A former teenage author turned twenty and her stabs at writing life and living to write.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Two Kinds of People in the World...

There are really only two kinds of people in the world.

MEN and WOMEN

Oh, wait.... and...

People who knock before entering... and people who don't.
Liars... and "Honest Abes"
Those who doodle in their notebooks... and those who take actual notes
People who dream of flying.... and people who dream of being at school naked
Sports fans... and normal human beings
Those who give... and those who take
Idealists... and Realists
People who bake potatoes... and people who mash them
Those who watch out... and those who feel their way
Those who push through the crowd... and those who let the crowd bat them around
Those who sing in concert halls... and those who sing in the shower
Those who aspire to run... and those who run to perspire
Teachers... and people humble enough to listen
Souls that feed... and souls that devour
Laborers.... and CEO's
Aspiring authors... and literary agents
The successful... and the couch-ridden dreamers
Those who dictate... and those who create.

A belated Merry Christmas and many Happy New Years to you all!!

The Yearless Week

Christmas is a beautiful season when I gather together with family and friends to look back over the past year, or to Christmases long ago. It's a time to reflect on the changes I've seen, the hopefully better person I've become, and the wonderful family and friends I have gathered around me. It's a dark and cold time of the year that we illuminate with twinkling lights and melodic carols to help ease the onset of winter.

News Years, on the other hand, is a time when I look forward to the new year that presents itself . I look ahead to what I will accomplish and the experiences I will partake in. It's a time for setting goals and making plans. It's a time for seeing the image of my future in the toll of a clock chiming midnight.

However, there is an odd week wedged in between the end of the year and the start of a new one. I ceremoniously (and because I need a nickname for everything) named this the "yearless week". It's like that awkward stage between your childhood and the teenage years; when your no longer a child, but not old enough to be a teenager. Man, were those good times (cue sarcasm here).

This yearless week seems to be chalk full of mindless zombies going to and from work, all craving naps and stumbling from their stuffed bellies of turkey and pie. The children have no school, and therefore mindlessly eat, play video games, watch movies, and eat some more. I have no actual stats for this, but I wouldn't be surprised if this were the singly more unproductive week... ever... in the history of the world. Not just in work, but in one's personal life as well. There's a lot of staying in our pajamas. There's copious amounts of eating. And let's be honest. We don't have any real desire to be productive.

Maybe I'm basing this entire post on something that no one else experiences. Maybe I'm only broadcasting how freaking lazy I am, but let me show you how my morning went today.

My Plan:
-I had planned to get some shopping done to buy a birthday present for someone
-I had planned to get showered early in the morning
-Before showering, I had planned to run a few miles; nothing too crazy but enough to get me going
-I had planned to at least put on makeup.

What Really Happened:
-I woke up around 8 o'clock to get a good start on the day
-I ended up just sitting in bed until nearly ten.
-I ran on the treadmill for all of ten minutes.
-I didn't take a shower until noon.
-I played my guitar for probably a good couple hours
-I reluctantly put on real clothes to come in to work at 2, makeupless and my hair a frizzy mess.

The yearless week can hit you at any moment; take care to make preparations for the storm. My secret? Don't be too ambitious. Be settled with having date night in front of the TV. Be alright with going to bed at 8:30. (That's my plan tonight). Make peace with the fact that you just might be a lazy bum until Sunday, when the year starts anew and somehow makes us all feel a little more able.

A little more able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Of course we won't be able to.

But that's completely beside the point. 

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Me, quite simply and frank

I've been looking over recent posts as of late, and realized something rather funny. I sound hopelessly pretentious in so many of these, like I have the secret blueprints to life and I'm divulging them slowly in measured doses for your own good. One of my similar posts from over a year ago actually made me laugh out loud because of how know-it-all-ish I sounded. It made ME want to slap ME.

So today I'm going to try writing the truth, uninhibited and frank. Wish me luck. Fantasy and fiction I write well; reality is a horse of a different color!

I secretly love rainy days.
If socially acceptable, I would never wear shoes.
If possible, I would dry my hair in the sunshine every day.
Very few things make me happier than being the reason for someone else's smile.
Nothing cures me of sickness and sorrow like a good, nonsensical laugh.
I lie more to myself than to anyone else.
I crave pickles on a monthly basis
I hold everything in until there is no room to put it all.
Then I pick up a pair of boxing gloves and go at a punching bag until I'm sobbing uncontrollably.
My mother is my guardian angel
I often imagine my life as one big musical
I tend to pocket call people when I'm singing at the top of my lungs to the radio.
When I'm cooking, I dance and sing into a wooden spoon.
I'm inwardly afraid of what people think; not of what I'm doing, but who I've become.
I always look for meaning in my dreams; even the crazy, drug-induced ones. (legal drugs, that is)
There is this paralyzing fear that comes over me when I think of losing anyone else that I love.
I love going to a popular college hangout and watching people on awkward first dates.
I believe cooking and eating together can mend a broken family.
I secretly revel in awkward conversations.
My friends are my light; my family my armor.
I see bits of the future in my dreams.
I tell people I have no realistic goals for my future career, but all I want to do it write.
I secretly still believe I can write and publish books. Honestly. But I hate sounding naive, so I don't let anyone know it. 

The Seventh Year of Christmas

The stockings are hung by the chimney with care.
But there's a smile, a laugh, a voice missing there.

I may cry the day I take the tree down, but then again; I cry when I stand it up and decorate it too. So how am I to be trusted? Christmas is just one of those times of year, a time when I'm not in full control of the way I lash out or of the tears that fall at the most inconvenient of times. And this season now marks the seventh Christmas I've had to spend without my mom; the woman whose eyes twinkled brighter than any light around the holidays.

And it's funny to look back at the shattered thirteen-year-old girl I was seven Christmases ago. I refused to look at the Christmas tree, locked myself in my room sobbing for hours on end; I couldn't hear a Christmas song without breaking into tears and shrieking at anyone within an audible range. All I wanted to was to lock myself away from my family and anyone who had the audacity to smile or say anything pleasant. I mean, how dare they? I even tried to focus on the selfish nature of what presents I would receive. And I tried to fixate on that and forget everything about what Christmas had always meant to me. But even as I waited for my turn to unwrap a gift, there was nothing exciting or anticipatory about it. All I felt was pain... and emptiness.

I listen to Christmas music now, almost as a religion. I take any chance to wander around looking at Christmas lights. I spent hours decorating the house until it's aglow in twinkling lights and garland. I've been cooking and planning for a straight week to prepare a true Christmas dinner for my 12 family members who are attending this year. And I do it all for her; I do it because if she were here, she would be cooking and decorating and blasting Christmas music all over the house. I do it because taking on her responsibilities brings me closer to her than I ever thought I could be after her death; closer than I'd ever dared to hope.

I sit on the couch, staring up at the tree. It's been a long day of shopping and running from store to store maniacally. The ham and pies wait patiently to be baked; the presents to be wrapped. But I only stare into the ethereal glow from the Christmas lights. A heaviness in my chest almost brings tears to my eyes, but something stops it. It's a numb kind of fuzziness that warms my veins and tingles the ends of my fingers. Almost as if someone unbeknownst to me is wrapping their arms around me; someone I can almost feel.


Saturday, January 22, 2011

Just a Dream


I know the dream. Darkness surrounds me. A hollow wind whistles from above. Haunting tones rise and fall from one minor note to another. I’m lost in the vastness of nothing, the darkness of nowhere. I search for the light. There must be light somewhere.
            The shadows fade. A small girl slumbers, lying across the back seat of a car. Still in sleep, she pulls a ragged teddy bear close to her cheek.
I try to bring myself out of it. I can’t watch. Not again. Seeing two familiar figures sitting in front, my heart seems to stop.
            The man holds the steering wheel tightly, eyeing the dark forests lining the road. In almost a maniacal way. The woman twists and tugs at the locket around her neck. She moves her eyes from her wringing hands, to the wet highway ahead of them, finally resting on the little girl sleeping soundly behind her.  
            “We won’t be able to explain this away.” The man speaks in a deep, gentle voice. Large drops of rain patter against the windshield.
            The woman nods. “I know. I think it might be time…” She pauses. Her eyes dim. Her back arches unnaturally. A lifeless look in her eye, but the man doesn't notice. He never even looks her way. 
I try uselessly to push myself away.
 Minutes pass, but finally the woman’s fingers twitch. The color floods her face. She sounds a garbled cry. With a shuddering voice, she whispers, “They know where we are. They’re coming.”
The engine protests as the man flattens the accelerator. Everything outside darkens into a black blur of looming silhouettes.
The woman turns to her daughter, now awake and waiting still. Their eyes lock. The little girl’s smile morphs into a sleepy yawn. The woman opens her mouth, but nothing comes.
            A green light explodes across the horizon.  Crashing, it illuminates the darkness with an eerie tint. The squealing brakes force the car to a jolting stop at the edge of the road.
The man and woman leap from the car. Their dark figures meet, huddled in the pouring rain. The man takes his wife’s shoulders, pointing to the black forest rising up beside them. The woman shakes her head, over and over. Tears fill her eyes.
            “You have to go on ahead. I will be okay.” The man’s voice only touches the cracking thunder. His gaze falls to his daughter, pushing her door open and sliding from the car. She stands soaking wet, still clutching tightly to her ragged bear. The man sighs, “It isn’t me they want.” The woman follows her husband’s eyes.
            “We’ll meet you at the cave.” She keeps her face to the ground. “Just be there, alright?” Taking the little girl’s hand, she pulls them off the road, down a muddy slope, and toward the darkness of the trees. Never looking back.   
They enter the forest, and a wet chill clings to their skin. The woman tightens her grip around her daughter’s hand. Everything around them stands dark and looming.
            A soft gleam of moonlight leads them to a tight clearing. A long, shrieking howl echoes from somewhere up ahead. The little girl draws close to her mom.
The woman’s body stiffens. Her eyes glaze over.
The girl tugs on her mother’s arm. “Mommy?”
The woman’s eyes flutter. She turns in circles, maniacally searching the darkness. As if suddenly realizing her daughter, she tries to smile. Kneeling on a patch of frozen mud, her eyes are level with her little girl’s.
            “How much do you love me pumpkin?” The woman’s eyes again fill with tears
Her daughter smiles. It’s a game they play, and she knows what to say. “I love you up to the moon and back down again… a bazillion times.”
            Something of a sob or squeal sounds from the woman’s throat. “What would you do for me?”
            The little girl pauses before answering, searching her mother’s eyes. “I’d do anything for you.”
            The woman brushes back a stray hair from her daughter’s face. “Okay, because I really need you to.” Something stirs in the trees. The woman jumps, but does not turn. “I need you to go on ahead without me. Straight ahead, there’s a cave. You’ll be safe there.”
The girl opens her mouth to protest, but her mother hurries on. “I’ll be right behind you, pumpkin.” She stops. A sigh escapes her parted lips. She brushes a finger against her daughter’s cheek. “No matter what you discover, just remember. I did what I did to protect you.”
The little girl trembles. “I can’t leave you.”
Here in the wood, the rain is silent. Nothing stirs. Only the sound of their hushed voices carries into the air, their labored breaths.
            The woman swallows hard. “You can’t stay with me right now, sweetie. I have to do something. But once it’s done, I’ll find you. I promise.” The woman’s fingers move to the locket around her neck. Slowly, hands shaking, she unclasps the chain.
She secures it quickly around her daughter’s throat, though something like a cry erupts from her chest.
            “Make me a promise, Sylls.” The woman’s voice is hardly a whisper. “Promise me. You’ll never take it off. No matter what happens, you’ll wear it always. Until I can find you. Promise me.”
The little girl looks from her mother to the locket, and nods slowly.
A strange glow filters through the trees. The woman turns. And when she speaks, her voice is flat, emotionless. “You have to go now.”
The little girl doesn’t move; she can’t. A howl echoes through the wood. The woman turns back to her quivering child. “Go!” She doesn’t raise her voice, but it echoes powerfully.
The girl stumbles as she turns. And she runs, not knowing what else she can do.
            Acidic tears eat at her skin. She sprints recklessly through the trees, tripping over every stone and branch that crosses her path. Hours seem to pass before breaking through the last of the branches. A wide, grassy meadow sits at her feet.  
            A single scream shatters the stillness. It echoes through the night air for an eternity. The little girl falls to the dewy grass, rubbing the frozen ground against her cheek.
She searches for tears, but they don’t come. Nothing’s there, only emptiness. She waits silently as a breeze picks up against the leaves. No words said, no shots fired, no blood spilt. And yet…

She knows.


I jump awake. Strange sounds, soft whispers, a deafening hum. I sit up, searching the space around me before realizing my circumstances. Wheezing gasps fill the silence. And I realize they sound from my chest. I lower into my seat. Beads of sweat inch down my face, into my eyes. I lean against the window. The icy glass cools my forehead. And I shut my eyes, forcing two hot tears down my cheeks.    
The plane lurches, rousing several passengers from their sleep. Looking down, I realize my fingers have found their way up my neck. They cling tightly to a red jeweled locket, glimmering softly in the cabin lighting. And I try to steady my pulsing heart. As I cling tightly to the locket I’ve always worn. The locket I’d kept close to my heart… ever since that night.