Post by Graveyard Goddess on Nov 8, 2006 20:39:35 GMT -5
i have to write a story for school and heres what i have so far id love to here what you have to think..
(working title lol)Charlotte
Her mother, Melinda, would take her to the city, where they’d try to walk like the fast paced new Yorkers. They would both wear makeup. Melinda showed off her designer pumps while her daughter, Lottie, walked in her dress-up shoes. They were covered in bedazzled jewels and made a “click-clack” sound as she walked. Melinda and her daughter held their heads up high and had matching pink pashminas.
Lottie wore her favorite tights, along with a dress that swayed as she walked. Her tights where white, with teeny red dots and red hearts. They only lasted so long though, and after a few weeks were run covered and had holed knees.
When the light turned and the traffic stopped, they would run across the crosswalk together laughing—blowing air kisses to the passers by. Sometimes they would wave at the camera’s and smile just for them, then go home and read fancy magazines, just to see their pictures.
“You’re my little star Lottie”
Melinda would tell Charlotte when she was a little girl. When Lottie was only a few months old, her mother stuck little plastic stars to the ceiling of her bedroom. The kind that look clear with a yellow tint in daylight but glow the color of celadon—a soft green color. They never glowed strong enough to cast light, but just bright enough to attract the little pale blue eyes of curious children as they fell asleep. The stars kept eyes from drifting to dark corners, shadows and closet monsters.
Charlotte gazed up at the ceiling. Her room, once white with star-lit decals, had evolved into a collage of bead fringed tapestries, stained glass candlesticks, dried out flowers and posters ripped from magazines of rock stars with jet black hair and eyeliner. One section of her wall was covered in tabloids, with photos of her mother—the fashion icon of New York City. Melinda Lumière. The stars still patterened the ceilings.
The music echoed out through Charlotte’s doorway and down the spiral staircase to the living room, where it would drift aimlessly, with no one at all to hear it. She liked to call this music “Neo-Bella Rawk”, but to everyone else, it was an odd unsettling composure of acoustic guitar, ethereal tribal chanting to 80’s punk. Something most people would find curious and amusing at most.
Charlotte lived alone in the small pale yellow house ever since Melinda had passed away, so she could blast the stereo as loud as she wanted to. So that’s exactly what she did.
Charlotte turned the volume louder and louder, as she belt out the lyrics:
/There’s a story spinning in
Fears fall like frozen rain
I am running with the wind
To test how much pain I can sustain
But please do not let me win
For I wish my will away
The fire is glowing bright tonight
Starting to burn right through my wings/
And she turned on the stereo speakers one by one in her bedroom and the hallway. Till the surround sound bass drum was one with her heartbeat, and the punk rock anger swarmed like little sprites around her—the loud sad female vocals brewing from her heart, were painfully accompanied by the every silent memory she had of left of her mother.
(working title lol)Charlotte
Her mother, Melinda, would take her to the city, where they’d try to walk like the fast paced new Yorkers. They would both wear makeup. Melinda showed off her designer pumps while her daughter, Lottie, walked in her dress-up shoes. They were covered in bedazzled jewels and made a “click-clack” sound as she walked. Melinda and her daughter held their heads up high and had matching pink pashminas.
Lottie wore her favorite tights, along with a dress that swayed as she walked. Her tights where white, with teeny red dots and red hearts. They only lasted so long though, and after a few weeks were run covered and had holed knees.
When the light turned and the traffic stopped, they would run across the crosswalk together laughing—blowing air kisses to the passers by. Sometimes they would wave at the camera’s and smile just for them, then go home and read fancy magazines, just to see their pictures.
“You’re my little star Lottie”
Melinda would tell Charlotte when she was a little girl. When Lottie was only a few months old, her mother stuck little plastic stars to the ceiling of her bedroom. The kind that look clear with a yellow tint in daylight but glow the color of celadon—a soft green color. They never glowed strong enough to cast light, but just bright enough to attract the little pale blue eyes of curious children as they fell asleep. The stars kept eyes from drifting to dark corners, shadows and closet monsters.
Charlotte gazed up at the ceiling. Her room, once white with star-lit decals, had evolved into a collage of bead fringed tapestries, stained glass candlesticks, dried out flowers and posters ripped from magazines of rock stars with jet black hair and eyeliner. One section of her wall was covered in tabloids, with photos of her mother—the fashion icon of New York City. Melinda Lumière. The stars still patterened the ceilings.
The music echoed out through Charlotte’s doorway and down the spiral staircase to the living room, where it would drift aimlessly, with no one at all to hear it. She liked to call this music “Neo-Bella Rawk”, but to everyone else, it was an odd unsettling composure of acoustic guitar, ethereal tribal chanting to 80’s punk. Something most people would find curious and amusing at most.
Charlotte lived alone in the small pale yellow house ever since Melinda had passed away, so she could blast the stereo as loud as she wanted to. So that’s exactly what she did.
Charlotte turned the volume louder and louder, as she belt out the lyrics:
/There’s a story spinning in
Fears fall like frozen rain
I am running with the wind
To test how much pain I can sustain
But please do not let me win
For I wish my will away
The fire is glowing bright tonight
Starting to burn right through my wings/
And she turned on the stereo speakers one by one in her bedroom and the hallway. Till the surround sound bass drum was one with her heartbeat, and the punk rock anger swarmed like little sprites around her—the loud sad female vocals brewing from her heart, were painfully accompanied by the every silent memory she had of left of her mother.
