Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Pushing Up Daisies - Part Three

did you think i forgot about this story? because let me tell you a thing

i did forget. until like three days ago.

sorry this is short and sorry if anyone is out of character and and sorry that all the scenes seem rushed and sorry about any typos!!! i didn't edit and i wanted to post it before the new year (it's still 2013 where i am) and i'm leaving in like 15 minutes so i rushed a lot. and i'm bad at writing other people's characters, which is why i don't write star trek fanfiction.

also i wrote this in two days.

happy NYE.


Thalia wiped her hand across her face, nose crinkling with disgust as the blood just smeared instead of coming off. She slid her sword back into its sheath and rolled her shoulders. A series of sharp cracks sounded as she twisted from side to side, hands massaging the muscles at the base of her neck.

Then she looked down at the man lying at her feet.

It was the guy in the wife-beater from earlier – earlier, in this case, being about three minutes ago. The gate to the restricted section of the cemetery led into a low, narrow tunnel, and Thalia hadn't even made it halfway to the door at the other end before the knife made sliced open her upper arm and the man was on her. Apparently he had not been as unconscious as she had thought. And now he had a sword wound in his leg and was glaring up at her.

She stepped around him carefully and tossed him a look over her shoulder to make sure he wasn't going anywhere. “Tell me, do you have a family? Friends? People who would miss your continued existence?”

Don't have much time for that sorta thing when I'm so busy chasing down little brats like you.” The words were spat at Thalia's back and she could feel the contempt in them dripping down her spine, and she made a humming noise in agreement.

No, I suppose not.”

I know someone who's looking for you.” Thalia stilled, halfway bent over, one knee pressing into the cold floor, fingers brushing the handle of the man's knife. Her blood was still glistening on the blade.

Something was tapping on the walls of her mind again, this time from the inside. A warning bell. “I'm sorry?” she murmured softly. “Who would that be?”

The man's tone changed, rough and seething hatred replaced by slippery threats and the smug confidence of knowing more than she did. “Dunno 'is name. Didn't ask. Didn't need to know. Said he would pay pretty well if I brought you to 'im. Said he had somethin' that would interest you, make you want to go.” Absentmindedly, she began caressing the knife's handle, tilting her head slightly as she listened. “A friend of yours. Didn't say their name. Just said a friend.”

Mmm?” The curved handle fit poorly into her palm. It was meant for larger, thicker hands than her own.

The man behind her was struggling to his feet. The sound of his heavy, damp breaths filled the tight space, punctuated by the dripping noise of his blood onto the stone below. He had loud footsteps.

Is that all you know?” Thalia kept her voice soft and measured. Blood was oozing in rivulets down her left arm, and there was a throbbing pain in her lower back from where the man's fist had made contact before. It beat in time with the drum in her head.

Another footstep. “No, I know that the reward ain't worth it.” She inhaled through her nose, exhaled through her mouth. “I know that you are going to have a lovely scream.” She licked her lips and let her eyes drift close. “I know that I'm goin' to have a great time bashing you around before–”

In one motion, Thalia stood and whipped around, her right hand leading. Blood sprayed the wall, her jacket, her face. The man fixed her with bright, confused eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, to scream, to curse her, but all that came out was a faint gurgling. Thalia smiled grimly as he fell to the floor. His hands scrambled at his throat, trying to comprehend that it had been decorated with a deep, bright gash. His blood started to pool around him. The gurgling noise continued.

She let the blade slip disdainfully from her fingers. A soft chiming sounded from it as it hit the ground.

March shouldered open the front door of the Manor and threw an unconscious Billy inside. He sprawled across the foyer, groaning.

Shut up,” March muttered. She kicked his head when she passed, fully knocking him out again. A soft cough reached her ears, and she flicked her bright red hair out of her eyes to look.

Israel Elysium was leaning against the doorframe in front of her, one eyebrow raised. He gestured to Billy. “Are you going to explain?”

Get your shotgun,” March said by way of greeting. “Get some other people too, if you can. We might need help. Also, throw this kid in a closet.”

I'm still waiting for you to tell me why you threw this poor, innocent citizen on my floor.”

In three swift steps March closed the distance between them and pressed the edge of her frying pan menacingly into his chest. “Listen up, numbskull. Thal is in trouble, yeah? We need to help her.”

Israel's eyes narrowed. “Sorry, but hasn't Circe been M.I.A. for the past eighteen months?”

Don't call her that. Don't. She's your friend.”

I'm just trying to figure out how this all works – she shows up out of nowhere after a year and a half of no contact whatsoever, I'm guessing giving you no explanation as to why, and now we're supposed to gather the cavalry and go charging into save her? She is my friend. I care about her.” March dug the frying pan deeper into his ribs. Israel sighed deeply and gently pushed her back. She let him, and the pressure on his chest eased up. “But I don't want to put anyone into any danger unless we know what's going on.”

She wouldn't have dropped contact without a good reason, Israel. You know that. Remember that time she decided she wanted to be a reindeer herder in Finland?”

Yeah.” He laughed despite himself. Lying about somewhere was the envelope Thalia had sent them, covered with unnecessary stamps, bulging with polaroids of her and her reindeer. “God, that was a train wreck.”

March nodded solemnly in agreement. “It was. I'm pretty sure at least three people died. But she was only out of contact for three months. Something must have kept her this time.”

Did she tell you anything?”

No, we didn't have much time–”


March let out a sharp, angry huff. “Look, cheeseball. Thalia's trying to be all cool and James-Bond-y and pretend like she can go at it alone, but really we all know she's more of a Q-type at heart, and dammit, I don't know where she is or where she's been or what she's gotten herself into now, and for all I know she's probably killed a man since I left her. I'm worried. Whatever was going on was not even our usual brand of fucked up. It's, like, extremely fucked up. I'm going to go check it out, whether or not you or anyone else comes with me. But I would appreciate the backup, got it?”

Israel stared down the small, angry girl in front of him. “...Cheeseball?” was all he said.

Smiling, March stepped away and turned back towards the fallen form of Billy. “We head out in half an hour.”

The first thing that Thalia registered when she stepped out the other side of the tunnel was that she could still hear the rain, but she could not feel it. Her gaze was drawn up and it was like diving underwater during a thunderstorm and looking back at the surface. The rain stopped falling just below the top of the wall, making tiny rings in the air.

The next thing she registered was that it was warm in there. Far warmer than it was outside or in the tunnel. Perspiration was already starting to bead on her upper lip and temples.

The third thing she registered was that her sword was in her hand and that she thrust to the left just as the ghost – shrieking, and reaching towards her menacingly – got within striking distance. The ghost exploded at the same time pain exploded in her back and voices exploded in her head, and Thalia dropped to one knee, breathing heavily.

She looked up. Her face - gaunt, blood-spattered, streaked with rain-ruined eyeliner – was reflected back at her hundreds of times from hundreds of angles in the pearly bodies that were floating around her.

A breathy, humorless laugh escaped her. She dug the tip of her sword into the soft earth and used it to heave herself to her feet.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Friday, November 15, 2013

Ne Me Quitte Pas - Regina Spektor

And in the gardens I get lost
That is unless I'm getting found
And if you are the ghost of New York City
Won't you stick around?

Sunday, November 3, 2013

The Limitations of Me

Temporary blog title change until I can decide on something better!!!  I'm super indecisive okay

It comes from the "Frobisher's Letter" scene of Cloud Atlas (or, as I call it, the china shop scene), which I just watched on Friday night and I am still not over it.  I will never be over it.  That movie was gorgeous and heart wrenching and I love it and I'm in pain.  Wow.

The full line is "My life extends far beyond the limitations of me" but that didn't fit.

Here's the scene I'm talking about (warning: there are NSFW parts)

Tuesday, October 15, 2013



So I just wanted to give you all an update about what's happening with this blog and the writing currently on it, as it's been a while since I've done one of those.


Not the URL, just the title.  I'm going to go from "You're All Late For Tea!" to one of four options:
  • "I, Astrophil"
  • "1500 Years Late With Starbucks"
  • "To Boldly Go"
  • "Ex Astris, Scientia"
I haven't decided which yet.  If you like one best, feel free to tell me?  That probably won't end up influencing my decision though.  And yes, two of those are Star Trek references.  No, I don't care.


There are multiple reasons for this.  This first and foremost is that last year, I participated for the second and last time (I'm too old now) in a state writing competition.  There were three big tournaments, and meetings with my school's team every week.  I ended up wining the whole thing, which was super amazing!  But I was writing stories.  Stories based on prompts that I had to write in 40 minutes (except at the state tournament - then we had 35 minutes for the first three rounds, and 30 for the fourth one).  So that took a lot out of me!  I've had trouble writing finished stories since.  I'm not sure why.

Eventually I will type up my favorite stories that I wrote last year (of the practice ones - I will post ALL the tournament ones).  I'll write more about those when I post the first one, which hopefully will be soon, once I get some housekeeping done.

I've been writing a couple other stories too, although it is slow going.  I'm very very busy this year, so please be patient!

As for all my fanfictions - please be even more patient with those.  They're kind of on the back-burner right now.


I do NOT have a lot of time at all this year.  All of the poems I've posted since the start of the school year have been written on the weekends, or super late at night when I should be sleeping but can't.  So please be patient with my sporadic posting.  Sleep and school comes before anything else.

Fourthly:  MUSIC

I really really like music.  I might have some questionable choices sometimes but for the most part my taste in music is PRETTY DAMN GOOD (thanks Mom and Dad!!).  So I'm going to post a song or two every week, maybe with my favorite lyrics from the song too.  You don't have to listen to them, but I like to share things I like!!

So that's it.  That's all I have to say.  I have no way to end this.

Here's a song!

Beautiful Machine (Parts 3-4) by The Apples In Stereo

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Anatomy - A Poem

poetry more like [loud screaming] [sounds of explosions] [lord of the rings soundtrack] [blood sacrifice] [the "where no man has gone before" speech plays softly in the distance]


a monster lives inside of me
she made her home in my chest
for a long time she was angry
and she woke me from my rest
but i made my peace with her
just over a year ago
she's no longer mad, but she won't leave
and that's all i really know

there's a demon in my stomach
but from there she strays, she makes trips
and all my offerings of peace
have fallen dead from my lips
i feel her in my muscles, sometimes,
in my throat and in my head
i don't think she will ever go away
so i'll just live with her instead

there's a ghost that lives close
just under my first layer of skin
she's friends with the demon half the time
and sometimes i feel her sagging in
i do not know whose she is
but maybe she is mine
mostly she's quiet, just humming, buzzing,
and i can deal with that just fine

a skeleton lives in my bones
she wormed her way inside
sometimes if i feel too stiff or full
i know that she is why
i don't know why she's here
i already have a skeleton of my own
she doesn't speak or make any noise
just gives me a second set of bones

a monster lives inside of me
she made her home in my chest
sometimes, now, late at night
i'll be awake while she's at rest
she's heavier then, i think,
while i carry the weight of us both
and remember how i was, how i am,
and hope, and hope, and hope

Sunday, October 6, 2013

The Crooked Thing - A Poem

Title is from "Brown Penny" by W.B. Yeats (favorite poem go read it).

Also, this poem is trash and rhyming is hard.



The Crooked Thing

There is no pressure in my chest
Or lively chorus from therein
No thoughts of another will plague my rest
No feeling of fire on my skin

My heart will not go dancing, no
Nothing quite enough to catch my gaze
I don't know much, but of what I do know
It is a silly, foolish, self-induced haze

Nothing last for everything
Adolescent feelings not exempt
So tell me then, would you, why
Would I let my heart strings get so unkempt?

And if I read tall tales of love
And shining knights saving the day
And archetypes dying for thereof
If you saw, what would you say?

I was not lying, do not accuse
I do not know that feeling
And after it has simply become a bruise
My heart will not go beating

I can smile as the stories of others
But I do not wish for one of my own
For my favorite stories are of sisters, brothers
Friendship, not love, written in stone

You yearn someone else, you let them in
And I watch as you lower down your walls
And perhaps my silence was the greatest sin
As once again I watch you tumble and fall

But I am gentle, I do my best
Not to cast such notions so far away
Yet again you longed for the beating within another's chest
And if it is foolish to me, what should I say?

So through all the knives and tender lies
I will keep my chin held aloft
And when I break, there won't be butterflies
For I'd rather be filled with wasps

Sunday, September 15, 2013

You (A Story About Me) - A Poem

hey kiddo

You (A Story About Me)

and there can be magic
late at night
as you lie on your side
in bed
but it's not always good
not always light
as it pounds and screams
and tears at your head

and there will be those
who will ask you
why you don't just
turn it off
but it's not easy
not something you can do
as you shudder and sob and try
to remember that you're ninety-three percent star stuff

and you will answer
with a half-tried smile
with a mantra you've been repeating
inside of your head
with something you haven't
believed for quite a while
but most will agree with you
even though they were lies that you said

and you will eventually find
the courage for honesty
some won't like that
some will call it a bluff
but even if you find
your confession is a soliloquy
don't worry, don't fret
you're ninety-three percent star stuff

Saturday, June 29, 2013

An Observational Statement About the Tedious Circumstance of Being Alive from the Viewpoint of a Household Cat - A Poem

Sometimes I write things with unnecessarily long titles, and sometimes I write things with necessarily long titles.  This is an example of the latter.

An Observational Statement About the Tedious Circumstance of Being Alive from the Viewpoint of a Household Cat

i am

a cat

i am not

a human

i do not have

carefully laid plans


a voice in

the world

and that should

bother me

perhaps make me


but aside from

the institutionalized ennui

of my

current existence

i find

i am


with taking

your chair

and getting fur

on your best suit

five minutes before

you leave

for an important meeting

Tuesday, June 18, 2013





Look at how goddamn gorgeous this cover is.

Neil Gaiman signed this book.  Neil Gaiman.  Signed.  This.  Book.

Neil Gaiman




Someday I'll write a thing about what Neil Gaiman means to me/why he and his books mean so much to me.*  But for today I'm just going to say please please please read his books.  Read this one.  Read any of them.  Just...read them.  They are so so beautiful.

*To give perspective, Derek Landy has caused many good things in my life and means a lot to me, but Neil Gaiman means about 60x that or more.

Monday, June 17, 2013

*taps microphone*

Um hello yes

The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman comes out tomorrow (June 18, which at time of posting, is in 55 minutes for me)


I have been wailing this song at the top of my lungs all day

Thank you for your time goodbye

Sunday, May 19, 2013

What Art Has Taught Me - A Poem

Copy change of What My Mother Taught Me by Melody Lacina.

It's late and I wrote this in approximately ten minutes and it's bad and I'm too tired to be thinking in flowy language.  At least it's honest I guess.


What Art Has Taught Me

On sheafs of snowy college rule paper,
the little red line shows where notes end
and doodles begin.

Take pictures when you see
or think
of something beautiful.

Don’t be afraid to feel things sometimes.
It’s okay if your tears blur the pen ink
and it’s better to tear up paper than to tear up yourself.

Be aware of the world around you and pay attention to little things,
like orange rivers spilling out into a cat’s yellow irises,
or the way the light is hitting the elderly couple in the café corner.

Care too much about everything.
It hurts your heart a lot
but at least you can say you tried.

Carry some sort of notebook everywhere.
Immortalize the world around you in quick sketches
and half smeared pencil lines.

Monday, April 29, 2013

This I Believe - A Poem


This I Believe

I believe in logic and reason and fairytales.
I believe that princesses are capable of rescuing themselves,
thank you very much,
and the best princes are the ones who look
like they were raised in a library, not a castle.
I believe that knowledge is the air I breathe but that I would still
be a Gryffindor if my Hogwarts letter ever arrives.

I believe that Thomas Edison was an idiot and a conman, and that
the utter lack of Nikola Tesla in the books we use
to teach our kids about the past is obscene.
I believe in strength comes in different flavors -
Queen Elizabeth I of England was just as fantastic
and daring dangerous as Ching Shih.
Julie d’Aubigny would have been one of Shakespeare’s muses.

I believe in taking lessons from the past but not pretending
that the past is over,
because I believe the past has already happened,
is still happening,
and will happen all our lives -
that time is happening all at once and if we just had a force strong enough,
we could break through and see what really happened
and what’s in store.

But mostly, I believe that history is an unforgiving mistress.

I believe that the quantum theory is correct
and nothing tangible exists until it is observed,
and so the same must be true of the intangible -
of love and trust and human resilience.
I believe that music is the one language that everyone speaks
and that it will never die out.
I believe in a god who doesn’t exist anymore
and a god who only exists when I want her to
and that there will be no pearly gates at the end.
The afterlife is what we decide it to be
and some people don’t want to live again -
they just want to go to sleep
for a long, long time.

I believe that H.P. Lovecraft told it like it is,
that W.B. Yeats was a master wordsmith,
that J.K. Rowling is the cornerstone of my childhood,
and so it must be true that people who go by two initials
have a better sense of the world than most everyone else.
And of course, J.R.R. Tolkien had the good sense to go by three
instead of two, and that’s why he spent time talking to the trees -
because he knew they knew what we did not.
And I believe that this world is a senseless and random
repeating pattern of elaborate nonsense that only makes sense
when looks at in pieces and not as a whole.
And those pieces will never fit together.

I believe in rainy days and rubber boots
and lazy summer afternoons spent sleeping under the bookshelf.

I believe in folk songs mixed with alternative rock, punctuated
every now and again by Bach or jazz or the Beatles,
in ancient mythologies moving alongside detective thrillers.
I believe that if I don’t drink coffee I’ll never grow up,
and in drinking hot tea all year long.

I believe in the possible and impossible,
the probable and the improbable.
I never believed in Santa but always in Peter Pan.

I believe in good TV and bad TV and that
Steven Moffat really needs to leave Doctor Who already.
I believe that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
would hate every single one of us and I hope whoever built his coffin
had enough sense to add in space for the all turning
he’d be doing.

I believe the sunsets really were brighter and the trees taller when I was little.
I believe the sunsets are fiercer and the trees wiser now that I’ve grown some.

I believe that the only thing that smells better than old books
is the interior of a car that’s been sitting out in the sun for hours.

At the end, though, I believe I only believe a lot of things when I have to think about it
and that in general
I just believe in semicolons
and ampersands.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

My Starry Nights - A Poem

Um. Written for class based on the prompt, "You don't know it yet, _______, but..."


My Starry Nights

You don’t know it yet, Vincent van Gogh,
but I will not be you.
The girl from a year ago could be seen
as the female shadow cast by the ghost
of a young you - overly emotional and insecure
about literally everything - but I
am no longer that girl.
A year is a year is a lifetime is an infinity,
and infinity has a way about it that changes
those who it touches.

I am still a suffering artist - and how strange!
How strange it is indeed
for one so young to label herself as such, but alas,
that is a link between us
I am willing to admit survives.

For while I am mad, I will not go mad, per se,
in the manner in which you
so fantastically did.  I’m mad
at the world, Vincent, and did you know?
I’m mad at how beautiful it is -
so fully, infallibly beautiful -
because tell me,
my dear,
what should be allowed
to shine so brightly despite all
those trying to dirty it with lies
and crimes and murder?
And it is that anger, that unjust
and righteous anger,
that fuels my fervent and fanatical love
of art and all that it encompasses.

I wonder -
did you not once feel the same?

I made art my religion, Vincent,
a long, long time ago.
I will not succumb to the world and allow it
to swallow my passion as you did.
I knew when I first heard of you that
in you, I could see myself, and
that would be alright, but I also
saw myself as you, in the end,
alone with your sunflowers.
The girl from a year ago could still see that,
see herself alone in a cornfield,
letting the winds of time weather
her to nothing, “for the good of all.”

But as I told you, Vincent,
she is no longer the one calling the shots.
I will not be you, not wholly.
I carry a part of you but not enough
for me to choose to walk to you in the end.
I will not be a post-impressionist, for I
will leave an impression, and leave it loudly
and boldly for everyone to know.

I will make art, Vincent van Gogh, and I’ll be dead
before anyone tells me my art wasn’t alive.
I will be your antithesis, your counterbalance,
or, at least, I will do my best to be.
And someday I hope to stroll past
the Café Terrace at Night and see
the beauty that you once saw.

And it’s the years that separate us that
have given me a truly unfair advantage
in my quest not to be you, for
I am able to look farther into the sky
than you were ever allowed.
I can see with my own eyes
the sprawling expanses of billions of years
of untold history captured in the swirls
and intricate wrinkles of the starry nights
that you were only able to imagine with paint.
And let me tell you -
it is beautiful.

Monday, April 8, 2013


Okay so this isn't a story/poem/any sort of writing but!!!  Over the past few weeks Les Miserables has pretty much taken over my entire life

And this video is amazing and perfect and I just had to share it bye

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

How to Properly Appreciate and Utilize Sweaters - A Poem

Hi my name is Thalia and I post too many poems and like sweaters too much :')


How to Properly Appreciate and Utilize Sweaters

Come to the realization that hoodies
And sweatshirts
Are all well and good but are not
As great
As sweaters

So as not to arouse suspicion
Begin amassing a variety
Of this fantastic article of clothing -
Sweater vests
Sweater dresses
And just plain sweaters
All count
Riffle through your closet and see
If you already own any
That could be brought back from the dead
With a run through the laundry

There are no
Limits on fabric
But wool knit ones
Are generally
The warmest

Begin integrating
Your sweaters
Into your everyday wardrobe

And on the weekends
When you have
Nothing better to do
Gather your sweaters
And dump them
In a pile
On your bed
Careful to avoid the cat
And then flop
Into the sweater nest
And take a nap