Let us Pray

     She sat with her head bowed and her eyes closed. It was hot and she felt her dark, thick curls begin to stick to her forehead. She reached her hand up to touch the stocky shoulder of the man next to her. As if he knew her intentions, he opened his eyes and glared.

      “Don’t,” he snapped. “Head down. Be respectful. Pay attention.”

        She instantly snapped her head down, but she couldn’t close her eyes. She could feel the heat radiating from the bodies around her, and she shifted uncomfortably. Her hands were squeezing her black skirt causing it to wrinkle and expose her black stockings. She would be respectful and pay attention, just as her father instructed.

          A man started speaking. His voice echoed throughout the silent room. His voice was enticing, an intoxicating sound that captured the girl’s attention. She found herself clinging to his every syllable.

          The man’s voice was deep, seated way back in his throat. His consonants were crisp, taking away the possibility of sleep. She could hear his strength in his words, and she felt a draw to the man. Her instincts advised her to stand and approach him, to hold out her hand to him, but she kept her body firmly planted on the wooden bench.

         His voice rose in pitch and intensity. She could feel the entire room start to sway. The man on her right began to rock gently. Forward. Back. Forward. Back.

     A woman on her left let out a small moan. The girl lifted her head.

     The congregation of people had their eyes closed, bodies moving to some un-known music. Yet, it wasn’t unknown. It was the man’s voice. She could feel it building in her blood.

     The volume of the man’s voice rose again. The congregation responded accordingly. More moans could be heard from other people throughout the crowd. Her heart started to race.

     The woman next to her started to wring her hands together. Her mouth was moving, but there was no sound escaping her lips. The man on the girl’s right starting pulling at his tie and collar. Beads of sweat were dripping down his face.

     The speaker’s voice sang out, calling, deep and passionate. His words were cascading notes with trills and a strong melody. The sound melted in to her, hot and sticky. She gasped for breath, and snapped her eyes closed. His voice pounded her, over and over and she felt herself surrendering.

     Members of the congregation began to cry out; she heard their cries, sharp and frantic against his control. She ignored them. All that mattered was him and his voice.

     It engulfed her, and she allowed it to take over. Her body began to shake and shiver despite the growing heat. Her breath quickened and moans began to escape her lips. She thought it was beautiful, her sound with his, and so she continued until she too was crying out, her body moving uncontrollably. The cries of the congregation turned to screams, but she heard him, deep and strong and clear over the commotion. The music grew and so did her passion and excitement. She couldn’t stop. The bench began to shake with her movement. His strong voice penetrated her, causing hot liquid to flow from her eyes. She sucked in a breath of air and let him fill her. Like the beating of a drum, his voice became a rhythm that pounded into her. Slowly it grew in strength and speed until she could no longer breathe. Her passion melted into his fire until she screamed and with a loud shout from the man, the music stopped.

     She collapsed onto the bench with a sigh and a moan. Her clothes were soaked and her ears pulsed in time with her heart. His voice found her again, cradled her, warming her exhausted body.

     “Let us pray.” 

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A Child’s Heart

This is a little short to hopefully bring a smile to your day. 

 

A Child’s Heart 

When in doubt, use superglue! The advertisement echoed through his mind. He looked at the broken vase on the floor and then at the superglue in his hands. He was in doubt, but he thought to try. Picking up the broken pieces he started gluing them back together. He couldn’t really remember the exact shape of the vase. His mind wandered and soon the broken pieces began to take another form…

          The front door opened and the boy’s mother walked in with groceries. The boy looked down at the figure that was once a vase. He knew he needed to tell. Maybe she would like this new masterpiece. He brought his work to the kitchen table and watched as his mother put groceries away.

          “Mom?” he interrupted. She looked up at him.

          “Yes dear.”

          “I accidentally broke your vase. I knocked into the table and it fell over. I’m really sorry.” He looked away from his mother’s stare. “But I tried to fix it,” he added hurriedly. He walked over to the table and picked up the old vase pieces and presented it to his mother. “I used superglue,” he said as he handed over the newly formed heart. 

WARNING!!!  TRIGGER WORDS, FOUL LANGUAGE, AND MATURE CONTENT

Please do not read this if you have any sensitivities to what was mentioned above. As someone who has been through some rough experiences, I understand how these things can make one feel. Please read at your own risk. 

Also, for those of you who have to have perfect grammar, the grammar inconsistencies and mistakes are in the piece for poetic purpose. 

Letter to Rapist

You thought yourself strong as you pushed me down on that bed and striped me of my dignity, tossing it on the cold floor. You thought I wouldn’t mind if you took me, bent over, while the world around me turned black and shattered. You thought it was ok when I was drunk and laughing, but I wasn’t laughing when you broke my trust. It wasn’t ok when I woke up to you next to me, your hand groping for that secret place inside me. You thought it was what I wanted, even when I said no. Even when I screamed and cried, pushing you away. Even when I passed out, naked and broken on the floor. Even when you touched me as if I was a porcelain doll, afraid to crack something you found so fragile, then proceeded to fuck me so hard I bled. It wasn’t ok.

But in your eyes, the world’s eyes, this pain was my fault. In your mind I loved you, wanted you, craved you. I needed to be violated as you tethered me to the bed and blinded my eyes with handkerchiefs I used to tie back my hair; that was your delusion. And when you were done with me, you picked me up and tossed me aside like a used rag. You didn’t care who I was. You didn’t care about me. All you wanted was a quick lay, and you didn’t even ask. You just took. And so now, I am another trophy, another notch on your belt, so you can go and tell your friends, “Hey, I had sex with her.” And at that moment, I bet you were proud of yourself. But when you saw my tears, heard my pain, it became my fault, my problem. The guilt strangled me, cutting off my air until I could no longer breathe. But it was my fault.

My fault.

It was my fault that you felt the need to assault me, rape me, destroy me from the inside out until I no longer wanted to live because who could ever love a piece of trash. And I didn’t dare go to the police. Why would they help me, when it’s my fault? Why would I want to fight the court system? Be violated by doctors and tell my story over and over until it becomes my life, my world, just so you can laugh and say that you did nothing wrong and that she’s lying? Besides, I didn’t want to deal with another man, not today, afraid and alone, wounded and crying.

I wonder how many other women you have done this to. I should have been smarter. I should have listened to the rumors. I shouldn’t have gone off by myself. I shouldn’t have trusted you, but I did. And for that I am sorry, not for your actions or what they did to me. I am sorry for my own crimes of which I am only guilty of being the girl foolish enough to believe that you were different. I wish I hadn’t been wrong.

But through this pain, I have become stronger. I will not be kept down. I will not be silent. I will not stop. What you did to me was wrong. I am not a trophy, a rag, or a piece of trash. I am a woman, strong and alive. After you spent so much time and effort destroying me, I can say you failed. I know life. I know the meaning of true love and companionship, strength, courage, and beauty. You? All you’ll ever know is the company of your hand as you jerk off to the Eagles or Bob Marley every night. I’d say I feel sorry for you, but I’d be lying. Hey, it’s your own damn fault.

WARNING!!!  TRIGGER WORDS, FOUL LANGUAGE, AND MATURE CONTENT

Cold and Hot

     ***Please note that the story below has some foul language and sensitive content. 

 

     I was always cold. They told me it was because I had nothing left, and I wasn’t sure if I believed that or not. Maybe deep down in my heart I knew it was true, but I would never admit that to myself. I had something to hold on to, even if it was just one small thing. Denying myself was what I had left, the only thing I knew how to do. But to me it didn’t seem like I was denying myself. I was just giving my body what it deserved: nothing. 

     The room they stuck me in was atrocious. It was an ugly off-white color with a bed that I swear was made out of cardboard and a TV that only got soap operas. I was trapped in this box because my mother didn’t think that I was healthy which was ridiculous. I was healthy; she just didn’t understand the complexities of my situation. It wasn’t easy being a high school girl.

     Focus, focus, I thought. Paradiddle, paradiddle, double paradiddle, paradiddle, double paradiddle, paradiddle, paradiddle, double paradiddle, double paradiddle, paradiddle, paradiddle, stop. I sighed. Close. Paradiddle, paradiddle, double paradiddle…fuck. I need my sticks and pad.  

     The nurse came in startling me from practicing. Her black hair was up in a ponytail behind her. She was short, skinny, and beautiful. Every time she walked in I wondered how many doctors she was having affairs with. With such gorgeous brown eyes, I’m sure there were plenty.      

     I immediately stopped what I was doing and watched her move over to my bed. She sat a tray of food in front of me. “Lunch is here,” she said sweetly. As if I didn’t know. The smell of tomato soup and grilled cheese wafted into my nose and I wanted to vomit. Eating this shit was like forcing down rocks. It still eluded me how people could eat this stuff.

            “You need to eat today dear,” she said. “Your mother told me you love grilled cheese and tomato soup.”

            Oh really? I’ll have to thank her for that. I bit my tongue. I wasn’t about to give in and speak to this woman.

            “Now you know I can’t leave until you eat something.”

            Fucking annoying, that’s what she was. Every day it was “you need to eat”, “it’ll make your mother so proud”, blah, blah, blah. Fucking bullshit. What the hell did she know about making my mother proud? Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

            I looked back up at her with the saddest face I could muster. She always caved in.

            “Honey, do you want me to bring you something different? I think I have a granola bar in my locker.” I didn’t respond but continued to look at her pitifully, twisting the hospital armband around my wrist.

            “Oh all right,” she said. “I’ll be right back. Try and eat something ok?”

            Try and eat something ok? I mocked her in my mind. She knew just as well as I did that I wasn’t about to eat anything that she brought me. At least her leaving bought me a few more minutes to myself.

            My throat closed up as the smell of the tomato soup returned and I found myself gasping for fresh air. I swung my legs over the bed and hopped down. Technically, I was supposed to stay in bed and wait for Mrs. Caddy to come back. Ha, like that was going to happen. I looked down at my pale arm. An IV stuck out from my elbow connecting me to a tower of “nourishment and vitamins” that I had to drag around. Not today, I thought as I ripped the tape off of my arm and gently slid the needle out of my protruding purple vein. Blood starting flowing out and I quickly pressed my finger on the hole. The bleeding would stop soon. I took a piece of the ripped tape and put it back over my bleeding vein. Poor arm, I thought. Look what this hospital has done to you. I rubbed my arm joint and shook my head. It didn’t matter anymore to me. Today was my day. It was going to be the last day that I had to stay in this hell. I would leave and find my own way in the world. I didn’t need the people here or what they had to offer. I didn’t need their journals, and therapy sessions, or their rules that wouldn’t let me sing after 9:00pm. That was quiet time.

            I had group therapy today so there were clothes stretched out on the end of my bed. I picked up the pair of jeans and plain red t-shirt with disdain. It wasn’t what I normally would wear. I missed my long sleeve turtleneck shirts and thick sweat pants all complimented with a large hoodie, but the jeans and t-shirt would have to do. Taking off my hospital gown was like breathing again. Who knew that real clothes could be so comfortable with their ordinary cotton and polyester? At least it wasn’t that scratchy material of the polka dotted hospital gown they forced me to wear.

            After putting on somewhat real clothing, I opened the door to my room and walked out. The hallway was cold and the inpatient psych ward always frightened me. The people were always friendly and they smiled and nodded at me as I walked past, but it was the presence of the place that terrified me. My counselors had told me that I was just like them, but I refuse to believe that I am like anyone else. How can anyone even begin to comprehend what I’m going through? I just wanted to be free again and get the fuck out of this hospital. I wanted my life back, the one with high school band practice and reading frantically every night for AP English; the one with the dishes I cleaned every day and the dinner that I had to make. Even then I wondered how my family was eating without me making dinner and I didn’t know if they could see the counter through all of my father’s empty beer cans. 

            I continued to walk down the hallway, past the rooms with the screamers and the emos, at least that’s what I called them. Screamers always screamed when a nurse or doctor came in and emos talked too much about how dark and dismal life was. Pathetic, but still terrifying. It was hard for me to believe that people could be that sad and depressed, but I knew that it happened. My father was like that, always sad and angry. He drowned himself with alcohol every night. I always assumed it was so that he would lose all feeling in his body and soul, so that he would forget something in his past that was too terrible to deal with.   

            The group therapy room was down the hall and to the right. It was huge and freezing (like everything else in the damn hospital) with pink walls and purple non-descript flowers and a strong smell of lavender. I think it was supposed to make the room inviting and comfortable. All it did was make me gag. There weren’t any chairs in this room either, so when we had group sessions we were all supposed to sit on the floor. We would huddle around each other, our butts pressed against the scratchy beige carpet. “Express your inner feelings,” Mrs. Genga would say. Sometimes, I thought she was crazier than all of us put together.

            I went to that room because I wanted my journal. It was a basic composition notebook that was issued to each member of our women’s therapy session. I didn’t know why I wanted it so badly. We were required to write in it to start each session every day. I never did. Everything I put on paper was pointless scribbles that I made sure made absolutely no sense. I didn’t want to write anything or share my feelings. I just wanted people to go away, but for some reason I needed that journal. I thought that it would be step one on my way to a new life after I escaped this fucking place. Who knows? It might be nice to have a journal as a companion when I run away.

            “I thought you might be here Amy.” The voice was Mrs. Genga’s. How did she find me?

            “Mrs. Caddy told me you weren’t in your room.” So Mrs. Caddy was the culprit. Figures.

            I turned to look at Mrs. Genga. She was a rather tall woman with an annoying personality, but beautiful nonetheless. Her smile would have been nice if she wasn’t so happy all the damn time. Her hair was brown and just as long as she was and her voice was rather low, similar to a cello.

            “Now Amy, I know that something is troubling you and I want you to know that we care.”

            Bullshit.

            “Can we talk?”

            I didn’t respond, but averted my eyes from her face and focused on my socked feet.

            “Amy, are you alright?”

            I nodded. Please go away, I thought.

            “I want to show you something dear.”

            I hesitated and stepped back from her. I’m sure she could see the anxiety in my eyes because she cooed, “Don’t be afraid. I just want to show you the new therapy room.”

            I was confused and also slightly interested, so I followed her down the hallway a few more doors. Running was pointless anyway, with Mrs. Genga there. She unlocked the large brown wooden door to a room that I had never been to before, and exposed an art room. That was the only way to describe it. On the wall were posters from MC Escher, Salvador Dali, and countless other artists I couldn’t remember. There were shelves of paints and chalks all sorted by type and color with long desks that lined the room giving ample space for painting and drawing. The scent of crayons, glue, and paint hit my nose and I breathed it in as if it were the first time I had ever taken a breath. My heart rose in my chest. It was the first time I had been excited in a long time. 

            I turned and looked back at Mrs. Genga. “Go on, you can go in. Don’t stand here at the door. Feel free to use whatever you like.”

            I was shocked. I was being unleashed on a room full of art supplies, everything at my disposal.  “Amy I noticed that you don’t write in your journal but you draw. I want you to have that outlet.”

            I didn’t think my nonsensical scribbles would get my anything like this. I cautiously entered the room, taking in all of the supplies and their homes. Planning a picture was useless so instead I grabbed the paints and a sheet of paper from the top shelf. I shut my eyes and let everything flow to my hands: the pain of my mother and father as they dropped me off at the hospital; the fear as I watched my hair fall out in clumps in front of the mirror; the monster that I thought I was; the blame and guilt for destroying my family; the cold and loneliness. My hands were my paintbrushes. I dipped my fingers in the colors and smeared them all over the paper releasing the cold I felt; I hated it here, I hated my parents, I hated my friends, I hated myself. With each stroke of my fingers on the page, a small piece of warmth returned to me, until tears were dripping down my face and onto the picture that I had painted. When I stepped back I saw that it was my favorite place in the world that I had painted. It was my willow tree back at home, but it was different somehow. There were red streaks throughout the bark and dark shadows that hung on the trees limbs and leaves. There were no birds and the sky was a swirling brown.           

     Mrs. Genga came and put her arm around me. Without looking up at her I said, “Thank you.” 

Show not Tell

Someone challenged me once to take something that I see and write about it without actually saying what it is. That is what this post is about. Showing, not telling. 

Sudden light flashed through the sky contrasting the creeping darkness. It was only for an instance, but the jagged line had captivated me. It was beautiful, yet ferocious. A low sound followed. It was distant and it sounded like a hungry stomach. This thought made me laugh. Gentle wind flew outside. It played with the hands of the plants, making them wave at me. I returned their soft, friendly waves. Then they started moving furiously. The leaves twisted and turned, thrashing violently against the dangerous rocking body of the trees. The world succumbed to the darkness, casting the scene in shadows. My heart pounded in the dead silence. Then lights, everywhere, flashing through the night in an exotic dance. Some were bold, touching the ground, while others skipped playful from pillow to pillow that cradled the sky. The lights disappeared as quickly as they came. Suddenly, a roar of noise was upon me. Loud cracks and crashes, booms, bangs, and growls. It was as if they chased the dancers, angry they could not meet but only follow. The pillows could no longer hold the dancers that tread lightly and the followers who ran heavily. They broke and pieces came crashing down. For pillows, the pieces sounded dense. They landed accurately on everything, soaking with their mangled bodies. The lights and sound returned causing a show in the sky of which I had never seen. The wind thrashed and exhausted bodies fell harshly from the sky. The intensity of the strange dance grew until the world became consumed with the chaos. I hid, unsure if they wanted me to become a part of their show, until an exhausting silence filled the air around me. I peeked up and out the window that separated me from them, and saw that the dancers had left. In their place were small yellow pin pricks, flowers for their performance.

Little Red Sacrifice

The lazy sun stroked my back. It felt good to relax on such a beautiful day. The air was calm and cool and yet the sun made me feel warm. I stood up and stretched my legs on the forest floor, allowing the warmth of my blood to return to all of my limbs. I started off with no real destination in mind.

                The sun peeked through the cracks in the leaves and the wind spread whispers through the trees touches. If I listened carefully, I could almost make out the secrets the wind possessed. Birds flew on its gentle breath and landed in their homes high above me. On the floor of the forest, creatures scampered about, finding food and enjoying the calm of the day, much like I was.

                My wanderings took me to the edge of the forest. I stopped just short of the final line of trees and looked down in the valley and fields. A small village lay cradled in the arms of the valley, hidden by mountains on either side. That didn’t make it safe though. I watched as a flock of birds flew over the rolling green grass. I envied them. They were free to go and live their lives, free to leave the prison that I was forever bound to.

                I heard the whistle, a high shriek that soared over the trees and pierced my ears. They immediately flattened to the unwelcome noise. I knew what it meant, and, like the bound slave I was, I was forced to answer the call. I bounded through the forest, eager to reach my destination, knowing what punishment awaited me if I was late.

                The house appeared quickly, and I skirted to stop in front of the stone pathway that led to the red front door. The house was small in size, with a little garden of herbs and flowers right below the two windows. Butterflies landed on the open blooms, seemingly unaware of whose plants they drained nectar from. A thatched wooden roof sat atop the log cabin house and it held up a chimney that on cold winter nights could be seen putting out puffs of smoke. I pushed open the white picket fence and crept down the stone path to the bottom of the stairs and waited.

                “On time today are we?” She stepped out from the door and into the sun. She was wearing a white cotton nightgown adorned with faded flowers from years of wear. Grey wisps of hair peeked out from underneath her granny cap. Wrinkles covered every part of her body, making her small frame and age seem even weaker. Yet underneath the bags of skin, there were sharp blue eyes that saw everything.

                “I have another job for you, and don’t worry, you’ll like this one,” she laughed, a high shrill noise that cut deep into my soul. She walked around me and scratched my head, digging her claw like fingers into my matted gray fur. “My dear, my dear, it’s that time of the year again. Bring me back my sacrifice or,” she lifted my chin with her finger so our eyes would meet, “the consequences will be severe. Do we have an understanding?”

                I closed my eyes and nodded my head in agreement.

                “Good. Now go and bring it to me. The ritual must be done tonight.” She scratched my head once more and went back into the house, no doubt to prepare for the upcoming night.

                I sprinted off in to the forest, detesting myself for the job I had to commit, knowing that I had no choice. My job was to make sure that the sacrifice went to the house, to keep him/her safe until the witch could do away with him/her. That was how it was. Once a year, the witch needed blood to rejuvenate herself. She swore it kept her in good condition. “Blood is the elixir of life,” she once told me.

                Every year, the small nameless village that dwelled in the valley would send a victim carrying cakes to the old hag. And, every year, the witch ate the cake and the poor soul who brought it. It was a terrible thing to see and hear, yet no matter how far I drove myself away from that little house, I could always hear the victim’s terrified screams as she murdered them and ate their flesh.

As I was running, I caught sight of the red hood and cloak that marked all of the sacrifices. I slowed down and knelt behind some bushes to see who the village had chosen.

She was a small girl, no more than eight, with a tiny frame and curly brown hair that was pushed back in the red hood of the cloak. She had dazzling blue eyes and a gentle smile that reeked of youth and innocence. The young girl was carrying the straw basket, and I knew that I had not made a mistake. She was the one.

I stayed hunched to the ground and followed her down the path, watching as she stopped to smell the flowers or wave at the birds. My heart panged with pity. She was a beautiful child and reminded me of the daughter I once had, long ago, before the witch came to village and destroyed my life. The memories flooded back when I looked at the young girl. I closed my eyes and remembered my wife in the village far below, singing as she made bread, teaching our young daughter how to knead. It was that day that the witch came, demanding blood for her ritual, taking my daughter and wife for her own insatiable appetite. I begged for her not to take them, to take my life instead, but she only laughed and devoured them, tearing them apart in small pieces, making them suffer. I tried to kill her that night, but she caught me and turned me into this creature, loyal only to her. My punishment for my revenge was to serve her for eternity.

Anger swelled inside of me as I watched the small child. She didn’t deserve to die, and it was at that moment that I realized what I had to do.

I walked out in front of her and she stopped short, trying to decide whether or not I was going to eat her. She must have decided that I wasn’t going to kill her because she said, “Good afternoon Mr. Wolf.”

“Good afternoon child. Where are you going today?”    

“To grandmother’s house. She is very sick, so I am bringing her cakes to make her feel better.”

“That is very kind of you, but you know, if you stay on this path it will take you all day to get to your grandmother’s. Why don’t you try this one?” I pointed with my muzzle to another path next to me.

“Ok,” she said and started down the path.

I sprinted down the one that the girl had strayed from. I had purposely told the child to go down the longer path so I could beat her to the house.

When I arrived at the house I knocked softly on the door, like a child.

“Who is it?” I heard the witch answer kindly.

“It is I, your granddaughter,” I said, mocking the child’s high pitched voice as best as I could. “I have brought you some cakes to make you feel better.”

“Come in dear.”

I knew the scene well, and pushed the door open with my muzzle. She was lying on her bed in the back, covers drawn tightly around her, her cap resting on the bedpost. She saw me and gasped.

“Where is the child?” she hissed.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I lunged at her. My claws pinned her to the bed and I devoured her whole. I felt no remorse for what I had done. I was about to leave when I heard the young girl’s singing. I scrambled under the covers, hoping not to be seen.

“Grandmother,” I heard her say at the open door. “I have brought you cake to make you feel better.” She walked in. “Grandmother?”

The covers couldn’t hide my bulk, and I felt her put a small hand on my body. I snaked my head out from under the covers and the granny cap slipped over my head.

“Grandmother I have brought you the cakes to make you feel better,” she smiled sweetly at me, obviously proud of her accomplishment. “Grandmother,” there was curiosity in her voice, “what big ears you have!”

I racked my brain for a response, trying to play off as the sweet grandmother she thought I was. “The better to hear you with my dear,” I croaked.

“Grandmother what big eyes you have!”

“The better to see you with my dear.”

“Grandmother what big teeth you have!”

I was at a loss. I wanted to get her away from this house and back to the safety of the village. I made a snap decision.

“The better to eat you with my dear!” I screamed and jumped out from under the covers. I thought this would scare her away, make her run back to where she came from, but instead she stood there screaming, terror flashing across her face. I sighed and scooped her up in my mouth. She was resting in the pocket of my cheek.  I knew I could take her far away from here, where she would never have to worry about witches or woods. I headed for the front door when a man showed up.

I had seen him before. He lived on the outskirts of forest, and was a kind enough man. He was a huntsman, with broad, strong shoulders and a bulky, muscular build. The man had black curly hair and a bushy black mustache. He was carrying an axe.

I could only guess that it was the girl’s screams that brought him here. He must have been passing through the woods and heard her. There was anger in his eyes, and I knew what he was thinking. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t want the girl to die.

I tried to charge past him, in some hopes of escaping the inevitable. The man was fast for his size and I found myself being wrestled to the ground by his strong arms. I saw him lift his heavy axe and I felt it pierce my flesh. Please let her be okay…

 

By Riza 

Secrets

Hey Bloggers! Here is a piece that I wrote. Enjoy!

~~Riza~~

The piece of paper lay on the floor, alone and abandoned. It was distorted, crumbled, and shaped in a multitude of odd angles. The outside was no longer a brilliant white, but starting to stain brown. The paper had been kicked into a corner and looked pathetic in its isolation, almost as if it were cowering. What secrets did it posses? What had made it so that it was pertinent to scorn? What did this wrinkled mess contain? Secrets of the unknown were buried in its distortion. Yet, someone felt that it needed isolation, and so it was taken from the world in which it thrived. Was its secret so dangerous that it had to be tortured and trashed? With one quick movement I picked up the maimed secret. I gently unfolded it, taking away the odd angles. The creases remained; it would never be the same. My eyes fell on its hidden knowledge. I was the new secret keeper, but I will not be kicked in a corner.