Saturday, July 31, 2010

In the Corner: A Poem



(This is a poem of mine written during some dark times.)

Right now,
There are no words to describe
What is going through her mind,
As she sits in the corner
Wishing that they had never met,
Wishing that nothing was ever said
Between them,
Between him and her,
She sits in her corner,
Wishing for no more hurt.

Her heart beats,
As she sleeps
Tears brush against her cheeks,
Black hair,
Curly and long,
She cries out and sobs,
Wishing and regretting,
There was no way they could go steady,
There was no way, no how,
She wanted to be happy,
She didn’t want to be with him,
She sits in her corner
Waiting for the horror to end.

She closes her eyes,
Sees his face,
Opens them and the image is still there,
Him and his stare,
She couldn’t stand the pain,
She was going insane,
Thinking of all the regrets in her life,
Thinking of all the screams in her head,
She sits in her corner,
Rocking herself to sleep instead of going to bed.

But sleep would not come,
For her thoughts were too much,
Too heavy was her heart,
Too heavy were her decisions,
Her visions,
Of a voice,
Calling her name,
It was him,
And how she regretted,
Oh so regretted,
Telling him to give up,
To move on,
That there would be other women
In his life,
In due time,
He would find the right one,
But he never did
Because now he was dead.

Suicide was his choice,
Knife to the heart,
That was only the start,
He dragged it down his chest,
And he would forever rest,
Coated with the liquid that was the color of their love:
Crimson red,
But also a hint of black.
A little trickle here and there,
Why did she not see this coming?
How could she have not seen the clues,
The signs,
The games of the mind?
She could not foretell it all,
It was not her fault,
That was what she said,
As she rocked herself in the corner instead of going to bed.

His ghost now haunts her in more ways than one,
Tells her that she is almost done,
Her time is up too,
That she was a fool,
To give up on him, to not take things forward,
So she holds out a silver knife
In her hand,
And stops her rocking, begins to stand,
Facing his ghost in a mirror,
It smiles and waves,
Wants to take her away,
She fights back,
But nothing can withstand,
The thoughts of peril, nervousness, anxiety and stress
Twisted into one
As she plunges the knife into her own heart.
In the corner, she resides,
Bleeding and losing her mind,
Hearing his wicked laughs,
That no one else could hear,
For it was all in her own mind and all of it was her own fear.



Have you ever experienced a relationship/friendship that had failed or didn't turn out quite as planned? Have you tried to fix such said relationship/friendship?


P.S. I know that I have yet to respond to the comments of the last post, but I've been kind of busy and stressed out lately. I'm going off to the University of California, Irvine for orientation and I've been having some trouble with my Internet provider, so it's been quite nerve-wrecking these past few days. I promise to answer and comment back on all comments for both the last post and this post by late Sunday afternoon. So, cheer up! :D

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

A Mental Snack (27)



Share your thoughts...

"Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten." ~ G. K. Chesterton


What was your favorite fairy tale/story as a child? Are there any stories or authors that inspire you to write today? 

Monday, July 26, 2010

The Reason, My Reason


I always wondered if I should ever give up. I always wondered what would happen if I had just given up on writing. If I forgot all that I learned, dumped my dreams into the trash, silenced the voices in my mind, and became an average person in this world. A man who worked from 9 A.M. to 5 P.M. Then, would my life be any easier? Would the voices just cease to exist? Would my hand stop writing? Would I be able to sleep soundly at night?

I looked at an endless amount of blank pages and the reflection on the laptop screen of the characters that stood behind me. I questioned myself if I really am cut out for this. I question my entire life. Those four or five years when I told everybody that I would make a name for myself and be a great writer.

Was I lying to them? Was I lying to myself?

I then recalled a conversation I had with my friend a few days ago.


“Has there ever been a book that changed your life?” I remembered asking my friend.

“A book that’s changed my life?” he chuckled. “No.”

That word stamped forever in my mind made me begin to question why I wrote. Doctors save lives, don’t they? Lawyers prove the innocent, don’t they? Scientists invent the newest gadgets, don’t they? What do writers do?

“Writers create false realities,” my friend told me as he continued the topic of why writers weren’t as important to the world as engineers, doctors, lawyers, etc.

“False realities?” My eyes twitched.

“Yup. They create those wonderlands, Narnia, and all that good stuff. They provide us an escape from our daily lives. They twist the truth and make it their own. Writers are dying in this world. Fiction is dying. Look at movies and the internet. Books won’t exist soon. Who reads nowadays? Who actually picks up a book?”

“I still do. I still believe. I still believe in those escapes.” I slammed my fist on the table. “Do you know why?”

“Why what, Vatche?”

“Do you know why I became a writer?”

“Something about immortality, right?” He couldn’t stand to see me irritated even the slightest bit, so he turned his face away.

“That was before. My reason has changed over the years though. You’re right. Writers provide an escape and I want to be that avenue of escape for my readers. Books were a blessing in my life. They took me away every time my parents fought. They took me away every time I felt lonely. They took me away whenever I needed that escape hatch. I want to give that escape to my readers. I want my readers to know that they have a friend left in the world that will listen. I will be their friend. My books will touch their hearts. I will even grab yours. I will make a book someday that’ll change even your life.”

“Doubt it,” my friend looked at my bold, brown eyes.

“I will.” I sat back down and tried to control myself. All the memories of other friends and people, who told me that being a writer was a useless occupation, began to run through my mind. I remembered all the discussions and arguments. I couldn’t stop the words. I couldn’t control my heart’s racing speed. I couldn’t control anything until I closed my eyes and wished it all to stop. For that one instant, I heard what I needed to hear.

I heard the turning of a page and I smiled.

“What’s wrong?”

“Tell me something. What’s right?” I questioned him back.

He sat and didn’t know how to answer.

“Exactly. Writers make you think in ways you never thought possible. Sure, I would be dead to some, never heard by others, but too a very few I would be there for them. I would have made their fantasies and dreams come alive. I would make them stronger. Doctors save lives. Lawyers protect the innocent. Scientists invent. Writers write to make people think. How else would we be able to communicate if we couldn’t write? Sure, the book is probably dying, but the text isn’t. You still read articles online, don’t you?”

“That’s...true,” he mumbled.

“So, there’s my answer to you. I write to make people think. I give those people hope. I give those people three-dimensional characters. I give them that and an escape.” I smiled the biggest smile of my life. I finally found my true reason for writing. It wasn’t immortality, but to make people think and to give them hope.

“That’s my reason.”

“That’s a damn, good reason.” My friend didn’t bother to look into the fire of my eyes. That one page that was flipped was all I needed to hear to reignite the flame that burned in my soul.

People aren’t done with reading just yet.

Have you ever fought for something you believed in? If so, what was it? Did you succeed? If you failed, did you learn from your failure? 

Saturday, July 24, 2010

The Good Left Undone: Chapter 1



(Here's the first chapter of my WiP,
The Good Left Undone, which is about a little girl named Sandy and the problems she has with controlling her memories, nightmares, and dreams because of her great imagination. 

Also, during this conflict of imagination and memories, she finds out her parents are keeping a dark secret away from her and she tries to find out what that secret is. 

If a lot of people request that I put up the next few chapters, then I would oblige only if there are MANY of you, who wish to see Sandy's story be told. So, let me know what you think and if you want to hear the rest of the story. Write on and read on!)

Chapter 1: Seed.

There I sat in the middle of it all. In the field of wheat. The sun blazed a great fire on my head, making me sweat every drop of water I had in me. I saw the wind push the rows of wheat, forcing them to fight amongst one another. I heard Papa’s words, “Nothing will ever grow here, but wheat, darlin’. Nothing…” His voice drifted with the pushy wind.


I sat there amongst the rows of wheat and stared. I hoped a flower would appear amongst the wheat. A flower, that’s all I wanted. All I needed. Please.

No flower appeared.
            
The wind continued to push.
            
“Nothing will ever grow here, but wheat, darlin’.” His voice lingered in my mind.
            
“Darlin’,” it echoed across the field.
           
“I will prove him wrong! I will prove them wrong!” I yelled out into the skies. I grabbed the sunflower seeds that my father always chewed on and planted them firmly into the ground, in front of the wheat, so the wheat wouldn’t have to fight with my sunflower, let it be amongst itself and stand tall. Let it be the leader of the wheat. The wind will have to give up eventually, because now the wheat had a leader. They had the sunflower, who will grow to be their queen.

Then, I saw him. The shadow man. He stood there with his shoulders hunched over. I couldn’t see his face or his clothes. All was covered in black. All I saw was him staring at me. I knew he was staring at me, in Papa’s wheat field, because I was the only one there.

He hunched on closer to me. He pushed against the fighting wheat. He pushed against the wind. He saw his target, and it was me.
            
I looked back to see that my house was no longer behind me. The sunflower seeds in front of me disappeared and I lay defenseless in front of him. I had no protection. No queen or king of sunflowers to protect me.
           
“Nothing will ever grow here, but wheat, darlin’. Nothing,” my father’s voice continued to echo through my ears.
            
“Why, daddy? Why do you lie?! It’s obvious that there is something in the wheat. Something grows in the wheat. He won’t leave me alone, daddy! Please save me!”
            
The man in black only stepped closer.
            
“He won’t leave my mind alone. I want to dream of you and mommy. Of sunflowers. Of things that grow in the wheat.”
            
I. Won’t. Let. You,” the man in black said.
            
“Why are you here?” I had tears running down my cheeks.
            
I. Was. Always. Here. Always. In. Here.” He tapped my head with his index finger. My mind?
            
“No,” I cried out.
            
“Yes. In. The. Field. Of. Wheat. There. Are. No. Sunflowers.” He snatched me by my head and lifted me off the ground, so that I stared him directly in his eyes. I never was more scared in my life. I closed my eyes hard. Then, I wished it to be over. All over.

           
I awoke from the same nightmare over again. I was panting, mumbling, whispering in my sleep. I’m sure of it.  Should a kid like me suffer so much?

Eleven years old.

Should I still be afraid of nightmares?

I can feel the seed. It has been planted.

“Are you ok, Sandy? Is everything alright?” Dad rushed over to my side; he evaded all the toys and junk in my room. “What’s wrong honey? Why you screamin’?”

“Nothing, papa. Just…umm…a bad dream.” I hoped it was a dream. “Dad is it true?”

“What?” Dad brought me up against his chest. His rough chin, on top of my head, scraped against my hair. He brushed it, gently through his fingertips, turning a bundle into single strands. One fell swoop.

“Is it true nothing will grow in your fields, but wheat?” My voice trembled a little. My voice trembled at the thought— the possibility—that a man can grow in the wheat field. My father’s wheat field. My wheat field.

“You know I’m a grain farmer, darlin’. Only grains and the rare weeds.” He kisses my cheek. “What were you dreamin’ about? Did something scary come out of the fields?” He put one hand on my shoulder, looked at me straight in the eyes, and tried finding the answer.

“Yeah, a monster,” I took a deep breath, “papa.”

“A monster? What did he have big floppy ears like Sheba?” Sheba was our golden-retriever. “And big ol’ scary teeth like me. Raaawwwrr.” He opened his mouth wide and tried to bite my arm, but instead kissed it. “How about long fingers like mine?” He started to tickle me under my arms.

“Hahahah, no,” I laughed under the pressure of dad’s ticklish powers. “No, he didn’t have ticklish fingers.”

“Well, then you have nothing to worry about. I think the worst are the ticklish fingers.” Papa stopped the tickling and let me be.

“Well, this monster was a man-monster.”

“A man-monster?”

“Yeah!” I yelled out at the top of my lungs. “He was a man, but he lived in the dark like a monster. He looked, well, like your age, but taller. I couldn’t really see anything because of the dark, but he reminds me of someone.”

Papa’s eyes widened. He knew something. He didn’t want to tell me. Papa always hid things behind his eyes, but I could tell. I could see something behind the curtains of his eyes.

“What is it, Papa?” I asked curiously.

“Well, who does it remind you of most?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s someone I must have forgotten.”

“How many people do ya know?” His eyes grew wide. Could I sneak a peek behind the curtain?

“I’ve never counted how many people I know!”

“Well, maybe you should start.” He said tucking me in for the night again. “Say all their names until you fall asleep. Maybe you’ll find someone you’ve forgotten. Start with me, momma, and Sheba.”

“Paul Clancy, Sheila Clancy, and Sheba Clancy. Check.” I made an invisible check in the air with my index finger.

“Maybe you can write and draw pictures of everyone you know. That way you’ll never forget them. We’ll frame them all over your walls. They’ll watch over you at night, so that man-monster won’t get you. Sound good?” He kissed my forehead.

“Ok, Papa. Tomorrow morning, I’ll draw you, momma, and Sheba. I’ll write about you in my journal, so I’ll never forget you. Never.” I closed my eyes.

I heard his heavy footsteps leave the room. Echo throughout the hallway. Echo in my mind. I won’t forget him. This night. This.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

A Mental Snack (26)



Share your thoughts...


"If you want to get to know someone, it's like finding out how to fold a piece of origami. One must not rush, or the they will rip the paper. One must take it slowly, piece-by-piece, step-by-step. Fold the pieces inward, fold the pieces outward, and discover how such a small piece of paper can be full of secrets. In the end, you'll get the beautiful swan that we all desire." ~ Vatche Yousefian

How do you get to know someone in your life? Do you have long conversations with them? Stare deeply into their souls? Test their knowledge? If you're a writer, how do you get to know your characters well enough to write about them? What would you compare it to?


Monday, July 19, 2010

The Cycle: A Short Story

The other day, I was digging through my archives in my computer and found an old short story of mine. I don't know if you'll enjoy it or not, but I wanted to show how much I've grown to everyone. So, I'll post this up today and a new short story on Saturday to show you, dear readers, the difference. 

“Mom, I’ll be there in a few short hours. I’ve been driving all the way from California; I’m going to reach Texas, and I’m going to see dad regardless of what you say. I want to see him. I can’t drive around with a cell phone in my ear, I’ll call you later.” I press the ‘END’ button, throwing it onto the passenger seat.
           
I look directly at the road ahead. Nothing but concrete for twenty-five miles now. I feel as though I’m the last man entering Texas. Dad, why did you have to get sick again? Always on the verge of dying. Always drinking. Always.
           
The cars headlight’s flash a shiny glow on the pavement. A bright flash of light that mesmerizes me with its dance, I begin to follow it with my eyes. I’m lost in some sort of hypnotism caused by the lack of sleep from driving non-stop. Why couldn’t I have just caught a plane instead?


Because I can barely afford it, that’s why. Being a writer doesn’t make you rich. Though gas prices are high, it still beats airline prices in my neighborhood.
            
I see a bright orange light at the edge of the road. It releases ashes into the air like a dragon breathing fire. It is a burning car.
            What happened here? I stop the Honda, and to get out of the car to see if there are any survivors.
           
The deserts of Texas are cold at night and pitch black. The fire was like a small sun that lit up the wasteland. Cactuses cover the terrain and animals hide under blankets of darkness. “Hello?” I scream. “Hello?” I don’t go near the fire, but look from afar for anybody inside the flames. The fire covers the car like a blanket of color, peeling and blistering the paint.
           
“Is anyone there?” Only my echoes call back.
           
God lit a birthday candle and forgot to blow it out. Whoever did this escaped ‘cause there are no traces of anyone in the car.
           
I walk back to my car, start the Honda, and let the engine purr back at me furiously. “Piece of junk,” I say to myself as I adjust the rearview mirror, looking at the reflection of my red eyes.
           
I push the gas pedal and the car responds with a roar of a lion. This Honda is just a piece of trash and nothing but. It’s what I get for borrowing a car from a realtor.
            
Driving a few more miles through the desert, I see nothing but the same terrain repeatedly. Cactus, sand, emptiness.
           
Then, out of nowhere, a woman appears on the edge of the road. She’s like a magazine model; a flashy, red silk dress covers her from her back down to her knees, and nice fur-coat top and golden bracelet on each wrist. She holds out her thumb, her nails colored red like her dress.
            
She’s a hitchhiker.
          
I bring the car to a screeching halt and reach over to lower the window. “Hello, do you have room for one more?” Her voice is calm. She struggles with a giant suitcase. It is probably overstuffed with clothes. What else do girls need?
           
“Hey,” I say to her. She stares at me with strange violet eyes. “Was that your car back there?”
           
“It was,” she laughs nervously, “I’m glad I got out of that thing alive.”
           
“How about you put your suitcase in the trunk?”
           
“I’d rather keep it with me. I have a very important heirloom in it.”
           
“May I ask what the heirloom is?”
          
“No!” she says in a quick reaction to my question.
           
“Okay, calm down.”
           
“Just drive me to the next building we see or something, I’ll use their telephone, and call for a ride.” She snatches the door handle and steps inside.
           
“Okay, miss.”
          
I’ll just drive her to the next stop. Easy.
           
“So do you know what the problem with your car was?”
          
“I don’t know cars much, but probably a gas leak or something,” she shrugs, without a care.
           
“Yeah, okay.” I stare back at the road.
           
“I don’t want you asking anymore questions about my car.”
           
“Okay, miss.”
           
“And don’t call me miss. It’s too formal, just call me Rhonda.”
           
“Rhonda, that’s an interesting name. The name is Allen.”
           
“Allen, fairly common name,” she says.
           
“Whatever.” I gaze at the woman; she is stunning with short blonde hair, pearl earrings, and a pearl necklace to boot. She talks to me as if I am inferior to her. She’s a rich woman, who happened to meet an unlucky poor man.
            
“Stop staring at me and look at the road,” she says.
           
“I’m staring at you because I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in the desert.”
           
“If you’re planning to do anything with me, I won’t. I am a very dangerous woman.” She stares back to see my reaction.
           
I begin to hear singing in the car. Did I leave the radio on? A female voice that sings a soft melody. Is she singing?
            
I stare back at her, but no movements from her mouth. She sits there, gazing straight at the road.
           
I reach for the radio. I feel the dial. ‘OFF’
           
Am I going insane? Sleepy from the long drive?
           
The car begins to swerve slowly from one lane to another. She only stares at the road, and doesn’t move an inch. Is she doing this?
            
A truck comes up in the opposite direction, as I turn the steering wheel towards its way, a sixteen wheeler. Imagine being crushed by all those wheels.
            
“No,” she yells and grabs the steering wheel, turning it back toward the other direction, “not while I’m in the car!” The truck honks its horn as it passes us. “Pull over.”
           
I do as I’m told, hypnotically.
           
“Get out of the car and sit in the passenger seat,” she demands. “You’re going to take a rest before our next stop.”
           
I switch sides with her, not knowing why. I don’t care I’m just tired. I fall asleep almost instantly.
           

I awake to see a giant neon sign shining in my face saying: “BAR.”
           
My eyes were burning because I am staring into a bright light after awaking from the darkness of sleep. I sit up.

“What is going on?”
           
I unbuckle the seatbelt and I step outside. I can smell the harsh odor of heavy cigarette smoke, whiskey, and vomit. In the bar, I notice another sign saying that it’s karaoke night. Rhonda is singing to a group of strangers who sit staring at her: “You see I'm sick and tired of our confrontations/ sick and tired, you stick to me like glue /all that I could do/is make your fears come true. Then multiply/multiply/tears will multiply/multiply. Your love for me will die.” Her voice amazes the men and women around her. It leaves me in a sort of daze. I feel sick after hearing her voice, which begins to echo in my mind. Is this the same voice from in the car? Is this only happening to me?


She waves at me but I just stomp out of the bar immediately. I can’t control myself. Did I catch some cold or something? Am I sick?
            
I get back in the Honda. I try to look in front of me for a pack of cigarettes I keep in the glove department with a lighter, but I bumped into something. Rhonda’s suitcase.

“What in the hell?”


…An heirloom was in it…she didn’t want me to touch it…but…why? Did she think I was going to steal the heirloom from her?

I take the gigantic leather monster out of the car and open up the zipper on the end of the bag. Slowly. As I open it, my hand is covered in some strange liquid. I open the zipper and flip the suitcase open to see a body, covered in blood, crunched up into a giant suitcase. I raise my hand to the neon lighting; it’s covered in blood. I am about to scream before a hand comes up and covers my mouth. Rhonda?

She covers my mouth, puts her other hand into a fist and holds out her index finger, “Shhhh…” she says as I faint from fright.

I open my eyes to see the sun shining my face. I try to rub my eyes but can’t move. My hands are tied.
            
“What are you doing?”
            
“I told you I’m a dangerous woman, Allen.” She smiles as she drives through the sunrise. I hear ocean waves splashing, seagulls cawing at each other, and the sound of the wind.
            
“What are you? Did you drug me or something?” I ask.
            
“Not really. See, Allen, I am sort of like a siren. Have you ever heard of them?”
            
“No! What is that? Some sort of mafia business? Look I won’t tell anybody, just please let me go. I was just being a good Samaritan.”
            
“Good or bad it doesn’t matter. I want you for my collection. That’s why I have that man in the suitcase. That’s why you are only affected by my singing. Sirens are magical creatures, but humans don’t see much of these days. They are deceivers, who trick men into killing themselves. That’s why you saw the car burn the way it was on the highway, I killed that man.” She stares at me with her violet eyes.
            
“You do want to be part of my collection, don’t you?” She laughs. “You’re kind of cute? What a priceless heirloom you’ll be for my children.”
            
“Why are you doing this?”
            
“It’s a cycle, Allen. I have to keep special men for my daughters just like for my mother did for me. Sirens cause men to kill themselves, but I think I’ll just do it the old-fashioned way. I’ll kill you instead.”
            
“What’s wrong with you?”
            
“Curiosity killed the cat, Allen,” she laughs, “plus it’s getting harder to find better men for our collections. That’s why I didn’t kill all those people in the bar. I think you’ll do just fine.” The sun rises with a strong blast of light beneath the clouds. The sea glimmers like stars in daylight.
            
“No! Please, no!” I scream my lungs out. She is about to drive the car into the ocean. We collide with the water. She opens the driver’s door, and escapes. I fall into unconsciousness as the car dives deeper into the abyss; no longer can I see the sparkle and twinkle like stars, but the darkness of a watery grave.
            
The last thought that pops in my mind is this: Rhonda steps out of the ocean and runs on the beach. She steps onto the road again and begins to walk with her thumb up and hitchhike as she sings, “You see I'm sick and tired of our confrontations/ sick and tired, you stick to me like glue /all that I could do/is make your fears come true. Then multiply/multiply/tears will multiply/multiply. Your love for me will die…”
            
Because it’s a cycle…
           


Musical rights belong to Placebo for their song, "Long Division."
Will you, dear reader, ever pick up a hitchhiker on the side of the road? 

Saturday, July 17, 2010

A World of Voices

My friend once told me that I could never be a real writer.

“Why?” I asked him.

He told me that a writer could express every human emotion in the book and several others that aren’t in any books. Poetry and prose are things that require a writer to show human emotion and convey it to reader. The reader then feels those same emotions as if he/she was the characters in the story or poem. If I could convey that, then I was a writer in his eyes.

“What emotions and feelings are you looking for?”

He told me that he wanted all of them to be conveyed. “The revenge that one feels when the world devours his brother alive, the lovely sight of a sister getting married, the pains of a family divorce, the ending of being enemies, the beginning of friendships, how it feels to be rich or poor, how it feels to go on a roller-coaster for the very first time. I want to feel every emotion as a reader and you have to convey it to me.”

I told him I was doing my best.

He shoved the papers into my hands. “Your best isn’t good enough.”

It’s a writer’s job to make the readers care. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be a reason for the readers to pick up a book at all. My friend was right and I needed a new way of conveying my messages and stories, because my old one wasn’t good enough for my readers.

How was I supposed to feel all those emotions and feelings?

The loss of a loved one. A broken heart. Love at first sight. Powerful friendships. Broken bonds. It just all started to aggravate me really. So, I stared at the blank page and felt the world’s vibrations run through my fingertips as I typed the words, “Right now.”

And more words began to follow. I saw a girl standing at the subway station with a bomb in her hands. All the pain she felt about how she was an outcast in the world for being deaf. I felt her emotions, her strength, and her weaknesses as soon as I typed those two words. It was as if we were connected for that one instant. Our minds, our bodies and our souls were aligned.

I tried it again a few days later and typed the words again, “Right now.”

I felt another alignment, but with a different person in the world. I felt the annoyance of a “bluebird,” which knocked on a man’s window glass. That “bluebird” was actually a beautiful woman. I felt that man’s pain as he listened to her stories. I felt the same shock as the man felt when he heard that the “bluebird” killed her lover and wanted to be with the man. I listened to the sweet silence as she dropped herself from the windowsill and didn’t bother to flap her “wings.”

I gave my friend all of the poems that started with those two words. He couldn’t believe how real they felt. The strength of emotions that were conveyed were strong in his eyes.

“You’re still an amateur though,” he told me.

“I know,” I took the papers back from him, “but at least I’m trying.”

“Well,” he gave a big, white smile, “you’re starting to succeed. So, how did you do it?”

“I felt for my characters like never before. I felt the world’s heartbeat. I felt the tears of my characters on my cheeks. I listened for their laughter and their screams. The world turns and I feel what turns it.”

“And what’s that? Gravity? The sun? God?”

“What turns the earth, in my mind, is not any of those. It’s the emotions and feelings of all those people in the world. One’s pain, another’s happiness, someone’s lucky day, someone else’s bad. These are all my characters, all inside my head, and I finally realized that I’ve found the beginning of what a writer calls ‘his voice.’ But you know what’s funny? A writer’s voice is not a singular thing. It’s a world of voices. Each one of them wants to tell a story. It’s my job to channel all those voices onto paper and place those voices into the reader’s minds and ears. I’ve realized that now.”

“You’re still an amateur though, Mr. Philosopher,” he laughed aloud as he slapped my back.

“I know, but someday I’ll make this world in my head sing to all my readers. It’s going to take a lot of time, so I might as well start now.”

“You’re right; you got a pretty big head. It’s definitely going to take some time.” We both laughed before we ended the topic and moved onto another.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

A Mental Snack (25)



Share your thoughts...


"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to escape from these." ~ Emily Dickinson


Do you write poetry? If so, is it an escape for you? If you don't write poetry, is writing an escape for you? What are you escaping from? 

Monday, July 12, 2010

The Lover's Embrace: A Poem


(This is some unedited, raw poetry that I wrote as soon as I woke up this morning. I had a dream about these two lovers dancing the night away. Read on to hear their story.)


Right now.
Their hands lock together and embrace,
Like Destiny or Fate,
They dance like lovers,
They dance together,
They dance forever.

The woman with long, black braids,
Wishes to stay,
Interlocked forever,
So the moment will last,
So that she may spend eternity with her man,
They dance the moonlight away.

The man with the scuffled beard,
Always wanted to see her,
His dance partner,
Exactly in this way,
Dancing the night away.

Together they danced,
Swinging legs and joining hands,
Forever they wished it would last,
Not only did their hands intertwine,
But also their hearts, souls, and minds,
As they danced the night away,
In some unknown pub in Spain.

He fell in love,
And so did she,
But she was trapped under the guard of her family,
Watchful eyes continued to stare,
And he did not care,
He would take her away from them,
Even if in their eyes he was condemned
To never be with her.

He led her down one way,
Swept her off her feet,
Tried to run away,
But her family came,
Pointed guns in his face,
Told him that it was a warning,
The only warning he will receive,
They took her away,
And made him feel ashamed,
But he would not give up,
Though it seemed abrupt,
He came up with a plan,
So that girl would always be in his hands.

He snuck her away,
During the night,
While everyone was asleep,
He wanted to take her out to sea.

A boat waited for the two lovers,
They ran under new names, undercover,
In disguise,
They were still recognized,
By her family,
Who had chased them there,
They pulled out the gun,
A shot was heard,
All was silent then,
When the two lovers interlocked hands again,
The woman was shot dead,
Because she stood in the man’s way,
Saved his life,
But he couldn’t live without her,
So he took the family’s gun,
Said he was done,
Said his goodbyes to this world,
And welcomed the afterlife.

The hammer was cocked,
The bullet was shot,
He held her cold, white hands,
The ones he used to hold when they danced,
Interlocked like Fate or Destiny,
Here the lovers be,
Dancing forever,
Holding hands,
Twisted hands now lie on the sea’s sands,
Both had died for each other,
Their hands interlocked,
From one lover to another.

What's your favorite type of dance? Slow dancing? Fist-pumping? Tango? Have you had any dreams that turned into stories, poems, or other pieces of writing?

Saturday, July 10, 2010

On Being Human: A Poem


Right now,
The heavens sing her name,
Whispers it into my ears,
Makes me imagine her sweet lips,
Almost as sweet as chocolate,
It was her kiss.

Her hand and its delicate touch,
Traces soft outlines on my neck,
Her fingers cold as a lake of ice,
My body as warm as a bed of fire,
We are made for each other,
But the heavens sing her name,
And they begin to take her away.

She calls out my name,
Screams at the top of her lungs,
As she ascends,
Never to be seen again
By human eyes, especially mine,
The angels sweep down and hold her tight,
Take her towards the light,
She tries to escape,
But it was too late.
The clouds cover the skies,
Her face full of fright,
As the heavens sang her name,
I called out to her just the same.

Beings of unparalleled thought,
Of the purest and innocent hearts,
Roamed the skies that day,
As the heavens sang her name.

They took her away from me,
So I decided to take her back,
Steal her away from the gods,
Steal her away without second thoughts,
To get back what I rightfully had,
The heart of a lover,
The soul of the kindest kind,
And the mind of an intellectual that would tease me until the end of time.

So, I walk the stairs towards the pearly gates,
I do not wait for them to call my name,
I knock on heaven’s doors,
And ask them if they would take one more.
They would not accept me for I was not dead,
I cried out her name and the heavens began to sing again.
They taunted me,
Even though they were supposed to be pure,
They said that I could never have her,
They said that I could cry and scream,
But the heavens will still sing her name.

I did not care for what they had said,
So I opened the pearly gates
That shined the reflection of a man.
With both of my hands,
I pushed and opened the white gates,
To find that everyone there was amazed.
“A human here,” they said,
“And he is not dead.”

I walked through the clouds and smoke,
Pushing through the winged beings that spoke,
Saw the birds in the skies,
And found the dead with warm eyes,
But I did not pay any attention to them,
I was here for her instead.

I saw her looking at the flowers down on Earth,
With eyes that were full of tears and full of hurt,
She wanted to live again,
She wished the heavens did not sing her name,
She wished and wished,
But everything still remained the same.

I was there with her now,
Regardless of being a human being,
I climbed the stairs of heaven and opened the pearly gates,
And now I grabbed her hands and held them in mine,
I told her that I would be with her ‘til the end of time.

She smiled and laughed,
Because she knew that time was never a factor in our love,
She knew that no human could understand,
But she still held my hand,
Tightly and I felt her cold touch,
But I never cared too much.

Then, other hands came down on me,
They said to leave her be,
But I said that our love was destined, our love was fate,
They did not listen,
They grabbed and threw me outside of those pearly gates,
And said,
“Never come back again
Until I was dead.”

So, that is why I tell you my last story now,
That is why you hold a knife in your hand, dear friend,
I just want to ascend,
I cannot do it myself,
If I do, they’ll take me to hell.
So I ask you to make this sacrifice for me,
Take that knife,
Take my life
Away from me.

I want to be a part of heaven,
I want to sing her name,
I want to die,
And know that she’ll be a part of my new life.

I gave a smile to my friend,
Knowing that this may be the end,
But he resisted, saying that it was not right,
Saying that I should not fight
Against heaven’s will,
But I could not just sit still.
He said that I had to wait,
Until Death comes to take me away
To those pearly, white gates.

So, I wait here now for you,
The love of my life,
As the heavens sing your name,
I remember everything about you,
As I wait and talk to your flowery grave.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

A Mental Snack (24)


"Don't try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It's the one and only thing you have to offer." ~ Barbara Kingsolver


Do you think you've found your voice or are you still searching? Are you the type of person to stick up for what you believe in and fight resistance? Or are you the type of person to go with the flow and follow others?


P.S. I've been experiencing some technical difficulties with the comments on this blog, mostly in recent posts. Just to let you know: I answered all of your comments like I always do, but for some odd reason it is not showing up. 

For instance, on "The Bluebird's Tragedy: A Poem", it says that there are "13 comments," but only 7 comments show up when I click the button. 

Strange...

Are any of you experiencing some technical difficulties with the comments, as well? 


Monday, July 5, 2010

Higurashi When They Cry

Perhaps one of the scariest, creepiest, and mind-blowing shows I've ever watched was Higurashi When They Cry. Here's a trailer.






P.S. Watch the Japanese version with subtitles, because the Japanese voice actors are superb.

What are some movies, TV shows, or books that you've watched or read that you thought were mind-blowing?

Saturday, July 3, 2010

The Bluebird's Tragedy: A Poem


Right now.

The bluebird sings

And I cannot sleep,

One o’ clock in the morning I see,

That she sits on my windowsill and sings.


She sings a song of beauty,

She sings a song of love,

She sings a song of purity,

She sings a song of happiness.


I shoo it away,

So it may let me sleep,

So that I may dream,

So that I may count sheep.


The next night,

The bluebird sings,

Her song rings,

Both in my heart and my ears,

You can hear in the song only one thing

And that is fear.


She sits on my windowsill again and tells me the story

About the things she’s done and how she was sorry,

And how she needed to tell somebody.


She sings a song of fight,

She sings a song of trouble,

She sings a song of flight,

She sings a song of her and how everything is turning to rubble.


The next night I do not sleep again,

She revisits me and I have my notebook and paper in hand,

Prepared to listen and hear

Of her story of fear.


She comes to my windowsill and sings,

But I’m afraid of what she’s become,

No longer a bird but something more gruesome,

Her beady eyes glisten in the morning sun,

She tells her story ‘til the end of dawn,

As she sang to me her last song.


She sings a song of death,

Her mate was no longer there,

For she couldn’t handle him,

He had destroyed their nest,

She made him take a rest,

By pushing something sharp into his chest,

For she had become obsessed with another,

And no longer were they in love with each other.


She sang her song

Of wanting to be with me,

It lasted long,

All her cries and pleas,

But she was no longer beautiful to me,

She was a monster in disguise,

A monster and not a bird,

For I understood,

That she loved that I listened

To her beautiful songs,

But now everything has come out all wrong.


Her songs have turned upside down,

No longer any sweet sounds.


She sings of hate as she sings to me,

She sings of betrayed love ending unhappily,

She sings of death and fate,

She sings of not being able to concentrate,

She sings of justice and doing no wrongs.


“Songs of nothing,” she proclaimed,

That’s when I thought her to be insane.


I damned her from my sight,

Closed the window tight,

So that I may sleep in peace,

So that I may dream,

But she would knock on the door with her beak,

Not letting me enjoy my sleep.


It was her problem and not mine,

She knocks on the door and sings more lines,

But I do not listen and cover my ears

For I no longer want to hear.


She sees my rejection and sings her last song,

I cannot hear it, but only see her lips moving along,

I can only guess what she sang,

But it would not be the same.


I watched her sing,

But I didn’t hear anything

As she dropped herself from the windowsill,

Everything stood so still,

She froze herself and didn’t flap her wings,

No longer would she sing sweet melodies.


Right now.

I lay there in the middle of the night,

Waiting for her knocks,

But she does not come.

I sing a song to myself,

Trying to put myself to sleep,

But the song is not the same as hers,

For mine was much worse.


I sing a song of sorrow and loss,

I sing a song of the hate and destruction in a home,

I sing a song of the brave and their costs,

I sing a song to put me to sleep,

I sing a song and begin to weep,

I sing a song nothing like hers,

I sing a song much, much worse.


I sing a song until dawn,

One that goes on and on

Of the story of the bluebird that sang beautiful songs,

But no longer was part of this world

Because, she was long gone.