Estynia's Writings

Lenore, Lahore, the whore, who knows. . .

More literary style writings and whatever. You know, fiction, writing exercises, that kind of thing.

Narrative Dreams No. 1 - "Angel Unatoned" // Tues., July 19th, 2,022

A dream I had around mid-May about my lover dying and the emotional turmoil after. It's hard to properly articulate the feeling of loss I felt.

My darling, Can you hear me? I hope this letter finds you well, if you can ever read it. Nobody would ever tell me how you died, or even when. Even the notion that you were actually dead or not was constantly changing, undulating. They would never make up their mind, and I always got mumbled, muddled answers. Surely you cannot be dead and alive at the same time? Whenever I had the courage to bring it up, my questions were shamelessly waved away. . . All I could do was presume. I knew that they knew, but evidently I do not deserve to know. They know that I am the person that treasures you the most, yet they still will not tell me. Why? Just to agonize me? Your death went largely unacknowledged by everyone but me, despite me not knowing any of the details. Before anyone had ever fumbled an embarrassed explanation to me, I just knew that you were gone. You were gone, so very gone, and not even your soul lingered on this Earthly plane. Dread infested every crevice in my heart, and so desperately I yearned for your irrevocable return. After that, it was impossible to feel like myself. All the faces I gazed upon were entirely unfamiliar and contorted themselves wildly into threatening patterns. My sight was unfocused and dull; I did not care to ogle anybody. Nobody was there to comfort me or protect me from this affliction, not even you. You were gone, and had been for eternities, infinitely many days, before I had even realized that. I was alone in this world now, the world where I knew I was no longer welcome, not merely a delusion that I was outcasted. Through the halls of my high school I walked in a dreary daze, with uncertain and shaky footing. I came to walk with a suicidal carelessness. If I were to accidentally fall from the third-story balcony, I was sure to die with a bittersweet smile. On a mild Thursday I felt more ghostly than usual. “I was sure I would phase out of existence at any moment, and I felt a twinge of sadness prickling my heart.” Grasping onto hope, that distant guarantee of heaven, I looked down meekly. Jesus hung limply from my crucifix. His gilded forearm had been cruelly amputated, with an impossibly straight edge, as if it was cut with surgical precision. My heart dropped, and what was left of my soul must have left me then. The bright red enamel framing his body seemed to mock me, taking on a devilish glint in the sunlight. Immediately I retraced my steps and frantically searched for his forlorn digit. I searched throughout all those liberally lacquered concrete floors. That crass concrete offered me only cruelty. I never found his arm, and so I felt that seed of atheism and dissatisfaction settle within me, like the unforgiving gravel of the riverbed. You defeated me, God, and you, darling. I sat at that insular bench beside the stairwell and sobbed silently into my hands, roughly digging my untrimmed nails into my cheeks. I noticed myself stroking my golden ring of heirloom, reaching out instinctively for anything of coddlement. When my fingertips brushed over the stone inlay, I could distinctly feel the shallow and gritty inside of the mold. The gemstone had withstood seventeen years of abuse, and the heart-shaped chunk of aquamarine had no longer shone, had no longer strived to make himself known, and now he had fled to some parallel existence. I knew now that there was no point in searching, as I was not made to be forgiven, and so I buried my face within my clasped palms once again and choked myself with my bereavement. I left school in the middle of the day, walking two miles dully home. Like I had any place to call home anymore. “If I’m your angel, why couldn’t I protect you?” an exhalation spoken breathlessly and uselessly into the stale air of my room. Collapsed in an abandoned crinoline dress onto fresh linen sheets. Three precious things I have lost: my connection to humanity, my connection to God, my connection to my heritage. I gave up, and I felt my body falling underneath me already. My divine duties could not be fulfilled anymore, my connection with the heavens was severed. It was not by accident, I had committed some unspeakable sin that even I did not know of the origins. What can be done? Nothing. Atonement is not a possibility. I am no longer divine, I cannot protect you or anyone else. In fact, I failed this from the precedent. You are dead. I could not protect you, and I can’t even hear your voice anymore. Surely enough, the clear, gentle voice of yours that implanted itself in my head is losing its lovely timbre, its bright pitch. I cannot live with the thought of losing my memory of you. I’m coming to see you. I’ll be there soon. My darling.

“I ran over a goose once, and I didn’t even feel bad about it, I could really care less about it” “What do you like to do for fun, then?” “...I don’t know. I hang out with friends.”

Poems from Fifth Grade // Sat., April 23rd, 2,022

Some poems I wrote in fifth grade when I was digging around in my school Google Drive. I'm kinda surprised at the quality of them, I thought that they would be worse. "Storm" is my favorite. There's something so intoxicating and pure about such a childish writing style.

Foxes

Foxes are sneaky In the dead of the night. They are often shy In the bright morning light. Foxes are stealthy When they are out for a bite. You will never see their soft fur Quiver with fright! Foxes are spectacular, So with a spirited smile, They scampered away silently, Into the moonlight.

September

Roses were red, Violets were blue, But now all I see Is orange,red and yellow. As the temperature drops, School will begin. The desks will be stocked With books and papers again. Our days will grow shorter, And birds and butterflies, Will fly away and wait For a much warmer day.

Storm

The night was so peaceful, Just a second ago. But a powerful raptor, Has awoken in rage. With his angry talons, He pierces the clouds. His furious wings beat And rain crashes down. Thunder booms in the sky, And with a frightened cry, The mysterious bird has gone.

Balloons

Balloons are often sold, Swish,swish,swish! At festivals and fairs. Swish,swish,swish! Balloons can be different colors, Swish,swish,swish! Like yellow,blue and red. Swish,swish,swish! When they are left alone, Swish,swish,swish! They will fly into the air. Swish,swish,swish.

Car

The car engine wheezed, Coughing black smoke. It fell silent for a moment, But soon after it revved up. The car moved slowly, Its tires treading on the path. Grunting with effort, It continued on. When the sun sank under the sea, The car sighed with relief. After a while it thought, How lucky I am to be free.

55 Word Fiction // Mon., June 4th, 2,018

Don’t Look Behind You

The swirl of snowflakes is a sight that enchants them all. They just couldn’t stop staring at the powdered white sky. How unfortunate for them that they failed to see the avalanche coming up behind them, and they were swallowed whole. They could never stop staring at the powdered white sky.

Alcoholic Dreams

The clinking of glasses, the talking of people, the taking of ecstasy all mixed together here. How fun! Cute margarita after cute margarita quickly turned into blackout after blackout. She was hurled out of the bar, took a good look at who she had become. I guess this is what life is really like, huh?

A Dirty Lining

How idyllic this place was, he never wanted to leave. The sun always shined and the flowers always bloomed. The food he ate was always terrific, the water he drank crystal clear. But nothing comes without a price. His amazing life was on account of the starving African children he forced to work for him.

Dickens Imitation // Wed., January 10th, 2,018

This was an assignment where you had to write about someone in your life imitating Dickens' writing style. I wrote about my step-dad. I don't actually feel too fondly of him. Oh! What a remarkable figure he was, as he was someone who had always stood out, seeming to blaze like the flame of a candle come nightfall. Not only did he catch the attention of others because of his altitudinous height and heavyset build, but also because of his jubilant spirit. No matter how many years that had passed, he refused to burn out. Never was he once seen without the same revitalizing vigor. He was like a daisy in a vast field of weeds, never wilting. Somehow he could always boost the morale of those around him, as he always had a great abundance of jokes to crack. He was amazingly always able to lighten the mood. He always managed to make others howl with the laughter of a hundred hyenas. Remarkably gregarious, he commonly struck up conversations with just about anyone. His spirit seemed to reflect in his appearance as well. The distinct scent of tobacco seemed to cling to him, being a smoker of many years. For some reason, he was never able to quite relinquish the drug. The hair on top of his head was still as black as charcoal, not a lick of cinereal to be seen. The tattoos etched into his skin were now fading. There were very few things in life that could bring him down. He remained indefinitely positive, no matter what life threw at him. People just seemed to be drawn towards him, like moths drawn towards light. He seeked out people, and people seeked out him.

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Anyone who can love me is the purest kind of angel.