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Post by legrande on Nov 30, 2011 1:16:37 GMT
This needs work, but it's some form of writing at least. He scrutinised her as he made his way back into the clearing, holding a pheasant in his hand like a trophy. Corrie turned away, resisting the urge to slap him. Show off. Only this time, he didn't want to be brushed off that easily. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded. "Excuse me?" Corrie snapped, before she remembered that she wasn't talking to him, "Why would I tell you anyway?" "Um," Adrian bit his lip, and rubbed his forehead, his hand leaving a bloody streak there due to the pheasant that he seemed to have forgotten about. "Well, you know, we're supposed to be getting married, so I have to ask you about your feelings...?" "Shut up, and go spear some more innocent birds," Corry commanded in a low voice. "Stop being so stubborn, and just tell me why you're in such a foul temper!" Adrian said as he noticed the dead bird he was gripping. Corry shook her head as he turned away from her to stuff it in his game bag. She couldn't work out why he was trying to be nice all of a sudden. She sighed and wheeled her chestnut horse around, taking a couple of steps back towards the castle. "Look, I'm going home. If you see the others tell them I took unwell and had to go," Corry told him as he turned around to find her in a different place. Before Adrian had a chance to complain, Corry applied a little pressure to the horse's sides and it took off at a trot. She heard Adrian yell at her to stop and wait, but she ignored him. She'd had enough of him for one day. --The Boy In The Woods
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Post by Samantha on Jan 10, 2012 20:33:59 GMT
So this goes along with my last posted excerpt. Yes, I finally finished it: She doesn't realize she's fallen until after she has hit the ground, and the ball has tumbled from her arms and landed a few feet away on the grass. She twists beneath the weight of another person, and Peter shifts his body so that he is over her but not on her. He exhales raggedly through an open mouth, breath frozen; his cheeks are ruddy, nose and ears pink from the briskness of the air. Emily can only imagine what she looks like—flushed, with leaves in her long hair, makeup probably smudged—but, surprisingly enough, the thought of such doesn't even cross her mind. There's an intense eye contact that neither dares to break: for a moment, in the middle of that dying field, they stay just as they are.
And five boys stand nearby, quiet and still. --Late October
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Post by Zoe on Jan 11, 2012 6:13:45 GMT
Yep. So this is... yeah. There they were, huddled around the still-hot coals in the darkness. In the distance, soft coos came from pigeons hiding in the thin branches of trees that may or may not have been full of foliage at one point. Now, they were empty skeletons of a once beautiful part of nature. One scavenger, who went by the name of Grace, began to whimper the lyrics of a tuneless song to ease the tension between the five of them. Thomas was still furious with Will; Will was still morose about what Janine had said earlier, and Kyle was still in his usual aloof manner--if not, more than normal. The only one who didn't have a reason to pout was Grace, and she was no help to the rest. If she attempted to solve their problems, more conflict would bubble among them. There was no winning in a group of scavengers who had never been taught what it was like living in the real world. No one had said anything when Grace stood and began walking toward the trees. She needed to get away from the group, or else she'd be trapped in the same depressed state as the lot of them. Only when she reached a clearing not more than fifty yards away from camp did Grace realize that eyes were on her. She looked around herself, alert and on edge. Nothing in sight. Grace turned, and came face-to-face with Kyle. Or, more face-to-neck. Kyle came in a good five inches taller than Grace, who stood short at five-foot-four. He looked down at her, and mumbled, "We need to get out of here." --UntitledAnd another: Her sleeves hung past her fingertips so that no one would see. She wore gloves just so that no one would see. She stuffed her hands in her pockets. Just so that no one would be able to see. She spent the days staring out the window, ignoring the useless comments from useless people. Her only getaway was the road toward home; otherwise, her world was hell. The one person she truly admired had never even spoken to her, and she figured it best to keep it that way. She found herself glancing at them often, longing to know what they were thinking. But she was no mind reader. And neither was he. -- Wrap Your Fingers (Prologue)
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Post by Samantha on Feb 8, 2012 0:44:44 GMT
"You can't come to a coffee shop and just sit there, Will. This isn't Paris. What do you want?" She peers past me to the menu at the front. "Do they make good espresso here? I don't much care for the taste of coffee, but I like the caffeine. Ever had it with lemon—the lemon peel, I mean? You must try it; it's really much better." She glances back at me, mouth parted in question. I falter for a response, and she notices the look of apprehension that flashes across my face. "It's on me," she adds quietly. "Get whatever you'd like, Will."
I nod stiffly, staring down at the table. "Black," I answer. "Anything black. No sugar."
She gets up and heads to the front, leaving me alone at the table once again. I settle back in my chair, exhaling slowly. It will never cease to strike me as astonishing, the way that she can understand the thoughts that I don't have to utter. Even after all these years. We are eight again, and we are on the swings at Alldredge. We're thirteen, and she's riding the handlebars of my bike—sixteen, and she's crying to me: something that Evan's done, what a jerk.
But no. We are thirty-two. We are strangers, sitting together in a small coffee house, bound forever to one another by memories and secrets that can no longer be ascribed a definitive name. Though she's Evan's, and has forever been Evan's, there has always been a part of her that's been distinctly mine. Even after all of the years and all of the silence. Even after she told me that we shouldn't talk to each other anymore, and I foolishly obeyed. --The Alldredge House, Chapter Two
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Post by Zoe on Mar 4, 2012 14:51:51 GMT
It happened too fast for me to even realize that the bus wasn’t on the ground. The blond girl a few seats back had somehow gotten in the seat behind me. And she was talking. To me. “Hey, take out your camera,” she said quietly. I looked back at her, dazed. How was this happening so slowly, yet so quickly at the same time? I pulled my camera out, and smashed my thumb into the on button. The screen flickered to life, and I glanced back at her again, awaiting orders. “Make sure to film out the windows,” she had told me. “This is vital.” I turned the lens toward the window, but never looked away from her as she slid back into her seat. Suddenly everything began to go by in a flash. I let out a scream of horror as the ash-haired girl flew back over her seat and flipped into the one behind it. The bus had made a collision of some kind. I looked out the window. “Holy... crap.” The entirety of our surroundings were demolished. City buildings had crashed down, leaving piles of rubble in their places. Cars had flown to the sides of the streets. It would be crazy to assume that anyone had survived this. I glanced around the metal box we were in, and squeaked. There was a giant hole in the roof, and a car had landed atop it, hovering over the opening. I looked to the driver’s seat, but the driver had disappeared, and the blond girl was at the back of the bus. I then checked back to the ash-haired girl, who was covered in soot and was wiping herself down with a rag from the emergency box at the front of the bus. I crawled over to her seat after putting my camera away. “Hey, are you okay?” I asked gently, gathering her things from the floor and setting them on the seat beside her. She looked up at me with bright green eyes and a smile. She nodded, and stripped off the pullover she was wearing. My mind was completely blown. How could all of this destruction happen, and we end up alive? Why isn't anyone totally freaking out? This girl had just flown over the back of her seat, suffered from a possible concussion, and she was acting like this was totally normal. --Untitled, Chapter One: Pretty Bus Drivers are More Dangerous than they Appear
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Post by legrande on Mar 30, 2012 21:54:32 GMT
Just a snippet from a really short piece I wrote last night. The horses’ hooves make a dull thudding noise against the compacted earth. The coach that they’re pulling in tandem rattles along the stony earth path through the forest. The two occupants sit inside in an awkward silence. Their teeth rattle slightly as the sporadic movement of the wheels on the path jolts them around. One of the two people is a woman, with a ridiculously powered face and a large black beauty spot on her cheek. She wears a white wig, almost as large as she is, and a bonnet adorned with flowers and fruits. She must be in her fifties at least, the soft skin around her eyes and lips are heavily lined, the skin of her cheeks furrowed and creased. Her downturned lips are painted a vibrant pink, stark against her pale cheeks. She wears a large taffeta dress over her tiny corset clad torso, threaded with ribbon and patterned with yet more flowers. The contrast between her and the other passenger is striking. The second passenger clearly doesn’t care—or can’t afford to care—about her appearance as much as her companion. Her light chestnut coloured hair is tied back at the nape of her neck in a loose bun and a straw bonnet snugly envelopes the back of her head. Her dress is made of plain, stiff material; material that she wrings in her hands as she avoids the other woman’s hawk eyed stare. She stares dejectedly out of the window, watching the greens and browns of the forest flash by in a blur. Briefly, she wonders exactly what it is that she’s let herself in for.
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Post by Zoe on Apr 1, 2012 0:14:11 GMT
Just a teensy snippet from a fan fiction I'm writing. Eleanor stifled a yawn as she tugged her grad cap off her head. The blue monstrosity had been making her scalp itch for the past four hours, and it felt good to finally be able to take the damn thing off and free herself of her horrible graduation getup. The gown was atrocious and the hat flattened her once-curled hair. Ugh. She was in the passenger seat of her mother’s Volkswagen, which was being driven by the ever-optimistic Louis Tomlinson. He was almost bouncing in his seat he was so excited. Eleanor held back laughter as he blasted mainstream pop music through the radio and sang to it, completely off-key. Baby you’re a firework, Come on let your colors burst! Make 'em go 'uh, uh, uh,' as you shoot across the sky-y-y! She hummed the lyrics to herself as he yelped them out. They were just blocks away from her family’s summer home, and both excited to begin the holidays with a bang, pow! Eleanor looked to the back seat of the car, which was bursting with suitcases full of clothes enough to last the three weeks they were spending at the home. Not only was she looking forward to hanging with the guys, but she couldn’t wait to see her best friend and boyfriend, who were flying out from New York to see her. The perky Katy Perry song ended just as Louis pulled the VW into the driveway of the white-washed home. They both took in big breaths of the fresh coastal air. "Come on then," Louis said quickly, unstrapping his seat belt and nearly jumping out of the car to open her door for her. "The lads have been freaking out all day to see you." He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and maneuvered her toward the door. "What about the luggage--" "We’ll get the crap later, for now let’s just partay like there’s no tomorrow!" He pressed a finger to his lips as they neared the front door. "Stay here," he told her. She gave a slight nod, already knowing what he was going to pull. He flung the door open, screaming "WHERE’S ME BOYS?!" the second he waltzed in. Eleanor smiled as the familiar yelps of four teenage boys echoed out of the house. "LOU!" the voices screeched simultaneously. They yelps all stopped short suddenly. "Where’s El?" She heard a loud sigh from the other side of the door. "Sorry, mates," Louis said apologetically. "El’s mum didn’t want her coming out here for so long. So I guess it’s just gonna be the five of us, eh?" There was a long silence piercing the air around them, until Eleanor heard a small knock on the door. She supposed it was meant for her, and instantly flung the door open and screamed, "GUESS WHO’S OUTTA HIGH SCHOOL?!" Eleanor felt her heart skip a beat as several pairs of arms tackled her down to the ground, until five bodies were piled atop her on the hard wooden floors. "Miss me?" she barely asked, her voice cracking from the pressure being put down on her ribcage. "YES!" "If you guys missed me so much, hows about getting off of me ribs?" The five brits obeyed, and slowly but surely stoop up. Eleanor smiled up at them as she sit on the ground, her hair thrown about wildly.
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Post by Laura on Apr 2, 2012 16:36:08 GMT
Bit of a rambly thing I've recently written - subject to rewrites I think! I like where the characters are going in my head at least, even if it's not so clear in this snippet.
Sterile beeping. The clack of decisive feet through linoleum-paved halls. A sustained hush, broken only by laboured breathing, the rattle of a trolley passing or the subdued sniffs of relatives and friends. Hospitals have distinctive sounds; none so much as those found in the intensive care unit. After giving Jen’s hand one last squeeze, I released her unfeeling fingers and got to my feet. Walking out of the ICU always had a furtive feel about it. I tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, burying my hands in my jean pockets and ducking my head, as if hiding my hands and face equating hiding my entire person. All the same, I caught the usual sharp looks from the nurses who knew me, and the wary ones from the ones that didn't. They tolerated my visits, even though they knew Jen's family didn't want me there; however while they might have empathised with me, that didn't stop them watching my comings and goings from the hospital like scrub-cloaked hawks. A lone teenager walking through the hall of the hospital's most closeted department was strange enough a sight that it caused some surprise, if not mild alarm. I ought to be a well-known face here at this stage, so frequent are my visits, but the response my presence in the ICU generates hasn't changed much in five odd months. Today I had a near-miss as regards the family. I've gotten good at timing my trips to the ward, so as to avoid any contact with the Westbrooks; however there's been cases when I've had to duck into a nearby toilet or storage room to stop a nasty situation arising. This time I turned and pretended to closely examine a notice about hospital hygiene practices as Sadhbh and Thomas walked by a few metres to my left. I waited to a count of ten before turning around and continuing along my exit route, a new thought joining the regular fodder that swilled around my mind after visiting Jen. No Kate. Normally, she couldn't make visits on Fridays because of her after-school drama class; however, it was a Saturday, and knowing Sadhbh as I did there wasn't any excuse under the sun good enough for Kate to not come and see her sister. I was sorry now that I hadn't risked a glance at the couple's faces as they'd passed by me; perhaps there would have been something in their expressions that would have shone a light on Kate's absence. Leaving Beaumount hospital to walk out into the unseasonable sunshine made a nice change from the rain and wind I was used to being hit with; it was almost enough to make me smile as I stood waiting for the bus. Even nicer was the fact that the bus was near empty when I got on it; it was great to just curl up on a window seat near the back and not have to deal with any old one talking the ear off you until her stop is reached. After letting myself into the house, I made a beeline for the shower. There's something about hospitals that make me feel unclean; like bacteria is crawling along the surface of my body, immigrants from the atmosphere of the place. Kind of ironic really, given the supposedly hygienic nature of such places. Mam'd been keeping up with the ESB payments recently; I savoured the luxury of instant hot water, without the tedium of waiting for the immersion to kick in. To be fair, I ought to have flicked the switch and waited; but I only had an hour before work and frankly I wanted to be selfish. I didn't resent being the eldest in the family more than anyone else did, but it did mean putting Jess, Ryan and Harry's whims and needs before my own at times. Speaking of the kids, it looked like they were gone across to the Connor's for the afternoon; at least, the house was free from high pitched laughter, shouts and arguments for once. I thought I was alone, until I came down to the kitchen and spotted Mam out the back having a sly fag. She always professed to me and to the neighbours that she was going to give them up any day now; but I knew smoking, while not her only vice, was certainly the only thing she had for herself. I spoke about sometimes putting my needs after the kids; well, Mam did that full time. I'd never talked to her about what she'd wanted to do with her life, because I knew that whatever answer I'd get would be departed with watery eyes and a wistful voice. She'd never get to do what she wanted, because she was a single mother with four children she could barely afford to keep, living in a rough part in Tallaght with basic qualifications and few skills. I didn't agree with this of course; nor had she ever said it so explicitly, but it was written all over her, from the premature creases around her eyes to the baggy tracksuits she consigned herself to wearing. Mam was pretty once, blond, with a nice figure and a genuine smile; after Ryan and Harry were born though—and more specifically, once their dad had left—she stopped putting effort into her own upkeep and instead focused on ours. It was sad that at the scant age of thirty-seven, she'd given up. Every time I came home from a stint at work tired, sweaty and fed-up, seeing her would motivate me to keep going. I didn't want to end up like my once-beautiful, now-faded mother, who'd written herself off before she'd hit forty. 'Give us a drag there,' I said, holding a hand out to receive the cigarette before she'd even replied. Mam hadn't heard me make my way outside, but didn't react to my sudden appearance. Her expression told me she objected to my request, but she knew she didn't have the power to argue with me. I'd told her when she'd first caught me smoking that she had no right to give out to me - after all, she'd practically taught me how to. I think it was that episode that kept her from smoking in front of the two boys now. I'd been a smart-aleccy teenager, hard to deal with sometimes - but Mam was going to have a tough time trying to control the lads once they got big. I think she'd figured it was already too late for Jess. She was looking to go the same way as me as regards smoking, drinking and boys; however, while I'd copped myself on in time to pass my exams reasonably and leave school without too many black marks beside my name, Jess seemed to be trying to outdo my misdeeds one by one. Mam and I shared a quiet moment as well as a cigarette then, out in our derelict back garden, both of us lost in our own worlds of thought. I think she might have been more aware of me though, than I was of her. She knew well about my visits to the hospital; back in the beginning, she'd asked about them, only to give up when she was met with one-word answers, or even silence. I was in a better shape of mind now - well, mostly. I could face talk about Jen now with a neutral demeanour, even if there was a tumult of emotions going on behind it. 'You want a lift to work?' she asked eventually, flicking ashes into an adjacent empty plant pot. 'What about the kids?' They'll be home by eight Brenda's keeping an eye on them until I get back.' 'Go on so.' There's always been a lot left unsaid between Mam and I; I think her gestures though have spoken louder than words. She's always been on my side, regards what happened last November, even if she hasn't said so bluntly. I've learned not to hope for any verbal reassurance from Mam; she's demonstrated her support alright, just not with words.
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Post by Zoe on Apr 3, 2012 19:04:10 GMT
A bit of a project or test rather than a serious writing. I wanted to test with the supernatural and fantasy, since those two things aren't exactly my forte. But nonetheless, here it is, unedited and slightly cliched. "Michael!" A stumbling young man approached Michael as he began preparing himself for another meeting with Jacob Harley. He clipped his gun into its case, slipped the dagger into its sheath, and replaced the vile of vampire blood into his breast pocket. His tape recorder was placed in his pocket, the tape from the night before still in. Only when he had finished pulling a pair of sterile white gloves over his fingers did he look over his shoulder at his companion. "Michael," the young man choked, resting a palm on the table before him, attempting to repose himself. "I've received word that Garrett Harley has died." He pulled a piece of folded parchment out of his vest pocket, and held it out for him to take. Michael took the parchment in hand, but didn't unfold it. He looked at the man for an explanation. "He was on his way to visit Jacob and was nearly a block away when a pureblood attacked him. They drained him completely. Jacob is a mess. He won't allow anyone to see him." Michael frowned, "Nonsense. We had a scheduled meeting. Jacob is a sensible enough man to stay with his word, no matter what the situation. I swear I'll greet him with only condolences." He propped his sunglasses on his nose, and placed a hat atop his head, turning toward the man. "Ryan," he ordered, making the man snap his head up to meet his eyes. "Have you prepared transportation?" "Yes, of course," Ryan assured him, taking the parchment back and slipping it into his vest pocket. "But you might want a cloak. It's a particularly chilly night out. Lots of fog." Michael looked around the candle-lit room, seeing nothing but endless piles of books upon never-ending tabletops. He turned back toward Ryan. "Fetch me one. And don't forget to fetch one for yourself. I want you to accompany me on this particular meeting." He nodded and made his way toward the room over, where the coat rack was full of Michael's various suit jackets and his cloak. Meanwhile, Michael began blowing out the candles set up around the room. By the time he was done and out in the cold, Ryan had come out holding two black cloaks. He gave one of them to Michael, and threw the other over his shoulder, securing it at the neck with a pin. Both of the men stepped up into the buggy and set off toward Jacob's manor. It was hard for Ryan to maneuver down the windy path from the Headquarters in such a thick fog, and there had not been any headlights on such an early model of buggy. Michael held a lantern in hand for some sort of sword to penetrate the fog, but it only shone through a few sparingly short feet in front of the buggy. "Damn it all," Ryan muttered. "How am I supposed to drive in this fog?" Michael pulled his cloak around himself tightly while still managing to keep the lantern above his shoulder. He looked over at Ryan, who was pulling the rusty stick shift back before ramming his foot into the brake to slow the buggy down. The vehicle lurched forward before going back in a much safer, slower pace. "We're about a mile away," Michael reverberated without actually meaning to do so. He sat back and gave a small sigh of relief now that the vehicle was out of the woods and down a cobblestone street. Small street lanterns light up the night dimly, but enough so that you could tell the pavement from the street and a building from a car through the fog. A certain uneasy feeling bubbled through Michael as they neared Harley Manor. Something was definitely wrong. He sensed danger of some kind, but everything seemed still and quiet as they made their way down into the deeper part of Worthmale. -- Michael Corwick, Chapter 2 EDIT: Wow I am seriously spamming this board with my nonsense XD
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Post by Samantha on Apr 5, 2012 1:46:38 GMT
Is this it? she asks softly, as they lay among the ruffled sheets, her hand pressed flat against his larger one.
Is what it?
This. Is this it?
She tries to keep her voice level, but it is hard when she can't seem to escape his gaze: they are face to face, hand to hand. She has always found such comfort in his large frame, his broad shoulders—even his rough beard. She likes when he touches her, when he holds her. But she has never realized how scary it is, just how much she could be hurt by it.
I don't understand what you're asking me, he says, although he does. He has always known that it was just a matter of time. She would have asked, sooner or later.
How long can it be this way? she rephrases. How much longer do we have?
Forever. Me and you, we have forever. We're different.
We are, she breaths, and she pushes her fingers through his and gently tightens her grip; it's almost as if she has some control, some power. But nothing, she continues, stays the same. --Untitled
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Post by legrande on Apr 28, 2012 10:55:28 GMT
Haven't actually written anything proper for about three weeks... I was messing around with this last night, don't actually know if I'll keep it in the finished version. It seems a bit stupid. Maybe in an alternate reality there was a different version of me. A taller, stronger, sparklier version of me. One whose possessive actions were regarded as “protective” rather than “clingy”; one whose hair had him referred to as “gorgeous” rather than “ginger!”; whose distinct lack of character was “mysterious” and not “two dimensional”... He would be such an awesome person to be, I imagined, as I sat at the lunch table. Unlike me. I was short, ginger and a bit of a laughing stock to be honest. Even my own family were embarrassed to be seen with me.
I was half-heartedly attempting some math equations (which were extremely easy, I hasten to add) and ignoring my brother—I’m using the term brother loosely here—Helmut, who was throwing his lunch at me. I sighed irritably and did my best to block him out. It was difficult, seeing as I could hear his thoughts too. These were mainly indecipherable as they were, to a large extent, in German. The reason for this was Helmut was a younger vampire than me (in vampire years), although he looked a few human years older than me, Helmut originated from Germany and hadn’t quite grasped the English language yet. It wasn’t until part of his tuna-cucumber sandwich stuck to the front of my reading glasses that I started to get really rather annoyed. I huffed irritably, but didn’t say anything as he was much bigger than me and could—and probably would—flatten me given the chance.
I put down my text book and took off my glasses. They weren’t actually real, the lenses were plain glass, but I felt that they made me look more intellectual. No one else cared about my plight. Rosalie and Jasper (who weren’t important enough to merit a name change) were both looking at Rosalie’s pocket mirror; Rosalie was staring at her reflection and Jasper... I don’t even know. He was weird. Not as weird as Malice, my other sister. She sat at the far end of the table...mediating? Or humming to herself with her eyes closed. I rolled my eyes. It was no wonder that we had no friends. I was staring around the room, very bored. I’d been alive for years now. This whole high school thing was getting old, but for some reason I always found myself coming back. I was smarter than all of them put together and most of the teachers too. I’d sat through high school classes more times that I could count. Nothing was as fulfilling to me as a nice high GPA...nothing at all. That and I simply couldn’t resist the smell of textbooks.
--Pi-light, chapter 1
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Post by Zoe on Apr 28, 2012 13:23:12 GMT
legrande Just wondering, if Rosalie is a vampire, wouldn't she be unable to see her reflection, or...?
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Post by legrande on Apr 28, 2012 14:57:21 GMT
^That is a very good point. I hadn't thought. Hahaha, that's what I get for stealing my ideas from Stephenie Meyer... *slaps own wrists*
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Post by Samantha on May 18, 2012 2:05:06 GMT
I'm having major writer's block right now, so here's something I wrote a couple of weeks ago based on an Eminem song. I tend to write short pieces and never finish them, and it bothers the heck out of me. He's got an earring; it's the size of a pea, cubic zirconium, worn in his left ear. He spent twenty of his own dollars to get that earring, and he's very proud. All it cost to terrify his mother was twenty dollars and a flash of his fake ID: that's all it cost for that short burst of self-satisfaction. He's got died hair, too—bleached, actually, in the sink of the bathroom, where his mother showers each day and puts on her make-up. Against the white tile of bathroom—against the white of his hair, the white of his skin—his blue, angry eyes flash with all the satisfaction in the world.
"He's a problem child," they say.
He walks around with his headphones in, so he does not have to hear what goes on around him; he moves from his room to the kitchen to eat and then to the bathroom to shit—and then he repeats. From the table in the kitchen, his mother watches him, and her husband, who is not his father, sits beside her with his head ducked and his hand placed over hers. If she calls to him, he talks back, having grown fond of swear words; they are delicate and beloved on his tongue. He has not yet realized that vulgarity is for the weak; only those with nothing left to say curse.
And they say, "This house is a broken home."
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Post by Caitlin on Jun 3, 2012 3:51:50 GMT
I felt like contributing to this thread, since I haven't in a while. The digital clock to the left of me on my dresser stated that it was seven; though I knew it was an hour late. I simply looked up at the ceiling, knowing that if I didn’t start getting ready soon I was going to be late for school. I let out a large sigh, rolling over so that my face smushed into the pillow. It was one of those days where I debated on whether to plead sick or not to my Father, especially with that Math test looming before me. I turned onto my left side and simply stared at the clock, watching the minutes tick by slowly.
When it had reached 7:20 I decided to finally get up. I was going to have to skip eating, though this didn’t bother me. I ran downstairs and hopped into the shower, quickly scrubbing shampoo and conditioner through my hair. Once I had finished I wrapped a towel around my body, shivering slightly as water dripped down from my hair onto my back. I turned to look at the mirror, now fogged after my shower, but still being able to distinguish my appearance slightly. I always tended to gaze at my appearance, having this annoying tendency to always want to look perfect.
What one would see at first glance is a pretty, blonde girl with startling deep, ocean-blue eyes against pale skin. I had a good-enough body, with my slight curves and C-cup chest (which, to be perfectly honest, I was quite proud of). Though whenever I looked at myself I always found these imperfections, though my friends insisted I was just being paranoid. Though my nose was a little long if you looked at it from the side, and my front tooth was slightly crooked compared to the rest of my straight, bleached-white teeth. In everyone else’s eyes I was perfect; in mine I wasn’t even close.
After I had finished hastily brushing my teeth and giving myself the glance over to make sure I looked as good as I could, I opened my front door wide and welcomed the slight breeze awaiting me. I loved being outdoors, the fresh air calming my nerves and making me feel carefree. My mother used to always laugh when she told me all about how as soon as she mentioned a possible trip to the park I’d be bouncing off the walls. I paused, a twitch of pain coming from my chest. I couldn’t think of her now, I had to keep myself composed for school. With that I trudged onwards, bolting down the street when I noticed the bus driving up to my stop.
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