Author: indigoshell

The Simple Habits

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Throughout life you pick up simple habits. Sometimes they last forever, sometimes they last only for a duration of time when the situation has passed.

The way she pushes her bangs away from her face, though they’ve grown all the way out and tied up into a neat, workplace bun.

The way he hits the switch on the wall, though his younger sister is no longer afraid of the dark.

Habits can form for no reason whatsoever, yet they can be all the reason you change.

The way he sneaks out of the house at night, though he no longer lives with his parents.

The way she shuts her door all the way, though she knows nobody is home.

They aren’t really habits though, in a sense, it’s a part of their life now.

The way she clutches at her bag in the Paris subway, though there’s nobody around to rob her.

The way he checks for his lighter, wallet, then keys, in that order, though he has quit smoking three months ago.

When you loose a habit, that chapter of your life has ended.

The way he no longer reaches for his crutch when standing up.

The way she no longer holds her hairband in her teeth when tying a high pony.

Then a new habit begins, without you even realizing it.

The way she keeps her hand over her pocket to feel for her phone vibrating.

The way he keeps his head low, watching the ground with great care.

Handing Your Heart Away

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Everyone has a heart. The heart is a clump of muscle imbedded inside your chest, hidden behind your lungs and ribcage. Upon first glance, upon first experience, you plunge your hand into your chest and enclose your fist around your heart.

You’ll keep your hand enclosed around that heart. Maybe you will release your heart, sew up your chest, then wash the blood off your hands.

Or maybe something will happen, and you begin to pull your heart out of your chest. Strangely enough, it doesn’t hurt. Just don’t pull too hard or too fast, you could bleed yourself to death. No, pull slow, allow time to clot, then keep pulling.

Who knows how long it takes until you can hold your heart at arm’s length? Maybe it takes two years. Two years sounds like a good amount of time.

Your heart is enclosed in your hand, pumping, pumping, slightly connected to your chest and the rest of your body. You look up. There it is. There is the thing, the person, the place, the reason you pulled your heart out in the first place. Blood soaks your footsteps so you’ll always know the way you came.

You have two options.

The first option is to cut your heart away from you body. Hand it to that person, place it on the ground, do anything that shows that your heart is no longer your own.

They could crush it. Stomp on it, squeeze it slice and dice it up. They could do anything at all and you could do nothing about it. It is no longer your heart.

You have another option.

Turn away. Put your heart back into your chest. Stack your ribs on top and peel your lungs back into place. Sew yourself up. The heart is yours. It will stay yours. Do not ever let it go again.

The Watchful Poster

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Three o’clock, sharp. That’s when the metro train always comes along. And yes, there it is, you can just see the bright headlights of the train. I glance at the ground, taking heed of the chipped yellow “CAUTION” paint. I put my feet squarely on the line and lean forwards slightly.

The oily, grungy, and smokey smell of the tunnels rush up onto my face as the train speeds by, missing my face by inches. I always feel a slight sense of ecstasy whenever I did this. “It’s the adrenaline rush,” I’ve been told, “you’ve probably turned yourself into and adrenaline junkie.”

Adrenaline junkie or not, this is what I did every day, and this is honestly what the highlight of my day is. Sad, isn’t it? That my life is so lifelessly boring that the only joy I feel is having a metro train decapitate me.

After sitting in the train for around four minutes, eight minutes tops, I would squeeze the horde of people and make my way up to my workplace. Well, not before pausing to look at a poster.

That poster had been there since I was just a little girl. After my parents died in that train accident, it seemed like that poster was the only family I had left.
She was a beautiful woman, with long raven hair and a shapely face with soft features. She was posing similar to the world-famous Mona Lisa, the only difference was that she lacked a smile. Her dress, though I could only see the top part, was a stunning emerald-green, still shining through decades of dust on the glass covering of the poster.

Her eyes were coloured out. I know now how or why, but I remember one day looking up into her eyes, the original colour I remember not, and seeing that her eyes had been scribbled out. It looked as if an infant had taken a chalky black crayon and coloured her eyes. The only issue with that theory was that the glass case was framed to the wall with solid steel bars.

Her eyes were so startling black against her milky white skin.

I loved that poster. Like I said, she was almost like family, as I had never missed a day where I would not look up to her beautiful face and give her a swift not, a curt wave, or even a rare smile. Every day was the same; boring, rut-like, and lacking of everything any human could ever want.

Her eyes would always follow me. Every once in a while I would lean in closer to the passing train, allowing it to clip my bangs or chip my nails. Every time I do that I can feel her unseen eyes burning onto my body, either as a warning or an encouragement, I do not know.

So I leaned closer every time. I began to get bruises on my forehead, my hands, even my shoulder once. I was called in for suicide attempts but was released, for there was nobody for them to call to confirm my personality or histories.

Her eyes had never felt so hot in my entire life.

One day I may have leaned in too far. Too soon. I may have fallen in. I saw the familiar headlights, the rushing of the oil-stench wind, but this time I felt the ecstasy before even the train reached me. My, how wonderful that felt.

Really, it only hurt a little.

War

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The air was cold. The wind, a warning. As we unloaded the bus nervous jawing could be heard among the new recruits. “We are so gonna die.” Veterans could only hide their agreement with a snark grin. “You’ll be fine, it’ll only hurt for a little bit.”

The soldiers unconsciously split into herds, discussing amongst themselves their past experiences or worries. Our troop leader, donned in a large gray hoodie, talks to the general, who is gathering our gear.

Guns, masks, and bullet holders are lined up against a stall. “E’ery one grab a gun, grab a helmet, and grab a holder.” A young child, no doubt the offspring of the general, hurries about getting the gear for our new recruits.

“Make sure the safety is on, right here! Make sure you keep your barrel plug on! And when you’re on the field, do NOT take off your mask!”

Introductions pass by quickly as nervous energy rises. Recruits want to take their first breaths of the battlefield, veterans want to sink into familiarity.

“Split yourself up into two teams! Here.” I am handed a pink ribbon. Guess I’m joining their team. “Here, let me help you with that,” he continues, reaching back for the ribbon. “I can do it myself,” I almost scoff, turning away and carefully looping the bright ribbon onto my left arm.

To my dismay our leader was on the blank side, as well as many of the rookies. Bins of bright orange bullets are dropped onto our table and everyone rushes to fit as many as they can into their bullet holders, tied around the waist, and into their guns.

Weapons loaded, masks on, we are led to our first battlefield by another general. “Your objective here is to take the flag, set in the middle here, and bring it to the base of the opposite team.” Everyone nods in agreement. “Blanks, you’ll stay here. Ribbons, take a walk.”

Self-designated captain of our small group of seven quickly knits together a loose plan. “You two take the right side, you two on the left, two of you stay here and guard the base, and I’ll charge for the flag.”

The whistle blows, and I dive for the nearest hay bale. Shots are fired, and I already feel glass-like shells of bullets spraying my neck. Hay flies everywhere, and I’m already breathing heavy.

Without firing a shot, I weave between hay bales, watching the enemy and my comrades alike. Once I looked up – our leader was facing away from me! I shoot once, twice, thrice, curse these horrible guns and their horrible aiming, then I hit him on the head. He spins around, trying to catch a glimpse of his attacker. I turn, concealing myself behind the hay again. He raises his gun and walks out.

Up ahead I can see a good friend of mine, someone who roughhouses with me but is actually soft as a puppy, charging two young rookies desperately hiding behind their hay base. He stands square, pointing his gun. Although I can’t see his mouth, I can imagine him yelling “surrender! Surrender!”

I look away and leap for the next bale of hay – and almost collide with person. I see a flash of pink and assume he’s a ribbon, but upon closer inspection I realized he was actually a blank. He raised his gun at me and I feel a flash of fear rise within, causing me to draw my own gun up. We stare each other down for a moment before simultaneously lowering our guns. “Shoot each other already!” The general’s voice comes at us from somewhere above. We don’t, and simply ignore each other for whatever reason.

Bodies of three, four pile along the edges of the field. Though before I know it, the match is over. “Yeah!” Captain shouts, “we kicked a**!”

I finally got shot in the second round while stalking behind large electrical wiring wheels. The bullet hit me directly on the inner side of my right knee, a sensitive spot for a person with knee problems like me. I raise my gun and breath deeply to ease the pain as I quickly limp out. Gotta watch your left side, I remind myself, watch your left side.

Somewhere in round three I got shot three times in a row. I had ducked, but was not close enough to the poorly constructed building to hide my body. I was hit on my left elbow first, followed by the left side of my chest, followed by my left hip.

The pain didn’t come until I walked out of the battlefield. Breathing shallow, I put my hands on my knees to wait the pain out. “Don’t worry,” our captain says, patting my back with paint-stained hands, “it’s ok.”

The worst battle by far was the last. Ammo had run low, and our three rookiest rookies had decided to flee. The teams were now six to five, with odds in neither of our favors.

Our shields were large, colourful, and dripping with paint. They were inflatable and grew out of the ground, rounded at the edges, making it poor cover.

At the whistle I ducked and weaved, rounded orange bullets whizzing around me at alarming speeds. There’s our leader again, in his conspicuous gray hoodie! I kneel down and take a dozen shots, all of which go in a comical arc around his body. These freaking guns, I swear.

Pink team won again. Celebratory shots were fired, leftover ammo used up, and tired and injured troops saunter out of the battlefield. They talk amongst themselves as if the war never happened. How can they?
On my thigh is a perfect imprint of the accursed paintball, a full moon of purple bruising growing thick around it.

This is the pain of paintball.

Mirror Reflection

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It’s dark.

No. It’s a soft dark. It’s dark where everything looks painted in black, but not dark where forms would be invisible.

My watch says 3:00. Why must I wake up at 3 in the morning? My roomate is sleeping soundly, turned away from me.

Sleep. The thought forms in my mind. Sleep. Sleep. My body instinctively curls into the fetal position as I begin to drift.

It’s dark.

No, it’s brighter now, and my watch says 4:00. Something really doesn’t want me to sleep, I think, uncurling from my sleep position. The moonlight still shone slightly, but the moon was sinking to make way for the sun.

The blankets fall off me as I slide off the bed, treading on cold, bare feet towards the shared bathroom outside our room.

The lights are quiet. The room is yellowed, giving the white stalls an old and stained look.

I resist the urge to look up as I wash my hands. Don’t look at the mirror. Don’t look at the mirror.

The urge to glance up is far too great. My reflection’s staring right at me. I don’t blink and I back away carefully, reaching behind me to open the door. My reflection blinks. I rush out.

Back in the darkness of my room. Now it’s really dark. I stand by the door to wait for my eyes to adjust and for my heart to slow.

Click.

The flower-petal light in my closet turns on and I collapse to the floor, avoiding my own reflective gaze in the mirror. Don’t look at the mirror. Don’t look at the mirror.

I can’t help it, I really can’t. I want to know why she watches me. I need to know what’s behind.

There she is, standing there perfectly like a picture frame. She’s me, but I’m not her.

Behind me is another closet, with another light, and another mirror. Click. The light turns on.

My reflection looks scared, she knows there’s something behind her. I try to look but she moves with me, blocking my view. Always blocking my view.

Move, I think, move.

No, I hear, no.

I begin to back away, and she does too. Slowly, one step at a time, back to the darkness of my room.

My breath halted in agitation as I whip around to look at the other mirror. My reflection isn’t there, only the reflection of the mirror in my closet. The reflection goes on and on, like an infinitely long hallway that will never end. A hallway that reflects eternity.

I look back into my closet. She’s standing in the hallway, her quiet features stretches in terror of what hides behind her.

One more step back. One more step back. I step into the other closet, and my reflection starts screaming. Not screaming out loud. But she’s screaming very loud. She’s very small now. The figure hiding behind her is getting larger, overpowering her. It’s swooping in front of her, cutting her off from me.

I keep stepping back. I touch the other mirror. My reflection is gone, swallowed by the black figure crowding the mirror in my closet. I look behind me into the mirror in the other closet.

There’s nothing there?

I look towards the mirror in my closet.

Is it getting farther away? Get out, get out. Her screams are bloodcurdling, I feel her fear rising with every breath I take. GET OUT.

I run, run towards the scratched mirror in my closet. GET OUT.

I’m still running. I can see her, I can see my reflection. She’s getting closer, she’s running with me. Don’t look back, don’t look back. Her movements are swift, like she had been running all her life.

Behind me is the mirror abyss, the hallway that leads to nothing. The dark figure rises up behind me.

I hit something hard. It’s a wall, but I can’t see it. I can feel it. It’s a wall.

I can see my reflection. She’s screaming, pounding at the wall, pounding at it but it won’t break. Her body is bloody, scratched by a million shards of glass. Her figure is torn, is that bone and marrow I spot?

The darkness is rising behind her.

It’s not darkness. It’s a creature. A beast. A beast with no form, a beast that was once human. Trapped in an eternity of mirror reflections, the human turned to beast and beast turned to darkness.

The glass breaks, I fall to the ground. The room is dark, I can’t see my reflection. The lights are off. The moonlight is bright.

Bright enough for me to see my reflection. The lights are on, giving the white stalls an old and yellowed look.

I see her, I see my reflection washing her hands. She doesn’t look up. Look up, look up.

She looks up. Why do you look scared of me? Where are you going? She’s backing up into the bathroom door. She doesn’t dare tear her eyes away from mine.

The room’s dark again. I don’t want the darkness. The darkness is where the beast lies. I turn on the flower-petal light in my closet.

There she is. She’s scared. Don’t be scared. You’re not the one with the best lurking behind.

Death by Bucking Horse

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There was this one horse. His name was Houdini, and he was solid, pure black. I had always wanted to ride Houdini but I was always told that my skill levels weren’t high enough, or that he was too “green.” When I got to riding Layla and a pony called Dixie my mind wandered away from Houdini.

When sophomore year came around, I had first seen Houdini during my freshman year, I saw much less of Houdini, but occasionally I would still see him around. I wasn’t sure where he went at all, but I slightly remember someone telling me that he was either out in pasture or being trained by someone else.

This year, my junior year, he’s back, and I continued to ask to ride him. For two months I got continuous no’s but with promises of “wait until we ride him for a week,” or, “once you’re able to keep your back straight.” I kinda gave up hope by the second month, really.

Winter sports started, and the current horse I was riding was needed by another rider. I remember walking into the barn and then being jumped upon by an instructor. “I have exciting news for you!” she said. For some reason I had literally no idea what she would have said. “We’re gonna put you on Houdini!”

Internally I was jumping up and down like a little girl who had finally gotten a pony for her birthday, but on the outside I just took a couple breaths and said “wwwwwoooooooowwww oh thank gods yes finally…”

Houdini was still extremely green and didn’t seem to understand how large he was. He would swing his head around and try to cuddle (I think) me but would end up knocking me into a wall or the gate. I learned how to move quickly and duck away within the first few days.

We believe that Houdini is part Friesian – Royal Friesian Horse, that is. They look like cousins of Gypsy Horses, and they’re a stunning breed. The way they walk, trot, and gallop is extremely upright and almost stiff, like every step they take is deliberate. In my mind I called them the “soldier horse” because they were so methodical with their steps.

Houdini could hardly walk in a straight line. Seriously, I’d try to keep him on the rail and he’d end up either running into it or turning away from it. He actually ran me into a jump pole once, but he’s learning, I think.

A skill that all riders must know is how to lunge a horse. The gist of it is basically to chase a horse around a little round pen while giving them instructions such as “trot” or “canter.” Houdini would trot and canter for a few circles, buck in my direction a few times, then stop completely and simply stare at me.

What I didn’t understand was what he didn’t understand. He followed my instructions perfectly, to walk, to trot, to canter, yet he would always stop a few minutes in and stand square in front of me, unmoving. Even when I tapped him with our bright, neon-orange whip he would stare at me like “what are you doing I did not sign up for this.”

Oh, and he bucks. Like, a lot. If I keep the reins a little too long at the trot he lowers his head and starts bucking. Or that’s the official term, what Houdini does is more like pronking. Usually done by antelopes, pronking is when they leap up into the air with an arched back and stiff legs.

Yeah, that’s what Houdini does. In an hour he pronks about 4 times and I have yet to fall off. There was one pronk, this one was more like a rodeo buck, where I crash-landed on the saddle and hit my knee on something hard. That was two days ago and I still have a massive yellow bruise.


(Mien gott look at that mane)

I call Houdini my Butternut Squash.

Squash because he likes to squash me against the walls of the stall.

Butter because his coat gleams like melted butter.

And nut because he’s the nuttiest horse I may ever ride.

My Princess

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The first horse I rode in OVS was Urbino. He was an old horse, mainly brown, and very tall. I constantly struggled to put his bit on, as he would always lift his head up above the reach of my arms. I’m 5’2 now. I was probably 5’1 or 5’0 two years ago, so I asked to switch horses that would either work with me better or was a tad shorter.

I switched horses maybe one or two more times before settling for Layla. I believe she was at least part Gypsy, tall, sturdy, and one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen. Her coat and mane was black and white while her tail was pure black. She was a massive horse, and had not been ridden a lot, so she was quite stubborn and didn’t quite like having the bit put in.

To my great dismay she would also lift her head up above arms reach, and for a while I got my taller friends to help me bit her. Being that short and weak was unbelievably frustrating.

Layla was a complete Princess, for she knew how tall and beautiful she was. The way she walked, the way she swayed when she lifted her feet up, made it seem like she was dancing down a catwalk.

Slowly she began to respect me, and after a while she seemed to understand that I was short and that I needed a little help when brushing her mane and putting her bit on. On the days where she felt good she would lower her head for me and on the days she seemed more stubborn she’d ignore me and let me struggle on my tiptoes.

She was pretty darn lazy, plodding along with her feet picked up high. A whip helped, but I had to teach her that she had to walk at a relatively quick pace and not hang her head. She learned quickly and was probably my smoothest ride ever.

I rode Layla for about a year and then moved on to different horses, but I visit her every day to brush out her mane and maybe give her a mint or a handful of grains. When I leave the barn I always look back, and she’ll always watch me leave with an inquisitive look on her face.

I always wonder what horses do all day, but maybe horses wonder what humans do all day too.

For Sake of the Snake (part 2)

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After that snake incident, I soon began watching Austin Steven’s Adventures on Animal Planet. He specialized in reptiles, which was the main reason I watched his shows. My interest in snakes was growing, and I began to ask my parents for my own pet. I wasn’t allowed a snake at first, so I got a bearded dragon instead, whom I named Tanny. A few weeks later I went back and was allowed to get a black and white banded Californian Kingsnake, and I very creatively named her Shadow Mist. Shadow for short.

I was kinda nervous about Shadow at first. I didn’t want to get bit and I always used gloves when handling her. After a month or so I just thought “screw this” and I gave up on being cautious. She only struck at me a few times and I had never gotten bit by her. She was a beautiful little snake, and had a little white star on her forehead.

After school I would head straight for her enclosure and drape her around my neck before writing in my journal. She would just lay there motionless as I wrote, absorbing the little heat I could put out and watching the movements of my pencil.

Tanny died a few months later, but I still had Shadow.

About a year and a half later I had to leave for OVS, and leaving her behind was upsetting for me. Did my parents know how to take care of her? What if my cat got her? What if she got lost? She got lost often due to a faulty enclosure but I would always find her in odd spots. Once I didn’t even realize she was lost until I spotted her on my doorknob. Scared me to death, that little stunt did.

Anyways, during my first Christmas break I finally went back to China to visit. Our cat and dog were ecstatic to see me, but somehow, it was like Shadow knew I had come back to visit. Her body was pressed up against the glass of the enclosure, and she lifted her body up vertically and did the weird dance that many cobras do while flaring their hoods. I took her out immediately and she never struck.

About a year later I asked about her and my mom said that she had escaped and they couldn’t find her. “When?” I asked. “Oh, six months ago.”

I MEAN WHAT. If a little girl’s pet gets lost or died, maybe you could say something like “he ran away,” or “doggy went up to heaven,” but I was freaking 15! You can’t just… Not tell me when something that important to me disappears!

I haven’t gone back to China since Freshman Christmas. Now I’m a Junior, and this Christmas my brother and I are going back to China for a little bit. I like to think that Shadow’s still in the house somewhere, watching the family from the cracks in the ceiling and eating any stray mice that come along. Maybe sometime in college I’ll get another snake.

My dream job is what Austin Steven’s doing. If I get bit? I’ll suffer, but I’ll have to trust modern medicine, I guess.

Now thinking about it, I feel like my favorite animal is the snake after all.

For Sake of the Snake (part 1)

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It was 9:30 at night, maybe 10:00. I was reading intensely, as I usually do, but was quickly brought out of my concentration by the muffled noises coming from our first floor. I quietly snuck out of my room and sat on the top of the staircase, peering between the hollow metal bars of the railing and wondering why my mom and nanny were fretting in front of our window.

I continued to sneak down, careful to avoid creaky steps, and crawled atop the dog-haired couch to see what was behind the window. The window was the size of the wall, allowing us to see much of what goes on outside, but for the moment, all our interest was focused on a shadowy figure at the rightmost corner of the window.

It was around wintertime, sometime between November and February (wide range, I know), so the heaters of our house were on and the windows were like sheets of ice. There, huddled sadly in the corner, was a large, black snake.

I think that was the first real snake I ever saw in my life.

In my hours within Animal Planet I had watched many shows on snakes, as well as picture books and book mentions. I had always been fascinated by them, so that night, my 10-year-old self was in a shock from seeing that creature.

My nanny grew up on a farm, where snakes are her bane. My mom didn’t like that snake sitting there and “endangering” our family and dogs, so they were wondering the best way to shoo it away. My nanny took a boot and whacked the window with it, which caused the snake to hiss and strike on the window.

I woke up the next morning wondering if it was a dream. To this day I’m still wondering, but either way it doesn’t matter. And now, with my incredible knowledge of snakes, I conclude that the window snake was a black rat snake.

Shark Bait, Hoo Ha Ha

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Sharks are terrible creatures. They’re merciless hunters that can rip apart a human within seconds, and then will happily dine on their insides. When they sight a human and smell even a slight trace of their blood, nothing can stop them from killing.

At least, that’s how most people say sharks are.

Many times when people are attacked by sharks it’s because the person provokes the shark in some way, such as when divers grab at their fins or when fishermen untangle them from their fishing nets.

Honestly, sharks are like giant, rough-skinned, thousand-toothed dogs. That swim in the ocean. If you grab a dog’s tail, chances are they will bite at you. It’s no different with sharks, the only difference is that sharks and shark attacks are more exaggerated.

A diver dressed in a black wetsuit looks remarkably like a sleek seal, so the shark might take a hunk out of a diver, thinking he’s a seal. The result is a missing limb and a story of being attacked by “a vicious shark.”

Shark attack victims don’t usually die of shark attacks though, they die of blood loss. Sharks often do hit-and-run attacks, where they bite the victim, realize their mistakes, then quickly leave the human to bleed to death.

Vending machines have killed more people than sharks have. I’m sure many people have heard of this fact, but vending machines have killed more people than sharks each year.

Well I mean, it could be because humans are dumb and try to shake the machines that have eaten their change, which could often result in the machine falling on them.

Ok, moral of the story here is, shark good, people bad.

I mean.

Shark, not bad, people… Meeeh.