General Fiction posted April 2, 2010 |
Feelings of being an outcast
Lost
by Realist101
Art can be nothing but a consternation sometimes. My thoughts wander, as I stare at this beautiful blank linen canvas sitting expectantly on my easel. I see my own reflection in the mirror I use to gauge my paintings with and the old gal staring back at me in the glass looks hallowed and worn.
I look away, embarassed to see myself, while my studio sits and waits, as if asking me why I'm here. And the ticking of the clock gives me the answer.
Outside there are birds singing joyfully. They are full of life, their little voices herald the day like a trumpet in Heaven on this perfect morning. But my heart is just not glad. There are demons haunting my life, in the form of hateful people who despise me for asking to be left alone. I wonder how such people can sleep at night. How they can live with themselves, knowing they are slowly, but surely killing someone.
Some of them wear badges, drive firetrucks and even ambulances. They are supposed to be bound by ethics and moral codes. But their blood runs cold as ice when they are called out on wrong they have done. And in America, in Indiana and especially counties run by small towns and small minds, you just don't dare "fight city hall".
I cringe in a tremor of nerves as a biker guns his Harley in front of my house, my home, my supposed refuge from the world. The sound reaches out with evil vibrations, stabbing my brain and nerves as surely as a knife would penetrate my body. Tears slide from my eyes and all I can do is call the very ones who are behind this onslaught and ask them for "help".
It is a "catch-22" in it's ugliest form, and I know I cannot defeat it. It is a "perfect storm" of legal terroism, designed by the best of the best, "our" own United States government. And who, on this earth, can stand up to them? Certainly not a speck of humanity like me.
I move from my easel, and wander listlessly to the phone. It sits like a toad, mocking and cold. It asks me, "Why do you bother dialing from my back?" And I answer, "Because it is my right."
So I dial and ask for the umpteenth patrol, the tired old request, "Please make them leave me alone."
And I know, as I sit and stare at the yellow sun, the beautiful sun, my eyes will burn away, and I pray, for my ears to leave me too, so that I can quietly disappear forever into the waiting dark.
Use these words in a story writing prompt entry
Art can be nothing but a consternation sometimes. My thoughts wander, as I stare at this beautiful blank linen canvas sitting expectantly on my easel. I see my own reflection in the mirror I use to gauge my paintings with and the old gal staring back at me in the glass looks hallowed and worn.
I look away, embarassed to see myself, while my studio sits and waits, as if asking me why I'm here. And the ticking of the clock gives me the answer.
Outside there are birds singing joyfully. They are full of life, their little voices herald the day like a trumpet in Heaven on this perfect morning. But my heart is just not glad. There are demons haunting my life, in the form of hateful people who despise me for asking to be left alone. I wonder how such people can sleep at night. How they can live with themselves, knowing they are slowly, but surely killing someone.
Some of them wear badges, drive firetrucks and even ambulances. They are supposed to be bound by ethics and moral codes. But their blood runs cold as ice when they are called out on wrong they have done. And in America, in Indiana and especially counties run by small towns and small minds, you just don't dare "fight city hall".
I cringe in a tremor of nerves as a biker guns his Harley in front of my house, my home, my supposed refuge from the world. The sound reaches out with evil vibrations, stabbing my brain and nerves as surely as a knife would penetrate my body. Tears slide from my eyes and all I can do is call the very ones who are behind this onslaught and ask them for "help".
It is a "catch-22" in it's ugliest form, and I know I cannot defeat it. It is a "perfect storm" of legal terroism, designed by the best of the best, "our" own United States government. And who, on this earth, can stand up to them? Certainly not a speck of humanity like me.
I move from my easel, and wander listlessly to the phone. It sits like a toad, mocking and cold. It asks me, "Why do you bother dialing from my back?" And I answer, "Because it is my right."
So I dial and ask for the umpteenth patrol, the tired old request, "Please make them leave me alone."
And I know, as I sit and stare at the yellow sun, the beautiful sun, my eyes will burn away, and I pray, for my ears to leave me too, so that I can quietly disappear forever into the waiting dark.
I look away, embarassed to see myself, while my studio sits and waits, as if asking me why I'm here. And the ticking of the clock gives me the answer.
Outside there are birds singing joyfully. They are full of life, their little voices herald the day like a trumpet in Heaven on this perfect morning. But my heart is just not glad. There are demons haunting my life, in the form of hateful people who despise me for asking to be left alone. I wonder how such people can sleep at night. How they can live with themselves, knowing they are slowly, but surely killing someone.
Some of them wear badges, drive firetrucks and even ambulances. They are supposed to be bound by ethics and moral codes. But their blood runs cold as ice when they are called out on wrong they have done. And in America, in Indiana and especially counties run by small towns and small minds, you just don't dare "fight city hall".
I cringe in a tremor of nerves as a biker guns his Harley in front of my house, my home, my supposed refuge from the world. The sound reaches out with evil vibrations, stabbing my brain and nerves as surely as a knife would penetrate my body. Tears slide from my eyes and all I can do is call the very ones who are behind this onslaught and ask them for "help".
It is a "catch-22" in it's ugliest form, and I know I cannot defeat it. It is a "perfect storm" of legal terroism, designed by the best of the best, "our" own United States government. And who, on this earth, can stand up to them? Certainly not a speck of humanity like me.
I move from my easel, and wander listlessly to the phone. It sits like a toad, mocking and cold. It asks me, "Why do you bother dialing from my back?" And I answer, "Because it is my right."
So I dial and ask for the umpteenth patrol, the tired old request, "Please make them leave me alone."
And I know, as I sit and stare at the yellow sun, the beautiful sun, my eyes will burn away, and I pray, for my ears to leave me too, so that I can quietly disappear forever into the waiting dark.
Writing Prompt Use these words in a story. -dark -blood -studio -mirror -glass. Write a story that is under 2000 words. |
This is how my life is. And has been since 2004. Noise is a very powerful and hateful weapon, and the key word here, is "excessive", I would use the word extreme to define what is happening to my family and I. Thank you to Surmed for the use of this excellent picture!!
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