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| mudpiegrl (profile) wrote, on 4-9-2004 at 2:12am | |
| Current mood: accomplished Music: perfect circle |
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| okie i have a creative writing project that i got today and i couldnt wait to write. i have to take a picture (i like this one) and use it as inspiration for a story, using the quote that goes along with the piece. this is my story. “Mother?” she only sobbed. “Mother, what is the matter?” Her lack of an answer made the girl look down in shame at her skirt, which was covered in dirt because of her pondering hours in the woods. She knew exactly what had happened. It had been going on for months, or at least this horrible. Actually, she could remember back to the second grade when she’d cover her ears and scream so she could have her own peace. The yelling only added to the noise she had always attempted to avoid, as the girl enjoyed a kind silence, such as that which hid deep in the woods, where she took refuge frequently. She wanted to hug her mother, whether she was dirty or not, but the bent figure was tough and she was cautious of it. The woman was not generally violent, nor did she upset easily, and so the girl did not know how to comfort her. She sat in the chair, watching the tears stream and the red blotches grow, listening to the quick inhales and sobs, which, apparently, had begun quite a while before she arrived. Later, after the crying had ceased, she embraced her mother around her middle with love. She ran to the center of Mulberry Forest, feeling the wind rush through her hair and pull back her clothes, allowing the grass and sticks to whip her hands and bare legs. The wind died once the trees became denser, and she slowed as a result of the abundance of fallen branches and broken trunks. The forest floor was covered in colours brilliant enough to see for miles. The damp leaves peeked through dying grasses and protected rocks from little girls who wished for a seat. She shoved off the reds and yellows, exposing a hard slate-coloured stone. She threw herself upon it and cried into her hands, tolerating the itch of the salty tears that ran down her arms and onto her knees. What did she want? If he left, they would have to scrounge for money, as her mother only kept her own house and cared for her own child. But would he stay and continue to torment the lives of those he insisted he loved. She made up her mind that he should die-although harsh and critical, it was best. They would inherit his money and visit kindly to his grave. For weeks, the ten-year-old sat in the old apple tree, watching blue turn to pink and slowly fade to black. She pretended the tree was her castle, and she watched over the kingdom until she no longer could. She would slowly walk home, only to find her mother slamming pots in the sink, with a drink in hand, or asleep on the couch in the living room. One night, the girl gently woke her, and the women slapped the child for the disruption. Now the only possible companion had abandoned her, and she watched the window for her father until she fell asleep. She truly did love him, although the combination of her parents was like that of orange juice and milk. The lactose counteracts the effects of the acidic juice and the two cause quite the stomachache. She supposed they got along once, because they appear to be happy in the adorable wedding picture that sat on her dresser. Every night, she stared at the picture, pondering a once peaceful childhood, and wondering if the day she married would be horrible or wonderful. Months passed, and the girl didn’t notice. Every moment was an oblivious observation of the world. She spent the entire week in her dream world sometimes, ignoring her mother’s drunken threats and blocking out the neglect she knew she lived in. Dinner became apples until winter, when she would tramp through the snow, playing that she was a wolf attempting to bring her pups fresh meat. Soon spring came and shades of red, blue, and purple decorated the newly green bushes that lined the fences. She snacked on them, imagining their use as dye in the days when Indians roamed the way she did constantly. Her rock became worn with everyday use, and it now represented a nicely crafted simpleton chair. She stared at the damp ground, and slowly arranged her eyes upon the carelessly placed bushes. It appeared to be a fat man, she thought; one who comes from the south, with a bushy moustache and funny sombrero. She giggled at the funny image, and part of the belt began to move. “Oh, his pants will fall for sure!” She moved closer to find the buckle had only been two small caterpillars, green with yellow spots. Their chubby bodies moved slow, beginning with the first four legs, and following rhythmically in fours, the other eight legs. The bodies scrunched and straightened repeatedly, moving onto her gentle hand, from which she observed the spots carefully. She sat with them in the kind silence for a moment before she spoke. “You will not yell at me. You can be my friends.” Scrunch. Tiny steps. Scrunch. “You with the black bottom can be Oscar. And you can be Alphonse, unless of course, either of you disagree.” Their only response was to squish and fix their bodies as if they were accordions playing a slow, melodramatic ballad. The girl began to tell them all of her feelings. She could cry and tell someone as they explored the length of her arm and overcame the mountains of her skirt’s folds. For two weeks, she kept Oscar and Alphonse in a cup with the Holy Bible to hold them in on her dresser next to the wedding picture. She would take them to the woods, allowing them to munch varieties of grasses and leaves on a snuggly, warm piece of polyester. Summer would come soon, and she anticipated the warm sun’s rays. She could hardly contain her excitement for when she could talk to her new, patient friends in a place and light where they could only reflect and magnify the brilliance of the summer. One day, on the way home from the forest, she stopped, watching them intently. She realized that they would soon be curling up in their cocoons, and emerging as magnificent butterflies. She knew it was time to send them back. The caterpillars softly wiggled in her hand, spelling out “goodbye”. They were leaving her as quickly as her father had, and as her childhood would be. She didn’t mind their absence, though. Their change was natural, as hers would be, and they cared enough to say goodbye to the confidant. She walked home, and returned to the forest before dawn, and began to watch the black turn to pink to blue in kind silence. tell me what you think please... |
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| Post A Comment |
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Angel_Bob | 04-09-04 11:42am Oh, it's sad.
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mudpiegrl | Re:, 04-10-04 2:08am oh thank you.
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Angel_Bob | Re: Re:, 04-10-04 12:11pm It changes at least once a week on average.
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GoLdIe18 | i love it!, 04-09-04 4:29pm im into creative writing stuff and thing like that are so awesome, and that story and the picture..it was awesome i loved it! if you have anymore stuff like that send it to me! xox |
mudpiegrl | Re: i love it!, 04-10-04 2:06am lol okie...ill work on that... |
H2OforDuo | 04-09-04 7:52pm Wow. |
mudpiegrl | Re:, 04-10-04 2:07am com'on it wasn't that good...but thanks lol! i like your poems, although im not always sure what to say about them...so i dont say anything and just enjoy them... |
H2OforDuo | Re: Re:, 04-10-04 12:18pm XD Thank you.
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kopijka4 | 04-11-04 12:44am It was that good. The caterpillar to butterfly ending relating to the girl was very clever. Ah fuck, now were both writers that will be poor. I was hoping you would save animals for a living and let me be the egotistical artist. ;-)
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mudpiegrl | Re:, 04-11-04 4:24pm excuse me but i plan to be a starving artist myself thank you ery much!...i want to be a scenic artist...lol yay! |
| kopijka4 | Re: Re:, 04-11-04 4:54pm oh yea. oops. O:-)
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