Cold Autumn Day Trilogy

Here is a set of stories I wrote in the autumn of 2006. Please keep in mind, I was 12 going on 13-years-old, heavily influenced by the the cheesy dark vibes and emo-esque counter-culture of that particular year (artistically), and tried my hand at writing an original plot that spans three short stories.

They are sub-titled as follows.

Part 1: Cold Autumn Day (Link to story) https://docs.google.com/file/d/0Bx7Ov_SEOJc9S0lQNmRPb0Z4ZUE/edit
Part 2: The Gathering (Link to story) https://docs.google.com/file/d/0Bx7Ov_SEOJc9T3hmQjEtcFcxSzg/edit
Part 3: Kingdom Come

Part 1 and 2 were edited and revised just this past summer, of 2014, and will be published here. Part 3 has yet to be revised. I will get to it when the time comes . . . It was quite interesting to revisit the pre-adolescent mind of myself and the conversations I had then within myself . . . as writers, isn't it just a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia? Aren't our writings just an opportunity to share with the world the arguments and predicaments we fabricate within our various personalities, within our own minds?

Afterlife.

12.8.08

“Where hath all the pain gone?”

my heart wonders aloud;

I see it there, all so clear,

but vulnerable my heart isn't

to it anymore.

I merely read the symptoms,

the aching of the heart.

I merely remember what hell is,

but feel, I cannot—though fibers of me

do tingle from the fear.

Still, I don't feel as though everyday is normal.

But then again, what defines ordinary?

Is it just a day in the afterlife,

just living past my death?

I scold myself, “Why can't I feel?

I'm not happy, so why don't I feel sad?”

Maybe all the other poems

were only complaints of some hidden tide

Deep inside, I now I cannot accept this.

Living through another's tears and not my own.

Not a drop for the pain of the past six months.

Still, when I see him, then I understand

why it felt like I couldn't live, had no point.

The ghost of him is all that this is

My numbness has grown like a pearl

over and around him, like a silent tomb.

He was a stumble in my life.

A fervent light blocking my road.

I have grown stale and cold, molding,

swallowing him whole like the way he

clouds my nightmares and dreams.

And if I have truly grown used to him

not being in my life anymore,

then my existence has eroded on

the distance and darkness:

Life's bitter realities.