Your Own Stories

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Your Own Stories

Post  spiffythegreat on Sun Feb 22, 2009 5:23 am

If you've written a story of some sort, any creative writing, please post it here if you want to share it! Smile

Here's a random story I've written:

I shook with fury and sadness as I listened to the high screeching that was my mother’s voice. I corrected every statement in my mind, a tear for each from assumption of my own life. Warm tears rolled down my cheeks and dripped off my chin, onto my white t shirt, leaving grey stains and semi-see through spots on the white cotton. My nails dug into the palm of my hands, and the veins on my hands popped out. My knuckles turned whiter, and my arms began to shake with the rest of my body. The small scar on my knuckle eventually faded to a tiny red dot. My breath hitched in my throat and I hiccupped and coughed. My voice sounded feeble and helpless in my cough, and a few more tears leaked from the corner of my eye as my mother got my name and birthday wrong. My father, who was reading an article on his laptop, looked up to glare at my tear sodden shirt. I wiped my face hastily on the sleeve of my shirt, leaving a trail of greyness on it, and waited a few seconds to make sure my mother’s speech was over. My ears rang at the silence that followed my mother’s piercing words. I could hear the blood run through my ears, and the sound of a quivering heartbeat that throbbed painfully.

I stood up and tiptoed to the grand stairs and climbed up in jerky movements. I sobbed quietly as I heard my mother talk to her husband in a gentle, beautiful, bell like voice. A sentence was interrupted, and my father’s rough voice boomed from the living room.

“Make your own dinner tonight.”

I sobbed again at the heartbreaking instruction, nodding to myself and set another foot on the cold marble. Each of my steps was placed on the marble in an unsteady rhythm. Each time my foot hit the shiny surface, there was a small slapping sound that reminded me of my deceased puppy, Pasta’s high bark. Painful memories stabbed at me as I remembered what it felt like to be happy. I arrived at the carpeted hallway and fell onto my knees. I felt a stab of pain at my knee as they hit the carpet.

My back hit the wall as I listened to my father talk to the housemaids, ordering them not to assist me in making dinner in any way. Making me make dinner was pointless. For the past, no, for my entire academic school life, my parents had never laid eyes on my reports. My results in Home Economy were outstanding, and I enjoyed cooking more than anything else. I swear that my parents knew nothing about me skipping an entire month of school, even though the school had written four letters to them about my absence. Even if they did know, they didn’t do anything about it.

I reached out my arms and balanced my weight onto them, crawling towards the safety of my room. I reached a plain white door with delicate carvings of flowers and leaves on them. The wood seemed so silky and ancient, that I dared not touch the door in the fear that it might shatter into thousands of microscopic splinters. My damp shirt brushed the side of the slightly ajar door. My slim figure slid through the gap, and a gust of wind pushed it shut behind me.

I lay on the thick carpet and cried. Now the memories were flooding right through my mind. I tried to close the flood gates, but instead the hinges broke off and danced off with the current.
When I was young, my parents adored me. They had kept my first strand of hair, first photo, everything. As I grew older, my parents seemed to care less and less about my existence. I remember the first day of prep… and the last.

My first day of school seemed like so much fun. I arrived at my classroom, and mother and father lingered, chatting to other parents and welcoming the other children. When the bell rang, they kissed my goodbye, and I was left to the entertainment of fellow peers. In the morning, we got to know each other and played games such as Duck, Duck, Goose and Tag on the open sports field. I was tall for my age, and I started off being “it” in each game, catching other students easily. I remember that morning, that I had swapped my juicy apple slices for a bunch of full, purple grapes with a girl name Shannon Gilbourne. It was a warm day, and after lunch, we all lay on the grimy carpet while Mrs Carol sprayed water on our faces.

That day when mother picked me up, she asked me enthusiastically about how my day went. I remembered her face and expression clearly, and I could see that she really wanted to know about my day, not just asking to be polite. I had burst into a minute to minute account of what had happened. My mother had listened carefully, and when I was finished, she gave me her opinion on my thoughts and encouraged my progress.

The same behaviour and routine went on for the next few months. One day, my mother had picked me up as usual, but this time, she didn’t ask for my recount. I was slightly confused, but I talked about my day myself. My mother didn’t look like she had listened, and I never knew how much of my words have gone in. At the time I had just thought that mother had had a bad day, and let it go. But the same behaviour from her had continued till the end of the year. When the behaviour held up, I began to give less and less information about my performance, until we both stayed silent for the duration of the ride home. I was confused, and on the last day, at home, I had left my report on the coffee table. A week later, the envelope stayed there, unopened.

My stomach grumbled, and I sat back up. My puffy eyes had returned to their original state, and the tears in my shirt had evaporated. I stood up and trudged back down the stairs and into the state of the art kitchen. I was the only one who has ever cooked there. The house maids had their own kitchen. The kitchen consisted mainly of stainless steel cookware, and I always kept the room in top condition. I brushed my hand on the smooth, red bench top and reached a row of cupboards. I lay my hand on a silver handle, and pulled open the shiny white door. Inside were a three levels with containers of cooking utensils lined up in alphabetical order (the maids did the alphabetizing, not me). I pulled out a container labelled “flour” and set it on the bench top. I retrieved some eggs, sugar and milk and took out a metal silver bowl and whisk.

As I began the cake mix and cookie mix, I desperately thought of something other than happiness. As I slid the baking tray and cake mix into the oven, I also began a pancake mix as not to let my mind rest. Soon, the bench top was clattered with cooking ingredients, and a warm aura drifting through the kitchen. It smelt faintly like a bakery, and after taking out the cake and cookies, I quickly put in some more.
I spread Nutella over a pancake and folded it up, pushing the whole pancake into my mouth. I hummed to myself happily as I mixed together some icing. My voice quivered, and I immediately stopped and hummed a different tune. After reinserting differemt mixes into the oven several times, I realized that I had made too much food for myself to consume. There were three cakes and two giant tins full of cookies and two trays of pastries and blah blah blah. Oh well. I could give them out to my friends tomorrow. They were used to being treated with my cooking: pastries, biscuits, cakes, muffins, curry, sushi, noodles, sandwiches… you name it.

I shoved the last of pancakes into my mouth and went to the storeroom to retrieve some boxes and containers. Laying the foods carefully in each box, my mind was free to wander a bit. New floodgates were installed, and I suddenly remembered it was my birthday tomorrow. Just the right excuse for giving large amounts of food to everyone else.

A tear dropped on a box as I remembered that two very special people wouldn’t be eating my birthday cake.

---

Yeah. It's sorta random. Smile


Last edited by ctrl+alt+del on Mon Feb 23, 2009 3:06 am; edited 1 time in total
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Re: Your Own Stories

Post  Annoyingness on Sun Feb 22, 2009 12:10 pm

That was really good! Even though it was really, really sad; I still loved it. One tiny, little, microscopic detail:

Edit your work after you have typed it up.

You have to check your grammar/ punctuation, as I saw that there were little mistakes throughout your story. Very little, but still there.

Well done. Very Happy
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Re: Your Own Stories

Post  Annoyingness on Fri May 22, 2009 1:24 pm

Well, yeah. No one's updated anything apart from the random topics. Anyway, so this is a pretty crappy story that I typed up ages ago...kind of a spur of the moment thing.


A slim, beautiful woman and an obese, grotesque man. The similarity…was the cold revolted expression they each had on their different faces. One angelic, the other beastly. How could they stand together as a united front against me, then, if they were so different? A realisation that was already there hit me like a lightning strike and I felt a familiar bitter scowl creep onto my blood-streaked face. Of course…I was different.

Different from the blonde haired, blue eyed boy they had wished for even before I was born. Different from the family, the regal exterior they always had. Different to the normal human being. Just…different. I felt a fiery white burning from inside my chest as I thought, once again, of how unjust their treatment was to me. My shoulders trembled with fury as I gritted my teeth, forcing my temper down. And I did not let it go.

A deep, malevolent chuckle reverberated around the dark, stone walls of the dungeon, drumming into my ears and even after he had finished laughing, I could still hear it ringing through my head. Against the side of the walls of my skull, hammering. Again..and again…and again. “Absolutely pathetic. He’s crying. The stupid baby is crying,” the man drawled in his piercing, bleak voice. But I wasn’t.

Abruptly, I found myself being lifted high above the ground. Pain shattered my bones as I was slammed into the ground with the momentum of a charging rhinoceros. My breath whistled through my lips as I exhaled sharply in a painful gust. The iron arms that held me, crushed me, on the shoulders constricted and I felt the skin on my shoulders pull tight and threaten to just tear apart. He threw me to the wall opposite him and I heard a loud snap. It sounded exactly like a whip cracking in the air, echoing across the wide open space. No, no more.

“Ready for one more, boy?” the man hissed, harshly. He growled roughly and grabbed me by the legs, standing parallel to the wall as if he was a batter on a field with his bat in hand. He drew his arms back to his left shoulder, dragging me along with his hands. I was dangling limply from his shoulder, my head drooping down near the hard floor. I lifted my head up a fraction and only then did I realise what he meant to do. My lips bent in an odd, strange shape as I closed my eyes in resignation.

The wind blew against my face in a refreshing blast of air and I did not scream in agony as my broken body collided with the sharp, cutting walls of the dungeon as I once had when I was first imprisoned. I felt the skin of my back split and the scalp of my head rip open violently, and my eyes were filled with the red, warm liquid that seeped out from under my immobile body. It surrounded me, soaking into my clothes, staining them with my blood.

I gazed up above and thought about my older, beloved brother. About how he had died screaming my name and no other. How he reached towards me with his pale trembling hand as he lay dying in a pool of his own blood. I thought about how I grasped his hand as tight as I could, willing to make him come back to me. Willing to make his body move with the life it once had.

I’m coming home, Kichi. I’m coming home, soon.


Um...yeah, see, it was originally the mother that he was thinking about...but I changed it to brother. Ah, well. Better that way, I guess...I hope.






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