Monthly Archives: April 2010

What Happens Within

I see a little girl, darkness around her and white lights glaring at her. She sits on a circle of faded white, looking down at her hands, feeling weak. She’s got something wet on her hands, and it glimmers as it falls on her white dress. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. White turns to red. She wants to scream, to shout and run away, but a bunch of aristocrats had her lips sewn together and her feet bound in place. Tall people gather around her, watching her, mocking her, but not daring to come close to her. I’m the only small one in that crowd, the only one who isn’t laughing. And as I watch that little girl, wanting to turn away but not wanting to leave, I can’t help but feel a little bit of sympathy for her. She’ll always find herself in that same situation, no matter what she does. She’ll find a way of escaping as she always had, but she’ll return once again to those cold, inviting shackles, to be laughed at and shouted at until she decides to escape again. Wherever she goes, there will always be an urge of checking her feet for those shackles, for even if temporal freedom has been attained, she still feels enslaved. She feels like she’s running in circles, experiencing the same things, witnessing the same sights…

Maybe if she punctured a hole on those walls with her killer hands and saw the real, warm light spill from that hole, she’d realize she’s being observed and experimented on. But she’s too scared. And unless that fear is banished, there will always be that feeling of enslavement. And white will always be red.


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Still Alive

Okay, I’m not going to give this up. Throw all the strange looks and bludgeoning words at me and I’m telling you, I’m just going to smile. Yup, I’ve had some sort of a revelation. I’ve shaken hands with my inner self. My writing’s really slow now and I accept that, but there’s no way I’m going to stop and abandon all this. Even if it takes me years to finish, I’m going to see that this story finishes itself; I’m going to see to it that I focus on this little acre of heaven; and I’m going to make sure to dispose of the unnecessary static of confusion.

I see the first scene clearly now and both characters are equally, potentially interesting to me. Two very special people.

A little sneak peek:

Darkness couldn’t hide the tall figure that loomed over little Cady as she lay asleep on her bed. It bent down over her, possibly to whisper something, hoping its words would find themselves crossing over the bridge of dreams. She’d wake up thinking everything that happened that night was a dream. He had cleaned the mud off her shoes before he carried her back to her house and he had made sure restitution was observed. It was unjust of him to constantly bring her deep into the woods and deprive her of her sleep but she enjoyed it and he had seen it on her face. Her smile brightened the dark woods, like the soft uncanny radiance of a full moon on that vast black ocean of a sky.

He tucked her into bed, pulling the blanket up until it reached her neck. Then he crept out the window, which was large enough for his way in, with Cady in his arms, to be his way out. As his small feet–unproportioned to his height–touched the ground, he looked up at the sliver of the crescent moon. As he made his way back to the woods, he slid his boot over the soil, covering up whatever shoeprints had formed on the ground when he had brought Cady back. Covering up was what he did best.

Before he submitted himself to the call of the crooked, gnarled trees of the woods, he looked back at that little one-story house in the midst of fields and felt that longing that could only be satisfied by a killing.

No, the figure wouldn’t keep her tonight. Not yet, at least.

And the song that I listened to while writing this:

Sweet Child o’ Mine by Guns N’ Roses                      from alez15666

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Jacaranda Tree

To give readers an idea, this is what a Jacaranda Tree looks like:

It’s hard to believe this tree mentioned in Keeping Her in the Light had its roots in my high school grounds. No, actually I’m still not quite sure whether or not that purple flower-bearing tree near my high school is a Jacaranda. Oh well, the Jacaranda is far more soft and gentle. That’s how it is when writing, I suppose: You start with what you have or see, then from there you add and make it necessary to your story, even if it seems unnecessary. Thing is, when writing, what you see in reality has the ability to change and become fantasy. That’s the doormat to fiction writing for you. The tree I had seen near my school could have been a wisteria tree, for example, but in the realm of fiction, I transformed it from Wisteria to Jacaranda.

Sometimes you get inspired by something, and the result of such an inspiration leads to something different from what you originally began working with.

The beauty of writing.

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Writing and Anger

When I wrote “Keeping Her in the Light”, I was in a state of confusion, followed by a state of anger.  It was either self-destruct or do something useful with that powerful yet dangerous anger. The result of my decision was “Keeping Her in the Light.” Just like the darkness Hector speaks of, anger can be bent too into something that won’t hurt us. I’ve done push ups and sit ups when frustrated, because of the restless energy. It’s like converting that energy into something more useful–something productive. Some would tell us not to do anything when angry or else we might do something we’ll regret later on. With writing, it can be similar, but if you can mask that anger through analogies and allegories, why not vent through writing, through dialogue, through characters, through a story?

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You’re an outlet,
took too much of everything,
didn’t fight back.
Now there’s nothing you can truly feel.
You’ve lost it all,
sleep’s your only refuge.
Dreams are real when you’re at the bridge, dreaming.
And they’ll plug their cords at you,
strangle you, choke you,
use you.
And you’ll let them.
You’ll explode.
You will break.
Then of what use will you be?

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