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"Something more"

21:54 I started this. I don't want to say too much, but this is probably going to be hard to understand, and this below, is the reason why I can't make it as a writer.

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You'd think a few years starring at a wall would make you think, wouldn't it? It does you know. You think about many things.

There is a town on the outskirts of nowhere. The town that brings people into it's life, and spits them out again, half chewed, and with no direction. This is that town.

A town called Naive, where the children camp in the forest at night. They bring tents out, set them up, and watch the stars. The parents stay home, cook, make love, sleep, without a worry in the world.

Gary, who waters the flowers in the park. He can't see why there's anything else in life more important, than keeping the flowers growing. He waters them everyday, waves to Steve, the postman, on his way around the village.

Not that they have much post. All that are sent are invites to parties, small thank you letters. Children rush to the door, and as sure as the sun does rise, there will be post pushed through the letterbox, by Steve, on his rounds. Sometimes even the letters would be from Steve, a small feeling of satisfaction as he imagines what their faces look like to read what he has to say.

The vegatable fair is this Thursday. Keith and his son there, Richard, they own the farm on the outskirts of the town. They grow vegatables, and feed chickens so they lay eggs. Richard's looking forward to this month's vegatable fair, he's very proud of the carrots he's grown, you know? He's spent a lot of time looking after them, he's dying to show everyone.

Little Charlie's cut his knee. It's ok, don't cry. The nurse puts a plaster on the cut, kisses Charlies forehead.

And there's me. I live in this town. I married, settled down here. I had a son. His name is Charlie.

And there's Monty, our dog. The sheepdog that just turned up one day, so we bought him home to look after him. Nobody claimed him, we've had him for years now.

But it doesn't matter anymore. It's just the town called naive.

Here, take this. Put it back on my wall, it belongs there.

I can't find words to reply to what you wrote. But I've thought thoughts similar that say more than I can think to write at the moment. This is something I wrote years ago when my life was falling apart at the seams. It's not entirely similar to yours, and yours is better even if you want to say otherwise...

Peregrine aimed carefully at the target on the brick wall. Ten metres away stood a green bottle casting an eerie glow on the sandy ground. He drew back the elastic on the handcrafted catapult and shut one eye tightly. He breathed in, exhaled slowly and fired. In a split second there seemed to be a million shining pieces of emerald flying in all directions. All that remained on the dilapidated wall was the hard base, which had taken on the appearance of a distinctly unregal crown. Picking up another stone he prepared to fire again, differently this time; a little more conservatively. The stone lofted through the air gracefully and landed at the base of the crown, pitching it high up into the air. He ran to the wall and watched as the spinning crown began its tragic descent into the waves far below at the base of the cliff. It sank with an unceremonious splash, but looking like a jewel-encrusted crown in the flash on sunlight.

He waited a while to see if anyone had been disturbed by this invasion of the silent tranquillity. No one came. Peregrine often came to the cliff-top when he needed to be alone. He could absorb the silence or vent his frustration without interruption. Yet his main pleasure was found in the vast expanse of the ocean. Its borders seemed limitless, contained only by the brutal coastline that stifled its freedom, repelling the tide's every attempt to occupy the dry land. He hated the times when he had to turn around and head back home. It was pure hypocrisy to turn his back on infinite possibility and look willingly upon the limitations of the opposite direction.

Whenever he began to turn his head he would watch the waves crash on the tyrannical rocks and know how hopeless his return would be. He despaired at the contemptuous sight of their cars, their semi-detached houses, their nine-to-five jobs and their limitations. They willingly embraced the shackles of their jobs and mortgages and empty empty lives. Every time he tried to be a part of their world he knew he was compromising himself. Every single time he tried to accept their lifestyle, the allure of the silent cliff-top overpowered him and he would return and look wistfully at the sea.

Looking at his watch, he knew that it was time to leave. Staring out into the ocean he could scarcely bear to turn his head. The ocean stretched as far as his eyes could see in all visible directions; a wondrous, borderless citadel of absolute peace. So he did not turn his head. He removed his watch and threw it behind them, releasing the bond of their time. He took off his shoes and his socks and stood on the burning sand and the warmth on his feet was liberating. Still looking to the sea he began to pace forwards, and the verdant emeralds on the floor became red rubies as the shards cut his feet to ribbons, and the pain exhilarated him. He stepped up on to the uneven wall and stretched his arms out on either side of his body. The bright sun shone on to his face and emphasised the silent tear that rolled down his cheek.

With arms still out-stretched, and leaning forward as far as it was possible to lean without losing balance, he let the tear fall into the sea, from whence it had come. And as he stared the waves ceased their tumultuous crescendo and lay still, subdued, inviting him to join them. He straightened again. He gasped the salt air into his lungs. Exhaled. Then with a straight back he fell forwards to where his crown and kingdom awaited him. Suddenly the water enveloped him. It swept over his face refreshing him. The first acrid gulp of salt water made him wretch violently, but this only caused a gasping gulp of fresh bitter water to enter his lungs, and again. Again. But the bitter salty taste was nothing but a distant memory as he faded into the sweet, borderless blackness that he had so coveted.

You're right, it did. I told my wife to 'shut up' twice whilst writing it. ;-)

This post made you talk, that's all I care about. :0D

I see what you mean Grix.

As much as you can read and enjoy the first post, I doubt many people got it, as such, until they read your explanation.

The voice is always your own, you see.

It's hard to find the right voice to tell a particular story, you can't really drop out of the voice to explain what's going on, as it just doesn't work.

The last story I posted on these forums (PLUG - titles One hour story on the long/amusing stories forum) I tried to use a voice other than my own, and write entirely from someone elses first person. As it was like a narrative of what had happened it was hard to finish it.

I just had to go for a BANG, which I'm not sure worked.

Still, it was a nice experiment for me.

Crap, I've detracted from what I was saying about this post to talk about me, sorry about that.

No, I'm crap at writing. I can get my thoughts across so I understand it, but nobody else can. It's great for chatting, but I can't really express myself to my full ability, and I've tried.

I need another form of communication, something visual.

Once again I read all of it, and once again I was confused :)

The explanation sort of cleared it up a bit.

But it's obvious that you have a talent for writing.

Well done

Sometimes you really annoy me Grix.

I know what I want to say in reply to your topics, but I can't get the right words out.

But I did read it, and understood it, I think.

Ok, time for an explanation. :0)

This is how I picture myself dying... suddenly encapsulated with this simple mind, hoping for simply pleasures. This was written as what someone says to someone between two things.

First, the man that speaks is inside his office. He walks up to the wall facing him, takes the painting off the wall that he sees every day, opens the window, and goes outside. He sits on the balcony and stares at it.

Sooner or later, someone comes out to try save him. This is when he starts to talk. He basically stares at the painting, and tells him all about it.

Then he hands the painting back to the man, and jumps off the roof.

The thing that made me write something like this, was just to show that committing suicide is not descriptive. You don't have thousands of words running through your mind, you don't have the ability to describe your entire life, or remember it. You simply accept, you don't think. You're beyond thinking.

This is what I was trying to portray. A man that had spent so long looking at a painting, that he couldn't accept that he had to live in his world, instead of in the world of the painting, the naive town where everyone had a purpose, everyone knew eachother, everyone was happy.

It's just I hate all the films and stuff where you get the tearful "NO! I'M NOT COMING DOWN!" acting.

21:54 I started this. I don't want to say too much, but this is probably going to be hard to understand, and this below, is the reason why I can't make it as a writer.

--------------------

You'd think a few years starring at a wall would make you think, wouldn't it? It does you know. You think about many things.

There is a town on the outskirts of nowhere. The town that brings people into it's life, and spits them out again, half chewed, and with no direction. This is that town.

A town called Naive, where the children camp in the forest at night. They bring tents out, set them up, and watch the stars. The parents stay home, cook, make love, sleep, without a worry in the world.

Gary, who waters the flowers in the park. He can't see why there's anything else in life more important, than keeping the flowers growing. He waters them everyday, waves to Steve, the postman, on his way around the village.

Not that they have much post. All that are sent are invites to parties, small thank you letters. Children rush to the door, and as sure as the sun does rise, there will be post pushed through the letterbox, by Steve, on his rounds. Sometimes even the letters would be from Steve, a small feeling of satisfaction as he imagines what their faces look like to read what he has to say.

The vegatable fair is this Thursday. Keith and his son there, Richard, they own the farm on the outskirts of the town. They grow vegatables, and feed chickens so they lay eggs. Richard's looking forward to this month's vegatable fair, he's very proud of the carrots he's grown, you know? He's spent a lot of time looking after them, he's dying to show everyone.

Little Charlie's cut his knee. It's ok, don't cry. The nurse puts a plaster on the cut, kisses Charlies forehead.

And there's me. I live in this town. I married, settled down here. I had a son. His name is Charlie.

And there's Monty, our dog. The sheepdog that just turned up one day, so we bought him home to look after him. Nobody claimed him, we've had him for years now.

But it doesn't matter anymore. It's just the town called naive.

Here, take this. Put it back on my wall, it belongs there.