How I Was

Hello and welcome back into the insane life inside my mind. Your presence is making me glow, despite not knowing exactly who is in there. Comment below if you like being inside my brain, (that is by far the strangest sentence I have said / typed in my life).

I found a bizarre piece of writing that I wrote over a year ago not too long ago,  which came across my radar as being unique enough to post for you to read and absorb. Congratulations for being able to read the weirdness that I created.

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Some people say that I have a ‘creative mind’, which may indeed be true. But, I don’t know whether to take this as a compliment or a desirable insult? I continue to tell myself that, how I write is who I am. I like to think that my writing is creative, so therefore I prove everyone right. But I never voice to myself why I write to signify myself. Maybe I don’t signify myself. Or do I?

If you were to go on a journey into my mind, that all exclusive ‘creative mind’ of mine, you would presumably get utterly lost in the pure fascination I have for the minutest of things. To express why I write, you will have to picture a little toy tour bus that enters my brain, so come on. Hop on. If you’re not too afraid…

“Welcome to the Aimee Wright Brain tour. You will see on your right the dramatic dominance of imagination while the left hemisphere barely exists at all.” The conductor will shout out to each of you passengers on board. Isn’t this experience thrilling?

“Let’s enter the logical side of the brain first, due to it taking up a positive amount of zero percent to get through. She never was a mathematician or a scientist…

“Now, entering the right side, or what you may as well call the entire brain, is full of imaginative things. If you watch closely, you can see her thoughts generate, through pictures, not words. The left hemisphere doesn’t give her enough lucidity to submit any interesting words into the world. She also submits no writing pieces she’s completed. Which, due to her lack of realism, she doesn’t actually have many completed pieces.”

This of course, I am desperate to change.

I think hat anyone can answer the question of how and why I write. It’s simply because, as the conductor put it beautifully, the left side of my brain is non-existent. There is no room for logic in my writing, I write because (explain the ‘why’) I am nothing but a ‘creative mind’.

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And there we have the wonderful world of my brain, please feel free to tell me how strange I was a year ago. What a wonderful world.

-ALWright

Is That an Eye?

So, second week of college down and yet again, I missed another day. Don’t shoot me, I was busy being patronised in the paediatric department of Queen Alexandra Hospital in Portsmouth, having them search through my eyes to find the great conclusion of nothing. Well, not nothing. They won’t let me go until they find something, so basically I have a life sentence to the paediatric eye clinic in QA. Oh, please let me leave. I have a court date soon to get out of there, please help me get out! I wish I had a court date to get out of the paediatrics.

Anyhow, my experience there – which by the way, is my millionth experience there as I have been going for two years, plus about a year when I was eleven – inspired my creative bubbles in my brain, and you will have to decide whether I am telling the truth about my experience, or if it is fictitious.

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About twenty-thousand hand sanitisers surround me as I was into the hospital. STOP! it shouts at me as I walk past, with my mum holding my hand as I walk into the paediatrics. You have to look like you are a child there, so holding her hand was compulsory, not an option. I was made to look as if I was a five-year-old stamping their feet screaming, Mummy, I don’t want to go in! You can’t make me! No! I won’t go in! No! NO! as she dragged my hand past the secretary who buzzed us into the walls with starfish staring at us and octopuses strangling our throats.

All the doors for the eye clinic were made of glass; you could see the weeping children just exhausted and wanting to escape. Me, a seventeen-year-old infant walked through the rows of tears to find my seat to wait for the nurse. Who, challenged my age more than once with her tools; it was as if she opened my brain and dug some of my cells up to see whether I was telling the truth. I don’t want to be with all the small, crying children, but I am, I was thrown in as if I was a barbie doll who could not speak, couldn’t protest! I wish I could escape the horror of the tears, but no. You just won’t let me out.

When I was invited into the nurse’s room, she asked me, Are you sexually active? I asked her, Is that something you would ask a child? She replied, Well, no, but…

I snapped and said, So, I am treated like a child until you want to know about my sex life. What difference does it make if I have slept with someone in the last three weeks, and how on earth does that affect my eyesight? She frowned and said, anyway…and moved on.

So on and so on, she asked me to read the letters on the board ahead of me, and I couldn’t read the bottom line every time. Oh, how strange, she said. Oh, its not strange, I thought, as it has been the same every single time I have been here. It was the same six years ago, and it is the same now. I just cannot read the bottom line of the rows of letters and numbers than make my mind blurred and confuse my eyes to be crossed and no one can remember that this is how my eyes are. Just, deal with it.

The brutality of the assessment lead me astray, as I collapsed into the chair of a field-testing room. Stare at the green light, do not move. Put your chin on the chin rest, keep your eye behind the lens. Now, it is starting. 

The noise of the machine made my eardrums spasm. The sound was going down in pitch so I knew when the light was coming closer to the green dot of electricity in the middle of the bowl, but I just could not see it with my eyepatch on one eye until it got very close to the middle. Ouch, my neck was aching horrendously so I stretched my neck to the left and the right and…I SAID DON’T MOVE! said the grouchy nurse, who I must have annoyed after metaphorically punching her in both of her eyes. She certainly was treating me like a child now, who ‘supposedly’ cannot move their neck and watch lights and listen to deafening noises all at the same time.

Out of that, twenty minutes down the line, I sulked with my mum who was sat in the waiting room reading. I was dizzy; my head felt like a hurricane about to kill planet Earth. Little did I know, at that point, that I was going to go blind any minute, and probably would end up killing planet Earth through not being able to see where I was going.

I was called into a small, claustrophobic room with a different nurse with white, opaque gloves on. She called me her flower when I didn’t shut the door. Shut the door, my flower, otherwise everyone will see. See what? I wondered, and I got a sensation of bugs crawling around in my stomach as if they were going to feed on me when I die. She said to me, this might hurt, no, it will hurt. Here is a tissue, ok three, two, one. Done, and done. 

I physically could not open my eyes. The pain was euphorically agonising. From moment to moment sat in the chair of the tiny, enclosed room, I vanished into blindness. Where did I go? That cliché of, who turned out all the lights? was relevant here, as the blackness created a zone of terror, and I had no energy, mental or physical or otherwise, to defend myself. I didn’t know where the nurse was, but I could hear her speaking, and I felt lost within my own body.

When I opened my eyes, a blurry darkness shone in my vision. I could just about to see where to step,  what to step on, what not to step on, when to step, why I needed to step, how to step. But that was it. I couldn’t see my hands, I could see my book, I couldn’t see the chair that I had as if I could not look. My mum was practically invisible, and so was my mind. Why did they do this to me, what did they need to find?

The darkness with my eyes open was so irritating I just shut my eyes. Nothing would work to make me feel less tortured. Do they do this to children of four, five, six, seven? Do they disable their eyesight for their enjoyment? It was not a fun affair for the victims of their mindless games.

My eyes went black, according to the doctor. I went in and his voice was patronising, I could not see his face, so my judgment of him was that he was not my kind of person. However, he inconclusively told me that they had not found anything wrong with my eyes…yet. So, my eyes were a clear black night for what?  So that I can stumble around like a creature out of Doctor Who? Or is it a scheme to get me to keep returning into the arms of the lethal warriors at Queen Alexandra Hospital, who serve for the dead Queen and live for the devil.

I felt like my eyes were going to fall out of my skull. They should’ve done, it would’ve been simpler. Then, I just had to wait.

Wait for the night to turn back in to the day, impatiently, like the slutty child they think I am.

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-ALWright

The Vampire – short story

One week of college has flown by (well, in my case four days as I missed Friday, whoops). I am already shattered, like a piece of glass that is very difficult to piece back together. Exhaustion is being pumped into my body, uncontrollably.

Here is a story that I have written, small and sugary of course, I don’t want you to be as tired as I am, with your eyes drooping over hundreds of thousands of words that I have written. So don’t worry, this is far from hundreds of thousands.

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Was she was wrong about you when she said it? She doesn’t retract it; but she doesn’t think it. When she said it, she was lonely and craving attention. A small part of her heartache slipped out of her mouth while being a shallow and disgusting little girl. Her lip was so red with blood she could be a vampire, and as a vampire, she was wrong about you, yet she thought she was right about you, and will go out and bite another victim to seek the attention she cannot live without.

She said that you had a dog collar around your neck. A collar with spikes sticking out six-hundred feet to stab anyone within close proximity of you. She said you were a lethal weapon, as if you were dangerous, and she was afraid of getting close to you. Then, oh, the pure contradiction of her tongue, YOU were too close to HER. How? She would not let you closer than six-hundred feet, as if you were able to trace her blood footsteps from hundreds of feet away, she must have been living in her coffin for the last few centuries as she was mentally unstable when she poured this venom onto the feet of her little puppies; you were not part of that clan, you heard it second hand, from the venom stink from their toes.

Your glasses steamed up from the poison of her words, as you heard the disgust that they told you. She barely even knew you, did she? Why would she say such vile words about a stranger? Her hair, blonde and murky, like a fog injected with disease, has whipped your face as you walk past her, but that is the only contact you have had with her. Did some of your DNA get onto those gorgeously repellent locks, and for that she thought she would need payback? Never have you spoke, but the words hurt more than if your friend had spoken bitterly about you.

Stop. The words of the vampire would not stop. Stop. No they would not stop. Stop. Stop. Stop telling the vampire to stop, she will never stop. Her next victim is waiting for the bite of death, and if you are not careful it will be you again. Stop. 

Stop.

Is this far from reality? Or is it spot on? You thought, as you drank the water to try and clear out the infection planted into your skin. But little do you know, that vampires never die. She will never stop being a bitter being. No matter how much you ask, she will spit on your feet one day to confront you yourself, but until that day, she will be the coward that you expect her to be, and make you like her. Run. Run. Run.

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This came from nowhere.

-ALWright

The Haystack – short story

It has been a while. I was so good posting twice in a week and now I haven’t posted twice in two weeks. Oh, my brain has been focused on other oddities.

The beautiful weather has been utterly inspiring; ironically as I speak the sky is pure white with marshmallow clouds, unblinding me and the rest of my town. However, the story that I will post after this bizarre intro is based on an unknown happening (that you will have to guess) a few days ago…I cannot remember specifically. But, it was truly lovely.

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Sat in the house on a deliciously beautiful day. Being stuck between the walls of a two storey house is usually a dream. The darkened rooms, the curtains closed, the rustic life of pre-electricity days. However, the sun shone too bright through the curtains to be dark in her bedroom, and the light inadvertently scraped into lamp light, pumped by electricity ignored the authenticity she desired.

Alone in the home, with the drone of the tumble dryer rumbling the towels until they are as dry as hands washed hundreds of times. Just watching, waiting, for the towels to stop turning. The impatience increased incredibly through her soft mind.

Stop, they stopped, after sixty minutes of waiting. She tugged the air tube back  through the door and locked up and left. With the sun shining into her shaded eyes; her sunglasses sweetly framing her face so that she looked and felt comfortable. Her shorts were pleasantly resting on her hips as she strolled down the road adjacent to her house. Her black top absorbed the heat that strangely didn’t heat her up, as it wasn’t too hot, just gloriously sunny.

The road was running no rats as she walked in the centre, up to a field that twinkled with rays of light. She was missing the darkness, and she knew that she could not survive without the shades on her face. But it was not as bad as expected. She felt like a contradiction. She didn’t want to leave the comfort of her duvet and memory foam, but conversely not wanting to be there. It just was not the same with the sun so sunny. She wished it was nighttime, for all time.

Fields and fields of long grass surrounded her free-spirited body. She felt like a free spirit, anyway, as she had not entered the light not at night. And it was never light at night. Her feet were treading in sandals through the pathways, alone and independent. She didn’t stop. It was as if, fatigue was not a word in the dictionary. Usually it’s the only word in the dictionary. Now there are thousands of other, irrelevant words, that she does not know the meaning to, but applies to her in this moment.

Delicately, she pranced through the mud tracks of the countryside, hiking along a flat incline towards some haystacks and grass taller than herself at five-foot-two. She stared at them for moments at a time. After one moment ended she would blink to kill the gaze, to moisturise her eyes so she does not go blind. But she could not stop picturing the enjoyment she would get from climbing, higher than she had ever been before, up the haystacks so that she could view the fields as a superior figure, seeing huge dogs being walked as little ants on the path. Seeing their owners just like shouting jellyfish swimming after their pets as they run off.

She heaved herself through leaves upon leaves to reach the haystacks. Trying not to get scratched in the face by the beautiful environment that looked down on her like a child. And when she arrived at the hay, she said hey for the pure pun, and sturdied herself on the step that looked made for her on the first bail of hay. She wobbled firmly as she made her way up the stack of ten bails. This, was unheard of to her; she had never known anyone to do this before. Then again, she had not been out of the house in a few months so the haystack climbers world record may have been broken at the time she secluded herself to her bedroom.

Sat on top, the stack wobbled as she cried with ecstasy. The feeling she had made her never want to leave. She could see a dog walker running along the path with sportswear decorating his body, and his dog is being dragged by his lead. They don’t look exactly how she’d imagined, but it still felt incredible to see them, without them seeing her.

Before she knew it, she felt herself bending backwards, as if the back of a chair had just broken off while leaning on it. Like three-quarters of a circle, she descended down ten floors of hay, feeling like she was flying without support, but this was the best way to fly. Slow motion fascinated her as it happened, she felt riveted in the air, stuck in the oxygen of the earth. Stopping her slow movement, she blew away the chord keeping her in the air by accident, and she dropped quickly to the ground as if she were about the boomerang back up. However, she didn’t. She lay firm in a pile of grass that cushioned her minutely, and she was incredibly stiff for several moments.

Once her bruised back rose from lying in nature, she wobbled home in a state of irritation. Should she return to the darkness? She thought yes, as her first escape in months was shattered from the first inspiration she had from the outside. But, she decided, in her mystified mind to, in future, ignore her inspirations. Walk past them. Resist temptation to climb a haystack or wrestle a polar bear walking the streets of London.

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The haystack does not exist. She does not exist. This was a dream that I had. I wonder if anyone reading this understood that. Please comment below your thoughts, or just tell me that my sub-conscience is fragmented.

Thanks for reading!

-ALWright