Ashes

It was a bright and sunny day when the ashes came—at first, they were in small flakes, drifting gently along the West Wind. These were the first snow, I suppose, the prequel to the film, the introduction to a chorus. Tourists came and left, taking pictures with their little mechanisms held tightly in their hands. Some kept the ashes in jars as souvenirs, a rare and exotic prize. 

The town prospered from the gray snow, as it brought media and attention from all across the globe. The People Who Studied the Stars and the Ones That Explored the Earth came, did their research, and left, reports and papers packed in their bulging black suitcases.

Then, the drizzle evolved, its existence expanding, into bulging blizzards of gray blurs. The town was embedded in ashes.

***

The iron bell that hangs on the tall church tower couple hundred miles away from the town rings 12 times, each individual tinkle vibrating with clear lucidity. The town is now 6 feet under. Quite unfortunately, no phoenix rose from these ashes.

Brown

Brown is the color of his/her hair, the hair color of those who are kind to me somewhere deep in the psychic sea.

Brown is the color of tree trunks, adding their own special taints to the Greenery out my bedroom window.

Brown is the color of soil, dirt, Mother Nature, the very origins of life.

***

Brown is the color of filthy excrement.

Brown is the color of dried-up blossoms, once ruby red with life.

Communism (?)

According to Merriam Webster, Communism is

“A system in which goods are owned in common and are available to all as needed”

“A theory advocating elimination of private property”

“A totalitarian system of government in which a single authoritarian party controls state-owned means of production”

“A final stage of society in Marxist theory in which the state has withered away and economic goods are distributed equitably”

According to Leo’s Own Dictionary of Ideas, Communism is

“The closest thing to building a perfect Utopia, but is quite unfortunately impossible in the real world, mostly due to the human nature of laziness, greed (gluttony) and pride.”

“The political system of numerous countries in Type C Test-World-005 (Discarded). Discarded due to lack of conflict in world.”

Doctor Pepper

Famous and globally acknowledged drink that entered the realm of being “perfect” and “ideal”. Commonly-accepted epitome of all sodas.

Ethereal Beauty (This one is kind of pretentious and cheesy *facepalm*)

He walked.

He walked on the beaches, the strips of sandy land stretching themselves across the shores of the oceans.

He could feel the sand beneath his feet, crunching against his soles.

The sun was setting, and soon, night will come.

The winter breeze strolled along with him, chilling him slightly. He did not mind, refusing to go back.

After what seemed like minutes, hours, or even days, he slowly picked up his shapes and shadows from fragments of the moon between clouds. He looked up, his head cocking backwards. Curtains of clouds pulled ever closer. Soon, night will come.

The tide slowly grew as the moon stretched out her pearl fingers, gently tugging at the sea towards its direction, a failed attempt to hug Davy Jones’ Locker in an everlasting embrace.

A girl danced, danced down the heather to the bay, her white dress fluttering ever-so-slightly with the tiniest bit of lunacy. He walked to her, took her hand, and looked into those sapphire eyes of such depth. (…Skip the next paragraph if possible, thx)

They kissed. They kissed as the waves wrapped around their legs, brushing against their feet. They kissed as the cool current washed against them, drenching them in icy cold water. They kissed as the fragrance of salt and sea winds clung to their clothes. They kissed as a mysterious bioluminescence lit up the sea in a light blue glow, as the sea shone every different shade of blue possible—from cyan to azure, and then back to a light shade of blue. They kissed, and that was all they knew.

A caravan slowly rolled over the hill, silvery white with the moon’s lunar blessings. The white canvas glowed, embers in the dark, the brown wheels creaking in a comforting rhythm as the transport moved on.

………………

…

……

I put down my pen, having lost interest in this imaginary world.

Frowning Face

Mom’s expression.

God

The demiurge fashioned the world with great care, I would say, making so many replicas and copies of the same “ideal model” over and over.

We are crude cookies made using an iron mold, as the cook—the demiurge—molds us in shape and then bakes us. However, no matter how hard he tries, the cookies he made are always somehow different from his mold. Sometimes, the cookie is missing a finger, a toe, or has a small crack on his shoulder. Sometimes, it’s an arm, a leg, several limbs. Sometimes, it’s the heart, the normal mentality of the typical cookie, a correct sense of moral judgment. Sometimes, the cookie doesn’t even make it out of the oven before crumbling into a pile of flour, eggs and cream.

The cook sits down at the table and fingers his mold a bit, touching its smooth surface. The mold was perfect: a kind, benevolent, healthy, handsome, and loving cookie. He does not understand why his cookies are different.

The name of this cook, this demiurge, is called Samael.

PS. Just in case you don’t know, “Samael” means “blind god” or “fool” in Hebrew.

Happiness

I was happy there, genuinely happy.

Not here. Not here. I am not happy here.

***

He walked.

He walked on the beaches, the strips of sandy land stretching themselves across the shores of the oceans.

He could feel the sand beneath his feet, crunching against his soles.

Tourists crowed onto the beaches, tossing trash everywhere.

***

A girl danced down the heather to the bay, her white dress fluttering ever-so-slightly with the tiniest bit of lunacy. Nope my bad—it’s not her dress, it’s a PLASTIC BAG.

Ideal Forms

For this vine, I recommend that you, the reader, can go and check out Plato’s Theory of Forms.

Justice

Lady Justice holds her scale, the two golden plates frozen in time. She paces around her court, elegant and poised--she cannot relax; she cannot show her weaker side. If the other gods saw her, tired and pale, she would be ridiculed and mocked. If the mortals saw her, sick and weak, they would lose faith in her, forgetting every rule of moral conduct they have ever created in her name.

  So, Lady Justice becomes cruel, her fingers tight on her scale. She puts on heavy makeup to hide the shadows under her eyes, products of insomnia caused by her duty as her conscience slowly eats at her with each conviction. Her words were once soft and kind, a sweet melody woven by the sweetest of the Muses--but now, her voice becomes harsh and condemning, strong but cruel. She must hide herself--hide herself--and then give the final judgment.

……

She has now become the tyrant.

Kisses on the Seashore

Her world was gray, covered in ash.

No one how it happened.

The church bell rang in the instance, striking a twelve.

Her parents told her about the colors--Green, Brown, Lavender, Magenta, Red and many others. She had always wondered what it would be like to see colors. It was her only dream. She wrote stories about colors in her notepad, incredible fantasies that brought all the colors to live, vivid with emotion and human traits.

She imagined Blue (her parents told her it was the color of the sea) to be a nice and friendly person, for she liked the sea, especially in summer when the soothing waters of the ocean cools her down and whispers in her ears.

She thought the Red might be beautiful but cruel, cold and dangerous--for roses are red. When she was small, she cut her fingers on the thorns of a rose bush. Her parents told her blood, this mysterious flowing liquid inside her veins, is red as well.

…

One day, she dreamed that she was dancing down the heather towards the bay.

Her dream was colored.

Lavender

I really like this color.

But I have never seen it before.

Magenta

Magenta is the fabric of dreams, the very component of fantasies and illusions. Different shades of magenta and red outline the colorings of the setting sun as the flaming taints of orange lit up the sky.

But sunsets have been blocked out now, cluttered in with gray shades of mist.

These mists originate from forests unknown, plantations clogged with dust and blackness. The nameless woods shed their ashen bodies and burned trunks as towns lay covered under snow of dark colors. Their branches spread twisted, circles with vines and vignettes crumbling under the slightest touch.

Can we ever see such a color as Magenta…?

The painter says under his breath.

Nuclear Bombs

The nuclear bomb was the very first weapon of mass-destruction humans have ever made——that was the first line in the WWII Chapter on the local history textbook.

It never should have been invented, petty tricks under the control of Nyarlathotep’s deceptions.

Opaque

The transparent glass of life is now muddled by the dust of reality.

No one shall ever know, what is on the other side of the glass.

Pink

He trekked up the path, through the torii towards the Shinto shrine. Bells tied onto green bamboo tinkled as he made his way up the steps, the silver moon slowly rising through the greenery. The fabric of the plain gray haori he was wearing scrapped his skin, its folds ruffling onto each other. His wooden sandals clattered against the pebble ground, forming a vaguely rhythmic pattern.

She wore a kimono on that day, woven with etchings of fireworks that trailed into different shades of Magenta. She was not used to her wooden sandals, as the wooden pieces resembling sloping high heels tilted her balance and dipped her weight. Faltering a bit, waving her arms frantically, she got back onto her feet. She sighed a bit, brushing off specks of dust from her clothes.

A wind caught up—it smelled of a clear summer night, a summer night when starlight led the way instead of electric lights. Bamboo leaves rustled in the distance as she heard someone coming. Coral sashes tied to her waist flowed in the wind as if the tides of the sea were lit up with gentle flames, carried up to shore with careful forces. Her long, brown hair flowed with those tides, unveiling themselves from the curves of her arms and back. Locks of hair drifted in strands as the wind lifted them with nimble hands, embroidering them into braids as attractive as the blossoms of a pink sakura flower.

Quiet orange lanterns were lit up along the path lined with sakura trees, leading downwards towards the courtyard. The summer festival had started already, and they were running late.

She giggled as the two of them ambled down stairs, tripping on occasional pebbles that stood too high. Crickets sang in the far-away distance as the two of them danced down the hill away from the shrine.

The couple approached the courtyard where the summer festivals were held, their faces flushed with surprise and excitement. It was a wonder, as in the night, the entire horizon lit up with warm orange. People moved across booths cupped in red, their hands filled with Ringo Candy and marshmallows. Children hopped through the streets in their haori or kimonos, blushing with anticipation for more fun and celebration. And then—they heard the music.

She danced—he didn’t know she danced. The music played from the stages below, where a small musical was going on. She took off her sandals, as she was still not used to them.

A sweet feminine voice resounded through the air. “Boards of Ruby—” Her arms flowed with elegance and grace. “Fires on the seashore—” Time seemed to slow down in these pauses as her kimono swirled around her in an opening bloom. Branches surrounding her tipped in her direction, swaying with the rhythm of the music and the tapping of her feet on the ground. The clear ringing of shamisens continued on, accompanies with jingling bells and rolling drums. He could only observe half of her face from this angle, and as her eyes remaining half-closed, her face blushing, she smiled at him with genuine happiness.

That was the end of this world.

Queue

Actually, in reality, the queues behind the red booths in summer festivals are really long. You have to wait a very long time and endure through hours of heat and discomfort in your haori or kimono.

Ruby Red

Blood streaked down her cheeks.

The single drop left rosy tracks down her face, sliding onto the ground. The grass withered, irrigated with the blood of not only hers, but also the blood of so many kings and princes.

Red booths were torn apart, their red fabric strewn on the ground. The people, once celebrating and singing, evaporated in dust.

The blood dried slowly, turning a crusty Brown on her kimono, hiding the delicate weavings of fireworks behind a layer of mud and dirt.

And that was the reality of it.

Soaking Wet

The waves crashed against the shores, breaking their tide onto rock and stone.

The waters were a lot more menacing than he remembered, for it had been such a long time since he came here.

He could never forget that day, or so he thought, since one never knows what he forgot, but he felt that he could trust himself with that shard of memory.

The moon came out that night, as he sat alone by the seashore. The waves were icy cold as ever before, but with no accompanying warmth to warm him. The smell of the sea and its airy breeze wrapped around him, but the fragrance no longer existed. Again, the strange and mysterious bioluminescence lit up the sea, but the light was dull, and flat.

The tides rose high that night, as the moon exposed its full self from behind its lunar curtains of clouds. The waters washed up, pass him and onto the beach. The waves crashed over him like a blanket, filling his mouth with the taste of leathery sea salt. But he did not feel the acridity of sea water, for some else, infinitely times more sour and piercing, had made its way down his cheeks.

Torn

The following document was found in the kitchen of a house buried under 6 feet of volcanic ash, more commonly known as “black snow”. It was titled “A Torn List”, a handwritten list made using graphite.

Here is a list of things that can be torn apart:

1.      Paper

2.      Cardboard Boxes

3.      Canvas (either painted or completely new)

4.      Clothes (with some strength needed though)

5.      String (it might hurt, but is surely possible)

6.      Tickets to the local cinema

7.      Tickets for two to the local amusement park.

8.      Tissue

9.      Test papers from primary school/middle school.

10.  Photographs

11.  Shiny Golden Birds that were the last to come out of Pandora’s Box.

12.  Mirages of a Better Future.

13.  Fantasies or fairytale books like Cinderella or Snow White (especially those with really pretty pictures stuck in between the lines)

14.  The possibility that one can succeed in the future (God this is so depressing, can I cry now?)

15.  Har har har. Just kidding.

Written on the back of the page, scribbled in red ink, is one single line.

Things cannot be torn: Reality.

Undertale

It’s a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming…On days like these, kids like you…

■■■■■■ ■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■ ■■■■!

--Sans, Undertale

Friendliness pellets! Yay!

Victory

Victory is an artifact waiting to be sold. Its price is measured in the number of lives dedicated to it.

Weapons

The gun was meant for older men, as its weight pulled down his tired arms. It had never looked so heavy in the movies and documentaries he watched. The soldiers all carried it with ease as they leapt across battlefields, the roars of mortar and the spray of machine gun fire lighting up the backgrounds. They were nimble but ferocious, the soldiers in those films, their faces filthy with dirt but still radiant with their own bright shines. He had imagined a thousand times what a real battlefield would be like, the smell of gunpowder and dust, the brown sprays of flowering dirt in slow motion as shells bloomed on the ground. He had wondered a billion times what it would feel like to have the land of which he shall protect right behind him, as he and tens of thousands of others form the barrier that guards his country—and then, he had thought of the glory after the battles, as he walked home beaming with pride with each of his medals bounded tightly to his shirt. His parents would be so proud of him, a hero, a warrior, a man. And of course, if it was possible, Alice from across the street may just happen to see him, tall and handsome in his military uniform.

  A jolt through the earth tore apart his daydreams. Another round of mortar shells hit the ground, sending a deafening crack through the land. Blood oozed from his temples, a wound he acquired when he slid down a dirt slope as he tried to run away from a grenade. He might have lost one of his ears as well—he couldn’t hear anything from the left side of his face now.

It hurts.

X

It stands for X-Man!

(Or an angry red mark on your exam, highlighting another mistake!!! :P)

Yellow

… The former sun paints itself yellow. Then, it becomes white with light, and then, it is snuffed out.

Zarzuela

The zarzuela was fun to watch. It was a story about a pair of star-crossed lovers, I suppose, travelling across the entirety of Europe to meet each other. The script was awesome, if I was to be terse and direct. Every single word seemed to hit my soul with accuracy and precision. And then—there was the music, and the lyrics that accompanied those melodies. The orchestra was not on stage, but the acoustics were great as well. Possibly, there was an entire army of musicians stuck behind the back of the curtains pulled neatly to the side, weaving out the best of tunes.

  The actors danced and sang, they talked in exaggerated and humorous tones. Their expressions were exaggerated, their faces vivid with emotion as what seemed like sweat shimmered on their foreheads.

…

I simply couldn’t continue on anymore. Somewhere deep in my pocket, my phone rang with the coming of a message. “We should break up…”, read the message.