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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
February 6, 2008
You have to appreciate ~xCamix’s writing for the fact English is not her first language. The native Italian has been working hard at her language skills, and this piece really reflects her hard work.
An emotive piece that really embraces the characters of the story, Remembering Hazel by ~xCamix is a comforting read for anyone who may have suffered a loss.
Literature Text
I remember Hazel really well. Sometimes my memories are so clear that I can almost feel her sitting next to me, or walking by my side. Seven years have passed, and I miss her like she went away yesterday.
I met Hazel for the first time when I was twenty; I was an ambitious guy studying psychology who thought that he had already reached happiness, buying a nice car and hanging out with friends. Hazel opened my eyes and, thanks to her, I discovered how beautiful it is helping others and giving them second chances. Hazel helped me grow with her generous words, her patient work and her strawberry candies given to everyone.
She was the most helpful person I've ever known, because she liked to help everyone who needed comfort and never asked for something back; Hazel was happy to receive your smile, and felt satisfied hearing "Thank You", and for her that was enough.
Mostly for its nice sound, her unique name, Hazel Daziel, earned her many nicknames; for someone she was Hazie-Dazie, for someone else simply Haz, and I also heard some people calling her Dazzling Hazel . . . She used to smile hearing all that stuff.
I was the only one who called her Momo; it was one of our little secrets. I chose that name because Hazel reminded me a lot Michael Ende's character: she had, like Momo, the beautiful skill of listening to you truly and carefully.
But it seemed that no one recognized it, and no one could get in the way of what I felt and thought about Hazel; they spoke to her normally, didn't understand they were standing in front of an angel. But I couldn't be angry with my classmates, because at first I acted like them.
In fact, I firstly thought that Hazel had something strange. Not about clothes, or hair--in those things, she was like every twenty-year-old girl. But Hazel had something like a magnetic, shiny aura that brought everywhere she went: her smile, so soft and kind, and her gaze, from those beautiful deep eyes, carried a peaceful feeling I still can't understand. Her goodness was palpable.
I must admit Hazel didn't have a simple nature; she rarely spoke, and the way she looked at you, like she could dig into your hidden side, made people feel uncertain, and most of times they thought she lived in her own world. I was both scared and attracted, and when I looked at her, I didn't know what to do.
Initially, I barely spoke to her, even if I began to feel something more than curiosity inside me. It all happened when we studied together for a test: I was speaking to her, and Hazel nodded and smiled in that way I loved, making me feel comfortable like I've never felt before. And suddenly we were kissing, and that day became the sweetest of my whole life.
I'll never forget those mellow lips, those warm hands, and her beautiful coppery hair. I found my paradise, and it was called Hazel.
We stayed together for more than four years, and every day I discovered something new about my Momo. Stupid things, that weren't useful, like the fact that she loved Barbra Streisand and hated pepper, but made me thought I knew her a little more, and important things, that made me love her more, like the fact that her dream was to do voluntary work in those countries devastated by wars.
I thought we had all the time we wanted, until that Saturday.
We were at the Heathrow airport and Hazel was very happy: her dream was coming true, she was going to do volunteer work for nine months. I remember every single moment: Hazel waved at me, shouted sweet words to me and then walked away, to take her airplane. These things passed in my mind like a never-ending movie for months.
That was the last time I saw Hazel, because she never turned back. Someone killed her, war took her life. Her wonderful, meaningful life.
I don't know very much about how it happened--maybe because I don't want to. I simply know that Hazel is not here, no longer.
Every week I go to her grave, I leave some brooms, her favourite flowers, and I sit in front of it, looking to the little photo under the words "Hazel Martha Daziel 1978-2002 ". I think about those sweet times, and about what I'm doing now. I think about how life could be with her by my side. Sometimes I cry.
And sometimes I also speak, because I hope that , from somewhere, Hazel can still hear me . . .
I met Hazel for the first time when I was twenty; I was an ambitious guy studying psychology who thought that he had already reached happiness, buying a nice car and hanging out with friends. Hazel opened my eyes and, thanks to her, I discovered how beautiful it is helping others and giving them second chances. Hazel helped me grow with her generous words, her patient work and her strawberry candies given to everyone.
She was the most helpful person I've ever known, because she liked to help everyone who needed comfort and never asked for something back; Hazel was happy to receive your smile, and felt satisfied hearing "Thank You", and for her that was enough.
Mostly for its nice sound, her unique name, Hazel Daziel, earned her many nicknames; for someone she was Hazie-Dazie, for someone else simply Haz, and I also heard some people calling her Dazzling Hazel . . . She used to smile hearing all that stuff.
I was the only one who called her Momo; it was one of our little secrets. I chose that name because Hazel reminded me a lot Michael Ende's character: she had, like Momo, the beautiful skill of listening to you truly and carefully.
But it seemed that no one recognized it, and no one could get in the way of what I felt and thought about Hazel; they spoke to her normally, didn't understand they were standing in front of an angel. But I couldn't be angry with my classmates, because at first I acted like them.
In fact, I firstly thought that Hazel had something strange. Not about clothes, or hair--in those things, she was like every twenty-year-old girl. But Hazel had something like a magnetic, shiny aura that brought everywhere she went: her smile, so soft and kind, and her gaze, from those beautiful deep eyes, carried a peaceful feeling I still can't understand. Her goodness was palpable.
I must admit Hazel didn't have a simple nature; she rarely spoke, and the way she looked at you, like she could dig into your hidden side, made people feel uncertain, and most of times they thought she lived in her own world. I was both scared and attracted, and when I looked at her, I didn't know what to do.
Initially, I barely spoke to her, even if I began to feel something more than curiosity inside me. It all happened when we studied together for a test: I was speaking to her, and Hazel nodded and smiled in that way I loved, making me feel comfortable like I've never felt before. And suddenly we were kissing, and that day became the sweetest of my whole life.
I'll never forget those mellow lips, those warm hands, and her beautiful coppery hair. I found my paradise, and it was called Hazel.
We stayed together for more than four years, and every day I discovered something new about my Momo. Stupid things, that weren't useful, like the fact that she loved Barbra Streisand and hated pepper, but made me thought I knew her a little more, and important things, that made me love her more, like the fact that her dream was to do voluntary work in those countries devastated by wars.
I thought we had all the time we wanted, until that Saturday.
We were at the Heathrow airport and Hazel was very happy: her dream was coming true, she was going to do volunteer work for nine months. I remember every single moment: Hazel waved at me, shouted sweet words to me and then walked away, to take her airplane. These things passed in my mind like a never-ending movie for months.
That was the last time I saw Hazel, because she never turned back. Someone killed her, war took her life. Her wonderful, meaningful life.
I don't know very much about how it happened--maybe because I don't want to. I simply know that Hazel is not here, no longer.
Every week I go to her grave, I leave some brooms, her favourite flowers, and I sit in front of it, looking to the little photo under the words "Hazel Martha Daziel 1978-2002 ". I think about those sweet times, and about what I'm doing now. I think about how life could be with her by my side. Sometimes I cry.
And sometimes I also speak, because I hope that , from somewhere, Hazel can still hear me . . .
Literature
Tribute
Gail was born on the first of August 1942, the elder of two. She grew up in New York City, marrying by age 22 and producing three children of her own.
She'd tried her first cigarette when she was eleven. That shouldn't surprise you; in those days there wasn't a Surgeon General's warning or for that matter, any other public service messages.
While she enjoyed motherhood well enough, Gail also had a restless spirit; she was happiest when she was working, helping others, or driving her car. Accordingly, just before her 53rd birthday (and with her children grown and flown) she lost forty pounds and fulfilled a lifelong dream: qualifying
Literature
The Tempo
A while back a colleague of mine brought up in a conversation that somewhere in the world someone dies with every second that passes by. On the other side of that coin, he said, every second someone is born. He said it so matter-of-factly, as though it made perfect sense that there be some sort of universal scale of grief and happiness, life and death. I dont know for sure that what he said was true, but today theres two particular seconds I cant seem to get off my mind.
I used to have this business associate by the name of James Silver. He was pretty young to be as far along as he was. I cant honestly say that he h
Literature
sempiternal
When I grow old
I want
a thousand
laugh-lines.
For when rainbows dilute and notebooks fatten
on times untimely passing,
when the moon falls out of kilter with a sun that
curdles in a sad, forgotten sky,
and the rain congeals inside the clouds
when the slurry of seconds sinks deep into my bones
and my skin crumples like parchment, my spine coils and splinters
and my fingers buckle, knuckle-cracking -
when my dreams fa
Suggested Collections
Work for *Writers-Workshop
This time `Beccalicious asked to write a piece that focused on characters: she gave a list of names and we must choose one and create a story, trying to make something good.
This period is not really happy, I'm always tired and a little sad, and today is dead the grandmother of one of my best friends, so I'm a little sad and all I can write is this. I'm not satisfied, not really much, even if i think that I do a pretty work with Hazel Daziel, one of the name of the list.
Also, 'cause of my sadness, this is a bad-ending love story. Umpf.
It's a little strange for me because I don't want to do something too detailed, I want that everyone could imagine is own Hazel. And the narrator is important, 'cause he's the voice, but he's also like invisible; you only know it's in love with Hazel, but you don't know his name or how he looks like.... Maybe I tried this because I want that everyone focuses on Hazel, but I'm not sure, because I notice this things after I submit it...!
As always, help me with English. I'm improving a lot with your suggestions!
PS: sorry for the strange and confused Artist comment >.<
EDIT
A DD! I still can't believe it... a DD...
Thanks to `Beccalicious for the suggestion, to ^StJoan for featuring, and to *Writers-Workshop for their fantastic work! Thank you very very much!
This time `Beccalicious asked to write a piece that focused on characters: she gave a list of names and we must choose one and create a story, trying to make something good.
This period is not really happy, I'm always tired and a little sad, and today is dead the grandmother of one of my best friends, so I'm a little sad and all I can write is this. I'm not satisfied, not really much, even if i think that I do a pretty work with Hazel Daziel, one of the name of the list.
Also, 'cause of my sadness, this is a bad-ending love story. Umpf.
It's a little strange for me because I don't want to do something too detailed, I want that everyone could imagine is own Hazel. And the narrator is important, 'cause he's the voice, but he's also like invisible; you only know it's in love with Hazel, but you don't know his name or how he looks like.... Maybe I tried this because I want that everyone focuses on Hazel, but I'm not sure, because I notice this things after I submit it...!
As always, help me with English. I'm improving a lot with your suggestions!
PS: sorry for the strange and confused Artist comment >.<
EDIT
A DD! I still can't believe it... a DD...
Thanks to `Beccalicious for the suggestion, to ^StJoan for featuring, and to *Writers-Workshop for their fantastic work! Thank you very very much!
© 2008 - 2024 xCamix
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woah.... just WOAH... very well done