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.