The Day of the Drunkards

Here is my second response to a writing prompt (my first one is here)! This time the prompt was:

"You wake up, still drunk, the morning after your first big college party. A zombie apocalypse happened overnight, but none of the zombies seem to be giving you any notice. You soon realize that the alcohol in your system doesn't make them sense you are human..."

Hope you enjoy!

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“Quick!” I gestured to the girl, pointing at the ever-growing pool amassing on the floor. She stood motionless, instead glancing at the dead man next to the shattered wine bottle. I hopped over to him and rolled his body out of the way. There was no time to deal with him.

“Quickly, come on, it’s alright,” I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her closer to the floor.

“Mummy says I shouldn’t drink that stuff,” she said innocently.

“Mummy’s not here, so you have to listen to me, okay? It wasn’t okay to drink that stuff before, but it’s good for you now, understand?”

She stared back at me blankly. There was no way I could get through to her with words, and we were just wasting time at this stage.

“Look, it’s perfectly safe, I’ll show you,” I bent down and started sipping at the red ambrosia. I didn’t need to look up at her; I could hear her bending down and following suit.

“Good girl,” I whispered, wiping the liquid off my lower face. She needed it more than I did. I calculated that I still had some left in my system, for the time being. She, on the other hand, well… she hadn’t had anything at all. I wondered how she survived for so long.

It was quite early on that I figured out it was the alcohol keeping me alive. On Day One I had woken up later than usual, not even hung over but still drunk. The night before was my first ‘letting loose’ event, and being a petite girl with absolutely no tolerance for alcohol, it managed to stay in my system for a while. In any other situation I would have been terribly ashamed of myself, but this time it was the key to my survival.

When I left my dorm room, I noticed it was unusually quiet, but I thought everyone else was just hung over. It was only after a bit more wandering around that I realised a lot of people were just dead. I first came across the zombies stumbling their way slowly through the hallways, gurgling incoherently guttural sounds, and wearing clothes that looked a little worse for wear. To be frank, I just assumed they were all hung over from the night before.

It was only when they started attacking the Non-Drunks that I realised something was terribly wrong. Day One was a big blur for me; it felt so long ago. All I can remember was the terrible looting that followed. When people started raiding the liquor stores before the grocery stores, I realised it had something to do with the alcohol.

During the raids of Day One, I managed to grab a couple bottles of vodka. My small stature allowed me to go quite a bit undetected amongst the chaos. And the high alcohol percentage of the vodka meant that it would last me for quite some time. I knew I was going to run out soon, though, and I couldn’t get my hands on anything else, so I went and grabbed a trolley-full of liquids, be it water, cordial, juice, milk… you name it. After all, you could die faster from dehydration than starvation.

At night, I made my way to a friend’s house nearby to the college. They were filthy rich, and I knew they had a wine cellar. When I reached their house, I found it abandoned save the young son dead in the cellar.

The house was littered with empty wine bottles, but luckily there was still a few days’ worth left in the cellar. My guess is that as they began to run low, they attempted to obtain more, but were attacked by the zombies. And since the zombies didn’t go for the alcohol, that left a decent amount to me.

The girl finished sipping the wine, and sat up.

“What do we do now, miss?”

“Well firstly, that was my last bottle so we will need more of that; it’ll help us. If you’re tired you can sleep first but I may need to wake you up to help me later.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to set up some bait.”

I walked off, grabbing all the empty wine bottles that were sporadically placed in the house. I started filling them up with other liquids; the vodka bottles with water, the white wine with diluted apple juice, and the red wine with red cordial. I stared at the red wine bottles. They were the bottles I had the most of, and the red cordial was a poor imitator. I figured I may have to put some blood in them.

I went back down to the cellar to grab the dead man. The girl was asleep already; I guess the alcohol helped in that. I figured she drank enough to keep her safe while she slept, so I had no issues with leaving her alone in the house.

I struggled to drag the man up the stairs. It would have been easier to carry everything out in the cellar, but I didn’t want the girl to wake up to a messy pool of blood. The stain of the red wine on the floor looked bad enough as is.

By the time I managed to drag him up the stairs, I was exhausted. But every second counted, so I quickly got to work.

I had strangled him, so he wasn’t already bleeding. I’d have to make a cut somewhere.

I went back down to the cellar to grab a piece of broken glass from the bottle he had smashed into my head shortly before he breathed out all the air in his lungs. There were plenty of empty bottles around, but he just had to choose my last full bottle. Once he died I couldn’t even think about the gravity of my first murder; I had to get the girl to drink.

I sat back down, cradling his head in my lap. I placed one of the red wines at an angle, close to his neck, and made a cut. The blood oozed out, and in the bottle it was already starting to look more like red wine.

There was plenty of blood in this man to distribute amongst the red cordial, and by the time I was done I was quite happy with my efforts.

The sealing of the bottles were much more difficult to pass off as the real thing, but I figured they would look okay from a distance.

I filled the trolley up with the bottles, and strategically placed a small towel on top so as to have some of the bottles peeking through.

More effort was exhausted as I dragged both the man I had just drained of blood, and the young boy who was already dead when I arrived. I lugged them to a nearby alley that I could see from the living room, and I knew that it could be easily accessed through the main bedroom’s window.

I then went and woke up the girl and explained to her my plan. Once she was stationed at the living room window, I quickly but quietly wheeled the trolley next to the men. I tried to make it look as natural as possible, as if they were trying to hide and sleep in a safe place, but I made the trolley stick out a bit so that it could be seen.

I went back to the house, and checked in on the girl.

“What do we do now?” She asked. I handed her the binoculars, and grabbed the shotgun from off the table. I started heading to the main bedroom next door.

“Now, we wait.”

L'Agonia

So a few hours ago I came across this writing prompt on Reddit and decided to write a response to it (you can see my response there, my username is ode_to_writing which I literally just created to post this up).

“Death calls in sick and you're chosen as his temp.”

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I hung up the phone. I couldn’t believe my luck. For decades have I worked in this job, and I was finally getting a promotion. It was only for a week, but it was a promotion nonetheless.

I grabbed my coat and raced to the elevators. From the red sign glowed a big “O”; the elevator was right at the top. I pressed the up button and the sign slowly changed to “REAP”, then “SOW”, then “PLAGUE”. The elevator dinged and I quickly jumped in, frantically spamming the “O” button. I was extremely nervous; my fingers were shaking so hard you’d think that I’d be one of the victims of those working on the “ACHE” level just beneath.

Despite this, I was surprisingly still pretty calm, given the situation. I had never met The Omni before, and that phone call was the first time I had even spoken to him. Apparently one of the guys on the Reaping level caught something from a victim he was meant to harvest. The victim had contracted The Agonia, our most recent and most successful plague since the Bubonic, and the Reaper had not followed infectious protocol. Agonia plagued its victims for seven days before signalling for harvest, so the Reaper would be out for a week before he could get back to working functionality. Of course, being a Reaper, he was contracted to be immune from Death so long as he was employed, but that wouldn’t stop him from feeling the full effects of the plague. Besides, even when we employees would die, we were contracted to die peaceful and painless deaths.

Agonia was my pride and joy. It was the first time I headed a full on Pandemic project, and while I was confident in my capabilities, I was still so surprised at how successful it was, wiping out 0.9% of the population.

I had started off in this company working in the Aches division, working directly under Parkinson and Alzheimer themselves. That was a true blessing and honour, and from then I knew that this company was my calling. I had always dreamed of working on the reaping floor, and now I can finally live these dreams out.

The elevator dinged again as the doors slid open. I had hardly any time to even attempt to fathom the fact that I was standing in the presence of the Omni at the very top of the floor, when a bright and white light temporarily blinded me. The sheer brightness of the room rendered my limbs useless and I fell to the floor.

All I could do was tense every muscle in my body as The Omni spoke to me. His voice sounded as if it came from right next to my ear, but I couldn’t actually feel him next to me. All he said to me was, “Well, I told you what you needed to know on the phone, but the reason I wanted to call you up here to my office was because I’m very proud of the work you’ve been doing. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you. I saw you when you first started as a youngling doing the Aches, and I saw you when you moved up to the Plagues, first doling them out to the victims, then actually helping with creating them. Now that your work on The Agonia has been so successful, I thought I would reward you with what your heart truly desired. The Reaper that fell sick did so because of your little Agonia, after all, and since the plague was so successful and we are now so short on reapers, I thought you were the perfect person to call up. If you do well this week, you might be looking at a permanent position on the Reaping floor. One of the senior Reapers is waiting for you now to teach you all you need to know. Just be careful: you of all people don’t want to catch the plague yourself.”

And with that, the elevator doors closed, and automatically started moving down. I opened my eyes; the bright light was gone. I lay still on the elevator floor, trying to absorb the craziness of what I had just experienced. I was in the midst of replaying it in my head when the elevator doors opened again. A senior Reaper stood before me, and he welcomed me in.

The process of harvesting was pretty simple, as he explained. I was starting off in one of the easiest sectors of the Reaping division, Maladies, and didn’t have to deal with any complexities, such as the Reapers who dealt with Accidents, Homicides, or Suicides. Since I was one of the heads in the Plagues division, not much of the Maladies protocol was new to me, but I had to make sure that my contamination suit was properly worn. As The Omni said, I of all people would not want to fall victim to The Agonia.

I started to put on the suit. I wasn’t used to it, and it took some time to figure it all out. Back when I doled out the aches and the plagues, I never had to wear a contamination suit since we would generally only deal with healthy people. It was only ever the Reapers who would have to deal with the plagued.

I first put on a black spandex suit that covered my entire body up to my jawline. Next were my black goggles, followed by my mask. It was a large, white mask that covered the entirety of my face. The top half was slightly rounded to allow room for the goggles, while the bottom half extended straight down to a little past my chin. It looked like a large skull.

On went some black socks and black gloves, and above all this I needed one last layer: the contaminations robe. The guy I was replacing must have been taller and heavier built than me, because his robe draped over me quite loosely. I grabbed the scythe that would allow me to hook onto the victims’ souls, and I pulled the black hood over my head.

Staring into the mirror, I couldn’t help but think:

“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”
-J. Robert Oppenheimer, quoting the Bhagavad Gita

The Butterfly Effect

So here's my year 9 creative story! I remember it was originally so long that I had to cut it down to 1099; one word under the word limit. As a result, some stuff was not as detailed as I'd liked it to be so I actually edited this story again (and also because some of the phrasing was cringe-worthy).

Anyway, this story was inspired by the scene in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button that leads up to the woman breaking her ankle (or something like that, the details are a bit fuzzy) and it reminded me of the butterfly effect which I am in love with (not the movie with Ashton Kutcher but the actual idea of a butterfly effect that relates to chaos theory).

And this story is a bit dark but I spent a long time trying to think of a clever story that would make you want to read it over again.

So here goes!

---***---

Claudia was halfway down the flight of stairs leading from her apartment when she remembered that, in her haste, she had left her door unlocked. Being late was not an option, and so she quickly sprinted back up, as fast as one could in a new pair of stilettos, to clumsily lock it. Although she had always hated the idea of it, she decided she had no choice but to take a shortcut through the small lane behind her apartment.

Little did she know that, at the same time, a group of four men were driving in a ramshackle car looking for some cruel fun. They were incredibly excited, as if they had just won the lottery. In actual fact, they were searching for something when they saw a young woman rush out of the back entrance of her apartment and into the deserted lane just behind the car park.

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It was when she woke up the next day in an unusually hard hospital bed, that Claudia met Erik.

For a while, Erik had been visiting this very room of their meeting every day except the day of Claudia’s accident, so you can imagine his surprise when he saw that a young woman was asleep on the now untidy bed. His heart skipped a beat when he remembered the bedside table, sprawled with numerous vases of colourful flowers, “Get Well Soon!” cards, opened magazines and fancy photo frames. A tear threatened to escape his eye’s grasp, and it would have done so if it were not for Claudia waking up at that exact moment.

The next few weeks were a blur of blossoming love. Life was fragile, more so than it was cruel, and thus Erik and Claudia both personally resolved to make the most out of every minute they shared. As the doctors would say, time was running out, for Claudia had previously donated her left kidney to a stranger who really needed it, out of the kindness of her heart.

Now this act of kindness might just be her death.

One day, he learnt that he would never see her walk. She learnt that he had a troubling past, but nothing more. Soon, curiosity grew so strong that she could not resist asking. A little shocked, he hesitated. Inhaled. Looked at his feet, shuffling uncomfortably.

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“Wow, just on time,” He thought.
The clock glowed a red 6:00pm.
“10 o’clock, right? Not too late, we need our sleep,” she smiled, looking happily at her bulging tummy. He looked at it too, wondering how safe the baby was with her driving. Getting out of the car he greeted his friends, maniacs in his sister’s eyes. He could feel her judging gaze as she drove off. She had always disapproved of them, but what was she to do? She wasn’t his mother.

Ten o’clock came and he was a completely different man. Angry, proud, stubborn. But she had seen this ugliness before. Once again, he was coaxed into climbing into the car. Once again, her evil trickery was realised as they arrived at her house. But the unusual thing this time was that he became dreadfully infuriated. Too much alcohol, perhaps?

The few minutes that followed were a bit confusing. He was never that violent before. Ignorant, yes. Inconsiderate, yes. But this was a completely different level. There was a depth of hatred and anger previously unsurpassed that would never be realised by the majority of the human population.

If there was any advantage to the terrifying screams and shouts, it was that they served a signal for passers-by to call for the police. Unfortunately by then, it was too little too late.

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Maybe if the police came just a little earlier…
No. I’m all to blame. It wouldn’t have made a difference. He thought painfully.
Claudia was unsure of what to say to him. A little satisfied he could trust her with such information, a little disappointed in him, a little regretful she even asked.

She was saying something, but Erik didn’t take notice. All he could hear was the voices of his sister’s doctors echoing in his empty mind.

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“Come to think, it’s a miracle the baby survived such a beating”

“She would have to live off one kidney until she gives birth”

“Her blood type is a rare one”

“Good news, we found a matching donor!”

“I’m sorry, but it was a miscarriage”
“I’m sorry, but the transplant failed”

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Claudia’s blood type was rare too. She signed up on the organ donors list because she knew that small sacrifices could often make large differences in life. She vaguely remembered the recipient. They found a match the transplant was only carried out a month or so after that. In fact, didn’t she donate her kidney to a recently pregnant woman?

“What a coincidence…” She thought to herself.

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As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he could see it in her. Claudia’s kidney was failing her, her eyes were dulling, her hair graying, her hands weakening. Overall she just looked sick; unrecognisable.

Eventually he was alone in this cruel world.

Erik visited his friends, whom for the past few weeks he had neglected. He didn’t have to say anything; they all understood. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a Polaroid film. There was Claudia, staring back at him, smiling a care-free smile.
“She’s beautiful isn’t she?” He half murmured to himself.
“She looks strangely familiar…”

And that was when he realised.

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It was the day after his sister’s death. Erik was overcome with guilt; he didn’t know what to do. Usually he would drink, but that was what got him here in the first place. He would avoid that option. Although, it seemed almost impossible to resist.
“Ahh, come on, cheer up.”
“Say, let’s just get a few drinks!”
“Yeah, we promise we won’t make you drink too much!”

Sadly, he was the type that was easily influenced. It didn’t help that his friends were the type that didn’t keep such promises. It was morning and they were all heavily drunk. Clumsily climbing into one of their old, worn cars, one friend asked, “Erik, what do you want? We’ll do anything for you, mate!”
“I wanna kill someone. And I want my sister back.”
After much bickering about what was to be done next, Erik started slipping in between consciousness and unconsciousness. He was the weakest in terms of alcohol intake.

It was all a blur but he remembered several glimpses of the main road. And then a glimpse of a narrow lane.

Someone was yelling.

“Shoot a car, Erik!”

A gun was placed in his hands.

“Come on, just pick one!”

As if in slow motion, Erik aimed at a car.

As if in slow motion,

“Wait!”

Erik pulled a trigger.

“STOP!”

As if in slow motion, a woman caught the bullet in her side.

He passed out before the frenzy occurred. Before the driver sped off, almost crashing the car as he narrowly swerve around to avoid the woman’s stilettos around her fallen feet.

Crème Perfection

Because it's trials time (already! Geez that was fast), I think it is due time I posted my HSC creative up here. I actually thought I already did, but it turns out I didn't. It's really cliched in a non-cliched way and I don't like it as much as my Barren story but hey, this is what English teachers want. Oh and as you could probably guess, it was heavily inspired by Ratatouille.

I promise I will do a proper blog post soon, I know I haven't been doing that many recently but I've been quite busy and tired just doing random things!

But anyway, good luck for all you Year Twelves out there =] And without further ado, here is my creative =]

---***---

Can you smell it?

The empowering fragrance of sweet vanilla, flirting with your nostrils; the vapours of the burnt caramel, tickling your taste buds; the scents of creamy custard, enticing your inner glutton.

Can you taste it?

A hard layer of caramel cracks beautifully under your spoon; the soft velvety custard, a melting gold that embraces your tongue. And together, a sublime combination that words alone cannot suffice.


Crème brûlée: heavenly perfection.

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As a dedicated food journalist and a devout follower of Raoul’s, it is with great humility that I gain the wonderful experience of listening to Raoul’s reminiscence a mere three weeks after his much publicised debacle. He is not simply recalling any memory; he is inviting me to share with him his most personal and precious moments, the moments that birthed the acclaimed chef as we know him today, boasting his very own three-Michelin-starred restaurant, ‘Mama’s Delights’.

“My first memory was of watching mama pull the oven door wide open to bring out the bain-marie. She gently placed it on the stovetop and used her blowtorch on it, before getting distracted by the phone. Being a curious kid, I went over and pushed my finger into one of the little pots sitting in the bain-marie. A split second later, a searing heat hammered through my finger, so I quickly licked it to rid the pain. I then suffered from a burnt finger and tongue! …But it was definitely worth it.

“That crème brûlée mama made, that very first crème brûlée I had… it tasted like… like fireworks! At that moment, I knew all I wanted was to share that experience. That remained my calling; I didn’t want to do anything else.”

His eyes brighten, darting to and fro as if his mother and kitchen are right there with him, his subtle gestures make clear he is reliving his past and his smile exudes pure rapture. This confident chef before me proves a surprising contradiction to the destroyed image engraved in my memory of last Thursday.

It was then that, with great solemnity, I witnessed Chef Raoul breathing his entire life into the notoriously decadent meals that hundreds of customers gleefully order every night. Yet behind the perfect façades of these restaurant doors lie the souls of martyrs whose vain efforts leave them victimised by demeaning critics.

The gravity of it was immense; I could hear Raoul’s heart pounding erratically, as if summoning trepidation and manifesting half-buried insecurities he forgot existed. This ill feeling amplified within the empty atmosphere of the restaurant offices. Newspaper and magazine clippings were accumulated in various bundles, sporadically embellishing the otherwise bare wood-grained floorboards. A single man’s loneliness reflected in the walls, donned with an uninspiring coat of dull beige paint, devoid of any taste of his personal identity.

Chef Raoul quickly left the office, it held no relevance to his interests. As I followed him, he reread the newspaper article which his hands fiercely claimed. His eyes scoured the words for the umpteenth time, as if confirming such a harsh combination of letters could ever exist. Under my gaze, he appeared to shrink, his shoulders slumping in a state of confused despair. Then, addressing nothing but the restaurant air, he spat the words of renowned food critic Nolan Mendoza:

“Least expected was the waitress of ‘Mama’s Delights’ abandoning me after relegating me to the bowels of Chef Raoul’s restaurant, dismissed to navigate the sea of tables as a lone sailor. Surely, I foolishly thought, the decadent meals would compensate for the incompetent service.

“Yet the final insult, a dish of epic disappointment, laboured towards me; a crème brûlée sans crème, it appeared Raoul was carried away with the brûlée half of it: my dish was burnt and the cream a mythical treasure I convinced myself impossible to find no matter how hard I searched.

“If this was a signature dish, Raoul had forgotten his name.”

He faced me disappointed, “What good is a chef who can’t even make custard?”

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After some time, it appeared the ongoing clamour of clanging metal and busy workstations was his remedy, allowing equilibrium to return to his dwindled state. To him, the kitchen was a place of solace; spiritual replenishment. He began to straighten, to stand, almost another mechanical component to his kitchen.

Yet warily, I continued to observe him. Soon enough, disorientation overcame Raoul’s comfort. Blame, guilt, humiliation, inferiority and deep shame claimed him.

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I blink away my memory and say to this confident Raoul, “And what about Nolan Mendoza’s review of your signature dish, this very crème brûlée that has set the foundations of your career as a chef? Mendoza explicitly stated that the next time he has the option of dining at your restaurant or being burnt alive, much like the “crèmeless brûlée” he ate, he’d gladly be involved in the latter. How do you feel about that?”

I note the flicker of his eyes, the defeat in his hands, the twitch in his smile, but almost instantly he regains his composure. His eyes light up, his hands breathe life, his smile sustains. Did he hear me?

He says to me, “Stop the interview for a moment and look around you. Look at my restaurant. How many empty tables do you see?”

I confessed I couldn’t spot a single one.

“Now look around again and tell me: how many people are smiling, have a conversation so engaging and exhilarating that they laugh with their entire bodies, how many people break etiquettes, trying what lies on their companions’ plates?”

I confessed his guests possessed these qualities.

“You see, my restaurant is the essence of me, my soul is reflected through the dishes I prepare. People come without knowledge and leave enlightened. Relationships are strengthened into an experience where people share with me the tastes of my childhood. Through a three-course meal or a delicious dessert, many have learnt to smile again, to share happiness …because of me! Shared food is a shared bit of my memory. This is more than I ever thought of achieving. This is the meaning of success, and no critic’s savage words can destroy it.”

With that, he leant back in his chair, and slyly asked, “Any further questions?”

Blind Ears and Deaf Eyes

So recently I discovered a Youtuber called Tommy Edison. His channel is TommyEdisonXP, and he's a blind guy who answers a ton of questions relating to blindness, like what colours are to blind people and even unanswerable questions like What Do Blind People See?

He's such a lovely guy, and so funny! I watched the majority of his videos and it's just so interesting how blindness really affects things like how he fears still water because it's not moving and that's really creepy to him.

He also has this channel called Blind Film Critic, where he reviews movies he 'watches'. It's funny how in things like X-Men First Class he was just so confused because no one explicitly stated what their powers were.

Anyway, the entire point of this is because I saw a comment in one of his videos (and I'm not sure which one because I watched too many and can't remember) that said something like "Have you ever met a deaf person before? Because there's pretty much an entire barrier of communication there :/" (paraphrased). And that got me INSPIRED to write another story! Yay!

It's really short, less than 500 words actually but that's all I could manage. I could add more but I felt like it wasn't really needed.

Tell me what you think!!

---***---

When a blind man and a deaf woman fall in love, what happens?

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“What do you hear?”

She saw his mouth move as he spoke into the microphone, the words appearing on the screen.

“I hear”

What do I hear? He thought to himself. He felt the sunlight streaming down on them both. He tasted the cherry-flavoured lip balm from when he kissed her. He smelt her perfume, a sweet smell that made his heart flutter. But what do I hear?

“The steady hum of the computer that brings us together. The small birds perching outside as they serenade their loves. The annoying crickets calling for their mates. The cars rumbling past as they search for their soul mates.

“It is a quiet day, and I can hear you. The beautiful breaths that come from your lungs. The soft beating of your heart. And I can hear your smile right now. In a world of lost souls finding their lovers, here I am listening to mine.”

It was true. She was smiling. She loved that about him; the way he could hear things other people couldn’t.

“What do you see?”

She stared at the words on the screen.

I see everything, she thought, heartbroken. I see more than you could ever imagine. I see colours, and shapes. I see what makes the sounds you hear. I see what makes the sensations you feel, what makes the flavours you taste, the fragrances you smell. I see a whole world you never can.

“So many things.” She typed onto the computer. The words sent a clicking of braille underneath his fingers. “But I can only focus on you. And you look beautiful.”

His smile was received by her tears.

“Don’t cry.”

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A world of five senses makes no sense to me. The gods have decided I should lack of one, and for that they make up with the other four.

Our sense of touch is strong, and our most important.

We are not two wholes; we are two broken pieces that join to become one whole.

At times we cannot understand each other. There is as much difficulty in explaining the beautiful strums of a harp as there is in explaining the joys of a brilliant purple sky.

But we have our touch. And we have our love. And through the difficult times we hold each other in silence, because that feeling of love makes up for the lack of sight and hearing.

If Helen Keller could make it through, then surely we can better her.

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When a blind man and a deaf woman fall in love, what happens?



The same as any other couple:

We find a way.

For love’s sake.

A Lost Love

Yay! I just finished a story I started writing in about Year 10 or 11 (I can't remember).

It started off with just a concept so it's not that well-written, but please bear with me and just keep reading and let me know how well you find it!

Hope you enjoy it!

And please don't take it too seriously!!

---***---

Walking into the supermarket, I saw you.

After 4 months and 27 days, I saw you.

At first glance you looked just as beautiful as I remembered. At second glance, I noticed you put on a bit of weight. Your attire was… less elegant… simpler…cheap. And yet you still looked as beautiful as ever, if not more.

I wanted to approach you; I needed to approach you.

Alas, I thought it too…hazardous. Our relationship was unhealthy since the beginning; bringing you into my life again would only cause me great grief.

I noticed a woman attractively strut up to you, embracing you in her arms.

Oh.

So… you have moved on. And quicker than I have been able to. A deep sorrow overcame me. You seemed happy; I was forced to wonder if that happiness would ever reach me. Or were you just faking it like I was a couple of months ago? At that time I was searching, desperately searching for men, friends and useless shopping sprees to mend the void you left in me.

The woman carried you from aisle three to four. I stood there, helplessly observing you moving farther and farther away from me. I couldn’t bear the pain anymore, and so I turned in the other direction.

I filled my trolley with chocolate-coated croissants, heart-shaped lamingtons, apricot Danishes and jam-filled donuts from the bakery section. Anything to distract myself from you. I even contemplated a Coles Select pastry bun… this is the sad level I have stooped due to your doing.

Passing the deli became a big blur of pre-cooked hash browns, mild-hot salami, smoked ham and bacon dice. Anything to justify the morbid pile of sugar I knew was in those jam-filled donuts.

Milk. Yes, I definitely needed a carton of milk.

I opened the fridge and a blast of cold air numbed me for a second. From the corner of my eye, I saw the same woman. It was her… your lover. I ran, frantic. I could not bear for you to see me like this. A few steps more and I realised I left my trolley behind.

It didn’t matter.

I couldn’t let you see me.

I hid behind a shelf, waiting for you and your lover to leave.

And, all biased aside, I couldn’t help but notice…

She’s ugly!

Uglier than I would ever be. She had caked-on make-up that would shame the desserts in the bakery section, yet from afar I could still see her wide-set eyes, the down-turned lips, the squashed nose and loose, wrinkly skin beneath her eyes.

But she had confidence. She dressed sharply, like a woman of power. Is that what you love? I admit, I was never confident in myself but you were always there when I needed the comfort. Always there to raise my esteem. In fact, I even dared to think that you loved my insecurity. It was an outlet for you to express how much of a man you were. It allowed you to show your powers in comforting fragile women like me. Didn’t you like that? Didn’t you like comforting me in times of distress?

Or did I make you sick of that? Did you instead turn to this woman, looking for some confident and new person that would bring excitement to your life? Of course, I can’t blame you… I was the one that ended our relationship.

I watched in great grief as you and your lover leaved that section of the supermarket.

I returned to retrieve my trolley. I was utterly depressed.

I pushed my trolley along. Slowly, ever so slowly. I’ve forgotten about the milk I left behind in the fridge, but it didn’t matter anymore.

What matters is you.

I turned to leave and check out the items in my trolley, all symbols of pathetic defeat and surrender to life. I placed all my sugary desserts and all my fatty meats onto the conveyor belt. As the person in front of me finished their transaction, the conveyor belt whisked away my items… similarly to how life whisked you away from my arms.

And yet, here we were, in the same place. But I was avoiding you.

----------

I turn around… just in time.

Your lover… she’s upset about you it seems. She storms off to another section of the supermarket, leaving you bewildered and lonely.

You look so sad and isolated, I want to run up to you and embrace you in my own arms… but how could I? My thoughts run back to when we were together. We were so happy… or at least I was…

I think about what would happen if we did get back together…

Would you even want me back?

“Excuse me, Ma’am, that’s $54.70.”

I turn back to the cashier, crying at the thought of you.

“I…. I’m sorry…” I manage to mumble, “I… I have to do something!”

I turn and run again… But this time, I’m not running away from you. I want you. In my arms. I need you.

After 4 months and 27 days, I couldn’t resist you.

Oh sweet Toblerone, please forgive me!

Physiques and another story.

02/11/2012: One more. It's so close I can taste it.

Phys was alright, it was one of those tests that seem like pretty easy but then REALLY WEIRD so the weirdness made it sort of hard. Does that make sense?

Anyway it's over.

Just headached my way through doing a Chem past paper and reading Acidic notes.

-----

Here's another story.

I wrote it in year 10 for funsies. I saw a Commonwealth ad that was black and white and there was a girl in her backyard and the narrator said "It starts off with a girl" or something along those lines, and I was inspired and wrote this.

I think I was feeling quite... appreciative of the world. It was like... everyone in this world is suffering, everyone is sad at something, but there is always someone worse off than you. And that's all relative. You might be facing the death of a loved one or some family problems or personal issues and of course, every single problem is important if it affects you. But there are others out there suffering with you, you are not alone and it's good to just step back and take a look at everything and really just appreciate all the good things in life.

I think that's what I was trying to get across.

---***---

It starts off with the girl, playing in her backyard. She is ignorant; she is happy. She met the earth seven summers ago and loves her life. The garden she plays in, jumps on, breathes in, dances on, emits an aura of…well, happiness. Simply put, this is her heaven. Nothing could make her happier. Unfortunately, when you’re at that point of elation, anything and everything can, sorry, will, make you sadder.

She looks back at the house, takes it for granted. She’s known it all her life, why should she be sentimental over it now? Her mum is inside, on the phone. This, she also takes for granted. The phone is a magical device of happiness, not a bearer of bad news. Her mum seems perfectly content, normal, calm, collected, nothing out of the ordinary.

But, the girl is ignorant; the girl is happy. Little does she know that she will very soon be homeless.

~~~~~~~~~

The mum. Picks up the phone, answers to someone she has been dreading to hear. She keeps her composure. Her daughter can see her, she cannot afford to break down. Pull yourself together. Calm, and… collected. For your daughter.

The babysitter arrives. Temporary farewells to the daughter, I’m just going to meet with the bank people, okay honey? Greetings to the taxi driver. The taxi driver seems jolly. Seems. After all, there’s no hope in earning money by labeling yourself as depressed. No.

She makes him stop early. She needs to save the money, exercise, and anyway, it is a fine and sunny day.

The taxi driver smiles as she leaves. He sighs deeply. He needs all the money he can lay his hands on. She smiles as she walks away. Little does she know that his wife was just diagnosed with cancer.

~~~~~~~~~

The taxi driver. Still thinking, musing, reflecting, on his wife. His beautiful wife. He took her for granted; always thought she would always be there, always. The doctors can be wrong though, can’t they? Can’t they?! The words. Those painful words…of death.

Cancer. Hospital fees. Not insured.

He punches his door handle. How heartless can the doctors be? She’s dying, isn’t the recognition of saving someone’s life more than enough pay? A life. What could be more valuable?

A woman walks past his taxi. She reminds him of his wife, at least before the cancer struck. Happy, confident, full of potential. He envies her. Why is her life so easy? Look at her; she can afford anything she wants.

Yet he is oblivious. He has made one mistake: assumption. He sees her as full of life, the epitome of success and happiness. Little does he know that she is abused by her husband on a daily basis.

~~~~~~~~~

The woman. Nearly misses her bus. That was a close one. Imagine what would happen if she was late. She shudders, looks at the clock. Her husband is at home by now, waiting, counting the seconds she has left. Either way she will not be able to avoid his anger, but the earlier she is, the softer it will be.

A father and his teenage daughter shuffle onto the bus. The father is loving, asks questions, Do you need anything else? Anything you want. I will get it for you. He is rewarded with concise, one worded answers. How rude of the daughter. She is taking her father’s love for granted.

Why, if my husband were that loving, I think I would die of happiness. What has the younger generation come to?

She pities the father, she criticises the teenager. Little does she know that the teenager was raped a mere three days ago.

~~~~~~~~~

The teenager. Her father is asking her questions. He cares so much about her; she is forced to answer with one worded replies, or else be subject to an overwhelming emotion. She blinks back the tears, avoids eye contact with her father.

They arrive at the grocery store; they need to stock up. She has to get used to it, she is going to be eating for two for another nine months.

She notices a couple. In love. They are so happy together. Will I ever have that? Will anyone love a girl who already has a baby?

She longs for the love that that couple shares. She longs for their life. Their easy, happy, romantic, carefree lives. They are perfect. Nothing can harm them. Nothing can be worse than what I’ve been through. Little does she know that the couple’s baby was born still.

~~~~~~~~~

The couple. They are shopping to cater for their baby’s funeral. They hug each other, kiss each other, comfort each other. They could not survive this if they were alone.

At the funeral. A mass of black proceeds to the coffin. The tiny coffin. It looks like a wooden case for a viola. So small, so tiny, yet so significant. For everyone. Speeches are heartfelt, flowers are aplenty, tears are streaming.

They mourn, they mourn,

They all mourn.

Barren

So I said I wanted to post some of the stuff I've written, so here's my first one. It was my initial belonging idea, but teachers said it was too cliche. I love it though, seemed like such a waste. But it was fun writing it.

---***---

Blue.

All I saw was blue.

It filled my constricted pupils, crashing through my retinas and flooding the crevices of my mind. Next, it attacked my lungs, restricting my air supply and rendering my body useless. I was sinking, drowning, in this blue of isolation.

----------

Today marked the end of the twelfth month since we first attempted to conceive. Statistics showed that most couples were ushered devoutly into the house of Success within the First Twelve. Evidently, we were not a part of Most Couples. Success had slammed her door shut as we hesitantly stepped onto the threshold, taking with her our last slivers of hope.

Red meant pregnant.

Blue meant failure.

I was the problem. I was infertile, my optimism too childish.

My sister would play with Megatron and Batman while I played with Cinderella and Barbie. At sixteen, she had all the guy friends when I had all the boyfriends. Her distinctive boxy trampling, burdened by her body’s stout and indelicate form, would attack at my perfection; at the genes that would encrypt an elegant strut, gnashing at my thoroughbred legs and mauling away my high cheekbones. She was the ugly duckling that graced her way into becoming an ugly swan. Carefree, she was the least expected to commit, playing the Shrew to my Bianca. For to her, marriage signalled the abnormal anchorage of two independent spirits, a parasitic leeching of all individuality like the God-forsaken male angler fish, whose entirety is lethally stolen away by its female counterpart; a living death. To her, the burdensome ring of commitment was just a mere excuse to be handed over like a recycled Christmas present; the first step to losing your name and identity.

“Without further ado, I now pronounce you a Mrs., a couple; no longer a self, but a part.”

And yet, she was the first to marry; the first to shake the stingy hands of Success. Her eyes were the first to set sights on the house keys, their gentle tinkling creating a sweet lullaby as they dangled within reach of her fingertips.

And oh, how she seized them.

----------

What is the role of a woman? Forget the physical; beyond flesh and bone. What is the underlying function of us children of Eve?

Exactly that, isn’t it? To walk in the footsteps of Eve, nurturing and mothering the seeds implanted in the Earth by Adam.

Knowing this, how can one such as myself have the heart to walk the streets of this pregnancy-praising society? Where trains hoard the varicose-stricken legs of women who rub their bellies in a fit of self-attention, arching their backs and thrusting out their triumphant swollen bellies as if taunting, jeering, “I win, I win.” Mere civilians parting as the red carpet rolls out: make way for the mother-to-be, praise the mother-to-be, long live the mother-to-be.

I will never experience that praise, that speculation. I will never fall under the scrutinising eyes of society as they debate through columns and columns if what they see is a baby bump or the results of a midnight feast. I will never resemble Eve, I will never harvest Adam’s seeds; I will never possess this fundamental aspect that labels a woman as a woman.

----------

Life is brutal. There is no justice. The guilty are free to discover the boundaries of nature whilst I, so innocent and pure, dwell in a synthetic caging of the mind. My sister is not exempt from these wicked; unfairly acquitted and left unaccountable for her actions. She celebrates, drowning herself in toxic alcohol shots, breast-stroking through martini swill and indulging on caffeine cocktails laden with nicotine hangovers. She is ignorant, not once thinking of the child within. Am I alone when I see her as what she is: a murderer of innocence?

She sees a world teeming, overflowing, with life as her salad-sisters cackle over the cooing newborns, prodding their delicate flesh with acetate-laminated manicures. This world she undeservingly roams around, the world surrounding me, is teeming with life.

And yet my world is stale.

I breathe in no air, my eyes witness no life and all I feel is frigid manacles clamping me down as I am unjustly condemned of Infertility. Awaiting me: a life sentence of biding my time so that eventually I can receive, yet again, nothing.

The world stares at me in reprimand. They see me as I am not: a criminal for defying Mother Nature, void of potential. But Mother Nature weeps with knowledge. The wrong sister has been convicted. I am left to watch the unworthy escorted to freedom as I become the favourite Aunt; the Only Aunt.

The Judge glares harshly at me. A life sentence is not enough. Instead, he sends a monthly Red as a reminder, a cruel taunt that signifies an endless cycle of defeat and failure. When once upon a long time, this Red signalled the validation of my steps into womanhood, it signified an inexpressible liberty from an unwanted pregnancy. I embraced this Red, just that once. I was eager, grateful and fatally ignorant of its duplicity.

Life has a brutal sense of humour.

----------

All I saw was blue.

That blue. The blue that ended my life.

I smothered the blue with my blanket, leaving it buried deep within the crevices of my mind. I stood shakily, closed the bedroom door behind me and wearily slumped my way down the stairs towards the dining table. Awaiting me was my husband’s delightful meal, lovingly prepared and served.

An age seemed to pass as I approached him.

A kiss on the neck, a squeeze of the hands, as I silently watched him pour the reddest of wines.