Wednesday, December 31, 2008

January 1st.

She blinked.

It's December 31st.

Fast forward: Turning fifteen and hours of listening to music and swinging and going to school and biking riding and crushing and writing and dreaming and napping and playing the flute and taking tests and going to Atlanta and a mission trip to Missouri and working at a day camp and not taking any finals and going to band camp and starting her sophomore year and getting her permit and marching competitions and writing Augustine and joining the Bayou Writer's Group and MAKING HER FIRST B ON HER ALGEBRA II MIDTERM AHH and making videos and reading and all of her series have ended and a bunch of other stuff she has forgotten.

2008. A whole year of her life. Used up. Did she live it out to its fullest? She's gotten more in tune with herself. She thinks.

And now 2009. She blinked.

It's December 31st.

Also, click here.

Saturday, December 27, 2008


Click here.

She can't tell if the noise she hears is the wind or a hundred fluttering wings.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

Memories of Christmas

The vibrant thread slowly stitched together to form a recognizable image. Colors flowed into the newly formed picture, rivers of emotions flooded the scene. The memory.

Throughout time, more memories caressed into each other. They formed a figure. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes in waves, they splashed into their position, creating legs, arms, and a torso. Thousands of images. Thousands of occasions. Thousands of memories.

All standing still.

The body, the human, was there. The eyes peered out but saw nothing. The ears strained for a sound but heard nothing. The mind was mindless. The heart was there but felt nothing.

Then He came. (Yes He not he.) He walked silently up to the body and touched it. His hand wrapped around its., jump starting it. The standstill pictures suddenly awoke, the eyes opened and drank in sights; the ears welcomed whispers; a door had been unlocked and the mind entered a world of its own; and the heart brimmed with life, flooding the human with love.

He walked back, smiling to himself. But he never left.

Memories create who you are.
— Roger Templeton.


One more day and it’s all slipping with the sand.
Her insides threatened to spill out. Threatened to scream, rip, cry, plead. Emotions clouded her mind and her vision, confusing and misleading her. Through the night she streaked down the street, as the tears were streaking down her face.
We got nowhere to go and no home that’s left.

The water is rising on a river and turning red.
Panic choked her, despair made her choice seem more reasonable.
If everything we’ve got is slipping away,
I meant what I said when I said until my dying day.
No one would miss her. Not after what she had done.

You touch my lips and grab the back of my hand.
She shook off the clasp, she wanted to be left alone. She turned away, back into the darkness and He shook his head.

Maybe it’s all gone black but you’re all I see.
The light of the moon illuminated her. She searched the sky to find the white orb, but found none.

The walls are shaking, I hear them sound the alarm.
Glass is breaking so don’t let go of my arm.

Her world as she knew it collapsed. The barriers melted. She blinked and could see.
The tears are coming down,
They’re mixing with the rain.

Her new vision was pooled with tears, but she didn’t mind.
I’m holding on to you, holding on to me.
Maybe it’s all we got but it’s all I need.
You’re all I need.

A smile.
And if all we got is what no one can break.
I know I love you, if that’s all we can take.

A laugh.
We’re grabbing at the fray for something that won’t drown.

Merry Christmas.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Dedicated to Samantha for her civics midterm:

I walked into the band room feeling confident about my biology midterm that I was supposed to kill later in the day. Samantha, however, was having the opposite feeling. She had her civics review splayed around her, tears in her eyes. Half her hair was torn out. She was in a nightmare.

But when she saw me, hope ignited her eyes.

And then after five minutes, she was helpless again.

I called out the questions, but her mind drifted to other things, therefore making her distracted. Our first attempts of studying went like so:

Me: "The Bill of Rights guarantee what?"

Her: "Huh?"

Me: "The Bill of Rights guarantee what?"

Her: "Uh.. DANG IT. My stupid parents wouldn't help me study! They just wanted to watch tv and wrap presents! That can be done at a later date! I just know they want me to fail."

"But what do the Bill of Rights guarantee?"

"I don't know."

"The right to a speedy trial by jury, freedom of speech, and the right to bear arms."

"Mmk. Jury, speech, and right to bear arms. Got it."

"So what does the Bill of Rights guarantee?"

"... Wait! Hold on... Uh.. Jury? .. GAH WE WENT OVER THIS LIKE TWO SECONDS AGO!"

I know.

But Samantha had cookies in her backsack, and I dare say they saved her. In French we worked out a system where every time she got an answer right, she got a piece of cookie. Even if it made her hyper.

Her: "Cool! I know this one!"

Me: "Good. Now---" *Samantha gets distracted.*

*I wave the cookie in front of her face. Her attention snaps back.*

*She starts laughing for no apparent reason.*

We're good.

At lunch she zipped through the notes, and my feelings of dread had subsided. She knew most of it. But would she do okay? She couldn't make a B. She was worried she would fail with a B. I hoped she could scrape an A together..

At the end of the day, after I was drained from taking my own midterm, I headed to my locker, wondering if I would see Samantha.

I saw her.

Tears were in her eyes.

Fear choked me. What..?

"I GOT A 99!"

Friday, December 12, 2008

the teen age

Our backdrop is night. The city lights illuminate our presence. Hard rock runs through our blood, which we enjoy spilling. Fast cars adds to our adrenaline rush, zipping down the concrete that is spattered everywhere in our word. We naturally choose the color black to cloak us; besides, it goes well with our midnight guitars. Neon is our stars, of which we don’t see anymore. We have too much on our mind to stand in awe of the sky. Too many emotions pulsing our heart and mind. Too vibrant of emotions. Not just a little hate. Not just a drop of love. They dump themselves into our hectic lives. Having to fit school into our system; it’s too mellow, too drab. Where’s the color? Where’s the flashing lights and the screeching music? It’s a drug, these lights and songs and life; we need it to escape ourselves. We don’t know our real selves. Who wants to? Who wants to see what’s underneath our tattooed skin? We don’t like truth. But racing through the night, the world a blur, you can forget.

But then, when it’s over, we feel more alone than ever.

And then, when it’s over, we’re handed the world.

Funny, how she can write something totally unlike her nature while listening to rock music.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

don't really know, but kind of cool

He ravaged through the land, a monster building inside him. All this rage, all this passion, and he had no where to dump it. His hands grew into claws and foam dribbled down his chin. His eyes held a permanent glare, spattered with hatred. Or was it love? He didn't know nor cared. All these emotions, all these thoughts...

He reached the edge of small cliff. Half of his crazed mind told him to fly off, but he saw a figure at the bottom. He could clearly see that it was a girl with a book in her hands. She looked up at him and smiled.

So pure, so innocent. A smile. A book. A dress. The wind. Caught the papers of her book and splayed them into the air, but she didn't move her gaze.

A flower blossomed inside his chest, its petals dripping the sweet smell of love.

But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars.
--Martin Luther King.

Monday, December 8, 2008

misfortune and luck

Misfortune and Luck stood side by side, comparing two souls. They were nothing at the moment. No thoughts, no emotions, no life. Yet. Soon they would enter the world, gifted or cursed.

Misfortune smirked and decided to stain the soul on the left. See what would be become of this little girl now. Luck uneasily shifted its weight and granted itself to the boy on the right. If only it could save the girl too. But alas, it was not meant to be.

Years later.

He set his home-cooked meal on the table. His youth group was giving a free meal to the homeless. They would file in, eat their fill, and the church teens would give out gifts. It was most likely their only Christmas present.

He entered the kitchen for a knife to slice his brisket. After rummaging through a drawer, he found a large one and went back into the church gym, where the poor would eat.

Shattering pierced his ears and a liquid showered his back. He swiveled to find the punch bowl splayed on the ground and, once he looked at his Hollister jacket, punch dripping from it. He laughed. What a stain.

One of his friends crawled to him and begged for his forgiveness. Sure, he said. After all, it was only a jacket. As long as his cell phone wasn't ruined. His quickly slipped it out of his pocket to check. All good.

The homeless came. Many women were shawled in ragged clothes, and small children were wide-eyed and silent. Men were sparse, but those who were there weren't dressed any better than the women. A teenage girl caught his eye. Her svelte body was covered in a t-shirt with no jacket in the December weather. She instantly locked eyes with him. He tried to cast his gaze downward but couldn't look away. They seemed to share something.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

music unites.

He struck a chord on the piano. His fingers slowly unfurled and stretched to cradle the melody. He held it, then opened his hands and watched the notes fly away.

The small girl skipped down the dirt path, swinging a straw basket in her tiny hand. A halo of flowers rested on her black hair. The notes found and kissed her, and she started singing in tune with the song.

A man sat at his desk wondering when the day would close. His twirled his chair to face the window and gasped at the sky's canvas. The sun did make an excellent artist before it's bedtime. The song crescendo in his ears, and he too fell into the melody.

They swaggered down the street, boasting and thinking they were invincible. The notes brushed them and they stood still. Tears fell, but they couldn't help but sing.

The village's battered instruments accompanied the song.

A nation heard the music and the people cried out in unison.

The world's voices now produced the song, everyone untied. Every living thing singing the same thing.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

The man laughed raucously in his chair. His belly was filled with the feast, as none remained on his plate. His patted his stomach, his suit was becoming a tad too tight. The man eyed the leftover food on the table. Just because he could, he snatched a drumstick and sank his teeth into its juices.

After a swallow, he joined in on the now raunchy conversation. His companions fluffed their pride and rambled on about topics most knew nothing about. His eyes grew bright from the wine while his heart lost its shine.

Most of the guests had retreated to the smoking room and he planned to join them. Standing, he was about to turn when his eyes found a scrap of paper abandoned on the table. He picked it up. It was the forgotten prayer.

His mouth twitched, and stared out the window into the night.

The girl huddled with her younger brother under the bridge. She broke their dinner, a loaf of bread, and handed him half. "Happy Thanksgiving, little one. Give thanks to the Lord."

Her brother, only seven, shivered in his thin jacket. "Why? Look at those rich people across the lake. They actually get... get a feast! And we just get..." He clamped his mouth shut once he caught her glare.

"Don't ever speak like that! You've no idea how lucky we are! Sure, we may not have a house, or turkey, or parents, but we have each other... and that should be enough! Besides," her tone softened, "it's not every day we get a whole loaf of bread. Now time for our scripture."

She pulled out from her ragged sweater her precious but beaten Bible and flipped open to Psalms. Her voice filled the still night air. Her brother had already scarfed down his dinner and was now snuggled next to her. She stroked his hair, and after a moment fell asleep curled next to him.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

East of Eden

"He had the most dreams and ideas, but no one would give him any money for them. But of course---he had so much, he was so rich. You couldn't give him anymore. He was already rich in spirit. Riches seem to come to the poor in spirit, the poor in interest and joy."
-East of Eden by John Steinbeck

Maybe you should just listen.

Maybe she wanted to escape the world of sin. Take my hand and we'll put our heads together and find this valley of richness. Where the sun warms your cold heart and the wind coos a lullaby in your ears. Maybe an overwhelming sense will trickle to your heart, and your eyes will well with tears. Maybe. Leave your lust behind, but make sure you have enough passion for the world.

Maybe she wanted to write her words like music: beautiful.

I stand at the beginning of the path, stretching my hand out for you. Come with me; escape with me. The sun is our compass, as is the North star. A cross gleams in front of my breast; of course we will not get lost.

Just make sure you have enough passion for the world.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

disgrunted. if that's even a word.

She didn't want to ride the bus today. She wanted to walk home and think, iPod disrupting her thoughts. On the road, she saw her bus pass her. The kids were probably looking at her, wondering why she was on the roadside and not at school. Concealing her face, she slipped into a side neighborhood. She would wait here until her bus picked up the remaining kids and passed her.

She strolled down the narrow street, noticing that a man was mowing his lawn. He was probably wondering why this random girl was entering his neighborhood, but she didn't really care. She probably wouldn't even see him again.

Walking down two lanes, she turned back onto the main street, still finding the man mowing. She cast her look downwards and quickly exited the neighborhood. He was probably perplexed by her actions. She laughed at herself. Why did she want to avoid the bus?

Just because.

Because her heart had been ripped a bit. Well, not ripped, but torn. A bit. But still enough to hurt.

And being hurt required to think to get the mass of thoughts untangled.

The walk wasn't as grand as she planned it to be. Her backsack suddenly weighed down her shoulders, and traffic was congested. She did pluck a flower though, just because it seemed like a delicate thing to do. She sniffed it, but no scents wafted to her nose.

She needed God to scrape her off the ground, mold her back together, pat her on the back and give her a little shove forward so she could be on her way. And He probably did do just that, but she's too blind to notice.

Monday, November 17, 2008


The earth's colors were sharply defined today. Her eyes soaked in the art, and she wondered why she didn't always see the land like this. She swung in wonder, content that the vibrant paints showed themselves.

Maybe she didn't need a guy. Now. If she had one, she would always be distracted and miss the earth's beauty. She'd grow half-blind and crippled because she would never experience the small things... things that one doesn't notice if their not paying attention. But she was paying attention, or now she was. She wouldn't stray from God. She needed to blossom within in herself first. Right? She could be independent. She could stride through the rest of the year, smirking and satisfied with the world. And everyone would see.

If she was in love, she might not have noticed the earth's colors.

I feel so far from where I've been
So I go, and I will not be back here again
I'm gone as the day is fading
And you, maybe you'll remember me

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Lifehouse - Everything

Her church youth group presented a play titled "Project Reality." (Instead of Project Runway.) It showed how Bible times doesn't vary greatly from present times. (As in backstabbing and sorts...) Also, a few of her fellow teens acted out the video Lifehouse Everything skit. Intense. She loves it. Almost cried the first time she saw it. Sigh.

Anyway, after a four hour play rehearsal on Saturday, she attended the Bayou Writer's Group conference, where she received 100 copies of Augustine. 100 copies. Snap. She actually autographed a few, while thinking "WHAT AM I DOING?" and she managed to sell seven of her stories, raking in a whole $14.

She needed to pledge her remaining November to her NaNoWriMo story, which is now over 6,000 words. She's lagging behind... Extremely. Oh well. At least she's having fun.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

100 years

Fifteen, she gripped the ropes that held her swing, mind rocketing. Her thoughts were anywhre but in her backyard. She sung, not caring if the neighbors heard.

She needed to stop being conceded. The story was about the characters, so step aside.

But what if someone was watching the author?

She grinned and continued flying.

100 years by Five for Fighting.

I'm 99 for a moment, time for just another moment and I'm just dreaming to where you are.

When you've only got 100 years to live.

Her hundred-year-old self lay on her deathbed, reviewing her life. Her teenage self stared back, her jaw set and eyes demanding. What had she done with her life? Had she forgotten the thoughts she spun when she swung those decades ago? Had she been corrupted by the world's ways? Had she forgotten? Her young self wanted to know.

But there was no time left. Mustering her last strength, she gave a weak smile. She attempted to nod, but breathed her last.

Climbing to the heavens, she gave a last look at earth---her life. The teenager stared at her, tears spilling over her eyes. She reached out wanting to touch her. The fifteen-year-old nodded, confirming that she would not lose herself. She would not let her spirit die.

As she was now.

Had she done enough? 100 years? And it all dwindled back to swinging on a blustery November afternoon in her backyard. She smiled. She drifted upward with the sun's rays, leaving the teen to grasp the world in her hands.

15 there's still time for you.

a memory of the elder filled the novel...

She stumbled upon him and gasped. Surprised, her brain melted into a jumble of words. Lord. Why was he here? He glanced up at her, his beautiful eyes locked with hers.

A memory of an elder filled the novel...

The world spun on his fingertips, all colors bleeding down his hand. He smiled, for he had created them all.

Excerpt of her NaNoWriMo project coming soon. She hopes.

She would be swinging, then the wind would strengthen, the music would crescendo, and her thoughts rocketed from her head.

It was a wonder she didn't start flying, for her spirit was.

Let's make this our story
Let's live in the glory
Time it fades away, precious as a song
Because someday we'll be gone.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

new day

November 1st marked the beginning of the NaNoWriMo challenge, and she's crazy enough to attempt it. (National Novel Writing Month~ write a novel in November, can sound like rubbish but as long as the book's 50,000 words.) She started two nights ago, and she's up to 1,000 words.

A 1,000 words.

She's going to die.

And her story isn't even that complex. She'll probably finish telling her tale before she reaches the amount of words required.

She also (obviously) decided on a new theme. The old one was cutting her imagination with the small text box. She needed the classic blog look, et voila. Elle peut penser avec des abres.

And she has homework galore. On a day off from school, she can't even enjoy it. She also has to finish a demonic presidential booklet.

Her mother said if Obama wins, she has to clean her room.

Soon she'll have a presentable post typed up.

Monday, October 27, 2008


Well you thought you let go,
but you're still hanging on.

The music prodded her to step
outside on the blustery day.
It suggested that she swing,
only to find that the continuous
movement wasn't enough.
She needed to feel the rush of
adrenaline; she needed her
heart to throb.

Mother Earth's slowing down,
she's still spinning around.

She needed to go on a bike ride.

And we are getting dizzy.

Summer memories drew
themselves in her mind. She
hadn't pounded down a ribbon
of road since school started.
If you need more love,
well you've got to get closer to me.
The October air was nipped with
cold and the North wind grasped
her arms, making her realize that
a jacket would have been a clever
idea. But her thoughts were swept
away by the music humming from
her iPod, and all traces of
unpleasant weather forgotten.
If you want my love,
well you've got to get closer to me.
The summer heat usually caused
her to slow down, but the brisk
air breathed new life in her,
causing her to race down streets---
all caution left behind.
Sure she could get
swamped by a car, but at least
she would be singing when
the incident occurred.
You're my shirt, I an arm.
While laying on the peninsula
in the park, watching the
white-capped waves, she
realized that music gradually
grows to be part of one's body.
It stirs emotions and plants
ideas within. It attaches to
the heart.
I'm the tick, you're the bomb.
The sun warmed her blood.
You're the L and the V,
I'm the O and the E, and we...
She needed a story.
Am I speaking clearly?

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

She's not quite sure if Youtube videos can fit in this particular theme, so take a visit to her other Wordpress blog: to see her English project. Her and three friends filmed a video on The Titans. Twelve Titans played by four people.

And of course, she must take the credit of writing the script and directing it.

And she really needs a story to write.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

starting anew

Like everyone else, she is now using Blogger. Why make the switch? Because Blogger can upload new themes, and she is not limited like she was for Wordpress. So, basically, she's transferred sites because of themes.

She's a visual person.

And she couldn't resist her current theme, because it was as if someone had snatched the image from her mind. She imagined running through a meadow, running to God. And here it is.

ostled her a bit when she stumbled upon it.

She'll keep her
Wordpress blog up and running, but this is the new one. Still titled Descending Sky. Still written by Fullofsoap.

And this text is off to the side for some reason..