Trio

A trio of vingettes.

The Girl Who Talks to Stars

    Sometimes, during the long blackness of the night, I awake. Sometimes, when the earth is only lit by the spotlight of the moon and the tiny, candlelight glows of the stars, I turn my eyes up. I press my hands and face against the paned glass of the window, and intake the night. There is no simpler beauty than the star-speckled sky at midnight. I watch the stars preform a twilight ballet, only for me, and pepper stardust across the sky. I wonder if any other romantic hearts are gazing up with me, thinking the same thoughts, dreaming the same dreams. I feel connected to everyone else, connected to all the hope and fears of the universe. Then, I wonder if romance is dead.

    During this time, I talk to the stars about my life, and what I wish my life were. I tell the stars about my friends and family. I tell them how my day was. I pour out all emotions unto the stars. I wonder if the stars can actually hear my thoughts. I wonder if they echo them to others, gazing up at the same stars. I wonder if they can feel my hopes, my dreams, my fears. I wonder what weight the stars carry. They inspire us to reach up for them, but we will never actually touch the stars. We can reach, but our grasp does not extend that far. But at least we reached.

Love . . . and Heartbreak.

    People say that love is special. That it starts with a crush, and then blossoms into something more. But love is not a crush. Love is special.

    But no one tells you about heartbreak. No one tells you about the piercing feelings, crushing your bosom, making it difficult to breath. No one tells you about the dagger that stabs your heart repeatedly until you are so numb from the pain you can't feel . . . anything. No one tells you about the hate the one you loved now feels for you. No one tells you about the shame, the confusion.

    Love is SO special. SO special, that it can crush your hopes and dreams in a second. With one hand, it can build you a castle in an instance. It can become your barrier, protect you from all harm. Love will shield you with one hand, protect you from everyone else's word. Everyone else's thoughts. But love, with its other hand, can tear your castle down. Leave you with nothing but the crumbled foundation of your life and the shattered pieces of the windows of your hopes and dreams beneath your feat. Love, with its other hand, becomes and sword and stabs you in the back, with the false sense of security, the other hand still shielding you.

    Love is a lie.

Green-Eyed Devil

    He calls me the Green-Eyed Devil. He says I hold nothing but malicious feelings in my heart. He says I cast him into the pit of depression. He says I don't care. But I do.

    I am not a Devil. I am a Fallen Angel. I am descending towards earth, attempting to fly with broken wings. The once pure, ivory feathers are now stained with deep, red blood. I was cast down by higher powers, who did not approve of what I had. Crystalline tears flee from my eyes as I continue to fall to the earth, able to see the ground, my impending doom, but able to do nothing. Able to hear the harsh words and feel the bitter feelings, but able to do nothing. I shed the luminescence I once had, and replace it with a deep darkness. To fill the void, I have accepted my fate. To fill the void, I have taken on feelings of bitterness and hate. To fill the void, I tell myself lies.

    Just before I hit the ground, I become something I'm not. I become cold to my past. I become unfeeling and uncaring. If I don't, this despair will consume me. I think about the stars. I wonder if they can feel my torment. I wonder if they can see my horrible descent. I wonder if they care. Will they talk to me again? Just as I hit the cold ground, I become the Devil. In order to survive this, I must be a Devil.

    I know you don't understand, and you probably never will. You think I am evil, and maybe I am. The higher powers, the ones who provide for me, the ones who care for me, do not approve. I cannot betray them, the ones who love me unconditionally. So now I must befriend hate.

    I can only grow the way the wind blows.

 

Author's Note

These are some vingettes I had to write my Senior year of high school. I kinda liked them so here they are. Bear in mind that I probably won't change them any.

Reviews

[Frank F. Atanacio]

This trilogy of vingettes was tastefully formatted. It was really done very nicely. IWhat a clever idea you displayed.. clever :)