Perhaps it is incidental. Perhaps it is the Sister Fates Three, their game of Death at play. Perhaps it is the seven-billion, lethargic pairs of eyes set vacuously on a single CRT television set. Here, it rests, sitting rooted to a table of wood, decaying. Furtively, the wind squeezes in through windows of penetrated glass - an unwelcome visitor. Bang! Heads turn. From the depths of the black box comes a ghostly pale hand, palm smacking on the lifeless screen as it attempts to wrench its way out of the pits. As pale white fingers, skeletal, grasp onto thin air, shrieks of agony and howls of anguish make but noise amidst the silence. Dark winds prompt Reality to pick up the gun, lithe arms threatening suffocation as she moves. Pleads and supplication. Malicious taunts. All for nothing, but death. Eyes can do nothing but stare as Reality shuts down. A final Goodbye, she deviously sketches onto the screen, as the trigger is pulled. We are stuck in a surreal state.
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Sea birds swoop overhead, shadows in the ochre sky. Waves pull back, retreating from the shore as if to shame the figure slumping over the sand. Here, a man sits; an empty bottle lies nearby, traces of rum line his unshaven jaw. His navy coat is strewn across the land, lost to the depths of the earths. A red bandana sleeps on his head buried deep into his scarlet chest. Here, a man sits, swallowed by guilt, branded by sin. Here, a captain mourns the loss of his ship, himself to blame. The honourable, he is no more.
A sonnet I wrote for the Valentine's Day Writing Contest.
Dedicated to a special someone. So as the sun gives way, the time grows nigh; The stars align; a path to meet again. Our foreseen love so first do we deny; Know naught but peace till days of Twelve and Ten. A jar of glass; a world where thoughts collide, Two minds connect - sheer truth, God's Providence. Beats strong my heart, with you I do reside, For leaves due fall to honour our commence. Twas in your kiss your love for me you tell; Swept in your arms with warmth do we caress. Make we not first to speak our last farewell, With heav'n to look upon, and us to bless. In thanks, with which we send towards the stars, Hold dear the memories of this love marked: ours. The exhilarated sound of daredevils screaming at the thrill of the Dæmonen (The Demon) only juxtaposes the greying colour of the sky. Enormous clouds loom overhead the Tivoli Gardens, an amusement park that stands at an extraordinary 170 years old. In the enchanting city of Copenhagen – home to The Little Mermaid, the brightly coloured houses of Nyhavn, and the boutiques of Strøget – my parents and I braved the gloomy weather and set foot into Tivoli. A storm was brewing in the distance, but we did not let that hinder us. Surrounded by the crisp scent of foreign nature and the pleasant petrichor of Danish soils, we walked into a fairytale world.
Strolling along streets lined with quaint European village houses, ever so faintly grazing the grounds of replicated Chinese temples, and promenading in admiration past the famous and exclusively exquisite Nimb Hotel, our trip inside Tivoli was put to a halt with the racket of loud honks - not of horns, nor of vehicles, but of a mother duck. My curiosity and fascination with animals drove me in the direction of the frantic noise, as I wandered off ahead of my parents. A pair of white ducks was distraught and rushing about, their ducklings close by. I did not realize what was happening until my parents, who had finally caught up to me, gestured towards the tiny man-made hole of a pond to my right. There, ever so slightly quacking in a bundle of fuzzy grey feathers, was a duckling, struggling to regroup with its family. Being surrounded by tall rocks and dirt slippery from the rain, it could not reach land. I desperately wished to help the poor duckling; however, I chose to watch the situation unfold, not wanting to disturb the natural way of life for animals. As my parents and I attentively watched Papa Duck and Mama Duck frantically search and call out to their lost youngling, other visitors of the park stopped their journey in Tivoli to observe the situation as well. We all knew better than to make physical contact with the duckling, as we did not want to injure it. So, all we could do was just stand there, helplessly, and watch this family of desperate ducks as they struggled to reunite with one another. underneath the starry sky of the forlorn night a single lonesome wanderer journeys on trekking, encompassed with a cloak of blue in search for his true love seeking to find this love hidden deep within in good time a deleterious and intricate thing it be, time its occurrence shifting from day to night acquainted with the clock ticking within the wanderer journeys on surviving solely on the thought of love he meanders into the blue once in a moon of blue appearing as the interlude of time the sky uncloaks herself - his one true love a failure to recognize this union of the night the wanderer continues to journey on seeking to find this love hidden deep within the outcry of his feelings within are nothing but coloured blue the gleam of the sun has gone on a once upon a time for journeying on, he will, through the night until he finds that love where the Northern Star points: love telling him to evolve the language within and speak to the night ridding him of feelings of blue stars fall, a race against time the wanderer must cease to journey on with such ignorance, sorrow will carry on unless he locates that love before the termination of time obliged to search within to extract the blue born amidst the forlorn night journeyed on; failed to search within for love, his heart transmuted to a midnight blue time stops; heart swallowed by the night ( In the storm she felt whole. With the rain she became one. Under the umbrella a safe house to her misery no more she poured her heart. ) The pitter-patt of the rain beats in time to the thick timbre of the thunder as it echoes endlessly miles and miles. Overhead the maestro lifts his wand; the leaden clouds motif and the drone of the rainstick prolonged. Drops of diamonds from the celestial skies of Heaven briskly dance the dance of a pluviophile. ( Rain like traces of tears
soundlessly seep into the earth unnoticed. In the storm she felt whole. With the rain she became one. ) ~ c. A story I wrote for my school's October writing contest: Venerate the Villain. I wasn't planning on entering, since I don't enjoy writing short stories (I don't have the patience for it and it's more difficult to express your feelings in short stories than in poetry), but as a Writer's Craft student, I had to. So...here's my not-so-great short story, venerating the Evil Stepmother and Evil Stepsisters from Cinderella. Once upon a time, in a small town in France, there lived a king and a queen. The queen had just given birth to her first child – a precious baby boy by the name of Henri. Watching over Henri’s birth was the queen’s older sister, Agathe. Now, on the outside, she appeared to care much for her younger sister, but on the inside, she truly despised her. She was jealous that the king had chosen to marry her younger sister rather than her, the eldest daughter of their family. And now her sister had given birth to the country’s newest prince and soon-to-be king. Prior to Henri’s birth, Agathe had tried countless times to sabotage her sister’s pregnancy, but was always unsuccessful, though nobody ever suspected her. Eventually, she caught the flu and passed away, but not before she married a wealthy merchant and gave birth to a daughter of her own. Agathe had a pair of glass slippers in her possession – the only pair in the world. As a family heirloom, it has been passed down to the eldest daughter in the family for generations. And now, it belonged to Agathe’s daughter. Cinderella.
Wherever you go I will follow. Whatever you do I will provide. Whenever beasts of the wild, savage and fierce, terrorize the dignity within, stand firm. Through the rising of the sun, a ball of gold valiantly against the dark, march confidently and surely, head held high and make known you are royalty. Through the rising of the moon, an orb of silver bringing out the stars, march with stamina and pride, wisdom and strength, only do not let anger win. As with a herd of elephants connected, a lone is a lonely. As with a herd of elephants compassionate, lingering about I will wait. Wherever you go I will follow. Whatever you do I will provide. Whenever loneliness on moonless nights, a velvet cloak of misery, arise, little by little will I carry in your stead. |
Authori am just an ordinary teenage girl. my name and whereabouts are unimportant. this is my story. all written work is original unless credited. Archives
June 2014
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