time blooms like a flower
Just now I finished another two pages in my journal, the one decorated with the neon rose I carefully set in September.
There’s only four pages left.
Just a week ago, and every breakfast after, I’ve noticed that the cherry blossoms are blooming. It was just a tiny bud at first, but now the pink flowers are popping up all over the bare branches.
Just a couple months ago, I was daydreaming, getting lost in the shouts, cheers, music, and penlights.
Just a couple hours ago, I sighed and imagined just how silly I had been to believe I could attend a concert on the other side of the world set fifteen days from now.
Just a couple weeks ago, I boasted prideful words with an arrogant smile.
Just two days ago, I buried my head underneath a blanket while crying because I just utterly humiliated myself in the interview I had been so calm about.
Flipping through my old, battered journal, filled with hastily scrawled letters and carelessly pasted papers, I laugh bitterly.
Was it the surprise that stemmed from the feeling that those events felt lifetimes away,
or was it the surprise that those events seemingly took place just yesterday?
As in the words of a story I wrote, “Everything always works out in an uncanny way”.
fall, an inspiriting season
Fall, as in
The endless sky, a quilt
With clouds as the patchworks
alongside a light blue lining
Fall, as in
The gentle breeze
That whistles, picks up, and turns
Into a gust of icy wind
billowing and tousling
Fall, as in
The crisp leaves,
Scattered in a diverse array,
from variants of light green
To a dandelion yellow
into gradients of a muted red
Fall, as in
The crackling crunch of the foilage underfoot
The rustling of coats and jackets
Cheers from harvests under the full moon
Fall, as in
A steaming cup of freshly-brewed tea
The tapping and clacking of a keyboard
Entwining letters into a string of words
As a thundering storm rampages outside
Nothingness
Everything was nothing; nothing was all.
Days and nights blended into each other- time became subjective. Without any way to tell the time and the once blue sky hidden underneath a seemingly infinite spread of dismal grey clouds looming overhead, it didn’t matter if it was 3 A.M or 3 P.M.
Neither did days matter. How long had I been walking? Why was I walking? I was going to meet my end soon, it was inevitable. Over a thousand different thoughts ago, I had already accepted my fate. So why did I push on, plodding step after step in a snow-blanketed wasteland? Everything was covered in heavy layers of the powdery material, with some old patches of snow so hard and tightly packed it could’ve been ice.
Humans, I supposed, just had an unbreakable will to simply survive.
The white landscape was eerily quiet and still. The howling wind was something I had long grown accustomed to, to the point where it became a simple background noise, much like the sounds of my breath. White snow that grew darker the farther into the horizon it went blended in with the grey sky, sometimes creating the feeling that I was in a dome. Trapped, on a conveyor belt that had no end in sight.
Skeletons of ancient vehicles littered the ground. I leaned down on a heavily-clad, bulky knee, sifting around the hollow base of the... plane? Carrier, that was the word, I remembered. I had long forgotten how to speak, as one normally would when they haven’t seen a human in at least 10,000 different thoughts. Fumbling past an encasing of wires and iron straps, I pulled out a scuffed plastic box, feeling a small bit of satisfication. Silently grunting, I scrabbled around, prodding and pulling until it snapped open.
Inside were colorless blocks of food, each shrink-wrapped in see-through plastic. I carefully gathered each piece of precious food and tucked it away in my coat pocket, preparing to continue my journey through the monotone wasteland.
But... why did I continue to walk, even when there was no end in sight? No hope, no life, nothing at all except me.
But if I had managed to make it this far, then... didn’t that prove something, at least?
That bundle of food I had found too- if something other humans had used to survive in the distant past still existed, and I had found it, then didn’t that also mean there was hope? If I had found that relic, using it to sustain myself so I continue my journey, perhaps, there might be something out there, slim as it be.
My lips stretched and cracked and I flinched, surprised at the pain. Hm? I tilted my head, confused. Though I felt blood trickle down my chin, I felt... happy? No, I probably had forgotten how to feel anything at all a long time ago. Even the once gawing pangs of hunger were reduced to dull aches in my insides, warning me that I needed nourishment if I planned to continue walking on.
When I moved my gloved hand up to touch my lips, I realized that they were unusually shaped, curled upwards instead of the flat line they should be. I was initially concerned, but after a while it faded, forgotten. Shouldn't I be a bit more bothered by it..?
I stopped and stared at that same horizon, the eternal symbol of my neverending walk. Except this time, it was different. I swore that the same horizon now had a faint glow, such as one of a light's near the end. The unexpected sight pierced the standard dullness, though it was likely just to be a hallucination, fabricated by my own mind.
How strange, I thought to myself. But as I continued my walk, each step felt lighter than before, as if I now had a goal or purpose.
Maybe, I realized now, it was because I did.
Mystery and Myth Come Alive Though Only On This Special Night
Faint specters and dark seraphs let out mournful wails in the pitch black night,
Let out of the abyss to roam the overworld, yet stripped of their might
Ghastly yet exciting, the night has just begun
Children flood the streets, hearts beating rapidly, but because of fear or because of fun?
Jack-o-lanterns light the way, faint light flickering in this haunting masquerade
A night where one can become anything they wish to be
Transformations and mysteries at every step- is what you see really reality?
Clad in costumes and venturing out
to gather piles of candy and sweets
Beware and be careful, though, who exactly will you meet?
Candied apples, candy corn, bittersweet chocolate and blood-red tarts,
Handed out by witches stirring cauldrons, green faces speckled with warts
Brave souls slowly slip away as the night carries on
The mystical creatures fade away, completely erased by the start of dawn
Their time has passed, now empty wisps, drifting in the forgotten wind
Till the 31st comes once more, they are just monsters of myths and of lore
A good writer in a sea of stories
What makes a good writer? Or, what makes a good story?
You could major in English or be a walking Grammar textbook, but does that mean you are a good writer?
For me, a good story is one that changes your viewpoint or opens your mind to new perspectives. One that affects how you look at things- and a very well-written story can even change your life.
"A book that takes you a week to read contains a lifetime's worth of experiences and thoughts."
Nothing has ever impacted me as a person, or my life, as much as a good story. Writing is so free and flowing, not limited to anything at all. That movie that made you cry for hours- someone wrote that. An inspirational quote that has been your mantra to achieving your goals? That's also a product of writing. That uplifting tv-show that ignited your old passion that you thought burned out years ago? Someone wrote the script for that as well.
Back to the original question: what makes a good writer?
A good writer might have unspoken thoughts, ideas, and feelings that they want to show the world. They're someone who pours their heart into each word they write, creating an unforgettable experience or story that the reader will never forget. They write pieces that raise questions and cause the reader to think to themselves about this new world and the infinite possibilities that come with it.
Nonfiction writers also want to inform their readers about the world, and tell and explain to them all these new, previously unknown facts and information. Each and every type of writer, even if you're someone who just keeps a journal, writes words that create an unique story.
"Writing is an underestimated work of art. You paint colorful images in people's minds using words of black and white."
My final answer for this challenge, I suppose: A good writer is someone who wants to convey something to the reader; whether it be an idea, thought, or story they want to share. Of course, it's not purely imagination or creativity that makes you a good writer- it's those things combined with knowledge and determination that creates one.