The Strange Day

My Halloween gift to all of you (I will be posting microfiction/flash fiction horror pieces all weekend):

The sunlight slanting in through the window, lingered on a bowl of fruit as the day came to a close. This was the last of light which became a treasure to the people, who were frightened, as the end was near. She scurried grabbing her rifle from the shed outside, as the grumbling sounds of the walking dead could be heard in the distance. What started as a peaceful day, ended being the last harmony to be felt to the remaining survivors of the zombie outbreak. The Aztecs prophesied this day would come, that the skeleton people would be the end of human civilization and today was that day.

The kitchen was still sanctimonious, a sacred space, and, Himalayan salt was no longer going to work against these monstrosities. The only hope was this shotgun she had purchased hesitantly months prior. She thought of gratitude for preparing herself by taking shooting lessons. She was not going to become a meal to those flesh eaters. A hideous sound came from the front door, and, she sprinted to the mahogany archway, trying to remember if it was locked.

The sound of bones slamming against the doorway was sonic, and echoed throughout the house. With the rifle in her hand, the young woman opened the door. In front of her was a rotting corpse with hemoglobin parchments drooling off of his chin. She raised her shotgun, and said “not today” as she pulled the trigger releasing a blast through the skull of the dead man.

~Celena StarVela

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Heat Wave

Admittedly, I have been procrastinating on my outline/NaNoWriMo prep this year but I plan to spend some time this weekend and Monday and Tuesday finishing out the scene-by-scene parts of the outline. I plan on using OneNote to keep track of all of the chapters. It seems like the best program that I own for this novel writing project; as, I cannot pay for Scrivener at the moment. In San Diego, there has been a heat wave this week, so here’s a little poem/microfiction of how it makes me feel:

As the heat burns through my flesh
There’s no escape
My nostrils catch fire
As I continue to breathe in the flames
Hoping the flames will ignite my desires
But instead they leave me lethargic
Parched for water
Crawling on the pavement
Reaching out for help
No Escape. Just humidity.
Santa Ana winds hit my hometown
In a fury and leave me with swollen eyes
And sleepless nights
Drenched in sweat
Dreaming of dancing through autumn leaves
Relentlessly bemused by dry air
On this October night

~E.R. Buendia/Celena StarVela

The Old Man’s Doll Emporium

Hi everyone!

Great news…you can find a sound clip of the story in my previous post up on the Sci-Fi and Fantasy Poetry Association’s Halloween Poetry Reading page this month and I will be featured on the Brave and Reckless blog tomorrow at 3pm 🙂

NaNoWriMo prep is going great and I have an exciting novel planned to write which I believe some of you will love!

Here is another creepy flash fiction piece I came up with during the Story A Day Challenge, enjoy:

   The doll store was conveniently in the middle of two stores which had gone out of business in what seemed to be a ghost town. The owner of the store, Mr. Styles, lived above the store in an apartment and continued to build his dolls. One day, Billy wandered into The Styles Emporium and was astounded by what he saw. Each doll was made of a light porcelain paint, and brown ringlets with sun kissed highlights embraced her blushing cheeks. Each doll with bright blue eyes and ruby red lips which extended in a smirk. The curious part of it all was that all of the dolls had the same face. 
As I looked toward the countertop, Billy saw there an old man, looking out into the sea of dolls, his mind obviously somewhere else. Billy wanted to ask him the question that the rest of the town wanted to know. Why did the dolls all have the same face? For decades, little boys and girls would wander through the Emporium, wondering the same thing. No one feeling courageous enough to pose the question which was haunting the town.
Billy decided this was the day he would break the tradition and find out the longest kept secret. Billy walked closely to the counter, noticing the man had a bald spot on the top of his hair, his gray hair frizzed out as though he had not combed it in weeks. Perched upon the bridge of his nose were clear framed glasses with attached clear beads. As Billy approached the man, his eyes darted up toward Billy and asked, in a grumpy tone, “Yes? What can I do for you, boy?”
“Uh…why do all of the dolls have the same face,” asked Billy, suddenly feeling flushed and wondering why he had done this. 
“Boy, it is a long story. The face of the doll is the face of a daughter that I lost long ago to a tragedy. Her image has been engrained in my mind, unable to forget her, I decided long ago that I would create dolls that looked like her. To this day, I will always love her and never forget my baby girl. A doll creates and maintains an image of a person for eternity. They are sometimes seen as supernatural objects. I did it thinking I could resurrect her memory. But, she remains gone.” 
Feeling melancholic for the old man,  Billy thanked the old man for explaining his story and decided to purchase a doll.
Scrounging up the remains of his allowance, Billy dropped his change on the counter. Mr. Styles said “thank you, come back at anytime, Billy” and winked.
Billy ran out of the store with his doll and a grin on his face. He now knew the answer to the town riddle. 
~E.R. Buendia/Celena StarVela

Frightful Night

It is Halloween season, the merriest one of them all, and as a result, I have been working on a short horror zine (a compilation of flash fiction and poetry pieces) dedicated to my favorite time of year!

Here is a snippet of one of the flash pieces I plan on submitting to SciFi and Fantasy Poetry Association and including in the zine (which I will be selling later on):

The black horse rides through the flames risen from the earth

Samhain is here, the veil is thin,

Children scream and cry… frightened of the headless man

*thump, thump, thump*

The hooves get heavier and draw closer to the town

Screams pierce the dreary night

Fire engulfs the hay as the headless man draws closer

The autumn winds are defeated by the flames

But the horseman does not stop

The only hope is daybreak

But it is too late and the villagers drown in the flames

Destined to haunt on the next Hallow’s Eve

 

The black horse rides through the flames risen from the earth

Samhain is here, the veil is thin,

Children scream and cry… frightened of the headless man

*thump, thump, thump*

The hooves get heavier and draw closer to the town

Screams pierce the dreary night

Fire engulfs the hay as the headless man draws closer

The autumn winds are defeated by the flames

But the horseman does not stop

The only hope is daybreak

But it is too late and the villagers drown in the flames

Destined to haunt on the next Hallow’s Eve

~Celena StarVela (E.R. Buendia)

Note: Pen name is now Celena StarVela for any magical or horror stories I write.

I am excited to continue sharing my work with you all and I plan on submitting some more stuff this month. Finishing up a couple folklore, horror, and poems which have to do with goddesses, witches, and, also prepping for NaNoWriMo! Delving into the steampunk realm this year 🙂

Love and Light

~ Celena Star Vela ~

Why I Write…


Why did I start writing and why do I write?While developing an 8 week lesson plan for a Creative Writing workshop that I’m starting at my work, I realized that there was a question that I haven’t answered on my blog and now is the time to answer it!

           My story starts when I was eight years old. I went to a Spanish immersion school that offered a lot of opportunity for creative expression; my creativity was encouraged from a young age. I am grateful that my parents put me in the schools they did so that I could connect with my inner artist and discover my talent. The first piece I wrote was a poem and it was part of a project that we were supposed to do in class to create a mother’s day card for our mothers. I wrote a poem about the colors that my mom wore, specifically her red lipstick, and my mom kept it after I gave it to her and still has it today!

           I always felt out of place with my peers and writing became an escape for me besides reading, it was therapeutic and it was a way for me to connect with my imagination. Some people had imaginative friends, I had my own imagination and creative pursuits. As I got older and continued to enjoy the creative projects that my teachers would assign us, my mom ended up creating a space in the garage where she would post all the art projects on this wall by where we kept our shoes. I cherish that memory as a muse for me to continue to create works of art whether it’s  writing, painting, photography, doodling, dancing, any form of expression.

           When middle school came and I had this inspiring Spanish language teacher, I continued to write. At this point, I was blogging and I had created different websites that I would use to post short stories, poetry, and, journal. Each morning during the week, we would be asked to free write for the first 10 minutes or so of class. And every Friday, my teacher would pick a winner for best writer of the class. I won on a consistent basis and I used this as motivation to continue writing.

           When I got to high school, I was diagnosed with depression at the age of sixteen years old and I started to see an art therapist for a little while. Once again, writing became a form of healing for me. In high school, I continued to keep a poetry journal and would sometimes write short stories. I had a LiveJournal that I would share my work on or I would just vent on there sometimes. In 11th grade, when my depression was getting worse, I decided to submit my poetry to a national contest and I won one of the prizes. I just needed a teacher to sign a recommendation for me but I never followed through. I no longer believed in my talent and my creative spirit started to fade away.

           In my junior year of high school, I wrote half of a romance novel but after my computer crashed and I lost the draft, I gave up on writing altogether and the next few years were filled with different experiences that are now inspiration for me to write. I have always used writing as a medium for healing and expression. At times when I felt like I did not have a voice, I found that voice through poetry or through the characters of the stories that I was telling. I always felt like I could relate to characters that faced oppression, discrimination, or, some kind of bullying. And as an avid reader, it has just added more fuel to my passion for writing.

           At a creative workshop I attended with Juliette Sobanet, she asked us to think about why we wanted to tell our story, the novels or stories we are working on. I guess the true reason is to inspire others and maybe they will be able to find strength with my characters as they read along. The message I want to convey in the novels I write is for young teenage girls all over, to not give up on yourself and to embrace your weirdness…it’s okay to be unique. It’s okay to be creative and pursue your artistic dreams. Everyone goes through some type of darkness, and although some stay, there are others who fight to reach the light. I write to help, heal, and, to inspire. 

The light fades…

So for this piece I decided to delve into some world building for a trilogy scifi idea I have, which takes place in another planet beyond the sun’s reach…the land is dying because its desperate for light…here’s a narrative on my protagonist’s childhood memory:

The sunsets were dazzling as the sun prepared to go into its slumber. Hues of mustard and tangerine blended together into a beautiful spread across the sky surrounding the kingdom of Gaela. The young girl cupped her hand pretending to lift the colors of the sunset out of celestial sphere that reflected off the lakes. A smile formed upon her face, as she closed her eyes and felt the last rays of sunlight seeping through her skin. Light was a luxury in Gaela and any moment that the people could get with the sun was sacred. The sun was a god to the people and the moon was as well, any source of light.

    Eighteen hours per day the land was filled with terror and darkness. Creatures beyond the fray awaited the moments the moonlight dissipated into the abyss of the universe so they could prey on the weak. The kingdom lived in a state between waking and sleeping, in a constant fear of the night. They were forced to become one with the night as the sun’s rotation grew further away from their planet. Circadian rhythms were out of sync, causing a mental disorientation amongst everyone and this young girl managed to maintain balance through all of the chaos. There was something special about her. She had the ability to manipulate the four of the five elements: water, air, earth, and, fire.

    With this power, she had to hold onto the secret because if anyone were to know what she was capable of, she could be drained from her energy. She knew the cost of her special ability could lead to her demise so she never spoke of it. She tried her best not to let her powers show in each activity she had with other children her age. She knew it was wrong yet the curiosity gnawed at her insides of how much further she could take it. How powerful could she become?

~ ER Buendia

~

The Night, a poem

She becomes the night

As she levitates to the tops of the trees

Divine winds cocoon her flesh


Rocking her through the evergreen


As she continues to float


She becomes a part of the night


Passing the stars


Whispering to the moon


Sweet chants of Hecate, triple goddess


Bewitched by the howls of wolves


She is home

-ER BUENDIA

Day 2-Story A Day in September

Prompt of the Day: The problem with going through life one day at a time, each in order…

The problem with going through life one day at a time, each in order is that a person can never skip from Monday to Friday. The stillness of Wednesday drags by minute by minute as dreadful as waiting for the desert heat to pass in the middle of July. Beads of sweat form on those restless individuals who have to endure the sun’s beating merciless power. As the clock continues to tick closer to the five o’clock hour, business folks stare at those final seconds at 4:59pm with the eagerness to leave their suits behind and change into their gym gear, or, take it all off and tune into Netflix. Although taking life each day at a time can be blissful and fulfilling, it can also be a real drag.

E.R. BUENDIA

StAD September 

Hey guys,

I will be using the Story A Day Challenge this month to help me connect with my characters and also to bring you some cool flash fiction. Currently developing a horror anthology zine which I hope to release Halloween week.

Here is my first prompt piece inspired by one of my book ideas (the modern day Arthurian one): 

  1. When I was born…”


When I was born, a reincarnate of a goddess from centuries past bore into me. Her soul lit up the room and my mother was astonished, believe it to be an angel. The light blinded a couple of the nurses in the room because it was powerful luminescence which created a sun-like blast. At first, people were unsure of what I was. They believed that I was a spawn of the devil or some type of evil, but other holy rollers believed me to be an angel. But the dreams I had told me otherwise.


The images of my birth haunted me as I grew up feeling unsure of how to identify myself. I had been adopted into a family that did not know whether to fear me or adore me. As I grew, I began to grow curious of the incident that happened that day I was born and began to read about past lives, angels, evil, and, any other occult topics. I would spend hours trying to decipher what I was. Growing up, I was perplexed by my ability to touch wounded animals and heal them. The animal would shake off their injury and wander off into nature, without any sign of discomfort. My adopted mother caught me healing a wounded bird one day and asked a priest to come and observe me, believing me to be a child of God.


The thing is, that I was not a child of God and I was not related to the devil. I was just me and part of being me, was that I was reincarnated. I did not know this until the dreams began. Dreams of a lush green pasture, a great kingdom, and hooded tall men which looked as though they were wizards from Lord of the Rings. In reality, these men were druids, a race of magical beings who had been lost in the waves of time.  In the dreams, people called me Morgan, Morgaine, or Morgana. I did not know what it meant until I stumbled upon mythology which addressed a Morgaine la Faye as a Triple Goddess. I, then, figured out that the power I held inside of me was related to her. Was it possible that I am a reincarnation of a powerful goddess? Me? I am barely passing my high school Algebra class…how could I be the powerful triple goddess?

Greetings from Canada

Day #1-Write a story after a postcard arrives from someone who passed away and whose funeral you attended that says the words, “I’m not dead, meet me tonight at ___________”
Greetings from Canada by E.R. Buendia
I read the postcard looking back at me with an image of a grey sky and an outline of old Victorian aged houses. The right bottom corner in boldfaced red writing “Greetings from CANADA” and a tiny maple leave emblem. A cryptic message scribbled on the left side: “I’m not dead. Meet me at the grave site where I was buried tonight at 8pm. Sincerely, Jake.” I let out a sigh, not knowing what to think of this news. It was 4pm and I knew the next four hours were going to be dreadful.
Eight o’clock came with a slow yearning building inside of me. I reflected gently on the memories I had of Jake as children holding hands on the swing set.
Was he in trouble?
Now that I was approaching the darkly lit cemetery with the cobblestoned plaques all around, my heart began to race. Fight or flight mode. I wondered if this would be my demise. The dark figure turned his face and looked at me with a grin on his face, which was now sunken with deep violet undertones in his sunken face.
I approached him, bearing my cross necklace on my bosom and his eyes began to burn. He let out a shriek, as high pitched as a siren. He began to step away from me to the other side of his grave. And, as I looked at him closely, I saw fangs poking out of the top of his mouth, gently onto his bottom lip. Catching his breath, he said in a whisper, “now you know my secret.”
I gasped, unable to accept the creature standing in front of me was a vampire. Knowing that vampires were fictitious creatures of the night, and, it was not possible for my oldest friend to be a vampire. Feeling helpless, as though I was under attack, I fell to my knees and felt a twinge inside of me, liquid beginning to collect in my eyes.
I aggressively brushed the tears from my eyes, looked up at him and asked, “so how long have you been a vampire?”
He looked back at me, with the eyes of a lost baby deer and said “I’m newly turned, I’m immortal, baby.”
I knew that this was the start of a twisted and long journey for Jake and I. Jake grabbed my arm and we began to float in the air, the gravestones blurred together into a gray swirl beneath us. Jake ran his fingers over my eyes and lethargy sent me into a slumber, as panic set in, unsure where this dreadful creature of the night was taking me. The lights faded away and darkness swept over my eyelids.