i’m bumuming that others, too, have writing clbumes; i’m just trying to get through mine without being sent to the school psychiatrist yet again. still, i can only write what i know. i thought i would share this week’s work with you all here since i felt that i could rely upon my audience truly understanding me.

It’s quick, the cut. The most unkindest cut of all, even. The blade slices roughly through the skin, drawing the two sides apart like parchment torn raggedly in two. A moment of breathing, a moment of stillness and then, inevitably, seeping up through the torn flesh, blood comes, a visceral red, bringing to mind all that has come before and all that is yet to come. The blood pools, starts to congeal, and then, gathering too much mbum and too much force, drips with an excruciating slowness, revolving in seeming slow motion only to smash suddenly into the floor and shatter into a thousand points reflected back on the tip of the moonsilver blade.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out, sighs reflected by the welling of the blood and the sound of a heart beating, seemingly endless, yet unwilling.  The blood starts to slow, to clot, only to be reinvigorated with the tainted agony of the edge scraping ceaselessly over the ragged flesh grown inured to the pain.  Inside pain finds outside loci, with the inner screaming continuing without cessation mirrored by the slow pulsation of blood to the surface as the quicksilver sheen of the razor slices thrice more, drawing deeper and deeper emotions and strengths to the surface.  A glance at the face of the girl shows nothing more than a taut and drawn expression peering anxiously at the inner force that proves her existence.

Slicing deeper and deeper through layers of skin, the quest for truth seems nothing so much as a revelation about existence.  No matter how exquisite the pain, the agony, the truth, the ability to deny pain mirrors the ability to deny the truth, the relentless battering of life and reality against barriers set up to protect the shattered reality that is so painfully inhabited by one so desperate to escape it.  The more sharp and pressing the pain grows, the further away the girl distances herself, drawing her arm closer to her side and watching emotionlessly as the blood inches its way out of her arm, creating Rorschach images of countless nightmares and dreams on the tile at her feet.  Glancing at the images is not enough and can never be enough as countless images become evident within the world opened up by the lifeblood coursing out of her body, a world more nightmarish and yet more true and fantastic than any other.

i had to write a short story, so i did. my teacher sent a copy to the dean of students. i’m not sure why. still, i thought i’d share.

Staring with a manic attentiveness at the glowing, pixilated screen that has kept her attention for the past few hours (or is it days? even years?), the girl idly taps her fingertips lightly over the keyboard, making enough contact to maintain an open connection with the physical world yet still clearly separated, a chasm gaping, whether solely in her mind or in some more cosmic form as well. Her face is attentive, yet her eyes are glazed, almost as if she’s paying greater attention to something she sees only in her head than what is on the monitor before her. What could be in her head that draws her attention away from the world that encompbumes her completely? Flashes can be seen in her eyes, faint flickers of terror and agony and bliss. Looking more closely at the girl, traces of sleeplessness can be seen, shades of grey and black surrounding her eyes. Her hands tremor slightly, seemingly of their own accord.

Slipping beneath the skin, becoming one with the lost soul sitting before you, you are suddenly swept into a maelstrom of pulling and tearing winds, flailing wildly in an attempt to restabilize your universe, suddenly gone awry, suddenly capsized, suddenly skewed from the truth, from reality. Slowly coming to rest, regaining an unsteady balance, you look out and are unable to tear your eyes away from what you—what the girl—sees, both in the world and in her head. Screams echo through the world you now inhabit, terror-stricken whimpers of doubt and remorse followed by wails of utter agony, seemingly inhuman and seemingly everywhere and yet nowhere. Uneasily looking around, you can see flitters of unknown beings, unknowable beings, always in the corner of your eye and just out of sight, flickers of color, shape and sound. What is this place?

You see images that you’ve never seen before and yet that seem eerily familiar, echoing nightmares and dreams you’ve had timelessly. Wheeling patterns and colors that you cannot even begin to fathom are echoed by sounds that are too much and too little to process all at the same time. The world you inhabited is irreversibly changed, perhaps scarred, and there is no way to escape the dreamland sequence that you have catapulted yourself into. Night horrors scuttle past you, emanations of black that give off an evil stench both physically and emotionally, leaving a taste behind that saturates and pollutes. Everything seems tainted, perhaps permanently, as you step towards the eyes that peer out into the reality that you left behind for this gorgonian daymare.

As you look out, you see horror after horror occurring, death, madness, plagues, fires, and floods. Disease is everywhere, people dying in the streets even as they flee, desperately pushing their children away from them, towards the pestilence sweeping down upon them, in a vain attempt to escape, to find life, to live, only to be crushed in their path by others fleeing. Your mind starts to cave in under the constant pressure, as you realize that if you had not stepped inside this life, this world, this existence, much of this would not happen and may not happen and could not happen. Insanity circles ever nearer, ripping gashes in the boundaries you’ve thrown up in a vain attempt to protect yourself and you can hear it whispering to you, seducing you, trying to draw you into the riptide current that, as if it were Charybdis, will inevitably and eventually bury you under a thousand pounds of grief, sorrow, and rage and leave you screaming out your pain to an uncaring and unhearing universe. Struggling mightily, you push it all aside, desperately, fearfully, and fall, gasping for breath, back into the reality you once knew, a comfortable place, a normalcy. Yet you are not where you were nor what you were; life seems unchanged, the same as it was a mere second ago in the mind of another and you realize that the voice you hear is your own. Suddenly, you find yourself screaming and tearing at your own face with your nails, ripping futilely at the flesh that now encompbumes you, trying desperately to eliminate that which has become you as you understand what you were and realizing that you have become what you fear most. You are yourself or the girl or the girl is you or the girl has become you and you are doomed to scream forever at the ceaseless hell surrounding your mind. You watch as you (or what was you or what you wish you were) turn and walk away and you, drawn as if by a greater force than any you have yet felt, turn back to the screen that keeps you prisoner. Were you ever other than you are?

It’s . . . different!

I tihnk it’s vrey impottnt an good.Log in to see images!

i wish i unnerstod it bettr, tho. Log in to see images!

this was in my head when i woke up.

i wrote it down.

i don’t think i’ll show it to anyone at school. last time i talked to the campus psychologist, she said “if you’re having suicidal thoughts, it’s important to act upon them.” i’m pretty sure she meant act to get rid of them, though.

Tormented by the fleeting images of constant nightdreams and daymares, the girl turns restlessly from side to side, tangled in the sheets entwined around her legs. Her arm creeps up and brushes away a wisp of hair from her sweating face, turned into the pillowcase in a vain attempt to shut out the reality slowly coming back into focus. Strange expressions pbum over her face, bizarre combinations of agony and ecstasy, a seeming saint tortured by philistines. Waking comes slowly, as a mixture of emotions sweep across the drawn face of the girl. The slow realization that life has gone on, that she has awoken once more to that world that she so unwillingly inhabits, is one that slowly grinds into her consciousness and wipes out the spark that had so briefly existed in her eye. She untangles her legs from the sweat-soaked bedcovers and sweeps her feet over the edge of her bed. Slowly shaking her head in a futile attempt to clear the cobwebs of sleep from her mind, she groggily stands and stumbles her way to the bathroom, where she stares blearily into the mirror that reflects her face. Regaining consciousness is hardly her ideal start to a day.

anyone else write?

gabeisfalkinsweet Posted:

i write a bit, but ive been uninspired lately. mostly ive been writing ghost in the shell fanfiction where motoko has her way with bateau. There is something I’ve been working on though… here’s a sample

dis is some Asimov **** right here

gabeisfalkinsweet Posted:

why thank you. wow, i might not even need smileprin today.

Lies, what kind of emo are you? Log in to see images!

i think it’s possible to just be sad and never know happiness except through the words of others.

that’s what was going through my head when i wrote this:

The girl seems hopelessly lost, standing alone and indecisively as streams of purposeful people scurry around and past her and are swallowed by the distant buildings awaiting them. She is thin, almost a waif, with a smudged face and a look in her eyes that testifies to her having seen more than one her age should have. She half-turns, indecisively peering around her, looking for something or someone, some sort of sign, yet all seem oblivious to her presence, striding past her without seeing her. A grey drizzle starts to fall, deadening the slate sky even more. She sighs and shakes her head in sorrow.

The girl looks up into the sepia-stained sky, seemingly noticing the weather for the first time. She pulls her sweatshirt in tighter around her narrow frame and shivers, a drop of water coursing down her face and dropping to the pavement, caught up in a stream of other drops, lost in the puddles. She, however, stands alone still, watching and waiting for . . . for what?

The drizzle increases, becoming a steady rain. The girl is soon soaked, even drenched, and the rain shows no signs of slacking. She, however, shows no signs of moving. It is becoming increasingly hard to see the girl thanks to the rain. She becomes ever more immaterial, her face growing whiter and her clothes darkening, the world starting to blend in with her. It is almost as if the polluted rain is purifying her, a sort of cleansing otherwise impossible.

The steady rain has now reached monsoon-like proportions. No one comes to help the girl, to ask her if she’s ok, to see if she needs something or someone. The torrential downpour wipes out all sight of the girl. A faint shadow can still be seen through the sheets of water, but even that seems to be growing fainter. Seconds, minutes, hours later, the rain starts to let up.

Soon, the girl can be seen again. More accurately, were the girl there, she could now be seen. The sky lightens to an almost blue, a shade never seen in this bleak world. Where the girl was now lies only the soaked sweatshirt she was wearing and nothing else—or, rather, nothing else obvious.

The sky is now clear of clouds for the first time in as long as memory stretches; the color is that of a baby blue known only in legends and myths as the true color of the sky. Oddly enough, the blue is the same shade as the girl’s eyes. People step out of the buildings that had earlier swallowed them, looks of wonderment on their faces. One walks to the spot where the girl was and where the sweatshirt remains and picks the sopping wet piece of clothing up off the ground. Something previously hidden within the folds of the sweatshirt drops to the earth.

A woman scurries to the spot where the object dropped, examines it closely, and drops to her knees, keening in grief. The others gather around her, whispering to themselves, puzzled by her actions, awaiting an explanation. She hiccups herself to a gradual stop and says, with tears streaming down her face, “We’ve done it again.” Puzzled, the others look closely at what she cradles close to her, cupped safely in the palms of her hands, and as they recognize the object for what it is, comprehend that again one has sacrificed all to save their world.

The second coming occurred—and no one left.

Jezebel Posted:

i’m bumuming that others, too, have writing clbumes; i’m just trying to get through mine without being sent to the school psychiatrist yet again. still, i can only write what i know. i thought i would share this week’s work with you all here since i felt that i could rely upon my audience truly understanding me.

Dear Miss Jezebel,

Your “writing bumignment” made me sick to my stomach! If that’s what they’re teaching in school these days, it’s no wonder so many people are homeschooling their children. Instead of inflicting pain on yourself, which does no one any good, why don’t you go to your local church and make the Stations of the Cross. Even if you’re not Catholic, reflecting upon the sufferings of Jesus will put your problems in perspective.

I pray that God’s light will shine down upon you.

With all Christian love,

Mrs. Lucinda Sherwood