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The Sketcher…

27 Oct

Picture it & Write is a weekly creative writing prompt hosted by the Ermilia coauthors, Ermisenda and Eliabeth. Here’s my contribution to this week’s challenge:

You know how artists always seem to live in a world of their own? How they seem so oblivious of what goes on around them…but at the same time see every little thing and how beautiful it is or it could be. You know what huge geeks they are, how awkward they are when it comes to mundane things us mere mortals do. You do know how brutally honest they can be, right? How their compliments are the most sincere. How they give off that fearless vibe when they are the most insecure things ever to have been created.

Or maybe that was just him…

Do you know how twisted and dark their beautiful minds can be…did any one of them let you see? Let you see their soul? Let you inside their bubble? Did you like it there or were you just uncomfortable? They know how to get you out of your comfort zone. They know how to make you see things you could not see on your own. They can show you your own thoughts in a way you could not imagine.

Tell me it was not just him…

They make you want more. They open your eyes, your heart, your soul… They know how to paint over your scars and open new ones that you will never want to heal. They show you places you never want to leave. They sketch your demons embracing theirs. They make you believe in carpe diem. They inspire your darkness and light up your world.

Or maybe that was just me…

I like to believe that everyone has their artist. I like to believe you and me was a unique thing. But everything is unique to an artist. So, everything is the same.

I like to believe I was not mundane to you. But I know we all are…

Yes, everybody has their artist, but you were the sketcher…mine for a while but not belonging anywhere in this world.

 

Here’s the picture that inspired this piece:

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All credits for the picture goes to Ermiliablog.

Alexandra

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The Fall

21 Mar

Picture it & Write is a weekly creative writing prompt hosted by the Ermilia coauthors, Ermisenda and Eliabeth. Here’s my contribution to this week’s challenge:

That time when I was three when I put my hand in the candlelight to touch the pretty dancing orange light. That time when I was five when my little newborn brother wrapped his tiny hand around the index finger of my right hand. That time when I was six when I fell off my electric blue bike straight into the drain, splashing my white shorts into greenish-brown mud and spots of blood. That time when I was nine when my mother gave me that pretty silver clamp-on bracelet carved with hearts for Valentine’s day- I still have it, I’m wearing it right now. That time when I was ten and I lost my brother for an hour in the park while playing hide-and-seek. That time when I was eleven when we sneaked in the bakery’s kitchen and ate 12 brioches each. That time when I was thirteen and this guy at school called me a twat and I punched his nose, kicked his knee and pushed him down, I spent the rest of that day crying in the bathroom. That time when I was fourteen when I had my first kiss, with that same guy I beat up, turns out he was not that much of a twat himself, we are still dating. That time when I was sixteen and I saw my father slap my mother, saw him see me, saw the rage in his eyes turning to despair as his knees gave way. I am still unsure what happened that day, all I know is things were never the same again.

How can I possibly think now that things will ever be the same again? I am falling, a trail of debris following me. I am piercing the skies as the flashbacks start blurring. So many memories merging into one another until none of them make sense really. I see my mother holding the hand of her 18 year old son, impossible! she left us before he reached that age. I see my father in the bakery and my brother on my bike and I try to blink away those mistakes, only to realise I have tears in my eyes.

Am I crying? Again? I remember I was crying before the fall…THE FALL! This is no time to be crying and having flashbacks! I should be trying to figure out a solution, I will not allow myself to fall to my death! I have this superpower! Tele.. Tele..what is it that the man had told me already? Arg nevermind! The situation cannot be as hopeless as it seems… and and there’s still so many things I have to do- I am not 23 yet! And Josh, my brother! I still have to protec–guide him!

A larger piece of debris whizzes past me and cuts my lamenting thought flow. I hear the debris crash in the sea beneath me. It breaks into an awful lot of smaller pieces, a shiver passes through my body. As I see the ripples surrounding the spot where the larger piece sunk become clearer and clearer, I know it is too late. I send a silent telepathic message to my brother, wherever he is he will know:

“This is the end for me Josh. They got me.. Do not let them get you! Don’t trust anyone! and please..do not give up our quest, little brother. You know where to find the key. I believe in you..and..and I love you.”

I close my eyes and prepare for impact.

Inspired by this picture:

picture it and write

All credits for the picture goes to Ermiliablog ^_^

So long,

Alexandra

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The Wonderland Experience

15 May

Picture it & Write is a weekly creative writing prompt hosted by the Ermilia coauthors, Ermisenda and Eliabeth. Here’s my contribution to this week’s challenge:

Diary of a junkie Goddess.

Day 1.

Wonderland. Yes, they taste exactly like Wonderland. Bitter and yet so sweet, like an adrenaline rush where all feelings confuse themselves and tears mix with laughing and anxiety is overwhelming despite this feeling of paradise. It feels perfect and yet, it’s like being trapped in an unfamiliar and confusing world.  Everything is so cold but I can sense a fire burning inside of my body, inside every bone, tissue and muscle. I stared at the glowing plastic tin between my fingers and realized that my vision is getting blurry- probably a side-effect. I tried to decipher the tag on the tin… ‘God’s brew’, was it? And what was written in tiny characters just there? “Poison” or “Magic”? It did not seem to make any difference. Poison or not it was not killing me- not yet- and it felt too good to stop.

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I held my head up and told the guy looking down at me, “I’m gonna take ’em. The pills. Yes, yes, the whole bottle. They are too… hmm whoa! How much are they?”

The guy smiled, no it was a grin. His eyes were hard. And despite his bare chest it was obvious that he meant business and nothing else. He ran his aluminium artificial third hand in his hair. Was he nervous? He had probably taken a huge risk just by letting me taste one pill…but he must have known I would buy them all. After all it was hard to imagine anyone able to resist God’s brew. It was hard to even imagine anyone not desirous to yield to this wonderful Wonderland.

“50 bucks”

I gulped. That was..a lot for a tiny bottle. I bit my lip, so that was how people could resist. The price would clearly be a deterrent to most. But not to me. I had money. Tons of money. It did not make me happy though. Not my money, not my cars, not my white marble mansion, not my ivory bracelets. No, nothing made me feel as good as God’s brew just had. Not even ecstasy or psychedelics. God’s brew was better. God’s brew was worth it. Besides I wanted more pills and Mr. Metal-hand was probably not gonna let me have some more free samples. I rummaged through my pockets, took out some crumpled bills and straightened them the best I could do. I handed them over. He quickly counted the notes, nodded at me and as he walked away he disappeared in the darkness of the night.

I sat down on the bench beside me. The air was getting cooler and I shivered. A coy smile played on my lips. “Time for another pill or two” I murmured to myself as I popped a couple of the glowing capsules in my mouth. I waited a few seconds, patient and excited, then it began. My tongue caught fire and my brain exploded in a kaleidoscope that streamed in front of my eyes. Lovely. I heard a chorus of angels singing Bohemian Rhapsody as everything turned blurry and bright. Godly. I remembered Keys’ song; this girl is on fire. Ooh yeah! I was on fire. I was strong, beautiful, invincible: a flame in the night. That’s when I decided, that night would be the last night I felt weak and this for the rest of my life. These pills were the key.

They felt like magic. Too good to be true. They felt like poison too. Too good to be good. But who cared about ‘good’? I did not. I had freed myself. Freedom, magic, poison; all three in one pill. That is hell. Yet, that was heaven to me. The heaven where I reigned as Goddess.

Goodbye…

13 Feb

Picture it & Write is a weekly creative writing prompt hosted by the Ermilia coauthors, Ermisenda and Eliabeth. Here’s my contribution to this week’s challenge:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I cannot take it anymore.. Ever since I have told you the news last year, you both have not spoken a word to me. I know it is hard to imagine that soon I will have a different body, a different voice, and a name different from the one you have given me. I know it is hard to see your little girl grow up to be this way but I am still your child and I need you. I need you to talk to me, love me, accept me. I need my parents… I knew this would not be easy. I had prepared for the worse. I expected tears, shouts, insults, excommunication, shame… but I had not prepared for your silence. I wish we could talk about it. I tried to talk about it, but all I got was silence and blank stares. I am tired of being invisible to you.. Maybe if we talked about it I could explain my decision and maybe I could reassure you, but you won’t let me.

I was aware that maybe you would try to make the transition impossible to me. I expected that you cut off my funds, my access to the house, my health insurance. You did none of that and I am thankful, really. But Mom, taking me to ballet classes or make up parlors and burning my football equipment will not change who I am. You can buy me new skirts, dresses, high heels, pearls, gloves and ballerina shoes and lay them on my bed if you want, but I will not wear them. I am sorry. I can’t. This is not who I am. I know you had dreams for me. Dad, I’m sure you dreamt of walking me down the aisle to my husband. Mom, maybe you already had every detail of my white dress imagined in your head. This is not your fault but I have my own plans, my own dreams. I cannot continue to dance. I cannot continue to be your daughter and if you do not want me as your son I guess I have to go..

Home doesn’t feel like home anymore. This silent oppression is killing me slowly and I cannot take it anymore. Sometimes words are not strong enough to get a message through, therefore I am leaving.

I love you but this is goodbye.

Mariana.

Aaron.

Here’s the image that triggered the inspiration: pictureit&write

Modern Art

20 Jan

Here’s another contribution to Picture it & Write:

16th February 2147. Museum of Modern Art. Exposition hall.

Edgar Louis Ravenport is about to unveil his latest master piece, his first after the thirty years he has spent in prison. Murder it had been. The body of young ballet dancer Elise Dumalé had never been found. I had looked everywhere with my team. We had combed the entire continent and this even after he was convicted and imprisoned. Hope of ever finding Elise had abandoned the members of my team one by one… Now, I am the only one left. The only one still fascinated by this case and still enraged at Ravenport. Why? Because Elise was my wife. I could never give up on her. Never.

This is the reason I’m still stalking Ravenport after these thirty years. I’m not looking for revenge, no no. My only desire is to find her and to give her a proper Catholic funeral. She deserves to rest in peace!

My old cop instincts had urged me to attend the unveiling of Edgar Louis Ravenport’s last chef d’oeuvre. Something was wrong. His works had always been very complex and elaborated. Critics had praised his patience and his obsession with detail. I was pretty certain this meant that he could take days, weeks and even months to create his art, and yet he had only been out for two days. What could this ‘master piece’ possibly be? The other paintings and sculptures I had seen exposed in the galleries of this museum were made by less eccentric artists- I knew some of them, had interrogated them thirty years ago- and yet I could see these creations had costed much time and sacrifices to their creators. Abstract paintings, gigantic sculptures of everyday-like objects, moonstones in anti-gravitational glass boxes, photographs of close-ups of God knows what! Everything seemed so unique and oddly magnificent. Unconventional art could take years to be made and in 2147 it would seem we had seen it all already!

Still, Ravenport had promised something never seen before, something so unconventional it was rated unsuitable for children, something unique and beautiful. This had been his exact same words. I had heard him repeat this over and over again on the radio, on the television and on those giant animated billboards in the streets. I had to see what this monster-the monster who had so calmly acknowledged that he had killed Elise, my Elise!- could create that would be unique and beautiful.

The advertisement has gathered quite a crowd in the exposition hall, a crowd curious to see a murderer’s piece of art. Ravenport is standing next to his creation. It is entirely covered by a sheet of red velvet- impossible to guess what is underneath. The suspense is at its highest. Suddenly Edgar clears his throat, the room falls silent and he gently tugs at the cloth. My eyes fall on the unveiled object and my mind goes blank. Then the pain hits. Worse than a train hitting me at full speed. Worse than a shower of bullets each drilling through me. Worse than ripping off my heart and watch it be eaten by vultures. Worse.

The master piece. It is her. Elise. The shape of her face, her nose, her breasts, even her ear piercings. She has been embalmed. Mummified in the new fashion, in this smooth goo that preserved the body indefinitely. This new process captured every curve, every crevasse of the human body. I had seen mummified people before, they all looked so peaceful in death. Beautiful even. But not Elise. She is naked and her head is shaved. Her mouth open in horror, as if screaming for help. Her hand pushing at the goo, trying to tear it open, fighting for her life. Desperate. Terrified. Vulnerable.

This monster had embalmed her alive! And now he is standing next to her, smiling at the horrified faces in the crowd.

Oh God, no! No! No! No! Make it be a nightmare!

This picture is the origin of my inspiration:

picture it & write

All credit for the picture goes to Ermiliablog 🙂

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Alexandra

When The Innocence Is Gone..

13 Jan

I wanted to try something new so…here’s my first Picture It & Write contribution:

Don’t judge me. I know what you are thinking as you look down on me. I look at you and you fake a smile but your eyes betray you. You are appalled, dismayed and falsely emphatic. You are probably wondering; “where are her parents?” as you analyze my messy hair, the dress a size too big for me and, of course, my fingers expertly curled around the cigarette. It’s my first cigarette but you don’t know that. You, adults, are all the same. You always think you know better but you don’t know me.

I am Mae. I am the living incarnation of “when things go wrong.”

I remember my parents. Mother used to bake cookies on Sundays. She sang me to sleep every night braided my hair every morning. She was beautiful, no wonder Father loved her. He was strong. He would lift me up in the air and swirl me around when he got home from work. He would call me his princess. He read me bedtime stories and tickled me to wake me up in the morning. We were happy. The perfect little family.

Then one day, a Monday, they went to the store. They told me they would not be long. They never came back…

Since that Monday, my life has been a nightmare. I had no other family. I’ve been transferred from foster home to foster home. I suppose I wasn’t good enough for anyone to keep me. I have been insulted, beaten, locked outside in the dark and even starved sometimes. I’ve had my hair and my ears pulled too many times to count. But this morning I’ve had enough. Enough of sitting alone in my corner. Enough of having to keep my hair tidy to make a good impression. Enough of having to sing myself to sleep. Enough of being unnoticed, unloved, unwanted. This morning, I didn’t have any more tears left to wash away my pain. I rummaged through my drawer and pulled my best dress out. It had been given to me by my first foster mother when she still thought she wanted me. It is too big for me but had she cared? I undid my braids. I hate them! They are not even like the ones my Mother used to do in my hair. They are too tight and they hurt. I ran my fingers through my hair until I did a pretty big mess. I grinned at myself in the mirror. “People will have to notice me this way!”

I escaped through the window but before, I picked a cigarette from one of the older kids. They’re always trying to make the younger ones have a go at smoking. I had always resisted until this morning.

But you, adults don’t know all that. You look at the cigarette between my fingers and you think I’m ruining my life. You don’t understand that this little warm roll in my hands is my way of burning all the lies that surrounded me and all the broken dreams of a happy family that I need to get rid of. It’s my way of exorcising all my pain and all my anger.

This cigarette is the start of my new life. I’m not a little girl anymore. I may be twelve but since that fateful Monday, I have already aged of a hundred years.