Under the Soft Clouds
Butterfly kiss on my bare skin
Cold ice whirled in fizzy lemonade
Cotton candy clouds fluffy in the blue sky
Sunset rising, telling of summers presence
Butterfly kiss on my bare skin
Cold ice whirled in fizzy lemonade
Cotton candy clouds fluffy in the blue sky
Sunset rising, telling of summers presence
Mom always said that she loved looking out her crystal window. She admired the clear blue sky that twinkled softly against the ivory reflection that gave her a calm sense of tranquility. And no doubt would she leave out the presence of the gracious purple-lined butterfly.
She had always told me about her isolated afternoons alone. How she would sit unaccompanied at our warm painted wooden table, and do nothing but listen to the faint symphony of sounds around her while staring amidst into the open window.
I had thought this practice was strange and maybe even delirious, but the opening grimace of concealed joy always flashed effortlessly across her face, so I hypothesized that her ritual was only for pure entertainment.
Mom would also always mention the anomalous single butterfly that would ardently visit her. She explained that the peculiar creature would sometimes stop beautifully on one of our flower pots or bat it’s delicate wings constantly next to our glass window. Consistently reminding me of the butterfly’s odd character, mom would claim that the mere animal’s persistent behavior would make her think it was trying to send her a message or tell her something.
But only a twelve year old, even that implication of telekinesis or the order of speech with an animal was foreign to me.
So it was that one day after school, my backpack still heavy around my shoulders, that I would ask mom why she had conjured up these unusual perceptions.
Standing soundlessly in the kitchen, I modestly observed my compassionate mother and studied her mellow nature.
The sun tenderly gleaming through the window, she dreamily peered out into the open world -- strands of her smooth brown hair gracefully sliding out of her bun.
When she had finally turned her head and saw me waiting, she welcomed me home and we talked together for a short moment before she returned back to her alluring dimension outside the window.
Trying to hear the muted reticent orchestra my mother spoke happily about, sparks of wonder slowly sang through my body as I noted every line of movement my mom made.
So piecing together an undetermined audacity and courage, wonder ignited through the song of my voice. The words came out hushed -- nothing less than a breath of air. Mom, why are you like this now?
There was a deafening moment of stillness. I thought I could hear the faraway flaps of a soaring bird.
Then, steadily my mother faced me with her deep brown eyes. She beamed faintly and then spoke in her mild and tender-hearted tone.
She told of how on a bitter and cold day she felt that something had been taken away from her -- something so subtle but of great value. This something, she stopped for a few seconds, was a part in her life that she could never live without.
There was always a burning pain that tore at her heart she explained, a mix between harsh logic, bewildering sadness, and enchanting confusion.
So to soothe the unceasing sorrow that constantly enshrouded her mind, she would gaze out the window trying to find what she had lost long ago.
Contemplating on the earth’s creations and majestic creatures, she hoped that staring out the window would inspire her to remember what was stolen from her.
My mom paused, as tears glossed her eyes and danced off her eyelids -- dewdrops racing down her face.
I stood frozen, my mouth slightly agape as thoughts tumbled in my mind.
As a young child, a pure innocent being only newly introduced to the world… seeing my mom cry, feeling the agony she described bubble in my chest, and being strained by confusion of the unknown.
………….even I knew what that meant
Winds of spring hummed through the air, passed through the open window, and fluttered against my face as I imagined a world outside the classroom.
I stared back at our female teacher, and rested my chin on top of my right fist.
Today we were learning about the Dream World -- the threatening obscured land on the other side. Rumors told that you could only arrive in the Dream World if you obliterated reality from your mind and fall into the blurred dimension of dreams.
Although I did understand the urgency of this extraordinary situation, I just didn’t comprehend why we had to read a whole textbook about the cautionary steps of avoiding the Dream World.
I ran the tip of my fingers on the smooth glazed paper of the textbook, skimming through the section about how to never visit the old realm tree that could pull you into the other dimension.
Someone threw a crunched piece of paper behind my head.
I momentarily leaped away from the pages of the broad book and reached down to pick up the rolled ball of paper that flew across the room to hit me.
My eyes ran to the back of the room… and I found the boys laughing, the girls gossiping, the teacher oblivious from what had occurred.
The heart in my chest flittered slowly, it’s tangled roots twisting into a demented mess of futile emotions.
Ever since I had been imprisoned in school, I had been the prey of this vicious world.
I never felt immersed in in this unconventional realm -- the spirits always seeming to tail me away from their world. And of course, I never fitted in like any of the other average kids that surrounded me.
They would always make fun of the hair. The long slick lines of hair that coursed my fine scalp, not one strand of hair imperfect or entwined in a curl. My threads of silky hair bled of a shadowy black, darker than the starless skies of a indistinct night or the nothingness of a non-existing universe.
This would only contrast to my white dewy skin that decorated a colorless shade. My face was the pigment of soft falling snow that delicately shattered to the ground, or even the shining stain of a piece of chalk that my teacher would paint with on the board.
I was like the definition of the impossible. Having two sentiments of color rushing between the worlds of light and dark was like accumulating opposite worlds that would never settle on their serene fate.
My hand choked the packaged globe of paper as my teeth collided against each other.
I studied the view outside the window -- my observance focusing on a tiny yellow dot that streamed on the far side of the world. I felt as if I could see the old ream tree’s leaves flying to the ground.
Right then I knew for certain that despite what people said and thought of me… despite the flaming rage that I had for this hideous world
...……... that I would visit the tree.
After school when I arrived at home that evening, mom informed me that she was taking me to a doctor’s appointment.
Something about being worried about my irregularly measured height, my pale faded aurora, and my thin svelte composure.
Even though I did genuinely have a warm intimacy with my mother, at times, I could only descry her as one of the weak favored shadows that drowned this world.
She couldn’t see my sole and lone character, my unique persona, or even my fascinating perspective on things. She couldn’t see that I was a perilous thorn amongst a bed of fragile flowers. She didn’t even know that I wasn’t from this…
But regardless of my inner whispered nature, we would still appear at the doctor’s office.
Where we would hear the same recited counsel from the callous doctor, where my mom would sympathetically nod her head at every word she heard, and where I would wander along the bleak office with my eyes -- enjoying the white space that seemed to melody with my skin… until I was too tired to think and I would fall into a deep sleep.
The morning after the doctor’s appointment, I readied myself to go to school.
So just as I was about to step out the doorstep, I would glance at my mom sitting at our table as she searched outside the window.
Her eyes still pinned on the window, she would mumble a soft have a nice day at school before my shoes would reach the outside concrete.
I could only suffocate on the hypnotizing words slightly, for my own corrupt heart had lied to my own mother. For I would live out my promise to myself to visit the forbidden old realm tree thriving on the far shore of the land.
So with crumpled change resting in the darkness of my pockets, I took advantage of the advanced train systems that reinforced the transfer structure in this world.
For every solid coin or any worth of money, I could only apprehend the rigorous and tiring journey in my exchange.
The money, these simple based elements crushed and mended for thousands of years, could voyage around the world through an invisible interchange system of synthetic machinery. A hidden trade work that could carry me anywhere I craved.
So after a effortless and mute ride on the transport system, I eventually stopped at the far shore of the world.
The melting sun painted it’s polychromatic rays across the sky, declaring the imminent appearance of noon as the aged realm tree stood powerful and constructed in the middle of the field.
Treading past germinating beams of grass, I steadily made my way up to the stunning plant.
Amber leaves from the blossoming tree faintly whirled down from it’s velvety branches and settled in peaceful melancholy on the nature ground.
I could only watch in awe as bundles of leaves slid off the seizing branches that seem to cry out in poignant mercy for their astray attendance.
It was strange, for I felt as if there was a subdued reminiscing of belonging when I saw the tree. Something about it’s embracing illumination, crestfallen portrait, and the way the leaves from the tree would carry their heartaches down, ever so gently, like snapshots freezing in fleeting increments.
But as the realm tree covered me in it’s hospitable environment, an instant glimmer caught my eye.
I rotated myself to see an image of a intricate striped butterfly flying amidst the open field -- it’s soaring wings opening vaguely. My eyes adjusted on the airborne figure, and I noticed it’s distinguished purple lining that crested beautifully down it’s underside.
I paused for a second, my mind conducting and releasing ideas and philosophies. Was this the purple butterfly that mom always talked about?
I shook my head reasonably. No it couldn’t have been, the butterfly would have to travel hours to get here.
Seeming to read my thoughts, the aigle purple-lined butterfly spun fluently in a revolved circle, and landed gracefully on my pointed finger.
The world and this whole plan seem to ultimately make sense as I desperately revolved myself around the entire sketch of reality and dreams.
I examined the murmured traces between the twirling leaves and the beats of the rippling butterfly.
My heart roamed back to the memories of the threatening night and the undetectable exchange between two worlds.
I shot my vision at the butterfly resting on the tip of my finger…
…………….Was it trying to tell me something?
All I could remember was the crisp rain crashing against the window -- the deafening roar of thunder, as drops of rain slid down the crystal glass. The snowy bright moon was up, and I laid tousled against my small bed that gently rocked back and forth like a swaying boat on the calm sea.
Then there was a figure. An ominous dark shadow that loomed over my crib, with a silver pointed knife at hand. The moon shone against the blade and the dagger glistened brilliantly before my eyelids gradually opened.
The night was beautiful with the sweet whisper of wind as my terrified screams burned through the dark.
I was stolen, swept away from all that I had ever known and loved -- taken away secretly in a hushed breath.
And when I looked back at my warm comfy cradle, my outer self ten years older as I banged mercilessly at the invisible force that constrained me from entering my past world… the baby inside the crib was not me.
My parents always warned me about the Dream World. The mystifying world of subtle fantasies and the prosperer of heart-wrenching nightmares.
It is said that any person who enters into the dream world through blanketed sleep is to be erased from the reality realm. Knowing too much about the abnormal universe on the the other side, rumors tell that Overwatchers from the Dream World come to abduct any innocent minds that live in the momentary trance.
For it was promised through shrouded cloaks and insecure handshakes that both worlds would keep their cursed peace… if they didn’t know the truth about the other.
But I was different. Growing up as a inquisitive and anxious individual wanting to know everything about the world and its mysteries, it was definite that I would have the capability to infiltrate the confounding world beyond.
So foolishly shunning out the warnings from my blood parents, only a young baby in my crib, I glided to a shrouded and misted land far away from our universe. Venturing through paradox cosmos and flaming stars, everything seemed to mix together in a equivocal space. Time, emotion, and the knowledge of anything seem to freeze… until I reached the Dream World.
When I was there the feeling of warmth spread through my skin as I steadily woke. All around me was the sprouting roots of grass and the blank gray sky that seemed to mourn for color. The tall rays of grass reeked of a dead but lively dull green tint -- the sky complementing it with it’s insipid taste of life.
Unhurriedly rising to my knees, I scanned the vast lands of the Dream World. Dark mountains seem to conquer every sort of scenery and any living organism seem to die in it’s colorless comforts.
Beginning to search around the inexplicable land, my heart suddenly stopped to a halt.
My eyes diverted down to my feet and my tender hand briskly swept against my face. I stood motionless in the fields of grass as the world seemed to come crashing down on me.
Unlike my former self inside my fine and elegantly-made cradle, now inside the dream world I was older and took on a different shape. I was more mature and built like an adolescent, nothing like my fragile structure as a baby. My brown hair was longer and I wore clothes that tailored towards my uprising posture.
Thoughts, memories, and pictures of realization snapped into my mind as my heart slowly began fluttering against my chest again. This is what the Dream World is like, I thought to myself, as I ran with wonder towards the moonless mountains.
When I stepped on to the dusky mountains, a whole new world opened to my vision.
Everywhere like reigning weeds on the rolling hills of the mountain were shadowed figures progressively walking. The smoggy silhouettes seemed to inch systematically with each step despite their customized foundation.
The dark shadows were long legged creatures, with a vertical spine and a symmetrical small head. Some appeared to wear drawn-out cloaks or even hats that suited them perfectly.
Even through the crowd of inching outlines, some of the unfathomable creatures reminded me of young kids who wore the extensive cloaks in my world, except in the Dream World these shadows seemed more lifeless and lost.
Although the striding shades did prompt me towards my own world, this didn’t hide their strange behavior.
As I stood in the middle of the sauntering shadows, they seemed to pay no attention to me. They acted as if they had some kind of purpose, although for all that I could see, they seemed to be walking into nowhere.
I couldn’t put the tip of my tongue on it, but the shades were so lively… but at the same time so lifeless.
But as I hesitantly reached out to touch one of the creatures to remedy my curiosity, a strong grip pressed against my shoulder and spun me around.
I was faced with one of the same shadows, except this one in particular was dramatically shorter and possessed a more gruesome face. Realizing that the shade was an Overwatcher, my legs mounted against the ground in a stunned reaction.
Then as the Overwatcher slowly drew me in closer into his blank features, he graciously whispered the words: Ream Lander.
I awoke to foggy clouds and soft winds as the Overwatcher stood in front of me. We were surrounded by complete darkness and nothing but the vibrations of our ringing voices.
As I stared in a trance into the nothingness of the Overwatcher's face, he spoke in his deep rumbling voice as he explained everything to me.
He told of dreams and how they pulled and allured people into their deep fantasies and fascinating pleasures. Whether the dream is conducted by a person whose minds are drawn with immoral thoughts, or the individual is just curious… the person is forever embedded in the Dream World.
The Overwatcher continued with the shadows, how these humans who have fallen into the Dream World by mistake or with purpose never return to the reality realm. And that if they desire to return to their home, they must live eternally and surrender their lives to claim their original form.
So each one of the shades are given a vision to their true reality, where they cannot be seen by their loved ones or other shades. Rather, they are challenged with the ongoing impediment of getting back their lives through a clear invisible force. Whether these spirited shadows fight to grasp their souls or be consumed by the hate, envy, and emotions of the shade is up to them.
When the dark Overwatcher finished his description, he shot his hand into the darkness and created an empty swirling portal that ignited quickly through the dark.
Although tears began flowing down my face and I refused to enter the doorway, the Overwatcher illustrated his last final piece to me.
He spoke of how entering the portal would make me serve as one of the shadows that aimlessly walked for lifetimes… never aging but with purpose until there was none. How as a young shade I would get a flash of my own reality in my own world and that I had to save my past form or I would slave as a shade forever.
The Overwatcher advised me of how as a shade in the reality realm, even though I couldn’t be seen in my regular or shade structure, that I could reincarnate as a personal spirit animal in my world.
And how when I was in the mesmerizing fake reality, that I would be accompanied with a simple aged tree that counted the transient time I had left in my own realm.
Then before words could softly fall off my lips, with a single nimble motion, the Overwatcher pushed me into the portal and I tumbled down to my invisible vision.
Now in my mere reality that was blocked by an interior force, I recounted the mission on my hands and reawakened my motivation to return back to my own world. I ran around my own realm and constantly knocked at the invisible shield to notify my parents I was there, trying to tear away at the eternal tenacious window that secluded me on the other side. I would also change timelines and certain events to show them that I was present.
And most of all, I would battle my Dream World replacement and struggle to gain back my place in the real world.
Where I would take menacing risks and chances to free myself from my distressful state. To find that wisp of hope to help me endure through the tragic times. And to observe my parents grow old with my replacement, feel the piercing pain of their memories, and to watch as the leaves from the faded tree wither and gently fall to the ground… while I die further away from reality.
He was the one who shattered the dreams of kids. The hidden criminal who stole the gleeful smiles and the sparkling eyes of every single culprit. He took the unperturbed conscience of the innocent world, the luminescent light that roamed every corner, and twisted the faultless universe into an underworld of warfare and crime.
Or so that’s what they thought.
Looks are deceiving. Everyone is beautiful. We are not skin-deep, is all the inequitable world could say. But their trivial remarks would bend into a shining orb that mirrored their hypocrisy and prejudice. They would mend their unjust affairs and throw their remorseless lies on the gentle monster of the unseen world.
For all they had ever known, he was always there. The tender giant that slept under the beds of little children.
He was a lost shadow, only a whisper to what he beheld and truly was. A placid friend at heart, only to be ripped into the realms of a vicious monster. Candidly, he was an adrift beast of pure intention, searching for a friend with an open mind and a spiraling character.
And so he rested beneath the rickety mattresses of young kids, knowing that the newly born souls were genuine and true.
But he was wrong.
Around the world, society slowly tore the friendly beast into a devil of cruel works and wicked majesty. They would make kids of young and old inculcate their nefarious stories of the evil monster that cleverly hid under their beds. Movies, books, sayings… they were all present to dethrone the provision of a compassionate beast.
So youthful children began closing their closets and putting glistening lamps beneath their sleeping kingdoms. They started telling others of the savage giant and began believing the perverse deceits of the world.
And so the cycle commenced. Future generations were exposed to the darkening light and the devious acts of the murderous monster.
The world became worse and worse until not even people of the same blood could trust each other… they became more sadistic, more cold-blooded, more inhuman.
It was simple. A plan so astute, so clever, that no genius could stop the world-wide domination of the competent lies.
The world would persist in their wrongful discriminations -- mounding up accusations, falsehoods, and untruths -- until the count was so many that the kind beast was a demon, possessor of subtle assassination.
For now, he would stay as the monster underneath the bed.
It is thought that the more people the merrier, as to more minds build a stronger and more intelligent world. But unlike the floating phrases softly sewn into the wind, the world strained of this wisdom would transform their initial refined ideals into a dark and dastardly universe.
And it would stay like this for some time.
Even though the powerful remembrance of goodness was once alive, the world would never learn from their ignorant mistakes... Their lies once truths...
because they were too afraid to realize that the monsters were in them all along.
lost souls of the past and distant notes to the future
gray outlines crying eternally
being forgotten in the past and to be forgotten in the future
I watched as Liam shape-shifted into his original form. The mighty ferocious wolf that laid in front of me gradually morphed into it’s real figure. As the wolf mended into his realistic outline, he slowly became the teenage boy that I remembered. He had dirty blonde hair that was gracefully placed on the grass and those familiar green eyes that would pierce into my soul. When the shift had finalized him into his former self, I grabbed his messy hair and brought him closer to me -- his face a breath away from mine. His lips were stained with the color of ripe berries and the poison I used to knock him out coursed through his blood. My hand still holding on to him, I used my other hand to quickly dig through my satchel. Then as I cautiously lifted the sharp pointed dagger out of my bag, the top glistening in the sun, I tilted the knife towards his chest.
“I’m sorry Liam.” I said hesitantly, my grip wrapping tighter against the dagger.
“This is for my kingdom.”
I tentatively watched as the bizarre and alien frog legs leaped into the blistering pan and shriveled to their horrid deaths -- the foreign creature crying in soft withers of misery as it oozed an unidentifiable green substance.
It was morning, and the first meal of the day called out in urgent woe and distress.
I shifted my attention to the sweltering pan as my grandma attentively released the frogs into the makeshift cauldrons that would ensure their slaughter and expiry. My mind focused on the cessation of the innocent culprits as the animated yells of my three other cousins echoed throughout the house.
Adding spices, herbs, and garnishes, I examine the actions of my grandma as she ravishes for any remaining ingredients in the fridge and fires the materials onto the stove. For a second I feel pity for the executed legs, and I silently promise to myself that I will host a funeral for them. But as I pray for a great whole new life for the tattered frogs, I’m interrupted by the gentle voice of my grandma, telling me to pick some tomatoes in our miniature garden.
Listening to the mellow command from my grandma, I swiftly bow my head and utter the phrase: “Thank you for having me” to her before I gleefully prance outside.
Our garden is like the portal to another world -- mesmerizing but also aberrant. I scan the vast fields of our small world, the lapping wind slightly pushing against my face as a shimmer in the plants catches my attention.
Then as I step forward to investigate the mysterious glisten, there lies a vibrant, shining, red tomato. I instinctively twist the tomato off its knotted vine and place the intoxicating garden aroma under my nose -- a smell that bleeds of fresh vegetation.
After a few examines I decide on the chosen tomato and I hurriedly run inside the house to show my grandma my perfect pick. I bow my head upon entering the house and repeat the same line “Thank you for having me” as I excitedly boast about my flawless tomato. All grandma does is give a warm smile and calmly cradles the tomato in her hands as she drops it into the scorching pan.
Then after a few moments of frying and the distinct odor of garlic has empowered the house, in seconds a bowl of sauteed frog legs and tomatoes serenely lies in front of me -- wisps of steam still rising from my meal.
At first, I just frown at the mysterious supper; frog legs still jagging out of the mushy porridge. But as my stomach gurgles in hindered starvation, I slowly poke into the soup and gradually chew on the exotic creature. In hinds sight the meal is out of the ordinary, a dish that urges for acquired tastes. But as my jaw works on the scavenged ingredients, my eyes open up to a whole new world of colors and savory textures that course through my mouth.
Before I know it my stomach is filled with the hot soup, and I drop my empty bowl into the sink that is replenished with soapy water. The fiery sun begins to set, and I know I have to act quickly or my time will be up.
So wrapping my professional doctors coat around me as I gather my medical tools, I sit each of my cousins on a wooden stool and carefully examine their health condition. I accurately place a popsicle stick on each of my cousins’ tongues, especially making sure that their tongues are pigmented correctly.
Then as I go through my next procedure, I persist in scanning my cousins eyes, listening to their heartbeats, and forcing them into doing ten jumping jacks. I would also attempt into brainwashing them that I was the best doctor out there, and that any other health care or medical service would provide no help to them.
But as my cousins crawl up the stairs like awakened zombies, my soul somehow also makes it into bed. I smile with an adorable grin, recalling on my wonderful day of perpetual memories as I try to squish the lowering shining orb outside the window.
I was a doctor and I was keenly aware of it. I was the one who would save people when I was older, pursuing the occupation of a doctor and enlightening people from the dead. I was going to impact the world and I knew it.
As I lay in bed dazed from the recurring times of the past and the future, I vigorously illustrate my plans to my fellow cousins. We laugh and talk about things any other child would talk about. Then as we concentrate on the timid footsteps of our grandma, we rapidly shut our eyes and our voices become hushed in the midst of the night. And before I know it, I’m away in my dreams, caring no less about what will happen in the future...
There was darkness and the swishing voices of people echoing in the vast darkness. I was alone, staring blankly at the world of darkness that enveloped me into its realms.
Then my feet slightly lifted off the ground and I teleported to a large room full of people. The odd humans around me were mercilessly sobbing, and in the distance I saw a figure that was very familiar. My hair was longer and I wore unique clothes different of my time era. But as I tried to step closer and inspect the bewildered situation, entreated screams and the rings of police sirens shattered in front of me. I watched innocently with confusion, as doctors unjustly pierced through the womans heart and death overcame her. Shouts soared through the roof and gray outlines cried eternally.
I was now back in the darkness, stolen from the room as the reverberating sounds of the crashing situation stirred in my mind. I could remember the cries of the shadowed figures, and looking back at their mourning made tears stream down my eyes.
If that was what doctors did, kill… then I never want to be anything like that.
I suddenly flash back to reality, my eyes still pondering off to the mesmerizing view outside as my teacher talks for centuries.
It is period 3, Language Arts, and the mistress that teaches the class yapps like a chihuahua non-stop.
My gaze fixates on the soft swaying trees outside, my head subtly bobbing along as our instructor speaks like it’s her last chance to speak.
Looking back, being a child was truly great. There was no stress, we didn’t get any homework, and we also didn’t have to face some dilemmas in life that we would never step foot on. I tapped my index finger mildly on my polished wooden desk, my perceptions racing from timeline to timeline as the bell blared inside our open classroom.
Later as I walk home from school to visit my grandma, I pick some of her favorite yellow flowers. The plants were bright and full of light, expressing their love of living in this boundless world. They actually reminded me of my grandma, the ordinary little flowers were full of empathy and compassion.
A few minutes later as I stroll along the cement paths, I take a sharp right turn and my feet brush against the green grass. I make my way up the bumpy dirt as I clutch the beautiful flowers against my hand.
As I get closer to the gray monument that graciously embraces her life and tells of her extensive story, I tilt my head and grin gratefully. My arms cross together into a bow and I happily say “Thank you for having me” into the silent air.
Had I known that you would someday become a fair-minded, perceptive, and beautiful individual… may I have congratulated you
Had I know that you would cry in the corner and endure the trials that were not even of your own burden… may I have comforted you
Had I known that you would achieve your dreams and aspirations that you drew on your bucket list when you were younger… may I have supported you
Had I known you were worthy of my love… maybe this story would’ve been different.
It is expected that we don't steal. Society governs us in a way that brainwashes us to never lay a finger on something that was never of our own. People gloat about their pristine and enlightened spirits even after the beginning of the making and mending of their souls commenced due to the repress of purloin. But for the cloaked organization that conceals themselves under the moonless shadows that awaken in the darkest of nights... stealing is merely nothing but survival. Yes hindered by the world, the secluded organization that dances between every brisk silhouette is adjudged as futile detritus that sweeps through streets. People ostracize and eschew us, look down on us as feeble-minded apes, and would even send us to the execution ring. So it is adequate that we peculate what we have lost and savor the vengeance that we have longed for. We survive off of the consternation and distress of others, and take back all that we have lost. I will never look back on that day again. It will only motivate me and make my abhorrence stronger to make people perceive what I had felt. I will make sure that the puppets that get hooked on our choking strings will never get spared mercy. Yes this is the story of our attempt to get our sweet revenge.
Written in the perspective of the individual who learned
I listen to the soft hums of the wind as my vision constantly checks the thin moving lines of my modernized device. My heart diligently knocks at my chest as I hearken closely for any signs of movement. I swiftly dart my perception towards my silver watch and it reads: 4:00 AM -- before quickly returning to my frozen stance. My physiognomy manages to run a gentle smile, and I silently laugh at my condition. A teenager thieving efficient gas from senior citizens, isolated and alone, in a gas station in the middle of nowhere.
But my mind suddenly snaps back towards my situation by reflex, and there I am again staring at my next elderly target. My eyes trace the paths of my icy breath as the two lines on my incessant time reader race to strike the 4:05 AM point. Strangely, I hold back my breath until one of the lines touches the abbreviated arrows that signals the universe to let go of one single minute -- before I exhale all the warmth from my lungs.
I seem to frown at my polished compass of time because I can feel the creased folding-points of my face slowly dip into my cheeks as I fidget with the transparent but yet sophisticated mechanism. The windows to my vision project to the sky as I scan for the Northern Lights for any signs of upcoming events. What was taking them so long? I can feel the released warmth from my lungs gradually begin to dot my face as I wordlessly yell at my idiocy. They probably left me to do the real job so that when I came back they could get all the rewards. I gently smack my forehead in contrition before I'm interrupted by the mute beeping of my tracking device.
I abruptly seize my key to success, and I bring my eye up to the reader. The unremitting line seems to swiftly run from one side to the other as it calculates how much gas each vehicle accommodates. After five whole seconds the apparatus insists that the contemporary automobile conceals over half a tank of gasoline. I grin with a malevolent aura as my mind consumes the portrayal of the slick aesthetic machinery.
The car was like a convoluted argument -- structured with a defined representation and a poised sort of arrogance. This one car in particular reminded me of a marine dolphin, with it’s smooth but subtle arch and it’s rising fin that complemented the outlook of the presentation. I could spot that the possessor of this extortionate vehicle was in the next door gas station market, so this was unquestionably my chance to sweep in and borrow the liquid gold for good.
So working quickly with my hands, I briskly swipe my gadgets and place them neatly into my satchel. My legs now sprinting without hesitation towards the large RV that is conveniently positioned near the paradise of liquid gold. I serenely open the elevated door that holds my key to success, and I mildly tiptoe towards the taker of all things valuable. Discreetly I cavort over mountains of unhealthful junk food as I reach out and grasp towards my way of accomplishing my mission. Yes this wasn’t my conveyance vessel, but I had to temporarily place my machine here just because the vehicle was asking me to come over since it happened to be parked next to the gas station. Plus I had to move fast, even though decrepit and incapacitated citizens seem to be old and sedate, this was only a measure to how observant and heedful they actually were.
Now clutching onto my gas herder -- a slender tube that would grab all of the transportation fluid I desired, I gingerly paced out of the substantial car and into the open morning. Outside it was still dark and cold like I had recalled, except now the glistening stars that slept in the sky had now vanished. I persistently trudged with my taker of gas cradled over my shoulder as I blindly sauntered through the unlit pathways. It was palpably darker when I had exited the RV, so it was difficult to normally walk on the sidewalks. But as my feet hastened down steps that my senses didn’t remember collecting into their memory storages, my intellect began to go into a juncture of perturbation and apprehension. After it seemed like thousands of deteriorating steps, I began to get skeptical of where I was leading myself. But petrified with the conclusion of the moneyed car owner finding me stealing his luxury gas, I sustained my gradual plod into the gloom.
Through the shadows that I was so familiar with, my hands began to indiscriminately feel through the surroundings of which I perceived was the vehicle that I had based my plan on. As the sensation of an annular orifice slightly ringed against my lightest touch, I then tugged at my gas keeper and plugged it into the opening. A peculiar feeling in my lower stomach urged me that something was anomalous, but I sternly prompted myself that I had to complete what I had come for. So as my finger gracefully landed ever so softly on the switch of my triumph, I instantly flickered the light to my achievement.
Until there was a subdued outcry from the source of the circular gap had my sanity progressively become overcome with dubiety and incertitude. There was a leaden mourn from the vehicle, and then suddenly a burst of water that battled me backwards. I found myself drowned in a pool water with a eerie aroma, as I struggled to catch on to what had occurred. A muffled cry managed to escape the depths of my soul, as I accepted my fate. I had failed.
I awoke to dim neon lights and the blaring sounds of the sirens of a police car, as my wrists were tied together and my silver watch replaced with metal handcuffs. Apparently I had unintentionally fooled myself with the root of a sewer line rather than my ideal lavish gasoline. It was going to be a long journey I could tell because I would later be sentenced to five months of prison. But the only real memory I could recall on my attempt was the excruciating ride from the gas station to the police office. My recollection clutched against the ringing phrase that the cop had story told to me about never even thinking about stealing again. But I knew that was the past now, it was only a distant memory that taunted me at the weaknesses of my soul.
Now I was suited in an empty room in the police facility. The walls around me secreted of a dull white shade and the only source of color was imprinted in the black letters that proudly shone throughout my imprisonment. The characters bleakly illustrated the life lesson of an individual who never strived to steal anything. I happily beamed at those words and lightly shook my head. I knew these fallacious terms were only present to propagandize me into surrendering my life to death. But unlike many of the habitual human species that gave into surrender to their passions and past lives, I was different. I would survive ungrudgingly with the yearning for the success I spoke of and will live through. I stared at the blankness of the walls filled with capabilites as thoughts spun through my mind, I had five months to plan out my next plan for sweet revenge.
Welcome wandering reader to this idiosyncratic adventure crafted by one small individual in the world!
I have recently found this peculiar website and I've got to say it's the only one that has stuck to my life. Many things that are not of ones interest can float away as once something significant into a memory that has been shrewdly erased from their minds forever. But before you estimate me as one of the many quick-witted and intellect older human species on this website, please accept my introduction.
I live as a young preteen that enjoys engrossing myself in the world of pen on paper. My life must survive for writing not only because it's different opinions, styles, and authors... but also because I can also express my emotions and passions through writing until the fateful day of becoming a teen arrives knocking at the door. Yes some may say that a juvenile that relishes writing is foolish, but I guess that's why I don't consider myself normal. The majority of the prospering human empire will claim that children should play video games, hang out with their friends, text their significant other, or keep up with the ongoing fads(that never seems to stop)... but I am different.
A day in my everyday life, I attend the paradise of knowledge much like other adolescents. I am a loyal student that likes watermelon jolly-ranchers and views the world through different eyes unlike many(I mean many) of my empty minded peers. At the heaven of education I'm a individual that participates in many active sports. I also am an amateur writer, music composer, and observer of the universe. One of the many things I most enjoy at tuition is after school clubs. I'm the coach of a Debate Team that empowers kids to speak dynamically through techniques and motivation. But at night it is a totally different story.
Through the midst of the clouded, full moon nights, that ring with the howls of wolves... I identify as the dangerous fwuffy bunny. Yes as you read through this story, don't be fooled by my adorable username and my childish photo -- but rather view me as a writer. Scrolling through the lives of authors I comment, like, and enter the daring challenges that offer the one ten-thousandth of a million reward. And before I even get to lightly see a little part of your guys lives through your wonderful stories, I gently close my eyes and imagine where and when the adventure will take me. Yes I know I'm very strange for making this a part of my ritual before every story, but this is one of the many reasons why I am not normal.
I only eat watermelon jolly-ranchers and I might have an OCD habit. My life is guided by writing and and I am a part time mathematician/scientist, music composer, speaker, and athlete. Some may even say that I'm pretty well-rounded. But then there's that other side of me. The side that views the world like no one else and my writing can only portray a fraction of what I see and perceive. That other side where there is a sapling, slowly sprouting into something beautiful. Strange. Well I guess that's why they call me the nameless alien.