|
Post by soufflé on Feb 24, 2012 23:47:20 GMT -5
Well I thought I would post some of the things I write here that aren't fanfiction, in case anyone would like something to read!
These are one-shots and poems, so no on-going story here.
This is one I wrote last week, and it has yet to be titled:
He walks. He doesn't know where he's going, but he knows he can't stay here. He knows he doesn't belong, and he never will. So he walks.
He looks around at the city as he goes, the run-down buildings looking somehow lost and defeated, looking just like he does. The tall, formidable skyscrapers loom over the town, dwarfing him by comparison.
He feels just how he looks-- small, disgruntled, and alone. But he knows there's more to it than that. He can't explain it, not even to himself.
The grey sky grows darker as he walks, and soon the only light left comes from the city. Shadows seem to take over everything in sight, leering in every crack and corner he encounters. He continues to walk, unfazed.
He feels dead inside. He wouldn't be surprised to find that he looks dead, too-- the color faded from his cheeks, the way his arms hang limp by his sides as he walks. He feels no emotion. He's done with emotion. He's felt too much already, and now he just feels numb.
He soon reaches the train tracks, desolate at this time, since no one's used them for years. It's as if everyone has forgotten about this city, except for the people who live here. He leans against the rusted chain-link fence, wishing he could forget it as well.
He walks along the abandoned tracks until he reaches a graffiti-ridden, concrete wall. He climbs up onto the wall and to the dark hill behind it. At the top of the hill is another old fence, barbed wire running around the top. He looks down through the fence, and all he can see is waste-- endless stretches of brown grass, with plastic bottles scattered between old, twisted trees, and signs littered with advertisements, empty promises.
He feels trapped. It could be just the barbed wire, but he knows it's so much more. The shadows grow bigger as he walks farther and farther from the city. A cold, bitter wind plows through the town, making the litter bounce across the lifeless ground.
A piece of old, wrinkled paper blows into his path, and he stops walking. He looks at the text on the paper, which reads, "Missing". Then he looks down to the familiar face of the girl on the paper, and he remembers why he feels dead.
He shudders and lets the paper fly off into the wind.
Numb, he walks.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'll post some more, if you like!
|
|
|
Post by soufflé on Feb 25, 2012 23:47:10 GMT -5
Thanks, CV! Here's another one I have. This one's a bit happier.
“We All Want to Disappear”
She took a small sip from her mug of coffee as she walked along the brick sidewalk. She sighed, watching the red and orange leaves drift peacefully in the autumn wind. The street was quiet, empty. No cars drove along the cobblestone road, and few people passed by her as she continued down the street.
The buildings she passed were somber and gray, isolated from one another, and the lampposts were not illuminated—for it was merely twilight, and they were not scheduled to light until dusk. Gold and crimson trees loomed over the street quietly, serenely, bringing her a small piece of warm reassurance that she could not understand.
As she turned the street corner, the memories began to suddenly flood back to her, taunting her, worrying her. She shuddered and pulled her wool coat tighter around her torso, trying to forget—at least, for now.
Slowly, there came to be fewer gray buildings, and more brick houses. More scarlet trees emerged with each step she took. Now she saw no one on the street. She was completely alone.
This part of the city was comforting to her. As a child, she would come here whenever something was troubling her. Now, of course, was an all too appropriate time to visit. Sometimes she needed to disappear into her mind. It was her only escape from reality.
She continued along the brick path, occasionally brushing her long hair out of her face. The leaves swirled at her feet, giving her mild company in her solitude. She wore a small smile as she watched them float along beside her.
Soon she came to a large oak tree, whose branches hung high out over the sidewalk, forming a sort of shelter for the bench that lay below it. Every now and then, a lone leaf would flutter down and settle on the ground or on the bench, innocently resting, waiting—waiting for something to happen.
Gently brushing some of these leaves aside, she sat down on the bench. She took in the smell of everything around her—the dry leaves, the crisp autumn air, the bittersweet coffee—and heaved a sigh. Finally, somewhere where she could be herself, alone. No one could bother her, judge her, or try to tell her what to do.
Finally, quiet.
She withdrew her notebook and pen from her bag and began to write.
|
|
|
Post by soufflé on Feb 26, 2012 23:57:41 GMT -5
Thank you! Hopefully I will post another tomorrow.
EDIT: Here's one! I wrote it in November.
“A Train to Nowhere”
Today I decided to leave home. Not necessarily forever, but for a while. I was just growing bored with my life's situation. I needed a change.
So I bought a one-way train ticket. I'm going to take the train to the last stop and see how life goes from there. And no, I have no idea what this town will be like, but I'm sure it'll be an adventure. I suppose this could be what one calls a fresh start.
So now I sit on this gray cushioned train seat, staring out at the various trees we pass. They're mostly evergreens, but now and then there's a bare oak or two.
It's very quiet in here. There are a few others on the train, but they don't appear to know each other. They seem to be preoccupied with their phones, laptops, and such.
I lean my head against the cold glass window, which is starting to fog up, due to the heating system of this car. How many more stops to go? I wonder. I don't bother to ask the conductor. It doesn't really matter.
I could read the newspaper that sits on the seat across the aisle, looking lonely as I. I could make small talk to the man sitting in front of me, who lounges there, twiddling his thumbs. I could walk over to the snack car and get a coffee.
...But no. I'll just stay and wait for something to happen to me. I'm not sure what, but something will happen. I can feel it.
Anything, really, can happen on this train to nowhere.
|
|
|
Post by soufflé on Mar 10, 2012 22:23:26 GMT -5
Here's a short story I wrote for English class about a month ago:
"My Last Day With Dennis"
They called him, “Dennis the menace”. I was never sure why; he wasn't very mischievous—well, not all the time—nor did he resemble the character from the Sunday comics—our favorites of which we cut out and pasted on his bedroom wall. Perhaps Dennis was given this nickname because of his hyperactivity, which may have led adults to believe that he enjoyed causing trouble. After all, he was very wry and clever. I like to think he used his powers for good.
We grew up together, Dennis and me, constantly taking the shortcuts through grassy backyards to get as quickly as possible to each other's houses. In the winter, we would build the largest snowmen in the neighborhood, and in the summer, we would camp out on my back porch. Nearly every day after school we would meet up and finish our homework together—even though it was not always the same, since he was in advanced math classes. We rode our bikes around the town, stopping at the park to catch the ice cream truck. Whenever someone was looking for me, I would be with Dennis, and he would always be with me.
Sure, Dennis and I had our fights, like all friends do, but it never grew more serious than an argument over who got the extra piece of candy from our shared Halloween stash, or small disagreements about what we should do next. We had this way of connecting and understanding each other that I've never found with anyone else, and I knew that he felt the same way about me. Our parents told us that ever since the day we met—which was in day care, and we were both three years old—we were inseparable. We bonded over the fact that we both liked to play with the plastic dinosaurs, and he let me share with him even though I was a girl, who should have been playing with the rag dolls on the rug. From that moment on, we were best friends.
I remember the day I told him I was leaving. It was one of those slow, warm days in April that caused one to grow impatient as thoughts of summer began to spring up. We rode our bikes to the creek after school, and, after leaning them against a large, knotted oak tree, we walked through the woods. The smell of moss filled the air, and I looked up to see the warm rays of the sun beam down on us through the green leaves. By the roots of the trees, small crocuses were sprouting up sweetly—purple, white, yellow, and blue. As we reached the water, we slid out of our shoes, peeled off our socks, and dug our toes into the grassy bank. I felt the soft, cool land under my feet, and the tiniest bit of water licked at my ankles. I looked over at Dennis. He shrugged and waded into the creek. I rolled up my shorts and followed suit.
The water was still slightly cold from the melted winter ice, and I shuddered as it drifted by my calves. I felt the flat rocks on the bottom, smooth and cool. A small school of tiny, grey fish wiggled by our legs, but, other than the birds, which chirped happily in the treetops, Dennis and I were alone. We sat down on some large rocks on the bank, which were shaded by a tall willow tree. I looked at Dennis. He looked back at me.
I sighed. “I’m leaving.”
“What?” He was confused. I could tell because of his eyes, the way they twitched a little.
“I’m leaving,” I repeated quietly. “For high school.” I grabbed a small stone from the grass next to me and threw it as far as I could into the creek.
“Oh.” He looked down. “You got into that art school.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
We were both silent for a while, looking out at the water. It was unusually clear that day, and I could see every little detail of every rock that sat in the soil on the bottom.
“Will you...” Dennis’s voice caught. “Will you be back on weekends?”
I shook my head slowly. “Just for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and spring break. And, of course, I’ll be here in the summer.”
He swallowed, but he didn’t say anything.
“Come on, Dennis. You’ll be fine without me. And we still have until September.”
I was partially right. Dennis would be fine without me—for a while. There were plenty of people who liked him, and he had several friends other than me. He wouldn’t be alone.
I bit my lip and stared out at the water, hugging my knees. I was a bit surprised when Dennis spoke.
“I’m glad you got into that boarding school. You deserve it.” He was still looking down at his knees. “Your drawings...they’re amazing.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, hurling another stone into the creek.
He exhaled sharply, and I met his eyes.
“I’m really going to miss you,” he said.
We carried on normally for the rest of the school year and through the summer, still building forts in his backyard, still walking my dog in the woods. That last summer was probably the best summer of my life, mostly because I knew it would be my last summer when I had been with Dennis for the whole year. Although I was excited for boarding school, I made sure to fully appreciate each day I had with him. Unfortunately, the time came when I had to get on a train to the city, where I would begin my training as an artist. He came in the car with my family and me, and I hugged him right before I got on the train.
Art school was interesting; I became better at drawing, and I even learned to do some photography. I sent some pictures to my parents and to Dennis. He wrote back and told me that they looked great, that he missed me, and that he had something to tell me when I came home for Thanksgiving. I suppose we both forgot about that last bit, and I never knew what it was he wanted to tell me until about a year later.
I did come back home during the holidays, and I spent some time with Dennis, but he seemed a bit detached, distant. He didn’t tell me why. During the summer, he seemed to be “busy” frequently, but when he wasn’t, we went around the neighborhood just as we had when we were younger.
I remember when I received the call from my mother. I was in my second year in art school, and it was a chilly February day. I was studying in my dormitory room when my cell phone rang, and, when I saw that it was my mother, I picked it up immediately.
“Mom?” I asked.
“I have to tell you something,” she said slowly. Did I hear her voice cracking?
“Um, okay. What is it? I’m kind of busy right—” I started.
“Dennis is ill,” she interrupted. She gulped. “You need to come home.”
I was excused from my classes for the rest of that week. The journey home was a blur; I tried to study on the train, but I couldn’t focus. I probably just sat slumped over in my seat, staring at the carpeted floor of the train car.
When I arrived at the station, my mother picked me up in her car and we drove to the hospital. The night was dark, and, as I leaned my head against the window, I heard the raindrops fall heavily onto the street. When we reached the hospital, we were rushed down the white, clean-smelling hallway to Dennis’s room. His parents opened the door, and I looked up into their tear-stained eyes.
“Thank you for coming,” Dennis’s father told me, squeezing my hand.
I nodded numbly and walked over to the hospital bed, where Dennis was tucked in with crisp, white sheets. I looked at his pallid face and up to his bare scalp, where all of the long, dark locks that I knew so well had fallen away. I barely recognized my best friend. He looked more like a ghost than a person, as if he were about to slip away. Maybe he was. I grabbed the stool that stood next to a bunch of balloons in the corner, and I sat down next to the bed.
The one feature that helped me to recognize him was the color of his eyes. I could never forget that color—sort of a green, mixed with some grey. “Hey,” Dennis said, smiling faintly.
“Hi,” I croaked, barely able to speak with the monstrous lump in my throat. I studied him carefully. He was so different from when I had seen him over winter break. It was mostly his hair—although I did recall that he had been wearing a hat for most of the break—but he was also so skinny. I looked back to his eyes. There I saw the same old Dennis that I had always known. He looked back at me, still with that small smile.
“I’m sorry I never told you,” he murmured quietly, picking at a thread in the blanket that was wrapped around him. “It was just too hard to say. I could barely believe it myself, and I didn’t want you to treat me any differently.”
I nodded as the first tear slipped out of my eyes and ran down my nose. I wiped at my face and sniffed loudly. “I understand. But...how long had you known?”
“I learned a couple months after you left,” he told me. “I was thinking of telling you when you came back for Thanksgiving, but when you came...I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to make you sad.”
I bit my lip and sniffed again. “And now I see you...like this.” I wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand.
He shrugged, and I noticed the tubes coming out of his arm. I shuddered and let my face fall into my hands, wishing it all to go away when I opened my eyes. To my dismay, it didn’t.
“How...how much longer...” I trailed off.
“Not much,” Dennis answered, looking down to his hands. “Doc said less than a week.”
How had he gotten like this? When had he turned into a ghost?
“Dennis,” I said, looking into his eyes.
“Yeah?” he answered, turning to me.
“I’m really going to miss you.”
“I’m really going to miss you, too,” he whispered as I hugged him.
In our short lifetimes, there is always one friend who stands out above all the others, the friend who has been through everything, here until the end. These are the friends who act as our guardian angels. They protect us when we feel vulnerable, give us advice when we need it most, and never turn their backs on us when we run into adversity. They remain in our minds forever, no matter how hard we may try to let go of them. Dennis was my guardian angel, and I know that, for the rest of my life, I will never have another friend like him.
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on Mar 13, 2012 23:40:46 GMT -5
That was really sad but also really good.
|
|
|
Post by soufflé on Mar 16, 2012 21:25:48 GMT -5
Thanks Willis! That means a lot.
|
|
|
Post by soufflé on Mar 22, 2012 19:40:03 GMT -5
Here are 2 poems I wrote a while ago (the first one doesn't have a title...) : ---------------------------------------------------------
I am alone. I watch the small clouds my breath makes in the air.
Inhaling deeply, I can almost taste the smell of the earth.
The ground is soft beneath my feet, as it always is after the rain.
I take a step further into the clearing and look up to the sky. I am alone. The sky is covered in light, grey clouds, and behind them I can see the tiniest hint of a pale blue.
I feel the wind blow past my face, stinging my cheeks. Alone. I blink and turn my numb face to look behind me.
All I see is the cluster of trees, shivering slightly in the winter wind. The field around me is quiet and vast.
The patched grass stretches far out in front of me until it is swallowed up by more barren trees.
I am alone. The clouds grow darker, moving faster. One small, cold drop falls onto my face.
All alone. I smile faintly as the storm begins.
"Inspiration"
I have a longing, deep inside me
A longing for something to feel
Something to make me feel alive
Something to pull me out of this darkness
For my life is just a blank canvas
And I am an artist in search of a muse
Waiting for something to come along
Something new, something inspiring
And you could be that burst of color
That light amongst the shadows
Just tell me when you're ready
And I'll whip out my paintbrush
--------------------------------------------------------------------
...hee. Thoughts? ^^
|
|
|
Post by B. on Mar 23, 2012 6:55:26 GMT -5
I'm currently in computing, so I don't have time to read all of these, but I read the first one and I really liked it. You have quite a talent there, Sophie. I'll look forward to reading more later this afternoon.
|
|
|
Post by soufflé on Mar 23, 2012 22:14:51 GMT -5
Thank you, Brunch! Glad you liked it. ;D
|
|
|
Post by soufflé on Mar 25, 2012 17:32:49 GMT -5
Hi friends! Here's a poem :3
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"March"
Spring settles in with a chill—
The crisp air stings cheeks,
Turning them rosy to match the pale pink trees.
Crimson and yellow tulips spring up from the dewy grass,
Kissed softly by the rain.
The cheerful call of morning birds
Reminds one of the coming warmth.
The sky is foggy and gray
As its long, delicate fingers graze every surface
With the touch of spring.
|
|
|
Post by JTB on Apr 3, 2012 22:11:54 GMT -5
I read your first three stories (eyes are going cross-eyed, long day) and I really enjoyed them.
The first one does a great job connecting to the reader's feelings. I could see myself wanting to walk next to your character when I get in those absolute rock-bottom emotional states, which are rare, but your story is excellent in forcing the reader to recall the feeling.
Your second is amazingly descriptive as noted above and one can really feel the warmth and coziness and the fuzzy feeling evoked by the autumn, cobblestoned, park bench locale.
The third one touched me at the moment when the newspaper "looking lonely as I" is described. Its location within the narrative and the pace at which I was reading really made this "character" stand out as a powerful allusion to loneliness and the fact that a stranger could be crying for help or a fresh start just as easily as you could be.
Great works!
|
|
|
Post by soufflé on Apr 4, 2012 20:44:56 GMT -5
Thank you so much, JTB! ;D
|
|
|
Post by Kensicle on Apr 6, 2012 23:46:16 GMT -5
Seriously, Sophie, these are amazing. We should see your writing more often. You can make the reader feel the emotions of the character and you can write in a variety of styles. Awesome, Sophie.
|
|
|
Post by soufflé on Apr 7, 2012 20:43:14 GMT -5
Seriously, Sophie, these are amazing. We should see your writing more often. You can make the reader feel the emotions of the character and you can write in a variety of styles. Awesome, Sophie. Aww, you're so sweet <3 thank you. Also if you want something else to read, I have 2 stories going in the fearsome fiction section, which are different from these sorts of things.
|
|
|
Post by Kensicle on Apr 8, 2012 5:15:29 GMT -5
You're welcome. I've read one story in FFiction, (Forbidden,) but I haven't gotten around to reading the other one. Keep up the good job. ^^
|
|