... And by items, I mean words. :)
In Creative Writing this week we've been working on flash fiction--a complete story in 99 words or less. Flash fictions have static characters (there's not enough time for them to change) but your perception of the character is supposed to change, usually in a surprise twist. I'm rather proud of mine. So I think I'll share them.
I'll Never Understand Women
“She left me. Throw a couple a’ punches and she walks away. I just don’t get it.”
Judging by his speechlessness, his friend didn’t either.
“I mean, really, did I ever do her wrong? And you remember that time Vince tried to beat her up? What’d I say? ‘Nobody beats up my woman but me.’ That’s exactly what I said, idn’t it? Idn’t it?”
Sympathizing silence.
“I know it. You’re a good friend, George. Guess it’s just you and me now. Gimme another round.”
Billy hugged the stuffed tiger and poured himself another cup of orange soda.
Hahaha. Loosely inspired by Calvin and Hobbes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Not With a Bang, But a Whimper
The archaeologists rummaged through the rubble, sifting through a civilization that had fallen into ruin centuries earlier. The dig had thus far been disappointing; evidently, this society had not much cared for written records.
“Hey! Dave, come look at this,” one called from his respective place in the site. “I think I found something!”
There were only a few pages left inside the bound cover of the book, and it was amazing that even they had survived.
“What’s it say?”
He brushed stray dirt and rocks from the binding.
“Twilight.”
This one was inspired by my enduring fear that our civilization will fall and all they will find is the Twilight Saga, and they'll judge our entire civilization by it. If you've talked to me for any length of time I'm sure you've heard me rant about that before, so I won't get started. I will say that the title is a reference to T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men," and that particular quote describes the way in which the world ends: "Not with a bang, but a whimper." I feel like if the world ended on Twilight... that'd be a pretty whimpery way to go.
Aaaannnddd my explanation of my story was successfully longer than my story. Awesome.
That was the entertaining part of my blog post. Feel free to stop reading here unless you know what Eight Days a Week is.
Finally, on a completely unrelated note, it's Eight Days a Week. I know you're excited.
I don't actually like this song all that much, but it talks about there being a show tonight. And I am, in fact, in a show tonight. It's a murder mystery, and I play an old Irish lady who owns the Chinese restaurant in which the crime occurs. There are, sadly, no trampolines. Or fire.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Friday, October 14, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
From Emily
I beg your pardon, Modern World,
‘Twas never your design
To rip the writings of a Girl--
Line from heartfelt line;
I wrote them only for Myself!
You’re never meant to see!
So criticize me not, dear World,
Though Death has stopped for-- me!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Yes, I am in school. But I am also in Creative Writing, and we're supposed to work on a fun writing project if we're done with actual assignments. Which means I can blog. Yay!)
One of my biggest English pet peeves is people who criticize Emily Dickinson. She's not my favorite poet by any stretch of the imagination, but the thing about her is she was never published in her lifetime. She didn't WANT her poems published. Every time I read a Dickinson poem I feel like I'm intruding on the private life that she never intended anyone to see. And I don't feel like anybody has the right to criticize that. She wasn't writing for you, stupid English critic. She was writing for her.
So. I channeled her and got her opinion on it. Hahaha. I tried to mirror her rhythms and her random capitalization and punctuation. It's not the best poem I've ever written, but I enjoy it. :)
‘Twas never your design
To rip the writings of a Girl--
Line from heartfelt line;
I wrote them only for Myself!
You’re never meant to see!
So criticize me not, dear World,
Though Death has stopped for-- me!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Yes, I am in school. But I am also in Creative Writing, and we're supposed to work on a fun writing project if we're done with actual assignments. Which means I can blog. Yay!)
One of my biggest English pet peeves is people who criticize Emily Dickinson. She's not my favorite poet by any stretch of the imagination, but the thing about her is she was never published in her lifetime. She didn't WANT her poems published. Every time I read a Dickinson poem I feel like I'm intruding on the private life that she never intended anyone to see. And I don't feel like anybody has the right to criticize that. She wasn't writing for you, stupid English critic. She was writing for her.
So. I channeled her and got her opinion on it. Hahaha. I tried to mirror her rhythms and her random capitalization and punctuation. It's not the best poem I've ever written, but I enjoy it. :)
Friday, September 9, 2011
Logophilia
I realized a few days ago that I don't love writing.
Well, rewind and rephrase. I do love writing. But all my life I thought that was the end all be all, and I just came to the conclusion that my core love is not of writing.
I LOVE WORDS.
I realized that nearly all of my earthly passions can be traced back to words. I love to spin words together into sentences when I write. I love reading the words that other people have written, whether they be poetry or prose. I love listening to music with lyrics that I identify with. I love quoting the words of people greater and wiser than me. I don't even care if the words are in English. I love Latin. Because it gives me better understanding of words.
So while I definitely love writing with every fiber of my being, that's just a symptom.
Don't you love it when you have this great realizations about the big picture of your life? Yeah. Me too.
Well, rewind and rephrase. I do love writing. But all my life I thought that was the end all be all, and I just came to the conclusion that my core love is not of writing.
I LOVE WORDS.
I realized that nearly all of my earthly passions can be traced back to words. I love to spin words together into sentences when I write. I love reading the words that other people have written, whether they be poetry or prose. I love listening to music with lyrics that I identify with. I love quoting the words of people greater and wiser than me. I don't even care if the words are in English. I love Latin. Because it gives me better understanding of words.
So while I definitely love writing with every fiber of my being, that's just a symptom.
Don't you love it when you have this great realizations about the big picture of your life? Yeah. Me too.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Superman at Home
You’re maybe the very last person on earth I expected to see
At a humdrum neighborhood Walmart on a Sunday afternoon.
I don’t know where I expected you to purchase your boxes
Of cereal or your socks or your five dollar movies.
You seem like the kind of person who would buy your movies
For twenty dollars, or eat the organic super-deluxe
Two-calorie multi-vitamin cornflakes from Sunflower.
Maybe the white shelves, the ceilings, the fluorescent lights
Drain and diminish your super powers until you’re only
Just as good as me or anybody else on Krypton.
Did you know your nose is a just a smidgen
Too big for the rest of your face?
I think I’ll say hello.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Usually I write poems about things that happened to me. Or people I know. Or feelings I feel. And this is none of the above. I really couldn't tell you where on earth this came from. But it's cute anyway. I guess it's about realizing that everyone's human, no matter how much of a pedestal you put them on in their head. Everybody goes to Walmart.
And it has a fun superhero metaphor and on-purpose line lengths. I like it. :)
Aaaahhhh! I'm turning into one of those obnoxious tell-a-story-that-never-happened poets!
At a humdrum neighborhood Walmart on a Sunday afternoon.
I don’t know where I expected you to purchase your boxes
Of cereal or your socks or your five dollar movies.
You seem like the kind of person who would buy your movies
For twenty dollars, or eat the organic super-deluxe
Two-calorie multi-vitamin cornflakes from Sunflower.
Maybe the white shelves, the ceilings, the fluorescent lights
Drain and diminish your super powers until you’re only
Just as good as me or anybody else on Krypton.
Did you know your nose is a just a smidgen
Too big for the rest of your face?
I think I’ll say hello.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Usually I write poems about things that happened to me. Or people I know. Or feelings I feel. And this is none of the above. I really couldn't tell you where on earth this came from. But it's cute anyway. I guess it's about realizing that everyone's human, no matter how much of a pedestal you put them on in their head. Everybody goes to Walmart.
And it has a fun superhero metaphor and on-purpose line lengths. I like it. :)
Aaaahhhh! I'm turning into one of those obnoxious tell-a-story-that-never-happened poets!
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Proton
I bet if I folded myself up so small that a hundred trillion
Of me could fit on the head of a sewing pin
I'd become so invisibly invincible
That no hammer would ever
Be able to crush me
Again.
Of me could fit on the head of a sewing pin
I'd become so invisibly invincible
That no hammer would ever
Be able to crush me
Again.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
A Toy Story Poem
I wrote a poem. A Toy Story poem. :)
I feel the need to tell you that it's a Toy Story poem, because I don't know if you'd be able to tell otherwise. But you must understand that I've kinda been in love with Cowboy Woody and the Toy Story franchise in general since I was rather small. Couple that with the Gabriel Gadfly poem about Mario and Princess Peach and I get all kinds of ideas for unconventionally pop-cultural love poems. Yay. :)
You're My Favorite Deputy
When the time comes
To saddle up
And face the world
Remember this:
Your name is written
On my sole
And I will always
Come back to you.
"Now Woody, he's been my pal for as long as I can remember. He's brave, like a cowboy should be. And kind, and smart. But the thing that makes Woody special, is he'll never give up on you... ever. He'll be there for you, no matter what. " -Andy, Toy Story 3
Yay Toy Story. And poems. :)
Much love.
<3
I feel the need to tell you that it's a Toy Story poem, because I don't know if you'd be able to tell otherwise. But you must understand that I've kinda been in love with Cowboy Woody and the Toy Story franchise in general since I was rather small. Couple that with the Gabriel Gadfly poem about Mario and Princess Peach and I get all kinds of ideas for unconventionally pop-cultural love poems. Yay. :)
You're My Favorite Deputy
When the time comes
To saddle up
And face the world
Remember this:
Your name is written
On my sole
And I will always
Come back to you.
"Now Woody, he's been my pal for as long as I can remember. He's brave, like a cowboy should be. And kind, and smart. But the thing that makes Woody special, is he'll never give up on you... ever. He'll be there for you, no matter what. " -Andy, Toy Story 3
Yay Toy Story. And poems. :)
Much love.
<3
Friday, January 21, 2011
Rants and Ramblings
Hey there Bloggerverse. Nice to see you.
It's been a while since I made lists. And I miss that. So here you go. Lists. :)
COOL GOD THOUGHTS:
-The way God answers prayer. Oh wow. My congregation had a prayer session last Saturday night about Thinking Souls, asking for opportunities to reach people and the courage to talk to them and all that stuff, right? THE NEXT MORNING there are two teen girls visiting. So we asked them to sit with us up front where we usually sit and told them about the devo after worship that night. And they CAME! And now I'm texting them and they're coming to our Girls' Retreat tonight. Awesome. God doesn't hesitate to give you opportunities if you're asking for them and looking for them!
-The Gospel of Mark is an awesome book. Fact. I love the use of "Immediately" throughout the book. I wrote an article on it, actually, if you want to go check it out.
-"Thousands of humans have been brought to think that humility means pretty women trying to believe they are ugly and clever men trying to believe they are fools." (C.S. Lewis). But that's so not what humility is! Pride is all a matter of keeping yourself in perspective. It's okay to appreciate your talents and rejoice in them, but it's when you start putting yourself in a place you don't belong (i.e. above others or even above God) that it's a problem. If you remember your talents are coming from God, and not you, and that God has given everybody equally awesome talents (even though they're not all the same), you oughta be fine. Yeah. Rant.
-Would you think twice about saving a complete stranger who was drowning if you knew for a fact you could save them? No? Then how come we do that almost every day? How many hundreds of souls do we pass right by in a week without saying a word to them? How many people do we write off as "complete strangers" and so decide not to share the gospel with them? Just a thought.
NEW GOALS:
-Weekly posting on Christ Crossed My Heart. And not the same articles I send to Come Fill Your Cup.
-Deeper study in my articles.
-Chapter a week on my book (more on that later).
-Chapter a week on my still-in-progress novel (but that's last on my list of priorities at this point).
FUN STUFF:
-Girls' day out with my mommy last Saturday. I love hanging out with her. She's the coolest. :) And, this day resulted in my purchase of a new hair flower, some chopsticks to do up my hair with, the complete works of William Shakespeare (for THREE BUCKS!) and a one volume Lord of the Rings trilogy (for two bucks). Oh! And Valentines! Hehehe. I won't tell you what's on them because some of you are getting them (hemhemhem Holly and Aimee). But suffice it to say that I'm pretty stoked about their awesomeness.
-Girls' Retreat tonight into tomorrow! I'm stoked. This is the fourth year in a row I've gone and they're always really great and uplifting. Love it.
NEW MUSIC:
-I gotta LOT of iTunes money for Christmas. And I'm quite happy about it. So I recently acquired Four Thieves Gone, The Gleam, and The Second Gleam all by the Avetts. (And Four Thieves was only $3.94 on Amazon. I am the bargain queen.) Oooooohhhh man. I always think I love the Avetts as much as is possible until I get a new CD and then I fall in love all over again. Quick favorite song run through (by track listing):
Four Thieves Gone:
1. Talk on Indolence, even though I like it better live. I like the odd little drum in the background starting at the "I've grown too aware of my mortality" part. That's not in the live version.
3. Colorshow-- because this is just a great song.
5. Sixteen in July-- because it's beautiful.
7. A Lover Like You-- Because it's cute.
8. Pretend Love-- Alright, this is only on this list because I love WHERE they put it on the album. The song itself probably isn't my favorite but you listen to the sugary sweet "Lover Like You" and then this comes on and you feel like he's talking about everything he said in the last song. Maybe they didn't even do that on purpose, I don't know, but if they did they're BRILLIANT!
10. The Lowering (A Sad Day in Greenville)-- The melody on this is just indescribably beautiful and the lyrics make me want to cry.
12. Famous Flower of Manhattan-- I've actually had this one for a long time. It was one of the first Avett songs I ever heard and the first time I listened to it I cried. I love how the Avetts can do that. They get under your skin and into your heart before you even know what happened.
13. 40 East-- This is my current favorite Avett song, I think. Maybe. I don't know, I have too many. But it's beautiful. Bob Crawford rocks. I LOVE Bob Crawford songs. They should let him sing more often.
The Gleam:
2. When I Drink-- I talked about this one in my Live Volume 3 post but it's just unbelievably good. Enough said. (And again. It's not really about drinking. It's about LIFE.)
3. Yardsale-- This is just a cool song. I can't put my finger on exactly why I like it so much, but it's good.
4. If It's the Beaches-- If you listen to this song and it has absolutely no effect on you... check your pulse. Oh wow. Gorgeous. I love how they put phone messages in songs. They did that with "Pretty Girl from Chile" on Emotionalism too. I do hope they're real phone messages and not fake studio recorded ones. Being that it's the Avetts, I'm pretty sure they're legit.
The Second Gleam:
1. Tear Down the House-- "And I remember cryin' over you, and I don't mean a couple of tears and I'm blue. I'm talking 'bout collapsing and screamin' at the moon..." Poetry. Pure poetry.
2. Murder in the City-- Just listen to it. It's a good song.
3. Bella Donna- This is just a beautiful, beautiful melody line. And a belladonna is also a poisonous flower. Which I doubt is a coincidence.
6. St. Joseph's-- There's a St. Joseph's hospital downtown. I doubt it's the same one they're talking about, but there is! Haha. But for real, this is a gorgeous song. "It's not where I am, it's who I'm with."
In other music news, I discovered Florence + the Machine and Blitzen Trapper. Neither of which are a thing like the Avetts. Well, Blitzen Trapper CAN be. But they're not ALL the time.
MISCELLANEOUS INJUSTICES:
-Lady Gaga. Katy Perry. Justin Bieber. What do all these freakshows have in common? They're ALL GRAMMY NOMINEES. Proving that the Grammies have ceased to mean a thing when it comes to talent, depth, or musical quality. Boo.
-The Dark Knight Rises casting is out. First, Johnny Depp is NOT in fact playing the Riddler, which is an injustice against me. (The Riddler's not even in it. I'm mad at whoever started that rumor and got my hopes up.) Second, ANNE HATHAWAY is playing Catwoman, which is an injustice against all of humanity. NO! Anne Hathaway cannot pull off Catwoman. No taco.
-I have to plod through a book analysis on The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn... enough said. Five symbols, three targets of satire, three key scenes, and a reaction. Phew. Shoot me now.
OTHER STUFF:
-I can officially give blood again! I am past my 52 day mark and I can't wait to go again. We're trying to get my mom to go with me this time... she's kinda terrified of blood, but I keep telling her it was soooo easy. When we do go (whether she gives with me or not), I shall blog about it.
-American Idol came back this week, and I was pleasantly surprised to find I like Steven Tyler AND Jennifer Lopez as judges. I mean, I was bound to hate one of them, right? But I don't. Steven Tyler is hilarious, but he takes over the blunt criticism from Simon quite nicely as well. And I was expecting Jennifer Lopez to be a prima donna "I know everything" type of girl, but she appears to be quite down to earth. A pleasant surprise.
AND FINALLY....
My book. :)
Here's my thing with books for Christian girls. The premise is "Pray. Read your Bible. Don't have sex. Don't do drugs. Don't drink. Don't dance. You're good!" So what do the good girls do? How do we go any deeper than that? I've kinda reached the point where I've heard it all a million times. I KNOW to read my Bible. I KNOW to pray. I'm a "good girl". I don't have an issue with sex or drugs or drinking because I was raised to know those things were bad. So where do I go from there? So I'm going to write a book for "good girls" (maybe called Higher Ground) about how to go from good to BETTER. :) My ideas so far for topics:
-Prayer (specifically getting a better more personal prayer life, ACTS, stuff like that.)
-Bible STUDY (not just Bible reading)
-Evangelism
-Encouragement
-Speech
If you're a teenage girl and you have ideas for me, PLEASE PLEASE comment for me! I'd love to hear it! I kinda want to focus more on the do's than the don'ts, because I feel like we know the don'ts inside and out at this point and Christianity isn't just a checklist, but regardless of what you have an idea for let me know! Muchas gracias!
Mmmm... alright. I have to go get ready for my retreat. Thank you for reading my useless rambling. Much love, Bloggers. :)
It's been a while since I made lists. And I miss that. So here you go. Lists. :)
COOL GOD THOUGHTS:
-The way God answers prayer. Oh wow. My congregation had a prayer session last Saturday night about Thinking Souls, asking for opportunities to reach people and the courage to talk to them and all that stuff, right? THE NEXT MORNING there are two teen girls visiting. So we asked them to sit with us up front where we usually sit and told them about the devo after worship that night. And they CAME! And now I'm texting them and they're coming to our Girls' Retreat tonight. Awesome. God doesn't hesitate to give you opportunities if you're asking for them and looking for them!
-The Gospel of Mark is an awesome book. Fact. I love the use of "Immediately" throughout the book. I wrote an article on it, actually, if you want to go check it out.
-"Thousands of humans have been brought to think that humility means pretty women trying to believe they are ugly and clever men trying to believe they are fools." (C.S. Lewis). But that's so not what humility is! Pride is all a matter of keeping yourself in perspective. It's okay to appreciate your talents and rejoice in them, but it's when you start putting yourself in a place you don't belong (i.e. above others or even above God) that it's a problem. If you remember your talents are coming from God, and not you, and that God has given everybody equally awesome talents (even though they're not all the same), you oughta be fine. Yeah. Rant.
-Would you think twice about saving a complete stranger who was drowning if you knew for a fact you could save them? No? Then how come we do that almost every day? How many hundreds of souls do we pass right by in a week without saying a word to them? How many people do we write off as "complete strangers" and so decide not to share the gospel with them? Just a thought.
NEW GOALS:
-Weekly posting on Christ Crossed My Heart. And not the same articles I send to Come Fill Your Cup.
-Deeper study in my articles.
-Chapter a week on my book (more on that later).
-Chapter a week on my still-in-progress novel (but that's last on my list of priorities at this point).
FUN STUFF:
-Girls' day out with my mommy last Saturday. I love hanging out with her. She's the coolest. :) And, this day resulted in my purchase of a new hair flower, some chopsticks to do up my hair with, the complete works of William Shakespeare (for THREE BUCKS!) and a one volume Lord of the Rings trilogy (for two bucks). Oh! And Valentines! Hehehe. I won't tell you what's on them because some of you are getting them (hemhemhem Holly and Aimee). But suffice it to say that I'm pretty stoked about their awesomeness.
-Girls' Retreat tonight into tomorrow! I'm stoked. This is the fourth year in a row I've gone and they're always really great and uplifting. Love it.
NEW MUSIC:
-I gotta LOT of iTunes money for Christmas. And I'm quite happy about it. So I recently acquired Four Thieves Gone, The Gleam, and The Second Gleam all by the Avetts. (And Four Thieves was only $3.94 on Amazon. I am the bargain queen.) Oooooohhhh man. I always think I love the Avetts as much as is possible until I get a new CD and then I fall in love all over again. Quick favorite song run through (by track listing):
Four Thieves Gone:
1. Talk on Indolence, even though I like it better live. I like the odd little drum in the background starting at the "I've grown too aware of my mortality" part. That's not in the live version.
3. Colorshow-- because this is just a great song.
5. Sixteen in July-- because it's beautiful.
7. A Lover Like You-- Because it's cute.
8. Pretend Love-- Alright, this is only on this list because I love WHERE they put it on the album. The song itself probably isn't my favorite but you listen to the sugary sweet "Lover Like You" and then this comes on and you feel like he's talking about everything he said in the last song. Maybe they didn't even do that on purpose, I don't know, but if they did they're BRILLIANT!
10. The Lowering (A Sad Day in Greenville)-- The melody on this is just indescribably beautiful and the lyrics make me want to cry.
12. Famous Flower of Manhattan-- I've actually had this one for a long time. It was one of the first Avett songs I ever heard and the first time I listened to it I cried. I love how the Avetts can do that. They get under your skin and into your heart before you even know what happened.
13. 40 East-- This is my current favorite Avett song, I think. Maybe. I don't know, I have too many. But it's beautiful. Bob Crawford rocks. I LOVE Bob Crawford songs. They should let him sing more often.
The Gleam:
2. When I Drink-- I talked about this one in my Live Volume 3 post but it's just unbelievably good. Enough said. (And again. It's not really about drinking. It's about LIFE.)
3. Yardsale-- This is just a cool song. I can't put my finger on exactly why I like it so much, but it's good.
4. If It's the Beaches-- If you listen to this song and it has absolutely no effect on you... check your pulse. Oh wow. Gorgeous. I love how they put phone messages in songs. They did that with "Pretty Girl from Chile" on Emotionalism too. I do hope they're real phone messages and not fake studio recorded ones. Being that it's the Avetts, I'm pretty sure they're legit.
The Second Gleam:
1. Tear Down the House-- "And I remember cryin' over you, and I don't mean a couple of tears and I'm blue. I'm talking 'bout collapsing and screamin' at the moon..." Poetry. Pure poetry.
2. Murder in the City-- Just listen to it. It's a good song.
3. Bella Donna- This is just a beautiful, beautiful melody line. And a belladonna is also a poisonous flower. Which I doubt is a coincidence.
6. St. Joseph's-- There's a St. Joseph's hospital downtown. I doubt it's the same one they're talking about, but there is! Haha. But for real, this is a gorgeous song. "It's not where I am, it's who I'm with."
In other music news, I discovered Florence + the Machine and Blitzen Trapper. Neither of which are a thing like the Avetts. Well, Blitzen Trapper CAN be. But they're not ALL the time.
MISCELLANEOUS INJUSTICES:
-Lady Gaga. Katy Perry. Justin Bieber. What do all these freakshows have in common? They're ALL GRAMMY NOMINEES. Proving that the Grammies have ceased to mean a thing when it comes to talent, depth, or musical quality. Boo.
-The Dark Knight Rises casting is out. First, Johnny Depp is NOT in fact playing the Riddler, which is an injustice against me. (The Riddler's not even in it. I'm mad at whoever started that rumor and got my hopes up.) Second, ANNE HATHAWAY is playing Catwoman, which is an injustice against all of humanity. NO! Anne Hathaway cannot pull off Catwoman. No taco.
-I have to plod through a book analysis on The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn... enough said. Five symbols, three targets of satire, three key scenes, and a reaction. Phew. Shoot me now.
OTHER STUFF:
-I can officially give blood again! I am past my 52 day mark and I can't wait to go again. We're trying to get my mom to go with me this time... she's kinda terrified of blood, but I keep telling her it was soooo easy. When we do go (whether she gives with me or not), I shall blog about it.
-American Idol came back this week, and I was pleasantly surprised to find I like Steven Tyler AND Jennifer Lopez as judges. I mean, I was bound to hate one of them, right? But I don't. Steven Tyler is hilarious, but he takes over the blunt criticism from Simon quite nicely as well. And I was expecting Jennifer Lopez to be a prima donna "I know everything" type of girl, but she appears to be quite down to earth. A pleasant surprise.
AND FINALLY....
My book. :)
Here's my thing with books for Christian girls. The premise is "Pray. Read your Bible. Don't have sex. Don't do drugs. Don't drink. Don't dance. You're good!" So what do the good girls do? How do we go any deeper than that? I've kinda reached the point where I've heard it all a million times. I KNOW to read my Bible. I KNOW to pray. I'm a "good girl". I don't have an issue with sex or drugs or drinking because I was raised to know those things were bad. So where do I go from there? So I'm going to write a book for "good girls" (maybe called Higher Ground) about how to go from good to BETTER. :) My ideas so far for topics:
-Prayer (specifically getting a better more personal prayer life, ACTS, stuff like that.)
-Bible STUDY (not just Bible reading)
-Evangelism
-Encouragement
-Speech
If you're a teenage girl and you have ideas for me, PLEASE PLEASE comment for me! I'd love to hear it! I kinda want to focus more on the do's than the don'ts, because I feel like we know the don'ts inside and out at this point and Christianity isn't just a checklist, but regardless of what you have an idea for let me know! Muchas gracias!
Mmmm... alright. I have to go get ready for my retreat. Thank you for reading my useless rambling. Much love, Bloggers. :)
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Chapter 1... the madness continues.
I LOVE THIS. I love being able to write absolute garbage and be unashamed. Ok, I'm a little ashamed of parts of it, but it's a journey! Editing happens in December. :) Soo.... Chapter 1. Enjoy. (Also, if you have any plot ideas you'd like to share with me... I'd love to take them off your hands. 'Cause I have, like, two. :] )
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Piper watched from her bedroom window as the fleet of helicopters took off from the launch field. Daddy was gone, just like always, but Branson was sixteen now. Branson was gone too.
And she’d be with them, if it weren’t for her stupid ear.
She remembered the day all too well, even though she had only been six years old. It was the old tree’s fault, in the end. It had been too inviting, too enticing, too easy to climb. Its limbs were strong and sturdy and low to the ground, spiraling upwards as effortlessly as a fancy staircase.
Branson refused to climb, but he’d always been the more reserved of the two. They were just about as different as twins could be: fraternal and completely opposite in temperament. Often neighbors refused to believe they were related. Branson was the image of their father, with blue eyes and red hair that desperately wanted to be brown. Piper, however, received the look of her mother: pale and somewhat thin, with stick-straight dark hair and “eyes like emeralds.” That’s what she’d always been told, anyway. She didn’t know if she believed them, as nobody around here had seen an emerald since before the war, which was a very long time ago.
“Don’t, Piper,” her brother said as she placed a foot on the first limb. “You can’t climb that high.”
Piper merely bit her lip and glared at her brother. Anything Piper supposedly “couldn’t do” became an immediate goal. Branson may have inherited Daddy’s looks, but she had unmistakably inherited his personality.
The first limb, as thick as her torso, came easily. Then the next. Then the next.
And then she slipped.
Air whipped through her hair, beating against her eardrums like a flood. Her head hit the ground first. She woke up in a hospital bed, miraculously alive. Apparently she’d landed on her left side, breaking her left arm and damaging the left side of her brain. The only lasting mark of the accident, however, was the loss of hearing in her left ear. Piper hadn’t climbed a tree since.
She’d been drafted along with Branson, but she hadn’t passed the admissions test. All because of her stupid, useless ear.
She touched the windowpane and felt a slight twinge of guilt at her ungratefulness. She was alive against all odds, and considering the army’s mortality rate… No. She wasn’t going to think about that. Branson was going to be just fine, and so was Dad. And she and Mother would be right here waiting when they got back.
“Sissy!”
And so would Baylor.
Baylor had been an unexpected surprise, born only five years ago in the middle of the war. Like Branson, he looked like their father, but his green eyes proved he was his mother’s child.
“Sissy!” He dashed into his sister’s room and pulled back her alcove curtain, uncovering her hiding spot by the window. “Sissy! Where’s Branson?”
“He went with Daddy, hon, you knew that. They went to the capitol with the rest of the army.”
“Will he be back tomorrow?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Will he be back next week?”
“Baylor, they’re going to be gone for a long time. Maybe two years, if the war isn’t over sooner.”
“But he’s gonna come back, right?”
“Yes, honey,” Piper said hesitantly. If she wanted Baylor to believe it, she had to believe it herself, right down to her bones.
“And Daddy too?”
“And Daddy too.”
“Will Daddy ‘member me?”
Piper almost laughed at the question. “Of course he’ll remember you. Why would you even ask a thing like that?”
Baylor gave a little shrug. “I don’t ‘member Daddy when he’s gone. Just pictures and stuff.”
A piece of Piper’s heart broke for the little boy. She and Branson, for however short a time, had known their father before the war, before he was constantly gone. Baylor didn’t have her memories of having water gun fights in their yard, or of camping out in the basement, or of being thrown into the air and falling into strong arms. Baylor remembered a man with a chiseled face and tired eyes who had seen much more of the world than any man should. She pulled her little brother into her lap.
“Daddy loves you. More than I can even tell you,” Piper reassured. “And he knows you love him too. And Branson loves you, and Mommy loves you, and I love you.”
“You love me the most, huh?” He giggled a gurgling little laugh that fit his age much better than the previous conversation had.
“Yeah, you’re my favorite. But don’t tell Rudy. He’ll be upset.”
As if he had heard his name, the family dog came bounding into the room, jumping onto Piper’s lap with Baylor and licking them both vigorously.
“Get down, Rudy!” Baylor fought through giggles. He jumped from Piper’s lap and chased the dog out of the room. She watched him leave, her heart pricked just a little by his innocence. She didn’t have the heart to follow them. Instead she climbed off the window seat and moved to her bed.
“Sissy,” a voice called. It was full and feminine—Mom. Piper turned around and nearly had a heart attack. The ghost of her mom was standing in the room next to her.
No, it wasn’t a ghost, she finally realized. The stupid holograms gave her the creeps. She would have much preferred the things her great grandmother had called “cell phones”; they couldn’t have been quite so startling.
“You scared me!”
“Sorry, honey. I’m at the store, you need anything?”
Piper looked around her room slowly, scanning for things she was running low on. “Um… pencils.”
“Pencils?” The holographic mom laughed. “Where did you hear about pencils, Piper? Nobody’s used them in years. I won’t be able to find them at the store.”
“I wanted to write a letter to Dad and Branson.”
“Why on earth would you take the time to handwrite anything when you just got that brand new dictator for your birthday? You’ve been talking to your grandmother far too much. She’s putting all these crazy ideas into your head. It’s ridiculous.”
“But she’s so interesting, Mom, and—“
“There’s no sense living in the past, Piper. It’s not healthy and it’s not right. The past can do us no good. The only way to live is to move forward. If you paid attention to the Presidential address you would know that.”
“Just because the President says it—“
“Stop, Piper. Stop right there. We’ll talk about this when I get home.”
Her mom disappeared.
Well, Piper thought, when the going gets tough… the tough go to Nana’s.
Nana, thanks to modern medicine, was one hundred fifty-three years old and counting. Many of the neighbors insisted she was crazy, and Piper didn’t entirely disagree. Nana certainly had her eccentricities. She lined the walls of her house in analog clocks that tick-tick-ticked all day long. With the exception of medicine, she for the most part rejected modern technology entirely. As far as Piper knew, she owned the only automobile in town, even though the Lev cars had become the major mode of transportation long before Piper was born. The Guard had often spoken to her about the car, warned her to stop driving it, but they never took any real course of action. Nana had the advantage of getting off easy for being out of her mind. Despite everything people said about her, Nana had always been Piper’s favorite relative. She loved the rest of her family, but Branson and Nana were really the only ones with whom she felt a kindred spirit.
Piper pushed open the olive-green gate into Nana’s garden and walked up the cobblestone path to the door. Flowers lined the pathway like a jungle. She wasn’t sure how her grandmother managed to keep such a well-kept garden, what with the rations and the war taxes. Knowing Nana, she had probably had the seeds for years.
She rapped the pretty pastel green door in their usual pattern, and as always, it opened within seconds.
“Hello, dear heart,” Nana said, sweeping her granddaughter into her arms. She smelled like coffee. “Come on in.” Piper followed her into the house, hearing the comfortably familiar tick-tick-ticks of the clocks. “Want a cup of coffee? Just made some.”
Piper nodded happily. Nobody had coffee anymore except for Nana. Drinking chocolate had come into style ages ago. Nana doused her cup in sugar and cream and handed it over. She took a sip, relishing the slightly bitter taste and the heat tickling her tongue.
“What’s eatin’ you, honey?” Nana asked after a few minutes.
“Branson,” she replied.
“Miss him already, huh? Isn’t he your brother?” Nana laughed and patted her knee. “I know it’s hard. He’s a smart boy, though. He’ll be all right.”
“Coltrane Thornton was smart too, and he wasn’t all right.” Nana looked a little taken aback at her mention of their neighbor, who had left for the battlefield a year and a half ago and never returned. After a moment of silence, Nana finally spoke again.
“Fine, I can’t promise he’ll be okay. Nobody’s promised anything nowadays. War is an ugly thing, dear heart. It takes away all your certainty, takes away your family…”
“I know, Nana.” Anybody who talked to Nana for more than five minutes knew her stance on the war: that it shouldn’t be happening at all. She might have disowned Daddy after he received his commission, had it not been for Piper, Branson, and Baylor.
“I know you know. It hits you harder than me. My life is almost over—“
Piper laughed. “You’re over a hundred and still living at home, Nana. I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”
A sad look overcame her grandmother’s blue-gray eyes. “Yes, I’m over a hundred and I feel older. If it weren’t for you and your brothers I’d have gone off the medicine a long time ago. I need peace. I’ll be ready whenever my time comes, if sooner or later.” She leaned over the coffee table to place a hand on Piper’s knee. “But you, Piper, you’ve only just begun to live. If this keeps going it’ll suck the life right out of your generation. It’s not your war. It’s ours. And it should die with us.”
“Nana, the war is necessary. That’s what they told us in current events—“
“Current events? Is that a class at that school you go to? Current events?”
“Yes, Nana, it was part of that education amendment, the government felt we didn’t know enough about our time—“
“Your time? All you know is your time! That’s all they let you know, that’s all they let anybody know.”
“Nana, I really didn’t come for a rant about the government. I’m sorry. I just wanted to ask for a pencil.”
The furrow between Nana’s eyebrows disappeared, and was replaced with a smile. “A pencil? Whatever for, dear?”
“To write a letter.”
“Don’t you want to use one of those dictator things? Your mother gave me one for Christmas. I hate to admit it but they’re dead useful.”
“I wanted to write Branson an actual letter. In my own handwriting. He’s weird like me, he’d like that kind of thing.”
Nana chuckled. “Well, I’m sure I can find you one in the attic, if nowhere else. I’ll go check. You want to come look? I dare say you’ll something up there to interest you, knowing you.”
Nana pulled down the door in the ceiling and began to climb up the descending wooden ladder. Piper followed suit, and found herself in a wonderland.
“I’m a little bit of a packrat,” said Nana, as if she could read her granddaughter’s thoughts. She must have kept everything she’d ever known; Piper didn’t see how the attic could hold so many treasures. In a corner on a table was a small, black, rectangular box with a glass circle protruding from its front: Nana called it a camera. The thing sitting next to it intrigued her most of all. It was a stack of paper bound together in a cover. She picked it up and flipped through it. Inside were words.
“Don’t you know what a book is?” Nana said. “Surely you still have books in school.”
“We download all our texts to our dictators,” Piper said, still mesmerized at the book. The first page said “1776: Revolution or Evolution?”
“You can take it home if you want, honey.” Nana took the book from her hands and looked at the cover. “Oh, this was MY grandfather’s. Copyright 1978… this is ancient, isn’t it? Seventeen seventy six… It sounds familiar. I feel like something important happened, but I couldn’t tell you.” She chuckled. “Guess you’ll just have to read it yourself.” Smiling, she handed the book back to Piper, who tucked the book under her arm.
“Do you have something I could put it in? I don’t know if Mom would be too happy.”
They went downstairs and Nana handed her a shopping bag, along with a piece of paper and a pencil.
“Write your brother a letter,” she said, wrapping Piper in her arms. She just stood there and held her for a long time. “Love you, dear heart,” she whispered after a few moments. “See you soon.”
Piper nodded and walked out the door, leaving the cobblestone path and the gate behind her.
For the last time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Piper watched from her bedroom window as the fleet of helicopters took off from the launch field. Daddy was gone, just like always, but Branson was sixteen now. Branson was gone too.
And she’d be with them, if it weren’t for her stupid ear.
She remembered the day all too well, even though she had only been six years old. It was the old tree’s fault, in the end. It had been too inviting, too enticing, too easy to climb. Its limbs were strong and sturdy and low to the ground, spiraling upwards as effortlessly as a fancy staircase.
Branson refused to climb, but he’d always been the more reserved of the two. They were just about as different as twins could be: fraternal and completely opposite in temperament. Often neighbors refused to believe they were related. Branson was the image of their father, with blue eyes and red hair that desperately wanted to be brown. Piper, however, received the look of her mother: pale and somewhat thin, with stick-straight dark hair and “eyes like emeralds.” That’s what she’d always been told, anyway. She didn’t know if she believed them, as nobody around here had seen an emerald since before the war, which was a very long time ago.
“Don’t, Piper,” her brother said as she placed a foot on the first limb. “You can’t climb that high.”
Piper merely bit her lip and glared at her brother. Anything Piper supposedly “couldn’t do” became an immediate goal. Branson may have inherited Daddy’s looks, but she had unmistakably inherited his personality.
The first limb, as thick as her torso, came easily. Then the next. Then the next.
And then she slipped.
Air whipped through her hair, beating against her eardrums like a flood. Her head hit the ground first. She woke up in a hospital bed, miraculously alive. Apparently she’d landed on her left side, breaking her left arm and damaging the left side of her brain. The only lasting mark of the accident, however, was the loss of hearing in her left ear. Piper hadn’t climbed a tree since.
She’d been drafted along with Branson, but she hadn’t passed the admissions test. All because of her stupid, useless ear.
She touched the windowpane and felt a slight twinge of guilt at her ungratefulness. She was alive against all odds, and considering the army’s mortality rate… No. She wasn’t going to think about that. Branson was going to be just fine, and so was Dad. And she and Mother would be right here waiting when they got back.
“Sissy!”
And so would Baylor.
Baylor had been an unexpected surprise, born only five years ago in the middle of the war. Like Branson, he looked like their father, but his green eyes proved he was his mother’s child.
“Sissy!” He dashed into his sister’s room and pulled back her alcove curtain, uncovering her hiding spot by the window. “Sissy! Where’s Branson?”
“He went with Daddy, hon, you knew that. They went to the capitol with the rest of the army.”
“Will he be back tomorrow?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Will he be back next week?”
“Baylor, they’re going to be gone for a long time. Maybe two years, if the war isn’t over sooner.”
“But he’s gonna come back, right?”
“Yes, honey,” Piper said hesitantly. If she wanted Baylor to believe it, she had to believe it herself, right down to her bones.
“And Daddy too?”
“And Daddy too.”
“Will Daddy ‘member me?”
Piper almost laughed at the question. “Of course he’ll remember you. Why would you even ask a thing like that?”
Baylor gave a little shrug. “I don’t ‘member Daddy when he’s gone. Just pictures and stuff.”
A piece of Piper’s heart broke for the little boy. She and Branson, for however short a time, had known their father before the war, before he was constantly gone. Baylor didn’t have her memories of having water gun fights in their yard, or of camping out in the basement, or of being thrown into the air and falling into strong arms. Baylor remembered a man with a chiseled face and tired eyes who had seen much more of the world than any man should. She pulled her little brother into her lap.
“Daddy loves you. More than I can even tell you,” Piper reassured. “And he knows you love him too. And Branson loves you, and Mommy loves you, and I love you.”
“You love me the most, huh?” He giggled a gurgling little laugh that fit his age much better than the previous conversation had.
“Yeah, you’re my favorite. But don’t tell Rudy. He’ll be upset.”
As if he had heard his name, the family dog came bounding into the room, jumping onto Piper’s lap with Baylor and licking them both vigorously.
“Get down, Rudy!” Baylor fought through giggles. He jumped from Piper’s lap and chased the dog out of the room. She watched him leave, her heart pricked just a little by his innocence. She didn’t have the heart to follow them. Instead she climbed off the window seat and moved to her bed.
“Sissy,” a voice called. It was full and feminine—Mom. Piper turned around and nearly had a heart attack. The ghost of her mom was standing in the room next to her.
No, it wasn’t a ghost, she finally realized. The stupid holograms gave her the creeps. She would have much preferred the things her great grandmother had called “cell phones”; they couldn’t have been quite so startling.
“You scared me!”
“Sorry, honey. I’m at the store, you need anything?”
Piper looked around her room slowly, scanning for things she was running low on. “Um… pencils.”
“Pencils?” The holographic mom laughed. “Where did you hear about pencils, Piper? Nobody’s used them in years. I won’t be able to find them at the store.”
“I wanted to write a letter to Dad and Branson.”
“Why on earth would you take the time to handwrite anything when you just got that brand new dictator for your birthday? You’ve been talking to your grandmother far too much. She’s putting all these crazy ideas into your head. It’s ridiculous.”
“But she’s so interesting, Mom, and—“
“There’s no sense living in the past, Piper. It’s not healthy and it’s not right. The past can do us no good. The only way to live is to move forward. If you paid attention to the Presidential address you would know that.”
“Just because the President says it—“
“Stop, Piper. Stop right there. We’ll talk about this when I get home.”
Her mom disappeared.
Well, Piper thought, when the going gets tough… the tough go to Nana’s.
Nana, thanks to modern medicine, was one hundred fifty-three years old and counting. Many of the neighbors insisted she was crazy, and Piper didn’t entirely disagree. Nana certainly had her eccentricities. She lined the walls of her house in analog clocks that tick-tick-ticked all day long. With the exception of medicine, she for the most part rejected modern technology entirely. As far as Piper knew, she owned the only automobile in town, even though the Lev cars had become the major mode of transportation long before Piper was born. The Guard had often spoken to her about the car, warned her to stop driving it, but they never took any real course of action. Nana had the advantage of getting off easy for being out of her mind. Despite everything people said about her, Nana had always been Piper’s favorite relative. She loved the rest of her family, but Branson and Nana were really the only ones with whom she felt a kindred spirit.
Piper pushed open the olive-green gate into Nana’s garden and walked up the cobblestone path to the door. Flowers lined the pathway like a jungle. She wasn’t sure how her grandmother managed to keep such a well-kept garden, what with the rations and the war taxes. Knowing Nana, she had probably had the seeds for years.
She rapped the pretty pastel green door in their usual pattern, and as always, it opened within seconds.
“Hello, dear heart,” Nana said, sweeping her granddaughter into her arms. She smelled like coffee. “Come on in.” Piper followed her into the house, hearing the comfortably familiar tick-tick-ticks of the clocks. “Want a cup of coffee? Just made some.”
Piper nodded happily. Nobody had coffee anymore except for Nana. Drinking chocolate had come into style ages ago. Nana doused her cup in sugar and cream and handed it over. She took a sip, relishing the slightly bitter taste and the heat tickling her tongue.
“What’s eatin’ you, honey?” Nana asked after a few minutes.
“Branson,” she replied.
“Miss him already, huh? Isn’t he your brother?” Nana laughed and patted her knee. “I know it’s hard. He’s a smart boy, though. He’ll be all right.”
“Coltrane Thornton was smart too, and he wasn’t all right.” Nana looked a little taken aback at her mention of their neighbor, who had left for the battlefield a year and a half ago and never returned. After a moment of silence, Nana finally spoke again.
“Fine, I can’t promise he’ll be okay. Nobody’s promised anything nowadays. War is an ugly thing, dear heart. It takes away all your certainty, takes away your family…”
“I know, Nana.” Anybody who talked to Nana for more than five minutes knew her stance on the war: that it shouldn’t be happening at all. She might have disowned Daddy after he received his commission, had it not been for Piper, Branson, and Baylor.
“I know you know. It hits you harder than me. My life is almost over—“
Piper laughed. “You’re over a hundred and still living at home, Nana. I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”
A sad look overcame her grandmother’s blue-gray eyes. “Yes, I’m over a hundred and I feel older. If it weren’t for you and your brothers I’d have gone off the medicine a long time ago. I need peace. I’ll be ready whenever my time comes, if sooner or later.” She leaned over the coffee table to place a hand on Piper’s knee. “But you, Piper, you’ve only just begun to live. If this keeps going it’ll suck the life right out of your generation. It’s not your war. It’s ours. And it should die with us.”
“Nana, the war is necessary. That’s what they told us in current events—“
“Current events? Is that a class at that school you go to? Current events?”
“Yes, Nana, it was part of that education amendment, the government felt we didn’t know enough about our time—“
“Your time? All you know is your time! That’s all they let you know, that’s all they let anybody know.”
“Nana, I really didn’t come for a rant about the government. I’m sorry. I just wanted to ask for a pencil.”
The furrow between Nana’s eyebrows disappeared, and was replaced with a smile. “A pencil? Whatever for, dear?”
“To write a letter.”
“Don’t you want to use one of those dictator things? Your mother gave me one for Christmas. I hate to admit it but they’re dead useful.”
“I wanted to write Branson an actual letter. In my own handwriting. He’s weird like me, he’d like that kind of thing.”
Nana chuckled. “Well, I’m sure I can find you one in the attic, if nowhere else. I’ll go check. You want to come look? I dare say you’ll something up there to interest you, knowing you.”
Nana pulled down the door in the ceiling and began to climb up the descending wooden ladder. Piper followed suit, and found herself in a wonderland.
“I’m a little bit of a packrat,” said Nana, as if she could read her granddaughter’s thoughts. She must have kept everything she’d ever known; Piper didn’t see how the attic could hold so many treasures. In a corner on a table was a small, black, rectangular box with a glass circle protruding from its front: Nana called it a camera. The thing sitting next to it intrigued her most of all. It was a stack of paper bound together in a cover. She picked it up and flipped through it. Inside were words.
“Don’t you know what a book is?” Nana said. “Surely you still have books in school.”
“We download all our texts to our dictators,” Piper said, still mesmerized at the book. The first page said “1776: Revolution or Evolution?”
“You can take it home if you want, honey.” Nana took the book from her hands and looked at the cover. “Oh, this was MY grandfather’s. Copyright 1978… this is ancient, isn’t it? Seventeen seventy six… It sounds familiar. I feel like something important happened, but I couldn’t tell you.” She chuckled. “Guess you’ll just have to read it yourself.” Smiling, she handed the book back to Piper, who tucked the book under her arm.
“Do you have something I could put it in? I don’t know if Mom would be too happy.”
They went downstairs and Nana handed her a shopping bag, along with a piece of paper and a pencil.
“Write your brother a letter,” she said, wrapping Piper in her arms. She just stood there and held her for a long time. “Love you, dear heart,” she whispered after a few moments. “See you soon.”
Piper nodded and walked out the door, leaving the cobblestone path and the gate behind her.
For the last time.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
NaNoWriMo: Prologue
Since I'm a certifiable nutcase, I've opted to do National Novel Writing Month. Because two AP classes, three articles, a term paper, and musical just weren't enough for me. I'm not entirely sure what my novel's about, but that's okay. I just have to crank out 50,000 words by the end of the month. No editing, no nothing. Just words. And since I started late, that's 2,000 words a day. No sweat, right?
Ha. Wrong!
Oh well. As my father would say, "It's an adventure."
Here's my first chapter/prologue. I rather like it. :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She walked through the smoky graveyard. She couldn’t tell if it was night or if the ash was simply obscuring the sun.
Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation…
The tomcat wouldn’t leave her ankles. She’d shooed him several times, but all he did was pounce back at forth at her feet. She couldn’t bring herself to kick him. They’d both been through too much for that.
…conceived in Liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
The cat couldn’t be more than two years old. He was gray with a black spot on the back of his right leg. Though he looked a little thin, he obviously hadn’t been starving, and had probably eaten more recently then she had.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war…
The corner was missing from his left ear.
… testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived, and so dedicated, can long endure.
She bent over and tried to pick him up. No sooner than she had touched his belly, his claws swept across her forearm.
“Fine!” she shouted, massaging the scratch. “Get out of here!” The cat skittered off into the fog, lost to the darkness. A cold breeze blew through the graveyard, as though she’d disturbed the slumber of the dead with her shouting.
We are met here on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of it as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
“Oh, shut up,” she told the ghosts. If they had slept through the last few days, they deserved to be awakened now. To know what had happened. To share in her pain.
But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract.
The gravestone nearest her was so weathered that only God would henceforth know its owner’s name. She ran her finger down the rugged stone of the cross at the top. It crumbled into pieces before her eyes.
The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it cannot forget what they did here.
Her eyes flicked to a monument in the middle of the cemetery. A lady standing on a pedestal, surrounded by other statues. Inexplicably captivated, she began to walk through the rows of headstones.
It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they have, thus far, so nobly carried on.
The statues were odd. The first was a bearded man dressed in some sort of uniform and a sad look in his eyes. There was a single word engraved in the stone beneath his pedestal: WAR. She knew that word all too well. He didn’t look like any soldier she’d ever seen. His outstretched hand and his glance pointed to the next statue, a woman with a wreath upon her head and dressed in a long gown. She held a book and seemed to be writing in it. Her title read HISTORY.
It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion…
What was history?
… that we here highly resolve that those dead shall not have died in vain…
Puzzled, she continued to gaze at the title. She saw “story”… his story? Whose story? Who was he? Puzzled, she moved to the next statue: a fat woman holding some sort of plant. It looked like grain. Her name was PLENTY. She scowled at the woman. While she knew what the word meant, “plenty” had never been part of her regular vocabulary, even in the good days.
… that this nation shall have a new birth of freedom…
The final statue looked down at her sternly, as if to say, “You don’t belong here.” He held a hammer in his hand and was surrounded by machinery, a mechanical man, born of metal and cogs. She looked at his name… PEACE.
“Peace.” She said it out loud. The word left a bittersweet taste in her mouth, like the dark chocolate bars she used to get on Christmas. She remembered peace. Out of the four words, that was the only one she really understood, felt to the core of her existence. She knew war, but she would never understand it.
On a nearby plaque was engraved a rather long quote by somebody called “Abraham Lincoln.” What a weird name.
…that this government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
She laughed bitterly at the poor dead man whose words, though immortalized in stone here in the graveyard, had died to the rest of the world.
“Nobody knows your name, Mr. Lincoln,” she mused to the chill night air. “Nobody has a clue what you’re talking about.”
A gentle “mew” broke her reverie. The cat was back. Its glowing orange eyes stared widely at her from behind a tombstone, frightened and hopeful at the same time. She wasn’t in the mood to care, but his little eyes pleaded with her, and she couldn’t leave him alone in this haunted place as the world had chosen to leave her. Massaging her forearm tentatively, she reached for the cat’s underbelly. When she sensed no hesitation, she quickly scooped the cat up into her arms.
“Okay,” she said. “I guess we’re friends.” More like allies, she thought, as they stepped out of the circle of graves and into the world.
Ha. Wrong!
Oh well. As my father would say, "It's an adventure."
Here's my first chapter/prologue. I rather like it. :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She walked through the smoky graveyard. She couldn’t tell if it was night or if the ash was simply obscuring the sun.
Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation…
The tomcat wouldn’t leave her ankles. She’d shooed him several times, but all he did was pounce back at forth at her feet. She couldn’t bring herself to kick him. They’d both been through too much for that.
…conceived in Liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
The cat couldn’t be more than two years old. He was gray with a black spot on the back of his right leg. Though he looked a little thin, he obviously hadn’t been starving, and had probably eaten more recently then she had.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war…
The corner was missing from his left ear.
… testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived, and so dedicated, can long endure.
She bent over and tried to pick him up. No sooner than she had touched his belly, his claws swept across her forearm.
“Fine!” she shouted, massaging the scratch. “Get out of here!” The cat skittered off into the fog, lost to the darkness. A cold breeze blew through the graveyard, as though she’d disturbed the slumber of the dead with her shouting.
We are met here on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of it as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
“Oh, shut up,” she told the ghosts. If they had slept through the last few days, they deserved to be awakened now. To know what had happened. To share in her pain.
But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract.
The gravestone nearest her was so weathered that only God would henceforth know its owner’s name. She ran her finger down the rugged stone of the cross at the top. It crumbled into pieces before her eyes.
The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it cannot forget what they did here.
Her eyes flicked to a monument in the middle of the cemetery. A lady standing on a pedestal, surrounded by other statues. Inexplicably captivated, she began to walk through the rows of headstones.
It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they have, thus far, so nobly carried on.
The statues were odd. The first was a bearded man dressed in some sort of uniform and a sad look in his eyes. There was a single word engraved in the stone beneath his pedestal: WAR. She knew that word all too well. He didn’t look like any soldier she’d ever seen. His outstretched hand and his glance pointed to the next statue, a woman with a wreath upon her head and dressed in a long gown. She held a book and seemed to be writing in it. Her title read HISTORY.
It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here gave the last full measure of devotion…
What was history?
… that we here highly resolve that those dead shall not have died in vain…
Puzzled, she continued to gaze at the title. She saw “story”… his story? Whose story? Who was he? Puzzled, she moved to the next statue: a fat woman holding some sort of plant. It looked like grain. Her name was PLENTY. She scowled at the woman. While she knew what the word meant, “plenty” had never been part of her regular vocabulary, even in the good days.
… that this nation shall have a new birth of freedom…
The final statue looked down at her sternly, as if to say, “You don’t belong here.” He held a hammer in his hand and was surrounded by machinery, a mechanical man, born of metal and cogs. She looked at his name… PEACE.
“Peace.” She said it out loud. The word left a bittersweet taste in her mouth, like the dark chocolate bars she used to get on Christmas. She remembered peace. Out of the four words, that was the only one she really understood, felt to the core of her existence. She knew war, but she would never understand it.
On a nearby plaque was engraved a rather long quote by somebody called “Abraham Lincoln.” What a weird name.
…that this government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
She laughed bitterly at the poor dead man whose words, though immortalized in stone here in the graveyard, had died to the rest of the world.
“Nobody knows your name, Mr. Lincoln,” she mused to the chill night air. “Nobody has a clue what you’re talking about.”
A gentle “mew” broke her reverie. The cat was back. Its glowing orange eyes stared widely at her from behind a tombstone, frightened and hopeful at the same time. She wasn’t in the mood to care, but his little eyes pleaded with her, and she couldn’t leave him alone in this haunted place as the world had chosen to leave her. Massaging her forearm tentatively, she reached for the cat’s underbelly. When she sensed no hesitation, she quickly scooped the cat up into her arms.
“Okay,” she said. “I guess we’re friends.” More like allies, she thought, as they stepped out of the circle of graves and into the world.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
"The Reward"-- Original Personal Essay
I wrote this about our mission trip to Africa in 2007. The mission work itself was fantastic. However, getting there was... an experience. :)
~~~~~~~~
There we were, eight crazy white people playing Yahtzee outside the Muslim prayer room in Nairobi Airport. The dingy blue carpet made me even more nauseous than I already felt. The few loudspeakers scattered through the building played the theme songs of shows like The Loveboat and Little House on the Prairie. It seemed as though we had materialized into some weird real-life episode of The Twilight Zone, and we'd be trapped there for the next eleven stinkin' hours. No real food. No chairs. Just eight crazy wazumgus--as the natives called us--and a forklift worth of suitcases.
We had already been in transit for two days. Our first layover remained in the States-- Memphis, Tennessee. Eleven hours would be plenty of time to stretch our legs, see a few sights, and get a taste of some Southern cooking.
Or, at least, it would have been plenty of time, if our ride hadn't gotten pneumonia and bailed on us. Instead of walking through the gates of Graceland, we walked through Memphis Airport.
Eleven hours is a long time. We sat at a little cafe in the airport for almost six hours, until they finally kicked us out to make room for people who were still buying food. By the time we boarded the next plane, I could practically feel my brain running out my ears out of sheer boredom. My brother Matthew and his best friend Dale, however, managed to stay occupied almost the entire stay in the airport. The moving sidewalks became their new best friends. Matthew, never having seen one before, was mesmerized at the idea of an escalator without steps. They spent at least two hours simply letting one sidewalk carry them down the airport corridor, then riding the other belt back. I'm convinced they would have done so the entire layover if some mean airport official hadn't forced them to stop.
Eleven hours is a long time to spend in an airport. Eleven hours is even longer on an airplane.
You must understand that I loathe and despise airplanes with every fiber of my being. The wretched contraptions smell like a combination of plastic, sweat, and recycled air. My ears pop and my head goes fuzzy, and sometimes they make me nauseous. I hate airplanes.
The plane to Amsterdam, our next layover, outdid most I'd seen. A small television hung on the back of each seat, and although the gross airplane smell was subtly present, it wasn't attacking my nostrils. I ended up watching movies and playing Bejeweled until I fell into a unresponsive state: completely aware of all around me, but not completely awake. I became so dead dog tired that I thought I'd never be able to move again.
Only when I awoke did I realize I had ever fallen asleep. In front of me was the new bane of my existence: airplane food.
It was supposed to be breakfast. I peeled off the plastic seal to find off-color eggs and something that vaguely resembled some type of meat. Next to the "meal" sat orange juice in a container that looked something like a Jello cup. I nibbled on the eggs; they tasted like rubber. I neglected to try the meat.
Twenty-four hour food count: lunch at the Blue Note Cafe in Memphis and a bite of airplane eggs. Nothing to drink. Naturally, I got dehydrated.
You know how dehydration is. Once your system gets dehydrated, it convinces itself it doesn't want anything more to eat or drink. When we reached Amsterdam, Mom practically had to shove the European Burger King food down my throat. After that, I felt a little better, but a few chicken nuggets couldn't possibly hold me over for the next twelve hours.
Fresh air finally reached my lungs outside the airport in Amsterdam. It matched the picture of Europe I'd formulated in my mind: cold, gray, and wet. Despite the weather, Amsterdam bustled with activity. We dared to embark on the boat tour around the canals of the city, taking in its quirky beauty. Unfortunately, this, our shortest layover, soon came to an end.
The next flight was to be the last long one: a connection from Amsterdam to Nairobi, Kenya. I hadn't eaten a real meal since Burger King, so I scrounged up a bag of Ritz crackers and devoured them. My tastebuds loved them; my stomach, however, was not so pleased. I felt my throat closing up and knew what was coming. My delicious crackers ended up in an airsick bag.
After a thousand forevers, we arrived at Nairobi Airport, our first steps on African soil. The heat and humidity hit me like an ocean wave. Some backstage technicality forced us to retrieve all of our baggage before the connecting flight to Arusha. That's how we arrived at the icky blue carpet outside the Muslim prayer room.
I promise you, hell looks exactly like Nairobi Airport.
There are no restaurants in Nairobi Airport. That means no food. Twelve hours without real food when you're already dehydrated is not a good thing.
The best we could find was a tourist shop specializing in overpriced necessities, particularly four-dollar water. I chugged the entire bottle without even thinking. I had never tasted anything so deliciously pure and fresh.
My stomach, not used to having water inside it at this point, refused to put up with this wonderful intruder for long. Before long, I was spewing it all over the already gross carpet. To make matters even worse (if that's possible), an African man saw me barfing and almost immediately began dragging me away.
"Come, come, I take you to doctor now. Come." I thought he was going to wrench my arm out of my socket trying to pull me along. I looked to my mom. Seeing that she was following, I let the man take me to the doctor.
The room was tiny, not much bigger than an office cubicle. Peeling paint colored the walls a sickly orange that made me want to throw up again. Mom and I sat down on two lumpy chairs in front of a dusty desk, at which sat a short, squatty African woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties. She peered at us over her glasses.
"What's wrong with her? Why ah you here?" she asked. I felt like the defendent in a court case. Mom tried to explain that I wasn't contagiously ill, only dehydrated. "Well, give her some WATER then!" the lady said in a how-stupid-can-you-Americans-be kind of voice. She ended up giving us two white pills in a little yellow envelope, without giving us the slightest clue what effect they were to have on me. Needless to say, I never took them.
After at least five hours of sleep, the time came for us to board the final plane to Tanzania. Having consumed another bottle of water (much more slowly than before), I felt considerably better. My brother, on the other hand, was apparently dehydrated as well, and began throwing up in front of the big African man who was to take our tickets. Naturally, my mind started racing. How did I know they would even let us on the plane? It would be completely plausible for them to think we were carrying some horrible American disease and keep us in Nairobi Airport forever!
The man just took our tickets and ushered us onto the plane without saying a word. I breathed a sigh of relief.
The last flight, though the shortest, debatably surpassed the others in discomfort. Never before had so many people crammed themselves onto one plane. The lack of overhead bins forced all of our carry-on bags beneath our feet. When the time for snacks came, the flight attendants served us Coke with an expiration date of two years ago.
At long last, we touched down at Kilimanjaro Airport. I would have fallen to my knees and kissed the ground if I'd thought I would have the energy to get back up again. After waiting a good hour for our bags, we walked to the curb to find... no one. Mr. Gee, a local missionary, should have been there to pick us up and take us to the hotel. In my mind, he had naturally forgotten us. After all, the trip so far had crashed and burned. Why shouldn't the rest of it be the same way?
Within the hour, however, refuge arrived in the form of a white sixteen-passenger van. We eagerly climbed in and rested our exhausted bodies on the cushioned seats. I realized with little surprise that there were no seat belts. Lovely.
"Twelve hours?" Mr. Gee exclaimed as we pulled away from the airport. "It only takes about five hours driving to get to Nairobi. I coulda driven all the way out there and gotten you here faster."
Sure. Now you tell us.
Halfway to the hotel, Matthew rapped my leg. I had been close to sleep, and wanted to strangle my brother for having awakened me.
"What is it?" I groaned.
"Sissy, look out the window!" His voice rang with excitement. He would never leave me alone until I saw what he wanted me to see, so I humored him and looked.
And there were stars. Millions of them. They pinpricked the night like an ethereal game of Connect-the-Dots. The Milky Way laced across the heavens, tying the view together like a ribbon. The landscape beneath looked like a dark, shapely shadow against the midnight blue of the sky. I couldn't imagine anything more beautiful.
Suddenly the boredom, the miserable flights, and the dehydration all seemed overwhelmingly worth the reward.
"Isn't it pretty, Sissy?"
I put my arm around my little brother's shoulder.
"Yeah, Buddy. It is."
~~~~~~~~
There we were, eight crazy white people playing Yahtzee outside the Muslim prayer room in Nairobi Airport. The dingy blue carpet made me even more nauseous than I already felt. The few loudspeakers scattered through the building played the theme songs of shows like The Loveboat and Little House on the Prairie. It seemed as though we had materialized into some weird real-life episode of The Twilight Zone, and we'd be trapped there for the next eleven stinkin' hours. No real food. No chairs. Just eight crazy wazumgus--as the natives called us--and a forklift worth of suitcases.
We had already been in transit for two days. Our first layover remained in the States-- Memphis, Tennessee. Eleven hours would be plenty of time to stretch our legs, see a few sights, and get a taste of some Southern cooking.
Or, at least, it would have been plenty of time, if our ride hadn't gotten pneumonia and bailed on us. Instead of walking through the gates of Graceland, we walked through Memphis Airport.
Eleven hours is a long time. We sat at a little cafe in the airport for almost six hours, until they finally kicked us out to make room for people who were still buying food. By the time we boarded the next plane, I could practically feel my brain running out my ears out of sheer boredom. My brother Matthew and his best friend Dale, however, managed to stay occupied almost the entire stay in the airport. The moving sidewalks became their new best friends. Matthew, never having seen one before, was mesmerized at the idea of an escalator without steps. They spent at least two hours simply letting one sidewalk carry them down the airport corridor, then riding the other belt back. I'm convinced they would have done so the entire layover if some mean airport official hadn't forced them to stop.
Eleven hours is a long time to spend in an airport. Eleven hours is even longer on an airplane.
You must understand that I loathe and despise airplanes with every fiber of my being. The wretched contraptions smell like a combination of plastic, sweat, and recycled air. My ears pop and my head goes fuzzy, and sometimes they make me nauseous. I hate airplanes.
The plane to Amsterdam, our next layover, outdid most I'd seen. A small television hung on the back of each seat, and although the gross airplane smell was subtly present, it wasn't attacking my nostrils. I ended up watching movies and playing Bejeweled until I fell into a unresponsive state: completely aware of all around me, but not completely awake. I became so dead dog tired that I thought I'd never be able to move again.
Only when I awoke did I realize I had ever fallen asleep. In front of me was the new bane of my existence: airplane food.
It was supposed to be breakfast. I peeled off the plastic seal to find off-color eggs and something that vaguely resembled some type of meat. Next to the "meal" sat orange juice in a container that looked something like a Jello cup. I nibbled on the eggs; they tasted like rubber. I neglected to try the meat.
Twenty-four hour food count: lunch at the Blue Note Cafe in Memphis and a bite of airplane eggs. Nothing to drink. Naturally, I got dehydrated.
You know how dehydration is. Once your system gets dehydrated, it convinces itself it doesn't want anything more to eat or drink. When we reached Amsterdam, Mom practically had to shove the European Burger King food down my throat. After that, I felt a little better, but a few chicken nuggets couldn't possibly hold me over for the next twelve hours.
Fresh air finally reached my lungs outside the airport in Amsterdam. It matched the picture of Europe I'd formulated in my mind: cold, gray, and wet. Despite the weather, Amsterdam bustled with activity. We dared to embark on the boat tour around the canals of the city, taking in its quirky beauty. Unfortunately, this, our shortest layover, soon came to an end.
The next flight was to be the last long one: a connection from Amsterdam to Nairobi, Kenya. I hadn't eaten a real meal since Burger King, so I scrounged up a bag of Ritz crackers and devoured them. My tastebuds loved them; my stomach, however, was not so pleased. I felt my throat closing up and knew what was coming. My delicious crackers ended up in an airsick bag.
After a thousand forevers, we arrived at Nairobi Airport, our first steps on African soil. The heat and humidity hit me like an ocean wave. Some backstage technicality forced us to retrieve all of our baggage before the connecting flight to Arusha. That's how we arrived at the icky blue carpet outside the Muslim prayer room.
I promise you, hell looks exactly like Nairobi Airport.
There are no restaurants in Nairobi Airport. That means no food. Twelve hours without real food when you're already dehydrated is not a good thing.
The best we could find was a tourist shop specializing in overpriced necessities, particularly four-dollar water. I chugged the entire bottle without even thinking. I had never tasted anything so deliciously pure and fresh.
My stomach, not used to having water inside it at this point, refused to put up with this wonderful intruder for long. Before long, I was spewing it all over the already gross carpet. To make matters even worse (if that's possible), an African man saw me barfing and almost immediately began dragging me away.
"Come, come, I take you to doctor now. Come." I thought he was going to wrench my arm out of my socket trying to pull me along. I looked to my mom. Seeing that she was following, I let the man take me to the doctor.
The room was tiny, not much bigger than an office cubicle. Peeling paint colored the walls a sickly orange that made me want to throw up again. Mom and I sat down on two lumpy chairs in front of a dusty desk, at which sat a short, squatty African woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties. She peered at us over her glasses.
"What's wrong with her? Why ah you here?" she asked. I felt like the defendent in a court case. Mom tried to explain that I wasn't contagiously ill, only dehydrated. "Well, give her some WATER then!" the lady said in a how-stupid-can-you-Americans-be kind of voice. She ended up giving us two white pills in a little yellow envelope, without giving us the slightest clue what effect they were to have on me. Needless to say, I never took them.
After at least five hours of sleep, the time came for us to board the final plane to Tanzania. Having consumed another bottle of water (much more slowly than before), I felt considerably better. My brother, on the other hand, was apparently dehydrated as well, and began throwing up in front of the big African man who was to take our tickets. Naturally, my mind started racing. How did I know they would even let us on the plane? It would be completely plausible for them to think we were carrying some horrible American disease and keep us in Nairobi Airport forever!
The man just took our tickets and ushered us onto the plane without saying a word. I breathed a sigh of relief.
The last flight, though the shortest, debatably surpassed the others in discomfort. Never before had so many people crammed themselves onto one plane. The lack of overhead bins forced all of our carry-on bags beneath our feet. When the time for snacks came, the flight attendants served us Coke with an expiration date of two years ago.
At long last, we touched down at Kilimanjaro Airport. I would have fallen to my knees and kissed the ground if I'd thought I would have the energy to get back up again. After waiting a good hour for our bags, we walked to the curb to find... no one. Mr. Gee, a local missionary, should have been there to pick us up and take us to the hotel. In my mind, he had naturally forgotten us. After all, the trip so far had crashed and burned. Why shouldn't the rest of it be the same way?
Within the hour, however, refuge arrived in the form of a white sixteen-passenger van. We eagerly climbed in and rested our exhausted bodies on the cushioned seats. I realized with little surprise that there were no seat belts. Lovely.
"Twelve hours?" Mr. Gee exclaimed as we pulled away from the airport. "It only takes about five hours driving to get to Nairobi. I coulda driven all the way out there and gotten you here faster."
Sure. Now you tell us.
Halfway to the hotel, Matthew rapped my leg. I had been close to sleep, and wanted to strangle my brother for having awakened me.
"What is it?" I groaned.
"Sissy, look out the window!" His voice rang with excitement. He would never leave me alone until I saw what he wanted me to see, so I humored him and looked.
And there were stars. Millions of them. They pinpricked the night like an ethereal game of Connect-the-Dots. The Milky Way laced across the heavens, tying the view together like a ribbon. The landscape beneath looked like a dark, shapely shadow against the midnight blue of the sky. I couldn't imagine anything more beautiful.
Suddenly the boredom, the miserable flights, and the dehydration all seemed overwhelmingly worth the reward.
"Isn't it pretty, Sissy?"
I put my arm around my little brother's shoulder.
"Yeah, Buddy. It is."
Monday, August 30, 2010
"Forgotten"- An Original Flash Fiction
"I apologize for the long letter... I didn't have time to write a short one." -Thomas Jefferson
I wrote this a while back and thought I'd share. I took a Creative Writing class (probably my favorite class EVER) and we learned about flash fiction-- a story in 99 words or less. This is one of my favorite forms to write, because it's a challenge. As the quote above suggests, it's massively harder to write something very short than it is to write something very long. Anyways, here it is. I call it "Forgotten." Criticism welcome. :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The man stood waiting for the train. He hated the gray London weather.
A flicker of light flitted into his line of vision. He looked up at the overcast sky. How did sunlight peak through on a day like this? All at once memories rocketed into his mind. Memories of a place where the sun always shone. Memories of flying. Memories of magic.
Childish nonsense, he thought. It's only a piece of dust. He brushed the bright speck out of his sight.
Tinkerbell fluttered away, mourning the loss of her best friend.
I wrote this a while back and thought I'd share. I took a Creative Writing class (probably my favorite class EVER) and we learned about flash fiction-- a story in 99 words or less. This is one of my favorite forms to write, because it's a challenge. As the quote above suggests, it's massively harder to write something very short than it is to write something very long. Anyways, here it is. I call it "Forgotten." Criticism welcome. :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The man stood waiting for the train. He hated the gray London weather.
A flicker of light flitted into his line of vision. He looked up at the overcast sky. How did sunlight peak through on a day like this? All at once memories rocketed into his mind. Memories of a place where the sun always shone. Memories of flying. Memories of magic.
Childish nonsense, he thought. It's only a piece of dust. He brushed the bright speck out of his sight.
Tinkerbell fluttered away, mourning the loss of her best friend.
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