Eggnog and Christmas

For years I have been trying to describe the indescribable: Eggnog.
How can you describe eggnog? It is both sweet and thick, creamy, yet subtle and… and…

 I’m stuck again.

 How can you describe eggnog? For me it is the substance beyond description.

   Sometimes Christmas is like that too. Beyond description. It changes with the years. Christmas used to be a time for excitement and anticipation so acute that it was almost painful. Then it became a constant battle between hope and logic, wondering, wondering… what will this Christmas dance hold for me?

Now, this Christmas I found myself faced with a problem.

The Holidays, like everything else, seemed full of an unexplainable monotony for me. Try as I might I couldn't conjure up any enthusiasm. Christmas came and went in a whisper and nothing but a  tiny pinch of excitement over one of my presents crossed my mind. That old Christmas glow of joy seemed to be missing too, although I caught hints of it from time to time. I didn’t feel able to share in the “do you remembers?” that come with Christmas conversation, but rather indulged in silent dreams  of Christmases to come.

 
And so this Christmas I sat listening, watching and waiting; sipping my eggnog and dreaming dreams afar.

Random Cousin Stuff

Today I was told that I look like Lea Michele. It was pretty awesome. But I also was told that I have really creepy scary talents such as bending my arms backwards and making a Pekinese face. But that’s ok with me I suppose.

 

I love toffee. And coffee. They’re beautiful.

 

I have nothing to write about. My cousins are here. And we are talking about holiday weight gain. And now we’re talking about coughing. And Rise of the Guardians. And obnoxious field trips. And invisible retainers. And how I’m sooooo much like my guy cousin. He is literally the guy version of me! 

Well you know what’s hilarious? The word ointment. Say it aloud and see if you don’t laugh hysterically.

 

Oh.

One more thing.

Don’t grow a mustache in sixth grade.
Or say "yup" on the internet.

K bye.

Scars Part 15

Michael James was a terrible painter at first glance.

  “What are you painting?” Alice had shakily asked him that first day.

  “A tree.” He had replied simply, smiling at her without a trace of the usual emotions: no shock, no disgust, no pity. Nothing. He just smiled in her general direction, missing her eyes by a few inches.

The painting did not resemble a tree’s appearance in any way imaginable. But as Alice, watched her new companion dab away with colors he couldn’t identify without her help, she saw that it did resemble a tree, not in looks, but in feeling. A tree grew, and so did Michael James’ painting.

 Now, as they sat in comfortable silence, Alice forgot about her own work and just watched as Michael painted.

  “You seem quiet today.” He said at last. “Is everything alright?” Alice was surprised at how much a blind person could see.

  “I just have a lot on my mind I guess.” She replied.

  “Anything in particular?”

 Alice debated with herself. No one had ever gotten close enough to care about her before, and she was unsure of how friendships worked. Trust was an unknown virtue, and Alice was skittish.

  “Maybe, but it’s not important. Not right now anyway.”

 She expected him to press her, but he didn’t. He just shrugged and said cheerfully,

  “If you say so.”

Merry Christmas!

No post for Christmas Eve. Only this: I have never cried so much at a movie in my life. Good stories are the best gifts(: Hope everybody has an amaaaazing Christmas tomorrow! Well today technically! Merry Christmas!

"While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them."

~Luke 2:6-7

"Pick up the apple, Miss Ellis."

I blinked. Blind eyes, trying to see past the whiteness. His image was a sillouette against the glare of the utter starkness of the walls, nothing but a faceless shadow of the voice I had come to hate.

"Pick up the apple, Miss Ellis."

Cold, pale words. They were so simple. But I wasn't a dog, a cow to be used and willed with a single phrase. The shadow came closer until I could feel his breath, hot and human against my nose.

"Please Miss Ellis. Pick up the apple." It wasn't a request, please or no please.

I closed my eyes, but the light still shone through, whiter than the sun against snow. For a moment I fought within myself. The temptation was strong. My senses were aflame with desire. My throat burned, my stomach was sharp with the pain of hunger, and my bony wrist felt frail even to its mate. I longed to feel the crunch of that sweet, crisp, juicy fruit between my teeth.

I opened my eyes, considering. The apple was the only thing I could ever see clearly. It was red. Deep, dark red. I could imagine its meat: white and succulent.

But I wouldn't let them win.

"No."

You're not going to win this time. Not here. Not with me. Not over an apple. Why? Because if I give in, it won't end here.

"Miss Ellis, you don't really want to spend another night here do you? What is this? Sixteen?"

Seventeen, but I didn't dare speak again. "Come now, Miss Ellis." I hated the sound of my name on his lips. "Pick up the apple."

"No."

I could feel his grimace.

"Very well." The sound of his chair sliding against the floor set my teeth on edge. Then came the thud of hard metal against metal. The light died, and I was once more engulfed in blackness and solitude. For one more night I could call myself free.

Scars Part 14

Alice threw her coat and scarf carelessly on the back of her chair and sat quietly down in her seat. The art room was empty and quiet, the perfect place to sort out one’s problems. Alice tried to shake her frustrations off, wishing she had spoken less harshly, or not at all to her friend.

After all, who wouldn’t be curious? But Alice hated the way people looked at her. She could read their wandering thoughts as they stared or looked quickly away. She could never decide which was worse: open shock or blatant avoidance. Thinking about her face made her writhe with discomfort. Sometimes, the past few weeks, as she had talked and laughed with Connie, Alice had been able to forget. But as she remembered the look in Connie’s eyes as she had lowered her gaze, Alice knew that the spell could never be truly broken. Even Connie would always see her from behind that mask. Feeling the old self-conscious ache well up inside her, heavier than ever, Alice filled her pallet and went to work. She glanced over her shoulder, not admitting even to herself that she was waiting---or hoping.

  Disappointed to see the room empty still, she turned back to her painting. It was coming along nicely, but she wasn’t satisfied with it yet.

 The door opened behind her, and Alice instinctively tensed, pulling her hood up.

 
  “Alice? Are you there?” The voice which spoke was low, but kind.

She smiled.

  “Yes, I’m over here.”

Michael walked slowly over. He edged his way into the chair next to hers and sat. Beginning his pallet, he winked one of those dark, lifeless eyes of his, asking her how she was. Alice secretly thought he had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen, in spite of their flatness. The fact that they couldn’t see made them more lovely to her than anything else in the world.

Scars Part 13

Connie smiled to herself as she roved the halls of Jefferson High. It was late afternoon on the last day of school before Christmas vacation. Loud shouts and exuberant laughter echoed through the white building. The excitement was unmistakable.

 

We’re almost free!

 

Connie pushed outside through the heavy doors, feeling like a bird released from a cage. She breathed deeply, sucking in the cold December air.

 

  “Ready to be done?” Alice said quietly behind her. Connie turned with a smile.

  “Aren’t you?” She snatched her new friend’s mitten-clad hands and pulled her out into the grassy field. They ran laughing across the frosty grass. At the edge of the field were the woods and the paths that eventually lead down to the river.

  “Do you have class next period? We should go exploring!” Connie said eagerly, pulling Alice along towards the shadowy grove. Alice stopped abruptly.

  “No. The woods aren’t safe Connie.” Her voice was a whisper that made Connie look back at her curiously.

  “What did you say?” Connie raised a brow, knowing she should drop the subject. But she was too curious. Her heart began to beat faster, and she dropped her eyes from Alice’s face.

  “I know what you’re thinking Connie. I said, ‘the woods aren’t safe.’ And they’re not. But not for the reasons you're thinking.” Alice turned on her heel and started back to the school. Connie bit her tongue, wishing she hadn’t let her friend see her curiosity. It was true. She wanted to know what had happened to Alice’s face. She had wanted to know from the first day she saw her. Connie hated to look at that face, and loved to at the same time. It held a fascination over her. Those brutal scars contrasting with Alice's clear blue eyes. Connie shivered. The air was too cold to endure alone. Strange how friendship dimmed the bitterest things.

Heart of Eagles part 4

  Emmy shrugged off her jacket and shook snowflakes out of her hair, feeling the warmth of the crowed house hit her cold face like a wall. The scent of vanilla and gingerbread wafted through the hot, dense air. Emmy’s heart pounded as she slipped through the hallway, maneuvering through the pile of wraps and gloves, jackets and scarves.  

The living room was packed completely with people, most of them a few years older than Emmy. Music blared, and the din was deafening. Emmy set her things gingerly down on the hall table, and looked around the room for a familiar face. She felt a bit lost in such a crowd, and anxious to find a place to blend in.

  “Emmy!” Allison Redford called exuberantly from the lap of a rather thick looking senior. She laughed loudly and waved both arms, beckoning her friend. Emmy smiled wanly, feeling her stomach writhe uncomfortably inside her.

  “Hey Allison.” She walked over, eyeing the boy whom Allison was sitting on nervously. As soon as she got close to him she could smell smoke and some other scent she couldn’t place. Allison outstretched her arms and embraced her friend, still giggling vaguely. She pulled Emmy down onto the floor beside the easy chair instantly launching into a steady stream of gossip. As her friend prattled loudly, Emmy looked shyly about the room. There were no adults there, something she had not expected when Allison had said that one of her friends was giving a party. Parents were always at parties to keep…things from happening. Suddenly Emmy was much more uncomfortable than she wanted to admit.

Chad, the boy Allison quickly introduced as her boyfriend, opened a can of something and tossed it recklessly down his throat. He handed one to Allison who smiled coyly and guzzled the drink even faster than he had. Chad’s friends from the football team crowded around them, flirting with Emmy until they grew tired of her pallid replies.

  Allison’s endless barrage of vivacious chatter grated on Emmy’s nerves, and the cold, prying stare of a boy in a letterman jacket made her feel sick.

  “Drink some punch Emmy! You haven’t had anything!” Allison gasped between giggles, sloshing a glass of punch into Emmy’s hand, her blonde curls bouncing against her shoulder. Emmy set the glass down on the coffee table, untouched. She glanced up and felt her heart stop beating altogether. Pushing the nagging of her conscience aside, Emmy lowered her gaze demurely. Timothy Park was walking across the crowded room towards her.

Heart of Eagles part 3

Emmy tugged her new pink sweater over her head and ran a comb through her thick brown curls. She eyed herself critically in the mirror, smoothing a wrinkle out of her crisp white skirt.

  From the chair, where she had carelessly tossed it upon arriving home from school, her cell buzzed loudly. Startled, Emmy turned, knocking a vase of fresh flowers off the night stand. The glass shattered upon hitting the floor, sending glittering shards all over the room. Emmy took a shaky breath, mourning the loss of such a beautiful thing. She slipped into her shoes and cleaned up the mess as slowly as possible, feeling her heart beat faster with every tick of the clock. She cast nervous glances at the green glowing numbers on her dresser, feeling the broom handle slide through her clammy palms.

Emmy’s cell buzzed again, jolting her once more. She snatched it up off of the chair and clicked it off without even checking to see who the texts were from.

  Satisfied with the condition of her floor, Emmy dumped the glass shards into her waste basket and sat down slowly. She dropped her rag and sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, her feet cold and rigid against the dark wooden paneled floor, the cold seeping through her nylons.

  The phone rang, sending a web of shivers up Emmy’s spine. She crept noiselessly to the door, pressing her ear against it.

 

  “Oh hi!” He mother’s voice exclaimed cheerily. “Sure, hold on just one minute.” Emmy braced herself for the inevitable. “Emmy!”

She gritted her teeth and called back.

  “Yes?”

  “Phone for you dear!”

Emmy opened the door a crack and peeked out.

  “Tell them I’ll call them back later.”

Emmy’s mother looked up at her curiously.

  “What?” She asked, the phone pressed against her shoulder.

   “Tell them I’ll call them back later.” Her daughter repeated.

    “Can she call you back in a bit?” Mrs. Spencer said into the receiver, her eyes still fixed on Emmy. “Alright thank you. Goodnight.”

  Emmy turned back into her room and snatched up her champagne colored clutch, catching another quick look at her reflection before she dashed out.

  “I’ll be back before ten. Have a good night.” She called as she hurried out into the rain, her mother’s concerned words lost in the roar of a December wind.

Diego the Fuzzy Little Bunny

Ok so here we go again. I have no brain power and nothing to say, not to mention a splitting headache. So this could be rough. Prepare yourself.

 

Well once upon a time

There was a fuzzy little bunny. His name was Diego. He was from Puerto Rico.  However as much Diego loved his homeland, he felt that his life needed a change. So when he turned eighteen (weeks), he set off for America, waving goodbye to his enormous family as they sat stealthily in the grass along the docks. He could see their twitching ears still hailing him lovingly from the shore for a long time as the ship set off; for bunnies have good eyesight on account of their eating so many carrots.

Diego the fuzzy little bunny breathed deeply the salty sea air, flicking his whiskers and dreaming of the freedom a young rabbit could find waiting for him in America.

The sea voyage was full of happy memories for Diego. During the day he would dash about the decks and scare the ladies as they clicked about the promenade in high heels. Then he would zip in an out of the gentlemen’s legs as they talked in deep voices, often startling them into dropping tidbits of food. His nights were filled with raiding the chef’s store cupboards, feasting and growing nice and fat. Diego thought that he would almost be sad to leave the ship.

But when he heard from some of the Humans that land was in site, Diego forgot his qualms and raced up to the deck. He gasped at the sight of the beautiful landscape, the tears streaming down his fuzzy bunny face.

  “Only a bit longer now, and I shall find my adventure!” He declared passionately as the boat docked on the banks of Diego’s dreamland.

HEY I JUST MET YOU!

Hey! I just met you.

And this is crazy.

But I have nothing to write about.

So don’t blame me if this post is boring maybe?

 

Hehe. Hi there. Glad you could join us tonight as we sit here in our living room watching “The Bachelor” previews on tv and sittin’ in the glow of the Christmas tree.

It’s a beautiful night! Not really, the clouds are covering any stars or moonlight.

Its nine days ‘til Christmas

And all through this little ole house

Three creatures are stirring

Me, mom, and my imaginary mouse.

Because IN MY IMAGINATION MICE ARE EVERYWHERE!

And they have purple whiskers and pink hair.

Cuz in my imagination I can do that. Cuz I can. And what would ever be more fun than mice with pink hair and purple whiskers. My rhyme just died. Oh well. Rhyme time now. We are having a funeral for my rhyme!

Farewell sweet Rhyme! How I miss you!

Not really. I don’t like writing poetry. Hey you want to hear a joke?

Knock knock!

Who’s there?

Me.

Boo?

Boo who?

Awww why so sad?

 

 

I have a feeling that that was really lame but I really don’t care. It is vacation and almost midnight! OH NO! I need words fast!!

What can I write about??!!! Today I got up, went to a nice church service but I was up way too late so I was sleepy through the whole thing and then we went to Cosco and OOOH! I saw my yearbook teacher there and I was like “Whoa there’s Mrs. Donahue!” And it was kinda funny. Anyways then I came home and tried to stay awake for the rest of the day and then at like seven o’clock I woke up and now I’m wide awake but so so so sore! Because I went ice skating yesterday and I suck at it so I fell down a ton and laughed and laughed. I love ice skating. It is awesome. Goodnight.

Heart of Eagles

  "Emmy? Was there something you wanted, dear?" Miss Hanes' sweet voice startled Emmy out of her reverie. She brought her head back around sharply, tearing her eyes from the window.

"Oh," She pasted a smile on as fast as she could. "No, Miss Hanes, I'm fine. I'm just waiting for Miss Margie to be done on the phone. Mr. Allway sent me with a note about the new history books."

Miss Hanes was a psychology major and much shrewder than she looked. Her kind brown eyes softened, drilling into Emmy with a knowing expression. Emmy tried to appear at ease and normal, her heart still pounding. She could still feel the rush of the wind and the beating of the wings as clearly as if she had really been among the birds as they rose into the sky.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing bothering you? Your face looks a little pale.”

  “Oh that’s just because of the winter. And I’m always pretty pale.” Emmy answered quickly. Too quickly Miss Hanes thought but she nodded and walked back to her desk, resolving to keep a closer eye on the Spencer girl.

Emmy breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t want to have to offer any explanations today. Sinking back into her seat, she twirled a golden brown curl around her finger and glanced over at Miss Margie, still on the phone. Shaking her head dizzily, Emmy cringed at the grating laughter she heard in the hallway.

How could they be so cruel?

 The joke was on some poor freshman who had made an enemy of one of the populars and was therefore doomed to suffer the rest of the year in humiliation. Emmy sometimes envied the boys. They often argued and joked, and black eyes were seen on rare occasions. The girls, however, were vicious, attacking soul and spirit.

Emmy sighed, wishing she had the energy to go out and say something to the gossipers. As it was, she barely had the stamina to get to her feet when Miss Margie called her up, she was so dizzy and lightheaded.

  “Thank you, Emmy. Hurry back to class now.” Miss Margie said hastily, hardly looking up at all.

Emmy nodded, starting back without a word. She paused to look out the window again, as the last of the gray geese departed for the South.

Don't Tell Me.

Don’t tell me

What to do

Who to be

Who to like

What to say

What not to say

How to act

Where to go

Who I am.

You don’t even know me, so don’t pretend you do.

I won’t be a pawn when I could be a Queen and I won’t stay around when I know I could be free.

Heart of Eagles

  Emmy swallowed, pressing the heels of her scuffed converse tightly together.


It was moments like these when Emmy wondered nervously about herself. Other days she gossiped and laughed in the hallways with the other girls, her clear voice ringing out. She growled about the presentation Mr. Eggers had assigned and laughed at herself when she tripped over the doorstep. She whined over the rain, and smiled at strangers. She wore too much hairspray and hoped nobody noticed the rent in her scarf. She tutored a seventh grader in English. She was ordinary on those days. And life was comfortable.


  Frank Sinatra’s smooth voice drifted through the office air, trilling a Christmas carol, as Emmy rubbed her clammy palms together, feeling faint. The room was spinning, and the face of the registrar looked unfamiliar and otherworldly. Emmy tried to shake the feeling that gripped her.

 
  The faces around her looked so calm, so at ease. So….ordinary. Emmy longed to feel that comfort, yet dreaded it as well.

The way she felt now, this hunger and separation, was strange, foreign and lonely, but her heart thrilled to it.

  Emmy felt as if she were a wolf among a flock of sheep. She didn’t belong. She was too different, too far away, too passionate, too defined to belong. Her heart beat quickly, queerly. She glanced around the room, its busy activity suffocating. The heat made her dizzy. It was stuffy, confined, unbearable.

Emmy heard distantly the sound of beating wings as the geese met the wind. She closed her eyes and forgot everything but imagining how it would feel to leap into the sky and soar away.

12/12/12 Consider with Care

It’s 12.12.12.

 

At 12:12, 12/12/12 I was outside in a cold, wet field, covering my ears and shivering as the school fire alarm blasted from all directions. Thanks for that, Destiny.

  As if that wasn’t enough you threw a really awkward moment my way today, and a boatload of stress. Oh well. That’s life.


Sometimes I the “perfect” moments don’t happen when you plan for them. Sometimes a compliment from one person may be less treasured than an insult from another.

Sometimes life just doesn’t go the way you plan.
 

 At some point we’ve all been told “Life’s not fair”, a phrase most find unwelcome.

 It’s true. Life is full of injustice, misfortune and surprises.

 

  You may have also heard that “Life isn’t like a novel, where everything always works out.” Well I’ve heard that. I don’t know about you, but I can now proudly say that I’ve written a novel, and let me tell you: almost nothing worked out.

 

 My characters are a mess, my plot is lost in the confusion of details that don’t really matter, and my ending is bitter-sweet.

 

In my opinion every life is a lot more like a novel than it might seem.

 

Often, the characters are a mess, the plot is far out of sight, and we all tend to focus on details that don’t end up mattering to us at all. Like today for example: when I’m ninety-seven years old instead of seventeen, I won’t really care where I was at 12:12, 12/12/12, now will I?

 

Of course not.

 

As for endings, they are often bitter-sweet.

 

Your life, like your novel, needs a good author. You can write it yourself, let others jot down their own words, trust it in the hands of a better Writer, or let it remain empty, fruitless and pointless.

We all have choices. Some make a difference. Some don’t.


You have only one story.

Consider its content with care.  

Angel Waits

Whispers.

Angel leans low to brush her lips against the reindeer’s soft, brown ear. His eyes twinkle at her secret and the bells on his harness ring sweetly as he dashes through the greenery to the snowman on a lower bough. The snowman’s frosted whiskers twitch and he passes on the words to the shy white rabbit sitting next to him. Rabbit says nothing, for she only speaks when no one is listening, and there are too many who might hear her tonight. As Angel’s words spread, the commotion builds. A clumsy elf knocks into a candy cane, sending it spiraling to the floor.

  All the conversation stops suddenly at the crash. Rabbit pulls her fuzzy ears back against her head, and the reindeer holds his breath. Has anyone heard? The elf grimaces sheepishly, but the sleeping house seems undisturbed.

  Angel smiles. She is not worried, for the candy cane will only become the first of many treats on the morrow. She nods to the red bird, who flaps his wings.

 The buzz of excitements starts up again, and the glow of the party is revived. Snow White straightens a golden bow on its branch, and a dew drop quivers in delight.

The clock strikes eleven, and Little Ballerina yawns, stretching her glass arms.

One by one they drop off to sleep, smiling sweetly, even in their dreams.

Reindeer bids Angel goodnight, and closes his eyes.

 

Angel does not sleep. She watches the clock, and the housecat in his bed of pillows. The night is growing darker, but the lights of the Christmas Village keep Angel company, and soon it will be midnight.

She sighs, stretching her wings upward, until they almost reach the ceiling.

 

She remembers last Christmas, and all the other nights she’s spent perched above the world, waiting, waiting, whispering to the others of the coming Christmas morn.

 

The snow falls gently outside, in a world little Angel has never known. But even that world, so great and wide, is waiting on this night. For tomorrow brings a brighter sun, and a far, far brighter light.

Who Wrote That?

Do you ever feel as if someone else is writing through you?

   I wrote a poem earlier today called Stars Gleam. I’m not sure exactly why---maybe because I only wrote a line or two every few hours over the course of the whole day---but I can’t remember writing it. I remember recording the words of course, and the poem is written in a similar style to many of my own. But somehow when I read this piece I feel as if I’m reading someone else’s work.

  Sometimes writing can feel as if you are simply a secretary, recording the thoughts and feelings of ghosts of the past; voices that echo through the simplest truths and lessons that relive themselves throughout history.

  You are simply a pair of hands to type.

Writing is the closest I will ever get to magic.

Stars Gleam

Stars gleam

And the Ocean roars

Phantoms call

And the night is long.

Diamonds glitter in the sky and pearls fall like tears through the shadows of the deep

And the Spirit flies across the face of the world.

All is quiet.

Silent.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Fox paws tiptoe through the snow, and the world watches as I stand on the edge of forever.

The moon smiles down from Heaven, and its eerie light glistens on the snow-covered ground.

And the petals of the rose fade and fall.

All is quiet.

Silent.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Rabbit ears poke through the frosted brush, and the world gasps as I reel forward towards eternity.

The Spirit in the sky laughs, the echo of a lark laugh as he sails through the cloudless array.

And the stars shine on, their faces winking brightly.

Laughter dies, and

All is quiet.

Silent.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Thinking about Christmas(:

GOOD MORNING! Oh well it is not morning anymore, but let’s pretend because I like saying good morning better than good 4:54 in the afternoon. So GOOD MORNING!

 

How are all of you today? I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for Christmas to come! I’m like Cindy-Lou Who down in Whoville and I like Christmas a lot! It’s that time of year when all motivation slowly drains from your mind and you begin to feel like a zombie, walking around school with glazed eyes. I’m there and beyond.

  I’m sitting here listening to Tswift croon “Santa Baby” and basking in the glow of my Christmas tree when I should be in my cold, dank office (it is actually quite nice, but seems very cheerless on days like today) tackling those fifty math problems. But sometimes a lazy Sunday is just what you need in order to conquer the coming week. And this week will be very special! It’s our LAST week friends!

Just a little more pushing through and then we’re free!

The holiday season is always my favorite. I love the tree (even though its fake now) and the cookies, and laughing with family, ice-skating with friends, shopping with every other American, and the smell of vanilla that fills my cozy house.

But I think my favorite part of Christmas is Christmas Eve. After all the family and friends leave, and the house is quiet, and all of my family is asleep, I’ll grab my thickest, most cuddly blanket and sneak out to the Christmas tree. There I’ll sit and read my favorite Christmas book, “Mary’s First Christmas” by Walter Wangerin Jr.

  I love Christmas for so many reasons, but the best of all is thinking about my Savior’s love for me.

Please Don't Read This....

Once upon a time

In a land far far away

There lived a tiny kingdom covered in snow

Where snow fairies danced and bells hung from the trees in strands of musical mirth

And snow daisies grew with their petals of white peeking out from the crisp ground.

There were snow foxes hunting, stealing through the blue ferns on silent velvet paws.

And all around the woodland elves slipped across icy paths, dressed in glistening white.

They whispered secrets to the reindeer through the foggy air, stepping about their business amongst the trees. The woodland elves were rarely seen and never heard by the snow people who lived along Icetown along the river. The snow people laughed and dancing and made merry all year, but especially at Christmas.

It was the most celebrated season of the year for all the people in the snowy kingdom

 

Ok please nobody read that because it was just SO, SO, SO, SO stuuuupid! Like REALLY. I don’t even know what to write right now (haha said write right) and I just have no words. So drained. So ready for break. So tired. I just need to get some words out. You know what’s awesome? CANDY CANES! You know what’s creepy? The Fall of the House of Usher! You know what’s hilarious? Jokes that aren’t’ actually funny but somehow work. You know who’s awesome? YOU!

Well maybe this is enough words now. Is it? IS IT? Well we shall see.

Hehehe hey guess what? ONE more word! There. Done. Hey. Goodbye.

CAT DAY

HELP!!!! MY INNER CHILD HAS TAKEN OVER AND GONE COMPLETELY BONKERS.

"I just want everyone to be happy."

Ever said this to yourself? I have, about a bazillion times the last couple months alone. And especially in the last two weeks. And you know what? I realized something!

YOU WILL NEVER MAKE EVERYBODY HAPPY!

Ever. Like never ever ever ever. I'm talking Taylor Swift's level of finality here. Today my inner child rose up and said "NO! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!" And all my older, more experienced voices were like,

"What? Dude chill we're just gonna try to make everybody happy no matter how uncomfortable we are, and everything will work out somehow!"

And my inner child was like, "NOPE! NOT TODAY! TODAY, WE ARE GONNA DO WHAT WE WANT HOW WE WANT WHEN WE WANT!"

And all the other voices said, "YES! We're with you!"

And then there were some Lord of the Rings references and my mind basically delivered an amazing speech to itself.

But then as I was thinking, I wondered if maybe my inner child had taken over too much. I mean, when we're kids we don't have any idea of kindness or humility. It's all MINE MINE MINE.

We see a toy we want, we take it. We see food we want, into our mouths it goes.

So my question is: is there such a thing as letting your inner child out TOO much?

Mine insists that she and I are gonna rule the world forever, or at least today she is. Maybe its just a mood. I hope so, cuz I really don't think I'm cut out to rule the world, or even my life. I don't want to rule it, besides rare days like today when I give myself awesome speeches and protest everything that anyone says about anything.

I feel like a cat today. You know? Some days you feel like a dog, where all your energy is just focused on pleasing everyone. That was me since the beginning of the year. And now I'm like,

"NOPE! Done with that. Call me a kitty cat cuz I'm feeling insanely selfish and aloof today."

Well this was basically a pointless rant. Maybe I should have written something beautiful, or meaningful. Haha. Guess what?

DON'T CARE ABOUT THAT EITHER!

toodlooo!

 

 

 



Random Rant from Me and DAVE

I am having serious writer’s block. But its not really writer’s block, its extreme lack of motivation or caring about any form of homework today whatsoever. But if I said that then people might get the wrong idea, so I’m going with writer’s block.

 I don’t know about any of you but I am really ready for Christmas. 2018. Christmas 2018 sounds a lot better than this Christmas. Because in 2018 I will be 22 and almost through college hopefully and not sitting in my messy room with a headache and a boatload of homework and a bazillion problems of life to ponder and two dogs barking, and a stuffy nose. And maybe, just maybe I would be writing something that actually means something, but I’m sure that this means something to somebody, if only to me. Writing is a release, a way of talking when no one else will listen. You’ve always got a blank page to confide in and it’s surprising how a blank page can be such a good listener when it has no ears, no eyes, and no voice. But still, writing something out often helps me deal with it. Like tonight. I could be burdening one of my friends with this pointless ramble but instead I’m just here chillin’ with my piece of paper. He’s an awesome piece of paper. He needs a name though.

 I’m gonna name you DAVE! Everybody who is reading this, the paper you are reading is named DAVE. In all caps. Yep. Hi DAVE!

 Hi Laura!

DAVE says hi!

Anywho, DAVE and I are having way more fun complaining about my life than we would be if I was trying to actually write something with a plot or a pattern.

Plots and patterns are all very well on some days, but on others they just don’t seem to help all that pent up soul debris work its way out. My soul debris is actually almost gone. But I have one more thing to say.

 

IRELAND. I’m gonna go there someday. End of story.

Freight Train

Once upon a time I was a freight train crashing in the dark

You were the woodland scene that I passed by, wishing I had stopped to think

But too late now for me or you

And all will crash and burn

But sometime I will see the truth

And a bitter lesson will I learn

 

Train crashes in the ocean water gleaming bright

Sirens sound and flashes blue and red and white

The sounds of night fade to fire and my heart cries out “Past oh why?”

Past calls back “You brought me dear.” And all strength begins to die.

Train sinks down into a sea of black, the air all pressed and strained.

And all the sights the sounds the stars are veiled as I keep my soul constrained.
My voice is silent stiff and still and the water crashes down.

My hopes and thoughts all fleeting, gone and so much for renown.

 

Train settles deftly down the bottom of the sea.

And all the voices hopes and dreams sink silent now within me.

The day is done and you are gone and never will I know.

What all might have been what might have done had I refused to go.

Flower

Flower

Friend

Petals pink

Leaves curling like shy streams of sunlight

The grass dances in the wind

Blossoms happy and sweet and sad

The blue sky calls

And the flower dreams

All is well

The flower prays a thankful prayer

For Not even kings are dressed as these.

Days and People

Some days are strange days.

Some people are strange people.

But the strange days are the ones you remember.

And the strange people are the ones you secretly like best.

Scars Part 12

“Incidentally,” She began softly, keeping her eyes downcast. “I’d like to thank you.” Even more softly. “You can’t imagine how important this is to me.” She hugged the blue notebook close, daring to glance up into Connie’s eyes. For that brief moment, both hearts smiled and shared a common love of imagination.

  “I’m the one who should be thanking you.” Connie said cheerfully back, her shyness dropping away. She tried not to look at Alice’s face, but the crystal eyes drew her and the scars were fascinating in their own morbid way. In spite of herself, Connie discovered that she was once again wondering how they got there. “Thank you for getting me out of that mess.” She continued, grimacing. Alice smiled from underneath her hair.

  “I could say the same thing.” Her smile held a thousand secrets, its mystery alluring Connie with her curious nature.

  “What do you mean?” She asked, bluntly, unable to resist her interest. “The notebook?”

  Alice smiled to herself in that same hidden way, her dark hair curling about her face in soft tendrils. Connie lowered her eyes, wishing to seem inconspicuous while trying not to stare at her new friend’s face. They walked out the doors across the grass lawn towards the cafeteria building.

  “No. That too, but I meant…” Alice trailed off, looking peacefully up into the sky. Her hood slid carelessly off of her head, and the wind whipped her hair back. For the first time, Alice didn’t seem to mind, or even remember that Connie was there. She gazed at the dark marks that split Alice’s face openly for a few moments before turning away again.

  “Do you feel that?” Alice asked, her voice a whisper softer than the breeze.

  “Feel what?”

    “The wind. Sometimes I think if I could just get somewhere high enough, the wind would come and sweep me away from here.”

...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand.....DONE!

That feeling, when you just don't care anymore. When your mind is numb and your fingers ache and your heart is heavy and there is not one drop of interest or motivation left besides sheer determination.

Ever had it? Well it has a name. Its called:


NANOWRIMO: DAY 29

Yep. Folks, I am DONE. D O N E, done. My novel is 50,334 words long and I did it in 19 days because on day 10 I realized that my original novel had become a box of impossiblity. I could have continued it, and everyone is calling me a quitter, but I would rather be called a quitter and write a decent story that actually has a nice message and good, likeablish characters, and have more fun doing it and get an A, than have a crummy novel with no point and stupid annoying characters.
Seriously, they were annoying. And stupid. Anyyyyways! Well I am so glad to be done. I think I remember this thing called a social life... it is vague. "Like a dream." " Or a dream of a dream." But I remember! I'm actually going to go do something this weekend. And maybe not fail Algebra 2. And not be so tired that I don't feel like being alive. And I'm going to read and read!  But most of all I'm going Take a few deep breaths and be glad that I'm as blessed as I am.

But oh dear, my blanket excuse is gone.

 "Laura you need to clean your room." "NANOWRIMO!"

  "Laura can you do the dishes?" "I really need to NANOWRIMO."

 "Laura do your algebra 2/american lit/world history/art/web design/ASB homework!" "NANOWRIMO! I'll get good grades again in December!"

 "Laura why are you on facebook instead of working?" "We're chatting about NANOWRIMO!"

  "Laura why are there taxes?" "NANOWRIMO!"
  "Laura why are there earthquakes?" "NANOWRIMO!"
  "Laura why is there poverty?" "NANOWRIMO!"


You see? That is the beauty of the blanket excuse. It covers everything. And now it's gone.

What am I going to do?

Birthday Musings

Well here I am. It is November 19th at eleven o'clock. The day before my 17th birthday.

Today I feel philosophical. A lot of times I feel as if I say too much while not really saying anything at all. And most of the time I should just keep my big mouth shut. Writing is usually my outlet. But lately I've found it strange that although I'm writing more than I've ever written in my life (27,427 words in 10 days thank you very much!) I feel more and more the need to pour out my soul, for someone to understand me.

Do you ever feel that way? We go through life every day walking, talking, working Algebra problems and writing English essays (or whatever else you may do). Maybe you're a teacher of those Algebra or English classes or maybe you work for the President fending off vicious mercenaries (just a thought), or maybe you don't have a job right now and you're sitting at home in your office wishing you did.

It doesn't matter who you are, is the point I guess. At some time, you have probably wondered what I've been wondering: what is my purpose?

I thought I knew. I thought I had my life all figured out. Would you like a basic summary? Here goes:

DON'T FAIL ALGEBRA 2!!!!!!!!!!!

Graduate (hopefully with a 4.0 GPA [haha that dream died this year])

Write a bestselling novel

Meet and marry a very rich man and hire lots of help to cook and clean for me

Have two nice, quiet, clean, well-behaved children                                                

Give money away to missionaries

There you have it. My life's plan all summed up. I had it all down to the last detail. But this year something changed. Things began to go wrong for the perfect junior year that I had planned out for myself, and from there more things went wrong. And a few things went right. A few went exactly as I'd hoped. But those things haven't been like I planned either. A huge part of my identity has disappeared and all my sweetest dreams have suddenly soured. All of a sudden I'm left wondering what's wrong with me? In the aftermath of all these crazy new dramas, I'm wondering why I'm still not content. I should be. I should be perfectly happy. I have everything I ever wanted, but something still seems like its missing.

And I'm not sure what it is. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not unhappy. I just feel like a bird on the edge of a cliff longing to jump off and fly, but something holds me back.

It’s something to mull over when I should be sleeping the night before my seventeenth birthday.  

Still, I’m not completely insane yet, and though I have this crazy sense of helplessness I know that I have Someone in control always watching out for me. My dreams have changed and my life has shifted and somewhere along the way I feel as if I’ve lost myself. Losing yourself is supposed to be good though, because only after you’ve lost yourself can you find something bigger than yourself. Even though my life may never be what I’d planned, and even though my dreams elude me, I’ll always keep dreaming and someday I’ll break free and fly.

Annii's Eyes

The blue of her eyes made me remember times passed, lost love, and the sea just before a storm breaks across the water.

Scars Part 11

“It was my fault sir. Connie was just trying to get my notebook back from Tim, and I really think he was responsible for the book hitting his eye. You really shouldn’t struggle with a girl over something that doesn’t even belong to you when she’s just trying to be nice and,” She glanced up at the principal, her gaze dropping quickly to the floor again. “the teacher told everybody to behave while he was gone; so you see Connie really didn’t do anything wrong sir and I don’t think she ought to be punished for just trying to be nice and make sure that Mr. Alden’s instructions were obeyed.” This speech was delivered very quickly in a quivering voice. Alice’s hands were shaking visibly and she could hardly bring herself to look up, but she seemed so determined to protect his goddaughter that principal Harrison felt relieved and grateful for this excuse to pardon Connie.

   “Thank you Alice. Connie, you’re excused. Tim, in the future, please desist from taking the girls’ things. You are all free to go to lunch.”

 

   Tim brushed past the girls out into the hall, and Connie was almost afraid, but she was so grateful to Alice for forgiving her and coming to her rescue, that she knew she had to say something fast before the girl’s courage fell away.

   Trying desperately to think of something, Connie swallowed, watching as her chance slipped by as the neared the cafeteria.

Surprisingly, it was Alice who spoke first.