crazy_atheist's Xanga

Auditions

Thu, 26 Oct 2006 23:05:23 GMT

Call backs for the Importance of Being Ernest were today and having sat through two days of complete panic in the theater departement, this poem is my way of forgeting it. I have a lot of respect for everyone who auditioned, but for everyone's peace of mind, I'm glad they don't happen that often.

I hope I get in

Oh I really hope I get in.

Whispers fill the hall,

Thousands of voices

Working in concert.

Prayers to Dionysus, to their mothers, to their friends.

Please god let me get in.

They pace in circles,

Overlapping but never interrupting.

Each lost in their own private world.

He is talking to an old teacher,

Her to her former boyfriend.

They catch eyes.

She smiles shakily.

“Break a leg.”

The stage is pitch black,

The supplicants line up on its edge.

Their whispering never stops

Even here their pleading is not done.

They begin.

A trembling girl steps forward.

She says her speech,

Her eyes fixed above the balding head.

HE is staring at her,

And now HE is writing.

Her eyes waver to the pencil and she stutters.

HE looks at her.

She is frozen in the limelight.

An eternity passes in absolute silence.

There is reverence behind her,

Remembrance of when they too broke the rule.

One must never look at HIM.

Prayers from the forgotten

Fri, 06 Oct 2006 01:07:03 GMT

Kay, I'm not quite sure what to make of this post. I don't really like it, but I haven't posted something in forever so this will do. I didn't really have anything in mind when I started writing and it turned out kind of strange...

The rain pattered down gently on the steps of an old church. It draped the church and surrounding buildings with a soft grey curtain, hiding the boarded up windows and broken beer bottles. A girl kneeled on the steps of the decrepit church, half hidden by a tall grey pillar. Her blue eyes were focused on a figure no more than three feet away from her. She studied the boy with unblinking attention through the black curls that spilled over her face. She followed the waves of his red hair as it grew darker and darker in the rain. She mentally traced his profile, the jutting eyebrows and too large nose, with a pointy chin and a skinny neck. He bent his head lower, and she memorized the shape of the boy’s back as he knelt towards the church. His lips moved in silent prayer and hers moved with him. Finally, the boy stood up to leave. He turned towards her and his gaze seemed to draw her out. Slowly the girl rose and stood before the boy, arms held out in welcome. He frowned and rubbed his eyes but did not turn away. She smiled, revealing perfect pearls, and advanced slowly, placing her hand on his heart. They both glowed briefly at the touch and then it faded. The girl stepped back, placing both hands on her own heart. ”Thank you.” She said. He frowned and shook his head as if to clear it. She watched his back as it disappeared into the rain and finally entirely as he rounded the corner. She hated to see him go, but she knew he would be back. In the mean time, she had his prayer. The girl sighed and returned to her vigil. The prayer she put in a locket around her neck; proof to her son that somone still visited this decrepit old church.

The first human

Sun, 24 Sep 2006 15:46:00 GMT

I just read a creation story by my friend Bri and thought it would be fun to do one...It turned out a little strange.

Bobby was playing with paints again. Marie was supposed to be babysitting him but she was busy talking on the phone. No one ever paid attention to Robby. All they did was coo at him and talk in funny talk that made no sense. Bobby was tired of it. And he was tired of sitting still too. Bobby looked back at his picture. It looked like a brown smudge with a hat on top. He sighed. Bobby would never get it right. And now he had run out of paper. He sighed and looked around. Mommy had said not to draw on the floor. And Daddy told him no furniture. But then, Bobby saw what he could draw on! Bobby inched over to Daddy's big wooden ball and pushed it over to his paints. Bobby was excited. This was fun. He took his blue paints and painted in big blotches. These were called oceans, he decided. He liked that word. The green splotches would be continents. Bobby giggled and added big yellow splotches too. Deserts. Bobby dipped his brush in the white and smeared it over the green. Ice. He thought to himself happily. Then he leaned back to look at his creation. It needed more color. He dipped his fingers in colors and sprinkled them on the green, making flowers and trees, and forests. Bobby giggled louder and clapped his hands. But he was missing something. Bobby crawled over to his craft box. He dove in and clutched at the clay. The box fell over but he didn't care. Marie wouldn't even notice. Bobby toddled back to his globe and stuck little pieces of clay onto it. Animals. He thought decidedly, shoving clay together to make different shapes. Bobby sat there for a minute to stare at his work. Then he turned and waved good bye to Marie. Marie didn't look. Bobby grinned and stepped into the earth.

Purchased Time

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 01:05:06 GMT

She smiled and held up her face to welcome the dawn. It peeked itself furtively out from beneath the water and then, sure of its audience commenced its arrival. Arrogantly, the sun sent colors out before it, to announce the beginning and then the march began. As it emerged, a full orchestra of colors played, spreading out to envelope the whole skyline and the faithful attendees who watched in appreciation. The arrival reached a climax as the entire sky showed blood red and majestic purple; then a slow finale with rose pink and violet. Its entrance finished, the orchestra died down until the sun was left, to walk the long path of day alone. It settled grimly to its task, with the memory of the sending off to sustain him and the promise of a beautiful welcome to encourage him. Ashley smiled and leaned back in the still cool sand, at peace with herself and the world. The loud beep of an alarm clock shattered her euphoria. She groaned and turned towards her right where a person was materializing out of the sand. He was a young man dressed in a suit and business tie who was at the moment busy with getting the sand out of the creases of his well ironed shirt. He straitened when he saw her and put on a pleasant smile. "Good morning Ashley," He said in a brisk tone. "Your allotted lounging time has just ended. Work will begin in five minutes unless you care to purchase more time." Ashley sighed and felt for her purse. It was such a beautiful morning. Just this once she decided she would enjoy herself. Her questing hand closed on a ten dollar bill and she pulled it out offering it to the man.
"One more hour please." He nodded, depositing the money in a side pocket.
"Thank you, your clock will now show your purchased time. Good day, and have a pleasant lounging hour." He gave her a brisk nod and turned, faded away into the air. Ashley yawned and reached out her face to feel the warming sun. It would be a well spent hour.

Train Rides

Fri, 15 Sep 2006 11:29:06 GMT

He sat on the train watching her through the dirty window pane. The train had just screeched up to the station, sending her red hair into disarray. She would get on this bus. He knew this as he knew himself yet had no idea why. He watched as she self-consciously smoothed her frizzy wind-swept hair and stepped onto the train. Into his compartment even. She took a seat towards the front of the bus, settling into the plastic yellow seats like a satisfied cat. After a minute a battered book appeared and her face was lost in its story.
He continued to watch her with a single minded intensity that left him regardless of the bustle surrounding him. His stop flashed by and he didn't move; a boy played his music loudly behind him and he didn't even twitch. The conductor announced the next stop in his impenetrable Brooklyn drawl, but the girl must have understood for the book disappeared reluctantly and she stood up. Again smoothing her hair and checking her outfit for disarray or disobedience. She walked towards him as the train ground to a stop. He froze, locking into her walk and her very air. He knew he wouldn't follow her, he never did. She smiled at him absentmindedly when she caught his gaze then glanced away towards the opening doors. She hurried towards them and stepped out into the bustling city. He watched her red hair until it was obscured by the crowd, feeling strangely saddened about her disappearance and his unwillingness to follow. He would never see her again; strangers didn't meet in a city of millions.

Beauty

Sun, 10 Sep 2006 01:28:24 GMT

Kay, this idea came from reading a post written by my friend Brianna at http://lucidwaking.net/. She's a really awesome writter and I liked her story so I wrote one similar from a different point of view. So, I give her full credit and hope she will not be mad at me.
The girl entered the room with her head held high. She wore a beautiful off the shoulder dress and heals that clacked with every turn. Her hair was done up in intricate rings and lips shown red. But, despite the careful hours of primping, no one turned when she entered the room. There was no hush of aww when she descended a staircase, no rush of young men eager to make her acquaintance. She was not beautiful. Her nose was too big and her lips too thin. She wasn't even pretty. The girl watched her fiance turn away at her entrance, watched him duck behind a nearby pillar. Let him go. She thought cynically; let him have one last fling. What do I care if he can't stand to dance with me, he will still marry me. He needs the money and the title. Let him go. He would come to terms with her face, as she had, long ago. He would learn to stifle the instinct of disgust, stifle it until it no longer existed; as she had learned through long years of pain. She may not be beautiful, but she was stunning. The girl watched her fiance from the corner of her eye as she drifted across the dance floor. She watched him skulk in the shadows until he disappeared out of the door. He was dancing with the dark haired beauty. She knew it in an instant as if she was there watching. The girl closed her eyes and danced with her fiance while he stared at her with eyes full of admiration. She moved through the steps, wrapped in the day dream until the song ended. She blinked in the sudden light and moved to the door. Silently, the girl watched as a man and a dark haired beauty climbed off the patio and disappeared into the night. She felt a single tear role down her powdered cheek as the two figures vanished together. For once, just once, she wished she could be beautiful. Finally, the ugly girl wiped her cheek and returned to the party. For, the woman might be a beauty, but she was the bride.

Hello, my name is Jackie

Sat, 09 Sep 2006 10:57:32 GMT

Jackie stared out at the two people sitting expectantly in front of her. They held clipboards stuffed with paper and one was tapping his pencil idly against the wooden table. She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the people had vanished. She was young Helena who was lost in the cold dark forest desperately following Demetrius. But now, as if her love would not bad enough, both lovers now joined together to torment her! She shouted at them and cursed them in her humiliation and felt the tears well up in her eyes at their mocking. But suddenly, another emotion took the place of fear. She felt the welcoming heat of indignant anger and turning back to Hermia's mocking suitors shouted, "None of noble sort would so offend a virgin and extort a poor soul's patience, all to make you sport." Helena stood there, chest heaving with emotion and anger. She stood there silently, letting the emotions and Helena slip away from her slowly. Finally, she opened her eyes; Jackie Gershwin, age twenty one bowed to the director and walked off the stage.

Stolen Memories

Sat, 02 Sep 2006 11:51:02 GMT

Hello, My name is Adrian, and this is my story. I know that you have no idea who I am and are wondering why you are reading this and honestly, I can't tell you. I can't make you read this either but I hope you will take the couple of minutes. You don't even have to believe me; all I'm asking is that you listen.
It was late in the city that never sleeps, two o'clock would be my guess. I was sitting in the forgotten corner of a noisy sports bar. Of course, I'm not technically allowed in here but my dad is one of the loud drunks over by the TV, so they let me in. The bar seemed like it had been installed right after the prohibition was lifted and hadn't changed once. The only acknowledgment of a modern world was a 24inch plasma screen TV mounted in the place of honor on the wall and outfitted with the latest cable; sports twenty four-seven. Of course, by two in the morning only the hard core alcoholics were left and mostly they were too drunk to know which team they were rooting for. Regardless, they yelled slurred insults at the blurry box while I stood absolutely still, waiting for the rain to stop. It had been going on all day, pouring huge sheets of solid drops into the city's strained sewage system, and whipping the umbrellas away from anyone foolish enough to go out. The rain was the reason I was stuck here with the yelling idiots.
Suddenly, the wood door to the bar swept open in one fluid motion with the roar of the elements adding to drama. A woman clad in a multi colored robe stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind her. The door shut with a bang and complete silence followed. Even the TV had faded into the background as all eyes turned to stare at the haughty woman with black hair to her waist and olive green eyes. She did not seem to notice the stairs but instead walked strait up to the tightly packed group of humanity clustered around the empty bear bottles. They stared at her, transfixed as she raised one finger to point at my father.
"Come." She said sternly. Her voice was husky and powerful, a bonfire roaring with life.
My father rose to his feet silently with his brown eyes wide open. She smiled slightly and twirled around, gliding back out towards the door and my hiding place. My father followed with a degree of agility I would have thought impossible, such was his need to follow. She appeared not to notice the half-jogging man behind her and stepped out through the door just as she had entered. I noticed him though and after scarcely a moment's hesitation stepped out after them. Mama had told me to look out for my father five years ago before she left, and I didn't think she'd approve of him going out with a strange lady.
There wasn't anything sensual about this event though; if anything, it was more like a woman and her old dog who yearns to sit by the fire but walks out of obedience. And me. We walked on in this strange game of follow the leader for quite some time until suddenly she stopped and twirled around to face my father. A huge sculpture loomed above the lady, a sculpture that seemed to be using a huge mushroom as its base. I stared at it for a minute then laughed out of surprise and something like relief. This was the Alice in Wonderland sculpture that I had played on for long hours as a kid! And this was central park, my very own backyard. For an inexplicable reason I felt comforted by these remembrances and gained confidence. So, completely without fear, I crept under the mushroom where the other two had already disappeared.
It was deathly silent under the metal protection and I held my breath when going in for fear of being discovered. I needn't have worried. The lady and my father were sitting across from each other, one impassively and the other with weary resignation.
"What do you want?" My father asked, his rough voice echoed throughout the shelter and made me shiver with apprehension and delight.
"Talk to me. Tell me your life." The woman said quietly. Her voice didn't echo but settled on us like a smothering blanket. My father nodded and began to talk. He started out with tonight and then for some strange reason began to talk about me. As I sat in that metal confine, I heard my life repeated, from his earliest memories to this morning before school. As he talked the woman seemed to gain in magnificence, sparkling and expanding until the very air seemed to harbor her soul. My father, by contrast, grew more ragged and droopy, what he looked like in the morning after a night of drinking. Finally, he had no more memories of me to offer and so fell silent.
She smiled for the first time that night and her smile was cruel and exultant. "Thank you." She stood up and left the mushroom, leaving father and son together in silence. My father promptly passed out and as I sat there watching him I felt the strongest urge to go to sleep too. But I couldn't sleep here. Because I finally knew what happened when father went drinking. And I knew what was stolen night after night. She took his memories. Some people could remember what happened when they were drinking, but he never could. Now I knew why. And this night, by some weird coincidence, she took his memories of me.
I ran home in the pouring rain without feeling a thing. Stopping only to grab some money from the jar, I ran to the train station as saltwater mixed with pure on my face. I got on a train to Boston two hours ago, and am sitting on the blue chairs writing this account. This is for you father, from the son you forgot.

Some Peace Offering

Mon, 21 Aug 2006 18:43:09 GMT

Kay, this is the sequal to the one I wrote forever ago with the computer chip in the cigarette. Its not as good, but worth the read.

Anya sat cross-legged in her small bed. She was bent over something in her lap, obscured from Paul’s vision by the sheet of pale blond hair tumbling down around her like a shield. She looked like a tiny fairy sitting in a sea of blue he thought reverently. Her oversized t-shirt and rumpled hair only served to set the mood of calm relaxation and did nothing to dispel the fairytale. The fairy yawned and brushed back her hair in a careless sweep. The other hand clenched a small piece of metal and levering herself out of bed, Anya held it to the light. She seemed to be searching for something on the smooth silver surface. Whatever it was, she wasn’t finding it. Finally, after another ten minutes of minute searching in which Paul scarcely dared to breath for fear of disturbing the silence, she slammed the metal down. It made a small crack as it hit the oak desk, the sound of wood on wood. Both Anya and Paul froze. Then they swore passionately, the girl out loud in a long fluent gush, the boy silently in short awkward phrases.
“I don’t believe this!” Anya muttered to herself hysterically. “They wouldn’t dare! Not after last week! Oh Lord! Mother is going to be royally pissed with this…” Still mumbling angrily, she whirled towards the door.
“Not necessarily.” A man’s voice interrupted her, cool and polite. Paul emerged from the closet at last.
Anya reacted instantly to the sound of his voice. By the time Paul’s sentence was done she had a gun in her hand and it was pointed directly at Paul’s head. He blinked slightly and held up his hands. “You were always fast with a gun.” He said with weary admiration. Her hand didn’t waver and her eyes boiled with anger.
“Get out.” She snapped.
“But I haven’t been in yet! How about it’s nice to see you Paul, how are you doing? Why I’m doing fine Anya, and I’m glad to see you got the ringlets out of your hair.” He created the conversation cheerfully, pretending not to notice the cold ring pressed to his skull.
“Get out now or I shoot.”
“But we agreed that I was always welcome!”
“That was before you crossed me. Right now I have a loaded pistol and a worthless piece of wood. So I suggest you start running.” She was speaking evenly with deadly calm. It was always like this when she was preparing to shoot. She could be as angry as she wanted but once she touched the trigger, everything was cold. Her heart, her reason, and her will. Paul read all this and sighed.
“Actually, I wanted to talk.” He mumbled, blushing slightly.
“Oh, so now he has a conscience.” Anya sneered grandly without lowering her arm. It was beginning to ache.
“I’m not confessing anything Anya, I just want a mature conversation.” Paul said calmly, watching her eyes. She looked annoyed and uncooperative. She opened her mouth to speak when a hollow wooden sound interrupted her. Someone was knocking on the door, hard and insistently. The two figures froze with their heads turned towards the noise. Anya reacted first. Shoving Paul behind the door with the barrel of the gun, she grabbed a dressing gown and after shooting one last deadly look at the petrified Paul opened the door.
The conversation with the servant lasted only a couple of minutes but for Paul it felt like hours. Amaya sounded perfect, he thought with admiration; annoyed at being interrupted yet in no hurry and completely relaxed. Paul glanced at his watch. Shit, too late to explain it all even if Anya would listen. And this wasn’t something that could be left half done. She shut the door softly while he was calculating time and faced him. Her face was a polite mask. “What did you want Paul?” She asked in a constrained voice.
“What did she want?” He countered.
“Mother wants us to play nice for a little while. I don’t believe she meant in my bedroom though.” Anya answered after a pause. “So I guess I can’t shoot you until after I tell her about the faked chip. In the meantime, what did you want?”
“Never mind. Cigarette?” He offered lazily, pulling a white cylinder out of his pocket. This seemed to amuse her and she took it.
“Is this bribery? I’m not that addicted.”
“Think of it as a peace offering. Not that I approve of the habit.” He added hastily, staring at Anya. “It’s disgusting and will kill you a lot more painfully then a bullet.”
“Then why did you give it to me?” Anya demanded, holding the cigarette loosely and searching her dresser for matches. “well, aren’t you going to light it for me?” She snapped finally.
“No.” was his enigmatic answer. He turned to go.
She snorted and called to his back. “Some peace offering, what’s the point of a cigarette if I can’t light it?” He didn’t respond but pushed back the well oiled grate and climbed out of her room with the ease of a gymnast.
Anya pulled a lighter out of her purse and lit the cigarette. She sat there inhaling the lovely nicotine scent and reviewing the last hour events. The strangest part, she decided, was that he was so determined the talk to her only to change his mind and give her a cigarette instead. And he didn’t even smoke. “Think about it as a peace offering.” He had said before leaving. The whole thing was strange. Unless, the point wasn't the cigarette and instead he was giving her a message....Anya froze and then stamped out the cigarette, burning the table in her haste. With trembling fingers she unrolled the burnt paper to reveal a long string of hand written code.

Dance with Me

Sat, 12 Aug 2006 21:16:47 GMT

“Dance with me.” The words whispered in the poor sailor’s ears as he held firm to the wheel. “Dance with me.” They whistled in the wind, blowing around him invitingly. Tugging on his clothes and urging him on. He clutched the wheel resolutely. A mocking laugh full of spring and carelessness drifted back to him. “So you will not dance?” The words crooned, enveloping him in the scent of a woman’s hands. The sailor stiffened his grip though the hands that held the wheel trembled violently. “Come,” a single word spoken softly with complete assurance. He gave in. Slowly, fully aware of his doom he turned his head and those green sea wary eyes gazed into the bottomless blue.
The sea stared back at him: A woman, with long black hair and eyes of the sea; Full red lips that laughed scornfully and a tail of scales, scales that glinted with the ocean’s waves and shimmered with her bottomless depth. The lips parted and spoke the man’s doom. “Come.” He gave himself up and jumped, leaving the ship to fend for its self. She caught him and cradled him in her arms. Holding him like a child and whispering her eternal song. “Dance with me.” Deeper and deeper they spiraled down, until the man felt himself change. His thick brown hair flowed into dark green seaweed, and floated down to nourish creation. His blood turned to water and coursed through him and his skin into the rubbery gray of the sea. His limbs became fins and he found that air was no longer necessary. His brain stayed the same however and looking around, the old sailor felt the insatiable need to play and be free in the wonderful blue world. Finally he turned to the sea and together they danced in eternal freedom.
So my child, do not mourn the sailors lost. They are part of the sea and eternally dance beneath the stars. They will dance for you too when you enter her realm. So watch for the dolphins surrounding your ship, for they are the sailors, calling us back to sea.