Dark, weightless leaves whisper a soft, ambient tune as a breeze flits through the forest. The thick black stalks that cradle these leaves extend down into the ground, ending somewhere below the omnipresent brush. The thin dirt path in front of me, mostly devoured by nature, is only slightly brighter, a slightly different color than the surrounding forest. A slightly-cloudy midnight sky hangs overhead, with a waning moon casting a meager light down to the earth. Stars twinkle in an unfamiliar pattern. The only other sources of light are a few lanterns, lit at irregular intervals and at varying distances. Most are far away from the path.
The forest is quiet tonight. There aren't many animals in this forest, let alone any human life. All I can hear is the soft rustle of the leaves, the soft whispers of holes in bark that trap wind. It is a very lonely sound, but this is a very lonely forest.
I walk here occasionally, when I'm feeling down. Sometimes, it's when I'm feeling thoughtful, or existential. Sometimes, I walk here when I just want to appreciate silence. There's a small cabin in the depths of the woods, which I discovered shortly into my nighttime jaunts. I started to repair it, little by little, so I could have some place to visit. Or, I fixed it up because I wanted something to do. It's not too far in, but it's not obvious from the outside, either. You have to search a bit to find it. I like that.
My thoughts wandered as I stalked through the forest. I had a lot to think about, and I sorted my way through the mess while listening to the soft sounds of the wood. I don't know how long I walked, thinking. I didn't really end up any better than when I started.
I was coming up on it now. A small, ragged fence lay broken to my left, the dark wood starting to blend in with the ground it was rooted in. I didn't try to fix it, it looks better that way. As I approach, the fence grows in strength, looking less like a broken arrangement of logs. A tiny clearing becomes visible ahead, housing the cabin that lays at its center. The fence parts to allow an entrance towards the cabin, with a small lantern post jutting out by the right side. The lantern was currently lit, casting the fence and the cabin in eerie, shifting shadows. The cabin itself is also made of wood, and is extremely small. There is only one room inside it, a very cramped one. The cabin looks very old, yet is still quite sturdy. There is nothing beside the cabin, looking like a curious part of the forest itself.
I walked inside. A small, well-maintained bed lay on the far wall, with a small stand next to it. The stand bore a tall candle, one that was often lit when I used the place. A wooden table and two chairs sat to the left side of the room, also well-maintained. Moonlight shone in primarily through a small glass window on the right wall. Cracks in the wood allowed small slivers of light in, as well.
I closed the door behind me and sat on the bed. I brought a book with me, and so I began reading by candlelight. It was how I usually spent my time here. Reading kept my mind off my thoughts, my troubles. I couldn't tell how long I read for, but eventually my weariness overcame my desire to continue reading. Putting the book down on the night table, and extinguishing the candle, I laid down on the bed and waited for sleep to claim me.
The lonely wind whistled around the cabin while the darkness of sleep began its slow, careful embrace.
-----
I felt depressed, so I wrote this. Nice beginning, but I don't like the ending. I could try to mess around with it for a few more hours but I felt like uploading what I had. Ambient music came in handy for this story.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
That Guy Sitting Next to You in the Bar
I could go on and on and bore you with paragraphs describing my current whereabouts, my feelings, my general opinions on life. But I don't like being that verbose. So I'll keep it simple.
I sat in a shitty bar in a shitty city. Despondent patrons surrounded me, drinking their drinks, forgetting their worries for a while. Pretty standard setup, if you ask me. It was appropriately dirty, dingy; "wretched" would be another good adjective there. Certainly not a place you would bring the wife and kids. Not that I have to worry about that. Never had a woman for that long. Not that it's any of your business.
Women aren't important to me. Getting from day to day is. People tell me that I'm not living life to the fullest. I tell them there's nothing to live in a world as boring and harsh as this one. So I go each day working, drinking, sleeping. It's fine for me. But I'm not totally apathetic towards the fairer sex. I've got my baser desires, and there's no shortage of women wanting to fulfill those. But they're all meaningless.
Except for her. She's been attributed as The One, my Soulmate, my One True Love. I called her "Anna." I met her earlier in life, in my twenties, when life was still entertaining. I've wised up now, seen the errors of that time, but she was always the shining gem in the disgusting refuse. She had long, midnight hair, down almost all the curve of her back, shining for all its shade. Her eyes were a sort of gray-blue, the color of stones in a forested river. She had hintingly-dark skin, but I don't remember the nationality. I didn't care. She had curves like an artist's dream, a body almost too perfect for this hateful world. In short, she was beautiful. More so than any broad since, and maybe even to come.
I met her at a friend's party. We weren't initially attracted to each other. But we kept running into the other, kept having conversations near each other, despite never having met. Then we dropped the act and talked directly. We kept talking well into the next day, a sign of how inseparable we were to become. For months, we shut out the world and dreamed up our own little paradise. It was as blissful as it could be. But, we kept our pasts separate from each other. We both had our share of troubles that we wanted to keep secret. We were both fine with it. We had the present to be happy with, and the past to ignore.
How did it end? She left. Just up and left one day. Wrote me a letter, dried tears and all, saying that she needed to leave. Couldn't be with me anymore. So sorry, and all that wash. A part of me was angry by how clichéd it was. But the rest was devastated, angry, depressed, all the feelings you know so intimately when you've been left by the wayside for no adequately-explained reason. I sought her out, without success. She simply vanished into the night. Her disappearance was so complete that I started to doubt whether she was really with me at all. That day was the beginning of the man you see before - or rather, beside - you. The rest is history. A history you don't need to know.
Just keep the drinks coming. Play the tunes I remember so well. Leave me alone.
A woman enters the bar. Long black hair, down most of her back. Grey-blue eyes silhouetted by tinted sunglasses. Black clothes outlining a wonderful figure. Legs that could make a priest renounce the Good Lord. A woman I hadn't seen in years.
Of all the bars....
Shit.
-----
Inspired by my watching of Casablanca last night. Not that good a story, but I need the experience.
I sat in a shitty bar in a shitty city. Despondent patrons surrounded me, drinking their drinks, forgetting their worries for a while. Pretty standard setup, if you ask me. It was appropriately dirty, dingy; "wretched" would be another good adjective there. Certainly not a place you would bring the wife and kids. Not that I have to worry about that. Never had a woman for that long. Not that it's any of your business.
Women aren't important to me. Getting from day to day is. People tell me that I'm not living life to the fullest. I tell them there's nothing to live in a world as boring and harsh as this one. So I go each day working, drinking, sleeping. It's fine for me. But I'm not totally apathetic towards the fairer sex. I've got my baser desires, and there's no shortage of women wanting to fulfill those. But they're all meaningless.
Except for her. She's been attributed as The One, my Soulmate, my One True Love. I called her "Anna." I met her earlier in life, in my twenties, when life was still entertaining. I've wised up now, seen the errors of that time, but she was always the shining gem in the disgusting refuse. She had long, midnight hair, down almost all the curve of her back, shining for all its shade. Her eyes were a sort of gray-blue, the color of stones in a forested river. She had hintingly-dark skin, but I don't remember the nationality. I didn't care. She had curves like an artist's dream, a body almost too perfect for this hateful world. In short, she was beautiful. More so than any broad since, and maybe even to come.
I met her at a friend's party. We weren't initially attracted to each other. But we kept running into the other, kept having conversations near each other, despite never having met. Then we dropped the act and talked directly. We kept talking well into the next day, a sign of how inseparable we were to become. For months, we shut out the world and dreamed up our own little paradise. It was as blissful as it could be. But, we kept our pasts separate from each other. We both had our share of troubles that we wanted to keep secret. We were both fine with it. We had the present to be happy with, and the past to ignore.
How did it end? She left. Just up and left one day. Wrote me a letter, dried tears and all, saying that she needed to leave. Couldn't be with me anymore. So sorry, and all that wash. A part of me was angry by how clichéd it was. But the rest was devastated, angry, depressed, all the feelings you know so intimately when you've been left by the wayside for no adequately-explained reason. I sought her out, without success. She simply vanished into the night. Her disappearance was so complete that I started to doubt whether she was really with me at all. That day was the beginning of the man you see before - or rather, beside - you. The rest is history. A history you don't need to know.
Just keep the drinks coming. Play the tunes I remember so well. Leave me alone.
A woman enters the bar. Long black hair, down most of her back. Grey-blue eyes silhouetted by tinted sunglasses. Black clothes outlining a wonderful figure. Legs that could make a priest renounce the Good Lord. A woman I hadn't seen in years.
Of all the bars....
Shit.
-----
Inspired by my watching of Casablanca last night. Not that good a story, but I need the experience.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The Old Man
A slightly hunched figure stumbled in the shade of the night. A dark, jagged brick jutted out from amongst its peers, perhaps in defiance to its purpose. White snow glistened in the moonlight, encompassing the area. It had blanketed everything around in form-distorting depth. Only the sidewalk and the street beside it were cleared. Some stars peeked through the hazy veil of the sky, casting their tiny hopeful lights on the world below. The figure, a man, shifted the weight of the large, irregular sack he carried over his shoulder while softly grumbling and continued on. He headed to a dim house in the distance, almost camouflaged against its surroundings. He had already visited many houses tonight and wasn't close to done yet. It was always hard work. But even now, the old man didn't mind.
He was dressed simply. A large coat, thick pants, flexible gloves, and heavy boots kept him warm in the brisk chill that swept the lonely street. A small, fur-brimmed cap sat tightly on his head. Out here, he wasn't really distinctive, just a black brushstroke against a white canvas. He trudged through the snow at a steady pace, long since used to the strain.
Beside him on both sides of these streets, lay a sprawling field covered with snow. It extended out towards the horizon, yet was mostly bare. As far as he could see were shifting white dunes. Snow flew off these round hills, giving the area around it a windswept look. Nearer to the road lay a row of power lines, extending to the town in front of him and beyond into civilization. The poles were old and tattered, yet still sturdy. They bore paper flyers proclaiming garage sales, campaigning politicians, independent bands. He passed a lonely mail box, halfway covered in white. Snowmen and snow angels, snowballs and forts came into view, the signs of children still living in bliss.
The house ahead grew ever larger, ever brighter. It looked like all its peers around it, differing little. He could start to make out shapes inside, furniture that cast strange shadows on the walls. But he spied the place he needed to go once inside. It looked unassuming, set off in the corner where normally it was the center of attention. But these people had the right to decorate their houses in whichever way suited them and the man had no right to judge. He now spied a few cars in the cleared-out driveway, belonging to the adults of the house. They looked new and expensive, clean and shining despite the snow.
He moseyed up to the front door, sliding past the numerous gewgaws on the lawn. He reached inside a coat pocket to take out his lock picks.
It had taken him years to learn how to pick open locks reliably. It had taken him even longer to learn how to do it well on main doors, with multiple locks and deadbolts. He hated it. He thought it was grossly immoral. But he didn't have any better options. The idea of breaking or cutting open a window was abhorrent. After he lost his main mode of transportation and since anything like it was impossible to travel unnoticed with nowadays, he had only this method of surreptitiously entrance. Without anything else, he grudgingly took up the art of lock picking. Not that he would ever call it one.
It took him a few minutes to get the door open, but he made no sounds during the effort. Thankfully, the door was not alarmed. Those houses were never fun. The door silently and slowly opened into a modest hallway, with the living room on his right, the kitchen on the left, and stairs heading upwards into darkness in front of him. He sidled inside and closed the door, slowly easing his pack through the doorframe. Satisfied, he slid into the living room.
A large, flat-screen television adorned one wall, with media players and video game consoles set in small cubbies below. A large, comfortable-looking couch sat facing it, with large chairs off to its sides. Another wall was made up of a large window, viewing the street, adorned with pictures and decorations. Behind the couch were more pictures, either of the family or of generic paintings or photographs. A small end table stood off to the left end of the couch, bearing a small plate of cookies. Likely, the homeowners went off to sleep and forgot to clean up after themselves. The man helped himself to some of them as he moved over to the far wall. Yes, this is what he spotted on his way in; this is where he would work.
The man set his pack on the ground and got on his knees, suppressing a strained groan. He pulled a PDA out from his coat pocket and looked up who, exactly, lived here. He absentmindedly ate his cookies as he searched. It took him a few moments, but he had gotten the small list easily enough. He then opened the pack and silently rummaged inside for the appropriate parcels. He tried not to mutter to himself as he worked; that was a bad habit of his. He picked out a number of boxes, looked them over and, satisfied that they were for this house, set them in front of him. When he was finished, there were about a dozen or so packages of all shapes and sizes arranged neatly in this little, highly decorated corner, where they should be.
The old man closed the sack, put his PDA away and slowly stood up, hoping his knees wouldn't crack. He grabbed a few more cookies on his way out. A smile now adorned his wizened yet jovial face; this was his favorite part of the night. He wished he could see the joy and harmony that would warmly blanket this house in the morning. But that was not his charge. He was content with simply laying down the foundation.
As he withdrew from the house, he locked the door and slid it firmly shut behind him. He headed to the next house on his route with renewed vigor.
"Merry Christmas to all," he whispered, happily, "and to all a good night."
-----
I wrote this in a few hours today, after finally fleshing out an idea I've had for a few months now. I think it turned out pretty well, after I extensively proofread it. Though, maybe I should have put this out during Christmastime...not much Christmas spirit in the midst of summer. I think the idea of a modern-day Santa wouldn't be unlike this, given the fact that chimneys aren't very large nowadays and that many houses are alarmed. Not to mention the advent of radar and GPS makes locating things easy. This story's extreme for entertainment's sake, but I'd like to see how Santa would have changed over the years if he was real.
At least, if he was in the real world. He'll always be real in my heart, heh. I'm still a child, to be honest.
He was dressed simply. A large coat, thick pants, flexible gloves, and heavy boots kept him warm in the brisk chill that swept the lonely street. A small, fur-brimmed cap sat tightly on his head. Out here, he wasn't really distinctive, just a black brushstroke against a white canvas. He trudged through the snow at a steady pace, long since used to the strain.
Beside him on both sides of these streets, lay a sprawling field covered with snow. It extended out towards the horizon, yet was mostly bare. As far as he could see were shifting white dunes. Snow flew off these round hills, giving the area around it a windswept look. Nearer to the road lay a row of power lines, extending to the town in front of him and beyond into civilization. The poles were old and tattered, yet still sturdy. They bore paper flyers proclaiming garage sales, campaigning politicians, independent bands. He passed a lonely mail box, halfway covered in white. Snowmen and snow angels, snowballs and forts came into view, the signs of children still living in bliss.
The house ahead grew ever larger, ever brighter. It looked like all its peers around it, differing little. He could start to make out shapes inside, furniture that cast strange shadows on the walls. But he spied the place he needed to go once inside. It looked unassuming, set off in the corner where normally it was the center of attention. But these people had the right to decorate their houses in whichever way suited them and the man had no right to judge. He now spied a few cars in the cleared-out driveway, belonging to the adults of the house. They looked new and expensive, clean and shining despite the snow.
He moseyed up to the front door, sliding past the numerous gewgaws on the lawn. He reached inside a coat pocket to take out his lock picks.
It had taken him years to learn how to pick open locks reliably. It had taken him even longer to learn how to do it well on main doors, with multiple locks and deadbolts. He hated it. He thought it was grossly immoral. But he didn't have any better options. The idea of breaking or cutting open a window was abhorrent. After he lost his main mode of transportation and since anything like it was impossible to travel unnoticed with nowadays, he had only this method of surreptitiously entrance. Without anything else, he grudgingly took up the art of lock picking. Not that he would ever call it one.
It took him a few minutes to get the door open, but he made no sounds during the effort. Thankfully, the door was not alarmed. Those houses were never fun. The door silently and slowly opened into a modest hallway, with the living room on his right, the kitchen on the left, and stairs heading upwards into darkness in front of him. He sidled inside and closed the door, slowly easing his pack through the doorframe. Satisfied, he slid into the living room.
A large, flat-screen television adorned one wall, with media players and video game consoles set in small cubbies below. A large, comfortable-looking couch sat facing it, with large chairs off to its sides. Another wall was made up of a large window, viewing the street, adorned with pictures and decorations. Behind the couch were more pictures, either of the family or of generic paintings or photographs. A small end table stood off to the left end of the couch, bearing a small plate of cookies. Likely, the homeowners went off to sleep and forgot to clean up after themselves. The man helped himself to some of them as he moved over to the far wall. Yes, this is what he spotted on his way in; this is where he would work.
The man set his pack on the ground and got on his knees, suppressing a strained groan. He pulled a PDA out from his coat pocket and looked up who, exactly, lived here. He absentmindedly ate his cookies as he searched. It took him a few moments, but he had gotten the small list easily enough. He then opened the pack and silently rummaged inside for the appropriate parcels. He tried not to mutter to himself as he worked; that was a bad habit of his. He picked out a number of boxes, looked them over and, satisfied that they were for this house, set them in front of him. When he was finished, there were about a dozen or so packages of all shapes and sizes arranged neatly in this little, highly decorated corner, where they should be.
The old man closed the sack, put his PDA away and slowly stood up, hoping his knees wouldn't crack. He grabbed a few more cookies on his way out. A smile now adorned his wizened yet jovial face; this was his favorite part of the night. He wished he could see the joy and harmony that would warmly blanket this house in the morning. But that was not his charge. He was content with simply laying down the foundation.
As he withdrew from the house, he locked the door and slid it firmly shut behind him. He headed to the next house on his route with renewed vigor.
"Merry Christmas to all," he whispered, happily, "and to all a good night."
-----
I wrote this in a few hours today, after finally fleshing out an idea I've had for a few months now. I think it turned out pretty well, after I extensively proofread it. Though, maybe I should have put this out during Christmastime...not much Christmas spirit in the midst of summer. I think the idea of a modern-day Santa wouldn't be unlike this, given the fact that chimneys aren't very large nowadays and that many houses are alarmed. Not to mention the advent of radar and GPS makes locating things easy. This story's extreme for entertainment's sake, but I'd like to see how Santa would have changed over the years if he was real.
At least, if he was in the real world. He'll always be real in my heart, heh. I'm still a child, to be honest.
A Brief Update
My friends are arguing again.
It's not that it's really anything heavy, with friendships on the line or anything. It's just not a conversation I care about. I'm half-listening to them but I'm simply wondering what's going on. What I'm doing. I'm trying to think of something to write about, a story to tell, but nothing's really coming. A personal character of mine, a female gunslinger named Rachel Aensland, needs a personality and I'm not coming up with anything. I'm basing her too much off of myself. I don't think it's my fault a lot of the time, I can't control what inspiration comes to me. Some of my best ideas have come out of nowhere, and I wish that happened more often. But I suppose I just need to write. As I'm doing now. Hopefully the inspiration will come in time.
I gotta get on the ball and watch more movies. Too many good movies coming out nowadays that I can't watch since I'm poor. I use that excuse a lot. But that's the only way I can justify the fact that I don't experience what's expected of me. Usually, it's the truth. But I don't like being expected to experience certain movies, certain TV shows, certain games. I experience what I want to. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.
I justify myself a lot. Probably has to do with the fact that I think differently than everyone else. They need to get over that.
I'm a writer with nothing to write about. It's probably since I don't have much experience. Sometimes I feel I'm more suited for art than prose. But I'm a far better writer than artist, so here I am. I need to start living.
I have a tendency to worry, but I don't think there's much to worry about here. I'll have better writing days. But I should start expanding my portfolio, as it were. I also need to write here more often, if I'm going to start being serious about my writing. Stay tuned, I have another update to put up. That is, if I still have an audience.
It's not that it's really anything heavy, with friendships on the line or anything. It's just not a conversation I care about. I'm half-listening to them but I'm simply wondering what's going on. What I'm doing. I'm trying to think of something to write about, a story to tell, but nothing's really coming. A personal character of mine, a female gunslinger named Rachel Aensland, needs a personality and I'm not coming up with anything. I'm basing her too much off of myself. I don't think it's my fault a lot of the time, I can't control what inspiration comes to me. Some of my best ideas have come out of nowhere, and I wish that happened more often. But I suppose I just need to write. As I'm doing now. Hopefully the inspiration will come in time.
I gotta get on the ball and watch more movies. Too many good movies coming out nowadays that I can't watch since I'm poor. I use that excuse a lot. But that's the only way I can justify the fact that I don't experience what's expected of me. Usually, it's the truth. But I don't like being expected to experience certain movies, certain TV shows, certain games. I experience what I want to. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.
I justify myself a lot. Probably has to do with the fact that I think differently than everyone else. They need to get over that.
I'm a writer with nothing to write about. It's probably since I don't have much experience. Sometimes I feel I'm more suited for art than prose. But I'm a far better writer than artist, so here I am. I need to start living.
I have a tendency to worry, but I don't think there's much to worry about here. I'll have better writing days. But I should start expanding my portfolio, as it were. I also need to write here more often, if I'm going to start being serious about my writing. Stay tuned, I have another update to put up. That is, if I still have an audience.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)