I take up space. Always finding a way to make the half-full glass completely occupied. No space for emptiness. No space for errors. My time is taken up by trying to take up the empty space, and the space in my mind completely filled by this attempt. I'm always(more) saying something, and I want to stop but I wait. I wait. I wait for something. I wait for someone else to say something. To me. (less)
Smoke wafting in the air.
Nothing, then grey.
Wisping into soft hues of every colour imaginable and yet intangible.
Unconstrained, unmoldable by hand.
(more) Yet, with mind and breath it shapes.
All that is needed
is a free spirit.
And it shall be created. (less)
Momentum is everything. Like a pendulum, the chains crinkle as the child shifts her weight with each swing. The wind combs through her hair, just like her mother used to brush her hair before bed. The air cradled her like her father used to when he put her to(more) sleep.
She stares at the view changes with each swing: the gravel, the grass, the bushes, the trees, and finally, the sky. She swings relentlessly, slow but high. The movements blur as time passes.
In this momentum, she finds her moment. For a moment, there are no holes, no emptiness. For a moment, as the swing reaches its highest peak, she dreams that she could fly away. For a moment, she is finally getting her own happy ending.
But those never last: the chains constrict the swing and gravity pulls her down back to the dirty gravel. And so she swings: the momentum bringing her happy endings with each rise to the sunlight. (less)
Saucer eyes scan the twitching crowd. Despite the eerie silence that covered the town, the swarm tittered with mindless chatter. The crowd was starting to disperse, addictive substances numbing their senses.
He saw his own wide eyes staring back at him. His eyes, wide with adrenaline, contoured by th(more)e deep shadows of his night hunts. They stared right back in the mirror, the pupils dilated and the glint dimmed by the white lines across the mirror. He took one last snort before leaning back.
The skylight was right above him: a marbled counter speckled with a light dusting of the substance running through his nasal passages, giving him a rush of senses.
He felt a hand on his arm and he rolled his head on its side.
There she was: brown wavy hair and dark brown eyes like molten chocolate, contrasting with her pale skin, made paler by the lights in the room. Her eyebrows were twisted in knots and she gave him a weak smile.
She was worried, and he was numb. His senses were on alert and yet he was not, at least not towards her. He was the owl, and she was his mouse, his prey. This was his night hunt, and at that moment, that was all that mattered. (less)
When she reaches an end point, she has to face the truth. She had been in self-denial for so long, sometimes she forget what in her life is true.
Her once shining armor has now rusted over, weighing her down more than ever. Every step she took was accompanie(more)d by a loud, screeching noise so terrible it could only be compared to the grating sound of her stifled heart.
They give her medals and shields, to honor and protect. They give her weapons and artillery, to fight and liberate. These things don't free her: they keep her steady. They keep her on the ground with the burden of expectations, heavier than any substance. She keeps her head high and fights on, but the weight tries to get her closer and closer to the ground.
They try to convince her that she can't fly. She tries to convince herself that she can't fly.
Her wings have become invisible to the naked eye, but they are always present. In her eyes, in her dreams, and in the still-fighting part of her suppressed heart: there is flight.
When the time comes, no metal, no authority, no duty will keep the rust on her.
There is flight in her and so, she will fly. (less)
His hands yanked at her shoulder, and she struggled against his grasp. She pulled always and bounced against the brick wall behind her. His eyes screamed fury and a glint of satisfaction and she wobbled around dazed. The impact had slowed her down and she could not make a(more) run for it as she had intended to. He approached her once more, grabbing at her fine light blonde hair, feeling the silk texture before applying brute force to pull her head up to face him.
She was terrified. Despite the large warm sweatshirt that she wore, shivers still wrecked her body. He was so close to her that she could smell the rancid sweat and the cheap liquor that he had consumed oh so recently. She felt the heat of his hands travel along the fabric of her sweater and she struggled against him, earning her a hand across her face. He took her ice cold hands and laid it on his face and neck, holding them firmly in place. With anger and fear, she closed her eyes and thrashed around but his hot hands would not budge. She felt him remove his hand.
She removed her touch from his face. She froze and waited for the impact but nothing came. She felt the man's arm stiffen around her, and she reluctantly opened her eyes. There he was, right in front of her face, pale-faced, blue-lipped, and literally frozen. (less)
I was paralyzed. My eyes were shut tight, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't open them. The toes on my right foot felt ice cold, left out from the shelter of the warm blanket. The blanket, though providing warmth, suffocated me.
I could hear small giggle(more)s bouncing around the walls. Every time I sucked in a sharp breath, the giggles would commence. Small breezes passed around my bed, and I felt movements all around. I tightened my grip on the sides of the blanket, unable to move my body otherwise.
My limbs stayed frozen. I could see a few glimpses of movement beneath my eyelids, light moving in the dark dark room.
"Where are you?" a soft female voice entered from outside the room. The giggles moved around the room.
I felt something brush against my toes that were out of the blanket and I gulped nervously. It's just a dream, it's just a dream, I told myself. I was not at the new apartment I just rented. I was not alone in this room, let alone the apartment.
Keys jingled as the door creaked open.
"I found you," the female voice sang. I felt the giggles come closer to me. Their presence surrounded my bed.
In a chorus, they whispered. "Sleep tight." (less)
At one point, everyone gets that one single word that others define you with. Just one word that encompasses your entire existence. Mine had always been that fat kid.
Despite my many attempts to be defined differently, it stuck on. The puns available with my name didn't really hel(more)p my case either. For the longest time, I've been trying to break out of this definition of mine. Doing over exaggerated actions in hopes that one of those manners will overwhelm the "fat kid" aspect of me and that people would notice me before noticing my voluminous carcass.
This stuck with me over the years, even now. But I've come to realize something important.
Definitions don't matter. One word simply cannot describe us in an accurate manner. Yes, I may be "that fat kid" buy I am also many things: butcher, baker, candlestick-maker. (That wasn't completely true, but that's beyond the point.)
The point is that I need to stop letting others define me. I need to stop defining myself as "that fat kid" just because others do so. I need to not defy, but accept, that part of the definition, and that's the only way I can get past it and become myself. Definitions are not just one or two words. It's a whole jumble of letters and words that you yourself cast.
You define yourself. (less)
Solid black lines were moving across the surface of the paper. There was a consistency with the movements, though the lines thickened and thinned down with each curve. Moe tried to read the writing once more, but the concept was beyond her reach. There it was, in her own(more) handwriting. But she thought she had burned it into a wish. There was remains of the burns: the smoky dust that coated the paper, the charred edges, but now it was solid again. Another piece of paper had come with her burnt wish. A different handwriting, yet the same consistency. The words seem to flow smooth and fluent, and she could almost hear a voice reading it out to her as she read the short note. The letters were written in a more artful fashion, with tiny sharp curves and dramatic flairs at the end of each word. The ink was merely stained on the parchment, the instrument not leaving a single indentation on the note. It was still beyond her understanding but she had no doubt that the note's message was to be fulfilled.
It was right there: her wish, in handwriting. Beside it, in handwriting as well, was the note that came with it. "Your wish has come true," Moe whispered as she read the letter once more.
If only wishes came without a price. (less)
The only thing she noticed was his smile. It was a rare event, only his family and herself had seen it before. Of course, there were different smiles: the mocking smile, the smirk, the fake smile. But nothing could compare to his genuine smile, reflecting happiness and, most of(more) all, love. She stared down at the water, seeing her reflection on the surface of the lake. A similar smile was etched onto her face.
She stared at him from the corner of her eye, curtaining her face with her hair. He was looking up into the sky, lost in thought. His arms rhythmically moved, his muscles flexing as he rowed the boat. He looked so peaceful. The seemingly-permanent frown that he had in front of the others was gone, and what was left was the face of a once innocent young boy who had to experience life before his childhood was over.
He caught her staring at his face, and he smirked playfully at her, raising an eyebrow. She blushed and looked back down into the lake. His hands covered hers resting on the side of the boat. As their eyes met, he intertwined their fingers together and kissed her hand.
And there, in a boat, in the middle of a lake, in a world full of things she had not yet seen, was when she promised silently that she would never again let him go through anything alone, like he had always done in the past.
As she smiled up at him, a mischievous glint lit up in his eyes, and before she knew it, the boat was overturned. He held her in his arms securely, his arms warm despite the cold water. His gaze bore into her eyes, and right then, their lips met for the first time. (less)
"There are monsters under the bed!"
"It's okay sweetie. They won't hurt you."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course. I'll tuck you in so they don't get to you."
"Is the blanket going to protect me?"
(more) "Yes! It's going to keep all of the monsters away."
"Even the Boogie-Man?"
"Especially the Boogie-Man."
"But I want you to stay too!"
"Sorry, sweetie. I'll come back. But until then, be good."
"I love you, mommy."
"Love you too sweetheart."
That was the last night she tucked me in. That was also the night I found out that there were other fears, beyond the Boogie-Man. That was the night that the monsters under my bed no longer frightened me, for they took residence within me.
That was the night the blanket became untucked. (less)
The old woman sits there, her body unmoving. She's frozen despite the thick tweed cape that drapes her hunched shoulders and the dark brown gloves that coat her hands. Her body is shaking, unseeable by the passer-bys. Her hands shake as she scatters life onto the cement ground. The(more) sun is just starting to rise up, and the faint silhouette of the moon is still visible. It's cold. Her breath comes out in puffs of mist, fogging up the clear glassiness of the morning air. Small tappings surround her. Faint taps on the ground, rhythmically getting faster. She scatters more and the taps increase. The sun rises and she stops scattering to stare at this beauty of nature. She felt warmth seep into her, like the first time he held her hand, or the first time they kissed. Glassy-eyed, she looked away from the scenery. She came here not for this, she tried to convince herself. She scattered another handful of breadcrumbs around her. It was for the ones that were still consuming, still surviving, still flying. It was for the birds. (less)
Yes. Yes sir. Yes m'am. Of course. Definitely.
Smile and nod.
Only once solidarity is confirmed, breathe.
Permanent crease between the brows.
Corners of the mouth pulled down, gravity optional.
(more) Seeing inferiority provides a sense of accomplishment.
Corners of the mouth almost defy gravity.
Let out the breath held by the tattooed smile.
Let it out along with the shout still ringing in your ears.
Do this. Do that. You hear me?
Yellow: bright and shining. The sturdy base and the pattern of the rectangles give stability. The once-rough texture of the sun-dried clay feels warm and comforting to the feet. The yellow brick road is supposed to lead me to my destination. And yet, the comfort of the familiarity hinders(more) my journey, unable to leave the safety bubble I've developed over the years. Taking all the twists and turns, here I remain: still wandering on the yellow brick road. (less)