'Nother English Assignment

This story is from that same creative writing assignment as Flight, only based off a different myth. Maybe you've heard of it. The one where Hades kidnaps Persephone for his bride, and Demeter (her mother) rages because she's missing, so Zeus (king god) orders Hades to give her back. 'Cept it's too late because she's already eaten a few seeds from a pomegranate (food of the dead). Instead, she has to return there for a few months every year, because she's tasted the food of the dead.

I wasn't sure if I should post this, because the last post was kind of like a goodbye, and this makes it seem more like a "haha, just kidding, it's not" when it isn't.

Anyways, the story.

Oh, and really lame title, but I couldn't come up with a better one on short notice. Oh well.

Gardener of the Underworld

The throne room is the only place in the underworld that is paved in marble, and that was where I stood, between piles of gems heaped like stars on top of a solid night sky, as I received the orders.

“Show her the ways of the garden,” he said, with less steel than usual. “Make her feel at home.” I took his words with a duck of the head and slipped away from the scrutiny of a thousand glittering beetle eyes. It wasn’t until I had left behind clicking echoes and the floor beneath my feet gave way to dust that I realized Lord Hades had not given me the most important order of all.

Did he forget? Or did he mean for her to stay of her own accord? Blinded by love as he was, Hades was a god, the god of Death no less, and he had seen the demise of countless lives. He, of all people knew better than to deal in hope. So, then, perhaps Persephone was more forgiving than the rumours claimed.

I strode towards the garden, leaving muted footprints in the ground. The dust here was heavy with countless memories of so many souls, and it did not swirl into the air.

As I approached my poplars I held out my hand to let their whispers trickle into my open palm. That was how I found her, arm outstretched, unfurling tendrils of white light from her hand, watching as they sank into the cold flesh of a willow. I had no doubt that above the Earth’s surface, her radiance could put the sun to shame, but here, washed in shadows and frozen by time, it was dim enough pluck from her fingertips.

“It won’t work. They cannot bear flowers. They live solely on your deepest secrets and most desperate wishes. Your power has no purchase here,” I told her as she startled, the flickering light melting like water back into her skin. She snatched her hand away, as if I had caught her in a shameful act.

“I just wish this place could be livelier, that’s all. There are no flowers, no fruits.” I waited for scorn in the arch of her eyes to cast itself at my feet, but her reply held only dejection.

It struck me then, that she was never bitter at Hades for bringing her down here. She simply did not belong in the stillness and silence of the Underworld, and this was not something Hades could understand. Joy was a foreign taste in his mouth, and he did not know that her innocence, while sweet, was poison. He knew only the fragility, not the resilience of life.

I was just a gardener, but I could see that Persephone would not stay of her own accord. And while I could not stitch together their jagged pieces seamlessly, I could give them time to wear down their edges.

“Come,” I said. “There is a single fruit that grows in the underworld.”

Dying Dreams

It's sad that there have only been four other posts this month. And it's already the nineteenth. April moved by way too fast. What happened to the months like October, November, and December, ending with twenty three posts each? Where have all the authors gone?

It seems to be a Gifted/TOPS thing; just letting ambitions die away. Like the concert that was planned for a certain Youth Orchestra member. Or the TOPS night concert a certain student organized. I myself have large projects put indefinitely on hold. It's so easy to get absorbed into school, not caring for hobbies and long-term goals, only snatching short-lived pleasures whenever they become available. I'm frustrated that I can't balance these thing together. What's more, I'm frustrated that I don't quite enjoy posting as much as I used to. If only we could go back to the February of last year, when the idea for this blog was fresh in my head; the most interesting project I'd ever started. The wonderful feeling of addiction, the magical flow of words. I'm still glad of the experiences I've gained on here. I feel my writing has gotten a lot better, and the experimentation has taught me a lot of things.

And of course, I could never forget the countless articles shared. The weird feelings of abstract prose. The coded messages deciphered from poems. Times of suspense, comedy, drama, and fantasy. "These are our stories," Thomas King would say. "Our values and attitudes live on and shape our world through them." I agree with how he thinks. And for that reason, I will never stop writing.

I think it's time we left Giftees United to rest in peace. We've managed to sustain this for over a year, and that's an achievement for me. Maybe I'll post again another day. But for now, I'll have to say goodbye.

P.S. Not all is dead yet. A surprise (hopefully) awaits, which is part of the reason I'm not finding the time to post.

Flight

Creative English writing assignments are awesome. For this one, we were supposed to choose a scene from one of the Greek myths we read and expand on it. I chose the escape scene from Daedalus and Icarus.

Icarus's sharp blue eyes mirrored the clear sky as they peered over Daedalus's shoulders. His father stood over a beautiful pair of bird wings, baring silver feathers that glinted and glowed in the dazzling sunlight. The boy's lips parted in awe, curving steadily into a smile.

"Icarus," Daedalus said anxiously, clutching his son's thin arm, "do not be reckless. If you fly too high, the sun will scorch your feathers. And if you fly too low, the sea will wet them. Just follow me and you will be safe."

Icarus nodded indolently, his eyes pointed at the wings. He noticed how smoothly their feathers rippled, like long grass in a meadow. The cream coloured wax bound them together seamlessly. His father's voice droned on, but he was not listening. He longed to be airborne, to streak through the air as fast as lightning. Daedalus strapped the valiant wings onto his son, doing the same to himself with his own pair. A hyped Icarus was ready for liftoff. Like a peregrine or an eagle, he would soar determinedly through the air. He barely noticed the kiss on the cheek or the pained expression on his guardian's face. All he knew was that there was only one way to go: up.

Daedalus jumped into the air, flapping his wings forcefully. He began to rise, levitating far above Icarus. The boy mimicked his father. He bent his legs and pushed up, waving his arms madly. His movements were uncoordinated and quickly found him back on the ground. Icarus frowned and tried again, watching enviously as his father hovered in place, several feet above him. He crouched down slightly, put all of his strength into his legs, and made a tremendous leap into the air.

Takeoff.

He didn't need any reassurance to know he had done it. The magical exhilaration of flight flooded through his body. He became light-headed with excitement and every nerve in his body tingled. His arms waved naturally, and all worries left his mind. Daedalus swept forward, and Icarus followed exuberantly.

The wind whistled wildly through his ears, whipping his matted hair across his face. Its cooling effect was offset by the furnace of a sun, slowly creeping to its zenith. Icarus watched excitedly as farmer's fields and little wooden cabins slid by on the earth. The toy houses and miniature people made him feel much grander.

The rugged green land transitioned into a smooth blue blanket, shimmering beautifully in the light. Icarus could smell the salt from the sea; he could almost taste the sharp flavor in his dry mouth. He weaved up and down through the patchwork clouds, flipping, spinning, and diving. Like an acrobat in the air, he somersaulted down before pulling back up, meeting his father. Daedalus looked back at him and smiled. "We're almost there."

Icarus sped into the sky with joy, spiraling as high as he could go. The beaming sun doused him with light, forcing his eyes to squint, but he did not care. At least not until he noticed the feathers dripping off of his wings…

On Homeless Roads the Homeless Go

When I came out of Massey Hall yesterday night, the sidewalk in front of the big lit-up sign was flooded with students and parents leaving. But it wasn't only occupied by performers and their relatives. Beggars sat and stood, spaced out here and there in the crowd. I watched as one man held out his cap and waved it tentatively at the passersby, ignored by all. To his left, a ragged old man seemed to be having more luck. He gave an artificial smile to the group of ladies reaching into their handbags for money. Yet another man stared expectantly at a mother, who quickly led her son away from him.

Sometimes I really want to join them. To stop and sit down next to them. To listen to their stories. To feel their happiness, their sorrow, their pain. To know what happened; how they got there.

Everyone's heard that you should learn from mistakes. And yet the only guest speakers invited to schools are those that have been successful. The miracle child. The exceptional volunteer. The organization ambassador. Why do we never bother to consider how the homeless see the world? Why do we not care about the lessons they have learned? It's as though we want to keep them hidden. Locked up. Invisible. To pretend that they aren't there. Just like how Uranus barred his offspring: Gyes, Cottus, Briareos, and the Cyclopes because they were "ugly".

But I don't think homelessness is ugly. Not in that sense. It's definitely something we could all live without, but while it's here, I feel we should respect its effects.

Sounds of Toronto

If you happen to be bored Thursday afternoon, why not drop by Massey Hall at 7:00PM? A very special and famous concert is about to take place: Sounds of Toronto! Yeah, neither have I [ever heard of it]. (I know that's what you were thinking...) But seriously. You should drop by. Massey's right beside Eaton's Centre (does that require a definite preposition?). For those of you who have never heard of this school-famous event, Sounds of TO is a giant concert with performers from all over the city. Combined bands, strings, orchestras, and choirs come together to put on a grand show. Tickets are only $10! Buy them at the door!

Okay, I'll stop advertising now. The reason why I brought this is is because I'm playing a part in it (notice the clever use of the word "play"? Cause I'm literally "playing a part"? [Yes, I know I'm just so clever.]) along with nine other Garneau students (including Eric!). DMCI wasn't invited, which is strange because we seem to have the worst music program in the TDSB; terrible compared to said cyber arts school. Maybe we plucked some strings. (Get it? Plucked some strings? Like pulling-- Nevermind.)

Like I said, this annual concert features the performers from some of the top music programs. For example, we get to hear the combined choir (Earl Haig, Bethune, Forest Hill, Harbord) sing O Canada as the intro, along with the combined band (AY Jackson, Central Tech, East York, Garneau, L'Amoreaux, Riverdale, et. al). And then the Earl Haig singers will perform one or more lovely pieces followed by combined band again. Other features include Woburn's concert band, Bethune's choir, Northern's orchestra, Earl Haig's jazz, Central Tech's steel pans, Etobicoke School of the Art's (ESA) chamber choir, and combined strings (ESA, Bethune, Forest Hill, George Harvey, Martingrove, Macdonald, et. al)

I have a feeling this concert will actually be worth the price. I've only heard us, the conbined band play, but I'm very excited to announce that the ten trumpet players actually sound like ONE! (I know, right?) And the trombones are excellent. Actually, the whole brass section is really good. And they have a VIBRAPHONE. An ELECTRONIC VIBRAPHONE which sounds epic for the four bars you can actually hear it in. From the list of school participating, combined band seems to have the weakest group (maybe not, I'm not knowledgeable about music programs), and if we're good enough for me to say that we're actually good, I can't imagine what the other performances will be like. Of course, those of you at DMCI probably won't be nearly as impressed since your music program is so much better than ours, but it should still be worth it.

Hope you spontaneously decide to come! (I'll be in the front row on stage. Not because I'm awesome, but because there's only one other bass clarinet. And we were last to be called in the seating plan so we got shoved on at the end of an unfilled row.)

When It Rains

A pair of purple and yellow boots glared at me from where I sat. I had to squint to see them properly, for their shiny surfaces reflected the sunlight directly into my eyes. It was blinding.

Purple and yellow—
the last I saw of her.

I needed to look up. Waves of curly brown hair cascaded down a little girl’s back. Two curious green eyes stared back into mine. I gasped.

Emerald green,
with a hint of olive near the edges—
the precise colour of her eyes.

The girl’s mouth formed a perfect O. She hesitated, as if wanting to speak, but then turned frantically, as if searching for someone.

“Momma, momma!”
her screams echoed, haunting, far into the night.

“Come on, honey, we’ve got to get going!” I looked up to see a short, plump lady heading back for the girl. She still stood, frozen in place. This was my chance — I had to say something.

The woman was now ushering the girl away. Suddenly, the word flew from my mouth, unprecedented.

“Anna?”

The girl turned back. Recognition flickered for a moment, but was extinguished as the lady turned to her, took her hand, and led her away.

I watched her retreating figure, waddling along in her shiny rain boots, as she faded into the horizon.

Purple and yellow—
the last I saw of her.

***

Yes, I was in the mood for something sad. And yes, Halalcohol, I am still working on "solving the mystery". Haven't come up with much though. Oh, and yes, I am procrastinating on my French homework. I'm not a big fan of writing short stories - poetry ftw - but I thought I'd give this a try. Something sad for all you optimists out there. ;)