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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Scratch in the Glassdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Darkess
    ASL Info:    12/Female/Canada
    Elite Ratio:    3.37 - 30/93/39
    Words: 698
    Class/Type: Story/Serious
    Total Views: 1613
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 4114



    Description:
       This isn't supposed to be big... Most of the details are left up to the imagination. Watched CSI: Vegas tonight... Again... Hehe. Good inspiration there.

    (At the age of five, I learned from watching Care Bears that famous people weren't allowed to eat. It stuck with me. ;) )


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsScratch in the Glassdots
    -------------------------------------------


    "There you go, fat kid..."

    The voice whispered nonchalantly in his ear, because the person behind said voice didn't really care. But the injected, poison-like comfort his words offered were all Aoibhe needed, to nod confidently and keep the strong facade up.

    Aoibhe. Model child, in every aspect. Living in a world that revolved around fashion, beauty, luck, and falling. Hard. How far you got before that fall was all that really mattered.

    He was just a photoshoot child. A prop, really. Like most of the people there, sometimes he was pretty and sometimes he wasn't, that all depended on what the director wanted. Sometimes he would look perfect, with carefully combed hair and immaculate attire; Sometimes he was just there to pose how pathetic and worthless he was; Sometimes all they wanted was for the clothes he was wearing to look good (as if normal people would actually fit into something so small).

    Day by day his life and his appearance changed, along with his attitude and his words. He had no belief, not even a prayer... Those were ripped away all too easily, in a contrasting world of darkness and light, where your only goal was to please.

    Back to the present.

    This specific photoshoot looked more like a warehouse shed than anything professional. The flashing lights amidst the darkness were blue and white, matching his current outfit, and the only thing that seemed to be at least half natural was the sunlight filtering in. It was sparse, and it only showed between the fans stuck through the walls to keep the air circulating, but it let him look outside into a place he only wished he was a part of.

    He really wanted to run... Away.

    Standing in front of him was his 'agent', Fiorenzo: an Italian man, who never seemed to be around when wanted. He had a habit of dropping into Aoibhe's hotel room, early in the morning, and putting in the fridge everything Aoibhe would be eating that day. Most of the time, that would only take up half of the lowest shelf, and everything he forced himself not to eat was thrown away. Fittings for clothes required at new shoots usually took place no later than two days before the actual meetings, and therefore to keep his size, he'd go without eating in between.

    However, this time he'd messed up. He'd eaten more than he was supposed to... And as a result, he'd gotten yelled at by Fiorenzo for an hour straight. This was why, as he was getting into position, his agent came up to him, kneeling down. "There you go, fat kid..."

    And his voice was comforting for the shaky, adgitatedly nervous child. Fiorenzo held something up to Aoibhe's nose, letting him sniff it in. Some sort of drug, he was sure because he'd had it before. Funny, he never caught the name, but he knew what it did. And that was why he looked at Fiorenzo pleadingly, silently begging, as the nameless substance was held up to him once more. He didn't want it.

    But then again, it wasn't really his choice. He'd been bad.

    Within moments, he found himself emptying everything he'd eaten (and probably a bit more) onto the floor of the set. His throat hurt and so did his stomach, and he felt weak as he looked back up.

    Needless to say that probably wasn't the smartest of ideas, but the cameras seemed to love it, in their sick, twisted way. They shot pictures of his tired, frail form, as he strained to stand on his own two feet, hugging himself and cowering away. Broken was all he was.

    It was over too slowly, as usual, and he found himself shying away from the light like a kitten who hadn't properly opened its eyes.

    No one came to ask how he was as Aoibhe curled up in a corner, dust falling around him, staring blankly at the crew as they started to pack. This was just life. He knew he'd die like this, living through his own private torture.




    Submitted on 2007-04-10 21:08:23     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      There is no way in any dimension of existence that you are eleven years old. No way whatsoever. I've met people five times your age who can't write like this. Heck, I can't write like this. Bloody awesome. I salute you, dear midget, and here's hoping you never quit putting pen to paper. I'm sure it'd be something the world would regret.

    --crimson echo
    | Posted on 2007-04-25 00:00:00 | by crimson echo | [ Reply to This ]
      thats so strong. its been a while since ive had time to read anything, im glad i read this. will you continue on with this story? if you do, could you possibly leave out as much of his "family-mom-dad" life, because i think this makes it so much more real. someone, like dove he seems so young and innocent, who is thrown into a psychologically stressful position around the uncaring. i love your characters always.

    Love and Peace, and keep writing
    | Posted on 2007-04-13 00:00:00 | by thehappyfaery | [ Reply to This ]


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