*So this is a poem I wrote for my mom's birthday. As you can probably tell by now, November is a very inspiring month for me. Plus, November combined with any other word makes for great titles. So it's really a win-win situation when I write about it, lol ;) Anyway, enjoy, and thanks for bearing with my rudimentary poetry skills :P*
Amber hues,
Golden waves,
Crashing through
Those windy days.
Sunset, shining,
Clouds of pink;
Daylight pining
For night’s dark ink.
Leaves are piling,
Days are shortening;
Children smiling,
Mom’s fear coughing.
You can think of ways,
Or understand:
November Days
Are more than grand.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Another excerpt from "Forgotten
*okay, so this excerpt is from chapter 2, and takes place about a year after the latest scene from this book. enjoy :)*
Annie
High school. I don’t think I had ever been more excited for something. I was fourteen and getting ready for my first day at a new school with new people. What was there to not love about it? And Jessie would be with me, so I was confident of being perfectly content.
I opened a few messy drawers before finding my favorite shirt and tugged it out of the other balled up clothes, then ripped a pair of jeans off a hangar in the closet and threw them both on. I took a deep breath, then turned to my chair by the mirror and prepared to apply my make-up. I had only just started to use eyeliner and lip gloss, so I felt adventurous, daring, and like a new person. I smiled at my appearance in the mirror and felt satisfied with myself.
Glancing at the clock, I realized I was going to be late for the bus if I didn’t hurry. I skipped breakfast, quickly brushed my teeth, grabbed my book bag and then ran down the stairs. I paused in the hallway for a moment and looked around me. Both of my parents had already left for work, and the house felt empty and lonely. My mom had gone back to work about five years ago, and whatever little time she had devoted to me previously had decreased drastically. I had grown accustomed to leaving the house empty and coming back to it empty, but there was always that twinge of sadness and isolation. I allowed myself one quick sigh, and then rushed out the door to wait for the bus, feeling my spirits rise considerably. I couldn’t wait to see Jessie and ask what she thought of my outfit. I knew she would just say I looked nice whether she thought so or not.
As the bus pulled up, I dashed in, grabbed a window seat, and tossed my bag next to me to save a seat for Jess. I smiled brightly at the groggy students around me, who all merely stared sleepily back at me. I tapped my feet and hummed a song as I waited for the bus to reach Jessie’s block and see her timid face peer through the yellow doors.
Jessie
High school. Nothing in the world scared me more. New people all around me, new surroundings to grow accustomed to, and more explaining to do when people asked about my mom. I was not looking forward to the next four years. The only good thing was that I would have Annie. But I could see the writing on the wall already. Annie would become wildly popular, and I would be the quiet friend who would be whispered about, and everyone would wonder why Annie liked me. No one would be mean, but the only friendliness I would encounter would be from those who pitied me because of my lack of a mother, or from those who were nice so as to get on Annie’s good side. Of course, I would make a few friends. But they would be the acquaintance type of friends who forget about you after a year or so.
I sighed as I meticulously peered through my tidy drawers for an outfit to wear. After finding a satisfactory shirt, sweater, and jeans, I made sure to close all of my drawers and replace the hangars back in the closet. I applied some chapstick, shook my head at my appearance, then ate my oatmeal, brushed my teeth, and checked my bag for everything I needed. I always made sure I had a spare pencil, pen, notebook, etc., because I knew Annie was likely to forget one of them. I walked into my dad’s home office to kiss him goodbye and wish him luck with work.
“Do you need a ride, Jessica?” he asked out of habit, not even looking up from his computer.
“No, I’m gonna ride the bus with Annie,” I replied, staring at my feet and fingering the dark wood of his desk. My dad nodded absentmindedly. I looked up at him and noticed for the millionth time since my mom had left how tired, lonely, and sad he looked. Multiple gray hairs streaked his naturally brown head, and his face looked aged and worn; he still wore his wedding ring. I glanced around me at the numerous pictures that lined the walls of my dad and my mom, my dad and me, my mom and me, all three of us together; in all of them we were smiling and happy. My throat tightened as I imagined what my dad would have been like if my mom was still here. For one thing, he would smile. For another, the pictures on his walls wouldn’t stop when I reached three. My dad and I sighed simultaneously as if we were thinking about the same thing. I knew it was the only thing my dad ever thought about. I swallowed hard, kissed my dad goodbye, and then walked out the door with a few minutes to spare before the bus came.
Closing my eyes, I recited a few lines of my favorite poem, “Wreck of the Hesperus”: “Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,/Her cheeks like the dawn of day,/And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,/That ope in the month of May.” Whenever asked why such a sad poem was my favorite, I always said that I liked to imagine myself as the skipper’s unfortunate daughter who was killed in the Wreck, as twisted and strange as that may sound. In fact, I even convinced myself that the blue of my eyes were as blue as “fairy-flax.” But I think the real reason was that my life, however sad it is, could never be as sad as the result of that poem and I found comfort in that.
Before long, the big, yellow bus came rolling along, and I climbed in. Annie was sitting there with a deliriously happy grin on her face, and patted the seat next to her. I sat there, and told her that she looked nice before she even asked.
She laughed and said, “Jess, you are a crazy kid.”
Annie
High school. I don’t think I had ever been more excited for something. I was fourteen and getting ready for my first day at a new school with new people. What was there to not love about it? And Jessie would be with me, so I was confident of being perfectly content.
I opened a few messy drawers before finding my favorite shirt and tugged it out of the other balled up clothes, then ripped a pair of jeans off a hangar in the closet and threw them both on. I took a deep breath, then turned to my chair by the mirror and prepared to apply my make-up. I had only just started to use eyeliner and lip gloss, so I felt adventurous, daring, and like a new person. I smiled at my appearance in the mirror and felt satisfied with myself.
Glancing at the clock, I realized I was going to be late for the bus if I didn’t hurry. I skipped breakfast, quickly brushed my teeth, grabbed my book bag and then ran down the stairs. I paused in the hallway for a moment and looked around me. Both of my parents had already left for work, and the house felt empty and lonely. My mom had gone back to work about five years ago, and whatever little time she had devoted to me previously had decreased drastically. I had grown accustomed to leaving the house empty and coming back to it empty, but there was always that twinge of sadness and isolation. I allowed myself one quick sigh, and then rushed out the door to wait for the bus, feeling my spirits rise considerably. I couldn’t wait to see Jessie and ask what she thought of my outfit. I knew she would just say I looked nice whether she thought so or not.
As the bus pulled up, I dashed in, grabbed a window seat, and tossed my bag next to me to save a seat for Jess. I smiled brightly at the groggy students around me, who all merely stared sleepily back at me. I tapped my feet and hummed a song as I waited for the bus to reach Jessie’s block and see her timid face peer through the yellow doors.
Jessie
High school. Nothing in the world scared me more. New people all around me, new surroundings to grow accustomed to, and more explaining to do when people asked about my mom. I was not looking forward to the next four years. The only good thing was that I would have Annie. But I could see the writing on the wall already. Annie would become wildly popular, and I would be the quiet friend who would be whispered about, and everyone would wonder why Annie liked me. No one would be mean, but the only friendliness I would encounter would be from those who pitied me because of my lack of a mother, or from those who were nice so as to get on Annie’s good side. Of course, I would make a few friends. But they would be the acquaintance type of friends who forget about you after a year or so.
I sighed as I meticulously peered through my tidy drawers for an outfit to wear. After finding a satisfactory shirt, sweater, and jeans, I made sure to close all of my drawers and replace the hangars back in the closet. I applied some chapstick, shook my head at my appearance, then ate my oatmeal, brushed my teeth, and checked my bag for everything I needed. I always made sure I had a spare pencil, pen, notebook, etc., because I knew Annie was likely to forget one of them. I walked into my dad’s home office to kiss him goodbye and wish him luck with work.
“Do you need a ride, Jessica?” he asked out of habit, not even looking up from his computer.
“No, I’m gonna ride the bus with Annie,” I replied, staring at my feet and fingering the dark wood of his desk. My dad nodded absentmindedly. I looked up at him and noticed for the millionth time since my mom had left how tired, lonely, and sad he looked. Multiple gray hairs streaked his naturally brown head, and his face looked aged and worn; he still wore his wedding ring. I glanced around me at the numerous pictures that lined the walls of my dad and my mom, my dad and me, my mom and me, all three of us together; in all of them we were smiling and happy. My throat tightened as I imagined what my dad would have been like if my mom was still here. For one thing, he would smile. For another, the pictures on his walls wouldn’t stop when I reached three. My dad and I sighed simultaneously as if we were thinking about the same thing. I knew it was the only thing my dad ever thought about. I swallowed hard, kissed my dad goodbye, and then walked out the door with a few minutes to spare before the bus came.
Closing my eyes, I recited a few lines of my favorite poem, “Wreck of the Hesperus”: “Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,/Her cheeks like the dawn of day,/And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,/That ope in the month of May.” Whenever asked why such a sad poem was my favorite, I always said that I liked to imagine myself as the skipper’s unfortunate daughter who was killed in the Wreck, as twisted and strange as that may sound. In fact, I even convinced myself that the blue of my eyes were as blue as “fairy-flax.” But I think the real reason was that my life, however sad it is, could never be as sad as the result of that poem and I found comfort in that.
Before long, the big, yellow bus came rolling along, and I climbed in. Annie was sitting there with a deliriously happy grin on her face, and patted the seat next to her. I sat there, and told her that she looked nice before she even asked.
She laughed and said, “Jess, you are a crazy kid.”
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Excerpt from a colonial story
*This is the first chapter of a paper I wrote for history a few years ago that I just recently decided to expand into a story. It's gone through major reconstruction, but it still needs some work to erase some immature, old me style, stuff, lol*
When my father, my younger sister, and I arrived in Quebec in the year 1639, I was shocked to find it wasn’t bitterly cold. All the stories my family had heard of Quebec were of endless snow, harsh wind, and unforgiving cold. I had not expected it to be warm, even though it was summer.
As I held my little sister Cecile’s hand, I stared at the land that was to be my new home with anxiety and nervous excitement and thought of the days that had passed since my mother’s death. Ever since that fateful day when fever had descended upon our household, things had not gone well for my family in Reims, France. The illness had taken both my mother and my two weeks old brother.
Nobody seemed to need a carpenter, or at least a carpenter like my father, who had a fiery temper. My mother was the only person who could talk him out of his bad moods, and once she was gone, things became hopeless. People seemed only to want carpenters like Jacques, who spoke with silky, flattering words. He was my father’s competitor, and we knew him to be a cruel man and saw past his veneer.
So, my father could not find work. We suddenly found ourselves without enough money to retain our property, and we lost our home. My father’s brother had often written to us, saying we should go to Quebec, where he had prospered and now lived in comfort. My uncle had gone to Quebec in 1627 when Minister Richelieu established the Company of 100 associates. They financed his journey and supported him for the first three years of his life in Quebec, as they did for three hundred colonists every year.
I remember the day my father finally decided to accept his offer. I had been sitting in the room of the tavern where we were staying, letting down the hem of one of Cecile’s dresses just as my mother had taught me, when my father entered.
“Blanche, I can see no other way out,” he sighed, holding a letter in his hand. I quietly folded the dress up and placed it in my sewing basket.
“What do you mean, Father?” I asked.
“I have decided to accept your uncle’s offer and go join him in the New World,” he stated. I was silent.
“But what about Cecile and me? What will become of us?” I questioned anxiously. I feared that my father might leave us behind and not send for us for a few years, as had happened to a friend of mine. My father looked at me in surprise.
“Why, you would come with me, of course. We must start our life anew, and moving to Quebec would give us that chance,” he told me. I nodded. What else was I to do?
So it was settled. My father sent off the letter telling of our plans to my uncle the next day. In the weeks that followed, Father made preparations for our departure. He was able to buy us transport on a ship owned by an old friend. We packed what few belongings we had left, and before I knew it, had set off to Quebec.
Our journey was long and arduous, and Cecile was often seasick. Storms were not uncommon, and it was always cold. Cecile and Father and I were often huddled below deck, desperate for warmth. The food was stale and tasteless, and more often than not, the repulsive sight of grubs and maggots greeted us on our plates. When we finally saw land again on July 14th, Cecile and I cried, and father for once was speechless.
Though the rocky promontory that was Quebec was not necessarily beautiful, there was something breathtaking about it. There was such a rawness and wild feel humming all around it, and even if I had not known where I was, I would have been sure it was in the New World.
Father heaved our small trunk, filled with our few belongings, on to his shoulder, and I picked up his large, heavy tool sack and held it tight with two hands. Cecile grabbed my skirt and together we trudged down the wobbly plank and on to the rugged terrain that rose out from the riverbank. It took me a few minutes to regain my land legs, and I had to apologize more than once for bumping into someone. We weaved our way through the crowd as I stared curiously at the town. All the buildings seemed so new and fresh, though very weather beaten. Apothecaries, various stores for everyday needs, an ironworks, a trader post, a church, and houses. It would have seemed like any other normal, somewhat newly established town that could be found in the middle of France except for the fact that it was surrounded by wilderness. I could hear the rush of a river somewhere nearby, and pine trees loomed behind every building. As I walked, I could feel the steep incline beneath my feet as my muscles begged for rest.
I suddenly realized that we were heading toward one of the largest houses in the village, a carpenter’s sign hanging over the door. I assumed it was my uncle’s.
As we walked up the rocky and well-worn path to the large house, the door was suddenly thrown open, and a big, brown-haired man bounded out the door. My father dropped the trunk, and I winced as I heard our pots clatter. After hugging my father tightly, the man pushed him away and surveyed him closely.
“Ah, my little brother Jean, come at last!”
“Then you got my letter, Louis?” said my father with relief. My uncle nodded.
“Yes, yes. It arrived a week ago. Ah, how happy I am to see you! But who is this?” questioned my uncle, looking at me. “Can this be little Blanche?” he asked, stunned.
I blushed and said, “Yes, Uncle. It has been twelve years, now.”
“You are fourteen, then?” he exclaimed. I nodded. “Oh my, how you have grown!” shouted my uncle kissing both of my cheeks and patting my auburn head. Cecile peeked out from behind my skirt, her brown curls bouncing. “And this must be Cecile!” stated my uncle. Cecile nodded and stepped out from behind me. My uncle picked her up and swung her around. She laughed with glee, as my uncle shouted, “Oh, I have heard so much about you!” My father chuckled, and then we all burst out laughing. It felt good to laugh after being sad for so long. I felt a hope inside me that maybe this new life in this new place would be filled with much laughter, and little sadness.
When my father, my younger sister, and I arrived in Quebec in the year 1639, I was shocked to find it wasn’t bitterly cold. All the stories my family had heard of Quebec were of endless snow, harsh wind, and unforgiving cold. I had not expected it to be warm, even though it was summer.
As I held my little sister Cecile’s hand, I stared at the land that was to be my new home with anxiety and nervous excitement and thought of the days that had passed since my mother’s death. Ever since that fateful day when fever had descended upon our household, things had not gone well for my family in Reims, France. The illness had taken both my mother and my two weeks old brother.
Nobody seemed to need a carpenter, or at least a carpenter like my father, who had a fiery temper. My mother was the only person who could talk him out of his bad moods, and once she was gone, things became hopeless. People seemed only to want carpenters like Jacques, who spoke with silky, flattering words. He was my father’s competitor, and we knew him to be a cruel man and saw past his veneer.
So, my father could not find work. We suddenly found ourselves without enough money to retain our property, and we lost our home. My father’s brother had often written to us, saying we should go to Quebec, where he had prospered and now lived in comfort. My uncle had gone to Quebec in 1627 when Minister Richelieu established the Company of 100 associates. They financed his journey and supported him for the first three years of his life in Quebec, as they did for three hundred colonists every year.
I remember the day my father finally decided to accept his offer. I had been sitting in the room of the tavern where we were staying, letting down the hem of one of Cecile’s dresses just as my mother had taught me, when my father entered.
“Blanche, I can see no other way out,” he sighed, holding a letter in his hand. I quietly folded the dress up and placed it in my sewing basket.
“What do you mean, Father?” I asked.
“I have decided to accept your uncle’s offer and go join him in the New World,” he stated. I was silent.
“But what about Cecile and me? What will become of us?” I questioned anxiously. I feared that my father might leave us behind and not send for us for a few years, as had happened to a friend of mine. My father looked at me in surprise.
“Why, you would come with me, of course. We must start our life anew, and moving to Quebec would give us that chance,” he told me. I nodded. What else was I to do?
So it was settled. My father sent off the letter telling of our plans to my uncle the next day. In the weeks that followed, Father made preparations for our departure. He was able to buy us transport on a ship owned by an old friend. We packed what few belongings we had left, and before I knew it, had set off to Quebec.
Our journey was long and arduous, and Cecile was often seasick. Storms were not uncommon, and it was always cold. Cecile and Father and I were often huddled below deck, desperate for warmth. The food was stale and tasteless, and more often than not, the repulsive sight of grubs and maggots greeted us on our plates. When we finally saw land again on July 14th, Cecile and I cried, and father for once was speechless.
Though the rocky promontory that was Quebec was not necessarily beautiful, there was something breathtaking about it. There was such a rawness and wild feel humming all around it, and even if I had not known where I was, I would have been sure it was in the New World.
Father heaved our small trunk, filled with our few belongings, on to his shoulder, and I picked up his large, heavy tool sack and held it tight with two hands. Cecile grabbed my skirt and together we trudged down the wobbly plank and on to the rugged terrain that rose out from the riverbank. It took me a few minutes to regain my land legs, and I had to apologize more than once for bumping into someone. We weaved our way through the crowd as I stared curiously at the town. All the buildings seemed so new and fresh, though very weather beaten. Apothecaries, various stores for everyday needs, an ironworks, a trader post, a church, and houses. It would have seemed like any other normal, somewhat newly established town that could be found in the middle of France except for the fact that it was surrounded by wilderness. I could hear the rush of a river somewhere nearby, and pine trees loomed behind every building. As I walked, I could feel the steep incline beneath my feet as my muscles begged for rest.
I suddenly realized that we were heading toward one of the largest houses in the village, a carpenter’s sign hanging over the door. I assumed it was my uncle’s.
As we walked up the rocky and well-worn path to the large house, the door was suddenly thrown open, and a big, brown-haired man bounded out the door. My father dropped the trunk, and I winced as I heard our pots clatter. After hugging my father tightly, the man pushed him away and surveyed him closely.
“Ah, my little brother Jean, come at last!”
“Then you got my letter, Louis?” said my father with relief. My uncle nodded.
“Yes, yes. It arrived a week ago. Ah, how happy I am to see you! But who is this?” questioned my uncle, looking at me. “Can this be little Blanche?” he asked, stunned.
I blushed and said, “Yes, Uncle. It has been twelve years, now.”
“You are fourteen, then?” he exclaimed. I nodded. “Oh my, how you have grown!” shouted my uncle kissing both of my cheeks and patting my auburn head. Cecile peeked out from behind my skirt, her brown curls bouncing. “And this must be Cecile!” stated my uncle. Cecile nodded and stepped out from behind me. My uncle picked her up and swung her around. She laughed with glee, as my uncle shouted, “Oh, I have heard so much about you!” My father chuckled, and then we all burst out laughing. It felt good to laugh after being sad for so long. I felt a hope inside me that maybe this new life in this new place would be filled with much laughter, and little sadness.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
More from Forgotten
*Okay, so this takes place when Annie and Jessie are about eleven years old. I might change that age, though, so don't dwell too much on it.*
Annie
Jessie was going to sleep over, and I was getting my room ready before she arrived. I felt kind of nervous about tonight. I had decided I was going to tell Jessie my deepest, darkest secret that nobody else knew about. Jessie and I were best friends, though, so I knew I could trust her with this secret. I heard my doorbell ring and rolled my eyes; typical Jessie to ring the doorbell when she knew she could just walk right in, like I did at her house. I heard my mom open the door and send Jessie upstairs. There was a gentle tap on my door, and Jessie quietly entered.
“Geez, Jessie, you act as if you’re in a stranger’s house. You don’t have to ring the doorbell or knock before you come into my room,” I told her. She laughed and blushed at the same time.
“Sorry, Annie, I just don’t want to be rude,” she replied. I pulled her into a hug and laughed.
“You are way to polite for your own good,” I shook my head. I released her and she tried to breathe again as I grabbed her things and threw them in a corner of the room. We climbed onto my bed and sat Indian style opposite each other and immediately began a game of thumb war like usual. I won, like usual, and said, “Okay, question for the night: What is your deepest fear?” I couldn’t prevent the slight shakiness in my voice. Jessie didn’t notice, or at least pretended not to. That’s the way she was. She always made sure you didn’t feel awkward or embarrassed. The kid was way too nice.
Jessie looked down at her hands and thought for a while, then said, “I guess my deepest fear is being abandoned. You know, having somebody you really care about just leave you without a thought, like they don’t care. I don’t want to be alone, or…unloved.” I closed my eyes and hated myself for a few seconds. How could I have been so stupid to rip open that subject on her?
“Aw, Jess, I’m sorry I brought that up,” I said and tugged her into another hug. I stroked her hair as she took a few deep breaths. I thought of the day she first told me a few years earlier about how her mom left Jessie and her dad when Jessie was only four. Jessie had been playing in the backyard with her dad, when her mom opened the door lugging out her suitcase. Jessie had watched in confusion as her dad and mom argued for a while, and then finally how her mom just got in the car and drove away.
“It’s okay, I’m alright. Don’t worry about it,” Jessie said, pulling away and smiling. “What’s your deepest fear?”
Jessie
I waited for Annie to answer. She seemed somewhat torn. Annie worried me sometimes, the way she was just so unpredictable. I never knew where our conversations would lead.
“Well, you’re going to laugh at me…” she began hesitantly. That was strange for two reasons: first, Annie was never hesitant, and second, Annie knew I would never ever laugh at her. I raised my eyebrows. “Okay, so you won’t laugh, but you will think I’m weird,” she corrected herself.
“Don’t worry Annie, I already think you’re weird, so you haven’t got much to lose,” I said consolingly. She laughed loudly and shook her head.
“You are a crazy kid, Jessie,” she commented. I looked at her meaningfully, and she cleared her throat hurriedly. “Alright, I’ll stop procrastinating. My deepest fear is that when I die, I’ll be forgotten. That I’ll never get the chance to do something worthwhile and memorable, that you or my husband will remember to put flowers on my grave for a few months, and then I’ll just fade from everyone’s minds and that’ll be it. I’ll be dead, and the memory of me will be dead. It scares me, Jess, it really does. I don’t want to be forgotten, I don’t want a wave to just wash me out of everyone’s minds once I’m gone and am no longer able to personally remind them of my existence. “ Annie was now in tears and I stared at her in surprise. “And I don’t know what I can do to make sure that people are gonna remember me. What can I do to make sure they don’t forget?” Annie folded into my arms and I hugged her as she sobbed into my shoulders. I suddenly felt scared and vulnerable. Annie was always the brave one, she was always the one that hugged me when I got scared and cried. I was worried about what she had just told me, and my throat felt clogged with emotion.
I patted her back and said the only thing I could think of that could comfort her, “Don’t worry, Annie; I will never forget you, I can promise you that.”
Annie
Jessie was going to sleep over, and I was getting my room ready before she arrived. I felt kind of nervous about tonight. I had decided I was going to tell Jessie my deepest, darkest secret that nobody else knew about. Jessie and I were best friends, though, so I knew I could trust her with this secret. I heard my doorbell ring and rolled my eyes; typical Jessie to ring the doorbell when she knew she could just walk right in, like I did at her house. I heard my mom open the door and send Jessie upstairs. There was a gentle tap on my door, and Jessie quietly entered.
“Geez, Jessie, you act as if you’re in a stranger’s house. You don’t have to ring the doorbell or knock before you come into my room,” I told her. She laughed and blushed at the same time.
“Sorry, Annie, I just don’t want to be rude,” she replied. I pulled her into a hug and laughed.
“You are way to polite for your own good,” I shook my head. I released her and she tried to breathe again as I grabbed her things and threw them in a corner of the room. We climbed onto my bed and sat Indian style opposite each other and immediately began a game of thumb war like usual. I won, like usual, and said, “Okay, question for the night: What is your deepest fear?” I couldn’t prevent the slight shakiness in my voice. Jessie didn’t notice, or at least pretended not to. That’s the way she was. She always made sure you didn’t feel awkward or embarrassed. The kid was way too nice.
Jessie looked down at her hands and thought for a while, then said, “I guess my deepest fear is being abandoned. You know, having somebody you really care about just leave you without a thought, like they don’t care. I don’t want to be alone, or…unloved.” I closed my eyes and hated myself for a few seconds. How could I have been so stupid to rip open that subject on her?
“Aw, Jess, I’m sorry I brought that up,” I said and tugged her into another hug. I stroked her hair as she took a few deep breaths. I thought of the day she first told me a few years earlier about how her mom left Jessie and her dad when Jessie was only four. Jessie had been playing in the backyard with her dad, when her mom opened the door lugging out her suitcase. Jessie had watched in confusion as her dad and mom argued for a while, and then finally how her mom just got in the car and drove away.
“It’s okay, I’m alright. Don’t worry about it,” Jessie said, pulling away and smiling. “What’s your deepest fear?”
Jessie
I waited for Annie to answer. She seemed somewhat torn. Annie worried me sometimes, the way she was just so unpredictable. I never knew where our conversations would lead.
“Well, you’re going to laugh at me…” she began hesitantly. That was strange for two reasons: first, Annie was never hesitant, and second, Annie knew I would never ever laugh at her. I raised my eyebrows. “Okay, so you won’t laugh, but you will think I’m weird,” she corrected herself.
“Don’t worry Annie, I already think you’re weird, so you haven’t got much to lose,” I said consolingly. She laughed loudly and shook her head.
“You are a crazy kid, Jessie,” she commented. I looked at her meaningfully, and she cleared her throat hurriedly. “Alright, I’ll stop procrastinating. My deepest fear is that when I die, I’ll be forgotten. That I’ll never get the chance to do something worthwhile and memorable, that you or my husband will remember to put flowers on my grave for a few months, and then I’ll just fade from everyone’s minds and that’ll be it. I’ll be dead, and the memory of me will be dead. It scares me, Jess, it really does. I don’t want to be forgotten, I don’t want a wave to just wash me out of everyone’s minds once I’m gone and am no longer able to personally remind them of my existence. “ Annie was now in tears and I stared at her in surprise. “And I don’t know what I can do to make sure that people are gonna remember me. What can I do to make sure they don’t forget?” Annie folded into my arms and I hugged her as she sobbed into my shoulders. I suddenly felt scared and vulnerable. Annie was always the brave one, she was always the one that hugged me when I got scared and cried. I was worried about what she had just told me, and my throat felt clogged with emotion.
I patted her back and said the only thing I could think of that could comfort her, “Don’t worry, Annie; I will never forget you, I can promise you that.”
Friday, August 20, 2010
Another excerpt from another new book "The Storyteller"
*I don't really know where in the book this is all happening, but I wrote it and this is it. I feel like the protagonist is one of my best characters yet, she's just so real. It's kind of personal because she's a lot like me in ways, so...yeah...this is it:*
Dear Diary,
So, I've never written a diary before, but my English teacher says it builds character and I need to write entries at least weekly in you. Which basically means that I write in this book or get failed. I think I'll choose the former.
So. Um. Basics about me, I guess. There are three things I love most in the world: Writing, Dancing, and Acting. And they were written in the order of most loved. I know, it's weird that I love writing so much, and yet have never written in a diary. It's just that I normally see the world from my character's lives, and not through my own. So I've only felt the urge to write down what they see and feel, instead of what I do. But that's off-topic. I'll just let you know what I love most about the three things I wrote above.
There’s nothing quite like the feel of a pen or pencil in my hand, the sound of the scribble of lead on crisp paper, and just watching words flow out from my mind and on to that blank canvas. It’s almost like art. You take colors and a paintbrush, and paint the image in your head for all to see. But instead of images, there are words. It fascinates me to no end to have the worlds in my head come to life on the paper. To see the characters who are like my children interact with each other for all to see. But it’s frustrating when I can’t find the words to describe what is truly perfect to me. Because sometimes, there are no words that can truly fit the people and places I create in my mind. And I want so badly to share it with everyone. But nobody can ever see what I see.
Dancing has always been very important to me. It’s much more than a workout and exercise to me. It’s my escape from my life, my time where I can just forget everything that bothers me, hurts me, and stresses me out. So I dance, and I forget. It's a kind of therapy for all of my troubles in life. I use my pent-up anger to add emotion to my movements, my suppressed energy to keep me moving, and just let my mind go blank as I try to concentrate on the task at hand.
Acting isn’t one of my priorities in life, and it’s not half as important to me as writing or dancing, but I still enjoy it. It’s just another way to express my erratic personality. So I'm not gonna write more about it.
When I think about it, all of my favorite activities are a form of storytelling. Writing is the most traditional and usual way to tell a story. With dancing, you express the story through your body movements and facial expressions. Acting is another more traditional manner of telling a story. I guess that just makes me a storyteller. If only I had a good story to tell. I know my stories are interesting to me- when I first write them at least. My over-active imagination creates thousands of storylines and ideas daily. It’s like it haunts me, driving me to the point of insanity than slowly dragging me back again, just so I can write down the words running through my head. Because that’s what it’s like. All somebody has to do is say one word, and I make a sentence out of it, then I make the background of the sentence, then the character who says it, then I have to make a character who responds, then the background of that character, then what they look like, and before I know it, I have the beginning of a story. And my heart breaks to know that I won’t write it.
Wow, it feels so strange to be telling this story. Not that I don't like writing stories or anything. But I'm so used to seeing the world through other people's eyes, telling the story from the way they see and feel it. Now, for the first time in my life, I'm writing things the way I see it. Now, I'm seeing the world through my own eyes. Now, people are reading about me, and not about a character I created. Now, I'm the storyteller not of somebody else's life, but of my own.
Dear Diary,
So, I've never written a diary before, but my English teacher says it builds character and I need to write entries at least weekly in you. Which basically means that I write in this book or get failed. I think I'll choose the former.
So. Um. Basics about me, I guess. There are three things I love most in the world: Writing, Dancing, and Acting. And they were written in the order of most loved. I know, it's weird that I love writing so much, and yet have never written in a diary. It's just that I normally see the world from my character's lives, and not through my own. So I've only felt the urge to write down what they see and feel, instead of what I do. But that's off-topic. I'll just let you know what I love most about the three things I wrote above.
There’s nothing quite like the feel of a pen or pencil in my hand, the sound of the scribble of lead on crisp paper, and just watching words flow out from my mind and on to that blank canvas. It’s almost like art. You take colors and a paintbrush, and paint the image in your head for all to see. But instead of images, there are words. It fascinates me to no end to have the worlds in my head come to life on the paper. To see the characters who are like my children interact with each other for all to see. But it’s frustrating when I can’t find the words to describe what is truly perfect to me. Because sometimes, there are no words that can truly fit the people and places I create in my mind. And I want so badly to share it with everyone. But nobody can ever see what I see.
Dancing has always been very important to me. It’s much more than a workout and exercise to me. It’s my escape from my life, my time where I can just forget everything that bothers me, hurts me, and stresses me out. So I dance, and I forget. It's a kind of therapy for all of my troubles in life. I use my pent-up anger to add emotion to my movements, my suppressed energy to keep me moving, and just let my mind go blank as I try to concentrate on the task at hand.
Acting isn’t one of my priorities in life, and it’s not half as important to me as writing or dancing, but I still enjoy it. It’s just another way to express my erratic personality. So I'm not gonna write more about it.
When I think about it, all of my favorite activities are a form of storytelling. Writing is the most traditional and usual way to tell a story. With dancing, you express the story through your body movements and facial expressions. Acting is another more traditional manner of telling a story. I guess that just makes me a storyteller. If only I had a good story to tell. I know my stories are interesting to me- when I first write them at least. My over-active imagination creates thousands of storylines and ideas daily. It’s like it haunts me, driving me to the point of insanity than slowly dragging me back again, just so I can write down the words running through my head. Because that’s what it’s like. All somebody has to do is say one word, and I make a sentence out of it, then I make the background of the sentence, then the character who says it, then I have to make a character who responds, then the background of that character, then what they look like, and before I know it, I have the beginning of a story. And my heart breaks to know that I won’t write it.
Wow, it feels so strange to be telling this story. Not that I don't like writing stories or anything. But I'm so used to seeing the world through other people's eyes, telling the story from the way they see and feel it. Now, for the first time in my life, I'm writing things the way I see it. Now, I'm seeing the world through my own eyes. Now, people are reading about me, and not about a character I created. Now, I'm the storyteller not of somebody else's life, but of my own.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Excerpt from 'Forgotten'
*Okay, so this idea has been sitting in my head for quite awhile, but I've been so busy this summer that I really haven't had a chance to write anything. Hence, the lack of posts of late. BUt I've decided that it's high time to delight you all with a new post ;) Enjoy!*
Annie's Prologue:
When I was seven years old, I wrote my name in the sand near the ocean. Waves lapped delicately at my name's tip, but went no further. I was sure that I had written it high enough to avoid being washed away. I ran up the slight sandy slope to where the rest of my family was seated, and grabbed my mother's hand to show her what I had written. Upon my return, I found to my horror that the waves had come up further and washed away my name. Annie Shorner had disappeared from the sand. My mother said that such a thing was to be expected, and not to be worried by it.
As she retreated back up the slope, it made me wonder if that's how life was. You go through every day, doing your business, trying to leave a mark in the world. But when you die, you're just forgotten. No one remembers you after a few months. Who cares if you won employee of the month five times in a row? You've done nothing to deserve a prominent place in the memories of all mankind. Only a few select achieve that high honor. And that scared me. It scared me more than anything else to think that one day I would be forgotten, that one day I would be erased from the memories of all. I made up my mind there and then to make sure that I would always be remembered, to make sure that no one would ever forget me. Ever.
I think it was that day that changed me, that day that set my fate to be what I have become. That fear of my name being washed away from the memories of men by a gentle wave made me realize that I couldn't engrave my memory into sand, but into stone. Annie Shorner would not disappear ever again.
Jessie's Prologue:
I sit in this cold, white room and listen to the hushed voices issuing from behind the curtains that hide Annie and her bed. A face peeks out and looks at me.
"Miss, we're going to have to ask you to sit in the waiting room until you're called in," the nurse says. I mutely stand and leave the E.R., walk into the waiting room and plop down into an empty seat there. A woman in a business suit approaches me.
"Jessica Borite?" she asks, her voice stern but trying to be friendly. I look at her blankly and nod. She glances down at a pile of papers in her hand, her lips pursed tightly together. After a few minutes, she looks back at me. "My sources tell me that you were very close with Annie Shorner before she rose to power. Would you care to give us some important information about her, perhaps some details about this whole mess. I'm told you were indirectly involved. We have the best psychologists and professors on her case, and we were hoping you could help us." I remain silent. "You'll be an anonymous source, of course," the lady adds. Again, I say nothing. "Will you say nothing at all?" I confirm her question by doing exactly that. She sighs in exasperation, then walks away.
Who do they think they are, trying to pry into Annie's life, her mind, her heart? They know nothing about her, they don't understand. She wasn't always like this. She never wanted to hurt anybody. None of this is her fault. My heart aches for the sight of Annie's smile again, just to see her how she used to be, when we were best friends. I want to hear her laugh, hear her tell me this is all a big joke to test our friendship like she used to when we were younger. But she's lying unconscious in a hospital, with unfriendly people penetrating her personal bubble, as she would have said. My head aches as I try to think of anyway this all could have been prevented. My whole body aches to feel once more one of Annie's suffocating hugs.
I watch as a man who had been talking to the lady in the business suit walks over to me, a friendly smile on his face. He sits down in the chair besides mine and says, "My name's Justin. Your's is Jessie, right?" I barely nod. "Want to be friends?" he asks cheerfully. I stare at this twenty-something year old using five year old tactics to make friends as if he's gone crazy. I shrug, not really knowing what else to do. He grins. "So. What's your favorite color?" At this, my whole body tenses. I can still hear Annie's six year old voice asking me that same question twenty years ago. Something inside me breaks, and tears start pouring down my face.
Through my weeping, I manage to choke out, "She asked me...that... once, too. A long time.. ago." I wrap my arms around my self and cry and cry, my sobs wracking my entire body. I feel a consoling arm laid gently on my shoulder, and Justin's voice tells me to just let it all out. "We were...six," I begin between gasps, bawling my eyes out, unable to control myself anymore, "that's how...it all...started."
Annie's Prologue:
When I was seven years old, I wrote my name in the sand near the ocean. Waves lapped delicately at my name's tip, but went no further. I was sure that I had written it high enough to avoid being washed away. I ran up the slight sandy slope to where the rest of my family was seated, and grabbed my mother's hand to show her what I had written. Upon my return, I found to my horror that the waves had come up further and washed away my name. Annie Shorner had disappeared from the sand. My mother said that such a thing was to be expected, and not to be worried by it.
As she retreated back up the slope, it made me wonder if that's how life was. You go through every day, doing your business, trying to leave a mark in the world. But when you die, you're just forgotten. No one remembers you after a few months. Who cares if you won employee of the month five times in a row? You've done nothing to deserve a prominent place in the memories of all mankind. Only a few select achieve that high honor. And that scared me. It scared me more than anything else to think that one day I would be forgotten, that one day I would be erased from the memories of all. I made up my mind there and then to make sure that I would always be remembered, to make sure that no one would ever forget me. Ever.
I think it was that day that changed me, that day that set my fate to be what I have become. That fear of my name being washed away from the memories of men by a gentle wave made me realize that I couldn't engrave my memory into sand, but into stone. Annie Shorner would not disappear ever again.
Jessie's Prologue:
I sit in this cold, white room and listen to the hushed voices issuing from behind the curtains that hide Annie and her bed. A face peeks out and looks at me.
"Miss, we're going to have to ask you to sit in the waiting room until you're called in," the nurse says. I mutely stand and leave the E.R., walk into the waiting room and plop down into an empty seat there. A woman in a business suit approaches me.
"Jessica Borite?" she asks, her voice stern but trying to be friendly. I look at her blankly and nod. She glances down at a pile of papers in her hand, her lips pursed tightly together. After a few minutes, she looks back at me. "My sources tell me that you were very close with Annie Shorner before she rose to power. Would you care to give us some important information about her, perhaps some details about this whole mess. I'm told you were indirectly involved. We have the best psychologists and professors on her case, and we were hoping you could help us." I remain silent. "You'll be an anonymous source, of course," the lady adds. Again, I say nothing. "Will you say nothing at all?" I confirm her question by doing exactly that. She sighs in exasperation, then walks away.
Who do they think they are, trying to pry into Annie's life, her mind, her heart? They know nothing about her, they don't understand. She wasn't always like this. She never wanted to hurt anybody. None of this is her fault. My heart aches for the sight of Annie's smile again, just to see her how she used to be, when we were best friends. I want to hear her laugh, hear her tell me this is all a big joke to test our friendship like she used to when we were younger. But she's lying unconscious in a hospital, with unfriendly people penetrating her personal bubble, as she would have said. My head aches as I try to think of anyway this all could have been prevented. My whole body aches to feel once more one of Annie's suffocating hugs.
I watch as a man who had been talking to the lady in the business suit walks over to me, a friendly smile on his face. He sits down in the chair besides mine and says, "My name's Justin. Your's is Jessie, right?" I barely nod. "Want to be friends?" he asks cheerfully. I stare at this twenty-something year old using five year old tactics to make friends as if he's gone crazy. I shrug, not really knowing what else to do. He grins. "So. What's your favorite color?" At this, my whole body tenses. I can still hear Annie's six year old voice asking me that same question twenty years ago. Something inside me breaks, and tears start pouring down my face.
Through my weeping, I manage to choke out, "She asked me...that... once, too. A long time.. ago." I wrap my arms around my self and cry and cry, my sobs wracking my entire body. I feel a consoling arm laid gently on my shoulder, and Justin's voice tells me to just let it all out. "We were...six," I begin between gasps, bawling my eyes out, unable to control myself anymore, "that's how...it all...started."
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Another excerpt from Mirror Image
*Okay, this will probably confuse you as well. It's kind of short, but I thought it would make for another good cliff-hanger, so here's something I just added to Mirror Image :D*
“Come in, Kara. There’s no need to stand there as if you were on trial,” issued the Queen’s voice from behind a curtain. The lady whose presence was so demanding and regal walked out from behind the satin curtain, shocking Kara by just how short she was. The small woman stood there proudly, but kindly, her black hair that was streaked with silver wound upon her head in an intricate bun. She smiled sternly at Kara and said, “You may close the door.” Kara did as she was told and entered the room further.
It was impeccably styled, with four brown chairs arranged around one small, crimson chair. Silver curtains lined the wall opposite the door, hiding the windows and whatever else upon that wall and making the room dark. Another silver curtain hung to the right, hiding the Queen’s private chambers where she had been sitting before. A dark, warm rug was upon the floor and Kara had the urge to lie upon it, it appeared to be so soft and comfortable. A large fireplace, bereft of actual fire, was the center piece of the left side of the room, near to the five chairs, with large, brown chests lined with silver on either side of it.
Queen Cecilia smiled as she watched Kara examine her room and asked, “Does my room meet your approval?” Kara blushed and nodded in response. “Unfortunately, my dear young lady, I did not ask you here to inspect the condition of my living chambers. I have very important matters to discuss with you.” Kara nodded again. “Please, take a seat in one of those brown chairs,” the Queen instructed, gesturing to the grouping of chairs by the fireplace. Kara sat in the smallest of the four, and the Queen smiled. “That is Coran’s. It’s a good thing you chose his. He’s the only one who will not mind you sitting in his chair,” the Queen said, taking a seat in her own petite, red chair.
The two women sat silently a moment, staring at each other and saying nothing. The Queen’s gaze was stern and scrutinizing, without being harsh, whereas Kara’s was weak and embarrassed, afraid to hold her gaze.
The Queen finally broke the silence, bluntly saying, “You look much better now that Genevieve has cleaned you up and gotten you some proper clothes. Indeed, I would say that you look quite lovely. You have a very pretty face.” Kara blushed.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she muttered.
“Oh, please. Don’t you dare ‘Your Majesty’ me. I will have none of that groveling in my land,” the Queen proclaimed. Kara could not resist a laugh at the Queen’s frankness and the Queen allowed herself a smile. “Again, I am allowing myself to be distracted. I apologize. What you are here for is to discuss the mirror that you arrived here in. For you see, my dear, I came here through that very same mirror.”
“Come in, Kara. There’s no need to stand there as if you were on trial,” issued the Queen’s voice from behind a curtain. The lady whose presence was so demanding and regal walked out from behind the satin curtain, shocking Kara by just how short she was. The small woman stood there proudly, but kindly, her black hair that was streaked with silver wound upon her head in an intricate bun. She smiled sternly at Kara and said, “You may close the door.” Kara did as she was told and entered the room further.
It was impeccably styled, with four brown chairs arranged around one small, crimson chair. Silver curtains lined the wall opposite the door, hiding the windows and whatever else upon that wall and making the room dark. Another silver curtain hung to the right, hiding the Queen’s private chambers where she had been sitting before. A dark, warm rug was upon the floor and Kara had the urge to lie upon it, it appeared to be so soft and comfortable. A large fireplace, bereft of actual fire, was the center piece of the left side of the room, near to the five chairs, with large, brown chests lined with silver on either side of it.
Queen Cecilia smiled as she watched Kara examine her room and asked, “Does my room meet your approval?” Kara blushed and nodded in response. “Unfortunately, my dear young lady, I did not ask you here to inspect the condition of my living chambers. I have very important matters to discuss with you.” Kara nodded again. “Please, take a seat in one of those brown chairs,” the Queen instructed, gesturing to the grouping of chairs by the fireplace. Kara sat in the smallest of the four, and the Queen smiled. “That is Coran’s. It’s a good thing you chose his. He’s the only one who will not mind you sitting in his chair,” the Queen said, taking a seat in her own petite, red chair.
The two women sat silently a moment, staring at each other and saying nothing. The Queen’s gaze was stern and scrutinizing, without being harsh, whereas Kara’s was weak and embarrassed, afraid to hold her gaze.
The Queen finally broke the silence, bluntly saying, “You look much better now that Genevieve has cleaned you up and gotten you some proper clothes. Indeed, I would say that you look quite lovely. You have a very pretty face.” Kara blushed.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she muttered.
“Oh, please. Don’t you dare ‘Your Majesty’ me. I will have none of that groveling in my land,” the Queen proclaimed. Kara could not resist a laugh at the Queen’s frankness and the Queen allowed herself a smile. “Again, I am allowing myself to be distracted. I apologize. What you are here for is to discuss the mirror that you arrived here in. For you see, my dear, I came here through that very same mirror.”
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Excerpt from an as of yet untitled book
*Okay, so I got this story from a dream I had that was soooo realistic. Jackie (the main character) is a modern day girl who goes to sleep one night and wakes up in a prairie in the 19th century Colorado. Enjoy!!*
Jackie was in the middle of a prairie. Yellowing grass was spread out all around her, and large clumps of dirt were plainly seen. Clouds of dust churned across the wide expanse of land that was almost completely bereft of trees. Fear gripped at Jackie’s mind and she hoped with all her heart that she was dreaming.
The sound of a fire crackling caused her to turn around. Part of her wasn’t surprised at all to see a young cowboy around Jackie’s age crouched by a campfire stirring a liquid in a tin pot with a black horse standing behind him. The cowboy looked up and met her gaze with a kind, friendly smile.
“Mornin’, miss,” he said with a Western accent. His bright blue eyes twinkled with humor and his tanned face crinkled with a smile. Jackie was in shock, but decided that she had to be in a very realistic dream and would wake up within minutes. She might as well play along.
“Um, good morning,” she replied. The cowboy stood up, a tin cup in his hand, and ladled the brown liquid from the pot into it.
“Want some?” he asked in his slow, deep voice.
“What is it?”
“Coffee, miss. What else?” the cowboy replied, appearing to be amused by the question.
“Oh, um, okay, yeah, I’ll have some. Thanks,” Jackie said. The cowboy smiled amiably and handed her the cup. Jackie returned the smile, but made a face as soon as she tasted the coffee. “Ugh, this definitely isn’t Starbucks material,” she muttered, handing the cup back to the cowboy who laughed.
“You sure do talk funny,” he said with a chuckle.
“My New York accent isn’t that bad!” Jackie protested.
“Is that how New York people talk? I was thinking they’d be more smart soundin’ an’ all,” the cowboy said with a grin.
“Are you implying that I don’t sound smart?” Jackie asked, glaring at the stranger.
“Nah, ‘course I ain’t sayin’ that. I only meant I thought they’d be more high an’ mighty like,” the cowboy smiled. His smile was so infectious that Jackie couldn’t help but reciprocate the action. They were silent a moment as Jackie pondered when she would wake up from this odd dream and the cowboy fed his horse. “Whoa, boy”, “easy there”, and “Now don’t you want some a these tasty oats?” could be heard from where he was standing, and Jackie felt somewhat soothed by it.
As the boy finished feeding his horse, he turned to Jackie and asked, “So what are you doin’ way out here all alone anyways?”
“Um, well, I don’t really know,” Jackie said, unable to come up with a suitable answer. The cowboy didn’t look convinced that she really didn’t know.
“If you don’t wanna tell me, that’s fine. Ain’t none of my business, anyway, I guess,” the cowboy said nonchalantly. Jackie felt bad that she couldn’t come up with a good excuse. “I’m Sam, by the way.” Jackie smiled.
“I’m Jacqueline Forger, but you can call me Jackie.”
“Miss Forger is jus’ fine for me,” the cowboy grinned. Jackie laughed, thinking that Miss Forger was probably the proper thing for a cowboy to call a young lady. “D’ya need a ride somewhere, Miss Forger?”
“I guess to the nearest town, if you don’t mind.”
“Course I don’t. I’m going there myself.”
“Okay, awesome. Thanks!” Jackie said. The cowboy chuckled when she said awesome, amused by her ‘New York slang’. Jackie stood up, brushed the dust off her clothes, and suddenly realized that she was wearing an old, 19th century style dress.
“Somethin’ wrong, Miss Forger?” Sam asked, observing Jackie’s shocked expression. Jackie reminded herself that she was in a dream where anything could happen and shook her head.
“No, nothing’s wrong.”
“Alrigh’, then. Let’s git goin’,” Sam urged gently in a cheerful manner. Jackie walked over to Sam, who easily lifted her up onto his horse. Jackie clutched the saddle-horn and swallowed hard. Her cowboy grinned, kicked dirt over the fire, then swung himself onto his horse in front of her, so that Jackie had to hold on to Sam’s waist in order not to fall off. “Miss Forger, this is Solomon the Wise. Solomon, this is Miss Forger; be nice to her, ole boy,” Sam said formally. Jackie laughed.
“Solomon the Wise? You named your horse ‘Solomon the Wise’?” she asked with a laugh. Sam spurred his horse forward and stroked his horse’s mane fondly.
“Sure I did. I got great respect for Mister Solomon the Wise from the Bible.”
“And what better way to show your respect for him than to name your horse after him?” Jackie giggled.
“That’s jist what I thought,” Sam said good-naturedly. The cowboy tugged his hat a little further over his head, glanced back at Jackie, then suddenly spurred his horse into a canter. Jackie let out a small scream and held onto Sam tighter. He laughed and as he slowed his horse down, said, “What’s the matter, Miss Forger? Ne’er been on a horse afore?” Jackie took a deep breath and shook her head.
“No, I haven’t. So don’t you dare do that again.” Sam chuckled and shook his head.
“New York people sure are strange, yesiree.”
Jackie was in the middle of a prairie. Yellowing grass was spread out all around her, and large clumps of dirt were plainly seen. Clouds of dust churned across the wide expanse of land that was almost completely bereft of trees. Fear gripped at Jackie’s mind and she hoped with all her heart that she was dreaming.
The sound of a fire crackling caused her to turn around. Part of her wasn’t surprised at all to see a young cowboy around Jackie’s age crouched by a campfire stirring a liquid in a tin pot with a black horse standing behind him. The cowboy looked up and met her gaze with a kind, friendly smile.
“Mornin’, miss,” he said with a Western accent. His bright blue eyes twinkled with humor and his tanned face crinkled with a smile. Jackie was in shock, but decided that she had to be in a very realistic dream and would wake up within minutes. She might as well play along.
“Um, good morning,” she replied. The cowboy stood up, a tin cup in his hand, and ladled the brown liquid from the pot into it.
“Want some?” he asked in his slow, deep voice.
“What is it?”
“Coffee, miss. What else?” the cowboy replied, appearing to be amused by the question.
“Oh, um, okay, yeah, I’ll have some. Thanks,” Jackie said. The cowboy smiled amiably and handed her the cup. Jackie returned the smile, but made a face as soon as she tasted the coffee. “Ugh, this definitely isn’t Starbucks material,” she muttered, handing the cup back to the cowboy who laughed.
“You sure do talk funny,” he said with a chuckle.
“My New York accent isn’t that bad!” Jackie protested.
“Is that how New York people talk? I was thinking they’d be more smart soundin’ an’ all,” the cowboy said with a grin.
“Are you implying that I don’t sound smart?” Jackie asked, glaring at the stranger.
“Nah, ‘course I ain’t sayin’ that. I only meant I thought they’d be more high an’ mighty like,” the cowboy smiled. His smile was so infectious that Jackie couldn’t help but reciprocate the action. They were silent a moment as Jackie pondered when she would wake up from this odd dream and the cowboy fed his horse. “Whoa, boy”, “easy there”, and “Now don’t you want some a these tasty oats?” could be heard from where he was standing, and Jackie felt somewhat soothed by it.
As the boy finished feeding his horse, he turned to Jackie and asked, “So what are you doin’ way out here all alone anyways?”
“Um, well, I don’t really know,” Jackie said, unable to come up with a suitable answer. The cowboy didn’t look convinced that she really didn’t know.
“If you don’t wanna tell me, that’s fine. Ain’t none of my business, anyway, I guess,” the cowboy said nonchalantly. Jackie felt bad that she couldn’t come up with a good excuse. “I’m Sam, by the way.” Jackie smiled.
“I’m Jacqueline Forger, but you can call me Jackie.”
“Miss Forger is jus’ fine for me,” the cowboy grinned. Jackie laughed, thinking that Miss Forger was probably the proper thing for a cowboy to call a young lady. “D’ya need a ride somewhere, Miss Forger?”
“I guess to the nearest town, if you don’t mind.”
“Course I don’t. I’m going there myself.”
“Okay, awesome. Thanks!” Jackie said. The cowboy chuckled when she said awesome, amused by her ‘New York slang’. Jackie stood up, brushed the dust off her clothes, and suddenly realized that she was wearing an old, 19th century style dress.
“Somethin’ wrong, Miss Forger?” Sam asked, observing Jackie’s shocked expression. Jackie reminded herself that she was in a dream where anything could happen and shook her head.
“No, nothing’s wrong.”
“Alrigh’, then. Let’s git goin’,” Sam urged gently in a cheerful manner. Jackie walked over to Sam, who easily lifted her up onto his horse. Jackie clutched the saddle-horn and swallowed hard. Her cowboy grinned, kicked dirt over the fire, then swung himself onto his horse in front of her, so that Jackie had to hold on to Sam’s waist in order not to fall off. “Miss Forger, this is Solomon the Wise. Solomon, this is Miss Forger; be nice to her, ole boy,” Sam said formally. Jackie laughed.
“Solomon the Wise? You named your horse ‘Solomon the Wise’?” she asked with a laugh. Sam spurred his horse forward and stroked his horse’s mane fondly.
“Sure I did. I got great respect for Mister Solomon the Wise from the Bible.”
“And what better way to show your respect for him than to name your horse after him?” Jackie giggled.
“That’s jist what I thought,” Sam said good-naturedly. The cowboy tugged his hat a little further over his head, glanced back at Jackie, then suddenly spurred his horse into a canter. Jackie let out a small scream and held onto Sam tighter. He laughed and as he slowed his horse down, said, “What’s the matter, Miss Forger? Ne’er been on a horse afore?” Jackie took a deep breath and shook her head.
“No, I haven’t. So don’t you dare do that again.” Sam chuckled and shook his head.
“New York people sure are strange, yesiree.”
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Another excerpt from November Skies
*If you read and remember the first excerpt from November Skies, you'll probably be confused after reading this one and wonder how on earth it jumped from that to this. But don't worry. I meant to confuse you. So just sit back, relax, and read and enjoy your confusion while you still can, before everything becomes explained :)*
We woke up to light. A blinding light that was so powerful and so gentle at the same time. A light that radiated from a man, or perhaps he was a boy. He looked to be eighteen, and yet he had an indescribable aura around him that emanated wisdom and strength. Suddenly, the light faded and the boy could be seen more clearly. Blonde curls fell to his chin, and crystal blue eyes peered down at us from a finely sculpted face. I glanced around us, and saw white everywhere. Lightness and brightness were the two words that came to my mind as I examined my surroundings. We seemed to be lying in some sort of large, white castle. I sat up and felt the soft material beneath me, which was thick and soft, the kind of material one would think a cloud to be made of. Off in the distance, darkness swelled in the form of a rain-cloud and the realization of where I was dawned upon me. I was sitting in a castle made of clouds. I looked back to the boy in front of me in shock.
“Hello,” he said. His voice was deep and strong, and it echoed about the cloud room with haunting, resonating tones that somehow comforted me and put my bewildered mind to rest. Then I remembered that we were on a cloud, thousands of feet up in the sky and began to panic.
“Who are you? Where are we? Why are we here? How can we get back?” I asked in a rush, eager for answers. My frenzied voice alerted my friends and they realized where they were. Claire’s mouth dropped open in surprise, Will moved closer to me, and Beth, Rose, and Kathleen looked just about ready to cry.
“I am Michael, and you need not be afraid,” said the boy in a soothing tone with a gentle smile. His voice immediately comforted us, and we all managed to calm ourselves.
“This is the realm of the Caeli Custodes, or the Sky Guards, if you are not familiar with Latin. You are here because the sky has chosen you for an important mission, and you will return to your homes when that mission is completed,” Michael explained. We all smiled when we heard the gentle tone of Michael’s voice, and none of us seemed to fully grasp the meaning of what had just been told us. But Claire seemed to be able to hear past Michael’s voice and comprehended the actual words that the rest of us had been practically oblivious to.
“Wait, what mission? And how are we to know that you are telling the truth? Please, explain yourself further,” she demanded. Michael smiled.
“You are right to be concerned. I suppose if I were human and in your situation, I would be concerned as well.”
Rose’s eyes almost popped out of her head as she stared in astonishment at Michael. “Y-you mean you a-aren’t h-h-human?” she stuttered. Michael shook his head gently, and large, golden wings suddenly unfolded from his back. Rose nearly fainted, and Beth and Kathleen gasped. Claire’s mouth once again dropped open and I fell back into Will with shock. Michael quickly folded his wings back in.
“I am sorry, that was uncalled for,” he apologized. He cleared his throat, and then continued, “Every November, a ceremony in the skies honoring the Caeli Custodes takes place, changing the color of the skies. Humans have created scientific explanations for this changing color in the skies, something you do for everything mysterious and beyond your understanding. During this ceremony, a group of humans are chosen to pass onto their world belief, hope, and faith, without revealing the secrets and mysteries of what lies beyond their world. You have been chosen this year to fulfill this calling.”
We woke up to light. A blinding light that was so powerful and so gentle at the same time. A light that radiated from a man, or perhaps he was a boy. He looked to be eighteen, and yet he had an indescribable aura around him that emanated wisdom and strength. Suddenly, the light faded and the boy could be seen more clearly. Blonde curls fell to his chin, and crystal blue eyes peered down at us from a finely sculpted face. I glanced around us, and saw white everywhere. Lightness and brightness were the two words that came to my mind as I examined my surroundings. We seemed to be lying in some sort of large, white castle. I sat up and felt the soft material beneath me, which was thick and soft, the kind of material one would think a cloud to be made of. Off in the distance, darkness swelled in the form of a rain-cloud and the realization of where I was dawned upon me. I was sitting in a castle made of clouds. I looked back to the boy in front of me in shock.
“Hello,” he said. His voice was deep and strong, and it echoed about the cloud room with haunting, resonating tones that somehow comforted me and put my bewildered mind to rest. Then I remembered that we were on a cloud, thousands of feet up in the sky and began to panic.
“Who are you? Where are we? Why are we here? How can we get back?” I asked in a rush, eager for answers. My frenzied voice alerted my friends and they realized where they were. Claire’s mouth dropped open in surprise, Will moved closer to me, and Beth, Rose, and Kathleen looked just about ready to cry.
“I am Michael, and you need not be afraid,” said the boy in a soothing tone with a gentle smile. His voice immediately comforted us, and we all managed to calm ourselves.
“This is the realm of the Caeli Custodes, or the Sky Guards, if you are not familiar with Latin. You are here because the sky has chosen you for an important mission, and you will return to your homes when that mission is completed,” Michael explained. We all smiled when we heard the gentle tone of Michael’s voice, and none of us seemed to fully grasp the meaning of what had just been told us. But Claire seemed to be able to hear past Michael’s voice and comprehended the actual words that the rest of us had been practically oblivious to.
“Wait, what mission? And how are we to know that you are telling the truth? Please, explain yourself further,” she demanded. Michael smiled.
“You are right to be concerned. I suppose if I were human and in your situation, I would be concerned as well.”
Rose’s eyes almost popped out of her head as she stared in astonishment at Michael. “Y-you mean you a-aren’t h-h-human?” she stuttered. Michael shook his head gently, and large, golden wings suddenly unfolded from his back. Rose nearly fainted, and Beth and Kathleen gasped. Claire’s mouth once again dropped open and I fell back into Will with shock. Michael quickly folded his wings back in.
“I am sorry, that was uncalled for,” he apologized. He cleared his throat, and then continued, “Every November, a ceremony in the skies honoring the Caeli Custodes takes place, changing the color of the skies. Humans have created scientific explanations for this changing color in the skies, something you do for everything mysterious and beyond your understanding. During this ceremony, a group of humans are chosen to pass onto their world belief, hope, and faith, without revealing the secrets and mysteries of what lies beyond their world. You have been chosen this year to fulfill this calling.”
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Mother's Day Poem
*So, for my gift for my loving mater, I decided to write her a poem, for lack of money to buy her a real gift with ;) Anyway, this is it. If any of you are lacking gifts for your mamasitas, feel free to use my poem :)*
The one to clean, to cook, to scrub is my Mother.
Who else will do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me to shine.
The one to read aloud, to sing songs, to talk with is my Mother.
Who else will do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me be kind.
The one to teach me, to feed me, to guide me is my Mother.
Who else will do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me to shine.
The one to give me life, to make me who I am is my Mother.
Who else could do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me be kind.
There can never be another
To take the place of my Mother.
I love her, and will love her forever,
The only thing a Mother asks from her Daughter.
The one to clean, to cook, to scrub is my Mother.
Who else will do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me to shine.
The one to read aloud, to sing songs, to talk with is my Mother.
Who else will do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me be kind.
The one to teach me, to feed me, to guide me is my Mother.
Who else will do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me to shine.
The one to give me life, to make me who I am is my Mother.
Who else could do it? There is no other.
She spends day after day with these things in mind:
To love, to care, to teach, to help me be kind.
There can never be another
To take the place of my Mother.
I love her, and will love her forever,
The only thing a Mother asks from her Daughter.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Excerpt from Giselle: A Ballet Re-told
*When I was little, my mom bought me a book of classic ballets. I was just re-reading it lately, and decided that the ballet "Giselle" would make a really interesting story. So here's the prologue for my retelling of this story. BTW, you don't have to be familiar with the ballet to understand the story, it will all be explained soon enough in the book :)*
Prologue
Cold, wispy tendrils of fog wrap around my ankles as I walk lifelessly through the graveyard. I stare at my white, frozen hands and mourn the warmth they once possessed. Haunting peals of sad laughter echo all around me, and I feel a strong, feminine arm wrap around my shoulders.
"Giselle, my dear, wait over there for me to introduce you to the other wylies," instructs Queen Myrtha, ruler of the wylies. I want to run away from her, from all the wylies, from my gloomy fate. But I cannot. I am destined to live as a broken-hearted ghost forever. I look at the Queen once, then slowly turn and walk to the brink of the lake at the edge of the forest where the Queen had pointed. As I silently wait to be introduced, I listen to the Queen and the wylies speak.
"My dears, my dears, let us all settle down," begins Queen Myrtha. Silence ensues. "Let us remember who we are and why we are here. Who broke our hearts and caused us to die?" she questions.
"Faithless men!" the wylies respond enthusiastically, tears in their eyes. I feel tears in my own eyes as I think of Albrecht.
"And what happens to those despicable men who dare trespass upon our land?"
"We kill them!" the wylies shrill, tears dissipating and eyes flashing with anger instead. All my life, before I died that is, stories have been told in a warning manner, telling of the heartbroken women who haunt the woods at night from sunset to sunrise. Any man foolish enough to cross paths with a wylie was never seen of or heard of again. I had never believed in the wylies, those ghostly women who had been victims of faithless men. And now I am one of them.
"Good, good! I am glad to see that you have not forgotten your purpose. Now, I would like to introduce our newest member, Giselle," says the Queen. Right on cue, I step forth from the mist that had previously enshrouded me, and stare at the countless number of wylies before me. They are all clothed in white, their skin cold and pale, their eyes lifeless and sad, their faces pained and angry. I wonder if I look the same way.
"Tell us a little about yourself, dear," the Queen prods. I know what she wants. She wants me to be spiteful and and furious, to shout in agony my story, to bitterly swear that I hate all men and will wreck my vengeance on them all. But that is not how I feel. I may be broken-hearted, but I am not bitter.
So instead, I say softly, "I loved to dance." The Queen's eyebrows raise.
"Ah, is that so? Well, then, fortunately for you the wylies dance often," she tells me. I nod.
"I was quite good at it, too. But Mother didn't like it because my heart is-...was too weak. That's how I died," I explain, my eyes growing moist as I think of my mother and my last moments alive. The Queen smiles, sensing a good heart-break story for her to grow even more bitter upon.
"Why don't you just tell us the whole story, dear." I sigh. I know I'll have to do it sooner or later anyway. I have all eternity. But part of me wants to share my misery, my sadness, my heartbreak...the wylie part.
"It all started when I was dancing in the meadow, the one on the other side of this lake," I begin. This is my story.
Prologue
Cold, wispy tendrils of fog wrap around my ankles as I walk lifelessly through the graveyard. I stare at my white, frozen hands and mourn the warmth they once possessed. Haunting peals of sad laughter echo all around me, and I feel a strong, feminine arm wrap around my shoulders.
"Giselle, my dear, wait over there for me to introduce you to the other wylies," instructs Queen Myrtha, ruler of the wylies. I want to run away from her, from all the wylies, from my gloomy fate. But I cannot. I am destined to live as a broken-hearted ghost forever. I look at the Queen once, then slowly turn and walk to the brink of the lake at the edge of the forest where the Queen had pointed. As I silently wait to be introduced, I listen to the Queen and the wylies speak.
"My dears, my dears, let us all settle down," begins Queen Myrtha. Silence ensues. "Let us remember who we are and why we are here. Who broke our hearts and caused us to die?" she questions.
"Faithless men!" the wylies respond enthusiastically, tears in their eyes. I feel tears in my own eyes as I think of Albrecht.
"And what happens to those despicable men who dare trespass upon our land?"
"We kill them!" the wylies shrill, tears dissipating and eyes flashing with anger instead. All my life, before I died that is, stories have been told in a warning manner, telling of the heartbroken women who haunt the woods at night from sunset to sunrise. Any man foolish enough to cross paths with a wylie was never seen of or heard of again. I had never believed in the wylies, those ghostly women who had been victims of faithless men. And now I am one of them.
"Good, good! I am glad to see that you have not forgotten your purpose. Now, I would like to introduce our newest member, Giselle," says the Queen. Right on cue, I step forth from the mist that had previously enshrouded me, and stare at the countless number of wylies before me. They are all clothed in white, their skin cold and pale, their eyes lifeless and sad, their faces pained and angry. I wonder if I look the same way.
"Tell us a little about yourself, dear," the Queen prods. I know what she wants. She wants me to be spiteful and and furious, to shout in agony my story, to bitterly swear that I hate all men and will wreck my vengeance on them all. But that is not how I feel. I may be broken-hearted, but I am not bitter.
So instead, I say softly, "I loved to dance." The Queen's eyebrows raise.
"Ah, is that so? Well, then, fortunately for you the wylies dance often," she tells me. I nod.
"I was quite good at it, too. But Mother didn't like it because my heart is-...was too weak. That's how I died," I explain, my eyes growing moist as I think of my mother and my last moments alive. The Queen smiles, sensing a good heart-break story for her to grow even more bitter upon.
"Why don't you just tell us the whole story, dear." I sigh. I know I'll have to do it sooner or later anyway. I have all eternity. But part of me wants to share my misery, my sadness, my heartbreak...the wylie part.
"It all started when I was dancing in the meadow, the one on the other side of this lake," I begin. This is my story.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Questions
Does a name define a person, or does a person define a name?
Do we really know as much as we think we know, or do we only know what we think?
Do we see what we want, or do we only want what we see?
Are we what we seem to be, or do we seem to be what we are?
Is hope really imagination, or is imagination really hope?
What is better to have: love of knowledge or knowledge of love?
Do we really know ourselves as well as we assume, or do we assume to know ourselves as well as we know everybody else?
Do we want what we need, or do we need what we want?
Are there ever any answers to questions such as these? Or do we remain ignorant until death and perhaps even beyond? Will we ever know the answer at all?
Do we really know as much as we think we know, or do we only know what we think?
Do we see what we want, or do we only want what we see?
Are we what we seem to be, or do we seem to be what we are?
Is hope really imagination, or is imagination really hope?
What is better to have: love of knowledge or knowledge of love?
Do we really know ourselves as well as we assume, or do we assume to know ourselves as well as we know everybody else?
Do we want what we need, or do we need what we want?
Are there ever any answers to questions such as these? Or do we remain ignorant until death and perhaps even beyond? Will we ever know the answer at all?
Monday, March 15, 2010
Ode to Andrew
Tears have streamed down the face of many a person since you've left this world. I don't think anybody realized that when we said good-bye, it would be our last good-bye to you. Is there anyway for you to know how greatly you're missed? Anyway for you to know how many people's lives you've touched? I really hope you do. I really hope you know how much everyone loved you, how much everyone still loves you, how much everyone will always love you.
You made mistakes. We all make mistakes some time or other. I just wish the price hadn't been so great. I never knew you that well. I only remember that you were always kind. When all the cousins were gathered together, you made sure I wasn't forgotten. When I complained of boys who pulled on my pigtails, you taught me how to punch. Perhaps not the greatest solution to the problem, but it was much appreciated. And it was never forgotten. It wasn't that I could now defend myself because you taught me how to punch someone correctly, but that you had taken the time to even teach me at all. You cared. You cared about everyone. And people remembered that you cared. At your wake, the line of people to say their last good-byes to you continued out the door. And people didn't stop coming until the very end. You cared, and people cared in return. And so your legacy will live on. People will always remember you. Remember your passion for art and music. Remember the small acts of kindness you did. Just know, Andrew, that you will always be remembered with love by all who knew you. I will always remember you.
You made mistakes. We all make mistakes some time or other. I just wish the price hadn't been so great. I never knew you that well. I only remember that you were always kind. When all the cousins were gathered together, you made sure I wasn't forgotten. When I complained of boys who pulled on my pigtails, you taught me how to punch. Perhaps not the greatest solution to the problem, but it was much appreciated. And it was never forgotten. It wasn't that I could now defend myself because you taught me how to punch someone correctly, but that you had taken the time to even teach me at all. You cared. You cared about everyone. And people remembered that you cared. At your wake, the line of people to say their last good-byes to you continued out the door. And people didn't stop coming until the very end. You cared, and people cared in return. And so your legacy will live on. People will always remember you. Remember your passion for art and music. Remember the small acts of kindness you did. Just know, Andrew, that you will always be remembered with love by all who knew you. I will always remember you.
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Battle of Thermopylae
*For my history course this year (not the AP one), I had to write an essay about a Greek battle. I chose the Battle of Thermopylae, and this is the outcome :) Hope you like it!*
The Battle of Thermopylae
Pain. It is the only feeling I am aware of. My breath does not come easily, but rather in short spurts. I beg the gods to help me. I have been trained my entire life to endure pain, and yet I cannot tolerate this one wound. Groans of pain can be heard from all around me, so I know I am not alone in my misery. With my eyes tightly squeezed shut, I try to accept my fate: I am about to die. I hold no doubts regarding that fact. It is inevitable, expected to say the least. Dear Zeus, please have mercy upon me in my death.
Who am I? Where am I? Why did this happen? Who was it that speared me? I cannot remember my name, only that I am Spartan; only that I once had a brother; only that I am about to die because I defended my country from- who? Ah, yes; the cursed Persians. This battle is all I can remember in detail, this battle where three hundred of my countrymen have lost or are losing their lives defending the pass of Thermopylae. Have we succeeded? I cannot tell, but only hope that we have. It was three hundred of us Spartans against thousands upon thousands upon thousands of Persians. The Persian army was made of numerous men, far greater in number than ours. But our army was made of soldiers. A haze begins to drift over me, slowing my brain, all I can think of is my last battle, the battle I will lose my life to.
We were not the only soldiers there, of course. But we were the only men outside the gates guarding the pass of Thermopylae those first few days. We knew the Persian army was ten times larger than our own in number. But our leaders were certain that this narrow pass would be the only place where we could prevent the Persians from entering and conquering Greece. So we Spartans guarded the entrance through the gate, and the rest of the army was beyond. We spent our time preparing for battle, exercising and combing our hair. It has always been very important to us to insure we looked our best for battle. Four days passed before the cowardly Persians finally attacked. Word spread that our attackers were the Medes. I remember my brother and I exchanging excited, yet grim, smiles as we faced the oncoming men. The battle that ensued lasted most of the day, with few Spartan casualties. But, oh! the many deaths inflicted upon the Medes were beyond counting. Eventually, they withdrew and were soon replaced by more soldiers.
“They call themselves the King’s Immortals,” my brother had said.
“We will see,” I had replied simply. For the rest of that day, we battled the ‘Immortals’, again with few casualties on our side. As for the Persians, well, it became obvious that they were not immortal after all. I begin to recall our retreat feint we used on the Immortals: we would pretend to retreat in fear, the Persians chasing after us. At the very last minute, we would turn and slaughter the men behind us with little difficulty.
On the next day, the Greek armies alternated in who was guarding the pass, and the Persians were no luckier in battle than they were in the previous day. They again eventually withdrew, and we were confident of victory. Very early the next morning we received news of betrayal: a man had revealed the secret road that led behind the gates to the Persians. We knew at that moment there was little hope of survival now. Our leaders were torn on the decision of whether to go or to stay. Our great king, Leonidas, declared that he would stay, since we had originally come to guard this post. He told the others to leave, that we would defend the rear. Those who wished to stay were ordered by Leonidas to leave. Only the Thebans and Thespians remained, the former as hostages, the latter because they refused to abandon us to die alone. And by midmorning, the Persians attacked. My brother and I fought side by side; when our spears broke, we used our swords. I do not think that any army fought more fiercely than ours did. Then, misery of miseries, our great king fell. Immediately, my brother and I rushed to his body, we had been fighting near him before. With a fury unlike any other we defended his remains, gaining and giving many wounds. Our fellow soldiers were able to rescue him, but we were eventually forced to retreat back into the narrow pass. It was now with a desperate fear that we fought. It was clear that we would die, but we tried our best to live.
With a grunt, my brother fell against me and I stared in horror at the long spear protruding from his chest.
“Alpheus…For Sparta,” he had whispered. And he had died. Without another word, he was lifeless in my arms. I swallowed
rising tears. Maron, my brother, my good friend, was gone. I gently laid him on the ground, and looked around me. There were only a few Greeks left standing. Persians overwhelmed us from all sides. With an angry shout, I threw myself upon the Persians with revengeful fury, for my king, for my brother, for my country. It wasn’t long before the spear had hit me. The blinding pain overwhelmed my senses and I fell to the ground.
And so here I am. Breathless. Bleeding. Dying. The Persians have passed on. Will my country prevail? I cannot tell. But I can tell that Sparta will long be remembered for what she has done today, that I will long be remembered for my deeds today. I open my eyes one last time, to look at the sky and to make one last request of the gods. Remember me.
The Battle of Thermopylae
Pain. It is the only feeling I am aware of. My breath does not come easily, but rather in short spurts. I beg the gods to help me. I have been trained my entire life to endure pain, and yet I cannot tolerate this one wound. Groans of pain can be heard from all around me, so I know I am not alone in my misery. With my eyes tightly squeezed shut, I try to accept my fate: I am about to die. I hold no doubts regarding that fact. It is inevitable, expected to say the least. Dear Zeus, please have mercy upon me in my death.
Who am I? Where am I? Why did this happen? Who was it that speared me? I cannot remember my name, only that I am Spartan; only that I once had a brother; only that I am about to die because I defended my country from- who? Ah, yes; the cursed Persians. This battle is all I can remember in detail, this battle where three hundred of my countrymen have lost or are losing their lives defending the pass of Thermopylae. Have we succeeded? I cannot tell, but only hope that we have. It was three hundred of us Spartans against thousands upon thousands upon thousands of Persians. The Persian army was made of numerous men, far greater in number than ours. But our army was made of soldiers. A haze begins to drift over me, slowing my brain, all I can think of is my last battle, the battle I will lose my life to.
We were not the only soldiers there, of course. But we were the only men outside the gates guarding the pass of Thermopylae those first few days. We knew the Persian army was ten times larger than our own in number. But our leaders were certain that this narrow pass would be the only place where we could prevent the Persians from entering and conquering Greece. So we Spartans guarded the entrance through the gate, and the rest of the army was beyond. We spent our time preparing for battle, exercising and combing our hair. It has always been very important to us to insure we looked our best for battle. Four days passed before the cowardly Persians finally attacked. Word spread that our attackers were the Medes. I remember my brother and I exchanging excited, yet grim, smiles as we faced the oncoming men. The battle that ensued lasted most of the day, with few Spartan casualties. But, oh! the many deaths inflicted upon the Medes were beyond counting. Eventually, they withdrew and were soon replaced by more soldiers.
“They call themselves the King’s Immortals,” my brother had said.
“We will see,” I had replied simply. For the rest of that day, we battled the ‘Immortals’, again with few casualties on our side. As for the Persians, well, it became obvious that they were not immortal after all. I begin to recall our retreat feint we used on the Immortals: we would pretend to retreat in fear, the Persians chasing after us. At the very last minute, we would turn and slaughter the men behind us with little difficulty.
On the next day, the Greek armies alternated in who was guarding the pass, and the Persians were no luckier in battle than they were in the previous day. They again eventually withdrew, and we were confident of victory. Very early the next morning we received news of betrayal: a man had revealed the secret road that led behind the gates to the Persians. We knew at that moment there was little hope of survival now. Our leaders were torn on the decision of whether to go or to stay. Our great king, Leonidas, declared that he would stay, since we had originally come to guard this post. He told the others to leave, that we would defend the rear. Those who wished to stay were ordered by Leonidas to leave. Only the Thebans and Thespians remained, the former as hostages, the latter because they refused to abandon us to die alone. And by midmorning, the Persians attacked. My brother and I fought side by side; when our spears broke, we used our swords. I do not think that any army fought more fiercely than ours did. Then, misery of miseries, our great king fell. Immediately, my brother and I rushed to his body, we had been fighting near him before. With a fury unlike any other we defended his remains, gaining and giving many wounds. Our fellow soldiers were able to rescue him, but we were eventually forced to retreat back into the narrow pass. It was now with a desperate fear that we fought. It was clear that we would die, but we tried our best to live.
With a grunt, my brother fell against me and I stared in horror at the long spear protruding from his chest.
“Alpheus…For Sparta,” he had whispered. And he had died. Without another word, he was lifeless in my arms. I swallowed
rising tears. Maron, my brother, my good friend, was gone. I gently laid him on the ground, and looked around me. There were only a few Greeks left standing. Persians overwhelmed us from all sides. With an angry shout, I threw myself upon the Persians with revengeful fury, for my king, for my brother, for my country. It wasn’t long before the spear had hit me. The blinding pain overwhelmed my senses and I fell to the ground.
And so here I am. Breathless. Bleeding. Dying. The Persians have passed on. Will my country prevail? I cannot tell. But I can tell that Sparta will long be remembered for what she has done today, that I will long be remembered for my deeds today. I open my eyes one last time, to look at the sky and to make one last request of the gods. Remember me.
Ever wondered?
Ever wondered what it was like to be someone else? To feel what they were feeling? To see what they were seeing? To think like them, talk like them, look like them?
Ever wondered why certain things happen? Why people die? Why war happens? Why violence occurs, why people hate, why people love?
Ever wondered how you could make yourself better? How you could be smarter? How you could be nicer? How people would like you better if you were different, prettier, more talented?
Ever wondered why you feel certain ways? Why you're in love? Why you're angry? Why you're sad, bitter, lonely?
Ever wondered what your purpose in life is? What you're meant to do? What God has planned for you? What you should expect, attempt, fail?
Ever wondered what you'll be like when you're 'all grown up'? What you'll look like? What you'll act like? If you'll be married, parenting, working?
Ever wondered about everything? About anything? Ever doubted? Ever worried? Ever cried, missed, laughed, smiled, loved, loathed, regretted, wished? Have you ever felt that aching feeling in your chest when you know you've disappointed a loved one, or when someone has disappointed you? Ever begged to know why? Ever been stunned into silence by the beauty and complexity of what's all around you- the sky, trees, nature in general? Ever wished that you could change something about yourself so badly you swore you would do anything for it? Ever had a hope, a dream, a broken heart? Ever wished upon a falling star?
I know I have.
Ever wondered why certain things happen? Why people die? Why war happens? Why violence occurs, why people hate, why people love?
Ever wondered how you could make yourself better? How you could be smarter? How you could be nicer? How people would like you better if you were different, prettier, more talented?
Ever wondered why you feel certain ways? Why you're in love? Why you're angry? Why you're sad, bitter, lonely?
Ever wondered what your purpose in life is? What you're meant to do? What God has planned for you? What you should expect, attempt, fail?
Ever wondered what you'll be like when you're 'all grown up'? What you'll look like? What you'll act like? If you'll be married, parenting, working?
Ever wondered about everything? About anything? Ever doubted? Ever worried? Ever cried, missed, laughed, smiled, loved, loathed, regretted, wished? Have you ever felt that aching feeling in your chest when you know you've disappointed a loved one, or when someone has disappointed you? Ever begged to know why? Ever been stunned into silence by the beauty and complexity of what's all around you- the sky, trees, nature in general? Ever wished that you could change something about yourself so badly you swore you would do anything for it? Ever had a hope, a dream, a broken heart? Ever wished upon a falling star?
I know I have.
Jacob Riis
For my AP US History class, I am required to write two biography essays. One written like an essay, and the othor as a website. Both were required to be in a creative format. My first essay was completed back in December, and my subject was Sarah Josepha Hale. For my second subject, I chose Jacob Riis and decided to make a blog consisting of diary entries. I have just finished it (yay!), and thought I would share it with you all :) Here's the link: http://jacobriis.blogspot.com
A little background for you: Jacob Riis was born in Ribe, Denmark, and immigrated to America when he was around twenty. He suffered all the prejudices immigrants were submitted to, but managed to rise to greatness and reform New York of its cruel lodging settlements and prejudices against immigrants. He was a close friend of Theodore Roosevelt, and a lover of open air and freedom. It was fascinating to read more about him, and to actually 'experience' the trials and tribulations he bore in his early years in America. Using photography and his gift for writing, he truly *showed* New York what was actually happening in the slums and dark allies that they were blissfully ignorant of. I hope you enjoy the blog about him, and maybe even learn a thing or two, as well ;)
A little background for you: Jacob Riis was born in Ribe, Denmark, and immigrated to America when he was around twenty. He suffered all the prejudices immigrants were submitted to, but managed to rise to greatness and reform New York of its cruel lodging settlements and prejudices against immigrants. He was a close friend of Theodore Roosevelt, and a lover of open air and freedom. It was fascinating to read more about him, and to actually 'experience' the trials and tribulations he bore in his early years in America. Using photography and his gift for writing, he truly *showed* New York what was actually happening in the slums and dark allies that they were blissfully ignorant of. I hope you enjoy the blog about him, and maybe even learn a thing or two, as well ;)
Friday, January 29, 2010
Excerpt from Mirror Image
*This is another excerpt from a book I just wrote. It's the introduction. Hope you like it! :)*
Stumbling and tripping, Kara ran through the dense forest, distancing herself as much as possible from her pursuer. Branches slapped her face, delivering stinging blows and leaving bloody scratches. Bramble and thorns caught at her jeans and tore the soft fabric of her shirt, delaying her progress. Tears streamed down her face as she blindly tore through the trees, thinking only that she had to get away. Her stomach involuntarily rumbled with hunger, and she blandly recalled that she had not eaten in an entire day. She pushed the thought from her mind and continued on her way, trying to ignore the steady noise of foliage being crushed as her hunter relentlessly pursued her. She cast a quick glance behind her, trying to see how close her hunter was and rendered a broken scream upon seeing him barely an inch from her face. Tripping over a root, she fell with a grunt into the dirt, her hands skimming rocks and breaking skin.
There he stood, staring down at her with a merciless, pitiless, gaze, ready to kill her at a moment's notice. Kara's breath came in short sobs, fear over taking her mind, her heart beating a thousand miles a minute right out of her chest. She felt a curdling sensation in the pit of her stomach and felt like she was going to vomit. Everything about her situation was nauseating. This man, or thing, just stood there without emotion preparing to kill her. Her life was about to end. How could this have happened? What had she done wrong in life? This was beyond unfairness- this was the epitome of cruelty, the bitter, harsh reality of what she never should have had to go through. She should be home, sitting on the couch with her cats watching the Notebook and crying about the misery of other people's lives. This should not be happening!
She closed her eyes, hoping that the terrifying vision before her would disappear when she opened them again. But he was still there, like some haunting ghost that would never fade away. And he was just staring at her. Or so she assumed. A thin, black cloth covered his entire face, hiding all of his features. But somehow, Kara knew that behind the mask were cold, black eyes, and a hard, cruel face. And still he did nothing. Kara took advantage of his silence to beg for her life.
"P-please....Let me l-live. Please!" she pleaded softly, her voice breaking and hoarse. There was silence again. Kara felt a throbbing pulse in her leg, and looked down in shock to find her leg bleeding profusely. She let out a silent gasp and tasted the salty tears on her chapped lips. She winced in pain as she felt a broken bone prod the skin of her arm. But it didn't hurt as much as she expected. She was blessedly immune to the blinding pain that she was expecting. Maybe her death wouldn't be painful either. She silently prayed that would be the case. And then her hunter spoke.
Stumbling and tripping, Kara ran through the dense forest, distancing herself as much as possible from her pursuer. Branches slapped her face, delivering stinging blows and leaving bloody scratches. Bramble and thorns caught at her jeans and tore the soft fabric of her shirt, delaying her progress. Tears streamed down her face as she blindly tore through the trees, thinking only that she had to get away. Her stomach involuntarily rumbled with hunger, and she blandly recalled that she had not eaten in an entire day. She pushed the thought from her mind and continued on her way, trying to ignore the steady noise of foliage being crushed as her hunter relentlessly pursued her. She cast a quick glance behind her, trying to see how close her hunter was and rendered a broken scream upon seeing him barely an inch from her face. Tripping over a root, she fell with a grunt into the dirt, her hands skimming rocks and breaking skin.
There he stood, staring down at her with a merciless, pitiless, gaze, ready to kill her at a moment's notice. Kara's breath came in short sobs, fear over taking her mind, her heart beating a thousand miles a minute right out of her chest. She felt a curdling sensation in the pit of her stomach and felt like she was going to vomit. Everything about her situation was nauseating. This man, or thing, just stood there without emotion preparing to kill her. Her life was about to end. How could this have happened? What had she done wrong in life? This was beyond unfairness- this was the epitome of cruelty, the bitter, harsh reality of what she never should have had to go through. She should be home, sitting on the couch with her cats watching the Notebook and crying about the misery of other people's lives. This should not be happening!
She closed her eyes, hoping that the terrifying vision before her would disappear when she opened them again. But he was still there, like some haunting ghost that would never fade away. And he was just staring at her. Or so she assumed. A thin, black cloth covered his entire face, hiding all of his features. But somehow, Kara knew that behind the mask were cold, black eyes, and a hard, cruel face. And still he did nothing. Kara took advantage of his silence to beg for her life.
"P-please....Let me l-live. Please!" she pleaded softly, her voice breaking and hoarse. There was silence again. Kara felt a throbbing pulse in her leg, and looked down in shock to find her leg bleeding profusely. She let out a silent gasp and tasted the salty tears on her chapped lips. She winced in pain as she felt a broken bone prod the skin of her arm. But it didn't hurt as much as she expected. She was blessedly immune to the blinding pain that she was expecting. Maybe her death wouldn't be painful either. She silently prayed that would be the case. And then her hunter spoke.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Snowfall
Snowflake after snowflake gently swirl down to rest on the growing white blanket, covering what was once grass. It's a completely different world when it snows. A frosty, white one that seems to be one endless conformity. Everything looks the same. Nothing is different. It is just all white, and hidden by the thin veil of snowflakes falling. Naked branches of trees are garbed in white, as well as the full green branches of evergreens. Roads are smoothed over with the soft down of snow, and drivers try to stay indoors. Children press their faces and hands against the window, trying to discern the shape of each particular snowflake. Their eagerness can hardly be contained as they think of snowball fights, snowmen, and snowforts, yet they still manage to stare solemnly and quietly at the blinding white, with the occasional 'Look at all the snow!' How different their reactions are to what adults think upon seeing snow; will they be able to drive, will their spouse make it home from work safely, will it clear up by tomorrow? The worries and reality of the world has not yet breached the innocence of children's minds, and one only hopes that it will remain that way for as long as possible.
But whether adult or child, the beauty of snow falling is not lost upon the human mind. It's those first moments of pure white, untainted precipitation that stuns man into silence, quietly appreciating the raw beauty of nature. There's only the few hours to enjoy snow at its greatest, when it is still completely au naturel, and before dirt has been mixed in, ice has been formed, and the once pure whiteness plowed. The spell that entranced so many breaks, and children enjoy the snow as they play and adults remark on how dirty it is. But those few hours are not forgotten- it is those few hours that remind us why we love snow, and why every year it continues to fascinate us when it first falls.
But whether adult or child, the beauty of snow falling is not lost upon the human mind. It's those first moments of pure white, untainted precipitation that stuns man into silence, quietly appreciating the raw beauty of nature. There's only the few hours to enjoy snow at its greatest, when it is still completely au naturel, and before dirt has been mixed in, ice has been formed, and the once pure whiteness plowed. The spell that entranced so many breaks, and children enjoy the snow as they play and adults remark on how dirty it is. But those few hours are not forgotten- it is those few hours that remind us why we love snow, and why every year it continues to fascinate us when it first falls.
Excerpt from Masquerade
*Another excerpt from another one of my books, but this one has an excerpt from chapter one and chapter three. I'll let you know when it switches.The excerpt from chapter one is really short, but to somewhat understand what's going on in the excerpt from chapter three, you need that one brief paragraph. oh, and not all of my stories are written from first person, just so you know. oh, aaaand the heroine's name is merianna, but called mer by her friends,JSYK;)*
Smile. Breathe. Don't show what you're really feeling. I step out of the carriage, lifting my dress skirt to avoid tripping. I straighten my shoulders and adjust my mask. A bitter laugh quietly escapes my lips as I think of the irony of the situation: my entire life is one big masquerade, a permanent mask hiding who and what I really am. And here I am at an actual masquerade ball. I sigh, than walk up the steps, automatically smiling again, ready to hide my secret, my past, my real life. Or what it was.
(Chapter three excerpt)
“Remember me, Merianna?” the man asks me. I shake my head, trying to control my breathing, trying to control the panic rising in my chest.
“No,” I whisper. Inside, I’m shouting ‘no’ a thousand times over.
“Come now, Merianna. How could you forget me?” I haven’t forgotten. I wish I had. I remain silent and try to break away, but his strong hands hold me in place. I consider using my…No. I promised myself long ago to never use it again. “Merianna, you cannot hide from your past forever. You knew we would come for you sooner or later,” he whispers in my ear.
“How did you find me?” I ask. Actually, it was more of a squeak. He gave me a meaningful look, and I knew how. It had betrayed me. “Please, let me go. I don’t want this,” I whisper as I try to break away again. He grabs my wrist tightly, and leads me out to the balcony. I consider screaming, but I know that he would expose my true identity to everyone if I did. And that’s the last thing I want.
He turns back to me, his black eyes peering down at me. Another man suddenly steps out of the shadows and I see a pair of familiar gray eyes and gasp.
“Hello, Mer,” he greets with a smile. I shake my head. No, no, no, no, NO! This could not be happening! “Your country needs you, Mer. We are in danger.” I shake my head.
“Let the Royal Family deal with it. Nardom is no longer my problem,” I state, sounding more confident than I feel.
“The Royal Family sent us to find you. Nardom will always be your ‘problem’. You are the country guardian! You cannot turn us down when we most need you!” the black-eyed man exclaims.
“I swore never to kill again!” I return angrily. I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up into those gray eyes that I have missed so much.
“Mer, you are my sister. I know you better than anyone else. And I know that you love Nardom and will not abandon us to this dismal fate,” he says calmly. I sniff, determined not to cry. I haven’t cried since the day I saw the destruction I had caused. I would not cry. I look at the two of them,than sigh. I consider arguing further,but what good would it do?I know I have lost. Even if I refused to return to Nardom, 'it' wouldn't let me. I have only one choice.
“Alright, I’ll go. Meet me tomorrow at the Royal Stables.” They nod, and I can see relief in my brother's eyes. But he knew I would agree when they found me. I was only safe when I was hidden. But I can't hide anymore. No, I'll never be able to hide from who I am again. My brother pats my shoulder, then disappears into the darkness.
Smile. Breathe. Don't show what you're really feeling. I step out of the carriage, lifting my dress skirt to avoid tripping. I straighten my shoulders and adjust my mask. A bitter laugh quietly escapes my lips as I think of the irony of the situation: my entire life is one big masquerade, a permanent mask hiding who and what I really am. And here I am at an actual masquerade ball. I sigh, than walk up the steps, automatically smiling again, ready to hide my secret, my past, my real life. Or what it was.
(Chapter three excerpt)
“Remember me, Merianna?” the man asks me. I shake my head, trying to control my breathing, trying to control the panic rising in my chest.
“No,” I whisper. Inside, I’m shouting ‘no’ a thousand times over.
“Come now, Merianna. How could you forget me?” I haven’t forgotten. I wish I had. I remain silent and try to break away, but his strong hands hold me in place. I consider using my…No. I promised myself long ago to never use it again. “Merianna, you cannot hide from your past forever. You knew we would come for you sooner or later,” he whispers in my ear.
“How did you find me?” I ask. Actually, it was more of a squeak. He gave me a meaningful look, and I knew how. It had betrayed me. “Please, let me go. I don’t want this,” I whisper as I try to break away again. He grabs my wrist tightly, and leads me out to the balcony. I consider screaming, but I know that he would expose my true identity to everyone if I did. And that’s the last thing I want.
He turns back to me, his black eyes peering down at me. Another man suddenly steps out of the shadows and I see a pair of familiar gray eyes and gasp.
“Hello, Mer,” he greets with a smile. I shake my head. No, no, no, no, NO! This could not be happening! “Your country needs you, Mer. We are in danger.” I shake my head.
“Let the Royal Family deal with it. Nardom is no longer my problem,” I state, sounding more confident than I feel.
“The Royal Family sent us to find you. Nardom will always be your ‘problem’. You are the country guardian! You cannot turn us down when we most need you!” the black-eyed man exclaims.
“I swore never to kill again!” I return angrily. I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up into those gray eyes that I have missed so much.
“Mer, you are my sister. I know you better than anyone else. And I know that you love Nardom and will not abandon us to this dismal fate,” he says calmly. I sniff, determined not to cry. I haven’t cried since the day I saw the destruction I had caused. I would not cry. I look at the two of them,than sigh. I consider arguing further,but what good would it do?I know I have lost. Even if I refused to return to Nardom, 'it' wouldn't let me. I have only one choice.
“Alright, I’ll go. Meet me tomorrow at the Royal Stables.” They nod, and I can see relief in my brother's eyes. But he knew I would agree when they found me. I was only safe when I was hidden. But I can't hide anymore. No, I'll never be able to hide from who I am again. My brother pats my shoulder, then disappears into the darkness.
Excerpt from November Skies
*So, this is an excerpt from the first chapter of one of my books, November Skies. Sorry if it's boring. I'll be posting excerpts from my books every once and a while, just to see what everyone thinks and to get some constructive criticism on how to make them better. Let me know what you think :)*
Wandering through a shimmering field of goldenrod, skimming the dusty tops with the palm of my hand, I looked up at the sky and smiled in appreciation for the beauty above me. It was November; the blue of the sky was turning the color of lilacs, and the clouds were pink and orange in the wake of the sunset. I lay down amidst the tall and untamed goldenrod and knew I was completely hidden from view. The rumble of the ocean drifted over the sandy dunes and I was reminded of the ocean's fickle character as I gazed up at the beautiful colors of the sky.
At times, the ocean is untamed, wild, rough, and roaring, becoming unforgiving and cruel. Then with a change of wind, it morphs into the very epitome of calmness and beauty, its small, delicate, frothing waves gently swirling and splashing like a sweet child at play. I can relate to the ocean's fickleness, though, for I too can be sweet and gentle, and than suddenly become angry and agitated.
The ocean's roughness can be very frightening, but it is awe-inspiring as well. When watching the large, rolling waves come crashing down again and again, foam spraying everywhere, and the taste of salt in the air, I catch my breath waiting for the next wave to come tumbling down. I find myself caught up in the ocean's wild grandeur, the roar and crash of the waves ringing repeatedly in my ears. A chill runs up my back and I shudder, knowing that the ocean's untamed power could destroy me in mere seconds. And yet I am still struck with wonder at its awesome majesty.
I closed my eyes and absorbed the stunning beauty of nature. I had lived all my life among the sand and water, plants and flowers, and this amazing scenery. And in twenty-six years, it had not changed.
"Marvelous," I whispered.
"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, but what's so mahvelous?" asked a strange voice. Disturbed from my reveries, I sat up to see a man's tanned and worn facing peering at me.
"Oh, I was merely commenting on the consistency of beautiful scenery here," I explained. Immediately, I wished I had used a more simply termed explanation as the man's brow furrowed in confusion.
But he seemed to understand what I meant, for he said, "Aye, it is mighty beautiful, though, ain't it?"
I smiled and stood up. "Yes, it is that." The two of us stood there in silence, gazing at the goldenrod spread out around us, the wind blowing across it and giving it the appearance of one, large, endless, golden wave. I pulled my sweater together tightly to shut out the growing cold, and looked at the man who stood beside me. He was a stocky, broad man with a gray, balding head. He had bright blue eyes that twinkled with humor and a near toothless smile. In his rough, weather-beaten hands he held his torn cap.
"There are some won'erful things in this world, miss," he commented.
"Yes, there are," I agreed. Silence fell again. "May I inquire as to your name, sir?" I asked after another pause.
"Why, bless your lil soul, 'course you can! My name's Jacob Jacobs," he replied cheerily. My eyebrows rose slightly, but I decided that I'd heard stranger names. And this name seemed somewhat familiar...
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jacobs. I am Catherine Whiting," I said, thinking that compared to his name, mine seemed long and sophisticated. I extended my hand, which he shook vigorously.
"Whoo-wee, that's some name you got there, Mrs. Whiting," chuckled Jacob Jacobs. I smiled. That thought had never occurred to me before. "I once knew a fam'ly by the name of Whiting. Some time back since I last heard from 'em," he continued, "only one child they had, Will, I b’lieve his name was." I started to laugh.
"Why, Mr. Jacobs! It is Will who I am married to!" I exclaimed.
"Now ain't that jist dandy? It musta been fate we met, 'cause I was planning on visitin' your in-laws soon," he told me.
"Than you must come back to the house with me. I'll invite Mr. and Mrs. Whiting over, and you can all stay to dinner!"
"Very well, then," consented Mr. Jacobs. As we trekked back to my house, I began to recall Mr. Jacobs from my early childhood, remembering him as work hand who had only worked for Mr. and Mrs. Whiting, my in-laws, for a short time, but he had been extremely trusted by them. While Mr. Jacobs chattered on, my childhood memories began to rise to the surface.
Wandering through a shimmering field of goldenrod, skimming the dusty tops with the palm of my hand, I looked up at the sky and smiled in appreciation for the beauty above me. It was November; the blue of the sky was turning the color of lilacs, and the clouds were pink and orange in the wake of the sunset. I lay down amidst the tall and untamed goldenrod and knew I was completely hidden from view. The rumble of the ocean drifted over the sandy dunes and I was reminded of the ocean's fickle character as I gazed up at the beautiful colors of the sky.
At times, the ocean is untamed, wild, rough, and roaring, becoming unforgiving and cruel. Then with a change of wind, it morphs into the very epitome of calmness and beauty, its small, delicate, frothing waves gently swirling and splashing like a sweet child at play. I can relate to the ocean's fickleness, though, for I too can be sweet and gentle, and than suddenly become angry and agitated.
The ocean's roughness can be very frightening, but it is awe-inspiring as well. When watching the large, rolling waves come crashing down again and again, foam spraying everywhere, and the taste of salt in the air, I catch my breath waiting for the next wave to come tumbling down. I find myself caught up in the ocean's wild grandeur, the roar and crash of the waves ringing repeatedly in my ears. A chill runs up my back and I shudder, knowing that the ocean's untamed power could destroy me in mere seconds. And yet I am still struck with wonder at its awesome majesty.
I closed my eyes and absorbed the stunning beauty of nature. I had lived all my life among the sand and water, plants and flowers, and this amazing scenery. And in twenty-six years, it had not changed.
"Marvelous," I whispered.
"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, but what's so mahvelous?" asked a strange voice. Disturbed from my reveries, I sat up to see a man's tanned and worn facing peering at me.
"Oh, I was merely commenting on the consistency of beautiful scenery here," I explained. Immediately, I wished I had used a more simply termed explanation as the man's brow furrowed in confusion.
But he seemed to understand what I meant, for he said, "Aye, it is mighty beautiful, though, ain't it?"
I smiled and stood up. "Yes, it is that." The two of us stood there in silence, gazing at the goldenrod spread out around us, the wind blowing across it and giving it the appearance of one, large, endless, golden wave. I pulled my sweater together tightly to shut out the growing cold, and looked at the man who stood beside me. He was a stocky, broad man with a gray, balding head. He had bright blue eyes that twinkled with humor and a near toothless smile. In his rough, weather-beaten hands he held his torn cap.
"There are some won'erful things in this world, miss," he commented.
"Yes, there are," I agreed. Silence fell again. "May I inquire as to your name, sir?" I asked after another pause.
"Why, bless your lil soul, 'course you can! My name's Jacob Jacobs," he replied cheerily. My eyebrows rose slightly, but I decided that I'd heard stranger names. And this name seemed somewhat familiar...
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jacobs. I am Catherine Whiting," I said, thinking that compared to his name, mine seemed long and sophisticated. I extended my hand, which he shook vigorously.
"Whoo-wee, that's some name you got there, Mrs. Whiting," chuckled Jacob Jacobs. I smiled. That thought had never occurred to me before. "I once knew a fam'ly by the name of Whiting. Some time back since I last heard from 'em," he continued, "only one child they had, Will, I b’lieve his name was." I started to laugh.
"Why, Mr. Jacobs! It is Will who I am married to!" I exclaimed.
"Now ain't that jist dandy? It musta been fate we met, 'cause I was planning on visitin' your in-laws soon," he told me.
"Than you must come back to the house with me. I'll invite Mr. and Mrs. Whiting over, and you can all stay to dinner!"
"Very well, then," consented Mr. Jacobs. As we trekked back to my house, I began to recall Mr. Jacobs from my early childhood, remembering him as work hand who had only worked for Mr. and Mrs. Whiting, my in-laws, for a short time, but he had been extremely trusted by them. While Mr. Jacobs chattered on, my childhood memories began to rise to the surface.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Dancing In The Rain
*I really don't know why I named this blog the name I did. I just like dancing in the rain. So this is just a commentary about what it feels like :)*
Spinning faster and faster, than standing still. Stretching my hands and soaking up the miniscule droplets of water, and absorbing them into my clothes and skin. It's difficult to describe the feeling of the constant drumming of raindrops on skin, just standing motionless as the water slides off my clothes to land in the ground. My hair slowly becomes drenched, and clings to my face. It's like being cleaned, enabling you to start all over again fresh and glistening (with water, of course).
There really is no pattern to the movement made while in the rain. No way to specify the actual dancing part. The pattern of raindrops falling absorbs my concentration so that the dance becomes mindless and natural...Something that just happens without thinking about it. Just spinning around would be a more suitable term than dancing. Or maybe just outright spasms, in my case. But whether you're just standing there or dancing and jerking around, the feeling of rain pouring down on you remains the same. Dancing is still the more entertaining option, though.
Rain is always associated with gloominess and boredom. We all have those days when it feels like it's raining, even if it's sunny out. But there's a way to turn those tough days around, to make fun out of the gloom and boredom. You can sit and watch the rain fall, or you can dance in it and enjoy the rainfall. Just like you can sit and allow the gloominess to overcome you, or you can turn it around and do something useful or fun (since dancing in the rain can't quite be considered as useful). You can walk gloomily through life, or you can dance through it. Either way, dancing in the rain can teach you many things, besides making sure to dry properly after the fact so as to avoid catching a cold.
Spinning faster and faster, than standing still. Stretching my hands and soaking up the miniscule droplets of water, and absorbing them into my clothes and skin. It's difficult to describe the feeling of the constant drumming of raindrops on skin, just standing motionless as the water slides off my clothes to land in the ground. My hair slowly becomes drenched, and clings to my face. It's like being cleaned, enabling you to start all over again fresh and glistening (with water, of course).
There really is no pattern to the movement made while in the rain. No way to specify the actual dancing part. The pattern of raindrops falling absorbs my concentration so that the dance becomes mindless and natural...Something that just happens without thinking about it. Just spinning around would be a more suitable term than dancing. Or maybe just outright spasms, in my case. But whether you're just standing there or dancing and jerking around, the feeling of rain pouring down on you remains the same. Dancing is still the more entertaining option, though.
Rain is always associated with gloominess and boredom. We all have those days when it feels like it's raining, even if it's sunny out. But there's a way to turn those tough days around, to make fun out of the gloom and boredom. You can sit and watch the rain fall, or you can dance in it and enjoy the rainfall. Just like you can sit and allow the gloominess to overcome you, or you can turn it around and do something useful or fun (since dancing in the rain can't quite be considered as useful). You can walk gloomily through life, or you can dance through it. Either way, dancing in the rain can teach you many things, besides making sure to dry properly after the fact so as to avoid catching a cold.
A poem on thunder storms
Boom! You can hear the thunder,
Flash! You can see the lightning.
Clouds being torn asunder,
To little children, so frightening.
Booming noise,
Flashing light,
Girls and boys
Filled with fright.
Pitter, patter, falls the rain,
Quiet silence fills the room,
Waiting for thunder to strike again,
Waiting for the thunderous boom.
Drip, drop,
Comes the rain,
Plip, plop,
On the window pane.
Scratch! Branches clash against the windows,
Swoosh! The wind goes rushing by
Carrying secrets only the wind knows,
Sounding like a mighty sigh.
Sighing, crying
The wind goes on,
Screaming and singing
A discordant song.
Such is the form
Of the Thunder Storm.
Flash! You can see the lightning.
Clouds being torn asunder,
To little children, so frightening.
Booming noise,
Flashing light,
Girls and boys
Filled with fright.
Pitter, patter, falls the rain,
Quiet silence fills the room,
Waiting for thunder to strike again,
Waiting for the thunderous boom.
Drip, drop,
Comes the rain,
Plip, plop,
On the window pane.
Scratch! Branches clash against the windows,
Swoosh! The wind goes rushing by
Carrying secrets only the wind knows,
Sounding like a mighty sigh.
Sighing, crying
The wind goes on,
Screaming and singing
A discordant song.
Such is the form
Of the Thunder Storm.
A brief piece on Winter
Look beyond the harsh cold and bitter winds of winter, and see the true beauty of white snow blanketing the bare branches of trees; the frozen waters glossy with ice; and the evergreens' green needles temporarily turned white. The cold will eventually turn to warmth and Sprirng will be even more enjoyable because of the anticipation.
Welcome!
Welcome to my blog. It's really random, and I'll be posting about random things. It's mostly just a way to express myself, and I'll be posting random bits of literature I've written, comment on random things, etc. I hope you enjoy, and I'd appreciate comments
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