So tell me. Who out there is ready for the usual, 'Oh, I'm SOOO emo' rant about how my life SUCKS? Yeah, didn't think so. I wish I could start over, you know? New me, new friends, new choices. No regrets. This is how my life would be.
A field full of beautiful green grass and various colorful wildflowers dotting. In the distance, a blue hazy mountain range. The sky, sapphire with white cotton and occasionally a slate gray with cool raindrops falling on the field. My house would be natural, comfy, abstract and perfect in my eyes. Everyday I would garden the herbs, patchouli, thyme, rosemary, lavender. I would make crowns of lilies and daisies. I would smoke from hand carved pipes with vines and birds etched and painted. I won't ever be alone, my friends will come and go, and everyone will be my lover. Some nights we will dance and sing around a fire. We will dance and sing and fall asleep where we last stood. The fire will burn out and we will sleep on herbal mattresses under a blanket of stars. My skin will be caramel and my hair will be perfect, long and natural... in my eyes. I will learn to knit, to sew, to weave. I will make guitars from scratch and paint them. My heart will belong to my creations. I will love them, even when I am not with them anymore. I will grow Tiger Lilies in my windows, they will flourish. They will love their little flowery lives. I will have one wall, entirely a bookshelf. Books about world peace, but from different authors. I want a variety of view points. I will have books full of poetry and stories, an even wider variety. There will be no fear or judgment, no pain and sorrow. We will only know how to live and love, to eat and sleep, to grow and read, to dance and sing. Once in a blue moon we will dig up our city party clothes and live in the night clubs. We will unleash and sweat. When the sun comes back up, we will start it all over again.
I wrote this in 8th grade. There are similarities to the movie Saw, but I hadn't realized it until someone pointed out. This story is also told in first person, and I hope you enjoy.
My name is Selby and I am a liar. I'm sitting on the cold, moist floor of a concrete cell. I found a few pieces of paper and this nub of a pencil. Instead of just sitting here, worrying about how I ended up in this cell, I thought I would write. For starters, I had reddish brown hair that hit just below my collar bone, it was shaggy and windblown. It was my second best feature. I had vibrant gray-blue eyes, navy on the outside... silvery star burst around the pupil. My number one feature, now dull and glassed over. I am small, 5'2" last time I checked. I was in good shape, I used to always swim before I woke up in this musty pit. My skin is creamy and white; My eyelashes thick and black; My lips curving, pale and pouty; My wrists bony. I was attractive. They shaved my hair off and I haven't eaten since the night I was kidnapped; However long ago that was. They call me the Skeleton... They always wear masks. They always wear these twisted, contorted faces with stitched, menacing grins. I can only tell they are masks because every person I've seen has had one on. They make my stomach sick, but They aren't scary anymore. Vaguely, I remember the night I was taken away... I had just walked out of the local mall and it was around eight, the sun was low. I began to walk towards my car when I overheard a man say, "...Pig Council..." to another in a raspy voice. The next thing I knew, something hard hit me in the back of the head and the last thing I saw were two blurry figures above me. Pure black silence swept over me. My head was on fire and my eyes forced themselves open. There was a blinding light in my face, but once my vision cleared and my other senses came-to, I realized I was in the middle of a circle. Every person looked the same with their ebony robes and gruesome masks. Their height and weight varied, so I only assumed there was a variety of male and female members. I was scared whenever they began chanting, "Un... Lucky..." at the same time with the same tone. Two female-looking figures slowly slinked up to me. One carriedd a tall metallic tank with wheels and set it behind me. I don't know why I didn't struggle or scream for help, maybe I should have. Before I knew it, the other female slipped a mask over my nose and mouth... it was attatched to a flimsy plastic hose that connected to the tank. Almost instantly, a gas began seeping into my fragile airways. Now I was struggling. The air tasted old and felt sharp against my lungs. In a matter of seconds I was out again. That's how I ended up in this cell... bald, cold, hungry... alone. I can only imagine it's been a few-- I have to go. They're at the door.
Dark. They came back and took me away from the cell, They had new masks this time... bloody pigs masks. I hope they were masks. They looked so real, like an actual pig's head. They put me in a brightly lit room with chains and meathooks hanging from the high rafters. It looked like a warehouse or a meat packing plant. They tied me to some kind of dead animal, it smelled and felt like rotton flesh. I never wanted more than to go back home in that moment. A Pigmask wearing a red robe walked up to me and spoke... she sounded just like me. With a calm voice, she asked me what I knew about the Pig Council and I told her the truth. "Nothing." My voice was feeble, but I could almost feel a smile forming from behind that sticky pig snout. My skin crawled. She told me that even the word 'Pig Council' was too much, and that I was one very... VERY unlucky girl. "Cleanse her." is the last thing she said before I was roughly escorted and tossed back here into my cell. My Cell... this place is becoming home. Yet, I'm scared. No food. It's dark... I'm cold. Good night.
I think it's morning now. They took me in the middle of my sleep and ziptied my wrists and ankles so tight. I bled so much, my wrists are purple now. They laid me next to a very dead pig. I struggled to hold the emptiness of my stomach down. It was gutted and it's eyes were missing, but I could still feel sorrow from it's mangled sockets. I stared at that poor beast all night. I couldn't fall asleep because I didn't want to dream about ending up like the grey mound of rot before me. When they brought me back to My Cell, I felt relief. When the bonds were cut, I realized how silently they work. It's so surreal.. Hold on, I hear something.
From what I just found out, I'm going to die. A Pigmask came into my room and removed the dreadful pig head. He was beautiful. Unkept black hair and hateful green eyes that pierced me like an acidic needle. He told me with a deep voice that today I was being cleansed. My heart didn't know whether to fly or to drop. He began to apologize that someone as innocent as me had to go through this, I forgave him with my eyes. He told me he wished he could help, I wish he could too. Apparently he's also being cleansed though, he attempted to sabotage the council and clearly failed. Whenever I asked him what the 'Cleansing' was, his eyes became fearful and he sighed. I will never forget his brief explanation. "They set you before a meat grinder... they cut off our eyelids so you have to watch the people in front of you turn into a screaming, crunching, meaty pulp. You are last, Selby. Seven people are joining us today." In the short moment before the other Pigmasks began banging furiously on my door, I wished that I could just be the first person to go. I wish I could give you more information... to write more... But my name is Selby and I am a liar. Tomorrow I will continue to live with my friends... and my hair. I am Selby and I am the leader of the Pig Council. You know too much.
This is the very first part in a story that I began writing back in January called "Chelsea". It's about a very complex relationship between a washed-up musician and a on-the-rise artist. Set in the New York City art world, this story is written in first person reflective and jumps from memory to memory. The narrator is never specified as male or female so the reader can fill in that blank themselves. Thank you, and enjoy. Hopefully soon I'll come up with the other chapters.
Warm colors trickled down the rough surface of the once blank canvas like a single raindrop would make its way down a pane of glass. With crossed arms, her slender build pressed back against her left foot, and a delicate set of fingers tapped against her bicep in such an exhilarating, rhythmic way that her chest rose and fell with a single exhale that sent her sugary breath toward her new masterpiece. On her canvas was a single sun alone in a white abyss. That's how she described it, at least. To me, it was more of an off-center collage, a thick combination of orange and yellow swirls that blended with splashes of red, causing the so-called "sun" to look careless and unbalanced. The underside of her "sun" dripped with long strands; all of the colors colliding into three various nonidentical tendrils that desperately stretched toward the bottom of her canvas. The simplicity and disorder of the piece is what drew me to it. "Chelsea," I whispered her name although I knew she didn't want to hear my voice. Other than the silent motors of the casual cars on the city streets outside and below her top-floor studio, the tapping from her fingers and the sounds of our breathing, pure silence was the reply that she gave me. Side-by-side we gazed at this piece, so many memories seemed to fill my mind to the brim, but I forced my expression to remain as focused and as frigid as hers. My chin still quivered. The memory that shook my insides more violently than an earthquake ever could occurred five years previous to that exact night. The Redwood Coffee Shop was owned by my best friend, Amelie, and it was the last place I performed before my music career slowly plummeted over the years to come. Now, Redwood wasn't just that small little coffee shop that is always in those cute love stories; Redwood was the base of a flourishing art and music franchise. This specific coffee shop was the next big thing in the New York art world. Artists and musicians from the entire east coast would try with every ounce of their strength to perform or to get their personal masterpieces auctioned there. Very few would succeed, but those who did were instantaneously recognized by a wide variety of record producers and stingy, rich art-buyers. At this particular time in my life, I was one of the most talked about performers on the coast. Redwood records was only a few signatures from taking me under their wing, I thought I was unstoppable. Bitter jealousy was the match that started the fire. The feeling that swept over me the moment I stepped out on that stage, and made my way to the lonely microphone with my guitar, was one of those feelings you never forget. As I stood there with my lips parted against the microphone, I noticed the pieces that were being auctioned off. My eyes set on the displays of art that every one's attention was adverted to. All the individual decorated canvases seemed to tell a different story of various emotions through such simple, carefully splattered shapes that resembled, in your mind, exactly what the artist had intended it to be. It was as if the artist had only projected their feelings and ways of expressing them flawlessly on a canvas for our visual pleasure. The art spoke unlike anything I had ever seen, and I was jealous that those beautiful creations were getting more recognition than I was. At the time, I was the definition of selfish and egotistical combined. All of the lights dimmed, glasses and mugs clinked delicately together while the two or three hundred people hushed themselves and faced the stage I was on. My lips were still pressed lightly against the microphone whenever the stage lights slowly came on. Fingertips against metal strings followed by a soothing melody, harmonizing with the soft, jazzy vocals emanating from my throat suddenly relaxed me; This was the moment that I woke up for every morning. The way I had felt at that instant tingles through my body as I write this. It was pure ecstasy. When my first song finished, every one's faces were fixed in the sort of, 'I-didn't-expect-her-to-be-that-good,' expression, which fueled my ego and created a smirk across my lips. Hands joined in applause as I drank from my water bottle. Just as I had set the bottle down, and turned back to the mic, I adjusted my guitar strap, then my eyes met with hers. Strikingly short platinum blond hair was the very first thing I had noticed about this tall beauty in her simple, black, knee-length dress. My eyes closed to break that contact. I had felt like I knew who she was and everything she had seen in her life, it was so strange. Tension rose from my chest to my throat as a million eyes watched me impatiently. This sort of feeling never usually occurred to me on stage, but then again, that night was turning out to be a very unusual night and it wasn't even close to a conclusion. After I sang my last songs, I slid the guitar strap over my head, and glanced one last time at the coffee bar where platinum blond had been standing... She was still there. Aggravation swept through my body while my eyebrows furrowed. Although there were several people trying to get her attention for whatever reason, her intense, yet serene gaze was set on me, and I hated it. Quickly, I set the guitar in its case and hopped off of the stage. I wanted a better look at the artistic splendors that were so captivating to everyone, including myself. The first piece I approached was an oil on a black canvas. Green and aqua splashes seemed to create the illusion of rain falling into a space of black nothingness until it faded. Off to the right, near the edge of the canvas was a dab of white paint. It was small and feeble. At the bottom, in the left-hand corner, I read the artist signature, 'C.England' followed by the date, which caught and sparked my already brewing curiosity. "The white resembles the light in us," a silky female voice coated in vanilla and an accent I couldn't distinguish was observing the piece beside me. My head turned curiously, and the image I saw in that moment will never cease to linger in the back doors of my mind. Platinum blond stood next to me with her creamy, slender arms crossed over her chest as her blood red nails tapped casually against her skin. Seconds after the anger began to boil in my gut, her head turned from the masterpiece to my face with an intellectual smirk, and my anger subsided. "My name is Chelsea England," her eyes were a shimmering pool of slate-gray rocks that captivated me as her smooth words rolled like a lullaby off her tongue, "I really enjoyed your music, would you like to join me to a caramel latte?" My expression towards her blunt introduction was that of a deer caught under blinding headlights, and she noticed. Suddenly all of the puzzle pieces had clicked in my mind. The reason I felt like I had known her was because she was 'C.England.' I felt like the most naive person in the world for not fitting it together quicker. This charming girl would make me and break me. Chelsea England had just started the new chapter in my life. Hours and caramel cream lattes passed quicker than milliseconds as Chelsea and I lounged in the VIP room. As the night had progressed, all of Miss England's art sold, leaving the main room bigger than it was previously. Around 11:30, the older people had migrated out, leaving a still, very large group of caffeinated and slightly intoxicated party-goers. Redwood wasn't just known for the extremely original art-work and the Indie-acoustic music that followed, it was also known for the late night parties that lasted until the last person left. "Beautiful ladies and charming gentlemen," Chelsea and I looked behind us and over the rail. Below us on the dance floor we watched the excited group of men and women gather around the stage, where my friend Amelie stood in her flashy violet dress with the microphone to her lips, "Good evening. Now that our respected old-timers have gone to bed," her speech paused while the crowd cheered and whistled, "I think that it's time we introduce our guest who will lead us to the sunrise... DJ Sophie Love, everyone!!" Amelie's arm swung behind her where the turn-tables had been discreetly set-up. Chelsea sat up on her knees beside me on the couch and yelled a few excited words that I couldn't comprehend. The excessive amount of caffeine and alcohol in my system caused me to laugh hysterically anyway. Amelie handed the microphone to Sophie, who was now beside her. Chelsea did a very loud, obnoxious wolf-whistle and yelled, "Uyy, papiii!!" at the top of her lungs. Sophie must have known who it came from, because she flashed her pearly whites and laughed into the microphone, "That's my England!"
