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(I'm still taking these off a list, because I'm half-asleep and lazy.)
EDIT: Since a few people wondered about some aspects of this.... yes, these are to share with you. Everyone should write! Everyone should write about everything they want, but a lot of people like to get kick-started with prompts.
You don't have to show me what you write, but it would be cool if you did, because I love to read what comes out of y'all's heads. :) I haven't been reading much thus far simply due to lack of time, but I plan to go back through when I do have time...
Write!
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Patchwork
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you mean...
Re: you mean...
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Then again, it was the reason she didn't talk much.
She leaned back and closed her eyes, her gravely, wounded voice filling the space between them. "I had to escape, you see..."
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I'm debating now, telling the whole story. We'll have to see what happens. The timeline for the original tale doesn't fit in to the timeline for the new stuff, so I might have to fudge around.
But I do love my Wild Girl. :D
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My wound
I am 18 years old.
I'm in Esperance in December, playing cricket with my boyfriend, my 10-year-old sister and my seven- and six-year-old brothers. We play on the street, because you can in Esperance. No traffic. No risk.
My middle brother hits a big, lollipop-arcing boomer. Thwack! I run across the road to catch it - I want it so badly. I want to catch my brother out at cricket for the first time ever in my life.
But the gravel's thick in the gutters. I start to slide in my summer sandals. No grip! No chance. Sssscreeeaaaaatch... knee first, slide across the steely rocks. Flashes of red pain, a scream, stinging prickles in the flesh.
My boyfriend does the hero manouevre right about now. He runs across the road (doesn't slip, sure of foot, bloody athletic boys), scoops me up and carts me to the backyard of the house. Jessie's grabbing bottles of antiseptic, bandaids, cotton balls.
The first time she ever gets to patch her eldest daughter's skinned knee.
There's a hunk of rock that's burrowed deep into the torn flesh below the bone. She expertly plucks it out with a pair of tweezers. I have an excruciating emotional connection with her in that moment - we are bonded. First time it feels real.
I've never talked about that before typing this tonight.
She doses out acrid-smelling liquid onto a cotton ball and presses it gently to the wound. She leans away to retrieve the bandaid she brought with her.
At that point, my baby brother, who has been standing stoically by while I suffered the cricket injury ministrations, slowly steps forward towards me. His eyes never leave the gash on my knee. He stops right in front of it and just stares.
"Are you okay, Bryce? I'm okay. Don't worry."
His hand flashes out and he pokes his finger into the middle of the mess. SQUISH!
"Does that hurt?"
"ARRGH!!"
And Jessie, mother, intervenes. Retributions, comforting hugs, her large voice and overwhelming overprotection, all over all of us. And I loved it. I just loved it.
Moral of the story #1: Six-year-old boys are the same the world over.
Moral of the story #2: It has taken him another 10 years to begin to come to grips with having a brand new big sister.
I still have a stain from the gravel under my skin. I hope it stays forever. I'm rather attached to it.
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Branwen's Tale
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All of the ones I missed, too. Aaand apparently it's the day for bad boys.
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http://www.livejournal.com/users/goodrumrose/113932.html
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I most definitely need to get with other writer's. It is the one thing I have missed the most. Just like you were struggling with having been sexually assaulted, I was diagnosed from severe Clinical Depression. I actually had double depression; a chronic clinical type and an underlying constant moderate depression resulting from a childhood trauma. I was molested when I was three years old.
I was put on Anti-Depressants and in therapy with both a Psychiatrist and a Psychologist for a year. I was fortunate. The depression that I had been living with all of my life went away with treatment, but my psychiatrist said that there was a chance that I would be on Anti-Depressants all of my life.
There is still a chance that the depression could come back. I have to be vigilant. The point of all of this, is that during the time I was getting treatment was when I stopped writing. I was busy dealing with reliving my childhood and trying to keep myself from drowning, that I just stopped seriously writing. I never realized how much I missed it. It was like breathing to me for so long.
It's nice to meet others of like mind.
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And when you get back to writing, when you tap that vein again - it is a healing, oh yes. :)
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Not that there is any such thing.
Either way, aren't brains fascinating? I realize you're all spooned out with your brain, but still. Sometimes aren't you just enthralled by all the things that brains do?
I think you should write some scifi about brains. It could pay your bills!
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The morning was calm, a light breeze ruffling the proud war banners standing tall above the battlements, gusts periodically snapping them taunt. Soldiers sat at their stations and in the tents, some wandered in half armour along the trampled grass, a sickly green colour, some places stained red. Men ate field rations, tasteless and bland, but filling, staring at their forks, their food, not lifting their heads up high to look around. There was nothing to see but more tired, aching, listless soldiers. The battle had been relatively short; four days and nights, then the enemy retreated at the loss of their warlord. But the Commonwealth Army still remained; the enemy could re-group and counter attack at any moment; the front had to remain strong. Previously wounded men hobbled about with freshly healed, but sore bodies, trying to regain mobility. Archers wordlessly made arrows in each others company; foot soldiers cleaned and sharpened blades. Mages sat in small groups, in meditative trances, refuelling their mana. So many tasks, so many people, all with the same thing on the back of their minds; the brave man who had single-handedly driven the hordes back, the Commander.
Cy had been carefully re-located off the battlefield into his tent, lain flat on his back on a spare cot. His right knee had been bound in an immobile splint, as was his left hand and wrist. His tunics and right pant leg shorn away, bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs. Lacerations and bruises marred his skin, left unattended until his broken bones were mended. The healers were exhausted; draining their energies to dangerous lows, creating the need for smaller, shorter shifts, and longer breaks. Gina, physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted, struggled to keep her eyes open, her husband’s limp hand held between hers. Unable to stay awake any longer, her alertness fading fast, she curled in her chair, resting her head next to his shoulder. Before she drifted into much need sleep, her weary eyes watched the shallow, but steady rising and falling of his chest.
A few hours passed; he woke with a start. His eyes burned with fatigue, he blinked them rapidly and drew in a sharp gasp of breath. He grunted, the flash of pain from his ribcage causing a chain reaction of painful muscle contractions throughout his body. He remained stock still, staring at the ceiling of his tent, trying to regulate his breathing to a less painful level. Slowly, his foggy brain began to inventory his aches and pains, relaying them to his consciousness: immobile right leg, left arm, both throbbing dull constant pain; lightly bound ribs, hurts to breathe deeply, cracked and/or severely bruised; lack of strength, muscle control, general muscles aches from using body carelessly. He sighed; his body was in process of heavy recuperation, and there was nothing he could do to speed the process. A weight and warmth against his shoulder caused him to lift and turn his head to inspect. A familiar violet head rested there, he smiled; she clung to his uninjured arm for comfort, his and hers. His fingers squeezed her slightly, all the strength he could muster. Then his head was plagued by a dull, but overwhelmingly increasing ache, starting from the base of his skull and rampaging through to the front. He moaned and set his head back down.