Don't Tell Me.

Don’t tell me

What to do

Who to be

Who to like

What to say

What not to say

How to act

Where to go

Who I am.

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

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

Heart of Eagles

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

12/12/12 Consider with Care

It’s 12.12.12.

 

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

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


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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Of course not.

 

As for endings, they are often bitter-sweet.

 

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

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


You have only one story.

Consider its content with care.  

Angel Waits

Whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reindeer bids Angel goodnight, and closes his eyes.

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

Who Wrote That?

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

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

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

  You are simply a pair of hands to type.

Writing is the closest I will ever get to magic.

Stars Gleam

Stars gleam

And the Ocean roars

Phantoms call

And the night is long.

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

And the Spirit flies across the face of the world.

All is quiet.

Silent.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

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

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

And the petals of the rose fade and fall.

All is quiet.

Silent.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

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

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

And the stars shine on, their faces winking brightly.

Laughter dies, and

All is quiet.

Silent.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Thinking about Christmas(:

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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