Shy Beacon

come out, come out, wherever you are.

This will be a bad post.

I remember the first time I willingly slept late. I had a tab in my hand and was reading Glee fanfiction – the writer having a great way with words and owning the word “crescendo” in her URL. I knew I kept glancing back at the clock, as the litany of tick and tock was a soft mantra beneath all the words spiraling into my head. The words glared at my face and glowed like the stars – okay, maybe I’m terribly exaggerating, but I like making exaggerations; I’m all about exaggerations.

These days, my world is a maelstrom of noisy flip-flops against the tiles, literature, and thinking way too much. Like right now I’m flipping through my life’s further chapters – and although I’m not really paying attention to the words that pass by, I can feel a crazy quilt of emotions flying away and, unfortunately, tethering themselves onto me.

Before I get all theatrical and stuff, since writing to me is what singing is to the fictional Rachel Berry, I’m telling you that I just really need to vent out because I’m being misanthropic and destructive today – like almost everyday. Okay.

If I would ever be able to be a bird, I’d fly away from here and to another world. I wouldn’t really bring anything – because my wings would be assiduous in flight, of course – but I’d spend some time alone with my books and treasured belongings. After that, I’d flap my wings and journey through the air and sing. I’d sing like all those birds do outside, but my songs would be human curses at first. Yet they’ll translate to melodious music of another language, and they would glide along with me as I chirp my way to paradise.

If I would ever be able to evolve into a dragon, I’d spew red and yellow across the lands and shove glaring honeyed dragon eyes upon my victims of hypocrites and liars. I’d spread my wings and roar within the thunder – lightning will beat my back like bang bang bang and I’ll skate through the clouds with my tail peeking out. I’d hit the viridian seas with fire, and it would make a sound of harmony that would lull the innocents to sleep.

If I would get the chance to be the rain, I’d drip down on castles and junkyards. I’d pour down on many heads again and again – it will be a tumultuous drive of mantra over mantra as I beat umbrellas and raincoats. I’d transform into a livid storm that chases around for victims of poor souls. I’d scream with my victims. I’d scream like I haven’t before.

I’d kill, but I’d rather die.

Tiptoe Tiptoe

“You look so cute sitting in your boat.”

This, my lovely reader, is being written with me on my belly. I’m messing with my eyelids in the dark at two-fortysomething in the morning and I can’t sleep because I had tragically used my body clock as a plaything; I am the girl with the red bowtie you’ll see at the nearest playground. My pillow reminds me of vampires and one nightmare I had years ago – one I couldn’t forget.

It was a dream painted in black and white, a melancholic one, a fearsome one in color and silence. I don’t really remember anything besides what qualified it as a nightmare; it was an episode of two characters who surprisingly were Mickey and Minnie Mouse. Twisted it was, horrifying and quiet and eerie, when Mickey produced a gun out of nowhere (Oh where did you get that, dude?) and shot his beloved darling spontaneously. I really can’t fathom the whole thing. And I also don’t understand why I’m writing this down. It didn’t really horrify me, honestly; I was insouciant about it to be honest. I don’t know if Mickey Mouse would do that if he wasn’t created kid-friendly. It was melodramatic in a way that made itself screw onto my head and bid to probably never depart. Eh, perhaps I just watched too much Disney that time. It was also, possibly, an omen to my newfound admiration for fictitious violence and gore. Yay!

Now I’m on my butt with my legs tangled in a lotus, half of my body ensconced in a blanket, thinking of maybe continuing reading that pending (but not inveterately abandoned) John Green book which is currently placed amidst other books and a laptop in the darkness of the other room. Here are some facts most people don’t know (that are related to me, ehehehehehhhe): A. I sleep with my headphones squeezed in between two pillows – one pillow being the comfy nest of hobo/hermit head. B. There is a dreamcatcher pinioned to the ceiling in one corner of the bedroom. (Psst, it hasn’t been helping, really.) C. I am an Instragram freak, xoxo. You can erase Instagram from the whole sentence too and it would still be true.

I should try to sleep now. Good night/morning/afternoon, darling; I bid you adventure some night.

The Hanging Tree

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games trilogy.

Warning/s: Major character death.

Rating: PG-13/T

Author's Note: Short. Inspired by one fan made song on youtube, which was

unfortunately brought down.

                         This was written last March 3. This was a pain in the neck to

format on here and I don't know why, help.

                         

For mommy, because she wanted to read. So sorry this whole thing isn't a 

happy, happy drabble.

--

It's cold outside but I don't step backward. I breathe out and my words kiss

the frozen air. It is seconds before midnight. Seconds before midnight.

I walk, my boots drawing patterns on the wet ground. I walk tall, yet I am

drowning. I walk tall because I know this will be okay. That I will still be with 

him.

But I don't know. All I know is that he must still be here. He must be there,

waiting for me too. He must be there with his assuring eyes and hands, 

offering his hand for me to take. He must be there so I could leave with him 

at the same time.

But he's not there.

I know it. Because when I see our tree, there is no boy with the bread. There is

no baker. There is no man who owns my heart. Not in this world. Not while I 

have my feet on the ground. I can feel my face crumpling, my knees wobbling, 

my head spinning. But I refrain from breaking down now. I can do that while I 

amnot on my feet anymore.

The rope in my hand pulls me forward, nearer the trunk. I see the branches,

strong and outstretched, as if also searching and longing for its lover to 

come back.

Please come back.

I realize I am not as brave as he was, but I need to be. I need to be courageous

so that I could be free. So that I can finally, truly fly. Finally be with him again.

So when I plant myself suspended in the air, dangling from a rope of death, I

try to die happy. Because Katniss Everdeen is meeting Peeta Mellark again.

Ice Warrior

She is heading for the east, on instinct with a few memorized prayers in mind and a bittersweet lullaby. Soft lips linger on her hands, where blood is written over.

The vociferous susurration of the wind against her hair, against her ears drummed down into her – a poisonous feeling of not knowing where she is and knowing she should be recoiling with guilt.

But she still stomps over the ruins, over the ash, as she blanches and wills herself she isn’t going to faint. Her pulse rhymes with the wind, and the hush of the drag of her sword impales down on her like the world to Atlas. Yet it also encourages her to be who she is – a warrior of all things. Mayhaps the only female one at the time. It’s a horrendous thought but she will have to fight with it clouded in front of her eyes.

She lives vicariously through the gods.

The cold is like acid sinking into her bones. She looks for litanies to spew, but none come. She can feel the Winter, the Ice Spirit, pass through the trees; the spirit used to be accompanied by tasty rumors – the wildest one drawing the lads closer. Winter is a woman, they say – a mortal once, a writer had quipped. It began as a fantasy, but more and more people of all ages started to ride by and share what they had witnessed.

She is beautiful, they said. She is to be feared, some said.

The female warrior’s name is unknown. But she is known to strangers as Li – the dark, dauntless girl who is very acquainted with the evening stars. The willowy female warrior to be banished at the age of seventeen.

Li’s spine is caked with shivers and they run through her in a queue.

Winter’s breath is deadly, minty, lovely. She dances poignantly.

Li has her sword poised over her shoulder.

Winter washes over her and encompasses her in rest. But she doesn’t rest, she trudges.