Haven't written much lately...

Haven't stopped to think much either.

Short Story: (Dream)

Written 9/3/09

Critique welcome!

This story is based off of my sister's dream. I have her permission ;)

Sorry it is double spaced...

You keep the crow in your sight—or try to, but its wings flit in and out of your peripheral vision with the speed of a cat’s paw striking a mouse. The crow’s unsteady guidance takes you down a row of uncanny houses, with doors askew and windows irregularly placed, past faceless people with their backs turned, long, drab coats carelessly tossed over their weak bodies. He takes you past all these things repetitively, until at last you reach a building that lords over the rest. It is a stone mansion.

You are inside the mansion, limbs straining horribly to keep the crow in sight; he must be kept in your vision but it tortures your body and your legs do not seem to be your own any longer. A flash of the crow’s black wing near the stony ceiling beckons you to a wooden, spiral staircase in the corner. But now you do not want to follow. You never wanted to follow, and now the little devil wants you to place a bare foot on a step that whimpers with the lightest touch, to climb a staircase that may have been a servant’s more than a century ago. You scream, “No!”—

You are almost at the top. It is not quite so frightening now; after all, you have conquered the staircase—you have placed your feet so carefully, you have placed them like you set your mother’s china on Sundays so it would not break and she would not yell, and you are at the top.

The crow rests delicately on the stone window seat. He looks at you.

And he morphs into a man, the type of man that you would pick to be a crow if you had to choose, with sleek black hair and a lithe figure cloaked in the same color. You feel you must know him. In a way, you understand why: he guided you here. But somehow you know him as more than a guide.

The crow-man smiles. He knows you, too. But then he is behind you, touching your hair and you are frightened. So you walk over to the window seat, tripping on your way there, and look outside at the grey sky that holds its fury in check so the row of uncanny houses below might not drown. You let your legs hang down the other side in the open air, and do not fear falling.

“I am glad you made it here. For a time, I thought you might—” the crow-man looks at you as if you were a child. “I thought you might not make it.”

“I don’t understand. I don’t know you.” You do not turn around to meet his eyes when you speak these words, weak and unsure. You know they are not true, but can not grasp why. Perhaps you do not try hard enough to understand; indeed, you’ve been thinking about those uncanny houses and the faceless people. You’ve been thinking of flying out the window. You’ve been thinking of becoming a crow yourself.

And you’ve been thinking so hard that you don’t realize until several minutes have passed that you have not heard a sound. When you turn around, the crow-man is no longer standing and staring at you with that condescending smile. He is crumpled on the floor, his face white with death. Someone grabs your waist from behind and pulls you out the window.

You fall.

But you are not a crow, and you can not fly.

Poem: Goings and Comings

written 8/29/09

He left, and his closet

became storage for the

ironing board.

He returned, and in disbelief

threw it

out.

He left, and forgot a mass

of clothes and trinkets

of sorts.

He returned, and remembered

the piles of thoughts

and plans.

Thoughts and plans

thrown

out.

On A Walk: Writing Exercise

in second person.

Critique Welcome!

If you've been on a walk with a sister who's prettier than you, you'll have committed to memory the looks on the faces of the hundreds, of the hundred thousands, of men you've passed on a walk like that. You'll have seen how they look at her. How their eyes drift down her toned, tanned legs, and you'll be torn between punching their nose, kicking their crotch, and running down another street to cry in self pity. If you've been on a walk with a sister who's prettier than you, you'll have chosen the latter. But if she's a good sister, a friend, she'll have searched and found you. She'll have looked away from those hundred thousand men, and pointed out the one geeky boy who looked at you.

And you'll both have laughed.

Poem: What Happens?

written 8/4/09

critique welcome.

What happens if my pen stumbles

over words that won't come?

Words that once flew winged to speckle and splatter

a blank page,

what happens if they can't form,

if they don't form,

like they aren't forming now.

It's because I don't have experience,

I know it is.

Don't tell me different.

Don't try to tell me different.

I know my lack of self, of hurt, of love,

is all my own fault.

I know my fear of fear is pathetic.

I know that, if I felt,

I could write again

Poem: Lies

written 8/1/09

Critique welcome.

I've opened a Pandora's box

of secrets

without meaning to.

I've told things normal people

wouldn't tell

and lost affection.

So I kept secrets,

gained trust,

but lost truth.

Poem: My Spotted Socks

writted 7/13/09

critique welcome.

Threaded with pink

and white

and a tiny bit of orange.

Thoroughly worn

and loved

and torn at the toes a little.

They don't exactly keep my feet warm,

But as long as I can look at my spotted socks

I almost don't mind being cold.

Wondering...

Why I've forgotten my pen

And it's stout comfort.

Why I revel in other silly,

Unimportant half-joys.

Why I've not let my heart

Pour out to my God?

My future...

Just thought I'd post this.. it's kind of silly, but it might make you laugh :)

This desperate child
With hair of brown,
Short and stout 
Disinclined to frown,
Will find within

Herself a dream
One that others

May have seen
She'll find a prince
And dance in the snow
And write away her days,
But she'll never grow.

Character Study

(I saw him at Barnes and Noble the other day... Shh! what, no, I'm not a stalker)

A uncouth swagger meets a civilized world as Frank walks into the bookstore with a dirty leather coat and naturally faded, old jeans. Ordinary books line the shelves, except for the un-ordinary ones here and there, and it is toward the latter that Frank feels an inclination of preference. He picks up Alien Wonders, flips through the pages, sets it back down, then keeps walking through the store.

What is he looking for?

Haha.. he was very strange. I still like to think about it. Very inspiring. Thank you, Frank, whoever you are :)

Poem: The Porcelain Cup

Written 5/14

Critique Welcome!

I hold a porcelain cup in my hand.

Hand-painted ivy twirls through

Dancing harps—

I can hear their music.

I can speak their language,

Silence.

Its lip curves toward mine.

This side has but slight irregularities,

Only visible when my eye draws it so near,

So very near,

That everything else blurs.

I hold the porcelain cup in my hand,

And ache for it to be complete

As it once was—

But now it is broken.

Even now it is crying,

“Let me be whole!”

Let mine fingers stroke its side,

Jagged and painfully unique

And I will drink my tea.

That awful tea,

From my beautiful, broken cup.

Haiku: Tree

Written 4/21

A bastion for birds

Freckled limbs restrain new life

Crooked, awkward limbs.

Known and Un-Known

Free verse, written 3/27/09

"Ready?" Calls a voice well-known,

Though the face my eyes can't see.

The sky is wet and lined in rain,

But I only know that

Because a half-hidden lamp,

A lonely lamp, can see.

Splash.

"Take my hand!" My own voice cries.

How alive is nature at night!

One aged hand, one trusting hand,

Intertwine as we run

Past a half-hidden lamp,

A forgotten lamp, that sees.

Poem: Flooding

Written 3/23/09

Picayune matters,

Only trifles of life,

Build and build and build.

One day they shatter.

Droplets of rain

Drip and drip and drip.

I search for a ladder

As floods

Rise and rise and rise.

I fall as it clatters.

As water,

As anger,

As despair,

Drown me, drown me, drown me!

(Yes, I realize the last section is different... rrrg.)

Poem: Unnamed

Written 3/5/09

A little more abstract, so don't feel bad if you don't get it... that's just my confused self writing deeper feelings that make no sense :)

Wish for a song

Hope for the words

To rescue the lost

That wave behind you-

"So long"

Forms their lips

Wish for needle and thread,

And make me

Into a puppet

And I'll dance to the song-

"So long".

When you're lost.

Critique Welcome. Especially on this one.

Poem: Wish of a Star

Written 2/13/09

The wish of a star:

To not be afraid

Or feel how alone

They seem to be made

How I wish to comfort

That flickering light-

One bashful part

Of this beautiful night!

Ditto from below.

Poem: Sin or Storm?

Written 1/29/09

What could I have done to anger

This frighteningly alive

Mask over my sun?

Are my sins so great

That even the rain feels the need

To try to rinse me clean?

Why, even the trees whisper

Condolences, at least forgiving 

My unknown trump of nature!

I can't be this awful, I think,

Though the skies, rain, and trees

Seem to protest a differing 

Opinion.

As always, critique most welcome!

Stories: A Poem

Written 2/6/09

Just a quick little poem I wrote for fun :)

I opened my window

And heard in a dream

The still, cold air

Speak to me.

And I heard all

The tales of men,

Children, lovers,

Those that had been.

She spoke plainly,

She of the wind

Of the trucks with red

Lights 'round the bend

She wept aloud of

Horrid nights

Like these, but why

Should I be afright?

'Tis only a story,

A whistle, a sound.

And I am safe in a house

On the ground.

I closed my window

And wind turned her face.

Her back is to me,

Her vanity disgraced.

Critique welcome, though it is just a quirky little thing :)

Random Quote: Cry, the Beloved Country

I'm reading Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton for school. It's interesting, and written in a very unique style, which in my opinion gives it an extra golden star. 

But it's also very profound in its ideas. I ran across this today as I was reading it, and it really grabbed me. Well, there were actually a lot of quotes that grabbed me, but this one is my favorite:

The truth is that our civilization is not Christian; it is a tragic compound of great ideal and fearful practice, of high assurance and desperate anxiety, of loving charity and fearful clutching of possessions. Allow me a minute...

This is part of a manuscript written by a son that is being read by his father. "Allow me a minute" is the last thing the son writes before he hears a sound downstairs, goes to look, and is shot. Which, along with being extraordinarily depressing, is also interesting... What awfully beautiful last words to write.

It makes me wonder what the last words I write will be.

Meme: Me! (moved from AyeCaptain)

Thanks for the questions, GirlWiththeBraids!

1. What is your favorite color?

At the moment? Yellow or Teal

2. If you could meet one author in person, who would it be?

Easy! Alison Croggon, author of the Pellinor Series

3. What song describes your life?

This was what took me so long to answer... I have no idea. 

BUT the closest one I could find was Marching Bands of Manhattan, by Death Cab for Cutie. AMAZING band. If you haven't listened to them yet, LISTEN to them!

4. What TV show do you want to guest star on?

Gilmore Girls ;)

5. Converse or high-heels?

Depends on what I'm wearing.. but seeing as I don't actually OWN any converses, I guess that means high heels XD

What about converse-high heels?

If any one else wants to do that, let me know your email and I'll ask you five questions!