Midori's World

2009-07-01T06:51:00.000-07:00

MY LAST POST UNTIL AFTER O LEVELS.

THIS TIME IT'S FOR REAL.

Missing my muse

2009-06-21T07:00:00.001-07:00

I want to write I want to write I want to write.

SOMETHING OTHER THAN FANFICS OF MY OWN LIFE. (Oh man, can you imagine how lame that is?)

Dead again

2009-05-09T20:36:00.000-07:00

After one week of inspiration, it's all dried up. Ah well, I knew it was too good to last.

At least I got three poems out of it. And I don't feel like going into hysterics over one person every so often now.

I don't expect to be inspired again any time soon.

I don't just need the touch of inspiration to spur me on; I need comments, criticisms and all that. Everyone's too busy studying to read my shit so...

Bye bye muse. I shall miss you.

----

I'm not making any sense, am I? I'm scaring myself too.

Are you laughing? I'm not.

2009-04-30T03:14:00.000-07:00

Yes, that really is the title to this poem.

Are you laughing? I'm not. (30/4/2009)

Three cheers to my darling muse
For inspiring as many poems in a week
But wait a minute, why am I thanking you?
Let's have a look, shall we?
Last Friday I got snickers and stares
From a bunch of your fellow schoolmates
There was some pointing and plenty of glares
Whatever have you said?
So other than the cold shoulder
What else have you given moi?
Oh, I don't know, just possibly
The pain of being ignored?
Then of course, there's adolescent frustration
It's playing havoc with my skin
And let's not forget the void your absence brings
Constant hunger makes it impossible to stay thin
I can't take much more of this
Not saying the inspirations aren't of use
But seriously, will you just talk to me
This isn't at all cute
So once again, three cheers to you dear
For being my one and only muse
But I'll trade it all for just one thing
An actual conversation with you

---
I've been eating like a pig for the past few weeks. Argh.

Obsession

2009-04-30T03:11:00.000-07:00

Obsession (29/4/2009)

It starts with the whisper of silence
The shadow of dreams that linger in light
It morphs into a being of substance
One that watches you the darkest nights

Its caress at first the gentlest of blushes
A comforting warmth that spreads throughout
It brings the peace of a warm smile
The soft touch that erases your every doubt

But oh, how quickly it changes
From something so pure and sweet
To an evil greed that knows no end
A craving you cannot possibly feed

It preys on your hopes and poisons your speech
Its fetid breath stinks of decay and mould
A demon that controls your every thought
Once grown, it'll never leave you alone

---
My more conventional style of poetry. I like how it started, but it still feels off.

Claustrophobia

2009-04-27T05:36:00.000-07:00

Claustrophobia

I never liked crowds. Not since that mosh pit, two years ago. The fear of falling down, getting trampled. But when you're stuck in a crowd, you're stuck; whether you like it or not.

People moving past me. Being shoved in all directions. Sudden image of tripping down these steps and rolling all the way down. Thank goodness, it doesn't happen.

Three, two one. Safely down the stairs. Take a step forward, look left then right. There you are, a grin on your face. Then you seem me and that smile fades.

Crap. Is it me, or is it getting warm here? It's a little hard to breathe too. Stupid crowd. I want to say something, do something; smile, give a thumbs-up, yell congrats. Anything.

Too many people. Way too many. Getting very hard to breathe. You just stare at me. Wondering what the heck I'm doing here. I wonder the same thing too. Raise my hands in surrender, an admission of guilt. And back away.

Stupid crowd. Stupid stupid people. Most of all; stupid stupid stupid me.

On crushes and hormones

2009-04-26T05:21:00.000-07:00

On crushes and hormones (23/4/2009)

Mouth dry, tight smile. Meanwhile
My heart's trying to fly away.
I feel like a nervous
Child. Why oh why is it so
Hard to just
Say 'hi'?
My calm, my composure,
Shattered. Like glass.
Cheeks hot and flushed; stop blushing
I order. Of course
The body won't follow.
And the ordeal's over. Finally.
But
As he leaves, I feel
Hollow. Hyperactive heart's replaced
With stone. What's wrong with me,
I ask. Embarrassed heat's gone, leaving me
Cold. It's not an impossible task.
To walk to your crush
And just
Say
"Hi."

---
Trying run-on verse. It's... really different. Can't say I'm happy about the inspiration tho.

Will you miss me while I'm gone?

2009-04-18T03:22:00.000-07:00

Finally, a post.

But to any of my fans out there (Alright, I am blatantly ignoring the cricket sounds and everything; just let me have this "pretend ego" for the moment), prepare to be disappointed, because I'm not back with kisses and apologies on how I've been absent and how I'll never doing it again. Because, until after my O levels, this blog shall DIE.

And until I return and turn this soont-to-be-dead blog into a zombie, I shall be studying my ass off. I need. Seven. A1s.

FINE. I KNOW I ALWAYS SET IMPOSSIBLE EXPECTATIONS FOR MYSELF. BUT IF I DON'T ACHIEVE THIS ONE IT'LL BE THE LAST IMPOSSIBLE EXPECTATION. I PROMISE.

(Cos I'll kill myself if I don't get it.)

Aftermath

2009-03-08T00:56:00.001-08:00

After the finale of Avatar: The Last Airbender. (Note this IS an Avatar fanfiction) I once wrote about how after Eva died in my Xiaolin Showdown fanfic, she was transported to the Avatar universe to “redeem” herself. She mostly allied herself with Zuko; I think the two characters are quite alike. They’re both lost and searching for their place in the world.

Does anyone remember my story from a few months back; written in first person perspective, in which Eva is raped by Chase? This is picking up from where I left that off.

“Fire Lord Zuko.” She bowed deeply, as she would have for an emperor to her own country.

He was lying at the foot of a willow tree in the gardens of the Fire palace, his hair free from the formal court hairstyle. Looking relaxed and – she realised with a small shock – content. The night’s sky was reflected in his sun gold eyes, making them look like the world’s strangest jewel.

“Eva!”He started, as always, when he saw her. “How did you get in here? Where have you been? Why did you go? How – “

She held up a hand to stop him. “Wait, I can’t answer that many questions at once. How, I sneaked past the guards. Where, well, a place. Why, I had no choice.” She paused. “Anything else?”

“You’re not answering me!” He didn’t look so serene anymore, just frustrated. “Why are you always running off to some place, without any kind of warning?”

“Why do you care?” she asked, stung.

“I care because you’re my friend!”

“Friends? Don’t make me laugh,” she muttered darkly, turning to leave.

“You’re not alone Eva.” He took her hand. She hesitated for a second, and then shrugged it off roughly. “If you’ll stop pushing everyone away, then maybe you’ll see you do have friends. We’re here. Not just me, Uncle Iroh, Aang, Katara, Mai – “

“Speaking of which.” She twisted around to face him, but didn’t meet his eyes. “How are things with you and Mai? Or have you broken up with her, and you’re with Katara now?”

“Katara? What? No, I – she – she’s with Aang!”

“I was just teasing you. No need to get so worked up.”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

“You know, I heard your ascension speech. You’re going to build ‘an era of love and peace’? “ She tsked. “What’s happened to you? I thought you were strong, Zuko. You should have held on to your anger. I didn’t think you would get so weak.”

“You sound just like my father and sister,” he said quietly. “Loving is not a weakness!”

“Tell that to Chase.” I loved him and he killed me, were her unspoken words. She knew he heard them.

There was a pause. When it became apparent he wasn’t going to say anything else, she turned to go. “I only wanted to see how you were doing. See if you were happy.”

“I’d be happier if you could be.” She started to walk away again, but he caught hold of her shoulder.

“Zuko, let go of me.”

“Stop letting your past haunt you! Eva, you’ve got to move on, your time in that world is over and done with, you can start again in this world – “

“Move on? Start over?” She laughed and the sound of it choking with bitterness and hate seemed to cut like glass shards in her throat. “That’s not an option for me.”

“Why not? Why can’t it be?”

“Zuko, if you don’t let go of me right now, something very painful is going to happen to you. How would you like it if I burned the other half of you face – “

“Look at me!” he yelled with all the authority he could muster.

Slowly, almost painfully, she turned to face him, but still, her head was bowed, as if he couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

He saw her clearly now. She was thinner, much much thinner, her skin seeming to stretch tightly over her bones. Purple shadows ringed her eyes and there were bruises all over her face and neck, some of the fresh while others yellowing.

“Who did this to you?”

She said nothing, but this time, he noticed her response; she bit her lip tightly, he saw how her muscles tightened.

“Why won’t you answer me?”

There was one injury on her neck that he couldn’t look away from; it looked like a bite mark, one of those things that Mai would give him and he would have to hide, embarrassed. But this one looked different, they were fangs. It couldn’t be an animal’s bite mark, it was too small, and yet the fangs –

“Love is a weakness, Zuko. I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Chase did this to you?”

She flinched at his name. “Shut up.”

“I thought he killed you! I thought he’s in some other world – “

“Yes, he did. He is. You’re lucky he is.” Her voice was flat, emotionless.

“Then how – “

“It doesn’t matter how! I go when he calls, I go immediately because if he ever finds out that I can come here, you will all be dead. Your world will be dead.”

“We can stop him – “

“No. You can’t. I can’t. Not even if we all worked together, not even if the entire world worked together.”

“He can’t be that powerful. No one can.”

“He is. My powers increased tenfold when I came here, and I have never once defeated him in battle. Can you imagine what he would be like if he came?” She saw him shudder, for only a moment. Good. He understood. “He is insane. A genius, but insane. Someone like your sister. Only a hundred, no a thousand times more powerful and cunning. You can never hope to defeat him.”

He knew it then. It wasn’t her depression talking; Eva had always had a good judgment of someone’s power and ability.

She raised her head; too quickly, he saw how the half-closed wound on her neck jerked open, a trickle of blood spilling out. He saw her eyes, the green orbs flat and glassy. Even though she was looking at him, he thought she wasn’t seeing anything. Or maybe she could only see her nightmares.

“What does he do to you?”

She never blinked. “Whatever he wants.”

He had nothing to say to that.

She smiled, and something a shone out of her eyes. For a second, he thought he saw the little girl she could have been.

“I’m happy for you all. Really, I am.” Then her eyes grew sad again, and once more, she was the lonely girl he’d always known. “But you’ve just won a century-old war. You have to rebuild your world. I can’t drag you all into a fight you’re going to lose.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

There was a flicker in her eyes. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

“You don’t have to be alone, Eva.” He pulled her to him. She struggled.

“What would your girlfriend say if she saw you now?” she asked. He didn’t slacken his grip.

“Zuko, let go –“

“Eva, just relax. For a minute. Just one minute.” He patted her back a little awkwardly, then rubbed it gently, like how his mother used to comfort him when he was younger.

He felt something warm and wet fall on his shoulder. It took him a second to realise they were tears. But Eva never cried.

“I’m just tired,” she whispered. “I’m tired of everything.”

“Eva, I – “

“Being strong all the time, living alone, walking alone, running alone, I’m tired of it all.” She said it so quietly, he wasn’t sure if he heard her at all.

“You don’t have to be alone.”

“I can trust again. I know. I can feel again. And I’ll get hurt again. It’s a human instinct to avoid pain, you know.” She barely seemed to be speaking to him.

“But that’s life. You’ve got to feel. It hurts sometimes, but it’s worth it.”

“Is it? Is it really, Zuko? Remember what it was like when your mother left? When your father treated you like scum? When you betrayed your uncle? Isn’t it so much easier to feel nothing at all?” She sighed. “The worst thing is that I don’t even know what I want.”

He had no answer to her questions; he could only hold her tighter.

“We’re only human,” he finally said. “We’re weak, but we have to try.”

She snorted; whether because she disagreed he couldn’t tell, but otherwise, she didn’t make any noise.

They stayed in each other’s arms for a long time; two souls, cold and scarred from the world, just trying to find peace.

End

I can’t come up with a conclusive ending until I can come up with one for my life.
Dear Eva, this is your story? Are you satisfied now? Can you leave me alone now? Please?

Letter to you

2009-03-04T05:08:00.000-08:00

Love (insert name here),

Always. It's always the same.

Another day of checking my phone constantly to see if I have a message (or if I'm I'm in class, every time my teacher's back is turned). Another day of hanging around, hoping to just see you. Another day where there's a funny twinge in my chest when I think about you. It's almost as if you're dead.

But then I remember you're not going to reply my messages. And that you're not in school, and that you're not dead. Just gone.

Sometimes, that's almost worse. I'm the eternal pessimist, always anticipating the worst, that you'll get snapped up quickly in your new school, by a prettier girl, by someone who called out to you with her sad smile, like I did. Someone smarter than me, someone who understands you better than I do; your new "calm in this mad world". And at the same time, there is that stupid inextinguishable hope; hope that my fears will remain fears and that you will come back. And then, I remember that I was the stupid one who pushed you away, because it's for the sake of my studies, because I'm confused for everything that I feel for you, because I could have had the chance so many times but I turned it down I'M SORRY.

I need to sort out my feelings, but I need you too. All this time away from you has just reinforced what I thought was just love talk. I can't live without you. I can't.

Every time I achieve something; doing well in a test, finishing a story; the first person I want to run to and tell is you. When I cry, the person I want to hold me until I feel better is you. I want to see you smile at me, every day. But when I run out to look for you, you're never there. But of course not.

Do I love you? Do I really? All of the above seem to be the symptoms of love, don't they? I think, after spending more time with more people, I don't just want attention. I want your attention. Yours.

And still I don't want to hurt you. Is it really inevitable to be hurt in a relationship?

Mindfucking. Too mindfucking. That's what I said about relationships, right? And it's true.

Stop pushing me to other people. I don't want a relationship with anyone. Anyone but you. I won't especially not now, in my current state of mind.

I'll stop crying. I'll try, I promise I'll try. Would that be enough? No, right?

I need you. I really do.

But you've already given up on me, haven't you?

Love,
Me

Nightmare II

2009-02-28T06:53:00.000-08:00

I’m on a beach. It’s grey, literally; the sand, the sea and the sky are all grey, and there’s a mist that makes it hard to see anything more than a few meters away. There’s hardly any light since the sun’s completely covered by the clouds, so it’s impossible to tell the time of the day. I’m alone.

I don’t like being alone, especially in a place like this. I keep walking along the silver sand, listening to the constant sound of waves. I can’t hear any birds; I can’t hear anything but the waves. It terrifies me.

Finally, I can see the shape of a person in the distance. As I move closer, I see it’s a girl, dressed in a simple white dress. She notices me at the same time and starts walking towards me.
I stop. There is an unexpected fear to see that I’m not alone. In horror movies and in my worst nightmares, to be alone would be a blessed thing, considering you don’t know if the other person is human. I don’t have anything I can defend myself with, no way which I protect myself. Finally, I pick up a handful of sand. I can always throw it at her face and run if she attacks me.
She stops in front of me. “Hello,” she says.

Up close, I can see that she’s pretty. Her skin’s white and smooth like a porcelain tea cup, just how I would like mine to be. Her large eyes are green, like wet jade. She’s got aristocratic cheekbones and a pointy sort of chin. Her long black hair contrasts against her skin and dress, her limbs are long and thin. She’s like an anime character to life; just the kind of person I’d love to draw.

“Hello,” I answer, conscious of her cool gaze appraising me. “Where are we?”

“I don’t really know,” she says, shrugging. “I just woke up and found myself here.”

I sigh in relief. “Me too.” At least we’re in the same boat.

“It’s a pretty place though, isn’t it?” she says.

It takes me only a second to realize what she means. Now that my fear has abated, I can admire the misty beach, the way the sand under my feet sparkles like there are handfuls of miniature diamonds, the different shades of grey in the sky; silver, blue grey, ash, charcoal, slate…

“Yeah, it is,” I agree.

“D’you want to keep walking?” she asks. I nod, and walk beside her.

The sound of the waves is no longer terrifying, but calm and soothing. We talk, just a little, to break the silence.

“Look,” she suddenly says, pointing.

I squint, trying to see past the mist.

It’s a cliff. Quite a tall one too. It’s sides are jagged and worn, from the constant spray of the waves.

“I bet if we climb up there, we’ll be able to see how far this beach stretches. Maybe we can figure out a way to get out of here,” she says.

“If we can even see through this damned fog,” I say.

We resume walking.

“What do you do for fun?” she asks me.

“Erm. I write? Sort of.”

“Really? What about?”

“Fanfictions, mostly. I don’t have the talent or the patience to create a whole world. Or original characters of my own. Usually I just – I’m sorry, I’m boring you.” She wasn’t interested in my private fantasies. Not to mention that they were private.

“No, no. Go on.” She smiles gently, her eyes sparkling. Why, oh why can some people look so beautiful? It wasn’t fair.

“Erm, yeah. Fanfics. The character I come up with is usually like the trigger to the entire story. Like why so-and-so killed who, and why some other person did what he did. And the character – usually it’s a girl – has a bunch of guys falling in love with her, or lusting for her or something. It’s a little Mary-sueish, fine, more than a little the character, well, the one I’ve been using is too perfect.”

“So do you see yourself as her?”

I’m startled. “No, not at all. Eva – the character – is well, everything that I’ll like to be. Someone strong. Someone that people would actually want and love.”

We’re at the foot of the cliff now. “C’mon,” she say s when I stop to gape at it.

“I’m not in the best of shape,” I warn her.

“Don’t worry, I’ll wait for you.”

Lucky for me, we don’t have to climb or scale anything; there’s a path that winds around the cliff gently. It’s quite easy to walk.

“What are your stories like?” she suddenly asks.

“Bad,” I reply immediately and she laughs.

“That’s what every write thinks,” she says.

“I suppose I’m of above average quality,” I say, trying not to sound too modest or arrogant at the same time. “At least my sentences are mostly cohesive and I do have basic grammar, paragraphing, and what not. But I’ve still got a lot to learn.”

“At least you know your strengths,” she smiles. “But no. My question was: What are your stories like? What are they about?”

“Love partly,” I say, flushing a little at the immaturity of it all. “I mean, every teenage girl likes some romance right? But my stories are usually dark, with blood gore, anger, hate, revenge; stuff like that. I usually end up killing the protagonist, and some other characters.”

“Why?”

“It’s the only way I know how to end a story.” I try to explain; it’s something I’ve never done before. “I mean, happy endings aren’t possible, not I real life. And the ending is usually bittersweet for the two lovers.”

“Bittersweet? How on earth do you manage that?” she asks.

“Do you think it’s a blessing to be killed by someone you love more than your life?” I ask. “If it would keep him safe? To protect him from yourself?”

“But you’re the writer. Why can’t you just take their problems away?”

“Sometimes it doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t make sense for the characters if I made it easy for them. It’s like the characters make their own decisions from the paper.”

We’re at the top of the cliff. The mist here seems even thicker than it was on the ground.

“Damn,” I mutter. Breathing if harder here too, whether from the mist or the altitude, I have no idea. And we can’t see anything. “Looks like we came up here for nothing.”

“No, not nothing,” she says.

The mist seems to be clearing slightly. There is a fresh breeze, bringing with it the tang of salt. I can feel my mouth drop as I glimpse the thousands of stars in the sky as the mist parts.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.

“Isn’t it?” she smiles sadly. “At least you gave me such a place to die in.”

Oh God, no. Why didn’t I see this earlier? “You’re Eva,” I say. It’s not a question.

She nods. Her face is both lovely and grave, “Why? Why did you kill me?”

I take an instinctive step back. “I didn’t kill you. Chase did – “

“Only because you made him!” she screams.

Her face twists in rage, she raises her hands, her fingers curled into claws.

“It’s YOUR fault!” she shrieks. “IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!”

I open my mouth to try to defend myself, but nothing comes out.

“Eva, I – “

“I’m not the only one angry at you.”

I feel my blood freeze. What kind of a hell is this?

There’s the sound of clanking chains, then something shoots out of the darkness. I glimpse the flash of metal, and then there’s a searing pain on my cheek. I feel hot blood drip down, and then there’s another flash of metal as whatever had hit me retracts.

“Damn, I missed,” a deep voice grumbles.

And they all emerge. A man in the dull orange robes of a monk, bald, save for the long plait of black hair that hangs like a rope pas this shoulders. He carries a gleaming spear, its tip stained with blood. There’s a woman with a mane of red hair, her scarlet lips spread in a cruel smile. A small Japanese girl, her hair in piglets. A big-sized blonde boy with a cowboy hat. A boy with dark eyes and a darker smile. Another boy, a little one, with a huge round head.

All those I killed in my fanfictions. And behind them, I can see the gleam of more eyes and metal, bodies shuffling and clamoring in the darkness for revenge. More people I’d killed.

“You’re not real,” I breathe. “You’re just figments of my imagination. You don’t exist.” I’m trying to convince myself all that, trying to wake up.

With a shriek of fury, tinged with more than a little madness, Eva leaps at me, pushing me down on the ground, her hands wrapping around my throat.

“Can you feel this?” she screams. “Can you? If we were just figments of your wonderful imagination, you wouldn’t feel anything, would you?” Her grip tightens, I can’t breathe. There are black spots in my vision, a roaring in my ears. I don’t want to die, not like this.
Then, miraculously, she lets go. I take a gulp of blessed air, then a second and a third. I catch sight of Eva, and my heart stops.

She’s holding a dagger in her hand, her eyes glinting with insanity.

“I figured I’ll kill you the way you killed me,” she said, a smile playing on her lips. “Do you remember how you killed me? The first time, a stab in the heart. And the second, you actually had my heart ripped out of my chest.

“Oh, not to mention you had Guan’s intestines ripped out. Wuya had her face smashed in list goes on and on, Miss I’m such a great writer.”

She leans over me, and then grabs my skull, smashing it on the rocky ground, again and again and again. I scream, a wordless roar of fear and pain.

“Keep screaming!” Eva screeches. “No one’s going to rescue you!”

Who would help me, I wondered. There had to be one person, one who hadn’t suffered, one I hadn’t tortured; only it was so hard to think with the pain.

“Stop it Eva, we want to do – “ Wuya starts.

“Shut up!” Eva screams and she stops smashing my head. “She’s mine. Mine. I’ll kill you if you dare get in my way!”

They back away, afraid. God, what have I created?

Eva turns back to me, panting. That’s when I remember. Someone I’ve never killed.

“Chase!” I scream his name, praying, praying he can hear me. “CHASE! HELP ME!”

Eva throws back her head and laughs. “Chase? Sorry to disappoint you, but he’s not coming.”

Finally, I start crying, hot tears streaming down my cheeks.

“I gave him everything,” I whisper pathetically. “Everything. Power. Immortality. Riches.”

“You made him cruel,” she reminds me. “And cruel he is.” She brings down the knife, pausing over my heart for a fraction of a second to hear me sob.

“Scream and cry all you want,” she hisses. “Chase isn’t going to save you.”

End

---
I dreamt this. I really did. Eva was in the process of ripping my intestines out when I woke up, and for a few minutes, I couldn't move.

I've killed her so many times and still she won't leave me alone.

Valentine's Day

2009-02-19T03:53:00.000-08:00

Roses are red.

And white, pink and yellow. Heck, you can even get them in blue and purple now. But she didn’t really care. Red roses were her favourite, and the roses in front of her were most definitely red.
She bent down to sprinkle ice chips over her flowers, keeping them nicely chilled, as instructed.
The arrangement really was beautiful, she thought appreciatively. Five red roses were the highlight of the piece, placed in a miniature garden with little white flowers that resembled chrysanthemum and some stalks that had some strange flat and round leaves. Two of these stalks were pulled upwards, then wrapped with a length of inconspicuous green wire and pulled gently down, forming a heart. All this was placed in a heart-shaped box wrapped with a shiny pink plastic material.

The really wonderful thing about roses was the smell, she decided, as she took another whiff. It was like stepping into a florist, a rich frangrance that enveloped the senses, then gently faded to a softly-draping veil, like morning mist. She wondered if this was what it was like to step into a rose garden.

She got up from her position, suddenly craving chocolate. There was still plenty of Valentine's Day junk in the fridge.

She passed by the dining table, and her gaze alighted on a single rose stalk in a plastic mug. The stem had wilted slightly, even though she had given it plenty of water and kept it out of sunlight. The red petals had begun to blacken slightly too. The solitary rose looked forlorn and sad.
No one should have to be alone.

She fingered the soft petals, wondering if it were really possible to make a dress out of rose petals, like the faeries in Enid Blyton tales.

The roses weren’t much more than a bud really; its petals only just beginning to unfurl. Its chance to bloom had been cut down, for a stupid overrated occasion, she thought, but she couldn’t really feel anything.

She bent down to sniff it. At first, she thought it didn’t have a smell, but then there was a shy, soft kind of scent, something so fragile she was careful not to inhale too deeply in case she shattered it. It took a few seconds, and then it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
She straightened up, only partially conscious of the half-smile on her face. She remembered that she had read somewhere, that roses were beautiful, whether in bud, or fully-bloomed or just petals scattered around. She agreed.

People said Valentine’s day was a waste of money, that it was an overrated, stupid holiday where florists made more money than they did in three months. It was the day when it became an obligation to give flowers and chocolates, so wouldn’t it be better to have flowers any other day? And flowers withered quickly, why go gaga over them?

But I love flowers, she thought. And since Valentine’s Day is the only day of the year I get roses, why not take advantage of that and hint shamelessly? And sure, artificial roses never withered or died, but it was nothing that a flower was supposed to be; the smell, the feel of it. No matter how great technology got, it could never replicate a genuine living thing just by studying its chemical makeup.

She was about to go into her room to study, but once again, the sight of the lonely rose stalk, standing all on its own, made her pause.

She took the rose and snipped off a little of the long stem, then stuck it into her rose garden box, just below the indent of the heart.

She stepped back to admire her work. The smaller rose now towered over the rest of the flowers, no longer sad or forlorn. She could have been imagining it, but she thought it seemed to have perked up already, just a little.

No one deserves to be alone.

---
Wanted to write something really profound, but obviously, it failed.

Thanks for the roses, Siaw Ee and Tiky.

No time

2009-02-18T03:16:00.000-08:00

"Time scurries around like rats, feasts on you as you sleep."

I've finally got a fanfic out. Well, I'm in the midst of writing it.

NO TIME TO TYPE IT OUT. Why can't scientists invent some machine that can measure our brainwaves and write what we think, instantaneously? I've got so many ideas, I wake up with dreams, but before I can get them down, they're forgotten; crowded out by mundane things like Maths, Chinese, Biology, debate, whatever.

Is the time after the O levels really that worth it?

Gray

2009-02-02T03:21:00.002-08:00

What's wrong with my writing? What is lacking? Is it too different from the mainstream, is it too awful, is too strange, too macabre, too depressing?

Trial and Error

2009-01-21T05:44:00.000-08:00

Trial & Error (Title suggested by Hanis)

It was a long time ago or so it seems
In a forgotten land of dust
You spirited me to your Elysium
Rescued me from endless dusk

Forests carved from silver and gems
Meandering rivers of honey
Endless orchards of flowers and fruit
This was your kingdom, your country

You crowned me with the reddest roses
And declared me as your queen
But I forgot that flowers have thorns
Hidden amongst the petals and green

A time after you tired of me
Nothing I did could please you
Your warmth vanished, you grew distant
Your affection was scattered and few

A taste of magic was what you gave
And then you threw me away
Back to an empty gray cave
Where you expected me to stay

What I would give to see you dead
Slide a knife into your throat
See your eyes widen in fear
Make you sorry for turning cold

Why did you have to show me light
Then return my life to before?
Why show me what I can't have
Only to have me crave more?

I want you and your world
Untainted by fear and hate
I'll forgive you anything always
But can we ever try again?

2008-12-31T06:38:00.001-08:00

SOMEONE INSPIRE ME.

2008-12-28T05:44:00.000-08:00

Merry (belated) Christmas everyone.

And a happy new year.
I DON'T WANT TO SEE IT

Nightmare

2008-11-28T00:49:00.000-08:00

Listening to SNoW's Nightmare. It's in Japanese, so it doesn't hurt so much.

---

The day is cloudy, with a cool breeze that constantly startles the fat pigeons on the ground. The buildings are also gray, all metal and glass.

I clutch a huge bouquet of orange blossoms surrounding a single rose, tiptoeing to get a closer look at the stage. The navy robed graduates are filing off, their mouths stretched in wide grins.

My hair whips across my face with the wind. Squinting through the stray strands, I spot the familiar brown face. As always, I can’t help but smile to see her. I hasten my steps.

Congratulations, I would say. But I couldn’t think of anything else. There were so many unspoken words, after all these years.

One thing hadn’t changed though.

I love you. Even after all this time.

Then I freeze. The whole world slows.

She’s walking hand in hand with another girl.

I can only see her face now, hear her laugh; everything else, even that other girl has faded. The happiness oozing out of every cell in her body. Her warm smile, my smile, the one that is just for me. Flashed in someone else’s direction.

I drop the bouquet; it lands on the pavement with a scatter of petals.

I finally turn my attention to the girl. Did she think she was prettier than me? Did she tell her that she was special, that she was the only one she wanted? Did she know about me?

It’d been ten years since I had spoken to her. We were teenagers, her a year older than me. She left me when she graduated from school. It wasn’t because of the distance she left me; she told me she left me for God. “I can’t be with you,” she told me. “But don’t forget. I’ll always love you. Maybe, if we’re good enough, we’ll be together in heaven.”

She said that she needed to heal. She hid them, but I heard the tears in her voice when I spoke to her on the phone. She said that she would take a month or two. After a week, I tried to contact her. to my horror; I’d realised she had changed everything; her mobile number, her email, even her address and landline. I knew her family had been planning to move, but I didn’t realise she’d timed her “healing period” with that.

It took me almost a year before I found her new address. I had to blackmail, and eventually threaten bodily harm to various contacts before I got the information.

From time to time, I would just hang around, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Sometimes I felt like a stalker, but hell. She had stalked me for four months after we first met.

She graduated from college and entered an arts school while I ended up at the local university, studying Law, a course I never wanted.

I hoped she would get into contact with me. She never did.

That was why I was here today, with the stupid bunch of flowers. I thought she would be able to look at me without hurting now.

What was that she had said to me before she left?

“If you find a guy – “ I started.

“I don’t like guys. I don’t do relationships.”

“So what, you’re going to take a vow of celibacy?”

“Something like that.” She looks at me. “I love you so much.”

I’d believed her. But then, I had believed her when she told me that she would never leave me. When she said that I was the only one she wanted.

I turn to go. I don’t think she even saw me.

***

I love you.

I had taken every type of pill in the fridge. Panadol, cold medicine, Chinese herbs ground into tablets, even vitamin capsules.

It would be enough.

I lie on the bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, watching the shadows dance across it.

I don’t want to go to Heaven without you.

I can’t help the tears that keep falling from my eyes.

I love you. I love you I love you I love you.

---

The things my mind comes up with.

The long way home...

2008-11-26T00:51:00.000-08:00

Commonwealth 2009 essay question 5, class B. "The long way home..."

(Unfortunately I overshot the word limit by 1000 words.)

“Promise me you’ll come back safe.” Her eyes were too bright with unshed tears.

In reply, her husband kissed her.

“I’ll come back to you,” he said, his dark eyes serious and earnest at the same time. “No matter what.”

She held on to him tightly, refusing to let go. In the end, he had to pries her hands gently from him.

“Your arms are the doors to my home,” he whispered in her ear. “So I will come back.”

***

No one really knows exactly how the war started. The whole world has been divided for centuries; tensions running high, each side building up their armies and navies. Scientists have forgotten about helping the good of Mankind, abandoning research in medicine and cures. All they do now is try to find out the best way to blow the Others, the enemies up. There are now enough nuclear weapons on the planet to destroy this solar system. There are satellites in space, filled with missiles, lasers, every kind of weapon of mass destruction a science-fiction writer from the past could dream off.

Then it happened. Someone pushed the button. A whole country was obliterated. Six million lives. Maybe more. The enemies, the Others, deny they did it. Maybe they didn’t. It doesn’t matter. The fuse, sitting in solitude and gather dust for decades was lit.

They quickly realised that nuclear weapons could not work. The Government wants the Other’s lands whole and healthy. They did not abandon the nuclear technology though.

Before my mother died, she told me why. She said that the Government, both the governments kept the nuclear weapons for a reason. If they saw that they were going to lose, they would blow the planet up; destroy every living thing as well as this entire world before they admitted defeat.

Then the letter came to us, intimidating black letters on thick heavy paper. My husband was “called to his duty” to serve the country and he had to leave me. We had only been married six months.

After he left, I stopped holding back my tears. No matter what he said to me, I doubted I was going to see him again. So many had died in just the first month of this war…

Holy Mary, mother of God, sweet Jesus, watch over your son, see that he comes home safe to me, oh God please.

***

Only a week after her husband had left, she began throwing up every morning. She started to watch the dates more carefully, and a month after, she was certain.

It wasn’t a good time to be pregnant. Food was scarce, as it had been for years and the war rations were small, barely enough for a small child, never mind a pregnant woman. She was able to get a friend to stay with her, and it was a good thing that the elderly lady next door had once been a nurse.

They said that the war would end by the end of the year. But she remembered her history lessons; that was what they had said about the first World War, and the second, and the Vietnam war and the Gulf war and all the thousand of countless wars that had happened since. She knew this on would continue for years to come.

Sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she would see how her cheekbones protruded, how tightly her skin seemed to stretch over her face. There was no colour in her face, her skin was as white as a corpse. The only thing animated about her was her eyes, and even then, only sometimes.

She worked in an arms factory every day, as it was her Duty. She continued going even as her waist swelled and she grew so thin and frail she looked as if she would be blown away by the slightest wind, until she looked nothing more than a living skeleton.

***

At times, when I look at myself in the mirror I wonder if he were to come back, would he even look at me twice, would he still want me? I can’t help these thoughts.

And they continue from there. Sometimes, I think the fetus is killing me from inside, just as this life is cutting me as surely as a knife.

Then I remember him, my love’s words. We had been discussing parenthood, before the war.

“If the first child is a girl, I want to name her Helena.” The old-fashioned name was sweet on my lips.

“Gerard, after my father, if a boy,” he stipulated.

Gerard and Helena. I hoped that I might have twins, a boy and a girl. But I would have been happy with either, as long as it was my child, mine and his, our flesh and blood together.

“Please let him come home to me safe,” I whisper as I pray, my hands clasped and my knees sore and aching as I go through this hourly ritual every day. “Let him come home to me and our child.”

I only get silence.

***

She was seven months along when she felt it.

She was in the kitchen at that time; Marie, the friend staying with her was covering the kitchens with blackouts. The heavy black materials were pointless, what with heat-seeking technology these days but the Government still insisted on the blackouts to be put up.

One moment she was holding a glass of water. The next, she was on the floor gasping, there was blood streaked on her palm and there was shouting, not just Marie’s voice, but rough coarse yelling, the voices of men –

Her heart thudded to a stop when she heard his voice, a sound she hadn’t heard for over six months but she recognised it instantly.

“They’re using bio weapons!” he screamed over the cacophony of shouting, the screams of pain and the unmistakable sounds of gunfire. The kitchen, Marie’s face, they all faded away to darkness as the sounds of warfare went on and on until she thought she would scream.

Slowly, like an old television flickering to life, she could see colours. Moving images. The first thing she realised was that everything seemed strangely blurry, and was tinted a poison green; as if she were looking through a green glass on a misty day.

There were men in uniform, Our uniform – she realised with a jolt, recognising the dark blue, almost black colour.

They were falling to the ground, choking, clawing at their skin, leaving bleeding scratches behind. The man closest to her coughed and retched. She stepped back in horror as blood spewed out.

“Wake up!” Marie’s panicked voice was loud, but distant.

Wait –

She saw his face, saw him writhing in the mud like an animal, his features contorted with pain. He wasn’t screaming though, but muttering something. She choked back a sob and leaned closer to hear his dying words –

Her name, whispered over and over again as a litany.

Someone else was calling her loudly. Not Marie, not her husband, someone else –

His face seemed to blur as his body jerked to a stop and his eyes rolled inside his head until only his whites were visible. She knew he was dead.

She blinked, and she was back in the kitchen, Marie’s and Mrs Dubose from next door’s anxious faces above her.

“Are you alright?” Marie asked softly.

“Of course not!” Mrs Dubose snapped in reply. The old lady pulled her to her feet, and forced her on a chair. “Drink,” Mrs Dubose ordered, pressing the hot milk to her.

She obeyed, going through the motions even though her mind was far away. One hand stroked her swollen belly absently, and when she blinked, she wasn’t surprised to find tears in her eyes.

***

The newspapers say nothing, that the enemy has discovered a new weapon, that They have gained the advantage, that our men have lost, that my husband is dead.

There is nothing about losing this war; every page has hope and optimism in it, that this war will come to an end soon and we will be victorious.

I smile, say nothing, do nothing to take away the hope that seems to shine in face. I am too busy grieving for my love, for my child that will grow up fatherless.

Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night with some memory of him; his smile, his laugh, how he had gotten on his knees in the restaurant to propose to me. Tears stain my pillow as I cry for him. There are times when I think about following him –

But I can’t. I have to stay alive, for our child, for him.

Mary, Mother Mary, give me the strength to live. And my husband, I know you watch me from above. Keep us safe, your wife and your child. Please.

I love you.

***

It was only a few days later when she felt a sharp pain in her belly and knew the time had come. She collapsed on the floor with a gasp.

Marie half-carried her to her bedroom before running for Mrs Dubose. She didn’t know how long it took, she could only recall a painful, sweaty blur.

With a final shriek, she knew it was over.

“A boy,” Mrs Dubose said.

She closed her eyes and sank back with a smile and a sigh of relief. Gerard, as he had wanted. She managed a weak smile.

“Give him to me.”

She opened her eyes when they didn’t. her smile froze at Mrs Dubose’s expression.

“What is it?”

It took her only a split-second to realise what was wrong. It was too quiet, the sound of a new-born child’s howling absent.

“Dead?” The whispered word felt heavy on her lips.

“Still-born,” Marie answered, not meeting her eyes.

She closed her eyes again. She wished she could close them forever.

***

First my husband, and now my child. Everything is taken away from me.

Why? Why do you do this to me? I ask every night. What do I live for now, what hope do I have now as this accursed war drags on?

Take me with you love, I whisper into the darkness before sleep carries me off. Take me to the Garden with you.

***

It was simple. So simple.

Flick the switch. Like turning the lights on. So much simpler than using a knife to kill, or shooting with a gun. Both were messy, they required nerve.

Anyone could flick a switch.

***

“Love, I’m so sorry,” she whispered into the shadows. “You are gone, Gerard is too, I don’t know if I ca – “

***

I open my eyes and the first thing I notice is that the sky is blue.

Blue, the colour of the sapphire on my engagement ring. Not orange, red, or even yellow, blue like in the centuries past when chemicals had yet to taint the atmosphere.

The second thing I notice is grass, like fields of emerald sloping gently up and down the landscape. I have never seen grass outside a television screen before.

Then there are the trees, their trunks not charred black, but a rich dark brown, their branches seeming to stretch for the blue heavens, their leaves a healthy green.

It smells different; there is no smoke, no perpetual stink of burning. The wind feels light and cool, scented with pines and grass and the rich smell of fertile earth.

“Where am I?” I whisper. I have to be dreaming. There is no place on Earth like this, not any more.

There is a light tap on my shoulder. I spin around, surprised, but not afraid. And there he is, giving me the crooked smile that is meant just for me.

I blink back the tears burning in my eyes, and the next thing I know, he is holding me tightly.

Thank you thank you thank you. I cannot think of anything else, my catechism, my prayers, the Bible. Just those two words as I thank God.

I knew where I was.

Home.

***

Far away, in a universe with only one star, a small blue planet disappeared from existence forever.

Uninspired

2008-11-10T21:41:00.000-08:00

I've got three - no, four short stories, all of which are half-completed. I've got an outline for a story long enough to be a novel.

But every time I sit down to write, I get nothing.

Memento mori

2008-11-05T23:29:00.000-08:00

A rusty dagger, a bleeding cut

A broken rose and a shattered heart

Feathers, black as an oil slick fall like rain

The one thing we all learn in life is pain

Memento mori, never forget this

No one can escape the Grim Reaper’s kiss

But until then, live life to its full

Leave no regrets for what you didn’t do

---

Well, for once something that wasn't too bleak or depressing.

Requested by Khaleedah, as the egotistical person wanted a poem for her birthday.

Memento mori has got two definitions.

1.	(italics) Latin. remember that you must die.

2.	an object, as a skull, serving as a reminder of death or mortality

New Poem

2008-11-01T00:25:00.000-07:00

I would give a life or maybe two

To see the world to be made anew

And the only way to achieve this

Is to burn them all in fiery bliss

Do I have to scream to be heard?

Flickers

2008-10-29T02:34:00.000-07:00

This is another one of my entries to Renaissance. I was so sure I would win, because I don't recall anyone else writing something like this. But since I didn't, I'm putting it up anyway.

---

Flickers

Life is like a candle flame; beautiful, short and so very fragile.

Sometimes, what fate gives, life takes away.

Sometimes, we have to learn to let go.

But sometimes, letting go just isn’t possible.

Death

“Get out of my way.”

He shoved the servant aside; he was barely aware of what he was doing, nearly mad with anxiety and worry.

Her door had a sprig of holly on it; the red berries looked like drops of blood in the flickering candlelight. A single rune had been carved onto the aged wood. His eyes widened. He didn’t need to be a mage to recognize it. Death.

“No!”

He burst into the room. The Healer was standing next to her, a Cleric holding the Holy book, ready to administer the last rites to see her safely to the next world. The sight of the two of them only turned his fear to fury.

“Get out,” he snarled, his voice low enough to hide his anger. “Get out. Now.” His glare would have frightened lesser men. The two mages calmly walked out, recognizing his grief. It was something they had seen so many times.

“Bid her farewell,” the Cleric murmured as she walked out.

(Never)

She looked so small and frail. The illness wouldn’t leave her; even the best Healers couldn’t do a thing. It ate away at her insides and grew stronger, taking over her body all the time, leaving her bone-pale and exhausted.

She opened her eyes. They were the only things that hadn’t weakened, or changed beyond recognition; green emeralds that blazed with life and fury.

“I’m not going to die,” she whispered, her voice soft but fierce.

He took her hand; it felt so light, and her pulse so faint. He choked back a sob. She was slipping away from him with every breath.

“Look at me,” she demanded, her voice soft but still ringing with authority.

He kissed her hand and obeyed.

“I. Will. Not. Die.” Her eyes could have been green flames.

“I won’t let you,” he swore.

“They tell me I will die, they tell me to prepare for it.” She laughed. “Fools. All of them.”

She died less than an hour later.

Promises

“You will bring me back,” she had said just before (don’t think) ordered, more like. And he had promised.

That was why he stood in the middle of the woods, bathed in the illumination of the overhanging full moon. That was why he had thirteen candles arranged in a circle, why he had traced a circle of protection around himself, why the necessary runes were scratched into the dirt. If this ritual went wrong, the consequences would be disastrous.

After all, a demon summoning wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

He took a handful of ash; ashes from a funeral pyre. Ash that connected the world of the living to that of the dead. Her world.

He scattered the ashes in the circle of candles, murmuring the ritual’s incantations. The air seemed to grow heavier, as if tainted by the black words. The candles continued to burn as brightly, but still, the shadows grew longer, creeping towards the circle.

He felt no fear, no fear at all. It had to be done.

(beloved, for you)

He felt a thrill as he always did when doing these forbidden rituals. Necromancy was banned of course, as was all forms of the dark arts. But he had tired of healing and all the other soft, lighter, meager magicks years ago. The call of the Dark arts was stronger, and infinitely more satisfying.

(all for you)

There was a faint smell of sulphur. He smiled.

(Finally)

A black mass was materializing in the circle; maturing and shaping itself until it towered over him; a billowing shapeless form, still mostly smoke and vapour. It turned to face him; two flashing yellow orbs on what he supposed was a face observed him.

“You are the mortal that called?” Its voice was a little louder than the rustling of dry leaves on a forest floor. It sounded amused.

He shivered. Just a little. It must be the cold.

“Yes. And I have but a single order. Bring my love to life.” That was specific enough.

It shook its head. “I cannot.”

“You cannot, or you will not?” He managed to keep the anger from his voice. Just barely. “Remember shade, I summoned you. You owe me obedience.”

“I cannot.”

“Why? What is lacking?”

“There is an alternative,” the demon murmured, changing the subject.

He tensed, hardly the daring to hope. “What is it?”

The demon hesitated. “Forget I mentioned it. It is… forbidden for your kind.”

“Just tell me!”

A soft hacking sound, the sound of dried leaves being crushed on an autumn’s day emitted from the smoky shape.

“You sell your soul to me, and I give you power enough to bring her back yourself.”

He shivered despite himself. “What is the point of bringing her to life if I die?”

“You won’t die,” the demon soothed. “You mortals are made of three things; body, soul and mind. You would still be very much alive if I took your soul.

“In fact,” the demon continued. “I think I shall be generous.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Your kind knows generosity? But what about the price?”

“There always is a price,” the demon agreed. “But a mortal’s soul has been worth much since humans stopped dabbling in demon summoning.”

He ignored the indirect insult. “What do you mean by being generous?”

“I give you power, as well as immortality for you both. Think of it – “ he swore the demon was smirking “As a wedding present.”

(i hate it)

“All this in the petty exchange for my soul?” he asked skeptically.

“Yes. Just one human soul.”

(don’t)

He considered, he couldn't see any flaws or loopholes -

(It’s a trick)

and nodded.

(no)

“I agree to your terms.”

There was that soft hacking sound again. He realised the demon was laughing.

“And let your will be done, your desires sated. This night, you have sold your soul to a demon.”

The shadows seemed the swirl, like robes blown in the wind. Only there was no wind; the air was so unbelievably still –

“Come close,” it whispered, and his feet obeyed, approaching the circle.

(run)

“Closer.” The wind blew and the candle flames dipped low.

He moved.

“Closer still.” The wind again, and they went out.

(no)

Blood.

Awakening

When he woke, the demon was gone.

The sky was just beginning to lighten to an ash grey. He must have been unconscious for hours.

Funnily enough, he didn’t feel groggy or lightheaded. It was as if a veil in his head, one that he had never realised was there before, had been lifted.

And then he just knew. He knew how to do it. How to bring her back.

And from now to the very end, I will always love you

I stand at the edge of a cliff. Above, the sky is brilliant with stars; diamonds on black velvet. Below, the waves pound on the shore, the sea a mirror that reflects the sky.

This place is not just the edge of a cliff. It is the very edge of the land, the sky and the sea; the edge of the elements themselves.

(The edge of life)

I stand next to him, his hands wrapped around my waist. His expression is solemn, thoughtful.

“What is it?” I ask.

He looks at me, his eyes dark with shadows, his mouth twisted in a frown. But even like this, he is still the most beautiful thing I’ve seen.

“Do you love me?” he asks.

It takes me a full second to register the words that come from his lips. I am confused.

“Yes,” I reply, hoping, praying he can hear my sincerity. “I do.”

“What is it like?”

His question stuns me. I have no reply to it.

“When you were dead, I thought of you every second of my waking. And when I slept, I dreamt only of you.” He runs his fingers through my hair gently. I warm to his words and his touch. “I was obsessed with bringing you back. It became my sole purpose of living. ”

“You succeeded.” I take his hand and kiss it, hoping to break this train of thought.

“I assumed that meant I loved you.”

My blood goes cold; my body understands the situation faster than my mind does.

”What are you trying to say?”

He sighs, pulls his hand out of my grasp and takes a step back. I can only watch him, my eyes hot and moist.

(will not cry)

He takes a moment before he looks at me and I am afraid.

(this isn’t him)

There is something in his expression that scares me. I am dead afraid.

(stranger. a stranger with his face but not his eyes. this isn’t him)

“I made a pact with a demon,” he says.

The tension in the air mounts. I am so very afraid to hear his next words, but there is no stopping the nightmare.

“I sold my soul to the demon in exchange for power enough to bring you back, and immortality, so we could be together for all time,” he explains. His voice is soft, his tone indifferent, emotionless.

“I thought my soul would be a small price to pay.” He laughs bitterly. “Fool that I am.” He sighs.

“The demon knew all this would be pointless without my soul,” he says looking in my eyes. I feel like I have been frozen; I cannot move, cannot speak; all I can do is watch.

(and get hurt)

“Don’t you love me?” I hear the pleading note in my voice when I finally speak, and I hate it.

He closes his eyes, as if steeling himself for what came after. When he opens them, I notice for the first time the flecks of gold in his irises. It was ridiculous to notice them at such a time, but focusing on these details is so much easier than looking into his eyes. It was strange, how such a warm brown colour could suddenly look so cold.

(hurt he’s going to hurt me)

“I’m not capable of it,” he said, almost apologetically. “I remember loving you, yes. I think of you every day, yes. But I’m not capable of the emotion. I don’t love you.”

For the first time in a very long one, I feel tears sting my eyes.

“Humor me,” I beg pathetically. “Just one more night. Pretend you love me like you did before.”

He shakes his head, his expression unhappy. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

I close my eyes and feel a single tear crawl treacherously down my cheek. “I love you.”

“I know,” he replies, and to my surprise, gently brushes away the tear. “And I’m sorry. I am going to have to kill you.”

(no)

I look up, shocked. He grips my arms tightly, I cannot move. “I apologise,” he says. “You are going to die tonight and by my hand.”

(dont want)

“Why?” I whisper. “After everything you’ve done to bring me back?”

(i don’t make me go back there)

“At the moment, your love is all that stops you from killing me where I stand. But love,” his mouth twists into an unfamiliar half-smile that doesn’t match his eyes. “Love changes to hate quickly. You’re too much of a threat for me to allow you to keep on living.”

(dont want to die)

“You can’t kill an immortal,” I say, clinging on to this last hope.

“No.” Again, that half-smile. “But you can become mortal.”

The defensive enchantments immediately leap to my lips. But he moves faster than I do. The spells, in an ancient primal tongue, far older than the words of power I know are out of his mouth and I immediately feel its effects.

(no)

There is no flash of light, no bang, no smoke. But there is no doubting the power of the spell. I feel the incredible, invincible strength I had felt since coming back drain, as if being bled out of my body. And I can almost feel Death’s cold, icy presence as he breathes on me once again.

I feel weak. Small and insignificant under the stars. And I know if he were to stab me now, I will bleed, just like any human.

Mortal, that is how I feel.

“I am sorry,” he apologises again.

I look at him.

“I only wanted to live with you,” I say, feeling more tears fall. I don’t mind the weakness now; what does it matter if I’m going to die soon anyway?

(gods i loved him i loved him)

He smiles sadly. “Me too.”

Softly I reach out a hand and touch his face, and when he doesn’t stop me, trace the features I love so much.

I could still strike him; he had released his grip on my arms and I could stun him and escape. I didn’t have to die; at least not today.

(oh gods, i still love him)

But what reason would I have to keep continue my pitiful existence?

I exhale heavily.

“Make it quick,” I tell him.

He nods and produces a silver dagger out of nowhere.

(i love you)

He stabs me in my heart.

After

The wind seemed to whisper in his ears as her body fell limply into his arms.

“Remember me,” it murmured in her voice. For a moment, the breeze felt like fingers brushing his face.

(i will)

The ache of her death had already begun to set in. And he knew he would live with that ache for all his never ending days.

Epilogue

Loss

Once I could see the stars without torment

Life was perfectly happy for me.

Now the feelings come as a mad torrent

Loss taught me lessons I couldn't see.

I would give the world to see you again

To return to those precious nights.

I want to see your sweet smile again

As you're lit by diamond lights.

In the dark the nightmares entrap me

Into a world of eternal hate.

I kept pretending you were there with me

Now I realise that it's far too late.

I should have known it would never change

My indescribable twisted fate.

After all I should have realised

That you're already dead.

Alone

The sky twinkles with midnight stars

I hear nothing but the beating of my heart

Bathed in the moon's pale silver beams

It feels like a nightmare, a terrifying old dream

The darkness comes, lonely and cold

It smells of rotting damp and mould

Shadows slide over me, eager and long

The ghosts began playing a slow sad song

Fingers entwine around mine, clutching my hand

They grow blazing hot, like a blacksmith's brand

I cry in pain as Lightning flashes

And Thunder's drums cover my gasps

He stares back at me with such hate

I cry and shiver as my heart continues to ache

His lips form the words I dread and fear

I scream but no one living appears

He vanishes, leaving me all alone

The old ghosts crawl out and began to moan

---

I hope I got the voices for both different characters right. The poems were written some time back, and I really surprised to see how well they fitted with the story.

Shadows In The Dark

2008-10-19T02:53:00.000-07:00

Written three years back for Commonwealth Essay. (I got a Commendation) I had a word limit of 700 words, hence the extreme lack of colourful vocabulary. I hope I've improved.

---

They were back again.

Hundreds, no, thousands of glowing bulging eyes, eyes that glowed in the darkness, eyes that were so obviously inhuman, stared at the boy as he tried to get to sleep. He did his best to ignore them, but even when he closed his eyes, he continued to see them.

This happened every night, whenever he was alone in his room with the lights switched off. It started when he and his parents moved into the house where his grandfather lived. His mother had insisted that it wasn't safe for the old man to live by himself. There were only three bedrooms in the house, the boy getting the smallest one.

When he had first seen the eyes, he had screamed loudly, so loudly, that it seemed the old house had shook with alarm, or so his father had put it. When the lights were switched back on, the eyes would always disappear. His parents had simply dismissed it as a nightmare. They gave him a cup of hot chocolate and told him to go back to sleep.

It happened, again and again. Finally, his mother made him sleep in the same room as her and his father. He did not see the eyes there. After a week, his mother moved him back into his room.

From that day onwards, whenever he saw the eyes, he would clamp his lips together and huddle in a corner of his bed. He would only be able to fall asleep in the wee hours of the morning. He would be exhausted in school and would often fall asleep in class. His schoolwork was, of course, affected and he was sent to the discipline master’s office at least twice a week.

Suddenly, he heard it. Thump! Thump! Then again. Thump! thump! The eyes blinked with every thump. There was the stench of rotting eggs in the room. The boy could not take it anymore. He took in as much air as he could, and screamed.

His parents dashed into the room. “What’s wrong?” his father exclaimed, alarm in his voice, but still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

They could not get him to talk. He kept crying, and would not be comforted. All they could get out of him was “The eyes! The eyes!” and “Stop the noise!” amongst incoherent screams of terror.

The grandfather, who had heard everything, told the parents to bring the boy to his room. After a few more minutes of fruitless consoling, the parents did as they were told, and left the boy with his grandfather.

“Boy,” the old man said as he stroked his wispy beard. “Let me tell you a story, a true story. It is about a boy I had known well. He lived in this house and slept in what is now your bedroom. The boy claimed to see eyes which would stare at him as he tried to sleep every night. His parents never listened to him whenever he told them about the eyes.

One night, the boy was alone at home. His parents were out attending a wedding dinner. He stayed up as late as possible, reading his books in the living room. Just as he was about to doze off, all the lights in the house went out. Slowly, a stench of rotting eggs filled the still air.

The boy screamed as loudly as he could. One by one, the eyes appeared, glinting like diamonds in the darkness.”

The old grandfather paused to catch his breath. His grandson shivered in his thin pajamas, whether out of anticipation or fear, he wasn't too sure.

"The boy suddenly heard a thumping sound. Thump ! thump ! The stench got stronger.

That was when the boy felt a hot, sharp pain on his bare arms. No one heard him scream as the nearest house was at least ten kilometers away.

“I was born from your imagination," a soft sibilant voice hissed. “Your fears have nourished and strengthened me, enabling me to leave that prison of your mind at long last.”

The little boy shrieked. “You’re not real, you’re not real!”

The demon howled in pain. “You’re not real, not real!” the boy continued to chant. With a final screech of fury, the demon disappeared, and the boy never saw him again.”

The old man concluded his tale with a sigh. His grandson stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Thank you grandfather,” the boy finally said. He gave his grandfather a hug and left the room. The old man gazed at the long, thin scars on his arms, daily reminders of what had taken place in the old house.

The little boy snuggled in his warm bed. Then the eyes were back again.

“Go away,” he cried, his voice quavering only slightly. “I’m not afraid of you anymore.” It was a lie, but he hoped they couldn't tell.

Then the eyes disappeared. There were now a hundred, ninety, eighty, fifty….and then, there were none.

Blue

2008-10-15T01:52:00.000-07:00

The slow sinking to the state madness is an awful thing to watch...

This is my entry for 2008 Commonwealth Writing Competition, an essay entitled "Blue". (Turns out it didn't even leave the school.) I was very much inspired by Stephen King and Roald Dahl while writing this; their short stories are just so simple, yet eerie.

===

The sea is a dazzling, scintillating topaz; droplets of water catch the sunlight and turn it into a thousand little rainbows. White foam edges the waves, like delicate lace on a beautiful dress. In the distance, ships and boats dot the waters.

The sky is only a shade paler than the sea; few clouds float in the azure sky hanging overhead. Seabirds sweep the sky, patrolling the waters in hopes of fish.

Sitting on the fine, sandy shore, staring into the horizon, where the sky and sea seems to meet, and stretch on for infinity, it is hard to believe that unhappiness and pain can exist in this world.

The chatter of nearby picnickers and joggers seems distant and muffled, compared to the roar of the waves as they rise and crash rhythmically on the shore, only to ebb away and rise again.

I sit there with Eva for a long time, both of us silently gazing out to the sea, but time seems to pass too quickly, as the next thing I know, the sky has deepened and the sun is sinking.

The sea isn’t a blue topaz anymore, it’s a dark sapphire blue and studded with tiny diamonds; reflections of the first stars that have graced the sky. The chatter on the beach begins to die down as time slips by. I am glad; after all, I need no witnesses to the heinous act I am about to commit.

I sound melodramatic, even to myself.

I gaze at the sea again; it’s darkened to a deep, inky blue-black. I glance around and no one is in sight. I don’t need a watch to know that’s it’s time.

“I’m scared,” I confess to Eva, as I get up to brush the sand off my clothes.

She nods seriously, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears. “I know. But you know you have to do it.”

“Yes,” I reply sadly. “I know.”

I head out to the pier. The tide is coming in, and the waves are choppier than usual. A storm is coming.

I put my bag on the cement floor. “Please make sure Mom and Dad get this,” I tell her.

“Okay.”

“Tell them-“My voice breaks as I fight off the ever-ready tears. “Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them I’m sorry that I let them down.”

I had always been expected to be as good as my siblings, ever since I was born. My older brother was a doctor; my sister won a scholarship to university overseas. As the youngest child, I was expected to be just like them. No, better than them. It would be nothing if I won a scholarship, nothing if I became a doctor, because they had done it first. I had to be better than them to receive any praise, a nod of approval, or a “congragulations”.

I did alright in Primary School. I studied hard, and almost always was top in school.

Things changed when I entered secondary school. My grades dropped, ever so slightly during the first term, then plummeted.

And finally, I hit rock-bottom.

That is why I sit on the fine golden shore, staring at the blue sea. How could I, or any student, go home and see the looks of disappointment in my parent’s faces? How could I let them down?

The sea is blue, just as blue as I feel; only it is so beautiful. I’m not beautiful. I’m not intelligent. I can’t sing, dance, act, play the piano or do anything right.

I can’t do anything right.

It would be better if I - I wouldn’t be a burden -

Better for everyone if I was gone

Wouldn’t be a burden to them, to anyone

Everyone would be glad I was dead

Wouldn’t need to disappoint them anymore

Wouldn’t disappoint anyone

I’m sorry ma, pa

Sorry, sorry, sorry. Sorry to be a burden

I’m sorry

Sorry to be a disappointment, sorry, sorry, sorry… So sorry…

“Are you ready?” Eva asks me quietly, jerking me out of my stupor.

I inhale deeply. “Yes.”

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

I climb over the safety railings and jump.

The water is cold; I sink down, down, my hair and clothes dragging me down. The sea isn’t blue, I realise that now. It is a dark, murky grey; the blue is just an illusion. That gorgeous blue I had admired for so long is just an illusion.

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

I kick down, forcing myself under, deeper, deeper into the deceptive grey water, searching for that blue…

Sorry to be so much trouble

A glimpse of blue light in the water…My blue light, the blue I loved so much... Kicking down towards it…

Sorry to let you down

The blue is getting brighter, more distinct

Sorry to let you all down

There. Not just my blue.

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Hundreds, thousands of beautiful shades of blue, cool and pleasant.

Sorry to be alive.

The only rest after this turbulence, an oasis of calm in the raging desert

So sorry.

I reach it, and my lungs burst.

Sorry.

“Name, Sarah Tan. Age, thirteen. Cause of death,” The young officer paused, his hand shaking a little. “Suicide.”
It was always hard when youths committed suicide, always so hard, especially when he looked at their profiles; all of them so young and strong, their futures bright. And they decided to end it all, by their own hands.
Thirteen. She hadn’t even had the chance to do anything, hadn’t had the chance to live before she died.
Sarah’s parents were upset of course; Sarah had been their only daughter. They found her bag at a jetty at East Coast Park. Her body was discovered almost twelve hours later.
It was always painful to ask parents to identify the corpses of their children. To examine the corpse, knowing that there was a possibility that one’s own flesh and blood could be dead.
No one wanted that.
Sarah’s body had been swollen, bloated by the time they found her, her skin blue and bits of her flesh missing, as fishes had nibbled at her before they managed to rescue the body.
Mrs. Tan had burst into tears, screaming that the corpse wasn’t her daughter; Sarah would never commit suicide, never. Mr. Tan identified her quickly and quietly, his voice shaking as he said “Yes”, his hands trembling as they took hold of his hysterical wife and left.
The officer decided that now wasn’t the time to tell Mr. and Mrs. Tan about what they found in Sarah’s bag. There was a test paper, she had scored a B4. Tear stains had caused the paper to run.
Then there was a note, the words “Sorry” covering every bit of space on it. In miniscule writing was “Please don’t blame Eva, it wasn’t her fault.”
Then her diary, page after page of tears and complaints, comparing herself older siblings that she never had, stories of her friend Eva had cut themselves, how her madness had progressed to suicide…
No, he decided that Sarah’s parents didn’t need to know all that, not now. What they needed now was for the news to sink in, for acceptance.
He didn’t realize he was being watched. A girl with long black hair and blue eyes, eyes as blue as the sea and as bright as stars against a night sky.
She smiled and walked away.

Summer Days

2008-10-04T02:27:00.000-07:00

The original concept for this story was my sister's not mine. I took it, played with it, twisted it and changed it. Pretty much unrecognizable from the original story, but she insisted I've got to credit her so here. Long credit, ain't it?

---

Summer Days

Meryl was a friend of mine when I just a boy; in fact she was my best and only friend.

At that time, I didn't know any kids my age so she was my playmate, whether I liked it a lot. I did like her. But she had her mood swings; one day she would be so sweet and let me have the best sweets while on the next she might drench me with a bucket of water and refuse to talk to me.

Children are children; they need playmates. I would do anything to win her friendship back; give her my new toys, the cone of my ice cream; anything for her to play with me.

Meryl had the most beautiful hair; long tangling curls the colour of violet, like my special felt tip pen, and always had a few twigs and leaves stuck in it. Her skin was nut brown and she had the warmest smile during her good moods, a smile that you couldn't help but smile back to. Those days were always filled with light and warmth.

Sometimes, Meryl would have wings. Not bird wings, but the kind dragonflies had; translucent and red that flapped lazily on hot sunny days.

Then I started school. At first, Meryl couldn't understand why I wasn't around anymore. When I told her about school, she ordered me to stop going.

By this time, I wasn't as affected by her moods as I once was, because I had other playmates, other friends, from school.

A few days of my disobedience went by and for the first time, it was Meryl who broke the silence. But not to apologize, as I thought she would.

"I want you to stop playing with those other children," she hissed, snake-like. Her skin was flushed and her hair was more red than purple today.

“Why?”

She pinched me. It wasn’t the first time, but it hurt all the same.

“Because I told you so, that’s why!”

“But they’re my friends!”

“I’m your only friend,” she snapped. “I’m the only friend you need. I’m the only friend you’ll ever need.”

“That’s not true.”

The outburst stunned me. Usually, I was the quiet one, the one who apologized, the one who groveled, the one who went along with things no matter how much I didn’t like it. I was the servant, while Meryl was the princess.

I was sick of it.

“You can’t be friends with both them and me at the same time,” she said. For the first time, there was sadness in her voice.

“Why?” I asked.

She shook her head. “You can’t.”

“But you’ll like them too! They’re all nice.”

“You have to choose. Me or them.”

I looked at her, at her tousled purple mess of hair, her eyes the colour of grass, her wings glowing crimson in the sun, giving her a faint red aura. Meryl was special. I had always known that, maybe that was why I was always so eager to be her friend, to be a part of her special world.

But Meryl was only one person. I suppose that was why I made that decision.

“You won’t choose me over some humans,” she said. Her vulnerable sadness was gone as quickly as it had come; her voice was now sulky and irritable, her moods changing quickly just like the spoilt child she was.

“Watch me,” I said, and walked away from her. It seemed to me when I did that, the bright sunlight seemed to fade a little, and it felt colder, like a cloud had covered the sun. But there were no clouds in the sky.

“You’ll regret this,” she said, her tone confident.

I didn’t reply, and continued walking.

I never saw Meryl again. But everything seems to have grown colder since, like autumn just after summer.

There are times when I think I see a flash of violent, or sunlight bouncing off shining red wings. But I look again and I know I will find nothing.

Sometimes, I wonder if I made the right choice. I hear a giggle from time to time, and I know she is watching.

End

Never be a writer

2008-10-04T02:21:00.000-07:00

"And you'll never be a writer."

You won't, that's for sure.

And in case you haven't noticed you fool? I am a writer. I write every single day. More than you could say, I suppose.

One day. One day I will mail you my book, wrapped up in silver paper and ribbons. And you will see how bloody wrong you were.

Conqerors

2008-09-29T22:15:00.000-07:00

"By sundown we came to a hidden village

Where all the air was still

And no sound met our tired ears, save

For the sorry drip of leaves from blackened trees

And the melancholy song of swinging gates.

Then through a broken window pane some of us saw

A dead bird in a rusting cage, still

Pressing his thin tattered breast against the bars,

His beak wide open. And

As we hurried through the weed-grown street,

A gaunt dog started up from some dark place

And shambled off on legs as thin as sticks

Into the wood, to die at last in peace.

No-one had told us victory was like this;

Not one amongst us would have eaten bread

Before he'd filled the mouth of the grey child

That sprawled, stiff as atone, before the shattered door.

There was not one of us who did not think of home."

- Henry Treece

---

My literature exam unseen poem.

And all shall despair and die.

The World Is Ugly by My Chemical Romance

2008-09-24T04:32:00.000-07:00

My Chemical Romance
The World Is Ugly lyrics

Are you thinking of him?
The world is ugly,

And you wanted me to go.
I just wanted you to know

That the world is ugly,
But you're beautiful to me.
Are you thinking of me?
Are you thinking of him?

You can say I told you so
If you wanted me to go.

I just wanted you to know
That the world is ugly,
But you're beautiful to me.

Are you thinking of me?
Are you thinking of him?

You can say I told you so
If you wanted me to go.

I just wanted you to know.

The world is ugly,
But you're beautiful to me.
Are you thinking of me?

Can we both be ugly?
Are you thinking I'm the one?
We could fight it to the end.
I just wanna hold your hand.

And you're probably just too good.
I just wanted you to know.

---

Just a song I was listening to.

Cold Fire

2008-09-23T03:21:00.000-07:00

Once again, based on something.

Cold Fire (Thanks kitty/lilin for the title)

And a girl of ice and snow I will be

I wear a mask of ice to hide my soul

I pray it will not freeze on and stick

And remain on me forever even though

I put it on willingly, it hurts while it licks

Its tongue of cold fire on my skin

Burning and flickering like a lighted match

I suppose this is penance for my sins

For now on my skin this mask shall latch

I need to become a girl of ice and snow

Bury my emotions and forget to feel

Look normal while inside it grows cold

My hurt and tears will remain concealed

And I pray for the day that you return

The indifference, the numbness, the pain will go

Once again, to be able to feel I will learn

But until then I will wait, my fingers icy cold.

Untitled

2008-09-22T03:17:00.000-07:00

Based on something.

I look at the ring you gave, bright as a teardrop

And it takes all my restrain not to smash it on the floor

On this day you broke my trust when you turned away

From every damned promise you could ever say

You'll stay, you said, you swore, you vowed

And like the fool I am I didn't doubt

That you would keep your word and stay with me

Fuck, I believed you when you said you'll never leave

A better person will come along soon you say

And what if I say I'll rather have you any day?

Hate me, you say, it seems I have every right

I want to hate you and I still can't, try as I might

Liar, thief, promise breaker and so much more too

I keep telling myself it's only right to curse you

And still I can't get the fucking words aloud

But despite everything

I say

Or do

I'm still fucking in love with you

Busy + Poem: If you would just notice me

2008-09-19T21:04:00.000-07:00

I've written a fair bit so far. I don't really have the time to type out the stories, (Finals begin next Wednesday) so meanwhile I'll just put up this poem I wrote yesterday. (Thanks K for helping me with the title.)

Note: The poem does not in any way, reflect my current state of mind. I'm sick of not writing; I want to write a poem that rhymes...

"If you would just notice me

And if I told you that you scared me

Would you stay away?

And if I told you how I felt about you

Would you stay to listen?

If I told you my heart speeds when you come

Would you shake your head?

If I told you how much I long for you

Would you turn to go?

And if I told you that I loved you

Would you stay with me? "

Your Guardian Angel

2008-08-27T05:29:00.000-07:00

Stalk

What I would give to stand by you

Instead of lurking in your shadows.

What I would give to step in your room

Instead of standing out in the rain.

What I would give to sit by your bed

As you lie down sleeping.

What I would give to touch you

To stroke your pretty hair and skin.

What I would give to caress your neck

Tighten my fingers until you scream.

---

I am with you. Always.

When you were born, fresh from the cool darkness of your mother's womb, I was the first thing you saw. I was what made you howl in terror before the doctor's hand even came close to you. And when you were asleep in an incubator, I stood by you, watching over you silently, unseen.

When you woke, you saw me again and screamed, waking all the other babies. Chaos. The nurses rushed in and as one of them picked you up and cradled you, you saw retreat into the shadows.

You grew older, fearing me. When I came too close, you would begin crying again, kicking and screaming and yelling. And when your mother comforted you, even when you quieted down, your eyes never left me.

I smiled at that.

You were always a pretty child, with eyes the colour of a raging sea and dark, dark hair. And at night, as you lay sleeping, I would stand next to you, running my fingers through your hair, stroking your silky soft skin.

As you grew up, you got smarter. You realised my limitations, and stayed out of the house, in the bright sun, playing with your friends.

But of course, what you didn't know was that I could change my form.

You thought you were safe in the light. In school, you were happy. I couldn't stand in the brightly-lit hallways and classrooms, not in my true form anyway.

I was there. The white mouse with black eyes you took care of in primary school. The quiet dark-haired boy you sat next to in sclass. The janitor who mopped the canteen floor as you ate. And many, many more. I am always with you.

You slept with the lights on at first, until your parents bought you a lamp. I pretended to vanish; lurking in the corners of your room. Sometimes, you thought you saw me move, but decided it was your imagination; going back to sleep as I stood behind you.

And when you fell asleep, I would slide over next to you, caressing your face, your limbs, watching your chest rise and fall as you breathed. Always watching you.

You got your first boyfriend. Unfortunately, you found out he was two-timing you for a boy you had never seen before; a boy with silky black hair and eyes the colour of polished ebony.

And then someone else came into your life.

He was a new boy in your school. Quiet, always keeping to himself.

Something about him intrigued you; he seemed strangely familiar.

You became infatuated with him and eventually managed to pluck up the courage to ask him out. That was the first time you saw him smile.

One date became two, then three, four five. You liked him a lot. The nights weren't so scary now; you were happy. Very very happy. And now, your parents are out of town for the weekend, and you invite him over for the night.

Something about him is familiar though. Like something from a childhood dream.

I lean over and kiss you.

"I love you," I say.

You smile.

"Me too."

I stroke the skin I have caressed for so many years, but never get tired of. "I've loved you for so long," I say.

A flicker across your face. "Who are you?"

It's my turn to smile as you brush my knuckles over your cheeks.

"Your guardian angel."

I show you my true form.

You scream.

---

Atiqah was saying that it sounds like an Internet story. I read it and yeah, it does.

Damn.

I can't write anything original.

Both poem and story are mine.

Eternal Muse

2008-08-25T05:28:00.000-07:00

This is one of the entries I plan on submitting to Renaissance Publishing for the competition. I don't know why I'm putting it up here; I just want to read some comments I guess. (Please note there are some italics missing as I just copied and pasted from Word.)

---

Eternal Muse

Cold Silence

Annonymous

Without a word was how you left

The silence kills my soul

Cold from the hurt my heart will stay

But my love for you I'll never let go

So I'll die with hope of thinking you'll come back

But love was everything we ever lacked

Goodbye was what you could have at least said

Or maybe I'm just not worth those words

Or was it fear of seeing tears

Well if so I hope you know they fall in the shadow of my soul

Midnight, the time where the things of darkness were at full power. She tensed, wary for any sound that –

He crushed the paper into a crumpled ball and threw it at the wall in disgust.

“Why can’t I do it?”

Writing was his passion; always would be. It was his dream to be published. As a teenager, he had always thought that it would be easy. “A natural flair for writing” his teachers put in his report books, along with large ‘A’s on the cover of every essay he handed up. And after twenty-three years of existence, what did he have to show for it? He pushed away stack of unused papers on his desk in frustration. They seemed to hover in the air for a moment, before the fan blew the papers and scattered the sheets all around the room.

The door opened. “I heard – oh.”

Evelyn stepped into the room, the surprise on her face slowly changing to an expression of concern.

“What happened?” she asked, immediately skipping the rather superfluous “Are you okay?” question.

His eyes met hers. They were a beautiful colour; clear and grey that could sparkle with a thousand moods.

“I can’t write,” he whispered.

Her first thought was that that was utterly ridiculous.

“You can,” she said.

“No. It’s not there anymore. I can’t feel it.”

“But that’s why you have me. I’m your muse, remember?”

He shook his head. “I can’t feel it anymore,” he said again.

The half-smile she was able to come up with fell away, and she picked up a crumpled ball of paper on the floor. He watched her read with wary eyes. The paper contained just a few short handwritten lines, but she could sense the difference. It was as if the magic was gone, the magic that made his stories so different from any other author’s. it was nothing like what he had written when they had first met, she thought as she scanned through the lines again, when he had been head-over-heels in love with her, when his stories glowed, radiated the warmth and love of his heart. She had been his muse then, but something was lacking now –

“How long has it been like this?” she asked.

“A few months.”

A few months. She had an idea, maybe, that was why he couldn’t write, he couldn’t because he was –

Wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into an embrace.

“I love you.”

He woke the next morning and she was gone. There was only a note, covered in her familiar handwriting. He scanned through it, the waves of grief crashing over him again and again; tortured by fresh pain with every sentence. By the time he reached the last line, he was numb; drained, hollow and empty.

I’m sorry.

He crushed the note and threw it amongst the crumpled balls of paper that littered the floor, his eyes burning. No tears came.

Later, he regretted not keeping that letter.

Time passed, and as it did, the sharp edges of memory blurred. Sometimes, it was almost a struggle to conjure up her face, the way her hair shone in the light, her smile, her voice, her touch…

One morning, he woke up and realized that he forgot her face completely.

It would have been easy to look for a photograph of her; there were plenty of them in the house. But he couldn’t.

He was shaking. He realised that he was terrified. What if he looked at the photograph and realized that he couldn’t recognize her? If her beautiful face was one of a stranger’s?

He fell to his knees, but the tears just wouldn’t come.

She flicked through the glossy covers of a book at the bookstore.

No matter what, nobody can take you talent away from you. That’s what we’re always told, that’s what we believe.

And I tell you that it is a lie. You talent can be taken away; in my case, it was destroyed, crushed, shattered into a thousand fragments as easily as a candle is snuffed out on a windy night. My talent was writing; whether it was thje composing of poems, the dreaming of songs or inventing fantasies and stories.

The day I lost my talent was the day my muse abandoned me and left me to rot in the depths of my despair.

His books were bestsellers worldwide; he was hailed as the next Stephen King. It was his writing alright; the style was identical.

It was his content that had changed. His books were all about sad, bitter and broken things, nothing like the sweet poems and short stories he had given her before they had married. No one could deny his talent, but sometimes, she wondered how badly he had been hurt when she left him.

As she closed the book, something caught her eye. She turned to the dedication.

It was the same, as always.

For E. I love you.

Unbelievable, he thought.

The queue for the book signing stretched from the counter of the bookstore to what seemed like infinity. He flexed his fingers and prepared himself for a long day.

Four hours later, and the queue was as long as ever. The most frequently asked question was, of course, “Where do you get your ideas?”

His chest ached as he gave the scribbled on book and smiled automatically at the teenager in front of him, saying nothing.

“Who’s E?” was another question.

My muse, he was tempted to reply. Even in her absence, she continued to inspire him. Of course, she now inspired him very differently from before.

His hand ached.

“Hi.”

His head snapped up so fast, there was a soft crack. And there she was.

The memories washed over him, almost literally a flood. The idea of him forgetting anything; any detail about her seemed inconceivable now. It was as if she had never been gone, until he realized how badly his chest was aching.

He noticed dimly that she was pushing his latest book towards him, and his pen was automatically scrawling his signature on the first page. The inscription on the book blurred before him; he couldn’t look in her eyes.

She took the book. “I’ll wait for you to finish,” she said and then she was gone.

He spent the rest of the book signing wondering if that had just been his imagination. Eventually, they ran out of books and the bookstore was deserted.

And like before, she appeared in front of him again, almost as if she had stepped out of thin air. She didn’t say anything, she just touched his hand gently, wrapping her slim fingers around his arm.

They went to his apartment. He hadn’t moved out, hadn’t even touched her belongings since she left.

Hadn’t moved on

It was as if he was just waiting for her to come back.

She took in the familiar surroundings without a comment. Finally, she looked up from her coffee.

“I missed you,” she said simply.

He inhaled deeply. There wasn’t a trace of deceit in her voice or expression; she wasn’t lying then.

“I’m sorry.”

Not lying again. Her hands were shaking, he noticed.

“I love you.”

The three words that used to be so beautiful. Now they stung, like a cold hard slap.

“Why did you leave then?”

“Don’t you understand?”

He shook his head and watched pain flash across her face momentarily. She forced a weak smile.

“I had to,” she said. “You were getting so happy. No, not happy. You were content. Life had settled to this normal, regular routine. You couldn’t write; I couldn’t inspire you any more.” She smiled faintly again. “I wasn’t your muse anymore.”

He was silent.

“Don’t you understand?” she repeated, a pleading note in her voice now, tears sparkling in her eyes. “I had to hurt you. I left because I loved you. You were born to write; you’d always loved writing more than me.”

Still, he said nothing, just stared at her, a blank expression on his face.

The tears were hot and fast now, spilling on to her lap. She didn’t notice them. “Say something,” she whispered.

“Enough.” His voice was very soft.

“Please.”

“Enough!” He barely realised he had jumped from his seat.

“Stop messing with my head!” he yelled. “I’ve had enough of this!”

Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Still her eyes pleaded to him.

“What about the other person?” he demanded after a few seconds of hearing his hard breathing, of looking into her eyes.

Confusion flitted across her face for a second, then comprehension. She shook her head.

“There wasn’t anyone else,” she said quietly. “Please. Believe me.”

“I don’t know what to believe,” he muttered and louder. “Why come now?”

She blinked.

“Why now of all times?” he asked impatiently. (She does love me) A thought came to him.

“Because of the money? The ‘success’ I’ve become – “

“I came back because I couldn’t take it an more!” she cried, the tears falling again, like a drizzle of rain.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said, her hands clenching into fists, her voice choked. “How much, I don’t think I’ll ever know. I… I only did it to help you…” her voice trailed of, reducing to a weak whisper.

(she’s really telling the truth)

Anger washed over him. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

(stop loving me)

He closed his eyes, calming himself. When he opened them, they were ice-cold.

“Get out,” he breathed.

She didn’t move, continued to stare at him unblinkingly.

“I can’t take your lies any more. Get out.”

“I’m not lying.”

“I can’t stand the sight of you,” he said. He repressed a shiver. It was so cold. “I don’t love you.”

That hurt the most, even though only the latter had been a lie.

She blanched; the colour drained from her face so fast.

“Look at me.” She did, and a shock rippled through her. He was so very cold.

“Do you think I’m lying?”

“No,” she answered quietly.

“There’s no reason for you to stay then. Now leave.”

The seconds ticked by as she sat there and studied him.

Finally, she nodded.

“Goodbye,” she whispered as she got up and left him forever.

For the first time in years, he cried.

Untitled - Because I couldn't come up with one

2008-08-19T04:06:00.000-07:00

You may notice that some of the sentences break-off , or there may be an excess or lack of capitals and punctuation. Trust me when I say it's deliberate.

---

You want to feel loved but you can't.

You want to be accepted but you aren't.

You want -

Stop

You feel alone, you always have.

It's a heavy feeling that drapes around you

a feeling that you can't shake off but is always there

and always will be

stop it

you try lying to yourself. maybe it's just your imagination but deep down in your hearts of hearts you know it's not know that you're just lying to yourself and that its true itsaltrueyourejusta

stop no i dont want to hear

YOURE JUST A PIECE OF TRASH NO ONE CARES ABOUT

nottruenottruenottrueihavefriendsidohavefriends

AND WHERE WERE THEY WHEN YOU NEEDED THEM THEY WERENT THERE THEY NEVER WERE

shutupshutupshutupshutuptheyremyfriendsiknowtheyaretheyhaveto

you dont have any friends you never did

SHUT UP

you

ENOUGH

are

I DONT WANT

ALONE

...

and i always will be

---

Talk about schizho. But yeah, some kind of internal struggle.

I want to go back to writing morbid bloody stories but I can't. T_T

Please, don't cry

2008-08-11T05:55:00.000-07:00

(A soft click and the creak of a door opening can be heard. Then a voice begins speaking.)

Hello.

Please, listen to me. I know you told me that it wasn't possible, but please, just hear me out. Close the door and lock it. I don't want anyone to interrupt this. Please.

I. I was lying when I said I could forget you. When I said I could go and pretend nothing had happened. Or rather, I was wrong.

I wish I could do all that, I really do. If only I hadn't met you, but no, I had to, didn't I?

I can't just walk away and act as if nothing happened. I tried, I can't. I can't stop thinking about you. You're in my every thought, my every dream.

I love you. I love you so much, I'll do anything for you. I just want to see you smile and be happy, that's all I want. To protect you, to make sure you don't cry again, to keep you warm and happy, always. You're so beautiful when you smile, you know?

I don't like seeing you cry. You shouldn't, because life is so wonderful. Because you're loved. So please, don't cry.

There was that teacher. She failed your test paper and you cried. Don't worry, she won't make you cry again. She won't, I promise you.

And there was that boy you liked. He made you cry too, didn't he? I couldn't stand seeing you look like that. I couldn't stand that, I couldn't stand him -

Anyway, he paid for it too. He can't hurt you again, I made sure of that. He was so stupid to let you go anyway.

They won't hurt you again, they can't. So please, don't cry, don't be sad. Smile. Be happy.

I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I'll do anything for you. Anything.

So please. Don't -

Please no. Don't cry. They can't make you cry anymore, they can't hurt you anymore. Please. Stop crying. What is it now? They're gone, gone forever.

(silence)

It's me, isn't it? I'm the one making you cry, aren't I?

I'm sorry. I... I didn't know. I didn't think I would hurt you. I -

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't cry. You won't see me again, I promise.

Don't cry. Please.

I love you.

Goodbye.

(There is the sound of a gun shot, then silence again.)

Why won't you stop crying?

I leave the interpretation of this one to you.

Intoxicate

2008-08-08T05:21:00.000-07:00

"Kiss me," I whisper. My mouth tastes of wine.

The night is beautiful - lights from the cafes and bars glow like a multitude of jewels, only to be reflected by the still river, making everything doubly bright, doubly beautiful.

"You're drunk," he accuses.

I set down my glass. In the almost psychedelic light, the wine looks like blood.

"No I'm not." I get up to show him, but then a wave of dizziness comes over me. I stumble a little (were my heels really that high?) only to be caught by a pair of arms, warm and strong.

"Yes you are," he says. My cheeks feel warm as I look up to him. His eyes are usually a dark, dark brown, almost black. Tonight, they look like gold coins, shining from the bottom of a wishing well. His lips are as red as the wine, though he has not drunk any.

My heart, my stomach - and somewhere further down - aches as I look up to his face, his lips.

"Kiss me," I say again, dizzy from the wine, intoxicated by the slow throbbing between my thighs. It aches so much, I'm almost shuddering, and I can feel a moan build up from somewhere at the back of my throat. The pain is so strong it is almost a pleasure.

He doesn't move.

"Please."

The ground seems to sway under my feet. I ignore it.

"Do you love me?" I ask. My speech feels heavy, but it is not slurred yet.

His hold on me tightens. "Yes."

"Then kiss me," I tell him for the third time. And yet, he doesn't respond.

Disappointment. Rejection. Why is he doing this? My headache could have belonged to a demon's.

The wine tells me what to then, and the ache in my body urges me on.

"I love you," I say, my lips pressed against his neck, feeling so very dizzy. My tongue licks his skin like a cat laps its milk, moving closer and close to his lips.

He just stands stiffly.

I moan - frustration, not desire - and bite his bottom lip, only to find the metallic taste of blood on my tongue a second later. He winces, ever so slightly, but otherwise he doesn't react.

"I want you," I whisper, feeling myself press against him like the whore I am.

He shivers - finally, a response.

"I know you want me too."

My hand strokes his face, brushing my fingers lightly on his lips. The other hand goes travels down.

There is a soft clack as his teeth snap together and his lips press into a thin line, but I feel his throat vibrate with the words he is holding back.

"Love me," I breathe.

The world is swaying; the only thing that doesn't move is him.

I wish he would move as well.

"Love me."

The wind carries the scent of cigarettes, perfumed by the scent of women and wine.

"Love me."

End

---

What the heck was that?

Oh wow. I actually wrote a short story.

2008-08-01T05:01:00.001-07:00

Actually, this is kinda like a sequel to Remember Me's Epilogue, but it's kinda like a one-shot; if you haven't read anything of mine before, it's okay to read. Nothing much to know.

Just. Enjoy.

If you can.

---

“Eva.”

The familiar and unwelcome voice, though no louder than a whisper, echoes in the emptiness. I turn to face him, but I cannot meet his eyes.

“Chase Young,” I say, unable to hide the bitterness in my voice. “To what do I owe this… honour?”

He says nothing, just glances at our surroundings; at our lack of surroundings. There is nothing here. Nothing. Just a glaringly-bright plane of white on white; no shadows to hide in. I was the only one here – at least, before Chase appeared.

“This is the hell you have trapped me in,” I say, as flatly as I can, my eyes burning, but no tears spill over. I have finished crying over this man, and I will never shed a tear for him again. “I am no longer a threat to you, since you locked me in here. What do you want from me now?”

In response, he bends down and kisses me, not gently, but with a rough, desperate edge I have never seen before.

“You,” he says simply when he pulls away.

I froze the second he touched me, and it seems my voice has been paralyzed too.

“Go. Away,” I manage to force out eventually.

He takes a step close instead. “I’ve been away for too long.”

“Silence!” I scream and though I know my powers have been stripped from me, I could almost feel the flat white ground quiver, ever so slightly along with my rage. “Have you forgotten what you said to me before you killed me?”

“You told me to remember you,” he says, ignoring my question. If I were not so angry I would flush; I hadn’t realised that he had heard my last words to him. Possible he felt my last touch as well.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, Eva,” he continues.

“ ‘I cannot love. I am incapable of it,’ ” I quote, my tone mocking.

He bows his head. Was that regret? “That is still true.”

“So why are you here?” I yell, giving in to the rage and curse my temper a second later. My element may have been Earth, but I was always close to Fire.

He leans close and for the first time, I see the desire dancing like golden flames in his eyes.

“You know why,” he whispers. I shiver despite myself, fighting down the emotions he can still bring up in me.

“You would have me as your whore,” I spit, ice and venom coating my words. “You rule the world now. You can have every woman on the earth. Just leave me alone.”

“True,” he agrees. “But there are none like you.”

My cheeks burn and I know this time, I am blushing.

“Flatter won’t get you anywhere,” I hiss as I back away from him, hiding behind my anger again. I turn so I do not meet his eyes as he takes yet another step towards me.

This is much harder than it should be. He had ripped my love and my heart out, and I thought I had buried it, left it to rot in its grave. But no, it comes back again to haunt me.

I still love him, I realize. Despite – I choke – despite everything he has done to me, despite all the pain he put me through, despite the tears shed over him. And despite the fact that he had killed me.

It is illogical; the very idea of it is ridiculous, repulsive. And yet, it is true.

“Goddamnit Chase,” I whisper, my defenses crumbling down, my voice as weak and vulnerable as my expression must be. “Don’t do this to me,” I find myself begging.

I realise a split second later that that was the very wrong thing to say.

I had hoped to make him stop – he was a hunter; more interested in the hunt itself than the prey. I thought if I ended the chase, he would leave me alone. If anything, he enjoyed seeming me look so weak.

“Look at you,” he whispers, leaning close. I feel his lips brush on my ear and shiver again. “You look like you’re going to break down any second.”

“Then why don’t you be a nice man and leave me alone?” I ask, trying to stop shaking.

He laughs; an unexpected fracture in space. “Still fighting.” I feel the curve of his smile as he presses his lips to my neck. “That’s why I chose you.”

The familiar sensations as he kisses my neck now repulse me, and yet, yet. I didn’t want him to pull away.

“Stop – “ I manage to gasp eventually. And of course, he doesn’t listen.

“Please.”

The soft plea escapes my lips before I realise what I am saying. And then there is the unfamiliar sting of tears.

I try to push him, but he doesn’t budge. Even my strength has diminished in this hell.

“Chase, if you ever loved me. Don’t do this.”

He stops for a very brief moment and looks at me. I feel a faint flicker of hope – perhaps he would go now. Then his eyes turn solid gold – beautiful, but so very cold – and that hope dies.

“I never loved you,” he says, and bites me on my lip. I feel the skin split open and then his tongue very slowly licks the beads of blood that spill out. His hand is cupped around my cheek, stroking my skin slowly, softly. His touch sets me on fire, and yet. There is that unbearable fear growing inside.

His other hand moves to the top of my robes, and slowly, ever so slowly, he tugs at the ties that hold my blouse in place. And then I realise why I am so terrified.

This is just like before. When my master first did it, the shadows were there; the shadows saved me. And then Guan; it was Chase who had stopped him then.

There are no shadows in this void. And Chase will not come to save me; Chase was dead from the very moment he sold his soul.

The tears spill from my eyes, and there is no stopping them.

“Oh, my love. Tears?” he says, his tone mocking, his mouth a cruel smirk.

“You’re sick,” I manage to spit.

“I know I am,” he says, then pushes me to the ground. My hair fans out in a mass of writhing black snakes as I try to push him off. Of course I fail.

“Why?” My voice rises to a shriek.

He trails a finger down my cheek, softly, gently. I wince. There is a sharp pain, and blood begins to stream from where he had touched me.

“I used to long for this,” I whisper, not realizing the words had come from my mouth.

In reply, he buries his face in my neck. “You still do,” he murmurs, and then he bites down. I feel the sting of his fangs and tremble, keeping my lips tightly compressed to prevent the moans that threaten to escape. “Don’t deny it Eva. You want me as much as I want you.”

“I wanted your love,” I snap. He laughs.

“Stop lying to yourself,” he says simply, pressing his lips against my own cold, unresponsive ones, kissing me hard and long. When he breaks away, I am left gasping for breath.

“I asked you before.” Another kiss, harder this time. “What is love? You couldn’t answer.” He pauses. “It isn’t real.” He slips his tongue into my mouth, something he has never done before. “Now, desire. That is something very real.”

“No.” Even now, I love him, I realise. My love must be real. “Chase, please, no.”

He doesn’t answer. There is a soft rustle as he pulls away the top of my robes.

“For the love of God,” I whisper, feeling my resistance crumble away, my tears rolling down my cheeks.

He pauses to answer.

“I am God,” he says.

I close my eyes. “I love you,” I say, remembering what happened when I last said those words. And because I do, I let him do what he wishes, tears falling the entire time.

---

Oh gods. That was weird.

This was, more or less, the dream (or nightmare) I had less Saturday. (I finished writing it out by Thursday, but I could only type it out today, Firday.)

That's not the worst part.

Was.

Eva.

Normally I would relish a dream like this (Yes, Chase did look awesome) but no.

There was fear, it was all over. I don't think I described that fear too well. I'm still suffering from writer's block. But I experimented with a new style of writing - it reminds me of Christopher Pike's "The Last Vampire".

I have let an extraordinary number of people read this; and it's interesting how every one of them have interpreted it. Please. Comment.

Disclaimer: I do not own Chase Young.

TKGS Cross Country/ Zany Day Parade 2008

2008-07-26T06:33:00.001-07:00

Well... Today (Actually, 22 July, but this post has been sitting here since 22 July, I've only decided to finish it up now) has been interesting.

22 July is where schools around Singapore commemorated Racial Harmony Day. But... TKG must always be different, and held our annual Cross Country then. (Cross Country is usually held on a Saturday in August.)

Alright, you might be wondering what is Zany Day Parade? I mean, Cross Country we all know, but Zany Parade?

Dictionary.com defines "zany" as ludicrously or whimsically comical; clownish. And, as always, it a crazy event.

Okay, okay I'll start from the beginning.

Let's see.

My sister and I got to East Coast Parkway at about 7.20am. (Yes, we hold our Cross Countries at East Coast, and not at McRitchie Reservoir, as most schools do.) The event's always held at this big field near the hawker centre (the Lagoon, if I'm not wrong.)

There are 10 participants per class taking part in the Cross Country, while the rest of the class take part in Zany. And, because I am a wet blanket (or so my friends claim... I am NOT a wet blanket) and I refuse to take part in the somewhat humiliating Zany Parade, I signed up for Cross Country the second I heard the theme for this year's Parade. (I signed up for Cross Country last year too, even though I had only just finished recovering from a torn ligament which had prevented me from taking my NAPFA only two weeks before the Cross Country...)

This year's theme for Sec 3s was "local culture". And my class, being a Drama Elective/not-quite-Drama-but-whacky-all-the-same people-filled class were really into the thing.

Local Culture? Most people would think of the four ethnic races, which my class DID do, but no, that wasn't good enough. "Chinese" was interpreted as martial arts/dancing girls. (Y'know, the type with the fans?) "Indian" had two Bollywood dancers dancing around a tree. (The tree was a classmate who sprayed her hair green.) "Malay was nothing too special. But the "Eurasians" were a couple of girls in black dresses, tights and heels... Who started doing the Twist and other strange dances.

L. O. L.

And that's not even all of it. There were Ah Lians, Ah Bengs, Phua Chu Kang, three or four policewoman (Who had stolen their uniforms from NPCC girls) and Mas Selamat.

Is it a wonder we won? (With another class who I had forgotten. Two classes from each cohort wins each year.)

Alright, I'm being a little egoistical here. Although it all sounds great, the execution wasn't that good... They didn't practice much. But the Ah Lians really did look like Ah Lians, with their tight T-shirts, FBTs (Black shorts, usually with a side slit) and stockings.

Okay. On to Cross Country.

Imagine.

Running 3km.

Listening to Panic! At the Disco.

The sky is cloudy, like it is before a storm.

Cool wind whipping your hair as you run.

Your heart pounding in time to the shattering beats that blast through your headphones.

I WANNA DO IT AGAIN.

"Let's get these teen hearts beating. Faster, faster

Let's get these teen hearts beating. Faster"

Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off Lyrics
Artist(Band):Panic! At The Disco

I did run faster, funnily enough. XD I highly recommend you watch the video on Youtube; it's a good song.

There were approximately 80 runners altogether.... And in the end, I was 35th place. I count that as pretty good, considering how out of shape I am. (I was 44th last year.)

And I got a medal in the end, because apparently, our class's timing was the best in the level.

We ended at about 11.30am, but I wasn't going home yet. Not with the beach looking absolutely gorgeous.

Do you know how it looks, when the sky is completely covered with light grey clouds, all smooth and nice? The sea was a darker shade of grey, marred by the ugly ships that dotted the horizon. The wind was glorious.

Sakinah and I just sat at the rocks, watching the waves roll in while discussing her latest script. (She's the best scriptwriter in DEP, I swear.) We got up, ran into a bunch of seniors.

Masyitah, Serinder and Shoba walk past the opposite direction.

"Hey Sak? I suddenly feel hitting something. Or someone."

"Not me," she immediately says.

"Them, then?"

"No, Natalie, it's not nice."

...

"Now? Please?"

"What's going on?" Atiqah, another senior, pops out of nowhere. Masyitah, Serinder and Shoba walk ahead of us, completely oblivious.

"Natalie wants to hit me," Sakinah lies.

"Oh really? Hit her then."

I walk ahead ahead of the two of them.

"You can't, can you? You're just scared."

I walk faster.

"Chicken!" she mocks, and starts making stupid chicken noises. (Honestly, Atiqah, could you be more childish?)

And then I run towards Serinder, and half-hug, half-push and mostly wrapmyarmsaroundherneckandchokeheralittle.

"ARGH!" she screams, and there are identical shocked looks on the three seniors faces. They're already pretty freaked by the violent, nutty junior they've come to recognise me as, and this isn't helping my image.

Behind, Atiqah yells "Oh my god, I'M SORRY SERINDER." (I still don't know why she felt the need to apologise for my behaviour.)

And for once, my conscience starts prickling as Serinder looks as if she just had a heart attack. (Hard to believe, since Atiqah's even more violent than I am.) And then I walk to the Lagoon, looking for the drinks stall and come back with a lukewarm can of Vanilla Coke in one hand and a cup of ice in the other. More seniors have already arrived and the crowd around Serinder anxiously. And (well, that's what I think anyway) they glare at me as I approach.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I actually mean it.

"Erm, I can't drink Coke, I've got a medical condition."

I scream inside. I spent $1.20 on the damn thing.

"Take it anyway," I say and set the can and cup on the grass, before leaving with Sakinah, she still smirking.

When it started raining later, we walked to the beach and just stood there, letting the raindrops fall. It was wonderful. (But of course, sitting in an air-conditioned bus and later getting yelled at by your mom is a completely different story... And I forgot just how many books and notes I had in my bag... My foolscap was all drenched. )

---

There was a sequel to the Serinder incident.

The next day, Sakinah and I were discussing the previous day's events.

"So it's okay for me to whack you, but not okay for me to hit Serinder?" I ask Sakinah.

"I know! That's why I'm still mad at her." (Her being Atiqah.)

During recess, we find Serinder and Atiqah sitting together.

"So. It's okay for me to hit Sak, but not Serinder?" I demand.

"Yeah!" Sak agrees.

"No! It's not okay for you to hit anyone!" Atiqah says, all wide-eyed and innocent.

"Yeah right. You were calling me a chicken. I should have recorded all the noises you made."

Serinder just sits there and looks more scared.

Great. The seniors all think I'm nuts.

Apathy

2008-07-23T05:02:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling this cold. No, cold's the wrong word. Empty more like; indifference creeping up on me lately.

I don't know why either. Studies, concentrated CAs next week? I don't really give a damn now. Unbelievable. This is me speaking. All the goals I had set at the beginning of the year (6 A distinctions, a B3 at the very least for Maths and E Maths) I just DON'T CARE. Writing? I've been uninspired for months. Drawing takes up so much time. I haven't touched my guitar in weeks. (My teacher's probably going to kill me tomorrow.) Blogging? I've got several unfinished posts sitting here, just waiting for me to finish them. But I can't be bothered to.

The only things I really care about at the moment is learning to finish my piano pieces I set out to do, and getting through Drama. (Filming for one of the three O level pieces is next Tuesday. Wish me luck.)

I'm just not motivated to study. Maybe, it's because despite all my (and my tutor's) efforts I'm still failing both Maths. Maybe I just can't understand Chemistry anymore. Maybe it's because my English has deteriorated to the extent that I can't even do a single Comprehension and Summary exercise anymore. (I'm pretty sure there was something wrong with that sentence there, but me being me, I can't be bothered to fix it.) Maybe just watching my brother struggle through JC is making me think twice before going to VJC, despite the fact I've been aiming to go there since I was 12. (But honestly. He scored distinctions for his Math and A Math for O levels, and he just got an Ungraded for Math. What chance do I stand?)

Maybe it's everything put together.

"Three cheers for tyranny,
Unapologetic apathy,
Cause there ain't no way that I'm coming back again.

And through it all
How could you cry for me?
Cause I don't feel bad about it.
So shut your eyes,
Kiss me goodbye,
And sleep."

Sleep - My Chemical Romance

I need help with my Ipod. PLEASE.

2008-07-15T20:45:00.001-07:00

Alright, since my computer has crashed, every single programme has been wiped out. Including music.

None of my music files were backed up. (This is where I sob. 30 seconds to mars, Daughtry, etc. etc. etc. ) But they're all inside my Ipod.

Is there any way to take out import the songs in my Ipod INTO Itunes? Because if I were to sync my Ipod with Itunes now, all existing songs in my Ipod will be erased, leaving me with two tracks : "Symphony No. 9 (Scherzo)" by Ludwig van Beethoven and "Highway Blues" by Marc Seales. And I do not want that.

So help. Please?

Dreams

2008-07-15T06:33:00.000-07:00

Alright, this shouldn't be called "Dreams". Ambition, more like.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have wanted so very much to be a writer.

Over the past few years, that ambition hasn't changed, although I'm a little more realistic now. More likely I'll have a boring 9-5 job, and then write during my spare time. And then, hopefully, hopefully, I'll write something actually worthy of being published. And when I become a published writer, I could quit my job and write full-time.

Yeah, I can keep dreaming.

But apart from writing, there's absolutely nothing else I can think of doing. I mean. Some (idiotic) people have suggested being an artist. Pfft. You have got to be kidding me.

Teaching? Don't have the passion for it. Law. No way. (See above reason.) Acting? I've no talent for it, I only do it for the exam. And there was one point I wanted to be an actress on film, but I think one of the requirements (being a good actress isn't really one... connections are more important. IMO anyway) is being photogenic. Which I'm not.

But the thing is. I want to be someone successful. That is, someone with a four digit monthly pay, being in a job I actually enjoy doing, someone with the four Cs (car, cash, condo, credit card. If you're a Singaporean and you don't know then shame on you) and well. I want to be with my significant other.

That's a lot I'm asking for.

But it all boils down to this :

I want to be a well-paid author.

That's all.

I think can manage the rest on my own.

To my significant other:

I love you.

My computer crashed

2008-07-15T05:36:00.000-07:00

My title says it all.

I'm a little busy now reinstalling all the softwares. But I've lost several irreplaceable files that I didn't back up... Such as my previous projects projects, research on past debates, old speeches, drawings that I didn't put up on DeviantART, short stories (again, ones that I hadn't submitted before), story and poetry ideas

etc. etc. etc.

You get my point.

I will be in a bad mood for the next few days.

You have been warned.

Uninspired

2008-07-11T19:58:00.001-07:00

Dear diary,

I NEED TO WRITE. I NEED SO BADLY TO WRITE.

Not a damn blog post, or some expository or discussive essay, not even a diary entry. I need pure fiction, with characters running around and me playing God and messing up their lives. Heck, I'll settle even for a fan fiction. I wouldn't even mind writing a short poem.

I am so sick and tired of reading books. I can't get through ANYTHING (Twilight, Eragon, Agatha Christie and school text books) and all the books I do want to read (The Snow Walker Trilogy, The Blood Confessions, The Last Vampire 5 & 6, Ironside) are all currently unavailable. (Either lent out, stolen or no one has it.)

I WANT TO WRITE. WHERE IS MY MUSE WHEN I NEED IT?

Please.

I just want to write.

Faery tales (NO, I did NOT spell this wrongly)

2008-07-03T07:00:00.001-07:00

What type of Fae are you?

An elf! :D (Think Lord of the Rings, tall, pale and slender people with long, pretty hair, either black or silver. Everything I'm not.) They're sometimes known as the Fair folk.

Lately, I've been obsessed with Holly Black's "The Modern Faerie Tales". (FYI, Holly Black is the author of The Spiderwick Chronicles".) Yes, faerie tales.

I've always been obsessed with the fey and all things supernatural, for as long as I can remember. I did grow up reading Harry Potter y'know. And I was reading Lord of the Rings when I was 10. I have the first three Deltora series by Emily Rodda. (15 books)

Fairy tales. Remember all the childhood stories and the Disney renditions? Cinderella, with her singing birds and talking mice, Ariel (The Little Mermaid) and the absolutely fascinating undersea witch Ursula. There was Sleeping Beauty, Little Red Riding Hood, etc. etc.

However, how many of you realise just how morbid fairy tales are? I mean, please. You call me disturbing? In the original Grimm Brother's version of Cinderella, Cindy didn't have a stepmother, but little birdies that watched over her like guardian angels. ("You talk to birds?") Then stepsisters had to cut off their big toe and the heel of their foot to fit into the dainty little glass slipper. (There was a lot of blood. Trust me.) And when the stepsisters went to Cinderella's wedding, and the helpful little birdies pecked the stepsisters blind. And they lived happily ever after.

Little Red Riding Hood. The man cut open the wolf's stomach, fished Little Red and Granny out, stuffed rocks in and then sewed the stomach shut. Need I say anything else?

Jack and the Bean Stalk. Now, what kind of story is that? One that teaches you to steal? And then you kill the giant (no matter how indirectly) at the end.

I liked the original Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Anderson. Y'know, whenever she walked on land, it was as if she was walking on knives. And at the end, when the prince fell in love with another woman (fickle asshole) she's given the choice to A) Die and become the foam of the sea or B) Stab him and let his blood wash over her so she could become a mermaid again.

And Snow White. Ah, sweet sweet Snow White and her seven dwarves. Well, sorry to shatter your childhood memories, but the original dwarves weren't all "Heigh ho heigh ho"; they were grotesque misshapen little creatures. And the evil queen ordered the hunter to bring back Snow White's heart for her to eat, so that her own evil heart could be sated and put to rest. And in the end, sweet Snow White had her revenge. When the evil queen went to Snow White's wedding, (not knowing her stepdaughter was still alive) the queen was made to step into a pair of heated iron shoes, and made to dance in them until she dies.

These ladies and gentlemen, are the original fairy tales. Not so pretty now, are they? (They were written by GRIMM Brothers...)

Of course, they've all been edited and censored these days. Oh sure... You can watch violent movies, play gory games, but these fairy tales are just too disturbing... (Please note the sacarsm.)

This is why I love Holly Black's writings, The Pillowman (Only the best play ever, written by an extremely talented Martin McDonagh) and Kaori Yuki's Fairy Cube (The dark side of fairies was what Chaung Yi Comics called it). These are the closest you can get to the old fairy tales, only with a modern twist. Okay, so The Pillowman doesn't really have fairies in it, but it's style is so much like fairy tales. (Read http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Pillowman#Katurian.27s_Stories. I dare you to disagree.)

~~~

I WANT TO READ IRONSIDE BY HOLLY BLACK. T_T

Someone go with me to Kinokuniya to get the books?

Fear and horror stories

2008-07-02T04:14:00.001-07:00

Today a friend of mine told me a story.

His aunt had taken care of him since he was a small boy, and she told him last night about how his parents died. He did a very fair imitation of her (I knew them both pretty well):

“They were doing mission work in some nasty little south American country when a man burst into the mission hospital one night, terrified out of his mind. He told them that his sister had been killed by a Muerto blanco, and that he was certain that it was coming for him next. What is a Muerto blanco? Apparently it was some sort of bogey-man, something like that dumb chupacabra or whatever. They called it the White Death or the White Girl, because it was the soul of someone who hated life so much that they came back in their shrouds to kill those who told of them.

The man had been told about the vengeful spirit by his sister hours before her death. It was a girl with dead, black eyes that wept bile. The thing moved without ever actually moving its legs, and it stalked its victims back to their homes. Now, if you weren’t already aware that this thing was following you, once it got back to your house, it would start knocking on your door…

* Once for you skin, which she’ll use to patch her own decaying flesh.
* Twice for your muscle, which she’ll gnash her teeth on between victims.
* Thrice for your bones, which she’ll make knives to pick her teeth and kill her victims.
* Four times for your heart, which she’ll wear around her neck.

* Five times for your teeth, which she’ll polish and keep in a box.
* Six times for your eyes, which she’ll see the faces of your loved ones through.
* Seven times for your soul, which she’ll eat whole - you can never pass while you’re in her stomach.

She has to repeat this on any mirror or door between you and her.

You can try to outrun her, but she’s faster than the fastest man. And if you leave your home while she’s knocking on your door, she won’t be so courteous when she catches up to you.

Now the man was certain that this thing had killed his sister, that he had tried to tell the police, but they would not listen. Next he had tried to tell his priest, but the priest turned him away when he saw that the thing was following him now - oh, that’s right, I forgot about that - it can only get you if you tell someone else about it, or you saw it kill someone else. The man, after finishing his tale, stole a car from the mission, and was never seen again.

Apparently his mother and father had immediately called his aunt about this when it happened. They were found in the morning, skinned and dismembered. Their bodies were covered in tiny, child-like handprints.

His aunt was really drunk the night before, and had told him about that. He told me this story early in the morning today at school, before the cops arrived. His aunt had been murdered that night. I called him later that night, and he told me that he was being chased by someone, and now they were knocking on his door. I told him to stop shitting me.

He held the phone away from his face for a minute, and I could hear slow, deliberate knocking. A moment later, I heard the door rip from its hinges and the dying screams of my friend.

Then a little girl’s voice spoke over the line: “WITNESS.” I hung up.

Three minutes ago someone started knocking on my door. She has to knock 28 times on my front door, 28 times on the mirror in the hall, and another 28 times on the door to my bedroom. She’s doing it slowly… I think she wants to scare me some more, let me know that my death is just moments away. I will not run - I couldn’t get to my car in time anyway. She started knocking on my bedroom door a minute ago, she should be done any moment.

Nice knowing you guys, it’s been funjklm,.-

WITNESS

---

Let's talk, shall we? Let's talk about fear.

What scares you? Is it the dark? When shadows seem to move around, even after you've closed your eyes?

i could swear that something moved there

Is it being alone at home? When something, anything could happen, and no one would be there to help you?

someone's knocking on the door. aren't you going to answer it?

Face your back to an empty space. Does it make you feel exposed, and so horribly vulnerable?

something cold touches the back of your neck

Silence. Any oppressive silence, so heavy, it's almost too loud. And you voice seems to catch in you throat. You can't sing, you can't whistle, you

MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP

can't do anything but listen to that silence.

....

Okay, I think I'm done playing.

So. Being a (mostly) english-educated Singaporean, I think I'm fairly exposed to both Western and Eastern superstitions, legends and horror stories.

In my opinion, Caucasians seem to fear the unknown. Most of their horror movies are about unseen forces that wreck havoc; you don't get to see the ghost till the end. (Anyone watched "A Haunting" on Discovery Channel? )

The thing is; Asians treat the supernatural as a part of their every day lives, and (once again, my opinion) most Westerners try their very best to ignore what they cannot understand.

Western horror movies are far gorier than Asian ones. The Asian ones normally have the corpse-like people walking, well, stumbling around, and popping up at unexpected moments. Once you turn off the sound, it isn't scary anymore. And I especially love the twists and turns of plots in Asian horror stories; I watched the Thai movie "Alone" last week, and for once, I was able to guess the huge twist in the plot. : D

Asian lore is filled with superstition and vengeful spirits. I guess what we fear most is the fact that someone we love can't rest peacefully.

Another difference between Western and Asian horror movies. Does anyone realise that Western horror movies tend to have a more conclusive ending than Asian ones? And they tend to have happier endings. I wonder... Does that have show something about the difference between the minds of the Asians and Westerners?

One thing in common though. As human beings, we seem to be fascinated by fear. We know reading Stephen King is disturbing, yet his books continue to be bestsellers. Some of us get nightmares for a week after watching a horror movie, yet we keep going back for more. New horror movies come out every month, and after some time, the plots get old. And once again, we troop off to the cinema to watch them. And people still play Ouija boards despite all the stories and warnings we hear. Russell Lee's "True Singapore Ghost Stories" have over 15 books now, and are still selling like hot cakes.

My conclusion. We're a bunch of people with plenty of time to spare. Hence the amount of urban legends, horror stories you find on the internet, the number of horror movies, the superstitions grow from our natural curiosity.

And because I just can't resist

---

In rural southern Illinois a toy company began selling "realistic" baby dolls to expectant mothers. But apparently after the mother had her child the toy baby would start crying. Eventually the "rocking motion" advertised to calm it down wouldn't work, and you couldn't get it to stop without shaking it. Eventually when it started crying the parent would have to beat it, and the beatings and thrashings would have to get harder and harder to get it to be quiet. The only thing that seemed to shut the baby doll up permanently was the bash its head against the wall to destroy whatever mechanism triggered the crying. On more than one occasion though, neighbours called the authorities to report child abuse, and when the police arrived they found the bloody remains of infants smeared across the walls and the floor. In most cases the mother couldn't understand why the police were there, she just "got rid of the stupid doll" as she rocked a baby-shaped bundle in her arms.

~~~~

All the stories were taken from

http://www.gaiaonline.com/forum/general-discussion/ewww-thats-just-creepy-share-some-stories-bishes/t.20828029_1/

Music

2008-06-30T04:48:00.000-07:00

“Music is my life; my life is music.”

That how a friend of mine described her life. I don't know about her, but it is rather an exaggeration if I were to apply it to myself.

But on second thoughts, maybe not so much of an exaggeration. Even as I'm writing this, I’m listening to "May It Be" sung by Enya from The Lord of The Rings The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack. There's a piano, with three folders of music scores belonging to me on it, my acoustic guitar, capo (the metal clamp used to change the key of the guitar without having to tune the strings) a tuner, a folder-full of guitar tabs and scores. There is a grand total of eight songs in my hand phone, but as if to make up for that pathetic number, 393 tracks on my 4GB metallic green Ipod nano.

So music may not be my life, but it certainly is a big part of it. Alright, you may say that's typical of just about every teenager, but I doubt there are many teenagers in the world who continue torturing their school's population by playing the school piano at every available opportunity, going back home to practice some more, take a break by strumming a little on the guitar then go back to the piano.

Yes, I've been doing that for the past week, ever since school reopened. Why? Because I so very very badly want to play My Chemical Romance's "Disenchanted" and Linkin Park's "What I've Done" on piano. I'm a terrible pianist; in fact, I'm AWFUL at music. I'm tone-deaf and I've got absolutely no sense of rhythm. But I get by only with this dogged kind of persistence; when I WANT to do something, heaven help whatever stands in my way. (Which was what eventually lead to me spraining my ankle during gymnastics class in PE... But that’s another story.) Last year, when I was again in piano mode, I drove the school nuts playing Pachelbel's Canon over and over again. It took me two months to learn the damned song (I didn't have a piano at home at that time) but I eventually did it.

Alright, other than piano, there is guitar. Once again, I'm awful at music. I can do little more than strum, and even so, (once again) I've got no sense of rhythm. Which is where my tenacity comes in handy; I'll keep practicing until I can get the song right. I go for guitar lessons every Friday. At first I was learning from the textbook, which was really boring and since I didn't know the songs, I had no motivation whatsoever. I walked into lesson one day and told the teacher "This is not working out. Learning from the textbook is painful for me, it's painful for you. Can we do something else instead?"

And he just looked at me and said "Okay. What?"

My expression must have been something like "...Wow." So I handed him my Ipod, he plugged it in the speakers and then started teaching me “Teardrops on my Guitar” by Taylor Swift.

Cool guy.

The music I have in my Ipod is a very strange collection. I only recently imported The Lord of the Rings soundtracks. There are bands like My Chemical Romance, Linkin Park, 30 seconds to mars and Green Day. Then I have random songs my friends send me, like "Iris" by Goo Goo Dolls, "I'm Your's" by Jason Mraz, "The Haunting" by Kamelot and Within Temptation's "Angels" and "Memories". Then there are singers like Kelly Clarkson, Avril Lavigne and Hillary Duff. (My sister's music, not mine.) And of course, my Japanese music; bands like ALI PROJECT and Do As Infinity, and soundtracks from various animes; Inuyasha, Full Metal Alchemist and Higurashi no Naku Koro ni.

I spent the first twelve years of my life musicless. (Yay, I invented a new word!) In Primary 6 I was introduced to anime, and my love for J pop and J rock grew from there. I was only introduced to MCR last year, and it was only this year when I (In my opinion anyway) when I really started listening to music; like just listening to random songs my friends recommend. I'm pretty behind on what's supposed to be now in the music scene, or what's "in", and I hope to stay that way. Music is timeless, whether it be Mozart's “Twinkle Twinkle Little Stars” (has anyone noticed that the tune for ABC is the same?), or Beethoven's "For Elise", or even My Chemical Romance's "Famous Last Words".

Music.

It's all around us.

It's in us all.

Signing off,

Natalie

EMOism

2008-06-28T04:54:00.000-07:00

“I think emo is fucking garbage, it's bullshit. I think there's bands that unfortunately we get lumped in with that are considered emo and by default that starts to make us emo.”

- Gearard Way, lead singer and frontman of My Chemical Romance

(Go Gerard!)

EMO.

How often have you heard this... Miserable word being used?

Emo is being associated with a stereotype that includes being emotional, sensitive, shy, introverted, or angsty. It is also associated with depression, self-injury, and suicide.

The term "emo" is sometimes stereotyped with tight jeans on males and females alike, long fringe brushed to one side of the face or over one or both eyes, dyed black, straight hair, tight t-shirts which often bear the names of rock bands, studded belts, belt buckles, canvas sneakers (mostly Converse brands or cheaper imitations) or other black shoes (often old and beaten up). The shoes usually have random words scrawled on them, like "pain" and "death". Then there's the guitar playing, eyeliner and masacara on both sexes, writing poetry, black nail polish etc. etc. And of course, the kind of music you listen can also classify you as "emo". For example Linkin Park, Green Day and MCR.

I just hate stereotypes. Especially emo.

If you like MCR, it means you have a great taste in music. (No comments on Linkin Park and Green Day, I don't listen to them that much.) Spending $98 to see Gerad Way live on stage does not mean you're EMO, you're just a big fan.

As for the hair, skinny jeans and converse sneakers part? You're a conformist. And if you're a guy, you have a lousy dress sense. Seriously. I think you know what I mean, a guy can't wear skinny jeans. Wear black, use eyeliner or black nail polish? You're vain. Especially if you're still a student.

Draw on yourself? You lack paper. Or you're too scared to get a tattoo. Can't anyone draw on their selves without being called EMO? Don't smile often? You've got a serious view on life. Mutilate yourself? You're either an attention-seeker, or you're suicidal. If you like sulking in a corner, you're either an angsty teenager or just anti-social.

Apparently, I am labeled emo because:

- I've got pale skin

- Dark hair (I don't even HAVE a fringe.)

- I play guitar

- I write dark poetry (Or at least used to. All I can write about these days are happy lovey dovey poems. Argh.)

- I listen to MCR, Linkin Park and the occasional Green Day

- I tend to wear dark colours (But it's not BLACK. It's maroon, khaki, various shades of brown, but NOT black.)

- My need for alone time every once in a while

I really don't get this label. So wearing black is supposed to mean that you're emo? My grandmother wears black all the time. My mother wears black when she hasn't been to gym for some time and feels fat. Do people call them emo?

Then there is playing guitar. Guitar's (or at least their 'ancestors) have been around since the 15th and 16th century. I highly doubt people were called emo then. Emma Roberts (Nancy Drew 2007 movie) can play guitar. Is she called emo?

Pale skin and dark hair. Granted, it's a little unusual to have pale skin in Singapore, but dark hair? Excuse me, just about every Asian out there has dark hair.

Writing poetry like:

A flash of light (What is it that shines so bright?)

A swish, a slash

And then the blood (It gushes as a crimson flood)

A girl falls over dead (But where in the world is her head?)

A scream, a yell of fright

But no one is too sad this night (Now I wonder why is that?)

does NOT mean I'm emo. It's a way of venting out my anger, is there anything wrong with that?

Of course, I have to defend MCR. Just scroll up and look at the quote above. MCR is not emo. Is something considered emo when they tell you it's okay to live? Look at "Famous Last Words" - "I am not afraid to keep on living / I am not afraid to walk this world alone " Linkin Park is yes, slightly more angsty. But please, let's look at the original definition of emo.

"Emo is a style of hardcore punk which describes several variations of music with common roots. In the mid-1980s, the term emo described a subgenre of hardcore punk which originated in the Washington, D.C. music scene. In later years, the term emocore, short for "emotional hardcore", was also used to describe the emotional performances of bands in the Washington, D.C. scene and some of the offshoot regional scenes such as Rites of Spring, Embrace, One Last Wish, Beefeater, Gray Matter, Fire Party, and later, Moss Icon. (In more recent years, the term "emotive hardcore" entered the lexicon to describe the period.)

Starting in the mid-1990s, the term emo began to refer to the indie scene that followed the influences of Fugazi, which itself was an offshoot of the first wave of emo. Bands including Sunny Day Real Estate and Texas Is the Reason had a more indie rock style of emo, more melodic and less chaotic. The so-called "indie emo" scene survived until the late 1990s, as many of the bands either disbanded or shifted to mainstream styles. As the remaining indie emo bands entered the mainstream, newer bands began to emulate the mainstream style. As a result, the term "emo" became a vaguely defined identifier rather than a specific genre of music."

Emo

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emo

There. Emo was a style of hardcore punk. Linkin Park is most definitely NOT hardcore punk. A mix of rap rock and metal maybe, but punk? No.

And as for alone time. Don't all of us need that every once in a while? Just some time to ourselves to think, read or write something. Can't we do that anymore without being labeled emo?

Stop using the label EMO, people, if you’re not even sure what it means. Thank you.

Signing off,

Natalie

Midori's World

Missing my muse

Dead again

Are you laughing? I'm not.

Obsession

Claustrophobia

On crushes and hormones

Will you miss me while I'm gone?

Aftermath

Letter to you

Nightmare II

Valentine's Day

No time

Gray

Trial and Error

Nightmare

The long way home...

Uninspired

Memento mori

New Poem

Flickers

Shadows In The Dark

Blue

Summer Days

Never be a writer

Conqerors

The World Is Ugly by My Chemical Romance

My Chemical RomanceThe World Is Ugly lyrics

Cold Fire

Untitled

Busy + Poem: If you would just notice me

Your Guardian Angel

Eternal Muse

Untitled - Because I couldn't come up with one

Please, don't cry

Intoxicate

Oh wow. I actually wrote a short story.

TKGS Cross Country/ Zany Day Parade 2008

Apathy

I need help with my Ipod. PLEASE.

Dreams

My computer crashed

Uninspired

Faery tales (NO, I did NOT spell this wrongly)

Fear and horror stories

Music

EMOism

My Chemical Romance
The World Is Ugly lyrics