destinie21
Daddy's Brat
- Joined
- May 27, 2003
- Posts
- 3,612
I need help on a story, not exactly a story idea because I have that, not exactly feedback either because the story is still a work in progress (and a short one at that.) No this is just a thread for those of us who have little storylings that won't be birthed no matter how hard we push. Maybe we can be helped or maybe we'll be damned hell if I know. Anyways here it tis.
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The morning came without much preamble, gathering darkly over the city and casting no shadows. It would rain that was a doubtless and indisputable fact. The city held its collective breath thankful for a foreseeable end to the heat wave and praying for the downpour as if it were manna from heaven. There were no un-kept celestial promises that day and at three minutes after eleven o’clock in the morning the sky split open and the city heaved a sigh full of relief and renewed faith in some higher entity that could indeed grant wishes and perform small miracles.
Among the newly inspired believers walking through the downpour there was a girl, she was thought to be pretty but not beautiful. Her features were pleasing enough and not at all out of the ordinary, her body spoke of a life of near starvation. The signs of hunger were not in her slim shoulders slightly bowed under the weight of too many secrets kept nor in her small frame or concave stomach. No the look of hunger and longing rested solely in her eyes. Nearly all who met her sought to feed her on some level. They wanted to rescue her and assumed that she wanted to be saved. She was the quintessential victim or so they thought. The girl knew she was playing a role and acted it out well. Not that the hunger and pain she had felt in her short life weren’t real, of course they were, but she was not. She was not who they thought her to be and she had no desire to be saved it was too late for all that, she had seen to much horror and too much pain and known too many things children should not know. But because she fancied herself an actress she allowed the events of her life agglutinate and provide a reasonable simulacrum of reality.
It was very much like she was two people, the victim and the victimizer. The victim was their fallen angel for whom they wept, yet they demanded that she be broken and deserving of their pity and then again she was their devil she could show them volumes of fear and evil if she so chose. Didn’t the fact that she was at heart a trickster prove her to be all the more maniacal?
She who had for eighteen years been robbed of love and compassion wanted only to find then exploit the weakest part of others. She saw no fairness in the lot that she had been cast and therefore saw no reason to be fair to others, hadn’t god himself turned away from her? Hadn’t she knelt begging and pleading for an end to her suffering? But it had not ended, had not even lessened or loosened its grip on her life. So why now should she think of god and long for forgiveness or praise him with thankfulness?
She had no time for such foolishness and no time to for faith or religion and she surely had no time for the zealotry involved. The orgies of fasting and debaucheries of praying and self-sacrifice sickened her and the sheer buffoonery of it all amused her, but still she pondered where the truth resided. Was it a confidence that degenerated into the tolerance of evil? Was there some mystery that she could not grasp or did she merely see what was real? She did not know, could not know because she could not fathom such a thing as grace.
As she made her way through the rain in a dress that was too short, too thin, faded and recently rain soaked she pondered, keeping her features impassive and un-bewildered, she had learned early on not to let her every thought reflect on her countenance, acts such as that made it too easy for duplicity to be discovered. She wore her affected innocence as a mask and most who saw her thought her to be a child. Her form did not lack the curves of womanhood in fact she was well formed it was instead her face attitude and posture that made them question her age she was at once both eighteen and five.
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The morning came without much preamble, gathering darkly over the city and casting no shadows. It would rain that was a doubtless and indisputable fact. The city held its collective breath thankful for a foreseeable end to the heat wave and praying for the downpour as if it were manna from heaven. There were no un-kept celestial promises that day and at three minutes after eleven o’clock in the morning the sky split open and the city heaved a sigh full of relief and renewed faith in some higher entity that could indeed grant wishes and perform small miracles.
Among the newly inspired believers walking through the downpour there was a girl, she was thought to be pretty but not beautiful. Her features were pleasing enough and not at all out of the ordinary, her body spoke of a life of near starvation. The signs of hunger were not in her slim shoulders slightly bowed under the weight of too many secrets kept nor in her small frame or concave stomach. No the look of hunger and longing rested solely in her eyes. Nearly all who met her sought to feed her on some level. They wanted to rescue her and assumed that she wanted to be saved. She was the quintessential victim or so they thought. The girl knew she was playing a role and acted it out well. Not that the hunger and pain she had felt in her short life weren’t real, of course they were, but she was not. She was not who they thought her to be and she had no desire to be saved it was too late for all that, she had seen to much horror and too much pain and known too many things children should not know. But because she fancied herself an actress she allowed the events of her life agglutinate and provide a reasonable simulacrum of reality.
It was very much like she was two people, the victim and the victimizer. The victim was their fallen angel for whom they wept, yet they demanded that she be broken and deserving of their pity and then again she was their devil she could show them volumes of fear and evil if she so chose. Didn’t the fact that she was at heart a trickster prove her to be all the more maniacal?
She who had for eighteen years been robbed of love and compassion wanted only to find then exploit the weakest part of others. She saw no fairness in the lot that she had been cast and therefore saw no reason to be fair to others, hadn’t god himself turned away from her? Hadn’t she knelt begging and pleading for an end to her suffering? But it had not ended, had not even lessened or loosened its grip on her life. So why now should she think of god and long for forgiveness or praise him with thankfulness?
She had no time for such foolishness and no time to for faith or religion and she surely had no time for the zealotry involved. The orgies of fasting and debaucheries of praying and self-sacrifice sickened her and the sheer buffoonery of it all amused her, but still she pondered where the truth resided. Was it a confidence that degenerated into the tolerance of evil? Was there some mystery that she could not grasp or did she merely see what was real? She did not know, could not know because she could not fathom such a thing as grace.
As she made her way through the rain in a dress that was too short, too thin, faded and recently rain soaked she pondered, keeping her features impassive and un-bewildered, she had learned early on not to let her every thought reflect on her countenance, acts such as that made it too easy for duplicity to be discovered. She wore her affected innocence as a mask and most who saw her thought her to be a child. Her form did not lack the curves of womanhood in fact she was well formed it was instead her face attitude and posture that made them question her age she was at once both eighteen and five.
