9 years ago
Sunday Scribblings #177 - Adult
...A short using some characters from "Ephemeral Wings"
“Luck be the Lady”
“Sarra,” someone said to the blonde, “sometimes you can't see what's in front of you if you don't open your eyes.”
“What? I can see just fine, thank you... Have you seen this yet?” She gestured to the side of the rickety carriage, her outstretched fingers catching every bit of the seaside air. “It's so blue...and vast! Though, I wonder what's beyond that horizon... When the sun sets, where does he go?”
“He?”
“Sharem, a sparkling angel, the angel of the setting sun...” She sat back, clutching her cloak about her, shivering.
After awhile, they queried, “What are your thoughts on heaven? I'd like to know.”
A smile graced her pale thin lips. “It's a warm place, a wonderful place where there is no suffering. A place where you go when you're tired.”
Curiously, they asked, “Are you tired?”
“No. Just sleepy. We've been on the road for three days, feels like we haven't gone anywhere though...”
“And...?”
“Except seeing the ocean again of course. This is the second time I've seen it... The first time. I remember being so afraid. It was, in truth, a very black day. Because of our born abilities we were pursued and imprisoned, sold. A few years passed during my imprisonment when the forces of the kingdom were torn asunder.” She paused. “Just think... Fighting your own people, how would that feel? Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful that we were released but our escape wasn't easy. In those changed men's eyes was a dark power – I remember, someone I cared for very much tried to reason with one of the soldiers and the end result was his life. But it was also that same day when I was finally free. Meeting these kind people, these wanderers that took me in, I was so happy that I knelt and kissed the earth... Can you imagine it? A damp taste that lingers on your lips, the redeeming taste of rain and fresh soil – that was true freedom.
I do hope that he found that warm place. When I tire I want to see him there. It wouldn't be the same without him, plus, we made a bet.”
“Are you sure this friend wasn't a cheat?”
“He would kill you for saying that. No really! I mean, sure he gambled, but it was for entertainment... I'm positive.”
“Doesn't sound like it. Tell me about your friend then. The destination is still far off. We have plenty of time.”
“You sure are a curious stranger. I don't even know your name, nor have you shown your face. I don't see why I should tell you about him.”
The said stranger reached into the folds of his cloak. “Sure are a picky woman... Fine. Why don't we make a bet. Heads or tails. Tails, I'll tell you my name. Heads, you tell me about your friend. Ready – ”
“Wait! If it's Tails you have to show me your face. You can give me a fake name if you wanted to.”
“Heh. Smart move. Fine. Tails, I show you my face – ”
With the flick of a thumb, the coin spun high in the air. Sarra caught the gleam of silver, watched the stranger's confidant hands catch the coin and flip it face-down. How...familiar it all was.
“What is it?” Sarra managed a breath, a puff of air materializing in front of her. The stranger failed to move, sitting as still as a statue, hand clasped over the coin. “What's wrong?” she asked, suddenly aware of the ever lowering temperature.
“... Sometimes you have to open your eyes,” they said, “because you close them without knowing at times. It's a reflex of your conscience.” The stranger held out his clasped hands. “Will you risk it all on this one coin-flip?”
“What am I risking?”
“That is not mine to answer.”
The carriage shook violently. The once calm waves violently crashed onto shore, foam rising up and down the sand, engulfing any living creature. Thunder and lightning, like cymbals, roared in the heavens – signaling the coming of a grand maelstrom. Sarra peered outside, struck dumb by the weather, the suddenly dark atmosphere and the flag waving far down the road.
“Open your eyes,” the stranger said but she paid them no attention.
The flag was carried by soldiers on horseback – similar to those she had recalled not to long ago. Pairs of red eyes flashed through dark stained helmets, an acrid smell was approaching fast – iron and gunpowder. Loosening her grip in absolute terror, her cloak was torn from her body by the vicious winds. Lightning flashed quick, transforming the burgundy cloak to a bright glistening red –
Sarra...
“Have you found your answer?”
Are you alright?
The soldiers were mere meters from the carriage. She turned to find the stranger's hands open already.
Sarra...
“You said this was my decision – ”
“You decide too slow.”
“But still, you said – ”
“Crybaby. It's simple.” – he tossed the coin to her – “I cheat.”
With that, the stranger leapt into the maelstrom –
Hey...
Sarra...
Hello?
Wake up sleepyhead!
...
“She sure likes to sleep in...”
“Tell me about it...”
It was bright. Instinctively she covered her face with her hands. Instantly she felt a warm spot on her cheek. Blinking, it slid as she turned her body, pushing away the blankets.
“What is that?”
“Sarra?”
She paused, absorbing whatever information she could get from her dream... Delicately she held the coin in the sun, looking at it skeptically as though it might disappear any second.
“Sarra...Are you alright?”
Her voice was soft, on the verge of tears, “Tails... Double. I won.”
Sunday Scribblings #173 - Nowhere
For the SC prompt— Where in the world?
Mars was on the run again.
He previously decided to hide in a room, but despite it's normal appearance, it wasn't.
It was a quaint room with a crackling fire and plush sofas set around a coffee table. It was oh so similar to home that he made himself comfortable accordingly... Then things spoke. Even the most ordinary objects suddenly drew sharp breaths, scolding the very sight of him. They even went as low to criticizing him for having a face when only the Matriarch—if he recalled correctly—and her Knights were the only ones allowed faces. It was then and there that he decided to run for his life and not look back—
He was in a hallway, wide and empty. To the side of him were three-story tall windows, triangular-shaped, like arrowheads lined up a few inches apart. Each shimmered as if made of crystal, enhancing the sight of the garden behind it. Mars followed this path, hoping it would lead him to that garden. He hoped that entering the garden would end this terrible dream because that was how the majority of his dreams ended in the past—
He always ran, it seemed, always ran from something. If he were to look back, whatever landscape was left was encased in ice and the ice didn't show any notion of stopping unless it engulfed everything in it's path. And always there was a light he ran to, and beyond that light was the warmth of a garden in summer. Staring up at the sun in the sky, the blinding sensation subsequent to that would wake him...
The hall was unusually quiet, it had been for the ten minutes or so the second he darted out of that room—if not ten then something close to it. There was no way of telling time in this infernal place. Adjacent the triangle windows were rows of doors. And with those rows of doors—all equally tall but more narrow—were patches of bare wall. On those patches were clocks, all different sizes and shapes and colors, and all with no face, just the numbers and the second hand ticking away. All those monotonous ticks and tocks, put together with the patter of his feet on the polished floors—it all couldn't have been anything else but a dream!
Mars was on the run again.
He previously decided to hide in a room, but despite it's normal appearance, it wasn't.
It was a quaint room with a crackling fire and plush sofas set around a coffee table. It was oh so similar to home that he made himself comfortable accordingly... Then things spoke. Even the most ordinary objects suddenly drew sharp breaths, scolding the very sight of him. They even went as low to criticizing him for having a face when only the Matriarch—if he recalled correctly—and her Knights were the only ones allowed faces. It was then and there that he decided to run for his life and not look back—
He was in a hallway, wide and empty. To the side of him were three-story tall windows, triangular-shaped, like arrowheads lined up a few inches apart. Each shimmered as if made of crystal, enhancing the sight of the garden behind it. Mars followed this path, hoping it would lead him to that garden. He hoped that entering the garden would end this terrible dream because that was how the majority of his dreams ended in the past—
He always ran, it seemed, always ran from something. If he were to look back, whatever landscape was left was encased in ice and the ice didn't show any notion of stopping unless it engulfed everything in it's path. And always there was a light he ran to, and beyond that light was the warmth of a garden in summer. Staring up at the sun in the sky, the blinding sensation subsequent to that would wake him...
The hall was unusually quiet, it had been for the ten minutes or so the second he darted out of that room—if not ten then something close to it. There was no way of telling time in this infernal place. Adjacent the triangle windows were rows of doors. And with those rows of doors—all equally tall but more narrow—were patches of bare wall. On those patches were clocks, all different sizes and shapes and colors, and all with no face, just the numbers and the second hand ticking away. All those monotonous ticks and tocks, put together with the patter of his feet on the polished floors—it all couldn't have been anything else but a dream!
In which I'm a bit overwhelmed...
...and am lazy enough to not think of a more imaginative title.
So I'm sitting here thinking of a rant I could type up. A few seconds later, I change my mind - "who would want to read a rant," I query, "I do doubt that I'll make much sense." So this won't be a rant (hopefully) - and it's not directed at anyone here either (many of my rants aren't anyway). :)
Sunday Scribblings #172 - The Plan
I'm caught between a crossroads and I'm not sure what to do. One side says write, the other says draw, going forward means I'm stalling till I get to another crossroads and, who knows? That might be the last time I get to stall my way through? *sighs*
Anywho, I found this site where a published writer gives advice (here). I thought it was pretty helpful. :) Oh. And here's something I'm reading at the moment.
One last thought - I was thinking of starting a sketch blog of some sort. you know, take pictures (or scan but mine isn't working) of things that were drawn and post it for everyone to see. I really do draw a lot but never upload them to sites like deviantArt if it isn't finished in some way. And I do not like uploading sketches either - it looks like crap since it's like an online gallery/portfolio.
Ah, there's my thoughts for tonight.
So I'm sitting here thinking of a rant I could type up. A few seconds later, I change my mind - "who would want to read a rant," I query, "I do doubt that I'll make much sense." So this won't be a rant (hopefully) - and it's not directed at anyone here either (many of my rants aren't anyway). :)
Sunday Scribblings #172 - The Plan
Why not write? Just write.I suppose I'm fairly upset because 1) I keep writing for ch.7 of YZ but it FAILS every single time and I have to start over 2) I'm caught between wanting to draw because I've got some people counting on me now (three or four - including myself since that was my first career choice) 3) It's super, super, super HOT and dry and we're trying to save electricity by not turning on the AC.
Technical terms literally cramp my style - my voice -
You're killing Art did you know?
Overly literal
Overly realist
Sometimes over-thinking situations can land you in the gutter - how very sad -
To you
From me
A present of everlasting scorn - Happy Birthday -
Here's my broken piece of Art
wrapped all nice and pretty and scented of the most pleasant smell -
It's just what you wanted isn't it?
Loosen up
Chill out
Make the best of your time instead of moping about -
Quit marching around -
only one of the many participating in Their Grand Plan -
Get the hell out of that gutter and move the way you want to
We all have a song, a beat, we move to
We may not agree but we walk a similar path -
Don't ask questions about Art
Just Do It.
I'm caught between a crossroads and I'm not sure what to do. One side says write, the other says draw, going forward means I'm stalling till I get to another crossroads and, who knows? That might be the last time I get to stall my way through? *sighs*
Anywho, I found this site where a published writer gives advice (here). I thought it was pretty helpful. :) Oh. And here's something I'm reading at the moment.
One last thought - I was thinking of starting a sketch blog of some sort. you know, take pictures (or scan but mine isn't working) of things that were drawn and post it for everyone to see. I really do draw a lot but never upload them to sites like deviantArt if it isn't finished in some way. And I do not like uploading sketches either - it looks like crap since it's like an online gallery/portfolio.
Ah, there's my thoughts for tonight.
Sunday Scribblings #169 - Glass eyes
Silent Hill music and creepy dolls just go hand in hand.
By day you can't see what comes out at night. The moon is our ally as the sun is yours.
Through our glass eyes we see the future. At first it is hopeful - to finally get out of this cage - and then it turns to dust. What merriment we did share diminishes throughout the night when you are dreaming of much better things.
+ + +
Oh ambitious child, take me out once in a while. Seat me upon the chair fastened by reeds and poppies. Put a clean apron round my collar and set the table to sup. A breeze would tip this artificial body over, soiling the fabrics you've carefully dressed me in. I'm sad and disappointed because I can only wait. Dirty and alone, you set your tea down and pick me up, brushing the dirt away and smoothing my hair. Oh how you love me ambitious child.
Oh ambitious child, you really love me so, don't you? Even if you've grown so high and so pretty and tall. You'll take out me once in a while won't you? I know you will and I'll wait for as long as you like. I know you're busy but I know you think fondly of me. Of course you do, I'm kept high on the shelf next to your precious books, which I guard while you're away. I know you'll come back for me.
Oh ambitious child, please change the view will you? In front of me has been a painting which I disapprove of. It's dark and gloomy and you too have changed. Oh child, bring me down. I can comfort you. But all you've done is cry angry tears and slam doors and walls. You go outside but you never take me. Child, what has happened to you?
Oh ambitious child, do you hate me? My hair hasn't been combed and my dress not properly fluffed. A filter of dirt is over my eyes and I can't see a thing. Everything is so blurry and I am so confused. I can't watch over you anymore and you never taking down that painting only proves it. Oh child, I know you're lost and your tired and angry and hurt. It's been a week since you've been here, in your room - have you abandoned us all child?
Oh ambitious child., do you know how long it's been? I can barely see you but I know it's you. Smoothing my hair and straightening my dress...did you know I fell over while you were gone? I'm sorry, but I was so sad. I'd thought you left us. Oh child, you've swept the dust away! Oh child, you still love me, I know you do. Now you've set me down again, next to all of our little things... Do you remember? We used to have so much fun... Shall we be going outside? Oh, how long it's been...
Oh ambitious child, I despise you so. You've locked us away in a tiny dark box. In this darkness all I can see is that painting on your wall. That's all I can see. And the more I see it the more my hatred grows for you. Oh child, you foolish child. You've scorned us all.
I hate you.
+ + +
Jolting upright in bed, she flicked the lamp on, the covers up to her chin.
She'd heard voices and dreamt of a figure at the end of her bed. She'd remembered it to be small, and having two shiny eyes like a cat's. The cat... It leapt up to her side, snuggling near her legs, purring. She sighed, relieved. Petting the cat's sleeping head, she motioned to turn off the lamp when she noticed that her closet was open an inch or two. Slowly getting out of bed, the cold floor sending a chill up her spine, she closed the closet only to find that it couldn't close.
She kneeled down, her hands gingerly touching the tiny plastic hand jutting out of the gap. Opening the closet door, it revealed the rest of the arm. But that was it. She took the arm and flung it in the box - barely noticing it was open. Pulling the box closer to her she found it full of all her childhood toys except for her doll. And this arm was hers.
There was a note, scrawled on the cardboard with a red crayon - it too was missing from the box. It said, the writing of a child -
She'd heard voices and dreamt of a figure at the end of her bed. She'd remembered it to be small, and having two shiny eyes like a cat's. The cat... It leapt up to her side, snuggling near her legs, purring. She sighed, relieved. Petting the cat's sleeping head, she motioned to turn off the lamp when she noticed that her closet was open an inch or two. Slowly getting out of bed, the cold floor sending a chill up her spine, she closed the closet only to find that it couldn't close.
She kneeled down, her hands gingerly touching the tiny plastic hand jutting out of the gap. Opening the closet door, it revealed the rest of the arm. But that was it. She took the arm and flung it in the box - barely noticing it was open. Pulling the box closer to her she found it full of all her childhood toys except for her doll. And this arm was hers.
There was a note, scrawled on the cardboard with a red crayon - it too was missing from the box. It said, the writing of a child -
love me. hate me. abandnon me. seek me out in the everlasting darknes -
but yuo cant save me
but yuo cant save me
She pushed the box away and closed the closet, throwing the arm to the wall, waking the cat. She couldn't sleep, can't sleep. This couldn't be real. Creak... It was her door. The cat at her feet, she opened it, peering out into the dark hallway. She didn't need the light to know what was on the wall.
Garbed in a coat, she rushed out the hallway, the cat close behind. On the wall of the living room -
Clang! The kitchen. The cat dashed from the sound, yowling. She entered the kitchen, a single pot on the floor, a hand clutching a red crayon jutting out. On the cupboard was the unfinished phrase -
love me. hate me. abandnon me. seek me out in the everlasting darknes -
but yuo cant save me
but yuo cant save me
Garbed in a coat, she rushed out the hallway, the cat close behind. On the wall of the living room -
yuo cant save me
Clang! The kitchen. The cat dashed from the sound, yowling. She entered the kitchen, a single pot on the floor, a hand clutching a red crayon jutting out. On the cupboard was the unfinished phrase -
yuo cant sav
With the lights on, she took the crayon watching the fingers unwind. She lifted the pot. In it, sprawled on the floor, was her little doll. A shard of glass and inch or so away from the body. When her hand neared it's disheveled curls the doll turned its head to face her, staring at her through one cracked glass eye - the other was unharmed in the fall.
"Oh ambitious child," it said, a tape-recorder voice, flat and monotone, "you foolish child. You scorned us all." It blinked. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you..."
It's voice continued to repeat in broken-record fashion. With the flat side of the pot up, she brought it down with all her strength. The voice faded, stopped, it's painted mouth stuck in a grin. It's eye was missing. It rolled to her feet, the iris staring up at her face. She kicked it away.
Taking a glass of water with her, she returned upstairs, unsure of what she had witnessed. Crash! The glass dropped, nicking the floor with the shards.
Over the headboard of her bed, scrawled with crayon was the word -
"Oh ambitious child," it said, a tape-recorder voice, flat and monotone, "you foolish child. You scorned us all." It blinked. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you..."
It's voice continued to repeat in broken-record fashion. With the flat side of the pot up, she brought it down with all her strength. The voice faded, stopped, it's painted mouth stuck in a grin. It's eye was missing. It rolled to her feet, the iris staring up at her face. She kicked it away.
Taking a glass of water with her, she returned upstairs, unsure of what she had witnessed. Crash! The glass dropped, nicking the floor with the shards.
Over the headboard of her bed, scrawled with crayon was the word -
giulty
My, that doll has to learn how to spell.
poolside
++After this I'm getting back to writing YZ0 >_>'' I'm also a Castlevania music nerd...
Wandering the crystal blue, you wonder sometimes if what belongs there is true. It could be a beautiful hapless dream - of delusions in the light of boredom. Momentary visions of what cannot exist - at least of what we can't take into our own hands and control. So it doesn't exist.
As for the reason why this boat rocks so much is because of the effect water has on solid objects. You can't fully grasp water - unless it's frozen - so we gave it this dreamy mysterious quality. It is nothing but an ethereal form - ephemeral. It can't exist. Nothing real exists there.
So what is it then? This face I see staring back... Is the sea just a mirror? A dark, dark, petrifying mirror that shows us the past? the present? future? I look deeper and deeper, catching my sleep-deprived face in the water, holding it for awhile in my brain - a snatch in time in the ever flowing water. It eventually fades with the tiny waves and ripples. Do I exist?
In this merciless body of water. I certainly can't stand in it else I want to drown. So I'll exist, only temporarily, only long enough till exhaustion racks my frenzied limbs when trying to swim to shore - when there isn't one in sight - and I have enough oxygen in my lungs to scream in the empty blue up ahead. Instead of sending some form of help - some form of solid ground for my feet to stand on - it echoes the sound. Mocking, mocking, mocking...my cry of helplessness in this human-dominated world...
I don't exist.
I don't exist.
I don't exist.
I don't exist.
I don't...
...
...
..
..
.
.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
I immediately opened my eyes, the blinding rays of sunlight scorching my periphery.
"Get on out of here! Out! Out! OUT!"
Oh crap. I fell asleep again didn't I? It must've been or else I wouldn't have been caught.
"Quit lookin' at me like that kid. Don't make me sic the dogs on you." He was literally red as a tomato. If I wasn't in danger - like, actual danger 'cause those dogs are vicious - I'd laugh. "GET OUT!"
I scrambled out the pool, the swimming tube under my arm. Right when I was at the gate the sound of barking was right behind me so I ran the hell away from there. "Sorry Mr. Wazowski! I'll never do it again! Promise!"
That wasn't his name. I just called him that for the heck of it.
"Never do the same thing twice," that's what someone smart said to me. And it's right, in a way. I shouldn't do the same thing twice...
I'll bring friends. Next time.
"Isn't that a little stupid?" they'll probably say.
No. So I'll say, "Dude. He has a freakin' pool."
So next time it is.
Wandering the crystal blue, you wonder sometimes if what belongs there is true. It could be a beautiful hapless dream - of delusions in the light of boredom. Momentary visions of what cannot exist - at least of what we can't take into our own hands and control. So it doesn't exist.
As for the reason why this boat rocks so much is because of the effect water has on solid objects. You can't fully grasp water - unless it's frozen - so we gave it this dreamy mysterious quality. It is nothing but an ethereal form - ephemeral. It can't exist. Nothing real exists there.
So what is it then? This face I see staring back... Is the sea just a mirror? A dark, dark, petrifying mirror that shows us the past? the present? future? I look deeper and deeper, catching my sleep-deprived face in the water, holding it for awhile in my brain - a snatch in time in the ever flowing water. It eventually fades with the tiny waves and ripples. Do I exist?
In this merciless body of water. I certainly can't stand in it else I want to drown. So I'll exist, only temporarily, only long enough till exhaustion racks my frenzied limbs when trying to swim to shore - when there isn't one in sight - and I have enough oxygen in my lungs to scream in the empty blue up ahead. Instead of sending some form of help - some form of solid ground for my feet to stand on - it echoes the sound. Mocking, mocking, mocking...my cry of helplessness in this human-dominated world...
I don't exist.
I don't exist.
I don't exist.
I don't exist.
I don't...
...
...
..
..
.
.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
I immediately opened my eyes, the blinding rays of sunlight scorching my periphery.
"Get on out of here! Out! Out! OUT!"
Oh crap. I fell asleep again didn't I? It must've been or else I wouldn't have been caught.
"Quit lookin' at me like that kid. Don't make me sic the dogs on you." He was literally red as a tomato. If I wasn't in danger - like, actual danger 'cause those dogs are vicious - I'd laugh. "GET OUT!"
I scrambled out the pool, the swimming tube under my arm. Right when I was at the gate the sound of barking was right behind me so I ran the hell away from there. "Sorry Mr. Wazowski! I'll never do it again! Promise!"
That wasn't his name. I just called him that for the heck of it.
"Never do the same thing twice," that's what someone smart said to me. And it's right, in a way. I shouldn't do the same thing twice...
I'll bring friends. Next time.
"Isn't that a little stupid?" they'll probably say.
No. So I'll say, "Dude. He has a freakin' pool."
So next time it is.
i dreamt of a town...
I know that there was something - some kind of purpose - to these dreams I'd had for the past few weeks. A town, somewhere along the shore that called to me like a ghost of a memory I once had.
It was of course of a friend whom I knew and played with as a child. It was of course of a friend, whom I knew, had died. It was the night that showed me his face for multiple times and it is the night that I blame for my unwillingness to sleep. And the thought of it all is absurd.
I asked a friend to drive me there, that little town, for the weekend.
It hadn't changed much, not from what I remember of it. There was also that same smell, probably the smell of the smokestacks of the factories or the fish market - at best a mixture of both. But that wasn't the destination I had in mind.
What I thought of was the lighthouse. Burned by the accidental fire that later killed my friend. It was rebuilt - of course it would - built all shiny and new. It was insulting in a way and I wished for this contraption to collapse.
"What are you looking for?" she said to me. For the past minute or so, I'd done nothing but stare at this damned lighthouse - seeing...remembering the charred remains that took him from me. "Fae. Fae!"
I closed my eyes for only a moment, feeling a wave of dizziness rack my brain. Then there was his face and then a scream - and in my groggy state, I couldn't tell whether that scream was real. All that I know was that it echoed in the blackness and I was out like a light.
I woke in a cold sweat. My clothes damp and restricting. But amidst this I knew what he wanted me to do - what I repressed because of the fire.
I wasn't in a hospital of any sort, just the first aid room in the lighthouse. I rose to my feet feeling the previous drowsiness and heaviness melt away due to the adrenaline rush of realization.
I failed once. Failed to be there for him lost in my grief that later resulted in my moving away. And what I left behind was the only light he left in that tragedy.
Bursting past the doors and ignoring the concerned cries of my friend hurrying behind me, I jumped down to the shore, the sand softening the impact. It was all too familiar because we'd walked here many times, too many times that we gave every sea-creature and stand-alone rock a name. But I had forgotten those now and they too had moved on with the deliberate passage of time.
And there it was - the hollow in the rock as I remembered it which I struck with another sharper rock in order to loosen it. Once done, I took the cover of the hollow and brushed the sand off the cool surface of the lunch-box I predicted was there. My friend had appeared at my side by the time I had this rusted box in my hands.
My heart beat frantically, the face of the boy and his voice clear in my mind, as I opened the box to find a few keepsakes and a scrap of stationary. Among the keepsakes were old toys and baubles, items I remembered that we found or salvaged, giving each and every one of them a significant meaning that only a child can grant. I'd forgot about that too and I despised that fact that he - having haunted my dreams for who knows how long - wouldn't just remind me instead of me having to dig deep through my memories of the days I didn't want to remember.
I then took the paper, unfolding it to reveal his handwriting and a poem that struck a chord in my strained heart-
i dreamt of a town
and a face with a frown
and -would you guess-
his face wasn't all too pleasant
i couldn't see
what was to become of me
of the hellfire-like emotions
slowly consuming me
if this is to be
what i shall leave
as the last proof
to prove my sanity
then - so be it
and so my friend in the dark
i bid you good night
and weep for your loneliness
because it's all too clear why you appear to me and me only
we are the same
too much alike
too hauntingly alike
that i'd rather never see you again...
I lowered the letter to my lap, letting whatever tear fall where they may. The boy was laughing at me now. Laughing a terrible laugh that echoed like a never-ending spiral over and over and over...
Closing my ears against this broken-record of laughter, the paper blew into the wind, landing and eventually submerging into the watery deep lost for eternity.
It was of course of a friend whom I knew and played with as a child. It was of course of a friend, whom I knew, had died. It was the night that showed me his face for multiple times and it is the night that I blame for my unwillingness to sleep. And the thought of it all is absurd.
I asked a friend to drive me there, that little town, for the weekend.
It hadn't changed much, not from what I remember of it. There was also that same smell, probably the smell of the smokestacks of the factories or the fish market - at best a mixture of both. But that wasn't the destination I had in mind.
What I thought of was the lighthouse. Burned by the accidental fire that later killed my friend. It was rebuilt - of course it would - built all shiny and new. It was insulting in a way and I wished for this contraption to collapse.
"What are you looking for?" she said to me. For the past minute or so, I'd done nothing but stare at this damned lighthouse - seeing...remembering the charred remains that took him from me. "Fae. Fae!"
I closed my eyes for only a moment, feeling a wave of dizziness rack my brain. Then there was his face and then a scream - and in my groggy state, I couldn't tell whether that scream was real. All that I know was that it echoed in the blackness and I was out like a light.
+ + +
I woke in a cold sweat. My clothes damp and restricting. But amidst this I knew what he wanted me to do - what I repressed because of the fire.
I wasn't in a hospital of any sort, just the first aid room in the lighthouse. I rose to my feet feeling the previous drowsiness and heaviness melt away due to the adrenaline rush of realization.
I failed once. Failed to be there for him lost in my grief that later resulted in my moving away. And what I left behind was the only light he left in that tragedy.
Bursting past the doors and ignoring the concerned cries of my friend hurrying behind me, I jumped down to the shore, the sand softening the impact. It was all too familiar because we'd walked here many times, too many times that we gave every sea-creature and stand-alone rock a name. But I had forgotten those now and they too had moved on with the deliberate passage of time.
And there it was - the hollow in the rock as I remembered it which I struck with another sharper rock in order to loosen it. Once done, I took the cover of the hollow and brushed the sand off the cool surface of the lunch-box I predicted was there. My friend had appeared at my side by the time I had this rusted box in my hands.
My heart beat frantically, the face of the boy and his voice clear in my mind, as I opened the box to find a few keepsakes and a scrap of stationary. Among the keepsakes were old toys and baubles, items I remembered that we found or salvaged, giving each and every one of them a significant meaning that only a child can grant. I'd forgot about that too and I despised that fact that he - having haunted my dreams for who knows how long - wouldn't just remind me instead of me having to dig deep through my memories of the days I didn't want to remember.
I then took the paper, unfolding it to reveal his handwriting and a poem that struck a chord in my strained heart-
i dreamt of a town
and a face with a frown
and -would you guess-
his face wasn't all too pleasant
i couldn't see
what was to become of me
of the hellfire-like emotions
slowly consuming me
if this is to be
what i shall leave
as the last proof
to prove my sanity
then - so be it
and so my friend in the dark
i bid you good night
and weep for your loneliness
because it's all too clear why you appear to me and me only
we are the same
too much alike
too hauntingly alike
that i'd rather never see you again...
I lowered the letter to my lap, letting whatever tear fall where they may. The boy was laughing at me now. Laughing a terrible laugh that echoed like a never-ending spiral over and over and over...
Closing my ears against this broken-record of laughter, the paper blew into the wind, landing and eventually submerging into the watery deep lost for eternity.
Heaven's Night—"There's still happiness"
Uncertainties & shaky hands
make for a nervous gait
but who's eyes broaden upon the lands
searching for the road to Dream
Another SongPost just for fun. :) And because I like linking stuff even if I've linked them before (check post True). Not a lot is going on and I've been reading about the USSR like crazy for a History paper and other things and the information is kind of overwhelming but it's all good. Just found out I might be going to Canada this summer... More characterization and sad stuff *hits self b/c she can't write anything not sad and depressing*. Darn Silent Hill music. I love it so much.
xD Can you tell I'm trying to avoid using the character names?
make for a nervous gait
but who's eyes broaden upon the lands
searching for the road to Dream
Another SongPost just for fun. :) And because I like linking stuff even if I've linked them before (check post True). Not a lot is going on and I've been reading about the USSR like crazy for a History paper and other things and the information is kind of overwhelming but it's all good. Just found out I might be going to Canada this summer... More characterization and sad stuff *hits self b/c she can't write anything not sad and depressing*. Darn Silent Hill music. I love it so much.
xD Can you tell I'm trying to avoid using the character names?
+ + + Heaven's Night—"There's still happiness"
The Heaven's Night festival was held on this one day of the year where everyone, since this being a very small town, would gather in the highest clearing, yards from the town. It was called "One Star Hill" because of the myth that a star fell there long ago in the past that made the land what it was. The town's name isn't that special and has had a history of conquerors and battalions trampling over this land for the people beyond—those that have reason to call trouble like that, the ones with fortifications and riches beyond us peasants. As a whole, this town has been rebuilt over and over all because of the motto the council chose thusly: In somnis veritas or "In dreams there is truth."
It was said that this town was the epitome of dreams, where you are able to dream because how this town functions looks all so simple...from the surface. But I'm not saying that I know how and what the council deals with on a daily basis but everyone that lives here has so much pride and hope for this tiny town...
Dreams. Hope. Heaven's Night... All make me think of fairytales. Can this town, it's civilians; is this all a big fairytale? If that's so, let it stay that way, if not for me then for everyone else.
The street on which I walk now, the narrow paved path with quaint dusty brown buildings lining the sides. Steel and iron painted a shiny black were the lights that appeared at so-and-so interval of pavement, baskets of greenery and fragrant flowers brightening the path. The sun was just setting so the lights themselves were being lit one by one as I walked past this all too familiar road.
Many people I knew passed me by, all huddled close with their companions and shivering in their coats and gloves. Though enamored with their lover or in a heated conversation, they gave me a short glance before turning away. Smiles, small and maybe even hopeful, were etched on their faces. I knew what they were thinking about. I knew that they knew where I was going, who I was visiting; they'd seen me far too often. I blushed, pulling my cap down at the same time.
The more I walked, the more and more empty the street became. Buildings began to disperse as wider, loner snowscapes met my eye and trees spotted the white all around me. My hands in my pockets I continued this dirt path, trudging on the incline. A carriage just passed me by; I heard the whistling and chugging of a train in the distance. It was close now, the house, though a bit near the mouth of the woods, gated but tiny—a cottage. The husband worked in the town, the mother stayed at home, she stayed at home as well, save for the occasion of school.
I'd met her a very long time ago and had been by her since then with the permission of her parents. I with my father by my side and my mother gone with a lover and a child of her own—a brother can you believe that? With the two being acquainted in business ventures and both on good terms, I was able to come and go to their house at any time. I remember my father laughing at how suddenly active I'd become since I was born not in the best of health...
And here I am now, about to knock on the door. From here I could hear a faint singing, footsteps and the crackling of a fire. I knocked and in a few seconds the mother, with her kind but wan face, let me in with a smile, urging me to sit by the fire and rest. I did and could never have been more thankful.+ + +
It was a dark clear sky with no moon. The only lights we could see were from the stars and the square in the town accompanied with low cheers and music. Eventually, one by one, the lights would shut off and the civilians, with candles in their hands resembling fireflies in the summer, would make the pilgrimage to the hill and watch the sky. There were groups and broken lines, like blotches in the snow, who'd sit quietly or play around for everything was silent and their joyous cries could be heard miles away—where we were sitting.
It would stay like that until the night air became unbearable but till then, a fire would be created and everyone would sit closer to hear the stories and myths of olde from the mouths of the civilians themselves. While that happened, the lights of the patrol could be seen fading in and out of the dark crevices of the town, guards were posted by the possible entrances where any danger but that rarely happened.
The bench we were sitting on was crafted by my father but the location as to which it was to be placed was suggested by Leander, her father. His excuse was because it was always nice to look out from a high place. And it's wonderful, especially in the springtime when all the greenery and flowers looked their finest. Now that I think about it...it does sound like a fairytale. I mentioned this to her and she smiled but she seemed more lost in her thoughts. I asked her what was wrong and she snapped back to her normal self.
"Everything is fine," she had said. People said that when they were not fine.
I didn't push the subject. There was something about living for so long with this girl that made one almost know what she was thinking in a single glance. There was also the definite tightening of the edges of her lips; sometimes they'd be little tugs, as if all she wanted to do at the moment was frown. Then there was a certain look to her face and—as if aware of the deep slant of her brow—the modest dip of her head caused her hair to partially obscure her profile where she, following that, would brush it over her ear with white frozen fingers. The slant looked less severe but it remained nonetheless.
She was definitely not saying something that needed to be said. And I, noticing how this observation of her mannerisms struck me as a little...creepy. Turning away, even though she hadn't noticed my staring, I thought of what I could do. She was the type to, say, "suffer quietly." Even then, when we first met, she was quiet around other children and was always left behind like a shadow. When she was alone with her mother and father, she was the opposite... Maybe it has something to do with her parents... Probably—
"What are you thinking about?" Her voice clear and loud in the silence, like the hourly bells.
Her face was turned towards me... Has she been like that for some time? I pulled my cap closer. I thought of what I'd been doing earlier and couldn't help but be guilty.
She then looked to the gathering below, leaning forward, then she looked up. She gasped. Breaking out into a wide smile, she suddenly took my arm, the same one still holding onto the cap. Startled, the thing practically flew from my fingers to the snowy ground. I really should keep a better grip on that hat really...
"Did you see? Did you see?" she said, exasperated.
I shook my head. I asked her what it was it she saw and she replied—
"It was a shooting star... No. There were two—no"—she blinked, trying to recall the number of stars she saw fall—"Oh, there were a couple I know but one of them was very bright, like it was going to crash onto the hill like the myth."
I replied that it was probably a good omen and that the town was going to prosper. That everyone was guaranteed happiness since the year was ending soon.
She was still for a moment, her smile diminishing into a grin. Then, she nodded, leaving my side in order to pick up the hat, brushing the snow from the material. Instead of giving the hat to me she put it on, mimicking the walk and talk of a man. We laughed and she seemed to be in better spirits, sitting back down with a satisfied exhale as a chill shook her frame. She returned the hat to me as she relaxed onto the bench. I could see that the revelry was but a temporary reprieve from her thoughts for she looked as if she was about to cry... I hesitated but I placed the hat over her head, her sad eyes.
I thought she was going to smile, maybe even laugh and take "revenge" as she always did. But she didn't. She took my arm as before and leaned on it, the cap stayed so I couldn't see much but her nose and the tip of her chin. Soon, tears rolled from her cheeks and she'd inhale through her nose constantly, her grip round my arm tightening—if it was any tighter bloodflow would stop entirely in it's tracks. But it didn't hurt.
I really didn't mind but I felt as if she expected something from me and I felt idiotic that I couldn't just read her mind and find out how to offer solace on what she wouldn't tell me.+ + +
We both sat there, the crowd dispersing slowly. Some lights, the streetlights mainly, were turned on in the town, there were some lights in some of the buildings too. She still wouldn't say anything but the tears had stopped. Her breathing was still uneven but, other than that, she was all right.
"Look up," I said, "Before the stars are gone."
She didn't. This, and my overall helplessness in these kinds of situations was slightly irritating me. I knew that there were things that people were supposed to and not supposed to do when in situations like this, or so I've heard. Then there was the fact that I had no idea what she was so worried and sad about... I took the plunge and just asked.
She had to repeat her answer, having to clear her throat first because her voice was watered down—"Mama is dying."
So it did have something to do with her parents... Ah, I still felt like an idiot and wanted to die in some obscure place. Again, she went against my expectations and looked at me with those large watery eyes but only for a second. She looked away, down, onto her lap then went ahead to removing the cap hitting me square in the face with it.
"But I'm all right now"—she amended with a half-hearted smile—"There's still happiness...for her. Sure. It'll take a while before I—Daddy and I—get over her...death... But we'll be by her side when she goes, wherever she goes...and we'll remember her too"—she grew quiet, her words coming out as whispers easily lost in a wind, if there was one—"as if she never died." Tears began to fall but she caught each with the swipe of her hands and cuffs and sleeves. "I have...hope"—she began shortly after—"that she'll be fine. And if she's fine then we are too."
Her body, as she talked, became stiff. Her back didn't touch the bench, her hands tense over her knees, her boots together like those who marched in the civil militia... She can't return to that girl again...the one who stood farthest from the group of schoolchildren. The one who refused to say a word unless she was called on by an instructor... I lightly placed my gloved hand over hers, turning it over so our fingers entwined and as I moved to lean on her shoulder, startling her, I said quietly but clearly—
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do but I do know that I'll be there for you—my father and I will be there for when it's just you two. However, remember that you can't keep this all to yourself. I don't want you to be like me, to end up like me, secretly despising other families because they had a mother along with a father." I couldn't help but say it out loud. If there was any chance for her being more open to me then I had to do the same for her. She loved her mother, and I had some love for mine under a smoldering hatred of her leaving...
"Then," she said, "did you hate me as well?"
"I hated everybody, honestly"—my voice lowered suddenly, as if I'd lost the will to even speak—"but I could never hate you. I can't hate anybody now." I moved from her side but our hands remained intact.
Her voice too lowered, the same went for her eyes. Her hand went tense under mine. "Why is that?" She repeated herself even though I heard her fine, stronger and uncertain.
"Because I couldn't find someone who could prove me wrong. You can't hate your parents, even if they did something wrong. I saw you with yours, saw how happy you were, and felt, at first, so much anger but found out after how sad I really was. What I'm trying to say is that I found you—even though you didn't know—but you have me there—here—already. Understand?" I wasn't sure how these words got out—nor was I sure if I understood them correctly (though it made more sense the less I thought about it)—but it seemed to be working.
She was set at ease after but I had a drop of regret for not thinking over my words. I mean, there's something wrong when words just come out of your mouth right? Words you didn't know you could say?
She said something and I couldn't hear because I was lost in my thoughts. I asked her to say it again.
"There's still happiness."+ + +
That was the last Heaven's Night we spent together. She and her father had moved several months into the fall to one of the walled cities beyond this tiny town.+ + +
Dreams. Hope. Heaven's Night... All make me think of fairytales. Can this town, it's civilians; is this all a big fairytale? If that's so, let it stay that way, if not for me then for everyone else. Then if not for everyone else, let it be so for her.
Shout it Out
I believe that deeds speak louder than words. I'm afraid of being left behind and thus bring others down with me. Optimism and Pessimism is just another way of describing the weights over your Left and Right shoulder. I feel I can't cry because it'll deem me a weakling. I like screaming into a pillow or else I'll be reprimanded for making noise. The one person I really hate is myself because that's the person that hates everyone else. And blames everyone else. I bring myself down. A person I love is myself because it balances out the hatred. Fairytales are real. I take words and re-invent the meaning. Call me old fashioned because...well, I am. I may like Japanese things but I am not a Japanophile. Open-mindedness is key to understanding all life but to know absolutely everything about life is absurd. I want to shoot Raskolnikov because he's too much like me (Goddammit it. Why Rodion Romanovich? Goddammit why?!) I often ask people how it would be like if everyone was their opposite gender.... Think about it. I had a dream where I jumped off a building. Right when I landed, I woke up by the shock that ran through my body. I had that dream in class. Aglaia Ivanovna is one of the female characters I can most relate with because Prince Lev Nikolaevich Myshkin is love. I've contemplated suicide but I knew I couldn't do it because I knew it was stupid. Stories are for children, I've been told, so let me stay as one for a while longer. I had imaginary friends when I was small. Frankly, I'm lonely, but that's because I miss people I shouldn't be missing. I have this wild notion that one day a prince will swoop me off my feet and take me away...seriously now, how many times does that happen? I believe it anyway. I am not afraid of commitment. I'm just in denial that people actually like me. I hate my real name. My pseudonym is created from my first, middle and last names. Cell phones are overrated and costly and I vowed to never have one until I was old enough to pay for one myself...my parents got me one anyways. Darn. I'm scared to DEATH by spiders or anything with more legs than necessary. I'm nocturnal. I can't dance but I try, and fail, HORRIBLY. I like the waltz. Lace and flowy dresses is a love I keep to myself. People think I'm emo. I'm not. I'm me so get it straight. I'm a Psychological Horror enthusiast. I cover the walls of my room with pictures and drawings so, when I come home, I know someone wants me home. I've walked one hour in the rain to go home once and liked it. I sing terribly but that doesn't stop me. I blame myself too much. I want someone to tell me it's okay and that everything's going to be all right and MEAN IT. My characters are what make me get out of bed in the morning. They tire of me overstaying my welcome in my dreams. I can't hold on to anything good for me because I purposely want someone to hate me so I can hate myself. I absolutely dislike the slamming of doors or any variation of loud noises. It reminds me too much of when my tyrannical mother would scream and shout about the little things. My door was kicked down because I said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Go figure. I had hands wrapped round my throat as I was on the ground, and all because I was crying. A certain someone was witness to this and didn't do a thing. Begging for forgiveness helps but my pride took a hard hit. I can't trust anyone but myself. It isn't official but I'm insane, if not that, then I'm slowly going mad. I want to run away so so badly but I know there's nowhere for me to go. The only hell and heaven there is is what you define them to be. If I did something wrong, I did something wrong, it doesn't matter what you think. I'm scared of the dark because I remember what I don't want to remember. I want to fall asleep and never wake up. Someday I'll grow wings and fly away.
I LOST THE GAME.
"(damnation of memory)"
Fading into a nightmare
of delusions of grandeur
and vain suppositions of power...?
The people...are fading too.
A wellspring of faith
brings hope but
like a flickering candle--
it dies in the midst of a rough wind.
Bring your hands together
from the invisible chain that binds
those with the same fate
and fight to return to what once was.
A conquest of peace
brings about destruction--
Does this make it all the more worthy
or meaningful? meaningless?
Nightmares last
as long as the night lasts
but life continues onward for eternity--
Will we ever wake up?
A shallow sleep
is not sufficient
to take back what was lost
and forsaken.
in memoria di me--
aegri somnia de perdido.
(in memory of myself--
lost in troubled dreams)
--damnatio memoriae
Fading into a nightmare
of delusions of grandeur
and vain suppositions of power...?
The people...are fading too.
A wellspring of faith
brings hope but
like a flickering candle--
it dies in the midst of a rough wind.
Bring your hands together
from the invisible chain that binds
those with the same fate
and fight to return to what once was.
A conquest of peace
brings about destruction--
Does this make it all the more worthy
or meaningful? meaningless?
Nightmares last
as long as the night lasts
but life continues onward for eternity--
Will we ever wake up?
A shallow sleep
is not sufficient
to take back what was lost
and forsaken.
in memoria di me--
aegri somnia de perdido.
(in memory of myself--
lost in troubled dreams)
--damnatio memoriae
What ho! (the Shakespeare meaning please) Tis' another weekend to which I'm grateful is finally here. It's been a tough week for me but I'm sure others have it tougher than I. (If so, how are you? and you've got a listener on your side if one is called for.)
So lately I've been assigned by my Graphics teacher to design something for a T-shirt--it's a class project--but, what he doesn't know, is that I've been in a big artistic slump ever since I've been writing. Though I don't see it as a bad thing since I've been writing more poems as of late and that's quite an achievement for me (though they don't make much sense at times, or they focus on a character or a specific story). But I'm glad that I've gotten into the habit of writing in poem form since it helped me on an English assignment I had to do on Tennessee Williams' play A Streetcar Named Desire. It's a lovely play, though violent and at times suggestive, but it gave me a lot of insight on real-life conflicts and character development.
The strange thing in my school is that no one likes the books that are assigned...is that true? maybe, but I previously watched the movie and loved it so I loved the play version twice as much. Then, there was Millers' The Crucible, which I liked and made me take an interest in Nathaniel Hawthorne's works... Before that, we had to read various articles, though a bit boring (since the way we did these were really repetitive) they were on interesting subjects. Some, if I remember correctly were on: childhood obesity--who is responsible?; teenage crimes and whether sending them to adult jail was justified...things like that.
...I believe what I was trying to say is that reading is a fun and educational activity. Call me old fashioned but people, especially teenagers need to read more. I'm kind of tired, if not a little annoyed, when a student says something that is so obvious if they had read the material assigned.
I'm at a crossroads right now. One, I could continue ranting about what I find faulty in the educational system, while implementing multiple exclamation marks in the process. Or, two, I stick to my Libran nature and not poke the sleeping bear with a 3 cm toothpick. IT JUST CAN'T BE DONE! And besides, my mind wanders faster than the Roadrunner does from Wile E. Coyote. (I'm trying not to focus on anger because it makes me feel idiotic as I type.)
Is it just me who feels a bit lost? Probably...or not.
...Here's something that was mentioned today.
RULE 1: You are playing The Game.
RULE 2: Whenever you think about The Game, you lose.
RULE 3: Loss must be announced
The objective of the game is to forget it exists.
SS# 158 Scary
Fear starts
in the deepest part of our hearts
because that's where we keep things true
In the merciless fog we call doubt
there is no way out
but up towards the heavens
Yet we cannot fly
no matter how much we beg and cry
to sprout wings on our undeserving backs
We're left here to face
what we've tried so hard to erase
from our thoughts and everyday life
So we wander, wondering
how and when the end to this suffering
finally arrives
But is there a way
to find the light of day
in this cumbersome shroud?
in the deepest part of our hearts
because that's where we keep things true
In the merciless fog we call doubt
there is no way out
but up towards the heavens
Yet we cannot fly
no matter how much we beg and cry
to sprout wings on our undeserving backs
We're left here to face
what we've tried so hard to erase
from our thoughts and everyday life
So we wander, wondering
how and when the end to this suffering
finally arrives
But is there a way
to find the light of day
in this cumbersome shroud?
My biggest fear probably is to keep burying things on top of another till it kills me from the inside out. D: That just sounds terrible.
SS# 157 Celebration
I've been choosing not to rhyme lately :) but this poem I had fun doing. When I hear "celebration" I immediately think of something happy...how about you? EDIT: finally gave the darn poem a title.
"The Misadventures of the Working Man"
i wander
and wonder
the desire of a celebration
on the day
when Death decided to creep closer...
“what is the purpose?”
i query to no one in particular
but all there is around me
is stark artifice
and the mocking blue sky
people abound
their suitcases and suits
with straightened ties
and snazzy haircuts
all have somewhere to go
while, i on the other hand
return to the emptiness
that is my apartment
down the street
of a begging homeless man
and somewhere along the curb
were the poorly disguised cars
and various transportation vehicles
of close friends and colleagues
with portfolio in hand
the key well into the lock
i take a deep breath
my eyes downcast
and open the door...
“SURPRISE!” they cry
CONGRATULATIONS!
writ on a banner on the wall
where balloons were set modestly
over a candle-lit cake
my dejected expression
caused the shouting party
to cease their revelry
and immediately became...
perplexed
as to what they were confused about
i didn't know, nor did i want to
but all i did know
was that the gathering was intended for my roommate
and i forgot to bring a present
...go me.
"The Misadventures of the Working Man"
i wander
and wonder
the desire of a celebration
on the day
when Death decided to creep closer...
“what is the purpose?”
i query to no one in particular
but all there is around me
is stark artifice
and the mocking blue sky
people abound
their suitcases and suits
with straightened ties
and snazzy haircuts
all have somewhere to go
while, i on the other hand
return to the emptiness
that is my apartment
down the street
of a begging homeless man
and somewhere along the curb
were the poorly disguised cars
and various transportation vehicles
of close friends and colleagues
with portfolio in hand
the key well into the lock
i take a deep breath
my eyes downcast
and open the door...
“SURPRISE!” they cry
CONGRATULATIONS!
writ on a banner on the wall
where balloons were set modestly
over a candle-lit cake
my dejected expression
caused the shouting party
to cease their revelry
and immediately became...
perplexed
as to what they were confused about
i didn't know, nor did i want to
but all i did know
was that the gathering was intended for my roommate
and i forgot to bring a present
...go me.
SS: #129- Invitation
IMMORTALITY
The letters were red, bold, taking up the entire space of the front side of the card. On the back however, merely stated a date, time and place:
10/30/08
11:59 PM
The stars.
It was the strangest invite Ariadne had ever seen; it seemed like a stupid joke but this was an opportunity she didn't want to pass up. It was too late to turn back now.
* * *
Ariadne wasn't the most popular person at school nor was she involved in any social circles. She was normally alone, a book in her hands, going wherever she needed to be, doing what she was told—Ariadne was a loner; she didn't like it.
It was October, a day before it was time to bust out candy and costumes but that wasn't the subject most of the student-body was all atwitter about. It was an invitation to an event that only happened once a year. A student was giving it out—the kind of people Ariadne didn't like to associate with; the one person she thought to be her moral opposite, Odette. It wasn't always like this, for once, Ariadne had thought she'd found her first friend but Odette had turned her back on her. Still, Ariadne wasn't the kind to hold a grudge but Odette was. In a way, Ariadne was jealous of this girl, because she was everything she wasn't—it was what she wanted to be.
The halls were putrid, a stink bomb was set off, students rushed to their classes hands over their noses. Ariadne hated the halls the most. It was crowded and home of awkward moments such as: bumping into people, getting caught in the bell-rush (when students fill the halls right after the bell rings) and tripping by 'accident.' Ariadne knew her predicaments were no accident—she had the slight feeling that eyes were always watching her. She disliked being judged the most, though she was 'normal' in the case of the attire she wore, so there shouldn't be any reason for the spotlight to shine onto her. Then again, there was Odette.
"Move."
Her strides were confident, nails as sharp as her eyes, she was smiling but her eyes said otherwise. She flashed a card-size envelope in Ariadne's face, waving it around as if a treat for a dog, then, she continued her way out the fragrant hallway. Ariadne was glad that school was over; she wanted to go home, snuggle in her sheets and cry. She wasn't entirely sure why Odette hated her but she was sure that she'd be better off without it and, simply, didn't want to deal with it. Ariadne couldn't stand people hating her so she'd blame herself instead—their 'hate' channeling through her, making her miserable.
This was what she believed.
* * *
A knock was on the door.
Ariadne set her notebook down, making her way to the door, pencil in hand, and opening it. She was surprised.
"What are you doing here?"
Odette had her arms crossed, her lips curved in a grin but her voice was far from joyous nor was it malicious.
"What do you think?"
Ariadne was feeling uncomfortable. I don't want to deal with this. Her grip was tight over the handle. Not now.
"Too bad," she said, indignation flaring in her voice. Odette held out a hand, Ariadne flinched. "Take it."
It was the invitation. Ariadne swallowed hard. If she were to take this would it mean that their friendship would be restored? No. She thought about how long she had been made fun of, teased. She thought about how many times she cried, her feelings hurt, their hate—her hate. Her hate towards this girl. I hate you. Ariadne bit her bottom lip, there was a taste, salty; she couldn't recall when she'd begun to cry. I hate you. She couldn't recall anything now, except for her hatred. I hate you so much that I—
Enraged, blinded, her hand moved without a second thought.
It was quick, swift.
Her hands lightly felt at the pencil lodged in her neck. She couldn't speak, pain making her limbs slack. Odette fell to the concrete floor, one hand at her wound, the other gripping at the rough welcome mat, crumpling the corners of the partially bloodied envelope. Ariadne felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her.
Now she too felt weak; sliding onto the floor, her body trembling. For the first time now, their eyes met dead-on. She was dying, yes, that was the truth, but Odette was smiling, red streaking from her mouth. She coughed, her outstretched hand reaching the inside of the house; her fingers were no longer tense.
Ariadne had killed Odette and she never felt more better in her entire life.
Ariadne set her notebook down, making her way to the door, pencil in hand, and opening it. She was surprised.
"What are you doing here?"
Odette had her arms crossed, her lips curved in a grin but her voice was far from joyous nor was it malicious.
"What do you think?"
Ariadne was feeling uncomfortable. I don't want to deal with this. Her grip was tight over the handle. Not now.
"Too bad," she said, indignation flaring in her voice. Odette held out a hand, Ariadne flinched. "Take it."
It was the invitation. Ariadne swallowed hard. If she were to take this would it mean that their friendship would be restored? No. She thought about how long she had been made fun of, teased. She thought about how many times she cried, her feelings hurt, their hate—her hate. Her hate towards this girl. I hate you. Ariadne bit her bottom lip, there was a taste, salty; she couldn't recall when she'd begun to cry. I hate you. She couldn't recall anything now, except for her hatred. I hate you so much that I—
Enraged, blinded, her hand moved without a second thought.
It was quick, swift.
Her hands lightly felt at the pencil lodged in her neck. She couldn't speak, pain making her limbs slack. Odette fell to the concrete floor, one hand at her wound, the other gripping at the rough welcome mat, crumpling the corners of the partially bloodied envelope. Ariadne felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her.
Now she too felt weak; sliding onto the floor, her body trembling. For the first time now, their eyes met dead-on. She was dying, yes, that was the truth, but Odette was smiling, red streaking from her mouth. She coughed, her outstretched hand reaching the inside of the house; her fingers were no longer tense.
Ariadne had killed Odette and she never felt more better in her entire life.
* * *
It was mere minutes before the date specified on the invitation. Ariadne tried her best to make do with her wardrobe, though she didn't see the point in dressing up when she was just going to look at stars but she had to convince herself otherwise. Though it was difficult since her body lay in the denizens of her closet.
11:58 PM
The window was open, the invitation in her hands, her eyes closely watching the dark sky. Just one more minute, if nothing were to happen, Ariadne was to die. She didn't like the idea of prison and rotting, guilt racking her brain, people would hate her again and again would she feel pain—she'd rather kill herself than let that happen. No more pain.
11:59 PM
She continued to stand, the sky was blank, the stars faint due to the streetlamps that lined her street. Ariadne was near tears when a noise made her jump. It seemed to come from the closet. Slowly, Ariadne tip-toed to it, her heart racing within her chest. A dead person can't move but what was making that noise?
Ariadne pried the door open, hesitant due to that fact that it had been hours since her body was placed there.
Nothing.
Another noise. Ariadne turned, it was a doll, or it seemed like one. It was beautiful, it's face, eyes, Ariadne couldn't tell whether it a women or a man—it seemed like a dream. Suddenly, softly, the doll had embraced Ariadne, smoothing her hair. She felt safe in the doll's arms and closed her eyes, the light it emitted was blinding.
I can save you, it said, a soft lilting voice, You will no longer feel any of this pain. Put your faith in me and I promise I will never leave you my child.
Ariadne didn't have time to answer. Her eyes were open, the doll was not in her arms anymore but a body as pitch black as a starless night. She couldn't pull free, she was sinking into the mass, distorted screams and cries of people ringing in her ears. As her body couldn't pull free, her eyes couldn't stop staring into the dark oblivion ahead of her. Thousands upon thousands of eyes, faces, were looking at her. The faces overlapped each other, rippling if she were to breath upon the creature—they were reflections, the souls of the people that created this thing; this monster. She sunk within the blackness, her eyes shut tight as she did so.
Then it was gone. The feeling of sinking disappeared, being replaced with the assumption that it was just a nightmare.
It was morning, sheets placed over her eyes, blocking the sunlight that peered through the blinds. The alarm clock had been ringing. For how long? She slipped out of bed, struggling towards the clock, and shut it off. Suddenly realizing that she had ten minutes before school started, she rushed for her school things, stuffing them inside the bag and setting it off to the side. she then reached for her towel and headed into the restroom. She paused, dropping the towel onto the floor.
She looked at her hands, they were the same, she looked at the mirror, her hands, the mirror, her hands one last time. It didn't make any sense. A knock on the door, her step-brother. She admitted she felt scared from the sound; she glanced at the mirror for a brief moment. Ariadne was relieved, believing that it was just a hallucination.
She thought she saw the creature in the mirror for a second there.
11:58 PM
The window was open, the invitation in her hands, her eyes closely watching the dark sky. Just one more minute, if nothing were to happen, Ariadne was to die. She didn't like the idea of prison and rotting, guilt racking her brain, people would hate her again and again would she feel pain—she'd rather kill herself than let that happen. No more pain.
11:59 PM
She continued to stand, the sky was blank, the stars faint due to the streetlamps that lined her street. Ariadne was near tears when a noise made her jump. It seemed to come from the closet. Slowly, Ariadne tip-toed to it, her heart racing within her chest. A dead person can't move but what was making that noise?
Ariadne pried the door open, hesitant due to that fact that it had been hours since her body was placed there.
Nothing.
Another noise. Ariadne turned, it was a doll, or it seemed like one. It was beautiful, it's face, eyes, Ariadne couldn't tell whether it a women or a man—it seemed like a dream. Suddenly, softly, the doll had embraced Ariadne, smoothing her hair. She felt safe in the doll's arms and closed her eyes, the light it emitted was blinding.
I can save you, it said, a soft lilting voice, You will no longer feel any of this pain. Put your faith in me and I promise I will never leave you my child.
Ariadne didn't have time to answer. Her eyes were open, the doll was not in her arms anymore but a body as pitch black as a starless night. She couldn't pull free, she was sinking into the mass, distorted screams and cries of people ringing in her ears. As her body couldn't pull free, her eyes couldn't stop staring into the dark oblivion ahead of her. Thousands upon thousands of eyes, faces, were looking at her. The faces overlapped each other, rippling if she were to breath upon the creature—they were reflections, the souls of the people that created this thing; this monster. She sunk within the blackness, her eyes shut tight as she did so.
Then it was gone. The feeling of sinking disappeared, being replaced with the assumption that it was just a nightmare.
* * *
It was morning, sheets placed over her eyes, blocking the sunlight that peered through the blinds. The alarm clock had been ringing. For how long? She slipped out of bed, struggling towards the clock, and shut it off. Suddenly realizing that she had ten minutes before school started, she rushed for her school things, stuffing them inside the bag and setting it off to the side. she then reached for her towel and headed into the restroom. She paused, dropping the towel onto the floor.
She looked at her hands, they were the same, she looked at the mirror, her hands, the mirror, her hands one last time. It didn't make any sense. A knock on the door, her step-brother. She admitted she felt scared from the sound; she glanced at the mirror for a brief moment. Ariadne was relieved, believing that it was just a hallucination.
She thought she saw the creature in the mirror for a second there.
SS: #128- Coffee
I could sure use a cup of coffee right now (or hot chocolate) tons of people lost their jobs and several big companies filed for bankruptcy.
WTH?
WTH?
SS: #127- Miracle
Allow me to ask for a miracle...
In other words, a wish to come true.
I'm sure, for the people that live on this earth number as many as the stars in the universe,
that we all wish for something at sometime.
A selfish desire perhaps?
Maybe a well-wisher instead.
Whatever and however we wish for something--most likely, it does not come true.
To put this in my terms, a wish is similar to a goal.
Maybe not SO much as similar but it is something we want to happen.
The only thing people don't realize is that a wish comes true from our efforts.
Why else do we do so?
To have some hope left in whatever situation that made us wish for something in the first place.
Then again, the word wish sounds a little silly (like the time when I thought I could claim that one star in the sky)
So, instead, grant me a miracle.
Or just let me utter these words to an empty space--regaining the small flame that died from my tears.
In other words, a wish to come true.
I'm sure, for the people that live on this earth number as many as the stars in the universe,
that we all wish for something at sometime.
A selfish desire perhaps?
Maybe a well-wisher instead.
Whatever and however we wish for something--most likely, it does not come true.
To put this in my terms, a wish is similar to a goal.
Maybe not SO much as similar but it is something we want to happen.
The only thing people don't realize is that a wish comes true from our efforts.
Why else do we do so?
To have some hope left in whatever situation that made us wish for something in the first place.
Then again, the word wish sounds a little silly (like the time when I thought I could claim that one star in the sky)
So, instead, grant me a miracle.
Or just let me utter these words to an empty space--regaining the small flame that died from my tears.
SS: #126- Somewhere
I thought I'd try this prompt out with a story I've been itching to write since I thought of the idea years ago.
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Lucia sat on the rocking chair. She stared at the same window, towards the same hill where the same sun rose. For most of the day she stayed there, her knitting in hand, casually taking a glance every now and then. A sigh escaped from her lips, the needle was set down then her hands rose to cup her face as she sobbed.* * *
My mother had told me a story, her eyes ranging from happy to sad. Sometimes tears would fall and all I could do was offer an embrace just to soothe this pain that I cannot feel. From time to time she'd tell me that I reminded her of him. When I finally got the courage to ask about my father I did. She motioned for me to sit down on her lap, setting the knitting aside the open window. As I sat she brushed her fingers through my hair, something she did when her mind was troubled.
"Maori,"she said, "your father was a good man. My sadness is nothing to be concerned about."
"But mother,"I faced her and took a lock of her hair. It had begun to lost it's color, I showed her, her expression didn't change, "I don't want them to talk about you anymore. They say that you've gone mad and that I shouldn't stay here...but I want to live here and take care of you. Until father comes back."
She smiled, shook her head, stroking my hair again. Then, in a low shaky voice she said, "He can't. He can't come back anymore. This isn't where he belongs."
"Then where is he?"
"Somewhere, love."
It was now my turn to disagree. "But I want to know what happened so when I find him I can get him to come back. You need him mother. Look at you--"
Lucia cocked her head to one side, her hands steadying my shoulders. Tears had begun rolling from her eyes as she embraced me. Her body had begun to shake. "But he's right here. Alexander, my love, is here--" she retracted her embrace to face me "--your beautiful eyes give me hope that he's out there somewhere. Soon, he will come home. Soon he'll see what a wonderful son you are. Soon...I promise."
After that day, my mother was in better spirits. When I went outside, she did as well picking the flowers she loved from the fields. When I went by the riverbank, she came too dipping her feet into the clear waters urging me to join her. At this time, I thought it best to keep her happy. Although her hair had lost it's color it shone bright like the winter snow. Though for her age the color was unusual but so were my eyes. We both didn't let it get to us. As long as she kept smiling there was no trouble, no sad memories.
Then she finally told me the story.
"Your father was an unusual one. To tell you the truth I met him while picking these daisies, the same field too. He was sleeping on the incline and I thought it was too good to be true. His face, hair and when he awoke, staring at me with those eyes that reminded me of golden fields I could only think--" her voice began to falter, as if thinking twice before talking "--could only think that-that this man could not possibly exist. It felt like a dream to put it simply Maori.
"Soon, as we spent more time together, talking and taking walks in the river. We were soon in love and everything--" Lucia placed a hand at her cheek, her mind replaying an old memory "--everything began from there. We stayed together till the day you were born. Since then I've never been able to see him again.--" she pulled on her necklace revealing a silver ring "--This and you are the only remnants I have of him. Don't you think it sad for me to be lovesick like this Maori? Sure it isn't something you can't comprehend yet..."
I was curious so I spoke. "Why?"
"Find someone to love and you'll know."
"But where do I--"
Suddenly the door burst open, letting the night air enter the house. He stepped inside, removing the cover over his face. Grigori's eyebrows were furrowed, sweat dripping to the tip of his chin, his mouth moved but no words came out. Lucia's fingers clenched tightly around the ring on the chain, her free hand was tightly clenched into a fist.
"They can't be..."
Grigori shut the door behind him, locking it. "The curtains."
Lucia fussed with her hands, double-checking that every window was shut and the curtains drawn. Maori sat still, unable to understand. He should be happy now that Grigori returned from his trip but the time didn't seem right to be happy. Something was happening.
"Maori," Grigori remarked, kneeling to face the thirteen year old, "how'd you like to go on a little trip?"* * *It was dark, cold and it had begun to sprinkle. Grigori told me to stay hidden behind this tree. Stay hidden? Was this a game? I peered from the tree, gripping the cloak around my body, I saw that all the houses weren't the same as mother's house. The curtains were open, the villagers could be heard being merry. There was no trouble but then I heard it. I saw it. Among the darkness of the forest that surrounded this village, it was clear to see. Fire. Torches. You could hear them now. Crash! Clang! The gate was being broken down. I returned to hiding, making myself as small as I could as I crouched near the base of the tree.
My heart was pounding upon my chest. The cloak was tightened around me. Surely this cloak could protect me as it blended well with the scenery but what was it I was hiding from? I debated, trying to be logical. I can't panic now, not right before I saw whatever it was that got me scared out of my wits. Scared? For what? I stood, my knees stiff and breath haggard. As I was about to turn a scream had scared the birds from their resting places. I closed my eyes and decided to stay close to the ground.
"You can't be scared now Maori. Get up."
I looked up seeing the outline of Grigori among the stars, his ice blue eyes almost shining; glaring in the dark similar to that of a cat.
"Grigori I--"
"There isn't anytime," he took my arm. I gasped letting the cloak slip away from my face. "It's just a little blood nothing to be worried about. Now come on!"
I covered my head again and followed him for a few steps. I pulled on his arm, he looked at me and in a stern voice he said, "What is it?"
I gulped. It was the first time I heard him talk like that before but this was important. "My mother where is she?"
Suddenly Grigori turned around and ducked, motioning me to do the same. We silently watched as the house I lived in, my mother's and my father's burned. Grigori placed his palm over my mouth. I wanted to scream, to cry out for my mother, my father. There were men, dressed in black armor, that did the same to the other houses. Burning them killing all who lived inside and if any escaped, they were executed through decapitation. I struggled to see straight for tears clouded my sight.
My vision distorted, colors pooling into each other, melding together. The orange stood out the most.
Grigori held me close, tightening his grip, we couldn't afford to be seen so we huddled behind the tree with cloaks over our heads. Now I couldn't see anything. Nothing but black.
I closed my eyes, water falling onto Grigori's hand. Then the cloak was lifted, a cloth was given to me. He kept his hand over my mouth as I dried my eyes and upper lip. I looked at him and he put a finger to his lips. He then removed his hand from my mouth, using the same cloth to wipe them clean. The cloth was returned to me, sodden with tears and blood from his wounds. I tugged on his pants leg, he pulled up the cover from his eyes. I handed him the cloth and pointed to my right cheek. Silently, he took the cloth and wiped his cheek.
I've yet to ask him about those wounds and the blood on his face. All I knew was that there was no scar.* * *It's white. Snow is falling and mother just called for me to go inside. I run to her but I drop the scarf she had knitted for me. I stop and turn around. A man appeared, the scarf in his hands. I come closer with the notion that Grigori was playing games again but this man was different. As I was close enough, he draped the scarf over my shoulders. He kneeled to adjust the scarf length and smiled when he finished.
He said to me,"how old are you now Maori?"
I held out eight fingers. "I'm going to be that many soon. Mother told me so."
"That's good," he stood and turned around. I clung onto the braid that lay upon his back. I took it in my hands, he turned with a laugh. I let go and stepped backwards.
"How come you're like me?" I said, pointing to my eyes, "She said they remind her so much of him. She wants him to come back you know?"
"Who's that?"
"Dad."
"Where is he?"
I looked to the ground, then towards him. The same golden eyes as mine, looking at me with kindness.
"Somewhere."