One day, a girl set out to college. She did her major in Procrastination and a minor in Introspection. She found what she was good at and where she had to struggle. She searched for the reins controlling her life and stumbled across things like “post-modernism” and “existentialism”. There were others in the same hunt, torn by the same questions, doubting every step.

All the while she was handed skills that were supposedly the key to success. She focused on sharpening the ones she found fun, and the ones she thought she might need to survive.

Then one day she pondered the meaning of success. What was it? Why was it so important to get it? What would the key open?

The homework piled up until it was sticking out of her bedroom door and she sat defeated, head in hand, waiting for the rain to wash away her stress. Questions and doubts about everything popped into her head.

A few deadlines and nights of high speed typing later, she still doesn’t have too many answers. But she knows she’s never going to know what the key is until it opens something.




Whispers of Life


Life. A series of suspension bridges. You never know where one ends and the other begins.

Life. Neither here, nor there. But, somewhere in the midst of the moment.

Life. Indescribable. All-consuming. Devastating.

Life. In the minds of millions.

Life. Compressed into pages, pictures and songs.

Life. Heard with your heart, seen with your soul, and lived with a load of laughs.

Life. I see beauty, I see pain. I can see them in a drop of rain.

Life. With the promise of death.

Life. Larger than itself.



“Searching for Meaning”



After three hours of trekking, Kassie reached the Stepping Stone. She had not used any of her magic to travel, saving it for an impending moment that might all but deplete her source. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was any minute now. Somewhere, in a cloaked tower, the Synchroniser was looking at her and around four thousand other witches and wizards who had been chosen from those who volunteered. She drew her wand and stepped onto the tiny platform now pulsating with the energy that she would need to channel the spell.

Lifting her arm and spirit skywards, she whispered, “Yadot espylacopa on”. An amber stream of light erupted from her wand. She could sense an opposing force almost immediately and struggled as she fought against it, holding on to the knowledge that there were others who were fighting the same fight. The tide was beginning to turn in their favour, though, and she could barely contain her exhilaration as the stream of light suddenly burst forth unrestrained, sending intermittent sparks of red, green and violet into the evening air.

The unknowing human population went about business as usual, many saying “I never expected anything to happen, anyway”, while the fanatics found other reasons to explain the lack of the apocalypse.

The magical volunteers didn’t need a thank you. They had saved themselves and their close ones as much as the rest of the living souls on the planet, and that was more than enough. Even if all that the others had caught a glimpse of were fireworks.



The Record Keeper

Because Art is One Part Chance and Two Parts Chaos

glitter in the airhttp://ermiliablog.wordpress.com/2012/12/09/picture-it-and-write-4/

I fished out another tube of wrapping paper, hoping to salvage my Christmas project. I had given up on the idea of creating perfect personalised pamphlets of memories for everyone, but I still had the idea of a single masterpiece in mind.

Looking back at the mess I had made around the pictures and snippets of poetry, I was frustrated with the tangled stripes of colours that stared defiantly back at me. I felt like an amateur diplomat who couldn’t convince them to work with each other.

Fine.” I murmured through clenched teeth. “You had your chance.”

I stripped the coloured paper in order of annoyance until I was left with just the photos and their captions. Mulling over my next move, I sent the papers through the shredder.

The ribbons at hand earned their place beautifully twined along the edges. The still dominant bald spots begged me to cover them up with stickers, but I couldn’t overdo it. I absent-mindedly placed tiny drops of glue in the cracks and admired the way they caught the light.

I was expecting a drastic change, but the whole thing still looked like a mess. It just looked like one that was trying too hard.

Inspiration dawned as I caught the shredded bits of wrapping paper glinting cheekily. Gleeful with anticipation, I filled my palms and held them over the project like over-saturated clouds. I knew that even if I didn’t like the puddles, I always enjoyed the rain.

The mess morphed into musical chaos as I let the glitter fall.



Occasionally Artistic

The Return of the Sanctuary


Tara walked deliberately across the bridge, watching a broken branch drift away in the river. She couldn’t bring herself to look up and ahead.

She felt, as always, the memory of that day painfully searing through the back of her mind. The first time she had tried to return, she had been rigid with fear; the scene had been eerily familiar- the same dry woods, the same crunch of leaves as she trampled over them. The only difference had been she was not rushing to escape.

She hated the then unnamed man for what he had done. It wasn’t just her innocence he had taken. He had stolen her sanctuary, soiled it forever, as she bit her tongue, hoping against hope that none of it was real.

Despite the satisfaction of putting him behind bars, only three years of martial arts and learning how to handle a taser had convinced her to return again.

There had been days, as a child, when she spent her time very differently. Away from Krav Maga classes and the busy pleasures to be found in the city, she had set her own pace, in the midst of trees that she whispered stories to, and squirrels that taunted her, but were impossible to catch. But, now her flashbacks were layered with despair and useless cries for help.

Unable to dwell on unhappy thoughts any longer, she risked glancing up. The woods were different. More green and lush than she had ever seen them, even just after the heavy rains.

The weeds and shrubs were alive with colour, and soft to the touch. They barely made a sound as she gingerly stepped on them, expecting a solid crunch. Every leaf seemed to be telling her that things were different, this time in a good way. But how? Why?

She searched for an explanation and for once, was blissfully denied one by her neurotic mind. The acceptance was more than just logic; it was intuition, and she held on with every inch of her soul.

She faced her favourite tree and knelt before it. Breathing more freely, she could remember the afternoons she had rested against it- reading and losing herself in a different world. It had always cushioned her fall back to reality and it was still there. Running her fingers up the moss, she felt tears of relief leak through her eyes.

Up in the trees, the squirrels twinkled at her.



The Watchful Redwood