Life Number One

For July and for Owl City. 

Let’s say that humans have nine lives and this is my second life. My first was a life of discovery and amazement funneling down into a cryptic close, and I wasn’t worrying because I still had eight more lives to spend. And hopefully I do spend wisely as not to waste.

My first life was a book of fresh faces – the pillars and waves of teeming journal entries and biographies. This life had begun in between wet eyelashes and flipping notebook pages. A collection of fiction and not, I originated and lived without panic.

My Mondays were sewn with the tapping of feet and the blowing of wind, my place of relaxation and study as a twenty year old was a house near the beach where I could breathe way easier. I created dance steps and procrastinated. I was crammed with word document appointments. I was too engulfed in the work of fixing my TV set and staring at dresses and bowties on the Internet. I was a silly lady made out of sharp pencil markings and long hair. I was a borrowed ballerina shoes; I was a freckled face – too sunshine; I was a ponytail snaking down to my tailbone – the colors of black and red were prominent.

Nine years old of first life was when I would always jump out and shout in the rain. My name was Z – like, maybe, zealous! – and when my first life’s fourteenth year came I sat among a couple of friends and their stuffed toys to hit our faces with cake of strawberry icing. I bounced from cloud to cloud when it was a Christmas blue, and I can only recall the jukebox pumping out notes by Momma’s Diner as my good friend Rende (like the rende of rendezvous) leaped from dead rock to sleeping frog with my collection of films. That thief.

My twenty-first came one day and I made the bell ring once again in the nearby library of Mrs. Monica. I showed her my doodles of Rende and that diner one time it snowed abundantly, making sure my toothy smile was safely inches away from her frowning one. But I can tell you that she smiled at the end of our almost one-sided conversation; Mrs. Monica may have already been eighty-seven and a widow, but she breathed in stories the way I breathed in paint. She loved, loved, loved it.

So I told her another story and whispered it, saying, “You know, ma’am, I used to bounce from cloud to cloud.” She pushed her pair of glasses back and inquired, “You stopped?” And I laughed. I don’t know why I laughed, but I did. It was more like a small snicker to myself – a sarcastic and bitter one. Oh, I did stop.

“Mrs. M, of course I did!” I smiled. She grew a smile. And she told me to continue hopping until something stopped me.

That was when my pencils unraveled themselves from my fingers and drew that Christmas blue back. “How can I, Mrs. M?” I always called her Mrs. M. I already had called her that half a dozen of times that day. But I was afraid. I had not cloud-hopped in a long time. My jukebox wasn’t there; my diner wasn’t there; and my good friend Rende Zvous wasn’t there.

She told me, so softly, “Believe.” That word took me aback, but I stood in place; I feared my pencils and I feared myself. “You’ll die and you’ll live. Be yourself, miss Z. You have won the Christmas blue before, and you will again. Behold, the sun is shining! You are sunny, too. But you know you belong in the world of the moon and the stars, child. I will miss you. Your books will miss you. But Christmas blue misses you much, much more.”

Mrs. Monica blew my jukebox at me, and it landed on four stars next to Momma’s Diner. She hauled – and I almost shrieked for she mustn’t carry such a massive thing! – the world at me and before I could catch it with my hands, my heart did. I breathed out a few wishes, a few hopes, and a few miseries. I kept more to myself. But still–

I hopped.

A Few Colors

Today was like a million drops of dark chocolate syrup and splotches of blood under a summer day’s sun. It was like finger-shaking cross-stitching and yogurt, landing in between frames and cups of mango bits plus rainbow sprinkles.

by Adam

The library was closed during lunch time and so I engulfed the raindrops of sunshine under the roof and peered through the glass, scanning the shelves and pillars of books – pages were left open, then later they blinked at me like a pair of butterfly wings. Clouds dunked in Microsoft blue and paper white littered the sky as raucous chatter pushed on and on to exceed one of many limits. My heart – a cavern – hungered for answers, scrambled toward the door and almost left my mind behind with nothing to give. Daydreams hung around notoriously, and I rowed onward.

I drank the light of last night’s lamp like my last gulp of iced tea. My languid kicks brought me to a room stirring with finality, a place where I could breathe in and out with pruney fingers. Buh-reathe.

Thank you.

The Orb of Dreamers

The Orb of Dreamers by The Daniel Pemberton TV Orchestra

Adam introduced this track to me via LittleBigPlanet – a game where one can design, interact, and so much more. The narrator has an accent and the introduction is mind-blowing and seriously the game is amazing. Through Sackboy (the main character) and with him, you journey from one place to another. Beautiful.

Adam plays levels in the car and we listen to the tracks of each. The Orb of Dreamers has been my favorite yet, and I've downloaded it. I suggest you listen to it.

It reminds me of the joy you receive when you meet a goal or when you feel the euphoria bubbling in you.  I don't want to complicate it – or trivialize it with my words – but I admit that I sense longing and melancholy somewhere in it. When the Titanic sank, fresh ghosts danced from room to room, and the world experienced loss but they breathed in new life. As phantoms, they sojourned without shackles.

Yes. Longing.

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.