Hi everybody! Tis, Samantha aka Sesshy.Uber.Rad. :] Welcome to The Backroom! {previously known as Forever Forest.} As you can see, this world has finally been revamped! Isn't that just the bees knees? So, the purpose of this world really is just a place for me to write whatever I want. Basically this is my erm..."professional writing" world. My blog is "Journal of A Crazy." ;] So if there's something on here that you don't agree with, that's really too bad. Your opinion is welcome, but there is no flaming here. Criticism of MY writing is NOT welcome I will NOT tolerate it....I'm kidding. Of course critical criticism is welcome whole heartedly here. ^_^ Actually, I will probably love you forever if you criticize me. Cause that means YOU LOVE ME and want to see me get better as a writer. ;] That's how I take all criticism anyways. People wouldn't take the time to criticize you if they didn't care, right?
It's friendly here. This is a place where you are free to speak your mind. So...I usually don't like to put up rules, but due to past circumstances, I'll have to make some...*sigh* I wish you guys didn't make me do this....
Rules of The Backroom:
1. Thou shalt not flame (curse at, throw things at, and throw up on, etc..) the writer (me)
2. To flame your neighbor is just as bad as flaming the writer. It's mean and mean.
3. You can curse, but don't call the writer or your neighbor a derogatory name. ex: "You flabbergasted BANANA!!
4. You shall be friendly and open minded here. There is no close mindedness, or I shall kick you out. I'm so serious.
So you know what you can and can't do. Don't push my buttons, and I'll love you forever. Push the buttons, and ACTION will have to be taken..... X] <3 I am a beta reader, so if you want me to proofread anything, go right on ahead and send it my way! Welcome to The Backroom. *hugs*
For English... The spacing is weird. I did that on purpose, so you could read it with the rhythmn I intended to give it. EDIT: Okay so the spacing doesn't work. Dammit. That totally ruined the effectiveness of it. Well, sorry it sucks ass now.
The essence
of sadness
has gone yellow
around the edges.
I was nonexistant.
The hands...
They had turned me
softly.
They tried
to calm the fire
The explosions
in
my mind
smeared the line
of time.
The roses...
they grew viralously
over my mind,
muffling me.
Screaming echoes,
but my mouth.
is slack,
with
eternal sleep.
Quick note, I wrote this for my English class. Hope you enjoy it[?] Hm. I don't know if enjoy is the right word...It's kinda sad.
-----
The Sighting: “Karienne, if you do not get down here now, you can forget about me taking you to that soccer game!” My mom yells up the stairs. I roll my eyes and huff out loud. One second, she’s yelling and screaming at me. The next second, she’s taking me to my friend’s soccer game after she apparently “grounded” me. The urge to talk back to her overcomes me. I run over to the foot of the stairs to retaliate.
“I thought I was grounded! Can you make up your mind?” I yell down to her.
“You want to go or not?” She says calmly. I hear the tinkling of the car keys. With a growl, I stomp back to my room and grab my sweater. I throw it on as I skip down the steps, stepping over every other step. My mom is standing by the front door, holding up her car keys. She opens the door for me with that ugly smirk on her face.
“You’re welcome Karienne.” She says smugly.
“You’re so patronizing.” I mutter as I glide past her. Suddenly, she takes her hand and uses it to push me back into the house.
“What?! What did I do now?”
“Go to your room.”
“Mom.” I say to her, cocking my hip to the side. “C’mon, give me a break.”
Her hand suddenly flies up to her stomach. She pushes against it and falls back onto the wall. I can hear her whimpering painfully. My senses go on full alert and I can feel the thick adrenaline pumping itself through my veins. Reacting instinctively, I reach forward to grab her and I drag her to the couch. When she’s lying down on the couch, I walk to the kitchen to get her water.
“Mom, this is the fifth time in a month already.” I say worriedly. “You need to get this checked.”
“No.” She breathes out. “We have a history of heartburn in the family. It’s nothing.”
I watch as she drinks her water. Her hand is clenched over her stomach. The hand is shaking.
--- The First Stage: “We’re not very sure what this mass appears to be yet, Mrs. Robinson, but we’ll figure it out.”
“Ms. Robinson.” My mom says quietly, while looking down at her hands.
“Excuse me?” The doctor asks her. His pen hovers over his clipboard.
“I’m a Ms. Robinson. My husband died when Karienne was two.”
The doctor clears his throat. He writes something down on his clipboard. He probably wrote down, “Patient is losing her mind.” I clench my fist tighter until I can feel the nails digging into my skin.
“Is there something wrong with her?”
“Excuse me?” He repeats stupidly.
“There is a lump in her stomach. As a doctor, can you “analyze” it and tell us what it is?” I say, in what my mom would call, my “rude teen” voice. He clears his throat again.
“Well it seems harmless right now, but at this time, I cannot assess on what this mass is.”
“Oh, why ever not, Doc?” I insist sarcastically. I turn to look at my mother on the patient table. She looks weak and pitiful. She’s just staring into nothing, with her hands in her lap, and her skin is being all pale again.
“We’ll have to send these x-rays to the lab, Karienne. They’ll be able to tell us what it is.” The doctor tries to explain.
My mother starts sobbing into her hands. The doctor stares on in horror. I grab her and we walk together out of the office. I turn around to scowl at the doctor.
“You’re good for nothing.”
I make calming noises. I rub her back. I do everything I can to try and soothe her. It doesn’t work. I can’t seem to stop the internal shaking that hasn’t stopped since this whole ordeal has started.
--- The Second, Brief Stage: “Mom? Where are you?” I whisper, while tip-toeing through the house. I crack open the door to her room. She’s sitting on her bed, facing her back to me. She says something. I move forward to hear what she’s mumbling.
“Bobby. I’ve missed you a lot, Bobby.”
I grip the door tightly as I fight back the battle of tears. Bobby was my father. My mother continues to talk.
“Karienne is a beautiful, young girl. You’d be proud of her.” She sighs and shifts on the bed. She takes a picture frame off of her nightstand and cocks her head as she looks at it. I squint my eyes to see what picture she’s studying so hard. It’s her wedding picture.
“I don’t want to leave her. She’s at a ripe age, you know? She’s sixteen.” She puts the picture back. “Are you coming to take me home, Bobby? Give me more time, Bobby.”
My mother continues to talk with my dead father. I can’t listen anymore. I just close the door and walk away.
--- The Last, and Worst, of all Stages: “I have cancer.” She whispers silently to me. The cup I’m holding slips from my hand and shatters noisily on the floor. The glass slices at my bare feet, but I don’t pay attention to the shallow cuts.
“What?” I say dumbly. My mother takes my hand and squeezes it limply. I could already feel the lack of hope radiating from her. I look into her brown eyes for that reassurance I was always used to. I want her to tell me that it’ll be okay. She remains silent. With my own hope deteriorating, I study her eyes more intensely. Her eyes, today, are murky. The windows to her soul, today, are closed.
--- The Fight: The grip my mom exerts on my hand continues to increase. I hear her mumbling again underneath her breath. The nurses scramble to restrain her.
“Hold still, Ms. Robinson. It’ll be over before you know it.” The first nurse says soothingly. The second nurse pulls up the back of my mom’s shirt and inserts the impossibly long needle into her spine. After administering the pain medication, the nurses shoot me a pitiful look, and back out of the room.
“Karienne. Karienne…” She mumbles.
“I’m here.”
“Bobby, leave me alone! You said you’d give me more time!” She screams.
“Mom, dad isn’t here!” I say forcefully, tears streaming down my face.
“Tell him to leave, Karienne.” She pleads. “Tell him that I’m not ready.”
“He’s not here.” I say firmly.
“Tell him. Please, for me.” She whimpers. Her eyes are wide. This time, they’re wide open. I can see right through them. They’re like mirrors. They reflect my doe-eyed, misty, and terrified eyes.
“Dad, she’s not ready. Please leave.” I say softly, my voice shaking.
“Good girl.” My mom says as she slips into sleep.
--- The White Flag: “Daddy, why did you take her? I asked you to leave didn’t I?’
I stare into the ground where my mommy was just buried. I could almost feel my mommy and daddy standing by me, hand in hand.
“She wasn’t ready to go.”
With a gulp, I take the compact mirror out of my pocket and set it down on her mound. Whenever I look in that mirror, I can see her eyes again. The window to her soul is now on this ground. I never plan on leaving it.
You laugh,
cruelly,
as you see me desperately cling on
to your former memory.
You turn to me and say,
"Talk is cheap."
and you try to shove me away.
I only hold on tighter,
not fearing of the abyss below.
Only fearing of your existance.
Or,
your lack of one.
My innocence is gone,
stained black on black,
against your canvas.
I gasp out loud,
begging you not to jump.
You turn to my face,
and kiss me with your bloodstained lips.
The iron taste rings in my mouth,
like a distant summer memory.
The blood from your lips drip down my chin.
Tears or blood?
The two form a holy union on my face.
"Dearly beloved, we have gathered here today..."
I mutter.
You kiss me again,
speaking against my lips,
"Hold on, baby.
Dying won't hurt at all.
Especially with you."
{Inspired by the piano music in this song "Hometown Glory" by Adele.}
(The piano is very quiet in the beginning)
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The sound of a piano breaking.
The sound of a heart breaking.
The chords scatter.
My fingers fly over the keys,
trying to catch the notes.
Things aren't the same.
I try to read my sheet music,
and the notes are a blur of ink spots,
blind spots.
Ink has covered my eyes.
All I can hear are the sounds of my tears,
falling one by one,
on the pale white keys.
The discordant chords clash sharply,
screeching in my ears.
Things aren't the same.
You stole the treble clef from my paper.
You stole the flats,
the sharps,
the dynamics.
You little thief.
You robbed me blind.
Now,
things aren't the same.
What used to be beautiful,
music.
Is now nothing.
Nothing but ink blots.
Blind spots.
Discordant chords.
War ensues.
Battles on both sides.
People trip over the wild weed,
hiding,
under the majesty of a giant tree.
She's in the way of the battle.
She blames herself for rooting there,
instead of despising the battle.
She's ugly.
She's small.
But most importantly,
She's tough.
An injured warrior tumbles to the weed,
seeking solace in her thin,
but passionate arms.
One moment of bliss...
and back to battle.
Dead bodies tumble around the weed,
their hands reached out towards her,
in a last plea of help.
She kneels down,
takes their open hands,
and cries.
She cries for the one's she couldn't save.
She cries for the other's she know will perish.
