Hummingbird Wings

I love to watch the way he smiles. I drink it in, wondering if those eyes ever fell on me, if I could bear their weight without a blush. Words of kindness, laughter. I catch my breath as the stars gleam in the sky. I watch as I walk, waiting to catch that glance. Hoping not to let him see, and yet, praying that he will. Maybe in time, the trees whisper as I pass. He smiles and I feel my heart drumming with hummingbird wings. 

Thinking About the Future

I like to think that maybe someday things will be different. 

I like to imagine the world as it could be, instead of how it is. Changing, moving, becoming something that is made new through the gift or freedom, true freedom. I like to think that there's still hope, even when doomsday seems to creep nearer and nearer with every unkind word. 

"You have too much hope." 

"That's not how the world works." 

"F*** off." 

All these things they've said, would have me begin to doubt that there is any reason to keep on imagining. Maybe there is no potential for a better future. The fact of the matter is, they don't care. They're happy in their misery, and content with apathy. Its lazy and it's wrong. It's becoming who I am. Omission is the easiest of all sins, at least in my mind. It sneaks up on you and takes hold without even making a sound. 

Giving in is easy. Standing out is lonely. A man must be good, before he can be great. 

Memories

Well I'm back. Revisiting the old blog and remembering old times. I miss you, past self. I miss your motivation, your energy and your consistent hope. Come back to me someday <3 

Quote

  "Life had changed as I knew it. And now it's changed again, luv. See, I don't worry about you remembering me.....it's that girl on the road you keep forgetting.
"My business is to create. It doesn't even matter what you do. "
You told me that, remember. P.S....
So go home. Go find it. Find that thing that makes you like nobody else."


  I love this quote because it reminds me that the what and the when and the how isn't always as important as the actual do. I love this quote because it is said in an Irish accent. I love this quote because it is full of hope for the future. I love this quote because it means that even when life throws those unexpected twists into your path, as long as you remember who you are and what you're meant for, everything will somehow be okay. 

   I love this quote because it is everything I want to be.

A New Beginning

Okay so it is a new year. And sadly but excitedly I've begun a new blog. This one will still be filled with words every now and then, but probably not as often. If you're still interested in reading, the new one is here: 

http://astoryiswaiting.blogspot.com/

And I'd love it if you would stop by :) 

Almost forgot to write

Oh dear I almost didn't write! That was horrible!
Well tonight was lovely and beautiful and magical and just exactly what I needed! Surprises are the best, especially when they entail corn mazes and best friends and everything you couldn't believe you'd see that day. I'm not going to write much because I'm soooo tired.
Here's a poem just because.

If I had the ears to hear
And the eyes to see
And the voice to sing a thousand songs
I would still be deaf and blind and mute compared to the echos of your unending love
I could sing a tune of sunshine
And bask beneath the sweet surrender of peace
I'll fall into a deep sleep
And dream, dream, dream
I can go anywhere so long as your fire fills me
I can be anything, as long as I have You
I can feel your arms around me, even when the darkness seems too great
You are my everything
And everything
And everything

I'll always praise

Total word Count! Whoooo hooo!

My total word count since beginning creative writing is: 157,600 words.

Wow. I'm feeling excited.

202

I'm lost in that dismal abyss that sneaks up and catches hold of me sometimes. I'm not really myself when I'm in it, and yet in some ways I'm more myself when I'm caught in the trap than at any other moment. I'm a startburst, a contradiction of flavor. With every moment everything changes and becomes as if it had always been that way and will always be that way and then in the next instant it is all gone again, washed away like a shell lost in the waves. I can't get past the failures and the heartaches. I can't get hold of the girl I used to be. I can't make it past this fear that keeps on taking me in its grip. I'm stuck in the fear, not of the unknown, but the fear of believe I know what's coming. There doesn't seem to be hope for surprises left. Life is an endless plain of sand, stretching onward, unchanging and bland, without even a blade of green fighting upward towards the sky. I can't help it. I can't help this anymore. 
I just broke the promise I made. I've broken it a thousand times, and now it's broken me. 

Poem

In dreamlight woven

I feel the sweet surrender as a chocolate song sweeps in

It’s rivers of notes and pools of allurement

Delve in, dive deep

There’s nothing to lose

And endless opportunities

Eternal ways to win 

Fiction.

Christine Henison jerked. Ten cups of coffee after quitting time, she was drooping like a limp flower across her desk. Her fingers were numb with typing and the glare of the words on the page drilled into her head. Grimacing, Chris sat up straighter and took a deep gulp of coffee, emptying her mug. The office was ghostly so late at night. The sound of her breathing seemed to fill the entire wasteland of empty desks. Papers fluttered as the one rotating fan inside the wide newsroom sent its spray of air across one desk after another. Brain-dead, Chris stared blankly at her article. It bored even her. No one would read it, she was convinced of that. Or if they did they had no taste. Did anyone care about such mundane things as this? She cast a longing glance at the Vietnam conflict article that Harry Arnold had pinned up onto Mr. O’Neil’s gigantic bulletin board. She scowled at her own work, which simply would not achieve the tang of an interesting story, no matter how late she stayed to work on it. Sighing, she stood. No use falling asleep again, so it was back to the coffee pot. A sound echoed quietly through the hot office, startling her. It was clearly the sound of someone walking. The steps stopped as soon as her own did, making her mouth go dry. Who else was here so late? No one should have been, not even her. Everyone else had met their deadlines and left long ago. The work was done for the day except her own dry article.

“Harry?” She called, imagining that her playful coworker had stayed late for the express purpose of spooking her. Harry was a nice guy, but lately his flirtations were becoming borderline disturbed. She frowned. “I know it’s you Harry.”

The footsteps started again, a slow unsteady shuffle. Harry didn’t walk like that, even if he was trying to scare her. Suddenly Chris felt nausea creep into her stomach. The wind from the fan blew at her skirt, tickling her legs. “Harry?” Shhhh-clop. Shhhhh-clop. Shhhh-clop. The steps continued. Chris hurried towards the wall, groping for the light switch. She couldn’t find it behind the mass of papers tacked up everywhere. Her tiny desk light was a solitary star in a vast dark sky. The footsteps stopped. But now she could make out the faint sound of breathing behind the whiz of the fan. The breaths were low and rasping, as if the person making them had not stepped outside for a very long time.

“Who is it?” Christine was horrified by the shrill sound to her own voice. It was halfway between a whine and a scream. “Who’s there?” The steps began again, faster this time. Shhh-clop, shhh-clop, shhh-clop! It was a limp, that’s what it was. Turning, Christine pressed her back up against the wide office window that overlooked New York City. The sweat from her palms fogged the window so that the lights outside twinkled and puffed. “Who are you?” She whispered again as a shadowed figure stooped towards her. In her hand Christine felt warmth, as her fingernails dug into her skin. 

My silly little attempt at...well, you shall see.

Amy yawned loudly. She blew a brown curl out of her face and stood up, reluctant to begin another day. Then her heart leapt. It was Saturday. No school. Thank goodness! She was too tired for school and her brain was already aching with overuse. As always, she shuffled to the mirror to inspect herself and see what damage sleeping had done to her femininity.

“Ish.” Amy grimaced at the face in the mirror. Mascara skeletons ran down her cheeks and her eyelids were swollen. “Allergies.” She stuck out her tongue at her reflection. But to her shock, the reflection didn’t stick out its tongue back. Horrified, Amy stared as she watched the mirror girl blink. Amy hadn’t blinked. The reflection leaned forward and pressed its hand to the glass of the mirror in the alternate room that still looked exactly as Amy’s did only backwards. Spellbound, Amy pressed her own palm gingerly up against the mirror where the other girl's hand rested . The girl smiled out at her. Her heart racing, Amy smiled back. She remembered her childhood fantasy that the girl she saw in the mirror every day was alive and her friend. She felt her heart fill with delight over finding it to be true!

Laughing, Amy jumped up and down excitedly. But her hand remained. It started to burn. Her whole arm soon started to burn and her fingers were melting into the mirror. The mirror Amy still smiled, but her teeth flashed white and wicked and her green eyes turned yellow with the fiendish glow of satisfaction. Amy began to scream as her arm was sucked into the mirror and the pain crept steadily up into her flesh. The noise of shattering glass cut into her eardrums and her whole body shook as blood covered the mirror. Terrified, she tried desperately to extract her arm and shoulder from the mirror before her face touched it, but the pressure on her body only grew as she resisted. She felt the mirror swallow her up until her lungs could no longer expand. Then there was nothing but the image of her own leering face peering back at her from the world she had always known.

Newwww random post of a random story

Mrs. Margaret Wood didn’t look at my mother. Instead she just bent her head and scrubbed even harder at the crustings of flap-jack batter that stuck resolutely to her old second-hand stovetop. She’d been scrubbing when we knocked, and she didn’t meet my mother’s eyes even when she opened the kitchen door; rather, she studied me as she invited us in. She said she bet all I was taller than I had been yesterday. I didn’t dare to speak or smile, what with trying to feel sorry for her like Miss Cecelia said I ought, but I managed to nod and not make any silly faces. Mother didn’t like when I made faces at people, but it made David laugh, so I often did. This afternoon though, I was on my best behavior. Mrs. Margaret was a suffering soul, and suffering souls warranted respect.

“How are you getting along, Greta?” Mother said. It was odd to hear mother call another married lady by her first name, but then, Mrs. Margaret hardly seemed like a married lady. She wasn’t like any of the other housewives in Mayberly. She was young and pretty and her hair was cut like the actresses in the moving pictures.

“I’m alright.” Was all Mrs. Margaret said in reply. She suddenly stopped her ferocious torture of the batter drops and straightened up. She was really not much taller than me, or at least she didn’t seem to be now. I noticed she was barefoot. That was why. Ladies like her wore those high-heeled pumps that made them taller in public. She swabbed at her forehead with the back of her hand and breadcrumbs from the stove fell into her hair. “I’m really doing just fine. That’s what scares me. Everyone’s been looking after me, like I’m a church fence that needs a fresh coat of paint. Once the novelty wears off, they’ll all start in on the gossip and the shakin' their heads. They do it now, I know they do, only they's too careful not to do it to my face.” She sniffed loudly, and I thought maybe she was going to cry, but she didn’t. She just started back in on her scrubbing.

“Rosealeen May, go outside and see if Mrs. Wood’s cat has any kittens you like. She says you can take one home to keep if you would like to.” My mother spoke to me, but she was looking all the time at Mrs. Margaret. Her eyes had that light in them that made me suspect something was up. But the prospect of a kitten was too much to resist, so I slid to the edge of my chair and stood, scooping my skirt back down where it belonged. Grown-ups’ chairs were a nuisance to my wardrobe and dignity. 

A Poem

I want friends.

I want a life.

I want to see a movie.

I want to hear that song.

I want to be safe.

I want to be left alone.

I want to talk.

I want to dance.

I want money.

I want food.

I want the spotlight for once.

I want to be happy. 

I want someone in my life who will make me happy.

I want a luxurious house. 

I want a bigger closet. 

I want a shimmery prom dress.

I want a job.

I want a college degree. 

I want everything. 

I want.... to change. 

Help me change?

What do I do?

I'm listening. 

Now I see.

Now I hear.

Now I want to help. 

Help me, help.

What do you want? 

What do you.... need? 

Can I help you? 

Let me listen. 

Let me pray.

Let me be here when you need me.

Let me lift, let me carry, let me be a shoulder when you need to cry. 

Let me be your friend.

Let me be your hope.

Let me tell you the truth.

Let me give you everything you need.

I've changed. I've become. I've grown and I've learned. And now I know what I really want. 

I don't want everything. 

I want to be somebody's everything. 

9.2.2013.

“Who are you?”

“Me?” He asked, motioning towards himself as if she could possibly be asking someone else. The other waiters in the waiting room all seemed to be nearly asleep. Others were engrossed in their magazines, or busy caring for loved ones. Of course you. Who else?

“I just mean, you don’t really seem like a patient.” She added, motioning around the room at all the elderly and obviously ill patients.

“Neither do you.” He replied, smiling matter-of-factly. Emmy turned her eyes back down, feeling despair wash over her freshly at his words.

“Well I am.”

 I shouldn’t be. But I am.

“So am I.”

“Of doctor Regan’s?” Emmy glanced back up at him with surprise.

The stranger smiled sadly.

“I know. You might not believe it, but a year ago I was fighting it hard. Chemo was hell, but I guess it was worth it just so be able to say that I put up some sort of a fight for my life. But that’s all history now, so I went back to a real hairstyle and some nicer clothes than those silly gowns.”

His joking attitude masked him like a bandit. Emmy wasn’t even sure if he was really serious about being a patient, but surely, she thought, anyone who hadn’t experienced such things themself would be able to have such a callous attitude when speaking about them.

“I’m sorry,” Was all she could say. After all, he’d obviously lost his fight, and been forced to settle for the inevitable, a path she was likely to follow. Throwing her normal polite passiveness to the wind, Emmy dared to ask:

“How long do you have left?”

The young man sighed thickly, nervously almost, and looked up at her. His dark eyes were clear and his face was devoid of any bitterness. How was it possible? Emmy felt her own resentment against life and the injustice of the world weakening.

“Four months, if I’m lucky.”

Looking Back

School is about to start. 

Urrrraahghhh. I'm not excited. Well, not for the reasons I should be. I'm excited to be done with high school and get out of this town and start my real life, when I should be excited to jump back into the world of being a student and a friend. I'm not excited about that at all. I think maybe I've forgotten what it means to be a friend. It's been so long since I've been one to myself. So tonight I'm looking back. 
I've spent some time reading the last thing I wrote before whatever happened to me happened, the last thing I wrote when I still felt alive, the last thing I wrote when I still had ambition and aspiration and a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Here it is: 



This year I’ve often thought, “All I do is write, write, write!”

But I’ve really been doing much more than that. I’ve been telling a story.

Two very different things, writing and telling a story. They’re not quite as simple as you might think.

Most of the time this year I haven’t known how my stories will turn out. They’re always a little crazy, and a little wonderful, and a little scary all at once. Every story I write I learn a little bit about myself. During November I remember learning a lot about perseverance, patience, friendship, trust, faith, and how to survive on four hours of sleep a night.

Over the past few months, writing has been both a chore and an addiction. Some days (like today) my mind is too feverish with confused thoughts and feelings even to get words out on the page in a way that makes vague sense. Other days I am as anxious as any enthusiastic reader. I sit down with my fingers poised over the keys just wondering what will my characters face today? Where will this story take me?


This year I’ve learned that I can be successful.
I’ve learned that I can fail.
I’ve also learned that no success comes free of a little failure, and no failure is complete as long as you can learn from it.
Through every writing attempt I’ve made, I’ve discovered that the only ones worth reading are those that I pour my heart into.
I've found that the blank page is always there to listen.

This year has been full of wondering. I’ve wondered about myself and whether or not I’ll even make it through the day. I’ve wondered about friends, family, x’s and y’s, Heaven and Eternity, tomorrow, and yesterday. I’ve spent more time thinking and less time talking.

Every single day this year I’ve had to remind myself of the promise I made on day one. Mr. A made us promise not to use a word. It’s a word that has a lot of power. Power to destroy, not what already exists, but what could exist in the future.

The word is “can’t.”



Can’t.



And when times get tough and the word count simple will not pass 250 (or five hundred as of today) or when I’m sitting in class trying not to scream about my algebra homework, or when my grade point average isn’t perfect, or when I’m thinking of the future and all I want to do in life, I bite my tongue and try not to say, “I can’t.”

I’ll admit that I’ve broken that promise. Not once. Not twice. A lot. But not enough to stop me from persevering.


Things are about to change. This year has already been full of changes. But it’s about to change even more I think. I can kind of feel it coming. And I know that with all the challenges life throws my way,  I'll be tempted to break that old promise again and again. But with a little faith, a keyboard, a Bible, good friends, coffee, a blog, and an imagination, I’m going to make it through life.
One day
One story
One paragraph 
One word at a time.  


That's an excerpt from my blog way back in January. Mr. A had us write a reflection of the year at that point, and it is still one of the only pieces of my writing that I can read with nearly complete satisfaction. I didn't write it for an audience, I wrote it for me. And it was everything I needed to hear, both then and now. When I read it, especially the last part, it convinces me that maybe I'll be okay, and that maybe sometime I'll get back to that point, back to that person I was. If I remember what I knew then, that life could be an adventure with challenges for the conquering, I think I'll manage to make the most of it. I just have to cast myself right: as a supporting character. I'm not the hero, but I'm not a victim either. 
This year I'm determined to genuinely serve. 
That's what matters. 
Life is a paradox. I don't really matter that much at all, and yet, I matter so much to the only One who does matter, I might as well matter a lot. 
Ah life. So confusing. That really had nothing to do with anything, but hey, I've got a crazy mind. I guess what I'm saying is, it's time for another new start. A wise little meerkat once said, "You've gotta put your past behind ya." 

So hakuna matata and goodnight to all. I'm starting this year with a smile and a wink and a kiss into the starry sky that belongs to whom ever may find it. In peace and love, bonsoir, bien-aimés.

8.31.2013.

The man next to Emmy looked up from his magazine. “You one of Dr. Regan’s patients?” He asked her, unexpectedly. Emmy grimaced inwardly. Conversation, at the moment, was beyond her power. Her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth and her lungs refused to give up enough air simply to exist in comfort, much less talk. She turned to the man and studied him briefly. To Emmy’s surprise, she recognized him as the same young man she had seen before. He still appeared healthy, and also hardly any older than Emmy herself, and she remembered guessing that he was there waiting for someone else, rather than being a patient. Upon closer examination, however, she saw that his skin had a revealing pallor and he was thinner than most men his age. In the time it had taken to study him, Emmy had caught her breath.

She answered slowly and somewhat hesitantly, “Yes.”

“I figured.”He replied.

Her brows furrowed. “How?” He was reading an article about health food and he answered without taking his eyes off of it.

“How what?”

“How did you know I was here to see Dr. Regan?”

“Because you don’t look so good.”

“Thanks.” She replied sarcastically, slapping open her own magazine. Mila Kunis and Mariah Carey were still going on as if nothing had even happened. Emmy had never felt so small and insignificant in her life.

“I only meant that you look like you just got some bad news.”

Emmy said nothing. Her heart was already racing again and talking just made it worse. She wanted to be left alone. No she didn’t. She wanted to go back to the way things had been two hours ago. Back when her world made sense and the huge dark cloud that was her future didn’t exist. Panic was a terrible feeling. She hated it, and she fought it, but still she felt it slither into every tiny curve and crevice of her heart. There was nothing she could do but sit there and feel her body seized with a terrible exhausting fear.

Suddenly the shock of an unexpected touch on her arm brought Emmy flying out of her thoughts.

“You alright?” The stranger spoke with steady, unveiled concern. The worry in his face was genuine and her panic subsided slightly at the warm, compassionate touch of another human being. His dark eyes were kind. Somehow their softness eased her fears. Could it be…. he was afraid too? Perhaps even caught in the same terror that she was? 

...

When I was a small child I was afraid of being alone. 
Now that I'm older, I'm afraid of crowds. When I am alone, I still have thought, prayer, silence, music, reflection and destiny. When I'm in a crowd, all I have is a tender heart surrounded by a garrison of ravenous wolves.

8.29.2013.

“Miss Chappelle, I truly hope you’ll let me suggest some options to you, before you go,” Dr. Regan started, pulling paper after paper out of the tan folder that had Emmy’s name scrawled across it.  

But Emmy stood, her knuckles whitening against the soft pink leather of her purse, still shaking her head back and forth.  

“Not today.” She said quietly.

“I understand.” Dr. Regan replied, his voice filled with unconvincing sadness. He rose out of his chair and glanced at the clock as if his mind had already forgotten her and jumped into his next appointment. “You will be back soon though? I encourage you to stay in the city this week and we can discuss your situation,” He continued on but Emmy heard nothing else.

Your situation. He had said. Your situation.

It was so cliché Emmy could have laughed aloud. Everything in that office suddenly seemed like a cheap Hallmark movie set. Doctors didn’t say things like this. Not really. And people like her didn’t get cancer. But Dr. Regan had said them.

And she had gotten cancer.

“I think I’d like to go back to my hotel now.” Emmy said foggily, grasping weakly at the doorknob. Dr. Regan hurried to help her. Anything to get her out of there, provided she paid his fee and bought into his empire by surrendering herself to treatments and drugs that would do no good.  

“Of course. Would you mind waiting in the lobby for a few minutes? I’d like to prepare a small package for you to take home. It will give you all the information you need at this point---”

“Yes, yes, that’s fine, thank you.” She waved him away, turning down the hallway like one in a trance. Her pulse quickened and her breaths grew shorter. She heard the doctor mumble something to a nurse behind her, but she didn’t waste the energy needed to turn around. The lobby door felt heavier than it should have and her thoughts raced.

“Ah, Miss Chappelle,” The receptionist caught up to her smilingly as Emmy hurried towards the door. “Dr. Regan asked me to have you to wait just a minute and we’ll have that packet for you straight away.” Emmy nodded uneasily, wanting to leave and forget everything that had just happened. Reluctantly, she lowered herself into one of the stiff office chairs for the third time that week, hating the way it felt and smelled. She then proceeded to trap her mind into thinking about nothing, anything, everything, besides what she had just heard the specialist say. She glanced wildly around the room, searching for distraction and finding none. Giving up, she picked up the same tired old People magazine that she’d read through twice before and buried her troubles away behind a wave of celebrity gossip. 

8.28.2013

Emmy clicked her heels together while she waited, back in Dr. Regan’s little sitting room once more. Her first appointment had been longer than she had expected and more embarrassing, even painful, and she had flown from that office like a dove released from its cage as soon as it had ended. Being back again felt like returning to a prison from which she might never escape.

This time the nurse appeared almost as soon as Emmy arrived and droned her name from the doorway.

“That’s me,” Emmy said again, almost leaping up. Physically she was having a better day, almost no dizziness or exhaustion, but her emotions were coiled tightly into a loop of tension.

“Right this way.” The nurse led the way back down the hall but turned left at the end instead of right. “In here. Dr. Regan’s on his way.” She ushered Emmy into what appeared to be Dr. Regan’s office. Emmy took the seat in front of the desk and wished fervently that doctors wouldn’t always be later than they said they would. She smiled as her eyes fell on old photographs of children playing in the snow. There was a black and white picture of a pretty girl in a long skirt and straw hat, sitting in a sunny looking yard. Emmy’s thoughts roamed wistfully as she wondered who the girl was. The picture was too old to be Dr. Regan’s wife. She sat there speculating for some time.

“Miss Chappelle, it’s good to see you again.” Dr. Regan said from the doorway. His lips curved friendishly. Emmy nodded wordlessly. “How have you been feeling the past few days?” He asked, walking to his desk. He sank into the leather swivel chair with a slight sigh that made Emmy guess that he’d been on his feet all day.

“Better, actually. Thank you.” She replied truthfully, glad to have something positive to share.

“Well that is good to hear. Now, I’d like to get to the results of your tests, and I’m sure you would as well.” He pulled out some papers from the file on his desk. Emmy paled, wondering what it contained. She dreaded it, yet she was beginning to be sure that everything would be alright after all.

“Well go ahead and give it to me. I’m stronger than I look.” She joked, fooling no one but herself.

Dr. Regan took off his glasses, his furry brows slanting.

“Miss Chappelle, I’m afraid your tests came back positive for colorectal cancer.”

Emmy’s brown eyes grew wider. She said nothing. “You have a few choices,” He went on. “You can begin treatment, although I wouldn’t want to give you false hope, you see I’m not sure what the odds are that chemotherapy would be successful in your case----“

“How long?” Emmy said breathlessly. She shook her head back and forth, back and forth. Nothing mattered to her now except one thing.

“How long?” Dr. Regan repeated uncertainly.

“Yes. How long do I have?”

The doctor shook his head sadly.

“Six months maybe seven.”

“And then I’ll die?”

“The odds are very strong,”

“So then I’ll die?”

He nodded. 

wisdom teeth uuuuh oh

K too loopy to post anything in my stroy ='( so many tears! butuuut tomorrow I'll write more maybe. Wisdom teeth are very annoying. I wish I could do stuff like I normally do but I'm just going to probably do ntoghing becase I will be so tired. I shall try to write thoguh i'm rpomise! but foer now i must go to sleep i'm soooo tired and loopy from this werid stkuff.

8.25.2013.

“Hi, Emmy, I’m Dr. Regan.” A tall, smiling and somewhat robust man in his early sixties entered the small room carrying a clipboard. He extended his hand and Emmy took it hesitantly, worried that he would feel the remnants of her shakiness. “I understand you’re one of Dr. Richards’ patients?” He squinted over the clipboard with a serious expression. Emmy nodded and inhaled deeply.

“That’s right.” She replied clasping her clammy hands together.

“Well, I see from this report that he thinks you need to see me for some more thorough testing. So I’m just going to examine you, okay?” His jolly smile reminded Emmy of a mall Santa she’d met years ago as a little girl. She remembered wanting to like that Santa, but she had been too afraid of him even to speak. She felt the same way now as Dr. Regan put on his glasses. 

8.24.2013.

Buried deep in her troubled thoughts, Emmy started at the soft sound of someone settling into the chair beside her. Her head was beginning to spin and she felt uncomfortably cold. Suddenly even the light weight of the People magazine seemed too great a burden for her slender fingers. Clearing her throat, Emmy laid it down onto her lap and tried desperately to catch her breath without gasping and drawing the attention of everyone in the room. She felt eyes on her and looked up at the man in the next chair. To her surprise, he was young like her, not older than forty like everyone else in the room. He met her gaze and smiled cheerfully. Emmy suspected that he was there waiting for someone. He looked perfectly healthy. Embarrassed by her own poor health, she bent her head again so he wouldn’t see her pallor and her shaking hands. Panic gripped her in spite of her resolve to stay calm, and with it came fear and nausea. Every nerve in her body grew tense. Emmy knew from past experiences that in just a moment she would begin to sweat and grow even more dizzy and nauseated and would shake violently. With every effort she made to calm herself, she only became more and more agitated.

Clenching the arm of her chair, she tried to breathe deeply, tried to think calming thoughts, tried to think of nothing at all.

                                                                                       

“Emmy Chappelle?”

The sound of the woman’s icy voice calling her name made Emmy’s heartbeat jolt to a stop. She licked her lips and stood unsteadily.

“That’s me.”

“Right through here please.” The woman said, her face the emotionless mask of a working mother of three. It was hard and cold and devoid of compassion. Emmy followed her through the doorway, wishing she had worn shorter shoes. She was wobbling all over the hallway in her Sophia Webster pumps. The nurse showed her into a barren white examination room and asked Emmy to sit.

“Dr. Regan will be with you shortly.” She left abruptly and closed the door, without waiting for Emmy to say thank you.

Once more alone, Emmy feared that the chills and panic would worsen, but her symptoms seemed to have left as suddenly as they had come. She was no longer shaking or weak, or even nervous. But her heart raced as if she had just finished a marathon, instead of walking twelve feet down a cool, carpeted hall. 

8.24.2013.

   Fountains are curious devices. They are meant to be relaxing and soothing, but if one's nerves are already stretched tight, there is nothing in the world more maddening than the trickle-drip-drip of an office fountain. Especially an office fountain that belongs to a PhD specialist and sits in the middle of a quiet waiting room half-full of anxious and ill people. 

   On this particular day, in this particular PhD's office, Emmy Chappelle was convinced that there was nothing that would ever make her happier than smashing Dr. Regan's irritating fountain to smithereens. But of course, people do not smash fountains, no matter how irked they are, and the only thing she could do was sit there and wait while bouncing her knees impatiently. No amount of knee bouncing would bring Dr. Regan's technician to the door any faster, however, and the restless act soon failed to ease Emmy's rumpled spirits. She scowled darkly, wishing herself a thousand miles away from that office.

   I'm not that sick. They're not going to find anything. And then I'll have to pay for this silly visit and the flight out here, and my hotel, and the taxi, and the expensive meals out, all without good reason! She huffed inwardly, flipping through a People magazine where Kim Kardashian and Jenifer Lopez were having a fashion faceoff. The fountain continued to trickle-drip-drip, gratingly. At last a woman in scrubs opened the door. Emmy tossed her magazine onto the nearby table and started to stand, her heart racing.

   "Emily Warner?"  The nurse called in a dull voice.

    Emmy sank into her seat again as a white-haired woman rose from a stiff chair and shuffled toward the technician. "Right this way, Mrs. Warner." 

   Grudgingly turning back to her article, Emmy sighed, feeling worry tugging at the back of her mind in spite of herself. 

    What if I really am sick? What if I'm not losing weight because of stress or bad metabolism? She slumped lower in the scratchy, stiff, waiting room chair and allowed the worst thought of all to seep into her mind. 

  What if I do have cancer? 

'Till Death Do Us Part

   Everyone knows that in life sometimes things don’t happen the way you plan. Other times things don’t happen at all, and even more often, all the things you don't want to happen, happen. But that’s just life. And because we all know it, we all have a choice to make. Granted, most choose to complain about it every chance they get, and for years I was one of those people. I’d take every opportunity to whine about the amount of money I paid for college tuition, while drinking a seven dollar cup of coffee at the campus Starbucks. I’d gripe about the weather, my job, my family, friends, my wants and unrealized dreams, everything. I was buried deep in a world full of troubles. As my life flew by, I hardly even noticed because I was too busy focusing on everything that wasn’t right, instead of taking every moment for what it was worth.

  

  When I was twenty-six years old, all of that changed. Because life happened, in the best way and the worst way all at once. You see, along with giving you everything you don't want at all the wrong times, and in the worst ways possible, life also has a way of giving you everything you didn’t know you always needed, in the best way, at just the right moment. I guess that’s why so many people learn to take the bad with the good and smile even when no one’s looking. 

Turn Away, Smile

Every time I 
I look into your eyes 
I see that smile and I fall 
Every single little time 

Catch myself on a hook on the wall 
Don't let my heart fall no
Cause you're not mine
Never ever gonna think no
Never gonna let it sink in

And I won't cry 'cause I can still see you smile
I won't cry 'cause I can still find hope inside 
My sense of right
Someday I'll fly and
I'll never cry 
'Cause I can still see you
Smile

Turn away and I 
Never say what I 
Think about every once in all the time
And you don't see 'cause you
Can't be who you
Really are inside

And all I want is to 
Know everything that matters most to you
But I'll laugh and say goodbye
With nothing in my mind but the shadow of a lost life
It's far too far past too late 
I'd rather settle with the heartbreak 
Than see you with your heart   wide     open 
Open

And I won't cry 'cause I can still see you smile
I won't cry 'cause I can still find hope inside 
My sense of right
Someday I'll fly and
I'll never cry 
'Cause I can still see you
Smile

I'll watch you walk away
Keep all the words I'll never say
Don't look back and I won't
Don't, just don't

'Cause it's far too far past too late
And the lights are dim and you won't wait
Love won't wait so 
Fly


And don't forget to smile

Come Back, Don't be Afraid

You can't hide from me
I see what you see
I feel deep inside that pain you're trying so hard to hide
And I won't let you go without a fight

When you cry
 I cry
And when you see tears in my eyes
It's because I see them down in down inside
Of you

I won't let you go 
Can't ever let you know
How much I feel cuz I can't 
Can't feel the way I do 
Bout you

Nothing can come between
Can't ever stop me seeing
I know you too well
And I've seen every tear that you never let fall

So don't be afraid to cry
In front of me darling
I love you to the moon, to the stars and the sky 
Don't be afraid to show how you feel when 
Feeling does nothing no good no time

I'm here even when we're 
Miles away darling
And nothing's ever gonna stop me 
Being at your side

Even now, even after everything
It's like nothing really changed
And I still see your soul 
Trapped away deep inside
Just like mine
Just like everything we never were
And I'll always find you

So don't be afraid to let 
Let your anger out 
Darling
And don't be afraid to wait 
To linger in the stillness that never really comes

I'll wait 
I'll wait for you forever 
Even if you never come 
Come back

Very dramatic and escalates too quickly, but hey, whatevs.

"I'm sorry, dear. But we have no choice but to close down the orphanage." Mrs. Hutley sighed sadly.

“But Mrs. Hutley---“  

“No, honey I’m sorry, we just can’t afford to keep it open.” She rubbed Amy’s arm sympathetically. Amy tried not to flinch at the touch.

“There must be something we can do.” She said firmly, refusing to accept this ultimatum.  

“I’m sorry Amy, I know how hard you’ve worked but we don’t have a choice. No one will support us. The building is practically falling apart, and that’s not how most people want to run things.” Mrs. Hutley laughed gratingly. Her smile fell when she saw Amy’s face, and the patronizing sighs returned. “I’m sorry, sweet pea. I tried, I really did. Mr. Hutley asked all over town but we can’t find a sponsor for you. It will all be alright. God watches over the little ones.”

She patted Amy’s cheek and smiled, before turning back to her television set, where Lucille Ball was stuffing her face full of chocolates while the audience screamed laughing. Amy felt her chest grow tight.

Of course God watches over them. They’ll all be alright, I believe that. But what about me? What am I supposed to do now? This was my purpose.

She turned and walked out of that bare, white house, so empty, so rich and so terrifying. She looked out at the blue sky and the picket fence and the green lawns, and gardens and women waving to one another with smiles pasted on their made-up faces, and red-stained, lying lips. To most it was just a white, upper-class suburban neighborhood, but to Amy it was the image of everything that she’d always known and always secretly hated.

God, what do I do if I can’t help them? Who am I if that’s not who I’m meant to be? How do I know? How will I ever know?

 She closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her face, feeling the tears run over them in warm rivulets.  She got into her car and started to drive, she didn’t now where she was going or how fast or how far. As the day grew slightly darker with Louisiana thunderclouds she noticed vaguely that the suburban streets disappeared and were replaced with lush green fields, cotton rows and corn furrows. Everything somehow seemed better in the country. Amy closed her eyes, knowing she shouldn’t. But there were no other cars to be seen out on the road and she longed to rest her burning eyes. The day grew even darker. A storm was coming. She felt tight inside, tight and angry. Never before had she felt so full of frustration and confusion.

Suddenly slamming on the breaks, Amy tore the door open and snatched at her handbag, pulling out a smoke. She kicked off her heels and started walking along the road, stopping for a moment to roll off her nylons and stuff them into the small clutch purse.

Her cigarette didn’t relax her like smoking normally did. Without even knowing why, Amy stopped abruptly and looked up into the thunderclouds as the first silent drops of rain splattered dark on the hood of her Cadillac.

“Okay!” She shouted. “I don’t know what you want from me. Because I’ve given everything and now You’re taking it away. Didn’t I trust? Didn’t I believe?  Isn’t that what you wanted?” She was screaming now, all alone on a country road. “I did everything I thought you were asking, so why do you take it from me now? I did this for You! I did it to serve, to be useful, to teach them all about You and everything everyone’s ever told me I ought to do so why this, why now, why ,why why?” She choked, wiping her mouth against her sleeve. “I can’t understand why an all powerful God would take yet another home away from all these beautiful children who love Him.”

Thunder rumbled. And lightning cracked. And Amy did know why. She heard a voice, not in the thunder or the rain as it crashed down in sheets. A small voice said wanly like a whisper from the wind,

“But I didn’t take it from them. I took it from you.” 

I can't believe I wrote this.

Okay, so this is incredibly different from anything I've ever written. Here's the prompt: 

 President James McCloud is the first president to ban all country music from the White House. When a group of rednecks come to challenge him, he must defend his stance and stand his ground.


So, with that being said, the result.....

President McCloud cleared his throat.

“Let them come. I’ll never give in. This country’s been on a loose leash too long. Let’s show them something worth singing about. Real music. Give the order McClintock.”

  "But sir, the citizens are willing to die to protect their music!”

“Let them die! Why should we care? I’m done with this. From now on things are going to be different and nobody,” He looked up, his face contorted with rage, “Nobody is going to get away with signing that offensive, demented babble.” He slammed his fist into McClintock’s ribs. “Which side are you on soldier? The side of order? Restraint? Or the side that made this country fall to the depths it’s reached over the last two hundred years?”

Through his teeth McClintock responded, “I’m on your side sir. I swear.”

“Good. I’ll hold you to your word. So make this count. Send out my troops. And let the chips fall where they may.”

~*~

Hunter cleared his throat. They were at the gates. The sky was amarillo and everywhere hidden faces were watching. The president wouldn't relent, Hunter, knew it and no one would ever alter McCloud’s mind without a fight. Hunter licked his lips nervously, tasting his father’s blood in his mouth, along with the saltiness of tears. He remembered his home and felt blood and bile building his throat.

How did we become this? How did this country fall so far? What started it? What pushed this man to the edge of madness? His thoughts ran rampant through his head like and avalanche of snow cascading down a steep slope. They gathered more animosity as they tore through his head. Every moment made him more determined.

“Remember the days when were free, Emily?” He whispered, taking her hand. “Free to sing whatever we wished, at any moment, without fear?”

“I remember.”

“We’ll have them again.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just am. Nothing can stop us. Because we’re fighting for what we love.

And with that they ran. The gates of the White house burned fiery and brighter than all the heat Hunter felt inside him.

~*~

“Mr. President, they’re coming!” McClintock shouted, his dry voice echoing like crackling paper through the long hallways. In the oval office, McCloud signed his papers. After all, the minister shouldn’t be kept waiting just because a band of country rebels thought they could stand against the might of his House. He tapped the end of a pen against his teeth.

“What did I say solder? Let them come. I don’t fear them. I don’t fear anyone. They wanted their music, well let it play! Let it rain down as they watch their wives and children die. No one will get away. Kill them all. That’s an order.”

“But sir, they’re musicians not soldiers! Are we really to turn against our own citizens with such a penalty as death?”

“It’s the price they pay. They chose this McClintock. Never forget that. Give the order.”

~*~

Hunter felt Emily’s hand ripped from his own as fire filled his lungs and he crooned the last line of a country song…

Happiness

Happiness is a good song on a sunny day, and feeling faith in your heart and chocolate in your tummy. 

SO FAN-FLIPPIN-TASTIC! 

I'll actually write something real, later. Bye for now! 

I Want Crazy

I can feel my heartbeat start to quicken.

Faster, faster, and faster even. The crowd in front of the stage rumbles a restless sound as teenagers mingle, roiling in the smells of old smoke and hot redneck. My lips feel dry, so I lick them. We're all waiting, waiting, waiting. They try to satisfy the crowd's music thirst with Train and Brett Eldredge, but it's not live and it's not Hunter Hayes. A few people sing along and dance, but nobody's really listening. Most of them down below are starting to get antsy. 
From way up here in the nose-bleed section of the grandstand I squint down at the stage. There's a guy in black who looks young and blondish and like a twenty-one year old country star. 

"Is that him?" I shout to Rachel. She shakes her head and clears her throat before she replies.

"No. If it was there'd be more screaming." 

"You sure?" I start, but then comes the beat of a drum and a thundering of guitar strings so loud my heart skips a beat and then beats twice in the time of one. Spotlights dash across the crowd and the young girls scream. I smile. The waiting's over and he's coming up the stairs. 

:)

I haven't written in a while. Not really at least. And what's more, I haven't lived in a while either. At least, not really. 

Summer for most kids means happiness and fun with friends and laughing and otter pops and a county fair and puppy love and running through fields of daisies. It used to mean that for me too. But for the past few years summer has become a lot more. Throughout the year I find that my deepest thoughts find themselves buried beneath a mountain of obligation, and come summer they begin slithering out into the sunlight, dancing like stars or dipping like rain drops. Some of them are dark, I'll admit, and this summer I feel as though I've had a stronger wall of apathy building inside me than ever before. Nothing has turned out the way I've expected, but then, when is life ever what you expect? Highs have been lower and lows... well, deeper than in years past. I've learned and puzzled and thrashed with life's many complexities. I've spent less time talking and more time thinking. But I can still feel it there: the feeling that something's brewing way down deep, deeper than I've ever dared to go, beneath the surface of everything I am. The thing is, I don't want to know what it is. I wish I could go back in time. That line from that song still haunts me some nights. I'd like to be my old self again, but I'm still trying to find it. They say you can't go back. So I guess what I'm saying is, this is the new page. The new beginning. I'm giving up. Yes, giving up, letting go, washing my hands. 

She's lost. Lost for good. That girl I once knew, I can't ever meet again, at least not in this life. Who she was is still inside me, but now I have to let her go, and start looking forward to meeting next summer's girl, and making her all that she's capable of being. I'm ready to start writing again, and start living. 

And I'm going to run through some daisy fields. Because daisies are important.  

Not really edited.

Mrs. John Chubb was growing frustrated. There are some days that just seem to work against the poor people trying to hurry through them, and this one was quite in a league of its own in that regard. The letter had arrived that morning, and ever since reading its contents, Mrs. John had been in a mad rush, only to have the elements of the world set themselves against her. To begin with, the bathtub had sprung a leak, then the train was late, and after that a terrible downpour had begun before she had been able to catch a cab. Now of all things, there was some vehicle ablaze in the middle of the road.

“Driver, what is the meaning of this? Why have you stopped?” Mrs. John demanded from the backseat.

“It seems some poor devil’s had an accident ma’am.” The driver shook his head and flicked his Embassy Regal out the window and into the street.

“Oh, you can’t be serious!” She replied, wringing her hands anxiously.

“Afraid so ma’am, the car’s burning something bad too.”

“Oh does anyone in the world have worse luck than I do?” Mrs. John wailed dismally.

The cabby raised his eyebrows. He reflected that the poor bloke in the burning motor seemed to be having worse luck than Mrs. John, but remarking on the fact didn’t seem wise considering her frame of mind. “Can’t you get this contraption moving?” The lady continued, her brown curls quivering. “Please, you can’t believe how frightfully important it is! I’m late already and my niece needs me!”

“Sorry ma’am but I can’t just mow them over you know.”

“Isn’t there a side road or something? Oh please! I simply must get moving.”

The driver craned his head around, searching for a way to back out of traffic. The firemen had nearly succeeded in putting out the fire, and he, being generally a very calm, easy going person, would have much preferred to sit and wait it out. But there was a side road was not too hard out of reach so he cranked the wheel to the left and to the right and backwards and forwards the cab rocked until at last they had managed to turn amid a chorus of honking horns.

“Oh thank you! I’m very grateful to you I’m sure.” Said Mrs. John, immediately forgetting the driver even existed as soon as she had said it. They made their slow way through the city streets, hitting all the traffic lights and nearly being drowned in puddles. At last the city lights began to fade, as the cab sped out into the darker country roads. They came to a house on Rose Street enclosed by a small white picket fence and roses and daisies blooming in the garden. Mrs. John popped from the cab, quite forgetting to thank the driver, and hurried into the house. “Emily? Emily, I’m here! Oh, where are you all gone to?” She flung her scarf on the chair and called about, wondering.

“Oh Ms. May! Here you are at last! We’d quite given up hope of your coming tonight!” The maid, Ruby, hurried down the stairs.

“How’s she coming Ruby?” Mrs. John asked anxiously.

“Not terribly well, miss, that’s the size of it.”

“Is Doctor Boncrought here?”

“Yes, miss!”

“She’s in good hands then. Never you mind about your mistress, now. She’s a Bervell. And we Bervell girls always knew how to bring strong, healthy babies into this world!” And with that Mrs. John swept up the stairs. 

quick blurb from my latest...

Lizzie slumped. She was too tired to write. Her books didn’t matter. She looked at them in disappointment. They were fluff, trivial, nonsense, flat and emotionless. There was nothing to them. She remembered what her father had always told her: If you write, write well. Write books that will improve the mind and heart of the reader. Had she done that? Had she created noble works or something beautiful that would change a reader’s life? No. She saw her books and saw them for what they were: low, stupid, teenage trash. They were the sort of books Amanda Branchflower would have read during the ninth grade. They were silly and shallow. Like my life, Lizzie thought dismally. Her whole life seemed to be slipping away from her without ever really meaning anything. She suddenly remembered what she had set out to do: make a difference. Improve the world and change the lives of the people around her. She hadn’t done any of it. If anything she’d made her own life and their lives worse with those silly, popular books. Feeling empty and frustrated beyond anything she’d ever known, Lizzie stood and took each book from its prized position on her shelves and tumbled them away into a drawer.

“There. It ends now.” She shrugged, reasoning with herself. “I’ll change. If I can’t write something that’s actually worth reading, well then I won’t write at all.” She stood and hurried to the front hall, slipping on her overcoat and scarf. She snatched an umbrella and hustled out into the blustery November night. The first of the Christmas lights were going up and the city was gleaming with a magical glow.

....

Your memory is a lipstick stain on a white napkin covered in bleach, like the smiles that win hearts, the smile that won mine. 

And I can't forget. Every time I see that picture on the wall. But it's okay now I guess. Time blurs confusion till confusion runs clear and mascara dolls' eyes are the only thing left.