"Remember when you had a blog?"

Jenny decided to peer-pressure me into actually keeping up with my blog again. Which reminded me, I wrote a story over the summer that I haven't posted. So, here it is.

Worlds Unspoken

Lean in a little closer, dear; I’ve a secret to share with you. There’s a little world I’ve hidden, tucked away somewhere safe from all the strife. You know the place; you’ve got one, too. But it’s different for us all.

At the edge of my world, there is a grove of trees, carefully placed, feigning the usual so as not to draw your eye. If you look through the trees you would see a maze of trails, suitable for strolling but leading nowhere, carefully constructed to lead passersby out and away. You’ve been through this grove and you know these trails, but ever the adventurous type, you ignored them and made your own path to the clearing on the other side.

The clearing stands empty- nothing as far as the eye can see. But a gentle breeze stirs the air, and if you listen close, you can hear that this place is not as empty as it seems. Listen to the words stirring. The air is thick with them. Gentle, mirthful things, they drift about in the air like so many balloons. Those who make it this far rarely do more than listen, laugh, and let the wind usher them back out through the woods. But you stayed and played a while- plucked a few from the sky and shaped them as you wished- and ventured on.

Walk miles through these words and the ground begins to steepen; hills form, and the words thicken in the air. Vividly unspoken, the wind is silent here, but stronger; it carries them just out of reach. Drawn to them, you climbed the hills in their pursuit.

But the hills grow into mountains, miles high. The words swirl carefully about like mist. But these did not faze you; you climbed higher still and brushed your hand through the air and the words settled cautiously on your skin. There was weight to them now. They were nothing, they were everything, and the words gathered to you, slowly, gently, warily. But hungry for something more, you searched on.

At a quiet place at the top of the highest mountain, there is a cave, nigh unreachable. Deep within its dark expanse I’ve placed a little, sturdy iron chest, where I was certain that nobody could ever reach it. Within the chest there is a secret pulsing, belonging to no one but longing to be. You know the chest of which I speak; you took it from that dark place and carried it back with you, holding it close all the way.

That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You want it for your own. Well let me tell you this: toward the end of that long journey, at the top of the mountain when the mist of words gathered on your skin, there were three words which still dared not come to you so easily. You know them, don’t you? Listen to them now. Wrap your voice around them. If they ring true, then the thing beating in my chest is yours to keep.

 

Rosecarved Tombstone

Oh yeah, figured I should post this one, too. Finished it a few weeks ago.

 Rosecarved Tombstone

There’s a graveyard on the south side of that lonely road, a mile out of town. I’ve been waiting there for you. You’re bound to show up eventually, right?

But it’s been years, love. Decades. I’ve traversed these rows a thousand times, but cannot find your name. It’s tiring here, you know. I don’t know how much longer my weary soul can stand it. But I can’t go home. Not yet. Not until I’ve found you.

A woman once found me here, standing alone among the tombstones.

“How long has it been?” she asked me quietly.

“Too long,” I murmured, “but still not enough. What I wouldn’t give to skip the years until I see her again…”

She offered me a sad smile and led me to a weathered tombstone a little ways down that lonely row. It was a sad and lovely thing with a rose carved into its edge.

She told me about her daughter who was buried there. “The years pass slowly and sadly without her here,” she confided, “But I am still here, and I must make the best of it.”

“Do you ever wonder if she’s… waiting up on you?” I asked the woman cautiously.

“I wouldn’t want her to,” she told me, “This world is too filled with hurt, and I wouldn’t wish it on her anymore. It’s better that she moves on to better things.”

“But what if she can’t imagine a brighter world without you?”

She smiled sadly. “It’s not as if we have a choice.” She sighed. “Her life was not lost so that I would stop living.  ”

I felt the sad truth in her words, but they gave me hope. It was true, the woman and her daughter would be parted for a long time, and yet I watched for years as the woman took time out each week to visit that rosecarved tombstone, until she herself was but another name on a rock in that lonely row. That sort of devotion inspired me, gave me renewed spirit. Just as that woman spent so much time here for her daughter, I will be here for you as long as it takes.

I’ll wait for you, my love, and keep searching still, until I find your name carved on one of these lonely rocks- and when at last you’re done with this shadowed world, I will leave a rose on your tombstone and follow you home.

Needs more fangirl

I downloaded the newly-released Panic! at the Disco album, Vices & Virtues, on the night of March 21st (at 11:11, incidentally- wish granted, huh?). Admittedly, on the first run through the album, I wasn't really sure what to think. The songs (aside from the clips I heard in 'The Overture') seemed just sort of okay (despite Brendan Urie's lovely voice), and I especially wasn't fond of the bonus tracks. But I remembered that I felt the same way about Panic's first two albums, too; none of Panic's music really stuck out to me on the first time listening. But the more I listened to their music, the more I fell in love with it. This album was no different. On the second run through, it wasn't so bad (bonus tracks included), and on the third I was in love with it. Yesterday and today, I've been playing the album on loop. I've got a few of the songs nearly memorized, and the rest are soon to follow.

Red Raven

This story took longer than I had hoped- I finished it on the third night of working on it. I had gotten stuck at a few points, figuring out how to work in certain ideas and lines I thought sounded cool, etc. Also we got distracted now and then; while brainstorming with Shan, at some point, we got the mental image of a British man proclaiming "There's a bloody raven on my windowsill!" Which caused much giggling. And then, given the nature of the story, there were other bouts of brainstorming that led to maniacal laughter instead. It was quite demented, really, though it disturbed us less than perhaps it should have. 0.o

But, anyways, without further ado... here is Bedtime Story Number Two.

Red Raven

There’s a raven on my window sill. She sits there all the time, watching me intently with those gleaming silver eyes, spreading her tattered wings now and then to remind me of her bloodstained feathers. She knows the things I’ve done.

She won’t let me forget.

I once heard that ravens were bringers of bad luck. I wish I could believe the tale, that it was that cursed bird that brought me this misfortune. But I can see in her strong silver gaze that she will not take the blame. I know by her scarlet down that I am at fault.

Oh, red raven, what have I done? 

It was such a petty argument!  How could it have blinded me so with rage that I took that blade in hand and slashed her tender little throat? And that you simply sat and watched… dear bird, if only you had taken off a moment sooner, your feathers would be untainted by her blood, your mind untainted by her death.  And the tales say you bring my kind misfortune.

But why do you stay, dear bird? Why do you torment me so? Is it not easier to forget? Why don’t you spread your wings and fly forth to some clearer skies? You have the winds at your disposal. What reason could you possibly have to linger? Does the memory not bother you, my raven? But I see no regret in your eyes. I never saw it in hers either. She was such a spirited thing. Always had this look in her eye, strong and clear and proud, and… quite the same look as you give me now. Your eyes, my dear raven, I swear they’re the same as hers.

It’s almost as if she were still here.

Sometimes I think you are too kind to me, dear bird; I see her gaze in yours all the time, and it is almost as if I never lost her. But then your bloodstained feathers catch my eye and I crumple under the memory of what I’ve done.

I swear I loved you, my darling; you took a life and gave it wings. Why is it such a bitter lament, that I have returned you the favor?

Yeah, I'm concerned by Shan's choice of bedtime story, too.

Sweet dreams, huh?

Observe the wild fangirl in her natural environment

It is not often that I go into fangirl mode. For Panic! at the Disco, however, I will do so. I own all of the music off of their first two albums, as well as "New Perspective", and love all of it. I was unreasonably excited when I heard rumors about a third CD in the making, and a new song released.

When I first listened to "The Ballad of Mona Lisa", a few days after it was released, I fell in love with it immediately, and commenced an unreasonable amount of fangirl-squealing about how I couldn't wait for the new album, if this song was anything to go by (and indeed, it is a thing to go buy!)

Then on Wednesday, I thought to check Wikipedia to find out when the album was going to be released, and I discovered that they released a new thing that day! "The Overture", a short film featuring clips of music from their new album.



It took me a few watches to figure out what was going on, but the music was wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that I was ambitious enough to go through the dreaded process of installing the latest version of itunes so it would cooperate while I pre-ordered the deluxe version of Vices and Virtues.
 
March 22nd simply cannot come fast enough.

</fangirl>

ghosts and bedtime stories

This ‘un’s also Shan’s fault. It went something like this:

“Tell me a bedtime story.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Make one up.”

“I’m not that creative.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“No.”

“Tell me a ghost story.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Make one up.”

“I don’t know what it’d be about.”

“The ghost’s name is Recluse. Just make something up about it.”

At the mention of ‘recluse’, I got a silly grin on my face as it gave me the idea of something like Emily Dickinson come back us a ghost. I imagined this ghost haunting some lonely young girl, whispering poems to her, or giving her muse. A fanciful daydream, which I utterly destroyed in my story. But I think it changed for the better. So I made Shan wait as I typed out my (new and improved) idea. I read it to her maybe an hour or two later.

Here's how it went:

Recluse

When I was a young girl, I was a shy little thing, and surrounded myself with books instead of people; their words were calming to me, and I lived through them; they were better friends to me than people ever were. So I spent most of my days cooped up in my room, reading, reading… and when I wasn't reading, I was pondering the things that I read- how I related to this character or that, and how I would hold up in some of the adventures of the protagonists. Quite often, I related the antagonists to my schoolmates. It was just as well. I didn't get along with any of them. I wondered if, outside of my books, there was anyone that I could really relate to, if there was anyone that I would WANT to relate to. I told myself the books were enough, but all the same I fell prey to a sort of loneliness I cannot express. I would have sunk into a depression, I am almost certain, were it not for a girl I think I might have met.

I can't really remember when I first met her, or… if I really did. I only remember that, now and again, she'd whisper poems in my ear, in a voice clear as a thought but no louder. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I'd find myself writing my loneliness away, my pen moved by some unknown force, gliding over the page and repeating words that I pulled as if from memory; but all the while, I knew it was her. I can't say how I knew; I never really saw her except as a shiver down my spine and an instinct that said someone was with me. I felt a presence of something like loneliness, and an overwhelming sadness, when she was there, but she did not seem to wish the same on me; at any rate, it made my own feel more bearable, like an oddly pleasant sort of ache. It was comforting somehow, having her there.

If she was there.

She only really seemed to exist at the back of my mind, like a memory or a daydream, something not quite substantial. Sometimes I wonder if she even existed but in my dreams; she haunted those too, after all, always there, always accompanied by this feeling of gloom and loneliness.

Was she a ghost, I wonder? Some recluse not so unlike myself, but doomed to wander the earth alone? Or an angel, perhaps, simply showing me the kindness I needed.
Or my own troubles, personified by a madness that came from lack of human company.
Heh, imagine: a product of my madness as the thing that keeps me sane.

But then, in the end, I suppose it doesn't matter. She comforted me all the same, and that was enough. My school days passed, and when I finally got to college, I took a step to become more social, make a few friends, and ultimately lived a happier life for it, as cheesy as it sounds. As for the girl… I never felt her presence again.

But… I had a dream once, not so long ago, that I was a young girl, a shy little thing who surrounded herself with books instead of people, and imagined my schoolmates to be the antagonists in my own story. Only, I never met the recluse girl, and I sank into a depression caused by my loneliness. Without human contact allowing me to live happily, I withered away like a flower until there was almost nothing left; my body fell away and I was nothing but a lonely spirit, tied to the earth in hopes of some companionship. I wandered in search of such until I found a girl who I swear looked familiar, who looked as lonely as I was, and out of pity I kept her company and sometimes whispered poems in her ear. 

Shan reckons she'll give me more ideas and get me to write her bedtime stories more often. I think I'm okay with that. She told me the next one should be called "Red Raven". I haven't the slightest idea what to do with it, but I'll hopefully figure it out before it's story time tomorrow night.

A blog? Uh... okay.

So, there’s a girl, known to a few pieces of the internet as Shansie Sherazi, who my roommate and I adopted as a spare roommate. We feed her, we gave her a home, and she sleeps at the foot of my bed.

Like any other pet, not only is she good company, but also gives me some interesting stories to tell.

I guess that’s where this all starts.

“You should write a blog.”

“I… what?”

“You could be all witty and stuff in it.”

“But… I don’t know what I would write about.”

“Well, you should find something. And then be clever about it.”

Well, it went something like that. At any rate, after being bothered for a while by Shan saying that I should start a blog, I decided to do it. I’d write about whatever adventures of mine seemed worth writing about. If something’s on my mind, or I have a story to tell, or something just amused me, I can spam my hypothetical readers with it. That’s cool, right? And like with any other pet, if it turns out that my hypothetical readers don’t approve of my writing, then hey, I can blame Shan. Right?