Attention all who care

bortogo:

The link at the top of my blog that leads to my writing now leads specifically to a writing blog.

I will not be moving my old stuff there, but from now on I will be posting stuff there.

Also, just an fyi, I’m going to be reposting this later since no one’s gonna see it right now. And also also, I’m not going to post anything I might submit to Calliope before it has been submitted and reviewed, just a heads up.

part two

Attention all who care

The link at the top of my blog that leads to my writing now leads specifically to a writing blog.

I will not be moving my old stuff there, but from now on I will be posting stuff there.

Also, just an fyi, I’m going to be reposting this later since no one’s gonna see it right now. And also also, I’m not going to post anything I might submit to Calliope before it has been submitted and reviewed, just a heads up.

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Free write from English.

Earlier this week, we did a four minute free-write in English class, based on the quote “Nothing was your own except the two cubic centimeters inside your skull” or something from1984.I wrote most this without stopping. Added some just now. Here it is. Broken as fuck, needing work, but here it is anyway.

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Cotton Candy

Wall of text, but pretty decent. Also, three days late. Woops?

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The Beach

Not very good. Maybe could have been better. Two days late now. Jesus dick.

The sand was soft on my bare feet as I walked down the beach, the dark water reaching out for my toes. As I walked, I shrugged off my backpack. I unbuttoned my shirt and dropped my rifle in the sand.

I walked a little further as voices crackled over the radio in my helmet. They were coordinating a bombing of the area I was in. My microphone was broken, as far as they were concerned, I was dead. Everyone else was.

The sky was black with night, and cloudless, a perfect mirror of the water. I let my toes sink into the sand and soaked in the beauty of it all. I pulled my helmet off my damp hair and threw it as far as I could into the water. Then I fell back into the sand.

I was so tired. It had been a difficult war. And now it was over. I had lost.

I had no living family. Not many friends. I would never have a funeral. I would never be buried. I would simply disappear.

I saw the black silhouettes of planes in the distance.

I smiled and closed my eyes.

The Marble

This one I was reluctant to start. And then I did. And it was fucking awesome. Ripped off The Book Thief as little as possible. Ripped off my friend Emily as little as possible. Tried to make the whole, “Death as a single entity,” thing make sense to me.

The room was dark and covered in dust. There was a bed against one wall, cobwebs creating a thick film over the sheets. The only light came from a single small window just above the bed. It let in gray light and still air, for there had never been glass there. Opposite the bed there was a doorway, hinges almost completely rusted through. Yet they made no noise as the door glided inward.

A figure now filled the frame. It seemed to bend and twist at the touch of the eye, never quite focusing. Behind it there sat snow suspended in the silent air.

The figure surveyed the room, then drifted toward a single spot on the floor. There was a small indent in the wood there, and the figure knelt in front of it.

From inside the figure, something like a hand pulled out an orb no bigger than a marble. It was the color of ferns covered with frost. The figure placed the marble in the indent. It steadied it out, then stared at it. Then it waved its hand deliberately over the marble. As it did, the blue drained from the marble, almost like individual particles of liquid. The particles trailed behind the hand, which the figure passed over the marble twice more to ensure that it had collected all of the particles. Then it took its other hand and collected the blue into an embrace.

It sailed to the door in no rush and let the particles waft out and up into the sky. They dodged the flakes of snow with grace and elegance, and when the figure could no longer see them the sky was dyed that very blue. The dye spread out like water on a stone counter top until it covered everything. The figure admired its work.

Then it went back into the room. It collected the marble. And then it left, the door closing behind it, beginning the long trek toward its next appointment.

In the same moment in which all of this took place, Ernest Bolland had succumbed to the cold that gripped the peak of Kangchenjunga, the third highest mountain in the world. To all of his fellow climbers, it seemed his death was instantaneous. There one moment, gone the next, another casualty of frost and gray sky. But it wasn’t quite that simple.

Because time had sat frozen just before he died, as a figure had approached, just dodging the focus of his fern-blue eyes. It had taken out a tiny sphere. And then time had moved forward a single instant.

Ernest’s eyes closed in that one instant. Once hey had, their blue had drained through his eyelids and into the marble.

And the figure had turned away, returning the marble to the center of itself. Then beginning the long trek home. The snow stood suspended around it.

Candle-lit Dinner

This started out different than I originally intended, but it turned into something really cool. It’s like a weird pseudo heaven/hell, now. Enjoy(?). EDIT: I wish this had been slightly more gruesome. It almost got there, but not quite.

James lightly lifted his fork to his mouth, the spaghetti entwined on it gliding into his mouth. The candles in the room cast a small, dim light over his shiny fork and knives. His surgeon’s mask was pulled under his chin, and the red on his clothes made his whole body uncomfortably sticky. He stared at his handiwork as he picked up another fork full of spaghetti, stringy and almost tendon-like. 

Piano notes floated down the brilliant white stairs into his ears, caressing them, and rolling over the rest of the room like waves on sand. James closed his eyes, let the notes pick him up and levitate him above the room and brutality. He savored another bite. Spaghetti was his favorite.

"I think learning piano was one of the best decisions I ever made. It’s a beautiful instrument, isn’t it? It dances lightly one moment, then causes tidal waves the next, then flies into an emotional wall for that one last push to knock it down. It bares soul like no other instrument."

Margaret stared at his now red stained, all white tuxedo without blinking. James wasn’t expecting a response.

"It’s elegant, too. Precise, meticulous. Reminds me of a scalpel, really."

James put down his fork and picked up his own scalpel, admiring the shine it kept even underneath the blood, even in the dim light. He could see the gaping hole he had left in Margaret’s chest in the reflection on the blade. Her ribs poked out just above her near perfect breasts. The candles played along her pale skin and her bright blonde hair, contained by a blue hairnet.

James polished off the last of his spaghetti, then moved the plate aside. he replaced his gloves.

"Now, little lady, we have but one thing left to do."

He stood and let the piano notes from above carry him across the damp floor to the table Margaret lay on. He inspected all the veins, no longer carrying blood, admired her lungs, and drank in all the shades of red and purple and blue that were her insides. There, he reached into the mess and removed her heart. It sat still in his gloved hands for a moment. Then he placed it in a bowl off to the side.

"Too bad about the surgery. I’m sure your family miss you already. Cheers."

And with that, he walked up the immaculate white stairs and out of the basement.

Margaret tasted the veal as it entered her already salivating mouth as if it were the greatest meal of her life. Flute notes floated down the stairs to her ears as she examined the untouched corpse known as Dennis.

Falling off a god damned building, fuck.

Wrote this a long ass time ago. Don’t feel like writing. Here it is.

There was no reason to do it, they told me.

There were people who wanted me around. People who cared. People who would cry, would miss me, show up at my funeral, flowers on my grave.

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t for attention. These people were too narrow minded. They couldn’t see any more than I let them, than ads showed them, than people told them. I hated it, and I hated them.

But that didn’t matter either.

I was running out of control in my existence. The vacancy of my brain killed me daily, but it didn’t matter. Nothing seems to matter, not when lights and windows and love are flying by my eyes faster than I can react.

But they are all so slow, so eye catching, so repulsive.

Tears stream up my face.

I had no control. People walked by me, saw through me, I wasn’t there. I was noticed, acknowledged, filed away and ignored.

I tried attention. Razorblades, pills of every color of the rainbow.

No control.

I gained nothing, lost nothing.

No control.

My eyes are blurring now. Every window and every light is every window and every light. Every love is every love; no love.

I can hear screams, with me, behind me.

They would always scream when I tried. But then it was for attention. Those pills weren’t meant to really harm. I was desperate. So desperate. But that was never enough.

They told me they cared. They told me they cried. They told me they took the pills for my own sake, bandaged me and stole my razors.

And then they were gone, and the pavement rushes up at me.

No control, but I won’t know.

The Graveyard

Huh. This one almost became poetry. I don’t love it, but parts of it are pretty good. No new topics here, but I experimented with formatting.

The grass beneath me is wet and cold. The stone at my back is comfortable enough, almost soothing. The ground isn’t too hard despite the chilled air. My hands move along the tops of the blades, feeling the early winter frost grasp at the blood in my hand.

"I miss you, David."

I look down at the ground beneath my legs.

"I miss those times when we would team up against Tommy and the older kids and win fights. I miss the losses, too. You never for a second let me believe your bruised ribs were cooler than my black eye."

He stands over me, smiles down at my shaggy brown hair. Leans against the stone.

"We used to fight a lot when as I got older. I thought I was so smart. Now I know you were trying to help. Too damn late, huh?"

The wind rustles the grass around me, cracking the frost like so many tiny glass bottles.

"Like when Stacy dumped me. I was devastated, even though I knew she had been cheating on me. You tried to comfort me, and I pushed you away. Then you kicked her new boyfriend’s ass that night, put him in the hospital."

"I was so afraid of you."

He looks out over the field, crowded with stones.

"But I was so proud."

A warm smile creeps across his face.

"I didn’t know anyone in the world who had a brother like you. You didn’t care what happened, I was priority number one."

I smile a little too.

"I don’t know why I came back here.

It’s fucking freezing out.

It’s been almost a year.

but I don’t feel better.

everyone’s moved on but me.”

his eyes look for mine.

i hide.

"I guess I just wanted to give you an update on… Life.

Mom and Dad stopped fighting. School for me is fine.”

I look Up.

My eyes are soaked with tears, and my face is numb with cold.

"I gave up drinking. My first drink was with you.

My last should be too.”

He looks through me.

we briefly share a vision of a car accident. he’s driving, a bottle is in my hand.

a truck blindsides us.

Then I shake it out of my head, and stand up quickly. I turn to look at him, but he’s gone.

I look at his tombstone now, and tears blur the name etched there.

"i miss you David."