generic image
Processing...
  • Games
  • Catalog
  • Develop
  • Robux
  • Search in Players
  • Search in Games
  • Search in Catalog
  • Search in Groups
  • Search in Library
  • Log In
  • Sign Up
  • Games
  • Catalog
  • Develop
  • Robux
   
ROBLOX Forum » Club Houses » Off Topic
Home Search
 

Re: Suddenly she woke up. It was 2.30.

Previous Thread :: Next Thread 
PixarLane250 is not online. PixarLane250
Joined: 07 May 2011
Total Posts: 3654
14 Oct 2011 12:02 AM
She thought about why she had woken up. Oh yes! In the kitchen someone had bumped against a chair. She listened in the direction of the kitchen. It was quiet. It was too quiet and as she ran her hand over the bed beside her, she found it empty. That’s what it was, that’s what had made it so especially quiet: his breathing was missing. She got up and groped her way through the dark apartment to the kitchen. In the kitchen they met. The time was 2.30. She saw something white standing by the kitchen cabinet. She turned on the light. They stood facing each other in their shirts. At night. At 2.30. In the kitchen.

The bread plate lay on the kitchen table. She saw that he had cut himself some bread. The knife was still lying beside the plate. And on the tablecloth there were bread crumbs. When they went to bed at night she always cleaned the tablecloth. Every night. But now there were crumbs on the cloth. And the knife lay there. She felt how the cold of the tiles slowly crept up her body. And she looked away from the plate.

“I thought there was something here,” he said and looked around in the kitchen.

“I heard something, too,” she answered and at the same time she thought that he really looked pretty old already, at night in his shirt. As old as he was. Sixty three. During the day he sometimes looked younger. She really looks old, he thought, in her shirt she looks pretty old already. But maybe that’s because of the hair. With women it’s always because of the hair at night. It makes them so old all of a sudden.

“You should have put on some shoes. Barefoot like that on the cold tiles. You are going to catch a cold.”

She did not look at him, because she could not bear that he lied. That he lied after they had been married for thirty nine years.

“I thought there was something here,” he said once again and again looked from one corner to the other so senselessly, “I heard something here. That’s why I thought there was something here.”

“I heard something, too. But it was probably nothing.” She took the plate off the table and flicked the crumbs off the cloth.

“No, it was probably nothing,” he echoed uncertainly.

She came to his aid: “Come on. It must have been outside. Come on to bed. You are going to catch a cold. On the cold tiles.”

He looked towards the window. “Yes, it must have been outside then. I thought it was here.”

She lifted her hand to the light switch. I have to turn off the light now or else I will have to look at the plate, she thought. I cannot allow myself to look at the plate.

“Come on now,” she said and turned off the light, “it must have been outside. The rain gutter always bangs against the wall when it’s windy. I’m sure it was the rain gutter. When it’s windy it always rattles.”

They both felt their way across the dark hallway to the bedroom. Their naked feet splashed on the floor.

“Yes, it's windy,” he said. “It's been windy all night.”

As they lay in bed she said, “Yes, it's been windy all night. It was probably the rain gutter.”

“Yes, I thought it was in the kitchen. It was probably the rain gutter.” He said that as if he were already half asleep.

But she noticed how false his voice sounded when he lied. “It is cold”, she said and yawned softly, “I’m crawling under the blanket. Good night.”

“Night,” he answered and added, “yes, it is really pretty cold.”

Then it was quiet. After many minutes she heard that he was chewing quietly and carefully. She breathed deeply and evenly, on purpose, so that he would not notice that she was still awake. But his chewing was so regular that she slowly fell asleep because of it.

When he came home the next evening she pushed four slices of bread over to him. Before he had only been able to eat three.

“You can go ahead and eat four,” she said and moved away from the lamp. ‘I cannot take this bread all that well. Go ahead and eat one more. I can’t take it all that well.”

She saw how he bent deeply over the plate. He didn't look up. At that moment she felt sorry for him.

“You can’t eat just two slices,” he said to his plate.

“Sure. In the evening the bread doesn’t agree with me. Go ahead and eat! Eat!”

It was only a while later that she sat down at the table under the lamp.
Report Abuse
HeatherKatze is not online. HeatherKatze
Joined: 12 Oct 2011
Total Posts: 57
14 Oct 2011 12:04 AM
I LIVE IN AN APARTMENT.

I HEARD NOISES FROM THE KITCHEN ABOUT HALF AN HOUR AGO.

DEAR GOD, HOW?
Report Abuse
PhreeFysixsV2 is not online. PhreeFysixsV2
Joined: 30 Sep 2011
Total Posts: 344
14 Oct 2011 12:08 AM
[ Content Deleted ]
Report Abuse
PixarLane250 is not online. PixarLane250
Joined: 07 May 2011
Total Posts: 3654
14 Oct 2011 12:15 AM
I'm like Elisabeth Langgässer.
Report Abuse
Rose1240 is not online. Rose1240
Joined: 06 Dec 2008
Total Posts: 1949
14 Oct 2011 12:23 AM
Uh, I don't get it. Is there a sequel? o.o
Report Abuse
qwazola is not online. qwazola
Joined: 23 Oct 2008
Total Posts: 27279
14 Oct 2011 12:29 AM
Yeah, I didn't get it.
Report Abuse
PhreeFysixsV2 is not online. PhreeFysixsV2
Joined: 30 Sep 2011
Total Posts: 344
14 Oct 2011 12:52 AM
[ Content Deleted ]
Report Abuse
Killersdream124 is not online. Killersdream124
Joined: 09 Aug 2011
Total Posts: 373
14 Oct 2011 04:31 AM
too long, couldnt read because im a rock
Report Abuse
PixarLane250 is not online. PixarLane250
Joined: 07 May 2011
Total Posts: 3654
14 Oct 2011 04:31 AM
stories apparently are filtered
Report Abuse
Boeing717 is not online. Boeing717
Top 25 Poster
Joined: 08 Jun 2008
Total Posts: 70007
14 Oct 2011 04:39 AM
i am going to write a story with lots of rambling and a plot thats impossible to follow



people will call it great literature and buy it so they can pretend to understand it and it will become famous and high schoolers will have to read it and i get to torture them all with an incomprehensible book their teachers say is packed with symbolism


spoiler alert it will have absolutely no meaning other than to become famous so i get money
Report Abuse
XxXxAmandaxXxX is not online. XxXxAmandaxXxX
Joined: 04 Aug 2009
Total Posts: 2034
14 Oct 2011 05:13 AM
OT is now a RPG center..?!
Report Abuse
Boeing717 is not online. Boeing717
Top 25 Poster
Joined: 08 Jun 2008
Total Posts: 70007
14 Oct 2011 05:21 AM
He snuck up behind her with the bread knife. The light glinted off the blade like cascades of water. She noticed it out of the corner of her eye. He brought down the blade on her head as she turned around. She had put her arm up just in time to catch the blade. He pulled it back for another strike. However using her good arm, she pushed him back. She reached for a knife to fend him off but he got back up and ruined that arm. Blood flowed like an endless torrent. Her bleeding scared her, and with the loss of fearlessness, she fell unconscious. He left the room. He picked up the phone and called an ambulance. They arrived and took her away. He felt no remorse as he had not killed her with a knife blow. The butter on the knife would enter her blood and take her out silently. Slowly. Undetectable. He would still get an armed assault conviction, but he'd only be guilty of manslaughter. Devious, he thought. Simply devious.
Report Abuse
qwazola is not online. qwazola
Joined: 23 Oct 2008
Total Posts: 27279
14 Oct 2011 01:33 PM
Boeing, OMG DAT IS A DELISHUS TID BIT
Report Abuse
PixarLane250 is not online. PixarLane250
Joined: 07 May 2011
Total Posts: 3654
14 Oct 2011 04:57 PM
In order for the character of a human being to reveal truly exceptional qualities, we must have the good fortune to observe its action over a long period of years. If this action is devoid of all selfishness, if the idea that directs it is one of unqualified generosity, if it is absolutely certain that it has not sought recompense anywhere, and if moreover it has left visible marks on the world, then we are unquestionably dealing with an unforgettable character.

About forty years ago I went on a long hike, through hills absolutely unknown to tourists, in that very old region where the Alps penetrate into Provence.

This region is bounded to the south-east and south by the middle course of the Durance, between Sisteron and Mirabeau; to the north by the upper course of the Drôme, from its source down to Die; to the west by the plains of Comtat Venaissin and the outskirts of Mont Ventoux. It includes all the northern part of the Département of Basses-Alpes, the south of Drôme and a little enclave of Vaucluse.

At the time I undertook my long walk through this deserted region, it consisted of barren and monotonous lands, at about 1200 to 1300 meters above sea level. Nothing grew there except wild lavender.

I was crossing this country at its widest part, and after walking for three days, I found myself in the most complete desolation. I was camped next to the skeleton of an abandoned village. I had used the last of my water the day before and I needed to find more. Even though they were in ruins, these houses all huddled together and looking like an old wasps' nest made me think that there must at one time have been a spring or a well there. There was indeed a spring, but it was dry. The five or six roofless houses, ravaged by sun and wind, and the small chapel with its tumble-down belfry, were arrayed like the houses and chapels of living villages, but all life had disappeared.

It was a beautiful June day with plenty of sun, but on these shelterless lands, high up in the sky, the wind whistled with an unendurable brutality. Its growling in the carcasses of the houses was like that of a wild beast disturbed during its meal.

I had to move my camp. After five hours of walking, I still hadn't found water, and nothing gave me hope of finding any. Everywhere there was the same dryness, the same stiff, woody plants. I thought I saw in the distance a small black silhouette. On a chance I headed towards it. It was a shepherd. Thirty lambs or so were resting near him on the scorching ground.

He gave me a drink from his gourd and a little later he led me to his shepherd's cottage, tucked down in an undulation of the plateau. He drew his water - excellent - from a natural hole, very deep, above which he had installed a rudimentary windlass.

This man spoke little. This is common among those who live alone, but he seemed sure of himself, and confident in this assurance, which seemed remarkable in this land shorn of everything. He lived not in a cabin but in a real house of stone, from the looks of which it was clear that his own labor had restored the ruins he had found on his arrival. His roof was solid and water-tight. The wind struck against the roof tiles with the sound of the sea crashing on the beach.

His household was in order, his dishes washed, his floor swept, his rifle greased; his soup boiled over the fire; I noticed then that he was also freshly shaven, that all his buttons were solidly sewn, and that his clothes were mended with such care as to make the patches invisible.

He shared his soup with me, and when afterwards I offered him my pouch of Gauloises, he told me that he didn't smoke. His dog, as silent as he, was friendly without being fawning.


It had been agreed immediately that I would pass the night there, the closest village being still more than a day and a half farther on. Furthermore, I understood perfectly well the character of the rare villages of that region. There are four or five of them dispersed far from one another on the flanks of the hills, in groves of white oaks at the very ends of roads passable by carriage. They are inhabited by woodcutters who make charcoal. They are places where the living is poor. The families, pressed together in close quarters by a climate that is exceedingly harsh, in summer as well as in winter, struggle ever more selfishly against each other. Irrational contention grows beyond all bounds, fueled by a continuous struggle to escape from that place. The men carry their charcoal to the cities in their trucks, and then return. The most solid qualities crack under this perpetual Scottish shower. The women stir up bitterness. There is competition over everything, from the sale of charcoal to the benches at church. The virtues fight amongst themselves, the vices fight amongst themselves, and there is a ceaseless general combat between the vices and the virtues. On top of all that, the equally ceaseless wind irritates the nerves. There are epidemics of death and numerous cases of insanity, almost always murderous.

The shepherd, who did not smoke, took out a bag and poured a pile of acorns out onto the table. He began to examine them one after another with a great deal of attention, separating the good ones from the bad. I smoked my pipe. I offered to help him, but he told me it was his own business. Indeed, seeing the care that he devoted to this job, I did not insist. This was our whole conversation. When he had in the good pile a fair number of acorns, he counted them out into packets of ten. In doing this he eliminated some more of the acorns, discarding the smaller ones and those that that showed even the slightest crack, for he examined them very closely. When he had before him one hundred perfect acorns he stopped, and we went to bed.

The company of this man brought me a feeling of peace. I asked him the next morning if I might stay and rest the whole day with him. He found that perfectly natural. Or more exactly, he gave me the impression that nothing could disturb him. This rest was not absolutely necessary to me, but I was intrigued and I wanted to find out more about this man. He let out his flock and took them to the pasture. Before leaving, he soaked in a bucket of water the little sack containing the acorns that he had so carefully chosen and counted.

I noted that he carried as a sort of walking stick an iron rod as thick as his thumb and about one and a half meters long. I set off like someone out for a stroll, following a route parallel to his. His sheep pasture lay at the bottom of a small valley. He left his flock in the charge of his dog and climbed up towards the spot where I was standing. I was afraid that he was coming to reproach me for my indiscretion, but not at all : It was his own route and he invited me to come along with him if I had nothing better to do. He continued on another two hundred meters up the hill.

Having arrived at the place he had been heading for, he begin to pound his iron rod into the ground. This made a hole in which he placed an acorn, whereupon he covered over the hole again. He was planting oak trees. I asked him if the land belonged to him. He answered no. Did he know whose land it was? He did not know. He supposed that it was communal land, or perhaps it belonged to someone who did not care about it. He himself did not care to know who the owners were. In this way he planted his one hundred acorns with great care.

After the noon meal, he began once more to pick over his acorns. I must have put enough insistence into my questions, because he answered them. For three years now he had been planting trees in this solitary way. He had planted one hundred thousand. Of these one hundred thousand, twenty thousand had come up. He counted on losing another half of them to rodents and to everything else that is unpredictable in the designs of Providence. That left ten thousand oaks that would grow in this place where before there was nothing.

It was at this moment that I began to wonder about his age. He was clearly more than fifty. Fifty-five, he told me. His name was Elzéard Bouffier. He had owned a farm in the plains, where he lived most of his life. He had lost his only son, and then his wife. He had retired into this solitude, where he took pleasure in living slowly, with his flock of sheep and his dog. He had concluded that this country was dying for lack of trees. He added that, having nothing more important to do, he had resolved to remedy the situation.

Leading as I did at the time a solitary life, despite my youth, I knew how to treat the souls of solitary people with delicacy. Still, I made a mistake. It was precisely my youth that forced me to imagine the future in my own terms, including a certain search for happiness. I told him that in thirty years these ten thousand trees would be magnificent. He replied very simply that, if God gave him life, in thirty years he would have planted so many other trees that these ten thousand would be like a drop of water in the ocean.

He had also begun to study the propagation of beeches. and he had near his house a nursery filled with seedlings grown from beechnuts. His little wards, which he had protected from his sheep by a screen fence, were growing beautifully. He was also considering birches for the valley bottoms where, he told me, moisture lay slumbering just a few meters beneath the surface of the soil.

We parted the next day.
Report Abuse
PhreeFysixsV2 is not online. PhreeFysixsV2
Joined: 30 Sep 2011
Total Posts: 344
14 Oct 2011 05:00 PM
[ Content Deleted ]
Report Abuse
tornadomario347 is not online. tornadomario347
Joined: 06 May 2010
Total Posts: 10586
14 Oct 2011 05:06 PM
IT WAS FRIDAY.

SHE HAD TO WAKE UP.

"Fixing toilets" -I'm the plumber, so what?
Report Abuse
PixarLane250 is not online. PixarLane250
Joined: 07 May 2011
Total Posts: 3654
14 Oct 2011 05:07 PM
And I have even more of the last story. However, it doesn't get through the filter.
Report Abuse
PhreeFysixsV2 is not online. PhreeFysixsV2
Joined: 30 Sep 2011
Total Posts: 344
14 Oct 2011 05:08 PM
[ Content Deleted ]
Report Abuse
PixarLane250 is not online. PixarLane250
Joined: 07 May 2011
Total Posts: 3654
14 Oct 2011 05:10 PM
I ended it there as it seemed to fit. If you were to read the rest of the story, you would know why.
Report Abuse
Boeing717 is not online. Boeing717
Top 25 Poster
Joined: 08 Jun 2008
Total Posts: 70007
14 Oct 2011 05:17 PM
please pm me the ending i want to read the rest
Report Abuse
Yui810GhostofOTPast is not online. Yui810GhostofOTPast
Joined: 01 Jan 2010
Total Posts: 16734
14 Oct 2011 05:26 PM
The story is called The Metamorphosis by Frank Kafka
Report Abuse
PixarLane250 is not online. PixarLane250
Joined: 07 May 2011
Total Posts: 3654
14 Oct 2011 05:28 PM
The next year, the war of 14 came, in which I was engaged for five years. An infantryman could hardly think about trees. To tell the truth, the whole business hadn't made a very deep impression on me; I took it to be a hobby, like a stamp collection, and forgot about it.

With the war behind me, I found myself with a small demobilization bonus and a great desire to breathe a little pure air. Without any preconceived notion beyond that, I struck out again along the trail through that deserted country.

The land had not changed. Nonetheless, beyond that dead village I perceived in the distance a sort of gray fog that covered the hills like a carpet. Ever since the day before I had been thinking about the shepherd who planted trees.

"Ten thousand oaks, I had said to myself, "must really take up a lot of space."

I had seen too many people die during those five years not to be able to imagine easily the death of Elzéard Bouffier, especially since when a man is twenty he thinks of a man of fifty as an old codger for whom nothing remains but to die. He was not dead. In fact, he was very spry. He had changed his job. He only had four sheep now, but to make up for this he had about a hundred beehives. He had gotten rid of the sheep because they threatened his crop of trees. He told me (as indeed I could see for myself) that the war had not disturbed him at all. He had continued imperturbably with his planting.
Report Abuse
DuskChain is not online. DuskChain
Joined: 15 Apr 2009
Total Posts: 10549
14 Oct 2011 05:29 PM
can we trade now
Report Abuse
PixarLane250 is not online. PixarLane250
Joined: 07 May 2011
Total Posts: 3654
14 Oct 2011 05:29 PM
@Yui

The Metamorphosis is about some guy transforming into a monster, not about bread or trees.
Report Abuse
Boeing717 is not online. Boeing717
Top 25 Poster
Joined: 08 Jun 2008
Total Posts: 70007
14 Oct 2011 05:31 PM
Did you write these?

If you did, is that first one ended that way or did you leave off its ending?
Report Abuse
Previous Thread :: Next Thread 
Page 1 of 1
 
 
ROBLOX Forum » Club Houses » Off Topic
   
 
   
  • About Us
  • Jobs
  • Blog
  • Parents
  • Help
  • Terms
  • Privacy

©2017 Roblox Corporation. Roblox, the Roblox logo, Robux, Bloxy, and Powering Imagination are among our registered and unregistered trademarks in the U.S. and other countries.



Progress
Starting Roblox...
Connecting to Players...
R R

Roblox is now loading. Get ready to play!

R R

You're moments away from getting into the game!

Click here for help

Check Remember my choice and click Launch Application in the dialog box above to join games faster in the future!

Gameplay sponsored by:
Loading 0% - Starting game...
Get more with Builders Club! Join Builders Club
Choose Your Avatar
I have an account
generic image