An explosion of inner thoughts...

rosie13 — Sun, 28 May 2006 22:13:15 GMT

Spring is here.

It was so bright.
I’d always be one of the first to burst out in the mornings. The warm, fat rays melted down onto me and I absorbed them.
It was so crowded.
But I didn’t mind that much. We were all friends. We had to be. Spending the rest of our lives like this, pinned together so tight.
Over there was the first to go.
Fading. Fading and changing into something different. No one really knew. But it was happening, and it was quick because soon it was spreading. From all the way on the other side to halfway here, and not stopping. I could only watch and wait as everything changed around me, and feel powerless and more cramped than ever.
I could feel it now.
One spark. Then two. Then three sparks, and then I stopped counting. They were leaving me- I couldn’t stop them. Next to me things went from vibrant to dull, and I felt myself slipping away with the rest of it. I still cared, but couldn’t show it.
The sun was so far away now.
Thinning out, losing the warmth and the flexibility. Everything tore a little bit whenever we moved now, crunching and crumbling. It was just the wind, but we swayed and wanted to fall. We actually wanted it, to disconnect and cut off everything we knew since the first sparks melted into us.
It should be over.
It’s darker for longer, and we don’t care about being cramped anymore. Just to fall. If only that, we’d stop moping and just lie there instead. Lie there and sleep, because we’d never really slept before, just closed ourselves off sometimes and then opened back up when we knew we needed to. We just knew.
Maybe today.
We think so. The light is even shorter know. We’re completely turned. Why not fall now. That would help.
“Oh, please. As if.”
“No, really! She was there, she saw it!”
“Ugh, please, give me a break.”
Rubber soles pattered over the gravel street. Her backpack shifted on her shoulder and she could hear her cell phone vibrating.
“Who is it?”
“Probably Tommy. God, he’s such a freak. I have no idea why you like him.”
“I do not!”
A leaf fell from a tree.
“Oh yes you do, don’t deny it.”
It curved a little as it fell, swaying.
“Why would you think I like him? He’s not even hot.”
Aiming for nothing, it reaches the ground.
“Uh huh, sure, whatever.”
Is it done?
“Seriously, I don’t like him!”
It’s done.
“Uh huh, sure.”
Crunch.
The little bits of brown and orange and grey-green scatter when she lifts her foot, and some stick between the treads. A collective sigh of relief is muffled by shrieking and ‘Fine! I’ll pick up the god damned phone!’
On the ground, a lonely chloroplast thinks about how they wish they were green again.

rosie13 — Sun, 28 May 2006 04:58:07 GMT

Saturday afternoon.

Time didn’t slow down. Her life didn’t flash before her eyes, she didn’t stare thoughtfully, no visions of tar-coated lungs entered her head.
She just took it.
The first time was a mess up. She only inhaled into her mouth, nothing reaching her lungs. It was weak, thin; like inhaling sunshine-flavored incense. Well, that stuff actually made her choke. It was probably the musty-ness of it, and how the smoke seemed like ribbons of water rather than dusty air.
She gave it back.
As she thought about it later, she was surprised her dad’s face didn’t pop into her head. Of all people, he would be the one to convince her that it was wrong, it was all wrong. Just look how her brother turned out. Crashing a car (or so she thought, she’d been lied to before), serving time, parole, being kicked out of his own house, rehab, then rehab again. All because he smoked and drank and was generally a bad kid. Or maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe it was just everything else like how his dad left early on, and how his friends were bad influences and showed him how to snort his medication. He could probably blame the booze he drank that night too, the spike in the punch. It wasn’t me, it was the bottle.
She asked for another hit.
Of course, she wasn’t that suave. It was more like holding out her hand and asking, ‘can I try again?’ Street-smarts had mostly by-passed her, being brought up the way she was. It was a quiet suburbia; but not like what she lived in now. Come to think of it, it was probably where she lived now that made it even more enticing. To try something other than making fun of the ugly kids and the girls who rode horses every Wednesday. There just wasn’t anything to do.
She breathed in.
This time it hit her lungs, soft and smoothly. She imagined it curling into the butterfly-wing organs, then breathed it out through her nose and mouth. Her brain fell over, feeling like it had stood up too quickly, but her vision wasn’t blurry so she didn’t worry. It sort of reminded her of the time they stole balloons from a woman with a prosthetic arm and sucked the helium in until she finally got that eye-rolling feeling. Her mouth tasted like black coffee.
“I’m so proud of you!”
Me too.

pumpkinsoup — Mon, 13 Feb 2006 02:24:40 GMT

discotroupediscotroupediscotroupediscotroupediscotroupediscotroupe

Join it. Especially if you're a fan of panic! at the disco

langartija — Wed, 18 Jan 2006 18:14:18 GMT

Join _goths_r_us

b1ack_bile — Sun, 15 Jan 2006 21:43:54 GMT

I wrote this short story a few months ago.. but... here ya go!

The Cold Blood... line?

Jane had just gotten off the phone with her friend Freya, who had just broken up with her boyfriend. She had been crying hysterically and openly threatened suicide. That was when Jane decided to go over to Freya's house to offer emotional support and hopefully get her mind off the whole thing. So, she put on her coat and left the house and shut the door, leaving the TV on. The door slammed shut and with a little “click” the door was locked. It was at this point the TV announced that there had been a series of murders in the area… but Jane would never see this warning.
It was raining extremely hard and Jane wished she'd brought an umbrella. The streets were almost completely dark, except for the dim streetlights. On one side of the street there were rows and rows of apartment buildings, on the other grassland dotted with randomly placed trees. The trees gave off very elongated and scary shadows and the thought that anyone could hide behind them struck her. She saw something move at the corner of her eye. She jerked herself around to see what had caused the shadow, but the street was empty. The rain started to fall harder and hail started to fall, which were hitting the street so hard they bounced up on impact. She turned into one of the apartment buildings and went up to her friend's room.
She knocked… and then listened. There was no answer. She knocked again, this time harder... still, no answer. She pulled out her keychain with dozens of keys attached. Trying in one after the other and another and another and then finally the door clicked open. She opened it, the TV was left on. “…Today police found another dead...” she turned off the TV. “Hello?” she called. She knocked of the bedroom door… “Hello?” she said again. She opened the door… but just a crack. “Freya???” she called. She saw Freya's cat rush out of the room in a panic. “Hey kitty! What's up?” she said picking up the little black kitten… only to find blood covering the bottoms of its paws.
“What happened kitty??” she asked, but she was unsure if she really expected a reply from the cat. With that, she burst into Freya's room and saw a figure that appeared to be asleep lying with a blanket over them... “Freya! Oh thank god! You scared me!! …Freya?” she yanked the blanket off only to find Freya laying dead the contents of her stomach cut out, her large intestine strangling her body. Jane threw up and picked up the phone to call the police... but the line was dead. At that moment the door was flung open by some imagionary force, hitting the wall so hard it cracked the wood paneling.
She jumped up and ran out as fast as she could; screaming as loud as she could! She knocked on the window of an occupied car and told them to call the cops... all they did was drive away. She cried with all she was worth as if it would make anything better and ran around aimlessly until she tripped. She knocked her mouth on the street, which caused enough force to knock one of her teeth out and make another one loose. She put her fingers in her mouth and yanked the loose tooth out. A string of blood followed the tooth as she removed it from her mouth. The meows of a stray cat filled the street and it started to rain again. She stood up feeling very weak. The water had caused her hair to cake to her face and covered her eyes. Still in a state of temporary insanity, she ran in front of traffic and impact sent her back down to the ground.
Her eyes were so wide they looked as though they would be forced out of her head at any moment. She limped up and tried to run, fearing if she stayed in the same place too long someone might see her. She passed an empty ally and slipped into it silently; convinced anyone following her wouldn't have noticed. At that moment an arm tightened around her neck and threatened her to choke. She tried to scream but she could make little more then a squeak. She used her foot to kick this person as hard as she could in the knee, which made them loosen their grip enough for Jane to get free… but the killer was too fast. He grabbed her arm. They locked eyes and at that moment she knew, she opened her mouth and…. “Line?”
The lights came on, the cameras turned off... the killer pulled off his mask and pulled the script out, thrusting it into her hands forcefully, “DAMNIT MARY!! THIS IS THE 3RD TAKE AND YOU CAN'T REMEMBER THIS GOD DAMNED LINE! HOW HARD CAN IT BE?!” equally as forcefully he pulled the script back and read in a clear voice “Jane looks deep into the killers eyes and gets a look of realization and says 'I knew it was you…' The killer laughs and cuts her throat.” THAT'S IT!! THAT'S YOUR LINE!!! He threw the script on the floor angrily. A man appears from behind one of the cameras “we're going to have to do this scene again.”
With a sigh they get into position…. “ACTION!”...

"Jane had just gotten off the phone with her friend Freya, who had just broken up with her boyfriend…"

rosie13 — Fri, 13 Jan 2006 22:47:54 GMT

This in no way reflects my life.

“It’s not okay, you know?” Can it be thorns that prick your heart instead of paper?
“The bible’s…” He trailed off, because that was a weak line the bible’s not always right, but this? This is definitely wrong. It was contrived, too. He knew that sounding contrived was one of your peeves, didn’t he? You thought he was pretending to be asleep those summer nights, but apparently he only woke up early to leave those notes on your nightstand instead of scribbling them down as soon as your breath evened out and leaving then. No, he wasn’t that intuitive.
“I mean, it was…” he shifted, pulling his knee up a bit closer to his body, “warm and all, but it wasn’t what I thought.” He was talking about when you did each other’s laundry and started a clean underwear fight because he hated the detergent you used and you hated his brand of fabric softener. Plus he had mixed reds with whites, but you didn’t mind because the only white clothes you owned only you would let him see.
“I loved the stars.” A real grin, “for a really long time. Even-“ even after I stopped loving you “even when I got yelled at for all the grass stains on my khakis.” They were jeans. Jeans, he sounded so Ivy League and Sunday afternoon football when he said khakis. You thought you’d finally be away from the insignias and authentic civil war muskets.
“I guess, uh, I guess I just kind of ran out of stain remover? You know?” That was horrible. Analogies are the worst literary technique you can use when you’re breaking up with someone. If all ‘let’s be friends’ speeches were like this, you hoped you never fell for someone who made your knuckles turn white again.
“And, uh… I guess I’m sounding a bit cliché, aren’t I?” Nodding would lighten the situation, and with that uneasy grin on his face the last thing you wanted was to make him more comfortable. You raised your eyebrows instead.
“Yeah- yeah, let’s go.” At least he remembered enough of you to not wait up when he pushed himself off the wooden post and walked down the pier towards land. You’d thought about sitting there for a while and seeing if you’d cry, but the lake was man-made and not nearly as pretty as mountain ranges, so you jumped off the post that was opposite of him and realized how poor your posture must have looked. He wouldn’t remember.
“Hey, mom’s waiting!” He’d stopped now, a footstep away from the path leading to the summer house, tilting his body outward but not at you. Like the great big brother he was. He was waiting too, for you to crack a smile or say something witty and make it seem like a stupid 90’s movie or Dawson’s Creek.
You didn’t know any incest jokes, so the idea went out the window and you’d both settled when your hand touched his for the last time. You’d pointed to his left hand.
“Your wedding ring’s missing. I think the dog ate it.”

b1ack_bile — Wed, 11 Jan 2006 07:28:13 GMT

Control...
control is when you decide you'll lose weight before your birthday party at six flags.
control is when you tell yourself you're not going to eat today and you don't.
control is when you tell yourself to lose that hip fat and you do.
control is when you can schedule fasts and go through with them.
control is when you tell your periods to stop and they do.
control is when you have the power to decide what stays in your stomach.
control is when the skin on your face gets a little tighter.
when those collar bones can cut through glass.
when those boobs have disappeared as well as that ass.
when people tell you that you need help...
... but you know you can stop at any time.

Out of control...
out of control is when you tell yourself to eat but everything looks disgusting
out of control is when there is no more fat to lose, but you're still losing.
out of control is when the doctor says you can't go to six flags like you planned because it may induce a heart attack.
out of control is when you've lost your gag reflex, but the food doesn't stay down anyway.
out of control is when you have to stop to put your head under the water and scream, hoping this is all a dream.
when those "helping hands" have all faded away.
... and you question if you were ever in control to begin with.

langartija — Tue, 10 Jan 2006 20:17:37 GMT

pumpkinsoup — Fri, 23 Dec 2005 16:14:05 GMT

Smiles are contagious, especially rare ones, and I caught yours by stealing it right from your lips.

Err, I quite like that line. It comes from a story I'm writing, but said story is slash, so um, I'm shutting up now.

langartija — Fri, 23 Dec 2005 15:59:23 GMT

WRITE SOMETHING.

langartija — Fri, 23 Dec 2005 15:31:39 GMT

langartija — Thu, 22 Dec 2005 13:55:24 GMT

so, this community is going to the shithole.

all in favour of deletion, say 'aye'

rosie13 — Tue, 15 Nov 2005 03:03:29 GMT

This is purely fiction.

And this is wrong, it’s so wrong, and you feel like you want to throw up, but in a good way? No, no if it was good then you’d be smiling. Nervous and shaking and sick but still smiling. But you’re not smiling now and you’re sick, and you can feel the acid in your stomach churning, and it’s not good and you want to die, it’s so wrong. But then you think about smiling and you actually do smile, and that just made it worse because now you know he won’t stop, he won’t listen, because you smiled why did you smile?! Now he won’t believe you when you say it’s hurting because you’re still smiling and you hate yourself for smiling when you’re nervous or sick or sad or guilty because now he won’t stop.

“You make me sick, god you’re such a whore.” Ooh and now he’s using that dirty talk that makes you feel so gross, so disgusting, so saturated and used. And you still like to imagine you’re untouched, still like the sound of virginity even if it falls on deaf ears because everyone knows you’re not. Ever since him they knew, because no one could not know, no one could look at him standing next to you and not notice the smug smile he wore and the way his fingers curled around your belt loop like he owned you, and he did. He owned every part of you, every flake of dead skin that fell off and re-grew and fell off again. The dead parts of your skin, he even owned those. If anyone had wanted to touch you they couldn’t, because his presence was so strong even when he wasn’t there that they were afraid they’d be sucked in too, afraid to be owned like you were.

rosie13 — Sun, 13 Nov 2005 07:31:28 GMT

I hope you like being confused.

What kind of heterosexual façade can you expect me to keep with your chest so close to my face and my arms wrapped around your waist? The kind where I can talk and giggle and make up glances across the hallway, or the kind where I actually have to talk to him and squeal to you over the phone when he finally asks me out?
I know it’ll happen. How can it not. This is where we are. This is our friends, this is our families, this is our lives, our past. If skin could tell a story, we’d have years of wanting behind us and years of torture ahead.
Can you just get that much closer? I can’t tell if you’re mad at me. I can’t read your body as well as I should. Your mind maybe, but your body is unexplored and my fingers can’t keep up with what little time we have. I never thought feeling guilty would make me want to throw up and take it all back just for you. Can just friends do that?
Love can’t possibly mean to you what it does to me. Your love can travel. From one to another to another, your chest and my arm juxtaposing in a million different ways on a million different girls. My love gets airsick, and traveling by car would make it want to turn around halfway for how long it would take to get to you.
My thumb across your hand isn’t enough. If only butterfly kisses were, because then we’d have been together a thousand times over and I wouldn’t feel like I had to vomit in the bad way.
I’ll breathe with my chest pressed to your back, and then maybe you’ll feel more than my heart beating inside my chest.
“Trust me. It’ll just turn out that way. I know these things.” If you had sighed and reached over to squeeze my hand, I would have smiled and put my arms around your shoulders. I would have told you that I knew, don’t worry, I knew, like when I’d shrugged and said “I don’t understand either” when a pie fight ended in having to stop her from crying. Do you worry?
I loved when my lips smoldered into your neck and you sat there, ignoring me. Ignoring how warm my face got even though I had lowered the thermostat to fifty. I could press my lips to that oh so soft skin and you didn’t care, and I could pretend that they wouldn’t come up from the lobby and make us wish we were alone again. Because I hate wishing for something I already have.
I think maybe it’s just everyone. If you don’t want to talk to me, I don’t talk. If you’re mad at me, I let what could have been salvageable turn to dust, and I never feel bad about it. Your flaws can’t compare. I can count how many times I’ve complimented you. Use the stitches in my comforter as a reference.
It started with your arms open wide and a piece of glass pressing into my palm as I leaned forward to prove your point. It should end with the rock scraping at my back because my shirt hiked up. The cliff was always your favorite place. My next groping in the dark will be up to me. If I can stand to be that selfish with your shoulder still engraved into my cheek.

rosie13 — Sun, 23 Oct 2005 06:32:43 GMT

Fat is warmth.

It layers around your insides and your bones and stays there, keeping in your 98.2 degrees of hot right where it’s supposed to be. It’s everywhere- your stomach, your thighs, your hips, your shoulder blades, your ribcage, your ankle, your fingers and the spaces between them.

It doesn’t hurt. It even cushions the blow. Protects your fragile bones and muscles from the punch to the gut life delivers. Emotional and physical are the same thing in the world of cellulite and saturated versus unsaturated.

You eventually start to wonder how someone so emaciated could ever feel whole. Don’t they miss the way no space is wasted under the fabric? How there’s something more comforting than bone when they hug themselves beneath the covers? The way they could put it off as ‘curvy’ and smile when someone asked if they wanted seconds?

Scales aren’t accurate, you’re convinced. How could they be? They lie and lie and lie, saying that although you skipped breakfast and lunch and only had a single slice of pizza when you came home and even then you blotted the oils off with a napkin, the numbers are still the same as yesterday night. So you try it a couple more times- not eating not eating not eating, and no results. In fact, you’re gaining. Frantically you look through all your past notes from health class to try and figure out what in God’s name is happening, but nothing’s there. It seems you didn’t cover reverse psychology when it came to love handles. Maybe you were sick that day. Is that why all your friends’ jeans look that much looser? Is that why they never seemed to have that small bulge of something ugly pouring just over the elastic? Even their boobs are bigger. You sometimes tried to make yourself feel better by priding yourself in that, but now they’re all B’s and C’s and even D’s, and there’s nothing left to feel good about. Even your lips, which always seemed to you the best part of your face in general, were downsized by the commercialized need to be the best kisser and left in the dust by lip gloss that tasted like toothpaste and tingled just as much. It shouldn’t be surprising in the least, but now that even Victoria’s Secret has let you down, you know there’s no hope.

Maybe getting out once in a while will help. Yeah, just dress yourself up, make sure to pick a flattering outfit, gel your hair, and it’ll be great! You’ll walk around the mall with your friends, window-shopping, making fun of people that pass by, and run up and down the escalators. You’ll eat where everyone else wants to eat, and get what you want- it’s your first time out in a while, so you can let yourself go this time, right? And then you’ll walk around some more, and maybe even see a few cute guys stalking around. After watching them walk in the opposite direction you and your friends will laugh to yourselves, loudly, obnoxiously, hoping that they’ll get the hint and turn around so you can see their confused faces just for the fun of it. You’ll even stalk them a little, keeping a distance of about 3 stores’ width, trying not to laugh too loudly this time, because then they might actually come over and talk to you. When it’s time to leave you’ll take one last lingering look and squeal in delight when they finally turn around and wink at you, all of you jumping up and down in hysterics once you get out of ear and eyeshot. And then you’ll be driving home, giggling and gossiping, running the evening through your head, and you’ll be able to keep on smiling when you realize they weren’t winking at you. They weren’t even remotely faced toward you, but you’ll still be able to laugh afterwards when one of your friends mentions she wished she had a camera. The fact that you were at least 3 feet away from your group of friends at the time will stay firmly locked in your mind, but you’ll still be able to chat for hours on AIM about the evening without coming off depressed, which should be amazing. But amazing doesn’t matter if it happens all the time.

Fat chicks? Fat chicks. You have got to be joking. Is that supposed to be endearing? The word voluptuous doesn’t make you feel any better, despite common belief. It’s like the difference between faggot and flamboyant- there is none, except context and possibly the speaker. Who on earth would ever reply to a personal ad where they described themselves as ‘ample’?

If you’re feeling really superficial, you can even trick yourself into believing you’re not ‘that fat’. Just stand in front of the mirror with your shirt off and pants pulled up to your bellybutton, and it’s not that bad. The bulge of your stomach isn’t visible anymore, disappearing beneath your waistband, and it all looks ‘okay’. If you’re feeling really daring you can pinch the skin from right under your breast that covers the ribcage, and nod to yourself when only a centimeter or two pulls off your bone [you can even ignore the fact that that’s just about how much fat is on most girls your ages’ stomachs, because you’re so relieved that in at least on place on your body you don’t have to worry about stretch marks]. Your breasts may sag just a little more than they should, you may have unshaven armpits and blemishes on your shoulders, but at least you can’t see your love handles anymore. At least there’s not that.

Suicide’s an option. It always has been. It first became reasonable when you made the decision to get changed in the privacy of the stall instead of next to your locker with everyone else for gym. And when you ran down the hall for your next class you noticed that everything jiggled- not just what’s supposed to. Not just what was attractive. You hadn’t really considered yourself attractive, actually, but neither had you considered yourself particularly unattractive either. Maybe it was the inch or two of cellulite that stuck out from your thighs when you sat down, or the way your torso curved when you slouched- out, in, out, in, and out again. But it was something then, there, that made the thought of maybe taking all your medication at once seem less horrible, and more ‘number one in the list of ways to end it all if I never end up joining Jenny Craig’.

You eventually start to wonder how much liposuction costs, and if you’ll miss too much work if you decide to get it done someday. Hopefully soon, you think. Hopefully, my body will be gone and I’ll get a new one. I’ll be completely different. I’ll feel completely different. This won’t be endless anymore- I’ll be able to actually worry about eating that slice of cake because it’ll actually make a difference if I gain a couple pounds. Soon, please, soon. And you’ll pick up the new issue of “Cosmopolitan” and think how one day you’ll be able to write a letter to them boasting about your newest sexual endeavors and experimentations in the glorious sexual revolution, loving how all of the millions of people who subscribe to this magazine will know just how different you are.

It’s that moment, or moments after, that you realize that you’ll never be skinny. Even if you exercise, even if the pounds slowly drop week by week, even if you can finally fit into your mother’s wedding dress- it’ll never leave. You’ll never change. Suction tubes and implants won’t cut it, and a proper diet can’t take back a lifetime of heartache.

drownsodadoll — Tue, 04 Oct 2005 14:25:16 GMT

Im new to this community so hey. Here's the prologue to a short novel i started writng last year...

BEAUTIFUL FREAK

PROLOGUE

Erin dragged the serrated silver knife roughly through her tender pink skin; up, across and down. The harsh cutting movement savagely sliced open old raised scars, thin white welts and cigarette burns that littered the girl’s inner arm, releasing a torrent of blood. The blade carved firstly a jagged O, then two uneven L shapes, and finally, as a small, satisfied smile flickered across Erin’s red lips, a Y was formed. The new healing incisions shone in the wavering candle light as they slowly crusted over with drying black blood, spelling out a single word, a name; Holly as Erin smiled sadistically.

***************************

The buzzer into Carina’s basement flat rang noisily for what seemed like the thousandth time that night. Carina ignored it, as she was occupied by something more important and time consuming. Gripping a belt buckle between her rotting teeth, she hit her left upper arm repeatedly. The skin was sickly white as a brown leather belt was tied round it excruciatingly tight, restricting the blood flow to her arm, and causing crucial blue veins to bulge grossly from beneath the anaemic looking skin. Glisteningly happily, Carina’s eyes focused on the medical syringe, filled with a thick, musky, mud coloured liquid she held in her right hand. She inhaled, and pushed the plunger; the three inch long needle piercing her skin and entering a fat, translucent vein. Euphorically, Carina’s hazel eyes glazed over and she fell back onto the pile of dirty clothes she had been sat on. Carina was unconscious. The needle remained in her thin arm, surrounded by a tiny circle of dried red blood and the buzzer to her flat rang continually.

***************************

Loud rock music played out of huge, dusty speakers that stood in a far corner of the grimy strip bar. Overweight, balding men sat in groups, greasily gripping their ten pound notes between their fat, sausage shaped fingers, gazing hungrily at the slender, scantily clad dancers in front of them.

A petite blonde girl, wearing red lingerie that said “Jessika” on the bottom in diamante, danced on the main podium, flicking her long, peroxide dyed hair behind her and pouting suggestively. She had a whole crowd of men sat watching her, staring and drooling as she flirtatiously slipped her hands inside her bra and knickers, stroking the pale skin underneath…all the while eyeing the customers money that they were cautiously fingering. Jessika repeatedly span around and around the brass pole that was secured in the centre of the podium, shaking her body and bending over seductively, constantly aware of the eyes fixated on her. Striding forward to a particularly ugly, grey haired man, she grabbed his hand and let it slide with hers under the lace material of her bra, to rest on her soft pink nipple. Suddenly and aggressively, she pushed the elderly man’s hand out again, and it landed with a thump on his bulging erection. Hurriedly, he pushed twenty pounds into the Jessika’s bra as she giggled malevolently to herself.

As the pounding of thrashing guitars continued to boom from the speakers, Jessika straddled another customer, equally as ugly as the last, and removed her bra entirely, to loud cat calls and whistles from the audience. Forcing her full breasts into the man’s face, she was blessed with a surge of cash being shoved into her knickers. Triumphantly, Jessika stood up and prowled back onto the small pink platform. Loud, drunken shouts of “No!” were thrown at her as she walked off. Jessika paused, suddenly turning round. She retrieved all the money from inside the band of her red underwear, and smiled before slowly peeling off her lacy knickers. Angrily, she threw them at her leering audience and stalked off in her stilettos, clutching her wages tightly.

***************************

Holly groaned pleasurably as a dark haired stranger thrust himself deep inside her. Squeezing her skinny thighs together, Holly closed her eyes, preparing to fake an orgasm sequenced with the increased panting of the man on top of her. She moaned and shuddered convincingly as the tall stranger smiled triumphantly to himself, pulling himself put of Holly and laying beside her. He stroked Holly’s black and white blonde hair adoringly, but she kicked him forcefully to let him know that he wasn’t welcome to stay. With a disgruntled sigh, the man pulled on a t-shirt and jeans, leaving the room, his ego shattered. Smiling wickedly, Holly began touching her smooth pale skin and prominent bones. She let her hands glide over the sharp shape of the hip bone, the angular curve of her knees and the flatness of her flawless stomach, sliding three fingers down…giving herself the orgasm that the stranger hadn’t.

I suck.

langartija — Thu, 29 Sep 2005 19:38:10 GMT

Rach has perfume. I ask to borrow some. She squirts it in my eyes, as she’s not that bright. There I am, my eyes are streaming, makeup running down my face, when he walks up and says hi. Ack. Why did he have to choose now? Why did he have to choose the one moment when I looked my absolute worst to break our habit of smiling at each other from across the room every day? Then I see that he has a stain on his shirt. This would seem insignificant to most people, but it says a lot to me. It says that even the most seemingly perfect people can let their guard down sometimes. He didn’t care that I was a total mess, or that I smelled of cheap perfume. We talked all through our next class, then we talked some more. The more we talked, the more we realized how right we were for each other. He didn’t…doesn’t care that sometimes I won’t talk to anybody for days on end. In fact, he’s always here to give me a hug and a kiss on the forehead when I’m ready to talk again. I don’t mind that sometimes he gets to drunk he actually can’t talk, because the next day we’ll both be able to laugh about how silly my boy is.

nicky1388 — Sun, 28 Aug 2005 13:22:34 GMT

Hey! It's Nicky again. I feel the need to share just a couple more pieces. These last three will show you how I've changed as a poet.

September 11, 2001: The Forgotten Plane

September eleventh, two thousand one was a horrific day for American citizens

It was the day we were attacked
Four hijacked planes were crashed into American landmarks
Two hit the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York
(What were said to be the strongest buildings in the world collapsed just over an hour after being hit)
Another hit the Pentagon, America's defense headquarters
One-fifth of America's armed forces HQ was destroyed

Then there was plane four
Many people forgot about it after the first month or so
People on that plane had already heard about the attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon
When they were hijacked, they realized where their plane could be headed
Men on that plane, I can't even remember their names, organized a plan to overtake the hijackers
They knew that if they took over or not the plan would most likly crazh and they would die
They almost managed to take over the hijackers, cause the plane to crash in a deserted Philedelphia field
Those men probably saved hundreds of lives, but we don't remember them as well as the others because they didn't crash into a famous building
So don't just remember the Twin Towers and the Pentagon when September eleventh, two thousand one comes to mind
Remember the other plane that crashed in a field, instead of a building, because some very brave men were very courageous and helped to crash it there
When you remember 9-11, rember the forgotten plane

^ That was written when I was in eigth grade, just after September 11, 2001. I was thirteen and my writing sucked.

Thinking About You

I watch a movie
See a couple dance
And suddenly I'm wondering
What it would be like
To be wrapped up in your arms

I listen to a song
It's about the perfect love
And suddenly I'm pondering
What it would be like
To expierience it with you

I walk down the street
See couples kissing
And suddenly I'm imagining
What it would be like
To feel your lips on mine

I'm sitting in the dark
Thinking about you
Trying to picture
What it would be like
To tell you how I feel

I'm hoping one day
I'll get you alone
Abandon my fears and doubts
Live in the moment
And finally tell you 'I love you'

^ That was written 2-4-04. I was 15. I wrote it during English. My writing was improving.

I'll never create the masterpiece
That brings the people to their feet
I can't even begin to hope
That I really even know
What I'm doing on this path
Do you even need to ask
Yes, I'm know I'm just a child
But I'm trying to do something worthwhile
Something that will change the world
Even if I'm just a girl
I've still got a voice to share
Someone out there must surely care
Now can you begin to see
The path that's been set out for me
One filled with pleasure as much as pain
Sunshine days and pounding rain
The only thing I ask of you
Is something you can surely do
The only thing you have to be
Is the constant support I need
Just be there to hold my hand
As I lead the way into an unknown land

^ I wrote that 7-17-05, just 1 month 6 days before I turned 17. My writing has improved by leaps and bounds in my opinion.

What do you think? Which of the three is best?

nicky1388 — Sun, 28 Aug 2005 12:03:31 GMT

Hey! Just one more for now.

i go through life every day
hoping that i'm finding a way
a way to simply live my life
and not cause you too much strife
i'm not perfect
you know this well
so i'm searching for a way to tell
tell you thanks for what you've done
that you'll always be my number one
cause nothing else could begin to compare
to the way you really care
for me and all the things i do
or the love you give so true
you've given my life a whole new meaning
sometimes i fear i may be dreaming
but i know it's all too real
as i watch the wounds begin to heal

7-17-05 a/n ~ i think it's about God

nicky1388 — Sun, 28 Aug 2005 11:56:48 GMT

Hey! I'm Nicky and I'm a poet/lyricist, but I also do a lot of creative writing. I wanted to share this piece with you. It's about my mother.

you're never home anymore
when you are
it's just to yell
at something else i've done wrong
you never try to listen
you just start you're bitchin
the moment you walk in the door
what's wrong with me
why can't i see
the reason you don't seem to love me anymore
there used to be a time
when you were always there for me
but now you're like a stranger in this house
now i can clearly see
that you're slowly pulling away from me
i lose a little more of you every day
what's wrong with me
why can't i see
the reason you don't seem to love me anymore

rosie13 — Fri, 29 Jul 2005 01:41:40 GMT

A suicide note.
Found among the things of John Smith, who shot himself January 4th, 2000.

To Shake Off the Mortal Coils

Last entry into a diary

A permanent solution to a temporary problem - that is what the wise and good people state to help. The way they make suicide look like a decision based on cowardice is remarkable, when in the end it is a clear statement of one's strength - at least mine. I cannot speak for all those others.

For all those others that take sleeping pills to attract attention.

For those that wait on the roof of a skyscraper until someone notices them to call the cops.

I can only speak for myself, and my decision is not based on weakness but on absolute power. Hamlet said it, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Camus and Sartre considered the question.

It is not based on weakness but on a free will, the liberty to contemplate the unthinkable. It is a question only the strongest can face.

They say it is easy to escape life but hard to go on with it. What fools. How many people can hold a gun to their head and pull the trigger?

How many can cut a knife into their arms to pierce arteries and veins?

How many can make the little step off a skyscraper?

How many can swallow the cyanide pill?

Small movements, a jerk of an index finger, a cut, a step, a swallow.

How many think they can do that but have to face their weakness on the doorsteps of a mysterious, scaring new existence?

How many have the mental strength to deal with such a decision?

How many can question their lives?

How many can face the fact that all they have done is useless and that there is no use apart from procreation -and what kind of a goal is that? Fucking, as the meaning of life. A goal for rabbits, for sheep, not for humans. And yet it is good enough for most.
To wait, to wait for something to come, to save them, something that does not exist, something that does not come. And so they keep on giving birth while standing on their graves, waiting like sheep.

How many can ask those questions?

How many can draw the consequences?

Those mentioned philosophers did not. None of them did agree to it in the end. None of them. Because suicide is wrong? Because as Nietzsche stated, the philosopher has to live his thoughts and hence set an example in dying. None of them were strong enough to do that. Whimps. Intellectual wankers, smart asses, suckers. Unworthy to have been read by me.

It is easy to live, to go on with it, to stand the treatmill. All you have to do is switch off your brains, not think, do what you are told and expected to and you will get old. There is nothing easier than living. Man is built to endure pain. He can easily bear the whips and scorns of time as long as he doesn't question them, and as long as he is not confident enough to wonder whether it is worth suffering. All it takes is to stick to the routine. There is nothing simpler than that.

Yeah, sure they will find reasons when they dig in my past. They will say:

He could not stand the pressure his profession had put on him, he had always suffered from depression, he was suffering from a broken heart when his girlfriend left him. He could not stand loneliness, unrequited love of all sorts. He was too sensitive.

Those would be their words.

Bullshit.

And they will be feigning sympathy and compassion, they will look at the art, the literature and state how great it was, what a loss it is, what a great future lay ahead of him.

The sympathy of the deaf, dumb and blind, the braindead, the sympathy of the hens in the battery.

This is not the reason.
Sure, I am bleeding all over the place, sure I am suffering from pressure, sure I have always been depressed, sure all of this is true. But it is not the reason. I am not doing this out of pain. This is a decision based on positivity. Lust for life. But not that stale and dull life. Real life, genuine emotions.

To shake off this mortal coil,
To step up to the Gods and to spit in their faces,
To make the final decision, the only one that cannot be undone.
Knowing that it might be a terrible mistake, a Faustian mistake, a bargain with the devil.
A voluntary step into something unknown.
Emptyness?
Heaven?
Hell?

Suicide is not based on weakness, it is based on absolute power - at least in my case.

Imagine:

To stand on top of the highest cliff.
To feel the wind tearing at my clothes, the elements.
The only truth left in a world of lies and hypocrisy.
The beauty of the abyss.
The anticipation, like anticipating the greatest sex, an existential foreplay.
Looking down into oblivion and voidness.
The ground far, far away as it seems from here, but in reality only a couple of seconds away.
Standing there.
Feeling eternity in a restricted world.
Feeling a decision in a prefabricated existence.

To draw the final breath,
To make that little step,
To know, that for once a decision was made,
To feel one foot above the abyss,
To think for a split second you can float in the air like the cartoon characters on TV,
To feel losing balance,
To fall,
To gain speed,
To have the air tear at your hair and clothes,
To feel the cold wind violently caress you,
To see the ground coming closer,
To scream in orgiastic excitement,
To know what you have done,
To know that you have done something for once.

Maybe even: To doubt,
To regret,
To wish yourself back to the top of the peak that you are pacing away from.
Mercilessly
To fly into annihilation,
To see the truth, whether it is a beautiful or an unbearable truth for the fraction of a second only.

Those 10 seconds would be - must be - will be much more revealing than 10 years of most other people,
Than the whole life of most other people. More true, essential, focused, divine. Purer. 70 years forced into seconds. Refined into pure knowledge and truth.

Those 10 seconds would be - must be - will be worth a lifetime.

A worthy payment for endless agony

No more endless, unbearable pain.
No more routine.
No more repetition.
No more

-- Peace.

To sleep, perchance to dream.

To give in to the tiredness.

To fall asleep.

To find solace.

No more agony.

To end.

The end.

originally found: [ http://suez-cide.tripod.com/shakeoff.html ]

rosie13 — Thu, 28 Jul 2005 05:20:31 GMT

Life.

Another passing joke, another automatic smile. Jesus, you really need to stop doing that. Giving these empty people empty smiles, the way you’ve always seemed to. It wasn’t fair if both ends were empty, because then no one would be receiving- a waste of space. But you keep doing it anyway, because you don’t want to be the first to stop the endless game of give and take. Nowadays, you can even play with a worthless hand.

rosie13 — Wed, 27 Jul 2005 04:45:02 GMT

A piece shown to teachers, family members and friends.
I still don't like it as much as I should.

Holding On

“Why do you keep holding on?” I asked, watching his face twist and contort in pain. “Why do you insist on remaining here,” I reached out a hand to touch his cheek, “When you could easily travel to a better place?” His response was to wrench his head away from my caress and grip the bare branch tighter. I looked down passively as his knuckles whitened with his increasing hold, though the sweat from his palms was causing him to slip farther and farther away from solid ground. His feet dangled, no doubt gone numb with fatigue long ago. A wretched breath coursed its way through his clenched teeth. I looked down at him with mild pity. He just wouldn’t give up, would he? That stubborn, arrogant little fool. Never knew when to quit. I let out a terse breath of exasperation. There was just no getting rid of this man, was there? I knew that his fate depended on the fall, but he just wouldn’t give in. Maybe a little convincing was in order…?

I raised my eyebrows slightly as my fingertips rested on the top of his hand. “You will see. I’ll show you what awaits on the other side.” I closed my eyes and crept into the dark crevices of his mind.

I saw moments from his voyage pass by me, and completely disregarded it. I was looking for something more important… Something that would grab his attention… Ah! I had found it. I drew his memories from his mind and splayed them into my own. They replayed behind my eyes, and I made sure to keep them isolated from my own personal memories. My eyes opened now, gazing upon the man once more. I touched my fingers to his hand shortly then raised them in the air, spread out and tingling. His recollections passed through my head, down my arms and into my palm. There was a shift of fabric as he began trying to pull himself up further. “Look upon your future, boy. Raise your head.” Tentatively, his head rolled up to face me. The images released from my fingertips and spread out in front of us, creating a few sparks of light.

Scenes of him and his lover passed before our eyes, prancing off our breath. He saw himself laughing, singing, dancing; every precious moment between him and his love was shared between us, pausing when it came to a picture of her laying next to him, cuddled up beside his sleeping figure. We watched as she kissed his forehead and whispered in his ear. I looked down into his glistening dark eyes.

“You see now? All of this could be yours again. You can be reunited once again, happy with your love.” I paused as a single tear rolled down his cheek. “You do remember what being happy felt like, don’t you?” His eyes squinted shut as I wiped the stray tear from his face. “I know it’s hard to imagine. I even find myself wondering what it would be like if I ever heard a joke, and if I would remember how to laugh.” I felt my lips automatically curving upwards. “But you have a second chance. You can go back to it all.” The branch cracked sharply. My eyes wandered down to the fracture that was rapidly splitting it in half.

His foot scraped the wall of the cliff, and a few pebbles fell down into the deep gorge. They bounced off the side and echoed throughout the overhang, causing the boy to cringe. A sigh left my lips. I only wished his decision would be voluntary instead of predestined. What was the point of being able to choose if you didn’t use it? He had a choice, didn’t he? It wasn’t even supposed to be this way; his life was to be ended without my intrusion. My interference was entirely of my choice. I had only wanted to have him die in peace. But if he continued to make unwise decisions, I suppose it was not my responsibility anymore. Let him die in pain, in sadness. I gave him the opportunity to be happy and he was wasting it! Ungrateful would have been an understatement.

As if to prove my point, he let out a surprisingly strong growl, being as weak as he was. With amazement I watched as he pulled his limp body up, resting his elbows on top of the thin piece of wood. His finger reached out feebly towards me and I was reminded of a crippled old man. “You,” he whispered hoarsely, “You, you’re the bringer of fate, aren’t you?” My eyes crossed as I stared at his finger and I nodded, briefly amused at how he hadn’t figured that out before. His shoulders shook and he struggled for breath. “That’s what I thought.” His tone became livid. “You killed her. Her life could have been spared and you took it.” My eyebrows raised. Killed her? …Oh yes, now I remember. She had died of some disease. Why he thought it was my fault in some way was beyond me. His eyes bored through mine but I didn’t say anything. Still fuming, he lowered his finger and grabbed hold of the edge of the cliff instead. My eyes narrowed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ignoring my question, he raised stiff limbs onto the solid ground. My eyes narrowed further as he began huffing and digging his nails into the dirt for leverage. “Don’t you understand? You are going to die. Why must you insist on impeding destiny?” He simply grunted and slid his upper torso onto the edge. In a fury I slammed my hand down in front of his face. He stopped moving and continued his ragged breathing. “You’re only putting it off.” His eyes didn’t meet mine and he glared at the ground pointedly.

“So what if I am?” I kept my position and let him continue, “I’d rather die trying than just give up. I’ve come way too far and done too much to give up now.” Now rather bored with his attempts, I rested my elbow on my knee and let my cheek fit into the palm of my hand.

“How very… noble of you, boy.” His arms reached out and began he pulling his legs up the edge. “But that still does not change the fact that you’re going to die.” His eyebrow twitched then, and his fingers started slipping. He let out a frustrated grunt, but the dirt under his fingernails was collecting as they left deep marks in the ground. He began clawing desperately, but it was pointless. Gravity was taking its toll, and soon enough he was in his former position, hanging by one arm on the swinging branch.

How long was someone willing to try and defy what was most obviously going to happen? He didn’t seem amused by my impatient nature, and began to curse under his breath. I scoffed. “Eloquent last words.” Immediately he stopped, scowling. I ignored his sour attitude. It was exasperating having to deal with unwilling bodies. For some reason, humans were the most rebellious creatures when it came to passing over. They just couldn’t accept that it was time to go, and somehow thought they could cheat another day out of death. Ha! As if death was that lenient. The most he was ever willing to spare was a few minutes. Even for that, the Sisters admonished him. They too were strict. Every second counted when it came to life and the strings of fortune. Which is why I am reprimanded on a usual basis for granting terminals extra time.

The man in front of me recaptured my attention when he let out a small whimper. My eyes softened and I immediately felt a spark for sympathy for him. It really was a tragedy, having it all end like this. But this was how the Fates had prophesized it, and it would be that way. It was my job to see to it. I put my hand back on his cheek and this time he didn’t shrink away. “Do you want to see her again?”

He nodded hastily, eyes shutting closed.

I leaned next to his ear, whispering, “Then let go.”

His head shook violently back and forth. I pulled my hand back and pouted. “What of your lover? I cannot bring her back, but you can go to her. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want what was once lost to you? I’m giving you a chance, boy. Take it.”

His brow furrowed and his eyes stayed closed. I opened my mouth to add something but he spoke before I had the chance. “I want to see her.” He paused, “But not if I have to listen to someone like you.”

Of all the indignant little… How dare he insult me! I balled my fists up, my eyes boring holes into his skull. I took in a deep breath to scream my lungs out at him. A second before I did, though, I stopped myself. I unclenched my fists and took several deep breaths. Fine. If he was going to be incredibly ungracious and obnoxious about it, then let him be. He could die unhappy; see if I cared!

“Besides, it’s not like it matters to you, anyway.”

I exploded.

“I … you … you are the most infuriating man I have ever met! You obviously have no idea what I’m doing for you!” His eyes opened and he glared at me. “You ungrateful little… You love her, don’t you?” I demanded, pounding my fist into the ground again. Startled by my question he stared at me blankly.

“Yes…” he replied slowly, frowning and looking at me suspiciously.

“Then why are you wasting your time? Or rather, your time with her!” He continued to stare at me. “You could be with her right now, instead of pointlessly arguing with me.” He relaxed his face as it dawned on him. “She’s waiting, boy. Don’t delay your reunion any longer. Take the chance.”

His breathing hitched and I stilled in anticipation. There were a few moments of silence before his hoarse voice broke it. “Will I be with her? Forever?”

I nodded. “Of course. Forever and much longer.” Splinters of wood fell down the chasm and his weight shifted.

“Promise?” he choked.

I lowered my face to the side of his head; my lips brushed against his ear. “I promise,” I said sincerely. He gasped for air and a pained look crossed his features.

“I swear,” he shuddered continuously “If you’re lying to me I’ll come back and haunt you for the rest of your damn life.” Something bubbled up inside my chest.

“That would be quite a long time, I’m afraid. But I’d enjoy the company nonetheless.” I pulled back to see his face and was surprised to find the beginnings of a smirk forming on his lips.

“Making sure people die must get lonely, I guess.” The branch creaked and dropped an inch. He winced and I saw his jaw tighten.

“You don’t even know.” For a moment our eyes met, and I saw his flickering emotions dissolve into a bland, dark cloud of lifelessness. It was almost over.

In realization this was actually the end, he sent me a small smile. I leaned back a little in surprise. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. I gently placed my fingers on his forehead.

“May you be forever in peace, boy. Enjoy the rest of your everlasting life with ones you love.” There was a short exhale and the skin beneath my fingers fell from my touch. My own breath caught in my throat and for a split second I couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening. I looked down at his falling form, his eyes closed and limbs lifeless, bumping against his equally flaccid torso. A gust of air rushed into my hair, twisting the many curls and tendrils. It blew past my face, and with it came a breathy whisper,

“Thank you.”

I placed my hands roughly on the cliff and caught the last glimpse of his limp body falling into the misty darkness. It took me a moment to control the sudden rush of adrenaline that had spread through me and I placed a single hand over my heart. Carefully, I stood, my toes extending over the edge of the cliff. I brought my other hand over my heart. Truly and fully, I smiled.

“Finally,” I whispered. “Finally, he stopped holding on…” I looked down into the fog once more, sending my own thanks into the darkness. Silently I turned, searching the foggy gloom. Noticing the all-too-familiar spark of light, I began trailing my way towards it. There was no rush to get back, anyway. It wasn’t as if I enjoyed the Sisters’ continuous lectures that seemed as if their only purpose was to bore me out of my mind.

My hand reached out to the silver glimmer in the murk and it widened at my touch, erupting into a swirling portal. I took one last look behind me, the cliff barely visible. The smile still on my lips, I stepped through, wondering what eternity will be like with a ghost by my side.
--

rosie13 — Mon, 25 Jul 2005 18:04:22 GMT

Written at 2:30 in the morning on my bathroom floor

No, fake. Fake fake fake. His words are all fake, and so are yours. They’re repeated everyday, they’re nothing new to you or anyone else in this messed-up place. They’ve heard it all before. So have you, for that matter. Even sometimes you feel like you’re playing the same conversation over and over- it’s not just a question of de ja vu anymore. The same “What’s up? Nothing. Me neither” or “Just hanging out” or “Guess what? What? You have to guess!” and even the coined “You’re such a dork/nerd/idiot/jerk/ass.” Over and over and over. It’s like a broken record of all the most boring conversations you’ve had in your life, repeated every single day.

Join the club, hun.

rosie13 — Sun, 24 Jul 2005 18:34:26 GMT

A drabble written at two in the morning on my bathroom floor.

You think about how perfect it would be if he just moved his hand so it was under the hem of your shirt, a couple inches into your waistband, and then turn his head so his lips were against your neck instead of his cheek. You aren’t at all surprised at how romance-novel-esque your thinking is, because it’s been that way ever since you picked up that forbidden copy from under your mom’s bed that had a shirtless, buff, long haired blonde on the cover who reminded you of the guy from the butter commercials. But then he takes his plutonic hand off your waist completely, lifts his head off your shoulder and pats you on the back, saying how it was getting late, and it’s about time you got back. All of a sudden you’re shoved back into your guy friend role, the best bud, good man, or even friendly acquaintance if you wanted to get technical. Just another regular old Joe. Not Joanna. Not Joey. Not even Jo-jo, the neighborhood slut that always had a full liquor cabinet and condoms and sex toys to spare if you has a twenty on you. Just Joe.
Your skin isn’t even warm this time.