Jump to content

There's A First Time For Everything [M]


Recommended Posts

[center][size=4][b]There?s A First Time For Everything.[/b][/size][/center]

[size=1] This is something that everyone can agree on. Whether it?s a first birthday, your first car, your first funeral, your first experience out of the country, or even your first kiss, we all are continually introduced to bold new things, the good and the bad. How you choose to respond to these new things (if you accept and adjust or refuse to do either) speaks volumes about who you are ? your strengths, your weaknesses, even your dreams and ambitions.

The goal of this thread, then, is to write about these experiences. They can be realistic or otherworldly; they can be romantic comedies or epic tragedies; they can be true-life events or completely fictional tales. That choice is left entirely up to you. My hope is to create a collection of stories and ideas that the OB community can read and enjoy, and possibly even learn from.

There are a few rules. All of the stories [b]must have a rating in the title.[/b] This thread is rated Mature under the pretense that those who read will understand that there can be some stories that contain themes that they may not want to read about, and those who post will specify what themes are present in their stories. If you do not include a rating somewhere in your post, then it will be deleted.

You may also only post one story at a time. There is no required length to these stories, however, so they can be as long or as short as you like. If the idea of chapters (or parts, to cut down on size, perhaps) appeals to you, then you can do so, as long as each post is only one part or chapter long.

You may write in first, second or third person, about whatever or whomever you want, as long as it is a [i]first time experience[/i] (hence the very purpose of the thread). If you?d like to include graphics, music or other HTML-y things, then you may do so. The possibilities are endless.

I will probably create a sort of index that lists all the authors and their stories by page so that you don?t have to go searching through the entire thread. It will follow this ramble, once there are a number of different stories posted. Hopefully my own addition to this will be up shortly (after somebody else posts, because we all know how evil double posting is). Until then, however, merry posting to you all. ^_^

[center][b][u]Page One[/u][/b]
[b]Stepping Out [PG-L][/b] by Shinmaru
[b]All Consuming [M][/b] by Heaven's Cloud
[b]Disappear [T][/b] by Mitch
[b]Make It Go Away [M][/b] by Annie
[b]Walking Corpses [M-LV][/b] by Siren
[b]Sleepover [PG][/b] by Lore
[b]Don't Try That Again [PG-VL][/b] by Altron
[b]Resurrection [M-VL][/b] by Deathknight
[b]Things Invisible To See [E][/b] by Lore[/center][/size]
Link to comment
Share on other sites

It's been thirteen years. In many ways it seems like it happened ages ago; I've grown so much, both in stature, I was about 4'7" in those days, and as a person. But I can still remember it very clearly, as if I just got home, bewildered, wondering just what it was about me that repelled everyone else. I couldn't understand it then, and to a certain extent, I can't really understand it today.

My family moved around a bit when I was starting up in school. I went to three different elementary schools within the space of a year. We'd settled here in La Puente, the town I've been living in for almost fifteen years now. My mom had recently quit her job in order to take care of my siblings and I; previously while our mom went to work, we'd been left with a couple of aunts of ours, who were less than stellar parents to say the least.

I started at Workman Elementary in January of 1993. I'd just turned seven years old a couple of months prior. I was sort of nervous on my first day of school. I'd made friends with people easily enough at other schools, but as a little kid, I was sort of shaken by the new and unfamiliar. I walked into the classroom, Room One, and sat down at the far left side of the room, choosing a seat in the middle of the row, I can't remember exactly which one now.

There were already a few people scattered about the room, a couple of them were even talking to each other. They must have been friends from Kindergarten, the year prior. I remember being slightly jealous of them, because I had to leave all of the friends I'd made from Kindgergarten and the first half of the First Grade when I moved here. Those were very sad times, I actually had some really good friends over there. But that was in the past, as odd as it seemed at the time, because it was a past I'd left only two weeks prior.

Our teacher, Mrs. Lang, walked into the room soon after. I remember thinking that she was very frightening. She was very tall for a woman, probably approaching about 5'10" or 5'11", but she seemed positively gigantic from my vantage point. She was fairly old, with pale skin that was somewhat wrinkly, and her hair was cut short and entirely dark gray. She was dressed in a red business suit, and had on the largest pair of glasses I'd ever seen in my life up to that point.

She began to write a few things on the board, while the rest of the students filed into the classroom and took their seats. There were a lot of students in the class, but not enough to completely fill up the classroom, so I hadn't taken anyone's seat by mistake. I was a bit relieved by that. Mrs. Lang then turned around and looked over at me. My heart skipped a beat, and I'm sure that I had an extremely nervous look on my face.

"Class," she said. "This is Michael, he's a new student. Everyone, say hello to Michael."

"Hello, Michael," the class droned, in a singular voice. I wasn't offended by it, it was the usual elementary school bit, students sounded apathetic about [i]everything[/i] that the teacher told them to say. Mrs. Lang then looked around the area I was sitting in, and got a strange glint in her eye.

"There's nobody sitting around you, Michael," she mentioned. I looked around, and found that she was right, there were no students sitting near me. There was a chair available in front of me, in back of me, and to my right side. Mrs. Lang looked behind me, to a girl named Sally. "Sally, will you sit by Michael?"

"No!" Sally said, in a somewhat offended voice. She was already sitting next to a friend of hers, so that wasn't too surprising, though I didn't know it at the time. I frowned, but thought nothing of it. Mrs. Lang looked at the person sitting a couple of chairs in front of me, Philip.

"Philip," Mrs. Lang said. "Will you sit next to Michael?"

"No!" Philip said. Another slight rejection. I put my head on my desk, dejected. My first day at my new school wasn't getting off to a very good start at all. It wouldn't get any better.

"Well," Mrs. Lang said, trying her hardest to sound concerned. "Doesn't [i]anyone[/i] want to sit next to Michael?"

"No!" the class chorused. I looked all around the classroom. Everyone was staring at me, like I was some animal trapped in the zoo, locked behind a cage for the amusement of everyone else. Maybe if I were older I could have taken it, but I wasn't, and I couldn't. I burst into tears, and buried my head in between my arms until recess.

That's all I remember from that day. More likely than not, I walked around the playground alone, feeling sorry for myself. That small event, it happened so long ago, but it's been a weight on me for so long. It seems sort of silly to dwell on something like that, but it was far from silly at the time. I was a little kid, I had barely experienced anything in life, I barely knew anything. I wasn't aware of the world; hell, the classroom may as well have been my world. A very small world, but a world nonetheless.

And I'd been rejected by everyone else in that world, as terribly melodramatic as that sounds. Perhaps the other kids meant nothing by it at all, I'm probably the only person who really remembers this at all, but I didn't dwell on that at all at the time. It remains the only time in my life that I've ever felt [i]true[/i] rejection, emotional rejection. Not the sort of rejection you feel when a magazine rejects a short story you sent in, or a college rejects your application. Those are short-term, easy to get over. The sort of rejection I felt leaves some scars, scars that take a while to heal, and they only heal if you really [i]want[/i] them to heal.

I'm not sure if I wanted them to heal, at first. It felt so bad at the time, though, and I knew that I never wanted to feel anything like it ever again. I became extremely withdrawn and introverted. I rarely talked to anyone at all. I played with the other kids, but I'm pretty sure that they only let me play with them out of pity. I didn't make any real friends until I was in the fourth grade.

In middle school, I changed, though not for the better. My experiences had been festering in me for a few years, and combined with everything that goes on during a person's teenage years, that didn't make for a good combination. I became surly, mean-spirited, I was a little shit, to put it bluntly. I had a bunch of friends who were mean little shits, with a couple of exceptions. I'm not proud of who I was in middle school, in the least. Frankly, if I could, I'd go back in time and beat the piss out of my teenaged self, he would have deserved everything that he got.

In high school, I just became a more grown-up version of who I was in elementary school. I talked with people during classtime, but that was it, really. During lunch I kept to myself, eating alone, and reading. I did a lot of growing up in high school, I became nicer, more aware of people's feelings. The people I was closest to were those like myself, people who were sort of odd, and didn't really have that many friends because of it.

I hated seeing people alienated, because I knew exactly how it felt. The first time I felt a twinge of real love for someone, not just a crush but genuine feelings for someone, was for a girl somewhat like myself. She was more outgoing than me, but I think that a lot of other people found her a bit annoying. But that's another tale for another time, I guess.

Though I was usually alone during lunch, I did make strong efforts to talk with people during class, to get over that irrational fear that they would hate me, that they would think that I was stupid, and that they would want me to get the hell out of their life. Nobody ever wanted that, at least not that I'm aware of. I never talked too much, but I did it enough to help me crawl along a bit.

My high school years were a bit tough, and there are times where I really hated it, but there's no denying the strides I made. I could really feel it inside of me, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I was actually happy with who I was. I wasn't perfectly sociable or anything, but I was getting there. I was finally getting there.

There's a time where you can wallow in self-pity, and there's a time when you can look deep inside of yourself and you realize that it's time to finally move on, not to become a new person, but the person that you used to be, armed with the wisdom and knowledge that comes with age and experience in life. I think that I'm ready to take those final steps. I think that I'm finally ready to live the life that I want to live, instead of living the life that my fears and insecurities dictate.

It feels good. It makes me happy. Finally.
Link to comment
Share on other sites

If her parents knew what she was about to do they would be disappointed in her. They would say things like ?you should wait until you are older?, ?I don?t think you are mature enough yet?, and ?you?ll just get yourself hurt?. She didn?t care. Her friends all did it and raved about how enjoyable it was. Shoot, it was everywhere on television, even on Nickelodeon. It had to be fun, it had to be [i]pleasurable[/i].

She still could change her mind, but then, what would her friends think about her? She didn?t want people to call her a baby and a coward. She hated when people treated her like a little kid.

So she swung her leg over until she was straddling it and eased herself down. The pressure was a little uncomfortable and it felt hard and unforgiving between her legs. She wiggled her hips a bit, searching for comfort, and nearly lost her balance. A rosy flush heated her cheeks as nervousness and embarrassment engulfed her. Part of her wanted to jump off and run into the comforting arms of her parents, apologizing for ever thinking she was ready for this. But it was too late to stop now.

She flexed her thighs, pumping them slightly, trying to build up a rhythm. For a little while it felt awkward and tipsy, and at times she thought she would fall or get hurt or just embarrass herself. But she became more accustomed to the motion, and soon it felt smooth. It felt like a ride.

Her pulse quickened and she began panting. She was slick and sweaty and her hair was damp. The rosy glow of embarrassment that danced at her cheeks moments earlier was replaced by a crimson fire of passion. Her hands clenched tightly and she lost herself in the motion, in the repetition, in the [i]pleasure[/i].

When she finally couldn?t take anymore, when her legs and lungs were burning, she screamed [i]?yes! Yes, yes, yes!?[/i] and just let go. And it flooded every single one of her senses. Suddenly she was rocketed through the world and she felt more alive then she ever felt before. Wind ripped at her skin as she tossed her head back in ecstasy. Although it only lasted a moment the pleasure was so overwhelming that she knew it would be forever etched into her psyche.

She sighed a contented sigh and stopped. It was over. A thousand emotions rushed through her but mostly she felt excited because she knew that now that she had done it she could do it again and again and again. Her fear was shrugged away with one brief experience.

And she looked down between her legs with loving exhaustion. She looked down, smiled and thought ?now I just have to get daddy to take off the training wheels?.
Link to comment
Share on other sites

[b]Disappear[/b] [T]

[b]Excerpts from Patricia's diary found in her apartment, and Alexander's notebooks:[/b]

[i]the harder you think about this reality the harder it hurts the more it stabs and burns away at you
it is full of decay, you're a fruit on the tree ripened beautifullly numb, ready to be picked away
shoved inside someone's mouth (they'll feel a sickly sweet intermixture of satiated desire and
an all-encompassing fire)
that is why i have tried to while it away, to pass my sentence and not see these bars
up until this time, i have failed
i hope to do it one day[/i]

He was a man, in his cell. Maybe he'd lost all his marbles. You didn't know. He looked like a clean-cut enough man. But that was on the outside. People have a way of hiding themselves inside the nooks and crannies of themselves.

His eyes were wild. It looked like something was always swimming in them. He was on his bunk with a notebook. He was writing in it with a pen. He didn't even see me as I stood beside the bars. My mom had her arm around my shoulder. She was telling me "Come on, let's go." She had a nervous look in her eyes.

I began screaming, "Daddy, daddy!" He didn't hear me. He kept writing.

I was just a little girl then.

[i]i am a man who is lost, entirely cross and i've no one where left to go but nowhere
i've searched all my life for a meaning to this mess but this mess hall is never sorted
the only way out is through, that is the only way
to disappear from here as a ghost
just fade away[/i]

I don't remember much of my father. That is, when he was [i]really[/i] my father. I just have unconnected images. I just have what my mother has told me about this man.

His name was Alex. It was what everyone called him. But he preferred Alexander. He was a man who acted happy on the exterior. But in the interior he was a gaping hole. He yearned for something deeper to his existence. He was a brilliant thinker. I've read some of what he has written. It blows you away. It's very nihilistic. His writing is how he kept himself going. He was an aspiring writer. But he never finished any story he ever started writing. The only things he finished were his thoughts he wrote down. When I pour through the pages he's written he's in the words. This is how I know my father. As a man who did what he had to do. But deeper inside he was never happy with the way things were. He was frustrated sick and tired. It was only a matter of time before what happened did. It was obvious it was going to happen to anyone who has read what he's written. He was a man being stretched and stretched until he was too thin to rebound.

[i]today she was born, a girl i'll never know
to think i was part of giving her life is a harsh thought
she'll suffer just as i do each and every day with unbearable
ununderstanding and uselessness
it is better she had not lived
this life i've given should be thrown away
before it gets thrown away, tattered and torn
on its own[/i]

When I was born he acted happy. But inside his writings show he was not happy at all. My mother said he would sit with me in his lap as he wrote. He would cradle me to sleep. He would speak hushed words to me.

Around this time things started getting more versatile at home. He had recently lost his job as a newspaper editor because he had gotten into an argument with his boss. What it was over I don't know. My mother was always pleading with him to get a job. We were running out of money. Soon enough our house was going to be taken away. Soon enough our car was going to be taken away. Soon enough we wouldn't have money to buy food. We'd end up on the streets with nothing. To add to things I would keep them both awake nights on end with my crying. I'd cry and cry as if I knew things weren't going well.

[i]the baby cries, cries cries
there is no shut eye
there is no mending hand of sleep
i only keep wandering over my thoughts
tripping and skipping
time ebbs painfully on my ear
whispering what i have to do
but i don't want to hear
i wish life weren't such a hell[/i]

He never did get a job. He just kept writing day after day. Other times he sat and just thought. My mom was starting to think about getting her own job. But he said that's something a woman shouldn't have to do when she's got a daughter. Eventually he just cracked. He couldn't take it anymore. He didn't want to work a job and he was getting more and more desperate with his existence. He was getting crazy and dangerous.

It all erupted. They got in an argument one night. My mom said she refused to stand by while the money drained away. She was getting a job if he wouldn't. He grabbed her and they fell to the ground. He started beating on her. He broke her nose. He dislocated her shoulder. She was bruised and beaten all over until she blacked out. He eventually called the cops and an ambulance. He was ashamed of what he'd done but on the other hand he knew it was what he was capable of. Ever since then he has been institutionalized. Before that he was in jail for a while. He could never look my mom straight in the face again.

[i]bruised beaten bloodied tattered torn
i beat, beat, and beat on her until i couldn't anymore
it was letting myself outside
to say hello[/i]

Since then I've come to see him over the years. He doesn't say much to me. About the only things he says to me is how one day he'll escape. He'll be free. Just how I don't know.

Houston, Texas
By: Lacey Sanders[/center]

Yesterday inmate Alexander Ellington escaped from his cell at Wellington's Home for the Insane. The director of the institution, Bob Smith, says his whereabouts are unknown. He also says how the man escaped is unknown at this time.

"What we do know," said Smith, "is that his daughter is also missing."

Ellington's daughter, Patricia Ellington, disappeared from her apartment around the same time Ellington escaped. Police have searched the apartment, but found nothing.

"It looks like a storm hit the place," said officer Orwell Norson, "but we don't have any fingerprints or anything."

Anyone who has any information as to the whereabouts of either Patricia or Alexander Ellington can contact local authorities. There is also a reward for anyone who gives information which leads to a close of the case. The amount of the reward is unlisted at this time.

Alexander had finally figured it out. How he had done it he didn't know. He sat there writing "I don't exist" over and over again. He wrote it for hours and hours. His hand had become cramped from writing it. His other hand had become tired from turning the pages so he could start writing it again.

If anyone had been watching him, they would have seen him just disappear. It happened as suddenly as it ended, and on the security camera it was just a moment they thought Alexander had somehow fixed the camera to show.

And he no longer existed.

And because he no longer existed, neither did Patricia.

But he existed in a sense. He existed in the words. All about his cell he was strewn about. He was in the crumpled notebook in the corner. He was in the yellowed notebook under the bed. He was all over the place, and he breathed with words. They were his lung. It was the first time he'd managed to escape into them and it was the last. He had disappeared. He was gone.
Link to comment
Share on other sites

[color=indigo][size=1]It hurts. My abdomen, it hurts so much. The pain is unlike anything I've ever felt before. I feel needles jabbing and ripping at my stomach. My insides ache from cringing tightly, hoping to push it out of me. Tears burned at my skin as my jaw began locking shut. I can hear my teeth grinding.

The muscles in my face, my legs, my arms, even my fingers, all froze stiff. Nothing moved in my body except my racing heart and scolding blood. I desperately, and frantically, try to call out to someone; but no one can hear me. No one even glances my way. Because where I am, and what I am doing, this is nothing that they haven't seen before.

They all indulged in their fixes and highs. They all knew what they were doing. They all knew the consequences. They all knew the effects. No one cared to explain to me. No one cared to make sure I was alright. I didn't know. My body's rejection to this toxic liquid takes its affect in unbending, and seemingly neverending violence. And no one cared.

I lay stiff as a board on that musty, filthy couch. The needle still portrudes from my arm; shaking uncontrollably with the spasms. Again, I try to call out; no movement from my clasped jaw. Only muffled screams sounded in my thoat. The room began to swirl, mixing the mocha and green colours of the room. The music slowing, the spinning grew faster. Then all turns into blackened silence.

I wake in the brightness of the emergency room. Beeps and shuffling sway through the air in a relaxing tune. The smell, so sterile and fresh; as opposed to the burning of that white powder and liquor ridden vomit. My body lay motionless, yet relaxed.

[b]"Well, well. Aren't we looking much better today,"[/b] a lovely, young nurse touches my neck, [b]"Yes, much better. You'll be going home soon if you keep this up."[/b]

She winks at me. And I smile.[/color][/size]
Link to comment
Share on other sites

[quote]The night was April 1, 2002. I say "night" because it was probably after midnight. Yes, April 1st. I know, I know. April Fool's Day. April 1st was probably the most significant night/morning of my life. The cause of my hospital (ER) visit is inconsequential. I'll just say I did something very foolish whilst driving an automobile.

The Emergency Room is an alien place. Very few people, without actually having been admitted there, or worked there at length, realize just how otherworldly the ER is.

After my crash, I was rushed to a local hospital, into the ER, with pretty heavy gauze wrapped over my forehead, preventing me from scratching my left eye, as there probably was glass in there and as we are all aware of, scratching a glass-infiltrated eye will do nothing but tear apart your eyeball. I'm brought into the ER, and placed on a simple hospital bed.

After a few seconds, a nurse hurries in...an old black female nurse. Normally, I don't have a problem with anybody, especially old black women, but when said old black female nurse starts preaching to me, in her Southern accent, warning me of the dangers of Hell and the punishment for suicide, I get a bit pissed, lol. But, I can't say anything for a rebuttal, because it wouldn't have been Kosher. So, I keep my mouth shut. Grin and bear it, as they say.

After this horridly annoying woman is done with her religious self-puffing, she leaves. I don't even remember her doing anything helpful regarding any medical care...I just remember the preaching and that's it.

She leaves and in walks another nurse who was going to draw some blood. Here's where I start freaking out. I can't take needles, at all. They scare me half-to-death. Honest truth. Considering all that I went through up to that point, and what I'd experience after that point, a simple blood test was nothing

Yet, I came close to hyperventilating, which apparently would have altered the results of the blood test, giving the appearance that I was on drugs. Not a good thing, to say the least. I managed to get myself under control a little bit, but it was really the nurse and my parents who got me to calm down.

After the blood is drawn, another nurse enters, this time to stitch my eyes up, I think. You'd be amazed just how much blood can come out of a simple gash on the eyelid, eyebrow, or nose.

I laid there, half seeing the fluorescent lights clearly, and the upper half through a murky haze of gauze, then the gauze was removed, and the nurse warns me, "Okay, now I'm going to inject some [insert name of novocaine-type agent here] into your eyelid. It's going to dull the sensations there so I can get those wounds closed."

We all know what novocaine in the gums feels like. We're all aware of the weird sensation afterwards, when we can't feel our chin and such, but it's something else when that numbness is spreading over your eye socket and cheek bones. There wasn't any pain when I felt the needle go back and forth; I really couldn't feel anything except the tickle as the stitching tugged through my eyelid.

After I'm stitched up, I'm told I can get up to wash myself off. The gauze is now removed, so I can see...sort of. I stand up, a bit unsteadily, and more or less walk in the vague direction of a bathroom, with my dad close behind me. I reach the bathroom, and flip on the light. Keep in mind, that the last time I saw myself in a mirror was a few hours prior, when I was cleaning the bathrooms at Boston Market. I flip on the light switch.

My clothes--my Boston Market uniform, the shirt of which is normally a forest green, is stained a deep crimson. There is absolutely no hint of green anymore.

My pants, normally dark blue, are spotted bright red.

My navy blue sweater jacket can't be seen for the blood and dead leaves, which have also intermingled themselves into my hair.

My hair is usually a dark brown; it was bordering on rust-colored.

An entire half of my face was red. Some of it was sticky; some of it was dried. Some of it was somewhere in between.

As my reflection stared back at me, I had a revelation:

There is such a thing as a walking corpse.[/quote]
A bit graphic, yes, but totally true.
Link to comment
Share on other sites

I took a deep breath.

Sitting down next to him on the bed, I let him pull me into the crook made by his body, my back pressing against his bare chest and stomach.

He squeezed me tightly and hugged me closer to him. He grabbed me firmly by the waist and shoulders and pulled and maneuvered me until I was facing toward him.

He hugged me closer again, pressing my face against his warm skin. "C'mere," he murmured, stroking my hair. "There you go." I let him squeeze me closer, and relaxed next to him.

I would say "we lay like that for a long time," but it's not really true. He kept rearranging us, tugging me this way, pulling me closer, snuggling his arm under me, hugging tighter, relaxing again.

I pretended to sleep.

It wasn't far-fetched, by any means. I'd been sleeping for hours, and had only just slipped back into consciousness, after a long, deep night. I lay there, staring at the white plaster ceiling above us. He still lay pressed next to me, all hardness and warmth.

I snuggled closer to him. His arm, still looped around me, pulled me tight once again. My body smiled--he?d been here all night as I slept. He was still here.

This night...had been perfect. I never wanted it to end, never. I closed my eyes as he squeezed me again. Gentle, reassuring. He thought I was still sleeping.

I realized I wanted him to be right. I didn't want to wake up.

So I pretended to sleep.
I'd fallen asleep again, face buried in his hair. Sometime between then and now, the blanket had slipped off my body, leaving me exposed to the cool night air...was the window open? I shivered softly, unconsciously moving closer against his body.

There was a shift next to me as he moved. I closed my eyes and buried myself into him, trying to

ignore the movement and slip back into sleep. He leaned over me, pulling the blanket from the ground back up onto the bed, and bringing it back up around my face.

I made a soft sound of thanks and warmth as he brought it back up around my face, tucking me in again.

His lips brushed my forehead. "I love you," he murmured.

I was curled up against him. He was hugging me, and I was drifting somewhere between sleep and waking. His arms around me, almost possessively, I felt shielded...as though I belonged to him.

I was falling back asleep, only dimly aware of his face next to mine, his hands behind my back, cupping my head. He brushed his face back and forced across my cheeks.

It felt strange, almost tickling. His whiskers prickled...but his lips were soft. It reminded me of long ago, far away, when my dad would tuck me in, and tickle me with his beard.

He brushed against my face one last time. And then he stopped, and pushed his lips softly, firmly against mine, and kissed me.

He kept close to me the entire night. If I rolled away, he would pull me closer. He kept me next to him, sometimes climbing on top of me, sometimes pulling me on top of him. He hugged me tightly, sometimes pulling me to face him, sometimes nudging me over to arrange himself differently.

It was a moment I could live in the rest of my life.

Nothing to do do, nothing to say. Just lying there, safe, warm, next to him. Being held. Feeling loved. Sleeping safely, forever. No longer alone. Just...with him.

And that was enough.

[color=#4b4b79][size=1]I hope my (admittedly shoddy) html looks okay in browsers other than this one. If it doesn't, complain and I'll post the plain version. (Although it isn't nearly as cool.)

breaking the girl,
Link to comment
Share on other sites

My breath was jagged. Partially from fear, and partially due to the sheer adrenaline spike, coarsing through me. Some primordial instict had been reawakened in me. Something that kept my ancestors alive-and-spitting, something that changed the world. Something that people wished for it never to happen again. This was combat.

The playground dust kicked up, swirling around my little brother, with the perpetrator standing tall above him. My brother had just been shoved down into the ground, and screamed for me.

[B]"Alex! Help me!"[/B] His voice was desperate, and the attacker was loving every moment of it. The predator, flushing his prey, then landing the killing blow. Swiftly, powerfully, skillfully. Not this time.

Oh fuck no, he did not just attack my brother, push him to the ground, kick him while he was down, and spit on him. Hell no.

I ran up to the kid in second grade, attacking David, and swung with all the force I could muster. All the anger in my blood hit him across the cheek, and caught him with a swift kick to his side. That brat hit the ground like a ton of bricks.

[B]"What?! You wanna fight too?"[/B] My brother looked thankfully upon me, as the aggressor rose to meet me.

[B]"Bring it, you sorry sonuva--!" [/B] I lashed out at him before I could finish the sentence. This time, his lip was bloody, slowly dripping like a broken faucet against the dry ground. He wasn't going down without a battle though. He caught me with a righ t hook to the stomach, and tried to sweep my legs.

He missed. And thanks to my brother, who had just tackled him from behind. Screw chivalry. Fuck the rules of engagement. This was sink or swim, kill or be killed. I let a chuckle pass my lips. So this is what a fight felt like, huh? This was how it felt to be dominated like a mouse or win victory like Alexander. It felt great.

The brat elbowed my brother into a pole, but I quickly came to his aid, landing a swift elbow into his back. He fell, struggled back up, and ran. The defeated would desire to fight again.

But for now, my little brother beamed at me. Thankful for me saving him, while we both jittered in fear of punishment, as well as adrenaline, still preparing him for future struggles.

[B]"You did it Alex! Thank you!"

"We're brothers, and we'll kick his sorry ass again tommorow."[/B]

I didn't think it was enough violence or language to rate it [M]. And that was my first fight, in the third grade.
Link to comment
Share on other sites

[color=crimson]My eyes shot open and traced along the wall, a wicked grin slowly revealing itself on my face... that was my answer. I can't really remember how long ago it was- that day, that blessing of a day when I sat down and told myself.. "Those fuckers are going to pay". It was a pleasurable, relieving thought- throwing myself to the dogs like that, just dropping the hammer down. Right on target- [i]*pow*[/i], there it was.. my plan. Suicidal as it was, I knew that someone had to do it- let justice be done, though heaven may fall, right? Quietly pondering, cleverly thinking- it could be done. It would be done. I will be my agent of justice, my vengeance will be attained through blood and toil. An eye for an eye..

Middle of suburbia, the wasteland of houses that repeat themselves over and over- there I was, in my basement, dark and light fighting a pitched battle around me. Reading over manuals, looking to see how *they* did it, those professional rapists, them- those slaughterers of millions, pigs of war, whatever you called them. I studied and learned, how those masters of murder did it. I acquired the necessary resources- my armaments, my weapons. They would be an extension of myself, another arm- another ligament, striking down those that did me so much harm. Building, creating, [i]expanding[/i]... my own abilities. I was ready, yes- I was finally ready. I glanced at the clock- it was almost time.

D-Day. 0 hour. I stepped gingerly into the limelight, feeding on the glow of the atmosphere- people talking, people laughing, people existing. So carefree. I felt different- just.. different. Now I'm the one carefree, now I'm breathing- living, existing.. I no longer fear them, all of them together they hold no power over me, I am finally *free*. Smile, actor- smile! You're the main character now, this act is all about [u]you[/u]! I reached under my coat and took out the gun, pointing it at the nearest person. It was a teenage girl walking towards me- an angel of a being, so out of reach, so perfect, so lovely, so.. guilty. I still remember the shock on her face, the pure essence of fear draping across her face as I pulled the trigger- shot her point blank, right in the heart. The angel had fallen. How easily they had fallen, from their high perch above me. It was like the seas had parted, people running this way and that.. all because of me. Shot after shot, bullet after bullet- I had to get them all, they all had to understand the lesson that I had to teach, they must know the definition of pain. Bodies falling everywhere, blood slowly seeping onto the floor.. screaming, fear, chaos. Beautiful. It was so.. beautiful.

I had finally awoken.[/color]
Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...
[size=1][b]Things Invisible to See [E][/b][/size]
We'd spent the evening in the woods by my house, sitting by the river and talking. Not talking about anything very important, but throwing rocks in the river and laughing. As it started to get dark, we left the woods, following the path out to the grassy part of the park.

There's a mysterious concrete structure there--a large raised circle with a manhole cover in the middle. I climbed up into it. He followed me. I don't remember what the conversation turned to then. It was just happy, pointless talking, the kind of conversation you don't have often enough (and can't remember when you do.)

I lay down across the fountain (the concrete thing--I have always thought it might be a fountain, although I have never seen it running.) He grinned. "Good idea," he said, positioning himself next to me. We talked, and eventually the conversation lulled and we both looked up at the stars. I saw a bright streak move across the sky--a shooting star.

Do you ever laugh just because you're happy? Nothing funny has happened, you're not amused or hysterical. You're happy. I started laughing, full of delight. I felt like a little kid. I'd never seen a shooting star before.

He nudged himself over closer to me. It was getting colder by then, and his side was warm against mine. We studied the stars, trying to find any constellations we recognized. Neither of us could find anything. "I see a lot of triangles," he offered at one point. I laughed.

I rolled over then, to look at the other part of the sky. I was trying to find Orion. "I can usually find him," I'd said earlier. "The three stars that make his belt, anyway."

"Isn't one of them supposed to be red?" he'd asked.

"I think so. I've never seen it, though."

Now I looked at the night sky. It was probably between nine and nine thirty at night. I still couldn't find any stars I recognized. I might as well have been on another planet, staring at at another world's night sky.

"You're shivering," he'd teased me earlier, when he'd first lain down next to me. I was shivering, but I didn't really feel cold. My body thinks I'm cold, I told him. He'd laughed at me, but it was true. It was a beautiful summer night, and I didn't feel cold.

"You're still shivering," he said now.

"I guess I am," I said. "Again," I amended, "not still. But yeah."

He hugged me suddenly. "I'll keep you warm!"

I laughed, because he was my best friend, and it was the corniest thing he'd ever said to me. But, you know, that was alright.[/color]
[color=#ff6600]I re-posted this...I had edited it into my previous post, but I don't know if anyone noticed it, heh. In any case, I really enjoy this thread. People should post more.

best part of waking up,
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now

  • Create New...