Maxx's Writings

Maxxeen

plate of fries
So, I'm gonna post a bunch of my short stories and poems here. That's it, lol.

I'm open for feedback/criticism for my writing, just don't be horrid.

And, uh, a little warning: some topics I go over can be a little dark. Especially the first story I'm gonna post. I'll put a warning on the posts with the stories, telling exactly what topics it covers, so that people are (hopefully) plenty prepared.
 
So, this first one is a story I wrote for English in Year 11. My teacher loved it, and I got the highest possible grade for it.

It is about a girl who killed herself, so it does deal with themes of depression and suicide.




No More

The sun rises over a small park. The darkness retracts. What was shrouded in shadows only an hour go is revealed. Calm. Not a living soul in sight to disturb the silence. A soft wind blows through the grass, through the playground, through the trees. The dew on the flora glistens in the sunlight, and the fauna quietly sing their early morning songs. A single blackbird lands on a branch and curiously pecks at an old rope attached to its momentary resting spot.

The tree is a mighty oak, still standing strong despite all it's gone through, all it's seen. Laughter and tears. Parties and fights. Life and death. The rope it holds it not just a rope, nor is it there for no purpose. For it indeed had a purpose before this morning. The rope was given the heavy task of helping a young girl escape all the torture and abuse of this reality. That young girl shifts in the breeze, swinging gently from the rope around her neck.

A small smile rests on her face, as if she is sleeping, dreaming. She makes no sound, no movement. She is finally at peace.

Her eyes, open and bloodshot, stare into nothingness. The shadows surrounding them suggest that the Eternal Sleep is the first sleep she has had for a long time. And the marks and bruises over her pale skin suggest why. Garbed simply in a tee shirt and jogging bottoms, hair wild, no shoes, this is not the body of a girl who cared about herself. Years and years of suffering have led to this moment; it was inevitable, really, that this would happen.

Along her arms are the marks of a fighter who was only fighting against herself. Scars, old and new, show the journey this girl had been on. A series of cuts show why that journey had to end this way.

No more.

Carved into her skin by her own hand are those two words. She wanted no more to do with this world, and so had to leave it. The words are covered in a crust of dry blood, but so clear. Each cut had been precise, intentional. The blood trail runs down the girl's hand, still dripping off of her middle finger into the blood-soaked earth. The cuts are deep; it had been a race between them and the rope to see which would kill the girl first.

A sudden gust of wind causes the body to turn, and the words to knock into the trunk of the oak, leaving a bloody smear that will stay there until the end of time. The words are now obscured, but the cuts are still visible, worse now that the rough bark has caused them to widen. Wide enough to show the layers that made up the girl, right down to the glistening bone.

Children appear in the playground, towing their parents behind them, as the park opens. The air is filled with the laughter of young girls and boys as they play happily with one another. All too young to know the torture and abuse of this reality, that leaves one wishing they could leave it all behind. All too young to yet recognise the stench of death.

All too young to notice, swinging gently in the breeze, the pale lifeless body of the girl who wanted no more.
 
This one is something I wrote in 2018. It reads like a poem, but was the thought process of a character I started working on. Some have described it as 'deep'.
It is the character thinking and wondering about death.

If death were to claim me now, would I even notice?
Or have I already been claimed, with my soul stuck here on earth?

If I could end this on my own, would death still claim me?

Can the already dead be claimed, if I am dead?
Can the still living be claimed, if I am alive?

And if death were to claim me, where would I go?

Would I be damned to hell?
Or would I be blessed to heaven?

Would it really be all that bad to be sent to hell?
Would it really be all that good to be sent to heaven?

What if I were sent to neither?

What if I were stuck in limbo forever?

Or has that already happened?
Is this existence just an eternal limbo?

Or will death never claim me?

Is that a blessing?
Is that a curse?

If a blessing, why does it leave me wanting to die?
If a curse, why does it make me happy never to die?

And if death will not claim me, why will death not claim me?

Is it not my time to be claimed?
Am I too alive to be claimed?

Or am I but a figment of someone else's imagination?
Am I but a dream, created from the desire to not die?

Am I cursed with the pain of consciousness, without any real consciousness?

Are all these things around me real?
Or are they made from dream material too?
Are all these people around me real?
Or are they made from dream material too?

Are we all dream creatures that think we have control over our own minds?
Are we just pawns in someone else's dream game?

Is the illusion of being claimed by death just that?
An illusion?

Will we really never be claimed by death?
 
Here's another poem, one I wrote near the beginning of last year.

Never Stopping

I'm always busy,
Always doing something -
A project going on,
Or two or three or four;
I'm always doing something,
Never slowing;
People tell me to relax,
They tell me that just for a moment,
It would be healthy to stop.

Stop?
I am scared of stopping.

I'm scared that if I stop I'll fall,
Into the dark abyss from which I'll never escape.
I'm scared that stopping,
Will be what brings about my end.

I'm always busy,
Always doing something -
A project going on,
Or two or three or four.

I listen to what everyone is saying.

I stop.

I fall

Down.

Down into the pit of dispair.
Down into the endless abyss of darkness.

You catch me.

You hold me tight in your arms,
And bring me out of the abyss,
Out of the darkness.

You hold me tight
And promise you'll always be here

Stopping me from falling into the abyss.

I'm always busy,
Always doing something -
A project going on,
Or two or three or four;
I never slow,
Never stop.

But in your arms,
I stop.

And you hold me close,
And keep me from falling into the abyss.
 
And another poem. This one is short, but really nice.

Broken

All
Of us

Are a little

Broken

With
Pieces

Missing

But
Some of us

Make each other

Whole
 
And other. This one may or may not be about death? I don't even know myself with some things I write, lol.

Until That Day Arrives

Until that day arrives,
And all comes to an end,
We just have to deal with it.

Just grin
And bear it
And say nothing
And just put up
With all the abuse they put us through;
All the insults
And pain
And everything.

Until that day arrives,
We can’t get away from it.

But when it does come,
We’ll be able to escape
And leave it all behind;

...Finally
 
And the final (maybe?) poem I'll post for today.

Silent Ghost

I am but a silent ghost,
Drifting through this world.
Unseen.
Unheard.
If I were to fade from this world,
And go to the next,
Would my absence
Be noticed?

I am but a silent ghost,
Invisible to all but a few.
Intangible.
Inconsequential.
If I were to do something,
Anything at all,
Would it even
Matter?

I am but a silent ghost,
My name unknown to most.
Anonymous.
Ambiguous.
If I were to were to change myself,
In any way,
Would anyone
Even care?

I am but a silent ghost.
Unseen.
Unheard.
Intangible.
Inconsequential.
Anonymous.
Ambiguous.

I am but a silent ghost.

Is it even noticed?

Does it even matter?

Does anyone even care?
 
Here's something I wrote for a war! Uh, the spirit war event on B&WA. Today's theme was animals. So I churned out this little poem.




The Wolf and The Hare

A lone wolf, silhouetted against the moon, stands on the hill.

Eyes closed.

Ears alert.

Nose twitching.

The wind blows through its fur as it listens.

Something rustles.

Its eyes snap open, and it takes off.

The hunt is on.

It chases after its prey, pursuing the small hare.

Through the grass.

Through the trees.

Through the night.

It catches up to the tiny animal.

It pins it to the ground.

The hare shakes.

Terrified.

The wolf gets ready to feast, but pauses with its teeth inches from its prey's throat.

There is fear in the hare's eyes, a fear the wolf has never seen before, yet still recognises.

An almost human fear.

It resonates deep within the wolf, for some reason unknown to it.

It reminds it of something from a distant, forgotten past.

As if it has been in a situation like this before.

The wolf hesitates.

The wolf lets the hare go.
 
Travels of a Clockmaker

Yern examined the contents of her trunk briefcase, making sure she hadn't forgotten anything. Clothes, supplies, travel documents, everything was there. She attached the chain of her pocket watch to the breast pocket of her shirt, and slipped the old timepiece in. The clockmaker picked up the briefcase and left the building, locking up her shop before heading down the path out of town.

Every so often - on the eve of the three hundredth full moon - she had to go on a journey. Modern day conveniences made it much quicker now, so it had been much less of a worry the last few times. But it used to be a treacherous journey, full of danger. She had embarked on hundreds of these journeys, and had come close to death many times. But it was worth it, for it was how she managed to continue thriving.

As she walked out of town, she passed by the remains of an old mansion that had been ravaged by fire merely a few weeks ago. The sight of it brought a smile to her face.

She walked towards the airport, traversing across what had once been rich farmland, but was now covered in tarmac and concrete. Yern often missed the era before technology was so prevalent in everyday life; while aeroplanes and motorboats made journeying much easier, automobiles and other vehicles just served to destroy the natural world. It was the reason she both dreaded and looked forward to her travels. She hated having to witness how much of what she once knew was gone, but her destination let her escape all that.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°​

Several hours later, she stood at the edge of a forest. Her plane had touched down not long ago, and she quickly made her way to this place. Where she was now marked the edge of what used to be a village, the village she had been born in. Once the last of her people - Yern herself - left this place, nature took over unnaturally quickly. The woods that were now here were home to rumors of spirits and ghouls and supernatural happenings. Some of the rumors were just that, rumors (many spread by Yern herself); others had their bases firmly rooted in truth.

Yern entered the forest, the trees seemingly parting on their own to let her through. She knew exactly where she was heading, a small grove blocked off to everyone but herself. In this grove were only two things: a small cabin, and a sparkling pond. This pond was what rejuvenated Yern, what kept her alive and young. Tomorrow night she would be bathing in it under the light of the full moon. But for tonight, she entered the cabin, to rest after her journey to get here.
 
An Old Flame

The clockmaker sunk into the water, resting her head on the edge of the pond with her eyes closed. It was nice being able to bathe in the moonlight once again. If Yern didn't have her shop, she would probably do this more often, even if she didn't need to. But unfortunately, living in the modern world meant having money. It didn't make much sense to her, having to live to make money, and needing money to live. It didn't make sense, but it was the world she had to live in.

"You could just stay here, Yernie, and not have to worry about that."

Yern opened her eyes, and smiled at the apparition seated by her head. "Long time no see, dear. How have you been?"

"As well as a dead person can be. I've missed you, Yernie."

"As I've missed you, Erie. I think about you almost all the time."

The spirit chuckled, stroking Yern's hair. Not only were these times the only time the two could see each other, it also allowed them to touch each other.

"Really? You've had many men - and women - in your life, and I'm the one you think about?"

The clockmaker laughed. "Of course. You were, still are, my soulmate. I'm never going to stop thinking about you. Do you still remember how we met?"

"Of course I do, I've had centuries to do nothing but think about it. You saved my life that day. I was incredibly stupid, not bothering to check what I was putting in my body. If it weren't for you, I would have died in one of the most foolish ways possible."

"It wouldn't have been that foolish, Erie, you weren't to know those berries were poisonous. And besides, you saved my life not long after, when I made the mistake of thinking I could heal a child in front of others. That would have been a more foolish death, thinking that people would be fine with that when they were all still so paranoid about witches."

"Perhaps. Who knows. All I know is that after that, the time we spent together was amazing."

"Yeah, it really was." She reached an arm up to pull her soulmate's face closer to hers, and gave him a soft kiss. "It's a shame we couldn't have been together for longer."

"It really is."

The spectre smiled, and the two of them spent the night reminiscing about what used to be.
 
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