Flowers came to my house every other Monday around 1 o’clock, they had been for the past six months. Each time it was a different variety, a different bouquet. Roses, orchids, daisies, chrysanthemums, you name it. Each time, I left them to die on my door step. They never had a note, nor was there ever someone present at the time of their delivery. They simply appeared. As if this place wasn’t bad enough, right? Not only did you have to lock down and turn your house into a bunker, day and night, just to stay alive another day. Not only did you have to go out in *something* teams in order to get food on the table and keep your own head above the water. Not only did you have to sleep with one eye open and one hand on the trigger, but now some fuckin’ creep was leaving flowers on my doorstep. And that, wasn’t even the weirdest part. Since the accident, the whole world has been topsy turvy. It wasn’t so bad when the grass turned purple, trees blue. Hell, people even liked it. But gradually after that, things changed. Children grew, matured faster. They started acting weird. It started in Connecticut, a 7 year old girl had grown to look like she was 21 over the course of four months. Worse yet, she went postal on her own family. Killed both parents, as well as several relatives that were staying with them for the holidays, the other children were untouched. Merry Christmas, right? When they tried to put her down, more children in the area became affected. After that, it was just a snowball effect. From Shang-Hai to Dallas children were going postal. They were getting stonger. It wasn’t long before people started losing their reservations. When we once would have shirked away from even raising a knife towards a child, their own child, people now were eager to raise arms.
She picked up her coffee cup, cradling it in both hands and smiling into the cup as she took a drink. It was funny how the smallest of little coincidences sent happy tingles to the very core of her being. Maybe life was fleeting, maybe nothing really mattered when you got down to it, but this. This mattered. It was magic, so of course it mattered. It was that sense of being right along side someone special, when you know they’re thousand of miles away. It’s sitting in your bedroom, wrapped in a blanket at 2AM and drinking a cup of coffee at the same time as them, while they laid in their own bed, sipping their own cup of coffee, and laying curled up in a blanket. And for that moment, it’s almost like being together. It’s where the world stops rushing by and for just a moment, the world is at peace. She couldn’t deny to her friends that the relationship they shared was different from any that they had had. Sure, it operates under the same basis, but there’s so much… different. You don’t always know what eachother sounds like, and you can’t hold them to your chest. So those little words mean so much. And suddenly coffee had at the same exact moment becomes a cup of pixie dust. Something that makes you sprout wings. You lose the physical touch, but then the ordinary becomes extradinary and it brings everything into perspective, how precious the little things really are, and teh cahnce to actually have to talk everything out. All in all, this is howw she wished she could feel all the time: warm inside, comfortable, safe, and at peace. Who cared about anything else?
The battered instrument gave a few weak notes, before it sprang to life. The man holding it, animating it, was all sad smiles and distant eyes. His children sat around him, grinning and dancing with eachother. Other tenants in the dingy green apartment complex rolled their eyes in annoyance, or smiled with a certain fondness for the nearly rustic instrument. It had become a common sound for them. Far above the man, the children, the neighbors, and even the meager apartment complex itself, a woman smiled. She smiled as she stared off into the light settling itself against the mountain tops. The wind provided a small relief from the heat of the day, and her vantage point provided relief from the tumultous state of her mind. Around her was the perfect kind of white noise: cars passing, people talking and laughing, the accordian man, the occaisional light rail train, the wind, and of course, her own breathing. But, I suppose, this isn’t about the girl, or the city. It’s not about the cars, or the heat, or any of that. It’s about the world-weary man that could push life into a beat-up accordian.
He didn’t come from money, neither did his parents, nor his parents’ parents. He had listened to the tales of his grandparents fighting to get into this country, of their jobs at the factory, making fifty cents a day. And he listened to his parents fight every night in a garble of broken English and fierce German; heard them worry over if he’d have winter clothes, the ramshackle car and small house. His vader passed in a work-related accident when he was nine. His mutter decided it was time to move somewhere new; that somewhere ended up being Colorado. It was quite the trip, moving from “The Big Apple” to some little out of the way town. She worked two jobs, just managing to keep the roof over their heads and food on the table. He never saw her much. But if he learned anything from her, it was how to keep going when the going got tough.
I had totally intended on keeping up with writing something every night once I got home. But then this wonderfulthing called jetlag hit me. As well as my body retrying to get used to teh climate back home.
So, if all goes as planned, I’ll be up and writing again tonight or tomorrow. Or I’ll just make myself do it during the day. We’ll see.
So tonight I have a massive headache, and with that headache standing strong, well, I have found myself at a place where I can’t get past the first sentence with a creative endeavor. That being said, I guess entry…6? is just a stupid about me segment; prepare yourself for the random, potentially TMI and otherwise.
My name is Shaylene, and well, yes. I’m a girl. Though, I tend to lean towards being more gender neutral and have seriously considered a sex change operation before (I have made no progress on a decision for or against it.) I’m 18 and will soon be moving from my lifelong home in Denver, Colorado to go to school in pursuit of a degree in Education at Northern Arizona University.
Uhhh. Let’s see. My favorite color is blue (but also grey and green), I love green tea ice cream. The best weather is when it’s grey outside and I love the night. I can’t stand icky bugs or raw vegetables, or yellow wallpaper. Besides writing, for fun I knit, sing, draw, walk around, dabble in photography, watch movies and tv series (Just finished Torchwood, and am now finishing up the old Doctor Who). My fandoms include: Avengers, Sherlock, Doctor Who, Supernatural, and a random group of crime shows. I love tall socks of zany color and pattern, and collect stickers and pins. I hoard pens.
As for music, I listen to a bit of everything with the small exception of most rap and screamo type music. My favorite bands are Matchbox 20 and The Script. I also tend to listen to a lot of a capella artist and cover artists such as Peter Hollens, Boyce Avenue, Nick Pitera and plenty more.
I love a good flash game and exploring new places. I tend to write these first in a WordPad document in the Euphemia font because… I don’t know. It’s how I started this. (It also has to be size 10 and 1.0 spacing with no space between enter hits).
With that I am off to bed, as I return home from a trip to New Hampshire tomorrow and I am dead tired after the beach today. Thanks for reading! (I’m talking to you two new followers!) If anyone reads this and wants to know anything else, send an ask or whatever and I’ll answer to the best of my ability!
Every morning I walked to the cafe for my latte, and a glimpse at him. He was… abnormal, in a not obvious way. His hair was black, and hung down to his shoulders, and he had sharp green eyes. He always sat in the very back corner booth; most out of the way, and no matter the season he always wore a scarf. Most days, it was a deep sea blue, and almost seemed to rock with the incoming and departing tides. Others he sported a green one, maybe a mustard yellow once or twice. I hadn’t started out going to see him. Until once, once he ran into me. Once we made eye contact that last for an eternity. Once we stammered apologies and ran on our merry way. Since then, I’ve always stopped and tried to meet that impossible gaze once again. I guess I was a little obsessed. But, it served its purpose; I suppose. Several months after that initial run-in, after day after day of lattes and staring down the green-eyed man, something happened. He would come in late, just after I had arrived. I could feel his eyes coast over me. One morning, my alarm didn’t go off. I woke up at noon and rolled over to find myself face to face, nose to nose, with some very sharp green eyes. I would’ve fallen backwards out of the bed if he hadn’t of grabbed me. We laid there in the silence for what felt like hours, just gazing back and forth; his green eyes matched with my honey-brown ones. There’d be brief interludes of our eyes slipping down to eye the rest of our forms. Mine was clad in cotton pajamas, mismatched. The bottoms were men’s plaid, and the top was cupcakes. I wasn’t even wearing a bra, let alone panties. He was wearing his usual attire; the dark shirt, scarf and jeans. There was something extremely intense about those moments. After a while, I just…fell asleep. And when I woke he was gone. I thought I dreamed it. Then it happened again; he was no longer lurking in the coffee shop, but instead he would appear in my bed, we’d stare eachother down, then I’d doze off again, several times a week. I never got tired of staring into those eyes. It was another month before we said a single word to each other. He very quietly mumbled ‘Nathan’, and I responded with an equally quiet, ‘Lisa’. Nathan started to appear more frequently. A few times, his clothes changed, or some disappeared all together. The scarf was always there. After a while, we started to talk. Just small smatterings of whispered words, then mumbled conversations. They were never
Dear 15-year-old Shay, You don’t know me yet; well, you do. But you don’t know me as me today, rather you know me as you. The smile that faces you back in the mirror. But let’s cut the poetic bullshit; I guess that’s not really the purpose of this letter. I’m not sure I know what the purpose is. I don’t want to divulge too much and change anything; I’m grateful for all that’s happened between then and now, even the bad things. I guess I should start somewhere, anyway. This is you, three years later. It doesn’t sound like a real long time. But hell, you’re about to (or already just entered) our first relationship. I’ve just graduated high school. Hell and high tides are on their way and you’re going to make it just fine. Be wary, listen a little more. And not just to your heart, but to everyone. Friends, family, and yourself more than anything. Be prepared, there’s hard decisions to be had, and I mean it when I say they’re hard. But in the end, I trust you’ll do what’s right. We haven’t led ourselves astray thus far!! Past that… I mean, what else is there to say? I don’t want to change anything. I want you to be careful and be true to yourself. But that’s all I can say. The rest is up to you. And no, I couldn’t have explained more, because that would be spoilers, Sweetie. Keep your chin up, be happy, be true, and may the force be with you. I mean. Live long and prosper. Errr. Bye!
The man laughed loudly at a joke only he had heard. His shrill laughter echoed down the hall and tears pricked at his violet eyes. He clutched his sides, leaning up against a wall as he laughed and laughed. Strangers passed by him, giving strange, sideways glances as they tried their best to ignore the latest loon. That task became infinitely harder as his grin split his very cheeks; leaving his grin, and most of his face, red with blood. It was really quite the bizarre, and grotesque sight. Before long, his face paled to a smudgy white; only his torn grin painted red. He pulled and tugged at his hair as his laughter only got louder, seemingly amplified by what had to be an excruciating amount of pain. Slowly, he made his way down the hallway, one pained, hysterical step after another. The other people either sped up to get away, turned around, or passed slowly, mouths gaping in horror of the sight that was laid out before them. Strangely, no one stopped to help. They walked by (or not), tight lipped and stern; carrying about their business as if nothing had ever, or would ever happen.
The split cheeks healed remarkably fast; leaving nasty red scars up the sides of his face. The bulk of his face kept the remarkably pale, nearly paper-white, tone; a sickly green sneaking in around his eyes. The more people stared, the more he had to chuckle to himself. It got to the point that he laughed more than he ever had before. His best friend, a rather sullen, serious lad, abandoned him. Ran off to his mansion and hid away. He was left alone and to his own devices. The world around him was ever so serious and it was time to make some smiles. Play some pranks. They started out small; the classic, but tired and worn out, snake in a can, vaselined doorknob. You name it. But as time wore on, he grew weary of the same old tricks that everyone knew. He had to up his game, make it bigger. There had to be a smile on every face. And so a villain was born. Stink bombs turned into laughing gas; creating smiles so big they tore cheeks; they died laughing. The bomb part took more literal effect; what’s a good time without a few explosions? His one-time best friend, was now his sworn enemy. Shrouded in black he’d patrol the night and try to stop his once-friend. When all was said and done, when all the world had finally heard. There’s a few small words that he’d forever be remembered by. Why. So. Serious.
The footprints in the snow suddenly ended, and Lief became all too aware of the predicament he now found himself in. All at once, all the old wives tales his nan had told him came rushing at him, full speed. Stories of the wild men, the children of the forest, pesky pixies and sirens of the snow. All the things that lured man and child alike into the deepest depths of the forest; chasing some noble cause, just to be ended. He spun around to follow his own footsteps back to the village, but they, too, vanished. He took a few shaky steps, his vision blurring at the edges and his chest heaving as he started to hyperventilate. His mousy brown hair fell into his eyes and he stumbled to the ground. The snow crunched beneath him. He struggled to gain purchase, grasping in the for solidity before he sat up. I need to stay calm, he thought, I need to find my way back. He tried to focus on his hand, half-way buried in the snow. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. Calm. Focus. He could hear the snow crunch, breathing. But not from himself. He gave a panicked glance around, emerald eyes wide with fear. But those crystalline orbs found nothing. He was utterly alone, and even that snow that had laid disturbed moments ago from his stumble, was pristine once more. Panic started to seep in again. He could hear the sweet lilting lullaby of the winter; twigs snapping at the weight of snow, but most of all, the silence. The silence that accompanies the blanket of snow, the muffling pillow that choked out all life in the land. Lief rose, placing a hand on the nearest tree. He leaned against it heavily, pressing his forehead to the rough bark and closed his eyes. One, two, three, four, five. He opened them again and looked around once more. Crimson droplets appeared in the snow, were they there before? Where did they come from? He looked down, eyes widening in terror as he realized the bloodied snow was from his own wounds. Was I hurt before? He thought, in a panic. Blood oozed from the soles of his suddenly bare feet, staining the perfect snow; but even then, it wasn’t painted red for long. As it turned back to the perfect white blanket without a second thought. Lief opened his