Kiryuu-Hime's Kingdom of Literary Splendour

A Glacier Christmas

2011-05-18T01:21:00.001-07:00

Okay, so um....wow this is a blast from the past. I wrote this story a looooooong time ago for a contest on this website called The Ninja RPG (TNR). I just found it again today, and decided to type it up on here XD. Basically, I had to write a Christmas story about the village I live[d] in (I live[d] in Glacier Village :33), and this is how the story went. (Forgive me for its simplicity. I was young XD)
P.S. Check out TNR sometime!!! (theninja-rpg.com)

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"Oh wow! It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas!" Tsunade07 exclaimed. A welcoming blanket of snow comforted the Glacier ninja tavern as the clock ticked just hours away from midnight, Christmas day.

"Christmas, indeed," ChaosNova commented, sitting in her favorite chair and eyeballing the younger ninja. Kyryu sat playing Monopoly with itokinari, her son, while Goldenmoon manned the bar.

"We've forgotten to dress the Christmas tree!" tauwarrior stated, dicovering a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

"I call the star!" Kyryu shouted.

"Nuh-uh! I call it!" tauwarrior argued.

Suddenly, in a flash of movement, both Kyryu and tauwarrior went crashing to the ground, pinned under the weight of muzumakii. "Sorry guys, I get the star." The chuunin walked away triumphantly, knowing that he had won.

"Well, well. Look what the janitor swept up," ChaosNova said as Arkangel walked through the tavern doors.

"Arky!!!!" Kyryu exclaimed, quickly leaping to a stand and running into Arkangel's arms.

"Great to see you too, Kyryu!" Arkangel said happily, afterwards walking to the bar counter.

"Merry Christmans, everybody!" TresMv called, walking through the tavern doors along with Jlazu and Gigaman.

Kyryu greeted them all with an excited hug. "Hiya Giga-san, Lazu-nii, Tressy-sempai! You should really try these cookies! They're AWESOME!!", the Special Jounin exclaimed, holding a handful of chocolate chip cookies in both hands.

"Just how many of those cookies have you had?" Jlazu asked, smiling.

"Uhhh, I really don't know. A lot, I guess!" Kyryu sated, flashing a wide grin.

Tauwarrior was infuriated. "Hey! Those were my cookies!"

"Those were everyone's cookies," ChaosNova said. "Now, the tree?" Everyone quickly remembered the tree and commenced to decotation. Soon the tree was deckerd out oin silvers and blues and candy canes of all sorts.

And now, the star!" muzumakii said proudly, directing a smug looks at Kyryu and tauwarrior. They glared back in response. Noise of many voices began to emanate from outside the doors, hinting that more ninja were about to join the party, and a lot from the sound of it. A moment later, the tavern burst with noise as Syrus, whitewraith, Idk188, Geki, and xxkisamexx walked into the tavern.

"HI GUYS!!!!" Kyryu yelled, well and hyper off of the sugar and chocolate from the chocolate chip cookies.

"Woah, simmer down," Syrus said to the newly energized ninja.

"She's known for her being hyper," Rexy stated, discovered sitting silently in the rafters.

"Is that not the truth," Killer said, walking through the doors of the tavern. "You guys know it started snowing again?" Various ninja ran outside to witness the snowfall.

Whitewraith quickly motioned a few hand signs. "Fire Style: Phoenix Flower Jutsu!" He then lit a fire in the fire place on the west wall. Kyryu, calm once again, morphed into a lioness and laid down comfortably near the fire. Syrus sat silently next to her, and rubbed her soft flank. Idk188 hopped up in the rafters, and once again, there was the silent wait of the near coming Christmas.

The Door

2010-10-27T13:30:00.000-07:00

Be another to close that door.
Be in your confining silence,
Filled with wise words
Unspoken by wise fools.
Wallow in your dark
That is useless without the stars.

But look at the stars
Before closing your door,
And wonder why the dark
Would live in such silence.
Those small glimmers must be fools,
Never speaking any words.

What kind of words
Would be uttered by stars
To be heard by fools
Before they close their door
And engulf the silence
In their everlasting dark?

In the stillness, the dark
Mouths these words
Into the silence
To the quiet stars,
But the lights slam the door
On the obscure fool.

Who are the true fools?
Is it the curious dark,
Pushed away with the slam of a door
For uttering curious words?
Or is it the stars,
Who chose to stay in silence?

You go ahead and stay silent,
Because only fools
Would pretend they were stars,
And ignore the world, live in the dark.
You can whisper silent nothings, useless words
To the back of your door.

It is not the stars, who stay silence,
Nor the dark, whose words are but scholarly questions,
But you, with your door of negligence, who is the fool.

Silent Temptation

2010-10-27T13:27:00.001-07:00

My brother’s eighteenth birthday was last week. He didn’t come home. We sat in the dining room with the lights dim, balloons strewn haphazardly across the floor. In their idle stature, the looked bored, as if they couldn’t wait for the night to be over. They seemed as though they were mocking us. The candle fire on his cake blitzed and flickered, dancing happily. “They seemed as though they were laughing at us. But even though the balloons mocked and the candles laughed, when he walked through that front door, I knew we would be happy.

The manual clock up on the wall read 9:07 PM. We had gotten home at five. The usual soft ticking noise had grown harsh; a loud crack, shattering every second that we spent waiting. It seemed as though it was patronizing us. But when he walked through that front door, we would be happy.

We waited silently in the dining room, peering ever so slightly into the living room beyond the doorway. The front door lay quietly, closed to all that opposed it. The mass of so much wood and metal glared back at us, daring us to open it up, to steal a glance outside to see of he, my brother, my mother’s son, grown son, was coming happily up the walkway. It seemed as though it was beckoning us. Tempting us to face the failure we knew would be there when we opened it and realized, that there was no one on the other side of it but the cold air ready to freeze out silent tears to our faces. But though the door beckoned, when he walked through that front door, with its condescending smile that seemed to be etched into its features, we would be happy.

The manual clock, with its crashing ticks, counting down to our explosive demise, now read 10:22 PM. It patronized with the laughing candles, mocked with the bored balloons, beckoned with the condescending door, but when my brother walked through that door, we, too, would beckon, but with hugs, laugh, but with joy, mock, but with jubilation, and patronize, but in a way that showered love on our dear sibling. We would be happy.

There’s Nothing I Can Say To You Without Screaming

2010-10-27T13:22:00.000-07:00

This is purely a work of fiction. I have never, nor will I ever, cut myself or do anything of the like. Enjoy~~
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How could you! No! I don’t want to be near you!
You did this to me when I least expected,
Sneaking around, leaving us alone, when we called you wouldn’t pick up your phone.
You never thought who would be affected.

You broke the news, and as if on cue
That slut walked though our door
My vision clouded, my perception shrouded,
I fell, crashing to the floor.

Mother was in tears, my worst fears
Were realized. You left us, fool
For someone else who never felt
The way we feel about you.

That skank! That slutty skank!
Stealing you away!
But I don’t blame her, I blame you, Father,
Because you were stupid enough not to stay.

Don’t come near me! Did you not hear me?
I don’t want to touch you, stupid man!
What? Did that “wife” not only take your life
But also your brain?

I hate you! More than I used to
Because my pain is now rage.
My loss is the boss
Now, my leopard pacing the cage,

Ready to be set free, ready to be pissed, to be angry
At you, the man that put her there.
With all her wrath, She’s ready for the blood bath.
As am I. I’m tearing out my hair,

Father, with anticipation. I want you to feel the perspiration
Of fear dripping down your spine.
You have blood on your hands, now be a man
And atone for your sins. Feel what used to be mine!

I Am GOD! Bow down and worship, now,
Feeble man! Don’t understand, don’t bother,
Because I’m pissed! You will never be missed,
You sad excuse for a father!

I hate you! And I will do
What I’ve wanted to do
For a very long time. I’ll take what’s mine,
And you’ll get what’s yours, too.

I will kill you! I know how to
Without hurting even a little of you.
You will feel pain, open your own vein
As I have so many times. Do you

Remember that crash? The one that killed my brother? Your son?
I thought I hurt that day,
But I couldn’t even fathom, that dark phantom,
His ghost, hurting me as much as you did. The way

You thought we’d understand, how everything got out of hand,
My blood on my bedroom floor.
But you still left, you only though of yourself.
Not your people, your family. You’re suppose to adore me!

Adore me! Not sit there and ignore me!
Who are you! A nobody! A washed up
Dad. I’ve been had? No, you’ve been had!
By that sad excuse for a spouse.

But no worries. I’mma do me. Please don’t worry,
It’ll be wasted. I’m sure
You won’t, though. But remember,
One thing’s for sure, You’ll get yours

Someday…

Thoughts on Suicide: Blog by Katherine Hawthorne (fiction)

2010-10-27T13:14:00.000-07:00

As the title says, this is purely a work of fiction, nothing more.
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So the other day I was walking down the hall at school and my lab partner, Lysandra, tells me she doesn’t feel the need to live anymore.

“So, are you saying that you wanna commit suicide?” I asked.

She said that she was considering it; that if she left the Earth, then people would be way better off without her. “They probably won’t even know I’m gone….” she muttered.

I nodded. “Aaaaand you’re telling me this…..why?”

You see, I figure, if you’re gonna be suicidal, then just do it. Do not expect a pity trip on my behalf, thinking that if you tell me, then I’ll break out in this ‘NO! Don’t do it! You have sooo much to live for’ speech. Puh-leeze. God put me on this Earth to take care of my life. Mine. Not yours. So if you decide to go all ‘I’m gonna kill myself’, don’t tell the world. It just means that you want attention and suicide is the best you could come up with after sitting on your bed brainstorming all night on how to make your life (or lack thereof) more interesting.

Oh yeah. There are some special exceptions. I only put forth a modicum of sympathy if the suicidal in question is gonna effect my life with their absence. If the person in question is a family member, then of course, I’ll break out into the ‘You can do better than this!!!’ monologue, but if I’m not even remotely close to you, like, at least friend status, then I honestly don’t want to hear your sad sob story. You’ll end up saying junk like what good ‘ole Lyssie said to me (“They probably won’t even know I’m gone….”), and you’d be absolutely right. NOW BACK OFF!

So anywayz, after my little….er…..discussion with Lysandra, she told me how heartless I was, how I have no ounce of respect for anyone but myself, how I’m soooo apathetic and have no feelings, blah, blah, blah, and the like. It’s the usual. Then she stormed away crying.

It’s been weeks since then, and ‘ole Lyssie’s still up and running, alive as ever…….friggin liar...

But seriously, don’t go around talking about your depressing life, exploiting it, because in some you find guidance, in some you find sympathy, and then there’s me, the girl that couldn’t give a flying turkey leg whether you fell off the face of the Earth or not. Remember that no matter how messed up you may seem, there’s always someone out there, having it waaaay worse that you have it. I know it, and that’s just the way I am, and that’s the reason I react the way I do when I get little anecdotes like this. Real pissy-like, don’t you think? So stop with the ‘My life is sooo worthless’ B.S., cry me a river, build a bridge, and get over it.

Katherine Hawthorne,
over and out!!!

Time Zones

2010-10-27T13:07:00.000-07:00

I literally wrote this story in like, 15 minutes sometime two years ago, so yes, it's a working progress. When I finally get around to modifying it, though, it will be something great.
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My mother died last week. She was going on a business trip in Phoenix, Arizona. Something about discussing a matter that I didn’t really care about, though I wish I did now. She wanted me to come with her, but I decided against it, thinking that if it was business, it was boring. “Can’t. I have this big project due later this week in physics. Oh, and the time zones. The time zones will have me all off with time when I come back here.” Those were the best lame excuses I could come up with on such short notice. Truth is, I couldn’t care less about the time zones, and there was no project. My teacher, Mr. Altobelli, would be out all this week due to an unfortunate case of the avian influenza. In the end, my mother went alone.

It was no more than three days later when my father, Richard, and I got the call. My father had to pick me up earlier from school because I was having some heart pains. We were sitting on the couch eating a TV dinner (my father is cooking-retarded, so we keep it simple) later that night when the phone rang. My father refused to get up from his seat, so I was left with the task. I shot him a glare as I headed for the phone. I pick up the receiver. On the other end, an unfamiliar voice spoke. He said his name was Seth Ascher. “I am an associate of you mother’s,” he said. I nodded, though he couldn’t see it. “May I speak with your father?”

I nodded again. “Okay.” I turned around. “Dad it’s for you.”

“Who is it, Isabel?” my father asked.

“I dunno. Some guy that knows Mom.”

My father mumbled something unintelligible (and probably inappropriate), but got up and took the receiver from my hand. “Yeah, what is it?” he muttered into the phone. Some incoherent droning by Seth on the other end sounded then my father said, “Do you have any idea what time it is?” A small comment, then, “It’s 11 at night. Why the Hell would you call so late?”

“Dad, be nice,” I whispered to him, but he waved me off with an impatient hand.

There was more inarticulate speech on the other side. My father murmured, “Yeah, time zones my ass. Whadduya want?” Those time zones do put you all off... I thought. The droning continued. I strained to hear, but failed.

About half way though, my father’s face turned a deathly white. “Yes,” he whispered, “Yes, I understand.” Droning, then, “I know, and thank you.”

More droning ended the conversation. I only understood the last part of the comment made by Seth Ascher. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Sir.” My father nodded, though Seth couldn’t see it, and returned the phone to its base.

“Dad? Daddy? What’s wrong?” I asked, instantly scared.

Dad turned to me, his face almost translucent with fear. “Your mother…” he trailed off.

“What about her? What happened?” I screamed, voice shrill.

“She was on a lunch break after her meeting for her job and she was attacked…”

“No,” I whispered.

My father continued on. “…by some street thugs. They wanted…”

“No, no, no, no…” I chanted.

“…her money. She wouldn’t give it to them. So they…”

“Oh, god, no…”

“…shot her. They shot her in the chest. In front of all those people.”

“No……”

“Your mother’s dead.”

I was barely able to breathe, unable to get the tears and sobs out fast enough.

“When,” I choked out.

“Earlier today,” my father said, without emotion. This was how he usually handled painful situations. “It was before you got out of school.”

Earlier today, in English class, I had to be excused from class. We were reading silently, when I let out a piercing scream, shattering the silence. When asked what was wrong, I stifled, beyond the pain, that there was a sharp pain in my chest. It felt as though a piece of my heart was slowly and being torn away. They sent me home immediately.

A few days after the call, we got the details of my mother’s death. They weren’t pretty. I won’t go into all the details, but there was one thing that caught my immediate interest. The time of death written in the documents was approximately two oh six PM, my time. The pain in my chest happened at about two ten PM. Something told me that it was my mother leaving my soul that caused the pain. I guess it was the time zones that caused the pain that was my mother to become of me a bit late. Told her that time zones mess with perception…

Rose

2010-10-27T13:06:00.000-07:00

My Rose, my valor,
My rose, thy thorn,
My Rose, my heart,
Thy thorn, my blood.

Bitten by thy thorn,
I have fallen,
My blood has been spilled,
For naught but a rose,
For all and my Rose.

I lie here,
I grow here
I will gorge myself,
Upon thy steps,
And I will grow,
Beyond thy thoughts.

I am strong,
I am valor,
I am thy petal,
I am thy thorn,
I am thy will,
I thrive in thy sight,
And bear thy shadow.

Existential Meltdown (So Easy a Caveman Could Do It?!)

2010-08-25T05:10:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem about 3 years ago. I think I was trying to be funny...it just turned out stupid xDDD. Aaaaanywho, in case you don't already notice, this poem is based off of those Geico Caveman commercials, the therapy one, in particular. ~~enjoy
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Me. The Caveman.
Creator of fire,
Discoverer of rain,
Inventor or the wheel,
Skinner of the first clothing,
Pretty much paving the pathway
For all human kind.

Now, you walk that path
With what seems to me
As open minds and feet of gold.
Myself, bringer of basics,
Degraded to as small as,
“One step up from a monkey.”
I sit here,
In this new and evolving world,
And watch you defile my name
With sick commercials.
“So Easy a Caveman Can Do It”?!
Crazy!

I’ll have you know that
I am intelligent!
I can recite the alphabet,
Numbers one to one-thousand and up,
And I’ll have you know
That I can say “spiked club”
In eight different languages.

I speak with clarity and legibility,
So quit with the “Ugh”,
Because now, I lay on my couch,
Knees to my chest,
Rocking back and forth,
Gently sipping my packet of Ketchup.

My Existential Meltdown.

I wonder if I can live with this,
Because my therapy’s not promising.
Everywhere I go,
That phrase haunts me.
“So Easy a Cave Man Can Do It”?!
Insane!

I can tell you
One million stories
About how life was built.
I can break out of Alcatraz
Forty five minutes faster
That Houdini ever could!
And I’ll have you know
That if A squared plus B squared does not equal C squared,
That the shape isn’t a right triangle.

I can stand up straight
And walk with posture,
So stop with the hunchback,
Because now, I sit on my bed,
Thumb in my mouth,
In the fetal position,
Slowly singing the Barney Song.

My Existential meltdown.

I wish I could make it go away,
Because I see it all of the time.
Everywhere I walk,
That slogan pounds into me.
“So Easy a Caveman Can Do It”?!
Unbelievable!

Because I know I’m smart,
And that saying is inadequate.
So, saying that,
I have to go call my mother.
I think the tyrannosaurus is waking.

Apostrophe to a Father

2010-08-25T04:53:00.001-07:00

Dear Father,
I remember when you were here. We spent so much time together, whether it be on the beach, the boardwalk, or just at your home. As I am writing you this letter, I think of all of the things you did for me, for Mom, for Krystle and DeSean. You gave us shelter and love, protected us, nurtured us. Of course, you’re supposed to do that. I guess I’m just stalling.
I suppose you’re wondering why I am writing you this letter. I am because you made me stronger, made me stronger, and I didn’t know why. I now understand why, and I will use every ounce of this strength in the lines following this.
I am sorry, Father. I’m not sure it matters now. You may not know why I’m apologizing, may not think there’s a reason, and though that maybe true I still apologize. I apologize to you, for you, because of you. I apologize for making you love me, for allowing myself to grow attached to your love, your presence. As you read this letter, I hope you feel my tears, running down my face and blurring the ink as I write. I hope you feel iti in my heart, the pain and sorrow filling my handwriting like dense molasses. I want you to know that your love has scarred me, mutilated me, and that I would trade almost anything in the world to have it back. But it won’t come back, you won’t come back, You can’t come back.
Daddy, Why did you leave? You must have know the damage you would have caused, leaving us like that. You left for the world. You walked through that door, and didn’t turn around once. I want to know why, Daddy. Was it me? Was it my Mom? You’re supposed to love me. I thought you loved me! Was it a mistake? Was your faux love a shadow to cover up you hate? Your disgust? Are you disgusted of me, of our family? I want—no, need an answer. I remember when you looked at us, the way you smiled, like you could make everything alright if it wasn’t at the time, right every wrong. Was it all fake?
I still dream about you, Daddy. I wake up with the feel of the arms around me, that sense that you’re still here to protect me forever, that you could never leave. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cried late at night, knowing you’ll never return. I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of it! You’ll never begin to fathom the abyss burned in my heart because you left. I don’t want you to try to understand me; you’ll never be able to muster up a fraction of the pain your absence had caused me. No, don’t try to understand. I want you to hurt. Even still, it won’t be enough. Because I love you, and I thought you loved me. I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m sorry, Father.
I mentioned earlier in this letter that you left us for the world. But there’s one thing you never thought about. See, even though you went to the world, you left behind the universe. Everything you revolved around, lived for. You may miss us, maybe even regret leaving, but it will never undo the damage you caused. I now know that the look in your eyes was nothing more than a mask, something to tide us over until you could make your great escape. And even with that thought in my mind, I find it sick to believe that I can still love you. I love you, Father, but I hate you.
I can’t begin to think that I can fill you’re shoes. See, you may not know it, but you left a big, empty hole when you left. Mother’s in tatters, DeSean will try, but I know he’ll fail. He hurts, too. As does Krystle, who advised me to just forget about you. But I cannot. I never will. I write this letter to you, because I want it to leave an impression on you. I want you to keep it, wherever you are, look at it over and over. I want it to leave a big hole in your heart, the way you left one in ours. Only then will I know you loved us, once upon a time. Question is, will it work? Will you feel a void in the soul when you read this. You don’t need to reply. I’ll know if I had an effect. My heart will warm with the feeling that you have accepted my words like foul and bitter alphabet soup. I’ll know, Father. But don’t reply. I’ve made an illusion, you see. It is that you are dead, that no matter what I do, you can never return. Even though you live, somewhere, I know what I speak is the truth. You loved us once, you told us all the time. You loved us. You love us. Don’t you?

Your daughter,
Tameka Armstrong

Excerpt: Splash Paint (Make Of It what You Will)

2010-08-22T02:28:00.000-07:00

This is basically just a small sample of a book I started last November in honor of National Novel Writing Month. Plz check it out and I'll will be more than happy to share more if asked (^_^)
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Synopsis: Splash Paint (Make Of It what You Will)

Collection of Stories and Poems:
Angst? Nah...
Exit Strategy
Sharp Shooter
Mediocre Greatness

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Angst? Nah... Excerpt:

3:47 am. I laid flat on my bed, staring at the clock in silence, watching as the little fluorescent light flitted again, instantly displaying a new time. 3:48 am. I had been awake for hours. I sighed. I knew this would happen, I told myself, it always happens.
I prayed at night to not only get to sleep, but to stay asleep. I prayed, with a small glimmer of watered-down hope that my mind would rest, that it would stop continually putting these traumatic images in my head. I prayed whole-heartedly with asthmatic breath, to a god I didn’t know, and could barely say I believed in. Who could blame me? This God, or whatever higher being that may or may not be out there, had never come to my aid. If he was out there, watching over me, then the only thing he was doing to acknowledge my pitiful existence was pointing and laughing.

Exit Strategy Excerpt:

“I jumped out a window to be here on this early Sunday morning.” I said it politely, but the undercurrent in my voice was nothing short of evil directed to the sorry excuse for a human being sitting in front of me. Early, indeed. It was four in the freaking morning. I really had jumped out of a window, honest. Damned curfew for In-town Heights Apartments was set from 1 AM to 5 AM. Until it was over, the front and back doors were locked from the outside. Strict much? I never knew why they did that. I didn’t really care to ask, seeing as I’m not usually out of the house at this hour. So, when Kameron rang my phone, I was totally unaware that he’d ask me to drag myself to his executive office at the local bail bondsmen company. I was pretty stupid to let him talk me into coming. “It’s important!” he said. “You’ll love it!” he said. And I fell for every bit of it, just to be staring into his annoying, arrogant face. Love it my ass. The doors to my apartment complex were locked, as expected, so out my front window I went. It was no more than three feet from the ground, but I wouldn’t let him know that. It was a window, no less.

Sharp Shooter Excerpt:

“Aren’t you a little young to be handling a gun?” Jacob asked, looking at a girl no more than fifteen. Katherine’s father was the Chief of Police at the New Jersey Police Department, and if he taught her anything, it was how to handle a gun.

“What’s it to you, Jacob?” she asked, sighting down her arm at the target ahead.

“Look around. Everyone here is over twenty years except you,” he said, aiming as well. Jacob was twenty-three.

“And you say that”-she took a shot-“to say what?” The shot hit right below the bull’s eye in the chest of the target.

“Holy crap,” Jacob muttered, surprised. He lowered his gun and went over to size up Katherine’s shot.

“C’mon J, you know that I’m no amateur.”

“Yeah…now.”

Katherine smiled and went to remove her shooting range gear just as Nick came over. He patted Jacob on the back. “Underestimated the Chief’s daughter, Jake?” he chimed.

“So what? I’ve never seen her shoot before,” Jacob said, shaking his head for emphasis, sending his blonde curls everywhere.

“She learns from the best, man. Why wouldn’t she know how to shoot? Nick asked. Jacob just shrugged his shoulders.

Mediocre Greatness Excerpt:

The lank, dried out rose weeps in its glass prison, a constant reminder of my gears wearing themselves to dust. I don’t see far in my handful, but sterile desert of monotony and apathy. Dim embers drop into the crystal, my end and the cigarette’s. The smoke, acrid but sweet, cancerous but life-giving all the same, curls around my nose and tickles my eyes. I blink. In the momentary darkness, my existence, for my life has yet to begin, flashes before my eyes in the geriatric cliché. A child, happy and benign, with all of his needs and every want fulfilled. An adolescent, stereotypically confused and rebellious, with an untroubled home and a stormy head. A young man, disillusioned and angry, finds his proof of the insignificance of existence. Finally, a decade shy of forty, that steel-trap age, sitting in a cheap apartment drinking cheap booze and purveying the noble services and cheap whores. I down a slug of whiskey that tastes like fire and smells like brimstone.

I sleep, and I dream.

Haunted

2010-04-26T15:14:00.003-07:00

A fragment of you
Stored in my mind
Binds me to this world
Locks me here
Haunted
Prodded by a memory
Beaten down by a dream

A dream of your lips
Your skin
Your face
Haunts me even when my eyes are open
Traps me even when I am somewhere else

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plz comment!

The World is Flat...

2010-01-28T18:30:00.000-08:00

I got finished reading this totally awesome, NONFICTION book. Yes, ppl, I said it: NON-fiction. It's called The World Is Flat, written by one Thomas L. Friedman. It's about how the Technology of the world is making society less dynamic and round (contrary to popular belief). When I first heard of this book (From a friend), I said, "Yeah, right. whatever."- Pretty much what you are doing now as you read this blog.

But yet and still I found enough time to give this book the time of day...and LOVED it! It's was so informative about the spoils of modern life and how we are using it to our advantage and in turn, making ourselves lazy fat people because of it...even you 115 pounders out there...yes, you're fat...(please don't run to the nearest bathroom and puke up your lunch...that would make me feel guilty ^_^;)

At one point in the book, Friedman clearly states that, in the science department, children aren't getting as much education as they ought to be getting. At least, not enough to get interested in it. I mean, you can't possibly tell me that you wouldn't be interested in science or space (specifically), if you heard all of the cool things I heard about. NASA statistics prove that over 44% of their workers are over the age of 40, and that number is quickly rising my friends.

This is because of the lack of interest on our part. We don't go into the science field because we aren't interested or weren't educated properly on the subject. Like, if we were born back in the time of the great space race, when Sputnik was launched and everyone wanted to be the next person on the moon, teachers would be all gung-ho about teaching us the ways of space and all of its assets. And you'd be pretty excited about it as well. But now, there isn't anything of great importance going on in that deserted expanse of...well, space, and no one wants anything more to do with it. Thus, NASA's worker numbers quickly dwindle and before you know it, America sux in the science department because there is no one to further the knowledge about Space.

I don't know if you know this (for those of you spent most or your lives under a ROCK), but America sux! It's numbers in too many fields have swiftly declined. Not only in science, but in sports, funding, and most importantly, EDUCATION! I won't go into the technicalities of these issues, but only say that it is because when we get too lazy to hold our own in this big vast world, CEO's of large corporate companies won't just sit around and wait for our answers...no, not anymore! They go to someone else, and that someone else is usually another country. A country that is willing to work more, for less pay! A country that is dedicated and has enough RESPONSIBILITY and INTEGRITY to work for a living, while we sit around and do nothing! And then THEY get things done! THEY get all the credit! THEY get all the funds! THEY get all the rewards! THEY get all the benefits! And then who comes out as the suckers? US!! It's called Outsourcing, people! Get used to it! Unless your willing to do something about it...then you need to GET THE FRELL OFF YOUR BUTT AND GET TO DOING SOMETHING ABOUT IT!

But anyway, back on topic, if you loved this blog (and I'm so sure you did), then you oughta read this book (The World Is Flat by:Thomas Friedman), it has rants like this and more! ^_^

~This reality check brought to you by: Kiryuu

Relativity?

2010-01-28T18:29:00.001-08:00

Okay, so in school we were reading The Things The Carried, right? And my teacher was talking about the way Tim O'Brien (Author) portrayed Truth as a relative substance. And that got me to think about many things in mai life and whether they are "true" or just all in the way I look at them. Like justice (one of mai many examples...you can come up with your own). Is justice truly justice? I mean, when you think about it, can you TRULY tell me what justice is, or only how you depict it? I think not! We cant really tell anyone what it true or not because people have different perception of truth. so in saying that, I comment that not only is justice, or love, or pain, or hatred, relative, but can never tell anyone the true meaning of anything because truth, in itself is relative! there is no true Truth, only people's perceptions of it. So technically speaking, there is no true truth, but insted of it become a false Truth, it only becomes a false sense of Truth. And to take things a step further, isn't relativity in itself, relative? I mean, plenty of people i know percieve relativity in different ways. thus relativity is relative and nothing is as it truly seems...

Dementia's Keeper

2010-01-28T18:20:00.001-08:00

The lank, dried out rose weeps in its glass prison, a constant reminder of my gears wearing themselves to dust. I don’t see far in my handful, but sterile desert of monotony and apathy. Dim embers drop into the crystal, my end and the cigarette’s. The smoke, acrid but sweet, cancerous but life-giving all the same, curls around my nose and tickles my eyes. I blink. In the momentary darkness, my existence, for my life has yet to begin, flashes before my eyes in the geriatric cliché. A child, happy and benign, with all of his needs and every want fulfilled. An adolescent, stereotypically confused and rebellious, with an untroubled home and a stormy head. A young man, disillusioned and angry, finds his proof of the insignificance of existence. Finally, a decade shy of forty, that steel-trap age, sitting in a cheap apartment drinking cheap booze and purveying the noble services and cheap whores. I down a slug of whiskey that tastes like fire and smells like brimstone.

I sleep, and I dream.

The clock blinks the witching hour in an appropriate color, and I have to stop myself from crawling under the covers in fear of midnight ghosts. They are should’ve dones, could’ve dones, maybes, and wishes. I dread the missed opportunities and failed endeavors, my little reminder that maybe I should have tried harder. I’m out of rye, I can’t lock the dark chest in my attic. The monsters are able to run free, frolicking in my ego, a virus spreading in my cells. They take over my rotting mental machinery and force me to look inward. They nail me upon a familiar cross with self-knowledge. My hindsight is the lance in my side. My inexplicable lack of motivation is the vulture at my eye. I cry out for a release from this Hell, but no one can save me from myself.

It’s what I know, you see. I know that existence is futile without a life. Maybe God left a piece of me lying on a heavenly workbench, or maybe a mischievous angel stole something from my heart, but I am lacking something, some pure and shining drive integral to being human. I’m missing a life. Not that shallow concept of a teenager’s “life”, but an actual substance, something with flesh. Humanity drowns this truth in the deep waters of the unconscious, but I have dived to the depths and retrieved it, dank and dripping with carnal seaweed. I have no motivation when the moment is upon me, only in sepia vignettes do I know what I should’ve done. My past is full of seeds ready to flower but I cannot see the ones beneath my feet. Maybe it is my fault; maybe I’ve done it to myself, a melancholic self-delusion of despair that I have acted out for so long. Have I cursed myself to a self-constructed prison?

The interrogation is well underway, so I light my final smoke to give my idle hands pleasure. I eye my cruel interrogator, myself, carefully. He is blustering, frustrated because he is running out of time and material. He knows what I have planned. Finally, I’m going to take the initiative to act. I’m going to plant this seed and watch it grow into a bloody rose of hope and redemption. I have been slowly gathering my energy, hiding its presence from the demons that haunt me. I’m shining with it, my hair is crackling and my teeth are buzzing. The shocked face in the mirror screams when I break the glass. It is quiet now, a more appropriate setting for the final act. My flesh and crimson hands float down the table, where my revolver is waiting. Suddenly, I feel six fathoms down. Time slows and my senses sharpen. The checkered grip of the gun sends shocks of sensations to my fingers and through my spine. I see God reflecting from the blued steel of the barrel. One brassy cartridge is placed into the chamber. The anticipation is building profusely inside of me, my heart racing. Slowly, to savor my greatest action, I lift the pistol to the side of my temple. The smell of gun oil and burnt gunpowder fills my nostrils like a sweet perfume. Every metallic click or the hammer as I draw it back is a wave of orgasmic pleasure. My finger strokes the smooth metal of the trigger and a sigh of content slips from my throat. In this, the culmination of my years, I have finally come alive. This will be my rebirth. I am now my own God, my own Devil.

I pull the trigger.

A dry snap. My eyes open and a tear spills out. I move the gun away from my head and look at it in astonishment. I see the laughing face of my infernal inquisitor. I have failed.

I sleep, and I dream.

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One of my more serious pieces...

Thoughts Before Coffee

2010-01-28T18:14:00.000-08:00

Thoughts Before Coffee

Whoever is knocking on my door

you’d best be here with a note

telling me that I’m now a Saint,

or legally dead,

because those seem the only

two things that could possibly

motivate me to throw back these

covers after the crap I called

yesterday.

I would also accept a million dollars.

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comment plz!

Story

2010-01-28T18:12:00.001-08:00

(Untitled)

The funeral was almost over. Dad and I had both gotten up from our front-row folding chairs to place single red roses on the casket as it hovered over the excavated hole in the earth. After days of thinking about nothing but this, I was grateful to finally feel a little numb. I flopped back down onto the chair next to my father and stared at the granite headstone, which, along with my aunt’s name, Jane McAllister, would soon be inscribed with my mother’s: Mary Renee McAllister.

Though my mom wasn't much of a parent to me in her lifetime, when I heard that she stepped out in front of a moving vehicle, and had immediately lost her life, I found that tears began to fall fom my eyes anyway. I didn't like her much, and usually looked to my father for help and advice, but when I heard that she was gone, I sat in my room thinking of what very little she did for me, and wishing that we could have done more. I told my father of these betraying emotions, and he said it was just because I loved her. I guess that was true. I mean, I didn't like her, but I have to love her. She gave me life, and I can at least give her that much credit.

to be finished soon.....

Rose (A Poem)

2010-01-28T18:07:00.000-08:00

Rose

My Rose, my valor,
My rose, thy thorn,
My Rose, my heart,
Thy thorn, my blood.

Bitten by thy thorn,
I have fallen,
My blood has been spilled,
For naught but a rose,
For all and my Rose.

I lie here,
I grow here
I will gorge myself,
Upon thy steps,
And I will grow,
Beyond thy thoughts.

I am strong,
I am valor,
I am thy petal,
I am thy thorn,
I am thy will,
I thrive in thy sight,
And bear thy shadow.
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Plz post thoughts!

Got Any Striking Openings?

2010-01-28T17:56:00.000-08:00

Any help here? I mean, yeah, I have a few of my own (look below), but I could surely use the help (^_^). In case you don't know, what I mean by "Striking Openings" is an opening to a story or poem you might have that's really catchy and draws the reader in. So, if you have any, please, feel free to share 'em!

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My openings:

What? Where? Where am I? Abyss, I hear it sizzling in my ear. Abysssss, abyssssss…

I- I can’t feel them. My legs, I can’t feel them! My body, it’s numb! My heart…..abyssssss, abysssss...

Stop it! Make it stop! Where am I?! Abyssssss.....

The darkness! Abyssssss....... Make it stop! Abysssss….Darkness…..in the heart that I no longer feel…..

Abysssssss…….

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“One mustn’t complement an honest dame, Milord, lest she use it to many an advantage, if the will arises.” Elena graced Count Lucian’s presence with a flick of her flowing gown.

“If an honest dame were to take advantage of her Lord, Ms. Noleé, then wouldst thou really be a dame?” Lucian replied.

Elena chuckled. “Would they? Who’s to say?” She chuckled once more. “Would the stars tell of such things?”

“Methinks not, Elena, ‘twill be up to the dame in question, would you not agree?”

“Oh, I very much do, Milord.” She then proceeded in convincing him of her point.

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Well, here I am. In the office for fighting. Mom’s gonna kill me. How was I supposed to know that it was bad to fight demons in the alley behind the school?

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Post yours please! ("\(^o^)/")