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| Creative Stories |
| This is a page for my creative stories, and also for the creative stories of others. Writing stories and letting your imagination run away with you into places good and places bad can be wonderful. Just let yourself go and write - about yourself, about others, about another world, another place and another time. Take yourself away from everything and see what the product is. |
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| E-mail me with your creative stories - [email protected] |
The Return You can't find a way out. There is no way out. There isn't even a way to get back. No wait, there has to be. For now though, no light shines on it, only a menacing vortex engulfs it. A never-ending vortex, not even a glimmer of hope and harmony emerge through the walls, shadowed by despair. They say you can only see what you want to see, through those pleading, uninhabited eyes, but then again, you can only see what is truly there. No one knows that you have seen things, they cannot even dream of, inconceivable - even to the darkest of minds. You refuse to give in to the pain, but you see it, you feel it. Searing through your veins, like crystals shattering into insignificant, endless fragments. This pain isn't insignificant though and far from endless. This pain is too deep for words - too deep even for tears. They say they can help you, but it has gone too far. You can't find the beginning or the end. The middle is the only place, the grimmest place. You are stuck, nothing in view. Emptiness, vast space, yet nevertheless - consistent damage. Nothing ever changes. You can't wash it away, in fact, you doubt there is a plughole big enough. Since it cannot be eradicated, it festers. Eating away at your body, your mind, the parts no one knows exist, your very being. You. Do you remember how it used to be? No cares in the world. Naivety is not a bad thing. Not knowing is better than having to feel. Laughter is a foreign object. Do you know what it feels like to laugh? You don't remember. It might have happened in the past, but that was too long ago. You may not be old, but you feel it. Emotions ware you down. They give you features and knowledge you shouldn't have. They build obstructions between you and society. No one knows what it's like. They can wonder, but experience is the basis of genuine knowledge and understanding. You don't even know why you feel like this - not having a reason makes it all the more worse. You think it is your fault, but you also know that things happen, no one wants them. Wars, death, pain. It is everywhere, and no one stops it. People do try, but when things don't work they lose faith, they freeze, come to a standstill. Pain is still there though, it will always live on, through everything else, it never comes to a halt. You wish you could return to what it was like before. Not fake reality, which is what you feel now. By, Rose - Autumn 2000 |
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| Creative Story You ask "what is cold?" I know cold. I am cold. Cold is a state of being in which the mental functioning slows -- every word that reverberates must be turned over and examined for comprehension -- do I know that word? What am I hearing? What does it mean? Colours glow too bright, smells are too intense, perception is off kilter. Physical feeling is numbed as if the black teeth of frostbite have eaten their way through the nerves. Emotional feeling is amplified to the brink of madness. It is a state of being that forces the body to shiver uncontrollably -- in angst, confusion, fear. The kind of cold that tears the flesh away, leaving the rawness of the soul exposed for the ravens to pick the frigid bones at their leisure. Cold is loneliness. In a world with no appreciation, no understanding of what makes you be you -- what makes you cry, what makes you laugh, what makes you exist. Cold is not having a shoulder to cry on when your sad -- not having a chest to rest on when you're weary -- not having arms to hold you when you're scared -- not having lips to kiss you when you're needy. Cold is immersion in the protective shadow of isolation -- safe, solitary confinement of the soul. Cold is pain. A vicious, frozen wind that licks your face then rips the breath from your throat like a Pavlovian dog. The sharp, searing pain of knowing there is no one on whom you can depend to pull you up when you fall, when the ice pierces your skin and the florid deluge begins -- the pain of knowing that everything you are, have and ever will be will have to be done by you and for you because there is no one else. Cold is devoid of trust. There are those who will masquerade as friends and lovers, hidden behind the false face of pretense, enveloped in ambiguity. They talk, offer reassurance, imitate compassion. But when you call in your favours, they will evaporate like so many phantoms in the night. When you ask for honesty, they will betray you with a kiss. When you reach for a hand, they will laugh at your insecurities and abandon you in the darkness. And when your strength wavers, it will be up to you and you alone to meet the challenge of survival, or perish in the icy seas of opression. By, Barbara Hastings |
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