Due to the overwhelming amount of tasks I have going on right now (planning a wedding, finishing up the school year, writing longer works with the intent of publishing, developing my photography business) and the fact that only one other person has been interested enough to join this writing community (thank you Victoria!), I have decided to take a break from this blog.
If more people show interest in joining and contributing their writing, please email me to let me know and I will begin writing it again. Also, if I am compelled by a certain topic and think it would be interesting for other people to write about, I may sporadically provide the prompt topics.
My goal is to bring this blog back in full force towards the middle of July.
Thank you for your continued support!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Sun
"Photosynthesis"
maintaining the normal level of
life
ultimate source of
energy immense
power of human civilization
wavelengths of support
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
A Found Poem, Discovered outside of the home or workplace
"what it takes to excel"
purpose.
It's absolutely necessary.
our realities
become
success.
the world
as art
is
one splendid
camp.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Twitter Pitch Contest
In honor of Shelley Watter's contest (check it out!), feast your eyes on my 140 character twitter pitch (for a picture book or easy reader):
When a twister dumps a cache of socks near Joey's home in the Aussie bush, she saves them in her pouch & uses them in a surprising emergency!
This was really hard to do in 140 characters! One sentence is easy when there is no character limit, but Twitter really makes me pick and choose exactly what I want to say. Joey is a young kangaroo, and I can't decide if this manuscript should be formatted as a picture book or an easy reader. I have several illustrations and the ideas for lots more, but it might be kind of long for a picture book (~2600 words). What do you think?
PS: I don't know if it's against the rules to share my thought process in writing my pitch, but at first I almost wrote: "When a dust devil rips through the Aussie outback, Joey finds a cache of socks from a farm, which allows her to later help the school bully." I decided it wasn't grabby enough. Then I had: "When a dust devil dumps a surprising cache of socks near Joey's home in the Aussie outback, she stuffs them in her pouch to save for later..." but I still felt it was lacking conflict.
*For any members of SCBWI, I currently have a discussion thread in which I am looking for feedback on my manuscript, and another on my query letter (which obviously needs some changes, now that I changed the genders of two characters). manuscript thread. query thread.*
EDIT: I took LK Gardner-Griffie's feedback and changed it to this:
When a twister dumps a cache of socks near Joey's home in the Aussie bush she saves them in her pouch & uses them in a life or death struggle
Is that better than the first pitch?
NEW EDIT: When a twister dumps a pile of socks near Joey's home in the Aussie bush she saves them in her pouch & uses them in an unexpected emergency
Per Scott's comments, I tried to begin the pitch differently. A new option:
Struggling to grow up without a mother in the Aussie outback, Joey faces challenges with the school bully and her own identity.
EDIT #4: When kangaroo Joey found a pile of socks in the Aussie bush, she had no idea they would help her change the life of the bully who'd hurt her
Why do I feel like this could truly be a never-ending process?!
EDIT #5: When Joey finds a pile of socks in the Aussie outback, she saves them in her pouch & uses them to change the life of the bully who'd hurt her.
*For any members of SCBWI, I currently have a discussion thread in which I am looking for feedback on my manuscript, and another on my query letter (which obviously needs some changes, now that I changed the genders of two characters). manuscript thread. query thread.*
EDIT: I took LK Gardner-Griffie's feedback and changed it to this:
When a twister dumps a cache of socks near Joey's home in the Aussie bush she saves them in her pouch & uses them in a life or death struggle
Is that better than the first pitch?
NEW EDIT: When a twister dumps a pile of socks near Joey's home in the Aussie bush she saves them in her pouch & uses them in an unexpected emergency
Per Scott's comments, I tried to begin the pitch differently. A new option:
Struggling to grow up without a mother in the Aussie outback, Joey faces challenges with the school bully and her own identity.
EDIT #4: When kangaroo Joey found a pile of socks in the Aussie bush, she had no idea they would help her change the life of the bully who'd hurt her
Why do I feel like this could truly be a never-ending process?!
EDIT #5: When Joey finds a pile of socks in the Aussie outback, she saves them in her pouch & uses them to change the life of the bully who'd hurt her.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
National Poetry Month
In honor of National Poetry Month beginning this week, I am challenging the writers of A Fearful Trill to choose poetry as their writing genre for the entire month!
An Animal's Perspective
Ruby's Morning
*yawn*
*stretch*
What's on the agenda today?
Eat. Sleep. Poop.
Try to sneak into places
I'm not supposed to go.
I think I'll go visit the girl.
She just turned on a
light in the other room.
*hop. hop. hop.*
*scurry down the hall*
*hide in the hutch again*
She saw me!
She always knows
when I am trying to be sneaky.
How does she always know?
*yawn*
*stretch*
What's on the agenda today?
Eat. Sleep. Poop.
Try to sneak into places
I'm not supposed to go.
I think I'll go visit the girl.
She just turned on a
light in the other room.
*hop. hop. hop.*
*scurry down the hall*
*hide in the hutch again*
She saw me!
She always knows
when I am trying to be sneaky.
How does she always know?
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
I was the kid...
I was the kid
who made up worlds
escaping from my own,
finding creek shells
on the playground,
pretending they'd broken
from unicorn horns.
I was the kid
who never saw recess
all through first grade,
a punishment
for talking to friends,
no one talked to me
at home.
I was the kid
with the Where's Waldo
110 camera,
photographs of puddles
and clouds,
seeing with a lens
so I could shut my eyes.
who made up worlds
escaping from my own,
finding creek shells
on the playground,
pretending they'd broken
from unicorn horns.
I was the kid
who never saw recess
all through first grade,
a punishment
for talking to friends,
no one talked to me
at home.
I was the kid
with the Where's Waldo
110 camera,
photographs of puddles
and clouds,
seeing with a lens
so I could shut my eyes.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Epic Contests
I don't usually write posts about things other than the weekly writing challenge, but these really caught my eye and I deemed them worth sharing!
Two contests for writers that I am really excited about:
1. Casandra Marshall is giving away a free manuscript edit, but today is the last day to enter! You can get multiple entries, and this is an extremely valuable resource for writers trying to get their work published. See the details here.
2. Shelley Watters is giving away a full manuscript request from agent Suzie Townsend. There are also prizes for people to win a query critique! See the details here.
Good luck!
Two contests for writers that I am really excited about:
1. Casandra Marshall is giving away a free manuscript edit, but today is the last day to enter! You can get multiple entries, and this is an extremely valuable resource for writers trying to get their work published. See the details here.
2. Shelley Watters is giving away a full manuscript request from agent Suzie Townsend. There are also prizes for people to win a query critique! See the details here.
Good luck!
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Pink
Danny woke up reluctantly when he heard his mother calling from the kitchen. It was Friday, a day sacred to students everywhere as the last hurdle to overcome before a weekend of freedom. Danny should have been excited, but instead he wanted to roll back under the covers and hide.
All week Danny had been dreading the arrival of this Friday in particular. He'd heard the apocalyptic news several days earlier that Friday would be Carla's birthday. These events are usually surrounded by joy, gifts, a party, and - in typical custom for an elementary classroom - cupcakes. That would be enough to make any eight-year-old thrilled, but not Danny; not if it was Carla's birthday.
His sleepy brain suddenly recalled a flash of images from Carla's birthday the year before. Sticky, slimy, pink goo. Fingers. Slobber. He shuddered at the thought.
Danny crawled out of bed, feeling as if he weighed a thousand pounds, and began the process of getting dressed. As he stepped into his pants he relived the entire horrible event. His first grade teacher, Mrs. Higgenbottom, had been so old and tired that she let students pass out their own birthday cupcakes to the class. Every student had handled this task responsibly (mostly due to the fact that their mom or dad had visited school that day to help out). But on Carla's birthday neither of her parents showed up and she had to do it herself.
Danny watched the procession with horror from the his end-of-the-alphabet seat at the back of the classroom. It started off all right, but Carla didn't seem to understand the concepts of germs or manners. She picked up one cupcake after another with no regard for the paper cupcake cups, grabbing most of them from the top before plopping them down on each student's desk. With each cupcake Carla's fingers became increasingly coated with sticky pink frosting. By the time she had reached Jessica Lampton her entire hands were plastered with pink. She had no napkin, and Mrs. Higgenbottom seemed oblivious, as she herself nibbled on a pink cupcake from the safety of her teacher desk.
Danny thought that certainly Carla would take a break to wash her hands, but to his dismay Carla did something unthinkable. She began to lick her fingers one by one. The sloppy slurping sound carried across the classroom like a doomsday clock. Each new cupcake given to each new student provided Carla with another opportunity to add to the slime now saturating all of her fingers.
Danny knew he was going to be sick. He could feel his heart beating faster as Carla approached Mark Thompson. Sweat beaded on his neck and dripped down his back as she slammed a cupcake on Amber Wheeler's desk.
Finally Carla had reached Danny's seat. He was too scared to look and thought he might throw up if he had to watch Carla lick pink frosting off her fingers one more time. Slowly he pried his gaze away from his desk and couldn't believe what he saw. Carla had run out of cupcakes! Danny Windle was the last student, and Carla was short by just one cupcake. His wish has been granted, but he could see that Carla felt terrible about running out. He smiled at her and told her it was all right. "Next year I'll make sure you get one!" Carla responded.
"Next year I'll make sure I'm sick on your birthday," Danny thought to himself. But next year was here, and Danny's parents never bought it when he pretended to be sick. As he brushed his teeth after breakfast he couldn't help but think that he must have terribly bad luck to be assigned to Carla's class two years in a row. He replayed the scene from last year in his mind during the whole bus ride to school, and all day he kept remembering the slurping sound of each nauseating lick of Carla's fingers.
After an eternity of dread, snack time finally arrived. Mr Oderman, who was even older than Mrs. Higgenbottom (which Danny didn't think was possibly), had the same policy that students must pass out their own birthday treats. Danny thought he was having a nightmare. Carla's cupcakes were the same bright pink as the ones from last year, a color that Danny now associated with feeling sick to his stomach. He followed her trail from Samantha Alpert to Justin Long, and he noticed that this time Carla wasn't picking every cupcake up by its top, like she had the year before. By the time she reached Edward Noonan she only had some frosting o n her hands, and Danny noted that she hadn't licked her fingers once yet. He began to unclench his muscles and relax just a little bit as Carla handed a pink cupcake to Mark Thompson (who had stayed in the same class with them this year).
Once the mind makes a connection between two ideas it can be hard to break that connection. In this case, Danny had solidly connected the thought of pink frosting with the taste of vomit in the back of his throat. For the entire year since Carla's previous birthday Danny had not eaten one single thing that was pink, no bubble gum, not popsicles, not ice donuts, not even his favorite dessert - strawberry mousse.
he weighed both sides of the current situation. On one hand, the mere mention of anything pink made his stomach start to churn. On the other hand, he loved cupcakes, and Carla had much improved in the area of licking her fingers. He decided that the positives outweighed the negatives, and besides, second grade was as good a time as any to start facing his fears.
With his mind made up, Danny waited in his usual end-of-the-alphabet seat in the back of the classroom. When Carla presented him with his pink cupcake he took it with a smile. Taking a tentative bite, he knew he had made the right decision to accept it. He'd been missing out on a lot of amazing foods for the past year.
As he swallowed he turned around to thank Carla for the treat, but she was busy at the classroom sink... licking pink frosting off of her fingers.
All week Danny had been dreading the arrival of this Friday in particular. He'd heard the apocalyptic news several days earlier that Friday would be Carla's birthday. These events are usually surrounded by joy, gifts, a party, and - in typical custom for an elementary classroom - cupcakes. That would be enough to make any eight-year-old thrilled, but not Danny; not if it was Carla's birthday.
His sleepy brain suddenly recalled a flash of images from Carla's birthday the year before. Sticky, slimy, pink goo. Fingers. Slobber. He shuddered at the thought.
Danny crawled out of bed, feeling as if he weighed a thousand pounds, and began the process of getting dressed. As he stepped into his pants he relived the entire horrible event. His first grade teacher, Mrs. Higgenbottom, had been so old and tired that she let students pass out their own birthday cupcakes to the class. Every student had handled this task responsibly (mostly due to the fact that their mom or dad had visited school that day to help out). But on Carla's birthday neither of her parents showed up and she had to do it herself.
Danny watched the procession with horror from the his end-of-the-alphabet seat at the back of the classroom. It started off all right, but Carla didn't seem to understand the concepts of germs or manners. She picked up one cupcake after another with no regard for the paper cupcake cups, grabbing most of them from the top before plopping them down on each student's desk. With each cupcake Carla's fingers became increasingly coated with sticky pink frosting. By the time she had reached Jessica Lampton her entire hands were plastered with pink. She had no napkin, and Mrs. Higgenbottom seemed oblivious, as she herself nibbled on a pink cupcake from the safety of her teacher desk.
Danny thought that certainly Carla would take a break to wash her hands, but to his dismay Carla did something unthinkable. She began to lick her fingers one by one. The sloppy slurping sound carried across the classroom like a doomsday clock. Each new cupcake given to each new student provided Carla with another opportunity to add to the slime now saturating all of her fingers.
Danny knew he was going to be sick. He could feel his heart beating faster as Carla approached Mark Thompson. Sweat beaded on his neck and dripped down his back as she slammed a cupcake on Amber Wheeler's desk.
Finally Carla had reached Danny's seat. He was too scared to look and thought he might throw up if he had to watch Carla lick pink frosting off her fingers one more time. Slowly he pried his gaze away from his desk and couldn't believe what he saw. Carla had run out of cupcakes! Danny Windle was the last student, and Carla was short by just one cupcake. His wish has been granted, but he could see that Carla felt terrible about running out. He smiled at her and told her it was all right. "Next year I'll make sure you get one!" Carla responded.
"Next year I'll make sure I'm sick on your birthday," Danny thought to himself. But next year was here, and Danny's parents never bought it when he pretended to be sick. As he brushed his teeth after breakfast he couldn't help but think that he must have terribly bad luck to be assigned to Carla's class two years in a row. He replayed the scene from last year in his mind during the whole bus ride to school, and all day he kept remembering the slurping sound of each nauseating lick of Carla's fingers.
After an eternity of dread, snack time finally arrived. Mr Oderman, who was even older than Mrs. Higgenbottom (which Danny didn't think was possibly), had the same policy that students must pass out their own birthday treats. Danny thought he was having a nightmare. Carla's cupcakes were the same bright pink as the ones from last year, a color that Danny now associated with feeling sick to his stomach. He followed her trail from Samantha Alpert to Justin Long, and he noticed that this time Carla wasn't picking every cupcake up by its top, like she had the year before. By the time she reached Edward Noonan she only had some frosting o n her hands, and Danny noted that she hadn't licked her fingers once yet. He began to unclench his muscles and relax just a little bit as Carla handed a pink cupcake to Mark Thompson (who had stayed in the same class with them this year).
Once the mind makes a connection between two ideas it can be hard to break that connection. In this case, Danny had solidly connected the thought of pink frosting with the taste of vomit in the back of his throat. For the entire year since Carla's previous birthday Danny had not eaten one single thing that was pink, no bubble gum, not popsicles, not ice donuts, not even his favorite dessert - strawberry mousse.
he weighed both sides of the current situation. On one hand, the mere mention of anything pink made his stomach start to churn. On the other hand, he loved cupcakes, and Carla had much improved in the area of licking her fingers. He decided that the positives outweighed the negatives, and besides, second grade was as good a time as any to start facing his fears.
With his mind made up, Danny waited in his usual end-of-the-alphabet seat in the back of the classroom. When Carla presented him with his pink cupcake he took it with a smile. Taking a tentative bite, he knew he had made the right decision to accept it. He'd been missing out on a lot of amazing foods for the past year.
As he swallowed he turned around to thank Carla for the treat, but she was busy at the classroom sink... licking pink frosting off of her fingers.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Chocolate Cookie Setting
Plot Outline
There is a kingdom far away where everything is made of cookies and desserts. Life is easy and happy. Even though the kingdom is made of cookies, the townspeople all eat vegetables and get a lot of exercise. There is a king (but no queen) and his daughter, Princess Paige. One day a big monster comes and starts to eat all the buildings. He is a very hungry monster and he keeps yelling about how hungry he is. With every cookie house he eats, he gets bigger and slower. Eventually he makes his way to the town square where he can reach many buildings. Now that he doesn't need to move any more he just stays put and keeps growing. Princess Paige has an idea. She puts the monster on a ration of cookies and starts to feed him vegetables. She gets all the little kids in town to invite the monster to play games with them. Soon the monster starts to shrink because of his new healthy eating habits and exercise. He keeps getting smaller until he is tiny. The townspeople put a leash on him and give him to Princess Paige as a pet, so he can never get big and destroy the kingdom again.
The reason I didn't write out my actual story is because this is a work in progress that I feel very strongly about. I would like to pursue publishing once I have finished writing, and I think it might cause problems later on if my story appears on a blog.
There is a kingdom far away where everything is made of cookies and desserts. Life is easy and happy. Even though the kingdom is made of cookies, the townspeople all eat vegetables and get a lot of exercise. There is a king (but no queen) and his daughter, Princess Paige. One day a big monster comes and starts to eat all the buildings. He is a very hungry monster and he keeps yelling about how hungry he is. With every cookie house he eats, he gets bigger and slower. Eventually he makes his way to the town square where he can reach many buildings. Now that he doesn't need to move any more he just stays put and keeps growing. Princess Paige has an idea. She puts the monster on a ration of cookies and starts to feed him vegetables. She gets all the little kids in town to invite the monster to play games with them. Soon the monster starts to shrink because of his new healthy eating habits and exercise. He keeps getting smaller until he is tiny. The townspeople put a leash on him and give him to Princess Paige as a pet, so he can never get big and destroy the kingdom again.
The reason I didn't write out my actual story is because this is a work in progress that I feel very strongly about. I would like to pursue publishing once I have finished writing, and I think it might cause problems later on if my story appears on a blog.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Early Memories
A flash of light, a sheet of white
And hands, and arms…open
And a smile warms.
And love, and silent strength
And a soft cheek…whispers
And song upon her breath.
And love, and frantic calm
And the strong beats…slow
And the silence of peace.
A sheet of white, a flash of light
I come with these...early memories
And a smile warms.
Early Memory
Family surrounds
little coffee table
holding, not coffee,
but a Land of Candy.
Grape gob
too big for my mouth
bubble-icious
delicious.
Little hand draws
purple card
move one, two, three spaces
to the Rainbow Road.
Excitement explodes.
Two-year-old legs
jump for joy
and the gum goes down.
Choke.
Cough.
Splutter.
Flail.
Face turns the color
of the cherished chew
until a THWACK
knocks it down.
Swallowed.
Smiled.
My first lesson in
survival.
little coffee table
holding, not coffee,
but a Land of Candy.
Grape gob
too big for my mouth
bubble-icious
delicious.
Little hand draws
purple card
move one, two, three spaces
to the Rainbow Road.
Excitement explodes.
Two-year-old legs
jump for joy
and the gum goes down.
Choke.
Cough.
Splutter.
Flail.
Face turns the color
of the cherished chew
until a THWACK
knocks it down.
Swallowed.
Smiled.
My first lesson in
survival.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Freedom
Johnny had only ever wanted one thing in life - freedom. For as long as he could remember he had been imprisoned in a dark cell. Surrounded by bars, he had no hope of ever getting out. He didn't even understand what he had done wrong to be put here in the first place.
He'd tried all the usual means of escape. His arms weren't strong enough to break the bars. He didn't possess the proper tools to dig through the bottom. He'd even tried crying and begging to be let out of his prison, but his keepers rarely responded to his cries, and when they did it was as if they didn't understand what he was saying, as if they spoke a different language.
Time went by at a crawl for Johnny. He couldn't tell exactly how long he had been serving his sentence. It could have been days, weeks, maybe even years.
Time spent alone is no way to live. He had to repeatedly devise new ways to occupy his mind and keep himself busy. First he tried counting the bars surrounding him, but he remembered he didn't know how to count. He tried singing, but he didn't know the words to any songs. He would have drawn pictures or built models, but he wasn't allowed to have those things in this horrid place.
Eventually he took to daydreaming. Looking out from between the bars, he envisioned a day when he would be free to socialize with his friends, Thomas and Stitch. He even tried to use mental powers currently unknown to mankind to teleport these friends from the outside world into his cell, but this too was unsuccessful.
Over time any person can grow accustomed to an unnatural habitat, but there is remedy for a lonely mind. Moment after moment of endless darkness and solitude had just about driven Johnny mad. He imagined that he heard voices when no one was there. He thought he saw furry creatures running around outside his cell, but he could never reach far enough to touch them.
At last, after Johnny had finally given up all hope of being released from his cage, a new and surprising change occurred. Johnny observed that in the near distance not too far from his prison he saw a light. This light, warm and soothing, grew ever larger, bringing with it an intensity of illumination that he had wished for so long to witness. It continued growing until, at length, a shadow appeared in its midst. A dark form was approaching ever closer to where Johnny sat in his desolate cell. Fear grew upon him second after second until he could no longer bear the suspense.
He began to cry, and it was the pitiful sobbing of hopeless fear and loneliness. His captor had arrived for the final punishment and was reaching for him. She lifted him up, but Johnny was too absorbed in his hysterics to recognize the woman - until at last, he caught his breath, willed his eyes to open, looked into her face, and recognized the form of his liberation.
His mother.
He'd tried all the usual means of escape. His arms weren't strong enough to break the bars. He didn't possess the proper tools to dig through the bottom. He'd even tried crying and begging to be let out of his prison, but his keepers rarely responded to his cries, and when they did it was as if they didn't understand what he was saying, as if they spoke a different language.
Time went by at a crawl for Johnny. He couldn't tell exactly how long he had been serving his sentence. It could have been days, weeks, maybe even years.
Time spent alone is no way to live. He had to repeatedly devise new ways to occupy his mind and keep himself busy. First he tried counting the bars surrounding him, but he remembered he didn't know how to count. He tried singing, but he didn't know the words to any songs. He would have drawn pictures or built models, but he wasn't allowed to have those things in this horrid place.
Eventually he took to daydreaming. Looking out from between the bars, he envisioned a day when he would be free to socialize with his friends, Thomas and Stitch. He even tried to use mental powers currently unknown to mankind to teleport these friends from the outside world into his cell, but this too was unsuccessful.
Over time any person can grow accustomed to an unnatural habitat, but there is remedy for a lonely mind. Moment after moment of endless darkness and solitude had just about driven Johnny mad. He imagined that he heard voices when no one was there. He thought he saw furry creatures running around outside his cell, but he could never reach far enough to touch them.
At last, after Johnny had finally given up all hope of being released from his cage, a new and surprising change occurred. Johnny observed that in the near distance not too far from his prison he saw a light. This light, warm and soothing, grew ever larger, bringing with it an intensity of illumination that he had wished for so long to witness. It continued growing until, at length, a shadow appeared in its midst. A dark form was approaching ever closer to where Johnny sat in his desolate cell. Fear grew upon him second after second until he could no longer bear the suspense.
He began to cry, and it was the pitiful sobbing of hopeless fear and loneliness. His captor had arrived for the final punishment and was reaching for him. She lifted him up, but Johnny was too absorbed in his hysterics to recognize the woman - until at last, he caught his breath, willed his eyes to open, looked into her face, and recognized the form of his liberation.
His mother.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
TRAPPED
a broad feathered wing
the rain shattering through the air
the call of the earth.
and our blood flows through.
now. become. before the autumn turns to green.
against certainty, upon our first breath.
it is unnatural...this.
and then...
a greater unknowingness, a cold steel.
no room for detours.
the hands are moving
there is a beat
there is a thought
a rock
a hard place
and then...
the rain shattering through the air
the call of the earth.
and our blood flows through.
now. become. before the autumn turns to green.
against certainty, upon our first breath.
it is unnatural...this.
and then...
a greater unknowingness, a cold steel.
no room for detours.
the hands are moving
there is a beat
there is a thought
a rock
a hard place
and then...
Trapped
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Tiny splashes echo in my head like a canyon, bouncing off the painful edges of my brain. It's like I'm swimming out of a dream, but I can't quite make it to the surface.
A new sound adds to the percussion - an electric hum.
These sounds definitely do not belong to my bedroom. Where am I and how did I get here? The last thing I remember was Jake - I think his name was Jake - buying me a White Russian. He'd been eying me from a corner table for the better part of an hour before he finally found a chance to approach me alone. My friends were on the dance floor, but I've never been much of a dancer. This guy seemed nice enough, and God knows I needed a distraction from the breaking off of my last tragic relationship. I had casually taken a few sips of the sweet tonic while Jake inched closer to me at the bar, but I'd gotten uncomfortable at his sudden proximity and excused myself to the bathroom.
Then it all went black.
The dripping and humming in my ears were the next things I became aware of - and this pain in my head, which I realize now is not just contained to my head. My shoulders burn, my wrists are throbbing, and I'm sure my knee has been slammed against something hard. I have no idea how much time is passed. Is it still the same night I was at the bar? What the hell happened?
I need to open my eyes, but I'm afraid of what I might see, so I wait. The dripping sound has made me realize that I'm thirsty. I try to swallow, but my mouth feels like it's full of sand. I take as deep a breath as I can stand and slowly exhale, then try to open my eyes. One opens, but the other is swollen shut. I am on my side, lying on cold tiles the color of piss, and based on the smell this seems an accurate description. I look around from my position on the floor. Glancing to my right I see a window, but the only view it provides is three other brick walls. My own apartment building has an identical air shaft, and I know that escaping through the window will only trap me further. The humming must have been the fluorescent light hanging above me, illuminating the shards of a cracked mirror. The fractured light gives my surroundings a jaundiced tinge and flares the ache in my head.
My stomach lurches. I have to sit up, but my hands are bound behind me. Slowly I slide my knees toward my chest, roll into the child position with my forehead on the floor, and lift myself up to kneeling. Part of me thinks that my yoga teacher would be proud if she saw me do that, and I would laugh if the setting hadn't sobered all of the humor out of me. Every movement hurts worse than the one before, and my confusion is turning into fear. My head reels from the effort. I think I might retch.
Take a few deep breaths, I remind myself. Easier said than done. Closing my eyes I begin to count as the air moves through my lungs. In one, two, three. Out one, two, three. In one, two... a new smell makes itself known through the acrid odor of urine - a smell I can't quite identify, but one that is vaguely familiar.
Out one, two, three.
Iron? Yes, but something more.
In one, two, three.
A flash of memory jumps into my mind. Two summers ago, while hiking with some friends, we found a dead deer in the woods. Most of it's flesh had been eaten by bugs. The eyes were gone. Only the bones and insides remained, and it smelled like a garbage can full of Thanksgiving turkey carcass and fresh diapers combined. The odor of bodily decay is not something easily forgotten.
Now I can almost taste the fear in my mouth, bile and mucus inching their way upward. Very slowly, as if delaying it will make it better, I turn around to see what is behind me in the bathtub. A pool of milky pink liquid fills the tub. At first this doesn't seem so bad, like a small child was mixing soaps, or someone was using the tub to dye fabric. But then I see it, sticking out of the fluid just a little bit. A finger... and down at the end, a toe.
Horror chokes me as the adrenaline takes over control of my body and I kick myself away from the bathtub. Up until now I had been telling myself that I would be OK, I would get out of here, I would go to a hospital and then go home. I'd already been beaten up. The worst I thought could happen next was probably rape. But the discovery of the body in the bathtub brought with it new fears, fears more primal than worries of simple bodily injury.
I have to get out of here, but I'm trapped. The door is probably bolted shut, but I couldn't open it in this physical state anyway, with my hands tied behind my back. A flashing light dances underneath the door from a nearby television. My only hope is to plead with my captor, try to convince him to let me go. I could promise to just leave and not tell the police what I have seen here, if only he won't kill me. At the very least, maybe I can make enough noise to attract some attention from a downstairs neighbor. Carefully I inch myself toward the door and, as much as it hurts, I lie down on my back with my hands still bound behind me. Kicking the door now, I scream at the top of my lungs. I cry and yell, and sob, and scream some more. I call out for someone, anyone, to come and help me. But no one comes, not even my captor. I will have no opportunity to beg my way free.
Collapsing on the floor I am exhausted and beyond all hope of escape. Truly, I am trapped.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Snowed In (poem)
They’re stuck in there
A mind can bear
But bare no more
For what’s in store.
Still no light
A blinding white
No grace or sin
I’m just snowed in.
-Victoria DeAngelis
Snowed In
At 4:30 in the morning it can be difficult to understand what is happening. Even the lack of a sound at this time of night is enough to set a person's nerves on fire. So when the fan we run for white noise suddenly whirred to a halt, we shot awake the same as if someone were being murdered in the next room.
The truly frightening part about losing power is that you don't initially know why you lost it. We got our answer soon enough. During the dig under the bed for flashlights we heard it - a cracking so loud it was like God ripped open the sky over our house. But it wasn't thunder in December, and what followed next was not the expected rumbling roar of the air masses bumping into one another as they roll across the county. It was a slicing and tearing and crashing that most people go their entire lives without hearing - the sound of wizened trees tumbling to their death as they succumb to the powers of ice and snow.
Running to the window we caught the last moments of the fall as the tree grabbed hold of the second string of electrical wires. Here is where we discovered that, in the moments prior to our waking, the lamppost had cracked in half and was swaying on its cables like a broken arm hanging by a tendon.
Snow alone can be an overtly suffocating thing. Piles up to the windows, branches weighted and full, cold that permeates the marrow. But ice is a powerful entity in a clandestine sort of way. It can seep in where it isn't wanted, expand vulnerabilities, break things apart, and destroy - and that is exactly what it did while we had been sleeping.
The house quickly lost heat as the furnace could no longer run. We were sure that incident was localized, and we figured to have power again soon. Yet, as the morning grew on, and the icy snow-mix continued to dump from the sky, we began to worry.
Buried under many blankets next to the tiny hearth, we struggled to keep warm. The thermostat read 52 degrees Fahrenheit and it was falling. Our little fireplace was not designed to warm the entire house, and it certainly let us know this fact. Only two hours after kindling the blaze as high as it would go, the glass door shattered. Nature loves a good laugh and merely seconds after this fireplace tragedy we heard a now familiar sound as a second tree came crashing down, this time in the backyard, roots and all. I suppose we were lucky that it fell only a few paces from our garage, and not on top of our cars.
This type of rare situation is when a person learns about how much the human body and mind can withstand. For five days the ice continued to fall. For five days we huddled under blankets to keep warm, listened to the transistor radio, and prayed that the pipes wouldn't freeze. For five days we ate peanut butter sandwiches because it was the only thing we had that didn't require the refrigerator or stove. For five days trees all around our property and community fell to their deaths, reminding us that we were not alone in our suffering.
And on the fifth night, when the electric company truck arrived at last, we could say without hyperbole that we must now understand how Edison felt when his light finally turned on.
The truly frightening part about losing power is that you don't initially know why you lost it. We got our answer soon enough. During the dig under the bed for flashlights we heard it - a cracking so loud it was like God ripped open the sky over our house. But it wasn't thunder in December, and what followed next was not the expected rumbling roar of the air masses bumping into one another as they roll across the county. It was a slicing and tearing and crashing that most people go their entire lives without hearing - the sound of wizened trees tumbling to their death as they succumb to the powers of ice and snow.
Running to the window we caught the last moments of the fall as the tree grabbed hold of the second string of electrical wires. Here is where we discovered that, in the moments prior to our waking, the lamppost had cracked in half and was swaying on its cables like a broken arm hanging by a tendon.
Snow alone can be an overtly suffocating thing. Piles up to the windows, branches weighted and full, cold that permeates the marrow. But ice is a powerful entity in a clandestine sort of way. It can seep in where it isn't wanted, expand vulnerabilities, break things apart, and destroy - and that is exactly what it did while we had been sleeping.
The house quickly lost heat as the furnace could no longer run. We were sure that incident was localized, and we figured to have power again soon. Yet, as the morning grew on, and the icy snow-mix continued to dump from the sky, we began to worry.
Buried under many blankets next to the tiny hearth, we struggled to keep warm. The thermostat read 52 degrees Fahrenheit and it was falling. Our little fireplace was not designed to warm the entire house, and it certainly let us know this fact. Only two hours after kindling the blaze as high as it would go, the glass door shattered. Nature loves a good laugh and merely seconds after this fireplace tragedy we heard a now familiar sound as a second tree came crashing down, this time in the backyard, roots and all. I suppose we were lucky that it fell only a few paces from our garage, and not on top of our cars.
This type of rare situation is when a person learns about how much the human body and mind can withstand. For five days the ice continued to fall. For five days we huddled under blankets to keep warm, listened to the transistor radio, and prayed that the pipes wouldn't freeze. For five days we ate peanut butter sandwiches because it was the only thing we had that didn't require the refrigerator or stove. For five days trees all around our property and community fell to their deaths, reminding us that we were not alone in our suffering.
And on the fifth night, when the electric company truck arrived at last, we could say without hyperbole that we must now understand how Edison felt when his light finally turned on.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Heartbreak
Tuesday, May 12
Why are they all looking at me? High school girls are the worst.
I pull my hood farther over my head, creating a horse-blinder effect for myself, blocking them out. I am safely oblivious in my little tunnel...
...until the bell rings, that is, and I have to face the hallway crush. How fast can I get to my locker, find the right books, and slide into social studies? I almost succeed, but three steps outside the door to room 804 I see them - embracing for everyone to see. Angry chords ring in my ears. I practically have to walk between them to get into the classroom. I think I should just fall over and die right now, but heartbreak probably follows even to the afterlife, so I don't bother.
Last week that would have been me in his arms, flaunting our love in front of the whole school. Now she is in my place - a freshman for God's sake! I can't even pretend that I'm a big enough person to realize that this isn't her fault.
School is almost over, and I know that if I can just make it until the last bell without letting the tears spill out, then I will finally be allowed to suffer with dignity - alone in my bedroom, drowning in the flood of my iPod.
Monday, May 11
Here's a tip:
If your boyfriend gives you a letter in the hallway between classes and tells you not to read it until you get home, listen to him - I know this is good advice, because I didn't do it.
Sitting on the neighbor's porch, waiting for Michael to get off the bus, I slide the carefully folded yellow legal-pad paper out of my pocket. (Who writes a letter to their girlfriend on yellow legal-pad paper, by the way?) I figure I have about ten more minutes before the six-year-old babysitting charge from hell gets home from school, and I've been dying to know what is in this letter - one of exactly three letters Gabe has written me in the two years we've been dating.
The first letter had been slipped to me by my friend in math class last year. It totaled one sentence: "Will you go out with me?" I don't even know if one sentence can qualify as a letter, but I count it. The second letter had been written in my yearbook at the end of that same school year - because I made him write something before I would give it to my friends. It took him two weeks.
"Dear Angel," (short for Angelina). "I'm not sure how to say this to you. Things have been changing a lot lately - you're going to college in the fall, and I don't know what I'm doing yet. I can't seem to figure out what I should be doing in life. I think we need to take a break, so I can be alone and make some decisions."
The explanation continued for a full page, but I don't remember anything after the guillotine of a sentence crashed down. When Michael's bus arrives I clean my face quickly and prepare to endure several hours of children's TV and tantrums, until I can go home and shed my tears properly. This is sure to be the worst day of babysitting ever.
Wednesday, May 13
"Are you going to tell him?" Jackie, in science, slips to me on a note. I shake my head and sink deeper down into my seat. It wouldn't matter at this point anyway - he's with Chelsea now. Instead of focusing on the minerals lecture, I dwell on trying to understand how this qualifies as being alone to make some decisions. He should have just sliced open my chest and poured rock salt inside - it would have hurt less than this.
Friday, May 8
The silence in the car is unbearable, bouncing back and forth in the space between my mother and me like electricity. My father won't even look at me. At least my mother is willing to take me to the doctor, so I don't have to go alone. Her eyes can't decide if they want to be angry or sad. Nothing I can say will make it better, so I turn up the volume on my music and stare out the rain-streaked window.
I'm scared and no one knows how to comfort me. I guess I did this to myself.
Thursday, May 14
All morning I've been practicing what I am going to say to him, how I'm going to explain. Scanning the cafeteria, I see him sitting with her at a corner table. Our eyes find each other for just one second - a second that feels like eternity and like nothing, both at the same time - then he looks away and puts his hand on hers.
My tree-root legs will not carry me over there, so I send Jackie with my message and find a place to sit alone in the courtyard. I lose track of how many minute-hour-years pass before he finally joins me on the grass.
Our souls touch in the space between our bodies, and I shiver with the internal recognition. Neither of us speak, and I want to know what he is thinking. I wonder how he will react if I can ever get this sock out of my mouth and form the words I need. Our eyes find each other again and I immediately start to well up, but he does not put his arm around my shoulders in comfort the way I need him to.
I am alone in this.
I suck in some sweet spring air, make myself look at his face again, and utter the first words I've to him since "the letter."
"I'm pregnant."
Why are they all looking at me? High school girls are the worst.
I pull my hood farther over my head, creating a horse-blinder effect for myself, blocking them out. I am safely oblivious in my little tunnel...
...until the bell rings, that is, and I have to face the hallway crush. How fast can I get to my locker, find the right books, and slide into social studies? I almost succeed, but three steps outside the door to room 804 I see them - embracing for everyone to see. Angry chords ring in my ears. I practically have to walk between them to get into the classroom. I think I should just fall over and die right now, but heartbreak probably follows even to the afterlife, so I don't bother.
Last week that would have been me in his arms, flaunting our love in front of the whole school. Now she is in my place - a freshman for God's sake! I can't even pretend that I'm a big enough person to realize that this isn't her fault.
School is almost over, and I know that if I can just make it until the last bell without letting the tears spill out, then I will finally be allowed to suffer with dignity - alone in my bedroom, drowning in the flood of my iPod.
Monday, May 11
Here's a tip:
If your boyfriend gives you a letter in the hallway between classes and tells you not to read it until you get home, listen to him - I know this is good advice, because I didn't do it.
Sitting on the neighbor's porch, waiting for Michael to get off the bus, I slide the carefully folded yellow legal-pad paper out of my pocket. (Who writes a letter to their girlfriend on yellow legal-pad paper, by the way?) I figure I have about ten more minutes before the six-year-old babysitting charge from hell gets home from school, and I've been dying to know what is in this letter - one of exactly three letters Gabe has written me in the two years we've been dating.
The first letter had been slipped to me by my friend in math class last year. It totaled one sentence: "Will you go out with me?" I don't even know if one sentence can qualify as a letter, but I count it. The second letter had been written in my yearbook at the end of that same school year - because I made him write something before I would give it to my friends. It took him two weeks.
"Dear Angel," (short for Angelina). "I'm not sure how to say this to you. Things have been changing a lot lately - you're going to college in the fall, and I don't know what I'm doing yet. I can't seem to figure out what I should be doing in life. I think we need to take a break, so I can be alone and make some decisions."
The explanation continued for a full page, but I don't remember anything after the guillotine of a sentence crashed down. When Michael's bus arrives I clean my face quickly and prepare to endure several hours of children's TV and tantrums, until I can go home and shed my tears properly. This is sure to be the worst day of babysitting ever.
Wednesday, May 13
"Are you going to tell him?" Jackie, in science, slips to me on a note. I shake my head and sink deeper down into my seat. It wouldn't matter at this point anyway - he's with Chelsea now. Instead of focusing on the minerals lecture, I dwell on trying to understand how this qualifies as being alone to make some decisions. He should have just sliced open my chest and poured rock salt inside - it would have hurt less than this.
Friday, May 8
The silence in the car is unbearable, bouncing back and forth in the space between my mother and me like electricity. My father won't even look at me. At least my mother is willing to take me to the doctor, so I don't have to go alone. Her eyes can't decide if they want to be angry or sad. Nothing I can say will make it better, so I turn up the volume on my music and stare out the rain-streaked window.
I'm scared and no one knows how to comfort me. I guess I did this to myself.
Thursday, May 14
All morning I've been practicing what I am going to say to him, how I'm going to explain. Scanning the cafeteria, I see him sitting with her at a corner table. Our eyes find each other for just one second - a second that feels like eternity and like nothing, both at the same time - then he looks away and puts his hand on hers.
My tree-root legs will not carry me over there, so I send Jackie with my message and find a place to sit alone in the courtyard. I lose track of how many minute-hour-years pass before he finally joins me on the grass.
Our souls touch in the space between our bodies, and I shiver with the internal recognition. Neither of us speak, and I want to know what he is thinking. I wonder how he will react if I can ever get this sock out of my mouth and form the words I need. Our eyes find each other again and I immediately start to well up, but he does not put his arm around my shoulders in comfort the way I need him to.
I am alone in this.
I suck in some sweet spring air, make myself look at his face again, and utter the first words I've to him since "the letter."
"I'm pregnant."
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
About the Title
Recently, I have felt pressure from all sides of my life, with no outlet or release anywhere in sight. My career requires of me strict discipline, offers minimal praise, and has recently brought me to tears on two occassions. This has consumed my life and I am no longer happy or satisfied with my daily tasks.
An ever-growing yearning to be creative and peaceful has manifested inside me, and the time has finally arrived to give it some attention. If I do not pay attention to this creative desire that is trapped inside, something horrible is sure to happen. Maya Angelou's poignant poem "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" has been replaying in my mind, and I have found a certain solace in knowing that, although Dr. Angelou's backdrop for this poem is much different than my own, the message is the same. Caged birds sing because they need freedom.
"...The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom."
I am a caged bird, and this writing vessel is my song.
An ever-growing yearning to be creative and peaceful has manifested inside me, and the time has finally arrived to give it some attention. If I do not pay attention to this creative desire that is trapped inside, something horrible is sure to happen. Maya Angelou's poignant poem "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" has been replaying in my mind, and I have found a certain solace in knowing that, although Dr. Angelou's backdrop for this poem is much different than my own, the message is the same. Caged birds sing because they need freedom.
"...The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom."
I am a caged bird, and this writing vessel is my song.
Mission Statement
Every week I will choose a topic and create a written work that fits with the theme.
I will develop this piece of writing for one week, and then on Wednesdays post what I have written.
Then I will choose a new topic and do the whole thing over again!
In order to be a good writer, a person needs to write all the time. With a forum such as this, one with a clear purpose and goal, one that holds me publicly accountable, I believe that my writing skills will improve and I will obtain a sense of creative fulfillment.
I welcome writers out there in "the world" to join me, and over time I hope that this can become a community writing project!
I will develop this piece of writing for one week, and then on Wednesdays post what I have written.
Then I will choose a new topic and do the whole thing over again!
In order to be a good writer, a person needs to write all the time. With a forum such as this, one with a clear purpose and goal, one that holds me publicly accountable, I believe that my writing skills will improve and I will obtain a sense of creative fulfillment.
I welcome writers out there in "the world" to join me, and over time I hope that this can become a community writing project!
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