Author has written 35 stories for Young Adult, and Love.
Hello everyone, my name is Emilia and I do enjoy reading the work of all of you on this site. Seeing the words of writers who have not yet been told what they can and cannot write -based on what sells to the public- is like watching a corpse flower bloom. Which sounds morbid, but corpse flowers are actually very beautiful, they just smell disgusting.
Anyway, I can't wait to see what my fellow lovers of the written word have to say about my work. Writing is the path I am hoping to follow as a career in the near future.
I don't particularly enjoy telling people about myself, especially when giving out personal information is dangerous on sites like this, so I guess I'll just type out some of my poems. By the way, my avatar is a painting called "A Calling" (1896) by William Aldophe Bouguereau. *I added some personal bits at the bottom, because apparently some people care to know about my personal life.
There is a voice in the wind, in the trees, in my hair,
It feels cool on my skin, and my feet that are bare.
This voice resonates with a marvelous sound,
Like a howl to the moon from a broken-hearted hound.
It's thick and rough and heavy, I can feel it in my hands,
Yet it's fine and white and light as Pacific Island sands.
This voice cannot be captured, it cannot be locked away,
But it can be cherished and remembered, saved for another day.
However, when it's said aloud, the sounds and words, they taper,
So lean in close , so you can hear my voice that is on paper.
There are places I'd rather be,
Than in this deserted wasteland around me.
If it weren't for sheer strength and will,
I might be perched on a cliffs edge, going in for the kill.
Here is a world full of majesty and grace,
And the ungratefulls who live there call it a disgrace.
They crawl and they snarl, they clutch and they stare,
They subtract those who're above by a hair.
Muted tones of darkness
Replace the comfort of light.
Someone killed the colors,
Now there's only black and white.
A crusted hand grips your heart,
It struggles to be heard.
Cannot see, cannot hear,
Cannot speak a word.
But do not scream,
Do not scream in fright.
For fear is the brace of life,
Life we live by the night.
Like a paper set a afire
And with it sound is wasted,
Into a funeral pyre.
A dull thrumming noise
Like the snoring of a giant
Signifies the waking of
an angry, raging riot.
Water falling daintily
in a vertical river
Innocent as it starts out,
Like a child when delivered.
Progressing into a full-on reign
Of pure, thriving craze
Manifesting into a colorless curtain,
Of a confusing grey and white haze.
This is rain, and just like life,
in a wild, blind dance
It washes away complications,
And gives you another chance.
Grey on crisp air
Cold like death,
Escape from a dare
Surrendering to darker nights,
Surrendering to ice,
Letting go of brighter lights,
And meeting judgement twice
This is what they call forever,
This is Seperation not Unity
Running, dying, we will never,
Oh, dear God, is this my eternity?
I would take a thousand spaces,
In the sky at light speed paces.
I would shake the world
When someone's been done wrong,
With a drum, a violin, an organ, and a gong.
I would melt the clouds and shower you with rain,
And cure everything of violence and pain.
I'd make an army of trees,
And take over the land,
With an artistic hand.
I would stomp on the ground,
Until the Earth spun around.
I would break buildings
With imaginary winds
Until this place is rid,
Of prying eyes with camera lens.
I would throw a temper tantrum,
And raise a hurricane,
To make a point of laughing,
Instead of causing pain.
I'd toss my hair
And waves would crash
Destroying battle ships
With a great big BASH!
I would dance upon the ground
Until zoo animals ran wild,
Throwing my hands around,
Screaming like a child.
I'd enjoy the moments,
Before the sun sleeps,
When warm color reigns,
And the tired sky weeps.
I would let the fire die,
And enjoy the frosty cold,
Living good when the stars come out,
Before the night gets old.
I'd make a trampoline of the rolling valley hills,
And let the people watch,
From their yawning window sills.
I'd let it go,
Let them know,
That the point is not to care,
Whether or not you have a car,
Or nice hair.
I'd spread my wings
Made of those things
That sound like wind and light.
I'd spread my wings,
Made of those things,
That inspire words to write.
I've decided to dedicate a section of my profile to the explanation of my inspirations. Each and every one of my stories is a documentary of some part of my experiences, and I have yet to show you the credits...
1. The Ballad of the Monster- The very first story I published on fictionpress, determined to share my own stories with the world, as I was once terrified of having anyone see this part of me. My stories are a coded form of all my secrets, and I was shaking with the anticipation of my first review.
Elvira is another version of me; a me who was not afraid of the rest of the world. In Elvira's body, I fearlessly created a harsh, dangerous world that she could live in. She hurt when I hurt, she reacted how I would react. Elvira, so often called a monster, is the freak I am inside. The abomination...inside out.
2. Entomophobia- I gained confidence with myself through Elvira, and realized I did not have to write through a reflection of myself, and I could be me. I amplified my passionate disgust toward insects, portraying the terror of having a phobia of so common a creature to encounter. This short story was written in the hair-raising fear of being overcome by something smaller, something mindless and inferior. It is also where I adopted my signature, repetitive statement of paranoia in which I portray the true nature of the phobia in all of my phobia shorts. Disgusting, filthy.
3. Freshman- Entering yet another year of empty education, my mind was drawn to the true beginning...freshman year. So many things to remember, yet so many things I wish to forget. It is imperative that you take what positive things you can from such times. I myself was set back too many times to want to go back for any reason. Broken hearts, stress, embarrassment. All riddled with the potential for artistic motivation. My freshman year chased me back to my haven of the written word. What better muse could one have than that of pure terror?
4. The Gun- A short story that was simply a collage of any experience I've had like that. Any stories I heard with frightening elements. Certain things were left to the imagination. That was intentional, of course. Anyone could give some clue as to why the bad guys were chasing the damsel in distress, but why should I give that away? The monsters under the bed are scarier when you can't see them, anyway. But the ending...now that, I couldn't resist. I could imagine the readers frustration, I even found myself laughing at what kind of expression I conjured for the audience's faces. What would they say to such a ridiculous ending? Then you think back...how close had she gotten to death before the threat of the gun overcame whatever chance there was of such an occurrence as there being no bullets?
5. Nyctophobia- As a fan of dimmed lights and midnight rendezvous, I couldn't help but imagine the outcome of such an incompatible story/author combination. However, it wasn't hard to picture the fear of the night, or the fear of darkness itself when I am a helpless victim of anxiety. Cruel, ruthless anxiety, which had for so long plagued my existence, assisted me in my quest to explaining what was unknown to me.
6. Philophobia- Just as I did with Entomophobia, I found a limb of thought, something bothering me, and expanded on it. The thought of love was so tangled and complicated in my mind, I could only explain it through someone else, someone who surely exists somewhere, and let them tell the world how I feel, but in a passionate enough way that no one could guess I myself was pondering such emotions.
7. Pediophobia- As a collector of porcelain dolls, with their innocence and regality, I felt I should branch out a little further in my amateur career as a writer, and feel the fear of the object of my collection. What was a consequence of having dolls gathered on a shelf in your room? Having them watch everything you do with their lifeless eyes. Surely, they were just inanimate objects, but just for fun... Devil's minions.
8. Me, the Little Sister- No doubt, there are many girls out there who would read this and say, "Join the club." This was written purely out of my own experiences, my own distress, and colored with extra details that did not correspond with my life. Any friend or member of my family could read this and recognize the subject of the story. I'm afraid my frustration carried me too close to familiarity on this one...
9. Like Dirt- Again, the story flows with artificial links in the chain. Certain things are fiction, but most of it, including, sadly, the entire idea, is fact. With my mind set on failed romance, I was brought back to a painful memory of a liar. A liar who inspired the poem-
10. Pray for the Liar- Written in the words of a fictional character, but through my own mind, wrought with the irritation of a woman scorned.
11. Wedding Dress- I cannot explain the feeling that overtook me, but I do know that it was too complicated to be wrangled by the rules of an organized story. It had to be a poem.
12. Children- As a proud fan of stories, poems, and literature itself, I felt I had to create a piece of work in the name of the written word.
13. Terribly Dark- The moment I clicked the button that would publish this story, I was snarling with frustration. In all my years of writing, never had I been constricted in the way of expressing myself. This one, the confusing tale of a girl infatuated with a mysterious man was branched off of some part of my thoughts, and yet no words truly depicted what I was seeing in my mind. Nothing could.