(PORTFOLIO) Chapter Nineteen: New Piece

I love poetry. We didn’t really get a chance to work on it in class this year, but I still wrote several and put them up on my blog. I wrote this one especially for the portfolio. With poems, I usually create them as song lyrics, though I myself am not a song writer. I imagine little melodies that could go with them, that someone more skilled with music could write and figure out what notes best go with these words. This poem seemed perfect to include in my portfolio because it describes the emotions of someone ready to go on a journey, which is what all of us are about to do. My own personal journey will take me to college this fall, but after that, who knows? It’s exciting, and scary, and I’m not sitting on the sidelines anymore; I’m ready to start living in the thick of things.

Ready for Life

I wish to cry I wish to be burnt

I wish to bleed I wish to be spurned

By the love of my life at an altar filled with white

Roses, doves will never fly from the box, it makes me cry

I wish to feel I wish to do

I wish to be caught breaking all the rules

I wish to hear a fearsome noise

I wish to have cause to rejoice

But for that I must know what it’s like to let joy go

Being sad on a boat, waves and thunder, wet and soaked

It lets us know

I have yet to love I have yet to touch

I have yet to be broken and yet to be built up

So let’s begin, there’s the road, curtains open, start the show

Give me a sin, list of goals, check one off and scream “Oh, no!”

Oh no-o-o-o-o-o-oooooo…

I take a step I take a breath

One wants to live, one must forget

Must forgive their own sins, time’s only wasted if you admit

Up we split, no more gifts, lies and truths born from two lips. 

(PORTFOLIO) Chapter Eighteen: Artifact #3

          This is a revised version of my second flash fiction piece, which was very much based on emotion and character interactions. It was also very unfinished, very unsure of what it wanted to be. Originally I focused the story on Dana, but when rewriting the tale, I realized it worked better if Heather was our window into the story. I also refocused the story onto the time leading up to the surgery itself, which was difficult; I really want to follow up on the concept of a modern day, medically-created mermaid, but I think The Morning Of works better if the audience doesn't know if the surgery goes well. I wanted to make a story where plastic surgery isn't demonized nor glorified; it just is. This piece showcases my skills with dialogue, along with my love for mixing the supernatural with drama between characters. The fact that I resolved to return and edit this immediately after writing the original was the final sign that this revised piece belonged in my portfolio.

The Morning Of

         

          Heather looked out the window of her hospital room and smiled. She brushed a hair back and turned her head to look at the entrance to her room. Dana was supposed to be visiting soon. She had to hurry; the operation was only twenty minutes away. Less, hopefully. I need it to be less, I want to do it now.

          Dana suddenly entered her vision, dressed in grey and scarves and glasses and frizziness.

“Dana!” Heather cried out. Dana smiled and hugged her, then pulled up a chair.

“I’d offer you a coffee, but I’m guessing you can’t eat anything,” Dana apologized, sipping her latte. Heather shook her head.

“No, it’s okay. I’m so excited, I don’t even care.” Lattes were her favorite.

Dana looked up at the clock. “You’re still excited?”

“I’ve been excited every day for a month,” Heather said.

“Because if you’re not, Heather, it’s okay. You can still back out.” Dana’s mouth shifted to one side of her face, and she reached out a hand to Heather’s. “You can totally still back out. No one would blame you, it’s such a risky-“

“Dana,” Heather cut off, “ I want to do this. I’ve thought about it so much, and having this conversation one more time? It’s not good for either of us.” Heather smiled and squeezed Dana’s hand. “I’m ready for new adventures, Dana. I’m ready to go to places no one else has ever been, to be the first person to do this.”

“There are so many better ways to go about having adventures,” Dana said, her voice choking up a bit, “so many better ways.”

“There were so many better ways to…” Heather struggled to think of an analogy that would help Dana understand. Dana, blogger. Dana, tennis champion. Dana, physics major. “Beat the big scary Russians. There were lots of better ways to do that, but we went to the moon. I want to go to the moon, Dana.”

Dana’s tears fell freely now. “The moon was so much safer than this. They’d been planning for years.”

“They've been planning this for years, too. They've tested it on animals already, and it’s worked.”

“You’re not a rat, Heather…you’re my best friend.” She grabbed Heather with her arms and held her tight. “I-I’m sorry, I- I’m just really scared, I don’t want anything to-to-“

Heather hugged her back, whispering comfort until the doctors came to take her away. She said a little prayer that the surgery would work, and that Dana wouldn’t be too scared.

The operating room was filled with doctors, nurses, people in white and blue and violet.

“Count backwards from fifty, Heather,” said one doctor, masked…the voice was kind and familiar, though. “When you wake up, you’ll be…”

“…the world’s first mermaid,” Heather finished sleepily. She drifted into a future, full of hope and anesthesia. 

(PORTFOLIO) Chapter Seventeen: Artifact #2

Storm Marches was my third piece of flash fiction written for this class, and I’m quite proud of the story. It tells the tale of a lost soul looking for love, and while not intentionally written as a children’s story, the piece certainly has a child-like tone. I feel that this piece highlights my ability to use descriptive language. Indeed, it was almost too flowery initially, meaning I had to do a lot of editing; certain sentences ran on and on, while others contained awkward phrases that needed rewording. Many were repetitious in language and word choice, leaving nothing implied, so I think that Storm Marches benefited greatly from being revised for this portfolio.  

Storm Marches

          There once was a small fox named Grass Stone, tiny as a housecat with pointy ears like a dog. Grass Stone's ears were dipped in black ink, as were his paws and nose, but the rest of him was orange like clay. He had a skinny tail that wasn't quite as fluffy as he'd like it to be, and wide eyes.

          Grass Stone lived in an old, abandoned farmhouse near a road. He hadn't always lived there; a big park full of pine trees and large rocks was his first home. He had lived there with his mother and siblings, until they all got bigger and went their separate ways. Some days Grass Stone sat in the farmhouse and wished he could be with his litter again, curled up in a ball with lots of people who loved him.

          Sometimes a butterfly flew through the barn. Grass Stone liked to yip at it in the hopes that it would come down, all orange and black and spotted; maybe it would even stay with him for a night or two. The butterfly never did, nor the birds that made their home in the rafters for weeks at a time. The birds would make little eggs that became little birds, which grew and grew until they flew away again.

          Grass Stone curled up in the old hay every night and shut his eyes. He didn’t always go to sleep with a full belly. There was a pain in his chest most nights; it didn’t hurt like the scars from his fight with the stray cat. It was a strange pain, one that Grass Stone didn't know how to push away.

          One day Grass Stone woke up to find the orange, black, spotted butterfly resting on his knows. He immediately caught his breath, not wanting to disturb the little creature and scare it away. But Grass Stone was still a young, wild thing, and he couldn't stay still for long. Before the current family of little birds started chirping, Grass Stone had sneezed, and the butterfly burst into the air as if thrown up by a hurricane. It flitted away from Grass Stone, out of the abandoned farmhouse through a hole in the weathered planks. Grass Stone trotted after it, whining apologetically.

          He found himself slipping between the large, creaky doors. Had the butterfly been sleeping? Maybe it wanted to stay with the fox, it was just frightened by the loud noise of his sneeze. Grass Stone just had to let the butterfly know he hadn't sneezed on purpose, that was all.

          The morning light made his pupils grow like sunflowers. As he made his way through the tall grass surrounding the farmhouse, Grass Stone could feel dew pass from the stalks to his fur. It felt wet and clean, like a special bath. He thought of his mother, keeping him safe and keeping him clean.

          Up ahead, the butterfly made a loop around a telephone pole. Its pursuer tried to keep up, panting. The sun and the moon were both hovering in the sky on either side of the insect.

          At some point, Grass Stone realized his paws were dashing over hard, black ground. He stopped and looked down at the road, only to discover that it wasn't his road, not the one outside his old, abandoned farmhouse. It was wider, and a red car was racing towards him. Grass Stone yipped in fear and rushed across the remainder of the street, arriving on the other side just in the nick of time. The car sent out a rush of wind that buffeted his clay-colored fur like the breezes in his farmhouse field.

          Safe on the other side, Grass Stone was free to turn his head and look back at the wide road, black as night with markings as yellow as a dandelion and whiter than the moon. Splatters of rain gushed out of the road's surface , even as more struck . Grass Stone, unsure of where he was, turned around and looked for the butterfly.

          He saw a green hill spotted with powdery white flowers. It sloped down into a flowing creek, bordered by dark brown dirt on one side and a small clay cliff on the other. A grove of oak trees protected part of the creek from the storm brewing above. Grass Stone tentatively made his way through the flowers and grass and rain to the creek, where he bent his head and slowly lapped up the water. The surface, protected by tree branches, was smooth, so Grass Stone could clearly see movement reflected in it. He looked up in surprise and fear.

          On the small clay hill were three foxes. They were all very wet, but they stood up straight, their eyes shining with curiosity. One of them, whose ears were angled a bit further back than most foxes, crept towards the edge of the hill and looked down at him. Grass Stone's eyes closed shut in fear.

          He didn't hear the fierce growl he expected, but instead a soft cry. His eyes opened up, and he saw the two other foxes side by side with the first. They all watched him and whined. Grass Stone didn't understand until he saw the orange and black butterfly flapping above their heads. His tail began to wave as he splashed across the creek and up the clay hill, where the other foxes started to yip happily. 

(PORTFOLIO) Chapter Sixteen: Artifact #1

My children’s story, and first artifact, is called The Fairy and the Centaur, and belongs in my portfolio because it’s a perfect example of something I want to do with my writing: change how people think. The written word is a powerful tool for changing people’s minds, and in this story I strive both to entertain and to share a history-inspired allegory. The children who read this book won’t be old enough to remember the events that inspired it, but I hope it still teaches them to think before being afraid. To prepare it for my portfolio, I followed the advice of my classmates from our peer editing sessions and changed many sentences, in order to lessen repetition and leave out unnecessary information. I hope everyone who reads this knows that there’s nothing wrong with being wrong, so long as one learns from the experience. 

Page Number	Text
1	Copyright page
2, 3	Title page (“The Fairy and the Centaur”); Dedication page (“To everyone who was wrong.”)
4	Far away, but closer than you might think, is a great, green valley filled with thick forests, rushing rivers and crystal-clear ponds.
5	The valley is home to two kinds of people: the centaurs, half-human and half-horse, and the fairies, tiny people with dragonfly wings that zoom this way and that, leaving magic wherever they go.
6	Today, the fairies and centaurs get along very well, but it wasn’t always so. Once, not as long ago as you might think, a nasty fairy called the Lightning Fairy appeared. He had bright yellow hair that went this way and that, and angry, dark eyes.
7	The Lightning Fairy hated all centaurs. No one quite knew why, though many tried to figure it out. For whatever reason, the Lightning Fairy took a magic spell and put it in a pond where some centaurs liked to drink. He flew off, cackling away into the night.
8	The magic spell made the next centaur to drink from the pool grab his stomach and moan. A fever gripped his body, while chills shook him back and forth. Some of his friends gave him medicine, while the other centaurs wondered how he got sick.
9	“That pond has never made anyone sick before,” said the Eldest Centaur. She had long white hair, fierce eyebrows, and a strong horse half as brown as a chestnut. “Someone must have cast a spell on it!”
10	“The only people who can do that are the fairies!” called one centaur. “It was the Lightning Fairy! I saw him do it!” shouted her friend. The angry centaurs looked at their leader, and the Eldest Centaur looked back at them. “From this day forth, I declare all fairies enemies of the centaurs!” she roared.
11	Meanwhile, the fairies had captured the Lightning Fairy and taken him to their sacred home underneath a waterfall. “Send him to the Enchanted Prison!” declared the Council of Fairies. The Enchanted Prison was high up in the sky within a dark storm cloud. He wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else there.
12	Just after the Lightning Fairy was taken away, a young fairy named the Cloud Fairy rushed in, gasping for breath. She had short black hair, and wherever she flew, wispy white clouds followed.
13	“What is it, child?” the Fairy Council asked the Cloud Fairy. She took a deep breath and said, “The centaurs are angry because of what the Lightning Fairy did! They’ve declared us their enemies!” All the fairies gasped and became very afraid.
14	Back at the centaurs’ pond, all of the centaurs were feeling very angry and, strangely enough, afraid…all except for one: the Littlest Centaur, who was feeling quite confused.
15	“Only the Lightning Fairy poisoned the pond, right?” she wondered. “So then…why are we so mad at all of the other fairies, too? It doesn’t make sense.”
16	The Littlest Centaur decided to go for a gallop in the woods to clear her head. Her tiny hooves beat against the ground. Soon she became tired and stopped for a rest near a sandy cliff overlooking a vast river.
17	That sandy cliff also happened to be the thinking spot of the Cloud Fairy, who was sitting on a rock, trying to decide what to do about the problem. How could she show the centaurs that fairies weren’t all bad? Would they ever believe her?
18	For a very long time, both of the young people sat and thought in silence, not noticing each other, struggling to come up with a good solution.
19	Twenty minutes before sunrise, when even the most playful stars were getting ready to go back to bed, the Littlest Centaur and the Cloud Fairy realized the same thing: “The centaurs are only angry because they’re afraid!” they exclaimed.
20	The Littlest Centaur and the Cloud Fairy both jumped a little, surprised to realize someone else was there. “Who are you?” asked the Littlest Centaur. “The Cloud Fairy,” said the Cloud Fairy. “I’m the Littlest Centaur,” said the Littlest Centaur.
21	“Are you centaurs really afraid of us?” asked the Cloud Fairy, once the introductions were in order. “We are,” answered the Littlest Centaur. “See, we don’t talk to fairies much. To be honest, we don’t know that much about you. So when the Lightning Fairy poisoned the pond, when he acted like he hated us…we thought you were all like that. We thought you all hated us.”
22	The Cloud Fairy listened, and thought about what her new friend had said before replying. “Well, we’re not all like him…we’ve got our bad eggs, but don’t you--the centaurs—too?” The Littlest Centaur thought of a few nasty centaurs and nodded. “Yes, we’ve got our ‘bad eggs,’ too.”
23	The Cloud Fairy and the Littlest Centaur decided they had to go explain things to everyone. The Littlest Centaur went home and told all of her friends and family to gather in a meadow, while the Cloud Fairy convinced the Fairy Council to fly there.
24	When the Eldest Centaur saw the fairies, she hissed and stomped her legs. “Why have you come here, fairies?” she demanded. “You’re not welcome here! We won’t allow you to hurt us again, not now that we know what you’re really like!”
25	The Littlest Centaur took a deep breath, then put on a fierce face and stomped her hooves to get everyone’s attention. “No,” she said bravely, “you know what one fairy is like.”
26	On the Littlest Centaur’s shoulder landed the Cloud Fairy, fluttering down and beginning to speak. She managed to be quite loud, for a fairy. “What the Lightning Fairy did was horrible,” she began, “but only one fairy did that.”
27	“He is not a good person. But that doesn’t mean all fairies are like him. We are a peaceful people, like you centaurs! We love the forest, and we love our families and friends.”
28	“Some people are nice, and some are mean. But you can’t decide someone is bad just because they’re a fairy,” the Cloud Fairy finished, gazing at the centaurs, “or because they’re a centaur.” She looked at the Fairy Council, then became silent.
29	The Fairy Council and the centaurs listened to what the Cloud Fairy had to say, and thought about it for a few moments. Then they all shook hands and decided to live as friends, not enemies.
30	From that day on, the fairies and the centaurs lived together in the great, green valley, flying and running through the woods…
31	…and it was all possible because a young fairy and a young centaur figured out something very important, and shared it with everyone they knew.
32	About the Author page.

(PORTFOLIO) Chapter Fifteen: Letter to the Reader

Letter to the Reader

Writing can be scary. It sounds silly, doesn’t it? After all, it’s just putting words down on paper. It’s just taking ideas out of one’s head and getting them out there for the world to see. At the same time, there’s something terrifying about that. What if the readers don’t like what one writes? What if they think a piece is bad? With all of these thoughts spinning around in my head, it’s no wonder that I don’t write as much as I should. However, during the second semester of my senior year of high school, I took a class called “Creative Writing” that taught me something incredibly important: writing is about taking risks.

Back at the beginning of the course, we watched several interviews with published authors who explained the importance of practicing writing. Writing, as they put it, is a skill like any other, and must be worked with every day in order to improve. No one is just going to write something amazing the first time, just as no wannabe basketball player will make their very first basket, nor will a new violinist play a beautiful sonata by memory the first time they pick up an instrument. Many of these writers carry around writing notebooks, so that they can write whenever and wherever is good for them. Some of the packets we read at the start of the course emphasized the importance of having a set time for writing every day, in order to add it to one’s routine. All of these tips really hit home for me: I am not going to write a bestselling novel in one sitting. I am not going to create my masterpiece the first go around. I need to work at writing and hone my skills, which is a scary thing to do but a risk worth taking.

All of the risk that I took this year paid off, even if it’s not very clear how. Even the pieces I wrote this year that didn’t come out as well as I’d like taught me ways to improve my writing. For instance, my second attempt at flash fiction—the original, unedited version of The Morning Of—taught me that point of view, even in a third person story where point of view isn’t as obvious, is critical. A story might work if told from one character’s perspective (as that tale did from Heather’s point of view) but fall flat from someone else’s eyes, as the original version of The Morning Of did. My fifth attempt at flash fiction fell through because I hadn’t planned it out enough; I didn’t really know who Lila or Reese were as characters, and while I knew the mystery behind the golden apple, I didn’t know how the they should factor into it. Writing that story taught me that even if a writer wants to let the characters create a story, or if she or he wants to see how a narrative develops as they write, there must always be some degree of planning, however small. Without a big enough sense of direction, the story can’t go anywhere, and that is critical.

Other risks I took both helped me grow as a writer and made for good stories. My children’s story, The Fairy and the Centaur, managed to tell an allegorical story without being overly preachy. I’m not a fan of the Cloud Fairy’s speech being three pages long, but I think with a good illustrator, those pages could remain interesting for the readers while delivering their message. However, this story, along with my third piece of flash fiction, Storm Marches, reminded me of one of my recurring writing flaws: I often write long sentences with repetitious adjectives and unneeded adverbs. It’s as if I’m trying to prove my writing skills to the audience, and it’s something that I need to work on. However, with Storm Marches and The Fairy and the Centaur, rereads, editing, and peer reviews proved to be useful tools to correcting this problem. Both of these stories also happened to be prose fiction, which I’m often afraid to write. I sometimes feel scared that I don’t know the characters well enough, that I haven’t planned far enough ahead, that I don’t have a tone down for each character and passage. However, through writing these two pieces of fiction, along with my first and fourth pieces of flash fiction (Cold and Cool  and Something Strange, Something New respectively), I learned that when it comes to prose, I just have to practice. It’s the only way I can ever improve, and I can always return to edit the pieces later.

I’m very proud of my portfolio. It shows my progression through the realms of prose and flash fiction, along with small poems that I’m very happy with. When I write poetry, I try to channel emotions into words that others can connect to and find new meaning in. I think that the poems, combined with my flash fiction, helps show who I am as a writer: someone intrigued by both the ordinary and the strange, someone who wants to connect the two, just as my blog connects poems to prose. My blog and portfolio show that I’m already strong when it comes to poetry, but that I have lots of room to grow in the realm of prose fiction. It’s a skill that I can’t wait to develop.

I’m very glad that I took this course, because it helped me to take risks and helped me to start this blog. I plan on continuing to update it with poems, flash fiction…maybe even some longer, ongoing serial stories. I hope that the readers are inspired to write something of their own, because it really is the most marvelous feeling in the world to look back and see how far one has come, and how far one can go.

Respectfully,

Joseph Drake

Chapter Fourteen: Six-Word Memoir

Here is my very late six-word memoir, made for my creative writing class!

Chapter Thirteen: In Case You Were Craving Another Poem...

(Like most of my poems, I think of this as a song. Despite some of the lyrics, it's meant to be upbeat and exciting- maybe to actually mock the singer and their attitude...)

Take Me to the Hill

Getting a little bit too introspective

Wondering too much about who I am

Right now, darling, the best gift you could give

Is to break the mirror I'm clenching in my hand.

Take me to the beach, or better yet a hill

With lots of dandelions and one willow tree

Convince me to take a breath and stand very still

Get me to climb to the top and ask me "What do you see?"

I've dipped my feet in the stream of life

But the water's very hot; I've gotta find a spot

Where I can see the stars in the sky.

I know that thinking like this is poison in the well

I'm drowning, cannot breathe...so darling, if you please

Would you save me from myself?

Would you save me from myself?

Oh, baby, baby, won't you save me

From myself? 

(My Daemon, a Chickadee. Picture credit goes to Wikipedia.)

(Another note: the verses- first two stanzas- and refrain - third stanza- can be interchanged and repeated as much as desired, were this to be a song.)

Chapter Twelve: Flash Fiction, Revised and Edited (Post #9)

Something Strange, Something New

"So is no one gonna bring up the undead elephant in the room?" Ashley asks. Jenna and I shush him. He stays quiet for an impressive five seconds before continuing, "Seriously, I can't be the only one in the room wondering what they're going to do on the honeym-"
"That's really not church conversation," I point out reproachfully.
Jenna takes a different tactic, raising an eyebrow and twisting her lips to one side. "Is this really the kind of thing you think about when you're bored?"
"Well, I'm not exactly into the whole 'talking to God' thing, so...yep, either finals or this," Ashley shoots back at her, not missing a beat. He leans forward and taps his foot on the ground like the White Rabbit. Jenna rolls her eyes and slips her frizzy blonde hair behind an ear.
"You're so obnoxious."
"So you've told me!"
The excited murmur of the other guests keep their jibes from attracting attention. I smile quietly and look straight ahead at the altar, which is bedecked in white tulips and a yellow flower I don't know the name of. God, help Jenna not to murder Ashley. At least not until the ceremony's done.
The prayer works for at least the next five minutes, when an organ starts playing the traditional song, echoing and metallic. I turn my head to the right a bit so that I can better see the groom and his best man. They both wear the traditional black tuxedos with boutineers made up of that same yellow flower. The groom, Jesse, would appear calm if you didn't know him that well, but Ashley, Jenna and I can tell he's nervous. Something about the way he stands gives it away; I think it has to do with his feet.
Jesse is looking past us and the other guests. We join him in eyeing the back of the church when we hear the long creak that means the double doors are opening.
Two girls, tall and short, neither chubby nor skinny, enter, throwing rose petals and lady's lace across the aisle. Behind them comes the father of the bride- he wears glasses, tuxedo, and a quiet smile- and the bride herself.
Monique is all gold. Jesse told me once in private that it's because she died at sunrise. I met her after that, so I can't say how much she's changed. Now, though...now she has yellow amber skin and shining eyes. Her hair and fingertips get sort of blurry near the ends, while translucent, golden mist emanates from her entire body, all except from the arm she's wound through her father's. I can't see anything through her arm. Jesse didn't tell me about that. I glance back at him to see two tears dragging themselves down his face. Gravity is no match for the smile that spreads across his usually stoic face.
Monique's father lets her go when they arrive in front of the pews. Monique smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek. His eyes squint, and tears fall down them, too. I can see her lips pass in some space through his skin, like she's an illusion, a projection. Maybe becoming solid is something that she can only do with a lot of effort. It must be difficult, being a ghost.
I think I'm right- Monique is breathing heavily. She doesn't care. Monique and Jesse stretch their hands towards the other, and they take up the same space in the air. Jesse has stopped crying, and Monique is smiling just as happily as he is. Her dress is gorgeous. It is golden and misty, too, crafted from her own spirit and passion. I guess that means there's no budget restrictions, though; tiny gems sparkle all around the hips and lower bodice. The dress is strapless, with long gloves going from her fingertips to her upper arms. It looks like something from a masquerade ball. Jesse did say Monique was something of a nerd, a fan of fantasy video games with magic, goblins and heroes. I smile at that; they should get along just fine.
The pastor gets on with the ceremony. Jesse and Monique respond in the proper places. I glance to my left during a hymn: Jenna is letting Ashley lean against her shoulder tolerantly. His face is all red and screwed up, and I hope I don't laugh.
I wonder if Monique's father knows how happy she and Jesse are. I wonder if he's thinking back to two years ago. I hope he's thinking about now, instead.
The pastor, a thin, elderly woman, beams serenely at the couple. I hope that Ashley wasn't right about the problem of the couple's...physicality.
"You may kiss the bride," she announces. Monique leans forward to meet Jesse, and their lips touch- I don't know if both pairs were solid in the sense that most people are familiar with. Jesse and Monique stop after more than ten seconds of applause and cheers, one of the loudest from Ashley (he's now crying openly. I have to chuckle.) The two make their way, side by side, hands sharing air and space, and soon they break into a run.
I've never seen a ghost run before. The main difference between how a human and ghost do so is that the latter makes the air shimmer, like someone passing behind a silk curtain.
I don't have time to think about that, though. I'm too busy clapping with everyone else.

Chapter Eleven: Flash Fiction Revision

Not all relationships are conventional. Not everything turns out the way we think it will. That doesn't mean it turns out badly, though; sometimes all it takes is a willingness to stretch our mind. While you're reading this, think about whether or not you think Jesse and Monique can make it in the long run, and let me know in the comments!

 

I hope my poor taste in fashion design doesn't detract from your enjoyment of this story. I couldn't design myself an ugly Christmas sweater, much less a wedding dress.

 

On to the story.

Something Strange, Something New

"So is no one gonna bring up the undead elephant in the room?" Ashley asks. Jenna and I shush him. He stays quiet for an impressive five seconds before continuing, "Seriously, I can't be the only one in the room wondering what they're going to do on the honeym-"
"That's really not church conversation," I point out reproachfully.
Jenna takes a different tactic, raising an eyebrow and twisting her lips to one side. "Is this really the kind of thing you think about when you're bored?"
"Well, I'm not exactly into the whole 'talking to God' thing, so...yep, either Finals or this," Ashley shoots back at her, not missing a beat. He leans forward and taps his foot on the ground like the White Rabbit. Jenna rolls her eyes and slips her frizzy blonde hair behind an ear.
"You're so obnoxious."
"So you've told me!"
The excited murmur of the other guests keep their jibes from attracting attention. I smile quietly and look straight ahead at the altar, which is bedecked in white tulips and a yellow flower I don't know the name of. God, help Jenna not to murder Ashley. At least not until the ceremony's done.
The prayer works for at least the next five minutes, when organ starts playing the traditional song, echoing and metallic. I turn my head to the right a bit so that I can better see the groom and his best man. They both wear the traditional black tuxedos with boutineers made up of that same yellow flower. The groom, Jesse, would appear calm if you didn't know him that well, but Ashley, Jenna and I can tell he's nervous. Something about the way he stands gives it away; I think it has to do with his feet.
Jesse is looking past us and the other guests. We join him in eyeing the back of the church when we hear the long creak that means the double doors are opening.
Two girls, tall and short, neither chubby nor skinny, enter, throwing rose petals and lady's lace across the aisle. Behind them comes the father of the bride- he wears glasses, tuxedo, and a quiet smile- and the bride herself.
Monique is all gold. Jesse told me once in private that it's because she died at sunrise. I met her after that, so I can't say how much she's changed. Now, though...now she has yellow amber skin and shining eyes. Her hair and fingertips get sort of blurry near the ends, while translucent, golden mist emanates from her entire body, all except from the arm she's wound through her father's. I can't see anything through her arm. Jesse didn't tell me about that. I glance back at him to see two tears dragging themselves down his face. Gravity is no match for the smile that spreads across his usually stoic face.
Monique's father lets her go when they arrive in front of the pews. Monique smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek. His eyes squint, and tears fall down them, too. I can see her lips pass in some space through his skin, like she's an illusion, a projection. Maybe becoming solid is something that she can only do with a lot of effort. It must be difficult, being a ghost.
I think I'm right- Monique is breathing heavily. She doesn't care. Monique and Jesse stretch their hands towards the other, and they take up the same space in the air. Jesse has stopped crying, and Monique is smiling just as happily as he is. Her dress is gorgeous. It is golden and misty, too, crafted from her own spirit and passion. I guess that means there's no budget restrictions, though; tiny gems sparkle all around the hips and lower bodice. The dress is strapless, with long gloves going from her fingertips to her upper arms. It looks like something from a masquerade ball. Jesse did say Monique was something of a nerd, a fan of fantasy video games with magic, goblins and heroes. I smile at that; they should get along just fine.
The pastor gets on with the ceremony. Jesse and Monique respond in the proper places. I glance to my left during a hymn: Jenna is letting Ashley lean against her shoulder tolerantly. His face is all red and screwed up, and I hope I don't laugh.
I wonder if Monique's father knows how happy she and Jesse are. I wonder if he's thinking back to two years ago. I hope he's thinking about now, instead.
The pastor, a thin, elderly woman, beams serenely at the couple. I hope that Ashley wasn't right about the problem of the couple's...physicality.
"You may kiss the bride," she announces. Monique leans forward to meet Jesse, and their lips touch- I don't know if both pairs were solid in the sense that most people are familiar with. Jesse and Monique stop after more than ten seconds of applause and cheers, one of the loudest from Ashley (he's now crying openly. I have to chuckle.) The two make their way, side by side, hands sharing air and space, and soon they break into a run.
I've never seen a ghost run before. The main difference between the ways a ghost and a living person run is that a ghost makes the air shimmer, like someone passing behind a silk curtain. I don't have time to think about that, though. I'm too busy clapping with everyone else.
























(PS: None of the gifs I use are my gifs! If the original owner doesn't want people to use it, let me know and I'll take it down. :) )

Chapter Ten: The Fourth Poem

Flicker to Burst

Is it too much to request

That you pay your debt?

I put a lot of work into this

And the time that’s gone, well, she’ll be sorely missed.

Sometimes emotions don’t make sense

Temptation itself is guiltless

Stupidity’s not contagious

Rage feels good ‘til you start the raging.

Fire, I’ll put you out

Desire, I cast you out

Of my life

Of my breath

Brimstone hail, it soon will pass

It soon will pass.

Am I the lightning or the tree?

Judgment shouldn’t be passed half-heartedly.

Red compliments orange if you look just right

Make a list of angles you haven’t tried.

Hands kiss, lips brush, arms rips open

Warm mist, stay still, what’s “devotion?”

They mock you for your curious notion

Remember Easter at the ocean?

Arrow, I’ll  dodge you

Careful, surrounded

By the lights

Who were right

And now they say, it soon will pass

Stars like to say, this too will pass.

Chapter Nine: A Third Poem

The Boiling Point Duet

Reasons reasons

Keep me bleeding

Struggling searching

For something that doesn't really matter.

Hurting trying

Stay up all night dying

Rip my hair out, never stop crying

You're a fool too much a tool of your own mind.

I don't have to prove myself to you

So turn around and sink into the blue

Is it really too much to ask

That you give a little bit back?

Castles built blood spilt

I'll cut it out if you will

Matters of matter

Too much chatter

Not enough meaning, winter cleaning

Magazines rip when you let too much steam in.

It's really not that much to ask of you

Make a little effort not to be so cruel

Justify

If you want lies

Why oh why

I won't deny                                                                                                    Get off your high

Things've been getting                                                                                    Get off your high

Worse.                                                                                                             Horse.

Things've been getting

Progessively heading

Towards a place that's

Worse.

Things've been getting

Progressively heading

Towards a place that's

I didn't want this! I wanted us to last

It's possible you're overreact-                                             Impossible this has become what it has

-ing



Reasons don't matter

Maybe it's better

If I take off for                                                                                      If you try to love me for

The night.

I'll think of you when I'm driving down the highway.

Please stay and try to love me for tonight.

***

Like most of what I write, this started as one thing and turned into another. HEAVY inspiration from Monsters and Men.  I actually picture most of my poems as songs now.

The right side is one person singing, the left another, and the middle is where they sing in unison. If both people have words on the same line, it means they're singing different things at the same time.
 

Chapter Eight: My Fifth Attempt at Flash Fiction

   Lila looked up at Reese in amusement. "I bet it is. Did you pick up the salad dressing at the store?" She turned and made her way to the fridge, which she opened and stared into. "I really like the Sky High kind. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with the store brand, but-"
   "Lila, shut up about the salad dressing for a second." Lila turned with a bemused curl of her mouth and wrinkle of her nose.
   "What's up, honey?"
   "I'm not joking."
   Lila's eyes narrowed. She looked at the apple on the table, then back at Reese, then at the large yellow apple once more.
   "Tell me again about the apple," she asked.
   "A woman came in," Reese began to oblige.
   "What did she look like?" Lila asked.
   "She was black, and she was wearing a labcoat. Her hair was in a ponytail, but she was out of breath. Sort of...disheveled."
   "Okay, go on."
   "She came in-"
   "How did she come in? Was the front door open?"
   "No, she had to- I don't know how she got in."
   "Okay, she broke in. What next?"
   "I found her, and I was scared, because- you know- someone in our house."
   Lila looked over at the rolling pin and dough sprinkled with flour on the counter.
   "Did you hit her with the rolling pin?"
   Reese blushed. "No, but I was going to."
   Lila tried not to smile. "Okay, why didn't you?"
   "She was there, and I picked it up, and I asked her who she was and told her to get the hell out. She held up her hands, and told me she wasn't going to hurt me. She just needed help." Reese looked back down at the large golden apple.

--------

This isn't done yet, it's definitely a work in progress.



I swear to God, it'll be finished up soon!

Chapter Seven: Another Poem

A Prayer

There's a desert

There's a desert far across the world

And in that desert

In that desert 'cross the world

Someone walks.

Someone walks

Someone walks in that desert 'cross the world

And each stride burns

Each stride burns like fire

But they keep walking

And they'll keep walking 'til they're done.

'Cause rain comes to every single corner of the earth

Every broken soul will get a chance to look up high

And feel a rush of creation they haven't felt since birth

The rains will fall, and forgiveness, sweet forgiveness, it will rise.

The person walking

The person walking hasn't stopped

'Cause if they stopped, well...

If they stopped, they'd never get to where they're heading

And where they're heading is so green and good.

Where they're heading is so very green and good.

'Cause every face will get the chance to kiss a summer breeze

It'll come when you least expect it, it'll leave again just as fast

But when you're left on a hillside, left crying on your knees

The sun will shine, so give forgiveness, good forgiveness, a chance.

I don't know if we'll get there

I don't know  if it's real

But I know that it's worth it

Even if I don't know what I feel.

I know that this is better

Than anything else

So here's a glass to good weather

And a glass to your health.

'Cause a star or two is shining above our tangled heads

Everyone deserves to use a meadow for a bed

The flowers keep us safe, my dear, of that I have no doubt

The smell of earth and you tell me forgiveness wins this round.

Chapter Six: My Fourth Attempt at Flash Fiction

Something Strange, Something New

"So is no one gonna bring up the undead elephant in the room?" Ashley asks. Jenna and I shush him. He stays quiet for an impressive five seconds before continuing, "Seriously, I can't be the only one in the room wondering what they're going to do on the honeym-"
"That's really not church conversation," I point out reproachfully.
Jenna takes a different tactic, raising an eyebrow and twisting her lips to one side. "Is this really the kind of thing you think about when you're bored?"
"Well, I'm not exactly into the whole 'talking to God' thing, so...yep, either Finals or this," Ashley snarks right back at her. He leans forward and taps his foot on the ground like the White Rabbit. Jenna rolls her eyes and slips her frizzy blonde hair behind an ear.
"You're so obnoxious."
"So you've told me!"
The excited murmur of the other guests keep their jibes from attracting attention. I smile quietly and look straight ahead at the altar bedecked in white tulips and a yellow flower I don't know the name of. God, help Jenna not to murder Ashley. At least not until the ceremony's done. 
The prayer works for at least the next five minutes, and the organ starts playing the traditional song, echoing and metallic. I turn my head to the right a bit so that I can better see the groom and his best man. Jesse would appear calm if you didn't know him that well, but Ashley, Jenna and I can tell he's nervous. Something about the way he stands gives it away; I think it has to do with his feet.
Jesse is looking past us and the other guests. We join him in eyeing the back of the church when we hear the long creak that means the double doors are opening.
Two girls, tall and short, neither chubby nor skinny, enter, throwing rose petals and lady's lace across the aisle. Behind them comes the father of the bride- he wears glasses, tuxedo, and a quiet smile- and the bride herself.
Monique is all gold. Jesse told me once in private that it's because she died at sunrise. I met her after that, so I can't say how much she's changed. Now, though...now she has yellow amber skin and shining eyes. Her hair and fingertips get sort of blurry near the ends, while translucent, golden mist emanates from her entire body, all except from the arm she's wound through her father's. I can't see anything through her arm. Jesse didn't tell me about that. I glance back at him to see two tears dragging themselves down his face. Gravity is no match for the smile that spreads across his usually stoic face.
Monique's father lets her go when they arrive in front of the pews. Monique smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek. His eyes squint, and tears fall down them, too. I can see her lips pass in some space through his skin, like she's an illusion, a projection. Maybe becoming solid is something that she can only do with a lot of effort.
I think I'm right- Monique is breathing heavily. She doesn't care. Monique and Jesse stretch their hands towards the other, and they take up the same space in the air. Jesse has stopped crying, and Monique is smiling just as happily as he is. Her dress is gorgeous. It is golden and misty, too, crafted from her own spirit and passion. I guess that means there's no budget restrictions, though; tiny gems sparkle all around the hips and lower bodice. The dress is strapless, with long gloves going from her fingertips to her upper arms. It looks like something from a masquerade ball. Jesse did say Monique was something of a nerd. I smile at that; they should get along just fine.
The pastor gets on with the ceremony. Jesse and Monique respond in the proper places. I glance to my left during a hymn: Jenna is letting Ashley lean against her shoulder tolerantly. His face is all red and screwed up, and I hope I don't laugh.
I wonder if Monique's father knows how happy she and Jesse are. I wonder if he's thinking back to two years ago. I hope he's thinking about now, instead.
The pastor, a thin, elderly woman, beams serenely at the couple. I hope that Ashley wasn't right about the problem of the couple's...physicality.
"You may kiss the bride," she announces. Monique leans forward to meet Jesse, and their lips touch- I don't know if both pairs were solid in the sense that most people are familiar with. Jesse and Monique stop after more than ten seconds of applause and cheers, one of the loudest from Ashley (he's now crying openly. I have to chuckle.) The two make their way, side by side, hands sharing air and space, and soon they break into a run.
 I've never seen a ghost run before. The main difference between the ways a ghost and a living person run is that a ghost makes the air shimmer, like someone passing behind a silk curtain. I don't have time to think about that, though. I'm too busy clapping with everyone else.

~~~

Hmm...two flash fictions in one day? 

Suffice it to say that mental exhaustion and great pride often go hand in hand. :)

Day of Silence is tomorrow! Find a way to get involved!

Wear the sticker, don't talk all day! Silence has just as much power as words! 

Chapter Five: My Third Attempt at Flash Fiction

Storm Marches

There once was a small little fox named Grass Stone. He was about the size of a housecat, with pointy ears like a dog. Grass Stone's ears were dipped in black ink, as were his paws and nose, but the rest of him was orange like clay. He has a skinny tail that wasn't quite as fluffy as he'd like it to be, but he couldn't see that most of the time, anyway.

Grass Stone lived in an old, abandoned farmhouse near a road. He hadn't always lived there; a big park with lots of pine trees and large rocks was his first home. He had lived there with his mother and his two brothers and three sisters, until they all got bigger and went their separate ways. Some days Grass Stone sat in the farmhouse and wished he could be with his litter again, curled up in a ball with lots of people who he loved and who loved him back.

Sometimes a butterfly flew through the barn. Grass Stone liked to yip at it in the hopes that it would come down, all orange and black and spotted, and stay with him for a night or two. The butterfly never did, nor the birds that made their home in the rafters for weeks at a time. The birds would make little eggs that became little birds, which became bigger birds that flew away again.

Grass Stone curled up in the old hay every night and shut his eyes, sometimes with a full stomach, sometimes with an empty one. There was a pain in his chest most nights that hurt in a way the striped cat he once fought near the road never had. It was a strange pain, one that Grass Stone didn't know how to push away.

One day Grass Stone woke up to find the orange, black, spotted butterfly resting on his knows. He immediately caught his breath, not wanting to disturb the little creature and scare it away. But Grass Stone was still a young, wild thing himself, and he couldn't stay still for long. Before the current family of little birds started chirping, Grass Stone had sneezed, and the butterfly burst into the air like a hurricane had thrown it there. It began flitting away from Grass Stone, out of the abandoned farmhouse through a hole in the weathered planks that it always used. Grass Stone trotted after it, whining apologetically.

He found himself slipping between the large, creaky doors to get outside. The butterfly had been so close; had it been sleeping? Maybe it wanted to stay with the fox, it was just frightened by the loud noise of his sneeze. Grass Stone just had to let the butterfly know it hadn't been on purpose, that was all.

The morning light made his pupils widen. As he made his way through the tall grass surrounding the farmhouse, Grass Stone could feel dew pass from the stalks to his fur. It felt wet, like when he washed himself , but more special. It made him think of his mother, keeping him safe and keeping him clean.

Up ahead, the butterfly made a loop around a telephone pole before continuing on. Its fox pursuer tried to keep up, panting a bit as he sped up. The sun and the moon were both hovering in the sky on either side of the butterfly. Grass Stone didn't think about them, though.

At some point, he realized his paws were dashing over hard, black ground. He stopped and looked around at the road, but it wasn't his road, not the one outside his old, abandoned farmhouse. It was wider, and a red car was racing towards him. Grass Stone yipped in fear and rushed across the remainder of the street, arriving on the other side just in the nick of time. The car sent out a rush of wind that buffeted his clay colored fur like the breezes back in the field outside of his farmhouse.

Safe on the other side, Grass Stone was free to turn his head and look back at the wide road, black as night with markings as yellow as a dandelion and whiter than the moon. Splatters of rain gushed out of the road's surface moments after striking it. Grass Stone, somewhat unsure of where he was, turned around with his entire body and looked around for the butterfly.

Instead, he saw a green hill spotted with powdery blooms. It sloped down into a little but flowing  creek, bordered by deep brown dirt on one side and a miniature clay cliff, which was a shade of red so light it could almost be called orange. A grove of oak trees protected part of the creek from the storm brewing up the fox's head. Grass Stone tentatively made his way through the flowers and grass and rain to the creek, where he bent his head and slowly lapped up the water. It was relatively smooth because of the branches overhead,  so Grass Stone could see the movement reflected in it. He looked up in surprise and fear.

On the small clay hill were three foxes. They were all very wet, but they stood straight, their eyes alive with curiosity. One of them, who had ears angled a bit farther back than most foxes, crept towards the edge of the hill and looked down at him. Grass Stone's eyes closed shut, afraid.

He didn't hear the fierce growl he expected. Rather, a kind cry. His eyes opened up, and he saw the two other foxes, side by side with the first. They all watched him and whined. Grass Stone didn't understand until he saw the orange and black butterfly flapping above their heads. His tail began to wave as he splashed across the running waters and up the clay hill, where the other foxes started to yip happily.