Whimsicality

poetry prose

Milton looked at the small, shivering baby bird that he cradled in his mud-caked hands. Tripping over a root and landing face first into the soil has brought him an interesting discovery.

He did not know where it came from, or what type of bird it was, but he saw it as terribly fragile and far weaker than anything he’d ever seen. It shook violently in his hands, and he soon realized that he was able to end this young creature’s short and miserable life.

Now, this was quite a powerful revelation for Milton, a mere boy of seven. He had the capacity to sever its head, or crush it under the weight of a rock, or step on it, or, perhaps the most simple answer, set it down and be on his way. This little flicker of life he could affect in the most heinous of ways.

This little boy with his shoes on the wrong feet, could play God to a helpless nestling. Excitement and a perverse kind of lust shot through his body, and in a blurred frenzy, Milton tightened his grip around the bird and slammed it against a mossy boulder. It wailed as the impact crushed its skeleton, and warm blood seeped into Milton’s hands as he dug his nails hard into the carcass.

Giggling, he stuck his first kill, his bloody badge of honor into his shirt pocket, and tottered on home.

Child’s Dream

We met on an airy summer night, when the crickets chirped choruses of love songs, and the frogs bellowed out croaks of perfect contentment after a sweet meal of flighty insects, and the trees sighed a heavy, sorrowful sigh, missing each other.

It was under a particular tree, its branches the shade of his hair and its leaves the colour of his eyes, warm and soothing, like the rolling of a thousand waves, that I found him.

Sleeping, like an angel.

He woke and he breathed and I fell for him in an instant, trusting myself to those fine, chestnut-toned arms. We often laughed together, though I’ve been told that laughing is a dangerous thing to do, even deadly some. And sometimes I was brave enough to look right into his eyes,  but I always broke away, for I saw things in them that made me smolder inside.

We danced and sang in nonsense-verse to the idle gods up above who gifted us with each other. We picked peaches and relished them, biting into their delicate flesh, feeling their sweet poison shivering through our entire bodies.

I would go every day, meeting him under that glorious tree, its limbs quaking. But as time passed, the time I saw him grew smaller and smaller. Sometimes, he would even disappear in my embrace. Once, he was gone the moment I laid eyes on him. Right into thin air.

As if he didn’t love me at all.

Then, one day, he simply did not appear. Days grew into months, months grew into years, until I grew old and pitiful, only able to breath out melodies to the dazed gods. Begging them to bring him back.

But he never came. And I sunk into the ground and I let the roots of his tree take me up, and I missed him as the moon misses the sun, and my heart ached as if a hundred daggers had been pushed through it, one at a time. And I wept. I did not stop weeping until I saw him again, under this tree.

Sleeping, like an angel,

as a fair maiden with porcelain legs and lips like blossoms approached. And he woke. And she fell. Such is this life.

A nobody sets out on a journey to see what he’s been missing all of his life. He travels through fields, swamps, rain forests, oceans, picking up scents and colours, the smell of the briny sea, stars he never knew existed and love letters and flowers of a thousand different kinds. But with that, he picks up cuts and bruises, human brutality, poverty, loss, the dead soil that’s been burned down to nothing, the creatures that are replaced only by silence, scars of the Earth. And yet, with all of these burdens and these pleasures, he’s free. Completely unbound, going only where he likes, taking only what he needs. Like this, he finds a cave. So deep that only darkness greets him once he peeks inside. Without any inhibitions, he climbs in. Deeper he goes. Deeper, and deeper. Until he realizes that he’s running out of rope. Confident that the end will be reached soon, he goes on. Eventually, he runs out of rope. He has no strength left to climb up. Stricken with fear, he can’t bring himself to let go. All he can do is stay, hanging on to his last piece of rope, knowing that he will have to do something soon. He doesn’t. Still, he stays stationary. Waiting. Embraced by the darkness, waiting.

My favorite things

I love the way you say my name.

How, when we were children, you would stick your tongue out at me and call me “ugly chicken”.

How you would call me clumsy and stupid under your breath and yet still take my hand and support me.

How all of the petty insults that were flung at me while you were a hormone-raged teenager seemed to just disappear the first time you said to me, “You’re beautiful”.

How your voice makes me float.

How you coax soft melodies out of our old dusty piano with your slender fingers, sweeping the keys in your sinful caresses, and how I’m so entranced.

As if it was magic.

How you assured me that everything was okay as I tended to gashes and bruises that dotted your body.

You always had to be the hero.

How we held each other as we went to sleep, blanketed in sorrow and taken by a deluge of tears to our utopia.

How you declared, “I do”.

And, when our first child came to this world, how you looked at me with a light in your eyes that would blind even the devil and said, “I’m a daddy now”

So I guess that makes me a mommy, right?

How you kiss me after a storm.

The wind in your hair,

Your devotion,

And your smile.

But what I love the most is

the way you say my name.

"Amelie" 

A moonlit bear

This short story is based off of the song “Moonlit Bear” by Hatsune Miku. I’ll provide a link when I get to an actual computer and not just an iPad. For now, please just google it if you want to hear the song. It’s really nothing fancy, I just followed the plot of the story and jotted it down in a crowded car on a long road trip to a little place called Sin City. For those of you who know the song, the story differs a little bit from the original song. I realize that this is also hilarious in a way, because I’m and awkward writer and this situation is just…..awkward. Also, when I get back from my vacation, prepare to see this blog turn into a travel/food blog for about a week. Please excuse the roughness and unrefined quality of this short story. My head’s not screwed on right today. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy~

………………………………………

"I’m going out for a walk, Gianni," piped a robin’s voice.
“Okay. Be safe,” a weary man replied. He knew that his wife was broken beyond sanity, that nothing good would come from letting her go outside. Their precious firstborn had perished under the weight of disease less than a month ago. Pneumonia laughs at those who have lost loved ones to it’s snaky grip. Politicians, kings, lepers, gypsies, peasants who have not known what it feels like to have a hot meal and a warm bed; they all curse at it in the name of theirshining deity, their god. He, who knew all of this, let his wife go nonetheless. No one could deny that they were both broken. And so, while she sought comfort in the dead night of the forest, he stayed in their charmingly decrepit cottage to wallow in grief and sorrow as humans so carelessly do after a death.
The night closed in. Murders of crows could be heard deep in the recesses of the wood.
“Don’t worry, my dear. I took my father’s pistol,” giggling to herself as she embarked on her journey.
“My, my. It’s another peaceful night. How wondrous,” she whispered. Stepping barefoot into the brush, she received cuts and scratches from then devious branches and thorns that hide away in the night. Perhaps the forest has made an easy target of it’s secret demons. Perhaps, she is merely careless. Walking deeper into the darkness, she spots a gleam.
“What’s this? It’s two delicious-looking apples! Left right here on the forest floor! Well…..I hope no one minds that I take them.” she greedily swiped the apples and cradled them in here arms. A slight breeze shook the trees and shook here malnourished frame. Shivering, she pulled her thin cloak closed, trying to protect the apples.
“I have to get home, quickly. I can make wonderful apple strudels with these. Oh, Gianni will be so pleased! I think he’ll even smile again!” Stomping back towards her home, she became aware of a hostile presence. Too afraid to look back, she quickened her pace, trying not to hear the rustle of leaves and stamping of soil trailing behind her.
” It’ll be okay, it’ll be alright,” she thought to herself. “Hurry, hurry. I must get back to where he is, he’s waiting for me.” she pretended not to hear the footsteps grow faster,she pretended that the forest hadn’t grown silent, making the footsteps more prominent. She pretended not to see the moonlit shadow of a bear towering over her as she started to run, clutching those apples as if they were a lifeline. Reality finally removed its mask when she heard a low growl emanating from just a few paces behind her. She then started to sprint. Her heart pounded against her fragile chest bone and she focused her scared doe eyes on the path in front of her.
“A bear. It’s a bear. A very big one. I need to hurry,” she told herself. The growling grew stronger.
“Please, please, God. Please let me get home safely. I’ve been a good woman all my life, haven’t I?” the lights of the cottage came into view, and she dashed to the door. It closed with a click. She gasped for oxygen and tears of relief overwhelmed her.
“Aria? Are you back?” Gianni called from the kitchen.
“Yes, my love. I had a very…….interesting walk.” The young man emerged from his hole. He look at Aria with concern, and his eyes widened.
“What….. What are you holding? Aria, what are you holding?!” The man’s loud voice made her startle.
“I……….. I just picked up these lovely apples from the forest. They were abandoned, out of nowhere. I didn’t steal them. I swear I didn’t. Please, please don’t be angry. Smile for me, like you used to smile.”
“Aria……” Gianni pinched the bridge of his angular nose and covered his fearful eyes with his hands. “Those aren’t apples. They’re babies! You took someone’s children!”
“Huh? What?!” She looked down. In place of the red apples were two rosy cheeked infants, sleeping fitfully. They started to wake and cry, and she stared at them with a quivering lip.
“What…… What have I done? Gianni, what have I done?!” she screeched. Droplets formed in her deep green eyes and overflowed into a deluge of shock and guilt. She cried right along with the small infants.
Gianni took her by the shoulders and faced her for the first time since their child died.
“Listen to me. Calm down and listen to me,” he repeated steadily. “We have to find the mother of these children, do you understand? It’ll be alright as long as they’re back with their parents.”
“B-but..”
“Come on, let’s go. I’ll go get our coats.”
“But I…”
Gianni led her to the door. She raised her voice and tried to warn him.
“But, it’s too late! Because, I already— “
He opened the door and they were met with the sight of a woman laying on the ground, with a bullet embedded in her chest. Floating on the pool of blood was a broke glass bottle of milk, and two pacifiers. The casing of the crows drowned the evening silence.

Her

Her dress flows over a glass body, a sweet yellow fabric. She is honey and she is opium, tearing eyes and drawing blood. Soft curls line her head, and porcelain eyes draw her from sweet relief. In a field of life, she would sing, sing melodies sorrowful to the extent that you are murdered by them. She murders you over and over again. Her skin scalds to touch and delicate limbs overlap your own in a frenzy of desire.
"Give me the world,"  she says
"As you wish," is what you are compelled to say.
Pretty words form on your tongue, and you’d be much obliged to fetch her the world. Precious things are revered. Beautiful things die. When Tragedy meets its lover, you know that it’s time. Put the broken doll back on her shelf. 

Whimsicality

"Must his coat be so long? While is hair is white, his appetite is strong? I prefer to age with grace, no grease smears upon my face. With the nose of my age held high and the tip of my cane quite low. That, children, is how things should go! As such, blah, blah, blah, blah…"

"Such a braggart, this old man. And how is it that, at your age, you are able to rhyme with such ease?"

"Be quiet, you dunce of a grandson. By my word, you shall let me have my fun! I’m merely at the age of eighty-two, am I not allowed to court a lady (or several few)?"

"No, you ancient coot! I can’t stand it when I’m forced to submit to your foolish whims!"

"Hush, don’t show your insolence here! Now, would you hurry up and finish my pedicure?"

"*under his breath* He’s mad!"

"What? What was that, that you uttered?"

"Nothing."

"Oh! All you do is mutter! You see girls, this is the kind of behavior you shouldn’t emulate. Look, see his unkempt hair, is brutish gait!"

"Just die, you ridiculous show-off"

"Ingrate!"

"Stupid prune!"

"Oh! such hate!"

"Bed-wetter."

"Lies! Why, with a mouth like that, you can’t even catch a coquette’s eyes!"

"Alright, I’m leaving. Do your own toes and fence with no one but yourself. I’m through here- hey, what are you doing, old man?"

"Ahh! I beg you, don’t go! Don’t you see your grandfather’s tears, have you no sympathy? If you go, who will make my lip cream, who will bring me my concubines? If you go, my charm as a mature older man shall be lost!" 

Simplicity

And the little girl thought, “How lovely it is to be adored! To be looked at and smiled at, to be touched and tickled, what bliss! She must feel so precious and he, enchanted. A love that must extend past her love of politicks and his love of melodys. A love that, as her knee brushes his, a chill passes by with grace. She will say to him ‘How lovely the moon is.’ and he would answer ‘It’s not the loveliest thing’. The sun would rise and fall just for them, and the flowers would bloom to witness their trance of affection. She will call him ‘Monsieur’ with a flourish and he would call her ‘Mademoiselle’ with certainty. And in the evenings, their love would take a stem of a rose and clear away the thorns. The dissonance in her head is cured as he kisses her forehead, and takes her hand. They will lead each other through misery and greatness, not letting go of each other’s arms.”

She smiled and her mother led her away.

This is the moment,

one I’ve slaved for, wept and toiled over, waiting and watching.  I’ve observed the masters, I’ve scrutinized recruits, pushing myself harder and harder. I look blankly at my nervous palms, cut and crimson. I’ve proven myself, haven’t I? Am I good enough now? Will they accept me? Or will this misery prove useless? I hate them. I hate them all. It rises beyond jealousy, mere disdain, rivalry. It stings, it burns, and slinks away until it is needed. This is what my whole life has been leading up to. As I grip the cold steering wheel, I slam my head into reverie.

Paradise has been promised. They’ve told me since the beginning, This is for the benefit of humankind. Us, them, what’s the difference? One sacrifice for many. Indeed, this is what everyone wants. Isn’t it? My doubts have never peaked like this before. Jaems, are you listening? After you steer the ship into the crevice, be sure to go straight into the city. "I know, I know!" I scowled and could feel my unibrow frowning. Taking a shallow breath, I break out of my excuses and plunge into the abyss, absolute oblivion….

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