bookhobbit
The little ant chugging away at the impossible task, pulling the stalk of wheat along to the hive, forever searching and never find its way back. That's me, that ant, I don't know where I am or where I'm going, and I'm afraid that I won't be able to bring back the thing I need most. So I'll stay here in the dark, clutching my book to my chest, too scared to do anything important.
Your punishment, said the headmistress, is to eat at my table with me. To watch my mouth go up and down, and be fascinated with horror as the horrible chocolate pudding is mashed up and delumped. To experience the horror of not knowing which fork to use. To be unsure that the noodles you're eating are not, in fact, some kind of horrible dead worm. That is what you get for talking with your mouth full.
He screamed, screamed, screamed, wanting to know. The man would not tell, though. He patted the boy on the sleeve in a vague way and said, "When you're ready for this, I promise. But until then, you'll have to struggle along not know. It's humanity."
"I'm not human," said the boy.
"Yes," said the man, "That's why you need to learn to be.
the elastic nature of people's affection has always surprised me. They say they love you and then, when you're gone, they bend back out of sight. So you're back again, and they act affectionate, but soon enough something else will distract them and they will be brought around to love that shiny new thing more than you.
And you're alone and they don't care, because a puppy is so much cuter than a big friendly dog.
The violent explosion of purple that resulted from letting the lid off the can of paint made Amber wince. The magicians had been at it again. She gazed down at her hair and clothes, and sighed. The cleaning bill would be enormous, and of course none of them would pay it. It was unfair, the way they picked on the common folk these days. Just because they had magic...
The maroon sweater was ugly but comfortable, so he worn it anyway. Besides, the fact that his best friend had given it to him for Christmas was something. That man had always known him better than anyone else. Something to knock around the house in was just the ticket for a cold winter's morning.
The stem on the leaf was the thing she decided to focus on. Try to move small things at once, they'd said. And so she stared and stared at the pale green thing, willing it to twitch, as if even the faintest breeze had gone through. If she had no talent, she'd just die. All her best friends were going to the academy.
The honest opinion of the woman in front of me was not important. What was important was the case she'd brought me- and the dough it'd bring in. I could tell she disapproved, but she knew I was the only one who'd solve the crime for her, especially if she didn't want to involve the police. Sometimes a private dick's your only hope, even when he smells like booze and cheap cigars.
The idea of lust terrified and disgusted him. He could not imagine wanting someone else's body, couldn't imagine enjoying the ugly union of flesh and spit and indignity that sex brought. He kept himself guarded, carefully, from these urges, covered in a thin film of emotional plastic wrap to keep out desire.
The way he looked at her made her want to cry, though not from sadness, nor indeed from happiness. It was more...overwhelming. There was something beautiful and terrifying in the way that gaze pinned her, made her stop what she was doing and stare back. It was so bright that she could have burst into flames.
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writing since 2009 · 20 entries · 18 days shown up
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