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Michkale
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Name: Michkale
Country: United States
Birthday: 12/25/1986
Gender: Female
Interests: music, literature.. dance.. what can I say? I'm old fashioned.
Expertise: zero. yeah...
Message: message me
Member Since:
12/9/2005
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| who was this guy? what was he doing here? what made him think that he could get inside of her thoughts and actually see her true self? The nerve. what an arrogant self righteous stuck up.."am I right?" 'Why does he have to be right? why can't he just leave me alone! he scares me'
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| staring out the window- or through the window perhaps, as the raindrops
streaked, building from one drop to another, how many drops create a
trail? enough...3...4... and now just one. What about her path? how
many drops of rain, or tears will make it clear? how many crisscrossing
and pausing, and gathering moments must there be before there is
clarity? before all the droplets have seen their end....
And in the
stillness, with the faded noise, of others lighting that creates
shadows in awkward places. crevices and the ugly parts of walls. where
is the self that cares?
instead
what remains is a new self. The true self? that can't seem to
understand exactly what it is doing, where it is going, what it wants.
all of the attempts tried so far create more streaks, more
crisscrossing patterns. like a back etched with whip lines. and do the
drops ever end? someday. in some form. perhaps.
but not today.
today is a day.
we knew that.
it requires more effort than had been thought before. more attempts at
figuring it out. whatever it was. and a few more words, a few more
lines, and then, perhaps... there would be a resting place.
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| I suppose that there comes a time... well, at least I believe that there comes a time in writing a story when you begin to form an attatchment to your characters. when you begin to see yourself in them, or wish that you could meet them. we write characters that allure us by writing about the strength in themselves that they don't see. The purposes that are being weaved that they don't know. Most of all perhaps is that they are needed. without them there would be no story at all. Michkale has had a turning point. currently I have about 5 or 6 pages worth on a seperate computer that I would have to re-type to put up here. at some point I hope to do this. I am currently struggling with telling Samantha's character because she has changed, and I'm not sure how. something has changed. In my head at least, she has grown up, but time wise she's still missing quite a bit. I'm not sure how to make these ends meet. Jonathon is still a very lost boy/man I'm not quite sure where his story is going. so... I'm still writing. when I figure out how the pieces fit I'll try to put it up here. in the mean-time sorry for the nothing this has become . I have shoeboxes of writing-- I'm trying to sort through it. ( alot of it has to do with Samantha's character..) anyone want to go through it for me/with me? | | |
| there was a time when existing was easy.
when saying the things that she wanted to say was something that she could do without feeling like it was unacceptable.
There was a time when Joy ws something that she
gave freely, and although shy, she was able to give of herself openly
and willingly.
Today was not that day.
It seemed like such a long time ago that she was young enough to
be carefree. The sad part about that struck her. She was only
eighteen.
There were still some things in her reality that were important enough
for her to work for and carry on towards, but mostly these days.
exhaustion just seemed to overshadow everything.
Tired?
yes.
Maybe it was all the stress of being in the hospital and then not knowing if she had a place to stay.
It was still very present in her mind, the fact that she hadn't
told Jonathon what exactly had happened that evening that he found her
in the woods. So far,he hadn't asked.
It was nice here, At Jonathon's house.
She'd been given a comfortable room in the back end of the house
overlooking empty fields. It wasn't hard to assume that the fields were
part of the houses property, considering the house bordered on three
sides of fields, and one that faced a park.
Time was moving along,
sometimes it seemed that she'd been there forever, until small things
were brought to her mind that were still unknown. Like that bedroom,
the attic.
Her eyes meandered the walls of
the parlor. It was done up in a new kind of contemporary fashion
for the old Queen Anne that it was.
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| 'it's just a bunch of words' she told herself. just a bunch of words all smushed together on a pieace of paper that didn't mean anything. That couldn't mean anything, because it meant nothing to her. it was tearing. it was being pulled apart. it was sickening. it was deafening. It roared in her ears and burned in her senses. It was being pulled back. 'Stop it. That hurts!' but there weren't any ears to hear her. and it still peeled. memories flooded her, dancing around her head, and changing the concrete things around her back to shadows. Living shadows.
Laughter filled her ears and she turned involuntarily smiling. A boy stood a few feet in front of her. staring at her, and laughing. although her mind said not to trust him, she smiled back at him. The litte boy took his right hand and placed it on his heart. His face changed and he was smiling at her, but looking so much older. Her eyes followed his hand. He stood as if mesmerized by his own action and then burst out laughing again. The trees were shaking with mirth. as he lifted his face their eyes caught and he placed two fingers on her heart. It burned.
someone was screaming. She turned from the boy and found another boy. This boy was young. He was smiling, but she was sure he'd been the one screaming. she glanced around and realized her companion had left her. but her heart still burned.
He was crying. She was sure of it. He was crying and laughing and screaming. Her eyes grew large as she realized he was holding a flame. He looked at her briefly and smiled. It was all worth it. yet he lay there, thrown around by this flame that seemed to have him under a spell. suddenly he was thrown onto the ground screaming and crying. There was no laughter this time. The flame had turned on him. She watched helplessly. 'stop it.' she whispered. 'stop it.' she spoke "STOP IT!!"
she wasn't standing in a green field. she was on concrete. hard objects. people in boxes. It was tearing. She raised her hand to her heart.
'stop it. that hurts.'
the pain stopped.
so did the healing.
she'd been a fool.
She knew all along it was more than just words. | | |
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