Scars Part 9

At Jefferson High, it was a normal day, a normal class, and a normal existence. But the moment was not normal. At least not for two students on that bright autumn morning.

  Connie Wheeler had skipped almost four complete days of school, under the pretence of a sore throat, and her friends were beginning to wonder about her.

  Now Connie, despite her modern, popular appearance, was really a very traditional and conservative girl, who had been raised to believe that an apology was due after a mistake. She was nervous, but bound by her sense of right and wrong, she swallowed her fears and resolved to say what needed saying and have it over as soon as possible.

   Outside the door to room 11, Connie hesitantly peeked in expecting to see Alice at their desk, bent over her blue notebook, scrawling away as usual. But what she saw surprised her.

 
  Alice stood at the window, her scarred face uplifted and smiling. The hood of the blue jacket was down around her shoulders, and midnight black curls fell about her face in soft waves, the sun shining on her peaceful profile.

  Connie was captivated. This new picture of Alice, looking so gentle and at ease, surprised her. As she stood watching in the doorway, the girl shocked her even further. She began to sing, soft words, unrecognizably low, but with so much spirit and in such a beautiful voice that Connie found herself in tears when the song was over, moved by the heartfelt passion in Alice’s voice.  

  Wiping away a damp eye, Connie sniffed---a fatal mistake. Alice’s head whirled around, her eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with anger. Immediately snatching her hood up and brushing hair over her face, Alice lowered her face to the floor, feeling that this invasion of her private moment was too much embarrassment to bear. She glanced around for an escape of some sort, but finding none, darted to a seat in the back of the room. Mr. Alden was one of those people who did not deal well with speaking to her and so Alice knew he would make no comment.

   Connie sprang quickly over to her, wishing fervently to make things right. But the bell ran and a flood of juniors and sophomores came pouring into the classroom. Helplessly, Connie took her seat, on the brink of despair, when she saw that Alice had left her precious blue notebook on their desk.

  Jason Swingle, whose seat Alice had taken, walked in, saw Alice in his chair and collapsed sleepily into the spot beside Connie, quite pleased to find himself next to her. Mr. Alden gathered his teaching handouts and found that he was several short. Instructing his class to behave themselves, the teacher left to make copies, with little hope that his orders would be obeyed.

 As soon as the door shut behind him, Tim Carey, an overly confident basketball star at Jefferson, began to look for some way of making trouble. He spied the blue notebook on Jason’s desk and thought to make a joke of it.

   “Hey Jason! Pass!” His robust voice called across the room. Jason good-naturedly tossed the notebook over, and Tim grinned wickedly as he flipped it opened. Alice sat like a stone statue afraid to breathe. That notebook held the contents of her world. It would shatter if anyone looked at it and so would she.

  Thinking of the horror she would feel if her own little jottings were read aloud, Connie quickly leapt to her feet.

  “You give that back Tim Carey!” Her voice was sharp, but Tim was only encouraged by the fact that he’d caught the attention of one of the prettiest girls at school. Laughing, but more interested in Connie than in the book itself, he called back,

  “What if I said no?”

Scars Part 8

Alice smiled. Her smile felt stiff, as if it hadn’t been out in months, even years. But she wore it almost proudly. Oh it felt good to smile! The rising sun shone down on her as she walked to school through the crisp autumn air, colored leaves crunching beneath her boots. Arriving at school, Alice pulled her hood up further and slipped quickly up the stairway to Mr. Alden’s English room. She always got to school early so as to creep in unnoticed by the other students and take her seat. They paid her little attention during first period. Probably insults took too much energy at 6:30 in the morning, and the real taunts didn’t begin until lunch. Alice did her best to escape. In between classes she could do little to hide but stick to the walls and keep her head down. During lunch she hid in the art room, and she never stayed at school longer than necessary. Once class was out, Alice was gone, speeding her way home through the cold afternoon light.

  Usually, avoiding people was fairly easy, for most of her peers, and most adults too, were uncomfortable around her. She could see fear and hate in their darting eyes as she walked through each day. Few spoke directly to her, but always she heard the whispers, the snickered jeers and the gossiping mockery. Their words sounded brave, bold even, but their fear was real and so was the distaste of even being around her. There were only a few students at school who would dare come near Alice at all: the bullies. They came to tease, to peck, to openly abuse. More than once at her old school, Alice had been so badly beaten that she had to stay home for weeks, and been too afraid to come to school at all for months. Here at Jefferson, she had escaped without any serious physical punishment. But the names they called out wormed into her mind and threatened to tear her soul apart.

  Today, however, Alice’s mind was far from these thoughts. The smile on her lips was real, the sky was brightening, and for the first time she could remember, Alice was almost happy. Taking her seat, she settled down with her blue notebook and pulled a pencil from her bag.  

  Pressing it into a fresh sheet of paper, Alice’s heart swelled as words spilled out from the deepest part of her awakening spirit.

Weekly Word Count

Total: 17,737

Scars Part 7

Connie ran the whole way home, her eyes blinded by tears. How could she have been so rude? All the horrible feelings brewing inside her had suddenly spilled out in an uncontrollable flood of words. She fumbled with her keys, wishing her mom were home to comfort her, at the same time glad she wasn’t there to be angry at her daughter for skipping school. Sobbing, Connie dumped her bag on the floor and fled to her backyard sanctuary. There was a tree in her yard that held a special place in her heart. Through every trial it had been her thinking place, a safe and familiar habitat for tears or laughter. Now beneath its quiet branches, Connie sank wearily down, desperate for peace to ease her twisted spirit. Even in the shade of her special tree, she couldn’t erase the look of calm despair shining through Alice’s eyes. Those horrible scars. They were ugly even to remember. Connie stood and walked back into her house, up the stairs to her bathroom. She stared at her reflection critically.

 Even with her face stained with running mascara and her nose red, Connie knew she was still beautiful. Her soft brown eyes were framed with thick lashes, her mouth was pretty and full, her teeth were straight and known for their whiteness; her hair was a pearly blonde and always hung neatly and stylishly atop her head. Connie’s family was rich and other girls were often jealous of her beautiful clothes and expensive jewelry. Most of them showed it. Spiteful and nit-picky, they would scrutinize her for flaws and spread rumors about her.

  Breaking into tears again, Connie realized that the one girl at school who had the most reason to be jealous had never so much spoken a word against her to anybody. She had never acted unkindly even after the way Connie had treated her. Compassion gripping her heart, Connie picked up her eyeliner from the sink top. Wanting to imagine, wanting to step into another world, another heart, another face--- she drew a jagged black line from her forehead across her nose and down her right cheek.

Scars Part 6

Alice ate lunch in the art room. Often she would paint while she ate, humming softly as she worked away at a still life and a cold turkey sandwich. Nobody else ever came to the art room during lunch, so it was the one part of the day that she could relax at school. Today though, her painting reflected her perturbed frame of mind. Rich blues that had begun as a tranquil seascape now swirled and thrashed like the storm that shook Alice’s mind. She was uneasy after English. Connie had never come back to class, and Alice had not seen her in the hall all day. Refusing to admit that she was worried over someone she hardly even knew, Alice sat in silence, determined to enjoy painting her picture. Still, her mind kept drifting to Connie’s strange behavior.

    Alice bit her lip as she worked, unconscious of time or sound outside of her own thoughts.

 Behind her, something clattered loudly to the floor. Whirling quickly around, Alice looked to see a student in a black t-shirt bending to pick up a pallet from the floor. Stomach flip-flopping, Alice hurriedly hid her face behind her hood. How long had he been there? She wondered, forgetting Connie and her troubles in a wave of panic.

  A rainbow of colors ran across the white linoleum, as the boy knelt to wipe up the spill. Alice felt a stab of guilt as she watched him struggle to keep ahead of the running paint. She was rude not to help him, but if she went over….

   The boy didn’t seem to know where anything belonged in the art room, and she realized that she had never seen him before. Maybe he’s new. Fighting fear, Alice stood and got a roll of paper towels from the cupboard. Walking the five steps she needed to reach this unknown boy was harder for her than a journey across Death Valley in July.  

  Alice held out the towels with a shaky hand, but the boy didn’t respond. She waved them a little, but still nothing. He didn’t look up.

She cleared her throat. Nothing.
She cleared it louder. Nothing.

 
  “Hey, do you need these?” The sound of her own voice felt louder than a bomb going off, but the kid barely noticed. He looked up at her in surprise, and Alice prepared herself for the inevitable grimace of revulsion.

 
  “Oh sure, thanks.” He smiled, no sign of shock or horror on his face. Alice stared. For the first time she could remember, a person had looked at her as if she were anybody else.

 

    “You’re welcome.” She stammered. But thank you was in her voice.

Scars Part 5.

   Alice was aware of the change in her seat partner the minute Connie sat down that morning. Instead of seeming awkward and embarrassed, the girl sat in an aura of anger. She dropped her pink bag carelessly on the floor, slammed her notebook down on the desk and began scrawling doodles. Not the usually hearts and flowers, but words. Dark, black words. Alice looked at Connie with new interest. What could Miss bright, sunshiny cheerleader possibly have to be angry about? She wondered. Shrugging, she turned to her own writing, pouring herself back into her own world, where characters were dancing in a moonlit night.

 

  Connie, frustrated and cranky, scratched out the sentence she had just written, accidently flinging her pen out of her grasp in doing so. It landed under Alice’s desk. Both girls felt, rather than heard, its echo as it landed on the hard white floor.

 

Alice swallowed, setting her pencil down. She reached under the table and felt around. Neither of them breathed, vaguely aware of the other’s thoughts. Alice found the pen and handed it back to Connie without even turning her head.

 

 In that instant, as the two hands touched, Connie’s need to blame someone for her troubles erupted.

 

   “Why do you even come here?!” She exploded, wrenching the pen from Alice’s fingers and jumping to her feet. “You don’t have friends, you don’t come to school events or activities, you don’t even seem like you learn. All you do is sit there scribbling in that stupid notebook all class long every single day. So why do you bother coming to school? Couldn’t you do that at home without ruining everybody else’s life?” The silence that followed this outburst was deafening.

 

  Connie gasped, disbelieving of her own words. Horrified with shame, she collapsed into tears and ran from the classroom. Alice watched her go, dumfounded and confused. A spark of anger flickered in her chest, for this blow hurt her worse than all the jabs she had received since the beginning of the year. Connie, with her good-natured countenance and sweet smile had always treated her with careful avoidance since that first awkward encounter. Her beauty and popularity seemed to flaunt itself in the wake of Alice’s ugliness and loneliness. She tried not to be jealous, but she was. She hated when people avoided her or treated her as if she didn’t exist, but at the same time it seemed to make things easier. After all, embarrassment was preferable to outright hatred. Now, to hear the girl say such things cut Alice deeply, realizing that Connie had been one of the few people in the school that she had never heard whispering jokes or snide comments about her. But now this. Connie, pretty, kind, ASB secretary, cheer squad, straight-A Connie, hated Alice just as much as the rest of the world.

 

  A single tear slipped from those ice blue eyes.  

Scars Part 4.

 For some reason, Connie couldn’t get that horrible face out of her head. It haunted her, appearing repeatedly in dreams and throughout the day in the halls of Lincoln High. Her A in English slowly descended to a B and then a C and then even a C-. Every class was spent dreaming forbidden dreams about the soul locked behind that face, those ice blue eyes, so filled with…something. Connie couldn’t put her finger on exactly what. But whatever it was, it broke her heart every time she remembered it.

Ashamed of herself for staring, for dreaming, and for being too much of a coward to speak, Connie avoided Alice. But the more she tried to avoid her, the more the two of them met. One horrific day, Connie was so engrossed in a novel that she bumped right into Alice in the hallway. Stammering an apology, she hurried on, aware that, that lonely figure was still staring after her.

 

   Now, three months into the school year, Connie was getting desperate. Her parents had met her at the door the day before with grim faces.

 

   “What’s going on? Since when do you get a C on any test? English is your best subject!” They were angry, and rightfully so. She promised to do better, but wondered if she even could now. All Connie’s grades were slipping and she had been cut from the cheer squad. Her boyfriend broke up with her in order to date her best friend since kindergarten, and the ASB vice told her she was failing in her duties as the secretary.

 

   Connie’s world seemed to be falling apart all around her and she had no one else to blame but herself. Or did she?

 

   The whole thing seemed to have started with her first bad grade on an English test. And who was to blame for that?

Scars (Parts 1-3)

Alice brushed a strand of dark hair out of her eyes, hunching over her desk. She studied the room, the sound of laughter and gossip echoing in her ears. They were all talking, familiar with one another. Heart beating faster she thumbed through her blue notebook finding the tab she had labeled for English. Bits of conversation flew past her. It was a typical highschool classroom.
A girl with blonde hair carrying a large pink bag sat down next to Alice, giggling to her friend across the room. The girl was beautiful, her frothy blonde locks shining. Alice shook her black hair over her face, wishing she could pull it over her completely like a shield.

Mr. Alden began droning about the class. Alice shrunk in her seat as he walked towards her.


Not even looking up from the attendance clip-board, he asked her, “Will you pass these out to the class please?" Handing her a stack of rubrics he walked back to the board, not giving her a chance to protest. Alice swallowed hard. She would have rather faced a legion of tanks and machine guns than hand out those rubrics. What choice do I have?

Panicking inwardly, she stood. Taking the first paper, she offered it, with a shaking hand, to the blonde girl. She looked up at Alice's face, the smile falling from her lips, replaced by the look Alice had come to dread. Shock, revulsion, embarrassment. They flashed across the girl's pretty face in an instant.

She stammered a thank you and quickly looked down. Hate and self-loathing burned in Alice's chest. She handed papers to several others. One boy looked at her openly, smirking.


"What happened to you?" He whispered cruelly. The teacher shuffled distractedly through a pile of papers as he explained the rubric. Alice practically threw the papers at the last few students before falling into her seat again, tears stinging her eyes. She heard nothing more the whole class. As the bell rang and the students exploded out into the hallway, she ran for the bathroom, unable to stop the hot rush of tears that flooded her cheeks. Sobbing, Alice threw back her hood, staring at her reflection.

Ice blue eyes framed by thick black strands of hair, contrasted strongly to her pale face. She tried to imagine what her face would look like without the crude scars that ran from her forehead across her nose and down her right cheek. They severed her face like a slash of black soot across a watercolor painting.

Straining for some way to cover up her face, Alice yanked her hoodie up again, pulling her hair across her eyes. It was useless. No point in being blinded by her hair as well as scarred and disfigured. Stifling her sobs, Alice inhaled shakily, forcing herself back out into the world. A world that hated her.

 

 

Connie Wheeler shifted her bag to her other shoulder uncomfortably. She was earlier to English than she had expected, and the strange girl was already there. She sat hunched over that blue notebook scrawling swirly dark letters across its pages as if her life depended on it. Connie had never dared to glance at the words, but she suspected that they weren't English notes.

Now, nervous to be alone with the girl, Connie walked slowly over to their desk and took her seat. She pulled her own notebook from her bag and began doodling.

The pale hand hesitated in its frantic pace for a moment. Then, as if reassured that Connie was not going to bother her, the girl resumed her writing.

Connie scribbled flowers and hearts for a few minutes, her thoughts fixed on the purpose of keeping her eyes downcast. They strayed towards that small figure next to her. Connie jerked them back. Why did no one come?

The clock read 7:16. Fourteen more minutes until class. Connie shuffled her feet nervously, setting her English book upright on the desk. She glanced back towards the girl. A quick look. She would never notice...

Unable to resist her curiosity, Connie peered cautiously around her English book. The scars were deep. What would cause such horrible, ugly marks? Had she been maliciously attacked or mauled when she was a child? An abusive father maybe? Or an uncle? Or perhaps she was burned in a terrible fire.

Connie's vivid imagination quickly concocted a scene in a large gothic mansion. Blazing fire snaked its way towards the innocent babe as the mother fended off an insane first wife of the father. Satisfied with the romantic horror of this scene, Connie spun the tale further. Her mind spiraled faster and faster, enjoying the delicious eeriness of her story. She concluded that the insane woman must have murdered both of them and then killed herself, leaving the child to be rescued by a servant.

Pleased, Connie tucked the plot away in her mental file cabinet to be used later. Coming back to reality, her eyes refocused. Startled, Connie realized in horror that she was still staring at the girl's face, more specifically, straight into her cold, clear blue eyes. Gasping, Connie dove behind her textbook again. Her face filled with hot color.

What must she think of me?!

The girl continued to stare at her. Those eyes, like pale blue daggers, pierced Connie's very soul. Filled with shame and embarrassment, she searched her mind for some apology. Nothing.

What could she say? I just couldn't help it. Your face is so weird I had to look?

Of course not! Desperate for an excuse to leave the room, she sniffed loudly.

"Oops, need a tissue."

On her way out Connie upset her chair and a pile of papers on Mr. Alden's desk. She didn't stop to pick them up.


 

Alice sighed. She stooped and set Connie's chair right side up and collected Mr. Alden's scattered papers. Looking at them she noticed an A+ on the paper she had written. Trying to smile, Alice could only manage a weak grimace. She couldn't shake the raw feeling that came every time anyone looked at her with that embarrassed expression she had seen on Connie's face a few minutes earlier. Setting the papers on the big desk, Alice walked slowly to the window, thinking. Outside students were arriving. Soon they would pour into first period classes, then the next, and the next. They would go home, eat, sleep, and repeat the whole process the next day and the day after that and the day after that. Every day for years. Two more years in her case. Then what? Most would move on to a four-year university, more education.

Education? She thought. What were they really learning? She looked around her at the school, the students. Did they really learn anything here? No one knew how to behave around her. She didn't know how to behave around them. Surely things like that should be taught as well as Algebra and English.

Wearily, Alice sank back into her seat. Mr. Alden opened the door and a train of kids piled in after him. Connie came back, sitting down next to Alice as if nothing had happened. Connie's soft brown eyes so conspicuously ignored her that the raw feeling grew sharper than ever.

Class started and Alice retreated to her writing, barely listening to the lecture as she lost herself in a world of magic and mystery where she was a beautiful maid twirling around a woodland camp-fire among a crowd of dancing peasants.

Snow

Numb with cold, and too happy to care, I twirled in a circle, laughing in the snow. The crisp, dewy white flakes fell on my nose. Their chill made me shiver, but my heart was warm with Christmas spirit. The pink hue of holiday lights was glowing on the snowy ground. I breathed deeply, then exhaled and enjoyed seeing puffs of billowing steam stream out in the darkness. In a world of darkness and cruelty, the peace I felt was a blanket of contentment. Reminders of family and love drown out all thoughts of the world we call “reality”. My reality was safe in the snugness of grace, and I was happier than I had ever been. So in love I could hardly believe it, and I was so ready for life. I wanted to taste everything that this life of mine would offer, to dream impossible dreams and to fight impossible battles. Every bend in the road would be a new adventure, a challenge to conquer and enjoy. I could hardly wait for tomorrow and the beginning of the rest of my life. Eager to grasp this new-found freedom, I danced on in the wake of the Christmas lights. The snowflakes fell on like ever-spiraling time: rapidly running out before my eyes, but still an abundance of opportunity. I watched the snow fall, those flakes like feathers of ice. They were laughing too. Smiling at me and care-free in their youth; reveling in their innocence and laughing at the world----

DONE

I want to scream, to dance, to revel in the fever of not caring. I’m done. I don’t care anymore. Like, legit. I seriously could care less right now. C-? Why not? It’s just a grade.

Why am I here? Why do I do this day after day, week after week, year in year out? I mean really. WHY? I could be out shouting the news of joyous salvation. I could be jumping and running and screaming out love. But instead I sit here. I sing softly, wishing to pour out my voice, to watch it soar higher and higher until it reaches the heavens in perfect golden glory.

I feel as though I’m sitting in a theater, helplessly watching as my life flashes by on the screen, too far away for me to reach. Wasted. So much wasted. Words are my freedom, imagination my escape, music my soul, and God my Spirit.

I live two lives. The one you see: me walking down the hall every day. Smiling some days, other days in tears, most I’m hopelessly lugging my six-million lb back pack.

  The other life changes so much I can’t even begin to describe it. It’s a world where too much happens in a heartbeat.

Do you ever wonder why you write? Something about if fills a void within me, which worries me, cuz maybe there shouldn’t be any voids within me. I’d bet that the day I’m the happiest my writing will suck. Because I won’t need to imagine. Because reality will beat anything that even I could conjure up in my mind full of dreams. That will be the day when my two lives will merge and all will be well with the world.

Hate and Love

My heart thundered in my chest as I read the words on the screen, disbelieving. I felt sick, sick with anger, my stomach flip-flopping inside me. A haze of red filled my eyes and every voice in my mind screamed Retribution! Shaking, I slammed the lid of my laptop down. How could he say that? Why, for all of them to see? I realized that I had been biting my tongue and the taste of sweet salty blood filled my mouth. Determinedly, I rejected the tears that were forming in my eyes. I will not cry. I don’t deserve to cry, I don’t deserve to feel this bad. Its not my fault. And I’m done taking blame for everything. He’s going to pay.

  Restless, I paced back and forth around my room, the pink walls glowing in the light of my lamp. I opened my laptop again, resolved to fight back. A thousand words filled my head, words like knives, weapons to cut the heart and pierce a shattered friendship even further. I typed, faster and faster and faster until my words had become even more than weapons to destroy, they were Hatred and Anger embodied in the physical, staring up at me from that glowing screen. I turned out my light, wanting to hide in the darkness. My curser blinked at me. I dare you. Press enter. Press enter. Just a simple tap and two lives will change forever. Another voice whispered, softer than a daisy falling to the grass.

Will this really make anything better?

Tears slipped out in spite of my resolve, and I let them fall openly. Tears of healing. Tears of relief. Tears of forgiveness. I erased my message quickly, wishing I could erase those feelings from my heart. They still burned there, anger and revengeful wishes. But they were wrong, and so was I.

Closing up my computer once more, gently this time, I knelt by my bed. My head was bowed and my soul was raw. I wanted the satisfaction of anger, of seeing him hurt the way he had hurt me. But words were the source of anger and would be the source of forgiveness as well. I don’t want to hate. I want love. My tears cooled the fire burning in my chest and I whispered brokenly the words written so long ago…

   “Love is patient, love is kind….”

P. vs. Self

I wrestled in my mind. Should I go? Should I give up? Go! Force yourself! Fear was a knife in my back. I wiped at my sweaty brow feverishly. It was a long way to fall, but I didn’t give myself any more time to think about that. I jumped.

P vs Person

My fist hit his face. The battle cry burst from my lips. No longer to suffer shame, was I. No longer in this waking nightmare. I gave it my all, my creaking knuckles burning like fire. But victory was at hand, and victory was worth the pain of the fight.  

P. vs. Society

Stones are hurled and faces torn. Everywhere I run they hunt me, screaming for my blood. People. Humans? Could they really be so hungry for hate, sated with revenge on the beauty of grace. I wasn’t born for this…. I say.

No, you were born again for this.

He answers.

P. vs. Tech

I gasped. The computer was taking over the world. The world grew darker. The computer had us. Its commands were impossible and then all the people rose up against it. But the darkness could not be overcome. The world had nothing left. The computer had won. The computer was alive.

P. vs. Nature

One day Bobby and his dad went camping. But it started to snow. Bobby began to cry and his dad did not know what to do. So he began to sing, and then they had some hot chocolate and it warmed them up again. Warm and cozy, they went home.

Reflection Part 5

We stood at the Door, silent and grave. Clarissa took my hand, and in her eyes I saw hope.

 

For some time I had stayed there, telling her of life on the Far Side. We had talked and dreamed aloud, even with laughter filling that strange sweet air several times. She was ready to fly, to make a difference in her life, perhaps in the lives of many.

 

  “I will talk to them, but they may not listen,” She said anxiously. But I knew that they would listen, eventually. And though it seemed strange to think that I might never see my own Reflection in the mirror again, it was worth it to know that I had helped her claim a right to a real life of her own.

 

  Clarissa shared her world with me. And I asked her if someday, when life on the other side was more settled, she would let me do the same for her.

 

  “Just a glimpse?” I asked. And Clarissa’s eyes answered yes.

 

I slipped back through the Door, the light fading into dullness of stark, plain Reality. But Reality was the world of freedom.

An example of why you should always log out of a computer...

BECAUSE OTHER PEOPLE CAN POST WHATEVER THEY WANT ON YOUR BLOG!

Reflection Part 4.

 “Anything at all?” she whispered, disbelieving.

 
 I nodded, wondering still who the Two were. I worked up the nerve to ask.

  
  “The two are the pair of beings, one Reality and one Reflection, who know the truth about the Door into the mirror. When the last Two passed, the Council selected you and I to take their place. Now you know the truth, and it is our job to remember, and to keep the secret. It is a special calling.”

 
   I pondered a moment, looking at her thoughtfully, realizing that she'd been born for this moment.

 
   “So what’s next then? You take me back to that Door and I never see you again? Besides, of course in the mirror, where you won’t be able to talk or have any actions of your own.” I frowned, wanting her to understand her bondage. Clasping her slim, white hands, I looked into her eyes earnestly.

   “Don’t you want the freedom you deserve?”

Clarissa’s brow puckered in worry, and confusion. She shook her head.

 
   “I’ve never heard of freedom before. How do you make use of it?” She said helplessly.

 
   “I follow my dreams,” I replied, adding hastily, “Or at least I will, as soon as I graduate.”

 
  “What is there to hold you back? You are from the Far Side. You may do as you please.”

 
Suddenly, I realized that she was right. What was I waiting around for? Sure, I was young, broke, and maybe not a National Merit Scholar, but why was I just sitting around letting life pass by?

I'm not a reflection trapped in a mirror.

Surely it’s never too early to start chasing your dreams.

Weekly Word Count:

Total: 14,479

Reflection Part 3.

Clarissa Blanche led me down the terrace-like fountain steps to her home. We passed others along the way. They were all perfect, not a hair out of place, breathtaking and captivating. Each stopped and looked at us as we passed by, bowing their heads reverently. I couldn’t fathom why, not yet anyway. Clarissa’s house was charming, draped in fountains of crystal water. It was another fairytale object, a symbol of this beautiful world. Inside, she asked me kindly to sit down, and calmly began fixing me something to drink. Everything in this place seemed to move more slowly and serenely than on the other side of the Door.

  I sat, strangely calm myself.

When she had poured out our drinks, pink and frothy, and possibly the best thing I had ever tasted, she began to speak.

 

 “You came in through the door, because I needed you. Claire, you and I, we have been chosen to be the next Two. The last Two have died, and now my people have asked that we take their place.”

 

 She did not explain, and I was too afraid to ask. Who were the Two?

  “Come with me?” It was a request, not a command this time, and those blue eyes almost pleaded.

Obediently I followed her. We walked into another room, and in that room was a smaller replica of the Door Into the Mirror that I had passed through before.

  She took my hand and pulled me through.

 

I gasped.

 

Before me were four walls, covered in mirrors. They were empty, with only blackness on the far side.

 

Clarissa turned to me. “When you are on the other side of The Door Into the Mirror, Claire, these mirrors are filled with every place you need your Reflection. And every day, I’m here. I’m here waiting for you.” She smiled.

 

  I couldn’t believe it. Could it be possible that the face I saw reflected in my mirrors, car windows, bookcase, and even my shining dining room table, was a living being separate from myself? For, though similar to me, she was her own personality, capable of living a life of her own. I could see that without even knowing her for one moment.

 

Incredulously I exclaimed, “Aren’t you unhappy, watching me go about my life, while you waste yours mimicking me?” The question seemed to be something she had never considered.

 

  “What else would I do?” Clarissa asked, puzzled.

 

I laughed in disbelief, the spell of this world fading fast, as I realized that all those others that we had passed on the way were bound to this cruel life of imprisonment as well. There was one of them for every single one of us.

 

  I turned back to my Reflection, feeling as if I’d always known and loved her, I hated to think of her trapped in this charade of a life forever. So I answered her question honestly.

 

  “You could do anything you wish.”

Me Ranting Randomly about Mornings, My Sister, and Cruella Deville

Do you know what? I do noooot want to write in my story today. And do you know what else? I'm not going to! I am going to be bad today and write this mindless ranting instead of doing what I'm supposed to.

Philosophy, Mr. A said, is important in writing. So I am going to philosophize or however you spell that.

WHY do people like to wake other people up? I think everybody's inner child likes to jump up in the morning full of gleeful malice and go to other people whose inner children are still nicely contained in their warm cozy beds and go "HEY THERE YOU! ITS TIME TO WAKE UP!!! HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY EVEN THOUGH I JUST RUINED IT!" Cause when that happens I'm in a bad mood the whole day and everything else throughout the day just sort of goes sour.

Yeah. Do you know what's worse? When a dog barking loudly is what wakes you up. I have said it before and I will say it again:

I hate dogs.

Go ahead and hate me now. But I say it proudly! They are loud annoying, and always puking. Like kids who never grow up. I mean really! Why does everybody love dogs so much? Call me Cruella.

I will never have dogs again. It wasn't my idea to get the ones I have. My sister was all like, "Mom, Dad, can we have dogs?! We can?! Thank you! Now excuse me while I go to college and leave Laura to clean up their poop." Thanks, sister I love you too.

Siblings. They are so loveable yet so annoying. Every time she visits on the weekends my sister likes to come into my room and pull the covers off me while I'm sleeping and then pull me out of bed by my ankles. She loves to wake me up.

That’s probably where the dogs learned it from.

Anyways. There is my random rant for the day. I hope you have a dog-free day! :D

Reflection Part 2.

  I gasp as I slip through the mirror. Its surface breaks into ripples like water as I pass. The air on the far sight is softer, sweeter, with flecks of golden light floating through it. I gasp, the taste of perfect freedom dancing on my tongue, the beautiful air swirling through my lungs, filling me with a sense of joy I’ve never had before.

 Laughing aloud, the dimness of the sound surprises me. My laughter echoes through the mist.

 

 The mirror girl pulls me further into the world of Reflection.

 

She points into a pool. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there it is none the less, its sparkling water shining in this strange light. I gasp again at the sight of my face.

 

  Perfectly shaped, it fits hers now. I stare in amazement at the change in myself. Even my old brown sweater and jeans have somehow turned to beautiful white lace gown. The difference is shocking, but logical. In this magical place it would not do to be seen in jeans and an old brown sweater.

 

It feels like years pass as I gaze down into my own captivating face. Maybe years have passed. The past is a dream.

 

At last I turn to my Reflection. I try to speak, but suddenly I have no words, and none seem necessary. Her eyes speak to me, and for a long moment we talk through our pupils and lashes and irises and souls. For the eyes are the window to the soul, and soul-speak seems to be the common language in this country.

 

Those ruby lips finally open.

 

 “Welcome.”

 

Her voice is music. Something tells me mine will be too, here in this world of beauty.

 

  “Where is this place?” I ask, and, as I expected, my words drift out like chords of perfect harmony.

 

  “You have come through the Door Into the Mirror. This is the Mirror where we now stand.”

 

She motions with her hand to the country around us and my eyes sweep the landscape. It was a giant golden terrace dripping in water and covered in fountains cascading down as far as one could see. We seem to be at the top.

 

  I look back through the door and see in surprise my grandmother’s basement and the dust rag I had dropped lying on the floor.

 

  The silence clogging my ears fades.

 

  “How did I come here?” My tone is incredulous and less musical, although it still echoes throughout this world into every corner.

 

“You came because I came to find you.” For the first time her smile falls away and she looks serious. Clasping my hands in hers, she looks deep into my eyes again. And again I feel my heart breaking at the blue beauty of hers.

 

“I am a part of you, Claire White. I’ve been with you every day of your life. I am you and you are me. And now I’ve asked you to come into the Mirror. I need your help.”

 

  “Who are you?” I whisper.

 

“My name is Clarissa Blanche and I am your Reflection.”

Reflection Part 1.

I sigh, sliding my stockinged toes down the basement stairs as slowly as possible. By night I wouldn't even be caught dead in that basement with all its shadows and creepy curtains; but by day, when a dust rag is your weapon, the basement is merely a disagreeable chore with its thousands of knick-knacks and shelves and tables and instruments and ledges and vases and a dozen or so nameless items of no use whatsoever. My grandmother is like a pack-rat, collecting bits and pieces of nothing and storing them in that basement to gather dust. Dust which I have the pleasure of....well, dusting.

I reach the bottom step, my last excuse gone. Oh joy. Looking up, shimmers of shock run through my veins. There is a door I can't remember seeing before peeking out behind a red curtain. It is large and white, looking more like something out of a fairytale than from my grandmother's basement. On the door a mirror. And in the mirror a face. Shock again. The face startles me.

Mine of course, but is it?

I walk closer, but slowly, as if in a sudden daze. The world upstairs seems far-removed and unreal, and every detail of my life before this moment fades into insignificance.

I pull aside the old curtain, and light bursts forth from the door, its whiteness radiating like a golden sun. The face in the mirror is smiling gently, and I put a hand to my mouth.  My lips are serious, but how could that be?

The mirror girl still smiles. Other differences are there too. Her face is perfect, the hair falling softly, lips scarlet red, and eyes so brilliantly blue that their beauty breaks my heart.

The mirror girl is not me. But she is me. Our eyes know eachother.

She reaches out her hand to touch the surface of the mirror, beckoning me. I glance behind, the foot of the basement stairs only vaguely visible through the shafts of light filling my eyes.

Her hand calls to mine, and I extend my own hesitantly. Through the rays that float about us, I see her eyes calling me still, their blue a bath of tranquility and trust.

Our fingers touch, and the door of light opens.

Into Reflection I fall.

Trust Me (2)

A strong arm pulled me up, just before the whip snaked out for my throat, and began dragging me along, the red-faced driver falling behind us. I tried to move my legs, but they were too weak with fear and exhaustion. So I gave up trying to move or even see who was pulling me behind him, and focused on using the precious time to regain strength. Breathe. I closed my eyes again, shutting out the sight of gleaming eyes in the trees. My unknown rescuer slung me up over his shoulder as the line of refugees crawled steadily across the jungle. Eventually I passed out, the heat and hunger too much. Drifting in and out of consciousness, I strayed through dream after dream. The endless trees slipped past, one just the same as any other. As night came I woke from my numb slumber, my abdomen aching from bumping against the man’s shoulder.

  Wondering feverishly where I was and where Matt had disappeared to, I struggled a moment before remembering. The memory of the whip and the angry driver made me shiver, though the night was so hot that steam rose from the ground. Behind me I could see the glowing torches of the drivers trailing far into the thick forest. They twinkled like cruel stars in a sky of black. The man behind me stumbled along weakly, his thin frame wreaked with sweat. He looked at me with envy, and a twinge of guilt shot through my heart. I was light. After years of near starvation my lean body weighed barely a hundred pounds, but it might as well have been a thousand to carry trekking over such course land in this heat. Rested, I knew I should tell my bearer to put me down, but the thought made me feel sick again. We were slowing now and I glanced over my shoulder to see why. Through the trees ahead I could see the gates of a prison camp.

Trust Me

Writhing, I tried not to look at the snakes. They were everywhere, those slick, scaly ropes draped over everything in sight. Closing my eyes, I counted to ten.

One.

Two.

Three.

 

Breathe.

 

A chilling hiss whispered dangerously close to my left ear. I managed to keep my eyes closed. That was the key. I knew if I couldn’t see them, I couldn’t lose control.

  “Keep close to me, Aira.” Matt’s voice calmed me. It was strong, but gentle at the same time. He took my hand and steadied me. I didn’t let go.

 

   Shaking, I fought desperately to swallow my fear. We walked on, through the steamy jungle, a sad, pitiful train of refugees straggling through the world, lost and lonely.

 

    I was terrified. I had never been out of the compound before, never lived beyond those towering walls. Outside, in this world so strange and new, I felt lost and powerless.  In the bare, bitter world of the compound I had reigned as queen. A captive queen, but I knew that place inside and out, and I had survived there on nothing but instinct for eighteen years. No one could have outsmarted me there, but here I was helpless. My every-valuable control was slipping away from me, and the only person I could trust in this wilderness was the tall, quiet boy walking steadily beside me. I peeked through my eyelashes for a moment. Matt was walking on, his deep blue eyes filled with an uncanny peace as we marched on to hell. Glancing back at me, he even smiled and held my hand a little tighter.

  From behind, the drivers were herding us faster and faster. Caution with regard to the snakes seemed irrelevant to them, and we began to move at a light jog, which meant I could no longer close my eyes. Which meant I could see them. Which meant I no longer had control.

 

  A sob tore out of me, wrenched from somewhere dark, hidden deep inside. It had been twelve years since I had felt tears on my face, and now twelve years worth came pouring out. I sobbed until I had no more breath. No more strength. I sank to my knees, unable to muster the will to run another step.

  The stragglers behind me tripped, and dodged, stumbling past me. Matt’s hand was jerked from mine, and the drivers were starting my way, angry at the disturbance of their perfect line, harsh black whips in their hands.

  Whips, like thick black snakes, themselves. I could already feel the sharp lash of the coil around my ribs.

  They were coming.

Ok, so I am going to rant tonight. Usually my blog posts are poems or excerpts from stories, or random creative weirdness. But tonight I’m going to rant.

  It’s not creative writing, but it is about creative writing, so I’m gonna count it.

 

Sometimes I wonder if this class is going to be more trouble than it’s worth. I mean, the whole writing two-hundred fifty words every day has been a daunting task, and very discouraging at times. I quite frankly, don’t like this blogging thing. I like to write stuff, finish it and then let people read it, not write a little of this and a little of that, and oh yeah strangers and friends get to read it all.

  It almost seems like Facebook. You know, that pressure to sound funny, look talented and seem popular that we feel online? I don’t know about you, but I feel it. And I don’t like it. Most of what I say during the day is just filler--- something to block the silence. But my writing is something different.

 

It’s a part of me.

  I can’t write something without investing myself into it. My writing is my soul, my spirit, my hopes, dreams, fears and beliefs all smushed into a few words or many, depending on the day. My writing is the deepest reflection of who I am, and who I hope to be.

  I hate writing something that I’m not proud of. Any work that is silly or dumb or unnecessary, seems pointless to me.

  Poetry. Ugh. It is my dread, and I’m glad this segment of creative writing is almost over. However I’m a little less opposed to poetry than I was before. It has its uses, and it can even be fun. As a general rule, I can write about one decent/good poem a year, which is why this last month has just about killed me.

    But last night a poem just seemed to spill out of me in a flood. It started as a feeling, then a response, then finally a song. Song of a dreamer, why do you still dream? IT has music to go with it, but I don’t know how to write it down, and the tune is now lost, somewhere in my subconscious mind, and somewhere in my heart.

  Last night I had the first “writing high” that I’ve had in several months. You know? When that perfect combination of words just leaps out of you from somewhere deep within, and simply must jump onto a page, you begin to feel the elation of writing.

   What I wrote last night, around midnight, may turn into an idea that becomes a national bestseller someday. It could change lives, it could move thousands of people to tears and soul-searching.

 

 More likely, nobody else in this world will ever read it.

But that doesn’t matter to me. Because it’s already changed one life.

Mine.

   And now I’m starting to believe again, that this class could be worth way more than just an English credit.

Song of a Dreamer, Why Do You Still Dream?

Don’t tell me who I am please

Truth is you don’t really know me

I may not be who I seem

But I’m more than what you say

I don’t know if you’re really you

But I know that I won’t ever try to

Put you where I think you belong

Don’t tell me what I can’t do

Don’t tell me to be like them

Like you

Do you ever feel that you were made for more?

My whole life is waiting for me

But I’m powerless to be

Anything but me

Right now

Who I am is not who I want to be

I could change

I could be that me out there waiting

But I’m too afraid

That path may be the path less traveled by

And maybe when its time

I’ll choose it after all

But for now my dreams

Seem to be all that keeps

Me from falling down again

My God has me in His hand

And He has a plan

But why do I still wonder?

Song of a dreamer, why do you still dream?

Ask me why I breathe.

Ask me who I am.

Ask me why my soul must sing.

Song of a dreamer, why do you still dream?

Weekly Word Count

Total: 11,283 words.

Caught

I held my breath, tiptoeing through the hallway with all the stealth of a squirrel in the dog pound, with one major difference: there were no chain-link fences between me and my enemy.

  My grandma’s fluffy white curls stuck up menacingly from the other side of her sofa, the glow of the TV casting her silhouette on the wall. The doorbell on the sitcom family’s house rang shrilly, nearly knocking me off my feet in terror. But she hadn’t heard me yet. I crept forward. The key was to take each board slow, feeling out the creaks before moving on. Inch by inch, I approached the back door. CREAK.

Sucking in a gasp, I froze. Grandma didn’t turn around. Maybe I was lucky and she’d fiddled with the settings on her hearing aid again. Or maybe not. My fuzzy pink socks slid across the floor without a sound. Only a few more steps and then I could be out the door, slip out of my stockings and put on my heels, and make my way down to the beach party. I stifled a snicker of triumph as I reached the back door. Twisting the knob, I felt the sharp blast of freedom pour through me down to my toes. The night was waiting!

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

Caught.

My cage door fell shut with a deep clanging of finality.

Sway

Sway, dance

Memory of

One gone

Love and hope

Caged within

Destined for

Who knows what?

Waiting, waiting

Forever, eternity

Passes in a breath

And life floats by on the breeze

Wasted…..

TIME IS ALMOST UP.

Lefty?

 Right is wrong and left is right.

Right is all that is left and left is all that is right.

WORDS EVERYWHERE

FLOATING, FLYING ACROSS

THE PAGES OF MY MIND

THEY SAIL INTO A SEA OF SOUL

AND ARE LOST

FOREVER.