Latest Posts by ibecreating-hopefully - Page 4

Lost to Happiness

The woman sitting in front of me is smiling. It’s a vacant, empty smile. The smile a baby would have, clueless and blissful in ignorance.

“It’s such a lovely day. It’s warm, the sun is shining, it can’t get any better,” she says. Her voice is soaked in pure and simple joy.

It makes my stomach twist and bile rise in my throat. I feel like vomiting, watching this woman smile blankly in the sun. Instead, I force my stony face into a semblance of a smile and agree. We return to complete silence.

The woman wears my sister’s face. She uses my sister’s voice. She has my sister’s touch.

She is not my sister.

My sister has shadows painted underneath her eyes and a furrowed brow. Her mind always runs, sprints, gallops, with endless clever ideas and possibilities. She does not comment on the weather and sit happily in silence. My sister has ambition. And a pressure that whipped her brain into only giving perfection, like a jockey whipping his horse to finish first. Her ambition was inherent. The pressure was a complex, parasitic creature that latched on and sucked her dry. It morphed out of her ambition, anxiety, and our skewed childhood somewhere along the way. It made her neither good nor bad. There were other qualities that decided that.

There was a time of course before she was stolen from me, before there was mounting pressure at all. It coincided with our skewed childhood. Happy pockets of time littered those years; some separated by lengthy stretches, others fell together side by side.

In those days, the sun hated our exposed skin. We tumbled inside, sweat-drenched and dark as ebony without a single care. Water lapped our feet and sand rubbed between our toes before we ran, head first, into rising, salty waves. We shrieked at each other, triumphant glee or sour disappointment bursting from our throats, over endless card games. The wind whistled in our ears as we biked, hands-free, down steep hills. The heavy scent of flowers filled the evening breeze as our mother braided jasmines and marigolds into our hair. She whispered to me in the pitch-black night as we lied in our bed. We muffled our giggles in our blankets. Two feet away, our mother drowsily told us to shut up. Our father was already snoring and dead to the world. She grasped my hand and asked for a story. I weaved her a fantastical tale of magic, the struggle for power, and a battle for peace. Somewhere near the end, still holding hands, we fell asleep.

Suddenly I can’t bear to look at the woman. Blinking furiously, I pretend to consider the beauty of nature as wistful anguish ravages my heart. Eventually, I sigh and turn back to find her looking at me.

“The jasmines are beautiful, aren’t they?” I feel bitter over how mundane her comment is and how easily she swallows my deceit.

“Yeah, they are. Remember when ma used to braid them into our hair?” The woman’s face closes and her eyes flicker. Something like hope rises in my chest. I hold my breath and stare expectantly. My sister hates those times. There were too many poisonous words in harsh voices and raised hands; too many broken bottles, ringing shots, and prejudice. It drove her to excel, to spite everything that pushed her down. But there was too much pain that accompanied our bliss for her to love any of it.

The shadow that crossed her face is destroyed by a relentless light. “Not really, it was such a long time ago and I’m no good for memory. But I’m not surprised that she did - mothers usually do that for their daughters.”

My heart beats hard as it falls - split between anger and grief. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I suppose.” It’s hard to sound emotionless when the woman’s smiling at me but I try my best. Wretched silence falls upon us again.

My sister is almost never quiet with me. Even when we fight and she ignores my existence, it’s all too easy to provoke her into a screeching, fist fight. We did not argue a lot in our youth; that changed, as many things did, when we grew older. We are both obstinate people, so when we did fight it was war. As children, I only had to wait until the apartment was empty for us to reconcile; a common circumstance as both our parents worked long hours. It was hard for her to ignore my apologies in a one bedroom apartment; especially when she was expected to care for me as the eldest. Later in life, especially while she was far away in university, I would wait weeks and then months for her forgiveness as pressure drove her to hostility. She grew too sensitive and I grew too blatant for us. A wall of our own fury was erected every time we clashed and dismantled every time we made peace.

The woman is sweet and innocent as a lamb. There is nothing that she is passionate about; nothing that propels her to be livid; nothing that prompts her to search for answers. She is nothing like my sister and the knowledge burns me.

My sister is the pinnacle of academic accomplishment. She had the highest average of her grade in every year of school. Her awards and degrees fill the walls. A stack of her research proposals lay waiting on her desk, as is her work in her own lab. She was accepted into prestigious universities and medical schools under thousands of dollars in scholarships. My heart is yet to stop swelling with fierce pride when I think about her every achievement.

My heart is yet to stop cracking when I think about her every achievement.

It was pressure that shoved her over the edge. There is no other explanation for what happened. Doctors are unsure of what caused her coma. But I know her best and I know that her need for success and everything bad finally suffocated her.

It took seventy-six days of lying in a hospital bed, with shallow breathing and tubes sticking out of her, for her to wake up. She did not panic when she woke up. She calmly laid there as doctors rushed around her. I felt fear slip down my throat as I watched her. My sister demands answers immediately, she overreacts, she becomes hysterical. I was told that her ease was a good sign, that it signified her understanding of what was happening. I let that appease me.

She was beaming contently in her cot as she looked out the window when I was allowed to see her again. The sight disturbed me being so contradictory to my sister. I ran and pulled her into a hug, sobbing into her shoulder, anyway. She embraced me back. For a second I believed everything would be alright.

But then she asked, “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

I fell away from her and screamed.

It has been many years of revulsion, denial, rage, and despair since then. Everyone else has abandoned any hope for my sister coming back. I cannot.

The woman is happy. My sister is happy. It is selfish of me to crave for my sister’s return when she was so unhappy in her own thoughts. But enduring the agony of being without her is too grueling. I look at the woman, my sister, and say, “Hey, we should go back to the house. It’s getting late.”

She smiles, her eyes are amicable and cheerful but lacking all of our history and love. “Yes, you’re right. Let’s go.”

I envelop her into a tight hug before we leave our darkening garden. She hugs me back and tears prick my eyes. There are stars peeking out in the sky now. I want to curse them for doing this to us. I can’t give up on my sister; I need her back.

But she is happy now, joyous even. The thought crawls out of a corner of my brain and brands itself onto my heart. I close my eyes as I feel defeat creep into me.

An old and homely grandmother accidentally summons a demon. She mistakes him for her gothic-phase teenage grandson and takes care of him. The demon decides to stay at his new home.

Heeyyy Death. You looking hella fine in that tattered, black robe man. No, no listen - I’m dead serious. Is that new? No? That makes sense, retro is making one helluva comeback. Anyway, how’s it hangin? Everything aight? Or...no, no okay - yeah, humans can be pretty bitchy. Speaking of hanging and bitchy people actually, I think you should eliminate some of those rude ass mofos, especially the unnaturally old ones. The issue is that they think they're so high and mighty, they feel like they can even defy Death. You gotta show them what's up. You are Death, with a motherfucking capital D. Ain't no ho, no matter how bitchy they are, can fuck with you. You gotta smack the shit out of these people and pry their overly long lives outta their wrinkly ass hands. And you're accomplishin everything at once. There are more resources, we can actually eat right without selling our kidneys, balance is restored. And most importantly, you get your revenge. You get to put your enemies in their graves, scare the shit outta people, and get your due respect, man. It's a perfect plan. You got this, you hear me. All you gotta do is grab your wicked scythe and smack one of those assholes in the face with it. It's a done deal. I got all the faith in you man, fuck's sake - you're Death. Aight? Good, hit me up when the first one's six feet under.

Humanity has found a way to live forever: Death is actually super insecure and every time he shows up to take a life they bully him for his fashion sense and tell him that nobody likes him. Now Death has lost his confidence and has completely stopped doing his job. The world is getting overpopulated and it’s a serious problem. You have been chosen to give Death a pep talk and help him in regaining his confidence so the world can be in balance once more.

Prologue

I’m writing a novel and it’s the primary basis of my description.

The new slave girl darted her eyes around constantly and, when she thought no one was looking, furrowed her dark brow in thought. It intrigued Priscilla Elizabeth Hamilton as she observed people often herself. She noted that the girl was younger than she was, maybe fourteen or fifteen while she herself was already seventeen. Priscilla watched her continue to take in her surroundings rapidly and consistently while she knelt on the floor, hands and ankles bound in iron. There was something clever behind her dark eyes despite the anxiety radiating off of her. The two other new slaves beside her were much older and seemed resigned to their fate; their eyes trained on the floor and shoulders weighed down. Priscilla was used to slaves like that - subdued and docile. The little girl who twitched and fidgeted in her shackles, as if she could wriggle her way to freedom, was certainly interesting. Priscilla was apparently not the only one to notice.

“Little slave. What are you doing, writhing in your chains like that? Are they too loose for you?” Her father’s voice drawled out, lazy and condescending; his power made apparent by his effortless arrogance.

The girl’s head snapped to Edward Hamilton. The air around her turned prickly. Her face debated a snarl. The other slaves stared, somehow feeling the terror that escaped her. There were two very clear choices the girl had. Priscilla oddly hoped that she would be wise and not get herself killed; she was too interesting to die so soon.

In hardly a fraction of a second, the slave lowered her eyes in submission, shaking her head repeatedly and cowering. Edward settled back in his chair, satisfied with the alarm he instilled in the room. Priscilla’s father had always been a simple man - in both mind and wishes. “Good. Now, what is your name? Or can you even understand me? A savage like you would find our civilized speech complicated, after all.” Priscilla fought the urge to roll her eyes at the irony.

“My name is Halima.” The soft voice that floated from the girl’s mouth was accented like all the slaves; the vowels stretched out and the words almost musical. The lilt in their voices was always something Priscilla secretly enjoyed.

“Halima,” her father pronounced it with a lazy sneer as he strutted over to the trembling girl. “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the role you have now.” He kicked her onto her stomach and sunk a foot into her back. “The only movement I should see from you should be done in accordance to what you are ordered to do. I have no need to see you squirming like a pig and making a racket.” He dug his foot in harder and sneered, “But don’t you worry my dear, you won’t need those chains for that much longer - I’ll have you branded soon enough.”

With a final harsh kick, Edward finally relented off the girl and dragged her back into a kneel by the shackles around her wrists. Priscilla was unsurprised that the blood Halima coughed up and dripped down her chin was red as her own. Halima’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears; her thin frame wracked with silent sobs.

Her father, who had seated himself once again, watched with something akin to satisfaction. “Don’t dribble on the carpet, Halima.” He didn’t bother looking at the other slaves when he said, “Get out; I expect not to be able to distinguish them from the rest come morning.”

“Yes master,” came three soft, musical voices, followed by a flurry of movement. The new slaves were heaved up, albeit in a kind, supporting manner, and lead away.

Priscilla’s sisters and mother were too bored and distracted; her father too pleased and self-absorbed; her brother too starstruck by their father’s showcase of power to notice what happened as the slaves fled the room. But she saw it clearly. Halima’s shoulders were stiff and tense; there was a flash of blood-stained teeth as her lips pulled back in a quiet snarl. She was small and young but had all the presence of a caged beast, one too strong to stay confined. A threat of a reckoning shimmered behind her dark eyes.

There was a distinctive lack of alarm and an abundance of excitement when Priscilla thought, Oh, this is fascinating.

I’m Angry. Can You Tell?

I also write poetry. I prolly write more poetry than anything else really.

Anger is easy to feel.

Easier to manage than abandonment,

Easier to manage than bitter disappointment,

Easier to manage than crippling despair.

It is so easy to feel fiery fury,

And expect justice to soothe those flames.

It is so easy to be in denial

To cling to it.

To let it have you think things can be different,

That it can be better.

If only you are are angry enough, 

Passionate enough to command change in every facet of the universe.

So yes, anger is easy.

Easy to swallow,

Easy to let burn,

Easy to pull out and use as a shield.

It is easy as it is empty.

Fruitless in its gains

Barren in its answers

A tempting, hellish, warm, void for the lost who cannot deal with the cold, unfeeling nature of life.

And yet to embrace life as frigid is to surrender.

It is to resign yourself to a dreary, insipid existence,

An existence of the same ruthless, unwavering pain.

Rage cannot change circumstance,

But submission will yield no revolution.

Be enraged,

Angry,

Pissed,

Fucking furious.

For you burn bright as you do, if only for yourself.

  Be weary and disillusioned when there is nothing left but Death’s waiting hand,

Be weary and disillusioned when you can do no more. 

Yield your rage when there is nothing left to burn.

It is easy to be angry.

Easier than holding expectations,

Easier than nobility,

Easier than infinite patience.

And for peace, it is just.

Running from Empty Meadows to Barren Fields

So, I’mma post my first thing here. It’s kinda awkward, I don’t know why; I’m just weird like that. I’ve decided to go with a safe option, it’s been published before, technically. My url’s sorta a lie. I got shortlisted in this contest and got shoved in a book with the others who were shortlisted and the winners. But yes, the story - here:

The mutilated carcass that lay before here had belonged to a young man, a boy really, he could not have lived for more than fourteen years.

She sits down. The ground beneath her is hard and dusty, it’s fertile crust pounded away by fleeing families and the men who march after them. The grass that struggled to emerge grew scattered and brittle, stained brown by the harsh sun. She wonders who it came to this.

She has memories of frolicking in lush meadows. Back then, laughing smiles glinted in a golden sun. Her youth was a perfect, though humble, one. But she turned twelve and whole realms fought over bruised pride. Her own kingdom was wrecked into pieces that nobles still fight to command today.

The politics of it all does not concern her. No, she has been personally wronged by the bastards who stole a chunk of her heart. Wretched shrieks pierce the air. Skin blisters in the heat of burning homes. Blood runs cold at the dead toes curling in the fire. Lungs itch from the pyre’s ashes, from what is left of Mother and Father. Eyes are scorched dry by the searing need for vengeance.

The rumble of distant thunder drags her out of the past. Her hands are sticky form congealing blood. Her eyes are still dry. She feels hollow.

She huffs. Gnawing emptiness ruined her life. It chased from her from her only home with nothing but Rael and the essentials in hand. It would smother her lest she stopped running from it. For now, she has eluded desolation. She has never stilled long enough for it find her.

The crackle of lightning breaks her brooding. Her skin is drawn uncomfortably tight by the drying blood. In the distance, the dark overcast is lit up by flashes of light. She smiles bitterly at how that reminds her of Rael, her darling brother. Her shoulders sag as her guilt strikes her. She fed him lies and he ate them all up.

“I just can’t stand that village anymore Rael. I need a fresh start.”

“That’s a brilliant idea, Maeve. It’s just what we need.”

He did not know that she learned to track down army camps and kill with stealth. He did not have the slightest clue that she revels in the blood dripping along her forearms or how sated she felt from it. They lived happily like that for years.

It was perfect until she turned sloppy, until she was caught smirking amid dead brothers-in-arms. She failed to find that lone survivor and eventually retreated back to Rael. She did not catch so much as a glimpse of that soldier for weeks.

She realizes then that he must have sought to destroy her, for her last beloved lay gutted and wretched before he lunged at her.

She killed him easily, far too easily for a man clever enough to evade her. In her rage, she dissected him as he had her brother. She let his blood dry on her skin and watched the red film crack as she held yet another funeral.

Warm rain shocks her out of her memories. It washes away the dried blood and gore. She sees the thunderstorm approaching from afar, violent and unstoppable as she is.

She sees how ruthless she has become. Her restraint, her humanity is gutted, wretched, and burned away, its ashes blowing in the wind, as her family is. Now, she carves into bodies and shatters bones. There is too much pleasure and power to be taken from torture to settle for an easy kill. She conquers evil, those who wage war for dominance. She owns life and it brings her untold ecstasy. And she has no remorse for any of it.

But the boy before her now was so young.

The storm finally arrives, and it is wreaking havoc. The ground fails, to take in the downpour, and so water runs across the surface. The rain beats down the tufts of grass rather than helping it prosper.

She that that the ground’s fertile crust just might grow back in a few decades of peace.

The rain is too warm, the air is too think, and it feels too much like fresh blood now. It thrills her. She looks back at the boy she mauled. She cannot bring herself to flinch, and despite her qualms, euphoria takes her.