New stuff... kinda.
My DSL internet is gone and now I have NetZero dial-up. Blah.
I wrote a couple of standalones. They're short and over a month old. My writing has been even crappier than usual and I've been having the strong urge to remove delete all my stories on LPF. The more I think about it, the better it sounds. It'll probably happen soon.
Note: I didn't really have anything in mind when I wrote these. I was writing just to... write. So, if nothing seems to fit right, that's why. The second one is sort of continuation to Burn. It can be read alone though.
Description: “Lots of people get divorced,” he said aloud, alone in the bedroom he once shared with his wife. “It’s so common, these days. How sickening.”
“Lots of people get divorced,” he said aloud, alone in the bedroom he once shared with his wife. “It’s so common, these days. How sickening.”
Chester hated being another statistic. Hated being part of that fifty percent of married couples that got divorced. Chester thought he was more original than that, thought he was a bit more special.
He had been walking around their old bed. The bed was still made just as nicely as when Sam left. The day she left, she had cleaned the house, leaving Chester a clue. Their home had never been that clean since the arrival of their son, Draven. When Chester walked in and saw that the place was spotless, he knew that she was gone. It was Sam’s way of saying there would finally be order.
But it didn’t hit as hard as it would someone else, at first. The whole clean-house deal was too movie perfect and he couldn’t stand that. Chester saw and picked apart, like a critic, everything in the house. “The shelves weren’t dusted that well; the table could have used a bit more polish; she used that lemon-scented air freshener instead of Hawaiian Breeze, she remembered I hate the lemon.” But he still remained in the house, sleeping on the floor on the right side of the bed - Sam’s side of the bed.
When the others would visit they had been told not to touch anything. They were not to even sit on the sofa or turn on the radio or television. Chester said that everything had to remain in its place, that there must be order; everything had to be what he believed to be perfect - to be right.
Soon Joe had found out that Chester went the whole day without music or watching TV. He didn’t even go in the kitchen. The only thing heard was the ringing of his cell phone, the buzz of L.A. traffic, and the sometimes screeching, pounding sound of his thoughts.
“Talinda said she would call today. Linda’s cool. She’s very kind and very pretty. Some say rebound girl, some may be right. Linda seemed like such a good idea, such a good person to take the pain away, but she isn’t helping. I like her, but she doesn’t ease me like I want her to. I want to heal.” Chester laughed at his last sentence. It couldn’t possibly get worse, there’s nothing more horrific than quoting your own song lyrics, which weren’t all that personal. His songs could apply to anyone. There were so… general.
Talinda didn’t call. She had forgotten. Chester took it as a sign of their break-up. She didn’t call, so she doesn’t care, so she’s letting go, he figured. Sam had called him every day, and then she started to call less and less. Chester didn’t see it then. He sees it now.
“I’m not old enough for this,” he said, still alone. “That’s the problem - everyone who’s divorced is too young. No one should be divorced until they’re 50.” It seemed logical. 50 seemed to be the right age, it sounded correct. “You should be here, Samantha. Dust is collecting on the furniture. Flowers are dying. Food is rotting.”
Chester heard someone open his door. He half-expected it to be his wife, holding their little boy in one arm. But it was Dave with a Jack-in-the-Box bag and a large soda.
“You have to eat, Chaz. Come on out of this house, man. You’re letting it suffocate you, letting it kill you,” Dave said.
“We used to be here, we used to live in our own little fairytale. Now we’re living in this big reality and I hate it - it’s typical, it’s common.”
Dave didn’t say a word. He just stood, clutching the soda, which was cold and numbing his fingers. And he felt as if his grip on the paper bag would fail and the carpet would be wearing grease stains. He looked at his feet, still unsure of what to say.
“Let’s go.” It was so quiet, so solemn. Chester saw Dave’s eyes suddenly look up at him, glimmering with hope. Chester walked towards him and he handed over the food. Slowly Chester took a sip from his drink: Hawaiian Punch. He smiled.
“I knew you liked Hawaiian a lot, so…”
“Thanks, Dave.”
So far, nothing in the house has been changed. The knick-knacks and other memories are left to gather dust, to die, to rot.
*
Description: Holding on because you can’t let go of the things you thought he genuinely meant.
They lied about quite a few things.
One is that they never told you how much it would hurt to let go. Letting go is probably the hardest thing anyone could ever do because people hold on to something they love so strongly. Hardheadedness. That’s all it is. Stubbornness. It’s what drives humans and makes them so terribly flawed.
Two is that they never told you how much fear you would be filled with. You’ve known nervousness about a situation you’ve never experienced before, sure. But you wouldn’t dare confuse nerves and fear, though they are used interchangeably. No, you went out and got downright scared. Scared to move. Scared to breathe. Scared to touch. Why are you so afraid?
Three is they never told you about the anger. A hate for someone or thing is just as debilitating as the fear of it. In certain cases, if anger is directed and filtered to a goal (one goal that does not involve hurting others), then it just as empowering as love can, sometimes, be. But your anger is not being guided towards something useful. Who are you hurting? Well, I’ll tell you - yourself.
Well, you think about what they told you exactly. How many lies did the feed you?
Pray and the Lord will bless you.
If you turn away then it’s out of your hands.
There is good rooted in everyone.
And there are many more that you care not about. You remember when your best friend decided to go out on his own. You prayed to God and said, “Don’t take my fire away.”
But he did.
You just looked the other way, turned your back. The Lord did take your fire after all, but He aimed it at your chest.
It smolders, still. And you realize that he’s been holding your hand through the darkness this whole time; warming you, calming you, even when he knew he would let go soon enough. That’s what upsets you, when you realize that the whole thing was just a damned charade, and that the only reason he chose you was because he knew you would guarantee fame. You were nothing more than an open door for his success.
Concern. Hate. Jealousy. Love. Who knew that they all could co-exist inside, jumble at the same at time. All it takes is a look at him or a memory of him and you feel everything. But underneath the skin lies a hard, dark, heated soul - much like the lump of coal Santa has put in a gift box and gave to you - and you’re the only one who sees it.
He’s a liar. He’s one of the people who have lied to you. Why do you still care?
Have spent and still spending all this time loving a stranger. Still spending - more like wasting - and will continue to do so until it all finally breaks down. You have concluded that you are an emotional masochist. Obviously. No one else would still be holding on.
Holding on because you can’t let go of the things you thought he genuinely meant. Damned liar has got you bound and not sure if you want to escape.
I wrote a couple of standalones. They're short and over a month old. My writing has been even crappier than usual and I've been having the strong urge to remove delete all my stories on LPF. The more I think about it, the better it sounds. It'll probably happen soon.
Note: I didn't really have anything in mind when I wrote these. I was writing just to... write. So, if nothing seems to fit right, that's why. The second one is sort of continuation to Burn. It can be read alone though.
Description: “Lots of people get divorced,” he said aloud, alone in the bedroom he once shared with his wife. “It’s so common, these days. How sickening.”
“Lots of people get divorced,” he said aloud, alone in the bedroom he once shared with his wife. “It’s so common, these days. How sickening.”
Chester hated being another statistic. Hated being part of that fifty percent of married couples that got divorced. Chester thought he was more original than that, thought he was a bit more special.
He had been walking around their old bed. The bed was still made just as nicely as when Sam left. The day she left, she had cleaned the house, leaving Chester a clue. Their home had never been that clean since the arrival of their son, Draven. When Chester walked in and saw that the place was spotless, he knew that she was gone. It was Sam’s way of saying there would finally be order.
But it didn’t hit as hard as it would someone else, at first. The whole clean-house deal was too movie perfect and he couldn’t stand that. Chester saw and picked apart, like a critic, everything in the house. “The shelves weren’t dusted that well; the table could have used a bit more polish; she used that lemon-scented air freshener instead of Hawaiian Breeze, she remembered I hate the lemon.” But he still remained in the house, sleeping on the floor on the right side of the bed - Sam’s side of the bed.
When the others would visit they had been told not to touch anything. They were not to even sit on the sofa or turn on the radio or television. Chester said that everything had to remain in its place, that there must be order; everything had to be what he believed to be perfect - to be right.
Soon Joe had found out that Chester went the whole day without music or watching TV. He didn’t even go in the kitchen. The only thing heard was the ringing of his cell phone, the buzz of L.A. traffic, and the sometimes screeching, pounding sound of his thoughts.
“Talinda said she would call today. Linda’s cool. She’s very kind and very pretty. Some say rebound girl, some may be right. Linda seemed like such a good idea, such a good person to take the pain away, but she isn’t helping. I like her, but she doesn’t ease me like I want her to. I want to heal.” Chester laughed at his last sentence. It couldn’t possibly get worse, there’s nothing more horrific than quoting your own song lyrics, which weren’t all that personal. His songs could apply to anyone. There were so… general.
Talinda didn’t call. She had forgotten. Chester took it as a sign of their break-up. She didn’t call, so she doesn’t care, so she’s letting go, he figured. Sam had called him every day, and then she started to call less and less. Chester didn’t see it then. He sees it now.
“I’m not old enough for this,” he said, still alone. “That’s the problem - everyone who’s divorced is too young. No one should be divorced until they’re 50.” It seemed logical. 50 seemed to be the right age, it sounded correct. “You should be here, Samantha. Dust is collecting on the furniture. Flowers are dying. Food is rotting.”
Chester heard someone open his door. He half-expected it to be his wife, holding their little boy in one arm. But it was Dave with a Jack-in-the-Box bag and a large soda.
“You have to eat, Chaz. Come on out of this house, man. You’re letting it suffocate you, letting it kill you,” Dave said.
“We used to be here, we used to live in our own little fairytale. Now we’re living in this big reality and I hate it - it’s typical, it’s common.”
Dave didn’t say a word. He just stood, clutching the soda, which was cold and numbing his fingers. And he felt as if his grip on the paper bag would fail and the carpet would be wearing grease stains. He looked at his feet, still unsure of what to say.
“Let’s go.” It was so quiet, so solemn. Chester saw Dave’s eyes suddenly look up at him, glimmering with hope. Chester walked towards him and he handed over the food. Slowly Chester took a sip from his drink: Hawaiian Punch. He smiled.
“I knew you liked Hawaiian a lot, so…”
“Thanks, Dave.”
So far, nothing in the house has been changed. The knick-knacks and other memories are left to gather dust, to die, to rot.
*
Description: Holding on because you can’t let go of the things you thought he genuinely meant.
They lied about quite a few things.
One is that they never told you how much it would hurt to let go. Letting go is probably the hardest thing anyone could ever do because people hold on to something they love so strongly. Hardheadedness. That’s all it is. Stubbornness. It’s what drives humans and makes them so terribly flawed.
Two is that they never told you how much fear you would be filled with. You’ve known nervousness about a situation you’ve never experienced before, sure. But you wouldn’t dare confuse nerves and fear, though they are used interchangeably. No, you went out and got downright scared. Scared to move. Scared to breathe. Scared to touch. Why are you so afraid?
Three is they never told you about the anger. A hate for someone or thing is just as debilitating as the fear of it. In certain cases, if anger is directed and filtered to a goal (one goal that does not involve hurting others), then it just as empowering as love can, sometimes, be. But your anger is not being guided towards something useful. Who are you hurting? Well, I’ll tell you - yourself.
Well, you think about what they told you exactly. How many lies did the feed you?
Pray and the Lord will bless you.
If you turn away then it’s out of your hands.
There is good rooted in everyone.
And there are many more that you care not about. You remember when your best friend decided to go out on his own. You prayed to God and said, “Don’t take my fire away.”
But he did.
You just looked the other way, turned your back. The Lord did take your fire after all, but He aimed it at your chest.
It smolders, still. And you realize that he’s been holding your hand through the darkness this whole time; warming you, calming you, even when he knew he would let go soon enough. That’s what upsets you, when you realize that the whole thing was just a damned charade, and that the only reason he chose you was because he knew you would guarantee fame. You were nothing more than an open door for his success.
Concern. Hate. Jealousy. Love. Who knew that they all could co-exist inside, jumble at the same at time. All it takes is a look at him or a memory of him and you feel everything. But underneath the skin lies a hard, dark, heated soul - much like the lump of coal Santa has put in a gift box and gave to you - and you’re the only one who sees it.
He’s a liar. He’s one of the people who have lied to you. Why do you still care?
Have spent and still spending all this time loving a stranger. Still spending - more like wasting - and will continue to do so until it all finally breaks down. You have concluded that you are an emotional masochist. Obviously. No one else would still be holding on.
Holding on because you can’t let go of the things you thought he genuinely meant. Damned liar has got you bound and not sure if you want to escape.