Random stories, poems, thoughts, fictions.
Some are old, some are not.
Random stories, poems, thoughts, fictions.
- Created By UnknownKey
She looked herself up and down in the mirror. Her face with its grimace was not the only ugly thing in the mirror. Her body matched it. Rough edges and bones protruding from her pelvis, her chest, her collar. No. she would never be thin enough.
He sat in the backyard and set fire to ants as they scurried away from the white bean of light that he created with his magnifying glass. The little city went up in smoke for a few short minutes. He ants lay dead or injured. Few ran into the cover of the tall grass. They were safe from the monster there. With nothing more to amuse him he stood on his feet, brushed dirt from the knees of his jeans and walked slowly back into the house in search for another source of entertainment.
The mug clattered to the floor, shattering against hard wood. Coffee splattered the walls and floor around the disaster, the huge puddle spreading and filling into the spaces between floor boards. A few moments after being frozen in shock, she looked down at the mess and began to pick the porcelain shards out of the puddle.
Chuck looked in the mirror. It wasn't like the mirrors in the subway. It was clean, smooth, no cracks or scratches on its surface. It had a frame around it. Like the pictures he would see in abandon homes from time to time. It was strange. the image wasn't warped. It looked real. He could see himself for the first time ever without knowing he was being distorted. It was almost like he was looking into a window and seeing himself starring back. The only thing that gave it away was a slight double image he could see as he got closer, where the glass that covered whatever it was that was reflecting him also bore is reflection.
It was strange. Chuck had thought his eye was much worse then it was. In the reflection of a bent spoons back home he it seemed to slant unnaturally upward and to the right. Now he could see that his right eyebrow hung down lower than his left. His eyelid covered most of his blue iris but only seemed like a black line at the top of his swollen pupil. It still looked disfigured, but not nearly as bad as it had seemed before.
His gaze left his eyes and went down to his cheek. There was a strange mark below it. Not like the birthmarks or the freckles he knew he had. something different that hadn't been there before. Several black lines in all ranges of thickness formed into a square. Little numbers at the bottom of each line. A bar code?
"Never seen yourself before?" A male voice asked from behind him. Chuck was about to turn but as he backed away from the mirror he could see the man's face in the reflection. All of the mirror's Evelyn had found were far to small or broken to show anyone else's face besides the holder's. He had almost forgot that it reflected everything, not just him. "-Or noticing the new tattoo?
He starred at him for a few moments. He was older. Old enough to have wrinkles. Black hair, receding and graying. His nose was hawked. The room was dark bring shadows to his already angular face. He wasn't menacing, But he was unnerving. He was dressed in a suite that looked smooth and well kept. He was just too perfect looking, Too even. Chuck had never seen someone so clean looking. He smiled, but it looked forced.
He look in his image before speaking slowly. "Um...." Chuck turned. Only taking his eyes of the man in the reflection when he was sure he'd be able to see him with his own eyes. He wasn't sure he was supposed to answer. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. Before this moment he thought about how he would deal with being captured. This man was the enemy. This ground was evil. He had expected that this moment wouldn't come. When he saw the butt of the peace keepers rifle smash into his head he thought it would be the last thing he ever saw. in the few seconds before passing into darkness he had thought they might torture him if they didn't kill him first. He was ready for torture. He was ready for death. He wasn't ready for this. He hadn't prepared for.... whatever this was.
The man starred at him patiently. Time was flying but his brain was working too slow. He was frustrated with himself for not thinking about this kind of outcome.
The older gentlemen smiled a little wider, this time with actual amusement. "My name is Dr. Harrison." He stated, not making a move to shake Chuck's hand. "And you?"
It was little wonder the man didn't shake his hand. Compared to the clean cut look Dr. Harrison was sporting, Chuck looked disgusting. The layer of soot had covered his skin since birth seemed suddenly strange.
"Chuck." it sounded like a question.
Dr. Harrison cleared his throat. "Charles-" He waited for a few moments. Chuck starred for a few awkward seconds when he realized The elder was looking for a last name.
"I uh...." Chuck began, wondering what to do. He had never felt more awkward. no one had ever called him Charles before. When Evelyn was mad at him she would call him Charlie. There was a tenseness in his stomach and a fullness in his throat he had never felt before. He felt as if he were naked. "I don't have a one."
Dr. Harrison didn't seem surprised.
"Well, Charles," He moved closer. "This is your's."
Dr. Harrison reached into his pocket and brought something out. He grabbed Chuck's wrist and placed something into his hand. Chuck felt it before he saw it. Cold and metallic. He opened his hand and and saw in his palm what looked like a dog tag. He looked for his name on it but didn't find it. There was a name that was hard to make out. It was printed clearly and in bold letters, but Chuck had never been taught how to read. He knew his own name, and a few other's but only by sight, and not by any actual skill. Like one recognizes a face or an object. Despite his poor education he knew it was a name. imprinted into the metal there were numbers underneath the name. Chuck turned to the mirror again. Looking at the mark under his eye. He had to study for a few moments because the image was backwards. The numbers were the same. There was a slim chain that spilled through his fingers, strung through a hole in the jewelry.
"This-" A long, slender finger reached into Chuck's open hand and touched the tag, pushing it into his skin. "-is yours. You own this." Dr. Harrison's hand was warm and soft. His skin brushed against Chuck's callused fingers gently. He said 'this' as if it was the only thing Chuck owned, as if it was the most important thing other than himself in the room, pushing his finger further down on it. Chuck had to tense his muscles to keep his hand from faltering "And what this says is that I own you."
Someone once told me "Its just a word, it doesn't matter.", but she opened her word place and spoke with words so I ignored her. They were just words after all, what did they matter?
Opal gripped the handles of her motorbike. Her helmet rattling around her skull, her knees bracing for the rocky stretch of ground before her. Her wheels kick up dirt and pebbles as she rides. things far away approach quickly and spear past her, disappearing into nothing behind her. Fast and Forward were the only words she wanted to care about. the front wheel faltered, the sound of dirt crunching under tired becomes something else. Something shinny. She sees it before her brain realizes what it is. Glass. Broken glass. The tire rocks unsteadily, suddenly sagging around the steal spokes and rim. Her hands her has the loses control, one backward, straining a muscle in her back, the other forward, pulling something in her elbow and arm put. She remembered the other word she cared about: control.
The read of her bike lifted off the ground as the front wheel skidded into something hard. She felt herself lift of the bike, suspended in air and terror. Before she had a chance to react with her head, all her muscles tensed, her eyes shut, and all she had left was her feeling. She fell on her back, tearing away at the lose, grey, t shirt she was wearing. Skin ripping, rocks and broken glass slicing into her flesh. She felt a taut pain in her neck, making her bones shudder in agony. her helmet was the only thing keeping the blinding explosion of dry dirt from strangling her as she gasped in the air that had shot out of her on impact. After she stopped skidding, after her bike stopped rolling, when the dust finally settles she moved. She ached. Tears stung her eyes, her tongue was swollen where she bit it.
She pulled her self up, bending her back until its almost straight, letting her hands hold her up. She assessed the damage. It hurt. All of it hurt. Her eyes glided over her body, not taking in the blood and open cuts as actually being hers.
No matter how fast she went on her bike, no matter how far she hurled herself forward, how much she longed for control to come natural to her, it didn't. she was stuck still in emotions, in situation. Her brother, Chuck, was still missing. Evelyn reused to notice her as anymore more than a friend or someone she should watch out for, like a child. She still cried late at night no matter how much she wished she could stop. She was not the person she wanted to be.
I stood there. I was supposed to do something. Something that degraded my being and made me feel less than human. I was expected to do is at I was expected to draw breath. It was supposed to feel natural to me but it didn't. I was supposed to be okay. When the deed was done I wandered out of the room and into the back hall where I smoked a cigarette and cried. I may have felt less then human, but I cried like one. Maybe there is hope for me yet.
So I'm bored and looking for a new job. thats all the life update I feel like giving right now. hehe. Fun. have a good day folks.
Today I sent a letter to my dad I wrote a few months ago. The paper was soft and wrinkled from all the times I folded it and put it in an envelope only to take it out and read it, deciding it wasn't fit to be sent. I don't know if it was the right thing to do, or if he'll even read it, but just sending it made me feel liberated.
Today I grabbed some sidewalk chalk that had been sitting on the shelf all winter and drew in the parking lot of my apartment complex. It't still cold outside but the snow is almost all gone. Chalk dust powdered my sleeves and my pants. I liked the smell. I felt like crying but I wasn't sad. The trees are still bare and the grass is still brown, but I feel like life is beginning again.
Today I wrote a song about a girl with red hair and freckles that I talked to on days that felt like this. I'm not sure if talking to her made me feel like this or I just talked to her when I felt like this. Most conversations I had with her were nonsense that made sense. I looked into the sky while on the phone with her one night and she said. "See that moon?" Of course I saw the moon, everyone did. "We are both looking at the same moon. All these miles away and there it is." We'd start talking about the stars around it that we could see. We'd sometimes spot the same ones. This time of year those stars are still right next to the moon. We picked one out and said "Thats our star." I can't see it anymore. The city lights and the smog don't leave much sky for star gazing. But that star is still there. I haven't talked to her in over three years but I wonder if she ever thinks about those things.
Today I sat on my roof in the dark and saw planes go by. For the first time ever I realized that there were people on them. All of them the center of their own universe. They have done things I never will, met people I won't, have their own stories and their own lives they live and could be on that plane for many different reasons. Business, family, love, life, death. They all checked into the airport with baggage and grumbled about the TSA. Do they even know I'm watching them soar above me?
Today I feel like the world was different. Today didn't just feel like a new day, it felt like a new life. It felt like I was seeing through old eyes and a new mind. Today I did things I had told myself I shouldn't. Today I did things that didn't mean anything and that was somehow okay. Today I felt okay. For the first time in my life I felt like everything was okay.
Jesse's heels scrapped against the cobble stone streets, kicking up rocks that were big enough and letting them snicker across ones that were not, his brain whirling with hatred and disgust. He could hear footsteps behind him, slow and cautious, knowing he could hear but not wanting to set fire to the fuse that hissed with heat as it was.
"Dog." Jesse thought. "Bitch." his minds ear couldn't make a voice to these thoughts, the swirled around inside him, unspoken for, as if not being thought of at all, flashing to the front of his mind and disappearing in the tornado of other disagreeable things only to return to his front of his thoughts once again and repeat the cycle.
He stopped. He heard the footsteps stop, the gravel being kicked up stopping a few moments after. It was as if the wind wasn't whistling, as if the cold wasn't freezing every inch of him. it was as if he was in dark room fulled with nothing but himself. He turned on the heal of his boots. "You fucking CUNT!" He screamed. it hurt. His voice scratched out of his throat and hissed through his teeth life pain itself. He saw him there. Standing, his hood pulled over his head and blond hair cascading down his forehead, shielding his eyes from Jesse's glare.
The Lighter boys, if they could even be called that. All of the lighters had brown hair and green eyes. All of them. 'Green eyed monsters' Jesse would call them that, knowing he was not one of them. His black hair, his eyes painfully blue, in the dark, no doubt his older 'brother' was having trouble looking at them full on.
His hair stood on edge with anger. "Say something!" He cried, Voice echoing off the empty streets and tall buildings. "Oh thats right, you don't say shit." He finally walked over to him. Looking up at the blond haired boy who stoood two heads taller than him at least. "You just take it, you get let other people take it. You don't speak up for yourself, for your own brother, for anyone!" A closed fist came down on the older boy's chest, eyes shut tight, failing to keep the tears in. "You piece of shit!"
The brother stood still for a moment and then pushed his hand up and pulled back hood and hair, green eyes shinning in the street lights. Snow was beginning to fall, glowing around the yellow light and falling into Jesse's hair.
Jesse's eyes shot open. In his whole life he had never head his brother speak. Didn't know he knew how to speak. He sounded odd, his lips moving to slow for his words. I guess one does not keep in practice after being deaf since four.
Jesse's anger didn't dissipate, instead turned into something else. A deep welling hole that sucked up everything around him, the street, the lights the snow, formed in its place, taking everything save for himself and Caleb.
"It hurt." He looked at him. "Hurts." correcting himself intently. keeping his head up so the older boy could read his lips, head to numbed and hands to gloved to bother signing it. "I tried so hard to keep him safe, to keep him from seeing what I saw, feeling what I felt but-" He couldn't continue, not with those green pools staring at him. He failed. He knew it, Caleb knew it. And tomorrow when the papers were published and the school struggled to find a new baseball couch, so would everyone else. That hurt almost as much as seeing his little brother, Cody, standing nearly naked in a locker room with the older son of a bitch hovering over him.
Jesse fell into Caleb, all his weight on his brother.
Caleb had said nothing because he lacked the words, Sure he could have written it down on paper and showed it to his mother or father or teacher or whoever he wanted. But what could one say? how does one begin that conversation with a pen and paper.
Jesse had said nothing because he lacked the strength. He had the words but he choked them down everyday with every meal and every glass of water. The strength wasn't there, he couldn't push the words out so he swallowed them and hoped he could keep it down or throw them up, but no, he was left with that sickening fullness in his throat for seven years.
He could say he couldn't remember how he got home but Jesse remember it all. He remember the crunch of gravel and snow, picking his feet up and climbing up the stairs, each step a hell of its own. He remembered Caleb laying him on the couch and taking off his shoes and helping him out of his coat. He remembered far after the lights were off and sleep should have taken him.
He remembered all of it. From the first time seven years ago to this moment now was all engraved in his memory, and it didn't help that everyday since he had returned to those memories and brushed the dust off of them, carving into the stone when the etching started to erode. Maybe tomorrow he wouldn't have to go back there and do the same, maybe tomorrow he would let the dust set, the wind, rain and snow turn the rocks into dust. Maybe tomorrow he wouldn't have to remember.
I'm working on a story. Jesse isn't the main character, but now I kind of wish he was..... because.... I love writing him. He has four brothers of which he is the second to the youngest. Caleb, Cody, Carl, and Clay are his brothers. Caleb is the oldest and is deaf. He wanted to play baseball but couldn't because he was deaf. the couch said he'd help him anyway and there was nothing he couldn't do if he put his mind to it. The coach was a pedophile. Jesse is a bastard son.... doesn't look a thing like his father or his mother. He suffered the same fate and when Cody wanted to play baseball as much as Jesse claims to dislike the sport he goes to all his practices so he can keep and eye on the couch. He didn't make it once and ended up getting there almost too late. he beat the coach into critical condition with a baseball bat. His brother bailed him out of jail and thats when this all happened.
Clay is gay. and was more of a hockey guy than a baseball guy so he didn't have this shared experience.
I love writing. Its so much fun.
I lay on the floor of Mill's living room. The rug was stiff and uncomfortable but I lay there and stared mindlessly at the ceiling fan above me. It was dark. Everything tinted a bluish grey and it was too quiet. The ceiling fan didn't even make any noise, The beaded strings that turned it on and off didn't tap together like they normally did, The motor didn't hum. The only sound it was gnawing sound of my own thoughts, questioning the next move.
Mill's would be home soon and see that I had let myself into his house. He wouldn't be angry. He'd light a joint and sit on the floor next to me, offer me a few hits and try to get out of me what was wrong and why I was there. I'd let me sleep on the floor of his living room but unless I told him what was going on I knew I'd have to be out by morning. I'd leave tomorrow. I wasn't going to tell him.
I'd have to go home in the morning. I guess I could say I have no idea where home is. But I do. I know exactly where it is. I know the street signs, the landmarks, and all the faces inside that wonderful place. I know the smell of the laundry soap and the taste of every breath. But I can never go back there again.
When I took this step it wasn't a step I had chosen to make. I had been pushed from one place to another, stumbled a few feet and fallen on my face. I had gotten up, brushed myself off, tried pick up the pieces but couldn't.... there were no pieces. There was just me, broken but in tact.
I had tried to have a new life. I tried to carve it in the shape of my old life. But I was never a good with knives. My old life wasn't always smooth or soft to the touch, but I don't remember getting so many splinters. I don't remember the jagged edges and incorrect spaces between peoples eyes, hands and hearts.
Most young people have this feeling that they are never going to die. Death doesn't cross their mind. and why should it? We had the rest of our lives in front of us.
Days. I thought, placing the back of my hand on my forehead and for the first time looking away from the ceiling fan. A car pulling into the drive way sent yellow light beams across the room.
Young people. I thought as if I was not one of them, as if I were an old man yelling at children on his lawn. But I really wasn't one of them in the sense that I thought I had forever. Even in this moment I didn't have forever. I had till tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning when Mill's would kick me out of his house in a pleasant fashion that didn't seem like being kicked out.
And after that it would be Darius, then Wade, then Keri, Then AJ, then Ethan... Days.
I heard the keys jingle in the lock and braced myself. He wouldn't be angry. He wouldn't be mad or even startled. He would eye me for a moment, put his things down and without a word and go into the other room. He would come back in sweat pants and a tee shirt, sit around, smoke weed, talk with me for a while and then fall asleep on the couch in the middle of our conversation. We would talk about nothing and everything as if we had forever.
He didn't have forever. He had a kitchen that was a wreck from cooking Crack, spilled baking soda and dried into the stove top. He had a tear drop tattoo under his eye I would pretend wasn't there.
I heard the lock click.
I didn't have forever. I had days.
The handle turned, the door swung open.
You played with me. Little girl down the street who hid in my room with me, Hot wheels and streets made of carpet designs. Conversations about life, and eating purple grapes and laughing about nothing.
You played with me. The only friend I had for a long time. Throwing a yellow Frisbee full of bite marks across the yard to watch dog bolt towards it and sink his teeth into it.
You played with me. Came to me house to see me when no else cared. Sat on the floor in my room and watched youtube videos with me, Laughing at how my hair was a mess and my clothes had holes.
You played with me. Tugging on my heart strings just to feel them throb under your fingers. Tied ours together so you could feel my pain, and when the pain was unbearable you snipped most of them, leaving a few left so I would always follow you home.
You played with me. Took a bow to my heart strings and dragged them across listening to the screams of 'I love you' that choked from my hollowed and carved body. Because even if it was a twisted symphony, with a sadistic violinist, and a masochistic violin, The music we made was beautiful.
You played with me. Because you always liked broken things, always popped the wheels of of hot wheels and put them back together, but it never rode smoothly afterwards.
You played with me. Left me under the bed with other discarded things so I could hear the creak of the springs as you played with another toy.
And as much as I miss you, as much as I wish I had you with me, as much as it hurts to feel the ends of my hear stings limp against my chest as you no longer pull them towards you. I'm glad you don't play with me anymore.