Nightmare/The Void

Mood:inspired

The man doesn’t see you. He can’t see you. You’re just another lonely ghost. The first thing you notice is the void. The blankness all around. There is nothing. No sky, no grass, no wind, no bird, no trees, no flowers, no sound of the rushing river, nor the sound of cars rushing by on the freeway. Nothing. Nothing except pure, white, nothingness. There’s not even a single drop of sunlight.

It is so bright that you think that maybe you’re going blind. But the man just sits there, staring blankly ahead, as if he was so used to the brightness. Out of habit, you shield your eyes with your hands, you squint and look up, but then remember that there is non sun in this place. Yet the man just stares blankly ahead, not squinting at all. 

The man looks tired. Not tired in a normal sense, but tired as in all the colour has been drained out of his eyes, all the life out of his soul, as if there’s an invisible mountain on his shoulders. There’s almost a grey hue about him. It looks like he hasn’t shaven in weeks, maybe months, and his is hair is long and shaggy. He looks so tired. So, so tired. Eyes red and dark circles under his faded brown eyes. 

You drift a bit closer then. There’s something that you just noticed, that you didn’t notice before. There’s blood all around him. Dried blood. It stains the white nothingness, and like a drop of blood in snow, it seems so out of place, that bright red on white. You notice the tears dripping down from his eyes. “I shouldn’t have done it,” you hear him say. “I shouldn’t have done it.” His head shakes back and forth slowly as he cries. It’s barely a whisper, but you hear him. You don’t know what he’s talking about, and you have no idea what to do. 

And then, almost like you have an elastic band on you, you go flying backwards, and everything disappears, including the man.

You wake up. 

Everything is perfect, and then it's not.

Mood:content

image via. tumblr

 

And sometimes the world smiles at you through its halcyon eyes, and everything seems perfect. The efflorescence of nature around you, the clouds, the birds, the trees. The wind sings its mellifluous songs to you. Everything is perfect. Except it's not.

And then somewhere a baby cries. Its mother just died. His father has fled. Then the sky grows darker as clouds roll in. The wind howls its song, but it's no longer gentle. It screeches and screams and pierces your eardrums a thousand times. Everything turns grey. The light that was once there is now gone. The nature around you, the clouds, the birds, the trees. Everything starts wilting.

Look around you, look around you, don't you see? 

Everything's not perfect.

Everything is a fucking mess.

Her eyes are like an opalescent moon that shimmers when the stars meet the sea. The wind paints he words in the night sky like pictures.

I met her on a dreary September when the moon was low. It hung like a glass lantern over the sea. The faint smell of pine trees and sycamore leaves filled my lungs.

                   Inhale. 

Exhale.

I was a ghost and she was a ghost and together we’d sing songs of forbidden dreams to the trees and the clouds.

The ground was silver and cold beneath my bare feet. It burned me with such iciness that it felt like I was walking on a million tiny, sharp needles. 

I could see her breath as she walked toward me. 

Inhale. 

                  Exhale.

We met eyes and our hands interlocked. 

We walked to the edge of the cliff and let the wind carry us away.

Her screams pierced the silence of the night.

And then there was

n o t h i n g. 

a girl named ruby.

She doesn't know what to do with her life. She doesn't know. Dreams seem impossible, drying up like a raisin in the sun. Her life fades in and out, just like the gunshots she hears on the street corners everday. Living feels like hell. She wants to escape the rotting she feels inside her heart. Sometimes the pain gets to hurt so much until she can't cry anymore. Stillness rings in her ears. She remembers when she was little she had a dream. She wanted to be a doctor. She wanted to save lives. To cure. But how could she when she herself needed to be saved? From the world? From the prejudice? From herself?

Ruby was six when her mom and dad were killed. She was playing with the old doll she found on the streets. Her family never had any money to buy her fancy things, toys or pretty dresses. But she didn't mind. She's never known anything else. The house she lived in was barely bigger than what would be your room. The kitchen and living room was all in one room. Her mother and father slept on the floor, while Ruby slept on  the old, hard, dirty couch. But sometimes, she couldn't stand it, and she would sleep on the ground and have her parents sleep on the couch instead. She could hardly call it a home.

She loved the library though. She would rather live in the library, surrounded completely by piles and piles of books, inhaling the smell of the old wrinkly pages, and savouring the sound as pages turned. It was a small library, and not all of the books are in top condition, but it was the only place where she felt safe. Where she felt she could escape. She's read tons and tons of books. Her favourites were adventures.  She liked to escape, as far as she could inside her mind. Books allowed her to do that. Sometimes, she would lose herself in a book and lose track of time. That's how she spent her life. She read and read and read and learned and learned, even when she moved to live with her aunt and uncle. 


When she turned 14, Ruby decided she wanted to make a change in this world. She wanted to save lives. So she worked as hard as she could in high school, and got accepted into
Harvard law school. She now is married, has two kids a boy Henry and a girl Alice, and now they live happily in Seattle, where Ruby continues to fight for change.


Of course, this whole story is made up. It was just a story I made up because I was in need of writing inspiration, but who's to say someone hasn't gone through this? I hope you enjoyed this short piece of prose. I was way overdue in terms of writing. I haven't had any time to write lately, so uh, yeah. Tell me what you think.

and so she flies.

She dances circles around the stars. Fire is an ember that burns inside of her. With shards of broken wings she flies with, southward - onward, onward, towards the sun, her home she flies.

Past purple clouds of lullaby she flies through. Until she has no more energy left. Then she hides her wings in the moonlight and makes her way through the woods, where the pieces of her soul are quietly sheltered in a little glass jar. Whispering to the forlorn Sycamore trees, she tells them her secrets. 


It is dark there and cold. She trods barefoot through the dirt. Soft earth meeting her feet like a home. It is dark there, but something glows. Silver and glitter in the distance. Far beyond the horizon - faint jingling of bells.


And then she feels her wings spread. And so she flies.

Awake

She fears not of falling asleep, but of the nightmare that is still there when she opens her eyes. Reality is all she has known in her dusty little corner. No colour or rainbows. She has never held a doll in her hands or had a beautiful dress in which she danced in.


Voices are what commands her. They beckon to her, telling her to do things. Things that she does not want to do. But she cannot refuse, because if she does she will surely die.


She once had dreams. Stolen dreams that are now but distant memories. She wanted to be a ballerina, she remembers. One that is like a swan, so beautiful and graceful. Now she only dreams of escaping the hellhole she knows as home.


Bags. Bags of what little belongings she has left. She fills them with pieces of her - broken pieces, and then lifts the window latch until she is no longer dreaming, walking towards the direction that will lead her away from her nightmare, until she finds her heart.

The Truth About Innocence

Mood:inspired

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Purple and blue, they cover his skin in splotchy, broken patches. Hands that seem old and withered for someone so young. He should not feel this deep piercing in his lungs. He should not have to cower behind the door, hiding his face, his eyes constantly falling to the floor in the man’s presence.


Tall, dark, a ferocity and evil in the man’s eyes that he didn’t recognise or conceive of, but knew all too well because he’s had to live with it all his life. Breath that smelled of smoke and alcohol.


His innocence was lost at such a young age. Every time he closed his eyes, he could only see that one picture - burned into his mind like hot iron. Every time he closed his eyes, he relived that horrible, atrocious moment. That single act of monstrosity that now lurked inside his every glance.

He Ate My Heart

Mood:inspired


You say 'hello' and suddenly I can't breathe, my heart beating a million times faster, racing to the silent rhythm of a butterfly's wings. Time stops for you. The sun pauses, just to shine its glorious rays onto you.


There are so many things I want to say to you. I've never felt like this before, ever. When I'm with you I feel like I can spread wings and fly. 


To see your smile, your angelic eyes of cerulean blue, oh what could be sweeter?


I surrender myself, my heart is all yours to take. I rip it out of my skin and hand it carefully over to you. You drop it heartlessly, a sinister smile on your face, and it shatters, falling down onto the floor like glass into a million pieces. 




"He Ate My Heart", Prose © 2010 by 'Candy'. All rights reserved.

Broken Shards of Glass

[photo © by shalora via. deviantART]

Broken glass under my bare feet, cutting through my flesh like sharp knives. They are dreams. Broken dreams that have died in my heart of fire and ice.

My feet are cuts and scratches. Blood of mahogany seeping through the window-panes. The cuts deepen.

The colours darken around me, engulfing me into a black abyss of silence.

Broken glass under my bare feet, cutting though my flesh.

Yet, the world keeps spinning on and on.

Through the Broken Mirror

I can see you looking out at me through the mirror, smiling at me with your perfect hair and straight teeth. But there's something in your eyes. That cautious glance; that untrusting gleam. I can see through your mask of sunshine. The face you wear each day. The one that's gonna get you through another day. I'm looking at you in the mirror. Please, just let me know you're okay.

Do You Remember?

Mood:artistic

Do you remember the days when there was no worry, no pain, no hurt?

When the world was perfect inside our invisible little bubbles.

And we were so young, so innocent, going to sleep with lullabies in our hearts
and whispers in our souls.

Angels singing to us until dawn.

Laughing and running around the world

like there was no tomorrow.

Hugging our teddy bears close to our hearts.

So innocent. So free.

Do you remember?

(photo: via. deviantART/photographer: unknown)

Silence

The room is silent. Loudly silent. Pages turn, people shuffle, a pencil gliding over a sheet of paper. It is silent. The world turns; somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.

The room is silent. But I hear everything. The crying of a baby, the whimpering of a dog, the stabbing of a knife, someone crying out at night, asking God why there has to be so much pain and bloodshed.

Somewhere in the distance of the light, I hear something. A music-box playing its last tune.

[prose: copyright (c) by Candice A. Anderson]

Savior.

Mood:creative

The girl, she sits in a corner, knees tucked up to her chest. It's freezing in the small, grey room. The ceiling is caved in; it is no longer a shelter... in fact, it never was. All the girl wanted to do was to get out of there alive. That's all she ever wanted. But she sits in her corner every day, hiding from from alchohalic dad, hiding from the wooden stick that has given her so many bruises.

The walls around her are demolished, broken down shingles. The girl sees a little mouse scurry to its hole.

The girl, she sits in a corner, knees tucked up to her chest. She is waiting. Waiting for a savior.

[Photo & Text (c) Candice A. Anderson]

Shiver

Mood:accomplished

To do:

So I've been thinking a lot about what I should do for today's post because - as some of you may already know - this is my (2nd) 100th post after all (because this is my new Confessions of a Candyhol!c blog). I just came back from a run jog outside with my dad. I've never tried running before. Like, outside of P.E. I've always wanted to, though, but because I'm usually pretty lazy - not to mention the fact that it's very cold here - I've never tried. It was pretty cold outside (barely 10 degrees), but I liked it; it felt good. Note to self: Do this more often!

Random Fact #1: NeverShoutNever! is my favourite artist. [;

For my 100th post, I've decided to post a short piece of prose that I've written; nothing extraordinary. I just want everyone to know that have grown as a writer and a blogger from the first post that I've ever written. Of course, I have you guys to thank! You guys are all special & I hope you know how much you've all inspired me. And now, without further ado, I present to you: Shiver.

[Copyright © 2010 by Candice A. Anderson. All rights reserved.] ♥ That means no sticky paws!

I see Them. I see Them everywhere. They whisper to me in the hallways at school, Their invisible hands tugging at my sleeves on the bus, and at home, Their long silver hands dragging me over to their side of the universe.

"Come with us," They said. "Come with us to where we dwell and we will promise you everything..."

They tell me what to do, scouring through my memories. They tell me I'm stupid, ugly, worthless, and unloved. Sometimes They force me to do things I don't want to do.

But I can't escape. They're a part of me like branches are attached to trees. I can't run away. These thoughts - they find me and they say, "We want you...come with us, come with us..."

Their pale, silver hands, fingers thin and long - They reach out to me with barren hands, circling me until I suffocate.

There's blackness all around me.

Our final assignment for computer's class at school is to do a research paper. SNOOZE right?WRONG! Not when your teacher is Mr. Althoen - basically, like the coolest teacher ever! (Secret: He even lets us listen to our iPod... during school; PLUS we do the coolest projects in his class!) I'm doing a paper on Dr. Seuss, the best children's author ever! (At least in my opinion.)

I'm going to go take a shower so I guess I'll just leave this post with a quote from the ever-so-wonderful Dr. Theodore Seuss Geisel.

"You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself, any direction you choose." - Dr. Seuss

May all your dreams come true,

The Girl With the Dead Rose

Mood:annoyed

Every day as you're making your way to school, you see the girl who is sitting alone of the dirty curb. She is holding a dying rose in her hands, her eyes so grey, as if the world had drained all the colour out of them.

The cars around you pass in slow motion, mixing together with all the matter in the world to create a messy blue. Then abruptly you see nothing...
Nothing except the girl.

Who is she? What is she doing there?

She is waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Anything.

But because you don't know her, you walk past without so much as a second glance; her eyes staring at the back of your head, burning a hole through your skin.

[ Text Copyright (c) 2009 by Candice A. Anderson All rights reserved.]

A Wish For Her

“Is that her?”
“What? Who?”
“Shh … here she comes.”

“Oh … her.”

We avert our eyes as she walks by. We clutch our books tightly to our chests, stare down at our sneakers, and hold our breath as she passes. Whispers follow her like shadows as she scurries up the stone stairs, through the metal doors. Lisa and I exchange looks. The bell rings in our ears, and we head inside.

"Who's she with today?" Lisa asks at lunch.

“Toby,” I scoff, biting into my sandwich.

“Figures. Apparently they had a great time at Jack’s apartment last weekend.” I make a face.

“Disgusting.” Lisa laughs.

“I bet she has all sorts of diseases.”

“I bet she’s wearing his sweatshirt. The one that smells as bad as he does.”

“I bet she’s gonna be one of those girls who never goes to college and ends up on the street.”

“I bet she’s gonna be a …” I look around to make sure no teachers are listening, “whore.”

That’s her new name. It spreads like a foul disease around the school, through the hallways, passed from one lip-gloss-smeared mouth to the next. Some kids just call her “The W,” or “The H” for the stupid ones who can’t spell. It’s what she is. It’s who she is. And none of us like her. None except Toby and Mitchell and all those guys who are too dumb to see her for who she really is. We see her kissing guys in the alley after school each day, like she doesn’t even care, like she doesn’t even know.

Don’t worry, we’re gonna make her realize who she really is. We’re gonna make her feel so bad she’ll shrink like a little mouse and learn her lesson and stay away from all of them, especially Devin, who liked me all of sixth grade ’til she stole him last summer.

We isolate her. We don’t speak to her, not even when she asks what the homework for last night was. Find it out yourself, stupid. We leave notes in her locker, and we snicker as she walks by.

Have you learned your lesson yet, princess? Are you ever gonna stop wearing so much lipstick and eyeliner and skirts that are way too short? Are you ever gonna put out that cigarette or throw out those bottles? You’re 13 – what’s wrong with you? Didn’t your parents ever teach you what’s right and wrong? Half the grade hates you. Sticks and stones, you say, but soon it’ll be real. I will smash up your pretty face if I have to. I’ll break your bones. I could snap your neck over my knee.

***

I walk home from Lisa’s house, and I take the long way because I want to look at the moon and the stars. I want to cross the cornfield, because once I saw a shooting star. I have to walk through the sketchy neighborhood to get there, though, but I should be okay if I hurry.

Suddenly, I hear a man’s voice coming from one of the houses, the one with the shingles falling off and the rusty car in the driveway. He is yelling. I rush behind a tree, heart racing so loud I’m sure he can hear. Suddenly I see a familiar figure. It’s her. She and the man are yelling at each other. He lashes out at her, and I wince. I can hear the slap.

And then the door closes. She is alone, and she sits on her porch steps. And she cries. I’ve never seen her cry before. Alone, with no boys, out in the cold night, crying, crying, crying so hard she can’t breathe. Her tears make ugly black lines down her face. And suddenly, she looks up, and our eyes lock. I run.

I run past the houses and the deli and the gas station with the creepy owner, and the ice cream store where we get really great slushies. I cross the street, my heart racing, out of breath and into the lush grass of the cornfield. I collapse on the ground, my arms and legs spread apart, trying to catch my breath and hold back the tears, though I can’t understand why they’re coming.

She was so alone. So sad. She is loved by no one but those boys. And I’m not sure they even really love her.

Suddenly I look up and see something sparkle across the indigo sky, a little explosion of white like a firecracker on the Fourth. I close my eyes.

And I wish for her.

[Copyright © by Emily K. via. TeenInk]

To wish upon a star...

Hello, Goodbye.

Mood:Happy

She sees him in the hallway and remembers the memories.

The innocent memories.

And she remembers.

She remembers the memories that they shared

before.

"Hi," he says.

She smiles coyly and waves back.

It's nothing, but just the sight of him

again

makes her feel bubbly inside.

But it's over.

There's no more pain;

no more feelings,

and no more love.

---

Copyright © 2010 by Candice A. Anderson

Hello, Goodbye.

P.S. Yes I realize I've been signing off my posts with titles of Beatles' songs. I happen to like The Beatles. Don't say anything, or judge me. They're pretty awesome, actually!

Perceptions of Reality.

Mood:truly happy

The world reminds me that I am human. Hiding in the shades of trees, roaming in the depths of my imagination. Forgetting... forgetting all traces of reality. It comes easily to me; very much like breathing. Sometimes I forget. People pull me out from behind the branches of trees and I am once again reminded of my life. The truth and reality.

But most times I sit up in the old sycamore tree and whisper to the stars. Wishing, wishing, wishing. I dream of a utopia where there is truth and hope and wonder. And then once again - I am brought down to the reality that I am not yet ready to face. It is not a place where I would like to be.

What is reality? It is a perception. What is life? Life is not a story. It is not a tale that a dreamer spins or a song that the motley folks sing of. Life is life. It is not a story, no matter how much you want it to be. Destiny. It is not set in stone. Life is what you make out of it. And every second you make a choice, a web is spun and soon it will intertwine with millions of stars out in the sky...

[Copyright © 2010 by Candice A. Anderson. All rights reserved!]

~

image © Ursylla via. deviantART

All my loving,

Where the Bluejays Sing

Mood:Blah...

There is a place, West of the sun, where the bluejays - hidden among the trees - never stop singing, and where faeries slip in through your windows at night, sending you sweet dreams of butterflies gliding above the gossamer lake. When the Earth says hello - you will smell the scent of honey syrup - for it's the fire elves' doing, stirring up sweet honey for your delight.

You will find yourself lying in the field of a thousand summers, relishing in the Earth as you listened with your eyes cloed, to the trees telling you its innocent stories, ringing even long after - in your ears.

Or perhaps you'll be lying in the field by Gossamer Lake, transfixed upon the waternymphs, whose voice lure people into the murky waters, devouring them up like a wolf.

Before you go to sleep, you will sit out in the open air by the fire as millions of fireflies dance around you like tiny eyes - winking at you. The place where you can reach up toward the sky ad touch the stars. It's magical.

'So where is it?' you ask. Oh, but see - I cannot tell you the secret. This place where the bluejays sing - hidden among the trees in your backyard. It's there.

Waiting for you, always...

All you have to do is close your eyes

and see.

It is always there. The place where the blujays sing...

[Copyright © 2010 by Candice A. Anderson. All rights reserved; no sticky paws!]

---

Well hi everyone. I hope you like the photos and the piece I just shared with you guys. I actually took those photos a while ago but I just wanted to share them with you guys. (The piece of prose, too.) The new year has brought me a lot of happiness recently. For some reason I feel revived, new, and refreshed this year. I remember last year there were a lot of ups and downs (mostly downs) for me but so far this year life has been truly wonderful. (Yeah I know I sound really cheesy saying that.)

Yesterday Tori and I participated in Solo & Ensemble Festival. It's a place where band students all across the county play pieces for judges and see how good they are. The highest rating you can get is a 1 (blue medal), the next highest is 2 (red medal) and 3 (no medal). I did a duet with Tori. She played the trumpet and I played the flute and we got a number 1 rating! Phew. I know I'm definitely relieved that we got a 1 because know we both know that our hard work really paid off. Now that that's over with...

Midterms are finally over too. Wanna know what I got on them?

Math: 80% B-
Social Studies: 100% A
Science: 100% A
Language Arts: 98% A (She marked me down two points because supposedly "I needed to make more eyecontact & talk louder? Wow.)

I mean I'm really happy that I got mostly A's but I'm not satisfied. I could have gotten an A on math and 100% on the Language Arts "exam". It's odd. Math is my favorite subject and it was the lowest score? Go figure. I just wish I could have gotten better scores on math and at least two points better on the Language Arts. Haha. It's this thing that comes with being born into a 100% Asian family. Academics are a big thing.

Anyway I'm sure you don't want to listen to me blab all day. So I'll talk you yall people later.

All you need is love,

The Secrets Whisperer.

Mood:lighthearted

It whispers to me. At night it tells me stories, telling its secrets to me in hushed voices, singing me lullabies at night, dancing, dancing, oh so gracefully in the starry midnight sky. Every night I listen, hoping - hoping - hoping, that it will come back. But she is a wanderer, a chaser, a dream-drifter who laughs and sings and dances in the wind. Almost invisible. Sometimes I see her from far away and think of the nights we had together - just the two of us. Telling stories by the fire. And then when the Sun came out, she would leave - for, you see, she wasn't so fond of light, but for me, she left behind her a trail of colorful dust in the sky. Her symbol every time she ventures off into the world. Oh how I love her and wish she would stay with me forever.

But she is a drifter.

Mesmerizing those who she meets. Some nights I hear her in the distance, little traces of her in the grass, on the flowers, frozen in crystal forms.

But she is never there.

And she's always there.

And if you're lucky, you'll see her today, dancing, dancing, dancing, so gracefully, with the wind.

I saw her today. So beautiful. So graceful. But she did not see me.

She fell that night. For I forgot to tell you, her name, is Rain. And just this morning, before she left, we danced together. Out there on top of the glass hill.

[Copyright © 2010 by Candice Audrey Anderson. All rights reserved.]