Thursday, September 13, 2012

[short story based on dream]

He was looking for everyone to die. Every single person trapped in the white-walled rooms each awaited a unique method of death designed especially for each individual; what determined this, however, was unknown to all but him. Each room contained a screen, which forced each victim to watch the other deaths until it was their turn. Cameras peered through each corner and across all hallways as he sauntered down through his vicinity. His dreaded footsteps made it to room after room—when one heard his approach, their time was up. He went in order by room number, which he assigned randomly. This, at least, was known fact. He enjoyed letting Luck decide things for herself.

The first died by gunshot. The victim was an aspiring actor. The big man knew this and allowed his hostage to perform one final dramatic grovel before bullets entered the boy’s head. The corpse remained in the lopsided pose of a beggar kissing his master’s feet. This amused the big man. He laughed it off as he kicked the body to the side and he ambled his way to the next cell. The fated one this time was a woman with an intense stomach illness. She stared into the mastermind’s face with red, watery eyes. Almost bloodshot. She had her side clutched in agony and she moaned, but the big man was no longer satisfied with her low wails of pain. Instantly he clasped her gut with strong fingers. He twisted and twisted until her screams ceased. He left mangled entrails and blood behind him. The third victim awaited asphyxiation.


Suddenly, the third victim is blurred from view. The focus falls onto an empty room—number seven. The prisoner has somehow escaped. He wants to help people. In his mind, the only thing is freeing others, regardless of his fate. Somehow he reaches room six, and the debater is freed. Number six runs through the great wide stage before he vanishes from the view of the cameras. Seven scuttles to room eight, but it is empty. The door is ajar. The hallway ends.
Number seven does not know how he will die. He is the only one who does not know. All victims were privately told their method of death through speakerphone. Seven fears the worst. Seven fears that he may be subjected to a lifetime of torture. Dying through escape attempt outweighed being a slave forever. He knows this and trudges on.
More important, though, is eight. He cares much for eight. He worries that the big man may have taken her away because of his escape. Quickly he cuts into another hallway. Cameras apathetically watch his descent into the deepest depths. They know what awaits him. Seven thinks he might know, but he continues on regardless through blind faith.
Eventually, he spots her through a window—she sits sadly on a cot in the middle of a wide, empty room. In fact, the only thing in the room is the bed. She does not notice her friend at first; instead she gazes downward with melancholic eyes. Seven places one hand on the glass window and in a split second she snaps to attention. Her startled expression pierces the soundproof glass through to seven’s heart. Seven puts both hands on the glass and bites his lip. He desires badly to get her out of the frightening room, and he resolves that he will. He begins to mouth comforting words to her, though oddly she is not consoled. Tears brim her eyes and she looks away. Seven steps away from the glass, defeated, but only for a moment, because he sees an air vent. Initially he is skeptical—it seemed too easy—but he rushes and immediately gets to work on it.
Hope is bright. He believes he can allow her to flee. He jostles himself into the room with relative ease. They embrace in a tender moment that does not last long. She has news to tell him. She does not wait. But she, too, does not know how seven will die.


Hours passed and five people lie dead in their respective rooms. The man enjoyed the fifth for the longest time. When he reached room number six to discover it empty, all he could do was smile; when he found that seven was the same, he barely contained his exultation. He knew six would perish from terminal illness. He trailed along through the second hallway towards the secluded room. His strength was inhuman: with a single fist he shattered the glass that once separated seven and eight. He found them both dead at the foot of the bed.

Except that seven still had some strength left. The man used the opportunity to fill in the last piece of the puzzle. His complacent stare shattered what will seven may still have had.
Behind him, a piece of paper was nailed to the wall unevenly. “Subject #8 to slow-acting poison. #7 will watch her fade and die of a broken heart. Experiment #347—prove people die this way.”

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

a post in which I describe the colors I hear/get from people

I feel like I need to record this down somewhere at some point because it’s just something I really want to write about.

There’s a lengthy post under the cut—I didn’t want to annoy people with a big block of text or anything.
So, earlier I was talking about how I get colors from peoples’ voices and that they can give me a lot of… instincts about that person, I suppose? Well, I decided that I will compile information on what I know about them so far and what the colors seem to mean, from what I’ve gathered.

(By the way, I have gotten colors from fictional characters in books/writing before without hearing any voices—I don’t know how it works, but it does happen. I’m only addressing what I get from actual people for now, haha.)

First, I will start with the solid colors.

A solid color is any one of these six: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. The first three are the socially warm colors, while the latter are the socially cool colors. These are the main bases of someone’s personality. I will address these in order.

Red: Red is probably the only color I’ve ever gotten without hearing a person’s voice first. This has happened twice from what I remember, and it’s interesting, because both of them are mafia players that I know. I think that red people are actually the best suited for mafia because they’re incredibly great at including substance in their words—they may not be the best writers, but they are incredibly great at debating. I see it as something like this: Blood is red, much like discussion is the lifeblood of a mafia game/argument. Red people also tend to have low self-esteem for one reason or another, and they remind others of this rather often.

Orange: Orange people are, as some might imagine, very sunny people. They tend to be adept at making friends (albeit not so much at keeping them). Oranges are keen at giving others advice and cheering their friends on, and they usually fare the best in social situations. They don’t seem to show their sad sides very often, however—in fact, I think that orange people have a bit of trouble expressing their emotions themselves, despite being great listeners. They are usually not used to exposing their more vulnerable sides to others; if they do, they’re considerably shy about it. They might have problems talking about their personal lives.

Yellow: I actually haven’t known as many yellows, but from what I know, they are flamboyant and showy. Yellow people are always on top about gossip and they can get pretty serious if they are aware that someone is talking about them or their friends. Out of all colors, yellows are most comfortable in telling people their secrets, and they tend to be more confident in their feelings and beliefs. One of my best friends is a pretty vibrant yellow, and he makes my days so bright when I can be around him. Yellow can tend to have volatile emotions, however, and in certain situations they can lose their temper pretty easily. Yellows are also cautious. Obviously.

Green: Green people are unique, I think. It can be hard to read them (I have trouble with it myself), and they are pretty critical thinkers. Most greens that I know are in a constant self-conflict. Green people avoid arguing when it’s possible, and not because they aren’t skilled arguers, either—they simply feel conflict unnecessary when they already experience it within themselves on a regular basis. Green people are almost always writers, from what I’ve gathered, and have the best natures for it. Greens are prone to depression, whether it be chronic or not, but ironically can be the best at handling it out of all of the other colors. Thinking too hard can make them physically exhausted.

Blue: Blue people usually have the most comforting voices. I don’t know what it is, but blue people are poetically beautiful. Blues are the best at relating to other people, even if they have never experienced the same things as them—they have this innate ability to somehow place themselves into another’s world and feel their pain. They’re graceful at many things that they do, and they are huge dreamers. Blue is a vast and infinite color, and blue people reflect this trait by being fervently ambitious and optimistic in their ability to accomplish anything that they desire. Even though blue is a color often associated with sadness, blue people are capable of being some of the happiest people. Unfortunately, they also can hide very debilitating fears.

Purple: Purple is a neutral color. Purple people tend to be the quietest of all of the colors, though this isn’t always due to shyness—some simply prefer to learn through observing rather than through confrontation. Purples often have hair that is hard to manage, but adorable when managed right (I swear, nearly every one of that I know has adorable hair and they always hate taking care of it and go through a complex process in doing so). Purples are artists, and they honestly don’t mind spending a lot of time on a thing as long as they can get it finished. They’re great at concentrating and I believe that’s why they bother making sure their hair is always perfect even if it’s a hassle for them every day. Purples prefer solitude; because of this, are oft interpreted as antisocial, though this is usually a misguided conclusion.
For reference: I tend to get along the best with blues and yellows. My sister told me that I’m most likely a green, and this would make a ton of sense—green is in the middle of yellow and blue, so it is only natural that my aura would be most attracted to them. My best friends are an indigo-ish, a yellow, a salmon (an INCREDIBLY uncommon color for me to get), and a swampy green. My sister is a purple and I get along well with her, too. My roommate was a bright orange and I didn’t get very close to her.

Pastels: Being a pastel color means that a person is more comfortable with being open about themselves, regardless of their base colors.

Shades: Being a darker color indicates that a person holds many secrets within themselves, and can be a bit mysterious.

Now that I’ve got this covered, I would like to explain how base colors work, exactly, when mixed. For example, we have indigo and blue-green people. Sometimes people may have a base color and then another that blankets over their personality base, which indicates layers of traits that can be rather difficult to sift through. Mixed bases not only mix potentially contradicting traits with each other—they can also have entirely different characteristics from the simple bases that I described above. Indigo people tend to have body issues, for example, but they eat what they want anyhow even if they sometimes feel guilty for it, and blue-green people are prone to leaving their friends behind due to relentless insecurities. Magenta people are fashionistas.

Perhaps I might explain the more complex colors in the future, because they’re rather interesting to think about.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

When I first played Fire Emblem

My first game was Path of Radiance. I read about it in Nintendo Power and I remember being curious about it before (thanks to Super Smash Bros. Melee), but I didn’t realize it existed until right before the ninth game in the series came out. I was excited because I knew I felt something special from this series, even before playing it. It was almost Christmas and my parents were fighting quite a bit; I was also dealing with a lot of illnesses at once and something else that I’m not comfortable with sharing, but I still have nightmares about it. Needless to say, I needed a new fictional world to escape to.

When I first started actually playing the game, I had rented it from a video store a couple of blocks down from my house. I was so excited to finally play this game that I just could not help but feel giddy about; I set my Chinese food down next to me, popped the disc into my Gamecube, and began playing. Needless to say, I was astounded. The art was amazing; I fell in love with Ike and a lot of the other characters; I was intrigued by the storyline and the development, and the turn-based strategy, which was a foreign concept to me at the time, so it was amazing to get to learn it through this game. The animated cutscenes, as few as they were, inspired me. I felt bad for Ike when his father died—at the time my own father was going through an alcoholism problem and he felt distant from me, so his plight hit me close to home. I had crushes on fictional men for the first time, and it was fantastic. I wrote fanfictions and drew art. I did everything that I could, despite being admittedly young, to display my support for this game and to spread its beauty to other people as well. I made my sister play it. I made the neighbor play it. I futilely tried to make some of my other good friends play it. I eventually bought the other games that I could get my hands on—8, then 7, then 10, then 11. I could not stop.

Yes; never before had I played a game of this genre, so being introduced to actual RPGs through Fire Emblem was a real treat. It was the first thing that inspired me to write something for hours on end that actually wasn’t a fanfiction. I took my mind off of my parents’ eventual divorce with this game. I listened to this game’s music for hours on end. I cried over a game for the first time since Hey You Pikachu, and it felt great.Fire Emblem is more than a game or some fantasy series to me; it’s something more wonderful and more beautiful than that. Seeing the fanbase die down a little hurts significantly because of this, but no matter what Nintendo/IS decides to do with the series from here on out, I will never forget the greatest joys that this game gave to me, my sister, and my neighbor (who is pretty much my little brother by now).

Saturday, June 2, 2012

entry for epicmafia contest

He does not know how long he has lived here. He knows none of his family, his friends, or his identity; he does not know why he lives here in this desolate place of murder and carnage. He is forlorn albeit hopeful; he desires to help these people, yet is incapable of it—how can one utilize their talents if one cannot recall what they are? He drifts unseen and unknown between warring factions without comrades to call his own. He does not know what he fights for—he has no one to defend, because he cannot remember them.
In this village, he hides himself amongst the crowd; he surmises that, perhaps, if he can keep himself hidden and under the radar, he may find what he is searching for. Possibly, he might be able to recover lost pieces of his memory, or even find a new slew of memories to finally call his own. He endures endless shouts; he dodges the occasional accusation made against him; he prepares to defend himself from attackers, despite knowing that it is futile—even if he tried, he would not know how. He spies a man being hanged, and cowers in the face of death. He has not seen death before (or he does not remember such), and witnessing it for the first time causes him to recoil. He screams, and suddenly a few of the citizens notice him, and he promptly hides. No use fretting yet, he thinks—just flee once more, keep a distance, and it will be fine. They will not come near. They will not interrogate the unknown spectator if they do not know he is unknown. People fear what they cannot comprehend, this man understands. When one encounters something unseen before, it is ostracized. If this mob is guided by the sheer paranoia that he can sense deep down in his bones, they may suspect he may have been a past convict. Would he recall his crimes? Would he return to the unscrupulous personality he became so accustomed to?
Alas, he does not know. Instead, this man continues to pursue something that may forever elude him. He watches a somber scene unveil before him: the surviving members of the village group up now to bury their fallen governor that succumbed to gunshot wounds the mere night before. They do not stand too close to one another, however—they realize that there are culprits still lingering within their beloved camaraderie. The fight is not over, not yet. The fight is never over.
The man then turns his gaze to the willow tree. He solemnly contemplates the plight of the man that hangs from it. He was a malicious man, of course: he was a serial killer that mangled the corpses of the middle-aged men he murdered. Rumors had it that their ghostly wails could still be heard from their half-hearted unmarked graves that lie strewn about the killer’s former residence; he testified that he buried his victims after he mutilated them because, after his cravings were satiated, he wished to acknowledge that he loved them. Yes; through his deplorable behavior, he only wanted to share his benevolence with the rest of the world.
The amnesiac ponders this. He sets himself under the tree, next to the hanging corpse, and contemplates love. He spies the man’s treasured knife in the ground, takes it up in his arms—carefully—and examines it; it is rusted and worn. The man with no memory of his past life smiles this, loves this, and cherishes this, having never felt these amorous feelings stir in his subconscious before.
He stands up. The knife is clenched by its handle in the man’s dominant hand.

Friday, May 11, 2012

I like glass.

It's true, though, I really do like glass. It's so fragile when solid and can be whatever one wishes it to be. Glass is what abstract dreams are made of.

I went hunting for relaxing gifs