Post by Serenatta on Apr 27, 2016 17:54:43 GMT -5
So I remember a while back that I wanted to post some of what I have written over the last few years, so. . . Here they are! I'll update every now and then if find or write something worth mentioning.
#1 Summer
Okay, I recall writing this for a school competition in regards to the topic of Thankfulness (yes, it was Thanksgiving >~>). I actually wrote two submissions, both of which were accepted but this one won first place. The reason I made two is because I kind of designed the stories to be that way, as they discuss very different themes and very different characters, but all in all played with the same theme of "Thankfulness." I feel that I succeeded, but. . . Well, one could never be too modest. Anyway, here it is:
I remember the lazy days of early September, when the sun's warmth was still alive but fleeting, waiting to disappear in the Autumn breeze and chill my bones with sorrow. I remember those same days in early September also boasting a sense of cruelty to me, as the days of Summer were getting shorter, the nights colder. The beginning of Autumn is always a tragic time, when the various creatures of the Earth fall to slumber one by one, be it by death or sleep. Some old timers, like me, outstay their welcome. Others die far too young. I remember waking up in cold sweat on some nights, remembering those smoldering flames engulfing me, choking me with that blinding black smoke, the smell of destruction and charred flesh. The screams - oh, how could I forget them? - still ring in my wildest nightmares, sometimes growing into the maniacal laughter of demons mocking me as I shout out, "Summer! Summer, where are you? Summer! Summer, please. . ." Silence. Cruel, dead silence. Then I wake up.
To say that I was devastated was an understatement. An insult, even. I did everything I could to find her, save her, but to no avail. The roof collapsed where her screams, telling me to run, were coming from in her room, and for the millionth time in my life I felt helpless and at the mercy of my circumstances. The smoke was clogging up my lungs, stabbing my eyes, rendering my senses nullified and useless. I remember being dragged out of my house by many strong arms; firefighters. Even back then, in my half-choked state, I remember gasping, "Save her, not me!" but they didn't respond to my pleas. All I could see was the red and orange hatred of the fire, blurred by the smoke and my own growing hysteria. They couldn't just leave her there to die, die in that fiery hell. . .
Miraculously I only suffered first degree burns that day, but her. . . She was unrecognizable, a remnant of a living torch. Even then, that last bit of warmth clung on to life almost violently as she lay bandaged in that white room, looking fragile enough to shatter but still strong enough to stand had she been able to. I was afraid of reality, the reality that my daughter was dying like the leaves of the sturdy oak tree outside our window. I visited her every day, talked to her, waiting, hoping that she would show some sign of life besides the heart meter that I watched blankly, ticking away like the seconds on the clock, the days on the calendar. . . A whole week went by, an agonizing battle of hope and despair fighting for superiority compiled into only seven days. The bright Summer days grew shorter, the nights colder, and with the Summer went all my hope and despair grasped me in its black claws for the last time, like a crow would grasp one of the gnarly tree branches of the oak outside. The last, single leaf floated from the oak. . .
And Summer was over.
It's been a year now, and I tread lightly through the red and orange leaves littering the sidewalk, looking so much like the flames that engulfed my life that day. The sunset gave them all the more of a fiery blaze, almost like a sign, and somehow I knew that perhaps, after today, I could live again. The cemetery that my Summer was buried in was the same as the one my wife rested. I made my way through the silence with a look of somber content, having long accepted this reality but still wondering what I could have done different. My wife perished by way of fire twenty years ago as well, a hero, nonetheless. Summer was the child of her and the unforgiving flames, not of me. In the midst of my grieving, I was not surprised to receive news of a child being saved in her death, knowing full well that the wild soul of my wife would not rest knowing that she failed to accomplish her lifelong goal of brightening the life of someone in need. She died of fire, and now my adopted daughter died of fire. Would the same fate await me? I approach their graves standing side by side and kneel down to rest flowers at their bases, my gaze lingering on a small, yellow pup resting on my daughter's grave, looking as cold and fragile as Summer and Summer itself in the Autumn wind. At once I reject my thoughts. "No," I say, picking up the weak creature and resting him on my lap. "No longer will I dishonor this second chance at life." My wife saved my daughter. My daughter's sacrifice saved me. The sick pup's eyes look pleadingly into my own. "Now it's my turn."
Aaand there's that.
#2 Reach
This is the second one of my "Thanksgiving mini series," which is different in every sense. . . even length.
I can't help but laugh to think of the grim days of my youth, when the first few rays of sun in the Summer touched my face in greeting, only for me to shrink back and hiss against the warmth. The Winter was a welcome evil, cloaking the world that I secluded myself in inside of a cold, dead silence that I so craved. I sickened at the thought of joy, of simply being happy to be alive against all odds, thinking that I couldn't go on. Alas, not anymore. My close encounter with death proved worthwhile enough for me to understand that at that very moment my life would be turned around. I have mourned far too long over what has passed, looking for a far-off light of salvation in the darkness, unknowingly stepping over the brilliance of the things I ignored, thinking of them as useless while they glittered brilliantly akin to diamonds. I am no longer afraid of raising my eyes, taking a look around and seeing something other than the hate I had grown so accustomed to. For once in my life, I was real. I reach towards the sunlight now, everything a distant memory.
#1 Summer
Okay, I recall writing this for a school competition in regards to the topic of Thankfulness (yes, it was Thanksgiving >~>). I actually wrote two submissions, both of which were accepted but this one won first place. The reason I made two is because I kind of designed the stories to be that way, as they discuss very different themes and very different characters, but all in all played with the same theme of "Thankfulness." I feel that I succeeded, but. . . Well, one could never be too modest. Anyway, here it is:
I remember the lazy days of early September, when the sun's warmth was still alive but fleeting, waiting to disappear in the Autumn breeze and chill my bones with sorrow. I remember those same days in early September also boasting a sense of cruelty to me, as the days of Summer were getting shorter, the nights colder. The beginning of Autumn is always a tragic time, when the various creatures of the Earth fall to slumber one by one, be it by death or sleep. Some old timers, like me, outstay their welcome. Others die far too young. I remember waking up in cold sweat on some nights, remembering those smoldering flames engulfing me, choking me with that blinding black smoke, the smell of destruction and charred flesh. The screams - oh, how could I forget them? - still ring in my wildest nightmares, sometimes growing into the maniacal laughter of demons mocking me as I shout out, "Summer! Summer, where are you? Summer! Summer, please. . ." Silence. Cruel, dead silence. Then I wake up.
To say that I was devastated was an understatement. An insult, even. I did everything I could to find her, save her, but to no avail. The roof collapsed where her screams, telling me to run, were coming from in her room, and for the millionth time in my life I felt helpless and at the mercy of my circumstances. The smoke was clogging up my lungs, stabbing my eyes, rendering my senses nullified and useless. I remember being dragged out of my house by many strong arms; firefighters. Even back then, in my half-choked state, I remember gasping, "Save her, not me!" but they didn't respond to my pleas. All I could see was the red and orange hatred of the fire, blurred by the smoke and my own growing hysteria. They couldn't just leave her there to die, die in that fiery hell. . .
Miraculously I only suffered first degree burns that day, but her. . . She was unrecognizable, a remnant of a living torch. Even then, that last bit of warmth clung on to life almost violently as she lay bandaged in that white room, looking fragile enough to shatter but still strong enough to stand had she been able to. I was afraid of reality, the reality that my daughter was dying like the leaves of the sturdy oak tree outside our window. I visited her every day, talked to her, waiting, hoping that she would show some sign of life besides the heart meter that I watched blankly, ticking away like the seconds on the clock, the days on the calendar. . . A whole week went by, an agonizing battle of hope and despair fighting for superiority compiled into only seven days. The bright Summer days grew shorter, the nights colder, and with the Summer went all my hope and despair grasped me in its black claws for the last time, like a crow would grasp one of the gnarly tree branches of the oak outside. The last, single leaf floated from the oak. . .
And Summer was over.
It's been a year now, and I tread lightly through the red and orange leaves littering the sidewalk, looking so much like the flames that engulfed my life that day. The sunset gave them all the more of a fiery blaze, almost like a sign, and somehow I knew that perhaps, after today, I could live again. The cemetery that my Summer was buried in was the same as the one my wife rested. I made my way through the silence with a look of somber content, having long accepted this reality but still wondering what I could have done different. My wife perished by way of fire twenty years ago as well, a hero, nonetheless. Summer was the child of her and the unforgiving flames, not of me. In the midst of my grieving, I was not surprised to receive news of a child being saved in her death, knowing full well that the wild soul of my wife would not rest knowing that she failed to accomplish her lifelong goal of brightening the life of someone in need. She died of fire, and now my adopted daughter died of fire. Would the same fate await me? I approach their graves standing side by side and kneel down to rest flowers at their bases, my gaze lingering on a small, yellow pup resting on my daughter's grave, looking as cold and fragile as Summer and Summer itself in the Autumn wind. At once I reject my thoughts. "No," I say, picking up the weak creature and resting him on my lap. "No longer will I dishonor this second chance at life." My wife saved my daughter. My daughter's sacrifice saved me. The sick pup's eyes look pleadingly into my own. "Now it's my turn."
Aaand there's that.
#2 Reach
This is the second one of my "Thanksgiving mini series," which is different in every sense. . . even length.
I can't help but laugh to think of the grim days of my youth, when the first few rays of sun in the Summer touched my face in greeting, only for me to shrink back and hiss against the warmth. The Winter was a welcome evil, cloaking the world that I secluded myself in inside of a cold, dead silence that I so craved. I sickened at the thought of joy, of simply being happy to be alive against all odds, thinking that I couldn't go on. Alas, not anymore. My close encounter with death proved worthwhile enough for me to understand that at that very moment my life would be turned around. I have mourned far too long over what has passed, looking for a far-off light of salvation in the darkness, unknowingly stepping over the brilliance of the things I ignored, thinking of them as useless while they glittered brilliantly akin to diamonds. I am no longer afraid of raising my eyes, taking a look around and seeing something other than the hate I had grown so accustomed to. For once in my life, I was real. I reach towards the sunlight now, everything a distant memory.
Its so much better than my own writings.