To avoid, or to confront,

Is the constant battle within;

Reaching up to a point where it feels like a heavy burden,

A sin.

MASK

She closes her eyes,

Swallows the tears, and mutes the cries.

The walls watch, silent and fierce,

Witnessing her drowning in her fears.

She washes away the dirt of the day,

Wishing, she could have had more to say.

Her tear-stained face, the same that tried so hard to impress,

Was now in a crumpled heap of a mess.

She looks at her reflection in the mirror and sees the ugly truth mocking her,

Her soul screaming at her.

All her windows begin to break one by one,

Until she is left emotionless, her feelings gone.

She blinks away another memory of failure,

Holding tightly to the little pieces of success that remained, since it was the only cure.

The selfless creature indulges in her blues,

Replaying the same old tunes.

Of all the masks she had put on, she’d forgotten her real self in the race,

She’d abandoned her identity long, long ago, in the disputable craze.

At night, she paints out her heart again,

As it’s the only way that keeps her from going insane.

The Accident

I waded through the dense, swamp-like ditch as my limbs began to fail and I could no longer move. I could feel the gravity sucking me deeper into the sludge. The swamp was slowly swallowing me as I thrashed against the goo.

Firm, warm hands clasped around my shoulders and heaved my limp body out of the hungry ditch. Little did I know that my love would be the death of me.

*

“Hide!” I hissed worriedly, pushing Gemma vigorously under the hard, shielding table.

I could feel her small, fragile body trembling ferociously against mine. Her tiny, shaky hands locked desperately around my neck as her thin, malnourished nails dug deep into my skin. The screams were only getting louder. Closer. That meant They were coming.

I jumped with shock at the sudden surge of thunderous bangs booming from the doors and windows. Flinching away from the ear-splitting reality, I took a protective stance over Gemma’s quivering body.

“We’re going to be okay,” Brennan whispered as he clumsily joined us under the table, “we knew this would happen, and we’re ready.”

He was right. We’d had warnings of this ambush many long months before: news reports, newspaper articles, radio reportings. We’d had so much time to prepare, but now that it was all really happening, our preparations did not feel adequate, the warnings did not feel thorough.

We were NOT ready.

Brennan pulled Gemma gently into his arms and rocked her comfortingly. I began to sing her private lullaby soothingly as my only child panicked wildly. Horror rolled down her spine and flushed through her system. She shuddered and shook, completely traumatised, as her worried eyes flickered from one side of the dark room to the other.

In that instant, the door soared across the room and landed with a deafening crunch, smashing into our cluttered fireplace, crumpling our pictures, our postcards, our livelihood.

“Parasites!” Brennan spat angrily as the diseased, mutated human-forms raided our once perfect, family living room.

Their pale, yellow-skinned hands infected our belongings, damaging everything they touched. Their contorted, scaly, repulsive faces held distant filmy eyes that, lifelessly, scrutinized every inch of the room for a human presence. For us.

Our home was dead.

The lively, colourful, welcoming sanctuary it had once been was unrecognisable at that moment in time. They had drained the life and soul from the room, as they did to millions of innocent people. The wallpaper had dulled to a depressing, empty grey and bubbled with damp. The overpowering stench of vomit and rot was as strong as the foul secretion of a skunk.

I gasped in absolute terror as I was sucked back into the reality of our situation. One of Them had spun our table over, leaving us vulnerable and exposed.

The sharp, noisy clatter distracted them all long enough for us to put our plan into action.

“Look after her,” Brennan whispered cautiously as he hurriedly tucked Gemma into my arms. He pressed his lips to mine swiftly as he hauled me up and pushed me forward. My heart was thrumming unhealthily fast as I bolted down to the basement, avoiding contact with anything and everything in case of infection.

“Gemma, baby, we’re going to be okay,” I murmured in a hushing tone to calm her nerves as I sat her on a battered old stool, “just stay there, don’t move.”

I turned rapidly to the small box-like window just above the ground outside and pushed it open.

“Macy! Hurry!” Brennan yelped desperately, the tone in his voice sent shivers down my spine, “Pass me Gem!”

I swivelled back around towards Gemma, my hands, instinctively, reaching for her. I froze in horror, my eyes staring widely at her pale-yellow, lifeless face. I screeched painfully as I stared into the eyes that had belonged to my daughter.

“What’s happening?” Brennan demanded, the panic seeping out of his voice, “What’s going on?”

I was fixed in place, completely traumatised. I couldn’t answer him.

“Come on!” Brennan urged nervously as I wasted even more time lingering over our precious daughter’s body. I shifted sluggishly to the window, reluctant to leave her. I turned back to take one last traumatic, heart-wrenching look at my loss. My fatal mistake. The accident…

*

I could feel the dew drops slide peacefully and gently from my long hair onto the damp flattened grass. The sun rose from the peaks of the burnt orange towering mountains as the sky changed discretely from a fruity orange to a magnificent pearl-blue. Light danced over the native trees, though never reached my eyes through the barricade of thick, vibrant, green leaves.

The thought of another day of endless trekking did not look so appealing, though I had to endure it if I would ever find Brennan.

I trudged towards the mountains.

The bottom of the mountains, that’s where we’re headed.

I sighed with contentment. I had memorised Brennan’s voice to perfection. He had to be there. He was all I had to live for.

A sudden screech escaped my lungs as I lurched forward and felt my legs sinking in a thick liquid beneath me. I moved viciously, trying to escape the ditch, but nothing would work. I was trapped.

I waded through the dense, swamp-like ditch as my limbs began to fail and I could no longer move. I could feel the gravity sucking me deeper into the sludge. The swamp was slowly swallowing me as I thrashed against the goo. Firm, warm hands clasped around my shoulders and heaved my limp body out of the hungry ditch.

“Ugh!” the man made a disgusted noise, “You! You traitor!”

My heart stuttered and faltered. Brennan.  My eyes uncontrollably flashed open with a craving to see his face. To know he was alive.

“Brennan, I’m not one of them!” I protested, wiping the tears off my cheeks.

“You may as well be one of them for all the good you’ve done,” he spat cynically.

I hunched over, cradling myself. The pain in my chest was searing right through me. The emptiness was invading my heart.

A satisfied grunt escaped Brennan’s lips, “Feeling guilty, huh?” he pressed, “And it was what?” he snarled, “An accident?”

My heart was pounding, my head spinning, my stomach churning.

“I can’t let you make anymore mistakes… Cause any more accidents...” he spoke through clenched teeth as he aimed a small, rusty, old gun to my head. I could see the anguish in the planes of his face, the loss, the misery…

Bang.

Little did I know that my love would be the death of me.

(Written by a friend of Fakra :D )

Nostalgia

We remember in peculiar ways

With senses rather than with thoughts

A scent on the wind, or a bitter taste

Can remind us of such different days.

Of ice cream cones with lemon slices

Shining red apples, sliced in dishes,

Of home grown berries fresh from the garden

And soup or pies with unknown spices.

Sitting outside in the afternoon sun,

Running through grass from unwanted insects,

Playing guessing games to pass the time,

Peaceful things that still seem fun.

Long summer walks through winding lanes,

Late nights watching mindless programs,

Falling asleep to a soothing tune,

You know so well but cannot name.

Midweek treats and bare brick walls,

Listening just because you can,

A cat so large it waddles out of the door at night,
Gentle hands to pick you up when you fall.

The very last time you heard them laugh,
and the things you can’t remember saying,
the smile you remember even after it’s faded,

And what you wish you could have asked.

We remember in the strangest sense,

Of things that shouldn’t really matter

But that when combined complete our vision of a person

Of everything they were and more than they could ever be.

---------------------

- Jayne

Kites.

Once released into the vast sky,

They fly,

Keenly, serenely, freely.

 

Their goals different, but their journeys the same,

As they live up to their name

And soar among the clouds.

 

Colourful and beautiful little sculptures,

All emerging from various cultures;

A truly wonderful sight to behold.

 

Together, they rush in their groups,

Performing spectacular loops,

As they enter the world’s playground.

 

Signs of purity, youth, and innocence,

Coming together in their tonnes,

Triggers off a smile in all those who witness.

 

These kites, young faces of the future,

Are released into the wild, and befriend every creature.

 

Some fly high, and some low,

But one day, there will come a time, when all will grow.

(A poem. It's pretty simple. And, well...simplicity was what I was going for. I hope you like it. I also hope you guys get the double meaning. And who the 'kites' actually are. (:  Thanks for reading! )

I wake up in an unfamiliar bed, the sickeningly strong smell I associate with disinfectant all around me. Something is different; something is wrong. I can’t breath.

Loud bleeping fills my head as my hand travels upwards of it’s own accord, reaching my chest and the foreign object resting there. A tube; disappearing under my skin. This isn’t normal. This isn’t right.

I tug on it but nothing happens and somewhere in my hazy-mind I realise that I must still be pretty drugged up from the aesthetic. I tug again: I don’t like it. It shouldn’t be there; it doesn’t belong in my body.  

Another tug, and this time, I can feel a slight burn rising inside me, like I’m going to be sick. I try with shaking hands to rip off the bandage that covers half of my neck, down to my right breast. At some point I must scream in frustration because the next thing I know warm hands are closed around mine, pushing me back into the lumpy bed. I struggle and kick furiously; barely registering the concerned faces staring down at me, making me feel like an animal in a zoo. The person I’m fighting is stronger than me. He smells like lavender shampoo, coffee and home.

“Calm down,” he’s whispering. “Riley, Ri, come back to me, come on, please.”

I manage to focus on him long enough to see the tears in his eyes: more than enough to set me off. Because my brother never cries. I don’t care about the stereotypes that people have about guys like Jamie being soft or ‘in touch with their emotions’ – yeah, he’s probably one of the most thoughtful guys I’ve ever known, but I’ve never, ever seen him cry. And I know then. I know exactly how serious this is, how scared they all are for me.

I’m scared too.

I’m Riley Connell. I’m 15 years old and yesterday I was diagnosed with Leukaemia. Let me tell you how I got here.

            It started as something you wouldn’t really notice, until the detention slips began to pile up. Falling asleep in class, in turns out, is frowned upon. My form teacher wasn’t happy about that; she called a meeting with me and went through all the usual crap that teachers do when they pretend to be concerned for a student: ‘is everything alright at home?’ ‘Are you having trouble with friends?’ ‘Does it have something to do with a boy, perhaps?’ ‘Is there a reason you think you’re not sleeping properly?’ The thing was, I’d been sleeping just fine. I’d been sleeping every chance I got; yet still I felt woozy from just the short walk to school. At first, my mum assured me that it was normal; that when you got to a certain age, it was much easier to sleep until noon and not want to get up. She put it down to my being a teenager. It was only when a bruise formed within minutes of me banging my wrist against a shelf that she decided to take me to the doctors, her biggest concern that I might be anaemic.

            I’d always considered my doctor a sweet sort: a bit old, but competent enough. When mum and me went to see him that first time, he assured us that there was nothing wrong and that I would be back to normal in a few days at most. Two weeks later, when I was showering, I noticed small purplish spots on my skin, scattered over my arms, legs and stomach. I prodded a finger at them and didn’t feel any pain, so didn’t mention it for another few days, until Jamie spotted them after I’d fallen asleep with my head draped over his shoulder. Then we were back at the doctors again. He was sending us away again: it seemed like a continuous cycle.

Two appointments later and my mum were at her wits end. I was still falling asleep multiple times a day and bruising at the touch of a fingertip. She demanded a blood test.

            Have you ever gotten a phone call and you just know, without answering it, that it’s going to be bad news? Not the kind you get in the middle of the night. That’s obvious: either someone is dead or someone is drunk enough to be calling you at 3am. This call came a couple of hours after my blood test. The same blood test we’d been told they wouldn’t know the results of for at least a week.

That night, four weeks after I’d initially gone to the doctors, I was in hospital with a drip attached to my ankle. It’d been fed into my vein using a green catheter that the nurses had oh so helpfully pointed out looked like a butterfly. Like I’m a child. Like I need to be told the sharp piece of steel about to pierce my skin looks like a harmless garden insect. Like that makes it better.

In the morning, I was transferred to a special children’s hospital: this hospital, where I wasn’t allowed to eat all day, before I was taken to surgery to get this blasted thing shoved into my heart. No one’s really explained properly – something about white blood cells and bone marrow and I don’t even know what bone marrow is. I’m thinking something that is in your bones, although I always thought bones were made entirely of, well, bone. Not marrow.

            It’s probably not the best idea to try and rip the thing out. Jamie seems to realise I know this after my brief lapse of judgement because he loosens his grip on me, but doesn’t let go. I lean my head against his chest because I don’t know what else to do and soon he wrap his arms around me, rocking me gently in a way he hasn’t done for years. Not since our dad left. I fleeting wonder if dad knows about any of this, but shake myself before the disgust rising in me can really take hold.

“You going to let the nurse check you over now?” Jamie asks gently and I nod against him, reluctant to let go.

The women who walks determinedly over to me is dressed in a light pink uniform. She has a kind face really, though her hair is tied back so tightly that some of her features appear a little taut. She talks me through everything she’s going to do, even the simple things like taking my temperature, which relaxes me more than I thought possible in the middle of a ward, where machines are still beeping furiously and kids are crying at fairly regular intervals, as though they have a little rota going.

Jamie is still by my side, holding one of my hands as if he’s afraid I’m going to vanish. I make a note to give him a good slap when the nurse is gone. 

Then I catch my mothers’ eye from where she’s perched at the bottom of the bed, stiff as anything. Her eyes are rimmed red but dark underneath from lack of sleep and she looks as though she could crumble at any minute. I feel a surge of regret pulsing through me for putting her through this. As if she needs more trouble, after everything she’s been through while still managing to raise two kids to be relatively decent human beings. Sometimes I think my mum deserves a medal. Sometimes I want to shake her and tell her to get it together. This is one of those times.

“All done,” the nurse says with cheer that is suddenly repulsive. “My name’s Ally by the way. I’ll be back in a couple of hours with some pills for you, but if you need anything before that just press the buzzer by the bed, okay?”

I nod and watch her retreat across the ward, probably with twenty other patients to deal with, probably with some much more sick than me. To her, I’m just another face of another kid who got ill: someone to pity.

I don’t care then that I’m being unfair. I don’t even care if I’m making it all up in my head, about her not caring about me. I decide I hate her. Walking around with a smile on her face as though we’re all going to be fine. It’s not true. And who’s she to give us that hope? Who’s she to go around to kids of five and six and grin at them as though they were in a playroom of a holiday club, not on the ward of a hospital, where someone could be dying on the other side of a wall. Where people die every day.

Heat rushes to my face and I suddenly feel light headed. The noises of the ward distort and blur in my head, getting louder and louder until I have to shove my hands over my ears in an attempt to stifle them.

Bile rises in my throat, and a cardboard bowl is only just pushed under my face in time before I’m throwing up. I collapse back onto the bed then, exhaustion and the left over chemicals in my system taking over me. My eyes close of their own accord and somewhere in the back of my mind I register the possibility that I might be dreaming. Even then I know it’s wishful thinking. I know that when I wake up, it’s going to be to harsh glare of the hospital lights. I know it, but I still hope it’s not true.  

Prompts

Prompt: you are trying to decide who to vote for.

I step into the small, white-washed booth and draw the curtains closed around me: caging myself in. One thin sheet of paper lies infront of the poll-box, with a pencil already worn down by the voters who came before me. Three names are on that paper; next to three blank boxes: one of which, I must tick.
One person I must choose to lay my faith in for the next 'x' amount of years.
I'm not stupid. I know how much a wrong choice could cost us. After the last election, after the unbareable years that followed... I'm not as nieve now. Not young enough to listen to every word the candedates say, and far too wise to place an ounce of belief in their promisies.
I take a deep breath.
I go with my instincts.
I pray they won't fail me.


Prompt: you have had an experience that makes you question your faith.

The door slams in my face and I feel the tears before I notice I'm crying. The heat radiating from my cheek where I've been slapped is painful and I'm sure not great to look at either.
I'm shaking.
I get into the car and lock it, thankful that I had the sense not to leave the keys in the house. 
I can't go back there. 
She'll never look at me again. 
My own mother. I think... I think she hates me. 
Wrong she said. A sin. Against God. 
But I'm her son. 
I don't understand how she can just... 
I'm not a bad person! I've not hurt anyone; I've not commited a crime.
My hands are trembling as I start the ignition and realise there's only one place I can go... I hope his parents don't mind. 
A sin! I can't get my head around it. I've never questioned my faith, although I've never been particularily religious. I've always accepted the beliefs I've been brought up with... bu if it makes her act like this! If it means... I'm not normal. 
I pull out of the driveway and try to shake my head clear...
There are much more important things than faith, I'm beginning to realise that now.

Prompts 2

Prompt: You have fallen in love.

For months, I had had time to accustom myself to the sight of Heather walking away across the bridge, a pleasant spring in her gait and the pastel glows of a sunset sky offering a backdrop for our parting that was almost too romantic. For months, I had watched her disappear time after time and struggled to swallow down that exact same lump of longing that rose up in my throat and made me wish she didn't have to leave, even if I'd see her again the very next day.

She was the only person I knew who had so much in common with me, who was so much fun to be around, or who was so wonderfully compassionate. She made me feel... wanted. Appreciated. And I had never told her how much I valued that acceptance.

Over the past months, though I didn't quite know how I felt about the fact, I'd come to realise something. I was falling in love with this one-of-a-kind girl.

I Love...

I love the way a wave of warmth hits you as you open the front door after a really long day at College and how the smell of a fresh cup of tea, with your name written on it, steams through to you.
I love how whenever I wake up at his house, I know he's awake as well, and he's just waiting for me to say "Good morning, sweetie,"
I love the breif moment of silence you get before and audience applaud you, every time I hear that sound I can't help but smile.
I love how I can tell I've had a good day at College because my  sides ache from laughing and my faces strains because I'm smiling too much.
I love keeping each individual train ticket and cinema stub - each piece of paper is a memory, a smell, a uncomfortableseat on a train or a snug one in the theatre.
I love that moment when reading a book, you read the title. You read the most important line in that book, that feeling will forever be spine-tingling worthy.

You must never tell.

'Ha! I have the folder!' Yelled Eric, snatching the open green folder from the desk where the other man sat.
He lifted his head to face Eric. 'I will make you into shoes.'
Eric held the folder close to his chest.
'Give it to me.'
'Never.'
'If people see what's in there, you know what will happen to me... to all of us.'
Eric held the folder closer to him, almost squeezing the pages out of it.
'You messed with... With their souls! It's wrong! I don't know why- I don't care. I just want it to stop.'
The other man behind the desk frowned at Eric, and without another word, reached into a drawer and pulled out...

R.

The breakdown!!

Jess urged me into the classroom and I froze. A blond haired girl was hunched in the corner of the room,she was shuddering as she sobbed and her mascara had stained her pale cheeks.
"when you said breakdown...." i trailed off uncertainly
"well i didn't mean a breakdown as in a rap did i ? " Jess snapped.
I sighed heavily and hesitently crepped closer to the girl, she was glaring at me with wide dark eyes. I crouched down next to her.
"what things are worrying you?" I murmered gently. It was then that she began to wail
"All things!" she screamed.