The mirror told in cruel honesty the story, the downward spiral that had eaten away at everything she was.
It horrified her.
A twitch of the leg is no longer accompanied by the sliding of lean muscle, and instead the disturbing jiggle of quivery fat, her tall figure obliqued by the excess weight that plagued her every step.
Once graceful fingers now lie pudgy, squishy from the utter dissuse; fingers that once had glided over black and white keys with the skillful agility of a carefully cheorographed dance.
Softened nails grappled at her face, observing the blackened half circles that hung below her eyes. A downward tilt of the lips that seemed to only be pulled by the weight of her cheeks. Forcing forgotten movements to her mouth, she dragged the corners of her lips toward her eyes, obscured by large glasses.
The smile seemed plastic, a melted peice of discarded prototype that everyone else had moved away from, leftover scrap that had to be picked up by scavengers looking for a cheap imitation.
Water glanced down the corners of her eyes, running in slow rivlets to meet at her chin. She mashed her teeth together. When had this happened? This useless byproduct of society? A rusted laugh escaped, the irony not lost to her even in the throwes of dispair.
Since when had I become someone who my younger self would sneer at in disgust?
The slim, youthful face of a promising future looked at her, long legs in perfect balance, and a lip curled in distain. A person she was before, someone who had everything, bitterly, she thought, who had taken for granted that perfection.
Again, she laughed, fully realizing that before, simply meant never again.
And the mirror cried silently back.
This is my commentary on how skewed our view of weight is, and it’s only because this was a short phase I had felt, watching a show (that shall not be named) on TV. The ending was the initial aspect of this (newly created) Mini-Collection, the Fall from Grace aspect. It’s sort of my own version of therapy for when I feel like I’m utterly useless. On a side note, don’t think “OMG, Maya’s a fat NEET who wishes for her ‘glory days’ like an old hag” I’m a healthy, if not slightly chubby girl who needs to angst sometimes so I can fill my teenager quota.
All flame comments will be used to heat my room, way up in the frozen wasteland that is Canada. (Eh)
I found this while going though all my old files, and was all; Hey! This wasn’t posted here! WAAAAT? So, here it is..
(On a different note, I really need to think happy thoughts, THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS DARN YOU.)
I couldn’t find a good title for this little tidbit… what should I do? HAELP.
She sat in her plush, overstuffed seat, curled in onto herself into a depressed ball, slowly counting the seconds that gone by, watching the clock’s hand move with a resounding click. Other than that, the silence was absolute, and nothing but the clock challenged it. Silken raven hair fell across her face, but it was paid little heed, the room too dark, too devoid of anything animated. Oh, how she wanted to step outside the cage, outside of the walls that surrounded her!
But she won’t, she can’t for her brother’s sake, who sacrificed so much to keep her from the plotting royals who would circle her like a pack of starved wolves, who himself had plunged headfirst into that flock of decorated vultures, waiting to rip your throat out.
Even if she missed seeing the ocean, even if she missed feeling the wind on her face, missed the sound of waves crashing against jagged rocks, missed smelling the fields of wildflowers that grew around their old estate, she would bear it all, so his sacrifice would not be in vain.
She wanted to run outside and scream “I’m here! I’m alive!” just so she could see the deep pools of obsidian again, the orbs’ darkness a much preferred alternative to the black of the room.
She was selfish, so, so selfish. She didn’t care that people will die if she was discovered; all she wanted was to leap into the arms of the brother that cared for her so many years alone.
But she won’t.
Because he told her to
Because Brother was always right.
=w= you see the need for happy thoughts?
Uh oh, we’re back to the creepy side of this series… Ah well, it is supposed to be twisted after all.
That and I think I’m never going to get seasons done…
Once upon a time… no…
It was a time of war, where blood reigned and power was sought. Battles drew long and the earth grew red.
In a land far, far away- no, that’s…
It is here, in this place we call home. This place that we all thought was safe. This home that has been ripped and torn, crumbled and crushed, all of it beneath the foot of gluttonous ambition. Machinations of a fool’s errand.
There lived a beautiful princess…That’s not right!
There was the Witch, the witch who frightened; the witch who cried. The witch with skin the shade of the sickly moon.
With long, golden hair… no no no!
Her hair was the colour of spilt ink on a desk with splintering wood…
And precious blue eyes- no, never!
A witch whose eye has been taken, gouged by a frightful being, by the sword that makes new warriors stand with pride…
She lived with the King, a fair and gentle king.
No! The ruler is brutal, the ruler cruel. He pushed for war, and war was given. This war that took and took and took without giving anything back.
And a kind mother, the Quee- It lies! All of it!
The queen is dead, dead and dead again by the swords of an assasin’s art. Mother she never was, daughter never had. King’s blade, through her heart.
Within a palace, contructed from marble.. That was burned! Everything was-!
Wander, the witch did, with mud in her boots and rot drawing ever near, remains of glory trailed.
The people were ha- WHO WOULD SAY THAT?
The people suffer, the poor starve, the warriors cut, the rich falling to the silent blade. There was no time to hate, no time to love, no time to live…
Nothing, but to die.
Apparently, I can get arrested for writing this type of stuff…
IN ORDER TO DISTRACT YOU FROM MY EXTREME FAIL OF THE SEASONS CHALLENGE, I’LL PUT UP A LITTLE THING I WROTE WHILE STUCK ON THE BUS…
Ahem, the first of these installments is “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”
Challenge: Twinkle Twinkle
They sat beneath the summer sky, the hint of autumn carrying on the breeze. Never had the stars looked so mischevious than tonight, their twinkle winking down at the witch and her god. They sat under the starlight, watching through the mortals’ clouds at the pinpricks of brightness, far in the vast space beyond.
The witch stretched a hand toward the sky, pretending her fingers could grasp the stars and take them down to earth, she gazed at them through her digits, breathing a content sigh.
The god took the witch’s fingers between his own, and overlapped their hands, curling around the brightest cluster in the heavens. His hand lifted away, leaving behind five warm stones in her palm, each glowing with an inner fire that shone through with more colours than they could name.
Slowly, he placed one atop her finger, one around her neck, and two dangling from her ears.
The final, largest, smoothest, stone was carefully placed into her blind eye, behind the black lifted eyepatch, and it flared to life with a dazzling lightshow.
He traced her eyelid; “You are… the Witch of the Stars.”
Aww; a non-disturbing moment from my twisted fairytale series!
I don’t know, I think t’was time for a cute and pretty moment, purely for my flufftastic needs.
These are the things that make me happy on the inside that I’m a fantasy writer.
Kay, this is only a part of what I had written for this little segment, but word only salvaged the first part of it, and I decided, “Screw it, I’ll just make it look like it ends here”
So thus you have this short little (badly written) piece.
In a perfect world, a perfect fairytale the queen will show just the right amound of elegant worry, the king will send for brave warriors that will rescue the captured princess, and the princess will wait for the warrior that will always come and rescue her.
But this world isn’t perfect.
The queen is dispairing, falling deep into depression and her fingers ripping out her long hair in chunks, her nails caked with blood from self mutilation. The king does not send word for a hero, but instead rides into war with the kingdom that had captured the princess. The princess was never supposed to be a witch that is able to slaughter leagions of soldiers on her own.
This doesn’t happen.
But it did.
This is what you get for wishing yourself in a fairytale.
Ruining little girls’ childhoods, one word at a time.
I guess it’s another installment of Twisted Fairytale… It’s fun, and I have plenty of ideas xD
So, this one isn’t quite as dark :>
Raindrops kissed her cheecks as she spun in the rain. Happiness shone through her features as elation at the unbound freedom she felt released within her chest. It curled into a content ball deep in her soul, reveling in the feeling that all was good and well. Heavenly water smoothed over her inky hair, drifted over her brows and caught like liquid diamonds on her eyelashes.
Then her smile turned wry.
Salty beads bubbled from the corners of her eyes, joining the barrarge of sky tears that now beat down mercilessly, just like the heavy stares that peered through half open windows, disapproving eyes that followed her every twirl.
It felt as if her heart was chained to a tether and she had run too far, too fast. It jerked back violently, tossing her back into a cage of words; a cage that was built ever stronger, ever thicker, ever without an end. It was like the key has been offered to her once, to end this fractured fairytale, but delusions of unearned wisdom had slapped the hand and tossed it just out of reach.
Just a little bit further
Her arm clawed itself out from the bars.
stretch a little bit more
her fingers strained for the little more they could extend.
scootch just a little bit closer.
She wished and cried for the whim of the wind to blow her direction just once.
Out of reach; mocking her with its nearness, reminding her of the stupid idealism that she had wrapped herself in and blinded her to the cruel truth that wanted to swallow her whole.
Heroines don’t cry.
So the sky cried for her.
Oh gods; this is exactly what the title says it is. A twisted version of an idea my friend had about someone reading a fairytale about a kind and gentle wandering witch then was pulled into the past to fulfill her role as the iwitch.
My take has been through a shredder, then a meat grinder, then run over by a semi, melted down, and moulded into a Maya doing yoga. (Oh, bad image, bad image.)
Ahem; I’ll start.
Dry lips crackled into a wry smile as she tossed her head back and let loose a sound that scratched and scraped, a mockery of a laugh of joy.
Wasn’t heroines supposed to be wise and kind and good? Then why was she pins and needles? She instead was cracked and ragged and sharp, like a porcelin doll broken too many times in too many places and fixed with too clumsy hands. The story didn’t say that the heroine will suffer, say the weight of death pressed ever heavier on her shoulders.
It didn’t say that someone wise and good and kind would have her happiness taken and fed to scrabbling poor. She heard every unspoken, irrisponsible word.
“Please, Lady Witch, help us” “Please Lady Witch, make the pain your own.”
It drove her insane. How dare they? How could they simply ask for her help when her own eyes are blackened and her blood runs thick? When her bones tremble and her mind is unable to smile?
Why? In fairytales, the heroine always wins, and forever she will smile after the evil is vanquished. It didn’t speak of the green bile that permeates the air, it doesn’t speak of rotting corpses that used to be courage in a human shell, eaten soft by maggots and eyes ripped by birds. It never says that the brave heroine will die of a sickness of the mind.
The fairytale doesn’t care if she’s happy, so she doesn’t smile. The tale cares not for her sadness, so she sheds no tears. The story rejects her and places an indestuctable warrior in her place.
But for a moment, she shoves away the heroine and she is her again, and the child on the inside of a carefully built shell hurt, it hurt, and it screamed and screamed in her dreams; Crying, pounding at the walls, ripping its fingers on the rippled brick.
It screeched, it clawed…
Then it sputtered and died.
Lol, this has already become a do-this-whenever-I-feel-like-such-nonsense xD
Anyway; I have a cool little idea that is demanding itself known to the world in some way or another; so, yeah. >_>
We (myself and several insane non-people) were having a conversation. (Uh oh) and were talking about things that would happen if we all lived in the same house for an indefinate amount of time.
Thus; write something about what would happen if you and a few of the most eccentic people you know were all stuck in a house for… EVAR.
HAPPY BASHING YOUR HEAD INTO A WALL!
Oh, btw, I was wondering after I said the thing about the “spawn of the devil’s grandfather” I was thinking as the scary father in law of the devil :>