Things to Inspire Me (Part 1)

A while back, Anna shared a blog she found with me. This blog was a collection of photographs and sayings that the author found inspiring. Being a writer, I thought I would do the same for a few entries. Please feel free to share photos and quotes that inspire you too. :)

Valley Love

There's no place I'd rather be than the San Joaquin Valley. I know I haven't been that many places (and I would love to travel) but after moving only 450 miles away, I know that I can never permanently leave the Valley. Nothing is like it. I feel so free there-- I can be my complete SELF there. In Riverside, I have to mix and match and mask different aspects of my personality because people think that I'm odd or eccentric or, I don't know. Most people, with the exception of Ben, Anthony, and Chanel (and maybe Max and Tony) don't really know ME, I would say. Maybe there's a hint as to who I might be, but without observing me in my natural habitat, it's really quite difficult to understand. Anyway, whatever. The Valley is the best. I'm going to wait out the rest of my undergraduate career in Riverside, but as for graduate school... I still have time to think about it. I'm not sure what I want to do...

The University of Iowa for their Creative Writing Workshop would be AMAZING, but it's highly unlikely. I'm still going to take it into consideration and work toward something like that, but there are so many more options that will arise as I continue through college. We'll see what happens. I'm just saying I'm going to go back to the Valley. I want to live in Oakdale. I would LOVE to live in Knights Ferry. I'm just saying that, no matter how ill-traveled I am, I don't think I can live anywhere else and call it Home.

The Valley = love

I'm back in Riverside. The wedding reception was beautiful. The music was awesome and the people were great and Love is beautiful. I danced all night (another something I can only really do at Home, although I have to work it up). Larry and His Flask was brilliant... I know people who LOVE them and people who don't like them so much, but I definitely fit into the former category. Listen to them here:http://www.myspace.com/larryandhisflask

Walked through the covered bridge with Professor and a friend of Jason's who was at the reception-- David. We took off without Aaron, Aubrie, Troy, and Robert, and we were pretending that everything was haunted. Professor was telling us stories (both personal and fictional) about the jail and "the hangman's house". We decided to play a trick on Aaron, so Professor went ahead and was a little lost, telling Aubrie that he had no clue where David and I were (David and I were hiding in separate places). A hesitant Aubrie found me and when I came out, David ran up behind her and scared her. When we tried a second time with Aaron, it was unsuccessful. He walked by, and when I ran up behind him, I was too loud. I was wearing shoes, and I'm not so graceful in shoes. Anyway, we just hung out on the other side of the covered bridge, talking and chilling and being bros and whatnot.

Eventually, we went back to the backyard and there was campfire time. People were playing songs and reciting poetry and having a good time. People were slowly going to bed; there were tents pitched on the lawn by the river; there were sleeping bags around the campfire. I wanted to be able to be awake for as long as possible, since I won't be back to the Valley for another few weeks. I went to bed around 4 and slept for three hours. Then I got up and just sorta kicked it in the backyard; helped clean up and talked to friendies.

It was a lot more eventful than I made it sound, but a summary is good. A summary will evoke my memories and leave you (the reader) striving to know exactly what is going on. And if you really want to know what conversations were had and what songs were played, then I'll be more than happy to tell you, but it would take too long to write, and I've got homework to do.

Yesterday, on the train back to Riverside, my Amtrak train hit a car. I was sitting in the first car headed south, so my train car was the one to hit the car. I felt a jolt, a shake, and heard a loud crash-- I thought the train was derailing. The power went out automatically. I looked out the window and saw the light box (for the flashing red lights at the intersection) falling down and flying out... it was really weird. There were car parts everywhere. The train stopped and everyone was automatically on their cell phones. In the two hours that we were stuck in Fresno, three firetrucks, four ambulances, and an abundance of police officers were at the scene. Nobody died, but people were seriously injured. Here's the Fresno news article for it:http://www.fresnobee.com/2010/04/25/1910267/car-hits-amtrak-train-in-fresno.html

Anyway, I ended up getting to Riverside at 10:30 instead of 8:30. I didn't go running. I did some homework and talked with Chanel and Ben and James. Persiah asked me, for an essay, about something I desire but can never have: Riverside being four hours closer to home. With the exception of Kat, everyone in the room is from San Jose/The Bay Area, and they all immediately agreed. I would want the same people, the same environment, the same campus, but maybe in a more central location... UC Riverside in Fresno, maybe? Then there would be two Central California schools (Riverside and Merced are the schools with the crappier reputations, the only two UCs that the Regents would ever consider discontinuing). In fact, you should read this uncyclopedia article: http://uncyclopedia.wikia.com/wiki/University_of_California

I keep misspelling "article" as "articule". What's going on with my fingers?

Anyway, so now I'm here. I've got articles to read and an Islam midterm to study for, and I think I might have an essay to write, and I've got some stories to revise and critique. I thought of an idea of how to "fix" my flash fiction, although it involves changing the whole story. So, just for class, I'm going to revise it one way and I'm going to elaborate on it another way when I have spare time (summer, I mean. I'll be doing a lot of elaborations in the summer). So, except some new stories soon. They're going to get a lot better, but a lot more crude. I'm a cynical creative writer, bad things are going to happen. I want my characters to struggle. I want you to see how they endure. I want you to have faith in them, long for their well-being. And sometimes, I want you to be disappointed.

Friday Never Hesitates

I didn't go to Coachella. I didn't get to hear She & Him or Pavement or MGMT or Yo La Tengo or Yann Tiersen or Thom Yorke or the thirty other bands that I wanted to see live. It's disappointing, but it's what happened and there's nothing I can do about it anymore. Coachella was yesterday and today is today. Maybe next year.

The past week or so has been pretty uneventful. I go to class, I do my homework; on Mondays and Wednesdays I go to kickboxing at the rec center. This morning I went running, and I'm going to kickboxing again later before I call Moma.

Tomorrow, I am going to do this thing called "The Hijab Challenge" where girls at UCR wear a purple hijab just to get the feeling of what it's like to be "the other". I'm down. I like wearing headscarfs already, for entirely different reasons than Muslim women wear them (and even then, individuals wear their headscarfs for entirely different reasons as well). I think that wearing the headscarf as a way to identify with Muslim women, though, is almost a bad idea. The hijab is targeted as distinctly Muslim, when there are so many more qualities that can be noted and practiced instead. Anyway, I'm doing it, and it will definitely be a good experience.

Battle of the Bands is Wednesday, as well as my first workshop in my Creative Writing class, where my peers will rip apart the flash fiction piece that I wrote (which I will post below last). From this workshops and their critiques, I will be able to restructure/rewrite the piece for my final portfolio and hopefully get a bomb grade on it. I love my Creative Writing classes, although they are always a lot of work, because I feel like I can write whenever, wherever. I still get stuck, but because I just write-- I write and write and write until my thoughts are flowing and I can pinpoint something specific that I want to write about-- I am definitely becoming a better writer.

Thursday is Thursday. I'm not sure what I'm doing, besides going to class and office hours and making sure I have everything in order for the weekend.

And finally, Friday... I'm going Home. I'm taking the train to Turlock from Riverside so that I can go to Mary's wedding in Knight's Ferry on Saturday, and it's going to be perfect. when I get back on Sunday, I only have five weeks left in Riverside and then I get to go Home for the summer. I'm trying to work something out with all of my teachers where I can go home a week early-- I don't have finals other than my Creative Writing Final Portfolio; I'm going to ask Holly (my teacher) if I can turn it in the last day of workshop so that I can run back to the dorms, pack all my stuff up, and hopefully have Aaron come pick me up that weekend, Saturday or Sunday.

We'll see if I can make it happen; I'm determined too, actually. I do not want to be sitting around Riverside with nothing to do, waiting and waiting until Aaron can come pick me up, especially if I can take the opportunity to go home early. I mean, I would love to have all the extra time with my friends, but they'll be studying for finals, too, and I'll see them a few times in the summer, and then we'll be together all year next year too. Next year will definitely be a good year with Chanel, Anthony, Ben, and Max. DEFINITELY, a good year. :)

I'm halfway through John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany. It's great. I wouldn't say it's my favourite book, but I'm definitely glad I'm reading it. Thanks, Moma.

I'm compiling a summer reading list, too. I already know which books that I want to read, but if anyone has any suggestions, please, let me know.

Peace + Love

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"Avery's First Memory"

Avery pinched the Polaroid between his thumb and index finger, the corner creasing from the tightness of his grip. With his other hand, he absentmindedly flipped open and closed the lid of his chrome Zippo. The photograph was of him and his grandfather, a grizzly old mountain man with a coonskin cap and a shine in his eye that reflected his love for the wild unknown. Though Avery’s grandfather had been a long-time recluse, he had come down from the mountain when Avery was born to pay his respects to his kin. When he laid eyes upon Avery, though, he fell so deeply in love with his grandson that he never again retired alone to his mountain home. For years, Avery had created scenarios based on the photographs he kept in hopes that the spark of his imagination would catch to the tinder and set his memories ablaze. Although he had struggled with this for years, his grandfather remained in a time that Avery could not remember.

Avery’s first memory was of waking up and forgetting. Everything he knew. Everything he had known—gone. Four years old and completely disoriented. Tabula rasa. A blank slate. He pulled himself out of bed, placed his bare feet on the shag carpet, wiggled his toes, captured the yarn between them, tugged, felt each individual fiber of each individual thread of each individual staple. He gulped air like a fish out of water; he knew the ratio of the ten gasses trapped in his lungs; he could feel his red blood cells expanding with oxygen, spreading throughout his entire body. His fingertips glowed. His lungs burned. He felt himself for the first time, simultaneously within himself and without himself, like watching a film where he was the star, knowing both worlds at once.

He floated out of his room and down the stairs. He saw his mother in the kitchen and she poured him a bowl of cereal. He knew her, but he did not know anything about her. He saw his father in the bathroom, inspecting himself in the mirror, adjusting the knot of his tie. Avery knew him, too, but he did not know anything about him either. When his father emerged, he ruffled Avery’s hair on his way to kiss his wife on the cheek. That’s my dad, and that’s my mom, but it’s like I’ve never met them before. Avery’s head flooded with uncertainty.

“I’ll see you after work,” his father announced to both Avery and his mother. His voice seemed distant. It was almost like Avery was swimming in an aquarium, listening to the rumble of his father’s voice through the trembling water. But no one had bothered to clean his tank, and now everything was fuzzy.

Three days passed. Avery questioned everything. Was he dreaming? It felt like a dream. His actions seemed unreal. He was a marionette; when his hands reached out to twist doorknobs or when his feet carried him across thresholds, it’s not because he willed himself—he was being controlled. When he looked at the clock on his nightstand, the numbers were garbled; time had no meaning. It was dark outside, it was light outside, but that’s all. What Avery found most puzzling, though, was the framed photograph on his nightstand—a two-year old Avery sitting on the shoulders of some Jeremiah Johnson. They were in the woods, and the colors were muted and dim except for where they stood, in a patch of light shining down from a recess in the canopy of the trees. Avery had no recollection whatsoever of this man, who looked like he’d rather be scalping the poor boy, not playing with him.

By the end of the third day, vanishing just as quickly as it had arrived, Avery’s obscure perception disappeared. His conscious mind had dominated, leaving his subconscious locked in the heart of a babushka doll.

When he had awoken that morning, Avery’s life had flashed before his eyes, and it was only at this moment, twenty years later, that he remembered what he had forgotten. He could remember the warmth and darkness of his mother’s womb and how much more comforting it was breathing in amniotic fluid instead of air, and the faint red glow of sunshine through his mother’s skin and blood, and the shape of his father’s large hands making shadow puppets against his mother’s stomach, rabbits and dogs and eagles, and then those gentle hands just holding on and trying to reach out to something so intangible yet so real, and the sound of his father’s passionate “I love you” meant for two, and how Avery before he was Avery kicked with excitement and recognition at the sound of his father’s voice, and how he could feel the wave of his mother’s laughter rocking him like an earthquake as she giggled, “He’s kicking! He’s kicking! Feel!” and how he could have stayed like that forever; he remembered how being born was like a VHS tape being ejected from a VCR and how the room was so much colder and brighter than what he was used to; he remembered the first sting of oxygen in his lungs and he remembered his mother’s shrieks of pain turning into happy laughter and then turning into a lullaby, a soft coo like a dove as he heard his name for the first time, Avery, as he wrapped all five of his miniscule fingers around only her index finger, and he remembered the pain of circumcision and his umbilical cord drying and falling off and being able to distinguish orange from red and the first time he laughed and the first time he called for his mother “Hum” and saying his first real word and then being able to string two together and asking questions and understanding more than he could say. And, then, it slowed, and he could remember being tall, sitting on his grandfather’s shoulders with his grandfather’s strong, calloused hands wrapped tightly around his thighs so he wouldn’t fall as they traipsed along John Muir trail, hearing his mother call, “Turn around!”, and the click and shudder of the Polaroid camera capturing the moment, freezing time.

When he was four, Avery had woken up and forgotten everything. His subconscious mind had gone into hiding, but, now, twenty years later, it had all come rushing forth like water thundering from a collapsing dam. An icy and bone-crushing torrent. It smothered his body and drowned his mind and left him in a watery tomb, submerged and forgotten, but still alive.

What if you could cheat death? All of our lives, we are taught to look to the future, but what if that’s all backward? What if the key to the future is tapping into your past? His subconscious had awoken from its dormant state, mingling everything he had forgotten—everything that had been reality—with every fabrication that he had made throughout the years. The borders between reality and imaginary had been erased, and he was no longer Avery who defined his life around perceptions of the past; he had become Avery who had swum to the deepest chasms of the ocean and seen himself reflected in the core of the Earth. He was Avery who had seen God in the love of a mountaineer. He was lucid; he was real. He was his own puppeteer.

“Life is just a memory,” Avery breathed. He snapped open the lid of his Zippo, lit the edge of the photograph, and watched as the ink bled, bubbled, and finally disappeared.

Write Something

I just thought this poster had some pretty good lessons worth sharing.

I'm always looking for helpful hints to improve my writing, the writing process, and my motivation to write, so if you ever find anything that you think is worthwhile, please share it.

:)

Vanilla Milkshake

Our assignment was to write a few paragraphs or the intro to a short story based on some dialogue we overheard. The dialogue that I picked up on was rather simple, but definitely could have been turned into a dirty joke if no one knew the context of the conversation: studying. So, here's the few paragraphs. I'm downright awful with dialogue. I've got to work on that. And I wonder why "dialogue" isn't in my computer's dictionary. It keeps telling me I've spelled it wrong.

Vanilla Milkshake

“Girls that have guys line up for them, and are completely oblivious to it, must have something wrong with them,” I complain to Zahara, who is seated on the bar stool next to mine. I can’t help but think this every time I’m in line at the Bank of America or in the Starbucks drive through. I guess you could say I’m impatient. Whenever I’m left waiting—for anything—I’ll find myself thrumming my fingertips on the closest available surface (right now, the side of my chilled mug of Blue Moon) or absentmindedly picking at the chipping pink polish on my fingernails. It comes naturally, I guess—my impatience. I’m impatient with stutterers and slow drivers; I’m impatient with people who can’t articulate, and boys who line up, and girls who are oblivious.

Like, the other night at dinner. It was me and Zahara and Zahara’s friend Beth. We went out to this new, quirky little corner café with rainbow Christmas lights hanging low from the ceiling and an all-Vegetarian menu (a magnet for deck hipsters) that we’d all been dying to try.

So, we sit down, and we’re about to order when, out of nowhere, Beth says, “Oh, I almost forgot, I invited Rob to dinner.” I don’t know Beth that well, but I know that guys line up for her like the apostles lined up for Jesus (she’s always got some new Matthew, Mark, Luke or John doting on her hand and foot).

Right about then, Rob rolls up in his black pea coat and his maroon corduroys and an expression on his face like he’s a Litebrite or something and Beth just shoved a ton of pegs into him and flicked his switch on. Seriously, this guy is fucking glowing.

So, Rob sits down diagonally from Beth, and you know what the first thing he says is? He says, “Was it better in the library or in the room? In the room, right?” He waits for a cue from Beth, a vigorous nod of her head and a toothy grin, before he continues, “Yeah, I thought so too!”

And now all I can think is, “What the fuck?” I’m trying to fight it, but I can tell that my eyes are shooting daggers at Zahara and she’s trying to keep her panicked expression under control by shrugging it off. But, seriously, all I can think about is how my jealousy is wringing my heart out like a wet sponge and shoving paper towels into my lungs to soak up all the oxygen and how I need to just keep breathing and smiling and keeping my cool or else, I swear to God, I’m going to kill Beth right now.

About then, I shove the straw of my vanilla shake into my mouth, take a quick, heated glance between Rob and Beth, and suck the freezing liquid down my throat.

There is Nothing After This

I've been in a bad mood all week. I don't know what's going on, but it seriously needs to stop. I'm not digging the bad mood thing, especially since I'm typically a pretty cheery person these days, and now that all of my friends have been asking what's up with me, I'm even more determined to get out of this bad mood.

I guess, maybe, I feel lazy. I dropped my Politics of the Underdeveloped World class. I had 18 units and now I have 13. All of my classes were writing based, and I felt like it was way too much. I still have 8 AP units to make up for it. If I disperse all of those, it's like I took 17 units each quarter this year. That's still 51 units by the end of the quarter, which still has me into sophomore standing by 6 units, and I'm definitely going to make up for it next year.

I also haven't been going to the gym. Going to the gym alone really sucks,, but I'm going to have to start doing it again because I feel gross and there is no way that I'll ever be able to convince someone to go with me everytime. I'm going to do Cardio Kickboxing on Monday and Wednesday with Hali (and possibly Chanel?) and Ab Attack on Thursdays. Zumba is also on Tuesday and Thursday, but it starts at 6:30 and that's when I get out of class, but I want to try it out. I haven't gone running in a few days either, which makes me feel bad. I really want to run that course with Aunt Jessica and Indiana this summer. I guess that should be motivation enough to get up and do it. I will. I told myself I was going to run because I love running, and I do! I'm just not motivated at all right now.

Next week is Coachella, and I honestly don't think I'm going. That's fine, but I was really looking forward to it. There are so many bands that I absolutely LOVE there this year, and it's so close. I guess I shouldn't be disappointed. It was never a fershure thing anyway, and now I'm just complaining. On top of this, Good Luck Thrift Store Outfit is playing Strawberry, THE WEEK BEFORE FINALS WEEK. Strawberry last year was one of the best times of my life, and I can't believe I'm going to miss it this year.

I'm missing too much. I hate this place. I don't really, but I'm a Family based person. I'm missing shows and weddings and babies and just hanging out with everyone on the Tea Farm. I miss Pancho and Aaron and Pops and my Moma (and it's going to be even longer until I see her).

I'm homesick, and it's only the beginning of the third week of school. I guess I'm going home for Mary's wedding on the 24th, but that's also a predicament: I don't want Aaron to have to drive down here and pick me up after work, drive back up there, go to Mary's wedding the next day, then drive me back down and himself back up on Sunday. That's about 1600 miles in two days, which is bad on the car and a total waste of time. I've been trying to find cheap plane tickets, but I am having no success in finding one that is cheap enough. I also have no clue of how to search for plane tickets and I haven't been on the phone with Aaron long enough to actually talk about it. It always seems like I'm busy or he's busy or I'm busy or he's busy, back and forth the whole week.

After that, I only have six or seven weeks of first year of college left. It's going to fast. It's like, I wake up, I go to class, I see what everyone's up to, I do my homework, on some days I go to the gym, I do more homework, then I do my own thing. I mean, I love it here. I absolutely love all of my friends and I'm going to miss all of them so much over the summer; it's good almost all of us are from Norcal, so I know that we're probably going to hang out at least once over the summer. I didn't think I would get so close to people. At the beginning of the year, I was so determined to get the hell out of Riverside, and now I would never think of leaving. I love it here. Now that I've been here and I have a solid group of friendies to do anything with, it's great. Sure, there's not that much to do in Riverside and we usually have to make up our own thing to do, but that's what's fun. It makes us more personal.

At the same time, though, I feel like I'm losing touch with all my friends at Home, which CANNOT HAPPEN. I miss them all so much, but our relationships with one another definitely aren't the same. Maybe it's just me. I don't know. I feel like I'm going to have to work pretty damn hard this summer to get to KNOW all of them again, which shouldn't have to happen. Less so with the Tonks to my Remus, which is weird, but most definitely with Sarah. I have barely talked to Sarah all year, which I think about a lot. I've seen and talked to Bethany so much more than I've communicated with Sarah, and she's my oldest friend; she's been like my sister for a long time, and suddenly... I don't know. I know it's going to fine when we both get Home and start hanging out again, but I miss her now. I've missed her for most of the year, and I don't know why we don't talk more. We're both busy people, doing our own thing.

I guess I'm just being a pessimist. I need to get it together. The sun's out! I've been barefoot for two days! My writing is getting better all the time! I have an apartment next year! I have the best roomie EVER next year! I'm getting two hamsters this summer, and Chuck, Hiroko, Mia, and Ana are coming to visit for a month!

It's time for me to get my head straight and my act together. It's time for me to play my guitar in the room even though it's a violation of policy and time for me to go to the gym this afternoon and time for me to eavesdrop on some conversations so that I can write an awesome Creative Writing piece for tomorrow. It's time for me to call Aaron and Moma and my Grandpa. It's time for me to write Papou a letter and Bon Farley a postcard. It's time for me to be myself again.

This whole bummed-out Heaven thing is not going down anymore.

Zombie Leftovers: For Jessica DeTomasi

This is the first piece I've written for my Creative Writing: Intro to Fiction class. I plan on making it a full-on short story eventually. I guess you're just going to have to deal with the foul language from now on.

Madison Valencia carried a shotgun. She carried a machete. She carried a sewing kit, a scalpel, a blue moon tattoo on her wrist, and two-hundred-sixty-five-home-made-third-degree-burn skin grafts across her body. She carried her father's last name and, after the incident, it had become who she was. After Madison Square Garden burned, she ditched the first name; after she had come home one afternoon to find her gray, deteriorating father smothered in blood and advancing on her from the sunlight filled kitchen; after she had loaded a round into the barrel of the shotgun and feebly stuttered, "I-I-I'm doing th-this bec-c-cause I-I-I-I-I love you," ; after she had blown his fucking brains out. That was when the outbreak had turned into an epidemic. And because of globalization-because of the Internet and airports and fast food restaurants, because of oppression and censorship and because the government could never quite wrap their heads around the fact that Reaganomics screwed the working class-the epidemic had turned into the apocalypse. So, Valencia: Valencia was all she had left, the identity she struggled to maintain, the childhood memories she desperately clung to-but after a teenage daughter has to blast the mindless gourd off of her own father's decayed body, it's not so much about reflection anymore than it is about survival.

Valencia stood poised on the hill watching the city burn below. The skyscrapers engulfed in flames stretching toward the red and black sky, ash rain falling all around her like leaves in autumn or flower petals at a wedding-this was Hell, and it was beautiful. She fingered the matchbook in the pocket of her leather jacket. This was her doing. This was the world now: fire and murder and constant movement-collaborating with fellow survivalists in urban regions and travelling alone through sparsely populated lands. New York had burned; Chicago had burned; D.C. and New Orleans and San Francisco. Every major city was a now crematorium. She carried the weight of thousands of tons of bricks and concrete and shattered glass and the dead and dying dreams of a young idealist. She carried a sketchpad, drawing pencils, crumpled song lyrics, headphones. She did not carry an iPod. The crackles and pops of the dying embers of a city reduced to ash and rubble were her lullaby.

In Seattle, she had stolen a leather-bound copy of the Necronomicon from the public library before she had torched it. She kept it in her backpack. On cold nights, she would take it out and thumb through the pages and look at the India ink script on the thin, yellowing pages. She carried the words, but she never read them- Lovecraft's fantasy was nothing like reality. At the same time, it was everything. Corpses reanimated. She carried the incantations, but she had lost her imagination. There was no magic left in the world. There was no magic; there was just a virus and a lot of people got sick and before she knew it she was alone and there were zombies everywhere. There were fucking zombies everywhere. She carried the virus exceptionally close. She collected tattoos. It was dangerous. It was stupid. For every zombie that had come close to killing her, she checked for tattoos. First was her father's. After his brain had been successfully destroyed, she carved the Celtic cross from his arm with her scalpel and stitched it over her heart. She was no surgeon. She gagged at the sight of blood. Her first patchwork-her father's cross-grew infected. It oozed pus. If she moved wrong, the skin would tear and bleed. Her skin around it had begun to gray. The virus was slowing eating through her flesh from the outside in. After she learned about cremation, after she had burned her first town-her hometown-she thrust the blade of her machete into the flames, allowed the metal to glow white-hot, then held the burning steel to her infected wound, cauterizing it. Over the past two years, of the thousands of zombies that she had destroyed, she had collected two-hundred-sixty-five tattoos, but her father's was her favorite. She was her own Necronomicon, bound in human skin and inked in blood. She carried the natural cycle of life and death externally, but she carried oxygen in her lungs and blood in her veins and perseverance in her spirit. She left destruction behind her.

But destruction meant survival. Survival meant life. Her father had once told her to cherish life, for life is beautiful. These were only threads that Valencia could knot together anymore, the only understanding that kept her human: if life is beautiful, then destruction must be equally as beautiful. She turned her back to the blazing city and walked away. She did not look back.