Creative Writing Final

1. List/discuss several of the different pieces of writing you’ve done this quarter, including posts, comments, creative pieces, journals, in-class writings, and things you’ve written on your own. Well, it isn't on my blog but it is in my journal. Cyberpunk edition of the boy and the girl. I had a rough draft of it that I did a couple of years ago, but I think that was only 10 or 12 pages at most. This current one is around 25-35 pages I believe. I'll probably keep working on it at some point. I've gotten feedback I appreciated and I've made notes on how to flesh everything out further. Maybe to the point of being a solid 50 page story. Not my longest, by any means though. (that belongs to the story of a main character I write about's daughter's story. If memory serves I think I wrote over one hundred pages for her story. Not my best work, mind you.) Then again, I have always taken a fancy to short stories as my blog shows.
   

Still on the first question. So then. Pillow Talk. Very emotional for the person who it was written for and who I let read it. She eventually (we vidya game together) hit me over the head and criticized my writing but hey, she liked it. Very emotional for me too, she and I had both experienced similar things, though thankfully, I think we're both moving on. Perhaps not. Such is the way of people though, yeah? Cling to the past, regret the things we never did. Life should be..."No ragrets" and if you get that reference then you can get some fake internet points, person reading this. Yes indeed. Also, I've been told pillows are excellent snuggle buddies until you've experienced being snuggled in real life. Then it's never quite the same and suddenly, being close to the one you love when they're out of reach (whether temporarily or permanently) seems an impossible feat once more. Rather cruel, really.
~
Revenge, best served cold: I think by the time I finished modifying it I threw the original "link everything to a color" rule of that assignment out of the window.  One of my worse writings in my opinion, but probably a decent backstory lore to a medieval boy and girl story I'm working on. Love (Never Dies) never dies (forgive me my Phantom of the Opera sequel reference. Or don't. Only you can decide whether or not to do that.) Usually in my stories the girl dies, or both die, and usually it's a suicide or accident. Not this time however, this time I went with a murder route. I vaguely remembered a story a friend told me about a character she once played in a game, which is what I based it off of. Again, not my best work, I'd probably go back and flesh it out further if I wanted anyone else to see it. Most of the backstory lore I use for stories are kept hidden from people because frankly....they're horribly written and while they might explain the plots better, you'd be bitter with me for writing such horrible things (both in gore/violence and quality in all honesty.) The girl's life is fraught with violence and pain. That's the point of her stories. She usually dies in the end but comes back once again. Not sure why, yet. Hope is just a powerful thing, ja? Ja.

1. Name/discuss a couple of pieces you’ve read this quarter, including other classmates’ work and/or reading you’ve done in or out of class. Uhhhhhhh. I really liked a book called "Lark" that I checked out from the library. The way it's written irked me mainly because it is super similar to how I write. So that's a thing. Didn't like the ending though, it was absurdly confusing and had too many loose ends, but again, similar to how I write. Another book would be "A Dog Called Kitty" (yeah, I'm not mentioning anyone's stories because I feel like I don't want to be critical even though I loved the ones I read. I'm in a critic's mood so you'll just have to deal with me.) Loved the plot, characters, etc. I read it a long time ago, but I tend to go back and re-read it when I miss my old dog and to remember that- oh wait. That would spoil the book for you. Go read it you crazy bookworm.
2. Write about setting up your blog and what you have gotten from that experience.  How did you come up with the name for your blog?  Who do you think read it or who would you want to read it?  Will you continue to use it on your own in the future?  What kinds of things will you post?Me: What is this? What is that? ; Blogger: Hur hur hur forget you ; me: Lol okay well, it's a blog, yeah. ; Blogger: Forget you. ; Me: ELDER BERRIES!
   
    <---Pretty much my experience setting up my blog. I couldn't think of a title, and it's a blog, so yeah. I don't think anyone will read it after this class is over, and I wouldn't really wish my horrid, rough writing capabilities on anyone. I might use it, probably not, someone I don't want to know about it knows someone who would give them the link and I feel like reading through stories of their coupling would be a bit....damaging to her. 
3. Write about journaling.  What kinds of things are in your journal?  Who would you want to read it?  Will you continue to journal?  What will you write about? I have a lot of medieval type stuff in my journal really. Well, fantasy medieval, at least. I really don't want anyone to read it. Most of what I write would probably seem rather dull to people, or confusing because I leave out important details for particular reasons, such as the story being close to my heart. Most of my characters are based on people I have met, stories I've heard, characters in games that I've played for years and fleshed out beyond what some teenagers have experienced. To have them criticized for their decisions would irk me beyond belief. I'm simply immature in that way. I'll probably (if I continue to write), write more about the girl and the boy. They tend to be my favorite two to write short stories about. Not a fan of longer stuff, but hey. We all have our moments, ja? Ja.
4. Type an entry directly from your journal that you consider notable.  It could be a paragraph or a page or so.  You don’t have to explain it, but you could. Its organs were slowly failing, unable to handle the extremes. It had once been human, but humans would never let themselves fall this far. Its soul had died that die. Now it waited out it's final days in silence. Yet somehow the agony made it happy. He had abandoned it, after all, he who was her entire universe. She stopped fighting to live that day. On that day she  embraced death. Yet there he was, he had returned, renewing her will to live and strengthening their bond. She  could recover from the physical damage, but she had never really bounced back from the mental damage of losing him the first time, and with every passing loss (she knew she would lose him if she reached for him again) it became worse. Hope is a powerful thing, or so she had always told people who had battled with thoughts of suicide. Hope is what gets you through the night when everything seems wrong. He was both her hope and her curse. ~ 

          He found her just like they said he would. Her mind was half gone, stuck in a medically induced coma and her body was nearly destroyed. He had done his best to save her mind, it was in the doctor's hands to save her body now. The memories gang couldn't reach her here, he had been reassured of that. No, he thought, they can't reach her here, she'll heal and then we'll talk and she will understand why I had to leave her for so long, and so he waited by her bedside for several days.

"Reid?" Bio's voice was so different, she was so different. 

Bio's physical state mortified him. The stench of infection (Why haven't they taken care of her infections? He thought humorlessly) overwhelmed the room, as though something had died and was rotting in her bed. Reid couldn't help but pity her, the fear in her voice, yet her certainly that he was indeed here, as though she'd known all along that he would come back. 

"Reid?" Bio repeated, her voice more fearful this time, reaching out in search of him, though the bandages covered most of her face, including her eyes.

"I'm disappointed in you." He replied without thinking, immediately cringing as he realized what he'd just done. She was fragile, she needed him, even if he no longer wanted her.

"Reid." Bio's gasped breaths said it all. She trembled, emotionally destroyed by him once again. Reid couldn't help but shake his head, both annoyed with her and himself for having ever somehow gotten into this position. "....but I love you." She'd whispered, and he'd knelt beside her, careful not to touch her. He knew his touch would have comforted her, but it was better for the both of them if she were allowed to heal on her own. 

"You need to move on." He said softly but in a firm voice, face stoic even as she sniffled, fighting back tears. With that, he stood up and began to leave the room. 

"You're just like everyone else..." Bio screamed, trying to get up to chase after him but falling instead. Her heart monitor began to wobble, then went still and she stopped moving. Nurses tried to bring her back, but alas, hope is a fragile thing.

Reid woke up soon after, terrified and clinging to her bandaged hand, reassured by the steady sound of the monitor that it was simply a dream.

"I won't leave you again." He promised, then added "not until you can handle it." 

 

1. Type or copy/paste a passage or section directly from one of your pieces of writing that you consider notable or your favorite that you’ve written.  It could be a section or a page or so. The air was like ice as time seemed to freeze, a small red eyed figure with horribly mangled metal claws stepped out from a snow drift. Its skin was pale enough to blend with the snow, but the blood red eyes and dark blue hair made it stick out. Its eyes studied the group, settling on Emma and the old knight. A sharp metal claw was raised, pointing accusingly at the old knight. It growled as only a demon could, nobody dared breathe.
2. What creative writing do you plan to do in the future, if any?  What do you get out of writing creatively?  How does this differ from the other writing you do, in school and in life? Probably no future creative writing on my part. Or rather, none that I'll be sharing with anyone in all honesty. I've come to the realization I prefer my words to be private and meaningful to myself, not something I have to explain to someone else. For me, writing creatively is an escape from a rather unhappy life, ja? Ja. This as in this class? It's pretty much like what I write for school stuff. Not personal or on a level that I love. I felt really constrained by having pieces on subjects I would never otherwise write about. As well, having to do any art made me absurdly uncomfortable and therefore any writing I did over that was extremely unsatisfying. I'm not artsy, I just like to write a bunch of random words and hope they make sense.
3. Some final words of encouragement, appreciation, inspiration, etc. for your fellow writers you’ve worked with this quarter... Good luck, I guess? I don't know what to put here in all honesty but hey, the stuff I've read in here has been pretty good. So I mean, there's that.

Spooky Season

My favorite Halloween was the time I met my favorite author. A bit of backstory though...the best costume I ever wore was also that year, I was Masque of the Red Death. Being a major Poe fan, I could not resist dressing as my favorite horror idol...and I was glad to have designed it myself, against mother's wishes.
While trick-or-treating, my friends and I decided to explore a dark street we had never noticed before...rumor had it that this particular street only opened on Halloween night to those who approached at just the right time. Being the young ones we were, curiosity overtook us. We wandered down it, the world behind us seeming to close off, everything going dark. At first we panicked, but then a light appeared in front of us. Knowing better now, perhaps we wouldn't have approached, but such is the curse of being young and naive. A door materialized in front of us, a bag of candy in front of it and a sign that said "Take one." We all shrugged, deciding it couldn't be so bad. As I reached into the bag of candy, I thought I heard a voice saying, “Pick me, pick me!” I looked around, curious of where the voice could have come from. I noticed a Jack-o-Lantern which I swore blinked. As I looked at the Jack-o-Lantern, it seemed to be looking back at me. Then my friend screamed, the witch was after us! We ran and ran until a pale, dark haired man blocked our path. Gasping for air, the witch was no longer in sight. The man narrowed his eyes to look at us closer, and it was then that I realized who was standing in front of us. None other than Edgar Allen Poe himself! Mortified, he leapt back and cried out, demanding to know why I came to haunt him. Accusing me of breaking a promise to leave him alone if he told my story. Confused, I backed away and he continued to scream things we could not understand at me, THUNK. A book hit me and we fled once more, even more terrified. Each of us seeking the door to escape this madness. It was no where, and we began to cry. "Pick me, pick me" The candy in my satchel seemed to whisper, and so I did. I ate it right then and there.
~
"And then what happened mommy?" The 7 year old was thoroughly engrossed in the story at this point. The story teller smiled and pulled him up onto her lap.

"Well, sweetheart. We all escaped and promised never to go down unknown streets again, especially on Halloween night. Now, go get your costume on, your father is waiting." She kissed the top of her child's head and sent them on their way. A mask similar to the one described in Poe's story still hung on the wall, mocking the woman.

Revision #2

He hasn't left me, no he is still alive.
I keep him here in my heart and my mind.
I don't miss his hugs, I keep them nearby.
In the form of a pillow that he used by and by.
He was quiet, a brooding gentle storm.
Harmless, no matter how everyone did scorn.
If they had seen him as I did, how I still do.
Perhaps they would know as I know is true.
The pillow beside me holds the broken promises,
The promises of a boy who died before his time.

Dead, but his body still walks. The one I loved no longer exists, replaced by one who fell out of love as easily as the boy had fallen in love. Did he love me, once upon a time? He cannot recall, or so he says. He remembers not the years we had, the late night skype calls and early morning cheer. But how can he forget what I remember so clear? That is how I know he has died, that someone else uses his name.

If he holds no love, at least he isn't cruel. A young person who makes mistakes, no different from you or I. Someone I saw a life with, a life that faded before my eyes. It wasn't fair, but then life is never fair. It's cruel and Cupid performs the cruelest of hoaxes. Yet I can hope he is happy, as happy as I. If ever I should lose my memory, there is one moment I wish to retain. The homecoming night I spent in isolation at a dance, wishing he were there. The simple joy of returning home, of playing our song, of slow dancing with "his" pillow and pretending it was him. Of reuniting with him that night, if only for a while. If age should take my memory, I give the rest freely, but let me retain the memory of the dance I never had.

Reaching for him blindly, calling his name into the abyss. Silence for months, an inner dread I cannot cope with. What have I done? What did I do to turn you away from me, my dear? I reach as far as I dare without falling, scared of the unknown. Months will pass, and he will be silent. You must let go they say, but I refuse. I cling to his memory, the voice I'd come to cherish. Let go they tell me. Yet again I refuse, he will find his way back here, we've been separated many times before. You give us no choice they say as they push me, the memory of his pillow, of the call we had that night floating along side me as though a video I am watching. I reach out for him, cry his name. I awaken beside another, not my love, not the one to whom I am bound. The new one holds me, trying his best to reassure me though I can sense it breaks his heart to know I still cling to old memories. Say his name they say, but I dare not, knowing how it would break this one's heart. My love is gone away, and will he come again? And will he come again. Ophelia's lines from Hamlet come to mind as I drift back to sleep, back into the embrace I never had.

Revision #1

The girl's eyes were red, the proof that she was the only one with Mori blood to have escaped the destruction of the land she was born into. Proof of the spideresque  blood that coursed through her veins and the reason for her black widow hourglass symbol.  The blood dripped from an open wound. Old scars criss crossed her arms and legs as badges of honor, her proof that she had fought and survived. She was motionless, watching the sunset. Tomorrow would be another battle, another test for the strength of her heart.

Her hair was a dark blue, unnatural, but then who could call the feral child natural? Not born under a clear sky, the girl had been born under the third full moon of a four full moon cycle. In her veins was the history of many wars, different cultures, all somehow blended and meshed into a rather short and scrawny creature. She was like the water, many different parts all combined and flowing naturally, mixing and never the same pattern twice.

A white rose hung limply from her hand. She'd spent days scouring the land to procure the precious gift, the snow having been a hindrance but not enough for the flower to elude her. Pure, innocent love was what she had found, and a pure, innocent representation was her response, the dove flying overhead seemingly confirming that. Her albino skin was well suited to this wintery wasteland known as the North, her Northerner heritage coming in handy. Nightfall came early in this unforgiving land, and the girl could not help but admire the stars above, her beacons in the sky to guide her to where he would be in hiding, awaiting her arrival, the irony of two star crossed lovers, she thought silently.

The sky was midnight black, save for the stars which would guide her to him. His dark eyes sought her out in the snow, seeking the familiar hair and glowing eyes. The cawing of his crow heralded her approach, and his smile was visible beneath his beard. The boy had escaped the dark castle where he was in training to become a knight. She was his world, and he would sooner death take him than their love be put asunder, the war between their factions be darned. Finally, he could see a shadow, hear the crunch of boots on snow. He left his hiding place, the world going dark as a sword pierced his heart and the words "Death to traitors" fell on dying ears.

"No." Was all the girl could whisper, cradling the boy's body in her arms. His tabard was soaked with his blood, and his nearly lifeless eyes stared up at her, his hand reached for hers. She screamed, holding him tightly, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. He was quickly fading, and neither of them could find words. She laid her forehead against his, breathing in sync with him until his last shudder. He died in her arms, a reverse of her own nightmares, Enraged, she closed his eyes and whispered to him in their language before rising and unsheathing her sword. Blood would be spilled, she vowed to him. They will regret this, my love...she thought as her owl neared. The large Eurasian Eagle owl's blood red eyes gleamed in the night as she sent him back to gather help. Her love would be buried among her people, regardless of their hatred of his people and his death would not go unpunished. 

~
Clear, colorblind eyes stared at the knight as he told the story. Clarren remained silent, maintaining their mute facade as the knight scratched his chin thoughtfully and added "She was never the same after that. the Spider wasn't. She became crueler...more feral. Rumor has it she's trying to reconnect with her brother, the necromancer, tryin' to forge a bond between us and the undead to slaughter the boy's people. I don't buy it though, isn't any way she's become that crazy. Just mind yourself around her boy, she'll kill you faster than the other squires if you gi'er the chance to." 

With that, the knight strode away, leaving Clarren alone with her thoughts. So, Clarren thought, that's what happened to Spider...A door opened, and Spider appeared in front of Clarren. Spider twitched her head to the right slightly before straightening up and closing the distance between the two of them. Clarren stood still while Spider re-evaluated the young squire. 

"You'd make an excellent....information gatherer." Spider grinned evilly. "Silent and stoic. Good traits for a torturer. You'll do that at nights, don't tell the other squires." Spider nodded and walked away, well aware Clarren couldn't argue.

food post

Twas yet another Halloween. A terrifying time, really. Small children who shrieked with delight and fear, the doorbell a never ending background noise. It had been three years, yet Daisy was still fearful and mistrusting of the humans who came by. It wasn't her fault, after all, the first two years of her life had been spent with an abusive owner. Back then, a doorbell being rang was a reason to bark. After all, she had to alert the family to the newcomer's presence, right? Wrong. Her owner, a hatefully cruel person, would hit her every time she barked at the doorbell and sometimes would even kick her. Daisy couldn't understand, and finally the owner dumped her at the pound, claiming she was a worthless dog and they should put her down right there and then. The workers didn't listen however, and so Daisy was i her new home. They'd yet to yell at her, but then again she would cower when the doorbell rang. Halloween should be spooky, but for some dogs it's terrifying. Candy...masquerading as things to make small children happy...but at the same time, causing many dogs to panic. 

It took many years, but with patience and love Daisy finally came to love Halloween. She even dressed up the last year, going as a hot dog she walked the neighborhood with the kids her family had had before she met them. Tail wagging, no fear. As a dog should be. It took many years but...in the end she found that Halloween didn't have to be quite so scary.

Not quite /exactly a food story but close enough in my honest opinion.

"Cow cow meow." 

"Meow meow cow."

The kids nodded at each other, slowly descending from their hiding places. The town was half destroyed, half the same. The portal hadn't quite worked the way they wanted it to. The monsters had still gotten through, the portal only saving half of the town. The smoke still billowed up into the sky line, past the buildings they once thought so tall. The younger child, a girl about 7 years old, looked frightened. The older girl, around age 17, put an arm around the younger girl protectively. 

"It'll be okay, they're gone now. They aren't coming back."

The rest of the town slowly emerged, a few began sweeping away the ashes. The town was half, but would soon be whole again. The two girls disappeared into the crowd, readying themselves for whatever the future might bring. A woman cradled her newborn, a strange form of symbolism for the old and the new in the half destroyed town.

"It's over now, c'mon." A younger boy motioned to his peers who slowly slunk from where they had dwelled during the siege. They all began to clear away the rubble, clouds forming overhead as though vowing to put out what few fires remained by way of rain. 

The rain began, and a few villagers fled back to the safety of the still intact part of town, terrified that the rain would bring new elemental monsters. The rest braved the storm, thankful that the fiery reminders of the monsters were being washed away, that the rain dissipated soon after was a sadness that most suffered. 

Revenge....best served cold

The air was like ice, it was another winter night. There had been many stories, legends if you will, about the girl leader and knight to be. Legend said that he had been killed before his time, that the girl had killed him herself, for no reason. They had been in love, though on different sides of the war. They had been secretly meeting for years, a different location each time. The night of his death she was late, that is what everyone agrees on. What happens after that has been speculation for years. Some claim that the girl went insane, she’d been of the sort to go insane, after all, and truly had gone insane by the time he had died, if not before. Others claim the boy’s fellow squires killed him, others believe the knight he apprenticed under did it. No one knows what really happened, except that he died.

The girl had ended up carrying his child. Her leadership position had been removed, herself regarded as a traitor, a spy for the enemy. She had screamed and cried, every night without fail she would mourn, and every morning she would sleep. She began to babble nonsense, would attack those who tried to take care of her. Once the baby was born, she seemed to snap out of it just long enough for it, a girl, to reach five. She had once tried to drown the toddler, only stopped by her adoptive father, who decided that the toddler would be safest if sent away. This enraged the girl, sparking the massacre that led to the fall of the nation she had once fought so desperately to protect, the massacre in which the girl had died.

It had been 19 years since the incident, to the day. A group of travelers had stopped to give a young teen time to mourn. Emma’s eyes were red, just like her mother, betraying her mori blood. She’d never met her father, though somehow she couldn’t bring herself to blame her mother. The oldest knight in the group, the one who had trained her father, put a hand on her should to comfort her. She smiled, glad of the company as they returned home, and back to the castle where her father had spent his time.  

The air was like ice as time seemed to freeze, a small red eyed figure with horribly mangled metal claws stepped out from a snow drift. Its skin was pale enough to blend with the snow, but the blood red eyes and dark blue hair made it stick out. Its eyes studied the group, settling on Emma and the old knight. A sharp metal claw was raised, pointing accusingly at the old knight. It growled as only a demon could, nobody dared breathe.

“You did lie, and now you must die.” The creature screeched, red staining the ground as something pulsed from its hand. The old knight fell, his heart having been removed. Someone screamed, all panicked. There was, however, no escape. Every single one of them was slain, not a soul was shown mercy, except Emma. The creature could not bring itself to kill what had once been its daughter, instead vanishing back into the snow as though it had never been there.

Once a year, every year, without fail a group will fail to return to the castle. They are all found dead save for one child, some strange and terrible beast’s claw marks litter their bodies. The attacks are randomly timed, never falling on the same day. Some of the children who were spared claim it was the girl, shrieking and crying that leads the group to her, and that she slaughters them. No one believes them though, after all, ghosts are just a legend, are they not?   

Art Story thingy

It was another day, and yet another creepy mime. 400 guests had been served, one was left behind. It was rumored he hadn’t spoken in 30 years, which had everyone wondering how he would order. Terrified that he would break the silence and speak, cursing the waitress (as lore had always stated) to endure muteness as long as he had, no one approached him. There he sat, like an oversized doll straight out of some horror film, patiently waiting for someone to take is order. Over there the waitresses all stood, denying him food for fear of the curse.

A young, oblivious waitress finally walked over, finding her fellow’s behavior odd and cruel. None of them said a word; the restaurant went silent as she made her approach. The mime looked up, and all but she cringed from the ill-intent in his eyes.  As she asked what it was he desired to eat, he said not a word, and everyone let out of a sigh of relief.

The mime pointed at his menu, his eerily painted face smiling with delight as his stomach growled. The waitress eventually brought his food. Eating in peace, he would answer her questions, such as “Do you need more water?” with a nod or a shake of the head. All was well, and the restaurant goers finally returned to eating their meals in peace. The waitresses began to feel guilt, for not having been kind to the mime. Perhaps his curse wasn’t nearly expired, to be renewed if he did not find a new victim. Perhaps he was simply hungry, starving as almost all mimes did in the back alleyways when not performing.

All was well until she took the plate away. The mime tapped her shoulder, and the waitress had turned to look at him with confusion.

“No, wait.” It said in a hoarse, dark voice. “There’s something I must give you.”

The plate was dropped as the color was drained from her face, filling the mime’s ghostly pale skin with soft, warm human flesh tones. Someone gasped, a waitress fainted. The former mime was last seen running from the restaurant, screaming in celebration of his freedom. The young waitress was rendered speechless, both stunned and quickly being overwhelmed by the curse of silence. A heartbeat had barely past before the other waitresses grabbed her arms and threw her out of the restaurant, terrified that the curse might somehow be contagious if she were able to speak.

(Future)(actually past, because yesterday but blog post requirements) Speaker Post thing

The idea of joining a group who could give suggestions on writing never occurred to me, nor did the thought of giving myself a number of words to write down a day per story (I feel like I would struggle fairly hard with this concept though.)

Why must you write your own little niche genre, why not just write what inspires you, what you feel like writing, regardless of how over or underdone it might be?

In a year? Moving beyond my high school years. In 5 years? A lot faster on the bike. 10 years? With the one I adore. 50 years? Dead. 

(That Orca though. Mm yes.)

"Reel life"

Favorite movie is probably a tie between Phantom of the Opera (1989 version), Sala Samobojcow (Suicide Room <--English translation), Rubber, and Master of Disguise. I like them all for different reasons, though a connecting point would be that they're all a bit off of the beaten path of what's popular, except maybe Rubber. That movie is just weird to the point of being an enjoyable let down.

(This is how a phantom's face should look! Not that weak excuse from the 2004 movie...)

I'm not against any genre of movie that I've watched so far. They all have their good and bad, in my opinion.

I don't watch movies very often, but it's usually at home, in my living room, while knitting.

(Looks straight outta pinterest, no?)

When I watch a movie I like the room to be lit (I'm a strange creature, I'm well aware), to have knitting or crocheting to work on (I need to be distracted to pay attention, does that make sense?), and a pillow to hide behind for scary parts (I'm definitely a scaredy cat.)

As for the test, this is what I got:

YOUR PERSONALITY
Take a look at how you scored on the Big Five personality dimensions below.
Your scores, compared with the responses of other people, suggest that you may be described as follows:

YOU ARE 25% EXTRAVERTED.
You are introverted, reserved and serious. You prefer to be alone or with a few close friends. 

YOU ARE 0% AGREEABLE.
You are hard-headed, sceptical, proud and competitive. You tend to express your anger directly. 

YOU ARE 0% CONSCIENTIOUS.
You are easygoing, not very well organised, and sometimes careless. You prefer not to make plans. 

YOU ARE 8% EMOTIONALLY STABLE.
You are sensitive, emotional and prone to experience feelings that are upsetting. 

YOU ARE 25% OPEN TO NEW EXPERIENCES.
You are down-to-earth, practical, traditional, and pretty much set in your ways. 
WHY YOU WATCH MOVIES

We have proposed 10 psychological uses for watching films.
Below are your scores for each of these 10 uses, and the relevant descriptions of the ways in which you enjoy films.
PLEASURE-SEEKING: 15%
NOSTALGIA: 65%
CATHARSIS: 45%
AGGRESSION: 60%
ESCAPISM: 25%
SENSATION-SEEKING: 70%
ARTISTIC: 25%
INFORMATION-SEEKING: 20%
BOREDOM-AVOIDANCE: 65%

I feel like if a movie was made of my life, it would be a very weird movie. I'm not up to date on actresses/actors names so I can't honestly say who I'd want to play myself. Three main plot points would probably be when I found Mabinogi (mmorpg), my diabetes diagnosis, and starting school at Kickapoo. Probably would have a sad ending. I prefer those. Or one like Rubber, which makes you go "????" 

Movie Quotes

Sala samobójców

Sala samobójców

Master of Disguise

"There is nothing you could ask that I could refuse."

-1989 Phantom of the Opera

Corpse Bride

Painting Post

(Not the actual painting, naturally, but sort of like an uncolored version, you know?)

I'm not entirely certain that it reminds me of anything from my life, but it sort of reminds me of a bunch of books. All different colors and designs, piled high and wide because in truth there are too many books to ever read all of them, but still we will have our desires to read as many books as possible, I suppose.

Writers as Readers

5. "Wither" is the first book in a trilogy I read last year. I think the overall feel of the book is why I couldn't put it down. It's just well written and overall very enjoyable

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8. My favorite book series is The Guardians of Ga'Hoole series, and it's probably my favorite because of the very minor character in one book, Lutta. I won't go further into detail because it might spoil it.
9. When I finished reading A Dog Called Kitty (not the first time, but several years later, after my corgi had died and I got Tobi), I was sad because the story really resonated with me a lot deeper than it had before.

11. When I write I view it as more of a therapy. I like to think in  all of my fictional works there is a hint of truth, a backstory that really happened that my mind writes out an entire other world to cope with. I'm not sure who would be interested in my work. I never think of the reader, I'm rather selfish in that regard. My writings are for myself, not others.
13. I don't think I'll ever write a book. As in the last question, my writings are never intended for others. I'll have other people read them from time to time, but in general I view them as more of a quiet therapy. I'm horrible at expressing my actual emotions and writing helps them flow better, to become visible.

6 Word Memoir

I am more than my bike.

Blackout Writing

Sorry but I must refuse, I cannot do this to a book.

Memorable Passage

People always argue over what is love. They say that teenagers are not in love, they haven't lived long enough to know love. They say that old married couples must be soulmates who were lucky to find each other. Everyone has an opinion of love, and love has no truth, it is like any good art, open to interpretation. That is why a certain passage from Anna Karenina comes to mind. It is about love, seemingly implying that everyone can feel love, we just will all feel it differently. 

"I think... if it is true that 
there are as many minds as there 
are heads, then there are as many 
kinds of love as there are hearts.”
 -from Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

Just because someone doesn't share the same kind of love you do, does not make theirs any less true or genuine. People fall in and out of love every day, it is a word that is constantly defined and refined. No one really knows what love is, some will tell you it is a chemical equation in the brain. Others will tell you it's something you feel deep in your soul. One belief does not make the other any less real for someone else. We can all feel love, just as we all can think, we will simply do it in different ways.

If I were in charge of the world

If I were in charge of the world
I'd remove heartache,
Regretted love,
Crashed bikes, and those hacker types. 

If I were in charge of the world
The skies would be clear,
The stars visible, and
Travel not such an impossible goal.

If I were in charge of the world
Death would be a lie.
Love would be genuine.
Life would be truth.
And Hamlet "Not so mad, after all."
He never would have gone crazy.

If I were in charge of the world
Ophelia would never have drowned,
Families would never be torn apart,
People would know forgiveness, 
Mercy would be standard,
Cruelty would be no more, if I were 
In charge of the world. 

Pillow Talk

He hasn't left me, no he is still alive.
I keep him here in my heart and my mind.
I don't miss his hugs, I keep them nearby.
In the form of a pillow that he used by and by.
He was quiet, a brooding gentle storm.
Harmless, no matter how everyone did scorn.
If they had seen him as I did, how I still do.
Perhaps they would know as I know is true.
The pillow beside me holds the broken promises,
The promises of a boy who died before his time.

Dead, but his body still walks. The one I loved no longer exists, replaced by one who fell out of love as easily as the boy had fallen in love. Did he love me, once upon a time? He cannot recall, or so he says. He remembers not the years we had, the late night skype calls and early morning cheer. But how can he forget what I remember so clear? That is how I know he has died, that someone else uses his name.

If he holds no love, at least he isn't cruel. A young person who makes mistakes, no different from you or I. Someone I saw a life with, a life that faded before my eyes. It wasn't fair, but then life is never fair. It's cruel and Cupid performs the cruelest of hoaxes. Yet I can hope he is happy, as happy as I. If ever I should lose my memory, there is one moment I wish to retain. The homecoming night I spent in isolation at a dance, wishing he were there. The simple joy of returning home, of playing our song, of slow dancing with "his" pillow and pretending it was him. Of reuniting with him that night, if only for a while. If age should take my memory, I give the rest freely, but let me retain the memory of the dance I never had.

Birds

Birds have always appealed to her,
Especially owls, oh be sure. 
Outcasts and demonized like her
She found that misfits can belong.
Happiness is a right, not a liberty.
She learned to speak her mind,
To speak her heart. 
She learned that waves of sadness are just that,
They are just waves, 
And soon enough they will fade.
She knows freedom is a penalty, a curse and a virtue.
Yet would sooner be cursed with freedom than ignorance any day.

Recurring Dream

A recurring dream? I’ve had several recurring dreams. One that has always stuck out to me would be one about the girl and the boy I often write about though. It’s like the middle of a chapter in the middle of a book, you can tell a lot happened before to lead to these events, and a lot will happen after the event. I never get to see any further or before what the dream has always had since I first had it three years ago. Since then, I’ve had this dream at least five or six times. The dream is as follows: He is holding her, she’s bleeding out in his arms. His usually kind and affectionate eyes are full of rage, anger, and perhaps a look of grief. She pleads “No, stay. Please.” And then the dream goes one of two ways. The boy either holds her as she starts to succumb to her injuries, or he lets her go, too bent on revenge to stay and comfort the girl who he always claimed to love so desperately. If he stays, she dies with a smile and his name on her lips, the way she would want it. If he goes, she dies silently, slipping away like the faint hint of a breeze you can’t seem to hold on to long enough on a hot summer’s day. It has a lot of personal meaning to me, a lot of boring stories I won’t delve into on this post.

Dream Threads

He was trapped in a small, compact room with bright shards of glass protruding from every available surface. The blue haired girl reached out for him. He glared, crimson and the scent of copper clung to her arm. She was bleeding. No, he shook his head. Yet she continued to reach for him. Red eyes stared deep into his purple eyes and then he understood. She would die, whether or not she saved him. Glass shattered around her as she attacked it with her sword.

"A." She said simply, knees shaking, lacerations criss crossing her skin, old scars replenished by the new.

"Wiv-" He faltered in speech as she collapsed.

Everything was a blur. He pulled her away to safety, to where he knew the medic would be awaiting her return, prepared to heal the boy that the girl, who had quickly risen to power as a fighter and military leader, loved. The medic who drew their sword, unsure why their beloved leader was being carried, unmoving.

"How is she?" he asked as the medic examined his beloved.

The medic whispered something to an assistant and walked away. The assistant's face went pale as they spoke barely above a whisper. "He siad there is nothing more that they could do, so we had to let her go. I'm sorry."

Other color stuff

~Haikus~
It's pretty black and blue
So well then, who are you to
Be like such a bruise

Her eyes are red
And oh how she makes them dread
What she has said

~Seven line poem~
1 She has such crimson eyes
2 Her dark blue sky is such a lie
3 Such is life, what a cabaret
4 But suck it up, buttercup
5. You are a night flower,
6. Who has no mystical power
7 Locked away in the rose garden

Color Story

The girl's eyes were red, the proof that she was the only one with Mori blood to have escaped the destruction of the land she was born into. Proof of the spideresque  blood that coursed through her veins and the reason for her black widow hourglass symbol.  The blood dripped from an open wound. Old scars criss crossed her arms and legs as badges of honor, her proof that she had fought and survived. She was motionless, watching the sunset. Tomorrow would be another battle, another test for the strength of her heart.

Her hair was a dark blue, unnatural, but then who could call the feral child natural? Not born under a clear sky, the girl had been born under the third full moon of a four full moon cycle. In her veins was the history of many wars, different cultures, all somehow blended and meshed into a rather short and scrawny creature. She was like the water, many different parts all combined and flowing naturally, mixing and never the same pattern twice.

A white rose hung limply from her hand. She'd spent days scouring the land to procure the precious gift, the snow having been a hindrance but not enough for the flower to elude her. Pure, innocent love was what she had found, and a pure, innocent representation was her response, the dove flying overhead seemingly confirming that. Her albino skin was well suited to this wintery wasteland known as the North, her Northerner heritage coming in handy. Nightfall came early in this unforgiving land, and the girl could not help but admire the stars above, her beacons in the sky to guide her to where he would be in hiding, awaiting her arrival, the irony of two star crossed lovers, she thought silently. 

The sky was midnight black, save for the stars which would guide her to him. His dark eyes sought her out in the snow, seeking the familiar hair and glowing eyes. The cawing of his crow heralded her approach, and his smile was visible beneath his beard. The boy had escaped the dark castle where he was in training to become a knight. She was his world, and he would sooner death take him than their love be put asunder, the war between their factions be darned. Finally, he could see a shadow, hear the crunch of boots on snow. He left his hiding place, the world going dark as a sword pierced his heart and the words "Death to traitors" fell on dying ears.

The first line last line thingy thing

"The moment one learns English, complications set in." 

Written by Felipe Alfau (January 1st, 1902-January 1st 1999) in the 1940's but not published till the 1990's, Chromos is about Spanish immigrants who come to America and try to blend their old culture with their new culture and find it simply doesn't work. Its setting is slightly apocalyptic. Personally, it sounds like the typical book I would read. Though arguably I probably wouldn't read it due to lacking a passion for literature in recent times.

"This is not the scene I dreamed of. Like much else nowadays I leave it feeling stupid, like a man who lost his way long ago but presses on along a road that may lead nowhere."

The author, Sue Kossew, has lived in South Africa, the UK, and Australia. She's published a couple of books. She is currently a professor. 
Pen and Power: A Post-colonial Reading of J.M. Coetzee and André Brink is about two South African writers:
John Maxwell Coetzee who was born February 9th of 1940. He is a South African author. 
Andre Brink (29 May 1935 – 6 February 2015) was a South African novelist. 
Again, perhaps if I still had a passion for books I would want to read this book. I do not, however, and as such would have no interest in reading Pen and Power: A Post-colonial Reading of J.M. Coetzee and André Brink. 

Quotes

Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings - always darker, emptier and simpler.
-Friedrich Nietzsche

It is always consoling to think of suicide: in that way one gets through many a bad night.

-Friedrich Nietzsche

Happiness is only real when shared.

-Christopher McCandless

An Old Book

        It was a typical winter day. School was out and there wasn’t much else to do when the internet was down. Certainly a good day to explore the old weathered books out in the garage. Mostly there were engineering books, but if you looked closely enough there were fictional books too. All were undoubtedly old, torn up, and in general had seen better days, something I tend to look for in books. Arguably, my favorite books tend to be from before the 1950s. They have that distinct book smell and feel to them that newer books tend to lack. As well, stop and admire the cover of an old book sometime. They’re undeniably beautiful things.

         I’d read most of the books on the shelf that weren’t engineering or computer programming related. I was beginning to think I’d have to settle for an outdated book on java when the title “The Yellow Horde” caught my eye. The Yellow Horde? I thought that was a weird name for a book.  My curiosity was piqued, and as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back. The cover of the book was slightly faded, though the book was in better condition than the books I usually find in the garage.

         Wolves. I thought “Well, I mean, maybe it’s like Call of the Wild.” Yes, I do indeed think like that. So I began to read it. It was an okay book, the beginning was mysterious, and the end was satisfying. No strange mystical stuff like in Call of the Wild (or what I felt to be strange, mystical stuff.) A book about a coyote and wolf hybrid leading the coyotes to become what they are today. Probably not based in facts or history, but then, perhaps I wouldn’t have liked it quite as much if it were.

          It quickly became my second favorite book, no book can replaced “A Dog Called Kitty”, that story is too close to my heart. Still, The Yellow Horde is a new favorite of mine. I was terribly upset when I lost it one summer. With it not being a popular book, it isn’t as replaceable as say, a copy of Anna Karenina or Phantom of the Opera might be. I hunted for it nearly everywhere. Except in the garage, on the bookshelf. It wasn’t until the following summer that I found it again. More cautious and experienced now, I keep it in a special part of my room where my other old, “handle with care” books dwell.

          Though the main character starts off as a ‘nobody’ in the realm of the coyotes, he quickly becomes the leader. The book tries to explain how and why coyotes started to travel in ‘packs’ like the wolves, and curiosity led me to research coyotes more, though in the past I’d brushed them off. They’re the survivors, the ones that adapted to mankind’s presence, and I feel like coyotes are a good example of surviving. Though not probably what wanted, this is my story on an object. So, yeah.

I Am Poem

I am lonely, dark waves on the ocean.
I am a heart glued back together.
I am a cyclist, unhindered by cars.
I am a cave, empty yet deep.
I am the mother figure to a dog.
I am the soulmate to a lost soul.
I am a breath of fresh air in sadness.
I am pale and cold like snow.
I am no one's love.
I am long hair and sad eyes.
I am humor and sarcasm.
I am a volunteer, loyal and proven.
I am silent, the wings to an owl.
I am a wolf, howling for the lost love.
I am a whisper, quiet and soon gone.
I am nothing, and yet I loved.