#createye

[h-ey-bal]

Reuploaded writober, 7

Mom often asks me to grab some ingredients for her. It’s no wonder, really – dad has a lot of friends that come over, and they’re always hungry. It’s a good thing that she’s a good, good cook. I’m happy to help.

I go outside to grab some eggs. The chickens are very nice – they’re my good, good friends. Soft and kind creatures. They never-ever peck me, really, even when I pet them – mom says that it’s because they like good people. She’s probably right – who, if not chickens, would know that I’m a good kid? They see me every day, after all!

We used to have other animals, too. We used to, but then they disappeared – I don’t really know where they went. Mom says that we just couldn’t afford feeding all of them, so they felt bad about sucking our bank dry and decided to leave. Go travel the world. I hope they’re having fun, I really, really do.

I go to the garden next – it’s close by, so it only makes sense. I pull out some carrots, I collect the tomatoes – they all look very tasty and ripe. You know, we didn’t really have this much luck with veggies before. They used to grow bad. Most of them didn’t make it – I think that’s very sad. But no matter! Everything’s alright now, and it has been for a long-long time. I wonder what’s for dinner today…

The last place on the list now! The basement. I don’t like it there, but I do need to get the jars. And the meat too. So many things to carry… Good thing I have my basket with me.

I don’t really like going to the basement, actually. It’s very dark and moist in there – and it smells kind of weird. I also saw a spider there once – it had very long legs. It’s not that I’m afraid of spiders, no, I’m not a scaredy-cat! They just look weird, that’s all. No judging. I’m sure I look weird to them too.

I run down the stairs as fast as possible, keeping the door open to give me the much needed light. I barely see anything, but I still manage to find the preserve. Jam, pate, canned fruit – everything mom asked for is here! Not much meat, though. I hope it will be enough. I hope, as I sprint back up the stairs and to the kitchen – I hope, as I hand the basket to my mom.

I hope, as mom says that I have to go to the shed. I look at her sheepishly, opening my mouth to ask her for help – but she shakes her head, strict and firm. And so I go outside – I go outside and to the shed, the one that is a bit too far away from the house – the one that marks where our land ends. We don’t really have fence, so it helps quite a bit. Grabbing the axe left next to the wall I push the door open, going inside.

The man is sitting there. It barely manages to look up at me as I come closer, getting a better grip on the handle. It has really, really sad eyes – it opens his mouth and whines, showing its rotting, yellow teeth. Its whole body shakes as he does. What a sad, sad creature – I wish I could put it out of its misery, I really do. But I can’t.

I raise the axe. Mom’s a good cook. She needs the ingredients.

And I’m happy to help.

[h-ey-bal]

Reuploaded writober, 3

She's still pretty. We've known each other forever. Ever since childhood, since the moment I set foot into kindergarten. She was drawing at the table - a cat, a pink one. It was a nice drawing, a really good one for a five year old. And so I started talking to her, and she started talking to me. We became friends. Good, good friends. Best friends, even. And then, when we sat together in the fourth grade, she drew me a picture of a cat. And I kept it, you know? I kept it. I kept it, and it still lays still on my table – and I smile when I see it, smile every single time. And at that time, at that time I started noticing how pretty she is. I started staring at her during lessons, not blinking, simply taking everything in – she wore braces back then, and she always smiled with her teeth. Pretty smile, good smile. As good as it gets.

And in middle school we went to school dances as a pair – not because we were in love, no, just because we didn’t really fit in with anyone else. She wore a silly green dress, and we danced a lot – not together, just around each other. And I was happy with that. I was happy to spend time with my happy best friend, with her silly – pretty – freckles and mismatching socks. And she was pretty that night, without any make up or smooth dance moves. Much prettier than everyone else.

Her skin was always a lot like cookies – not only because of the color, but also because of the scars littering her face. Small ones, cracks on the dough caused by it rising – pretty, just as pretty as everything else about her. She loved her cat, and she was right to do that. That made her pretty as well.

When we were watching the stars on that night, she looked pretty. As pretty as the sky, really – a little universe all in herself. And she was smiling, no braces, but smile just as pretty – and the flowers in her hair felt so natural, as if they were always supposed to be there.

And, when on the day back I lost control of the car – when we went down the hill, when she got pinned by the tree we drove into, when she cried and begged for help as I cried, cried and cried, trying desperately to call someone for help – no signal, no signal, no signal – she was pretty. Her face a bloody mess, giant wounds from glass all over her body, her leg stuck, stuck and bleeding. She was crying. She was screaming. And I couldn’t do anything, anything at all.

She’s paler now. She’s paler, and more scars litter her face. Not only her face, really – her whole body is covered in them, and it’s almost scary to look. But she’s still pretty. The brown string running through her skin is stitching her together – and, if you don’t really look, it just looks like pieces of chocolate. She’s looking at me, her eyes stuck open – she’s looking, and she’s still pretty.

Even in death.

[h-ey-bal]

reuploaded writober, 2

Halloween. My favorite day of the year. Free candy, pretty lights, spooky decorations – what’s not to love? And, of course, costumes. Beautiful costumes, wonderful costumes – the most important costumes. All year I sew and cut, sew and cut – I prick my fingers with the needle, I frown at the blood on my fingers, but I keep working, keep making, keep sewing.

“Aw, what a cute little pumpkin head you are!”

And it’s always worth it.

I like it when other kids come up to me. I like it when they treat me as an equal, trick-or-treating with me – I like to hear them tell jokes, and I like to hear them laugh. They always ask me for my name, but I never answer – that would just ruin the mystery, wouldn’t it?

“Aw man, how come you get all the candy?”

I laugh at the question and offer my bag to the fairy. Her eyes widen as she reaches inside, stuffing a fist-full of taffies in her mouth. And then she takes my hand, and we run to the rest of the group – and someone starts teasing us for holding hands, and it makes her blush. I don’t really care for the teasing, though – as long as I’m a part of the group.

Everyone gasps with excitement as I cut up an apple with my claws. “They’re wooden”, I say, showing them off with great pride – and everyone compliments me on my costume as I mysteriously smirk. Some adult scolds me later for having a dangerous costume – they tug and pull, trying to tear away the wood. It hurts, and so I start to cry – and the parent gets shamed by all the others, and they let me go as I run off with their kids.

“YOU’RE IT!”

I feel a light tap on my shoulder, and, in a second, see the boy dressed as a werewolf running away. I freeze for a mere second before taking chase – I’m a good, good runner, after all. It’s in my blood, really. I touch his shoulder and scream “IT!” back, turning away and running while looking back – laughing, smiling, having the time of my life. And I don’t notice the rock before my feet.

Falling head first into the concrete, I scream out. It hurts. It hurts a lot, it hurts so much – I grab onto my pumpkin, I feel around and I find a hole. Paralyzed with pain, I stay on the ground, barely hearing all the other kids come closer. The fairy is sitting down right in front of me, and the other two kids are getting me to sit up – and I obey, feeling my head begin to ring. Everyone seems so worried, so caring. It feels nice. It feels really good. And, of course, I tell them I’m okay – and I smile weakly, even though nobody notices.

Nobody wanted to keep running around after that – so we went to someone’s house. Sitting around next to a tv – a real tv! – we started telling scary stories. It still hurt. It still hurt, but I was very brave about it – I even told a few stories of my own, holding the flashlight next to my face. One of shadow creatures born from sadness, one of voices that follow children – and every time I left all the others speechless, holding their breath and looking at me with pure fear. I like telling stories, what can I say?

And, after a while, people started falling asleep – parents started calling parents, telling them that their child is staying over. I knew it was time for me to go – I knew it, so I started saying my goodbyes to the ones that weren’t asleep – and they all told me to come back tomorrow, and they all told me that I’m always welcome to hang out with them. And I knew that this wasn’t true. Fairy led me to the door. She thanked me for coming, and, before closing the door, squinted and looked around, as if about to tell me a secret. She opened her mouth.

“How come your face isn’t visible through the holes in the pumpkin?”

And so I ran. I ran down the street, ignoring her callings – I ran through the town, and I ran straight to the forest, deeper and deeper into the darkness. I didn’t stop until I reached my home – until I climbed into the hole under the tree, holding my breath. Looking in the mirror in front of me, I grabbed at the end of the crack – oh how it hurt. A big chunk is missing – what a hustle it’ll be to grow this back.

It’s incredibly painful to lose a part of your head.

[h-ey-bal]

Reuploaded writober, 1

It’s perfect weather for a nice little picnic.

The grass is wet – it’s a real shame Molly couldn’t bring a blanket to sit on. They get so dirty on these little picnics – food leaves oh so many stains! And no need to be so judgmental about it – Molly is not at fault here, not at all. She’s a real lady, as elegant as one can be. Even the best of manners can’t prevent food from falling out of a girl’s hand. There’s so much, after all!

Molly has a big, pretty crown. It looks a bit dirty, but don’t pay any mind to that – scrubbing away syrup is no easy task, after all! There’s always at least a little bit of red left in there. No sin in that, she’s still the cutest little princess.

The pudding is a bit too thick, but that’s alright. Molly just needs to wiggle her spoon around, make the food into a nice mush – you have to work for a perfect snack, after all! The red goo is swirling around, getting tastier and tastier with each spin. The noise the bowl makes isn’t nice, isn’t nice at all, really – like the scratching of claws against a desk. But Molly manages, sticking her tongue out in the effort – what a passionate, hungry little girl.

A scream. Molly turns to the side, looking at the hooligan disrupting the nice little picnic. Well you surely weren’t invited, young sir, no-no! And right you are to run away – surely you’re embarrassed by your behavior. And who exactly are you calling for, a guard? What would you report to him? Are you truly heartless enough to snitch on a girl having a picnic?

And no need, no need for words as harsh as “grave robbing”. Good girls deserve a little snack – it’s not healthy for such a young person to starve. The cabinets at home are empty, empty – there’s nothing left, and mom has been out of town for months! Oh, the people these days. So egoistical and cruel.

Would you look at that, there are gummy worms in this pudding! They’re even wiggling, what a nice trick! Delightful. Don’t you think so, Molly?