<3 JK Rowling
Brief Summary of My Last Day of School
Okay, so I get home after my Biology final, and take out all my school papers and this burst of Taio Cruz washed over me
I throw my worksheets in the air sometimes
Gotta let go!
I wanna celebrate and live my life
Baby, let's go!
And so when the papers were fluttering down around me, I started to feel Adele coming on
And I set fire to the rain!
Watched it burn
With a smiling face
So after a nice bonfire with s'mores and mountain pies that tasted like victory, I realized that "OMG, I'm a junior now!! I feel so old!" And then I'm like "Wait, who cares? I'm roasting marshmellows over the embers of my sophomore school year. What could possibly be dreary in the world right now?"
We are young
So let's set the world on fire
We can burn brighter
Than the sun
Bring on the camping trips and fireflies and bugspray, and shin guard tans! Woot!
/end comemmorative (belated) end of school post
Word Count: 592
Story: The Second Door on the Left
Up the stairs, down the hall, the second door on the left.
That door has been closed for three years.
She walks past it, like she does every day. But today, the things that lie behind the door call to her.
It has happened before, and she has tried to ignore the curious yearning, an almost insatiable longing to find out what she already knows, that stirs up inside of her. She has learned to shun, push down, and lock away the urge that is welling up inside her like one resists the allure of just one more cigarette.
The girl steps forward, resting a thoughtful hand on the painted brass handle, almost daring to lean her weight against the cool, solid, whitewashed wood. She inhales slowly, and a whisper of a familiar scent teases her.
It was nothing. Only a frustratingly evanescent memory, come back to haunt her.
She lets the breath out.
She turns away, not wanting to tempt herself. But her hand still rests on the doorknob.
She takes a deep breath one more time.
In her mind’s eye, she sees the picture of her family, which sits, all but forgotten, atop the mantle this moment.
Before a wispy willow tree stands a family of four. They smile in the real picture, but not in her mind. There is a mother, and a father. There are two children. The girl recognizes a younger version of herself. And the boy beside her, only two years older than herself, and bearing a striking resemblance to her. They share their father’s thoughtful, caring eyes, and their mother’s proud, strong nose. The eyes of the boy in her mind blink, and find hers. Not the little girl beside him, but her, as if he knows he’s being spied upon. He mouths her name.
The girl breathes out and opens her eyes, the image of the boy still fresh in her mind.
And suddenly, she can stand it no longer.
She twists the door handle almost desperately, and stumbles into the room.
In three years, nothing has changed. If it hadn't been for the layers of dust, it was almost as though the room had been prepared just yesterday for the brother's return. Scuffed up white walls with lyrics painted over them, a simply designed ceiling fan with a solemn collectoin of dust on the blades, a rather large bookshelf against one wall, a tall mirror next to an empty laundry hamper, and a worn out bean bag chair next to a barely used work desk.
The last thing her eyes find is the lonely, undisturbed bed. The blue and white patterned bedspread looks abandoned, uninviting, and lifeless.
Even so, it is all the girl can do to make it over to the forgotten bed before the memories flooding through her cause her eyes to swim and shimmer like the scales of a fish through water.
As she collapses onto the bed, and as dust is stirred up and gradually begins to resettle, the image of the boy from the picture flashes through her mind again.
Again, he blinks, but this time, she with him.
And as she does, she lets the tears overflow.
After holding herself together for three years, it was good to cry. It was okay to lie there, vulnerable and raw. It was relieving to come to terms with her loss. And it was freedom to allow herself to finally wonder about the war that had taken her brother to a distant land, and when he could be coming home.
Word Count: 459
Story: Spiriah's Song
Again, the pounding rhythm in her ears was threatening to split her head in two. For as long as she could remember, the beat had been with her. Of course, it hadn’t always been so torturous and agonizing. Before, it had only been a nuisance, with the squabbling of everyday life enough to drown it out.
The soft, melodious chatter in the market used to play as a background. The varying patterns of thumping footsteps entering and milling about her shop used to syncopate most elegantly with her own rhythm. Resonating tenors and sweet contralto used to swirl about her, harmonizing in pleasant accompaniment. The wind used to mosey on in through her open shop windows, humming a carefree tune, tickling the curtains into laughing some days. Back then, the song that she lived in was peaceful and harmonious.
And then Makuta Spiriah came to Zakaz.
Cursed Makuta Spiriah had distorted her gentle lullaby into Karzahni’s own twisted symphony.
No longer was the cadence inside of her steady and reliable. Now it hammered erratically and cracked like some ghastly kind of thunder, always trying to pound its way out of her head.
Even over time, the dreadful new throbbing didn’t subside. Once she realized that it wouldn’t go away, or get any better, decided to go on living live as she always had; finding music in everyday tasks to accompany the tempo.
But it was very clear that her old life was not enough to satiate the new rhythm. One day in the shop, one empty day, and she had almost been overwhelmed by the pounding monster inside her mind, deaf to anything else.
She lived alone, and she used to be solitary and content by nature. But there was nobody to stop her when she started going out and
experimenting with different ways to try and drown out, or at the very least, make peace with her new rhythm.
Arrows thudding into flesh, clubs crunching protosteel armor, bones being snapped over her knee, and extremities crushed beneath her stomping feet now played in counter to her beat. Swords ringing on armor and maces screaming through the air threw their respective notes into the din.
And on really and truly horrible days, like today, when the thrashing in her head threatened her sanity, the only vocals that could complete this new song, the only vocals powerful and worthy enough to soothe the beat within here were the agonized screams and final, howling curses of the enemies she’d made over the recent years.
All of this was now contained in a day’s work, a day’s musical and glorious work. After a job well done, the repulsive, echoing beat of her empty heart was just a bit calmer in her ears.
Word Count: 528
Story: Flowers For Your Grave
"...happy birthday to me," The last notes of the tune floated out from his throat hoarsely, fluttering through the air and disappearing with a bitter aftertaste. A single cupcake with an unlit candle sat in front of him on the counter, clutter-less for once.
Today was his day off from the office. Dressed in ratty kahkis and an old band tee shirt, one would never guess that the man sitting at the counter was a certified veterinarian. Dr. Leonard Stephens apathetically fumbled with the matchbook, too small in his meaty hands. Finally, he managed to get the candle lit.
"Happy birthday to you too, Connor," Leo's voice was barely audible over the roar of the air conditioning unit in his apartment building.
It was June 5th, and Leo's thirty seventh birthday. But that didn't matter. Not anymore. Today was the third anniversary of Connor's passing. Besides their parents, Connor's death had weighed most heavily upon his twin. While Leo had been pursuing the veterinary field, Connor had been one of the thousands of troops overseas. And when the news that he had died while fulfilling a lifelong dream and snorkeling in the Mediterranean where he had been posted had reached home, the family was beyond devastated. Even though the official cause of death remained unknown, the doctors suspected jellyfish or stingray venom.
Even though they were fraternal twins, the Stephens boys had loved the fact that they each had a birthmark, a tight cluster of freckles. Connor's had been on the outer side of his left calf, and Leo's on the back of his left elbow. Hardly identical, but it was still one more thing that they shared.
And now, as Leo snuffed the candle and got up, his newer, commemorative 'birthmark' came out from hiding under the counter ledge. It was in the exact same place Connor's real birthmark had been, but instead of a cluster of freckles, it was Connor's name.
Except, it wasn't exactly. There was a neat story behind Leo's tattoo, and if anyone ever asked, he was glad to tell them. When their parents had found out that they were expecting twins, they were ecstatic. And so the twin boys were named accordingly. 'Connor' was a name that meant 'dog lover', or 'wolf lover'. 'Leonard', of course, was a name for a lion. And their surname, Stephens, meant 'crown'. And so, Connor Stephens was inked into Leo's calf in the form of a crowned wolf.
Leo made his way towards the door in his apartment, snatching his long coat from the peg on the wall. Fishing the keys out of his pocket, he spared a look out the window. In the light of the setting sun, obese, rolling thunderheads moved in across the sky. He quickly made his way to the two open windows, slamming them shut and locking them, lest it rain while he was away. He grabbed his favorite hat, one of Connor's old ones, actually, off another peg in hallway corridor.
Placing the hat on his head, he stepped out of his apartment, pausing only to snatch a cluster of flowers for the grave on his way out the door.
Word Count: 558
Story: Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
There's a grief that can't be spoken.
There's a pain goes on and on.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Now my friends are dead and gone.
Brother, dear brother, it was my time. It was my time to go. It was Mata Nui’s will. Toa live to uphold his will, and so I have no regrets for myself. But my heart goes out to you, brother. To have your team torn away from you, I cannot imagine.
Here they talked of revolution.
Here it was they lit the flame.
Here they sang about `tomorrow'
And tomorrow never came.
Brother, dear brother, don’t you know that torturing yourself tortures me? You know that living in such endless torment by your own hand is not something I would ever wish upon you. And yet you continue to drown yourself in your guilt, drowning me. If there was any form of comfort I could send across to you, I would do so in a heartbeat. Not to lessen my vicarious suffering, but to start to heal the wounds to your heart.
From the table in the corner
They could see a world reborn
And they rose with voices ringing
I can hear them now!
The very words that they had sung
Became their last communion
On the lonely barricade at dawn.
Brother, dear brother, please, please understand this. I do not blame you for anything. So why do you? There is no fate but what we make for ourselves. As your sister and friend, I cannot bear to watch you struggle without being able to help. At the same time, as your sister and friend, as well as your star and angel, I must and I do.
Oh my friends, my friends forgive me
That I live and you are gone.
There's a grief that can't be spoken.
There's a pain goes on and on.
Brother, dear brother, isn’t it shameful? Shameful that just one little moment in time can drown out years and years of companionship? Why must you remember me, remember us, as we lay broken and bloody on our last battlefield? I do not think it fair. That single, horrible moment is burned into your mind, making you blind to all the wonderful times we had as a team. It pains me to no end. You knew me, you know me. Would the Nikila you knew, the Nikila you know, want you to remember her forever in her weakest and last moments of life? Would any of us want that? I know you know the answer.
Phantom faces at the window.
Phantom shadows on the floor.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.
Brother, dear brother, I pray to Mata Nui ceaselessly that he will give you strength to forgive yourself. I can no longer give you my strength, fighting by your side. But I hope that one day, I will still be able to make you smile. One day, when you can finally recall the times we had as a team, laughing and living life to the fullest.
Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me
What your sacrifice was for
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more
Lesovikk, dear brother, there is one promise I can give. We will wait for you.
(*Lyrics from Les Misérables)
So if this turns out to be really weird, apologies in advance.
Theme: COT- Ultimatum
Word Count: 422
Story: Whitney, You Don’t Know
You don’t know
How much you drive me crazy
Not the lusty kind of crazy, I must say
You change your mind so much
That I can’t find anything to compare
You say confusing things
And they make no sense to me
And get mad that I don’t understand
My dear, I am only a man
You don’t know
How much you’ve cost me
And I don’t mean the dates and dinners
I could not care less about
But you have cost me myself
I have surrendered every spare thought
That ever strays into my head
And you just being in my head
Robs me of any focus
And replaces it with you
The funny thing is
That I know without a doubt
That you are worth it
You don’t know
The times, the countless, countless times
In a day when I think of you
I wait at a stoplight on the way to work
And I see your deep red hair
I sit at my desk in a glass windowed office
And your laughter echoes in my mind
In the small shop running errands
I hold open a door
Not to let a cart by
But for you
You show up when you please
Both in my head and not
And each time you do
I am left that much happier
You don’t know
What you’ve made me regret
About my childhood and my past
How I wish I could have been the boy next door for you
And we could have grown up side by side together
You don’t know how much I wish we’d gone through school
Sharing classes and sharing smiles
You don’t know
How I long to have your life’s story
Tucked into my firsthand memory
So I can understand you
And love you all the more
But Whitney, you don’t know
How much I’m glad that isn’t so
Because if I already knew about you
All that there is to know
I wouldn’t appreciate you for who you are
In the same way that I do today
And I wouldn’t get to listen
To your captivating voice
Telling me the stories of your youth
And drowning me with you
Just a little bit further
Who has turned me mad
And made me sane
Who has cost me everything
And who is worth even more
Who has called me to doubt myself
But who is my solid and worthy rock
Hear my ultimatum
Word Count: 526
Story: Sidorak’s Zoo
It’s more of a long hallway beneath Sidorak’s Coliseum than a zoo. But he likes to call it a zoo anyways. The exhibit is made up of a handful of the most amazing Visorak Venom mutations in all of Metru Nui. The cages they are kept in are more like power-negating cells built into the wall with thick glass for observation purposes. Beneath each cage is an inscribed plaque that states the species of the animal before it was disfigured beyond recognition.
If one enters the exhibition hallway from the front of the Coliseum, the first cage on the right, holds a grand Fader Bull mutation. It stands taller than a Toa at the shoulder. Hooves have wicked claws growing from them at painful angles, and its jaw has twisted into a horrible, fanged under bite. A rhotuka launcher sits in the middle of its forehead.
The hordika mutation across from the Fader Bull was once a noble Gukko bird. Now its neck, formerly elegant and serene, is cricked and molting. Its beak is misaligned gruesomely and sickly green saliva drips from its mouth that never closes. Its wings drag on the ground behind it, fully dysfunctional. It has dead eyes and a hopeless spirit.
Moving on, the next exhibit on the right-hand side is a Takea shark. But the unfortunate thing has so much Venom coursing though it’s veins that it has become a land-rahi, and an ugly one at that. It has short stumps for legs, sprouting randomly from its underside. They resemble tumors more than legs. One of its eyes has migrated to the other side of its face, making it totally blind on one side. Perhaps to compensate, that side has sprouted a spinner-launcher. It’s impossible to tell how it can breathe air now, but the process looks painful regardless.
Set opposite the eerie corridor now is a mutated Muaka Tiger. The hordika rahi has top fangs so long that they almost reach the floor, making it impossible for it to lie down. Two large growths on its back occasionally shiver, possibly wings waiting to sprout. Between the prospect wing buds sits a useless and warped Rhotuka Launcher.
The last six exhibits are the most amazing. Not because of the pure horror of the atrocities they house, but because of what those atrocities used to be.
Primal and perhaps at one point sentient, they prowl around their cells like delusional wolves that are constantly in a state of suffering. They are hunched and walk with aid of their long arms, snapping savagely at any passerby and foaming at the mouth. Bestial intelligence can occasionally be seen glinting in their eyes. Each is equipped with a fully functional Rhotuka, and many of the cages bear marks of these. Through the glass, nobody can hear them. But if the glass was not soundproof, the entire Coliseum would be filled with anguished howling and wails of the condemned creatures for eternity.
Even though all six look like they could have once been from the same species, their plaques indicate differently. Each one reads a different species name.
Word Count: 595
Story: The Kidnapping Sickness
"It was nice to meet you, sweetie!"
Grandma pats his hand and is wheeled back into her room by the caretaker.
He doesn't understand. He has only just visited Grandma two months ago. How does she not know him anymore?
He turns to his mother with a question, he sees her retreating hastily back down the pink tiled hallway.
"Mommy!" He calls, trotting after her. "Mommy, wait for me!"
He catches up to his mother and wraps his arms through the dangling leather handbag, trying to pull her to a calmer pace.
"Mommy, does Grandma not remember me?" He wheels around to see his mother's face, hopping backwards to keep her bent face in view. A raindrop hits him square in the forehead, and he is alarmed into crying out. But he looks up and is even more frightened to see that his mother is crying.
"Are you okay, momma? Did you get hurt?" The little boy wants to find out, and his light-up sneakers squeak on the floor as he stumbles.
Finally, his mother slows down. But she still does not stop, nor does she respond to his questions.
He turns with his mother into a small lobby, deserted except for a monitor-faced secretary. He follows as his mother sinks into the closest velvet and wood chair. He can't tell if she's still crying because her hand is covering her eyes, and he climbs up next to her, tugging the hand away.
"Can I give you a hug, mommy?" He remembers that when he is upset, his mother always gave him hugs. He also knew that those hugs cheered both of them up.
"Oh, Christopher," He is pulled into her lap, and she sobs and laughs all at once. "I'm so sorry, Christopher."
"It's okay, mommy. But why are you sorry?" He needs to know. So much is happening. "Mommy, I don't understand."
He feels his mother's lips press into the top of his head in a kiss, and his hair feels tickly when her breath makes it move. After a few deep breaths, her voice reaches his ears.
"Chris, you're a big boy, aren't you? You're almost five and a half," She says. "I think you're old enough to understand."
"Understand?" He wriggles in her grip, trying to see her face again.
"You see, your grandmother is very sick, Christopher. And the kind of sickness she has, it gets worse and worse and worse, and the doctor's can't make it go away." She loosens her grip, and turns him to face her.
"Not even the smartest doctor?"
"Not even the smartest doctor," She acknowledges. "And Christopher, you have to understand that this is no ordinary sickness. It doesn't make grandma cough, or give her a fever, or even give her aches and pains in her bones."
"What? Then what does this sickness do, mommy?"
His mother takes a deep breath. "This is the kidnapping sickness. It kidnaps her memories, and locks them away so she forgets things." And he furrows his brow as his mother chokes to a stop.
"How can Grandma forget things? Big things, like you and me? Doesn't she love us?" He feels tears welling up in his eyes, encouraged by the free-flowing tears of his mother.
"Of course she does, Christopher. That's what you must understand. Even though the kidnapping sickness takes Grandma away from us, she is still there for us," His mother reaches up and flicks away his tears expertly. "Even though she can't remember us, she still loves us."
"Because love conquers all."
Word Count: 573
Story: Black Spike Sentry
A smile touches my lips as my blow leaves a dent in the rusty flap of sheet metal emblazoned with the symbol of the Fire Tribe. This red-armored warrior had better hope his tribe is stronger than his shield. Or just him.
The Glatorian was fighting a losing battle and he knew it. Perhaps his broken body will serve as a potent enough warning to his brothers, a warning that says not to trespass and not to pry. This poor unfortunate has been carried too far from his homestead. It's been a long and harrowing journey, from the look of it. He won't have to be bothered making the return trip.
He doesn't know it yet, but he will know soon enough.
My club whistles through the air, matching the keening of cold unfeeling wind as it wails through the canyons and crevices in the mountains. It meets a sloppy block, weaker than the last and an irritated curse slips out of the same lips that my smile of impending victory had lit upon only moments ago.
"Why can't you save us both time," I growl, stomping forwards as the Glatorian stumbles back. I ram him with my shield back towards the edge of the cliff face. "And just jump now?"
"And miss out on all this fun? I don't think so," He tries to laugh weakly in the face of danger, in my face, and fails utterly. He is young and full of life, for the time being, that is, and ridiculous. Who actually says those kinds of things in the middle of a life-or-death struggle atop a mountain? He's probably been raised with too many war-hero stories about the Core War.
We're dancing about on a small precipice which is my sentry post. Foolishly enough, the warrior thought he could surprise me here. One of the majestic black spike peaks stands guard over me.
My studded club, an extension of my arm really, answers for me. It lands a heavy, thumping blow in the Glatorian's side that was left unguarded. Amateurs. Cracks in the brittle desert-worn armor jag out to meet me.
He feels his armor give beneath my blow, I see it in his eyes. In a panic, he fires one of his Thornax. It deflects off my shield like he'd aimed it there, sailing over the edge of the cliff into oblivion.
"Did you hear that? Your Thornax fruit is calling for you to follow it," I tell him, again driving my shield into his own, curbing the distance between him and the edge to a mere couple feet.
Finally, the Glatorian sees that he is done for. He lowers his shield and empty launcher. He is trembling like a baby bird from helmet to armored feet, clearly exhausted. He looks at me with wide eyes, and we both know that Skrall know no mercy.
I hold his insolent gaze in my iron one, shield and club raised. I do not see fear in his eyes, which is admirable, but not uncommon.
"Make it quick," He says to me, not begging, not even asking politely.
I shrug, and step up to him, placing my shield between the two of us.
"Now why would I want to do that?" I return, and give him a shove with my shield just hard enough to send him toppling and howling to his death far below.
"Fly, my baby bird. Fly away home."
Faux: Reveiw Topic (In Progress)New!!!
The Ga-Matoran Who Couldn't Swim*
Lessons of the Past*
Turn Your Tears to Roses*
Sound the Bugle*
Forget the Mountain*
Walking Her Home
All Our Sins Remembered
COT Short Stories
River, Oh River, Flow Gently For MeNEW!!
*indicates a link to the Forum Archives
0 user(s) viewing
0 members, 0 guests, 0 anonymous users
- 'Real' Life
- Real Life
- Flash Fiction
- The Hunger Games
- Im Fickle
- Hunger Games
- New Theme
- The Lorax
- eeek another kitty!
- Les Miserables