Things to do before I die #1

When I first started the blog, on my 'about me' colomn, I told you that there were a lot of things I wanted to do before I die and now would be a good time to start as I have no new writing to share yet.  I'll only share one today and save the rest for later!

1.  Go Bungee Jumping!
I've heard comments that its awesome and some that it isn't worth it, but hey you have to give it a go for yourself right!  I love adrenaline rushes and trying new things and I definitely want to do it off a really tall bridge!  Woo!  It is just one of those things that need to be done!  Let me know if you've ever done it!

Unspoken

I have another entry for the Seventeen magazine contest I would like to share with you!    I wasn't quite sure how to end this one as it could only be 500 words and I received some feedback that maybe it would be more suspenseful if I hadn't included the last couple sentences.  Tell me what you think as I am open to all comments and critisizm.  It is called unspoken!

Unspoken

The physiologist, Mary, gestured for Vienna to sit on the plush couch.  Mary sat across from her, a clipboard in hand.   “I want you to be honest.  What is on your mind, right at this moment?”  She leaned forward, intently listening.  Vienna had no idea why she was sitting in this office room with an unknown woman, so she answered with her go-to response, “Nothing.”  Mary wrote something on her clipboard and then looked at the young girl curiously.  “You need to be completely honest.  Pretend I’m your best friend.”  Vienna crossed her legs on the couch and shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t have a best friend.”  The physiologist started moving her pen across the paper again, then turned her head up to look at the seventeen year old, “Vienna, maybe a journal would be the best solution.  A lot of people find it easier in expressing their feelings.  Here.”  She handed Vienna a black journal who took it cautiously; unsure of what she was getting into.  

Dear Journal,

November 1, 2011

I always thought journals were for messed up people who had issues telling other people their problems.  Since I’m writing in this black journal, I guess that makes me one of those people.  The truth is, however, that I’m not afraid to tell my problems.  The thing is; maybe no one wants to listen. 

I hate it when people tell you they will be there no matter what and then when you need them the most, they’re never there.  It’s happened so many times to me, that I stopped trusting people and chose to rely only on myself. 

Three months ago, my brother died, and although my parents told me I could come to them with anything, every time I tried to bring up his death or tell them the truth about it, they just closed up.  The standard answer was, “I’m just not ready to talk about him so openly yet.”  I suffered from it.  It meant I had to keep a secret even longer and the secret bit away at my conscience.

There is a letter, a letter that could have changed the outcome of so many things, most importantly the fate of my brother.  If only…then he would still be here.  I thought about ripping it up, but then what proof would I have?  I want to tell them what it says, how he showed all the signs of suicide and how I could have stopped it if I’d only told someone.

 It’s too late now, I know that, but please mom and dad, don’t shut me out like you did to him.  You’ve already lost one child and the other one won’t be far behind if she keeps getting put away.

-Vienna

Vienna left the journal on the dresser in her parents’ bedroom, with the cover open and the letter attached.  Mary was right, writing it down made it easier to communicate, especially when spoken words had no influence.

   

Just Like My Mother

Alright, so I finished another entry for the seventeen magazine contest!  Here it is, enjoy!

My Aunt Dara always told me that I could do better.  She raised me since I was eight.  It felt like I heard those words, in her scratchy, bitter voice every single day.  Her words drained my confidence.  She was just like my mother, and I hated my mother. 

At the age of ten, she refused to take me to the park where all the other kids played.  I asked her every day, always optimistic that today she would agree.  From her rocking chair, she would lower the book she was reading; stare hard into my eyes and say “Come on, Saylee, you can do better, go on now.  She was just like my mother, and I hated my mother.

When I was thirteen, Aunt Dara began to repeat those words to me right before I went to bed.  She would look at me with pursed lips.  Most nights, I simply rolled over to face the wall instead of her.  She didn’t stop me, just sighed a long “hmmhmm” as she shut the bedroom door.  She was just like my mother, and I hated my mother.

The day I turned seventeen, I got dressed in my best, trying to put a smile on my face since it was my birthday.  I came down the stairs and she met me going up.  We both stopped; me awaiting her approval.  Aunt Dara looked me up and down slowly, raising her eyebrows, scoffing, “You can do better.” Then she continued upstairs, not looking back, just like my mother.

I gave birth to my baby girl five years later.  As I held her in my arms, taking in all her tiny features, those same words haunted my mind.  “You can do better.”  I shook them out.  What kind of mother thought her very own baby wasn’t good enough?  Then I remembered my mother had.

One day, after two months of grade six, my daughter came home from school, a worried look on her face.  Later that night, as I lay in bed, she came in.  “I got my report card.”  I slid it out of her small hands and looked it over.   She wasn’t doing well, that was apparent.  “I know you can do better.” I said.  She burst into tears and fell to her knees beside my bed.  “Mommy, I’m sorry, Mommy.” She got up and ran back to her room.  I laid there a moment, letting what I’d said sink in.  I was just like my mother, and I hated my mother.

Without wasting another second, I shrugged off the covers and found Carly buried in her pillows, sobbing.  I cuddled in beside her, softly rubbing her back.  “I’m so sorry, honey.”  I said, a teardrop sliding down my cheek. “I know you’re trying very hard and I will always love you no matter who you are, who you become or who you want to be.  I kissed her cheek.  I would never, ever be like my mother.

Seeking a Saver

Alright, here is my short story submission for the seventeen contest, also on figment.com.  It is quite sad, but uplifting and higlights the fact that there is so much more underneath the surface.  There are many things one might see in this short story and is left up to your interpretation.  Leave me comments of what you think!

The cold water splashed over my face and I slowly lifted my eyes.  I could now see my reflection; exhausted, dark, and lifeless in the fingerprint smudged mirror.  I looked down at the bandages on my wrists, sighed, an angry, tired breath and pulled the sleeve of my sweater tighter over my hands.  The bathroom door swished open.

“Lucy,” My mother warned, “you cannot go off on your own like this.”

I rolled my eyes, and turned slightly to look at her.  The bags under her eyes, deep and dark, she blamed on me, probably, because I was the problem child.

“Don’t worry, mom.  It’s not like I’m going to kill myself in the hospital bathroom.  I have a little more ambition than that.”  I laughed a bitter laugh.  Her lips pursed as she crossed her arms.

“Don’t speak like that, Lucy.  This is serious, not a laughing matter.  We are here to save you.

I pushed past her, out the door and moved as fast as I could with a broken leg and crutches.  She was soon right behind me again, telling me to stop, but once she figured out I wasn’t going to stop, she hurried to get in front of me and then put her hands out to push back on my shoulders.  I toppled on my one good leg, quickly losing balance and falling to the ground.  I hid my face while I wiped away trickling tears.  I hated crying in front of her.  It made me feel so weak and ridiculous.

“Lucy, look at me.” She said, a little softer.  I glared back, but the tears only continued to rise up my throat.

“Did you ever wonder if maybe I didn’t want to be saved?  Huh?” I screamed heatedly. “There is a reason I tried to kill myself, mom, and it wasn’t so I could be kept here longer.  I hate this place, all these people.  I hate myself.  I hate you.  So much.  So much.” 

Tears streamed down my cheeks.  I was screaming with such force that I began to shake and tremble as I lay on the floor.  My mother tried to pull me closer to her, but I pushed away, slapping her arms and making fists I intended to use, until suddenly, it just seemed like all my strength was gone.  I was uselessly defensive, just sobbing on the ground.  Then, I realized it was because my mother was enveloping me in her strong arms.  She took away my bitter rage, simply by caressing me.  It was the simple gesture I had been thirsting to feel.  It was the comfort that would have saved me a week ago from jumping off the bridge.  It had almost come too late, but for some reason, I was given one more chance to feel it.  I opened my teary eyes, in time to see my reflection in the glass door; refreshed, peaceful and even just a tiny bit fuller of life.

Contests

Hey bloggers,
I guess I have become pretty slack with keeping up to date on my blog.  However, I promise something good will come out of it.  I am currently continuing to work on a novel of mine as well as write a short story for the Seventeen magazine contest and the nicholas sparks contest.  I really would like to make it exceptional and if anyone even reads this blog, I hope you will comment with advice and what you think of my writing!  Hopefully they will be finished and up soon! 

The Ticking Clock

I used to always hate short stories, because they were never cut and dry and there was always knots left untied and that bugged me so much.  In english class last year however, we had to write a short story and the following is what I wrote.  It was actually really awesome to write and now I appreciate them a lot more and I have started writing more of them.  Enjoy!

Jackie sits down at the old wooden table in her dark kitchen.  She traces the many ruts and scrapes covering the table, going this way and that, following no particular pattern.  No one is sleeping in the next room or waiting for her outside.  Instead, Jackie sits in unwanted solitude, crying out to the stars, the owls, the ticking clock and the rat that lives under the front porch.

            She again contemplates calling every resource she has already exhausted, hoping maybe by some luck of the draw a friend will be there to sympathize or tell her she is not in too deep.  Jackie cannot even remember who she is, let alone who she was.  Was Jackie even her real name?

“I think it would be fun to reinvent myself.”  She told her grandmother; at the mere age of thirteen when everywhere she looked she was faced with the distorted image of ‘perfect’.  At the time, all she heard her grandma say was “Create who you want to be.”  Now, when she thinks harder picturing herself in that quiet hospital room; so pleased her grandmother was agreeing, she realizes there was something more to that reply.  A “but…”  An answer she now needs, willingly listening, but too late.

                Behind, Jackie, the clock seems to tick louder, moving one hand closer to the end of a minute, an hour, a day.  When she looks out the bay window in front of her, only one small star is in sight, flickering as if at any moment it might completely disappear.  

 A single tear glistens on her cheek.  Jackie wipes it away quickly, daring not to give herself away, even if no one can see her.   Picking up the telephone, she dials a number she has memorized, but gets the busy tone.  The next number has no reply.  And the next and the next, until all the numbers in her memory are worn out.

She walks out into the night air.  It is frigid, so she wraps her sweater closer to her body.  She listens for a siren, a coyote’s howl, conversation of a neighbour, anything to help her prove to herself she is not alone in the world.  Nothing makes a sound.  Complete silence surrounds her; so loudly she shivers and cringes as it deafens her ears.  Even the scuffle of the rodent that is always under her steps, is not to be heard.

Quickly, she escapes inside, locking herself in the smallest room, where without planning it, Jackie comes face to face with her worst fear.  It stares back at her, red faced and ugly.  Its hair stands tussled, on end: the sign of a lazy master.  Afraid, her first instinct is to look away, but a few seconds later when she looks back up; it is still staring at her.  Jackie takes a step closer, and it does too, copying her every move.  Through the crack under the door, the smug ticking from the clock grows continuously louder; more pronounced stirring up crazy thoughts in her head.  Her lips open to speak, but no words come out.  The thing staring at her is terrifying.  Its big eyes are so empty, lonely and lost.  Her breathing becomes heavier; suddenly the room is much tinier, the sound of the clock louder still and the face in front of her taunting her, it seems.  Jackie screams, throwing the closest object, an empty wine bottle, at the figure in front of her.  It shatters, but her biggest fear is still there, now fragmented into pieces, distorting the image.  She slams her eyes shut, plugging her ears and trying with all her might to push everything away, back to when she was thirteen.  Back to beside her grandmother’s sick bed, where she hears those wise words, “Create who you want to be, but never be afraid or ashamed of yourself.”

Jackie looks around her, finally landing on the broken pieces of glass, each one portraying a different person she was trying to be.  Once they had fit together, but how easily it had all been smashed.  No way in the world, would she ever be able to tell which pieces were truly herself and which ones were simply taken from someone else’s life; someone who seemed to have the perfect life.  She shook her head, ashamed of who she had let herself become.  The pieces were finally laid out before her, but the clock was barely ticking, slowly winding down, and all the past had been wasted.  She looked out the tiny bathroom window: the single star was gone.  On the floor, surrounded by pieces that made no sense, she sat.  With every bit of pressure the glass cracked just a little more, and with each crack she felt herself, too, collapsing and breaking down, no longer willing to work together.  The last thing Jackie heard was the final tick of the clock.  The last thing she saw was a reflection of her regretful eyes in a broken fragment of mirror.

Figment.com

Hey Bloggers,
So...just today I came across an awesome website where you can read other pieces of writing, write your own and post it for others to read, enter contests and so much more I still have yet to explore.  The website is http://www.figment.com/ and if you love reading and writing like I do you should definitely check it out!!  I already entered a couple contesets and I am super excited!  It seriously might have made my day!!:)
No new writing today on my part, but maybe I will come up with something soon!
My brother gave me a little Field Notes book and I know it will be so useful in remembering and tracking all the little daydream ideas I have for stories and awesome quotes and stuff!  Anyways, have a good night!