Thursday, December 27, 2012

The Asylum

Continuation of 5502338491211465810223849455568101000234818679.

I wake up, I think. Everything is so fuzzy, I could still be dreaming. I can sort of make out shapes and lights, but not quite. I hear something, a murmuring. Maybe a voice? I can not tell. I think I feel a prick, and I drift back down into the deeper layers of sleep, barely having time to wonder if I was ever conscious at all.
The next time I wake up I am far more coherent. Everything is still fuzzy, and my head hurts, but this time I have the sense to wonder where I am rather than if I am. The voices I hear around me are still difficult to make out, but this time I can tell what they are saying. Still, it sounds as if I am hearing them from underwater. It is the same sensation.
"They used a lot on this one," one of the voices says. "They would normally be fine by now."
"She just stayed standing. Strong mind. Even stronger than most that we get in here."
The first voice speaks again with an air of authority. "Keep an eye on this one. I don't like the way this sounds."
Another sharp prick, and once again I spiral towards unconsciousness, wondering what this could possibly mean.
This time I am completely aware when I wake up. My head only feels slightly fuzzy in the beginning and it is easy to make out my surroundings. Every noise from nearby rooms and corridors sound just as loudly as they ever had before this ordeal. I move to get up, only to find that I can not. I look down and see the thick brown leather straps securing me to the thin bed.
I begin to panic internally. This is not something we are ever prepared for. Things like this are not supposed to happen in our world. Numbers are insignificant beings, never being noticed enough in the first place to be taken by anyone. We just drift through the same scripted life until we turn eighteen. Oddly enough, this thought calms me. That was a mold I had never fit. And that must be why I am here. There was never any talk of what happened to numbers who deviated, simply because none of us ever talked. But there has to be something, and I must be finding out just what that is.
With that thought in mind, I begin further examining my surroundings. Just a small white room with the white bed I'm laying on and a silver tray holding a small hypodermic needle. That must have been the prick that continuously sent me under. The door is right across from me, bared, appearing to lead into an equally stark white hallway. I enter analytical mode and everything around me seems to automatically graph itself nearly instantaneously. I have no clue if this is normal for someone with my gift or not. We never were allowed to talk. I have no clue what others with math affinities can do.
Everything is measured out perfectly. I know that the table is exactly ten feet away from me and the door is precisely twenty and three quarters feet away. I can see the angles and measures of every corner in the room. I know that the straps holding me down would be about five feet each at their full length and that they are all half an inch thick. Too thick for me to break on my own.
Before I can formulate any kind of coherent plan The door opens revealing a tall woman with bluish-black hair held up in a tight bun and dark blue eyes wearing black rectangular glasses. She walks in slowly and takes out a pen, positioning it over the clip board. "Number... 5502338491211465810223849455568101000234818679. Can you tell me why you're here?"

I am unsure how to answer. I am a Number. She is clearly a Person. I want to demand that she tell me where here is, but a move that rash could not be met kindly. "No."

"You," she began, holding a superior tone that somehow went above and beyond the usual air of superiority that People have, "are here because you refused to follow the rules. You have a math affinity, yet there are paintings and drawings all throughout your room. You feel. You hold skepticism. This is unacceptable." Shock overtakes me. How could she know any of this? I never told my parents any of this. I never showed them my artwork. I never let anyone in on what was going on in my head... "It doesn't matter what you tell us. We know all. The word of a Person is absolute. You will learn this. Welcome to The Asylum."


Friday, November 2, 2012

The Assasin

A full moon rose, illuminating a large clearing at the center of a dense forest. The wind blew, rustling the grass and leaves, adding to the eerily quiet atmosphere.

Even the bright moon wasn't enough to reveal the still figure perched carefully on a thick branch of one of the trees overlooking the meadow. Her caramel-colored eyes narrowed behind the small slits in her plain white mask as she contemplated what was to come.

Mentally prepared, she slipped soundlessly from her place in the tree. She ran through the meadow completely undetectable, seemingly becoming the night.

Without making the smallest noise that may attract attention, she slid the door to the small but elegant house on the far side of the meadow open. Walking on air, she crept through the house, finding her target sleeping peacefully in bed. She drew her swords, made only of the finest black metal to be as invisible as their wielder, as she stood over his bed.

He awoke to the feeling of cold metal pressed against his throat. His eyes flew open, immediately reflecting his panic. The feeling increased when he took in his surroundings. The midnight black swords pressed against his neck attached to arms covered in black fabric, over an equally hidden neck and up to a ghostly white mask in place of a face. The violet in her jet black bun told him for sure; the king had sent his best assassin.

"Please... Please!" The desperate begging fell on deaf ears. Mercilessly, she sliced two gaping holes in his neck and watched as his life bled out of him.

After wiping the blood off her swords she sheathed them and disappeared out the door, once again blending into the night.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012


I am number 5502338491211465810223849455568101000234818679. I have not earned a name or the right to be a Person yet. Not everyone makes it. You get a chance to try when you turn eighteen, and if you are talented you get to pick a name out.

Karen Elizabeth. Ren for short. I am determined to earn that name one day. No one can know that, though. I am a number. Numbers are not allowed to feel anything unless they get promoted to People. Only People are allowed to feel or have any interests. Numbers just go about their days doing what people tell them to do.

We are not allowed to dislike anything People tell us to do. This is essentially a useless rule. Numbers are not allowed to feel anything or have any opinions anyway. No one would dislike anything. It would not be possible. People would rather be cautious, though. They want to be sure there are no loopholes to manipulate so they can keep us numbers under control.

Each number is tested by People at an early age to see what they have an affinity for. That is the only thing we are allowed to like; the one thing we must like. I do not, though. My affinity is for math. I dislike math, but its structure and predictability make it easy. To my knowledge no other number has ever disliked their affinity. Whether that is due to the fact that we are only allowed to like it, or that People drill into our heads that our affinity is our only chance at ever becoming a Person I do not know.

Yet another crime I am secretly guilty of. I do not believe the People who told us that. Everything People tell us is supposed to be absolute and go unquestioned. That statement in itself is inconceivable. People are allowed to have opinions and constantly contradict each other.

The bell rings, making me realize I zoned out all of math class, but that is alright. Math is my affinity. I will not have any trouble.

As I stand I feel a rush of dizziness to my head and I grab a chair to steady myself. I say nothing though. It is not my place to do so. Instead, I gather myself and walk towards my art class.

That thought alone has me fighting the illegal smile that threatens to spread across my face. Drawing and painting may not be considered my affinity, but it is what I love. At school we can not draw or paint anything creative or original. Everyone has to make the same copy-paste picture of whatever object it is the teacher decides on.

Creative thought is forbidden at home as well, but that is yet another rule I ignore. I lock myself in my room for hours on end, sketching and drawing and painting. All original and expressive. All projecting the darkness and oppression People place on numbers every day, even if I am the only one who can actually feel it.

I take my seat in art and pull out my pastels to begin outlining my copy of the picture of a tree hanging at the front of the room. All numbers with art affinities were done days ago, all cookie-cutter copies. When it is finished, mine will be unique. Generally unique is frowned upon in numbers, but it will be taken as a lack of skill seeing as art is not my affinity.

Another, more intense wave of dizziness hits me as I put the pastel down. I clutch my head and wait for it to pass. When it finally does, I pull out my paint set to color in the lines.

That does not last long. I smear a long thick line of brown paint across my work as I fall to the floor, completely incapacitated by the blinding dizziness.

I hear my teacher pick up the phone. "It's done. Be careful with that one. That's the largest dose I've ever had to give any number." The other numbers around me just continue to work as if nothing is going on as my grip on consciousness slips away.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Outlaws of Love (inspired by Adam Lambert's song Outlaws of Love)

This story is dedicate to my big sisters, Kathleen and Tabetha. 

His heart was racing. All he could think was, What if they find out?

When he came out to his Catholic parents a year ago, it was with a less-than-stellar outcome. His parents were furious. His mother wouldn't stop crying. His little sister seemed to have pity. She'd glance at him, and talk to him, but it was never quite the same. She was afraid of what would happen if it seemed like she took his side. His father had barely said a word to him for a month. He heard his father's voice in his head, more taunting than heartfelt now. You can tell us anything, son. We'll always love you. What a pathetic lie that had been. 

The sound of a pebble hitting his window pulled him from his thoughts. His boyfriend was there.

He took one last look at the room he grew up in and tears filled his eyes. The bad memories were more sharp and recent, but there were a lot of good memories too. Sitting on the floor teaching his baby sister to color inside the lines; his mother tucking him in at night; his father helping him with homework. But that was back when they still loved him.

Moment of hesitation over, he opened his window to see his boyfriend standing on the lawn waiting for him. He lowered himself from his windowsill and closed his eyes before letting go to land in the bushes outside his house.

He stood and walked over to his boyfriend to be enveloped in a pair of warm arms. The first tears started to fall as he clung to the one who had gotten him this far. "Ryan, I'm scared."

Ryan pulled his boyfriend away from his chest slightly to wipe away the tears and kiss him gently. "Shh... It's okay, Dev. We'll be okay."

They walked to Ryan's car in silence. The two of them had been planning on running away for months. Dev  had lost the people he cared about, and Ryan never had anyone to care about before he met Dev having been raised in foster care.

Ryan opened the passenger door for Dev and got to the driver's side. As they drove farther away the nervousness started to turn to excitement. There were plenty of flaws in their plan. Neither of them had any clue where they could go. Since Dev was sixteen and Ryan was eighteen, if they were caught Ryan could be charged with kidnapping, but neither of them cared. They would run forever as long as they could keep holding on to each other.

Dev squeezed Ryan's hand and grinned at him. "We made it!" Ryan grinned back, but Dev's features contoured into terror. All he could think as the speeding truck came barreling towards them was What if they were right?

Screeching of metal was the last thing they heard. Sparks flew in every direction as Ryan's beat up old car was embedded in the truck.

By the time their eyes opened the paramedics were there. Hand in hand, the couple drifted closer to their cold, unmoving bodies. It didn't take long for them to be declared dead.

"NO!!!" Dev dove towards his body. He wasn't ready to die. He was only sixteen. He couldn't go to Hell yet. Everything his parents ever told him said he was doomed to eternal damnation. When he fell through his body instead of into it, tears started cascading down his face at an uncontrollable rate, and he couldn't stop sobbing.

Ryan hoisted Dev up lovingly and just held him as the ambulance took their mangled bodies away. "Shh... It's alright, sweetheart."

"Oh, God. Oh, God. What if they were right?" He closed his eyes and hid his face in Ryan's chest.

"Open your eyes." The gentle command barely registered with Dev. "Sweetheart, open your eyes."

Dev did, and looked in the direction Ryan nodded in. An awe-inspiring ethereal light was in front of them. Two glowing figures with magnificent, white-feathered wings and shimmering silver halos stepped out and beckoned the pair forward. 

Ryan started walking towards the light, pulling Dev with him. As they walked through, the knowledge of a thousand generations seemed obvious. Everything suddenly made sense. They were enveloped in warmth and love, and they knew Dev was right. They finally made it.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Tanya shoved me against the wall. I fell, spilling the contents of my backpack in the process. With her two mindless minions, Tina and Taylor, flanking her there was no hope of escape.

Tanya flipped her multiple black braids. It wasn't really necessary, seeing as she was using a black bandanna as a headband. I guess she was going for some sort of intimidation factor, but the glare she was sending my way with her cold brown eyes took care of that.

At this point I was sure my situation couldn't get any worse. I thought far too soon.

Storm, the new girl, was stalking towards us. I knew it was her. Waist length white hair streaked with red; cold, calculating emerald eyes; and her signature leather jacket rolled up to the elbows. Everyone said she was even meaner than Tanya. Really cold-hearted. I was positive things were about to get much worse.

I was surprised when she positioned herself between me and my tormentors. Storm reached arm behind her back to help me up and glanced quickly in my direction. "You okay?"

Her voice was so cold and uncaring for a minute I wasn't sure she was actually asking. Another quick, vaguely annoyed glance in my direction told me that she was, and I quickly stuttered out a response. "I-I'm fine."

I took her hand and she hoisted me up. I started picking up my stuff, and she turned her attention to Tanya, who seemed to be an odd combination of nervous, probably from Storms reputation, and put out from being ignored for so long. "I don't want to see you bugging her again. Got it?" It wasn't a question.

Tanya quickly straightened up and crossed her denim clad arms over her chest. "You think you can tell me what to do?"

Storm glared, and I could swear Tanya actually flinched. Tina and Taylor were clearly nervous. They already started backing off. "I don't think. I know."

She literally pushed through the middle of the crowd. After a second's hesitation, I darted after her.

When we rounded the corner Storm turned around abruptly. I walked into her and started to fall again, but she caught me before I could. "What's your name?"

"Evangaline."  I didn't waste any time in answering this time. The initial shock had started to wear off. Impulsively, I asked a question of my own. "Why did you help me?"

Storm ignored it completely, and I was fairly certain I wasn't getting an answer. "Why'd they decide to bother you, anyway?"

I decided to answer her question despite her ignoring mine. She had just saved me, and it was kind of nice, someone other than my brother caring. "My older brother is gay." I hesitated for a minute to see if she would react negatively, but her face remained impassive. "Tanya and her boyfriend were talking about him. They called him a stupid fag, and they said he only pretended to be gay to get attention. I stood up for him and told them they didn't know what they were talking about. Tanya and her friends haven't left me alone since."

Storm frowned slightly, and I wasn't sure, but I thought she looked kind of... angry. "Let me know if they bother you again."

"O-okay." She started walking off, I guess towards her next class. I just stood in the hallway for a minute, stunned, before heading to my own class.

I'm not sure, but I think I just made a friend. 

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

This story was a bit out of my comfort zone. I wrote it while I was at a creative writing workshop at UNH over the summer. I don't typically write romance, but the girl I was sitting with played a romantic song and this popped into my head. Everyone thought it was really great though, so I figured I'd share it with you all.

The waves crashed against the shore with a slow gentle violence, washing away footprints, demolishing sandcastles, pulling forgotten odds and ends into the endless undiscovered depths of the ocean. Traces of people, some of which feel just as forgotten.

One forgotten woman remains standing on the cooling sand, watching as the sun sets and gives way to stunning shades of orange and gold, before eventually succumbing to the full moon  reflected in places deeper out where the waves aren't breaking themselves against the shore, finally done holding themselves together.

Her equally broken sobs are nearly drowned out by the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, slowly wearing down their resolve. Her blond hair falls down around her face in waves, concealing the thick tears that stream down her face.

Suddenly she's not alone anymore. He always was quiet. He pulls her to his chest and lets her cry. He shushes her gently and strokes her hair.

She looks up at him, emerald eyes only a bit watery now, and he gives her a small smile, love radiating from his deep blue eyes. His forehead drops down to hers, black hair mixing with golden. Her arms leave her own torso and wrap around his, because she knows she doesn't need to hold herself together any more. He will.

Together, they ease into the sand, her in his lap. They watch as the waves calm, rolling gently onto the shore, and the sun peaks once again.

Monday, October 8, 2012

Hello Out There! XD

Greetings internet world! My name is Alyssa. I am an aspiring writer. Over the years I have written and written, and eventually I would like to get a book published. However, the difficulty of said goal increases without some sort of background for people to look at.

My dad has mentioned this to me several times, that I need to get things published, but I was never really sure what to do and I never had any short stories I deemed good enough to send off to a magazine or something of the sort. While on a camping trip with my dad, my older brother, my step mom, and some family friends Dad and I got into a discussion of this very nature.

Eventually Dad suggested that I start a blog to help me get off my feet. It would give publishers something to look at when Googling the name Alyssa May White. And maybe through this I would find a story or two that I found worthy to send somewhere like Teen Inc. This blog is to be a stepping stone to my dreams. It will help me become known; show people that I'm here. 

Despite my hopes to forge a career out of writing, it is first and foremost something I love. There's nothing I can think of that would make me happier. There's a certain integrity I want to uphold to the art of it as opposed to the industry. Love it; great. Hate it; to each their own. But I hope you can enjoy my writing almost as much as I enjoy creating it.