I'VE MOVED!

I have packed up my dusty books and old journals and moved. You can now find me at

Shelf Life – effective, useful, and suitable for consumption

visit me at my new place =)

Creative Writing: Until We Meet Again, Fool Moon

Since we are covering werewolves in class, a decided to resurrect an old piece.

~

The graveyard was empty except for the small funeral procession of tombstones that rose slowly from the mist. The mist rolled up to its feet and walked, swinging its weightless arms, and striding sluggishly towards the eventual decay of the world. The clouded beings ambled through tomb stones, forming another being which trudged heedlessly following the others. The wind blew and the misty ghosts flowed as one, chasing each other until dawn.The sun light peered over the hills and the mist laid down to sleep. And there I was, reclined on the rock wall whose strength wavered beneath me. The wind blew a song, a melody that sunk into my already cold skin. I awoke to a new day with my shirt ripped to shreds, my pants hardly held together and my bare feet caked with mud. My hair was knotted and filled with twigs, leaves and pieces of a spider’s home. And let us not forget the blood dripping from my mouth, blood that was not mine.

My body was sore but I rolled off the rock wall in case some mourning widow decided to pay her early morning respects. I padded across the soft grass of the graveyard, much like the ghosts and walked toward the river behind the thickness of trees. The river was so calming, the sound of running water washing over me even before I plunged into the cold. The river ran red as I laid there in the October waters like a drunk in the gutter. After a long night of endlessly drinking and gluttonous acts, I can’t remember what I did or where I had been. But I always concluded I was better off that way. Why would I want to remember? But the memories would eventually rise from my gut plague me later.

I stripped off my torn clothes and let them run with the river, destroying the last bit of evidence of whatever crime I committed. My naked body turned white and I jumped out of the water and grabbed a bag full of clothes that was placed there a few days before. I didn’t wait to dry myself off; I let the clothes uncomfortably stick to my damp body. I walked in the direction of the road; the sun rose higher in the sky and set the colorful leaves aglow. The reds and oranges were enough to make me feel warm as I made my way back to my secluded cabin in the woods. The branches cracked loudly beneath my feet and I looked to the ground. Deep red puddles everywhere. I kept telling myself that it was the trees, sun reflecting through the red leaves to the ground but what I found a few steps in front of me could be no reflection. It was a girl, perhaps eight or nine years old. Her face was ashen and she looked like she was in a deep sleep, but her eyes were wide open. I leaned down and closed her eyes and turned away. I let the cold sink through my clothes, under my skin, and to my heart.

It felt like the girl was following me, it always felt like they were following me. I remember in my younger days, turning and pleading them to join the mists. Still their invisible bodies crack branches behind me, making me feel like I am their prey now. I broke into a run back to the house and the footsteps behind me got louder, like they always do. Yet as I run, it feels like they are all running, hundreds of them, as one. Only when I reach my house do I feel safe and they freeze outside, waiting for the next time I come out. I always hoped that there wouldn’t be a next time, that there wouldn’t be another pair of footsteps waiting for me outside.

The house was empty except for a few overturned tables and chairs and the door was filled with deep claws marks. Wild animal. I packed another bag of clothes and threw it outside to bring to the river later. On my porch I saw a little stuffed rabbit with a blood stain on it. I picked it up and threw it. The rabbit disappeared in mid air and I went back in the house. I hate them, but I loved each and every one of them.

The basement stairs creaked as my body weight shifted from step to step. Chains cluttered the floor, like a shaggy gray rug that would never go away. I went to the far wall on the left. The concrete was in shambles, hundreds of large holes where the chains used to be anchored to. I began going through the motions. I clamped the chains around my ankles and connected myself to the wall. Then I put them around my neck and then my wrists. It sickened me, since it was rusted with blood. I stood there for hours, fearing the moments when it would happen. Not the transformation...that was not what I feared. It was the memories, the most recent kill. And when I saw that dead girl in the woods, I dreaded the moment. I stood for hours in chains, shaking and throwing up. I threw up her blood and eventually, parts of her flesh. Her skin oozed out of my mouth and fell on the floor. I cried and my tears fell upon the fair skin. She was so young. I prayed that just like the stories, she would tear herself from my stomach, alive and well. Then the memories crashed on me.

I shook uncontrollably and my mouth foamed. I panted loudly and I saw through the killers eyes...that horrible beast who steals my body once every month. The memory starts. I saw its claws scrape at the front door and watched it run out into the forest. It was quiet. The beast’s feet didn’t even break the branches where it ran. Its ears perked up at the sound of a small cry and it hungrily broke into a run towards the whimpers. And there she was, the young girl in her purple pajamas clinging to her stuffed rabbit. The beast didn't even stop to examine its prey, it just pounced and all I saw was the girl’s face, screaming. The beast ravaged her, its bite ripping out her rip cage and swallowing the skin. She was still screaming a gurgled cry and her little soft hands were gripping the beast’s fur. She was still alive, Oh God, she was still alive. Then the beast went full force into her chest and tore out her heart. The girl’s body jerked up, as if following her own heart and then fell down with her eyes wide up. The beast swallowed her heart in great satisfaction and howled. The full moon watched in excitement, not even blinking or allowing one cloud to pass by its face. The beast turned and looked at the girl. Why won’t the beast turn away, I didn’t want to see her again. TURN AWAY, oh I wish it would turn away. But the beast stayed, it stayed for hours circling the body. It was like it knew that I would be watching, it always stays with the body. Then, with the smell of the sun blowing through the trees, it ran to the graveyard to transform back into me.

I cried. I couldn’t stop, the tears just rolled from me like the cold river that I had bathed in. I screamed and tried to pull myself away from the chains and I banged my head against the concrete wall, but with every injury I inflicted on myself, it healed seconds later. The beast always saw to that, it always ate the heart to ensure that I would survive so that it could continue its bloodbath. I yelled that it she was just a child. My blood curdling screams echoed in the small basement room. The beast inside me didn’t care; I even thought it liked it. No one could understand no one. Days later when I lost the ability to yell she visited me. I was hoping that she wouldn’t but they always do. She came down my steps soundlessly and stood in front of me. I could only frown and mouth the words that I was sorry. She smiled, how could she smile? She reached up and held my blood covered hands as if I was her child. She gave me a small hug and my whole body weeped, my lungs heaved as they tried to escape the breathtaking sorrow. She left as silently as she came in but she left the stuffed rabbit in front of me. I stared at it and then kicked it as far as I could into the corner. It landed amongst watches, necklaces, canes, pictures...anything a ghost had to offer, they gave to me. They wanted someone to remember them but I didn’t want to remember them. I screamed it with the voice I had left, LEAVE ME BE, and I continued to whimper...for days.

No one knew what I knew. No one knew the pain that I encountered every minute of the day. I was not only haunted by a beast and ghosts, but I was haunted with memories. Theirs...and my own. I looked to the corner of bloody gifts and on the wall on a metal shelf was a flute. An inscription flickered before my eyes, "To Melody, the only star in my sky." Oh, how memories were so cruel. I never wanted to remember her, ever, but she always found a way back into my mind. That flute was not only my gift to her, but it was her gift to me. That memory played in mind.

I was young, 18 years old, arrogant in every way possible and defying death at every turn. I was the boy who wanted to live forever, and spread my name with all its glory. I remember living in the same woods, sleeping in the flower beds with the trees as my blanket and the sky as my roof. I slept with a knife at my side, for I was outside trying to cheat death. There was talk of an immortal beast, hiding in the woods. Everyone feared it, all but I. I went to hunt it, never knowing that it was hunting me. And at the very moment it pounced on me, my hand shot up as a reflex, stabbing to beast through the heart. And when I pulled out the sword, the heart came with it. To my surprise the heart continued to beat, and the beast fell to the ground and melted into a beautiful woman, whose name was Melody. She didn’t remember her past, as far as she knew, her life began when she woke up naked in front of me, covered in blood.

I hid the beating heart under the leaves and took Melody home. Although I remained arrogant, and the same idiot boy, she taught me things that opened my soul. She taught me music, and most of all, the rhythm of the world and those who lived in it. She was such a free spirit and cared for every animal, beast or tame. The more furious and unhappy the animal was, the more sympathy she had for it. "Have sympathy," she told me, "for this animal is just like you and me." I listened to her but I did not believe her. She was so kind and loving, I never believed she could have been that bloodthirsty creature. Even now, I never believed she was the beast, I convinced myself that the beast consumed her whole and then spit her out when I killed it.

One night, when the moon was full and the sky was clear, we took a walk in the woods together and stopped at the very place where I met Melody. I remembered that night in all its glory. It’s smell, its feel, everything sticks in my mind. I remember kneeling down and presenting her with the flute, something I spent all my money on. I told her that with that flute, she could teach her music to the world. Then something happened. The blood in my body began to boil. It pumped so fast that I was close to blacking out. She leaned down to me and tried to shake me awake. Beside my head was the beating heart of the beast. It was alive and its rhythm was beating in my brain. It was calling me and the pain was throbbing, pulsating through my body and sending my hair’s on their ends. And suddenly, I turned and ate the heart. I don’t know what drove me to do it, but the heart had possessed me and I ate it whole. Then it happened. I was the beast. And Melody...was my prey.

The memories of Melody were unbearable. Before I could even see me rip her apart, I began to change. I must have been thinking of her for weeks because I suddenly felt the transformation taking over my body. I looked to the small barred window above me and I could see that gluttonous moon smiling at me. I screamed, a scream that soon turned into a howl.

I awoke in the same place, in the graveyard with the sun rising. The parade of ghosts fled into the woods and I sat on the stone wall, in tears. My clothes were ripped, my feet were bare, and I was covered in blood. But something was different, in my hands I clutched the flute. I whimpered and held it to my lips and played that melody that I heard every morning after the full moon. It was a song that told my story, my pain, in hopes that someone would sympathize with something I couldn’t control, the beast within me. And when the melancholy notes ended and rode upon the winds, I screamed my name so that all would know whose song was being played, and so that my name would be glorified and known everywhere...as a warning. I looked to the sky and saw the full moon turn to hide in. And then the savage heart awoke in me for a brief moment, I gave a mocking kiss goodbye to the fool moon and whispered, "Until we meet again."

My name is now and forever will be, Werewolf.

Creative Writing: Old Work Found

After cleaning out all my bookmarks, I came across a site that I haven't visited in years... Elfwood. Elfwood is a writing and art community geared towards science fiction fantasy. I used to write a lot of short stories in the scifi fantasy genre, and I received Moderator's choice for four of my stories! (Moderator's choice is an award given for stories or art "that go above and beyond expectations, to promote unique, creative and high quality.")

So if you feel like reading stuff I wrote in early high school, visit my Elfwood Library !

Yay, go SciFi Fantasy!

Howling Cupcakes

My friend Travis loves wolves and he is moving to Las Vegas so for a going away party, I decided to make wolf cupcakes =)


The snout and the ears were made of marshmallows. For the red mouth, I used a strawberry fruit roll up and the teeth are just white frosting.


The noses are jelly beans and the eyes are York Peppermint Patty pieces (instead of using M&Ms)The extra cupcakes are "full moon" cupcakes, made out of sliced marshmallows.


When they are all put together, its a pack of wolves howling at the moon!

Creative Writing: Walking Photographs

Work in progress ... dedicated to my grandmother

I fear that my knowledge of my grandmother is incomplete. During holidays, her name rarely comes up anymore, as if her death signaled the exsanguination of her whole existence. Once a full blooded human being, she has now been reduced to dry remarks and yellowing photographs. She died when I was young; my only memories of her generally involve a small crystal bowl filled with hard candy. I do not remember what happened when she died, I only recall sitting in the hallway of the hospital on a stack of mattress like in “The Princess and the Pea.” I had no feeling of discomfort or awareness that my grandmother was dying; I couldn’t feel that pea under the mattresses.

All of her things were packed up into boxes and moved into our basement. Photographs, letters, jewelry, fine china, and books were shoved against the concrete walls, entombed with all the other things we keep hidden from the rest of the house. Most of them were not even labeled. I've always hated the basement. The cement floor is riddled with cracks and dangerous to bare feet. In one corner, there are three work benches, cluttered with tools with no hint of organization. In another corner, there is the washer and dryer and beside that is a large round table which became the home for anything left in the pockets of clothes. Change, receipts, make-up, buttons, cough drops. The rest of the room was filled with boxes.

Sometimes I would bring up a tea cup I found in one of the boxes and place it upstairs. Later that day, the cup would find its way back into the box it came from, back to its resting place beneath the earth. I also brought up old photographs and my father smiled, telling small stories about each photo. He said that we need to get them framed but they sat on the table for months, mail and newspapers piling on top of them until they were, once again, moved out of sight.

I would hear the occasional story about her. My father laughed as he reminisced about his childhood with his sister and three brothers. He grinned when he said that they weren’t always the most well behaved children and when they got in trouble, Grandma would pick up whatever was the closest to her and swing. “Whatever she could get her hands on” he chuckled. Since she spent most of the time in the kitchen, the available weapons included pots, pans, spoons, and cords from electrical appliances. If the child was innocent, she would smartly reply “Then that’s for the time you didn’t get caught!”

Sometimes I imagine her things jumping out of the boxes. Her silver spoons scoop at the thin concrete floor until they hit earth. The tea cups detach from their saucers and move the dirt into a corner. As the hole gets deeper, her necklaces bind together and lift the teacups from the hole, like a bucket from a well, and dump the soil. A spot of sunlight breaks through and the fine china start to chatter gleefully. Books flutter their bindings in excitement and jump into the tunnel, forming a staircase. The legs in the photographs pop out of the paper and walk down the book steps, my grandmother’s wedding photo leading the parade. An embroidered handkerchief sticks to an old piece of tape on the back of the wedding photo, assuming the position of the veil. The other photographs tread lightly but they are all smiling at the bride.

The light passes over the photo as she emerges; her cheeks flush red and her chestnut brown hair shines. She rises and grows, peeling from the photograph, the yellowing paper shrinking behind her like dry skin. I see her in the backyard through my window, walking amongst the garden with her bouquet in full bloom. A procession of her belongings march behind her and lift her delicate veil off the grass. She pauses and turns toward me with a petite smile before disappearing behind the forsythia bushes. Not all of her should remain buried.

Retail: Hurricane Irene and Last-Minute-Mommies

Saturday's are generally busy in the book store. It is a day of rest for the normal 9 to 5 workers who seek refuge from their jobs in a new book. It is also a say when parents don't want to pay someone to watch their children so they unclasp the leashes and let them run wild in the children's department. This Saturday was different because of two things: Hurricane Irene and Summer Reading. While most parents come in with their children for their school books in late July, a majority wait until a week, or even days, before classes start.

It might be cruel, but I love to tell the last-minute-mommies that their child's book is sold out. I like to see the look on their face, complete shock and a mixture of anger. With a dash of hostility, they are off ... running their mouths asking why the book is not in stock, is this not a book store? Now, this is the sweet part, the creme de la creme; I smile and say "I'm sorry, we have had our summer reading out for the last four months and since there is only a few days left until school starts, we are running very thin. Most students came in early." MmmmMmmm, sweeter than honey. And that mother's face! She is angry, but I am okay because she is not angry with me, she is angry at her kid or herself.

The mother's usually bite back with "Well I wish I knew it wasn't here before I dragged myself into traffic." I smile again, sweetly, and pass them a business card, "You can always call ahead to see what we have in stock and we can also order it for you over the phone. Or if you prefer, if you log into our website you can look up the book and hit the 'Pick Me Up' button and it will send a reservation to the store of your choice." It is when they let out a heavy sigh that I suppress a giggle, because this is the moment where they ask if there is anything else they can do to get the book. I apologize, suggesting to order it and explain to the teacher that their child was unable to get the book in time .... because those few months were just not enough! This conversation happens at least 20 times a day or more as school begins.

Now, Hurricane Irene sent in these last-minute-mommies AND those who sought to get their shopping done before Saugus becomes oceanfront property. Mix that with a full moon and the bookstore starts to take a turn for the worst. People forget author's names and titles of books that they are looking for. Only a blurry picture stands out in their mind of what the book cover looks like but the picture they describe is just an inkblot to us, different interpretations. The rain starts to come down and everyone storms the registers, because they know if the lights go out, they can't buy their books. So there are 15+ people in line with only one cashier, we all run up to help but then... the phones start to ring. "What are your hours?" I hate this questions because their is an automated machine that tells the hours of operation before the phone even rings for us. I am tempted to say, call back and listen to the automated message before hanging up but I refrain.

I can't leave on time because we had a call out and the store was still packed as if we were selling bottled water and canned foods before a 2 year ice age. I saw my scheduled end time pass by until finally, the crowd calmed. I knew it was only the eye of the storm, it would only take one lightning bolt and a loud boom of thunder to drive people off route 1 and to seek shelter in a bookstore. Freedom, I can almost taste it. The day didn't go that bad, I dealt with the same questions and the same situations that I have been for 5 years. But there is always one person... one person who just throws you off completely.

"Excuse me, Miss. Are the writers and authors separated in the store? Because my daughter has this list and they are all names but there are two columns. So I think the authors are on the left and the writers are on the right. Is that right?"

Speechless.

Creative Writing: Bleach and Revenge

Bleach, such a wonderful concoction. It boasts to remove any stain, disinfect any surface, and eliminate any unfavorable odors. My house alone always has two gallons on hand for the laundry and typical cleaning duties. It is the answer to every question. How do I get this grass stain out? Bleach. The wine bottle left a ring on the kitchen counter, what should I use? Bleach. The cat pissed on the … Bleach goddamnit!

The scent of bleach, I find, is indescribable because it is different for everyone. Odors are so tied into memory that you do not simply smell bleach, you are inhaling a moment. Whenever the strong cure-all wafts beneath my nostrils, mixed with steaming hot water, I think of turtles. Growing up, my mother promoted us to keep pets so once I had collected the normal domestic animals, I moved to the more exotic. I brought home my first turtle, a red-eared slider whom I named Revenge. I loved to see her sunning on her floating rock and swimming endlessly in the corner, as if she thought the glass would expand and give way to a new place to roam. Her webbed feet would stretch and scratch on the tank as she pushed her large shell forward, only to bump back to her original position.

Being young, I thought nothing of the future so I was surprised when the time came to clean the tank. I placed Revenge in the bathroom sink and brought the tank into the kitchen. The smell wasn’t bad, until a removed the filter and ran it under hot water. The rank odor clung to my nose hairs and pulled fiercely, causing my eyes to water. I gagged involuntarily, my stomach heaving and the back of my throat attempting an emergency escape. My mind raced to identify the horrific smell and settled on over ripe pumpkins and decaying fish. It was so strong that it stuck to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter, thick and layered.

What will get rid of this smell? Bleach. I grabbed the bottle and practically emptied it into the tank. The scent of the bleach swam with decayed stench, but instead of eliminating it, it merely added to it. It still had the same smell, but it gave it more power, more range. Bleach carried the horrid stench on it’s back and paraded it around the other rooms. Once I finished scrubbing, making sure that everything was clean and safe for Revenge, I refilled the tank and placed her in it. She swam straight to the corner, pushing her webbed feet against the glass.

I cleaned the tank once a week for three years before I donated Revenge to a local school for a class pet. She got a brand new filter and a larger tank, it seems her pushing and pulling at the corners finally enlarged her world. It has been years since I last cleaned the tank but whenever I use bleach, I think of that first moment. Before, bleach never really smelled like anything. Now it smells like over ripe pumpkins and decaying fish. For a product that is supposed to remove a stain and make it as if it had never occurred, it is strange that it creates an irremovable memory that was worse than the stain.