Weekly Writing Contest Archive - Page 3

**Sarah** · 24-03-2008, 04:51 AM

http://www.narutomania.com/forums/li...1-a-90278.html
Week 41 Winner: nidaba
Judge: 4thseal
Topic: demons
Entries:

Gnawing on a long, dried blade of grass, my eyes gaze and the blue sky. Not a cloud in site. My hands serve as a soft pillow, resting behind my head as the rest of my body lounges on a soft, unkempt bed of dark green grass. For miles around me all there is are open fields and green hills, a few leaf-less trees scattered here and there.

This is a strange place, so vast, expansive, yet not a living creature exist here except for me and the perhaps the warm breeze caressing my face. But, this is not my story. I can not stay here. I can tell by the sky. It’s begun to change. Deep blue begins to melts like a burning oil painting revealing the black, oily universe, the infantine of darkness with fragment of light woven into it. The grass underneath me begins to melt as well, slowly bleeding into thick-green liquid. I am sinking. Closing my eyes…

In a remote city, hundreds of thousands of souls are breathing simultaneously. All at once, voices are speaking, thinking, thoughts roaming, and skin growing older and older. Like a great symphony, the city moves endlessly—rising to the highest of expression, fading to the depth of quietude. In glorious unison, minds exist—woven together by fate of mind.

I find myself in the city’s heart where two cold, cemented streets meet equally hard and chilled harts. Sun shine hidden by building that seems a mile high, troves of people walk buy. Though I’m still stark naked, no one seems to notice. Men dressed in cheep suits, women wearing faded dress, and children with far too baggy pass just pass by me as if I wasn’t there. God—I hate this place.

Not wanting to stay one moment more, I get down to business. Fortunately, even here, the moral of consciousness holds no grip upon me. With only thought, I begin to glide upward, cutting through the air. Hovering above the city with all its bare roof tops, I close my eyes.

That’s when I hear the screams…

Thousands of voices, shrieking in unison, singing a bitter song like that of wounded cattle…

“Which one,” I ask my self.
Opening my eyes, I no longer see the lonesome rooftops of the city. Rather, in front of my brutal eyes, lies a torture chamber of sorts—a dungeon, with cold cement walls and dim lighting. In the center is a wooden board, with restraints attached to it.

From behind me, a women wearing nothing but a white rob, just out of her teens, appears. Without saying a word, she disrobes, exposing her dark flesh. Without hesitation, she lays on the board, her eyes gazing upon me with anxious want. It’s time for pain.

As always, when this moment arrives, I can’t help wondering whose the one really dreaming. Is it I, an aberration of demonic thought, or is it this pitiful human so desperate for punishment?

Growing up there was a house, on a block of one of the kids in my group of friends, of which we were all scared. There wasn't any one reason we were scared though. Jimmy thought it was haunted. Alex thought the old man that lived there was a child molester. Kevin had heard stories from his parents that someone was murdered there. Chuck thought there was a tiger living in the basement.
I was scared because my parents were Christians. Every time we drove past they would whisper things to each other about it. I only heard glimpses and bits of what they would say; demons, prayer, hate, evil, modern society, blabhablhah, mainly the same things I heard from everyone else at the church every Sunday, but mostly I heard the word demon associated with the house.
Hearing demon so much, led me to believe that the house had demons. It was the conclusion to which any young kid would come. That is why I was scared of the house, the old man was different, no one liked him or his house, and demons lived there.
When I got older I took up a paper route to earn some money. That house was on my route. That was what I looked to forward least about the job, collecting money from the house. At first I would do it as quickly as possible, even though the old man was always friendly I wanted nothing to do with it. As time went on I slowly opened up to the old man(while remaining apprehensive because of Alex's fears) and we started to talk and have real conversations. This continued for up until I turned 15, when I could get another job.
During the time I spent as a paper boy I heard lots of gossip, and learned lots about people that I wouldn't have otherwise, but the most important information I learned was about the old man. There was nothing scary about his house, nothing scary about him, no love of little boys, no demons, no guns or knives, no tigers, just a man that was different from the rest of the town. He had grown up in the town just like me and everyone around us. He had been the same up until a point, going to community events, going to school, going to church. But as he grew older he grew dissatisfied with the church and began to question the beliefs. He eventually disagreed with the notion of a God and the idea of the church. So, of course, everyone at church decided that he had been compromised by a demon. They tried to help him at first, but they all gave up. Thats what everything was a demon this, or a demon that. All problems were caused by demons.
The nice old man became a frightening old creep and a demon, as I'm sure I'll become as I get older(well, I'm not really nice).

**Sarah** · 24-03-2008, 05:00 AM

http://www.narutomania.com/forums/li...2-a-90607.html
Week 42 Winner: 4thseal
Judge: nidaba
Topic: fragile
Entries:

A thousand dreams I have dreamt, and the rain fell ever precipitously outside. Things that I have not seen yet are brought to bear. It is a crafted world, made of the strings of my life. Nothing ever seems to dangle in the light except impossibility. Instead, it is shrouded by what I cannot discern and most fear.

And yet for all that I could find here, I would be at home in another place that consisted of nothing. A mind all its own, cemented in place in this fragile universe where I can only see through feeling. That man never saw past his own limitations. And I can only see in this world where there is nothing see.

My mind, they say, teeters on the edge of a precipice. But in this world of a thousand rain drops, I can actually strive. What is it I am striving for? These thousand dreams are all the same. Perhaps that is why the rain falls so constantly, because nothing ever changes, yet.

Here is what I dream… I am running through the yellow opaque clouds towards the setting sun. The yellow rays refract and reflect on everything. I am running to catch the sun, but I am always just on a matching pace. No matter what gains I make, the sun continues to set at a pace I cannot exceed. The distance remains the same with each footstep. I feel like I am tiring. The world below me is covered in darkness. The clouds of my striving are crying their tears into this barren world. And from where I stand, I can feel the bitter cold draft rising up to meet me. Ice tendrils of invisible pain try to grasp my ankles to trip me. It wants to devour me. I am left with two options. I can continue to run in the hopes that I get to where I want, or I can plummet into this ice cold world of human existence with all my remaining strength.

Is it better for a strong mind to descend into darkness, or to keep striving in the hopes that it never becomes so weak that it would become consumed by the cold?

Where is the sanity of my mind? My psychologists say it has long since departed. But in my dreams, it has not gone away and it has not changed. It stays on pace, until fatigue or completion of a journey take it to the next station. In such a condition, unable to quicken my pace, I am only able to control my failure. I only control the when of it.

There is no stagnancy, I cannot cease striving. I would prefer a world of nothingness where there is nothing to see. Blind me, and gouge my eyes. Complacency would kindle my dying spirit; it would be a peace offering to the soul. Instead, I am forced upon a destiny that I cannot escape, and slowly erodes my will and weakens an already fragile mind. But they will not let my spirit rest; I am being thrown into sanity, dying in my own wake.

There is an ice cold flower in the darkness, and it withers with each reach it makes for the sun. Why can it not be allowed to turn into dust?

I remember it so well. Thin and transparent glass, how I loved the way it felt in my hand, cold and sweet, like grasping the palm of an angle. Etched all around it were deep, pink flowers with dark black lining. The inside always filled with some sweet, smooth liquid—it was perhaps my favorite position. Of course, all things must come to an end. And, my poor sippy-cups ending came too soon—in a moment of distraction, I knocked it onto the floor. Bits of sharp glass flew every. God, how I cried.

Then there was Hippy. A soft, teal thing, Hippy was content and peaceful. He never hurt anything…he never did anything really. He’s just cover himself in moss to hide from the heat-lamp of the small aquarium in my room, peacefully wasting away his unnatural life. At night, on a few occasions, he croaked. For a while, Hippy was my most beloved friend. I’d sit for hours in the after noon watching him. He never moved, of course. I suppose that’s why, out of curiosity, I reached into his cage and grabbed him. Though, foolishly I underestimated how easily a small creature be squished in one’s clumsy, thick hands…Hippy was a good frog.

Though, it was probably Beatrice who received the brunt of my brutal, ignorant indignation. She was perhaps my first love—that body drove me wild! It seems silly now, but I use to talk to her more than I talked to anyone else. Her cherry red exterior had no flaws, and that engine purred like a lioness. I’d tell her my deepest darkest secrets. And, she’d roar, taken me down empty streets and through the lonely night. She was my pride and joy. She was much more. For a time, she was my soul. It was, sadly, never meant to be—out of pure appreciation for awareness and smarts; One sunny after noon, she rolled backwards right into traffic. I had forgotten to put the e-break on. She was gone even before the cops arrived…

And, now here you are. What can I say—I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything else. At this moment is time, there is nothing else. It sounds sappy, and it should, but I can’t get along without you. So, I’ve attempted to strip bare and show you the disgraces of my past, of my indigence towards common sense and care. For, you are at a time where you crawl towards life, teetering on its thin wires. And, since I saw you’re fragile body arrive into this world; I’ve known that it was time to grow up.

It had been raining off and on for the past three days. I had to go over to my Aunt's house, she was gonna watch Jonathon. I wish I didn't have to take him over to people to watch, I'd much rather take him with me, but I was going on a business trip, and the kind of business I do has no place for a baby.
As I drove to my Aunt's house Johnny was in his car seat in the back playing with his toy key chain. The weather was surprisingly nice, considering all the rain, and the sun had just started to shine. I came to a red light and looked back to see how he was doing, god, he was beautiful. In a quarter hour I would have to drop him off for half a week so I could get some money to support him and myself. I really wish I didn't have to, I would miss him. I need to find a new line of work, one that has better hours and doesn't involve these little trips. One that has a more reliable pay, and isn't such a high risk job. What would I do if I got shot or arrested, what would happen to Johnny? Oh well, it was best not to think about that.
I was young when he was born, only 19. His mother was 21 at the time, she was the only girl I had ever been with, but I loved her, almost as much as I love the little guy. I met her when I was 14 and just going into high school, she was a Junior and in my gym and study hall. We had gotten along great since the first time we talked. Her parents died in a car accident shortly after she turned 18, which really wasn't as horrible as it seems, they never treated her well, and she was never particularly attached to them, also she was rich after all the leftover money from their life insurance.
After her parents died I started to spend a lot of time with her, my parents didn't mind me not being home and we had a lot of fun together. She got pregnant the first time we had sex, but surprisingly we were both alright with it. We were going to get married soon after our kid was born, life was going to be great. Those were the best few years of my life. She wanted to go for a walk by herself one day after John was born so I stayed in and watched him. She got hit by a car on her walk. I never felt the same after that, it was horrible, but at least I still had Johnathon.
I approached the gravel private drive on which my Aunt's house was located. There was a big stream running along side it. The streams water level was up pretty high from all the rain, and the gravel seemed to be a small stream itself. As I was turning into the drive there was a huge crack of thunder and lightning really close to me. Johnny started crying and I looked back to comfort him. Just then the rain started to pour down massively in a constant stream. As I looked back to the road I couldn't see a single thing in front of me and I felt my car sliding into the mud. I assumed I was to the left of the lane by the creek. I jerked to the right to get back onto the road. But my back tires ended up sliding out from underneath me in all the mud. I panicked and jerked the wheel all around, one of my wheels caught a huge rock jutting from the ground and I felt my car begin to tumble. I was almost completely upside down when I heard the car smack the water of the stream. Suddenly I could feel the car slowly sinking in the water. Just then I remembered about Johnny, I looked back to make sure he was alright. He was crying, but seemed to be alright other than that. Water was leaking into the car somehow. I decided to unbuckle the seatbelt so I could find a way to get us out of here. Right after I felt the click of the seatbelt buckle disengaging I began to fall to the roof of the car. My head hit the upholstered roof, and I heard a cracking noise. Suddenly I couldn't move anything, so this is what it feels like to be paralyzed I thought. I realized all I could do was breathe and blink my eyes. I could see my son hanging upside down from his car seat crying out of the corner of my eyes. Slowly my vision and hearing began to fade. The last thing I ever saw was my crying son hanging upside down in a flooding car. The last thing I ever felt was the water creeping up slowly over my head.

**Sarah** · 24-04-2008, 04:46 AM

Weekly Writing Contest 43
Week 43 Winner: Insin
Judge: 4thseal
Topic: obsession
Entries:

I stand with my toes at the line. My muscles quiver with excitement, but I hardly notice. All eyes are on me. I wish that I could enjoy the attention, but I know that if I do not perform to my usual ability, the eyes will look away. I need to keep them there.

The gun fires and I burst out into the lead. It’s not very long, perhaps in the first 200 meters, that I have established a lead. As I round the 2nd bend of the first lap, I catch a glimpse from the women on the sideline. They give me a mean stare and offer no support. It comes as no surprise.

There are two types of all-stars, the ones people love and the ones they hate but begrudgingly respect. I replaced the lovable all-star. People don’t adapt well to change. They see me as self centered, because I’m too shy and keep to myself. They couldn’t be more wrong.

By the time the first lap ends, I cannot hear anyone behind me anymore. In the back of my mind, a voice asks what the point of this is. I remember the point very well. The day I won my first race, my coach got behind me at the start line and put his hands on my shoulders. I didn’t see his face, but I could hear voice telling me that the team needed me and to give it my all. In that race, I sprinted into the lead, commonly a novice mistake, but I never relinquished the lead even when my body burned like battery acid. I could never let down anyone who needed me.

But the times have changed. No one ever says they need me. I run so hard, just to hear those words. Instead, the need for me is just…assumed and implied. It’s not enough though, I need to hear it. I win the race with a 200 meter lead over my nearest competitor. I get no congratulations. Instead, my teammates are laughing at what a blow out it was. That was totally unsatisfying. I’m actually sort of pissed. A lot of people on the team ignore me, figuring that I want to gloat, when in reality I could care less. We were going to win the meet no matter what I did.

There’s probably some social get together after the competition. As usual, I’m never invited. Instead, I’ll go home and train some more. It’s all under the mistaken belief that if I become good enough, people will acknowledge my existence. “He trains like he’s obsessed.” That’s why they hate me, thinking that I’m obsessed with a win or proving my superiority. It was never about that.

It’s strange, but I feel like I’ve been here before. At this exact place in time, at this exact lifetimes. I don’t know what it is, but I’m this is it. I should be dead. I know it. But, at the brink of all exhaustion and deep in a hole without one ray of hope—I see clearly…I understand my purpose.

I guess this is what I wanted—to go out as a hero, to leave warm harts and sweet, singing memories within the souls of those I love. I shouldn’t be scared but I am. Yet, I keep telling myself, this is how its suppose to be. This is my dream!

A man’s life is judged and defined in the last moments of his life. I’ve always know this. Yet here I am shaking in my boots. I’ve thought of death everyday, prayed I’d die protecting those I love. But, in the face of cold, hard steel—I don’t know if I can do it.

This is all too cliché. Sitting one moment I’m enjoying the humming chatter of dishes being made and eager customers speaking the nonsense of humanity. The next moment, there’s a man, with a broken soul and a diseased mind waving a gun as if t were a microphone…

Rather than jumping the man as I’d always imagined I would. I stay still, frozen like a mouse caught in a snakes gaze…I can’t move, my soul is frozen. It’s disappointing, trajic really. This is my time; this is all I’ve thought of. This is what I wanted. I dreamed of this moment and now…now I’ve stopped dreaming…I can’t do this…I can’t sacrifice my self for the benefits of others. God, let me die.

Why can’t I die. It happens to everyone, it happens nearly every second that the earth breaths. It happens, and it’s all I’ve ever dreamed of. Death, a morbid obsession within us all, has always been at the tip of our tongs and underneath the thin membranes of our dark pupils. I suppose I’ve always seen it more clearly, always seen death in my sites.

So, here it is. Right before my mind, right in front of my path. He’s got to be a crack head, shouting too much, holding that indifferent killing machine too coolly, without care. What am I scared off…I’ve always felt death under the souls of my feet, what difference should it make if it pointed at my head…am I really going to let it end like this. Laying down in shame, cowering like a rodent. Or, can I wake my self out, can I unbind the chains of fear, and leap toward the man, jump on death, embrace my fate…can I meet my obsession head on…

**Sarah** · 24-04-2008, 05:08 AM

Weekly Writing Contest 44
Week 44 Winner: nidaba
Judge: insin
Topic: A personal reflection, either positive or negative
Entries:

Satisfaction

‘One step at a time,’ I tell my self as the sun begins to falls out of site over the mountain top, leaving only thin, transparent strands of light lingering in the horizon. . The ground is no longer covered with grass and mountain weeds, but with ancient dirt and bits of eroding rocks. Gravity has heightened in what seems like tenfold, and this causes the entire experience to feel even more daunting, even more painful, and more meaningful.

‘There is nothing…’ this thought whispers around my head before embarking into my soul. My legs heavy, my feat drenched in sweat, thoughts have become rarer and rarer as I make my decent. There is nothing. The mountain has become narrower and narrower. Trees and bushes begin to fade away into the distance. Looking back, I see everything the whole lands scope before me – the lush mountain valley with a pallet full of spiky-green and pointy-grey colors. Looking forward, I see nothing but sky and barren road calling my name, pulling my body with some enchanting, unheard song. I see nothing.

‘Sacrifice.’ The word begins to drop on my mind like acid corroding all ill thoughts leaving a pure vessel of clarity. By now, I’m not so much as hiking up the mountain as I am crawling. At times, I’m forced to stop – panting – I do not think I can go on. My hands, pulling on the rough, sharp flooring as much as my feet, have begun to blister - thick blood randomly escapes its torn pores.. Yet, I move on and ascend higher up the peak. The light of day all but gone, I shudder as the cold, dark night gradually blankets the chilly sky. Gazing forward, upward, I move through pure will power alone. I continue, sacrificing mental and physical health to reach my unseen destination.

‘Toruture,' flashes before my eyes, as I finally see the peak of the wretched mountain. Morbid images began to flash before my mind. Is this death? I see death and raped and pain and sorrow – I feel the world screaming as the solace of life cuts at there souls. Their cries are carriedon the back of the cool mountain breeze which has started to penetrate my soul. My goal in sight, all I feel is the pain of being separated from it. Coming this far means nothing. I’ve sacrificed everything, left it miles and miles away. Every step feels like it’s on broken glass. One step at a time!

‘Pride.’ The feeling engulfs me as I sit on the rocky mountain top. The stars many and bright, the moon showing it’s full, glorious body – I can see the whole world. Below me is everything. Above me is nothing, I have, finally, reached the top.

…except, I can’t explain why I never saw it before, but directly in front of me is an even higher mountain, an even riskier endeavor, my heart begins to race as I get up and leave this mountain behind…

December 14th

I can't write when forced. It has to easily flow from my mind to my fingers to the pen or keyboard, whichever is closest to my grasp. And it has to be close, right when the thought is created. I have to quickly write it down or risk losing everything. It’s a tricky little game. I could run and record the quick bursts of thought or I could ponder over them, save them until I can record them. But when I contemplate them, that’s all I can do. The lines of reality become blurred, well more than usual. I get wrapped in fantasies I had forgotten of. Because I used to fantasize a lot when younger. And pondering on thoughts reminds me of this. I had fantasies of different worlds because no one truly and completely loves the world they're given. So you have to create it for yourself. But as the time passed I forgot about them. Maybe I grew up, or maybe I finally opened my eyes to the truth before me. Some stuff you just can't create. Sometimes something is greater than you expected. But you have to open your eyes to it. I had mine closed for a long time. I was too angry and depressed about things out of my control to actually see what was before me. My introverted isolation turned into rage. I selfishly took what I couldn't have because I should have had it in the first place. I thought I deserved everything and more, and well I just didn't have it. I just couldn't sleep at night believing in the foolish notion of karma, knowing that no matter what I did, nothing would result from it. Too bad karma bit me in the ass. Too bad nobody gave a damn about my silly issues. No, not too bad. Thank god nobody gave a damn. Thank god I woke up and opened my eyes. I remember the day and though painful as the memory is, I'm thankful for it. Damn isn't that selfish...I haven't changed it seems but never mind that...while I was busy wallowing in self misery, despising every aspect of life that crept beneath my door, you were busy fighting; fighting to open your eyes and see the world I had so stupidly shunned. And while my hands pushed away everyone around me, your fragile fingers desperately reached out...to anyone who would hold your hands. I myself touched them once, but it hurt too much and I never tried again, blinded by tears. I felt shameful towards you, though you only smiled towards me. I have overcome my battle, but you will forever fight yours, forever struggle to taste the earth I once desperately puked. And in the secrets of the night, I whisper to myself. I shamefully know you will never win…yet…those feelings of mine, so long ago…what a waste of time. I have painfully learned that life owes you nothing nor I.

When was it that her tears affected me so much that I lost sleep over them? When did I forget to ask her how she is doing? Why are the words I really want to tell her stay stuck in my throat?
My little sister just the other day seemed like a child, an innocent kid that talked to everyone, laughed, became friends with everyone but then that day came I still remember it my mom waking up to find her room empty, she didn’t get a heart attack from the shock, she didn’t cry, she didn’t hate her daughter even though it was her day, it was mother’s day. She was on the phone the whole morning, talking to her friends, I never went to go see how my mom and dad were dealing with it, I stayed in my room not wanting to face the truth, I didn’t want to see them break down in front of me, those two people who were the strongest adults I ever knew. I just lay in bed praying to God that she at least called to tell us she was okay.
Mom went to all of my sister’s friends house to look for her leaving my dad alone at the house to answer all the calls, I stayed in bed shaking in fear, trying to warm myself up but it was no use, none of us ate that day, mom didn’t get to celebrate that day, I even sent her flowers for that special day but she wasn’t even home to receive them.
I rested my hand on my sister’s door and opened it then I went in I was asked to look through her stuff to see if I can find a clue as to why she left or who she’s with, I still remember thinking I have to tell her to clean her room, I notice the notebook that I always saw her with I go for it not knowing what was to come I opened it to a random page only to read my sisters sloppy writing detail of her first sexual encounter, it shook me to read that at the age of thirteen she already experienced something like that, at thirteen isn’t she supposed to be talking about boys and not sex and alcohol? I left the room and put the notebook where I saw it, my mom told me I had the face of someone who saw a ghost and asked me what’s wrong, I tell her that I didn’t find anything and hid in my room not being able to face her, afraid I might spill the secrets my sister wrote in a school notebook with her friends.
Now that I think back to that day I was weak, I still am I can’t bring myself to ask her why she would do that, why she would worry our parents like that. When did she grow so distant?

She looks dirty, somewhat tardy. Can a person even look tardy? Her heads too small for her body and her hair is losing its lustre. What is she even doing? Does she even know? Everything about her screams lack of confidence. Wait she's moving. No she's flying, is that possible? She looks like an angel soaring between the clouds. Her voice resounds with happiness, filling the air with laughter, genuine laughter. She's still dirty but she's also glowing. Her heads still too small and her movements are sometimes haphazard but she's soaring. Her eyes contain her feverish desire, borderline obsessive quality, but it glows like an Egyptian cat’s. What's that? A line on her face, visible flaws, no matter it’s easily masked. Another line , flowing from brow to cheek, no wait, it's from brow to lips. It moves! The way her head turns, now through lips, then eyes, and nose, but are there creases on her face? There's another one, and yet another. How many lines are there? These lines weren't there all the time, no I don’t remember they being there, from whence did they come? Pieces are missing, can a person miss a sliver of their arm? Chunks are disappearing, she's slowly disappearing. Where is she going? No wait! Don't leave me! I don't want you to go. She's gone in an instance and I'm left staring at the void, missing her although unsure of who or what she was. Will I ever see her again?

"Hey lady, it's time to close up."
"Oh, sorry" I said as I turned away from the bleak place where an angel just shined for a moment in time. Glancing once more at the spot in an attempt to see her, but quickly swallowing my disappointment I moved past him, making my way through the exit and into the now encompassing night.

"What's up with her?" John asked with raised eyebrow, leaning heavily on his broom
"What do you mean?" Ash grunted, bent at the waist sweeping the remnants of the day’s visitors into his dustpan.
"She had a look on her face, kinda strange, like she's never been before." John replied, looking at the slowly retreating form of a girl.
“A house of mirrors can have the strangest effect on people, once there was a little……” John’s voice continued with his story while the figure of the girl was swallowed whole by blackness.

"Is that really what it seemed like to you?" I fold my hands behind my head, eyes staring at an upward angle, noting the cobwebs where ceiling met support and finding a connection between filth and the places I so rarely regard. Behind me, I hear steady breathing. He's not judging me, as much as it feels otherwise, but the empathy of green eyes is always the most noticeable, and for the time being he is observing my back as if it were my returned stare.

"I'm not saying that I couldn't be wrong," he replies, and even though his words are gentle and calm, I can feel the muscles in my legs burning. What cruelty comes in fits of rage - taking hold of my soul and wrenching me back and forth, trapping me in list towards the encompassing sea of everything that I have always shunned like a personal rival. But this imperfection is not the cause of the spiders in my limbs, but rather a precept to follow distinctly.

"The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the sons?"

"What?"

"We're at an impasse, it seems," I mutter with the smallest of smiles, still digging my eyes into those cobwebs as if they were the sole foundation of my discontent. Perhaps, I muse, they are. What better excuse for such bitter emotions but the stain of dust within my stabilized abode. Do the walls deserve the taint of my low stares? Does the ceiling request fewer honors than I can so offer it?

"I've come to understand something as of late, my friend."

He takes a few moments to respond, but I no longer feel drills against my spine. I shift to approach him with my glance, and his own is directed elsewhere - downward, searching for his shame.

"What is that?"

"Nothing," I reply, and our gazes finally meet - a clash of brown and green, with the sparks of a battle grinding against the path of which they take. "I have spent much of my time trawling the shadows of oceans in my mind and my heart with intent of discovering something more than whom and what I have come to be. Instead, what I found was emptiness."

"Emptiness?"

"Not as you may hear it, but as I have said it. I am empty inside. No. That does not mean that I do not feel, and surely it does not describe a lack of that which makes me whole and true. In an intangible fashion, there is simply nothing to grab a hold of. That is why, even though you have seen me as you have, and even though you doubt your own observation - none of it matters in the least. I am empty, and in turn, so are your judgments. All judgments, henceforth, are as empty as I am - and perhaps, in light of this declaration, I am now all but immortal."

**Sarah** · 24-04-2008, 05:24 AM

Weekly Writing Contest 45
Week 45 Winner: Insin
Judge: nidaba
Topic: comfort
Entries:

Two

They were two deer. A buck and a doe – a perfect pair - once, they roam a mountainous forest. Deep in the silent past, they lived with one another for what felt like eternity. In utter contempt with one another’s heat, they lived a simple life of foraging and leisure. This was when it was most natural. For them, this was the image of their union – soft, tan fur nestling together under the whispering stars as cool air tickled up the mountain-side and caressed their souls, making them realize just how lucky they were to be together. They needed nothing else.

Of course, like all good things, this vacation from the way of things had to come to an end. For them, the end was sudden attack of a polished spear. The smooth stone-tip had pierced the buck’s hind. As they fled, blood leapt out of the buck’s wound, creating a trail of sorrow. After a matter of moments, he collapsed. The doe, unwilling to leave his side, halted – softly singing a cry, which was muttered by the pain of separation. She never noticed the hunter behind her. She felt nothing but the comfort of knowing that, as she fell towards the darkness of death, she also fell on top of her buck.

Then, they were two of many. Journeying through life endlessly like stare dust, bleeding their souls throughout time as if they were some great rain storm falling over many parts of the world. Breathing as peasants and kings, dying as heroes and villains, they grew and became great. Occasionally, their paths crossed like rays of sunlight caressing each other as they feel to the ground. Unfortunately, those times were few and far between. Like two planets whose orbits passed one another briefly, they met rarely to remind themselves they were not alone. Yet, just like those same planets – they were indefinitely connecting with one another, unknowingly relying on each others gravitation to fulfill their separate destinations. And, while they both knew they existed for the sake of others, they never forgot the feeling of gentle fur, the comfort of laying still - holding each other’s warm, subtle breath.

After climbing and claiming many mountains and carelessly falling down them, the two grew tired and old like oak trees drench boredom and contempt after reaching for the sky for so long. They no longer showered upon the earth; rather, they sprinkled lightly. Their great works accomplished - their impact resonating through the fabric of space and time - they knew they end of the horizon had finally appeared. In the end, they shared no extreme climax, no pain nor no story. As they came here together, so they left. Their last life was that of two multi-colored birds…confined to a small space. Finally together, they caste aside the many characters they’d played. Once more they rested, taking comfort in nothing other than each other…

When I close my eyes, I see a deep ephemeral ocean. Destroyed by both time and evolution, it no longer exists even as a memory because everything since that time has died. But I float there, in an ocean of primordial essence, and listen to archaic whale songs that chime and travel through the waves around me. Innate feelings of instinct arise in my soul, causing me to become at peace and move towards simple transcendence.
My eyes open, and I see the barren earth before me, with cracks and crevices in the dirt. The soil is charred and ruined. A small steam of blood flows down towards the cracks. I stick my hand into a small fissure to drown out the gasping sounds of human desperation and close my eyes.
When I close them a second time, I am far removed from that present misery. I am standing on a dark grass hill, staring up at the stars. Each one shines a thousand promises of eternity. A small breeze passes across my shoulder and warms me with its soothing calm radiance. I breathe deeply and hold my breath as each blade of grass flutters gently. I come to recognize all the minor aesthetic details of nature and how my problems pale in comparison to the vastness of space.
Again, my eyes open, and I stare at small shards of glass on the ground. Some of them are impacted on the surface, and stick up defiantly against gravity. My hand sweeps over one almost purposefully, and it charges my hand a laceration for its carelessness. The blood drips to the ground, beginning my final distraction. Sirens call out to me, but the pain brings me someplace else as my eyes shut.
I am standing in a deep and dark cave. I am on a small boulder protruding from and surrounded by ink black water. Long spikes of rock descend from the ceiling. Each droplet of water that falls from them makes a singular sound that reverberates and bounces around the entire cavern before it reaches for my ears. These drops, reminiscent of my bleeding hand from another life, cause my soul to move. I start to realize the ramification of life’s subtle nuances when a pale white corpse floats in front of me, violently and quietly destroying my concentration.
This time, my eyes are forced open. I stare at the bloodied hair of the woman next to me. The car we crashed in is in flames and her lifeless corpse sits transfixed in horror. I can seeing her dying death throes on her contorted face as she struggled to grasp for air with collapsed lungs. Those wide eyes completely challenge my serenity, ridding me of the comfort previously gained by silent meditation. I cannot overcome this horror, because reality refuses to become an illusion of comfort, no matter how hard I try.

**Sarah** · 24-04-2008, 05:30 AM

Weekly Writing Contest 46
Week 46 Winner: sarah042
Judge: Insin
Topic: Stream of Consciousness
Entries:

And, I climb...
As my dying hands type into this soft humming box, a cold stream I once chased rushes through my soul, bathing me in memories. The past, now, becomes impossible to ignore as the chilling waters of growth slap my mind awake. A new perspective takes hold and I see how simple it was to fall in line with reality. For this place, is addictive and a necessity. Looking back – I see a stream of light creeping down a barren mountain that I once had climbed.

As I took my first steps up this incline, I was draped in the ignorance of youth and the passion that lies therein like the gun powder ready to patiently waiting to explode inside of a steel bullet - how I was so eager and beyond foolish! That mountain looked no larger than a mole hill. I was, of course, wrong. My perspective was too narrow to properly see that the trek that lay before my barren feet was costly and treacherous like that of any good journey.

So, foolishly, I made my assent ignoring all common sense other than that that lay before me. Just like the ancient oak tree’s bark become rough and cut by the brutality of time, I gained common sense which every miscalculated action. With every painful motion, struggle against the downward stream, I learned a lesson. I become a different person for the better and for the worth. I grew.

By the time I had been able to call my self a man, I’d learnt so much about climbing mountain. Figuring out how to pace my steps, learning how to place my hands on jagged rock, I finally found out how to live. Yet, I knew so little. For with awareness, comes a sense of remorse. As I concurred that mountain not so long ago and survey the landscape like a king watching his court, I felt the pain that comes with glory. The sense of loss that comes with the actualization of life.

I never felt prepared for living, never felt there was enough time – never realized how important forethought and patience was too me. Thus, after achieving what I thought was a great goal, I’ve found myself lost and cold, wondering – know what?

What is to come and how can I continue on this same path. Will this be the only mountain I climb, is this my greatness’ limit? Is this all there is? Should I be content with discontent, with a sense of loss and no gain? Must I give up every other higher, aspiration to sit at this elevation?

For a long time, I was able to lay here and waste away in the warmth of ignorance. Yet, as of late, I’ve felt washed, a new by this cold, refreshing stream of memories which gilds down my soul. After what seems like an eternity, I’ve finally found the courage to continue onwards and upwards, I’ve reclaimed my dreams, and looked to taller mountains.

Tears

“Come on honey, everything’s going to be fine”
“But…”
“There’s no buts okay” My fingers quietly caressed his scalp fervently tunneling through his baby soft hair, fine sandy grains of perfection. Smiling I looked down into his brown now aged eyes, it was hard to remember that he was only six years old.
“You promised me no tears” he childishly stated
“I know hon but these are good tears”
“How are they good?” a frown creasing his forehead, his eyes locked in concentration
“I’m terribly sorry but we need to get started now” A brisk tone interrupted voiced by a young woman
“Of course” I replied without sparing her a moment, my eyes drawn only to his face. A patriarchal nose, slight freckles down its length. His mouth always ready with a smile. Clenching my hand in his clothes I bent closer to his face, breathing him in I swallowed a sob, my eyesight already blurred, my mouth connecting briefly with his forehead. “I’ll be here waiting” it came out like a croaked whisper.

Sliding into a waiting chair, my senses focused on the squeaks of the wheels as they moved him further from me.
“How are tears good?” It wasn’t the first time it was asked, and hopefully it wouldn’t be the last. Tears filled my overflowing eyes. Tears obediently trekked down my face, giving voice to my unwanted emotions and heartbreaking helplessness. Why him? He’s only six, he’s never done anything wrong, never even had a chance. Yet he managed to bring happiness, filling every step with overflowing joy, never complaining, never fighting. My face began to crumble and my hands defensibly blocked the sight. I remembered the day we went to the park, just the little patch of greenery the city declared and we stood in wonder of our discovery. A tiny slip of a beauty perched exquisitely on the branch. Thin whimsical lines adorned his body; it would normally be filled with vibrant splotches of colour. But ours was better, he was extraordinary, no colours except for the tinge of red on the border. Thin black lines criss-crossed his wings, with everything being covered with the finest of silver threads, transparent in sunlight. Eagerly following his progress we held our breaths in awe of his show. Now perched on bright orange blossoms he was a delight. My lips slowly formed a smile, lost in thought of the days gone by, I quickly glanced up with an accelerated heartbeat. Someone was passively shaking my knee. “Mommy when is Teddy coming home?” a tiny angel asked in the smallest of voices.

4thseal · 25-05-2008, 07:26 AM

Weekly Writing Contest 47
Week 47 Winner: sasuke's legacy
Judge: sarah042
Topic: A comical aspect
Entries:

The mime was dirty. He once bright-white pants soiled with dark stains of only god knows what where held up by strands of some old, discarded rope, which were wrapped around his boney shoulder. What can only be described as a black, tattered rag was draped a cross his upper body reveling sunken, pale skin. His face was not painting carefully with spots of dark black hovering in a bright white back ground. Rather, the black and white had mashed into a dirt-grey leaving is long faith a mess. He had bowl-hat atop his head. He’d lost his hat long ago.

The mime was a bit lost. Confused was more like it. He’d somehow emerged into a cold city of tall buildings that blocked out the sun, and cold, cement grounds that made the souls of his feet harden to life. Not understanding how the hollow dwellings of a city have an entirely different beat. He didn’t know what to do. More specifically he had no clue what to say. People were different than what he’d been use to. They spoke a different language, wore strange formal attire, and were constantly walking. The went here and there as if all life was meant for was to hurry from one place to another. Up and down elevators, to and fro the revolving doors of the overbearing buildings the traveled. Rarely smiling always living, this was too much for the mime. He’d always acted but never saw the point in actually taking on a leading role.

The mime was lucky. You see, all around the city there were living monuments to guide him through his way. One imparticular man, a rooster – every morning at the crack of dawn he would wake, putting on a tank-top and tight, blue-jeans, he would lean. Stretching in front of a building as the sun arose, he would lean back against the cool bricks of one of the many buildings, lighting a cigarette he would flex his treasured muscle and watch the city come alive…

The mime was fascinated by this man. For forty days and fifty nights he watched the rooster awake and crow to the morning. The rooster, taking notice of the mime’s worship and awe, took passion on him.

“If this city ain’t for you, kid, then make it yours. You don’t got to own land to use it” the rooster balked one day after a surprisingly loud crow.

The mime blinked. Then, the rooster's words carried into his heart. And, he understand the city very well. There was no right way to do things. Yes, many, many people go to and fro each day, up and down, only thinking of their roles and duty. But, other simply watch and enjoy the city.

The mime became dirty. He lived in the streets and dance and made me people happy and proud to be themselves. Through it all, he never said a word.

Absolutely Not
By SL

“I’m telling you! Calligraphy can help you do so many things in life!”

“Pah… Piss off asswipe, don’t you have a job to do?”

With that the stout man snorted indignantly, rattling the shining, coffee colored handle of his briefcase in a busy fashion before pedaling away. His dull grey suit squeaking with mediocrity, squeezing the short gentleman in uncomfortable plainness (especially around the midriff). A loud sigh whooshed through the air, chasing after the balding person who had failed to listen, trying to call the busy worker back.

“Piss! What did I expect…”

An athletic, tall lad sighed again wearily, deprived of a sunbeam of hope yet again. It happened pretty often, when a stranger would be passing by and he’d try to explain to them the wonders calligraphy had to offer, but they just blazed onward. In fact, it happened nearly every time. And if you looked at it with brutal honesty, not one person in the entire city of Maphrodite had bothered to stop and to listen to a youngster. Young was an understatement really; only seventeen years since the womb and boy had life delivered. Jet-black hair, clinging with sweat and grime, clung violently to the edges of his shoulders, with brilliant emerald eyes. Although muscular and bronzed by the sun, he looked like a beggar, adorning worn clothes from the dump as his wardrobe. He didn’t care though; it was quite flashy looking, the purple sweater and green shorts with matching holes everywhere. You couldn’t keep such a young and lively spirit down for long, especially someone who was as devoted to enlightening the world as him, so soon a bright yellow smile was back on his face as he tried to find more people to pester.

“Din! Get back to work! I hate you!”

Yeah, working as a garbage man was just temporary until he could show everyone how calligraphy could help citizens in every day life. The kid named Din would get patents and everything on it, and it would make himself rich while helping others. Perfect plan! So with that in mind, he finished his workday and collected his usual twenty cents after nine hours of loading trash. Whistling he strolled down an alley before catching sight of a hideous creature on the side of the road, who was actually a girl, and was nearly identical to Din in appearance (but Din didn’t realize he was raggedy). But what had caught his attention was the familiar strokes of the hand she used…

“Calligraphy!”

It was beautiful! The girl was covered in warts and scars from a rough life on the streets, but she was going to make both of them filthy rich! A new genre of art had been created, patented by Din Fire, and Din had taken the inspirer to the top with him. Once rich, the now beautiful girl smiled at him, both in a street by a restaurant. Din started cheerily.

“You’re so pretty!”

“You think so?…”

“Of course… “

“……. Is this love?”

“Absolutely not.”

24-03-2008, 04:51 AM	#41
Sarah Want to see my Bankai Join Date: Nov 2005 Posts: 7,583 My Mood: Rep Power: 79	Re: Weekly Writing Contest Archive http://www.narutomania.com/forums/li...1-a-90278.html Week 41 Winner: nidaba Judge: 4thseal Topic: demons Entries: __________________ ^Thank you Atem, The Sig Goddess Last edited by Sarah; 24-03-2008 at 04:53 AM.

24-03-2008, 05:00 AM	#42
Sarah Want to see my Bankai Join Date: Nov 2005 Posts: 7,583 My Mood: Rep Power: 79	Re: Weekly Writing Contest Archive http://www.narutomania.com/forums/li...2-a-90607.html Week 42 Winner: 4thseal Judge: nidaba Topic: fragile Entries: __________________ ^Thank you Atem, The Sig Goddess

24-04-2008, 04:46 AM	#43
Sarah Want to see my Bankai Join Date: Nov 2005 Posts: 7,583 My Mood: Rep Power: 79	Re: Weekly Writing Contest Archive Weekly Writing Contest 43 Week 43 Winner: Insin Judge: 4thseal Topic: obsession Entries: __________________ ^Thank you Atem, The Sig Goddess

24-04-2008, 05:08 AM	#44
Sarah Want to see my Bankai Join Date: Nov 2005 Posts: 7,583 My Mood: Rep Power: 79	Re: Weekly Writing Contest Archive Weekly Writing Contest 44 Week 44 Winner: nidaba Judge: insin Topic: A personal reflection, either positive or negative Entries: __________________ ^Thank you Atem, The Sig Goddess

24-04-2008, 05:24 AM	#45
Sarah Want to see my Bankai Join Date: Nov 2005 Posts: 7,583 My Mood: Rep Power: 79	Re: Weekly Writing Contest Archive Weekly Writing Contest 45 Week 45 Winner: Insin Judge: nidaba Topic: comfort Entries: __________________ ^Thank you Atem, The Sig Goddess

24-04-2008, 05:30 AM	#46
Sarah Want to see my Bankai Join Date: Nov 2005 Posts: 7,583 My Mood: Rep Power: 79	Re: Weekly Writing Contest Archive Weekly Writing Contest 46 Week 46 Winner: sarah042 Judge: Insin Topic: Stream of Consciousness Entries: __________________ ^Thank you Atem, The Sig Goddess

25-05-2008, 07:26 AM	#47
4thseal the Brown Join Date: Apr 2007 Location: Never separate me from these stars... Posts: 10,959 My Mood: Rep Power: 56	Re: Weekly Writing Contest Archive Weekly Writing Contest 47 Week 47 Winner: sasuke's legacy Judge: sarah042 Topic: A comical aspect Entries: __________________ Now Available! (cover by DarkDays) Exposed #14: Read & Comment Last edited by 4thseal; 25-05-2008 at 07:37 AM.

25-05-2008, 07:28 AM	#48
4thseal the Brown Join Date: Apr 2007 Location: Never separate me from these stars... Posts: 10,959 My Mood: Rep Power: 56