Archive for the Love Stories Category

Death’s Wish

Posted in Fantasy Stories, Love Stories, Sad Stories, Stories with tags , , , , on April 8, 2014 by Myra's Circle

Death is the most infinite thing to ever exist.  I should know.  I am Death.  And this is the story of the woman I loved.

I first met her in Spring, when the warmth was hopeful and flowers unfurled their sleepy limbs and opened their eyes into the sun.  I was there long before the kill.  I watched her chase him, gun in hand, waiting for a clear shot.  I waited with her.  At the time, it was nothing, I hadn’t seen before.  It was just my job.  Nothing more.  There was a resounding bang, and then a dull thud.  She stood over the man’s lifeless body, and didn’t cry.  She didn’t panic.  She just stood there, emotionless, as she stared at his wide, unblinking eyes.  Her first kill.  I almost forgot to do my job, with her standing there, full of unadulterated courage and beauty.  I could tell she was sad too, though.  I could smell the toxic scent of unhappiness in the air.  I leaned over the body, and touched the man’s still-warm forehead.  His face began to glow, and his wispy soul drifted from his body.  I inhaled it and smiled, at both the good and the bad the soul contained.  His soul was sweet and sour at the same time, which wasn’t an unpleasant taste.  Yes, I know I shouldn’t spoil your ending, but that’s what happens when you die.  No Heaven, or Hell, there’s just me.  Me and my impossible hunger.  But anyway, onto more pleasant things.
I watched her that night.  It wasn’t my place – it was against every law – but I didn’t care.  I was much too curious for my own good.  It’s one of my existential flaws.  I was curious about her, about her life, and though I knew there would be more murders to be done by her hand, I didn’t want to wait.  Waiting was all I ever did.  Waiting got boring.
I watched her walk home and lock the door, and make tea.  I watched her slowly break down when she thought nobody was watching.  I watched with interest.  She wasn’t the first murderer I’d encountered.  She wasn’t even the first one with feelings.  I was simply and inevitably drawn to her, pulled by an invisible rope that could never be touched or described.  I watched her for a few more minutes before I left.  I had a job to do, and I was getting hungry.

It was a long time before I saw her again.  A year and a half, I believe it was, in mortal years.  the winter had set in, the air crunching like the crisp leaves of Autumn, and the flowers closed their eyes and waited for the sweet regales of spring.  I felt her presence before I saw her – it felt composed, calm.  Completely unlike that of whom she was pursuing.  It was a woman this time, her fear acrid and pungent in the cold air.  I saw the knife before she did, in the hands of an expertly trained killer.  The unfortunate victim didn’t even have time to squeak as the knife was thrust into her, then twisted in a perfectly executed manoeuvre.  The killer remained a little longer this time, her hand reaching into the victims pocket.  She pulled out a hard, dull object.  She turned and left, not caring who found the body, because she’d been clever.  She’d taken precautions.  There was no one left in that place to find it.  I inhaled and did my job, trying not to enjoy the rich taste of the deceased soul.  My eyes were fixed on the hole the woman had left, the gap that could only be bridged by her unerring presence.  I knew her hands would shake as she lifted the teacup to her trembling lips, how heavy it would feel in her bloodstained hands.  I knew she had made another hole in herself, perhaps greater than that in any other.  I looked down at the body in front of me and felt no pity.  I was incapable of such an emotion.  But Il felt something else – another stirring in the heart of a soulless being, a gap inside my supposed heart.  It was a nameless emotion, without purpose or logic.  It was simply there.  I shook my head, trying to clear it, and moved on to my next job.

The next time I saw her was the last.  She was running, not after something, but from it.  Me.  it was time.  Order had to be restored, justice to be carried out.  She needed to face the consequences.  Almost as suddenly as she had started running, she stopped.  She turned.  She faced me.  And just like the first time, she had no tears in her eyes.  She was unafraid.  For the first time, she spoke to me, softly, carefully, her measured tone lifting to my listening ears.  “Go ahead,” she said, her voice unwavering, “take me.”  I was still for a moment, uncertainty weighing on my mind.  She had acceptance in her eyes, steadily blossoming into strength like blood onto the shirt of the wounded man.  I slowly walked toward her, my footsteps silent, only as Death’s can be.  I was directly in front of her certain, unflinching body.  She stared fearlessly into my black soulless eyes.  I tilted my face towards hers, and brought my lips to her lips.  I felt her soul disconnect from her body, and flow into mine, as her body went limp in my arms.  I lowered her body to the ground.  Her eyes were empty labyrinths, full of secrets that no one would ever know.  Her soul tasted different, empty somehow, like there was nothing left in it.  It was then that I knew she had died long before my embrace had ever claimed her.  And suddenly, I recognised the stirring deep within my being’s centre.  It was sadness.
For nothing and no one escapes the destruction of Death.  i am the only constant, the only certainty, and I am not allowed the abundance of mortal life.  For Death is not supposed to wish for Life.

Infinitely Blank

Posted in Fantasy Stories, Hopeful Stories, Love Stories, Sad Stories, Stories with tags , , , , on November 29, 2013 by Myra's Circle

A mischievous smile lights his face as he leaps down off the roof, and sneaks up to the window, without so much sound as a spider’s long legs creeping across the window sill to focus on its prey.  The window is always left open, but he never goes inside, for fear of being noticed.  He is so used to creeping up to the window, it isn’t even difficult anymore, and he is incredibly talented in the art of silence.  But then, silence and darkness go together, don’t they?  The boy is careful not to be seen as he balances himself on the window sill and peers in.  Inside, he sees a girl of fifteen, ever so softly singing to herself as she draws fantasy lands that could not possibly exist – not logically, anyway.  However, logic almost never has an explanation for everything that is true, and the boy is perfectly aware of that.  Seeing her there, drawing by lamplight, she is beautiful.  He wonders if the girl even knows that, if she is even aware of her own beauty.  Somehow, he doubts it.  She seems like the type of girl who would sit in the corner and hope no one would notice her, the type of girl who would slump down simply to get attention away from herThere were some people in the world who walked around like they wanted the world to know that they were there, but the girl in front of him walked around like she wanted as much attention as an ant.  Insecurity is like a disease, he decides, Eating up people’s thoughts, replacing with the single thought of ‘I’m not good enough’.  No one deserves to hear or think that.  It is unfair to them.  No one should have to bear the crushing weight of those four words.  She sings so softly and beautifully, it is hard to believe that the sound is not coming from an angel.  Maybe it is.  It is late, almost sunrise, but the he doesn’t care.  The daytime might belong to someone else, but the night is and always will be his.  He owns the night, like the other one owns the day.  He will always envy those who are still able to live in the light, those who can still walk and look at a bright blue sky, without having a part of them fade away and die.  He lets out a soundless sigh, as he dreams of one day not shrivelling up just by looking out into the daytime.  But it just would not be possible.  It is still worth the pain to see the sunlight, though, worth all the trouble and risk. His realm is, and forever will be the time when the moon holds her head high.  He would stay here for hours some nights, watching her draw, until, eventually, she fell asleep.  In his haphazard mind, thoughts are tossing and turning, reeling in different directions as he plots and schemes, deep into the night.  He is good at that.  Even more so when he tries.  Sometimes, these ideas plague him, hunt him until he gives in to them and listens.  She stays up later tonight, he suspects that she has more on her mind, as she becomes trapped, entranced by worlds that she created.  Those worlds are beautiful, and he doesn’t blame her for wanting to stay there forever.  He is fortunate enough to be able to.    Someday soon, he will be able to show her, watch the reaction that would follow.  Someday.  He knows there is something different about her, something that draws him to her.  She has something that all the other girls he has met do not possess, although he can’t quite grasp what that something is.  He also suspects that she doesn’t know this, and he is right.  There is something a little bit dark about her, and as he glances around her room, he sees that it is much the same as it has always been – Sketches of brave heroes and beautiful princesses hung on the walls that were anything but bare.  But most disturbing were the drawings of blood and pain, the poverty that must exist in all worlds.  The ones that showed her true feelings.  He thinks that those pictures are the ones that tell the most about her, the most revealing ones.  They tell him that she has suffered, and that she suffers still, in ways he could never truly understand.  The walls are covered in sketches, with hardly any gaps between them.  He recognises some of the faces in the sketches, vivid pictures of them, in the flesh, flashing through his mind, whilst others were only hazy memories, maybe a smile or two here, someone’s eyes there.  She is excellent at drawing.  She possesses a true Skill.  A skill that she might never know about.  He hopes that he might meet her properly one day, even though he feels like he knows her already.  All those years he spent visiting her, watching her crying, watching her drawing, seeing her pain, he already knows her better than any other, even if she does not yet know him.  He has seen secrets that she would never allow anyone to know, and faithfully keeps her secrets for her, even if they may mean trouble for him or her.  They are her secrets, after all, and he should decide who to tell them to.  It just wouldn’t be fair if he told everyone of her secret horrors and sadness.   He inhales deeply, acutely aware of how much noise he is making, but uncaring either way.  If she hears him, she hears him.  The girl will probably just think it is the wind anyway.  A part of him knows that he should try to make a little less noise, for his own safety, but the other half whispers, “Be a little bolder.”  It is dangerous for him to think like that – it could get him killed, or worse, but right now, he only cares about the girl.  His thoughts are completely dominated by her, all other thoughts annihilated.  A jolt of shock goes through him, making him stand stock-still as she stares at the window, staring straight at him.  But that’s impossible, he thinks, No one can see me.  Not when I’m like this.  And it is true, no one should be able to see him.  Only the most creative can sense his presence, and even they put it down to lack of sleep and their overworked imagination.  He freezes, as stiff as the sketches of people staring back at him, until she turns back to her drawings, not without carefully checking the window once more.  He sighs again, soundlessly, and leaps up onto the roof, heaving a sigh of relief, as he is certain of his own safety.  That was close.  Too close.  He is dealing with dangerous arts here.  If he even once messes up, he would be done for, literally.  This dream of his won’t work if he is dead.  He has to be alive for his vision to come true.  He dreams of his world being perfect again, a place where everything is at peace.  He dreams of the world not dying.  He wants the world to be healthy and alive.  He has to make it come true.  He is the only person who can start this transformation.  He’d have to be more careful next time, if he is to be successful and win this battle of wits.  No, this war of wits.  And he must win, if his world is to survive.  He is only looking out for the wellbeing of his people and his world, after all.  It is that other one who is so stubborn and so stupid to think that the world is fine and needs no outside assistance.  As he shadow-travels back to Infinitas, before the sun kisses the new-born land and crumples yet another important part of him, a name tickles the back of his mind.  It is the girl’s name, he is sure of it.  He just can’t remember what it is.  Something… something starting with… R?  He moans in frustration as he tries to wrap his mind around the word, but every time he comes close, it slips away, safely out of his reach.  It was something, it is something that will be important later on, in the near future.  Her name… her name… what is it?  If only he can think of it, he might be able to rest.  Her name is an important part of her, and if he has h quite easy to make people forget someone whom they think never existed in the first place.  It is not like that pretension forget, when a person dies and those closest to them pretend to forget they ever existed, but a real type of forget, the way you might forget the way to spell a word, or how to do difficult maths problems.  It is a power he will never possess, and yet one that is more awful than any of his, because to forget someone would be an awfully big achievement and to be forgotten would be the most awful experience.  He would never be able to imagine the full enormity of the feeling.  How can one fully understand what it is to be forgotten, when the only experience he has of it is watching other people forgetting?  It  would be a feeling that no words can describe, so full of horror and pain, and yet so much more than that.  It would be fear too, and regret, and sadness, but who can really measure these emotions?  Who is the one who decides which is which and which is worse?  What person suffers the most, the hero, or the victim?  Or even the villain?  But how would you tell a villain?  It is not always so simple to see who’s the bad guy and who isn’t.  Especially to those who have clouded judgement.  For how can someone judge when they do not yet understand what it feels like to be judged?  I am not good enough.  Those are his last thoughts as he reaches the dark palace where he lives.

 

 

Hey guys!

so this is the first chapter of the story I’m working on 😀  sorry I can’t put the whole thing up, but I guess I can put it up a chapter at a time so you don’t have to wait too long 😉

It’s quite a long story, so bear with me 😀

I hope you enjoy it

Myra.

Theraisa, Theraisa

Posted in Love Stories, Sad Stories, Stories, True Stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 24, 2013 by Myra's Circle

She stares out the window, hoping he’ll come.  Hoping he’ll come shouting, “Theraisa, Theraisa, are you still there?  Theraisa, Theraisa, with thy silver hair?”  just like he used to always do.  He would always jokingly use old words instead of the new, modernized terms.  He always likes old things, because he says they are what holds the most hope inside.  Hope, she decides, is still important for her.  They may think that her mind is damaged, that it is irreparable, but it isn’t.  Theraisa’s mind is fine.  There is nothing wrong with it.  The sisters in the convent always say that contact with one from outside was obviously the behavior of one who was mentally ill.  “But I’m not mentally ill, I’m not,” she whispers quietly to herself, wanting desperately to believe it.  But how could she when she had been told otherwise for her whole life?  He would come.  He’d have to come.  Right?  She closes her eyes, wishing someone would understand her, understand that she has feelings too.  She sighs and stares sadly out the window.  All of the other girls living there, and the sisters too, would sigh when they saw her there, sitting at the window day after day.  Then they would mutter, “Poor little Theraisa.  Something must be done for that girl.”  They had banned her from seeing him, and him from coming to find her, but she still had her dreams.  She dreamed that one day, he’d come, and he’d rescue her from this place.  It was a dreary place, always raining, and filled with gloom.  There was no future for Theraisa there.  She sits there for days sometimes, refusing to move, refusing all offers of food.  She stays there and hopes.  That’s when the head nun decided that it was enough.  “It isn’t healthy.  You shouldn’t be allowed near other girls.  They might start picking up some… unseemly habits.”  Theraisa knew what would happen.  She knew she was going someplace where no one would ever see her again.  Often, when a girl misbehaved, or was seen as mentally damaged, they would be taken to a room high up, a special room.  Tears pricked at her eyes, but she held them back.  She didn’t want to display weakness in front of this woman.  She felt a single tear slide down her cheek as the nun led her up to the dark, scary attic.  It was a lot like she imagined: dark, lonely, with only a single window to lighten it.  “Here we are, it’s ok, you won’t be up here for long,” murmured the nun unconvincingly.  As she locked the door with a click behind her, Theraisa whispered, “Please don’t leave me alone.”  She weeps a little, into the uncomforting darkness, all hope has abandoned her now.  Then there was a movement, outside the window – was it- yes it was him!  She was sure of it.  She grabs a chair, the only furniture in the room, and stands up on it, to get a better look, but he had already disappeared.  As she started weeping again, she began to shake uncontrollably, and lost her balance.  The chair falls from beneath her, and she can hear a faint sound of shattering glass over the pounding of her heart.  Pain laces through her neck as the glass slits her throat, and blood gashes out, red and thick in the twilight.  Somehow, she manages to find her way to the door, and she scratches heavily on it.  No one answers.  No one cares.  The scratching is a usual thing.  “Help, help!” she feebly cries, but with too much force than her body can handle.  She coughs up blood, and in her last painful moments, she murmurs, “Cecil,” forcing her to cough up yet more blood.  Then she is shockingly still.

The head nun hears a faint dripping sound and turns.  She stares in horror at the sight of blood, pure and red, dripping through the ceiling.  She rushes up to the attic, and with shaking hands, unlocks the door.  She turns the handle and her eyes widen in shock and terror with the sight that confronts her.  Poor little Theraisa.  Poor little, sweet, mad Theraisa, lying in a pool of her own blood.  The sight is too much.  The nun can’t help but feel as if it is her fault.  “I was just trying to protect you,” she murmurs to the cold, limp body, as if it could still hear her.  The tears can’t help but flow, and the sister collapses on the ground in hysterical hiccups.

Decades later, a group of students pass by the old building and wonder about the death.  The place is now a school, and rumours are circulating about the mysterious ghost Theraisa.  The students all laugh and pass it off as a joke, all except for one.  As they are about to move on, that one student sees a movement in the window, the curtains being blown aside, and for a moment, the figure of a girl appears, still desperately trying to get a last glimpse of her lover.  And then she disappears.  The student tries to forget about that, but it keeps bothering her.  She cannot keep the thought of the girl out of her mind, or her haunting chant: “Theraisa, Theraisa, are you there?  Theraisa, Theraisa, with thy silver hair?”  

***This story is partly true.  It is based on the rumour of the Ghost of my Highschool.  Though the girl’s story is real, the ghost is still yet to be proven***

When the world comes crashing down

Posted in Love Stories, Sad Stories, Stories with tags , , , , , , on May 22, 2013 by Myra's Circle

The cold penetrated my skin, freezing me right to the bone.  I wished it would stop.  I wished it would just go away.  I knew that it wouldn’t though.  It wasn’t possible.  There was no one left for me.  Everyone had left me, to freeze in this dark, place.  One by one, they all deserted me, like I was never a big part of their lives.  Maybe I wasn’t.  I will die soon, in this dark cold room, but it won’t be soon enough.  My organs will slowly freeze, and shut down, and then I will die, slowly and painfully.  I’ve only been in here for a few moments, but it is enough for me to wish that I had been smarter about everything.  If only…. what if…. those words had been thought so much that they were meaningless.  Everything began to lose it’s meaning.  I wished that they had chosen a different death for me – maybe burning would have been better.  It would have been faster than this pain.  I think a few hours passed, and that’s when I collapsed on the ground, shivering but still alive.  They always said that everyone needs friends.  “Where are they now?”  I muttered to the cold darkness, through my chattering teeth.  I might just have gone insane in that cold metal box.  It was hard to tell.  All that thinking, all that pondering and mulling over the past, maybe I did.  A few more hours passed, and I could feel my body shutting down, like a malfunctioning computer.  I hoped it was the end.  Then someone or something opened a door somewhere inside there, and white light spilled through the crack.  I’m dying, I thought, I’m finally dead!  Relief poured through my body warming it, and cracking the ice.  I was free from this world.

I woke up on a bed, it must have been days later.  The room was simple; white, clean, and not much decoration.  I didn’t know what to make of it.  I was angry, and regretful, that I wasn’t dead.  I was angry that someone had saved me, when I was so desperately close to the end.  Only fate would have it that way.  The only question was, who had saved me?  “I did,” whispered a voice, from the door.  I turned hastily, I recognised that voice.  It was the voice of my sister, the first one to abandon me, the one who led all the others to hate me.  “But why?”  I asked, sure that it was some mistake.  “Because you’re my sister, and sisters love each other.”  I cried, and ran to her, and she hugged me, and gently rocked me back and forth, whispering, “It’s OK, it’ll all be OK,” just like she used to.  Before the world came crashing down on me.

The Day You Got Away

Posted in Love Stories, Sad Stories, Stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 5, 2012 by Myra's Circle

My pain is stronger than you killed.  Than that terrible day.  I know now that you didn’t mean to hurt me, but it still hurts worse than anything else I’ve ever felt.  You escaped from me, and left me here, alone and seething.  Terrible thoughts flashed through my devastated mind, but even then I knew it wasn’t your fault.  I scolded myself for what could only be my fault, but that just made the pain worse.  I think that this pain will always be here, but it won’t be so terrible later in the empty shell that was my life.  I can’t sleep, for every time I try, the loneliness of my mind is ravaged by dreams of you, dreams so terrible that I can’t even explain them.  Every night in bed, I think of you, of the day you disappeared from my life, and I cry myself to sleep, only to wake up five minutes later, screaming.  Sometimes I really wish you would come back.  I tried writing a letter to you, but no words came out of my pen.  Eventually, I gave up, realising that you would never come back, that’s why you left me.  I can’t remember anymore, anything of that sorrowful day.  Of the day you got away.

Wind

Posted in Fantasy Stories, Hopeful Stories, Love Stories, Sad Stories, Stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 23, 2012 by Myra's Circle

“Fly Wind, fly!  You’re free now!  Fly to the edge of the earth and back, and tell me of your amazing adventures.”  whispered the little girl to her Giant Sky Eagle.  Nearly everyone in Wind Valley had one, mostly for transport or for a pet.  Wind didn’t budge.  The little girl could tell he wouldn’t go anywhere without her, so she said, “It’d just be for a little while.  You could come back for me.”  she told him soothingly.  “GO!” she shouted when that didn’t work, tears springing to her eyes as she watched her friend fly away.  “I’ll see you when you come back for me,” she whispered loudly, “When you come to take me to a better place than here.”  The little girl stayed on the ledge until Wind disappeared from her sight.  She shouted some parting words to her swiftly departing bird, “Remember me.”

 

Years had passed before she saw Wind again.  The girl was now fifteen.  It was a clear day above Wind Valley, but not underneath.  Underneath Wind Valley, fluffy white clouds floated harmlessly from place to place as Wind Valley stayed in it’s place in the sky.  No one walked the earth below anymore, as the air was too toxic.  The air up in Wind Valley was beautiful, and not polluted, as there were no factories or cars.  The girl was standing on the same cliff that she had ten years ago, when she had released Wind.  She closed her eyes, letting a westerly breeze blow through her hair, filling her nostrils with the sweet scent of flowers.  The girl had come here every day since then, hoping Wind would come back and take her somewhere else, on an adventure.  She hated Wind Valley, as beautiful as it was.  She was to rule as queen when she turned sixteen, but she was afraid of ruling.  She was never able to do all of the fun things that other teenagers were.  Wind, in other words, was her only way to escape that bleak life, and that dark future.  The girl figured that if she could escape, then no one would be able to tell her to be a queen anywhere.   The girl looked down, watching the clouds drift.  Somewhere above the clouds, she saw a blue shape shifting.  She squinted, trying to make out what it was.  It was coming towards her at an alarming rate.  She blinked, unable to believe what she was seeing.  Wind had come back to her!  As it plunged into her, she could have sworn it squawked her name.  KAIRI!

Heaven

Posted in Love Stories, Sad Stories, Stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 18, 2012 by Myra's Circle

I ran through the fields of flowers, a streak of joy flowing through me.  The smell of fresh flowers penetrated my nostrils.  They smelt like summer.  I loved summer.  The days were always longer, so you could always seem to fit everything into daytime.  The day was bright and sunny, and drops of perspiration trickled down my cheek from the intensity of the heat.  I am not completely carefree though.  I question my every thought, every move.  I couldn’t seem to feel as calm and collected as others thought I was.  Inside I was screaming.  I was confused, angry even.  I hated that part of myself, that part that was always asking questions.  I stopped running and lay down in a bed of flowers with a particularly strong, sweet aroma.  I closed my eyes and drifted.  In my thoughts I drifted to my special place, a small white room I could no longer go to.  My study.  I saw the beautiful, intricate white desk, with a chair to match.  There wasn’t much else in the room.  The figure of me in my mind placed a pale hand onto the desk longingly.  The long white dress ‘I’ was wearing was in tatters.  I loved this little room, my sanctuary.  Whenever things didn’t go right anywhere else, I would escape up here, where I would write until my hands ached and cramps gathered in my legs from lack of exercise.  Sadly, I could no longer come here.  I watched through sad eyes as friends and family members came up here and said, “Her presence still lingers here.  It’s almost like she’s watching us from above like an angel.”  Every single person who came here said that, and it made me very lonely and sad to be referred to as a mere presence.  I was glad that they were moving on, though.  I was also glad that I no longer live there, in that world.  This world I now live in, is full of love and warmth.  Every night at dusk, I would hear angels sing.  It was beautiful.  But I was lonely in this new life.  I had no one to talk to, to confide in.  To quell my loneliness, I would visit my study and watch all of those people stroll through there daily, to mourn me.  Everyone knew that my death was inevitable but I was well missed.  I miss my friends too.  Now, I dream of a time and a place, where I can be with my friends and family again, where they can see me and not just sense my presence.  When I entered, I was greeted by bright light and choirs of angels.  This is what heaven feels like.