Types of Insomnia

For me, there are different types of insomnia. There’s the false rush variety, where my mind simply will not stop churning. Ideas (worries and plans mostly) keep flooding my thoughts like a tsunami. My heart races like it’s under pressure … Continue reading

My Sister’s Magic

I wish I had my sister’s magic. She’s already wielding flames like an Alpha, and this is only her first semester at The University. As twins, we couldn’t be more different. Sometimes I imagine we’re really a whole that was cut into halves, because aside from body parts, everything she has I lack—and vice versa.

It’s her calm mind and temperate emotions that allow her to master fire so effortlessly. She is not easily distracted or provoked. She’s unreachable when she’s focused. I, on the other hand, I contain a tempest. The slighted thing spurs me on. My moods are a maelstrom, and they bring everyone and everything around them down—down to the depths of my turbulent conscious.

My sister once told me that she’s jealous of me. I didn’t believe her until I saw the fatigue behind the focus in her eyes. I had always wanted to be like her so that I could have fire. There is so much I want to burn down. I was surprised to discover that she wants to be like me. My powers are so rudimentary. Seeing the surprise and incredulity written all over my face, she pointed out that I have freedoms she can never enjoy. I can rage and cry and fight and laugh uncontrollably. Alpha Incendiaries can’t do any of that. They are never allowed to be weapons—only vehicles or vessels.

Just the other day we were walking towards campus when a racist, upon seeing us, hurled some explicit words as well as his coffee cup in our direction. Both the contents of his statements and his cup were hot—hot enough to burn. I felt my skin and then my temper boil.

My sister could have set him ablaze with no more than a glance. She could have manipulated his mind so that he would think himself on fire. That’s what I would have done with her power. I would have sentenced him to seeing consuming flames whenever he uttered words full of hate. But that’s not how my sister operates. She just took a slightly deeper breath in and kept the pace at which she was walking while we healed. That is the serenity of my sister. She lives like a lake that can only be mildly disturbed—no matter what you throw at her. I, however, wasn’t feeling so generous towards the bigot, so I made him mute for a month.

I find it quite satisfying using mortals’ maladies against them. Speak out of turn, whether it be a racist rant or sexually explicit language, and I can take your voice with chronic laryngitis. Touch me or someone I care about inappropriately, and I’ll give you the flu—preferably the day after you get the vaccine shot. If you’re unkind towards a child, you’ll get a dose of pink eye. Greed will get you allergies. Infidelity an STD. Ulcers and kidney stones go hand in hand with abuse of any variety. And I love using diarrhea for unchecked vanity.

I try to abstain from the degenerative and the deadly—but not because humans aren’t deserving; they are—and more. The world is full of people who are teeming with hate and unbridled cruelty. I could afflict them all. I don’t simply because such manipulations would lead to severe consequences with The Faculty. My sister doesn’t have to worry about such things. As someone on the Alpha track, she can quite literally do no wrong. And once she self-actualizes, she’ll be living above the law.

 

My Sister's Magic by aabsofsteel

That is the serenity of my sister. She lives like a Iake that can only be mildly disturbed—no matter what you throw at her.

Each Season

Everything has a season. And each season has its thing. Each contains hazards and beauties— Each a flourish that’s distinct. – Winter might seem standoffish with all her sharp, icy edges. But winter crochets snowflakes to decorate the landscape. Her … Continue reading

Home, Sweet Home

Dear Home, I miss you. I miss what you used to give me: shelter, warmth, and security. I miss running up and down your steps—taking the stairs two at a time and always jumping down from three up (much to … Continue reading

Legacy

“The legacy we leave is not just in our possessions, but in the quality of our lives…The greatest waste in all of our earth, which cannot be recycled or reclaimed, is our waste of the time that God has given … Continue reading

Getting to Know My Mother

I recently rediscovered one of my mother’s DayMinder appointment books. It’s from 1998. Back then the Twin Towers still had three years left. We were watching Seventh Heaven, ER, and Friends. I was a sophomore in college—my brother and sister … Continue reading

Terrible Things

Terrible things happen all the time, but September is a month I approach with extreme caution. It is a time of year that has been marked by private and public tragedy–a season of great fear and sorrow personally and nationally. … Continue reading

Writing Is Alchemy

As an only child for seven years, writing was one of my first companions—after stuffed animals and Barbie dolls, that is. And unlike my imaginary friends (of which I had many), words were tangible and ostensibly powerful. Even then I loved that words are adaptable to any situation; and there are always more to discover and add to my collection. Finding a fantastic new word is like receiving a gift from a secret admirer—and the gift suits you perfectly—a new possession so apt it feels old.

As an adult, I still enjoy playing with words. They can be as supple as Play-Doh and as solid as Legos. Words are conducive to both the serious and the light. They can make you think, make you angry, make you laugh, or make you cry.

Writing is alchemy. It is mysterious magic—conjuring ideas, characters, landscapes and more out of mere syllables—willing something into existence out of loops and lines and curves. Starting  movements, forging history, testing paradigms with nothing but words.

Writing is the path, the destination, and the journey. It is an act of perpetual exploration and discovery. It is the vehicle—a means of moving to new and unexplored regions of imagination and reality. It is a mirror, a microscope, a rhythm, and a melody. Quite simply: writing is everything.