I saw God today

I saw God today

He presented himself in the form of

Sweat upon my child-father's cheek

and the dirt underneath my grandmother's worn fingernails.

I saw God today, everywhere, everywhere.

He was the ant

crawling in the cracks of the sidewalk

The fly I crush easily with my thumb

The upbeat, trashy song playing repetitively on the car stereo.

I saw God

in the slanting moonbeams coming through my closed blinds

Their patterns of light playing upon my forearms and thighs like magic and beautiful realization

Tonight.

My mother can be such a bitch sometimes.
She's so blind she can't see past her nose -- no her short, stubby eyelashes.

 She barges into my room, my privacy that I've worked so hard for, breaking my trust and acting as if I am some criminal on bail. Yelling like she just caught me doing drugs or watching porn, not just typing up poetry on my laptop.
Doesn't she even care about anyone else?
Has she ever tried to apologized for anything sincerely?
She can be fake, she can be pretend-happy, she can be angry as hell for the wrong reasons, deceiving and manipulative, but never apologetic. I have never heard her utter the word "sorry" in my life, as of yet. I'm still waiting. Maybe when she's on her deathbed how many years from now, she'll accidentally spill a hot drink on my shirt and say "sorry" and then ignore me for the rest of her hospital stay until...
But not even that, I think.
It's sad that she's sitting in my room right now, trying to outlast me in terms of "staying awake". She's simmering with anger just sitting on my bed, glaring at me and watching me type this -- my way of trying to ignore her words. Of course she isn't really watching. She's going to fall asleep any second, because stupid as she is, she has work at 8 this morning, so really, she should be the one in bed right now.
Funny thing is, I probably would be asleep right now if she hadn't thrust open my door with full vengeance to criticize and insult me.
Do I feel bad about saying this about her?
She's said worse about me. This is what I learn from my parents. The ability to insult and yell at people. How amusing, eh.


I looked over to my bed, and yes, she's gone. It's almost surprising. I thought she would've lasted longer this time. Last time, I let her win. Not anymore. Two can play at this game.


Does this make me a bad person?
I guess so.


But I bet what she was doing as she sat on my bed:
Praying.
Praying her little heart out, crying out to God to change me, to make me perfect, to make me submit to her every will, to scrape out my brain bit by bit until I am as obedient as a robot.
And how ironic is that, that she's willing to pray to a God she doesn't believe in about something as trivial as my bedtime? The fact that I can't -- WON'T -- sleep before 3 am in the summer. Who can? It's the summer. It's not as if I have school in the morning. I went to bed at 1 last night. Slept at 3:45.
Shouldn't she pray about her relationship with my father?
His business?
Has she ever supported him in anything? They're MARRIED, for crying out loud. Marriage does not break off every other day and have huge shouting matches with each other.
If they are going to act like crazies in the house, where Jenny, Jacqueline, my grandparents and I reside, please please get divorced so we can find some peace.


And to say, "What the fuck have you done this whole summer?"
And to not even hear my answer. That makes me as angry as hell.
To start arguing over every little thing, even when my grandparents and my baby cousin, Jacqueline, is right in the next room, a thin wall separating her loud voice and their quiet sleep (which is so hard to find when taking care of a 1 yr old baby), that is just wrong.
Too bad she doesn't ever believe she's wrong.


I didn't cry, but now I feel like it.
I hate how she makes me feel like crying.
I hate how she makes me want to hurt people.
How she makes me write shit like this and rethink every flaw in myself, every mistake I've ever made.


I hate how she treats me as if I'm disposable.


FUCK IT.


You know I spent a great day on Monday with one of my closest friends.
We finally got to talk and it was so carefree and wonderful.
Her parents are completely the opposite of mine.
It was so nice to just be part of a normal family.


And guess what:
Tonight kind of just ruins it.
Every time, I think she and I have patched things together, she goes ahead and does something unthinkable and hurtful to me, and I can't forgive her because... she never even has the courtesy to act apologetic.


I tell her I'm not perfect,
I tell her she's not perfect either
But I never have to chance to fully explain my words because her fat tongue can vibrate faster than mine and soon she's rambling on about what a bad person I am, how stupid and ugly I look just staring at her, how I'm going nowhere in life (I'm 16 for God's sake! where am I going? who fucking knows! all I want is privacy for now, all I want is hope, all I want is petty, material things, give that to me -- I'm not asking you to stop a war for me, I'm asking you to give me peace and letting me feel good and happy with myself for even a few days), how I'm so irresponsible and unthoughtful, how I bring this family down.


Reminds me that no matter what -- I cannot change this family
Not me;
Nothing I can do
but wait for them to change their ways
or for me to move out at the end of this school year


I just need to get out.


I feel so normal when I'm out with a good friend
or when I'm dressed up all pretty
or when I'm smiling at strangers I don't know
because then they might think that I'm happy and normal like them.


Tonight was a good night. I was happy.
Now I'm not.
How fleeting happiness can be?
Even simple contentment is so easy to be broken.
How when I finally accept that my parents are not perfect
She gives me more reason to hate her.
I used to think my father was the one who ruins everything.
Now I think she is.
She enjoys conflict. Control.


I'm still up and listening to music.
This is how I am at certain times of the year.
Things happen.
I feel good, then things happen.
Then I feel bad.
Fucking bad.


How can I feel good again?

FLOWERCHILD + STORYUNTITLED.doc CH.2

I love my new floral dress.

Here's chapter two of my STORYUNTITLED.doc woohoo. it's a bit long, sorry. the next chapter will include many desperate, ridiculous sex scenes thank you very much.

2

The pungent smoky smell of cooked meat fills my nostrils, and I glance around me, realizing that everything was meat: pork, bacon, hamburgers, chicken wings, ribs, barbeque—

“God, these people are cannibals,” I exclaim to no one in particular. A woman wearing an enormous straw hat turns around and gives me the evil eye, walking off into the crowd with a plate of ribs and bacon on her paper plate. No forks or knives. No napkins, no drink in hand. Just meat.

I shrink away and sit out front on the sidewalk, wishing that I am somewhere else. I bury my face in my knees, trying to rest my dizzy head.

A person walks by, and black dress shoes stop in front of me. “Hey.”

My head rises in slow motion. I squint at Pighead, and he stares down at me. His eyes are still green, but he gave up on dying his hair black last year and now it’s golden brown again. His newly-cut hair disgusts me for some reason. “What?” I snap, glaring back at him.

“You just look lonely, that’s all,” he replies, his tone flat and distant. “You know, you should be in those family photos they’re taking right now.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“I came to look for you.”

“Go to Hell,” I retort, my tongue quick. My entire mouth tasted sour, probably caused by the bile rising from my throat. If I threw up, I was ready to aim directly at his white suit and expensive navy tuxedo.

He breaks off our argument and glances away, his expression blank. “Whatever. I don’t even care what you say to me. I’m your brother-in-law now, I’m family. You can’t treat me like this.”

My gaze shifts to a little girl playing down the street by herself. Her ball bounces up and down, up and down, up…

The black dress shoes walk away, and I’m left sitting on the ground alone, my gut wrenching with anger and slight embarrassment. The little girl’s ball bounces down and rolls away, and I wish I can just steal it from her, so that she’d learn, too, how it feels to be betrayed.

Emma confided in me that morning about how she had been waiting for the One – her “perfect man” – before she planned on losing her virginity. She also wanted her “perfect man” to have waited as well, so that they could be each other’s “first”. She’d said to me, with utter kindness, “I wish you will experience this absolute gratification as well. Being patient, and waiting, can be the truest sign to show how much you love a man.”

Well, too bad, I thought. I had said nothing to her in return for her words of wisdom, and only nodded. Now I can laugh to myself all I want.

See, Richard is not a virgin. He loved sex, and I was the one to show him how.

I take pride in that, because no matter what marriage ties hold Emma and Richard together, I, Annabelle Lester, was the one who experienced the original and unspoiled bond. And that bond will always be unbreakable.

Tonight they set off on their honeymoon, to the grand islands, reachable by a car trip and a ferry. Emma had begged my father to pay for a one-week getaway to the Caribbean’s, but my father just stared at her with a look of contempt and disbelief.

Mr. William Lester was a man of dignity, of morals, and a man of simplicity. In other words, he worked hard for his money, and was not going to blow it all on his daughter’s honeymoon. “Besides,” he’d tried to reason with Emma, “honeymoons are supposed to bring you and your husband closer together. It doesn’t matter where the couple stays, as long as the couple has each other.”

Emma relented and accepted the three-day getaway to the Vancouver Islands instead.

-

In the morning, I awake to blinding lights and bloodshot eyes. Grams is hovering over me and telling me to hurry up, or else I am going to be late for school.

I ignore her and turn sideways on my bed, trying to block out the extreme sunlight shining through my window.

Eventually, she sighs and walks out of my bedroom.

I wait until I do not feel the least bit sleepy anymore, and decide to hop out of bed. I stretch and catch my reflection in my mirror across the room. I sit on my bed and observe the way my hair has settled during the night, how puffy and red my eyes look, and the way my shirt clings onto me like a second skin. The mirror shows more than just my reflection, my image; the mirror is a portal to another world, I conclude. In that world, nothing matters. I am alone, but not lonely. I am the only one in that world. It is my private planet, and I am a little prince. I own the bed I’m sitting on and the desk beside me, where everything is strewn carelessly as if a bomb has gone off a few seconds before. I own myself: my beige skin, my long black hair, my dark brown eyes, my thin arms and knobby knees, my round nose and full, pink lips. This small, round spot on the right side of my mouth, I own that as well. In that world, I own the things I touch, and everything I touch is mine.

I tear my gaze away and let fall my tired eyes on everything in my bedroom. In this world, the real world, nothing is mine. Everyone possesses me, from the first time they laid eyes on me. I feel trapped and lost among the crowds of people pushing each and every way. I look over to my desk, and feel as if even that desk owns a piece of me. Every night, I’ll sit at that desk, and stare at the millions of items upon it, and fail to clean them up.

I turn my attention back to the reflection in the mirror.

I look closely into that other world, and I feel safe.


 

“She’s such a slut, you know…”

“Yeah, I heard, but I didn’t think it was, like, true…”

“Annabelle Lester did what?”

Upon stepping into the washroom, the temperature drops significantly, and unexpected silence rings through the stalls. A group of girls stares at the dirty bathroom mirror, and applies their makeup with quiet, nonchalant countenances. A young girl, probably a freshman, and is new to the group, gapes at me with an open mouth as I enter. One of the older girls nudges her hard with a pointy elbow, and returns to layering on mascara.

As I approach, compacts are slammed close and makeup bags are zipped up. Quickly, the group retreats out into the hallway, their voices hissing at each other; their footsteps slowly fade and the washroom is eerily quiet.

I roll my eyes and stare at my reflection. The other world doesn’t exist in these mirrors. The other world only exists in my mirror. My dark eyes stare out at me, the haunted expression muted slightly in contrast to the heavy eyeliner and coal eyeshadow that I’m wearing. I personally really like dark eye makeup. It matches me, who I am, and who I’m supposed to be.

Besides, when I wear dark eyeliner, nobody ever comments on how much I look like my mother.

I remove most of the makeup with a wet piece of tissue. I look like a raccoon now. I take out a facial cleanser from my bag and squirt some onto my hands. I rub it onto my skin, and start scrubbing to take every trace of the black colouring off my face.

After I dry myself with another paper towel, it is time to meet with my guidance counselor. He makes me meet him every Monday, to discuss school, life, and… a little bit of everything. He tells me that I look pretty enough without 'all that ugly makeup', so I try to clean myself up.

As I leave the bathroom, some guy accidentally bumps into me. I don’t bother to apologize, but I can hear him repeating, “Sorry, sorry” behind me as I walk away.

“Pathetic,” I spit out, turning around the corner. I stop and knock on Mr. Pate’s door. I can hear murmuring coming from behind it and I realize that he’s talking to another student.

Suddenly the door wrenches open and an angry looking guy marches out, his boots stomping on the floor. He pushes past me, and the smell of his Axe cologne wafts through the air. I give a small, disgusted groan and enter the Counselor’s Office. The office is a small room, dark and dusty because the blinds and windows are never opened. Hundreds of books line the bookshelf on the right wall. A formal desk is placed on the left side, where Mr. Pate sits, scribbling in his notebook.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pate,” I say without any emotion. His head swivels up when he hears my voice. I close the door behind me and proceed to throw my bag onto the little couch in front of his desk. I lie down as well and then glance up at him. He has a small smile upon his face, and his blond hair is ruffled in a way that says ‘I’m too young to be a school counselor’. I know for a fact that he just turned 26 last month. “Alexander,” I say with a scowl on my face, “why are you smiling like that?”

He steps out from his desk and glances through the tiny, translucent window on his door, to make sure no one is milling about. He then approaches the couch and says, “Oh, nothing, Anna. You know, I always look forward to our talks, that’s all.”

I roll my eyes, and sigh. I do this a lot, because the world can be an annoying place, filled with silly, naïve people. I sit up and Alexander settles down beside me, so close I can see the tan lines below his soft blue eyes. He brushes a hand through my black hair and says, “You look so beautiful today.”

“It’s because I scrubbed off my makeup, for you,” I reply, trying to be uninterested, although the heat from his body is making me warm and lightheaded. I’m ready to float off, high above the clouds in the sky, but I maintain my cool composure. “Stop it, Alexander.” My voice is hard but quiet.

“What’s wrong, Anna?” he whispers, his lips already on my neck.

I swallow and pull away. “Why don’t we ever go out?” I ask. This question has been brought up countless times over the last few meetings we had. “Why don’t we ever go see a movie? Or to parties together?”

Alexander’s gentle expression changes slowly. His eyes now examine me in a dark, morose manner. “Anna…please,” he pleads. “Let’s not talk about this now…”

I stand up quickly. This man is a despicable loser. “Your wife left you two years ago. Now the only action you get is from a seventeen-year-old girl who is fucking damaged. Look at yourself, Alexander. Look at your life…are you really happy?”

I am hovering over him, while he cowers on the couch. I feel terrible somehow, but I can’t control my emotions, and the intense power I’m feeling gives me such a high that I suddenly hear myself saying, “I know why we don’t go out, Alexander. I’m going to say it, even if you can’t. I’m the only one who cares a shit about you, so I try to help you out. We fuck Wednesdays, that’s all, right? There is nothing more between us.” I bend over to pick up my corduroy bag. It looks so forlorn and forgotten that I have to hold back my urge to stroke it. Alexander, on the other hand, is almost shivering; with his head down, his broad shoulders slumped over, he looks like a man about to be crucified. His timid quivering revolts me.

“I’ll see you on Wednesday: same place, same time, Alexander.”

asian invasion.

via lovelyish, and other sites forgot.

Well we didn't win, but that's okay, since we rock. We will keep on rocking. Senior Vocal Jazz pwns.

Also, we were the only Asians there. Yes, everyone else was white. Funny :3

There were a few cute guys hanging around town. But I think we scared them away by bursting into song on the street, while waiting to be seated at the Breakfast Club. The place was nice. Good food.

I had the urge to pee every three hours while on the bus. Strange, eh? I guess I'm not the one for a roadtrip. I hate peeing in public restrooms as well. Blerghhhh.

I bought meself a nice hotpink teeshirt to remind myself of the times at Lionel Hampton International Fest.

Ross was pretty cool. Everything was so cheap. Even cheaper than Winners (I guess, the Canadian equivalent of a Ross...) However, I didn't find anything I liked. So I just chilled in the shoes section and drooled over random heels and sneakers.

Sorry I don't have any videos saved on my camera! My bestie Krys took one though, but she uploaded it on Facebook! Check it out!

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1397712106094

SPRING BREAK = hibernation^7 + (relaxing x shopping) + 4(bffs) + homework^109

Yesterday I wrote something.

Well, I couldn't sleep so I wrote a poem-ish thing:

I call my fish Harold and Maude.

I call my lover X.

My love for X is "y".

One day, he told me, "Find X."

I looked him in the eye and said, "It's proportional, anyhow."

He scoffed. "Figures."

random pieces of Idaho.

STORYUNTITLED.doc

Here is the first chapter of what I'm writing as of late:

1
Today is my sister’s wedding. Conveniently, it is also her 21st birthday.

All I can smell is the rank scent of exhilaration in the air. That, and the disgusting steaks my grandmother has been preparing all morning, just for the reception.

The comb slides easily through my hair, and my reflection in the mirror shows that my dark eyes are fearful. I feel dead strong inside, and yet, my eyes, they are always scared. People tell me that I appear exactly like my mother, and all I can think of asking is, “Was she always scared?” An awkward silence imminently ensues.

And that’s why I’d rather not talk to people at all.

My dress has already been laid out for me, resting quietly upon my bed, its frills and ruffles fluttering from the wind coming through my opened window. Today, my pillows and cushions are neatly gathered together, and my blanket is smoothed out immaculately. Today, my eyes still hold that haunted expression, even though there is excitement and – oh, God – happiness everywhere I see. In fact, specks of happiness are floating around the room, bouncing off mirrors, off countertops, and off me.

My sister, Emma, asked me to attend her wedding, which was really nice of her.

But I won’t be a bridesmaid, no, not even the flower girl. I will be sitting five pews from the front, in a cluster of people I won’t know, and people I know but don’t want to talk to. My sister asked her coworker to be her Maid of Honour. How nice, how sweet…

My father refused to pay for separate parties, see. His exact words were, “If you’re going to have a wedding just one week after your birthday, I’m not giving you any money for either.” (My father is one of those people who speaks as if in constant iambic pentameter; this frequently gets on my nerves.) Emma, of course, burst into tears, her round blue eyes squeezing together, and her nose scrunched up in mid-wail. My father ignored her, as usual, and stepped out to “take a breath of air”, which really means “inhale a few breaths of toxic fumes”. I can spot the pack of cigarettes in his pocket from five feet away, although he had promised my grandmother that he’d quit.

Yeah, bullshit.

In the end, having one party for the two biggest events of my sister’s life was the answer.

“Fucking cheapskate,” I mutter under my breath as I slathered on some lip-gloss. By the time I turned 21, he’ll probably suggest that I not have a party at all but, instead, save my money to buy myself a car. There, killing two birds with one stone: he won’t have to buy me a car or pay for my party either! I almost laugh at this prospect, me having enough money to go buy a car. It might have to be used. And it might not be perfect – but my own car…

“Annabelle?” a stern voice asks from outside my door. “Are you ready?”

“Almost, Grams!” I answer loudly, and then stand up to slip on my dress: basically a top most like a corset, with a long skirt billowing out from underneath it, splattered with ruffles and flowers here and there. It is a dress of evil.

The top pinches deeply into my waist, and I wonder if Emma deliberately told the seamstress to make it a size too small, just out of spite. Then I shake my head and finish zipping my dress up. I look into my full-length mirror, but all I can see are rays of sunshine that fall on my desk behind me. It is almost as if I am invisible today – that nobody can see me.

 - - -

My sister and Pighead are exchanging vows right now. Words of poetry flow out of Pighead’s mouth, and I cannot help but retch. He must’ve gotten his mother to write the whole thing. Emma, however, is grinning, her smile shining brilliantly through her sheer veil, not distracted at all by this sudden change of her husband-to-be’s personality. Her golden hair is curled, and flows down her neck teasingly. Her porcelain skin radiates all goodness and beauty, and seems to be so translucent that even I can see the pure joy clogging her arteries.
Pighead and I met a long time ago, in summer camp – bible summer camp, to be precise. He was an experienced camp counselor, having been one since he was sixteen. He believed in God, and honest faith, and all that shit.

He was tall and thin, his face hidden in the black hair that used to be shaggy and long. That was what attracted me, the first time I saw him: the fact that I couldn’t see him at all! His expressions were enigmatic, our gazes fleeting, and sometimes I couldn’t even find his eyes among his messy strands of thick hair.

His lips were thin and dry, and his kissing was less than amazing. But whenever I leaned in towards him, and his head was tilted back, I could see that his eyes were dark green, rimmed with coal black. When I felt how those eyes pierced through my soul, I knew he needed me.

Poor Emma. She didn’t even realize…When she had met Richard, he was already mine.

(the tips of my hair are orange, but only because I dyed my hair red last year. though i guess it's the new "in" thing to do now, so hooray?)

you can probably guess what I'm wearing. so go ahead, guess!

hints:

- i've worn this highwaisted skirt in many outfits before

- this tee is mass-produced by a store that could be named "Canadian Beaver" if it was Canadian.

- nothing I wear is high-end. D: boooohooooo.

- don't bother guessing where my cardigan is from. they all look the same anyway.

X O X O

obscurity is not the cure.

some days
it would slowly

climb in through the opened windows
in this dark house you used to live in

with the crawling ivy
up and down the brick walls

like dementia patients
sitting upon stone boulders.

other days
it stood waiting

outside your closed door
and hummed a sad song as it waited.

i would always be that song,
i understood that

i understood that
i would always be that song.

but one day
it never came

it never climbed again
or waited or hummed

and the light turned off
within your house

for a long, long time
and the song was forgotten.


but somehow
even after all these terrible years


awful, stupid, horrific
years


after all the torture, the strings, the terrifying silence
you still remembered how


it would hold you as
a candle held its flame


and whisper your promise to me
only when i was asleep.


it had no beginning,
no end


an infinite
definitive


sequence
that could not be explained.


you could not explain it
and it did not come back


to explain itself
to you.


i understood that
no one would ever sing that song again.


no one would ever sing that song again,
i understood that.

[a/n: c'est le mienne! i haven't written anything new (or good) so here's a poem i wrote a couple months back.]

Old Navy shirt, Garage acidwash jeans, Sirens heartnecklace, mom's leather jacket (i know.. i really need to go and buy my own = =)

Oh, MERDE -- tomorrow is school once again. Great. I really hate the first day back. I'm going to have such trouble trying to sleep early, and waking up at 6 am! I slept at 5 am last night (erm, morning)! Well, at least I've got my Hamlet essay done, and most of my Bio study guide. But I haven't even begun to tackle the French questions. I hope Mme Sinclair forgets about it... She forgets a lot of things. Once, she lost half the class's tests and their scores too.

Pretty stuff:

jak & jil

I honestly can't remember where I got these pictures from, but if a photo is yours, please tell me so I can credit you!

Messiah.

i know it seems as though i don't focus on literature as much as other topics on this blog, but truly, i'm a writer (however amateur) at heart. recently, i tried the Nanowrimo contest and .. well, failed. But I did get 25, 000 words by 15 days. Then quit. Cuz I'm lame and stupid and in IB.

anyhoo.

I guess the novel I was supposed to be writing wasn't supposed to be good, it's just supposed to fill up 2000 word count every day (on top of homework, choir, piano, and whatever else). So it's not good. OH, and I couldn't finish it!

Okay let's not focus too much on my failure, I guess.

(But I FAILED.)

Here are a few excerpts:

“What happened?”


“What the fuck do you think happened?”


“Did someone try to stab you or something?”


“Yes,” The sarcasm in Clara’s voice did not appease Hollis one bit. “Yes, someone stabbed me. I am on a fucking black list. God, what do you think happened?”


The connotations in that sentence sent tingles up her neck and down Hollis’s spine. “You mean…? This is the second time, Clara.”


“Yeah.”


Clara held her left arm in excruciating pain, the blood flowing freely into the bathroom sink, staining the white porcelain into a deep, luxurious red; she had tried to wrap toilet paper over it, but failed miserably. Her tired eyes closed, and a river of fresh tears flowed down her pale cheeks. “Fuck, my mascara is running.” Her voice trembled and cracked as she spoke, and Clara hated this sign of weakness. “Can you get me my makeup bag from my purse? Yeah, it’s in that pocket there.”


“Jesus Christ, Clara,” breathed Hollis, her tone chiding but soft. “Tell me who did this to you.” She searched haphazardly in Clara’s large tote for the makeup. A tiny bag was produced, carrying all of Clara’s must-have essentials: Volumizing mascara, concealer, blush, eyelash curler, glittery eyeshadow, non-glittery eyeshadow, pencil eyeliner, liquid eyeliner, white eyeliner, and of course, makeup remover.


Before handing the bag over to Clara, Hollis looked into her friend’s eyes and demanded gently, “Tell me.”


Clara sniffled and ran her unharmed hand through her wavy hair, still shaking. “No.”


Clara snatched up her makeup bag and turned away from Hollis and towards the mirror. Her complexion formed a ghostly image floating in the mirror, and Clara wiped her face dry with light strokes. She newly applied her makeup, and a few minutes later, she looked absolutely normal.


The trailing scar on her arm told a much different story.

-

Chester Skylark rolled his eyes at his chattering sister, wishing that she’d learn when to shut up already. “Look, you’re not dead. Everything is real – got it? Now get back to helping me with these math problems. What the hell are quadratic equations?”


His sister let out a loud huff of air. “I’m not explaining it to you again. You just don’t understand.”


Hollis glared at the back of Crystal’s head of golden curls as she prattled on about fireflies, or turtledoves or something like that. Chester shook his blond hair at the sound and completely tuned his sister out. He gave Hollis a slight wink when he noticed her glaring and Hollis rolled her own eyes at him.


“Is she always like this?” Hollis asked Chester, leaning forward.



Completely oblivious to the two talking about her, Crystal continued her soliloquy on the importance of saving the spiders with her strange enthusiasm and honour.


“Unfortunately, yes,” replied Chester, his twinkling grey eyes fixed upon Hollis’s solicitous visage. “But after living with her for seventeen years, I’ve found certain ways to ignore her.”


Hollis gave a small snort. “Lucky you.”


Chester grinned. “Yes. Right now, all I’m hearing is a soft buzzing noise in my ears, And buzzing noises are definitely better than hearing Crystal’s actual voice.”

-

The Starbucks café was dimly lit, and the strong, distinct smell of freshly-brewed coffee strangely gave Hollis a headache.

Michael sat down at one of the sofas and gestured for Hollis to sit beside him. She ever so slowly did, managing to keep a small distance between them even though the sofa was particularly small and cozy.


“What would you like to order? My treat,” Michael told her, his grin widening.


Hollis continued to gaze at her hands in her lap and softly explained to him, mumbling, “I don’t drink coffee.”


“What? You don’t like toffee?” Michael almost yelled out, even though his face was inches away from hers. “Why not? I think toffee is one of the best candies out there – soft, sticky, and sweet; eating toffee is the perfect way to cheer up on a gloomy day. But let’s not debate the qualities of toffee right now; we’ll save that for later when we have our drinks. What do you want? Something hot or something cold?”


Hollis was thoroughly annoyed, and tried to repeat what she’d just said, but Michael cut her off. “Let me guess, a white chocolate mocha frappe? No, wait, you look more like a caramel macchiato woman, am I right?”


“No, Michael, I do not drink coffee. At all.” Hollis had no choice but to raise her voice at him, something which she did rarely in her life.


“Ah, the meek has become outspoken, eh?” Michael said, smiling.


Hollis glowered disquietly at him with dark brown eyes, unsure of what he meant but even more uncertain as to how she was supposed to respond.

CONGRATS to my friend Vrindy who actually succeeded in finishing nano. But then she neglected her hw. So I guess it's a win-lose situation.

(Crap I just spilled some honey mustard sauce on the keyboards. Trying to eat subway and blog at the same time = disastrous. = =)

well, today at 12:30, i'm going to be on a bus on the way to the Orpheum Theatre to sing Messiah by Handel with my chamber choir. Not exactly looking forward to singing an 100-page music piece, but then, it'll be a good experience... right now, I should be going to bed.

Night.

Toffee

16000+ words. i know, very slow progress, but i blame it on school. i will blame anything on school.

Smartset cropped sweater, DIY Old Navy tee and slouchy tank, Sirens woven skirt

finally felt well enough again to make an effort of dressing myself for school today. layered on so much clothing cuz it was cold hehe.

well, i gotta get back to writing? and/or procrastinating on hw... Remembrance Day tmr.

"Sacrifice" from Soldier Poetry of the Second World War

The boy lay in the German mud.

His uniform was soaked in blood.

There wasn't anything to say,

So silently we turned away.

He used to talk a lot of home;

The Rockies and their snow-capped dome.

He loved the view at Lake Louise,

The quiet waters and the trees.

He knew the prairies, vast and wide;

The rippling wheat fields were his pride.

He loved the thunder, loud and deep

Niagara; majestic, steep.

He loved the streets of Montreal;

The hurry, bustle, noise and all.

He loved the misty Maritimes;

The ocean and their changing climes.

He loved the same as you and I,

And for his love he chose to die.

The things he loved, no more he'll see,

But for his sacrifice, would we?

J. M. P.

Belgian: Vol. III, No. 6, pg. 2

March 31, 1945

"The Redeemed" (excerpt)
"Marching to glory, with a rifle and kit,
One of a million to do his bit.
I stood out there with my shoulder straight,
'Till he passed from sight, through the station gate.
And perhaps he'll come back when the battle is won,
Praise be to God, my son, my son."

J. W. R.
W. Europe: Vol. III, No. 95, pg. 4
July 14, 1945

November 11th. Remember.

that is the question.

doesn't it feel like, somedays, you go through your daily motions, walk through doorways, talk to people, but you're not really doing it? does it feel like you've lost your humour or your laugh or your personality?

sometimes i have to hold back my laughter or my smile, sometimes i have to repeat myself twice, sometimes i don't know what to wear and put on a hoodie and jeans and call it an outfit.

sometimes i don't shower in the mornings, and i end up wondering if my hair looks like crap for the rest of the day.

there are so many consequences to every little thing in life, so is it really worth it?

"To be, or not to be: that is the question:



Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer


The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,


Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,


And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;


No more; and by a sleep to say we end


The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks


That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation


Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;


To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;


For in that sleep of death what dreams may come


When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,


Must give us pause: there's the respect


That makes calamity of so long life;"

Hamlet III, i, -


Sometimes I have to ask many people "What day is it?" to really understand their answers.

(Sometimes I wish vampires really do exist.
Really, now what does that mean for me?)

Well, bloggers, I'm writing a novel for National Novel Writing Month, NaNoWriMo.org: it's 30 days of writing 50 000 words by the end of November. I've only got 4000 so far. Shit. Good luck to my friends who are doing it as well! I hope at least one of us makes it (as our marks will surely suffer for it).

cupcakes completely unrelated to post.

or

"to eat or not to eat: that is the question;

whether 'tis more generous to place these

designer cupcakes in the world's view,

or taste the sweetness of pastry

and by eating them, destroy its value? To taste, to chew

No more; and by a taste, we mean to savour

The crumbly and utterly sugared frosting

The man will crave for..."

um, you get my point.

he told me ketchup chips taste like poo and I believed him.

OKAY. I know I said I wasn't going to post here before school starts. But I just found out in the mail, that the short story I wrote and entered into a competition will be published! My short story, The Long Night of Amendments, will be published with many other short stories written by Canadians in this book:



i know. It looks plain. Drab, even. But this is my first time entering something I've written into a contest.. and winning the semi-finals.


Well, that's not all.
I DIYED THIS SHIRT LAST NIGHT HOORAY.


Oh, and I'm officially broke ):

free me.

bring your hands to my skin
these mortal instruments
these mortal alliances

we all break
we all fall together.

bring your lips to a close
those words you have thrown
those weapons and daggers

that prick and kill
that seek and hurt forever.

bring your children to me
they will be nurtured
they will be straightened, aligned

they won't die
they won't die in my arms.

bring your God to me
teach me the ways
teach me the rules

let me read the scriptures
let me take insight,
let me take flight.