Nika Harper's Blog, page 17

I got better

wilwheaton:

BLOG: I got better.

“Is everything okay?” Anne asked me. She sat at our counter, and I stood on the other side, next to the microwave, watching my bowl of soup slowly turn around inside it.”

“No, it’s not,” I said, “I’m having a terrible day, and I know it’s because my brain…

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Yep. I find, more and more, that the people I love operate this way, and it makes me feel less alone for feeling it too.

Frights and Night Lights

“Goodnight,” Steph said to herself, even though there was nobody in particular to say it to.

It was part of the ritual, the one her mother would play out every night, comforting her with words before bed. The tone of her voice was like warm cocoa, like being dunked in a thick cloud of love and no matter how many times Steph whined about the dark, her mom would always be at the door to reassure her.
“No, there’s nothing there. You woke up this morning, see?”
“Yes, I’ll leave the light in the hallway on for you.”
“There isn’t any room in the closet or under the bed! Where would anything hide?”
“The dark is scary because your imagination fills in what you can’t see.”
The shadows unfurled in the corner of her vision, but as she was told… It was alright. Even waking up in the night to a chill and dancing shapes on the wall, she was safe because of the night light and because her mom told her so. She watched the shadows gamboling and reassured herself that it was imaginary. At least in the light she could see where the shadows were. In the dark… they could be anywhere. Eventually, the night light was retired and she was old enough to claim there was no fear.
But as her hand went to the switch of her light at night, she couldn’t suppress a shudder. Things that shouldn’t be there made themselves known.
Then just darkness and apprehension.

It was okay though, really. She had gotten used to her fear of the unknown, for the most part. Occasionally there would be a mad dash for the switch in a dark room, or a late-night brightening as she flooded her room with lamplight… It was only her own imagination she was afraid of. She repeated this to self time and time again.
The shadows on the walls were just her own anxiety. The strange moving figures were her own creation as she drifted off to sleep, memories of staring at the night light for signs of disturbance.
Her throat would close and she would gasp for air, her toes got cold like she was being carried away to somewhere else, and she could wake herself and remember, it was just dreams. The shadows would get her in her dreams, but dreams were something she could control.
It was all foolishness. She was nearly thirty now, and no longer needed a night light in her room…. or at least would not allow herself the comfort. A grown woman would not need such things, she told herself, yet on nights when she was the most tired or sometimes a bit drunk, she would call her mother just to hear her say “I love you, goodnight.”
Then the light would turn off, and she was okay again. Those magical words, “Good Night.”

She said it to a dimly-lit room by herself as a ward for any imaginary happenings. It worked, unless it occasionally didn’t. Those weren’t common. Twice a month at most.

Tonight, she was worn out, her day had been full and satisfying, she could think of nothing more pleasant than resting her head on her pillow as her hand extended towards the lamp. The shadow dashed across the wall, claw-like and quick, and she snapped her hand back by instinct. Lamps did that, their localized brightness did more to create shade than it did to repel. It was prime time for her mind to start playing tricks and for little fears to creep in the cracks.
The room was messier than she liked, a swamp of dirty laundry led to the bathroom. For a week she had been too busy to do anything but collapse into her bed every night, and it was becoming a cause of stress. The dishes were unwashed, her desk was disorganized and the floor of her bedroom was becoming a graveyard of discarded objects from the day. Clothing, receipts, packets of documents that had been useful for only a matter of hours, they littered the carpet with abandon. They also cast shadows.
There was more than she expected, little flickering nothings that danced in the folds of her wardrobe, that seemed to peek out from the upended trash bin spilling its papery contents to the floor. The light was steady but her eyesight made the room move.
Foolish.

Reaching out her hand one more time made Steph recoil again, clutching her fist to her chest and freezing in surprise.
The shadow from the light should have moved from the left.
Instead it was on the right. The wall was a few inches from the lamp itself, a barrier that adjoined her table and bed. It was so close, and it was absolutely wrong.
Her hand had been on the other side of the light source, nothing should have moved on the wall at all. Mentally, Steph reminded herself that it was two in the morning and that her mother would not pick up even if she called. This was not an emergency, she did not want her mom to get too upset unless it was a matter of real importance. Night terrors did not qualify. There was a limit to how much Steph could call on her mom to solve her problems, and this wasn’t a check she wanted to cash just yet.
Maybe she could read a magazine? But her eyes were drooping and she succumbed to the thought of rest, the dim lamp staying lit like a beacon for hope and good wishes.

A gasp and a choke awoke her. She clutched at her throat and chest, shooting upright in the bed and sucking in air. Her throat hurt like it had been compressed and she removed her fingers from her neck, noting that her own terror was probably the cause. Did other people have this sort of thing to look forward to? Did they dream, did they fear and wake up in the night and grow afraid of their own imaginings? Steph pouted. Her toes were cold, the autumn season was rolling in and the temperature fluctuated like the affections of a teenager. She wrestled around with a blanket, folding it over twice to cover her feet. The lamp was still on, unfazed by her throttling. She tried to breathe deeply.
One, two.
One, two.
The light could stay on. What’s the worst that could happen?
One and two.

The pain was enormous in her shoulder as she hit the ground, her head landing next and nearly knocking her silly. Nothing made sense, the ceiling wasn’t where it should have been, it all felt far away.
She was on the floor, cushioned somewhat by scattered clothing. The room spun as she dragged her legs from the bed, sitting up in surprise. Had she REALLY flung herself from the bed? Did she really need this right now? Hard work, and satisfaction, a new crush at her work and in a world when things felt like they were going great she just decided to sabotage herself with bad dreams and night flailings.
Steph started to cry. Her arms wrapped around her knees, already reacting to the biting cold as her toes wiggled for warmth. She had thrown off the blanket and flung herself sideways in the bed, like dropping the gauntlet in the war against sleeping patterns.
Don’t need it don’t need it don’t want it.
She was just so damn tired. Her tears made the shadows waver like a kaleidoscope, and she felt colder just thinking of it. She closed her eyes, crawling back under the bedsheets and rubbing her chilled toes in her hands. The clock said nearly four a.m. and she shed a few more tears for that, letting the darkness of the room wiggle in its delight.
Maybe the lamp was affecting her somehow, upsetting her subconscious and not letting it rest, but as her hand reached towards the switch she remembered the reflective shadow and decided to chance it once more.
Actually a bathroom break wouldn’t be that bad.

She held warm tap water to her face, washing away the salty residue of tears. Her feet were near freezing now, she dug out a pair of socks from the hamper in the bathroom and calmed herself in the comfort of the bright lights. If all else fails, she could call in to work with a migraine, but her work was so important and he would be there, they had a meeting tomorrow, he was going to…
Maybe that’s why she was so stressed. Digging in her medicine cabinet, she found a gloppy bottle of nighttime medicine and took a dose. Relax, let the chemicals do what chemicals want.

She doubled the blanket over on her feet, left the light on again, and settled down with the lingering taste of licorice medicine in her mouth.
It was windy and the room sounded like whispers.


She awoke before she hit the ground, kicking out at the coldness like icy little bites in the tingle of poor circulation. She felt nothing but needle-like pain in her leg and trying to stand resulted in flopping painfully to the ground once more.
The socks were missing.
The window was open.
The bedside lamp was still on. Steph lunged for the lightswitch in her room, stumbling on tangles of clothing and impaired feet. She was still half asleep, her body drunk on exhaustion, shadows swam around her vision and crept over the walls as she walked further from the light. The little figures danced and hopped, tiny devils with thin arms made of nothing but imaginations and fear. They weren’t real, the window wasn’t open, she was dreaming and cold and the medicine was a bad idea. The ceiling lamp turned on, flooding the room with a warm yellow glow and she rested against the wall underneath it, tilting her head back and driving away the little demons that plagued her.
Steph made up her mind to go to a doctor.
Especially when she noticed her foot was covered in tiny red scratches. She froze, her breath catching in her throat.
It must have been her own panic or her other foot rubbing the socks off in her nightmare. She closed her eyes and ticked away the seconds until her breathing normalized and her legs felt like legs again. One breath, two breaths, a few more…
Her head lolled sideways onto her shoulder, her hair swishing to cast a shadow on the wall behind her and she shot upright, panting again.
On her shoulder. It had been there again too.
No, thats absurdity, that’s crazy talk, that’s a panic attack that’s what it is.
The lights were on, the room was warm and bright, except the parts that were under something else.
Little spiked heads peeked out from under the chairs. Tiny arms grasped the laundry and waited for her.
Sharp clawed hands poked at the undersides of her feet, hiding from the light in the pockets of shade they created.
Steph was losing her mind. She turned on other lights she found, a string of christmas lights she had been to lazy to take down, a night light she jammed ineffectually into an outlet that refused to turn on until the sensor said it was dark enough. She stood upright directly under the ceiling light, watching the chairs and tables shift subtly with the restless movement of tiny bodies.
Call the emergency line, she told herself, but all she could think about was her mother. The window was open and her blanket hung half out. Was she forcing herself out? Was she… being dragged…?

It was quiet, too early for anything to be awake. The latest of late and earliest of mornings had created a vacancy, a dead zone where nobody would notice if… the shadows were coming for you.
She kicked a sweater towards the door and watched something skitter to nearby safety. Then she didn’t touch the furniture anymore.

At least in the light, you could see where the shadows were. The more lights she turned on the darker and deeper they got. Those twiddly little arms turned to thick dark limbs from a stray pencil or power cord. They stayed and waited, moving only when she turned her head to survey another.
The light made them stronger, defined, patient. Dark shapes crept from under low chairs, peeked out their heads and whispered.

Maybe it would be morning soon. It was only a few hours away.
How long could she stand?
Could they live in the dark?
If light defined them, then what would darkness be?
Steph watched a skittering shadow move from one abandoned pair of trousers to another. Then she reached and turned off the overhead light.
A dull hiss spread about the room, and tiny arms could be seen creeping over the bookshelves and buckled shoes. Thin little trails of bodies, insect-like appendages that never quite reached the light. They shuffled and waited and rejoiced.

Steph grabbed a hold of the cord and pulled the night table lamp from the wall. The room was black, the whispering dropping sharply from a hiss to a hum.
How many ants can carry a body? How many dust mites can move a mountain?
Her eyes flashed the memory of light and shapes in front of her.

She stood up straight in the dead center of the room, and waited until morning.

***

This was inspired and created for 13days13shorts as a lead up to Halloween! Led by my friend Omar, it’s a great opportunity to read, watch and experience fun themed spo0o0o0oky content to get you in that Halloween mood… check it out!

Structure Lullabies

Out on the cusp of a normal daydream
The trees and the mosses are not what they seem
For I have explored them, enticed by a gleam

Rocks underfoot they did clatter and crack
Driving me forward to never look back
As low-hanging branches scraped over my pack

It wasn’t so quiet, it felt quite alive
The sounds of the forest so low and sublime
I wordlessly wondered the passage of time

My footfalls were softer and sank into green
Mosses obscuring much of the terrain
I noticed my energy starting to wane

Letting my pack drop from over my arm
And settling down to the forest’s sweet charm
Nothing around me could cause any harm

My hands brushed the roots of a comforting tree
A subtle sound snapping came from beneath me
I dug in my hands to see what it could be

Lo, was a structure so balanced and fine
An organization of nature and wine
Roots curling together in intricate vine

Symmetry, elegance, brittle in hand!
I cursed myself over disturbing this land
Which made human beauty feel ever so bland

I reached back my hand, though upsetting the mound
The hollowed weave structure becoming unbound
Nothing prepared me for what I then found

O viscera, organ, o bodies at play
The middle of root and thorn, there a heart lay
Before life and color had been whisked away

The structure took on a more sinister glow
I noticed the vines were the pattern of bone
Crown to the spine to the smallest of toe

A fairy or demon or piteous love
Which came to rest as this tree towered above
And dream the same dreams we are most afraid of

I lurched into standing and hoisted my load
Longing for comfort left in my abode
To wash away nightmares I found on the road

The forest sang quietly, whispers of mood
Though I considered my conscience quite shrewd
I could never rest amongst hearts worn so nude

Under the trees I did look for relief
Noticing something beyond my belief
That rested so, under each crisp, fallen leaf

It was not just one but a forest of hearts
Each reaching tree was concealing its parts
A terrible slumber that oozed with dark arts

I fled for the opening, long did I run
Looking for bodies, disturbing not one
Fighting the sleep that would have me undone

The edges were fading, the moss a great blur
Yet nothing else in there was causing a stir
But how many slumbering bodies there were!

Bleak thoughts and darkness did swirl through my head
I faltered and fell to my knees, nearly dead
Wondering which tree would be my deathbed

I rested atop an inhabited rise
Feeling the bones and the mossy insides
I thought for a moment, I must close my eyes

Shriveled and weak and upsetting was this
Watching my life disappear with a hiss
And sighted a body decayed and remiss

The dark little heart, it yet only remained
Parted from heartstrings stretched lifeless and sprained
As yearning to meet with the heart they had pained

Slowly and sadly, I let forth a tear
That fell through the cracked ribs and then it fell near
Hitting the heart with a smoke and a sear

Was this a dream or a thought of my mind?
I watched the heart slowly expand in the brine
And lock itself to the strings in a tight bind

The bones fell beneath me to ashes and dust
The mossy green floor trying hard to adjust
A structure that fell, and had once been a bust

I fixed it, I saw it, I praised to the sky
That tears would be freeing these souls of their cry
And live greater futures than ever could I

I had no more tears to deliver to souls
But maybe some others would learn of their roles
And rob ensnared corpses from futures in holes

I dragged myself bodily out of the woods
Back towards the explorers who turned up their hoods
Declining to share with me much of their goods

Something had happened when I was away
Or maybe they knew and they just could not say
The price that my sorrow and tears had to pay

At last I was home and was laying in my bed
Remembering bones and the hearts of the dead
That vision would never erase from my head.

This is a poem written with the theme of Magic, with the prompts “exquisite decomposition,” “lullaby forest” and “cut and restored heartstrings” for the creative writing vlog, Wordplay #12.

Probably the funniest video I will ever have on my channel....

Probably the funniest video I will ever have on my channel. Watch The Stanley Parable demo, then buy the game. Buy it. With the moneys.

Notes from an interview - 2

6.) What has been the toughest criticism given to you as an author? What has been the best compliment?

The negative comments often come from people who just want to cut me down or make me feel bad, and very rarely does it actually have weight. Recently someone told me (in a surprisingly erudite manner) that I was foolish to leave Riot because he had seen my writing and it was nothing that any critic would enjoy. Fanboys would read it and nobody else.

I found this baseless for two reasons… One, because he was commenting on an episode of the Summoner Showcase which was a show I have owned, written and created for two years and he appeared to be a fan, and two because worrying about what critics think is fucking bullshit. People seem to dig it, and sometimes they reach out and tell me, and that’s worth it. That’s art, people. Make it because you want to, share it because you can, and if a handful of other people enjoy it then your work is successful. I’m lucky enough to have people reblog and read my stuff sometimes, and I’m lucky enough to have people ask me my opinions for their university classes, and I don’t care if I can’t pay my rent on this. I’ll do it anyway. That’s what passion is.

Give me a desert island, a good amount of food and perhaps some sunblock, and I’ll carve story ideas into every palm tree I pass.

As for the most complimentary thing, it’s usually small. My friend, a long time ago, the only person who seemed interested in reading my stuff, told me “Keep writing so I can keep reading it.”
I cried.

(http://ThisIsNika.com/)

Notes from an interview - 1

10.) What’s your best advice for aspiring writers?

Stop aspiring and just write. It doesn’t require anything, anyone, or any reason. It doesn’t need a direction or a purpose or a plan, it doesn’t need skill and you sure as hell don’t need many tools. Writers write because they have to, because a part of them dies inside if they don’t. They spatter words on a page like a hasty bloodletting. It doesn’t matter if that work goes anywhere. Don’t worry about success or marketability or skill or anything.

Just do it because it feels right. The rest can slide into place once you start charging forward, pen in hand or keyboard at your fingertips.

Write first, worry about it later.

Seriously, gin helps for the latter.

(http://thisisnika.com/)

An email to my family.

"The future is bright and I’m finally feeling strong again. 

I’m sorry, I got more tattoos too. I think you guys love me anyway, but I’ll wear long sleeves so it’s not upsetting. I’m only good at being me. I also got the Stubborn-Pain-In-The-Ass Harper trait so, you know, you can thank genetics for that.”

On The Breeze : Wordplay #11

Her hair became white and puffy, a shock from the golden spray that it used to be. She had seen it happen before but never really believed that it could happen to her. It was all too soon.

It meant the end. Nature and time were telling her that memories of her would drift off into the breeze as her body breaks down and wilts. She had seen that too. It seemed so sudden, she had never really appreciated how short lives in this world could be. She knew things here and there, she thought herself smart. She had read books and orated aloud, and her penmanship was perfect.

Outside of the classroom, things were supposed to have that same logic. Nothing could really hurt you, could it?

She considered the idea that it was a new skill, a new sort of lesson that she could triumph over and have forever. It must have been a challenge of some kind. The world is not cruel, it just needs someone clever to win it. Waving herself, she often attempted to communicate, but for all it was worth she may very well have been alone. No signs of life, true sentience from anything around her.
Sometimes she thought, just maybe, she could hear someone else.

The garden next door had been too interesting to resist. High walled and private, where the others’ interest dwindled after peering over the side, she was the only one brave enough to say “I’m going inside.”

Now everything was quiet and there were no more giggles. A stray breeze played up on her hair, taking a few starlike strands with it, drifting them beyond sight. Her memories, perhaps. She already had less of them to count on. Her youth, scraped knees and torn stockings, a gate nearly rusted shut…
A hoarse voice that had called out “Meddlers!” and the rest was a jumble of syllables she hadn’t known. Then she felt very small.

Small she had stayed. It became dark and cold, then warm and quiet, and it happened so many times as she tried to lift herself up, or move herself as she pleased. She was stuck so deeply. Her hair stood on white ends and took flight on the brave wind… Come back, she called to them, if she knew what words were.

She felt the shadow the same time as the trembling of the earth, rhythmic and determined. Wiry fingers grasped and pinched her, hot as flame against her body, and began stretching her upwards. She would scream but she never learned how. Roots clung selfishly to her, unminding of her pain and inevitable loss. They groaned, a sound she wished could escape her, before a rustle and snap… There was fluid, somewhere, and coldness where part of herself should have been. Her fine frame crinkled in the pressure of dirty hands, her broken skin darkening as the world seemed to darken around her. A sour breath gusted her face. Memories that clung to her scalp fled into the air, tumbling to safety or the comforting destination of obscurity.
She felt the other precious hairs ripped out.
Lank and oozing, she lay in the rough hand and wondered what she had learned.

They speak of curiosity killing the cat, but they mention nothing of little girls.

A story with a death scene based on “a rusty gate” and “what are you doing in my garden?” for the creative writing vlog, Wordplay.

Bloom

There’s that certain smell of tangy liniment and sterile tools. You might find it in a medical building, but here it smelled so different. She still wasn’t used to it, that foreign scent that accompanied her, edged with the feeling of plastic wrap, the rawness of her skin, the slight hint of blood. Maybe it was the smell of permanence. The alien scent of forever.

The gun buzzed close to her ear, unearthing goosebumps all over her arm. The artist was talking but she never quite listened. This wasn’t easy for her. She didn’t want to make small talk. Slowly, hands stretched the skin on her shoulder, and the first ripples of ink pricked into her body.

This was what therapy felt like. This was what would make the dreams go away. She closed her eyes and settled into that trance, with the evil stinging buzz gnawing away at her skin, roughly handled by gloved hands to push the drips away. She felt the pain badly each time, but it didn’t feel as bad as how she felt in her heart.

There he was, in her mind again. In her dreams again. His face was solemn and hopeful, she imagined it that way. When he came to see her, he had a little smile like he was proud of himself, like he was happy to see her. Clutched in his hands without yet offering was a bouquet of white and pink lilies, longer stemmed than she could imagine them to be, bigger and more bountiful than she could recall ever seeing them. He held them as a cushion to his smile. He had not been practiced at apologies.

It wasn’t anything that needed the flowers. He had been overdoing it all along. They had been upset with one another over some triviality, some silly comment or the offbeat way it was said. Phones could be such unreliable devices in matters of the heart. She had cried, but did not need to, indeed her eyes were drying by the minute and she considered calling back. She waited at the phone. She heard an ambulance go by and thought little of it. The call she got was not the one she was expecting.

“How are you feeling?” asked the artist, quieting the gun for a moment as he adjusted his position. She opened her eyes to look at him, shrugged, and closed them again. Maybe if I felt fine, she thought, I wouldn’t be getting this tattoo.

His car was outside and surrounded. The phone call might still have been connected as she ran towards the edge of the street, not wanting to stop for traffic or anyone holding out their hands. That was his car, the white grill crumpled inward so deeply it looked only half its original size. White coats were everywhere, and she could already see the blood. He was being loaded onto a bed, but with a sheet over his face. It was over. The door was wrenched off the side, giving a clear view of splattered blood and a long bouquet of lilies.

The ones that he held to himself every night when he visited. He would look at her, those patient loving eyes, full of playful apologies and she would look back to him without saying a word. Eventually he would open his mouth to speak. His expression never changed as no words escaped, but blood poured a river down his chin and body.

She would gasp herself awake, choking on sobs. She liked to think she had been asleep. She was afraid she might not have been at all.

Her knuckles were raw. Her forearm was raw. It had been a few weeks in between, but only just enough to start the process of discomfort all over again with the sticky scabs and gooey flakes of skin peeling off under her touch. The color was halfway applied, the stems and brilliant paper aching from her fingers to her elbow to meet up with a new abrasive portion of greys, whites, delicate pinks digging into her shoulder. The blossoms wrapped her arm, all the way up and falling across her chest. Her right side was less human than bouquet. It had attracted much attention.

“Disgusting,” she had overheard, comments here and there. A smirk with a low “Regrets much?” occasionally passed her way, as though this arm was twenty hours, thousands of dollars and a permanent mark that she had undergone just for shallow fashion. As though she had not given it proper thought. There were mountains of praise, but she heard them just as little. The work was very beautiful, but it was penance.

The bundle of needles crossed her shoulder, scraping across the bone underneath. She squinted her eyes, never quite used to the sensation even after so many sessions. She had started the day after he died, her pure unmarked skin becoming a map of her experience. Weeks later, this would be the last.

People asked her what her tattoo meant. She wouldn’t answer, if she knew at all. Every night and even in the day she saw his eyes, his flowing mouth, his flowers. It was a joke, really. It was to prove that something in her life could be permanent.

A short for my creative writing show, Wordplay. See the show at ThisIsWordplay.com.

This Is Nika's Tumblr: #GoodbyeBreakingBad

This Is Nika's Tumblr: #GoodbyeBreakingBad:

nikaharper:

I’ve never seen an episode of Breaking Bad… I watched the #GoodbyeBreakingBad tag on Twitter to piece together what I think the last episode was about.

Br Ba

[Explanations]

I have no idea if this is accurate, and I rather liked the detective work of telling a story based on offhanded things people talked about. I made a story based on a series of in-jokes. The most I’d seen was imgur gifs and five minutes at the start of a recent episode, these are all just names to me. I googled Jesse’s name (I thought he was Todd…?) and I looked up what the hell Heisenberg was but it turns out it’s just Walter I guess?

And I still don’t know if Marie or Skylar is Walt’s wife. Presumably he has one.

 

It is a super rough draft (I noticed I changed tenses a few times, and there might be typos… YAY!)