Swift Movements [Mad House Plot]

Sarella
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Swift Movements [Mad House Plot] Jun 7, 2012 9:08:50 GMT -5

Post by Sarella on Jun 7, 2012 9:08:50 GMT -5

MERCY ALLAN

Many nights we've prayed,
With no proof anyone could hear,
In our hearts a hopeful song
We barely understood.

Curled in her tight little ball, Mercy listens to the house. The constant creaking of floorboards, the tap tap of rain on the roof, the scurrying feet of mice, and even the banging of someone slamming school books on a table. It was evening, and maybe she and her housemates would get dinner tonight. Who knew? Not everyone was home right now. Just her and a few others. She knew for certain Veronica was out hunting for either money or food. Xavier was without a doubt trying to get himself in some sort of scuffle, but she didn't guess that, she just knew he wasn't there at the moment. Shifting in the chair, she looks up towards the table, with it's hundreds of chairs shoved around it, a few pushed up against the wall, some scattered towards the countertops for a place to eat. Very crowded here.

It seemed like the perfect situation for Mercy though. No one was yelling, no one was smashing anything, no one was trying to light anything on fire. She could snuggle with her blanket in peace, assured Ian wouldn't be messing with her, or Janet trying to steal it. Of course, once everyone was home, or out of their room, she wouldn't be able to sit there with the younger members of the house. They'd without a doubt wander off. She didn't quite understand why, but as soon as Veronica walked through the door everyone would rush to her with something to say. Quinten complaining about a deadly disease, Pauline asking if she faired well, and, perhaps, a few people would yell at her for being gone so long. Certainly tht would eventually lead to a fight, which would lead to Mercy crying like a toddler.

Although, for now, Mercy had no idea what could happen. Only what was happening right then. Anyways, things could go absolutely well, even if it did happen often for people to fight. The future was unwritten, right? Mercy pulls her blanket up to her chest, and thinks about the wooden floor the chair was on. Wasn't it pretty? All those lines, a few cracks, goodness, you could even see some of the ground through one part! She reaches down and sticks her finger inside, and plays around with the dirt. Right now seemed so blissful, so nice. The only thing interupting her was the rain, which seemed to pound harder on the roof every second.

Drip, splat. Drip, splat. Drip, splat. Constantly dripping and splatting on the roof. How wet was it outside? Anyone who came in was bound to be soaking the second they walked through the front door.

But now we're not afraid,
Although we know we've much to fear,
For we were moving mountains long
Before we knew we could.

Last Edit: Jun 7, 2012 9:09:44 GMT -5 by Sarella

Ray
Merchant

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Swift Movements [Mad House Plot] Jun 7, 2012 11:15:14 GMT -5

Post by Ray on Jun 7, 2012 11:15:14 GMT -5

Does, Thinks, Says, Hears, Lyrics

Rain. Why did it have to rain? The rain was such a nuisance to Pauline. No matter how hard she tried, it was nearly impossible to keep everything dry in a storm like this. Besides, who knew what could be lurking in the darkness, hiding by the sheets of rain just beyond the field of vision? Pauline stepped up next to the door, shielding her eyes with one hand and fishing around in her pocket for the key. As she started to click the key into place, the door swung open.

Pauline grumbled to herself as she replaced the key and stepped through the doorway. Why was it so hard for these people to remember to lock the door? Alena and Veronica could usually be depended upon to keep things in order, the way Pauline liked it, but it seemed as if some of the people in the house messed things up on purpose, just to annoy her. Didn’t they realize how important this was?

I check my bed for bugs and spiders
though I don’t really believe they’re there
I check my head, it’s getting tighter
I want to stop, but I don’t dare

Pauline shut the door, listening carefully for the click of the latch sliding into place. She turned the knob on the lock once, twice, a third time, then pulled on the handle to be certain it was locked. “There. Locked up nice and tight.” Hopefully the others were carrying their keys as well, or she would have to come back and unlock the door. Maybe that was just as well, so she could make sure the door was locked again after they came in.

Pauline shivered slightly as she stood there, soaked through and through. She ran quickly down the hall to her room, trying not to drip water on the floor. She quickly changed out of her wet clothes and slipped into long pants and a soft T-shirt. Now swaddled in her “rainy day” clothes, she draped her wet clothes over a chair to dry and retrieved a towel. Pauline retraced her steps, carefully mopping up every drop of water. Stopping at the front door, she surveyed the hall once more. She turned back towards the hall and dried the floors once more, to make sure all the water was cleaned up. She returned to the door and lay the towel across the floor in front of it, so everyone else who came in during this weather would not get the floor wet again. Although, if the door was any indication, the towel would be ignored and pushed to the side, and she’d have to return and clean up again later tonight.

I will not sleep until I’ve counted to 200 three times
I will not sleep until my pencils lie in a straight line

Pauline walked through the house, meticulously pulling doors shut and, in rooms that were more messy, straightening up a bit. Several times she was shooed out when the occupants of the rooms were there, but mostly the house was quiet, and she could go about her business in peace. Despite the rain, it was turning into a nice evening. She hated having to fight tooth and nail just to be able to tidy up. She would never understand the others’ aversion to her cleaning.

Pauline came into the kitchen, where a lone figure sat at the table. Mercy was stooped over, touching the floor. “Mercy, what are you doing?” Pauline questioned as she walked towards her, straightening chairs as she went. She came to the girl, who was playing in the dirt that showed through a crack in the floor. Pauline could see little grains of dirt on the floor that had been knocked aside and into the house. “Oh, stop that,” Pauline snapped, pulling Mercy’s hand away from the floor. She bent to sweep the particles of dirt back into the crack, then sat down in a chair next to Mercy.

“We’ll have to see if Veronica can fix that, won’t we? I’ll ask her when she gets home,” Pauline said, straightening the blanket across Mercy’s shoulders. She glanced back down the hall, wondering when the others would be getting home, and trying to remember if she had locked the door.

I check the stove four times each day
I spin around the door to make sure that it’s locked
And wear these lucky socks until they fade away

Words: 729

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Last Edit: Jun 7, 2012 14:12:46 GMT -5 by Ray

Onyx
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in between somewhere and nowhere

Swift Movements [Mad House Plot] Jun 7, 2012 13:38:54 GMT -5

Post by Onyx on Jun 7, 2012 13:38:54 GMT -5

She walks | She yearns | She talks | She learns | She burns

Fuck. My shaking hands finger the damp box that lies in the rank corner of my grotty room. Rain hums over the slates directly above my head, dribbling down the corner of the slanting attic space that is my home and forming a puddle on the floor. Slick dust spirals on the surface, making hideous cackling shapes from my reflection as I grimace in. Goddamn son of a bitch, I curse to the rain, regretting choosing this room as I do every time the rain tumbles down from the roaring grey clouds above. So much power, why is it all wasted on water? I know this is just one big plot from some god above to douse my flames. A sudden crescendo as pellets of water hammer above me makes me jump, all muscles tensing as I glance around. I could miss the approach of someone unwanted with all this noise. But the trapdoor remains shut, teasing me with its crooked fit. Everything is crooked here.

[/i]

My mind snaps like heated metal, screaming, glowing, almost elastic, back to the sagging cardboard on the wooden, splintered boards. How pathetic you are now.[/i] With one pale finger I try to shove it open, but the soggy paper just slides off with my nail instead. All your power is gone. A noise of impatience escapes me in a breath, and I realise with the loss of my weapons[/b][/i] I have lost all my control, too. I tear away the sagging case wishing I could burn it, burn it all, the house and everyone in it and I could burn with it to reveal the matches within. Useless. The twigs bend without snapping and, when they do break, it is with a sigh like breaking bone. Living bone, not charred remains. The red friction pad comes off in grains on my fingers, which I try to blow away like ash and particulates[/b][/color] but which stain the tips of my digits, instead.

The scream which has been raging in me like a forest fire just started by some crazy punk kid bursts out, burning my throat with the heat these useless fucking twigs can never provide for me again. Still screaming, an agonised holler for help I don’t want from anyone, I hurl the matches as hard as I can, satisfied when they pound into the opposite wall with force to match the gale outside. A gasp escaped the crumpling packaging, and the sodden pulp that once was my favourite toy[/color] clatters around my bed. Screams continue to lurch from my throat as I tug the bedspread from my sleeping quarters – can you really call a bed?[/i] and cover the slowly widening puddle with it. At least now this house can still go up in flames.[/b][/color]

Tugging a jumper over my naked, charred shoulders, I tug up the corner of the cracked trapdoor, revealing the dark, ladderless cave below. Cheap piece of shit hellhole,[/color] I frown as I push myself through and land agilely and silently on the fraying, faded rug below. I should set it all alight.[/i] However, now I have nothing to do it with. But half the kids here are so blind I could just steal some more. The corridor creaks as I shuffle, aching from hunching in my loft for so long, towards the stairs. Leaning on the banister, I wheeze, caught in the dense smoke I can no longer possibly create[/b] and tug my hair away from my eyes. It bounces above my head in a fiery halo, accentuating the shadows below my eyes and the blisters on my neck and ears. I should just chop off the whole fucking lot. But what would Veronica say then?

The calloused undersides of my uncared for feet squeak on the moaning steps as I limp down, every movement deliberate, heavy. I walk in time to the destructive storm outside. Thunder comes in bursts from somewhere far away, somewhere I wish I was. Where there is thunder, there is lightning. I was once told that lightning is a tear in the sky and through it you can see the future. Lightning brings flame to wherever it strikes.[/b][/color] Perhaps the flames are in that tear in the future, too. Wind rattles the window panes, howling against the house in widow’s cries, each gust a new wave of grief. Tiptoeing now, I reach the ground floor and edge to the kitchen. I can already picture it in my head, the warm, dry cabinet filled with explosions of spices and dry goods. And there, right at the back, my little friends,[/b][/color] calling to me to pick them up and use them. How lovely it would be to see just one flame…[/i]

As I near the dining area, with its wonky table and chairs that break so quickly, only there to feed the fire, voices float to me over the din outside. Mercy, stupid little bitch,[/i] humming to herself in a corner, fingers down between the floorboards. Someone should burn them, see how she breaks our “home” then. Pauline scolds her, treating her like the young child that she wants to be, and I know I have no chance of getting away with the treasures in this situation. I wait by the door, hoping one of them will leave, doing nothing.[/size][/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify]

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Last Edit: Jun 7, 2012 13:41:46 GMT -5 by Onyx

someday we'll be drinking with the seldom seen kid

Sarella
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Swift Movements [Mad House Plot] Jun 7, 2012 13:56:38 GMT -5

Post by Sarella on Jun 7, 2012 13:56:38 GMT -5

MERCY ALLAN

There can be miracles,
When you believe.
Though hope is frail,
It's hard to kill.

Still playing with the dirt, the door opens, and Mercy looks up to see a soaking wet Pauline come in, dripping everywhere. She locks the door behind her before running off to her room, and Mercy watches quietly. Leaning back down, she plays some more, some of the dirt flicking onto the floorboards. Things felt so calm still, even though the water form outside had been strewn over the floor. Soon Pauline comes back with a towel, and fresh clothes, and dries up her watery mess.

Then she left again, and started cleaning. Mercy listened quietly to the sounds of Pauline working, making things look tidier. Sometimes Mercy wondered if she should help. She wanted people to think she was good, and that probably required her to try. She couldn't just sit in her chair all day long and sulk, ould she? Either way, she preffered sitting in her chair, cuddling with her blanket.

"Mercy, what are you doing?" Pauline asks when she comes back. The screeching of chairs lets Mercy know she was coming closer, all the while fixing the positions of the messed up seats. She flicked a piece of dirt nonchalantly, letting bounce out of the hole. It was like a little game. If she swirled her finger , even more wouldcome out. Doing that, she grinned a little, ignoring the question Pauline had given her. She hums, pretending the question had never been asked. "Mmm mmm mm hmmm mmm," over and over, swirling and swirling, humming, and humming, and humming. "Oh stop that," Pauline says, and pulls Mercy's hand out of the boards. Mercy pulls her arms into her armpits, hiding them as quick as she can, her eyebrows scrunching up.

“We’ll have to see if Veronica can fix that, won’t we? I’ll ask her when she gets home,” She says, but Mercy isn't listening. It was a little late for that. She sniffles, and rubs her nose with her hand. "Are you angry at me?" She asks, her voice cracking. She cried so easily, not quite understanding Pauline didn't mean it in a mean way. "I'm sorry I made that mess," She continues, and hides her face in her blanket, beginning to cry hard.

Who knows what miracles
You can achieve,
When you believe,
Somehow you will.
You will when you believe.

Last Edit: Jun 15, 2012 4:12:56 GMT -5 by Sarella

Ray
Merchant

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Swift Movements [Mad House Plot] Jun 12, 2012 11:41:36 GMT -5

Post by Ray on Jun 12, 2012 11:41:36 GMT -5

Does, Thinks, Says, Hears, Lyrics

Mercy scrunches herself into a ball in the chair next to Pauline, and starts sniffling. Pauline sits there awkwardly for a moment and prays that Mercy doesn’t start crying. Pauline has never been very good at dealing with people who cry. Outward displays of emotion have always made her uncomfortable.

Pauline turns back to look at Mercy as the sniveling girl starts to speak. “Are you angry at me?” Mercy’s voice cracks and it is clear that they have reached the point of no return. The waterworks will begin any second now. Pauline’s hands flutter near her sides, unsure of what to do. Although she lived with Mercy, Veronica was almost always here to help take care of her when she got upset. Pauline almost always made herself scarce during these times, so she had no experience dealing with this kind of thing.

I check my bed for bugs and spiders
though I don’t really believe they’re there
I check my head, it’s getting tighter
I want to stop, but I don’t dare

“No, no of course not,” she said hurriedly, trying to calm Mercy down. “It’s just…” How could she explain this to someone? How could she find the words to say exactly why she needed everything to be perfect? How could she say that she got a knot in her stomach whenever she saw something out of place? That it would keep nagging at her and would get continually worse until she fixed it?

“I’m sorry I made that mess,” Mercy continued as if she hadn’t heard anything Pauline had said. She buried her face into her blanket and started sobbing. Her hands were peeking out from underneath the blanket, and the tips of her fingers were speckled with dirt. She sat for a while listening to Mercy crying, until she couldn’t take the sight of the dirt there any longer.

I will not sleep until I’ve counted to 200 three times
I will not sleep until my pencils lie in a straight line

“Come on, Mercy,” Pauline said, pushing the blanket aside and grabbing her wrist. She gently pulled the girl to her feet. “Let’s go get you cleaned up, it might make you feel better.” Well, at least it would make Pauline feel better. She pushed Mercy’s chair in and made her way to the doorway. She continued on, focused entirely on getting to the bathroom and washing away the dirt on Mercy’s hand. The two girls nearly banged into Isabella, who Pauline now realized had been standing in the doorway watching them.

I check the stove four times each day
I spin around the door to make sure that it’s locked
And wear these lucky socks until they fade away

Words: 444
Other: I know we were supposed to wait for three people to post, but I wanted to keep the thread moving, so I’m posting now. Hope that’s ok with you guys.

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Last Edit: Jun 12, 2012 11:43:47 GMT -5 by Ray

mara0107
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Swift Movements [Mad House Plot] Jun 20, 2012 0:46:54 GMT -5

Post by mara0107 on Jun 20, 2012 0:46:54 GMT -5

narration
speaking
thinking
others speaking

Rain. Why does it rain outside? I don’t like the rain. I don’t like the noise the raindrops make on the thin roof, the constant shattering and rumbling. Thunder is worse. A lot worse. I’m afraid of thunderstorms. They make me stay in bed and pull the sheets over my head, trying to keep the loud noises out. It usually doesn’t help. Thunder makes a lot of others in this house scream and cry. Not me. I don’t freak out like them; I just hide. No one notices me hiding anyways. They think I’m crazy. They think I’m odd. I don’t even know why. There’s no thunder tonight, so I don’t have to hide in my bed. I can see myself walking through the hallways. I follow along. It’s evening and about time to eat. I hope we’ll get something to eat tonight. It’s not that they don’t want to feed us; Veronica really tries. But she isn’t always successful. I hope she was successful today, because I’m hungry. I can hear my tummy rumble. Rumble like thunder. I don’t like thunder. I don’t like rain.

I follow myself into the kitchen. “The girl in the corner is sitting on the floor humming to herself. Why is she humming? The humming mixes up with the constant sound of raindrops falling on the roof. Humming is nice. Nicer than the sound of raindrops.” , I hear my own voice coming from my mouth, mumbled as it always is. I don’t care if I mumble. Nobody ever listens to me anyways. Why should I bother speaking up and speaking with a clear voice if they don’t listen to me anyways? “The cleaning-girl comes in. Everything has to be straight, everything has to be perfect. She walks through the kitchen, straightening chairs on her way over to the humming-girl. She stops the humming-girl from digging in the dirt on the floor. She will probably clean the floor right away.” I watch as the cleaning-girl pulls the humming-girls hand out of the dirt and I can see how tears well up in the humming-girls eyes. “The humming has stopped but now there’s crying. Why is she always crying?” My own mumbling mixes with her cries, mixes with the sound of the rain.

My eyes wander around and find the fire-girl standing by the door across the room. I give names to all the people here. I can’t remember their real names, but why call them by their real names. They don’t mean anything. My own names call them by what they are doing. That makes a lot more sense. I know a lot of things about the people here because I watch a lot. I watch them but I never come close. I don’t want to come close. I like to be left alone. “The fire-girl just stands by the door, watching the other two. ” , my mumbled voice goes on. I wonder if she’s got matches to burn something. I hope she doesn’t, because fire scares my and to be honest the girl scares me too. I don’t show though. I just keep mumbling.

“Are you angry at me? , the humming-girl says. She always thinks people are mad at her. She always cries. No, no of course not. , the cleaning-girl replies but she is not serious. She is mad. The humming-girl made a mess on the floor and the cleaning-girl doesn’t like dirty things. Dirty things like the floor and dirty things like the humming-girls hands.” Mumbling, mumbling, that’s all I do. All the time, talking about the things that happen as I watch the others. “They leave the kitchen to clean the humming-girls hands. Always have clean hands when you come and eat, Veronica says. Always clean your hands. They go to wash their hands. But where is the food?” Where is Veronica and where is dinner? I’m hungry. I’m hungry as I watch the girls leaving the kitchen, as I watch them almost bumping into the fire-girl. I watch them and the rain keeps falling on the roof.