Thursday, November 27, 2008
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 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
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?
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
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
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
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 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
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.