The Creative Writings of Bianca Patricia Ison

1. The Creative Writings of Bianca Patricia Ison

2. Table of Contents Writings Poetry Fragments Multimedia

3. Writings Remnants of An Army Pro-Life A Short Story

4. Poetry Death A First Kiss The Wave The Animal in Me Hunting Accident

5. Fragments The Wedding Apathy

6. Multimedia Remnants of An Army Poems of Bianca Ison My Mom

7. Remnants of An Army It would be the mid neon colored 1980's, and would take place in a small Victorian town near Augsburg in Southern Germany, the land of chocolates and beer. There my Aunt Cornelia would live, in her mid-thirties. She would have a tall and slender figure, with short golden hair like the sun no longer than her mid-neck. Her eyes were a dark, stormy blue. The home she along with her loving husband and sons would live in would be a large, white, three story building with an attic and basement. The basement would be soundproof and empty except for a red drum set, while the rest of the house would be filled with old, but well kept, wooden furniture from before the era of swing dance, music, and war...the 1940's. My grandparents, Helene and Raoul Schwarze, would have even lived there before during World War II. They would pass down the story of how the U.S. army had used their house as a military base during WWII. In the 80's, the traffic in that area of Germany would become even more hectic, and soon the city would want to build a tunnel and take a portion of my Aunt’s backyard, which was filled with different herbs such as rosemary and chives and different flowers such as roses and tulips. In the far side of the yard would be an old, musty shed filled with old gardening tools such as rakes and shovels, which by then would be rusted. My Aunt Cornelia would have to remove the old and musty shed in the backyard that would have been there for over 50 years. She would look at it and remember it fondly, how she and her sisters, my mother Daniela and Aunt Michaela, played around it as young children. It would change little with time, and would still maintain its’ brown and weathered appearance as it would have in her childhood. Following day, she would sit out on the porch with her husband, Bernhrd, and her black lab, Senya, while some construction workers tore down the shed. It would be a beautiful day, warm with not a cloud in the sky. Everything would be going smoothly, the workers would carefully take the shed down so it would not collapse on them. As they would begin to remove floor boards, the would stop working. A commotion would occur among them as they would run to their radios. My Aunt and uncle would try to approach, but the workers would keep them away from the shed. They would tell my Aunt and Uncle that live U.S. explosives including bombs and grenades had been found beneath the old shed. Some time would pass, and the German military and bomb squad would come in as well as American forces to extract the explosives. All my Aunt could do would be to be thankful that those bombs had never exploded during her time living at the house or during her moments of retrieving things from the old shed

8. Apathy It was a normal day. Neither completely cloudy, nor sunny. Beneath this sky was a desert . The desert was barren of plants. No grass, no cacti, just sand. All there was in this desert apart from the sand was a small town. The buildings within this town were of a beige color, like the sand. They were old buildings, but still looked nice. The people there walked about in black and white clothing, and looking straight ahead. They paid no mind to any other person, and walked around seemingly absent minded. Nothing really happened in the town, the people mostly avoided each other.

9. The Wedding It was the happiest day of both their young lives. The two were finally going to get married. He anxiously waited in his hut for the time of the ceremony to come, while fidgeting with the tails of his ceremonial white robes which turn a slight gery beneth his arms from sweat. He looked out and saw the flowery arch under which he would be married to the girl of his dreams. The princess of the village. He had pined for her father's approval for months, and he had finally recieved it. The princess was in another side of the village, getting ready and felt just as anxious. She stood, fidgeting with her thumbs while the women adorned her with valuble pearls, amethysts, rubies, and gold. She was clothed in the finest cloth, covered with vibrant shades of blue, red, and gold. Her slender face was coverd by a thick red veil embrodered with a golden design as she was walked out of the hut and across the village to the flowered arch where her future husband waited for her, surrounded by all the villagers. She stood before him beneth the arch, and he flipped her veil over her head and looked into her deep narrow eyes, while his went wide with awe for she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her before. They both excitedly turned to face the shaman in his traditional robes and smiled. The ceremony began.

10. Pro-Life When I was a little girl, my mother became pregnant with my would-be little sibling. I was so happy; I can hardly remember how long I was hyper and jumpy. I just could not wait until I would become a big sister, when suddenly one of the worst things that could ever possibly happen happened; my mother miscarried. I felt horrible and my eyes became waterfalls. Then, my mother became pregnant again about a year later. I thought that it was going to be a success the second time, but the child died in my mommy’s belly again. I felt worse than the first time. As I grew older I began to think about how much of a waste of a life that miscarriage is, and from there I began to think of the people who would willingly abort their own unborn children. The general public will agree that raping, abusing, and harming children is a horrible crime and that those responsible should be locked away. Yet, many of the general public support the action of killing the child before the child is born. How is ripping a premature child from the mother’s belly, any better than putting a ten year old child to death? How does it differ at all? Some people claim that they are not ready to have children of their own. If that is the case, then why did they put themselves in the position of having children to begin with? Some make the claim that it is their body to with as they please. That child is not the mother’s body, that child is the child’s body. If the mother wanted to go and commit suicide, that would be sad but then that would be her own body. But the mother aborting the child would be killing the child’s body, not the mother’s and that, therefore, is murder. Why shouldn't those who get abortions go to jail like those who go and kill born children. Is it because a lot of people get abortions? Well, if a lot of people went around killing little boys and girls would that make the murder of children legal?

11. The Animal in Me I am loyal in my own way I show I care in my own wayI show in that I love to play When I play it seems offensive I bite and nip sometimes too hard I mean no harm though I hurt someMy waging tail is like a mace I am protective of my friends And play bite them a lot, as well.My fangs will cut a bit of skinBut I never cause much bleeding I can stand attacks for some time But push too hard you'll see scarletAs my upper snout starts to growl I’ll tilt my head and ears will flopI tend to listen more than talk My reasons are hard to find out Why it is I do what I doWhen I roll over, when I bite In time you learn to understand The lovable dog that I am

12. The Wave Techno music blastingColored strobe lights flashingThe nearby clock rings 2We’ve been here 6 hoursFrom evening to evening.Dancing to every song,Girls in short leather skirts,And guys strip on the stage,Soon I will join my bro,Doing the chicken dance,On stage as some crappy,Un-danceable songs play.No one is judging us,No one is being judged,As we all dance tonight,And make new friends by day,with Goths from all VAThey don't care what you wear,They don't care who you are,They will accept you, nomatter what you believe.Of all the cliches that are,This place reminds me why,I prefer Goth so much.

13. A First Kiss Leaning in for my very first sweet kiss.Our hearts are racing faster and faster, In the gentle rain falling from twilight.The nervous feeling is overwhelming,Yet at the same time so enjoyable,Leaning in for our very first sweet kiss.To make the first moves towards each other,As we share a loving, romantic hug In the gentle rain falling from twilight And then, we slowly whisper each other’sName, as the time comes for us to leave afterLeaning in for our very first sweet kiss.The thought stay with us through night,About our tender lips caressing each others. In the gentle rain falling from twilight And in our dreams, the memory replaysMaking them all the more cherish-able,Leaning in for our very first sweet kiss,In the gentle rain falling from twilight.

14. Death Hear the pounding thuds of dark rain,Falling from the blackened, cloudy sky,As I sit in the place of those who die.Some see death as a relief from pain,While others look on with only disdain.The chances of death grow daily, ever nigh, No matter how hard a soul dares to try,No one can escape the funeral plane.The only certainty in life is death.Life’s a short, complex, unvalued trail. The fear of death, many try to leaven,As they feel his frozen fearsome breath.Some fear they will be forsaken to hell,While the pure of heart shall go to heaven.

15. Hunting Accident Hounds blood satin like a rose, Gliding through each nails toes, Velvet like the shade of the fishes star, It sings like the lady bug, As it dances upon the shell sea, Climb higher, shine sun, And reveal it’s crimson glow, While the hunter bounds his bow, Like a storm thunder hatter mad, Cotton bands and flying arrows.

16. A Short Story If one thinks that cleaning up the dung of a sick man is revolting, they would never survive the job of cleaning up after dragons. God only knows how they produce such a revolting substance. It is an extremely hot, melted, dark green substance that smells worse than anything it can be remotely related to. It’s hardly worth the 100 gold pieces paid for a day, because I have to spend half of the week recovering from that unholy stench. I can not understand how that blasted elf does it on a daily basis. I suppose his nostrils are not as sensitive as mine. Alas, I am ahead of myself. My name is Tyrenna Galanodel, and I am a Caneian from the northern mountains of Calas. The Caneians are a race of...well...we're something like dogs. Our different clans are spread out all over the continent, and the general traits from my clan include silver hair, light crystal blue eyes, and fair skin. Almost all of the Caneians have dog ears, long tails, claws, fangs, and are no shorter than seven feet. I have long untrimmed hair going down to my hips, and I am hardly taller than seven foot. Like most Caneians, I was born with floppy ears that were clipped later. Floppy ears are a sign of youth, which I am finally no longer! Of all the races in Calas, Caneians age the slowest. One Caneian year is equal to one thousand human years, and in my years I am finally seventeen. At first glance, one would think we are lucky to live such long lives. The truth is I'm lucky to be alive, because most Canieans die as young children, considering it takes more than ten-thousand years to even reach the age of reason and we learn new things very slowly. Anyway, once I reached adulthood I could finally venture off into the world and make something of myself. Well, that was my excuse. I really just wanted off of that frozen hell-hold. I left the mountain and ended up living in an Elvin village called Hannen where I wound up doing odd jobs for a living. I admit it is an amazing village; then again it is the only village I have ever been to. It is surrounded by nothing but farmland for miles, but there is a beautiful picture of my mountain home to the north, where one sees the silhouette of it. It is a fairly large farming commute with animals everywhere, for some odd reason the Elves don't like eating meat. It is very irritating considering I'm a carnivore, and I have to eat a certain distance away from the village or they start yelling at me. What they yell I am not always certain, for I speak broken Elvin. The buildings are all made from some kind of earth, and although they may appear makeshift they are in fact very sturdy. There are plenty of menial tasks that the Elves will pay to get done. Some pay me to gather certain herbs, or liquids, or some other random trinket for about ten silver, but the highest payer is the dragon trainer who lives about a mile east of the village. He pays me to help clean up after the dragons. His name is Saron Damien. He's about six foot, and slender. His eyes are as green as the fresh grass, and his hair is gold like the wheat that they grow. He’s not like the other Elves, who always have their noses stuck in the air. He raises the dragons from wyrmlings, feeds them, cleans them, cleans up after them, and the likes. Thanks to him, I have a passionate hate of dragons and their waste. The nest is right outside of a cave on the side of the mountain, so should it rain they can head in it. I give a suppressed roar, coming out as a loud grumble, as the red and green wyrmlings try to eat my pant's leg.

17. A Short Story "Quiet," Damien says, "You'll startle them with your roar. They are only wyrmlings so it may make them crap more." I understand enough of what he says to stop roaring. I don't need any more to clean up. "Me know," I growl, as I finish stacking it all in to the barrel with a shovel. "If you hate the work so much, why do it?" he asks. The reason I do this revolting labor is because the elves do everything by magic, and charge limbs for goods. I could make my own clothes and such, but it would take the lives of the animals so they won't actually let me. I try to explain it, and he barely manages to understand my broken tongue. "I see," he says, and nods in agreement. He signals for me to follow him into the house and in the main room I wait for him to find what he's looking for. He has a small house, with about three rooms including the main room, his room, and a kitchen. Unlike the others, his house is built from stone. I've never been in the other two rooms, but the main room is big enough. I am at the door, and at the far side of the room is a small, brown, worn wooden table, with about four similar chairs around it. Damien is standing to the left at an old desk, and pulls out a large torn up piece of faded parchment. He calls me over and unrolls the parchment on the table. "I have a new task for you. I want you to go south to Kerin and take that egg and deliver it to a human called Taren." He shows me a map on his wall and points to a picture of a house and drags his finger to a house a little under it. Kerin? I never heard of it before, so I guess it is the house on the map, although it's not very helpful considering I'm illiterate. "Why Kerin?" I ask. "I lost a gambling match to a friend there," he sighs, looking away, "The price was a dragon egg, well that or fifty platinum pieces. Blasted humans don't even need platinum, they're so cheap." I begin laughing at him and my tail wags along as my ears perk up. He laughs at my waging tail. "Why?" he asks, looking at my tail and ears. I just shake my head; it is really none of his business why my body does what it does. All they do when they move is follow along my emotion, or my ears will move to hear well. I realize that he doesn't know that, but to me it’s almost as bad as the question I was tempted to ask the elves, 'Why are you ears so long?' I never do, I'm not that rude.

18. A Short Story "Anyway," he continues, "I'm sure he will have some work you can do. Come back tomorrow and I'll send you on your way with some supplies." I nod and begin to head back to the village. Elves my be annoying, but they sure can grow things, the wheat and corn are taller than I by several feet. Naturally they use unnatural methods. I arrive at the village and a few times almost run over the little elves. There's about five children in the village, for Elves also love long periods of time and don't breed very often. At least to them it is long, about one thousand years is considered old. I reach my hut and head in. If feels so small compared to Damien's house. My hut has one room, and only a hammock. I yawn, crack my back, and crawl up into the hammock. I don't fall asleep easily, for the smell of the wild sheep in flames my hunger. I will have to wait until the morning to eat. Eventually, I pass out from exhaustion. I wake up at dawn and after hopping out of the hammock I proceed to once again crack every stiff limb I have as I stretch. Without warning, I dash out of the hut on all fours and chase one of the sheep. The elves are already awake, and just look at me as I chase the sheep. I lead him from behind about several miles from the village farms and into the savannah, where I proceed to kill and eat it raw. I lick the blood off of my claws as I make my way to Damien's. As I walk, I begin to wonder is Elves ever actually sleep. They are awake long after me, as well as up before. They have beds, and from what I've seen when I clean for some of them they obviously use them. I think on the topic for the entire walk, when suddenly, "Caniean!" I snap to attention. Apparently I day dreamed my-self right into the dragon's nest. I look behind me and Damien is running up from the rear in his usual brown tunic. "What are you doing?" "I think and walk and here I am," I say, as clearly as I can. He shakes his head and shrugs it off. "Come with me," he says, "I'll give you the supplies and then you can go." I nod, and follow him once again into his house. It may not have much furniture, but it is still more than my on hammock. I receive a blanket, a flask of water, a cloth bandana, a leather hand sewn bag, and the egg. "I know you can hunt on your own, and all I can offer you is fruits and other plants to eat. You may want to put on the bandana before you get to the city." I gag at the thought of my first tasting the plants. It was then I knew I was a carnivore. They gave me apples, oranges, nuts, and berries to eat. I hardly ate any of it, and ran to throw it back up. I like nuts, though, so he gave me a bag of nuts. I tie the nuts and water to the belt of my pants, wrap the egg in the blanket and put it in the bag, and walk out side.

19. A Short Story "Me make sure Taren get egg." I say, "Bye!" I walk along as he waves me off. I take my time making my way through the fields, thinking about Kerin. I have never met a human, and wonder if they are as "well mannered" as the Elves. I have no clue as to what 'city' means, but I guess it is another word for a house. As soon as I hit the savannah I dash full speed south, egger to reach this new destination. I spend the entire day running, and begin to wonder how far south this house is. By nightfall, a tower begins to materialize in the distance past a hill. As I continue to run, the tower becomes higher and higher. Finally, I reach the top of the hill and as it turns out, I am standing on the side of a giant cliff, thousands of miles from the ground. I don’t see any house, nor did I at all on the run over. All there is, is a very large villages off the side of the cliff. The most awe inspiring thing was the tower, I could see it clearly. It was made from some kind of white stone, and had windows going all down the side of it. Surrounding the tower was another village. It is a very, very, big village that goes farther than the horizon. All the buildings are set in a pattern, so that different areas of the village are shaped like semi-circles. All of the buildings are made of the same white stone that turned gold in the sunset; accept for in the western portion, where the houses resemble that of the Elves from Hannen. I suppose I misunderstood, and Kerin is actually a village and not a house. I need a way to get down there, but there is no path or slope to get down. I have to jump, and intend to jump straight through one of the windows in the tower. I run back, and take a running start at the tower. At the edge of the cliff I jump, making sure my body stays horizontal so that I can one, fit in the window, and two the wind would push my body back if I was vertical. As soon as I make contact with the entrance to the window, my face hits something, hard. I almost fall, but I manage to dig my claws into the stone perch right out the window, and the frozen wind begins to whip at me. I pull myself half way up and see blood from where I hit floating in midair. I take one hand off the perch and push in front of me. I feel some sort of barrier. I hear a crack and look at the perch. My claws make a deep brake in the stone, and causes half the perch to brake off. I yelp as I begin to fall, and dig my claws into the side of the tower in an attempt to slow the fall.

20. A Short Story I flinch as the thick stone begins to rip my nail up and at the loud screech it makes. For a moment I see sparks fly from the friction. I look down and see I am about to hit the upper perch of another window. My feet land on the perch and I lose balance. Now that I no longer am being pulled by gravity my claws lose traction with the stone and I fall back. This time I am too far away from the tower to latch on, and have no choice but to face impact with the house directly below me. I force my legs down as if I am going to land on my feet, and watch as the roof of slate quickly approaches. I quickly pull the bag on my back to the front and touch down with the roof. The force from my impact causes it to collapse and I fall through, landing on my knees as the slate falls on my back. It lasts only a moment, and I sigh with relief. That could have been much worse. I hear another cracking noise and look around. The floor begins to move, and again falls though. This time I drop the bag and fall hard on my back. The bag follows and lands on my stomach. I double over in pain as the wind is knocked out of me. After a few moments I recover, and hear a creaking noise. Not from the floor this time, but the door. I snatch the bag and hide behind some wooded crates. “Hello?” a voice says. It doesn’t smell like an elf, so I peak around the corner of the crate to see a young child. She looks about two feet tall, with blonde hair going a little farther than her shoulders, and bangs above her walnut colored eyes. She wears a light pink, yet very loose, long sleeve gown, and some matching slippers. My nose was right, she is not an elf. Her face is rounded not narrow, and her ears are not long and sharp but instead are small and round. She is no threat and is more focused on the rubble in the center of the room, and I turn my attention towards the bag to make sure the egg is alright. I see that it is cracked. I growl, forgetting that the girl is still in the room. “Eeep!” She yelps, and looks over at the crate. I smack my forehead as the girl begins to approach the crate. Fortunately, children are slow thinkers, and I walk around and follow her as she looks around the other side. I reach around her head and grab her mouth, she gives a muffled shout. With my free hand I open one of the crates and place her inside. Her eyes widen, and unfortunately my hand slips and she manages to get a high pitch scream out. It makes me flinch, again. All of a sudden, I hear someone running towards here. I leap up the hole in the roof and sit on the second floor and watch shocked older man runs in. He most surely is not an elf. His skin is slightly wrinkled, and has several fine grey strands of hair upon his light mud colored hair. He chuckles at the sight of the girl in the crate, and speaks as he lifts her out. I do not under stand a single word he says, but the girl says something about a Caniean. The man frowns, and sends the girl out the room.

21. A Short Story “You must be the one Saron sent,” he says, in Caniean, “It is I, Taren.” My ears pop up, and I drop back down the hole. “Indeed I am,” I reply, also in Caniean, “Unfortunately, your precious egg was cracked in my fall.” I hand in the bag, and he takes the egg out. I never really looked at before. It is a red egg, about the size of his head, with a scaly shell and several of the scales form a golden pattern. Only now, it has a giant crack down the side. “Not a problem,” he shrugs, putting it back in the bag, “It’s going to hatch soon.” I twitch, because the last thing I need is another dragon. He begins to walk away. “Hey!” I call after him, “Damien told me you have work for me?” Taren blinks, then his eyes widen as though he realizes something. “I do indeed!” he declares, sharply, “but for now get some sleep. I’m sure this will be fine for you. Goodnight.” He tosses the blanket at me and leaves me dumb-founded. I look up through the hole and the sky is pitch black, and suddenly I become remarkably tired. I fold the blanket into a pillow and fall instantly asleep…