I entered the room. The books slept quietly on each shelf as if they haven’t been touched in decades. The couch was leveled with the desk in front of it , seemed to me they were having a simple but bland conversation. Also, the windows sat aside from each other , like they wanted nothing to do with one another. There I sat. She told me to talk , and I forced every word out just like they forced me to think this would help me. She soaked up every word I said as if she was a sponge. Then it repeats , again.
I hate it.
I hate it
when girls let themselves be bossed around.
I hate it
when girls don't even respect themselves
but expect to be respected
I hate it
when girls are so shallow.
I hate it
when girls are so easily influenced.
I hate it
when girls spend so much time,
trying so goddy hard,
to be someone else.
I hate it
when girls have no backbone,
like they can't stand on their own.
I can't even tell them,
"Just be yourself!"
Because all their life,
they copy others.
There is no such thing as being themselves.
She opened her fingers, revealing the pendant. The blue sapphire shone up at her like a bright eye. The eye of her mother, her grandmother, her great-grandmother.
It weighed heavily against her, a reminder of her family. She remembered her mother's weak fingers dropping it into her eight-year-old hands. Such a privilege to own, such an honor to have.
She leaned over the well, looking at her hazy reflection. The responsibilities of her ancestors whispered in her ears, and she held out her hand.
The pendant fell for a long time before splashing in the dark waters below.
The Broken Child
He didn’t want to remember anything from his past.
He told them that he would laugh and move on.
He had only cried once before, and that was when his dog-- his best friend-- ran away.
He didn’t cry when he got the news that his parents’ plane went down.
He didn’t really know them, anyway.
He cried when he was dropped off at the orphanage, though.
Twelve years under the care of a butler and maid who he would never see again in his life.
So, he took the knapsack.
He broke the trinkets.
He watched them burn.
May I Please Have 100 More Words?
One Hundred Words.
I did not understand just how difficult it would be to write one hundred full, cohesive, and understandable words until now.
There are so many thoughts swimming in my head, so I will choose my words with great care.
Now, before I begin with my profound ideas, I must brush my teeth. Good hygiene is very important. Especially to me. Please remember to brush in a circular motion, not just side-to-side. More plaque is removed this way. But I digress. Now on to my writing.
OK. Here goes:
Damn. My word count is maxed out?
the whispers still
on the misty hill
while I fold my arms
I hold in a scream
for hours it seems
while I wait for dawn
I sing aloud
as the trees
bend in the breeze
the branches shiver
as I hold my breath
on that misty hill
a fire burns inside my soul
hoping I will achieve my goal
to call the Great One from the sea
but the only one I see is me
I wait for hours
but no one arrives
I leave dejected
with a lonely sigh
What Mr.McBrian Buried
He loved digging in his idyllic garden.
He only asked for silence in his sanctuary, his Eden. He hoed rows and rows of purple turnips, planted patches of spinach and Swiss chard, and tended to his tomatoes as if they were his tomorrows.
Mr McBrian was Lord of his Land, delegating zucchini plants and ordering asparagus to thrive. He welcomed the robin and the lark, but resented the neighbor’s chihuahua Fifi more each day. How could paradise be paradise with that eternal, infernal barking?
He filled in the deep hole with rich, black earth. That dog had it coming.
She grazed my fingertips with a curious hand, and I was dumbstruck. Every atom said to return the gesture, but it was as if my cheeks along with the rest of me overheated , I could only speak gibberish and hope to get my point across. I met her eyes and the world was empty. I saw her smile and I was a fearless crow amongst lions. From that moment my world was compromised to her. Such a cliché to fall victim to . With a million words in the English dictionary I cannot describe a soul so utterly pure.
"Can you surf like a pro? Than the water dome is for you!" The water dome was a new development in 2037. People didnt want to wait for waves anymore when surfing, so the Water Dome was developed to create waves. You choose the time between each wave and the height, and the Water Dome will make it. It became popular when two pro surfers used it. After the Water Dome became popular, not that many people went surfing on beaches anymore. Until the water dome broke. Ever since then, no new creations like the Water Dome were made. Nature can be better than technology.
WHEN I WAS OLDER
My watch isn’t right. I left it behind on my suitcase, thrown on the beach, dark and soft in the after-sunset. My phone hasn’t yet had service.
A living thing in me wants me to get up, fix my watch, find service, check who’s been talking to me, find a room. But it is hollow and small, an echo of a far ringing sound; so I leave it. I let myself sink into a dusky jetlag, be caught between something stretched and tired. I wait, try to remember when I was older.
The black water slowly nips at my toes.