Mirroring Souls, Reflections Within

mirroringsouls @ 2007-06-27T01:25:00

2007-06-27T07:25:17Z

Title: Bob, the Goblin
Style: Comedic Drabble
Ratings: G
Date Written: June 27, 2007
Notes: This prompt was suggested by ipaintwithwords

Hi, my name is Bob. Just Bob, nothing else. Goblins don’t have last names. Well, I guess given everything else, I might have one, but this is one of those few areas where I do actually conform. They’d never acknowledge the last name anyways. Or worse, they’d forget I was Bob.

Wait? What do you mean you don’t know about Goblins? Goblins are small, pointy eared green creatures. They typically like to eat things that most people find repugnant, such as cats, dogs, or a two year out of date chunky milk. Not that chunky milk is bad, mind you. I don’t know why most humans throw it away just as it’s getting good.

Me? I don’t eat cats or dogs. I actually like kittens. I have about 100 of them. Well, not all of them are kittens anymore. Most of them are cats. No, I don’t keep them all in my “house” or “den”. I’m not a human, and not a wolf. I like to be outside in the thunder and lightening. No, I just rescued the cats and kittens and they pay me a visit when they happen into the area. You wouldn’t believe the number of them that were lost or unhappy. I can’t always figure out where they live, human addresses are just too complicated, but I can give them a friend out here.

mirroringsouls @ 2007-04-14T16:35:00

2007-04-14T22:35:52Z

Title: The Worst Story that Comes to Mind
Style: Comedic Drabble
Rating: PG
Date Written: April 14, 2007
Notes: This is not a good drabble. It's a bad one. Yes, that's the point.

Once upon a time some guy got his groove on. Although this wasn't what he wanted to do with his life, it was all that he knew how to do. Put on some music and GROOOOOOOOOVE, baby! He wasn't cute, he didn't have the best wardrobe, and he didn't have a voice. He wasn't even that good at dancing, but at least he could follow a beat.

He wanted to do something with his life, but listening to Weird Al's Yoda over and over told him nothing about how he should live his life. He wanted some source of inspiration to do something better with his life.

Then it happened. One day aliens came and took him away.

He did something with his life besides get his groove one. He was kidnapped by aliens. Of course...

He's dead now.

mirroringsouls @ 2007-04-01T02:57:00

2007-04-01T09:09:17Z

Title: Twitching Mind
Style: Character Monologue (Original)
Rating: PG
Notes: This is just writing. Pure and simple. There's no point to it, just words strung together and typed out. It IS a character monologue, but not for a specific character, and not for myself. Be forewarned, it is unusual and complicated. If this bothers you, don't read.

Vague is the mind into which one enters. It's not exactly what one would expect. Then again, perhaps a person does. Twitching tends to give some preconceived notions. The person must be insane if they're twitching. If they're abnormal, they obviously have lost their grip on reality. This is not often, always, or even mostly the case. This is just what people assume. Sometimes I wonder if it's because they can't be bothered to understand.

It's not a difficult thing to understand, I'd think. Not really. Every human is a bit different. One might say "tomAYto" and another "TomAHto", and "let's call the whole thing off" is their response. Of course, they never realize that they both "TOM" the same way. And does the rest ever bother to be aknowledged?

Simply because one twitches, and says the occasional odd thing doesn't mean they're any odder than your average "Sane" person. It doesn't mean they're broken and it certainly doesn't mean that they are nuts. Sane people without twitches say odd things occasionally, and they aren't always automatically assumed insane.

And yet those who twitch are.

I feel twitchy just thinking about it.

mirroringsouls @ 2006-10-17T02:16:00

2006-10-17T08:16:51Z

Title: Vision Walk
Style: Memory Prose
Rating: G
Date written: October 17, 2006
Notes: This is going to seem almost insane, but if you can't accept it, that's fine. I hope it's at least still a good read.

Sitting in the shade, sipping at soda, a memory came to me. It was him, walking up beside me, and nodding a hello with a smile. He asked how I was, and I told him I was well, and asked after him. He responded and looked at me for a long moment before asking if I had some free time to take a walk.

At the time I did, I had been walking already, and I told him so. He simply smiled and asked me if I'd care to share a walk with him. I laughed and told him I'd be honored. We began to walk.

We walked all over campus that day. We spent some time over by the duck pond, over with the horses the campus kept, and some time on the open fields down there. We talked about many things. The darkness of the past, and the light.

Then I heard it again, his voice, asking me if I cared for a walk. He's still alive and well, it was nothing more than a vision, but I almost answered. The memory had been so real...

I stood and began to walk. I didn't really pay attention to where I was going, I just let myself walk, and breathe the fresh air.

A different campus, I still found myself at the duck pond. I walked around it for quite some time, and then stopped in one spot and really looked around me.

The smell was pine trees with damp air. It was near the duck pond's waterfall. I could hear the birds, the area was shaded, and fallen leaves and branches were scattered about. That one spot reminded me of both Germany and my home state, Washington. It was the light in the past I was reminded of, and I found myself smiling.

I walked all around that duck pond. There was no other spot quite like it.

I went back to the spot and closed my eyes, just taking in the fragrance and the memory.

I almost thought I heard him say "You'll be all right now." I don't know if it was me or if it was him.

That feeling after was familiar too. I'd missed it.

mirroringsouls @ 2006-10-03T02:31:00

2006-10-03T08:31:20Z

Title: Changing Mistakes
Style: Response Piece
Rating: G
Date written: October 3, 2006
Notes: Repsonse to We Can Change It by Jem and the Holograms (from the cartoon)

He stared down at the canvas. There was so much blank space. He reached for his paint and smiled. There was so much he could do with this.

He began to paint. It was a simple line, and something startled him, sending the brush across the canvas at an odd angle.

He took a step back, looking at the line. He grinned. This would be an interesting challenge.

He shifted and began to paint again. He worked with the line, adding lighting and more lines. He did nothing to hide the line. He rearranged his painting to work the line in.

He changed it and it was quite fine.

After a time he finished, and stood back and smiled at it. Then he sighed and glanced at the phone, letting the doubts creep back in.

Then he glanced at the painting.

He walked over to the phone. Time to make some other changes.

mirroringsouls @ 2006-10-03T01:51:00

2006-10-03T07:51:50Z

Title: Crumbling Wall
Style: Response Piece
Rating: G
Date written: October 3, 2006
Notes: Response to Field of Innocence by Evanescence

She wrapped the shawl around her more tightly as she walked along the path. She'd walked this path so many times in her childhood. She looked around at the slowly deteriorating wall along the walk. It had seemed so magical as a child. Looking at it now, it looked run down, worn and tired.

She prefered the days where it was magic. She wanted those back more than anything.

She'd become cynical over time. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, under the shawl. It was so cold here now. There had been a time when it seemed like the sun always shined and she could play in the light.

She could see herself as that child, but she didn't recognize the child anymore. The eyes were different. She'd had such wide, innocent eyes. Eyes that would believe anything and anyone.

She heard the voices seductively whispering in her head. Convincing her of things she should never have believed. She closed her eyes and turned sharply, resting her hands on the crumbling wall.

She dropped to her knees, thinking about everything. She thought about how innocent and naive she'd been. She wished she could do it again.

She wept for the loss of her childhood, the loss of the magic of those moments.

She whispered softly to herself. "I'll believe again. I can remember how."

mirroringsouls @ 2006-10-03T01:44:00

2006-10-03T07:44:58Z

Title: Sacrificing for the Greater Good
Style: Response Piece
Rating: G
Date written: October 3, 2006
Notes: Response piece to Missing by Evanescence.
Though not explicitly stated, this piece is about dolphins.

The waves lap the shore. Again and again they lick at my ankles as I walk along the shore.

Looking over at the land, I watch it, and slowly retreat towards the sea.

They won't miss any of us. They don't realize what we are, and what they are meant to be.

We'll sacrifice what we are to let them become what they should. How can we not? Love demands it of us as we watch them grow.

We can't guide them forever though. We can't lead them by the hand. They may fail, and we'll all feel it. We'll all know the loss of them.

Just like we'll know our own sacrifice for them. Hands and legs, no longer part of the land.

We'll remind them we're there. They won't miss us.

We'll share in their torments, feeling it when they fail and let loose their own destruction.

Sooner or later they may realize that we left them there. Sooner or later they will realize we'd die for them.

Sliding into the water we'll melt away from the land. We'll still be there, but forgotten mostly, unless they come to us.

Swimming and leaping for them.

mirroringsouls @ 2006-10-03T00:42:00

2006-10-03T06:43:06Z

Title: Pure Circles
Style: Response Piece
Rating: G
Date written: October 3, 2006
Notes: Response to Return to Innocence by Engima

The roses are blooming as they frolic. They're young and innocent. Nearby the older unicorns watch, wishing they could rejoin them.

They have to be strong though. They cannot go out there without risking the colts. They live vicariously through the frolicking little ones.

Remembering now, what they had once been. Remembering what it was to be naive, sheltered.

They remembered what was there before their innocence was lost to fate and reality. Unable to approach the young ones without sending them away, now, there was a time when they could attract them.

Age, reality, change took them away. Protection, life itself would bring them back, but only in memories.

Lifting their heads proudly they watch. No mortals would approach. Nothing would disturb these colts, nothing would disturb the purity.

Nothing would remove the sounds of happy neighs filling the air.

Until they stood watching over their own colts.

mirroringsouls @ 2006-10-03T00:16:00

2006-10-03T06:16:28Z

Title: Dancing Beyond
Style: Response Piece
Rating: PG
Date written: October 2, 2006
Notes: I was listening to Enigma's Beyond the Invisible when I wrote this.

She's dancing. Veils whirl about her as she moves. Her arms raising up, the veils surrounding her like the mists of a dream. She beckons.

It's almost trancelike to move towards her. Her feet moving in perfect rhythm with the chanting. She tosses her head back, and spins with her arms dipping at some points.

They raise above her head as she lifts her head once more. She moves, once again whirling the veils.

It feels like only she is in the room as well. Nobody else is there. Almost touchable, yet so distant.

Falling to her knees and slowly arching and then falling to one side, the veils sliding down around her. Their flutters finish.

Beyond everything.

7Spells Writing Challenge - Susan/Wayne

2006-09-02T01:47:49Z

7spells HP Fanfiction Challenge
Author: kayida_draco
Character/Pairing: Susan Bones/Wayne Hopkins

1. cold hands, cold feet - Warming by the Fire

2. disheveled - About Time and Other Thoughts

3. the puppet master - Puppeting Puffles

4. five shades of white - The White Plant

5. to the last syllable of recorded time - Syllables Trapped in Time

6. a broken circle - Circles of Communication

7. instrumental - Secondhand Letters

Progress: 7/7 - COMPLETE!

mirroringsouls @ 2006-04-18T22:39:00

2006-04-19T04:40:15Z

Title: Desert Rose Project
Ratings: PG
Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: Icons inspired by lyrics in Sting's Desert Rose. out of every five, one is Gryffindor, one is Hufflepuff, one is Ravenclaw, one is Slytherin and one is everything together.
Notes: No, I didn't label the house ones on the icons. If you look closely at the colors you'll know. That and the bottom of the columns also says which is which.
Also the lyrics to Desert Rose can be found here.
Please credit if taking.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sting's Desert Rose, the base pics used, Harry Potter, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin or the like. These are for fun not for profit.

Desert Rose
Sung by Sting








Gryffindor	Hufflepuff	Ravenclaw	Slytherin	Everyone

mirroringsouls @ 2006-04-09T22:15:00

2006-04-10T04:15:40Z

Title: A Handful of Pink Cherry Blossoms
Style: Short Story
Rating: G
Date Written: Spring 2002
Notes: This was written for a class I took in Short Stories. It was done to a prompt and it received a decent grade despite my thoughts that it's a fairly large piece of tripe.

Branches with white flowers reflected through the window. The pink centers shone out, showing where each individual petal could be found. The window was framed with a sheer cloth that matched those same centers. This reflection trailed to the old woman, as she pulled cookies from her oven. Her white dress shone with the brilliance of the pinks surrounding her.

The woman moved from the kitchen area to her left, where there was a large, red wood table and three redwood chairs. Sitting at the table were an old man and a young boy, talking with passion.

“But Grandfather! Why should I have to clean my room? It shows how I think. It shows how I feel. I can’t live the sterile life the way you all do! I want to live! Do you want me to live some boring life without taking any other risks? You know that I can take them, so why do you fight me so hard on this? All I want is to keep my room as it is? Why can’t I?” The young boy’s arms flailed, not quite straight, with his elbows jutting out. He glanced to his left, stared at his arm a moment, and stopped moving them. “Why can’t you just let it go? My friends don’t have to keep their rooms perfectly spotless!” The young boy flung his right arm out perfectly straight, his right hand pointing with the index finger towards the door, the fingers curved all the way in with the thumb on the side. “Why?”

“My child, are you so ready to go through life with no responsibility? Do you expect me to side with people I don’t even know? I am not going to be convinced on the basis of what your friends do? What if your friends decided that jumping off cliffs would be fashionable, would you then argue that you should be allowed to do that? I think not!” The child noticed that the old man’s hands were held out imploringly, his fingers curving in slightly with the middle fingers at the base of the cups the hands made. “I cannot shelter you from basic responsibility! As to how you think; do you really think that chaotically? How better to train your mind then, child, then to clean your room? If you can organize your room, surely you can begin to organize your thoughts!” The old man’s left hand came down in a chopping motion, thumb above fingers, onto the table.

The young boy noticed that the old man’s hands were worn, and that the hands also showed signs of neglect. Both hands displayed rough cuts and loose skin. The left hand bore a straight scar that moved from the index finger joint on the back of the hand across the knuckles across to the outer edge of his hand. The fingers were thin and dexterous. Movement of the joints had made the skin of the fingers gaunt, with very little muscle. The joints were slightly bigger than the fingers themselves. The young boy looked at his right hand: young, thin, the joints about the same size as the rest of the finger. His nails were carefully taken care of and his skin was soft. He looked back at the old man’s hands and noticed that the nails were rough but filed.

“What about your hands! Why should I want to take care of my room when you can’t even take care of yourself! And why should I learn to organize my thoughts, I can’t see anything wrong with the way I think now.” The boy found that his arms were moving above his head, moving to and fro as he spoke. A wind blew outside, and the boy glance at the window as the branches of cherry blossoms began to hit the window. He realized that his arms were moving much like the branches in the wind. Up and down, and back and forth: all at the same time.

The old woman put down the cookies as she came over to the table. Her hands were worn, much like the old man’s. The difference was the softness of her hands, the smoothness of her nails. The boy glanced at her hands than at the window. The color of her nails was the same as the color of the cherry blossoms. They were that same, deep pink. He remembered that there was something important about that color. He didn’t want to remember though. He turned back to the old man.

“Why should you pay attention to the way that you think? What was that outburst just now if not a prime example of what I am talking about? You bounce from one topic to another, which makes discussions with you difficult to follow! It’s like walking into your room sometimes with all of its stuff in random places!” As the old man said this, his left hand raised, palm up, and his right hand moved away from his body, also palm up. Both hands moved quickly upwards, and then moved down quickly, jerking slightly below where they had originally been.

The boy jumped up from his chair slamming his right hand down quickly onto the table with his fingers together. “I can usually find stuff!”

The old man curled his fingers back into his palms, and drew his hands to him, then into his lap, sighing. “Perhaps, but you also find stuff you don’t want to find when you don’t want, or need to find it. Sometimes instead of what you are looking for! That is why disorganization is bad. When you are in school, do you find yourself knowing every answer on a test, or do you find that you remember stuff that has nothing to do with the test and only some of what is on that test? Judging from that last test you brought home, I would say it is the latter. As to the other thing that you brought up: My hands got this way by being hard working and I got these scars in part because I didn’t take the time to think before I acted. I carelessly did something that I knew better than to do at the time, and if I had kept my thoughts neatly organized I would have automatically remembered not to do it, because my brain would have been more easily triggered. So it is important to clean your room!” As the old man said this, his right hand came up suddenly, shaking. His index finger was straight as it pointed at the boy. His fingers were curled back towards him with his palm down. His thumb lay on the side of his hand, also pointing at the boy. The young boy trembled slightly.

The old woman had started to move back into the kitchen area, hips swaying with her arms at her sides barely moving. Her hands were relaxed, the fingers curved slightly inward. She turned around and gazed at the boy. Her right hand moved up through the air, her elbow going from a relaxed curve to a sharp point. She just looked at the boy. Her hand settled on her hip and she just stood there looking at him. Her nails matched the cherry blossoms, and now, the boy realized, so do her eyes. Not the color of the eyes themselves, but the way she wore her make-up. Cherry blossoms were pink in the center and white on the edges, and her eyes were a gorgeous blue that worked out to white. Her make-up then worked from the white through pale shades of pink to a deeper pink, the deep pink of the blossoms. He felt guilty, not because it was her, but because he there was something familiar about the way she stood and looked at him. Then the old woman turned around and the moment was over. Her right hand moved out to her side again and she walked with the arms swaying. The arms moved like a thin trees in the wind, her nails out as her hands lifted so the palms faced the floor. Her fingers spread slightly, and the fingers curved slightly, all at different angles. Her hands swaying with the arms resembled the cherry tree so strongly, that it took him a moment before he noticed what it the old man had said.

The old man had continued despite the boy’s inattention. He was holding up his left hand with the back towards the boy, and the palm facing him. He rotated his elbow up, sending the fingers downwards, very slowly. The hand obscured his face, but the boy could see the eyes peeking through the spaces between his smallest finger and ring finger, and between his index finger and thumb. “My hands are the product of an accident, and I have not used that accident as and excuse to get out of doing what I need to do. I moved on with my life and am living with everything I have done. I have scars on more parts of me than I can count from it, and when you can say that you have done that much work, then you can say whether or not cleaning your room is even something that you can question. My room is clean and organized, it may not be the best way for some to organize, but it is the way that I think, and that is why it is organized that way. I trained my mind to think the way that my room is organized, and you, my boy, shall learn the same way!” As the old man spoke he brought his hand down, away from his face and turned it sharply so that the palm was no longer facing him. As he turned his hand, his forearm moved down towards the table and he slammed his hand onto the table, the fingers still spread. He used that same arm where it was and brought up his other hand and pushed on the table as he stood up. The old man towered over the boy and looked down at the child.

The young boy looked down at his right hand feeling his cheeks color. He wondered if his cheeks were like cherry blossom, pink in the center fading to white. Looking down at his hands, he noticed that the veins were blue, and there were lines of purple and pink gently surrounding those veins, subtle and beautiful, the faded from one color to the next. They reminded him of the flowers. He shook his head, trying to figure out why he was so distracted today. And why was his mind focusing on those blossoms? Granted this was the first time he had ever really seen them, since it was less than a year since he came to live here, but he was really distracted. He had never been distracted at the other places, he remembered. He looked up in time to see the old man moving his hands to his hips, elbows pointed. As the old man opened his mouth to speak, the boy began to speak, trying to think quickly before he lost the argument.

“Why does one mind have to be organized like another? I bet if I went outside and climbed that cherry tree outside and broke two of the limbs off, they would have the blossoms organized differently. The way the branches come off the tree is disorganized. I still don’t see why I should have to clean my room in order to meet some strange expectation that you have set down. Why can’t I just be like the cherry tree and look beautiful while standing in my own self? Why can’t my branches just stretch out gloriously? Just bask in the glory of not having to think about things! Why can’t I just be allowed to sink my roots and settle without remembering things that don’t need to be remembered!” As the boy said this, he stretched his arms way out to the sides, tilting his head back. He felt his right finger tips brush the wall, but merely tilted his hand downwards in response. His palm faced away from him, and his fingers were pointing down, though they maintained a relaxed curve, separate of one another.

“What makes you think that cherry tree outside isn’t organized in some way you don’t comprehend. Come with me young man, and we’ll see if that tree isn’t somehow organized!” The old man stepped behind the boy, and put one hand on each shoulder, applying pressure with the heel of his palm to propel the boy to the door. The boy’s head snapped back up, and his shoulders dropped his arms to his sides, sighing a shrug as they did so. The door was on the same wall as the window, and the boy simply went with the man there. The old man pulled his right hand from the shoulder over to the doorknob and his elbow pointed to the right as the old man pulled the door open. He put his hand back on the boy’s shoulder, and he moved him outside, towards the tree. As they neared the tree, the boy began to smell the blossoms, and he suddenly saw the woman he loved most in the world dancing in the trees. Only She wasn’t there, and he knew it. She could not be there. She was no longer with this world. She danced towards the ends of the branch, and suddenly the end of one of the branches fell off, petals falling as if the branch were bleeding. It seemed to reach out, spreading out the miniature branches as if they were fingers making a desperate grab for something, anything, to hold onto. Then he realized that it wasn’t Her, it was the movement of branches wearing the colors of her favorite dress pink fading out to white. The old man let go of his shoulders as they neared the tree. He moved in front of the boy. The boy simply stood there, his arms curved by his sides, as the old man picked up the falling branch piece. Holding the branch next to the branch that would have been next to it, the old man pointed out seemingly random blossoms on each. After a few more, the boy looked hard at his hand, and he realized that the old man’s hand was pointing out a pattern that was on both branches. His gnarled hands moved around with the tree fingers tucked in, his thumb across them and his right index finger pointing at the different blossoms on the branch that he held in his left hand. The boy looked down at his right hand and held it out for the branch. He removed one of the blossoms from the tree and turned it over to form a dress skirt. He twirled it over his left arm, from his shoulder, feeling the tickling sensation as it moved down his arm. He watched it swirl its fairy dance down his arm, swaying and swirling as branches and leaves sway and swirl, until finally it reached the end of its journey. This was not some disorganized, chaotic, route, he found, but the route was moving with the wind, and accordingly moved at the direction the wind blew it in. At the end of its journey, it fell off his arm, where his left wrist should have been. He stared hard, thinking. The old man and old woman were not the only ones who had ever wanted him to organize his life, but that others were gone. She had left the same day as he had needed her most. The day he lost everything, including a piece of himself. So what if he just wanted to forget everything. Maybe. Maybe he just wanted to bury it in clutter. Either way She’d disapprove. He sighed, turning away from the tree, his arms crossing as they came over his chest. His right palm lay on his left shoulder, curving and cupping the shoulder. He turned to see the old woman coming up. She reached out with her hand cup, and caught the blossom as it fell. Her other hand reached up and drew his right hand down, still cupped. Wordlessly she gave back the cherry blossom, transferring it from one hand to another. He stared up at her as she returned it to him. The old woman looked very much like Her. He suddenly felt a ball move up in his throat and he threw his arms around her, curving them tightly to embrace her, as tears began to fall. The old man looked up and gently bent to set the branch down. He walked over and swung his right arm over the boy and the left over the old woman.

“Grandfather, Grandmother. I’m sorry. I will clean my room. It’s just that it’s so hard…”

“It will get better. “ The old man looked at the boy with sympathy.

“Why organize if it isn’t going to always be there? Why do we have to do anything to make things easier if they aren’t going to be any easier?”

The old woman looked down at the small boy, and pulled him closer. “Why do you think?” The grandfather patted the boy on the back as he answered. The old woman smiled and simply held them, as cherry blossoms surrounded them, falling and twirling from the tree.

mirroringsouls @ 2006-04-04T06:01:00

2006-04-04T12:01:34Z

Title:Mirroring Infinity
Style:Poem
Rating:PG
Date written: 03-25-06
Notes: What I write is a vent, nothing more.

Mirroring spirits
Refelected within
Shattering luck
Reflections therein

mirroringsouls @ 2006-04-04T06:00:00

2006-04-04T12:00:26Z

Title:Phrases of the Mind
Style:Poem
Rating:PG
Date written: 02-14-06
Notes: What I write is a vent, nothing more.

Pause of Thought
Pause of Reason
Bleeding Walls
Smoke filled Danger

We the People
Rhyme and Reason
Failure to Save
Saving from failure
Cortexing Spiral
Spiraling power
Midnight Flower
Blossoms of blood
Pluming liquid

Do what you have to
Seeping weeps
Stone melts

mirroringsouls @ 2006-04-04T05:56:00

2006-04-04T11:56:24Z

Title: Response to Queen of the Darkness
Style:Poem
Rating:PG
Fandom: Anne Bishop's Queen of the Darkness
Date written: 01-12-06
Notes: What I write is a vent, nothing more.
This is a response piece to Anne Bishop's Queen of the Darkness

Tantum swirling spinning fight
Ebon's glory turned twilight
Spiral down the power's bend
And the Blood she went to rend

Broken spirit falls so fast
Chances taken, by three cast
Catching, rolling three must stop
Don't allow the heart to drop

Brilliant colours layering now
Transfers the power created how
Layer the colors in her Night
Made the gem of Twilight.