FOTM - Februarie - Lucrari

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FOTM – Februarie – Votarea lucrărilor participante

Perioada de votare: De astăzi, 26 februarie, până miercuri, 8 martie.

Cum votez ?
Votarea se face obligatoriu prin poll şi opţional printr-un comentariu în acest topic. Votul prin poll valorează 1 punct, iar votul prin comentariu, 3 puncte. Prin votul prin comentariu nu se înţelege ceva de genul "Votez pentru lucrarea X, mi-a plăcut aşa de mult OMG!!!!! Eşti atât de bun *100 de emoticoane*". Aceste comentarii nu vor valora decât un punct. Cine vrea să comenteze, este rugat să critice şi să atingă măcar câteva aspecte legate de lucrarea în sine. Nu trebuie să comentaţi toate lucrările, sunt multe şi e greu să le citeşti pe toate cu atenţie iar mai apoi să formulezi o critică constructivă. Puteţi comenta o singură lucrare, aceea pe care vreţi să o votaţi.

În caz că nu era evident, NU aveți voie să vă votați singuri.
Lucrările vor fi postate anonime, într`o ordine aleatorie.

Lucrarea 1 - Alb

Cine sunt? Ce sunt? De ce nu ştiu nimic? Oricât aş încerca să-mi aduc aminte ceva, e inutil. Multă lume spune să-ţi uiţi trecutul şi să te bucuri de prezent. Dar nu o pot face. Cine a spus-o, nu a ştiut niciodată cum e să nu ai trecut, să fi doar o fantasmă în prezent.
De ce mi s-a întâmplat mie? Cum am ajuns aşa? Ce s-a întâmplat? Nu ştiu şi simt un gol în mine. Fără amintiri sunt singură. Nu în adevăratul sens al cuvântului, căci sunt tot timpul înconjurată de persoane necunoscute, chipuri nefamiliare. Îmi pare rău că-i întristez mereu cu aceeaşi întrebare: “Cine eşti?”. Zâmbetul revederii se transformă în lacrimile dezamăgirii.
În jurul meu e doar albul acela spălăcit. Doar el îmi pare familiar. Poate pentru că m-am obişnuit să-mi caut trecutul pe tavan. Uneori mă pierd şi ore în şir, fără rezultat totuşi. Când m-am privit pentru prima oară, m-am cutremurat. Eram palidă, lividă ca un mort.
De când sunt aici, au venit mereu persoane noi, au plecat şi nici nu s-au mai întors. Doar el a stat tot timpul alături de mine. Nu m-a părăsit nici o clipă şi a fost singurul care nu a fost rănit de acea întrebare.
- Spune-mi o poveste! l-am rugat cu glas copilăresc.
Vocea lui caldă a umplut camera monotonă. Eram vrăjită de poveste. La sfârşit eram mulţumită ca o copilă ce primeşte bomboana dorită. Îl priveam plină de admiraţie.
- Tu eşti Albă-ca-Zăpada mea şi eu sunt prinţul tău. Împreună vom trăi până la adânci bătrâneţi.
Şi atunci am realizat. Nu trebuie să fiu obsedată de dorinţa de a-mi afla trecutul. De acum şi înainte voi putea crea noi amintiri, de care îmi voi aduce aminte în viitor. Chiar dacă trecutul este alb ca zăpada, povestea cu care-mi voi începe din nou viaţa este pur şi simplu: Albă-ca-Zăpada.


Lucrarea 2 - Albă ca Zăpada – o ispită

Era acolo.
Mă chemă cu o voce hipnotizantă căreia nu aveam puterea necesară pentru a-i rezista. Nu voiam să cedez din nou, să cad din nou în acel cerc vicios din care nu aveam nici o scăpare. Nu mai doream să îmi dezamăgesc părinţii şi prietenii. Să îi fac să şi facă griji degeaba din cauza mea, din cauza slăbiciunii de care dădeam dovadă din nou şi din nou şi din nou. Dar cum puteam să refuz?
Era chiar acolo, în faţa mea, la câţiva centimetrii distanţă, stând fără nici o jenă în mâinile cuiva pe care numai prieten nu puteam să îl numesc.
Mă striga, implorându-mă să îi acord atenţia necesară. Mâna mea se apropia de ea fără voia mea, degetele zvâcnindu-mi incontrolabil anticipând momentul absolut când aveau să atingă materialul moale, strălucitor în care era înfăşurată. Mi-am trecut limba peste buzele mele care se uscaseră din cauza fanteziei ce se afla în faţa mea, simţind cum dorinţa mea creşte exponenţial. Eram patetică şi slabă şi pusă faţă în faţă cu ispita nu aveam să câştig niciodată lupta. De fiecare dată aveam să cedez în faţa promisiunilor deşarte pe care mi le şoptea la ureche ca o adevărată amantă perfectă. Pentru o secundă, doar una, dar îndeajuns pentru a sădi în mine o sămânţă de realitate, raţiunea s-a întors în mintea mea înceţoşată de promisiuni false, de cuvinte goale fără de valoare, întărită de imaginea scumpului meu frăţior rugându-mă să nu îmi mai fac rău, să nu îl mai părăsesc. Mi-am retras atunci mâna de parcă m-ar fi ars, refuzând să cad în capcană. Am vrut să mă întors, să plec, să nu mai văd niciodată acel basm sucit, însă cel care îl ţinea în mâinile sale corupte nu m-a lăsat. Din păcate pentru mine, pentru patetica mea încercare de a mă revolta, cel care se numea prietenul meu a întins drogul mai aproape de mine îndemnându-mă să încerc măcar o dată pentru vremurile de mult uitate, pierdute în nopţi care nu făceau nici un sens.
- Hai, păpuşă, ştiu că vrei. Un pic să simţi că pluteşti. O văd în ochii tăi, dorinţa de a urca spre noi culmi. Hai, o dată pentru vremurile bune.
Vremuri bune? Nu exista aşa ceva, dar avea dreptate. Dorinţa aceea îmi străbătea tot trupul forţându-mă să îmi întind din nou mâna şi de data aceasta nimic nu m-a mai putut salva.
În câteva secunde pluteam, căzusem deja în cercul vicios pe care timp de patru luni reuşisem să îl evit şi nu puteam să mă fac să îmi pese. Totul era din nou bine în lume... sau cel puţin aşa avea să fie atâta timp cât o aveam pe Albă ca Zăpada lângă mine. Trupul nu îmi mai tremura incontrolabil, gura mea nu mai era uscată, setea care mă chinuia pe care nu puteam să o stâng cu absolut nimic nu mă mai deranja fiind stinsă de frumosul basm şi eu mă liniştisem. Da, totul era perfect atâta timp cât Albă ca Zăpada mă ţinea în braţele ei inocente, pure şi atâta timp cât continuă să îmi şoptească cu acele buze roşii ale ei dulci nimicuri. Nu mă mai uităm în toate părţile ca un iepure speriat aşteptându-mă ca din orice clipă să iasă cineva la mine să mă atace. Stăteam undeva neimportant cu ochii închişi, doar bucurându-mă de extazul care mă acaparase. Apoi am început să mă gândesc la basmele de care eram obsedată atunci când eram mică. La cum cântam cu Ariel cu atâta pasiune dorindu-mi să fac parte dintr-o altfel de lume, la cum fermecată împreună cu Belle vedeam o altă personalitate a Bestiei şi într-un final la cum cu Albă ca Zăpada aşteptam răbdătoare ca prinţul meu să apară să mă salveze. La aceste imagini un zâmbet apare pe chipul meu. Ce fericită eram când eram mică, cât de uşor puteam fi mulţumită, cât de uşor mă linişteam atunci când eram supărată trebuia doar să pun mâna pe una din cărţile cu basmele mele favorite.
Huh.
În ce situaţie sucită m-am trezit. Deşi am crescut, deşi nu mai eram un copil tot eram dependentă de un basm, de Albă ca Zăpada. Ce umor sucit a avut cel care i-a spus aşa la ceva atât de nociv care nu face altceva decât să distrugă vieţile consumatorilor.
Când cineva spunea Albă ca Zăpadă cu siguranţă nu îi trecea prin minte sensul ascuns, cunoscut doar de alţi iubitori ai acestui tip de basm. Ignoranţa lor era dulce şi amuzantă pentru noi, drogaţii care îşi trăiesc viaţa în jurul acestui basm. Obsesia din copilărie m-a urmărit în adolescenţă deşi ceea ce în copilărie era ceva inocent şi dulce în adolescenţă a devenit ceva sucit, terifiant şi dăunător. Nimic inocent în a te droga cu cocaină, nimic dulce în a trage pe nas acel praf alb şi cedând controlul minţii şi trupului tău acelui conducător tiran.
Nope, nimic inocent în a te droga cu cocaină, dar deşi ştiu asta, deja eram prea dusă pentru a ai reuşi cineva să mă salveze. Nici măcar eu nu voiam să mă salvez, de ce ar mai dori cineva să încerce? Neah, era mult prea bine în braţele reci ale frumosului meu basm pentru a îmi mai dori să mă întorc înapoi. Şi totuşi nu pot înţelege cum ceva atât de inocent ca Albă ca Zăpada poate fi atât de nociv...
Nimeni nu mă poate salva, voi rămâne în acest cerc vicios pentru nici nu ştiu cât timp...


Lucrarea 3 - The true tale of Snow White

I think you’re old enough now to hear how things really were.
Last time I saw Snow White was at her wedding with Prince Charming. They looked happy and she was smiling, but that may have been from the fact that the old hag was dancing her way into hell.

I read the story, it says that the wedding lasted seven days and seven nights and that the Queen, Snow’s step mother, danced all that time. Truth is, she dropped dead the second day and no one bothered to notice her. Not that she deserved any more of course. She tried to kill our precious Snow. After the wedding was over, Snow and her Prince moved into his castle and from what I’ve heard, they were doing great. She even wanted a baby with him, but luck passed them on every occasion.

One day, while I was out tending to the garden in front of the house, Snow came to visit. She looked pale and like she’d lost some weight. She sat next to me on the pile of fresh cut grass and looked around almost nostalgic. I never knew how to start a conversation with her, it was always mostly eat, drink and go to bed while Snow cleaned up…and of course the occasional dancing and laughing. But we never really talked.

“You aren’t keeping it clean enough.” She noticed.

“We’re doing our best Snow, but you know we don’t really manage without you around.”

It was an awkward conversation, but I got the feeling she wanted to tell me something, and like me, she didn’t know how. So I tried to help.

“So how are things with you and your Prince?”

She let out a long sigh and got up. “Things are great, we’re even trying for a baby.” She was smiling at me, but it didn’t seem right. Of course, if she didn’t want to tell me her problems, I wouldn’t insist, I don’t like prying into other people’s lives. So she left, promised to come back again to visit us and help us clean and cook, just like the old times. But months passed and I never heard anything from her. Then word started going around the forest. Snow lost it.

Prince was cheating on her with Rose Red, Snow’s sister and gave her a baby. She didn’t tell me this because she thought it was her fault, that she wasn’t a good enough wife. So she tried harder. She became so desperate that she even started wearing what Red usually wore, just to get Prince’s attention. She kept telling herself that if she tried harder, Prince would come back to her and only her. She needed a happy ending, a fairytale ending, like she deserved. Then one day she snapped. She caught them in the palace bed chamber, where she and Prince usually slept together. Now I don’t know the exact details but, from what word says, Rose never got to be a mother and Prince never got to have another baby again.

Snow was locked up and as much as I wanted to visit her, I couldn’t gather the courage. I kept blaming myself for that day when she wanted to tell me but I didn’t insist. I bet the others did too, but they just didn’t show it. I never got to see her and apologize to her for not listening when she needed me too, because in a short while we received word of her death. Prison isn’t a place for a princess, and she didn’t last long among all those villains. Fairytale prisons aren’t known for their kindness towards bad characters. But we’ll get to that some other time. Now I just wanted to tell you the true story of Snow White and how happily ever after never happens, even in fairytales.

I’m Grumpy kid, and you should swing by next time too. I’ll have a story to tell you about Cinderella, the poor thing.


Lucrarea 4 - The fire of youth

Through the undergrowth he followed the winding path up the mountain. The forest was thick and damp, heavy with droplets of cool morning dew. Low hanging branches slashed at his face as his stallion tenderly probed for footing, his advance slow.
As he ascended the hazardous slopes, following the treacherous forest trail, the sun rose slowly on its arch. Warm rays of light filtered through the thick canopy and warmed his face as the damp air of the lower forests gave way to the cool, fragrant miasma that rolled down the icy slopes, filling his lungs and steeling his determination.
Usually he wouldn’t risk the mountain trails. It was dangerous to travel alone, with brigands hidden almost everywhere, highway men thirsty for coin and blood and even tall tales told by all too drunk villagers over a cup of brown ale.
“To piss with all of ‘em!” He muttered as the horse stumbled and slipped on the slope, his breath a white mist in front of him. The hood of his cape lay thrown back and was filled with the dampness of the whole forest and he did not dare pull it over his head. He cursed the day the old man had come into his father’s town with stories of the girl.
Her hair was black as night and her skin as white as snow, and her voice would make the goddesses envious, he would prattle on to any who would listen. A beauty beyond compare, hidden away from mortal eyes, high up in the forest, he would tell tales in the ale house. All that until his father caught wind of it.
The young prince remembered the old man as he was brought to his father’s throne. An ancient one he was, small of stature, almost dwarfish, dirty from the road and yet sporting a beard near as tall as he. He spoke with some difficulty – that was a sign of a man long removed from civilization, the young prince thought at the time – spraying all those around him. And yet his words seemed to ring true as he gave his account of the maiden in the forest and the road up to her, to the little cottage hidden in the deepest dark, where the bears do not shy away from hunters and the cries of wolves echo as if the spirits had come to haunt.
His lord father listened and nodded and dismissed the old man, as he dismissed his story. A tale for fools, he called it, for idiots to go seeking for the delusions of one senile old man. He even had guards escorting the old timer outside the city walls. But the prince had listened well and remembered.
In hindsight it seemed to him now a tall tale. What maiden would live alone way up there? What fool would leave a daughter unguarded as such? What beauty could bloom in the wild?
The sword at his hip bumped against his riding boots, the sound echoing shortly all around him. He held the grip in his arm and felt reassured. A girl of such beauty needed to be his before the touch of any other could soil her; an imagined image of her danced in his head, running naked through the dark woods, a nymph set by the old gods to temp his young blood.

As the sun reached the height of noon the high plains of the mountain replaced the stuffy undergrowth and he exited into the light. There was no sound there, just the soft brush of the wind and the crushing of tiny rocks as the horse made his way forward on the narrow trail.
He had his midday lunch slumped on a warming rock as the horse grazed nearby. By evening he was on the other side, passing through the darker pine woods. He knew by nightfall he should have reached his destination and even bed her. Touching the hilt of the sword he felt no fear, of men, wolves or bears, as he was a prince and he felt the land had nothing to frighten him with.

A red hue of the fiery horizon shined through the gaps in the foliage when he first heard her. A soft melody stretched like threads of silver among the trees, touching him to his very core. His horse’s ears twitched this way and that and the stubborn beast did not seem to want to follow, pranced in place and neighed, almost driven out of its mind. He leaned over and rubbed its neck, cooing softly in its ear, calming it and inching it forward.
At last they emerged into a red lit clearing and there she stood: a beauty born out of the most deranged dreams of the greatest poets. Small of height and slight of frame, her dark hair flowing to her shoulders, she was the fairest of all the young prince had ever met. Her small body was wrapped in a thin, ghostly dress that clung to her as if the last rays of light had offered their embrace and held her protectively against the night. She sang to herself, watching the sky darkening, her big, dark eyes fixed on the distant stars that were now beginning to show themselves.
He led the horse slowly towards her and cleared his voice. Her head snapped towards him and the prince was taken aback by her beauty, by her dark eyes and pale lips. She hastily got up and retreated towards the end of the clearing. His eyes were on her thin body, watching her nakedness through the almost transparent material.
“Be not afraid, for I mean you no hard.” He tried to keep his voice level and warm, gilded in sweetest honey, guiding the horse slowly towards her. “I have traveled far as I have heard of your beauty, my fair maiden.”
She did not stop but retreated towards the forest, hiding herself in its darkness, behind tall trunks.
“Come out beauty. I am a prince come for thee, I mean you no ill will, no dishonor. I pledge my royal honor on it.” He knew that to be false, but it had never failed him in his past endeavors.
She peered from beneath an ancient tree, looking at him questioningly, not uttering a sound. The light had almost fallen to nothing, only the eerie gloom of twilight remaining.

The moments that came were a blur.
The horse pranced wildly as hands caught the prince’s legs and pulled him off. The world turned sideways and suddenly vicious blows were upon him. Someone cut his sword from his side and hit him over the eyes with the scabbard. His horse whinnied and seemed to fight unseen attackers. He heard its thump as it fell to the ground and thrashed about until at last it remained perfectly still.
The last thing he saw was a bearded figure raising a club to the sky and then pitch black.

He woke to the fetid smell of decay, feces and mold. His head throbbed. His body throbbed. For the longest time he could muster nothing more than to lay motionless as he was, feeling the metallic taste of caked blood in his mouth. A few teeth were missing. One eye he could not open, the other he wished he had never opened. The cramped dungeon around him was illuminated by a single torch, burning feebly.
Among him were cages of thick iron bars rusted by time and use, all of which with heavy locks, same as the one on his own. He was naked and the night chill crept over him. He began crying.
Visitors arrived in a few hours and surveyed him. Seven small men, armed to the teeth, poking him through the bars and laughing. His threats back were answered with more abuse until all of them left, save for the old man he had met before. Only that the visage of senile idiocy had fallen away and all that remained was vicious cruelty.
He bent towards the cage and spat the prince straight in the eye.
“Lecherous fool…we saw ye lusting for our sweet girl from leagues away. Meant her no dishonor, did you?” He spat again and guffawed as he strode away. “We’ll bleed dear ol’ father dry as we’ll sell ye back…piece by bloodied piece.”

The light of the torch sputtered and died away as the heavy door closed. He saw but a glimpse of the young girl in the warm light from above.