The Final World

(An utterly, utterly random piece but that's about all I can manage at the moment.)

 So it begins, the end of things I know, of these worlds so beautiful and full of secrets, a world I fought to protect. We were all warriors, writers of portals to other lands who would do anything to save our craft and perhaps that’s what brought the end upon us. Things certainly can’t stay the same forever but we thought they could and we fought hard.

 This beach was sunny once, yet the wind blows the trees angrily and the red waves ceaselessly crash upon the crystal sands. This shore never knew the meaning of cold but I shiver now, walking among memories of ink and binding, the laughter that we built. The others have destroyed each other over meaningless differences and their worlds reflect their fate.

 Had a certain executioner not fallen for soft blue eyes, my own world would also be a stormy ruin. Alas, the executioner himself was executed for his mercy and I’ll never forget that hint of a smile on his lips. Though my world is still intact, that means nothing when I’m utterly alone, walking away from the destruction of my people. Arrogance was our downfall; we wrote too much, thought we could create more than was necessary and jealously carefully accompanied each step we took.

 My world, a small island where peace should reign, is more of a prison now but it is a prison I accept. Despite the darkness in my heart, a pale light dwells there as well and I know that while most worlds were destroyed, mine is not the only one left. All books leading to my world are gone now and I shall ever be alone but I will watch over the other world. Perhaps the new race will be less foolish than ours; that’s all I can hope for.

 So, aging slowly but surely, I will sit every day by the pool that shows things unseen and watch the last world grow up. I can change nothing they do, can’t give them wisdom as they choose war or peace but I can protect them from the destruction my people brought to all the other worlds. When at last the light within consumes me and my eyes close for the last time, my lips shall whisper that last world’s name; “Earth.”

Anamchara

(I'll probably be writing these short little things all summer. They're inspired by many different things)

  They were both born believing everyone was perfect, except for them. Even as young children, they both knew of their brokenness and were ashamed of it. The scars of the heart equaled the scars across their flesh. Disappointments, trials and darkness all differentiated them from the others.

  

 She thought she was slowly going mad; he thought he was simply born to mess things up. They were alone for many years, trudging laboriously through the whirlpool of life.

 Somehow, the two broken dreamers collided and recognized themselves in the other. Friendship, a bonding, occurred more quickly than normal. A desperate clinging, a forming without a strong base.

 Because of their natures, they broke apart and scattered. She fell into a dark valley, while he ran away to an empty forest. Alone again, as they thought they were truly meant to be.

 Yet somehow, the valley soon ran into the forest and they met once more. Desperately again, with only a little more caution than the last time, they soon fell apart yet again.

 The broken dreamers learned from the pain and from each other, coming together and breaking apart again and again. She saw that the rest of the world was broken too, and he realized that it was alright to be broken.

 Their healing was awful, painful beyond imagining, yet their bond still remained, no matter how fragile at times. Somehow, despite the brokenness, they had become tied together into something new and whole. 


  

To Flee or Not to Flee

(From the perspective of Heathcliff, from Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, right before he decides to run away, because he doesn’t think the girl he loves, Catherine, does not love him back)

To Flee, or Not to Flee

To flee, or not to flee, that is the question:

If it is braver of the heart to suffer

The scorn and hatred of unreciprocated love,

Or to take a stand and hope for change,

And by hoping, find love. To flee, to mourn

No more; and by fleeing, would Heartache

And all His friends simply

vanish with time? It’s something to be

hoped for. To flee, to mourn,

To mourn and perhaps to lose heart. That is the danger,

For if through mourning hope melts away,

Then hope and love are lost, and such a thing cannot be.

Yet who should bear the indignation and anger,

The purposely blinded eye, the proud woman’s contempt,

The shattered heart, the unfair endings,

And the cold glare of disproval from all others,

All of which could quickly fade away

By fleeing? Who would bear such toil,

Shed tears and cry out to the wind,

Except for fear of losing all hope entirely?

That path is not yet traveled, and it puzzles the mind,

And breeds fear in this cold soul,

Preventing my feet from treading that pathway.

So fear of losing hope makes me a coward,

Neither moving forward, nor staying here with her,

And so my soul rots away in mortal anguish,

Face pale and yet I have those remnants of hope,

That do bring even a little comfort;

Perhaps one day she may once more cast

Her loving eyes towards my selfish figure.

Quilt

This is a picture of my newest quilt! (Sorry it's so blurry and at this point in the picture it isn't done.)

Final Project Movie

So much work but I hope it'll be rewarding. I'm nearly done a larger movie, for my drama class. It's taken ages to form but it's finally coming to a finish! I've also done a "behind the scenes" movie to go with it. I'll post it once it's done!

Hidden Horror Drawing

A "just because" drawing. With my new logo! ♥

Funeral

The air is full of muffled sobs,
of stifled grief and rainy tears.
The air is tangible, a thing alive,
gripping hearts and lungs with fingers
cold and cruel and searching hungrily.
Seeping into bones is rain, amongst tears
and an eternal dew, casting prisms of light
among the ever present darkness.
False sadness and comforts drip like poison
from a greedy, beguiling snake,
and faces are painted and impossibly perfect,
unnaturally beautiful on this grey, rainy day.
And within the beautiful darkness,
the warm, comforting darkness, rests
a bed as soft as a dream, dreamt by
every mortal man, woman and child.
Lovely rashes of colorful flowers bejewel
the otherwise dull, lifeless spaces.
A murmur of creatures and feastings
and all the while, from sadness is life,
and soon every walking collection of soil
shall melt and join together in the sea of others.
Over time, with warm lazy days and
tense, stormy days and all other days
comes the scent of sweet lovely death,
and the futile efforts of mere mortals.

Danse Macabre

The sun fades away the horizon
and all is still, the in-between time.
All is quiet, as though lying in waiting…
and then there is a stiff, sudden movement.
Slender, twig-like fingers grasp the earth
and strain as the rest follows upwards, through soil.
Dark empty sockets gaze around, soaking in moonlight.
And then, under the shining full moon, a dance begins.
A single violin plays, lively notes awakening the others
and soon the entire field is full of figures,
all dancing in their own ways, and a clacking
sound is heard whenever they touch each other.
The violinist continues, grinning all the while
as everyone dances, leaping and twirling in the air.
No one disturbs the dancers, for if they did,
they would be enticed into dancing as well, forever.
There would be no return, as other dancers would tell.
And so, on and on goes the dance, and all the while
The pale, ghostly moon resides over them all.
The song has woven among every figure now,
with strands of Sorrow, and Joy, and even Love.
New friends are made, yet words are a thing forgotten.
But then, suddenly, there comes a cry of warning.
The Song slows, and figures slowly stop and
begin to shuffle back towards their lowly homes.
For there is the bright Sun, peeking its head
up and over the mountains, finger-like rays of light
reaching and greedily turning all back into soil.
For now it is daytime, and during the day
the Danse Macabre cannot be, not until night,
At full moon, on the night when skeletons
walk and dance as they did in life.

Moonnight

Still as an unused tomb,

not even a whisper or a sigh.

Like the moment before a storm,

when animals are silent and hidden,

and the clouds prowl like hungry wolves.

There is a scent of cool remembrance,

an icy sliver woven between warmer air.

A single breath, and small clouds are born,

drifting up and away forever,

lifespan eternal yet so short.

Twin pools shine for a moment and

then are hidden once more from sight.

Silver threads snake across the land,

exposing hidden things and casting shadows.

A lonely note rises into the freezing expanse,

hovering about and chilling to the bone.

Surprise!

That time when something happens,
something new and exciting.
You never saw it coming,
hit you like an arrow.
And suddenly you're floating,
way high up in the sky.
Because something happened,
and the world yelled out
"Surprise!"

Cake for Breakfast

Cake...a delicious dessert after a meal, usually supper. It's not nutritional. It won't keep me healthy. And I'll be hungry within the hour.
But today I had cake for breakfast.
And I am proud of it.
It was of the chocolate variety, to be exact. It was sugary, and it was sooooo good. (the extra o's make it serious). There was no call for cake in the morning, and usually I wouldn't have gotten away with it, but today was in favour of cake for breakfast. And you know what? I had my reasons:
-Today's a Saturday
-Cake and tea mix well together
-I'm sick to death of toast
-I was too lazy to cook anything
-Cake is sugary, and sugar helps me get out of my early morning zombie state
-It's sunny outside (I had to celebrate this fact)
-I was in my pajamas, and cake tastes even better when you're wearing pajamas (it's true!!)
-It was that awkward time between morning and noon, so what meal could I eat anyway??
-My teddy bear got to the cake first, and...well...the cake looked lonely...
-No one else was eating cake....I couldn't let it go bad
-I'm a teenager and can do things like this
-No really, my teddy bear put me up to it...I promise....

Katkin's Adventure is Coming!!

I promise I'll post the first adventure! I know it's been over a month and I feel so bad, but I've just been so busy! Below is the link to the Intro, in case it's been too long for you to remember what I'm talking about...
http://somniascriptor.blogspot.ca/2012/02/adventures-of-katkin-sharpeyes-and-so.html

A Dead Thing Lost

(Another English assignment, a lyrical poem. Note: I'm in a perfectly happy mood, don't worry...)

I am a dead thing lost,
a broken, wingless dream.
I am a fleeting memory,
a single, frail moonbeam.

I am a rotting corpse,
the cold earth is my bed.
My nails are black as sin,
my eyes are filled with lead.

I am a bitter sigh,
a waterfall of tears.
My mind, a frightful graveyard,
a sweet collection of fears.

I am a ruined painting,
my paint all washed away.
Fading away tomorrows,
no such thing as Today.

I am a forgotten promise,
a twice forgotten fire.
A travel weary traveler,
lost in a murky mire.

I am a dead thing lost,
a frozen, silent cry.
So tired of all these hours,
please just let me lie.

Cat Haiku

There was a smart cat
who liked to solve mysteries
and catch the bad guy.

A Quick Haiku

I had a blue book,
and I read it in math class,
and now it is done.

Remember to Forget

Moon is shining, window to the soul,
stare through the paper doll,
wallpaper hearts raining
water rivulets, leading lines.
Into the ocean, dreams and wishes,
washed upon a rocky shore.
Starry expanse, scars and clouds,
laughing scissors, cut into flesh,
forget the heart and hopes behind.
Learn to forget, remember that.

Dreamer

A silent, dreamy place,
all blues and greens and greys.
Peace of mind, a quiet heart,
gentle, sleepy streams.
Thoughtlessness, weightlessness,
a mess of wonderful memories.
No where else to be,
save, this gentle place.
Timeless eternity looming before,
and the past slowly fades away.

Lost Words

I felt all the poets of the city straining,
teeth clenched at the sight of dead words.
Forgotten or loved, either way, now gone,
a collection of thoughts now burned.
The cries of the past, the dreams of the silent,
the handwritten fragments of man;
Now gone, in one swift blow,
a piece of the soul, extinguished and lost,
the deed of illiterate leaders;
the new age has come, mechanical dreams
the hopeful future of earth.

A Poem is Poem

(This was an assignment for my English homework)
A poem is a reborn phoenix.
A poem is a soul with new wings.
A poem is a dancing fire.
A poem is a distant memory.
A poem is a voice of the past.
A poem is a gift from the dead.
A poem is the anger of failure.
A poem is a mocking voice.
A poem is ink on a page.
A poem is a speaking ghost.

Nancy Drew Books

When I was younger, I loved it when my dad would sit on the couch with me and read Nancy Drew Mystery novels to me. I loved the simply written novels, no matter how obvious the villian sometimes was. The older I got, I started looking for the Nancy Drew books. Of the original series, there are fifty-six books. When I first started reading them, I had three of them. Thankfully, my grandma worked at a thrift store and could look out for them for me. Then, as I got even older, I went hunting for them myself. It was always so much fun, finding a book that I didn't have.
Finally, I had collected every single book except for one. I think I looked for at least two years before finally finding it, "The Double Jinx Mystery". I was so excited about finding it and continued to be happy....until I realized that now I had no series to chase after. My life had no meaning, as it were.
I slowly recovered, buying other book series to cope with the loss, but those were new books, where I had to wait for the next book to be written. And I could find them anywhere, at any old book store. How boring is that?
Now, about five years after buying that last Nancy Drew book, a friend of mine told me that she and her mother were collecting them. I immideatly said that I would love to look for them on my usual book buying rounds. She agreed and said she'd pay me back for the books I bought. So now the hunt is on once more!
Also, I've discovered that the Hardy Boys are so similiar to the Nancy Drew books as well, so now I'm collecting those for myself. Oh, how I love my books! ♥