Wednesday, December 26

A few things are happening.

It's about time for a bit of change. Over the holidays, Lit by the Crescent Moon has begun to get trimmed and worked on as best I can, adding practical things here and there. Labels and larger photos, to name a few. This will continue for the time being and may cause slight delays with a few posts. I should of just called Friday Fables something like Saturday//Sunday Stories! Anyhow, you have been warned. I am trying to make a more active and effective blog.  I am considering a reader survey {If I gain more followers, that is -- no point asking something when no one's there to answer you} to see how my readers would deal with the modifications and additions before they are properly installed. So, what do you think, dear reader? I hope things will be different, here in my little corner of the cyber world.

 I will keep you updated with any further, exciting news.

--take care


Added later: After a difficult decision, I have finally concluded to go ahead with the survey and be patient until I have enough participants' answers to take in account and start the proper changes. Please go take a look at it - it can be found in my newest post, here.

Monday, December 24


The seasons come and go.
The clock reads half past ten.
Now candles are aglow -
It's Christmas time again.

Merry Christmas, everybody! See you really soon in my next Friday Fable. I was going to post it on Thursday but Christmas time came early this year to me. I've been celebrating all December long! I've been very busy making plans to make this blog grow and I'll make sure that next year, Christmas will be a very special time on Lit by the Crescent Moon.

Tuesday, December 18

I am a magpie.

Dear Blog,

Still no Friday Fables. Please forgive me. But I do have something to share. A simple, quick poem by the name of 'I am a magpie'. Nothing too special, though.

I am a magpie. 
Collecting is my craze.
I am a magpie.
Always in a haze.

I am a magpie.
Black sheep of the herd. 
I am a magpie.
Forever ignored and misheard.

I am a magpie.
Taking things to my nest.
I am a magpie.
Never stop to rest.

I am a magpie.
Protective of my kin.
I am a magpie.
But never shall I win.

I am a magpie.
Thought to not bring luck.
I am a magpie.
Spent my life being stuck.

I am a magpie.
Things will never change.
I am a magpie.
Can't keep life from being strange.

I hope you liked it! And, please, remember the next Friday Fable is coming soon.

Until next time,
An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Engaging Dot of the Crescent Moon

Sunday, December 16


Dear Blog,

Life is full of havoc and changes lately. I'm afraid this means no Friday Fables yet. But soon. Oh yes, very soon. It will happen this week, maybe even before Friday comes. Until then, please be patient and try not to distress, torment, abduct and assassinate me.

Until next time,
An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Never Weakened Shimmer of the Crescent Moon

P.S. I was just kidding there, by the way.

Sunday, December 9

Can't wait.

Dear Blog,

This is simply a quick post to say that it's that time of year again. That time when chestnuts are roasted in bustling streets. That time when gifts are wrapped and delicacies are baked. That time for only you, your family and your friends. I can't wait! Can you?

Besides, I may consider having a Christmas story coming soon on Friday Fables, after I finish posting all of Asterism (I remind you that the next one will be on Friday, 14th December) Please wait and see if I do!

In addition, if anyone has any Christmas, New Years, Hanukah or winter related ideas- please share them with me. I want the first Christmas on my little blog to be remarkable and worth remembering. Thank you very much for your support.

Until next time,
An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Eternal Beam of the Crescent Moon

Sunday, December 2

When life happens.

Dear Blog,

Sometimes Friday Fables, amongst many other different posts, may have to be delayed when some surprising event happens in my life. So, dear reader, I ask you very kindly to be patient when life happens. It's something normal and I hate having to make you wait, but sometimes it's all you can do. The next part of the story will be posted this following Friday, as usual. Though I am really sorry I was unable to do it this week. See you soon.

Until next time,

An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Distant Smile of the Crescent Moon

Friday, November 23

Friday Fables: Asterism Part II

Dear Blog,

This is the second section of my very first Friday Fable. I hope it meets your expectations. But for now, please sit back and enjoy!

Right now. He remembered. But then again, Mr Dewitt would certainly always do so. How couldn’t he? Her nightmares were quite frequent. And they were always the same. Always. But alas, he never even knew what they were about. He deserved to, though! She was his own wife! However, all she ever told him was that they were simply about things with no importance- at least not anymore, anyway. She always insisted that he shouldn't worry about it, yet he always found there was a great difficulty when trying to ignore her bad dreams, especially when she would wake screeching and drenched in cold sweat. And then there was that word. What was it again? It was ‘answer’, wasn’t it? Oh yes, ‘answer’. She was always muttering it in her sleep, so poor Mr Dewitt heard it all the time. Even on those rare nights were she wouldn’t wake up wailing. It was always there.


Mr Dewitt was practically dragged by his teary-eyed superior to his private office at exactly once minute before nine o’clock. My, my -bankers are even punctual when dealing with unscheduled distractions? How convenient. 
But of course, at that precise moment, Mr Dewitt didn’t know what was the matter, and even if he did, he would have never thought about his boss’ punctuality. However, the important thing is naturally what this news consisted of. And it is guaranteed that it is not pleasing. On the contrary, Mr Dewitt will be, without doubt, entirely lugubrious and dejected.


“No! No! It can’t.... It can’t be. No...” 
“I’m afraid so, Mr Dewitt. Your wife has... gone to a better world. I am deeply sorry. I took the liberty of telling you the news myself, I thought that if it came form a police the shock could be greater. Please, if you ever need anything, do not hesitate to come to me. You have always been a very faithful employer. I insist. It’s the least I can do.”
If this had been an ordinary day, Mr Dewitt would have been touched by the compliment he received, but he wasn’t in the mood for that now. And he had the right to be!
“How... how did... How did she...?” Mr Dewitt spoke in barely more than a whisper, clinging onto every one of his unfinished words, as if fearing for his own dear life- even though it was his wife’s which had been lost.
“Ah. Certainly. Well, the police suspect that it was a suicide,” his superior spoke in a rush, avoiding to look directly into his eyes.
“A suicide? Impossible! But she was one of the most lighthearted people I had ever met! Why would she? How?”
“Yes, yes. I understand. She was quite the damsel, wasn’t she? Shame, really. And it isn’t quite just that.”
Mr Dewitt raised his watery eyes when his boss stopped and gestured him to carry on.
“The officer I spoke to said they’re calling it the most tragic suicide of the century. She was found in your bedroom. Stabbed her own wrist with some scissors. And the door was locked from the inside. I am so sorry. Terribly sorry. Really. Why don’t you take a leave for the rest of the week?”
Mr Dewitt finally blew his nose after hunting for his handkerchief in his coat pocket. He was quite downcast already, and the news of having to leave his job for the following four days seemed almost impossible. In spite of that, to avoid any disagreements with his boss, he agreed and began to leave with his pale, frowning face looking more sulked than usual.
“Oh. I nearly forgot!” his superior called after him, making him halt to a stop “She was found gripping a hole-punched card with the letters ‘J  OK ER’ printed on it. How queer, don’t you agree?”
With that, he turned back to his desk and Mr Dewitt- not exactly the best husband in the world- let out one last snivel, soon to temporarily forget about his young wive’s death until his arrival at home.

To be continued...

Friday, November 16

Friday Fables: Asterism Part I

Dear Blog,

Sorry I took so long to post it. But here's my first ever Friday Fable, which I had earlier promised. It is going to be a mystery story composed by short scenes that all have breaks consisting of an asterism. Thank you, sit back, and enjoy.

She was close to crying. He could tell by the short, quick breaths on the other side of the line. Hyperventilation was something he had warned her about. He knew it always gave her away. But she never listened. Not that it would come to any use, anymore, now that she had turned sides. Against him. He never was used to that idea. Not even now.


Mr Dewitt wasn’t what you would really call a very diverting individual. Entertainment was clearly never his talent, but not many came to question themselves wether he was or not, as most people that surrounded his life were just as dull. Too dull to care. This is what you tend to expect from bankers, is it not? And -from his bold scalp hidden under his bowler hat to the tip of his freshly polished, gleaming shoes- he seemed like the perfect stereotype for one.

Mrs Dewitt -formerly known as Miss Lamb- was in fact the complete opposite. She was born to host guests, specially at a formal gathering. Why they got married, no one knew, but many found themselves contemplating the example of the perfect, ordinary day newlywed couple. Some, on the other hand, just wondered if it was real love and tried to guess what they were thinking at the very moment, which was what Mrs Dewitt was doing precisely as she spied her husband walking down the road through her parlor window. Off he was to work, again, as usual. She had no invited acquaintances that morning, so she guessed she would continue reading her current novel and wait until the evening, when Mr Dewitt would return to resume sitting at his usual spot by the fireplace smoking pipe tobacco and reading the stock market section in the newspaper. She sighed, meeting the soft touch of her armchair as she slowly began to descend into it.


Mrs Dewitt turned towards the sound of the opening and closing front door. Had her husband returned home from work early today? He rarely ever did so, as he greatly enjoyed it. He would even embrace the opportunity of having a late shift when his boss offered him one.
“Darling, is that you?” she tried again.
Faint footsteps were coming nearer. She recognized them at once, her blood stopping cold. How could this be? Of course, after what had happened this was surely expected, yet she still couldn’t manage to believe what she was hearing.
They came closer. So close. Until they reached the closed door that lead to the master bedroom, where she rested on the bed reading a novel, where they stopped. And then, ever so slowly, the door knob began to turn until the door was wide open.
Her gaze immediately dropped. She knew that if she raised her eyes, she would be met by that familiar gaze again.
“How nice of you to stop by,” she said, without showing any trace of emotion on her face, as she felt like dying in the inside.

To be continued...

Tuesday, November 13

In memory of Olivia Toubkin.

Dear Blog,

To live in the hearts one left is not to die.
-Thomas Campbell

There are times when life seems to be incomprehensible and mysterious. Now is one of them. You see, dear reader, my very own English teacher passed away silently on the night of Sunday 11th November. Miss Toubkin was a very special teacher to me, and she always will be.
It came to me as a shock. After lunch time on Monday, the whole school and teaching staff were lured into the hall, where our headmistress broke the tragic news to us. Many, many of us gently weeped at this point. Of course, I had only met her earlier this year, yet from the start I knew what a rare, extraordinary sort of woman she was. I'm not even close to feeling what the poor pupils who knew her for years did. I also simply cannot imagine how hollow their stomachs must feel; how heavy-headed they've become; how sorrowful they felt when they experienced that, that day.

Miss Toubkin was also my Creative Writing Club teacher, so, quoting the words of my friend and companion from the club, "We had a special bond with her and knew her in a way no one else in the school did". She was a mentor to us. Evidently, this also meant she was a supporter of my blog. Indeed, it hasn't been standing for long, but she had offered me a place as 'head blogger' for an exciting project about a school blog she wanted to create in the future. Unfortunately, she never had the chance.

She was unlike any teacher I'd ever met. And I'm not talking about only school matters. She suffered from a condition similar to achondroplasia- but this didn't mean that she wasn't tall. She always held her head high. Whenever I passed her in a hallway and shared a quick smile, I would immediately noticed that she would shine above all others standing by. She didn't only teach me grammar. She taught me about self-respect. Few people reach a point in their lives were they feel the same way she did about themselves. And not only did she reach this point one time, but she lived through it every day. At any moment.

She really was truly remarkable. It doesn't take you long to realize this, if you ever met her. I just wish she could have gotten to know me more. Gotten to know how I looked up at her. How she was highly respected by all.

Rest in peace, Olivia Toubkin. Rest in peace.

Until next time,
An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Curved Teardrop of the Crescent Moon

Friday, November 9

On being organized when blogging.

Dear Blog,

Having a blog is a great responsibility, as many bloggers reading this will know, which requires a lot of organization. As I am a blogger with less experience, I have not yet accomplished my goal of finally having perfect management for my blog. That, however, is hopefully going to change presently.

Having a fresh, new design is the perfect occasion to try to start anew on some blog matters, and modify others slightly. I therefore decided to introduce a schedule for my story writing.
I am not a person with many writing habits, unlike most of the bloggers and authors I've heard of and so, if I want to be productive and get somewhere, I must push myself to offer more to the public. For now it will be an experimental, not permanent, adjustment to this blog. If it suits my very own timetable and pleases the reader, by all means, I will most definitely make it stay. But lets not worry about that, shall we? For the time being, I'm just giving it a go.

Once I add them, which will be on the following Friday 16th November, they will be called Friday Fables. I hope the reader finds this a satisfying name. If they do not, I very amiably welcome them to suggest another. Friday Fables. Friday Fables. Friday Fables. Yes, there's a ring to it. Don't you think so?

Oh! Before I bid you farewell, I must deeply thank any reader who is kind enough to post a comment on any of my posts. They make my day! If you've never posted one but enjoy reading my stories, then please do! I would really love to hear what you have to say! Dear reader, you cannot understand how pleased one or two comments I find can make me. They really do make my day.

Until next time,
An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Charming Figure of the Crescent Moon

Wednesday, November 7

Surprise, surprise.

Dear Blog,

I deeply regret how I have not posted anything in the last few months. What was it? Four months? Five? To me, it seemed like an awfully long period- almost like an eternity. I am greatly sorry, dear reader, and I hope to not make mistakes such as this is the near future.

The important thing is that if you are reading this, it means that you have visited my blog, which means that you have already noticed my delightful, pristine blog design. This wouldn't have been possible if it weren't for Dana from Wonder Forest who is an exceptional and truly unique blogger and artist. She really is something. I never, ever thought I would be sitting here with a marvelous and remarkable blog staring back at me from my screen. I simply cannot say how thankful I am for her. She is, by far, one of the greatest bloggers to be found in the whole cyber world. So, thank you very much, Dana. Truly.

[Taken from here, on her blog] The one and only Dana. 

Until next time,
An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Unbelievable Power of the Crescent Moon

Friday, July 27

Raise your voice.

Dear Blog,

Now is a time in which I have said too much, shared too much... and far too quickly. In the need of fresh ideas, I turn to my audience and seek for their advice. Has anyone got any ideas which could inspire me to write more? Should I post more on my thoughts? Poems? Stories? Would you be interested if I shared my pictures and artwork I have posted alongside some of my stories? As you can see, I also enjoy the art of photography very much so it would be a pleasure to share some examples. Please answer, I beg you. I'm counting on you, dear reader. So don't be shy; raise your voice.

Until next time,
An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Increasing Luminosity of the Crescent Moon

Saturday, July 21

A petit selection of curiosities.

Dear Blog,

I found several unnamed, peculiar experiments I played with when intending to write poems. I decided to just call them curiosities. And where best would you find curiosities better than this very Blog? Well, I say we keep this question rhetorical. Enough talk! Enjoy these two, peculiar knickknacks.

Curiosity #1 (and my personal favorite)

Waiting for your prey, 
Hidden in the gallows.
Day after day,
Alone in the shadows.
Creep on the innocent,
Sense their fear;
Forever present.
They know you're near.
Unexpectedly rush,
To get your feed.
With terror they flush,
Ignore what they plead.
Like a hair-raising shiver,
Waiting to go up someone's spine.
Drown then in a river,
Trip them with a vine.
Think to yourself...
What have you done?
You wanted wealth,
But you got none.

Curiosity #2 (which I am also very fond of)

I think of you every day.
Yes, I remember.
When you lead the way.
Back in September,
You always knew what to say.
Like burning ember,
You never cooled away.

Until next time,
An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Silver Crown of the Crescent Moon

Thursday, July 19


Dear Blog,

I'm sorry this text is so short, but at least I managed to share something with you today. It is a bit like a metaphor, all written using personification. I hope you can see what I meant when I wrote it. Thank you for your support, dear reader.

Hope stood there, in the deserted alleyway, hidden away by the shadows as dark as death itself. Her once frail and delicate poise seemed to have crumbled into pieces. Her alluring copper curls were covered in dark stains of ink. They had lost their glossiness and were now a dull shade of chestnut brown that no longer glittered in the moonlight. Her peachy, porcelain-like skin was found under dirty smudges of coal all across her body. Her full, cherry lips no longer formed a merry smile, but were dry and bruised. The dress she wore was torn and ragged, displaying the scars on her sore legs. Her fine, elegant fingers were scratched and bare, shivering in the bitter iciness, no longer in the comfort of formal, silk gloves. Like an ancient and abandoned doll in a playroom, Hope was lost.

Sunday, July 8


Dear Blog,

The piece of writing I present to you was actually a task I wrote for school. I was asked to do a descriptive piece of writing about my favorite place, and here it is. Enjoy!

Of all the different ways to entertain oneself, reading has always been amongst the most popular activities throughout time, despite the great variety of modern creations made recently. Dear reader, it should cross your mind that it seems there is nothing more soothing than a serene afternoon lost in the pages of a gripping book. As our piece of writing commences I must make it clear that, reader, you are correct. Indeed, reading has no match.

Picture yourself in the comfort of your home. A thick odor of smoke fills the room, coming from a cackling blaze that purrs contently in a fireplace. Above the flames hangs an orb-shaped mirror, reflecting the surrounding cream colored walls which are covered with framed photographs of the bustling streets of Paris, the lurid sunflowers of Tuscany and the snow covered rooftops of Colorado. 
From time to time, an antique grandfather clock's chimes interrupt the tranquil stillness- yet the sole sound of it is angelic. You run your toes through the thick carpeting as you position yourself on the snug, velvet cushioned window sill.

After making way through numerous layers of lacy curtains, you press your face against the wide, icy window. Raindrops trickle down it, as steadily as teardrops do on cheeks flushed crimson with desperation. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. The rain continues falling in the outside world, as you feel grateful that the warmth and comfort of your home is there to shelter you from the bitter chill found simply through the clear glass. The contrast between the interior and exterior is significant and one would never guess they were so close together. Outside, the rich landscape of the lush countryside can be seen. I the far distance, the faint image of a village can be stopped peeking over the horizon like the first rays of sunlight awakening over a valley.

Once satisfied, you then open a book. Any book will do, as long as you can loose yourself in its labyrinth of ink and savor every word found. You must be able to feel locked away in a sanctuary; in your own little world. As you progress through the novel, you bring a cup to your lips. Instantly, you feel warm cocoa gush down your throat like a stream of gold. You put the cup down again and continue to wonder around in the realm of literature. 

Can you see it now, reader? Can you picture what was explained previously? If you can't, try harder. Take a deep breath and close your eyes. Let your imagination take you to this very room. Accumulate all the different segments of this little description. The window, the fireplace, the grandfather clock. Everything. Put all the separate pieces together to form one, complete jigsaw puzzle. Can you see it now? One should think so.
Dear reader, you should now certainly believe that nothing can eclipse an afternoon spent feeding your mind with reading.

An apology to my readers.

Dear Blog,
I am so very, deeply sorry I haven't written any stories lately. Believe me, I shall do so very, very soon. I have been away several weeks, so I couldn't have access to the internet and this Blog. Luckily, now I can continue. I wish you have not lost hope yet and you will read my work sometime again or check if there is anything new. Thank you for being supportive and actually getting me carried away and posting stories. If the demand wasn't so high, I would have never even managed to post any of the pocket watch story ever. Thank you, reader.

Until next time,
An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Silvery Figure of the Crescent Moon

Friday, June 15

There comes a time...

Dear Blog,

I haven't written on here in an extremely long time, which seemed to me like an eternity. But now I have returned. This time, not with a story- but with my miscellaneous thoughts and opinions fashioned into what you could call a poem. Enjoy!

There comes a time,
Deeply unwanted by all.
Where you must stop to entwine,
Around any possession- no matter how small.

Not beings nor creatures,
Not even a story.
Nor talents nor features,
Be prepared to feel cory.

You must learn to let go,
Forever forgotten and let alone to eternally shiver.
Like a rocking horse swaying to and fro,
Or the endless water flowing down a river.

There comes a time,
As chilling as ice.
You'll feel covered by grime,
And crawling with lice.

But what matters most,
 Is that you must not tell a soul.
Like slowly starving by not touching your roast,
This penetrates your heart- leaving behind a hole.

Learn to keep your chin up with high hopes,
As miserable as it may all seem.
You must secure yourself and tie up your ropes,
And someday... someday peace will redeem.

I'm glad to have been able to share something on this blog yet again. I hope my readers on this blog enjoyed it even though my poetry is still out of practice, but I intend on sharpening it like my writing.

Until next time,
An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Hypnotizing Shadow of the Crescent Moon 

Friday, May 18

Pocket Watch: Part IV

Dear Blog,

Here is the moment you have been waiting for. I present to you the final and most awaited piece of the Pocket Watch story. I deeply hope you enjoy it. Read on, read on.

As the elder turned the knob, memories began to fly past. All his life! All his diligent and effortful work! Everything which he had labored throughout all these years; a lifetime of rigorous toil.
He could see it all, crowded around him as if he stood in the center of a compact chamber, fashioned from memories and images of his past, plastered on the walls. Every picture he could recall. Every moment. Many which he once believed to be the most significant, when he was only just living them as his present, and not simply errors of his past.

He saw himself as an infant, in a weedless meadow of radiant wildflowers and poppies. He could barely stand on his feet, yet he clumsily followed his siblings which he had once so greatly looked up to and idolized. If he ever tripped, which he did frequently, he would heave his chubby body over to get up and start anew, never loosing hope. He remembered how he had once observed life, when he was innocent and naive. Everything was simply a joke which you could chuckle at. Oh how he wished life was as simple as that!

In a different memory, he was watching his much loved aunt set a piano to life with her slender fingers. She sat neatly on a stool, leaned over the powerful and harmonic instrument. The elder watched patiently as her hands danced over the smooth, ivory keys. The beautiful yet haunting tune would draw any audience closer, wanting to hear more. The sorrow from the piece seeped into his body and gradually spread in his veins. Melodic and hypnotizing music flooded the room, engaging him so he would never want the music to stop. He felt afraid of advancing towards the piano, as if he was in a dream and one wrong step would waver the music, waking him up and abandoning the vision forever. He simply watched the scene in awe, unable to do more.

The memories spun around him, and he watched himself be kissed goodnight by his mother, learn to ride a bicycle and pick a bouquet of fresh lavender. All these moments which he had lived, accompanied by his treasured pocket watch tucked in his coat pocket or hid safely in his cupboard. Then, his eldest memory came to his mind. A newborn baby lying in a ruffled crib, not more than a day old. The baby's eyes glittering in the moonlight. And then it giggled. Such sound was music to his ears; to anyone's ears! It represented hope, a new life and the beginning of what once would be the end, when you would look back to the start and recall it fondly. As the elder remembered, he cackled with his croaked and hoarse voice. Only to him, the sound ringing in his ears was the same as the giggling baby's. They belonged to so distinct- yet so identical characters. The two laughs became one, as he continued to cackle. He realized that he was no longer the foolish young man- but at the same time he still was not the same mischievous child. He was someone different, a mixture of his past self with the part of himself which he had gained with experience and learning form mistakes. Feeling he had everything he would have ever needed, the elder closed the pocket watch and clutched it tightly to his chest, the laughter still sounding and the memories still filling his heart. Then, feeling satisfied with life, the man took a sigh and closed his eyes for one last time.

Sunday, May 13

Pocket Watch: Part III

Dear Blog,

Please excuse me for taking so long to post the semi-final part of my pocket watch story. I apologize to all the readers I have gained with my writing who so dearly longed to finish reading the peculiar adventures of the elder man and his pocket watch. Enough said! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the following section of the pocket watch story, which you have anticipated for so long!

This time the memory wasn't so misty. Feelings, colors, sounds and smells came to him in an instant. A school bell rang as gleeful, beaming children began to fill the one-room school house. A laughing, young teacher stood by the entrance, welcoming her students with a benevolent smile spread across her face. Locks of her hair were loose from her bun and freely danced in the wind.
What was left of the children, who still hadn't entered the building, where racing each other across the spring lanes so they wouldn't be late. Amongst them was the elder. But he didn't feel old anymore. He felt as if his spirit had lightened, become younger. He felt the unquenchable thirst for adventure, mischief and entertainment  which all young children have.
The breeze playfully ruffled his hair. He let his lungs fill with the pure, aromatic country air full of the sweet scent of cherry blossoms which flourished and bloomed across the terrain, with their unique and pale pastel shades of pink. He skidded around the lush and rich flora, leaping over long patches of turf.
He couldn't have been happier as he jogged to the snug and welcoming school house, watched by fellow students either crowded around the small windows or lined up at the doorway,  slightly jealous of his carefree attitude.
The elder chuckled, now a young boy enjoying life like never before. He didn't understand how later in life, in his memory which he had visited previously, he would give up all of this to grow-up faster. He realized that someone's childhood was the best and shortest time of a human's life, so they should make the most of it and cherish every moment.

He sighed and forced himself to turn the knob again, not wanting to leave this memory. He shook his thoughts off and turned it, faster and faster.

To be continued, only once more...

Wednesday, May 9

Half full or half empty glassed personalities.

Dear Blog,
I have the strange habit that, whenever I meet someone, a question pops into my head about them which I have to answer. It's what I call the Full or Empty Glassed Question. Reader, you see, it's a bit like a quiz. You observe the person and imagine the following;
Visualize yourself inviting such character to a fine, formal dinner in a luxurious dining room. You prepare an excellent feast and have a splendid time. There's entertainment and music whilst you dine- but near the end of the reunion, you lay an ordinary glass filled half way up in front of the person. You turn to this interesting new individual and ask, 'What do you see?'. Yes, I know. Quite a simple question. But the key is in the answer. They may say 'Blimey, I'd say it's a glass of water that's half full!' or 'Umm... I dunno what you mean by that... I guess it's a glass of water and it's half empty!'
If they answer half full, they are being optimistic. If they answer half empty, they are being negative. Do you see what I meant to interpret previously? It's the same situation but you see and think about it differently, depending on your personality!
It's a way of asking yourself how you think they would react to situations. Yes, I know you must not judge books by their covers, which I should know by loving books, but it's an interesting way of looking at things.
I dare say, I would be, as much as I dread it, a half empty type of person. What about you, dear reader? What would you be?

Until next time,
An Aspiring Author - Lit by the Engaging Halo of the Crescent Moon 

Sunday, April 29

Pocket Watch: Part II

Dear Blog,

This is the second section of my pocket watch story. I had to post it earlier than I thought I would, due to demands from the public which I found rather unexpected. Because of so, the story is not entirely finished and I shall have to keep posting the continuing parts in the hopefully near future. As long as it takes. Reader, enjoy the second section.

As he rotated the knob and the arrows turned anti-clockwise, he began to remember what he did the exact time the arrows where pointing at, with their tops as sharp as ravenous leeches. It was a peculiar way of remembering memories, indeed, seeing as they weren't exactly in what you could call a chronological order. Even so, it matters not if he was keen on this method of recollecting his past; but it was his way of recalling memories he had once thought long gone and lost for ever.
Quite some time later, he had reached what he would remember as his earlier and mostly carefree years.
Instantly, his childhood memories began to flow in his mind like a never-ending stream. He began to remember.

First there was a very faint, vague image. Sobs. A starry sky. Yes, the worn out man could see it now. His teary eyed mother, mopping her eyes with a lacy handkerchief, silently weeping. Oh his loving, serene mother! She had once, so long ago, nurtured him all the love and care in the world. How young and real she seemed. Oh, how he loved her when she was living! She waved her trembling hand at him. if he wasn't mistaken, he was carrying and juggling many suitcases. His heart sank. He remembered this day very well. It was his birthday, when was no longer an adventurous boy- but a foolish young man who wanted more than life could offer. It was when he became of age and left his household to start a new one. He recalled he didn't know most of what he was doing, back then. So young and lost. He knew that exactly what he was seeing he would dread and haunt his dreams in many years to come.
Gravely shaking his head, he turned the knob once more.

To be continued, once again...

Sunday, April 22

Pocket Watch: Part I

Dear Blog,

I have decided, after thinking over and over, to show a story to the public. On my Blog. It's not much, but I wrote it specially to post it on here. I split the tale into parts, and plan to publish the next one any time soon. Enjoy! I hope you eagerly return shortly, in search of the next section. Thank you.

In his hand lay a pocket watch. He was an ancient and wispy haired elder; his worn out skin, wrinkled and color drained, hung from his bones. Yet who could believe the contrast between his state and his spirit. Although his thin and tightly pressed lips didn't form a smile, his expression was tender and sympathetic, topped off by the look in his eyes. His eyes. Vacant and wide, his amber eyes filled with wisdom and prudence looked out into the vastness. 
Such instrument he was grasping itself was remarkable; fine gold curved and fashioned into its elegant and adorned form, and the light chain attached to its end looking as if it had been woven, tightly and full of effort as it slid through his sharp fingers.

"His amber eyes filled with wisdom and prudence..."
Suddenly, the ancient man looked down at the item he was holding. Carefully and patiently, he pressed the largest knob and opened his treasure. Time didn't wait for the old man to finish. It flew past, impatiently and rapidly. The pocket watch's keys ticked on. Tick tok. Tick tok. Still meditating, the elder slowly began to turn another knob. He clutched the open pocket watched. He closed his eyes. And then it happened.

To be continued...

Saturday, April 21


Dear Blog,
I guess one entry wasn't enough for me. I decided to come back, to write another one today. You can call me inpatient, anxious and over exhilarated. I don't know what causes so much excitement, because by now I know it's certain that nothing will happen, even if I never really actually knew what I was supposed to be expecting. Possibly I thought I would gain admirers overnight or so, but I was just being foolish. I found writing a Blog surprisingly amusing, though. And who could blame me? I've always written for pleasure and I intend to continue doing so.
Momentarily, my face is pressed against my bedroom's icy window. Darkness crowds all around me. The empty sidewalks. The chilling silence. It gives me time and space to think; to dream. It's my only opportunity to face matters with clarity or fear and wonder about what the future holds. Who knows? Maybe... just maybe...
Never mind. I should be going.
I hope you'll be hearing from me soon. And you probably will, due to my recent enthusiasm and eagerness to write Blog entries.

Until next time,
The Aspiring Author- Lit by the Pale Light of the Crescent Moon

My first blog entry... how thrilling!

So I've put together a little blog to call my own. How should I structure it? What should I record in it? Should it be sophisticated? Plain? Complicated? Maybe I can start off with a brief introduction if- I don't mean to be discourteous- the reader was lazy enough to not bother reading my description on my profile. Also I can commence with a cliché used in a fresh and different way. Here goes nothing...

Dear Blog,
Incase you've been wondering, and I don't doubt you have, I am known as Daniela. My age, location and last names are classified and unimportant to curious strangers anxiously skimming through my blog entries. I must clarify that I plan to remain anonymous- well, not completely anonymous; I mean, you do know my name and interests... but that's about it. 
As I was saying, I have completely and passionately devoted my life to books. Reading, writing... Everything. Books influence my thoughts, opinions and stories. If I ever become a professional and successful published author, which I deeply and strongly desire, I wish I could have the skill to do so to my own readers. I would have never dreamt of having readers even before I managed to publish a book. But look at me know; I have a blog! It can effect ordinary people's lives! 
Anyway, back to reality. The time I don't spend tackling homework or having my nose stuck in my book, I use to write stories. Who knows? Maybe someday I'll have the courage to post them on this very blog. 

Physical description. Right. Well, I'm awfully tall and I have wild, untamable chocolate curls. That's about all you'll ever get to know about me. 
Having finished my introduction, I bid you farewell and hope my pure nonsense didn't bore you. I will be back soon, and so will new blog entries.
Until next time,
The Aspiring Author- Lit by the Dim Glare of the Crescent Moon