Hmm...

"Dreaming of one who has passed is their way of telling you they are ok."

I read this on Facebook and it got me thinking. I'm not going to say anything concerning my opinion, but I'm curious about what you all think of this statement... Any thoughts?

When?

When is it that we find what we're looking for? When do we know if we've made the right choices? When do we accept that change is inevitable and that it's already happening? When can we be satisfied with our decisions? When - through all the tears, the hardships, the pain - will we finally reach the other side?

When can we let go? When does it dawn on us that something that once was is no longer? When can we pick up the shattered pieces? When can we put them back together?

When does life make sense? When does our path ever become straight? When will the going get smooth or enjoyable? When - through all the tears, the hardships, the pain - will shards of our scars become pages of our journey?

When?

Hold Your Horses

There has been some confusion about the future of my blog. I plan to continue posting stuff for a while yet. I apologize for being so confusing, especially with the beginning statement of my last post. That was just the end of my writing portfolio entries, not the end of my blog entirely. I was only blogging about those papers because I had nothing else to say, but hopefully events will happen in the next few days that will allow me to talk about other things. For now, the blog is still alive.

Past Brilliance Part III

This is the last installment of my writing portfolio. I hope you've all enjoyed reading some of my work.

I.

7-6. He had barely pulled the set from my fingertips. I’d had him on the ropes, but just like every other time, he had pulled off two magical shots in a row to draw the set even. Then, with an ace serve and a magnificent service return, he jumped in the air as his cry of “Come on!” echoed through the stadium. His 6’1” frame swaggered back to his chair with that air of ultimate supremacy he held over other players. Yet he was not arrogant. He was not selfish or stubborn. His sense of humility and grace went hand-in-hand with that air of superiority. Nobody had anything but respect and awe for this man. He was the greatest player to ever walk this earth. He still is and always will be the greatest player ever to play the game. And I had almost taken a set off him. It was a bittersweet moment, for if he got that first set under his belt, he only played stronger. Faster. Smarter. Better.

*

So close! I was one point away from taking the second set! Man, you just can’t let him off the hook. If that lob had been an inch deeper, I could have walked back to my chair with a sense of equality. Or something close to it. With that second set gone, I began to realize that, all things considered, he would always be better than me. All the work I had put into getting to this point just couldn’t reach the level of skill, wit, elegance, and speed that he used to dominate every opponent.

I got up from my chair and walked to the baseline. I had two options. I could fight as hard as I could to make this match as intense as possible, or I could give in, considering how steep of an incline I had to conquer. I chose the former. The American spirit in me cheered me on, urging me to fight to the death. I could hear my name being chanted. I took a deep breath. The crowd began to mount a final roar, hoping I would rally. Suddenly, there was a loud crash.

My roommate had dropped his suitcase. I rolled over. 12:45. I had to get up in less than seven hours. Roger Federer’s face flickered in front of mine, and I smiled to myself, realizing that I had come so close to beating my idol.

II.

Calm. Peace. Brightness. I stood up. Trees of all colors swayed gently in the breeze, whose breath delicately blew across my face. Sunlight filtered through the high canopy, its fingers gently caressing the ground below. A certain tree beckoned to me, its branches swaying hypnotically. I walked towards it. Golden pears glowed in the dancing beams of the sun. I was under it now. I slowly reached up and plucked one of the radiant fruits. I held it in my hands, admiring its perfection. Sparkling light bounced off my treat as I slowly brought it to my mouth.

A sliver of light landed upon my face as my roommate went off to brush his teeth, leaving the door ajar. 12:49. I could almost taste that juicy, succulent pear and I longed to fall asleep again and return to that place. I buried myself in my blankets.

III.

Clouds flew past me. I was weightless. Flying? I couldn’t be. Suddenly, I broke through. Mountains loomed in the distance. I looked down and gasped. Rugged terrain passed underneath as I soared above. Fields, meadows, forests, houses – all passed beneath as I blazed over them. I dove. I rushed toward the ground with such speed that wind didn’t even whistle in my ears. I was a silent predator. An invisible ambassador of flight. I pulled up with such poise and strength the world had never known. I slowed enough to wave to a small child playing in a garden. He waved back with a huge smile on his face. I winked and was off again. I angled up and ascended to the top of the tallest mountain. Everything was a blur. Suddenly, I was falling. Cold air engulfed my body.

I shivered. My blankets were falling. I lunged for them as they plummeted toward the floor. Success! Yet their pleasurable warmth could not stop the shiver running down my spine. Falling. The idea terrified me. 3:45.

IV.

Blood flowed freely from the gash that had been torn into his upper lip. His arm had been broken and now it lay there, bent into a grotesque shape that should never be on the human body. His body lay crumpled, defeated. So broken. So lifeless. Bruises numbered with the freckles that populated his arms, neck and face. The only signs of life were the short, gasping rasps that escaped the threshold of his mouth. And there I was. They tied me to a chair. They made me watch as they picked him up and slowly beat the life out of him. I had no power. I had no control. I sat there and watched him slowly buckle. I was crying: tears covered my face. I kept shouting for them to stop. I pleaded with all my might. Yet my attempts were futile. Another punch to his gut. Another slash at his face. His groans were the worst part. After a while, he gave in. He fought no more. The spark that had initially glowed upon his face had burned out. With a final, helpless glance at me, he collapsed. But they didn’t stop. They kicked his sides. They hit him with bats. They slugged him with crowbars. His back. His legs. His head.

Suddenly, there was silence. They stood over him, gloating over the body they had just shattered. I wanted to look away, but the sight of his broken body, once so strong and virile, was something I had never hoped to witness. With a final jab at his stomach, they left the room. I was all alone. My best friend was dead. From somewhere in the ceiling a spotlight was switched on, illuminating me in a small circle of unfeeling, unforgiving light. I squinted in the sudden brightness. Someone was approaching. He was holding a knife in his hand.

The first rays of dawn peeked in through the window. 6:50. His face, so full of agony and hurt, swam in front of me, his eyes fixing on me with such sadness that I had never expected to see. No. Please, God, no. I jumped out of bed and flew across the room to my desk. I had to make sure he was all right.

Past Brilliance Part II

This is the second part of my portfolio. It's the final draft of my fiction piece that was, to me, some of my best work. I hope you enjoy it.

~~~

Just keep going. Her face was perspiring as it never had, sweat stinging her eyes, but she forced her legs to keep turning over. Her entire body screamed at her to stop, take a breath, but she knew that if she slowed, he would catch her. If only I hadn’t snooped. Things were fine until I found out about his – No. She couldn’t think about that now. Her very existence depended on her mind being in one place. One false step and – No. She couldn’t think about that either.

The only problem was she had never been here before. Before tonight, she wasn’t even aware this place existed. Then again, there were a lot of things that had come to light tonight, and now the person she trusted most in the whole world was nothing more than a twisted, sinister madman, as dark and as crooked as the winding passageway through which she was running. If it weren’t for the small amounts of light that trickled through doors that appeared at random intervals on either side of her, she wouldn’t have made it as far as she did. Yet she could still hear him, steadily getting closer. His grunts echoed eerily off the walls, sounding as if they were everywhere at once. She didn’t even know if he was in front of her or behind her. For all she knew, he might pop out of any door and catch her. She kept running. And running.

But it wasn’t enough. She turned yet another corner, and there he stood, his dark silhouette hunched over and gasping for air. But just like a wolf eyeing a helpless victim, he stared at her with ever-burning eyes that held all the hate and anger in the world. Almost hungry eyes. She knew she should turn the other way, maybe try and outrun him, but her legs had shut down. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and she pleaded with her body to comply. Yet there was no response. He took a step forward. She closed her eyes and accepted her fate. Within seconds, he was on her.

*          *          *

                He was nowhere to be seen. Max scanned the bleachers, the parking lot, the concession stand, and the bathroom facilities. He couldn’t spot his dad anywhere: not talking to other fans, not arguing over prices at the concession stand, nothing. He just wasn’t there.

            But he promised. He promised he would come Max thought to himself. It’s the championship game. He promised he wouldn’t miss this one.

            “Strike one!” the umpire yelled. Crap! Pay attention! He stepped out of the batter’s box, took a deep breath, swung once, and re-entered his arena. This was his time, his moment to shine. This was his team, his field. Max had owned this sport since he could throw a baseball. And now it was his last game: the conference championship, final inning, one out, down one. Robert had just crushed a double into right-center and was poised on second, just waiting for Max to hit him home.

            A swing and a miss. “Strike two!” No! That was my pitch! Come on, Max! He stepped out again. Why aren’t you here, Dad? Why can you never make it to anything I participate in? Concerts, games, speech meets… He stepped back in the box. “Focus!” he said under his breath as the pitcher readied himself on the mount. There was the pitch, inside, just how Max liked it. A lights-out swing. Contact.

*          *          *

            “Hello?” The kitchen door shut behind him as he entered the house. “Mom? Dad?” He dropped his equipment down in the living room and went to search the floor for any sign of life. That’s odd. At least Mom is usually home by now, Max thought as he came out of his parents’ bedroom. He searched the basement. Nothing. Not even a load of laundry in the washer. The usual aroma of fresh, homemade bread was missing as he again went through the kitchen. No Wheel of Fortune was playing on the television. His mother wasn’t quietly humming to herself as she ironed his shirts.

            “Hmm…” He climbed the stairs to the second floor. Wait! What was that? A noise sounded from his father’s study.

            “Dad?” He knocked twice. No answer. “Dad! You in there?” He jiggled the doorknob. It was unlocked. He turned the handle and slowly pushed the door open.

            “Holy crap.”

            The room was a catastrophe. Books lay everywhere, some missing pages, others having no pages at all. The light fixture on the ceiling had been smashed, littering the ground with shards of glass. The desk had been overturned, its contents strewn about all over the room. Drawers had been emptied. Folders had been rifled through. Spots of red liquid dotted the floor and clung to the broken glass for dear life. The window on the far end had apparently been hit with something heavy, for a cracked web weaved darkness and faint moonlight into the room, casting an eerie glow on its contents. Another small ray of light passed right down the middle of the room, and Max turned to see a small beam of faint light running vertically up the near wall. A door? Since when has there been a door there?

            He started to make his way across the room, trying his best to avoid the broken glass. He had never seen his father’s study in such disarray. He bent down to examine the red substance more closely. His hair stood on end and a chill ran down his spine. Blood. Why is there blood on the floor of my dad’s study? And now that he was in the room, more and more blood kept showing up. It was on book pages, newspapers, broken glass, the desk, and even a little on the bookcases. And not just drops. There was a smudge by the outlet on one of the walls, and as Max drew closer to the hidden door, he noticed there was a small puddle of it in the room beyond. Fear slowly started to wash over him. As he reached the door, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Someone was watching him. He wheeled around. Nothing. He scanned the whole room once more, and then turned back. He pushed the hidden door slightly and it creaked open.

            A small bulb hung from the ceiling, basking the small room in a faint yellow glow that illuminated numerous newspaper articles that were pinned to the walls. Pictures of different people with giant X’s through the middle were attached to each article. These individuals were strange to Max. He had never seen them before in his life, and he didn’t like the way each article they were attached to had a title dealing with murder. “Couple slain in park.” “Child found stabbed to death.” “Woman shot at point-blank range.” Max started to feel nauseous. He almost turned away and left, but then something caught his eye. From the far side, his mother gazed at him from a small photo. She must’ve been gardening. Her hair was disheveled, her hands were dirty, and her apron was torn. Yet she had the biggest smile on her face. She was always happiest in her garden, Max thought as a faint smile crossed his face.

            Then something else caught his eye. Many of the articles seemed to have a sentence highlighted vividly in blue. After perusing through some of them, he found that each highlighted sentence was the date and time each victim had been killed. And while Max still didn’t know any of these people, the times seemed oddly familiar to him.

            “How can that be?” he wondered aloud as he continued to read through each article. He searched his brain for a logical answer. And then it hit him. This one had been the time of his Christmas band concert last year. That one had been the starting time of his junior-year district baseball championship. That one had been his graduation ceremony! And they all had one thing in common.

            No. It can’t be. No. No way. Max felt like he was going to throw up. An unsettling fear had flooded his body, and he turned around to run from this horrific scene. He was just about out the door, when he stopped. Something wasn’t right. He slowly rotated back to face his mother’s picture. Unlike the others, there was no X on this one. No article accompanied the photo explaining how she was mercilessly killed by some raving madman. Tears began to well in Max’s eyes as the horrible realization came to him. He couldn’t take it any longer. He bolted from the room, and was just about to flee from his father’s study when he ran headlong into a shadowy figure that stood in the doorway. The collision sent both of them sprawling backwards.

            “Dad!” Max exclaimed as he righted himself. The shadowy form had gotten back on his feet and was staring at Max with such intensity that his gaze seemed to penetrate Max’s body and hit the wall behind him. He knows. He knows I know. He looked around for any chance of escape, but the only route was blocked by the hulking form that continued to watch Max with an almost hungry look. So many thoughts ran through Max’s mind, but he could only venture two words.

            “Why, Dad?”

            “Nosy, just like your mother. Didn’t go so well for her.” And with a sneer, he pounced.

*          *          *

            Breath came in short, raspy gasps. The cut on his arm bled profusely. His head was spinning from the book that had collided with it. He could barely stand. It had taken him ages just to reach the window. Yet he forced himself to stand there and look down to the ground a story below. There he lay, his dark form broken and beaten. His neck had twisted the wrong way upon contact, and now his figure lay crumpled in a heap on the sidewalk. The window hadn’t been able to withstand his body a second time and had broken right when impact was made. With a final, hateful glare, he had toppled backwards into the night. And now he was gone. He could do no more harm.

            Max found the telephone hidden underneath the desk. He dialed.

            “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

Past Brilliance Part I

It's been quite a long time since my last entry. Things have been crazy these past few weeks and they only promise to get more chaotic, so I thought that while I have a moment, I'd share some of my writing from last year for a class I took. I think I'll break it up between the three final entries I turned in for my final portfolio. Here's the poetry section:

 “Row 24”

Polar opposites sit on either side.

One has chosen to opt for sanity

and drifts off to a world of dreams,

wishful thinkings, and faraway lands.

SILENCE.

The other is enjoying a rather

catchy beat if the rhythm her

foot is tapping on my leg is

any clue. Head bobbing,

fingers drumming, she allows

her mind to wander to

wherever the music takes her.

ENERGY.

Her head rests on her hand.

A sweater gently enfolds her

as her mind floats elsewhere.

Hair cascades down her face

as she slowly breathes in and out.

TRANQUILITY.

Her clothes shout even louder

than the baby a few aisles back.

She can’t stop moving, for the

music sends a pulse through her soul

that is just as alive as the one

flowing through her body.

LIFE.

And yet both sit on either side, allowing life to take them wherever it pleases.

*             *             *

True Art

The crowd applauds.

A cheer here,

a shout there.

And then silence.

Not a sound escapes a single mouth.

Breath itself is scarce.

Yet the players never stop

running back and forth,

emitting unearthly grunts with each swing.

Their feet, endless whirls of color,

pound the surface.

Rackets are swung with immeasurable force

And as they fly through the air,

they meet the only thing standing in the way

of victory and their wielder:

An opponent that lacks size

but is almost impossible to control perfectly.

A deceiving ball of fuzz

That never tires
and holds the power to determine the difference

between victory and defeat.

*             *             *

The Magical World of the Sky

A different world above the clouds.

A place without hurt, anger, or crowds.

Eternally weightless and ever-serene.

A utopia that shimmers with its own glorious sheen.

Floors of white cotton with softness assured.

The world down below is misty and blurred.

Occasional mountains, towering bright,

Displaying majesty, brilliance, and might.

Walls don’t exist; this world never ends.

No restrictions apply. Rules die, law bends;

Just clouds that lie dormant, suspended in time,

Forever revolving, effortless, sublime.

A world of pure light, of multiple shades;

The sun forming rainbows that fall in cascades.

The sun’s gold is here too. It takes up all space.

It kisses the clouds and caresses the sky’s face.

It flies through the air, illuminating each crack,

Beating darkness to rubble, not leaving its track.

Fear shudders and leaves, imagination roams free.

Confinement’s not here: only His cousin to see.

Yet mystery still exists. Its presence is sly,

For this is the magical world of the sky.