Some Other Stuff I Found In My Drafts

By "drafts," I mean my Gmail draft folder. I used to type all of my stories there, before I hooked up to Google Docs. That was quite a transformation.

Anyway, I figured I might as well share these, since I'll be focusing on writing about the trip to Chile and may be distracted for a very long time.

Title: Tell Me What I Don't Know

Let it go.

If it was meant to be yours, then it will come back.

If it doesn't, then it wasn't meant to be.

I've gone on and on and on,

beyond everything I've known,

went past the borders

of everything I'd seen,

and now I'm on the edge

of the world I've grown to know,

and I'm looking down,

looking down.

I'm holding onto my dreams,

grasping onto them,

just like you told me so;

I'm afraid that once I let go,

they'll disappear on me,

cause they're not really mine.

I'm holding onto my identity,

refusing to release my hands,

and set it free,

I know that if I give in,

I'll never see it again,

cause this isn't the real me.

(this isn't the real me)

I'm looking down,

there's something holding me back,

there's a reason why

I'm not jumping yet.

I want to let it go,

to have nothing to worry anymore,

to free-fall,

to never have to think again.
But there's something holding me back,

something rooting me to the ground,

something I haven't done yet,

something I'm afraid to lose.

I want to escape this world,

run away as far as I can,

but what's on the other side?

What will I see?

I want to run away, run away,

jump off,

and fly high

away from everything I've known,

everything I've kept dear,

no more strings to hold me back,

no more memories of the past,

just me and myself,

alone where I want to be.

I want to love him.

I know he doesn't love me. It's in the way he talks, the nonchalant way he looks at me, the way we don't talk without someone else there, or something else there. The way I can't say hi to him in the hall, and he doesn't care. The way he comments about me, always something I can't do or I'm not, something I've managed to do wrong. The way he doesn't notice, how he didn't know my name even, for so long.

But I want to believe. I want to believe that, when he talks about the pencil I've lost and found again, that he's remembered and that he cares. I want to believe that he actually makes eye contact when we pass by each other. I want to believe that he's only mean because he's trying to get my attention.

I know there are other explanations for those small things that makes me want to think that he loves me. There always are. And there's no way he could ever possibly love me.

I know I can't love him, either. Not because he doesn't love me, although that might help my argument. It's because I'm in love with someone else. I'm in love with something else.

I never did get over Dray. What he represented, really. I had always been, and still am, in love with the notion of love itself. So when my heart beats faster when I see him, or when I ogle at his hair and his composure, it's because I want to be in love so badly, because I want to love, because I'm afraid of not loving, of losing this one thing that makes my dreams the fantastical worlds they are and gives me hope to live on every day.

I'm afraid. So I'm grasping at the little ends that could possibly sustain me.

Even if he did love me, and I know he doesn't, it wouldn't be fair to love him.

And I can't cave in, so I'm using other people to fill in the gap, and it's unfair to everyone. But I don't know what else to do. I'm glad I've never seen him smile, because if I do, I might just lose control over my emotions.

I hate these windows.

I hate their taunting ways, as if they're beckoning out to me, calling for my attention. It's as if they're screaming, "Come, come out, can't you see what we're offering beyond? The freedom, the exhilaration, everything. If you can make it through, then all of this is yours." I stare out them, and I want to break through, so desperately. I want to jump out and free fall and not have to be in control anymore. I want to let go and watch everything spiral out of my hands, and know that, for once, it doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't matter who I am or what I can do, because everything is out of my control now, and I can finally, finally relax for once.

Of course, they won't let me. The windows. They tease me with freedom so close within grasp, but when I come up close to them, and put my palms against their cold glass panes, that freedom escapes my reach. I can't really break free; the windows are made to withstand my whims, and the small opening that they do offer provides only a coward's way out. They're holding me back, these windows, holding me back so that even though I'm so close to going down, I can't, not yet.

I hate these windows because they remind me of myself.

They remind me of the time when I would stare longingly at the fourteenth floor of my friend's apartment, and I would think to myself, "It's not that hard. Just wait until the school organizes that annual chocolate fund-raiser again, and then take a box of chocolate and a knife with you to the top floor. There's bound to be someone who wants to buy chocolate, and when they open the door for you, that's your chance. Force yourself inside. Run to the balcony, unlocking any doors with the knife if necessary, and climb onto the railing.

"Then jump. Jump as far as you can, away from the cement balcony, away from the grating bricks, away from the screaming people. Just as far as you can, head first, pummeling down with the wind in your ears, until everything turns black."

But the school fund-raiser came and went, and I'm still here, breathing, surviving, even if I hadn't been alive for so long. At the last moment, when everything was set out perfectly and all that was left was to sum up my courage, I couldn't do it. Something was holding me back, rooting me to the ground despite my pleas to fly.

I hate these windows because they remind me of my hesitance.

They remind me of the time when I would sit around a table, and everyone around me would talk and I would listen. They talked about anything and everything. They talked about misadventures in second grade, they talked about sleepovers and parties, they talked about teachers they shared and camps they went to together and trips they went on.

I would listen, as always. I wouldn't say anything, but I would listen. I would listen and take in every word, and imagine myself in all of those wonderful places, sharing all of those mystical memories. I would listen silently, so silently, in fact, that when the people around me get up and leave, they never notice my eavesdropping. They never realize that I was sharing a part in their world, a shadowy part without real substance, but a part nonetheless.

I want to be a part of someone else's memory, not just my own. But hearing of other people's memories, memories I would never have, is the next best thing, and I can't take anything for granted.

I hate these windows because they remind me of my transparency.

I hate these windows because they remind me of what I am about to do.

I wanted to take you to the window where I took off, but I think that wouldn't be possible. The police would be here, and they would cordon off that place and refuse to let anyone in. That's why I chose my math classroom. Of course, it's partially because the math classrooms are on the top floor, but it's also because I know they will not let anyone here for a long time. Math is the only class I share with you, and I thought you might want to escape my presence for a while, if only to clear your head and forget my pain better.

So, instead of that window, I chose this one instead. It's similar in layout, but you must have noticed that by now. I asked you to come here so I can show you how I felt when I put my hands on the glass and felt the warmth radiate away from my fingertips. It's a despairing action, knowing the last bit of familiarity and comfort is leaving you, forever, but it's also thrilling to know that you're going to begin an entire new journey.

This is the journey I have been waiting for, for my entire life, and I finally have the chance to realize it. No more conforming to other people's ideals. No more blending into the background. No more hoping only to lose hope again.

No more silence. No more ignorance. No more fear.

I still hate these windows, but now I'm ready shatter them.

I was such a moody girl when I wrote that one. I do like the math windows though. They're so big, and they're a wonderful excuse for Trevor to distract the class with. (One time, he opened the windows really, really wide, and he couldn't close them again. Mrs. MacDonald later went over and closed it rather easily.)

Title: If It's Really The End

The parchment is bound in leather;

it's supposed to be that way.

Black ink with hints of red and blue,

because it's supposed to be that way.

That's the way it had always been,

for every aspiring hero and dreaming heroine,

the way it had been for thousands of years,

eons upon eons,

until we lost meaning of the rituals,

and kept only the motions.

So the parchment is bound in leather,

written upon with black ink,

and thus we begin a story,

that has been told before.

Close your eyes, pretend for a moment;

see the seas where the sirens are?

Cover your ears and find their songs,

they sing only when you cannot hear.

The boats are a-rocking,

the bows are a-tipping,

place your feet on the deck,

let us begin:

a journey begun is a journey half-done.

The sea-winds are a-blowing,

through our hair and past our ears,

drowning out the sirens' songs,

bringing out the salt-fresh air,

harsh against our faces,

just so, just so,

just enough to remind us of our fears,

but not enough to guide us to our pasts.

Night comes, as nights are,

stealthy, silent, shivering,

with a hint of moonlight to guide us on,

glimmering as the sea may seem.

It is but a guise,

do not let your guard down,

for what poses as tranquility is only a mask.

Underneath the blanket of bedtime blue,

our enemies creep through unseen cracks;

they wait, they stay,

they grasp at the ends of your nightmares.

So stay awake and keep on guard,

only daybreak can chase away their courage,

and that is still far away, too far away.

Fish-belly white, that's what they say,

when the larks are singing their paean for the day.

It's fish-belly white now,

yet the larks are not singing;

do they know that we are here?

The shouts are already beginning,

the chaos already pulsating,

the horizon filled with an eerie silver,

glinting under the light.

Fish-belly white, that's what they say,

when the larks wake up from their dreams.

It's fish-belly white now,

yet the larks are not singing;

they will not sing anymore.

The trumpets are sounding,

golden against the sun,

the velvet red draping over what's left.

The crowds are gathering,

chanting with fervor,

as our boat glides back silent and deft.

Take off your helmet,

hear their praise;

the sirens are singing,

the sirens the crowds,

as they taunt with their sea-salt voice,

drowned out by the sea-winds:

fresh enough to clear our heads,

but not enough to turn us back.

The parchment is bound in leather,

written upon with black-red ink.

Words do not lie,

at least not to our hearts,

and so we call them stories:

for they cannot be real in this world,

not at once, not at all;

mere figments of our imagination,

repetitive motions without meaning,

just the way it has always been,

for those aspiring heroes and dreaming heroines,

for those hoping and those acting.

For the story had been told before,

so it cannot be real anymore.

One of the few times I wrote poetry. I am horrible at rhyming, so I go for word patterns and symbols and references instead. Nonetheless, I believe I write better stories than I do poetry, mostly because I have never even figured out what goes into poems besides emotions.

Title: SOS-Cheese Promo Article

If you're like me, you tend to camp out beside your computer. A lot.

In this technology-wired era, who hasn't used--or at least heard of--a computer? These days, the Internet is the norm, and anything not "connected" is outdated. But even the Information Age can't escape capitalism's opportunistic eyes, and despite the great gush of free materials becoming available every day, some things never change. 

Like the competition between mega-companies for our money. 

If you're like me, you must have heard of a few big names. Google, Microsoft, and Apple, just to name a few. The new gadgets they're pushing out might seem confusing to some--come on, what is the point of having an App on your iPhone that simply makes the screen dark enough you can see your own reflection?--but the competition is fierce. 

And boring. 

So what if Firefox's new browser offers privacy options so your pesky little sister can't see what sites you go on (especially not the porn sites, I hope)? Google's Chrome minimizes the amount of pixels--virtual blocks of imagination and binary--so your viewing space can be expanded by a line of text. And Internet Explorer just fixed one of its gazillion glitches (we're jumping for joy at this, seriously). 

So what if the new iPhone 3GS just came out, and now the battery life's been extended to half a day, instead of three hours (probably what the 3 in 3G stood for in the first place)? The Palm Pre and RIM's Blackberry are chasing its tail, despite their shares on Wall Street lagging behind. 

So what if Microsoft came out with Bing, so now, instead of saying "let's Google that", we can (to the dreams of the team at Microsoft) say "let's Bing that." Facebook is hiding its collection of information away from all the search engines, so you could never find what Aunt Jemma's secret ingredient for her chicken pot pies was anyway. (Although it probably isn't a secret anymore, if she wrote on her wall "CH1CK3N P0T P13=US3 Ch1CK3N!!!11!") 

All of that is BORING. Come on. You and I both camp out at our computers. We've seen everything new technology has to offer. "Reload" and "refresh" really aren't that different. Neither is having a blue cover instead of a black cover. Unless your entire room was in various shades of blue, I doubt it matters that much. (But if it was, then that's really cool and I applaud your creativity.) 

But something's here to change all of that. 

The limited edition of SOS-cheese. 

You're probably sitting in front of your computer, staring at the monitor, and going, "what?" 

SOS--short for Saviour Operating System--isn't some "next-generation" OS promoted by big-shot companies and featuring features that every other OS has (or has something similar) already. It's designed by a group of dedicated people who fused their passion into what they see every day. 

By now, you probably have a general idea of what I'm talking about. Yes, this new OS is entirely cheese-themed. Think about that! Instead of something boring like "Calculator" that just reminds you of your own discarded calculator somewhere in your attic, you have a nifty program called "Cheddar". Input an equation into Cheddar, and you'll get the solution, an option to explain how the solution was derived, and exporting options. All in a wonderfully delicious skin. Need to remove that red spot from Granma Sally's eyes so she doesn't look like an albino? Blue Cheese is there to help with expert tools to guide even the most novice photo editor into magazine-style success. Can't figure out where the nearest supermarket is so you can buy groceries (or more cheese)? Go on Selva and search away. 

Remember all of those complicated things you wanted to do, and all of those programs you bought or downloaded just so you could do them? Well, some memories are best kept in the past, and this is definitely one of them. With SOS, software of every type and category are already built into the OS, with no extra charge or hidden fees. And if there really is something you couldn't find, there's always the SOSForum where you can search for other users' input or come up with your own add-on. There are a gazillion ways to customize your experience, without that many glitches. 

If that still doesn't satisfy your palette, there's always the competitive pricing (and in this recession, that's what everyone really cares about anyway), amazing personalized customer service, and nifty surprises throughout the system that makes your day-to-day computer stalking so much nicer.

Besides, what better way for your stomach to protest when you've been sitting in front of the screen too long than to stare at gourmet cheese?

Ooh, a fun piece I wrote while I was bored during the summer. I've been trying to get Stella to create SOS-Cheese ever since I wrote this article. I haven't succeeded yet.

Title: Imaginary Festival Promo Article

Something's in the air--and it's not just the fact that all the mint my mom plants mysteriously disappears (along with tell-tale dirt next to the pot).

Something much bigger is going on.

It's time for the (now) annual Imaginary Festival. And if you don't know what that means yet, don't fret. There's plenty of time to learn. After all, one of the themes of this year's Imaginary Festival is Procrastination. Good news for those people out there who put off their work until the last minute: you can attend this year's Festival without worrying about not finishing your work (not that you do, do you?). You can work on the putting-off bit at the Festival and come home all prepared to actually start.

And if you're not ready, there's always a chance to bring home some souvenirs.

This year's Festival also offers plenty of other things to do. Come early in the mornings (and by early, we mean some time before 2pm, please--it's not fun to be too late) and see if you're one of the lucky winners to the daily Early Bird Giveaways. Prizes include secret codes to pretty blue colors, pop-up chibi pictures, and the extremely coveted chance to spend a day with the imaginary friend of founder Emma Jinery. According to inside sources, pixelated cookies are also offered, but only on select days. Hmm, I wonder on which days? (Here's a hint: another of this year's Festival theme is 25.)

If you're not an early riser, there are activities you can indulge in as well. If you're an adventure-seeker, you can participate in the Imagining-There's-A-Parachute-Where-There-Is-None-When-You're-Jumping-Off-A-Plane. You get to imagine your own color and brand of parachute! Imagine that (no pun intended). Unfortunately, the part where you're jumping off the plane isn't imaginary so far, so if you have a weak stomach (or if you don't have an exoskeleton, real or imaginary) I would not recommend this game.

If you would rather participate in the more creative (and much more imaginary) task of telling stories, then you absolutely have to come to the Horror Hedge. Located in a dark, suspicious part of the Festival grounds, right next to the famous hedgeworks, the Horror Hedge is where the truly creative congregate every year (well, starting now, that is) to add their part to the scariest, most bone-chilling horror story of the year. Beware: not all of the identities of the guests to this event are verified, so the Festival makes no guarantee that any details are completely imaginary. They just shun upon using real tidbits.

If you're just looking for a traditional Festival where you and your family and friends can have fun, then there is no better place to look than the Imaginary Festival. Not only do they offer delicious made-up sugar cones (I couldn't stop myself from having two, and had to procrastinate about exercising afterward to shed those imaginary calories), cinnamon-sprinkled air, and delicacies such as the invisible punch, this year, Cam Pletephic is bringing his world-famous Fairies-on-a-Rod. Don't worry, no real fairies were used in making these treats, but they're delectable just the same. (That is, if you can figure out where you should bite, as you can't see them either.)

Other special events at the Festival include Imagining-Your-Dream-Home, Paint-Your-Nails-Groange, nightly dances, and so much more!

If you have not already planned a trip ages ago to some boring place like Meidop Island or Fyk Shunol City, come by the Imaginary Festival before the Procrastination Period is over and this year's Festival officially ends!


Events free-lance writer Ginny

(DISCLAIMER: Neither this publication nor the writer of this article is affiliated with any of the events and activities aforementioned and will not be responsible for any loss, damage or otherwise incident resulting from reading and/or acting upon this article. Copyrights reserved for Ginny. No part of this publication may be reproduced without permission from the author and the original distributor. Please contact your distributor for questions or comments.)

My first fictional promo piece. You can obviously tell that this one came first because it outright mentions being imaginary. Oh, and, try saying some of the proper nouns out loud.