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. 

Chapter Four: A Poem

November Blizzards

Tears don't come unless they're needed

Birds don't fly until they see that

The rush of day is coming, the sun rises above them

Stars fade away, from black to grey to gold

I wish I had something solid and old

To lean on

But I don't

I just have you

An empty future

Guess that's not quite true

Because deep down

You want what's best

It's just that the best thing for me

Unattainable, blessed relief

Needs to be found by me.

It needs to be found by me.

Rivers run dry if the sun beats down

Great ships crash, but not everyone drowns

Some lucky few get to make it, through foam and blood and hatred

To kisses and courage, to sleeping and hurrying away

I wish I had something warm to delay

The future

But I don't

I just have you

A frantic highway

Of lies and truth

I guess, deep down

You want what's right

It's just that the right things for me

Passion-filled nights of excitment by the sea

Need to be won by me.

They need to be won by me.

So kiss me sweetly

Hold me forever

There's so much better

I've always liked snowy weather

You make my weary head hurt

I'm about to break free of this curse

But I don't

Because of you

A new door opens

To springs that soothe

Maybe breaking

Is too dramatic

And drama has never been for me

I prefer November blizzards and coffee

And it's time to make me happy.

Time for me to make me happy.

And happiness

Happiness needs to be made by me.

Chapter 3: Post #4, Flash Fiction: My Second Attempt

"There are so many better ways to go about this," says Dana. "So many better ways."
"There were other ways to beat the Russians," replies Heather. "But we went to the moon." She smiles a little bit. "I want to go to the moon, Dana."
Dana reaches forward and takes Heather's hand. She squeezes it. "The moon was so much safer than this is. They'd been planning for months, and-"
"We've talked about this so, so much. This has been tested!"
"On rats. And dogs, and monkeys," Dana says. Heather nods.
"And we're really not that different, are we?"
Dana is about to reply when several doctors come into the room. They smile and ask Heather if she's ready. She says she is; Dana doesn't agree, and she wants to say something, but Heather has the most serene look on her face in the world. As she is wheeled away on a gurney, Dana feels a lump rising in her throat. She hopes she is wrong, she prays she is wrong, but she can't stop feeling that this is the last time she'll ever see Heather again. She makes her way to a waiting room, with posters promoting healthy habits like using protection and eating whole grain. Her knees are weak, and her head is heavy, so she rests it in her hands as her face twists and grows red.
A week later, a nurse leads Dana to a large tank, filled to the brim with water tinted blue. "We're letting her swim today," he tells Dana with an encouraging smile. Dana raises her head and sees a serpentine shape slowly descend into the water.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Yeah, I'm not ecstatic with how this came out. It should be focused on Heather, not Dana, because it's not about watching a friend go through what is essentially a drastic plastic surgery, it's about a modern-day mermaid, a person who wants to become something from myth. I didn't do a great job representing that with what I have here. I'll probably come back to it later.

Until then...

Chapter 2: Post #3, Flash Fiction Ideas

Okay, let's figure these out.

I like the idea of romance and the supernatural- not necessarily tied together, mind you, but they certainly both interest me, and I'd like to write within the realms of magic and interpersonal relationships. What else would you expect from a fan of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," "Doctor Who" and "Grey's Anatomy?"

1. A man or woman signs up for a risky new operation to become a merperson. It may or may not go well. I'm not in love with this, because it's not exactly the most original concept, but doesn't the old saying go "There's only one story?"

2. Someone's first kiss comes at an unexpected time. It's not much to go on, but it gives me a lot to work on. First kisses get a lot of hype, and in some ways they live up to it. The one thing they don't tend to be, though, is what you think they'll be. They can come whenever you're least hoping for them!

I know, it's quite exciting. 

3. My teacher might be the only person who knows what I'm talking about for this idea, but that's okay: I'd like to revisit the Venice I began to explore with "Giatta's Tale." I feel like it has a lot of potential. Maybe we find out what happens to Giatta after the ending to the original (and much in need of editing) short story. Maybe I'll find a new Magist to follow. 

4. A group of friends try a seance, maybe before an exam to find the long-dead spirit of a particularly intelligent, long-deceased student from their school. Does it work? 

5. Two best friends discover that they can communicate in their dreams. How does this ability affect their lives? Does it bring them closer, or show them things about each other they never should have? 

6. Since #3 isn't totally new, here's one more: someone organizes a unique protest for a good cause. It'll probably be same-sex marriage, since that's really relevant right now. (Heh-heh, alliteration is fun.) 

Chapter 1: Post #2, Flash Fiction: A First Attempt

Prompt: A revenge story.
"Cold and Cool"

 I'm  not going to look at him. Not now, not ever again.
 The bus's seats are grey and wrinkled and leathery, and the houses that rush past are pretty enough to look at. Winter makes everything prettier, I think.
 When I get off it at school, he's waiting. I don't have to look at him to know; a part of me is distinctly and constantly aware of where he is. That's a problem that I'll have to correct. A flash of red and grey is all I get before pushing past him and into the throng, into the school of minnows. Dart, dart away from the shark.
 Is calling him a shark giving him too much credit? No, but giving him my mind, my attention, is. He doesn't get that. He doesn't deserve that. I deserve a muffin. It was only sixty-five cents, and I have practice today, so I can eat a little extra. I make sure that I'm talking extra loud to Katie when he walks by. He won't interrupt, I know; he's too "polite" for that.
 Bio isn't important, because he's not there, so I get to let my guard down a bit. Next is English, which is hard. He tries once or twice to talk to me.
 "I really want to talk."
 "I get that you're mad. You should be. But-"
 The teacher yells, and he's quiet for five minutes more.
 "Do you need time? That's-- that's okay. I get that. I would want time."
 To his credit, he never gets that mad. Not even frustrated. He never got frustrated, not even that time I had a flat tire on the highway. He had repeatedly told me about ignoring the flat tire sign, but I never did.
 "Dammit!!!"
  He looks over and puts a hand on my shoulder. I swat it away.
  "Not now, Andrew."
   He smiles. I can feel it, even as I stare at the stupid little yellow light and run my fingers through my hair.
  "I really don't see how this is funny."
  "It's not, not really. But it's still gonna be okay. We'll call the guy, and he'll come fix it, and...that'll be that."
  I glare at him. "Stop being so calm. It's obnoxious."
  "I thought being obnoxious was obnoxious."
  I narrow my eyes at him. He's being logical, and I don't want to be logical right now, I want to be mad at the stupid flat tire. This isn't even that old of a car.
   I call the guy from the repair service, and he says he'll be out here in twenty. I tell Andrew, and he leans over to the radio and turns it up.
   "I hate this song," he tells me, "but I think you might be able to change my mind."
   I sigh and roll my eyes, but I still lean in and kiss him.
   I leave English class. He has the sense not to follow me, which is fantastic.
   String Ensemble, then Study Hall, neither of which he's in. Also fantastic.
   Everything else flows together like the stream after a flood, filled with bits of houses and planks of wood. Also, mud. There's a lot of mud I have to wade through. Finally, I get to the end of the day, and practice. The pool feels nice after all of the dirt and grime of the school day; plus, he has musical rehearsal, so I know he can't come bother me with more logic and apologies.
  My arms burn, and my eyes burn, and I keep going. As long as I'm here, I don't have to think about second chances or first loves. At some point it ends, and I drive home. Mom talks to me for awhile in my room, and runs her fingers through my hair. It feels nice.
   I didn't look at him all day, and I'm proud of that. I bet it hurts. I bet he wishes I would look at him.
   My iPod is lying on the dresser. My room is dark, but I still manage to creep over and grab it.
   He's the wallpaper. I'm in it, too, but I didn't choose that picture to admire myself. He's got one half of our nerdy Halloween costumes from three months ago on.
   My iPod turns off, since I haven't done anything. I turn it back on, and stare at that picture for the longest time.

Prologue: In Which a Thing or Two is Explained

Hello, everyone!
   This is a seperate blog from my normal review one. I'll be using this blog to post assignments from my creative writing class. You're all welcome to read these; hopefully you find them as refreshing changes from my normal reviews (which, God willing, I'll have up to date as soon as possible; I know I'm two behind, and for that I apologize.)

 

   Also, enjoy these gifs. None of them are mine. I'll be using them whenever appropriate, and probably a little more than that, too. If any of them are yours and you want them taken down, shoot me a comment and I will.

   Finally, writing requires critiquing to get better, and I welcome it from any and all of you. Don't be comment-shy! You don't even need a Google account to do so!