What Happened – short story

So it’s been a while, I have been struggling to be confident this week in honesty. I haven’t had the best week.

So, for example, I nearly fell down my stairs for the second time in like a month. I think my stairs are a hazard; the idea of falling is genuinely equally scary to being eaten by a bear, to me. I dislike the idea of pain, with a severe incapability to stop crying if someone pinches me, for instance.

I know, that doesn’t sound as bad as bad could be. And, truthfully, I’m not as comfortable to speak on a blog as I thought I would be. Not in non-fiction prose anyhow. So, fiction it is again. I’m sorry if I am starting to bore you with story upon story galore. It’s all I know.

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It’s not the end…yet. Her lungs filled with oxygen, which was a surprise to everyone but her. The end was not nigh, which allowed her face to curve into a frown with the immensity of oxygen so wished to leave the party in her chest.

The incident wasn’t seemingly purposeful. That is what everyone thought. No one even asked her, ‘what happened?‘ The insensitivity of them swamped her and caused claustrophobia to announce itself into destruction. When her body was oblivious to life calling her into consciousness, she tried to resist the temptation of going back into life without love. No love from, well, anyone. The graffiti vandalised on her heart was not even painted on by her parents, family or façade of a friendship group. But by those who didn’t know her. Those who she should know.

She was riding her bicycle alone in the dark, which was the definition of the ‘doom and gloom’ cliché. She was not afraid. The darkness was not a creature to her. It was more of a mystery. An enigma just waiting to be solved like a maths equation.

Her mind got sidetracked. Thinking about why the world was tumbling directly down into the pit of her stomach so she couldn’t eat, let alone breathe. She felt hopeless, as if the world was a pretence of the universal disfunction. She knew that whatever she did, whatever the world signalled her to do wouldn’t change the people she knew. It wouldn’t change their opinion of her, with her picture imperfect face; with her damaged dollhouse she was on her way to die in.

Luckily a barrier became benevolent enough to help of her. With the sharpness of the sky-high friend she had made with just a glare from the hope it sprung on her, she clocked that it was the universe allowing her to disappear with immediate effect. This is what she pleaded God every day, but, he never once listened to her until this day. He was always a stubborn monster manifesting malevolence. Which, she thought, was the opposite of what God was made for. He was her father, no? With the wishes that she would live miserable with a burden hung over head like a hood.

She looked eye to eye with the lamppost in front of her beautiful concealment, while it was complimenting her desperation. ‘A picture of broken mirror…‘ the lamppost beckoned as he opened his arms wide so she could ride liberally into his grasp.

With this force, she was broken. The bike bounced into her exterior disappointment and through to her distilling internal organs. Cut, blood, disgust into demolishment with the bounce that cascaded into flowers of purity. Her eyes slowly shut into the shimmering starlight of summer. This is where she wanted to be. In a pretty afterlife where no one could interrupt her peace. However, before she knew it a car drove up to her disintegrating body on the pavement. She was still there, in the unwelcoming world. He took out his phone and called someone frantically. And soon ambulance sirens were heard and to her rescue. This is not what I want! Leave me alone!

No one would listen to her. This meant that she got better. And God forbade her plead once again. She felt anonymous. With her family surrounding her bitterness. She may as well have been called ‘Jane Doe’, with no one really caring that the end was nigh. But, it wasn’t, was it? She was a picture of an imperfect face with her damaged dollhouse she was on her way to live in…

The game she wanted to play was up. What was the point in that?

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Sorry for the morbidity. It was all inspired by a subconscious source.

If you hadn’t guessed, this didn’t happen to me. I am not nearly strange enough to think a lamppost could compliment my beauty…

Thanks for reading!

-ALWright

Physical Graffiti

I’m currently sitting in my bedroom listening to my brand new Led Zeppelin Record ‘Physical Graffiti’. The love for it is inspired, and they are not only one of my favourite bands of all time but this is my first three disc vinyl record that I have. Heaven truly has landed on earth.

Anyway, I have a story to tell. Don’t worry, it isn’t made up this time. I know it may be difficult to trust be seeing as my last post was a taunt to you all. But, I swear that everything I say is truth and nothing but.

I was lying. Sorry. But really, I have written the first like two paragraphs of a story which I wanted to post:

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Silence. That silent exterior bathed in the watery midst of puddle upon puddle. Her hair, so beautifully drenched in the calligraphic waste that lay upon the ground outside of her house. It was so close, only twenty-seven feet of gravel between warm and cool, but it was unreachable to this distressed, little girl.

For all of time she had wondered, what is life without the will to live? Because of the distractions she had faced in-between and out of consciousness throughout her hectic hell-streamed life. The indications that she was too young for love and too old for immaturity; too slim for plus-size clothes and too fat to be considered attractive, were nothing in comparison to the trauma confronted within damage after destruction of demolishment. Given her circumstances of age of too young to drink alcohol but too old to be seen drinking a Robinson’s Fruit Shoot, she was caught between to worlds. Not knowing whether to grow up or grow down, or stay or leave…or become invisible.

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So there. It isn’t much because, in addition to listening to Led Zeppelin, I am in bed with a terrible cold and sleep is required. Thanks for reading and please give me any feedback on my little teeny two paragraphs.

You have to know I feel pathetic about posting this now…although sleep awaits.

Thanks for reading if you did.

-ALWright

The Worst Day…

Whenever I am having a bad day I write, and now I have an audience to project my emotions to. However, I’m not good at writing down my emotions without it somehow developing into fiction. I try not to, but it’s difficult. But, I will attempt to today.

So today the end of the world was at my feet. I was constantly a laughing stock to the people that would pass me everywhere. When I went on a run, which by the way I was the worst thing to do because of my pure exhaustion which I have no idea where it came from, my trainers were the picture of a mud parcel that came in the post this morning. And, I remember walking up this slope of ferocity, representing my emotions, and when I got to the top there was a white van parked directly in front of me. I got terrified because of the ‘red van’ abductor that had been lurking the streets of my town when I was in school, and I was convinced my time was up and…I was definitely going to die there.

I looked at the man sitting in the drivers seat, he looked like he had an idea that I wasn’t allowed to find flattering or complimentary. So, I stared for a second and half-smiled for a second more, and escaped. Escaped his smirk, his disgusting, undesirable smirk. With the gorgeous scenery around me being destroyed by this white van with the man with a plan…

I walked towards my house, which seemed half a world away as in my house, if mud was traipsed across the carpet, hell would be needed to be paid. But, with my dehydration drenching me and my water bottle becoming emptier every second, I peered out of the corner of my mind and saw a white exterior vehicle so I abruptly turned around to see this white van getting closer to my road. I dropped dead, pretty much. The idea that men have such fascination with women wearing running clothes doesn’t exactly make sense to me. I mean, I looked disgraceful. With my hair in disarray and my hoodie flung over my shoulder from the sheer inability to wear it any more because of the exercise; who would want to look at that when they wake up in the morning?

With this in mind, I panicked. I ran home, even after my ‘NHS Couch to 5k’ Podcast which had tired me out anyway, my limbs started to ache and my thirst for an escape jail card was desired. I longed for water to wash away my paranoia of this white van. I told myself over and over again that he was haunting me and I would DEFINITELY be sitting in the back of the van sipping on decaf tea and listening to The Pretenders.

I got into my house. Silence filled the building but my pure terror about this strange occurrence which, in honesty, never happened to me before! I was scared about what would happen if I ever left my house, ever again. And when my mum arrived home I jumped out of my skin. Her car isn’t white, but it is big. Like a monster in disguise. I was starting to become worried that she was the disguise of the man in the van.

Suddenly, my mum said she was going to the library. And she was going to get a book called ‘How They Met’ by David Levithan and was convinced that it was foreshadowing my meeting with the creepy dude following me all the way home from my run. Jogged, sprinted, anything to get away from him.

When my mum got home, she looked slightly different to normal. If not, more masculine. And suddenly she teared off a mask and there he was! The man from the van! He walked towards me with strange velocity…

Of course you must’ve noticed that this was ENTIRELY made up. Well, I really did go for a run and a man in a white van drove past me and did drive past me because of how disgusting I must’ve looked. If you didn’t realise, I’m sorry for the torment. But, I said that I was no good at displaying my pure emotions, and it’s easier to make up a story, than tell the truth.

-ALWright

Beyond Lonely – short story

I promised some of my short stories to be posted on this blog so here is my first one. It is based on my response in my mock exam for my Creative Writing AS, and the question entailed writing a fictional account about young people suffering with loneliness for a national charity. The ending to the account was unpredicted, to say the least. This isn’t my real response but it’s the gist.

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The National Loneliness Charity: this is the story of a young girl (seventeen years old) suffering from loneliness.

Annabelle was young, with an IQ that was off the rails, which was a metaphor for herself. Off the rails. Her life was a deliberate mess that God had created: her father neglected her at the age of three and her mother was filled with drugs and cocaine sandwiches. Annabelle was self-destructive, with the whites of her eyes whimpering about why wellbeing wonders free, so it is gone.

She was seventeen, and to say she thought herself pretty would be deceitful. She was happy, well, that’s a lie too. Woeful, distressed, depressed. ‘Depression’ is a word that is flung around like an uncontrollable basketball, but, Annabelle was a girl who wouldn’t use it about herself. The girl that was fine. ‘Fine’ is overused, as well. Like drugs, the list is endless where her mother was concerned.

One morning, Annabelle was dressing herself for school, her tie was crooked and her hair tangled. Another metaphor for herself. Symbolic, serene. Her history essay was due in that day, with her positivity about it reaching the Sun in Space, full of hope. But it was lost; she couldn’t use the excuse about her dog eating it; she didn’t have a dog. Why would that work, anyway? She clambered around her house, desperate to find something that would represent her history paper and how it was formed. Luckless. Fate told her that her day, as horrendous as it already had been, would get worse. What a waste of a day. Give it to someone who wants it, she thought with intensity.

Her mother would always be found in a snowy pit, bagging up the snow to save for later. There would be plants floating above and around her head. She would pick a leaf and disintegrate it into a small roll of tissue; anything that she could set alight and float upwards with.
“Mum!” Annabelle shrieked with fury about her missing essay. “Where did you put my history essay?” Her accusing tone resulted in nothing. Her mother said nothing. Nothing was normal. So, with regret, Annabelle traipsed into the basement carefully. Careful not to step on snow. There, she found her mother picking plants; prudently placing them into Annabelle’s torn-to-shreds history paper. Shock filled her face. Subdued. Nothing she could say would help her. Nothing would change anything. So she waltzed off to school solemnly, with several psychological bruises. One on her happiness, and one on her integrity.

For more time than could be timed on a clock Annabelle had been bullied at school. For being clever. That was disgusting to her. Her brain was not created herself. If I had it my way, she thought every day, I would be as dumb as the rest of you, if not worse. Her desire to be popular and pretty… pretty popular, was drained by her intelligence. But, unfortunately, her teachers didn’t even notice. She was a ghost, pale white skin with black circles forming from her hazardous mascara. With this being the centre of the popular girls’ attention, she would walk out everyday drenched with infested water infecting her already infectious hair. They would clutch her by her neck, hand and hand placed again and again on her head. Step by step to the girls’ loos, crashing their way into cubicles and bang! head straight down the bowl to ocean. Out. Then back. Repeated until tears tumbled out of the disdain Annabelle felt towards them. The feelings were mutual… evidently.

This particular day was different. The same routine happened, teachers would recurrently ask “why don’t you take better care of your appearance for school?” with ignorance that this wasn’t her intention.

Her house suspected that smoke, tobacco, marijuana, had been alive there that day. Just like every other day. But, that day something was different. She liked it. Adored it, even. While her eyes were cascades and her hands were earthquakes, in that moment, she enjoyed it. Relished it. With a love, an unwise affection for this smoky interior.

The systematics to her thoughts were non-existent. Invisible, just like her. Lonely. Isolated. With her IQ shot down like a rabbit would be shot for meat, all due to that one thought she endured. And with that, she slid down the snowy slide of spiteful enjoyment, into the snowy pit. It used to be harmful, now harmless, and snow was exciting again. She became a snowman.

How desperate could she have been? To join her mother in the snow, just to be with someone? Loneliness may just be a theme in a book, a term that is hit like a tennis ball, back and forth, back and forth…

But God knows this isn’t how she should have to live.

But he allows it anyway.

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In the brief of the question it said it had to ‘touch the reader’, so any feedback would be eternally grateful. This is a lot longer than the exam question as they limited us to 300 words, but this is the concept just fully illustrated. Thanks for reading 🙂

-ALWright