Does anyone else listen to music as they write? Anyone?
I do. I used to never, ever, ever, EVER listen to music when I was writing. Never, with twenty million capital N's. But now?
Yea. Of course I do. And it's amazing. I find myself being able to churn out more words for NaNo each day if I listen to music streaming very loudly into my ears on my iPod. Without music, I used to pause every few minutes and check my word count, stop every so often to think and try to concentrate, stop and just plain dawdle.
But with music? It covers just about every annoying sound that exists so that I can just concentrate and smash out words on my laptop. Just write and write and write and write without caring that my dog is whining for attention or that the vacuum cleaner is running or, hey, is that a tornado outside? (Joking about that last one)
Like, today, I have not only reached the required cumulative and daily word count - I'm above it! That is so exciting because, for the record, I've usually been behind the goal. Plus, I am more than HALFWAY through the 50,000 words! Yay!
But it has to be the right music. Through the past couple of days I have developed my perfect Writing Playlist. It has songs that inspire me to pound everything out:
Playlist.com didn't have a couple of the songs in my playlist (ELT by Wilco, Johhny Johnny by Avalanche, Land of make believe by Buck Fizz, and the version of Sound of Silence by Audiofeels).
PS: Check out my footer navigation buttons (Home, Older Posts, Newer Posts). I just customized them so that they are images instead of just plain old words.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Words
Words. They describe everything. Some things better than others, of course.
I was recently writing an "I Love.." piece for school. My chosen topic was nature.
I wrote of "the soothing whisper of leaves in the wind as I walk my worries away, forgetting everything but the green and the brown and the beautiful wholeness of it all."
I wrote of "digging my hands into deep, rich dirt and letting life sift through my fingers."
I sought, and I found, such beautiful descriptive flowing words to show how glorious nature is. But then came words that stopped flowing and instead crashed into my tongue like a speeding taxi cab inTimes Square . Concrete. Steel. Building.
Industrial words. Fake words, even. Our cities don't flow. Words, at least mine, can't give them much credit. They cease the fluency of my writing and stop it short with ugly, unnatural sounds.
Don't get me wrong. Words like concrete, like steel or building are necessary. In some contexts, with the right writer guiding their existence, they can even be quite incredible, quite beautiful to read. But when compared to words that describe what is, at least to me, true beauty - nature - they shrink. Everything we see today comes from nature, no matter how far removed. Yes, the steel, the concrete, the buildings, they are all made of what we as humans found useful in nature. We extracted what we needed, even today.
This has been a nice rant. :)
If you'd like me to, I will post my "I Love" paragraph on this lovely little blog here. Based on the quotes above, would you like me to?
I was recently writing an "I Love.." piece for school. My chosen topic was nature.
I wrote of "the soothing whisper of leaves in the wind as I walk my worries away, forgetting everything but the green and the brown and the beautiful wholeness of it all."
I wrote of "digging my hands into deep, rich dirt and letting life sift through my fingers."
I sought, and I found, such beautiful descriptive flowing words to show how glorious nature is. But then came words that stopped flowing and instead crashed into my tongue like a speeding taxi cab in
Industrial words. Fake words, even. Our cities don't flow. Words, at least mine, can't give them much credit. They cease the fluency of my writing and stop it short with ugly, unnatural sounds.
Don't get me wrong. Words like concrete, like steel or building are necessary. In some contexts, with the right writer guiding their existence, they can even be quite incredible, quite beautiful to read. But when compared to words that describe what is, at least to me, true beauty - nature - they shrink. Everything we see today comes from nature, no matter how far removed. Yes, the steel, the concrete, the buildings, they are all made of what we as humans found useful in nature. We extracted what we needed, even today.
This has been a nice rant. :)
If you'd like me to, I will post my "I Love" paragraph on this lovely little blog here. Based on the quotes above, would you like me to?
Friday, September 24, 2010
Horror
Who doesn't love a good horror film? Even to those who, like me, half-cover their eyes at all the good parts and must possess a remote with a 'mute' button in order to go anywhere near a scary movie, horrors are appealing.
To put it simply, they are different. They make you think and simultaneously freeze up your thoughts so that only a pounding brain and a pounding heart remains. They scare you out of your wits and make your stomach fly.
Because the good horrors are the ones so realistic you turn to your friend half-expecting her to lunge hungrily at your throat and strangle you until your limbs hang limply from your sides. That make looking into the mirror give you shivers, or that turn a simple object into something deadly and powerful and utterly frightening. Those are the best kinds of horror movies. Sure, otherwordly monsters are freaky too, but only for the moment. The realistic films attack your psyche and drill into your brain to plant seedlings of terror.
I must admit I'm a novice when it comes horror films- having only watched several, courtesy of my best friend Mimi- but, despite needing to cover my eyes (albeit covering them with hands whose fingers are wide enough apart to allow me to peek through) and despite muting all the good parts, I just truly enjoy being thrilled beyond words at something so realistic yet so out of this world that it just leaves me trembling. I've liked writing short scary stories for years (though none of them were much of anything good), but I have never yet tried anything like this. No, it's not a novel- eventually, I'd love to write a horror novel, but this isn't it.
(Have you guessed it yet?)
It's a horror film.
A short horror flick, to be exact. Mimi and I are working together on it- several flicks, actually, but I have one that is a favorite. I hope that we'll be able to complete it by late December/early 2011. Write the screenplay, script, etc, by mid-October, film by the end of November, assemble by the beginning of 2011.
I'm not going to share the exact plot at the moment (we don't have a final plot seeing as we have several possible plots all based around the same idea) but I will tell you this:
-My favorite plot idea is a pretty realistic one- nothing about demons or ghosts or vampires.
-It involves the woods, murder, and two friends.
-With the agreement of Mimi, it may be posted online for you to see.
When we finalize the plot I may share it with you to get some feedback, and I'll update you all when we get underway. Any tips would be greatly appreciated!
(and sorry for the utter lack of photography these days. A post with photos coming soon, I promise!)
To put it simply, they are different. They make you think and simultaneously freeze up your thoughts so that only a pounding brain and a pounding heart remains. They scare you out of your wits and make your stomach fly.
Because the good horrors are the ones so realistic you turn to your friend half-expecting her to lunge hungrily at your throat and strangle you until your limbs hang limply from your sides. That make looking into the mirror give you shivers, or that turn a simple object into something deadly and powerful and utterly frightening. Those are the best kinds of horror movies. Sure, otherwordly monsters are freaky too, but only for the moment. The realistic films attack your psyche and drill into your brain to plant seedlings of terror.
I must admit I'm a novice when it comes horror films- having only watched several, courtesy of my best friend Mimi- but, despite needing to cover my eyes (albeit covering them with hands whose fingers are wide enough apart to allow me to peek through) and despite muting all the good parts, I just truly enjoy being thrilled beyond words at something so realistic yet so out of this world that it just leaves me trembling. I've liked writing short scary stories for years (though none of them were much of anything good), but I have never yet tried anything like this. No, it's not a novel- eventually, I'd love to write a horror novel, but this isn't it.
(Have you guessed it yet?)
It's a horror film.
A short horror flick, to be exact. Mimi and I are working together on it- several flicks, actually, but I have one that is a favorite. I hope that we'll be able to complete it by late December/early 2011. Write the screenplay, script, etc, by mid-October, film by the end of November, assemble by the beginning of 2011.
I'm not going to share the exact plot at the moment (we don't have a final plot seeing as we have several possible plots all based around the same idea) but I will tell you this:
-My favorite plot idea is a pretty realistic one- nothing about demons or ghosts or vampires.
-It involves the woods, murder, and two friends.
-With the agreement of Mimi, it may be posted online for you to see.
When we finalize the plot I may share it with you to get some feedback, and I'll update you all when we get underway. Any tips would be greatly appreciated!
(and sorry for the utter lack of photography these days. A post with photos coming soon, I promise!)
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
My novel
I have started writing again. Does anyone recall a novel-in-progress I dubbed "Twenty Four?" I have decided to rewrite it- it is only four chapters, fyi. I am reading over it while I write this post and it isn't too bad. Some places would need some touching up to make them better, but I'm restarting. I just have to rephrase it, in a way, for my rewrite, and change a few (major) details. If anyone wants to read a part of my story- the original or the rewrite once I get it underway- please let me know and I'll gladly post it. I'm currently 607 words into the rewrite, while there are...over 4,300 words in the original so far.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Just the beginning of a story I began but never finished yet
In the beginning there was light, and a gentle voice. There was whiteness and blackness and every hue of the rainbow, and yet no color at all. There were soft, simple sounds and harsh creaks and then it was all blended together into noise that just was. Nothing more. It was there, and everywhere, with the color and the absence of color. Somehow there was silence, a sort of buzzing, humming silence, then the real kind that made every movement vibrate the still air. Somehow I could not hear the voice; it only vibrated in a dull blur of pleasantly indistinguishable sound. If any words were spoken, none were perceived. They, along with the color and the smell of lilies and roses that both was and wasn’t at the same time, only blurred together in something that was both good and bad; both pleasant and impossible to bear. Somehow it was there, then somehow it was gone, and when I woke again, if it was an awakening, there was nothing. Not even blackness- just an infinite expanse of an empty mind full with invisible thoughts, if any at all. Just silence- true, wondrous, sumptuous silence that can be enjoyed only at first; only in the few minutes before it turns into tedium. Endless delirium. Being there and yet floating in nothingness. Perceiving what was not there, what never was or had been there, here, or anywhere. Just, simply, an empty mind incapable of thought or feeling or movement or wanting. Incapable of every possibility a mind, human or other, can come up with.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
How does this idea sound?
I had an idea for yet ANOTHER novel.... please tell me how it sounds.
I'm not sure about the specifics, but here I go:
Jane has always wanted to be a criminal {OR Jane, an aspiring criminal mastermind}, teams up with Adam, a handsome boy in her class in a criminal twosome {does that make sense? I'm not sure how to put it that they are criminals together} that terrorizes stores all over Chicago. Then the unthinkable occurs and the two friends(who are beginning to fall in love) are forced to use their collected powers for good instead of evil to save their city from a danger unknown to everyone else.
I don't know what the unthinkable is, or anything other than the first chapter. I am thinking about starting a blog to post some of it? I'm not sure yet....
Please tell me how this sounds. =P
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Here is the first, very BAD, unedited draft of my Young Authors
In the west, the sun was rising. And with it rose the Mirror Watchers. Among them was Tavi- a novice Watcher at only thirteen years old.
Tavi had always been special. When she was born without a birthmark on the sole of her left foot, the birthmark that marked her as a Mirror Watcher, the news quickly spread throughout the parallel world she called home. She quickly grew famed at the age of five, when she cracked her own mirror. The world waited with baited breath, for if a Watcher’s mirror breaks he is forever lost from the realm. Where a soul finds itself afterwards was any Watcher’s guess. Thankfully, the crack was quickly and skillfully repaired by the most respected Elder in Tavi’s town- the revered Lionel Belinov. Then, at age eleven, Tavi ran away for three days and three nights, leaving her mirror unattended and forgotten. Much to Belinov’s frustration, at least thirty other Mirror Watchers neglected their reflection duties to search for the missing Tavi. This, of course, left their charges reflection-less and increasingly suspicious about why any mirror they happened to look into was empty. Since then, Tavi had not tried to cause any problems- yet they kept happening.
This morning, Tavi got ready as usual. Her mother quickly lectured her to obey the Elders’ rules and to be extremely careful near her mirror. With brown hair and eyes, the woman looked nothing like Tavi.
“Your father has already broken his mirror and been lost for eternity,” Alana repeated as usual. “You are all I have left, Tavi, you must never leave.”
Tavi promised, like she did each morning, not to leave her mirror or crack it or cause any other trouble, and left to go to her watching room. She positioned herself before her mirror with its large, gleaming golden frame edged in pale sapphires and the darkest of rubies. Still visible after all those years was the faint crack forming a half-moon- the shape of a regular Watcher’s birthmark- in the top left corner. A thin line of dried herb paste was oozing out of the crack- Belinov’s handiwork was still holding. Then Tavi’s charge appeared- a regular human from the regular world, Tavi thought enviously. Sporting a pale blue blouse, this girl was like the mirror image of Tavi. Her hair, parted on the left, was the opposite of Tavi’s- parted on the right. She smiled widely to herself, admiring her fine hazel eyes and dark, lush eyelashes, and began to brush her straight, black hair. Tavi lifted her lips into a lifeless grin and did the same. The girl, who, the same as every charge bore the name of her reflection, brushed her teeth. She preferred to be called by her nickname, Belle, rather than the moniker she thought of as lame and boyish. For this reason, and for numerous, uncountable others, Tavi hated her. It didn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone- for who would love the person to whom they are only mere reflections- but the Elders sternly corrected her whenever she mentioned her dislike. Hating your own charge, they reasoned, was equivalent to hating yourself, because every Watcher is the essence of their charge. Alone, a Watcher is no one, a meaningless wisp of clouds, an invisible soul without a reason to exist, the Elders would repeat to her as she scowled defiantly. Tavi did not take them seriously, for she hated the Elders nearly as much as she hated Belle. But she had learned long ago that resisting the Elders would only mean more trouble, so she calmly pretended to listen and agree. Tavi had resolved never to mention her hatred to anyone again after she had repeatedly been slapped and told the same lecture.
Now Tavi glared at Belle defiantly, daring not to mimic her charge’s expression. It took Belle a few moments to notice that her reflection bore a hardened, hostile face. She only laughed, marveling at how good of an actress she must be, before grinning widely again. Tavi, however, kept her cynical, defiant stare as she shot the darkest looks she could manage at Belle. Perspiration dotted her brow, and she snarled with rage. Her cheeks burned a bright crimson. She was tired of only reflecting this being that could freely do whatever she wished!
Belle became conscious of the wicked expression her reflection was wearing. Her face became a mask of confusion and, horribly hidden beneath, fear. She was an ignorant human who did not know of the parallel world and her true reflection, of the being that waited on her night and day. Just as Tavi began to growl and lunged at her mirror, mounted on a fragile wall, Belle leaped away and screamed. Now she was invisible to Tavi, who couldn’t be more relieved that her charge was gone. Tavi even allowed herself a smug smile. The grin may have faded, but she remained smug as she sat before her mirror, confident that Belle would not dare to show herself again that day. Tavi did not notice the blond head of a messenger duck out of her room. He headed straight for the courtroom where the Elders resided.
News traveled quickly, especially when it regarded Tavi. Within three hours, another breathless messenger arrived next to Tavi.
“The Council of Elders wishes to meet with you,” he wheezed. “At once.”
Tavi sucked in her arrogant expression and rose to follow the man. She wasn’t worried- the Elders punished her the same way each time she broke a sacred rule.
It took only minutes before she arrived at the all too familiar courtroom of the Council of Elders. A long wooden table glazed to a shiny finish gleamed upon a raised platform. Nineteen Elders dressed in grey sat in matching chairs around the table, with Lionel Belinov in a navy blue suit seated at the head. The discussing officials did not notice Tavi enter the room with the messenger, who was so out of breath that he neglected the bugle call that announced the arrival of a rule breaker. Standing next to the platform, her head barely reaching a third of the way to the top of it, Tavi let out an annoyed sigh.
“We should shatter her mirror,” piped a high, excited voice- the newly appointed Nineteenth Elder, Tavi recalled.
The Eighteenth Elder, seated next to him, whispered gruffly back. “Are you crazy? This is all because of that father of hers- first breaking the rules, and then shattering the mirror himself.” The man wasn’t aware that he was speaking loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear.
Finally, the messenger pulled out his trumpet and gave one long blow. The room quieted and Belinov called to Tavi to climb onto the seat that was used to house the rule breaker. She reluctantly obeyed and made her way up the stone stairs. Her eyes gleamed defiantly and smiled confidently to the Elders.
One of the Elders piped up. “What did she do now?” He asked, shuffling through the pile of papers passed his way.
“Yes,” Belinov said. “Yes. Tavi Allendorf, I think you should tell us. What is it you did now?”
Tavi maintained her confident expression as she turned calmly to face Belinov. “I broke the most important rule, as you call it.” She spoke as though the fact that she had gone where no Mirror Watcher had gone in the past century- breaking the sacred rule of always mimicking their charge- did not bother her in the slightest. In truth, it bothered her a bit more than she cared to show. She knew that her offense could mean the worst penalty an Elder could resort to- the shattering of her mirror, the end of her existence as a Mirror Watcher.
Belinov loved torturing Tavi. “And how, exactly,” As he cleared his throat, Tavi saw clearly the amused expression on his face. “How did you do that?”
With a teasing smile on his face he turned to each of the Elders in turn. “I’m sure all of us need reminding. What, my dear Tavi, is the single most important rule which all Mirror Watchers must follow? And will risk the end of their existence if they break it?” By the end of his short speech Belinov’s voice had turned hostile. He glared angrily at Tavi, who did not appear to care in the slightest.
“Well,” she paused. “I did a lot of things wrong since you last forced me to go here. Where should I start?” She turned smartly to Belinov.
“How about you start with today?” he snarled. No chief Elder had needed to shatter a mirror in ages- Belinov did not want to be the first.
“I- I didn’t do the same thing as Belle,” she whispered. “I didn’t…”
“Exactly.” Belinov turned to the nineteen Elders staring open-mouthed at each other. “Now what do you suggest we do to punish this young lady?”
Each Elder spent a great deal of time in silence, thinking of suitable punishments. They considered breaking Tavi’s mirror. This idea was quickly cast out by a frowning Lionel Belinov, who reminded everyone that no matter how large her offenses were Tavi Allendorf was merely thirteen years old. So in turn, every Elder mentioned his idea for a penalty. Most were, like the first, abandoned.
In the end, Belinov called to the messenger to bring the code of laws. Hidden in the chief Elder’s study, it had not been needed for the past three centuries. There had never been any need for it- no crime was so offensive that it required consulting ancient rules for the direst consequences. Naturally, it took a great deal of time for the skinny man- only a boy, really, Tavi realized- to lug the enormous book through the halls and into the courtroom. Tavi could not restrain the quiet gasp that escaped her just then. She had not thought that what she did was so horrible. At the little sound, every head in the room turned. Tavi did not look quite as brave anymore. On the contrary, she appeared sick. It did not take long for her to change her expression to a blank stare. She mustn’t appear weak before the Elders, she thought.
The book of laws was placed before Belinov and he gingerly, almost hesitantly reached out to open it. First, a thud echoed through the room- the thick cover of the book had been opened. Next, a gentle rustling of papers ensued as Belinov carefully turned each page and skimmed it for any information regarding Tavi’s crime. Silence reigned in the courtroom. Soon a pattern of sounds began to form: the papers rustling as the chief Elder searched, an occasional grunt from another Elder. The soft pitter-patter of feet upon the floor as the messenger left the room, headed to his own mirror. The whine of the door as secretaries and other messengers began to file in for the final court ruling. Tavi, tapping her feet ever so gently. The ticking of a clock hung above the Elder’s table.
The Nineteen Elders, Tavi and the entire audience began to relax. A sudden, violent thud woke them from their dreamy state. Belinov had slammed the code of laws closed in a sudden burst of frustration, and Tavi’s head snapped towards the audience- and her mother, who was wearing a pained expression.
“The book is too large to find an answer so quickly. Let us keep her under watch until we find a better solution,” Lionel Belinov cried. With that, he dismissed the audience, Tavi and the rest of the Elders.
Two of them accompanied Tavi on her way home, and they did not leave her side for two full days. Her mother was only allowed to give her occasional smiles and looks of disapproval when she passed Tavi’s watching room. No one was allowed to speak to her. A messenger brought them the latest rulings and ideas of the chief Elder periodically. Finally, they were summoned again to the court. Tavi was instructed to stay behind until she was sent for. She could not have been happier to oblige and waited eagerly until she was alone before her mirror. Reveling in the moments of solitude, she did not notice the messenger, dressed in a bright red suit, enter her room. His sharp burst of words startled her.
“You are summoned by the chief Elder, and must report to the courtroom at once.”
The messenger was a boy barely older than Tavi with shaggy blond hair and a lost expression. As he reached to help her out of her chair, his leg entangled with the chair’s and he fell forward onto Tavi, who crashed into the mirror. A terrified scream pierced the air, followed by the furious footsteps of Tavi’s mother. The horrified messenger only glimpsed the shattered shards of Tavi’s mirror before the girl disappeared into thin air.
The first thing Tavi noticed was how she seemed to float above the ethereal darkness speckled with white stars. It spread out all around her, and a fierce light shone from one side. From another, a red orb, and just visible on the other was a floating blue circle. Blue…. Tavi fought to float towards the blue globe far off in the distance, but some unseen force pushed her back to the red light. She screamed, but the sound was lost in the blackness. A vibrating wave of sound hit her and Tavi felt herself blasting forwards, towards the wondrous blue. As she came closer, some specks of green and brown became visible. Then the darkness consumed her, and even the blue light disappeared.
At first, Tavi wasn’t surprised. In fact, she felt rather relieved. She found herself on firm, sturdy soil, and before her, in the distance, was the town she had lived in all her life. The trees, the houses, even the courtroom roof rising up into the air- it all beckoned Tavi forth.
But as she came closer to the familiar town, Tavi sensed something was wrong. She couldn’t read the odd sign as the very outskirts. It looked identical to the one she knew so well, but the words were undecipherable. The streets seemed unusually crowded. Then Tavi noticed why. The sidewalks were crammed with more people than she had ever seemed in one place, and large metal vehicles with four wheels roared so loudly that Tavi wondered if she had gone deaf.
Nearly all of the people passing her bore unfamiliar faces. Some nodded her way and greeted her before quickly continuing to their destinations. The few that Tavi did recognize stared at her blankly when she approached and asked the way to her home. They shook their head and said that they were sorry, but they did not know her. And they went on their way. Tavi identified Belinov and numerous messengers. She was so desperate in her search that she turned to approach the Elder. She stopped in her tracks when she saw what Belinov was wearing. The trademark navy blue suit worn by all chief Elders was gone. In its place were unfamiliar fabrics: stiff blue pants, a thin, loose shirt that appeared at least two sizes too big for him, and unnatural shoes with shockingly white laces. Such attire was never seen or used in the land of reflections where Tavi was from. Even the messengers wore unusual clothes nothing like their uniforms. With a churning feeling in her gut, Tavi forced herself to realize that she was not in Mire anymore. But where was she?
At least one thing was familiar- wooden benches painted black were visible on each street. Tavi dropped down onto one in despair. Everything appeared to be the same as it was at home- but then it was nearly the opposite: hundreds of people, grinding metal cars, signs written backwards. Roaring, a thunderous metal beast nearly three times the size of the others crashed past Tavi. It screeched to a violent stop a few yards away- and out stepped someone who Tavi thought she would never see again.
A tall, dark-haired man with olive skin that even from a distance appeared handsome emerged from the beast in strikingly familiar clothes- a two piece, red suit, like that which each messenger wore. His quick, singular gait made Tavi certain that this was who she thought it was. She sprinted towards the disappearing figure.
“Father!” she yelled, her voice barely noticeable above the din of the city. “Pieter! Pieter!” The rest seemed to happen in slow motion. The city sounds became a quiet blur, and Tavi’s long-lost father turned around to see a girl running to him. Her features were nearly undistinguishable, but he immediately recognized Tavi- his daughter.
“Tavi!” he cried, and ignoring the rest of the world, first walked and then ran to greet his daughter. Tears of joy sprung from his eyes as he finally reached her. “Tavi,” he repeated softly, embracing her tightly and hoping to never let go. It was Tavi who finally stepped away.
“Tavi,” Pieter whispered. “Why are you here? What happened?”
“They broke my mirror, I mean, I did, on accident,” Tavi said.
“How is your mother?” There was a pained, hopeful look in Pieter’s eyes.
“She is still in Mire. Ever since you left, she has been different. And now…” Tavi looked at her father hopelessly. “Where are we?”
Pieter suppressed a grim smile and said, “Tavi, we are no longer in Mire. We are on the Earth- the land of our charges.”
Tavi’s jaw dropped. Her racing thoughts settled on one question. “Is there a way to come home, to Mire?”
Pieter shook his head solemnly. “I have tried, Tavi. I wanted to go back for you, and for your mother.”
“Then there is no way? We are stuck here forever?”
“There may be a way to return to Mire. A fountain is found at the corner of the Calathean Forest. In its depths is a door to Mire, but we will have only four hours before we will be transported back to Earth.”
“A fountain? But will Mother be able to return with us?” Tavi asked.
“Yes. It is the only way. Do you remember, after your mirror was shattered, the red and blue lights? The blue is Earth. The red is where nearly all of the reflections go when their time is up. Only a certain few have the power to resist the pull of the red light, and I fear taking a chance to see if your mother is one of them.”
Tavi nodded, and Pieter turned to speak to her again. “I do not know where the forest is, or in which corner the fountain will be. But I have found a book that may hold the answers.”
The book was an immense and heavy volume. Unlike the writing used on the strange Earth, its words were written in the tongue each resident of Mire knew. Tavi did not ask where her father had gotten the book. She simply rejoiced in his company and him. The fateful moment four years ago, when her father had shattered his mirror in a fit of anger, no longer ran through her mind as constantly as it once had. Together, Tavi and her father studied the book for desperate hours. Hours that turned into days, then weeks. Tavi stole what necessities she and her father needed to survive. The vendors on the streets, people in stores- nearly everyone made a good target. The very first time she had stolen, she had waited until the street vendor was engaged in a conversation with a customer. Then she had rushed in and grabbed whatever was in reach, and sprinted away. Shouts and thumping feet followed her as she ducked into the alley that led to her home. Pieter was waiting for her in an abandoned tenement building on the west side of the town. Visible from one of its smashed windows was a spreading, never-ending forest on the outskirts of the town.
As Pieter read, Tavi waited. She stared out of the window and into the depths of the forest. She saw the horizon, a line of trees rising into the distance before her. Beyond even those were three mountains. Two on either side formed a ravine, the one between them, a beak holding an olive branch. Tavi thought of a bird flying through the deadly ravine to save its family in some distant land. The bird reminded her of herself, trying to return to Mire to save her mother.
In Mire, she would have given anything for such idle days free of being a Mirror Watcher. On Earth, Tavi longed for anything to happen.
It was three weeks before Pieter found the Calathean forest mentioned in his book. One sentence spoke of three mountains and a dove in the midst of trees. The next instructed to turn to the rising sun to find the fountain.
For the first time since Tavi’s arrival, Pieter set down his book. Staring out the window with Tavi, he noticed the distant mountains as if for the first time. He turned to face Tavi.
“A dove,” he murmured. “Three mountains…. Trees.” Then Pieter’s head snapped up to look at the mountains. The beak with an olive branch was a dove!
“Tavi!” Pieter said. “I know where the forest we are looking for can be found. It was right here before us the whole time.” And he gestured out the window.
Carrying the few belongings they had on their backs, Tavi and her father walked to the edge of the vast forest. The leaves high above their heads shone a light green in the sun, and the road underfoot crunched as they walked. The inside of the forest was shielded from view by the growth and the impenetrable darkness.
Tavi had stolen a compass from the store, and pulled it out. She pointed her father due east, and followed him into the gloom, listening to the crunch of stones beneath their feet turn into the soft whisper of leaves. Pieter had scavenged a flashlight and a pair of batteries, and the dim beam lit their way. Due east took them straight along the edge of the forest that bordered the city. The corner was not far away at all, and both Tavi and Pieter marveled at the simplicity of their task. Their voices seemed like a whispering wind squeezing through the forest’s dense undergrowth. It calmed them and kept each other sane in the silence of the woods.
For a while, they walked in silence. Tavi observed Pieter. He had changed since he had disappeared from Mire. Faint wrinkles were visible on his forehead, and his eyes shone of a weariness that hadn’t been there in Mire.
The east corner of the forest was so near that Tavi and Pieter reached it before nightfall. The last, dim light did not reveal any fountain to their eyes. Tavi’s bleary ones only saw a blur of green and brown and black. Even Pieter’s observant, sharp eyes saw nothing but a forest. In an unspoken agreement, Tavi turned south and Pieter began to search towards the south-west. Tavi propped up the flashlight and turned it on. The beam shone straight up and would help guide them back to their camp.
When the first beams of sunlight shone through the canopy of leaves above, they illuminated two slumped figures on the forest floor. One was gently snoring, the other tossed every so often. Two bags lay next to them.
The morning chatter of the birds awoke Tavi first. She opened her eyes blearily and turned to see Pieter next to her. She gently nudged him until his eyes fluttered open.
“The fountain,” he whispered as he sat up. “It wasn’t there. I was wrong.”
“But the sun does rise in the east,” Tavi reminded him. “Doesn’t it?”
As if in revelation, Pieter shot up. Tavi rose to her feet more slowly.
“The book is not written for the people who live on Earth. It is written for us, the Mirror Watchers. The people of Mire. And there, the sun rises in the west, not the east.”
“How far away is the west corner?” she asked.
“It must be far away. We must hurry.” Pieter stood up and walked towards the heap of bags. He grabbed his and slung it carefully over his shoulder. He took a step, and ignoring a loud cracking, took another. Then the ground seemed to swallow him up.
Tavi rushed to the edge of the gaping hole. Barely visible down below was a fountain, and in it was Pieter. She sat down at the edge of the opening and eased herself in. Pieter moved below her and called out. Tavi loosened her hold on the dirt, and let herself drop. She landed securely in Pieter’s arms.
“The water is shallow here, but it is deep near the center. Hold onto me,” Pieter said. With that he lowered Tavi to the ground, grabbed her arm and walked into the deeper water. Skillfully he swam down to the floor of the fountain. A metal handle glistened to one side, and he reached for it. Tavi put her free hand onto the handle with her father’s, and together they pulled. It had not been opened for years, but the door finally gave in and opened. Some strange current seemed to pull Tavi and Pieter through the opening.
Once again, there was the floating and the darkness, and the three strange lights. And this time, Tavi drifted home, to Mire, to the bright, white light. Her father still gripped her arm, and together they waited for the moment of complete blackness. It didn’t come. Instead a wave was pulling them back to the red light, the Underworld of Mirror Watchers. They shot backwards until darkness overcame them. Both shared the same last thought before the blackness: they were heading not to Mire, but to the land of the dead.
It didn’t seem like they were in the land of the dead when Tavi and Pieter woke up. They were on the edge of their town, with a sign that they could read. Somehow, both dreaded the moment they entered the town. A strange air hung over the area; an air of doom and emptiness. Although neither Tavi nor Pieter wanted to admit it, both feared that Alana would not be waiting for them.
The road had never seemed so long and foreboding. Every footstep echoed loudly, and a high wind blew the dust into the air. Pieter shifted the bag on his back and reached for Tavi’s hand. She took large, striding steps to keep up with Pieter’s.
The street sign at the corner of their block was surprisingly familiar. The street, however, appeared empty of all life. Not a single Watcher, messenger, Elder or animal appeared. Each house was dark and the shades were drawn. Only one home had a light in its window. Visible through the glass was a silhouette of a crying woman.
It was that in that house that Tavi had been hoping to find life. That house was her house. Together, she and Pieter ran up the sidewalk to the door. Already the woman in the window had risen.
The door opened quietly. Then a quick cry of joy echoed down the street, and Tavi’s mother rushed out to greet her daughter and husband. An expression of shock and joy was frozen on her face, and her feet moved quicker and quicker. Pieter and Alana reached each other first. As Pieter held his wife tightly, she whispered to him, her head resting on his shoulder.
“Oh, Pieter, how did you come back?” Tears dripped down her face. Pieter raised a finger to her lips as Tavi ran up to them and grabbed her mother’s hand.
“Shh, we must leave Mire,” he said. “We have only a few minutes left.”
With that, darkness enveloped the family, and they began to drift towards the blue light.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I would love any feedback if you have time to give some. It is dure on Friday! eek.
I am very aware that the ending is HORRIBLE.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Twenty Four: Prologue
The countdown has begun. Twenty four hours till the end of the world. In less than a day the earth would be annihilated. And only Jay knows about it. Seconds are ticking. Time is flying. The madness must be stopped.
Jay LeBord had stumbled upon a secret meeting of the elite planners. A secret society that only a chosen few knew existed. Jay had hid, unnoticed, in the shadows of the middle school attic. He hadn’t really cared about the men he saw gathered before him. He hadn’t understood the true meaning of the congregation. At least, not until two words had caught his attention. Two nearly silent, deadly words. Mass murder. Three equally lethal words followed. Destroy the earth. The rest was clear in his mind. How the gray-haired man with a hunched back and blue eyes had stood up and explained the plan, step-by-step. How the group had burned stacks of diagrams and maps. How, after the others had disassembled and filed out one by one, disguised as teachers, the leader had stayed back. How the sinister man had nearly discovered Jay hiding in a shadowy corner of discarded chalkboards and computers.
Yes, he remembered that evening clearly. He knew that in a matter of seconds, a set of highly destructive nuclear and atomic missiles would be released from their age-old lairs and launched into space. Even the president was too lowly to control these missiles, these toys of destruction. A single one could obliterate half of the Northern Hemisphere. When twenty four were in play, the consequences were much more fatal.
Only one person had the power to launch these murder weapons. For decades, as the man in power had changed, the missiles had stayed safely hidden and unused. A single, insane person now rules the elite group. And a single person is all it takes to destruction.
Jay LeBord had stumbled upon a secret meeting of the elite planners. A secret society that only a chosen few knew existed. Jay had hid, unnoticed, in the shadows of the middle school attic. He hadn’t really cared about the men he saw gathered before him. He hadn’t understood the true meaning of the congregation. At least, not until two words had caught his attention. Two nearly silent, deadly words. Mass murder. Three equally lethal words followed. Destroy the earth. The rest was clear in his mind. How the gray-haired man with a hunched back and blue eyes had stood up and explained the plan, step-by-step. How the group had burned stacks of diagrams and maps. How, after the others had disassembled and filed out one by one, disguised as teachers, the leader had stayed back. How the sinister man had nearly discovered Jay hiding in a shadowy corner of discarded chalkboards and computers.
Yes, he remembered that evening clearly. He knew that in a matter of seconds, a set of highly destructive nuclear and atomic missiles would be released from their age-old lairs and launched into space. Even the president was too lowly to control these missiles, these toys of destruction. A single one could obliterate half of the Northern Hemisphere. When twenty four were in play, the consequences were much more fatal.
Only one person had the power to launch these murder weapons. For decades, as the man in power had changed, the missiles had stayed safely hidden and unused. A single, insane person now rules the elite group. And a single person is all it takes to destruction.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Twenty Four
Twenty Four is a novel I am currently working on. That may or may not be the final title, but at the moment it seems like a good fit.
Synopsis: Jay LeBord has stumbled upon a secret meeting of elite planners, who plot to annihilate the world. They launch highly secretive missiles that will make contact in twenty four hours. And Jay is the only outsider who knows of this plan. Now Jay must track down the insane planner of the attack and find a way to stop the missiles headed towards the earth before it’s too late. Seconds are ticking. Time is flying. The madness must be stopped.
As you may remember it was on that list of 5 novel ideas that I asked about. Mostly everone liked it and its one of my favorites so its my top priority, followed by the ancient monster thing. If you want to see that post again, it can be found here.
Later on I will post the prologue of the story, so far I'm liking it. I have an idea to alternate chapters between Jay's point of view and the bad guy's, but it is in third person. How does that sound? I'm not sure whether it will work out for me or for the story yet, I'm on the first chapter only.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Silver Knife
The girl emerged from the store at three o’clock in the afternoon. Making her way across the emptied parking lot to her car, she unlocked the door and stepped in. When she was buckled herself into the driver’s seat she looked up- and saw a man in the car next to hers staring at her intently. With piercing, emerald green eyes and an untidy mop of lively brown hair the man’s gaze never wavered. She smiled broadly at him, waving a hello. He grinned evilly back, pulled out a knife and began to smooth it against his skin, caressing his face, all the while looking absorbedly at the girl, his eyes following her every move. He continued to stroke his face with his knife. With a cry the girl turned away and started her motor. She heard a loud rumble. The man had started his car too. Shrieking once she pulled away and sped off, only to be followed by the man. In his black sedan he was catching up to her old car fast. Glancing in the rearview mirror she saw him, leaning forward, staring at her car. Pulling out her cell phone, the girl dialed nine-one-one, only to realize that her phone didn’t work. She began to sob wildly, throwing glances behind her, her screams bouncing against the windshield and echoing back to her frightened figure. The man was coming closer and closer, knife in hand, staring at her flustered, terrified face in glee.
Shrieking, she swerved her car away as the man pulled up alongside her. He opened his window, and she could hear maniacal laughter. Glancing violently around her car, the girl could not spot a single person other than the lunatic following her. Her face was slick with tears as she stepped on the gas. Her tank was almost empty. She had to turn back to town; maybe someone would notice her.
Her tires screeching, the girl made an abrupt about face and slammed head first into the man’s shiny black sedan. Putting her car in reverse she zoomed backwards. Her head spinning, the girl crashed into a huge oak tree that broke where she hit it. It fell, slamming down onto her car and crushing it. With a scream she squeezed out of her broken window and ran for her life. She sped into the forest, hoping to lose the kleptomaniac pursuing her. Somehow the man managed to see her in the dim light of the forest. She barely heard his footsteps behind her before she felt an arm around her neck, stopping her short. The same laughter that she had heard earlier now reached her worn, bleeding ears. The man held his knife up to her face, a violently gleeful smile on his face as he brought it closer and closer.
Screaming bloody murder, the girl fought the man. Slamming her fist into his face, she managed to break free. She began to run again, ignoring the pain in her head, ignoring the pain in her side, ignoring the pain she felt in every inch of her tired, hurt body. She tried not to pay attention to the thudding footsteps behind her, or the blood pouring down her face, into her mouth, leaving a crimson trail for the man to follow. Mustering one final scream the girl pushed a branch out of her way. It smacked the man in the face, breaking his nose, giving the girl an extra second. His nose spewing blood, he got up and kept running after her wounded figure.
As she slipped through two trees the girl heard a scream of pure terror bouncing through the forest. Turning around for a brief second she glimpsed the man, wrapped in a ghostly net which no human knife can cut. He was thrashing madly, yelling until silver tendrils wrapped themselves around his tongue, his bloody mouth, silencing him forever. The girl knew she was safe, safe from this mad lunatic… until the same net was hurled onto her body, wrapping tighter and tighter. She screamed, struggling, but the net held her tight. A ghostly man appeared, hovering a foot above her mangled body. Crying, she shrieked a plea to the spirit, who laughed the same evil laugh as the man with the knife. Holding up a glinting silver weapon, the ghost pushed it against her face. She began to bleed even more, her whole figure now a deep, dirty crimson. She kept struggling, the net that bound her cutting her even more. Then she lay still, emitting her final breath. A pale silver mist rose from her bloodred mouth, a mist that materialized into the figure of a woman, beautiful and whole once more.
Including but not limited to
scary story draft,
the silver knife,
writing
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Sun Never Settles
raconteur (n.) a person who exceeds in telling anecdotes
The raconteur was an elderly man who lived in a ramshackle cottage with a crooked fence and a giant elm towering overhead. A scruffy, limping mutt and three bony hens called the overgrown yard attached to the house home. That could also be said for the man, whose graying, silver hair and beard was hard to spot amidst the long forgotten hedges and roses. Only his piercing, kindly blue eyes- miraculously bright and eager for a man of his age- set him apart from the world of green surrounding him.
In a crumbling barn set off in the distance, a rusted bridle was hung on a metal hook, long grimy and dusted with mist, sorrow, and lore from the ages. Its well-worn leather blended into the ancient wood of the walls. All that set it apart was an infrequent glimmer of light and of hope, before the rising sun escaped into the shadows. The birds looked upon the barn with hope, wondering when its unsightly figure on the horizon would crumble into absolute nothingness.
The man would sit on a creaking bench, nearly as old as the man himself, amidst a tangle of rose petals and blueberry bushes. Stepping stones that spread across the garden were barely visible beneath the messy gnarled vines that snaked through the garden, then coiled onto the cottage, holding its weakened walls upright. To even the casual passersby, it seemed obvious that without the endless support of the weed, the slight building would have been lost to the elements long decades ago.
This raconteur would never have a care in the world. He would sit, solemn and lonely, in complete solitude, and tell stories to the earth, to the wind, the stars and the soaring birds. His wise words would carry through the rushing air, till they reached the spiral of ideas that falls upon each of us. Some would carry even farther, dreams in the night sky, and whisper themselves to the sun and the moon. And all the while the man would sit, quietly, and speak with the wisdom of the ages, of those who had gone before, of those who cannot bring themselves to tell the world, of those who never had a chance to explain their thought and their actions. He spoke of days gone by, and pondered the reasons for sorrow, for happiness, for guilt and destruction. His wise words would reach the ears of each of us. Whether or not we listen is up to us, yet the man still speaks. The entire world is for us and up to us, he tells us. The sun is our friend, and the moon our teacher, the provider of wisdom. War is the way of the demons, and a simple act of peace can change the earth. Respect the world, the seas, the forests. The sky and the water are one. We are one, and never doubt that you are beloved and sacred to the beings of the world.
His wise words endure for centuries, for millenia, for eons. They spread across oceans and skies, across planets and throughout the universe. The words of the raconteur are sacred truths. Even when he leaves this earth, his words will still echo throughout. And the barn will collapse with a resounding thud, scattering the birds and freeing the few phrases trapped inside.
The raconteur was an elderly man who lived in a ramshackle cottage with a crooked fence and a giant elm towering overhead. A scruffy, limping mutt and three bony hens called the overgrown yard attached to the house home. That could also be said for the man, whose graying, silver hair and beard was hard to spot amidst the long forgotten hedges and roses. Only his piercing, kindly blue eyes- miraculously bright and eager for a man of his age- set him apart from the world of green surrounding him.
In a crumbling barn set off in the distance, a rusted bridle was hung on a metal hook, long grimy and dusted with mist, sorrow, and lore from the ages. Its well-worn leather blended into the ancient wood of the walls. All that set it apart was an infrequent glimmer of light and of hope, before the rising sun escaped into the shadows. The birds looked upon the barn with hope, wondering when its unsightly figure on the horizon would crumble into absolute nothingness.
The man would sit on a creaking bench, nearly as old as the man himself, amidst a tangle of rose petals and blueberry bushes. Stepping stones that spread across the garden were barely visible beneath the messy gnarled vines that snaked through the garden, then coiled onto the cottage, holding its weakened walls upright. To even the casual passersby, it seemed obvious that without the endless support of the weed, the slight building would have been lost to the elements long decades ago.
This raconteur would never have a care in the world. He would sit, solemn and lonely, in complete solitude, and tell stories to the earth, to the wind, the stars and the soaring birds. His wise words would carry through the rushing air, till they reached the spiral of ideas that falls upon each of us. Some would carry even farther, dreams in the night sky, and whisper themselves to the sun and the moon. And all the while the man would sit, quietly, and speak with the wisdom of the ages, of those who had gone before, of those who cannot bring themselves to tell the world, of those who never had a chance to explain their thought and their actions. He spoke of days gone by, and pondered the reasons for sorrow, for happiness, for guilt and destruction. His wise words would reach the ears of each of us. Whether or not we listen is up to us, yet the man still speaks. The entire world is for us and up to us, he tells us. The sun is our friend, and the moon our teacher, the provider of wisdom. War is the way of the demons, and a simple act of peace can change the earth. Respect the world, the seas, the forests. The sky and the water are one. We are one, and never doubt that you are beloved and sacred to the beings of the world.
His wise words endure for centuries, for millenia, for eons. They spread across oceans and skies, across planets and throughout the universe. The words of the raconteur are sacred truths. Even when he leaves this earth, his words will still echo throughout. And the barn will collapse with a resounding thud, scattering the birds and freeing the few phrases trapped inside.
Including but not limited to
musings,
stories,
the raconteur,
the sun never settles,
writing
Monday, October 5, 2009
Today
The nineteenth day of seventh grade. Perhaps that means something significant. Perhaps not. Perhaps it is a day of stomach aches. Perhaps a day of anguish over forgetting homework, then forgetting that you forgot the homework that you never forgot(aka not really forgetting it). Perhaps a day of wishing for a dog or wanting to eat your BFF's mom's delicious onion rings and mashed potatoes. Or perhaps two of the above. You have a minute to guess which 2 of the above "perhap's" are really true and did happen and which did not. Joking... although I wouldn't mind you guessing.
Today was a day of finding out that my two Cs had risen up to an A and a B. A day of wanting (SPOILER ALERT!) onion rings and mashed potatoes. And a day of stomach aches. Plus a day of emotion and wanting to sleep forever. A day of remebering Saturday's shopping trip(I got 2 amazingly cute fancy dress tops and other stuff). A day of staring and talking and laughing and a million other things. A day of coming up with a FANTASTIC comparison between dogs and the Red Death, and cats and Prince Prospero. From Edgar Allan Poe's "The Masque of the Red Death." A perfect idea for an article.
He jumped off the orange bike and threw it aside in a rush. Huffing with all his earthly might he crashed past Audrey and plowed through the group of people that had congregated before the scene of the accident. An accident that he helped to create. The blood, the screams, the horrid destruction was vivid before his eyes. The bloodred body of the girl who may never move again. The orange bike stained with crimson that was the major evidence of his guilt. His eyes refused to let the horrendous flashback stop playing over and over again. The screeching of the tires and the piercing shriek of terror. The worlds of so many people being destroyed, all so quickly, so suddenly, so unexpectedly and abruptly. Without a second's thought. Lives being lost. Lives being taken away so casually and quickly, as though they were only a borrowed pencil. A pencil taken away from a young school girl, never to be returned. Stolen. Stolen lives, stolen thoughts, stolen actions. All gone forever from those who needed them most. Gone, never to return.
Sorry about that. Inspiration struck so I just wrote. Not the article I was talking about, by the way.
Thanks for reading.
Today was a day of finding out that my two Cs had risen up to an A and a B. A day of wanting (SPOILER ALERT!) onion rings and mashed potatoes. And a day of stomach aches. Plus a day of emotion and wanting to sleep forever. A day of remebering Saturday's shopping trip(I got 2 amazingly cute fancy dress tops and other stuff). A day of staring and talking and laughing and a million other things. A day of coming up with a FANTASTIC comparison between dogs and the Red Death, and cats and Prince Prospero. From Edgar Allan Poe's "The Masque of the Red Death." A perfect idea for an article.
He jumped off the orange bike and threw it aside in a rush. Huffing with all his earthly might he crashed past Audrey and plowed through the group of people that had congregated before the scene of the accident. An accident that he helped to create. The blood, the screams, the horrid destruction was vivid before his eyes. The bloodred body of the girl who may never move again. The orange bike stained with crimson that was the major evidence of his guilt. His eyes refused to let the horrendous flashback stop playing over and over again. The screeching of the tires and the piercing shriek of terror. The worlds of so many people being destroyed, all so quickly, so suddenly, so unexpectedly and abruptly. Without a second's thought. Lives being lost. Lives being taken away so casually and quickly, as though they were only a borrowed pencil. A pencil taken away from a young school girl, never to be returned. Stolen. Stolen lives, stolen thoughts, stolen actions. All gone forever from those who needed them most. Gone, never to return.
Sorry about that. Inspiration struck so I just wrote. Not the article I was talking about, by the way.
Thanks for reading.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Would You Read a Book About...
Please respond to this post. This is to help me find out which of my novels-in-progress would be most popular or interesting....
- Iolana is a twelve year old girl. For most of her life she has lived in a flood of boredom. That all changes one day when a man approaches her on the street. Assuming he's from the FBI(as his badge shows) she follows him to a high-tech fortress. There she is told that she is a secret weapon in the movement to overthrow the socialist president.
- Medea is a young witch living in the town of Brasemouth. For centuries, the magical beings have coexisted peacefully with their non-magical brethren. That all changes abruptly one year when the Burners decide to destroy every magical being on the face of the earth. Medea's peaceful family life is shattered as the Burners destroy her home, her family and everything she has ever known. She is the only Brasemouth witch to escape the town. But the Burners follow her on her escapade. She manages to lose them but gets severely hurt in the process. She searches for other surviving magical beings. Along the way she meets Kangbe, a young wizard boy she falls in love with.
- David was but a dream... until he became real. Until Nathalie met him one day on the streets. Both were homeless, both underage and both desperately in need of someone. They met, and they’ve never left each other. But now David must leave, to return to the family he escaped from years before. His murderous mother has tracked him down, but in her haste to murder her son like she murdered her husband she leaves behind a piece of vital evidence. Now Nathalie must find her beloved David and save him. But when she finds him he has changed- into a stiff corpse with the mark of a woman’s nails and a smear of red nail polish on his cracked neck. Is there a way to bring him back to the one that loved him most? Will his mother ever be convicted of the murders she has committed? And will the deaths of David and his father ever be avenged?
- Jay LeBord has stumbled upon a secret meeting of elite planners, who plot to annihilate the world. They lauch highly secretive missiles that will make contact in twenty four hours. Even the president is too lowly to control these missiles. And Jay is the only outsider who knows of this plan. He must stop this soon, before it's too late. Seconds are ticking. Time is flying. The madness must be stopped
- Half a dozen children are kidnapped simultaneously to be fed to an ancient monster that lives deep underground in a primitive civilization. There are hundreds of other fugitives waiting to be saved. This land is ruled by cold-hearted woman who feel no emotion. The six children must find a way to escape and save themselves, before the inevitable occurs. Because out of the thousands of woman there is one who still has a slimmer of emotion… a woman who just might help them escape.
Thanks a lot!
Friday, September 4, 2009
Wrinkles and elderly people...
Older woman obsess with the wrinkles, trying to paralyze their faces and get rid of the unsightly canyons on their face. I believe that wrinkles are a badge of honor and dignity. They are like a map of your lifelong achievements, your love, and your family. They show that you remember forty years ago, fifty years ago. Of course, I have no wrinkles myself being only twelve but I always smile when I see a wrinkled person hobbling by me. Perhaps it is that they have seen and known compassion and have some to give. They are peaceful, they have seen more troubled times and know the consequences of their actions. Yet they are neglected and forgotten, left in homes without their loved ones, where they can only read, if their sight permit, or muse about days gone by. In America this culture of throwing your parents into this dungeon of sorts is widespread. All of my elderly neighbors are now in retirement homes, save for one family whose children are caring enough to live with them. In Poland, this mania is beginning to catch on but my grandparents have always lived in their respective homes, with my out-of-the-country family to take care of them. I myself could not bear to leave my mother and my father in such a place. My father, the lover of nature, of birds and flowers needs a place to sit amidst the wildnerness, contemplating about life and telling jokes in Polish to my mother. I can only hope that I will live on a farm when I am older, and that my beloved parents will be there with me if they choose to. I myself can't imagine life in a retirement home... there's not much to like about a building where you are mostly alone with nothing to do and no one to talk to. The doctors and nursemaids that occasionally come by are not like your loving child or beaming grandchild. Life is love. Love is family. Love is friends. By yourself you cannot exist. You can only sit in wait of death for there is no one to smile at or no way to hear human words. People left in retirement homes with no family and no friends... what do they have? Or perhaps their family just doesn't want to see their wrinkled face and listen to stories of times gone by...
Including but not limited to
alone,
musings about wrinkles,
retirement homes,
sadness,
solitude,
writing
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
If months were people...
January would be a stern, wizened yet unforgiving man who walked with his head high, never looking beneath his feet. He would be elderly yet filled with the energy of a young boy. His eyes would be cold and hard, with no compassion or love, yet dignity would be present there, clear and blue as a winter sky.
February would be a little girl, small and feeble with a peeping voice. She would be alone, but would bask in her solitude and the simplicity of her young life. She would, very simply, not care about what you and I think of her slight, weak figure. Bundled up in a scarf,with the miniscule buds of tulips and daffodils decorating her thick wool coat, and boots made of the strongest sheepskin, she would skip along the icy lane, leaving minute footprints filled with melting snow.
March would also be a child, a young, frolicking boy who wore a lopsided hat and a thin blue jacket. With a frozen stick in hand, he would walk the world once over, pulling emerging buds and flowers up through the freshly fallen snow. As he would scamper around the globe he would leave a trail of sodden footprints, which would melt more and more each day under the bright sun. The sun, the mother of March, looking over her beloved boy, keeping him safe.
April would be a teenage woman, wearing a thin pink scarf that would flutter in the slight spring breeze. She would follow March on his trek around the earth, opening the flowers that he pulled up. The sun, her mother, would watch over her also.
May would be a young boy, slightly older than April, wearing a t-shirt that would be in the brightest, purest green. Birds would sing around him, and grass would turn the shade of his handmade, carelessly worn clothes. His eyes would be a greenish blue color that would win the heart of every fair maiden whose path he crossed. Yet his only devotion was to June.
June would be a girl, the same age as May, and would love him with her whole, great heart. Under her tender care flowers and and fruits would begin to grow, and the sweet Amalanchier would serve as their evening meal. Together they would blossom into a young, lovely pair.
July would be the carefree daughter of May and June. She would love everybody, the other months and the flowers, the birds, the bees buzzing around her and the sweet vegetables that would grow with her.
August would be a middle-aged woman with blonde hair. With shorts and flip flops on her rested, tanned body she would sit beneath the flowering apple tree and write poems to her world. As her pen would cover her page with beautiful script, she would read melodiuosly aloud to the chickadee and the goldfinch who would sit on her shoulder.
September would be a teenage girl with flaming auburn hair that tumbled around her shoulders wildly and would be ever so slightly curled. Her yellow turtleneck sweater would be all the shades of the trees around her. Her eyes would be a deep, energetic chocolate brown.
October would be September's twin brother, with even more unruly, even more red, hair that would be clipped short, yet look attractive. Together the two would pull leaves the shade of their hair off dying trees, in wait of the dreaded bareness that was soon to come.
November would be a man with dull brown eyes and limp brown hair. He would be handsome in a special way and would turn the brilliant leaves of yestermonth into dry, dead, crackling leaves the shade of his hair, sprinkling snow here and there in preparation for his wife, December.
December would be November's wife, midldle-aged, sister to August. She would be a jolly maiden with vigorous brown hair and bright blue eyes. With a green dress lined in white on her slender, jumping body she would bring gifts to the world, showering the globe with snow and love. On New Year's Eve she would kiss her grandfather January on his cold, dry cheek at the stroke of midnight.
February would be a little girl, small and feeble with a peeping voice. She would be alone, but would bask in her solitude and the simplicity of her young life. She would, very simply, not care about what you and I think of her slight, weak figure. Bundled up in a scarf,with the miniscule buds of tulips and daffodils decorating her thick wool coat, and boots made of the strongest sheepskin, she would skip along the icy lane, leaving minute footprints filled with melting snow.
March would also be a child, a young, frolicking boy who wore a lopsided hat and a thin blue jacket. With a frozen stick in hand, he would walk the world once over, pulling emerging buds and flowers up through the freshly fallen snow. As he would scamper around the globe he would leave a trail of sodden footprints, which would melt more and more each day under the bright sun. The sun, the mother of March, looking over her beloved boy, keeping him safe.
April would be a teenage woman, wearing a thin pink scarf that would flutter in the slight spring breeze. She would follow March on his trek around the earth, opening the flowers that he pulled up. The sun, her mother, would watch over her also.
May would be a young boy, slightly older than April, wearing a t-shirt that would be in the brightest, purest green. Birds would sing around him, and grass would turn the shade of his handmade, carelessly worn clothes. His eyes would be a greenish blue color that would win the heart of every fair maiden whose path he crossed. Yet his only devotion was to June.
June would be a girl, the same age as May, and would love him with her whole, great heart. Under her tender care flowers and and fruits would begin to grow, and the sweet Amalanchier would serve as their evening meal. Together they would blossom into a young, lovely pair.
July would be the carefree daughter of May and June. She would love everybody, the other months and the flowers, the birds, the bees buzzing around her and the sweet vegetables that would grow with her.
August would be a middle-aged woman with blonde hair. With shorts and flip flops on her rested, tanned body she would sit beneath the flowering apple tree and write poems to her world. As her pen would cover her page with beautiful script, she would read melodiuosly aloud to the chickadee and the goldfinch who would sit on her shoulder.
September would be a teenage girl with flaming auburn hair that tumbled around her shoulders wildly and would be ever so slightly curled. Her yellow turtleneck sweater would be all the shades of the trees around her. Her eyes would be a deep, energetic chocolate brown.
October would be September's twin brother, with even more unruly, even more red, hair that would be clipped short, yet look attractive. Together the two would pull leaves the shade of their hair off dying trees, in wait of the dreaded bareness that was soon to come.
November would be a man with dull brown eyes and limp brown hair. He would be handsome in a special way and would turn the brilliant leaves of yestermonth into dry, dead, crackling leaves the shade of his hair, sprinkling snow here and there in preparation for his wife, December.
December would be November's wife, midldle-aged, sister to August. She would be a jolly maiden with vigorous brown hair and bright blue eyes. With a green dress lined in white on her slender, jumping body she would bring gifts to the world, showering the globe with snow and love. On New Year's Eve she would kiss her grandfather January on his cold, dry cheek at the stroke of midnight.
Including but not limited to
if months were people,
musings,
writing
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