Thats actually a really good idea, and it would be nice if the stories we posted appeared in the "my work" box b/c im having a hard time finding finding the replies to my post
it seemed like the right thing to do, I mean wouldnt any one jump in front of that bullet? Guess not.
Looking back on it a doubt that lady would've done the same for me; a guy whose creepy face and repulsive aura landed me on the list of secular rejections. Well she was old too; her white hair glistened under the street light, face pristine hinted subtly of a some what sympathetic need to be wanted.I shouldn't even be an over looking shade forced to watch my death a million times over. I guess it was her time to leave, maybe... who cares I saved a Life and Im prowd! I can officailly get merit and brag to my girlfriend about how I risked my life trying to save this woman. But what can a shade do, but be? what the wind do but blow? I watch as they empty out my old room, and that yellow sack I put all my old shoes in, it rained and the tears added to the rain. My best friend ditched my funeral to go smoke, my parents are no where to be found, and most of the people at my funeral came for the food. Well atleast im a hero; my deeds rewarded with the privilage of seeing my life in all its "achievements".
Cool! I'm in
Her bleach blonde hair is as straight as paper, and looks like it, too. Her legs are about a mile long. Her, blue blue blue eyes glare at anyone who dares to look. Her face would be prettier if she didn’t wear as much makeup. The short shorts she wears could be called denim underwear. Her green tank top reveals both hot pink bra straps.
And every guy in that hallway swivels their heads to watch her walk down the hallway, her hips swinging, her heels clicking.If that’s what beauty is, I don’t want it.
Lily M. I really like this! I can relate to it so well! I love it!
The man reeled in the fish trap. It was empty – he would have to starve another day. Winter was quickly approaching, and provisions were low.
As he walked to his hut, a rustling in the bushes startled him. He eagerly parted the bushes – perhaps it was easy prey – and beheld a grey swan lying on the ground.
She was beautiful, with silky grey plumage and black-tipped wings. Her eyes were gentle and bright. Yet her foot was twisted, and it pained her.
The man tenderly carried her home and fed her, then sat back and admired her. She was beautiful. Her neck was slender and lovely, and she carried herself with grace.
A blast of wind rocked the house. The man shivered. He went to a nook in the wall and withdrew a jug of fermented grains. He drank, and was instantly warmed.
In his blurred vision, the swan’s beauty increased. The meager fire behind her became a silken robe that draped about her slender frame. She was his, and she was beautiful – perhaps even more so than the king’s wives. The king. Hah!! His Majesty was deprived – all of his possessions could not compare. So the man draped a shawl over the bird’s head and set out. He would go to the king, show off his prize, and prove himself superior.
A beggar stopped him on his way into town. She was dirty and wrinkled, and very short. An aroma of burning leaves followed her.
Please, she said, Have you anything to spare an old crone?
The man ignored her and walked on.
But she was persistent, clawing and wailing. Finally she said, If you’ve no coins to spare, then how about that bird? A fine supper it’d make.
Furious, he struck the crone and sent her flying. He roared that he was on his way to see the king and show off his lovely prize. He’d no time for an old fool whose eyes were blind to beauty.
The crone drew herself up; she suddenly seemed enormous. In a solemn voice she intoned, Fool. It is you who are blind. May your words fly back to scar you. And then she fled.
The man scoffed. The crone was clearly insane. Yet her words rang in his head. Nonetheless, he continued on his way.
But the townspeople rebuffed him and shut the wide wooden gate, slam-bang, in his face. Despite his begging, he was refused time with the king.
Desperate, the man ripped the shawl from the bird and hoisted her high. The people gasped – she was radiant!! Feathered gold!! She regarded them all with liquid eyes and warbled.
It was useless. The bird was respectable; the man was not. Rejected, the man fled home in shame. He barely noticed the absence of the old crone.
The man sped into his hut and crawled into bed, fuming. The swan floated serenely in a tub beside him.
Reassured by her beauty, the man faded into sleep. He was lulled by an odd scent of burning leaves.
A pounding roused him. The man stood, opened the door.
It was a messenger from the king – or, at least, the man thought it was. The messenger’s clothes looked awry and wrinkled. They were baggy and a far cry from the polished youths in green that flowed in and out of the town.
A blast of wind entered the house; the man caught a scent of burning leaves coming in from the doorway where the messenger stood.
The messenger informed the man of the king’s desire to see him. But when the man made to fetch the swan, the messenger rasped, Journey empty-handed. And with that, the messenger trotted away.
The smell of burning leaves lingered.
Unnerved, the man looked around for the messenger’s horse; he saw none. Had they arrived on foot? That would explain the wrinkled clothes, but they were so ill-fitting. The man stroked the swan and departed, bolting shut the door.
But once again, he was stopped by the townspeople. They harassed him until his anger bubbled into hysteria, and he had to be confined.
As a warden moved to free him after several long hours, the man mumbled weakly about his audience with the king. The warden pitied him and said, But don’t you know? His Majesty has been gone for a month. A messenger was sent out this morn to fetch him home.
A gust carrying the scent of burning leaves roused the man. He ran for his cottage, following the odor. A moan stopped his sprint; the man found, lying in the bushes, a boy with the royal crest branded on his arm. The messenger!! He was feverish and bruised; claw marks raked across his chest. His clothes were missing. Scrawled across his abdomen was but one word. Fool.
The man stood. May your words fly back to scar you – the words rang in his head. He ran for home, accompanied by the scent of burning leaves.
His hut was eerily quiet; the door, so firmly locked, lay in fragments. White smoke curled from the chimney.
The smell of cooked flesh mingled with the scent of burning leaves.
The man crept in and instantly recoiled. Freshly-churned dirt lay in clumps on the floor; ruby blood dripped. The air was fetid, close.
A cauldron hung above a bed of fresh coals. A thick stew with rooty tubers bubbled within. Grey-brown chunks of flesh floated in the red liquid.
A single grey feather lay before the man’s foot. He picked it up, and his stomach constricted.
He ran to the tub beside his bed – empty!! Bloodred water dripped from its sides.
A pile of pristine white bones lay neatly upon his bed. The man recognized the slim skeleton and cried out.
It was the swan, laid bare.
The man clutched the rattling bones to his chest and wept for his lost love. The scent of burning leaves flourished vindictively and faded, replaced by the scent of the salt in his tears.
In all his sorrow, the man neglected the note carved into a stone at his foot.
It was but one word.Fool.
I believe it's everyone's curse...it is the ultimate curse
i love it
yes it is
They think that I am blind.
I hear their voices, scornfully laughing at one student after another. I can't see their faces, but I assume that they appear pretty to others. For me, I can only match their words to their face.
One girl, she dates a new boy every week. She laughs at her friends behind their backs, makes fun of others' clothing, and people call her beautiful. I imagine her vain and pinch-faced, her mouth open wide in a snarl.
There are some, though, with gentle voices. These people, I know, are not considered "popular" or even pretty. Boys pass them over. Other girls won't talk to them. I imagine them, though, with flawless faces, big, bright eyes, and long, beautiful hair.
They think that I am blind, but it is they who fail to see the beauty inside.
This is so cute!
Okay, here's my "fable" ...
1. It's dark. The moon just barely shines through the canopy of leaves above, daring me to look for more than a glimpse of light... as though if I try I might be swallowed up by the darkness entirely. The light mocks me. It is not my friend, it never has been. 2. Except that it's cold, now, and rain has started to pour from the sky in a vengeance. My skin breaks out in a million goosebumps and my hair is plastered to my face and neck. I raise my eyes to the sky and wonder why the trees don't block the rain, too. 3. I am alone. I have always been alone. 4. The icy droplets now cover my skin thoroughly. My wings fall to either side of me, suspended in the chilly air and heavy with moisture. They add to the weight I feel pressing down on me, an eternity of fiery demise with no hope of ever reaching the sun. Nothing burns like darkness, though they say the sun burns.... They do not know that stars like that are very much alive, and it is only when they fall that they burn. 5. I see a shooting star pass by overhead. Another misery added to the flames of eternal damnation. 6. I only feel the cold now as I choose to believe it is there. And though it is not real I can almost imagine the water on my skin, the light of the moon, however brief. For I am trapped in this place, in this Nothingness, alone and tormented for my transgressions. 7. It is dark, yes, and it is cold. But I welcome the cold. 8. The light does reach me finally, by the passing of a single soul. It winks out of existence in less than a second, replaced at once by my fictitious moon. A soul on its way home, where light is eternal, and not this darkness. 9. The light mocks me, yes. It is not my friend. But once it could have been... 10. P.s. I only put the numbers to show paragraphs... For some reason when I post things on my iPad the spaces don't show.
Okay nvm it didn't post:(
When he was just two,
And his mother taught him,
To pour the milk just so,
So that it would fall
In graceful lines.
But he could never pour it
Without her gentle hands
And he remembered that day
Because they were happy.
When he was just ten,
And could pour the milk all by himself,
His mother taught him,
To play the piano just so,
So that it would sound like
Tiny birds hidden inside.
But he could never play it
Without her rhythmic counting aloud
And he remembered that day
Because they were happy.
When he was almost eighteen,
And he could play Hungarian Rhapsody two,
His mother didn’t teach him anything,
Because he never went home.
But he never missed her,
Because he had his own life.
And he could barely remember each day,
As it flew by.
When he was thirty-five,
His mother couldn’t teach him anything,
Because he never went home.
But he barely missed her,
Because he had his job.
And he couldn’t remember the days,
Because they were all the same.
When he was nearing eighty-one,
His mother couldn’t teach him anything
Because she was already gone.
So he tried pouring the milk,
But his hands shook and it spilled.
So he tried playing the piano,
So the tiny birds would sing,
But his hands shivered,
And it wasn’t the same.
What's the moral?
:) Great Forum
The boy's mother told him not to kill anyone. He did it anyway. The girl's mother told her not to kill anyone. She did it anyway. Through the neighbourhood there came Judge. He didn't kill anyone. The Judge left the neighbourhood. The mother and girl and boy were gone.
This is a excellent idea, and I heartily approve.