Insanity

Insanity
Does not run in my family
Rather
It strolls through, taking it’s time, getting to know each and every one of us
Personally
Before making its way into the next generation.  To give them the gift of
Insanity

Now
It’s my turn.  I’ve been
Waiting
For so long.  Watching everybody else go
Mad
And it wasn’t fair.  They got
Enlightenment
Their eyes opened to a bright new fantastical world.  And I was
Stuck
In the dark, the serenity, the sanctity of sanity.  But it’s my turn
Now

Silence
As it creeps inside of me
Slowly
Lingering about in my toes before
Crawling
Up my legs.  It spreads like
Frost
I wish it would move faster but no amount of
Willpower
Will change its course.  It moves as the tide does,
Steadily
Inching through my very
Being
Before engulfing my mind in a palpable
Silence

Reality
Is a lie.  I can see the truth now.  The way the
Colors
Flow through the air, the way shapes and ideas
Swirl
And intertwine with each other. It’s so much more
Beautiful
Than dull, grey, monotonous
Reality.

-Seb

How to Save a Life

A life is a spark is a light, the flame flickering in the wind and dancing as your breath whispers across the wick, fragile and beautiful and oh-so-ephemeral. Life is not forever; it ends, gets cut short, the tape ejected from the VHS player as the newer generations of DVDs and Blu-rays spin on in their compact players, the movie of their lives lasting longer than yours ever could have thanks to modern technology, modern medicine increasing the storage space in the newer models. You can’t help that you were born in a time long gone, can’t help that you’re obsolete compared to the newest foot soldiers in life’s great army. No one chooses when to be born, we get what we get, and we are new and shiny and exciting until the next round of children are created, their needs more immediate than our own. You’ll start to waste away, dying slowly and painfully of neglect that no one realizes they’re committing, leaving you to care for yourself even if you aren’t ready. But I might have the cure, might have a way to save you, if you’re willing to let me try.

The Rescue

If I were to describe the girl sitting in the corner of the coffee shop, I’d say she was a high schooler. Her face was unmarred by age and her eyes held a touch of the youthful innocence that adulthood stole away. Her hair was plain brown, without any accessories. On occasion, her hand would reach up and twirl a lock around her finger. She was waiting for someone – a date?

I was a struggling writer living paycheck by paycheck, working as a journalist. Needless to say, I wasn’t very good at it. I wanted to live in fantasies, fighting treacherous snakes and rescuing benevolent princesses, not trying to make a twelve-year-old’s winning goal in a soccer game seem heroic. Unfortunately, life wasn’t going the way I wanted it to.

It was stroke of fortune that I even noticed her.

The Story of the Boy of Rain

There was a secret country located in the middle of the Earth’s largest ocean that was hidden from the rest of the world. The country was isolated, and the people were friendly, not knowing any hardships or pains of war or disease. It was a dry, but manageable place with farms and cities balancing out the share of the country’s land. Children played as their parents watched over them, chatting with glasses of lemonade laced with champagne dangled between their fingers. This county didn’t have a name, but was known to the citizens just as “home.”

One early morning during a soft shower with the cool breezes of November blowing against the house, a baby boy was blessed upon a couple. The baby was named Lokni, and the couple was extremely happy for their good fortune. Lokni was a very good child. He slept during the night and cried only when he was hungry. It was always raining when he was crying. His parents thought this only to be a coincidence, but as the time went by, they realized that Lokni was responsible for the sudden showers that occurred. Whenever he cried, rain would trickle from the ash grey clouds that would soon appear hovering above. He grew and grew,

Chariot of Wings

I’m not much of a reader.  I never have been.  But sometimes a story will really stick with me, resonate in a way that somehow sets it apart.  One story like that was a piece of Celtic mythology that I read several years ago.  It was about a faerie called the Leanan Sidhe, who gave artists inspiration in exchange for their souls. 

I’d bet one of the fingers on my left hand that whoever first came up with that story knew a person a lot like Emily Harrison. 

I first met Emily in sixth grade, during one of those mandatory physical education classes that the state requires but everyone else wouldn’t mind doing without.  I guess I noticed her because on the surface she seemed a lot like me – she was shy, fairly quiet, and didn’t socialize with her classmates much. 

That was about all we had in common, though, because it wasn’t long before I figured out that Emily was an artist.  I’m not