I see -- and am surrounded by -- the junk on a teenage girl's bedside table: an almost expired candle, a tissue box, an old, faded glass lamp, pads of paper, and incense burner with its incense; all coated by layers of dust in varying thicknesses. I see -- and am separate from -- a bed, littered with stuffed animals, blankets, pillows and...a girl. A girl with emotions on her face.
I am in a plastic cover, on the bedside table of a teenage girl with emotions on her face. There are three others of my kind with me. We know our duty...and we know what we are used for.
I am chosen from the plastic cover, picked up carefully to avoid any ironic damage to sensitive, raw fingers. I am pinched tightly between two fingers, my solid, flexible, thin frame bent slightly at the middle. I am not hurt: I hurt.
My age is irrelevant. I have come and gone in many forms, and, while this is not my 1st time in this one, it is indeed my saddest. Now I know what it means to be old, to be tired of the world, and I long for my simple days, when my use was not so ambiguous.
I am not saddened by what I am, but by what I am used for. It has aged me like nothing I have ever felt. I am abused to abuse, and it is not my own abuse that hurts me so much. When I am forced to rape delicate flesh, when the heady ambrosia of life is forced upon me, I see the memories and feel a pain other than the one I have caused. I am not saddened by what I am, but by what I am needed for.
She carefully licks the blood from her fingertips.
"My God, why can't you just be fucking normal?!" the voice asks her, voice full of sharp disgust.
Unconcernedly, she continues cleaning her fingertips and calmly replies, "Because that wouldn't be me."
Sometimes, I am emo: I do show emotion in exaggerated ways.
I am never goth: I don't see how a person can be an architectural style.
I hope to never be a prep: I don't want to attend a college preparatory school.
I doubt I'll ever be gangster: It's unlikely I'll ever be part of an organized group of criminals.
I'm not a slut: I'm not a sexually promiscuous woman.
Maybe it's this time of year
That always brings me back --
Back to Ocean Avenue.
You know, it's all grown over now,
Even the beach has changed.
They took away the goal
Where we used to sit and talk.
Yeah, they took everything away.
Maybe someone who looks like you
Is what it takes to bring me back --
Back to our photobooth.
You know, it's been gone for a while now,
Replaced with something high-tech.
I can still feel that adrenaline
From a first awkward kiss.
But I'm a world away from that.
Whenever you hear our song,
Turn it up and sing along.
Know that if I hear, I'll sing with it too,
Remembering the times it was just me and you.
Lay your head on my head;
I'll lay my head on your chest.
Wrap your arms around my shoulders;
I'll wrap my arms around your waist.
We fit together like a puzzle;
I guess that's just how we were made.
People of the healthy variety
Say it's good t talk,
To speak about your problems,
To let them out of the proverbial box.
I disagree, for most instances.
I tlaked once.
To two people in a room of many.
For three people out of that many.
But everyone heard.
And only 4 cared.
See, if I had been talking to more than two people,
That would really hurt.
As it is, I understand:
They're not old enough yet,
And sometimes, even adults don't know how to care.
I am naked.
Naked as Adam and Eve
And every bit as unashamed.
I dance, I cry, I smile --
Completely in the nude,
Except for my ink
And lines going on forever.
Us.
We three.
Each of us equal
To many more.
1. the posterchild (wants people to understand)
2. the angel (wants to keep it hidden)
3. the newb (wants to be loved)
For S.M.A.
"The world is shrinking."
A phrase that makes me
Sad, and maybe a little scared.
I want to see Arizona,
For its wide, flat, beautiful, empty bigness;
For the chance to imagine those before me,
Brown skinned, dark glossy hair, untamed eyes
And a strength held in check by private codes.
Freedom for the price of a horse.
Open the door
It’s like meeting an old friend
Not knowing how it’s gonna feel.
Will it work again,
Will it hurt?
Timewarp, jerk back;
A million memories in a millisecond
Then everything shrinks, disappears
And your left with a line
Dividing everything and nothing.
You feel nothing;
It’s like morphine for your emotions
And it comes with a stick-on smile,
Like a Band-Aid to cover the hole
Where cries, and screams, and raw whispers should come from.
It’s like camouflage so good,
You can’t even find yourself,
And you’re not so sure you want to.
I sleep.
I dream of
Cheshire smiles, and
monotonous wrestling, and
chapstick that tastes of Gingersnaps.
I dream of
Mum leaving, and
razorblade love nips, and
brown-haired boys with no face.
I dream of
his butterfly, and
lime, Coke, and rum, and
lightening flashes outside glass doors.
I dream
all of this;
past sashaying through present,
and future always threaded though it all.
She had made her choice. She was going to show him, and it was going to hurt, but she had to show him the things he said he loved. She walked toward him slowly, holding the four corners of cloth in trembling hands. Bending over, she tenderly placed it on the ground. Then she stood and turned away, knowing his reaction would hurt and not wanting him to see her tears.
“This is it.”
The contents spread from the center of the cloth; the jewels and rocks, the rusty scraps and beautiful metal-work. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and scrunched her eyes shut, determined not to cry until he was long gone.
She didn’t hear his inevitable noise of disgust or shock, nor did she hear the sound of shoes hitting the ground. The only thing she heard was the soft rustling and clinking of someone sorting carefully through rubbish. She turned, and she wanted to cry. She thought her mind had snapped and she was hallucinating – it couldn’t be happening. He was kneeling, going through her jewels and trash, touching each piece like a blind man would, seeing with his hands.
After a while, he gathered the cloth up, then stood and slowly walked toward her. Something inside was screaming for her to run away, before he could totally destroy her, but she couldn’t; she wanted to see what he would do. When he was close enough for his breath to ruffle her hair, he tipped up her chin with his empty hand and wiped the moisture from her cheeks with his thumb. That was when she realized that she had been crying.
Horrified, she wanted to break and run. She knew her tears gave her away, but some part of her didn’t care anymore, it was completely focused on him.
“Don’t cry darling. I love it. I love it all, because it’s you. And I love you.”
She blinked and stared at him, not knowing if she could trust his words, or her own ears. She gestured silently at the cloth, brushing her hand over the contents lightly. Then she looked at him, wanting him to affirm that he meant what he said, that he understood what he said.
In response, he reached his hand back to cradle her neck, thumb stroking her cheek, and leaned his forehead against hers. He whispered,
“Yes.”
600 word report. Due.
Friends wanting to know where I've been. Due.
Explanation. Due.
Lots of "I'm ok". Due.
Smiles and laughs. Due.
Normal life. Due.
And that's the schedule. You want to know what's going to happen to that schedule? It's getting balled up and tossed into a corner.
Username: [Your Favorite Stranger]
Character Name: Davarr
Gender: Male
Age: unknown, but pretty old
Creature kind: werecat
Personality: Cynical, witty, very knowledgeable due to his long life, gruff in a sophisticated manner, not the kindest creature, but not cruel.
Physical Features: Silver and gray mottled fluffy fur, with black ear tips. Lavender eyes. About the size of a lynx.
Powers: Telepathy and a small amount of earth and wind magic
Strengths and Weaknesses: Not trusting at all, impossible to swerve, cannot resist the full moon: he sits and goes into a trance when it comes out. He would do anything to protect Annette or Kenter Miyamin. His claws, teeth, telepathy and slight magic are his only real weapons, but he's really quick.
Abilities: catching fish and small game and saving Kenter's butt
Hobbies: saving Kenter's butt, being a pain in afore mentioned butt, and being loved on by Annette
Relatives: none
Loved One: Annette and Kenter
Companions: Annette, Kenter, and when Davarr feels like putting up with him, Twitch
History: He hasn't revealed much detail about his past before Kenter. He chose to be with Kenter after his old master/compani
Fantasy Races
Username: [Your Favorite Stranger]
Character Name: Kenter Miyamin
Gender: Male
Race: Human/Elf-half
Age: 25
Personality: Kenter eeps to himself, but isn't formidable -- to look at anyway. Intelligent, maybe a little intimidating cuz he's so smart, and not always thinking about things the same way others are. Easy to be with, if he wants to be with you, and if you can find him. Stops to think about problems except when he's fighting in hand-to-hand combat.
Physical Appearance : Dressed in suade leggings and a brown, hunter green or dark blue shirt. When it's a special occasion, he wears silk shirts in the same colors. He has dark brown hair with red highlights, length right below his ears. His eyes are green. He has two scars starting on the top right and left corners of his back, and going horizontally down to the opposite corners, and the letter T burned into his right hand. He has an elvish face, longish and narrow, with a straight, almost pointy nose and almond-shaped eyes. His upper left ear is pierced. His body shape is slim, short, and well muscled for speed.
Height: 5'5"
Weapons: Long sword, boot dagger, 2 magically directed razors, oak bowstaff
Powers: the spell invoking the magic in the razors, shapeshift to a size-appropria
Class: Rogue
Strengths and Weaknesses: planning battle strategies quick is not his forte, but stick him on the field and he's lightening. He has something of a softspot for females, especially the petite, helpless looking ones. Jeers and taunts don't faze him at all. His speed and reaction time are very good, enabling him to parry and give a counter-attack before his opponent knows what's going on. His left eye has a rather large blindspot, a result of a sibling fight. He's very protective of his daughter.
Abilities: Blade master: give him anything with two sharp edges and a pointy end and he's all good. Very good with a bowstaff, not as good as with the blades, but good.
Hobbies: Carving figures from wood, splatter painting
Pets: Werecat named Davarr [duh-var]
Relatives: younger brother, older sister, 3 y/o daughter named Annette
Loved One: Annette, and Annette's dead mum, Vera
Companions: Annette, Davarr, Twitch (street kid who idolizes him for some strange reason...maybe cuz he feeds him...)
History: Middle child in a three child household by the sea. While his older sister married a sea merchant and his younger brother became a sailor, he left the ocean and started training as a merc. After his first job, he decided he hated it, and went looking for more training elsewhere. He found an older blade master who, after a lot of begging, trained him for about 5 years before dying. He then set out on the road and learned the bowstaff from woodsmen. Along the way, he met Vera, the petite, helpless looking girl with a personality belying her smallness. They fell in love, got married, then she gets pregnant with twins. She dies during childbirth, along with one of the twins, but Annette lives. This is why Kenter is very protective of her.
Why why why why why why WHY couldn't I have just kept my thoughts to myself?