A Rainbow's Shadow

Gah...I will NEVER be able to think of a title!

2012-01-15T11:53:00.000-08:00

Wintertime.

I need to block out all the emotions that rule my life. Because if I don't, the frost reaches them, which is something I can not allow to happen. The frost leaves me tired. Grumpy. Irritated. Depressed. Nostalgic.

Those who do not know me well think that I am immune to depression. On the contrary, I am very prone to it. It is hard to spend a winter with the frost inside you. The beauty of autumn and the hope of spring can't reach you then. Nothing can.

I can't laugh to hard. Run so quickly. Cry so readily. The frost won't reach me, because there won't be anything to reach for. I will be gone, into hibernation, until spring spread it's first ray of sunlight on my face. Then, I can come out.

But until then, I have to be careful. Suppress everything I feel. Restrain my thoughts. And I definitely, DEFINITELY, can't walk among my memories. My memories are to dear to me. Happy or sad, it would be so painful to give them up to the frost.

So I shall spend the winter like this. It's the only way I know how to.

The Shadowy Rainbow

2011-10-21T16:00:00.001-07:00

Can rainbows be shadowy? Probably not. But approaching the subject of my feelings and thoughts over the years, I guess a picture really is worth a thousand words.

(Yes, Violetpaw, I know you would argue the opposite. And I suppose in some ways, you are right. But for practicality's sake, I will just say that words and pictures have their own values.)

The Last Fulfillment

2011-10-21T15:57:00.000-07:00

(Why am I posting this? It was just a short story I wrote for a class in grade seven. But then again, this is the only fictional piece of writing I ever found worth preserving. And why? I have absolutely no idea. Maybe because it gives me a feeling of nostalgia, which I have found I am beginning to enjoy.)

A quiet street. A tranquil neighbourhood. And a wondrous night sky laced with stars. Aurora scans the horizon for her namesake, the Aurora Borealis; a thrilling sight that no words could do justice. When she was younger, she worshiped the northern lights as “the night rainbow”, but now, she found words much too petty a thing in comparison to its stunning beauty.

But she is stunned out of her purposeful moment of self-reflection by the mad honks of an out-of-control car. For some reason, Aurora is frozen, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as the car crashes into a telephone pole. Her mind and body in paralysis, she onlooks helplessly as the telephone pole tips, crashing onto the vehicle’s roof and breaking through metal and glass alike. But although this would have been radically disturbing for any witness, Aurora horror exceeds that of any, for she knows. She knows that in the car, there is a single middle-aged man. He is unconscious. He is dying. He has a wife and son, who are waiting for him to come home. And at that moment, Aurora though she could just see the slightest trickle of blood.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The sharp scent of disinfectant fills Aurora’s nose. She finds herself in a dark hospital room, with a single woman bending over a hospital bed and sobbing. Aurora knows the woman is only in her forties, but she seemed to be quite elderly. Dark circles underline her eyes, with wrinkles covering her face and grey streaks in her hair. And in the hospital bed lies a young man, a teenager. He is unconscious, and seems to be in great pain. But all of a sudden, the pain lines in his face ease and he seems to fall into deep slumber. A positive sign, were it not for the beeping of a machine. The woman’s sobs turn into wails, and Aurora saw only red, as she experiences the final moments of the youth’s life...

…and wakes up to a glorious autumn morning. Terror still resonates through her mind, and she takes several deep breaths to calm herself, as recommended by her psychiatrist. She had a deep fear of dreams, and though she usually did not have them, the rare case of a dream would usually send panic coursing through her, like now. In her mind, psychiatrist was just a fancy word for adults with medical degrees. It didn’t make a difference, as even with a fancy name, they couldn’t seem to ease her nightmares. But seeing the sun shooting shafts of golden light into her room, she instantly forgets her worries. “Mama Henny’s chicks should have hatched now, and I’ll get to see them while feeding the animals,” thought Aurora, as she throws on her farm clothes and washes up for breakfast.

After a light breakfast of eggs and toast, Aurora eagerly starts out the door, only to be stopped by her mother. Her mother was dressed in a red t-shirt and shorts, ready for an extremely arduous day of harvesting the wheat. This was a long process, and even with another farm hand, it usually took a week.

“Aurora, dearie, I know you want to see the chicks, but I have something more important for you to do. Our new neighbour Mrs. Bolton has just moved in, and I want you to make her welcome. Just bring her these cookies sweetie; she lives in the old cabin right down the road.” And rushing away, Aurora’s mother hands her a basket of her famous homemade chocolate raisin cookies. But Aurora’s mind has already wandered to the thought of somebody living in that old cabin. It was a run-down plain thing, of no beauty whatsoever. She couldn’t stand the idea of anyone living in such a shabby place. Running down to the barn, she comes back with a wheelbarrow with a spade, some seeds, and a small bad of fertilizer. Even pushing the wheelbarrow, it takes no more than a few minutes to get to the cabin.

Leaving the wheelbarrow aside, Aurora steps onto the porch, and almost immediately,

a old lady who Aurora assumes to be Mrs. Bolton opens the door. Looking down at Aurora, she says in a ragged high-pitched voice, “Well don’t just stand there dearie, come on in.” No one but Aurora’s mother calls her “dearie”, so Aurora doesn’t really like it. But ignoring this, she enters the cabin.

The inside of the house is just as drab as the outside, with ordinary furniture and blank walls. After placing the cookies on a table, Aurora’s attention turns to the only interesting thing in the room; a picture of a couple and their son standing outside a newly painted house. The couple looks to their child, as if nothing else mattered. The son, seemingly oblivious of all the love aimed at him, just grins at the camera with a missing tooth proudly showing.

Mrs. Bolton, noticing Aurora’s attention to the photo, seems somewhat dishevelled. Just as the elderly lady was about to speak, Aurora bursts out, “Can I plant a garden outside your house? Please? It’s just the place is so plain, and it could be so much prettier and…”

Aurora pulls back, feeling somewhat ashamed of her outburst. She stares at her feet with a mixture of embarrassment and shame. Now she had stated the real reason she had wished to come here, she tensely awaited Mrs. Bolton’s answer. But the old lady, somewhat amused, looks at the child with a gaze that made it impossible for one to fathom her emotion. After an awkward pause, she says, “Well now child, I don’t see why not.”

Aurora runs outside, eager to free herself from the stuffy uncomfortable air of the cabin. She unloads the contents of her wheelbarrow, and starts ploughing the ground and planting the trillium seeds. She works in silence for some time; all the while completely unaware of the fact Mrs. Bolton was right behind her. And suddenly, in the most conspicuous of moments, the old lady gets down on her knees and starts helping Aurora with the garden. Her frail hands find life in this simple activity, and for just a moment, Aurora looked into her face and found Mrs. Bolton as a young woman, with every happiness imaginable. But this visualization fades away quickly into the wrinkle folds of Mrs. Bolton’s face.

After labouring for some time, Mrs. Bolton gets to her feet and says, “Well now dearie, that is enough work for today. Get your belongings, and I’ll take you back home.”

The walk back took but a few minutes. By that time, Aurora’s parents were in the sunroom, enjoying lunch and taking a break from the harvest. They answered the door, insisting that Mrs. Bolton stay for lunch and make their acquaintance. But with a simple shake of her head, she declined and said simply, “I must return home now. But Aurora, let her come by anytime.” And without another word, she leaves.

A couple days pass, and Aurora’s mind constantly labours on what to make of Mrs. Bolton. But one morning, she packs a picnic hamper with some cookies, juice boxes, sandwiches, and a picnic cloth, and skips over to Mrs. Bolton’s house. The old lady hardly raises an eyebrow while listening to Aurora invite her to a picnic, and merely puts on a sweater.

They walk in silence, until they arrive at Dragonfly Meadow. The meadow was filled with lush green grass, and for those who were silent (as Aurora was), there would often be deer, or on the rare occasion, a young fawn who was just testing out its legs. Finding a choice spot to spread the picnic cloth, the two sit down in silence. Aurora could not longer restrain her curiosity, and she breaks the silence.

“Who are they?” blurts out Aurora in a demanding voice.

“Who are who?” replies Mrs. Bolton in an empty voice, but Aurora could tell she knew what her question was about.

“The people in the picture. You know who I am talking about…don’t pretend you don’t. I hate it when adults do that.” says Aurora, who wonders whether she had gone to far. Mrs. Bolton just gives her an empty look, but she could sense the torrent of deep pain that was raging through the frail elder.

“That…was my husband, my son and I outside of our old house in Kansas,” replies Mrs. Bolton. Aurora could sense she seemed to be breaking, like a flimsy wall that held back a flood.

“And what happened to them? No. You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to. Adults do that sometimes, and it annoys me, but I wouldn’t mind that from you.”

“It is nice to tell someone; you could say its kind of like talking away the pain,” says Mrs. Bolton, giving Aurora a weak smile. She manages to hold the smile for a moment.

“My husband died in a car accident that occurred when the brakes stopped working. My son died of cancer.” Mrs. Bolton’s voice sounds solid, and then started to quavers. An inevitable wave of tears broke out, and she remained silent for the rest of the picnic.

After taking Mrs. Bolton home, Aurora goes up to her bedroom and starts thinking. She did not need to be told that her dreams were the deaths of Mrs. Bolton’s loved ones; it was but too obvious. But why had she been sent that dream, that was the question.

Throughout the rest of the summer, Aurora visited Mrs. Bolton many more times. They went on numerous picnics, but Aurora did not attempt to approach that one sensitive subject again. Besides that, they played “Monopoly” watched a few movies, and worked on the flower garden. Gradually, Mrs. Bolton’s face began to ease, and she seemed happier, more purposeful and fulfilled. By the end of the summer, when Aurora went over to visit, the slightest of buds had popped out of the flower garden, and they slowly began an ascent to the sun.

Aurora promptly went into the house, for she and Mrs. Bolton were friends enough as she need not knock. She found Mrs. Bolton sitting in an armchair, with her hands on her lap, and her mind wandering elsewhere.

“Aurora,” she said, “what a surprise. Come in, come in.”

“Mrs. Bolton, you have something to tell me, don’t you,” say Aurora, for she knew by now most Mrs. Bolton’s habits.

“I indeed do, my young one. You know tomorrow is the first day of autumn. Well my dear, did you also know tomorrow is my birthday?”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I need to get you a present.”

“No my dear. It is I who must get you a present, for all you have done for me,” says Mrs. Bolton, with tears in her eyes. But dropping the topic, Mrs. Bolton began to read Aurora “Little House on the Prairie”, a book that Aurora found extremely interesting.

“I don’t need a present from her, but I wonder what the gift will be,” thought Aurora, as she walked back to her house.

The next morning, Aurora mom comes up to her room, her voice grave. Mrs. Bolton had passed away peacefully during the night. She was gone, on the very eve of her birthday. Aurora was stunned; she found this difficult to believe. Only later did the tears spill out. And she spent the rest of the day crying. Only yesterday, Mrs. Bolton had been reading to her “Little House on the Prairie”. But that joyful time seemed to be years ago, when Mrs. Bolton’s joyful laughter still existed to echo through the cabin.

A week later, Aurora attended her funeral in the town cemetery. Ignoring the droning of the churchman, she squinted at the tombstone. “1913-2005…Summer Bolton?” Aurora could not believe her eyes. For Mrs. Bolton had neglected to tell her her first name. Her name was Summer, and she died on the first day of autumn.

With a heavy heart that night, Aurora went to bed. But almost instantly, the heaviness was released, and she was in Dragonfly Meadow. Mrs. Bolton was sitting on a picnic cloth, but she seemed to be young again. And behind her, barely visibly were the outlines of a jolly middle-aged man and a mischievous boy. Mrs. Bolton’s eyes glistened, and she said in a amused voice, “Well now, little one. Here is your gift.”

And for the first time in her life, Aurora had a peaceful dream. Indeed, she never had a nightmare again in her life. For what adults with medical degrees will never understand is that in the heavens, Mrs. Bolton kindly watched over this young six-year-old, filling her dreams with joy.

And on that first day of fall, every year, the stars would shine brighter, and Aurora Borealis would spread out in the skies.

My Friends

2011-08-20T17:42:00.000-07:00

Samantha with her athleticism and calm head.
Sophie with her positive attitude.
Mabby with her perseverence and resolve.
Rebecca with her clear reasoning.
Emily with her scholarly abilities.
Augusta with her creativity.

What do I have? *sigh*, if somebody inherited the the best traits of my friends, they would be perfect (or atleast as close as you can get)...

Room 21 (Graduates)

2011-06-23T15:55:00.000-07:00

A class of rebels, unrestrained misfits,
mischievous fighters who follow no rules.
They're troublemakers, crazy, a group close-knit,
mad, outsiders, but you can't call them fools.

One who's mind wanders other worlds at class,
stories, plot, and characters fill her head. (Augusta C.)
An impeccable scholar a master at math,
but her heart lies elsewhere, as she has said. (Emily W.)

An eccentric who does things in his own special way,
he's been ridiculed, bullied, but keeps his head held high. (William M.)
One who's shyness keeps his opinion at bay,
but courage finds his voice, letting the caged bird fly. (Raymond D.)

A natural leader, who fends for his own,
not afraid to encourage and include. (Liiban H.)
An independant being, but never alone,
Fierce with his spirit left unsubdued. (Manfred W.)

An intellectual, mistrustful, and not very kind,
relies on no other, for he's no need for aid. (Benjamin S.)
Teased but resilient, as he does not mind,
persistent, for of work he is never afraid. (Lucas Z.)

Sticks and stones may break his bones,
but words don't effect his mind and calm ways. (Alex P.)
Seldom seen, for in this class he is truly alone,
because somehow he has been led astray. (Alex C.)

Courage to speak out, and speak out he will,
a chatterbox maybe be true and sincere. (Kanishk G.)
A capacity for knowledge which he still has to fill,
resourceful, intelligent, though at times a bit queer. (Daniel M.)

A class of rebels, unrestrained misfits,
mischievous fighters, outcasts and huns.
They're troublemakers, crazy, a group close-knit,
mad, outsiders, part of room twenty-one.

Sadness (that few would understand)

2011-04-20T10:30:00.000-07:00

The end of March is coming. After comes the end of April. Then the end of May. And last but not least, the end of June. The last month of this school year. The last month of grade seven. The last year of the three...

*sigh*, I'm sad most of the time nowadays. Not sad. Sad is a plain three-letter word that has as much meaning to me as the many specks of dust in the every corner of this house. Yes, a much better word would be depressed. Despairing. Dismal. Grieved. Mournful. Bitter. Must I go on?

And I can't believe I am usually smiling at school. I laugh. I chuckle. I look like I am happy, though this could not be farther from the truth.

And now I know Violetpaw is going to Lisgar, and Emileaf is going to Colonel By. I can't go to two high schools (okay, maybe because of certain "exceptions" I can ). It is one or the other. Or neither.

And now, all the boys in this class are like, "be mature", "grow up", etc. The problem is, they'll regret being "mature". It will happen, because simply, childhood is the best time of your life, and they'll regret their hurry to grow up. And when their stuck with all that work, they will only then begin to treasure the golden moments of being a child.

Being carefree and happy. That is what makes life worth living. The fox said to the little prince, "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." It sad to think that a fox has more sense than a human being.

Gone, Gone, Gone Forever

2011-02-01T14:47:00.000-08:00

The very fact I have used this (see above) as a title is ironic. For those who know what I mean, this is clue enough. For those who don't, they were never meant to know and I would not tell them (this includes curious vampires who know to much for their own good). But for those who don't know, I suppose it wouldn't matter much, as they would not, could not, and should not believe this.

Ahahahaha. I suppose the last paragraph was just to prove Thalia isn't the only one who could go on a rant. Then again, it was hardly a long rant. But what am I to really say. I have deleted basically everything from my blog, and right now, at this very moment, I could type the words "The End" and be done with this. And I suppose I will.

But then again, I really can't bring myself to. I had written those paragraphs under the pressure of nostalgia and slight depression, so those words did have meaning. No erasers acted on those words, just the merciless click of a mouse. Does it make them "Ghost Words" (I have successfully used that term! And though I find it somewhat annoys Thalia, I can't stop myself from using that term. Never).

But now, I doubt whether I can bring those words back to life. They were written through my frustration, and seeing I am not under the same circumstances I was back then, these words are gone. They will keep fading, and unlike words in a notebook, there is nothing to mark their existence. They are gone, gone, gone forever.