Written in October of 2007 for a creative writing class in Japan. The title is also the title of an Armor for Sleep song; you should totally look into them. They do awesome things with a guitar. Also I'm too lazy to do any formatting or whatever, so shut up and read it anyway.
Walking at Night, Alone
He hadn't realized it, but he was holding his breath as he walked along with the girl next to him. It was cold. And dark. He didn't exactly enjoy either of those concepts, but for a chance to walk again with her, he'd swim with piranhas made of broken glass.
If it was a dream, then maybe she'd stay with him. He was torn between hoping that it was a dream, so he could be with her forever in his mind, and being grateful that it was reality, that she was indeed walking alongside him.
Neither of them spoke, their path alongside the main road crossing over a small, slow stream. He wasn't sure what to say, or even if he should say anything at all. He had tried when he had seen her and met up with her as she was walking, but she seemed to refuse to speak to him, to even acknowledge that he was there. It had been two years since he'd last seen her, last spoken with her. She had cried on his shoulder, sobbing and stuttering about how she could not be alone any more, how she needed him next to her. She had made him promise, made him swear on her very tears, to never let her be alone. Then the accident had happened.
He didn't remember much from when the accident happened and when he had regained use of his consciousness, but a long time had passed between those two events. He could picture her living in such a lonely state again, like before. She'd often cry herself to sleep, wake up crying. She'd try to make things not so lonely, go to parties and the like, but... she always ended up leaving in tears, running back to her dormitory room and locking herself up, and crying.
Always she would cry, always she had been alone. Even now, as he hazarded a glance at her, she looked painfully alone. Maybe it was his fault, for having the accident. He had been walking to her room, the very day after he had promised her, when it happened. A car, its driver obviously drunk, had slammed into the railing he walked next to, pinning him against it and nearly cutting him in half. The driver had perished immediately when the explosion rocked the ground around the empty shell of a car. After that, things seemed to go fuzzy; he remembered several times feeling like he had been taken to another place, perhaps another hospital or county or something. He could not remember.
He heard her sniff. She was crying again. He wanted to put his arm around her shoulders, to tell her everything would be all right now, but when did such a gesture ever help anyone? Instead he just walked on beside her, making a vow to himself that he'd never leave her alone.
It was definitely his fault; he could see it in the way she walked, she blamed him. Cars passed in the dark, their headlights casting an artificial glare over her delicate frame, slightly hunched forward, either because of the cold or because of something more personal. Why wouldn't she speak to him?
“...for what it's worth, and I'm certain it's not much of anything now, I'm sorry. I know that there is something I could have done to have not broken my promise, but...” he began. She kept walking, setting her brow a little lower. “...now, you'll never be alone again. Isn't that what you want? I'm right here, right here with you.” He didn't falter in his stride, but his voice seemed to quaver a little. He felt it, felt the anger emanating from her, felt it like he'd never felt anything else the same way.
“I know you are angry, but I've come back to keep my promise I made to you. I've found my way back,” he said, turning toward her and pleading. “It's for you, for you I've come back. Say something, anything!” he cried. “I don't have to ever leave you again! I can stay with you forever! You will never be alone again!”
The girl kept walking. On the right side of the road, near a section of railing that parallelled the road, painted a slightly different color than the rest of the railing, a wooden cross stood a foot or so high, with a red ribbon tied tightly around the top. He looked at it, things suddenly connecting in his mind. He knew then, knew why he'd never have to leave her again, knew why he couldn't remember anything, knew why she wasn't speaking to him.
A tear ran down his cheek this time, but he didn't feel it. With a cry of defeat he turned and tried to embrace the girl he'd left two years ago, to no avail. She stood still for a few minutes, staring solemnly at the cross in the soil. With a heavy, sad sigh, she turned and walked away from the boy's grave marker.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The Way
Written in May of 2007. I'm skipping posting a lot of the REALLY BADLY WRITTEN stuff I have from back then, and only posting the "ehh, this might be worth reading to someone" pieces.
Every direction looked the same. White to the left, white to the right, white before and behind. He cast no shadow, he left no footprints, he made no sound. With every step he took, he was painfully aware of the fact that he was alive. He only knew because he could still feel wracking pain coursing through his body.
Life is suffering.
He knew that there had to be something he could do to make it stop, something that made it hurt that he could get rid of. Try as he may, however, he could think of nothing that would cease the pain. All he could think about was what he was missing right now. He should be at the party, lounging in a luxurious hot tub with other rich kids, talking about the money that they all had.
The origin of suffering is attachment.
He stumbled; over what, he did not know, because there was nothing to stumble over. His knees hit the hard ground, and he put his hands down in front of them. The ground was hard and cold, smooth like marble, and very, very real. His breathing became more and more labored as the pain shot through his legs, up toward his chest, and then out to his fingertips, finishing at the crown of his head. He shook himself. Stop it. STOP IT. Stop hurting. His head screamed, but his voice seemed to disappear into the endless expanse of white. Everything was so bright. So white.
The cessation of suffering is attainable.
He slumped back onto his calves, and looked upwards. It was punishment. That was it. It must be punishment for something he did, something he was supposed to have done. Something. There was no other explanation. He felt like a child being scolded by his mother. Without knowing it, tears began to well up in his eyes. As they ran down his cheeks, they burned his face. He brought his hands up and covered his eyes with them. Everything was so bright. It was then that he heard a voice. The first thing he had heard in this place. He looked up, and in the distance, he saw the silhouette of a man. He was built lightly, not underweight, but not normal. The voice continued to call out. It was calling his name out. He reached forward, his arm shaking, and shut his eyes. Save me.
The way to the cessation of suffering is the Eightfold Path.
When he opened his eyes, the silhouette had taken form, and was holding his hand. Awaken. Cease your attachments. Live free of life. As these words echoed through the white void, the familiar yet distant man smiled, and began to fade away. Everything began to get darker. He felt a jolt through his chest, and then another.
Suddenly he opened his eyes. He was in the back of an ambulance, his coat thrown somewhere, and his shirt pulled back to expose his chest. The EMT held two paddles in his hands. "Clear," he said, and one last jolt brought him back to reality.
Was he really that miserable? He lived alone, with nothing to comfort him but his money. Maybe, just maybe, that silhouette was on to something.
Every direction looked the same. White to the left, white to the right, white before and behind. He cast no shadow, he left no footprints, he made no sound. With every step he took, he was painfully aware of the fact that he was alive. He only knew because he could still feel wracking pain coursing through his body.
Life is suffering.
He knew that there had to be something he could do to make it stop, something that made it hurt that he could get rid of. Try as he may, however, he could think of nothing that would cease the pain. All he could think about was what he was missing right now. He should be at the party, lounging in a luxurious hot tub with other rich kids, talking about the money that they all had.
The origin of suffering is attachment.
He stumbled; over what, he did not know, because there was nothing to stumble over. His knees hit the hard ground, and he put his hands down in front of them. The ground was hard and cold, smooth like marble, and very, very real. His breathing became more and more labored as the pain shot through his legs, up toward his chest, and then out to his fingertips, finishing at the crown of his head. He shook himself. Stop it. STOP IT. Stop hurting. His head screamed, but his voice seemed to disappear into the endless expanse of white. Everything was so bright. So white.
The cessation of suffering is attainable.
He slumped back onto his calves, and looked upwards. It was punishment. That was it. It must be punishment for something he did, something he was supposed to have done. Something. There was no other explanation. He felt like a child being scolded by his mother. Without knowing it, tears began to well up in his eyes. As they ran down his cheeks, they burned his face. He brought his hands up and covered his eyes with them. Everything was so bright. It was then that he heard a voice. The first thing he had heard in this place. He looked up, and in the distance, he saw the silhouette of a man. He was built lightly, not underweight, but not normal. The voice continued to call out. It was calling his name out. He reached forward, his arm shaking, and shut his eyes. Save me.
The way to the cessation of suffering is the Eightfold Path.
When he opened his eyes, the silhouette had taken form, and was holding his hand. Awaken. Cease your attachments. Live free of life. As these words echoed through the white void, the familiar yet distant man smiled, and began to fade away. Everything began to get darker. He felt a jolt through his chest, and then another.
Suddenly he opened his eyes. He was in the back of an ambulance, his coat thrown somewhere, and his shirt pulled back to expose his chest. The EMT held two paddles in his hands. "Clear," he said, and one last jolt brought him back to reality.
Was he really that miserable? He lived alone, with nothing to comfort him but his money. Maybe, just maybe, that silhouette was on to something.
The Endless Wait
Written in October of 2006. MAN I AM OLD. Also haha oh wow how emo was I when I wrote this thing.
The thunder rolled in the distance as the sky darkened with rain. Slowly, droplets began to fall from the sky, dampening the ground and making the grass glimmer with what little sunlight could be seen through the clouds. The wind brought a bitter chill in with it, and the streetlights began to flicker on one-by-one.
An old swingset in a park creaked noisily as the chains moved back and forth, back and forth. The boy sitting on the swing clutched a crumpled piece of paper to his chest and looked up at the grey sky.
"Rain. Figures," he said bitterly, and tucked the paper into his jacket before sliding off the swing and walking away slowly, the rain permeating his shoes and soaking his feet.
He arrived at an old, run-down, abandoned house and opened the door. As he stepped inside, he shook off his coat and hung it on a hook by the door. He took off his shoes and overturned them, allowing them to drain and dry out. Sighing deeply, a moth-eaten couch welcomed him. He sat down and shut his eyes.
"He returned to the lonely place he called home," said the boy under his breath. "Now, where's my cat..." he mumbled, glancing over his shoulder and around the room. No cat. He sighed again and leaned back, the cold fingers of sleep trying to steal away his consciousness. His stomach gurgled, but he allowed himself to fall into a deep, dreamless, and troubled sleep. This time.
When he awoke, the rain was still pounding on the glass windows.
"Damn," he cursed under his breath. "Still raining. When's it gonna stop!" he cried, clenching his fist. He rose quickly from the couch and entered the musty kitchen. There was no food, but there were still old knives there. He seized a small sharp blade and trudged back to the couch. He was resolved this time. No one would stop him. He pressed the blade to the underside of his wrist and clenched his teeth.
No, you mustn't do that. I would be very disappointed if you did, a voice softly called.
"Shut up! You're not real!" the boy screamed. He pushed harder on the blade. "So much for promises!"
But I would be sad if you were to do something like that, the voice retorted.
"Dammit! Get out of my head, you hear?
Do not do this. I would be sad.
The boy's hands trembled, and the blade clattered to the floor. He held his head in his hands. "But why not? Why not? Tell me why I shouldn't just spill all of it? WHY!?" he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. But no one was kind enough to answer him. He was alone again. Just like always. Bitterly alone.
There was a soft mew, and then a cat climbed up on the couch. The feline rubbed the boy's hand with its head and purred.
"Oh... hey, Lonesome. Where've you been off to?" the boy asked. "..silly me. You can't talk. I wish... you could talk..."
The next morning brought a rainless sunrise, the grass glittering in the morning rays. The boy's eyes opened, and he sat up, stretching. "What a night... what a night..." he mumbled. He looked down by his feet to make sure his cat was there, and quietly got up.
The blade still lay on the floor. He slowly picked it up and took it back to the kitchen. As it slid back into the block, he sighed.
"Why do I always stop? Why can't I ever just do it? Why? Dammit!" he yelled. He pounded his fist into the counter. "I can't wait any longer!"
Later, the boy could be found on the same swing in the same park. Clutching the same piece of paper to his chest. It was this way day in, day out. Some people wondered if he was real. Gossip told of how crazy he was. People talked behind their hands about how he was always on that swing every day, for the last four years. But he was there. Always there. No one knew why.
Some days later, a girl about his age arrived in the city. She spent days asking around about a boy, about nineteen years of age, brown hair... Finally someone recognized his description and pointed the girl in the direction of the old beat-up house.
When she arrived, she opened the door and stepped inside, ushered in by silence. As she scanned the room with her eyes, her heart raced as she saw the couch. She looked closer, and she saw the boy curled up into a ball with the cat sleeping next to him. She smiled and shook the boy's shoulders, but he didn't wake up. The cat yawned, opened its eyes, and when it saw the girl, darted off the couch, dislodging a sheet of paper from the boy's hand. It had spots of red ink on it. The girl apprehensively (and by now very afraid) turned the boy over.
He was drowning in a sea of crimson. His hands, face, and shirt were covered in partially dried blood. And a knife was in right hand. The cut was long on his left wrist.
She stumbled back, the room spinning, and tried not to vomit. She finally gathered the courage to look again. This time, however, the paper caught her eyes. She slowly picked it up. As she read it, she felt her throat tightening up. Hot, stinging tears poured from her eyes.
The paper read:
"Dear Darling:
I have to go away for a time, but I promise you, as sure as the sun will rise, I will return for you. Wait for me.
Love, May"
And as her eyes rose from the paper, she saw the writing in his own blood on the wall:
the sun stopped rising today
The thunder rolled in the distance as the sky darkened with rain. Slowly, droplets began to fall from the sky, dampening the ground and making the grass glimmer with what little sunlight could be seen through the clouds. The wind brought a bitter chill in with it, and the streetlights began to flicker on one-by-one.
An old swingset in a park creaked noisily as the chains moved back and forth, back and forth. The boy sitting on the swing clutched a crumpled piece of paper to his chest and looked up at the grey sky.
"Rain. Figures," he said bitterly, and tucked the paper into his jacket before sliding off the swing and walking away slowly, the rain permeating his shoes and soaking his feet.
He arrived at an old, run-down, abandoned house and opened the door. As he stepped inside, he shook off his coat and hung it on a hook by the door. He took off his shoes and overturned them, allowing them to drain and dry out. Sighing deeply, a moth-eaten couch welcomed him. He sat down and shut his eyes.
"He returned to the lonely place he called home," said the boy under his breath. "Now, where's my cat..." he mumbled, glancing over his shoulder and around the room. No cat. He sighed again and leaned back, the cold fingers of sleep trying to steal away his consciousness. His stomach gurgled, but he allowed himself to fall into a deep, dreamless, and troubled sleep. This time.
When he awoke, the rain was still pounding on the glass windows.
"Damn," he cursed under his breath. "Still raining. When's it gonna stop!" he cried, clenching his fist. He rose quickly from the couch and entered the musty kitchen. There was no food, but there were still old knives there. He seized a small sharp blade and trudged back to the couch. He was resolved this time. No one would stop him. He pressed the blade to the underside of his wrist and clenched his teeth.
No, you mustn't do that. I would be very disappointed if you did, a voice softly called.
"Shut up! You're not real!" the boy screamed. He pushed harder on the blade. "So much for promises!"
But I would be sad if you were to do something like that, the voice retorted.
"Dammit! Get out of my head, you hear?
Do not do this. I would be sad.
The boy's hands trembled, and the blade clattered to the floor. He held his head in his hands. "But why not? Why not? Tell me why I shouldn't just spill all of it? WHY!?" he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. But no one was kind enough to answer him. He was alone again. Just like always. Bitterly alone.
There was a soft mew, and then a cat climbed up on the couch. The feline rubbed the boy's hand with its head and purred.
"Oh... hey, Lonesome. Where've you been off to?" the boy asked. "..silly me. You can't talk. I wish... you could talk..."
The next morning brought a rainless sunrise, the grass glittering in the morning rays. The boy's eyes opened, and he sat up, stretching. "What a night... what a night..." he mumbled. He looked down by his feet to make sure his cat was there, and quietly got up.
The blade still lay on the floor. He slowly picked it up and took it back to the kitchen. As it slid back into the block, he sighed.
"Why do I always stop? Why can't I ever just do it? Why? Dammit!" he yelled. He pounded his fist into the counter. "I can't wait any longer!"
Later, the boy could be found on the same swing in the same park. Clutching the same piece of paper to his chest. It was this way day in, day out. Some people wondered if he was real. Gossip told of how crazy he was. People talked behind their hands about how he was always on that swing every day, for the last four years. But he was there. Always there. No one knew why.
Some days later, a girl about his age arrived in the city. She spent days asking around about a boy, about nineteen years of age, brown hair... Finally someone recognized his description and pointed the girl in the direction of the old beat-up house.
When she arrived, she opened the door and stepped inside, ushered in by silence. As she scanned the room with her eyes, her heart raced as she saw the couch. She looked closer, and she saw the boy curled up into a ball with the cat sleeping next to him. She smiled and shook the boy's shoulders, but he didn't wake up. The cat yawned, opened its eyes, and when it saw the girl, darted off the couch, dislodging a sheet of paper from the boy's hand. It had spots of red ink on it. The girl apprehensively (and by now very afraid) turned the boy over.
He was drowning in a sea of crimson. His hands, face, and shirt were covered in partially dried blood. And a knife was in right hand. The cut was long on his left wrist.
She stumbled back, the room spinning, and tried not to vomit. She finally gathered the courage to look again. This time, however, the paper caught her eyes. She slowly picked it up. As she read it, she felt her throat tightening up. Hot, stinging tears poured from her eyes.
The paper read:
"Dear Darling:
I have to go away for a time, but I promise you, as sure as the sun will rise, I will return for you. Wait for me.
Love, May"
And as her eyes rose from the paper, she saw the writing in his own blood on the wall:
the sun stopped rising today
Beginning Post Introduction 紹介 Whatever
Good day, reader! If you are reading this, it means that somehow you came across this page and were curious. Thanks for taking the time out of your day to visit! It's so terribly lonely here, you know. You will find collected here a series of short stories, vignettes, and serialized longer stories upon which you can let your eyes play and your mind feed. If you do read them, kindly let me know what you think of them by commenting or e-mailing me or hitting me up on AIM or something, as I am madly curious as to what people who read blogs like this want to see in stories.
I'm going to put up a great deal of stories today, all stuff I have written in the past. Following those, I will begin posting the new things I have yet to write as soon as they are properly written.
If you're more curious about me than my stories, you could probably check my livejournal. That's where I post all of the drama and crap that goes on if I have the energy to do so. That's listen in my profile under homepage, I think.
Thanks again for reading, everyone. Tell your friends.
I'm going to put up a great deal of stories today, all stuff I have written in the past. Following those, I will begin posting the new things I have yet to write as soon as they are properly written.
If you're more curious about me than my stories, you could probably check my livejournal. That's where I post all of the drama and crap that goes on if I have the energy to do so. That's listen in my profile under homepage, I think.
Thanks again for reading, everyone. Tell your friends.
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