Blazing Readers & Wordy Writers discussion

Note: This is a bunch of short stories that I've decided to piece together. ^w^ (they are completely unconnected. :P)


~Teardrops Falling in the Rain~


They hated me, I screamed out in my mind. They hated me.

Droplets of rain and tears splashed down onto the pavement as l ran. Where was my destination, you might ask. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here.

I'd run. And run. And run. I'd run till the pain inside me had turned into just a dull ache. I'd run away the sorrow. I'd run away. For now.

Now I just stand there, in the middle of an empty road. The rain had somewhat stopped, though little drops still splashed down onto my cheek and rolled off again. Or perhaps that was my tears... Who knows? Who cares? I don't care. My parents don't care. No one cared about me or my tears anymore. No one.

The words rang in my head, again and again, making me feel nauseous.

No one.

No one...

I had to run again. I had to run, or the grief and regret would catch up with me. I took a deep breath, and continued running.

~

When l finally stopped running, thin rays of sunlight was already gracing the horizon with beautiful shades of yellow and orange. I watched, a little mesmerized, as the sun started it slow, slow ascent.

Sounds of car engines were already breaking the morning's peace, and birds started to chatter. I was in a park, an unfamiliar place. Somewhere to start anew.

I was tired, so very tired...

My heart ached, my head ached, and, most of all, my legs ached.

Good. I told myself, That's good. My legs are aching more than... Anything else. That's good. At least I'm distracted. For now.

Now for a place to sleep...

I yawned, and walked over to a park bench.

Welcome to your new home, Dahlia. I smiled grimly, surveying the park with its messy trees and uneven grass. Welcome.

~

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~Where I'll Be~



I glanced down nervously at the piece of paper in my hands, and then up at the audience. I cleared my throat.

Bad idea. It sounded like ripping clothes on this dusty old microphone. Everyone winced, then smiled politely back up at me, waiting.

"I, uh—"

How was l to continue? I looked at the paper in my hand again, but it was no good. If l said those words, it would come out all hard and cold and heartless. No. I needed something more sincere than those words that my accountant wrote up for me, especially since it sounded like a over-length essay. The words needed come from me, not my accountant.

My eyes landed on the casket on my right. My mother, looking so peaceful, lying there, her eyes closed, her hands folded. She looked so alive... And yet so dead. So bright... And yet so dull.

I took a deep breath, and focused on the audience again.

For her. I thought to myself. The words are for her.

This time, the words spilled out naturally, like l was meant to say them, and, indeed, l was; to my mother, not the audience. To her.

It was not a speech that came out, nor a sermon, nor endless praise. It was a poem, one that she herself had wrote, many, many years ago.


"'When people die, where do they go?'
asked, one day, a three years old.

'Oh,' I said, 'Well, oh, oh my!
Let me tell you a secret:

When people die they go, so far!
Across the seven seas,
'Till finally, they land somewhere,
Where they shall stay forever.'

'So do you know,' asked the curious child,
'Where will you go?' he said.
'Will you go across the seven seas
When finally you die?'

'No!' I said,
'Oh no! Not me!
I won't go pass the seven seas!'

'Then where?' he begged, quite desperate now,
'Where? Oh please tell me.'

I smiled and poked his little nose,
And whispered into his ear,
'I'll stay in your heart forevermore,
And that's where I'll be."

~

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~What is a Tear Made Of?~



In simple terms, a tear is made of water, and salt. In full, it is made of water, mucin, lipids, lysozyme, lactoferrin, lipocalin, lacritin, immunoglobulins, glucose, urea, sodium, and potassium.

But in my life, I've learned that tears are not only made of these organic ingredients. They are made also from things deep, deep, down.

So deep you didn't even know it was there—

Until it was too late.

You see, it is made of joy and grief, of the happiest of moments, and the saddest of times.

It is made of care, of longing, of greed. Of loss, of gain, of life, and death.

There are so many things that can bring these little spheres into existence: smiles, frowns, hugs, hits.

So what is a tear?

In some terms, it is nothing. A pretence, a fake.

In other circumstances, it is everything. Can anyone live without letting it out once in a while? I would think not.

Though, just a while before, I didn't believe in crying. It was a waste of water, I thought, and a source of dehydration. But, for the first time, I was proven wrong.

How ironic it is that I taught myself that particular fact.

I proved myself wrong.

How, you might wonder, could a person prove oneself wrong?

Well here is my reason:

I proved myself wrong as soon as l was woken up on a hazy Sunday morning, at precisely 3:27 a.m. Woken up with the cries of those who just lost something dear.

I proved myself wrong as soon as l was walking down the aisle to the casket.

I proved myself wrong as soon as l looked into the coffin, at the shell that once held the soul of the person I loved the most in all the world.

At the dead shell of my older sister.

~

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~A Game of Risks~



"My father was the pilot," she blurted out.

I was confused by the sudden outburst.

"What?"

"My father was the pilot. He killed your mother and brother."

I felt my breath catch in my throat.

"That doesn't mean— that doesn't mean he killed them," I managed to get out. "It's not his fault—"

She threw her blonde hair back and laughed, but there was something wrong with her laugh; there was no humor in it.

"Not his fault... Of course it wasn't his fault!" She smiled widely, her eyes cold as chips of ice. Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Don't you get it? It wasn't his fault— it was mine."

I froze.

"Y-your fault?"

She squinted at me.

"You really don't understand, do you? You really don't know."

I sat there, waiting for her next words.

She sighed, and tipped her chair back, lighting a cigarette as she did so.

"He was starting to get all suicidal." She stuck the cigarette into her mouth and took a long breath before continuing. "But I caught him trying to kill himself with a butterknife and stopped him. It was kind of funny, really, him trying to stick a blunt object into himself."

She took another breath of the cigarette and laughed, smoke curling from her nose and mouth.

"I stopped him from doing that dumb act." She flicked the cigarette away. "You see, there was a better way for him to die."

Now she righted her chair and leaned forwards to look me straight in the eyes.

"There are three types of deaths," she said in a low voice. I could still smell the smoke in her breath. "Dumb ones, heroic ones, and meaningful ones. I got him to die meaningfully. I got him to crash his plane. He died, like he wanted to. And both your mother and brother died, which is what I wanted. It's a win win thing, you know?"

I sat there, horrorstruck, the meaning of her casual words just beginning to sink in. But she wasn't done speaking yet.

"It's a game," she said monotonously. "A game of death. A game of nerves. A game of risks."

~

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~Edged in Black~

I slipped on a beaded shell necklace, five matching shell bangles and a two beaded anklet. The shells tinkled nosily against each other as I raced down the stairs before remembering to brush my hair. Half heartedly, I ran a hand through my curly dark hair before walking into the kitchen.

In the kitchen, bacon was sizzling on the stove and my dad was already digging in to a huge helping of pancakes.

Today was the day!

I opened the back door and stumbled out into the bright summer sun, blinking at the sudden light. Today was the day that my drawing results came out!

Yesterday, I had taken a field trip with my class to an art competition, which I (and several other members of my class), had taken part in. We had arrived there and found out that the results would only be given out the following day, by mail.

I skipped happily to the mailbox, flinging it open and taking out the three envelopes inside.

After they had figured out that the results wouldn’t come out that soon, our bus had headed back to the school, disappointed. And then—

I blinked. And then...

I didn’t remember what happened after we headed back. Strange.

I shook my head, frowning a little. Never mind.

Then something caught my eye from the three letters in my hands. There was an envelope edged in black.

I bit my lip. In wartime, envelopes edged in black usually signaled the death of a loved one that had gone to war. But now was definitely not wartime.

I glanced towards the house and then back at the letters in my hands. I took the black letter in my right hand and carefully placed the the rest on the stone-paved path. Then I opened the black-edged envelope and unfolded the letter inside.

It read, in black print letters:

Mr and Mrs Hunt—
I am sorry to bring you the news that your 11 years old daughter, Charletta Rhiya Hunt, has died unexpectedly yesterday at 2 in the afternoon. She was on a field trip with her class and the bus driver took an unprecedented turn into a wet ditch. The bus’s engine, which had technical issues that had previously been ignored, touched a puddle of water and electrocuted almost everyone in the bus with only one survivor. The crash site is located at Hilta, Georgia, where our detectives are hard at work trying to find the exact cause of the electrocution. Your daughter’s remains are currently residing at—

I stopped reading. According to this letter, I was dead.

~

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(Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. I would love any bits of constructive criticism. :D)

Hi! Have you decided to join the WW to earn points or are you just posting for feedback? (Either is fine! I just want to double check before I issue you points.)

Nope, I'm just posting for feedback. Sorry for not making that clear! >,<

That's perfectly fine!