Some of these are slightly dark, and others are just plain weird, just to warn you. Here are some snippets and things I found in my journal! It’s not all of them, of course, but it’s a lot.
5/27/16: “He used to be a delicate creature, once.
Before he fractured and broke.
Before he became an unclimbable mountain made of glass, full of jagged edges and sharp smiles.
Before anyone who got close got cut, before they bled out and learned, finally, to stay away.
His hands, once soft, were claws with a poison touch. His eyes, once warm, now burned like uncontrolled flame.
Yes, he used to be a delicate creature. But there were no blunt edges to him now.”
8/2/16: “He stopped dreaming when his city turned to dust. When the people he loved had gone and he couldn’t remember why, or how. Or who.
When he couldn’t remember how old he was, because it had been decades, maybe centuries. When the cold, the relentless cold refused to leave.
He knew that silence wasn’t a sound, but it seemed to have an echo in his empty, broken town.”
- “There is no cold until you think there’s cold.
- Even the clock’s ticking cannot keep them apart.
(What was this supposed to be? I have no idea.)
8/30/16: “Hair dyed just lighter than roses, warm feet against colder tiles on the floor. Silver eyes beaming through dull walls, through cobwebs dangling fro unreachable heights, through gray inescapable prisons.
An unfaltering melody dies.
The tune lies somewhere in the muddle head turning, slowly, to the window.
A scratching sound? Like someone’s trying to scramble up the tower walls but is failing miserably. Muddle head out the window, pink braid dangling out and nearly touching the ground. Boy, no more than sixteen–same age, then–standing confusedly outside the tower.”
(This was an attempt to make it unclear whether the story is in first, second, or third person, and possibly also a Rapunzel retelling.)
no date (but probably the same day): “In someone else’s universe, you are a planet, vibrant and mysterious. Here, you are a moon,
orbiting and made of footprints left in dust, constantly changing phases.”
9/2/16: “‘I’m going.’ She said it out of the blue, sitting against the wall of his workroom, biting her sleeve nervously.
‘I’m going,’ she repeated, dropping her arm,
and pushing herself up. ‘I’m not waiting for someone else to volunteer and mess things up. This is my change. I’m going.’
He set his tools down with a clatter. ‘Please no.’
‘I am,’ she repeated furiously. ‘You
won’t can’t stop me.’
Every The words felt like stings, and suddenly he needed to stop it, to defend himself before she could hurt him more. ‘How can you say that? It’s dangerous, and I might–‘
‘I know it’s dangerous!’ she snapped. ‘But I’ve spent an entire life
being neglected and it’s too late now for someone you to want to protect me.’
His eyes started to burn, and he tried to deflect the topic away
from himself. ‘Have you even told your family?’
Kesslyn’s eyes hardened. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I know they’re not fine with you just up and leaving–‘
‘I don’t care whether they like it or not! This is so much bigger than what everyone wants–this is about saving them, and you. This is my chance to be important to someone, Clev! Why would you want to stop me from that?’
‘You’re important to me!’
A silence fell around them, thick as fog and
made composed of unsaid words. They were suddenly both very, very aware of the things between them that they never dared to speak.
Kesslyn broke through the fog-like silence, her voice much softer, almost hopeful and almost dreading the answer.
‘ . . . really?'”
(This one is actually a possible snippet from one of my WIPs, although way ahead of where the story is at the moment.)
9/7/16: “The wall is a prison. A gray thing that keeps
you me in, locks me up in a place I don’t want to be.
The wall is safety. A beautiful blockade that protects me and keeps me from being dragged down to the level the ones inside are at.”
(I’m 99% certain I didn’t write this is something political?? Not sure how that happened though.)
9/28/16: “Our smiles will not shatter. You will feel threatened by our supposed happiness and attempt to destroy it, but we will laugh it off and you will hate it. We will endure all with a smile, even when we have nothing. Our smiles will not shatter even as our souls will.”
1/5/17: “Tell my broken bones that their song will be the most beautiful because theirs is not a perfect melody, but a shattered one, like broken chandeliers and dazzling shards of glass. Tell them that their story is most important because it is one of healing, not of staying one way for all of eternity.”
1/26/17: “She walked a delicately strung tightrope and I was her net, waiting below should she miss a step. I would catch her, always, until she could make it the whole way without falling. And still I promised to always be there.
But it was them who removed me, because the audience preferred win or lose, no second chances. They wanted her to make it alone–no, they wanted her to fail alone, and have no one there to save her.
But what should happen if she fell beyond the depths of saving? What should happen if I were not there to stop her?
I promised her . . .”
1/26/17: “The bullet pierces flesh.
I do not know whether it’s him or me, and then I don’t know what
I’m asking it is I don’t know, but all I know is that there is a moment when all of the space between the metal bullet and the skin disappears.
Someone is not making it out alive.
But has he shot–is he shooting–or is it me with the gun in hand? Is it me dying, or him? I feel no differences between us, though moments before the differences felt plenty.
Has one of us shot ourselves? Is that it? Or are we enemies here just to destroy each other?
I can’t remember anymore. Maybe I never remembered in the first place.
All I can remember is the force of the shot, the soundlessness, the shock registering on both our faces then not registering at all. I remember falling, but I don’t know who is doing the falling, who has a new bullet lodged in the skull–I remember my eyes being too slow to watch it happen, seeing only the bullet in its first moment and what happens in its last.
I remember a body on the ground, but I don’t know if it’s mine.
I see the gun, pulled out, pointed but not pressed tightly against. The irreversible moment as the trigger soundlessly clicks. The bullet out, the bullet in.
The bullet pierces flesh.”
1/30/17: “How many times have I walked down these halls, dreaming–and how many times through those, in awe that dreams come true?”
Any thoughts? Which do you like best? Or worst? Lemme know!
MAGICAL WORD OF THE DAY/WEEK/MONTH/WHATEVER:
Nescient, which means lacking knowledge or ignorant.