WordSmith discussion

Hey everyone, I thought I would start a new forum where we all could post our stories, poems, and other works of art for everyone to comment on and enjoy. Let me be the first to post a a story that I rewrote using an old school assignment. The assignment, if I remember correctly, had me take a written short story (I'm sorry I can't remember what it was to give the name of the author and such), and rewrite the other person's point of view. Tonight I was reading over that story, and decided to make even more mine. I am very happy with the result, hope you all like it too!


We always talk, he and I, when doing the dishes in the kitchen. Tonight I was washing, and he was drying, because he had washed last night. We always take turns.
I said, “I’m excited for Deb and Terence’s wedding next month, aren’t you? It’s great that they’ve finally decided to tie the knot.”
“All things considered, no, not really.”
“What?” It was not the answer that I had been expecting. “Why ever not?”
He took another dish from my hands. “Sorry, that just slipped out. I didn’t mean it.”
“It sounded like you did. Why?” I stopped washing the mixing bowl, and just held it gently over the graying water.
He didn’t answer.
“Why?” I asked again, trying hard to work it out for myself. Deb was one of my oldest friends, and Terence was a great guy. Could it be….no. “Is it because Terence is black, and Deb’s white?” The words sounded so terrible. I waited for him to reassure me that this wasn’t the case at all.
He cleared his throat. “Listen, I went to school with, uh, African-Americans, worked with them, and lived on the same street with them, and got along just fine with them. You don’t need to come along now and imply that I’m a racist.” He rubbed the dish he held harder, as if trying to press water from the very ceramic.
“I’m not implying anything.” I began to wash the bowl once more, unsettled. No, I didn’t believe my husband was racist. “I’m just wondering why you could be set against Terence and Deb being together. They’re perfect for each other!”
He huffed under his breath.
I realized I was turning the bowl around and around in my hands. I set it on the drying rack. “There’s nothing wrong with a black person marrying a white person.” I said finally.
“They don’t even come from the same culture as we do!” His vehemence surprised me. “They even have their own languages. That’s fine with me, but it’s a completely different thing. Someone from their culture could never really know someone from our culture.” He slammed the bowl on the counter tiles. “There, I’ve said it.”
I resisted the inappropriate urge to laugh. “That doesn’t even make sense. All people are from different cultures, and speak different languages. What makes them different, besides the color of their skin?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just different. I still don’t think that we can ever really know them.”
I looked at him, quite handsome in the fading light through the window. “Like you know me?”
“Yes. Like I know you.”
Frankly, I thought he was being ridiculous. “But what if they love each, like Terence and Deb? Surely love can bridge the ‘culture’ gap.” I swirled the silverware around in sink, attempting to loosen the clinging food particles.
“Look, I’m not saying that I’m an expert on the subject, but most of those marriages break up eventually. All you have to do is look at the statistics.”
“Statistics?” The dishes that I was piling on the rack weren’t fully clean, grease and specks of pasta still clinging to them, but I was irritated and didn’t care. “I suppose then that you think marriage between people from different countries is a bad idea.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said, “and it’s the same reason. Two people from two completely different backgrounds. How can they possibly know each other?”
“You’re saying ‘different’, as in not the same, like us?”
“Yes, different!” He was angry, and I knew it was because I was twisting his words, repeating as if they didn’t make sense, mocking him. He hated that. “These are all dirty.” He pushed the silverware back into the sink, splashing water on my shirt and arms.
I plunged my hands back into the murky water, promptly gashing my palm on a knife. Red bloomed in the water, and dripped onto the linoleum when I gasped and jerked my hand from the sink.
“Sarah, stay right there. I’ll be back.” He went running upstairs. By the time he came back down, there was a cup sized puddle of blood on the floor.
He brought antiseptic and gauze with him. Gently, he wiped the gash and wrapped up my hand.
I stared at him accusingly. It’s all your fault, I felt like saying. You had to make me wash them again, just because they weren’t clean enough for you.
He didn’t notice. “I’ll finish here. You go relax.” He turned to the sink, draining the blood and filling it with fresh, hot water.
“No, I’ll dry.” My hand throbbed painfully, but I ignored it and picked up the damp dishcloth from the counter. I waited several moments, while he carefully focused on washing the forks, before speaking again. “So, you wouldn’t have married me if I’d been black.”
He slammed the forks down on the rack. “Let it go Sarah, for Pete’s sake!”
“But that’s what you said just a minute ago, isn’t it?”
“No I didn’t! It’s a ridiculous question anyway. If you’d been black, we probably wouldn’t have even met. I would have had my friends, and you would have had yours.”
“But if we had met, and I’d been black?” I knew that I could stop the argument whenever I chose, but I was mad about the cut, and about his attitude.
“You would have been going out with a black guy.” He rinsed the rest of the dishes with a blast of hot water.
“Let’s say I wasn’t, and we met and fell in love.” I stopped drying and stood watching him closely.
He looked at me, desperate to quit. “This is stupid. If you were black, you wouldn’t be you.” He smiled then, as if he thought this would be the end of the discussion. “You wouldn’t be you.”
My eyes burned into him. “I know, but let’s just say.”
He blew out a frustrated breath. “Let’s say what?”
I stepped towards him, and looped my arms around his neck, our bodies touching. “That I’m still me, I’m black, we meet and fall in love. Will you marry me?”
He didn’t say anything. I had him backed into a corner and we both knew it.
I leaned closer, and touched his forehead with mine. “Will you marry me?”
“I’m thinking.”
“You won’t. I know it!” I pulled away, unable to mask the triumph, or the regret, in my voice. “You’re going to say no.”
“Relax! Let’s not move too fast on this. We don’t need to say anything we’ll regret.” He held up his hands, as if trying to ward off my question, to push it away from where it hung in the air between us.
“No more thinking. Yes or no?”
“Well, I…”
I put my hands on hips. “Yes or no?”
“All right, all right. No. Are you happy now?”
“Thank you, for being honest at least.” I turned on my heels and strode into the living room, ignoring his protests. Settling in the faded armchair by the picture window, I began flipping slowly and deliberately through a month-old magazine. I knew he could see me from where he stood silent in the kitchen. I furious, but I never yelled. I was only indifferent.
Finally, he finished drying the dishes, and I heard him mopping the linoleum, cleaning up the blood from my hand. Then he grabbed the trash from under the counter and took it outside.
I put down the magazine and went back into the kitchen when I heard him go out. From the kitchen window, I saw him standing by the back gate, the bag in his hand. He stood there for a long time, before opening the gate and setting the trash outside for the collector.
I shut off the lights and went upstairs. The house seemed darker than usual, as if our argument had come to life as a hulking monster that hovered in all the corners and blocked out the light.
In the bathroom, I put on my nightgown and brushed my hair and teeth. Even my reflection in the mirror seemed different. Everything was the same, but it wasn’t.
“Sarah?” He was at the door.
I didn’t answer him, just touched the curve of my cheek on the glass. There were tears in my eyes, but I didn’t feel them.
“Sarah, I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
I moved to the door and pressed my ear to it. “How?” I asked softly through the wood.
He leaned against door, and I could almost feel his cheek against mine. “I’ll marry you,” he whispered.
The tears finally slipped out of my eyes then, and wet my cheeks and neck. I opened the door. “I can’t marry you,Clay,” I said, “I don’t know you.”

This is really good.

This story got my heart pounding. It feels as if i were there, your descriptions are incredible, You story line is quite real, down to earth. It reflects reality! =D Good Job! And Marriage is a beautiful thing. One of the most beautiful things in the world, Its when 2 people, Man and Women, come together with love, and unity. One thing that will hold a marriage together is solid foundation. Having Faith in GOD is probably one of the Foundations for Marriage. As mentioned in your story, Most marriages don't last. But I know people who have celebrated their 50th year anniversary. And they have said things have been rough. Its natural to have disagreements in Marriages , if there weren't any i would say someone is a major suckup XD thats beside the point... Your marriage will depend on the foundations you choose. so...What will you choose?

Ok theres my small course on Marriage counciling...XD jk its just what i know and how i see it. Anyways, that was a great read, it got me thinking. Keep it up and i hope to see more!

Wow, this is one of those stories that leaves the readers with deep thoughts on the issue addressed. I really enjoyed reading this. It's a very thought-provoking and well written. Awesome job:)

Thanks so much everyone! I was really happy with how it turned out, especially with how there's this dark undercurrent underneath the whole plot. I think I was surprised by it most when I had the wife cut her hand, and then it was like she was blaming her husband for it; I was like whoa! there are some deeper issues between these two. It would be cool to fully explore their relationship in a longer story eventually.

Most Definitely! I would love to see more!

Yes, keep writing. (I'm envious already)

Are you really? Wow, I wasn't sure it was that good lol!

I'm kind of burnt out when it comes to writing right now. I can't get a single idea straight in my head, so this is defiantly something I am envious of. The flow if just right...the style is something I'm trying to master for myself. It is really good...correction...it's great!

Hey Guys. I thought maybe i should post some work of some sort. Promise not to laugh to hard. But honestly tell me what you think of this song.
Verse 1
Oh my heart, It cries to You,
My life, My Pain, Would you end it now?
I fade into my misery
I hear a voice it calls to me
It Draws me in, it sets me free
All along i heard you Say

Chorus
Hold On
Though the Tears may Flow,
Hold On,
To that last strand of hope
Hold on, Hold on
Cling to me
Hold on and never let go,
Won't you....Hold...on


Ok so there you guys have it. That's what i have so far. This song basically tells us to "hold on" To GOD even thought they may not be much left in us. I challenge you guys to write 1 "Verse" from experience, or your heart, or from good ol' inspiration

Wow, this song is amazing. I really like the emotions it draws out. I can only imagine how awesome it would sound set to music:)My favorite line is "Hold on, to that last strand of hope"

Wow, this is impressive. I really like it. Is there any more coming?

I dunno...just what i have so far...hopefully i can get more. :)And feel free to check out a website i made... xat.com/wordsmith <---if you guys want to use it...you can

Cool song. It had a great meaning. :) :)

Well, here is my story in 10 words or less :):

Where is the way? Down a forked path.

This is exactly what I mean...I was also thinking that once we all get some "opening sentences" like the one above on here, we can decide if we want to use one and each expand on the story, all of us writing different parts.

Good job Shelly...thanks for responding so soon:)

I'm still working on my one sentence story; it's harder than it looks! I will post soon, though!

Here's my "one sentence" story. It IS harder than it looks. :)

The graves were cold; their eyes were watching the sky.

Here's my one sentence story:

A death row pardon was given, two minutes too late.

Here's mine:

Hunger: which shall I feed, the good or the bad?

WAKEtheSLEEPERinside wrote: "Here's my "one sentence" story. It IS harder than it looks. :)

The graves were cold; their eyes were watching the sky."

Very interesting concept.

Memory wrote: "Here's my one sentence story:

A death row pardon was given, two minutes too late."

Poor death row. It really makes you wonder.

good job everyone...I really like the death row one. Such an interesting mental picture comes to mind.

I know what you mean about this being hard. I thought it would be a fun "easy" challenge to try...I'm having some difficulty myself...

I agree, it was rather difficult! These are all REALLY good! :)

Sorry to take so long, here is my one-sentence story!

I am always here, but the blind cannot see me.

I like all of these "one sentence stories." They're really thought-provoking, and your imagination does the rest. :)

Awesome job everyone! All of the one sentence stories leave so much to the imagination. I'm really liking these challenges and write offs, they're actually really fun. I also love reading what everyone comes up with. Good work guys!

Okay, it took me a while, but here's my story sentence.

They die spiralling down from the sky, feigning falling stars.

Hi all,

I've started a 'new' story and this is kind of a basic rough draft of my beginning. As fellow readers and writers, I hope you can give me some feedback, like if it's any good and displays good character depth and mood?
Thanks.

There’s a legend here that says God ain’t done making the Amazon. All those years ago with Adam and Eve and the rest of the world being built, somehow the Amazon came last. By that time it was too late cause man showed up. And whenever you combine man into the mix, things are bound to turn out sloppy.
That may be true everywhere else, like Tuscaloosa, Alabama where things are real bad since the Fall.
For myself, I’m pretty darn sure that God just did right with the time he had, cause I’ve never seen something so beautiful in my whole life.
First step off the airplane…the last airplane in the world I think and I just stop and stare. Cause I can see that the airstrip is made of grass, flattened by the constant starting and revving of the engines. There are round stumps where the forest has been cut back, so it hovers, watching these funny white Alabama folk climb down those rickety airplane steps, clutching the rails like they’re scared for their lives.
That’s my Mom, and my sister who are both afraid of snakes and spiders and anything poisonous and likely to kill us all.
Before we signed up, Mom checked out all of Tuscaloosa’s books on The Amazon, just in case. But I can see, right away that no book in the world gonna help us out. Not one of those books said nothing about the trees with trunks as thick as elephant, maybe bigger. And stretching up into the sky, maybe 60 feet high! Mostly it talked about the Fall, which is much worse over here.
But shoots, who cares about the government I say. You feel like stepping back in time. I still can’t get over those trees. Lords, I can’t even begin to imagine climbing a thing like that.
Mostly those books showed pictures of children standing naked in the rain, letting it slide off their bodies like oil. Pictures like the ones pinned up at our church. It didn’t say anything about the Amazon. I figure people must have forgotten it was here, all caught up in the commotion going on right about now. But I say, how can you forget someplace like this. For one thing it’s too big, and here you can’t turn sideways without running into jungle.
The first thing that hits you is the air. It just kind of hangs like it’s tired, like a wet blanket. Dad says it’s because of the oxygen and humidity. His glasses fog up so he can hardly see. Maybe that’s why he seems unimpressed with everything. As far as I know, he’s never stepped foot in the Amazon rainforest, and you can’t tell me you wouldn’t stand around with your mouth hanging to your knees neither, just looking. My head just about comes off my shoulders from turning each and every way, taking it all in.
But the air don’t really make you tired like it does back in Tuscaloosa, it somehow energizes you, like you’d want to run ahead, jumping and screeching like the howler monkeys watching from the trees. I’ve only been here ten minutes and I’ve seen more animals than you’d find in all the petting zoos in the States.
So there’s my family standing in the airstrip, all kind of stopping to listen at the sound of them animals talking. Screeching and clicking and jabbering to beat all hecks. Most likely they’re watching us, me especially. Me not belonging in their world. Me in my navy cut offs and baseball cap, standing with knees red with mosquito bites and sweat dribbling down my back, sticking like a second skin.
They all wondering whether they’ll let you in their front door or kill you where you stand.
The funny thing is, all I’ve learned about the Amazon took a seven-hour plane trip stuffed like sardines against mailbags and relief packages. All from listening to a real life Amazon pilot saying over and over again, as we craned our necks to see the green head of the jungle below, “You treat her good and she’ll do the same for you.”
Like she is some kind of woman and we’re all marrying the earth of something. Nothing real Biblical about that, but it sure makes sense.
“Stay here long enough,” Our pilot says, “and you’ll learn fast how to sink or swim.”
With all these rivers, I better start treading water.

you are such a good writer, Hey_jude!

I love the character voice you've created for your story. It's brilliant and I love it! In my opinion, you've created great character depth and mood. I love where your story is leading and I hope you write more soon!

Here's a little something I put together for a prompt my sister gave me:)

There is two halves of a heart on my kitchen floor.
I hear them faintly beating though I cannot take a look. I cannot bear to see them so, red and raw from endless battering. It is true we are so heartless, and it shames me to see it. So I do not look. This is pretending.
I sweep them under the rug, so the reminding is gone. So the world cannot look through the windows at what has remained, bleeding on the floor. Bleeding down our arms from where we’ve come undone.
Put your jacket on I say. So they cannot see your shredded chest, so they cannot look through your many ribs to the emptiness beyond.
You put on your jacket and button the front. I powder my face and my shoulders and fasten my dress, hiding the hole between my lungs.
Smile, I say.
We do it together as we’ve always done. Lying and covering and you holding up the rug while I sweep under and away with my eyes closed. Hidden, whether we like it or not. We do it for each other.
Then we close our arms and like fools are surprised to be left holding only ourselves. It’s like waking and reaching for hands that are not there. Seeing hands I do not want. I say, better for me to tell a lie then break you with the truth.
When it gets bad. Not bad like this, but truly bad. So bad that we cannot live with ourselves and cannot meet our eyes, then you must tell me where the hearts are hidden. So we can fix them with our glue and our promises. So many cracks and so many pieces, nothing I think is strong enough to keep them from breaking again.
What if I went away, you say. Someplace far away where we do not have to talk about these things that we’re better off not saying. Wouldn’t that be nice?
I think I do not want to be left alone. Surely loneliness is bad enough, but complete isolation is worse. Guilt is my fiend, my prison and my jailer. If you leave, I will have no other choice but to look in my mirrors and see what I have become.
Let me look at you instead and be disgusted. Let me pay for my sins this way, than rust inside from searching.
I do not say these things to you. Do what you like. You always do. But that is not true. You take a step and look over your shoulder to see if I am following. I take a step back and pull at you so you will follow. Back and forth and getting nowhere, this is how we play.
I’m sorry, I say, just to see what it sounds like.
What would make you happy, you ask. But I lose my self in my thoughts, and look through you and through the walls and down the street, wishing myself as far away and as invisible as the barrier between us. Nothing can make me happy now. We are too far lost.
Leave me alone.
Normal people break dishes, you say. Why should you hold it in?
Go away. I’m thinking about how everything is sour now. We have really spoiled it all.
Then you hang your head.
It’s my fault, I admit it, you say.
Yes, it’s your fault, I say.
But I am thinking. No, no, the fault is mostly mine. We are battered and we are bruised and standing bare and stripped side by side we cannot hide it. We cannot hide from it.
We cannot hide.
These words scare me more.
I think we are dying. You and I. I think it is like drowning from too much sorrow that we are holding our breath and waiting, perhaps for the sun to rise and drain us from the inside out. There is no coming up for air.
It is sad that it should be this way, clinging and the drowning and the hating but the need. It is a deep and terrible need. I know that only you can give me this.
At night, I miss it, as we often do when we do not have the things we want. In my case, I’ve lost it. I turn the house upside down, under the floors and in the ceilings, to the very backs of my soul, trying to find it.
But you come and I must pretend that I hate you when I don’t.
. I tell myself I will take what I get. But it is not good enough.
Let me cling to you for once and let this something grow stronger just for a moment.
I think I will let it survive. Whatever it is, where-ever it comes from.
Just let me pretend and close my eyes.
One cannot die from a broken heart. But I wish for it with all my soul, and my shameful longings, I dream of these things.
Such hopes are gone cause I fell and broke them.

Fabulous, your writing puts me to shame, Hey_jude. You are the writer I wish I was. . . Awesome job!!

Hey_Jude, your AMAZING!!!!

glad you liked it...haven't been writing as much lately but I have some cool prompt ideas for our next write off. Stay tuned....

Will do. I'm all ears.

You are my inspiration, Hey_jude! Awesome story, I loved it. I've yet to find one of your stories that I dislike. I love them all:)

Thanks everyone, I hope to see some of your work up here as well:)

Hi everyone, I know it's been a long time since I've contributed anything to Wordsmith, and I apologize for that. Life can be distracting! Anyway, here's a quick piece I whipped up just recently, drawing inspiration from some new experiences of mine. Enjoy!


Is this how it feels, to fall away from you?

I never thought that it would be like this, but I can feel myself slipping, fading into the distance. You are standing still, unchanged, while I am letting myself be carried away by the current.

It has a mind of its own, coaxing me to stop swimming, to embrace the flow, to be caressed and loved by its cool touch. So persuasive, so beautiful. I am drawn to its power, and it feeds itself on my desires, tightening its hold on me.

So I let it wash me away, with its promises of bliss, but there is a part of me that screams at the rest, begging it to fight, to turn back. It is the part that breaks and bleeds at the thought of leaving you. The part that knows it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

We were made for each other, you and I. I know that every moment I let myself move farther away, it draws another wound on your heart. You cry my name, and my soul quivers and tries to answer, but it is drowned out by the glinting laugh of the current, touching my face and telling me to leave you behind.

There is another shore, far from you. Someone else stands in the sand, holding out his hand for mine. The current settles me gently on the beach, and whispers to me that this is my new lover. That this life is far beyond what I would have had with you.

We dance in the warm sand, and my senses are spun into a dizzied frenzy by the lights and sounds. I feel as I am a newborn, experiencing life for the first time, suddenly drunk on the potency of it. One by one my inhibitions fade away, replaced by the ecstasy that I have found here.

And yet, when the night comes and the music dies, and I am lying next to my new love, it is not his voice I hear, but yours. It reverberates to the beating of my heart, begging me to turn away from the promises of forever, warning that they are all lies.
I cry, wanting to find the strength to leave my lover in the sand where he sleeps, but I am addicted to what he offers me.

I have found my freedom, and it is more wonderful and terrible than I could have ever imagined. I am afraid to turn back, but afraid of what I will become if I stay. Deep in my soul, I know this is all a façade, that nothing without you matters.

But I know that for now, I will not leave. I am bound to this place, this love, until it crumbles into dust around me, and I am left alone on the sand, crying out to you with a broken heart.

I pray you will hear my tears, and come rescue me.

It's good to hear something from you again, Anastasia. I am always so impressed by your writing. This story is very very cool, puts all mine to shame. :)

You're writing is like a work of art, Anastasia. This piece of writing is very impressive and amazing. I always love reading your works:)

Thanks so much for your kind comments, Memory and Sleeper. It felt good to get writing again; hopefully I can keep it up!

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.................

Encore: Whats the matter...having trouble coming up with what it means...or did you just draw a blank? I'd work on that :D

Sorry it took me a while to comment. Glad to see some of your writing Anastasia. You certainly haven't lost your artists's touch. Great job. I was blown away.

Here's another story I did as a prompt between my sister and I. Hope you like it? (I know a lot of my stories are written in the second person. I hope that isn't annoying to some people)

Dear Heart Who Said You Could Feel

It was always you and I.
Even now, broken we reach for each other’s hands, our fingers bloodied, our raw hearts beating like butterfly wings within our chests.
You say, “It will be okay. In the end.”
I think we’ve already died.
“Don’t leave me, not now.”
You smile, cause you’ve known the truth. All this time. I was too deaf to listen.
“I’m ready,” you say. You believe it with every last breath. I wish I were as sure. But I’ve never been anything like you.
We are dying. Together. In this awful unknown place.
I can understand my own death. I’ve done nothing right in my life, expect loving you. You are my sister…my friend. The other part of me, like another limb. You have done everything right, but still you lose. You die like me, and bleed the same blood across this basement floor.
You once said to me, “A lie cannot live.”
You only ever spoke the truth to me, and your face shone with light that came from within, like a candle set aflame.
You are beautiful.
Yet he takes you away from me.
I promised to hold onto you, to save you.
You smiled. “You cannot save me, “ you said. “Only God can.”
God has let you die.
When I woke you were gone. He had taken you away and I knew what he had done with you. If I lie still enough will I survive?
But I am in your blood, wishing for my death. Why you, why not me? Had there been a mistake?
I wait. But he does not come. Our devil does not climb the steps to where I am tied to the water pipes. I dare not breathe, or open my eyes.
Your limp head, sweating on the floor, you have left a gap within me, more so than the shadow of your body by my side.
Has your light been exhausted? I never thought it could be blown out so easily.
You said to me, “In the end it will be alright.” You promised. I believed you. I clung to you and tried to save you as you had saved me. But no one’s saving me anymore.
All my life I have longed for something I cannot name. Your faith has made you shine, even in our prison. I failed you, but he has not. Your voice hovers in my ear. You are my angel now.
I am left alone…a prospect more frightening then death. Kill me if you must. I should have died first.
You could not save me,” you said. You knew the truth; you whispered it in my ears in the dark. In the night of the cold, damp place that had become our private hell. Not once did you falter. How can I breathe now that you’ve gone? My raft, my solace…I do not pray for rescue. I only want it to be over. It is what it is. I am done caring anymore, fighting.
I will mourn for you till it kills me, and even then you will stay in my heart. I cry aloud for relief, God must hear me. I cannot be alone like I thought. Everything you believed in must be true. It could not be for nothing.
Is this some punishment for my sins? Why then must you suffer? I cannot understand it, I don’t want to try and justify it. Such things couldn’t happen to us, I always believed that we’d float above it all, the danger and the death, the torture in our killing. We have been slain like lambs, with no one to protect us.
Your hand, you grasped my knuckles, through your skin and your bones. “We are not alone,” you said. And you still believed, right to the end.
You are the brave.
Why did you love me, I had nothing to give, nothing to share. I lay at your feet cause I was not good enough to look our eyes. But you loved me.
This is how God must love us, I thought but I did not say the words. It would be easy for God to love you.
They come for me at dawn.
When I am ready to die, they have found me. They rescue me, care for my wounds, an indiscernible pile of bones on the floor. Blood, there is so much.
“Who’s is it?”
“There was another,” I say but the words do not come out. You are gone, and I have been saved. Why?
I should have saved you. Fought until he killed me, given you a chance to live, long enough. If I had only known they were coming, I would have kept us alive. I would…have tried to keep us alive?
Your family is waiting for us. But I am the only one. I see the disappointment. It should be you. I want to tell them I tried.
“It must have been a nightmare,” I hear them say.
They look at my wounds, my blistered skin, they speak of my devil. Your murderer, looking at me, and through me. Not really seeing.
“Did she die, did you see her…” their voices break.
I was asleep, I say in my head. I woke and she was gone. That is worse. I feel asleep when I should have stayed there, hid you under my skin and pretended that somehow you had escaped. Kept you in the shadows so he would not have come for you first. I would be dead and we’d all be better off for it.
“It’s not your fault,” they say. But do they believe their own words? I close my eyes, scream and do not stop. They cannot hear me cause my tongue is gone.
Who can save me now?
When I fall you catch me, and now your grace is my net. I reach out for the one I have pushed away because I am afraid of myself and my weakness. Why could I not save you?
There is a place between my chest that used to beat life. But it has been broken, look now and you will see that you have died and taken it with you.
This is how we fall. But what we haven't done...by guilt.
Tell me once again. Tell me, in the end it will be...okay.

Oh my gosh, Hey_jude. I really don't know what to say. I cried.

Here's mine.


War let him come home today. It had kept him away so long, it was only a matter of time before he came back. There was more than one way. I cried.

- I’m scared.
- I know.
- Please don’t leave me.
- You know I have to.
- But you’ll die.

Silence.

I hate to remind. To be a nag. To sound like his mother. But I am so afraid. He leaves me again. I sit on the horsehair sofa in the parlor. Still as a stone with the radio playing the news from overseas. I am terribly afraid. Bombs. Gas. Death and dying everywhere.

I go to bed but I do not sleep. I try lying on my back and staring at the ceiling. My eyes refuse to close, my mind refuses to be silent. There are no tears yet I cry. There is no sound yet I scream.

Will you ever come home again?

I ask but I know you will. One way or the other.

Can there truly be so much evil in the world?

A letter came in the post today. It was from the government. My fingers were so numb I could barely open it. I knew what I would find. And it made me go cold.

- Dear Mrs. Peter Warren,
This letter is to inform you that Sergeant Peter Warren has been reported “missing in action” on the island Iwo Jima in the Pacific.

It was brief. To the point. Missing in action. He had survived how many bloody years? I screamed at God. I screamed until I could scream no more.

Missing in action. Why don’t they just say dead and body not found? I wish they had and that they hadn't at the same time.

The house seems to fill with people all at once. Almost as if some bell sounded in everyone’s head summoning them. My family clusters around me. My mother cries and hugs me, whispering how much it hurts to see me like this. I know what she means. Twenty-three and I’m already a widow. My sisters and I put aside our past differences and they stay with me a long time.

Two weeks later, I have still heard nothing. It is final. My mother comes and sits with me.

- Kate, you should try to . . .
- What?
- Oh dearie, I’m so sorry.
- Yes.
- Should we go through Peter’s things? It might help you, dear.
- If you think so.

Peter’s things are everywhere in my house. In the parlor. In the bathroom. In the bedroom. I open the closet door in the bedroom. We each had half a closet but I think in the last year, my half has grown a slight bit larger.

I lay Peter’s clothes out on the bed.

- I can’t do this.

My mother goes to work. In the end, she has left me a few things. The house seems so empty. I hang one of Peter’s favorite shirts back up in the closet. I need something as a reminder.

I check on the boxes in the attic everyday at first. As time slips by, I only check them when I am lonely or sad. One day, I don’t look at all.

The front door bell rings. I am in the kitchen today. Cooking takes me mind to other places. I wipe my hands down the front of my apron, streaking white flour against the navy blue.

I open the door.

Love the ending...you're not sure what's coming:)

Extremely suspenseful ending, Sleeper. Such a sad story. And Hey_jude, your story is so terribly sad. It's so horrifying and yet it's a beautiful masterpiece. Keep up the amazing writing! No one writes like you!

Here is a piece of a story I was working on. It was for the one write off, but I had barely started it by the time the deadline rolled around. Here it is:

What if everything you had ever known was a lie? How would that change your perspective on the world around you? Who would you trust? What if you weren’t the only one who had been living a lie?
Perhaps it may be too hard of a concept for you to be able to grasp. Perhaps you can’t imagine everything around you being nothing more than an illusion. A dream.
As for me, my world fell apart on the twelfth day of the fifth month in the year of two thousand-seventy three. It was the day that I came to realize the darker side of the human nature. It was the day that I exposed the evidence of a dark conspiracy. It was the day that I discovered my freedom and courage. Too bad it was the day I died.

0600 hours:
The light tapping sound wakes me. I sleepily push aside my white cotton sheets and sweep my feet over the side of my mattress. I brush aside a stray strand of blonde hair and realize that someone is knocking on the door of my living quarters.
My hand hesitantly brushes against the handle of the door. Who could possibly be knocking on my door? I was the only person to ever step foot inside my living quarters. Visiting took place outside of the dwelling sections. The Patrol Officers occasionally visited the people who had somehow disobeyed or acted against the rules and laws of the Zone.
A sudden rush of fear races through my entire being. Had I somehow acted against the Law? Had my personal and independent thoughts somehow been detected? Independent thought was forbidden in the Zone. We were to follow the teachings and philosophies of the Quixotica Society. Anyone who dared to think differently was regarded as a rebel and then severely punished. That was, if they were caught. I had been extremely careful to ensure my personal thoughts were kept secret.
“Elinn, open the door” The deep whisper comes from the other side of the door. I freeze. I know that voice. Jerking the door open, I stand in wide-eyed wonder.
“Grandfather!” I hoarsely cry. I can’t tear my gaze from his old and weathered face. He is just as I remembered him. The exact same as the last day that I had seen him. The day after that I was told he was gone, dead. Of course they never said the word dead. They didn’t need to. I fully understood the concept of death even though it had never been included in my daily lessons.
“They said you were dead.” I finally manage to whisper. Grandfather takes my hands in his and steps through the door.
“I have some important things to tell you, Elinn. It’s quite urgent and I haven’t got much time.” Grandfather closes the door behind him and leads me to the single chair that sits beside my mattress. I’m still in shock. I never expected to see Grandfather again in this life.
I dig my fingers into my palm to make sure I’m not dreaming. My nails dig into the flesh and draw blood. I’m not dreaming.
“Sit down, child. What I am going to tell you will be hard to understand. I need you to listen carefully because what I am going to say is going to change everything for you.” Grandfather’s face is solemn and his dark eyes reflect his seriousness.
I nod my head. It’s still hard to believe that he’s standing right in front of me.
“First I need to tell you that this world that you live in, this Zone, this Society, it is all a lie. The things that they have told you about the outside world, they’re just lies. The outside world does exist but it hasn’t been destroyed as they have led you to believe. The world is filled with people like you and I. It is perfectly habitable and it is blooming with life. The leaders of the Society, they have a darker purpose for this Zone and its inhabitants.” Grandfather kneels before me and places his wrinkled hand over mine.
“Elinn, none of this is real. You aren’t real.” Grandfather’s head dips as he struggles with the next words. I’m still sitting in complete and utter silence. He can’t be serious. How can this Society, the world that I’ve grown up in, be a lie? Surely he can’t be telling the truth. Deep down inside, I know he is. And that’s what scares me most.
“Every single inhabitant of the Zone is a clone. We are the clones of some of the people who live in the outside world.” Grandfather notices my confused look.
“A clone is a replica, a double of an actual object. You are not an original person, you are just a copy.” Grandfather’s words drop below a whisper. The words take a couple of seconds to sink in. When they do, I’m left sitting in complete shock. I’m not real? How is that possible? I think, feel, and behave as though I were an actual person. At least I think I do. But how can I know for sure? What can I believe in when everything else around me is a lie? What then, is the purpose of my life? Is there a purpose?
“Elinn, you must control your thoughts. I can see the confusion and disbelief on your face. If the Patrol Officers were to get wind of your discovery you would be destroyed. You cannot let into anyone that you have discovered the truth.”

(It takes place in a dystopian society)

sounds cool,
I love dystopia stories, this one really draws me in. I hope you post more: Soon:)