I want to be entertained. I want my emotions to be stirred up inside me. All you need to do is include the human heart in your story. Genre does not matter to me.
can it be something already submitted to teenink?
I prefer originality, but you can use something already submitted.
No offence, but everything i write is original. And i don't like posting stories on the forums, don't know why, it just seems weird. so I'll submit my story "Two Year Regrets"
All I had to look forward to each Valentines Day was a broken heart and a empty chocolate box. Nobody was my Valentine, nobody loved me. Jerk after jerk stomped on my heart and left my heart to bleed out all over the wooden floor.
I buried my face deeper into my arm and tried to will the burning tears in my eyes to stop as my breath hitched in my throat. It just wasn't fair. I spent all my time with him, alienating myself from my friends to spend my free time with him, and for what?
A broken heart, that's what.
Stupid as.shole. He told me he loved me.
Thin and soft strands of caramel colored hair tickled my forehead, but I was too distraught to move it from my face. Like I really mattered if I looked like a wreck at the moment; I'd be spending my Valentine's Day alone anyways.
Something warm and clammy brushed against my right arm, raising an army of goosebumps to cover the length of my skin. Shivering, I hesitantly glanced up, my brow quirked.
The blond haired boy in front of me blushed; he was the kind of boy I had never paid attention to, the shy one who stuttered and chose writing poetry over playing football.
He was the kind of guy for me.
"I-uh." He flushed a bright pink before averting his candy apple green eyes down, as if the floor had suddenly becoming the center of his attention. I couldn't help but allow a small giggle to slip from my mouth. He was at least trying.
Finally, he sighed. "You know what?" His fiery gaze fell on me and I froze, my heart thumping painfully in my chest at the look in those eyes. "I'll let the candy speak for itself."
His pale hand unfurled slowly and, with an eagerness I did not show, I allowed my gaze to drift downwards to the little item tucked carefully in his grasp.
In his small looking hands was a simple pink heart-shaped candy. But it wasn't the candy that made my heart stop; it was the word engraved into its sugary surface. Smile.
So I did.
Maybe this Valentines Day would be different.
Hysteria rushes through the air, it hangs on people and makes them twitch; this is always the way things are when there’s a heart at stake. One hundred eyes flick left and right, up and down, round and round; judging their enemies.
They don’t know it’s all pointless. The heart is mine.
Morden man evolved without a heart. Instead we have metal things that run on lead. The metal heart only lasts for seventeen years, before the owner of the heart dies. I’m sixteen. The rich are different from us, they were born with hearts. We, the poor, must live and die as animals do.
That heart means more than life. It means freedom. You can’t buy a home unless you have a real, flesh, heart. I’ve trained all my life for this chance, this chance at a real life.
You see, the rich believe in nature and ‘survival of the fittest’ so arrange a competition that runs all over the country, competition for a real heart.
We are placed in a large, diamond shaped room, we chosen few. The rich look on from behind sheets of glass. They sip their drinks and exchange remarks. They point and wink at us. There is a young man who won’t stop banging on the glass, trying to get my attention.
I look so small and sweet, gentle and kind. I wait for the starting bell, and for the chance to prove myself. They will all stop leering when they see what I can too, they will all stop winking and cheering me then. No. After this, no one will dare.
The bell goes, I draw my sword and begin.
Fifty becomes sixteen in a matter of minutes. Before me cower the survivors. No one was expecting that. I glance at the rich, their mouths hang open, revealing rows of diamond encrusted teeth.
I swing again, the people melt before my sword. Before long, I stand alone. I glance up at the time.
Six minutes. In six minutes I have one life and freedom, in six minutes forty nine people died, in six minutes I changed the world. No longer will this game be played. For what I have done has not entertained, it has horrified.
Your Blood Is The Same Colour As Mine !
August 14 1947 Pakistani Independence Day ... Independence is achieved ... but Freedom and Sovereignty are lost ! the British have won despite having lost to us God knows whatever happened to the Shield of Brotherhood that has faced every blow of the British and came out stronger every time! The fight and struggle for freedom has taken an off the road turn and now the struggle for 'FREEDOM' has turned into a useless' BLOOD BATTLE' between Hindus and Muslims. Suddenly it appears as if 'SWARAAJ' and 'AAZAADI' have different meanings ffor people of the two RELIGIONS who have continued to live in harmony with each other for more than 1500 years . They are not just people , but suddenly they are two Religions ... two COUNTRIES !! The British have divided 'Hind' as per their policy of DIVIDE and RULE , and for them the partition is nothing for than a new line to be drawn in the map but to the inhabitants this line is a sign of a great LOSS ! For India and Pakistan this line is the bitter truth that marks the disintegration of a civilization that had existed for more than 1500 years ! This line divided our MOTHERLAND into INDIA and PAKISTAN ! Till now we were ONE , but all of a sudden we find each other STRANGERS ! The people who Greeted each other with 'NAMASTE' and 'AADAAB' now exchange with each other blows over blows of SWORDS ! A 'MUSLIM' sword takes away a 'HINDU' mother's son while a 'HINDU' blade slays a 'MUSLIM' husband before my eyes . I hide behind a box at the Amritsar station waiting for the train from Pakistan to come . The train arrives , but no one gets off it ... no one LIVES to get off ! It is yet another train full of not people but SLAIN HINDUS . The only sounds I hear are helpless cries of people ... 'I CANT MAKE OUT WHICH CRY IS OF A HINDU OR WHICH IS OF A MUSLIM ... I GUESS NO ONE CAN !' ' You filthy animal! Your blood is dirtier than my TOILET , your blood is BLACK instead of RED !' , a SIKH slays a MUSLIM ! I am still hiding .... i wait till midnight when the train is ready to start on it's way to PAKISTAN full of slain MUSLIMS now instead of HINDUS ! A HINDU is helping me and two other MUSLIM families escape .... it is dark at night so no one can see us ! The twelve of us are now in the train when we thank the HINDU for his assistance . He is about to leave when i speak up , 'Bhai Jaan ... Your left arm is wounded . how ?' he doesn't answer me but just smiles . A child from behind me speaks ,'YOUR BLOOD IS THE SAME COLOUR AS OURS ! WHY WAS THAT MAN ABUSING US THEN ?' The man stopped smiling , handed me some money and food, puts his hand on the child's head and says ,'GRIEF HAS MADE HIM MAD WITH FURY , BUT YES YOUR BLOOD IS THE SAME COLOUR AS OURS ...IT ALWAYS HAS BEEN....IT ALWAYS WILL BE ! '
the format is screwed up due to bad net connection . please ignor it , and the capitalisations doesnt mean shouts ., it means that part is to be paid more attention to !
I'll enter my story "Lights Can Be Dimmed." Hope you like it! :)
Okay. Just look at my story: Bang!
One more step, and it’s over. One more wish, hope, dream, love, life, gone to ash. Or in this case, just a memory, a heartfelt story burning away with nobody to watch the flames die. Die. Death. Why did I have to think of that? Why does everything I do play a role in what I don’t do? It’s all out to get me, everything I’ve ever wondered took its interest in me at the end. Is it the end? Every fate I can imagine seems horrible in my view, might as well be over. Next I’ll be the one in the hospital, but no one will be holding my hand, crying over my bed, waiting until I fall into my sleep. Does it make someone crazy or stupid to love a person too much? If it does, that must make me an idiot. I loved him more than anything ever. Yet I find forever deceiving even in the best of lives. Any little slip up could lead you to a broken life line; any cloud in the way of the sun could send you down a spiraling hole too deep to climb out of. I tried to get a forever and all it left me with was an empty heart. As if I was a beggar on the side of a road to nowhere, asking for something every day, but only gaining pass-bys and pitiful smiles. Slowly fading to an unrealistic nothing. Sometimes I wonder. I ask myself questions I know I’ll never find the answers to. Put myself in situations I’ll never be accustomed to. I can see the way fantasy is becoming shredded, the way I stretch it over the thick layer of reality doesn’t make this a surprise. Stitch the wounds only to cut them deeper, dig the ditch only to bury the survivors, put out the fire only to set it aflame. I only say this because I’m on the edge of it all. Toes pressed against the ledge of defeat and overlooking any reason to step back. All over again. Moments come when I wish I had a second chance to get it right. But as of now I no longer believe in second chances, I couldn’t keep my first, don’t want to try again. Maybe it’s easier to just lose it all, like a game show with thirty seconds left and not a clue what the answer is. At one point we all have to take a chance, make a guess and hope it’s correct. And sometimes at the bottom of the leader board you find yourself holding on by the skin of your teeth. Sometimes you can’t even find yourself on the premises. Keep searching for the answer but all you can find are the remnants of the ones who’ve failed before you. I keep changing my mind. On some days I think it’s okay to do things like this, it’s happened before. Some days I think I’m stupid and should just try to be happy, I like those days. But the days after, always the days after those happy days I realize I can’t be happy, and it kills me. More and more I die, more I hate, more I love to hurt, and it scares me. And from up here, the view from my little metal cage, it isn’t the nicest. And I can’t seem to find the key, or my keeper. I’m losing control of the hinges, the bottom is caving in, the bars are folding, and I’m starting to free fall. Free fall to my death. I hope it’s quick. Snap my fingers. Boom. I’m gone. It’s over. Done. Don’t have to worry about a funeral, it’ll be too much trouble anyway. Find a box, dig a hole, write on a rock, all the same. I don’t care anymore. Take my heart and let it be yours because I’m done with it. Hopefully it’ll be loved when I’m gone, most likely it’ll be trash, like it has always been. Only one thing left to do now. I close my eyes, entwine my fingers, breathe deeply, and take one last look at my life. With that I move my feet a little bit further, and feel myself falling from the edge. They say when you die that your life flashes before your eyes. All I saw was my reflection, the reflection of my future I never got to see. All I could feel were the warm tears emerging at the moment of impact, and his arms around me one last time after it was over.
This one is already up on the site:
Lonely Fires I look up at the starry sky,
See the glow of fires.
Could it be the agony of
Lonely hearts' desires?
Because I burn, I know I burn
When feeling lost, alone.
Could they be children, be people,
Who shine, who need a home?
Is that why the earth gravitates,
Revolves around a star?
Is it some crying deity
Who fears we’ll drift too far?
And earth binds us to its sad self,
Watching us with our own,
Quakes, tembles, in horror that
We scream to be alone.
And moons are far from satisfied
Though their pulls are slightest,
I've seen how their rough, barren ‘scape
At times will burn brightest.
The Manly Moon, Motherly Earth,
Who hold us to their hearts
Know that we need to be loved
And dread the day we part.
At times when I look up at stars
I don't feel as alone,
It seems to wish and yearn for me,
And makes me feel at home.
So stars so bright, with yearning lights,
Please keep up your fires.
Because my wish from you tonight
Is comfort from your pyres.
And if my own flames can be seen
By some Galactic Child
And make him smile, then why not burn
To comfort him a while?
In an endless Rhythm
All around me
But mine not with them
What is human anyway?
Able to love,
Able to feel the dawning day?
The words in my mouth
Like an endless machine
Steel against metal,
I’m not what I seem.
I may look like you,
With brown hair and blue eyes,
But my heart electricity,
The heart I despise,
I feel like a mask,
With fake feelings,
A gear turns and I smile,
A recording my voice,
Echoes faint to the ceiling,
I cannot cry,
I cannot love
People go by,
I have nothing to prove
An immortal life
Of mechanical motions
Void of emotions
A program will guide me,
Until I am dust,
Wheels and cogs turn,
Until they both rust,
My body a shell,
Of a soulless heart,
The empty stingingThat rips me apart
An Assualt of the Heart
As I touched him,
thoughts of him
ripped and clawed at my heart.
These thoughts of him
dragged their talons
across my memories.
They cut through my heart
and gouged all our kisses
They scratched and they scathed
until they tore you
right out of my chest.
Thoughts of him
consumed every ventricle
until my heart
Forgot about you.
When is the deadline?
I don't know...
The Stolen Heart I felt nervous and jittery as the boy moved closer, but I refused to move, although every instinct told me to run. He did not seem to walk, but glide, no, float. His green eyes seemed to glow, barely breaking through the darkness in the room in which we stood. The green glow lit up his features, from his black silk hair, to his full lips just below his slightly crooked nose. “Who are you?” I ask quietly, unable to mask the fear in my voice. He placed a box in the crook of his elbow, and stared at me, seeming unsure of what to do. Then he held out one gloved hand for me to shake.But, of course I couldn’t, my hands were bound. “My name is Nigel Deer,” He paused taking in my tattered attire, “And you are stuck.” “Why?” “Because that old saying “if you love something set it free” does not imply here.” He said with a sneer. He floated ever closer, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his skin, and the light pounding from his heart. “How do you know this?” I asked, curious and frightened at the same time. His low laughter rumbled at my quavering voice. “Because you stole my love,” he said, laughter evident in his eyes as he showed the box again. He began to open the box’s floral top as he said,” And I stole your heart.” With a dramatic wave of his hand the box popped open and inside there was a heart, still beating. He leaned and his body pressed against my own, warming it slightly, although it is dead cold. I was about to ask about the heart that so obviously belonged in my now hollow chest, but he interrupted me with a passionate kiss. Under his warm lips I tried to struggle, but I seemed to melt like the chocolate his lips tasted of. And now I can never leave, because I can’t live without him. Literally or figuratively, you take your pick.
I sit here in my room...crying...thinking... I wonder the impossibilities as I look at the knife right beside me. They only bully me...they don't pick on anyone else...but why bully me?? I haven't done anything for them to make fun of me. "Is that a hippo or your mom," they yell in my face. Yes, it's only middle school but why?? I look back at all the hurtful comments they made at me, all the smart remarks, all the pain. I want this to be over with. Every time i try to stand up to them they overpower me, they threaten me. I wake up to nightmares in the dark...all by myself...alone. Its my only choice, Mom. You never notice how much I'm hurting, you don't see the tears that roll down my cheeks during dinner, you don't even realize I'm here...so how can I tell you what's going on in my life?? I'm sorry...I'm sorry that i wasn't important to you, Mom. I finally have made my choice...you won't see because you're not here...you will come home to me and realize everything that you should've done.
When i die, Mom, they will all cry...even the bullies... They'll all wonder "Why only her??" They will, too, realize the horrible nightmares in my life... No one has been there for me and I'm ready to take the chance...I do love you, Mom, but you won't realize until you see the blood...
See you one the other side, Mom.
“Well, what is it?” I look up from the x-ray in my hand and frown at the man.
I’m sorry,” I begin, like always. That’s how I always start. Sorry, your little boy died. Sorry, you’ve got AIDS, nothing we can do about it. Sorry, there’s a gap in her heart the size of a nickel.
“Sorry for what?” the man demands. His name is Charlie, not that that matters. I wouldn’t count on him living any more than a couple of months, a year at the most.
“You’ve got a tumor in your brain, sir, the size of a walnut. It’s malignant, that means cancerous. And, well, it’s in a part of your brain that we just can’t operate on.”
“Why not? Why can’t you try?” Charlie’s yelling at me, tears streaming down his flushed face like a waterfall. Yeah, I know. I was never much good at figurative language. I was always scientifically inclined, not creatively.
“It’d kill you, sir. It’s too risky.” Lots of my patients try to find options, loopholes, that they think I’ve overlooked. Often their ideas are the obvious choice, like an operation, but unfortunately impossible.
“Well, there’s, like, chemo and stuff. Radiation treatment, right?” I stare at him, unsure what to say. Yes, there is, but it won’t do you any good? “Right?” I take a deep breath.
“Well, those treatments are available if you do wish, sir. But they won’t do you too much. I, well, I wouldn’t expect you to live any longer than another year. Again, sir, I’m sorry.” Now he’s glaring at me.
“You’re not sorry for anything. It’s people like me that get you paid. And besides, I bet you’ve seen plenty of sob stories before. Thanks for your help, doctor,” he snarls, then hops off the exam table and starts towards the door.
“If you leave now and don’t ever come back, I wouldn’t even expect you to live more than a month. A few weeks, max.” I step in front of the door.
“Fine,” he grumbles.
That’s how most days go for me. Another day, another bunch of patients. Some are lucky, like the guy yesterday that had appendicitis. Nothing too crazy, and nothing we couldn’t fix. I booked him for an operation, and he was just fine. And last week there was another guy with a tumor, but his was in his stomach. Lucky him, we could operate there. Those are the cases I like, the ones with a happy ending. I dread the sobbing man waiting for me to tell him his wife didn’t survive the operation. The little girl, only eight years old, who will never be able to walk again. What if Charlie’s right? What if I really don’t care? I fall asleep on these agonizing questions.
“Mike?” I hear my wife’s voice, but I can’t see her, or anything else. I blink a few times and I can start to see everything.
“Where…” I start, but trail off.
“The hospital, Mike. You don’t remember, do you?” No, I don’t remember. My head hurts, I can hardly concentrate.
“You’re sick, but you’ll be okay. I promise.” I don’t buy it at all. Now I know how Charlie feels. And every other patient.
“Doctor. I want to see one.” But before she can get up one walks in, files in his hands.
“You’re awake,” he says, surprised.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“You’re a doctor, right?” I nod. It’s not good and I know it. He’s got that look on his face, the one I probably have. That look in my eyes that I had when I told Charlie. The “I’m sorry” look. “We’ve been able to determine that you have contracted rabies.” I knew it. But how did I ever get it? Rabies is an almost certain death sentence, although there is a highly experimental procedure out there. I had a patient with rabies once. He didn’t make it. “As you know there is-”“I know!” I shout as loud as I can, (Which isn‘t very loud at all.) cutting him off. “Go ahead and do it.” Now I really know what Charlie feels like. They tell you that they’ll try their best, but you just can’t believe them. It’s funny, it really is. I spend my days telling people I’m sorry, telling them that they’re going to die. But I really don’t care, and I’m really not sorry. And now, here I am. They’re sorry, I’m going to die. I actually am sorry now. Sorry for all those men and women that I lied to by telling them I was sorry. Now it’s me. I’m the Charlie, the patient. Now I care. But no one else does.
Mix with the heartbeat
Tidal waves of sleepless nights
And the thoughts?
They will follow
Streaming onto pages
Dancing into words
Convulsing through a pen
Fighting to get out
Or never at all
Left at the bedside of liar, insomniac
Amongst the clutter
Of paper scraps
And the shattered rubble of a broken heart
With no name tag
With no owner
But insomniac, liar
Can you hear the silence?
The muffled thud
The sickened life
The empty breathing
Of liar, insomniac