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writing by chasingsunbeams77

Literature by barbels

stories by sbclover

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Submitted on
July 4, 2012
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425 (who?)
    The day her daddy got sent away, the whole neighborhood fluttered with closing curtains and eyes watching through cracked doors. His wife called it a mistake, the cousins called it rape and said he was a pedophile. And she just kept dipping her fingers into paint and dreaming about kites and the eyelashes on dolls, because she didn't know what any of those words meant. A year later, he came back, and she washed the sidewalk so he couldn't see that she was drawing their secret in light blue and petal pink chalk.


    "Those are nice pictures, baby," her daddy would tell her, but she hated it, because he always sounded sick, and he would rub her back with those big, rough hands until the neighbor's blinds twitched like the nervous wings of a bird. Aleksander finally made her daddy stop, because he sat on his porch all day with a scratchy blanket in his lap, saying prayers beside a full ashtray. "Why does he do that?" she asked him in July. "I don't like it when he does that." He patted her corn-silk bangs. "Don't worry, kid. I'll save you if he does." "I have a name, Alex," she huffed, but he only laughed and told her, "And someday you'll have to tell me what it is. Just in case."


    When she visited Aleksander in August, she told him about the secret, the thing her mother called a mistake. He looked at her with eyes wide like her daddy's stuffed deer head, but didn't interrupt, smoking cigarettes in the old porch chair. He crossed his ankles, and, when she was done, said that the world is a sick place. "If the world is so terrible, then why do you believe in God?" she asked with little-girl curiosity. He blew a smoke ring and tapped his cigarette out in the ashtray. "I need to believe in something, kid."


    "You remind me of my baby sister," he whispered. He was distant, thick in a haze of gray, dishwater smoke. She swung her feet back and forth, over the lip of the porch. "Is she dead?" And she only asked because he sounded like her auntie did whenever she talked about her cat. "She was nine. Like you." "Is that why you worry about me so much, Alex?" He didn't answer; when she looked over her shoulder, there were tears down his face, fast and quiet. She was scared for a moment – because she had never seen a big boy cry – but then he opened his arms to her, and she hugged him, and she wasn't so afraid anymore.


    She noticed he rubs the tiny, pinprick spots on his arms when he's upset. And one night, when he wouldn't stop doing it, she said to him, "Do you want me to sit in your lap, Alex? Sometimes my daddy makes me sit in his lap. And it always makes him feel better." He was drained, but still looked at her. Her hand was young, smooth, and so small on the leg of his jeans, so small that he broke a little underneath. "I love you, you know." "…Does your daddy make you say that?" he whispered; she nodded, unaware, while her offer waited. But he just shook his head, and let her believe that he was only doing it to say no.


    His mother wasn't like her mother. She was a big woman that had his blond hair and a pair of purple slippers, and she wore them that Saturday morning with a tired face as she swept the patio. "Aleksander is dead, honey. Dead and gone. The heroin took him places even Jesus wouldn't go." That night, she dreamt of crying. And every night after that, she dreamt of clocks and ghosts, and things that didn't make sense. "Monsters don't exist," he'd tell her when she had a nightmare. But sometimes, she still woke up screaming. She still woke up reaching for him. For something that didn't exist.



      She drew him a picture. A picture of a plane that he never found, for the journey he'd never take. For when we get away, her child's scrawl said across the bottom, in crayon the color of molding asparagus. P.S. This color reminds me of your eyes. And in seventeen years, she will find it again. And, just in case, underneath she will print five neat words in black ink. It's Emma, by the way.
it can mean more than you think.

When I was a kid, my neighbors' daughters used to draw submarines and pirate ships with chalk on the street. They'd be black with tire marks by nightfall.

And every morning, they went out to go fix them. For nine years.

And there you guys go, making me blush hot enough to melt my ice pop by giving me a DD. Thank you all so much, it really means a lot to me. :heart:
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-07-07
a picture of a plane. by ~colbalt-rain ( Suggested by riparii and Featured by thorns )
TheSoggo Featured By Owner Aug 1, 2013
Impressive... Very, very impressive. Thank you. :thanks:
colbalt-rain Featured By Owner Aug 2, 2013   Writer
You're welcome! :heart:
And thank you.
Glo-stikz Featured By Owner Jul 10, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Something in the phrase just before the 'after' section almost brought me to tears, though the entire thing was very powerful. The way it was written just amazes me; very strong, very meaningful.
colbalt-rain Featured By Owner Jul 10, 2013   Writer
Thank you so much. :heart:
TheInvisble Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
WHat was the very first thing you ever wrote?
colbalt-rain Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2013   Writer
A book series! Albeit it was only about fifty pages long. And most of the page was taken up by rudimentary "illustrations." And I was five.

It was about these two sisters, Tori and Ashley; in the first book, Ashley went to university and fell for this hottie named Timmy. They get hitched literally a day later, but on the day of their wedding, another guy, Evan, comes out of nowhere and says he's Ashley's true love. They have an Ultimate Smackdown for her love, before Ashley tells them both to fuck off and abandons the ceremony. So, the next day, she's hitched to another guy named - get this - Nick Cannon. (The names alone indicated how little I knew about American culture back then.)

In book two, Tori has this thing for a guy named Richard, but she's convinced her glasses will permanently cock block her (how ironic is it, by the way, that I now wear glasses?) She tries to branch out without him, be an independent female character, and catches him macking on some trick named Jenny at a school dance. Turns out Jenny is a complete skeeze and steals Tori's thunder in everything. So Tori, in a fit of tears, is running down the hall when she crashes into Richard. Turns out he's got a shrine dedicated to her in his locker, so they fall in love instantly and go out.

Quality writing. :heart:
TheInvisble Featured By Owner Jul 9, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Wow! Was it any good? How many things have you written since then?
colbalt-rain Featured By Owner Jul 9, 2013   Writer
For a five year old, probably. But now? No. The soap opera-level drama is eternally entertaining, nonetheless.

How much have I written since then? Loads. I have notebook after notebook of stories I wrote before and after I started school; I'd use my parents' old computer for dial-up occasionally, and when my dad brought home a laptop (I was eight; I'd fried the motherboard on the desktop by attaching a magnet to it) I utilized Word. I'd say I have hundreds of documents - dozens of story ideas started, never completed - spread over several computers. So I can't tell you for certain how much I've written since I started. All I know is, I'm addicted to it. Always have been.
TheInvisble Featured By Owner Jul 11, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
So what do you write about?
How long are the stories?
colbalt-rain Featured By Owner Jul 15, 2013   Writer
Lots of things. My father, who's my most avid reader and most helpful critic, says that my writing is very raw and truthful, and that I tend to gravitate toward tragic subjects, human nature, and just stories about life. I'm inclined to agree.

My novel - I'm in the process of writing one (got the first ninety pages!) - was a bit of a challenge to formulate. Because, while it incorporates all the tragic elements my writing usually has, it's on a much larger scale and there's a lot of action and (frankly) violence in between. Not to mention plot elements, foreshadowing, character arcs, dialogue, character development... Stuff I don't normally write. I'm most used to short stories, prose, poetry, vignettes - that sort of thing. But, at least I think, I'm doing a good job of it. It's probably my biggest project right now.
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