I can't breathe. I can't swallow. I've waited so long for this, and now there's nothing. Nothing at all; for me, or for anyone else. It's almost to painful to even look at. How could something like this have happened?
"How can something like this have happened?" I repeat(more) out loud.
The empty muffin tin in front of me, the tin of muffins I had eagerly waited all day for, doesn't answer.
I fall to my knees and let out a wail. How can nothing be left? (less)
There is such a thing as a magical hourglass, one that can turn back time as far as you wish. It is three feet high, made of polished glass and dark wood, and filled with the most golden coloured sand you have ever seen.
Yeah, this story was suppose(more)d to be all epic and suspenseful but I have to go to Math now and my computers low on battery.
Kay bye. (less)
The sun is very pretty, glinting down into the water and reflecting up off the bottom. At the right time of day, it bounces off the mirror of the car and shines right on my face. Its always lovely warm and gentle, never being so harsh as to glare(more) in my eyes or burn my skin. It never would anyways, though.
Fish swim through the windows, flitting in front of my face. Goldfish and koi, mostly, and occasionally a carp swim gracefully in front of me. They like to explore the little nooks and crannies of the seats and engine.
Once I tried to touch them. I always imagined them to be smooth and silky and deliciously cool to touch. But they didn't feel like anything. They went right through my hand.
It made me sad, realizing the fish were just reflections that wouldn't touch me.
One day they pulled the car out of the lake.
I was left behind, waiting in the pretty sun sparkling water as my skeleton was found up above. (less)
I never liked driving.
I've made it clear to hundreds of people, telling them again and again that I DON'T LIKE DRIVING.
None seems to listen. At least a week I get that dreaded phone call; "Hey, can you give me a ride?" or "We're going out tonight. Will(more) you be the driver?"
Every answer is the same: No. No. No.
I hate driving.
I hate the twisting feeling, the winding turning skidding sliding feeling of being behind the wheel. (less)
The most important thing I was told this Christmas, was to not drop anything. At all. Don't even drop a piece of paper. Everything had to be perfect, and I was to not mess it up by dropping a plate or cup or Christmas card.
That would be much(more) harder than anticipated.
I'm a klutz. Butter fingered. Clumsy, fumbler, an oaf.
Even now, there's dark red wine staining my feet, the wood floor, and my mother's antique handmade rug. (less)
I have never seen anything in my life.
Unless, of course, you count blackness, darkness, and emptiness. But you don't count that kind of stuff.
You can count colors, and depth, and perspective, but never emptiness.
All you see is color.
(more) All I have ever seen is black. (less)
A few years ago, I found a dead hawk in my backyard. I took a feather and brought it to the university to have it reduced to bones. In a week it was done, and I had the skeleton.
Its wing bones and legs were broken, snapped in half(more) by a cat or a car or a window.
But the rest of it, was amazing. The claws and beak were still razor sharp. The bones were fine and slim, hollow like any other birds. I could see how easily the joints still moved, connected with the thinnest strands of muscle.
I was in awe, but it still made me sad. (less)
It's due tomorrow, and I'm still stuck, staring at the blank canvas that takes up half my wall.
"Hey," Cleo asks, lazily hanging over a chair and eating a cracker, slathered in jam. "When are you going to finish?"
I set down my paintbrush next to my untouched pai(more)nt cans and shrug. "Dunno. I can't think of anything to paint."
Cleo considers my excuse, and flips over so she's upright. "Not acceptable. You must paint!"
I toss a paint smeared cloth at her. "Go away."
She dances out of the way, sticking out her tongue at me, and she's disappeared back into her studio. In a minute, the music starts playing and I hear the sounds of feet dancing across the floor.
I'm a struggling artist. I share a flat with Cleo, a dance student. Together, we barely scrape enough to pay rent. If I can't finish this painting, we'll be kicked out.
I sigh, leaving the blank canvas and going to watch Cleo dance. She's wearing yellow today, her light brown coloured hair tied back by a piece of cream yellow silk. She skips around the room, like a leaf on the autumn wind.
I don't remember running back to my room, to the canvas and my paints, but Cleo said she heard a shout, and me stumbling over everything to get back to my room.
All I know is that suddenly there was a brush in my hands, and I was furiously splashing yellow. Light yellows and dark yellows; duckling and sunflower and banana and lemon and the same yellow cream that was the ribbon in Cleo's hair.
Everyone's been buzzing about my new paintings. They say they're full of life and colour. They ask where I get my inspiration, and I just smile.
Cleo's dancing, and yellow. (less)
You know that little blinking line when you're writing on a computer, saying "Hello, I'm here! This is where you'll start writing next! Hello, I'm here!"
It bugs me so much- that little black line blinking in and out, making sure I know exactly where my words will appear(more) as I type them out. It may be helpful, but when I'm trying to write, and nothing is coming, that line seems to do nothing to taunt me.
"Hi! I'm here! Hi! You should write now! HI!HI!HI!HI!HI!HI!HI!HI!"
Okay, now I can't think of anything... And there's that line, blinking, taunting me. I can't focus....
I'm clicking the finish button now. I can't write with that line just sitting there, skipping around everywhere I click or anytime I write. It's not fair, but I'll see it the next time I write on a computer. I'll see it again, and that fact really annoys me. (less)
I'm almost scared to take your hand.
I don't want to end up like the last girl, the last person that whose life you've broken and shredded and cracked in two because you got bored.
But right now, you seem so sweet, so gentle, so able to love.
I(more) can't help but take your hand...
Even though I know it will be the thing that hurts me. (less)
It's dark, the moon hanging over the ocean and casting a silvery light through the few clouds. The captain went below to sleep long ago, carrying a half empty bottle of rum. According to the First Mate, it's now empty and the captain himself is snoring loudly. Apparently it was(more) easy to steal the keys from around the captains neck and carry them away. The keys to the gunnery and the hold and every locked room on the ship. The First Mate unlocks the gunnery, opening the door widely. My shipmates spill in and come back out carrying guns and swords, armed to the teeth against the few on the ship still loyal to our lazy captain. I grab a sword and two pistols myself, and all of us go down below. We meet little resistance. Most of the people who would be against us are blind drunk. The ship is completely quiet.
Unheeded, we go into the captains room. The First Mate gets the honor, and the captain had a bullet in his head before he even wakes up. No one mourns him as we dump his body overboard for the sharks. The shipmates loyal to him will be dropped off at the next port, with a few coins to help them along.
We may be pirates, mutineers, now, but we aren't heartless. We're mutineers because the captain was a drunk idiot, not because of gold or blood lust.
But the world won't see it that way, so the first ship that comes our way, we might as well raid it. Take whatever, take anything and everything.
We're pirates now, mutineers with a death sentence if we're ever caught.
So now we're outlaws, sailing on the "Jolly Rodger", taking whatever from whoever. (less)