More Storytime with Yana
The Potato Princess
2010/12/24 01:42:13
This time I wrote it in a facebook chat. So... yeah.
Once upon a time, there was a girl. She had bright green eyes and curly brown hair and her name was Anya. Anya was very nice. And naive.
One day she went to school, 'you'll make friends' they said. So she went. But she didn't know how to make friends. All she ever had was her lion, Leo.
But she tried anyway.
It never worked.
At first she didn't notice the mean stares tossed her way After a while, it began gnawing at her subconscious. Until she realised.
But she went anyway.
They told her she had to be herself.
So she did.
But it never worked.
And slowly, very slowly, she made a wall. It was made of bitterness and hatred. No one liked her because she was mean now. But they didn't like her before, so it didn't matter.
One day, a boy came along. He was nice to her. She tried to push him away to no avail.
And he kept hacking away at her wall. Until finally, he made it all the way through.
And Anya was dead inside the wall she built for herself.
The end.
No one cried at her funeral.
Except for the boy.
But he'd never really known her, so it didn't matter.
The /real/ end.
Why do I always write stuff like this?
One day she went to school, 'you'll make friends' they said. So she went. But she didn't know how to make friends. All she ever had was her lion, Leo.
But she tried anyway.
It never worked.
At first she didn't notice the mean stares tossed her way After a while, it began gnawing at her subconscious. Until she realised.
But she went anyway.
They told her she had to be herself.
So she did.
But it never worked.
And slowly, very slowly, she made a wall. It was made of bitterness and hatred. No one liked her because she was mean now. But they didn't like her before, so it didn't matter.
One day, a boy came along. He was nice to her. She tried to push him away to no avail.
And he kept hacking away at her wall. Until finally, he made it all the way through.
And Anya was dead inside the wall she built for herself.
The end.
No one cried at her funeral.
Except for the boy.
But he'd never really known her, so it didn't matter.
The /real/ end.
Why do I always write stuff like this?
Top Opinion
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Dixie 10 Dog aka nanadixie 2010/12/24 14:52:10
+4We often write what reflects reality. However, you have a talent for making the story concise, yet it paints vivid picture (a picture of the psyche?) Let your inner muse work, and write lots. Your little ditties today could end up being your passion and pass to success.
I liked it. =,)