The Storm on the Desert

 Illya was not frightened of thunder. Even as a little girl, she simply knew that it was the sound of a storm overhead. In fact, she associated that sound with the idea of rain. Rain that would come and give life to the land all around her, that was what thunder meant to Illya. Now, staring at the vast desert sandscape before her, Illya began to pray. You see, storms in the village were times of calm and peace. In the forest, rain meant safety. In the mountains, rain meant fresh water to drink. In the desert, it meant that the sand would become a demon made of daggers and the wind would steer you deeper into the unknown. A storm in the desert was the closest one could come to death in Illya’s mind. Even now, atop her horse, she could only debate the options before her. Set up camp and hope it is a short storm or to outrun the clouds and their demons.

Illya’s eyes looked out over the shadows cast by the storm clouds at her back. They grew longer and longer every moment. Each passing breath was another foot of shadow that had crept its way across the sands. Torok was champing at the bit, knowing that his rider was uneasy and that they would soon be racing at top speed. Illya had to make a decision and the roll of distant thunder somewhere behind her kicked her heels, driving the horse to charge off towards the dunes in front of them.

The wind roared around them, both due to the speed of the horse and rider as well as the new gusts of wind coming from the storm at their heels and hooves. Torok’s hooves thundered across the packed sand, pounding as his breath began to grow quick and labored. Illya kept her gaze locked to the dunes on the horizon even as the clouds behind her roared out yet another heavy roll of thunder.

Every hoofbeat seemed to echo Illya’s heartbeats, her hands clutching the reins tighter as the wind began to blow a bit harder at her back. Turning her head towards the clouds, she could see what made the people of the desert fear these storms. Towering into the sky, blasting sand across the world, a wall of dust blanketed the world. Lightning tore from the clouds and pierced the sand only to crash against the desert floor. Then came the raindrop.

First, there was one. A small raindrop that spattered itself against Illya’s goggles. The girl’s heart skipped a beat as she urged Torok to run faster. Another drop, then another, then four more, and before long, the rain came crashing down. Sheets of cool, clear water pelted Illya’s body as she raced against time towards the horizon. Her horse’s heart thumping loudly under her as she chanced another look back at the wall of dirt behind her. It was close, close enough to smell, and it looked like it was full of rage.

Torok beat his hooves as fast as he could, his eyes looking bewildered as he hoped for a place to hide out the storm in, and Illya was doing much the same. Illya could almost feel the wind gripping at her hair as she rode faster across the sands. Without word, without warning, the storm came and Illya, Torok, and the sands of that desert were wiped away. Were the storm a living thing, it might have seemed like the hand of God had descended upon this mortal plane and swiped away the living from that very desert.

Minutes passed, the storm dropping an ocean of water onto the land before drifting further across the desert. The wind died, the sand settled, and the world was calm again. No more were the thunderous beats of hooves, the roar of the winds nor the clap of thunder. Now, there was only silence. A deep silence that can only be found in the darkest depths of night.

On Old Journals and New Beginnings (a.k.a. Illustrations of Frustrations)

 It's always interesting cleaning up your room and finding old toys and old bits and baubles from your childhood. You always think, "Wow! I haven't seen this in forever!"

Naturally, the inevitable happens shortly after that. You start to lose yourself in those memories, you start to think about where you were, who you were when you first experienced that object. It's funny how desire to make something can slowly be twisted and warped as you grow away from that person you used to be. Looking at this blog, I can only help but laugh as I remember how proud I was that I was able to produce writing for it, and then I started to slow down on writing, slow down posting. One week went by, then another, then a month, and before I knew it. It had been EIGHT years since I last posted on this blog.

I want to rectify that.

So, if I can, I'd like to turn this into a project that I'll finally keep up with. I want to post at least one thing a month to this blog. One short story, one poem, just one thing that keeps it from being another forgotten thing in a closet.

And so, without further ado, here is that one thing.

Illustrations of Frustrations

 To say that I was frustrated would have truly been a lie. I was not merely frustrated, I was immensely frustrated. I was that feeling of anger and annoyance swirling within the confines of your mind as you struggled seemingly uselessly against some invisible wall all to accomplish a task that leads only to more tasks with more walls. I was that sense of hopelessness that still held onto that prideful vanity of "it's gotta work this time" and yet even deep down, regardless of whatever minute detail I change, I'll still fail.

 I was not frustrated. I was irrationally frustrated. Not to say that my frustration was irrational, but rather that my frustration made me irrational. I punched my thigh as hard as I could to physically manifest my frustrations. I cursed my inability, I flagulated my emotional flesh to drive home my frustrations, and still it did nothing to help me or my frustrations. The pain still hurt, the emotional damage never healed, and still I blame myself for my frustrations.

I was not frustrated. I was inconsolably distraught. Like some kitten on a row boat in a storm, there was no place for me to hide. Instead, I simply forced myself to claw at my frustrations weakly and without any real ability to damage them. My body tossed about, leaving me with no foothold to steady myself, to give me leverage to right myself and to give me a fighting chance. I was at the tumultuous seas whims.

 I was not frustrated. Because frustrated would imply that I could accomplish the task but was simply without the skill or the equipment or luck to do so, of which I had none of those to rely on. I struggled uselessly like a fish in a net, I was already caught by my own intense desire to be successful that I resigned myself to do or die. DO or DIE as if it were a choice that I could so easily make as I hammered and bashed and pounded and pulled and pushed and heaved and cried and wept and pleaded and begged. Still, I cannot say I was frustrated, because it was so much more than that.

I was not frustrated.

An Ode to Chaos

Chaos, that fickle, uncoordinated, unanticipated, unappreciated concept of life that sheds light on even the most inane and inert of features of the world around us. And yet at the same time, Chaos continues to unfold, un-imagine, and undo everything, whether it be great plans, small ideas, a great building of man, or a small creature's hole in the forest. It strikes, blindly, without prejudice, and without it Humanity itself would not be what it is today. Chaos represents the growth and ability of mankind to learn, adapt, survive, and thrive.

I call this an Ode to Chaos, but really it's more than that, to me it's a jumble of chaotic words thrown at a screen at 2 am when the world is quiet except for the music blaring through your headphones, there's nothing to disturb you, there's nothing to stop you, and further more, there's nothing to do except to think. As Charles' Dickens coined in A Tale of Two Cities, and as I will use for my own illustrative purposes here: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

Read, Enjoy, and remember, the world is a more interesting place thanks to Chaos. - Graue

Like a sycophant, that's the feeling, something that was not meant to exist.

Even in the world he seemed empty,

A gaping, gouging, gauging hole,

Something that gave the world a sight,

Something that gave them a fright.

Like a cackling demon perched upon the mightiest of shoulders, it was always staining each word with it's foul ocher.

His head hung ever lower with every thought,

The silk noose about his neck pulling taut,

A man no more, a man is such a dull bore,

He needed a new sight to see a new sandy shore,

When the world is black and meaningless, what constitutes conviction to it's inhabitants.

A soft speck of weakness drips upon his forehead,

urging his neck to crane and raise his eyelids of lead,

Would it be that he was to be delivered or would he be dead,

Cringing forever as the second drop hit and he cruelly fed.

A million voices speak, a million more scream, a million more whisper, a million more sing, yet none are really heard.

Adulation, degradation, conflagration, initiation, subjugation

Words abound to give meaning to that which has no dictation,

Elation abounds but none to grace my lips as I catch the rain,

A tender hand on mine calms the storm, ends the old pain,

Insatiable appetite for the sated, the peaceful striking at the peace keepers, illumination for the blind, and all of this for no one that wants it.