(no subject)
One of my teachers asked us, for a homework, to write a short story (only 4 pages long) about one of the sonnets we took in class.
I choose Sir Thomas Wyatt's "Divers doth use".
I wrote the story today in the spam of one hour, and I'd really like any of you, lovely ladies, to give him some feed-back before I email it to my teacher.
Here it is:
(He always thought that people were funny, and since he enjoyed a good laugh every now and then he made it a habit for himself to observe how people around him acts and reacts. Some might say that he has a twisted sense of humor, but there is nothing twisted about observing foolishness and laughing at it, and he was too much of a gentleman, anyway, to laugh at people in their faces or behind their backs.
It can be lonely to silently laugh at your own jokes, he thought. It was not for the lack of human contact that he felt alone, indeed, he was almost always surrounded by a sea of people, but it was that invisible wall inside of him that blocks any real emotion from evading the privacy of his heart. He was polite and friendly, but there was nothing warm in his smiles. You would shake hands with him and he'll always be the first to pull his hand back. His tongue would say: (nice to meet you), or (I look forward to hear from you again), but his eyes would never mean a single word of it. It's not that he's emotionless, he's just not emotional enough.
Yet there was a time when emotions ran through every vibe of his being that he even wrote poetry. Poetry! That word still sounds so foreign to his mind now after all these years. He chuckled at himself, recalling forgotten memories with a taste of faint bitterness on his mouth.
He was sitting at his usual sit in the beautiful small park near the lake when he spotted, in the corner of his eyes, two people walking hand in hand. An young married couple. The wife is pregnant, so it seems.
Ah, foolish young love! They say that love and foolishness are two sisters holding hands, one would be lost without the other.
Nothing made him laugh until his checks hurts like the new sight of a young foolish love. Love and foolishness are not bound by any age, but there was something tragically humorous about a couple who haven't walk more than twenty years on this earth yet believe, with such absolute certainty, that they really knows how real love really feels!
Many a time he would witness a boy proposing to his girl under a huge tree. The girl would weep every time and collapse in his arms vowing to bind their lives together forever and ever. Only for him to see them again arguing this time under the same tree and separating a year later.
Some broken hearted men cried and wailed like little foolish children begging for their favorite toys. Some became spiteful; spiting venomous words of hate and accusations.
Foolishness, he thought!
Yet there was a time in his distance past when he was just as young, just as foolish, and just as in love.
The love of his youth was an older woman, a widow. A mysterious beauty with black clothes, black hair, and black, sad eyes. His love for her was a pricing knife that dig deeper and deeper through his heart. But she never returned his feelings, and that left a wound in his heart that would still opens up time and after time even after all these years. He cried like a baby, went on his knees like a beggar dying of hunger, clinging for her to grant his soul some mercy. When she suddenly despaired with her child and left London without a single words.. something inside him died forever.
It will be another twenty years before he allowed another woman to take over his heart again. The fair lady was a neighbor, closer to his age this time. A gentle, graceful woman with the most beautiful golden locks he has ever seen. Her husband was missing for nearly six years after the war, and he thought she had long but forgotten her husband once she met him.
She swore to him! She said she loved him and only him, and he believed her and loved her more than any woman deserved to be loved. When the rumors spread that her missing husband is coming home.. everything crumbled down. She collapsed in front of him and whispered her husband's name in a desperate longing he never heard in her voice when she called his name. That lair!
The anger was boiling inside of himself in an alarming speed and was ready to explode. He left her after a vicious fight between them where he made her weep by calling her a lair over and over.
He was sure he was done with love and woman, infidelity runs through their veins after all, until his sister tricked him into an arranged marriage with a girl young enough to be his daughter.
The girl was an orphan, she said. She was penniless, she said. She needed a strong, responsible man like him to take care of her, she said. He agreed. God knows why he did, but he married her. The girl had an usual, striking features, but she was not pretty, nor attractive. But her mind was wise beyond her age. He couldn't help but to love her like he never loved any woman before.
There was something pure about her. The way her rosy lips twist in a shy smile when he calls her "dear", the way she kissed his check goodnight, and the way she would daydream about having his children all day long.
She died after giving birth to a sick baby girl who followed her mother in death in the span of two days.
She said she would never leave him like his past lovers did. She lied. Woman are like that, he had come to know, so he didn't feel mad at her. He will not call her a liar (not here), even if she did lie. He will let it pass.
He didn't feel, couldn’t feel, anything at all.
By the time his daughter died and was buried next to her mother's grave he had became only a shadow of the man he once was. The man who would write endless poetry for love, for the pain and joys of love, for the memory of love.
But that was when he still had a heart).
PS. lol, I know it's not that good, but I wasn't in the mood to write a better one. >__>
I choose Sir Thomas Wyatt's "Divers doth use".
I wrote the story today in the spam of one hour, and I'd really like any of you, lovely ladies, to give him some feed-back before I email it to my teacher.
Here it is:
(He always thought that people were funny, and since he enjoyed a good laugh every now and then he made it a habit for himself to observe how people around him acts and reacts. Some might say that he has a twisted sense of humor, but there is nothing twisted about observing foolishness and laughing at it, and he was too much of a gentleman, anyway, to laugh at people in their faces or behind their backs.
It can be lonely to silently laugh at your own jokes, he thought. It was not for the lack of human contact that he felt alone, indeed, he was almost always surrounded by a sea of people, but it was that invisible wall inside of him that blocks any real emotion from evading the privacy of his heart. He was polite and friendly, but there was nothing warm in his smiles. You would shake hands with him and he'll always be the first to pull his hand back. His tongue would say: (nice to meet you), or (I look forward to hear from you again), but his eyes would never mean a single word of it. It's not that he's emotionless, he's just not emotional enough.
Yet there was a time when emotions ran through every vibe of his being that he even wrote poetry. Poetry! That word still sounds so foreign to his mind now after all these years. He chuckled at himself, recalling forgotten memories with a taste of faint bitterness on his mouth.
He was sitting at his usual sit in the beautiful small park near the lake when he spotted, in the corner of his eyes, two people walking hand in hand. An young married couple. The wife is pregnant, so it seems.
Ah, foolish young love! They say that love and foolishness are two sisters holding hands, one would be lost without the other.
Nothing made him laugh until his checks hurts like the new sight of a young foolish love. Love and foolishness are not bound by any age, but there was something tragically humorous about a couple who haven't walk more than twenty years on this earth yet believe, with such absolute certainty, that they really knows how real love really feels!
Many a time he would witness a boy proposing to his girl under a huge tree. The girl would weep every time and collapse in his arms vowing to bind their lives together forever and ever. Only for him to see them again arguing this time under the same tree and separating a year later.
Some broken hearted men cried and wailed like little foolish children begging for their favorite toys. Some became spiteful; spiting venomous words of hate and accusations.
Foolishness, he thought!
Yet there was a time in his distance past when he was just as young, just as foolish, and just as in love.
The love of his youth was an older woman, a widow. A mysterious beauty with black clothes, black hair, and black, sad eyes. His love for her was a pricing knife that dig deeper and deeper through his heart. But she never returned his feelings, and that left a wound in his heart that would still opens up time and after time even after all these years. He cried like a baby, went on his knees like a beggar dying of hunger, clinging for her to grant his soul some mercy. When she suddenly despaired with her child and left London without a single words.. something inside him died forever.
It will be another twenty years before he allowed another woman to take over his heart again. The fair lady was a neighbor, closer to his age this time. A gentle, graceful woman with the most beautiful golden locks he has ever seen. Her husband was missing for nearly six years after the war, and he thought she had long but forgotten her husband once she met him.
She swore to him! She said she loved him and only him, and he believed her and loved her more than any woman deserved to be loved. When the rumors spread that her missing husband is coming home.. everything crumbled down. She collapsed in front of him and whispered her husband's name in a desperate longing he never heard in her voice when she called his name. That lair!
The anger was boiling inside of himself in an alarming speed and was ready to explode. He left her after a vicious fight between them where he made her weep by calling her a lair over and over.
He was sure he was done with love and woman, infidelity runs through their veins after all, until his sister tricked him into an arranged marriage with a girl young enough to be his daughter.
The girl was an orphan, she said. She was penniless, she said. She needed a strong, responsible man like him to take care of her, she said. He agreed. God knows why he did, but he married her. The girl had an usual, striking features, but she was not pretty, nor attractive. But her mind was wise beyond her age. He couldn't help but to love her like he never loved any woman before.
There was something pure about her. The way her rosy lips twist in a shy smile when he calls her "dear", the way she kissed his check goodnight, and the way she would daydream about having his children all day long.
She died after giving birth to a sick baby girl who followed her mother in death in the span of two days.
She said she would never leave him like his past lovers did. She lied. Woman are like that, he had come to know, so he didn't feel mad at her. He will not call her a liar (not here), even if she did lie. He will let it pass.
He didn't feel, couldn’t feel, anything at all.
By the time his daughter died and was buried next to her mother's grave he had became only a shadow of the man he once was. The man who would write endless poetry for love, for the pain and joys of love, for the memory of love.
But that was when he still had a heart).
PS. lol, I know it's not that good, but I wasn't in the mood to write a better one. >__>