Welcome.

And so it begins.

Huh. That was not that much of a brooding introduction as I thought it would be. Oh, well. Anyway, greetings! Expect this blog to be an asylum of poems, and possibly even stories if I do get around to finishing them. This is my little writing workshop of horrors.

Just kidding.

Enjoy your stay, have some tea (or not, if you loathe tea), and relax. It’s going to be a long ride.

 

And Now We’ve Been.

Parted by a dim brush

That’d make disciples wander

Upon a barren, thick clay

Of sea mounds and masonry

Of stone and fire, Hephaestus,

That crowned scantly eminence

Through dead, darkened moans of waves,

That guttered within moonlit dreams.

 

I’d love for you to come to visit me one day,

And we can glower through the days.

I’d love for you to come to visit me one day,

But I wouldn’t glower, and would soon meet,

The son of Liriope! 

 

You’ve brought rags

And soured them on head and neck,

With a blush of cry, of love,

And I hid in my room

Strained away. 

When one day I walked in

Only to find you there. 

 

As the waves come as the surf

As the wonders of the

Twisting and turning wind

Bring me back to remembrance

And back to the buried

Bronze of past—to this day

And now we’ve been treacherous, 

 

As the ocean coldness 

Which brightens the Latimeria

When death washes over

To the stolen winds and dams

Of the present—-and the calls

That sought for an ocean wonder

Beyond still lines of

Of smokey fog where I thought

Of chilled dreams that lasted

Minutes, and awoke on dreary hours

With flame lightened by the window

From the shines of the plated moon for hours.

Winter Suffering.

On a Winter suffering,

As a softened night heard my dreams

It was one whole day that sung with a gush 

Of water and breeze upon the light touch

Of wishes–and we’ll say them once

And part our hands like darkened leaves

Upon the arms and bark of tree,

Lent with sticks upon the branch and bone.

I’ll pray upon that the cold window sills

That tap their glimmers as the shines, dried,

Peer through the songs of frail wisp

That can be a handful of light that trails

In the evening sprog of sun;

The mercy of the cold

That the wind and shore moaned

Upon the forthright riverbank,

That when on this day had been done,

It had been done, flailing off, to spectral crevices

In worlds that we live,

As graced moors, as remembrance been led

To the pours of the blanketed, shallow

Wind of tomorrow that left before the dawn

That revealed the face that laid against

The wishes to be, and from here

Upon the dashes of mutters from a stirred moon, frail,

To the light that had been recognized as the glow

That trimmer–trimmer to the swelt of nightly stars

And we drove through uneven patches,

Waiting as the swelt birth of cold took to a slim ill (slimming down to the faintest breath),

And it, tall, had whispered

The harshness that surrendered

Clearly, and it swelt—-And it died,

“To take one breath and go

Gone through the calls of a late time,

No mercy, this time…”

A remembrance of darkened ether

That sought the little pipe upon the side-wall,

Out we go; the warmth had us

As pale, still, but not dead,

To as a requiem, not to us,

But for something else

That begged for not us—-that curled upon

The rigid bones of years before.

I’d never smoke that wind of many things,

That took to grey fog and surrendered to the unheard

Calls that hung upon dreams away, 

And God of the Dead, a Winter had cast,

Fall before your limbs only half past,

Here is the last sip of those ambers before

Down upon the red sleet. Those flowers, donned, 

An empirical dance as the wilted leaves have tried,

And they too have gone–carried away to the sober winds

Of that cold–that God of the Dead breathed.

At morning, not dawn, I arose,

Heard of, my heart slow,

To an abating light,

With an ague of wind

In its own fit above the 

Strives, and I’d stride off through the day

Where I’d wait for a sufferable winter,

With the loving adorns (not much for the name, sufferable!)

Of the cold that nestled

Restless with the leaf

And how they crumple,

And wither away at the touch,

The crumble,

On a sufferable Winter

Where a softened night heard me dream,

The mercy of the cold

That the wind and shore moaned

Upon the forthright riverbank, old and vague,

Pranced upon the woody ledges, and stilts with amber rust, 

Where the falls of the water go into the river with rocks.

The Last Quiet Cry.

As the world

Casted the dark coves

That shore wished upon…

The entity of Death lives

Upon this very shore, unborn;

Warping rivers tarnished

Us all, as we, solemn, nearing further,

Are in the givens of cruel fate (oh, fate,)

That from here—we possess

The mercies of waters in the air,

Voices shown away, withered upon valance, the hues of a moaning

Sorrowful sea expanse (away from cold stone)

That tears have gone through, old

From a crisp unseen eye

With cold breaths to belie the

The passage of the expanse,

To lead the last quiet cry.


A/N: Poem about the Titanic.

Versatile Blogger Award!

Thank you very much, TheAwkwardBearWrites, for nominating me for the Versatile Blogger Award! It’s much appreciated. 😀


The Rules:

1. If you are nominated, Congratulations you have been awarded the Versatile blogger award.

2. Thank the person who gave you the award and include a link to their blog.

3. Select 10 -15 blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered or follow regularly.

4. Nominate those bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award.

5. Tell the person who nominated you 7 things about yourself.


Seven things about me:

1. I have sort of dark, medium blue eyes, but unfortunately they don’t change color.

2. I have seven cats.

3. Favorite color is black, or red.

4. I’ve never liked Harry Potter.

5. I play the guitar.

6. December is my favorite month, not for the holidays, but somehow, I write more during then, and am more creative.

7. I’m practically antisocial. 😁 No joke.


Blogs I nominate:

1. The Mark Borne Nexus.

2. Marysa Writes.

3. TheAwkwardBearWrites. 

4. Luxa’s Corner.

5. Literary Remains.

6. Little Fears.

7. Luna.

8. Empress2Inspire.

9. I’m A Book Dragon.

10. Writefully Addicted. 

Upon Silence.

Upon the wilted, silver cries

Of the ocean and its sudden

And even clear upon the stays

Of fire earning, and fire lingering

To the latches of drought and exhaustion

Had been worthless as a winter suffering, years that never before,

Been a glint in the shivering

And honest bones of a forthright shore,

And, friend, we’d never meet,

I know we would never,

By the unlit paths blazed

Upon the nestled, little auspicate,

And I could never talk; rimes showed their

Spokes of winter—dangling the fragile

Tussles that leave one’s twine in years

That may be as burned as the ember of stone.

Upon the moans of both wind,

And both plea—and I did sometimes,

As what crept upon the terrors among dreams,

None as a sweet, sweet chill

Within the dusk of ends,

Thus departed, and thus silent

Silent in the weathered dreams.

As I Pondered.

As I pondered

Upon the dead pale marigolds, (thus to write)

Which is as vulnerable as the rolls

Of ember, dying, wished for one

And just one—as a plea.

 

As I pondered

Upon the lively

The rich of bloom,

Which called upon me something

That in the preceding ancient life

Could only could recall in mind

That filled the nile one more time;

 

As I pondered,

And in a hymn that gave thought,

Below that moon, flushed and ripe,

That washed the narrow strips

Upon the wood, upon the cold,

Chilled air that made me find

The stillness and the time.

I’ve Laid Alone.

I’ve laid alone

Upon the warmth of a sand sheet,

The darkened tides rose again

Thatched once with a glimmer

And once to the lone sand

As a dead fire to touch,

To linger away, to wash the skin,

That the wind was still and hushed

Beyond the waters, beyond the evening

Where the sky, dull, releases cold wind

That follows the leaves, ahead of me,

Scattering as the brush of the passed ocean.

Upon dried hands among sand,

To be shadowed and thus darkened

That had left me here,

Undone by the flushed fading sun,

I’ve been left upon the sand

By the ocean, by the waters

Still and alone.

A Loss in a Moment.

A loss in a moment

Of everything in time

Like the whisk of the ocean

Or a shy rock during the cold,

As a lingering wind upon the ether;

I was soon flushed by the moon,

My lamp, dim,

As a candle light,

The evening falls into a crescent

Shaped moon that gleamed my window

As a light, a whitened light

That passed through my fingers

That became my thoughts,

As I read, as I read.

Upon The Half-Moon Tree.

On an evening, yellow and cold

I stood at once alone,

Clasped my fingers beyond the old tides

And shivered from the air, and shivered

By the curled trees, and arms

That cradled soft moans

That cradled marigold, tender cries

Bound to the water that withered,

Upon the half-moon tree.

 

It was warm in the evening,

It was warm by the ocean.

 

I am alone, I am alone

By the fragile, wept Winter,

I am alone in the wind

That lingers beyond the touch

Of a shy star that fades in the night

In the rustle of sky that tended to

Softened cries upon a nest,

And crickets, as they ticked in the mire

As the wind wept to the abreast trees.

And their frosted hands of warmth, glossed gently,

That wept to the hatches of hearts beyond.

 

On one evening, I stood alone.

One cold evening, the moon aloft

Trading eyes above.

The aged, faint wind of the past

Among a cloak in the night

Settled the weeps upon the rocks,

And the sprinklers.

 

When the evening is gone away

The gust streams and opens,

The moon is aloft

Its fair rest curled upon wind,

Above the half-moon tree.

The Death of Time.

I’ve heard your cries

As we wept to the gleams

Oh, Time was dead,

But at last, he’ve bred

The hymn of dawn upon the world’s wane

That shed blood, tilted, upon the maiden shore.

As the words were taken and folded into

The curls of dried snow, thus water,

Which of no relief brought some smokey roots

In epoch’s teeth, hours later, and I talk about a moon,

That would forget us either way,

I’ve lost, and know I’ll never return to who I once was,

As I’ve resided here for so long, I’ve forgotten 

Undone by the holds that crept easier than the last.

 

I’ve known here upon the sterling moans of wind,

I’ve put dirt into my hand, soil into my hand and nails,

And I’ve pleaded—pleaded to not be alone,

But I must leave, I thought, I had to,

So I’ll never return like a dead memory.

I’ll leave through the anointed evening 

That had me waiting for three hours,

I couldn’t do it anymore, and I wrought

For such visit that left me as the roots

And stutters of some natural feeling

Away from a bloodied moon to the chimney;

I await the call, I check the time,

I check the time, morose, and I want to leave,

I am deadened at the thought, at quarter to 7:00

I am not here. I await, and I want to leave.

I am not here. I await and I did. 

 

When will I return? Perhaps never.

The smokey palms of the evening pass

Though as a dead memory.

 

As twisted, dead, frothed with livened cries,

Throbbed once its two gold arms of time’s death 

And it kissed and washed my face

But I’d never known that coldness

Pranced between breezes and aches

And slid between ember coal, washing it away

From slick and pale hands—from clean, dead fire

In soured blossoms that wilted; tears wilted,

With ether that was either ember or ash

That torrents slid as red rubble, blood,

Stirred upon space that called 

That this father was dead as time (as Father Time),

Upon ghostly, fresh hours, three after twelve,

Upon the street that dried my face,

 

I am not old, but I’ll wish anyway,

Into the sty skies dull grace

That rosed and thatched stars

With milky outlines and stardust,

I wished among you,

In time’s hands of its cinema,

Oh, fate, oh, fate,

Oh, fate, oh, fate,

Where am I to be? What will I do?

 

Oh, time, oh, time,

Oh, time, oh, time,

I’ve heard your lasting cries.

I’ve Never Dwelled or Met.

I’ve never dwelled or met

Within realms, within dullened 

Mornings upon a fresh climb,

Spoilt from the white blossoms

Of a crescent tree. Fate, you’ve created me.

As the breaths of some crying clock

Those dials and ringings dirty upon the glass,

And dying, abreast at its bed, filled with ruth,

Clinging to his hands; for that I’ve

Remembered and harbored,

Elytra, elytra—cling to those wings,

And know no better than ripples

That declared the hands as wrinkles

(You closure and clasp)

Laid upon the hands and face,

Perhaps an adorned grey hair too to marvel at.

I’ve never dwelled like 

An epistle through the post office,

But as I’ve been certain enough, among the 

Rested upon some brooch I’d never wore,

And upon some, there are the wells unstilted,

Tears that dried and left, and I knew

When I had asked myself…

But knew not, not that shower of grave

Refine, no delicacy in thought,

And I’ve wandered upon the terrace,

Hairs, thus grass, 

Soon turning, in honesty, the elfin frond,

Oh, how awful, but riper, yes? No, not better,

Nor asleep; but upon that pinky finger, a ring—

Yes, remembrance! That frond in the evening,

To see the ice vainly form and feel flattened

By the warmth of fingers.

I’ve dwelled and I know that for sure,

But as I drifted, I’ve known better,

Than those peach, olden flowers,

All hollowed and cold, and all that

Livened with those cries, not saddened,

Rather as solemn as Pluto, it may be;

Hello to the years, and here I’ve wondered

That through the beginnings

Leave through those drifts, and there comes 

That doubt, but I one day

Can turn and glance back with that 

Tangled root of lone, and that peeled

Gambrel can wallow as it crossed down,

And pranced upon dead wishes, died, 

That I could remember,

And I could try.

It’s Been Years.

It was years

Since I last saw the rained and faulted

That I’d never forgive

In the gust of twisted Spring,

 

But you’d never know that

Unless the night was the auspice in the frost

A winter in reflection and remembrance

That passed as the ghost does

And then born again as minstrels; I’d never know either,

What laid before shallow palms, 

As dead tripled sound

That born with my dreams reflected

Your face,

Presuming and nothing,

Happening at all,

Your face.

 

And your face glowed and married the fog dusk in my satirical dreams, 

Lonesome as the embers and cold ceaseless river, with light, with a beryl sea,

That dashes upon faint skin, thus fair; 

I’ve remembered, with wind in the abreast trees in April,

I heard your voice again.

 

I’ve known what I’ve lost

And it was dull as the grass of dun;

And I’ve known the deathly age,

The fallen paths beyond

Through darkened hours.

It’s been years.

 

As the tint glares, and the thorn of flower

Cried for the sky, bleached and nothing

It’s been years.

Washed Away.

Washing away, a voice wrought 

Upon the shines and the valance

That twisted the deadened and dried

And speech, thus writhed passed

The strangers of the morning

Into the pleach shadowed evening

 

I’ll remember the strides within voice

That when I’d be still forever

If I could wake, if I could still feel

Beyond the glass, laid with a dried

Cast, and I wouldn’t know,

As I breathed,

But then I thought of Parnassians

Why, I wouldn’t know, but I’d still remember

 

And I’d still love

As I’d lay here, not with strife

Not dead. But I breathe

And I’d know, not as a ghost,

But as a soul

Washed away.

“Father (Come Back!)” By Shalymar P.

“Father, father, do you hear me?” I called to you.

As the ocean curled in its rigid paces,

Laced with linen foam,

“You must be there?” you cannot be gone,

You shouldn’t have gone so far,

“Do you hear all I say?”

The water rolled in the leaving wind,

The water fell in blue falters,

The water twined, glistening, as sunlight,

Obscured night,

I called to you from the surf of the shore,

As the sand laid golden in the soft glowing midday,

As the year you were birthed in the month of May,

“Oh, father, father.” I cried out to you,

For as through hope you’d whisper as the coming breeze,

In hope you would never leave,

In truth, burned to ash you were,

And made of dust you were born,

But as the stars dimmed faraway,

And became mute with Mars,

You were a burning ember in the dark,

“Father, father,” hear me,

I stand with the ocean water sinking me beneath the Earth,

You fly away with velvet feathered wings,

As you comb through slender light,

O’ then, O’ then, as you slipped from my frail fingers,

And memories broke as gilded glass,

Though you had much more worth than bleeding silver,

As I lost you, Father,

The water of the earth,

The lakes and seas,

The vast oceans,

The dew in the faint morning,

Ran dry, dry as the desert grew,

With shattered grounds,

And hot suns,

As then, as then, you went away,

In the month of May, the month of May,

And light went mute, and my throat grew tight,

And desperation came in droplets of sweat,

Fear was near, with a clenched fist,

But to stand on your second home,

“Father, father,” Do you hear me?

A glimpse of you right there with green eyes aglow,

With the sun now shining and linen foam to hem to your wings,

“Father, father,” please come back,

Come to me from a descent from the silver clouds mended in gold silk,

Come to me as the roses bloom in Spring,

But do not make me wait until it is too late,

For my heart had broken in a thousand tremors,

And everyday is passing away as the deaths of people,

“Father, father,” I cry to you,

As tears of blue,

Flow in dancing rivulets from my eyes,

“Father, father, return to me,”

Come from the bright horizon and fall with light,

Bring me from my knees,

Bring me from the ice of below,

As I have turned cold,

And have grown old,

Bring me, bring me, from my feet,

To stand on a rise,

As the dawn is above,

“Father, father,” I yelled,

“Come back to me.”

“Chains and Cages” By MirrorAnt.

Chains and Cages weigh us down,

Yet deep inside, we hold the key.

Look around, and you will see,

The endless state of mystery.

We writhe and scream,

And want to be free.

But look around, at what you see,

For all around, is mystery.

When you see, and see you will,

The key is there to be free.

And fly we will, and meet the sky,

And know no more, the mystery.

Flowers Living.

Flowers living upon the dead, 

Grew from the skeleton’s hand. 

The skeleton grew impatient, 

And frowned as he decayed from the colors.

***

And there he frowned without the skin

Without the organs and tissues,

And there he frowned, none wake,

For this as man—he’d stay the same,

For this as man, perplexed and aged,

As though for this, he’d clam in the season,

As the chassis didn’t have a brain!

 

(Take a visit, olden frame.

Evening ponders your rent

Burials in those roots slid

Across your hand).

 

Here they’ve intruded that no longer,

As the nightingales are born,

No longer should they shall

To wonder their own,

As the nightingales are born,

I rise, asleep, not steady.

 

Lotus flowers around, all pointed,

Thus bizarre, and there it goes,

There it goes, I wonder what I’ve lost,

And as I’ve pondered, none abating,

It was closer to an old lantern,

Flickering its life in light,

And it was closer than I could’ve thought,

But a day never slung itself to me

By being tacit as the dry, dry remnants

Of old and rented tenant of eve.

 

It was closer to myself

And there it reaches,

But it never strides.

 

It was closer to an old man

Caught in croaks, and they’ve hacked

As flickered in smoke, cigarettes breathe

Quarter to night or as that dissolved

Flower pinned to a wooden plank

Dealt with twenty nails that had packed

In rich soil’s demise; decomposers come,

And they’ve taken.

 

It was closer to a stranger

I’d talk to only once, and never again,

I’d never know that, sure, but I could remember,

And as a wish sought itself in eternal sepulcher;

I’ve known, and I felt better even though

I’d never know beyond the blaze,

Though maybe it’s better that way

Than a wish’s distortion and therefore

That time that never was—was only that,

As it was and as it seemed before myself.

 

I’d never know beyond the blaze

And when I near turned, I saw some lilies.

I never knew what I lost,

Loss is loss and in December, I looked up to the ceiling

And uttered,

“Time—time-time.

I’ve wasted and belonged,

And where do I begin? And where?

I wouldn’t know, but I have no answers

Under a star-lined rock, swallowed by rain,

Pressed against the patio stones of 

Quiet rooms—here I am–

Thus stitched with ores and chapels built from bone,

But, what do I do now? I have no guesses.”

***

“You see, I can never understand it, like the torch’s

Ethereal blaze upon the stance on stone and chapped rock,

I’d climb on it once, too afraid to come down, until a lady helped me down.

 

“Its drought remains under a star-lined rock, 

Swallowed by rain, and pressed against 

The patio stones of quiet rooms

 

“Thus stitched with ores

And chapels built from bone.”

Among the Arisen. Chapter VII.

Chapter VII.


It was 5:30 in the morning when Diane woke up.

She was cold. Her heater abruptly died a few days ago; so, she bundled up on blankets, hoping soon that this will pass. Nothing was looking better, she considered. She fought off the hugging blankets and quilts, and turned on the light in her “kitchen” area. On the counter, she poured a bowl of dry cereal, only to stare at it in depth in front of her.

Sighing, she moved the bowl away from herself, and rested her countenance upon her crossed arms, strewn across the table. The room had gotten a touch lighter, but was still as dark as the dryads in the groves…

Well, not at all, but her patience was thin, and all she wanted to do was wake up, but the lighting remained consistent until a quarter to 7:00.

She did her morning chores, such as feeding her cat and scooping a dreadful litterbox. In all things considered, it was the facet of normalcy that rang profound—and by all means, she wanted it back. She no longer wanted to have nightmares, to have visions, to have stresses…

And most of all, she no longer wanted to have fear.

But, how was that turning out? Not too well. The days have been vaguely kind to her, but the consistency, while still there, lessened a little. There really wasn’t anything she could do right now, but tomorrow, she made arrangements to stay at Linda’s apartment in the meantime. She was making a mistake, wasn’t she? She knew, internally, that she shouldn’t have done this, but the options weren’t remarkable in comparison.

Diane lowered her gaze to her bleached hands; almost the color of the tip of her finger-nail. Another wash of the cool followed her, and there was a slight pang in her chest.

There was a tap on the window, and glancing out, there was nothing to be seen from where she was standing. Another tap. Walking over, she glanced furtively before closing the curtains. She went back to the table, her face resting on a barren surface, and she fell back asleep.

She opened her pallid eyelids. It’d seem that it had passed an hour or two. The room now shown all of its decaying matter that no longer covered itself from the darkness. Diane yawned as she looked around, disorientated, and stumbled in her haste steps; she crouched as she ambled to her bedroom. Though all at once, there was a knock on her door.

“Just a second!” She called back, “I’ll be right over!” What answered back was the march of persistence, beating in on her front door.

Hold your horses! “Hang on, will you!? Give me a chance, at least!” She hobbled over to the table to rub a lower part of her back; and as she straightened it out, she fumbled toward the door. Her eyes gaped in surprise.

It was certainly not UPS. “What–what are you doing here?”

The door opened a little wider where Linda chuckled, “What, you’re uninviting me this late? C’mon, let’s get out of here!” Linda walked inside, briskly as her steps trailed with an exuberance that was hard to muster. “Wow, this place still looks like garbage. How could you even breathe in here?”

Diane really didn’t know what to say to that one. After all, it was her home for the past few months.

“I don’t know. You just get used to it, I guess.”

“Hmm…”

“Hmm, what?”

“I was just thinking aloud…” They had continued their walk further inside the apartment, “How are we going to do this? You have the suit cases all settled?”

“No. I was going to set them up today, but you showed up a day earlier than planned.”

“No, I didn’t. Check your calendar because we agreed on today. I have all my things taken care of since coming back a couple of days ago. It shouldn’t be much of a problem even if you’re not prepared. I got time,” she shrugged, only now noticing the state of Diane’s bedroom. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” but quickly she added, “Why?”

“No reason, I guess. It’s just that… have you wondered about the sanitary here? I don’t know, but this seems gross.” Linda grimaced to her left where the bathroom door was opened a jar. “Eww, is that mold?”

“…You’re one to talk about cleanliness, don’t you think?”

Linda rolled her eyes upward, removing her glasses, “Yeah, but I never had mold. This is probably why you’ve been having issues in the first place, huh?”

“Listen, I’d rather not argue.”

“Oh, but I bet it’s true. You probably need to get checked out or something–”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” Diane sneered. “But, hey, thanks for the abrupt concern. Something changed?”

Linda mumbled something in return, but then shrugged back, opening up a closet door. “Where are the suit cases, anyway?”

“On the bottom. Lift open the little shelf compartment, and they’re all flattened out.”

“Ah, here we go.”

“So, we can probably just load these in back, get things in a group…”

“It’s your stuff,” Linda began to assort the cases, each one, she opened on the bed, and… “Diane.”

“What?”

“Can I ask you something, I don’t know, a little weird?”

Diane noticed the solemn tone within her voice. “Go for it.”

“You think you have more problems in this place than you already have?” She lowered her eyebrows, and stayed still. “I think the manager lied to you about some stuff, or at least, neglected some of it.”

“Listen, I don’t wanna talk about it. Here, I’ll start packing and I’ll give you the cases to load up in the car–”

Linda only continued, looking down at the assortments, “Guy seems sleazy. Why the heck did you not leave sooner? If I were you, I’d just stay away from this place and never turn back.”

“I’m really not up for this discussion, and it’s none of your business, if I’m being honest.”

With that, Linda complied for the time being, and stolidly collected each case as it was finished. When they were done, Linda followed Diane out the door and into her car.

“Ouch!”

Linda glanced up as she buckled herself in the passenger seat, “Ah, better look out for that, huh?”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Diane adjusted herself and massaged the back of her head lightly.

She pulled out of the parking lot; the apartment building fading as a distant memory in the past. The rest of the drive maintained its silence as Diane carefully recollected upon these recent events.

I was dying… She glanced over at Linda, who seemed to not occupy the moment. She was there. Something is up with the book– and it may not be what I thought it was originally. It is something more dire, something that I did not consider...

“Hey.”

This broke Diane out of her thought. “What’s up?”

“I just want to know. Be honest, though. Have you been well these days? Well, scratch that. That’s probably a stupid thing to ask–Has anything got better?” She glanced away from Diane, a hand resting on the ledge of the car door. “Like, anything? I just want to know.”

“I…” Well, I’m not exactly a liar, but… “I’ve been a little better, but it’s hard to tell. Why’d you ask? Curious.”

“I felt bad,” She muttered, and she rested her knees on the edge of the seat, stretching the fabric, “That’s all, and you know, I do care, but I–I got really stupid, and wasn’t thinking. I hope you know that.”

“Oh. Uh, well, thanks, I guess.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry for… everything.”

“Noted,” Diane put on her turn signal, and made a smooth right turn. She tapped once on the steering wheel out of habit, signifying that the conversation came to a natural end.


It was days later when an object had found its way to an elongated, darkened table, standing upon one balanced leg in the center. At a distance, Diane stood indefinitely. It was awhile since she last read it, but at the time, she didn’t understand the fear she was experiencing. The visions only exacerbated from the influence, though that could probably be said about anything.

What could she find other than a maniac’s ramblings in there?

Eh… I probably shouldn’t go there.

Dubious, she looked away from the book. There has to be a correlation that makes sense. If not, then why was it a possibility to think over? Diane internally paced, being still as the room’s ambience. This started this conflict with Linda…And it led me to where I am now. What, if anything, do I take from this as? This doesn’t make any sense.

On the other hand, I shouldn’t be that willing to believe in something that may not even be real. After all, I could have something going on…

It felt real, though. She frowned, backing her mental steps. That’s what… That’s how I felt with that. If there is a connection to either the visions or this book, which one should I follow as a trail? The visions never proved anything, but the book seems to be my only lead—since it does connect to my problems.

The visions? I could just be insane. It’s all possibility, but what connection is there?

She was at a loss. There could not be a connection.

But, there might be, since–

“What are you doing?” Linda walked in, carrying a glass of water.

Diane quickly took a step back, “Nothing, nothing.”

“Okay… Everything all right?”

“Uh, yeah, everything is fine. All cool here.”

Indicating with her free hand, she casually replied, “You were looking at the book? And for quite some time, too.”

“I… I um… Yeah, I was.” Tilting her head, Diane asked intriguingly, “How did you know that?”

“Believe it or not, I was watching by the corner for about five minutes, wondering what was going on. You were quiet… and just doing nothing, so I figured ‘Eh, might as well see what’s up from a distance.’ And here I am, ’cause I just couldn’t wait anymore.” She put down her glass on a petite coaster. “…More visions?”

“Um… No, not quite.”

Linda quirked an eyebrow, “Really?”

“Yeah, really. I’d rather not get into it.”

“So, why are you staring at the book? You told me you wanted nothing to do with it, and here I find you about to grab it. What’s going on?”

I was about to grab it? Diane wasn’t too sure, but instead, spoke, “Nothing’s going on. I was just staring at it. What’s the problem with that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Linda eased, cautioned with her hands up, “It’s just weird,” a shrug, “That’s all. No harm done… I guess. Just–You know what, never mind. I’m not going to say.”

“What? Say what?”

“Just…” Linda hesitated, straining for words, “be… be very, very careful with it, if you do plan on reading it again.”

“I’m always careful! I apologize for the microscopic tears I’ve created when I last handled the book then.”

“I hate when you do this, god dammit.” Linda muttered and brushed her leg once by the table. “Shut up and listen for once.” Something that you can’t even do half the time

Hey! You’re being ridiculous yourself. You know me by now, have I ever returned anything in poor condition?”

“No, but that’s not it. This book is very important to me, okay? I may have acted careless in the past with it, but I don’t want anything done to this book. Nothing, okay? Just be careful with it.”

The room was cold, and a slip of a chill passed by. Diane aghast, was only inching away from the book.

“…I will.”

Linda made a face. “Okay. So… I have to know for real, what has been up with you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“C’mon, you can tell me.”

“No, just… just stop. Please. Can’t we talk about something else?”

“Like, what?” She shrugged carelessly. “There really is nothing else interesting in either of our lives.”

She peered over, “Listen, I’d rather be left alone right now.” The book was calling. She should just grab it–yes, grab it!

“Is that really, um, the best option? You’re not…” how do I even say this? “uh, well?”

“I know that. It’s especially why I want to be alone. I need to think about some things right now.”

“I’ll check on you in a few hours then. I don’t know what’s going on, but something feels off with you–more than usual, actually.” Linda’s expression softened, “…I’m–I’m sorry about what I did.”

“I promise it’s nothing to do with you right now… I just have to think about what’s going on and evaluate everything–what should I do, among other things that come to mind. This is not healthy and I know that.”

“Okay…” Linda turned around, but glanced at Diane one final time. “You’re okay, right?”

Diane attempted a smile, “I’m fine. Now go,” a whoosh, a whoosh, “you have better things to do probably, like studying I imagine?”

“I hate you.” She walked by the edge of the wall; it was a turn and then down to the rest of the apartment. “Look, if you’re still here… I’ll check on you.”

Diane nodded, though the sentiment didn’t quite reach her understanding. Now alone, the A/C turned on again, and she just had to wonder what allured her to this room. She didn’t even know the book was here at first, but she felt a compelling desire to visit this room.

Perhaps, this was the bit of closure. Maybe this was a sign to read it again. Ah, but the human thought does not always equate to our feelings. At least that’s what Diane could summarize. She touched the patchy spine of the book and skimmed through it, albeit gentle, but it was more than anything; a darkening thought became, however.

Something else compelled her, too. She wasn’t entirely sure why, but something within her pleaded to burn the book into the ash it deserved to be; and laid upon the ground, the wind can breathe it away with all its fabric in the hands of a passing cold.

Her hands covered the center of the book. Where would a lighter be?


This ‘recent’ arrangement had turned from weeks to now months. There were only more delays with the renovations, and at this point, Diane considered herself apartment-less. Whatever had been really going on, she had no clue, but was only less determined to pursue in the matter further after factoring in the costs.

Everything was in a repetitive cycle, a routine, if you will, but only faltered slightly. It all had gotten worse, and the tremors that brushed by her, were no longer murmurs in the tranquil day, but now throughout both day and night as the grounds of trauma; silence crept as faces flooded throughout her mind, blankly, all those she cared for; and in the eye of the pitfall, soon evening, she awaited by her bed and counted each experience more and yet, each was just prolonged as the apex of a pendulum.

Things were just now making a little sense, at least when compared to those in past. All she does is wait for them to pass, so each day to avoid them, she secluded herself in a stolid bedroom, and slept for hours. She barely left that room.

But, she didn’t want to see them ever again. While some were in her dreams, they were now more often in her waking life. She would be thinking of something, and then it begins the trail, that recollection, that reminder:

They will never go away.

Diane was still in bed when the door knocked a few times. She grumbled with each turn, and half-asleep, hoped that it would leave her alone. “Go away…”

The door spoke, “Yeah, you should really get up. It’s the afternoon!”

“Go away. I want sleep.”

Linda stepped inside, and the door slammed into the wall. A small oops passed through her lips. “It’s 2:00 PM. Who knew you slept in late?” Rolling her eyes, Linda walked over to the window.

“Thank god for Saturdays.” Diane turned over, pulling the blanket over her face; and she turned away from her concerned friend.

More like every day…“And? You’re gonna waste the day? That’s not fun. C’mon, we can do something, maybe check out some places.”

“No, leave me alone. Sleep… I just want sleep.”

Linda opened the curtains, “Get up, and get out of bed. I’m not having this.”

“Go away. You’ve been intrusive enough, haven’t you?” Diane slid her head against her pillow, positioning her back. “I’ll sleep until the evening, who cares?”

“That’s why I’m doing this. Ever since you came here, you’ve been nothing but depressed and reclusive–”

“Oh, and an outing really does the trick, huh.”

“No,” Linda shook her head, “No, it does not, but you know what? It gets you out of here once in a while, and it gets you away from your own stuff.”

“Leave me alone.”

“And, you’ve been so into your own stuff, you can’t think about anything else, right? How about that?” Linda took a step closer and sinisterly, “Look at you. Look at yourself, and look at what you’ve done to yourself.”

When Linda spoke those final words, all was still, except the door. Diane opened her eyes in the midst of tears; she wasn’t crying, no, she couldn’t be crying. Not again. She went back to her pillow, and this time, did not fall back asleep.

Outside the door, Linda huffed loudly, and she shook her head again. These past few weeks have been worse for everyone, including the on and off sleeping schedule with Diane. There were times where she’d be up until five in the morning, times where she would not get any sleep at all, and as of late, she has been sleeping the day away, barely visible to the clings upon life; the burden showed under her eyes.

Because of this, she had been skipping classes, and she would probably be thrown out soon. If lucky, maybe she’d get the option to re-enroll next year, but that was just chance.

“What am I going to do with her?” She looked to the door one last time and walked away, disappointedly.

Little did she know, it all began a few days after Diane’s arrival.

************************************************************************************

A/N: Chapter 8 might (keyword: might) be more promising than this one. 😁


Links to existing and future chapters:

Among the Arisen. Chapter VI.

 


 

 

Timely and Cadence.

As the King jostles

With whelm of armies and—-cadence

Among the stance by son of Ares and Aphrodite,

And sense the waves jostle, and a fine wind

wished one evening to stow wanderers 

And their Edersee appetite, quite pretty,

At all ends that breathed

And, as they might,

Exclaim to their loved ones,

Ah! For I have proposed

That and that and that and that,

And time for this too, I say,

“Why, Cronus, don’t kill me now!”

And I give fault, I do,

For the age of time, no dream,

Is like that letter

With the simple stamp, right corner,

With a touch of a pinch of an outlying 

State, and there I’ve written again, staring,

As the shrubs could fling their seeds,

Rich for seeding, and pleating the poor corolla,

Sepals sapped.

In rather utter lip,

Menrva rested and napped,

Thetis snapped and the dead nymphs 

were in their sea graves;

But back on that! Wisdom, not on my side,

As the follicles part themselves of dust

And even—-and even time had reared itself,

Took a shrug and said,

“Hours and man

Hours and man,

Thrown into the deeds

Of coalesced ember in a breeze,”

I took a shrug and said,

“Not an act or timely depth

In what rung itself above counting

Between epochs and your vainly

And your tenderly, fingers, caressed,

Around the bred, scarlet mount

Of time’s fractured faults;

I leave in some minutes, perhaps stew a thought

Bygone by a day where nothing different

Regarded the narrow ear canal and patting, called for such a name,

But who was I again?”

Time ticketed and wasted upon

The plainly lasted hills of evening

And through meander soil, rich for eating.

To Remember the Ague of Sky.

Oh, oh, remember the ague of sky,

That in the past led the incant (perennial gaze) 

That we’ve visited in the crucible rise among sty,

Should we remember the ague between the abreast skies,

Where then it edged my heart upon a beryl sea,

Instilled by Deathwatch beetles, woodboring beetles?

And dear, it presides,

Itself in these calls that leave themselves

In conjure, in a wish made by a dead man

In words of patience by tomorrow,

And here lies a dead man;

Born wrath with a plated moon

Fallen on the slippery glass

Upon the sluggish shoulders,

Though I do feel rather sluggish, and amazed

For in shock I could remember

Upon the panes that Eros was in my eyes,

And into my flesh, a polished sweat (hear them ring)!

I have once felt like that,

Through a nested, curled fire 

Upon the legs of gaping heart

And heave of then Eros condemned,

And the imperious blush caressed and grinned,

Upon the waters with them, clear,

I’ve felt that and you didn’t,

And as though you never knew

I’ve barely wondered in years

Upon the mantle and a deep red

Upon my wretched blossomed heart,

With then only a content

That made flesh into life

That made life into life; it was there I’ve known it was dead,

With fullest closure, and the embers washed,

The day was fine, and it was nothing to ever occur,

For my lips never parted,

And here I stand among the bonds

Of the ground, all lush within

Their dirt and tress of bugs

That shared through the suits

Of buzzing, and they’ve become

“Elytra, elytra!” Hear the suds,

And here lies a dead bug.

Just as with a weakened heart,

Aloft of the fog outside in

Widened, windowed prances

Of excellency foretold,

And with a foreword to wait,

I’d never say anything at all,

But here lies a wish, 

Never told, never spoken,

As the dead man in the grave

Or in the world’s ember,

Or as the dead man in the grave

Within the world’s ember and ague,

And age.


Edited: 3/14/2019.