Today’s words: Power, Hands, Sharp, White
Word count: 361
Completion time: 18 minutes
Summary: A man who everyone expects too much of finds other ways to display his aggression
There are references to self-harm, so, yeah.
Note: Despite the last sentence, there ARE other, safer ways to handle issues, and it's best to talk to someone if you're feeling this way. I was just trying to step into the shoes of someone who thought that it was the only option. Stay safe, guys x
--
Society has given him too much power, he thinks. Trust a man with that much power and they have the ability to destroy almost anything; many obstacles will be obliterated just by his existence. But what if his main obstacle, his main challenge, is himself? How does he knock down that barrier? Easy.
He looks down at his hands, grabs a sharp knife and destroys the only solid thing that is supposed to keep him together, the thing that’s supposed to protect him from harm. He realises quickly that it can’t protect him from everything, most of all – himself.
People expect him to get angry, to lash out, to quit being a pussy if someone agitates him and he decides to turn his cheek only to get it slapped.
“You’re a man, aren’t you?”
He was. He was a man, but he was less of a man than the men who weren’t so passive, so weak, so...’girly’.
As a child, he’d wonder why he preferred to hang out with girls, why his facial hair never really developed, why he hated action movies. Boys were supposed to hang with other boys, boys were rugged, boys loved explosions and fight scenes. And if he wasn’t a boy, a man, what was he? The answer wasn’t hidden beneath the skin, in fact, there is only one answer: a boy who isn’t like other boys is a boy. No more or no less than the ones who act ‘like a boy’. Still, he struggles.
He scratches his skin like it’s an eternal itch, like he wants to rid himself of it altogether, like he wants to start again in a new, better body.
He drops the metal implement into the sink, watching as it draws a swift line of red against the white porcelain. This isn’t the right way to live my life, he thinks, and it won’t solve anything, but if I can’t use my hands against others, I’ll use them on myself. It’s safer that way.
There are better ways to handle it, it’s easy for an outsider to say, but what if it felt like the only way to release pent-up aggression?
Tuesday, 18 March 2014
Monday, 17 March 2014
#98 - The Weeping Man
Today’s words: Nutritious, Alleged, Display, Wax
Word count: 764
Completion time: 47 minutes
Summary: Sometimes you raise your expectations only to be punched in the genitals by the fist of Life, figuratively
--
There is a stone statue that stands outside of Waterloo station.
The alleged amount of time it’s been there is undetermined by most, but people who know of him say that they can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there.
A lot of people use it as a landmark, telling friends, family, lovers, colleagues, that they’ll be waiting by the Weeping Man (that isn’t its official name, but the locals have named it so).
People walk by it, amazed by the realism etched in the face, the detail in the eyes, the anguish that seems to capture everyone who regards it; like a wax display at Madame Tussauds. Some say that to look at it carries the curse of a bad love life for at least a year. It’s never been proven, but the rumour continues to spread like a plague in the playground and the office.
This statue wasn’t always made from stone; let me tell you a short tale of how this statue came to be.
A man called Christian got in contact with another man online when he was twenty-two. He was the first person he came out to; not even his mother knew, and she thought she knew everything about him. The guy he met was charming, humorous, and he actually got what Christian was going through, because he too was bisexual.
They talked for months on end until Christian took the plunge and asked to meet up; they both lived in different areas of London, so it was easy to commute and plus, they seemed to be getting along as if they’d known each other since primary school, so what was the harm?
On the 16th of July 2010, after eagerly consuming a nutritious breakfast of avocado on toast, he kissed his mother on the cheek, grabbed his keys, and headed to meet this unnamed man.
It took everything he had not to throw up on the Underground train as he held his stomach and focused on the brown linoleum floor instead. He told himself that everything would be okay: they’d meet up, go to the park, eat a nice meal, and leave eagerly awaiting the next time meet again. They would be together for a few hours, but they would have so much fun that it would feel like five minutes.
He nodded to himself as he wiped a line of wetness from his eyes.
The next stop is Waterloo. Change here for the Jubilee Line, the Northern line, the Bakerloo line, and National Rail services.
His didn’t stand up until the last minute, ordering his legs to move as he stumbled on the platform.
Since the guy was driving there, he told him to meet him outside the station, so that was where he stood.
Fifteen minutes passed and, despite wearing the desired moss-green t-shirt and red skinny jeans, no-one had identified him. He checked his phone to see if he had texted; no luck. Christian cursed himself for forgetting to ask for his number too.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty-five minutes.
Twenty-six.
His phone vibrated.
Grabbing the phone, he opened the text that read: ‘As if, fag. You’ve been stood up xoxo’
Re-reading the message several times, he slipped the phone back into his jeans pocket and continued to wait. There was no way that someone that nice could stand him up. It wasn’t possible, he thought. They had built such a strong foundation, shared so many interests, and it was the first time he had ever felt that way about anyone, let alone another man. Someone must have stolen his phone or something.
His jaw tightened and a lump formed in his throat but he refused to cry. Every muscle was ordered to restrain the tears, but no-one can stop a flood with barriers made of paper.
Night time came but Christian stood where he was, looking forwards, keeping his eyes on a kebab shop opposite the road as if cheap, processed meat had the answer.
The next day, he was still there.
And the next.
And the next.
He refused to move.
Maybe there was a family emergency, he thought. Or a death. Maybe he’s too grief-stricken to text or call. I’m right where I said I’d be; he can’t miss me.
The reality of the situation never sunk in, never become his reality, so he stood there for days, weeks, months, and then years, anticipating a meeting that would never happen.
If you’re not scared of the so-called curse and you look into Christian’s eyes, you’ll understand what it means to be broken beyond repair.
Word count: 764
Completion time: 47 minutes
Summary: Sometimes you raise your expectations only to be punched in the genitals by the fist of Life, figuratively
--
There is a stone statue that stands outside of Waterloo station.
The alleged amount of time it’s been there is undetermined by most, but people who know of him say that they can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there.
A lot of people use it as a landmark, telling friends, family, lovers, colleagues, that they’ll be waiting by the Weeping Man (that isn’t its official name, but the locals have named it so).
People walk by it, amazed by the realism etched in the face, the detail in the eyes, the anguish that seems to capture everyone who regards it; like a wax display at Madame Tussauds. Some say that to look at it carries the curse of a bad love life for at least a year. It’s never been proven, but the rumour continues to spread like a plague in the playground and the office.
This statue wasn’t always made from stone; let me tell you a short tale of how this statue came to be.
A man called Christian got in contact with another man online when he was twenty-two. He was the first person he came out to; not even his mother knew, and she thought she knew everything about him. The guy he met was charming, humorous, and he actually got what Christian was going through, because he too was bisexual.
They talked for months on end until Christian took the plunge and asked to meet up; they both lived in different areas of London, so it was easy to commute and plus, they seemed to be getting along as if they’d known each other since primary school, so what was the harm?
On the 16th of July 2010, after eagerly consuming a nutritious breakfast of avocado on toast, he kissed his mother on the cheek, grabbed his keys, and headed to meet this unnamed man.
It took everything he had not to throw up on the Underground train as he held his stomach and focused on the brown linoleum floor instead. He told himself that everything would be okay: they’d meet up, go to the park, eat a nice meal, and leave eagerly awaiting the next time meet again. They would be together for a few hours, but they would have so much fun that it would feel like five minutes.
He nodded to himself as he wiped a line of wetness from his eyes.
The next stop is Waterloo. Change here for the Jubilee Line, the Northern line, the Bakerloo line, and National Rail services.
His didn’t stand up until the last minute, ordering his legs to move as he stumbled on the platform.
Since the guy was driving there, he told him to meet him outside the station, so that was where he stood.
Fifteen minutes passed and, despite wearing the desired moss-green t-shirt and red skinny jeans, no-one had identified him. He checked his phone to see if he had texted; no luck. Christian cursed himself for forgetting to ask for his number too.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty-five minutes.
Twenty-six.
His phone vibrated.
Grabbing the phone, he opened the text that read: ‘As if, fag. You’ve been stood up xoxo’
Re-reading the message several times, he slipped the phone back into his jeans pocket and continued to wait. There was no way that someone that nice could stand him up. It wasn’t possible, he thought. They had built such a strong foundation, shared so many interests, and it was the first time he had ever felt that way about anyone, let alone another man. Someone must have stolen his phone or something.
His jaw tightened and a lump formed in his throat but he refused to cry. Every muscle was ordered to restrain the tears, but no-one can stop a flood with barriers made of paper.
Night time came but Christian stood where he was, looking forwards, keeping his eyes on a kebab shop opposite the road as if cheap, processed meat had the answer.
The next day, he was still there.
And the next.
And the next.
He refused to move.
Maybe there was a family emergency, he thought. Or a death. Maybe he’s too grief-stricken to text or call. I’m right where I said I’d be; he can’t miss me.
The reality of the situation never sunk in, never become his reality, so he stood there for days, weeks, months, and then years, anticipating a meeting that would never happen.
If you’re not scared of the so-called curse and you look into Christian’s eyes, you’ll understand what it means to be broken beyond repair.
Friday, 14 March 2014
#97 - Compa$$ion
Today’s words: Care, Show, Year, Gifted
Word count: 304
Completion time: 17 minutes
Summary: What does it mean to be truly compassionate?
--
I realised not too long after I became an adult that people enjoy doing things to come across as good people, when really, they’re just pretending.
By tricking compassionate people into thinking they give a shit, they can make friends, but most importantly, they can make a profit. How much does faux compassion cost? They ask, picking up the tag between their fingers and turning it over.
“Let me show you,” they grin, “let me show you how much I care about the animals that I raise for slaughter, let me show you how humane it all is. If I show you, you’ll see, you’ll understand, you’ll get it.”
I see sheep running around a field, chickens let out of cages, cows grazing all day. I feel great. I photocopy the man’s smile from the TV and paste it onto my face, leaving it there for the duration of the advert.
But, why isn’t the death shown, too? That’s a part of the process, that’s what it’s all leading up to. Without death, this ‘humane’ treatment would be worthless.
I guess the most important bit doesn’t matter.
Farmer of the year.
You see, these people are gifted. The gift? Being able to pass bullshit off as chocolate that will melt in whoever’s mouth they please. Butter wouldn’t melt, but chocolate will. That’s a great gift.
Shit disguised as truffles, shit disguised as caramel swirls, shit disguised as strawberry crèmes, shit disguised...captivity, death, disguised as humane practice. Dressed to the head in gold ribbon and silver foil.
Everyone will scramble to open this present, this carefully wrapped tasty treat.
Eat
Eat
Eat
But as they do, they’ll close their eyes and pretend that no animals were harmed in the production of this gift.
They offered it to us.
They wanted to die.
And that’s fine.
Word count: 304
Completion time: 17 minutes
Summary: What does it mean to be truly compassionate?
--
I realised not too long after I became an adult that people enjoy doing things to come across as good people, when really, they’re just pretending.
By tricking compassionate people into thinking they give a shit, they can make friends, but most importantly, they can make a profit. How much does faux compassion cost? They ask, picking up the tag between their fingers and turning it over.
“Let me show you,” they grin, “let me show you how much I care about the animals that I raise for slaughter, let me show you how humane it all is. If I show you, you’ll see, you’ll understand, you’ll get it.”
I see sheep running around a field, chickens let out of cages, cows grazing all day. I feel great. I photocopy the man’s smile from the TV and paste it onto my face, leaving it there for the duration of the advert.
But, why isn’t the death shown, too? That’s a part of the process, that’s what it’s all leading up to. Without death, this ‘humane’ treatment would be worthless.
I guess the most important bit doesn’t matter.
Farmer of the year.
You see, these people are gifted. The gift? Being able to pass bullshit off as chocolate that will melt in whoever’s mouth they please. Butter wouldn’t melt, but chocolate will. That’s a great gift.
Shit disguised as truffles, shit disguised as caramel swirls, shit disguised as strawberry crèmes, shit disguised...captivity, death, disguised as humane practice. Dressed to the head in gold ribbon and silver foil.
Everyone will scramble to open this present, this carefully wrapped tasty treat.
Eat
Eat
Eat
But as they do, they’ll close their eyes and pretend that no animals were harmed in the production of this gift.
They offered it to us.
They wanted to die.
And that’s fine.
Saturday, 8 March 2014
#96 - Little Piggy
Today’s words: Market, Join, Minimize, Specialize
Word count: 106
Completion time: 5 minutes
--
As kids, the little pigs are always going to market
But we don’t know why
As adults, the pigs are still going to market
This time we know why
We just don’t care
If we could join these pigs on their journey
Be there to bear witness to their shortened lives
Would we still sing nursery rhymes about these dark times?
The little piggy isn’t going to market to buy food
He’s going to market because he is food
We need more people to specialize and end, not minimize, these animals’ pain
So that never again will we be fed at the expense of the dead
Word count: 106
Completion time: 5 minutes
--
As kids, the little pigs are always going to market
But we don’t know why
As adults, the pigs are still going to market
This time we know why
We just don’t care
If we could join these pigs on their journey
Be there to bear witness to their shortened lives
Would we still sing nursery rhymes about these dark times?
The little piggy isn’t going to market to buy food
He’s going to market because he is food
We need more people to specialize and end, not minimize, these animals’ pain
So that never again will we be fed at the expense of the dead
Thursday, 6 March 2014
#95 - Deer
Today’s words: Deer, Value, Late, Display
Word count: 193
Completion time: 18 minutes
Summary: A child witnesses a car crash, but no-one
seems to care about the resulting fatality
--
I saw a crash yesterday
A white car crashed into a deer
On the road that led through the forest
By my house
I was running late
And I knew mum would yell
So I walked slower
Hoping that would make it better
I’d rather be told off a million times
Than have to see what I saw ever again
The people in the car were okay
But once it was hit, the deer didn’t move again
People cared more about the people though, but
They didn’t even need to go to hospital
At breakfast, I asked if deer felt pain
“That bloody deer again? Son, who cares about
that?”
“What about those poor people?”
“They were probably so scared; I’ve never even
seen a deer up close besides the ones on display at the museum.”
“Hey, a
reindeer’s head would look great above the fireplace.”
“Name it Rudolph, we could decorate it instead of
a tree.”
“The antlers would look good covered in lights.”
“Great value for money!”
They laughed as they ate their roast dinner, scraping
their knives against the white plates as they cut into the meat
I wasn’t hungry
Tuesday, 4 March 2014
#94 - Eyesore
Today’s words: Remodel, Unadvised, Education, Delicate
Word count: 295
Completion time: 18 minutes
Summary: It’s possible to change yourself to fit society’s definition of beauty...but they’ll only find something else to make you feel ugly again
--
She leans against the peeling wallpaper that’s covered in roses as she picks and scratches her delicate skin. She wants it all gone, wants to remodel herself from the beginning, make it so that she comes out perfect.
When a drawing comes out wrong, the artist crumples it up, throws it away...if the drawing’s conscious, why can’t it redo itself? If it knew that it was an eyesore...would it be unadvised to tell it to change? Sketches can be erased and redrawn, edited and re-edited as many times as they want and it’s okay, so why not for humans? That’s what she thought.
“I want to be beautiful, skinny, lighter, I want to...”
...Please all of the people who only aim to make you feel worse about yourself.
If you change everything about yourself, they’re only going to throw more insecurity at you. Once you’ve cleaned your pretty white dress, bleached it white and ironed out all the creases, they’re only going to find more barbeque sauce and ketchup to dirty it again.
If you give up on looks and try to get a sound education, they’ll mock you relentlessly because you don’t know as much as them, and you’ll never be as smart because you’re a woman. Not only a woman, but a black woman.
Descended from savages, illiterate fools, closer to animal than human. Monkeys can’t read.
Though, once you realise that you can never please them...you don’t have to care so much.
Instead of pleasing them, please yourself. Be someone that you would be proud to know, someone who other people can look up to.
Get up from the floor and fight conformity, don’t submit to it.
You have the power to beat this, they just don’t want you to realise that
Word count: 295
Completion time: 18 minutes
Summary: It’s possible to change yourself to fit society’s definition of beauty...but they’ll only find something else to make you feel ugly again
--
She leans against the peeling wallpaper that’s covered in roses as she picks and scratches her delicate skin. She wants it all gone, wants to remodel herself from the beginning, make it so that she comes out perfect.
When a drawing comes out wrong, the artist crumples it up, throws it away...if the drawing’s conscious, why can’t it redo itself? If it knew that it was an eyesore...would it be unadvised to tell it to change? Sketches can be erased and redrawn, edited and re-edited as many times as they want and it’s okay, so why not for humans? That’s what she thought.
“I want to be beautiful, skinny, lighter, I want to...”
...Please all of the people who only aim to make you feel worse about yourself.
If you change everything about yourself, they’re only going to throw more insecurity at you. Once you’ve cleaned your pretty white dress, bleached it white and ironed out all the creases, they’re only going to find more barbeque sauce and ketchup to dirty it again.
If you give up on looks and try to get a sound education, they’ll mock you relentlessly because you don’t know as much as them, and you’ll never be as smart because you’re a woman. Not only a woman, but a black woman.
Descended from savages, illiterate fools, closer to animal than human. Monkeys can’t read.
Though, once you realise that you can never please them...you don’t have to care so much.
Instead of pleasing them, please yourself. Be someone that you would be proud to know, someone who other people can look up to.
Get up from the floor and fight conformity, don’t submit to it.
You have the power to beat this, they just don’t want you to realise that
Sunday, 2 March 2014
#93 - All Within My Hands
Today’s words: Change, Little, Direct, Desire
Word count: 175
Completion time: 25 mins
Summary: I always blame other people for things that don’t progress in my life, but it’s always my fault
--
I didn’t desire the world, I’d be happy with my own scene to admire through a frame of fingers. But a scene that I wouldn’t forget about, a scene that wouldn’t change into something undistinguishable if I left it for a few months.
Little girls can’t cope with big dreams; they go way over our heads, higher than red balloons caught in a draft, strings waving their farewells. So I’ll settle for this, except it isn’t really settling, it’s something I can hold onto, something that won’t blow away.
And I want to hold onto you, believe me I do, but no-one can predict the weather. You can’t direct nature.
Maybe it’s me. No, I’m sure it’s me.
The weather could be fine all the time, yet I’d still find a way to drop everything and leave. I’d pretend that I was fine with my unmoving scene, ignore the balloons I let go of, and blame it on the weather, man.
I want to hold on, but my fingers are too used to letting go.
Word count: 175
Completion time: 25 mins
Summary: I always blame other people for things that don’t progress in my life, but it’s always my fault
--
I didn’t desire the world, I’d be happy with my own scene to admire through a frame of fingers. But a scene that I wouldn’t forget about, a scene that wouldn’t change into something undistinguishable if I left it for a few months.
Little girls can’t cope with big dreams; they go way over our heads, higher than red balloons caught in a draft, strings waving their farewells. So I’ll settle for this, except it isn’t really settling, it’s something I can hold onto, something that won’t blow away.
And I want to hold onto you, believe me I do, but no-one can predict the weather. You can’t direct nature.
Maybe it’s me. No, I’m sure it’s me.
The weather could be fine all the time, yet I’d still find a way to drop everything and leave. I’d pretend that I was fine with my unmoving scene, ignore the balloons I let go of, and blame it on the weather, man.
I want to hold on, but my fingers are too used to letting go.
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