Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on. ~John Keats

11 August 2016


Immortality is but a dream.
Ideas and words live on,
As does a legacy left behind.
We are never truly mortal;
But immortality can never be achieved.
            Immortality is just a dream.
            We can never be unbound by the chains of humanity,
            The cycles of the Universe.
            Mortality suites us,
            In the cyclical life of humanity.
                        We are stuck between mortality and immortality,
                        Overachieving one,
                        Never to achieve the other.
                        Reckless abandon to prolong life,
                        In hopes to savor it just a little longer.
            But humanity binds us to mortality,
            Just for a moment.
            In a moment,
            We are suspended in time, just past mortality.
            And then, it’s gone.
Nothing left for us just past that edge.
We fall before we can reach it,
Sliding away to the infinite,
Realizing that it truly is the end.
Immortality is but a dream…

12 March 2016


Whole new worlds,
faded memories,
brilliant colors
in quickly changing scenes.
whether asleep or awake,
i can never escape a dream.
dreams about memories half-forgotten,
the pictures yellowed in the corners,
and the edges crumpled and bent,
or dreams about my desires and passions,
bright and vivid,
leaving me yearning for something more.
flashes of things in my mind,
snippets of things unknown,
forgotten, never seen, not understood;
sometimes random things,
beautiful, amazing, breathtaking,
or ugly, sad, disgusting, scary.
i am a dreamer.
my mind flows with creativity,
with crazy thoughts and unknown wants.
it shows me things
i never knew it could.
my dreams float upwards,
expand and fill the spaces between the stars,
so big i can't contain them.
i am a dreamer,
i allow myself to escape,
to want, desire, and run freely
as i dream.
i am a dreamer....

10 March 2016

Colors of my dreams

the colors of my dreams are bold, vibrant, alive.
the colors of my dreams are dark, dull, slow.
different every night,
awash in the quicksilver rays of the moon,
running on an empty blankness of a white canvas.
the colors of my dreams inspire, drive, and awaken me;
they show me something more,
something that I long for;
they give me something to live for.
the colors of my dreams seep into the colors of my life.
the colors of my dreams are the colors of my life.

I'm Gone

silent suffering
internal disquiet
sadness, discouragement, anger, emptiness,
hopelessness, lost, questioning,
self-hate, pain, torment,
but I put on a smile,
outwardly showing everything is okay,
an untrue statement about being fine,
just to get by,
just to get through the day,
wishing I could just find peace
in the internal emotional and mental turmoil.
hoping it would just end.
instead, I'm drowning
in the darkness within my mind.
and in the relentless tidal waves,
I lose myself,
I forget who I am.
all my fight is gone.
the light at the end of the tunnel
has been put out.
and in the darkness,
I can't find myself,
cant find my way out.
and the tidal waves
pull me under.
I succumb,
I let myself go.
and I no longer feel a thing.
just a shell,
pretending everything is okay
just to get through the day.
and just like that,
my true self doesn't exist.
at least not for now.
when will this end?
I don't know.
and I let myself go,
give into the darkness.
I'm gone.

26 January 2016

A Gypsy's Story

(Editor's Note: This is a work in progress. I'm hoping that I can get some positive criticism on this story as I post more edits to it. Thanks.)

The river bubbles and skirts around the bend. The waterfall comes over a cliff, maybe a 20 foot fall. On either bank, trees fill the space, tall and full of green leaves. Foliage, plants, the previous autumn’s blanket of brown leaves cover the ground, small woodland animals darting in and out of their coverage. This is where the gypsies come to bathe and for fresh water, to fish, and occasionally for spiritual gatherings in the moonlight.
            The sun is low in the sky as I finish rinsing my hair in the waterfall, the cool water caressing my skin. Few birds chirp in the trees, an occasional squirrel runs up the trees. Other than natural woodland noises, everything is silent. I smile as the rays of sun dance and play with the droplets of water on the wall of the cliff; I watch them gleam like gems.
Suddenly, a dead branch snaps loudly, breaking the peace. It’s not a normal sound. The gypsies – myself included – know where the paths are in the woods, small, narrow, and hard to find as they are. I look around as I slide behind the waterfall to the entrance of the cave behind it, where my clothes are lying.
Someone is down the river, someone I’ve never seen before. A man, by the looks of it, a tall, dark-haired intruder of the outside world. Looking lost, he takes a few steps, slow and curious, in my direction as he looks around, almost mesmerized by the world around him.
I slip into the cave to get dressed. I slide my undergarments on quick, uncaring that my skin is still damp. My white blouse gets pulled over my head, hanging loose over my thin frame, barely showing my small chest. My skirt, long and loose, rests on my hips, its hues of deep purples and blues almost mesmerizing. My sash, black and silky, gets wound around my waist once and tied. My hair, dreaded and long, gets tied back with string, beads gently hitting each other as I pull my hair back. As a last touch, a dark bandana gets tied loosely around my head.
Barefoot – as usual, I have an aversion to shoes – I silently creep out from the cave and quickly follow the path back to the riverbank, my eyes trained on the outsider. He’s curious, eyes wide open as he takes in his surroundings. This man is no gypsy. His clothes are all wrong – bright, crisp colors, hair too kept, boots shining in the subtle light filtering down from the green canopy above, even so late in the day.
“What can I help you with, sir?” I ask, lifting my skirt to just above my ankles as I take a step closer to him. Startled, the man focuses his eyes on me, light blue and almond shaped.
He doesn’t move for a moment as he looks at me, trying to figure out what to make of me. I can see that he is trying to decide how much to tell me. Patiently, I stand on the path, waiting for him to make up his mind as whether to speak.
Another moment of silence slides by before he says, “I am looking for Mother Aisha. She’s the gypsy fo-“
“I know Mother Aisha. I am a gypsy, Dorenia. Tell me what your business is with Mother Aisha,” I respond, naturally somewhat defensive.
“I heard she could help me,” the man says, his voice now soft. “People say Mother Aisha has ways.” His tall lanky form stands maybe twenty feet from me now, his pale skin – pale, compared to the gypsies, who are darkened by the sun – almost glowing in the disappearing sunlight, translucent blue eyes shining.
I give a small smile and shake my head, my dark dreads shaking as I motion for him to follow me along the narrow path to the gypsy camp. My steps are silent; the pale face man behind me seems to find every dry, dead branch and leaf to make as much noise as possible. I roll my eyes as I pick up the pace, wanting to get this walk over with.
After several long, loud minutes, we make it back to camp. Curious eyes drift our way as I lead the oaf to Mother Aisha’s tent. Quiet hellos come my way; I smile and wave in return to each hello as I walk by.
I enter Mother Aisha’s tent, pushing the flap back. The pale face man hovers just inside the tent. Incense smoke hangs heavy, making light from the lanterns dim. This tent is rather large, warm, and inviting. But the man hasn’t moved from the door.
“Mother Aisha, someone has come looking for you,” I say as I pass her at her table, distracting her from her Tarot cards, walking through the partition to the other half of the tent.
Muted voices float to me through the partition as I change. I always leave a change of clothes at Mother Aisha’s, in case I need her to fix something for me. My skirt got torn earlier; I leave it on the pile of folded, dark blankets. I pull on my black pants, tight to my skin and good for riding. My black boots, knee high, slide on. I take the bandana from my head, leaving my dreads pulled back.
I come back through the partition, tucking the front of my shirt into my pants. I sit down on the cushion in the corner, watching the conversation through the haze of incense. The man, whose name is Charles, has troubles with his marriage. Mother Aisha is patient, quietly listening to his problems. I watch his body language. His hands aren’t very mobile, he can’t really keep eye contact with Mother Aisha, and there is no ring on his finger, although he keeps fiddling with an imaginary one. Mother Aisha and I make eye contact. She nods to me after she looks away.
“So,” I start, getting off my cushion, beads clanking together as my dreads move, “you are telling Mother Aisha that you’ve been fighting with your wife about small things. But you aren’t wearing your ring, you keep looking away. You know what I think?” I ask, my hand slapping the table, my dreads flying, leaning over to look at Charles in the eye. “You’re lying. Either she is cheating – which seems unlikely – or you are – all the more likely, because I saw your behavior.” I shake my head, my dreads shifting. “You asked for Mother Aisha’s help. Clearly, you need it. But she can’t help you if you keep lying to her like this. Either you want her help, or you don’t. Choose. Now.”
I turn my back to the table, walking back to my corner, scarves hanging from the ceiling close to my head as I move, cushions and pillows making settees on the floor. I can feel Charles’ eyes on my back until I sit down.
I don’t really pay attention to the rest of the conversation; just enough to know Charles is telling the truth now. I wait until he leaves, his pockets several coins lighter than before. I stay behind to talk to Mother Aisha for a few minutes.
“When are you going to rid yourself of these dreads?” she asks, jokingly pulling one of them. “They take away so much from your beauty,” she says in all seriousness, brushing a stray one off my face.
“Dorenia, I worry about you sometimes,” she sighs. “You spend so much time to yourself, wandering around, full of fight and pride.”
“Mother, it’s fine. Stop worrying about me, please,” I respond.
“When will you see?” Mother Aisha whispers, her thumb brushing my forehead just above my eyebrows, where my third eye is. She gives me a curious look. Another moment passes, then she smiles. “Someone is waiting for you outside. Go. Have fun.”
I smile back at Mother Aisha before I get up. I grab my spare black cloak from a pile of pillows on the floor be the front flap and throw it over my shoulders. I take down my hair as I throw open the flap, stepping into the cool evening. The last light of the sun is fading away and stars sparkle in the mostly dark sky. I sigh, watching small fires jump in front of other tents.
“What were you guys doing in there? Making babies or something?” a rich, deep voice asks me from the shadows next to Mother Aisha’s tent.
I turn towards the familiar voice, my hair flying over my shoulder, beads clanking. He materializes from the shadows, his beautiful, dark skin subtly glowing in the firelight. His eyes, dark and brown, shine under his black eyebrows, black curls spilling down to his shoulders, a stark contrast against his own white shirt. A faint shadow of stubble covers his jaw and cheeks. He wears a small smirk, making him look smug.
“Micah,” I say, a small smile dancing on my lips. “You know Mother Aisha wouldn’t appreciate your humor.”
I look down, winding the cord that ordinarily holds my hair back around my wrist. Feeling Micha’s eyes on me, I take my time tying the cord, a dread or three in my face. He is slightly unsettled, shifting from foot to foot. Which is making me unsettled as I finish knotting my cord.
“What?” I ask Micah in all seriousness, looking at him again, readjusting my sash, and my knife underneath it.
“Nothing,” he responds as his gaze floats over the campfires, shifting his weight again.
I push my hand through my hair, tugging dreads off my face, gazing over the camp, watching people cook dinner or warming themselves, getting ready for the night or drinking. Micah is uncomfortable. Something is on his mind, I can tell, but he won’t say it in public, even if it is around people we have been around essentially our whole lives.
“I want to go to the river tonight,” Micah whispers, barely audible over the gentle noise of camp. He finally really looks at me.
“Let’s go,” I say, unrolling my shirtsleeves as I turn around, heading for the path away from camp.
Micah hesitates a moment before following me. We walk in silence down the narrow path, moonlight filtering down through the trees, weakly illuminating our way. Micha’s tall frame is close behind me, dwarfing my own small one. I keep alert, despite it being rare an outsider wandering into our area at night; I can feel Micah being just as alert.
It doesn’t take us long to get to the river. Trees fall away as the path opens up to the beach, one that has enough space for a group of people and a small bonfire. But there is only two of us, and we won’t need a fire bigger than a campfire.
We quickly gather a few logs and small sticks, pilling them in the small dip in the sand. Micah pulls a book of matches from the folds of his cloak to light the fire. Within moments, flames are licking at the logs, warm and bright in the dark, cool night.
I sit down, facing the cliff and waterfall, the river to my left, and the trees to my right. Micah sits behind me, his back to mine. I feel so small sitting like this with him; but we have done this for years when we have come here together, whether to talk or just to get away. This is our place, even though everyone knows about it. But we need it tonight.
We haven’t spoken since we left camp. This is normal, though; we have come to appreciate just each other’s company. But Micah has something on his mind that he isn’t willing to share yet. I stay silent, knowing that he will speak when he is good and ready to say something.
I draw my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, my head resting on my knees. I gaze over the fire to the opposite bank, staring at the trees. Micah settles down, his back against mine. We sit here silently. The fire crackles away. The waterfall drops water in the river, never changing, but never the same water.
I patiently wait for Micah to break the silence. I thought he would have by now, but he hasn’t yet. I don’t push him, though; I know him good enough to know he would clam up in seconds. But sometimes, his silence can be unsettling. Like right now. I can tell something is really bothering him, but he won’t speak.
Micah shifts behind me. Sighing gently, he settles again, but he is about to say something. He is ready to tell me what is wrong with him.
            “Nia,” he whispers.
“Mhm,” is my mumbled response.
“Do you remember when I first started wandering here to the gypsy camp? The first few days?” he asks, his voice quiet. There is a little bit of pain hidden in there.
“I do. We were six. You were a fair skinned boy with curls halfway down your back from the outside world. Not one of ours,” I say in a quiet response, “else I would have known you.”
“But you still talked to me, the scared boy who had wandered through the forest.”
I smile to myself at how Micah and I first met. He had appeared out of nowhere, with fear-filled eyes. I was adventurous, even then, going out by myself – always within sight of camp, always within my mom’s sight – and I had almost fell over his sitting frame in one of my imaginative escapades. He didn’t even cry. He just looked at me, me in my dark colored outfit of the day, my hair down to my butt. And so it was, every day for several days. I always played with him, letting our imagination take us on adventures.
“Nobody wanted me to talk or play with you,” I say, half in my memories.
“You didn’t listen then. Sixteen years later, and you haven’t listened in a day that I’ve known you,” Micah says with fair judgment.
“And maybe I should have,” I laugh, turning to face the opposite riverbank. “Nobody wants a nosy, judgmental person around.”
Micah laughs and shakes his head, his dark curls swishing against his collar. He remains silent as he travels to a different time, to one when his life was more uncertain, full of fear, hunger, and confusion.
“Mother Aisha finally found out about me and took me in,” Micah says, whispering again. “And finally, I was accepted somewhere.”
“Only because I told her. I wanted you to be our secret. But she wouldn’t stand for a six year old boy fending for himself,” I respond. “I was jealous then. Mother Aisha, my grandmother, my blood, took you in and fretted over you, fed you, cared about you. She loved you.”
“You had to know that she loved you, too, all the same, though.”
“After a time, I did. I am her granddaughter. Even then, when she was minding you, she always made time for me. After my parents died, she raised us together,” I say, thoughtful. “I still don’t understand how she always confused our names.”
            “We looked similar then,” Micah responds.
“We did not! My hair was straight, and it’s certainly lighter than yours…”
“Are you sure your hair is straight? Because, to me, it’s in knotted strands,” Micah jokes through a grin.
“I said was. Before the dread head look,” I retort. “Beside the point, though. What’s wrong with you?”
Micah shakes his head again, taking a deep sigh. He goes silent as he thinks, retreating to the past, to something painful. He shifts against my arm, tense. Again, I patiently wait for him to get his thoughts together. The only sounds we hear are the crackling of the fire, water falling off the cliff to the river below it, and the lazy swishing and bubbling of the river in the riverbed. I lean against Micah’s back, hoping to give him strength.
Micah runs a hand through his curls. He’s normally quiet, but tonight, he’s even more so. All it may mean is that he has way too much on his mind, especially tonight; we never talk about his prior life, the one before he became a gypsy. And for good reason.
We learned, as Micah grew up, that his life for the first six years was full of alcohol-induced rage from his father, careless parades of numerous men by his mom, a poor family with seven kids. It was not a good environment for a young child to grow up in.
“What makes a parent not care about their kid?” Micah asks. “What would go through their head?”
“Micah, whatever it was, it wasn’t your fault,” I whisper. “If they couldn’t care of you, they never really deserved children.”
It’s silent again as we both sit here and think. I remember, as we grew, watching Micah prosper as we learned how to ride horses and hitch the wagons, to hunt for animals, pick berries and other nature-given fruits. He loved the lifestyle of a gypsy.
Growing up, his favorite thing was learning how to use the bow and arrow, especially the longbow. We would stand side by side, aiming at makeshift targets for hours, competing to be the first to hit the bullseye, then how many arrows we could hit the bullseye. Micah learned quickly; he had an aptitude for it. He shot right handed, always drawing the bowstring back with his palm facing outward. He claims to this day that it helps with control; I tried a few times, but it never felt natural to me.
“I always thought it was my fault for the way my parents treated me,” Micah says, disrupting my onslaught of memories. “At least, until I came here. Then I saw how your parents treated you and how Mother Aisha raised me.” His voice sounds thick with emotion, almost as if he is longing to be a child again, under Mother Aisha’s care. “It was then that I realized that maybe there was something wrong with them, that they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, care about how we grew up.”
I sigh, thinking about what Micah just said. Everything he is saying is true. The people who gave him life couldn’t care less about how their children grew up, as if it was the children’s fault their lives were miserable. But it was the parents’ fault for never being there properly for their children. It makes me proud of Micah for having a glimmer of understanding at such a young age and leaving that live behind him.
“Micah, I am happy that you are here, happy and healthy,” I say gently.
“Me, too,” he whispers.
I feel him shift and move next to me so that he is sitting behind me, this time with his chest to my back, his legs on either side of me. He starts playing with my hair, twisting dreads between his fingers.
We sit in silence together. I stare blankly over the river as Micah twists the dreads on the side of my head into a braid, my thoughts drifting up to the stars and beyond. A log in the fire falls, sending sparks into the sky; the fire burns brighter for a moment, crackling and setting again. The water bubbles and slides down the riverbed, the water fall misting as water hits the river below.
“Give me your hair cord, would you?” Micah says, making me jump.
“Yeah,” I respond. I unwind it from my wrist and straighten it before giving it to Micah. He winds it around the braid and ties it off. My fingers trail over the thick braid on the left side of my head before turning around. “Thank you, Micah!” I say.
He gives me a small smile as his hand runs nervously through his curls. Looking down, he plays with my fingers as if he is trying to buy some time. It is almost as if he is fidgeting nervously because there is something on his mind he is shy to say.
“Micah, are you… shy?” I ask, a knowing smile creeping on my face.
“No,” he responds hastily. “Yes,” he quietly adds, not looking at me.
“Just tell me,” I tell him. “The sooner you get it-“
My words get cut off by his full lips, warm and tender on mine. His rough hand touches my cheek, his fingers in my hair. I am so shocked that I stop breathing as he kisses me again.
“I love you,” he says, his voice low, when he pulls away. His face is still close to mind, his eyes gazing into mine questioningly… pleadingly.
“Micah, I – I can’t…” I stutter. “I need to go back.”
Confused, Micah watches me as I stand up, looking around me to make sure I have everything that I came with. I look at him again, taking a few steps backward, before turning around to head back to camp.
All of a sudden, the bang of a gun claps, quickly succeeded by a second one. Something sears my side before I can turn around, setting it on fire with a blinding pain. I take a step to try and turn around, my hand on my side. I pull my hand away from my side, looking at it. My hand is covered in blood. I stagger another step, looking up, and making eye contact with Micah.
“Micah,” I whisper before falling into a heap on the ground.
I force my eyes to stay open. I can’t focus; so much pain is assaulting me right now, dark dots starting to cloud my vision. I tilt my head enough to see Micah’s frame, fuzzy and dark, move, but his movements don’t make sense to me at all.
After a couple of seconds, I hear a soft ffthunk. I hear another follow quickly. A heavy silence follows, save for my quick, pained breathing, almost sounding like quick gasps.
Eternity seems to pass as I am fighting to stay conscious, my hands on my side, blood oozing between my fingers. Micah falls next to me. I feel his hands tugging at mine, trying to see my side.
“Damn it, Nia, move your hands!” Micah shouts, sounding angry and afraid. Something in me falls away. Cool air brushes my injured side. “Damn,” Micah says again. “Stay with me, Nia!”
I feel as though I am spinning, the world around me falling away. Micah pulls away my shirt to see the full extent of the wound.
“Nnnn,” I mumble.
“What?!” Micah asks.
“No,” I rasp.
“I have to see your side, Nia! Just stay with me, will you?” he commands.
I try to focus on Micah’s hands working my shirt off my side, my breath coming in pants. I hear quiet thuds enter the clearing and a thrum of voices. The pressure of Micah’s gentle hands leave my side for a moment. He responds to a question before his hands are on my side again with cloth covering his hands.
Someone else appears next to Micah and gets on the ground with him. His hands are replaced by smaller ones. I focus my eyes and see a small, fuzzy frame, blotched by spots that invade my vision. My mind registers that it’s Mother Aisha. She presses firmly on my side as someone slides their arms under my shoulders and knees.
I scream, fresh pain shooting through my body, as I get picked up off the ground. More tears course over my face. The world is shaking so hard, and moving by me at the same time, I think I am going to faint. Black spots make everything hard to see as I almost succumb to sweet unconsciousness, my vision tunneling and getting darker.
After a few moments, the pain subsides, and I almost feel as though I am floating. Everything is still spinning, though, and everything fades at the edges of my vision, though the black spots aren’t so bad anymore. Every time I blink, my eyes stay closed for a second longer, until they close or a few seconds too long.
“Nia! Stay awake! I am right here. Just stay awake and keep your eyes open!” Micah shouts, his voice sounding like he is yelling down a tunnel.
I force my eyes open and to stay that way. Micah is still here. Have I died and gone to heaven? I thought he would have stayed away after I walked away from him when he told me he loved me.
“Nia, please,” he says; then I figure out why he sounds tunnelly and close. He is the one who picked me up. Oh.
I am almost sure I am in the afterlife now. Because Micah would never have dared pick me up like this. I just never realized how much everything spun and how different everything sounded in the afterlife.
Everything gets hushed. There are no voices, faintly buzzing, no other footsteps, nothing. It’s darker here for a moment, and there are no trees spinning around. I’m confused as bright light blares from somewhere.
A moment later and I am lying flat on my back on something hard. I gasp in pain as someone rips away my shirt from my side. Nothing at all is making sense at this moment.
“Here, have her drink this,” a soft, female voice echoes, hollow and tinny.
My shoulders are lifted off the table or bed or whatever it is I’m on, and I hold back a scream of pain. I open my eyes to a bottle in front of me, dark liquid swishing around inside of it.
“Drink, Nia,” Micah says, coaxing me. “You’ll feel better. Just drink some.” I shake my head, my body shaking. “Just a little bit, Nia. Come on, please. For me,” Micah pleads.
I attempt to lean forward, and the arm behind my shoulders gently pushes me up. I exhale in pain before taking the bottle and throwing it back. I drink deeply. It’s spiced rum, warming my throat. I swallow down about half of what’s in the bottle before I push it away, grimacing. I know I just drank too much too quick, but I just want the pain gone.
My shoulders drop to the table again and my shirt gets gently pulled off. A gentle hand touches the wound on my side, feeling if there is anything else wrong below the skin. Someone grabs my hand; I turn my head and focus my eyes. Micah holds my gaze and I squeeze his hand weakly.
“Hand me that bottle, Micah,” the floating voice above me commands. It’s Mother Aisha. I won’t turn my head, I don’t have the energy; but I watch as Micah leans over and grabs something to hand to Mother Aisha.
“Focus on me, Nia,” he says quietly, his hand firm in mine. “Mother Aisha is going to clean that wound.”
Micah barely finishes talking when I realize Mother Aisha uses clear alcohol to clean wounds. The thought isn’t fully formed in my fuzzy, drunken mind when I scream, cool liquid running over my skin, alcohol burning torn flesh. I can’t bear the pain anymore, can’t fight to stay conscious. My eyes close and everything goes dark.
My eyes move from side to side for a moment as I wake up, my senses alighting. I take a deep breath, trying to wake up fully. My hand rubs my eyes before they open.
I gaze around at my surroundings, not understanding how I got here or why my body is so sore.
I roll my head over as everything slowly registers and comes back. I groan in frustration and pain. The only real comfort is that I am in Mother Aisha’s tent. Warm smells of calming incense waft through the tent, keeping me somewhat relaxed.
I focus on the person sitting in the corner, a mass of thick, curly, dark hair falling in his face.

15 October 2014

My Life in Song Titles

Life goes by and memorable moments are remembered. But my life has a beautiful rhythm. It has its upticks and downticks. Every good memory (and the bad ones), there’s always something there to remind me of it. When I need to give myself inspiration to keep doing what I’m doing, to stay positive and remind myself that I can do better, I keep telling myself that I’m a Rocket (The Wanted), reaching for the sky (or stars).
I’ve had good memories with friends, with family. My favorites are always when my friends and I have a great time, When We Own the Night (The Wanted) together, we’re Counting Stars (OneRebuplic). It’s always been a blast. All the god times will forever be remembered. They made us stronger. Each memory will be a Photograph (Nickelback) in my head. I’ll always look back on them with a smile. The reason we had a good time would always be Because We Can (Bon Jovi). We’re Radioactive (Imagine Dragons). I’m Never Gonna Be Alone (Nickelback) because of them.
But now that September (Daughtry) has passed, I’ve realized that it’s the first full summer I’ve made it through away from home. And that can be added to one of the many great memories I have. Because, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have grown as a person.
Whenever I’d hit a rough patch, I always had someone to talk to, who’d get me through These Hard Times (Matchbox 20), whether it’s family or it’s a good friend. I look at my problems I thought were difficult and realize that I’m Alright (Jo Dee Messina) because I have a great support system, what with everything that’s going on. I’ve made friends for life. It’s always because someone said “I’ll Be Your Strength” (The Wanted) to me that I’ve gotten through it; my close friends always managed to give me strength to make it through whatever it was I thought I couldn’t do. Now, I fight, I’m The Fighter (Gym Class Heroes ft. Ryan Tedder), giving my problems a run for their money.
Every day, It’s Time (Imagine Dragons) to make new memories, to write another story in a book called life. I won’t be Waiting for Superman (Daughtry) to pick me up and have a great new day in life. It’s another chance to face my Demons (Imagine Dragons) and Carry On (Fun.). It’s getting into the Hall of Fame (The Script ft. will.i.am) of life or Viva la Vida (Coldplay) for me. I Glow In The Dark (The Wanted). No Cradlesong (Rob Thomas) for me; I’m not willing to run to Hollywood.

23 September 2014

remember that first part of the scary story I wrote last year? yeah, well, I finished it yesterday. finally.... here it is, the finished product.

It’s getting real dark, real fast. I know I can’t make it home before night falls completely. But, in the middle of nowhere, I really have nowhere to go.
The dark is making everything harder to see. It seems like there’s a fog; that’s slightly disturbing because, just moments ago, it wasn’t. It had been clear, and I could see more than ten feet in front of my face.
I shiver for a moment, the cold air easing frigid fingers down the collar of my jacket, before I start walking again. I walk for barely five minutes before I see the dark shadow of a house looming out in front of me. That’s strange, because I am literally in the middle of nowhere; I haven’t seen anything or anyone for a good two miles or so. Just a moment ago, there hadn’t been anything there. Now, this great shadow of a house is standing before me. I stand frozen in my spot.
It doesn’t take me very long to debate on what I should do. The air just seems to be getting colder. The fog thickens around me, making it harder to see. I jolt, moving towards the house.
As I get closer to the house, I see it clearer through the fog. It’s dark in color, has few windows and a large porch. Well, it’s really no wonder why I couldn’t see it until I was almost upon it. The house is hard to see in fog and darkness; which makes me slightly uneasy about going up to it.
I walk up the steps to the porch, almost tripping once or twice. Glancing over my shoulder, I pause at the last step. It feels like someone is watching me. But as far as I know, nobody is around. Plus, the fog makes it impossible to see past the front lawn. Like anyone would be able to see me standing here, anyways.
I knock on the front door, once… twice. Nobody answers, and I’ve been standing here for about ten minutes. I try the doorknob. It turns easily in my hands. Brows knitting together, I slowly enter the house. No lights are on inside. No noise, no footsteps, nobody talking… nothing at all.
My pocket knife sits heavy in my back pocket. I reach back and my cold fingers wrap around it as I reach for the light switch. I don’t know what’s going to happen; it’s better to be safe than sorry.
The light goes on as I flip the switch. There’s nothing in the front hall that I am in. I turn and close the door, locking it behind me, before I slowly make my way deeper into the house. My fingers tighten on my pocket knife as I flip the blade out. My ears strain to listen for any noise, my eyes wide, in hopes of seeing something. But there’s nothing to hear, nothing to see.
I shiver again, but it’s not from the cold; actually it’s fairly warm in the house. It’s because it’s eerie in here. Since when does a house randomly appear out of thin air? Why would it be unlocked, yet uninhabited? And why would anyone be so stupid as to go in said house?
My footfalls are nearly silent as I make it to the end of the front hall. My free hand feels the other side of the wall for another light switch. I find one and turn on the light. I’m at the kitchen. Again, there isn’t anyone in here. I drop my bag quietly on the floor and walk to the center of the kitchen.
Looking around, I notice that the kitchen has state of the art, very modern appliances. I let out a low humming sound in surprise. I’m actually kind of in awe. I really didn’t expect this from a home that’s uninhabited.
All of a sudden, footsteps sound from the second floor. They only last all of ten seconds, but I’m frozen to my spot. My pocket knife was on the table, but I picked it up the moment I heard the footsteps. I listen for two full minutes, but there is no other sound. Closing the blade of my knife, I shove it in my pocket. I’d rather have it at close reach that being unable to properly defend myself.
My stomach grumbles as I open the fridge. I expect it to be completely empty. Instead, it’s full of food; pizza, spaghetti, refrigerated bagels, milk, Coke, the works. Any and all foods and drinks that I thoroughly enjoy.
I’m slightly confused as I open a cabinet and find it full of plates, cups and glasses. The drawer below it is full of silverware. With nobody living here, I never expected the fridge full of food or the cupboards and drawers full of dishes, ready and waiting for someone to use it all. It’s not just confusing; it’s weird and not normal.
I slowly pull a plate from the cupboard and pick out a fork and knife from the drawer. Turning back to the fridge, I pull out the pizza and spaghetti. Two slices of pizza and a heaping pile of spaghetti are on my plate. My stomach grumbles again and I put my plate in the microwave. While I wait for my food, I open a can of Coke and enjoy the bubbly sensation of the drink.
The microwave beeps, making me jump. I pull my plate from it and sit down at the table. Eating my food slowly, I savor it all; after all, it’s been a good eight hours since I had my last meal. I want to be able to enjoy a good, hot meal.
With my food finished, a good twenty minutes later, I get up and wash my dishes, throwing away my Coke can. After I dry the dishes, I put them away. I leave the kitchen light on as I leave the kitchen, grabbing my back up off the floor as I go. I head back through the front hall again.
This time, I’m looking for a bedroom and bathroom. I flick on a light in the next hallway to find three doors, two doors on the right side and one door on the left. I walk deeper into the hall and open the first door on the right to find a bedroom.
I sigh as I walk into the room, flicking on the light as I go. The bed is against the right wall, smartly made up, a purple duvet on it. A lamp is between the bed and the large desk standing two feet away from the head of the bed. A dresser stands on the wall opposite the bed, in the corner. There’s a door leading to the next room.
I walk over to the door and open it, reaching for the light switch. It’s a bathroom. This is a master suite-type. I wonder how many of these are in the house. There’s a whole second floor that I don’t want to particularly go look at. I’m assuming there has to be another bedroom or two up there.
I kick off my shoes in the middle of the room and change into my pajamas before heading to the bathroom. I come back to the bedroom, flicking off the bathroom light and shutting the door, and lay down on the bed. I stretch and relax, my mind wandering.
I almost forgot about the footsteps I heard earlier in the kitchen when I hear footsteps again, right over the bedroom. Again, they didn’t last long, but they make me restless, and a little unnerved. I mean, the house is empty. At least, I think it’s empty. But these footsteps make me think otherwise. It’s weird, though; if the house is being habited, I’d think that whoever lives here would have come to greet me when they heard the door open, or the footsteps would last more than five-ten seconds whenever they sound.
I turn my light out, leaving the hallway light on just outside my door. I try to relax again, crawling under the bed covers. I close my eyes, my head sinking into the pillow.
Moments later, I hear footsteps again, this time outside my room. I open my eyes, but barely, and look out the door. I don’t see a shadow, as I would if there were someone out in the hall. But the footsteps come closer and closer, then pass my door. Nobody actually passed the bedroom door, but sure as I’m alive, there were footsteps that just passed my door.
I hear the door across the hall open and close. There are no more footsteps. I get out of bed, creep to the bedroom door, and look out into the hall. Not seeing anyone or anything, I shake it off. But something catches my eye before I turn back to the room. The door down the hall didn’t close all the way. It was closed fully when I came down the hall earlier.
I glare at the door, waiting to see if anything happens. I hope my mind is just playing tricks on me. As I watch, the door closes completely, the handle turning as it’s pulled closed. Honestly, that can’t be happening. There’s nothing and nobody in this house, except for me. Doors don’t open and close on their own accord; footsteps don’t just sound unless there’s someone to make them.
It has to be my mind playing games with me. There’s really no other explanation. Unless… I mean, the house did just appear out of nowhere. What gives it the reason to just be an abandoned house?
The house comes fully furnished. The fridge is fully stocked with food. There’s electricity and running water. All that and nobody lives here. That alone kind of gives the house a creepy factor. But that doesn’t mean that it’s haunted, does it? There has got to be a better explanation than that.
Whoever owns the house probably left the front door unlocked by accident. But they have some sort of alarm and that’s what has been triggering all these weird sounds. Like the footsteps and the random sound of a door opening and closing. As for the door shutting, that’s just moving air making it close.
But there hadn’t been moving air. And how could I explain the doorknob turning as the door closed? That was just my mind playing tricks on me. The door hadn’t actually been open, so the doorknob never actually was turned.
There; logical explanations for everything. It makes sense now. That being said, I’m trespassing. And if the owner’s alarm system or whatever is as sophisticated as it seems, they have cameras everywhere and have me entering their house when they’re not home. Which puts me in a lot of trouble.
But I can’t leave now. It’s already close to midnight. Plus, I would have to explain why I came into the house and left it, without taking anything but some food to eat. I shrug and tell myself that I might as well just get a night’s worth of rest before I face the consequences in the morning.
I go back to bed. But, despite calmly and logically explaining everything that’s happened in my head, I still can’t shake the creepiness of it all. Now I feel like there’s something watching me. Again, it has to be my mind playing tricks on me. I glance over my shoulder before I get back in bed, looking out in the hall again. There’s nothing there.
I lay in bed with my back to the wall, watching what I could of the hallway. I can’t sleep now; it’s too eerie and creepy in the house. Logically, I know I should just leave if I feel like this. But I can’t bring myself to get out of bed, get dressed, and finish my travels home this late at night.
As I think about what I’m going to do, I hear footsteps again. They’re coming back down the hall. I watch the carpet, hoping to see anything at all. The footsteps stop just before the bedroom door, almost like there is someone there, making the footsteps; almost like there’s another being in the house, and they know that I’m in the bedroom, watching for any sign of life.
But there’s no shadow, there’s nothing to indicate that there’s a person standing just outside my door. I lay there, my back pressed against the wall, my eyes wide open. I can’t breathe. I count to two minutes in my head. There are no more footsteps, not a single sound from whatever it was that made the footsteps.
I decide right then that it’s time to leave the house. I get up and get dressed again, shoving my pajamas back into my bag. Leaving the lights on, I hurry to leave. But before I actually get out of my room, something down the hall catches my eye. My heart is in my throat as I turn to look.
There’s a shadow moving on the wall, a shadow of a person that isn’t me, moving down the hall. But it’s gone within seconds. I can’t move. I’m frozen to the spot.
After a few seconds, I move again. I am thoroughly scared of this house. I need to get out of here.
In the front hall, the light is still blazing. Thank goodness. I don’t think I’d be able to have my wits otherwise. But before I get to the door, I notice something on the wall opposite it. My heart is thumping as I watch what happens.
It’s almost like whatever it is just appears on the wall. And by the looks of it, it’s writing. The message or whatever is being written on the wall as I watch, almost like there’s someone there, knowing I’m watching what’s being written. I’m frozen to the spot again as I watch each letter appear on the wall.

Beware of the House
Take care that you don’t get Lost
Beware of the House
There are Things here Untold
Get out before they Unfold

My eyes are open wide. My hand is resting on the doorknob as I read the message in full. I am confused. How this message appeared on the wall is well beyond me, let alone how whatever it is that made it appear made it visible to me. Plus, I don’t know why it’s telling me to leave; I am about to leave, anyways, just seconds from yanking the door open and bolting from the house. Possibly calling the police, as well, when I get somewhere with a phone. Obviously, whoever owns the place has a sick sense of humor.
I unlock the door and pull it open as fast as I can. I run out and down off the porch before it hits me – this isn’t the front yard, though I’m sure that I went out the front door.
I look over my shoulder for a moment. The house stands ominously behind me. But it’s not the front of the house, like I thought. I’m positive I went out the front door.
Slowly, I walk back up the steps and into the house. The eerie message is still on the wall. I look around. I am definitely in the front hall of the house; yet, when I ran out of the house, I was somehow in the back yard and the fa├žade of the house showed the back.
What does that message mean, exactly? I stare at it, trying to figure it out. Beware of the House… like, what? The house is a living being or something? I don’t think so. A house is an inanimate object, so how can I heed warning in that? Take care that you don’t get lost… well, I already got lost, trying to leave the house. Apparently, I exited through the back door instead of the front door, even though I don’t know how that happened. There are things here Untold? Well, obviously. Those footsteps that I heard earlier without an obvious reason for them definitely don’t happen, let alone isn’t talked about. The last line, Get out before they Unfold, seems like a warning. I didn’t imagine those footsteps, even though I had convinced myself earlier that I did. And I tried to get out; but for some reason, I got jumble up. Or there’s some weird, funky business that I don’t know about that’s going on.
I glance at my watch. It’s past midnight. I don’t really have a choice but to stick it out here. I don’t want to go back to the bedroom; for all I know, that freaky thing that was “walking” earlier may still be outside the bedroom. I lean against the wall and slide down so that I’m sitting on the floor. I pull my bag up on my lap. I pull my pocket knife from my pocket and open the blade, placing it on the floor next to me.
The door is cracked from when I tried to leave. I want to be able to make a quick getaway in case something does happen. With what’s been going on, I don’t know how I can leave without issues. I just hope that I’ll be able to get away without a hitch next time.
My eyes start to close with exhaustion. I start to breathe slower and heavier. Head falling onto my shoulder, I doze off. I don’t remember really falling asleep or anything. But I wake up to a blood-curdling scream from down the hall. I jolt away, grabbing my knife.
The lights are still on; I look down the hall and see absolutely nothing. Leaving my bag by the door, my knife in my hand, I stand up slowly, my eyes still trained on the hall. Trying not to make a sound, I take a few steps over that way. All of a sudden, the air is frigid, icy cold. It’s really unnatural, given I’m in a house that’s got the heat on.
Still seeing nothing, I enter the hall where the bedroom is. I hear another scream, closer this time. The sound is coming from all around me now. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, or who (or what) is making it.
The door on the left suddenly slams open, banging against the wall, and more cold air flows into the hall. The icy air takes my breath away for a moment. I take a second to get my breath back before I move towards the door.
The screaming sounds louder now, like it’s coming from the door. I look through it; there are stairs leading down, like to a basement. Turning on a light, I try to see what’s down there. As soon as the light flicks on, the screaming stops. The cold air seems to disappear.
Something is up and I have no idea what it is. I start walking down the stairs, slowly and quietly. The stairs don’t creak under me. I hear a thud, like someone falling. But I don’t see anything when I get to the bottom of the stairs.
The room that I’ve entered is big and empty. The walls are brick and the floor is concrete. There isn’t anything down here but cobwebs and a drain, right in the middle of the room. On the floor, around the drain, are dark stains. They look brown, rusty. Almost like… dried blood.
What the hell? Why would there be dried blood on the floor? This is definitely some sort of crime scene. I need to call the police and tell them about this crime scene I walked into here. But my phone is upstairs, in my bag.
I back up towards the stairs and take them slowly backwards, one by one, until I’m at the top of the staircase. Turning around, I run back to the front door and fish my phone out from the front pocket of my bag. Conveniently, there is no service in the house. Almost like this is some sort of vortex.
Opening the front door wide, I step out onto the porch and down into the lawn. The front lawn, this time, weirdly enough. I check my phone again; seeing that it has full service now, I punch in 911.
“Good evening, Ellsworth Police Department, how may I help you?” a cool, woman’s voice answers after two rings.
“Hello… I’m at this house. I don’t know what happened here, but there’s been a lot of weird noises in the house, look footsteps without anyone in the house, walking around. And I went down into the basement, because I heard screaming and the basement door flew open, and I found a bunch of stains on the floor, by the drain. It looks like dried blood, but I can’t be sure,” I say quickly, my heart racing. I feel like something, or someone, is watching me again. I look over my shoulder and don’t see anything. Looking back at the house, I glance up at the second story windows, and still don’t see anything. There’s nothing here.
“Ma’am, do you know the address of the house you are at?” the police operator says.
“No, I don’t. I didn’t think to check. I was walking home from work and decided to knock on the door when I saw the house,” I say. “There wasn’t an answer, but the door was unlocked and I went inside.”
“So you’re saying you’re trespassing?” she says.
“It’s not what you think. I was getting out of work late and it was like 10:30. Originally, I just thought to knock on the door and call home for a ride. But, like I said, there wasn’t anyone home and the door was unlocked.”
“Okay. Do you mind if I use the tracking device so that I can get your location?” the lady says.
“Go ahead! I don’t want to be here anymore; I want to go home,” I respond, almost crying now. The creepy feeling I have that someone is watching me is stronger now and I can’t shake it.
“Okay, give me a moment, please. Stay on the line,” she says.
“Okay, please hurry, though!”
She takes a minute to track my location. “Are you still there, ma’am?” she asks.
“Yes!” I almost scream.
“Okay, I have your location. I’m sending an officer over that way. Stay where you are and I’ll have the officer call you when he gets there, okay?”
“Please tell him to hurry; I really don’t feel safe here,” I respond.
“He’s on his way now, okay?”
I hang up with the police operator and run into the house to grab my bag. The door slams shut behind me. I hear the bolt of the lock slide and lock me in. Screaming, I try the lock. It doesn’t budge under my hand. I bang the door with my fist. I’m shaking and crying. I still feel like someone is watching me. I feel really uncomfortable and scared now. I know I don’t have a reason to; there isn’t anyone or anything here.
I hear them again. The footsteps have started. By the sound of it, they’re right behind me. My knife still in hand, I turn around. What I see scares me so much, I scream again. I lose all sense of what’s happening.
The face itself is gruesome to look at. The eyes are gone, leaving empty sockets. Blood has dripped down the pale face, almost like tears. What looks like to be brain matter is hanging out of the nostrils. The lips, or what was left of them, are pulled back into the creepiest smile I’ve seen in my life. There are few teeth in the mouth; the empty gums are black. The lips are cracked, missing parts. And the body… it’s covered in blood and pieced of cloth. Its back is bent awkwardly, like it’s been broken.
“Welcome,” says a disembodied voice. “Welcome to my house.”
I’ve stopped screaming at this point. It takes a moment to realize that the voice is coming from the corpse in front of me as it slowly walks towards me. I’m shaking really bad.
“You’ve entered my house without being invited,” says the corpse. “Now, it’s time you shall get what you deserve.” It starts to laugh evilly.
“No! The police are on their way. They’re going to save me,” I say, my voice sounding braver than I felt.
“Oh, they won’t find anything here,” the corpse responds. “This house won’t be visible to them. I’ve made sure of that.”
It sounds impossible. I know for a fact that it’s impossible. Houses don’t just appear and disappear at will, let alone at the will of a reanimated corpse. Corpses don’t get reanimated. Only in Harry Potter does that happen, with Dark magic. And, as far as I know, I’m not a character of Harry Potter.
“I have a knife,” I say, wielding my knife in front of me.
“Oh, poor, pathetic child. You must know that won’t work on me,” the corpse responds. “I’ve already died once. I’ve come back the way they killed me. I stay in this place now, waiting for my revenge. And revenge I will get.” The corpse talks as if it’s a normal human being. Like it never died, like it is still alive. It talks like this is a normal conversation.
I bolt, running around the corpse, to the kitchen. I remember seeing a window there, just above the sink. Before I can get to the window, I feel something pulling me back. I fling myself towards the sink, in hopes of grabbing it and pulling myself towards the window, to no avail.
“That isn’t polite,” the corpse says, chuckling. “After all, I did let you eat my food and rest in the bed I provided. Why don’t you stay awhile? I have many things planned for us. And I hope you enjoy it all.”
I scream as the force pulls me back to the corpse. I stop moving when I’m a mere foot from it. I am on my back now and I look up into its face. I scream and crab-crawl back, hitting my head on the wall.
With no accord of its own, my hand that’s holding my pocket knife raises and points the knife at me. Slowly, it comes down to my stomach and pierces a hole there.


I wake up from my nightmare, screaming. It felt so real. The dead corpse talking to me, the cold air blowing through the hall before I went to the basement, the knife tearing into my stomach, dying at the hands of that creepy undead thing, all of it felt like it was happening again. I know better; it’s PTSD from when my friends and I went into that haunted house and almost didn’t make it out alive. It’s been a month. The nightmares still haunt me. Some nights, it’s like what I just woke up from – I’m in the house alone, a corpse stalking me through the house. Other nights, my friends are with me, and my nightmares are exactly like that night – being exposed to our truest and darkest fears, not knowing if we’ll ever see the light of day again, barely making it out of the house with our lives.
This time, it was a little different, though. The corpse was my mom. She had been tortured to death – her eyes had been taken out with a knife, her teeth pulled out, and several dozen lacerations covering her body.
My mom comes into the room. Tears are rushing down my face, my body is shaking. I almost scream again. My mind tricks me into seeing the body of the dead corpse – I refuse to think of it as mom, now that I’m awake. Mom wraps her arms around me.
“It’s okay, honey, it’s just a dream,” she says, comforting me. She starts singing some of my favorite songs until I fall asleep again. Hopefully, when I sleep again, it will be a dreamless sleep.