Amber Extreme Writing

Extreme writing By Amber

When It Hurt Almost always fairytales end in ‘happily ever after’. Playdates end in a goodbye. Perhaps not that day though. It started how any playdate should, last second deal. Annoying younger siblings butting in and bragging - ugh - begging at mum for their own friend over. The grass was green outside and the trampoline glinted in certain perpendicular angles where it caught the glinting, dying sunlight. The leaves were ripe and curved, imperfect dew drops grasping the prickly tips of the rose’s magenta buds, as spring started to blossom outside the thick glass walls that separated nature. Click. Whoosh. The familiar onomatopoeias filtered into my ears as I yanked the sliding door open and received the bitter cold of the stone patio upon the ball of my foot. The branches writhed and squirmed for comfort as the breeze whispered through the twigs. I breathed in - but only for a brief moment could I feel the soft umbra on the side of my face, shrouded by adumbration caused by the wooden awning above. Then I ran, my feet slapping down heel first upon the pavement and snivelling against the flimsy evergreen blades. Cold metal brushed beneath my fingertips as I scrambled hastily up the three step ladder behind my friend. The tough inky black material felt rough against the hillocky calloused skin of my feet. The springs were old and rusted, the cracked molds of bird dung flew into the air as I jumped. The netting was in exuberant health and there was a smile on my face - although instead of being stuck on with transparent glue, It was an actual, real, buoyant smile that fitted right in with the joy that radiated from my face.

When It Hurt Up high. That's where the air is slightly thicker and the oxygen is thinner, pulsating around you. That is where you close your eyes, a dreamy expression scribbled on your face. That's what I did. And it felt nice. I fell down slowly, my arms relaxed and flailing about carelessly - until the crack. Until the crack that erupted like a volcano, spurting burning, fresh hot pain into your veins. The tears and panicked, helpless thrashes came on the outside, but the lava was brutal and more so on the inside. Doing its damage. Making its mark. Leaving me tattered, and broken. Then. There. That was when it hurt. I couldn't feel the ice packs' frigid, sharp pangs. I couldn’t feel the tears slip down my pale cheeks because I had no tears left to cry - and my shoulders refrained to shaking intensely. The thing attached to the bottom of my right leg with five toes lay lifeless and still. It screamed in agony and didn't hold back. The pain. I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t hear the gentle ticks of the clock and I blocked the urge to hear my mum’s hesitant voice talking intently to the little mobile clasped in her shaking fist. Unsure of what to do, I sat in silence. Choking on powerful sobs that continued to arise and flinching at every move toward me. Of course that had been when it hurt. Some fairytales don't end in ‘happily ever after’, nor play dates with a goodbye, and, I guess, today is just one of those days.

Contorted Wire Once there was a small bird. It chirped, it sang. It fluttered it’s wings and flew. But a small difference set him apart - a crooked metal wire intertwining and strangling his broken clay heart. It’s long tail was thin timber, strips of white and brown with rough, uneven slits, scratched and worn. It was thin and frail. Chipped wood adorned the poor bird's tired and rough hollow. There was a deep gash in the side of his splintering neck, where, if you looked close enough, you could see whirring rusted sterling silver cogs and worn, fraying springs. EX-C-USE ME?! One, I am not called ‘it’ and Two, I have completely recovered from that and I am now the most handsome bird in the forest. My heart has been replaced and so has my neck. The wood that adorns my extravagant frame is polished and smooth and I am completely irreplaceable. I am telling the story of your background! You literally confirmed I could yesterday. The world needs to know of your true bravery. Well, I mean, you're not wrong… Exactly. Wait a second - I did not confirm mmmffm mpfmmf?!!!!! Sorry, what were you saying? Hehe (Perhaps I should gag him more often). Because of that, I am going to tell the next part of MY story. Has SHE told you of Audrey? No. Shush no interrupting! But I’m telling it. It’s MY story. You wish. I saved the world!!!! Yeah right. You just killed mmmfm mffff! No spoilers. I should gag YOU more often. Anyhow, Audrey was beautiful and her Athair (dad) built me and she was just plain lovely.

Contorted wire Wait a second… What did you even write? OMG that is absolutely terrible! too many ‘and’s’, and ‘I’s’ Waste of good resources as well, so I am just going to get on with the story. Christopher, that annoying and useless wooden bird, lived with a kind young girl whose black eyes, hazel tinted skin and short, curly brown hair continuously accompanied her. Audrey’s Màthair (mum) and Athair had passed away only a year ago due to the scottish flu. It was now 1920, a new year, and Audrey lived with her Seann-phàrantans (grandparents) and single possession carved with her Athair’s own hands - a small wooden bird with clay for a heart - however, it was broken and now a cold and contorted wire held it in together. Blah ble blue blargh blah. Boring! I could do it a THOUSAND times better than you. You are wasting resources because you're not doing it quick enough! It should be like so; Once upon a time, Goldilocks found a house, ate porridge and broke a chair and went to bed and the bears found her and then, well, It's the end. SEE! I did it in ONE sentence. Clearly I’m better. That was AWFUL. Absolutely Terrible!

Contorted wire No entertainment… No-one would want to read that garbage. It Is NOT garbage! However, Your stuff is because you have, uh, ummmm, what do you say? Oh that's right! Anchovies. TOO MANY ANCHOVIES! PFFFFTTTT. You're a complete chicken! You’re NUTS! Completely BONKERS! It’s A D J E C T I V E S. Adjectives silly! Not Anchovies. Do you think I care? He says while blushing a deep red colour in the cheeks. Rude. I think tha-mmmppf pfffmmmmm!!!!! Don’t be rude Christopher. Now, where was I? Oh. That’s right. Wistful and hopeful thoughts prevailed against the howling of the thick snow that pelted the windows panes and thoroughly destroyed the old lanterns that littered the streets with shrewd strips of brewing warmth. All thoughts, but one girl’s. Audrey pummeled through the snow, her feet sinking almost to waist deep. She skidded over the lake on her skates of chiseled white leather, scraps and flakes of ice flying up and adjoining the blizzard. My turn! This is my favourite bit. PLEASE don’t interrupt. And also, I am gonna use your ancho- I mean, adjectives. Here goes nothing…

Contorted wire Her hair whipped around her face, wet, cold and shivering, Audrey reached the pier. Grasping the little note in a glass bottle, she whispered a prayer and cast the small note in a bottle into the rough and churning sea. Suddenly she uttered a scream and sank to her knees, tears pouring down her face while her numb fingers fumbled at the thick muscular arm protruding out from around her neck. She groaned and her pupils lolled around before dispersing and leaving the shining whites of her eyes accepting the dark as her lids sealed shut. That was MUCH better than before. I think you might even be getting better, for a change. Now I shall continue. No way! This is when I get my moment! Well, Mmmmmmpfff mmm!!!! Seriously, It is time for me to take over. Lifeless and still, the man dragged Audrey toward the huge ship containers and threw her in one with absolute carelessness, slamming the door shut and locking it. However, Audrey’s dearest possession, Christopher, had fallen from her pocket. Choking and coughing she was truly alone… petrified and unhappy amongst pile upon pile of gunpowder and coal. Toxic air filled Audrey’s lungs and her eyes watered, having she had only just recovered from her struggle an hour before. Automatically, her hand slipped down to her patched jacket to her bulging pocket. Not there. Of course I’m not there you dummy! I fell out! This is soooo not necessary. Oh yeah? Your silly outbursts are not required either, you know THAT Christopher? You only care about yourself missy! You can’t say anything! You lose your temper with a click of fingers, a ruffle of feathers and now y-mmpffmpffff! That trick is seriously getting old, you know.

Contorted wire Okay, thought Audrey. Next pocket. Not there either? Where was he when she really needed him? She remembered taking him. Nope, Not there either. Audrey slumped, defeated for the second time in her life. ‘Christopher?’ She mumbled hopefully, ‘Christopher where are you?’ I am having a go now, this is actually becoming unfair. Say the word and your permission shall be granted. Please? You are such a softy, truly. I would never let you have a go. WHAT?! This is a time where I can say what happened from my point of view, not yours. I really, really MMMPF MPPPPPFF! Love you too, Christopher. In fact, I give up. Maybe we can make a sequel someday - at least you can. I will never work with you again, birdy. That is the rudest thing anyone has ever said to me. YOU ARE SUCH AN ANNOYING AND AWFUL GIRL, YOUR MOTHER WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN PROUD OF YOU. You're nothing to her.. Just a dirty lying cheat like your father. How dare you say that! You’ve hit your mark alright birdy, struck a pot of gold. Sure, you annoy me, but this time you have gone too far. Far enough. LEAVE, YOU SILLY WOODEN RAGAMUFFIN! Audrey would hate you for this. I am the reason you’re alive! I saved your mother’s life all those years ago, and THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME?! JUST LEAVE. I never want to see your ugly face again. And he was gone, out the window and into the darkening sky outside.

Contorted Wire Scratching at the door. I arose - If it was Christopher, well, I guess I wouldn’t really know what to say. Nevermind, just a small package framed by the gracious outdoors. I took it inside and cautiously inspected it. No address, no name, nothing. Must have been the neighbours or something. I undid the ribbon and opened the lid. “Christopher?” I breathe quietly. “No. No. No. I won’t let it happen. Please, please say you're not dead, please!” A single tear rolled down my pale cheek and dripped onto the bird, oiling his joints. He coughed and sat up as best as he could. “Where am I?” He whispered, blinking in the bright light. “You’re home. You’re home.” I say, clutching him tight against my chest.

Future of the past I do not know how to iron. Or maybe I do, I just don’t remember. But nevertheless, I am standing over the ironing board that shivers in the zephyr. Cowers from the adumbration. And catches my reflection in its murky Sapphire, Azure Blue. The iron in my hand was sharpened this morning. The fourteen rustic copper blades were unlucky, despite being one more than thirteen. But, I have decided that it doesn't matter and the silky veil of that thought left the kaleidoscope of thoughts that are my mind. Funnels of auburn and fumes of the dead arise. The windows are clear, a sheen of translucent despondency. A body of chiffon white. Watered down wood, an opaque mahogany cabin and a single shard of illumination to pierce the abstract physique of darkness. Salty odours linger in the barque’s wake, the scents highlighted and bold. They grip at something zesty, from the pearly spume and subaqueous effervescence. In the future of the past, we remember them.

Butterflies upon Bricks Spurs of colour, wings outspread, Rusticly structured, but turned impossible instead, The butterflies hover, with the moon overhead. Dollops of billowing, pearly white pouffes, You begin to imagine and wonder the truth. Where did they come from, and where will they go? Surely they can’t just stay here and play foe. Contorting and complex, The answers alone shall but know, You search for a legend, some rumor untold But a spark makes a fire, And shall burst forth some new kind of liar. And although I know, the nets will go high Is it enough? Or shall someone else die?

Tick Tock, I see the time, it’s melting away, Dead is the Clock Shards, they crumbled, alike the old legends say, Aromas of six, seven, eight and nine, Linger about, smelling something devine. I remember the touch, as the days go by, Life, only as liquid, while the time looks to die. It’s hollow inside, cogs fading in despair; Welcoming a new prophecy into their lair. I imagine the seconds, ticking along, Until the time stops, and all will be gone. The glass surface, it flickers, and then begins to morph, I glance in the background, and see a slice of the North, Where water saunters a cliff, and beckons me forth. I can feel, in my chest, that the last number has left, Robbing away my life - and that is truly a theft. This truth you cannot bend, For time has been stretched to the very last end.