Some Old Things In Drafts

"I know there's something in the wake of your smile, I get a notion from the look in your eyes, yeah."—Listen to Your Heart, Roxette


Molly Lambert has an interesting way of writing. She starts out with something ordinary, like telephone lines against a sunset, and expands it into something seemingly unrelated, like Hamlet, and then wraps it up with a post title and a link title that are completely different. And the pictures too. They make every post something special, something worth reading (it helps too that the pictures break up the dense text).

I wanted to clear out my drafts because the number of total posts was misleading (some of them will probably never, ever see the light of day) and also because I reread this the other day and remembered Molly. She is something special. She has since left "This Recording," but she was the reason I read through all of those wordy posts even though I knew I had assignments of my own due the next day.

There are days I wish I could write like her. But that takes skill. That takes discipline, tremendous amounts of it. And with my brain addled with lack of sleep and the instantaneous skimming I have acquired by reading through my collection of food blogs, I don't have that quite yet.

It is the difference between the good writers and the great writers, although I am not either yet, and perhaps at this rate never will be.

I still remember this particular post. Telephone lines breaking up the sky. Some sort of strange irony that they are not at odds but instead harmonious. I stared at two pigeons today in the middle of campus, watched them squeeze under the wrought-iron fence, their heads bobbing. I did not know pigeons bobbed their heads before "Pooch Café." Even though I must have seen a hundred pigeons before, if not more.

What else have I never known?

Yuma asked me today if I had read Tea's latest blog post, and of course I have. I am subscribed to her in my RSS feed, I cannot escape it. He said it reminded him of me. What were his exact words? Something about being angsty, and it not being the point that I refuted him with the concrete fact that I was not hurt.

But he is more often right than I am. Yesterday a boy in my English class (for engineers) walked with me to my next classroom, and told me he was going to go to the engineering library. He had taken the long way by walking with me, but he said the shortcut was closed. Yuma said he was "hitting on me," but he has been saying that about almost every boy I have talked with. Is he really right, or is he being insecure?

We are reading The Tale of Despereaux right now. Or rather, Yuma is reading it to me, chapter by chapter, on nights when we can both fulfill our promises. We are on the chapter where Despereaux's mother says, "Adieu." It is a sad chapter. There are more sad chapters following it.

I told him, "When we get to the happily ever after we will be able to live happily ever after as well."

His answer was, "We'll see." It is his answer for the future, for our future. He is living it day by day, that is his way of coping. I am living it by focusing on the end. That is my way of coping.

I told Nyx today that I might be visiting Beavertown during my Thanksgiving, and that if I do I would like to see her before I go back. She asked, "Are you going to see Yuma?"

And then said, "I heard you guys broke it off."

Have we?

Yuma introduced me last night to his going-to-forbidden-places-and-physics buddy as "my ex." He signed off one of his chats to me today as "my lovely." Maybe this is his double life, his way of separating what he feels and what he wants to feel. But I am assuming now. I am taking a literary book off the shelf and remarking on its symbolism without going inside the head of the author.

When he read my blog the other night Yuma said, "I always get nervous when you write about me. I don't know what you are going to say."

Maybe that is part of the problem. There is a part of me I do not speak of, a part I only write of. No matter how much we talk and how much he asks me, he will never know my true impression of him. Sometimes I do not know either. The words come out and they are just right, they hint at something I otherwise would never have guessed. Or they are not right, and I erase them, and try again and again.

One of my other drafts was about an airport terminal. Maybe I will post it some day when I have the chance. It is silly now, because I have fulfilled my flying dream, I have seen the vast blue sky at an altitude above the meanest rain cloud.

Here is an excerpt of it, of one of the very last paragraphs I wrote before I got distracted by something else:


I have not been imagining things for a very long time now. It is because of content—when I am happy, I tend not to want to escape through my mind. At least I thought I was happy. In many ways, I am. I love being able to lean back and knowing that someone will catch me before I fall. I love skipping down the halls and not being alone. I have had one too many solitary hopscotch games.


But there is a part of me that is the loner in the rain, the one who is perfectly happy to be cold and drenched and with no one else to reach out with a hand. The one who can watch snow drift for hours and be at peace, because there is not a soul to take this away. Not a soul to break the news of reality.

It is silly to mention this now. Yuma says there are boys here who will make me happy. Who I can cuddle with and not feel lonely. I always stop listening before he goes on.

Tea said I should only chase after him if I am absolutely, 100% dedicated. And I see why now. It is extremely frustrating to reach out every time and be rebuffed, to want to be upset but knowing it would only weaken my stance. On the bright side I will probably be much better at sales pitches by the end of this.

I am all out of milk now, although not yet out of cereal. I was going to buy milk this morning, or maybe Tuesday morning, but when you go to bed in the not-so-early morning you wake up in the almost-not-morning morning. And other things happen. Like today I went to a roundtable discussion with several other engineers from other years and with some company reps from this oil and gas company, and they have all been mentioning internships and Jessica and I are left with wondering what we should do.

"My GPA will be so good this semester," Jessica said. "I am going to get straight As because the classes are so easy."

I am going to get straight As too, or at least I have to, or else I will not have the 3.7 GPA I need to keep my scholarship. It is a scary proposition, but I have heard it is do-able. At least for this semester, which means I will at least have the money for next semester, and maybe I can live it out that way, or maybe I can just learn to the best I can and not worry about grades, because those things come naturally after learning.

And lots and lots of work. Which means lots and lots of time.

Yuma has repeatedly mentioned that I should just do the things I want to do and not worry about conforming to his schedule. But I cannot do that. Because if he is unwilling to compromise then the only way I will get to talk with him is by compromising myself. It is silly, it is hard, and it is taking its toll on my preferred bedtime.

I suppose that is inevitable.

In the Never Before Seen, Exclusive Side of Nephria

Namely, my unpublished drafts. Events and such that once upon a time merited some words, but then was either not important enough to be published (because other, more important things came up), or I got sidetracked and therefore did not find the time or effort to finish and publish them. Well, I'm doing a summer cleaning of sorts, in tune with my neighbor cutting down all the trees surrounding his house because one happened to be uprooted in the storm a few days earlier.

Other thing(s) before I begin: I passed my permit test! Well, sort of. I took the vision test first, which was basically me squinting and making up numbers, and the testing official being distracted (and talking to someone else) while saying, "All right, you passed, go on to the written part." Then I stood between two guys also taking the permit test, one of which passed, and one of which failed. After that, the testing official (someone else, I think) told me I had to wait because they were checking whether I was an illegal immigrant and other things like that. I mean, my visa (in my passport) wasn't enough? If I were illegal, how did I ever survive two years here?

Alas, it's protocol.

So I'm waiting to get my permit (hopefully) on Tuesday, the same day my dad leaves for Florida. On our way back from the DMV, my mom told me about the intricacies of turning (she doesn't use the hand method mentioned in the book) and the gas/brake pedal.

Now onto excerpts of my unpublished fun-stuffs.


Jan. 20th: Addicted to Freedom

Exams are finally over! I've been thinking about writing this post (what little time I had not cramming for calc or writing stories about Owen), and finally, it's time!

Alas, freedom is like that thing with feathers that perches in your soul, and comes out every so often, but is soon harnessed back by the chains of reality.

Well, the first part came from a poem by Emily Dickinson describing hope (which was on my English midterms), and I made the second part up.

The actual "exams" part of exams wasn't too bad, I suppose. I talked to Kyle after our stat exam, and he said it was just as he expected.

Even the fact that Mrs. MacDonald wasn't there.

But enough about them!

It's finally time to (besides finishing my EOQR) start on the miserable path of Owen-ness.

I would ask for your opinion, Owen, but considering you probably will never read my blog (or even know that you're Owen on here), I guess I'm on my own.

Jan. 23: Letters to Allie

Forty minutes to midnight.

He sat there, a piece of paper in his hand, musing. It was not in his nature to think—he was more of a do now, think later kind of person, as the twins once noted. The twins were the more contemplative types, thinking over every characteristic of the people they encountered, but he had always loved actions more than thoughts.

Right now, he wondered if it was too late to change his habits. Doing had gotten him nowhere, and now he needed answers.

Time was not waiting for him as it had always done.

He picked up the phone from his desk, stared at the glowing numbers. Who to ask? Who knew what he wanted to know? Who could he trust?

He had made enough enemies, he knew that. He had made enough mistakes. But this was one mistake he could not afford to make, one that could break his spring, crush him until he forgot who he was and why he was.

Thirty-seven minutes to midnight.


Feb. 1: Overdue-Part II

As we eventually all settled back into our rooms, with enormous amounts of junk food, we began to refocus on the problem. Or, at least, we tried to refocus on the problem. The fact that every ten minutes or so, a commercial about Saf-t-Swim, coupled with a matching "jingle" set to the tune of the Barney's theme song, would pop out of nowhere was slightly irritating.

Apparently, I was not the only one.

"If I hear that song one more time," Mogley said, "I will kill someone."

We all stared at Reese (except himself, of course).

"What?" Reese asked. "What did I do?"

"Okay everyone," Ben said. "Let's focus. What do we still need to do?"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe search up how far our food travels? Ugh, I think I'm starting to get sick from all the cheese I ate."

I had not mentioned this before, but for lunch, I had ordered the all-cheese sandwich, because I was not a fan of turkey and I thought that cheese might have been a nice alternative. Well, the cheese was good. There was just so much of it, all dripping down everywhere. I even splattered some on the ground.

"And the candy," Joss added, motioning to the bag of candy I had in front of me.

"Hey," Reese said. "Let's turn off the lights."

I had no idea where this suggestion came from, or why, but we all agreed to it to some extent. The sun was still out by that time (although it may have been cloudy; I don't remember), so it was fairly bright in the room, especially with the light from the Smartboard. We resumed our old sitting positions, with Mogley and Ben at the desks, Joss and I on the ground, and Reese probably floating around somewhere. None of us really cared where he was, as long as he didn't distract us.

"I'm going to go get some water," Reese suddenly said. "Anyone wants to come?"

"Nope," I said.

"No," Joss said. "But get me a bag of candy while you're there."

"Oh, and get me a tea," Ben said. "What do they have?"

"Peach, lemonade, and berry."

"Okay," Ben said. "Get me a peach tea."

"Get me a berry tea," Mogley said.

"Does anyone else want drinks?" Reese asked, exasperation in his voice. But with him, it could have just been his normal voice.

"Nope," I said.

"Don't forget my tea," Mogley said.

"And don't forget my candy," Joss said.

Reese disappeared into the hallway. After a while, he came back, several food and drink items in hand.

"Here's your candy," Reese said, handing Joss a bag. He placed a can in front of Mogley. "And here's your drink."

"Did you remember my peach tea?" Ben asked.

"Oh, darn," Reese said. "I forgot."

"Cherry?" Joss exclaimed as he examined his candy closer. "Of all the flavors, you had to get cherry?"

"This tastes bad," Mogley said, after having tasted his berry tea.

"Okay, okay," Reese said. "I'll get everyone new drinks. What do you want?"

"Peach tea," Ben said.

"Lemonade," Mogley said.

"Non-cherry flavored candy," Joss said.

"They don't have anything else," Reese said.

"Another peach tea for me as well," I said.

Reese sighed and left the room again. When he was gone, I turned to look at the group.

"Did you guys really want more drinks, or did you just want him gone?"

"A little of both," Mogley said.

Oh, I can feel love in the air already. We waited for Reese to come back, and then settled back into what we were supposed to do. Which included making random outbursts over whose grammar--or lack thereof--was more correct.

Mr. Flatgrass chose this moment to pop into our room.

"Hey guys," he said. "You guys turned off the lights? To conserve energy?"

We laughed and heartily agreed. After he left, Reese said:

"He didn't realize that we had the Smartboard on. This thing uses more energy than all of the lights combined."

"Really?" I asked. Or maybe Mogley asked. I don't remember, but we were probably thinking along the same lines.

"Yeah," Reese said. He turned off the Smartboard, plunging us into darkness. It was really dark by now, which just showed how efficient we were. We all protested for Reese to turn the Smartboard back on, because we couldn't see anything.

In the end, Reese gave in, but not before putting Blackle on the projector-side of his dual screen and depriving us of more light.

We resumed our work, posting all of our sources onto an Etherpad site so Reese could MLA it all. (And I know that MLA is probably not a verb, but it's more fun as one.) We each had our own signature color (mine was purple), and originally, we had each typed our names in the spot where we identify ourselves. But of course, that wasn't going to last.

"Hey Ginny," Joss poked me. "Check out the Etherpad thing."

I turned suspicious and ctrl-tabbed on Joss's (again with the possessives) computer--only because he had Chrome and I had Opera and Opera and Google Docs are not compatible, so we had switched computers--until I reached the Etherpad tab. There, next to the red block, was the name "God."

I immediately remembered the book Tea had talked about, and changed Joss's name to "Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret," and mine to "Yes, it's me, God."

"Mogley," I said, spying our next victim. "Can I see your Etherpad thing for a moment?"

Mogley stared at me skeptically. "Why?"

"Just checking something."

Reluctantly, Mogley handed over his computer. I typed in "It's me, Annie. I hate you, Margaret."

"What?" Mogley stared at me weirdly. Lots of staring going on lately, it seemed.

I scuttled back to my computer and started typing in the Etherpad chat window. Joss punctuated every few lines with some random comment, such as SPARTA. Of course. After a while, Mogley caught on to what we were doing as well, and changed his name to "Reese, if you read this, you are going to suffer in seven days."

"You're nice," I said, sarcastically. I really liked the Annie line, so I put it in Reese's namespot instead.

"Whatever," Mogley said. He called out to Reese to check Etherpad, so, of course, Reese joined in on our chat virtually.

Annie (Reese): what Mogley? (Reese had actually used another nickname, but that would probably make Mogley's identity too clear.)

God (apparently me): hey Annie.

Annie: hey God.

God: how's life, Annie?

Annie: it's great, God.

Margaret (Joss): LOL\

Annie: :(|

Margaret: LOLOLOLOLOL

Annie: ....... (and on and on and on, but I don't like the dots so much myself.)

Reese (Mogley): yo cease.

And of course, Reese (the real one) proceeded to spam the chat with lots of dots. I offered up a virtual challenge, saying that I could probably out-spam him. Reese took it on willingly, and we started spamming the entire chat with gibberish letters (me) and lines of dots (Reese).

Suddenly, Reese said, "Who's typing?"

Oh wow. So he didn't know it was me. Joss, Mogley, and I all started laughing (rather suspiciously). Ben just buried his head into his work.

"Come on, it's one of you guys. Who's typing? Joss?"

"It's not me," Joss said.

"So it's Mogley then," Reese concluded.

"Nope," Mogley said. "I think you can tell who I am in the chat."

"Come on, who is it?"

"The one person you're not guessing," Joss said, "is actually the one you're looking for."

Mar. 4: Test Mornings

I am very, very happy I am not a sophomore right now.

There are some things I do not like about junior year (research paper, hello? and in response to my English teacher's reply to Mogley's remark of not being a "published author," I would rather not be known for my research paper, what with its present quality), but let's face it. Standardized tests are miserable. Standardized tests that last for a very, very long period of time (weeks, in fact) is downright dreadful.

Apr. 18: Undoubtedly Bored Again

Was a questionnaire. Probably didn't post it because I had other, more interesting things to talk about later (i.e. Princeton). Will post it later, maybe. Dino's not in this one. Hmm.

May 4: Santiago's Where It's At

Okay, this reminds me, we (me, Gretchen, Tea, maybe others) are right now suspended, perhaps indefinitely, above the Pacific Ocean. Not a good place to be when you're in a plane. So hopefully I'll move us out of here.

But here's the excerpt:

Ever since our trip to Easter Island, we (meaning me, Gretch, and Tea) have been stranded in limbo land because of the late onslaught of tests and such, so we (mostly me) decided that now would be a good time to actually arrive at Santiago and not be indefinitely stranded in mid-air.

Then Gretchen told me that she, too, wishes to be somewhere (mostly Japan) and not stuck in mid-air where weird currents can blow us over to Area 51 where Dino hangs out on spare weekends communicating with the other robots and aliens in a modified Morse code, so I decided that, yes, today would be a good time to arrive at Santiago.

And that's it, I suppose. This is very, very long because of that "Overdue" post that I should have posted earlier (ahem, a few months earlier), but I'd never gotten around to due to HUSH. Otherwise just a few things that I might have missed that I think should be out here and not lost forever.

Also, please, dear neighbor, plant your trees back. I don't want to die of CO2 poisoning.

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.

Old Stuff

Because (according to a report I saw lately) 60% of our town does not have power right now, and school has been cancelled, life has been pretty boring. Nothing fun to talk about at all.

In lieu of that (did you know "lieu" means "place" in French?), I have rummaged through my old Google docs and will now pull up some completed--and some incomplete--stories to pass the time and to also make it seem as though my life is very, very fascinating.

Well, okay. It kind of is. But not today, at the moment, and I could rant on about lots of stuff, but I'd rather use this time to go over my math packets and ensure myself a spot on the team. With ulterior purposes, of course, but also because I really want to go.

And besides, I have another story I'm working on, purely for the sake of explaining ASC a bit more.

Anyway. These are labeled as well as I could.

Salmonella--don't know why the title's as such

You're just jealous of my dazzle.--What Edward Cullen should say to Jacob Black.

Heart in a cage.

Cage on a tree.

Tree above a bird.

Bird with a song.

Song of a girl.

Girl from a story.

Story about a dream.

Dreaming of a heart. A blood red, tainted heart.

[A memory shattered and put back together.]

x.

You're in denial.

What is denial?

What you're doing right now.

Is it a bad thing?

Wouldn't you know?

I don't.

Like I say, denial.

Is it ignorance?

No. It's worse than that.

Is it stupidity?

Maybe. But not quite.

What is it then?

It's what you know.

You're not making any sense.

Listen to yourself.

I am.

Are you really?

Yes.

Then what are you saying?

What am I supposed to hear?

x.o.

The letters just flow.

You may call me a word addict. I'm addicted to typing whatever comes to mind. Beautiful words. Lonely words. Tragic words.

Words so pristine they rival the glaciers of Alaska.

I would be a poet, but I don't know how to rhyme. When I try, the rhythm and charm of the words themselves get lost. So I don't bother, not anymore. I leave my words to their natural melodies and I smile, because smiling is the easiest thing to do when I want to cry.

x.o.x.

Some nights I stare at the ceiling to my room and I wonder, what have I done?

I don't deserve everything I have. There are so many people--so many desperate people out there who deserve this so much more than I do. They have ambition. They have pains. They have dreams. They have hope. They have determination. They have all those virtues I don't have, and yet they don't have all that I have, and it's not fair, because they deserve this so much more, and I don't deserve any of this, not at all.

Some nights I crawl under my covers and I ask, what have I done?

I deserve so much more. So much more than this wretched feeling I always have. This despair. This complete loss of control. This instability. This harsh, cruel reality that destroys all of my dreams. Being second-rate, no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try. I don't want to deal with all of the stress and pain and disappointment.

Some nights I sit in my bed and I sing, sing out every sorrow and every tear and every word and I fall asleep, dreamless.

x.o.x.o.

"I'm still waiting for you to accept me as I am, waiting for you to understand my heart."

My heart stops when I see golden. I'm a superfluous girl. I am attracted to superficial things.

He never stood a chance, not without something golden. But I couldn't tell him that, because that would only reveal how extravagant I really am.

I blame only myself for every mistake both of us make.

x.o.x.o.x.

Sky and high go together, just like chocolate and vanilla, just like autumn and blue, just like pain and air, just like feathers and rocks.

Sky and high just go together, no reasons, no defenses.

Wings were meant to soar through the skies, reaching each blue corner until they paled into vast stretches of grayish white. Meant to reach the highest heights.

Many a legend speak of angels, magnificent, stoic creatures, reigning in the world humans cannot reach. Many a legend speak of fallen angels, torn from their glory and thrust into reality.

What non-angel has made it up to the skies?

Are they forbidden lands--places full of promising mirages and cold shadows?

x.o.x.o.x.o.

What am I supposed to hear?

Everything you have told yourself to not hear.

The... siren's song?

Perhaps.

What else is there?

Look deeper.

Where? How?

You know the answers.

But I don't even know where to begin.

You do. It's the denial.

What is this denial?

What do you hear?

I don't understand.

What do you hear?

What do you hear?

My heart.

x.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a bird of ordinary proportions. Its feathers were dull, its eyes glossed over, and it had an air of common peasantry, not befitting such a land which was filled with striking and magnificent birds of all sorts and types.

But every sunset, the bird would sing--a melodious, tragic song--a song which brought tears to young girls' eyes and solemnity to young boys' manners. A song which brought sighs to mothers and frowns to fathers and shivers to those who trekked through empty fields alone. Every sunset, the bird would sing the most pitiful, beautiful song the land has ever heard.

Such a bird could never be free. Free birds do not sing such songs.

And it was so that the bird was locked up in a cage, a golden cage not befitting the bird's ordinary appearance and not befitting the bird's heavenly hymn. A cage hung on the highest branch of the pomegranate tree--the pomegranate tree which had not blossomed in years.

Yet, even if the bird was not locked up in this golden cage, it was not free. The bird mourned for a girl, a girl with a smile as bright and warm as the last rays of the summer sun, and hidden beneath that mask of sunshine a heart of cracked glass. She was a girl of clichés, one easily ignored and forgotten, for there are many, many girls out there just like her, with fake smiles and practiced voices that even the land itself had forgotten what genuine happiness meant.

But the girl had known the bird, and the bird knew girl. And when the girl disappeared, the bird mourned for the girl and sang a song every sunset time to fill the consuming void. So the land heard its song, and it kept the bird in a golden cage on the highest branch of the withering pomegranate tree, but it was just as well, for the bird had locked itself in a cage of misery well before it was held captive in the golden cage.

Of course, this would not be a fairy tale without a charming savior--a knight in shining armor. And just as the sleeping princess had her prince kiss her on the lips to wake her up from her toxic slumber, the bird had a knight of its own willing to sacrifice anything and everything for the bird's freedom.

It was a heart. A heart made of cracked glass and resounding with tragic beauty that only the bird could truly understand.

The heart had a wish--a wish to free the bird from its cage--and every wish came with a price.

On the fourth sunset the heart had spent with the bird, the bird sang until its voice cracked. The sun had already slipped below the horizon by then, and no one was left to pay attention to such a minor detail, but the heart heard. And the heart knew.

The next morning, at sunrise, the land heard the bird sing again, this time a song of guilt, of regrets, but most of all, of remembrance. Every day, at sunrise, the bird would sing, each day a different song, a song of magical lands and faraway places and beautiful, spectacular scenes, and every day, the heart would listen, and it would glow under the soft, newly risen sun. They would never forgive each other, but they accepted the other's choice.

There is no happily ever after, for both the bird and the heart had forgotten what genuine happiness meant, just like the land itself had, but there is an ever after--an ever after in which the bird would sit at the bottom of the tree every morning and sing to the heart, locked up in the golden cage on the highest branch of the withered pomegranate tree, and they would both listen until they could see themselves in a world where pomegranate trees and golden cages and reality did not exist.

[What hurts the most isn't the broken pieces--it's the cuts that keep coming back.]

Feathers of a Bird

    I opened my eyes, tasting pain in the air.

    This pain was tangible, with a distinct bittersweet flavor that could only be what it was. A pain that left no room for regrets. No room for indecision.

     I knew what it meant.

    No longer will the dreams be true.

    I had escaped reality for such a long time, I didn't even remember what it looked like. Reality. The word itself melded around my fingers, then slipped through the cracks, like wisps of mist on a blue autumn morning. Yet it always came back, haunting, because reality provided the substance, even if dreams provided the spirit.

    None of it mattered now.

    I could still taste pain in the air, and it will come back, time and time again, to re-enact my darkest nightmares.

    A little way over the stone bridges near the upper banks of the River, there sat a boy with fiery red hair and empty, empty eyes.

    I walked over to him, his name on my tongue but not on my mind. I knew him, I reminded myself, but I could not recall where I had seen him before. All I knew was that I had met this boy before, with his flaming red hair, but not with those eyes.

    Those eyes reminded me of someone else, but I couldn't remember this other person as well.

    "Hi," I called out, hoping to gain the boy's attention. "I'm sorry to bother you, but--"

    "Even if you're sorry, you'll still come and bother me, won't you?"

    I stared into those empty eyes, but he betrayed no emotion, not even in his voice.

    "If you're going to do it anyway, why are you sorry?"

    "I... I'm sorry because..."

    But I didn't know how to respond to that question. Why was I sorry?

    "Alas, it doesn't matter if you're sorry or not, because you're still going to bother me. So what is it, what do you want, or do I have to figure it out myself?"

    "I want to," I began, using my voice to calm my thoughts. "I want to know... who I am."

    "And you don't know that already?"

    "If I did, I wouldn't ask you, would I?"

    The boy ran his hand through his hair, just like... I didn't even want to think on. I wouldn't know who had sparked this new recognition.

    "Who are you? Why are you here? What do you want from this place? So fascinating, so fascinating, isn't it?"

    I heard his words, but I didn't listen. Vocalizing my thoughts had made me realize that I didn't know my own identity. Questions swarmed me, drowning me under their weight, and though I knew I had the answers somewhere, I also knew that I couldn't remember them. Not yet.

    "Do you know who I am?" I asked instead.

    "No, but you look like someone I used to know."

    And I finally saw something in those eyes, a spark of something that made them ever so more dull afterwards. Something I recognized, but could not name.

    Near the bakery at the corner of Bay Street and Shore Avenue, I saw two brothers, nearly identical to each other, walking along the sidewalk, each with a bag of bread in his hands.

    Their blue eyes locked into mine, and for a moment I could see another face--one with icy clear eyes that made everything else dull in comparison. But the image didn't last long, and soon I found myself staring into two pairs of eyes, intense and calculating.

    "Hello," said the one on the left. "Haven't seen you around."

    "Yes," the one on the right said. "Although she looks like... but that can't be."

    "Nothing's impossible, 'Rule!"

    "We thought that, didn't we, 'Res? And look what happened."

    I smiled at both of them. "Do you know who I am?"

    "It's definitely not her," Rule declared. "She doesn't smile.

    "Is that a trick question?" Res asked.

    "No," I said. "I just want to know who I am. I can't seem to remember anything about myself."

    "Ah, I see, I see."

    "Don't say you see if you don't have anything important to say!"

    "Hey, I was just trying to be sympathetic." Res tugged at his bag of bread, which had almost slipped out of his hands. "We don't know who you are."

    "But if you go ask the sadist, he'll tell you for sure."

    "Yeah, but he'll charge something horrible, even if it's just a name."

    A price, was it? A price for an answer. I had heard of this somewhere before, but just like everything else, I couldn't recall when or where.

    "I'd go around and ask other people if I were you," Res said. "Allie's just way too cruel sometimes."

    "He might not if he... oh never mind."

    "Where can I find this person?" I asked them.

    "Go down the street, all the way down, and when you think you're in the middle of nowhere, you'll find his shop. Ask for Allison Saint-Cross, but he'll know you're coming anyway. He always knows."

    Allison Saint-Cross. The name rolled off my tongue in a familiar way, as if I had said it before, many, many times. Had I known this Allison person before? Was he part of my past?

    Before I could thank them, Res and Rule had already side-stepped me and continued on their way. They thought I was out of their earshot when Res spoke to Rule again.

    "She didn't smile, but she had a mask just the same, no?"

    Bay Street was beginning to look like the "middle of nowhere" the twins had talked about, but I didn't see any sign that declared its owner as the person I was looking for. The sidewalk was littered with browned leaves and cheap candy wrappers, and each time as I stepped down, I heard a crunch that resounded in my ears.

    Like... bones. Stepping on bones and flesh and hearts.

    I froze, not sure whether to keep on listening to the voice or to shake it out of my head. Were those part of my past too? What did I do? What had I done?

    Who was I, and did I really want to know the answer to that question?

    Across the street, something golden caught my eye.

    Hair as golden as the dawning sun, and eyes as cold as the arctic glaciers--and I froze under their gaze, but I moved on as well. My soul stopped in its place and my body moved on. I watched myself as I stepped further and further away, until I walked past the golden-haired creature. But his eyes were not on my body. His eyes were on my soul, and I did not know what to make of it.

...

Reasons to Let Go 

    I had my back to the door, as I usually did, but it felt as though I had stepped into an entirely new world, instead of simply crossing the hallway to walk into my room.

    A sparkling chandelier made of what I could only assume was pure diamond and sterling silver hung from the ceiling, a magnificent and dazzling centerpiece to the room. The walls--large, spacious, with classical columns molded into them that merged into Gothic arches, were a soft, warm yellow and peach orange color. The room itself, a banquet hall or a ballroom from my limited knowledge of basic room types, was filled with lavishly decorated tables topped with creamy satin tablecloths and silver cutlery. The chairs surrounding each table had its own purple felt plush and ivory frame.

    There were a few people sprinkled throughout the room already, dressed in flowing evening gowns and prim tuxedos. Everyone stood properly straight and at ease, as if it was their job to stand around and look elegant in this breath-taking room.

    I looked down at my own clothing, a plain t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Panicking, I glanced around to see if anyone saw me. I didn't want to get kicked out of this event, even though I was never invited in the first place. Luckily, everyone else was so engrossed in whatever they were talking about that they failed to notice my odd outfit.

    Relieved, I leaned back against the door. My hands came in contact with the smooth wallpaper instead. I spun around, cringing slightly as I felt my neck crack, and then froze.

    There was no door.

    I was facing a huge span of speckled orange wall that loomed over me endlessly. There was not even a window to ease my newfound claustrophobia. I quickly scanned the room, and breathed out when I saw an arching set of hand-carved wooden doors on the wall to my right.

    "Hello, are you new here?"

    I looked to my left and saw a girl my age wearing a simple blue cotton dress and a white smock. She was smiling at me, the way a mother smiled to other children.

    "I haven't been here before, if that's what you mean," I said.

    "Of course you haven't," she giggled. "You're not used to this yet, are you?"

    "Used to what?"

    "This--" she waved around loftily "--being here. You sure are dressed strangely, but lately there's been lots of people dressed like you."

    "Where... where am I?"

    "You're in my memories, silly."

    I stared at her blankly. "Your... memories?"

    "Yes. I still remember this--it was the New Year's ball. Lord Sharon hosted it and invited enough guests to make the King envious! Of course, we couldn't say that, or we risked committing treason. He just wanted to make the Lady happy, anyway, the Lord. She always complained about everything."

    "Lord? And Lady?" The name Sharon didn't ring a bell in my recollections, although the few number of lords I knew was rather pitiful.

    "Silly me, I haven't introduced myself yet. I always forget this. My name is Clara, what's yours?"

    "Rena."

    "That's a pretty name. Well, Rena, I should probably show you around. This room is Lord Sharon's dining hall. It's usually just used for events such as these. And--oh, please excuse me for a moment."

    I watched as Clara made her way swiftly over to a lady in a billowing peacock dress. I followed her, unsure of what else to do. The lady was saying something, but I couldn't hear clearly at first. The room had a faint humming noise that, along with taking away the awkward tension, hid the soft whispers as well.

    "Of course, milady," Clara said in response to some request I hadn't heard.

    "And some Fontainebleau to go along with the wine. Do tell the Lady that the decor is fabulous. She has done a wonderful job."

    "Yes, definitely, milady."

    The lady in the peacock dress shifted her gaze to look at me--or, rather, look straight through me. I looked behind me, but there was nothing there besides the towering golden walls and pristine columns.

    "Come," Clara suddenly said, pulling on my arm. "Come with me."

    I followed her as she winded through the rows of satin tables and plush chairs. She deftly avoided a few more people, all of them nobles, and finally stopped at the wooden doors I had been admiring at earlier before she had interrupted me from my daydreams.

    "I forgot to tell you," Clara said as she pushed open the doors. "I'm a servant here at Lord Sharon's house."

    "Oh," I said, unsure of what else to say. We had walked into a hallway just as airy, but much colder. The floor, a snowy white marble that had extended from the dining hall, had displaced its soft sparkle in favor of a glistening blue tint. The walls were lined with portraits--immaculate, perfectly postured men and women in luxurious fur-lined robes, unmoving and unemotional. There was no lamp of any sort overhead, and the only source of light, moonlight, came from the large, Palladian windows at either end of the hallway.

    "Be careful. Sometimes people trip over the coats over there. I try to move them out of the way, but I think one of the lords drops his after I leave for the dining hall. It's always there when I come out again."

    "Do a lot of people misplace their coats?"

    "No," Clara said, pulling on my arm again to lead me through another door. "There's usually someone to greet the guests as they come in, and to hang their coats for them. But Marlene--the girl who usually gets the coats--she had to leave for a while that night, so the coat's always there."

    I stared at the back of Clara's head, but she didn't say anything further. We walked on in silence, through what appeared to be a kitchen, with strands of garlic and plucked chickens hanging from the ceiling. I tripped over a bag of flour, but Clara helped to steady me, and we went on.

    We reached the other side of the kitchen, where Clara opened another, much smaller door. The space beyond was so black it stole away my breath, but Clara just fiddled with something on the wall, and a feeble light came to life.

    "This is the pantry room," Clara said. "That was the kitchen back there, but this is where we store all of the staples, especially for parties. Where's that... oh, here's the champagne the lady asked for."

    She handed me the bottle--an 1836 vintage, and delved deeper into the room to find something else. I stayed by the door and glanced at the room itself. Wooden shelves, painted olive green, lined the walls on all sides. Each shelf held something different: bags of powdered and brown sugar to my left; large vats of a dark substance underneath; even dried herbs and spices, each in its own labeled container, placed neatly on the shelf to my right.

    "I've got the cheese," Clara said, bringing me back the the present situation. "You still have the bottle, right? Good. Let's go then."

    "Aren't we going to get a glass or something? To hold the wine?"

    "Oh, that's not important. Even if we needed it, I'm sure there are glasses in the dining hall. Annie and Marlene set the tables earlier."

    I kept quiet my curiosity and continued to follow her. Clara took the route we had come from, through the kitchen and into the hallway. She didn't drag me this time, but I knew where to go anyway. It was hard to miss those exquisite carved doors in the moonlight. They glimmered under the intensity, creating an ethereal sensation when coupled with the marble floor.

    Clara suddenly stopped, placing her icy cold hand on mine. She took the bottle from my other hand and whispered to me, "Can't you hear them?"

    I looked at her with wide, confused eyes.

    "Hear what?"

    "Why can't you hear them? No one can hear them, why?"

    "What are you talking about? What am I supposed to hear?"

    "That boy with that awful hair couldn't hear them either," Clara murmured. "He couldn't hear them, no matter how hard I tried. The lady before him couldn't either, and neither could the girls before her. None of them could, not until it was too late."

    I tried to speak, but no sound came out. My mouth wouldn't open. I was paralyzed, out of fear, perhaps, but I didn't know why I was afraid. There was something dreadful, lurking in the shadows where the moonlight didn't reach. I could feel it. But it wasn't coming out. Not yet.

    "Why? Why can't you hear them?"

    I couldn't respond. I didn't know what to say.

    Clara used her arms to grab at me and shook me violently. I staggered backwards, first from the force, then from shock.

    Her skin was... browning. At first I thought it was only the shadow playing on my fears, but her face grew steadily darker and darker, until it looked as if someone had held a torch to her face and ignited it, then smoldered out the flames and left behind the charred flesh. Her eyes reddened, the sockets shriveling as the eyeballs took on a sickly yellow hue. When she smiled, her ghostly white teeth--the only thing now left of her that resembled what she used to be--protruded through the now rum brown gums. And as her grin grew wider, bits of skin and flecks of brown from the edge of her mouth began to fall off.

    Something sour lingered at the back of my throat as I realized that she was rotting.

    Clara--or what was left of her--threw the champagne bottle onto the ground, and it broke with a deafening smash. The sound awoke me from my daze, and it awoke something else too, for the room began to swirl and a chaos of noise came from every direction, turning and twisting on its ends.

    Amidst all of this, I could hear what was unmistakably Clara's shrill laughter.

    "Can you hear it now? Can you hear it now? They're running out, rushing out to see what was the matter. They always do that, every time. They come out because they hear the bottle breaking, because they're afraid some insane man broke in and will threaten their lives. They see me, but it's too late now, and what do they do? What do they do but bury little Clara silently in the back gardens, without even an acknowledgement, under the moonlight? They hear rumors--the untimely death, but it's bad luck to see someone die, even worse luck if it's someone who works for you, so no one ever talked about little Clara. Not one person."

    "I... I..." I finally managed to choke out my words. "What does this have to do with me? What do you want from me?"

    "I'm lonely," Clara said, her voice tantalizingly sweet despite her grotesque face. "Won't you come and play with me?"

    "What about the others? Why not play with them?"

    I didn't recognize the sounds I was making. Was this high-pitched, ragged voice mine?

    "I played with them too, but they're no fun to be with."

    "But I... I don't want to play with you. I won't be any fun either."

    "Are you going to leave me?" It was an accusation, and I felt something tug at my heart as I listened to her pained voice. Could I leave her? Could I honestly leave her and not feel awful every time I saw the moon or stood under a chandelier?

    "Don't leave me, please. Just come with me. It won't hurt, I promise."

    I remembered that look she had, when I first met her. The eyes of a mother who was looking at other people's children. Kindness, mind-numbing soothing, but also a firm distancing.

    And I pulled away. I screamed as loud as I could, until my throat was dry and it hurt to even breathe. I screamed until I was sure even I had gone deaf, because I couldn't hear anything anymore, and everything turned dark. But the swirling and flashing and moaning of the spinning noise and dizzying background had faded.

    Everything was calm again.

    "Don't worry. I promise it won't hurt at all."

"Only our individual faith in freedom can keep us free."

- Dwight D. Eisenhower

Libre mais pas gratuit.

[one.]

She left her hand on the textbook, fingers splayed across the inky text, but her mind was far, far away, in a distant world where her hand touched the fragile words on a dusty page in an ancient tome.

Around her, the wind whirled, bringing with it the scent of horses and iron and blood and lilies, but most unmistakably, the scent of rain. When everything else faded, the rain soothed her senses until it became overwhelming, and by then not even the rain could bring her out of her reverie.

By then, the twisted golden wires would sprout out of the ground, scrambling higher and higher until they loomed over her like sinister trees of a haunted forest. She grabbed onto the the metal, eyes desperate for the light to lead her way, but once her hand left the paper, everything faded.

She would be surrounded by the towering bookshelves instead, under the humming of the fluorescent light and tucked away in the quietest corner of the local library.

[two.]

"I had a dream last night," Summer said. "I had a dream that one day, when we all grow up, we're going to bring change to this world, but our change will be in cycles, so it wouldn't really be change."

Spring laughed, her laughter resembling something tinkling like silver bells. "Really? What kind of change do I bring?"

Not silver, Autumn decided. Silver was the color of Winter.

"Well," Summer said, scratching the back of his head. "You're the one who grows flowers and make the leaves turn green and melt the ice and everything. And then I come along and make it warmer and dazzling, and then Autumn cools everything down and change the leaves golden and Winter makes everything chilly and white and silvery and beautiful."

"Wow."

"And then everything starts all over again."

"You're mental," Winter said. He ran his hand through his silver locks. "Must be all the comic books you read."

"Hey! You're a jerk, you know that? A real insensitive jerk."

Summer and Winter glared at each other. Spring tried to smile and reconcile the two, but her efforts seemed pitiful compared to the pent-up anger the boys directed toward each other.

Autumn tried to convince herself that she felt just as awful as Spring when the boys fought, but she could not bring herself to lie. There was something fascinating about the arguments, something tragic, and Autumn was addicted to tragedy.

She only hoped it was normal; that everyone else was secretly just like her. But she never dared to ask.

[three.]

The cage was made of gold--pure gold bars--and if she had been in any other situation, she would have bartered the gold for something more suited to her tastes.

Silver, perhaps.

But she was not in a position to be picky. The gold bars sealed her within its dark grasps, and for once, she had to admit, not everything shiny was precious.

Maybe she should stop assuming, and start doing something to get out of here.

The wind blew through her hair, twisting the long strands until they tangled into one intangible mess. She put her fingers through the knots, fixed her eyes on the soft snow drifting from the sky, and wondered.

[four.]

Help me, the wind whispered. Save me. Free me.

They always said that wind brought change--brought freedom--brought new beginnings. She had often pondered over who these "they" were. Why were their words remembered and passed on, and not those of others? How had the people chosen what was wise and what were mere foolish mutterings?

She pulled her hat on tighter against her head, the woolly fringe covering her eyes, and she frowned.

Many things did not make sense in this world.

To her right, Winter walked, his steps brisk and unforgiving. She could feel his presence, and then, she could feel his hand on her arm, steadying her as she walked with her hat over her eyes.

"You're going to fall if you keep walking like that."

She smiled. "It's nice when you care so much."

"Hmph. I just don't want to be responsible when you die."

Autumn leaned against Winter's arm and walked blindly toward wherever it was he was leading her. She had faith, it was true, but she had more fear, and it was fear more than faith that kept her from letting go.

[five.]

Here, the elements sang their own song.

Here, she could close her eyes and taste pain in the air. A bitter, nostalgic taste, laced with memories and regrets and a hint of lily. Pain was so familiar--perhaps that was why it hurt so much.

The cuts never healed, because they remembered being broken, and they longed for that state, not understanding the wounds it brought.

She could hear their pleas, but the night masked them.

A little further, she could make out something metallic against her skin. Cold, unforgiving. Breath-taking and dashingly hopeless. Even without opening her eyes--for what was the use anyway?--she knew. She knew they were golden.

Far away, horses galloped and whined. Clouds gathered and precipitated. The cries of chaos were clear against the clashing of metal against metal and sinking soft.

[six.]

She took the baton in her hands, fingers grasped tightly around the smooth material, and stared into golden eyes.

"Who are you going to choose?"

She knew, didn't she? She knew what she wanted.

"Gold, or silver?"

Gold, or silver?

She had already made up her mind, hadn't she?

She stared into those golden eyes, and she saw silver ones instead. She saw them, cold and passive, but they were not the ones she remembered.

There was pain in those eyes. Nostalgia.

She knew. She did. She was just afraid to say the answer, and it was fear that kept her on the ground, not faith.

[seven.]

Rain--thundering, torrential rain--heart-breaking rain. She closed her eyes and let the the water seep through her hair and run down her face, drenching her in its essence. It was sweet, the rain, sweet and bitter at the same time, with an air of tangy adventure and exotic mysteriousness. The water seeped into her pores and her skin and her very being, until she was the rain and the rain was her soul.

She flew with the rain.

The rain sank with her.

She could smell lilies in the distance, soft and elegant, but tragically so. That soft, lingering scent that made her want to sink back into her shell and be content. Watch the binding strands of red silk twist their way around her wrists, leading her away to a world filled with watery, hollow flute music.

She opened her eyes, letting the water sting. She could not see, but she knew. How much did she really know?

She knew enough.

[eight.]

At the airport, Spring waved goodbye to her friends. Summer cried. Autumn smiled. Winter turned to Summer and said, "Aren't you going to leave now, too?"

Summer rubbed at his eyes, the golden flecks almost sickeningly bright.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Leave. You. Don't tell me you don't understand basic words now."

"I do," Summer said, a drawl back in his voice. "But you're wrong. You're the one who should leave. She chose me."

Autumn closed her eyes, not wishing to see Winter's shocked and desperate stare. It was the right choice. It had to be. There was no other choice.

She heard footsteps, further and further away, and she knew. Just as she had known what she should choose, she knew he was leaving. He did not understand, but he did not have to understand.

She could feel someone tugging on her arm, and although she knew she should fear, for once, she had more faith in her fate.

[nine.]

When she opened her eyes again, the rain was gone. She could breathe again. The blood and rust and horses and lilies and tears and pain and memories and regrets and choices and decisions and what was right and what was wrong was gone. All of it. Gone.

She opened her eyes to warm, silvery eyes, and she smiled.

She had thought she had forgotten what happiness meant. But she hadn't. It was in her heart, somewhere deep and buried, but still there.

She had forgotten the reason she smiled, but at the moment, it wasn't important. All she comprehended was to keep on smiling. As long as she smiled, it was okay. Everything was going to be all right.

And she smiled.

No more nightmares. No more dreams. No more hope.

She didn't need them anymore.

[naught.]

Summer's dream came true.

She lingered between the end of one and the beginning of the other. She hung onto gold. Golden cages that enclosed her heart, protected her from the chaos and war of the outside world.

But her heart belonged to silver.

Winter knew that. Perhaps that was why he tried so hard.

They were held captive by their hearts, longing for a freedom they could not spare themselves.