RuneScape Forum Archive | Trey's Short Stories

Croc 2251

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Uh, yeah, this is my second thread of the day. This one should go by a bit more smoothly, though, because I'm not writing it as I go along - all of these stories are already written.
None of these have relevance to RuneScape, though, so if you're here looking for a medieval tale, you've come to the wrong place. However, I hope that those of you that are simply looking for good quality writing will find it here.
This'll be my table of contents!

- A Lifelong Marathon - p. 1
Not really a story, more like an extended metaphor. But I put it here because it was highly regarded by my peers and it's probably my most accomplished work in terms of awards won and quality reviews.
- The Cafe - p. 1
This one's a story, and a few people that read it said it seemed rather slow. But it's intended to be patiently inspirational. You may like it, you may hate it.
- Escaping - p. 1
This is non-fiction, and it was just my way of describing my method of acquiring a peace of mind.
- Dancing on the Stage of My Soul - p. 1
This one is just a poem, and I wouldn't say that it was critically acclaimed, but most people seemed to enjoy it.
- Assorted Poetry - p. 1
This is a collection of three poems I wrote that all seem to gravitate around the same central ideas, so I always put them together.
- Untitled - p. 2, p. 3
This is an unexposed story of mine. As in, nobody's read it before. But I figure I might as well put it on here. It's the longest of all these stories, but hopefully that makes it the most compelling.

12-Jul-2011 11:13:54 - Last edited on 12-Jul-2011 12:09:08 by Croc 2251

Croc 2251

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A Lifelong Marathon
Life is a race against time, a constant chase of the ever-sinking sun. It’s a marathon; some may see it as a competition, others may regard it as recreational. There will be the sprinters, whose motivations are derived from the very will to succeed, and there will be walkers, who feel that the race is much more enjoyable when slowed down and appreciated. Some will still be running strong even as they approach the finish line; others will struggle to make it out of the opening gates. There will be a few unlucky people that contract a cramp only a quarter into the race, and there will be a few that tumble to the ground, unable to get up. Sometimes, another racer will trip up a fellow runner, in personal greed or vengeance. A few people have their reasons for running the race, driven by faith in religion or a certain belief system, but many will freely admit to having no idea why they’re running in this marathon.
But the harder they run, the faster the sun seems to sink. The sprinters seem to realize this only when it’s too late, and they’ve wasted the entire distance running for personal benefit. However, the slow walkers will also find themselves weeping in the end, when they realize that even the slowest of joggers have passed them up, that they too have wasted the distance on personal gains. Now, the joggers, the runners that appreciate the scenery as they compete for the sake of competition, the runners that help fellow racers to their feet when they’ve fallen, the runners that keep their mind set ahead as their eyes pan from left to right, basking in the detail; these joggers will find themselves feeling great even as they approach the finish line, with the acknowledgement that they’ve done all that they could do with their distance, that they appreciated it all while accomplishing it all, that they truly lived the life they’d been given.

12-Jul-2011 11:14:03 - Last edited on 12-Jul-2011 11:16:57 by Croc 2251

Croc 2251

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On the date of our birth, we’re thrust into this lifelong marathon. We run because it’s all we know how to do; we run because the ground beneath us is moving in the opposite direction, and to stop would be to go backwards; we run because we must, because as time moves, we are dragged along with it, whether we like it or not. Yes, there are runners that appear to freeze up. Yes, there are runners that appear to outrun time itself. Yes, there are runners that seem to be moving left to right rather than forward. But these are all appearances, rather than reality. In reality, all of the runners progress at a similar speed, and all runners are given the time; the only thing that makes them distinct is what they choose to do with that time.

12-Jul-2011 11:14:16 - Last edited on 12-Jul-2011 11:17:32 by Croc 2251

Croc 2251

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The Cafe
The world around her seemed to dissolve, the café ceasing to exist. The everyday gossip that usually took place between the two elderly women that sat nearest to the counter had been reduced to silence; and although their lips moved, not a sound could be heard.
Stephanie stared downward at her clasped hands, which currently held all of her interest. She remembered holding hands with Robert, in this very coffee shop, only a month before. But Robert was no more – now, the only one left to grab her right hand was her left. She swallowed and inhaled sharply, fighting back the strong urge to burst into tears. How could he do this? They’d been in love; he’d promised to marry her! She toyed with the “engagement” ring on her left ring finger as rage swelled up. All it took was the threat of responsibility to send the man running! A week after she’d told him about the child developing within her, he’d slunk off into the night, slithering away with the very lowly intentions of a snake.
Now her attention redirected itself to the half-empty coffee mug that sat on the table, only inches from her hand. She hadn’t yet taken a drink, but occasional sips had taken their toll on the once-full container. The more she looked at it, the harder she fought to hold back a stream of emotion. Memories overwhelmed her in a wave of nostalgia, as she remembered the first time they’d met here for coffee, she and Robert. That was 3 years ago, the first date they’d ever been on. He had suggested she get a caramel hot cocoa mix, and ever since then, it’d been her favorite drink. At this point, she no longer remembered whether or not it was her favorite drink for its flavor or for the fact that he’d been the one to recommend it, and she no longer cared. So she was pregnant, with his child, and he was the one with the choice: fight or flight. Her mother had always told her, “Stephanie, darlin’, it takes two to tango.” She'd forgotten to mention that it only takes one to deal with it.

12-Jul-2011 11:14:26 - Last edited on 12-Jul-2011 11:21:19 by Croc 2251

Croc 2251

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She couldn’t get an abortion; she did*’t believe in such crime, in such murder. To slaughter the baby during the first stages of its life would be to reduce herself to the level of cowardliness that Robert might display. And at this point she raised her head, glancing at the sun’s reflection on the tall window of the café. Maybe this wasn’t all too bad. She did**t need Robert. No one needed a scum like that. She had all she needed. She had a family willing to support her. She had friends willing to stand by her. And she had enough strength to raise this child alone. Suddenly, the woman that had entered this coffee shop searching for a solution to a seemingly unfixable problem had found what she’d been looking for: strength, the will to carry on, the will to do what was in the best interest for her and her child.
It wouldn’t be easy. In fact, it’d be mentally and physically brutal. But Stephanie quickly reassured herself: she was strong enough, brave enough, driven enough to do this on her own. She nodded slightly, patting her stomach as she whispered, “It’ll be hard, babe, but we’re going to make it through this; we’re gonna make it through.” For the last time, she glanced again at the half-full coffee mug, finally smiling as the sun reflected off of its surface. “We’re gonna make it through.”

12-Jul-2011 11:14:37 - Last edited on 12-Jul-2011 11:22:24 by Croc 2251

Croc 2251

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Escaping
When everything collapses, people must have an exit; an escape hatch. Everyone’s escape method is different. Some people vent to friends; others reside in solitude, in constant contemplation; and then there are those that seek purity, serenity. There are very few places that can truly hold the emotional significance to heal the pains of worldly stress.

My escape hatch lies at Mulberry Park, whose scenery alone can take one’s breath away. The beautiful, dark, luscious grass that seems to encompass every inch of the park, covering the mounds and mounds in its mile-wide radius; the dewy, damp surface of each blade soothing to the touch sets for an incredible landscape; the green, leafy trees that seem to sprout just enough to give a shady overcast without crowding the scenery; the crystal-clear aquamarine water in the pond, where numerous species of freshwater fish can always be seen, gracefully swimming to and fro amidst the water’s silence; the spacious sky, whose blue openness seems to exasperate even the most menacing-looking of clouds; the smooth, soft sand that borders the pond holds scenic value of its own; even the peaceful turtles contribute to the moment, lazily overlooking the ocean before them, bobbing their heads up and down as their beady eyes take in details.

12-Jul-2011 11:14:47 - Last edited on 12-Jul-2011 11:26:17 by Croc 2251

Croc 2251

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It has never failed me. Not once. When I feel down and out, when life’s given me what I considered, at the time, to be the knockout blow that’ll send me reeling, Mulberry Park seems to hoist me back to my feet. After my mom’s death, I felt like I had nothing to live for, no purpose; my soul had been ripped out and torn apart. And when I felt there was no way out, no way to go on, I stumbled across Mulberry Park. And in the days that followed, I spent hours and hours mindlessly observing the beauty of it all, allowing my eyes to aimlessly take in the scenery. Its serenity enveloped me, and eventually consumed by soul, filling me with a foreign sense of hope. Since then, I’ve always turned to Mulberry Park as my escape hatch. When everything collapses, people must have an exit. When everything collapses, people must escape. Everything’s always collapsing, and I’m always escaping, to the one place I know can ease all my pains; Mulberry Park.

12-Jul-2011 11:22:54 - Last edited on 12-Jul-2011 11:26:47 by Croc 2251

Croc 2251

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Dancing on the Stage of My Soul
The awkward dancer is in my soul.
She dances, awkwardly stumbling and bumbling.
Across the dusty, cracked stage of my soul.
Why does she dance? The question never arises.
The stumbling dancer has no balance, and proud.
Graceful in its own lack thereof, of its own, being that,
Dancing awkwardly across the dusty stage.
(Grace not being anything about looks
and not anything about prettiness
and not anything about conforming or fitting in
those meanings are from the off-balanced dancer’s surroundings
whereas the off-balanced dancer does not come from the minds of judgment
for she is simply what she is.)
The awkward dancer twirls around and around on the boards of my heart
till she needs to pull off a jump then she leaps
while still silently twirling. She knows what she is,
She is the awkward dancer!
Across the stage to be what she is
she crosses from each end of the curtain and gracefully hops from side to side
going back and forth whenever she pleases.
Other dancers can be all those other things
the strange dancer doesn’t care they can be graceful and beautiful
the strange dancer doesn’t care that is why she can dance
so off-rhythm and out-of-synch until she dances well for a while.
Other dancers might twirl batons to increase their beauty –
the awkward dancer doesn’t twirl and doesn’t worry
she just dances along the stage of my soul
pulling off a cartwheel and then a twist
to stop at the spectacular left stage. Why is it spectacular?
Because the awkward dancer stopped there!
Stopping briefly but ready to dance, to dance
and be the awkward dancer which is all she wants
And when can I know, when can I know the answer
to the question that plagues me like a cancer
implied by that dancer?

12-Jul-2011 11:23:04 - Last edited on 12-Jul-2011 11:28:26 by Croc 2251

Croc 2251

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Torn
You know what I need to know?
If we’ll really reap what we sow,
Or if everything goes unpunished,
Or if there’s some master plan still unfinished,
Because I look around at this confusion,
This mass worldwide delusion,
And I can’t help but ask,
When can I take off this mask?
When can I be me,
Without fearing what others will see?
I speak aloud,
But in no way am I proud.
I’m torn at the heart,
Torn, torn, torn apart.

-----

Failure

So where do I go from here, overtaken by my own fear?
Which way’s up and which way’s down, I’m slippin’ away without a sound…
Gotta find my feet, gotta take this defeat.
I’m done with this; I shot, I missed*
The buzzer sounds, the ball hits the ground.
So the game’s done, and it’s just father and son,
“I let you down, Dad,” but he ain’t sad, he ain’t mad,
“Just…disappointed,” he explained as he pointed,
To my family legacy, everyone’s great except for me…
I’ve failed, I’ve failed,
I’ve failed you, Dad.

-----

Left Behind

If I told you I was real, would you believe?
Or would you reach and feel?
If I told you I would leave, would you watch me walk away?
Or would you try and stop me, and convince me to stay?
Sometimes I wonder if I can reach my destination,
if I can live up to these expectations…
I am devoured by myself,
Unread, a dusty book on a shelf.
I fear that I’m alone,
I fear that I’m the last seed still ungrown.
I’m left behind, but nobody hears me crying.
And if I left, what would you do?
As I wept, would you walk on too?

12-Jul-2011 11:31:27 - Last edited on 12-Jul-2011 11:40:18 by Croc 2251

Croc 2251

Posts: 5,867 Rune Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

Reserved!

12-Jul-2011 11:31:41

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Trey's Short Stories