as if inside our skulls, instead of the brain, we felt a fish, floating, attracted by the Moon.

Monday, November 30, 2009


here is the wendigo story:

It’s been weeks. Weeks. It is all I can do to stare up into the canopy of the tent. I cannot even begin to try and move from the sleeping bag. I turn my head to the left to assess her condition. She is far worse off than I. Her hips have become bone, hard, thick cat ears jutting from her waist. Her sweater and blankets cover most of her body, though I know that underneath the layers her torso has become a xylophone of ribs. She breathes heavily, gasping. I am not much better; I lift my arm slightly and both the ulna and radius are clearly defined. The pain in my muscles is almost constant now; my body is eating itself.
We have been trapped on this mountain, buried in snow for I know not how long. We have no measure with which to keep track of time; we cannot see the sun. I fear myself, fear my mind; I am no longer safe inside my own head. I have horrible thoughts. I have dreams of wrapping my thinning fingers around her throat and watching her struggle, this girl that I love. I watch her pale hair as she breathes in and out, fighting for every gasp. Her soft white skin has become transparent and dead from hunger and thirst. I reach over to her with my boney arm, letting my hand settle in her angel hair.
I stroke her forehead lovingly and close my eyes, willing myself to die in my sleep for fear of the madness within me.
“At least we’ll die together,” she breathes softly.

I sigh, coughing violently with the change in breathing pattern, as I feel his fingers against my brow. His hand is cold. I dare not open my eyes to see what we have become. I feel enough from that touch alone to know that he, like me, has become something no longer human. We are wire frames now, skeletons. Our organs barely function; our muscles dissolve into our bloodstreams. The quiet of the snow and the pain in my body are harmonious.
“At least we’ll die together,” I say, though it comes as a whisper past my peeling lips.
I feel him relax slightly and assume he must be asleep now. I lie still, praying for death to take me. If there is a god, let Him kill me now.

In the night a monster awakens who is not I. I watch with mute horror as the monster turns to my beloved, reaching for her with my body’s hands (they are no longer mine). She doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t struggle. I watch the monster press down harder on her delicate sparrow neck; her eyes flutter softly.
“Thank you,” she gasps.
The monster wastes no time, immediately cutting into her gut with the hunting knife I had brought along for rabbits. I am no longer present; she is alone with the monster as it eats her steaming, withered organs straight from her corpse. Never has the monster tasted anything so wonderful, so nourishing. This monster would, were it capable of emotion, feel such overwhelming happiness and triumph. It becomes too intense for my once-human body to withstand.
The monster is alarmed, furious, as my body rejects this terrible act by vomiting onto the tent floor. The monster uses what used to be my hands to scoop the expelled pieces, forcing them back into my mouth. By this point I am only a soulless observer somewhere far away. The monster continues its feast.
Hours later, or maybe days, the monster is finished with her. She is only hair and scattered bits of bone; the monster ate even her marrow. The monster forces my once-human body to crawl from the tent into the snow. This new body is indifferent to the cold, always in pain. The monster uses its new eyes to survey the mountain, finding nothing. It hungers still.
The monster walks, dragging its new feet, sometimes using its new hands to craw through the snow. A mangled corpse, tall and cracked, it makes its way down the mountain, deeper into the forest. The monster’s skin is pale, bloody, rotten. Its teeth and nails chipped and ground to a repulsive state from breaking bones. The monster will wait in the woods, always walking, always searching. I am nowhere to be found.
The monster will forever starve. The monster will forever hunger. At least we died together.

faces come out of the rain

I am such a college girl stereotype.
sometimes it's sickening.
but whatever.
I am a college girl,
so I guess I can get away with it.

at least I don't own a coffee maker so I don't drink coffee all the time.
that would just be the icing on the hipster cake.

Sunday, November 29, 2009


I've written three of the four vignettes I need to write for comp lit on tuesday.
I have the wendigo still to go.

I've done the lamia, the werewolf and bloody bones. my favorite is the werewolf, of course. werewolves are the easiest to write about, as I have experience. it doesn't take a lot of thinking to write about werewolves.
rip, tear, guilt.
basic formula.

Here's the werewolf one.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

She is so unsuspecting, as they always are. I stand by the road and wait in the shadows. It has been night for a long, long time and so I am not afraid of who will be awake to hear. The girl driving is blasting loud music and obviously under the influence of something toxic, and I’m not sure whether or not she’ll stop for me as I timidly step into the road. I do not fear her speed and size; a car could never hurt me. I am so blindly hungry that I would fight a highway. I move to the side, letting her bumper come to a halt a couple inches from my haunches. I turn my muzzle towards her as she drunkenly urges me onwards with her hand. Before she can react, I am on top of her hood and through her windshield. She screams once before I cut her short with my mouth around her neck. I drag her out of the car and into the road by the throat.
Blood bursts forth, a fountain of dark wine, as I tear her throat with my teeth. Gnashing my canines together against the sweet softness of the muscle beneath. My throat is so dry, it is on fire; I feel as if I am going to die if I do not drink. Her life is running down my esophagus into my gut. Her eyes are still open; she is dead, watching me. I slide my claws deep into the hole I have created in her neck, scoring a path of fresh rivers downwards across her sternum while the music from her radio continues to play. I tear her chest open, drinking from the pool that has formed there. I lift my head for a moment; the necklace she was wearing is broken in two, tangled in her hair. She was a very beautiful girl, very young. I spread my lips open, sliding them past my enormous teeth, and break my way through her ribs and eat her heart in large, messy bites. I am so hungry. My throat is so dry. I eat and eat until there is nothing, her chest is empty; her ribs strain to touch the sky. I make fast, sloppy work of her arms, her legs, her gut; nothing is untouched in my feast. Her soft, smooth intestines are hot and steaming in the night air as I pull them from her soft, smooth body. She no longer has a face and I have eaten her eyes. I leave her there with broken pieces of her body strewn across the road.
In the morning I will feel the pain of what I have done, but for now I am not human and I feel no remorse. Her life has no value; she is my food. In the morning I will remember. In the morning I will feel the meat in my stomach and expel it neatly into the toilet. I will retch and retch until I bleed. In the morning I will sob in the downstairs bathroom, taking care to not wake my sleeping wife. In the morning I will drive my children to the high school that is now one student smaller.

for some reason I can't think of a story involving a wendigo. this is odd, because usually wendigos are easy to write about (not as easy as werewolves, but almost).
hopefully before tuesday I'll have thought of something.

Friday, November 27, 2009

he ate my heart

I ate:
half of an entire pie. (the only reason I didn't eat the whole pie is my grandmother only brought half a pie.)[pecan.]
+a bowl of squash. (the serving bowl.)
+green beans
+2 cans of cranberry sauce
+two rolls
+box of macadamia nut chocolates
+plate of mashed potatoes
+three plates of stuffing
+bowl of gravy
+stuffed bell pepper
+plate of turkey
this morning:
+cranberry sauce sandwich(wtf)
+three slices of bread with cheese
+bowl of shredded cheese
+two bowls of rice krispie's
+another can of cranberry sauce
+1 piece [blueberry]pie (only one! can you believe it?)
+more macadamia chocolates

I am in so much pain.
I'm not exaggerating.

how am I still alive?
how is my stomach still intact?
I feel like I'm going to die.
I feel like I'm going to die.
I feel like I'm going to die.



this looks
pretty good
right now.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

strictly goats only

I want your leather-studded kiss in the sand

I can't be the only one who
thinks that lady gaga is
the coolest performance artist ever
right now, can I?
she's got the whole act down.
Huge props to her for:

a) having real talent.
b) writing her own lyrics/chords
c) doing most of her own synth
d) designing & making many of her own costumes

awesome. I wish I could do that. very impressive.

Monday, November 23, 2009

it's not my fault, it's how I'm programmed to function

I don't know what's right
and what's real
and I don't know
how I'm meant to feel
and when do you think
it'll all become clear?
cause I'm being taken over
by the fear.

I am such a degenerate haha. lazy. typical.
I am also queen of the awkward, silent, brooding, cliche.
I can't do social situations. I'm learning.
I'll admit that luke helped me greatly. he taught me a lot of things.
basically how I interact with people nowadays is based on the formulas
I learned from luke.
(set responses to set phrases)
("hi! how are you?" = I'm good, how are you. etc)

me, jack, jesse, tommy and matson watched the labyrinth.
I don't know jesse and tommy very well.
so, as is the usual with new people, I sat awkwardly and didn't say much
and the things I said/did were incredibly awkward.
I remembered it[vaguely]; I think I saw it when I was 4-5ish.
alice in wonderland + the dark crystal + dragon tales.

I make it rain is stuck in my head.

I'm very thirsty.

it seems extravagant

Pictures that make me happy! :D

Sunday, November 22, 2009

does anyone read this blog?

I wonder about these things. if anyone reads, they should comment here and tell me so I know, it would be nice.

I seem to use pictures as section holders, it seems.
It's bad because I WANT to write. I really want to write.
But I seem to be in a terrible writer's block right now. I can't write anything.
Even when I know what I want to write, I can't write;
I know the "story" that I want to tell, the event I want to describe, but I can't write. It's bad because I need to write for school for once. I've been begging my international short stories teacher to let us do some fictional/creative writing(we don't write in that class, it's a lit class) and now that we can-
we even have the perfect final project: write whatever the fuck you want-
I can't do it. I can't write. what's wrong with me.
I'll try:

swirling, spiraling, screaming.
blood bursts forth, a fountain of sweet toxic beauty
as I tear her throat with my teeth.
gnashing my canines together against the sweet softness
that is the muscle beneath.
my throat is so
dry, it is on fire,
I feel as if I am going to die
if I do not drink
from her throat.
before I know it her life is running down my esophagus
into my gut.
her eyes are still open;
she is dead, watching me.
I slide my claws deep into the hole I have created
in her neck,
scoring a path of fresh blood downwards across her sternum.
I tear her chest open,
drinking from the pool that has formed there.
I spread my lips open, sliding them past my enormous teeth
and break my way through her ribs and eat her heart in large, messy bites.
I am so hungry.
my throat is so dry.
I eat and eat until there is nothing,
her chest is empty,
her ribs strain to touch the sky.
I make fast, sloppy work of her arms, her legs, her gut;
nothing is untouched in my feast.
her soft, smooth intestines are so hot, steaming,
as I pull them from her soft, smooth body.
she no longer has a face
and I have eaten her eyes.
I leave her there, a skeleton,
broken pieces of her body strewn across the forest floor.
in the morning I will feel the pain of what I have done
but for now, I am not human, I feel no remorse.
her life has no value;
she is my food.
in the morning I will feel the meat in my stomach
and retch and retch until I can't breathe.
in the morning I will hate myself again.

that's enough for now. tired of writing.
this is what I mean by writer's block. even when I can write something at all, it's never for long. I used to be able to start writing and then write for hours and hours until I finished whatever story/thing it was.
unless it was one of my "stories" with no plot. those are never finished.
(Edith, for example.)

at least gore is satisfying. I could do better, though.
[so much better. that up there is complete crap.]

I feel
kind of nauseous.
I thought tea would help, but it doesn't seem to.
the heat helps
a little, though...

Saturday, November 21, 2009

fish bowl effect

unicorns are violent, beautiful creatures.
I'd like to do some sort of art with unicorns (how female of me).
unicorns slaughtering people and eating them, perhaps.
I need to get better at drawing animals[horses, creatures].

oranges, peeling back
their fleshy, swollen faces,
grinning in the moonlight.

palestinian weather forcast:
sand and sea and broken bones,
bloodied knuckles;
smiling children, broken fingers.

oranges, peeling back
their slimy, filthy skins, rubber eyes,
baring their teeth, gnawing at the glass.

nails in the walls, grinding into the muscle.
my bones are hidden, tucked away beneath a soft coating of grime.

falling apart in little pieces of egg shell;
fingers, toes, frothy eyes, little pieces of egg shell.

This doll creeps me the fuck out what the fuck

this is how I feel right now

my stomach hurts my stomach hurts my stomach hurts my stomach hurts my stomach hurts my stomach hurts my stomach hurts my stomach hurts my stomach hurts my stomach hurts

LEFTOVERS ARE THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE. Oh, but they are so tasty. MmmMMMMMM. Alas.

Unrelated: this made me laugh quite a bit:

“When you read the book.. it’s like, ‘Edward Cullen was so beautiful I creamed myself.’ I mean, every line is like that. He’s the most ridiculous person who’s so amazing at everything. I think a lot of actors tried to play that aspect. I just couldn’t do that. And the more I read the script, the more I hated this guy, so that’s how I played him, as a manic-depressive who hates himself.”

- Robert Pattinson.

breaking egg shells

Edith laughed, almost dropping the Mason jar she was carrying under her arm, as the cat tumbled off the high, wooden beam chasing his moth. She bit her tongue, cutting the laugh short, and gasped at the sudden taste of blood in her mouth.
Summer was peeking its round, sweaty face through the thin windows of the Blue House in the Gully and yearly cleaning was in full swing. The cat provided company while Edith searched the Blue House for bits of trash and scrap to make ornaments. She stood at the top of a skinny ladder, her stick figure legs wobbling as she reached towards the swollen rafters. Edith grimaced. She swallowed the blood, feeling the cut pucker its lips, and braced herself for the sound that came like a small gunshot as she smashed the mason jar against the wall. The large fragments made beautiful additions, she thought as she super glued them to the panes of the high windows; the light filtered into broken, poetic pieces.
The cat meowed loudly, tip-tapping up the rungs of the ladder to wind himself around her thin shoulders, purring and meowing in odd, disjointed hiccups.
“Yes,” Edith said, “Yes, yes, and yes.”
She stepped cautiously down, the cat still clutching at her neck, and headed to the kitchen. Delicately, she pulled the three-legged stool from under the counter and perched herself atop its flat, wooden face. Careful not to look down, she reached her thin, white arm deep into the cabinet’s bloated bowels, extracting an unopened can of cat food. The cat cried and screamed, spinning in circles on the countertop. Edith placed the can next to the sink, climbing down with slow, practiced motions. She pulled the can opener from the drawer, nervously assessing its tiny teeth.
Once the cat was fed, she thought it would be best to take out the trash bags that had accumulated from her cleaning. Edith, unable to carry all three of them by herself, struggled to lift the bags one by one into the wheelbarrow on the porch. She brought them to the end of the winding driveway, discarding them behind the dumpster which she assumed must be for her own personal use; the trash she left disappeared on a rather predictable schedule.
A terrible cramping pain erupted suddenly from her gut. Edith gasped, waiting for it to subside. A monster sunk his teeth into her organs, gnawing and biting and refusing to let go until she sat down in the wheelbarrow. She stood, panting to catch her breath, watching the dark cloud in front of her vision suspiciously, making sure it faded completely before she moved again. Edith grasped both handles of the wheelbarrow and walked it carefully down the hill.

There is no meaning behind this; it's really just a life.

Friday, November 20, 2009

darkened soot and the bones of fish

I post way too often for a blog that [maybe] one or two people read.
but that's not the point of this, I guess. the point is just to be writing
(not that I write anything of value here, this isn't poetry or prose).

I decided on a name for the girl in the story I've been writing on and off for several months: Edith.

(don't let my time frame fool you; this story is only one and a half pages, single space.)

this is how I feel a lot of the time.
this is how I feel a lot of the time.
this is how I feel a lot of the time.
this is how I feel a lot of the time.
this is how I feel a lot of the time.
this is how I feel a lot of the time.
this is how I feel a lot of the time.

here is a piece of the beginning of my [very]short story:

The wind ate up the Blue House in the Gully as Edith rocked herself slow and steady, her knees pulled up to her chest. Hair ribbon askew, thin fingers shaking, she watched the glass tighten in the window frame.
Several miles north from the center of town the road forked, rolled to the right, and flopped uselessly into the woods. The ugly trees, their nervous fingers parting, twisted into anxious positions along side the dirt road as it fell down, down, down, into a pebbled driveway. The Blue House in the Gully lay at the bottom of this swirling mess, rotten as ever.
The wind ached and writhed, Edith’s voice rose and broke in little whispery screams each time a rock hit the window. Edith hated storms, hated storms, hated storms. Eventually, unable to remain inside any longer, Edith pulled a sheer white gown over her nightdress, taking stumbling, drunken steps through the door and over the stones in the grass to her car outside. She moaned and shrieked as the wind tore at her eyes, gasping when she finally fell into the driver’s seat. The key grumbled unhappily in the ignition.
After twenty minutes of driving, holding the steering wheel at her nose, Edith approached civilization. The wind picked up, screaming and yelling its guttural demon noises on the other side of the car windows. Edith screamed along with it. She pulled into the parking lot of Way’s, wrenching the key out, gasping, moaning, shaking in her seat.
She purchased several packets of gum in her bedclothes and drove back, trying not to die.


In 1979, author Ian Woodward published claims suggesting rabies as a possible origin of the werewolf, stating the remarkable similarities between the symptoms of rabies as with traits of werewolves in legends. Woodward focused on the idea that being bitten by a werewolf could result in the victim turning into one himself, which pointed to a transmittable disease like rabies.

All cultures in which the Wendigo myth appeared shared the belief that human beings could turn into Wendigos if they ever resorted to cannibalism or, alternately, become possessed by the demonic spirit of a Wendigo, often in a dream. Once transformed, a person would become violent and obsessed with eating human flesh. The most frequent cause of transformation into a Wendigo was if a person had resorted to cannibalism, consuming the body of another human in order to keep from starving to death during a time of extreme hardship or famine.

In Greek mythology, Lamia was a beautiful queen of Libya. According to the legend, Zeus engaged in an affair with Lamia. Hera, furious that her husband had cheated on her yet again, killed Lamia’s children in a rage. Driven insane with grief, Lamia began devouring other children, sneaking to their beds at night to suck their blood.

And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?

-John Keats, Lamia

Bloody-Bones is said to live near water (in older tellings) and under sink pipes (in newer tellings). Rawhead/Bloodybones rewards very good children, but will punish naughty children by dragging them down the drainpipes or into the water and drowning them.

Rawhead and Bloody Bones
Steals naughty children from their homes,
Takes them to his dirty den,
And they are never seen again.

-Yorkshire children’s rhyme

whales are heavy, whales are big

I'm reading the Qur'an. I feel I should. It's pretty interesting too;
the version Jack has left the original arabic text, and placed the english translation to the left of the page. It also reads left to right. authentic. I like it.

I would like to learn arabic. it's a beautiful language.
or sanskrit; or hindi; or farsi.
all beautiful languages.

this is how I feel about life.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

s h a r p .

and yet we

ice cream + whipped cream + reese's pieces + pepsi + pork fried rice[home made] + jack + matson =


you know what word looks REALLY weird outside of an image? "reese's." what the fuck man.

silent, shifting;
soundless war.
[making poetry out of literally anything.]

balloons, octopi and skeletons are wonderful things.
my stomach hurts.