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Archive for March, 2013

Well, since it’s Easter and I’m feeling angsty this year, here is another page and a half long story to make everyone depressed 🙂 This one isn’t a brand new piece, but I feel like I haven’t uploaded anything for a while, so I dug this one out.
**Cutting yourself is not okay. If you ever feel the need to do that, please seek help–through trusted friends, trusted adults, or a professional. Everyone should love themselves, and I work everyday on loving me, because I know it’s hard sometimes :/

Mirror Image

The mirror was startling.

It showed such a tragic image. It always did. The images were always different, even if only by minute details, and I was fascinated in a pitying sort of way. I wondered who she was, staring into my eyes with such tearful eyes, or bruised eyes, or agonized eyes.

This is a magical mirror, I decided.

Only I didn’t tell anyone about my magical mirror. They wouldn’t believe me. I am a teenage girl with low grades, few acquaintances, and a poor family. “White trash” seemed to be the official label for me. So the girl in the mirror, even though she never spoke, became my friend. It didn’t matter that we never spoke to each other—we knew everything about each other. We could see the deepest, darkest, *realest* aspects of the other’s life. I began to think I knew more about her than I did about who “Delina” is. I decided to name her Trista, only because I had to associate her with a name, and in French class we learned “triste” was sad. I was bad at French, but then again, no one expected me to be good at it.

I wonder if she came up with a name for me. I liked that idea—it would be as if we were a part of a secret, a mystery. I have always thought that the universe is full of vast mysteries, and I had a sense of thrilling pride to think that I could be a mystery myself. But sometimes, I wondered if she even saw me at all. I would stare into my dusty, stained mirror with the cracked, chipped frame and study her face. I wondered why she wasn’t with other people but always in her room, why she wasn’t happy, why she never spoke. But her eyes never seemed to care about me, about the pain I would be feeling that day. Sometimes her eyes looked selfish, like she was too absorbed in her own thoughts and feelings to notice mine. There were times when I wanted to lash out and scratch her face, to make her notice me, but I couldn’t regardless of if I wanted to. Her face was rather plain, to my eyes, but I couldn’t discern why she wouldn’t have more friends. Maybe she just couldn’t connect with people, like me.

I’ll be your friend; I will love you, I wanted to say, but the sounds wouldn’t come out. Suddenly I would become ashamed of staring so intently while beautifully-shaped tears dripped from her eyes. Then I would look away. Eventually, unnerved by knowing she was still there and crying even harder, I would throw myself on my bed and close my eyes.

The mirror began to haunt me.

I began to dream of Trista. I would desperately try to conjure a happier life for her. I would make her rich. I would give her fashionable clothes. I would place her in exotic landscapes. But I wasn’t able to make her tears stop. I always woke up as she died, drowning in her tears.

After five months, I sneaked an extra bath-towel from the cupboard into my room and used it to cover the mirror. I had my own problems—I couldn’t spend my evenings staring at her face! Her face had grown irritating to me, loathsome. Why couldn’t she just fix her problems, so then she wouldn’t cry? I started completing my homework again, working feverishly. Then my father came home one night, drunk though he had sworn to stay sober, and after throwing things and ranting, he hit me in the jaw. Since I had to put makeup on carefully for a while, I needed the mirror back. She stared at me with knowing eyes, but I scowled back. I refused to acknowledge. She wanted me to know something, but I didn’t allow her to speak. Though a part of me was glad for my friend back.

My family only got worse, and my schoolwork reflected it. I started watching Trista again. Anger and anguish churned in my stomach. Sometimes I couldn’t breathe because I hated this world so much. How easy it must be, to be a reflection, I thought. It doesn’t matter that all she does is cry, because no one is looking for her. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t talk, because no one wants to hear her. It doesn’t matter if she sits there while the world rushes by, because no one cares.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I jumped to my feet and screamed, “I hate you! I hate you!” I punched the mirror. Her world shattered into a hundred shards, but I could still see her tears as I felt them streaming down my face. “I hate you! I HATE you!” I grabbed pieces of the glass and started frantically slicing my skin—my hands, my arms.

Then I was numb. Absolutely numb and exhausted. I could hear my mother screaming about the noise, could hear her heavy footsteps coming to my door. All I could do was watch as the girl in the mirror bled silently, the tears still washing her flushed cheeks.

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Since I bought the books off of Amazon, this is still technically the “first book, ” Preludes & Nocturnes, but in the original comic forms, this is number 2 and number 3, “Imperfect Hosts” and “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” I’m not going to write about every one I read, mostly because there’s at least 75ish that I know, and that might get boring 🙂 But just to follow up on what I wrote before, since it was only the very first one that I had read:

Still amazing.

And still very dark. Definitely not for the people who want happiness, kittens, and butterflies…although, I love all those things, they definitely have not appeared in this comic yet. I love that this is a DC comic, because interesting people have appeared or at least been mentioned: John Constantine, Cain and Abel (I didn’t realize they had a comic of their own, but they are loosely based on the biblical people of the same name), Batman/the Justice League, and some others that may appear soon. I think I was most interested in Cain and Abel…if I go into another comic series from here, I think it will be that one. From what it sounds like, they both live forever, but Cain is forever killing Abel. Abel is a stuttering, “soft,” weak kind of character, while Cain is sharp, malicious, and quickly angered. And after he kills Abel for whatever reason (the reason in this comic was that he gifted Abel with his own gargoyle, and Abel named it something Cain didn’t approve of), Abel just comes back to life and heals right up. I thought at first that all these little side stories that pop up would detract from the appeal of the Sandman himself, but these stories just build up and around him to make the whole story that much more interesting.

Also, I think that comics are harder to read than books. I had actually taken a class in college on graphic novels and comics, and we were supposed to decide whether they could be considered “literature.” I said yes, but I think because I didn’t really like any of the things we read, I never really “got into it.” I really want to get everything that is happening in this story, and you are relying on dialogue and pictures. It’s like a book meets TV….but you don’t have the “filler” that books have, where the author can fill you in on things that are subtle, or there’s a lot of description to spell it out for you, and you don’t have the moving action that TV has. You can’t seen the characters’ faces form each expression and transform, or see their hand movements, etc. You are relying on maybe one picture of what they look like in one instance. And what they are saying, and sometimes what they are thinking, especially with the Sandman, but the dialogue is always limited. No one thus far has had a long soliloquy, or had a page long rant to someone else, etc…and I don’t think that happens in comics due to space limitations. I might be wrong, but I’m guessing not.

But I agree with my first analysis: If you’re looking for a comic that is on the darker side that has a good storyline, look for Neil Gaiman’s Sandman…definitely an enjoyable read.

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Sooo…I’m putting this under my “book” category, but it’s actually a comic. I’m not creating a whole new category for solely this one piece, because I have a feeling I won’t be posting about that many comics! Why? Well, because this was the first comic I have ever purchased!! Yay!!! haha

I was in a comic book store with my husband and two friends, and I saw these huge, hardback, cool looking books, so naturally I had to look at them. Unfortunately, they were sealed in plastic. Fortunately, I recognized the author’s name. And I know he does good stuff. They were at least $100-$150 there, so there was no way in Hell I was buying it on the off chance I liked it, haha. So I looked it up on amazon, found that they had the collection in 10 books for about $11.50 each. I think there was 10…if not, 12. I really don’t remember because it’s late, and I’m forcing myself to stay up, but that’s another story entirely. The thing is, they looked really cool! I have read graphic novels before, mostly for a college course, so I was like…why not? It was dark sounding, right up my alley. So I bought the first three books, which was about 20 of the original issues, I believe. I don’t know–do you call them issues? Volumes? I know next to nothing about comics.

Then, my husband found this place about 40 minutes from us that has tons and tons of stuff…mostly books and comics. Like, 70,000 comics at minimum, haha. So we got our friends and went there, and lo and behold, he had some of the actual comics. Nothing expensive…I bought one copy of all he had for $1 to $2 a piece. Unfortunately, he had the very first one, but then it started skipping after that. Fortunately for him, if it is book form, I most likely will buy it, because I have an addiction and a real problem with buying books and having them stacked all around me.

So, anyways, I read the first issue/volume, and it is great! I am totally hooked already. So I am awaiting my amazon order to come so I can keep going. By the way, for those unfamiliar, these started in the late 80’s and went into the 90’s, I think to 1994? But they are in the DC comic world, and Gaiman does occassionally borrow characters, such as Batman and John Constantine, although it sounds like the appearances get less and less as the series goes on. It is about The Sandman, although a new Sandman from the ones that have appeared before in the DC world. So far, this magic order tried to capture Death and instead got another immortal being, who they eventually figure out is Sleep, or the Sandman. They keep him captured in an airless circle for about 70 years, unsure as to what to do with him. He will not talk or respond in any way to them. Eventually he outsmarts them and gets out. Meanwhile, when he is captured, a strange sleeping sickness strikes some people around the world, and you learn a little about how their lives are basically ruined by this. I’m unclear as to why not everyone is affected by The Sandman’s capture. I don’t know if I missed that, or it’s not said, or it will be explained later. But I’m willing to overlook that for now. I like things being very explained sometimes, and I have a feeling this is going to be completely different from reading a novel, in that there is basically no “description.” Obviously there are the pictures, but overall I need to just get it into my head that it will be less “in your face” that a novel…but then again, I might be wrong. I will get back to you on that once I read more 🙂

AV

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To Sook: Seattle Beach

I walk this lonely beach
And trace my footsteps of
Yesteryear…yesterday, it’s
All the same, running in a
Skipping reel of an out-of-date
Black and white picture.
I cannot supply the sound,
Simply keep the sighs deep
Down in my chest so only
This thudding heart can taste them.
The sad, washed-out-grey ships
Call abroad—a mourning knell,
That catches my breath and
Bows my head.
The sea forever stretches out,
A yawning mouth swallowing
Evidence, of origins and yesterdays…
The monochromatic scheme
Plays with my eyes, and
My mind craves a burst of life!
There…a small vermillion flower
Struggles up through the sand…
A beautiful miracle: I gaze
Upon it and silently trace the
Same path back to home.

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So, I’m throwing in a little note with this one. I wrote this a long time ago…about six years now, actually. I think it is one of the darkest poems I have ever written, and that’s saying something to me, because I write dark stuff, lol. Some people might disagree because I tend to go with psychologically dark, more than people getting murdered in graphic ways left and right kind of dark. Anyways, this is actually one of five poems. I titled the whole thing “To Survive the Five Senses of Death.” I have never let anyone read them. So, here is the first one. Just curious if I get any kind of feedback at all on this one (or these, if I post all of them eventually). I think this first one is probably the best, in my opinion, only because I just wrote this. And then afterward, I was like, wouldn’t it be cool to do all of the senses? So they were kind of “forced” rather than inspired, I guess? Also, there’s a line in here that, reading back, I wondered if it wouldn’t really make any sense at all to most people…I wrote this while I was working on a story that had kind of a Celtic mythological theme or whatever to it…anyways, I was researching and looking through ancient people and things like paganism and stuff like that. I don’t know if that’s needed information or not, haha.

Death on the Tip of My Tongue

I melted into the shadows,
And we became One—
One we were, One to be; I know
It to be truth that won
This quest of mine to seek
My place; my place in life
No matter bright or bleak,
Peace or strife,
Strong or weak—
I’ve no more thought,
For I found what I sought.

And I sought the shadows to devour
Me whole, embrace me with agonizing nothingness
That with calloused flesh and pointed talons scours
My body—my soul to be blessed,
To be saved…but the murmurs
Appealed far too much to me,
And the years of my life reduced to a blur
As I fell to raw and mangled knees,
Forgetting the moon, forgetting Her.
I would have known myself to be Lost,
Had I a thought…my mind overtaken with frost

Intent on bringing me down, defeated
And subdued…breathe in my life, hungry
Carnivorous… The view aligns with the tempo, beat by beat…
The gash a-top my eye
Drips blood across my sight…trickery,
For the drops become apple blossoms blushing,
Falling onto the hardened ground, of the blood a mockery
They set forth; the blossoms become all I see.
They hide the contents underneath, greenery—
But the ground is touched by an innocent petal
And assumes the taint of red-licked metal.

The petal is just white, though,
But I can’t keep reality straight
From the fantasy that overthrows
Rationality daily. I can feel the ugly hate
Blindingly consume my life, and I’ve no will
To halt its construction. The shadows, they
Come…come and grow and fill—fill
Me…sweet ecstasy I’ve never known; obey
What they want…they want…kill
My life and make me them, hollow
Gaping chasm who has no thought but to follow…

Follow to the edges of Life, beyond,
To decayed fields, moors, baked mud
That chokes an ill-blessed pond,
And its shallow breaths also mimic the thud
Of wild rhythm—my life—keep it going—
All in vain. I am forsaken. I know this
Shadow—this one here, throwing
Adhesive restraints that bitingly kiss
My skin… a gust of blowing
Air chafes me raw…dark breath
That laughingly denies me of any rest.

Any rest, though—any will do;
But this place is much too dark—
And still so vague and new
The fear in me stands out, stark
Red on a red-spotted black background
That holds my straining eyes captivated,
Until I’ve melted into the colors drowned,
And there lacks any chance I’ll be motivated
To leave the box with the blossom-soaked ground…
I shall call it home,
And I’ll ‘no thought or want or need to roam.

A fondness will catch eventually;
Until, I will sleep in the clotted flood
That drapes a-top what remains of me,
A sluggish shadow of bitter blood—
I know I shall never come clean,
But prices exist and all must pay or die,
And the cost hugs me, a serpentine
Shape—reminds me of a staircase that lies
‘Gainst rotted wood, in an abysmal abode lean
From ill times. But my mind takes
Its leave, and I am left with a fake.

A fake, that loves me not,
But tis a shadow—a love shadow,
One that declines from grows and rots
After long; starts off high to hit the low
I’ve already broken. The choice was final,
The cost, I must remember…
The shadow speaks only in the subliminal,
But I fear inside I’ve naught but a cold ember
That chills, tick, tick, freezes my spine
Until no feeling is left—
No feeling at all, but I’ve the taste of death.

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