Reign Julia

Prettiest baby ever.

Lovely reader, if you don't revel in a baby's laugh I don't understand why not.

Coffee Sunday

On a cool afternoon, I died curled in a midnight blue cardigan – the patches of cartoonish stars splayed across my chest and belly, pulling the piece of clothing tight around me that I could almost feel myself suffocate against the missing buttons. I was ensconced in a rocking chair as I swung my feet playfully under me, making sure I didn’t kick my cat (because I did love that stupid slyboots). The floorboards creaked as I peeked through the slivers of the curtains and out at the neighborhood. It was an old sight, colored with swaying trees and games. Then later I let myself rest back and gulp down – with little difficulty – a mug of newly prepared coffee.

But then the sliver disappeared and the stars pushed forward, leaving me scrambling for light and air.

Light. And air.

With a quick swipe of a blade against my ribcage, I tumbled down onto the dusty floor. I let loose a horrible cough as I willed my eyes to open, but they were already open – I just couldn’t see. Beneath the sound of my heavy, troubled breathing, I could hear a song I was forced to remember. It was a minute of alluring voices as I slowed down, trying to grasp anything like my ugly cat or the feet of the rocking chair. I froze when I heard the door scrape open. I froze, I froze, I froze.

And I fell down.

I fell down with the blackness clinging onto me – its hold on me like a blanket of metal, twisting around me like a slithering snake. Ouroboros was what it looked like from the corner of my eye. By then I had to listen to the sound of my heartbeat – quick, nimble footsteps pounding on soaked ground like thumpthumpthump. They collided as one until my eyes were blown wide and I felt like a mighty lion. I fell down until I sank down. The shoot led to a cyan world of nothing but me foolishly attempting to gain purchase on anything that could help me swim to shore. I had told myself that I’d swim to shore like a brave sailor, a cap’n alone but warm with a beating heart. But here’s the twist and I suffocated more with the revelation.

There was no shore in sight.

I was stranded and I was dying as the cold blew above me and the stars flew to the sky. They danced and pulled the night into the view, and the night did embrace the little stars with its own blinding light as they twinkled so carelessly across the sheet of bedtime. Bedtimebedtimebedtime – my tears were as cold as the wind, cruel as the blanket around my shoulders.

I did not understand how fickle and evil the world was until then.

But I kicked,

roared,

fluttered,

breathed

until I felt wings behind me growing gradually with light. I carried myself over the waves and in the air, suspended for a while so I could watch the stars sway and so I could learn from them. I made them tug me to land, and so I was like a moth to a flame but with more control. There was nothing dangerous about the heat of the stars. There was only me.

I had sand in between my toes and the ocean in my hair as the blanket bid me goodbye and trailed under the gentle waves. My ribs were gone and maybe my heart fled away too, but I swore I could feel my heart like a flame inside me. It was the fire that was life and not destruction that made my eyes rife with ember. I could see the red and orange through the reflection of the water – they reminded me of the books I used to read. They were fragile pages of fantasy and mystery coalesced into a beautiful genre.

But then I was the fantasy and the mystery – a book yet to be opened. 

Running Around

image from here

The thing about being a writer is that it isn’t easy, so I’m going to rant about it. Oops.

As a writer, I am very conscious. Actually, I am also a cognizant-of-her-surroundings person – I’m looking up and around in between words and I can faintly hear someone in the neighborhood talking; I can hear some frying from the kitchen. And air is blowing in my face thanks to the electric fan next to the table, and I keep looking back at my other open tabs. I can get really distracted and aware of many different things and that’s okay as a human, I guess. But when it comes to being the aspiring writer that I am, it sucks. Bad.

Honestly, I am not the kind of writer who types and types and reviews later. I’m the kind who types then stops in the middle of a sentence and reads almost everything all over again. I irritate myself to no end, and if I could stop myself I would. But yeahhh, I can’t. And as I look over my words – noun, verb, adjective, pronoun – I squint on the inside and see how redundant I can be with my adjectives or verbs. Then later I try to remember a substitute/synonym for them until I can’t find any and I end up dumping my head into my sad, sad hands.

Believe me when I say that writers are mercurial people, especially when they want to deal with stories of their own. We devolve from one state of feeling to another; we listen to words and sounds and debate and watch; we do our best to be in between our sentences rather than writing them down. We are persons gifting the world with an overflowing plethora of words that twist to life. It isn’t a simple ride, but I can assure that I – and many other writers, I’m absolutely sure – enjoy it. We shift from one fictional mind to another and we see, although we may not agree. We bleed. It’s what we do best.

I stayed up thinking about this last night. And I love being a writer and a reader. You learn to aspire and you aspire to learn while you read, and then later you write. You crawl, then walk, then run, then fly. It’s a cycle and I love going through it, dizzy and out of breath. Writers are ubiquitous if you think about it, because we skip from one world to another.

I hope you write today.

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.

Cigarettes and Dragons

Clouds loomed and roofed their houses. Threatening and versatile, they flittered back and forth before settling for the previously twilit world of rocky streets and silent chatter. They promptly jumped into the scene of old kingdoms and scary dragons – flippant, daffy lads running helter-skelter, prepared to stick their tongues out for the pouring rain. They were spindly kids with toothy smiles and lisps. Their room lights flickered. They whispered conspiratorially. They drawled with exuberance, inspiring hullabaloo. They were the kings and queens with sly faces and party hats.

But there was this person who was – almost – inexpicably sad, but not ostensibly so. He breathed fire, but he wasn’t a dragon. He didn’t want to be slain, so he remained inside. This human had uncanny eyes that searched the night and peered out benignly at the world of kings and queens. Outside, the magic struck like lightning. Inside, it was jejune, similar to the eeriness of black-and-white films. Inside there was the cryptic, playing with puzzle pieces and keeping his wings huddled closed to his outline. There was warmth – it sizzled, especially when the hellish summer came. But there was also cold – that was when he needed to breathe more, live, and shiver out his own hearth unwillingly.

The rain was adamant. Drops fell down and the days seemed to go by swiftly. Cars rarely drove their way in the streets and coffee shops either had plenty of people milling about or none. It poured while the men worked and the women watched their children sing their songs heartily. It poured while cigarettes were lit and screen doors were fixed.

It was dull, and it matched the person’s atmosphere. But there was somewhat a brilliance in it – a spark igniting, a shadow searching, a glint in a little girl’s eyes. It was eerie and cold, but it was also new. The floorboards creaked as they lazed around, still, but the way people forgot about it was nice and gratifying in a way too inoffensive to understand.

The person’s face was ashen, stiff. His lips were painted blue and his forehead furrowed time to time. He was hiding, a wool blanket stretched across his wings, a discarded mug of cold hazelnut coffee in reach. The curtains were drawn, the windows tightly closed like they should have been. But he could still hear the pitter patter of the rain, the merrymaking of the people. His stomach churned as the shadows played with him, taunted him with silence as if to say are you cold?. But of course he was, apparently they were there just to bully him.

His eyes roved over the shaking sight of the walls around him as he bit down on his lower lip to refrain from cursing. He liked to recoil from the abandoned ghosts of the paintings and collages pinned onto the walls, but now he’d like to look. He raised a lithe, bony finger up to a family, traced their outline, and wished he knew them. They looked warm – the thought of it made him flinch, because he knew their story; their life and their death. He knew the history of these walls, he knew them although he wanted to obscure their voices. He had the power to, but he could not do it.

He gnawed until blood came from under the skin. He muffled his screams until he couldn’t anymore. He dove into insanity, dementia if you will. But he couldn’t die, mustn’t die, for the world will combust if so. And he willed himself to do it for the bubbly kids outside his share of the world, for the good man and his pregnant wife, for everyone who deserved it.

Kids. Reckless, joyful kids. Their innocence and freedom was beauteous and too sweet to be a piece of comical information. They gripped their swords and roared like lions. But they can be pliant and yielding, naïve to the evils of the otherworld. They knew of dragons, but they knew not of angels. Especially the ancient angel who worked like Atlas, carrying and holding and knowing. There will be a time he will break, and he must with finality, sealing his and your fate with a touch of secrecy.

Shhh.

Dementia

Hi.

This week I have been staying up all night (like I don’t do that regularly), leafing through Edith Hamilton’s MYTHOLOGY, fangirling more and more, and accomplishing (at least most of the time) the challenge of keeping my face stoic. Because I must be mysterious like that so I can fool people into believing I am a robot.

I’ve been focusing a lot on the beautiful (and unreal!) story of Pgymalion and Galatea – a woman-hater sculptor falling for his own work. Oh my, that sounds conceited of the guy, Pgymalion, but no. I think he’s just very desperate and all that. He goes crazy for his masterpiece and Venus understands and grants the gorgeous sculpture life, thus showering Pygmalion with happiness. Then later he names his wife Galatea and they have a kid.

My heart. (And my head which won’t stop bugging me with prompts. Shhh, head, go away.)

There’s another story I’ve read, and it apparently resembles Romeo and Juliet so much. The tale of Pyramus and Thisbe makes me want to weep. Then there’s the story of the musician Orpheus and his lover Eurydice, and I go bawling (internally, of course – I keep my cool). These two stories are so freaking tragic that I want to rip my head off. Alas there are happier stories which keep me from dissecting myself. Weeee.

And, um, the reason for my recent fangirling frenzy is because Adam Young collaborated with one Mark Hoppus and the outstanding outcome of their collision is right here:

I wanted to cry in the dark right after I heard its intro. It’s the epitome of perfection, I TELL YA. NOW LISTEN TO IT BECAUSE I AM USING CAPS LOCK TO ENTICE YOU. DON’T JUST STARE AT THE SCREEN. FRENCH THE LLAMA (ooh, a Nerdfighter reference). YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO LISTEN.

Bleh. I'll leave you with a smile (the not-stoic me) because I hope you're smiling, too.

I'll be tarrying around.

Nomads in a House

Hi!

Urgh. So it's summer and the place is boiling like the pits of hell and the ones of an old guy. My brother and I are left in the house during weekdays when our parents are working and we move from one room to another. We're kind of nomadic in this house and our days are filled to the brim with boredom and fun (yet with excessive boredom) – two improbable things entwined together. My brother is still the freak he is and shows to be; no changes there. (If said brother reads that sentence in the future, I will not apologize for it is, and maybe still will be, the darn truth.)

I’ve read a couple of books and this apparently includes John Green. Last March 31^st, I evolved into a Nerdfighter (and I think I am not so punctual, oops) and I can finally thrust this upon you, my reader: DFTBA. These days, I usually wake up around nine or ten, but once I rose from the dead at approximately twelve in the afternoon; this sucks because I like mornings when classes aren’t there to intersect, although sleeping is also magical. My hair is suffering and I’m letting it, meh. I’m this hobo/hermit during summer and my mood swings are in the process of making me a psycho. If you see me walking around in the mall or anywhere else, remember to keep your distance or else I might stab you shyly with the hair of a hobo and the liveliness of a tree. DFTBA, DFTBA, sorry.

I am also trying to improve my vocabulary even more. I had mentioned reading and now I peruse Merriam-Webster (dictionary) like I haven’t before. I’ve been writing a lot, too! Fanfiction, that is. Someone made me a “favorite author” of theirs this week (it’s my second time to be somebody’s) and omg it feels UHmazing. I’ve been tweeting exponentially. My timeline is dead most of the time during the day so I flood frequently, tweeting to nobody in particular.

I sleep beside a wall where ants crawl. I’m actually alright with it as long as they don’t come flinging their bodies at me, unless those ants are attempting suicide. The pillows I lay my head on and cuddle with have their pillowcases lavished with Disney Princesses whose faces I smother with my hands and skull. I tend to listen to music hours before sleeping. I sleep around 12:30 in the morning; I have grown to be the night guard here. I force my brother to rewatch a few episodes of Avatar: The Last Airbender with me, but we still watch Adventure Time.

Sorry, this isn't the wall. It's the ceiling.

I did see The Hunger Games. Twice. Jennifer Lawrence did an outstanding job portraying Katniss Everdeen. I applaud her and her ability to be flawless yet human. The cast was also wonderful, bringing the characters to life – they did. There were disappointments but I’d rather not point them out. NOW I’m eager to know who they’ll cast as my baby Finnick Odair. Please, not Pettyfer.

OH AND I AM ALSO going to share with you the ship I currently sail:

                    source

I hunted down the first two episodes of Legend of Korra online and I am already SHIPPING THEM SO LUMPING HARD due to my fangirl instincts with a certain spoiler which is like half a second long but WEEEEEEEE MY EMOTIONS OK. 
And it just so happens that Korra is a riveting badass as the Avatar and Mako is ridiculously attractive with those eyebrows. Bless this ship. Bless your cow. But I have heart palpitations not only for the couple. I love Meelo and Bolin and Tenzin and KATARA and everyone else on the good side. Amon creeps me out with his Equalist buddies. I need to vent or I might just flip tables. Flip tables everywhere especially for older Aang.

Okay. DFTBA! Be the leaf!