The 104 story project is where you get 104 different topics or words, and you're supposed to write a short story on whatever is given to you. Words 28 and 29 were "light" and "dark." I was inspired to step out of the fictious world I've been writing these stories in, and scribble out two separate stories.
They are two separate stories, but they reflect on a solitary thing. Like a comparison. Anyway, here they are... enjoy the ride. Or don't, if you so choose.
She's awake, and she's living the dream.
In the dead of night, in the farthest reaches of her sleep, the world brightens up and unleashes a wonderful film of happiness and joy. The sun beats upon her face with a gentle, loving warmth that goes beyond the surface and warms her heart. The breezes brush by and wrap her in a cool, calming embrace that lets her know that she's okay.
And now she wakes, and walks these dreams in the living world. Now the warm sun has an emotion, and the gentle breeze a body. No longer is it a loving ghost that she experiences only in the night; it's a living form that she has all the time.
When she's down, words of love and peace bring her emotions from the depths of sorrow. When she's feeling silly, she shares in her escapades and childish antics with a soul who can share in the simple pleasure of it all. When her mind is abuzz with deep and pensive thoughts, the conversation follows suit and gives her much to think about. When the lonely darkness of the night comes to take her in, she knows who she can think of to make it all go away. Much like a little candle that keeps the world warm and bright, or a song that only she and one other soul knows the lyrics to...
The world is light, and she is happy.
A tension mounts, and the clouds roll in. And in the midst of the storm, there she stands, unshielded and vulnerable.
Looking up at the sky, she shouts her threats and warning cries.
"Go ahead, try it. You think you can take me down? Let's see you give it a go." She spreads her arms wide, making herself a rod for the hot lightning she dares to make a mockery of. The rain pours and falls down her face, hiding the angry, wounded tears that fall from the reddened green eyes of her countenance.
She refuses to admit she's been wounded. Refuses to own up to the pain inflicted upon her body, even when the slashes and scratches pour with the red liquid of her dying existence.
If there is a weakness that she dares to reveal, it becomes a dagger thrust into her chest. It aims not for the lungs that give her the strength to live; it aims for the heart, where the will to go on hides. Strength is nothing without the willingness to press on.
Aim for the heart, and strike it slow. No, now is not the time to die quick and easily. Now's the time to make her suffer... now's the time to watch her break.
She closes her eyes, trying to escape the dark.
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