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Post by ♪♪♫♪ on Oct 9, 2009 16:03:20 GMT -5
“What is wrong with Mr. Ashcroft?”
“Doctor Ashcroft,” he would remind them, always so polite, always with a small smile on his friendly face.
“Doctor Ashcroft,” the nurses would correct themselves and read his chart again and smile back a smile that said ‘I am being insincere’, and then they would say something like “Dr. Ashcroft, sometimes I forget why you are here.” Only they would not phrase their words so nicely, they were only phrased nicely in Dr. Ashcroft’s mind.
He was sitting in the sitting room and Robby stood next to him shaking and Dr. Ashcroft looked up and said, “Hello, Robby. How are you today?” and Robby looked down with his eyes that were big oceans too vast for Dr. Ashcroft to explore in one glance and he’d say “I’m good, I’m good, I’m great!” and Dr. Ashcroft would smile a smile so small but so nice and say “That is good, Robby. That is great.”
A murder of crows—not crows, hair, dark hair, like crows, only not dark and sad and ugly like crows—and Christmas, so much Christmas, sugar cookies and peppermint.
Robby, clapping, excited, happy, “Christmas!” he screamed, so happy; happy, how funny for Dr. Ashcroft to think of that word.
“Not yet, Robby,” Dr. Ashcroft corrected, “Soon it will be Christmas, but not yet.”
“No, no, I saw her. Christmas!” he screamed, and Dr. Ashcroft turned to face him with his entire body and reinforced himself, “No, Robby. It is not Christmas. It is December 16th. Nurse, I need a calendar. It is not Christmas,” the nurse rushing over to Dr. Ashcroft with a calendar, knowing that without it Dr. Ashcroft would be upset, and everyone preferred him so much more when he was not upset.
“Robby, maybe you should leave” says the nurse, but Robby just turns and looks at Dr. Ashcroft and says, “Do you smell cookies?”
And Dr. Ashcroft looks up and says “Yes, Robby, I do,” and he smiles again and the nurse is relieved and she leaves him with the calendar in his now limp hand.
Another murder of crows, a flash of hair, and so much cinnamon Robby is clapping his hands and sniffing the air and smiling like he has tasted something tantalizingly sweet.
Dr. Ashcroft is confused and he does not like it, he needs to be sure of things, because being not sure is not a way to be. “Robby,” but before he finishes, Robby says, “Delia is so pretty, Delia is so pretty,” and then Robby runs and Dr. Ashcroft watches him cross the room to the murder of crows and the smell of Christmas.
There is Delia, with soft pink feet bare on the tile floor. She has a smile that is better than Dr. Ashcroft’s smile. It is maybe not as nice, but it is so pretty when her red lips move and push her cheeks into Macintosh apples and make her eyes look like almonds framed with thick curtains of dark eyelashes. It is so pretty when she smiles that Robby turns away and puts his hands on his cheeks to show embarrassment even though he is not really embarrassed, just craving her attention.
Dr. Ashcroft does not have a doctorate in medicine. He has a doctorate in biochemistry, though, and he thinks, how fitting, and then he tries to stop himself from thinking any more, but it has already begun. He feels his veins swim with different levels of chemistry, from simple molecules of hemoglobin forming their unstable bonds with the cinnamon-smelling oxygen he inhales to the epinephrine that has been released by his adrenal glands and is now being carried throughout his body to find the perfect lock to fit the key it carries.
She spins after she grabs Robby’s hand and makes him spin her, and she looks like royalty, even in her ward gown, when her hair fans out away from her body and the murder of crows fly away from her shoulders. He can not stop himself from imagining her running through dew in the summer like he saw a couple of girls doing years ago, except she would be wearing one of his mother’s gowns that would stick to her skin like glue from rolling in the grass and soaking up all of that dampness to show parts of her body that, like her toes, would be shades of pink and so pretty like the rest of her.
Robby reaches out and touches her chest and she floats away from him still smiling and Dr. Ashcroft watches her in a trance that she has put him in by gliding over the floor in her bare feet with her irresistible smile that is contagious. The people who watch her are smiling too.
For an instant or maybe even less than an instant her eyes meet Dr. Ashcroft’s and when she looks away her smile is gone. Her eyes are full of something indescribable and intangible and full of a depth greater than the oceans in Robby’s eyes. Dr. Ashcroft watches her without reacting. He can feel his pulse and the adrenaline still but he is caught within moments that pass each time she blinks her curtains of eyelashes together. Perhaps he is disappointed that she has stopped dancing and flashing the undersides of her pink feet. But there is a part of him that likes to see her sad expression because in a way she is even prettier when she is not smiling. And in a way Dr. Ashcroft simply likes to see pain because sometimes he finds it hard to remember and to believe like the nurses and doctors have reminded him that everyone is in pain.
Pink feet are moving across the floor again. She dashes over to him and looks directly at him with an unwavering glance and so much emotion for one little woman. And then she embraces him in her arms and she says in a quiet whisper equivalent to the hush of the beating wings of morning birds, “I’m sorry that you have to live with all of that inside of you” with a small hand placed directly above his heart. And then she runs out of the room and a nurse follows behind the murder of crows.
She smelled so much like Christmas, and in that second that her hair touched his face, Dr. Ashcroft inhaled gingerbread and came upon the idea that maybe he should love her. And not love her in the way he loves some things, like dewy mornings or newspapers or the rings of perspiration that drinks leave on the surface underneath them. He wanted to love her in the way that some people love God, and he knew that this would not be a difficult thing to do.
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Post by Moonlight on Oct 9, 2009 16:16:31 GMT -5
This is magnificent...I loved it, and from the minute I opened the thread I couldn't stop reading until I scrolled all the way down. Your characters are so fantastically vivid in such a frail beautiful way, it's hard to describe. It felt like pure water filling an oddly shaped glass, and some of the metaphors you used were so stunning. I'm amazed- I already feel connected somehow to Dr. Ashcroft. I tried to choose a line to show you that I simply liked, but I couldn't pick just one. It all flowed together so. Astounding job, and no critique.
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Post by kangaroo cry on Oct 9, 2009 18:49:25 GMT -5
Bri, this is a unique piece. It's one of those ones that makes you think about it. You had a lot of nice descriptions and metaphors and things, I think you're really good at that! I like how you described Delia's smile and Delia in general. And Dr. Ashcroft is probably my favorite character (so far) just because I like the way he is. I like when he "came upon the idea that maybe he should love her." That was cute.
I love this line/part:
"and smile back a smile that said ‘I am being insincere’, "
I just loved the way you phrased that. A lot.
And your characters are really incredible. Very real and three-dimensional, I can tell you put a lot of thought into them.
I just have to say, though, there were times towards the beginnings when I was lost and didn't really follow everything. I kind of feel like that was supposed to happen though, and like it was part of your style and the way you wrote it.
AND BRI, I have to have love and chemistry and stuff in everything I write too. It's awesome. It's just the way I function, and I'm glad you're that way too. It makes everything I read better! =D
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Post by forgottenxthreat on Oct 16, 2009 9:34:05 GMT -5
Finally read it, and i say:
I really like it! It has good flow to it and like sarah had said, i love the depth and three-dimensional-ness of your characters. They feel very tangible to me.
Loved how you described the Delia, with the murder of crows and her running through dew in a tight gown, pink of feet... very nice.
Also loved the last paragraph, how you ended it, his final train of thought. How he felt like he should love her... So simple yet intensly beautiful.
Yeah. I liked it A LOT!
Now is this piece 'A piece' or does it go farther?
Oh, and one more: i liked the line where you said something like her being even more beautiful when she's in pain. That was a good part/line to me.
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Post by forgottenxthreat on Oct 16, 2009 9:35:23 GMT -5
i mean, i think you told me it goes with that whole story in your head, but i was wondering if after writing this part of it, you considered making this piece its sole outlet on paper?
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Post by ♪♪♫♪ on Nov 21, 2009 20:26:42 GMT -5
The muscles in her face that pushed her cheeks into rosy-red apples were limp and a pale, silent dusting of snow overtook her—if she was fighting a battle, she certainly seemed to be loosing it. Something cold became her—no, no, no, not cold, she was warm. She was still Delia, and still soft and warm and full of color, only now she was Delia covered with a frost that was not cold that greedily stole all of her rosy-red hue.
Dr. Ashcroft had decided long ago that This Was All His Fault and There Was Nothing He Could Do. He decided swiftly, as he was not one to be indecisive about anything, that he was a terrible doctor, The Absolute Worst. He knew so much of chemicals and their role in the human body and what they technically did, yes, but he did not understand, he could not even begin to comprehend—he knew so little of people and feelings. He thought in processes that began with equations that became other equations that became precise numerical values, meaning that there were no decimals allowed, because he could only remember a certain number of decimal places, and so he preferred radicals.
He had discovered long ago that his place was inside the sterilized atmosphere of a hospital, but not as a doctor, certainly not. Because he was The Absolute Worst at being a doctor who had to understand and comprehend feelings and people with sicknesses that could only be modified by chemicals. He was a doctor, of course, but not the kind who could help Delia. Which, at the moment, seemed to Dr. Ashcroft to be the only kind of a doctor who really mattered. Then again, Dr. Ashcroft never found himself thinking that he particularly mattered in any particular way.
A woman who was once a janitor when The World Still Existed had carried Delia to his room to lie on his bed to shiver and quake and make him suffer. Because she was not suffering because she had done this to herself. That is what Dr. Ashcroft concluded. Which made him upset, to say the least. Was there nothing in her head that said, this is dangerous, be careful? Was there nothing that told her, please do not, do not try to fly, because you are loved, worshipped and adored by everyone who catches glimpses of the irises of your eyes when you dance, who sees you smile and tame your hair with tiny pale fingers. You should not jump because without you so many people who wake to see you live will die, too. You should not do this because—do you see that man—less of a man more of an awkward, unsure second of time, like an uneasy silence that becomes a certain kind of sadness—do you see him? He does not want you to jump—because, well, he is The Absolute Worst at being a real doctor. And that is the only kind that counts. And he is sorry, and he wishes she could tell you this, but he cannot. Not anymore, because you will jump.
Dr. Ashcroft jumped because Delia sneezed while she continued to shake. A passing thought told him to bring her inside, but he did not exactly know what that meant, because she was already inside. He was reminded rather suddenly of her small frame shifting in the doorway to his room asking to be let in. She could always come inside.
He thought of her cross-legged sitting on the floor, letting him tell her stories. Most of his stories he thought were very dull. But her favorite story, and his as well to tell, was a story that he had invented to describe the battle and magnificent chaos that occurs frequently within the body. A classic fight between good and evil: something intense. Intense, but unfortunately lacking passion. You see, white blood cells do not feel. And neither do germs, et cetera.
Sometimes Delia would comment on this apparent lack of feeling, that maybe the story would be better if the actions were done more fervently with more zeal. Dr. Ashcroft could not decide whether or not he agreed. All he could decide upon was that, given the opportunity now, he would change any story for Delia and incite passion in every verse. That would be rather difficult for him, despite being off of medicine for quite some time now. Dr. Ashcroft figured himself a rather dull person, and so, he was not certain if he was capable of passion.
Her frame shifted on the bed into a fetal position, and after a few fleeting seconds of Dr. Ashcroft desperately groping at what to say when she finally came to and inhaling the cinnamon-smell that radiated from her, a voice emerged that was sad and sweet and musical that whispered words with sweet caresses of tongue, “Hello, Dr. Ashcroft.”
He could see that she knew where she was without opening her eyes. Maybe it was the smell on his sheets. Dr. Ashcroft wondered what he smelled like to another person. Probably soapy. (The truth was that Dr. Ashcroft smelled more like a combination of museum floors and Paris terraces and Indian summers.) His mind dissected this thought and others to avoid speaking. He could not describe how he felt with words and it made him unnerved and it made him afraid and it made him feel stupid and foolish and it made him wonder why he existed to sit silently in a psych ward watching over a girl who clearly did not like him because she clearly would much rather drown than spend another day listening to his dull stories.
Delia was mute again until a sigh escaped her lips and then she quietly moved into a sitting position facing Dr. Ashcroft while the color returned to her face. Her ward gown bunched around her thighs and slid towards her waist when she changed position but her eyes drew Dr. Ashcroft’s attention, framed by the twisted shiny ebony surface of crow’s wings that fell into her ivory face. It was impossible to tell whether the look on her face held disappointment or apathy, but her expression held solely in her eyes was intense and passionate, and that was something that Dr. Ashcroft was not.
He swallowed.
“I think that you should rest for a while.”
“I think that you should tell me what is wrong with me.”
“You just need to rest. You will be fine.”
“…OK.”
He stepped outside of the room for a second to collect himself because he felt that he had been dragged farther away from who he thought he was in the past couple of years than he had ever been. He did not much feel like Dr. Ashcroft but then again he never felt like much of anybody so there was not a huge discrepancy in who exactly he was at the moment.
Dr. Ashcroft began to think about Delia and his mind immediately began to shut down to stop what he was thinking but he could not because he had already started thinking about her hair and her eyes and her pale wrists. He never let himself go beyond thinking of pink feet and unsure smiles and wrinkled ward gowns. There was a tacit armored guard who rested patiently inside of his head waiting for the thoughts that Dr. Ashcroft wished to discard. But another part of Dr. Ashcroft that Dr. Ashcroft himself found was irrational and dangerous would often hoard discarded thoughts that had anything to do with Delia and stow them away for safe keeping. Ridiculous irrational half, he would condemn a part of himself, and then he would think about things like half-written letters and graham crackers and toothpaste, although usually not all at once.
Movement could be heard within his room and this brought Dr. Ashcroft back to reality and he slipped back through the door prepared to say something, anything that he could find the words for. Unfortunately, all he could find the words for once he was inside of the room was a rather ineloquent exclamation of the words ARE YOU CRAZY.
And that continued into, ARE YOU INSANE. He snatched up a bottle of rubbing alcohol from his desk and ripped off the lid without any deliberation at all and proceeded to mercilessly pour the liquid generously onto Delia’s right thigh that she had decided to slice open with an old letter opener. Another flow of ineloquent speech, WHY DID YOU DO THIS. But he knew why! He was The Absolute Worst at everything and he must have upset her in some way because he was so impersonal and he lacked passion and he was older and tired and his hands were rough from years of chemicals that were used to destroy Her World and the world that everyone else inhabited around her.
She exhibited the searing pain she felt by arching her back and clinging to her ward gown with stiff fingers that turned white under the pressure she put them under. Her face did not alter besides her eyes that squinted and filled with tears and she struggled to keep her focus on Dr. Ashcroft and his manic behavior and with a mighty effort she silently mouthed STOP. Dr. Ashcroft awkwardly bent in front of her with mouth-gaping until he realized that he had not yet capped the alcohol. Quickly he covered it and rolled it away from him and sank sadly to the floor and watched Delia whose eyes simply continuously echoed DO NOT BE SORRY, YOU COULD DO MUCH WORSE.
If there was anything left for him to say, he did not know what it was and he did not see any point in saying it but he had to because he felt so sad that he did not know what else to do that he thought might bring on some relief from the waves of depression that washed over him, reminding him that he should have never allowed himself to stop taking the medicine, he should have never permitted himself to start feeling again, he should have never decided to—no, he would not say that, although he considered that it may be true.
Careful, bringing bandages from the desk to her, using his rough hands to wrap her bloody thigh while moaning nearly inaudible words, “Why did you do this to me?”
“What have I done to you?”
A pause. A rift in time, perhaps. Dr. Ashcroft could not sum up all of the feelings he felt in a word. What he felt most was ANGRY. What he felt second most was SAD. What he felt next was strange and what he could call it, the only word he could think of for it, was DIZZY. Yes, he felt DIZZY. That was a fairly accurate word for it.
“You have made me ANGRY. And UPSET and SAD and DIZZY.”
“Dizzy?”
“I do not know what else to call it.”
“Oh.”
Dr. Ashcroft looked blankly in one direction after he finished bandaging her with his rough hands. Perhaps she would do this again, but he had felt that he had to help her. Maybe he remembered wrongly what it was like to not feel, maybe not feeling was a good thing and maybe he should try that again. His heart would probably appreciate it greatly.
Her voice again, this time distant and mingled with his thoughts, “Were you very upset?” silence and then “...So upset that you felt that you would kill me if you could? So upset that you wanted to explode” she held her arms out and then “or do something that you knew you would regret?” she paused to move onto her knees to emphasize her next words, “Were you that upset?”
Dr. Ashcroft did not have to think twice about what she had said which was interesting because Dr. Ashcroft always thought twice about everything except Wednesdays (even though he was certainly not indecisive), “Yes, Delia. I was."
She smiled her brilliant smile and moved to Dr. Ashcroft and clung to him around his neck and grabbed his disheveled shirt with her tiny pale fingers and the smell of gingerbread and cinnamon and Christmas trees cleansed him and pushed back the waves of ill-feelings that now seemed like distant recollections and made him forgive her instantly (which is something that only someone considered insane can really do, forgive, let alone instantly) and she whispered with honey in her voice, “That is what it feels like to feel passion; to feel intensely. It is almost as good as things like half-written letters and graham crackers and toothpaste,” and she breathed her words against his neck and then buried her face against him and Dr. Ashcroft thought of nothing but the murder of crows surrounding his face.
Later he would give her a bath while she stayed in her ward gown. He would run his rough hands through her hair after scooping up water from the tub and pouring it over her head. She would close her eyes and cover them with her hands and she would laugh like bells ringing and she would let the crows fall in front of her face to be pushed back again by rough hands. She would let no one else touch her besides Robby, let alone wash her hair. This made Dr. Ashcroft feel important and necessary. And he would go on feeling important and necessary even while the bandage around her thigh slowly unwound and the water became tainted slightly red. He would go on to feel important and necessary for as long as Delia woke next to him and asked him to recite a story.
His stories were so passionate.
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Post by kangaroo cry on Nov 22, 2009 13:04:14 GMT -5
I liked this! I don't really know how to express what I thought about this (the thoughts are complex (in a good way), like your piece), but the thoughts were good. I get the feeling you had this pictured a very certain and particular way in your head and that you translated it to words well. The descriptions were great and the point of view is unique and it relays some of the inner workings of a complicated mind very well.
I really like Dr. Ashcroft. I feel like I relate to him on some deep, metaphysical level. He's my favorite, and I love the way he sees Delia. I love the way he sees everything, and I love the way Delia responds to him. I think the struggles he goes through are relateable.
This is very good! Do you have more in mind for it? WILL THE SAGA CONTINUE?!!!!!?!?!??!!!!
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Post by forgottenxthreat on Nov 23, 2009 11:26:31 GMT -5
Bri, i just absolutely love this piece, i already commented about some of it in english club, so i'll just name the parts AFTER that that i adored....
He could see that she knew where she was without opening her eyes. Maybe it was the smell on his sheets. Dr. Ashcroft wondered what he smelled like to another person. Probably soapy. (The truth was that Dr. Ashcroft smelled more like a combination of museum floors and Paris terraces and Indian summers.) His mind dissected this thought and others to avoid speaking. He could not describe how he felt with words and it made him unnerved and it made him afraid and it made him feel stupid and foolish and it made him wonder why he existed to sit silently in a psych ward watching over a girl who clearly did not like him because she clearly would much rather drown than spend another day listening to his dull stories.
I loved his self doubt towards the end of this paragraph
She smiled her brilliant smile and moved to Dr. Ashcroft and clung to him around his neck and grabbed his disheveled shirt with her tiny pale fingers and the smell of gingerbread and cinnamon and Christmas trees cleansed him and pushed back the waves of ill-feelings that now seemed like distant recollections and made him forgive her instantly (which is something that only someone considered insane can really do, forgive, let alone instantly) and she whispered with honey in her voice, “That is what it feels like to feel passion; to feel intensely. It is almost as good as things like half-written letters and graham crackers and toothpaste,” and she breathed her words against his neck and then buried her face against him and Dr. Ashcroft thought of nothing but the murder of crows surrounding his face.
I loved the 'conclusion' of him meeting her passion here
And i loved the part about the history of the plot of the story, and him not taking his own medicine,
He was The Absolute Worst at everything and he must have upset her in some way because he was so impersonal and he lacked passion and he was older and tired and his hands were rough from years of chemicals that were used to destroy Her World and the world that everyone else inhabited around her.
This piece is just really beautiful to me and i was listening to a song when i read this and it made me capture the whole piece in its beauty and sadness and i felt like CRYING i loved and understood it so much. Its just really stunning writing how you write these pieces with these two characters. They're so round and I'M just in love with them.
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