The Short Story Thread.
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Very good, espesh if you only wrote them in a few minutes. One tiny problem (which might just be me being pernickity), you say she tastes the blood, and then the corpse is bloodless. Or has sleep deprivation stopping me from understanding it?Trivun said:
Oh, and perhaps weaving them into a slightly longer story, with other things happening? Or not, they are really good on their own. Just an idea.
Don't know how I missed this thread before, oh well here's something I wrote a day ago, it's a prologue to a larger story, but it should fit here.
The hearth keeper.
Standing on a cliff overlooking the valley bellow him, Malkin was as a father watching over his children.
He saw the small, isolated villages and farmsteads scattered across the valley, and the heards of wild oxen grazing, from where he stood he was aware of every tiny detail, every living thing drawing breath in his valley.
And he saw it too as a whole, a single organism, thousands of lives working in perfect harmony.
He took a deep breath, and leapt from the cliff, plumeting for a few seconds before spectral wings burst from his shoulders, he took flight.
Soaring through the air, a flock of birds flew alongside him, they knew him and loved him, he was guardian of all that lived in this valley, the watcher.
He landed softly, the wings dissapating in a cloud of mist. He walked through the tall grass, aware of every insect crawling in the earth under his feet, the sun shone bright and he basked in it's warmth.
He saw his destination ahead of him, the village Halmsen, he had been awoken the night before by a dream telling him to come, that a child had been born who would seek his guidance.
As he drew near, the men working with the cattle in the pastures caught sight of him and dropped everything, hurrying back to the cluster of houses that made up the village.
No sooner had they left, they were back, with what was likely the entire population of the village in tow, many of the women carrying jugs and bowls of fruit.
The village chieften stepped forward, bowing low before Malkin.
"To what do we owe the honour of your visit hearth-keeper?" He spoke in nervous awe,
"I have come at the behest of a dream, tell me, was a child born here last night?"
The chieften swallowed, "indeed there was, a healthy young girl, shall I thake you to their home now?"
"If you would be so kind" Malkin said, shaking his head and smiling at a woman who was offering him food.
The chieften lead Malkin to a hut close to the center of the village, they entered silently.
A man was knelt on the ground stoking the fire in the hearth-pit, a woman lay sleeping in a bed with a small bundle of cloth held tight to her chest.
Upon seeing Malkin the man jumped up, bowing low just as the chieften had done.
"What can we do for you most welcomed guest?"
Malkin's eyes were focused on the woman and child sleeping, "I have come to fullfill an oath" he said, half to himself.
"May I see your child?" He asked the man, "of course" the man replied, hurring over to the bed, he touched the arm of his sleeping wife, "Kyelle my love, wake up, there's someone here to see us".
She stirred slowly, she saw Malkin and her eyes opened wide, she gripped her child to her tighter still, Malkin smiled and aproached the bed slowly, Kyelle sat up in the bed, her eyes on Malkin.
"May I see the child?" He asked warmly, Kyelle didn't move, her deep brown eyes gazed into his, slowly she loosened her grip on the child pulling away the blanket the girl was wrapped in, Malkin looked down into the new-born child's face and gasped soflty.
"What is her name?"
"Seren" Kyelle replied, her eyes still fixed on Malkin's.
"May I?" He asked holding out his arms, Kyelle hesitated, she looked to her husband who was nodding, slightly reluctantly she carefully handed the child to Malkin, who recieved her with equal care.
He looked down into the girl's face, she opened her eyes and looked straight at Malkin, her gaze more penetrating than any he had ever seen before, she smiled faintly at him, a wonderous smile, as though she was in that moment seeing all the the hardship her life would bring, and smiling on regardless.
Malkin kissed her forehead then murmured a few words in her ear, as he moved to hand her back to her mother he whispered "till next we meet".
Standing on a cliff overlooking the valley bellow him, Malkin was as a father watching over his children.
He saw the small, isolated villages and farmsteads scattered across the valley, and the heards of wild oxen grazing, from where he stood he was aware of every tiny detail, every living thing drawing breath in his valley.
And he saw it too as a whole, a single organism, thousands of lives working in perfect harmony.
He took a deep breath, and leapt from the cliff, plumeting for a few seconds before spectral wings burst from his shoulders, he took flight.
Soaring through the air, a flock of birds flew alongside him, they knew him and loved him, he was guardian of all that lived in this valley, the watcher.
He landed softly, the wings dissapating in a cloud of mist. He walked through the tall grass, aware of every insect crawling in the earth under his feet, the sun shone bright and he basked in it's warmth.
He saw his destination ahead of him, the village Halmsen, he had been awoken the night before by a dream telling him to come, that a child had been born who would seek his guidance.
As he drew near, the men working with the cattle in the pastures caught sight of him and dropped everything, hurrying back to the cluster of houses that made up the village.
No sooner had they left, they were back, with what was likely the entire population of the village in tow, many of the women carrying jugs and bowls of fruit.
The village chieften stepped forward, bowing low before Malkin.
"To what do we owe the honour of your visit hearth-keeper?" He spoke in nervous awe,
"I have come at the behest of a dream, tell me, was a child born here last night?"
The chieften swallowed, "indeed there was, a healthy young girl, shall I thake you to their home now?"
"If you would be so kind" Malkin said, shaking his head and smiling at a woman who was offering him food.
The chieften lead Malkin to a hut close to the center of the village, they entered silently.
A man was knelt on the ground stoking the fire in the hearth-pit, a woman lay sleeping in a bed with a small bundle of cloth held tight to her chest.
Upon seeing Malkin the man jumped up, bowing low just as the chieften had done.
"What can we do for you most welcomed guest?"
Malkin's eyes were focused on the woman and child sleeping, "I have come to fullfill an oath" he said, half to himself.
"May I see your child?" He asked the man, "of course" the man replied, hurring over to the bed, he touched the arm of his sleeping wife, "Kyelle my love, wake up, there's someone here to see us".
She stirred slowly, she saw Malkin and her eyes opened wide, she gripped her child to her tighter still, Malkin smiled and aproached the bed slowly, Kyelle sat up in the bed, her eyes on Malkin.
"May I see the child?" He asked warmly, Kyelle didn't move, her deep brown eyes gazed into his, slowly she loosened her grip on the child pulling away the blanket the girl was wrapped in, Malkin looked down into the new-born child's face and gasped soflty.
"What is her name?"
"Seren" Kyelle replied, her eyes still fixed on Malkin's.
"May I?" He asked holding out his arms, Kyelle hesitated, she looked to her husband who was nodding, slightly reluctantly she carefully handed the child to Malkin, who recieved her with equal care.
He looked down into the girl's face, she opened her eyes and looked straight at Malkin, her gaze more penetrating than any he had ever seen before, she smiled faintly at him, a wonderous smile, as though she was in that moment seeing all the the hardship her life would bring, and smiling on regardless.
Malkin kissed her forehead then murmured a few words in her ear, as he moved to hand her back to her mother he whispered "till next we meet".
Well it's still very much a work in progress, will post more when ready though, looking forward to reading the continuation of yours.Sevre90210 said:
Ix-tab contributes! And its fanfiction of a character and series so obscure I will do a jig if anyone recognises it. If you don't know the canon, read it like original fic. It's weird enough to stand alone. Jerrry Cornelius fic with hints at incest, drug use, and weirdness, none of which is as bad as the canon it originates in!
Put those boots back on
Jerry clicks his neck once, twice and grins. He pushes at Catherine's sweet, soft body next to him, as he lays down again, and reaches over, stroking the small rise of her belly. He stops. She isn't breathing.
He touches each of her breasts, examining their dead weight, then rearranges her, pulling her loose limbs, folding her until her legs splay a little open, but her delicate hands, with their broken nails, curve coyly over her chest. Her frizzy hair is blonde this time, but Jerry suspects that's because neither of them have been concentrating.
She smells like their sweat, and that stale smell both of them developed whenever they stayed in their father's fake château. He makes a note to ask her about pulling on the old get up and staying at the convent for a while.
He just can't help his affection for the clergy, and he must admit that pulling on the robes and cross made his heart race a little each time.
He scratches himself a little, admiring the way his sister looks like something other than human. But then, then he thinks about how the day is getting away from them, and goes to the bedside table to retrieve what he needs. And it's not there.
"Oh bugger." He mutters, and scrabbles at the mess next to the bed, trying to find the hypodermic full of the poisonous potion Frank had gotten her hooked on this time.
He finds it finally by pricking himself on the uncapped end. Smirking a little, he sticks his injured finger into his mouth, and gently, gently, pushes the needle into Catherine's firm, white left buttock.
"Forgive me, dearheart." He sniggers and kisses the mark.
Almost immediately, Catherine starts to breath again, though her body maintains it's strange, abnormal mutability. He frowns a little at that. She opens her wide brown eyes and gazes up at him, without any recognition.
"Oh fuck." He says succinctly, and she sinks back down into the pillows. Amnesia. Again.
"The old family curse, hey Cath?" He says cheerfully, as he moves around the bed, pulling on his ever present uniform, black flares, button up shirt, elastic sided boots and the carcoat.
He grins, seeing that the vibragun is still stuck in the shoulder holster he had Shakey Mo sew in. Catherine is malleable, like a doll, and not that he doesn't love that, but he wanted her to be operational, and really, this isn't his area.
He considers calling Miss Brunner, if only for the amusement it would cause, but decides to ring Una Persson, who may be back from her latest pet revolution. As the phone rings, Jerry catches sight of his own pale face in the mirror, dark eyes, lank hair and a stupid sardonic smirk. He leans forward and licks his reflection.
"It's a tasty world." He says out loud, and listens to the telephone ring out, watching his beautiful sister stare at the ceiling.
Put those boots back on
Jerry clicks his neck once, twice and grins. He pushes at Catherine's sweet, soft body next to him, as he lays down again, and reaches over, stroking the small rise of her belly. He stops. She isn't breathing.
He touches each of her breasts, examining their dead weight, then rearranges her, pulling her loose limbs, folding her until her legs splay a little open, but her delicate hands, with their broken nails, curve coyly over her chest. Her frizzy hair is blonde this time, but Jerry suspects that's because neither of them have been concentrating.
She smells like their sweat, and that stale smell both of them developed whenever they stayed in their father's fake château. He makes a note to ask her about pulling on the old get up and staying at the convent for a while.
He just can't help his affection for the clergy, and he must admit that pulling on the robes and cross made his heart race a little each time.
He scratches himself a little, admiring the way his sister looks like something other than human. But then, then he thinks about how the day is getting away from them, and goes to the bedside table to retrieve what he needs. And it's not there.
"Oh bugger." He mutters, and scrabbles at the mess next to the bed, trying to find the hypodermic full of the poisonous potion Frank had gotten her hooked on this time.
He finds it finally by pricking himself on the uncapped end. Smirking a little, he sticks his injured finger into his mouth, and gently, gently, pushes the needle into Catherine's firm, white left buttock.
"Forgive me, dearheart." He sniggers and kisses the mark.
Almost immediately, Catherine starts to breath again, though her body maintains it's strange, abnormal mutability. He frowns a little at that. She opens her wide brown eyes and gazes up at him, without any recognition.
"Oh fuck." He says succinctly, and she sinks back down into the pillows. Amnesia. Again.
"The old family curse, hey Cath?" He says cheerfully, as he moves around the bed, pulling on his ever present uniform, black flares, button up shirt, elastic sided boots and the carcoat.
He grins, seeing that the vibragun is still stuck in the shoulder holster he had Shakey Mo sew in. Catherine is malleable, like a doll, and not that he doesn't love that, but he wanted her to be operational, and really, this isn't his area.
He considers calling Miss Brunner, if only for the amusement it would cause, but decides to ring Una Persson, who may be back from her latest pet revolution. As the phone rings, Jerry catches sight of his own pale face in the mirror, dark eyes, lank hair and a stupid sardonic smirk. He leans forward and licks his reflection.
"It's a tasty world." He says out loud, and listens to the telephone ring out, watching his beautiful sister stare at the ceiling.
I've got one its not that good and i wrote it years ago but what the hell. And i really liked the tick tock story!
Elliot lowered himself down his rappel line and stopped just before the window he was supposed to breach. Down his radio came the command to enter. He muttered to himself ?lock and Load?. He lept and lowered himself so he was swinging away from the window but as he came in his boots landed on the window and his feet slipped so with loads of momentum still behind him he couldn't stop himself from slamming into the window facefirst. Still dazed from the accident he drew his side arm a beautiful glock 19 and fired a round at the window. There were several things he had forgotten and not noticed about when he did this, 1. that this was a stealth mission were under no circumstances was the enemy to become alerted to their presence 2. that he had forgotten to put on his silencer 3. that an enemy patrol of four were stationed in that room and finally 4. that since it was re-enforced glass that any bullet fired upon it was likely to ricochet off of the window, however he only noticed these things and the bullet penetrated his thigh.
The pain caused him to let go of his rope and usually this would not be a problem but this was a problem for Elliot as he had spent all of his time in the 'how to tie rappel knots so if you fall you wont die' class passing notes to Johnny rainbow. This along with some other things were what went through his head as he was falling but when he landed all that went through his head were his helmet and lots of concrete
Elliot lowered himself down his rappel line and stopped just before the window he was supposed to breach. Down his radio came the command to enter. He muttered to himself ?lock and Load?. He lept and lowered himself so he was swinging away from the window but as he came in his boots landed on the window and his feet slipped so with loads of momentum still behind him he couldn't stop himself from slamming into the window facefirst. Still dazed from the accident he drew his side arm a beautiful glock 19 and fired a round at the window. There were several things he had forgotten and not noticed about when he did this, 1. that this was a stealth mission were under no circumstances was the enemy to become alerted to their presence 2. that he had forgotten to put on his silencer 3. that an enemy patrol of four were stationed in that room and finally 4. that since it was re-enforced glass that any bullet fired upon it was likely to ricochet off of the window, however he only noticed these things and the bullet penetrated his thigh.
The pain caused him to let go of his rope and usually this would not be a problem but this was a problem for Elliot as he had spent all of his time in the 'how to tie rappel knots so if you fall you wont die' class passing notes to Johnny rainbow. This along with some other things were what went through his head as he was falling but when he landed all that went through his head were his helmet and lots of concrete
Probably sleep deprivation, I mentioned in the story that a few minutes pass, so thats enough time to drain a body of blood (now how would I know that?). Glad you liked the stories thoughGeek@Heart said:
. I like your idea of weaving too, but at the moment I'm focussing on a series of stories set as one long narrative split into parts, plus the odd shorter piece like these two.
Sorry for the double post, but here's a new story for your perusal, from my own warped mind. The first part of my upcoming series will be along later today. Enjoy!
Bright. So bright. Lights flash past, psychedelic, mystifying, astounding, mesmerising, all go past in the blink of an eye. But the eye doesn?t blink. Eyes are wide, as if pinned open. Visions flash, past, present, future. All is melded into one, then split into a dozen strands of life, each one turning and curling around within your sight. Music plays, a crescendo of clashing sounds, creating a masterpiece of contrasting form and style. A chorus sings hymns in some forgotten language of old. You don?t understand, you can?t. You merely listen, you simply stare, enraptured by the display across your mind, tattooed visions playing an engaging symphony of light within your soul.
Darkness falls. The visions stop. Replaced with more, they continue to play. The lights aren?t as bright, but the music plays within your head like before. It gets faster. Tempo becomes upbeat, the words you hear become warped and twisted. The lights become darker and duller, purple and green and black across your view. Rain falls from nowhere and lightning strikes from within your imagination. Your eyes are spirals in a crystal frame, as your sight moves to the outside. You see yourself melting, eyes like jelly and legs and arms dripping to the ground. But the ground is no longer there. As the surroundings vanish so do you, bit by bit, piece by piece. You start to disappear. The lights fade, steady, the music starts to quieten. Sleep.
Your slumber ends with more visions, horrific in their nature, dark in their delights. They torment you. Screaming pierces your ears, fire and ice exploding into being all around you. You see the people near you ripped apart by vicious figures, but what they are you cannot tell. Blood sprays into the air, a fountain both beautiful and surreal in its very nature. Some lands on you, all over. The figures are drawn towards you, licking the drops of blood from your naked body, dragging their claws against your skin. But your skin is no longer there. Flesh creeps and muscles tighten, as the creatures, no longer mere figures but horrific forms that belong only in your darkest nightmares, rip your body in two and pick apart the bones and organs. You scream but there?s no sound. Your tongue is gone, your mouth sealed tight, sewn with a needle and thread. Your eyes are pinned open once more, there?s no escape from the nightmare. The pain is unbearable. You feel like a million knives are being plunged into every part of you. The screams of those around you suddenly stops. Silence.
You wake once more, alone. A corridor stretches in front of you. At the end is a mirror. You walk slowly towards it and take a look at your image inside the black glass. Normality. The pain has stopped, the creatures of your nightmare have gone. But it?s not over. The walls drip, blood seeping from cracks and faces staring in the dread gore that runs down each and every facade. The mirror no longer shows your image, but that of a beast, more vile and disturbing than those which saw to your earlier torture. You run back along the corridor, away from these angry things, but reach a dead end. There?s no way out. You feel a sharp pain in your chest and look down. Blood drips once more, but no longer from the walls. It drips from you. You fall to your knees, and with barely a sigh, you become still.
An hour passes. The door is kicked down and the police find your corpse alone on the ground. A knife with your hand on the hilt is embedded deep within your heart. Meth is a hell of a drug.
Darkness falls. The visions stop. Replaced with more, they continue to play. The lights aren?t as bright, but the music plays within your head like before. It gets faster. Tempo becomes upbeat, the words you hear become warped and twisted. The lights become darker and duller, purple and green and black across your view. Rain falls from nowhere and lightning strikes from within your imagination. Your eyes are spirals in a crystal frame, as your sight moves to the outside. You see yourself melting, eyes like jelly and legs and arms dripping to the ground. But the ground is no longer there. As the surroundings vanish so do you, bit by bit, piece by piece. You start to disappear. The lights fade, steady, the music starts to quieten. Sleep.
Your slumber ends with more visions, horrific in their nature, dark in their delights. They torment you. Screaming pierces your ears, fire and ice exploding into being all around you. You see the people near you ripped apart by vicious figures, but what they are you cannot tell. Blood sprays into the air, a fountain both beautiful and surreal in its very nature. Some lands on you, all over. The figures are drawn towards you, licking the drops of blood from your naked body, dragging their claws against your skin. But your skin is no longer there. Flesh creeps and muscles tighten, as the creatures, no longer mere figures but horrific forms that belong only in your darkest nightmares, rip your body in two and pick apart the bones and organs. You scream but there?s no sound. Your tongue is gone, your mouth sealed tight, sewn with a needle and thread. Your eyes are pinned open once more, there?s no escape from the nightmare. The pain is unbearable. You feel like a million knives are being plunged into every part of you. The screams of those around you suddenly stops. Silence.
You wake once more, alone. A corridor stretches in front of you. At the end is a mirror. You walk slowly towards it and take a look at your image inside the black glass. Normality. The pain has stopped, the creatures of your nightmare have gone. But it?s not over. The walls drip, blood seeping from cracks and faces staring in the dread gore that runs down each and every facade. The mirror no longer shows your image, but that of a beast, more vile and disturbing than those which saw to your earlier torture. You run back along the corridor, away from these angry things, but reach a dead end. There?s no way out. You feel a sharp pain in your chest and look down. Blood drips once more, but no longer from the walls. It drips from you. You fall to your knees, and with barely a sigh, you become still.
An hour passes. The door is kicked down and the police find your corpse alone on the ground. A knife with your hand on the hilt is embedded deep within your heart. Meth is a hell of a drug.
Okay, sleep deprivation it was. I didn't even see the few minutes pass sentence even though I re-read it about three or four times *facepalm*.Trivun said:Probably sleep deprivation, I mentioned in the story that a few minutes pass, so thats enough time to drain a body of blood (now how would I know that?). Glad you liked the stories thoughGeek@Heart said:
As for knowing about how quickly a body would drain of blood, I had to do a first aid course for my job, and the third thing to do (Okay, there's Danger and Response too, I meant once it's safe and you know the patient is unconcious - but back to the point) the third thing to do is to check for bleeding, because sever a major artery and you can lose up to a pint a minute. Therefore it won't take many minutes to drain a body (well, technically ten, because the average person has 10 pints of blood).
So yeah. Basically you could have just learnt first aid.
Edit: Okay, I didn't want to double post, so I'll tack this on the end of here.
I'm sure by now you're fed up of me blowing smoke up your backside and constantly saying, Woohoo, awesome writing (with the odd unsubstanciated claim due to me being a zombie), so here's a nice little change. I wasn't keen on this one. Partly because my sight is heading downhill and reading large amounts from the computer is awkward at best and totally impossible at worst. And partly because I'm a squeamish wimp whose overactive imagination totures her enough already, so I completely avoid that kind of writing.Trivun said:
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying it's bad. More that because I rarely read that kinda thing, I have little I can say about it, and also because it's just not the sort of stuff I'm in to. Sorry.
Fair enough, I wasn't fed up of the praise (ego alert!)Geek@Heart said:
, but thanks for the comment anyway I've basically just been experimenting a bit (with the writing style, not meth...) so my stories are getting a bit darker every time. I suppose it won't be to everyone's tastes... My next story is part one of an ongoing series though, it's a bit lighter but with a few dark elements, though I haven't reached that part yet, so it might be a bit better overall I was working on the assumption you were a mature writer who appreciated constructive criticism so that he could improve his writing. Evidently I was wrong......Trivun said:Fair enough, I wasn't fed up of the praise (ego alert!)
As much as I like the sound of this new longer story, make sure you revise!!!!! Still hoping you might get to Escapism.....Trivun said:but thanks for the comment anyway
Don't worry, I was only kiddingGeek@Heart said:I was working on the assumption you were a mature writer who appreciated constructive criticism so that he could improve his writing. Evidently I was wrong......Trivun said:Fair enough, I wasn't fed up of the praise (ego alert!)
Will do, here's hopingAs much as I like the sound of this new longer story, make sure you revise!!!!! Still hoping you might get to Escapism.....Trivun said:but thanks for the comment anyway
First of all, I get equally paranoid when awake late at night on my own, so scared I can't even go to the loo. I also get the depression, so if you ever need to chat....madbird-valiant said:
Now, the writing. I too noticed the similarities between your piece and Trivun's. I repeat that usually I avoid this kind of stuff due to wimpiness, but I felt strangely drawn in by it and wanted to continue reading. It didn't seem to scare me as much, Trivun's gave me the creeps.
I have one little problem that could just be me..... but "permeates". I didn't think that was the right word there and then it bugged me for the rest of the story. Sorry, it may just be me, but I thought maybe "enters" would have been better. It's just that the story seems to focus on the way you'd first think the things through as they happened, and I didn't think permeates would be a first choice for that word.
Also, the frequent gaps of a line were good, added to the story and made it easier for my dodgy sight to read. Damnit, maybe Mum was right. Perhaps I do need to go to the opticians....
The problem is not with wearing glasses. I've worn them since I was 11.madbird-valiant said:
The problem is, I currently need them for distance, and I don't want to be stuck with a second pair for reading, or worse, varifocals like my Dad, which cost £200 a pop for the lenses alone.
Personally, I didn't think the length was a problem. What was a slight issue, was the lack of any build up.madbird-valiant said:
Y'see, overall it just felt a bit ordinary. Normal(ish) guy, who's relationship isn't too great, goes through the usual routine, argues with wife a bit, takes her out for a meal, then suddenly BAM she's died.
I'm going to sound a bit horrible now, I'll warn you in advance. I only continued reading because I have nothing else to do (which is saying something, with the eyestrain it caused). It wasn't poor quality writing, there were good descriptions and it was well thought out. It just was a bit bland.
I'm not saying there had to be fireworks, ordinary life isn't like that, and anyone who wants to argue with me can. It's just after your last one, that really got me interested, this one seemed slightly dull. Sorry again if you get offended.
I don't like it when you're given a paragraph telling you what everything looks like. I think it'd be better to sprinkle them about the place.Obtusifolius said:
For a spoiler box, write "spoiler" inside [square brackets] at the beginning of your piece, then "/spoiler" at the end, in square brackets again. Without the quotations, obv.
The most recent addition to my short stories I could find in my DA gallery, I might end up regretting posting it here *grumble*
Mirror... Mirror...
Despite my bleeding soul, I force my lips into a smile. The mirror just stares back at me, coldly, motionless.
Shocked, I take a hesitant step back. My reflection isn't moving. Just coldly staring at me with those empty eyes. Again, I attempt a smile. And again, my mirrored self does not move.
What is the world that exists beyond that glassy surface? The world where I have stopped lying to myself? The world where I stare so coldly into my reflection? How can a place so different exist so close...? Be so near, yet so untouchable?
I find myself putting my hand against the smooth, cold glass. My reflection does the same, as it is meant to; yet it seems so distant. So different from myself. A separate being. I can almost feel it through the glass... the pulse of my reflection, the slight twitch that courses through the fingers as it stares so coldly towards its hand.
As I remove my hand from the glass, it lingers, raising its gaze to meet mine. Those eyes... how they accuse me.
"Who are you?" I call out, desperately, but my reflection does not mimic me, nor does it reply.
Lips parting slightly, as if meaning to reply, but forgetting what it meant to say, my reflection tilts its head, just looking at me. Yes, yes... of course I know who it is. It can't be anyone but myself, but why? Why so different...?
It's hand is still pressed against the other side of the glass, where my own was just a second ago.
Reaching out, I touch its palm through the glass, my fingers wandering over the reflection of its hand. Hesitantly, I put my own hand against the glass again, certain that I can feel the warmth of my own reflection through it.
Almost desperately, I press myself against the mirror, feeling how I am sucked into that world so close, yet so far away. My reflection embraces me, pulls me into that mirrored universe where I'm not trying to escape my pain behind that fake smile.
Eyes closed, desperately clinging to my other self, I can feel how we become one, merging together to become the same being. And as one, the pain I was in disappears, only left as a vague sensation, seeming as unreal as the tears coursing down my face.
--------
Resting with her back against the mirror, I found her. Half-naked, her once fair skin stained with tears and blood... In her hand she's clutching a single shard of glass. A part of the mirror, no doubt; which she shattered in her attempts to flee reality. Cuts mar her face, her body, her soul.
Her mouth is cut from ear to ear, her jaw hanging open in an awful grin. To carve such a hollow smile into her face when she could no longer smile herself.
On the mirror, there's a single, bloody handprint. When you look upon it, the reflection almost makes it seem as if there are two; as if a person inside the mirror put its hand against the inside of the glass.
With a gentle touch, I stitch her wounded body together, clean the blood of her milky skin. I wonder how much she had to hate herself to do something like that?
I'm going to carry her with me for as long as I have to, until her soul can find peace. Resting like a ragdoll in my arms, her stiched-together figure fits the description almost ironically well. Walk with me, make me company... if not forever, then at least until you can find peace in the death you brought upon yourself.
I wonder if she's happy now? The girl in the mirror...?
I wonder... if she is able to smile now?
Mirror... Mirror...
Despite my bleeding soul, I force my lips into a smile. The mirror just stares back at me, coldly, motionless.
Shocked, I take a hesitant step back. My reflection isn't moving. Just coldly staring at me with those empty eyes. Again, I attempt a smile. And again, my mirrored self does not move.
What is the world that exists beyond that glassy surface? The world where I have stopped lying to myself? The world where I stare so coldly into my reflection? How can a place so different exist so close...? Be so near, yet so untouchable?
I find myself putting my hand against the smooth, cold glass. My reflection does the same, as it is meant to; yet it seems so distant. So different from myself. A separate being. I can almost feel it through the glass... the pulse of my reflection, the slight twitch that courses through the fingers as it stares so coldly towards its hand.
As I remove my hand from the glass, it lingers, raising its gaze to meet mine. Those eyes... how they accuse me.
"Who are you?" I call out, desperately, but my reflection does not mimic me, nor does it reply.
Lips parting slightly, as if meaning to reply, but forgetting what it meant to say, my reflection tilts its head, just looking at me. Yes, yes... of course I know who it is. It can't be anyone but myself, but why? Why so different...?
It's hand is still pressed against the other side of the glass, where my own was just a second ago.
Reaching out, I touch its palm through the glass, my fingers wandering over the reflection of its hand. Hesitantly, I put my own hand against the glass again, certain that I can feel the warmth of my own reflection through it.
Almost desperately, I press myself against the mirror, feeling how I am sucked into that world so close, yet so far away. My reflection embraces me, pulls me into that mirrored universe where I'm not trying to escape my pain behind that fake smile.
Eyes closed, desperately clinging to my other self, I can feel how we become one, merging together to become the same being. And as one, the pain I was in disappears, only left as a vague sensation, seeming as unreal as the tears coursing down my face.
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Resting with her back against the mirror, I found her. Half-naked, her once fair skin stained with tears and blood... In her hand she's clutching a single shard of glass. A part of the mirror, no doubt; which she shattered in her attempts to flee reality. Cuts mar her face, her body, her soul.
Her mouth is cut from ear to ear, her jaw hanging open in an awful grin. To carve such a hollow smile into her face when she could no longer smile herself.
On the mirror, there's a single, bloody handprint. When you look upon it, the reflection almost makes it seem as if there are two; as if a person inside the mirror put its hand against the inside of the glass.
With a gentle touch, I stitch her wounded body together, clean the blood of her milky skin. I wonder how much she had to hate herself to do something like that?
I'm going to carry her with me for as long as I have to, until her soul can find peace. Resting like a ragdoll in my arms, her stiched-together figure fits the description almost ironically well. Walk with me, make me company... if not forever, then at least until you can find peace in the death you brought upon yourself.
I wonder if she's happy now? The girl in the mirror...?
I wonder... if she is able to smile now?