~~

Have you ever seen those creepy people who wear too much make-up or wear giant sunglasses? If you have you probably understand what I mean when I say that it’s like they wear a mask, you cant tell weather or not they are serious or kidding, lying or telling the truth. It’s pretty creepy. When every one around you is in costume, its like a giant cartoon and what ever someone says during this time, it means nothing later. It makes it impossible to be serious, or to get some one to take you seriously. Well then again it makes it worse that I happen to be a clown.... no, that never helps.

Also, our particular circus includes a carnival. Pick-pocketing is constant. You will have no personal belongings at the end of the day. Okay so maybe that's not true for every one. See, I was abandoned or possibly orphaned at the circus at the age of two, a fortune teller took me in. She claims she “saw potential in me” well with her, I’m not sure if her act really is all gimmicks or not, she may have a talent. Not just because she said that when she saw me... she has said some pretty impressive things. But from that age, I have been taught the tricks of the trade, the magic behind the “magic”, and smaller things like pick pocketing, I am pretty good at it actually. I do have say I’m relatively proud of that.. that and I am the youngest worker/ performer in our big old family, but that means I do end up lonely sometimes.

~~<^>v<^>v<^>v<^>v<^>v<^>v<^>~~

Night time, for me its the best, the lights seem to glow brighter, every thing seems more dramatic, and I get to play tricks on people... well I had already been doing that all day, but its cooler at night so I’m not getting heat stroke at the same time. No, its not fun at all, but when it happens I just steal some shaved ice from the snow cone stand, and I generally get away with it! Well this is partially due to the fact it is almost always next to something really loud, the circus tents.

The circus tents are simply, beautiful. Covered in yellow and red, a red flag perched at the very peak, roars echoing from inside, screams and laughter as well. I get to preform in them some times, and nothing can beat the sound of laughter from the audience during the clown act. Some times I go in the audience and play tricks or scare them when they aren’t expecting it, the laughter that comes out of my mouth, there is nothing fake about it. My job is unique, but I don’t get paid, but I do get a free bed and food, so my earnings come from pickpocketing. Then again, there are very few things you would want money for so it doesn’t really matter now does it?


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stained

_If you feed off fear, or if you are just crazy enough, you can change your soul for the worst. Stain it to the color of darkness, black as coal. I believe every ones soul begins in the color white, blank and pure. But weather it stays pure through out your life depends on your actions. Stained red for a life of passion, or blue for a life of sadness. Yellow for joy, and green for envy. Even gray as smoke for a life of crime. But to turn it to black, as if it was burned, it takes the worst kind of person, of witch there are few. But it's always some one with out a heart, no conscience, no morality. To live amongst death and blood, the practice of human sacrifice, worship of the devil, witchcraft for the purpose of pain to others. Black as coal, dark as night, death always comes, with or with out a fight. But those of such darkness, despite how few there are, remain on earth. And they remain strong, and may become stronger with death, that is if they can keep feeding of of the living. Feeding on their pain, their guilt or sadness, of even by taking the lives of the living. But how does one protect his or herself from something that's made up of energy, how does someone stay alive when a spirit, black as night comes to kill you?
You don't._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Isolated.

Gray concrete walls and a worn spring bed, bars on the windows and a lonely chair. A vase upon the windowsill silhouetted in the early morning light, dozens of collected crow feathers placed carefully inside. Sheets sprawled across the room, mattress bare showing stains from many years past. Door with a slat and locked from the outside. And a small girl, dark hair as a curtain across her face. When will she get out, she doesn’t know and can’t think as screams fog her mind from all around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Special addition to this thread, immediately below this quote is an entry to a contest called "show me a song"

What do you expect?

It’s not her fault.

Being teased and tortured is not something you ask for. She has problems, chances are you have issues of your own. Her problem is you, and what is your problem? You “fat” as she strives to be just as thin as you and she has already passed that line. Ask her the last time she ate and the -truthful- answer would be that she eats every meal. But she goes to the bathroom twice as often, but I wouldn’t ask her about that.

She didn’t mean for all this trouble to come her way.

The pain she received was not part of her intent. When was the last time you spoke to her, including listening? I doubt you ever have, and what ideas can come out of a tortured mind! The world is in front of her, so why won't you let her touch the stars? She sees the world in a way you can’t and she can bring a new light to life. You simply don’t want to hear, you don’t want to know, it doesn’t matter one bit to this world you’ve got to yourself.

What is life with one less child of Earth?

It couldn’t make such a difference. You wouldn’t hear who choreographed the new Broadway musical, or owned her own radio station. Anyone could have done it, if not her, someone else could do the job. Just one dream, scattered amongst a couple billion others. What makes this one so important? Someone else may need the opportunity more, why would you suddenly be so special?

Exactly, what makes you so special?

If she’s not worth it, then why are you? I see, you are pretty- potential model- I get it, what potential could she possibly have in this world where un-attractive is to be worthless. Maybe that’s what she is, worthless, amongst the movie stars, the singers and weight-loss-ads. Just say it, you’re all thinking it, she won’t make it. Not on this world, not in this life. You can’t expect any more from her. She’s surviving but she’s not cut out for what we call life.

Go ahead and ignore her.

She’ll have to get used to it anyways. No one wants her now nor will they ever. She’s too guarded, wrapped up in a great big unhealthy blanket of depression. You know you say her today, you have seen her every day of school since sixth grade. But where was she? Try to remember, she could have been in the back of fifth hour, maybe the bathroom, where did she sit at lunch, maybe she was in her usual corner. That one right next to the band room.

Remember?

That perfect hidden corner you saw her hunched in the other week. Remember her eyes, they were deep, dark, they could tell a million stories. She had dark make-up smudged under her eyes as if she had been crying. She couldn’t have feelings though could she. Attention, that’s all she was after, so why feed it and feel for her in any way?

What do you expect from her?

Or maybe you were wrong. Don’t deny you haven’t seen her scars, not only the physical ones, but the ones deep in her soul. She is cracking, about to fall to pieces. Too many pieces and she won’t be able to rebuild herself. So say hi. Just once, don’t let her hide away forever when the only thing she needs is a fellow human being to make her feel less alone. She doesn’t need a big group of friend, or to be very social, just to be less lonely. That’s what we all need right? A person to hold on to even if not very tight.

Be that bright light at the end of a tunnel.

Put a light into the darkness she faces everyday. Because just one hello can save a life, say it soon before it’s too late, don’t let her break. Know you won’t regret it, because one day you will look back and see have far away yesterday has gone.

This piece of writing took inspiration from the song "Yesterday", I don't think I need to explain why, but I thought I should let you know I'm sorry, I know it's not exactly happy...

I'm happy to say- this above entry has won the contest I entered it in! no one reads this so I have no shame in being excited about that!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Introduction.

A trench coat, a revolver clenched tightly at his side, a monical shattered and hanging at his side as he swings from foot to foot. The face is young but the soul buried deep weighs heavy and old. Cocking the old gun then releasing it, with an empty click. The bullet was gone, fired some time ago, it wasn’t to be stopped. It had to happen, and so it did. Each heavy boot landed with a thud down the dark street periodically lit by a lamp, and there was the occasional cat skittering away. His face young but worn, chin covered in a thin shadow of lack of the ability to remember to shave. With every heavy step, a cock or a click of the revolver clenched to his side.
click. click. click. click. click.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. It was too cruel, it couldn’t be true, but that’s how it worked. The impossible had become possible, as unsensible logic became sensible and fact. This all happened at his hand. What had he done, banning himself from his own home, society, and all hope of normality in life. So that was it, a family of street cats gazed right through, into his soul and beyond. Not even they would be able to accept the deed he had done.
click. click. click. click...... click.

1.
1854...
Black fabric ironed flat and the scent of every different perfume made in the closest city, London. Each scent dragged in by yet another darkly dressed friend or cousin, aunt, grandfather- someone who shared blood in some way or another. Each mirror covered with a black sheet and every clock halted. At the door greeting the guests there was a boy, far too young to have arranged and prepared for a funeral, it was a young Vincent, fifteen years of age. Plenty old enough to work, but just too young to have to do such work alone. All for his own mother.
She was hardly thirty-four, young, light hearted, quite beautiful, and ever so kind and caring to everyone she loved. Poor thing. Disease, catching her at her best, stopping her at the peak of her strength and joy.

She never suffered, she never had such a chance. This was little consolation to her dear family. Vincent was left to care for every aspect of their attempt at normal lives. No, he was not orphaned though. His father sat in the back room with a bottle of gin as guests’ tears silently slid down their cheeks, landing with a gentle tick on the wooden floor boards . The shock of the loss had rendered him unable to do anything with the exception of the ability to raise a bottle to his dry cracking lips, or work in the fields. He never stopped working, never took a breath to tell the children of the tragedy. They didn’t need to be told. They knew. The courtesy would have been appreciated all the while.

Vincent discreetly gave himself little jobs. He straightened the yellow roses placed around the rooms, he wiped the smallest crumbs away from the silver platters of food, and continued to do the same chore again and again until he knew he was doing no good with his task. Pacing up and down the halls, with little to do, he placed a firm warm hand on the shaking shoulders of his relatives. He felt their pain with all his heart. It hurt oh so badly- but he had grieved plenty and shed his share of tears. Down the hall again, hands clasped behind his back, early afternoon sun passed through the crack in the door to the spare room. This room held all of the books in the house, his mother’s vanity with it’s antiqued mirror and fancy bottles of perfume and makeup, his father’s desk, and his little sister’s dolls.

Slowly using the knuckle of his right index finger, Vincent pushed the door in. He saw to his immediate left against the wall, the vanity, and upon the stool that sat in front of it sat Edna. Only twelve and suddenly without a mother, she gazed through the mirror back at herself, not fussing with her short brown flyaway hair, or her nicely kept dress, but looking into her eyes. Emerald green with brown in the center. Not in any way vain, as an outsider may see it, she would gaze into her own eyes for hours at a time when the rest of her life allowed it.

“Whenever you need me, look into a mirror, into your own eyes, and you will see me”, as Emily, Edna’s mother stood beside her looking into the old mirror. This moment, these brilliant seconds happened only days before illness struck. The golden flakes in her eyes faded, and then her suddenly her life itself.

Their eyes had always been a perfect match. Emily’s eyes held the only difference, the slightest hint of the smallest gold flakes shimmering close to her pupils. Both of their eyes were so beautiful and Edna agreed, by looking into her own eyes she could see her mother. How she missed her, it sent her to a state of silence. Silent pain, and silent tears, because the noise was unnecessary and it could never bring her back. She was only twelve years old, but she had become so wise.

Vincent stepped in slowly, halting himself directly behind her, swiping his dark hair out of his eyes. He never felt a need to cut it, and he had let it grow down into his eyes. Her eyes never wandered until he placed a firm hand on her shoulder, then she calmly looked up to meet his gaze. Both seemed to have gained years to their age over the last couple of weeks, their eyes were dull and tired. Their cheeks had sunk in just slightly, as food had become optional.

“The guests have been asking for you”

“I thought as much,” said Edna with a slight grave smirk.

“It’s time to give them the courtesy of making an appearance,” but she remained in a pained silence “I’m sorry Ed,”
She stood to face her brother, she was four inches shorter than he was, but she stood as an equal. “As am I, but there is nothing either of us can do”. With that, she gave him a brief hug, turned and began to leave without another word. Hesitating in the doorway to smoothe out her dress, she put on a mask of feeling somewhat okay and left to greet the family.

2.
Two months later.......

Pain, numbness, feeling more dead than alive, this sensation would remain for life it seemed. The world was blank, holding nothing of color or interest in the future or past. Sure the grass was green and the sky stayed gray, but this meant nothing. Color was simply a label to identify or describe parts of this dead life. Grey was a feeling, nearly an emotion it seemed. The feeling of nothing, that was the standard of daily life for Vincent, nothing more in the way of emotion except for the sensation of irritation. Those who were happy were daft, and no, optimism was not a strength for him.

Edna on the other hand learned to live again to an extent, she began to find a place for optimism in her heart. She learned to keep it to herself and far away from the cold eyes of her brother. She tried her best to bring light to the cold quiet home she live in. In those weeks following the funeral, she brought it upon herself to take out dead flowers and pick fresh wild blossoms. Realizing this was going entirely unnoticed she began to cease this habit, leaving aged brown flowers scattered around their home. For some time, a faint perfume lingered in the rooms, appearing to stick to the wallpaper and being summoned from the wooden floor boards if you were to move across them too quickly. Soon she removed the dolls from the vanity room and all the childhood toys, she was forced to grow up so quickly that she simply couldn’t look at them without slight disgust.

Instead, she took up reading and writing when there was parchment around. Though she was still only twelve and she was suddenly trusted to walk the three miles to the small shop to get new paper, ink, and food if necessary. Then one day she brought home something of mystery to slight taboo. She bought herself a mask, a doctors mask resembling the face of a crow or a raven. These were used by doctors when they treated patients during the plague, even though it occurred so long ago, just a little more than five hundred years infact. Despite the time since then, the masks were of nightmares. She was so very fond of the mask anyways and carried it wherever she went.

The mask created tension with her father who still remained in the back room with his whiskey. In the times he appeared, he brought the scent of alcohol and a couple comments of disgust towards the mask and whatever his son or daughter had done wrong this time. He was never a soft hearted man, yet his outwardly uncalled for comments grew in frequency over time. Ed and Vincent learned to cope and they learned to pretend he wasn’t there, though this was more difficult for Edna. She was human after all, and she was quite sensitive behind the mask of strength she wore.

The family life was never ideal. The past held pain, this was before the funeral I mean. Like previously stated, the father never had the softest of hearts....

Five years earlier....

The girl, only at the age of seven, her cheek scraped and red kneels on the floor, her big eyes full of tears. Her father above her, belt in hand. What has he done, he shakes his head and leaves her on the floor. Back to the wall, on the other side of his sister, an older brother slides to the floor. Tear streaks carved through the dirt on his face, a tear for every time he heard her wince. A mother, stationed at the oven, her hands supporting her shaking body on the counter. None of this family would dare to speak for days. Surrounded by rolling hills and grass, the tears would never be heard, pain never seen.

The boy of only ten years became the protector to his sister. A man who hurts his children can no longer be called a father. He was her friend, her brother, her protector, and doctor. Her mother wouldn’t be able to put herself to the task of tending to the scraped body of her daughter. How could she deal with it? The brother, as solid as he can make himself appear, offers himself as her caretaker. Washing her wounds, dressing them, calming her as best as he could. Only of the age ten, he has been forced to become so much older. If he could, he would leave. He would take his sister with him. With nothing around, with nowhere to go, he is trapped.

Edna, she had her mask, physical and metaphorical. She did all in her power to not communicate with other people, strangers, relatives, and especially her father. There was a bond with her mother, but her closest relationship was with her brother. He was kind, he had a heart and loved her until the end of the universe, he simply had a harder time showing it post the death of his mother. He was still there for her anyways, just more discreetly. That was okay. She knew that she could always go to him, that was all she needed.

Vincent cared for her so much, words could not describe it. He needed her as well, they kept each other going, but sometimes he forgot this. He would sometimes disconnect from the world around him and attempt to lose himself for a while, and there was nothing wrong with this. The issue was the fact that he would say things he had no intent of letting her hear.

Once the two of them had gone on a walk together. There was a hill of great size on the east end of the property that right on top there sat a twisted gnarled tree of witch Vincent would climb and Edna would seat herself on the roots. They could sit there for hours and watch the clouds drift. To the west they could see their home, the barn, and the fields. Beautiful would be a word Edna would use to describe it, her brother on the other hand would call it a point on a map- if even that. The wind would be gentle and calm, and the scent of the earth below them would find a way to make you feel so rooted, connected, and content if only for a moment. If only those moments could stay forever.

Some days the two of them would talk, fantasize more like. Ed would reach for the stars with her dreams, and Vincent would always encourage her but make sure she still had at least a toe on earth. She spoke of the places she had heard of, Paris for one. She wanted to see all that was beautiful. She always dreamed, and he always commented. Once she asked him where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do one of these days. He thought as his eyebrows pushed together in concentration. Finally he replied, “ One day I want to leave here, never look back, and forget everything that’s ever happened here, and find a new life”.

Ed knew she wasn’t part of this new life and for a split second she appeared as a bird. Her short brown hair was ruffled with her frustration, her large hazel eyes grew ever wider, and her slender neck perched her head perfectly to view Vincent in his sky-blue-grey eyes. Then through her torn state, she hopped off her root, clenched her precious mask and streaked away out of sight.

The birds silenced themselves and the breeze halted. The new silent world stood before Vincent. The greenest grass contrasting the grayest sky, with that little rusted red barn sitting right there, what seemed like miles away down slope from where he sat. And in this moment, this very moment, Vincent learned there is so much more world around him than the world inside his head, and though this personal world didn't recognize the effect of his actions, the world around him did. As a challenge to the silence, thunder rolled out in the distance, causing a ripple effect in the surrounding grass.
Guilt overcame him, the one person in the world who cared about him had just ran away. He saw his mistake and with haste, followed her down the hill to make amends.

[INK.]

What Would you Think of Me?

Don’t look at me like that.

I knew I would have a final test within this lifetime- and it would be sooner than later. I knew I would have to accept this oncoming fate as it charged near at full speed as a bullet triggered miles away- sounding off to let me know I have a couple seconds. But then after that there would be no return and no way to know if there is a light- or life at the end of the tunnel. The media gave no warning of war- in fact it remains oblivious to the bloodshed.

I knew this would happen long before the official word was out, I can’t tell you how- but I did. I wanted to tell someone- anyone! Yet I found that high school was no place to state such a theory, I did had friends- they listened simply to humor me and nothing more. I can’t blame them and after all, who would want to listen to a little freshman girl’s war theory? Even those who accepted the possibility would rather not think of it. Even today, with the bangs and booms surrounding us all, they’d rather not think about it. So I became a warrior. With everyone straying to their fantasy land-” that happy place inside your head” (as my former therapist called it) I grew stronger and more bold knowing the only one to save me would be... me. It’s a tragic thought to know you won’t be saved, but knowing that with a fat load of luck and maybe a friend- you may just live.

Post-Apocalyptic is a good word I would say- that how everything looks. I grew up in awe of the art and fictional stories of post-apocalyptic times in curiosity of why they were always placed a million years in the future. Last time I read one of those stories it was, well about ten months ago, only about a month before it all began. It feels like a million years ago all the same, and I remember every second.

~~~

I Know What You Must Think

It all began with the internet. That is what I believe at least- I mean where else to start? People were becoming far too dependent on it for communication and receiving information, plus it caused quite a panic for it to disappear. It was subtle and admittedly an impressive strategic move. It started by simply being slow causing a good distraction as more threats were shared between countries- even without the distraction, the threats were not a large subject of conversation . You always assume you are safe and things will be taken care of. This may be why war seemed like such a shock to most people.

“Ignorance is Bliss,” that's one of the phrases you hear over and over until they are dismissed when the universe decides to prove you wrong. I wouldn’t call it fair to call everyone ignorant- but then again, those who I consider ignorant appear to be the majority of the world’s population in the end. It’s not necessarily true for every person, after all if it helps you sleep at night- you wouldn’t dwell on the subject now would you?

I call it the “Afraid of the Dark Syndrome,” in which as a kid you are scared something will come and get you out of the shadows, but as you get older you stop thinking of that possibility because weather or not there is something out there- you shouldn’t bother thinking about it because you can’t see it or know if it’s there at all. So why waste your time on a possibility that may- or may never happen? I think there is a reason children are afraid of the dark- children are sensitive- so why is nearly every young child afraid of the dark? love the dark- knowing that I don’t know what’s there, conscious of the possibilities and mystery of it all, it’s exciting- and terrifying depending on your situation.

The morning before the world went to hell- I woke before dawn, June 14th 2014. Without a single speck of light I lay raveled in my blankets on the floor at the base of my bed. I had been falling off my bed more and more frequently in a pattern reminding me of contractions. This was never the cause for my waking in the morning- I slept through everything, like nightmares. They never gave me any real fear, nor did horror novels sitting in a crumpled pile near my bare left shin. I only knew this as I lay in complete silence because of the spine of my favorite one- worn and tattered lightly brushed my leg as I stretched.

After much nonverbal debate with myself I propped myself up on my forearms to drag my knees under to sit on my feet. Feeling my eyes were open- I wondered why do people keep their eyes open when there is no hope of seeing until instincts shouted no as I tried to stand up with eyelids resting closed. Re-opening them I confidently strided to the doorknob by muscle memory leading the way, remembering exactly where each pile of books, school work,clothes, or simply stated- crap was placed in my path to the door. Upon finding my destination and grasping the knob a surge of energy in a flood of suddenly feeling as if there was nothing separating me from the rest of the world. I could feel every inch of my body at once as well as the feeling that the world was so very close. I could feel every aspect of it. It’s an indescribable sensation I had never felt previously and I’ll never forget.

Closing my eyes once more, I re-established myself as the energy passed. As I recall, the air of the morning felt charged in the way a rocket builds up energy preparing for a blast of energy to take off. Nearly summer break with only four more days remaining in school, I reassured myself how I wouldn’t have to deal with the pressure much longer. I then opened the door of my room to a whole new day that would soon change the rest of my life and the rest of the world forever.

~~~

But It’s Not True

I initially didn’t find a problem with the way everything felt. It felt different- wrong almost, but it was not the first thing on my mind that day. With a couple finals lined up in my schedule, my stomach had already let me know how deep my nerves were running even though I was fairly confident in myself. But I worry, always did- and I still do. The worry of failing miserably in something sent my stomach to the peak capacity of butterflies. Now that I look back there was indeed an undertone to the scramble of feelings that day, I could identify it as a dull roar or a deep gut feeling completely unrelated to testing.

Stepping off of the bus onto the gravel that let out a grave crunching noise specific to the home of teenage dread, I escaped the fluttering belly monsters that had been attacking the whole ride to school on the sight of my closest male friend. Eyes lighting up and with quick steps I reached him and the tree he was placed under. Prodding for knowledge about my preparedness for the day’s tasks ahead- the butterflies regained their monopoly over my stomach and the new found light in my eyes faded once more. With my lack of reply and the raise of an eyebrow, he placed an arm around my shoulders to drag me (almost unwillingly) off to first hour.

Question one, name.
Henrietta J. Smith. Simple enough I said to myself moving on to the questions that actually give you points. What a shame it is that you don’t get points for your name, after all a name is worth so much more than the credit you are given for it. Some say it is only a label, but when you have nothing- just having your name is your whole identity rolled up in a couple letters, and how brilliant is that? I’m serious too, how beautiful is it to have so much put into a word that the word becomes you? This word becomes a theoretical representation of you to a point that whenever you hear the word or whenever it is stated in conversation- there is a piece of you vibrating through the air and into the ears of others.

The test is the easy part-- then comes the wait and worry period of time in which you hope and pray that you did okay even though there is no longer anything you could do about it anyways. The worst part I admit is the opening of the report card after summer begins, this time around, I never heard the news- if all the worry was worth it.

Butterflies subsiding, and with a lack of an appetite, I still searched out my small clan of friends during lunch. We were a close knit group, no secret was to be kept for long unless it is was never told in the first place. Every embarrassing moment you had to endure- you would expect to relive it a hundred times over as soon as they learned about the event. We pushed each other to be better partially out of fear of judgment yes, but also simply because we all wanted to be better than the other. This being an unstable system at times- we all had our ups and downs through time.

There were five of us all together, Garvan (our only guy), Ollie, Morgan, Seave, and me- Henrietta. Like I said, we had our ups and downs some of which I admit I caused. See, I have this deeply embedded problem with simply following others without a second thought. I have my own opinion and I like to be heard or understand why- and this goes for many situations. I regret very little as well, and this does not benefit the mix as I will say whatever I want and not feel badly about it later. This can be a source of respect, but also can be an easy spark near any short fuses in a close proximity.

No regrets. Strong opinions. It’s a wonder that I have great friends who put up with me. Often times what I say is something that needs to be said- therefore I can gain a friend or find out very quickly who I wouldn’t work well with, and there are many of the latter. Well they make life more interesting, and I was about to say that life was boring me.

Paranoid |||||||||||||||||||| 90% 50%
Schizoid |||||||||||||| 54% 40%
Schizotypal |||||||||||||||||||| 82% 56%
Antisocial |||||||||||||||| 66% 46%
Borderline |||||||||||||||||||| 82% 45%
Histrionic |||| 18% 35%
Narcissistic |||||||||||| 46% 40%
Avoidant |||||||||| 38% 48%
Dependent || 10% 44%
Obsessive-Compulsive |||||| 30% 45%

[WRENCHDOGS]

i think these could be good names

the colorless world
a world of hurt
the lone teenager

[pennydreadlocks]

i like the colorless world

[Captain Iron Krista]

I likee (:

[icicle1107]

love it love ya

[INK.]

Thank ya! Thank you all I will keep writing soon.... ish. I have math final soon bleh

[Lazeling]

Good beginning! It might be interesting to know what life at home was like for her- Or are you saving that for later? Doesn't matter. I still think it's awesome.

[INK.]

This is now a MASH UP, or a thread of my short or unfinished stories
just posted a relatively creepy poem "TEDDY"
please comment!!!