April 24th, 2017 | No Comments »

Stine, R. L. Goosebumps. New York: Scholastic, 1995. Print.

Lovecraft, H. P. The Cats of Ulthar. Place of Publication Not Identified: Publisher Not Identified, 1979. Print.

Lovecraft, H. P. The Dunwich Horror. Brooklyn: Melville House, 2016. Print.

“Nyarlathotep.” “Nyarlathotep” by H. P. Lovecraft. The HP Lovecraft Archive, n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2017.

Faulkner, William. A Rose for Emily. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Apr. 2017. <http://xroads.virginia.edu/~DRBR/wf_rose.html>.

Goto, Hiromi. The Kappa Child. Ontario: Red Deer, 2002. Print.

Shepard, Jim. Like You’d Understand, Anyway: Stories. New York: Vintage, 2008. Print.

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April 24th, 2017 | No Comments »

Before we got into the car, mom told me there were a good 4 hours of driving. Now, there are 2 or 3 more hours to go before we arrive in Falls Church, Virginia. We are currently on a long stretch of rural road caught in between a forest to the right and a stretch of dry land to the left. Mom once told me before that the land was once a haven for farmers. Over time, it became a desolate pile of nothing. I think that a huge tornado struck the farms down before it sucked in the grass and everything else. Every time we came back, I could clearly imagine the chaos of a tornado sweeping through. Now, it is simply a peaceful but boring land for us to look at. Though the forest to the right is just as dull and tedious to my eyes, their thick green leaves and gnarled roots hold secrets that force our human minds to craft make-believe creatures, but it becomes real because our imaginations are so profound and rich.

I am glad that I can narrate this portion of my life to someone. Even if you are unreal and I am real, it is easy to dismiss the former. Have you heard of this term called maladaptive daydreaming? It’s a concept coined by someone back in 2002, so it is a fairly new term that still hasn’t had much research done to it yet. Having an MD is basically like having a personality trait: it could be both good or bad. You either put it to your advantage, such as me imagining that someone is reading what I am saying. Or, it can hinder you. For the latter part, it sometimes takes away your attention and forces you to start daydreaming. Thus, the real world is disrupted, and hence why you may feel it’s a burden. The entire ordeal of me having an MD is why I am being driven to Fall’s Church. Mom paid a tutor for 4 hours to help me in math, a subject I was failing. During class, I often wondered away to another world, completely ignoring my math teacher’s words. The result was a D- on a math test, a test that I was destined to fail even without the MD. You couldn’t be a genius in English and be proficient in math – that was the cardinal rule for all students.

Though, I believe that sometimes MD’s positive traits outweigh the bad. Ever since I was young, I had anxiety issues that weren’t of import for a visit to the doctor (or whatever you call those who deal with mental issues), but it did somewhat stop my social growth. Mom never knew I had anxiety issues; she believed I was just a coward who lacked confidence (maybe I am, but I’m not sure). MD helped me cope with it by taking my mind off of things. Sometimes, MD helped when I have nothing to do. I guess now, the first thing it does is allow me to talk to you, to tell an imaginary person what I wanted to say to mom. You would think that mom will understand, but that’s untrue. So, I am telling you this because at least you will understand – I can make you understand, either way. I need someone to listen to me, someone who wouldn’t judge me for who I am for a change. And, you can help divert my attention away from the inevitability of that tutoring session.

As I look out the window, rain begins to fall down, decorating the windows with streaks of diagonal water lines. A thin mist has gathered, diluting the area with a soft grayness that sends my spine quivering with delicious rapture. The right environment dictates whether or not I can daydream on volition and whether or not the world I spin is rich in imagination. Vividness is a key aspect to daydreaming right, and if I describe the surroundings enough then people like you will understand. Mom’s comments about the weather are background noises and my talk to an imaginative person such as you is the only tether I have away from it. The car we are in is a 2005 model, so there is no Bluetooth. Usually, I like to listen to music and equate them with my daydream. This time, I guess I can carry on a mental conversation with a fictional audience. But, it seems you are as tangible as the air I breathe.

“Take notes when the tutor speaks,” mom’s voice drones on and on. “Listen to the tutor, and it’s best to ask the tutor to give you some homework.” She has been rotating the conversation ever since we came out of the house. Mom talked about the tutor, about her disappointment in my math grade, and how worried she was for my future. I wish for her to change the topic to something else entirely. Better yet, stop talking. That is interfering with my conversation to you, and you are going to fade away into nothing.

I squeaked out a noise that is meant to sound like a ‘no,’ except it is towards you, for whatever reason. (I must remind myself that you are not real.)

“What did you say?” mom’s voice is on edge, seemingly catching the sound and thinking in her paranoid head that I directed that answer to her. “Judith, this is no time to talk to yourself.” Alas, she didn’t hear or clearly hear the word I was about to blurt out. See, she doesn’t know of your existence and she will never know. I give a soft sigh and out of a flare of temporary confidence, look towards her. Her face is a complex slab of emotions; sometimes it is obvious anger, sometimes joy – but sometimes it is an expression of unfathomability. She looks like she is thinking about something, a hypothesis that I dare not prove with an inquiry.

“Nothing, mom,” I respond in a small voice, unwilling to drown out the pleasant thoughts of my daydream. The concept of an invisible friend is new to me, a sign that my MD is willing to help me harbor my anxiety, but also that it is becoming stronger. As of now, that anxiety is spiking up at the same time as my chest tightening. Heat is pressing within my cheeks and a thin sheen of cold sweat breaks out across my skin. I reach towards my cheeks with both my hands and gently press them inwards. Finally, I manage to add in another sentence to keep you reading. “How long until we get to Fall’s Church?”

“Three more hours,” mom replies. “Can you sit still?” She turns her head slightly, looking at me with those harsh brown eyes that look like mine. I never noticed that I fidgeted before, all I know is that I am anxious for the tutoring session, and for the ability to keep you in my mind. My legs begin to move, hitting the compartment where the car bag is supposed to come out. I hear mom call my name, her voice verging on yelling. I think you are getting bored of my story because I have nothing to say anymore. The realization that there are three more hours left before we arrive is giving me the opportunity to think about my future. Anxiety is slowly coming in again and my mind is now thinking about you as you read through my situation. I am purposefully thinking about you so that I can refocus my mind and not let anxiety overcome me.

You will leave when my story is over, and I will be sad. I can conjure up another you, but it will not be the same you.

“Stop moving so much, please,” mom’s exasperated voice pulls me into consciousness. I sink into my seat as I fight with myself to the point that my body starts quivering. Rain keeps on falling down, the misty foreground that is now making the colors seem more mottled and abstract. The air around us is chilly, but my body feels warmer than usual.

If you are still with me during my moment then thank you. I am in the moment where I need someone, and that someone cannot be mom. If only I can say “thank you” to you because I think you helped me during that single hour.

“Judith, stop talking to yourself,” mom replies. Now, I am embarrassed because she caught me saying something out loud to you (what did I tell you?). I give her a shaky breath; words are really failing me now. My stomach hurts and a lack of adrenaline is making me feel numb and lightheaded. The rain is still falling and all of a sudden, I want to see civilization. Giant, towering cosmopolitan buildings that line the sides rather than the plain stretch of dry land and the thickly built forest of my reality. Buildings that harken to a modern era, full of innovation and technology. I would look out the window and see stainless steel reflecting sunlight off their bodies.

As you should know (and I told you again and again), that my MD stems in part from anxiety from a young age. It helps me cope and keeps me entertained, but I now wonder if it makes anxiety worse? A part of me is confused and another is afraid that I will have to cope with something else. Mom doesn’t believe in therapists and mental illness or anything that involves the brain. She will never understand my anxiety or the MD. She is everything you are not, which is why I am talking to you about this car ride, about MD, and telling you about my anxiety. Maybe I should give you a voice?

Maybe, you will tell me to think about something else? Perhaps comment about this story and ask questions about me, my mom, the daydreaming, and everything that has happened or will be happening? I am sure you don’t want me to keep on whining about what will happen to me. So, here is something else, something more optimistic to think about:

As we ride through the already established change in scenery, where it’s just buildings and not the reality that island and forest, I can see the building where the tutor session will be at in my mind. It is a building with soft pink and yellow walls, with educational and motivational posters tacked on them. Office cubicles are strewn in the middle. Some of them have small succulents, pictures of their family and friends, and one of them has a dog sleeping by their side. The people will be friendly and upbeat and optimistic. Mom will opt to stay in her car or stay somewhere the tutor and I won’t be in. The tutor will be young, wearing glasses; they will wear something casual, their voice kind but firm. You will see me working through each problem I previously flunked. You will see me smile and realize that I like this tutor and I like this building. I want you to see me and the future that comes, and for you to not question the things I did before or even right now. Mom says that we are no longer three hours away, but 2.5 hours away. I need to stabilize myself and keep thinking of you until the end.

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April 18th, 2017 | No Comments »

To The Lover, Disappeared:

I was an infinite night sky.

You, a composition of harsh silhouettes and jagged words,

Are made of your own red stardust

You gave names to the nebulas within my inky skin,

And the planets I adorned,

Are again christened by your words.

The sun was my blood, my fuel and–

the moon, my companion.


During the summer eclipse,

I was stolen (betrayed) by our moon.

You can no longer see me,

Or the nebulas you loved.

The sun became a husk — gone

But the world still lived on

While my heart stopped to see you again.


To the Stargazers:

We are the black holes, the first to exist. Before your Gods ( we were your first Gods ), your men, and your beasts. We are the universe’s chariots — the rotations of the galaxies. We are the overseers, the observers of your conceptions. Within every eighteen point five million years a cycle ushers in our songs to all, all fifty-seven octaves of it. Our songs are incomprehensible by the naked ears. To be close to us, and to hear us sing, is to destroy your existence. We are infinite, yet you chose to worship those so-called gods ( are we not Gods as well? ). You, who praise masters that paint in urethane, epoxy, and phenolic could never construe us upon your canvases. You, beings of emotions crying prolactin, will never shed anything for us. Why is it that we pass by your gaze as inconsequential existences? Therefore, hear our message to you:


We are your beginning,

We are your end

If we didn’t exist, you will find




  T            H                       I

N                                                                 G



The Fallen:


“You are my favorite,

my chosen,

my light.” 


Birthed with the softness of silk brocade

Once baby breath flower sweet as milk

Turned into honeyed poison upon His ears


“Jealousy towards mortals.

How unbecoming of you.” 


Your cruelty blossomed from these bitter fragments

And drawn by the misery of His love’s deceit,

So your soul crumbled, engorged with hatred.


Let it be known:

You are no child of mine anymore.


With ashen wings unfurled,

You fed bane into the mortal minds

And became the enemy of men and God



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