stonedpenguin
December 27th, 2010, 08:11 AM
so i've never posted any of my work online before.
be BRUTALLY honest. i really want to get better. thank you! (:
There once lived a young woman by the sea.
All her life she’d lived alone, in her little cottage, on a small, remote island in the Red Sea. And she was happy. She had the entire island to herself.
On some days, she’d walk along the shores, collecting sea shells, some to take back home, some to toss out into the sea again. Other days she’d lie out on her rooftop, listening to Frank Sinatra, singing along at the top of her lungs, glowing. And sometimes she’s just stay at home in bed, reading The Catcher in the Rye, patiently waiting for the rain to go away, not really caring, content either way.
Although she was alone, she’d developed a tremendous relationship with animals. Whenever she took a dip in the sparkling, salty water, she would swim with the sea creatures, all of them, dolphins, sea horses, clown fish, even the whales, beautifully, synchronized, for hours on end.
She could practically converse with her pet kitten.
She was unsure about her past, and all that she remembers, all that she has ever known is being alone. Not a sad kind of alone, either, just a “I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want,” kind of alone. Almost a prosperous, powerful feeling.
So imagine how she felt when a young man, Bernard, showed up at her doorstep one evening. She’d just gotten into bed, decided to call it a night after collecting dried up sea stars on the sandy beaches to decorate her mantle, trying to fall asleep, as the door bell rang. She waited a while, thinking maybe it was just her sleeping, dazed imagination getting the best of her. But it rang again, and this time she jumped out of the bed and swung the door open.
And there stood Bernard, somewhere around 7 feet tall. The young woman nearly fainted at the sight of this great, large, somewhat attractive male standing before her.
They hit it off right away.
He spoke of a family back home, a wife, his two children. He explained that he needed to get away from them for a while, “And what better way to get away,” he asks, “than visit an abandoned island in the middle of the Red Sea?”
She could only pretend to understand.
Their conversations started out short and chatty, consisting of “How do you do?” and “It’s nice out today.” Then, day by day, they progressed, and this young woman who has no name, yet, and this young man, Bernard, grew closer.
Their conversations soon grew to become something of meaning, discussing the purpose of life and the universes most mystical mysteries, debating whether there is or is not a god.
Then love.
Only, Bernard shuddered at the word “love”, always reminding this young woman that he has a family, that he must leave soon, go home.
She doesn’t believe him.
He seems too happy.
He doesn’t believe himself either.
He is too happy.
One year later, he was still happy, five years, ten, twenty, it didn’t matter, oh, it didn’t matter at all, as long as he was with this woman he’d learned to love, this pure, infinite woman with so much happiness, this flaw less woman, this beautiful woman, this adored woman.
He couldn’t do the right thing, nor did he want to, how could he, how could going home be the right thing to do if he was so happy here?
But then, one night, after they’d gone fishing in a small row boat on a warm summer day (or, at least, he suspected it was summer, they’d lost track of the days many, many years ago), something snapped, and he left. It broke his heart, but he knew he couldn’t stay forever. He’d been putting it off for fifty years, and now, he felt it was time.
So he left when she was asleep, without saying goodbye, without any sign or indication, without a word. Without a very special woman that had made a large dent in his swollen, ever growing heart.
When she woke up the next morning, she knew right away something was wrong. Bernard.
Something very amazing happened in her mind that day. First, she was torn. Then, she was alright, also knowing, all along knowing that he would leave eventually.
Then, her mind wiped itself clean. It seems her brain simply erased, deleted, if you will, every memory she ever had with Bernard, every feeling she ever felt towards him, all of it. If you would have asked her about him, she would have responded with something like, “What’s a Bernard?”
There was something special about this woman’s brain, something miraculous, something almost beautiful in a blurry, frosted way, something that made it okay, unintentionally self medicating the wounds of loneliness she was forming.
Her mind simply did it.
Gone.
Every thought of Bernard.
Gone.
Every memory.
Gone.
Every touch, every word, every idea.
All gone.
And Bernard, on his dreaded trip home, decided to plunge into the icy waters that same day, fully aware that he didn’t know how to swim, fully aware, yet apathetic, thinking about something his lover had once said about taking risks, although he wasn’t risking much considering his life was no longer worth living. No longer able to live with the guilt of staying away from his family, no longer able to live without his love.
Needless to say, he didn’t make it home.
And the nameless woman continues to live on the island, alone, absent, happy, all knowing yet knowing nothing at all.
Is fifty years of bliss a waste if there is no one there to remember it?
Is life?
be BRUTALLY honest. i really want to get better. thank you! (:
There once lived a young woman by the sea.
All her life she’d lived alone, in her little cottage, on a small, remote island in the Red Sea. And she was happy. She had the entire island to herself.
On some days, she’d walk along the shores, collecting sea shells, some to take back home, some to toss out into the sea again. Other days she’d lie out on her rooftop, listening to Frank Sinatra, singing along at the top of her lungs, glowing. And sometimes she’s just stay at home in bed, reading The Catcher in the Rye, patiently waiting for the rain to go away, not really caring, content either way.
Although she was alone, she’d developed a tremendous relationship with animals. Whenever she took a dip in the sparkling, salty water, she would swim with the sea creatures, all of them, dolphins, sea horses, clown fish, even the whales, beautifully, synchronized, for hours on end.
She could practically converse with her pet kitten.
She was unsure about her past, and all that she remembers, all that she has ever known is being alone. Not a sad kind of alone, either, just a “I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want,” kind of alone. Almost a prosperous, powerful feeling.
So imagine how she felt when a young man, Bernard, showed up at her doorstep one evening. She’d just gotten into bed, decided to call it a night after collecting dried up sea stars on the sandy beaches to decorate her mantle, trying to fall asleep, as the door bell rang. She waited a while, thinking maybe it was just her sleeping, dazed imagination getting the best of her. But it rang again, and this time she jumped out of the bed and swung the door open.
And there stood Bernard, somewhere around 7 feet tall. The young woman nearly fainted at the sight of this great, large, somewhat attractive male standing before her.
They hit it off right away.
He spoke of a family back home, a wife, his two children. He explained that he needed to get away from them for a while, “And what better way to get away,” he asks, “than visit an abandoned island in the middle of the Red Sea?”
She could only pretend to understand.
Their conversations started out short and chatty, consisting of “How do you do?” and “It’s nice out today.” Then, day by day, they progressed, and this young woman who has no name, yet, and this young man, Bernard, grew closer.
Their conversations soon grew to become something of meaning, discussing the purpose of life and the universes most mystical mysteries, debating whether there is or is not a god.
Then love.
Only, Bernard shuddered at the word “love”, always reminding this young woman that he has a family, that he must leave soon, go home.
She doesn’t believe him.
He seems too happy.
He doesn’t believe himself either.
He is too happy.
One year later, he was still happy, five years, ten, twenty, it didn’t matter, oh, it didn’t matter at all, as long as he was with this woman he’d learned to love, this pure, infinite woman with so much happiness, this flaw less woman, this beautiful woman, this adored woman.
He couldn’t do the right thing, nor did he want to, how could he, how could going home be the right thing to do if he was so happy here?
But then, one night, after they’d gone fishing in a small row boat on a warm summer day (or, at least, he suspected it was summer, they’d lost track of the days many, many years ago), something snapped, and he left. It broke his heart, but he knew he couldn’t stay forever. He’d been putting it off for fifty years, and now, he felt it was time.
So he left when she was asleep, without saying goodbye, without any sign or indication, without a word. Without a very special woman that had made a large dent in his swollen, ever growing heart.
When she woke up the next morning, she knew right away something was wrong. Bernard.
Something very amazing happened in her mind that day. First, she was torn. Then, she was alright, also knowing, all along knowing that he would leave eventually.
Then, her mind wiped itself clean. It seems her brain simply erased, deleted, if you will, every memory she ever had with Bernard, every feeling she ever felt towards him, all of it. If you would have asked her about him, she would have responded with something like, “What’s a Bernard?”
There was something special about this woman’s brain, something miraculous, something almost beautiful in a blurry, frosted way, something that made it okay, unintentionally self medicating the wounds of loneliness she was forming.
Her mind simply did it.
Gone.
Every thought of Bernard.
Gone.
Every memory.
Gone.
Every touch, every word, every idea.
All gone.
And Bernard, on his dreaded trip home, decided to plunge into the icy waters that same day, fully aware that he didn’t know how to swim, fully aware, yet apathetic, thinking about something his lover had once said about taking risks, although he wasn’t risking much considering his life was no longer worth living. No longer able to live with the guilt of staying away from his family, no longer able to live without his love.
Needless to say, he didn’t make it home.
And the nameless woman continues to live on the island, alone, absent, happy, all knowing yet knowing nothing at all.
Is fifty years of bliss a waste if there is no one there to remember it?
Is life?