venuzwritez

[venuzwritez]

How to Self-Care

4 January 2024

I wrote this to, once again, fill an opinion essay slot in creative writing year 2 in high school. It’s honestly a very messy piece in retrospect. Not my finest work— but that wasn’t the goal. It was mainly to express what had been on my mind.

Self care is very modernly associated with beauty. It has begun to stray away from its original medicinal definition, like getting enough sleep or eating healthy. The term ‘self-care’ commonly makes people think of sitting inside a hot tub with cucumbers sitting on their eyes, or spending hours in a rose-petal draped bath until their fingers prune. Others can view it as taking themselves on a shopping spree. For some, it is spending the night out with friends. And then there’s the occasional sitting-beside-the-fireplace-reading person. All of these activities are done because the people doing them aim to please themselves, and feel that they deserve it. Self care and love comes in many different forms, but there is a side to self love that often doesn’t get discussed.

Our past selves often get a lot of criticism, mainly from ourselves. We hold a lot of disdain and resentment for things we have done in the past and carry that shame to haunt us as we tread forward into the future. It’s a heavy backpack we refuse to let go of during this long and grueling hike of life. We hold onto this baggage because we know that, from a young age, we learn from our mistakes. The bad decisions we’ve made in the past still have a bit of that learning that we haven't fully wrung out of those experiences. With the belief that these life lessons will get us farther, we tend to hold onto shame so much that it sends us tumbling back down the mountain.

Even when we are young, we wish to be older. Maturity is a cast-iron brand stating that you know what you’re doing. It’s a race to see who can mature before one another until our first wrinkle appears. Then we’re hit with the desire to come crawling back to the starting line. The digital age we live in has an effect on maturity. With smartphones being handed out left and right to children alike, social media and the influencers on them are only a few taps away. Middle scholars and even elementary kids begin following teen trends earlier than ever. Nine year-old girls walk right up to the counter at the nearest Sephora demanding their finest bottle of retinol. Thirteen year-old boys beg their mothers to allow them to get hair perms. On playgrounds we see a group of children dancing in front of a camera instead of going down a slide.

As much as I’d want to shame them, I remember being twelve and begging my mom for a ‘grown up bra’ and a curling iron to be just like the big girls. However, being an early bloomer, maturity is a double-edged sword. When my female peers and I found out what a period was in third grade, we all wanted to get it. It sounded new and exciting, but most importantly, mature. But, when I had gotten mine before everyone else, their opinions had suddenly changed. Suddenly people told me that periods were weird and gross. I had never wanted to go back in time more in my life than when I experienced that.

However, having just turned eighteen (as I am writing this), I often look back on my own habits of wanting to follow the trends of teens older than me and cringe. I had brought this up to my therapist during one of my sessions and he challenged my disdain for my younger self with a pair of questions:

“Well, how did your younger self feel? Was following those trends important to her?”

That question hit me like a ton of bricks. With million-dollar questions like those, I couldn’t provide an answer right then. So, he sent me off with a little bit of homework that was thinking up an answer to them. With a month of time to do so, I ended up with a pretty solid answer.

“Younger Meghan probably just wanted to feel like she belonged. So, following trends alongside her peers must have meant the world to her.”

That changed my perspective quite a bit. Humans find a great sense of comfort in belonging. Fitting into a group makes us feel like we have a definitive sense of self, even when following others may do the opposite. By mid-high school we generally tend to find things that we identify with. For many it is the sport they play and the team they play with. For others it is a different kind of hobby or skill. And for some others it is the job they want to do in the future. There is a wide plethora of things to identify with, but it always seems as though there is more to figure out. The hunt for who we are isn’t over until our lives are. One of the true keys to self love is to love who we are, at that moment in time, and any times that came before and those will come after.

~*~

When was the last time you took a moment to feel your own body? Not to physically feel and touch your body, but to be aware of what each of your individual body parts were feeling. The sensations you are currently experiencing or the sensations you want to experience. At times maybe your fingers feel the need to grab a pencil. Your leg burns with the urge to kick. Your eyes want to close. Your shoulders want to droop. When have you truly known what you want to experience? Only you yourself can know what your body wants and needs. Being in tune with your body physically is a form of self care I hold very dearly to me. All bodies are different, especially in the kinds of sensations they want to feel.

Many people, especially in America, shy away from sex. Sex, of all things. The very thing that jump-starts our existence like a car. The period that ends the sentence that comes right before the beginning of ours. A star exploding to become the supernova that is us. Because of this tendency to shy away from the topic of sex in such crucially developmental years in our lives, when the time comes to do sex, we do not often have the greatest experience. It takes years into adulthood for the average person to be able to confidently look inwards to state what gives them pleasure and what causes discomfort. Our bodies are beautifully unique and respond to many things. When people are able to comfortably state to their partner what they need sexually, it is often seen as being cordial to their partner. Yet, I implore many to see it as a side to loving themselves and their bodies in a way that expresses the innate connection between the body and the mind. It’s a side to self love rarely talked about, but I’d argue that it is the most natural form of self love that humans can perform. Although some may never end up approaching that side to themselves, it’s a light in the back of the stage that is our self love. Loving yourself includes being in tune with your physicality– your sexuality. To look in the mirror and appreciate your curves. To take the time to look at your legs and thank them for carrying you so far. To take the time and thank your hands, the countless times they have been able to pick up a pencil.

There had been a time in my life that my hygiene had gone down the drain due to a sexual traumatic experience I had gone through. I refused to see my naked reflection in the mirror, which prevented me from showering for days on end. It took an incredibly long amount of time until I was comfortable seeing my body again. Although it was a very dark time in my life, it is an experience that taught me that being thankful for our bodies isn’t self-centered. It’s beauty in its most natural state. Loving who you are for what you are is extraordinary. That realization was a large part of my recovery.

~*~

During my middle school years, I grew up around a lot of people who struggled with mental health issues for various reasons. As most of us were raised in front of a screen, there was an unspoken rule that it was a ‘privilege’ if someone told you their mental health struggles. If someone trusted you, then you must fall to your knees at their every word to ensure that they were okay. I lived by this expectation and treated every concerning text I got from any of my peers like a delicate glass ball that would shatter on impact once it hit the ground. To put it in perspective, I’d very often receive a text at around midnight from a friend. It’d usually be a self-harm threat or, in some of the worst scenarios, a suicide threat. Then I’d be up for the next three hours trying to talk them out of it. I have been told that this is not an uncommon experience.

There’s an overlooked problem with this. On paper, this is a very noble and good thing to do for someone else. I had done that very thing various times with other people again and again until I absolutely hated doing it. This turned me into quite an apathetic person, of which in many cases during that kind of event I would simply not respond. I did this knowing, as someone who lived with mental health issues as well, that it would devastate me if someone treated me the same way.

But years later I can confidently say that I hadn’t done anything wrong. Through an adult’s eyes it's obvious that a child wouldn’t be the best candidate to deal with a suicide threat. At the time it had come down to trading valuable sleep to quell worries for my friends’ wellbeings. As much as I would’ve liked to be everyone’s hero, that mindset wasn’t healthy.

If I could step back to the past to tell my younger self one thing, it’d be to recognize limits. Caring for someone else is impossible when you haven’t got any care to give to yourself. It’s another unrecognized form of self care, knowing what you can and can not do.

So, self care is a wide spectrum. While taking bubble baths and going on shopping sprees is a form of self care, there is a deeper meaning behind it as well. One that we should always take the time to explore and learn the parts of ourselves we love, what we like, what our limits are. As being human is being beautiful.

[venuzwritez]

The Follydeer

8 September 2023

The first submission for a Quick Write exercise of my senior year's creative writing course. The prompt was to color in a coloring sheet page and make a short story that lead up to that image.

My ticket to a million dollars was trapped under a thick net, at the mercy of the barrel of my old L.C. Smith. Her spindly legs bent in an awkward fashion, trembling against the dewy grass. Her velvety pelt contrasted against the green, and her golden antlers caught the beam of sunlight that leaked in through the trees, reflecting off of its iridescent surface as if touched by midas himself. I would like to think that she and I have a mutual understanding, that her life is a prize that is the cure to the incurable illness of my poverty. Within her beady eyes, glossed over from fear, I can see the faint glow that resides behind her cornea. It is what she is known for. 

My key to a comfortable life resides in those eyes. All I had to do was press down on the trigger, take her back to the shed and pluck those two black orbs out– each of them selling about five-hundred thousand a piece. It is said that once you cut into her eyes, the elixir of life would spill out in an endless stream. Whether this is true or not to me, I will not leave my fortune up to chance. Should that be a mere folly, then I have sucked two poor suckers dry of a million dollars. 

My anticipating finger rests on the trigger, causing it to creak slightly against my grasp. The entire commotion she had made once the net landed atop her frail body caused the birds of the forest to cease their chirping, the small critters to scurry up into their burrows, and the bugs to bury themselves back into the ground. This side of the forest had fallen silent, and the only sounds present were her shallow breaths and my own, controlled puffs. With her in such a position, I will be able to take her out with one bullet. 

Although in a fortunate situation, I find myself frozen in thought. I couldn’t quite place why I hadn’t pulled the trigger and taken what was mine minutes ago, but a heavy weight upon my shoulders simply made the action impossible to carry out. This feeling of agonizing and bothersome guilt was something I had felt twenty years ago, perhaps when I had just turned twelve and daddy took me on my first hunt– using this same L.C. Smith. It was that same November morning that I declared to him that I would bring home the grandest kill, so that he and mamma could buy that cottage up the river they had always wanted. Now here she was, all those years later.  Even if it was too late to bring home the magnum-opus of any professional hunter to my folks, they would at least witness it through the clouds. 

I hadn’t felt this kind of guilt since then. In all her nymph-like beauty, the deer of everyone’s dreams had laid her trembling head down to accept her long-awaited fate. The sight itself was enough to pull at a grown countryman’s heartstrings like a taught banjo. 

Maybe it was the memory of my first hunt, my late folks, or just her sheer beauty that caused me to step back and rip the net off in one grand motion, allowing her to scramble to her spindly legs and bound into the thicket. The last glimpse I caught of her beauty was her velvety flank passing over a bush and leapt into the darkness. They say you only see her once, and that’s it. And if you do, it was a chance given by god.

The means to happiness should never cause you to bend your morals.

[venuzwritez]

I’ll be honest, I despise “Where the Wendigoes Went” 😕

[venuzwritez]

Rust | Part 2/2

15 August 2020

The last part of what I had finished in this story.

<- Part 1

Chestnut Woods, Physiatric Centre. King’s Park, New York. This place had been alive with panic for the last two days. Currently, every staff member was on edge about the disappearance of a patient they kept for a long while; so-called patient eighteen. There were many wonders about this patient, considering much hearsay surrounded him. Few have seen him, but what they say is that he looks like the average man. Yet the way they kept him was so futuristic, something one could see on Twilight Zone‒ which had sadly stopped airing couple years back. Many of the staff members refer to patient eighteen as the ‘forever patient.’ Moreover, if you’d be brave enough to ask one of the cranky veteran members, you’d quickly find out the meaning behind that epithet. Ostensibly, patient eighteen was being held even at the earliest-recruited staff. At the time, his existence was so well-covered that not anyone ever once questioned the vacancy of the cell he’d been stowed away in. Most patients could be seen roaming the facility, but not once did anyone ever see so-called patient eighteen out of the eighteenth cell to the right on the first floor. Great chance that everyone presumed that head of staff didn’t want other’s wandering into unfit cells so he claimed someone filled the lot. Nonetheless, this excuse seemed to last...few generations of staff. To everyone, this was the first time patient eighteen’s existence was confirmed.

A day after the issued missing persons’ alert, yet another was filled for a John Pierro, a veteran at the same Physiatric Centre. Both of the cases seemed distant from each other, that no one batted an eye at the suspicious timing of both the disappearances. In reality, the workers were teeming with excitement that such a mysterious patient was truly absolute.

On the other hand, the association that worked to study patient eighteen covertly knew that these cases were definitely tied. In a meeting room on the top floor, old wooden chairs are lined side-by-side, each filled with the few associates surrounding both disappearances.

“Ol’ Pierre was the last one with Eighteen. It’s common sense they’re tied together in some way.” one suggests, rather young and a newer recruit.

“Eighteen couldn’t have done much, he’s got the mindset of a typical man of modern times. Knows murder is bad, wouldn’t harm Mister Pierro. On the other hand, he couldn’t have gotten far. Those fences are far out and he’s gonna’ think he’s escapin.”

The others in the room agree, jumping to conclusions to ease their scared minds, where fear becomes a factor once again. They all know what’s to come next. Before long, authorities will ask about the disappearances and the associates will cover it up, not a problem; so it’s regarded that once patient eighteen’s able to walk, he’s fully developed and ready to go about his life. However, Eighteen’s life would’ve been under constant and tight supervision had things gone to plan. Whatever happens, they suppose, they will cover it all up sometime. Chestnut Woods was a very populated area for such a small area of land, and the physiatric centre is surrounded by a thick layer of forestry so he could get lost within the brush. Assuming a couple things go wrong, it’ll be fairly straightforward to kick the dust over it.

One of the two heads of the associates lift their concentration from a stapled stack of papers, fixating his eyes on the last man to speak. “We should take a look over Eighteen’s history and let’s see what’s disparate about this occasion and the last…” He begins where he left off after giving a moment for the rest of the arrangement to give their attention. “...The day of the initial attempt to escape, Eighteen was subdued by no means acquainted for, much like this time, how we had left him with Pierro. Wasn’t so much of a problem, so at the time we had no motive to perform preparation for the worst...” He eyes the paper, squinting his eyes, “...However we took the most recent information gathered and we found that more prominent brain chemicals are rather...unbalanced and lacking majorly.”

At the observation, the room’s atmosphere seems to darken. And soon the thoughts of reassurance and relief were replaced with where did we go wrong? The calculations seemed to be correct but perchance something could have equated poorly. The lot of people leaned forward in their chairs, desperately wanting to hear more.

“According to the automated chemical tracker we have installed in the chamber Eighteen is held in, his dopamine levels outweighed many of the rest of the more prominent chemicals in his brain. There were very little to nearly no levels of oxytocin, serving as a main issue here. The rest weren’t much of an issue, nonetheless keep in mind they were poor in development, more so than we envisioned. And the worst of all, it seems a chromosome that plays a big role in developing attachment to the world and things around them never did begin in its own development.” The men turned to each other, and the room begins to rouse with interrogation of the subject. The room was filled with an unsettling aurora, and the familiar feeling of fear becomes so suddenly prominent. Everyone’s thoughts are the same in that moment: A serial killer’s mind.

Abruptly, another researcher bursts through the doors, long-winded and holding a stack of stapled papers, dread written all over his features. The lot looks over to him, some even standing up. The man, in between his shallow breaths says, “Sir? A new report was just printed. Scanned a few minutes before the tank broke!”

The head researcher snatches the paper out of his hands. He scans it quickly, and he turns pale. Few minutes went by before he would speak, by virtue of the shock and terror on his face. Such a look gave everyone an urge to stand up as a crowd, starting to demand that he read the paper aloud. They were practically toppling over one another to find the answer that made even the most stoic of the lot pale up and go mute. He did not even bother to hush any one as the data printed on the page was so unforeseen as their predictions just seemed so clearly correct.

Finally, he pulls up his suit and sucks in a long-await breath. “Everyone, it seems there has been an...unfortunate disclosure. According to the data gathered minutes before his escape, it’s entirely and most likely true that… Eighteen’s brain chemicals and others contributing to such might have not developed correctly. Due to that, the chemicals shut themselves off.”

It was common fact to them that if a certain matter were to go amiss, that particular chemical or chromosome of sorts would erase itself completely from the patient’s body to prevent further damage. So to put what the researcher had found into simple terms…

Eighteen is likely unable to feel emotions.

[venuzwritez]

Rust | Part 1/2

29 July 2020

This one’s a story I created back in 2020. It’s based on a game I used to follow which as been long discontinued. This piece isn’t completed nor do I plan on completing it. So enjoy the couple chapters I did write!

Part 2 ->

The concept of being driven to madness is a complicated art. Art, of which is a completely new and enticing concept. This art contains so many advances and patterns and puzzles an average simple mind cannot compute. Such an omnipotent being thinks to himself, the time is aligning. The buzzing silence of the disheveled room had been constant until a surge of energy leapt throughout the container, causing the glass chamber around the figure inside shattered completely. Off-coloured liquid spilled onto the tile sporadically, yet perfectly seeping into the crevices of the tile, almost as perfect as blood running through veins so speedily, so different. The figure inside fell to the ground, pieces of shattered glass lay as a bed of roses for him to lay, uncomfortable in a settled manner. Then, he rises. So robotically and so machine-like, comparable to the array of machinery that surrounds the figure. The room’s light is given life by the coloured liquid that came with the awakening of this creature.

His bones creak and his skin feels tight around his figure as he begins to take a step, testing his own body. A smile is plastered on this figure’s face, along with a set of black, beady eyes. So normal looking, one would think. How much more wrong could anyone else be? This being, one being would cause such unpredictable havoc. Inevitable havoc.

Once the being’s skin had been exposed to the air, his chest, which was a different colour than the rest, began to corrode and rust. This was the first, and only pain this being would experience. He looks down at his chest in wonder. He identifies this feeling as pain, saying it slowly as it rolled off his tongue and into the world. His pale white finger traces a spot of rust on his orange chest, blinking before inspecting it.

“Rust.” He says. “I’m Rust.”

-~✠︎~-

Dozens of scientists in long coats rushed into the room. Frantically, they sealed the air-lock doors with little haste. Each of them harboured a certain spark in their eyes. Rust begins to browse the array of faces, soon learning of yet another common feeling‒ or was it called emotion? All these titles confused him and the chemicals injected into that artificial brain of his had seemed to not add up together all that evenly; he was baffled by the art of a mind. He was educated of the existence of these emotions (but who ever did say he had been taught to truly experience them himself?), and identified the men’s expressions as fear. ‘Fear...fear...now what was that one again?’, he thought, still as death; as a breath never drew from that flat-line plastered on his face with what seemed like black-Sharpie marker. He continues to think in that abstract manner: Fear…is the emotion of barriers. Whether that barrier be so close to one’s heart or so, so far away… fear always harboured a blockade of some sort. After that thought, he was fond to know that no such emotion emitted from within himself.

A voice shouts through the intercom:

“Patient is under control. He is not moving, as it seems he is not fully done incubating.”

Subsequently, the men in coats spit their sighs of relief like the wakening of birds in the springtime. Oh, how wrong they were to be relieved. What they didn’t know was that Rust was smart. Such astute was beyond human capability. They all looked upon him so discerning-like, but he did not think anything of it. Rust took it all in far more keen than they expected. All that humans know is their own mind; Rust took that common amenities and analyzed it rather than utilized it. Never did they expect that, right? How crafty of this man-made being, to become above its creator’s mind. Since when did the invention begin to translate the steps to man’s mind?

However, this had not been the first time the glass shattered. This situation was complete reiteration, a few times over, in fact. Rust stood still, and allowed the men to collect their data. But this occasion was particular; Rust waits for the men to file out of the room, leaving one to clean the glass and set him back to his rightful place. The fluorescent light buzzes much louder now by virtue of the workers’ withdraw. It began to flicker, though; it was old anyway so no one thought much of it. Thereupon the flick of his index to his mid-finger, the light cut out completely. The janitor flinched, and that familiar fear wrapped his old eyes like a turban of the Erebos. Death had risen from below and filled the room like voices in an untrained chorus of hollering wolves did call upon the rusty entity to fling himself to the man. His wail of fear-turned-to-terror was noted by only Rust himself (and the rickety security camera in the corner, which would later be as shattered as the man’s skull), and he was gone within seconds. The last bit of evidence of Rust’s escape is erased off this putrid Earth so quickly. Rust’s lonesome figure zips out of the Chestnut Woods Psychiatric Centre, but that would not be the last time he would make an appearance there.

-~✠︎~-

[venuzwritez]

Spiderweb Seamstress

27 October 2022

Yet another portfolio submission for class, this time filling the “flash fiction” slot.

The intricacy of the first spiderwebs were personal, handmade gifts to the world. Woven by none other than the spiderweb seamstress herself.

Silver strands glide over her fingers like smooth satin. She expertly weaves the web with nothing but her own hands, only the light of a low burning candle granting her vision. The infinite beauty of her work is unknown to humanity– for she weaved intricate spider webs for all spiders to mirror.

However, out of ignorance, a man had entered her cave against all warnings. The vibrations of his footsteps ventured to her touch, and she halted her weaving for the first time in centuries.

With her arthropodic-like legs she stalked down the rocky earth of the cave. Her silhouette slated the cave walls with the image of a beautiful woman. Intrigued, he advanced toward the dim candlelight. The seamstress began a soliloquy, “Stalk any nearer, my mortal subordinate, and Nature herself shall deal the most fatalist of cards.”

However, he did not heed her warning. Subsequently rounding the corner, he halted in mortified terror. In contrast to her inviting silhouette, her skin was grayish-purple with small hairs sporadically sticking out. Her black hair was thin and long, brushing the length of her back with a dull shine. Her fingers were long, slender, and pointy. Her thin figure was shaped by malnourishment.

He swiveled around and escaped before even anticipating her next move, heels ripe with adrenaline all the way down the winding cave. But, consequences do not move with feet, but rather with its providence.

For centuries, all the seamstress saw was the spiraling shapes of her spider webs. The memory of her visitor now burned into her eyes. From then on, she would weave words of adoration and infatuation for him in hopes of her smaller companions passing along her messages to him. The patterns traveled from spider to spider, mimicking her warm words in their own webs.

However, her smaller spider siblings were not as intricate as her. With each time they wove their depictions of her designs, it strayed further away from what she had originally intended. And by the time such designs traveled to the man’s house, her words had been uncannily contorted to those of menacing threats rather than those of love.

Upon seeing the threats he was mortified. The news of such a sight traveled fast– generating a large crowd. And by sundown they had marched their way down to the cave the man had once discovered. Once they saw the weaving woman, hunched over a batch of spider silk, they flew into a hysterical horror, lashing their hatchets and pitchforks every which way.

Forever then on, spiderwebs would remain the same criss-cross spiral pattern. Although there are not many, some still look up to an abandoned corner of a room– remembering the times of which her seamstress’ fingers danced the string to form a delightful picture.

[venuzwritez]

Where the Wendigos Went

2 November 2022

A Creative Writing Class portfolio piece, filling my short story slot, lol. Nice Alliteration there.

I felt like I haven’t slept in a month, and I probably look like it, too. It was the longest trip away from home I had taken so far. The snow, which had just begun to fill my knee-high snow boots, was nearly burned into my vision as I trekked along. I cursed under my breath at the sheer amount of land the white powder stretched across. If it weren’t for the forest to the right, the entirety of the landscape would look like a plain canvas. However, amongst the white hills was a large cave– the sight resembling a drop of black paint onto that plain canvas. I heaved a much-needed sigh of relief.

My legs were immediately in motion towards the newfound shelter. Up close, it was even better than I had imagined. The ground was flat and clear of debris and snow, there was a clear place I could set up a small fire, and more importantly were the copious amounts of cryptic lettering and pictorials. From a young age, anything about the supernatural made my mind race with creative theories and my wild insights of the matter. Once setting my numerous bags on the cave floor, I lowered my face inches away from the writing on the wall. It nearly covered the entirety of one side of the cave, revving the engine in my heart up to a roar. This had been something I was looking for. My excursions have always favored the reward of finding uncovered evidence of just about anything supernatural.

Brimming with excitement, I dug through my bags to uncover my trusty camera, quickly and fervently taking as many photos as the memory card could hold. The writings seemed much more fascinating up-close rather than behind the glass at a museum. I reached out and delicately brushed my fingers across the indented letters and artwork, reminding myself how much history lay beneath my touch. It was so titillatingly new to me.

I squinted my eyes, trying my best to depict any possible meanings behind them. However, it was rather easy to tell what the story was about. Eerie etchings of skulls and deformed humans of the like gave a clear window to the story of the Wendigos. The pictures, the shape of the letters, the location– all lined up to the folklore of the terrifying creatures. I had chosen this exact site to hold an excursion for the sole purpose of uncovering some evidence to the origin of certain legends, one of the possibilities being the Wendigo.

Wendigoes were perhaps my favorite of the legends I dug my nose into. Those hostile and ever-hungry creatures were always on the hunt for flesh. I always found an odd intricacy to the antlers perched atop their exposed skulls, hiding the rest of their face. They had some sort of beautiful secrecy to them. While intimidating, they also looked starved and scrawny, desperate for any form of sustenance they could get their hands on. It was a fitting characteristic, as most of the ancient stories spoke of humans falling to their greed and undergoing the painful transition into a Wendigo. And if you were to ever encounter one, there was a chance they would pass on their greedy dissatisfaction to you.

My fascination had kept me occupied so well that I hadn’t noticed the sun was well below the treeline. So, to keep up with the darkness of the night inching closer, I shoveled through some items in a bag to grab some firestarter and a match. Once a comfortable fire was going, I unraveled my sleeping bag to finally retire after a long day of travel.

─ ∘°❉°∘ ─

By the time I had risen the fire was completely out, and left in its absence a pile of ash. Luckily, I hadn’t gone through all the wood I collected last night, so I could safely check it off my ‘things to gather’ list. Having found such an exciting piece of evidence in such a convenient location was music to my ears, and I was ready to establish a camp here.

As much as I wanted to spend the whole day gawking at my findings, and begin translating the strange lettering, I reminded myself that getting behind on food and firewood wouldn’t allow me to survive long enough to decode it. So, I prepared myself to venture out again.

The bindingness of the snow urged me to pray for night to come sooner. Luckily, I was able to see some new sights entering the forest, which was filled with nothing but bushy evergreens and pinecones lodged into the snow on the ground beneath them. To my observations, I was relieved to have seen a set of footprints in the snow. They looked to belong to a deer, and I felt giddy off of the luck I’d been having on this trip so far. I followed them closely, minding the area around it to hopefully track another one with it. However, my focus was broken upon noticing an entirely new set of tracks deriving from a few sets of hoof tracks.

Instead of four, there were two. I inwardly grumbled out of confusion, bringing my hand to my face and absentmindedly rubbing the stubble. There were few possible animals that would only make a pair of footprints. And retain the rounded hoof shape? Yeah, no way.

My heart leaped at the possibilities. But, I calmed myself, reminding myself that my silly legends were mere tales and fiction. As much as I was enamored with their lore, I merely studied the concept of them. I felt rather stupid, clinging onto a childish hope fluttering around in my chest. But, I was ultimately yanked out of my deep thoughts when the sound of a branch snapping hit my ears. I whipped around, gloved hand instantly flying up to withdraw my crossbow from its holder. Eyes focused through the sight, I steadied my hands against the trigger but was met with nothing.

After realizing I had no target, I cautiously lowered the crossbow, checking the entirety of my surroundings. For a moment I was well-convinced I was going crazy from my solidarity. But, I was well relieved when I investigated the origin of the sound, taking note of the same pair of prints that had led me here.

From then on I was tense and cautious, checking over my shoulder every few minutes. Even when I had successfully tracked down a good meal, I still kept my cool in order to be ready for an attack. It felt like time was moving slower than ever, and the trudge back to the cave seemed to double in distance. Dragging my kill back to the cave, only halfway did I realize I had been running frantically. But, with another quick check around my surroundings, I confirmed that I had lost my nerves for no reason at all.

A hiss generates through my teeth as I pull it over the lip of the cave entrance, setting it beside the fire to prepare. Once I had gathered all the tools I needed, I got down on my knees to begin my work. But, I stop in my tracks when my heart drops at the sight of a few different chunks of the deer missing. The missing chunks of flesh were not removed carefully and appeared to have been torn off. Thinking back on it, I wasn’t sure if I had known about the gashes before I killed it.

I shook my head, almost to reassure myself I was alone, and nonchalantly continued with what I was trying to accomplish. By now the sun was already well into setting, so I got to work restarting the fire. Brushing away the leftover ash and creating a clean slate for me to set the logs up in a tent-shape. Once I had poured a hearty amount of firestarter on the wood I started it up with a satisfying fwoosh.

When the orange flames lapped over the logs it gave light to the cave, and revealed a dark figure standing right in front of the engraved scriptures on the wall. My heart dropped and I instinctively lurched to my crossbow. There was a distinctive prickling in my fingers as they hovered over the trigger, threatening to shoot. But, as I observed it through the sight I began to notice it was quite small in comparison to the shadow it casted upon the wall. Lowering my weapon, my confusion grew at the profile of what looked to be a young girl. She couldn’t have been over ten years old. Although she was turned toward the wall, obviously curious with the writing, she appeared deathly skinny and disproportionate. Her hair was in knots and she was clad in horrendously disheveled cloth. When she turned around, however, my adrenaline spiked. Her face was masked by a stained skull, fitting the exact description of the creature I was studying.

My hand left the crossbow and slowly traveled to my camera– which I praised myself for leaving out yesterday. I ensured the flash was off when I snapped a few pictures, afraid of alarming the creature before me. She peered down at me with her hollow eyes for many long minutes before I decided to finally rise to my feet. Upon realizing how short she was in comparison to myself, the fear in me dropped exponentially and I let out a half-nervous, half-relieved chuckle. In reaction to the sound she tilted her head, much like a curious cat, and continued to observe her surroundings.

It was very much obvious to me that she was very much a child. I was still in a huge debate with myself if she really was a Wendigo. Once she was occupied with exploring every inch of the cave I took the liberty of observing all the strange features on her. Firstly, her footprints matched those that derailed me from tracking down a deer earlier, as her legs were that of a deer’s. She stalked in an animalistic way. Squatted down and brushing her claws up against every new surface she encountered. She was an entirely new enigma to me.

I cleared my throat before I spoke slowly and cautiously, “Do you know where your parents are?” And to the sound of my voice she did nothing but snap her head to my direction, once again tilting her head curiously at the sounds coming from my mouth. The many minutes of silence were a clear indication that I wouldn’t get a clear response, and she ultimately focused her attention back to rummaging through my pile of belongings.

Thankfully, she had ceased her prodding curiosity and had comfortably sat herself by the fire, curling up much like a cat would. Her action piqued my interest, and I quickly produced a notebook from my pocket to write down my observation: Comfortable enough to sleep next to me. Which went against my assumption that her kind was violent and territorial, and I was fully expecting her to train her focus on me out of distrust that I would attack her.

Any normal person would usher her out of my space but I knew that my mindset was well far from the ‘normal’ spectrum. So, out of research purposes I continued what I was doing and prepared my meal, but I also prepared another portion for the ‘guest’ in my camp. I carefully slid one of the completed meals over to her, cautious as to use a large stick I had found to push it in her vicinity. I watched her with curiosity sparkling in my eyes, when she poked around the dish suspiciously. To my surprise, she took it gingerly. This made me giddy with excitement, half because she would greatly change the direction of my research to a level I never even dreamed of being on, and the other half of me thanking the Lord that I wouldn’t be alone now.

─ ∘°❉°∘ ─

My intriguing visitor did not speak. Even so, it contributed to my studies even more, and I was enthralled to find out more. The following day would now be dedicated to figuring out where she came from. Luckily, it wouldn’t be hard for me to contribute to my survival needs while observing her, and she refused to leave my side.

When I was busy replenishing the stock of firewood, she stayed within my vicinity and insisted on poking around anything she found unfamiliar. Occasionally she would be in my way, insisting on checking out my boots or whatever I was holding. At some point, she joined me on the hunt for more food, given that there were now two mouths to feed.

However, once I had located a hearty-sized deer I remained light on my feet, taking note of the way the child mimicked my cautious movement. It put me more at ease when I readied the crossbow to shoot, but halted when I noticed the smaller doe alongside the deer’s side. I lowered my weapon with a defeated sigh, walking away as it was out of my morals to leave the doe abandoned. Besides, I was under the impression there was little fauna in the area already.

As I was in the process of leaving, I was nearly tripped by the infamous child tugging at the bottom of my jeans, somewhat prompting me to finish the job. The cruel behavior didn’t surprise me, but more of intrigued me upon seeing her expected behaviors playing out. I tried to explain awkwardly and slowly with the sliver of hope that she’d understand. It shocked me when she gave me a knowing nod. Even though I felt as though I had encountered a revelation– teaching a Wendigo the means of human compassion. Even though she hadn’t been following me for long, I felt a strange connection to her in a sense that I felt a need to teach her how to survive. I had tried numerous times throughout the night to attempt to get her to speak, or to get her to lead me to where she came from. After the relentless questioning I was convinced she may be the last of her kind.

─ ∘°❉°∘ ─

It was now a week since I arrived, and still well-accompanied with the young Wendigo that had ominously followed me back to my camp. I was able to decode bits and pieces of the scriptures on the wall, uncovering unnerving news to me.

I had stood frozen in concentration with a rather messy slew of notes scribbled on my notepad. ‘Prolonged contact with … caused cannibal behavior … turn into.’ I had read, feeling a short sense of dread wash over me, and I turned to the ratty child curled up in the corner. I gulped, shooting her a knowing look while she met my gaze. I would have said I couldn’t believe that she could possibly turn me into some sort of cannibal, but her mere existence was enough to prove me wrong. Throughout the time I knew her, I could tell I was rubbing off on her a great deal. She prominently walked on two legs, preferred to only pester deer when they did not have a doe accompanying them, and she slept by the campfire alongside me. But it had never occurred to me that she was rubbing off on me.

Later that day we went out again like usual. Traveling further from the cave was easier with company, so we took the eastern direction for the first time. We were rewarded with a new sight, an eerie trail of large footprints. This time, however, it was no mystery of what they belonged to, as the large pads and claw indents in the snow was a clear indication that bears frequented this side of the forest. When we had finally spotted it, we crept behind a tree to watch it tear into a deer carcass for her newborn cub, which was just alongside her.

But, I had taken a careless step, crushing a pinecone into the snow which generated enough noise for her to snap her broad face in my direction, drawing her lips in a snarl to reveal her large teeth. My smaller companion backed away, pulling my pant leg in indication to run. As much as I wanted to, I felt the strong urge to bring the crossbow up to my eye, lining up my shot with my target. It was as if my body reacted on its own, and my finger depressed the trigger, subsequently sending an arrow through the cub’s head.

I felt an immense sense of sadness and guilt wash over me, bringing me to my knees as the mother bear turned her attention toward her dead offspring. I didn’t know why I killed it, but I looked over to my own companion to see her trembling in fear. It was then I realized that nature never intended for us to meet.

She wordlessly stalked in the opposite direction, and I followed her in hopes to return back to the cave after such a somber day. But, we passed the cave by a long distance, soon approaching a set of much denser forest. The ground soon began to dip into a valley, and upon looking into it from higher ground, my jaw dropped upon seeing the plethora of her kind wandering through the valley. They were completely silent, never interacting with each other with words but just simple nods. It was as if they were burdened by a heavy sense of melancholy that constantly kept their heads down. She turned to me once more before stalking down the valley to join her kind, leaving me to look down at my hands, those of which had gone against all of my morals. As much as I wanted to call out for her, I came to the realization that she too had read the scriptures on the wall.

Not long after the incident I returned home after my excursion. Now sitting by the fireplace I flip through my digital camera, admiring many photos of the young creature I had taken. But, those memories also came with the devastating one of the mother bear and her desperate attempts to keep her child alive– a shallow mistake done by my own hands. At times I have the urge to return back to visit my tiny friend, but I knew that nature would always have its ways to separate us, just as it had always intended.

─ ∘°❉°∘ ─

[venuzwritez]

I Love My Mustard-Yellow Room

21 September 2022

Personal Essay done for a portfolio piece in my Creative Writing class.

My new room was god-awful ugly. From its mustard-yellow walls to its cobweb-covered crusty windows, it was ugly all around.

Some people say that your room reflects you as a person. Well, this room said it all; Used only in the summer by a little old lady who would read all day waiting for her husband to come home after a day-long fishing expedition. The first time I had stepped into that room my first thought had been, man, does it smell like a retirement home!

At the time, it seemed as though I was the only person in my family to have a problem with moving. I had it all back home, a tight-knit friend group basically sitting at the edge of our seats waiting to go to highschool, a new boyfriend, great grades, and an established name for myself. Middle-school me had it all.

As soon as I stepped foot into my new school as a Freshman in Wisconsin I felt so, so little, even though I was only one of about thirty kids in my entire class, I still felt like a nobody. Every day, I had only survived with the thought that being able to call my friends from back home was only a few hours away. In turn, I’d spend all of my afternoons on a six-hour call with my friends. Life seemed slow and dreary for me in Wisconsin, so-much-so, calling them made it easier to pretend like I didn’t live there. Placing my happiness and motivation into the palms of my friends’ hands from back home was not a smart idea. Especially in the hands of my boyfriend from back home.

I can remember the exact moment I started chasing this boy. It was seventh grade, and my study period was at the last of the day. Like usual, I had one earbud in an ear playing a cheesy romance song while I typed away at a computer, when a peer, Alex Marcos, walked in and whispered something in the teacher’s ear, and got up to the front of the classroom to read a poem he had written himself. I had always been super fond of any form of writing so slipped the earbud out and was the first to sit tentative to whatever he was preparing to read. The poem was about his view of life. It was a view that I had never listened to before; one so eye-opening that it shushed the room of about thirty kids. He was quiet, but so loud that everyone wanted to hear what he was laying down.

By the third out of almost fifteen stanzas, I already knew that Alex was exactly the kind of person I wanted to be. From then on, I would spend the majority of my two middle school years thinking about him. Every other conversation I had was about him. Every day, his name would come out of my mouth probably thirty times. I spent my time daydreaming about him and falling asleep to scenarios about him every night. I began drawing doodles of him when I wasn’t paying attention in class and gushing about it to my friends.

And, around the same time, my parents announced that we would be moving.

It had felt as though my world was crumbling to bits; like nicking your mom’s favorite vase with a ball and then your heart just sinks to your stomach. Of course, I didn’t take this well. And soon every waking minute of my life was dedicated to showing my parents just how much I didn’t want to move. I then threw my priorities out the window. I no longer cared to try at the things I loved. I no longer cared to get out of bed early. And, god, I no longer wanted to care for school. I was in a vulnerable place at this point. And the only person to recognise was Alex himself.

He was everything I could ask for during that time: Tentative, poetic, smart, and someone to motivate me. He called me when my friends couldn’t, sent me motivational messages during the school day, and was able to answer my texts at a moment’s notice. But, he did this all under one condition, being that I give up calling my friends altogether.

I didn’t know what the word ‘ultimatum’ was until much later. Looking back on it, that should have been my first instinct to get out of the relationship as fast as possible. But I always reminded myself how he helped me every day; I turned my head away from the option. Along with my old friends, he never approved of my new ones, either. New people trying to enter my life made me feel ashamed so I never ended up keeping them in it. It had even extended to my parents.

Soon that ugly yellow paint on the walls of my room would appear when I closed my eyes. I never left it– even if I hated it so much. I relied only on Alex to make me feel at home, not Wisconsin. I held onto that feeling even if it meant being blind to everything that Alex was subjecting me to. Even with my parent’s concerns and the cliff that my grades had been thrown off of, I still persisted in keeping my attention on him. At that point, it felt like my life was put on pause. It only kept repeating. He continued to hurt me without me flinching or contesting, just leaning my head to the ground. The focus of my life had completely shifted to be around him. So-much-so, he knew the ins’ and outs of my brain. If I had done something wrong, he would insist he needed a break from me. I remember vividly the feeling I would get whenever he texted me during school, insisting that we “needed to talk.” It would leave me to feel like there was a blockage in my lungs for the rest of the day. Sometimes he would say it in the morning so that I’d go through the whole day unable to focus and running to the bathroom to continuously beg him to tell me over the phone. Some days, I wouldn’t even speak because that pit feeling in my stomach threatened to let tears out of my eyes if I did. And he knew exactly how this made me feel. All the while I sat in a pot of boiling water, trying to adjust my temperature to survive just like a boiling frog.

~*~

I was never opposed to the idea of therapy. Growing up, it was rather taboo to partake in, and had a rather bad stigma. It was a common insult to tell your friends they would be “sent to the psych ward” if they attended such a thing. So my first day of it had my stomach in knots.

But, like many things, therapy required practice. Every Tuesday I had an opportunity to practice it, and I found myself becoming better and better at it. And soon it felt like such a relief to go– almost like getting ice cream; eating it everyday would ruin it, but in just the right intervals of time it really felt like something special. It really became something I looked forward to. It was my diazepam.

There were days where he would send me home with “homework.” Just a small task I had to complete sometime during the week. The tasks could be anything from meditation to building a new nighttime routine. Some of these tasks, however, were difficult to tackle. For example, one was turning off Alex’s messages during the school day and to only turn them on when I arrived home. It was difficult for me to adjust to this– I felt like a child holding onto my stuffed animal for dear life as someone tried to wretch it out of my grasp. But, with enough practice, I was able to take control of my curiosity and need to see whatever he was saying and shove it in my closet till later. And it felt amazing to go through my day without worry. I had finally begun opening up to people around the spring of Freshman year, and everyone noticed. But, Alex was still a definite part of my life– a part that I still wasn’t willing to break off. Therapy had just been a candle given to me in a dark room; the way out was left for me to find.

At another one of my sessions, I had been opening up about yet another fight Alex and I were in. With no apprehension in my voice, I said, “I don’t know how much more abuse I can put up with.”

My therapist stopped me before I could say another word. Much to my confusion, he would point out something that truly opened my eyes about my progress: “Meghan, that was the first time you described what Alex is doing as abuse.”

~*~

April 28th, 2021 would mark the exact date Alex’s reign over my life came to an end.

Neither one of us initiated the long-awaited breakup, but the authority. Once I had, apprehensively, told my therapist about an event of a sensitive situation, it was inevitable that Alex was practically dragged out of my life. Although I was freed from the mental prison he kept me in, there was a need to go back. In turn, I regressed quite a bit in my recovery. This time, however, I allowed myself to be uplifted by the people around me. I found solace in new people, and surrounded myself with a new group of friends.

As much as I hated my mustard-colored room, I also hated my entire house. I always expressed this to my parents in the form of endless complaining about the wi-fi connection, cobweb-covered corners and small septic tank. It simply paled– no, was more bleached in comparison to my former house: high ceiling, white walls that made the room seem bigger, lofts leaning down from upstairs, a pool table in the basement, three bathrooms and endless entertainment. I felt like this new house was tedious just to live in. But, as I began widening my social circle it was inevitable that at least one of them would ask to come over. As much as I dreaded the idea, I missed having friends over.

Reluctantly, I finally complied to allowing a friend to have a short visit. After I showed them out the door, I stepped back inside to two tear-filled parents, who I also found out missed the constant chatter and laughter among my friends and I in the house. With this, I invited friends left and right, finally indulging in the typical teenage debauchery; from staining the dining table with nail polish and makeup products to being shushed by my parents at a rough three in the morning.

Entering Sophomore year, I decided to(and not influenced by my therapists’ weekly tasks) challenge myself. With very much reluctance, I scrolled all the way down through my contact list to find the name of one of my best friends from my old town. While it was awkward, at first, I persisted through many stale conversations to provoke the nostalgia of the antics we got into when we were younger. It took just a few weeks, until I found some of my afternoons spent on six-hour calls, raving about small jokes and my mustard-room filled with laughter. It had felt like a part of me had returned.

After that, Sophomore year flew right by. Soon, it was spring once again and I stepped out much more accomplished than the previous year, and, more importantly, a licensed driver. April was a heavy month for me, as the day of the 28th snuck up on me. At nearly ten at night, I checked the date, realized and just froze, staring at the calendar on my phone. What I ended up doing was driving to a nearby grocery -store and picked up one of those small cakes– like everyone does on a whim. I placed it on the dining table, grabbed a recycled candle from the junk drawer, and lit it. The entire house was dark and quiet, as I was the only one awake. I contemplated seeing if my mom was awake to share my reflections on the past year, but figured that I deserved this celebration to myself. Looming over this small cake, the only light originating from the one, half-burned candle squashed into the middle of the icing, I let tears fall. To this day, I cannot decipher if they were ones out of sadness or happiness– but I couldn’t care less. Because, exactly a year from that day, I would have never expected I would have gotten that far. I felt like throwing the door open outside, thrusting a finger up to the night sky with only the statement, I did it.

~*~

Later in that year, my parents surprised me with an entirely new bedroom set– Humorously, titled ‘The Meghan’ in the furniture store; it was the perfect one for me. It was ergonomic, painted a simple white, with subtle accents that really complimented my yellow walls. When I walked into the newly-furnished room one day after school, it felt like an entirely different place. Sure, it still had the same gross carpeting, asymmetrical windows, small closet, and that god-awful mustard color, but it felt so refreshing stepping into a room I was proud of.

My mom, standing beside me, asked, “Since your stuff’s not in the room yet, we have the time to paint your walls. What color do you want them?”

I did not even have to think when I answered, “No thanks, mom. I like the yellow.”

[venuzwritez]

Navigation + Introduction

Whether I gave you the link to this blog or you found it on your own, I hope you enjoy reading my works. This entire blog is basically a public archive of anything Creative Writing.

My inbox is open to questions, comments, and (constructive & polite) critique. I practically run on feedback.

Below the cut is a small guide to my multi-part stories. Enjoy!

~**********~

Rust (2/2 Parts)

Short passion project based on a game. Never finished but I thought it’d be nice to archive them!

Part One

Part Two