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Edited by The Cellar Door:
12/18/2014 3:54:23 AM
6
[Long Short Story] Lola (Part 2 Posted)
So, about a year ago I wrote my first narrative after a rather horrific dream. It became something weird. A love story if you will, or maybe a tragedy. Mind you this was my first serious attempt at writing something. This will presumably have 5 parts If I worked it out right. But heres the first part, I'll keep posting parts if this thread gets any recognition. Picture the numbers as separate chapters almost. The story transitions from the story to the narrators perspective on life in a non-linear fashion. I, the writer, am not the narrator aswell, that is for the reader to figure out. The story is meant to be heavy on interpretation by the reader. Feedback is good aswell. Every time someone critiques me (actual criticism) a cute little rabbit's life is saved. Who doesn't like fuzzy wittle bunny wabbits?
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[b]The Funeral[/b]
[b]1[/b]
[i]“Thank you for joining us for today’s pre-burial ceremonies of the late mother Holly Green (1977-2013) and her son James Green (1994-2013). We at H&L Funeral Home would like to express our condolences for your loses. Accommodations have been made so that the entire first floor of the premise is open for loved ones to pay their respects. Holly’s mourning will take place on the first door to the right, in the largest room of the house. James’ mourning will be located directly across the hall, or the first door to the left. The funeral director will be in Holly’s room for any issues or concerns, unless he is needed in James’. Please take the time to sign the check-in book.” [/i]
[b]2[/b]
Isn’t it ironic how many people you don’t speak to or care about will show up to respectfully send you to your grave? An individual may come across the thought, “who will go to my funeral?” and not be able to name a large number of people who would. Distant relatives, schoolteachers that you hated, third and fourth cousins, old acquaintances, past lovers, and a whole swarm of irrelevant people have some sort of moral embodiment that tells them to see you for one last time before the eternal distance of six feet becomes reality. Any one of these people could pass you on the street without noticing you, but as soon as you have secured a future of no return, you are a celebrity. They call out of work for you, buy your family flowers and a pitiful card of condolence. These people could possibly be very un-altruistic. They might not have a care in the world whether you died by suicide, homicide, or natural causes, however the laws of society dictate them to join in on the morbid examination of a family grieving over a lost one. Formal dress is almost a requirement, damnation to those who disrespect the all-seeing dead by not sporting a fancy collared shirt! There is no generalization to describe funeral-goers, except to say the quantity of them is baffling, and their quality is skeptical. There is also no empathy at a funeral, any attempts are corrupt and should be neglected. But that wouldn’t be nice, would it? Not one person can say they know how the husband of a murdered wife feels, not even another widower. Everyone perceives death differently, which is why it impacts everyone differently.
The most surprising fact about death is that death is fact. The most surprising fact about death being a fact is that people are surprised by it. You can live you entire life conspiring to the theories, laws, and “facts” of life and never be disappointed. However, every single one of these ideas is just a consensus between a community of studious intellectuals spending entire life times to justify something they observed. They could all be proven wrong, and probably will be. The only thing that we can possibly know is that we will die someday. There are thousands of years of human civilizations that can support this. Take a shovel to a graveyard and discover this amazing phenomenon for yourself.
[b]3[/b]
The off-white Victorian glistened in the daylight like the corroded hull of a sunken ship. You can’t say it was an eyesore, because that would be unethical, but it was an eyesore. You admire a man for living for over a hundred years, but find disgust in a once beautiful estate that is long overdue for renovation. The house spanned three stories, each level carrying a skirt of grey shingles, stained from years of weather. It was as structurally sound as a heroin addict; one more hit could bring it crashing down, but for now it would stand. The black shudders were traditional, and helped the house retain some of its beauty. They watched over the solemn disciples of misfortune the way a hawk watches its prey, silent and fearful.
The lawn, brown from dehydration, was littered with cars. In fact, the parking lot, driveway, and the closest road, were littered with cars. The old sign declaring “H&L Funeral Home” was invisible behind all the clutter. An onlooker might assume an official had died; some valiant celebrity faced an ultimate struggle to survive.
Old homes, poorly built with a wood and concrete infrastructure capable of sending a modern contractor to an insane asylum, tend to carry distinct smells. This old home was no different, save for the two dead bodies located inside. An aroma of wood deteriorated from water damage was slight, but noticeable. It was almost able to overcome the stench of old relatives that you cannot seem to recall the names of. The familiarity of this smell comes from awkward confrontations at an event you most likely did not want to be at. Does this hold true for a funeral? Just because somebody died, is this smell now a pleasant reminder of family? Complete this with a constant reminder of the amount of air freshener used in order to dissipate the problematic stench that corpses tend to make, and your nose is almost overwhelmed. It most likely is overwhelming, but nothing is said, as to not offend anyone.
The visuals of the inside were, in a sense, pleasing. The wallpaper in Holly’s room was a maroon color, dark enough to invite sadness, bright enough to allow light-heartedness. There were little to no imperfections, those noticeable enough were hidden behind portraits of biblical symbols. The room was lit in an off-bright manner. Sullen faces recently covered in tears were happy to see you in this kind of light. Chairs were lined up for the immediate family to sit on when they were giving handshakes of respect to the attendees of the funeral. There was a mural of Holly filled with pictures of her smiling, living like she should be. Her coffin was shrouded with hundreds of dollars worth of flowers, vibrantly shining their colored petals while the thorns stabbed at the happiness of her family. The florist must have been ecstatic with this huge order. James’ room was similar, to an extent. There were far less flowers and pictures present. The line of chairs was smaller than Holly’s. Off-white wallpaper covered the walls, complete with enough cracks and bubbles to force an acceptance of crudeness. This room was not usually used for funerals, and it was apparent that it had not aged like wine would.
Over four hundred people arrived at the H&L Funeral Home from the hours of 3 PM to 6 PM. Of these four hundred people, two hundred stayed for longer than ten minutes. Of these two hundred, only fifty paid their respects to James before moving on to Holly. Throughout the day, there was only one single person to stay in James’ room for the entirety of the ceremony. In fact, she was the only person to stay in that room for longer than the time needed to say a prayer and scurry over to Holly’s room. She probably would have stayed the night if she could.
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Copyright M.S. 2013
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[url=http://www.bungie.net/en/Forum/Post/85411423/0/0/1]Part 2[/url]
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Posted part two because of the lack of responses. Looking over part 1, I can see how it might not seem to allude to much.
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So is this just too long to capture you guys' attention, or just not interesting? I'm going to let this thread die after this bump and not post the other parts, because there's no reason to if I'm not getting criticism on it, I'm trying to better my writing.
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3 RepliesAny advice on how to copyright something? I don't know how one goes about it. I have story that I've been keeping a secret because of that.
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4 RepliesEdited by The Cellar Door: 12/18/2014 4:38:44 AMPart 2 -------------------------- [b]Lola[/b] -------------------------- [b]4[/b] James was 15, and drunk. Lola was 18, and drunk. The notion of intoxication at this party happened to become one of the best choices James had ever made in his life. He was confident because of the booze. However, no amount of confidence could help him in this quest, other than convincing him to start a conversation. Nonetheless, he was able to say hello in a charming sort of way. He met Her; but this was not the common ignorant assumption of “love at first sight” that is too often made by teenagers, this was a powerful meeting. There are very few events in life that are able to dissect every emotion one can feel in a single instant, but she did it with every word spoken. Their connection began at this average high school party, and was to be everlasting. It was not just an instance of a sophomore getting lucky with a senior, it was the moment where two pieces of a puzzle fit together better than primarily designed. [b]5[/b] Lola’s eyes were dangerous. A nuclear bomb would scurry and hide from them. They were manipulative and mystifying. Calling them a light green would be a show of your poor eyesight; they were an aurora borealis, naturally beautiful, equally intimidating. The radiance of them alone could control minds and destroy cities. It was a spectacle to view, if you were able to look more than a couple seconds. The most unattractive sights in the universe would be irresistible by dawning these eyes. Lola perceived her reality through lenses of true beauty. Her body was one to overwhelm the senses. A master hourglass maker had met their match. The gentle hills of Ireland would feel a sense of insecurity. Her pale skin was not one of discolor, but of a creamy tone of elegance. Lola’s face was one of strength, a compelling beauty that struck like lighting. It had a gentle rhythm to it, transcending beauty and intelligence. Long, luscious locks of auburn hair rolled gracefully down her shoulders and onto the shore of a beach like a calm wave. Her lips, a fine glass of pink zinfandel, were soft and bountiful. The desire her appearance could create was distracting and misleading, and she knew it. Lola’s most attractive aspect was her rhetoric. It was her concealed pistol, a golden .357 revolver that had already taken its precisely aimed shot before you had time to realize you were unarmed. It is a misfortune that beautiful women commonly lack intelligence due to dominant males rendering them useless, save for sex. Lola understood this; she despised it, and insured herself a high level of intelligence to avoid it. A grand orchestra was composed for every situation. She controlled the conversation, if you were lucky enough to get one. Her responses were almost always open ended, confusing statements to ward off suitors, desperate from her beauty. You didn’t get past her defenses unless she wanted you to. She was Aphrodite, a beauty to be feared. [b]6[/b] Lola loved her father, even if he hadn’t raised her as a child. His name was Richard, and he lived about a half hour away from her, and was the moral background for her psyche. He was a successful businessman controlling part of the steel industry, employing thousands, but would transform into an average dad when he was with Lola. She saw him once or twice a month, and divulged in conversations of life every time. They could simply be sitting in his kitchen for hours, and she would never be bored. Philosophical virtues taught here would allow her to keep an open mind about life. This man could not be a traditional father because of his ex-wife, Lola’s mother. They became divorced after a large market trade increased his net worth to an eight-digit number, and her mother had taken custody (Lola was still a toddler) along with half of his estate. Lola would never forgive her mother for this. Priscilla Rourke was the bane of Lola’s life. She was a woman who operated differently than Lola. Going to college and getting a masters degree was not a woman’s place in this world; societal progression is lame. She resented Lola’s strive for a philosophy degree. Of the many things Lola was secretive about, is that she had ran away from Priscilla twenty-three times throughout her middle-school and high school years. The police would find her in the guest room at her father’s house a day or two later every time; such heroism was repaid and kept silent in Priscilla’s bedroom after Lola had fallen asleep. Lola’s way of getting past her mothers refusal to pay for college was to work until she could afford her own textbooks, and then she would study them cover to cover. Priscilla burned every one she ever caught a glimpse of. She wanted to have a daughter who could manipulate men and live a fruitful life as she had. Lola found this disgusting. She read every textbook that PhD’s in both philosophy and psychology required by the time she was a senior in high school, simply because she wanted to. Priscilla was disgusted. ---------------------- [b]Love[/b] ---------------------- [b]7[/b] Much like Einstein’s cosmological constant E=mc^2, the general understanding of love is flawed. Most people surprisingly do not know what one of the most important equations in physics is saying, or even what the letters mean. Energy is equal to Mass multiplied by the speed of light, squared; the universe is connected, love is a necessity. Energy and Mass are equivalent; love and lust seem to be the same. The speed of light requires an infinite amount of energy or zero mass, true love is unattainable. However, assumptions about love are not facts, neither is a theory of special relativity, no matter how many times they are proven correct. It is slightly ironic how the depressed, the cynics, and the sociopaths of this world tend to scapegoat their inability to feel or attain love on their negative outlook. Generally, love is considered a positive emotion, whether it is biologically through serotonin or psychologically through relationships; love is a cosmological rhythm that the consciousness is pleased by. Nonetheless, these negative people with no cadence may feel the need to make love a requirement in their life. These people are not truly religious, if they were they would have God’s love, they are not true scientists, the love of knowledge is powerful for the hungry researcher. They are simply distracted people who have exchanged love for lust, as love exists universally. Lust is mass-produced by love monopolies. Prices rise when the company is doing bad and nothing can be done but accept it. Consumers think the product is the best due to being unknowledgeable of other possibilities. A beautiful woman becomes all that life is worth, her wishes become yours, and your morality twists with hers and is forever corrupted. You yearn to be with your significant other, this potential candidate should know this, they should feel the same, and life should become simpler. You will do anything for this person so they know you love them. Their flaws are irrelevant, not because of love, but because they are not flaws in your mind. But why are you doing so much work for a cosmological constant? You love your significant other, they love you, the knowledge is clear, similar feelings are of no question, and life’s complexities are a challenge to overcome with them. Almost anything would be done by either of you to continue your time together. Flaws are apparent, but accepted because your togetherness with them is more important than any single flaw. Equilibrium settles the sad man’s stomach. [b]8[/b] Police arrived at 12 Mica St after receiving a call from the neighbor, living at 10 Mica St, that the back door had been wide open and horrifying screams were heard. The newly hired cop was traumatized from the sight after entering the household. A thick pool of dark crimson blood sat still like an untouched pond, patiently waiting for a disturbance. The wall across from James’ motionless left arm was a painter’s canvas after flicking his red paintbrush violently. His left hand lay limber at the base of his feet. His right hand was curled over his mothers left, which was only revealed after the blood was cleaned up. Holly, his mother, was showered in the red liquid that was so apparent in this household. She was face-up, lying on the tile with a hatchet protruding from her skull as if it were a tree trunk. The oddest object in this horror scene was the kitchen stool that lay silent about a foot away from the bodies’ heads, it had damaged the tile below it, but the effect was negligible when looking at the two corpses. --------------- Copyright M.S. 2013 ---------------
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4 RepliesShort? [i][b]Mother of wall of text...[/b][/i]
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1 ReplyEdited by Punished: 12/18/2014 2:52:37 AMBump bump bump[spoiler]bump[/spoiler] [spoiler]btw that was really good[/spoiler]
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5 Replies*sneezes*
