The Phantasmal Library {poetry and short stories}

[Ganyu]

{ the phantasmal library }
a collection of poetry and short stories written by a phantom

You take a quiet step forward albeit hesitant, but the temptation surrounds you and piques your curiosity. Shelves after shelves, as high as the ceiling, filled with literary treasure troves. You find a title pleasing to your tastes, and make yourself comfortable among the deep enveloping velvet of armchairs and recliners. Light flickers from spectral lampshades like kaleidoscopes, but they are warm and gentle on a reader's eyes. The hands crawl past midnight, slowly counting the hours to first light and last read. You waste no time, as you immerse yourself in this dimension where fantasy and reality blur into one.

Greetings! I'll cut to the chase, since I suppose you're here to read and not listen to a ghost's ramblings. To set the context straight, this is where I'll post all my writings from poetry to short stories, to drabbles and vignettes, to simply whatever I think constitutes as "writing". :3 It could be an excerpt to a novel project, or a prologue of sorts. Anything. All my works are as I've said before, open to interpretation and any feedback/critique on them is immensely appreciated~

{ catalogue }

{poetry}
Swan Song
Banshee
Chicken Soup
A Fairytale For Her
Stray Sheep
Checkmate
Language of the Heart
Dead Awake
Black Swan
If Life was Photoshop
A Bird's Tweets
Goodbye Daughter
Underwater
Occult Sales
Storms
A Lifelong Lesson

{short stories}
Old Chateau

{miscellaneous}

[Ganyu]

Swan Song
I am not like the peacock with a wealthy plume,
or flashes hanging on me for form.
I am not like those high-fliers, the eagle, the condor,
destined to carry a crown into the clouds.

I'm not a canary who fills the breeze with euphoria.
Neither am I a dove, so peaceful and pure,
Her feathers in and out are unruffled,
but I am a shell with many cracks.

I am not an owl who studies problems -
a turn of the eyes and they come full circle.
Even the lowly crows and other ground-peckers
walk with grander loftier thoughts than mine.

I am the black cygnet, cast aside in a pond
with only moisture and flies for company.
Among the reeds and floating moss,
I'm the rotten egg, the foul fowl.
A portrait of nature's grief and misery.

I want the canary's voice and peacock's beauty,
so that many will behold me in their gaze
I want the dove's grace and owl's insight,
so many will follow me as my flock.

Then, maybe, the sky and wind can finally accept me.

Author's Note: This was the first (and probably the last?) confessional poem I've ever written, and it was quite a challenge given that I didn't really like writing about myself. I guess I was inspired by Plath as well as watching poetry slams on Youtube. I shan't say what I was thinking while penning this poem; it's up to you to interpret and maybe you'll learn something new about me?

[Nagisa]

That was a really cool poem! I really liked reading it. My only criticism is that when you say "I'm a shell with many cracks", I think it would sound better as "I am"?

[Ganyu]

That was a really cool poem! I really liked reading it. My only criticism is that when you say "I'm a shell with many cracks", I think it would sound better as "I am"?

Indeed it does. That contraction was laziness on my part. Thanks for the comments and I'm glad that you enjoyed reading~

[Ganyu]

Banshee
Like the buzzing of mosquitoes,
nails crying against a board,
some shrill untamed throat
twists the arms of ears
In a chapel service.
In a cafe. In a mall.
In a crowded train.

Bodies squirm,
hiding discomfort between rigid lips,
feigning ignorance to
the riddle in the air, its origins
neither angel nor demon knows.

The closest to the call
watches over the conundrum
that veils truth
in its discordance.
Mature minds struggle to grasp,
like tiny fingers in curious stretching.

In arm-locked cradles and pushed perambulators,
In midnight cots and afternoon naps,
In springtime park walks and urban rush hours,
Life demands to be heard - its enigmatic song.

Author's Note: The subject matter should be obvious. In actuality, I dislike crying babies. It's odd how I wrote this poem.

[Ganyu]

Old Chateau

We thought it was empty until we stepped inside.

Shivering cold, with hearts in our mouths. We stood at the door, hearts throbbing and full of young blood and adrenaline, with the wind howling in our ears, as if daring us forward.

The doors ominously creaked shut, enveloping us in darkness. Someone fumbled around in their pockets and soon, a bright line was cast, and although we were hesitant of what we might fish, our bold brainless feet led the way.

What seemed to be a vacant dilapidated house, was filled with remnants of past lives. The light flickered over two gargoyle-esque statues, guarding the dining hall. Lifeless granite beads eyed us like a sleeping Cerberus, as we slowly shied away. Old wooden boards made hollow groans as we climbed up the stairs. Our shadows spilled out into the dusty hallway. Up here, the air was stale and still, as though time was frozen and feared moving. We shuffled past a portrait of a man hung on the wall, the light nearly going out as its bearer lost his grip for a moment, upon seeing the blank eye sockets.

We reached the end of the hallway, stopping before a door with a rusted knob. It was locked. Someone pressed their body against the peeling wood, before aged wood gave way to young lean muscles. The door opened up to a metallic rung of stairs leading up...

To the attic. Boxes of junk, wrapped in cobwebs filled it to the brim. As we dispersed to explore its treasures, someone found a radio and switched it on.

"Bringing to you, the one and only..." The obsolete gadget crackled to life.

"Hey, shut it off!" I whispered in fear of getting found out, to whoever it was. However my companions only stared at me in shock. A cold lump hardened in my throat as I slowly turned to look at the radio, sitting on top of a box, untouched.

The static-filled voices slowly transitioned into classical music, organs and strings echoing throughout the attic. We stared at it in muted horror. Then, an old television set in a neglected corner, flashed to life, screen depicting moving black-and-white characters.

There was a thud as someone's head met the wooden floorboards.

Instinctively we all rushed towards the stairs. An old light bulb burst into a shower of glass over us. The first person clambered down the rusted rungs, only to find that the door would not budge.

The television set grew louder and louder, as my friends screamed and fell away into shadows. One by one. Until I was the only one left, in the dark.

Author's Note: Inspired by a prompt (which was the first line). This was supposed to be a Halloween writing contest entry but I thought against entering. Besides, I always feel obliged to write some Halloween fanfiction every year so it was a good excuse for me to write hehe. If you're wondering why it's so short, there was a word cap of 500; this is a vignette in a sense. :s

[Ganyu]

Chicken Soup
I always wondered what of chicken soup
made it so appealing to people?
How could chicken broth -
conjured out of water and grain,
manufactured in sachets
and frozen in time by silicon -
make someone feel full?

Could it be that it was made with
hands tender and warm, that
carefully poised the kettle's snout
and pour their hearts into a little cup
of someone's soul, waiting to be warmed?

But what good is a sip
when it only turns ice into snow;
when there's abundant heat out there,
to be hunted, caught, and made into soup.
Idle blades weigh themselves
with rust from lack of want,
sleeping deep within their sheath,
like a coffin in soil's underneath.

Pages can feed you tales that enrich your soul,
but like the ink on old parchment, memories fade.
Breathe life into those words and feel your lungs move,
you will see a life writ out of a novel,
the greatest ever.
By yours truly,
the bold dreamer.

Author's Note: As the name suggests, I wrote this poem as a commentary on the book series "Chicken Soup for the Soul". I'm not really a fan of self-help books but while I don't condone reading it, I think people shouldn't be over-reliant on such books. It's good that words can heal but reading is as good as not acting which is just not 100% helpful. Maybe 50? But that's it really.

[Suicune's Fire]

Cool poems. :] I've quite enjoyed them so far. I still have yet to read the two most recent (one being a story and not a poem), but I'll get to them shortly. Ahahah, the Banshee one being about babies. I dislike crying babies too. o.o It's hard to deal with. The only thing I'd change with that is getting rid of the comma after "call" in the third stanza.

You have a cool writing style! ^v^

[Ganyu]

Cool poems. :] I've quite enjoyed them so far. I still have yet to read the two most recent (one being a story and not a poem), but I'll get to them shortly. Ahahah, the Banshee one being about babies. I dislike crying babies too. o.o It's hard to deal with. The only thing I'd change with that is getting rid of the comma after "call" in the third stanza.

You have a cool writing style! ^v^

Thanks! The title Banshee was an intentional irony XD Aaaaand I've no idea how the comma got there lol it does makes things look weird.

Thanks for taking the time to read~

[Suicune's Fire]

Haha, nice. They are like banshees sometimes. xD Omg. On planes it's the worst. x__x You know you'll be stuck with it for the rest of the flight.

No worries! (P.S. This marks my 40th post for the day, which is a little surprising... xD)