Hello! This is my World...Here is where I will post my thoughts and stuff like that!!! If anything is labled a "Rant" thats what it is me going on and on about somthing I love or hate!!!!
Find me elsewhere on the net!
Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/user/solongdreamworld
Pm me for my DA!
If you drop me a pm on DA or youtube letting me know you're from TheO I will absolutely make sure to connect to you!!!
This is a real life moment told as a story. Please comment and enjoy!!! (I wish I could include a picture of the box but I can't find the wire to my camera...)
My Music Box
I was very young when my music box found me.
I was an odd kid; I loved garage sales. All sorts, both big and small. They have always seemed to have a magical feeling about them to me. I once found a metal box with money hidden in the cloth lining… to me a treasure. Anyways I was at such a sale when I saw the small plain wooden box the painting of men herding animals while laughing and talking on the lid. I was enchanted by the box and opened it.
It was the perfect size to fit little secretes inside.
The old lady who was selling her old memories that had long lost their glamour caught me gazing at the box. She picked it up smiled and told me it used to be a music box. Then she proceeded to tell me that it no longer worked and hadn’t for some time.
She looked so very sad as she held the broken music and as she said she couldn’t even remember what song it played… She had never been able to work up the courage to break open the wooden block that protected the mechanics to fix it. She just couldn’t bare the thought of seeing it in pieces… She obviously loved that box.
She smiled, handed it to me and told me I could have it for free.
I looked up at her with awe, and despite the fact I was only seven years old I understood how hard it was for her and my responsibility to take very very good care of that box.
And I did. For years it kept my little trinkets and doohickeys. I would stare at the wooden shield preventing the song from playing… “What song would it play if it could?” I would ask myself, “Would it be happy or sad?” The box held a mystery, a magic. What was inside the box? It held something inside I had no way of grasping, sensing or imagining. The gift of music was promised to me if I could repair it’s broken heart.
Thus I hunted avidly for someone, anyone, who could fix my music box.
I tried watch shops, music shops, music box shops, but when asked if they would fix it they all replied in a stiff manor “We don’t do that here!”
“But then where?” asked I.
There was never a reply.
More years passed and I continued to ask “Oh my music box what secretes do you hide?” Sometimes I would consider tearing the protective wooden piece out and thus expose the inner working and innards of box, but I would always think of the old women’s tired face and lose conviction. It felt as if I would rip apart her heart if I did and I would quickly put the box away.
So there it sat on my shelf. A sad and lonely object in my closet.
One day I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to know. It was years later and I was now a young woman.
I took the box in my arms and braced myself.
I tore off the wooden divider.
What had plagued me, dared me, taunted me, made me dream, what I had hated loved and wondered about for years and years of my life was gone in a flash. The wood piece was barely glued in, made by a loving hand in Switzerland.
I awed at the array of shiny metal mechanics that would work the music. It had been stopped forever mid song like a watch stopped in time. I could just imagine the woman’s face when she opened it that tragic time, and found that the music had died.
I sat there on my bed staring at it for a long while.
It smelt like old wood.
New energy filled me along with a new purpose. I was determined! I would fix it! Not only for me but for the old women long gone and to show all the people who said they couldn’t that I could.
I went to work.
I fiddled, I prodded, and there were no clues on how to fix it to be found. I searched for a screwdriver. I was ready to pull out all the pieces and completely decimate it, when I noticed something.
A tiny wooden button.
It was as small as a pin head and I had never noticed it before. It seemed painfully obvious now. It was the trigger that in better years would have started the machine to run and play the song. I looked at it. I wondered how many times it had played before it stopped. Ten times? Ten thousand? Million? Once again I was lost in my imaginings of when it worked, the people that made it, the person that bought it, and finally me who’s cared for it all these years even though it was crippled and old. I began to play with the trigger turning it back and forth…
Then a miracle.
The box began to play the long lost song…
I was surprised. It was beautiful. The pieces whirred and clicked to life. A discordant sweet sound came floating out of it and into my soul.
I was so happy. And a little sad.
After all this time my goal was over. It worked now. I must admit I was very emotional and teared up a bit. And as the mist pasted over my eyes I remembered all that I’d been through and the women before me and the creator before her.
My music box played on.
THIS SHORT STORY IS NOT BASED ON A REAL INTERVIEW!!!
Just a short (and hopefully humorous) story... Please tell me what you think!
12/9/2010
Sorry!!!
This story has been temprarily removed!
I am fixing it up and using it for a project!
But fear not!
As soon as my project is over and I have recieved feedback I shall repost the original story!
Thank you for your paitence and understanding!
*bows*
~Tsu
UPDATE 9/12/2012
Yes I may have lied a little about putting it back up right away...
(In my defense the teacher never did give me feedback)
But sadly you shall have to wait even longer to see this one agian...
Because I am fixing it up and using it in another project... ^^;;
(this time as a screenplay!)
~Tsu
Hey everybody! Its been awhile since I posted on TheO!!! Below is a story I wrote for my English class last year. Its a prequel to One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, but you don't need to have read that to understand this! Please comment and tell me what you think!!!
I remember long ago. It seems so very long ago. He's still alive in my memory and I love him even more then I ever did back then. I remember it all so well even now. When he told me he loved me for the first time. When he finally decided to propose to me and I said yes. When he was drafted and told me he was leaving. Our wedding was called off. He was shipped so very far away. I wanted so bad to help. I became an army nurse in hopes to help the cause and to bring him home sooner. I saw so much blood and pain. So many went insane from what they had seen, it made me even more frightened for him.
Every time a soldier came into the hospital I thought it would be him. Every man wheeled out to the morgue had his face. Every pained wife, sister, and mother mourning for the one gone away ripped at my heart. Their tears seemed to whisper, “This could be you next. It could be you.” I cried myself to sleep each night, trying to gain control over my life. The fear just about killed me. Every day was hell; I struggled to keep a hold and to do my job, and to help my patients. Every night I died of fear and every mourning hope brought me back again. I missed him.
I wrote him every day about my work, and day to day life. He wrote back with his feelings for me, and we discussed our future wedding plans and how everything would be better when we saw each other again. Our love grew stronger by the day; the fear pushed us so close. “To my dear fiancée and love,” was always how he began his letters to me. They were filled with his love and I treasure every single one. I would day dream of our perfect wedding. All my friends and family were there in my vision. Oh, how sweet our honeymoon was going to be; taking dips in the ocean next to the wide sandy beach. The sky would stretch on forever. Together we would laugh at how silly it had been to think that we would never see each other again.
Then the dream took an unpleasant turn. I had finished up at work and was walking home alone, so lonely. When I could see my home from the end of the street, I saw them too. The army officers waiting, staring, killing me with their guilty eyes. “They can’t be for me!” I remember thinking, wishing, knowing. They stopped me at the door and handed me an envelope. “I won’t open it,” I thought, “I refuse! This isn’t real.” My eyes and hands cruelly disobeyed my brain. It was opened. It was read. It all ended there.
How could he be gone? I cried for what seemed like forever. As the tears fell down my face, so too did my emotions fall away. All that was left was an empty shell. I felt I had lost all control. I was drowning, being swept along a fast current. It felt like it would never stop.
The war ended, along with my job. The money stopped coming, so did my hope. That’s when I found the ward. An old friend of mine knew of my plight; no money and no husband to be. She was high up at the ward and offered me the job. I had no money so I accepted her offer.
At first I didn’t like it, taking care of all the crazy people. It reminded me too much of my old job and life. All the army veterans made me think of him, my love. But day after day I felt like this job was giving me back a little bit of what I had lost. Control. I may have lost control over my life outside, but inside the ward I have control over them all. It makes me feel good to be able to help the hurt people from after the war. To help the left overs, like myself, heal and become whole again. I still work there today, working to help the psychologically impaired collect themselves and go on with their lives. Something I myself want one day to accomplish.
