I decide to take a break from tedious, monotonous, boring posts about other websites and change it up a bit. So here’s a video from Youtube.
Okay, so this is obviously about writing and not listening and speaking but you do have to be able to listen and understand her to know what she is talking about. I find this video quite funny (but that could just be my morbid sense of humour) so enjoy!
Below is the full story she was talking about in the video.
Disclaimer: This story DOES NOT belong to me. I’m just sharing it here.
Her hair became white and puffy, a shock from the golden spray that it used to be. She had seen it happen before but never really believed that it could happen to her. It was all too soon.
It meant the end. Nature and time were telling her that memories of her would drift off into the breeze as her body breaks down and wilts. She had seen that too. It seemed so sudden, she had never really appreciated how short lives in this world could be. She knew things here and there, she thought herself smart. She had read books and orated aloud, and her penmanship was perfect.
Outside of the classroom, things were supposed to have that same logic. Nothing could really hurt you, could it?
She considered the idea that it was a new skill, a new sort of lesson that she could triumph over and have forever. It must have been a challenge of some kind. The world is not cruel, it just needs someone clever to win it. Waving herself, she often attempted to communicate, but for all it was worth she may very well have been alone. No signs of life, true sentience from anything around her.
Sometimes she thought, just maybe, she could hear someone else.
The garden next door had been too interesting to resist. High walled and private, where the others’ interest dwindled after peering over the side, she was the only one brave enough to say “I’m going inside.”
Now everything was quiet and there were no more giggles. A stray breeze played up on her hair, taking a few starlike strands with it, drifting them beyond sight. Her memories, perhaps. She already had less of them to count on. Her youth, scraped knees and torn stockings, a gate nearly rusted shut…
A hoarse voice that had called out “Meddlers!” and the rest was a jumble of syllables she hadn’t known. Then she felt very small.
Small she had stayed. It became dark and cold, then warm and quiet, and it happened so many times as she tried to lift herself up, or move herself as she pleased. She was stuck so deeply. Her hair stood on white ends and took flight on the brave wind… Come back, she called to them, if she knew what words were.
She felt the shadow the same time as the trembling of the earth, rhythmic and determined. Wiry fingers grasped and pinched her, hot as flame against her body, and began stretching her upwards. She would scream but she never learned how. Roots clung selfishly to her, unminding of her pain and inevitable loss. They groaned, a sound she wished could escape her, before a rustle and snap… There was fluid, somewhere, and coldness where part of herself should have been. Her fine frame crinkled in the pressure of dirty hands, her broken skin darkening as the world seemed to darken around her. A sour breath gusted her face. Memories that clung to her scalp fled into the air, tumbling to safety or the comforting destination of obscurity.
She felt the other precious hairs ripped out.
Lank and oozing, she lay in the rough hand and wondered what she had learned.
They speak of curiosity killing the cat, but they mention nothing of little girls.