Wasteful Days

Why is it when you don't do something you should be getting done, your days always seem so wasteful? I mean, even if you feel like you've done things that are productive, if you haven't done that number one thing you were meant to get done, the day is wasted. Not that I can relate to this at all - because I do not feel my day was wasted, more... misused, than anything. My bad. It's not my fault there are so many distractions. Music, videos, stories, music, chatting, friends, houses, fresh air, not so fresh air, heat, hunger. All those outside forces. I shall just blame it on my creative orb that lives outside of me. That way it's not my fault. :)

[124 words]

Killer's Reasoning

"So basically his mother wanted out."

"Yeah. She couldn't stand the drunken, abusive husband so she sought protection from someone else."

"But Cameron could never blame her. So he blamed the men instead. Both David and Peter."

"He met Sophie and Joseph, and he instantly thought that the man in this relationship was no different to his father and step-father."

"He killed him. He waited for Sophie to seek protection in him."

"But even after five years she was hestitant and untrusting. Her oldest son was about to become an adult, he had to do something about that."

"So he killed her, too."

"And someone else copped the blame."

"Precisely."

"He was left with two boys, and if they were to turn out anything like their parents, they had to be trained different. They had to be weak, so they couldn't overpower him, or hurt him as he had been hurt by his father phsyically."

"And emotionally. He's never forgotten. It's always at the front of his mind."

"Yeah expect now the boys have a chance to overpower him. He doesn't want that. Damien already outsmarted him by running away."

"And Nick proved him guilty."

"He's never going to let this rest."

"No."

"What do we do?"

"There's nothing we can do ... except wait."

[215 words]

Pathetically Pathetic

Rejected and still writing! XD

People change over time. Looks, attitudes. She still couldn't believe she'd been sitting there on the bus, a seat behind him, watched him glance at her half a dozen times over the course of five minutes, before it finally clicked. She hadn't seen him in three years and she couldn't recognise him for who he was? Those eyes were always so open and distinguishable. And she'd missed her chance to say hi. She hadn't even smiled - too tired, too half asleep to pay him any attention, until recognition finally set in and he was gone. Had it looked like she'd shunned him? Probably. She didn't care, really. She'd moved on to other fish. But just to remember was enough to send her into a state when she collapsed on the bed at home. Why was it always so hard? So pathetically pathetic?

[143 words]

Plan C

There was this crazy girl and she was feeling insanely happy and so she decided she would go and rob her friends house but she knew that if she tried to pick the lock it wouldn't work and so she then decided that she could probably get away with smashing the front window but then she'd probably collapse and lose a lot of blood and by the time she got to crawling to get to the items she wished to steal she will have scared their mother half to death and then they'd call the cops on her and then the friend would wake up and then they'd feel so sorry for her that they dared her to come so they'd give her the stolen items anyway and then the cops would come but she wouldn't mind because she finds them so interesting and she'd want to ask them lots of questions and so by the time she realised Plan B wouldn't work she'd come up with Plan C and she was going to jump the fence and climb through the window Edward Cullen like and steal the possessions but leave behind a present of an origami duck and then just as she would be about to climb out the window again she'd jump on the bed and start attacking them with pillows and they'd just think it was a bad dream and she'd slip out unnoticed again and then they would wake up some five hours later and discover the items gone and think damn, it was real!

[259 words]

Sleep On It

I collapsed onto the bed and didn't move for another ten minutes, as I absorbed the softness, the calmity. The feeling of home. It felt good. But I couldn't lay there forever. I slowly dragged myself up, switching on the fan and turning back. It was incredibly comfy . . . I approached the bed cautiously again. Just five more minutes, then I'd go and study . . . I threw back the quilt and snuggled inside, lifting the sheets up to my head and yawning. I wouldn't go to sleep. I had too much work to do. But I did.

[101 words]

Train Ramble

22 March 2010

Sorry for not posting this yesterday - I wrote it early in the morning on the train ... with a funny feeling that by the time I got home and worked on my assignment I'd forget about it ... so it's pretty lucky I wrote it early! Hate to break the link now...

She yawned, watching the scenery flash her by as she sat shivering under the air conditioning on the train. She didn't know what to write really, but if she continued to ramble, maybe something would come to her. Another train sped past the window. She'd just finished her readings. She was sitting behind a woman in a bright red top who'd just sat down opposite a man in his early twenties that looked like a character straight out of her book. They pulled in at Bowen Hills. Not much longer now. Just a few more stops . . . then of course about half hour of waiting around at uni before her lecture on music reviewing began. She wished she had her music now, but she was listening to the creak of the doors behind her that led to the next cariage. She didn't know what she was writing, instead she let her pen flow, but it was about time she put it away and prepared to get off at the platform after next.

[174 words]

Assessment Thinking

My head hurts. I don't know why, it just does. Surely it couldn't be because of the amount of thinking I've been doing? Let's see - an assignment yesterday, a competition entry, lots of assessment due dates being filed. Today - a lot of procrastination in the form of looking like I'm still doing something relevant ... downloading all the lecture notes, tutorial readings, assessment criteria sheets, and placing them neatly in folders ... before setting down to do some nice, hard thinking about what do for assignment number two. It came to me about 3:00, but I was still contemplating it about eight hours later. Would it work, wouldn't it, why, why not? This, after all, was worth 30% of my overall mark. Would I pull it off? I would soon find out.

[134 words]

Wall Clock

She sat with the pen laying limply between her fingers, eyes staring drearily at the clock as the second hand went around clockwise again. Another minute passed. Feeling uninspired was now a common feeling. A common feeling she disliked. There had to be an easier way to go about it. As the minute hand moved ever so slightly, her idea clicked into place. Time passing. That would be the fulfilling interval in-between the two paragraphs. She began typing away, urging desire to do a word count every few seconds. She waited until she came to the end of her fifth line. How strange, that one normal, bland, ordinary wall clock could inspire such an enthralling paragraph. She did the word count. She'd made the word limit. Success was at her disposal. Her entry was ready to send, and she had high hopes on publication.

[144 words]

Nothing On The Railway

The officer directed passengers to the correct platform across the overpass. It was peak hour, and many of them were unsatisfied at the delay. His men would have to work quickly. They could only hold the trains off for so long. And to be honest, how much evidence did they really think they'd find?

A woman made her way towards him, her eyes he noticed, transfixed on the men standing around on the tracks.

"Heading into the city?" he asked as she approached.

"Um, yeah."

"Platform one."

"What's happened?"

She snapped her gaze to him quickly, before eyeing the officers again. One of them was pointing towards the nearest platform, in clear debate with his colleagues. He followed her gaze, sighing, "Please move on ma'am."

"Was someone killed?"

He eyed her suspiciously. She wasn't going to give up on this, and they'd already alerted the media, so it's not like she wouldn't find out.

"Someone was kidnapped."

He saw the surprise, then horror, then sadness, twist into the depths of her eyes.

"Age?" she whispered.

"Seventeen."

"Well is there anything we can do?"

"Try not to interfere," he reminded her, before adding in a softer tone, "and listen to the news and wait for a description."

She gave a brief nod before hurrying off up the stairs. He glimpsed the group of people - policemen and railway workers - climbing off the tracks. Their expressions were easily read. Nothing.

[239 words]

Crash and Burn

He covered his mouth with his coat as he ran back inside. The heat hit him a hundred times worse than opening an oven door. He hunched over and ran blindly through the thick haze of smoke, navigating his way towards the bedrooms. The main bedroom was first. He ducked his head inside, and forced his eyes open. Darkness surrounded him. Darkness and bright, dancing orange flames, licking up the family portraits. He continued to cough, crouching down lower. Where were they? Maybe they'd managed to get out the back . . . and then he heard the cry. Her screams. He ran towards the nursery, flames engulfing the doorway. He held his breath and pelted forwards, tripping over something heavy and crashing to the floor.

He heard someone call his name as he struggled to his feet, noticing that his clothes, his hands, were covered in ash, and his coughs were getting more and more frequent. Then he saw them. Wife and seven month old daughter, huddled by the cot. He couldn't get up. He couldn't stand. He called for them. She ran over, girl crying uncontrollably in one arm, other arm half dragging him up. It hurt. It hurt a lot. He was half to his feet when he crumbled again, unable to bear the weight of his body. He attempted to pull up one trouser leg, only to find it completely blackened. His wife was kneeling beside him, begging him to get up.

He caressed one worn hand over their daughter's head, pulling himself forwards to kiss them both as he used the last of his breath. "I love you. Caleb's outside. Go be with him." The woman's screams were drowned by the cackling flames, the sirens, as the bundle in her arms too grew silent. She collapsed beside her husband.

[304 words]

Time-De-Time

Time's a funny thing, don't you think? It messes with your brain. It can speed up and slow down at it's own will, working tricks on you. It'll feel like it's been an hour and its been ten minutes. Or its been ten minutes and it feels like an hour. An hour is a long time really. When you think of the amount of things you can get done in that hour. But when compared with other things, an hour can be nothing. That's another trick, you see. One hour can be both long and short. How? Why? Why can't it just stay at one standard rate? It'll either feel earlier or later than you thought it was. Never on the dot. That's time for ya. We're all growing old and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Or is there?

[142 words[

Writing On The Wall

Heh, start of a competition entry.. mind you, would this count towards previous "publication"? =P Amazing, how you can tell the difference in writing style. Effort vs. no effort. =P

[Temporarily removed]

[215 words]

Trapped and Panicking

He let out a blood curdling scream before everything went dark.

When he next opened his eyes, he was staring at the inside lid of a boot. He groaned, shifting slightly only to find his wrists tied. What had happened? What had he done? Why was he here? He changed his train of thought, listening to the sound of the tyres against gravel. He'd just decided it wasn't a smooth road when he was lurched to one side after they drove over a slight bump. The panic began to settle in as he started slamming his fists against the boot, making noise and kicking out with his legs. No one would hear him. No one except his captors.

What was going to happen to him?

[125 words]

Losing It All

He swung the door open and hurried down the hall. He couldn’t take it anymore. Something was wrong, he could sense it. The silence was too much, those voices the day before had sounded so excited. Why? He couldn’t stand not knowing. Sooner or later, he would know what was causing the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was not something he had eaten as he first suspected it was. It was intuition, and it was driving him insane.

He nearly ran around the entire house, popping his head in every room only to find each one empty. Why were they empty? They never left him alone. They wouldn’t leave him alone. There were so many of them, one could always be relied upon to keep an eye on him. They needed to keep an eye on him, because his emotions were so out of control. He shook, grabbing the closest wall to him for support. He’d been round the entire house. Where was everyone? Why did they always have to keep him in the dark?

He let out a small cry of pain as he returned glumly to the room he was assigned. Hopeless, worthless, good for nothing—

He stopped abruptly in front of the door. He couldn’t remember closing it after him. The window wasn’t open, and hadn’t been open since they’d moved, so the wind couldn’t have blown it shut. He gulped. He was right. They never left him alone. He looked up from his feet to face the door now, and his heart almost dropped out of his chest as he tore the message from the door.

We’ve got her.

The tears streamed down his cheeks as he read those three words over a few times. They had her. His little angel. His reason to live. He had failed. He had failed miserably. He was supposed to protect her, keep her away from all this. What would happen to her? He knew the answer to that without question, but he couldn’t admit that. She would not die. Not if he had anything to do with it.

“I’m going to kill you!” he screamed aloud, slamming the door open and tumbling inside. A hand caught him in the middle of his stomach to prevent him falling face forwards.

“No, you’re not,” the voice belonging to the man replied, “You’re going to kill Bill.”

“I already told you. I won’t do it.”

He pushed the man away, scrunching up the piece of paper still held tight in his hands.

“Then you know what we’ll do to her.”

The man strode from the room, slamming the door again behind him. The boy ran forwards, pounding his fists against the wood, jiggling with the doorknob. He was locked in, again. He crumbled to the floor. They had won, he had lost. They wanted him to turn violent, he would. Anything to undone what he’d done.

[488 words]

Silent Night

She shivered and pulled the blankets closer. The silence scared her. She was used to the sounds of her mum clanging around the house, the sound of nightlife outside the window. To hear nothing but the sound of her own breathing was terrifying. She pulled the blanket closer still towards her, so she was sweating despite the fact she still felt freezing. It was hard to breathe while she trapped the air around her, but she couldn't pull the quilt away, couldn't look into that dark and empty room. She wanted company, but she knew no one would come. She was tired, but she wouldn't sleep. She was too frozen with fear, eyes staring at the quilt.

[117 words]

Full Satisfaction

Nothing is ever fully satisfactory. Her drawing was coming along just fine, but she knew she'd never be happy with it. It still had that somewhat flat look, and it would feel as if she'd never get it right. It had so far taken her two hours, and she might be three tenths done. No matter how many hours she spent on it, it would never be perfect. Nothing would ever be perfect. Or at least not in her work, anyway. There was always something to pick on, something you hated in a completed work. Not that that would stop her from completing the work. She would try until she got there in the end - with the flaws.

[119 words]

Dear Writer

Dear Writer,

I had no idea you felt this way, and apologise for any inconvenience. I have shared your stories to the web, it is up to you to advertise them. On the two occasions you are talking about, you attempted to complete a story within the final hour of the day - and it is not my fault you leave things so late. I have given you nothing but a lovely atmosphere in which to dissolve, and your so called loyalty is a mere habit. I do not have excuses as to why I uninspire you because I inspire you quite a lot. Am I not the reason you've come up with 70 stories so far this year? As for the white space - you put it there - not my problem. And I do share thoughts with you - if you dare look hard enough to seek them. I have also brought you 6 followers and would at least call this "some" followers. I can't expect you to enjoy my company, I am only a blog. But that's fine if you expect mine, I won't return it.

Ungratefully,

Blog

[191 words]

Dear Blog

Dear Blog,

I dislike the fact you don't give me any bright ideas one after the other day after day. I have given you nothing but loyalty, despite the two occasions you wiped the entries I wrote. I do apologise for the small number of days I have posted late entries I'd written earlier, but I had excuses. You have no excuses as to why you uninspire me. I thought your white space would give me help. It hasn't. I thought you'd be jumping at the chance of sharing some of your thoughts with me, so I can in turn share them with the world. You haven't. I thought the least you could do was bring me followers. I'm not even two digits yet. I thought I'd enjoy your company. I don't.

Sincerely,

Writer.

[134 words]

Goodnight Chloe

He stood in the dark, staring down at her beautiful figure - so young and innocent. She looked even more innocent when she was sleeping as she was now. He let out a smile at the little girl's beauty - beauty which she would not fully understand until she was much older. She shifted slightly in her sleep, possibly dreaming about fairies or pincesses, as little girls should. She was truly his little angel, no other words could describe her. It was as if she'd been sent specifically into his life, to light his way towards some kind of direction. He sighed. He knew that would happen. To be truly honest with himself, he was scared out of his wits. And even she couldn't change that. He picked up the blanket she had half tossed off herself, and tucked her in. She didn't move a muscle, too deeply lost in an alternate reality.

"Goodnight Chloe," he whispered, "Sweet dreams."

[159 words]

Choice?

Choices were never made to be easy. They were built deliberately around this thing called decisions, and many indecisive people often have the most choices to make. Not saying these choices are any harder or easier than anyone elses, but there always seems like twice as many, and when one choice can't be made, it is put off until you have more than the one choice to make. Decisions are difficult, and when they really want to be, they can be disasterous. But it is our job to keep these decisions in control, in order to respond to our choices, hopefully in a somewhat easier manner.

[106 words]

That's Fishy

Once upon a time in a land far overseas, there lived a bird by the name of Fish. Fish had beautiful white feathers, and a lovely white beak, and he greatly valued the innocents. He was pure and elegant. When he wasn't promoting justice and spreading faith, he loved to float down stream. Now Fish loved life for what it was and took nothing for granted, but he couldn't help the fact he wasn't sure what type of bird he was. He thought he looked much like a graceful Swan with his long neck; however he was labelled as a Duck that goes quack, and named in his description as a Crane, meaning familial obligation, look out for your own. All that along with his name of Fish, made him one very confused water bird. But he wouldn't let that bother him, as long as he was sharing with others his faith. :)

[153 words]

Unwanted

She fiddled the pen in her hands, wondering what to put down onto the paper. She had read not envy, but admire, those other writers. The types of writers that could turn written words into whispers. She sighed, rolling the pen around once again. The ideas were supposed to be all around her - in every object, every person and every tune. So why were they so hard to find most days? Just to string together an idea to add to her short collections was proving difficult, sometimes repetitive. Why? For some, the ideas came every minute of every hour, many left discarded for a later date. Why? Being the writer she believed herself to be, were the ideas so minimal, so flat? Why? Her imagination was so blank. Was it tiredness that overwhelmed her? Despite the shows she watched, despite the books she read, despite the stories she wrote for inspiration... the ideas were still turning to dead ends. Like an unwanted writer's block, those dead ends were unwanted.

[170 words]

I Wish Tonight

It had been days since they'd had a decent conversation, or indeed a conversation at all. It depressed him. He was so used to having her around to clear his mind, distract him. Distract him in a good way that meant making him happy, a reminder of what it felt like to have happiness in his life and not a worry in the world. Without her, he would revert back to his original state before she came along - wary, lonely - with a great urge for self inflicting harm.

But she had hidden that knife, and he could not betray her wishes. He could easily get up and search for it, but he wouldn't. And so he slumped onto the mattress, eyes scanning the rubbish on the floor. Mostly notes he had written up and thrown away, neglecting his plan to keep it secret more and more. He reached for the nearest one and unravelled it, quite surprised to find it blank. Of all the pieces littering the floor, the majority of them had been written on, covered in his messy scrawls for help. Quickly trashing this thought aside, he grabbed the permanent marker from inside his pillow case, but stopped himself, wondering what to write. His eyes turned to the window. As usual, despite the little girl's complaints, the curtains were drawn shut, leaving him in complete darkness. He was so used to the dark now, his eyes adjusted to it almost naturally. He slowly got to his feet, and peeked out the window.

It was dark here too. Nighttime, he realised. He couldn't tell you the hour, because there was no clock. He stared out onto the overgrown lawn. It creeped him out a little, and the trees seemed to shiver angrily in the wind. Instead he turned his eyes to the moon. So bright and beautiful it looked... he returned to the mattress, throwing pen to paper as he wrote...

Star light,
star bright,
first star I see tonight.
I wish I may,
I wish I might,
Have this wish I wish tonight.

He barely paused to consider where and when this common used phrase had come to him, as he began to write out his wish beneath:

I wish to di -

He stopped himself. Why did that sound so false? He really did wish that, he wished it every day. So why couldn't he write it?

"Uncle T?" came the all too familiar voice.

He hurriedly raced to change his words.

I wish to live through the day when this all comes to an end.

[431 words]

Grounded

His eyes shifted as he stifled a yawn, and tried to turn over. He stopped his efforts the instant he felt the sharp, penetrating sting to his upper leg. He forced his eyes open, but saw nothing but the long grass in front of him. He calmly shut his eyes again, trying to shift his weight forward, but his leg prevented him from doing so again. He wanted to scream, but he no longer had the energy. He laid there quietly, unmoving, as he held in his pain and waited for someone to come. Anyone.

He reached a hand out in front of him and grabbed at the grass, clasping his fist tightly around a few blades, to show he did still have some sort of strength in him. He pulled, tearing it straight from the ground and letting the wind carry it away. How he wished the wind could carry him away. He made a grab for more of the blades of grass, until he felt the pain, much stronger, slam down onto his hand and fingers. He let out a muffled scream, for his face was still half buried in the dirt as he tried to pull his hand away. All he managed was to shift his head to one side, to which he felt the heavy blow.

[220 words]

Surrounding Hurt

He stood in the doorway, staring at his feet, unmoving. He didn't want to move. He wanted to stand there and never look up. Never face those faces again, never listen, or obey, or not obey, their commands. More than anything, he wanted to be alone. He wasn't sure it would make him feel any better, but he knew it'd be the only possibilty to make sure no one got hurt. He didn't want their injuries weighing on his burdens. Little did he know, it was the exact way Damien had felt when those around him were getting hurt. Little did he know that being surrounded by people was not only possible, but helpful, if surrounded by the right people. And he didn't know how ready, how prepared, he had been to throw all that away.

[136 words]

Quiet Emergency

He dug his fists tightly into his pockets as he followed the trail of blood through the long grass, leading to the mobile phone. It had been dropped, obviously. The person, whoever they were, had been bleeding badly. He picked up the mobile without a second thought, fingers automatically dialling triple zero without his decision to do so.

"Emergency services. Please state your emergency."

He bit his lip self conciously, shivering just slightly in the cool night air. His jacket gave him some kind of warmth, but not for the prospect of what he would have to do. Just the thought drenched him cold.

"Hello?"

He hastily wiped a single tear from his cheek, as he put the phone down in it's exact spot, along with a new note, as he headed off the way he had come. They would find out. They'd come to help him now. They had to. No one else would.

[155 words]

Travel Routine

The rain drizzled down the windows, doing little to brighten the mood in the carriage. Almost every seat was occupied, yet no one was talking. Perhaps it was a little too early in the day to be making conversation. Everyone seemed oblivious to everyone else, and every so often a yawn would be caught. Some people were reading, others listening to music, some both. And the majority did nothing at all except sit there, staring dully out onto the wet landscape that passed them by, occasionally glancing at the other morning travellers, making unshared assumptions of that persons looks, actions and values.

It was a tiring and blatantly ordinary routine, with little that changed from day to day, except maybe the weather, and hour of travel. In the end, was it all worth it? Would it be worth it by the end? Four hours a day, five days a week this would be; enough to get study done, but would enough of that study actually get finished? That's where distractions would once again come in, and disturb the carefully prepared plans. Maybe tomorrow, work would get done in that seemingly wasteless travelling, instead of the music and novel reading. Even if it was story planning, writing or editing. Something other than the earphones that would calm her anxiety for only a short hour...

[223 words]