A Short Passage
Here is a short passage that I wrote when I was bored and at the same time was listening to the news:
Tamara slid her ebony colored hands over her satin rose dress. She stood in front of the mirror and examined herself. Her curves, bust and well tones thighs. Frowning she picked a dark haired strand out of her eyes and sighed. “Tonight Caesar is coming over…” Before she finished her sentence she trailed off looking into the mirror again. She noticed a dent in her calve. It was subtle but sure moving in and out like a crevasse between two snow melted mountains. She snorted in disgust, “Another flaw from my field hockey days.” She ran her white, diamond encrusted nail across the divot. “Good thing I gave up that retched sport, field hockey. I don’t need that anymore to look hott.” She smiled and sauntered over to the cherry wood vanity desk and gingerly picked up a packet of pills. There were seven in the foil covered pill case, not including the two that had earlier been consumed that week. “My life savers…” Tamara said in a gaze as she popped another menacingly large sickly yellow colored pill out. “If mom knew about this…I wouldn’t know what to do.”
Dismissing the thought she ran to the sink and downed some water in a paper cup from the dispenser on the wall. Looking into the mirror on the bathroom wall Tamara examined the painted “Diva” in cursive letters at the top; she tilted her head to the side.
“All that matters…” she muttered while searching through her makeup bag for foundation. “Is that I look hott. And that these pills keep working their magic on me.”
She smiled broadly and suddenly; as if two hooks had seized the creases of her mouth, yanked them down. “It’s not healthy…” she admitted while covering up the ever growing circles under her eyes. “But society depends on this perfect image.”
“I’ve come to learn this from experience since I first moved here from South Africa in the second grade with my mother.” She said through gritted teeth. “That here in America, perfection is a must. And looking good and making money is all that matters. Having hott boyfriends, plastic surgery and keeping track of who’s hott in the papers is a standard…”
“Invading countries and saving more poor non-Christian souls, and taking away all that is “impure” and “savage” away from a society that has been already functioning for well over thousands and thousands of years, is mandatory.”
“And to disregard all women’s shapely figures and confine themselves to sticks like they’ve been well starved for years until they reach the state of looking like pubecenct 10 year old males; makes these girls SEXY?! What does that make me hmm?”
She pounded her fist onto the counter-top and stood sobbing violently. Tamara looked intently into the mirror once again and saw that her mascara was running in thick rivers down her cheeks leaving a trail of black residue.
Fixing herself up; she straightened her dress, buckled on her stilettos, re-applied her eyeliner and mascara, and re-glossed her lips. She picked up her Luis Vutton bag and hung it over her shoulder. “Good thing in America you can choose to divorce your out of work husband over seas and marry a 57 year old Oil Tycoon owner…” Tamara tilted her chin up to the ceiling and reflected for a moment then came to a conclusion. Flicking the bathroom light off and walking away down the marble hall she laughed to herself with a slight pitch of insanity and grief, “God bless America….”
Yeah I don't know if i'll ever create this into a real story. It'll just be some short story. If your not a dimwit I hope you understand my meaning to it. Post what you think it's about! Post input too! I'd love to hear constructive criticism and praise!
<3-Rachel
Tamara slid her ebony colored hands over her satin rose dress. She stood in front of the mirror and examined herself. Her curves, bust and well tones thighs. Frowning she picked a dark haired strand out of her eyes and sighed. “Tonight Caesar is coming over…” Before she finished her sentence she trailed off looking into the mirror again. She noticed a dent in her calve. It was subtle but sure moving in and out like a crevasse between two snow melted mountains. She snorted in disgust, “Another flaw from my field hockey days.” She ran her white, diamond encrusted nail across the divot. “Good thing I gave up that retched sport, field hockey. I don’t need that anymore to look hott.” She smiled and sauntered over to the cherry wood vanity desk and gingerly picked up a packet of pills. There were seven in the foil covered pill case, not including the two that had earlier been consumed that week. “My life savers…” Tamara said in a gaze as she popped another menacingly large sickly yellow colored pill out. “If mom knew about this…I wouldn’t know what to do.”
Dismissing the thought she ran to the sink and downed some water in a paper cup from the dispenser on the wall. Looking into the mirror on the bathroom wall Tamara examined the painted “Diva” in cursive letters at the top; she tilted her head to the side.
“All that matters…” she muttered while searching through her makeup bag for foundation. “Is that I look hott. And that these pills keep working their magic on me.”
She smiled broadly and suddenly; as if two hooks had seized the creases of her mouth, yanked them down. “It’s not healthy…” she admitted while covering up the ever growing circles under her eyes. “But society depends on this perfect image.”
“I’ve come to learn this from experience since I first moved here from South Africa in the second grade with my mother.” She said through gritted teeth. “That here in America, perfection is a must. And looking good and making money is all that matters. Having hott boyfriends, plastic surgery and keeping track of who’s hott in the papers is a standard…”
“Invading countries and saving more poor non-Christian souls, and taking away all that is “impure” and “savage” away from a society that has been already functioning for well over thousands and thousands of years, is mandatory.”
“And to disregard all women’s shapely figures and confine themselves to sticks like they’ve been well starved for years until they reach the state of looking like pubecenct 10 year old males; makes these girls SEXY?! What does that make me hmm?”
She pounded her fist onto the counter-top and stood sobbing violently. Tamara looked intently into the mirror once again and saw that her mascara was running in thick rivers down her cheeks leaving a trail of black residue.
Fixing herself up; she straightened her dress, buckled on her stilettos, re-applied her eyeliner and mascara, and re-glossed her lips. She picked up her Luis Vutton bag and hung it over her shoulder. “Good thing in America you can choose to divorce your out of work husband over seas and marry a 57 year old Oil Tycoon owner…” Tamara tilted her chin up to the ceiling and reflected for a moment then came to a conclusion. Flicking the bathroom light off and walking away down the marble hall she laughed to herself with a slight pitch of insanity and grief, “God bless America….”
Yeah I don't know if i'll ever create this into a real story. It'll just be some short story. If your not a dimwit I hope you understand my meaning to it. Post what you think it's about! Post input too! I'd love to hear constructive criticism and praise!
<3-Rachel