these {broken} wings {damen}

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cass
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last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

these {broken} wings {damen} Feb 17, 2013 7:05:45 GMT -5

Post by cass on Feb 17, 2013 7:05:45 GMT -5

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opal shore

Looking out from underneath,
Fractured moonlight on the sea
Reflections still look the same to me,
As before I went under.
And it's peaceful in the deep,

Sometimes you have to open your eyes and stop pretending. Take a deep breath and let the world fill you, let it slither between your lips like water, and let it slide down your throat and down, down, downdowndown into your lungs, where it fills them to the point your chest aches and all you want to do is breath.

Sometimes the best memories and moments in life are those that make you feel more real and existent then any. Those moments can come at any time and the urge to feel makes me long to be free, to just slip away from this world and run. Run as far as my little legs will take me. With my bare feet slipping through the earth, the dirt clinging to each stride I take, the air bursting through my body and the sounds of the wilderness making me feel as though I can fly –there would be no shoes; shoes are for the weak-hearted, those that can’t stand the world they are in, they bar it with imaginary walls that they believe will keep them from seeing the horrors that they don’t want to see.

The world can be filled with pain or joy coming from something as simple as seeing a flower grow, its soft delicate colour slipping forth, a thousand different shades stretching across the sky. Each little petal as soft and delicate as the next. Each stem, leaf and bud as unique and different as an individual human being. A new birth, a new life, something so sweet and simple and innocent as a flower can hold a million dreams, they are more truthful then nay person even though they have no lips. If you just open your ears up you can hear them. I do. I can hear every little thing that they whisper as the wind lifts it up, as the leaves rustle and it swirls around me. The life force in a garden is brighter and more real than anywhere else. And I feel at home, for there is no place more wild and free then my garden.

You just need to see the world as it truly as and not want you want it to be. As one long brown stained finger slides over the delicate plant, I know I am really seeing what is there. There is no mask put up, there is not hallucination that prevents me from seeing the truth behind the walls.

Dirt clings to each individual finger. They were the kind of hands that stayed dirty no matter how hard you scrubbed, or how much elbow grease you shoved into each movement. But then I had never really tried to get rid of it, there was never a spare moment in my day where I could simply bath and scrub to my own pleasure. But it wasn’t only the fact that I never wanted to it was the fact that I loved the feel of the dirt on my skin. It linked me in to the earth in a way that nothing else did. The dirt was something that I didn’t mind that much, it was soothing to know that I could be disgustingly dirty and no one would care. I had the kind of hands that were caked in dirt, but long and elegant; crafted to reach easily within the foliage beneath plants that I grew. They were capable hands, hands I had learnt to trust and work. Sand and mud hide under each nail, but it was not only my fingers that were dirt smeared.

My light brown eyes glance for no longer a second over the edge of a small plant before dashing back down in less than a heartbeat. Loose strands of caramel hair slip past my face and dangle loosely around my cheeks. It was a tangled mass of brown hair that protected my face, it falls around me in an uncared for pile, knots laced it like a spiders web. Just like a spider’s web it held its prey, a few leaves here and there, snagged by the unruly mess. It looked as though no one had brushed it for a very long time. Most people though I looked mad, they thought I looked crazy as though I cared for not a second of how I appeared to them. Just as to them I appeared to be weak and vulnerable. They knew not that I was a career girl; they believed I was stupid, only my family knew that I trained to kill. But I never did it on that training centre.

Just the thought of walking into any room at all made my lungs close up, my head spin and a scream would begin tearing its way up my throat. I couldn’t enter any building without gasping and gagging for air, breathing felt as though water was seeping into my body rather than air. I would gasp and gag, choking, the walls slowly sliding closer and closer closerclosercloser

[/i][/color] to the point where it took every touch of control for me to not simply scream.

Dirt smudges my face as well as my arms, legs and every other exposed part of my body. Yet, I dug eagerly at the earth, my fingers lining for a second to a hand full of sand before shoving it away and out of my reach. It flicks into my hair and my face, it tangles itself around my clothes, but I ignore it all – except for the feel of the earth over my skin. There was nothing like it. It was cool and calming. As my fingers spring apart the earth slipping from them and tumbling to the ground I reach a hand upwards towards a small pocket on my chest. Smoothly I draw a small handful of seeds from the pocket.

Gently as though some surreal infinite balance would shatter with the slightest incorrect movement I lower the seeds into the hole I had dug. My teeth bite gently at my lower lip, but my eyes glisten brightly, glee and joy dancing across them. As if not to disturb a sleeping child I place them into the earths grasp, each seed finding a different home, a new bed for it to sleep in. Then as they fall to sleep I tuck them under a layer of sand, sending them into a darkness that will only end when they awake and sprout out and into the fresh air.

Slowly I gather my thoughts and turn my eyes upwards, to star at the stars that twinkled and danced across the sky. And I begin to hum, the gentle tune that can only come from a mother singing to her children.

Cathedral, where you cannot breathe,
No need to pray, no need to speak
Now I am under, Oh.
And it's breaking over me,
A thousand miles onto the sea bed,

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Last Edit: Mar 7, 2013 3:28:10 GMT -5 by cass

∂αмєη
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these {broken} wings {damen} Mar 5, 2013 16:45:24 GMT -5

Post by ∂αмєη on Mar 5, 2013 16:45:24 GMT -5

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Every morning began the same, really. I know that's probably not a good way to live life because you'll have no way to keep your brain active. That'll probably lead to some issue in the future but hell, what happened to living in the present? That's the way I've always done it which is why every morning begins the same way. Except for today. It wasn't like I woke up and just suddenly decided that things needed to be different. I didn't just figure out that I was probably taking off years until I reached some sort of dementia. Mabe I was already experiencing it and that's why I suddenly changed things up? Is that what you're thinking? Well it's wrong. It was all because of it. Now let me tell you, this is definitely a story that I'll need to tell my kids one day. Although, I'm sure most people wouldn't want to hear a story that started...

It was all because of the cock. Don't ask me how there was one in my bedroom because I really have no explanation. You see, we don't have many roosters roaming around because they're usually either shipped off to District Five or cooked up right away. So imagine my surprise when I suddenly woke up to see it standing on my window sill, looking around my bedroom. And once it looked at me, it released a loud and shrill noise that probably destroyed my eardrums irreparably. Probably. That idiot. And so I sprang from bed and fetched the wooden chair in the corner of my room before making my way over to it to shoo it away. But he had other plans, I guess. Maybe all the roosters and chickens gather together and then plan out all these evil things. That's why he didn't even hesitate when I threatened him with a chair.

He sprang from the window onto my bed before making his way towards my bedside table. As if he knew exactly where everything was in my room, he threw open the top cupboard and snatched the one and only material possession that matters to me. My house key, jingling against its round metal ring, soon came flying out of the cupboard whilst being clasped in the bird's beak before he went back over to the window. It didn't even matter that I was standing there because he just flung himself out the opening and onto the street. Which posed a huge problem for me. First of all, I had only one key to my home and it had just left through my window. Secondly, it was the time of day when, knowing my luck, I'd get robbed if I left anything unlocked or open. And so I went with the only option I could.

After throwing on some pants and a t-shirt and having time to grab only my scarf, I climbed out the window after the rooster. Imagine this for a second because it's really a lot tougher than you think. I'm 6'3'' on an average day and that means the broad shoulders that come with it. Getting through a rather small window while trying to go as fast as possible is humorous for those watching and nearly impossible for me. But I did it and was soon out on the roof. Being as careful as I could, I hopped down onto a snowbank. And of course I then realized that I wasn't wearing shoes. Which made everything worse. The only way back into my home was through the door as I had no way to get back onto the roof easily. I needed that key. Which means I needed that rooster.

If I were a rooster, where would I go? Which didn't matter because I soon saw it running across a path and towards the park. Even in my out-of-shape ways, I sped after it as fast as I could to collect the key. But damn, chickens are pretty freaking fast. It traveled through the park, across the marketplace, through some backyards and all the while there was a six three man wearing only a shirt, pants, socks and a scarf following frantically after it. That's why my day was different today. I never start mornings with a jog. I never even jog in the first place! But see, chickens aren't smart. And sure, I'm not a genius but I know a dead end when I see one, especially from living in the district for so long. All twenty-two years of my life have been spent living here and so I knew he was heading for the greenhouse area.

We soon came upon the gardens and they were mostly deserted, as far as I could tell. My eyes were on the rooster though so maybe I was wrong. He sprang out of my grasp as I got closer and retreated onto the soil. There was no snow here, thankfully, as it was kept away by the glass ceiling that existed above. Our gardens were maintained really well as we could use them for various reasons, one of which being with our flower shops. People would make sure that it was always well taken care of both on top of the glass and underneath. So maybe he thought I wouldn't want to make my way onto the soil. Who knows what he thought. I would. And I did. I dove forward, landing roughly on some plants and dirt but also getting a hand on the rooster. With all of my strength, I held him down before scurrying to my knees to gather my prize.

But this rooster wasn't done with me. He looked up into my eyes and for a moment, I swear I saw a grin. But roosters can't grin so maybe I was just crazy. He quickly opened up his mouth and swallowed my key down, thus preventing me from getting it. "You think you're so funny, huh? Well jokes on you, you little dumbass. I'm going to wait for my key." I leaned back against the glass wall, only realizing now what I had done to the plants. They were trampled and the soil had been tossed around a bit. It would mean only a few plants would have to be replanted so it wasn't a big deal. I would even do it for them if they thought it was so important. But one or two plants could die, I thought. That wouldn't matter much.

But then I saw her. And maybe, just maybe, she cared.

[[ooc; sorry it took so long. and bleggggh, I needed some reason for him to be there so WHATEVA CHASING THE ROOSTAHS.]]

all I need's a whisper in a world that only shouts

cass
Retired Staff

4,822 POSTS

last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

these {broken} wings {damen} Mar 7, 2013 3:27:05 GMT -5

Post by cass on Mar 7, 2013 3:27:05 GMT -5

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opal shore

Looking out from underneath,
Fractured moonlight on the sea
Reflections still look the same to me,
As before I went under.
And it's peaceful in the deep,

When I was little I use to spend the whole time between when the sun poured its light into the sky all the way until it sank below the horizon sending the world into darkness; even in that time I would stay. Pouring my soul, my mind and everything that was me into my work, into my plants, into their lives. I would make them real, I would give them breath, and freedom, spirit and dreams. Entire days and nights would pass and I would haul myself up within the folds of my garden. It was more of my home then the house that I lived in. That barely scraped a mention within my mind. I could barely title it a home as I had spent no mare then two years of my life in it. Two years out of seventeen. It wasn’t much; I had been not even one when I first stepped into the wilderness of the houses backyard. Before then I had been scared, I had seen those wild tangles of leaves, trees and bushes as menacing. But I was also a career girl, and at that young age my parents had already begun to drill that into me. They wanted me to know who I was, so I could make no mistake of it.

The garden claimed everything, it showed with everything I did. From my golden, crisped skin, to the wild tangle of hair, there was always a ragged look. There was that wild, crazed look within the depths of my eyes, you had to truly look to see it, I had hidden it well from even myself, but it was there – look closely and you will see. I looked feral, I did not look like the rest of my family, the little house trained pets. I knew nothing of manners and courtesies, tainted perceptions of wrongs and rights within a household. I doubted I could even remember how to hold a knife and fork correctly; it had been too long since I had even stepped within the boundaries of my own home. Sometimes I would even ask myself it even truly was my home anymore. The last time I had stepped into its confines I had felt like some intruder as if I had not belonged there and I was breaking in. It all felt so foreign.

And within moments of entering its clutches I had felt that usual tug at my chest as the walls began to collapse, as they began to fall in on me. It was always the same, no matter the place; as long as it had walls and I felt confines it would constrict me. It would slowly drag itself closer and closer, my breathing would shorten and I would begin gasping for air. I felt like I was dying and I would panic and run, fleeing before it could get me. Running away like some weak little child scared of the dark, a child too scared to face their fears. I would always flee to the safety of my garden, knowing the fresh air and the lack of walls would protect me. There was nothing there to harm me. I was certain that my sisters and brothers never noticed my absence. I blended into my work, I became it.

I would never care which garden or where I was, just as long as there was green foliage, the hum of bees and the infinite delicacy that comes with the elegance of a plant. Just as long as I could turn my brown eyes around and everywhere I looked there was a plant. Whether it be a simple and as timeless as a sunflower, or as unique and pristine as a dragon snap. Suddenly that gentle hum that had lingered on my lips was cut off. My head snaps to the left as a strange sound shoots its way into my tranquillity. I stare uncomprehendingly as a rooster sprints into my garden, feathers and all. It had beady black eyes, elegant and graceful feathers that shone dully in the moonlight. It stood there, its feet in my garden, just staring, only for a second. It spun away from me and that was when I heard the other sound.

The plant that had entangled itself in my hands was long forgotten. I watch, dumbstruck as a boy around my own age comes barrelling into the garden, his bog hoofs crushing many of my plants. As one plant is killed, trampled and trodden on a strangled cry escapes my lips. The boy keeps going, smashing into more, colliding carelessly with these living breathing children. Murdering my children, slaughtering them and trampling on them. He doesn’t even spare me a glance. ”No, no, no, no, oh gods no, my poor babies. What have you done?” The boy, who has managed to get his filthy, disgusting paws on the rooster looks up at me. I stand up, drawing myself up to my full height. My eyes blaze furiously.

There are not many people who are ever scared of me, I am not that scary. But right no there was a dangerous glint to my eyes that screamed bloody murder. I wanted to hit this boy, I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream. Each time I glance at a plant that lays bleeding an injured a stab of pain hits me. I felt as though one of my own children had been stabbed, and each hut plant was like I was being stabbed, but the knife was being twisted and twisted until I screamed, until there was nothing, but that pain.

”You-you, you asshole. Look what you have done. I should hit you; I should punch you and kill you.” I spit. I open my mouth to say something else, to accuse him and snarl, and scream, but it is caught in my throat. My eyes settle on the small little in dents in the ground beside his feet. The little mounds of dirt that I had spent hours on, the three seeds I had only planted moments ago.”NO! Please Ripred no.” I scream. I run forwards, the pain that I felt so much more real, and I’m so incredibly angry, and it is taking every bit of my self-control to not cry. I can feel the tears at and the sobs. It hurt so much seeing him sit on my children is agony. I run forwards, slamming myself into him. With a sob that I can’t hold back I start hitting him, pummelling him with my fists in desperation. In that moment I don’t care that I’m crying, I just want to save my plants, my babies. He has to pay. He killed, and destroyed everything I live for; he killed my children, the only thing that means anything to me.

”You monster. I hate you, you fucking monster.”

Cathedral, where you cannot breathe,
No need to pray, no need to speak
Now I am under, Oh.
And it's breaking over me,
A thousand miles onto the sea bed,

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∂αмєη
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these {broken} wings {damen} Mar 11, 2013 15:59:11 GMT -5

Post by ∂αмєη on Mar 11, 2013 15:59:11 GMT -5

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For my twenty-second birthday, I spent it in the town square. I know, that doesn't sound like a super entertaining time, especially when the large screen was playing somebody's death but there was nothing else to do. I was alone (~~what else is new~~) and standing against a wall simply enjoying the good weather. It would have been a good idea to go see my mother. I was sure she would want to see me, even after everything. Even after running away from home and buying my own home. She would want to see how I had turned out after having raised me for sixteen years. She would wonder how the six after that had been for me. She would question me and question me and question me and yet I don't think the words 'happy birthday' would have ever left her mouth.

Which is why I spent my birthday in the town square. Because there was nowhere else to go and nobody else to see. Edana was busy. I understood that there would be times when we'd need to be apart so that a healthy relationship could be maintained. Even if it had been my birthday. Anyways, back to the whole point of this story. All I was doing was standing against a wall, minding my own business. And then the three kids, maybe all about fourteen years old, approached me and began going on and on about how I was standing in their space and that I needed to move before they kicked my ass. So, just paint the picture for a second. A tall twenty-two year old man being threatened by three shorties with saggy pants and torn shirts.

And so I stood my ground. Told them to go bother somebody else. That got me a punch into the gut. A weak one, might I add. I have never really been punched though so it stunned me. And the 'beating' would have probably lasted longer had the officer not split us up and told the 'street rats' to get going. I guess they could tell who the wealthier ones were against the poor kids. Not saying I was wealthy, but I certainly didn't fall under the same category as those three boys. They ended up bruising a rib despite it really not feeling pretty bad. Just from that simple and quick punch that was over in an instant. The three of them ran off and I went back to minding my own business in the town square for my twenty-second birthday.

The point of all of that is that the most distinct memory I have of getting hit was by a fourteen year old poor boy who barely got any solid contact that I felt. It wasn't that painful. And now was not any more painful, in my opinion, but certainly more annoying. I tried to hold the rooster up in front of me, almost like a shield, but my arms were quickly knocked back down once again as her hands came flying at me. And her words. The harsh words that flung from her mouth, cutting into me like knives. And it's funny because they didn't really bother me. They really just confused me. Somehow, through catching a chicken, I became a monster. And she wanted to kill me for catching a rooster that took my house keys. Or was I reading this all wrong?

"Wait what the fuck!?" I flinched and turned my head away, wanting to avoid from being hit there. That would hurt. The other hits I was getting now would only leave bruises. "Seriously kid. Get off of me and tell me what the problem is!" That's all I needed to know. That's how I solved all of the problems I'd face. They would be simple or complex problems. They would be easily fixed or much more difficult. It didn't matter. Any problems could be discussed and solved instead of with this violent girl's solution. Instead of punching somebody who really had done nothing wrong.

But that's when I clued into the plants that had been trampled by my body as I flung myself after the chicken. The dirt underneath her nails and all over her hands meant that she had just been working on the garden. This must have been her garden, or at least one she tended to. "Look, I'm sorry about the plants! I'll help you fix them." My eyes locked on the chicken in my hands, turning into a glare. This was all of his fault. The dumb ass rooster had caused this to happen. I tightened my grip on the rooster, hoping he felt it. Your fault, you fucker. All of this was because of the chicken in my hands. This girl's plants wouldn't have been destroyed had the chicken never taken my keys from my home and ran all over the District.

Fucking chickens.

[[ooc; shorter post but blegh I just couldn't get more]]

all I need's a whisper in a world that only shouts

cass
Retired Staff

4,822 POSTS

last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

these {broken} wings {damen} Mar 12, 2013 2:52:01 GMT -5

Post by cass on Mar 12, 2013 2:52:01 GMT -5

[bg=0A0B09][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true]

opal shore

Looking out from underneath,
Fractured moonlight on the sea
Reflections still look the same to me,
As before I went under.
And it's peaceful in the deep,

Not many people have the nerve to walk in my gardens. It is my home and they seem to sense that it is my territory, and that I will do anything to defend it. More often than not a knife lies tucked in my pants, hidden away from the eyes of their travelling, judging eye. Not many people step within the confines of my homes, especially when I am there, especially when I am sitting right there and looking at you. An air of danger lays hidden beneath that gentle love that is only ever given to my plants. A coldness seeps through the edges of the gardens warning away people, telling them to stay out. When I occupied a garden people just knew to leave me alone.

A few have stupidly stayed to linger in the soil in which inhabit. There have been those groups of kids that drive for adrenaline, those stupid brats that will find anything they can for a laugh. And they would laugh and mock me, throwing taunts and strings of colourful words at me. I never reacted though. As long as they stayed away from the plants I had raised I never cared. It was only when they decided to step further, thinking I was no more than a psycho, an idiot, and stupid and dumb, unable to comprehend the vicious and spiteful things they spoke. I have had people throw things at me and call me mad.

There have been a many of names called and screamed at me. Most of them foul and unspeakable. But never has anyone come back and taunted me after the first time. Those that have stepped into my boundaries have barely escaped with their lives. Some haven’t. These are blood stained hands, the dirt merely masks the true horrendous horrors that have hidden themselves behind sand, leaves and plants. I have done much evil. I have killed two people in my life and injured a dozen more. I’m not sure if my parents would be proud. I know I wouldn’t be. I am the most awful daughter they have. I’m positive, I am so positive that they never mention me. Out of them all I am the one child that does not even measure up to their standards. There is nothing about me that screams Shore. There is no pride, no lust or love for them. I am no competition to my siblings. I may as well not be one. They wanted us to all be killers, they trained us and raised us to fight and crave blood. But I’m not that. I’m not one of them.

Some part of that rubbed off on me. But I’ve never ever hurt a person who has stayed away from my garden. It is always those who tempt fate by hindering me. The two people I killed both ripped out a plant with their bare hands. They did so right in front of my face, before teasing me with it. I had never felt such a rage then in those few minutes. I had leapt upon them, snarling like some wild, feral animal – I suppose I had been – teeth bared eyes wide and frantic. The knife had slipped into my hand as quickly as it could, as quickly as any career girl could. It had surprised them, they hadn’t expected it.

But then no one ever did.

No one ever believed or expected I could be so hateful and angry. Watching them rip a plant from the soil, watching them tear a living breathing thing from the earth and extinguish its life as though it had meant nothing made me angry. It made me stop thinking and I just acted. It was instinct like it was for a mother to protect her children.

”Wait what the fuck!? Seriously kid. Get off of me and tell me what the problem is!” His words feel like a slap to my face. It only makes me angrier, and that madness bubbles below the surface of my skin. "Look, I'm sorry about the plants! I'll help you fix them.”

I’m not a killer.

And those words make me ache and they make me hurt more than I could possibly say. I have killed, their blood taints my skin. My eyes flicker towards my hands and there is just blood. They dirt that once layered them, filling every crack and crevice is filled with crimson blood. It feels hot and sickly against my skin. It smells foul. I think in some place I’m screaming, I know I am, I can feel it, I can sense it, but I’m not sure it is happening. It is.

[/b][/color] It tears from my lips and slips into the night air. I stare at my hands, flinging myself backwards and away from the boy I had been hitting, trying to shove myself away from the blood and the all too familiar crimson stains that had blossomed on my clothes. And I hope, I hope that with every part of my heart and soul that it isn’t his blood.

Within seconds the screaming is cut off as it changes to sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I-I… I-“ A sob chokes off my next words, I cradle my hands tightly to my chest, not wanting to see that blood, not wanting to look at it. I close my eyes, sinking to the ground I move my arms tightly around them and slowly start to rock backwards and forwards. Tears run down my face, two tireless streams that water my clothes, taking some of the dirt away. Sobs rock my body and I know I’m shaking. The smell of blood fills my nose and mouth and I feel like I’m choking. And I’m drowning.

I’m not sure what to think, I feel totally and utterly lost as though none of it makes sense. I open a single eye, my vision blurry from the tears, and slowly I turn it downwards. Blood that only I could see dripped through my fingers. The ruby drops covering my pants and shirt. The smell of blood becomes over powering. And I scream, again, it is cut off quickly by more tears and sobs. “The blood, the blood, your blood. Get it off, please get it off.” In that moment I forget the plants and I forget that this boy had killed my children, all I can think about is this blood, his blood as it drips from my hands.

Cathedral, where you cannot breathe,
No need to pray, no need to speak
Now I am under, Oh.
And it's breaking over me,
A thousand miles onto the sea bed,

ooc -- [ There really isn’t any blood, she is just imagining it. Size doesn’t matter, your post was perfect. I’m just like sorry about Opal, idek where this came from. I thought she was just going to do some more screaming and tell him to help her fix the plants, but then this happened. ]

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