A Raven and a Writing Desk: Chapter 1Asking me to recount the tale of my insanity is like asking me to recite the entire Bible from memory: parts will end up changed and aspects will be omitted, although not purposefully. The trouble I have telling this story is that while I’m positive something horrible happened, I can’t truthfully discern which parts were real and which weren’t. I will share what I remember with as much accuracy as possible, but don’t hold me to it.It all began on a dark and dreary December night in 2013. Rain and wind howled in the windows as frigid air leaked in through whatever crevice it could, winding through the stillness like a hunting snake ready to bite my sides and infect me with its cold poison. Typical Bellingham weather. I was used to it, after so many years, so it didn’t bother me.I sat at my desk, which sat in my room, which sat in my rather secluded house on the outskirts of the city. I hunched over my paper as I scribbled upon it, movements neat and quick
A Raven and a Writing Desk: PrologueLife is like a game of chessOne by one the pieces goTaken off the board of EarthNeatly placed into a rowA row of people tossed asideRotting in their filthy gravesDespite the years and years of timeThey spent trying to winHow can one so sweet and pureEnd up in the bloody pile?Why have I been forced to walkThis trail of torture for so many miles?Hath God forsaken me for no reason?What have I done to earn this pain?Why am I cursed with such a demon?Beware the Raven's Wrath
The Little ThingsI'm youngBut not stupidI know what I'm sayingEven if you don't get itI'm shortBut not smallMy mind is bigDespite my statureI'm femaleBut not weakMy sex doesn't determineMy strength or potentialI'm a personBut no one listensBecause everyone's caught upIn all the little things
Enough is EnoughThey call me weakThey call me a cowardAs long as I can rememberI’ve been overpoweredBy someone bigger than meSomeone who toweredOver my tiny formAlways coweringI feel sorry for my friendsAlways having to protect meAlways having to worryNever a free moment to drink teaOr read a bookOr climb a treeAlways on guard to make sure that I’m safeThey treat me so well, but I feel more like a fleaNow we’re in dangerIt looks like the endThey beg me to runThey try to defendPoor helpless little meWho has to dependOn their strength, which is failingHow can I call myself their friend?So I put down my footAnd I summon my willI unleash my furyLike flames from a grillMy courage was staggeringI showed them my worthTo save my friends from fateI would blow up the Earth.
Brother MineBrother mineDon’t close your eyesLet me know you’re fineWith those lovely skiesBrother mineI miss you soI don’t mean to whineBut I don’t want you to goBrother mineI’m not gonna lieI will say with a sighI’d perish if you diedBrother mineI’ll be waiting hereHanging from twinePlease don’t disappearBrother mineYou’ll come back to me right?You’ll stay strong and shineYou won’t lose this fightBrother mineThere’s so much left to doI hope that it’s benignBecause I really love you
Dublin Facts #4-5:She Doesn't Remember St. PatrickSaint Patrick’s Day in Dublin is something of a big deal. With the parade, the greening of the city, and all the costumes and delicious dinners and religious reflection, you would think that Ashling has a sort of personal attachment to the patron saint of her country.But the truth of the matter is, she doesn’t remember him in the slightest.Everything around and before the seventh century is fuzzy in Ashling’s memory. When she thinks hard enough, she can vaguely remember great kings and wars among the people, but nothing comes to her clearly. Her only true memory from that time is meering Norway, who became her big brother. But that’s another story.Returning back to the topic at hand, Saint Patrick lived in the fourth and fifth centuries, out of Ashling’s memory range. She wants to say that she can recall him interacting with a king of hers, though she isn’t certain about anything. It gets frustrating not remembering, especially when Ireland tells
Spamano Fanfiction: Lo vi.I like my life. Carefree, passionate, and happy. Spending everyday how I want to spend it, doing the things I want to do when I want to. It’s the best way to exist, in my opinion. Others might call me stupid or lazy for relaxing day in and day out, but who cares what they think? I’ve always ignored what people say about me and waved it off with a laugh, because I like the way I live, and that’s what matters.But a while ago, after a nice siesta, I woke up with a thought:‘What am I doing?’It was a pretty simple question, but I found that I didn’t know the answer. I thought about it for a long time. While eating, or playing guitar, or hanging out with my friends, I would always end up asking myself, ‘What’s the point of this? What is this leading to? What’s my purpose?’But I was always stumped.“Kesese! Toni, vhat’s vith zhe serious face? Zhe awesome me is trying to tell a story!” Said my friend Gilbert one
Statistics are temporarily unavailable