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Monologues: unnamed
Monday, October 19, 2009
The last time we saw her, there were flowers just blooming on the trees.
There birds were just returning, and there was a nippy wind like there always was.
Everybody was dressing up in our best, going out and about to visit their kin.
Everybody was just getting out their lighter cardigans and sweaters.
Everybody else was keeping away their heavy coats and scarves.
The last time I saw her, it was spring.
I heard from her mother, what happened.
I myself went into her room, and saw what happened.
It was surprisingly quiet, unlike how she usually was.
Everybody knows her.
Everybody knows who she was.
Everybody knows who she used to be.
Nobody bothered to find out how she is.
I remember how she was though.
I think everybody remembers.
How could one forget?
The black hair, always windswept and messy;
the lips, glossed and plump, always pulled into a smile;
the tanned face and the many freckles, like stars on her face;
the eyes, sparkling and bluer than the sky, charming and laughing.
Everybody loved her.
Apparently, not anymore.
I talked to her mother,
(accompanied by one cup of tea that went cold)
and she seemed surprisingly eager to talk,
(as though she kept something inside for too long and it burst)
she just talked and talked and talked.
(and I thought that she would never ever stop)
I listened and nodded.
I left when she started to cry.
(I hate it when people cry)
She told me that she never saw it coming.
I don't think anybody did.
It was just another chilly night,
on the fifteenth of January.
She had dressed in her pajamas,
(blue eyes, brown hair, brown skin)
and the last words anyone heard her say was
"I'm going to sleep for a while now. Don't try to wake me."
Nobody's heard from her since.
She's not dead.
I sat by her bedside, in that white wicker armchair she liked so much.
I sat there, on the green cushion that padded the hard seat.
I sat there, and watched her, as she whiled the hours.
She was indisputably asleep.
Just like she said she was.
It's so quiet in the room.
When I sit there, I feel like an intruder.
The creak of the wicker sounds like thunder.
Everything seems so pristine and calm, undisturbed.
When I sit down in that wicker chair she used to occupy,
I feel like I have somehow spoilt something, disturbed the peace.
When I sit by her and watch her still, unmoving self
(well, she breathes, so she does move a little)
I feel like I'm looking at something private,
something she doesn't want me to see.
The last time I saw her, she was awake and smiling and chattering.
The last time I saw her, it was spring.
Spring is over.
after dark by Haruki Murakami,
insomnia at 1:13 in the morning.
Labels: monologues
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Monologues: Pierre
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Pierre Blanchett
some people take four hours to write an essay.
guess what?
i'll do it in less than a quarter of that.
yup, just gimme an hour or half.
watch me and my magic fingers write out all the eloquence sitting in your muddled head.
please be AMAZED with me.
and don't forget,
we always love applause.
we could kill for it, seriously.
especially nowadays, when all i ever seem to be is crazy to people. y'know, psycho and shiz.
it's not my fault i was born this way you know.
people just can't deal with the shiz they weren't born with.
it's like... almost an inborn thing.
what do they call it again? Instinct?
My bad, it would seem as though the words have deserted me.
As had Caliope,
As had Caliope, Erato,
As had Caliope, Erato, Erato, Melpomene,
As had Caliope, Erato, Erato, Erato, MelpomenThalia...
i don't write as much as i used to any more.
no inspiration, no stories, no voices in my head.
it's so empty in there now.
i always did wonder if it would rattle if i shook it hard enough,
like a P O P P Y flower,
after all the petals were gone and it was all dark, dry and ugly.
rattlerattlerattle rattlerattlerattle
ah, the sound of the uninspired once-writer.
hear that?
yeah, that's the sound of a life once well-lived.
you don't want to sit here like me.
really darling, you don't.
i might be able to write four hundred words in less than seventeen minutes,
i might be able to tell you a tale and spin out characters that would make you cry,
i might be able to amaze you with my silly antics, my affability and my wise wise words,
but at the end of the day,
i would give anything to be you.
right now all i want is to sit down at the edge of my bed
(hear the clock going tick tick tick tick)
and be able to look up to that once immaculately painted ceiling
(tick tick tick)
and be able to tell myself,
(even if i lie)
"It is all going to be okay."
writers and their words,
muses and their instruments,
all the inspiration run dry,
Tic-Tac in orange flavour,
burnt out and broken lives,
burnt out and broken people. Labels: monologues
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Monologues: Katsurou
"Adair"
Yamasaki Katsurou
he told me i was pretty.
and here i am like a stupid silly schoolgirl, cooped up in the corner where i always sit, under the tree and blushing all about it.
what a sight
what a sight
what a sight
i wonder what people are thinking about me right now?
"Hey guys, check out that weird kid sitting there!"
"Hey look, it's him again, that nancy from the other class!"
"Hey bro, it's that Adair-kid from the other school!"
not very friendly, people nowadays. not friendly at all i guess. i wonder what happened to the other people in the past, the nice ones. the one's who give out candies and pennies and invited you over for tea? those nice uncles and aunts and their sweet little daughters and sons who were always giving away their balloons, and the sweet formality with which they would speak... what happened to that guy i knew who would always give me a shiny polished pebble every saturday?
oh wait, we're not in tiny tinseltown any more.
dear me how could i ever ever forget?
he called me pretty.
pretty!
i can't even remember the last time someone looked me in the eye and told me i looked pretty without making it sound like some disease.
i wonder when that happened, huh?
prettiness being a disease...
that sounds like something he wrote about for his philosophy essay.
I think he told me about it.
Did he?Did he?
Did he?
Did he?Did he?
...For the life of me i can never seem to remember the important stuff.
like what the house i used to live, when mummy was still in england, looked like.
like what our cat used to look like, before it ran out and got hit by a car.
like what the dog was called before i renamed it Irritating Incarnate.
like what he wrote in his philosophy essay...
God, i am such a sob story.
think of happier things, Adair!
think H A P P Y!
like how he wore green today,
like how everywhere you turned,
you would see someone in green,
and how you would always pray it was him.
seriously, i would give anything to hear his voice now.
High definition, instant replay video:
High definition, instant replay video: "You're far prettier than she was."
pretty?
he looked like he meant it too, green eyes all firm and steady.
he didn't clamp down on his lips like he thought he said something wrong.
he didn't even so much look like he meant it actually.
it's like he let it slip by accident and decided it didn't matter if i heard or not.
imustbethinkingtoomuchagain
ithinktoomuchithinktoomuchithinktoomuch
why is my heart hammering my ribs?
it kinda' hurts.
cut it out.
damn it.
rain on the windowpane,
oscar wilde's children's stories,
impossibly pretty boys,
airbrushed models,
clothes that are oh so vogue,
shallowness and lots of it,
a Japanese soundtrack put on loop. Labels: monologues
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about one xREDballoon
about meIt was the username that was adopted either in late August or early September of 2009. It was the combined effect of too many games on Orisinal (especially High Delivery) and also her long-time love for how the large red carnival balloons when they fly away.
about meFinalized as a digital signature only in November of the same year, it has since been used everywhere: her previous Gaia account, her account on bubbl.us, and of course every recent endeavor on web and graphic design. It was an aim of hers to use it as something of a brand. From her sketches to simple blog layouts, one xREDballoon presents is her favourite signature as of now.
about meone xREDballoon is the internet handle of a girl, born on a wet day in the early morning of late February. Although astrologically she is a Pisces, she displays many of the Aquarian traits, possibly as a result of being born near the time. She likes the concept of beauty in its most primitive classical form, ruffles layered upon each other generously for flounce or decor, detailed black lace be it crochet or woven, a whole palette of colours from turquoise to grey. She is charmed by the way an old well-read book smells on a wet rainy day, and the way the pages feel, all crinkly and wise under her fingers as she turns the page. She loves the inviting appeal of a blank notebook, and a good gel-ink pen in the colour of the sky.
about meLearn more about her in her personal blog.
about And Then She Fell
about meAndthenshe-fell@blogspot was named as such in October 09, on a whim and on a wish to match the layout that time. And Then She Fell was a lot of things back then: a roleplay layout (in bbcode), a roleplay idea (which was never developed) and also the words emblazoned in huge Ruritania upon an image which showed a falling girl. That was the beginnings of this writing blog as the all-new concept of And Then She Fell.
about meFrom the start, And Then She Fell has always been a semi-personal blog. While visitors are not unwelcomed, no particular effort is put into censoring the content or to sound polite. Just as well that the blog touches on intangible unimportant things, for if it were to talk of life and its nuances, things would sour quickly and it would become a blog of cynical views and criticism. Enjoy your stay here.
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