I – at last – have internet!! Buuuutttt, I’m too lazy to upload the, like, 10 blogs I’ve been working on. Such effort. Much lazy. So not done.
Anywho, I’m trying to get back into the whole creative writing thing, but it’s really difficult for me to write without prompts. I happened to find one that worked out; I won’t share the prompt though (feel free to, you know, leave prompts for me. It’s helpful and junk).
READ MY SHITTY SHIT!!
Her hair lay flat on her shoulders, wisping about her olive skin. The once dirty blond hair now shaded her face, its dull black standing as a stark reminder of her whimsical attitude, her spur-of-the-moment actions.
Thin hands sweep up in a rush to calm the unruly mess. Fingers once described as “piano fingers” fiddled with some locks, pushing them into place behind dwarfed ears.
Such bones were not meant to strike at ivory; their privileged softness told of a spoiled childhood. These hands could only sing sour notes, notes that isolated – and, inevitably, abandoned – me.
Thin lips pursed in displeasure; soon, their own sour notes were released, begging for reassurance against the faults of their owner. Such notes were repetitive; the measures had no end, as if a second ending was never written in. The author of such a piece was sadistic in nature, but charisma flowed through his music.
If the questions were repetitive, toxic, so also were the answers I gave.
How such a thin woman held so much power, I cannot say. But her mind twisted my own, forcing false shadows to dance around, mocking me. My friends hated me, my enemies closed in, and I counted myself among neither – for how can someone as lowly as I be a part of anything?
My only solace was the cold feeling of her arms around me, her whispers slyly encouraging my weeping. The blade in my back was sharp and hot; it slid in unnoticed, the scarring more pronounced with each passing hour.
She wanted to be caught, as if some sick thrill helped her sleep at night. When called out, there was no regret in her dull green eyes. She had grown bored of playing long ago, moving on to the next victim before finishing with me.
For years, the sound of falling leaves hurt me. Her name caused anger and grief; not a day went by that the friendship did not cross my mind.
The scarring is permanent, but her grasp is gone. If there is some greater force, may they damn her to the dark, slick hell she wormed out of. Until then, at least I take solace in each easy breath, knowing that the falling leaves are beautiful again.
New notes sing more beautifully for me now – though, perhaps ignorance, and solitude, play the sweetest movements.