Your eyes flicker sunrise and sunset. Fifty times the lights switch, dark amber to onyx to scarlet, and I have lost all rational thought. Are you real? I try to whisper, but as soon as the air left my lips everything dulls and you stop smiling. The world begins to swirl around you and you close your eyes.

It feels like a lullaby once it starts: quiet caresses over cream and sugar, soft silver suicides in the countryside. Is it true? Is it true that you have found someone at last? I hear whimpers and muffled sobs from the west wings, knocking and wet, fleshy sounds from the right wing. The entire building is shaking from the sponge foundations to the chocolate roosters on the chapel top, and I am silent, sliding back and forth.

Petit, you are, my children, plump rosy cheeks and cheveux frisés and smiles wider than the universe. Sometimes you come back and say hello to them, kindly, gallantly in a way that makes me want to kiss you, mon chérie. Sometimes I do.

You used to be a Crusader, back when they still existed. They would wear striped crimson slashes on their torsos, angels in their hair, and boots that went up for an eternity. Never would they lose, and never would they win. Solitaire was a hard game to play, you would insist, and an impasse was inevitable.

Fire was, in my eyes, the physical interpretation of you; bright red cuts and orange flowers blooming in the middle near the core of solid gold. Gold I associated with everyone unlike me and not me, gold was denser and therefore heavier and smarter. I was nothing, maybe like a worn out match left on the ground, fifty times stepped over by stomping men. You liked fire, wiping out a million and one with your flames cheerily.

Darling, when you left my body for dead in France (winter, 1892), I had thought you had given up forever. Was I really worth that little? Were you really that great?


abandoned. might pick up one day.

scream my name

I don’t like it.

Just a number – that’s what they were. A five digit number, starting with one and a hyphen. That was what everyone was represented by. All the work they did (every question marked with pristine red ink dabbling over blocky print, every question marked with a check, an A, and a 100%) had their number stamped in the top right hand corner. The leering crimson marks glared at the students cheerfully – You got a Perfect!! Your parents will be so proud of you! – and the paper would reflect the fluorescent lights sharply into the eyes of the students.

Everyday and sometimes every night, they would read books. Books with black covers and cream pages with squares of text that seemed to never end. They were textbooks, and the students were to study for a test that they would always get 100% on.

I said, I don’t like it!

Whenever someone was late, or tied his navy-and-white tie wrong, the instructors would pull an alarm. When it began trilling shrilly, everyone hid under their desks in sync while the lone offender would stand beside their desk quietly. Then an officer would come in, armed with a heavy looking rusty gun and a crusty leer. After scanning the large white room slowly while still grinning, he would thump towards the student, clicking his gun and his war-weary boots. He would then point his gun at the student noisily, snapping his gum, the noise resounding across the classroom. Sometimes he would pause a little longer, but most times, after ten meticulously counted seconds, there would be a loud bang and a splattering sound. Immediately another bell would sound and people would come to clean up. Rarely would the student be dead – though if they were . . . well, they were.

For more serious offences, the instructor would order everyone into the halls (including themselves), then pull the alarm. The same officer would come and would thump into the empty classroom, cocking his gun and twirling a slim knife between the fingers of his left hand. No one knew what would happen after – the victim would always disappear afterwards, as well as any sign of a murder.

Let us out.

Only once in a blue moon, however, would someone mess up. Most years would pass by peacefully and calmly, everything under control. Everything was fine . . . until someone broke down the walls containing the masterminds of their prison. That student had feigned a casual mistake and waited for the old soldier patiently and unsuspiciously (they had thought). Then the grinning officer arrived, gun pointed carelessly near the boy’s left shoulder. The student watched the man carefully, and as soon as his forearm tensed, he turned and grabbed the soldier’s shoulders from behind. Years of no practice had torn the survival skills from the man, and the boy had quickly gained the gun, the slim silver knife, and the upper hand. He shifted the gun and shot.

Killing the killer was the first step; the second and third were much more complicated. As soon as the others heard the gunshot, they came out of their hiding spaces and the janitors kicked open the door. The student whipped around and shot at the door spasmodically. Some time after, the boy had landed himself a talk with the government heads (We have seen your skill and we think you’d be a great addition to our queue of outstanding soldiers and fighters!!). Throughout a series of gang fights outside the wooden walls of the House, the boy could only talk to the officials through a computer screen. They offered him a job, but he declined. Politely.

Or we’ll let ourselves out.

The recent uprisings and the story of the boy with the gun had spread fear into the hearts of everyone (for the first time!) and anyone. The tightness around the townspeople and schools were just the beginning. A few days after the boy had “met” with the heads, the main schools were infested with people wearing and spreading red. They cut through everyone but encountered the Slaughterhouse at the gates of the official’s headquarters.

The Red Plague, though cut down, were not gone. They had left scars on the otherwise unblemished mentality of the weak city-dwellers. The boy was covered in slices, thin cuts long and jagged on his pale skin. He was marred. He was desperate – for now, although everyone was different and everyone was themselves (what he had wanted) they were bleeding and dying and hungry. The House had remained stable and unmarked during the course of it all, thanks to the Slaughterhouse (I told you that you should work for us!).

He cursed his luck and scrabbled painfully for a rock around him as he kneeled on the desert surrounding the wooden walls. Finally, his fingers closed around something sharp and light. He shut his eyes and grit his teeth. Five . . . four . . . three . .  two . . . one . . .

He threw the rock at the wooden walls with all of his might and the walls crashed down.

We’ll let ourselves out.

I know

Everyone once was innocent – before school, before the assignments, before responsibility – and everybody once was happy.

And he knew that.

School was a waste of time, he thought. It was always – always– the same; chirping adults and fluttering students trading places and answers. Some of the teachers said that school was not a choice – but what they learn was. But was it really? Everything had a set place. Everything was planned and blocked and everyone bent to the rules and everything was in order.

He didn’t like that.

From the moment he set foot into his school, he knew his fate was sealed. Work piled up in his mind and pathways mingled into a complex maze. He realized that, in order to survive, he had to be like everyone else. His friends got along fine, their classes balanced and sturdy; their smiles unwavering and voices clear.

He couldn’t.

His schedule was nonexistent and he relied on everyone else to breathe. He knew he had the skills necessary to live, but he couldn’t use them. Everyone made fun of him for being stupid/not using his intelligence/useless/helpless and he just absorbed it all. At night he stayed awake wondering what had happened to him? In the morning he felt hazy.

What had happened to him?

The days stretched into each other like words in paragraphs and rivers; and he found himself spacing out a lot more. They waved in his face – handouts, hands, chairs, and lives. He couldn’t see the point anymore. What was to life? Everyday, the same: school and homework. Voices flittered around him, squeaking about promising futures and work and–

the continuation of all this.

Nobody, nobody – you are nobody and you are a failure – once you could’ve been more, you understand? Why didn’t you? Take this and that and you could’ve been so much better. You are a failure. You are a disappointment and you are something no one needs around. You should try harder. Try harder (he was, he really was)! Be normal! You could’ve been normal! You are normal, right? Answer me! You are normal! So,

do what everyone else is doing.

I can’t. I can’t. I’ve tried and I can’t. I’m not like anyone else – I’m stupid. Did you hear me? I’m fucking stupid. I’m different. I’m not normal – I’m not smart. Everything I achieved is a fluke. A fluke. I’m missing something everyone else has.

You’re fine. Don’t fuss too much – it’s nothing. You are normal.

He wasn’t. He was sure of it. He was a failure and everyone else was fine. He was going crazy, going in circles, going down the wrong road and going wrong. He was sure he was a failure. Everyone would eventually leave him and he would be alone and sobbing while dreaming of happiness, joy hard-earned (the best kind). But he couldn’t do anything because he was a failure, a lonely person who faltered under pressure and glancing mental strength and sometimes he wanted to run away and cry in the freaking rain.

He knew he could never go.

No one snaps that easily.

Everyone else was fine (so why wasn’t he?).

He could learn.

He could try harder (try harder!).

But he was nothing everyone else was and no one was anything like him. He would never be the best or the worst or survive and he would fall and fall and maybe even die – or snap and break slowly until nothing would be left.

And he knew that.



nothing else

I’m putting off doing things that I should be doing because I’m scared. Apprehensive of what’s going to happen next. And then my heart sinks and I feel gross and sick and lonely and stupid.

And then people tell me I’m growing up but I don’t want to and I don’t know how and why. Then they also say I’m still little and must enjoy when I’m little yet grow up at the same time and I just don’t know how. Don’t say that no one starts out knowing how to do anything, and that once they’re thrust out into an unknown world they’ll learn how to navigate – because I never did and I will probably never know how. Because I’m scared and I’m the only one scared because everyone else was taught right and learns right.

Because I am an impudent person with a bad attitude and too much personality – oh wait, not personality, sass and idiocy (if I transliterate) – and I need to grow up and listen.

Dare they say I think too much? I spend most of my waking time do nothing, and I spend my sleeping time awake. I read until my brain is confused and words slur together. I read until my mind is full of stories and things that I collect but never write down because it is 2 in the morning and I am alone.

This is not to say that I am truly alone or that I am depressed and I need air, this is to say that I am very close/not close and I need a wake-up call. But since you don’t know how to give one, do you think I’ll keep going in a straight line to nowhere?

My hair is getting longer, but it’s still shorter than my dignity. I plan not to lose my dignity, not even a little bit of it – it’s the only reason why I can lift my head higher. My self-esteem is currently unheard of and pretending to be better than anyone else is merely a hobby. Another part of upholding my dignity (where did I get it from, anyways?) – but I don’t look very dignified or graceful because things vary and I am a variable.

Shifting Gaze

He rose from the depths of the hell they all reside in, torn throats bleeding out their last songs. The ones left over and alive thought he was the Saviour, when in reality, he’ll be the one to destroy everyone.

After pulling his spear out of a defenseless, small body, he tied his hair up. Long, ebony strands fall loosely out of the worn red string, and he growls. Slashing at the nearest corpse, his dark locks kill the string desperately trying to keep it in place.

A long moan issues from his mouth as he struggles to clear his mind. The cold-blooded fury of his cannot be controlled, but yet he feels guilt. It trespasses and takes over of his sanity; or what’s left of it. I’ll soak you in red, his evil side groans, and licks its imaginary lips.

Thick, shapely eyebrows furrow gently in concentration. To mere commoners, he looks as if he is simply sleeping, but truthfully, he is fighting a final battle of his mind – a territory currently un-occupied. He slips away.

Spiralling towards his own death, the path worn by the blood of those he had thoughtlessly slaughtered, he felt relief. His life, without a purpose, had been tiring. A lemon in the midst of his troubles was love. So he continued spinning down aimlessly, and died in the arms of his revenge.

~grace yin
Think Tornado + Shanghai 1943 + Simple Love + Clear Stars (or Starry Mood). Fuun.

Something We Do

Sometimes we make Gabriel sit and watch music videos with us. And write our blogs. Like now. And it’s pretty fun. Except Gabriel’s farts smell.  .  . pretty bad. We’re gonna put him down later as babies can’t watch bright screens for long. He’s down. Okay, updates on Baby Gabey.  .  .  .
1. He can actually lie on his stomach, and turn in a circle.
2. He can laugh and babble more.
3. He likes and knows me!!:P
4. He can sit(with support)
5. He’s waaay cuter!!!

The Rock

The Rock
11 years respects it
10 escape lanes
9 branches upon it
8 frozen statues
7 ideas for it
6 scrapes from falling
5 nicks from shoes
4 shaven sides
3 steps like stairs
2 places to sit
1 great place
read from number one.

A story and a realization

Today I realized how much I love to write stories. So here is a updated version of…..Snow White. I’ll do another one next time!!

There once was a princess named Blanc Snow, and she was beautiful with black hair, pale skin, and pink lips. She loved to make up stories, and her mother disappeared over a journey to Indonesia, so her father had a partner-friend, not another wife, and she was jealous of Blanc Snow’s talent and beauty, so she sweetly told Blanc Snow to gather the strawberries from the garden, without bothering the servants. Blanc Snow instead ran away, to the woods, and appeared at her small cottage she built with her fairy friends, all seven of them. They now helped her to stay safe. A few days later, her cellphone ran out of battery, and she left to get he recharger. but Missus Queen caught her, and put her to sleep. Then the woman tossed her out, where the fairies caught her, and put her on a daisy bed and told her one of her own amazing stories. Meanwhile, a prince was amazed by the story, and asked who made it. The fairy speaking tearfully explained to the bewildered prince. And the fairies left her alone. The prince crept over and touched her hand, and, as he was so cold, he woke her up. And they married and did something bad to the Queen.

Found Poems

Today at school we were learning about poems, and we read this book and copied down words that caught our attentions. And make a poem of words-hence the title. So I made a poem about waking up in the morning. Reluctantly.

Deliberate Swirl
Mysterious Slumber
Beautiful Velvety Mystics
Alight Fire

Intricate Dusk
Enchanting Quiet Twilight
Serene Yellow Moon

Crook Ablaze
Silently Conscious


Exalted Myth
Luxurious Mind
Sparkling Lookers
Charming Magical
Electric Specialty

You Superior
Lovely Grace
Of Harmony

Nice poem? I wrote a rhyming couplet, and two haikus, but I really kind of don’t want to copy them…
Okay, tell me if you like them!! Thanks.

Random Again

So here is a random story:
There’s this girl named Jilly, and she was very reserved. But the only person she would tell her most deepest secrets to was not a person. It was a blade of……grass! And so everyday she’d go on and on and on and on about her boyfriend! Which she didn’t really have one, it was just some dude at school who was super polite to her, and his friends made him confess tat he liked her, which he really did. And none of them teased him, cause Jilly was super popular. Well, actually she was just good-looking, and she often took dumb dares, and she was a B average kid. So they qualify her as ‘good’. Back to Mr.Blade of Grass. The blade itself was three decimeteres long!! And Jilly was soo careful holding it. Not cause it was fragile, excuse you. And Jilly looked like this(speaking of looks): Long-ish silvery whitey blondey coloured hair(Long bangs, short near the front of her shoulders, long at the back, all the way to her waist), and pale green eyes. Very remarkable. She also has very sharp eyes with thick and short eyelashes, and a small nicely pointed nose, and a nice mouth. Her skin colour was pale-ish, and people thought she was a fairy! Well, she does sorta look like one…
One day, while confiding in her blade-“I thought he was clever! Didn’t know he was a jokester, cause I hate silly people”-somebody who was cutting the bushes suddenly looked over and screamed. and the next day, her mother gave her a piece of paper which was from the neighbour. And it said:
That Blade you have….it’s the Blade of Grass….WHY CAN’T YOU GIVE IT TO THE KING??? I mean, you know our town is called Grassein, named after our old ancient prince, and he lost his sword, and this prophet said the girl who finds it will marry the current prince….
Taken by surprise, she showed her mom, and they became very happy in the castle.
Da end