these are the beginnings to the novels i'll never write.

these are the beginnings to the novels i'll never write.
three hundred sixty five stories that begin and never end.

Blog Archive

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Muse 23: The Good Laugh

The good laugh is a medication prescribed to those who need it. Description says to intake only when necessary in fear of suspected insanity. The good laugh is a deep, boisterous laughter that is beautiful to all ears - even if the ears that befall it's premises are ears of evil, the good laugh is a musical note that soothes and brings smiles to the face. Somehow, in a befallen world where the only terror is the coming of tomorrow, it is needed for a good laugh. In that firecracker spurt of happiness, all problems are expelled in a forceful thrust. This is the good laugh, and take as much as you want - caution, it is for stress only - home.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Muse 22: Imagination

found via [[Chase]]

Standing in front of him, like the sunset drifting slowly from the high ends of the earth, she brushed through her straightened hair with one hand, smiling with a strange tilt. It was curiously slant, as if the sight of him was something just as wondrous as he. She had crawled out of his imagination, carved right out of perfection - That surprisingly lonely box in the middle of the street contained everything he ever dreamed of. You find what you want best in what no one has found yet.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

Muse 21: Beautiful

found via fffound

She was never beautiful, honey, she never was. Your mother was never beautiful but I fell in love with her anyway. Her mismatched socks and antique sense of style. Her dead locks of hair that had curls running wild. The way she smiled when the sun beamed on her face. The way she smiles - and when I looked, so clearly for the first time - that her clashing colors with the uncommonly striped sweater locked so perfectly in tune with mine. I make her beautiful, honey, and I am the only one that ever will. That is why we are perfect for each other still.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Muse 20: Sure

This is to make up for the lack of yesterday. It's a bit more personal, but definitely narrative.
500 Days of Summer

I was never the kind of little girl that dreamt about completing weddings. There was no whipped cream white dress with an overflowing train that started from my waist to the end of the church aisle. Instead, I loved the kind of aisle - that had mountains of cereal boxes, Campbell cans and 30% coupons that I swiped like a Golden ticket just for myself - much, much more. I used to be the kind of girl that believed love needed to be developed, like the man I was gonna marry would be my crush, then boyfriend, then man of 4 years and counting, where the feelings of forever have developed beyond maturity. Yet now, the life I'm looking for with someone else is the kind where I find "what I was never sure of," just by suddenly waking up or having that one short moment - that one short moment where arbitrary meaning becomes the reason I suddenly know you fit me.

Muse 19: On Her Body

sources unknown

There is a secret on her body. A little hidden chamber resting between the deep navy shadows where the corners and crevices of her body contorts and curves into beautiful shapes. That little chamber is filled with a magical power. Unlock it and it's yours, only yours. Like the right hand corner kiss of a maiden's lips, she has taken the that secret, cupped it in her pastel milk hands and tucked it away like the hands stretching underneath a soft mattress, where the coolness has never left. Men die for it, kings conquer vast lands for it, fairy tales are achieved because of it. There is a secret on her body, it opens every time she is touched by you.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Muse 18: Syntax

if faces were Paragraphs
where your forehead marks the vast introduction
slowly, the eyes like capitalizations, to
your nose of finer details & pretty bridges
to trace from head to toe,
the lips of ellipses that mark forever

... between your crooked eyes
your crooked nose
your crooked mouth

that i could kiss so sweetly,

i shan't notice how wrong,
Grammatically, you are for me.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Muse 17: Please

found via ryanjay

Gingerly, her hands reached out with the desirable innocence of a child, offering her shame to the high hosts. I did not want to... I did not have a choice! I only wanted to live! The wetness of her hand, the richness of the color burned vibrantly, as if the fruit of sin had melted right in her hands. Oh god, I just wanted life! Death rested like a baby, cradled in her cupped hands, sleeping comfortably alongside Vengeance. In the vast room that felt like the depths of the dark, hidden ocean she looked up towards the ceiling that remained the barrier between her and the sky. This could be the one sinner that even the most forgiving, the most loving and the most understanding entity could turn their back on.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Muse 16: Anticipation 911

found via pfv

Pick up the phone.

It has rung over forty six times, over forty six seconds of nothing but pure tonal notes that mimic the foreshadowing caw of the deadly crow calling out to the new foreboding, mournful sunrise. Pick it up... but the fear runs in the veins like shards of miniature icicles, daringly traveling and dancing through the blood streams with the cautious knowledge a murderer would have. Pick it up... Pick up the GODDAMN PHONE, because the nauseous bottomless black hole that sucks and tears at your very courage, the turmoil at the pit of your stomach - your gut - will never, never go away.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Muse 15: Beau-ionette

found via freckledcup

"You only collect beautiful things," she noted verbally. The high chair was much higher than anticipated for her tiny body. Although her legs were disproportionately long for her shortened frame, they could not reach half way to the third rung of the stool and so the toes, like small, thick trinket beads rolled in the open air, reaching for some support but got none. She watched as the Man went about the dusty, amber-tinged room looking for small dresses for her to wear.

"Yes. That is what I like."

She turned her fairy head away. Waiting to see his dark eyes fill her gaze, she kept her sight on the Man's giant body, waiting to read his tell tale micro-movements. These invisible words would tell the truth as they had before, when he simultaneously shook his head left to right all while saying yes. She reminded herself over and over to keep deaf to his comforting words as she saw the dry, rotting wood pieces that hung all around the workshop. All the details, the intricate carvings mesmerizingly filled her eyes, grabbing her attention with artistic magnetism. All the beautiful pieces were breathlessly lifeless.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Muse 14: White Knight

This was meant for yesterday (21st). I got caught up in flickr and forgot. Sorry!
Conception Art for Disney's Rapunzel.

From her anonymous tower, she looked precariously at the dark knight in the polished, shadowed armor. The thick foil wrapped around his body flattered his power form as he determinedly headed towards her with loud, clumping steps that held a musical tune of jangling keys to freedom. She watched with her cheek resting prettily in the groove of her palm as the knight approached right before her window. "Hello," she called out, her voice slipped through her thin swan-like neck, as if the word was a liquid dripping down. Smiling with the grace of a princess, she tried her best to look glowing in the twilight gleam.

There was an elongated pause as the light disappeared completely from the canvas sky like water muddling the tonal colors into pure darkness. She nearly sighed as there was no response from the rustic knight. Yet the clunking steps, for she could barely see, came closer with trepidation pressed into the ground.

"Hello," she tried again as soon as she saw the glint of his tin.

"Hollow. Hollow."

The roar was monstrous.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Muse 13: Secret Garden

There is a place everyone wishes they could go to, somewhere secret and unknown, that has a path so they won't get lost. Alice has been there. Peter lives there. It is a land that we have only dreamed of seeing. Lost has myriad implications that will never mean that same thing once; like a fire that cannot be photographed identically. In a frenzy of definitions, I wonder: How can I feel good when I'm lost, on my own, knowing that the only route is a carved direction filled with simplicity. And yet how can I feel so bad when I'm lost, on my own, knowing that no one will ever find me again. The path feels so soft and earthly underneath my feet, where the dirt slowly eats away at my calloused soles to expose the gentle, baby skin. The wet morning dew kissing my sore, blistered red feet is the only thing that can hurt me. I think I will continue running, no matter what "lost" has in store for me.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Muse 12: Synch

found via bethanyjoy41

The earth sings only one song. It is a sweet melody that only lonely seekers understand, only they can hear the tune that calls out for a harmonizing partner. And heartbreakingly, the ones that are lonely are the ones that fall in love: with those who cannot see the bleeding wounds, which bring no pain, only death, and the ending road, where the fall is tripped and jagged into such a deep abyss. Yet they continue. They love those who sway under their moonlight and call for a partner. They love those that dance the same dance, but, unfortunately, in a different room. They love those they think they can save.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Muse 11: Hot Like Fire

While the moments were dutifully reminisced through hours of replay in the dark cavern of her mind, she suddenly remembered that someone once said, "Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known." And somehow that was how she understood that love is nothing but a composite of feelings. Nothing of love is original. It is agony. It is joy. It has purity; it enforces evil. It multiplies while decreases. It is hot and cold. Easy and difficult. It is when you fly through the sky on wings made of wax, trying to reach the sun because it burns so beautifully. She whispered right before she fell asleep, "Love is sweet, sweet masochism. " No one has ever survived flight except those who don't return.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Muse 10: Teacup

image via pavlunka

The table was so radiantly beautiful. Everything was placed invitingly in a way only such boastful colors could offer. It was not green or purple - no, the colors were much more named, such as lime or magenta. These colors with magnificent character cried out not to be ignored. As if the party was crying out to her, "Come to me, come to me. Come rest your body near me and take whatever you wish!" In the midst of a well groomed garden grove, the littered delights on the table called to her like wind chimes responding to a breath of crisp, fresh air that swept through the scenery. As her tiny feet pedaled down the hill, tumbled daintily with the grace of a quick ballerina, she found herself tumbling down the hill where Jack had been waiting all his life.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

Muse 9: Wristcutters

You're the kind that I have dreams about. You know those moments right before I fall asleep? Those secretive minutes in my mind are hours in reality. In the two seconds I dreamt about you kissing me, the time has gone from 10PM to 1AM; and this feeling comes as close to perfection as the sight of you sleeping beside me. However, you're not here and I have to settle for these imaginary hours with you.