Head in the Clouds

2010-10-05T17:59:00.019+10:30

So, I have no idea about this. I wrote this last night, first thing I've written in a long time. So I don't know if I like it yet at all... But I'm thinking if I do, that it could be part of a longer story about a person, just sort of her story, her life, her reflections. And this could be. Perhaps not the very beginning. But a section. Early on. I have something else I half wrote, that connects to this. Anyway, thoughts? Do I need more practice before I can churn out something decent again? Or is it passable? And what about the continuation of it? :)

Writing comes alive in the dead of the night. The words snake from the brain to the page without hesitation, impossible either to appreciate or ridicule til the following day, all firmed up in the sunshine. That's the thing about daylight, it makes everything so real, and what exists only in concepts and vapours, it bakes into solidity, brings into being. That has its use, of course. Those nights I start to fade away, I'm desperate for the day, to cement me once more into reality. Before it's too late, you understand.

What I'm saying though is that true writing cannot find its form while everything is solid. Furniture. It leaves no place for thoughts to go bumping themselves into words and sentences, then paragraphs and whatever else follows on.

No. True writing takes place in the night.

Not night, not the witching hour or the time for ghosts and spirits and goblins, not that. The night where if at least, not everyone is asleep, they may as well be. Asleep like a fairy tale, like Sleeping Beauty and her castle, longer perhaps. It is not a dead feeling. But the feeling of the world in hibernation... You alone left to watch.

The humans are asleep.

In every place where people usually trample over the silence, strangling it in our synthetic chaos, suddenly the emptiness is bursting through. The night cannot be stopped by asphalt roads and buildings and solitary streetlights, for it comes flooding in on the cool air. It penetrates cities and the walls of their buildings, through to this creaking house, where a lone electric light spills over the room, yellow as melted butter.

But while civilization's monuments still stand, while it futilely declares its presence in gaudy ornaments of light and glowing alarm clocks, it cannot now suppress the earth. The night presses down, and this world is left empty. Alone.

Liberating, the growing stillness sounds with a gong, vibrating through your head - your lungs, as it melts the thoughts frozen by the day.

And slowly, inexorably, the night draws them out, in words. Like a magician pulls scarves from a sleeve. Like children to pied piper. Like rats from a doomed ship.

Oh yes. The night is the time for writing.

Without You

2010-06-08T10:11:00.008+09:30

This started out as just a silly comment to my sister on Facebook. I did really like it though, but didn't really have anywhere to go with it... So, here's my attempt at turning it into poetry...

Our home fades colder
Every day without you...

Lovelorn and lacklustre,
The spiders spin shadows in the dark of this dying house.
Emptiness piles higher,
Higher, in the corners -
dust
so

thick

it
chokes
the air,
chokes the last breath
the last
of life.

Vestiges fading, trailing, torn,
tattered curtains silent to the floor -
Listless mourners, these sentinels.
Despairing,
Watching in sorrow.
Decaying with it all.

Are we trapped in it yet, in these frozen depths?
Corpses of the sea -

Suspended.

Come back and save us. For the stillness grows.

If you're looking for some amazing writing

2010-01-14T10:49:00.003+10:30

Well, head on over to sunshine on a rainy day. Miss Rachie is one of the loveliest, not too mention most talented people I have ever had the joy to know, and her writing is absolutely stunning. So is her artwork, but that's another story. It is her personality that shines the most, however, and I am very blessed to have her as a friend. Please take a look. :)

unfinished #5480396

2009-06-02T16:35:00.004+09:30

That number may be inaccurate, don't quote me on that. Anyhow, this is supposed to be a woman who had an abortion. Not for the reason of unplanned teenage pregnancy, but rather because there is a high chance it would have a disability.
Or other option, as suggested by a friend; because she has AIDS. and yeeah... What do you think?

Mothers have a very special task. Tales of the lengths they will go to in order to protect their children are heartwarming, inspiring, and almost legendary. Veritable proof of human goodness in a world that is all too often cruel and uncaring. A mother's love is revered.

And it is that which makes what I have done the most ultimate of betrayals, the worst of crimes and most decadent violations of this sacred duty.

Shame is not an adequate emotion. I sacrificed the life of my child for my own... what? Peace of mind? That could not be further from the truth.

Because I thought I was not up to the task, that I was not capable of the love and degree of caring necessary?

I feel sick sick sick. The death of my baby demands justice. Take me to court, try me, condemn the perpetrator of this unspeakable crime. What human could be so heartless?

Is it because I thought I lacked stamina, resilience? Because I managed to deceive myself, to somehow be convinced that it was the best course of action? For both of us? That no life for my child was better than a life filled with struggles?

Millions, millions of people face the same thing, and even more debilitating problems, every day and emerge successful and happy, victorious over this disease.

Why couldn't my child have done the same?

Reflection by Death

2009-06-02T16:31:00.003+09:30

Yes, it's from the perspective of Death. Nothing like extreme personification. Again, unfinished. A friend's suggestion, which I love, is to reflect on the first person "I" sent to hell, and the first that went to heaven, and the extremes, etc. What is mentioned here isn't necessarily a reflection of my views; that of heaven and hell merely being holding bays for our souls that can fill up, etc. And I believe our souls are of incredible value, not mere waste left over after life is done with them. But that is neither here nor there in this instance. What think ye?

I am reluctant, you know. I am as much bound by this nature as you are by me. I am feared, despised by most. Eternally alone. Your fleeting presence is of no interference with this inescapable darkness, with me for one instant, already grey, the glow and warmth of life banished, left to another. The inheritance for yet one more of your kind.

They call it the cycle of life, the old giving way for the new with death and birth in turn, but while life indeed is recycled, what of those passed into death? Carted to their respective destinations, growing ever fuller. A faulty production line with no output for discarded material, which continues to accumulate. What then, when these final sites are at maximum capacity? Where then shall your souls find to stay, crowded and confused?

I wonder, sometimes. You see, I have of lot of it – time. I am governed by it also, but in a different way to you. Time is the customer bringing you to me, and I am the cashier, the register, all in one. Checking you out. You no longer belong to the store of the living. I am the go-between, the mediator, to what is beyond.

And what importance are you to me? None. I should be as disinterested in you as the cleaner resigned to his menial position, relegated to mopping floors that will only be stained again shortly, and his work begins again. But you intrigue me. My brief contact with you in this void place has sparked my curiosity. With no access to life except as its exeunt, I can’t resist the desire to know more about this whole experience.

Here, then, is my confession.

I am the gateway to heaven and hell. Funny, that some would question their very existence, for without those docking bays, why, I would your holding place once you have passed from life, something I am so vastly inadequately equipped for that it is laughable. Perhaps if you could catch a glimpse of what lies beyond, you would not be so afraid of me, for it is the uncertainty I bring that causes you so much fear, is it not? You humans are desperate to know, know, know, to control. You must understand before you can accept an idea, and yet at times you so easily accept what others tell you... A confounding species, indeed.

For, even if you could see that I am merely a passage into heaven and hell, that doesn't mean that you would believe. You believe what you wish to, ultimately, regardless of the facts that lie before you. Your minds are far more powerful that the majority of you will ever comprehend.

I am intrigued, then,

Passage of the Night Wind... as Poetry o.O

2009-05-25T21:06:00.001+09:30

So, I'm testing a theory. A teacher told me this was almost like poetry. I split up sentences and paragraphs into lines and stanzas. Now, could you read this as (good) poetry? Since a lot of the time that seems to be a major difference between poetry and prose. Also, it would mean that I could enter a certain competition twice, once with another piece of prose, and then with this masquerading as poetry... Hahahah. Indulge me.

The wind wafts, gentle,
Caressing,
but firmly chilling,
An unwitting reminder to those hapless, earth-bound creatures
of her uncaring nature.
She may,
briefly,
take a fondness to a thing, a being,
a place,
But she is as fickle as any of the gods of old.
She knows nothing of feelings. Emotions are
as pretty trinkets to her, and she carries them away with her
effortlessly,
without the burden they bring humans.
Trite dealings of mankind - what are they to her?
She holds no interest in these matters,
weaving throughout and about these,
Monumental occasions, with a laugh,
Light as the tinkling of bells,
Felt more than heard. [more felt than heard?]

A thing of beauty, that sound, but
with a harsh edge, the cold
steel of a blade gleaming
as it is drawn from its sheath,
glinting/glimmering
with bloodlust.
She is none the less beautiful for this hint at terror,
For, after all,
True beauty,
In all its unbridled intensity can only strike
Some nameless Fear into those, its beholders.
Lucky or luckless?
One is hard-pressed to say.

She glides swiftly at times, at others roaring
in brutal, reckless force
Across the oceans,
All untethered might, but despite this, there remains still
an undeniable femininity about her.
Those aggrieved, having fallen prey to a woman's wits, perhaps betrayed
and slighted, bitter lovers,
may sullenly tell that she consummates that female trait,
that cruel, calculated manipulation,
bending others to her will on
nothing more than a whim.
Yet such a notion being brought to her attention would receive
no more
than a passing disdain; human thoughts and ideals,
meaningless.

She has reached the distant stars, skimmed the
rippling ink waves, coiffed the ash
clouds; she has danced in the shadows and the darkest of nights.
Amongst the treacherous rocks, leaping
with the salt spray,
she has leant her voice to the sirens' song,
alluring, bewitching, deadly.

She has no need of humility, no need for pride.
She does not boast - jealousy is a concept
of no bearing or use for her. She simply knows
all that she is
and embraces it.
Nothing more is necessary.

She hurtles on, breathes through each new terrain in turn,
uncaringly, unceasingly.
For so has she, the night wind, done for all time,
and so she shall until its end.

Not looking forward to this, really.

2009-05-24T17:19:00.002+09:30

Today, once I have hopefully survived and waded through the deluge of homework I find myself facing, I aim to take on "Faded Paint and Butterfly Wings" once more, armed to the teeth with all your helpful advice and critique. Thank you very much and I hope to put a revision version up once that is done. Feel free to help out some more now, and then as well, even if just with Title ideas, etc. I can't do this without you!

Passage of the Night Wind

2009-05-09T11:11:00.007+09:30

This is a short piece, only about 385 words, in contrast with anything else I have written in a long time. This is the 2.5th draft [yes >.<] and while I very much like some of it, it did stem from another piece I began to write and so in making it it's own, it seems a little disjointed to me, particularly at the beginning and at various points throughout. So, suggestions? Also take note I wrote this in the night hours, so it could easily be terrible. Feel free to tell me, anonymously if you so will.

27/07/09 - an edited version, turned into poetry, (not the poem version later posted on this blog) of this has just been shortlisted finalist in the Adelaide Young Writers Awards. I'm very happy with that. :)

The wind wafts, gentle, caressing, but firmly chilling, an unwitting reminder to those hapless, earth-bound creatures of her uncaring nature. She may, briefly, take a fondness to a thing, a being, a place,but she is as fickle as any of the gods of old.

She knows nothing of feelings. Emotions are as pretty trinkets to her, and she carries them away with her effortlessly, without the burden they bring humans. Trite dealings of mankind - what are they to her? She holds no interest in these matters, weaving throughout and about monumental occasions with a laugh, light as the tinkling of bells, felt more than heard. [more felt than heard?]

A thing of beauty, that sound, but with a harsh edge, the cold steel of a blade gleaming as it is drawn from its sheath, glinting/glimmering with bloodlust. She is none the less beautiful for this hint at terror, for, after all, true beauty in all its unbridled intensity can only strike some nameless fear into those, its beholders. Lucky or luckless? One is hard-pressed to say.

She glides swiftly at times, at others roaring in brutal, reckless force across the oceans, all untethered might, but despite this, there remains still an undeniable femininity about her. Those aggrieved, having fallen prey to a woman's wits, perhaps betrayed and slighted, bitter lovers, may sullenly tell that she consumates that female trait of cruel, calculated manipulation, bending others to her will on nothing more than a whim. Yet such a notion being brought to her attention would receive no more than a passing disdain; human thoughts and ideals, meaningless.

She has reached the distant stars, skimmed the rippling ink waves, coiffed the ash clouds; she has danced in the shadows and the darkest of nights. Amongst the treacherous rocks, leaping with the salt spray, she has leant her voice to the sirens' song, alluring, bewitching, deadly.

She has no need of humility, no need for pride. She does not boast - jealousy is a concept of no bearing or use for her. She simply knows all that she is and embraces it. Nothing more is necessary.

She hurtles on and breathes through each new terrain in turn, uncaringly, unceasingly. For so has she, the night wind, done for all time, and so she shall until its end.

"Without you all [it's] going to be is... Incomplete"

2009-05-08T23:21:00.002+09:30

This isn't complete, as, you know, you may have realised from the title. Not that I actually like the Backstreet Boys or anything... >.< While I've had positive feedback for it, I'm not sure that I like it or that it is emotive enough. So, what are your thoughts? Should I continue it or can it?

It was only the strength of her fear that kept her rage from lashing out. Control was the thin membrane she wrapped around her, for if she lost that, only worse could follow, and angry as she now was, she knew that it would pass. She just had to keep still, draw the least attention possible. Maybe he would forget about her. She couldn’t have been drawn more tightly into herself, her arms wrapped so closely about her body and for so long that she was one mass of pins of needles, but her control held her in place, even as her drying tears left a horrible, sticky feeling over her downturned face. Don’t move.

Besides, more tears were sure to follow, eventually, as her scattered thoughts returned to the anger at hand. She could only distract herself so long, before the harsh electric light of the room pervaded her shelter, the cool, soothing darkness she sought to cloak herself in. Even now, bright sparks danced about her eyelids, as though they were sprites of a treacherous nature, or perhaps the dreaded, malicious will o’ wisps of folklore. She tried to delve deeper into her flimsy hiding place, to pretend again that she was a child, who thought that in not being able to see others, they in turn could not be seen.

“Come any nearer, and I will kill you.”

The remembrance of the unbridled menace in those soft words, spoken but a few minutes before, sliced through her, for she had recognised the truth laced into each syllable. It was this that held her deathly still, stifling her panicked, painful gasps for air into an occasional shallow drawing in of oxygen. The burning in her lungs was nearly unbearable, but all in all a welcome respite from the heart-stopping fear. Indeed, heart-stopping did not describe such a fear adequately, for yet one other sensation she could feel with alarming force was the pounding of her heart, so erratically and with such vigour that her chest heaved in time with its motions. She attempted to quell this forceful hammering within her, albeit without success – her terror merely caused a more rapid tempo – for it was a movement, and movement of any sort tied her down to reality. He would not hit her, nor punch her, for a mere tremor, even in the grip of this seething, wild fury, would not provoke him to such actions. No, physical sensations such as the light, the pain and feel of her pulse, were what kept her from mentally escaping the moment. She needed that escape, needed it more than breathing in that portion of time, since it was only herself she loathed in this situation, both for angering him to such proportions and for the helplessness and fear she felt. Reality was a terrible thing, and there was nothing she wanted less.

With escape to the imagination rendered impossible, she attempted desperately instead to concentrate only on those bodily actions, on breathing, on calming her hammering heartbeat.

It had happened before, but he had never hit her hard enough to bruise or break anything. It was the knowledge that he could, and that if she gave him any more incentive, he would. She understood only too well his side, for was she not herself so angry at him she could barely contain it? His anger was just one rung above hers, and she had propelled him to that height.

For nothing breeds panic like loneliness.

2009-04-24T20:01:00.002+09:30

Terrified of being alone, stranded in a pool of merciless light, surrounded by the darkness. Even now the shadows stretch closer, dancing on the edges of this unprotected space. Too fearful to move, trying to pretend, as children while parents fight, as soldiers while bombs fall, breathing "it's okay" though I know it's a lie. Whispering it in my head, trying to drown out the noise - or is it the silence? - of being so alone. Creeping closer, tendrils caressing. Not long now.
It's the agony of waiting. Knowing already the inevitable end.
Fit to burst, the panic tightens the chest, rising, rising.
Ever rising. When will it begin? can'ttakeitcan'ttakeit
it'sokayit'sokay
the shuddering, violent gasp, the shock of a harsh night air suddenly in the lungs,
it'sokayit'sokay
skin so tight, pulled taut by expanding ribs,
pressure moving outward, upward; threatening to snap
bones like twigs, Crack. Crack.
Heart beating? no,
rather a pulsing of the blood, from temple to fingertip, fingertip to toe.
Frozen, conscious,
Pressure rising...

Flawed Reflection

2009-04-08T23:19:00.004+09:30

She broke my heart with every glance I stole at her, with every word about it that slipped from her mouth. She was my younger sister, and she was beautiful. And she had no idea what she was doing. Or maybe she did. Who could say? Either way, it broke my heart. In the mornings, preparing for school in the bathroom, betwixt brushing of teeth, make-up application and hair syling, I'd sometimes catch her looking at me, oddly, intently. I'd ask what was the matter and her answer nearly stopped my breath. "You're so pretty... All the time." I'd stop in the middle of curling one set of eye lashes, as a twinge of something akin to sorrow shot through me. I wondered what she would said if I told her the same thing, and I despised the reply I knew I would receive.

My gorgeous sister, so blind to her own assets, the least of which was beauty. Why did she feel the need to correct these perceived imperfections she saw in himself? How could she not see what shone out so clearly for everyone else to see? I wanted to scream out what I saw in her, all the good she could never see; scream so that she would hear, and realise it for herself. And yet, for all my trying, she could never see the same person when she looked in the mirror that I saw when I looked at her.

Matter of perspective, indeed.

Topic topic topic

2009-04-02T19:28:00.005+10:30

I find it really hard to come up with topics to write about. In attempting to draw on my own life, I'm not really finding anything there. Which either means I'm not looking hard enough, or my life sucks ;P

So come on guys, any ideas for me? Anything at all. Even a random starting sentence. I'll make do with whatever I can. Desperate here. ;P

I need to practice my writing and write more often, so please help me. There's a short story competition in the newspaper of our city that's deadline is in June /Julyish, for high school students.

P.S. I'm really, really sick of writing in first person.

Faded Paint and Butterfly Wings

2009-03-25T20:32:00.025+10:30

// Let's Play Pretend // Just a Little Longer // Dress-ups and Lies

Iunno, you give me a title. And your constructive criticism (: It's unpolished, I know.

I'd been studying "Fly Away Peter" by David Malouf at school prior to writing this, you can see its style reflected in this.

She lifted her arms with the cardboard attached - her wings, smiled, and imagined she was flying. She was a butterfly, and although the crude water colours painted on her face cracked, she smiled all the more, desperate to continue the game. Playing pretend was a lot more fun than real life.

----

It took me by surprise, as she turned the corner. One moment absent from the scene, the next almost the whole of it. I could not look away, transfixed by the obviousness of it. First, there had been just the two toddlers. Then she had arrived, a young mum; theirs, it would seem, from her protective manner and attentive listening as they babbled, in the way that young children do. All perfectly normal. No, what I could not tear my eyes away from was the woman's belly, her horribly distended belly that burst out from her body, garishly vibrant in the bright red top she wore.

Pregnant. Heavily pregnant, from the looks of it. The sight dragged up an array of half worded fears and a turmoil I was not yet ready, or able, to face; and so I pushed each thought away as it tumbled to the forefront of my mind, swatting it back before I could form the proper words for it, and in doing so, give my demons form. I would hide in denial for a while longer. Reality could wait.

I bent my head, forcing myself to grasp the words on the open page of the book I was holding. I struggled for a few seconds, attempting to force them to take on some meaning, but my mind wandered, and I found my eyes once more on the woman.

It was as though, like a small child playing pretend, she had stuffed a large melon underneath the clothes she wore, proudly pronouncing the baby inside of her. Logic dictated that this could not be the case. She was an adult. Even though I was not yet old enough to legally be seen as one, I was no longer a child, either, and when it come to playing pretend, I played the adults' way - more sophisticated, stylised, even subtle, but still, sometimes, for the same childish purposes, serving darker, sinister ends. To some of us, this game becomes a matter of life or death. It is everything. A pretence we are trapped in, willingly or not. How I wish I had not to play pretend to my own self, but anything truer was frightening. When had we allowed ourselves to grow so weak that we weren't steeled to face the facts? How could we have learned to prefer living in a lie than in the truth, no matter how scary it may be? We ran and we hid and pretended that we were still fighting at the front, daring any to challenge us in our lie.

What is worse is that I know this, and am still too fearful to leave the pretence behind. It is a rare thing to see someone step forward, acknowledge and confront the darkness. Humans, I am convinced, for the most part, are mere cowards convinced that we are brave.

An image from a memory flashed through my contemplation, leaving me wincing, attempting too late to block it out. The remnants of the memory rushed forward once again, as I mentally scrabbled to build defences, or maybe push the fragments away, dangerous as broken glass. Taken unawares, as always. Hiding anything from oneself is damn hard, but when it comes to concealing a memory that refuses to be lost from consciousness; that is simply impossible. If I could consciously repress memory, I'd rid my mind of that one in an instant.

In keeping with the established pattern, a wave of realisation followed the memory. With closed lids I continued to inwardly berate myself.

How could I have done something so stupid???

I'm scared.

The "what-ifs" were rude, taking up all the space in my mind, and even then, shoving and pushing, jabbering noisily, bickering incessantly. How was I supposed to get any peace?

I know, I know.

I could get no real peace of mind till I knew for certain, one way or another. But until I took the necessary steps, I should be able to get some quiet, just occasionally. When the only thing that drowned out the questions was a range of distractions, peace was no option.

If I found out and it was so, what would I do then? All possible options were terrifying.

If I wished hard enough then perhaps it would not be. I wasn't superstitious but this presence, this fear, had me wishing on 11.11 and first stars every night. Just in case. I stifled a wail, feeling its anguish reverberate through me all the same.

What was I going to do???

It wasn't even definite, but I had never been one to live by logic, and in such a time, my emotions were far too prominent for rationale to have much say at all.

Trying not to be obvious, I pressed the palm of one hand against my own stomach, reassuringly flat, particularly in comparison to that of the mother who still stood in my direct line of vision, engrossed in discussion with her children. I tried to imagine a living... thing growing on the other side of those layers of clothes, skin and various other body matter. I had done this before, curiously, in anticipation of some far off day when I may have desired to have my own children. A far off day, and even then, it was not assured; in any case not a day anytime soon. Especially not this soon. Not when I was still in school, in my final year, still not grown up.

I had so much growing up to do yet, and I wasn't in a hurry for it to occur. For every reason I could remotely consider, a child was not something I wanted. It had been a month, and with every day that passed, my regret and fear grew stronger. Even now, cells could be gathering together within my body, creating a new life. I didn't want another life inside of me!

How many more mistakes was I to make before I learned something? I had so many regrets already. It just couldn't be. There was no way.
----

Paint and wings abandoned, she continued to play pretend all those years later. Pretending she wasn't hurting, pretending she wasn't scared, that it hadn't happened, and that there wasn't even a remote chance of her worst fear coming to pass. It felt safer in the dark. And so she smiled all the more, desperate to continue the game. Playing pretend was a lot more fun than real life.

"Release". Proper name needed

2009-02-19T19:31:00.005+10:30

[Second draft, the first being written between the hours of 11PM and 1AM. Constructive criticism, go.]

[I am aware that some of you may find this distasteful in light of the recent bushfires in Victoria, but for me, this is a process in dealing with it, in trying to wrap my head around why someone could do this. There are so many different reasons, but this is where my story has taken me...]

------

I watched, captivated, as the sparks spread. They were fierce, unstoppable, and they were mine. Could it be ignored? It didn't matter anymore, if you didn't notice me. You noticed this. And it was mine.

It was growing, powerful; the winds and heat had helped fan it further than I had expected. I could barely contain myself.

You've just returned from fighting them, of course; you came in late, as you did last night and the night before. I heard you climbing the stairs, wearily, each movement a struggle. No doubt you were covered in grime and soot; no doubt you ached, barely able to think. The way you like it. The sound of water falling as you shower is soothing, but I cannot let myself fall to sleep.

Small sounds as you dress, and then you are climbing into bed beside me. A flash of memory hits, the ghosts of a time past, in which a younger you gently kissed the cheek of a younger I, almost asleep; a time when there was still a vibrant love that hung in the air between us.

How things change, how they fade and dull. A mirror put aside, covered in dust, a faint reflection perhaps to be made out upon fierce squinting; its clarity gone. Much like our love, I thought. The flames of our love had died out, but these flames of mine now would burn for much longer. This fire of mine called for attention, as it leapt about, flickering; here, now also there, continually growing. Hungry.

My fire didn’t just call for attention; indeed, it demanded it, daring others to try to ignore it, if they could. It demanded attention, like I had longed to do but couldn’t, and it was the fire itself that saved me. I remember the day it began.

Waking to white walls and the smell of disinfectant, exhausted and hurting; the pain gripping before I could even recall. Words were thrown around, in the minutes and hours that followed - "miscarriage", "everything that could have been done was", "my condolences"... That was where it all started, really. When the words made me want to scream, and I felt the knowledge that I was being ripped apart on the inside, I did nothing but wait for it, this terrible end I deserved. It didn’t come.

I once grabbed a knife, determined to give it a release, anything to get this out of me, but I couldn't do it. I don't know why. And the pain continued day after day, torturing silently, mercilessly, within the confines of my rib cage.

You were there, but from the moment I woke, you weren't, not really. It was like you had left; as though the death of our son, this murder I had let my body commit, had severed that which tied us together. They say you were there for me, and I suppose it appeared that way. You said the right phrases, you held me. But all the while you were away somewhere, in some other place; and I knew from your eyes and the cold rigidity of your arms around me that it was a place where our son was alive, where his mother wasn't also his killer. I knew you hated me for it, but all that mattered was that the pressure building up was crushing me. Sooner rather than later, I would combust. Fragments of skin, muscle, and bone would splatter the room in a spray of blood, and then the fire burning up from within, finally free, would take everything with it, leaving my remains a charred black dust, when it was done.

You turned towards fire-fighting more than ever. I knew you imagined every time that you were protecting him, saving him, as you could not save him from me. You accused me with your look, when you could force yourself to be around me long enough. Murderer.

And then I found my saviour.

I lit a match, outside one day. To see this thing, to see this thing that was inside of me, destroying me. That was when it came to me.

And it was so simple, you know. So obvious. I opened my hand and watched it fall. The patch of weeds it fell on burned, viciously, ferociously, and I could feel that this fire was the fire inside of me, leaving a little. Burning outside rather than inside. It grew. I knew I should put it out, but I couldn't. The burning was leaving me. I watched as it burnt, all of it; and as our home went up in flames I felt nothing but an ever-growing relief.

When the smoke and the flames alerted others, you came in your truck, you and your yellow-suited colleagues. You thought I was standing there silently due to shock, but I was silent with amazement, reverent. And when you put your arms around me and held me, like you used to, for that brief second; I realised just how powerful my fire was. Releasing me and bringing you back to me.

But even that couldn't keep you, could it? It was not enough, and so that moment passed. The fires were more and more my everything, as they wove their way through our lives, now separate, but bringing them back together. I lit them, and you had to take notice just as you could not notice me; had to put in effort, had to stop them; and so our lives were once more intertwined, although you could not know.

Even better, I was being freed. The fierce gnawing from within had calmed, slowed, and the only thing left was to create more flames outside, where more of the burning within would join in, leaving me a little freer. Slowly. Surely.

When it takes lives? Better still. Because you feel that you have lost, that you are also to blame for the murder of our son, you could not save him even when you tried. Remember, I wanted our son too. I loved him also.

There is more to the fire than you know. More than I knew. But I understand, now. All this time, it was all just the catalyst (is this the right context? i don't know if i've used it correctly?). These fires alone will never be enough to free me. And I cannot take this fire within any longer.

Peace is coming, shortly. I will finally be free. This is the final revenge for you too. Because with this love for you that I never quite lost, is this hatred grown stronger than that love.

But the fire has the solution. It has the solution to everything.

I can see you now, asleep once more, as I sit next to you where you lie on our bed. I am doused already. I take your hand for a second, and you stir slightly. Odd, how it could be a stranger's hand I hold. Your touch is no longer familiar to me in any way.

I strike the match, watch the small flame flicker. So small, and yet, it will grow. Ever hungry, but I shall feed it. As it has infinite times before. There is nothing to fear.

It was so simple, you know, all this time. So obvious. I open my hand and watch the match fall.

Is it obvious enough that she is setting herself on fire, and her husband/partner?

I know I changed tense somewhere =/

I'm tired and I don't even know if it's good, so comments please. A title would be nice too. I will revise and edit. (:

It was a disaster

2009-02-10T17:08:00.006+10:30

In English Studies, we had to do a recount based on a phrase we could choose out of a list. There weren't that many options... I picked "It was a disaster". While I couldn't be bothered using my imagination, I couldn't come up with much from my life either. Thus, the story of my fish... Get excited >.< (Really, I wouldn't bother reading it, it's not that great, or even interesting... lol) It was a disaster. (Teacher's corrections in red, my own commentary in square brackets)

When I was five, my younger sister and I entered a colouring competition at the local pet store. I believe the picture we were required to colour in was of a fish, although I can't quite recall; but I do know that all who entered received a goldfish, which is how, for a brief space of time, our family ended up with two.

We've never had much success with pets, although these hapless specimens were the first. We've had a rabbit, amongst other animals, and the wretched thing always seemed to escape from its hatch, running away, sometimes for days at a time. My sister, though she barely cared for him while he was there, was inconsolable at his loss, particularly one time when we thought he was gone forever, only to be brought back nearly a week later by a neighbour. However, this is not about the rabbit. This is not about the bird, or the hermit crabs, or the sea monkeys. This is about the goldfish.

I remember the initial curiosity of those small, orange fish, swimming around in two clear plastic bags filled with water. It seemed careless to me, to carry them in such a wary; for if my mother lost her hold on the wobbly sacks [LOL at using the word "sack", which aside from anything else, is just a word I find amusing], if they fell onto the hard asphalt of the car park, surely the fish would spill out of the untied bags in a rush of water, gasping and flapping their fins helplessly in the moments before they died. Dead before they were even truly ours, before they reached home.

Such was the worry of my young mind [I was not worried, I was merely speculating], but these fears were not to come to pass; the fish ~~being~~ were safely delivered to their new bowl at home.

For a time they were happy, or so I assumed, well fed and with clean water as they were. They did not show any sign of emotion, and I quickly grew bored with these new additions to our household, who seemed to merely swim, incessantly, circling their tiny living quarters. What dull creatures they were, I thought, opening and closing their mouths which, together with their rounded eyes, gave them a vacant appearance that irritated me.

Truth be told, the only real fascination the fish (who we never named, as far as I'm aware) held for me was in watching them from different angles; from above or through the curved glass of the bowl. The changing sizes and disproportionate shapes greatly intrigued me; something about water that I must confess captivates me even today.

I was not, unfortunately, to spend much time examining this strange phenomenon in the context of the fish bowl. My mother decided that to keep the fish safe from possible knocks to the ground, she would keep thir bowl atop a large cupboard, far above the reach of our little hands.

Ultimately, it was this that spelled the end for one of the fish.

One fateful day, the fish bowl was filled up higher than usual with water. Back in its place on top of the cupboard, one of the fish jumped, as they apparently are wont to do, and with the water as high as it was, it managed to jump so high that it landed out of the bowl, on the cupboard.

Unseen, its life came to an end, only to be found when my mother next came to change the water or give the fish food.

I can't say I was saddened; the goldfish had never really been of importance to me and I might have cared more about the breaking of a leg on one of my dolls.

The lone goldfish must have lived on for quite a while longer, but I cannot know for certain, as our family moved overseas shortly after the death of the first, rending it necessary that we found another home for the remaining fish. Again, I was not sorry to see it go. In the cynical thoughts of my younger self, I seem to recall a feeling of glee at what the unknowing recipients had gotten themselves into, having to look after an animal that would not provide any entertainment.

I've never really been that keen on fish.

I need YOUR help ;P

2008-12-10T13:55:00.002+10:30

with character development

So if any of you have parents / aunts / uncles / family friends, or know anyone in their 40's, preferably early to mid rather than late, no matter how remotely, leave me some information please?

just like, male or female, approx. age, if they have children and if so how many, etc
their jobs
if they've had any other jobs, if so, what were they, how long did they keep them for
what they do in their spare time, in family time, their hobbies, interests, favourite tv shows even
what things are important to them, what concerns them, what world events catch their attention
blah blah blah
what do they talk about a lot, do they bring up old memories much or talk about the future, or present, or recent memories?
do they talk about / see family; parents, siblings, nephews, nieces, etc
and how they feel about their in laws
just anything, pretty much
thanks (:

I want to write a story that is the length of a decent sized novel

2008-12-04T11:44:00.003+10:30

i have several stories on the go, i have one which def won't be long, and the other, eh...
There is one serious contender for it, the Ten Years Today one. Except I still don't know what I'm doing with it.
I'll put up the beginnings of the others later

p.s. i must do this coz someone told me i can't stick to it long enough to write a novel length story ^_^
and you know what i'm like with proving people wrong..

"I had sex with my father to make him happy" who wants a longer version?

2008-11-16T21:34:00.003+10:30

sighhh. Okay so I called it "Her Daddy Said So" but you know, sure, "I had sex with my father" describes it far more clearly ^_^
anyway so two people have asked for like, a longer, proper version
ehhh not a fan of rewriting or restructuring stuff i've already written but if i get more than two people wanting, well i am but here to serve /pssh
sooo if you want more, >.<, people always want more lol aha little cynical voice there,
anyway, yeah you have to comment, not just tick those damn boxes, stupid idea >.<
soooo comment
and i'll get to work on that other thing previously as well, ze washing machine / lighter / letter thing....
so.. /bows
what would you like, my people?
AHAHAHAH my people...
eh.
i appreciate constructive criticism a lot.

FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER

2008-11-09T01:47:00.003+10:30

Toivoaa is allowing people to read a portion of her writing, not just the completed thing... I hate hate hate having people read something of mine when its not finished, or at least you can see a sizeable amount of it and know the direction its going in. i'm very tentative with regards to my writing, even more so in it's unfinished stages. even if i think it's good, i worry that i have flawed judgement and so, anxiously await the critique of others; then think that they're just being nice coz they're friends... until i allow myself to be convinced, kind of. i'm probably overly critical of my writing, but ah well.
anyway this is completely unrefined, it's going to need some working over, plus i'm still turning over in my head different directions it could go. and it could go many different directions ^_^
i have to pick one, maybe two and go with that. once i have tried one thing, it stays in my head and i can't shake it while trying to go somewhere else with the same beginning...
sigh.
okay.
i'm nervous.
tell me if i should just can it now.

here goes...

[and yes it does finish mid sentence]

He read the letter one more time, carefully, before crumpling it in his hands. His hands, which were shaking, he noticed, absent-mindedly. It had been a long time. Ten years today, in fact. The old questions stirred to life once more, tumbling like the contents of a washing machine; yet never, it had seemed, to be hung out to dry. But now, finally, some had been laid to rest.
He turned from where he was standing still, suddenly, abruptly. His mind was no calmer than before, with these answers came yet more questions; more puzzles he may never know the answer to. The whirlwind had reawakened, and he was once more caught helplessly in the swirling turmoil it brought.

Sealing the envelope, she ignited the lighter. Holding it close to the paper, she watched the tiny flame flicker blue at the edges. So small, and yet contained unseen within its innocence and warmth, a terrible power lies. Power to destroy, to shatter lives, to take everything beautiful in

Her Daddy Said So

2008-11-04T16:43:00.014+10:30

So I found a hard copy of this story finally. I would not like to have lost it, since I keep records of everything. I got 18/20 for it... I wrote this last year in semester 2 for the Murder and Mayhem year 11 English course. Just in case the thought crosses your mind, this isn't written from experience in any way hahh. I haven't looked at it since I wrote it, sooo hopefully it's somewhat decent. From what I remember it was kindah horrifying and disturbingly painful to read, having got into the character while writing. Hopefully it is still as realistic as I thought it seemed then. I didn't have the heart to kill off my poor, brave, main suffering character, which could easily have happened with such a parent. >=( I wanted to leave an opening where she might escape and find a better life, out of her heartbreaking childhood. I guess hope comes out in my writing also.

She awoke from the pain, for an instant not knowing where she was. Bright lights assaulted her eyes as she attempted to see. The ever recognisable disinfectant smell that belonged almost solely to hospitals hung in the air [sentence too long aghhh]. She cringed. She hated the hospital, having been there often enough. Finally adjustng to the light, she saw her daddy sitting at the end of her bed. An involuntary shudder shook her small body once more.
"Daddy, I'm sorry!" she whispered. "I didn't mean to."
Her daddy looked up and smiled.
"It's good to see you awake, honey. You've been asleep for quite a while."
She smiled tentatively back at him as he turned to the nurse.
"She worries that everything is her fault... I'm not sure why. She's just a kid; they're always having accidents at this age. I could see it happening, too. I tried to stop her, but I was too far away. She just fell off the balcony like a little rag doll. God, I had my heart in my mouth."
Lowering his voice, he continued. She had to strain to hear [~~what he was saying~~].
"It's just that she seems to have more accidents than most, always falling off this or that, bumping into another. A few months back she managed to pull a mug of hot coffee off the kitchen bench. It poured all over her. Poor thing's screams could be heard around the whole neighbourhood, I'm sure. I'm worried she might have some sort of co-ordination or eyesight problems?"
The nurse gave a sympathetic nod.
"Yes, it's always tough when they're little. Mind you, it doesn't improve as they get older. The trouble I've had with my two boys... my God[, doesn't bear talking about.] Anyway, if you want, I could arrange for her to have a proper check up."
He thought for a while, then slowly shook his head.
"Might wait a bit, see if she grows out of it. I was quite clumsy as a child as well. It probably runs in the family."
He laughed, and the girl watching him intently from her bed relaxed further. When her daddy laughed, it was a good sign and meant she was less likely to do something wrong. But this was still one of those laughs that he used a lot around other people, especially at the hospital, when sometimes he was still angry but didn't want to show it. At times like that, he also said lots of things that weren't true, and was as nice to her as if she never did anything wrong. She still couldn't understand it.

But she was only a stupid girl, and she was so bad she couldn't understand the things other people did. Even when she tried her hardest, she still couldn't help but do something naughty. That's why she never went out of the house, except to the hospital. That was also why her daddy had to punish her, to teach her the right thing. One day she would be a good girl and her daddy would let her go outside to other places, and make friends with other people. Right now, if she was friends with anyone she would turn them into bad people too; she was a bad influence.

It was because of her that her mummy left, and because of her that her daddy was out of a job. It was because of her that the house was so messy, and her fault that daddy was always angry. If she could just be quieter, if she knew how to cook, if she cleaned and was good, then he would be happy and everything would be okay. But she was just a lazy bitch. Her daddy said so.

The nurse left the room, explaining she had some other patients to check on. The instant the door shut, her daddy stood up and came closer. He no longer made any effort to mask his anger, the fury twisting his face.
"You little shit! I'm trying to help you, and what do you do? You can't even learn a lesson without injuring yourself, costing your daddy even more money! I try to do right by you, but you don't appreciate anything!"
She fought not to cry, not to shrink down inside the blankets. She had done the wrong thing and had woken her daddy up too early. She had to accept her punishment. Crying was wrong. So was trying to not learn a lesson, which was why she nodded, taking every word to heart.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," she whispered once more.
"Oh, you will be! Just wait till you get home."
The nurse entered the room once more.
"That's a brave girl you've got there," she said brightly.
No she wasn't. She was a selfish brat.
Her daddy said so.

~

The girl was led upstairs. It was growing dark but she could see that the house her father had walked her to was just as dirty as theirs. The woman she was now standing in front of seemed rough and slightly grimy, in keeping with the surroundings.
"What's your name, girl?" the woman asked brusquely.
"I don't really have one, ma'am. But I think I was called Jesika, once."
She didn't say it aloud, but she thought this name had been given to her by her mother. She had a faint memory of a woman talking to her and smiling at her, [looking at her in a way she hadn't seen in a long time. In this memory the woman was] saying,
"Jesika, can you say Mummy? Can you smile for mummy? Come on..."
She was sure this was her mum. Maybe it was because she hadn't been able to smile and say "mummy" that her mother had left...

She was jolted out of her thoughts as the woman grabbed her arm.
"Come on, Jesika, then. I don't know if you know why you're here and if this is your choice, it's like as not, but that's not my business."
She stopped outside a door with no handle. Pushing it open, she said, "In you get."
Jesika walked in and sat down on the single item of furniture in the room, the small, grubby bed.
"Now wait here until someone comes in. Do what you are asked."

With those words, the door swung shut and she was left alone. When her father had left her here, it has been without a word of explanation. Without her father here, how could he tell her if she was doing something wrong? She needed him! Never had she been apart from him for longer than ten minutes, and never while away from home. She didn't go to school because she was so stupid; she couldn't even learn the lessons he tried to teach her.
So there was no way she could learn other, harder lessons.
Her daddy said so.
Before they had left the house today, he had told her it was time for her to get them some money, since she used so much of it. That had to be why she was here.
She didn't question the matter any longer. Questions were for people who were smarter than her.

Eventually the door opened once more and a man walked in, taking a swig from a bottle. Jesika sat on the bed looking at him. After a minute, he roared, "Well get on with it girl!"
"What do you want me to do, sir?" she asked, hesitantly.
He grabbed her by the collar and pulled her towards him, throwing the bottle to the ground as he did so. [The glass shattered, flying across the room.]
"I came here for a fuck, not a bloody question and answer session!"
He tore her shirt from the collar down, and from there ripped off the rest of her clothing [~~clothes~~].
He then slammed her onto the bed and took off his own clothing.
"You don't look like much, bich, but you sure are gonna learn a few things tonight!"
With another leer, he lowered himself on top of her.
All of this time, Jesika had remained silent. She had learned to accept anything without complaint. But even she could not stop her screams as her nine year old body was first entered by a man that night.

~

At the age of ten, she arrived home one morning to find her father passed out on the floor. Several beer bottles and a puddle of vomit lay around him. She knelt to wake him gently. Blearily, he opened his eyes and sat up.
"Ah, fuck." Putting his hand to his head, he cursed some more.
"I've got one bitch[~~hell~~] of a hangover and a lying slut[~~bitch~~] for a daughter who can't do anything but try to ruin my life. What'd I do to deserve all the shit in my life, huh?"
He snatched the ice pack she'd run to get and stumbled off to bed, leaving her to clean up.

Later that day, he called Jesika to his room.
"You want to be good some day, don't you?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Don't just nod!"
"Yes, Dad."
Now, do you see that you can't even answer a simple question right? How can you expect to ever make me happy, when I do so much for you and all I get in return are your screw-ups?"
"I don't know, Daddy. I'm sorry."
"Well, I've thought of something you might be able to do right, something that could make your daddy happy."
"I want you to show me what you can do in bed. You ought to be pretty experienced by now, yeah? Come on."
She hesitated. The chance for her to finally do something right, to make her dad happy, was the one thing she wanted most in the world, but this felt wrong somehow. Yet how could it be wrong? Her dad was telling her to do it, and he was never wrong.
Jesika slipped out of her clothes with practiced ease, clambering onto the bed. She was finally going to make him happy, and so she ignored the lingering doubt in her mind as she was united with her father in a way that was never meant to be.

Because her daddy said so.

Ms White : "Capable use of setting and dialogue and a sympathetic development of character."
- strong internal landscape
- middle section needs strengthening
- "A horrifyinh portrait of abuse. The protagonist's voice is clear and strong. How does this fit within the topic?"
Uhhhhh well I'd say it was just a little "mayhemic" but ehh fine. 18 out of 20, i'm happy. It's kinda bland at the start and I'm not so satisfied with it, tell me what you think?

You Drained Me Empty and Hung Me Out To Dry

2008-10-22T22:12:00.002+10:30

"I wrote this two nights ago, so it's recent. Incredibly tentative about my writing of poetry... not so sure how well I can judge it's quality. But it's more for my benefit than yours..."

I'm out of words, and out of touch

To be honest I didn't think it could hurt this much

I'm losing feeling, brain cells too

I'm losing everything, I lost you.

I thought I could set anything down on a page

I thought that was the answer

But I'm sitting here dazed

And the thoughts are spinning around in my head

Washing machine, clothes dryer,

Just put me to bed.

I'm searching for letters, to make just one word,

But nothing is coming, say I'm being absurd.

And the fear is growing from deep in my chest

My one escape gone, help me, I'm out of my depth/

Well the light at the end of the tunnel has gone,

I'm so empty, so hollow, don't care what's going on,

And I'm dripping, I'm melting, I'm fading away,

Nothing you do makes me want to stay.

"Hello, I'm the ghost, the ghost of your past,

Aren't I familiar, did I slip by so fast?"

The words gallop away,

Leaving me trapped within

My deepest fear,

"Let me out", or come in!

I'm chasing these futile lines in the wind,

Leaving you to this world

So gloriously dim,

And I'll look back but keep on forever this way,

Keeping, keeping, the memories at bay.

"it's the worst thing ever, i only do prose. and it's unstructured, written on the top of my head, may come back and fix it later, but eh."

Fear of Exposure

2008-10-22T22:05:00.003+10:30

"Hmm, I wrote this early this year, I believe. It was one of the worse times. I have changed so much (:"

We could tell them a story,
We could sing them a song,
We could pray that they’d listen,
That they’d known all along,
We could open our hearts,
We could break down and cry,
We could write them a letter.
But we’ll silently die.
For we are but stories,
Written ourself,
In our own language,
Kept closed on a shelf;
And if we exposed,
Our weak paper lives,
They’d be easy to burn,
And we couldn’t survive.

Remembering

2008-10-22T20:14:00.004+10:30

Okay so this is not something I'm really happy with, but ah well. For English earlier this semester, we had to write a short story beginning with the line, "The door opened to reveal..." I had no idea whatsoever as to what I could write about, until I decided to base it on a recent dream I had of one of my friends dying, which I woke up crying to. Since I was all out of ideas, I did use that, and managed to tie that line in, although it was terribly done. The ending was also rushed and I had no idea where to go with it. Sigh. I love him so much, I would be devastated if this ever actually happened, even considering circumstances. So, here, then, is "Remembering".

Remembering

The door opened to reveal a bright array of clothes. Glaring out at her from her cupboard, they hurt her eyes. She struggled to focus. What could she wear? Then again, what did it matter? Tears slipped from her suddenly shut eyes.

Why was she finally crying now? Not even why; how?

It took her a while to notice, disinterestedly, that the tears had stopped. Drained of energy, she sank to the ground.

Then, before she had time to stop herself, the images were tearing through her head. Flashes, disjointed, each moment searing her memory, speeding past, but all in slow motion. A tiny voice within her mind rationalised that it was impossible for something to happen both slowly and quickly, and yet, it was happening right in front of her.

His face, oh god, she had never seen such pain on his face, never even seen so much expression. He was good at that, at hiding his emotions. How could such feeling be displayed in just one look? Her heart was about to shatter. Rejection, loneliness, and utter hopelessness, in that one expression. She was drowning in the depth of his eyes, anguish burning up every fibre of her body; her hurt quickly forming in answer to his. A million questions flooding her mind. She had to help, she had to comfort him. Yet, trapped, she couldn’t move. He was wrong, people cared. How could she make him see? He knew she loved him, she made sure of it, but sometimes one person wasn’t enough.

She fell back to the quiet room, thrust from her remembrance with a harsh suddenness which removed what remaining air she had in her lungs. As when it had happened, she wasn’t able to make a sound, wasn’t able to move. Every time she thought she’d found somewhere safe to stand, the earth tilted once more, leaving her scrambling for a grip on something, anything – just to hold onto until steady ground appeared.

Another voice inside questioned why she was trying to hang on. It was much easier to simply surrender to the chaos, to this broken, unfamiliar night which her world had become.

But something deep down wanted her to keep going. She’d thought she had never felt so helpless in her life as at that moment, but this, this was much worse. For this was final, now. She couldn’t save him anymore.

It should have been enough, one of her inner voices screamed. It could have been enough!

That was the one thing about him that she wished she could have added to; for him not to take things so personally, for him not to give up. He always took the little things to heart, the things that no one noticed. In a circle of friends, his input passing unheard or interrupted made him feel invisible, struggling to accept that in the exuberance of the group, comments by all were missed at times.

She remembered, with a piercing stab, the times he had mentioned to her how he was incapable of talking to others; running out of things to say, stumbling for ease of speech. She had only ever seen his distress about this in the form of anger, an emotion always simpler than misery.

Then her closed eyelids were acting as a movie screen again.

She was abnormally alert to everything around her in that instant. How could no one else notice it, stifling the air? If she wasn’t a statue, frozen in time, she would be bowed to the ground with its weight. She had felt the physical manifestation of emotional pain before, but never like this.

Gasping, she snapped open her eyes. It was too much. She found herself staring at her mirror. Her pale, tired face looked back at her, and she found that she could barely recognise herself. Strange that she could change so much in a few days, but then again, on the inside, she had changed so much more. The emptiness had started that day, from her soul, and quickly spread throughout her body. She was hollow throughout, a paper shell. There was nothing left of her; she was a vacant body with legs of wood – she could hear their clunking on the ground when she walked. Tilting her head, she watched the copy in the glass do the same. With a rush, the feelings welled up in her, and her reflection began to blur.

Tears, again. She felt strangely relieved. So she could cry about it. She wasn’t completely empty. This thought pressed the play button on the moment once more.

They were all walking along the footpath, on their way to the shops. There were about fifteen of them, all talking loudly, as usual. She had left him with a few of their friends for a while so she could spend time with some of her other friends amongst the group. She was also trying not to fuel the rumours that they were anything more than friends. They were best friends, nothing more.

He’d see, after a while, that people appreciated him. Soon. Still, after a few minutes, she turned to look for him, if only to make eye contact for a second, reassuring each other of their presence as they always did.

It was then that she saw him backing away, out onto the road.

His face, oh god, she had never seen such pain on his face, never even so much expression (but she had, she had seen this all before).

Their eyes locked. Her heart constricted. He was lying down, lying down on the road oh god, and she was screaming and screaming but she wasn’t making a sound, and he was closing his eyes, how was no one else noticing; “get up get up get up” but in her head; panic rising and spilling over, and rising higher still.

She saw the car, and everything slowed down. A few people turned, and saw, like she did. She heard screams, but still none were hers. Her screams were in her mind and in her tearing heart, pouring from her eyes and she was begging him to look at her, and to get up, and she was trying to run but she was a statue and she couldn’t move, and then she was hit by a car and she felt the impact but it wasn’t her it was him and the car was stopping and the driver was getting out and he was lying there and she was splintering into a million pieces…

This time the tears didn’t stop.

Later, the funeral. She had finally chosen something from her wardrobe, blindly, and somehow pulled it on. Somehow dragged herself down the stairs, out the door, into the car. Everything was a haze. She was vaguely aware of her parents next to her, and she was glad for their presence as she entered the funeral home; without their support she might collapse, walking on these wooden legs. She looked for the others, looked for a friend; and the first person she saw was his mum. Her breath caught, she felt like she was about to throw up, but she hadn’t eaten in a few days, and everything was spinning far too quickly around her. His mum looked completely destroyed, and suddenly it was a fight not to blame herself. She was there, she could have stopped it.

No no no.

And she was screaming inwardly again.

How long would she be doing this for?

This was all wrong!

This could not be happening.

The next few hours passed in a blur. She withdrew within herself as a natural reflex, blocking everything out.

The days and weeks afterward followed in the same way. She hadn’t returned to school and the thought was something she dreaded. How could she be there, and not have him there too? The memories would flood in unstoppably and her egg-shell barrier would cave. As it was, she thought of him all the time. The faintest thought would lead to some reminiscence, some remembrance of him and then she would be shaking. Nothing else seemed to matter.

One day, feeling as low as she could remember, she recalled him comforting her when she was upset. She remembered his words exactly, his, “It will get better, eventually. You just have to keep going.”

Why couldn’t you do the same?

She was sobbing, but what he’d said kept repeating in her mind.

Had she kept on going, really?

Sure, she had, physically; she was doing things – eating, sleeping, walking. But emotionally, she hadn’t. She had shut down, with no plans to continue. And something about that struck her as hypocritical, for she had said the same thing to him as well. He hadn’t thought she’d needed him, and she had, she still did. She missed him everyday. But was that an excuse? She had to keep going, like he had wanted her to. Tears were spilling down her face. Fighting not to feel all this time, she could no longer shut it out.

She didn’t need to move on; she would never move on, but she could keep going. She could prove to herself, and to him, that it was possible to do this, no matter what. Because that meant that he could have too, and in some strange way, that comforted her.

She got off her bed, and went to look in the mirror. Tried on a smile. It looked false, so she stopped. If she wasn’t ready to smile, that was okay. She’d take it slowly. It would never get easier, but she’d keep going with life, through the pain and the tears, and one day through the smiles and the laughter that would come. And everyday, she would remember.

Youth Opportunities Speech

2008-10-14T01:45:00.001+10:30

I dunno why I'm putting this here lol. Mostly coz I want to post something but it's all on the other computer...

This is a speech I wrote at the end of term 1 this year after a course called Youth Opportunities that I partcipated in, this was the final night where we explained to family and friends what we had taken away. In all honesty, I need to read this again and let the truth of what I said then sink in again. I leave you to it.

Today I have a story to share with you, a story which many of you won't have heard before. This story is not yet complete, so it is only the beginning you will hear for now, but hopefully that will be enough for you to gain an understanding of how I am here, and what exactly that means for me, and the people around me.

My name is Larissa, and I guess there are many reasons why I'm here, why I needed to go through the process that brought me here in the first place. Some of these I can honestly say I don't know, some are fairly obvious, but however well you know me, you will no doubt have seen glimpses of some of these things.

At the start of high school I had very little confidence; I had only just started making friends after being painfully shy throughout most of primary school. Since none of these new friends were coming to the Hub with me, I was really nervous. However, I did make some more friends in the first term of year 8, some pretty much instantly, and as I got used to high school, I seemed fairly happy. But going on into year 9 and partway through year 10, I was secretly pretty miserable, although it hid it well, mostly. Some of you may ask what it was I had to be sad about, you may tell me about the other problems people have; and I am not looking for sympathy, this was never meant to be a sob story. All I know is that it was not life I hated, but myself. I secretly questioned what my friends saw in me, why they were even friends with me at all. I told myself that I didn't deserve friends, amongst other things; I actually could not see anything about myself positively, although I learned to fake it. Every time I said something seemingly nice, or good, about myself, I would inwardly turn it against myself so that I may as well have just said I wad worth nothing and could do nothing.

Let me tell you something. It is not hard to be miserable; it is one of the easiest things in the world. And happiness, well, you have to work for that, you have to keep going, keep getting up, every single time you fall; and sometimes, sometimes that is the hardest thing in the world to do. There was a time that I decided to give up on hope, hope that I would one day be happy with myself, and face up to reality. But this so called "reality" was in itself a lie, and I came to realise just how important hope actually is.

School work was a major problem for me during part of year 9; due to my terrible organisational skills and procrastination, a lot of my work was left to the last minute and I felt like I was drowning in school work for a lot of this. Not knowing how to deal with it as the work just kept piling up, I wanted to leave my life for a bit, just stick my head in the sand and try to forget everything that was happening. Needless to say, I was unable to make this happen, so I kept trying to avoid reality and put off the work as long as I could. Obviously in doing this I was just digging myself deeper and I knew this but I couldn't seem to stop. I ended up doing most of my assignments at the very last minute, staying up for hours the night before a due date when the necessity finally kicked me into action. Not sleeping more than 3 or 4 hours a night for weeks on end because of all the stress from school made me tired all the time, and that obviously didn't help anything. With the start of term 3 I began to get on top of all of that a bit, and my grades improved heaps, in my opinion at least. I wasn't terrified of coming to school for the first time in months.

Since then, things have slowly been getting better. There have been so many people in my life that have helped me get through things I never thought I would, some without even knowing just how much their presence in my life has comforted me, and I am incredibly grateful for them every day. I have been gradually learning to rely on these people that I have learned to trust more, learning that exposing our fears isn't so bad, that hiding problems only makes them darker, scarier, and more mysterious, giving them power over me that they never should have had.

But even with all the learning I was doing on my own, even as I was taking my first tentative steps outside my comfort zone, I needed something more. In spite of becoming ever more accepting of who I was, I still had my doubts, times when misery still seemed the easiest and most comforting option; really, the safest option.

Yet looking far ahead, I saw myself as happy, truly happy, not just outwardly happy, but as having an inner contentment. Youth Opportunities has given me the tools to achieve this, as long as I choose to use them along with other things in my life.

For me, it was really hard to decide to even choose to do the course in the first place. Upon first hearing of it, my first instinct was to run away and hide. I was so scared by the idea of doing the problem, and thinking about it, I realised the problem was that I knew it could help me if i wanted it to, but being helped was something I was scared of. It has long been a habit of mine to deny that anything is wrong, that I may ever need help, because that would force me to admit that things need to change; and change is one thing I was deathly scared of, without ever realising.

Change means leaving our comfort zones, breaking barriers and limitations that we ourselves have set, accepting the need to grow, and taking action on it; it means travelling to uncomfortable heights, uncomfortable places. Someone I greatly admire once wrote, "It is certainly easier to stay silent. That's what most people do. We don't like dirty laundry. We prefer to wear our cleanest shirt. But we have to learn to face our broken stuff. We have to do our laundry. We have to learn to let go, to grow." Throughout the past few months, I have come to realise just how true and how necessary this is for me.

By facing up to reality, and applying skills I have learnt in Youth Opportunities, I have begun to take responsibility in my life, and while I'll admit school work has become a problem again this year, I am working on fixing it. Being in this program has challenged me to make improvements in my life that I never would have made on my own, and I know it is now up to me to decide how I want to live my life. I have gained a sense of direction to my life; while I am still not sure what career I want to go into, I know my general purpose in this area, and this has helped me a lot. I can be happy and successful if I want, and making the decision to be happy every day is something that becomes easier and more of a habit the more I do it. Believing in myself and accepting myself is still an ongoing process, like most things in life, but I am confident that I can get there.