x-file.
04-15-2007, 02:18 PM
I tried to write this short story, in a poetic vain. I hope that it comes across rhythmic and poetic to the reader. Please enjoy.
The bone rag-doll girls’ purple dress dragged heavily along the granite pavement as she walked with no purpose with her head bowed in low self-esteem. The Rag-doll girl did not look in any shop windows nor at the people who walked around her sniggering and poking fun with verbal idiocy that left the high brow weeping for high culture. Puddles were never covered with gentleman jackets for her to cross dryly over. Chivalry was indeed dead, as she may as well be. Lost in a world of many, in her head one, in her heart none. The times the philistines have stood upon her favoured purple dress and watched as she’s been jerked back with a mousey sound of pain and fear. The lecherous laughs that sound like the things in the land of the bools, the purple world she belongs to. She may want to leave here, she may very well want to leave with all of her slight being, she may wish upon a willow, and weep, but it never comes true, the actuality of her reality makes her want to die. In her dreams the only place she can feel free, a parallel world in her mind where she has a life, materialistic void life, with philosophical discussion, spending frivolous time with someone, not alone.
A day, yes another day, afraid and alone, progressive agoraphobic, progressive crier. Time, how to spend hers, how to spend an hour in bliss, without crying happily for the love of buffalo 66. Could it be a capture, a kidnap that makes her, forced to be, alive and uncertain of what will come next a spontaneous irresponsibility. Beauty, the aesthetics and the purple dress she wears with long, dirty un-kept black hair. Lying in the bath for hours, for whole days, hoping for sleep, hoping for the covering of a watery sheet. No guts, no glory.
Last year she broke her heart, was humiliated, was torn apart. Torn asunder under the white clouds of a summers day, with her lover, her best friend. whom went away. Clouds became dark and her mood macabre, disturbed. Never has she trusted again, never, never, never. Emphatically imposed celibacy, not for Morrissey, for her, for the safety of her delicate heart, for the rag-doll girl to stay alive, she stays emotionally apart.
The bone rag-doll girls’ purple dress dragged heavily along the granite pavement as she walked with no purpose with her head bowed in low self-esteem. The Rag-doll girl did not look in any shop windows nor at the people who walked around her sniggering and poking fun with verbal idiocy that left the high brow weeping for high culture. Puddles were never covered with gentleman jackets for her to cross dryly over. Chivalry was indeed dead, as she may as well be. Lost in a world of many, in her head one, in her heart none. The times the philistines have stood upon her favoured purple dress and watched as she’s been jerked back with a mousey sound of pain and fear. The lecherous laughs that sound like the things in the land of the bools, the purple world she belongs to. She may want to leave here, she may very well want to leave with all of her slight being, she may wish upon a willow, and weep, but it never comes true, the actuality of her reality makes her want to die. In her dreams the only place she can feel free, a parallel world in her mind where she has a life, materialistic void life, with philosophical discussion, spending frivolous time with someone, not alone.
A day, yes another day, afraid and alone, progressive agoraphobic, progressive crier. Time, how to spend hers, how to spend an hour in bliss, without crying happily for the love of buffalo 66. Could it be a capture, a kidnap that makes her, forced to be, alive and uncertain of what will come next a spontaneous irresponsibility. Beauty, the aesthetics and the purple dress she wears with long, dirty un-kept black hair. Lying in the bath for hours, for whole days, hoping for sleep, hoping for the covering of a watery sheet. No guts, no glory.
Last year she broke her heart, was humiliated, was torn apart. Torn asunder under the white clouds of a summers day, with her lover, her best friend. whom went away. Clouds became dark and her mood macabre, disturbed. Never has she trusted again, never, never, never. Emphatically imposed celibacy, not for Morrissey, for her, for the safety of her delicate heart, for the rag-doll girl to stay alive, she stays emotionally apart.