Chronicles of an Anonymous Bitch

Tumblr Blog

2009-07-30T01:53:00.000-07:00

I doubt anyone still reads this, but in case you do, I have a new blog at www.americanoctopus.tumblr.com

It is very different, you cannot make comments, and I post a lot of stupid stuff as well as my writing. If you skip through it (especially the more recent idiotic stuff) you can find a lot of my writing in there as well. It is also not at all anonymous!

I just dont think that I will ever get back to seriously posting on this blog anymore, so I thought I would give you a headsup.

I would really love it if you would email me with any comments you have at foreverand4on@hotmail.com, and I really like Tumblr and would suggest you create your own! And maybe even follow me?

I also have a formspring! Which, if you dont know, is like an honesty box or a truthbox except that it is open to anyone and is hosted by a site not affiliated with any profile I have. That is at http://www.formspring.com/forms/?663543-CURUNdJIxr
So if you have ever wanted to say something to me anonymously (preferably not mean things) that is the place to do it!

Again, I sooo doubt anyone still reads this but, if you do, thank you so much for sticking through all of the shittier parts of my life and writing with me so far and I hope you continue to do so.

Love from,
The Anonymous Bitch

Doodles of the Anonymous Bitch

2009-04-20T00:24:00.000-07:00

Mexican Girls

2009-04-06T00:33:00.001-07:00

The house is empty

Mama is down at the expensive, healthy grocery store – aptly painted green, full of its clean organic foods. It’s all the way down in the classy minimart in Almaden, which is a good 30 minute drive from our house. My mama, though, would drive any distance to shop where all the rich, classy families live. I wonder if she pretends we live there when she pushes her cart and click-clack click-clacks her shiny black shoes through the isles.

My mama believes in organic apples like some people believe in antibiotics, in vitamin pills like some people believe in chemotherapy, in no-sugar-added juice like some people believe in vaccinations. She lives, I swear, to fill my sin-ridden body with clean, clear nutrients. “Don’t you want to be pure inside?” She likes to ask me, as though unsoiled, un-tampered celery will turn me into the Virgin Fucking Mary. She forgets that my heart needs to be fed just as much as my stomach.

Her food, her nutrients, may be clear of all pesticides and chemicals but my mama’s not. She washes down her lemon drenched apple slices with diet pills and energy pills and medication for her cramps, her migraines, her nerves, her joints – her boobs, even, but I don’t think that one’s FDA approved.

She doesn’t know that the only thing feeding my small, organic heart is her. Whatever she contaminates her body with, contaminates my heart.

I only really live with her – Dad’s nearly always far away. My brother’s at the university, but he’s an even bigger problem that I will deal with later.

So when she’s away at the grocery store, the house is empty.

I stand in front of the mirror and mimic the Mexican girls from the public school, who I see loitering outside my campus on Friday afternoons, waiting for their boyfriends.

At my school, the rich respectable boys have white girlfriends who straighten their hair and go to weddings in pastel-colored dresses; the poor respectable boys have Asian girlfriends who play bridge with their grandparents on Sundays; but the cool boys, whether rich or poor, have Mexican girlfriends.

Of course, being poor at my school means being middle class, and being girlfriendless makes you a fag.

Being boyfriendless, however, makes you respectable.

And I am a respectable girl.

None of the Mexican girls have ever talked to me, and I have never talked to the Mexican girls. We aren’t the same kind of people, not at all. They were educated by their mamas, who taught their daughters how to speak and how to love and how to fuck and how to believe in God. Thank Goodness I’ve got a classy school to teach me things – my mama doesn’t know anything that can’t be learned from a pop-up ad: sex and drugs and games.

I pretend I am talking to the Mexican girls, I pretend I am a Mexican girl. I retell the story of my Biology teacher, Ms. Brion with the curly black hair and the huge yellow eyes like a feral cat, who – yellow eyes ablaze – handed me back my essay with a B+ smeared in red ink across the top on Tuesday.

“That fucking bitch don’t even know what she’s talking about. I don’t fucking need that shit, no way. She got a stick up her ass or what, huh? As if I give a fuck! Bitch can suck it.” I say to my imaginary comrades. I roll my eyes and hips appropriately, leaning almost painfully to the left and gesticulating wildly with my pale hands.

I don’t come off sounding like the Mexican girls, though. I just sound like a bitch, and I look like a crazy white girl talking to herself in the mirror.

For my sake, I hope mama comes home soon.

Red light district at the Boundary Peak Motel

2009-01-28T00:11:00.002-08:00

You said to meet you in motel room seven,
but the door’s already open and
red light pours from its weak wood frame.

I wonder what you’ve prepared for me,
perhaps neon lights in the color of love?
Would you stack chocolate boxes in corners,
illuminate mirrors of our tantric sex? I think
once you said you would show me how
they fuck on television, with the lights and the mirrors and the
artificial bits –
But, no,
you aren’t neon colored when I look in your face so

maybe you’ve already slit your wrists and let
blood pool on the floor where the motel maid found you,
searched your pockets for money,
and called the god-damned police with their bright, bright lights that
reflect off the red and emit an
eerie glowing rouge –
tint to a blushing night.

Or is it that you have
prepared some portal to the underworld? Deep cavern where the fires are not fires,
but rather fake glowing coals from the fake glowing fireplace
that your fake glowing mother bought because you cant afford a house with a real one and
she wouldn’t want you to burn your delicate fingertips
on the true thing anyways!

I near that dull, beaten number and
it’s people that I’ve never met on those crisp cold beds,
with their black lights and strobe lights and neon red signs singing,
screaming come in, come in! and you’ll never be in! and
their whores gyrate uselessly, sweaty hips like mounds of
poorly tanned desert and sticky hair already
mussed, fuck-ready, fuck-worthy and fucked.
They don’t hear my head snake round the corner,
nor can they feel the pumping of my heart,
blood as red as their heat but, now,

I am sure one of their sluts with the blue streak that
runs from earlobe to breast hears my mind clink, clank,
whir and then snap into place and
Oh!
You must have said room eleven, for I often don’t listen right and
already down the hall I can feel your scent being uttered
by hot waves of wet air but,
before I leave, she looks, blue streaked mound of desert whore and,
with her eyes like pools of lye –
she knows me.

Outgoing dialing prohibited

2009-01-28T00:11:00.001-08:00

A bible simmers silent on the nightstand by the telephone
where the light dances on lean wall by murky mirror and
love laughs at muddy moments like this
with his twisted smile,
shrieks profound profanity at my buzzed brain
while my heart tangles,
twists, like his smirk, and through his
sideways teeth there comes a mumbled
memory.
I tumble, roll ridiculously into bed,
though the bible hums me quiet hymns,
that two-toned, taunting telephone
mocks my aching fucking face and
without reason, rhyme or firsthand rendering I
laugh languidly an air-sucking silly laugh about
god-gives-a-fuck which foul intrepid memory of my
useless youthful insolence. You can
call me, cringe at my violently crackled voice but,
ring, ring, ring till that red button lights like a lantern and
the judgment of Judas will not be mine.

If you're reached this point by accident, I suggest panic

2009-01-28T00:09:00.001-08:00

Laura shifted, seated neatly in a sticky seat, its attached desk pregnant with a mound of multi-colored gum wads turned dust-grey by time. A swastika tattoo had carved itself persistently on the shoulder where she rested her arm. She feared touching its sharp indentations as though it could spread up her elbow and into her deep wide chest.

There are wholes in the sky, proclaimed the crayon mess below her, where her son had scribbled in dots of yellow amongst the black of a night sky. Though his portrait of night had escaped the light pollution of the city.

She hardly stopped to wonder whether he meant holes or wholes. But it didn't matter anyways, because there's a bible on his bedside table and he knows, he knows, he knows. There's nothing spelling can teach him about what's in the sky.

Her heart thumped a beat like a nightclub floor, and beside her the woman in green delved into her neon orange purse for a pen, and the smell of cheap lotion and breath mints consumed her brain.

Memory is like a bathtub, murmured the twisting, turning wheels in her mind, but only God controls the spout and the drain.

The scent tumbled blindly from the faucet of her mind, boiling her tub of memory.
Dolls - their eyes like searchlights and their lips like the stain of pomegranate juice on white linen - lined the walls, up high where small hands could not wander – the gods of nick knacks and toys.
Useless dolls, pointless dolls, breathless dolls, heartless dolls. Unreachable. Unbearable. Girls so young could not touch such priceless lovely dolls, her mother said. Laura’s fingers were harsh then, still are, and too blunt to touch the faces of the gods.

The ladder beneath her beat her feet while she stepped, slamming its hard polished surface against the arches as she marched to the rhythm of her racing heart.

A second left on the countdown and mother rushed in to diffuse the ticking bomb of her daughter, eyes wide on her face like an unblinking fish. One swipe of a small blunt hand grazing the smooth satin gown of a god and -

Later, her mother opened her purse of cheap lotion and breath mints, the smell of regret, pulled out those crisp pieces of paper with soft angry hands and ripped up the two theatre tickets for that night's ballet. The rift between woman and girl had been widened and Laura wept for a lost night with mother, for the fleeting innocence of satin gowns and the cold hard pieces of porcelain that father swept into a big black pan and threw out with old banana peels.

The bathwater cooled, Laura curled out of herself and lay down flat on her back in the lukewarm tub of memory and breathed out. Sometimes, she thought, it's so nice to breathe out.

She could hear the smooth sound of a neon green purse being zipped closed beside her, and outside the holes of the sky shrieked their hatred to the faces of the streetlamps.

"About your son," began the teacher, kneeling down like a teacher with her voice like a teacher and soft hands like a teacher. Laura bit her tongue.

End of

2009-01-22T23:03:00.001-08:00

Its the end of finals. I didn’t do well, but I dont care.

I got a C+ on my Philosophy paper because it was too informal. I was so mad I had a fake conversation with Ms. Donlin in the mirror for about an hour. I know I deserved that grade since I wrote the paper in half an hour and didn’t edit it, but I will hate getting bad grades from incopetent teachers. I still have an A- in the class though.

Rachael and Peter wrote a song about me. Well, Rachael wrote it and both of them performed it. I am so happy about it! Its called “Gently” and she talks about chemistry class, and grey eyes and striped socks and poetry on my skin and braile and slamming my locker and calls me a rage studded girl. Its so lovely, and my whole day is about a thousand times better. I am so happy.

I told my mom two people wrote a song about me while she was getting ready for bed and she said she wanted to hear it. I went to get my laptop because I was really excited for her to hear it, but she noticed that when I took a nap in her comfy bed earlier I brought a blanket from the family room with me because it had been around my bare shoulders. She yelled at me for while, about how I can never just use what I am supposed to like the blankets already on the bed, which was weird and completely uncalled for, and then I guess she forgot about the song and I am too afraid to play it for her now.

And I really wanted someone else to hear it.

Looking back from the tip of infinity

2009-01-13T23:29:00.001-08:00

I would like to say that

my life can now be separated into

two parts:

before and after, but,

it isn’t true.

As if some omnipotent,

time-traversing God,

I feel as if I experience it all at once.

If my life moved in some linear fashion

then you could say before and after but,

as it is there is only now.

With this in mind,

it becomes more and more apparent that

what I think does not matter

and what I believe does not matter.

What I meant to do does not matter

and what I would do over does not matter.

It does not matter what is right, or what is wrong,

nor does it matter which one I think I should choose.

All that matters is what I actually do.

I do love you,

and I do forgive you.

Turns out what you did was not unforgivable –

not because I now see what you did in

a different light, or because someone told me

it was not unforgivable,

or because God told me nothing is unforgivable –

but because I forgive you.

The words feel heavy on my tongue but,

that isn’t the point.

From the point of view of infinity what

I think I should be doing is useless,

superfluous.

In the end, the only part that counts is

that I do something.

he was a young philosopher

2009-01-13T22:02:00.000-08:00

I do remember thinking once

“Well,

isn’t it nice that he

is not the other half of me!”

And its quite true,

so very true,

no part of me is missing

without you.

And when I placed my hand

on your sinewy arm

I was not saying,

“We are one, now,

we are one,” but

rather that I know you are

you

and

I am happy

you are you and

it’s okay for me to touch your arm

because

whether or not we are one is

not the problem,

not the question,

not the answer.

It’s simple:

I love you –

whether or not you do

anything you ever do or

choose to choose another thing

to do.

You are not any part of me,

and that should make it all the sweeter when

with my hand upon your arm I convey:

I do love you

in my way.

Dr. Livingstone, I presume?

2009-01-12T22:19:00.000-08:00

It has been more than a year. If anyone is still reading, I would love to know. If not, I am still going to start updating again. Just because. I have things to say.

I have so many things to say.

Anonymous

2007-12-11T22:07:00.000-08:00

Anonymous person who is randomly reading my blog: email me, for I am in dire need of human contact. Lilyevans9@gmail.com, foreverand4on@hotmail.com.

Apokalupsis Eschaton

2007-11-24T22:50:00.000-08:00

Time is a solemn man of business.

His dark eyes staring into a direction

ours cannot look in.

The ticks of his tongue

mark the seconds of this world.

His finger tapping

every hour.

His long and tired sighs –

every decade.

His eyes closing for a moment,

as if in silent prayer,

at every end of every century.

He lifts his teacup to his lips,

drowns his insides with its boiling touch.

Another plague goes by

unnoticed

He lifts the newspaper

to read about what happened

during yesterday’s millennium.

He clicks his tongue in more angry disappointment,

quickening time.

We convince ourselves it’s just a feeling

in our gut,

that we don’t feel the eleventh hour approaching.

Its seconds more deliberate

than ten’s.

His headache caused

by the terrible burden

of understanding the true meaning

of eternity

is worsening.

He needs release.

He holds his hands up to his eyes,

closes them, and rubs them softly.

But now he cannot open them

he cannot open up his eyes.

Now he cannot keep the time.

The ticks subside.

He loses track of sighs.

He reaches the very end

of 11:59.

The Trancsendance of Lame

2007-08-21T23:09:00.000-07:00

I fell in love with someone I met on the internet, which I always swore would never happen to me. Because that is SO lame. But, I have always been an overachiever of sorts, so I really needed to surpass the base level lame, and move into an even lower dimension that transcends all words I could use to describe it. I am stalking someone. On DeviantArt. Her name is Anni, and she lives in Germany but she also speaks perfect English. I have commented on some her artwork but so far I haven't really had any sort of conversation with her except for her short replies. I am going to include her picture, because she is beautiful. I really just needed to make it clear that, as well as being a bitch, I am also lame. Really really, cant even actually use the word becase (as I said) it transcends it, lame.

Anni:

Wicker 1

2007-07-18T03:03:00.000-07:00

I added to my "Milton Street" Post. I dunno, I think its kind of weird, personally. It is supposed to be the beginning of something I guess. If ANYONE is still reading, please leave a comment. Even if you didn't read this story thingy. Just want to know if there is anyone left after my long leave of absence. :(

The house on Milton Street is pretty. That’s the first word that comes to mind. It isn’t really grand, or charming. Just pretty, in the conventional way. Things never really are anything but silly words, such as pretty, unless you have a story behind them. So when one looks at this house on Milton Street, it takes the breath away from you. But then again, probably only if you have been inside, if you have seen the people who live in this house on Milton Street.

It is snowing, and it gathers on the slanted roof. Gathers like something old. Well, like you might assume snow would gather on your grandfather’s head. Like that. Exactly like that.

But if one can’t imagine what snow would look like as it gathers on the head of their grandfather, who they never met, or never saw in snow, or don’t remember, then one cannot understand this, because these things don’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense to compare snow on a roof to your dead, or never seen, grandfather. Or even to the one you saw last Christmas in Chicago. The roof on the house on Milton Street doesn’t look like a head, with its high roof, and its two pyramids of iced over shingles. It looks like a roof. So one should not ever really be asked to imagine it like a head. But it is that, right there, that makes all the difference. If I told you that the house on Milton Street is pretty, you wouldn’t care. It’s just a house anyways. Just a pretty house on Milton Street. But to the people who live in it, it is something else entirely. And to one who has imagined its slanting roofs, gathering snow as if atop their grandfather’s head, it has new meaning. Not because it changes the way that one views the house (for it seems unlikely that one would suddenly see it in the shape of their grandfathers head), but because the association one would now have with this house would be exclusive and extraordinary. That’s how the world works, and how imagery works - how this works. Things will end up the way they end up, because that’s the way they end up. But the only thing one gets the chance to decide on is how they will feel about how it all unfolds. And that is what makes all the difference.

“It’s funny how rain makes a person cold when outside, but warm when inside. I wonder if it’s because of the contrast, the idea of how cold it is outside makes us feel warmer knowing we aren’t out there. Or maybe it’s just because God decided it would be that way. If you ask me, the latter is a better idea, just because it makes things seem like they have a purpose.”

If you don’t understand something, just assign the credit to God, that’s what I have always been taught, and I like thinking that way, personally. But I don’t think that Millie does, because she crinkles her nose at me and cocks her head, unsmilingly, taking another sip of her tea. I can tell it’s just another one of those things that we are going to disagree on. However, it seems she has decided to let this one slip by in pursuit of another topic, one we have been over what seems like a thousand times.

“Why are we drinking tea?” she says, finally, alleviating my anticipation of when this question would yet again arise. I roll my eyes.

“Because I like tea, and whenever I serve it, you drink it, so I must assume that you can at least bear it.”

Millie doesn’t like this answer. She never does.

“That isn’t a good enough answer,” she groans, sliding down further in her white wicker chair.

I sigh. I don’t think that I ever really have had a good enough answer for most of her questions. Not that anyone really could. The girl questions everything. Her favorite things to ask include “Ashley, why is it you pray at night?” “Ashley, why do you serve tea?” “Ashley, when are you going to start dating?” “Ashley, what is so great about working at a library” and, her all time favorite, “Ashley, why on earth do you have so much wicker furniture?”

“Ashley, why on earth do you have so much wicker furniture?” Millie asks from her new perch upon the arm-rest of one of my favorite chairs. I shoo her off, and don’t answer.

Remember and Forget

2007-07-18T03:02:00.000-07:00

Harry Potter Fanfic-oneshot-ness! Sirius/James, Sirius/Harry, Remus/Sirius. All unrequited!

I tried to remember. Every single time I touched him, every time I even looked at him or heard his voice, I tried to remember that he wasn’t you. And every night, when I woke up from dreams, soaked in sweat and sporting a terrible erection, I tried to remember, tried so hard to find the difference between you and him. Even his smiles are exactly the same. Both of you seem to curl your lips in when you smile, a mischievous and delightful little grin.

But the thing is, I can’t seem to do it. Losing you was harder on me than I thought. When I was in Azkaban I had Peter floating around in my head, always Peter. I had plans of how to hurt him, and they were all that consumed my mind. But at Grimauld Place, I have nothing else to do but stare at Harry. And savor every hug he gives me, finding myself feeling a little bit sicker every time. Sick with guilt, and with want.

Last night I heard him moaning in his sleep. Nightmares. Just like Moony used to have. Although, I may have been the only Marauder to know about Moony’s nightmares. I was the one who quieted them anyways.

Everything was different then. I spent all of my time convincing myself that Remus was you. But I guess it always boils down the same thing: you.

Every time I fucked him - in the dead of night, a silencing charm around his bed - I had to keep you in my mind. I had to block out every whimper he made, every moan, replacing it with your voice. And in the morning, I had to block out his accusatory eyes, regretting everything I had done the night before. But every night, there I was again, back in his bed with my hands on his chest and my heart in the bed across the room.

Now I have to pretend that Harry isn’t you. Every time I touch him, I have to remind myself that I shouldn’t feel that heat. Every time he looks at me from across the room and smiles, I have to remind myself that it is only a family-like affection that he feels. Just like you felt. Not like what Moony feels.

And even now, as I slip out of bed and walk into the room across the hall, I can hear Harry moaning in the room next door. And I as I fuck Moony once again, I replace all of his moans with your son’s. And still, I can’t remember Harry isn’t you. And I can’t forget that Moony isn’t.

The Lion and the Closet

2007-06-18T01:38:00.001-07:00

He tied his heart up into many knots

Filled it up with empty spots and clots

Shook out all the composure and the sorrow

Leaving just a mess for all tomorrows

And then he wrapped his soul inside a scarf

Beat it up and made it into art

Cried on it to blend in all the paint

Left its odor oh so oddly faint

He sewed his mouth closed with his mother’s thread

Chewed it away leaving language dead

Punched his father’s crown into a shield

(Forgot it in the empty battlefield)

He crept upon a lion while it slept

And held it far too close up to his breast

And as it roared, he blamed it for the noise

For the thieving of God’s ‘everlasting’ joys

And as the lion cried, he made it stop

By feeding it the thrill of all his drops

And as the lion fell asleep again

He cut its heart, so it couldn’t mend

He got down on his knees and prayed above

To send him down a sign, one single dove

But when it came, it came in form of air

Leaving him as empty and as bare

He slept alone that night, as all men do

Hoping for that dream in which he flew

Not knowing what was at his closet door

(No knowing what that could be on the floor!)

As he awoke to creaks and bumps and steps

He could not find an answer, so he wept

He did not want to know what could be there

At the closet he did obdurately stare

He saw it open, but he couldn’t cry

Beneath his silken covers he did hide

Thinking only of that horrid fear

Not of that thing creeping oh so near

He wasn’t afraid, no he was not afraid!

Even though he had no help or aid

He had nothing to fear, nothing to see

(As the thing grew closer, hungrily)

He tells himself that there is nothing there

Nothing to run from and nothing to fear

Under the covers, he breathes an even breath

As it grabs his face and smothers him to death.

Everything Chapter 2

2007-06-16T00:05:00.000-07:00

AN: New chapter! This chapter is not very good, but whatever. If I make up to 4 chapters, I will make a better plot summary and full pairings list. I am trying to keep this all as cannon as possible, so if you notice anything, I would really really like to know! Oh, and I am sorry if there are any spelling mistakes.

I love reviews! I hardly get any, but when I do they make me dance! (Which is rare)

WARNINGS: Slash, if you don’t like, read and tell me you think it is disgusting. I love reviews like that! And I don’t own anything, if I did, I wouldn’t have to watch Keira Knightly from afar, I could simply BUY her!

Sirius was not happy. Well, he had never really been happy, but now especially. His mother was standing by the front door, tapping her foot, while his father was sitting in his car, no doubt watching the seconds tick by on his pocket watch. Seconds and seconds of disappointment. Tick tick tick. It all made Sirius want to vomit. He was going away from all this! All of it! Then why wasn’t he happier? Because he knew what was going to happen once that hat shouted “Slytherin!” - He was going to become his father. Just like him. He looked into Regulus’ room, the door of which was cracked open slightly. He was still sleeping. Sirius sighed, lazy bones.

Sirius had never really been a part of his family. Not that this was much to boast about, he would like to see anyone really be a part of this family. His mother spent half her time sleeping around and the other half screaming at him and his brother, while his father didn’t spend enough time with his children to do anything at all to them. All his father seemed interested in doing was sitting alone in his study, staring at his pocket watch as time slowly ticked by. He reminded Sirius of a character called Captain Hook, whom he had read about in a muggle book he had smuggled from the bookstore once. He was man who time was always chasing after (even if in Captain Hooks case, it was time encased in a crocodile), but his father wasn’t running from the time like Captain Hook had, he was simply letting it catch up to him, as if looking forward to the day it finally overcame him. (1)

Sirius’ brother Regulus was fragile, as though he were just about to break, and Sirius knew it wouldn’t be long before he either died or turned into his father. At least he has an excuse, he cant stand up to the abuse for much longer, unlike me…Sirius had always felt guilty for the fact that he could probably stand up to his parents, but didn’t, even though he had never fully been able to accept the fact that he would become one of them. He had always been so happy as himself, that was all, and he had never wanted anything to do with any of this mess that was called his family. How could they consider their existence a life? Lying and cheating each other out of fortunes, marrying cousins they didn’t love, never making any real friends… he wondered, sometimes, if all young men born into this lifestyle felt like this when they were young. He supposed it was school that changed most of them, surrounded by friends who would kill you for a galleon, which was incentive to become like his father.

Sirius walked calmly into the bathroom and threw up (which he had been doing often lately), before going outside and getting into his car with his father, who shut his pocket watch and began driving to Kings Cross station.

RSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRSRS

After sitting at the station alone for about an hour, he heard the last call. Finally he thought, for he was quite sick of hiding. He had been sitting in the bathroom of Kings Cross station from the moment he had been dropped off, hoping no one noticed him. At one point, he saw another boy with reddish blonde hair around his age go into the bathroom and sit in a stall for a very long time, and heard no movement in it as though the boy was also hiding. He found it comforting to know that someone else was reduced to hiding in bathroom stalls. He almost was about to go and talk to the boy when some boy he couldn’t get a glance at (he was going so fast) came running in and grabbed the other boy, pulling him out of the bathroom and off in another direction. He sighed; I almost did it, though. That must count for something. But he didn’t really think it did. If he at least tried to make friends outside of the family, then he might have a chance of surviving as himself. But he knew that if he allowed himself to make friends only with those who were already assumed to be his friends, people like Malfoy, Rosier, Knott, Crab, and Goyle, then he would have no chance at keeping that little part inside of him that wasn’t like the rest of his family. But as he heard the whistle blowing for last call, he knew that he was about to fail. He could just feel that he was about to lose the one last chance he had to separate himself from his family. The train ride. As simple as it may seem, it was the most crucial part of going to Hogwarts for him. If he made other friends, he might be able to keep them at school, might be able to quell those forces within himself that told him to become his father. Just maybe.

But as Sirius walked out of the bathroom, drug his trunks through the wall between platforms 9 and 10, and hauled himself and his possessions onto the train, all he could think was that he would no doubt lose this chance, all because of comfort. The comfort of sitting with friends he didn’t have to make, friends it would be almost impossible to lose as long as his family kept their fortune, friends he never had to worry about because, frankly, he didn’t care what happened to them at all.

Sirius could hear his own heart beating as he walked down the isles of the train, searching for either an empty compartment, or one full of those no doubt to soon be his friends planning on sitting in whichever one came firs. He found it interesting that he was taking such a passive role in his own future. He could be such a prat, and yet he couldn’t seem to help it. As he was looking in the 6^th compartment he had come across, he saw something that caught his eye. The boy he had seen briefly in the bathroom earlier was sitting in a compartment with a boy Sirius knew as James Potter, whose family was a traitor to the purebloods (he had heard his parents discussing the Potters many times). He stared at the boy for a couple of seconds, lost in huge amber eyes, before continuing down the isle. He found an empty compartment eventually, where he sat alone for only a few minutes until he was bombarded with what he assumed were his new friends. But even through their talk of summer, through them trying to get a silent Sirius to join in the conversation, all Sirius could do was stare out the window and dream of having a friend like the amber-eyed boy in the 6^th compartment.

AN: 1) this is a reference to Peter Pan, which you probably all got, and to the metaphoricalism of the clock in the stomach of the crocodile, which symbolizes time chasing after all of us, it’s stupid but I like it.

You got through the whole chapter! Yay! Good for you!

O, and my last chapter was supposed to be double spaced, but I cannot figure out how to do that! Could anyone tell me? I am so bad a using Fanfiction.net!

Everything Chapter 1

2007-06-16T00:00:00.000-07:00

AN: this is my first fanfiction!

This story will be VERY long, but only if I get happy shiny reviews! It is all mainly slash pairings, and the first part will be Remus/Sirius and unrequited Sirius/James and some James/Lily. Oh, and also Severus/Lucius. It changes point of views. There will be no sex until they are older. Don’t worry, it isn’t THAT perverted. I will put up different warnings for each chapter but first of all:

WARNING: these characters and setting belong to JK Rowling. The plot only vaguely belongs to me. This is SLASH, if you don’t like it, go ahead and read it and tell me how disgusting it is. I LOVE getting reviews like that! (Not sarcasm I really do!)

Now on to the story!

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The sound of trains was not muffled at all by the walls of the bathroom. Remus sighed, he had been hoping he could forget everything but that didn’t seem to be able to happen. He was sitting atop a toilette seat, the cover down, with his feet curled up against him as he hugged them close to himself. He wasn’t unhappy, just overwhelmed. Completely overwhelmed.

When he had received the letter back in July, he thought it was a joke. It then occurred to him that no one would play a prank on him, he really wasn’t worth it. His father had cried, because his father really was quite a silly man, and his mother had started jumping up and down and screaming. He was perfectly aware that his parents were insane. He, however, had done nothing. Like always. He smiled at his mother, one of those pleasant smiles that don’t really give anything away and don’t really mean anything either. And then he had gone up to his room.

Hogwarts. A school. Not just any school, a school where normal people went. A school for people who didn’t turn in to mutant murderers once a month. He didn’t think he could do it. He clearly remembered saying he didn’t want to go, but then how did he end up here? Here at Kings Cross Station, approximately 50 yards from platform 9 ¾, where his parents were no doubt traumatizing other parents with stories about how intelligent and adorable their little son was. And a werewolf, Remus thought, I wonder what they would say if you told them I was also a werewolf. Not that him being a werewolf seemed to bother his parents particularly. They always treated him like he could be anything in the world. But that really didn’t change the fact that he had absolutely no friends at his muggle elementary school, didn’t change the fact that he had to bite his lip to keep from doing savage stupid things all the time. No, optimism didn’t change the fact that he had scars all over his torso, or that he was completely emotionless to around everyone else all the time.

Oh the curse of the pity party, he thought to himself. He was about to stand up and reluctantly make his way back to his parents, when someone knocked at his stall door. He froze.

“Hey, is anyone in there?” a voice called from right outside the stall.

Remus said nothing. I am in here, please, I am in here! He was screaming in his head. But he said nothing.

“Hellooooooooooooo” the voice called again, and then he saw the very top of a head, just the tips of wiry black hair, before a boy roughly his age slid underneath the door of the stall and stood up, facing him.

The boy looked like he was being attacked and slowly eaten by his own mop of curly black hair, and he was wearing glasses that were so smudged Remus was at a loss as to how the boy could see from him.

Overcoming his immediate shock quickly, the boy grinned wolfishly and held out his hand, “I am James, James Potter.”

Again Remus said nothing, however now it was not out of fright, but a mixture of shock and shyness. Remus’ silence, however, seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the boy, who stood, smiling brightly, for a few seconds more before grabbing Remus’ hand and hoisting him up. He was face to face with the grinning boy for a few seconds before they were off, out of the stall and the bathroom and then towards Remus’ parents, and a pair of equally silly looking adults who were unmistakably the rest of the Potters.

“Thank you James,” said Remus’ mother, as though she had known the boy her whole life. James then slipped his hand casually out of Remus’ and went to stand by his mother, joining the group of now 5 people who were staring expectantly at him.

Silence. And more silence. And then… “Oh goshers I forgot to tell him!” exclaimed James. Mrs. Potter sighed and rolled her eyes, leaving Remus in no doubt that forgetting was something James did quite often.

“The Potters are old friends of ours,” said Remus’ mother, interrupting the quick breath James had taken, obviously about to speak.

“This is their son James’ first year at Hogwarts too. And that means you’ll be sharing a dorm room!”

Everyone got those expectant looks back on their faces, and Remus, at a loss for anything to say (as he usually was) just gave a hesitant smile. Seeming to take that as an acceptance of friendship, James grabbed his hand again and dragged him towards the wall in between platforms 9 and 10, talking all the while about everything ranging from different kinds of bugs, to houses, to Quidditch teams.

Once they got to the train, their parents trailing delightedly behind them, James let go of Remus’ hand again and ran toward his mom, giving her a quick but tight hug, and then moving to his dad, who bent down and began to give him what Remus assumed were words of wisdom.

Remus headed over to his own father, who burst, as expected, into tears. His mother, rolling her eyes, bent down and gave him a quick squeeze.

“Now Remus,” she said knowingly, “don’t let them make fun of you, don’t tell them about your…um…issue, and make sure to see Dumbledore and see that your final arrangements are in order. Oh,” she added quickly, as the train was about to leave, “and make friends who don’t suck!” He stared, in awe of her weirdness for a moment, and then stumbled over to the train, hesitantly stepping into it. His trunks were then unceremoniously dumped upon him by his weeping father, and the train began to move. The door was shut. And suddenly he was on his way to Hogwarts, his father blowing him kisses as the train slowly gathered speed, Remus quickly moved away from the window, hoping that no one else had noticed.

Remus spent an awful lot of time walking up and down the rows of compartments, trying to find a completely empty one, and then sat down in it, careful placing his trunks underneath the seat. He gazed out the window for a moment, wondering at the thought that he had just actually actively tried not to make any friends, before the door was flung open and James threw himself inside, tossing his trunks every which way before hurling his own body upon the empty seat in directly in front of Remus. Remus simply stared at him. He wished he could say something, but he had a feeling that if he opened his mouth, something like “Gobbledygook!” would come out, so he merely bit his lip and hoped that James took this all as comfortable silence between friends and not uncomfortable silence between two people likely never to be friends.

“Do you like chocolate?” James asked suddenly, after about two minutes of complete silence.

Remus nodded, but, noticing that he had not actually said anything to the boy since he met him, he added, “Y-yes?” saying it so hesitantly it sounded almost like a question. James smiled.

“Words come out of your mouth some times!” He thought for a moment, screwing up his face, “Actually, only one word, are you capable of saying more than one word at a time?” He said it as though he was really curious, not as though he were mocking Remus. Remus was torn between relief that he was not being made fun of, and disappointment at the thought that the only friend he had made so far was one who thought that there were actually people in the world who could only say one word at a time.

“I-,” Remus began, but at that moment a boy passed by the outside of the compartment, peering in at Remus before passing by. “Who was that?” He asked James.

“Oh him,” James said knowingly. “That was Sirius Black.” And the way he said it gave Remus the feeling that Sirius Black was someone he was supposed to be afraid of. But for some reason, through the rest of the train ride, through James rambling on and on about Quidditch (which Remus did not at all understand), and even through the entrance of a small blonde boy who finally gave James the human interaction he seemed to be craving, Remus thought only of the face of one Sirius Black.

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Yeah, so I posted this on fanfiction.net. It is horrible writing, but I am so very proud of myself for writing a fanfiction finally! Yay! I have already written Chapter 2, so I will post that shortly after this! I know I have lost most of my readers to my absence, and to them I apologize. I just had a very stressful school year and all. Well, thanks to all of you who are still reading!

The Man of Glass

2007-05-16T22:24:00.000-07:00

The man is far too quiet for his kind

Whose usual raucous lives are made of stone

His seems made of glass and full of lines

That in the end have sealed in the cold

But he does have no master but his god

That you can tell for sure of his deep eyes

He has no follower, no one at home

No one to cry in sorrow or surprise

He’s not one often asked to tell his story

But you know that he is still prepared to tell

That his tales are full of hunger and of glory

But for this you’ve no desire to impel

For you’ve your own thoughts on his sunken face

Your own ideas of how he turned so cold

You’ve laid his life out free of all disgrace

You’ve made his story full of summer’s gold

And if he were to tell you something other

That the conquered were in fact his own of late

You’d never see him thus, but as another

Someone full of depth and full of fate

He shant become another man, you swear

You’ll keep him as the one who turned the tides

And found himself alone except for air

In this place, as darkness deftly quells the lights

Cease

2007-05-06T01:58:00.000-07:00

"It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more." Death is the unknown. That is why it is so feared. Can one truly believe that even those who claim to know what will happen without a shadow of a doubt, do not feel the creep of another idea go up their spine before death? Can one truly feel as though there is no other way to die besides the one originally believed? No matter how much of a persons life is based on one idea of death or another, there is always that doubt. I can feel it creep up my spine at times when everything is dark, and inexplicably the idea of death is far more prominent. As sure as I once was I somehow see different things appearing after I close my eyes for the last time. It must occur to all, at one time or another, the sensation of ending; completely ceasing in the world; that terrible idea that life simply goes out like the light in our eyes; the idea that the warmth of our skin, the beating of our heart, our own breath, is linked irrevocably to the existence of our soul, so that when all these fail, we simply slip away from everything. The idea of this death is the most terrifying of all, really. While some may fear being dragged to hell by some immense hoofed beast into a cavern of fire and pain, to be joined by the screaming Judas who clings to their skin as they attempt to pass by, they still must have at one time felt that terrible chill of nonexistence and shivered, almost wishing to feel Judas scratching at their skin rather than nothing at all. But the most horrific of all ends, I imagine, is that of those who have spent their whole life basing every decision on the existence of the afterlife. Yes, the most terrible of chills must be those suffered by the dying, who have punished themselves ceaselessly in order to achieve some sort of victory in death, only to have that ghastly moment, right before the end, in which they somehow believe that maybe it has all come to nothing, that they will be doomed to live over and over the same life full of punishment and restraint, never seeing the reward of their endeavors. That maybe everything is in fact pointless, and that there is no tangible God anywhere, that no matter how many lives we live, whether dead or alive, we will never grasp Him, and will forever be chasing the thought, as if wind blowing swiftly away from us.

Mrs. Fucking Roth

2007-04-24T21:36:00.000-07:00

Today was awful because Mrs. Roth is a heinous bitch. I don't understand why the fuck she has to be so goddamn unfair! As if any one in my class is anywhere NEAR as good at World History as me. Seriously, although this is not saying much since almost all of them are completely incompetent. But Mrs. Roth STILL teaches me like a little kid, simplifying everything she says in class and all, I mean really, if the girls in my class are that stupid, it is probably from her babying them so goddamn much. Yeesh! She should just fucking get it over with and make them see how completely oblivious they are to everything... Anyways, she gave me a fucking bad grade on a stupid outline I put no effort into... and it was all because of some stupid instructions she gave us in class that werent on the instruction sheet she gave us. I wasnt THERE the day she gave us her "extra" instructions. She could cut me some fucking slack since I obviously understand the material more than even she does probably... She was naming off the "only three" (seriously...) Totalitarian rulers there have been in the world, and she was like "Um... Stalin, Hitler.... Hmmm *checks notes* and Mussolini!" Stupid bitch. Anyways, I put a bit (meaning like a lot) of white wine into my daily dose of orange juice after school today to cool me off... obviously it didn't work because I am still ranting about it!Sorry for the rant, anyways. Not that anyone has ever read this stupid journal!

Bill O'Reilly is a Fucktard

2007-04-20T22:32:00.000-07:00

I was watching Bill O'Reilly on his Factor, and I was suddenly struck with the revelation that he is in fact more of a fucktard then I had origionally believed. I was very bored and waiting for my mother to watch Stargate Atlantis with me, so I decided to watch his airing of the insanities. Seriously. He had a few interesting points to make these mere 10 minutes of his show alone.
A. It is important that the media tell people the race of the Virginia Tech murderer over and over, contrary to the beliefs of the representative of the Asian American Journalist Accociation's beliefes, becuase it is vitally relevant to the profile of this particular murderer.
B. He commented on how people have pretty much NEVER committed hate crimes against Muslims and people from Iran and Iraq after 9/11. Seriously people, who ever heard of such a silly thing?
C. He put the words "womens health" in quotation marks with his hands when talking about abortion. Because women's health is, in fact, a myth.
D. A commercial during one of his breaks was for a conservative magazine, which, and I quote, "Shapes the news, not follows it". God forbid our news is straighforward, to the point, and without any bais.
In conclusion to my in-depth research, Bill O'Reilly is, in fact, a fucktard of the most serious kind.

Vow of Silence

2007-04-18T16:50:00.000-07:00

I took a vow of silence today. Its the day of silence, here is the link for it: Day of Silence . I started late though, so I have to go until 10:50 tomorrow instead of just today. It is really hard. I accidentally had to talk to my mom on the phone because she called and all I could do was hum and hang up, so she got scared and I finally had to call her back and tell her I took a vow of silence, then I hung up. I was SO mad.

Marlena

2007-03-16T17:33:00.000-07:00

She sits there at the window, picking at a spot on her chin, grimacing in the sunlight when I walk in. She stands up quickly, but gracefully and practiced, putting on a huge smile. This, rather than making the room glow brighter, creates a cool fakeness about her, and seems to block out even the sun. Leaving only this woman, who I felt more close to watching from afar.
She has dark hair that is cut short with bangs, and put up into an itsy bitsy little ponytail. I find it rather cute on her, and I am sure that it is meant to be so.
"You must be Mariah," she says, and only that. With no tone or particular volume, just a voice that comes from somewhere in her throat. But I am practiced, and I smile as well.
"Yes," I say, imitating her monotone. As sad and as silly as my smile is, she takes it as she would any other response I would give her and stores it in the notebook in her head, for later reflection. She motions for me to sit down in a cool black chair, and I do so, looking right into her eyes. They are empty eyes, at least temporarily, empty of all emotion, of everything. But my eyes penetrate something deeper in her, something locked up. She coughs deep in her throat and looks away.
"So, tell me why you are here,” she continues on, her speech one of comfort, of welcome. But I don’t say anything for a while, looking as though I am contemplating it.
"No," I say simply, and she does not reply with the laugh I know she has ready to give, as though I am making some big joke. Instead she falls silent, in what I believe is disappointment. For I feel she feeds on the tears that her clients shed. Letting all of them soak into her pores, letting them swim in her mind till they rest comfortably on a shelf in the back of her head. But I will not give them to her. I refuse to give her the pleasure of my tears and thoughts. It is strange for her to think that I would give them all up to her when I have kept them inside me all this time. For my thoughts are beasts, imprisoned by chains in my heart. And the only way that they would have to escape is if a flood ran through my mind, sweeping them up and carrying them through my eyes and onto my face. But my whole life I have been fighting the chains, and now she is telling me to let them loose? Why should I? They are mine to have, not hers. I will not allow my tears to become her little pets, adding to her growing pride. So that when she takes them from me, and locks them in the prison of her heart, she can revel in the fact that they have never once escaped through her eyes.
I stand up, and she doesn’t move, even if everything in her body is telling her to. "I've decided no," I repeat, and leave. And when I do I leave some of myself behind with her, a part of me that she wants more than she can even explain to herself, a part she cannot have. She tries to pass the wanting off as hunger, picks up an apple, and takes a bite. Lost in hunger, in wanting, in a thirst that will never be quenched, but instead forgotten, ripped out of the notebook inside her head.
Since her, I have not been to any of the other sadistic women my father seems to want to set me up with. I have no doubt that he knows how pointless these little sessions would be, but still there is some part of me that wants to please him. He knows he needs to do something about me, god only knows how many people have told him so. But he is obviously completely lost as to what to do. So he does things that he thinks need to be done, in some hope that he will at least be able to justify his parenting to himself in the end. So occasionally I do his little tasks in the hope that, when I leave as I know I will, he will feel as though he tried. He will be able to blame it all on me, because it really is all my fault that things are so fucked up. And I know it. But I don’t really want to think about all the things I am sorry about. Wallowing in sorries is what people who can think of no solution do. And though I in fact cannot think of any solution, I would prefer not to think about it. So instead, I go and eat pancakes.
Harry's is a wonderful place to eat in my opinion, even if all the cups are dirty, and the bar is greasy, and the only man who works there drinks as much as he works. I have been eating there ever since I tried to run away from home when I was nine years old. I was not really running away, just escaping for a while, getting a taste of being away from home, away from everything. I was walking aimlessly down the street, having climbed out of my bedroom window. But just as I was starting to feel foolish, I spotted Harry’s. There was a sign in front saying "bar and restaurant: breakfast served all day". The thought of pancakes popped in my mind when I read the word “breakfast”. It stirred in me some desire; normal families (at least in my mind) would go out to eat pancakes on Friday nights like this. So I stopped in and met Harry. He was only in his late teens then, for it was actually Harry senior who started the place. Harry Junior was a tall boy of 16, with black hair that seemed wild to me somehow, and a square chin. He was not particularly nice to me the first time I met him. Although, come to think of it, one couldn’t call anything Harry ever did “particularly nice”. But he seemed to have some attachment to me ever since I walked in, bleary eyed, taking out three dollars mostly in change. He took my order, and my three dollars, and when he served me my pancakes and eggs, he sat across from me and talked to me like any other person who had walked into his bar. He drank whiskey, and offered me some, which I refused.
"You should never drink," he told me, taking a swig himself. "Girls get silly when they drink, and stupid. Men can stay calm and serious".
I laughed and told him my daddy said that men and women were really the same inside and should be treated the same, but he just laughed at this.
"That," he said, "is one of the most told lies, and an important one at that." he sent me home with a handshake and a promise to give me free pancakes for the rest of my life, as long as I promised never to get stupid. Since then I have never touched alcohol, because he still gives me free pancakes.
So that is where I went after my appointment with the psychologist. And that is where I went, one year later, on Friday, May 25th, when I was 14 years old. I left school at 3:00; I ironically even did my homework in the library before leaving. I went home, and picked up a bag sitting on the table right inside the front door, then walked down to Harry’s. "Back again sweetheart?" he said, "when I said I would give you free pancakes, I expected you to come back twice tops, not every Friday for the rest of your fucking life." this is how Harry greeted me every single time I walked in the door.
"Don’t expect me next Friday" I replied, "I am leaving".
He rolled his eyes, "you have been saying that ever since you walked in here 5 years ago," he laughed, whacking me, not so lightly, on the side of the head.
"I mean it this time". I lifted my bag up and put it on the counter, "I've even packed my stuff." he looked down into the bag.
"You have only done that a couple of times," he frowned. “You know I would miss you if you left".
I sigh, "Somehow I think you will survive, an attractive 22 year old, losing a 14 year old friend," I raised an eyebrow. He gave me a look and served another costumer. I ate my pancakes quickly, and kissed his cheek goodbye. He waved me out the door saying, "See you again next Friday?" I smiled. I haven’t seen him for 8 years.
It so happens that I did leave that Friday, the reason for doing so I have forgotten, mixed up in my head with all the memories that I have of that place. All that I remember is that I left, and I have not gone back for eight years. According to Dana, who is my only connection up to a couple years ago to my hometown, my father never went looking for me, and Harry still waited for me every Friday for years, until he gave up and started dating dozens of people, boys and girls, to get his mind off of me. I may have been much too young for him to be in love with me, but he still loved me more than he had loved anyone else. I think he still does in a sense. I can just feel in my bones that he is out there somewhere, loving me, and that he always will be.
I left by train, one that I caught in the larger city only a couple of miles away. I walked the fifteen miles to the other city, and consequently slept almost all of the train ride. The train took me some place I had never heard of, which is mainly why I took it. The place, I learned by looking it up in some old book in the library the day I bought the ticket, was a very rich one. It was out in the country, full of families who inherited most of their money, and no longer had to work. It wasn’t really a very small town surprisingly, much bigger than mine anyways. And it was surrounded by nicely bustling neighbor towns, where the children went to school, and the servants did the shopping. Upon reading the word “servants” in the book I looked this all up in, I was filled with a feeling of shock mixed with anger but also dash of amusement, and a whole steaming pot full of curiosity and excitement. I could think of no job more fun than one in which I was able to snoop into others lives. I left the next day with absolutely no fear of what was facing me. It wasn’t from confidence that I sidestepped the usual apprehension, but from apathy. I didn’t particularly care if it all went “wrong”. I believed that nothing could be "wrong" for me as long as I never had to come back.
I woke up half way through the train ride to see a young man a year or two younger than me, sitting in the seat directly across, and reading a newspaper. He had glasses, but they looked like they were only for reading, and he had light brown hair that formed into a perfectly soft little wave at the top of his head. He took out a pocket watch and checked the time, noticing only then that I was awake. I smiled amusedly at him, because he was acting like some posh old gentleman, when he could not be a day over thirteen. He did not smile back. So I fell back asleep.

Pieces of Light

2007-03-16T17:29:00.000-07:00

She is one of those beautiful criers
Her eyes get all bright
Her white teeth sinking into her lips
Yet she doesn't make a sound

And the tears run down
Onto her face
Where they slip into
The corners of her mouth

That dark cave
She opens up in anguish
Trying to say something
Before she slips away

Suddenly you want to make her cry
To break her pretty heart
Into tiny little pieces
Of shimmering light

Punch holes in her
Until you can see right through
Into the great expanse of earth
Behind her.

Train Man Continued

2007-02-06T17:04:00.000-08:00

I make myself some macaroni and cheese. But I use real cheddar cheese instead of the powder stuff that comes with it. I also add more milk than it suggests, and less butter. I add some spices from the cabinet whose names I don’t know because they are so old that the titles have worn off. A pinch from the green bottle, a teaspoon of the blue bottle, and a tablespoon of the clear one. I also add some cinnamon, which is the only spice we have that is new, because mother likes it in her coffee. I know it is a strange ingredient for macaroni and cheese, but I add it anyways because I think it makes it taste good.

I sit down on the faded green couch and draw the deep green curtains closed. I turn on the TV and lift up a floorboard in the un-finished hardwood floor. That is where I keep my precious DVD. I know lots of boys my age with dirty movies filled with pictures that their mothers do not like, but I don’t like those movies much because they remind me of my mother, and to tell the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if she were in a few. No, that is not the movie that I keep under the floorboard. That is where I keep Sabrina. I put it in the player, and I begin to watch it from the beginning. My favorite character is Linus because I like the way he doesn’t seem so interested in love until Sabrina, and how she rocks his world. I love the way he keeps himself in denial about his feelings for her till the very end, when he truly sees the beauty she has brought into his life. I feel bad for Sabrina though, because she has to spend all that time confused about whom she loves, and who loves her, and where her life is going. I would never like to be confused like her. When I finish my macaroni and cheese, I fish some stale ice cream out of the freezer to eat while I finish the movie. I like to imagine what fun they would have had on the cruise if the movie had gone that far. But in the end, it’s really over and there is no more story at all. It’s all just ended, and it doesn’t go on. Someday I hope to get some other movies, but it took me a while to find the money to buy this one, and to get the courage to buy it. For some reason I always had the impression that it wasn’t the sort of movie I ever wanted anyone to ever to know I watched. Especially my father.

Father is not at all harsh, but he is not a good father. He isn’t around much, and when he is he spends most of his time talking about things I don’t understand. He is very wise, and intelligent. This is weird, because he drives trains. Well, technically I guess he is an engineer. But all he does is drive a train, right? Really, what skill does it take? Obviously not much for the kind of money he makes. But he is still very smart, and he goes on about things I attempt not to listen to, while mother sits enraptured, desperately trying to understand.

The train my father runs goes through Arizona, Nevada, California, and Texas. He once took me on it and explained what it did, and how it worked, and why it was important. But again, I tried not to listen. I don’t even know if those are the states it runs through. I really can’t remember. I don’t listen because I don’t want to understand, because then I might grow up and drive trains, and I don’t want to be a train man, because I don’t want to be anything like him. I know within my heart that there is something that I am desperately grasping at, something far more complicated and different than his life. But I have never been able to put my finger on exactly what it is. When I look at almost everyone around me, I just can’t find some thing in their lives, something that I desperately want in mine. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever find it, I mean, since I haven’t yet been able to determine what exactly it is. I remember though, one time I did see it. I don’t remember what it was, or when it was, but I remember the feeling more than I remember almost anything else in my life. It was amazing, as though everything suddenly fit. But it wasn’t like some missing puzzle piece from the picture of my life, that suddenly fit into place and made everything make sense, it was as if I had forever been missing the entire puzzle. This, I know, makes it worse. One can only be annoyed when a piece of a puzzle is missing. But there isn’t any feeling at all when the puzzle isn’t even there. Every once in a while I get a small flash of the puzzle, but it is really only a feeling and one really can’t build a life based on flashes of feelings.

Fear #1

2007-02-03T12:01:00.000-08:00

The Return of the AIDS Epidemic

As most of us know, there was quite an epidemic of AIDS among the homosexuals not too long ago. Not surprisingly, as time went on less and less people seemed to be getting. For some reason completely unknown to me, stupid young people these days are under the impression that it is no longer an issue and they do not have to worry about it. Well, THEY DO.
The reason less and less people have been diagnosed with AIDS for a while now is because during its peak, both straights and gays alike were forced to watch their friends and family die, making them realize how likely it was for them to get it, and see how much pain it would put their own friends and family through. This made some, I may dare to say most, be more careful with sex, or even abstain completely. And that is why the number of people dying of it went down. Less sex among the people most likely to have it = less spread = less dead but does not = happy shiny completely safe people who can have as much sex as they want with as many people as they want.
However, now that we have a whole new generation of flamboyant little twinks, bears, butches, femmes, and “10 inches, 20 dollars” hustlers who were not forced through all the pain and suffering of seeing those who lived through the AIDS epidemic die. They seem to think of the whole thing as a rather horrifying myth that they would rather not hear about because it just ruins the whole mood of spin class. They can’t imagine the risk that they are taking if they have unprotected sex, or too much of it with too many different people they have no reason to trust.
I can see that this rather horrid picture of homosexuals I have painted may offend some, but I am just ranting. My best friend and many of my other friends are gay. And I myself am bisexual. And I have reason to believe my cousin Adam is gay (he is training to be a Broadway star).
So, one of my biggest fears is that it will come back, and I will have to see MY friends die, have to see it on the news, or hear about it on the streets, or even have to suffer it myself. And I just don’t think that I could bear it. Notice how I made this all about ME and MY feelings? Well, that’s what fears are really all about. All about the person fearing them, unlike worries.
And I’m scared.

Nascence

2007-01-29T19:12:00.000-08:00

Simplistically I walk through slyly hidden rooms
Known only to the walls by which they are contained
Silently they drip of things that were once lost
Of all that’s borrowed, yet nothing that is gained

For a thing gained is rarely left behind
‘Tis taken by its owner from its birth room
And carried through the halls of all the world
Joined by thoughts still growing in the womb

So one is never left with feelings of the soul
For once birthed, they often leave us for all time
Remembrance of their touch is long forgotten
And the slouch of hours releases them in prime

Try not to find old pieces of your soul
For when once lost, do not want to be found
Look only for what lurks and can be borrowed
For our flitting souls sought never to be bound

It's Late

2007-01-23T15:09:00.000-08:00

It feels so over
As the night rolls through the sky
And rain makes splashes all down the garden halls
She feels, not bolder
Thinking of the final lie
As she watches stone turn darker in the fall

It’s far too late
Yet visitors abound in minds
And thoughts run rampant through the darkened rooms
Not filled with hate
Are those who roam when dark as mines
Go moments, flying by through empty tombs

She takes a step
But it is filled with hunger
So curious a feeling for the soul
She wants something
But dares not ask for answers
So she takes anger in consuming lulls

She’s oh so hot
The air is pressing ‘round her
The rain drops, burning tears from god above
Her blood seems clot
She fears her own thoughts stir
Will wake her from this dream of hate turned love

She’s going away
She’s sinking to the floor
She knows its getting no where near to dawn
She’s going away
But she can’t get out the door
Night consumes her, and soon she will be gone

Salypsio

2007-01-08T16:14:00.000-08:00

This is the begining of a story I wanted to write when I was 14. It isnt particularly delicous at the moment, but I am thinking of revising to plot and writing more, for lack of other things to do.

The butter knife lay on the cream colored tray, and the candles from outside reflected off of it, sending a glittering light throughout the room. The toast beside it was cold and dry and Deraes, leaning back in her chair, lips pouted, let out a long sigh. The clock showed it was midday, but the outside suggested otherwise, the water in the small pond was dark, as well as the ground, and the trees were bare of any leaves, their frail branches nearly snapping in the rain. Deraes leaned forward again; inspiration in her eyes, and began to draw. Each line had to fit perfectly with what she saw in her head; each detail must be in place for it to work, she leaned back again, half a tree drawn in her paper. Then, her hands in fists of frustration, she turned her chair around and half jumped, half walked, over and onto her gold-sheeted bed.
It was nearly time for lunch, but until then she planned to just draw close the curtains of her bed and read by candlelight. She slipped off her shoes and pulled the drapes, then, lighting her candle, she picked up her book, Calister by Alanna Kariniar. Each page filled Deraes with inspiration, but not hope, Deraes didn’t need hope. In Deraes’s world, there was no need for hope; her family was the richest in all of Charan. She didn’t need to worry about anything else, she had home, and that’s all she needed.
A few hours later there was a tentative knock at the door.
“Yes?” Deraes sighed.
“Its Tara”, said the quiet voice of her sister.
“Come in”, she said, happy to have company on such a dark day. Parting the curtains as Tara stepped inside, Deraes stood up and put on a large smile. Tara had always been one of Deraes’s` favorite sisters out of the 10, and Fogs, her favorite brother out of the three. Though her sisters and brothers were great, her father was not so much. He didn’t really like his children too much; at least Deraes didn’t think so. And though the children didn’t talk about it, they knew that he had killed their mother and their five other step moms. Right now he had a wife named Fajilina, and she had been around for a while. Deraes would have thought before, that knowing your father killed your various mothers would be terrifying, but now that it was out and she knew all about it, it just didn’t seem so awful somehow.
Tara looked at Deraes and smiled excitedly.
“Can you just not wait for the party!” she exclaimed finally. Deraes did an over dramatic sigh and rolled her eyes but was laughing.
“What ELSE am I permitted to think about?” Deraes said in a sarcastic voice, Tara laughed.
“I am just so overly exited,” Tara again giggled, “nothing ever happens here”.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Deraes, said in a falsely serious voice.
“Last night when Troy laughed during father’s dinner speech, my whole day was made.” Tara laughed, “I am serious though, it’s going to be fun.”
“Well-” Deraes reasoned.
“Oh my god, you totally have to where your new gold dress,” Tara interrupted.
“Now, now,” Deraes said in a mockly harshful tone. “We mustn’t get hasty, I’ve not even a clue what dress you are speaking of.”

November, November.
Sweet, sweet November
Everyone dancing
With silk dresses
And suits
November, November
Sweet, Sweet November
The trees almost bare
And the leaves
They swirl
With the wind
And her hair
November, November
Sweet, Sweet November
Lovely long gloves
Soft silky doves
So chilly
Must snuggle
Under the street lights
November, November
Sweet, Sweet November
Everyone giggling
For soon comes the dance
They all look like dolls
In a jewelry box
And everyone
Will watch.
November, November
Sweet, sweet November
Forever and forever
Please never
Leave me
November

~^~ Tavla ~^~

Deraes carefully folded the letter and placed it in a drawer in her desk. Deraes had been receiving these letters for some time now, and each was written in a strange way about strange things, such as dresses, or bells, or dancing, or weather, but especially November. Almost all of them were written beautifully and Deraes received one ever other week and someone named Tavla wrote all of them. At first, Deraes was surprised and scared that someone had sent her these letters, but after a while, she began to look forward to them.
Just as Deraes shut the drawer, someone knocked at the door.
“Who is it?” Deraes asked.
“It’s Bye”.
Deraes sighed, “What do you want”?
“I just have your new dress miss”.
“What new dress” she questioned, sitting up and opening the door.
“The one Master Laceris bought you”.
Father bought me a dress? She thought, opening the door to her timid maid Bye. She handed her a long tight gold silk dress.
“Thank you Bye,” she said to her maid, shutting the door and laying the dress across her bed. Each fiber of it seemed to flow over her hands like water as she laid it on her bed. It was a gold silk dress with glittering lace for sleeves and a beaded design of water drops in the front, done in red so they looked more like blood drops than anything else. She decided to try it on, slipping it over her head, she tied up the back laces and, wrapped her hair up in a tight knot at the back of her head, she looked in the mirror, a smile crossing her face. Well now I know what dress dear Tara was speaking of. It was a beautiful dress made of flowing gold silk with cream-colored lace sleeves and beautiful embroidery at the bottom…

Nikki

2007-01-08T16:01:00.000-08:00

I got a lovely comment from someone named Nikki. It is the kind of comment I would leave, which is what makes me love it, even if it is a joke. Heehee.

Anonymous said...
Hello there, it's Nikki and i'm stalking you. This piece is fabulous. Your description is wonderful. I can actually watch this like a movie, perhaps it should be one.

See, these are the kind of people I live for

Lovely Evening

2006-12-07T16:21:00.000-08:00

"I know your heart is heavy
I can feel it when we kiss
So many men before me
Have thrown their backs out
Trying to lift it
But me, I'm not a gamble
You can count on me... to split
The love I sell you in the evening
By the morning wont exist."
~Lua, Bright eyes

Torn up Throats

2006-12-07T16:19:00.000-08:00

All the things here are
Just blank words and notes
They dont mean anything
But they tear up our throats
And you're screaming and screaming
But I am not there
I dont know how I know
But it's all in my ear
If you dont want to feel me
Then leave me alone
You can't speak for the pain
And it destroys your throne
If you looked into my eyes
You would only see eyes
But you looked in my mouth
There was blood. To your surprise?
Do you not scream like me?
In your mouth, dont you shout?
Not letting anything go
But hoping they'll find you out?
My throat is so warn
And my lips are so weak
That when you finally need me
I for once cannot speak

Train Man, Begining

2006-10-02T18:23:00.000-07:00

I hear the storm roll over the house like an airplane, touching the roof gently before slowly passing by. Even with the worst of it gone, however, it is still raining very hard. Well, I say the worst of it, but I really do enjoy the rain, and the dark that comes with it. Mother is in the den, playing the piano softly, even though she can only play one song that I don’t recognize from anywhere else. Father is gone again, but I don’t mind, I have never minded. I have a puzzle in my room, laid out on the floor on a big ripped up piece of cardboard, it’s of a sunset, and I am working diligently on the ocean it is setting behind. It is hard because all of the pieces look exactly the same, and you have to squint hard to notice that they are very different. I can barely see as it is, because I don’t want to turn on the lamp. It’s so much nicer when it is dark that I couldn’t stand to ruin it with artificial light. I decide it is no use, and I slide the piece of cardboard delicately under the bed, so that it is no longer visible. Standing up, I crawl into my bed, as the piano music stops from downstairs. Mother is coming up, I can tell because I hear her nylons rub together in between her legs, where most of the runs are. She stands outside my door for a second before opening it, as though preparing herself for me. She only opens it a crack, and leans her head in, resting it against the frame. She is very pale, my mother, with crooked, but perfectly white teeth. She has blue eyes, and blond hair that is curly, but somewhat wilted. She wears too much lip liner, but otherwise her face is fairly pleasant. I know she is not my mother, but it doesn’t matter to me, I am glad she is not. I am clearly black, and though she told me that I just got my fathers skin, I know it’s not the truth. She also knows I don’t believe her, and I think its silly that she lies anyways, just because it seems the right thing to do.
“Honey,” she says, “I am going out with the girls.” This, I know, is code for she has a date. “Do you need dinner or something?”
I sigh, “I can fix it myself.” Even though I am only 13, I am a fabulous cook, though I am the only one that knows.
She smiles, “You do that now, and get some sleep tonight, we’ll go to church tomorrow.” I wonder why she bothers; it won’t make her any less of a whore. But I smile anyways.

Ashes

2006-09-16T23:09:00.000-07:00

You make me want to get closer
The closer I get
You make me want to give in
You make me want to forget

So I say bring me down from heaven
Burn me up in hell
It hurts, but what you do
Oh, you do so well

And they say we’re lost
That we have no way
They say the cost
We’ll have to pay
Is huge

Well, they can do it by themselves
If they want
But right now, I got you
To light me up

So I go
And I go
And I’ll never stop
Except when the simmer
Boils over the top
Then I’m up in heaven
Back in hell
You make me ashes
But you do it so well

I am Well

2006-09-04T00:10:00.000-07:00

I pretend that I am well
So you will not think me ill
And take my hand, and kiss my face
And say that I am yours to grace

But you find out my secret strife
My fevered head, my darkened life
And secretly I’d hoped you would
For I’m remembering where you stood

You comb my hair and bring me tea
You smile, and laugh, and talk with me
You hold my hand up to your mouth
As if I’ll find you really out

You touch my teeth, my eyes, and head
And crawl, next to me, into bed
You know my sins, you know my faults
You’ve opened in me, all the vaults

But one, within my heart still rests
Clinging deftly to my chest
I keep it locked, I ate the key
So you could not find it in me

I watch you as, to sleep you fall
My secret? You’re not there at all

I Wish Upon my Lashes

2006-08-31T21:12:00.000-07:00

I stand in the bathroom, looking in the long mirror at my freshly scrubbed face. I like the way my eyes look when they are freshly washed, like little pools of water. Deep in the middle, so deep that you can only see black. And as they slowly slant upwards, it becomes golden with the sun, then green with the moss from the stones beneath it, and than it reaches the shore, a vast world of pure white marble, shiny, and clean. And I love my lips as well. They look so kissable, and so smooth, and beautiful, with that barely noticeable freckle above the top one. I always find myself thinking that whomever I choose to let kiss those lips, should be forever grateful that they get to kiss such lovely ones. I notice, however, that there is a little bit of Mascara left upon my lashes, so I take a pad, soaked in makeup remover, and pull gently at my eyes. Some of my lashes fall off in the process, resting on the top of the pad. At first I am upset that they have come off. But then I remember how you are supposed to blow upon them, and let them free into the air, and then you will be granted one wish. I blow upon them, but they stick to the pad, stick because of the mascara that still coats them. And I suddenly feel overwhelmingly sad. And I don’t know why. I just wanted to be granted that wish, I just wanted to watch my eye lashes blow around me as if I were a small child again, and mother had just explained to me that I could do this, and get a wish magically granted. I stare at the little black bits of hair that shade my lovely pools of eyes, and make a wish anyways. I wish that things of this nature would not happen any more. I wish that things would never be ruined. I wish that life would always be magical. That things I once cherished would never disappear like that again.

Goodbye me!

2006-08-29T16:04:00.000-07:00

Hey, for those few who read my blog, like no one really, I havent been posting because my WiFi is down, so I cannot use the internet on my computer, I have to use my parents, so I am not able to be on long enough that I can actually write too much. But ok, so I will post this one thing when I get my internet back.

Dont Touch Me

2006-08-13T23:51:00.000-07:00

Don’t touch me
Please leave me be
Don’t you stand so close to me
Don’t touch my mind
So that I find
That I’m not fine
When you are gone
And I feel wrong
The shadows of my mind get long
Don’t touch my soul
I like it whole
Like it when the thunder rolls
I want to feel, still
When I smile on the sill
When you’re lost o’er the hill
Don’t ever touch my heart
Don’t leave your art
Of fingerprints upon my heart
So that it’s smudged for me
And I lose clarity
And I can’t see
I can’t give up my power
So I end up in the shower
Crying, getting lower
I can’t let you touch me
Because you see
I can’t miss you, and you can’t miss me

My new motto is "Dont Touch Me" They are words to live by. The moment you let people get close to you, you miss them. And then you lose control over yourself, and your happiness. I have lost this power lately, and I miss so much. And its killing me. So my new words are "Dont touch me"

Goblet

2006-07-28T23:53:00.000-07:00

You drink from the goblet that refills itself
And stare at the jar that’s on top of the shelf
The things that send shivers down your spine
A bundle of remembrance on which to dine
And in yesterday’s hour did you see the light
From the comfortable darkness, the internal fight
Becoming is not simple, for it causes Us pain
But it is all in the waiting for the chilling of the rain
Just wait for the night, for the gleaming hall
For the deadly love, the masquerade ball
In which you find it, the thing you desire
The spark that will light your unlit fire
And then you can’t do it, you cannot become
You cannot experience, the thud of the drum
That calls you to order, of where you find heat
And passion that rolls to the drums timely beat
No laughing or pretending, just passion of the hour
Like the patience of a blooming flower
And in four seconds, no, now it is three
We become one with Divine and the Sea

Boredom Ensues

2006-07-22T18:13:00.000-07:00

My date was BARELY a date.

My sister has taken the TV.

It is unbelivably hot.

I have no girlfriend.

Kameron is going away!!!!!!!!

Boredom, and sadness, ensues.....

GOD: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Crimes of Love in Paradise

2006-07-22T02:36:00.000-07:00

Single in the paradise of hell
I sit and think of times when things were lost
When time was the one thing that could tell
And you were always waiting for the cost

But here I see the world has changed it ways
You’re gone, and I am not lonely at all
I sit and watch the passing of the days
Never worrying how I will fall

And all the world comes crashing down around me
Not mine, but still I know its all a mess
For once I don’t pretend that I do not see
And try to think of love as something less

But eating at my soul are nagging feelings
That try to tell the truth about all love
But when they come, I look up at the ceiling
Counting tiles, and bumps, and dents above

Soon my soul’s been eaten by my insides
And still, ignored, go feelings through my heart
The acid that my feelings and dead soul provide
Eat me up, as well as monsters from the start

Still I smile, and try to guilt myself to bliss
For I’ve loved, and lost, felt too much in the latter
And deaths seem so much worse, and yet above this
Yet something inside tells me it doesn’t matter

Doesn’t matter what goes on without me there
Doesn’t matter if I haven’t shed a tear
Doesn’t help if at the news, I always stare
Only matters if it left me with much fear

Something snaps, I see to what it all amounts
Though I try to change, to fit myself in times
I realize that love’s the only thing that counts
And crimes of love are the only crimes

The Lords

2006-07-20T22:28:00.000-07:00

She told me to be there. And I am not. I am sitting in the prettiest room in the house. There is a chandelier, and it is pretty. Nothing but pretty. Nothing but silly words. Maybe grand, the silliest of all the pointless words. And the couch I am sitting at is plush, in the way that things made by the devil are plush. Warm, and inviting, a furniture almost sensual, almost truly beautiful, with sin hanging in the air above it, suspended in it, while I am alone. The floor is made of hardwood, the kind that people who like houses look closely at. I couldn’t tell you what wood it was made out of. I don’t know such things, which never seemed to bother her. But when she is in my mind, the couch is much more inviting, it deepens, and I drown in the deep end, like when I was seven and mother left me alone in the lake. But then I was cold, now I am warm, but suffocating, and dying in the most beautiful way possible. I try not to think of her, but the more that you try not to think of things, the more impossible it gets to not. My heart hurts as the door begins to open. And I am sitting on a couch again. Sitting on the surface, just upon the surface, with cold breath that sears my throat, and cold skin that rises in little bumps that somehow comfort me and smooth my drying skin. And leave me feeling much more human, and alive. The Lords walk in, with their gold rings, and nice suits and combed hair. But there are no smiles this time. She told me to meet her, and I would not have to endure this, I would never have to wear things that suffocated me, I would never have to cross my legs, or bat my eyes, or turn myself to The Lords. But I find that I am sitting here, in a tight dark dress, with lacey sleeves, and hard black shoes that cage me in my space, not able to run. And I cross my legs, and keep my hands in my lap, as they stand over me, their hungry eyes upon me. I turn up my chin, and face them. Giving myself to The Lords.

White Things

2006-07-19T01:48:00.000-07:00

I want you all to think HARD when you read this, its all weird and stuff! Hee hee. It actually has meaning, but I might be the only one who gets it. Tell me what you think it means!

Best of all the days
In here
‘Tis the day when whiter things
Come near
For I believe
They fear

But they best days
When white
White, sweeter things come near
Widen height
To help us see
Forgotten sights

Though they must know
To let us be
Everyone must know that
For you see
We are never good
Even me

But they come on the best days
Somehow still
To show us that we have them
Upon the sill
We say we love them
Then we kill

They never should have come
They know why
They know the reasons we are here
Must hear us cry
We stifle love
Let them die

Hell is Bright

2006-07-19T00:54:00.000-07:00

The devil came up
And asked me
Where I had been
And I told him
“Well, baby
I have sinned.”
And he listened to me
Like one might listen to
The wind
And then he held me in his arms
And we went far away
He said to come down to hell
And he’d take care of me
He said that hell was everything
That I would have to see
So we went to the place
Where everything is bright
The hell where all of your dreams
Are in sight
He said if I tried
Maybe I might…
But I couldn’t reach
Any of my dreams
Because he wouldn’t let go
No he wouldn’t let go of me
And I tried to let go
But I couldn’t let go of me

Frey Zinfandel Blush/Rose (Wine) Sillience

2006-07-16T13:01:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I have an idea for a REALLY strange name for the girl on the moon. It's either Frey Zinfandel Rose Sillience, or Frey Zinfandel Rose Wine Sillience, or Frey Zinfandel Blush Sillience, or Frey Zinfandel Blush Wine Sillience. I want it to be wierd and long, and all that. I have a story to go along with it as well. But I would still like name suggestions, there might be something I like more, so, for the story that goes along with it...

Frey, she knew, was an odd name. Her mother, Whitney Sillience, had been quite the party girl in her day. She knew all the types of alcohol out there, and was determined to give Frey a name to tribute them, as she planned on giving up all alcohol once Frey was born. After much deliberation, she had decided that if Frey were born with blonde hair, like her father, she would name her White Wine Sillience, and if she were born with dark hair, like her mother, she would name her Red Wine Sillience. But to her surprise, Frey was born with light strawberry pink hair. While Whitney and her friend Helen tried to decide on a name, Whitney’s parents rushed to the hospital from a couple hours away, even though they weren’t notified in time to be there for the birth. When they found out that Frey had red hair, they stopped and bought Rose wine. When they got to the hospital, they suggested naming her Rose Wine Sillience, but Whitney had been looking forward to naming her daughter something unusual, so, in the end, Frey ended up with the strangest name her mother could think up, after the wine that her parents had brought to celebrate the birth. She was named, Frey Zinfandel Blush Wine Sillience.

Disentanglement Idea

2006-07-16T01:42:00.000-07:00

So I have a new idea for something. I am just going to describe it quickly and not go into detail, just need feedback on story line. So there is this girl, need a name by the way, and she used to be the girl on the moon, got that from Atlantis and The Lion. But she quit because she lost faith in people. So she haunts a summer home, in a way. She can be visible, but chooses not to. So there are six families who have been friends forever, staying at this summer home, as well as the family that runs it. The families are fairly large, so there are a lot of people there. A lot of kids as well, from 10 to 27, and then the adults, from 32 to 65. This girl, she goes off one night, to study the moon, and by now she knows all about the inter workings of these people, what they think of each other, their affairs, their loves, their secrets, and all their family politics, and how they know and feel about the people who own the summer home and work there. So she comes back from studying the moon to find out that Michael, a 17 year old from one of the families, has been murdered. A detective comes to work the case, and no one is allowed to leave the house. So she tries to give the detective hints, because although she doesn’t know who did it because she wasn’t there, she has along list of people who would want to see Michael dead. So she is trying to help the detective, also need his name, and all the while finding more and more clues, and falling in love with the detective while watching him all the time, even when he thinks he is alone. So I have some plot stuff, lots of love triangles, and lots of gayness! But I don’t know who is going to end up having killed him; I will decide that when I have reached it. But I like this idea, so give me names, and feedback, and Kameron, I plan to use both of your metaphors, the shower one as just a small thing, and the rubber band ball as a big one. It is going to be called “Disentanglement” because it is all about her disentangling the lives of these people, to find what they hide underneath, because no one else wants to bother to sort through the whole mess.

2006-07-14T22:12:00.000-07:00

'Tis Moi in my new T-shirt! I hella love it. Especially when people look at me funny for wearing it. GOD! Aren't my boobs HUGE I hate them. And I am not at all fat or even pudgy either. So they look all out of proportion. I prefer small breasts, dont know why... But I love the message, it has two meanings.
A) Homophobia is "bad" using one of homophobic people's very own words to describe it.
B) Homophobic people are often gay. 'Tis true, they're so deep in the closet, then start to find monsters...

PS, I used 'Tis too many fucking times in all that.

Hella Sucky Space Filler

2006-07-10T17:18:00.000-07:00

Snap
It’s gone
Everything is lost
Oh yes, they’ve left
Iced over by the frost
It’s breaking now
It will not come back soon
And all that you once loved
Has flown up to the moon
You see the world’s a mess
It won’t come to a halt
You turn and see it scream
And tell you it’s your fault
Oh god, you miss it so much
That you see all the wrong
Snap
Goodbye to everything
You used to love, that’s gone

Plastic Shoes and Keira Knightley

2006-07-07T13:29:00.000-07:00

I am sitting writing in my bed right now. I am writing in my journal, which I hate to do. Handwriting is for squares, I say! It makes me feel like every other 15-year-old girl, writing in her journal about how Kyle asked her out for next Saturday night, but she has a curfew of, like, 9:30, so she doesn’t know what to do! Oh, and what if Kyle tries to kiss her? Should she? Or would that make her seem loose?

Well, I am not one of those girls. I am sitting here wondering about going out with Erin next Saturday and how she is leaving really early and I am probably not going to be able to snag a kiss, let alone cop a feel.

I am going to dinner at Buca De Beppo and then to see a movie with all my friends from school today. I plan to look fantastic. I am wearing a very pretty, sleeveless, low-cut, collared white shirt, and light colored jean shorts with these $80 dollar, off-white, plasticy, very vogue, high heels I bought at Macy’s, they are pretty fucking awesome! And sometime during the course of dinner, or shopping before the movie, I plan to say, “The only reason I am super excited to see ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ is because there are two totally hot people in it”, and someone will probably say something like, “Yeah, Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom.” And I will be like, “No! Johnny Depp and Keira Knightley!” But even if no one asks me who the two hot people are, I plan on clarifying that one of them is Keira Knightley (who is fucking FINE). And my friends will be all embarrassed because I plan to say this loud enough for the people around us to hear (I have a naturally loud voice anyways). And they may think this is weird and ask me if I am “A LESBO or something.” But they will probably just pass it off as me being me, because I am often highly inappropriate.

And also, I have decided to start a new thing, every post I will have a GOD, Goodness of the Day, my sort of "god" for that day, something, just an actual item that made me happy.

GOD=Keira Knightley

Fucking the Mud

2006-07-04T03:07:00.000-07:00

I roller-blade. A lot. It is kind of sad. So today I went roller-blade-ing for, like, half an hour. And I was going down this one street and there is this one guy on a skateboard, he is on the street, while I am on the sidewalk, as always. I can totally tell this guy’s looking at me, and not in a good way. I must say now that I look ridiculous when I roller-blade. I know this. I have this weird mini bright orange backpack with one strap that Velcros across my chest. And I wear jeans, which cover my extremely ugly skates, so I just look abnormally tall, with wheels for feet. And the wire that goes from my headphones to my Walkman is long, and it hangs in front of me and then goes over my shoulder into my backpack. And the worst part, I have an unbelievably ugly helmet that is totally huge and gray. So this guys skates on up to me, and is like, “Why are you wearing that ugly helmet?” This guy really knows how to subtly strike up a conversation.
So I am like, “because my mother wants me to.”
He laughs. “Do you do everything your mother tells you to do?”
“Well,” I say, “of course not always.”
And he is like, “then why are you wearing the helmet?”
I stare at him for a few lingering seconds. “Well,” I begin, “wouldn’t you? If you knew, when you look into her hopeful loving eyes, that one day you would have to tell her something that would crush all of her dreams? When you see your mother, don’t you ever just feel the guilt of all the things you have done, that you regret, and all the things you are, that you can never change? So when I imagine all the pain I am going to cause her, all I can think is, I better do everything she wants me to now, because some day, she is going to see just how bad things can get where I am concerned, and for now I want her to love me, for who I am, with no complications. I want her to be happy with me, and if I can now do it by just looking silly for a little while, I want to. Because later, I wont be able to fix the things she hates about me.”
The guy just looks and is like, “what have you done that is so bad?”
I lean in with a coy little smile, look around, and whisper, “I am a lesbian.”
He looks around and says, “right now I am not supposed to be outside, because I always get dirty, my mother hates dirt. So I guess that is something I will regret.” He laughs. “I am gay too.”
I stare at him. “Then do you know what I am saying?” I ask.
“Well,” he says back, “not really, I just want to get back at my mom for hating such stupid things about me, I mean, I cant help being queer, or liking to be outside where it is muddy. I really sort of want her to hate me sometimes. I have fantasies that one day she’ll see me fucking the mud.”
And I didn’t even ask what he meant. Because somehow, I completely understand.

Cold

2006-06-30T02:24:00.000-07:00

Well no one told me about her
No one told me about this stir

This ruffle of lace full of elegance
This sore disregard for relevance

And I walk into the room, so bold
But all I can feel is the consuming cold

Cold eyes that see me with distaste
Cold hearts that struggle with the waste

Cold hands on their mouths all shut
Cold fingers not able to mend the cut

And it’s too late to say you’re sorry
Under this cold night so starry

But it’s too late to find her anywhere
For I swear you may look, she’s not there

And the world of us few has come down
She has shot out our eyes, broken crowns

We repress it in our minds of gold
So she leaves our memories cold

Leaving it too late to say we were sorry
Under the cold night so starry

Leaving it too late to ask who cried
Too late to say we didn’t, we all died

Too late to find her out there
So we sit, so cold, trapped in here.

The Cold Girl

2006-06-30T01:32:00.000-07:00

The fan spins slowly, in the room
As we sit and talk of things
Things past gone
Gone for so long
‘Fore the fat lady thought to sing

Me and The Girl so Cold laugh
And lift our heads up to the sky
Or really to the ceiling
And leave ourselves feeling
The late-night drunk question of why

I recall all the things I have felt
And I think of the woman in white
Who looked like a goddess
A queen in her bodice
I’d seen earlier that night

I watch the cold girl in the room
And I think of speaking of the girl
But she’ll look at me coldly
Make me sink slowly
The girl in the room with the curls

My drunk brain confused lifts its head
So now we have two people here
The White-dressed Girl
The Girl with the Curls
I take another sip of my beer

Oh the choice is so silly and sad
One girl makes me feel so happy
With her dress of white
And her smile, so slight
Makes me feel silly and sappy

While the other one is my cold outcome
While the other one makes me feel sore
Put my soul on a shelf
Just forget myself
Watch the fan, and sink into the floor

Stealing Notes...

2006-06-29T01:02:00.000-07:00

I may have already posted this. But no one was reading when I did...

With that far away look
With that nowhere stare
She isn’t here
She’s all the way there

With that gone-too-long tone
With that despair glare
He didn’t want…
And now he doesn’t care

They stole away notes
From the long gone song
Now they wont hear
Cause it’s been much too long

If heaven is on earth
We always heard the word
But hell’s here too
Now that is absurd

But things sometimes are bad
And good’s gone, things are wrong
Now life is a mess
And we can’t hear our song

But left empty are they
With the right here beer
Though they’re all alone
At least there’s no fear

Now the last days are gone
As the shadows get long
We stand like ghosts
Cause we cant hear our song

And You're Not

2006-06-29T00:59:00.000-07:00

I stand here
Looking over the edge
For you
But you said you wouldn’t be there
And you’re not
And I said I wanted you there
And you’re not
And I told myself I loved you
And I do
You used to say you loved me
And you did
You say now, you don’t love me
And you don’t
I don’t see you over there
And you are not
And I miss you more than life
But you don’t care
I fucked it up
Its over
You’re not there
I hold my head in hands
And scream, “You must be there.”
I scream, I scream so loud
But still
You’re not

My Evil MDGD, and Manly Pussies

2006-06-28T22:19:00.000-07:00

The single most annoying thing in my life right now is my MDGD (Manic Depressive Gayness Disorder). Seriously, one moment I am like, “OOO, hot chicks!!” And the next I am like, “Oh, kill me now, I don’t want to be a dyke!!”
But I somehow always remain one. I sort of like toying with the lovely idea of bisexuality, I mean, it kind of sounds like more fun than Lesbianism, I get more variety to choose from. Hmm, that was a horribly stupid thing to think, and it STILL sounds stupid when I write it. How fun for me.
But anyways, I really want to watch some lesbian film and wish I were a lesbian, like most cool people watch films about gay guys and wish they were one, because there is so much drama, and its just so much cooler than being straight. But lesbian movies are never so cool. They always depict really stereotypical, angry, ugly, fat, boyish lesbians, who hate men.
a) I may be sort of angry, but not for NO reason whatsoever, and I am usually pretty cool around other people, its just fun to express myself in this blog.
b) I am not ugly, I just am not. I cannot be modest and say, “well, I am not really that pretty…” ‘Cause it just isn’t true. I am fucking hot.
c) I am a size 5 with 34D breasts, people usually do not look at me and think “fat cow.”
d) I totally love being a woman. And I like WOMEN, not just pussies on manly bodies, but ACTUAL WOMEN. I think this idea is sort of hard for some lesbians to comprehend.
e) I love men. Kameron especially. Baby, you kick ass! And I cannot imagine not liking you just because you are a guy. And I like my father, he is pretty cool. And my three best friends, Anonymous friend BM, Anonymous friend GP, and Kameron, are all guys. So I really have no problem with them, even if I DON’T want to actually be them, or be like them, or have the same yucky parts as them…

Shoes and Hats and Purses

2006-06-25T23:13:00.000-07:00

Shoes and hats and purses in my closet
Normalcy and apathy at best
Left alone I live as though I’ve fallen
‘Round her I try to smile and fix my breast

But I say I’ve only yet to meet the man
Who will show me all that I’ve been missing
I dance around the thought of permanence
A ballet I’ve perfected by not risking

And all my shoes become my dancing shoes
And all my hats become my hiding hats
My favorite purse is filled with hopes of normal
And the closet’s filled with skeletons and rats

The normalcy created by the dancing
Is destroyed by apathy for un-thought dreams
I have come back to dancing round confusion
Returned to normalcy, or so it seems

By the way, a lot has changed over the last few days, maybe not long, but important post (to me) coming up! Has to do with this poem, which I wrote a couple hours ago on the plane coming home from Hawai'i.

Smiling in the Sun

2006-06-25T23:10:00.000-07:00

Look out on the little children
Little girls in Easter dresses
Little boys with unknotted ties
Swinging freely round their necks
And hear the yelling from the inside
That the children do not hear
For they are preoccupied
By the treasures hidden in the grass
You try to smile
But crying comes to ears
Ears all around the garden
Heard by elders in their chairs
And the older youth, who look so torn
And adults that clench their teeth
And close their eyes and wish they couldn’t hear
But the sobs are getting sadder
Desperate, so hurt, and wet
Filled with disappointment with all life
But you try to fill the emptiness
That’s formed around the garden
Blocked from the bubble ‘round the children
So you try and talk
But words only falsify the moment
So you just watch the children smiling
In the sun

Past the Kiss of the Sun

2006-06-25T23:09:00.000-07:00

Without this burden of the endless sky
Days would pass you much more slowly by

Because it hurts my chest to think of this
I leave my thoughts to gaining the sun’s kiss

Upon my nose, and upon my chest
The apathy of merely silent rest

My thoughts they swirl like death within my head
Filling all my emptiness with dread

And all my thoughts, they simply cease to stop
The boiling water in my heart’s over the top

And I just scream with restlessness and hope
That wont be washed away with simple soap

That hope, that somehow I will work it out
That things so deadly, will simplify in doubt

I am losing touch of all this mess
Within my head, that I wrap in a dress

And hope that when I finally fight the war
I will end up left with nothing more

Atlantis and the Lion

2006-06-24T17:49:00.000-07:00

I have discovered that people who write blogs often write a lot of crap. Really, it can be very sad. But then, there are some delightfully strange blogs as well. I have found a wonderful little blog that just got started yesterday called Atlantis and the Lion, it is unbelivably weird, but just weird enough. It really is about a Lion in Atlantis, after everyone has died. And then there is this cool guy named Baltimore, well you should just read it, there are only like a couple of entries, but I totally love it so far. I see this is strange for me to mention another blog, but I have looked around and usually hate other people's blogs, I like Kameron's, and I like Amber's, and I like Miss Anonymous', and I like mine, and now I like Atlantis and the Lion, by The Girl on the Moon, its pretty chill.

Your Darkest Weapon Isn't Love

2006-06-23T02:43:00.000-07:00

The poem in the previous post also has some random prose to go along with it! I listened to this song, Genius and Theives, by Eluvium. It TOTALLY inspired me, so I wrote this, and then I wrote that poem, so I have TWO things about how things often disappear. OOOOOO. How talented I am.

Things often disappear you know. Without telling you they are going anywhere. But in a way, you really should know, because you are the reason they are gone. When you watch it disappear, you only stand alone, in silence, for crying makes it true. Put a smile on your lips. A small one. Just a little reminder that you are ok. Even though you are not. Just a little half smile. Still and silent. Reminding you of when it was still there, that thing that disappeared. And when you try and think, of why it’s gone, you’ll see it. The box within your heart that inside holds your darkest weapon. You assume that it is love. That it holds ironic meaning as it hurts all those you touch, or helps them in a way. But it isn’t. It really isn’t love at all. The box within your heart holds all the secrets you keep from yourself. You know, you never will know everything within the box. But you open up a crack, and out slips the voice, telling you the disappearing things were all your choice. You fucked it up a lot, and now everything’s a mess. The weapon in this world, that really hurts the most, is knowledge. Oh how you rue the knowledge that the world is all your fault. But worst of all is when this tells you how things often disappear.

Disappear

2006-06-21T00:54:00.000-07:00

Oh the knowledge
That things often disappear
And leave you all forever
Without time for a tear

And shed symbolic meaning
Leaving you all to yourself
Trying not to think of matters
Lay them solemnly on shelves

But still the world keeps changing
So fast you cannot blink
But no one’s there to tell you why
You are just left to think

And when you think you start to see
Start to open up some vault
You can’t close it, for now you see
This mess is all your fault

You hate the face that often
Cries silently in the mirror
And rue that evil knowledge
That things often disappear

Death of a Pillow

2006-06-15T00:35:00.000-07:00

I have a phobia of myself, well, of letting myself think for too long. I have noticed, that if you think about something for too long, it stops making any sense whatsoever. And then you get all confused, and the thing that you were thinking of in the first place is silly now, and you change your mind so much in the course of all these thoughts, that you end up losing support for your decision instead of gaining it. My mother read this book, called “The Paradox of Choice”, which talks about how, if you make a choice, and then have to explain it to someone, you actually start thinking about all the reasons you made that decision, and then you want to change your mind, but suddenly don’t know what to change your mind to! Well, my choice is that I am a lesbian, and the person I am explaining this all to, is myself. I don’t know really why I think I am a lesbian. Yes, I am attracted to women. Yes, I do want to have sex with them a million times more than I want to have sex with men. And yes, I am in love with Tara (if you missed the part on Tara, go back to the post “Tara, R, G, and AL” or if you want to know of my lesbian exploits, (no it isn’t dirty) go to, “Holding hands with Tara”, and ignore the bisexual part. Or should you?! I don’t even know! Anyways, so ummm… yes, I do look down girls’ shirts when they bend over, and yes, I do have many guy friends that I am not remotely attracted to… so why would I ever think I wasn’t a lesbian? That, my friend, is the problem. Why indeed? Because I don’t want to be a lesbian. I don’t want to get into the whole “rights” thing, if you want to know of my bitchyness, try “Rosen Girls”, and I do not want to never care about how I look, good example in the story “Beautiful Girl”. So the world is really confusing me right now, so I punched a pillow. Which didn’t work. Now I am wishing I had a gun so I could shoot it to death. That might make me feel better. Die, pillow, die!!!!

Mother on the Floor

2006-06-14T18:56:00.000-07:00

So, this is like the weirdest, stupidest, most senseless poem I have ever written. And of course... I love it! Lol. Dont burn it. Just tell me if you even sorta like it...

“Let things pass by,”
My mother said
Sitting on the floor
“Let him be gone,
And days go long,
And let us shut the door.”
She died I fear
Oh, years ago
And I had not a care
For she sat on the floor
Silent sleep not a sore
And wouldn’t brush my hair
And past the world
She looks at me
And hates me all the time
But she is lost
And there’s no cost
I haven’t spent a dime
And silently I go through you
You don’t even know I’m there
You sit with me
For I’m, you see
The girl with the ugly hair
But you don’t know
What has been lost
As I ramble on and on
You live your life
And choose the knife
And leave me in the dawn
And I did cry, I cried so long
Ate cookies, cakes and pies
I open the door
The woman on the floor
She sits there, and she sighs

The Ever Fought Shore and my Body

2006-06-10T13:31:00.000-07:00

Oooh, its my body! I wanted to put more about me on my blog. So here we go. I can remain anonymous. You have my eyes, and my torso, You just need legs, arms, lips, nose, chin, and hair. Not that I really think you would care what I looked like. My last name starts with a G. Hmmm, mucho information for you! Really old poetry time!

The ever fought shore

Has the world been seeing?
What we fight for being
Everyday in the mess of the world
And sought through the ever fighting
Shores upon which blood from past fought wars
Upon a new more distant shores
To leave our home again once more
So that what we fought for is past told
And all we knew has since been lost
In the ever fought grounds of the crashing shores

Pointness

2006-06-10T00:04:00.000-07:00

I wrote this a long time ago, one friday morning I had no school. I dont remember why. We were voting on Propositions. I don't even remember what Prop 77 was. Hmmm...

You know, the phone is a rather awful thing; I don’t ever remember a time where I was actually excited to hear it ring, although maybe that is I, and not my phone. I like to sleep in on my holidays, but apparently the lovely recording of Cindy, a registered nurse who believes we should vote no on prop 77, is just perky as could be at 8:00 in the morning, but hey, maybe that is because we voted no on prop 77 three days ago. I figure I might as well get up because I don’t think that the voice of Cindy is going to leave my head anytime soon. I get dressed for no apparent reason and then lie right back down again. It may be a Friday, but I still have to work tomorrow, so I absent-mindedly start packing my backpack full of all the stupid notes lying around my room. Pointlessness. That is the key. No more things that make any sense what so ever. Then there is no worrying. The notes I took have nothing to do with work. They are stories I will never finish, that I don’t bother myself to finish, that I cant finish, that I do not want to finish. Pointlessness. I wonder if that is how all great writers start. Or maybe they start with pointness dripping off of every word. Probably. Which proves my only point in writing this that I really suck.

Lending me

2006-06-08T22:47:00.000-07:00

Sit silent as the night rolls through the sky,
And let the wonders of it pass you by,
When it’s all over, I promise that you’ll hear,
The running of the everlasting fear,
And if you live, like one has lived before,
With the knocking at the empty door,
I’ll let this go as it may, and just be here,
Letting you in, letting you hear,
The voices I let go, when only one’s around,
Who will not give me up to just a frown,
Who lives this way because this is the choice,
She has made, this everlasting voice,
May it be that you find all you want,
Give yourself to laughter, and to rant,
I don’t see how, but I am sure you do,
The things so different, so new,
In me and in this world that is so free,
I am giving up this moment, lending part of me.

April

2006-06-05T17:12:00.000-07:00

Silliness from some story that I wrote when I was twelve. Heehee, guess it is ok, considering I was twelve, although the whole concept of the story is silly. Whatever. I am sooooo bored. Its barely even funny anymore. But it still is a little bit. I am going to go read my book some more, and keep on checking my e-mail, hoping I get a comment on my blog, or a message on Mogenic, or an e-mail from Kameron, the latter of which I actually get enough of, thank god, or I would be driving a screw driver into my head out of boredom and lack of communication...

The new girls name was Tazinay, inferior goddess to Auggie. I pitied her because Auggie treated her like crap. “Testing” her is what Auggie called it, but I knew that Auggie was just like that. Tazinay had long curly blonde hair and big blue eyes, she rather looked like a dolt to me, but she had graduated from Divineika top of her class, so I figured I had to give her some credit. She was quite a nervous little girl when she first arrived here, but she soon became a nervous wreck, what with Auggie being like she is.

June, April, and I have always been best friends, I guess maybe we were just born to be. We were all born on the same day in March and we are all name after months, we always went to the same schools and our mothers and fathers had been best friends for their whole lives. I guess it may have had to do with our names, or our friendship, or our parents, or our money or our looks, but no one seemed to really like us in elementary school. Of course we were popular, of course everyone wanted to be us, but they all hated us too. I find it to be kind of strange that the same people who would have given everything and anything to be us would also talk behind our backs and ruin our lives if ever given the opportunity. And it wasn’t only that they wanted to look like us, or they wanted to have a friendship like ours, or they wanted the money we had, or the grades we got, it went much further than just having what we had, they all wanted to be who we were.
I was always a really happy person, I always felt that good things were happening; an optimist is what they call it. April was mysterious, always kept people on the edge, wondering what she might do next, a smile of satisfaction hidden behind her blankness. June I guess was always really magical, not silly magical, not sad magical, not mysterious magical, just magical.
We do look different though. I am pale with long wavy black hair and full red lips, my small body is frail and skinny as though it has been crushed and rebuilt too many times but it is strong all the same. April is stronger than me, though anything but a tomboy, she is tan and has reddish brown hair; she is also rather skinny, though not like me. April has one of those personalities, one of those smirks, those kind of clothes that you expect her to be hiding something every second of every day, and she really was most of the time, sometimes she told us what it was, and sometimes she didn’t.
June has slightly darker skin with tawny brown hair and pretty brown eyes, she is not skinny, not fat, and has so many perfections that she looks imperfect, if that even makes any sense. And like I said, she is magical. Its so much as anything she does, she doesn’t go around waving magic wands and shouting curses to the sky, she just has this thing about her, the way that she twines roses and puts them atop her head like a crown, or the way she filled the sink before washing her hands and then dipped them slowly and carefully into the pool of water. She is like a goddess, or a fairy. June was the one who was meant to be a goddess, not April or I. We were never meant to be goddesses, not like June was…
So why then did things turn out as they did? I couldn’t tell you. April would probably say that it was just Ellie being the sadistic bitch she is, but Ellie had nothing to do with any of it. In fact, as far as we can tell, no one did. Not Altruszia, goddess of death, Sigh, goddess of the unknown, or Talkinay, goddess of the choosing. In fact, the whole thing really baffles everyone. But, I guess I should just let things be as they be, and not go poking around.

The Roof and Your Grandfather's Head

2006-06-04T00:22:00.000-07:00

I don't even know where to start on what the hell this peice of writing means. Just read, and keep in mind that the repetition of some words is there on purpose. So if you plan on correcting it, don't mention that. I know, and that is how I like it.

The house on Milton Street is pretty. That’s the first word that comes to mind. It isn’t really grand, or charming. Just pretty, in the conventional way. Things never really are anything but silly words, such as pretty, unless you have a story behind them. So when one looks at this house on Milton Street, it takes the breath away from you. But then again, probably only if you have been inside, if you have seen the people who live in this house on Milton Street. It is snowing, and it gathers on the slanted roof. Gathers like something old. Well, like you might assume snow would gather on your grandfather’s head. Like that. Exactly like that.
But if one cant imagine what snow would look like as it gathers on the head of their grandfather, who they never met, or never saw in snow, or don’t remember, then one cannot understand the rest of the story. Because the things that happen here don’t make sense. Like it doesn’t make sense to compare snow on a roof to your dead, or never seen, grandfather. Or even to the one you saw last Christmas in Chicago. The roof on the house on Milton Street doesn’t look like a head, with its high roof, and its two pyramids of iced over shingles. It looks like a roof. So one should not ever really be asked to imagine it like a head. But it is that, right there, that makes all the difference. If I told you that the house on Milton Street is pretty, you wouldn’t care. It’s just a house anyways. Just a pretty house on Milton Street. But to the people who live in it, it is something else entirely. And to one who has imagined its slanting roofs, gathering snow like atop their grandfather’s head, it has new meaning. Not because it changes the way that you view the house, because it seems unlikely that one would suddenly see it in the shape of their grandfathers head. But because the association one would now have with this house, would be unique and extraordinary. That’s how the world works, and how descriptions work, and how this story works. It will end up the way it ends up, because that’s the way it ends up. But the only thing one gets the chance to decide on is how they will feel about how the story unfolds. And that is what makes all the difference

Danny Boy

2006-06-02T19:49:00.000-07:00

Hey, I am going to put the lyrics to "Danny Boy" here becuase I love that song. This is the first time I have put something that is not my original work up on this sight. I just really like the words.

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me

Superman on Crack

2006-05-31T15:12:00.000-07:00

I have a lot of things to do. Sort of. I have finals tomorrow. Wait, singular that, just religion. I should be doing something. Like studying or something. But I am not. I have this daydream, about one of my books, and it keeps coming into my head. It is about Lorelei, from Anger, being in hell, like she is later in the story. She comes out of her room and is suddenly in a smaller room with this one woman who is smoking a cigarette in a plain black dress that buttons up the front. Lorelei doesn’t really know what is going on. There is the pane of glass that separates this room from this beautiful place, with a waterfall. So she takes a seat and looks down to see that she is wearing a wedding dress. But not just any old wedding dress, the dress that her mother picked out for her to wear on the wedding day she never made it to. And then the woman asks her why she is wearing it. Lorelei says, “I don’t know.”
“Well,” says the woman in black, “you must be wearing it for some reason. This is hell.”
“It was the dress I was supposed to wear on my wedding day.”
The woman laughs. “David really is losing some of his creativity, really, just a sense of loss?”
“What do you mean, who is David?”
The woman in black smiles again. “The devil darling.” She looks down at what she is wearing. “This dress used to be my mother’s. She hated me, but I loved her.” The woman laughs. “Every time I look in the mirror I am reminded of her, and how much of I disappointment I was to her.” The woman in black smiles to herself again, and lifts up the side of the skirt up to her thigh. She puts out the cigarette on it, and it leaves a burning hole, among many others.
So yeah, I don’t know why I liked this idea so much, but I needed more to happen while Lorelei was in hell, so I was just testing this one. It doesn’t sound as good when I write it out so quickly, I will add it to the story soon, and then maybe it will sound better.
So anonymous friend JS is cracking. She called me up and was screaming about something or another. I just laughed at her and hung up, ‘cause I am just like that. And she called me back later to tell me she was over it, like I cared. She is fine now, not that I was particularly worrying. I always tell her to call the suicide hotline if she is ever unhappy, instead of me. But she always says that we are friends and she feel like she can talk to me and I will care or something. I think she should call people who get paid to listen; at least they will care a little bit more than I do. Do the people at the suicide hotline get paid? I hope so. I wouldn’t want to listen to people complain for nothing. Although, I’ve heard some people like helping others just because it makes them feel like superman on crack. I would just prefer a red cape and a shifty looking part of town.

Dear Lois

2006-05-30T18:06:00.000-07:00

This is a letter from a story that I wrote. It has been edited recently, but mostly I just added stuff, there might still be some technical errors.

Dear Lois,

I hope that the world is not falling for you, as you said it might be when I left. I laughed, I remember, when you said that. But really, I think I see what you may have meant. Things are not going so well while we are apart are they?
I no longer fear hell. I am here. It isn’t hell in the conventional way, but I feel it must be just as horrible. Lillian has been crying in her room for the last half an hour. I don’t even understand why she is crying. Georgiana can’t even speak as far as I can tell. She has been staring at the table in the sitting room since mother went to bed. It’s getting late, and she never stays up too long. I can see her from atop the Juliet balcony above the stairs in the entry hall. You remember the stairs don’t you? Remember when I walked down them and you saw me for the first time. I wish I could walk down those stairs right now and suddenly have my life changed forever like it was that day I met you. But I fear if I walk down them, I might stir Georgiana. I am afraid that any second she will suddenly stand up and go upstairs, wash her face, and get ready for bed. I don’t want to see her sitting in her room and brushing her hair like she does every night. I don’t want her to go back to normal like she always does when mother does something so horrific. She seems to be having some reaction this time, even if it is just sitting there, at least she is letting herself know that everything is not ok. The clock says it’s eleven. I can hardly believe it. It feels like the evening has just started. This makes me fear that maybe it has. I would not be surprised if everything started getting worse. Not in this house. I know things will never be the same now.
I miss you. So much. I want you to be here. I want to tell everyone that we are getting married and then everyone can celebrate, and Lillian can com out of her room, and Georgiana can stop staring in the sitting room. And she can be excited with us, and then at the wedding she can tell mother that she is marrying Peter, even though he is poor and mother disapproves. And then we can go on our honeymoon and we will look glorious. And then we can have children, a little boy and a little girl, and we can raise them with Georgiana and Peter’s children, and then the world will all be ok, and mother will laugh for the first time since father died, when our daughter sneaks into mother’s room and tries on her lipstick, and mother can see that everything will be ok after all.
But I know that will never happen. I could never tell anyone I loved you, let alone marry you. I feel like such a coward for saying it, after what Georgiana just had to tell mother. But our situation is even worse, if it is possible. And I know that Lillian will only come out of her room when breakfast is over, and she can go outside and write letters to her friend Fara, and have the excuse of feeling ill, so she doesn’t have to eat for the 5th time in a row since I arrived here. And Georgiana will only get up from the sitting room when she has decided that everything is really ok, and if she just goes on as if nothing has happened, so will mother, and she can forget that she loves Peter, and lock up her heart again, like she always did when we were children. And we can never have children, because of obvious reasons, and Georgiana will never have Peter’s children, and then they cannot be raised together. And even if our non-existent daughter did sneak into mother’s room and try on that pretty red lipstick mother has worn for as long as I can remember, mother would only be reminded that there are only little girls in her life. Will be reminded that she couldn’t bear father any sons, and that the world is nothing like she wanted it to be. And I fear she will stop at nothing to make it so. Although nothing we could do could really make things ok then, because under the surface everything has gone terribly wrong. And I just want to scream.
But I must go now. I can hear something in the next room. Water, Georgiana is washing her face. And I can hear the scratching of a quill; Lillian’s writing a letter to Fara. And I can see the stairs from where I am sitting. But there is no one at the bottom of them this time.
I fear also that this letter will not reach you, for mother tells the postman to read every letter sent out from this house to her, before he takes it away, so I am paying a man from the town to deliver it to you. He asks only for some whiskey, and some bread. But I fear when he comes to get the letter he will ask for more. I hope you do not worry about me. I will be ok, as I always am when I think of you. Just promise me if I ever just sit like Georgiana is now, that you will remind me that the world will get no better if I just ignore it. If I just ignored my feelings for you everything would be much worse. You are my only love. And I hope I am yours as well.

Love sincerely,
Hannah Bellinger

Scars

2006-05-28T19:54:00.000-07:00

This is just some prose I wrote. I really actually relate to this.

We hunger for things. That is simply life. We hunger in different ways, for different things, but when a hunger is strong enough, there is no stopping it. We press it to us, the thing that will feed this hunger. Press it into ourselves so that it crushes us, and it hurts so bad that we stop feeling the pain. And it feels so good that we cant imagine anything being so wonderful. Press the feast into your skin. You press it into every pore. Fill everything in your body with so much that you cant even breathe anymore. You smother yourself. And when you have fed your hunger completely. You push it away from you, and breathe again. And try to forget that hunger, because you can no longer see why you were so hungry, or why you had to press it into yourself so hard. And you try to ignore the scars that are left from the feast. Because suddenly, they hurt so bad you cannot breathe again. So here’s what you do: you turn on the TV, and you watch some show that doesn’t make you feel anything. During the commercial break you go into the kitchen and rummage through everything in there, because it seems like something you should do during a commercial break. And when the show is over you clean up your room, and you make your bed, and you take a shower, and you brush your teeth, and you comb your hair, and you lie in bed. And then you see your reflection in the mirror across the room, and you smile into it. And you look deep into your fresh eyes, and you want to scream so bad that you are clenching your teeth. But you only smile into the mirror. Pretend that you are happy. Pretend that nothing has happened. That nothing went wrong. Because it wasn’t supposed to. And after a while nothing did go wrong. After a while, you cover up the scars with so much makeup, so much clothing, and take so many showers, that nothing went wrong after all. You can comfort yourself. There are no scars.

The Angry

2006-05-26T16:55:00.000-07:00

Her beauty is known throughout the land
All people seek to give her a hand
Her ivory skin, like china, eyes like glass
Most think her strength was never built to last
Yet inside her, a fire burns so strong
It consumes her, and knows not right from wrong
It does not sleep, and as time grows longer
It continues to get hot, and stronger
She does not let it show within her eyes
No matter how high the boiling water will rise
For it is a boiling water that grows closer to the brim
An anger most unholy from within
She cannot tame, or make it go away
She covers it, with her charming way
None can know what we all hide within
Yet soon the water boils over its brim
She smiles, and nothing shows throughout her face
What hides within can only bring disgrace
So fine she sits, while still the water boils
And yet to her smile she remains so loyal
Out bursts from her, no angry words, or violence
She suffers all alone in solemn silence
She does not know of trust, or right or wrong
She only knows that she must remain strong
It's shut up by her corset, and her dress
But on her insides the fire, it does press
The fire runs throughout her veins and heart
She has been like this from the very start
She lives through lies and fire and tears
Silently she hides all feeling, even fear
Her eyelids are always so heavy with its heat
Her only solitude is her lovely sleep
Where she can dream, of when awake
Ruining her enemy’s fate
Though she has diamonds and gold
Though she knows every story told
With all her riches she cannot find
A doctor who can ease her mind
With all her knowledge she does not know
What makes the fire within her grow
So she stays restless and so sad
She lifts, not a finger, for good or for bad
She lives in a world where she pretends
And the one in her mind that Muse sends
She dreams of a place where all is well
And outside puts everyone under her spell
Through a blanket of beauty, charm, and grace
Nobody can see her true and evil face
So she lies and she cheats so that nobody knows
That she finds no happiness in the beauty of a rose
But in its thorns, that can cause pain
And in the coldness of the dark, heavy rain
Because somewhere her enemy stood
And she can imagine his deep red blood
Slipping out of his arms and fingers
In all places where roses linger
And she can imagine the coldness of the rain
When in his eyes, the water it stains
She pretends that she is merely waiting
For the time when all her hating
Will pay off, and she can hurt him
When she can commit her deadly sin
But when that happens, what would she do?
Not having such anger would be quite new
For that’s all she was, had ever been
Fire wrapped up in ivory skin
What would become of her and her life?
She would never bee some wife
Or a mother, she’d be nothing but a mess
She would be nothingness, in a beautiful dress
So the fire within her continues to blaze
And she believes she will never change her ways
For she is no woman, no person at all
She’s made up of fire, and without it she’d fall
So what would be the point of living, if she didn’t feel alive?
Her existence would never strive
Having her anger made her something
A fire in a pretty package of gold things
So she would always stay this way
Be the same angry person, come what may
Some would think that a bleak future was in store
But at least she could charm by the countenance she wore
And if ever the time came for her
She could merely dwell on those that were
And what was, and how life used to be
And that would sustain her existence you see
So as long as she had the past
Her life, her existence, her fire would last
Beauty on the outside, fire within
Just another lie, just another sin
Laugh with indulgence she would
Yet with others around, just smile where she stood
To be what she wants is the easiest thing
Separating her outside from in, to sing
Of hope at church, yet to scorn God inside
Just along for the ride
Of success, in conformity, in pretending
Living in the world Muse continues sending
Her gold silken dress that separates outside from in
Outside, a lamb, inside a devil who sins
But who cares? Not her, and no one else knows
Of the fire within, that burns, and grows
Such a mind for contempt
Loving Muse for what she sent
And still, through each lie, through each grin
The blazing fire burns within
And no matter how hard she tries to make it stop
The boiling water is reaching the top…

Well, I wrote this last year when I was shadowing at Presentation High school, which was really boring. This is not the whole poem. It’s a really long poem. I folded a paper in half, than in half again, so that I had four squares, I always do that because then you have a smaller writing surface and it is easier to keep people from seeing. And I wrote on the first little square, than the second, and the third, and the fourth, and then I had the flip the paper over and wrote on the fifth, the sixth, the seventh, and then the eighth, there is like two and a half little squares of writing left of this poem, but its kind of weird, and I am tired of typing. So like, this poem is extremely weird, and the rhythm is way off, I know, and some stuff is repeated and I refer to her anger as boiling water, and a blazing fire which is very confusing, and it is very long and not a lot happens and so forth, but I want honest comments, so I can fix it. Because I have never edited it before, and I don’t know where to begin. But also review, like the actual writing, not just the like technical stuff, and don’t be too mean!

Alone

2006-05-24T16:47:00.000-07:00

The silhouettes of loveliness

Are lost

Left only are the faces

Of the cost

Past the late hours

The hunger burns too strong

The taste of love

Fills all hearts with song

One lonely knight

True loves

And loves alone

For everything he loves

He loves alone

And into day

The worldly loves

Do fall

He waits alone

For the humble call

And yet lifts not a finger

For their life

He falls alone

To live

And never right

For in between the words

There is that tone

That everything he loves

He loves alone

Oh, woe

The weary knight

Falls to the ground

And yet somehow

He doesn’t make a sound

Mary

2006-05-20T18:09:00.000-07:00

The smell of it reached his nose before the sight did, and he remembered Hell as he did not wish to, unexpectedly and unwelcome. The thoughts of it entered his brain and refused to leave, the vision of revulsion and secret pleasure, as the bodies burned and the guilt along with it. “Hell,” he said, breathing in and closing his eyes. “The smell of burning bodies.” He heard her laugh a whispery laugh beside him. “It’s only a barbeque.” To some the same, he thought
He dared to indulge in her presence beside him, alive and unharmed. He tried not to tense, oh, not to ever tense when he thought of her. She was his darling, and he did not want her to become a part of the Hell he had brought with him when he met her. He needed to let go. For now, he would enjoy the barbeque as much as he could, indulge in the guilty pleasure of the smell of burning bodies.

When Mary had worked at the Revelance household, she felt more alive than she ever had before. It was not that her own life had actually gotten any better, but she enjoyed the lives of those around her, feeding off of their memories, their pride and their sorrows. She felt them more than she ever felt herself anymore. She felt that that might have been Ginny’s fault for not loving her. For unrequited love is really the worst kind.
When she left Ginny’s wedding she had not planned on ever doing anything again, but was happy that she had decided against it. She could still remember the night of the reception, and the man that she had met afterwards, the man who had told her that there need not be any more of the pain that she felt. The man who called himself David.
Mary had been Ginny’s friend for many years, ever since college. But Mary had not ever though of her as anything but a friend until a year ago. Mary had been having coffee with her when she looked at her, really looked at her. At her raven hair, and her blue eyes, and her pale skin, and perfect lips. That was when she realized that she would never want to be with anyone else. Never want to kiss any lips but hers. For there were none so perfect, nor so beautiful. But she was the queen of ignoring things, a believer in the theory that if you don’t think about things, they go away. But her love for Ginny wouldn’t follow her careful calculated formula of ignorance, not at all. It persisted in her soul, pushing at her insides, and crawling under her skin, escaping out of her eyes in tears. But she never listened to it, never let herself feel it, and it never really occurred to her what Ginny being married meant until she watched her drive away in the limo, peeking her beautiful head out the sun roof to wave at everyone, blowing a kiss to Mary, who felt it sting her, the closest she would ever come to the intimacy that she so desired from those perfect lips. So as she walked out of the park where the reception was being held, she stopped refusing to believe it, stopped ignoring the loss of the love of her life, and let it all wash over her. After her practiced goodbyes, her kisses smiles and laughs, and her long walk to her car, she sat in the front seat, fully realizing the magnitude in which her life had changed.
So when David had come to the car window, to ask if she was ok, she was willing to tell him everything and take any advice that he had to give. His expression did not change as she told him of her love for Ginny, he only smiled, a hungry smile that sickened, and yet pleased her, and he made her feel better, just by the hope in it. “All is not lost my dear,” he said when she was finished, handing her a handkerchief from his back pocket, “all you need is to enter another place, another life, another world. I always believed that when your life isn’t going the way that you want, just steal someone else’s.” He told her that he owned a nanny business, one where he hired out women to families that needed stay in babysitters and housekeepers. She almost laughed at the absurdity of such a thing, but kept her mouth shut. He offered her a job, and out of desperation, she took it, and that was how she ended up at the Revelance household. But she knew somewhere within herself that things were not all ok with David, for when she looked into his eyes she saw the devil in them, saw the fire, but she had no problem becoming one of his sins.

Angelica Revelance had never liked the idea of having someone else take care of her children. It all seemed so distant and business like and cold. But it was the only way to keep her job after her eldest daughter left her with an 11 year old and went to college. So she looked it up in the yellow pages, called up the number and hired one, as simple as pie. And for the first week, it seemed fine. Mary was a private, sweet woman, about Angelica’s age, with short curly blonde hair, and a tiny body. But she wasn’t cutesy, or funny, or even shy. She was clever, almost, and silent, rather that quiet, as though she had many thoughts but would rather keep them to herself.
It was in the third week of Mary’s stay that everything changed. Angelica had felt that things might end the way they did when she noticed her husband’s hungry eyes roving over Mary, and had felt the distance of her children whenever Mary was around to do things with them. And she had felt the absent of love in her friend Rebecca’s eyes whenever Angelica spoke of Mary as anything less than the perfect being, but it was the Friday of the third week when Angelica actually became afraid of her.
She hadn’t been getting much sleep since she had begun suspecting that her husband was cheating on her, on this night she couldn’t even be in the same room with him. She retched silently into the small wastebasket by the counter, falling back down onto the floor. She heard her footsteps coming across the kitchen, and placed her hands down on the cold linoleum, lacing air into her fingers, wishing it would turn to solid. Wishing it would dig deep into her hands, and crush her bones, and snap the ligaments. Angelica wished to see the blood from her own hands run smoothly ‘cross the floor, a beautiful dance of pain. Wanted to hurt herself as much as she possibly could, to slowly drown in the blood of her hands. For she remembered how she had promised herself she wouldn’t let Mary hurt her, yet here she was, sitting on the cold linoleum of her own kitchen, retching into a trash can. Angelica felt dizzy, and imagined the blood from her hands hands running down across the floor, now sidways and spinning, leaking into the cracks until everything was blood, and she wouldn’t feel any of this anymore. Snap, snap, snap goes the bones, Angelica thought to herself. And gushing goes the blood. And she will slip in it. And I will not be here anymore. But Mary reached her, and leaned down towards her face. Angelica could smell the sweetness in her breath, even in the middle of the night. Mary’s eyes not only held sympathy, but stories of sympathy, stories of life and love, of everything she had fixed in everyone, of everything Angelica couldn’t even fix in herself. So Angelica merely smiled and said, “Oh, I just couldn’t sleep.”
Mary bent down beside her and put her hand to Angelica’s forehead, a look of concern pasted on to her beautiful face. “Oh, you look awful darling, come into the den and have a sit,” she said, leading Angelica into the red leather chair in front of the television. She then walked out of the room and into the kitchen; Angelica could hear her getting water from the tap. Mary stood in the doorway when she was done, a water glass in one hand and the other by her side. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?” As much as Angelica hated her, she felt drawn to her, and to her compassion, fake or not, so she sighed and smiled.
“Oh, I couldn’t sleep, and I guess I was feeling a bit woozy from lack of it, but I think I’m ok.”
Mary smiled, “I know what you mean, about not sleeping, some nights when I feel restless, I just come down hear and drink water, it always makes me feel better.” Angelica could imagine why it might be difficult for Mary to sleep.
Angelica was puzzled, for Mary did not move to give her the water. She looked a bit scary in the moonlight, and Angelica leaned forward to look closer at her. As her body shifted, the moon threw light onto Mary and Angelica saw it glint off of something held in her hand. She felt all words, and screams lost in her throat as she recognized it as the knife she had cut some cucumber with earlier that day, resting comfortably in Mary’s right hand. Mary must have known she could see it, for she stood completely still, and her eyes moved to the knife in her hand. She lifted it up and gestured towards Angelica, smiling tentatively, “I thought I would make you something to eat, like toast.” But her words sounded evil, sounded cruel and mocking, and Angelica flinched as Mary drew towards her and placed the glass on the table next to her.
The next day she told her husband the story, and Rebecca. Both of them believed Mary, and were shocked to hear of Angelica’s theory. “Whether you believe me or not,” Angelica said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice while still sounding forceful, “I am still firing her.”
But she never got the chance to fire Mary, for within the hour, she was standing in the kitchen, with a tearful Mary, and angry Husband, a saddened Rebecca, and two bewildered children. “We wanted to talk to you,” said her husband, putting a hand around Mary to comfort her, “About firing Mary.”
Her eleven-year-old Tiffany spoke up, “What? You cant fire Mary, we love her!” the passion in Tiffany’s voice nearly drove Angelica to tears.
“And we all feel this way,” her husband continued, “We are going to go to dinner and leave you to think things over, I have an idea that you will change your mind.” They left, one by one, first Rebecca, “I hope you can understand”, then her husband, “This is important to us,” and then Mary, who waited till they were out of view, and then smiled, a sickening, hungry smile, and walked away.
Angelica looked around the kitchen, for something that would help her, she remembered the gun that was in the locked drawer next to her, but was afraid if she didn’t do it just right, it would hurt. Then she thought of the six vikadin pills left in the medicine drawer, but dismissed that, for it was too silly a way to die, with the vomit, and the ambulance she knew would take her to the hospital, where, if they saved her life, she would have to explain all this to them, something she didn’t know how to even begin explaining. And then remembered what her husband had said about the stove. The Pilot light was out. She giggled at the thought. Just like Sylvia. They would all come home, expecting to find a remorseful Angelica, falling at their feet and begging for forgiveness, but they wouldn’t. This was the only way to beat Mary and she knew it. If she let Mary stay, she would continue to steal the ones that she loved, continue to push Merridy to the back of everyone’s minds, continue to slowly torture her. And if she continued to fight Mary, she knew that her loved ones would leave her anyways, for Mary. But who wouldn’t? Mary was more than pretty, she was fun, and witty, and lovely, and graceful, she knew more than just what to say, but how to say it. She would leave her own mother for someone like Mary, for someone who could make her happy. But this way, they could never forget her, no matter how much they tried to push her from their minds, they would have to think of her, have to remember the woman that they had pushed to death, the woman they once loved, a woman forgotten. She leaned her head into the oven and rested it on the grate, breathing in the gas, choking on the deathly sweet scent of death.
She was awakened by Mary, her eyes foggy, and her head spinning, but definitely not on the verge of death. Her plan had failed. But it was only Mary there in the kitchen. “I came back early, to clean up while they all went for dessert, what are you doing?” but she didn’t sound like she didn’t already know, nor like she cared. Angelica laughed, sadly and painfully, but ruefully. “I don’t even fully know, the only ting I would do I guess. But does this fit with you perfect plan? You could convince them that you were better than me, its not that hard; you could alienate me from them. But you can’t make them forget a woman who killed herself over them, never.” She laughed a bit more and leaned close to Mary’s ear and whispered, “there are something’s you cant ignore.” She could feel Mary stiffen beside her. Could feel that she had finally touched something within Mary. “What are you trying to ignore?” Mary stood up and fumbled with her keys, opening the drawer where the gun was with them. While she was doing this, Angelica stumbled upwards, holding onto the counter for support.
“Tell me Mary, do you do this to others?” Mary smiled, pausing in opening the drawer.
“No, you are my first, but I plan to do it again.” Mary found the key and giggled. Angelica continued.
“Do you like to think of yourself as Bloody Mary or something of that sort.” She didn’t know why she was asking these questions, she want staling or anything, just filling up the silence with words as she had been taught all of her life. Mary paused again, the key in the lock. Then she opened it and pulled out the gun, talking.
“No, I like to think of myself as the Virgin Mary.” She turned towards Angelica, holding the gun. “Though I am a virgin, I still have a child. I have darling Tiffany, I disciple, if you will. My daughter, of the devil! Oh how life will be a dream for her, without the silliness of good things, of right and wrong. She can decide for herself,” Mary paused to smile at Angelica. “And don’t think for a second that she will choose to do the right thing. No one in their right mind would, not with so may options of evil things, of easy things.” Angelica wanted to cry, listening to the planned destruction of her own daughters life, though she found that she was unafraid, could Mary possible be about to give her what she had wanted in the first place? Mary placed the gun in Merridy’s hands as she stood up, and then backed a few feet away.
“You can’t conquer me Angelica,” said Mary, laughing without a hint of fear in her voice, and holding out her hands, giving Angelica all her body, to hurt, to kill. “You can’t escape yourself.” Angelica laughed and pointed the gun right at Mary’s heart, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” continued Mary, stumbling a bit out of wooziness because of all the gas in the room. “It means that you have two choices, nether of them good. You can pull that trigger and I will be dead, but I will not be gone. They will never ever forgive you for killing me, your husband will leave you, your children distance themselves from you, and your friend Rebecca desert you. And for the rest of your life you will know you killed the one person who could have made their lives happy. Or, you can let me go and I will continue to steal everything from you. Besides, I have already called to police, before I woke you up, so I am sure you should think twice about what you are going to do. You have only to decide who the nice people in the ambulance will need to try and save.”
Angelica could hear the sirens far in the distance; they would be here any minute now. She shivered a bit, and almost lost her balance in the haze of the gas. She reached over with one hand and turned the stove off, letting the gas escape through the door that Mary had left open. She could hear them on the block now, barreling down the street at break-neck speed. “You got to chose,” Mary giggled, finding the whole situation hilarious. They were getting out of their cars now and nearing the door. Merridy pulled the trigger and shot Mary somewhere in the chest, she did not look, too busy quickly putting to gun to the side of her head. “Freeze!” yelled a young cop from the room, and Merridy did. “Drop the gun!” she slowly let her last hope go, it hit her shoulder and fell behind her. She hoped that it would go off and shoot her in the leg somewhere, so that someone would be forced to take care of her, forced to care whether she lived or died, even if it was a hospital worker. But the gun fell to the floor, and was silent. She put her hands above her head and sighed, wondering if she was really sorry about what she had done, and if she ever would be.

David spotted the couple across the pool, standing by the fence. He made his way towards them, with her following in his wake. He smiled, again and though of Hell as it had been, this was certainly as enjoyable. He approached the couple, the man, whom he knew as Warren, was wearing a blue polo shirt, and jeans, the woman, Kelly wearing a long floral dress. He had never met them, but already disliked Kelly, with her blank eyes, and straight brown hair, and sickly, rotted looking skin, of some ethnicity he could not put his finger on. He held his hand out to each of them in turn, which seemed to surprise them. “Hi, I’m David.” They smiled at him.
“I am Warren, and this is my fiancé Melissa.”
The woman giggled and held up her left hand, “It still feels weird to hear him say that,” David nearly wretched at her accent, some mix of Mexican and Texan.
Warren moved his eyes to the woman standing next to David; with eyes so intense he could feel them in his very mind. “And who is this lovely lady,” he asked David, not taking his hungry eyes off of her.
She smiled sweetly, and let her eyes quickly turn to Melissa, who felt her breath leave her at the strangely important meaning of the stare. Her eyes left Melissa’s and went swiftly back to Warren; she leaned forward, wincing slightly at the pull at the stitches below her right breast. She smiled again and took his hand in a gentile but firm handshake. “I’m Mary.”

yeah, so its not edited very well. sorry if it says Merridy sometimes, its supposed to say Angelica. I changed the name. I dont know how i feel about this story. Hoping for feedback.

World of Hunger

2006-05-16T16:10:00.000-07:00

I have noticed that I often use the the idea of hunger to describe life. So I chose some poems that I thought reflected that Hunger.

Heart of Hell

Why should it be noble?
For me to feed your hunger
For me to cry my tears for you
To gaze at you in wonder
I’ll leave you, in such hunger
Lose you around the bend
Or should I take your life away
Leave you softly like a friend
Or should I quench your thirst for life
Feed your hunger for sorrow
Give to you, my heart and soul
Leave nothing for tomorrow
Should I share with you?
The thought that all is well
Or show my loveliness without
Or my heart that’s full of hell
Live life as though it is not yours
For it never really was
It was borrowed from the lord
Follow all his foolish laws
The heaven waiting up above
Spits at your heart of hell
You used my evil heart for good
And now nothing is well

The Apple

The snake tells god
To show his face
For with temptation
He has lured
The woman into
An eternal hell
He whispers in God's ear
All the secrets he has kept
Of the image of god
In Eve, and in Adam
For god must show
His face once more
Must let his voice be heard
Accept the one flaw
Within himself
Which he created in Eve
God picks up the apple in his Eden
And he eats it
Slowly
Thoughtfully
Wondering of the world
He has built
He loves
And yet
He no longer understands
Thinking of
All the trials of the world
Of all temptation
Of all evil
Of the human heart
And soul
But even he knows
That it doesn’t change
The fact
That the apple
Is no longer whole

No

No I guess
No
Yeah
I'm sure its no
No to this
No to everything else
No to all that I've
Held back
That now she says
To let forth from my eyes
To let go from the chains
The chains in my eyes
But I say no
I say no to the chains
When they think of letting go
I say no
No, no, no
It’s been so hard
It’s been too long
And I've been waiting
Waiting till I'm completely alone
Which I've never been
I wont let them go
All those thoughts
I'll not let them escape
Not through my eyes
They are mine to keep
Not hers to steal
Not her’s to want
Not her’s to keep
They are mine
And I'll not let them go
From my eyes
Onto her shelf
Of things escaped
That she unroped
That she let loose
The shelf of dreams
She'll never lose
But she won’t care
She’ll let them loose
And from her eyes
They won’t escape
For the thoughts
They like it there
For her tears
Are not to share
Escaping from
Her empty eyes
They are her pride
Her well-earned Prize

Consumption

My chest, it feels the emptiness within
In due course I'd hoped it might have gone
I'm moving everything under my skin
Hoping it will rise and leave like dawn
But still I smile, a twinkle in my eye
And let those who are empty feast on me
They eat my smiles and laughs like cherry pie
And snack on words like apples from a tree
Like cookies, they sneak words off of my tongue
And take pleasure in the goodness of my soul
Chewing on my thoughts like bubble-gum
They eat my emptiness with spoons and bowls
I look into my future and see me
Lonely I am, though I may be wed
Though all around they say that they love me
It's only 'caus I've kept them warmly fed
But soon I see the emptiness will grow
Leaving me with only smiles to give
The twinkle in my eyes does not burn low
But soon I see my soul will cease to live
I chain my lovely thoughts within myself
Though I may appear so wild and free
I lay my hunger down on some old shelf
And let the ever empty consume me

Muse

2006-05-13T16:32:00.000-07:00

So, you know how I was talking about that poem I wrote about the goddess Muse, well, here it is. I got the idea from the opening lines of The Odyssey. He is asking Muse to tell a story, and suddenly, I am thinking "What must it be like for Muse?" And, using my Motif of life as a world of hunger, I wrote a poem about people stealing from Muse, and how the power of poetry has been lost, becuase so many people are writing it now, that like, really suck. And how it is becuase they are stealing from Muse. Which is very strange, since I am not a "Profound Man", so I am pretty much talking about how much Muse must hate people like me. Fuck it.

The Ballad of Muse

I am the Muse
They all will drink from me
Learn from me, of Trials and Tests
And all the beauty of the Sea
They hear if Follies, Guilt of love
And Sin
I whisper to them, secrets in the Wind
They empty me of Pleasure
And of Love
Steal Thoughts that slip around them
Like a glove
They kill my Eyes and Soul
And steal my Words
I life them up
Turn them from Stones to Birds
And yet they leave me
When all my Heart is spent
When they have drunk from me
And all their Tears are wept
They found me out, and I cannot escape
The Torch is lit
I can no longer wait
For Profound Men
With lovely, sharpened minds
For Ordinary Men know not
That I’m not theirs to find

Snap

2006-05-11T21:09:00.001-07:00

I retched silently into the wastebasket, falling back down onto the floor. I heard her footsteps coming across the kitchen, and I placed my hands down on the cold linoleum, lacing air into my fingers, wishing it would turn to solid. Wishing it would dig deep into my hands, and crush my bones, and snap the ligaments. I wished to see the blood from my hands run smoothly across the floor, a beautiful dance of pain. I wanted to hurt myself as much as I possibly could, to slowly drown in the blood of my hands. For I remembered how I had promised myself I wouldn’t let her hurt me, yet here I was, sitting on the cold linoleum of my kitchen, retching into a trash can. I felt dizzy, and imagined the blood from my hands running down across the now sideways floor, leaking into the cracks until everything was blood, and I wouldn’t feel any of this anymore. Snap, snap, snap goes the bones, I thought to myself. And gushing goes the blood. And she will slip in it. And I will not be here anymore. But she reached me, and leaned down towards my face, I could smell the sweetness in her breath, even in the middle of the night. Her eyes not only held sympathy, but stories of sympathy, stories of life and love, of everything she had fixed in everyone, of everything I couldn’t even fix in myself. So I smiled and said, “Oh, I just couldn’t sleep.”

This is a peice I wroe in a story a while ago. Story, not so good. But i kind of liked this part.

Die Lorelei

2006-05-09T20:32:00.000-07:00

Ok, so there is this, like, Dutch folksong called “Die Lorelei”, which means “The Lorelei” in Dutch. But I didn’t know it was in Dutch, so I just saw the title. And I am captivated by this title, lots of ideas floating around in my head. So I read it, and was silly and I was sad, so I wrote a poem called “Die Lorelei”, because I liked the idea, the poem sucked but I liked the story of how I got to writing it, because I usually go through the writing process in screwed up ways, Muse works in mysterious ways. Speaking of Muse, I have a poem I wrote about her, another weird inspiration process, which involves the Odyssey… but anyways, here is the poem. The one about Lorelei.

Die Lorelei

She smiles at me
The sweetness in her laugh
Fills up my heart
As though it were a bath
And her words lavender
And silken skin
Giving desire
To everything within
Lorelei, she says that is her name
To be with her
Is merely, just a game
I follow roads
With clues hidden in eyes
And always there are more
To my surprise
She smiles at me
As though I were a sin
She loves me close
And pulls my heart within
But as the road goes on
My anger grows
My interest, it wilts
Her lips my rose
She’s falling to the earth
Up from the moon
She will be hitting bottom
Oh, quite soon
She was never mine to have
And I just cry
She smiles as I scream
Die Lorelei.

So, yeah, like I said, Kinda sucky. Whatever. Fuck it.

Crash

2006-05-08T20:02:00.000-07:00

I found this on the post secret website.

I feel like this about life.

When everything is quiet, and boring,

and everything is going well in life.

I feel the overwhelming urge

to tip my life upside-down

just to hear it crash.

Rosen Girls

2006-05-08T18:05:00.000-07:00

When we stopped in the little town I was not in the best of moods. I had finally fallen asleep in the back seat of my mothers mini-van and was dreaming. When I first looked out the window I saw only tiny little shops with stupid signs like "Welcome Friends" followed closely by signs that said No- followed by something. I wonder if people like saying no a lot. I was in southern California, in a little town whose name I can never remember, but which was near Ventura. It was as if god had dropped a little oasis of ice cream, candles, pastries and a couple of mills right out in the middle of nowhere. I stepped grudgingly out of the car, along with my sister Lesley, who, it seemed, had been in a fight with my parents about stopping while I was asleep and was refusing to speak to anyone. Being fairly unhappy myself, I let it go and began my own flow of complaints about having to stop. My sister was keeping her eyes averted from everyone and I suddenly felt a bit sorry for her. She was almost to be seventeen and she still had little tantrums all the time. It was not as though she was immature in all aspects of life, just that she seemed to lose control of herself and become wrapped up in the point she was trying to make to my parents that she would lose control of what she was doing or saying and start to go too far. Being only 15, I can still take control over myself and the things I say much better than she can. We walked past a chocolate shop and the sickly sweet aromas wafting out nearly made me hurl. My mother mentioned sweetly that we might stop back there in a while, which I hoped we wouldn't. The thought of her sweet smile, at her delight at the thought of giving us such a treat, and my own reaction, made me feel like the devil. We then crossed a street and started heading to the right and towards a mill, passing the biggest damn candle store I have ever seen in my fucking life. We stopped by the mill for only a second and while my parents admired it, I looked around. There seemed to be an excess of young men walking around with what seemed to be their grandmothers. One of these odd couples walked past me and the teenage boy stared admiringly at me as he walked past. Feeling a bit better I walked into a glass shop with my parents, who didn't seem intent on buying anything, but merely getting the whole experience of the place. Out of the corner of my mind, I saw a young man and an old lady walk past me in the shop and suddenly got the fleeting thought that the guy I had seen admiring me earlier had just followed me in here like a loyal puppy dog, but when I looked closely, I saw it was somebody different. Scowling I walked back out of the shop with my parents. And it was then that I began thinking. The night before I had been watching television and a commercial for some jewelry thing came on. A beautiful and real looking woman was laughing and looking completely pleasant, walking on the edge of a fountain with a handsome man. The man told her how much he loved her and said he wanted to marry her again, presenting her with a diamond ring. The rest of the commercial is insignificant, but it is the woman that interests me most. I wish with all my might that I could be just like her, but I am just simply not that nice. Here I was walking with my wonderful parents down a beautiful street and I was being as sewer as a fucking grumpy old man. How could any man like the one in the commercial love me? I have never thought that a man will never fall in love with me, because I am sure that one will, but I am afraid that they will love me for me, and be like me. And I don’t particularly like myself all that much. The type of man I attract is life haters. People haters, and those who trust no one. I want to be a sweet and kind person but I am always slipping up. Because I am not a sweet and kind person. I don’t trust anyone or anything; I shop too much and don’t ever have fun conversations with my friends. I am not athletic or energetic or fun. I cant imaging anyone falling in love with me. I want to become rosen. It seems the right word to describe it at least. I want rosy cheeks, and I want a man who will give me roses, and I want to have the patience and the determination and the want to grow roses in my front yard. And I want to put fresh roses in my room and just be all over rosen. But I can’t make myself that way, because I am not.

Holding Hands with Tara

2006-05-07T20:18:00.000-07:00

Anonymous friend AL and I had a quite a night last night. She is the only friend I have that knows I am bisexual. She also knows Tara, and that I like her. We talked about life. About everything we do that we hate. She showed me nine scars on each of her wrists from trying to kill herself. And told me that the virus she go that nearly killed her and put her in a coma for a month was caused by overdose. Not even the doctors know that. They are all just confused about why her body didn’t fight off the virus better. We walked around downtown the day after Cinquo De Mayo. There were like a billion people out, we just followed them all out to the clubs. She held my hand; so I could see what it was like to hold hands with another girl around other people. It was fun, and I was terrified. At one point, I thought I was really going to start crying right there in the middle of the sidewalk in front of all the drunk Mexicans. She looked over at me and laughed. She said I looked happy. I don’t know why. I was so scared I was almost shaking. I have mixed feelings. I want to get together with Tara, and walk around downtown holding her hand. And yet, I also just want to die. But I don’t want to kill myself. I just want everything to stop. Just for one moment. I just don’t want to have to think about all the crap I am going to have to deal with. And I want to stop thinking about how I will deal with being me, because I bet you everything in the whole world that both things are going to suck. Really, really suck.

My Redhead Muse

2006-05-05T22:54:00.001-07:00

The Funny Little Girl Within my Soul

I figure if I stop it from becoming mine
My day, my rain, my pain, and my sunshine
If I just let it wash away from here
If I pretend its not my greatest fear
If I get through, oh just the next four years
By pretending that I have no fears
Then it will be ok and I can soon be me
I can laugh and dance and swim inside the sea
And I can be the one I always knew was there
The one right now that I cannot find anywhere
That sometimes slips out just to make me laugh
The one who used to be my other half
But now is just the girl inside my soul
That fills part of my gaping hole
In just four years I can be her again
When all my papers have been filled and then
I can forget these years where I was this
And go back to the me that was such bliss
But just for now be quiet, and you’ll hear her in the lull
The funny little girl within my soul

When you are gone

When you find that it is not what you were hoping
And you're left so tired from all your coping
And they keep on saying it’ll all be better soon
While your falling to earth up from the moon
And you’re getting so, so tired from all the world
And all your sanity has been unfurled
And the sun is hurting your eyes ‘caus it smiles
And you’re running all these miles and miles
And God himself spits in your face in spite
Because you have lost all of your light
You know you've got to leave me 'cause I lost
I lost the war and now I pay the cost
But you must leave and this I know
I let the lies out of my mouth flow
And I will sing for you when you have moved on
I will sing for you when you are gone

Tired

Seeing her
I am so tired
Seeing her Being admired I
I just want to sleep s
Lie down and sleep
Falling fast
Falling far
Being last
At the bar
Waiting for?
Waiting for…

You I guess
For sleep maybe
For some release
I don’t know, maybe
Lately I don’t
Lately I don’t

Finally peace
Some sleep
Finally release
No more to weep
No more to feel
Closing the deal

I want the pain gone
Because I do
I sit on the lawn
Because I do
I just want you
Because I do

But really I am
Just ever so
Tired I am
Just ever so
So damn tired
Of what’s required

Maybe someday
I’ll get over it
And in a way
Seeing my face lit
Makes me less tired
Just a little less tired

Sin

I stand there
Thinking that I must get up
Feeling the loneliness
Crawling out of my eyes
Feeling the helplessness
Scratching away at my stomach
And as unhappy as I am
As sad and as lonely
And as weak and unholy
All I can think of
Is how I would give anything
To believe in god
But I don’t
And I wont
And I cry
And though I know why
I don’t understand
Being so confused
The water in my soul
Is tearing through my body
To my face
To my eyes
But I still stand here silently
Trying not to move
To keep my firm grip on the floodgates
So the water can’t escape
And I smile
But it’s unholy
For it is a sin to lie
And my smile is a lie
And everything about my smile is a lie
So even if I did believe in god
He would hate me anyways
Because I am more that just the sinner
And I crave to be so
Crave to get under their skin
To be their one
And perfect
Sin

I found this on Google images too. So strange how a simple picture of a girl I do not know can effect me in such a way. All these poems were inspired by her.

Until

2006-05-05T00:19:00.000-07:00

In love there is no lying
Not until you do
In life there is no running
Till you put on your shoes
In war there is no hope
Till you see nobility
In cleansing your soul, there is no soap
Unless of course, you follow me
In hell there is no love
Unless you are a sin
In heaven you can do no wrong
That is, till you begin
In breath there is no evil
Until you breathe a word
In god’s word there is no devil
Unless, or course, you’ve heard

Innocence, Will, and Molly

2006-05-02T23:34:00.000-07:00

Ever gone onto Google images and just typed in a random word, hoping to get a picture that moves you? Well, that is how I got this picture. I typed in the word “innocence” and apparently this is a still from some movie by that title. I don’t really care about the movie. But this picture always seemed so cool to me, and now every time I look at it I think of innocence. I wish that I could go back to being innocent. Some might say that I still am. If you measure in years, I guess I am, but if you measure in how many times I say fuck…

I just like it. I named them Will and Molly. I don’t know why. Just like giving things names. I am in a real sentimental mood tonight. I’ll go back to my Bitch tomorrow. She welcomes me with opening arms. Hitting myself on the head and telling myself to fall to goddamn-fucking sleep, this is Anonymous Bitch giving you the story on this picture, and Anonymous Bitch’s sudden and unexpected conforming to mushiness. Fuck it; I hope this sickness goes away soon.

Lesley

2006-05-02T23:25:00.000-07:00

This being an anonymous blog, its probably a bad idea to put this picture up here, but I am totally full of crap ideas. This is the girl I love more than anything. Lesley. She is my sister. I love this picture with all my heart, because its her, on her birthday. My favorite color is green, becuase its been her favorite color for as long as I can remember, and everytime I wear it, or see it, I think of her. And I would be content to contemplate her for the rest of my life. She is 2 years older than me, and yet I love and care for her, more than she could ever care for me. I make sure that she is always happy, becuase I feel that if she is not, it is all my fault. I love her, and she deserves to be on this blog, even if no one else does. She is my connection to my childhood, and as screwed up as everything inside me gets, she's always there to remind me of what I once was, and what I always could be again.

Hunger world

2006-05-02T20:03:00.000-07:00

A story I just wrote, not much I guess, the begining of something I hope though. Hoping for more people to read my blog, hoping to get it out there, so I have insentive to write. The bitch within is coupled with my insecurtiy, when no one reads, I feel no nead to write. Hence me thinking my life will always be partially fucked up in its own way. Oh, fuck it.

Hunger

She sits there at the window, picking at a spot on her chin, grimacing in the sunlight when I walk in. She stands up quickly, but gracefully and practiced, putting on a huge smile, that rather than making the room glow brighter, creates a cool fakeness about her, and seems to block out even the sun, leaving only this woman, who I felt more close to watching from afar.
"You must be Mariah," she says, and only that, with no tone or particular volume, just a voice that comes from somewhere in her throat. But I am practiced, and a smile as well.
"Hmm-hmm." As sad and as silly as my smile is, she takes it as she would any other response I would give her and stores it in the notebook in her head, for later reflection. She motions for me to sit down in a cool black chair, and I do so, looking right into her eyes. They are empty eyes, at least temporarily, empty of all emotion, of everything. But my eyes penetrate something deeper in her, something locked up, she coughs deep in her throat and looks away.
"So, tell me why you are here,” she continues on, her speech of comfort, of welcome. But I don’t say anything for a while, looking as though I am contemplating it.
"No," I say simply, and she does not reply with the laugh I know she has ready to give, as though I am making some big joke. Instead she falls silent, in what I believe is disappointment. For I feel she feeds on the tears that her clients shed. Taking all of them and putting them in the back of her mind on a shelf, locking them away, where they are comfortable. But I will not give them to her. I refuse to give her the pleasure of my tears and thoughts. It is strange for her to think that I would give them all up to her when I have kept them inside me all this time. It is as though my thoughts are beasts locked up in chains inside my heart, and the only way they've to escape is through my eyes in tears. But my whole life I have been fighting the chains, and now she is telling me to let them loose? Why should I? They are mine to have, not hers. I will not allow my tears to become her pride. So that when she takes them from me, and locks them in the prison in her heart, she can take pride in the fact that they have never once escaped through her eyes.
I stand up, and she doesn’t move, even if everything in her body is telling her to.
"I've decided no," I repeat, and leave. And when I do and leave some of myself behind with her, a part of me that she wants more than she can even explain to herself, a part she cannot have. She tries to pass the wanting off as hunger, picks up an apple, and takes a bite, lost in hunger, in wanting, in a thirst that will never be quenched, but instead forgotten, ripped out of the notebook inside her head.
Dad has not sent me to any shrinks since her, for there is only one where we live. I don’t know why he sent me to her in the first place. Probably because he knew he needed to do something about me, needed to be the good father. Even though he knew it would not help me at all. But for him, my attitude has changed him from being a father who wants his daughter to be happy, and into one who will do what he thinks other fathers might do when a situation arrives, without much of a care as to whether or not it makes a difference or not. And for all of this, I have always been eternally sorry. But wallowing in sorry's is what people who can think of no solution do, and though I cant think of a solution for his part, it is best not to remind myself of it. So instead, I go and eat pancakes.
Harry's is a wonderful place to eat in my opinion, even if all the cups are dirty, and it is a bar that only serves food to minors who cant drink. I have been eating there ever since I tried to run away from home when I was 9. I was not really running away, just escaping for a while, getting a taste of being away from home, and away from everything. I was walking aimlessly down the street, starting to feel foolish, when I came across Harry’s, a sign in front saying "bar and restaurant: breakfast served all day". The thought of pancakes stirred in me some desire, normal families (at least in my mind) would go out to eat pancakes on Saturday nights like this. So I stopped in and met Harry, he was only in his late teens then, for Harry senior was in fact who started the place. He was a tall boy of 16, with black hair, that seemed wild to me somehow, and a square chin. All the girls in town loved him, but he showed no interest in them. He loved me though, ever since I walked into that bar, bleary eyed and tired, with only 3 dollars. He took my order, and my three dollars, and when he served me my pancakes and eggs, he sat across from me and talked to me like any other person who had walked into his bar. He drank whiskey, and offered me some, which I refused. "You should never drink," he told me, taking a swig himself. "Girls get silly when they drink, and stupid. Men can stay calm and serious". I laughed and told him my daddy said that men and women were really the same inside and should be treated the same, but he just laughed at this. "That," he said, "is one of the most told lies, and an important one at that." he sent me home with a handshake and a promise to give me free pancakes for the rest of my life, as long as a promised never to get stupid. Since then I have never touched alcohol, because he still gives me free pancakes.
So that is where I went after my appointment with the psychologist. And that is where I went on Friday, may 25th, when I was 14 years old. I left school at 3:00, I ironically even did my homework in the library before leaving. I went home, and picked up a bag sitting on the table right inside the front door, then walked down to Harry’s. "Back again sweetheart?" he said, "when I said I would give you free pancakes, I expected you to come back twice tops, not every Friday for the rest of your fucking life." this is how Harry greeted me every single time I walked in the door (well he added the "fucking" in when I turned 12). "Don’t expect me next Friday" I replied, "I am leaving". He rolled his eyes, "you have been saying that ever since you walked in here 5 years ago," he laughed, hitting me on the side of the head. "I mean it this time". I lifted my bag up and put it on the counter, "I've even packed my stuff." he looked down into the bag. "You have only done that a couple of times," he frowned.” you know I would miss you if you left". I sigh, "somehow I think you will survive, an attractive 22 year old, losing a 14 year old friend," I raised an eyebrow. He gave me a look and served another costumer. I ate my pancakes quickly, and kissed his cheek goodbye, he waved me out the door saying, "See you again next Friday?" I smiled. I haven’t seen him for 7 years.
It so happens that I did leave that Friday, and the reason, and the way, I have forgotten, mixed up in my head with all the memories that I have of that place. All that I remember is that I left, and I have not gone back for seven years. According to Dana, who is my only connection up to a couple years ago to my hometown, my father never went looking for me, and Harry still waited for every Friday for years, until he gave up and started dating to get his mind off of me. I may have been much too young for him to be in love with me, but he still loved me more than he had loved anyone else, and I think he still does in a sense. I can just feel in my bones that he is out there somewhere, loving me, and that he always will be.

Summerland

2006-05-02T17:17:00.000-07:00

Summerland

“In summer time,” my Lottie said so many years before,
“We smell perfume of flowers, thick petals on the floor,
“And each dream of day,” she whispers to the air
“We dream of lovely girls with golden hair.”
Her darkly colored curls they lie so still
Says she, “The summertime brings to the land a hill,
“That once before was broken and so dim,
“Its elegance till summer lies within.”
The rain, it patters soundly on the roof,
Outside is heard many a horses hoof
But my love Lottie does not hear the rain
Or no of the cold and poor’s pain
For my love Lottie is nowhere near hear
In Summerland where she doesn’t have to fear
Of winter or of fall or even spring
Where lying in the sun she starts to sing
Of songs that I am sure I’ve heard before
But on that life I have shut the door
To lock myself in Summerland with her
Yet memories they now begin to stir
Of times long gone that have been left behind
For touched by evil things and for the kind
In washed out skin and freckles barely seen
Of the goddess dressed up as my queen
Dear Lottie smiles but I can barely see
Maybe it’s something evil in the tea
But the room seems less like it is there
And suddenly dear Lottie’s lovely hair
Is laced up prettily atop her head
“You’re hear with me,” my lovely Lottie said
And where I am there is no rain or cold
And every inch of land near me seems old
The sun is shining brightly all around
And my dear Lottie singing is the only sound
Dear Isabel the queen of Summerland
Skips all around seeking to give a helpful hand
My dear Lottie sits under a tree with lemonade
While in the river girls begin to wade
And I sit across the river from my love
Contemplating riddles from above
I am in Summerland where no one has to die
Where all the hours just seem to pass you by
It doesn’t matter what I do or say
In Summerland with Lottie everyday
But suddenly I realize she’s all
That way across the river and I stall
And I cannot be happy when she isn’t here
When she doesn’t even realize I am here
And suddenly the leaves begin to fall
And suddenly near me there is a wall
With a door with darkness at the other end
A woman beckons to me to ascend
But I know what is behind the door
Everything that I knew before
And what is the world when Lottie isn’t there
Still, Lottie doesn’t notice that I’m here
But Lottie isn’t there behind the door
Not really sitting smiling on the floor
She’s sitting sipping sweets in Summerland
While next to her mere body I stand
She suddenly smiles sweetly ‘cross the river
And I know that Lottie knows that I am with her
Long years past leave paint within my fingers
Echoing in my head are whispers
The water fills her pores upon her face
Dripping onto her dress of white lace
And ribbons race themselves all up her back
No elegance does my dear Lottie lack
So I stop thinking of the life I knew before
And finally the woman shuts the door
And lottie and me look into each other’s eyes
And I forget that everything is lies.

Lorelei Landan

2006-04-27T22:02:00.000-07:00

A story I wrote more recently than the others that I posted. But I did not just write it. I will post my most recent story in my next blog. KK. Here we go!

Lorelei Landan

The Lorelai’s
Chapter 1
Lorelai

Everything started 2 weeks ago, that’s when Lorelai got the music box. She came home to our small cottage on the outskirts of Grenn village carrying it as though the plain wooden box were made of glass, and now that I think of it, it almost seemed to be.
She slipped into the house where I had just gotten home and was baking a pie, and said not one word to me before setting the box down gingerly on the kitchen table below the window and opening it. It emitted the most beautiful sound that I had ever heard, I remember. And my dear daughter closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Surprised, I barely had time to ask her what it was, when she launched into her tale that I now find is the only lie she ever had to tell me.
“I found it on my way home,” she recited evenly, but mechanically, “why someone would chuck it away, I have no idea, but it’s their loss.” The explanation, at the time, seemed believable enough, and I scarcely even thought of it until today, when I finally found one thing missing to tell Detective Louvette about. But now I think of it, I cannot believe I didn’t recognize how strange the ordeal was. But it is all in the past, something I cannot amend, not that it would actually help any.
Yesterday did not actually start out as an ordinary day, we had had the town dance the night before, and Lorelai had told me that she had been proposed to by her escort. Fletcher Marie was the village doctor, strong and reliable, all the women were clamoring to get him, but the 30 year old man didn’t show any interest in anyone except my Lorelai, and I can see why. My dear 16-year-old daughter Lorelai was as charming as anything, funny and kind, strong, yet very feminine, she greatly enjoyed the company of others and planned to be the 5th grade school teacher when she was done with her studies at St. Pondmoores. Any man would have loved to have her, and any mother would have loved to call her her own. But she was mine.
I didn’t get to do things with the other mothers that much, they were all much older than me, for they had waited till the decent age of 18 to have children, where as I had not married, and had Lorelai when I was only 15, dear, dear Lorelai. My Lorelai. So it was rather lonely for me there in the village of Grenn, with only Lorelai there for me. To be me. To live her life for me, the way that I wish I could have had a chance to live it.
So that morning I was particularly happy. I gave Lorelai sweet Sinpotetan flower for breakfast, and sent her off to her last day of school with a kiss, on each cheek, her forehead, and her new engagement ring made of gold and ocean blossom stone. She smiled at me fondly, and said the words I thought would be true as long as I lived, “I’ll never leave you mom.”

Suitcase of letters
Chapter 2
Detective John

I thought that I would always value the title “Detective”, however the words mean little to me now as I stand here watching her running away. I have had the job for 20 years and I still have not gotten that immense case to end my career, granted I haven’t exactly got a very big case yet. But all the cases that I have been in charge of, I have solved without much thought. I cant just retire, I need to go out with a bang, whether it be after a case where I screw up so badly that I have to leave the force, or a case where I do so well that I am able to always be remembered and retiring seems to be the respectable thing to do.
But on that Thursday afternoon, I truly thought that the case would be open and shut, simple enough to handle, not too out of the ordinary. Nothing about it bothered me as I think that it was supposed to. For I myself have a daughter. Though she is one that I have not seen in nearly 17 years.
I joined the force 20 years ago when I was 15, and that is when I met Trana. She was so charming, exactly what I wanted, we wed only one month after we met and had a daughter, Emily, 2 years later. That was when it happened. Trana died in an accident somehow. I don’t know what the accident was, or how it killed her. The police said that it would be too distressful to see her body and refused to let me work on the case. They wouldn’t even tell me what happened, how it happened, or even where they found the body. I became terribly ill after the accident; I couldn’t go back to work for quite a while and when I was finally ok again it was too late. Dubbing me unable to take care of my daughter alone, they took her away to boarding school before I was well enough to stop them.
But I am not alone. Trana follows me, she speaks to me in sighing strange voices, ghost like almost, yet she is not a ghost. She touches me, my face. She kisses me, yet I cannot touch her. I pretend that I cannot see her and it makes her cry. But I do not want the rest of the force to think me crazy as well as lonely. So I let her stay, I take comfort in her visits, and I am not lonely. I am nowhere near happy, but I am not lonely.
I do write to my daughter, I have no contact with her, but I write to her, and I keep all of the letters in a suitcase, I take it with me when I have to go away, and that is all that it is filled with, for I write to her every day, I wonder if she misses my letters, if she knows that they are merely lost, not gone, and that someday, I’ll be there, and she will know that I have love for her, love I carry around in the suitcase filled with letters. Lost love, yes, but still it is there.

The Beginning Of The End
Chapter 3
Lorelai

This morning after I left the house, feeling happier than I had in long time, I decided to take the long road to work, hoping to see a couple of new shops along the way, a couple of new faces down Helen Street, where most merchants, merely stopping for a day or two, kept their shops.
I didn’t see anything in particular I wanted to buy, so I moved past the street and on to Ogust ave., home to the more permanent shops, such as the bakery, and a small restaurant I had never been to.
The cobbled streets were lined with people milling about, talking, laughing, and meeting with old friends. I had to twist and turn every which way to get through them all. On the street right before I turned left and to the hotel where I worked, there was the police station. Inside I could see all the regular officers and detectives, but also some new ones with slightly different uniforms that I guessed came from Amber, a town not too far away from Grenn. Finally, I reached the Dranchanted Hotel, and slipped in the back door.
I waved to Stewart, a colleague who was the manager, and started towards the desk where I worked as a concierge. Just another day, I thought, can’t wait to get home.

In the village of Grenn
Chapter 4
Detective John Louvette

I was actually in the village of Grenn on the day it happened. I suppose it saved me a trip. I was there because of a silly case of robbery, and “they asked us to send in our best man to help ‘em out.” But I knew perfectly well I was not their best man, they just wanted me to feel important and be distracted, because it was Trana’s birthday. I never thought she wouldn’t visit me on her birthday, but now that I was in the village of Grenn, it suddenly occurred to me she might not be able to go here. But I was wrong.
“How are you today sir?” A kind waitress asked me as I sat down in the restaurant Hakentash. “Quite a ‘right thank you,” I replied in my thick Hevenian accent which I was sure the waitress noticed.
I hadn’t been to Heven in quite some time. Though it was where I grew up. There really wasn’t anything for me there. My parents died when I was 15, and that was when I moved to Sinpotet, alone, for I was an only child. I started on the police force, and haven’t exactly changed since, except for Trana and Emily. But after Trana’s death, and Emily’s disappearance from my life, I barely changed my routine at all. Except of course, that I no longer smile.
I ordered my food, a salad, and sat in a table by the window, watching the people pass. They all seemed so ugly to me, screaming children, gossiping old ladies, cigar-smoking men. I was thoroughly depressed, which was something I was getting steadily better at, when something happened. A woman passed the window. A beautiful woman. She was very tall, with long brown curly hair, and brown eyes, she was wearing a plain blue dress, and something changed inside of me. I was suddenly happier than I had been in a long, long while… wham! Pain hit me so hard I jerked back, and yelled. My face was in such pain that I felt sick, and woozy. Something had hit the side of my face so hard my face jerked forward and hit the window. Everybody in the restaurant was looking at me, and as I looked around for the source of the pain, I saw Trana standing above me. Her short red hair was sweaty and tangled around her face, and she was madder than I had ever seen her. Her entire face was red, and I could see a temple on the side of her head pulsing. She said nothing, just stood there. I saw the source of my pain; she was carrying an enormous rock in the palm of her hand, which I figured she had slammed into the side of my face. I felt my face, it hurt more than I could have ever imagined, but there was no bruise, no swelling, no blood, not a broken tooth, it didn’t even hurt to touch it. It just hurt. Trana began to cry, sobbing actually, and brought the hand with the rock in it up to her face, gently wiping her tears with the back of her arm. And then she disappeared.

The man
Chapter 5
Lorelai

It took me a while after he had already started working on the case to realize that the man I had seen earlier that day was Detective John Louvette. I am not sure how to describe him, or why I took my meeting with him to be so important. Even really why I remembered it, at least until I got home.
I met him on my way back from work (which had been pretty uneventful) walking out of one of the shops on the street where the police station was. Though he wasn’t wearing a police uniform, I guessed that he was part of the Amber force because I had never seen him before, if I had, I think I would have remembered. It was not that he was particularly attractive, just that he was…intense. He seemed to be in deep thought, and it was somehow mesmerizing, as though he were magical. He was, in fact, so deep in thought, that he slammed right into me while leaving a shop, knocking me over. I managed to not fall completely over, and to actually smile and laugh when I regained my balance. He however, did not return the smile, he looked confused, and in pain. But what really surprised me was the look on his face when he saw me, he looked surprised, his eyes darted around as though he was looking for someone, and then he set off towards the police department at a fast pace. I shrugged and continued walking towards home, never expecting to find anything there.
On my way there I ran into no one else, and talked to no one else. Normally I would have had a look in the merchant’s shops on Helen Street, but today I wanted to get home early. Since Lorelai was such a good student, and because she would graduate in July anyways, her teacher at St. Podmoore’s had decided to let her out of school early so she could marry Fletcher. Therefore they had had their school graduation ceremony just for her, and let her out early, though we were supposed to come back later for the public graduation which all of her friends were invited to. So it was important for me to get home early so that we could fix her hair and wash and dry her dress for the special occasion.
I walked past the church near the outskirts of town, and passed several merchants making their way into town with wagons full of goods, and then I stepped onto the road that led to our house. And as I walked down the street towards the house, I never expected that right then, before I had rounded the corner and saw our house, would be the happiest I would ever be, in a very, very long time…

Never, never
Chapter 6
Detective John Louvette

When I first met Trana it was in a restaurant in Amber. She was alone, eating at a table in the dark near the restrooms, which surprised me because she was so beautiful. It was when I was 15 and had just started at the police department as a helper for the captain of the homicide department Markus Draoul. Since I was only 15 it took e a while to muster up the courage to go over there and offer her a seat at my table, so I sat there for a while just watching her. She had long red hair that was slightly curly and green eyes. She had plain, pale skin, and a slender but strong body. I couldn’t see how she was dressed because it was so dark where she was sitting, but I guess I always imagined her in plain clothes, which was how she dressed after we were married.
When I finally got the courage to go over there, and ask her to sit at my table, she refused, saying she would get in trouble because she was a waitress there on her break. So I offered to sit there. Like a 15-year-old girl, she merely giggled, so I took that as a yes.
Everyday after that I would go to that restaurant and sit with her during her breaks. And every time I felt more and more as if we belonged together. After about a month we began to see each other outside of the restaurant and became much closer, and two months after we met, we were wed in the backyard of Markus Draoul’s house, where I slept in the guest room. Afterwards Markus helped me find an apartment and moved me up to being his co-captain’s partner in the homicide department, Trana was able to leave her job as a waitress and took to being a stay at home wife.
Two years after we married we had a daughter, Emily, and one week after that…I don’t know.
All I know about the night of September 24th is that Trana died, I was staying late at work because of a troubling case down in Boulderash and I do not know what happened. Trana was out with some friends and Emily was with a baby sitter. At 10:43, two fellow police officers came into my office with grave looks on their faces and delivered the news. I was shocked, and I wanted to know what happened, I wanted to work on the case, but they just told me it was an innocent accident and that the details were better left unknown. Against my better judgment I left it alone and took a break from work. About 2 days into my break I became terribly ill, so much that they gave Emily to Markus and his wife to take care of until I got better. I was sick for months and, thinking it to be best for Emily, they put her in a boarding school in god knows where, and in my delirium I made no fuss. I never saw her again.
I will never forgive myself for what I did when I was 17, I will never forgive myself for letting the case go, for getting sick, or for letter them take Emily away, never, never.

Goodbye
Chapter 7
Lorelai

Before that day in June, I had always wondered what it would be like if I didn’t have Lorelai. The girl that made all of my days bright, all of my life well, the girl that kept me alive, the girl I had named after myself. She was more than just a daughter, more than just a best friend. She was me. She was everything I had, and therefore my entire life. I didn’t really have a life at all, I was just some woman who couldn’t get married, who’s dreams had died and who’s life had been crushed by her own stupidity. But with Lorelai, none of that mattered, for as long as Lorelai was well, I was. And as long as everyone liked Lorelai, everyone liked me. In the back of my mind I think that I always knew that no matter what happened, people smiling at my daughter Lorelai, did not at all care about the Lorelai who gave birth to her. I wasn’t really anything.
When I rounded the corner onto the road that Lorelai and me had dubbed April Way because it had no name, I didn’t see the police and the cars and the tears, or hear the whispers, and the screams, and the sirens, and run towards my house. I didn’t for one second think of running to the police and asking them why they were there. I died the second that I saw it all, and I stood completely still. I stood on that road like a statue that had not ever moved. A statue with no ears to hear anything but my own heart, with no mouth to do anything but open in horror, not even breathing. I was a statue with no brain to think about whether my daughter was alive or not, or what had happened, or why it had happened. I no longer had a soul. I think that is the closest I have ever some to feeling like I did not have a soul.
I was about 4 yards away from the entire ruckus and it took everyone a couple of minutes to notice I was there. Someone looked around, her eyes widened and she nudged her neighbor and whispered something in her ear, her eyes then also widened, and this began a spread of nudges and whispers until every eye was wide, and ever mouth was closed. Only then did my brain slightly begin to work again. Where was Lorelai, was she all right, what happened, questions flooded my mind and drowned me. I was just beginning to get the feeling back in my legs when a man opened the front door of my house, and wheeled out a stretcher.
In that stretcher lay Lorelai. Her arms had been crossed over her chest, and her eyes were closed. Across her neck was a deep and fatal slash. The blood had been cleaned up from her neck, and she had been stripped and was covered neatly in a thin cloth. She was dead.
Suddenly my legs were no longer frozen, they had disappeared, and I fell to the ground. There I was, kneeling on the ground, with my dress billowing out around me, my eyes still wide and staring at a spot on the ground.
I heard them fold up the legs of the stretcher and place it in the car from somewhere far away. No one approached me, no one moved. Then, slowly, everyone left one by one, until only policemen and me were left. I just sat there on the ground. I didn’t think or feel, I just sat. Then I heard footsteps coming from the village, and for some reason, I knew exactly whose they were. Fletcher Marie cam running around the corner, panting, and looking frightened. He bent down by me and, after he caught his breath said
“I heard some people talking when I was making a house call, they said that there had been an accident, they said that Lorelai…that she was…I wasn’t sure which one…is she…um…ok?” He finished weakly, a tear coming to his face.
And that is when I broke down. I burst into tears and buried my face in Fletcher’s shoulder; he knelt beside me and held me for what seemed like an eternity, until all my tears were gone. When I stopped crying, he stood up, trying to look strong and instead looking even more vulnerable and weak. “I...I think I will go and find out what happened, I am sure one of the police men can help you.”
At that moment a faceless man whom I will never meet again helped me to my feet and sat me down in the bench in my front yard, put a blanket from the paramedics over my shoulders, and offered me some tea. I sat there, not able to touch my tea, trying to stop myself from shivering, looking at my feet. I probably sat there for an hour at least but it felt like in no time at all, a nervous and deeply sorry looking policeman asked me if I could answer a few questions. He took me over to a tired and old doctor who I assumed was the one who had examined her body.
“I do not want to trouble you much today madam, only to tell you I am deeply sorry for your loss. We have determined that the cause of death was loss of blood due to the cut on her neck, though we are not sure how it came about.” I stared at him and suddenly got the courage to finally speak. “You mean she was murdered, someone slit her throat and you have no idea why.” The doctor looked sadly back and turned around, stepping into the front of the car, which carried my daughter’s body, and drove away.
The same nervous looking policeman from earlier came over to me looking even more sorry then he had the first time. “We have paid for a room for you to stay in at the hotel in Amber, we don’t want you to be hassled by anyone here in the village. We will need to do some more questioning tomorrow, but for now we think it is best for you to rest.” I nodded. But just before he could turn around I said, “If I could have just one favor? I would like to bury my daughter tomorrow morning in the village cemetery if the examiners are done with it.”
“Why I am sure that can be arranged,” he said, apparently happy to be doing something that I wanted. “I will have to speak with the morgue, but I am pretty sure that it is ok.” He smiled and walked away, and the faceless man took me to his car and I drove away from the house I would not see for a very, very long time.

Something Else Entirely
Chapter 8
Detective John Louvette
I never expected to encounter another case while I was in the village of Grenn, from what I had seen of the village it seemed to be a quiet one, a couple of rapes due to merchants stopping by for a few days, maybe some small drug scandals, and possibly a robbery or two was all I expected had ever happened there. In fact, from what I had seen, it surprised me that there had even ever been a murder.
They didn’t even call me in to take over the case until I was back in Amber, before then they had left it well alone. And when they first handed me the file on the murder I barely took it seriously. Amber was a large city, home to many murders and scandals; I had solved countless homicides, many with the same basic patterns as the one in the village of Grenn. So it seemed to me to be an open and shut case, and I barely put much thought into it.
The murder victim was a popular and sweet girl who had just graduated from the local school. She had no record what so ever and neither did her mother, who worked at the local Inn. The only suspicious circumstance was that she was to be married, and the fact that there appeared to be no motive. The house had not been broken into, there had been nothing stolen, what could the murderer have wanted? My only guess was that her fiancé’s old lover had decided she must die, or there was the slim chance that it had been an accident. Some may have believed it to be suicide, but the way I saw it, there was no chance. She was happy, successful, loved, rich (her fiancé was the village doctor)…the list went on and on. So why was she murdered? Frankly, I didn’t care. All I could think about was Trana; she hadn’t visited me since that day in the village of Grenn and I wondered if she would ever again. I figured that she had known how much I wanted to meet that girl I had seen in the shop window, and had been jealous, or just angry, or sad. Whatever it was, I really wanted her to come back. I knew I would never have that girl from the village, and if I couldn’t have her, then I knew that the only woman for me was Trana. Dead or alive, person or ghost.
Today I was to meet with the mother of the murder victim, and I was dreading it. I hated meeting with hysterical mothers who only talked about how great their daughters were and how they didn’t deserve to die. They never really helped me any and they thoroughly depressed me.
I wondered if this mother would be any different, and I doubted it. She might even be worse because she was a single mother of an only child and had nothing else. I sighed, it was sad that I cared so little about her feelings, just about how they would effect my solving the case.
I must admit that the case disappointed me a bit. When I was first told about it, I felt excited at the idea of a brutal murder in a small town. It seemed eerie, and like something you would see in the papers a lot, some thing books would be written about. Which all meant it might be the case that I could end with; the case I solve spectacularly or the case I screw up. For some reason, that made it more exciting. But now that I had seen the file, it looked like it would be something little and stupid that the press would bypass because of all that crap with some rich beautiful woman who cheated on her rich handsome husband.
I sighed, dreading the interview and started looking over another case. I dreaded the interview the next day, what a waste of time it would be. If only I had known then, that the interview the next day, would be the most extraordinary and important one I ever had.

Anger
Chapter 9
Lorelai
I do not remember if I slept or if I dreamt that night in the hotel in amber. I don’t know whether I sat up all night crying, or thinking; or if I fell into a deep sleep and dreamt about Lorelai, or just slept. All that really mattered was what happened the next morning, before the interview, before I even buried my daughter.
When I woke up the next morning I was cold. I definitely remember being so cold and wondering why. I barely brushed my hair, and then left, having slept (or whatever I did) in my clothes. Downstairs I found the nervous looking cop, (who now identified himself as Percy Kensington) already waiting for me. He took off his hat and rushed over to me, taking my arm, “The detective in charge of your case, miss Landan, has asked that you look through all the items we took from your house, and those left in, and tell us if there is anything missing.” I sighed, “And what about burying my daughter?”
“Oh, you can do that after, but it will only be a short burying, because you have to meet with the detective in charge for an interview at noon,” he looked at his watch, “and it is already nine, so lets move.”
It was rather strange to see all of the things from the living room out in the front yard. And even stranger to walk through a house full of caution tape and police. But in the end I found that nothing was missing. Kensington looked oddly disappointed, and showed me out and into his car, where I figured he would drive me to the village cemetery.
When we arrived, it was sunny and hot; I could already see the open grave, right under a tree in the far right corner. It seemed to take forever to walk across the graveyard. I refused to look at the tombstones, focusing instead, on the tree she was to be buried under and wondering if she would have liked it. It was big and bushy, a dark green color, with little yellow flowers. I decide that she definitely would.
When I arrived, it was to find a small wooden and cheap looking coffin, with a man standing next to it holding a carving tool. “Ellie,” I said simply, stating the religious symbol I wanted engraved on her coffin and her tomb.
I sat down on the grass while he carved, watching each motion of his hand, studying how he could make such a perfect flower of Empelator, using only this tool and his hands. When he had finished with the coffin, he looked at me, now standing over the tombstone. He bent down over it with a different, sharper carving tool, as I told him what to inscribe. When he had finished, I just stood looking at it, thinking of how I never expected to have to tell some one what to put on my own daughters tombstone.

Lorelai Landan
Loving Daughter and Fiancé
1432-1448
May she Dream her Dreams With me

After the inscriber had left, I stood over her coffin for a while, just looking. And then, it came almost as instinct; I bent down and placed my hand on her coffin. Sadness engulfed every inch of me, I felt like my heart was being crushed my a thousand worlds. I don’t think I ever had felt so sad, even yesterday when I was sobbing into Fletchers shoulder. Now my sadness was far beyond tears, far beyond anything I had ever felt before. I closed my eyes and just let my hand rest on the upper part of her coffin lid.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing that I noticed was the sign of Ellie, the flower of Empelator. It was so beautiful, so perfect, and so elegant. I reached for it, and ran my fingers along the petals, and the name Ellie inscribed below it, and that is when it happened. Everything left me, I was no longer sad at all, I was…angry I guess. But so much that it can barely be classified as angry, I was almost happy. I smiled a bit and something changed in my eyes, I don’t know how to describe it, but suddenly, everything looked different, not different physically, everything just had a different meaning somehow. And I stood up. I knew what I had to do. I had to find whoever killed Lorelai, and why, and then they would have to pay. They wouldn’t just have to die; they would have to suffer deeply and greatly. I found myself looking around and wondering why I was still there, I turned around and walked briskly back to the car, the smile no longer on my face.
“Lets go,” I said to Percy, getting in the car. “But Miss Landan,” he protested, leaning close to my window, “Don’t you want to stay for the burial?”
“No,” I said simply, “We’re going, and that’s final.”
When we arrived at my house I was surprised to see a table set up on my front lawn, just a cheap one with a folding metal chair set at it and a few papers sitting on the table. Sitting on the chair was a man whom I felt sure was the detective. He looked the part, with a long big-collared brown coat, a classic hat tipped to the side, and a handsome young face hidden under it, though I could see his eyes peeking glances at me underneath the brim.
Percy led me over to him, nearly tripping on his way there; it was obvious that he was the type to get nervous around the boss. “Miss Landan, this is Detective John Louvette, he will be in charge of you’re case. Detective,” he said, his voice getting distinctively lower as he stumbled towards the table.
“This is Miss Landan, she-”
“Yes, I know who she is. Well, Percy, pull her up a chair.”
Percy nearly fell over himself trying to get to a chair leaning against the side of the green house. When he set it down I did not sit in it but stood there looking at him hunched over his papers. Realizing I was still standing across the table from him, he looked up and put on a sympathetic face that looked very much practiced.
“Miss Landan, I am so sorry for you’re loss in this terrible accident, I know how you must be feeling at the moment. Please, take a seat.”
I just looked at him. “See that’s called lying Detective Louvette,” I said calmly and in even tones. He stared back looking confused and my voice became angry.
“You are not sorry, it was not an accident, you have not one damn idea how I am feeling and I do not have time to sit and chat with you at the moment, there are things I have to do.”
He looked utterly bewildered; apparently no one had ever given him an answer like that to his bored and memorized speech before.
I turned around and walked out to the edge of the small forest and the village of Grenn, reaching the gate leading into the small farming town of Miranda, heading the opposite direction of Amber, I turned around.
“You need no longer interrupt your meaningful life for this trivial case,” I shouted at him from about 30 yards away, “I will be taking control of this case from now on!”And I began running out of my yard, out of the forest, out of the village of Grenn, out of this nightmare, and into anger.

Look! I even have chapters in this one! Hee hee, it makes me so glad! I kind of like this one, although I think it lacks a lot of detail. But fuck detail, this is what I wrote, and all the fuckers who dont like it can go screw themselves.

Daddy

2006-04-26T21:55:00.000-07:00

Another story I wrote a while ago, although I added to it considerably since then. But not so recently.

Daddy

The sun was shining over the grassy hills and the grass reflected all the light onto the car that drove past, kicking up dust and rocks from the road. A little girl’s face could be seen through the window, gaunt and joyless. Her eyes pale blue, and her hair and skin so thin and light that it looked as though if you touched her, her outer layer might fall away like a curtain and leave only her shimmering sadness, small and weak upon the ground. In the front of the car her father was trying to drive and work at the same time and finding little success, his wavy light brown hair still in perfect shape, with just a smidgen of gray poking out of the top. They were driving past the hills of Teren on their way to Farrell’s new school. She didn’t really care that daddy had made sure she got all the electives she wanted, she didn’t really care that he bought her new clothes and got her a new haircut, she didn’t really care how many times he said he was sorry they had to move, it was all easy for him to do, not like loving her. Daddy could give her so much, but was it such a stretch to love her, to hug her, or to give her a kiss goodnight and call her his little princess, like all her friends daddies did. She sighed as she stared out the window, wincing at the sunshine, so used to the calming sounds of rain, and the relaxing shade of dark.
On the evening of the next day, she and her daddy went for a walk along the beaches. She found a lovely flower. Oh what a feeling it was to be happy for a fleeting moment, to feel the glitter of true goodness in her soul, if only for a moment. She stuck it in her thin hair and closed her eyes. Pretending that she was a princess and daddy the king. They would go out into their woods and play with the animals. He loved her and smiled with her, he hugged her and played with her. She was truly happy. She ran up to her father, she hadn’t said a word to him in about 3 years, just nodded or smiled. Maybe she would talk to him today. But he saw an associate from work and was talking to her, best not interrupt. She saw Farrell and smiled, and he looked down at her as if just realizing he had a daughter. And ruffled her hair, knocking the flower from her hair. The happiness left her and she looked down at it, as if he had just knocked her soul from her. She felt like everything was lost. Daddy wouldn’t ever love her; he didn’t want to, she didn’t matter.
She wasn’t always so unhappy, sometimes at night she wasn’t. All she had to do was think about how she was finally going to sleep, about how she did not have to think about anything while she was dreaming, about how she didn’t have to do anything for the rest of the day, all she had to do was lie there and be calm and think, and listen to Harry Potter. That was nice. There was no daddy to worry about, no homework to do, and no friends to make or keep or care about, just Harry Potter, thoughts and dreams.
Waking up was the worst, she felt as though she had wasted her few hours of solitude, as though her dreams could have been richer, her thoughts more profound, or how she could have listened to more Harry Potter, or gone to bed earlier. And now they were lost, and she had to deal with all the pains of daytime for hours and hours, until it was bedtime again, and all she had to face was the disappointment of no kiss from daddy.
And in the daytime there was light. She felt like light from the sun hurt her insides. Like it penetrated her frail skin and damaged her light hair. Like it could get inside her and read her little soul like a book and see that she didn’t like it, and then punish her. Though she couldn’t imagine how she could be punished more, maybe with no nighttime, or no dreams.

I do actually relate to this girl considerably. Not in my situation in life, or in my relationship with my father, but definitely in the way I feel about things, especially at the end of the day. I have always wanted to add to this, but I dont know where to start.

When Everything Began

2006-04-25T19:23:00.000-07:00

This was the first story that I wrote for fun when I was 13, I always thought it was awful. But I guess its not as bad as I always though it was, now that I read in over, it has been like almost three years since I wrote it and i have never finished it, never added on, even though I had this whole plot planned out at the time. I am such a loser sometimes, well hear goes...

Divineika

Tyrain

Curtain, Charan

While the wind is blowing, I hear it, the sound of everybody clapping. Downstairs it doesn’t seem so cold. In fact it's warm and brings to life, all that I have wished for in this August evening before I leave. For soon I shall go far away, far from all the places, where mama and daddy took it upon themselves to push me further than I would like to go. But it all paid off, for now I am going to the place that all that was for. To a school where they will raise me to be the one who rules all and gets what I want, I am off to Divineika.
I stood in front of the mirror the dim lights reflected back into my grass green eyes that shimmered with gold. I took my diamond earrings from the small glass rack that hung from the olive green frame of the mirror. I heard a sudden jolt of happy laughter from down stairs and smiled. Daddy must be telling his jokes. I put the earring on and reached for the next, thinking of all I was leaving behind tomorrow, but then I thought of what I was going to. I sighed. And sat on the bed. Below was a party celebrating the best thing that could ever happen to me, and yet it seemed as if this was not the greatest thing, though my body knew it had to be. But it didn’t matter; right now I needed to finish getting ready and make my spectacular appearance starting at the top of the black, metal, Juliet balcony, overlooking the entrance room (where daddy was currently entertaining the guests). Slowly I would walk myself down where everyone watched with smiles on their faces, watching my blue dress teeter about my ankles like a bell, and anticipating the food that awaited them in the next room. I stood up, determined to go down there with a smile, not only on my face, but also in my heart. And as I put on my dark, ruby red, lipstick, thinking about what my future held, it didn’t seem so hard. I finished my makeup, put my dress on, and after slipping on my gloves and spraying a bit of perfume in my hair, I opened the door to the bright lights of the entrance hall, and also to a brighter future.

Ocean

Wattlring, Sinpotet

I watched the rain outside. It was still heavily pouring. It looked like it might hail. I wished it would, then I would have an excuse to light a fire. Mother didn’t like fires. She said they were a danger to the house. Mother was like that, worrying about every little thing. I guess that’s why I tried so hard at school; afraid maybe mother would think I had failed, afraid maybe for myself, just like mother. But it all paid off, tomorrow I would leave for Divineika, and then maybe I would learn, mother said, to really work, but I doubted it. I had always known how to “really” work, she just never noticed. Daddy noticed though. It was a wonder that they stay married, they are so different. Daddy was happy and she, well she was like me, kind of mean but not really, just really quiet and antisocial. But right now I needed to worry about packing my things. I tore my eyes away from the window and looked at the floor on which was laying all the things I had torn from various places of my room that I might need. There were books, pens, pencils, gloves, all the things I would need (I had a list) and, of course, Whitney, my cat. Whitney was all white with blue/black stripes. Mother hated Whitney because she had been given to us by Relay. Relay had haunted my mother and my father’s dreams for three years, and mine too. Relay was a small child with long, blonde, thin hair that she brushed constantly. My parents had found her down an alley and had returned her to her parents before coming home. But when they got home Relay was there, standing in the doorway. My parents took her back but the same thing happened until her parents, tearfully, let her come live with us. At first we were happy and we loved Relay but then one-day she went to get her check up from Doctor Ragon and he had told her that she had Stand. Well Stand was really an uncommon thing, it still existed in Wattlring though, it was here and in most of Charan (the country to the left of my country Heven) and part of Sinpotet (the country to the north). Mother and daddy were horribly depressed at the news but before you come to the conclusion that she died and we were sad and that’s why mother hates the cat, let me tell you this; it was much, much worse than that. Well a few weeks after we had received the news Relay started acting strangely. She would hum and stroke her hair even more often then usual watching things like water dropping and my little sister Reanna more closely than usual and with a sort of obsessive interest. On November 19th three weeks after Relay had been diagnosed we woke up to find Reanna dead. The police came and found with plain evidence that Relay killed her. My parents wouldn’t believe it until Relay confessed. And to our horror she did with an almost empty smile. Relay was hung and my parents have never been the same. Mother and daddy have darkness in their eyes that I fear will never go away. And we, once a very social family, have fallen into disrepair. We don’t talk too much any more, not even daddy or me. I lost all my friends and started to obsess over small things. But I did keep Whitney, as a sort of reminder that that time really happened, because I have made up so many things in my head that I need reminders that I even exist anymore.

Magesta

Catseynd, Heven

Billows of blankets erupted around me like an ocean. I was sweating and breathing sharply. I hit my arm so hard on the side table by my bed that I felt like I was going to throw up, the air was knocked from my body and I doubled over. Eventually the waves of blankets became calm and my breathing soft. I had been dreaming about something. Probably dreaming of that day that was yesterday? No maybe a few weeks ago? But then I remembered, it came to me like the blood rushes to your foot when it falls asleep and you move it for the first time. That was five years ago. I sighed and rested my head upon my gold and purple pillow. I needed to sleep. I couldn’t be tired tomorrow. I must be awake and my beauty sleep (of course) was needed. I smiled. I had showed them all, thinking I was some sort of ditz. Thinking I was just another, Barbie doll looking, face in the crowd. No, I was greater than them. I made it to this day. None of them expected it. I blew them away. I was beyond what they thought I could be, but I always knew I could. It was easy. All I had to do was think about what they would think and everything became easy.

Caroline

Mystenthia, Sepashotua

Mom was watching me today. She does that a lot. She says that I am beautiful and she wants me to be known by someone for my beauty. Sometimes she will just watch my face and smile. She is happy I am her daughter. But daddy loves me more. Since they broke up they haven’t talked much. But they are still friends. Daddy calls me princess and buys me lots of things. Mom tells me I am beautiful and loves me. Life has been like a dream for my entire life. My family isn’t too poor, or too rich. All has seemed easy, just like anyone could ever hope for. Except for the life I began to experience 6 weeks ago. Janliettia and me have Sent. It has taken control of some towns and ours it one of them. Her and me will live at least another year without the complete change. Sent is a disease that causes you to transform slowly into animals. Yet they are not animals at all, and you are not exactly yourself anymore. Everything starts with your eyes, they change, not the color or the shape, they don’t become glossy, or shiny, or foggy, nothing like that. You cannot exactly tell what has changed about them, it is just as if the memories, the morals, the life, the images of the world have changed behind them. Mom and daddy pretend we don’t have Sent. It’s never brought up. But sometimes I can hear mom crying in bed. I hate the disease. I wish I could just die and mom would forget I existed. Then the pain would be gone. The actual disease doesn’t hurt, but watching how it destroys mom and daddy tears my down to a thread. Barely hanging on to reality. Drowning in myself.

William

Dragerua, Vellaundrea

I watched as people walked in and out of the dining room. Holding their heads high and giving me handshake and a, “Good luck Will, I always knew you could do it”, or at least a gruff “congratulations”. I was bored. Momma and daddy were out in the entrance hall, welcoming the guests with a jovial wave, or a slap on the back. Everyone was happy. I was happy. But I didn’t smile. I was scared. I didn’t want to be all alone at Divineika. I was afraid that I wouldn’t make any friends. I was afraid that I would end up sitting alone during supper; everyone would look at me, and whisper, and then giggle. They were like rattle snakes. They would make their buzzing sound and then hiss and then attack, sinking their long fangs into my soul, and injecting the venom of loneliness with brutality and passion. Sucking all the hope from me until I was left as only a small, weak, crippled, thing. Something momma would scoff at in the streets, a thing that had lost all sense of direction. I would become one of those people that went to find themselves and never returned. That was my largest fear. Not succeeding. I did not want to face a future of worrying. Worrying whether I could make it through the day, worrying about whether I had enough money to afford this or that. I wanted a future that promised wealth, a future that promised love. No. Not love, that, I, and everyone, could live without. Sure I could love my family. But I would never marry. No. I would live alone. Maybe adopt. But a wife, I promised myself, I would never have.

Tyrain

Downstairs I could hear the laughter still. I was at the edge of the stairs, poised like a diver preparing to plunge into the deep waters of the unknown. And what my future held was the unknown. I took my first step; no one could see me yet. Then another, and another, a few people could see me now. I kept on walking, taking each step with grace and beauty. Almost complete silence fell out over the entrance hall. I reached the Juliet balcony. I felt so self-conscious. My teeth were chattering, though it was far from cold. I reached the stairs. I began the climb downwards, toward smiling faces, glittering teeth, and beauty. There was beauty all around me. Silk dresses, long gowns with gold stitches. I was around people just like me. My knees weren’t so wobbly anymore and my teeth had stopped chattering. I was close to the bottom now. I reached the end. Everyone clapped and the crowd separated, leaving a path through the middle. I stepped through, I felt like I was on the red carpet. Soon I reached the large oak doors that led to the dining room. I opened them slowly, almost passionately, letting the smooth wood brush over my fingertips, before stepping through into the large room. Long tables lined the room, foods of all sorts spread across them in a decorative manner. I took the seat at the end of the middle table, welcoming the guests to join me. The guests crowded the room trying to find seats next to family and friends. As soon as everyone was settled I stood up. “I know you all are hungry” I boomed. Everyone fell silent. “So I shall make a speech at the end of dinner”. Everyone laughed and cheered. I sat in my plush maroon oak chair pulled the nearest dish to me, and began to chat with daddy who was sitting on my right. The night, I thought, isn’t really going so bad.

Ocean

Mother was in a particularly good mood when I went down stairs to ask if I could light a fire, though her reply was still no. But she did smile which was a good sign. Daddy was still at work and the house was quiet without him. I wished he could be here, not only did I want him to persuade mother to let me light a fire, but I really needed his comfort before I finished packing. I was packing up my life in one suitcase. I felt that I was leaving everything behind, but the worse part was I knew I was going to a better future than staying here with mother and daddy. I went back upstairs after talking to mother, looked at the floor of my room and sighed. I had made no progress with packing. I needed so many other things; I could tell that this couldn’t be all I owned. But it was. I looked around my small, dark, cold, room and couldn’t see anything else worth taking.

Magesta

I walked into the bathroom, small white towel in hand. I flipped the silver switch and tiptoed over my sleeping dog, Tatiana. I reached the sink and filled it with steaming water. I then placed the towel inside and splashed the water upon my face, then soaked it with the towel. I felt a bit better. Stupid dream. I had it all to often. I sat down on the edge of the tub and tried to imagine Divineika so that my mood might lighten. It worked, for the most part. I was still a bit nauseous from hitting my arm when I woke up earlier that night, but at least I had tried a smile and succeeded.

Caroline

I am watching it rain outside. It creates an ocean of fear that devours my insides. I hate the rain. I am scared of many odd, stupid things, like Cora. Above all I was afraid of Cora her dark hair, her eyes, her teeth. She was my next-door neighbor. She watched me from her window sometimes. She also would be attending Divineika. I did not like the thought of seeing her there. Afraid maybe that she would watch me still. But it was a big school, I told myself, she wouldn’t find me, or even bother to look. But inside I knew she would. I knew she would search for me, and I knew she would find me. And the thought scared me.

William

After a few hours of watching everyone dance, they all settled down for desert and I could relax. I felt more comfortable when I was doing what everyone else was doing. I didn’t like standing out, being scared and embarrassed, gritting my teeth so hard I could nearly feel them cracking, tensing my body up, willing it to move, to get me somewhere safe, somewhere where no one could see me, either because I was hiding or because I blended in. right now I could smile, everyone was minding themselves, not watching me telling me to do something that for the life of me, I could not manage to do.

Tyrain

When everyone had finished dinner I saw that the servants were turning on lights and opera, it was time for the dancing. Everyone, including I, would ballroom dance to the beautiful music, which now filled the hall and my ears with smooth gentle touches of voice and instrument, folded together in one harmonious song. I stood up and everyone followed. I smiled at my father and took his hand, leading him out onto the marble dance floor. I took his other hand as we reached it, and we glided along, his hands warm against mine. At the end I threw my arms around him, and a slow, silent tear descended the length of my cheekbone. “I love you daddy”, I whispered. And then more loudly, “You will always be in my heart, mind, and soul”. Everyone cheered and I smiled. “I love you more than the sun loves the moon when it hides itself in shadows and the sun gets its chance to shine its light upon the darkened world”, he whispered back. I squeezed him tight. That was a quote from my favorite book Trainman.

Ocean

I heard the door open downstairs and mother rush to the door. I went downstairs at a run and threw my arms around the man at the door, “Welcome home daddy”, I sighed.
My father was a tall black man with sharp white teeth and a great, yet empty almost, smile. He hugged me tight and then looked down at me. “You done packin’ boy?” he asked me, chewing on a toothpick. He laughed and spit out the toothpick. He wasn’t really a slurred kind of guy. He just put on an act, the white men liked it, seeing them as people who didn’t know anything, it didn’t bother my mother or my father. I don’t think it was just that they wanted to please the white men, maybe they just didn’t care, I wasn’t sure they cared about much anymore.
After dinner, I took my suitcase downstairs to the entryway by the door. As I turned to walk away, I noticed something outside the window there was a man. He was dressed in a long black business looking coat and a black hat he was carrying a briefcase and he didn’t seem to be walking anywhere, though he was walking. I just turned away, it was Mr. Morgan. Many people saw Mr. Morgan, it could be anytime it wasn’t really at a time that you could count on, just whenever he felt he was meant to be there. He was a legend around the world. He was a Remedipenda, a demon from hell made out of children’s tears. Remedipenda’s were assigned to a child after a while of being created, though it seemed strange that hell would create such things, they were sent to help the child. But once the child was happy again they faded in rain, it always started to rain when it was time for them to go, and they went with the rain, became like a watercolor painting in a waterfall. But something wrong happened with Mr. Morgan, he didn’t go away, he disappeared but he was still here. The child he was helping died afterwards in a car accident and the father was miserable and it was almost Mr. Morgan’s fault. So now he was to roam forever in the world, blessing a few with his mysterious presence, half way between hell and heaven, solidarity and water. He was in between love and hate, and hidden somewhere, but still seen. He was a legend of horror, love, hate, and loss. He was Mr. Morgan.

Magesta

When I got back in bed a cold, quiet, calmness took over me. I was still recovering from my dream, cold sweat still hung from my eyelids. But I could still feel how hot and tired I had been before, so now here I lay in the semi-darkness of my room, on top of a cool, fluffy comforter sitting there with a book I wasn’t reading, open on my lap. I was so peaceful, yet so tired, yet so restless, and scared. I took a sip of the water that was beside me; it tasted awful against my dry tongue and lips. I looked out side, I could see it becoming purple and orange; morning was approaching. Never had I seen an uglier sunrise, maybe it was because fear was mixed in with the light orange, or maybe it was because I was still feeling nauseous from hitting my arm, but the actual pain was going away. I pulled the now cold covers over me and nuzzled my face in my red hair; it only took me a few minutes to fall into an intricate dream.

Caroline

I closed the dark red curtains of my bedroom, willing my self not to look over at the soft blue walls of Caroline’s house. I could hear my mother muttering downstairs to my younger brother about how much daddy loved him, and how much he wanted to be here today when I left for Divineika. I looked at the ground; my bare feet were sunk into the carpet like it was mud, my feet stones. The thought made me not want to move, too just stay here like a solitary rock, to not have to worry about daddy, or Divineika, or Cora.

William

A few people left and eventually there were only about 50 people left, when they too finally went home I kissed my parents good night and slowly dragged myself up to my room where I fell asleep, fully clothed and happy. The next morning momma made me bacon and tavlafthy, a kind of sweet, Sinpotetan flower that was naturally coated with syrupy sugar that formed like diamonds around its petals. When breakfast was over suddenly I felt like a stone on the bottom of a lake, weighted down, like the whole world might end if I stood up, instead of jittery nerves, I felt like I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t go.

Tyrain

The morning came too quickly the sleep ate the minutes till all time to stay was gone and I must open my eyes and speak and stop dreaming. I couldn’t move, I didn’t need to I thought, I could just stay here and dream until I died. I never would have to move, I wouldn’t have to leave. I stood up anyways though. The sun was hidden and dark, making the clouds look bloody and dead. I dressed quietly, not looking outside, pretending I would still be here tomorrow, pretending today was just another. I combed my hair and walked downstairs, but one look at my bags and I almost collapsed. No. I just would die right now. That would work wouldn’t it? No. I must go. I had worked so hard to get to this point I couldn’t give up. I heard footsteps and put on a big smile. “Hey mom!” she just smiled weakly.
In a half an hour I was in the carriage. I fingered my hair until it was perfect. I did my face and then just waited, the carriage bumping all about around me. When we reached the train station I went straight to the nearest bench, I felt too sick to smile, but I tried anyway and ended up looking like I was about to throw up on the next person who touched me. I stood up, feeling self-conscious that I was all alone and went into the bathroom. It was all pink red and brown inside and the water ran thick and smooth. I just sat there with the hot water running over my hands until someone came in and I pretended to just be leaving. When I looked at the clock outside I groaned, I had six minutes until it was time to go and I didn’t want to sty around al the people for that much longer. I just wanted to get into the train and read a book in a compartment alone. Somehow I felt like everyone was watching me, waiting for me to slip or mess up. I couldn’t take it. I ran into the bathroom and sat on one of the toilets lids, locking the door with trembling fingers. I felt even sicker, but this time I was trembling more and my insides didn’t even feel like they were there, I was just filled with immense cold and sadness, nerves, doubt, loss, and a deep sense of longing for home. Last night I had been so happy; so why did I now just want to die here? Maybe I was sick. Who cared, I wouldn’t let myself stop now. I soon was outside. The platform was filled with people I didn’t know and I felt coldness again, doubt again, loss again, but just for a second, and then the train arrived. I went to it still holding my information packet and looked in. I hesitated then closed my eyes and walked inside. I looked around at all the people around me. I felt out of place and alone. Some girl smiled at me but then they found some other girls they knew and I was left alone again. What had happened to me? I was usually so happy and proud and friendly. I wanted the old me back, I wanted to talk to these people, to be happy again.

Ocean

When I finally was in the carriage with daddy I felt I bit more secure. Here I was! I was leaving to go to a brighter future than I ever could have had staying in Wattlring. I felt better than I had in a while. Daddy was talking to mother and I was just peering silently out of the window. I saw some merchants kids, in tattered clothes, their white faces muddy and dark with rings under their eyes, cuts on their arms and legs. They looked in the window at me and stood up screaming, “Don’t leave us here, we want to leave!” I sank into my seat and sighed. They were tortured slaves for their parents and anyone who didn’t want them around. There blood was mixed in with the mud on the ground, the remains of children who had been crushed from beneath ongoing carriages. I just shut my eyes and prayed they wouldn’t die like so many others did.

Magesta

In the morning I woke up with a start. It was Tatiana stretching that woke me up. I smiled down at her and gently took her in my arms, her soft fur like silk against my arms. She sighed and nuzzled her head into my nightgown. I carried her into my bathroom where I placed her on her bed and ran a comb through my light red hair. I went downstairs after dressing appropriately for the train ride. Mum was making me a breakfast of bacon and daddy was tending to my bags (that is, telling Tania what to do with them). I watched as she put half my life on the doorstep and as the other half of my life walked towards my. Both mum and daddy gave me big hugs. I ate my breakfast and waited until I could get outside to the carriage. “Farwell my love,” my mum said, wiping tears from her smiling eyes. “We love you,” she faltered and then added sadly, “Goodbye”.

Caroline

When I finally dared myself to go downstairs I found mother making me breakfast in our small kitchen. She turned and looked at me, her face blank as usual. She was making me waffles with syrup. I just stood in the doorway. I didn’t have anything to do so I just watched her hands as they worked with the batter, so careful and delicate they were, so small and thin like a glass doll’s. I eventually stepped back into our living room, small and weak, with a few chairs and a table. I looked around at the walls, painted dark green as the rest of the house was. With red velvet curtains, just like the rest of the windows dressings. It was such a plain, yet strange and creepy house. None of any of the friends that I had had would come over after their first visit. They said that they saw things that they could never forget and never wanted to see again. Such loneliness had come over me that I had hoped maybe I would see the things that they saw, and then maybe I would have something, or someone to talk to, even if it was just a shadow. I had thought that maybe they saw the ghost of my brother or my sister who died seven years ago; they would both be 14 now. My other sister murdered them. I am not sure still that she wanted to. But it didn’t really matter now; she left after she was overcome with Stand. Many would say that my life was hard, in that green small house that was covered in vines, but I was always just there no feeling, no core. So it wasn’t really so bad. Since that is how I was in the first place
.

William
But I knew that I must go I could not just stay here. I felt like I was falling, as though my stone form was now sinking. My daddy came in and lifted me up by the arms, pulling me into a hug. Oh how I loved daddy, momma was so stiff and her false sense of jittery humor was almost unnerving. I felt that daddy would be by my side no matter what my future held and momma would turn her head from my sight forever if I only slipped up a bit.

So, um yeah, kinda long and weird, but there are some parts I like. Of my favorite quotes from an of my stories is, "Many would say that my life was hard, in that green small house that was covered in vines, but I was always just there, no feeling, no core. So it wasnt really so bad. Since thaat is how I was in the first place." I dont know why that is one of my favorite quotes, rather silly actually, since I have such deeper stuff in other stories. But I guess that is just me, I get the shivers from stuff that is only said becuase it needs to be. You know what I mean? Probably not. Fuck it.

Beautiful Girl

2006-04-24T20:15:00.000-07:00

This is a story I wrote a long wime ago...

Lidovve

Lidovve walked gracefully along the railing of the porch, one foot in front of the other, her arms extended and her lips apart, taking a breath after each step. She was waiting, but she couldn’t quite be sure for what. Maybe she was waiting for her mother and father to get home from work, maybe she was waiting for her piano lesson at five, or maybe she was just waiting for the minutes to pass, let them fall into place like puzzle pieces. She jumped gracefully, silkily down from the railing and on to her wood front porch. She debated whether or not to go inside, rocking back and forth, her hands in her pockets. Deciding to take the plunge she opened the door. She felt as if she were releasing a spirit, the essence of home, but not only that, the essence of coming home, a day done either well or not. Now she stood in her darkly lit entry hall, with wood paneling and green walls, shivering in the din, she quickly hurried out and into the hallway. The entry room always made her feel as if she were a stranger in her home. A guest who stopped by uninvited, but was still greeted with the pleasantness as though had been expected, still feeling the tension of the bad timing, or the peculiar entering of the room, when everyone was silently surprised. Lidovve walked down the red hall, just as gracefully as before. She reached a dark door near the end of the hall and opened it to the welcome of her room. She lay her books by a laptop that was hooked up to a switch on the backboard of her desk, then made her way to the back of her room, where she curled up on her waterbed. She ran her fingers along the cotton sheets and looked out the window. Outside the trees were bare, and she couldn’t see any birds except for a very small, jet black crow, perched on a tree not too far away, standing out against the dull brown and gray like an ink blot in the middle of a gradually fading piece of paper. Lidovve lay there for about a quarter of an hour, her homework done at school. Then she stood up, noticing the clock. It was 4; her favorite soap opera would be on soon she walked down the hall to the bathroom, black, brown, and gold, shimmering with lights from outside on the porch. She splashed some cool water on her face, but before she left, she dotted some makeup on her eyes her lips and her cheeks. Lidovve didn’t put on makeup so that other people could marvel at her artificial beauty. No, Lidovve put on makeup so that every minute of every day she would know she was beautiful. She wanted herself, her own mind and heart to think, no, not to think, to know she was beautiful.
It was the next day, Thursday. Today school was canceled because of conferences. It was raining outside, each raindrop pounding against the roof and resounding through the house like an echoing drum. Lidovve walked out of her room, she was planning to go to the movies alone today and watch a few, until the light of the day grew dim and she became scared of what lay on the streets that led home and left quickly. before she left her house, she listened to the rain that echoed throughout her house with every drop. she shivered in anticipation of the cold, and looked up at the ceiling as though she would be able to see how bad the weather was through it. but she decided that it would be fun, like a movie where the beautiful girl walks through the rain, laughing at the sky like a goddess on earth for just one day, just there to enjoy the feeling of the rain upon her skin. Outside she walked down the front porch stairs and a bit down the front yard, the sky was gray and the rain was soaking her clothes and hair, drenching them with the tears from the sky. She was just short of the end of her yard when she stopped and looked down, just in front of her soaked feet was a small black bundle. She bent low and turned it over, it was the small black bird she had seen earlier, tossed upon the ground, wet and dead. It lay upon the ground, like the lost glove of a child, thrown about in the wind and rain. She ran her fingers along its soft silky back, and lifted its head. She picked it up and placed it beneath some thorn bushes. Then looked up. The sky was gray; even more it seemed from just a few moments ago. She knew it was the bird she had seen earlier, for she knew of its heart, and the way that its soul touched her, and seeing it lying there, she felt something leave her, a feeling now lost to the world, another fading dot on the graying piece of paper.
She saw a movie that has long since left her memory, one that made her cry, and laugh, and sigh. Yet all movies did. For they were grand pieces of art, and she became frightened upon each visit, that she would be disappointed with what she witnessed, that it would be predictable, and that it would discard people like her for stupid, conformed little brats, with nothing more to them than the diamond earrings from daddy last Christmas. For that is what they often were, merely beautiful, rich, people talking about how you don’t have to be beautiful and rich to be happy, to be a good person. But Lidovve believed that she really did have to have her money too be happy, to be a good person. Lidovve shivered at the thought of what would happen to her if her money and looks were gone, she would have to rely on herself to be happy. And the truth was, she was not full of herself at all, not proud. In fact, she really did hate herself.

Anonymous Shrink thinks that Lidovve represents me. But she doesnt. She represents a thought I had once, that turned into a story. And nothing more. Hello Miss Anonymous. Hope he loves you soon, I am sure he will. I hope that Erin loves me soon too, although I dont deserve her, I am hoping she lets me have her anyways. I bet nothing will ever happen. Just my Fucking goddamn luck. Shit.

Love, and Miss Anonymous?

2006-04-24T15:47:00.000-07:00

Miss Anonymous… I am not even sure you are a Miss, I am glad you read what I write. Thank you for the review on the story, I hope someday you fall in love. I have never been in love either, but I always think about it, maybe we are just two people fantasizing about love, but somehow, I think I have I pretty good idea what it is like. You must tell me when you fall in love. I would like to know something like that. This is almost like an e-mail, not an entry, but you are the only person who reads this, so I often write like I am talking to you.

The American

2006-04-23T17:30:00.000-07:00

I wrote a story about love. Why? Ha, like hell I know. I guess it’s always on my mind. Anonymous Shrink says that whatever is on my mind is probably what matters most to me. What a fucking Einstein, I am starting to wonder if he actually went to any real school. So yeah, it’s the beginning of something I have been working on for a long time. Its called…

The American

I met her because my parents owned the inn she was staying at in my little town of no importance. She was visiting from California, and she was beautiful. But she wasn’t beautiful in the way that the girls that hold up those signs during boxing matches are beautiful, she is the kind of suffocating beautiful, the kind that makes you want to look away, because you don’t really deserve to be looking at her. I assume that not everyone thought of her that way, for she wasn’t really the conventional type of attractive. I believe to this day that my attraction to her was something I couldn’t control, so it would not have mattered whether or not she had any kind of beauty in her, it was only lucky for me that she did.
Her first words to me were that she probably could fall in love with someone like me, which made my heart stop. But the way she said it left me in no doubt that she found it unlikely she would. However I believe she said it merely to give me hope, to let me marinate in those words for a while, so as to decide what exactly I could do to win her heart, but I never thought of it as winning her heart. I merely thought of it as going on a journey, one that I intended to enjoy extremely.
We met again when I was working outside the inn one day, in the field where we let the guests ride our horses, I was picking up the apples that had fallen from the tree in the middle, and stopped to eat some in the process. We put the tree there so that the horses would eat the ones that hung down on the lower branches, an action that seemed to delight the guests. Although I pretended to be surprised to see her when she sat down beside me under the tree, I had really been watching her skip across the field to me. She smiled and asked my name. I told her it was Shamus, she seemed to like that. She told me that my name merely confirmed what she had thought earlier, that she could fall in love with me. I asked her why she thought that, but she merely laughed and said she would rather keep me guessing. I told her of her beauty; for a silence had grown that I feared might lessen her affections towards me. I mentioned that she was the kind of beauty you fell in love with, as opposed to the women who held up signs at the boxing matches. But she frowned at this. She told me that those women were probably beautiful in a lovelier way to the ones who loved them.
She also spoke of their beauty to me. They were an ideal, yes, one which may destroy the self-esteem of many young girls, but that’s the way it was. She said that if the girls were going to let it get to them, then that was their deal, and society shouldn’t form itself purely around the stupid things that others might make of things. They should do what they do, and let others do as they do. For, she thought, letting each other just get on with our lives was the only way to make each other happy, as long as there was some way that we could have others lifestyles not effect us, we really couldn’t complain, could we?
I laughed and said her views were interesting, and asked her if she’d anyone to share such views with. She said she had had a girlfriend back home, but they had fallen out. I was shocked. She described herself as bisexual, which made little sense to me. In my small town, we had little to do with men and women who desired those of the same sex as theirs. It was not that we did not have rumors, nor that the thought of a woman with another woman did not excite young men, it was only that it was not thought much of. We had no laws, no protests, no formal relationships, nothing of that sort. We had not even names for them. I had heard of some, gays, lesbians, faggots, dykes, the latter two being insults I presumed. However, none of these words were ever brought up in conversation, let alone were any relationships of the sort thought of in such a way as a lifestyle, they were more like perversions, and fantasies. So naturally the word “bisexual” never even entered the realm of my mind, let alone any conversation I had participated in. however she said it as a natural thing, and described her love of both men and women as something wonderful, and beautiful. She even spoke of her old girlfriend, and the love she felt for her. She spoke of her small waist, and her small breasts, and of her soft hair and dark eyes. She did not seem to miss her, but to still have a level of respect for her that fascinated me. When she fell silent, I commented that it was all for the best, for it would be a shame for someone of such perfection as herself to be limited to one of the sexes alone. She laughed and playfully hit my shoulder with the back of her hand. I suddenly saw that this comment may have come off as one said in a moment of discomfort, as some cheap flattery spoken to fill the gap left by how little I understood of her situation and feelings, though it was not. For I unusually understood her, and as I said before, I never thought of any experience I had with her as one spent trying to win her heart.
She pulled out a chocolate bar from her pocket and started to eat it, I swiftly took it from her, and switched it with an apple, causing her to jump and smile. She then pulled out a pocketknife hidden in her shoe and cut the apple’s side, taking a bite of the long flat piece she had carved. It was in that moment that I felt I could love her. I had always known that she was the type that I could love, but it was then that I knew that she went past the “type”, and became a person whom I could love, and probably would. Looking back, it surprises me that I did not then see that I already loved her, more than I could ever know.
I wondered why it was silent, and yet beautiful outside that day, with me humming, her eating an apple. The whole thing was completely surreal, something that I knew could only happen with her. If I was another man, I would be only sitting thinking how long before I could kiss her. And if she were another woman, she would be sighing, bored with my lack of intelligent words. But she was her and I was me, and as simple as it sounds, it is the most important thing in the world. It is what makes love work, and is only understood when one is in love, when one experiences the unspoken understanding that everything is connected, and that every moment is perfect, and planned by god. It is then that you find the secret to love, the thing that keeps us all together, the quiet solitude of being understood without having to explain, of being loved without having to try. That’s what I mean when I say I never tried to win her heart. She was mine before we ever even met, and she knew it, and I knew it, so there was no need for untrue words, or vows of love and loyalty. Everything I said to her was said from the bottom of my heart, every moment I spent with her was spent completely there, not wishing we were doing anything else, or that we were with anyone else. I believe that I could spend one hundred years with her, never speaking, just the two of us, and I would be ok. I laughed, right next to her under that tree, just at the thought of spending one hundred years with her. She asked me what was funny. And I told her I was thinking of spending years alone with her. She looked curious, and I explained that it wasn’t funny; it just made me happy to think of. She should have believed that it was a line, one that I half believed but mostly said merely to win her heart. But as I said before, when you really love, there is no need for untrue words. And I loved her.

Its not that hard to see that this is like some type of fantasy of mine. I wont show Anonymous Shrink, though I told him I wrote it. I am afraid of what he will think of it.

Miss Anonymous

2006-04-23T14:53:00.000-07:00

Hello whatever person is reading my Blog. I just wanted to say hi. I now have another anonymous person in my life. I want to give you a name. Like I gave Tara and Rosie and Vivian. I am pleased that you read my Blog. If you ever stop reading, tell me. That way I can go back and figure out why you stopped reading. I like to do stupid stuff like that. Also tell me what you think of what I write. Thanks for reading. Thanks for making what I do that much less unimportant.

People reading?

2006-04-19T22:57:00.000-07:00

If Anonymous still reads this, leave a comment. I would love to know that someone is. Anyone there? Naomi?

Comics and their Effect on my Love Life

2006-04-17T22:30:00.000-07:00

I take it all back. Never trust Anonymous Shrink with anything at all. He said he thinks that no one reads what I write because they are afraid of me, and they are afraid of me because I say weird things to get their attention. Well I say screw him. No one reads my goddamn blog, who am I scaring? And then he said he was going to tell my parents about my blog. What I freak, I begged him not to and he agreed. I hate to beg. It makes me feel inferior, and stupid, because I have sunk to the lowest form of manipulation, which is begging. I am afraid of falling in love again, with someone I cant have. Its stupid. This girl came up to me while I was waiting to use the bathroom at Willow Street Pizza, and I don’t know why. It was weird. All my friends and me were at Baskin Robbins next door, for anonymous friend B’s birthday. B has to pee, and there is no restroom in Baskin Robbins, so we go to Willow Street Pizza, which is right next door. So she goes first and I start reading these comics from 1942 that they have posted on the wall in a frame as some sort of artwork. This chick comes up to me, very pretty, about 17, and starts talking to me about them. She is all like, “Are you into this stuff?” like its something like S and M that people are “into”. So I’m like, “Not really,” which is a lie, I read the comics every single day. But she sounded like she didn’t like them, so I figured it was easier to just agree. “I hate comics,” she continues, gesturing to this one with no dialogue with some guy eating pancakes, its not very funny. “They are always so focused on, like, potty humor, they should get more into the deeper social issues in America, it can turn out much funnier.” It was such a weird thing to say, that I just stared at her for a while. Then I said, “I know, I like to read the articles in the arts section more than the comics,” which is sort of true. She laughs and smiles at me, “Yeah.” She starts talking about her friends, who write this comic strip that she thinks is like hilarious. It was sooooo weird. So finally B comes out and I go in, wondering at how goddamn friendly this chick is. So I come out, and she is gone, which is weird since there is no other bathroom, and I figured that was why she was standing in this little hallway. So B says, “Were you talking to that chick?” and I am like “yeah, she just walked up to me, where did she go?” so B’s like, “she left right after you went in.” Ummm, yeah sort of weird. So we speculate as we’re walking back, and decide that this chick was hitting on me. Which probably wasn’t true, but intrigued me. It wasn’t like I totally fell in love with her when I saw her, but I somehow wished that we had talked more, and that she asked me out. It would have been nice. But Anonymous Shrink says I fantasize too much, and that I should actually go out there and make things happen, so I stopped thinking about what I should have said, or how I should have reacted, I just stopped thinking about her overall. But then I am on Myspace and I am looking at anonymous friend SK’s pics, and see her new boyfriend kissing the side of her face by her eye, and she has got this big smile on her face, and I am like, “Hey! I am not unattractive, why don’t I have someone to kiss?” So my mind goes back to this chick, and I keep wondering, could I have had her? But I probably couldn’t have. Whatever. I think I say whatever too much. Oh fuck it all to hell.

Tara, R, G, and AL

2006-04-17T22:29:00.000-07:00

I’ve got nothing to say. And it kind of makes me want to scream. I WANT SOMEONE GOD-FUCKING DAMMIT!!!!!! That didn’t make me feel any better; I didn’t think that it would. Fuck. I am so bored with the way things are going. Although I am going to the mall with anonymous friend R, and might go see Brick with Anonymous friend G. R is like always busy, so it is nice to be doing something with her. I find that I am not particularly attracted to her, and would never want to do anything with her. Yet I really want her to fall in love with me. Just so that I can have the satisfaction of knowing that she is in love with me, because everyone likes her, and it is hard to get close to her. But I guess that is kind of a bitchy thing to want. Oh well, this blog isn’t called Chronicles of an Anonymous Bitch for nothing. I have become certain I am not a lesbian. I am Bisexual. It’s only taken me like 6 years to come to that conclusion. I am relieved; I know I will never tell my parents. I’ve only told anonymous friend AL, because she has connections with the sophomore at my school that I have a crush on. I will call her Tara, cause I like that name. She will probably never know. Fuck it.

Consumption

2006-04-17T22:25:00.001-07:00

My chest, it feels the emptiness within
In due course I'd hoped it might have gone
I'm moving everything under my skin
Hoping it will rise and leave like dawn
But still I smile, a twinkle in my eye
And let those who are empty feast on me
They eat my smiles and laughs like cherry pie
And snack on words like apples from a tree
Like cookies, they sneak words off of my tongue
And take pleasure in the goodness of my soul
Chewing on my thoughts like bubble-gum
They eat my emptiness with spoons and bowls
I look into my future and see me
Lonely I am, though I may be wed
Though all around they say that they love me
It's only 'caus I've kept them warmly fed
But soon I see the emptiness will grow
Leaving me with only smiles to give
The twinkle in my eyes does not burn low
But soon I see my soul will cease to live
I chain my lovely thoughts within myself
Though I may appear so wild and free
I lay my hunger down on some old shelf
And let the ever empty consume me