Creativity Comes Alive

Human:

miniatusplusnaki — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 20:03:11 -0800

Disruption
Years it was like that until so many had passed that I knew she was gone for good. I was glad. If I had friends, I think I would have thrown a party, but you can’t make friends with plastic. I was happy that she might have some peace now; that her mind might be restored to its former chaos, its old beauty. I hoped…

Time passed so slowly and my eternal life was worse than I could have imagined. I drove myself mad with boredom and instead of a regular means of curing that ailment, I began to torment the plastic. As they were scared of dirty, ugly things, I took pleasure in making myself disgustingly horrid. With dirt, with knives; anything I could find to damage myself and maim myself with I used. The only problem was that I regenerated quickly and so I had to cut myself several times before I considered myself suitable to show myself to the people that walked by.

My ugliness was too far out of their mental capacity to comprehend. They screamed in horror. They ran away in fright. And I got away with it for a while. But then the Doctors came and took me away.

Human:

miniatusplusnaki — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 17:28:00 -0800

Synonyms of Empty

People pass the dome all the time, but it is mostly forest so I remain unseen unless I wish it otherwise. But I only ever show myself when I see the Professor walk by. Such a blank stare. She is beautiful, but then again so is everyone else on the planet, so I care not for her appearance. Mostly, I just look for a hint of humanity still in her eyes, but they might as well be plastic too. Sometimes I pretend that I see something — I indulge in hope — but the reality is that there is nothing left of her beautiful mind. Nothing that would interest me, at least.

So, while they all stare at the human that decided to be themselves, I press against the field keeping me inside, and try to provoke her to do something other than stare whimsically at me. Often, I tell her what she wants to hear: that she’s beautiful; that she’s lovely; that she’s gorgeous, superb, exquisite, pulchritudinous. I tell her that she’s every pretty word I can think of. There’s not a synonym I don’t recite. But often times, she’s so taken aback by the flattery, that she has to see it for herself. She examines herself in the glossy exterior of the dome. I fade back into the foliage.

Human:

miniatusplusnaki — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 19:57:00 -0700

Tainted Immortal
The last days of Taint. That is what they call the last few months of imperfection before everyone on the earth changed. The Elders decreed that one person should be left with the taint so that we never forgot our past, but they did. And when they manipulated my body for the job, they made me undying. I am here as an idea forever in the minds of the once-humans; not that they cared. And once they doused me in the waters of my own youth, making me forever young, they destroyed the technology that allowed them to do so. I, and only I, was to be gifted with such a thing, they told me. Several years later I began to hope that they had made a mistake and I was actually not immortal. They hadn’t made a mistake.

But at that same time, it didn’t bother me too much. Besides, that was how I met the Professor. She was in charge of the habitat for my future living conditions. Thinking back now, she was the creator of my prison. Neither of us realized it then, but I was to be the last tainted being, living on the last piece of tainted land for an eternity.

Human:

miniatusplusnaki — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 14:37:00 -0700

Perfection Achieved
I am not human. I’m not sure what I am, but I love and hate; I create and destroy; I have balance. Humans do not have such. They did once, but no longer. The last human I saw to have the balance that I possess now was the Professor, but after she helped to create the Dome she abandoned me, charmed by the ease of life they promised. “You could be so beautiful,” they said, coaxing her into submission. And finally, she fell, following them into their mindless oblivion. Often, before she left, I got the feeling I would lose her, but I chose not to listen to that pessimist that had for so long lay dormant in my mind, kept at bay only by my shining optimism. Now, I only wish I would have listened to my doubts. I wish I would have done something.

Humans changed. And they took the earth with them, leaving hardly any ground to be left to the wiles of Mother Nature. Nothing could be imperfect save for this dome — my home. It was to remind them of how horrible a lack of perfection could be. I’m part of that reminder. They changed everything and anything they could until everything was stagnant, impregnated with perfection. Why would they mess with perfection once it was finally achieved?

Human:

miniatusplusnaki — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 19:27:00 -0700

The Wake
An idea, like a seed, had been planted in all the minds of the world. Not all at once, though sometimes, I wish it had been. It would have saved me a lot of pain. The idea had been that perfection was what the world needed; that flaws were the enemy. And it grew and grew into a fact that struck with such intensity that even the sun — with its own perfect burning beauty — realized that maybe it should share its beauty with the humans so that they may achieve perfection as well. It burned hotter than ever before in that time. Not that it mattered: technology had progressed enough by that time and they were protected… from the sun.

Like vines, the fact of perfection constricted anything it grew around, strangling and killing thoughts that did not involve the words “beautiful” or “perfection”. And like a disease this way of thinking spread. A Pandemic. No one realized it left an emptiness in its wake — an apathy so deep, that it overpowered the shallow well the human soul was beginning to be. They started to die; a lack of caring for anything other than the beauty of themselves left only husks of what humans used to be.

Human:

miniatusplusnaki — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 11:34:00 -0700

The Professor
Maybe they hadn’t noticed what they were stripping away; they couldn’t have known what they left in its place. She was sure of that. But why couldn’t the world see that? Maybe their warped reality had become just that — a reality. But what a horrible reality it had become. Every day a little bit of humanity drained away, leaving them to become mutations of the echoes of what they once were. They were real and now they weren’t. Plastic invaded flesh like some perfect replacement for everything had had been. Perfection had become something everyone strove for but they failed to realize that it was destroying them.

She did, but eventually, she too fell to the brutal idea of perfection. In her greatest hour, she had been a professor, molding malleable minds to think outside the plastic box that had seemed to captivate everyone on the planet; conformity was no longer just an option in her time — it was life. And she tried her damnedest to reverse it, cure that chosen disease. But she failed. And though I loved her dearly, I hated her. I loathed her for giving up. A brilliant mind wasted away for the sake of beauty. But most of all, I hated her for “living” and seeing me day after day after day without a care in the world of what might happen to me; She was always too busy looking in the reflection of the glass. Yes, a brilliant mind reduced to being occupied by a trick of light.

Human:

miniatusplusnaki — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 11:23:00 -0700

First Death
They took away humanity. They poked and prodded; primped and primed which entailed waxing and shaving and colouring; it entailed implants and plastic and suction. They masked the humanity, but the rot lived inside. Perfection was her downfall; imperfection her saviour and she forsook all that made her living – made her real. Her family felt the ugly in her actions and the coroners found the ugliness within. But… ‘twas a beautiful death.

Conversations with an Imaginary Man: Wedding

miniatusplusnaki — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 20:24:51 -0700

Watching crazy bitches on T.V. makes me think of how awesome of a girlfriend I am. He laughs at this. I kind of laugh too but seriously, these bitches are crazy. I think I see why people get divourced so much.

“They suck?”

Yes! Mikale! Like, I really hope that I’m not this awful when I get older.

“Not possible. It’s not in your nature. I mean, everyone has their off days — you’re no stranger to that — but these girls are like this all the freaking time!”

I think these shows are designed to make people feel better about themselves, but in watching it, they kind of absorb this behaviour and then they sort of act that.

“Might wanna tell them what we’re watching.”

Oh, right. We’re watching Bridezillas, by the way. WeTV is great for wedding shows.

“Oh god…”

Oh god is right. This chick is fucking crazy. This is where my mind of course goes to Jason and my relationship. We aren’t perfect, by any means, but we are both really great people and I think that will keep us together. Lots of things will but I don’t imagine our wedding anything other than natural and lovely. I want a peaceful wedding because that’s what Jason reminds me of…

“Awwwwwwww…”

Shut up, Mikale.

”I’m serious! That’s nice. I’m not about to say it’s adorable or anything ‘cause that would mean that I’m gay — despite my lack of realness, I’m not — but I think it’s really nice.”

Yeah, sure…But, Mikale, promise me you’ll smack me if I ever change into a super mega crazy bitch like these women.

“Oh, I’ll do more than that…”

Oh jeez. He snickers at me and I punch him. We’ll see about that…Besides, I have a few years before I will actually get married so let’s not worry about it just yet.

“Deal.”

Okay. Though, that doesn’t mean that I can’t dream about my wedding…

“Indeed. You do that anyways.”

Shut. Up. He snickers again, making me slam my hand against my forehead.

“It’s okay.”

Whatever, Mikale… I turn back to the T.V. Normally, I would not condone anyone messing up somebody’s day — which is what a wedding is; it is a day mostly for the bride — but these bitches deserve it. Right, Mikale?

“Indeed.”

You would make a good husband if you were real. He’s agreeing with me and everything! It’s brilliant.

”I know. You kind of imagined me that way.”

Indeed. I laugh slightly. Anyways…We’re going to go finish watching the show.

”Goodbye!”

Bai!

Scattered: Premature Finale

miniatusplusnaki — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 11:57:16 -0700

Well, unfortunately, due to life taking place, I’ve decided to discontinue writing Scattered. But due to my friends wanting to kill me without knowing what I had planned, I will be giving a brief summary of what was supposed to have happened:

First off, the entire point of the story was basically a reunion of a group of friends who have known each other since high school. Amethyst, Ermelinda, Vesela, Ming-shu, Ila, and Claribella.

Who I based these characters on:
Amethyst - Myself
Ermelinda - Kaylee
Vesela - Sandy
Ming-shu - Ashleigh
Ila - Abby
Claribella - Crissy

Name meanings:

Amethyst - ancient greek for Not Drunk
Ermelinda - Whole, universal, soft and tender in Italian
Vesela - Macedonian for Cheerful
Ming-Shu - Ming meaning shining, bright or clear in chinese and shu meaning kind and gentle
Ila - Meaning earth or speech in Sanskrit
Claribella - From Clara meaning clear, bright, and famous.

Initially, Amethyst who is a very acclaimed author and publisher sets out to re-unite her friends who all seem to be having difficulties in their lives. Ila is married and professor of Psychology but she ends up traveling the world and ends up in India to try to learn about ancient medicine. Ming-shu is also married and is the CEO of a major company in China. Claribella is single for right now and is a wedding planner who is very well known in New York and Los Angeles but lives in Tennessee. Ermelinda is married (obviously, since I’ve released part of her story already) but she lost a child during birth due to complications. In order to escape the sadness, she decided to take her teaching skills to Africa to teach under-privileged children there and maybe, to adopt if she cannot get pregnant again. Vesela is engaged to a man she met while traveling and now spends most of her time traveling and is currently in Brasil. Since her future husband is actually very wealthy, he pays for their trips.

Amethyst travels all around the world picking her friends up one by one. They all meet up at Claribella’s estate in Tennessee. I hadn’t worked out everything. But Amythyst was going to ask them all to write part of their stories in a book for publishing about their friendship over the years. And then towards the end we find out that both Amethyst and Ermelinda are pregnant. BY THE SAME MAN! -GASP- Not really. Erm…yeah. There was more but I’ll add it in later.

Scattered: Africa (1)

miniatusplusnaki — Tue, 10 May 2011 20:52:39 -0700

Dear Ermelinda,

My love! I miss you so much. Things are going well here in the States but I feel a giant gap in my soul where my best friends used to lie. We’ve all gone to different places and it makes me sad. But I will not dwell on that…Instead, I will try to fix it! In fact, I have a surprise for you! And I’m giving you ample time to prepare, but I’m coming to visit you which is part of the surprise but really, that’s only part of it. There’s more and I will leave that for another time. Unfortunately for you, I’m not really giving you a choice in the matter at all, so you either come with me willingly or I force you with my magical skills. MUAHAHAHAHAHA!! (Tell me you don’t miss my craziness Teehee!) I have this magical plan that will bring us joy and adventure and amazingness. Jake will be joining us at a later date and so will Cole, so you won’t miss him too terribly much. You have two weeks to prepare yourself for my arrival. I suggest getting a suitcase out. See you then, darling <3

~Amethyst

Ermelinda looked at the letter again. It had almost been two weeks since some of the village boys ran up to her, yelling joyfully — some in their native tongue, others in English — that miss Ermelinda had recieved a letter. They had huddled around her careful not to smother her too much. She had told them that it was a letter from one of her best friends — her sister of sorts — and that she had to go read it at home.

“No, not “home” home…” She told them. “Where I stay while I work here with you in the village!” They accepted this but still escorted (though it was really more like followed) her to her hut, where she and her husband stayed. She entered —leaving the children to run along home— to find Cole taking a nap. It was sunday so they both sort of just relaxed all day. She had only gone into the main part of the village to check on some things and to see if they had mail. She gently woke him after she had read the letter herself and explained to him what was going on. Two weeks later and they were discussing it again.

“I’m sure she’ll explain more when she gets here about what’s going on, so yeah…”

“If you’re sure about that, great.” He chuckled. “Are you sure she’ll be able to deal with the weather here?”

“Probably not, but I guess we’ll see when she gets here.” She shrugged, laying the letter down on the small table in the room. “Besides, we don’t even know how long she’s staying.”

“I’m still confused as to why she’s coming…”

“I really…don’t know.” She admitted. Amethyst was notorious for being cryptic and random.

“Is her husband coming?”

Ermelinda skimmed the letter over again and looked up quickly.”He’ll meet up with us at a ‘later date’ it says.”

“Oh, that’s no bueno considering this is Amethyst we’re talking about.”

“No.” She shook her head. “If there was another problem, I would have known about it already.

“That’s true. So, no worries then.” He grinned.

She smiled and sat next to him on the rather large cot, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and kissed her forehead.

“No worries.” She sighed.

“I love you.” He took her hand in his, squeezing lightly.

“Love you too.”

“Maybe seeing her will make you feel a little better.”

“Yeah, but it won’t take away the emptiness…I’m grateful for everything in my life but it feels like a part of my soul is gone. The worst test God has put me through yet.”He pulled her closer, despite the added heat her body being that close in proximity brought the both of them. They, like Amethyst and Jake, had been together a very long time. Her miscarriage was a test to both of them and their love and more importantly their strength of faith. They were like bookends almost always — Each the other’s counterpart and they both played an equal part in keeping everything organized stable within themselves. But that earthquake had threatened to knock at least one of them down almost sending all that they had protected toppling down.

She continued: “My life has always been about wanting a family of my own, and for some reason, it’s not working.”

“Just focus on the love you do have. With me…” He kissed her forehead again, answering her worries. “…with the tribes children. Look at what you’ve created here. Creation is so powerful and you’ve created life by bringing light and knowledge to the eyes and minds of the beautiful children here. When God wants us to create life in another way…We’ll know. And we’ll do so willingly.” He chuckled at his own innuendo, even as she lightly slapped his knee in protest. “Come on. Let’s go find a place to swim.” He stood, reaching his hand out to lift help her up and pulled her against him, kissing her as he did so. “We’ll get some of the kids to go too! That should be fun!”

They left their hut and gathered the kids to venture to the jungle to swim. While there, Ermelinda taught the children about photosynthesis and the water cycle as their surroundings seemed apropos to the discussion. Both Ermelinda and Cole forgot their troubles for a while in their water filled fun and their giddiness. And then, in the cool evening, before the sun had set, they prepared for Amethyst’s arrival the next day.

The Lore of the Blood Tree

miniatusplusnaki — Sun, 01 May 2011 22:10:00 -0700

There was little comfort in the silence that enveloped the cottage that night. It managed to dig its way in through every crevice, every crack in the walls. And to Leander, there wasn’t a sound loud enough to make it stop — there was nothing that could over power the silence or drown it out or defend against the attacks it brought on Leander, his mind, and the cottage. He could no longer take it. He gathered what little belongings he cared about, barely able to breathe, and left his home for good. He would find somewhere where he could forget the truth the silence had screamed at him to believe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He sat at the bar of the tavern, listening as glasses clinked, clashing with the sounds of the boisterous, hearty laughter; a cacophony of the typical ambience of a place like that. It was just after midnight and people were slowly dwindling out, stumbling and causing a ruckus as they paid their bills and made their way to either their homes or their rooms there.

No one had bothered talking to him. They ignored him as if he were only a ghost — a remnant of a man who had lost himself in the pale amber liquid like a dead bug in tree sap. But it was fine by him because by the fifth refill, his breathing had slowed and he could no longer feel the edge of his heart thrusting itself against his chest. This way, he could at least pretend to be close to death.

He sat there for a while like that, until he realized the barkeep was speaking to someone seated next to him. Leander hadn’t even known someone had entered the tavern at such a late hour, let alone sit down a few seats away from him. He did his best to focus and listen to the hushed tones of their conversation.

“Tell me, barkeep…” the traveler started as he was handed his second round. “ Are any stories from this part of Aubured? A nomad such as myself finds the folklore of the places I see to be very interesting; it tells quite a bit about the people and I do love a good story.” The barkeep paused, thinking as he dried off some of the glasses he had washed.

“Well, there’s one that tends to spark everyone’s interest around a campfire…”

“Aye?”

“Aye. The tale of the Blood Tree.”

“Sounds intriguing enough. Well, let’s hear it then.”

The barkeep put the glasses down as he finished drying them. He eyed the traveler, curious as to what his true intentions were but ultimately decided that he simply didn’t care. It hardly mattered anyways; it was just a tale. He lowered his gaze and spoke lowly as he began his story:

“In the northern part of Aubured, there is an untouched valley known as the Sangrina Valley. There is but a single tree at the centre. It is pure white and it glows so that the entire valley is filled with brilliant white light. But the tree, unlike the valley, changes as the year progresses. At first, the tree only changes mildly, so that by summer, it is a duller white. In Autumn, instead of losing its leaves — for it has none — it turns red and little droplets of blood start trickling into the empty lake surrounding the tree for safety. And it continues on like that for quite sometime until the dead of winter when it glows ruby red and pours blood, filling the lake with it. There are several stories that circulate about what happens when one drinks the blood from the blood tree, but most people say that you become a God when you drink it for 7 days. The only problem is no one has dared to drink the blood of another to reach the ultimate dream of Godhood…”

“And if they have, they haven’t been back to tell the tale.”

“Very interesting…” The traveler sat back and pondered over his last round. He finished off his last bit of ale and thanked the barkeep, bidding him adieu.

Leander, though in a drunken stupor, addressed the barkeep.

“I’d forgotten that story…” he gulped, keeping the stomach acids from churning up into his esophagus. “It’s spring; the tree should be white, yes?”

“Aye.” the barkeep responded, bored now that he was done with his storytelling.

“Then that’s where I’ll go…”

“You’re going to go to Sangrina Valley?”

“I want to be a god, so of course that’s where I’ll be going, foolish barkeeper.”

The barkeep scoffed and chuckled to himself, amused with the drunk Leander.

“You’re the one who’s goin’a chase a fairy tale, and I’m the fool?”

“You’ll see when I’m a god who the fool is!” Leander slurred, barely getting his point across coherently.

“Well, you’d have to stomach seven days of drinking blood according to legend. So, good luck wit’ that.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes…” Leander was no longer addressing the barkeep and mumbled to himself. “Surely…”

“Yeah, yeah” the barkeep overheard. “You should probably go before I close for the night and kick you out. Yer lucky I still have a room left; you’re room six.”

Leander rose, nearly topping over catching himself on the bar and helping himself up.

“I’ll show you… Stupid barkeeper.” he slurred again, practically drooling all over himself as he used the walls to guide him to room six down the long hallway in the back of the tavern. The rest of the building was still quiet, so he did his best — drunk as he was — not to stir anyone.

In the morning, he left the tavern drunk with insomnia now instead of alcohol, but that didn’t matter because he was headed for Sangrina Valley where —he believed— he could kill this living, breathing nightmare. The journey was difficult, for his sleeplessness brought him visions he could not control of what could have been and what should have been. The grief was nearly paralyzing but he pushed himself onwards, drilling into his head that it would all be worth it in the end.

After several days of riding north, he let his tired horse sleep while he hunted. He eventually caught a rabbit and prepared it to eat. While he ate, he stared at the puddle of blood the murdered rabbit left. He watched as it was absorbed by the earth who, he imagined, was enjoying the fruits of his labour as it took back a portion of the life it had given in the first place. He looked at the blood and wondered if it was animal or human blood he would be drinking…

After finishing his meal, he led his horse to a river he had come across during his hunt and allowed it to rehydrate itself before continuing on their way to the valley. He kept his mind as blank as possible for several hours as they followed the stream north until they reached the opening of a gorge. He dismounted and set his horse free after the beast put up a fight to continue on to the valley. It pained him but he said goodbye and made his way through the gorge alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The stream that had lead Leander to the gorge had begun drying after an hour of walking, so Leander assumed he was close to the valley. He was proven right when he reached the end of the gorge at the start of twilight when the sun nestled itself behind the mountain range at the other side of the valley.

He almost couldn’t contain himself as he first eyed the tree. It was as described: white. Pure white. Though no description could capture its beauty. Its branches plentiful thought its boughs were leafless. They drooped down; majestically waving in the airy breeze, bestowing light on the ground they hovered over. Leander continued down towards it, darkness slowly blanketing the valley as he made his way down. He marveled at the tree for sometime up close, careful not to be so captivated so as to fall into the empty circular well around it. It was no lake: a nearly perfect circle of darkness surrounded the plot of land where the tree stood. Leander wasn’t sure how deep it was but he sure did not wish to find out by falling into it. He threw a stone and listened. It took nearly a minute to hear the faint sound of rock hitting earth at the bottom.

He made camp before complete nightfall, far enough from the tree so as to not have any accidents. Once complete, he realized how truly exhausted he was and as soon as he lay down, he slept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He dreamt of the valley as he first arrived — an Eden of sorts. The grass was a vibrant green, blades bending back and forth in the wind as the sun-drenched vanilla clouds melted into the blue sky. The mountain range reached for the heavens, desperate to join the fun. And the tree… The tree stood magnificent in its ethereal beauty, towering over Leander as he looked at the scene before him. He went closer to it and listened — he swore he heard a voice calling him but there was nothing. But as he neared the tree, he did smell something delicious; an ambrosial scent cascaded over him, making his mouth water. He looked for the source but before he could locate it, a scream pierced his ears as darkened clouds began to throng the sky. The earth shook as the scream was joined by others, disorienting Leander as he tried to stay up right. The ground shook hard and he felt it opening up from underneath him. He desperately tried to clutch onto the edge of the opening but an indistinct figured grabbed his hand prying it away, leaving Leander to spiral into obsidian nothing.

He awoke with a gasp for air. The dream had occurred countless times over and Leander grew tired of it. He had already spent many months in the valley, keeping busy during the day focusing on sound rather than silence yet each night had been the same: either boredom or exhaustion from not sleeping enough drove him to fall asleep and in his sleep he would have the dream. He would wake terrified of what awaited him in the abysmal well. In a way, he was grateful being in the valley kept his mind away from thoughts of them but in the same simultaneous thought he wished he could dream of something else even if it was them, so long as silence was nowhere to be found.

He began to think of them often, trying his hardest not to focus on the darkest of times, thinking of their giggles and their smiles and the way they would greet him when he returned home. He tried to keep his thoughts in the lighter, more carefree side of the spectrum, but dark flashes of the night when he buried his daughter tormented him still. He thought of his crying wife and how he had been unable to comfort her enough to cure the pain and how his soul had wrenched when he entered their small cottage to find her delicate figure hanging there from the rafters, like a misguided angel desperate to escape the confines of the cottage walls and go home.

Leander tried his best not to think of it because he planned to remedy everything. He would bring them back and they would spend forever in this beautiful valley. That’s all he had to keep telling himself and he could get through the year.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And he did. The grief eventually subsided and ambition took its place. The dream no longer frightened him; instead, he embraced it, daring the spirits to try and foil his plan to become a god. No nightmare was worse than his reality. He had lost everything and now godhood would be his.

Ambitious Leander grew even more so as he watched the off-white tree of the summer transform to the sanguine sight in the fall. The drops of blood entranced him and made him aware of how badly he wanted to become a god. As blood dripped into the empty space around the tree, the air was impregnated with the metallic odor of iron but it was different than normal blood. The smell left a taste in the back of his mouth. It was almost as if he had already swallowed the blood and the saccharine aftertaste invaded his taste buds and his nostrils. It was a heavenly scent that made Leander’s stomach growl, but as the long fall days were cut shorter and shorter; sleep fell upon him sooner and sooner every day, and it dawned on him that the smell that tried to haunt his dreams was the same scent that the blood from the blood tree was emitting.

The momentary worry the epiphany had brought him dissipated quickly when one night as he watched the tree, it began glowing stronger. It had been glowing dimly before — the same ruby colour as the bark and branches of the tree — but now light filled the valley. So much so, that Leander shielded his eyes trying to see what was happening with the tree. Through the red glow, he couldn’t see anything. He stood there in the intense hue until finally, the tree’s glow reduced to where Leander could see. He watched as the blood flew freely from the branches. He stood back admiring in awe as he watched the blood reach for the ground like a weeping willow’s leaves would. The blood cascaded all around the tree — some falling on the ground, some falling into the well, the echo coming back and signaling the well’s desire for more of the sweet, liquid to travel the depths of the well’s throat. This marked the start of winter and the start of the end of this life for Leander, for soon the well would be full and soon he would drink to become a god.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Valley was a near perfect place, but soon Leander realized why the valley was uninhabited: in winter, you could hear screams. They weren’t constant nor were they ever the same scream, but they were horrific. They would echo throughout the entire valley, the gruesome sounds rippling through the air. Sometimes Leander could tell what kind of pain caused the scream — he could tell when it was a scream out of pain, or anger, or fear as if they were songs telling different tragic stories.

One day, he was looking down the well to determine how much longer it would be before he could begin his journey to divinity and a mournful yell resonated through the valley and shook him to his bones. He realized at once it was his yell — his cry— the very same one he had released when he lowered his wife’s body down from the rafters and held her cold corpse against him. He remembered yelling towards the heavens, cursing the Gods and Goddesses responsible for allowing this to happen. The sound of his own cry cut him reminding him of why he was there. Pain turned into impatience as the random hollering continued until, one day, the tree poured the hardest it had through the long months of winter, filling the empty space around the tree completely with blood within a matter of days.

Leander watched carefully awaiting the flow of blood to cease but it didn’t. The well had seemingly transformed into a bottomless pit and its thirst for blood went unquenched so the tree kept pouring. He waited a few more days before finally, one morning, he grabbed the goblet he brought for the occasion, and knelt at the edge of the well. He decided he would drink 3 full goblets every day to ensure he was drinking enough. He filled his goblet for the first time. As he did, tendrils of the “leaves” whipped past him, flinging droplets of blood onto the side of his face. He took his hand and wiped the dripping liquid off. The smell enticed him so much that he licked his fingers, pleased to get a taste after all this time. It tasted like water laced with juice and sugar with only a hint of iron to accompany the sweet tasting nectar.

Once he realized how good the blood tasted, he engulfed the contents of the goblet, leaving nothing behind. He could not wait for the sun to reach its zenith so he could have another glass but sure enough when the time came he filled his cup again, glad for the cool, luscious liquid to be traveling to his stomach. For several days, he drank the blood like clockwork and every day he seemed to grow stronger — the blood seemed to be working. Elated with the knowledge of how close he was to victory, Leander celebrated by engorging on the fruits and nuts he had collected for the week. He feasted under the moonlight, occasionally dancing around the fire. It became apparent to him that he should test himself to make sure the ritual had been working. He was amazed with his findings. He was able to run faster than anything he knew possible — able to life boulders near the surrounding mountains. And with this new found physical phenomenon, Leander could feel the promise of godhood at the nape of his neck.

The screams at night proceeded to worsen but in the last days of the ritual, that was the least of his concern. He was no longer getting stronger and he could feel his strength deteriorating — his speed fleeting. “What’s happening?” He questioned. He continued drinking and even drank more than 3 goblets full by the fifth day.

On the night of the fifth day, Leander counted aloud to himself how many cups exactly he was drinking; to him, it was impossible for it not to work. He kept counting: “1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12…1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12…” until he fell asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leander woke on the 6th day to the sound of a bag crashing to the ground. He rushed outside to find a man there dipping his own goblet into the well. Anger boiled in Leander as he ran to confront the man.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” He grabbed the man from behind, spilling the blood in the man’s cup onto the grass. “What are you doing?!” The man stood back after getting up from where Leander had practically thrown him and started laughing.

“How long have you been here?!?!” Leander was growing livid.

“All year.” The man smiled as he answered coolly.

“Do not mock me!” Leander approached him and grabbed him by his collar, looking at him in the eyes and noting the familiar darkness in his eyes…

“I mock thee not — “

“And how long have you been drinking the blood!?”

“For the past 6 days. Tomorrow will be my last.”

“So, you’re the one making me weaker!!” Leander punched him, no longer able to control his rage, and knocked him back to the ground, but the man simply laughed.

“I’m not taking anything from you. But the tree is…”

“What do you mean?” Leander’s curiosity peaked, his anger temporarily subsided.

“I’ve seen you; all you do is drink and you give none of it back.”

“Then what do I have to do?”

“Give some back.”

Before Leander could question the man more, he was gone. His belongings left no trace either. Leander stood there in confusion. Had the man been right? The fight had left Leander surprisingly fatigued and unable to stand for very long. His mind was as if steam had made itself home on the reflective surface of a mirror; the fog would not lift, so he made his way back to his cot and fell asleep even though it was only mid-morning

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In his long slumber, dreams flooded Leander’s head, which would have been a nice change from the year long nightmare visiting him every time he slept, if it were not for these nightmares being worse. In such a short time, Leander saw horrors he only heard of from far off lands. And he could not make them stop. He saw atrocity, after atrocity, after atrocity until finally he awoke, the last thing he dreamt being the worst of all the things he had seen: a child being torn from the belly of a woman only to be drowned immediately by its father as the would-be-mother screamed and pleaded until she too, met her end at the point of his dagger as he slit her throat. He woke up crying but realized a familiar touch across his face. Leander blinked tears away to view his wife, her arm outreached to grace his cheek.

“Morana…” He reached out for her but grabbed at nothing. Hurt and angry, Leander crawled out of bed thrashing everything within his camp.

“I. Will. Be. A. God.” He yelled, the low bass reverberating through every bone in his body and every stone in the valley. He looked spastically for his goblet, every action a burst of desperate, frantic anger. His eyes came across a shadow moving near the tree. It was the man. Leander rushed him, grabbed him by his arms and shook as hard as he could.

“What must I do?!” He demanded but the man, unfazed looked at him and grinned.

“Even if I told you, you’re not strong enough to do it. You couldn’t save your wife or your precious little girl. Why would you be able to do this?”

“What must I do?! What must I give back to the tree?!?! I’ll do anything!”

“It doesn’t matter, Leander.” The smiled melted from his face. “You’ve failed.”

A low growl vibrated through Leander’s chest. It grew, feeding on his lividity until Leander was yelling at the top of his lungs. He began pelting the man. Fist after fist, crashed down on the man’s skull. Leander couldn’t stop —wouldn’t stop— until he grew tired. Panting, he stood over the man, who lay on the ground him chest rising and falling sporadically as he laughed. Blood seeped through every orifice on his head. He crawled closer to the edge of the well, his blood cells joining their brethren. Leander understood at once, as he watched the man —now fully healed. Leander went back to camp as fast as he could and returned, standing at the end of edge of the well.

“Not man enough?!!?” He rolled up his sleeve, presenting his pale forearm to the man. “Why be a man, when I can be a god!?” He began cutting, tracing the knife along his veins. The man watched, silent as Leander continued cutting his arm. Cut after cut, Leander’s blood mingled with the blood of the blood tree. He cut until he could no longer see his pale skin through the scarlet mess he had made. He moved onto his legs, cutting through his trousers and digging his knife into his thighs and then his chest and then his face. He heard the man give out a hearty laugh, enraging Leander more. Dizzy with anger and frustration, he made one last desperate cut into his stomach, eviscerating himself. He felt the knife slip through his fingers, finally able to feel the pain he had brought down upon himself; finally able to hear the millions of screams now sounding in the valley. His ears began bleeding. And as he looked down, barely able to see, he felt his hot insides slide out of him and into his hands. He leaned forward in agony, and tried to drink some of the blood from the tree, but it was too late. He heard the man’s brutal laughter before his vision went black and he fell forward into the well, letting the cool embrace of blood and silence engulf him.

Conversations with an Imaginary Man: Different

miniatusplusnaki — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 22:07:00 -0700

I smile even though we are both looking at memories that would normally bring me to tears. He’s holding out his hand and I place mine in his, allowing him to give mine a squeeze.

“I told you things would be better.”

I roll my eyes and chuckle. I suppose it’s better. I’m smiling and laughing more like I mean it.

“Yes, but it’s not better better…” I laugh thinking of a friend who would hate me for using the same word twice for emphasis. I haven’t spoken to that friend in a while. I wonder where he is…

“Focus, Naki.” He laughs. “What do you mean it’s not better?”

“I’m still talking to a man who doesn’t exist, falling in love with him and wishing he was real. I’m alone in actuality now that Jason broke up with me and I still have no idea what life is doing.”

He’s moving closer to me now and leaning over to kiss my cheek, which makes me smile again.

“So, you’re a little crazy? So what? And besides, you know how to deal with all that now. Who you used to be would still be crying at every love song, still think of him in the worst way possible barely able to not contact him.”

I think a moment. He’s right in a sense. I’m different. But I can’t tell if the change is a good or a bad one. While, yes, I’m appreciative of everything and I understand that the universe is only out to help me, I still don’t know whether my lack of being sad is something to be proud of. I don’t want to make my relationship with Jason less meaningful if I’m not sad when it’s over.

“That’s ridiculous and you know it. It’s over! Why does it matter if you’re not giving a shit now that he’s ruined everything? You don’t have to be nice all the time. You also don’t have to be sad all the time. It’s your right to be happy regardless of what stupid asshole has done to you. We all know you cared more than you really had the capacity to…”

“But —”

“Not finished!”

I sigh and he raises his eyebrows at me. I say nothing and let him finish.

“You were and still are in a depression. If we could all love the way that you do when you’re at your worst, the world might be a better place. And imagine how wonderfully you’ll love next time around—”

“There won’t be a next time. I don’t want a next time. And if there is, I sure as hell am not going to give my all.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

In my head, I think why Mikael can’t be real. Why can’t it just be this easy with every guy.

“No, not really…I’m determined—”

“It doesn’t matter how determined you are. You are you. And as different as your behaviour and your mindset is and is becoming. You’re still you. You’re still a darling of a girl, who’s been hurt —yes— but you’re still all the good things people tend to see in you. You’re still a sweetheart with an edge.”

Fuck. I hate when my imagination is right. Damn it, Mikael…Stop being wiser than me.

“Sorry!”

Ugh…

A Lyrical Tragic Comedy of Epic Proportions

miniatusplusnaki — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 16:38:00 -0700

In between the four cities of the small province Til, lies a beautiful forest. The forest connects the cities together though the cities themselves, as well as their inhabitants, couldn’t differ any more greatly. To the north lay Comedy — a city made from simple stone. Anything that went wrong in Comedy, didn’t stay wrong for very long. No one was taken too terribly seriously, but they were a rather efficient people — which was a curious thing when Tragedy lay just to the east. ‘Tis there that everything that could go wrong did, and everything that could go right didn’t. A city of glass, Tragedy was anything but clear. Its people were always scheming against each other and cruel irony took hold of many people’s lives; backstabbers stabbing backs while they , themselves, were stabbed, unaware until it was too late.

Lyric, a city of silver, was located to the south. Its wind chimes were heard from miles away. Albeit dramatic, Lyric was far less corrupt and grotesque than its neighbour Tragedy. In fact, most people were mild poets, song-writers. The people of Lyric even had a way of flowing like the poetry they spend their days writing. Their only unappealing quality was their cryptic and confusing manner accompanied by their uncanny habit of rhyming constantly.

Epic, to the west, was gilded in bronze; it was massive and intimidating yet regal, and one wondered how its builders managed to obtain so much bronze. In Epic, things were intense and usually convoluted. Even every day tasks took much longer than normal — people were usually given puzzles and obstacles to be granted passage through desultory doors and gates that, in all honesty, had no purpose other than to confuse the heroic folk of Epic. The Forest of Til was the hub of life for all four cities and for our story for it is there that Everard met Doina.

Doina of Lyric had been bored and decided to go to the river to reflect, maybe even write a song or two. She got to the river, immediately marveling at the way the mid-afternoon sun hit the water. The stream rolled over obsidian rocks, the sun illuminating the liquid like beautiful, diaphanous diamonds flowing in a river of treasure. She stifled a giggle; her imagination took hold of her and her inner child was dying to sing and dance and play. The diamond river enticed her and her vocal chords itched eagerly to be rung as each moment passed by. She removed her shoes, lifting her skirts so she could wade in the water. She began singing of a great alchemist who lived in the sky who could turn water into diamonds with magic and glass vials and rune stones and love. As she sloshed her feet in the river, she didn’t know that a boy from Epic was watching her.

Everard of Epic stood veiled behind the bushes on the bank. Vulpine, he moved with grace, careful not to disturb the vision in the water as he listened to her sing to herself. After a while, he decided that he couldn’t let this one go. He gathered his abundant courage, stepping noisily out from the bushes to catch her attention. When Doina saw him, she began to make her way back to where her shoes lay, her song cut mid-verse.

“Wait!” Everard cried out and to that she turned to face him. She looked at him curiously. Quickly, he made his way to her side of the river.

“Yes?” Doina questioned as he caught up to her. Everard smiled. His strong, square jaw framing his dimpled chin perfectly.

“Do you have a name?” He asked politely. Doina tilted her head in confusion and answered solely because she found him charming.

“Doina. But if you’ll excuse me…I really cannot join ya.”

“Ah, you’re from Lyric!” She sighed and nodded.

“Aye. And it never fails that some foreigner knows from whence I hail.”

“It’s kind of hard to miss, dear with all the rhyming and the singing. But don’t worry” He beamed and stepped closer. “If you’re as labyrinthine as they say your people are, I will solve your puzzles easily.”

“Oh? Is that so?” She smiled coyly, raising her eyebrows.

“Indeed.” He responded and invited her to sit and talk with him. She decided to stay a while and chat by the river to test this theory of him deciphering her code. They spoke of their homes and what each city was like, neither one having visited any other town. She tried her best to confuse him and failed. He tried to woo her and slowly found himself making his way through the labyrinth to her heart. After a while of going on like that, they noticed how close in proximity they had gotten. Within a moment of looking into each other’s eyes, they were kissing. And in that moment, their fates collided — their strings weaving into each other — and they consummated their love after several hours of talking and of her singing and rhyming and of him stealing her poetry right from her lips with a kiss or two, here and there. They melted together whilst under the night sky. Little did they know, a few months later, a new string would be woven into theirs.

With the news of their child being conceived, both Everard and Doina strove to shroud their relationship. But when Everard — the courageous idiot that he was — tried to visit Doina in hopes to be there when the child was born, the revelation of their improper union caused their exile from both Lyric and Epic. They journeyed to Tragedy where their life took a turn for the worse and where ultimately, their daughter, Anejia was born.

By the time Aneija was five, she had already made several attempts on her father’s life. Needless to say, it was a problem for Doina and Everard (Later, it would be revealed that Aneija had fallen prey to a misleading prophecy that had haunted her dreams; an unfortunately common happening in Tragedy). So, by the fifth failed attempt, Doina and Everard decided to move a final time to Comedy so as to maybe reverse the side effects of the glass city tainting their daughter.

Moving to Comedy stopped the surprisingly well thought out plans of murder by the callow Aneija and the three of them truly began living their life there peacefully; Comedy was a placid town and was perfect for raising a family. While growing up, Aneija was known as Miss Aneija of Til because her parents’ past was no secret from the townspeople. Aneija grew to like the title as she grew into one of the most beautiful women in Comedy and probably in all of Til. Her mother often sang of her as her muse:

A nimble nymph, borne of bejeweled rivers and the sky.

She inspires mist;; how gentle and charmingly, refreshingly fine.

How beautiful! How perfectly divine!

Someday a man as worthy as a prince will come,

Oh, yes, he will!

To take away the beautiful muse known as

Miss Aneija of Til!

“Mother, must you?” Aneija walked past her mother who was singing and washing dishes in the sink.

“Oh, yes! I do! Otherwise, my voice will go away and I’ll be terribly blue.” Despite the many years Doina spent away from Lyric, the wind chimes still called to her and her rhyme never quite ceased.

Aneija watched her mother from the kitchen table, and wished that she was as fluid as she was; she was often told that she was but she felt she moved with a sinister grace rather than the effervescent fluidity her mother’s movements possessed.

Aneija’s father walked in and kissed them both before he sat down at the table across from Aneija. He looked nonchalant as he listened to his wife singing and as he read the paper. Without looking up, he addressed Aneija. A sly smile slid across his face.

“I think there’s someone outside waiting for you, daughter.” She tilted her head in confusion. He noted the familiarity of the gesture and chuckled. Everard remembered that day in the forest when he saw Doina and when he saw her give him that same look… “Better hurry!”

Aneija stepped outside to see the blacksmith’s son standing there. They were currently courting but she was still surprised — and excited — to see him. His strawberry blonde hair gleamed in the sun, strands of gold framing his face; it was a huge contrast to her auburn curls. Actually, he was pretty opposite of her entirely. His light green-blue eyes often made her amber eyes feel inferior; his strong muscles compared to her willowy figure left a lot to be desired. But despite their differences, they made quite a good couple and they were happy which was all that mattered to them. Realizing that she had just been standing there, she adjusted herself. She tried to simper less intensely but failed to contain her excited and embarrassing expression.

“Hello, Idris.” She greeted him and he bowed slightly, lowering his eyes in return.

“My dear Aneija, how are you?” She hated small talk. Being even remotely proper whilst in public with him irritated her but she played along regardless.

“I’m well. And you?”

“I’m conflicted…” He frowned.

“Oh?”

“Aye.”

“May I ask why?” He took her by the hand and met her eyes.

“Walk with me?”

“Erm…Alright.” Aneija and Idris walked to their favourite place in Comedy: a place in the forest where you could hear the river flowing and the animals chattering. It was perfect because the sun still shone through the shroud of the dense foliage. They sat under a tree and watched the river flow. She was immediately reminded of her parent’s own love story that began probably not too far from where she and Idris lay now.

“So, why are you conflicted, love?”

“Well, it’s because of you…”

“What?” She was unsure whether to be more offended or more hurt.

“No, no!” Idris reassured her before she could decide. “I just — You’re perfect.” The comment surprised her. “Well,“ He motioned to the forest. “You see all of this?“

“The forest?“

“Yes…“

She nodded, silent from the shock of his previous statement. “Well, it has a part of every city and because of that, it’s the most perfect forest anywhere. People all around come to see it.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Your father’s from Epic. Your mother’s from Lyric. You were born in Tragedy and even lived there for the first five years of your life. And you’ve lived here in Comedy most of your life. You’re a perfect mix of everything that‘s good in Til. Just like the forest.”

“Oh…Then why are you conflicted?”

“Well, I can’t marry the forest despite her beckoning me — ”

“Wha—”

“Because I was hoping I could marry something just as perfect even though I am but a simple blacksmith and you deserve a prince…” Aneija sat silently for a moment, thinking. She never really thought about it before but she really did have a piece of every city in her soul. She was the spawn of the forest. “Oh, and you’re very well rounded… Just in case you needed more flattery.” He grinned.

“Are you saying I’m fat?” She joked and smiled at him. “The answer is yes, by the way.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” She smiled brightly. “I will marry you…on one condition…”

“What’s that?”

“Just because we’re lying here and we’re in the forest like when my parents first met, does not mean we are going to be making children at this moment in time.”

“Fair enough!” He chuckled lightly.

“Okay. Then, yes! I will marry you!”

“Perfect! See? I told you were well-rounded. I’ll have to let the forest down gently…” Aneija’s giggles flowed along with the river.

Conversations with an Imaginary Man: Alone

miniatusplusnaki — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 22:28:19 -0800

I look at him in contempt. There’s more pity in his eyes. But he smiles and his smile is contagious. I can’t help but smile. We are alone because I don’t expect any calls tonight. Besides, I’ve taken medicine to calm me down and it’s working. I kind of just want to smile even if I look stupid smiling at a fixed location at the person who sits next to me in my imagination. I sigh still sort of half smiling.

”Soon you won’t need the pills. You didn’t need them for a while…”

”It’s not that I didn’t need them, Mikael. It’s that I wasn’t smart enough to take them when I did need them. They probably would have stopped that binge. Though they honestly don’t stop the desire to binge. Just make me more me so that I don’t actually do what I want.”

”Did you really just ignore a text?”

Yes. “No. I’m gonna answer it later.” He rolls his eyes at me. But I know he understands. He knows that I’m sick of lonely nights — of only being called when needed. He knows that’s what it seems like sometimes. And on top of that, he knows it’s raining which means that I’m solemn. I decide to answer the stupid text.

”A text saying ‘I love you’ is stupid?”

”Right now it is…” He sighs at me. I almost feel guilty. But like the rain falling down here, I’m cold. Ice cold.

“It’ll get better, dear…I promise.”

”I really hope so. I’m sick of being alone.”

Scattered: California(1)

miniatusplusnaki — Sat, 22 Jan 2011 21:37:00 -0800

Amethyst glided her eyeliner artfully in a thin line on her top lid. The black, ink-like substance wrote it’s own story with its own calligraphy right there on her eye. It told a story with its precision and perfection, of a girl who had placed part of her soul in learning how to keep a steady hand. And that the girl had spent years perfecting the technique which allowed the flawless execution of putting on her face. She looked in the mirror pleased, though not with herself; She saw behind her that husband looked at her with a strange mix of adoration, lust and pride. He walked over to where she stood and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Why, hello there.” He smiled, embracing her, lowering his head to her neck and kissing it gently and ever so seductively. He reminded her of a vampire at that instant with his dark hair and dark eyes as he slowly kissed her, looking as though he was ready to prey upon her perfumed flesh, though, in her mind she knew he would disapprove greatly of the comparison of him to a vampire.

“Hi…” Amethyst chimed, chuckling at the onset of his playfulness. What are you doing, love?” She smiled as she watched him in the mirror. She turned to face him looking at him with a playful disapproval. He frowned.

“I’ve missed you today. That’s all.” He admitted, uncannily reading her mind. Her lips curled gently into a smile, and she reached up to kiss him. They hadn’t been married too terribly long, but they’d been together even longer and for what seemed to them many lifetimes. She had originally thought that the missing each other constantly whenever they hadn’t really spoken to each other for a few days would wear off, but it never did. She always missed him. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say and the two had learned it well early on when they first started dating while living in separate states.

“I’ve missed you too, love. Even though you’re the one usually too busy for me.” He frowned again, looking down at her.

“That’s not true.” He muttered defensively.

“Uh-huh, sure…” She teased him, softening the blow. As an author, an editor, and professional procrastinator, she spent her time either writing, reading, or doing other things while thinking about how she should probably be writing or reading. But it seemed to be working because the company she worked and wrote for let her work from home and was having a banquet in her — and several other of their star authors — honour. But he actually worked in the “real world” and sometimes that involved him not spending as much time with her as both of them would like. She sometimes took her frustrations out on her characters while he was fast asleep instead of talking to her. But she saw that it truly did bother him and tried to mollify him. “Don’t worry. I don’t mind…that much. Besides, after I finish that manuscript I’ve been working on and after my trip, you’ll be on vacation, so we’ll get to spend like, two weeks together.” Amethyst tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible so that maybe it would act as a contagion and make him smile. She even pulled on his tie, forcing him to lower his head to her level so she could kiss him again. He did smile slightly when she released him but not enough to equal the enthusiasm portrayed.

“Yes, I know. Listen, about your trip—”

“What about it?

“I dunno…shouldn’t we be saving?”

“Saving for what?”

He hesitated but she was already occupying herself looking through her jewelry box looking for a necklace to wear instead of noticing the worry ridden features on her husbands face.

“I dunno…” He answered finally as he watched her search through several necklaces she had.

“No. We don’t need to save. We’ll be fine.” She shrugged, nonchalantly. “Besides, this trip means a lot to me. You know that.”

“I know but—”

“I mean, I haven’t seen all of my friend at once for years. And you know, there are certain things in life and you can’t control them but sometimes you can and this is one of those times. I have the means to see them and that’s what I’m going to do.” She found the necklace and motioned for him to assist her in putting it on. “Sorry, for interrupting you…”

“It’s fine, sweetheart.” He smiled at her as he clasped the necklace. A flood of memories came to her as she looked upon his face and looked at herself in the mirror with the necklace on. He gave her that necklace when they had met face-to-face for the first time. It meant the world to her, so she wore it any chance she got and panicked if she didn’t wear it on special occasions. She looked at the chain resting on her caramel colored collar bones and followed it down to where the amulet itself lay. It hung there, comfortably, nestled slightly in between her breasts and on top of her birthmark. It truly was the best gift she had ever received. She still marveled at how amazing that moment was, but she had no time to reminisce. Her husband looked at her, yearning to say something but sighed instead. She rolled her eyes.

“Why are you moping?” She accused. She disliked it when he moped, especially when there was no apparent reason or when the reason was stupid.

“I’m not!”

“Then why did you sigh?”

“You look beautiful…” He grinned smugly.

“No. You can’t change the subject…”

“We’re gonna be late. We’ll talk more in the car.” And with that he kissed her cheek and left the room. She hated when he avoided subjects, and yet, getting the information out of him was always fun. Unfortunately though, she would sometimes forget the original conversation that lead to her pleading — or begging — for him to let her know what was on his mind. But she forced her mind to stay on subject as she finished readying herself for the evening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the car, he tried to keep the conversation light.

“So, where exactly are all of your friends? I know you already told me but you know how much my memory sucks.”

“Yeah. I do know.” She snickered at him. She loved teasing him about his failure to remember things especially since she had such a fantastic memory herself. The same memory that reminded her of her mission. “I know what you’re trying to do…” She couldn’t help but smiling at his little trick as she foiled his plans. “I haven’t forgotten, but since I’m so nice, I’ll humour you and tell you again.”

“Darn it!” He laughed, looking at her momentarily and then looking back on the road. “Stop being so smart, damn it.”

“It’s my job, dear…Anyways! My friends…Um. Ermelinda is in Africa at the moment but she lives in Texas. Vesela is in Brazil, though I’m not sure how permanent that is; she travels quite a bit now since she met her husband. Ila is currently in India and she also has a thing for travel and self-discovery and whatnot but before that she was actually teaching at Stanford. Claribella lives in Tennessee. Ming-Shu lives in China, though she might move back to the states soon—”

“Ming-shu? I thought the sixth musketeer’s name was—”

“She changed it. It fits her better. I only call her by her given name out of habit.”

“Fair enough. Wow, that’s quite a trip though sweetheart…”

“Yeah. We’re all pretty scattered around everywhere. So…” She changed the subject swiftly, indicating that she means business. “Why did you sigh at me earlier?” She smiled, knowing she had him trapped this time as he sighed heavily.

“It was nothing, sweetheart.” He lied. And she raised her eyebrows at him.

“Seriously?” She scoffed in disbelief. “Um…I’ve known you how long? Come on. Don’t lie”

“Ugh…I didn’t want to mention it like this…” He groaned looking at her, frowning to which she squinted her eyes, her eyebrows burrowing in the process.

“Then I guess you shouldn’t have sighed then…”

“You’re such a butt!”

“Be that as it may, that isn’t the point.” Amethyst smirked; victory was close at hand. He sighed yet again.

“Well, remember when my friend’s baby was born how I said something to you about kids?” He questioned though he knew fully well that she did in fact remember.

“Yes…” Her voice mimicked his questioning tone, a sing-song that mocked him, daring him to continue. She knew this was probably something embarrassing otherwise he wouldn’t have taken so long to tell her.

“Do you remember what I said exactly?”

“Nope.“ Yup. She did. Instantaneously, she replayed the conversation in her head. He told her that she should have kids — half black and half white kids — but she corrected him: since she was half black, their kids would actually only be a quarter. That comment surprised him and herself both because one, she was known for being horrible at math and two, because she had said “their” and not just “her”.

“I mentioned…kids. Like, us having them?” She tittered a bit, giving up the act.

“Yeah. So? What about it?”

“Do I really have to say it?” He rolled his eyes at her.”

“Yes.” She said simply, smiling contently. Victory.

“I want kids. Amethyst. Soon.” His cheeks flooded with red and she grinned, biting her lower lip.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes…” He scowled in embarrassment, realizing he was just being toyed with. She chuckled and rubbed her hand gently on his thigh right above his knee

“You’re cute.” She teased.

“No…”

“Yes…” Amethyst giggled at her husband, pleased with all she was able to accomplish in a car ride.

They finally pulled up to the valet of the hotel where the banquet was being held. As soon as they arrived and walked inside to the banquet hall, they were bombarded with people introducing themselves forcing Amethyst and her husband to shake hands and smile until their cheeks hurt. When they finally, sat down, the banquet hadn’t started yet so they sat by themselves near the front of the stage where their names read on little cards on white plates. A surprising amount of people had shown up early, so they sat and people-watched talking and laughing and making fun of some of the more strange guests.

Things began to settle down when the lights dimmed and the first speaker appeared on stage. It was actually her boss, the head of the company speaking welcoming everyone to the event and thanking them for being there and whatnot. But Amethyst had plans besides just sitting there looking at her boss speak. Amethyst leaned towards her husband and he reciprocated the action. Her lips practically touched his ear.

“About the whole baby slash kids thing…” She paused, making sure her voice stayed low. “Do you wanna get started tonight?” She grinned playfully, careful not to giggle too loudly at his expression.

“Really?” He whispered back. She nodded and he smiled in return. “You just made this banquet even more unbearable and slow.” He teased.

“I know. I’m sorry.” She shrugged, teasing him, knowing what the next few hours would be like with that sort of information in his head.

“That’s okay.” He smiled and squeezed her knee. He looked into her eyes with that same look of adoration, lust and pride as earlier in the evening and he gently placed his lips to hers.

“I love you…” Amethyst whispered, soft as moonlight.

“I love you too, baby…So much.”

The room exploded in applause as if that special moment was noted by everyone in the room. And while yes, the spotlight shone on Amethyst and her husband (since he was in her general vicinity), it shone for her work in writing about magic and not the magic that had just occurred in front of all of them.

Conversations with an Imaginary Man: Sad

miniatusplusnaki — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 20:37:49 -0800

”You look so sad, my dear…”

That would be because I am, Mikael. I want to cry but I can’t make myself. And I feel that if I do cry, it will be for the wrong reasons. I want him to call and make it all better, but I have a feeling that he won’t. This song doesn’t help…

”Heaven forbid you end up alone and don’t know why…” He’s singing along with the song I’m currently listening to. I don’t mind.

I do know why though. I messed up. I knew this would happen. I hate self-fulfilling-prophecies. He attempts to comfort me, but the song juxtaposes his efforts. Mikael, I can’t stop looking at my phone just there on the floor. It’s supposed to be ringing. Oh no…Not this song. I stare. My heart is taking a beating as every note punches me. It’s so pretty, Mikael. I try to sing along but the tears in my throat muddle the sound, making me seem even more pathetic.

“You’re not pathetic.” He shakes he head at me. “No. We all make mistakes…Don’t grab your phone. Leave it there. You would have seen it…”

But this isn’t fair. I finally let tears flow freely, streaking my blemished face even though, typing to my friends I hide my anguish. I keep looking at my stupid phone. But I know that it’s not going to ring because I hurt him and I’m only hurting now because I fucked up. Mikael looks at me, with as much pity in his eyes as there are tears in mine.

“You just got rid of your headache, dear…You shouldn’t be crying….No! No…Don’t cry more…I’m sorry.”

It’s my fault…Not yours. I hang my head. I’m in pain and I know I deserve it. The music fuels the tears, the tears fuel the pain…So I leave the music playing.

“You shouldn’t torture yourself. You just got better. You will fall into old patterns. STOP STARING AT YOUR PHONE! For fuck’s sake…” He’s disappointed in me. I understand why. He tries to help but more tears fall. And they shall continue falling for tonight…

Writer

miniatusplusnaki — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 23:40:00 -0800

Being a writer is sort of like acting. You literally have to become someone else to understand how they would feel, act, react and what they would say in a situation. Sometimes you even have to pretend to be them in order to achieve that. Every character is a piece of you come to life. So, when a character is sad, and you have to decide how they would go about crying, you must put yourself in that state of mind. You have to make yourself cry; or make yourself almost cry, but choke back tears for fear of showing weakness; or you have sob mournfully and dramatically because that is what that character would do. And then once you’ve done that, you must write about it.

You must create a vision of what that sight looks like with nothing but words. You have to mold something completely out of nothing, make others see what lies in that universe of yours. But it’s not ever enough to just out rightly say it. No. Because that’s not what a universe holds…A universe holds everything and there’s a million ways to describe one thing in any universe; a million colours to see, a million textures to feel, a million fragrances to smell. You have to pull and tug at the heart and the brain to feel things they might not have felt before with only words and with only the picture you have painted inside of your readers’ minds. And you have to simultaneously do all of that while being yourself and not being yourself all the while.

And yet, there are so many people out there who think they can just sit down and start telling stories. Well, then those people are storytellers. Not writers. We live the story. We breathe the story. We are the Gods and Goddesses of every far off land we write about. We are every villain, every hero, every damsel in distress. We don’t just simply replay it second-hand. We are the story. It lives inside of us and us in it. And it is our jobs to do it justice, not only by telling stories but by writing the stories right.

Lovesick Conflict

miniatusplusnaki — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 01:01:19 -0800

She is sick. Yes, she has a slight cold coming on, but not just sick in that way. She wants something so bad that it hurts — that her chest aches every time she breathes. Every time she thinks about the chaos between her mind and her heart, she wants to cry. She yearns for it. She begs for it. And with all her heart and all her soul and all of her everything, she wishes that she could see him and believe him and have what once was not tangible lie there in her arms and that in that moment the war in herself would cease.

She is torn. Because when she hears his voice, nothing in the world is wrong. And there’s not a voice in her brain that can be heard telling her otherwise — Every doubt is silent; every moment is bliss. But when he cannot be heard, all of those doubts come out to play; they sit there taunting her, pushing her, shoving her, stripping her of anything that is there when he is. Every voice screams at her, tearing her heart to shreds, leaving her unsure and naked and raw and she is for the taking. She is malleable. One could take her, mold her, make her believe that there is only darkness in the world. She even makes herself believe so…

She lies there betraying herself, forsaking her heart. And she sometimes forgets how she yearns for him! Aches for him! And when she does remember, what a fool she thinks of herself! What folly has she made herself believe! That he could actually be real. That instead of darkness there is light… How can I be so lovesick to believe this ridiculous fallacy? She asks herself. But then he calls. And all of that despair and darkness and daftness melts away. Because he is her light. Because he reassures her every step of the way and he fights away any doubts as if they were just figments of her imagination; as if she were a child in a nightmare, needing only a night light to keep the monsters away. And she realizes, that maybe she is better off lovesick because there is no better feeling in the world than to have someone who just might ache for you the way you ache for them. She just hopes he does not break her heart — that he is not a monster himself.

Conversations with an Imaginary Man: Genius and an Introduction

miniatusplusnaki — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 19:10:15 -0800

I realized today that sometimes the most amazing thoughts come to me at the most inopportune times. Today, while I was in the shower, I was thinking about poetry and such and came up with the start of something but by the time I was out I didn’t remember what it was I had thought. I asked him if he remembered, after all, he is a figment of my imagination…He must over-hear sometimes.

”More than sometimes, dear. Like today when you and Jason were talking about—”

Okay, that’s quite enough now. Anyways, it wasn’t as helpful as I thought because, as it is, him being part of my brain doesn’t help me if I don’t even remember what I was talking about.

”I think that’s funny because you would think that you would have understood that by now. I’ve been here, what? 5? 6 years?”

Well, it makes sense that one part of my brain might remember what another part did. Kind of like how like, I’ll remember what I thought if I was in the same state I was in when I thought of it. So, screw you.

”Oh, I will…when you get bored of fantasizing of Jason.”

Which will never happen, so I don’t see your point.

“I’m just being an ass.”

Oh, I know. Because you’re kind of like the male version of me except for you’re slightly less fail and you’re close to perfect. Which is kind of why you don’t exist.

”When did this become about my existence?”

Never mind. Back to my story: I’ve still not remembered. And I have to wonder, why that happens. Not that I don’t love thinking and realizing that I do have moments of pure genius. But I would much rather it not happen when I’m trying to sleep or when I’m taking a shower or busy in any other way because then I can’t write it down. It’s almost like it’s become a habit for my brain to think especially well when it really shouldn’t be thinking all that deeply anyways. I shouldn’t think of love at night, or poetry in the shower, or the importance of understanding one’s beauty when they have freedom and how that understanding unlocks a freedom within itself while trying to make a sandwich.

“I should make a sexist joke here…”

Or you should shut up and let me finish my thoughts. Then you may interject with something slightly less stupid. I hope. Not that I mind jokes I just —

”If I’m you, then why are you explaining yourself?”

Touché. Back to my thoughts…

“Our thoughts.”

Whatever…I roll my eyes at him more than I probably should. But I don’t really care. He can be amazingly perfect sometimes but sometimes he can just be really stupid and annoying and careless and ridiculous…and just like me.

“Who’s fault is that?” He may have a perfect smile but he’s about to make me want to hit myself. Or just stop thinking about him because I realize that it is my fault and as such I can make it stop whenever I wish.

But I can’t very well say that I wish you weren’t here or that I wish you never were here. That’s almost equivalent to telling a child you wish you had aborted it. I don’t wish I had aborted you from my young mind. I just wish you were less like me but then again, where would we be without that?

“I haven’t the slightest idea. But that’s okay. Neither do you. You couldn’t even finish your other thoughts…” I sigh, heavily. You would think I wouldn’t purposefully annoy myself with an imaginary person, but I do. I think it’s some psychological need to take out my frustration on someone and unfortunately that means trouble for even those who only exist in my own fantasy world.

You’re really starting to get on my nerves so you may write for yourself for while. But I’ll be nice and not interrupt, unlike some people.

“Cool. Thanks. Well, hi, I’m Bob.”

Your name is not Bob.

”Well, that’s also not my problem because you have yet to give me a name!”

Fine! You want a name? Your name is Derrek…Actually, no. Your name is…I don’t know!

“I forget you have a problem with decision making.”

No, you didn’t. But anyways…I think your name is…(and at this point, I look around my room looking for inspiration before I pull out my notebook of names.) Your name is Mikael.

“Took you long enough.”

Well, it’s not like you helped any. But, yes. Your name is Mikael.

“Fair enough. Well, my name is Mikael. Naki and I talk a lot to each other quite a bit because Naki has a tendency to talk to herself. And I’m a version of her who resides inside one of the many imaginary worlds that exist in her mind.”

Very good. Okay. Well, we’ll write again soon because I„ unlike him, have other things to do.

“You’re so nice to yourself…”

I know. I’m a genius.

Exercise #3: The Coffee Shoppe

miniatusplusnaki — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 11:32:46 -0800

Write a short story or anecdote using the Second Person Narrative:

You smile at me. Are you sure it’s me you want to smile at? I point to myself and shrug my shoulders ever so slightly. You chuckle —though I cannot hear from where I sit — and you nod, grabbing your coffee from the woman behind the counter and looking back at me. The smell of coffee is everywhere, invading my nostrils and perking my spirits up so that I may be fully sure that this isn’t a dream or a strange experience I’m imagining from sleep deprivation. We are both regulars at this place. I find you usually reading or typing on your laptop. And I watch, admiring your fine features though usually I try to hide the fact that I’m ogling you. I realize now how creepy that sounds. But either way, I guess I didn’t do a very good job because you’re calling me over, making my cheeks flush despite the perfectly cozy atmosphere of the Coffee Shoppe. I walk over, gently snaking my way through other people standing in the way. “Hi…” I say.

“Hello there.” You extend your hand to me and we shake. “I’ve noticed you… My name is Jared.” I’m taken aback. “Nice to meet you.” You smile at me the way I’ve noticed you smile when you read something funny, or when you greet a friend, or when the lady behind counter hands you your change, your coffee and bids you a good day. I’m so pleased to be on the receiving of that smile for once. I tell you my name and you ask if I would like to join you today for coffee. I feel like a school-girl. I instantly respond to you with a yes and with a smile. This is ridiculous! I think. You’re playing a joke on me. But no. You’re graciously pull my chair out for me and as we sit, I tell you that I’m surprised you called me over and that I hadn’t realized that I had been so obvious about looking at you. But you explain that you had been eying me for quite some time and that last week, you realized that I had been looking at you too. That, being the shy person you tend to be, you had to muster up the courage to call me over. And that you’re glad you finally did. You chuckle at the notion that I wanted to be discreet. You tell me that in life, the greatest things one experiences are the ones taken a chance on and step out of one’s comfort zone for. I smile at you and you smile back and then we spend the rest of the day falling in love with each other at the Coffee Shoppe.