Can you hear the song of my silent screams?

2007-10-03T04:15:00.001-07:00

Note: I wrote this for fk. I call this one "When the river runs dry". Can be a little confusing, but if you think and concentrate hard enough, it's quite logical and simple.

Tell me what happens when the river runs dry
If I am too blind to see
That the birds have stopped singing
And the prisoners have all run free.

When the prisoners have all run free
And that a wizard has lost his magic.
That a bard has forgotten how to sing
And a priest afraid to pray.

Show me what happens when the river runs dry
If I am too blind to see
That the grass is no longer green
And the water is no longer sparkling clearly.

When the water is no longer clear
And that blood is no longer crimson.
That the sun is no longer flaming red
And life is no longer colourful.

This was what happened when the river ran dry
And I was too blind to see
That the one I loved felt the same
And it was true that he loved me.

When it was true that he loved me
And that I did not know
Until he fell at the hands of time
And had no choice but to go.

The river ran dry a long time ago,
And never again will it flow.

2007-10-03T04:12:00.000-07:00

Note: This was composed for fk. I call it "A Dirty Story". Quite lame, but oh well.

A streak of soot smudged a young girl’s face
While dirt lived under her long, unkempt nails.
Take not this story literally too soon
And try to follow its bloody trails.

Unwashed hands handled her meals
For a good ten years spent in a city’s dark sewer
Feeding on unclean, unnamed creatures
This little girl had a life like no other.

It matters not what family she had
Nor why she came out one day
For her eyes were blinded by the ugly sights
And her blindness could not lead the way.

She fumbled through the streets on her bare feet
Her life leaked away, staining the floor
No one turned back to look at the girl
No one was willing to answer the door

Shivering from the cold with a thin cloak on
She then lived alone in city’s dark alley.
Her first chance at love was forcefully taken away
It was debatable if she was treated unfairly.

She did not understand what she had lost
Or why her bleeding did not stop
Or why her clothes were in disarray
Whatever she thought, it was not a lot.

Cry for her, this poor poor girl.
Make her scream, make her straight hair curl.
Deceive her, make use of all she has.
Corrupt her, that innocent little lass.

So ends the tale of dirtiness
Of soot, dirt and stained streets,
And of hearts tainted by black ink.

2007-03-16T19:30:00.000-07:00

Note: This is the essay I wrote for O's last year. It's not that accurate. I got an A1 for English! *cheers* This one's called "Dreams".

A dream can be fairly pleasant or positively overwhelming when fulfilled, but my dream brings many other dreams that threatens to snip the taut string that holds my life and sanity together as an artist's beautiful impression of a struggle. I have only one dream now: To dream.

My dream was to be famous and idolised by the entire world. I strived to be who I wanted to be: other people. My roles as an actress never failed to challenge my ability, keeping me on my toes - on pointe, like a ballerina. But I never got to be myself on screen.

My tight schedules and selfless indulgence in my work won me the fulfilment of my dream, but made me lose myself, not only in the working sense, but also in the literal sense. I am an empty body, like a water bottle left discarded beside a parched runner.

People see me as the first character I played - beautiful, and the fair lady with dark, cat-like eyes and a personality to match. The embodiment of a dark kind of class and glamour. The person so many want to be. And it pains me to see so many following in my footsteps. Dreams can make you or destroy you.

The uneven tapping and clicking of heels on the black marble-tiled floor turned my head, then body, to face what was behind. I half-expected to know what was coming next, but curiosity very nearly scared the cat to death when I saw the reflection in the mirror.

Her face was sleekly shaped, and her fair, pale skin was flawless to the touch, it seemed. Her straight, black hair was pulled tightly into a neat bun at the back of her head. Lifting my hand up to touch my own hair, I combed my fingers through the thick, glossy curls slowly, savouring the feel of the soft velvet against my skin. And then I realised that the hair was not mine. It felt so foreign.

My gaze shot from her thin, faintly pink-hued lips to her eyes that betrayed no emotion. Oh, her eyes were so beautifully-shaped, but her sockets might just as well have been empty. The pallor of her skin seemed even more prominent now, and a mind-numbing chill slowly creeped up my back like a worm and raised the hair on my nape.

Stumbling back in shock and terror, I hit a mirrored wall behind me and swung around to face it. I screamed as I saw the psychopath I once acted as. Her mouth was open in silent laughter.

I scrambled away repeatedly, only to see more and more mirrors appear before me, telling me I was the one who added more lies to the world of sin, more pain to those who yearned for acceptance, more dreams to those who have not fulfilled any, more...

"Shut up! I said shut up!" I clamped my hands desperately over my ears to shut out nothing at all. No one spoke. All I heard were merely soundless, silent accusations that stabbed my heart and twisted in my wound.

The silence rang even more than before in my head, threatening to burst my eardrums. My head felt like it was going to explode. I was writhing about on the floor in terror, anger and annoyance. Screaming for the silence to stop whatever it was doing.

"Pathetic." A whisper brushed against my covered ear. It was my first character.

In a state of shock, I awoke with a start, my heart thumping fast. This was not the first time.

And then I cried. Broken, like a piggy bank you had for so long, but had to break on a rainy day.

A dream can be fairly pleasant or positively overwhelming when fulfilled, but my dream to be a star brought with it nightmares with monsters screaming silently at me in contempt and threatening to tear me from my sanity.

My dream was to be a star. But I do not want my fears to haunt me any longer. I do not want nightmares.

My dream is to dream.

2007-01-19T04:47:00.000-08:00

Note: Wrote this piece as homework for Literature. The teacher gave a class activity. He gave four songs, and students were to pick one favourite line from each song in their groups, and write a piece of prose with the lines in the prose. The words in bold are the song lyrics. Try and guess which songs they're from! I call this "Radio".

Turn up your radio.

I’m sure I’m there. I always was. I still am.

How about turning it on first? You never did so. You don’t do so.

From the time you first told me I was beautiful, I knew you were the one.

Things did not work out. It could have. Perhaps I was too insecure. Perhaps I just didn’t listen. Perhaps I wasn’t who you thought I was at first.

You never told me, so I never knew.

Give me a chance again, to be alone in your ear. Give me a chance to explain, to tell you why.

You never gave me a chance, that’s why I need you to hear my side of the story.

I still remember your face, your clear, hazel eyes that gazed upon me with such tenderness, such adoration.

Such pride.

Your hands, so large and protective, always covered mine so well. They were rough and calloused. They’ve been through so much. But they were so gentle.

They are still that way now. But I can feel them tearing, then ripping my heart. But this doesn’t matter, does it?

No, I don’t believe so. It never mattered. It still doesn’t.

I still hear your voice every night, before I drift into deep slumber. So reassuring, so calm, so masculine.

I get scared sometimes, because I hear you shouting at me. But I never seem to be able to understand how, in the end, I was calmed by the voice that frightened me just moments before.

Do you remember us together? Me, with my healthy mass of black hair, and radiant complexion, playing tag with the little children on the beach, and you, simply standing by and watching absently with a distant smile on your face, imagining life without me?

No, you never bothered. You never will.

Was it because of who I was?

Well, I’m different now. I don’t think you’ll know me anymore.

It’s a brand new start, I suppose.

My hair is gone, my skin is pallid, and I can walk no longer. My is the whisper of a beautiful red and black frog, and my hands shake whenever I lift them.

Can you be proud of me again? Can you look at me with tenderness and adoration again?

Can you even hear me?

No? Blast the radio, then.

Do I scare you?

Don’t let me.

But don’t hate me. It’s just that no one makes me feel this way.

2006-10-15T20:15:00.000-07:00

Note: This is the essay I wrote for my 'O' level preliminary examinations. As usual, I did the one-word essay, this time entitled "Humour". I scored a 28/30 for it. And no, that wasn't the highest score. :P Have fun! :D

Funny. Funny how I could have been so naive, when I was the one every single person who knew me called "the embodiment of practicality".

Funny. Funny how I spent a full year waiting, living in a world of my fantasies, and watching purple skies splashed with pale azure clouds that sailed so low, and tasted so very sweet, fly over me.

Funny. Funny how I met him, all perfect, as though he was the stereotypical knight in shining armour who stepped out of his fairy tale and into another, that was mine, to save a damsel in distress. But the funny thing was, I was not aware I was in distress, and hence, not really in distress at all. Funny.

Funny. Funny how I realised my life was filled with such materialism and superficiality only when he stepped into my life, thus causing my very belated distress. It seemed that I was so cold, and so unfeeling towards his lack of monetary wealth, and yet he treated me with such tender warmth and understanding, giving me all the consolation I needed then. But the funny thing was, he seemed to cause me more distress than I was in before I had even seen him.

Funny. Funny how I ignored the fact that he was nowhere near being a knight in shining armour, despite his fatal charm and dazzling gaze that would make any female swoon, and have her breath caught in her chest, also due to her suffocating corset, while her maid desperately waves hartshorn under her nose. Funny thought. Even more so than before. Yes, funny.

Funny. Funny how I insisted on sharing half my wealth with him after I insisted on repaying his debts from the life he said he used to lead, and led no longer. Funny how I didn't notice that the glint in his eyes when he rejected, then accepted my offer, was not a glint of love and regret, but a glint of victory. Funny.

Funny. Funny how I believed him when he dropped his voice to a husky whisper, pushed away the stray wisps of hair falling over my face, and said, "I love you.". The funny thing is, I failed to hear his second, silent proclamation of love for my money and naivete. Funny, indeed.

Funny. Funny how I was so sure he was changed, and did not gamble anymore. Funny. Funny how I forgot that a leopard never changes its spots.

Funny. Funny how I waited a full year for him to return to me after informing me that he had to settle some matters with the company he used to mix with. And so it was so terribly funny when I saw his name in the papers. So terribly funny when the article told me that he was a minor drug dealer and hadn't been in the line of business for more than a year.

It was so terribly funny. So funny that I felt a stitch in my chest from the mirthless laughter I was letting out. And reflecting upon my actions, I found even more humour in the situation, and the stitch became worse. It was now a dagger twisting in my wound. Yes, why not sprinkle salt in that wound just so everything would be so much funnier?

Funny. Funny how I'm reacting to all the drama in my life. Funny how the back of my throat burns, and how the tears scorching the back of my eyes refuse to fall. Funny how my fists are clenched, and how there is an increasing constriction in my chest that dares me to breathe.

Isn't this funny? I find it funny. Painfully so.

2006-06-24T23:03:00.000-07:00

Note: Inspired by the word "mistaken" when I saw it on tv. Called "Mistaken".

No, I'm not someone you know
or the someone who haunts your dreams
No, I'm not someone you let go
or the someone who knows what you mean.

Do my eyes look familiar to you?
Do they look deep into your soul?
Does my voice flow through your blood and veins?
Are you sure I'm the someone you know?

Mistaken dear sir, that is what you are
Mistaken for so long
I'm sorry, but you don't know me, sir
You're mistaken, and terribly wrong

I'm not the angel you know
or the someone who owns your heart
I'm not the one left in the cold
or the someone you knew from the start~ I'm

Not the someone
that you thought
that I was

I'm not the one
that you felt
that you loved

Do my eyes look familiar to you?
Do they look deep into your soul?
Does my voice flow through your blood and veins?
Are you sure I'm the someone you know, now?

Mistaken dear sir, that is what you are
Mistaken for so long
I'm sorry, but you don't know me, sir
You're mistaken, and as wrong-

As always.

2006-06-24T22:40:00.000-07:00

Note: Inspiration just struck me one night. I tweaked the tune of "Rock-a-bye-baby" for some parts of the song. You'll see. Kudos to Sherrie for helping me with the title. "Don't cry".

[normal tune]
Rock-a-bye-baby, on the tree-top.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall
And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Just one last time I'll cry, my rise
Just one more time I'll hold you close
I love you so, I know it shows
So don't cry, my baby, I love you the most

[eerie tune]
Rock-a-bye-baby, on the tree-top.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall
And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Borne from the lady your father once saw
And married and doted on and loved to the core
You are the baby that I could have borne
But don't cry, my baby, it matters no more.

[eerie tune]
Rock-a-bye-baby, on the tree-top.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall
And down will come baby, cradle and-

[normal tune] and down will come baby, cradle and all.

2006-05-27T01:32:00.000-07:00

Note: Decided to write a poem to be published in game on FK. Its called "My guardian angel". Need to improve on it. Help? :D

"Don't go," she said.
"I must."
"I'll cry," she said.
"Its dusk."

Her lip began to tremble,
Her eyes filled up with tears.
She fell to her knees
and begged with a desperation so clear:

"I may seem strong,
I may look sure,
But I am not invincible
and I cannot let you go."

"You can."
"Please don't," she said.
"Let go."
"I won't," she said.

Lifting her gaze slowly, she smiled
And said once more to stay
And if not, to in the least listen
to what she had to say:

"O guardian angel
With wings so purely white,
And hair of finely-spun silver,
I speak to you tonight:

I may seem strong,
I may look sure,
But I am not invincible
and I don't wish to let you go.

For you are a vision of chance
Who never escaped my sight.
You were granted upon me, a body of hope
Everlasting, and
Lovely as the night."

With that, she nodded
and took a step back.
Looking to the doorway,
falling as silent as a rat.

"Go, then," she said,
thinking I decided to stay.
I moved to the doorway,
then turned and told her what I had to say:

"O beautiful angel
With a soul so purely white,
And hair of finely-spun silver,
I spear to you tonight:

I may seem strong,
I may look sure,
But I am not invincible
And I cannot let you go."

I offered my hand and lifted her to her feet,
then spoke again
more to myself
than anyone else:

"A vision of chance, who
Never escaped my sight.
Granted body of hope,
Everlasting, and
Lovely as the night."

And I left.

2006-02-07T01:13:00.000-08:00

Note: This was some last minute "work" for prayer tomorrow, that is, the eighth of February. I was informed just this morning to have a reflection piece and prayer by recess and thus wrote a little poem. Managed to finish it by recess, but it isn't all that good. This poem is about a blind person who has a "friend", Nobility, and he sees his "friend" through the actions of others. Nobility is one of our school values, and is the value for the month. :D Hope you all like it. Feel free to comment. I call this "My friend".

Let me tell you about someone I met
and have known through all my years.
She comes when I am helpless
and gently dries up my scalding tears.

The bus was terribly jerky
and I could not keep my balance.
I told myself: "If I should fall,
all I need is resilience.".

The leather of my wallet
brushed past my palm,
and before I knew it,
It was nowhere to be found.

I bent low and felt about
for it was so very dark.
And then in the awkward silence,
A soft voice gave me a start.

I did not expect it -
That gentle offer of help.
My leather wallet was back with me
And with it, a rush of gratitude I felt.

And when I thought that that was it
after thanking the bodiless voice,
She went on to offer her seat,
and I felt my eyes turn moist.

It was only then that I saw my friend
who glowed with all the world's brightness
She lives as all my colours
And the light that shines through my darkness-

Nobility.

2006-02-07T01:08:00.000-08:00

Note: Whee. I wrote this over a span of.. I have no idea how many days.. But I finished it officially on the third of February. It's supposed to be for a book to be published ICly on FK (don't ask if you don't know, I'm too lazy to explain. :D), but I'm not sure I want to publish it anymore.. Its too un-IC. *lol* Rachelle, my sayang, asked me to give it to my dear for Valentine's day, but I told Rachelle that its about my love dying.

Anyways, this poem's called "Seasons' Love". I know it sounds a little weird and the verses don't flow, but I tried! Try and see the literature stuff in it! Have fun!

The healthy green leaves of spring
Sway gently with the breeze
So light, so graceful, they could be:
So much more than one can see.

My love rested weak upon her bed
Her voice a soft whisper
of words that displayed her spirit so fresh
Though her face was losing her colour.

In summer the trees look the loveliest,
and the weather turns vibrant and warm.
Such beautiful feelings are instantly lost
When the season's come and gone.

Her laughter returned to the air
and with hers, followed mine.
My love was strengthening slowly
And regaining her health with time.

Come autumn, the green is set ablaze
With leaves of flaming orange and gold.
They fall so elegantly upon any face
That will, in response, start to glow.

Her striking radiance shone so bright
and walking was no more a chore.
Such improvement seemed miraculous
and we could have only hoped for more.

Icy winds blow, the bald trees shiver-
So do the sleeping ones of Nature
which seemingly cease to exist
In the harsh, glacial winter.

My love rested still upon her bed,
Her musical voice was no more.
It was painful to believe that she was dead-
Painful to the core.

Did you hear my heart when it tore?

2005-12-11T07:32:00.000-08:00

Note: I wrote this in about half an hour, I think.. Its gonna be put up on my other blog too. Well, for once, it ain't a sad story! But yes, there is death involved. But no, it ain't a major part, for once. :D Specially for Christmas.

Here's the message:
Appreciate this season of sharing and giving. No matter how unhappy you are, or how much you are unwilling to celebrate Christmas, if you are willing to enjoy and not dwell in your own misery, its the best time to celebrate. Make full use of it.

Dearest Mr. Claus,

I am writing to you to thank you for a dream I had experienced just a few days ago.

I dreamt that you came to me and bestowed upon me all that I wished for. You were even in possession of the glowing halo that all angels and saints have had ever since they existed. But yours, Mr. Santa, was the biggest I had ever set my eyes upon. It looked as though the biggest doughnut ever was hovering about over your head. I reached out to take it, but you laughed that merry old laugh of yours, and before I knew it, all the food I could ever imagine I could have appeared before me on this large, wooden dining table complete with a Christmas table runner.

Do you remember, Santa? On it were nuts and drinks of all kinds, fresh potato salad, hot cross buns, hot dogs, many many packets of chips, and what every Christmas table should have, a large and warm roasted turkey. I feasted my eyes upon the overwhelming amount of food before looking around for my family. My father, my mother, my younger brother who was so small he couldn’t speak. All of a sudden, they appeared around the table and we began to eat. It was the best dinner I had ever had. Ever.

Do you remember all that, Santa? I do. This is a letter from me to you to thank you specially for that wonderful feast that I would never have had. You made my Christmas.

Are you an Angel of God? Please reply.

Yours sincerely,
Susan

P.S. I learnt how to fold a paper heart on the last day of the school term. Hope you like it.

Folding a paper heart with gloves on was no easy feat, though they were thin. Her small fingers fumbled clumsily with the last step of completing the heart she tried so hard to make perfect. Pressing it flat, Susan sat up from between the graves of her family and laid the white heart lightly on the snowy ground before her.

A whisper of a slight grin touched her lips, then broke into a true smile as she gazed up at the beautiful azure sky above. She dropped her gaze back down to the paper heart and sheltered it lovingly with snow. Her gloved hands were covering the heart protectively when she was done, and together with the warmth of her bare cheek pressing against her hands, Susan felt, as she closed her eyes, that it was the best Christmas ever.

2005-10-20T05:15:00.000-07:00

Note: Ooo.. Evil character. I like~ *beams* I call this "Touch me and you die.".

On the damp, cold ground lay a mutilated corpse, literally torn limb from limb in a pool of thick blood. Crawling with an unusually large number of vermin, the flies and maggots devoured their feast of rotting flesh, emitting a sweet, decaying scent. The face of the motionless torso was undoubtedly beautiful, had it not been streaked with tearstains and smudged with dried blood. Her open eyes were a deep, clear blue and remained emotionless in their sockets given her state. Her thin, once-pink lips were slightly apart, and her face displayed mild shock and fear. Her cheeks, devoid of its formerly healthy glow rested upon her sullied face like sheets of white paper.

As I turned my gaze to the slim, bloody dagger on the ground, I picked it up and raised it slowly to my lips, touching my tongue to the blade, licking the delectable droplets off it. Pleasure surged through me, gently – The balmy liquid trickled pleasantly down my throat to my chest, spreading its warmth throughout my entire body, right from the point it landed.

I did warn her.

“Touch me and you die.” I whispered with a soft chuckle.

2005-10-20T05:11:00.000-07:00

Note: Wrote this quite a while ago, thus explaining the lack of good description and rather childish story.. It seems that it touches the heart more if read out. *grins* No idea why, but it works. This is " 'Till Death".

Upon his white lip I lay my trembling fingers with heartfelt tenderness as I memorized every line and curve of his face. I called out his name.

He uttered incomprehensible words, but perhaps my heart was beating too hard to hear anything. With an effort that caused a faint crease in his forehead, he lifted his hand ever so slowly as he placed it at my nape in a vain attempt to draw me close to him.

I obliged his silent wish, leaning forward and brushing forbidden tears from my eyes.

"Hush."

My mind whirled from a sudden surge of clarity as I heard his deep, baritone voice escape his mouth in warm and comforting, but strained words.

Heart aching with longing and regret as he pressed his lips to my cheek, it was all I could do not to throw myself over him, to tell him how sorry I was to not have loved him more.

I called his name again, this time, in a soft whisper that spoke of the anguish I was experiencing.

His name was spoken like a divine word as I tried desperately to blink back the unstopping tears from my eyes, but with no success, and it rolled down my numb cheeks.

"I like the way you say my name." A weak smile formed on his handsome features as he teased me, and his tone deepened as he said with sincerity, "Happy birthday, honey.".

I knew not to laugh or cry, finally deciding on both, sending him a teary quirk of my lips.

A sudden sharp breath he expelled, his face twisted in silent agony.

I help back nothing more. I didn't care. All I wanted was to let him know...

"I love you." I said in all seriousness.

When he displayed no reaction, I repeated myself, this time more fiercely, in a tone not unlike a teacher ordering a student about. "I love you."

He grabbed my hand and held it tightly with both of his, his breath coming in short pants.

"No, listen to me. I love you. Don't. No. I love you, you can't do this!"

My shoulders began to shake as I buried my face in our linked hands.

I called out his name in a cry of fear as he stroked my head once, slowly, before it rested heavily - a dead weight - on my back.

I did not cry, I merely removed his hand from me, kissing him on his lips one last time before calling the doctor to take him away.

My job was done. I told him I loved him. He will remember that.

As I stepped out into the unfeeling road of happy families celebrating Christmas, a cold gush of wind hit me - but I felt nothing. I knew it was all over.

How callous life is.

I glanced up at the dark December night. A star winked at me drearily....Happy birthday to me.

2005-10-20T05:06:00.000-07:00

Note: I wrote this for my most recent English examination.. I kinda got the idea of the oak tree from a poem I've read called "The Box", which was really beautiful. So, in case you people don't get it, the guy died. Scored a 26/30 for this. Enjoy, and feel free to comment. :D This is called "Leaves".

All was quiet as I sat leaning back against his warm form, his warm arms encircling me as I gazed at the gleaming river just a few feet ahead. The moon was partially shielded by the clouds, the ghost of what would have been a very bright moon. A soft gentle breeze floated to us, and once it passed, I found that it was not “us” but me – all alone, left with the harsh, but tranquil rustle of the leaves overhead.

Tears stung the back of my eyes, and I wished that they would just flow, but they remained there, painful as ever, an increasingly excruciating constriction in my throat. I raised my gaze to the stars above, searching for the brightest one, and wondering, just wondering, hoping against all hope that he was not that star, and that I could see him again.

The chill of the night crept around and into me, and I realized I was sulking childishly for some oddly unfathomable reason. The stars had no eyes, no mouth, no hair, no nose, no heart. No heart to love me as he did. I had once heard that a star falls whenever someone thinks of and misses another. I knew, soon, that I would be enveloped in darkness, for my eyelids were starting to feel heavy. But I could not sleep; there was nothing realistic to dream about anymore.

I tore my gaze from the water and dragged it to the oak tree I was leaning against. I drew my knees up against my chest and reveled in the comfort of its sunken-in trunk. We grew up with it, and it grew to fit our bodies. The moon was gone now, and my hair whipped across my face repeatedly, slashing my heart as it did so, as the thick leaves played a warning siren of the impending storm. The tree was as strong as our love, and the leaves did not fall.

Running my fingers along the markings on the tree, I remembered running to it after school to meet him for a little time together before dinner, and I remembered his handsome face greeting me with love and humour dancing about in his eyes. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned a shoulder against the tree, crossing his feet at the ankles as he nodded towards deep markings on the tree trunk.

“You were late, and I missed you,” he explained vaguely.

I took a look at the small, shining knife on the grass and gasped softly in shock.

“You didn’t cut your-”

He threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. Standing upright, he held out his hand to me and said, “Come, my sweet. I’ll show you.”

“Keith loves Joan,” he enunciated. “You must come earlier next time, or I’ll have to write something mushier than this,” he teased, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. We dissolved in musical peals of laughter.

As the memory faded, I felt my spirits give a slight lift, and a new memory crept darkly into my head. The weather then was similar to the weather now. Thin leaves from all around began to fall about save for that of the oak tree’s. The wind whistled into my ears and I was wearing the same dress I wore then.

I was feeling cold then, and had his sweater and arms around me for warmth, but now, I was all alone with the tree. I was numb to the cold, however, and once again, I wished he were really here with me.

We were engaged, and then married. I wore both rings on the same hand, and I was a very happy lady. On the night of our wedding, we sat by the river, under the old oak tree, and he held my hand in his, twining his fingers with mine. We were quiet for ages, and all of a sudden, he pulled my engagement ring off my finger and threw it into the river.

“Away with that; we’re married now.” The surge of fury in me faded abruptly. So did the wind.

A leaf fell onto my lap, and it tore a gasp from me. This leaf was different, I noticed. It was of a darker green, and it was thicker and tougher than the others. I bit my lower lip and lifted the oak tree’s leaf to my face, rubbing my cheek lightly against it, savouring the feel of its softness against my skin.

Tears stung the back of my eyes, and I wished that they would just flow, and they did, painful as ever as they trailed a scorching path down my face, an increasingly excruciating constriction in my throat. And for the first time since he left, I wept. Gone was the warmth I could imagine, gone was my soul with his.

2005-10-20T05:01:00.000-07:00

Note: I wrote this quite a while ago, and went through much planning for this, though the results weren't as satisfactory as I had expected. Oh well, comments and help? :D Oh, the title's "At Thine Hands".

Her face, so flawless in appearance, may deceive all, but I knew what lay beneath that picturesque frame.

“En garde!” A salute from both parties, our voices echoing around us in the room. I glanced briefly at the sparkling, polished marble floor, the walls, which were touched with roughly smooth, intricately decorated wallpaper, the closed oaken door, and her: before I place a foot behind.

She advanced with lightning-quick agility, nearing that of mine.

My suit was protecting me far less than before, I needlessly informed myself, and I smiled inwardly at that and at my suddenly improved speed.

She looked stunningly beautiful that morning, and it was all I could do not to lavish myself with one shared kiss between us – my heart stung at the thought…

Lunging forward to score a point, I nodded silently, once, when she laughed – an enchanting voice, paling that of the nightingale’s – and returned to the starting point.

My heart pumped faster in the second round – a feeling of betrayal bubbled up in me as I recalled the scene where she lay peacefully in another man’s arms. That was two nights ago.

She came to me the next morning begging for my forgiveness, and I gave it to her while in a state of confusion and denial.

I wanted everything to return to normal. I wanted her. I wounded my pride and dignity. She wounded my heart.

I gave her all I could. She gave me all she wanted to.

Life was becoming a torture, ending it was the perfect solution, and still is.

Numb with anticipation, I felt only her sabre’s tip impale my chest as it glinted dimly.

Its cold, thin blade went right into my heart, the only place it hurt.I closed my eyes against her reaction. I did not want to know. Life flowed from my body in the form of warm blood, leaving me colder than before as I was drained of strength.

I knew not how she reacted. I knew not when I fell to the ground.

I knew not what to feel.

But I knew, my darling, I died at thine hands.

2005-10-20T04:58:00.000-07:00

Note: I'm a little icked by this essay. Honestly, its disgusting.. Not the content. Well, the content, but I don't like the main point of the story much. Its quite a cool twist, but otherwise.. *shakes her head* So! Open for criticism! Presenting.. "Regrets for her."

I could tell that most of us considered laughing when we heard that she tripped and fell. That was before we knew the whole story.

Stunned was the only word to describe our emotions at the table upon receiving intelligence that Amy died after lying down due to an unfortunate trip over a deliberately stuck out leg.

It was difficult to believe, almost impossible. My heart leapt for a moment at the new before sinking back into the dreary depths of my soul. Amy was a nasty girl, that for one was a fact, but she did not deserve such a fate.

I then started to remember the times we shared. She was teasing me for the white-laced, frilly dress I wore one day at school. I kicked her in the shin, and she received a large painful bruise that did not go away from a week.

We were plotting her murder jokingly at our usual table, the very table we were at when we heard of her mishap. That was nearly three years ago, when I was eleven. I pretended to be murdered by my other friends, screaming and twitching on the ground after consuming the “poison” slipped into my water bottle.

I teased her for being stupid and lazy, for being the weakest and slowest in class, for being ugly. I was happy. I actually was happy.

But now, I don’t see anything to be happy about.

It is understood by the most fortunate and prideful that it is better living with a healthy and fully functioning body with no defects, natural or otherwise, than to stay alive having to rely on others to take care of you.

What a waste. She should have suffered.

2005-10-20T04:47:00.000-07:00

Note: This one starts off pretty well, but ends off pretty weird. I wrote this quite a while ago, and planned this rather well, but the problem is.. I don't think I made it clear enough how and why things happened, because now, when I read it, I have hardly an idea how and why things happened. Enjoy "Bleeding With Thoughts". :)

The constant tapping of blood against blood rang through the tranquility of my room. I stared ahead: at the dark ceiling. I could hardly make out its shape, could hardly locate its four corners, I thought with numb panic.

Perhaps the light would help, but doing this insulted my want for untroubled solidarity – just for a while… for as long as I could – to think things through.

With every new inch the scarlet of my life licked, it seemed as though the self-inflicted cut was extending further.

It felt extremely pleasing, but faintly so. It felt ethereal, and unreal… It cleared my mind of all unnecessary thoughts.

The hundredth tap on the ground of shimmering blood – and I knew, I understood.Carl entered my life and left it on purpose to make me suffer for the rest of it.

He chose to die in the most horrible way, leaving me helpless and at a aloss of what to do.

There was a ransom of five million. The demand did not alarm me – I was anxious only for his well-being.

The three days without his company left me pale and tired. I couldn’t eat or sleep.

The money was finally sent, and I thanked the Lord for my financial stability.

A day passed, then two. The wait was unbearable. I waited for his return. Silly me. I should have noticed. The kidnappers never promised the return of Carl at all. They did not fool me, I had misunderstood.

The authorities found him the next day, in a tiny hit in a secluded area. I was overjoyed. Was.

I noticed dully the men commenting on how lucky he was to have passed on in such a beautiful place, and how unlucky he was to have such callous kidnappers whip and torture him with salt water.

I remember glancing around at the rolling hills and green fields of fresh flowers, and voicing my disgust: Carl died in a happy place. His death was a happy one. We should be glad because he died?

This whole analysis took a long time. A very long time… and I felt the thousandth drop falling from my wrist.

It was a very small drop. I ran my fingers lightly along the cut from my wrist to the bend of my arm.

I shut my eyes from the darkness for more of it.

I shut my heart from the throbbing ache.

Then I felt a peace – far beyong that of the silent night and its blackout of sight.

2005-10-12T20:49:00.000-07:00

Note: Click here! Just keep going.

2005-09-30T05:56:00.000-07:00

Note: I was getting really really annoyed because I couldn't find this really cool piece of writing I read months ago. I had the link on my other blog, but it didn't work no more. After about an hour or so searching on google, and with my friend Kyle's help on searching for it, we finally found it. So here it is, just in case I wanna read it again. This is NOT my work. It is, in fact, some guy, Steve Eller's work. Its called "In Dreams". Enjoy dark literature.

You get food when people die.

A stack of casserole dishes teeters beside the kitchen sink. I scraped them all out, and threw away blobs of ground beef, and macaroni, and cheese. The dishwasher is full from the last batch, and there’s another wave molding in the refrigerator. I’ll have to do some handwashing soon, before bugs start coming.

The owners of the dishes have left me alone so far, but sooner or later they’ll come knocking. Heads tilted and eyes brimming, asking for their things. I’ll shake their hands, and tell them how much I appreciate their kind gesture. But I won’t tell them how dwelling on my wife’s shredded face spoils my appetite.

The house is warm for late October. I haven’t heard the furnace kick on all morning. Brilliant sunlight soaks the hardwood floor, and I cross a lake of fire to look out the kitchen window. Outside, the North Carolina mountains are bleeding in yellow, and orange, and fiery red. What the weatherman likes to call peak color. The rainbow foliage is a big draw for tourists.

Like the one who ran over Sandy.

He was trying to drive down our twisting mountain road, and videotape the leaves at the same time. The police officer who took his statement told me why, but I don’t remember anymore. The man said he never saw Sandy standing in front of her own house, checking the mailbox. All I remember is a shout, and a thud. Then tires skidding on gravel. The rest is a blur.

Except for Sandy’s face. Mouth open. Tiny grains of stone imbedded in her wounds. At least her eyes were closed.

The oven clock blinks ten-thirty, and I tally up the hours I slept. Or didn’t sleep, tossing and turning in a bed too big by half. Time is something I have now. My boss told me to take a few weeks of vacation. Maybe a month. Like having nothing to do will help me. Nothing to do but think. Days and weeks, one moment blurring into the next. He’s a good man; he just doesn’t know.

I unloop my housecoat belt, and sit down at the kitchen table. Underneath the robe are the sweatclothes I’ve been wearing for days. I should eat something, but my stomach gets tight when I think about it. Some hot coffee would taste good, but it’s too much work to get up and make it. I’m not tired, but I shut my eyes anyway. Lacing my arms on the tabletop, I rest my head.

And I remember.

I dreamed of a little girl last night.

Opening my eyes, I raise my head. Dust tumbles in scattered rays of sunlight. It looks like a snowstorm, a miniature of the one that could come any day. A ghost-scent of coffee tickles my nose, and before I know it I’m on my feet, spooning grounds into the coffee maker. While the machine hisses and sputters, I lean against the counter to wait.

I hold the baby girl in my arms, and someone tells me her name. Abby. It might be Sandy’s voice, but I’m all alone in the nursery. Puffy clouds painted on azure walls, ruffled sheets of white and yellow in a crib. I’ve never held a child before, but my body knows how to do it. Left arm cocked in a cradle, right fingers curled beneath her fuzzy pink head. Her eyes are closed, but I know they’re a perfect blue. There’s nothing on her scalp but colorless tufts, but someday her hair will be golden, and as willowy as cornsilk.

She’s so warm against me. The air is all milk, and powder, and the sweet scent of newborn skin. The world is silent, and I hear each fragile breath, each tiny heartbeat.

She’s mine. Abby is mine.

The clack of the coffee machine kicking off pulls me back to my empty house. And empty embrace. My left arm is bent, right hand cupped underneath. For a fleeting moment, there’s a memory of warmth and weight.

Then it’s gone.

I reach for the steaming pot, glancing around for a clean cup. I open the cupboard and see the mugs we bought at a roadside pottery place in Cherokee last summer. I try to picture it all, the trip, the shopping. Sandy’s hands closing around the mug she wanted. Turning to me, telling me to pick one out, too.

I can’t remember which is hers.

Wandering back to the window, I sip black coffee. The leaves have already started falling. Another few weeks, and the trees will be bare. I imagine dark limbs sparkling with ice, then dusted with snow. Later, dripping, as new buds sprout and unfurl.

Then all over again. As time passes.

Abby was Sandy’s dream. A little girl with yellow hair, and robin egg eyes. Sandy shared her dream with me across the breakfast table, even before she told me she was pregnant. The dreams came so often, I sometimes wondered if Sandy was making them up to amuse herself. Abby in her crib. Abby’s first Christmas. Abby stumbling up the stairs to nursery school.

Sandy beamed when the ultrasound revealed our child was a boy. I knew she was a little disappointed, but she tried not to show it.Then our boy died, unnamed, inside Sandy. Before the ambulance came.

Abby is my dream now.

***

Cold winds twist through the mountains. A few leaves cling to the trees; the rest swirl across the ground in ragged piles. Through the window, I hear them hissing like something alive. But they’re dead. The color that drew the man with his camera, that took Sandy’s life and the unfinished life inside her, is long gone.

I’ve barely touched the lunch on my lap tray. Just like everyday. The sweat pants I’ve been wearing for weeks feel loose in the waist now, and have permanent knee-prints.There’s plenty of nothing on the television, and that’s the way I like it. The TV screen glows, all smiling faces and chattering mouths. If it starts to make sense, I’ll switch the channel. I want the colors and sounds to fill my senses, to keep the thoughts from rattling through my skull like ghosts. A daily diversion, between the toes of slippers propped on a stool.

I’m supposed to go back to work next week, but I don’t know if I can. The world is still hazy. A fraction of an inch beyond my reach. And every time I hear car tires on gravel, my chest aches like a fist is crushing my heart.

Work doesn’t mean anything. All that matters is Abby. I dream of her every night.

Abby cries as tiny Chiclet teeth break through her bleeding gums. She speaks her first almost-word. Takes her first wobbly step. Two gilded ponytails brush her shoulders. A real diamond pierces each delicate lobe.

I switch off the television. The quiet is soothing. Warm air blows through the vents, like the wind swaying the trees against a crystal Autumn sky. It’s been a while since I stepped outside. There’s nothing out there for me. Everything I need is in my head. Recollections of last night’s dream.

I kneel, opening my arms to Abby. Her tears are shed drops of my blood. One of her sneakers is untied. Half-stuck Band-Aids flop over her shins as she runs to me. She cups the elbow she skinned when she fell off her bicycle. I clutch her against me, wondering if I’ve taken off the training wheels too soon.

I hug her as tightly as I can without shattering her ribs like porcelain. Her shoulders buck, her chest heaves. Perfect sorrow, perfect pain, in such a tiny creature.

When her sobs slow, I hold her away. Her eyes are a tropical sea, deep blue and salty. Tears streak her soiled cheeks like branching streams. On her lips, a purple Kool-Aid moustache. I embrace her again.

Her pain is mine. Abby is mine.

I hear something shatter, and I’m terrified that I’ve broken her this time. Crushed her body in my misery. Then I see that the plate has fallen from my lap, and splintered on the floor. Bread and baloney a scatter of leaves, mustard smeared on wood like blood leaking from the shards.

It doesn’t matter. I step over the mess, and walk to my bed. The wall clock tells me it’s barely past noon. And that doesn’t matter either.

***

Checks come in the mail now. The bills never stopped. The postman drops the mail on my porch every day, bound in a rubber band. A kindness. He knows I couldn’t walk out to the mailbox.

Sometimes, when I crack the door to get my mail, I find a bag of groceries. People can be thoughtful, even as they blur, and grow further beyond my reach. Maybe they watch me. I don’t know. I keep my eyes down when I open the door. There’s a gravel road out there, and I don’t want to see it. I open every envelope, and read every letter, before dropping them to the floor. The white drifts in the house are almost as tall as the snowbanks outside.

Some time ago, one of the letters said that work had put me on an assistance program. But the checks don’t match what the bills say I owe. Another month, some bank wrote me, and they’ll start the process of taking my house. No more propane for the tank, some strange woman informed me. When I accidentally unseated the receiver, the phone line was dead. The television plays a hundred kinds of static now.

A part of me, still tenuously in touch with the world, tells me that decisions have to be made soon. What to do. Where to live. But the only choices I care about are the ones Abby makes.

She sits beside me, and places her hand on my arm. I’ve dreaded this moment.

There is so much of Sandy in Abby’s face. Sandy might be her mother, but Abby and I never speak about such things. Abby is her own woman. Beautiful, strong, independent. I wonder if she’ll leave me now.

Then she tells me she has chosen Western Carolina University for her studies. Driving distance. She wants to live at home. Abby wants to keep me in her daily life. Our tears mingle as she presses her lips to my unshaven cheek.

Her tears are mine. Abby is mine.

Winter sun prisms the icicles draping the windows. Some are only a frozen drop or two, others nearly brush the snow. Soon they’ll begin to drip, and narrow. Then they’ll fall to the ground, shattering like glass.

***

The coffee is too sweet. My tongue burns, and my scalp tingles. I refill the cup, then spoon in more sugar.

Scraps of paper skirl around my ankles as I pace the empty house. The knock on the door could come any moment now. People in suits, folders stuffed full of official documents. Men in uniforms and sunglasses to lead me away.

The morning sun glistens through the windows. The panes chop the light, and it breaks in abstract blocks on the floor. The house is warm enough, if I keep my robe tied tightly. The furnace hasn’t kicked on for days. Only scatters of white remain outside, new grass sprouting from the sodden ground.

My eyes throb, and my head spins. I swallow more coffee, and my stomach prickles. The recliner looks soft and inviting, with a deep imprint of my body. But I hurry past it.

Abby holds the edge of the blanket to her throat. Her hair is wispy and white. Fragile, spotted hands tremble. Her eyes are still a perfect blue, but they seem so tired. She tries to smile, and her shrunken face is both beautiful and horrible. Abby never married, never left my house.

I wonder if she ever loved. I wonder if it was selfish to keep her with me. She shakes her head, like she knows my guilt. I dreamed her life away.

Her death is mine. Abby is mine.

My limbs are so weary they feel detached. My heart thumps as I wander from one room to the next. I can’t sleep. I have to brew more coffee.

While it perks, I clap my hands and scuff my feet. I sing to myself. Anything to keep my mind off my exhaustion. If I sleep, the dream will be her last.

2005-09-16T06:55:00.000-07:00

Note: This was done just today, during the one period of English we had in school. My teacher wrote a whole list of words on the whiteboard and asked us to write a ghost story using three of the words in that one period. The three words are bolded. One period is half an hour, and that was obviously not enough, paired with presentations. I managed to complete it in about forty five minutes or so, so it was not very good work, as I was rushing through it because of the lessons and work given after that. This is the first ghost story I've ever written, unless I am very much mistaken. Feel free to comment.

On pointe, the ballerina moved with the grace of the wings, pirouetting and swaying in time with the lilting tune of the radio playing. Three of the four walls around her were mirrors, and they reflected her perfect movements, displaying her expertise.

Smiling slightly in satisfaction, she turned towards the mirror on the right, as always, spinning after every spin incessantly, the melody rising to a crescendo as she closed the distance between the mirror and her. She could not see what her reflection was, for she was too lithe and agile; she did not notice, she did not know.

Continuing her spins and finally slowing to a stop, she faced the mirror directly before her as the melody ended abruptly, bestowing a whimsical silence upon the room.

Contented, she stared at the reflection in the mirror idly. Her once-tight bun was coming loose, and she blew lightly at the stray wisps of hair falling over her face. As her faze travelled down from her forehead to her eyes, the ambiguity of her physical identity struck her.

Gracefully arched brows curved over cold blue eyes that possessed a faint, malicious glint. In the centre of her face lay a sharp nose whilst high cheekbones rested firmly upon her faintly flushed face. With a finely sculpted frame, and a face of refined elegance and smooth, unmarred skin, her features are sharp and attractive, contrasting starkly to the all-too-ordinairy gymnasium.

A smile tugged at the corner of her thin, pink lips, finally curving into a mysterious smile that did not quite reach her eyes. Her lips then parted slightly in a laugh that was surely polite - too polite.

The ballerina could not hear her, however, and as she watched her smiling image sink into a deep ballroom curtsey, a slow wave of nausea sweeping over her, bile rising in her throat as the grand piano broke the deafening silence with a tight little tune.

2005-08-10T03:26:00.000-07:00

Note: In the last two years(or perhaps a year or so) in fk, an RPG game, I have had my english improve tremendously and, not to mention, my character descriptions. Here is a big show-off of my progression in character descriptions in chronological order(I hope. My memory better not fail me.)

Venloca: She was my very very first character! A wizard! And unless I am very much mistaken, many people usually screw up their first characters. Trust me, the description was FAR worse than this. My sister typed this out for me without much enthusiasm, cause I was kinda disturbing her then. *grins*

Basically, Venloca's eccentric. Looks eccentric, and is one. One annoying little thing. I think.. she's qualified for an asylum. *nodnods* Not that I play her anymore.

The eccentric looking female before you is of average height but by no means average appearance. Although she is no raving beauty, something about her catches your attention. Her long silky hair is the colour of snow, and her creamy skin is accentuated by her icy blue eyes. A quirky smile plays on her rosy lips.

Amara: She's a druidess(a tree-hugger, in other words.. A priestess of nature.). Yes, she's quirky. Yes, she's bimbotic. Yes, she walks around in cities pretty much. I've tried to change her! Whatever. I screwed her character up too. *grins* Don't play her anymore. At the moment, she's one of the only two characters I have that is faithed.

I created her after watching X-men, the cartoon. Amara's the one with the fire powers. *beams*

Her silky shoulder-length hair is dark brown in colour with some unusual and uneven streaks of red and gold. Her smooth skin is slightly tanned and her eyes are of bright emerald green. When she smiles, which is often, it is a vapid one. Her innocent look gives you a feeling of quaint beauty. When she walks it is with grace and a litheness befitting an Elf.

Chanel: She's quirky! And yes, she's fun! Chanel's rather creative, and mischievous too. She used to wash her hands in the drinking fountain after picking up manure as spell components.

Shining gold hair falls in a luxurious tumble over the female's shoulders and back. Her finely molded cheekbones are slightly high, her skin creamy and glowing with health, her lips pink and soft. But her most striking feature is her eyes. Beneath delicately winged eyebrows, long, curly lashes fringes eyes that are a vivid, startling green. Not hazel or aqua, but green. Wonderfully expressive eyes sparkle like emeralds when she is happy and darkens when she is pensive.

Kina: I haven't played Kina much, but this much I know of her.. She's rather unfriendly. ANd antisocial. Doesn't like males much. Pretty self-reliant, this fighter.

The lady before you is tall for her race, with a femininely muscular build. Although her healthy, long black hair is tied up tightly at the back of her head, stray whisps of hair still cover her dark, hazel brown eyes. She has a tanned complexion and her rosy cheeks and nose are speckled with tiny freckles. Her lips are red and appear innocently enticing, especially when paired up together with her slightly low and matured voice.

Alvinah: Oh my... This lady can annoy the hell outta me! Wizard too. Enchantress. But apparently, she's the one that most males fall for. She speaks softly, and is very shy, and hates the colour of her eyes. She cries so damned easily. And the guy gets to comfort her, and they feel all macho. "Oh, look here, here's a girl I can protect."

Long silvery hair like crumpled silk, which shines in the light and glows softly in the dark, is held up high at the back of her head, leaving a few curly locks falling over her gaze-avoiding eyes. Beneath long sooty lashes are eyes which turn a mysterious white when unhappy and a cold, icy blue when pleased. Her healthy glowing skin is of a creamy white and is accentuated beautifully by rosy pink cheeks and sensuously moulded red lips. Though often seen and assumed as a gentle and fair maiden, she works with skill and agility at her blade, and concentration and seriousness with spells in battle.

Eleria: Eleria, my first and only thief! I think. No no, I'm sure. She's rather sensible, and sociable, and she has a pretty nice personality. She's fun, too!

The female before you has pointed elvish ears which peek out from underneath her white silky shoulder lengthed hair streaked with evilly dark green. Her eyes are the colour of bright emerald green and she is fair, with a flawless complexion. Her cheeks are slightly pink and you can still see a slight smile on her red lips in the tensest situation. Her voice is soft and holding a slight melodious tune. Her passing is silent and she walks with a grace that is considered beautiful, for someone from the elven race.

Brooke: Lookie at her description, and you see quite a few things related to food. I had intended her to be a glutton, and rather chubby, but I was afraid that no one would fall for her! :P Anyways, yeah. She's cute.

The slim female before you has unblemished skin which shines a buttery white and bright sapphire-blue eyes which twinkle with delight when she smiles. An endearing dimple dents her right cheek at every expression and her hair is the colour of rich milk chocolate. She is rather adorable, with her cherry pink cheeks, childish voice and frequent chortles.

Dowan: She was... kind of a joke. Her full name's Dowan Lah. If you're well-spoken in Singlish, you'd understand:) Ranger.

Long waist-lengthed blonde hair tumbles over her shoulders and down her back in neat curly locks. With a helm, her hair is tied up in a tight bun, whereas without one, her hair is styled such that the top half is tied up in a loose pony tail, and stray whisps of hair are left being blown about by the wind. She has a tanned and radiant complexion which is accentuated by her well-formed nose and rosy pink cheeks which are sprinkled evenly with tiny freckles. Her only defect is a tiny tattoo of a red rose right below her right eye on her cheek. Her thin and pink, wet lips, which is often quirked in a smile, conceals pearly white and even teeth. Her eyes are the only features which betray her true character of a kind and sweet girl. They are a clear, cold gray, with an odd malicious glint. However, she makes no effort to cover her eyes with her long eyelashes. Instead, she moves about gracefully in a slender, well-toned figure which tells of hours of training.

Kezia: She's nice! At least.. she appears to be. Terribly scheming, rather flirtatious. She's a fighter, and I wanted her to follow the Lady of Pain. But like many others, I hardly play her anymore.

This young lady looks as though she is in abosolute agony - a piteous sight. Her dull-green eyes, filled with signs of pure innocence and silent pleas for help, have what looks like tear-damp smudges of charcoal around them. A dark tear streak slashes her otherwise beautiful face from her left eye. With an untainted complexion and light pink cheeks against pale, colourless skin, this female also possesses a cut, barely visible, on one of her two blood-red lips. Her silky hair is the dark shade of night, so dark it hardly reflects any light, remaining its colour in the brightest of places. It is tied loosely at the back of her head so that it falls a few inches short of its normal waist-length, leaving untied whisps of hair being blown weakly about her face by the wind. Two dark slit-marks scar her, one on each wrist, and three red, parallel scars scratch her back as claw marks. She looks rather unaffected by her appearance, as though her enticing figure is enough to cover all her flaws. It would seem rather odd for someone like her to smile in such a terribly tortured state, but when she does, her true beauty is apparent.

Sideri: She... I don't really remember much about her. She's VERY foresty, I think. And yeah. That's all I remember. Pretty quiet.

Straight, dirty blond hair neatly styled in one long braid falls down to her waist, leaving whisps of them unattended unless tucked behind her pointed ears which show her elven heritage. Tiny freckles spot her smooth skin on her nose and cheeks, which are tinted a light pink over her slight tan. Her eyes are a deep, clear blue and her rosy pink lips are so thin it gives the impression that no one and nothing but water has ever touched it before. Her slender form holds much strength and grace, which is apparent from her manner of walking. Elven runic symbols are marked round her right wrist in one straight line as tattoos and she is often seen chewing on the stem of a rose. A mysterious, mild sweet scent follows her wherever she goes and it usually leads one to wonder how she got the ever-present smell.

Juanna: Unless my memory fails me again, her description is the nicest! I mean, she's not the most beautiful, but she is the prettiest! The combination of colours(in the game, that is) is really nice! I'll try and copy it as best as I can. She's a very nice girl, really.

Long straight hair which falls to her waist, is neatly tied up in an intricate braid, small lavender flowers peeking out from between the silver strands. Two deep pools of soft jade settle beneath a pair of exquisitely carved eyebrows. Fair-skinned and blessed with a natural blush creeping up her smooth cheeks, this chaste-looking female also possesses thin lips of a sweet, pale pink and a nicely sculpted nose. Being rather slender for her race and standing at five feet seven, she moves with simple poise and elegance, an engaging dimple pressing into the side of her left cheek at every expression.

Sharinda: Another druidess-to-be. She's fairly pleasant. Haven't really RPed with her much.

The lithe female before you stands about three inches below five feet, with tangled but otherwise silken auburn hair which is simply braided with a string of vine reaching down to the middle of her back. Her eyes are a dull but prominent, deep jade, shining like gemstones in the darkest light. Even though her face is smudged with dirt, giving her an unkempt appearance, she is blessed with evenly tanned skin and a radiant complexion, freckles which are sprinkled over her fairly pointed nose. Intricate tattoos of ancient elven symbols circle her slim arms like armbands and across her shoulders and back.

Sopheya: She's one weird, but fun, and childish girl. She calls the seeds on strawberries freckles, and counts them.

With the outer layer of her hair just long enough to touch the bottom of her earlobe and the rest of the dark violet mop let down a little over her shoulders, this female stands at a height of five feet, a slight aura of light-heartedness about her. A pair of clear, almond- shaped eyes of a bright golden yellow peek out from behind short fringe which brushes softly against gracefully arched brows and the bridge of her small, pointed nose, sprinkled randomly with tiny freckles. The elegant curve of her jaw together with her rosy cheeks, full pink lips and fair skin which shines moon-bright combine to form a uniquely pleasant face. She is undoubtedly slim, with a mildly curvaceous figure and no blemishes but two small cross-shaped scars, one on each of the backs of her hands.

Levine: My main character! I love her so so much! She's currently attached, and betrothed(not officially, though), and she's gone through so so much! God, I love her. I'd cry if she ever gets deleted. Honestly, I think I will.

Straight, murky-blue hair that reaches to the middle of her back is tied up loosely, high at the back of her head, whilst paler streaks of blue stain it. Her fringe, which reaches down to her chin, is neatly parted on the left, and left falling over her face, partially shielding it from view. Pointed ears peek out from behind her fringe, and paired with her sharp features, display her
elven heritage. A pair of dismal blue eyes, like deep pools of unpolished sapphires, lie beneath gracefully arched brows, complimenting the deathly pallor of her cold skin. Her thin lips are a deep crimson, faintly turned up the ends, and though three inches worth of a white scar marrs her otherwise flawless right cheek, it can hardly be seen for its subtlety of colour difference with her skin. While her fine features form a face of mysterious beauty, she stands at five feet and weighs slightly more than ninety pounds, her slender form the envy of many.

If chanced upon when disrobed, a long whitish scar can be seen slashing across her back as though by a whip. However, the fresh new bloody gashes stand out more, together with the unbleeding bruises.

Gisella: She is one cool girl who hardly speaks. She usually leads people to believe that she's a mute. She's the.. "touch me and I'll kill you" kind. I've shown you guys this description before.

Lustrous sable hair spirals luxuriously as it flows over her shoulders and down to the middle of her back in gentle and classical curls, gleaming softly with health as it is neatly parted on the left. Beneath delicately arched brows, the aphotic depths of her caliginous eyes, which are framed by long and thick, dark lashes, exude cold callousness. Black outlines her eyes, as though to emphasize its similarity of shape to that of a cat's, while a thin layer of red rouge surrounds her eyes, adding to her look of dark nonchalance. Her straight, pointed nose rests above full, luscious lips the colour of a dark red rose, nearing that of black. Snake tattoos circle her slender arms like armbands, one on each arm, while her fingernails are painted a glossy black. In contrast, white, porcelain skin coats her lissome form, the cause of her seemingly delicate and untouchable appearance. Her face an expressionless mask most of the time, it is not unlikely for her to be thought of as a phantom of reality, or if she is able to feel anything at all. Only when her mouth opens to speak do we actually hear emotion in her enchanting voice, pleasantly beautiful in a musically haunting way. She possesses a willowy, enticing body, thus simply filling her every movement with regal grace. She stands around five and a half feet tall, and weighs close to a hundred and ten pounds, rather light for her race.

Shynthrae: My one and only serious drow. She's a priestess, and is already faithed. But yes, I screwed her up, and I've stopped playing her. And she's first house too! :(

Soft, silken hair rushes down her back in a single taut and intricate, snow-white, braid held together at the end with a piece of string as white as her hair. In stark contrast, mutually accentuating each other, she possesses skin of a deep black, which gleams dimly with health, flawless upon her willowy form. Gracefully shaped brows arch confidently over a pair of dramatically wrought red eyes, speckled with faint lavender, whilst high cheekbones confers a look of refined arrogance. A delicately carved nose stands in the center of her face, resting above thin well-formed lips. Faint bulges of muscles spread across her limbs and abdomen, emphasizing thepleasingly gentle curves of her body.

2005-07-31T00:10:00.000-07:00

Note: This was an entry for the Pen Awards writing competition. I highly doubt I'll win anything cause the grammar and such was disgusting, but I wrote this partially for my dear cat. I love you, Bacon.

Meeting is a pleasure, parting is a pain, treasure what you have, and you’ll never regret again. Understand that, I told myself, understand that. To my dismay, due to my lack of determination to actually treasure what I had, I resulted in failing to suit the demands of my.. demanding mind.

I have a dog, an English Cocker Spaniel, Mambo, and he was much like a gift, for we had lost a dog, who was adopted by us a few years after the death of our first “family dog”. When we lost that dog, I clearly recall sitting on my bed immobile for a few long moments before the tears in my eyes were enough to leave scalding trails down my cheeks.

All I felt was remorse for making his stay in our home more enjoyable. My sister had her back to me and while she read her book, she reached forward for the tissue box and handed it to me nonchalantly and said simply, “Don’t cry, he’ll be fine.” I knew not, and I know not whether he was and is fine, but one thing I knew for sure: I was most definitely fine the next day.

It was late August last year, when my sister took a sudden, strong liking for cats. We have never had a cat before, and her thoughts of having a new animal in the house simply did not tally with mine. Having a cat meant more trouble, and, moreover, I felt that this was rather unfair to Mambo as the attention would then be divided.

Against my parents’ wishes, she hunted for the perfect cat that would act as a closer companion for her as compared to Mambo. Onto online cat adoption centres she went, and even expressed her want for a kitten verbally, spreading the word widely. I was nearly confident enough to bet that half the world knew of her request.

In early September, a friend of my sister’s found a teensy kitten by the side of the road, wailing its lungs out. As expected, when my sister brought the kitten back, my parents were not pleased at all.

Soon enough, my parents conceded to the cold and aloof treatment my sister was offering to them. They simply could not resist peeking into the cage where the little kitten usually lay curled up in a tiny ball; they simply could not resist feeling a tingle of fondness warming their hearts.

Time went by, and the little, innocent kitten we knew grew to be a crazy, but, like most pet owners think, adorable thing. He was no pure-breed, but the striped patterns on his back were beautiful. It reminded us of streaky bacon, and hence his name, Bacon.

There were times when he bit or scratched us for no reason, and there were times during those times, that I hated him so much because of his.. irrationality. I did not feel that I deserved such treatment from a mere kitten.

There were also the times when he made us so happy, or amused, rather, for our entertainment, and perhaps his own too. He was a different kitten, different from other kittens we knew to exist, he was our one and only.

Not even a year old, he left us just today. I never said goodbye, and I never spoke to him in the last few days, if my memory serves me right and well. I just did not see the need to then. I received the news while I was in school, and still, I had to stay back for my CCA then.

I remember reading many compositions which describe the reception of bad news, and usually, phrases like “hit me like a thunderbolt” or “could not find the voice to speak” were used. Up till now, I do not know if those are really true.

My version of the reception, however, is entirely different, as was the level of remorse I had felt when one of our dogs went missing. I thought it was a joke, but I could hear the shaking and cracking of my sister’s voice over the phone. I could still “find the voice to speak”, and it was only in the last minute of the conversation that I started to feel the impact. It was not a sudden blow, it felt as though comprehension just dawned on me; like a gargantuan wave of warm water.

The journey home after my CCA was painful. The background display on my handphone was of Bacon, and every time I looked at it, I had to pretend I was yawning, in a vain attempt to mask the reason for my teary eyes.

I realized with dim humour, the irony of the situation I was in. Such a big thing led me to think of the tiny things. I began to regret the times I yelled at him(not that he seemed to care, though) in frustration and anger, and all that I had and had not done for him.

The sorrow that flooded my heart like a sea of daggers made me think of, now, the tiniest of things. I wondered if his last meal was good enough for him, and if he really disliked me. The list of thoughts went, and goes, on and on. It has not stopped. Regret brings one nowhere, but now I take comfort in the fact that a loved one is not dead as long as the memories are kept alive in each and every one’s heart.

Meeting is a pleasure, parting is a pain, treasure what you have, and you’ll never regret again. Understand that, I told myself, a time not long ago, understand that. Now I understand, and I will for a long time, perhaps even till the end of it.

2005-06-10T02:47:00.000-07:00

Note: This was written AGES ago.. Meant for an RPG character of mine. Named her after me. If only I could be this gorgeous.. *swoons*

Lustrous sable hair spirals luxuriously as it flows over her shoulders and down to the middle of her back in gentle and classical curls, gleaming softly with health as it is neatly parted on the left. Beneath delicately arched brows, the aphotic depths of her caliginous eyes, which are framed by long and thick, dark lashes, exude cold callousness. Black outlines her eyes, as though to emphasize its similarity of shape to that of a cat's, while a thin layer of red rouge surrounds her eyes, adding to her look of dark nonchalance. Her straight, pointed nose rests above full, luscious lips the colour of a dark red rose, nearing that of black. Snake tattoos circle her slender arms like armbands, one on each arm, while her fingernails are painted a glossy black. In contrast, white, porcelain skin coats her lissome form, the cause of her seemingly delicate and untouchable appearance. Her face an expressionless mask most of the time, it is not unlikely for one to wonder if she is real, or even able to feel anything at all. Only when her mouth opens to speak do we actually hear emotion in her enchanting voice, pleasantly beautiful in a musically haunting way. She possesses a willowy, enticing body, thus simply filling her every movement with regal grace.

2005-06-05T03:13:00.000-07:00

Note: This was written in about a week, an hour or so here and there each day cause I couldn't get the computer. Also, this was written for my friend, Nicole Tan, and dedicated to her for her birthday. Enjoy. :)

I thought I could never feel happy again. My lips would never curve up at its corners the same way it did when she lived. She said I had the most beautiful lips in the world.. The kind that you would want to kiss upon realization of its existence… I sniffed lightly with a faint touch of humour, my chest rising, before falling quickly – it was far too heavy. I knew I couldn’t go on much longer.. The last five days passed so quickly. My chest was already aching.

Running my fingers along the dark oaken frame of her photograph, I removed my gaze from my trembling hand and moved it to her figure. She wore her wedding gown in that photo. She was the beautiful one. I never knew one to possess such elegance.. such innocence.. such- I stopped myself. I learnt not to waste time generating false hope in the factory in my mind.. Mass production. I shook my head, closing my eyes briefly for a moment before opening them to stare into hers.

I saw her swinging the cab’s door open and running out towards home, towards me. She flung her arms around me and held me ever so tightly in her smooth arms, and told me she was promoted.

I saw her eyes brimming with shining tears as she tried desperately to ease the hurt she caused me, stroking my cheeks gently, soothingly, with her thumbs. I remember the warmth of the very same arms enfolding me in a final attempt to console me.

Where was she now? I heard a soft whisper at the back of my head. I turned the frame to face the evening sunlight beaming from outside, and I remembered. And I saw her again.

She was haunting my dreams and thoughts, lurking in every hidden corner of my mind.. I saw her lying motionless, with her hands folded neatly atop one another on her chest, in her last bed. I wondered dimly how uncomfortable she must have felt when they closed the lid over her- For the second time, I halted my wandering thoughts.

I lost the war of keeping my eyes open. My eyelids were far too heavy. They drooped closed, and I felt my body begin to sway gently. With a dull thud on the bed, I slumped backwards into the pillows and drifted into a light reverie.

Remember the Sabbath day to hallow it. A voice boomed, echoing with authority.

I was in a dark abyss, and I felt so alone.. I could see nothing, but my wife’s coffin lying just before me. I whipped around upon hearing the pastor, whose voice sounded icy cold and distant.. muffled. “We are gathered here on this Sabbath day to…”

I raised my hands to my ears, and pressed my palms hard, to block out the stabbing words. I could still hear the muffled murmurs. I screamed so loudly my lungs would have burst, as I wrenched the words from my heart.
“God, I hate you! You hear me? I HATE YOU! You took her from me and you act all holy and good, but you’re not! You despicable-”

Thou shalt not take the name of Jehovah thy God in vain; for Jehovah will not hold him guiltless that taketh-

“Shut up! I said SHUT UP dammit!!” I looked around desperately for help, but saw none. The pastor was gone- My wife! She was gone too! I called out her name, with hope of hearing her reply to me, the way she always does. Did.

I ran my fingers through my hair frantically and was about to call her name again, until I saw the achingly familiar photograph that lay on my bedside table, standing just ahead. She looked like a Goddess.. My Goddess.. I reached out-

Thou shalt have no other gods before me. I ignored the voice determinedly. With my fingers barely an inch away from the frame, the voice spoke again.

Thou shalt not make unto thee a graven image… I withdrew my hand, as though scalded. Guilt prickled at my heart, and I found myself kneeling on the ground, praying for forgiveness. When I made to look up at the crucifix that was above me, I saw the same photograph of my wife again. I frowned in faint confusion, before something hit me on the back of my neck, slamming me to the ground.

******

The sudden, sharp drilling of the doorbell interrupted the tranquil silence of my home. My gaze flew in the direction of the sound, landing on the closed door of the room in which I was. Sending a last glance at the back of the picture frame, I pushed myself off the bed and dragged myself heavily to the front door.

Laying my hand on the doorknob, I turned it and swung the door open with such force I felt my arm ache from the incorrect position I slept in through the night. The doorknob hit the wall and I kept my hand on the door to keep it from closing. The sight of my parents wearing bright smiles on their faces lashed me like a whip.

“Honey.. If there is anything we can do to help..” My mother wore a bright yellow hat with a feather stuck in it, and a matching yellow dress, and as she spoke, I could hear the fake tremble in her voice and the forced wavering of her smile.

“Yeah, son. If you need us, we’ll be here.” My father lifted a hand to pat me on the shoulder, but I shrugged it off roughly as realization hit me suddenly.

“This is all your fault,” I said in a deadly calm tone. “Yours. If you had never gotten married, I would never have been here.” Honour thy father and thy mother. The familiar voice rang through my head. I shook it away, to no avail. It chanted itself incessantly in my head.

“I would never have met her. And if I never met her, she wouldn’t have died and made me so.. so..” Honour thy father and thy mother. I could not go on, for I knew I would cry. Honour thy father and thy mother. I didn’t want to cry. Men don’t cry.

But I plunged on. “You should never have loved. Never.” Honour thy father and thy mother. I broke the mounting tension between us, and the words in my head, slamming the door shut. In their mildly gaping faces. The chanting immediately stopped. A sense of morbid satisfaction grew within me, but was quickly diminished by the horror of what I had just done.

Turning and leaning back against the door, I slid down to the ground, my mother sniffing audibly from the other side of the door. Burying my head in my hands, I rubbed my face roughly with them, sliding them over my hair over and over in frustration. I could feel my neck growing hot, tight and constricted. A strangled cough escaped me, scorching tears dwelling in my eyes until I squeezed them shut.

I wept. I had actually wept. Like a baby. Bitterly. And then I heard it – the dreadful sound I had been hearing all these days.. The laughter I found so unbearable was once again ringing in my eardrums.

My breathing slowed, and I walked to the curtains, drawing it back slightly as I peered through the small crack at the source of the noise.

A glimpse at their beaming faces was nearly enough to send me to my knees. Their happiness broke me; my loss broke the string of joy that once held my home, my life together.

They were the living image of my recent past. It almost seemed like yesterday. They exuded fragrances of love and contentment wherever, whenever, they were together.

I bore the knowledge of his working hours. He would be gone at late evening, and back at dawn. She would stay at home along from late evening, until dawn. I glanced at the clock. There were five hours more to seven, and to his departure. There were approximately five and a half hours more to my completion of my new self-appointed task.

I whiled away my time, contemplating the scenes that would unfold in just a few minutes. I felt a tingle of anticipation and excitement up my spine, the first time in days I actually experienced something close to pleasant. He had been gone for five minutes.

Rising up, I strode purposefully to the door and out of it, heading towards the other house. I knocked on the door before rubbing my fingers gently along the curve of my chin, left unshaved for days.

The door opened soon after, and the bright, friendly smile slid off the young lady’s face slightly, replacing what was lost with a look of compassion. “Is there anything I can help you with, Mister?”

I almost laughed out in surprise. She sounded exactly like Her. I glanced tentatively into the house, hinting subtly my wish. She sensed that almost instantly, and took a step back, motioning me into the house. “Come on in.”

As I walked past her into the living room, with her closing the door behind me, I noticed her sweet scent of lavender floating around the house. She offered another smile at me, and asked, “Shall I get you some coffee?” I nodded, and she turned to the kitchen. “A pity you came only now. My husband left for work just a few minutes ago.”

A dribble of jealousy slid into my heart, and I felt it combine with something to form spite. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife… This time, I managed to stop the chanting. My mind was firmly set. She had her back turned to me as she worked at the counter, and I realized that she even looked like Her from behind.

I reached out towards her, wanting to touch her.. And turn her around, gazing into her eyes. She was mine. All mine. A second gift from God.

I placed my hands on her shoulders gently, and she whipped around in shock, dropping the metal spoon on the ground. As soon as the clang was reduced to silence, she stammered out “W-what are you t-trying to do?”, fear evident in her tone and expression.

As I leaned down slowly to smother her mouth with mine, she uttered a muffled scream and tried to turn her head away. “I’m married!” She managed to gasp without me catching her. She tried to push me away with her forearms braced against my chest, to no avail, and I could almost hear her mind screaming for her to focus on trying to keep me away first. This angered me. Very much so.

“No. You’re mine. Forever.” I drawled in a deadly whisper. I was overcome with determination, and the decent side of me fought weakly against my possessiveness. Thou shalt not steal. I could not kill my conscience instantly. Thou shalt not commit adultery. I could not stop the words from coming. Thou shalt not steal.

Grabbing a fistful of her shirt from her back, I brought my hand down with such force that it tore from her torso. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Eyes of lust ran its gaze down the ripe curves of her body, and I felt my own heart begin to quicken its pace. Thou shalt not steal.

The ceaseless chanting never stopped in the quick half hour of my brutal entertainment. No one heard her when she called for help. No one came.

She lay on her side, curled up into a ball with what was left of her clothes in disarray, in front of me as her shoulders shook violently in silent sobs. She turned her face up to look at me, hurt etched all over her pretty features. “Why?” She asked simply.

“You’re a damned good actress, I must say. I had hell of a bad time getting you off me.” She blinked and stared at me, stunned for words. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour. I rolled my eyes and ordered it to shut up mentally. After a long moment, she shook her head lightly, letting out a nervous laugh which contrasted greatly with her hushed whisper. “You wouldn’t.”

Taking intimidating steps towards her, I towered over her petite form, bending down and leaning close as I breathed into her face, tipping her chin up. “Wouldn’t what?”

Drawing a knife from my coat pocket ever so slowly, I wiped it clean on the carpet before tapping the blade against her cheek lightly. A voice screamed in my head. Thou shalt not kill. I closed my eyes for a moment in an attempt to gain the peace I wished. She shook her head wildly now, backing away from me clumsily.

I looked at her with pity in my eyes, then rose my hand and impaled her chest with the knife, tearing a loud gasp from her. She breathed no more, a fixed expression of fear and shock on her face. I adjusted the features on her face to a slight smile before wiping the hilt of the knife clean with my coat, before wrapping her hands round it.

I stepped out of the house with a new sense of achievement, arriving back in my room with the intention of reporting it to Her. The moment I saw Her face, however, I felt utterly ashamed of myself. No one was able to replace Her in my heart, I knew that for a fact, and yet, I still tried.

A sudden fatigue came over me, and I didn’t know how to solve my problems. I realized with dim humour my affinity with knives as I picked one up from the kitchen sink.

I lay down on my bed and turned the picture away to face the window again. I did not want her to see me. I slid the blade across my wrist gently, but firmly, and I felt the warm blood ooze out from the fresh wound, warming and tracing its path with crimson.

I heard a commandment again, and was about to wave it off, when I recognized the speaker’s voice. Suicide is a mortal sin, love. Don't do it. It was too late, I knew.

Far too late.