Winter's Child

Winter's Child

To live a dream, was to have a normal life,
a childhood devoid of any strife.
To live a nightmare, was to be all alone,
starving for love, all skin and bone.

There was a child, who couldn't sleep,
who couldn't dream, who couldn't weep.
She couldn't drink, she couldn't eat,
all she had were her own two feet.

A pretty child, a flower of five,
a miracle that was she was still alive.
She wore rags of poverty, but she had a voice,
her dulcet tones, her livelihood choice.

Her lilting song, unmatched by any other,
but for the love, that comes from a mother.
Her lullabies charmed all those around,
the humming bird's notes, now a tuneless sound.

In her small, dainty hands, she clenched a cup,
she was a child, but she'd already grown up.
Closing her eyes, she would sing with her smile,
and not a person could judge, this sweet little child.

In her cup, the coins started to fall,
as she continued, her melodious call.
At the days end, she counted her earnings,
she needed to satiate her hunger yearnings.

10 dollars within, it was enough to eat,
all she needed was a bit of meat.
She started to walk, she heard a cry,
unlike her song, this voice would die.

As if a duet, another cry pierced the air,
limitless misery, for everyone to share.
She followed the sounds, it was a sight to see,
a boy and his mother, cold and hungry.

She sings for them, quelling their fears,
she kisses them gently, wiping their tears.
She gives them her cup and she goes on her way,
she did not know, who she met today.

Staring at her back, is this mother of one,
as her daughter recedes in the setting sun.
A winter frost, settles that night,
a starving flower, a wilted plight.

In the morning, she is found,
no more song, no more sound.

Far Below the Canopy

Far Below the Canopy

Clouded judgement, an air full of dust,

once a tread path, now forgotten.

The arched boughs, the supporters of this canopy,

masking what lies below.

The realm of branches, enclosed by lustrous, emerald leaves,

home to the song bird,

unaware of what lurks beneath this elevated paradise.

Its song rouses the sun from its slumber, as it descends,

and sets the forest ablaze;

but what lurks below extinguishes the flickering candle.

Far below the canopy, where only the fleeting light remains,

one can hear the song bird trill, it's voice full of love- 

unwittingly mocking,
what lies below.

As the sun sets, the enclave is near darkness,

and what lurks beneath, moves.

One step at a time, moving across the forest floor;

with each movement, desecrating the graves of its victims. 

It walks, it slithers, it travels slowly-

each step echoing off the bones strewn below.

In the shadows, pools of blood stare,

their feral nature ready to come forth.

A cloying stench permeates the darkness-

the putrid essence, nearly tangible.

The song bird sings, as the sun bids 'farewell',

and what lurks below, pauses beneath the canopy.

The last notes of the song bird fade away,

a distant memory of what was once true.

Then all is silent.

Ponderings of a Thunderstorm

     As I gaze out my window, I see lightning flashes lighting up the sky and hear the constant roar of thunder as if some creature above was angry. The accompanying rain only perpetuates the storm raging in my mind. My thoughts are quite turbulent and as the storm rages outside, I shall write about the storm within.

     Often I come up with these ideas for stories and immediately I become excited to start writing. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I don't start writing but the excitement is still there. When I finally convince myself to start working, I can continuously work for hours at a time but I can get easily distracted by such trivial things as that fly on my wall- who perhaps is an actual person who wished to be a 'fly on my wall' but I cannot imagine why- I was told my room was a disaster.

     Instead of launching into a meandering monologue, which would serve no purpose other than to instill boredom in my readers, I'll just get to the point. I often lack the motivation to ensure my ideas bear fruition. Wanting to be a writer sounds nice on paper but there is a certain a bit of realism that comes with being a writer that one must face. Not everyone can write literature that would be deemed worthy of comparison to something written by Charles Dickens or Emily Brontë. Not everyone can write novels that would be appealing to the masses such as anything written by J.K. Rowling. Lastly, not everyone will notice you. It is a lengthy process to get a book published. It must be edited professionally, an agent is usually acquired as most publishers refuse to accept unsolicited manuscripts, it must be marketed well (it's a misconception that the publisher will do all the marketing) and people must love it enough to buy it. There are people at every step, people who could choose not to notice you and often that is what happens. I do not know if I have the talent to write something that could be published someday. It's that nagging doubt that steals my motivation away. 

     There's always at least two people in the world that will admire something within you. Anything. Maybe it's your sense of morality or your style of writing. Every person has a personality; every person has a talent. But for the second person to notice you, you must notice yourself. If you do not believe in yourself, then you will not progress far and no one will notice. I may not always have motivation, I may even doubt myself at times but I do notice what I have. I believe I have talent even if I don't know that, but it is this belief that keeps me going even when my motivation disappears. Never give up and believe in yourself but believe within reason. For better or for worse- at the end of the day that's all you have left to hold on to. 

     The storm has briefly stopped but it is still the 'calm before the storm', to coin a phrase- for the sky is starting to rumble yet again. The storm within has died off. Writing has set my thoughts in order, provided an outlet for the uneasy thoughts floating around in my mind. Another flash of lightning- the storm continues.

-Mango

Title #8 of Short Horror Story Anthology: Candlelight

Candlelight
     Aurora is a freshman at her local college. She soon meets Mindy, a fellow freshman and soon they're both inseparable friends. As time goes on, strange things occur that leave Aurora in fear. With time running out she soon learns- words have double meanings. Never traverse the darkness by candlelight, for when the flame disappears- you're never alone.


Lady in Black Updates
     The novel is progressing at a brisk pace. I am able to reveal more about how the story will be seen. As I said before the story is primarily seen through the eyes of Skrill, a 22 year old reporter. To less of an extent the perspectives of three other characters will be used, to make a total of four perspectives (two male and two female). Each perspective is unique and important to the story. Skrill's perspective will be the more used perspective, but he is not the main protagonist of the story.
     I'm going to summarize the story in one small phrase: "It's raining," - Lady in Black

Footprint Dreams

     For the duration of my 21 year existence, I've found myself in between various abysses-I never fall into them but I teeter on the edge and then miraculously find the will to balance myself seconds before I plunge below. I've had a tumultuous life but it has all led me to here- the present. I grew up with small feet and was expected to fill big shoes, stitched by my parents and gifted to me by everyone. In short, if these shoes create the standards by which I was judged growing up- then I have turned out to be an absolute failure. When I seem to be on the verge of becoming just short of a total failure, I lose all motivation, and struggle to find it again.

     For years I've been told I was not good enough or to put my dreams aside and fill a mold that was carved out for me before I was even a zygote. In short, I've been living vicariously for most of my life. I lost confidence in myself to pursue anything else other than what was expected of me but where is the happiness in that? I could wear these big shoes, become a successful man and yet be an abject failure. Or I could live for myself and live my dreams wide awake. I could find motivation in the need to better myself for me, rather than to afford bigger shoes. I could be free. I wouldn't have to wear shoes and I could walk bare feet. My life would still be dichotomous-I'd still become a successful man and yet be an abject failure- but at least I can leave my footprint behind.

-Mango

The Butterfly's Land

The Butterfly’s Land

A cluster of roses, exude a beguiling fragrance.
As Winter approaches,
the petals fall, unable to survive the cold minds of this world.
For this cluster of roses, Winter is but a few months,
Mother Nature’s anger subsides.

The tamed tiger, warm hearts on the horizon- a new future.

A tale of a rose, a ballad composed,
She lived under the cherry blossom tree.
Alone she thrived, her aroma enticing,
imprisoned but free, under the cherry blossom tree.

She lived without water; there was no rain;

she did not wilt; she bore the pain.

She watched as the cherry blossoms bloomed like dots of blood,

For in their roots, they had stored a flood.

When the summer solstice sang, it summoned a murmuring breeze,

it wandered far until it kissed the cherry blossom tree.

She remained calm, petals unruffled,

facing the heat, a worthy adversary.

Fighting motionless,

silent yet emotionless-

the unrepentant drought.

Flying through air, on wings woven by spiders,

a swarm of butterflies descend on the cherry blossom tree.

Still she is all alone.

Enchantingly beautiful, unnoticed by all-

she lives.

Smirking, the cherry blossom tree glares at her as if to say “Look at me,”

but she remains tranquil.

Then the day comes, a fairy tale, and so begins,
'Once upon a time',
a butterfly borne on air,
guileless and free,
towards the cherry blossom tree.

He does not hover, he does not land,

for he has found his own land.

As if he cannot see, he has suddenly gained vision,

for he lands on her.

Still she does not move, yet her heart beats stronger.

This land of petals, softness unknown,

Nectar in quantity- sweetness unknown,

for her kind heart knew no limitations.

He stays there awhile and does not move, in sync, in silence-
an unlikely harmony.

As night falls, he takes flight- never to be seen again.

As he disappears into the night, she trembles,

but it is not the wind, for its usual turbulence is faced with an uneasy calm.

A teardrop descends to the earth-

it has started to rain.

And when winter comes for her, she will fall asleep.

When the time comes for the others to awaken,
she is silenced forever.

Title #7 of Short Horror Story Anthology: The Blood Rose

This story explores the dynamic between a young woman and an old man.

The Blood Rose
     Fleur is in her last year of high school. Driving home from school one day, she loses control of her car, causing damage to a maple tree on Old Man Edward's lawn. To avoid having any charges pressed against her, she agrees to Old Man Edward's request that she do menial chores around his mansion, to pay for the damage done to the tree. Now Old Man Edward was a 107 years old and a heartless man, with no relatives or friends that cared about him.  He had lived in his mansion his whole life--alone. As the weeks fly by, Fleur begins to care for him but soon she stumbles upon his past. As mean-spirited as he seems now, she soon realizes one thing: He has a heart--buried deep in snow.

Title #6 of Short Horror Story Anthology: Red Eyes

     I have neglected to post a story title all week and as result I shall post two including this one today.

Red Eyes
     Shane and Ella are a newly wed couple. Back from their honeymoon, they move into an old house, intending to renovate it slowly. About a month after they move in, they host a  welcome party and everyone seems to be having a good time. Then someone disappears... no trace of him is ever found. Where could he be? Someone... or something knows the answer. From the shadows, something scuttles, the red eyes deep and penetrating- watching patiently as the clock ticks...as the long and short hand become one.