Thursday, March 30, 2006

The Fourth Installment of a Series

The watery depths hid secrets that told of human convalescence. Some sea creatures only showed their scales in the cold, when the water turned to ice and their covert kingdoms were safe from human hands. The broken and misplaced all had a place in this underwater toy chest. They wore shapes of different sizes, some with bloated flesh that mingled on their broken bodies from the years before, some with scars in the shape of tears that remained to remind them of their pasts, and all with a sort of forgotten haze that often clouded their almost translucent, beady eyes.

The winter which had caused the girl her wrenching death would be her saving grace, for these creatures took pity on their own.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

The Third Installment of a Series

The water was merciless, clutching and snatching at the fabric of her clothes, weighing her down. The only light in the depths was that from the pure white snow that fell upon the ice in a haze; even daylight did not fracture the water’s shadows. The lack of oxygen caused her to inhale sharply and she immediately regretted it. The cold liquid filled her mouth and nose and drowned her lungs. One hand clawed at the ice futilely as she drifted like a feather through the molasses. She wished even more now that summer would come again and thaw her icy prison. Though, the numbed sensation of dying made her forget the cold which had previously caused her so much pain. The progressions of drowning under a thick layer of ice may have even created warmth against her struggles for life.

As her breathless body fell down to the floor of the lake, the blizzard howled even more fiercely, as if acknowledging her death, and covering it below a thick blanket of newly fallen snow.

(To be continued...)

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

The Second Installment of a Series

The ice trapped her in eloquence, he said later, reassuring himself of the truths that he had committed were not subject to deceit.

That cold November day when the snow had chanced to descend the sky in a blizzard that blanketed the earth, Sol had dragged her body down to the lake. It was only a short walk from her house, where the blood stains were still fresh. The snow had made a thick layer on the ground. He took a discrete path that was routed from her house to the lake; a steep incline that weaved around tall trees. He lost his balance twice, and once the girl slipped from his grasp, tumbling down the hill only to be stopped by a tree stump. His groans resonated through the trees, picked up by branches that quivered out of cold and fear.

Making his way to what he assumed was the deepest part of the lake; Sol dragged the girl across, her body causing a path in the layer of snow that was resting on the ice. The ice creaked and sighed under the weight of him and the girl. Its protests were ignored, however, as Sol bent down on his knees and grabbed a tent pick out of his jacket pocket. He drew back and shoved it into the ice in front of him. It chipped slightly but made no show of going through. From his other pocket, Sol pulled out a large hammer. Ensuring that the pick would stand on its own in the small dent, Sol pulled back and with all his remaining effort hit the pick. The ice cracked and Sol jumped backwards, carefully where he placed his feet. He glanced at it momentarily before hitting it twice more with the hammer, each time jumping back again as the ice split and divided.

When he was finally satisfied, he went back to the girl. A moment’s inspection caused him to frown. He pulled her back to the shoreline and hid her body under some branches. Without a second thought he ran back to the house and retrieved the shovel which had been abandoned on the carpeted floor. The shovel he wanted this time for digging. It took him longer than he thought, because the ground had frozen, but he finally uprooted the stump of the tree. He rolled it down to the lake and placed it by the spot where he had cracked the ice. Then he found the girl and carefully removed the branches from her. He imagined that she would’ve gotten heavier as he dragged her because her corpse would stiffen, but he was surprised that it was as light as it was and even smiled as he drew closer to the stump and the ice. The shovel, which he had brought when he grabbed the stump, he used to break the cracked iced away. He shoved it down into the depths of the glacial water, plunging it under the other ice so that he had an adequate opening. When he was finished, he threw the shovel to the side and picked up the girl.

He kissed her frozen lips and brushed the snowflakes from her eyelashes as he said, “I’ll always know where to find you. I’m sorry this had to end, but you’re much too cold.”

He chuckled slightly to himself before moving to the hole in the ice. A sudden gust of wind caused the trees to chatter and Sol panicked and turned, dropping the girl to the ice audibly. His paranoia finally began to show and the light in his eyes dimmed considerably. Unintentionally, his whole body began to shake and he didn’t hear the tiny gasp of breath that was sought on the ice floor, or the fluttering that caused blurred sight in her eyes. His own breath coming in ragged rasps, Sol reached down and clutched her elbow, pulling her swiftly into the frigid water. He didn’t notice the way she struggled blindly to reach the surface, nor did he notice her call his name before her lips hit the lake. Perhaps he was too busy positioning the tree stump over the hole so no one would see her body, or perhaps he knew that she was alive. It was simply too late to go back.

(To be continued...)

Monday, March 27, 2006

The First Installment of a Series

{Author's note: I have decided, since this is taking me a bit longer than I thought to write, that I will post it in segments. This is the first. I hope it causes some suspense...I'm still not sure if I like it yet.}

She used to say that the winters lasted too long; that they were too harsh in their introductions and too rude in their dwellings. She was constantly a prisoner to the cold. Her hands were forever rough and cracked; her fingers split open to reveal the insecurities - her fragile nature. Her hair, the colour of charcoal, was shoved impulsively under a knitted toque. Sometimes, when she went walking late at night, as she often did in the later days, she would come back with cobalt-blue lips and eyes that spoke of sea glass in both tone and severity. In a way, she was right about the winters. On cold nights they would whisper of her demise, and she wouldn’t sleep until the snow stopped falling; an occurrence that often lasted for days and days.

Therefore, when the summer seemed to be swept in by a man with the name of Ernest Sol, the sleepless girl attached herself to his presence like driftwood caught up by a tidal wave, rushing in to shore before crashing in a violent dance of timber and sea spray on the banks.

Sol was a tormented painter, a transient, who fell upon love and luck when he was short of change. He became captured by her hair, and used the medium as inspirations for a few of his later artworks, which he would entitle in ways like, “Dark Misery.” His hand would brush along the insides of her arms, and stroke crosswise along her face, cutting close to her lips and making her tremble in a way she could not cloak. They would sit along the beach, his hand in hers as they scattered the remains for sea glass that matched her eyes. She fell hard for his love. She needed something to cling to.

In a way, it started because of the glass. He would press it close to her hand; enfold her fingers around the edges. He would pressure her fist together until blood dripped from her palm and onto the sand, staining it crimson. He would paint pictures on her cheeks from the red. He would tell her that she was a river goddess; an ancient Aztec princess. She would smile and take in his warmth; the fire that she could never quite grasp. But from the day he first cut her, she began to feel the cold of winter creeping up. She would shiver as she traced the outlines on her palm, feeling where the cold had seeped in through the cracks, and ran through her veins.

One eventual November day, the snow began to drift earthwards in a torrent. A heavy realization fell on the girl, whose days had been numbered since the summer. She panicked in her similar way and fled to the rooftops to seek out the sky. Her summer was leaving, and all she had left was a proverb; Sol, the painter, who, as she was transcending the passage of seasons, was packing his bags and leaving with the summer.

She fled down the creaky stairs just as he picked up the last of his luggage and turned towards the door. Her eyes lit with alarm and she pressed her cheek to his arm, holding it as she fell fast to the floor in an effort to cease him with her body. He reacted to her violent actions sharply, shaking the desperate girl off of him with equal brutality. She hit the baseboards with a crack, her elbow twisting painfully against the weight of her body.

For a moment, Sol paused and bent down, his eyes reflecting remorse. She cried out, but less at the pain than at the ease the cold could reach her now. Cringing to a sitting position, she took no motion to cease the hurt, but, instead, hooked Sol’s jacket, clawing at the fabric for some substance in which to grasp. Her face contorted in a plea for sympathy. Her eyes held her desperation.

Whatever Sol had of regret before had vanished as his disgust for the girl grew, and he tried to pull himself away from her. Her contorted fingers held, and his attempt to free himself from her gravity was futile.

“Please…,” she pleaded. “Don’t go. Please…”

He panicked and grabbed the arm which held him. His fingers bit into her flesh, bruising and piercing the skin. She tried to pull her arm in and away, but he held tight. She winced; the cold was permeating her whole body.

But still she begged him to stay.

He attempted to comprehend her sudden lack of sanity, but his mind was still adrift in the realization that he had to leave now or he never would. He dropped his suitcase of brush strokes and paint, and struck her across her sorrowed face. His fingernail skimmed the depression under her left eye and cut it open to reveal the soft tissue underneath. She fell blindly for a moment; a thud echoing across the floorboards. In one quick movement, she reached with her right hand to the suitcase he had dropped. She threw it across the room as hard as she could muster in an effort to cause him distress, and make him stay, if only a short while longer.

The shock on his face was faded out by the anger that drifted down his features. The paints had broken and oozed down the walls like fresh blood, the brushes snapped, and the paper fluttered down to gravity in a slow circular motion. He fled the house just as quickly as the suitcase smashed against the wall.

The girl howled her anguish and crawled towards the door. As she gasped her way across the floor, she let out tiny sobs and pleas of her fraught nature. She thought he was gone forever.

She was wrong. Sol came back. His face wrenched in rage, he kicked open the door, inches away from her face. Her silence showed the surprise she felt, but he paid no heed. His arms nestled a tool with a long handle and a broad scoop made of metal. She realized too late that he had not left her, but simply that he had gone to the garage in search for a shovel.

The whimper caught in her throat and she scrambled backwards haphazardly. He walked slowly towards her, his feet clad in thick boots. He stepped carefully around her shivering body, stepping cautiously on her fingers, and pressing down with thoughtful force.

He asked of her only one request, “Stand up.” When she hesitated, he bent down and grabbed her broken elbow, pulling her up by the pain alone. She trembled and he traced the back of his hand across her cheek and down to her lips.

“I wish I could’ve captured your face. Your eyes are just so cold…so lifeless.” He said this with a sense of sympathy, although his eyes still spoke of his fury. “Maybe I can still keep you in time. Put you somewhere you’ll never leave. Somewhere I’ll always be able to find you.”

His words ricocheted off the metal of the shovel as it struck the side of her head, and she fell to the floor like a snowflake falling to earth.

(To be continued...)

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Another really striking movie that just sponged into my subconscious and I couldn't get rid of that shaky feeling after watching it was Capote.
And it wasn't so much the acting of the main character, but of one of the criminals. I felt like I could really identify with him or something...I don't know, I wrote a whole big thing in my semi-journal, but I don't want to put it here because I wouldn't want to ruin the movie for anyone who hasn't seen it. Anyway, it just really wrenched my heart and I couldn't stop thinking about the one guy's face. Haunting. The human condition is so complex, and morality even stranger.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Howl's Moving Castle (I'm not a big fan of anime movies, but I really liked this one. Recommended) - I wish I had something (someone?) to risk everything for

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

If dreams are really alternate realities...I think I would choose the alternate reality.

If I can control the way I want my dream to go, and our waking life is just a dream, can I, then, control my waking life to such a degree?

Are our waking states merely memories or reflections of life? How do we know that this life is real? And why do we let our fears control that reality?

Are we afraid to live, or afraid to die?

Are we just figments of someone's imagination? Or are they all figments of our imagination?

Why do we follow rules that have been set up by an establishment based upon a general view? Should we not do what we believe in our souls is right for us? And when are simply taking advantage of the system?

Can we go beyond the limits and boundaries of reality and society's cryptic laws, and not know it because of the chains of moral degradation and society's views on what they think we should be doing?

Is this all just one big dream, or nightmare?

Saturday, March 11, 2006

I like getting together with the Youthwriters. It kind of gives me a sense of gravity. Either that or it suspends my gravity. The world is so different to them, and yet vaguely similar. I had several feelings of deja vu while I was there, and I had never before been to Mike's house. It was almost as if I had dreamt of it before...that feeling. I feel oddly placed and yet I am intrigued by their words. In any case, it was nice to see them again.

Friday, March 10, 2006

{Something I wrote a while ago, and then added to.}

Her fingers clawed at the surface.
Deep scratches inlaid in the furniture.
Long gashes cringed down the walls.

An empty record played the hauntings
Of the years gone past. Polished surfaces,
Now covered with dust. Flesh uncovering
Bone, as it was slowly eaten away by time,
And monsters in the dark. Eyelashes peeling
Away and falling like feathers through the hot air.

The drapes pulled close to each other,
Hiding the secrets that are whispered
By lovers at the gate.

Every memory rewinding in the slow machine,
Clicking tuneless and dull like her mind,
Cringing away from the serotonin. Hot needles
In flesh, melting away bone. Hair follicles snapping
And dancing away to the ceiling,
Attracted by the heat and crusted blood.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006


I need to update.

Reminder: Ice.

Rant of the day: I wish it would stay warm....and, um, oh, Our Lady Peace is supposed to be here sometime. So...I need to find someone who wants to go with me, because they are amazing.
(Anyone? Anyone at all? Tickets go on Any takers? Maybe I'll be cool and go by myself. Ha!)

That's all folks...I seem to be misusing my time...I wish I had more of it.

Friday, March 03, 2006

I think I have to do some re-evaluating.

I think we all need moments of crushing insanity to get over ourselves. Well, to have other people help us get over ourselves. I realize that I don't always feel a certain way. Some days I might feel fat, and some days I might feel skinny and some days nothing will matter. I want to say now that I am glad for my friends.

For Elly, because she helps me slap my stupid paranoia in the face, and is always there with a positive notion. I don't even understand sometimes how she can be so patient with me. She's an angel. A snow angel, brought to life. She always puts things so logically, and so creatively. She makes me realize the simple things in life and always puts things delicately. I can't even put into words how much she means to me.

And For Sarah, for if I didn't have Sarah, I would be very lost in the world. She is the reason I have fun. She is always exuberant and happy. She is like..haha, the candle of God...oo, Beowulf reference. The little everythings that make up whatever we do. If you hadn't dragged me kicking and screaming into your life, I might just be kicking and screaming on the inside, without anywhere to turn, without a great friend to laugh with. You mean every little thing, and every big thing, and, simply, everything.

I am sorry for the irrational thinking. I guess sometimes I'm just a basketcase. We all are. Sometimes we even want to strangle each other, or hit ourselves over the head with giant mallets. But we get through, because we are the revolution. We are beautiful.

Much Love, Always.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

More reflecting...

I hate this.
I check my weight at least once a day. I looked at myself in the mirror for a good 5-10 minutes tonight, examining the little things I want to change, everything I want to change, my whole self. Every day is a struggle. Most of the time it ends in me not really caring either way, and by saying not caring, I mean I don't solve the issue but it never gets any more extreme. Yeah, I could probably do more things to get fit, eat better, all the tricks.

But what really gets me wondering, the question I have to keep coming back to day upon day is "Am I fat?" And I don't mean overweight, because that's a whole other issue, but I mean fat in the way of describing words. Like you would recall a girl you remembered skinny with blonde hair and neat shoes. Like you might remember in your mind that girl that was on the heavy side, not overweight, but you remember her as yourself thinking, I don't want to ever be like that.

What I want to know is, am I pretty? Could I pass for one of those girls on magazine covers? I don't think they allow love-handle flab, or stretch marks or eyebrows that aren't perfectly aligned. And I know what you're thinking. That doesn't matter! But it does. If it didn't matter there wouldn't be anorexia or bulimia, and girls wouldn't always be comparing themselves to other girls. See, if you were skinny and pretty and you had the perfect physical features and yet you still had your same personality, would you not get more advantages in life? You'd still be you on the outside, but more people would like you. You'd be able to choose which ones were ones that you really wanted to hang out with, because you're beautiful and people listen to beautiful people because they want to be beautiful and they're hoping some of it will rub off of you. Whereas, if you're an ugly person, although you may have a beautiful personality, you aren't going to get the same opportunities as that skinny, pretty girl. If you really want to be a model and you have a wonderful soul, but crooked teeth or a bit of flab, you're not going to be able to do that unless you work your butt off and pay a million dollars to fix your teeth and have liposuction.

So, should we change the ads and billboards and magazine covers to things more appropriate for young women, and for women everywhere?Yeah. Should we make them more like dove commercials? Yeah. Because this negative self-image crap sucks. I feel like that girl who thinks she's fat in the dove commercial. Except, I have my own perception, so I never really know what other people see. Except that they aren't going to tell me that I'm fat because they think that would be mean or hurt my self-image. But it's worse not knowing I think, than being told the truth.

I don't really know what the point of this rant was. I just felt I needed to release some of these stupid self-image things. I just...I keep hearing people on the bus and everywhere and they talk about nothing. They talk about fat girls and ugly girls and I's too much of the majority. I guess I'm going back to the whole, where have all the intelligent people gone? Where are all the guys that don't like to degrade women? Where are all the girls that don't degrade each other?

I don't know anymore. I'm going to go to sleep, so I can try and dream away this stress, and these molecules that make up my existence. So maybe, I can wake up and be beautiful.