Don’t tell me your hot lava lies

Burning down my ears

Sinking into my skin like somber cries,

You’re the one who gave up on us

Sucked the life out of me

Then disappeared like dust,

I’m clawing the walls to feel alive

While you pretend to listen

I witness your pleasure in seeing me deprived,

Remember when we said we wouldn’t do this?

It wasn’t long ago that day on the beach

Or maybe you were just taking the piss,

In any case I’m done, the sea’s a better choice

Im on my way there now

I’m going to find my buried voice,

The stones I throw are the remnants of you

I’ve emptied the beach of them

My broken heart was the last I threw.

Don’t

It is not often I write something like this, but here goes nothing.

Olivia Rodrigo is absolutely massive right now, and she only has one solo album, and zero singles. Though she does have singles and compilations under her name, every last one of them was written and sung for (and possibly even written by someone else for) Highschoool Musical the Musical the Series (can you please stick to one name, please? Also, what's with the redundancy?).

On May 21st, she released an album (SOUR) and absolutely exploded. No one talked about her before, she was not exactly famous for singing, no one was talking about going to see her in concert. She was just known as that one girl who played the cute dumb one in that stupid show with Jake Paul on Disney Channel, and now plays... I dunno. Whoever she plays in Redundancy the Series. And, yes, I know the name of the show was Bizaardvark.

Well, she released her album and, next thing you know, she is absolutely everywhere. Thirteen year old girls absolutely love her music, and she is on the radio.

I didn't really think anything of it. A lot of artists kind of emerge out of nowhere these days (Lil Tecca and Lil Nas X, both of whom I don't listen to for... well, we'll get into that).

I try to avoid artists with massive followings. Number one in the world sends off red flags after listening to what everyone calls amazing, what critics call the album of the year, and artists who seem to have an overwhelmingly positive feedback typically tells me "Beats slap, lyrics are kind of just a bunch of meaningless nothing." It sounds good, but it isn't music and I don't like it. Music (when referring to music with lyrics) should have meaning. I'm not saying you shouldn't like it... you do you. I just don't think they are deserving of album of the year, or greatest artist ever, et cetera. And I'm not going to listen to them... because I don't listen to music for how it sounds.

After a few months, I finally caved and gave the song that everyone was falling head-over-heels for a listen. I read up on the backstory, gave Sabrina Carpenter's reply a listen (which kinda sucked, in my opinion. Skin, if you're wondering). I forgot about it until yesterday.

I was at a wedding, working, and I couldn't help but find humor in the fact that they were playing good 4 u at the wedding. This song, if you are not aware, is Rodrigo's biggest song. It is also about how a guy she used to date moved on way too fast, she feels like crap, and she can see he is happy with having moved on to someone else so quickly. Why would you play that at a wedding?

Well, hearing it again made me start thinking. And I realized something.

Her over night sensation status is not entirely undeserving.

Now, I have not listened to anything else from her. But her biggest song? Well, it's actually pretty good. Musically and melodically, it's great. I know there is a controversy on whether or not she stole the melody, but let's ignore that. How it sounds, though important, isn't top priority. Lyrically? It is surprisingly good. I actually enjoyed it.

She talks about how the break up affected her, what hurts her about him moving on... It's actually good.

That's all I had to say. I just wanted to talk about it. Thanks for reading!

With Graham long behind me, I continue on my trail to the fairy tree. The closer I am, the more I realise how majestic she is. She stands like a queen-- firm on her roots upholding a trunk that stood the tests of time. She stands above everything else in her vicinity, with her branches wide like a queen on her citadel’s balcony. If she doesn’t know where Jo is, I don’t think anyone does.

I hover over the cold river, dark and deep, shielding a moon of its own. The moon underneath seems considerably closer to reach out to rather than the one in the sky. It makes me wonder why no one might have attempted the same. I hold myself from investigating the possibility right there, right then. It was bare and empty, after all. What will it change if I successfully reach out?

I am now only a few feet away from the fairy tree. And another few feet away from Jo. I bring myself to a halt when I reach a distance from where she could hear me, “Ma’am, have you seen a little girl?” The fairy tree doesn’t answer. She seems to be stargazing. I decide to ask a bit louder this time, “She is a young girl. She is missing.”

That gets her attention. Not much, though. She asks me something widely different, “Isn’t it beautiful?” I am unable to understand what she is trying to convey. “What is?” I ask. She is a wise lady. The ones with wisdom always make the simple things appear cryptic. Perhaps, it is what this is.

“The stars. The night sky. The cold wind. Look around. With your eyes open.” She says. Is this a riddle? Does she mean that I am not looking hard enough? But where is Jo? The tree continues, “Did you find what you are looking for?” Now, it’s a bit terrifying. Not terrifying. I am not terrified. But it feels weird, like a murderer asking whether their prey is happy tonight.

“I am Camila. And you?” Camila! What? Why? Camila literally means young. And she is old. Way old. Her barks seem to have wrinkles like that of Jo’s grandmother. This is hopeless. This psychic tree is not taking me anywhere. Why is everything so fruitless tonight?

I walk away from her. Some part of me still anticipates a call from behind, finally sharing the relevant details. But she doesn’t. She goes back to gazing at the blank sky the moment I take a few steps away from her. Hopeless. A small blade of grass is called Graham, and a too old fairy tree is called Camila! Who even names these people?

“I did?”

########

I know the chapter feels like a let-down after what might have seemed like a nice start. I wrote the beginning a few weeks ago, but I could never finish the chapter after that. So, this is much more of a rough effort to get things done rather than a well-written chapter. I hope you guys forgive me for that (: The chapter does follow the outline, just not good enough... I will try and make up to it with the next chapter ^-^ Hope you guys like it!

"Anything else, dear?"

Sabrina politely refused Mrs Taylor's offer with that sweet smile that could only belong to her. It was that gracious giggle that made the young lady famous in town, even when she rarely appeared down here. Her house is somewhere near the woods, the young boys say. It was the sole thing her father left her with, says the older fellas in the armchairs. And yes, to have stories told about you can be exciting. But not always.

"Oh, and I could use a broom, Mrs Taylor. The old one leaves more dust than it sweeps."

And that was the moment when everything changed. Mrs Taylor, who had been busy totalling all the prices despite her poor mathematical skills, gazed up at her in shock. The young boy, fiddling around with the worn-out bicycle tires, stood still as his tires rolled down the stairs to the harbour. The senior gentleman, busy scanning the papers beside her, no longer cared about the headlines. Clearly, they just beheld the beginnings of the forthcoming big news in town.

Even as Sabrina left the store, no longer wearing her adorable smile, she could feel the stares. How can someone feel those eyes? She doesn't know, but those eyes pierced right through her skin. The broom stood projected out of her little jute basket, and no one hid their suspicions as she walked to the edge of the town. Sabrina could hear the faint whispers amidst the cacophonies of the busy street. And for some reason, she knew they were talking about her.

Sabrina walked a little faster, feeling a growing sense of uneasiness clawing about her insides. Unfortunately, this only adds to the suspicions of the piercing eyes. She could now hear their breath. Perhaps if the town was quieter, she could have listened to their heartbeats too. Soon enough, she could hear the footsteps following her in stealth, closing in for the day's prey.

And before Sabrina could restrain herself, her legs took off, attempting their best to carry their keeper to the safety of her home. The jute basket slipped off into the gutter, soaking her favourite cookies in the swamp. But she couldn't care any less.

Of course, the home could not keep her safe. But sometimes, it seems to be the solution to everything. Returning home. But in those nefarious eyes, it was no longer a home. It was a coven. And Sabrina, a witch. Their prey. The one to burn while they relax and watch.

********

"Burn her." There never was much Sabrina could do. Apparently, the young man, whose love she refused, had seen her cooking potions. Smoke billowing out of her little coven. And another little girl who had seen her in her nightmares. All she could do was beg, and she did. But the men took the decision for the Gods, and how could she prove them wrong?

The young man was smirking as she got carried away by the relentless guards. The little girl sneaked behind her mother, unwilling to listen to the pleads of a witch. One day, they might take her away too. She doesn't know. In the name of God, they say. How could one kill an innocent girl in the name of God?

She doesn't know, but as she felt the fire melting her skin, she realised it. Her father loved the legends of the lost kings and their declining realms. They perch helplessly on their thrones when the Wicked takes over. In the name of the King, they say. But the King would have long lost his hopes on bringing happiness back to his kingdom. He just shuts his eyes and says it's dark. Sabrina wouldn't blame him. There wasn't much he could do.

Even as the young lady could feel Life doing its best to hold on to her, she was perplexed. Who was more terrifying? The King or the Wicked?

########

I got a long explanation to make, haven't I? *innocent lauughter* Well, to start off, I am in college! As if that justifies everything XD Well, I messed up. I guess that's pretty evident when it's about me *facepalm* But yeah. Well, technically, life messed up way better than I did this time around, so I guess I did okay XD Anyway, I will try to come up more often from now on. And yes, this story will (from now on) hold the record of the fastest story I have ever written ^-^ It took me about... an hour? An hour and a half? Well, definitely not a week or longer, as it normally is XD I hope you guys like the story. Missed you all too much!!! Warm hugs everywhere ^0^ <3 <3 <3

#fiction, not the last part (:

I was in my fifth year teaching high school Spanish. My son had just begun third grade.

It was first period still, Spanish III. My sophomores. The custodian came to my classroom, frantic, and said turn on the television.

I don’t have one.

Go to my room.

I can’t leave my students.

I’ll stay here.

I went. I watched as the second tower was hit.

And then, they seemed to implode. No crumbling. Just there one second, gone the next. Dust and ash.

Along with so many souls that day and as a result of that day.

For some reason, we had a fire drill. I stood a little apart from my students to call my son’s school. (I had a cell phone! It was my first one. How fortunate we were. Are.) I needed to confirm that they were staying open. They were. But, my son watched as so many frightened parents picked up their children as he remained behind, wondering why his Mommy didn’t come early to get him. It broke my heart when he told me that. I hated that I was keeping someone else’s children safe and secure while my own felt, albeit briefly I’m sure it felt like forever, abandoned.

I called my husband who was in India at the time. I wished him home and close and not two plane rides away.

I tried to call his brother who worked in the area of the World Trade Center.

All systems are busy. Please try your call again later.

I called my mother.

All systems are busy. Please try your call again later.

We went back to class. We didn’t even try to continue as if nothing had happened. I actually have no memory of how we got through the rest of the school day. There were a lot of tears. Although no one’s parents were lost that day, many were left wondering for hours.

Some students went home, but most stayed. We, the faculty and staff, stayed with them. We talked a lot. We hugged a lot.

The next day and for months to come, there were so many stories about how lucky my mom/dad/husband/sister/brother/wife/ uncle/cousin/neighbor/friend/friend of a friend was that she/he missed the train/bus and arrived to mayhem, black smoke and no place of work.

Or, left home late and got stuck in traffic and watched from some highway across the river as his/her place of work became a cloud of black smoke.

Or, did manage to escape and then found themselves covered in soot and surrounded by hysteria as people tried to run away from the epicenter of death.

There but for the grace of God.

Never forget became a rallying cry that immediately made me wonder if that is the same mantra of all peoples around the world subjected to foreign bombs and bullets.

It was my last year teaching full time.

At the end of the school year, a teacher shot a bullet through his head.

I resigned my full time position and became a part time teacher.

The following year, a student hung himself.

The year after that, a student took enough drugs to satisfy a roomful of addicts.

My tenth year as a Spanish teacher was my last. After crying every day to and from school, I turned my focus to the administrative side of foreign language test and curriculum development, particularly for various arms of the US government: defense, foreign service and Peace Corps.

Use your words.

It is only as I write this that I see the thread that links these events and a series of my life decisions to that September day.

It's all the

way babe.

Our babies

will have babies,

and they will

drive us crazy.

A never ending

love circle.

At the beach

of our

sunset love.

Our philosophy

tethers

the horizon

to the blue

ocean.

Surfinia

shades

petunia

umbrella

as he tars

the milky

ray of light

on your

purple vein.

Here’s a little story I wrote based on the song “Table for Two,” by Abel Korzeniowski.

She is sitting alone by the window. Spread over the one legged table is an immaculate white cloth, and on top of that are two plates scrubbed clean, smelling faintly of soap; but in a good clean way, not the way that lets you know you will taste it when you eat your meal. Two glasses, one on her side, one on the other. Two identical pairs of forks and knives, catching the sun. She spends a moment staring at them. The silver reminds her of something, but she is not quite sure what.

In the back of her head the sounds from outside play; someone calling out prices at the butcher on the corner … a child squealing … the beeping of a car horn going down the street ... a dog whimpering at the door as it sticks its head in and savours the good smells, licking its black nose noisily. The sun is pouring in through the large window comfortingly, lighting up her dark hair and warming her bare head. She fixes her curls self consciously, pulling out a little powder compact to inspect herself in the mirror - how pretty she is! She sighs and drops the compact back into her handbag. A cheap leather handbag. She wishes she had not bought it herself. 

She is waiting at that table set for two. She has been waiting a long time, longer than she realises, while the sun drops lower in the sky and the after work traffic builds up outside her window, while the children pour out of school with excited shouts and scuffling feet on the sidewalk and the teachers tidy classrooms and prepare for the coming day. She has seen the flower seller and the balloon seller and the milk boy. And she has sighed many times while she waits, while she stares at the clock hanging on the wall until the numbers and dots and hands blend together into one black and white blur and her head begins to ache. She is waiting for another, but he does not come. He is handsome, she thinks to herself, glancing again in the mirror and wondering if she looks perhaps a little less fresh and bright than she did when she first arrived at the table. He has dark hair slicked back on his head and soft brown eyes, like a dream. Or perhaps just like a dreamer. Perhaps that is all he is. Just a dreamer who forgets his date. She wonders if she should go, but she does not move. She sits there, her back stiff and sore, and she wants to cry. He will not come. Just as the one before did not come. Perhaps the one after will not come, either, and she will remain alone. She remembers the little maple coloured puppy she saw along the street that morning as she walked and promises herself she will buy a puppy just like that, to play with her, to sleep next to her as she sits dreaming, to make her laugh when she is crying. But deep in her heart she knows there is an ache a maple coloured puppy cannot fill.

The waiter who set her table earlier takes leave of his work and begins to walk towards the door, his legs stiff from running about. He glances at the pretty girl sitting alone at the table for two and his heart throbs. She is more than pretty. She is beautiful. He wonders why she is unaccompanied. His hand is on the doorknob and he is beginning to push the door open, but something keeps him standing there, uncertain, until before he can stop himself he calls to her and she looks up curiously, eyes big and gentle. The young man finds himself making his way toward that table for two and taking his place at the other side. He finds himself laughingly ordering from a fellow waiter. He finds himself staring straight into those gentle eyes and not wanting to look away. His laughter ceases, but still he smiles, because he feels that his whole world is beautiful and his lonely apartment room is no longer inviting him home. He feels almost as though he is home already, sitting at that table for two with the pretty lady as she talks about a maple coloured puppy and a little family and children with golden curls and trivial things he never found interesting before. But somehow he is curious about everything she is, now. And he continues to sit there at that table for two. He does not want to leave. 

So he stays.

I do love

a good

brain freeze.

If petunia

was slower,

he might

prevent

the sting.

It taste

so good.

So he

tried to

dig in

a

large scoop.

The release

was freezing

cool.

Hmm!

Son and Daughter Day

Presidential Joke Day

Seems like an up and down series of holidays is taking place this month. But I’m not complaining.

Son and Daughter Day

Son and Daughter Day is a day to spend with your children. After all, your son and daughter are the joy of your life. We hope that everyone reading this has the opportunity in their life to see these joys born and raised happily, and successfully.

Today is a great day to spend with your son and daughter. It's not a day of gift giving, except for the gift of time. If your son and daughter are still young and live at home with you, be ever aware that time goes by quickly. So, spend as much of today and every day in their company.

"Parallel lines have much in common.

But it's a shame they 'll never meet."—Author Unknown

Presidential Joke Day

Other than saying Trump, do you have a presidential joke?

Even presidents have a sense of humor, too. Many people believe this is a day to make jokes about the president. On the contrary, this day is for presidents to make a joke. On this day in 1984, President Ronald Reagan made a doozie.

On August 11, 1984, just before his regular Saturday radio address, President Ronald Reagan was doing a voice test with the microphone. He thought the microphone and the feed was not live. He joked into the microphone: "My fellow Americans, I am pleased to tell you I just signed legislation which outlaws Russia forever. The bombing begins in five minutes." To his surprise, he was speaking to a live feed.

This incident led to the creation of "Presidential Joke Day". However, we do not think American presidents will make it a habit to perform jokes on, or to, the American public on this day, or any other.

"Blessed are the young, for they shall inherit the national debt."—President Herbert Hoover (Truer words were never spoken as these were.)

”Did you ever think that making a speech on economics is a lot like pissing down your leg? It seems hot to you, but it never does to anyone else.”—Lyndon Johnson

“I just received the following wire from my generous Daddy: Dear Jack, Don’t buy a single vote more than is necessary. I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay for a landslide.”—John F. Kennedy,

addressing complaints that his father’s money was buying the primary for him.

”My esteem in this country has gone up substantially. It is very nice now when people wave at me, they use all their fingers.”—Jimmy Carter

“When they call the roll in the Senate, the Senators do not know whether to answer ‘present’ or ’not guilty.'”—Teddy Roosevelt

”In my many years I have come to a conclusion that one useless man is a shame, two is a law firm, and three or more is a congress.”—John Adams

“Being president is like running a cemetery: you’ve got a lot of people under you and nobody’s listening.”—Bill Clinton

“If I were two faced, would I be wearing this one?”—Abraham Lincoln

More Strange Holidays Coming!

Alright, I first thought of returning with an explanation for my frequent disappearances. Then, I thought an apology would be a better idea. But then, I realised that I wanted this post to have a positive tone. So, here we are!

I am not going to explain all the reasons that kept me away because, it's a bit complicated. And the reasons were different almost every other day, so I think it would be a colossal, massive waste of time. But I can assure you that if there was a way, I would have made it here the very next moment. Maybe, I had a way, but I got too caught up, and I am horrible in time management. If I had figured everything out sooner, I would have been here way earlier. This little place is too important for me now.

That's when I thought of a pardon. I owe it to this place. I cannot simply take off, and leave someone else confused. That's not fair. And it's a wrong thing to do. I am really sorry for that. But the more I thought about it, I felt it was worthless. My apologies are worthless. I am afraid I had been using them as more of an excuse rather than a pardon. Maybe, I didn't mean to, but does that change anything? I am sure it doesn't.

But I am sorry. I know I have come off as a disappointment to many of you in more than one occasion during the past few weeks. It wasn't what I wished for, but it was what I had to do. Or at least, that's what I believed so. And I can't run against time and do something different, so I guess the best thing I can do is to apologise. I was an idiot. I am sorry, and I will try not to do this again.

And that's another thing I am going to change now. Every time I use the word 'try' in an assurance, it seems like my mind always opts the weaker alternative. And I think I might have hurt someone with that word, no matter how much I meant and wished for those to come true. I am sorry, buddy. I will not do this again.

Well, it turns out that the post was not as positive as I thought it would be. That's on me. I am sorry about that. I will do my best to return to the always-energetic, way too talkative, mostly silly late teen as soon as I can. Hopefully, from the very next second. Wish me luck (: And slap me in the face if you ever see me do this again. I deserve that!

Lots of love,

Chacko Stephen

#nonfiction