The Angels Are Crying

Now they weep as the wind moans with them. The leaves hastily retreat; the flowers hang their heads in shame. Their tears drench all we've treasured, thrown away, take for granted. The sky dresses itself for their mourning; a blanket of grey. Smouldering clouds take command, an out pour of tears. Tears from the ones who have done all they could to heal, mend, and reach out to those in suffering. Even angels can't take so much disaster, as they take our pain with them, up where grief is nonexistent. Or so I'm taught.
"It's just a little rain." 

Was my mother's response when she noticed the tears creep out of my eyelids. At seven years old, thunderstorms were mother nature's worst threat. Roaring winds and violent rainfall nearly inaudible to my screaming. The belief in God, angels, and coexistence of good and evil, which I would be forced to take hand on in years to come. All that mattered now was someone out there was making these terrible pitches, and there was nothing I could do about it.
"Why are they angry?" 

Raging gusts assassinate any life they manage to find. The hand of a child can't calm a beast like the one that charges outside; creeping into my nightmares, keeping me unable to get a wink for hours on end as I cry out longer, waiting for the sound to cease. The sound of heartbreak and undergone misery deludes my mind and goes right past me; in my picture perfect fantasies I don't take the slightest hint of a shattered world in need of healing. 

"Why are they sad?" 

My eyelids fold to their gentle weeping as my never ending pondering keeps me awake. I used to play in their puddles, collections of cold, winter tears. Ice formed around it's edges when the air chilled. Mother would be irate in her knowing I was still awake. With the door ajar, the most I could do right here, and right now, was have this moment of silence, to those who wept and continue to mourn on earth today. 

I feared for my life when my mother swung open the door, saw that I wasn't in my bed asleep. I had disobeyed; crept outside, in my pajamas, let the cold air hurt me, mud now tainted my tangled hair and bare feet. Horrified at the sight of her seven year old out in the calm of a storm, droplets of rain now just sprinkled from a night sky. I couldn't say a word, for she didn't know what I knew.

"The angels are crying." 

They visit me in my terrors when the moon is a bright in the sky, revealing itself when the storm has calmed as I did myself, in knowing they have to be smiling now.

Farewell

Time for Tea, again

Do you dare enter a world where few of this world has explored? If you can handle the task then

Find your way through the door and into the wonderful world of Wonderland; ....... Or is it? 



As you proceed with your journey, you come across a disgruntled girl. She has much to vent about -------> http://Pixton.com/ic:fowi74ca

Crimson

* Full view please.  If hard to read please view the story here: http://brittanybeek.tumblr.com/post/85622578783/crimson

Ana

  It was in my distant and depressing middle school days, that I’d become well-acquainted with a girl named Ana. I can remember, quite vividly in fact, when we first met during the first trimester of the sixth grade. Those were the days; those elementary school days. Though my peers and I were younger and much more naïve back then, I cannot help but feel so conclusive that, despite of our lack of worldly knowledge, we were still so inexcusably cruel. The experience was unlike those of later years to come. Indeed: it was much more scarring. Perhaps, that simple expression “words hurt,” is what led me to Ana.
 She was the ideal kind of girl; little Miss California, Ana was. Her lengthy, slim figure could sell any sort of attire that adorned it, and her translucent, glowing, pale skin sparkled in the light of the sun just as flecks of quartz would in a sidewalk. But it was her hair, and her eyes - oh her eyes!- that everyone, the boys and the girls, fixated their adoration upon. 

It is not necessary to believe the words I share, in fact, I know everyone would scoff at my words, and chalk them up to be words of a disturbed child. But oh no, Ana was real; she is real, and she exists, walking the ground of our populated soil to this day. I know; I’ve seen her, I’ve met her… I was Ana. 

 She was more than an alter-ego, not just surfacing only when I was in times of great distress or anxiety. No. That is not the role Ana played in my life. She didn’t sing for me when my voice trapped in my throat during the sixth grade talent show. Salty tears leaked from a reddened eyes, but did Ana dare speak up? Did her always-steady, always-certain alto sing its way out of my lips? No, it did not, for Ana does not take up such petty tasks like the aforementioned. 

 It was when my classmates decided to be generous and began to bestow upon me terms and phrases that I’d never even thought to insert into my mental dictionary that I grew closer to Ana. With these new additions to my maturing vocabulary, my self-esteem deteriorated. On top of this, my “home,” which was meant to be my sanctuary, was congested with memories and occurrences of blemishes and burdens. At this point, there was not enough to relieve me. 

 She knew this very well, Ana did, perhaps even better than I did. With this knowledge, she decided to give me a quick visit, which slowly, but surely, escalated into somewhat more of a vacation. Her disease contaminated my mind, soul, and body. I skipped one meal, two, three… One day turned into one week, and her stay within me began to display the extent of the effects of the toll her presence had. I struggled with the temptation to skip or to purge what little food I’d managed to consume. I tried to fight her, but it wasn’t before long that others began to see the difference as well. 

 My once pink cheeks started to shrink and revealed the fact that I actually had cheekbones. My chubby stubs of legs underwent the same process of fat-loss, and within weeks, they displayed a clear, obvious outline of my knee joints. Darkened circles enhanced the droopy state of my eyes, while my precious locks became thinned-out and brittle. These were all the consequences of Ana’s visit, yes, but the worst part? That was the recovery phase. 

 The most difficult, most scarring stage of this experience was not paying the price, nor was it when I was becoming Ana, but when I had to teach myself to look in the mirror again, accept me for me, and learn how to willingly eat like before. The process was excruciating, not physically, but emotionally. I dreaded to even glance at my reflection, for I couldn’t do so without criticizing the grotesque appearance of my spine and my ribs poking out from underneath my dry, pale skin or the uneven complexion of my face slapped by the heavy hand of Ana. It took half a year to bleach away the haunting trail that Ana left behind her…

 Ana was real; she is real, and she exists, walking the ground of our populated soil to this day. She walks among our youth and sometimes, even among the matured. Ana lives, and she thrives, hidden by the innocence of timid blue eyes or hazy brown orbs. Ana is real. I know; I have seen her, I have met herr… I was Anorexia.

The Chosen One

It was strange, Nakita mused, to be a ‘chosen one.’ Two years ago, she had been the disgraced princess of Kaphrus, who was reviled for her adventurous nature. Now however, it seemed that the fate of the Multi Universe had been shifted from their ruler’s shoulders to her own.

Nakita growled, fists clenching on the window sill. The evil demon’s, Kumraa, mind has been restored after being defeated and locked away in the Shadow Realm centuries ago. Now all of the universes were in grave danger. The burden of saving everyone had fallen to Nakita. She recalled the Cosmic Heart’s words to her the day it was discovered she could read the ancient scripture that Kumraa could also read.

“There will be a decision you have to make in the near future. If you make the right decision, both curses will be lifted and you and your family shall not perish. But if you make the wrong decision, everyone you hold dear will perish. The Cosmic Empire will crumble, and the multi universe will spin out of control into eternal chaos.”
So, no pressure then.

All she wanted was fun adventures, discovering new areas, living with the animals, being free. It is all because she started finding these hidden scrolls that her true meaning in life has been revealed.  Sighing, she sat down heavily on her bed, head in her hands. She was the Chosen One, she was the one who’d lift the curses and fight evil, she was the one who’d save everyone.

And she never wanted it.

Revenge of the child Snow White

The two horses sped away, a small blood-stain remaining on the floor behind them.  Although her body was gone, the girl's spirit remained, oblivious to the vice that had taken her brief and innocent life.
All that remained was blood and spirit, the body lost to oblivion.  A rose lay gleefully on the cold, frosted earth, the snow no longer pure, disturbed by the prints of horse and human alike. The raven cawed in the abyss, its manic cackle a reminder of its influence in the girl's creation.
The girl wandered aimlessly in her incorporeal form, helpless, confused.  Her tears seemed to solidify as they hit the ground, their ghostly warmth melting the snow.  Eventually her sorrow turned to rage, the injustice of her coming and going the fuel for the anger that burned in her eyes.
But it was no use to her now; the harbingers of her pain were too long gone, and her only company was the biting cold, and a hooded silhouette, that tailed behind her like a shadow, giving her the illusion of life in her ghostly state.
She spent the night tirelessly following the path out of the forest, following the tracks left behind by her creator's corpse. 
Her fury drew her further away from the place she fell, guiding her out of the forest.  She followed the road for another day, the shadow that tailed behind her coming and going at will.  There was a silent understanding between them – it would go about its business and then return to her once she dealt with hers.
A large estate grew before her as she walked in blissful ignorance of the cold.  The wind carried screams to her.  Not screams of pain or sorrow but outbursts of pleasure.
The ghost of the snow child crept up the stairs, blind in her curiosity.  The raven could be heard cawing outside, adding its voice to the winds howl and carried pleasure.  A blizzard had begun to form, adding fury to the snow that it released from the sky.
The shadow returned, more solid now than before, yet still a phantom to the eyes of even the ghost.  Its impression could be seen upon the door of the chamber where the blissful release of energy emanated.  Its figure was bony and hunched, carrying an object – a poisoned knife.
The door creaked open from the wind.  The snow child crept in.  The sight was of the Queen and her newest woe, their various limbs tangled upon each other in a frenzy of lust.
The phantom filled with anger.  Her time had been brief, the flame of life she had being snuffed out unfairly by the jealous wrath of the Queen, defiled by impure greed.
The window opened, snow filling the room.  The Queen and her toy froze in an instant. 

 The phantom that shadowed the snow child harvested them, tasting every sweet drop of revenge.