Category: fiction

Nightmare

indigoshellLeave a comment

It’s a horse. Can you guess what colors plague their minds the most? It’s black. The dark color that overpowers all, that can swallow up anything lighter that dares to power through.

This horse is all black, smoking, shimmering, not hidden like Conscience but not sharp like Shadow. Her socks are grey, her hooves pulse, she plods along, following me, aiding me. Her name is Nightmare but she is Hope. She is Beauty. She is Power.

She, in her huge Gypsy form, is difficult to see. Hope shows up the least and they can see no Beauty in this world. This world is destroyed. Corrupted. Shattered. Gods know what plans the world has for lowly humans.

Nightmare lives on. She, in her huge Gypsy form, fights Shadow and Conscience and will never let Hope and Beauty die. Her Power is immense, never weakening, but one day she will die.

She feeds on Hope and Beauty, and they are on their way to extinction. The good powers of this world, the bright sunlight, the clear winds, are being swallowed by the seething black haze that eats all.

Nightmare has left me and begins to die.

Handing Your Heart Away

indigoshellLeave a comment

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

indigoshellLeave a comment

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.

The little Dolphin that couldn’t

frog3Leave a comment

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The little dolphin that couldn’t. When he was born his mother was ripped apart by a Great White Shark. Mr. Dolphin now had brain damage. Furthermore, his fins where shredded to pieces he could barely swim, he was slow.

While swimming in the seas of Japan Mr.Dolphin encountered some cold hearted fishermen. Mr. Dolphin was not smart so he approached their vessel slowly and foolishly. The fishermen viciously harpooned Mr. Dolphin inflicting life threating wounds to him. Close to death Mr. Dolphin decided to let the currents carry him westward.

Mr. Dolphin found the coast of Hawaii, where he met an average looking dolphiness, looking for a mate. Mr.Dolphin approached her, Mr.dolphin was instantly rejected by the Dolphiness. The dolphiness would have a child with another dolphin. Mr. Dolphin would swim far out to sea where he would die alone and forgotten.

(this was  experiment made with my friend infamousdolphin to test the power of cooperative creativity.)

The little dolphin that could

infamousdolphinLeave a comment

When the little dolphin was born, his mother gently lifted him to the surface to take his first breath.  He had a gifted mind. Furthermore, he was a strong and capable swimmer. He was fast.

While swimming in the seas of Japan, Mr. Dolphin encountered some gracious fishermen. Mr. Dolphin approached them slowly and carefully. The fishermen fed him some of their leftover fish. Having regained all of his strength, Mr. Dolphin decided to swim eastward.

Mr. Dolphin found the coast of Hawaii, where he met a beautiful dolphiness, looking for a mate, Mr. Dolphin approached her. Mr. Dolphin and the dolphiness fell deeply in love and had a child.

Mr. Dolphin carried his newborn gently to the surface, where he would take its first breath.

This was an experiment made with my friend frog3 to test the power of cooperative creativity.

Mirror Reflection

indigoshellLeave a comment

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.

Never Fixed

indigoshellLeave a comment

In Journalism class, we watched Shattered Glass. Or most of it, anyways. I was having a terrible, awful, no good, very bad day, so it heightened the suckage of the movie for me.

Well, it wasn’t a bad movie really. It followed the, slightly antagonistic, days of Stephen Glass, and appeared to be a lovely movie at first. Stephen Glass seemed to be charming, witty, awkward, and an easy to talk to person. He was a journalist and was loved by his co-workers and boss, Michael Kelly. After a strange “punishment” of circling commas beheld the crew, Michael tried to defend them and ended up getting fired.

Their new boss, Chuck Lane wasn’t too hot for Stephen. Or at least lacked the bond that the last boss shared with the workers.

One of Stephen’s stories was about a teenage hacker, how Ian Restil hacked into the company Jukt Micronics’s computer system and how he became a hero among other hackers.

Guess what? The whole story was total bullcrap. Whoaaaa plot twist of the century.

Ugh.

Anyways a reporter at another company, Adam Penenberg at Forbes Digital Tool, got suspicious and researched the company. Him and his co-workers discovered an amateurish website for Jukt Micronics and nearly no evidence that any of the story actually happened whatsoever.

Aaand Stephen Glass is suspended. For two years.

That’s about where we left off in the movie. In reading of the movie’s Wikipedia page, I discovered that Stephen had admitted that 27 of his articles were fictional in at least one part.

I can understand the pressures of writing, I can. Our school’s journalism program is pretty intense, and, even as a rookie, I’ve found myself one or a few times thinking “maybe I’ll just pretend this happened…”

I didn’t though. I did my best to stick to the truth, however boring or difficult the truth may be. If Stephen had made up one of his stories, maybe two, I would’ve been a little more forgiving towards his character. But no, he had to make up 27 different stories and that is just ridiculous and weak.

No Name Woman.

enternity1030Leave a comment

This summer I read a story about the old traditional Chinese family back to the 1920s. It was called “No Name Woman,” extracted from the book “Woman Warrior“written by Maxine Hong Kingston. I was really shocked by the situation that Kingston portrays about her family.

The story is mainly about an American-Chinese family story in which Kingston’s aunt died in the family well after her child’s birth. Several years after her father and uncles sailed for America, “the Gold Mountain.” In 1924, her mother noticed that her husband’s sister was pregnant. Nobody said anything about the unacceptable activity, but the villagers had been counting and planning to raid their house. The villagers were violent and crazy. They were crying and tearing rice. “They also threw mud and rocks at the house,” the mother told the child. Even the animals were attacked and screamed their deaths. The villagers encircled them with horrific faces. They broke the doors and their knives dripped with the blood of the animals.

As a family, they stood together in the middle of their house. When the men came back, the family would build more wings to enclose the courtyard. However, the villagers pushed through both wings to get the aunt. They ripped up her clothes and shoes and broke her combs. After all they ruined the house and left with sugar and oranges to bless themselves. The aunt gave birth in the pigsty that night and the next morning she was found the baby “plugging up the family well.” The father denied his sister and the mother told the child not to humiliate the family by doing the same thing as his/her aunt.

As the story goes on, Kingston begins to have her own thoughts and finally thinks that her aunt’s story actually represents lots of old Chinese immigrants. She imagines all the past her aunt has been suffering until her death which she thinks might be what the old Chinese world is like back to the 1920s. She describes the world of her aunt which “at peace, they could act like gods, not ghosts.”(Kingston, “No Name Woman”) She regards the old Chinese world as her “no-name” aunt, who could not be defined and identified.

The end of the story is Kingston’s reflection about her aunt’s story. She said, “people who can comfort the dead can also chase after them to hurt them further – a reverse ancestor worship.”(Kingston, “No Name Woman”) I can feel Kingston’s confusion and struggle about what a real Chinese world was like in the old times and she spent her life trying to discover the truth of the society.

And after reading this story, I became more curious about the history of old Chinese immigrants. And I just want to know more about my family history, probably there is also a “no-name woman or man” in my family.
Who knows?

LAPD Drugs: Part 2

callmemaybe32Leave a comment

I’ve woken up up cold an alone.

My head is thumping and my heart is pounding.

I can tell that where I am is hot, but I feel so cold.

I taste blood. My eyes have blindfold over them, but I can tell I can’t open my eyes.

I try to reach out, but my hands are tied behind me. I try to walk, but my feet aren’t on the ground. I am alone in this room, hanging from the ceiling. My clothes have been taken off, I have blood dripping down my face and onto my chest. I hear it drop onto the cement floor.

Drip drop, drip drop, drip drop.

It’s hard to keep my eyes open.

I keep fading in and out of consciousness. Swaying back and forth from this chain. I can’t move. I can’t scream. I have a sock shoved in my mouth to keep my quiet. I knew I shouldn’t have followed that stupid piece of s**t dealer, but I’m too f*****g stupid to leave something alone.

Now I’m in this room. Humiliated, naked, beaten, bloody, bruised, and cold. I have no idea if I’ll ever leave this place.

Tears mix with my blood and they run into my mouth, just being sopped up by this sock.

I can’t keep my eyes open, fading, fading, fadi……

Down the Hole

frog3Leave a comment

fgr

The rabbit is stuck.

Stuck inside its hole.

Lifted up and turned around.

The occasion would make Peter proud.

Unlike him the rabbits death will not be sacred.

No crowds will shout for him.

No men will pray for him.

No countries will war for him.

His life ends inside a predators jaws.

A snap is all that he requires.

The deed is done.

There is no justice for the life of the rabbit.