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Written by derision in portal Simon & Schuster

the wisp - a chapter.

I hear the rustling and crunching of dried leaves, the crackling of brittle branches against soles. The footsteps sound rushed, urgent, as if trying to run away from someone, or something. Breaths are heavy, chest is heaving, tears are teetering over their eyes' edge. They lean against a thick oak tree—an attempt to unload the weight on their lungs and heart. Their shoulders slump over, a hand clutching the cloth of the shirt over their chest, but I've known too well that that would constrict their breathing even more. 

Finally, they chose to have a seat, keeping their heads on their knees, as they speak of words indiscernible amidst their weeping into their hands. The sides of their cheeks glisten against the moonlight, resembling a mystic waterfall located in the space between heaven and hell. I attempt to get a closer look, but they must've felt the sudden freezing breeze, as they looked in the direction of where I was. Luckily, I hid fast enough inside a bluebell flower. The air becomes tepid again and they resume their crying.

I've seen this happen over and over again, and they all end up the same, but I still wonder what would make them still run away to a place as secluded and dangerous as this. Maybe they never listened to the old ones' tales, convinced that they are full of bollocks, that they are nothing but hullabaloo and a product of a too-wild imagination. Maybe they did listen, and that's why they came here. Maybe all they wanted was an adventure. Maybe they yearned for an escape, much like I used to, once. But, I digress.

All those maybe's — whatever they may be — don't have much purpose in this place. They all meet the same fate. I have to do what I am tasked to do. 

I step out of the petals, and kneel before the human. Slowly bringing my hands to their cheeks, I raise their head and look them straight in the eye. Their pupils dilate, and their eyes widen. They now have no control over their actions. A brush of conscience could try to scream at them that they need to run, that this will not end well, but it will be disregarded as quick as it comes. 

I stand, and beckon them to rise with me. Carefully, I walk front to the path that plain sight cannot spot, and they follow, with eyes still in the same state, and their body moving against its own accord. The trees bow down closer further on walking, as if they wish to be intertwined with those in front of it. No cricket nor owl could be heard. All is quiet, other than their footsteps. 

 

I've memorised these routes like the lines on a hand. For me to get lost would only happen if I had the capacity (and ability) to be. To be lost is a commodity I could only wish to have.

I'm nearing the end of the path, and my own breathing heaves like theirs was earlier. There are no tears to fall, as I no longer have the body I once owned. I've done this times too many, but it still stings. How ironic it is that even I am moving against my own accord. I am a curse that I can't reverse.

The waters bang against the bottom of the cliffside like uneven beats of a drum. I look at back at whom I've lead on to here. Any trace of jagged breaths have left. Words left tethered to their ribs will eternally remain where they are. Their body will never be found. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I walk past the edge, floating a few feet before them, but more than a hundred feet above the water. I held out my hand for them, beckoning them one last time to follow, with a smile to reassure them even a little. They take little steps this time, almost tripping at a stray stone, but not nearly enough to cut off the trance. 

Just like that, one moment they were still standing at the very nib—everything was still, the next you could hear them gasp (or scream) before their bones shatter at the touch of rocks, and be carried away by the currents, as if the ripple was nothing. 

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

I flee quickly, with the sounds of everything and anything still echoing around me. I can't go back to where I found them. I went to the first place I thought of; the patch of bluebells, away from the cliffside, away from the oak tree, but not far away enough to forget all about it in the morning. I would give anything to forget all about this.

This is what I am. I am a blue wisp. I am tasked to lure these people into the same fate I was once in. And there is nothing I can do about it.

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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by derision in portal Simon & Schuster
the wisp - a chapter.
I hear the rustling and crunching of dried leaves, the crackling of brittle branches against soles. The footsteps sound rushed, urgent, as if trying to run away from someone, or something. Breaths are heavy, chest is heaving, tears are teetering over their eyes' edge. They lean against a thick oak tree—an attempt to unload the weight on their lungs and heart. Their shoulders slump over, a hand clutching the cloth of the shirt over their chest, but I've known too well that that would constrict their breathing even more. 

Finally, they chose to have a seat, keeping their heads on their knees, as they speak of words indiscernible amidst their weeping into their hands. The sides of their cheeks glisten against the moonlight, resembling a mystic waterfall located in the space between heaven and hell. I attempt to get a closer look, but they must've felt the sudden freezing breeze, as they looked in the direction of where I was. Luckily, I hid fast enough inside a bluebell flower. The air becomes tepid again and they resume their crying.

I've seen this happen over and over again, and they all end up the same, but I still wonder what would make them still run away to a place as secluded and dangerous as this. Maybe they never listened to the old ones' tales, convinced that they are full of bollocks, that they are nothing but hullabaloo and a product of a too-wild imagination. Maybe they did listen, and that's why they came here. Maybe all they wanted was an adventure. Maybe they yearned for an escape, much like I used to, once. But, I digress.

All those maybe's — whatever they may be — don't have much purpose in this place. They all meet the same fate. I have to do what I am tasked to do. 

I step out of the petals, and kneel before the human. Slowly bringing my hands to their cheeks, I raise their head and look them straight in the eye. Their pupils dilate, and their eyes widen. They now have no control over their actions. A brush of conscience could try to scream at them that they need to run, that this will not end well, but it will be disregarded as quick as it comes. 

I stand, and beckon them to rise with me. Carefully, I walk front to the path that plain sight cannot spot, and they follow, with eyes still in the same state, and their body moving against its own accord. The trees bow down closer further on walking, as if they wish to be intertwined with those in front of it. No cricket nor owl could be heard. All is quiet, other than their footsteps. 
 
I've memorised these routes like the lines on a hand. For me to get lost would only happen if I had the capacity (and ability) to be. To be lost is a commodity I could only wish to have.

I'm nearing the end of the path, and my own breathing heaves like theirs was earlier. There are no tears to fall, as I no longer have the body I once owned. I've done this times too many, but it still stings. How ironic it is that even I am moving against my own accord. I am a curse that I can't reverse.

The waters bang against the bottom of the cliffside like uneven beats of a drum. I look at back at whom I've lead on to here. Any trace of jagged breaths have left. Words left tethered to their ribs will eternally remain where they are. Their body will never be found. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I walk past the edge, floating a few feet before them, but more than a hundred feet above the water. I held out my hand for them, beckoning them one last time to follow, with a smile to reassure them even a little. They take little steps this time, almost tripping at a stray stone, but not nearly enough to cut off the trance. 

Just like that, one moment they were still standing at the very nib—everything was still, the next you could hear them gasp (or scream) before their bones shatter at the touch of rocks, and be carried away by the currents, as if the ripple was nothing. 

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

I flee quickly, with the sounds of everything and anything still echoing around me. I can't go back to where I found them. I went to the first place I thought of; the patch of bluebells, away from the cliffside, away from the oak tree, but not far away enough to forget all about it in the morning. I would give anything to forget all about this.

This is what I am. I am a blue wisp. I am tasked to lure these people into the same fate I was once in. And there is nothing I can do about it.
#fantasy  #fiction  #mystery  #story 
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Written by Sweedle

The doctor who writes

Once upon a time, there lived a sweet girl called Amy. Amy loved to do all the things a kid would do but one thing. She loved to write. Ever since she was small, she would scribble words into the back of her school books . Doodle cute cartoon figures and write stories about them. On her tenth birthday, she was gifted a lovely diary , that was bound in leather cover and had a tiny lock and key as well. She fell in love with this present, carrying it wherever she went.

Things changed when she was getting older , her parents wanted her to pay more attention to her studies and despised her love of writing.

" What's the use of being a mere writer? You have to become something bigger than that ! Don't ruin our reputation" they would tell her, each time they seen her writing something down. It would really hurt but she didn't say a word. She would secretly hide in the dark space below her bed and lit a torch to write as much as she could , pouring out her woes into her dear diary. As the years passed further , she studied hard ( but wrote harder ) . And soon became the doctor her parents wanted her to be.

Dr Amy turned out to be the most popular doctor in her town. People all over visited her to get treated by her. So much that her parents turned curious to know what was the secret of her success.

So they paid a secret visit to her clinic and stood near her door. They could see a kid not more than 6 years sitting next to her , listening to her in rapt attention as she read something from a book . They

Pressed their ears closer to the door to hear her speak. She was reciting a story about a little girl who loved to write but wasn't allowed to .

After the story was over , the kid smiled wide and gave her a tight hug.

" I want to be a writer too !" He exclaimed.

" Sure you will . Just follow your heart" she told him wistfully.

The kid thanked her and left the room along with his mom and dad. Amy's parents stood, amazed yet ashamed of what they just seen. The success to their daughter's career was her own passion that she kept alive , reading out her scribbled work to her patients. They may have killed her dreams , but they would never be able to kill her spirit.

"Her hands wrapped in thorns.

Her fingers holding the pen tight

She bled words on the paper

With fiery passion ; ever glowing light"

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Juice
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Written by Sweedle
The doctor who writes
Once upon a time, there lived a sweet girl called Amy. Amy loved to do all the things a kid would do but one thing. She loved to write. Ever since she was small, she would scribble words into the back of her school books . Doodle cute cartoon figures and write stories about them. On her tenth birthday, she was gifted a lovely diary , that was bound in leather cover and had a tiny lock and key as well. She fell in love with this present, carrying it wherever she went.

Things changed when she was getting older , her parents wanted her to pay more attention to her studies and despised her love of writing.

" What's the use of being a mere writer? You have to become something bigger than that ! Don't ruin our reputation" they would tell her, each time they seen her writing something down. It would really hurt but she didn't say a word. She would secretly hide in the dark space below her bed and lit a torch to write as much as she could , pouring out her woes into her dear diary. As the years passed further , she studied hard ( but wrote harder ) . And soon became the doctor her parents wanted her to be.

Dr Amy turned out to be the most popular doctor in her town. People all over visited her to get treated by her. So much that her parents turned curious to know what was the secret of her success.

So they paid a secret visit to her clinic and stood near her door. They could see a kid not more than 6 years sitting next to her , listening to her in rapt attention as she read something from a book . They

Pressed their ears closer to the door to hear her speak. She was reciting a story about a little girl who loved to write but wasn't allowed to .

After the story was over , the kid smiled wide and gave her a tight hug.

" I want to be a writer too !" He exclaimed.

" Sure you will . Just follow your heart" she told him wistfully.

The kid thanked her and left the room along with his mom and dad. Amy's parents stood, amazed yet ashamed of what they just seen. The success to their daughter's career was her own passion that she kept alive , reading out her scribbled work to her patients. They may have killed her dreams , but they would never be able to kill her spirit.

"Her hands wrapped in thorns.
Her fingers holding the pen tight
She bled words on the paper
With fiery passion ; ever glowing light"
#story  #writer 
9
4
3
Juice
27 reads
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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by CMB in portal Simon & Schuster

Disordered Story Burb

Mentally ill weren't words I ever gave much thought to until they were linked to me. Bipolar disorder, it wasn't supposed to break into my life until my late teens but I guess I was one of the lucky ones who it attacked in childhood.

Since the beginning of my double digit years it was this routine my family did. We moved to another state, new town, new home; new life. My dad would help companies get on their feet or rebuild and after a year we would move on right before school started back up again. Every year I was the new kid and that worked for me.

The movers would come, I would hide in the closet and calm my racing heart every time one got near me. At school I would be the quiet one who never spoke, never caused trouble. My parents would bring me from one therapist to another and every year my life became more numb.

That was until this year, this year a lot of things changed.

A hospitalization, suicide attempt and a nice comfortable institution was a good indication of my life going downhill at a rapid rate. Not to mention my cocktails of anti-psychotics which made me feel like a robot, the fact that I no longer valued my own life and the stress I caused to the lives and marriage of my parents.

A year was easy, you got good at being antisocial and staying disconnected from people and by the time the new year could come and a couple people could maybe figure out that you were a freak... you were moving on to a new school and going through the same routine.

It was a lonely life but at least it wasn't filled with bullying and awful comments about a illness I couldn't control. Until now apparently. This system had worked for me but when my brother's dad died my mother moved to him instead of moving him to us. To be fair, it was good parenting. He was in his senior year and had gone through a horrible loss I couldn't begin to comprehend.

But that also meant that the bullying would start and if I wasn't careful, he would find out that I really was just the crazy freak he had been telling me I was all my life. He went from shoving as a child to belittling. It went from childhood pushing to psychologically damaging. No matter how hard I tried he hated me and the feeling became mutual.

Now we were about to be under the same roof for an entire year, something that's never happened. For the first time since I was eight I would have to attend the same school and he was clear about one thing; if I told anyone he would destroy me.

Just because he was stuck with me didn't mean I was entitled to ruin his senior year.

So I welcomed myself to the next year of hell being picked apart every day and forced to keep his dirty secrets from my parents in the interest of self preservation. School wasn't my own, therapy wasn't my choice and now I would come home every day to a house that would never be a safe place as long as he was in it.

Locks were removed so I couldn't even make my bedroom my own and no matter what I did I was never able to stay out of his line of fire. At the start of school it was like every other year but as it went on, secrets got out and life seemed like it was no longer worth living.

Have you ever picked on someone at school? Said they were a freak or would be better off dead? Have you ever made fun of someone with a disability or illness? Because tormenting a human being because of that is like making fun of cancer. It's despicable and horrible and I had to live it because of what?

If someone could just give me a reason for hating myself every time I breathe. If my dozen therapists could give me a reason why I fought to slit my wrists daily or just inform me why I panicked every time someone touched me... hell when they even got near me.

If I was raped or abused It would tell me why my own mother couldn't touch me and why the thought of human interaction sent me into a downward spiral of anxiety. But I wasn't attacked and my parents never so much as raised a hand to me.

If I had lost a parent, sibling, aunt, uncle or hell even a grandparent, it would tell me why I couldn't bare to make human connections.

But I lived a nice life with two parents who loved me, even if one had become controlling and overbearing; I guess I deserved that. My mental health care was top priority and I had a huge family who loved me. Four grandparents, countless cousins and quite a few aunts and uncles. Nothing bad had ever happened to me in my life and yet here I was.

Music and art became the only outlet I had to cope with the loss of control. Disorder after disorder consumed my life until it passed me past the breaking point, a scary thought since I had already attempted suicide at sixteen years old.

Life was this journey and mine was leading straight to a grave before the age of eighteen and no one could figure out how to stop it. Not my parents, therapist or myself.

It never occurred to me that human connection; the one thing I feared the most, would be the only thing in this world that could save me... as if my life was worth this whole long story. As if my life could be interesting enough to be put to words, chapters and bound in a story.

No one cared about mental illnesses in high school and they never would. I was simply just a crazy oversensitive girl with no future. Unlovable and incapable of making any kind of real friendships. People didn't stand up for you, they let it happen and took pride in themselves that they weren't the ones doing it.To them, if you're not the active bully you're a saint.

No one cared about the outcasts, disabled.. the crazies and the disordered 

3
0
0
Juice
145 reads
Donate coins to CMB.
Juice
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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by CMB in portal Simon & Schuster
Disordered Story Burb
Mentally ill weren't words I ever gave much thought to until they were linked to me. Bipolar disorder, it wasn't supposed to break into my life until my late teens but I guess I was one of the lucky ones who it attacked in childhood.

Since the beginning of my double digit years it was this routine my family did. We moved to another state, new town, new home; new life. My dad would help companies get on their feet or rebuild and after a year we would move on right before school started back up again. Every year I was the new kid and that worked for me.

The movers would come, I would hide in the closet and calm my racing heart every time one got near me. At school I would be the quiet one who never spoke, never caused trouble. My parents would bring me from one therapist to another and every year my life became more numb.

That was until this year, this year a lot of things changed.

A hospitalization, suicide attempt and a nice comfortable institution was a good indication of my life going downhill at a rapid rate. Not to mention my cocktails of anti-psychotics which made me feel like a robot, the fact that I no longer valued my own life and the stress I caused to the lives and marriage of my parents.

A year was easy, you got good at being antisocial and staying disconnected from people and by the time the new year could come and a couple people could maybe figure out that you were a freak... you were moving on to a new school and going through the same routine.

It was a lonely life but at least it wasn't filled with bullying and awful comments about a illness I couldn't control. Until now apparently. This system had worked for me but when my brother's dad died my mother moved to him instead of moving him to us. To be fair, it was good parenting. He was in his senior year and had gone through a horrible loss I couldn't begin to comprehend.

But that also meant that the bullying would start and if I wasn't careful, he would find out that I really was just the crazy freak he had been telling me I was all my life. He went from shoving as a child to belittling. It went from childhood pushing to psychologically damaging. No matter how hard I tried he hated me and the feeling became mutual.

Now we were about to be under the same roof for an entire year, something that's never happened. For the first time since I was eight I would have to attend the same school and he was clear about one thing; if I told anyone he would destroy me.

Just because he was stuck with me didn't mean I was entitled to ruin his senior year.
So I welcomed myself to the next year of hell being picked apart every day and forced to keep his dirty secrets from my parents in the interest of self preservation. School wasn't my own, therapy wasn't my choice and now I would come home every day to a house that would never be a safe place as long as he was in it.

Locks were removed so I couldn't even make my bedroom my own and no matter what I did I was never able to stay out of his line of fire. At the start of school it was like every other year but as it went on, secrets got out and life seemed like it was no longer worth living.

Have you ever picked on someone at school? Said they were a freak or would be better off dead? Have you ever made fun of someone with a disability or illness? Because tormenting a human being because of that is like making fun of cancer. It's despicable and horrible and I had to live it because of what?

If someone could just give me a reason for hating myself every time I breathe. If my dozen therapists could give me a reason why I fought to slit my wrists daily or just inform me why I panicked every time someone touched me... hell when they even got near me.
If I was raped or abused It would tell me why my own mother couldn't touch me and why the thought of human interaction sent me into a downward spiral of anxiety. But I wasn't attacked and my parents never so much as raised a hand to me.

If I had lost a parent, sibling, aunt, uncle or hell even a grandparent, it would tell me why I couldn't bare to make human connections.

But I lived a nice life with two parents who loved me, even if one had become controlling and overbearing; I guess I deserved that. My mental health care was top priority and I had a huge family who loved me. Four grandparents, countless cousins and quite a few aunts and uncles. Nothing bad had ever happened to me in my life and yet here I was.

Music and art became the only outlet I had to cope with the loss of control. Disorder after disorder consumed my life until it passed me past the breaking point, a scary thought since I had already attempted suicide at sixteen years old.

Life was this journey and mine was leading straight to a grave before the age of eighteen and no one could figure out how to stop it. Not my parents, therapist or myself.

It never occurred to me that human connection; the one thing I feared the most, would be the only thing in this world that could save me... as if my life was worth this whole long story. As if my life could be interesting enough to be put to words, chapters and bound in a story.

No one cared about mental illnesses in high school and they never would. I was simply just a crazy oversensitive girl with no future. Unlovable and incapable of making any kind of real friendships. People didn't stand up for you, they let it happen and took pride in themselves that they weren't the ones doing it.To them, if you're not the active bully you're a saint.

No one cared about the outcasts, disabled.. the crazies and the disordered 
#fiction  #story  #anxiety  #mentalillness 
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Write a short story with only five sentences, and each sentence must have only five words.
Written by theblacktempest in portal Fiction

Lost

I remember that particular sound. The rain hitting the ground. And you, hitting the pavement.

‘I thought I lost you.’

‘Oh, but you really did.’

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Write a short story with only five sentences, and each sentence must have only five words.
Written by theblacktempest in portal Fiction
Lost
I remember that particular sound. The rain hitting the ground. And you, hitting the pavement.
‘I thought I lost you.’
‘Oh, but you really did.’

#fiction  #story  #sad  #lost  #fall 
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