Original Writing Dump
I've been really busy with school and family matters, especially now that finals are coming up at school, so I don't have a lot of finished writing to post. That said, here's a bunch of small writing dumps from writing projects I've decided not to really pursue, but I liked how they came out enough to post. I have a feeling some of this stuff is going to tie into my other original projects.
1. The Library
Simon Claire detested working for the library. He had took no pleasure in the fact that he might as well have been working in a funeral home--that's what the library was to him after all. It was a funeral home for books that nobody wanted any more. The shelves kept all the withered, musty scented pages in line as they sat in purgatory, either waiting for some scholar to reap their souls or waiting until the day the librarian deemed them out of date and donated them elsewhere.
Simon may have once cared about libraries and the meaning that they held for others. They may have even meant something to him. As things were though, each day he came back to work, a part of him died along with the forgotten memories of the books on the higher shelves, the shelves nobody would bother looking up to any more. He wasn't completely sure why he came back every week...but he assumed that it had something to do with getting paid.
That was why he especially had to be working today. The Rosewell library was overdue for a new patron, especially since Morton O'Hara had to step down from backing after his announcement that he was going away to study music theory in another kingdom. Everyone else at the library seemed excited to gossip away about who the new patron could possibly be, but Simon, indifferent, had resigned himself to dusting the shelves of poetry anthologies.
II. Summertime
Anthony remembered days from his childhood when he would be tutored and the governess would struggle with getting him to sit still whenever he had to practice grammar. It would take at least an hour just to get him to sit still long enough to read a page, and then it would take another hour to get him to read the assigned reading for the day. This would cut into tea time and with a sigh, the governess always gave up and sent Anthony along to go play outside in the purple dotted meadow half a mile away from home.
He'd let his shoes fly off his feet, pull off his socks and roll up his trousers to his knees. The scent of lavender and thyme would fill his nose and permeate his clothes as he would take his first steps in, taking one last look at his house before running. The flowers would tickle his bare knees as he sprinted through the fields, dirt and grass squishing beneath his feet as he would traverse down to the river. On the hotter days, he would brave the slippery rocks and let the water nip away at his ankles, minnows tickling his toes as he'd travel downstream.
Sometimes, he would pretend he was an adventurer, tasking himself with a quest of sorts, whether it would be to find the right pebble to skip or to catch a butterfly. Other days, he'd pretend that he was lost, that he was alone in the world...No, not alone. He was never alone. The better term would have been independent, because he always had his own company those days, he was sure that he always had a place to go home to, a place to return to after a long day's play.
III. Fear
The icy steps are long and treacherous. I want to so badly to run away from this terrible place and forget that any of this is happening, but every time I try to step down the stairs adrenaline gets caught up in my throat. I can't bring myself to run away from him, no matter how frightened he makes me.
He is a sculptor and I am clay in his grip. He can do anything he wants with me. He already has taken over one man, who knows how many more he would lure to this desolate castle after he is done with my soul?
"I see you trying to leave," he whispers, his voice echoing against the crystal walls.
My breath hitches in my throat. I really should just run away, ignore this monster behind me, but my feet are stuck, my knees are locked. At first I don't know why he just stands there, gazing at me. He could just as easily wrap his fingers around my neck, suffocate me, but then I realize that wouldn't be any fun for him.
No.
Fear is a simple game to him.
1. The Library
Simon Claire detested working for the library. He had took no pleasure in the fact that he might as well have been working in a funeral home--that's what the library was to him after all. It was a funeral home for books that nobody wanted any more. The shelves kept all the withered, musty scented pages in line as they sat in purgatory, either waiting for some scholar to reap their souls or waiting until the day the librarian deemed them out of date and donated them elsewhere.
Simon may have once cared about libraries and the meaning that they held for others. They may have even meant something to him. As things were though, each day he came back to work, a part of him died along with the forgotten memories of the books on the higher shelves, the shelves nobody would bother looking up to any more. He wasn't completely sure why he came back every week...but he assumed that it had something to do with getting paid.
That was why he especially had to be working today. The Rosewell library was overdue for a new patron, especially since Morton O'Hara had to step down from backing after his announcement that he was going away to study music theory in another kingdom. Everyone else at the library seemed excited to gossip away about who the new patron could possibly be, but Simon, indifferent, had resigned himself to dusting the shelves of poetry anthologies.
II. Summertime
Anthony remembered days from his childhood when he would be tutored and the governess would struggle with getting him to sit still whenever he had to practice grammar. It would take at least an hour just to get him to sit still long enough to read a page, and then it would take another hour to get him to read the assigned reading for the day. This would cut into tea time and with a sigh, the governess always gave up and sent Anthony along to go play outside in the purple dotted meadow half a mile away from home.
He'd let his shoes fly off his feet, pull off his socks and roll up his trousers to his knees. The scent of lavender and thyme would fill his nose and permeate his clothes as he would take his first steps in, taking one last look at his house before running. The flowers would tickle his bare knees as he sprinted through the fields, dirt and grass squishing beneath his feet as he would traverse down to the river. On the hotter days, he would brave the slippery rocks and let the water nip away at his ankles, minnows tickling his toes as he'd travel downstream.
Sometimes, he would pretend he was an adventurer, tasking himself with a quest of sorts, whether it would be to find the right pebble to skip or to catch a butterfly. Other days, he'd pretend that he was lost, that he was alone in the world...No, not alone. He was never alone. The better term would have been independent, because he always had his own company those days, he was sure that he always had a place to go home to, a place to return to after a long day's play.
III. Fear
The icy steps are long and treacherous. I want to so badly to run away from this terrible place and forget that any of this is happening, but every time I try to step down the stairs adrenaline gets caught up in my throat. I can't bring myself to run away from him, no matter how frightened he makes me.
He is a sculptor and I am clay in his grip. He can do anything he wants with me. He already has taken over one man, who knows how many more he would lure to this desolate castle after he is done with my soul?
"I see you trying to leave," he whispers, his voice echoing against the crystal walls.
My breath hitches in my throat. I really should just run away, ignore this monster behind me, but my feet are stuck, my knees are locked. At first I don't know why he just stands there, gazing at me. He could just as easily wrap his fingers around my neck, suffocate me, but then I realize that wouldn't be any fun for him.
No.
Fear is a simple game to him.