A Thunderstorm of words

I enjoy spending my down time jumping from story to story within the folds of really good books.

[justa-casual-writer]

Ranting

Okay, can I just say that having or not having a boyfriend means literal shit. Why is that a defining character for so many people? And if you say you don't have one, the obvious next question is 'why not?' Like, seriously, maybe because I don't have the time or the energy to dedicate myself to another person when I'm trying to achieve my dreams. Or maybe I'm just asexual or saving myself for marriage or going through a hard time or ANY NUMBER OF OTHER SCENARIOS.Sorry, but when you get asked this question almost on a daily basis when you are just trying to work and earn a living, it gets boring real quick. You'd think that every young lady in the area has a boyfriend and I'm just the odd one out, shyly reading my books and speaking only when spoken to. The reality is that I am completely content with myself. I enjoy having no other obligations except to myself and I enjoy staying in my own world creating and writing because when everyone else is off getting married and pregnant, I'll have a career and a completely self-satisfying purpose in my life that any partner I choose will either have to deal with or leave. Okay, I'm done.

[justa-casual-writer]

Writing for Days

I have hit that next level character development in which I am so invested in my characters that it causes me physical pain to write a scene that causes them to go into emotional turmoil.

[justa-casual-writer]

The hopeless romantic

I pretend not to care when you ignore me, but then you smile and you're looking right at me and I want to keep talking even though I have nothing to say and you're already walking out the door. I hate the smile that stays long after you've gone and the way my insides already belong to you.

[justa-casual-writer]

“Every year the dead season seems longer and colder than any we’ve known before, but eventually it breaks and then the flowers poke through the earth, more beautiful than any we’ve seen, and the first chirp of a sparrow, the most precious.”

-V.T.

[justa-casual-writer]

“From the small rectangular window in the basement of a middle-class suburban house, a child sat, completely alone in the world, watching as the first dandelion of the year sprang into existence. Weeds-a voice echoed from their past-useless. But to them, that beautiful flower signified hope and life and a future they could barely even dream about. ‘One day,’ the voice seemed to come from everywhere, delivering the words to their ears as a promise. They realized it was their voice, cracked from disuse.”

[justa-casual-writer]

"Lazarias barely managed to keep the grin from his face when the Magistrate walked in, robes billowing out around him like some godly priest. It honestly made him want to throw up until he remembered last night-the way the robes had slid like running water down his bare arms before pooling around his feet. It had taken both of them to undo the buckles securing his own pants, but then came the heat of skin on skin."

[justa-casual-writer]

"Her hand reached out, grasping, clawing for something solid, a tether to this world. It extended out, almost imperceptibly. Once. Then again. It wasn't until the fifth time that her hand felt something hard underneath and when she found that hope, she reached further than she thought she could and wrapped her fingers around it, pulling herself up. Up from her shackles and up from the depressed human being she had become. Barely conscious, she clung to her rock, even when people tried to pull it away from her."

V.T.

[justa-casual-writer]

Letting go

What I thought I knew, through the mist of adolescence, no longer is or ever was. A shared secret, whispered words, and a consummating smile were all it took to make me fall. Young and yearning for love, I thought his "you know me" was sincere. I thought I was in the thralls of passion when he teased me about my cleaning skills. That smile of pure happiness turned into a frown as I learned he was courting another the whole time. He was probably pretending I was someone else, wishing I were her, instead of seeing me as I truly am. For me, he was my world. For him, I was second best: a nice distraction from the rejection of his first pick. I wrote journal entries about him, several journal entries. But this is the last time...

[justa-casual-writer]

Perpetual Exhaustion

Harold flexed his trembling biceps, allowing himself a moment’s rest between reps to gain control of his limbs. The second they stopped shaking, he heaved the weights up to his chest. One. Two. Three. Every lift caused a blinding pain in his arms but still he didn’t stop. Four. Five. He would no longer be the weak kid that got picked on. Six. He imagined himself walking through the hallways of school, shirt now tight over his giant muscles, people gawking at him as he walked by, thinking he must be a new student. He would walk straight up to his bully and stare him down. He would dare him to beat him up now. Maybe a girl would notice his rippling biceps and give him the time of day. Harold got all the way up to twenty-five, the number he stopped at last time, but he just turned his Fall Out Boy playlist up to fullblast. He could make it to fifty. The image of Donny flashed into his mind, feeding his determination. He imagined punching him in his perfect teeth and then again in the stomach until he was keeled over on the floor. Then, he would drag him outside and throw him in the same dumpster him and his crones had thrown him in last week. He was up to thirty-five now and he could barely see the weights through the red clouding his vision. Just a little more he told himself, then he could beat Donny. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. His vision swayed and suddenly he was on the floor, barely managing to not hit his head on the weight set. His entire body trembled violently and a monstrous growl escaped from his stomach; he had limited his diet to lose the stubborn fat on his belly and legs. He lay completely still for a few moments, his dreams floating through him on each labored breath. With thoughts of a future just within reach, if he only pushed himself a little further, Harold heaved himself back up. Thirty-nine. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine...Fifty.

[justa-casual-writer]

Time Travellers

Yesterday you were in tomorrow,

But now you're in Today.

You have wisdom from the future

And knowledge of the past.

Through hardship and pain you've walked,

Just to see your dreams fulfilled.

And yet your hearts still beat true

Never a waiver or a falter,

Your smiles sincere

And laughs given freely.

I appluade you in your triumphs and plead to become your apprentice.

Teach me your ways.

Take me under your wing.

So that I might time travel, too.

[justa-casual-writer]

Poem #2

A world all its own,

Floating along in the guise of a rickety green rowboat.

It floats down the tranquil river to find a like mind,

One wrought with unending curiosity.

The inquisitive finder peers into the boat expecting it to be empty,

Not expecting a whole world to jump out and consume them.

Plants of bright purple, orange, and red found nowhere else in the world,

Simultaneously alluring and disgusting,

Comical and vicious.

Their wavy bodies dance to an otherworldly drum,

Weaving in and out of each other.

The only semblance of the real world a tiny babe

Sitting atop one of the florescent bulbs.

Akin to a human child, only miniature.

Its knees are pulled up to its chest in what can only be perceived as terror.

That is, until you peek closer and see the child's bright eyes and uptilted lips.

Joy.

An unfiltered joy to be on this unheard of plant,

To be inside this pocket of another world.

And so, peering into the child's petite face,

The finder found their calling,

Jumping into the plants that could be construed as animal parts or even food.

Letting the magical world on a boat

Take them wherever it deemed worthy.

[justa-casual-writer]

A touch of OCD isn't bad in a person, Matt thought. It wasn't like he was insane. So he had a thing with numbers, big deal. Plenty of people have problems, practically everyone did actually. If they didn't have some issue or another then they should be worried. Matt continued to rant in his head at the lady that was giving him a wary look across the train. She had probably been staring for a while as Matt counted every sign they passed on his fingers. He had been about to reach thirty when he noticed the old lady across the aisle, hands frozen in the middle of her knitting, looking for all the world like she was viewing an alien species. Now, he would have to start all over again.

[justa-casual-writer]

Freewrite #19

The most beautiful flowers all look the same to a stranger at night, caught in a midnight stroll through a garden with no name. There's no light, save for the dull flashing of his phone screen inside his pocket. He ignores it. Now is his time with the flowers. He reaches down a hand as he walks, just barely brushing the tips, and allows himself a moment's peace. A moment to forget the persistent vibrations of his phone against his thigh and to simply exist in the garden of flowers that may or may not be beautiful, may or may not be real. Later, he would return to reality, but not now. Now, he breathes in deeply the scent of unknown flowers and exhales out all his troubles.

[justa-casual-writer]

Classroom Musings

A window to another world, one only I can see. That's what writing is to me.

[justa-casual-writer]

Freewrite 17

“It’s okay you don’t have to love me.”

    He was shocked by the bluntness in that one statement and watched as the light faded from her eyes. Nothing about this was okay. Every second he spent with her made it harder to leave, harder to keep his promise. He took a deep breath and remembered all the reasons he had recited to himself before coming here this morning.

    He looked around the park they were in, at the wooden bench they were standing in front of instead of sitting on. In his head, they had been sitting down and calmly talking through things instead of standing against each other, both fighting against the dam of tears that threatened to break. “Good. Because I don’t.”

    She bit her lip and he had to look away. He focused on a flowering sycamore behind her. He had to do this. “It’s just eas-”

    She cut him off. “I had more to say.” He closed his still open mouth. “You don’t have to love me, but you can’t control what I feel. You can’t rip the emotions away like a band-aid. That’s not how things work, so say whatever you want, do whatever you want, but I still love you.”

    Damn it. He wanted to hug her, take her in his arms and carry her away. He almost did just that when he remembered why he was doing this. It was for a purely selfish reason and he felt terrible for having to put her through this, but he wanted to follow his dreams and he wanted her to find her own passion, too. There was too much dependence in their relationship. Maybe he should try being blunt like her and just put all his feelings out there. Looking at her saddened form, he felt he owed her that much.

“I wish I could stay with you for the rest of my life, I truly do. It’s just that if I do that, I’ll never be satisfied. I want to dance and I want to dance freely and without constraints like all the best dancers have. It’s my passion and I’m willing to give up our relationship for it because I know if this continues, I will choose you. I’ll dedicate myself to you for the rest of my life and we’re too young for that. I want you to find your passion too and chase it before you settle down, before you’re too old to.”

He looked from the towering sycamore back to her azure eyes and was surprised to find her smiling. He had just laid himself bare for her. He had exposed all his selfish thoughts to her in the hopes that she would understand and here she was smiling at him like he had cracked a joke.

He must have looked offended because her face quickly sobered. “You feel everything with such a passion. Everything you do has a purpose. I wish I could be the same, dedicate myself to something the way you have to dancing. You’re an amazing dancer and you’ll be great one day.”

This time he smiled at her. “You just have to have the courage to look around, one’s passion is usually right in front of them.”

They parted ways after that. They didn’t make false promises to keep in touch or to keep loving each other because they both knew life would happen. Their love would fade in the years they were apart and soon all they would have were those few stolen months together. Maybe if they had met in a different life, when they were older perhaps, they could’ve spent the rest of their lives together without all this talk of passion and dreams. But because of their youth, they were willing to give up a chance at love to pursue their passions. That’s what it means to be young. When one thinks of youth, they often think of first love and all that comes with it, but there is another form of love that is often overlooked. It is the love that one holds for their passion. Agreed, that passion is sometimes love, but sometimes it is not. Sometimes, the passion is a sport or an instrument or a voice or a pen. Some youths are not thinking about the secret kisses they had when they snuck out of the house the night before. They are thinking about the greats: the great singers, artists, athletes, musicians. They are dreaming of one day being as great as them. They mimic their style and routines in the hopes of copying their rise to fame; that’s where the goods are separated from the greats. Through the process of mimicking their idols, the greats will develop a new style all their own. They will separate themselves from their predecessors but they will still achieve what they set out to: self-satisfaction.  

[justa-casual-writer]

Freewrite #12

The attack was over in seconds. She was but a blur of shimmering, dancing light. The cyclops fell to the ground, eyes going so wide that the red blood vessels were visible beneath his eyelids. It matched the blood spurting out of his neck. His hands flailed around his neck trying to staunch the blood flow, idiot. There was no one in the world, save the gods, that could save him now.     It was kind of pitiful. What was but a moment ago a proud warrior, now reduced to a simpering coward. Disgusting.     As Ralph turned to walk away, one of the cyclop’s bloody hands found a grip on the bottom of his pant leg.     “Pl-ease,” he ground out. “Hel-.”     Just as quick as his partner, maybe even faster, he pulled out a small blade from his back pocket and drove it through the cyclops heart. The light instantaneously left his eyes as his soul vacated its cell.     “Can’t you at least make the deaths quick and neat.” Ralph stressed the last word as his eyes roved over the carnage that lay strewn about. His lip curled in disgust upon seeing a bit of flesh on his black shoes; he had just bought them in the last town. He quickly found a non-bloodied patch of grass, he had to walk a good distance away, and wiped his shoe off.     “What’s the fun in that? A neat death, ha. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Sophie looked around at the scene with thoughtfulness in her gaze instead of disdain. She found death fascinating, especially the story it told. Whatever lucky soul stumbled into this clearing after them would see a magnificent sight and know exactly what had happened. A great battle had taken place. They would be sore that they missed it, missed the chance to meet the great hero that slayed such a mighty beast as the cyclops. It was her own form of artwork, the deadly sorts and the only way she could showcase it was in situations like this.    

[justa-casual-writer]

Rainy Musings

"All good music is like a siren's call. We willing let it obliterate our sense of being, consume our souls. We are the beat's compliant slave, following it indubitably. It's not such a bad thing, to forget where we are for those brief moments, but once the final note leaves our body, we have to find the strength not to turn back to oblivion but to face the reality that lies ahead. Let the melodies we so cherish fuel us. Let them motivate us to achieve our goals and inspire us to dream big, bigger than we would ever think possible. For if we don't dream big dreams, how will we ever achieve greatness?"

-V.T.