Assigned Blog Post #4 - Town details

There’s a quiet little alcove by the shore, hidden by the trees, where the water laps the soft white sand. Very few people in the town know about it, but those who do are not even aware that the others know. They all go there when they need a moment of peace, especially on starry nights to reflect on their lives.

A grassy meadow, smaller in proportion and very close to Makeout Meadow, where wildflowers grow freely and there’s very little trace of human interaction with the wild landscape. The slope of the hill is not too steep, and patches of soft, green grass spreads like a lazy yawn over the area.

A dock that has many white sailboats gleaming in the sunlight waits in lonely silence, with only the gull’s cries. The boats rock back and forth, as if eagerly awaiting the chance to go with their owners out to the seven seas to brave any (mild) weather that might be out there.

A small shop run by an elderly couple sells little knick-knacks carved from the wood of a native tree to the peninsula/island. The sweet smell of wood permeates the shop, mixed with the sharp tones of acrylic paint. The two are still just as in love as they were on their wedding day, and work companionably to bring art and joy to the community around them.

A giant tree towers near the town square. About seven adult men could hold hands and barely wrap their collective arms around this massive and ancient oak. The branches stretch out, old and gnarled, providing a great umbrella of shade to the townspeople. There was some mysterious aura around the tree that had a calming and soothing effect – many distressed people would come frequent the tree for calm and comfort. It was a great center of this little town that really allowed people to gravitate toward and feel unified with.

Potential names:

Wisteria

Hysteria

Mysteria

(OKAY I’M DONE)

Personally, I’m pretty good with Vodkaville.

Assigned Blog Post #3: Rose Emily Sketch and Meeting

Rose Emily is a fair girl of European descent, slight build with cascading blonde waves. She didn’t actually have a surname; Rose Emily was just the name that the opera mistress gave her when they took her in as a baby. From a young age, she knew that she was different. She not only didn’t have parents, but she also had the whitest and palest skin with the most shocking sapphire eyes. Those who she passed along the streets, lived with in her dorm, all around her had tan skin, brown eyes, and long black hair as straight as death. She was the fair maiden among a sea of dreary monotone, of people who kept their heads down and bobbled along the dirt roads, among those who hawked their merchandise with loud voices meshing like a cacophonous symphony, among those who were stuck in their own rut so deeply they walked along the same path, at the same pace, at the same time each and every day.

                She wore the simple white traditional Chinese dress that the mistress owned when she was younger. It was made of a durable but lightweight cotton, with short sleeves and a hem that stopped right as her knees. The pure white fabric was lined by an aqua trim, harmonizing with the blue pools of expression. Her hair was slightly tied to keep away from her face, but most of it left to tumble down her shoulders and her back, vibrant and lively. Her voice was pure and light, but not skilled. She sang with obligation, allowing her voice to take flight like perhaps a bird with a previously broken wing – she understood she was no swallow in the springtime. Finding that she had no talent in singing, the owner taught her acrobatics, so that she could perform the more physical roles and make herself useful. Mild and slight, she was often bullied by the other girls for her beauty; but she still she stood with her back straight, just her head tilted toward the ground.

                When she became older, she was caught the eye of a wealthy European man who had been living in China for only a few years. She was married off to him for a hefty sum for the opera mistress, as the man’s concubine. She lived in moderate wealth and comfort, but under the ever-resentful watch of the first wife. When the family of three moved back to Europe, she became a yoga instructor to keep her busy during the boring days, rather than trying to stay out of the way of the jealous wife that was slowly losing her beauty every day. The small reprieves from her harsh and envious glares were like heaven to Rose.

Meeting with S-‘s Character, Amelia Boneheart:        

One day, she was granted a day off from the mistress; apparently some wealthy man had just booked the entire theatre for him and his entourage, a lucrative opportunity. With such profits tucked neatly away in her silk drawstring bag, her tongue sweetened and she treated her girls with much more kindness.

                 Donning a pair of cloth shoes, she lightly skipped out onto the busy and dusty road. She wandered, drawing open stares wherever she went. “Who is she?” “She looks like some kind of ghost, with that pale skin.” Whispers echoed around her. “Can she speak English?” “It looks like she’s good for nothing, with that slight build of hers.” As if she couldn’t understand them. Just because she looked different didn’t mean that she was deaf or blind – even the most foreign of foreigners could see the distrust in those people’s eyes and the harshness of their whispers.  

                Feeling annoyed and slightly disappointed that her day out had been rather ruined, she almost walked into this giant wall. Wall? No, it was just someone really, really tall.

                “对不起，先生,” she said, bowing low without looking at the face of the person.  (A/N: it says, “I’m sorry, sir”)

                “Well, sorry little miss,” she heard above her in a foreign language, “I almost ran you over.”

                Hearing the deep yet distinctly feminine voice, her head snapped up in confusion. She looked fearfully at the gargantuan woman, with bulging biceps and a mass of curly red hair badly tamed into a ponytail. Even her brown eyes seemed fierce as her smile reminded Rose of the smiles of wolves before they ingested their prey. Standing like a deer caught in headlights, she furiously shook her head signifying that she didn’t understand the huge woman.

                “Ah, ni bu dong ying wen?” (A/N: Ah, you don’t understand English?) The woman slowly tried to twist her tongue around the foreign words, succeeding in very little besides butchering them. “Mei guan xi. Wo de ming zi shi Amelia. Amelia Boneheart.” (A/N: No problem. My name is Amelia. Amelia Boneheart.)

                A glimmer of a sparkle gave way in Rose Emily’s eyes before she burst out into a little giggles that shook her frail frame. “对不起,” she managed to gasp out before yet again dissolving into another fit of laughter. (A/N: Sorry.)

                Amelia was glad that the girl looked less nervous, as she knew that people were often scared of her. But, she supposed that was reasonable when she had the build of a wrestler and killed people for a living. Speaking of which… “Ni zhi dao Zhang xian sheng zhu zai nar li?” she queried. (A/N: Do you know where Mr. Zhang lives?)

                “对不起，我很少出来逛街。除了京剧管老板和其他的歌女，我谁都不知道,” She replied apologetically. (A/N: Sorry, I don’t come out much. Besides the opera mistress and the other girls, I don’t really know anyone.) She wished she could go out more, but the mistress prized her fair skin and didn’t let her out into the sun very much. “您为什么找他?” She asked, curious at the workings of the world around her. (A/N: Why are you looking for him?)

                Amelia’s lips almost slipped out the truth before she said, “Wo shi ta de peng you de peng you. Yin wei wo zhi lai dao zhong guo bu tai jiu, wo xiang rang ta bang wo zhao ge di fang zhu. Xie xie ni bang zhu wo, ke shi wo dei xian zou le.” (A/N: I’m his friend’s friend. Because I haven’t been in China for that long, I want him to help me find somewhere to live. Thanks for helping me, but I have to leave now.) Amelia made a hasty retreat before she got too attached to this blonde haired blue-eyed girl with such an earnest expression. She almost told her the truth of her profession! That girl had a charismatic power far stronger than she knew, and it only seemed to get stronger the longer you spoke to her.

                Rose Emily looked sadly at the retreating figure of the strange woman before continuing down the road and the rest of her day.

Your Smile

That scowl is the bane of my existence. No matter what, no matter how happy you are, you will frown at me. I will see your brilliant smile when you’re with the select few you love and cherish, and try to catch your attention. Say hi. Call your name. Try something witty. Anything, everything! Your grin wavers, and curves into your signature scowl. What do you want? Your stormy eyes glare daggers. I want you to smile at me. I want to see that expression, yes, that one, where your eyes glitter with amusement and you toss your head back in laughter. That bemused expression where you seem to be hiding the secrets of the world in your soul, just waiting to be shared. You always seem so exclusive: you don’t trust easily, and generally hostile toward those who attempt to get near you. For those who have broken down your walls, you keep them near and dear but closely patch the hole from where they entered. I hate that frown! Why won’t you accept me?

                You wait expectantly with your glowering expression as you wait for my next move, while I was lost in my silent speech to you. I hesitate at the caustic words, the angry eyes, but quickly I catch myself. I giggle a bit, and pretend that it was nothing; I just wanted to “bother you”. You roll your emerald eyes and turn your back on me, never once letting go of your frown. I keep smiling, shrug with an indifferent expression, and I go back to whatever I was doing before. Smiles are my armor; betraying pain is a sign of weakness. I focus on spreading my positive expression to my eyes, which are unfortunately clean and transparent windows to my soul; it’s high time to install some blinds. After all, people who laugh carelessly are never looked at too deeply. I can hide, camouflage: those who have the biggest laughs can also hide the darkest secrets.

                Why are you the one that’s making me this way? It seems strange that you of all people would cause me to be like this – you were at the corner of my consciousness, but suddenly you leapt into the spotlight. Almost every second, I watch what you do. I notice your gestures, your habits; your likes, your dislikes (besides me); and all of this as discreetly as possible. Momentary curiosity warped into obsessive desire – I need it, I want it, like an insatiable addiction. You smirk behind your barrier, taunting me with your closeness with those you love. I could turn away, I could fly away with incandescent wings like the transient being I am. I could seek what I want in others; I could search and find the same smile within welcoming arms.

                Maybe it’s the challenge. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s possible to tear down that daunting wall, and the fact that I can’t do it drives me crazy. Maybe it’s just that I want to be special to you, to be exclusive. I like being special; I like warm smiles that greet me everywhere I turn. I will reach out, and spread myself like ivy – gripping onto all surfaces, finding a home within everyone’s hearts. But yours – yours is like poison, no matter how much I try to stay, you kill the tendril that extended within your realm. Green like toxin – those are your eyes, and they kill me. Sharp like a blade – that is your mouth as it tosses out insults that cut into my heart. Strange, curious – I’m attracted like a moth to flame, leading to my own demise.

But, like the vine, I’m stubborn and hard to discourage. So I’ll continue staring; I’ll pry at the concrete with my fingers until one day it comes tumbling down. Just you wait and see, I’ll get your smile someday.

Assigned Blog Post #2: My style~!

So I realize that there is an actual prompt for this assigned blog post, but you have no idea how amazingly thrilled I am to finally read a story that I like. “Robert Kennedy Saved From Drowning” is made from amusing clips of his personality – I am writing this as I read it so really I have no idea if the title even has to do with anything.

But anyways, the whole “Attitude Toward His Work” thing totally reminded me of playing Tetris. Maybe because of the “I become interested, I become excited, I work very fast, things fall into place, I am exhilarated…” because it’s kind of like that? I think I’m basically terrible at playing Tetris. But sometimes, on certain days, it just all clicks and my fingers work faster and the pieces just fall into place without gaps or screwed up places or anything! Those are my two cents.

Oh the “penetrated with sadness” part – yea, it’s kind of weird, but I do that too. I hear something inexplicably sad, and then I will find it on my Ipod and listen to it again and again, wallowing in my own sadness. It’s like a mood. A weird mood. Actually, I rather dislike being sad. I think. Maybe I subconsciously like it. Who knows.

I like this story. A lot. Because I like the person that is painted by these excerpts. He seems very interesting, witty, and intelligent. He is. Oh my goodness, I love the “Puzzled by his children” section. I adore it beyond belief! It’s just so funny. “The crying of children continues.” Haha, I can just imagine this scene, and he is puzzled by the randomness.

Inx, no, this isn’t my OTS (One True Story). It’s just the first story that I like of the ones we’ve read in this class so far.

Oh hey, he is actually saved from drowning. Was it Halloween?

Okay, and now I’ll actually start on the assigned post. Oh, and I was just interrupted by A-, who was terribly sick. She sounds horrible… poor A-. I sure hope she doesn’t need to do the stats homework. Gah, stats is so boring. And she couldn’t have possibly done so horribly that she needed to do the homework. I refuse to believe this.

Okay, so the style of the Junot Diaz is really noticeable. Because it’s ridiculously informal. And generally focuses on his family life and has the same characters (okay so that’s not exactly a style) but it makes it more recognizable. And talks in very crude and rough terms. Robert Olen Butler has a much more… I’m not sure how to put it. I wonder if it’s dreamy? It’s a lot more detail focused, and I suppose Diaz also has details, but I feel like Butler’s details stick with me more. Like the sticky doorknob, the sweet smell coming from his hands, Ho’s pacing around the room, etc. I wonder if it’s just their use of adjectives, and I wonder if I just pay attention to that. Hmm, although honestly, I’m not very sure what sets Butler apart. I’m sure that Diaz is set apart by his tone/diction/choice of words (I’m pretty sure I was just being redundant, oh well). But Butler, I’m not so sure.

My own style? Well, I’m really “dreamy” when I’m writing my pieces. I like adjectives. I like them a lot. So much so that it’s a bit of an overload… but I still like them. I wonder if my central point dies within the overload of adjectives, but I guess I tend to like things like that: like a million sparkles on a single sheet of paper; layers upon layers on a floor length dress, poofing it up so that it’s like a waterfall of fabric. (By the way, I’m referencing that beautiful purple dress that I wore during my photo shoot – they told me it was for wedding shots, but I insisted on wearing it anyways. I felt and looked like a princess. Pretty in pink – but actually purple.)

I guess it actually depends on my mood. I guess for short stories, I write like that. But otherwise, I write like I am writing now, in a semi-rant style. It’s just how I think, I believe. Completely random, filled with bits and pieces of other things that are floating around my head. Like music. And random musings. This time, I think I took out more of the random musings, because otherwise my blog post would be even longer than it is now. Actually, this is a random tangent all on its own, isn’t it? Maybe. Perhaps.

Also, I definitely remember seeing a piece of art on… dosomething.org or something like that. It was like some kind of laptop art contest, something like how art education is important. And it was of a “Female Grim Reaper” (but the word ‘grim’ was spelled wrong so that it was ‘girm’. That seriously bothered me. But I suppose if you do amazing art, you don’t need to know how to spell.) Oh quick, my seven cents (I’m bored of two. I’ll just randomly choose numbers from now on). I don’t think that art education should be mandatory past elementary school. Or maybe early years of middle school. I mean, I really like art classes (and I would take them if I were not so terrible at it), but they shouldn’t be mandatory. It doesn’t add to anything once you get to your teenage years. If you like it, then fine, go take it. But it’s not expanding anyone’s horizons any longer.

Anyways, back to the piece of artwork. The girl was holding this gigantic scythe that was really detailed and pretty and fabulous. It had like, this fabulous design, and the length of the handle was probably twice the height of the girl herself. It was so fabulous – it made her seem so intense and awesome. It was shiny and seemed that it would glint in the moonlit night – a lethal yet gorgeous instrument. I can imagine it whizzing through the air and slicing open space and time! And the girl, wielding it with ethereal grace. Because she would be awesome like that.

Oops, my style! What’s my style? In a blog? Complete randomness. It’s pretty colloquial: it’s basically how I talk. It’s how I think. It’s like my train of thought that is being painted by the tips of my fingertips (hehehe) onto the canvas that is the… Internet? Haha, that metaphor I’m pretty sure just failed. Oh well.

The sporadic and wishy washy weather seems to have stopped. I will finally go for a walk… it’s gorgeous outside. Okay, go! J

Character Sketch - the girl with violet eyes

So, today I woke up at 12:30. That completely and totally threw my day off – it’s like the day was half over before I even woke up. That’s just confusing.

And I will practice a character sketch. Because I have nothing else to write about.

Character Sketch ~

She turned around, with that perpetually surprised and confused look on her face. She registered that her best friend was waving to her, and her face blossomed into a carefree smile. She waved, enthusiastic, yet still gentle and graceful in her movements. She bent over and picked her white handbag made of soft leathery material off the plastic chair, and trotted over to her friend. She was a small girl, so she generally never walked. She was used to trying to keep up with her much taller friends’ strides, so she got into the habit of perpetually using a method of motion that was in between walking and running. It made her long auburn hair come to life: not like waves in the ocean, but perhaps like the small ripples made when a child drops a pebble into a still pond.

Her heels clacked softly on the ground, and her fluffy skirt made a soft rustling sound as the fabric rubbed against itself. She was dressed in a palette of pastels against a white backdrop. Her skin was fair and white, with only a rosy tint in her cheeks to liven up her pale skin. Her eyes burned a shocking shade of violet – the intensity of her eyes really didn’t match the slight and fragile aura of the rest of her body.

Within a few moments, she was by her friend’s side. Her friend stood a couple inches taller than her: jet black hair trendily cut, sharp edges and an outfit that screamed high fashion. They looked so oddly different, yet one can feel their utter closeness when they spoke. The raven-haired girl laughed with a mature grace, while the smaller girl giggled like tinkling bells. Linked arm in arm, they turned and walked down the hallway: elegance and grace, maturity and carefree delight, but both happy and full of joy.

Rant #2 Go!

So I realized that if I tried to analyze Nilda and/or Brownies in the way that I’ve been trained to do (with CDs and CMs and whatnot), it would just turn out bad. And boring. And so, ready, set, RANT NUMBER TWO GO!

Oops. My music is not on. Let me go find it.

Alright, and about fifteen minutes later the music turns on. Really, I need to not do that. Oh well~ Ever, ever after! Because I was thinking of the movie! She’s such a memorable character. Because she’s a Disney character that’s not in a Disney movie. And she’s just so ridiculous! She sings with animals and randomly dances and has no sense of shame. It’s just fabulous – I almost feel like everyone should be as awesomely naïve as her. But then, society would stop functioning. Because fairy tales don’t actually work. But she’s fabulous! And cute and adorable and full of fun J

So let’s start with Nilda. I kind of really didn’t like this story. It was just really, extremely awkward. And I don’t like awkward things. And reading it just made me not want to finish it. But it was an assignment. So I did finish it. And afterwards, I’m going “what just happened” with a confused look on my face. It was extremely colloquial? I suppose that’s the right term, considering there’s like a ridiculous amount of swearing in there. I don’t like that kind of story. And really, I did think that Rafa was a jerk. For not saying anything to Nilda when she poured her soul out to him. But then, after talking in class, I could see that he’s letting her down in his own way – letting her leave brokenhearted now rather than not able to move on after he died. It wasn’t the best way, but it was his own method.

Okay, tangent: song that’s on right now: Forever and Always, “and I flashback to when we said forever and always” that reminded me of flashbacks! And digging through our memories.

And I wanted to share my friend S-‘s and E-‘s (so, I really like talking about E- it seems, she’s just such a huge part of my life) memories! Because mine are just so boring. So, on S-‘s 15^th birthday, we were all at my friend L-‘s house (we were throwing a surprise party), and well, my friend L- is fabulous and full of interesting ideas and she decided that we should all pretend to be dead when S- came. And so we did. Just this morning, S- was a bit worried as to what we were all up to, rather than if we were alive or not. Or something like that. I actually have no idea what she thought. She just said she was “kind of worried”. But we were so bad at being “dead” that she couldn’t be worried that we were hurt.

Anyways, E-‘s memory! She had a… I have no idea. It was like some kind of Clue party. Or not. Perhaps. I believe so. Anyways, she had all of us dress up. And L- was fabulous as always. She was a… biker guy, I believe. She had her hair all slicked back, and was wearing baggy jeans and a really baggy sweatshirt with guy sunglasses. She totally rocked the look.

So I feel I should talk about Brownies and the Parrot story. Which I definitely thought was a “Carrot” story. I wrote carrot into my planner.

And so I don’t really feel like talking about these stories. Brownies was… I guess it had a good message at the end. It was just kind of funny there were a troop of girls who were probably 7 or 8 years old, or younger (I have no idea what Brownies, the troops, actually are), and they’re just like “I’m going to beat you up” (which totally reminds me of D-, because she loves saying that. Except for she says it like “Imma beetchu up”. It’s ridiculously funny and slightly endearing). But it’s not so fabulous they’re like that because little girls should not go beat people up.

Parrot story – the guy was so pathetic. It was really sad. He fell out of a tree and died trying to spy on his wife. Or the guy that he suspected his wife was with. Did he die in the end? I didn’t really get it.

I feel so negative! I don’t tend to like stories, it seems. I like Inx’s stories. Even when they are depressing. But they’re beautiful.

Okay, I got bored. My hair is wet and uncomfortable. It is sticking to my head. And especially my neck. And soaking through the back of my shirt, and making my back feel all soggy and gross. Ew, but at least my hair smells good. And is silky and shiny.

Alright, and I think I’m done with this rant.

This rant feels a whole ton less successful than the previous one.

Oh well, that’s okay.

Observation - It's all in the details

The wistful feeling as I typed into the conversation box what I wanted, what I truly desired. The pink text building and the short phrases stacked one on top of another, creating quite a formidable list.
I was crushed that he would never exist.

The fake rose that is twined around my lamp is staring to fade, the edges are starting to fray from its age. There are things that get better with age, like cheese and wine, but fake roses are really not one of them. I wonder when it’s all faded, if it counts as dying…

On the top of my computer, I have a pair of glasses that reflect the light just barely, and a ring that shines beautifully from the bits of lamplight it receives. Silver ring with two crystal “leaves” and stripes on the stems of my glasses

Pink tissue box with a strange ribbed pattern on one side sits on my table. I lean over and I notice the other side that has a sparse swirl-y pattern. I cannot decide which one I like more.

The scarf that I purchased perhaps a week ago lies in a clump on my messy desk. Its twists and turns are not so noticeable when it’s all grouped together like that. The silver thread catches the light (it seems that I like shiny things) and makes it seem semi-magical. I rather like pink.

I have a stapler in front of me. It is brown and tan, a rather boring combination. But it is a trusty old stapler that remains on my desk pointed toward the window with its “mouth” open, as if waiting to catch something that’s outside.

The little orange rectangular tab in the middle of my computer screen flashes, letting me know that another one of my friends has imparted a little nugget of wisdom upon me. Either that, or they’re just telling me hi.
Which can be viewed as wisdom all on its own, I suppose.

Life ticks by slowly.

I will make cornbread.

Assigned Blog Post #1 - The Truth in Fiction: Rant style

Finding the truth in my writing. Really, it’s not that hard, I tend to be more open with these blog posts than I probably should. However, I find that it is easier to be open when I feel like the only person that sees this is myself. Music playing, the beat a small pulsation an accompaniment to my clacking, my rationalizing thoughts are covered up.

Pause. I stop the music and I go back to the original assignment. What was it again? Squeak, squeak, squeak. The wheel of a mouse, a bit worn out from overuse, creaks as it pulls the page down. So truth.

Earlier in the post, Professor C- mentioned that she drowned out the rationalizing thoughts, the censoring with music. Therefore, I will also play music. If this blog post turns out to be a rant on randomness, then so be it.

And go.

So what I forgot to tell you before I turned my music back on is that I ran to the mirror, grabbed my two hot pink hair ties, and pulled my hair into two pigtails that I decided I liked sporting recently. It was surprising – over the course of a day, my hair changed quite a bit, but I have found a style that I rather like. It pulls my hair tight, no nonsense, into two parts that are scattered and displayed cascading down my shoulders. It’s fun, but convenient. I dislike loosely tying hair. It just bothers me.

And so, let’s see what I’m listening to. Something that’s not in English. I like it; it sounds island-y, like a tropical celebration. Too bad I don’t understand a single word of it. Except for the random English phrases. However, it isn’t enough to understand the gist of it all. Oh well. Thus is life, randomness.

Truth exists everywhere. I feel like lying isn’t especially gratifying to me. Even where I should put in a lie (Oh, that haircut looks wonderful on you! Sound familiar?) I don’t. It has branded me a caustic person. A blunt person. And so I might be. I guess even when I’m being creative, I don’t really add in too much fiction. It makes the story a little unbelievable. I don’t write about death because I have not had a death of a loved on in my life. I don’t know how it feels, and therefore I wouldn’t be able to write a good story. I have experienced loneliness, and so writing truthful feelings in that (like the post Alone, in fact that was complete truth… usually I at least add in a few embellished touches to my creative pieces) would help add to the believability of the story. It just resonates.

Truth does belong in a creative piece. Just not in the most conventional sense. I don’t have to have this certain event at this certain time at this certain place happen to write truthfully. Perhaps I fudged a few details. Or most of the details. But the inherent underlying ideas are drawn from truth. “Surviving the storm” (which I actually modified into a fanfiction because I liked it so much) resonates with me. I feel like it turned out really nice because it’s not overdone. Okay, perhaps a lot of it is fluff that I added in to make it more angsty, which I generally am not. But still, I know the loneliness, the absolute misery of being imprisoned in classes that I really don’t care about. I have walked in a forest that was icy and beautifully glittering (after all, I’ve lived in the Northwest for my entire life). I have yet to find a boy to come and save me (I’m not sure I want one. That just seems really sketchy at the core. But it’s something that I have wanted to happen (kind of) and so truth is bent and redesigned. But still it’s based on truth.

Truth in fiction. Not as strange a concept as I would’ve thought.

I realized why this song sounded really familiar. I tend to really focus on what I’m doing, and other things tend to be toned out. So that even if I blare music, I tend to not hear it. But that song is my ringtone! My ringtone is a song that’s not in English. Nor in Chinese, which are the two languages that I understand. But I like the song. So what if I don’t understand it? Get over yourself. Not that you’re judging me or anything.

And now the song is talking about crushes. Either way, I think that the term is the most terrible thing ever. “Crush”? I agree, it’s quite fitting, but like, must it be so depressing? “Oh, and by the way, you’re going to be crushed by your own feelings at the end. Just to let you know.” How depressing is that.

Anyways, I can’t really tell what the song is talking about. Oh well. I decided that I like the feeling of my hair at my neck. It’s just really interesting. And I really like the feeling of typing, and seeing random things show up on my computer. This post was more like a rant, yes, I said it would be a rant. And it’s not exactly creative? What is creative anyhow? I feel like a creative thing should be a story. But even if that’s not true, would this be considered as creative? This is just like me talking, exploding with sentences that are completely random. I write like this on my friend E-‘s wall, but that’s just because… well it’s because this is just the way I think. I suppose I could get into a mood and spew random sentimental stuff from my fingertips (ew, spew? That sounds like I’m going to throw up from my fingers. That’s really nasty.) But yea, it’s a mood I guess.

So is this creative? I have no idea. Anyways, even though I feel like I should be talking to myself, I feel like I’m talking to someone out there, someone I don’t know, someone that might randomly want to read this (I have no idea why a random person would want to read this. This is just complete nonsense). Well, I hope you, random person that I would have never met and decided to actually go through the entire post, had a lot of fun.

Because I think I did.



LAST NOTE: I was curious as to how long the post was, and before I typed this note, it was 1040 words. That’s absolutely ridiculous for a random rant that I just thought of over the course of probably 10 or 15 minutes. Yay for randomness~!

Alone

With a smile and a hug, I bid my excited and chattering friends farewell as they all shuffled to my friend E-'s house, a cute blue abode within five minutes walking distance from the school. Really, if that little path didn't close down, she would be a single minute away (and she probably would not be rushing in barely late all the time). However, couple angry neighbors and a fence later, the path was down for the count. Goodness, I really wish that people took better care of the path so that we all could use it...

But I digress. As I turned away, I lightly trotted in my satin black flats toward the exit of the school. I could feel the talking from the lunchroom die away as I walked farther and farther away. I approached the metal door, and braced myself as I swung it open on its newly oiled hinges. A cold blast of air met my face with great force, and I cringed a bit. It was getting quite chilly, and my knee length velvet skirt with a cute lace border did not do much in the warmth department. Oh, the price I pay for fashion...

The door swung close behind me, shutting out the last of the unintelligible noise from the munching students out. A breeze blew, and carried the faint sound of the marching band's single drumbeat over to my ears. I glanced over at the tiny figures in the football field - they looked nice and warm. Unlike me. I could make out some of them leaning over to whisper to friends as they stomped up and down the astro-turf faux grass, trying not to be caught by the band director. They had each other, they had company, they had their own secrets to share and experience with each other. Unlike me.

Feeling unbearably lonely, knowing that all of my friends were most likely laughing and chattering together on the way to E-'s – or perhaps they were already there – in companionable happiness, I fished out my black Ipod from my backpack. I dutifully and slowly unwound the pink ear buds from its coiled position around the clear plastic shell that surrounded my listening device.

Boy I like you, gotta make you mine, Imma treat you right baby


Why is everything so easy for them? Why does it seem like they’re just expressing their desire and poof everything just happens perfectly?

Baby I need you, boy you need me too

So songs really don’t apply to real life. If anyone said that, it would either be received as an arrogant statement, or be some kind of sappy romance in a chick flick. But what I wouldn’t give for my life to be a fairy tale sometimes. Happily ever after? Yeah, that sounds pretty good to me. Cutesy songs accompanying me and my lovely exploits with kind animals at every corner. Yeah, it does sound really good. Perhaps a little scary at first (after all, animals that talk and approach you and help with random tasks would be a little disorientating at first), but I could really get used to it. The good girl always wins the guy of her dreams, right? Or at least realizes that the person who loves her is the guy of her dreams, or something. It’s better that what’s happening in my life right now.

Because I’m all alone. Alone. I have friends yes, but I’m alone, my other half is missing. Although, in all honesty, I’m not so sure my other half exists, and I do pride myself in being an independent woman. But sometimes, I truly do desire someone to be with me at my side…

Thoughts race through my head, weighing the pros and cons of being alone versus with someone. Sometimes, a wistful smile passes my face, only to be hidden under the stoic blanket of indifference.

The bus comes, and I get on, alone.

Alone…

Alone.

What a sappy sketch...

A phrase escaped from the absentminded wanderings of my mind, and his face blossomed like a daisy in spring. The expression crept from his lips and white teeth to his nose and eyes, crinkling them in utter joy. The greenish gray eyes that were framed by perfectly curled lashes sparkled with utter amusement, and his features conveyed a simple amusement that touched me to my core. What a surprising reaction! A simple statement, a simple response, yet I feel as if my world has shifted slightly and my heart has beat just a little faster. Broad shoulders curve forward a little bit as he completes the image of a blissful and carefree child, laughing and enjoying the moment.


I stared at his figure, as it seemed to glow from the light coming in from the large windows. He had a slightly awkward stance, as if he was self-conscious of how much space his strong body was taking. He held his left arm with his right hand, as if trying to shrink down a bit so that he would be less conspicuous. His light brown hair was cropped in a rather stylish cut, tousled slightly to make him look natural and relaxed.

He noticed me looking at him rather curiously, and the smile disappeared from his face, replaced by a worried glance. “Is there something on my face?” He queried softly, speaking with the gentleness of a summer breeze. His voice touched my ears like an angel’s breath, and caressed my soul with the softness of a downy blanket.

I blushed, unaware of the blatancy of my actions until he pointed it out. I shook my head and looked down, but quickly lifted my head back up to watch his expression. I wouldn’t dare miss a single blink of his beautiful eyes, a single twitch of his eyebrows, a single breath that came from his lips.

He looked confused for a moment, but gave me a shy smile, as if to say that he didn’t mind my actions. Really, I understood that he didn’t really understand my true motives; he was just a blissfully oblivious child living in his own little world.

How quickly he became the sunshine of my day, how quickly he took a spot in my melting heart…

Suriving the Storm

The chattering in the halls was deafening, yet words could not be made out. The overlapping of eager and excited conversations echoed within the walls of concrete facility and in the chamber of her brain. Dull eyes barely functioned as monotonous reflexes carried her down the ever-familiar path, headed toward the same old place at exactly the same time each day.

The waves of the deep blue ocean lapped at the raft, as she squinted her eyes at the glaring sun. She couldn’t survive much longer. She could see the storm clouds in the distance.

Suddenly, she burst out into the cool, clean, winter air. Breaths escaped with visible delight in their freedom, floating toward the dreary gray sky. As always, she tugged her knit cardigan down to smooth its wrinkles, and pulled her arms close to her body to save warmth. Ducking her head down, she hurried her pace to a brisk stroll, heading toward the direction of her next task. Cutting, cold air blew past, lifting her soft raven hair to float like a kite behind her. As fast as it took flight, it resettled on her back: icy cold, burning through her clothes.

She lay down on the raft, knowing that the end was near. She had to find it, find land. The waves picked up and jolted the floating bundle. She was going to capsize. “Save me… save me…”

The warmth of the inside sharply contrasted the bitter air. Thoughtless actions brought her to a chair and a desk. Smooth movements: the chair was pulled out, the body moved down. Settled in her temporary prison, movement ceased. A still, lifeless figure sat rigid and upright. Even the rise and fall of breathing seemed hidden within the woolen clothes of the season. Waiting, waiting. Nothing new, nothing special. Expressionless. An hour passed and a sound indicated for her to leave. Her body stood, and moved yet again.

Wildly racing, trying to paddle away from the fierce storm, she wails and pleads for mercy. “I just need someone, please, someone… help…” Her voice dies out as she is hit by a crushing wave, leaving her breathless and void of any hope.

Leaving the mess of the institution behind her, exiting the suffocating stone structure, her feet carried her to a wood. The tall trees ethereally glittered with ice crystals. The crunching of the frozen ground beneath her petite feet was the only sound that disturbed the serene silence. The eyes, now liquid, gazed as the tree as if greeting an old friend with a weary tiredness of an ancient soul. Turning her back to it, she slid and sat at the base. Feeling insignificant, the cold settled into her bones; her delicate top insufficient armor against nature. Her eyes closed as she gave into the cold.

Beating her down, the waves, wind, and rain took their turns at her. Her grip on the raft was slowly loosening; the storm was winning.

“Hey!” A voice cut through her numbness. “Hey, are you okay?” Brown cropped hair came into view; green eyes stared down at her.

Land?

Warm arms wrapped around her freezing body. Her eyes opened, and stared at the lively and sparkling eyes, filled with something that she vaguely remembered. Concern.

Tired hands grasped, and found warm sand. Sand? Eyes opened, and found her body on a warm beach, with a lush green jungle ahead. Was she saved?

Her eyes gave out a spark of relief, and they closed yet again. Her body melted into the accepting and strong arms, and the last of her consciousness drifted away, knowing she was safe.

Land.

Still like Death

Perhaps I was the only person who didn't really like The Man Who Knew Belle Starr. I agree it was a suspenseful read, but perhaps I like more laid back stories, of lazy summer days and sweet young romance. I agree, it was superbly written – each detail painted yet another stroke, added another layer of paint to the filled canvas. Descriptions of the characters, the actions, and the setting layered like acrylic paint, forming a three dimensional picture on a two dimensional page.

However, I still didn’t like it. Belle Starr was fairly unbelievable to me. A random girl who was psychotic and randomly shoots people for fun? I guess living in a sheltered little life; I would have a hard time believing that. Psychopaths just don’t cross my path. It almost seemed like she snapped halfway through… I suppose it started to make sense when she mentioned the “obscene” insults, and that she was supposed to be mentally unstable, but I was wary of her character. It was hard for me to truly imagine her as a real person. Rather, she seemed like one of those characters from those Asian dramas, where at least one person in each series must: 1) go crazy 2) die 3) mourn and grieve inconsolably over the loss of someone. Really, it’s just unreasonable.

I liked McRae, when most people didn’t. I guess I felt that he was written as a kind person who had changed. He didn’t seem like the man who had assaulted his superior. I suppose I have nothing to support that by (besides the last line, but that was implying that he changed right then), but a gut feeling.

Overall, this story left me with chills…

So, like Inx, I feel like writing a little creative blurb:

Night creeps in; the air chills with the absolute darkness of the inky sky. Long raven hair swishes as slow movement carries the light body through the empty space. Trees stand tall, and the smallest rustles are heard as delicate feet pad gently on the forest floor. Suddenly, movement stops. Soulful eyes raise their view from horizontal to vertical. They notice the wispy clouds, the lonely moon. A few stars twinkle feebly, as if not strong enough express themselves to their full potential. Lips part; a sigh escapes. An utter feeling of desolation and emptiness sweeps the forest; a wolf howls in despair. The eyes, searching yet not finding, lower from the sky to the ground. With a few more gentle steps, the flowing hair is gone. The earth is still like death, and all is serene.