A Short Story
I put my Davey, Jade, Gerard, Bert, and Quinn muses to work this time. While it is rather indirect what is going on, just read and enjoy.
There Are Five Figures Around the Table
There are five figures around the table,
For,
They have met before,
Each one a little different,
Each one a little confused,
Each one a little hurt.
There is a couple,
That couldn't work it out,
And they sit,
Across from each other,
The barrier,
A plain cherry table.
The smaller one whisperes, "Look what you did to me..."
The taller one snaps, "What I did to you?!"
The smaller one recedes,
Scared,
For these are the first words he heard from him for awhile.
"Yes..." the smaller one says, "What you did to me.
Look at my scars.
look at them all,
Do you see this letter,
The letter that starts your name?
I have not let you go,
And I am reminded,
Seeing your name's starting letter,
Right on my hand."
"Well it's stupid," the other countered,
"For you should have moved on."
"Moved on?" the smaller one asks,
"Why? I thought you were the one,
I sacrificed it all,
I gave up every part of me,
So I could attain perfection,
In your eyes,
And you mean,
To tell me,
To move on,
After my body,
Was altered to your liking?"
The taller man sighed, running his hand through his hair,
"I can't take this,"
He mumbled,
As he pulled out a pocketknife,
And stabbed his name's starting letter,
Right on his ex-lovers,
Pale and small hand.
The ex-lover screamed,
Shrill and sharp,
Tears and blood spilling,
On the cherry wood table.
Curses and swears,
Littering the air,
The vibrations hitting,
The other three ear's.
"Die," the taller man snapped,
Cutting out the smaller man's eyes.
"Never look at me again."
Agony and pain,
Clouded the room,
As the murderer continued,
Ripping apart his face.
"May you never feel me again!
May you never taste me again!
May you never smell me again!"
And the other three did nothing,
But call for a body to be removed.
There are four figures around the table,
For,
They have met before,
Each one a little different,
Each one a little confused,
Each one a little hurt.
"Why did you do that?" the only blonde asked,
"What was that for?
What revenge do you have?
He should have killed you,
Because you took over his life,
More rather,
Took it away."
"You want to die?" the ex-lover theatened.
"If there are people like you in this world, then yes," the blonde replied.
"I can rip out your eyes,
Just as easy as his," the ex-lover hissed.
"So fire... fire at will," the blonde whispered.
"NO!" the smallest of the small at the table screamed, noticing,
This time,
the ex-lover had a gun,
Pulling it out,
And trying to aim.
The smallest of the small took that gun,
And blew off the head,
Of the ex-lover,
Without any remorse,
For even the smallest,
Have the same taste of bitterness as the tallest.
And all the last person,
At the cherry wood table could do,
Was call someone,
To pick up the body.
There are three figures around the table,
For,
They have met before,
Each one a little different,
Each one a little confused,
Each one a little hurt.
The screams of the first death still rang in the three's ears,
The sound of the gunshot still fresh in their minds,
And insanity rang,
As the smallest began to mumble,
And sing,
Stupid songs,
Of hanging hearts,
And broken dreams.
The blonde didn't like it,
In fact he hated it,
And he wanted them,
To die,
Or go away.
He chose death.
So when the last person,
Who called for the body last time,
Went to get drinks,
The blonde slipped some poison,
A little amount,
For a little person.
The smallest of the small drank,
And in tiny choking noises,
He died.
Almost looking like he slept,
A smile being played on the blonde's lips.
And all the last person,
Who called for the body last time,
Could do,
Was call the police to pick up the body.
There are two figures around the table,
For,
They both met before,
They both little different,
They both a little confused,
They both are a little hurt.
"Why did you kill him?" the last one asks, unsteady, unsure.
"Why did you kill him?"
"Why did you kill him?"
Over and over,
Like the beat of a drum.
"Why...?" the blonde asked.
"Murderers should die," the last one spat, "Die like their victim."
"You are not suggesting?" the blonde asked.
"Maybe," the last whispered.
Silence,
They didn't move,
They stared,
In silence,
No screams,
No gunshots,
No coughs,
Just suspicion,
And silence.
Until the blonde,
Died by the silence,
And laid there,
Not a mark on him.
And even the last was baffled.
There is one figure at the table,
But,
He is not sure why,
For the people he once met,
Have all gone,
And he has nothing to go to,
Nothing to do...
...so he decides to hang himself,
With his belt in the closet,
The only other accessory,
In the room,
A cherry wood table stood.
This is really bad... it's just a rough copy... I should redo it or something... but it's bad for now...
There Are Five Figures Around the Table
There are five figures around the table,
For,
They have met before,
Each one a little different,
Each one a little confused,
Each one a little hurt.
There is a couple,
That couldn't work it out,
And they sit,
Across from each other,
The barrier,
A plain cherry table.
The smaller one whisperes, "Look what you did to me..."
The taller one snaps, "What I did to you?!"
The smaller one recedes,
Scared,
For these are the first words he heard from him for awhile.
"Yes..." the smaller one says, "What you did to me.
Look at my scars.
look at them all,
Do you see this letter,
The letter that starts your name?
I have not let you go,
And I am reminded,
Seeing your name's starting letter,
Right on my hand."
"Well it's stupid," the other countered,
"For you should have moved on."
"Moved on?" the smaller one asks,
"Why? I thought you were the one,
I sacrificed it all,
I gave up every part of me,
So I could attain perfection,
In your eyes,
And you mean,
To tell me,
To move on,
After my body,
Was altered to your liking?"
The taller man sighed, running his hand through his hair,
"I can't take this,"
He mumbled,
As he pulled out a pocketknife,
And stabbed his name's starting letter,
Right on his ex-lovers,
Pale and small hand.
The ex-lover screamed,
Shrill and sharp,
Tears and blood spilling,
On the cherry wood table.
Curses and swears,
Littering the air,
The vibrations hitting,
The other three ear's.
"Die," the taller man snapped,
Cutting out the smaller man's eyes.
"Never look at me again."
Agony and pain,
Clouded the room,
As the murderer continued,
Ripping apart his face.
"May you never feel me again!
May you never taste me again!
May you never smell me again!"
And the other three did nothing,
But call for a body to be removed.
There are four figures around the table,
For,
They have met before,
Each one a little different,
Each one a little confused,
Each one a little hurt.
"Why did you do that?" the only blonde asked,
"What was that for?
What revenge do you have?
He should have killed you,
Because you took over his life,
More rather,
Took it away."
"You want to die?" the ex-lover theatened.
"If there are people like you in this world, then yes," the blonde replied.
"I can rip out your eyes,
Just as easy as his," the ex-lover hissed.
"So fire... fire at will," the blonde whispered.
"NO!" the smallest of the small at the table screamed, noticing,
This time,
the ex-lover had a gun,
Pulling it out,
And trying to aim.
The smallest of the small took that gun,
And blew off the head,
Of the ex-lover,
Without any remorse,
For even the smallest,
Have the same taste of bitterness as the tallest.
And all the last person,
At the cherry wood table could do,
Was call someone,
To pick up the body.
There are three figures around the table,
For,
They have met before,
Each one a little different,
Each one a little confused,
Each one a little hurt.
The screams of the first death still rang in the three's ears,
The sound of the gunshot still fresh in their minds,
And insanity rang,
As the smallest began to mumble,
And sing,
Stupid songs,
Of hanging hearts,
And broken dreams.
The blonde didn't like it,
In fact he hated it,
And he wanted them,
To die,
Or go away.
He chose death.
So when the last person,
Who called for the body last time,
Went to get drinks,
The blonde slipped some poison,
A little amount,
For a little person.
The smallest of the small drank,
And in tiny choking noises,
He died.
Almost looking like he slept,
A smile being played on the blonde's lips.
And all the last person,
Who called for the body last time,
Could do,
Was call the police to pick up the body.
There are two figures around the table,
For,
They both met before,
They both little different,
They both a little confused,
They both are a little hurt.
"Why did you kill him?" the last one asks, unsteady, unsure.
"Why did you kill him?"
"Why did you kill him?"
Over and over,
Like the beat of a drum.
"Why...?" the blonde asked.
"Murderers should die," the last one spat, "Die like their victim."
"You are not suggesting?" the blonde asked.
"Maybe," the last whispered.
Silence,
They didn't move,
They stared,
In silence,
No screams,
No gunshots,
No coughs,
Just suspicion,
And silence.
Until the blonde,
Died by the silence,
And laid there,
Not a mark on him.
And even the last was baffled.
There is one figure at the table,
But,
He is not sure why,
For the people he once met,
Have all gone,
And he has nothing to go to,
Nothing to do...
...so he decides to hang himself,
With his belt in the closet,
The only other accessory,
In the room,
A cherry wood table stood.
This is really bad... it's just a rough copy... I should redo it or something... but it's bad for now...