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Literature Text
She wrote. And wrote.
It wasn't just one story, or even a few of them.
It was hundreds.
Thousands.
Maybe even millions.
She wrote. And wrote.
It was almost an obssession. Just writing, day in, day out, all through the night.
She couldn't stop. She didn't much fancy stopping either. She wanted to write.
Writing was all she knew of, now.
How long had it been?
Maybe a year, maybe two months, maybe a decade, maybe twenty-four and a half minutes.
She'd lost track.
But it didn't bother her.
She knew only of writing.
Her room was lined with stacks of paper, along the walls, from the floor all the way up to the ceiling. She didn't read through a story once she'd finished it.
Just wrote it and put it with the others.
Maybe one day she'd take the time to read them all. Not all at once, but one at the time when time was.
Maybe she'd just set fire to the whole thing.
She could watch it burn.
All those papers. They'd make a nice bonfire, they would.
But now she was writing. Her fingers moved rapidly over the keys, filling documents, scribbled letter after letter, filling note pads, clicked away on the typewriter, leaving more stacks of loose papers filled with words and sentences.
She wrote. And wrote.
And she would write till it finished her off, or till she couldn't write any more. Whichever came first.
Writing was no longer a funny thing, no longer a game.
Writing was crucial.
She was writing to save her life.
It wasn't just one story, or even a few of them.
It was hundreds.
Thousands.
Maybe even millions.
She wrote. And wrote.
It was almost an obssession. Just writing, day in, day out, all through the night.
She couldn't stop. She didn't much fancy stopping either. She wanted to write.
Writing was all she knew of, now.
How long had it been?
Maybe a year, maybe two months, maybe a decade, maybe twenty-four and a half minutes.
She'd lost track.
But it didn't bother her.
She knew only of writing.
Her room was lined with stacks of paper, along the walls, from the floor all the way up to the ceiling. She didn't read through a story once she'd finished it.
Just wrote it and put it with the others.
Maybe one day she'd take the time to read them all. Not all at once, but one at the time when time was.
Maybe she'd just set fire to the whole thing.
She could watch it burn.
All those papers. They'd make a nice bonfire, they would.
But now she was writing. Her fingers moved rapidly over the keys, filling documents, scribbled letter after letter, filling note pads, clicked away on the typewriter, leaving more stacks of loose papers filled with words and sentences.
She wrote. And wrote.
And she would write till it finished her off, or till she couldn't write any more. Whichever came first.
Writing was no longer a funny thing, no longer a game.
Writing was crucial.
She was writing to save her life.
Literature
Gone With The Wind
I've packed a
l i f e t i m e
in a 20 kg suitcase,
at a half an hour's notice
I've lived on the
e d g e
where it's easy to
f
a
l
l
and lose it all
I've been ru
Literature
Night
Tendrils of silky moonlight caressed the stars
Dazzling the beholds, and kissing the scars
Dancing, twirling, singing and laughing
Who knew the night could be so dashing?
Run with me child, let your nature break free
Scream with me child, scream with glee
Dont fall, or trip, dont let the world bring you down
Jump and kick, just dont frown
Peer openly to the clouded skies
Be curious about our own fatal demise
Run with me child, let your nature break free
Scream with me child, scream with glee
Literature
manias
1.
i used to go online and make fake
accounts on dating websites when i
was feeling especially malicious and
frustrated and rundown and sad.
female with severe trichotillomania
and kleptomania seeking male who
doesn't mind spotty baldness or
theft.
"that's mean," you would say.
and i know, i knew; it was mean. but
i hated telling you that you were right.
2.
sometimes i would ask my cat, "do you
remember who stole your eye? do you
remember your mother?" and i would feed
him bits of pasta and bread and wave my
hand in front of his nose.
"do you remember your mother? do you?
do you remember having two eyes?"
and i would be
Suggested Collections
Author: Stella Waters
Rating: G
Word count: 263
Summary: Just random writing. And no, it's not based on anyone.
Disclaimer: I own it. It's my thoughts.
Originally submitted on Sep 30, 2006.
Rating: G
Word count: 263
Summary: Just random writing. And no, it's not based on anyone.
Disclaimer: I own it. It's my thoughts.
Originally submitted on Sep 30, 2006.
© 2007 - 2024 StarShambles
Comments14
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Very good.I enjoyed reading it.