Next to me, a girl swings her hair around her neck. It's perfect and straight, the kind I wish was mine. Her sweatshirt is a deep purple with white lettering, proclaiming her part in the varsity cheer squad. I had stopped going to the games; no matter how much noise was around me, the cold chills of the bench and the lack of human warmth next to me dampened the experience.
The teacher coughs awkwardly at the front of the room. That's what they all do, lately. We're the tough class, the mean class. Other classes get along fine, but for some reason, there is an abundance of hatred in this room.
"For today's exercise," She's saying, passing out pieces of clean white paper, "I want you to stop focusing on all the negative things you may see in each other, and make a list of good things."
The girl next to me snickers, and raises her hand. I don't listen to her question, I just stare at the paper in front of me.
I know from the start that we'll be paired up. That my page will be full of praises and hers will be...different.
Everyone assumes a similar position as they bend over their writing utensils. I focus on printing my letters as best I can.
The teacher calls my attention back to her, saying that the exercise is over. She motions toward the girl next to me, and she stands up, a lovely smirk on her face.
"I had her." She sighs, pointing at me. She's probably forgotten my unimportant name.
She holds up the page, and I note that it's blank.
"I couldn't think of anything." She says, with a delicate shrug. She sits back down calmly, as if she had complimented my clothing. The room is silent.
There are snickers, then laughs. The teacher tells her that she'll have to stay after class, and she glares at me. It must be my fault. It's not her fault there's nothing good about me.
It's mine.
--
I need to stop writing. I need to keep my fingers away from this keyboard. I spew crap.
gah.
-Mari.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Remembrance
I remember you by your blue ribbon.
When I saw you, may it be in the hallway in between classes or after school when I watched on as an outsider, you always had that blue ribbon.
I remember when you got it.
I'd given it to you on your eighth birthday amidst the candy colours and chocolate cake and streamers. You'd had your mom tie it around your ponytail because every time I tried, it slipped through my fingers.
I remember where it was that night.
You'd asked me to meet you by the creek, our place. You figured we were drifting and you were scared. I'd sat there uncomfortably on the pointy rock - you didn't notice, but I always saved the flat one for you - and listened as you explained that we were just so different now.
I remember how it swished with your wrist, where you wore it, as you walked down the hallway the next day.
You had a happy smile on your face as you skipped to your perfect boyfriend and your perfect new friends. You didn't notice me staring, but you caught me once before class. You had tugged on the ribbon twice and turned away.
I remember how it feels in my palm, today.
It turned out, you lived in your perfect life and went to what I'm sure was supposed to be a perfect party. I'd been hidden in the shadows, the uninvited ghost watching your every move, and I'd seen you go up stairs. There was a crash in the kitchen and suddenly everything was a blur of orange, yellow, and red. But I only noticed one thing. You weren't wearing the ribbon.
I remember how people tell me I'm lucky.
But I don't want to be lucky, and I don't want the ribbon. It's yours. It doesn't fit on my wrists and it slips from my hair. It isn't long enough to fit in my belt loops, and it's too thin to be a shoelace. It didn't feel smooth in my calloused palms and I hate seeing it on my bedside table.
I remember what it looked like in the dirt.
I left it on your grave, over the newly dug soil. Someone had walked over it and their footprints remained. I rubbed them out best I could. I dug the ribbon far into the ground in front of your tombstone.
I don't remember everything about everything.
I suppose it's because all the space in my cerebrum is taken up by my remembrance of you and your dirt-covered ribbon and how much I know I'll miss you.
---
i have no idea where this came from or even what it is.
just. yeah.
i hate the ending, and im really not sure about the whole of it. opinions and concrit welcome.
-Mari.
When I saw you, may it be in the hallway in between classes or after school when I watched on as an outsider, you always had that blue ribbon.
I remember when you got it.
I'd given it to you on your eighth birthday amidst the candy colours and chocolate cake and streamers. You'd had your mom tie it around your ponytail because every time I tried, it slipped through my fingers.
I remember where it was that night.
You'd asked me to meet you by the creek, our place. You figured we were drifting and you were scared. I'd sat there uncomfortably on the pointy rock - you didn't notice, but I always saved the flat one for you - and listened as you explained that we were just so different now.
I remember how it swished with your wrist, where you wore it, as you walked down the hallway the next day.
You had a happy smile on your face as you skipped to your perfect boyfriend and your perfect new friends. You didn't notice me staring, but you caught me once before class. You had tugged on the ribbon twice and turned away.
I remember how it feels in my palm, today.
It turned out, you lived in your perfect life and went to what I'm sure was supposed to be a perfect party. I'd been hidden in the shadows, the uninvited ghost watching your every move, and I'd seen you go up stairs. There was a crash in the kitchen and suddenly everything was a blur of orange, yellow, and red. But I only noticed one thing. You weren't wearing the ribbon.
I remember how people tell me I'm lucky.
But I don't want to be lucky, and I don't want the ribbon. It's yours. It doesn't fit on my wrists and it slips from my hair. It isn't long enough to fit in my belt loops, and it's too thin to be a shoelace. It didn't feel smooth in my calloused palms and I hate seeing it on my bedside table.
I remember what it looked like in the dirt.
I left it on your grave, over the newly dug soil. Someone had walked over it and their footprints remained. I rubbed them out best I could. I dug the ribbon far into the ground in front of your tombstone.
I don't remember everything about everything.
I suppose it's because all the space in my cerebrum is taken up by my remembrance of you and your dirt-covered ribbon and how much I know I'll miss you.
---
i have no idea where this came from or even what it is.
just. yeah.
i hate the ending, and im really not sure about the whole of it. opinions and concrit welcome.
-Mari.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Cower
Your arms are pulled up to your chest as you sit in the very last desk at the far corner of the room. Across the cleanly tiled floors are a group of kids, laughing, smiling, tossing their cares to the wind because they need not worry about being accepted.
The charm on your bracelet clangs against your folders as you prepare for class. It's too loud; too loud for you to stay unnoticed. They always notice, they don't miss any of your awkward blunders or misspeaking.
The blond one, the one in the middle of their circle turns and lifts her lips in a smirk, about to speak. You can only guess what is on the tip of her tongue. The usually sarcastic laugh or biting remark? Or maybe something more personal, like an original insult, created and formed in her pretty little head just for you.
You wish you could just speak up and insult yourself, instead of her. With their help, you've learned to see all the faults you posses, and every mistake makes a siren, blaring at you, cursing at you, forcing you to keep these moments tucked away in your mind until the nights when you can't sleep and they come back and plague you.
The bell rings, a shrill sound that draws to much attention to you. The bell is above your head, and instinctively, the kids who have so far ignored your presence turn and look at you.
You hid yourself in the dents and curves of the attached desk and chair. You know you're still in plain sight, that they can see you, that hiding only makes them laugh heartily. But cowering into yourself always felt safe.
The teacher walks in, talking about the lesson before assigning the days in-classwork. From your seat, with your head bent down as far as possible, lyrics and melodies in your head to push out the sound of shuffling, you can see feet in front of your desk. Not just in front, but to the side. You can picture them, in a perfect square of expensive leathers and clothes, waiting.
You almost lift your head. But that's what they want. Or maybe they want you to pretend to ignore them, your tense posture visible through the cotton of your shirt and your hand gripping your desk with the tension of your shoulders.
A small piece of rubber hits your head, and you can't help but look up.
They're waiting for you. With another rubber band aimed, they let it go. You notice now that the teacher is out of the room. No barriers.
The elastic hits squarely in your right eye. You bite back the howl of pain and wipe at the tears running a watery track down your cheeks. The salt stains the collar of your new shirt, the one you'd begged to get so you could fit in. You were so gullible, thinking a simple change of clothes would make them want to stop.
The teacher walks in and doesn't notice the still snickering students, nor your shoulders shaking slightly as you hunch over your desk.
It seemed as if the more you tried for their approval, the more they hated you. You could see why: you weren't pretty like them, you focused too much on small, unimportant things, you didn't dress or talk like them, and you posses only one talent: cowering. Still, a small part of you longed for the acceptance, with the calls and emails and hangouts and laughing that came with genuine friendships. But you don't deserve happiness. You're worthless, just like the salt-stained shirt shaking with you.
Years later, you stutter in your speech as you greet the students in front of you. You share a common goal with them: to get to your class early and hopefully make a good impression.
Your hunched over yourself again, a habit you've kept. You glance, paranoid at every laugh behind you. You second-guess yourself: the way you've dressed, the way you've fixed your hair, and the shoes on your feet, which are cutting into you painfully with each hurried step.
You don't smile and talk with other people, you prefer to stay within yourself, safely. If you don't put yourself out there, they can't hurt you.
You find it hard to trust in anything that isn't a concrete item: like the book clenched in your fist or your phone, buzzing in your back pocket. Even though you'd made friends, it was only time before they realized what a waste you are and leave, like all the others.
Sure, this group was more stubborn: they didn't agree with you when you said you were worthless, ugly inside and out and belonged buried out of site. But it would only be matters of time and space before you would see their retreating footsteps.
In the classroom, you stand at the front of the room. Someone has already taken the farthest back seat, and you breathe harder. That's your spot.
She's hunched over, writing furiously. The sleeves of her hooded sweatshirt cover most of her hands. She's like a ball of tension and fabric, you suppose.
You hesitantly walk and take the seat next to her. She looks up slightly, her hood masking her face. She recognizes your posture and relaxes slightly in her seat.
Class starts, and a piece of paper hits your arm. Terror makes it's way into your body, wondering if this is the start of the cycle. Will things follow the same pattern? You aren't sure you can take all of that again.
The paper is folded into a neat square, creased and worn at the corners. You carefully pick it up, as if it may bite you. It's a note, written in small, neat print.
You read it, and look back at the girl sitting next to you. She's stiff in her seat, staring straight ahead with a frown dominating her lips.
Would you like my seat?
Your pen scratches across the paper and you pass the note back, placing it in the corner of her desk nearest to you.
No, you can keep it.
--
first attempt at second person, reflecting on the psychological effect of bullying and a slightly off ending. this is the first draft.
what do you think of the ending, good? bad? needs more?
its for a project, so please critique. i can take concrit.
The charm on your bracelet clangs against your folders as you prepare for class. It's too loud; too loud for you to stay unnoticed. They always notice, they don't miss any of your awkward blunders or misspeaking.
The blond one, the one in the middle of their circle turns and lifts her lips in a smirk, about to speak. You can only guess what is on the tip of her tongue. The usually sarcastic laugh or biting remark? Or maybe something more personal, like an original insult, created and formed in her pretty little head just for you.
You wish you could just speak up and insult yourself, instead of her. With their help, you've learned to see all the faults you posses, and every mistake makes a siren, blaring at you, cursing at you, forcing you to keep these moments tucked away in your mind until the nights when you can't sleep and they come back and plague you.
The bell rings, a shrill sound that draws to much attention to you. The bell is above your head, and instinctively, the kids who have so far ignored your presence turn and look at you.
You hid yourself in the dents and curves of the attached desk and chair. You know you're still in plain sight, that they can see you, that hiding only makes them laugh heartily. But cowering into yourself always felt safe.
The teacher walks in, talking about the lesson before assigning the days in-classwork. From your seat, with your head bent down as far as possible, lyrics and melodies in your head to push out the sound of shuffling, you can see feet in front of your desk. Not just in front, but to the side. You can picture them, in a perfect square of expensive leathers and clothes, waiting.
You almost lift your head. But that's what they want. Or maybe they want you to pretend to ignore them, your tense posture visible through the cotton of your shirt and your hand gripping your desk with the tension of your shoulders.
A small piece of rubber hits your head, and you can't help but look up.
They're waiting for you. With another rubber band aimed, they let it go. You notice now that the teacher is out of the room. No barriers.
The elastic hits squarely in your right eye. You bite back the howl of pain and wipe at the tears running a watery track down your cheeks. The salt stains the collar of your new shirt, the one you'd begged to get so you could fit in. You were so gullible, thinking a simple change of clothes would make them want to stop.
The teacher walks in and doesn't notice the still snickering students, nor your shoulders shaking slightly as you hunch over your desk.
It seemed as if the more you tried for their approval, the more they hated you. You could see why: you weren't pretty like them, you focused too much on small, unimportant things, you didn't dress or talk like them, and you posses only one talent: cowering. Still, a small part of you longed for the acceptance, with the calls and emails and hangouts and laughing that came with genuine friendships. But you don't deserve happiness. You're worthless, just like the salt-stained shirt shaking with you.
--
Years later, you stutter in your speech as you greet the students in front of you. You share a common goal with them: to get to your class early and hopefully make a good impression.
Your hunched over yourself again, a habit you've kept. You glance, paranoid at every laugh behind you. You second-guess yourself: the way you've dressed, the way you've fixed your hair, and the shoes on your feet, which are cutting into you painfully with each hurried step.
You don't smile and talk with other people, you prefer to stay within yourself, safely. If you don't put yourself out there, they can't hurt you.
You find it hard to trust in anything that isn't a concrete item: like the book clenched in your fist or your phone, buzzing in your back pocket. Even though you'd made friends, it was only time before they realized what a waste you are and leave, like all the others.
Sure, this group was more stubborn: they didn't agree with you when you said you were worthless, ugly inside and out and belonged buried out of site. But it would only be matters of time and space before you would see their retreating footsteps.
In the classroom, you stand at the front of the room. Someone has already taken the farthest back seat, and you breathe harder. That's your spot.
She's hunched over, writing furiously. The sleeves of her hooded sweatshirt cover most of her hands. She's like a ball of tension and fabric, you suppose.
You hesitantly walk and take the seat next to her. She looks up slightly, her hood masking her face. She recognizes your posture and relaxes slightly in her seat.
Class starts, and a piece of paper hits your arm. Terror makes it's way into your body, wondering if this is the start of the cycle. Will things follow the same pattern? You aren't sure you can take all of that again.
The paper is folded into a neat square, creased and worn at the corners. You carefully pick it up, as if it may bite you. It's a note, written in small, neat print.
You read it, and look back at the girl sitting next to you. She's stiff in her seat, staring straight ahead with a frown dominating her lips.
Would you like my seat?
Your pen scratches across the paper and you pass the note back, placing it in the corner of her desk nearest to you.
No, you can keep it.
--
first attempt at second person, reflecting on the psychological effect of bullying and a slightly off ending. this is the first draft.
what do you think of the ending, good? bad? needs more?
its for a project, so please critique. i can take concrit.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Story Banners
Instead of forcing other people to make them for me, I made some story banners myself while I was bored.
I'm really proud of that one, it's on deviantart. I used stock for this one. I used two fonts I downloaded for the symbol work around "Massacre" and it took me ages to get it to just right. The other fonts, the readable ones, are also downloaded as well. It's for this fanfic.
This one is okay, I used paint to make it and I couldn't find any other people to use because the actresses all looked too old/young. I like the poses anyway - it kind of represents that the fanfic is about the two girls fighting for alphaship. It's the first part to a five-part series. It's for this fanfic and is also on deviantart.
This one is my least favourite - I had an image in my mind for it, and I had to remove the gray background, but i ended up scraping the first version and throwing this together. It's for this fanfic and is also on deviantart.
These took a short time to make and I like them, I guess. Click to enlarge them.
-Mari.
(P.S. I'm gonna get to work on a new header...unless one of you want to make one?)
I'm really proud of that one, it's on deviantart. I used stock for this one. I used two fonts I downloaded for the symbol work around "Massacre" and it took me ages to get it to just right. The other fonts, the readable ones, are also downloaded as well. It's for this fanfic.
This one is okay, I used paint to make it and I couldn't find any other people to use because the actresses all looked too old/young. I like the poses anyway - it kind of represents that the fanfic is about the two girls fighting for alphaship. It's the first part to a five-part series. It's for this fanfic and is also on deviantart.
This one is my least favourite - I had an image in my mind for it, and I had to remove the gray background, but i ended up scraping the first version and throwing this together. It's for this fanfic and is also on deviantart.
These took a short time to make and I like them, I guess. Click to enlarge them.
-Mari.
(P.S. I'm gonna get to work on a new header...unless one of you want to make one?)
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Locked
I have run out of things to say,
I'm afraid I wont be able to convince you to stay.
You desire warmth - you'd find none here,
All I have is this cold exterior and my mismatched ears.
My temperamental arms are where you'd find no comfort,
I'm afraid that in terms of affection I'll always come up short.
I'd beg you to stay if I thought I could keep you.
My mouth is stuck in the endless form of an 'o',
Not emitting any sound, just watching as you go.
My arms came up short when you beckoned for an embrace,
My hands stuttered as you placed them on your face.
You begged me to feel, my heart refused,
No matter what happened, I always stayed mute.
I'd reach for you if I thought my arms were short enough.
It is no surprise when you admit defeat,
But at least it was clean, at least it was neat.
Others had fought harder, but as it appears,
The more they fight, the distance is less near.
It seems as if, I'm getting closer to my goal:
To be, completely, hopefully, dreadfully alone.
I'd pull you in if I thought I could stay.
----
It was always my problem, not yours
That when it came to letting people in:
I was only a locked door.
This is what happens when I don't write poetry for three months and then give it a completely random go.
I like it. It just feels a bit weird to be writing again.
I hope you guys like it (:
*Almost directly taken from my deviantart, where this is posted too.*
-Mari.
I'm afraid I wont be able to convince you to stay.
You desire warmth - you'd find none here,
All I have is this cold exterior and my mismatched ears.
My temperamental arms are where you'd find no comfort,
I'm afraid that in terms of affection I'll always come up short.
I'd beg you to stay if I thought I could keep you.
My mouth is stuck in the endless form of an 'o',
Not emitting any sound, just watching as you go.
My arms came up short when you beckoned for an embrace,
My hands stuttered as you placed them on your face.
You begged me to feel, my heart refused,
No matter what happened, I always stayed mute.
I'd reach for you if I thought my arms were short enough.
It is no surprise when you admit defeat,
But at least it was clean, at least it was neat.
Others had fought harder, but as it appears,
The more they fight, the distance is less near.
It seems as if, I'm getting closer to my goal:
To be, completely, hopefully, dreadfully alone.
I'd pull you in if I thought I could stay.
----
It was always my problem, not yours
That when it came to letting people in:
I was only a locked door.
This is what happens when I don't write poetry for three months and then give it a completely random go.
I like it. It just feels a bit weird to be writing again.
I hope you guys like it (:
*Almost directly taken from my deviantart, where this is posted too.*
-Mari.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Mysticism Cover
Here's the cover I made for Mari's story, Mysticism:
I hope you like it, Mari! ^.^
~Melody
I hope you like it, Mari! ^.^
~Melody
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Keep
It was, like most things in life,
beautiful at the start.
But I wasn't known for my hold,
on things that are actually worth holding.
Instead, I push and push and push,
the boundaries, until you will basically
give anything just to get away.
But this time, I wanted to hold,
I tightened my grip
and you slipped through my fingers.
I brought you back by one string,
like a kite. But the wind was stronger
than me, and my grip started to slacken.
You got to close, too caring, too curious,
and then I was pushing you away.
The second time you took leave, I didn't dare
reach for that string a second time. Your back was
permanently in my line of sight.
I am not known for my hold on things.
Especially things that I'd actually like to keep.
--
Unsure. Comments/Concrit welcome.
-Mari.
beautiful at the start.
But I wasn't known for my hold,
on things that are actually worth holding.
Instead, I push and push and push,
the boundaries, until you will basically
give anything just to get away.
But this time, I wanted to hold,
I tightened my grip
and you slipped through my fingers.
I brought you back by one string,
like a kite. But the wind was stronger
than me, and my grip started to slacken.
You got to close, too caring, too curious,
and then I was pushing you away.
The second time you took leave, I didn't dare
reach for that string a second time. Your back was
permanently in my line of sight.
I am not known for my hold on things.
Especially things that I'd actually like to keep.
--
Unsure. Comments/Concrit welcome.
-Mari.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
