Belated Merry Christmas

Hola. I can not sleep. The rest of the house is asleep. I can hear my sister breathing.

I have been trying to do this for two hours and have failed miserably. It is 12:32. I got socks for Christmas. They are nice socks. I feel like I should be channeling Dumbledore here.

Therefore, you are getting this piece. It’s the first part of my Christmas Things, the rest of which you can find here:

[redacted]
[redacted]

You can also find the above here: [redacted]. It has the fastest cover in the history of covers. That’s the only difference. Maybe a better explanation of Sagatime, but you already know what that is.

Right?

You may find these things interesting. You may not. I do not care very much. I want to sleep. My sister and I have discussed marrige vows and the various ways of drinking water (e.g. Asian, German, etc). The alarm clock has red glowing numbers. It is way too late. The smoke detector is flashing. I hate that smoke detector and wish to smash it into 209381029319273+ tiny little pieces. My brain is probably in a different time zone.

I have learned to play the recorder. It is a soprano recorder. Which means a) it’s really loud and b) it’s really high. Which means the neighbors are annoyed. Even my ears are annoyed. It’s a great instrument until you realize that you can’t multitask while playing it. You can walk around. But you can’t multitask. And you CAN’T PLAY MULTIPLE NOTES AT ONCE.

Well. you can annoy people. That makes up for part of it. and YOU CAN WALK AROUND WITH IT.

I’m freezing.

If you wish to waste your time, I have compiled a list of my favorite TED talks. You can watch them.
[all redacted, for no particular reason :)))]

You may not question me.

Belated Merry Christmas. May it be filled with belated donuts love, hugs, donuts cookies, and donuts milk. The milk is important.

And this one is called “A Yuletide Carol,” by Charles Chickens Me.

Caitlin may recognize this one. I think I showed it to her. I actually wrote it last year but did not post it due to the lack of existence of blogging in my life. It’s not as funny as I remember, though. *sigh*

SELINA WRITE SOMETHING

IT IS NOW 12:42

IN THE MORNING, IF THAT WASN’T CLEAR ALREADY

I’M TIRED

MY EYES ARE TIRED

I REALLY NEED TO SLEEP

I ALSO REALLY NEED ONE OF THOSE EYE-COVERING THINGS BECAUSE OTHERWISE I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO SLEEP

ALSDKFJALSKDJFLAIEWORUAOEWUROW!!!

~

It was the holiday season, and Thor was in charge of the decorations.

He’d dragged in the Christmas tree, thrown the Yule log in the fireplace, donned the Santa Claus hat, and tried to bake a turkey. Odin had panicked and hurriedly excused him — read, kicked him out.

Which was why Thor was dressing up his two goats as reindeer.

With a red beard that stuck out in every direction and arms as thick as tree trunks, Thor was rather intimidating. But he was also wearing a Santa Claus hat, and Santa Claus hats make everything better.

Toothgnasher (Vixen) bleated and tried to shake off the antlers Thor had just stuck to his head. The goat’s head, not Thor’s.

“Be a good goat,” Thor grunted, straightening the antlers again.

Toothgrinder (Blitzen) butted Toothgnasher with his antlers. Immediately, Toothgnasher growled at the other goat and thrust his antlers at him.

“No, Toothgnasher. Bad Toothgrinder,” Thor said, pushing the two goats apart. They looked at him and bared their teeth.

“No,” he said again. “Bad goats.”

They shuffled apart. Toothgrinder snuggled up for a scratch, and Thor obliged. Toothgnasher butted Toothgrinder, attempting to secure a spot. Toothgrinder butted Toothgnasher back.

Thor pressed his face into his hands and promptly gave up. He pried apart the two goats. “Go on, shoo. Don’t bother too many people. Go on.”

Toothgnasher looked at Thor pleadingly.

“Oh, all right,” Thor sighed, and took off the antlers. Toothgnasher waggled his ears at Toothgrinder with a grin that only goats can manage. Toothgrinder growled.

“Stop it.” Thor dragged Toothgrinder back and unclipped his antlers rather reluctantly. “Run along, you two.” He pushed the goats away, and they ran wherever goats run when they are bored.

Thor got up, brushing off his pants and squinting into the sun. It was about ten o’clock in the morning, and he still had to persuade Odin to be Santa Claus.

Reaching into a pocket, he picked out a set of foldable skis (an early Christmas present from Ullr, the poor guy — he’d forgotten when Christmas was). He snapped them on and stepped into them.

Standing on the hilltop and whooping, Thor plunged down into the snow, skiing as if his life depended on it. He got to Valhalla twice as fast as usual, though with a twice-as-messy beard. He straightened it, checked that his Santa Claus hat was still on, and kicked the door open with the skill of someone who specializes in kicking doors open.

Thor opened his mouth to start dictating his speech (he’d written an excellent persuasive essay) and looked up at Odin and a large host of Viking ghosts. He promptly scraped the speech.

“Hi,” he said.

Odin was (very reluctantly) dressed in a too-big Santa Claus suit, glumly sporting a sack of toys slung over his back. “Ho ho ho,” he said unenthusiastically. “You have just tossed my reputation down the drain.”

“Yay!” yelled Thor, hugging Odin. He’d only recently learned how to do this without strangling people and was now doing it as much as possible.

Odin mumbled something unintelligible.

“What?” Thor beamed.

“Nothing,” Odin said. He straightened his Santa hat.

“Well, I was wondering if you had Christmas lights for the tree,” Thor said.

A brief smile flickered across Odin’s face. “Try the attic,” he said.

“And ornaments?”

“Up there too,” Odin said. He tugged at his sleeve.

“Good. I’m going to get them — see you later.” Thor ran outside, completely missing the fact that Odin was waving back. He tripped over Toothgnasher. “Oh. Hi.”

Toothgnasher bleated.

“What is it?”

The goat ran away.

Thor sighed. He would never understand goats.

He scratched his beard, frowning. Christmas tree lights, ornaments, and what was that smell?
The stench of burnt fowl wafted through the air.

Thor swore and ran off to save it.

~~~

“Thor swore” rhymes. I’m tired.

MERRY CHIRSTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT.

(you knew that was coming, did you? Or did you not?)

TO BE OR NOT TO BE THAT IS THE QUESTION

AND I DON’T KNWO WHAT AI’MM WAYING ANYMORE.

The one I fail to title

Need more things on this blog. *glares*

Right now I am developing an obsession with Twitter and Wordpress. This means that a) a lot of my stuff is going on my blog(s — I don’t consider a storage room for my writing to be a blog) and b) Calletrix promptly is very lacking in new written pieces.

You know, you should just go on my blog. It’s snowing there. I bet tumblrs don’t do that. You can see it especially on [redacted]. And I try to direct people to my other blog…

GUYS YOU REALLY NEED TO WRITE MORE

SELINA CHARLOTTE HAS WRITTEN MORE THAN YOU HAVE

SO WRITE SOMETHING

I* do a thing called #Sagatime on Twitter, which is adapted from Joanne Harris’s** #Storytime. Most of the time I post it somewhere. Usually I do not put it here. 

Because I have a blog, I shall direct you to blog post for further explanation: [redacted]

*looks at Christine pointedly* This one’s for you. It’s also the only reason I’m putting it here.

~

Once upon a lemon tree there lived an elf among its branches.

She was very pretty and had features that biologists and novelists generally agreed on.

She also had wings and used them to flit about happily between the branches of the lemon tree.

One day, there came a handsome stranger with similarly gossamer wings who enjoyed flitting about the lemon tree as well.

He had strangely perfect features. The elf thought he was a bit boring. She wasn’t one for romance.

But boys are intruging, even in the elf world, and so the elf followed him home one day.

She did not think it was very creepy. Elvish society encourages stalking others, especially handsome but boring boys.

In case you have not noticed, Elvish society is strange.

She thought this might’ve been because all Elvish girls must take classes on stalking handsome Elvish boys at school.

As she followed him, she noticed that his wings were molting. They melted down his back and dripped into the ground slowly.

She stepped over the puddles. He walked on, still unaware of her.

Now his clothes were melting. And his skin. At the same time. They turned into the same quicksilver-y stuff.

She stepped over the mathematical-esque shapes in the ground and kept her eyes on the stranger. His wings were gone now. They turned into a dark quicksilver puddle, sliding over the ground like an eerie pool of…

Worms, she decided. Definitely worms. The liquid was squiggly.

So she kept following him, and he kept walking until suddenly he stopped.

This was mainly because if he did not, he would’ve fallen over a cliff. He turned around and faced her. For the first time, the elf noticed her surroundings.

They were in a cavern, towering over them both. She could see her lemon tree. It was a golden-green tower in the darkness. The cavern ceiling was sprinkled with sparkly diamond things. She wasn’t sure what they were.

It was cold.

“Why are you following me?” he asked.

“I was curious,” she said. “And— and it was my final for Stalking 101.”

“I would wish you to pass,” he said. He was still dripping quicksilver, and his voice wasn’t quite the same as before. It was hollow with the sound of metal.

She took a step back. Behind her, something whispered against the ground, snake-like.

The elf-imposter raised a finger to its lips. Its face was melting. “No magic in the world can save you now,” it said. Its face was silver.

She turned. A wave of silver was crashing down upon her. She looked back at the elf-imposter. It was expressionless.

Quietly, she opened up her wings. She stared at the silver ocean. She watched it come crashing down.

And she flew away, far away, faster and faster, into the night. She flew where all the other elves had gone.

She could not fight the imposter. She could only run. No one ever saw her again, or any of her kind.

Back home, the lemon tree became angry. It noticed her leave. It remembered the imposter and its quicksilver smell. And so it grew spikes. Big, long, green ones. When the imposter came back, pleased and in its Elvish suit once more, the lemon tree refused to let it back in.

The imposter never bothered anyone again.

~

* @[redacted lmao also i changed it again]. I’m fairly sure it’s not good ettiquette to change your handle after you’ve chosen it. But I don’t know, since I fail at social media. which I have said 7000000+ times already. Sue me.

** @joannechocolat. She’s awesome. In case you have not noticed this particular aspect of me, I absolutely love her stuff. DID YOU KNOW THAT SHE ACTUALLY ONCE HAD LONG HAIR??!?!?

RIP {Nov. 12, 2k15 around 3:08ish}

Oh look I'm back after almost a 9 month break.

It was squishy.

The moment my foot came down, it writhed and twisted, tail whipping back and forth in an agonized attempt to struggle free.

When I lifted my foot up, I nearly fell backwards because I thought it as a Giant Silkworm Moth.  One bite from one of those and you'll bleed to death.

But no, it was a lizard.  A very ddead lizard.

No blood, so I must've cracked something.

I blinked.  Twice.  And then I blurted, "I killed a lizard!" beccause there was nothing else to say.  Which probably did nothing but irritate the neighbors.

I scooted it with the bottom of my shoe into someone's yard.  It was limp and still so warm I could feel it through the rubber bottom of my shoe.

I let out a breath when it finally landed into the dirt, and I scraped some flowers over it.  

There were no rocks, or I probably would've made a gravestone.

But I did name the lizard.

Inky.

I hope Inky makes it to lizard heaven.

I'm sorry for killing you. ;u;

A threat

I swear, 50+% of the writing on this blog is done by me.

Therefore, I am not writing anything until either Caitlin or Selina (edit: or someone else) writes something. Or I will only post deep and meaningful and cheesy writing, and no one wants that.

In the meantime, enjoy Amanda Palmer's music. No, I will not stop fangirling. She is amazing. And awesome. Her music is kind of an acquired taste, though.

amandapalmer.bandcamp.com

Svanalf's B&B, Part 2

Case in point: People decided that a) Thor should be female, and b) Loki was not supposed to be in a certain skit. *hem hem* Also, these are apparently the interesting people HTTYD-Loki said were coming.

I'm not part of the Doctor Who fandom. Hopefully I didn't kill anything - which I don't think I did, but still.

This is approximately three weeks late. Also, no one posts stuff here anymore...

~ ~ ~

Scene ∞.
       Decs on: café table, reception desk, chairs
       Props on: none

       The gods are standing by the door of the B&B.
Loki: Well. Here we are again.
Freya: Again?
Loki: Yes. Again. You know Svanalf over there?
      Svanalf waves from her desk in the lobby.
Thor: We’ve never been here before.
Loki: Well, that’s because you were off at the 2015 freshman homecoming skit, Thor, and I hope you had a good time, leaving poor Loki at home alone.
Freya: It sucked. Like, really, really, sucked.
Odin: Be nice, Freya.
Freya: Shut up, Odin. You have to agree: It is an utter mystery what happened to the script.
      Pause for seniors to stop screaming.
Odin: But the backdrop was really good. Focus on the good things, you incompetent piece of trash.
Thor: I approved of the boat on it. That was cool. And the weird buildings. Very tall. And there was a large amount of dancing.
Loki: That’s the point of homecoming, you know. The random dancing.
Freya: And the destruction of the Bifrost was cool, too.
Loki: You aren’t usually this violent, are you?
Thor: She picked it up from me.
Freya: And then Thor took a leaf out of your book, Loki-
Loki: What?
Thor: Um… look over there.
      Thoryn enters.
Thoryn: Hi!
Loki: Oh my flibbertigibbits.
Svanalf: (disapprovingly) Language.
Loki: What? That wasn’t swearing.
      Thoryn exits.
Odin: Then what were you doing? Which coast were you on, east or west?
      Pause for juniors to stop screaming.
Loki: I was here, obviously.
Svanalf: Hello.
Odin: Oh.
Thor: Is there any decent drink here?
Svanalf: I have soda.
Thor: That will have to do, I suppose.
Freya: Oh, did I tell you, they managed to mispronounce Bifrost. Horribly.
Thor: Well, you didn’t tell them.
Freya: Why didn’t you? Or Odin?
Odin and Loki: (simultaneously) Who cares?
      Awkward pause.
Loki: So was it okay?
Freya: Did I not say that it was a nightmare?
      Pause for sophomores to stop screaming.
Odin: It wasn’t that bad. There were balloons. That was nice.
Loki: Heh. Balloons are bad for the environment.
Thor: Since when have you cared about the environment?
Loki: I don’t know.
Svanalf: Guys, you’re blocking up the entrance.
Loki: Oh. Sorry.
      They move out of the way, and all the gods are staring at him.
Loki: What?
Thor: Since when are you nice?
Loki: Since when do Viking helmets have horns?
Thor: That isn’t the same thing, you… you…
Loki: Now that’s the Thor we know and love.
Odin: Be nice.
Thor: What’s nice? All I know is take hammer, smash face.
Loki: Stop it.
Thor: I only said it once.
Loki: In this conversation, once. In all the conversations-
Freya: Stop arguing or I’ll bash you.
Loki: Nope. Not usually this violent. So. What did you do?
Odin: We awkwardly staged a dance-off. And… um… that’s pretty much it.
Freya: Be glad you didn’t go.
Odin: Be nice.
Loki: That is the third time you’ve said that, Odin.
Thor: Well, I think they’re going to visit us at some point in the future in a blue box.
      Pause for freshmen to stop screaming…  if they even realize that this is a shoutout.
Svanalf: Hey- Thor?
Thor: Yeah?
Svanalf: Did the box happen to have the words “POLICE BOX” written on it?
Thor: No idea.
Odin: Yeah. Though not in capital letters.
Svanalf: Oh dear gods. The Doctor… He’s coming…
Loki: Do not have a fangirl attack on us.
Thor: Fangirl?
Loki: It’s a concept from the future.
Odin: Oh no Loki, you haven’t been time travelling, have you?
Loki: Who says I can’t?

~ ~ ~

Odin, Thoryn, Freya, TARDIS: Lynbrook freshman homecoming skit 2015.

Polar Opposites

         Sometimes, you think that opposites aren't meant to attract. There's heaven and Hell. Despair and hope. Black and white. Fancy and plain. Old and new, Any person would say they clash. They don't fit together, like two siblings bickering over a rivalry. One believes one things. The other disagrees. But then, why do we enjoy sweet and out chicken? The aesthetic orange sunset against the fading blue sky? The one accentuated piece of something eccentric, something standing out? Why do we like our lines so clearly defined, but then smoothed together into a blur? Even in this way, we form contradictions that seamlessly bind together. It doesn't always seem to be, but it is. The antithesis of our world still lives on.

         Sometimes, it's all in such a big breath, something so powerful, glorious, and expansive, but all the while invisible to the human eye, such as the death and life that surrounds us, fragile and beautiful but feathery, like an unforeseen whisper caressed between the lips of mother and child, a breath so loving, so delicate, yet the breath still holds power that was thought to only be in legends that could move mountains and hold up the sky, for the boy shall be the one who lives on and grows strong as the mother withers to slowly be laid in a grave, and the boy will realize the true power of the words that he heard while he was only a young child, and cry as his heart and soul realize the love that his mother bestowed on him, and he would regret that he ever yelled, argued, complained, or fought his mother, the mother that he always did love, and hate himself for all the pain that he made her go through, and finally to let go of all of his bated breath in silence.

*Correction

Math homework does not only have one correct answer

for example most quadratic equations have two answers.

I Hate Math Homework

WHY AM I WRITING SO MUCH RIGHT NOW

IT'S INTERFERING WITH MY PRODUCTIVITY

ALSO IT MAKES CHRISTINE AND CAITLIN LOOK WAY MORE LAZY THAN THEY ARE

THEY ARE NOT LAZY THEY JUST DON'T HAVE ANYTHING DECENT TO WRITE ABOUT

UNLIKE ME

I WILL WRITE ABOUT ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING, INCLUDING MY SOCKS AND FERRETS

I DON'T HAVE FERRETS

I HAVEN'T EVEN SEEN ONE IN REAL LIFE EVER

*DROPS MIC*

*EATS BANANA VICIOUSLY*

*LEAVES*

*STICKS HEAD BACK IN*

CAITLIN YOU STILL AREN'T EXCUSED FROM NOT WRITING ANYTHING SINCE MARCH 17

~ ~ ~

Math homework sucks.
Math homework is poo.
Math homework should be ripped up and left to die in the ditches.
     (especially if there are more than 32 problems)
     (32 = 2^5)
Math homework should not be taken in large quantities.
     (especially word problems)
     (that’s a different topic altogether and could make this poem 10 times longer)
Math homework is as appealing as a sock I have worn for seventy-five days straight.
     (which i have not)
Math homework is easily misinterpreted.
Math homework is easy to copy down wrong.
Math homework is tedious.
Math homework only has one right answer.
Math homework should be boycotted.
Math homework is suffering, death, and all things deemed unhealthy for children by human beings.
     (but they keep feeding it to us - pg 136 # 1 - 2, 11 - 17, 23 - 28, 33 - 34, 37 - 42,...)

The Evil Unicorn

Seriously, I swear I'm the only one who still writes legit stuff for this blog anymore. Though this wasn't specifically written for Calletrix. I'm a hypocrite. Oops.

~ ~ ~

He was a silver-bright unicorn, and he liked killing:

a) rabbits,
b) goats, and
c) other unicorns.

Obviously, not many unicorns liked him.

One day, he trotted into a purple-green clearing intoxicated by the smell of bloody strawberries, and he saw another silver unicorn trip-tropping across the other side. He neighed and said, "WHY ARE YOU IN THIS CLEARING?"

The other unicorn said, "I WANT TO EAT YOU" and charged.

The first unicorn, still smelling bloody strawberries in a distant corner of his brain, charged back, delighted at the prospect of finding another unicorn with the same thought process. This happiness only lasted for a moment, as the second unicorn had poked his horn in the other's eye almost automatically, and the first unicorn died with a happy, stupid smile on his face, thinking about the happiness they could've had together and the bloody strawberries that he had not yet finished.

The second unicorn sniffed the corpse. She moved her nose slowly down his spine and counted the strands of his tail. She stood, abruptly, and left it to the flies, and the purple-green clearing was red with blood.

It was only until the next morning that a blessing of unicorns found the dead corpse. They ignored it, and the flies had finished it by the next day.

(Unicorn flesh is soft enough to be eaten by flies.)

And if anyone remembered it after that, well, no one ever said so.

The Butter Truck

“Who’s driving that huge truck of butter and where's it going?”

The sun scorched the sky, an open flame disintegrating the moths that flew too close. That day, everything was too close. The Golden Gate Bridge shimmered a pale, hot orange in the heat.

Sweat darkened a diamond on her back as she watched the truck rumble downhill. The giant stick of butter glistened with oil, the wax wrapper shone, even the black tablespoon labels.

“I don’t know. Have another cookie.” The boy held out the bag of chocolate-chip cookies.

“But there’s a butter truck!” She looked at the road, where the giant stick of butter had left perfectly round yellow drops melted in its tracks.

“Ssh.” He put a finger to his lips and offered the cookies again.

“But-”

“Ssh. Have a cookie.”

“But-” She took a cookie. “But it’s there.”

“I know. That don’t mean we talk about it.” He waved a hand up the hill. “They don’t see it, the big guys.”

She swallowed the cookie. It tasted like wood chips, like any other school lunch. “Why not?”

“They ain’t interested in butter trucks, nuh-uh. They want money and power.” He looked up at the nonexistent clouds. “If you ask me, that’s stupid. That’s boring. Butter trucks? They gotta love butter trucks.”

She shielded her eyes, trying to see further, to catch a glimpse of the driver. But it was too far away, and the air rippled in the heat, and she couldn’t see. The butter puddles sizzled on the pavement, the scent of laughter at a long forgotten party. She shouldered her backpack, wiping off her forehead.

He stood in a puddle of the stuff, sneakers yellowed with melting butter. He didn’t look down.

“They don’t see it,” he said. “No one pays it any mind. Least of all us.”

“Where’s it going, then, if no one pays attention?” She glanced at the dirty shoes as he continued walking.

“I don’t know.” But then he looked at her, eyes wide and clear and empty as the sky, and afraid. “But don’t follow the butter truck.”

Take Charge

This is old poetry.


Take charge

The madmen have been slayed
your heart has been betrayed
but step up to the glorious game
where you can once again claim your name

The secrets haven’t been told
but for ruthless lies it could be sold
This was rightfully mine
but it can be yours for only nine

Hold your future in your hand
heartbreak is a lonely land
it’s a place where you decide to stay
change your life like child’s play

Determination, courage and strength
these will be tested to their length
we’ll hold your insights, dear
don’t be drawn in by malicious fear

One day you can stand strong
don’t be afraid to be wrong
the worst crime isn’t a mistake
it’s that your strength is seemingly fake

Take a step, even the wrong way
you’ll be back on course in a day
you need to make a move
and courage you will prove

A desert thirsts for eternity
but it’s a place of opportunity
there’s a chance to take charge
and here you are.

One step forward
is mountains of change
take charge altogether
no matter what kind of weather.

Svanalf's Norse B&B, Part One

The guests had become increasingly more eccentric at Svanalf’s B&B, formerly the hotel of gods, Scandinavian division.

Svanalf herself was still the receptionist, but she was also the host, CEO, empress of her kingdom, librarian, and janitor. She didn’t like being the janitor.

She inspected her fingernails as the door swung open. The scarlet nail polish was chipped. Bummer.

“Hello,” said the chap stepping jauntily into the hall over the sound of the storm outside. “Got any vacancies?”

He was a redhead wearing pale pink legwarmers and gloves, and he had the greenest eyes she’d ever seen, including everyone in the mob of Lokis she’d once hosted. Like fire.

Definitely a Loki, then. No doubt about it.

“One-Eye,” he said mildly to the one-eyed man beside him, “I do think Ms.-” He glanced at Svanalf’s name tag. “-Svanalf doesn’t want our company.”

“Oh!” Svanalf said. “So sorry. What’s the matter?”

“Lodgings, one night,” the man called One-Eye said.

“Mmm- Where’re you going? Six hundred krone.”

“World’s End,” One-Eye said.

“Lovely place, I hope? Nice for a vacation?”

One-Eye shrugged. He counted out a sheaf of Norwegian krone and pushed the money over the counter. Svanalf took it, slipping into the cashier.

“Well,” said the Loki, rubbing his hands together, “nice talk. See ya later.”

“No room?” Svanalf called, passing One-Eye a room card. “One-o-one,” she said more quietly to the Odin. He nodded and swept past, disappearing down the hallway.

“Nah,” the Loki said. “I’m out there.” He gestured out the window. “Berk. That’s where I’m headed. Someone just invoked my leg-warmer-ness.”

“Ah,” said Svanalf, not getting it.

“Business bad?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Some interesting people should be coming your way shortly,” he promised. And then he left into the night.

~ ~ ~

One-Eye: Odin, Runemarks (Joanne Harris)

Loki: Loki, How to Train Your Dragon (Cressida Cowell)

"By Loki's little lunatic leg-warmers"

~ ~ ~

The rest of this story is still pending since I have yet to read the whole of Sandman and therefore do not know exactly what Gaiman did with Norse mythology. Coming shortly... just like Svanalf's interesting people.

Poetry!

I'm dying.

Therefore, I will post all the poetry I have.

The Butterfly Rondel, Which I Decided To Draw/Calligraph:

The Star Rondel:
The stars are tumbling through the sky
Like precious gemstones twinkling bright.
I catch them when they leave the heights
And let them go, and let them fly.

Dust whispers up, a silent sigh,
The stardust floating, brilliant light.
The stars are tumbling through the sky
Like precious gemstones twinkling bright.

Of stardust I am made, aren’t I?
The starlight takes me home tonight.
I raise my hand; my time is tight.
The night sky says there’s no good-bye.
The stars are tumbling through the sky.

The Werewolf Sestina:

The werewolf is killed with silver

and split open and skinned in the night.
The hunter looks up from the dark, afraid, alone,
and slings his rifle across his back with unease.
He takes the fur and wipes crimson blood
on the moss in the shadows.

The branches wave softly in the shadows.
The hunter leaves the corpse felled with silver.
Seeping slowly from the dark flesh is blood,
dripping silent from slack-open jaws in the night,
and though it is fresh, it lies alone.
No life dares approach without unease.


The hunter returns to village, gone is unease,
and spreads out the fur in the morning shadows.
He sets up his stall, waiting alone
for someone to buy fur gotten with silver -
The corpse lies forgotten in everlasting night -
the fur is stained with blood.

The market opens in light like blood,
and the hunter is once more visited by unease,
remembering what happened in the night.
No one comes, the sellers wait in shadows
that cover stalls and turn them silver.
The hunter waits and is alone.

A stranger walks in, finally, alone.
The hunter sees fingernails crusted with blood
and eyes like daggers, piercing silver.
Soft murmurs, heavy with unease,
hang in the dust. The hunter sits in shadows,
and the wolf turns, silent as night.

He reaches out, and the hunter sees night.
Stalking the werewolf in woods, alone,
the trigger clicks and he falls through shadows
of roots and tree branches and blood.
Others watch the bodies, frozen with unease.
The man touches fur shining suddenly silver.

In shadows he remembers payment in blood -
dark night he alone yanked from hunter,
leaving unease asunder - and hides from silver.

The Sonnet I Used in a Bit Of Writing and Then Took Out, Because I Didn't Like It:

When summer comes the world is baking hot

Advancing winter gives the world to ice
In spring bananas grow and make brains rot
And fall? The name itself can quite suffice.
But seasons pass and still do seasons go
And slowly is the road of time's flight paved
Now I would rather blindly choose my path
Than give myself to death - I'd not be saved
Come etch for me a story out of peace,
Come etch for me a story out of blood
And in the dark may some short stories cease
But many others from the dark will flood
This tale of peace and blood that in dark ends

Begins one - me without, but with my friends.

The Sonnet I Used For The Oncay Poetry Project:
Sometimes I lie awake in bed and think
Of hope and dreams that frolick here unseen
Of monsters, demons, ghosts that in dark slink
Of magic, treasure, strange things in between
Of happiness - from what is the stuff made?
On this, I’ve thought about a recipe:
From memories do two cups childhood raid,
And quickly whisk with wonder, teaspoons three;
A dash of satisfaction with things done,
A pinch of honor with two hope drops laced.
Child’s love, a bit, for smiles and all things fun,
Now mix them well and season to your taste
So follow these instructions, more or less,

For I think this is what brings happiness.

The Pickle Sonnet, Because That's The Only One Missing:
The sonnet is a poem that conquers all
And reverence I heap upon this form
With fourteen lines in rhyme and meter's thrall
The beauties of it rise above the norm
Yet this poem's subjects always seem so grim
About the dark and shadows, peace and love
My love for sonnets teeters on the rim
And crashes after falling from above
But hark! Complaining mine is at an end
For pickles in a sonnet sound just right
The marinated stuff a hand can lend
And help me when the grim and silly fight
Thus pickles salty are my only hope
Of them I write, and maybe I can cope.

The Pineapple Sonnet, Because I Feel Like Writing a Sonnet On The Spot:

There are some things that I will truly love

So long as I can breathe and this world stays

But some things aggravate like turtle doves

And lots of countries, people, chickens raze.

But somewhere in between lies yellow fruit:

A yellow fruit that salty is indeed:

This pineapple that should be put in boots

On which to step and think about thy deeds

But pineapples do taste like sug'ry sweets

And they have vitamins and manganese

And thankfully they do not taste like beets

Or stink like ancient, disregarded cheese.

These pineapples are, all considered, cool

So get in line and please, try not to drool.

Okay, that was utterly horrible.

Valhalla

Find the nearest yearbook. Open it. Flip through the pages. Remember the things you or anyone else did that year.

Now close it. The pictures are so innocent - well, maybe not innocent. But happy, and memorable. High and low points. Memories.

You should see them when no one's looking.

They stream out of their borders, racing through hallways of empty photographs. Words ambush moving blurs of color, slippery ink staining the pages. Riots break out, photographs are torn apart.

The moment light touches the pages, they scramble back again. Take up old positions in their picture frames, whole again, grinning to each other about battles won, people killed, their own destruction. Laughing secretly. Feasting on memories, forever and ever, until eternity ends.

They die, sort of. All of them at some point. More like a destruction. You only live once, so it follows that you only die once, and they've already died.

You can laugh. I'm laughing. But remember:

At the end of the world, they will pour out of the pages and fight whomever their master wishes them to. Their master, that's you. You own them. Who you want to destroy is your choice. Whether you live or die is another matter.

They are the Einherjar, the best warriors slain in battle. They have died, been destroyed, over and over. They can kill you without a second thought.

Where do they live?

Valhalla.

Summer Time

     I remember the times at the farm. Sitting under the grape vines, licking my sweet and sticky fingers after almost eating myself sick. I would lie there, full and content, resting in the soft shade and sucking on mint leaves. The dirt was warm and fine, almost like an earthen cushion. It was summer, and that only meant freedom. When I got thirsty, I would sip some water from a freshly carved watermelon, and then leave it to the birds.

     When it was almost dusk, I would head towards the boysenberries. I'd pick handfuls and handfuls, heaping them into a fold I created in my shirt. Swatting the flies as I headed back, I felt so content in the fading rays of the sun.

I Like Pickles

The sonnet is a poem that conquers all

And reverence I heap upon this form

With fourteen lines in rhyme and meter's thrall

The beauties of it rise above the norm

Yet this poem's subjects always seem so grim

About the dark and shadows, peace and love

My love for sonnets teeters on the rim

And crashes after falling from above

But hark! Complaining mine is at an end

For pickles in a sonnet sound just right

The marinated stuff a hand can lend

And help me when the grim and silly fight

Thus pickles salty are my only hope

Of them I write, and maybe I can cope.

Nothing lasts forever; all things end. This applies to Nothing as well: of course there was a Nothing before our Something, and someday our Something will go back to Nothing.

In the Nothing before Something, there was something, despite the strict laws of Nothing that state there must be nothing even though rules are something. Nothing was complicated back then.

There was a word, and it was hope.

In reality, the word was pickles, but because no one seems to understand that pickles are indeed hope, they changed it to hope when they wrote the story of the universe. Remember, though, that pickles mean hope, and where pickles are, there is hope also. 

And because Nothing has rules that supposedly mean nothing and are nonexistent, the pickle was given life.

I am alone in the universe, the pickle yelled, minuscule in the silence and nothingness of Nothing. It was a mere speck of dust. But again, because we will never know or understand the rules of Nothing, it existed in a place where Nothing and nothing existed, and it survived, marinating in the absence of objects alone.

I am alone in the universe.

Nothing blew up.

Lies

What are lies? Are they really the opposite of truth? Or are they just distorted information that is not divulged properly? Can we rid ourselves of this furtive evil? Or do they just naturally reside within us? But the real question is whether they are heroes or villains, because, as the common saying goes, "ignorance is bliss."

Unicorn and Dragon Egg Mushroom Omelette

Ingredients:

7 ounces unicorn flank, diced

1 dragon egg, large

4 mushrooms of choice, large and diced

½ tablespoon toadstool extract

1 cup werewolf blood

2 ground phoenix feathers (for spice, optional)

1. Break the egg in a large bowl and whisk until completely combined.

2. Fry the diced unicorn over high heat.

3. Add the werewolf blood, toadstool extract, and phoenix feathers (if desired, to taste). Stir for sixteen seconds exactly, turn the heat down to medium, and cover for thirty-nine seconds exactly.

4. Fry the diced mushrooms with the unicorn flank for another thiry-nine seconds exactly.

5. Pour the egg into a different, small frying pan. Tilt the pan so that the egg covers the flat part of the pan entirely and cook for sixty-one seconds or until the bottom is set and the edges are golden-brown.

6. Add the unicorn and mushrooms down the center. Take extra precaution if using phoenix feathers as the mixture is likely to explode.

7. Fold the outer thirds of the egg into the center, or fold the egg in half.

8. Turn fire off, let sit for sixteen seconds exactly, and serve promptly.



Serves one person, twelve fairies, or one troll. If serving troll, the one who presents the food may be eaten.



Caution: Angry mother dragon may attack at any time during cooking or consumption. Phoenix feathers may explode at any time during cooking or consumption. Unicorn may or may not be friendly. Toadstool extract may be deadly. Werewolf will definitely be deadly. Regardless of whether mushrooms are poisonous, the consumer will die. If against all odds, eating is acheived without death of victim(s)- I mean, consumer(s), he, she, or they will promptly turn into a zombie. Effects do not affect fairies, elves, and dwarves. The author does not take responsibility for any injuries, deaths, damage, and/or expellees that have completed (or not) this recipe.

June

AH.
This isn't late.

June is the season of curls and frays,
The start of the summer where children are free.
June is the season of relaxing beach days,
where bodies and minds can finally be.

However
June is the season of SATs,
where students study and die.
They write about honors and APs
And hope for the best with a sigh.

Wanderers

A wanderer- held down by nothing. The outcasts of society. Or are they?

A wanderer's thoughts:

   A lonely wanderer doesn't wish to continue on his journey. He wants to become connected, create bonds, and settle down. However, no matter how much he tries, something odd always happens. When he feels close, almost all the way to a calm state, he ends up floating on. It's not him who wishes to be a wanderer. The others around him push him away, and he flies in the wind, rejected by those who he thought were the closest, He doesn't always understand their thoughts. But, alas, his greatest wish will never be fulfilled. He is cursed, as he was borne to die alone.
  And that is the life of a wanderer.


Years will go by
and time will fly
yes, he will try
but alone he shall die.

A wanderer's habits:

   Sometimes words are wasted. However, no matter what, they almost always reach the wanderer. He strains for more, listening to the hidden depth that may live in them. Most of the time, there is none. Others don't understand why the wanderer seems to be reclusive at first. It's because he's listening to others. Who would be a good friend? Who would be able to stay with him? But when he realizes that someone is his friend, he clings like no tomorrow. He clutches onto this temporary relief, seeming to never let go. When conversation is engaged, he still prowls around in the silence, ready to pounce on and slight change of tone or word choice. The wanderer is constantly afraid of being betrayed, and so he listens for malice, regret, reproach, anger, and belittlement. The wanderer most always feels that his companion is talking about him when they complain, He asks if it is about him, but never receives a yes. However, he is certainly never satisfied with this answer and always swears that it is an innuendo. But is that always true?

Words for a wanderer:

   He yearns for an anchor. Something to ground himself in the world around him. There seems to be nothing. As soon as the rope is tied on the anchor, it is dropped into the ocean, not yet fastened to the ship. He swears each time that it isn't his fault. Every time he thinks that others are just not compatible. They want adventure, a move on. He continues on his lonely seas, waiting for someone to rescue him.
   However, he doesn't notice one single thing. Every person should have at least one friend, that friend starting with themself. With continuous blows to his self-confidence, and most importantly, his pride, he feels like an empty cask, a shell that needs to be filled with something else. He has no character, integrity, or independence, He rambles to fill his empty void. But, for opposites to attract, one must be positive or negative, not neutral. Not mindlessly agreeing without any other thought or ideas. The wanderer realizes this and makes a move on, one more time, but instead to follow a path where he can build himself into a notable individual.
   There will always be bumps in the road, obstacles, and divergences. The confusion that will present you will never leave. However, without being a person yourself, you will eventually become like a wanderer yourself. They follow down the road no matter what, but have no goal in mind.
   Do you act differently with your friends, family, and strangers? Different at school and at home? It's almost like a disease, a form of schizophrenia because you do not know what do be. Instead of acting, putting on that outer shell to please others, take it off and show what you really are. Those who leave will not be a real anchor. They'll be unreliable, cracked and damaged. Find one person who you can trust wholeheartedly, and that person will save you, even in your stormiest days at sea.

-Words from a wanderer to another

The Hotel Of Gods

The receptionist at the hotel of gods, Scandinavian branch, was called Svanalf. She had thick, horn-rimmed glasses framed in crimson, red-dyed hair, a red dress, and sanguine lipstick. And she was bored.

The group of gods came in, carrying their old gray suitcases and blue suitcases and duct-taped suitcases and eagle.

“Hello,” Svanalf said, dropping her fingers to a keyboard. “Reservation?”

The guy at the front of the queue shook his head. He had a pointy gray hat and long gray beard and gray robes. And he had a staff.

Svanalf sighed. “How many?”

He did a quick head count. “Seven.”

“One for the eagle, too?” Svanalf arched a brow.

The eagle fixed its yellow, one-eyed gaze on her, and she hurriedly booked the rooms. “For whom?” she asked.

“Odin, Odin, Woden, Woden, Wednesday, Wedding, and Gandalf.”

“Gandalf isn’t a god,” Svanalf said. Her brow went up again.

Gandalf pounded his staff on the ground. “I’m the tour guide. Book the rooms. Three days.”

She lowered her gaze to the computer screen. “Rooms 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107.” Picking up a stack of cards, she slid them over the counter. “Room cards. Four hundred twenty krone, pay by cash, check, or credit cards. No unconventional forms of payment accepted, including blood sacrifice.”

The eagle deposited a dead mouse on her desk. Gandalf briefly had a conversation with the other Odins and, after a fair amount of scuffling, dropped a wad of bills on the counter.

Svanalf counted, slipped the bills into a drawer, and handed Gandalf the change. “No stealing, fighting, cannibalism, or unnecessary destruction. Checkout at eleven in the morning, Norwegian time. Breakfast will be provided in the lobby from seven in the morning to ten in the morning, Norwegian time.” She rapped the desk. “Your rooms are down the hall. Have a nice stay.”

They left, a group of ragged shadows.

The eagle remained on the counter, talons scraping the granite.

“What is it?” Svanalf asked.

It opened its wings and soared up and through the ceiling.

~ ~ ~
Svanalf drummed her fingers on the desk, absently eavesdropping on the group in the lobby. They were a traveling troupe, performing nearby, which was probably why they’d booked the rooms here, and they were practicing. Handsprings, backflips, cartwheels, human pyramids.

A man with black hair and a green cape and gold armor sat on an armchair nearby, watching, one hand reaching across his chin. A horned, golden helmet rested at his feet.

A fox slunk over the counter.

“Hi,” Svanalf said.

“Hi.” The fox sat, curled up, and started licking its fur. It had a strong Norwegian accent.

“That’s very impressive, isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen better,” said the fox in between licks of its fur. “When I was a human, I could pretty much anything I liked-”

“Stop it,” the eagle screeched, swooping down on it and fixing it with its fierce yellow one-eyed gaze.

The fox glared back. “I was simply correcting an incorrect statement. Never let it be said that Loki the Skywalker was not impressive.”

“I didn’t say that,” said Svanalf with a sigh. Gods inevitably got into arguments.

The eagle glared and left through the ceiling.

“How does he even do that?” Svanalf asked.

The fox shrugged. “He’s Odin. Pretty much does what he likes.” It licked its fur again, tail flicking. “Man of few words. It’s a bit annoying.”

“Ah,” said Svanalf. “Well. There are worse persons.”

“Yes.” The fox flicked its tail at the man in the armchair. “That’s the other Loki. Loki Laufeyson. Ugh. The grammar. Anyway, HE’s probably worse. Been in therapy for trying to take over Earth. Honestly, why would anyone want to take over Earth? There’s Asgard, Vanaheim, Svartalfheim, Alfheim-”

“Oh,” Svanalf said.

“And Freya! You could get her, but no! She doesn’t exist to him!”

~ ~ ~
Eight o’clock in the morning. Breakfast was commencing.

Svanalf already had eaten, naturally. She had a mostly normal diet and had no intention of eating while the gods discovered breakfast meats. Laufeyson, for example, had just discovered them the day before and was piling his plate with turkey sausage and bacon. Also, especially in the Scandinavian division, conversation was capable of destroying appetites.

(Svanalf hated bacon.)

The extremely muscular redhead shouldered through the tables, balancing a multitude of plates heaped with roasted chicken (Svanalf had a very bad feeling about where it was from) and sat down next to one of the Lokis (she wasn’t sure which one).

“Hi,” he said.

The Loki sighed. (Svanalf thought they weren't from matching stories. The Thor was actually a Donner, she remembered. Germanic, not Norse, and the Loki wore leg warmers.) “Hi,” he said back. That was pretty much the entire conversation. Thor ate the chicken (Svanalf realized, with a sinking feeling, that she’d forgotten to check on her chickens), stood, and left. The Loki followed.

Another Thor came in, hefting an axe-like hammer, fair-haired and grinning. He sat down next to a boy called Luke, who immediately turned and started discussing quantum physics.

The room slowly filled with Odins, Lokis, Thors, and a few others: Freys, Freyas, Friggs, a Skadi, a Ullr, a few Heimdalls, a few Baldurs, a few Tyrs.

Then a very blond, very tall, somewhat muscular, wing-helmeted guy walked into the room, and the room fell silent.

Laufeyson stood, slowly, still chewing a slice of bacon.

“Was this a bad time?” the Thor asked. He had an Australian accent.

“No,” Laufeyson said, reaching out a hand and plucking a scepter from thin air. “In fact, there is no better time.” He swallowed very visibly. Svanalf hoped that he wouldn’t choke on the food.

“Oh,” said Thor, putting a hand out. A hammer flew into it, a parallelepiped of metal. (Math terms! Yay!)

“No unnecessary violence,” Svanalf called. The two ignored her, and Laufeyson rushed at Thor, scepter raised. The mass of people cleared away a circle, forming the ring for their fight.

Gandalf strode into the room, staff raised, and pointed it at the two fighters, shouting a spell. Light flashed, blue fire erupted, they continued fighting.

Another Thor strode into the room, wearing only a pair of undies. Svanalf frowned at him.

Using íslenskt táknamál, Icelandic sign language, he motioned that no one ever imagined him with a shirt on, then fingerspelled a few choice words. Svanalf sighed and fingerspelled Sorry. (Her sign language was rusty.) The Thor shrugged and left.

A bear bounded into the room, sniffed, and attacked the breakfast buffet, officially ending breakfast as the eagle watched it from the chandelier, screeching in protest. The fox, sitting under the eagle with tail swept over paws, looked at Svanalf and grinned foxily.

“How amusing,” it said.

~ ~ ~
For reference:

Odins:
Eagle, a.k.a. Odin 1: Odd and the Frost Giants, Neil Gaiman
Odin 2: Marvel
Woden 1: How to Train Your Dragon, Cressida Cowell
Woden 2: Der Ring des Nibelung, Wagner (It's a German opera)
Wednesday: American Gods, Neil Gaiman
Wedding: Eight Days of Luke, Diana Wynne Jones

Gandalf: The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, J. R. R. Tolkien

Lokis:
Fox: Odd and the Frost Giants, Neil Gaiman
Loki Laufeyson: Marvel
Loki with leg warmers: How to Train Your Dragon, Cressida Cowell
Luke: Eight Days of Luke, Diana Wynne Jones

Thors:
Bear: Odd and the Frost Giants, Neil Gaiman
Aussie Thor: Marvel

Undie-wearing Thor: How to Train Your Dragon, Cressida Cowell

Donner: Der Ring des Nibelung, Wagner

Fair-haired Thor: Eight Days of Luke, Diana Wynne Jones

Dreams

If I wrote all my dreams on this blog, you guys would die. You seriously wouldn't believe the number of nightmares I have on a regular basis. Some aren't as bad, but others scare me to death.
However, most of them are good writing pieces. Eyes and A Boat, a Man, and a Laugh are both FRAGMENTS of some dreams I've had. Sometimes I think that since I've had these so many times, they're not that scary anymore. My nightmares are good, because they're always bizarre. And sometimes I get to fly in my dreams, which is the one thing I really look forward to.

I dreamt of chewing dead fish bodies as gum last night.

Sweet dreams.

Eyes

     The lady cackles gently. I sit next to her, horrified by her work. My eyes are still glued to it, however, no matter what I try to do. The gaze that it returns just pulls me back, drawing me in like prey.

     She handles a multitude of eyes with irises of rich green and red colors. They all writhe, their pupils darting back and forth as she palms them. The old lady sets them into some sort of arrangement in the wall. They are all different sizes, shades of colors, and more. Some are even hairy with antennae-like bristles out of the sclera. She whispers to herself, placing them around, arranging a horrific display of spine-chilling stares. A small red one focuses on me, not breaking the gaze. I'm unable to turn away. The old lady turns to me, notices my fear.

       "Do you like this, dear?" A sinister grin creeps onto her face. "Don't worry."

       "You'll join them soon." 

Eheheh

The Book of the Month is updated!

Something Long Gone by Charlotte :D

She scraped into the subway, the clanking train tracks making her feet and forehead feel little bumps. Her blurry reflection stared back at her from the glass, and there was a distant memory of her mother scolding her, that no, that was strange posturing, and that she would fog up the glass and sully it.

Unconsciously, her legs began to swing by themselves, and she forced the growing sprouts inside of her to stop making her feel queasy, tightening the fabric of her cardigan.

What would they say to each other? How would she look? Biting her lip, she leaned her head away from the window and turned away, knees bumping sharply.

It had been far too long.

Part of it was her fault, and part of it wasn’t. Her sneaker-covered toes scraped against the rough floor, and she swayed along to the periodic screeching of the train car, people shuffling in and out past her.

She blinked twice, hard, and tried to remember her profile from the last time they had met. Only straying golden locks and frail hands called to her concentration, and she puffed out a disappointed sigh. That wasn’t going to exactly help her much, was it? She vaguely recalled one of the miscellaneous e-mails exchanged, pertaining to hair-dye and getting a boyfriend. Maybe they were engaged now. She had never asked again, and it had never come up after that.

The subway announced her stop, number seventeen, and she jolted upright, eyes meeting with that of a businessman looming above her, suitcase rocking as they trundled along.

“S’cuse me,” She forced out, quickly averting her eyes to his shining leather shoes. Swerving through the mass of bodies and avoiding too much bodily contact, she ended up stumbling out of the compacted doors, breathing a little too quickly for her liking.

Overhead, the sky was dotted with grey puffs, and she narrowed her eyes to see the clock hanging against the wall, too far to exactly tell her the time. Maybe she was too early.

She shoved out of the station, wiping her hands against her jeans, and clanked down the avenue to the source of her anxiety.

‘The Pizza Parlor down by the river is nice, I hear.’

She could hear the faint echo of her voice in her head, and remembered how she had smiled at the fact that she still had a sweet lilt in her voice, distinguishable even over the poor quality of phone static.

Reaching the established meeting place, she crowded into the wayward little shop shoved between two others by the harbor, and inhaled the welcoming fragrance appreciatively. There was a rickety table in the corner, just overlooking the water flowing below, and she headed for it,seating herself comfortably into the little cramped chair by the wall and ordering an iced tea.

It was all horribly domestic, and she fidgeted on the old hardwood seat, wondering why it was that her tastes in restaurants had been wonderfully met. This was all flowing together in a manner entirely too easy, and she willed herself not to relax just yet.

Maybe she’ll end up being caught up in some other affair, and will cancel. She nervously looked through the glass, and crushed the burgeoning hope in her chest. A catalyst of dread and excitement was bouncing around inside, and she couldn’t help but lean her head against the cold surface again, similar to how she had been positioned on the way here.

The storm clouds ahead kept moving past, and she absently chewed the inside of her cheek, thinking about how she should’ve brought a hat. Was this an omen?

The waiter returned with her iced tea and a menu, and she brought out her glasses, wrinkling her nose as she looked at the menu in an attempt to push them up without actually moving her hands from the laminated paper.

Maybe the thoughts of food were helping to keep her sane, but this waiting game was making her twist the menu’s corners, her eyes flitting a little too fast over the choices listed in graceful font in a desperate attempt to stop her thoughts from flitting elsewhere.

It didn’t work, not by a long shot.

Groaning in frustration, her forehead clacked onto the old, scratched table, and her eyes closed, not noticing the jangle of bells as someone entered and found her slumped in the corner.

“What are you doing?” The amused shadow hovered over her, blocking out the cozy lighting previously shining on her from the overhead lamp.

She jolted up, her glasses falling off and colliding with the table surface.

She looked different, yet the same.

Her golden curls only framed one side of her face, the other half pulled back into a casual bun at the back. The ends of her messenger bag were frayed, and her blue eyes soft, yet with a clarity that washed over her. Biting her lip sheepishly, she sat up.

“Hi.”

“Emalie.” She grinned down at her.

“Kay.” She breathed out.

Maybe they had lost their connection, but they sure could try to get it back.

Bane

Bane

In the woods

a small bird there lies

with a small touch of evil

away it flies

unknowing of itself

danger of its hold

it chases after the bird

movements bold

grasping it in its hand

the bird then sighs

to the creatures dismay

it withers and dies

wanting beauty once more

he sets out again

seeking another bird

these are men.

Germans in General

Germans.

More specifically, German.

A most annoying language. Did you know that, like Old Norse/Icelandic, it has four cases? Nominative/accusative/dative/genitive? And noun conjugation? And noun gender? And verb conjugation? And adjective conjugation based on noun gender? And this wunderlich method of saying numbers which really isn’t that bad but will still be ranted about?

Honestly. Es ist zweiundzwanzig vor twölf. I think. ("It’s twenty-two to twelve," or "it’s eleven thirty-eight.")

And then there are the compound nouns. Like siebentausendzweihundertvierundfünfzig. Seven thousand two hundred four and fifty. Or - I looked this one up - rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsaufgabenübertragungsgesetz. The law for the delegation of monitoring beef labeling. I can’t pronounce it. Sixty-three letters!

And, also, fahrt. It means journey or he/she/it drives. If I was to say, “he drives to the supermarket,” that would be “Er fahrt am Supermarkt,” assuming that I remembered all the grammar right. I can’t say this with a straight face.

Argh. Ich spreche nicht Deutsch gut, weil ich nicht wie kenne.

May

May flowers in the air
spring breezes through your hair
joyousness we should share
because the weather's just so fair.

Shivers

I sat there, anticipation clouding my thoughts. My fingers drummed on the desk, my other hand digging into my cheek.

"No! Move that there! The ping-pong ball goes in the jug first." Her voice is shaky, unsteady. The robot that the other girl is controlling jolts backwards and then shoots forwards, running over the scattered pennies within the wooden box.

"Steadily gather the ball," she mutters, and the other one fiddles with the remote just so that it scoops up the ping-pong ball and unsteadily dumps it into the milk jug.

"SCIENCE!" They yell in unison, sweat dripping from their brow. They straighten their backs, standing up.

The event supervisor eyes them curiously, confused, and walks back to the stand where he makes some calculations.

"Two hundred and fifty three points. Good job, girls."

~What kind of ending is this~

Books

Books

by Christine Cheng

She laughs. The sound echoes throughout the huge chamber, eerily bouncing off the walls countless times and echoing back to me. She’s going crazy, and I am too. With endless water but no food, we’re trapped inside this hold, locked in forever. Or so it feels like.

According to our jailers, inside this library there is a key. On the very top of the building there is this deadbolt that is one foot thick, chained shut with a giant lock. The locked glass is too high to reach, even with the spiral stone staircase that stretches top to bottom. A fall will simply kill you.

He throws on the top stair of the deep, dark dungeon. A note flutters down the emptiness of the chasm.

“Trash. Those who’ll sacrifice others should rot and die.”

She breathes hard, exhaling deep, long regret.

“We’ll never get out.” Her voice is hollow.

“Don’t say that,” I murmur back. I finger slowly through the books, dusting off the spines so that I could read the titles. Failures of War, Still Alone, Memoirs of Tony Ross, Parenting 101. None of them seem right. I take them all out, quickly examine the insides. Nothing.

I throw the books down below. After five minutes, a dull thud is heard, but by then I’ve already moved on.

She picks apart the books below.

“This is the thousandth book,” I rasp, tired and exhausted. My eyes are going to close and the hunger bashes my stomach. How to Persevere is its title. How ironic. There’s no reply down below.

I slump down on the stairs. The stone is slick and cool, despite the warm rays beating us from above. I’m done looking for a key, robotically picking through these books one by one. I crack open the dusty book and start to digest the prose.

I slowly read the introduction. It’s not much information, but it’s interesting after examining titles.

“Keep on going, for you’re not at the end yet. You’re never at the end, unless you’ve finished,” I breathe, trying to focus. The words are blurry and I can’t concentrate well. “I have a spine and a front and a back, but a face is what I lack. My 100’s are your clue, only until 2,000 is what’s due.”

The words are on paper pasted onto the book. I rip it off, stuff it in my pocket.

“Look!” I slide down the handle of the staircase, my feet facing in. It’s a steep fall, and my hands tingle nervously. The wind ruffles my hair and I smell the musky scent of this giant place. The mix of books, old and new, rush past my face. I stop at the end, double over and gasp.

She slowly lifts her head. Her hair is tangled, her eyes still closed.

“A book.”

“What?”

“The answer is a book,” she sighs. Turning away, she shuffles through the giant mess of piled papers and books. Her job was to tear apart each book page by page. “A book has a spine, front and back, but no face.”

I sip water from the well at the bottom, trying to stave off the gnawing pain.

She continues feeling around, not even bothering to open her eyes. “100’s are your clue. Every hundredth book should have part of the key.”

“How did you know to keep each book?”

She licks her lips. “I had a hunch.”

The everlasting fire crackles, keeping us warm. She throws masses and masses of papers and covers into the fire, causing it to flare up.

“Go back up and collect the next hundreds of books starting after the book you left up there,” she orders.

I scramble up the stairs, breathless and exhausted. My knees ache, my head feels light, and my legs burn ferociously. I still claw my way up, step after step after step. My lungs heave, and everything is hot, but I still climb. Step after step after step.

I hear rhythmic tearing down below- she’s started on the old titles. I finally reach How to Persevere once again, and pick it up. I sit with my back to the empty, dusty shelves, gasping to catch my breath. I clutch the book in my hands, hugging it to my chest. I sigh when I finally manage to calm my heartbeat and stand up.

I dash through the stairs once again, tracing my finger and pulling out every one hundredth book. No more slow, arduous lugging of choice books- just quick pulls out of the shelf.

The Journey to the End. The Finish of Beginnings. Only Time Will Tell. The Soul, Mind, Body. One Step at a Time. Youth. Determination is the Key. Why Some Succeed and Others Don’t.

I cough, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. It’s spattered with blood. Suddenly, everything is hazy. I slump down, exhausted. Fumbling around for the books, I throw what I can down.

I hear one giant thud.

For a full ten minutes, I’m paralyzed. My body convulses, but there is no control over them. When I finally can move once more, I realize two things. For one, I am just where I extracted the last book, yet I could see the last book- it was a pristine white color with a bloodred inking of the title on the spine. The other thing was that I still had the first book- How to Persevere, in my hands. Too exhausted to get up, I once more open up the book, this time right in the middle.

“Set a goal.”

I want to reach the last book.

“Create steps how to get there.”

Clamber up somehow. Crawl if I need to.

“Create a backup plan.”

Send a note to her down there.

“Execute.”

Only thing left to do.

I flip to the title page in the book, turning it to make the blank page that’s behind the cover to face me. I take my incisors and bite the meat of my finger until I taste blood. I write the name of the last book on this book in red.

The Key.

I drop my book down. Then I face the task ahead of me. I set my hands on the slender poles that connect the handle of the staircase to the stairs and pull myself up. My muscles spasm, but I manage to stand up. I try to run, but stumble, as the stairs seem to want me to stop everything and fail.

I slowly set one forearm in front of the other, army-crawling my way up. I finally reach the book and set two fingers in the hold created by the spine and pull it forcefully enough so that it falls down below.

“The Key,” her voice whispers. “The Key.”

A final thud hits the floor.

My ragged breath burns my throat, but once again I force myself to slide down the handle. When I reach the bottom, I collapse. My face hits the cool floor, exhausted.

She pours cool water on my hands. “I need these.”

I struggle, gather myself up. She points at the remaining books- none of the pages are in sight. Only the spine, front and back are left. Then, from her hands, she reveals tattered and faded pieces of paper.

Half a chocolate, french and sweet, yet I’m not good to eat.

“Bon bon,” she answers.

Other side, is not where water’s been, for almost any liquid is a sin.

“Fire,” I groan.

“Bonfire,” we mutter together.

“I’ve found this in the thousandth book.” She holds up a box with a tiny key on top, so tiny that it has no hope of being the match for the giant lock in the top. She turns around the box, revealing it to be a small batch of matches. Her hand quivers slightly. “After feeling around, the pool for the water has a lock in it. There’s a giant hidden panel inside.”

“Did you unlock it yet?” I state.

“Not yet.”

“It’s obvious! We just use the fire and start a giant bonfire. We hide in this panel, or maybe douse the fire in the fireplace and take shelter there! Then all the shelves will burn down and we’ll have found the key!”

She shakes her head in disappointment. “We’ll have to sift through all the ashes. It’ll take even longer.”

She plants her hand on a block of metal. “This is the real key to the way out. I’m pretty sure this is a super magnet.”

I look at the piece, feel its smooth surface. It’s definitely the source of the loud noise I heard after throwing down books. I was in a haze and couldn’t notice anything else that was going on, much less the weight of the books.

“Let’s go.”

“Wait.” She gives me a sheet of paper with her other hand. “We can’t. Read this.”

I’ll go, solid then gone

In the liquid I’ll belong.

“We can’t put it in water,” I state, surprised. “Does that matter?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I can’t go.”

“Why?”

She points at the small brass-colored bracelet wreathing her wrist.

I remember.

“Hey, you! Hold STILL!” He snaps on a ring-like piece of metal on her hand and welds it together with a blowtorch fire.

He ignores her screams as her flesh burns and singes from contact with the red-hot metal.

“I’ll be stuck here.”

“No.” I state, firmly and strongly.

But she tackles me with her shoulder, pushing me into the pool. With careful maneuvering, she guides me into the small gate within. The pool actually has a deep chamber, then a shallower second place with air. The glass is hazy from the top, but inside I can see her slight figure. I’m feeble and useless, unable to fight back.  

“Sorry.” Her eyes seem wet, cold, sad. “But only one of us could live from the beginning.”

He throws on the top stair of the deep, dark dungeon. A note flutters down the emptiness of the chasm.

“Trash. Those who’ll sacrifice others should rot and die.”

My throat convulses, retches more blood. My lungs are heaving and heaving but no relief seems to come. I stare at her back, small and overcome.

She sits above, shoulders slumped. A sign of complete defeat.

I hear it before I see it. The sandy scratch of a match head striking the rough, flat surface. The hiss of fire coming to life.

Then the puff of something coming alight. The crackling, then the roar of material being engulfed.

I see her, shadowed by the flickering flames licking the books.

“... Those who’ll sacrifice others should rot and die.”

“... sacrifice others should rot and die.”

“... rot and die.”

“Trash…”

I gather my breath, one tight compact balloon in my throat. My eyes stinging, my nose raw, I push through the big pool, let go of my enclosed air.

“No. Don’t. You can’t let it go to waste,” she mutters when seeing me. Her eyes are ablaze, reflecting the flickering flames behind. Tears thunder down, her eyes open and her arms hugging her knees. Her eyes dart from me to the flames, again and again.

“Don’t. It’ll be for nothing.  Go back. You have to save yourself.”

“You can’t be the sacrifice,” I mutter.

“I can.”

“Those who’ll sacrifice others should rot and die,” I preach.

Suddenly something clicks- her eyes betray her emotions she wants to hide. She’s stuck in fear, frozen in possibility. I simply lock onto her wrist and plunge in the water, drag her under.

The world is wet and cold, yet dry and hot at the same time. There’s peace and calm, yet pain and recklessness. There is no equilibrium- however, it seems like there should be. Don’t be fooled- not everything is what they say it is.

I choke, swallowing water in the deep depths.

She grabs onto the edge of the pool surface, choking. She shakes her hair from side to side, slowly, gently. I grab myself up as well, facing her.

The magnet is gone, as well as her hand. Burned onto her wrist is a scar that says set free.

Then she cries.

I hold her hand tight.

Then the glass finally opens.