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Reflections and a Rose Garden

2008-03-11T23:01:44Z

Fandom: Spring Awakening
Title: Reflections and a Rose Garden
Characters/Pairing: Martha-centric; Hints of Martha/Anna
Rating: PG
Summary: Martha reflects on one of her fondest memories of Anna,
Warnings: Maybe just a bit angsty? This can be read as femmeslash.
Word Count: 1, 602
Notes: So I got the idea of this in my second period class because math always makes me anxious and I picked all the skin off the side of my hand so it turned all red and purpley and-- I was really just thinking about that. And then I wrote most of this on a little scrap of paper and my Spanish teacher almost took it. Butttt- yeah. Enjoy. I'm pretty happy with how this turned out :)

And as always, comments are very much appreciated!

How could anyone ever come to love her? Those purple and red and brown and green marks that plagued her skin, always just out of eye sight, reminded her constantly of her inability to be loved. How could someone love her when she had such imperfections on display for all those who wished to see them?

Sometimes Martha would retreat to the garden after the nightly visit from her father, not able to face those stained sheets and floor boards and ripped clothing. She would sit fondly in her already dirty night gown among the weak roses that struggled to survive beneath all their other plants. How her mother could let such beautiful flowers remain so burdened was beyond Martha, but it was this common fault that made her relate to those roses.

In the moon light, she would compare the crimson stained welts on her arms and legs with the shade of the roses. Martha would smile just barely at all their similarities. The only real comfort was her dream that one day she would plant an entire garden of nothing but roses. They would grow unburdened and free and she would never cut them down. They would thrive in the open air and beneath the bright sunshine and wouldn’t have a care in the world. Martha dreamed of one day when the only crimson in her life would be in her backyard, in the petals of those beautiful roses.

She wasn’t pretty like the other girls—she wasn’t allowed to be. Her hair was tied back in such tight braids that she was used to the constant headaches she got in the morning after fixing them. Her dresses were unflattering on purpose—extending almost straight to her ankles, the bodice loose, masking up any sort of womanly shape she might have gained by her age of fourteen.

Even though Martha was quiet and strove to sink to the back of their group of friends, she often stood out. She was the tallest of all the girls yet also the most soft-spoken. She followed after her close friends, playing along with all their games and discussions. Martha smiled when they smiled, frowned when they frowned, and in those moments between, she would lose emotion on her face completely. Instead she would simply watch them have their fun, partaking occasionally, cautiously, afraid of ripping a seam or losing a button.

Martha had over time begun to think the girls she played with only invited her along because none of the other town-children were as favorable. At their age, they certainly couldn’t play with the boys any longer, and Martha wasn’t vain or bossy, which allowed her to fall easily in among Anna, Thea, and Wendla. Martha was quiet and didn’t complain. But she reasoned—why should she complain? There were so many worse things in the world to worry about.

However Anna always strove to make her feel included in whatever they did and Martha loved her unconditionally for it. She had met all the girls in the town when her and her parents moved there from Munich. She had been seven then. They had all seemed to get along at first, but as they all got older, they began to branch out and group off. It was Anna who are taken Martha’s hand and brought her along to search for mayflower in the woods with Wendla and Thea one day. She had been quiet, smiling lightly at all of them, aiding them in finding the thickest bits and collecting it into their baskets. Since that day, Martha was always silently included in their small group of four.

Though, she remembered one day with striking accuracy that had defined her friendship with Anna.

One time, the girls had all headed after bible class to pick lilies along the river bank. They talked easily (or more, Wendla, Thea, and Anna talked whilst Martha listened) about the boys in class, from what they chanted in Latin to who were the most handsome. Martha remembered that Thea had picked an especially beautiful flower, placing it in her hair among her braids. All the girls commented her on how nicely it matched her dress and it was then that Martha was careless with her footing. She tripped over a rock, her foot slipping out of her shoe. She managed to catch her balance, however when she turned to try to find her lost shoe, Martha found it had fallen into the water. It was already starting to sink down, waterlogged and drifting with the slow current of the stream.

Instantly, Martha had begun to cry, hot tears spilling down her cheeks at the thought of the beating she would receive that night for losing her shoe. Even if she managed to retrieve it, the shoe would stink of river water and the leather would be ruined and it would make an awful sloshing noise every time she walked.

Anna had reacted immediately, though Martha had not noticed through the tears until her friend was already in the water. The other girl had stripped off her thick stockings and her own shoes, leaving them on the shore before hiking the fabric of her dress up around her thighs. Anna held it there tightly before wading into the water; It only came up to the middle of her calves at deepest. Anna caught up easily with the current and was successfully and painlessly able to retrieve the waterlogged shoe.

She smiled triumphantly, holding the wet leather in one hand while struggling to maintain the entirety of her skirt in the other. Anna made it back to the shore, just getting the bottom of her dress wet, but she didn’t care if her mother scolded her, as long as she was able to help Martha.

However Anna’s proud smile fell into an expression of concern as she saw Martha’s shoulders shaking with sobs. The forlorn girl was sitting in the grass now, trying to hide her silent crying by pulling her knees up and burying her face in the scratchy fabric of her dress. Anna knelt beside her, wet shoe laid down gently at Martha’s side before she had wrapped her arms around those heaving shoulders, one hand running over those tight braids, trying to soothe Martha.

Martha just managed to meekly raise her head from the folds of her skirt, sniffling softly, still trying to hide her tears. Crying would do nothing for her. But still Anna tried, not wanting Martha to be so upset. She pressed her cool cheek gently against that of her friend’s as a sign of comfort. She felt how inflamed Martha’s cheek was, felt the stains of tears.

Wendla and Thea stood back slightly. They comforted Martha with soft, half-hearted words of ‘It’s okay’ and ‘You can get new shoes’ but they couldn’t truly sympathize. They didn’t understand what would happen to Martha. Their parents would simply pass over such an instance as childish foolishness and then pat their heads and send them to do their prayers before bed. Martha would only have broken prayers in sobs that night.

How Anna had come to realize Martha’s pain, she never knew. Certainly, she was closer to Anna than Thea or Wendla, yet she had spoken not a word of her home life to any of them. But still Anna was able to hold her so gently like that and wish away her worries with silent friendship and a comforting embrace.

Once Martha had seemed to gather herself, apologizing softly for such a scene, she slipped her wet shoe on. It made an unpleasant sound as she flexed her foot within the ruined leather, shuddering lightly from the strange, enclosed, wet feeling.

Anna offered her the flower she had just picked, a beautiful white lily with pink marks down the center of each petal. Martha didn’t want to take such a stunning flower from her friend, but Anna insisted and so finally she accepted, smiling at the other girl.

“Thank you, Anna…”

“You’re welcome. You know—lilies are my favorite.” Anna smiled sweetly as she picked another flower, turning it over in her slender fingers, examining it, before she fixed it in one of Martha’s braids, just above her ear.

The girls all now complimented Martha on how nicely it looked on her and how well it matched her dress. However Anna was the only one who truly seemed to mean it, making Martha’s face glow from the compliments.

She had returned home with her ruined shoe and her mother had scolded her instantly, telling her father what a careless failure she was. This merely put a sadistic grin on his face, giving him an excuse to start his beatings earlier that night. But Martha didn’t even put up a fight then, for the only thing that filled her heart for the rest of the night, the only true thought in her mind, the one thing that kept her going, was Anna.

Martha would get her garden of roses one day. Beautiful, tall, uninhibited roses.

Though now she vowed they would be joined by lilies. Lilies of every shade and color, covering almost as much land as her roses. They would be diverse and beautiful and would match every stunning smile and soft embrace and bit of friendship she had ever received Anna.

Icons

2008-02-19T23:34:22Z

Spring Awakening icons taken from the Modern Love : Romance video :)

Please comment if taking; Also, please credit me!

Fanfiction : Hope(less)

2007-12-05T02:41:01Z

Title: Hope(less)
Author: nummy_cream_puf
Characters, Pairing: One-sided Glitch/Cain; One-sided Cain/DG
Rating: PG
Summary: Glitch reflects on his hope (or lack there of) with Cain.
Warning: Angst.
Disclaimer: Agreed with other user-- I would make it all Glitch/Cain. Angsty Glitch/Cain :D
Word Count: 774
Author's Notes: My first Tin Man fanfiction! Not my positively greatest piece of literary writing of all time, but I find your first fanfiction to any fandom never is. Comments and creative critique encouraged and welcome!

He had felt hope. Hope in how he had saved Cain from hypothermia. That one excuse to finally press his body against the other’s in an attempt to keep him warm. He had read somewhere that heat had to be slowly given back to the victim- that too much could cause his heart to fail. And so he pressed lightly, afraid of waking, afraid of being found out, but still Glitch curled his wiry frame against that cold side.

Another spark of hope in their light banter. Some moments, Cain even seemed light hearted, teasing Glitch in that way- a sarcastic smile, but no cruelty in those ice blue eyes. He mocked his optimism, and Glitch could not stop that foolish, silly smile from spreading across his lips, eyes crinkling up with silent happiness.

In that short breath of time alone with Cain, Glitch felt guilty. Guilty for being happy that they had all been separated; that he finally had his chance with the other. And yet he wasted it all away, simply watching Cain in his sleep, or entertaining him with partially imaginative psychological problems and some long-winded rant about dancing that Glitch would kick himself over time and time again in the future. But it had been enough. Just perfectly enough for Glitch, for he knew down in his heart, in his soul, that Cain could never truly be his. From the second that Cain had questioned her name, his first reaction upon waking- it extinguished any flame of hope within Glitch.

Perhaps that was why he had been so quick to trust the tutor when Cain had jumped to suspicions. He wanted to spite Cain, to disagree with him, distance himself.

Glitch had seen that hug, the relief in his face, when he DG had hugged him. He knew how happy Cain was deep inside for not having failed another person—another person he cared for. Guilty thoughts rose in him again, but he pushed them down, masking it with that silly smile.

No— this was not DG’s fault. She was still clueless to Cain’s affection, to the way his eyes followed her. He was instantly at her side, always protecting her at any sense of danger, any movement of a shadow that signaled she was in trouble. And yet she remained oblivious, thinking merely of Cain as another friend. Certainly that was how Cain thought of him—if he were even allowed such a title.

Still, Glitch put forth that friendly attitude, that foolish grin, to please DG, to please them all. He even managed to hide that shift in his stomach, the clench in his heart, when Cain placed his hand so strong on his shoulder, finger tips leaving a tingle that he felt for the rest of their hike.

He awoke from some painful nightmare. The last thing he remembered were long, rough fingers on his scalp and then it was all blank. The vague feeling of fear, of hopelessness, resided still within him when he came back to consciousness. Those wispy feelings, still left over from his “dream” were only confirmed by those grim faces staring back at him.

Was his invention truly that terrible? Why had he created such a devastating machine? Perhaps he had deserved to have his brain extracted—perhaps he was a criminal…

Cain’s eyes were on him and it was nearly enough to stoke the fire of hope once more. So sympathetic and—understanding. He looked like he were battling himself- was he going to say something?

Glitch felt himself fixed in the gaze of the other. Unblinking. Breath swept up.

And then DG’s hands were on his face, hugging him, protecting him, tears lightly dropping onto his scalp which still burned from the memory of a hand pressed there. He knew Cain wanted to be in his position, with DG clinging to him and it washed away any of the sparks left. His hope was charred, splintered, smoke barely rising as a signal.

He could never have Cain. Never.

Not when he still remembered his family. When the thought, the prospect of them being alive brought such a smile to his face, such an urgency to his always calculated movements. Glitch could never inspire that.

He could never have Cain. Not when Cain still remembered everything. Still replayed those terrifying memories until one wished for their brain to be taken.

Cain’s memories smothered any smoke from his wasted fire. It drenched water upon the flimsy sticks, un-supportive and never able to be ignited again.

He could never have Cain—not when he still remembered everything and Glitch—nothing.

Fanfiction : Whipped Cream

2007-10-16T03:31:17Z

Title: Whipped Cream
Fandom: Spring Awakening (Play)
Pairing: Melchior/Moritz
Words: 861
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Moritz's thoughts and reflections before death.
Author's Notes: This isn't one of my best, however, I still am proud of it. Just a short drabble with a brief passing of Melchior/Moritz. All is Moritz-centric. Comments and constructive criticism welcome and encouraged!

Whipped Cream.

He missed his innocent days of childhood when all he would dream of were apple pies topped with whipped cream waiting for him to devour in the kitchen. Back then, his days were broad and he could play indoors with his toys, or outside with Melchior and Ilse and Wendla. Once, a long time ago, almost feeling like a past life now, he had been without worries, without stress, without these haunting dreams that no longer urged him to awake with a smile on his face, but instead an ashamed flush overtaking his features.

No longer could he dream of whipped cream. Instead, the cream became something else entirely. Some obscure recess of his mind knew what the real metaphor was, though already, Moritz was so plagued and humiliated by the dreams, he pushed away such thoughts as much as possible.

The first dream-- nightmare came as a surprise. It happened the night of the first exam he failed that year. His first bad mark and he dreaded his father finding out. Already, his skull was feverish, wrought with worries and negative endings—and then the phantom visited him.

At first, he had thought it some cruel joke his mind played on him, but upon feeling the heat throughout his body, the odd folding beneath his blanket the next morning—he feared certainly something was wrong with his anatomy. And yet, he was so full of shame and embarrassment over the situation—without even knowing what really was happening! That instinct fear only led Moritz to draw further within on himself.

When he finally confided the dreams to Melchior, they had drastically increased in length and quality. They no longer faded after a start in the early morning—instead, their sensual fingers gripped Moritz tight to them, these phantoms of his mind; they dared not release their grasp of the poor boy.

Yet, when Melchior tried to help that first time, it only pushed Moritz further within. Light shed unto a subject he would rather have remained misty and foggy. If he had deemed the dreams to be intense before—now he feared sleeping. He feared the pictures and actions that played out behind his closed eyelids. Oh, if only he didn’t have such a smart friend, a good friend.

But still, Moritz did not falter faith in Melchior. And so when Melchior tried to help him once more, kissing him so sweetly in his bedroom, Moritz feared death more than ever. That deep longing and the ever-lasting tingle that he still felt till his last day—they threatened the entire core of Moritz. And yet, every fiber of his physical body screamed for more, whilst Moritz’s head screamed for none.

He wanted to go back to those days of whipped cream filled dreams—instead of the shadows of Melchior’s eyelashes on his face as he kissed him in obscene places. No longer could he stand to look at Melchior, for he no longer knew if it was dream Melchior or his actual, solid friend. Oh, poor Melchior! Moritz only hoped his friend did not blame himself once he learned of what happened. Hopefully, he would make sure he had a proper headstone.

Moritz lingered not on these thoughts though. Funerals were for the living. Where he was going, there were no funerals. There would be only innocence. Heaven, if it would still accept him, would blot out all the sins and all the dreams. Surely, they would wash out this fault of his anatomy that he still knew existed within him. Perhaps it was rooted in how his feet tilted inwards when he walked, or how he ran headfirst. The root of his awkwardness could have to do with the fact that he had once fallen from a tree at a young age. Surely, the fall jumbled his brain. Or maybe, it was simply a birth defect. His poor parents—it wasn’t their fault he had turned out this way.

Yes. That must be it. He was simply born this way. For surely, had he the right mind after a few years of trying out his then self, he would have become someone else.

Whipped cream.

It wasn’t very filling. But it could hold his thoughts long enough to complete the task. Melchior too had tried to fill his head with sweets, sweets and sins of the flesh and the lips—but they never held long either. After every taste, his subconscious and his fingers were only desperate for more and certainly, this cycle could not continue. Not with his faulty anatomy.

And so he thought of whipped cream. Whipped cream on apple pies in his kitchen, back when his mother still smiled and he didn’t know there was something wrong with him.

Vaguely, in the recess of his mind, the gun was heavy in his hand. Maybe he shivered; perhaps his hand trembled before the barrel fell between his lips. But he so focused on that whipped cream. On that tiny stretch of innocence before life was thrust out of him, backwards, upwards, into trees above his head.

‘Whipped cream doesn’t taste this cold.’

Bang.

A drabble

2007-09-23T19:33:10Z

Title: (No title-- just a little drabble)
Author: Sarah
Rating: PG
Words: 1, 203
Characters: Martha-centric, with mentions of most other characters.
Summary: Martha reflects on her life after Moritz's death when she visits his grave.
Notes: I had this idea floating in my head for a while, but I finally got the inspiration to write it after reading the play again this morning on a whim. I am rather glad with this-- it relates back strongly to the play however.
Disclaimer: Sadly, none of these characters are mine D:

It had been almost an entire month since Moritz had killed himself. In the days and weeks afterward, life had seemed to be put on fast-forward— Melchior being sent off to the reformatory and then escaping; Wendla dying of anemia (though they all agreed that seemed not to be the truth); even Martha’s parents had seemed to be affected by the death of the boy. However, it only brought out negative effects for Martha. The beatings were longer and harder and she was often too tired to even crawl back to bed- instead just pulling her knees to her chest and burying her face away as she tried to sleep.

She wouldn’t cry though. It’s what upset her father the most. She no longer would cry out, or scream, or even protest. Tears no longer streaked her cheeks, but instead she took it all with a hard expression. Her lips drawn tight and her eyes focused straight above her, never looking at her cruel assailant. At first, he had called her names, trying to get her to respond, to draw out that fearful emotion, that helpless crying once more from his daughter. And each time that she would not respond he would only beat her harder. It was difficult not to hide the limping, as he had now taken up flogging her legs, but still—Martha would speak not of it. Thea and Anna knew, but they never questioned. They had not spoken much to one another since Wendla’s death, in fact.

The only thing that kept her going was the visit to Moritz’s grave after bible class every day. It was now quickly becoming a sea of flowers and wreaths. Funny, perhaps, how both she and Ilse had liked the boy, and now here they were- working together to keep Moritz’s sad, lonely grave something lively and colorful. It was a way to offer consolation not only to themselves, but to Moritz’s spirit, as well.

The first time she had visited his grave alone, she had cried and cried, kneeling down in the still freshly churned dirt, as she planted the roses she had stolen from the garden at home. Martha knew her father would beat her silly for it, but she did not care. The thorns pricked her fingers and blood surfaced but she did not mind it, and only kept at her task while thick tears fell around the red roses. All she could think of was that, while Pastor Skinnytum had not directly talked of Moritz’s death their first bible class after the funeral—he had focused strongly on the implications of those who committed suicide, how they should never consider such a sinful path of temptation. It made Martha’s blood boil with anger, and she had been so choked up with emotion, that she had been unable to read her passage when he had called upon her.

Between that time and now, the eve of one month without the awkward boy, she had come several times, some with Ilse, though most by herself. She was becoming fast friends with Ilse, in the wake of their despair. They had formed a sort of bond, sitting together, planting various flowers about Moritz’s grave. How rude it may seem to form a friendship over one’s dead body, but surely, their grief was their connecting point. Martha found herself hoping that after a while, it would not be their only source of friendship however.

Sometimes, sitting alone, she felt as if she were being watched. Always, she would turn at least twice during her quiet thoughts to stare long and hard at the graveyard wall by which Moritz’s body was buried. If she stared long enough, Martha almost believed she would see the faint outline of him, sitting on the wall, his feet hanging down. He wore no shoes and he had no head and as soon as she would see it, it would be gone. Certainly, her eyes were tricking her. She was only seeing what she wanted to see. And yet the thought of Moritz watching them care for his grave comforted her. It was her salvation in the night when her father would beat her, would touch her. No longer would she cry out- Moritz had cried almost as often as she; he would sometimes confess this weakness to her. But now, she resolved to no longer cry as her lost friend had. Martha would no longer let herself face towards death, but instead keep her eyes on the heavens above.

Moritz’s death had empowered her. They had been in such similar situations she felt. And yet other times, in her need for an outlet of her frustration, she would convince herself that her situation was so much worse. Her parents beat her- Moritz’s merely pushed him too hard. And yet, then she would visit his grave and feel so calm and at peace, that sometimes it scared her. At first, she felt very guilty, but now, she had convinced herself it was because of Moritz. Moritz did not want her to make his mistake, to turn away from the chance of life. He wanted her to get through this. She was certain…

On the eve of this one month, she was surprised to find the cross at the head of his grave was tilted. Surely, no one else came back to visit here. Only she and Ilse now seemed to remember the boy. His parents, the school, the other local children, had all simply moved on with their lives. No one dared remember the poor, awkward dreamer and his early demise.

The cross was no longer tilted towards the sky, but instead to the east, towards the main road that led out of their town. Martha took no time to connect these ideas- surely Moritz was trying to tell her something. He wanted her to leave—to leave the city, to escape this repression of her parents, as Moritz had been unable to do without taking up a gun. And then suddenly that itching feeling, that prickling on the back of her neck reached her. She was being watched from the wall once more, but when she turned around, it was not Moritz there, but instead Ilse. Dressed in traveling clothes and with her hair done up, Ilse for once looked proper to be in a graveyard, instead of the play clothes she would often wear here.

“Priapia is leaving…Nohl and Fehrendorf have been talking of it ever since Moritz’s death…but then when Melchior and Wendla…well, they believe there something wrong with this town. And I agree. Please…for the sake of our new friendship, Martha…and for all your parents do to you…won’t you come with us?”

Martha need not look behind her, even though she now once more felt that watch from Mortiz’s grave. She would no longer look back to what she was leaving behind as she silently nodded and stepped towards the exit with Ilse. Finally she found her own release from this life; able to move onto her next one, her better one. She vowed to live it out to the fullest, not just for herself, but for the lost time of Moritz as well.

Old Springs Pike icons

2007-09-10T03:48:33Z

Yeah. My wrist is totally sore after making all these. But I am rather proud of them, even if I am an amateur iconist.

So- yes. Enjoy :3

Comments are extremely appreciated. As is crediting. Please and thank you.

I dedicate these to prosopopeya and arquette who are the amazing people that got me into Old Springs Pike. <3

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04. 05. 06.

07. 08. 09.

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All pictures captured from the 8/05/07 performance of 'A Capella' at the Zipper Factory.

Sadly, there weren't many good shots of James Smith, thus why he is lacking a section of his own personal icons.

Please credit if you use! Comment if you are taking!

<3,

Sarah

It's official--

2007-07-22T18:46:49Z

I'm making my journal friends-only.

Simply comment to be added :D

DeviantART. MySpace. Facebook.

<333

Sarah