a word from the desk of alexis

In This World

2011-04-23T16:16:00.011-04:00

To the paper girls and boys of my generation,
you can have your parties and intoxication,
stories of makeout sessions to swap and
pride in rounding the bases time and time again,
but there is at the very least one thing
you can no longer have, from me,
and that is jealousy
of your so-called "lives," I'm sure
they're fabulous and dripping with
just as many hormones as mine,
I'm sure your textual conversations
are just as intriguing as the many
lengthy poems I have written, laden with envy
about my longing to be one of you
one of your kind,
as if I am some mutant beast, part-human and part
of a fabric interwoven with everything else
color-saturated and awe-inspiring in the world
while I am savoring words and stories from across
border lines and seas, drinking in every last drop
of culture that I can't find in this town,
of life that I can't find in any of you.

You may have my general apathy, however,
and I for one will continue stretching my
imagination with magic and inspiration,
not my stomach and lungs with unfamiliar toxins
to break and distort my view of an already broken world,
no;
I am going to read and write and live in a world
the likes of which you could never imagine,
a world that has brought me everything I never knew existed,
moving pictures and flying broomsticks
and monsters that only some of us can see,
flying through time and relative dimensions in space,
hurricanes in my mind when it was drizzling outside --
and stars, inexplicably bright and always-burning stars,
that
will

never

out.

masochism -- very first draft

2011-04-17T21:26:00.004-04:00

these moments are deep red and they scare me,
they could catch on fire at the slightest
flick of a match. your words, like sandpaper searing
against an already-open wound
you burn for the sake of burning, your hate churns
into my worry, though no blood will fall --
it's matted against dead skin and hair
but the pain is furthest from dead, it stings
and cracks
and so many words that should not apply to the skin
of a person still alive;
how I've longed to see you cry
for a quite while, but here I am
such a tragic reminder to everyone that
strength is no shield,
and love will never stop hurting

1/2 of the First Chapter of My NaNo Novel (Proposed Creative Writing Submission)

2011-03-02T09:29:00.007-05:00

Note: This novel in its entirety is now available to read here.

------------

It was not too long after I had come home from school, and I was sitting at the kitchen table, “doing my homework”, but actually doodling in the corner of my notebook page. It had been an exceptionally ordinary day at school, but I was in a blissful, daydreamy state for some reason. My fingers and wrists were in an overactive flurry of excitement, but not to work on anything productive: the page corner was soon overflowing with little hearts.

Then the phone rang. I instinctively launched up to get it, but I clearly wasn’t very in tune with my surroundings; my mom was already there to answer it.

“Hello?” she said, her pleasant phone voice hardly masking the weariness of the day that was evident in the back of her throat.

“What?”

I looked up. I had never heard her sound like that. It was a sort of quiet disbelief that almost seemed tinged with anger. I gulped, fearing I had done something wrong but only out of paranoia, since I was fairly sure I hadn’t. My worry dissipated into something else as her knees buckled and she slumped against the counter.

“Of course. Of course.” Her voice was soft. Her auburn hair, though short, had fallen forward from behind her ears to cover her dropped head, and I could not see her face. “Yes, yes, we’ll be there. Is he doing okay?”

Now I was very concerned, because the only he I could imagine it being was my father. I looked at the clock. It was 4:14. He shouldn’t have even left work yet, and all sorts of terrible ideas scurried through my mind. He worked in a big office building; maybe there was one of those mass shootings. Maybe he had a heart attack. The space in my brain that had been dedicated to these plump little hearts in my notebook began filling with other things, completely implausible things that could have happened to him.

“Thank you. We’ll be there soon.” She didn’t sound anxious or scared, though, which was exactly how I felt – she seemed way too calm.

“Claire.” Her voice shook as she tried to speak louder. She jerked a bit when she saw me, like she hadn’t thought I would be there.

“Claire, we need to go pick up Martin from school. Marty –” her voice broke, and I saw the first teardrop slip down her cheek “— Mr. and Mrs. Ritter were in an accident.”

I nodded solemnly, not fully understanding but not wanting to ask questions, and slid out of my chair, closing my notebook. It didn’t register with me as I got my coat and we headed out the door, not even as her hand found mine, that they were gone.

The funeral was apparently my third, but it felt like my first, considering I was at the age of which my mother could still dress me for the previous two. At this one I merely asked for her input; I didn’t know what to wear to a funeral, so I ended up in church clothes. The whole thing felt eerily similar to church anyway, except my dad was much more solemn and quiet about attending as opposed to grumpy. I wore my sandy-brown hair down, seeing as though my hair was too short to put up in a bun and a ponytail seemed far too casual. In general, walking into the all-too-friendly-feeling foyer, I felt far more out-of-place than I really expected. The thought of what lay before me made my stomach twist into a knot and burn, nausea rising up my throat.

I imagine the situation would not have felt as strange for me if we hadn’t been doling out condolences for Martin ever since we picked him up from school, which felt like every waking moment for the past several days. Because they had no family in the area, we ended up temporarily responsible for him. My mother walked him in, hands on both of his shoulders, which was awkward to say the least because he was just as tall, if not taller, than her. He brought his guide stick with him but wasn’t using it since there were so many people crowding the area. I watched him the entire time, wondering how it must feel for him.

Martin was blind. He had been ever since I’d known him, which was a while, but even at that very moment, I felt awkward being with him in public. I don’t care what anyone says, it isn’t easy to just merge with people who are drastically different from you. At home, or in the Ritters’ backyard, playing cards in Braille? Yes. But in public, at a funeral no less, especially a funeral where he was the guest of honor, so to speak? It wasn’t so easy.

Despite myself, I kept glancing sideways at him throughout the entire service. He had yet to show a single sign of grief, and we had been with him just moments after he found out. But as always, he remained still as stone, especially in his facial expression. Was he holding it all inside? Boys were like that, I knew, but Martin had always seemed different – not just because he was blind. He was very mannerly and polite; he was different in that way, but he had also always seemed very enthusiastic, always smiling and laughing – and though he had little reason to, I hadn’t seen him smile even once in the past two days.

I had also, I realized, never seen him without his parents.

Eventually, I stopped looking at him; sometimes I let the fact that he couldn’t see get the best of me. I attempted to pay attention to the preacher (whose presence seemed odd, since Mr. and Mrs. Ritters were very open nonbelievers) as he praised their virtues and their talents and their inexplicable zest for life. It all felt very contrived to me; of course you’re to say nice things about them, they’re dead, only a jerk wouldn’t. He didn’t say anything about all the wonderful paintings in their house, or Mrs. Ritter’s excellent homemade salsa, or how they gave perhaps the best Christmas presents out of anyone I ever knew.

Nor did he say anything about Martin, except at the very beginning, to say that they were survived by him.

After the preacher spoke, I figured there was not much to do except leave, since their caskets were closed. But to my surprise, lines of people began forming at each side of the room, even though most of them seemed to be doing so out of obligation, not even glancing at the casket as they filed past them and on down the center aisle.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes when my mom leaned across me, touching Martin on the shoulder, whispering, “Martin, would you like to go up to the caskets?”

It was only due to our current environment that I didn’t blatantly remind her that he was blind.

He shook his head stiffly, but didn’t speak.

“Okay then.” Tears were in her eyes again. A few moments later, she and my father both stood simultaneously and went to join the line.

In any other situation whilst sitting alone with Martin, I would simply make fun of my parents, but it all –- to my dismay –- seemed inappropriate now, so I huffed slightly and crossed my arms.

And for the first time since receiving the news, Martin spoke directly to me. “Are you okay?”

I turned to him, taken aback. “Me?” I stupidly asked. He only nodded, never breaking face.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head. It seemed such a silly question to ask, but I felt even sillier answering it.

Perhaps a bit belatedly, I added, “Are you?”

He didn’t reply immediately, making me think he wasn’t going to at all, so I turned forward again, searching for my parents in the line so I could gauge how long it would be until we left.

Suddenly, Martin said, “Do I look okay?” He asked with mere curiosity, not with sarcasm or contempt. I was a little shocked at the statement nonetheless, and I wasn’t sure if he really wanted an answer.

But then I imagined it would be rude to assume he didn’t want an answer, so after surveying him slightly, I said, “Yeah, you do.”

He nodded. “Good. That was the plan.”

Even though this made almost no sense to me at the moment, I didn’t think on it too much – but I knew for a fact that I much preferred the Martin I knew before.

I lost sight of my parents for a while, but sooner than I expected, they came back down the center aisle holding hands and looking picturesquely morose. I felt bad for them, I did, but it was hard to when Martin had yet to shed a tear.

However, before they even reached me, they were bombarded by a tall grey-haired couple. They shocked my parents with their abruptness but apparently didn’t mean to, as apologetic gestures were made. I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the din of the room. Then the man spoke to my father very quickly, leaning in to his ear. But my father either wasn’t particularly thrilled to hear this information, or was confused. My mother, meanwhile, looked on at both of them – it looked as though she couldn’t hear what was being said, either – and occasionally back at the elderly woman, who looked like she was trying far too hard to look pleasant.

When a look of understanding finally donned my father’s face, he turned to my mother: she shared the same expression. So she had heard. Now, knowing that I was the only one uninvolved in this conversation, I felt a determined need to know what was going on as well – and I started to get up until both – then, all four – of their eyes fell on me.

But it wasn’t right; when I looked at my mom, it was as though she was looking right past me. I turned my head slightly, and it dawned on me: of course, they were looking at Martin. The old couple were probably relatives of his. But my parents continued staring as if he were a ghost, or as if they had just discovered he was blind. The older couple was looking at them, now, instead of him, seeming to examine their response to this news, whatever it was.

Then the old man began speaking to my father; my mom, jostled out of her daze, looked from them back to Martin, and then began shaking her head and hurrying down the aisle.

Fortunately, she deemed me important enough to be aware of this news. But she still spoke in a whisper into my ear.

“We’ve been included in the will, the Ritters’. They apparently have an inheritance.”

“Oh,” I said, glancing at Martin. “For Mar—?”

“Shh!” she hissed, pulling me close. Her words were coming out heavy, her breath in puffs. “No, it’s not for him, it’s – they left it for us. A house… and a family inheritance. And – and Martin. They want us to have custody of Martin.”

--------------------------------------

THERE'S ACTUALLY MORE OF THE CHAPTER BUT IT WOULD BE WAY TOO LONG TO ACTUALLY SUBMIT FOR CREATIVE WRITING SO I CUT IT OFF RIGHT HERE.

Thoughts? Questions? Complaints? Luckily for you, you can COMMENT.

(This is a raw first draft I wrote in one sitting, just so you know.)

2011-02-26T21:01:00.003-05:00

the openness of the blank page
is terrifying to me
i used to run to it, love it,
welcome it, and hold it tenderly
and it would become something i could
change, the blankness itself was never
something to be feared, but now it is
for i see the nothing and i no longer feel that
i can change the nothing, it is omnipresent
and nothing i can do will abash it;
it would only stain it, only mutilate it,
only taint the beauty that is
the openness of the blank page

homecoming (edited slightly since original posting)

2010-10-05T17:06:00.003-04:00

bits of confetti flit in the air,
sprinkling their hair, their awe-filled faces alone are
a cause for celebration,
pints and quarts of happiness are collected among the candy-laden streets.
as their copious laughter spills over their frothy young mouths,
it does not once cross my mind how much they are
unlike me - I am hardly even in the procession
as they kindly give me wrappers and
I pretend that they indeed are fine and precious things.
when we hug and leave at last, their warmth is my fortune,
their innocence my prize,
so I never fault them for being so young
and unlike me.
I pray against the future in their eyes.

Inspirations.

2010-08-22T10:04:00.003-04:00

I'm trying to work on a story right now and I consider myself to be succeeding, regardless of how spotty and unfocused some of the "work" may be. I'm only outlining right now, which is brand-new to me, but I am making progress. I find myself constantly re-inspired when I remember the few mental images that spawned this idea in the very first place, and I've been longing for a physical place in which I could put all of these things so that, if need be, I could always come back to it and sort of center myself, as far as inspiration goes.

change approaching

2010-04-28T20:03:00.002-04:00

spring's grip is wavering, a loose fist shaking
its cold chill reverberating like a puddle
ripples dissipating off to the edge and
disappear into the sunlight, fresh grass into parchment
and with it, I am smiling
at the radically new feeling of the season
of which we welcome year after year after year
and the feeling is indescribable, when
lying in the grass in a pool of sunshine
shaded by foliage, warm and cool all at once
and I know it is
a hug and a kiss from the very Earth

2010-04-28T19:56:00.003-04:00

from afar, I notice
every word that drifts from between your
lips is so crisp in meaning and its desired effect
not stumblingly ruthlessly billowing forth like my
own are so painful to hear, like an off-key number
belted with the passion of an opera star
so you don't have the heart to tell her
that she has just successfully endured the
embarrassment of a lifetime
well I am here to say
you are free to tell me
in that flowing stream-like voice of yours
that I am a terrific failure.
because knowing you, you'd make it sound
just gorgeous, and i would forget
that I was being insulted at all.

natural

2010-04-28T19:48:00.004-04:00

the lavender blooms in a shadowed instant
while we stalk past along the path
its fragile strength surpassing ours
breath with no lungs
food with no mouth
as blessed as we are with eyes,
we pass over them, unblinkingly,
free beauty ignored.
no sparkling mist of smoke,
no flick of a wand,
but the progress, the process, of life
is a magic, the likes of which
we barely know.

in my quest to write more poetry:

2010-04-09T16:32:00.002-04:00

remorse like an angry brew churning
the swirling potion of despair and lies
a burning pain revived at every sideways glance
every smile brimming with a forced hope,
sheltering a growing fissure in the heart
and in the dark corners of the soul,
joy creeps in unwanted,
ever insistent, like tear gas seeping
eyes shaded over by a thin visor
hidden from the world,
hiding from reality.

Intro:

2010-03-06T12:06:00.004-05:00

Since I've been REALLY BAD at writing poetry (mostly because I keep forgetting how helpful it is in dealing with my ridiculous, constantly-fluctuating emotions), I will instead post the intro of the story I've been working on (surprisingly steadily for the past few weeks, actually), FOR FUNSIES.

And since this is just the intro, I'll give you a few of my inspirations for the rest of the story, which I may or may not ever post on the internet. I came up with the idea out of nowhere, but my interest was reignited in it when I heard the song Bad Romance by Lady Gaga. Other songs that, to me, relate in some way or another to the story are Campus by Vampire Weekend, Defying Gravity from Wicked, If Work Permits by The Format, among others. It's generally inspired by my fascination with not just travel, but the connections a place can have to the person that you are, and what leaving, going, and resettling does to the person that you are.

First, a snippet from the brief autobiography by the main character:

There’s only one more thing I think is necessary to know about me, for anyone who does know me or wants to know me: I try my absolute hardest to be a good person. I give everyone a chance; I give everyone a second chance. I like the idea of forgiveness; I think I’d be lost without it. It’s hard for me to hate anybody, because I see the good in everybody – maybe to a fault. Some people might call that naivety, but I don’t think I’m naïve. I just don’t like anger, jealousy, hatred, or any emotions like that. Those things destroy love and life, two things I’m particularly fond of. So whether that’s an asset of mine is for you to decide, I suppose. And I respect your opinion, even if you disagree. If you find that annoying, well, take heart - you’re just about the same as the rest of the world.

-Casey Lynn Sharpe, April 22nd, 2008

The entire 5000-population town of Parkview seemed to be yelling ahead, and I couldn’t help it; a smile crept across my face, though occasionally broken as I puffed air out of my mouth. I was at that point in the race that every fiber of my being ached so much I could hardly feel anything at all; I could only hear the thud of my shoes on the tender ground, a runner’s heartbeat. It was like breathing in that it seemed to be happening without me really doing anything; I often felt like this near the end of a race, unable to imagine myself being able to stop at the finish line. Maybe this was it, maybe I had ran so much that my body didn’t know how to do anything else, and I would run myself to death.

The trees began to thin out, and the grassy knoll that housed the beginning and the finish of the race appeared, as well as the huge crowd that surrounded it. Many of them were bouncing up and down with cheers, but as soon as I was able to discern between faces, I looked down. Facing a crowd was hard for me, it always was, even if all I was doing was running, even if they were cheering for me. It was a weird, but luckily I had chosen a sport that had just about as few onlookers as could be.

Still, this wasn’t any ordinary race. First of all, it was a cross-country race, even though the official season had ended roughly seven months ago, and it was now May. This was a special All-Stars’ race they held at the end of each year, one that I had just been invited to for the very first time. And I was coming in first, for the very first time. I had never placed first in any race before; I’d always been beaten by this girl from Brunsdale, Genevieve Jones. She was an unbelievably lanky girl who held several county records in cross country, but she had graduated and was no longer eligible – she was off making records at the state level, now.

I heard my name pretty clearly as I began trotting past the outliers of the crowd, and again the smile appeared. I couldn’t help it; it was nice to know that someone in the crowd, whoever it was, was behind me. Especially since I didn’t actually have anyone close to me attending the race – except for Emily, but she had rode the bus here along with me and the rest of the team. It was sort of a patriotic duty for them to cheer me on.

And there it was, the home stretch, right before me. I could hear, faintly, the padding of feet behind me, but I was in no hurry to let anyone slide past me. The few guys in front of me had already finished and were welcomed into group hugs and my eyes were dead in the middle of that white, spray-painted line that marked the finish. I simply watched it grow closer and closer and, to my relief, the footsteps behind me keeping their distance.

I ran straight through, not stopping or even slowing down until several yards after the finish. I heard my name announced and my hands fell to my knees, bracing myself, breathing in deeply, as I was bombarded by screams, then hovering shadows, then grabby hands. Emily was the first to pull me into a hug, screeching “You did it!” as if I was unaware, then squeezing me despite my telling her that “I’m really crazy sweaty, dude.” Then Coach came in, patting me on the back and congratulating me, always a bit short on words – but this is what I liked about her. Someone, I wasn’t entirely sure who, handed me my dolphin water bottle, which I began to suck at ravenously. Sometimes it takes a heavy thirst to make you appreciate water in all its clean, crisp glory.

Of course, we had to wait for all the other runners to come in before anything exciting happened, so once everyone calmed down, I walked back over to our designated spot and stood, mostly because I wasn’t sure if my legs could handle a sudden rest. The blood in them was thumping so hard, they felt almost like they might spasm and bring me to my knees.

“That was so amazing,” Emily said supportively, her smile radiant with the sun flashing off it. I barely grinned back, just nodded, and looked to the ground. My upper body felt so heavy. I really wanted to lie down, but there was nothing but grass, and my outfit was mostly white. So I stood, looking from under heavy eyelids at the remaining finishers, all looking exactly the way I felt. The awe of it all coursed through me, then, and I realized that I had won.

“First place,” I said breathily. Emily turned from the track back to me and smiled.

“Yeah! You’ll get to have your picture in the paper,” she said. “And your name on the announcements and stuff.”

It wasn’t all that that excited me, necessarily. It was just the fact itself. Running to me had always just been about running, even when it came to races such as this. It was more against myself than anyone, and so it didn’t necessarily phase me when other people slipped past. I was always trying to beat my own time, not anyone else’s. It just so happened now that topping my best now qualified as topping others, too; it was a weird feeling, winning at something. Not one I was exactly used to.

It didn’t take as long as I thought it would for all the runners to come in; this was a race for the best of the best, I reminded myself. So when they called the awards ceremony to order, I was still sweaty and panting, albeit not as much. I felt ridiculous walking up the wooden steps to the makeshift platform they had constructed, my hair a total mess as usual. Some guy of apparent importance announced me as the winner of the girl’s race, shook my hand and then handed off a trophy – something I thought I’d never get. Casey Sharpe, with a trophy. It was just such a Stephanie thing – where would we put mine? On the end of the shelf where we kept all of hers?

I smiled anyway, though, and quietly thanked the crowd as their cheers drowned me out. I didn’t look at anyone though, almost sure I would faint, and stepped down as soon as I could, into the waiting arms of my teammates who seemed to be reinvigorated with excitement, cheering just as loudly as they had been when I finished.

2010-02-10T17:59:00.002-05:00

You were the safety net
I took advantage of
the safety which
has been taken from me
now I can't even look
you in the eye without remembering
how nice it felt to know
and how broken I feel
now that I don't.

I can't blame you, though
I want to;
the lullabies that make me
cry are the same ones that
put me to sleep at night.
I replan every sentence according
to how you might hear it,
and every thought drifts back
to you. Knowing that you're
not worth it is different than
not believing it, and I'm guilty,
for the most part, of caring too
goddamn much about you
and smiling at every joke you make
temporarily forgetting how
much it breaks my heart at any
outside mention of your name.
It's nothing I'm proud of,
feeling this way.

2010-02-09T18:42:00.000-05:00

The beauty
Unaccompanied
A singular strand
In the universe
Holding out
For just that One
Who will at once
Recognize

2010-02-07T12:53:00.003-05:00

It's another day.

It's crawling up my arm
coming to rest on my shoulder
like a ray of sunlight that I
am unable to shrug away.

It peers into my skull and
listens to the thoughts even I
don't want to hear. It presses
against my face so I can't
forget that it's there.

It's another day, and the time
keeps passing, regardless of how
tightly I shut my eyes or how
strong I will for it to stop.

It's another day, and you smile
and greet me like you always do,
because nothing has changed. I left
a note on your desk for you to see
but it was in the corner so you
ignored it, you ignored
me.

It's another day, and violent winds
are blowing, racing around in circles
outside. The weight of it all is
crushing, but I refuse to let my
self die
in the midst. I might just sit here
rest
and save the pain
for another day.

Isn't it obvious how hard it is to breathe?

2010-02-06T20:00:00.003-05:00

Something you all haven't had the luxury of being treated to lately. Some poetry from a broken heart.

we've been over this a few times
remember, those brief moments
when our eyes met questioningly
for a little bit longer than necessary
and you lure me
into believing

I can't foresee a time
when I can, without trepidation,
just be in your presence
drink in your voice
without pausing to
nervously formulate
an adequate response

but nevertheless, I feel hope
tortuous, undying hope
coiling around my heart and
squeezing out the despair
I'm almost tempted to try
to start up a conversation, for once
but as soon as I walk
into the room my eyes
fall to the floor, shuffling feet
books to my chest
again reverting
into the girl I hate

Looking for Alaska: The Essays

2010-02-05T12:19:00.003-05:00

I wrote this in response to my second reading of John Green’s first book, Looking for Alaska. No spoilers, just reaction to some of the things therein. Enjoy.

How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering? – A. Y.

I think that in order to survive anything, we first must have hope. We have to hope that there is something else on the other side of these walls, and maintain that hope even in the darkest of times.

But just as hope is a facet of the mind, our minds have an enormous impact on our destinies. And while it’s hard to exactly say that thinking something will get you there, it definitely won’t hinder your fight. I think the thing that we have to remember about the labyrinth is the same thing that we have to remind ourselves about life in general – we’re in it together. We are all living, and with all living there comes suffering. We are all suffering, we are all pounding the walls of the labyrinth, searching for the way out.

Maybe we’re not all in the same labyrinth. Maybe they are each unique to our personal pain. Or maybe we are trapped in the same one, each looking for a different way out, ignoring one another because we can’t see through the dense fog we have created around ourselves. This fog that not only blinds us to the others, but creates another maze of our very own to fight through.

Perhaps that is why it is so hard – there is not only one labyrinth we are stuck in, but two. There is the lesser one of our personal struggles, and then there is the gigantic, twisting maze that has trapped all of humanity. But one thing is for certain, it is about each of us and none of us at a same time. It’s the fight of humanity that loses its humanity when we focus on the troubles of our single self. I am against this wall, and I am almost done, but there are still others fighting their way through.

Significance of Last Words

Pudge’s infatuation with last words isn’t abnormal. It would seem abnormal to me to not have some interest in what words people spoke as their very last. There’s something haunting about them, whether they are profound, funny, or obscure in their meaning. They’re unlike ordinary quotes because they are the last; people say many things, but sometimes are most remembered for their last verbal hoorah.

If you consider last words significant just because they are the last in a series of words spoken, you should also consider the first, then, as well. But it’s evident that some infantile attempt at “Dad” “Mom” or some other single-syllable word is less likely to be remembered, even if it was said by someone particularly remarkable. No, I think the significance of last words spurs from the sheer context in which they are spoken. They are eerie, sometimes because we either do not know precisely what they mean, (i.e., Thomas Edison’s last words being, “It is beautiful over there”), or possibly because we know all too well what they mean (William McKinley, in response to his wife proclaiming at his deathbed “I want to go too!”: “We are all going”), or maybe just because they seem a bit too painfully simple (Thomas Jefferson asked, “Is it the Fourth?)

Words themselves are a form of immortalization, and perhaps in last words the speakers – and later, the readers – are equipping themselves for what comes next by attempting one last shot at legacy that will survive longer than they are able to. Maybe it’s a little morbid to focus on the very last things a person said, no matter how trivial or seemingly insignificant, especially when they left a life’s worth of work in their wake (Oscar Wilde, for example; “Either this wallpaper goes, or I do”). But maybe it’s also paying homage to who they were. Maybe they said the things they did for a reason. There’s something poetic about it, even if they didn’t. It’s all askew regardless, because it’s simply hearsay, and it’s not as simple as knowing what someone said – it’s knowing that they said it, and then they died. Knowing that it’s important, because it was their last, but if they’re gone now, how important can it be?

Poncho Villa’s last words were, “Don’t let it end like this – tell them I said something.”

2009-10-31T19:58:00.004-04:00

all these years of progress
twisted under our smiles
because the pain still lingers,
somewhere work was left unfinished
and grasping what we can comprehend
of our past, we seek the comfort
of thy rod and thy staff
while our eyes are blinded by
wind dusted across our retinas
our fears, nonexistent
but our faith, slowly fading
when white robes emerge,
deaths are uncovered -
our silence, mistaken for
ignorance, is simply the resurrection
of long-lost prayers, for those
who fought and died with honor
our pain
is the sacrifice that must be made
nearly insignificant
to the sacrifice they gave

"Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me,
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me."
-Psalms 23:4

i don't know what to call this

2009-08-17T16:02:00.003-04:00

my broken soul vanquished into
the trembling waters of your words
drifting through the tide and waiting
for the comfort, for which i have lusted so long
instead the deep just overtakes me
and i lose the battle against myself
i weaken into something else
all my pieces cast away
propelling towards different shores
leaded heart sinking deeper still
the freedom being that i am yours

i am kind of talking to myself, here.

2009-07-27T20:22:00.005-04:00

I would like to say something about why I haven't been writing for a very, very long time - not even a little - but I have nothing to say about it. I suppose that isn't bad. It's just strange, really. It used to be the thing I always did, but then I started thinking about it, and thinking never gets me anywhere I'd like to go.

It is probably something I have to get used to doing again. Before, really, it was not about tremendously liking to do it, it was really just habit, and it's not that anymore. Working it back into a habit is the first step, I think. And I don't want to get too bogged down...around the age of eleven, maybe, upon reading words of authors about their own writing techniques, there was a big difference I saw: they planned things out beforehand, while I did not. I never did, because first of all, I never took it quite that seriously - like I said, eleven. But, at that age, as I was most of my childhood, I was quite obsessed with being different - not just different, but better - than others, and I wanted to finish a story, and I wanted it to be good, and I hadn't done that yet, so I started looking around and trying to find the reasoning behind that.

Is it because I do not think well enough beforehand, that I don't know what's going to happen in the next chapter until I get there? I don't think so. If I knew, then it wouldn't be very much fun. But, over the past several years, I became very preoccupied with that, that knowing, and it became very burdensome, and made writing very difficult, and I didn't like it. So what I probably need to do now is retrain myself in the way I think about writing and how I write and how I want to write, and now that I am no longer eleven and am, frankly, too old to fulfill the dreams of my eleven-year-old self (I was kind of aiming for bestseller by the age of fifteen. LOL), I am not so absorbed in that idea anymore. But I am fairly absorbed in the idea of holding on to writing because I am pretty certain it's the only talent I have, and if it slips away then what do I have left that I'm good at? Reading books. And that's kind of where this all started, anyway.

why don't i write poetry anymore?

2009-07-02T18:51:00.002-04:00

i look over black and white words, but this isn't what i want
this isn't the sanctuary i was looking for
my eyes gaze over it unnaturally and it
feels a little bit like a graveyard, which is okay
but it's not the graveyard i anticipated it being
and the question lingers
do i start digging again?
the untouched bodies groan at the shovel's presence
all they want is peace.
should i, then
interrupt the still ground
off to the side somewhere
give birth to a new set of disappointing graves
marking my territory
in the saddest way

a home in your eyes

2008-12-27T21:10:00.004-05:00

am i wasting my time
knowing that nothing could ever happen
when i can't speak a word to you,
when i never have,
though it's only due to
your easy ability to
make me feel inferior
when you share something
of your mind's own reckoning,
something subtly brilliant,
when you're talking a level above me
a place up in the clouds
where i can't exactly reach

i imagine your hands to be cold,
maybe just because they're white,
and rarely is an ivory touch comforting
but if i were to feel your heart, it would be warm,
and you are the kind of person
whose heart is never at rest
it is constantly flowing
through every region of the body
making an impact in your chest
just as it would your mind
just as it would my mind
when i feel your presence.
so it makes sense for me to hope
for the warm

why are you so far away?
why can't i ever see you?
why do i feel like if i saw you
there would be some sort of closure in my life?
i would know, then,
that this is what i was waiting for
and i would either be wrought
with disappointment, knowing i had wasted so much time
or i would hope
i would finally, maybe
find what my heart has always been looking for.

i feel like i'm falling

2008-12-25T00:58:00.005-05:00

for her
i felt like crying
i felt like
jabbing knives into my skin
unnecessary pain
to show her
as some sort of sacrifice
that she's worth it.

and then i saw the picture
her eyes were blank and empty
or maybe they were full of something
she just doesn't want us to see;
i don't know,
and that's the thing,
i don't know
i want to know
i need to
i can't ask
i don't know
i just can't.

i thought about it and i froze
my brain fell into a dial tone
i had so many things to say and then
i lost it all,
i couldn't say a thing
so i told her, and i felt
like crying again
she said sorry
she apologized to me
while i was just going to tell her
how sorry i was
for wasting her time.

untitled for now

2008-12-19T23:30:00.000-05:00

i could see your heart
as it began falling
that was last year
it still retains
a constant battle against gravity
i've kept my ears covered
for months
knowing that, any day now
it's going to shatter
and awaken the world.

because each drop of sanity you allow
to trickle hopelessly from your arms
is heard by me as thunder,
reverberating booms
warning me when the storm approaches
tempting me to take cover
while i watch out the window instead.

i think about your smile.
it has become mystical.
something i would read about in a fairytale
and wonder if something so far-fetched could ever come true.
that's what you've become to me
something unreal
something i couldn't grasp if i tried
my mind dissipates into a time where i could,
and was scared, and now, i just think,
if i could get all of that back
where your heart would be now.

a necessary triumph

2008-11-12T09:57:00.008-05:00

dedicated to president-elect Obama
and all those who fought for the rights
of African-Americans as a whole
who gave him, and us, the opportunity
to get to where we are today.
proud and free.

After years of dissatisfaction
and decades, centuries
of clawing our way up
collectively,
to equality
there is a resounding voice.
And in response, we spoke out
in multitudes
a million voices finally chanting
the same tune
and being heard.
United we have stood,
divided we would never stand
to be.
We can only hope the battered
who did not survive the
fight are watching from
above, to see the glory of
the moment, feel the victory
in our smiles
and how it radiates through
the air, a pulse so powerfully flooded with pride
it is felt by everyone -
some with hazy numbness,
some with a glorified empowerment,
and others with the deepest denial
and despair.
But unity is what we sought,
and we showed ourselves in numerical
brilliancy, though not for the first time
or for the last.
To answer the question, "could he really win?"
we closed the
final chapter of the mystery.
And the act, celebratory in itself -
is just like us,
always making history.

in which i long for...

2008-10-14T09:10:00.003-04:00

December
icy crystals hanging threads
of beaded curtains on doorsteps
slow chiming warm music
eyes slipping closed in the firelight
waking up to resounding snowfall
dimly lit paleness holding still
the white is entire but not suffocating
supporting the bright morning of winter,
ice like a prism blinding
our senses out of their chilly despair
do you see what i see?
do see that i love you
even in this bleak dead season
beauty blooms

hello, cuteface-uglybrain.

2008-10-05T11:58:00.004-04:00

in the words of that dear child, Mary, who turned 15 yesterday: "well! to think i ever liked him!"
on the day of which we learn that boys are actually quite stupid after all!
________________________________________

when i think ugly, i don't quite think
crooked grin or big nose
or even jutting, hillbilly teeth
i don't think awkward Rumer Willis chin
(actually i think she's kind of pretty)
i just think of you
big brown eyes
dark curly hair
making myself believe
that's the most adorable smile
i've ever seen
alas, you open your mouth and say something to me
you just turn into
the ugliest thing.

in memoriam: i think i am over it maybe

2008-09-23T07:02:00.002-04:00

sometimes i lie awake at night
peaceful and gleaming crimson
waiting for the bleeding to stop
i keep saying to myself,
you only miss
the idea of him
but it was a pretty good idea.
i heard that in a movie once
does it count as plagiarism if someone else just
happened to speak straight from my heart?
after all i still consider myself the victim here.
i am the one with scars so deep they are
verdant, and people come up to me
decent strangers
telling me they like my tattoo
when i say it's a scar they still ask
where can i get one?
so i sigh
and point them towards
the nearest asshole.

thriller night

2008-09-16T20:04:00.001-04:00

ah, to bear the pain
of being immortal
of being a being.
sometimes i fear my lack
of regard towards those
far worse off than me
will be my downfall, that
is what will put me in

then my heart is churned like butter
and i no longer need to rack up my
subtle sympathies.
the pain i share with those who
deal with day-to-day heartache
subscribe to my loneliness
we chant our hopeless prayers
and haunt the night as one.

Grandma Jackie, I love you.

2008-09-16T19:58:00.003-04:00

for my grandmother.

i know at times we sing
different tunes, sometimes
different languages entirely, but
in your soul i find a treasure
inconceivable, not much different
than mine.
history speaks for you when
your mouth is pursed shut
a book with pages torn
the black ink in your eyes
speaks magnitudes
i feel your heart, like my own,
beating and longing for truth and reality
wishing for more than we, alone,
can achieve.
i will let your spirit come to rest in me.

poem one from day one of testing

2008-09-16T19:57:00.002-04:00

one two three testing

closeted in by walls
FOUR LONG HOURS
virtually alone, and dreaming all the while
pitch black of eyelids
draw me in
tinted with rose
like your skin, breaking molds
and cutting chains
your limbs are so much looser now
body unfolds.
tired remembrance
persecute me,
draw me in

on the suckishness of school:

2008-09-15T20:01:00.002-04:00

presuming that i am always
putting my best face forward?
that's so middle school of you.
thinking that i'm trying not to cry,
ever think that i just am?
trying?
to hear your voice?
to think that maybe you would pay attention if i gave up hope and lost myself in it?
did you ever think

_______________________

for seething anger, i like to think
that i look pretty good today
all dressed up in my flowery success
and smiling, i mean my teeth are RIGHT OUT THERE.
you can see me all and you would think i'm trying
not to burst with joy, there's really
tiny little mechanism forcing it all out
so i don't have to see my ugly, tear-stained face in the mirror
so they won't see it either
actually, i'm quite used to it
it's mostly them.

on my newest story:

2008-09-15T19:59:00.004-04:00

here we have found beauty,
where it never existed before -
in crime, the sheer need
to be appalling to the law
be hated and vied for,
never caught
thinking it would never be suitable
to do anything but RUN,
i've found my place in the world
your world, our world
of thrift shopping and sly looks
under the table, secret handshakes
to make us seem brilliant and so planned-out
we're really not.
we just have that lonesome gene
binding us together, singing
old songs in the truck with the
windows down, and that light fall breeze
could just lift me away someday, if i let it,
just lift me away.

on this hot guy in a movie i saw (kind of):

2008-09-15T19:45:00.000-04:00

you are bright shining glory
strands of pearls remaining effortless-looking
you are beautiful in my eyes you can do no wrong
glory solidified in
the sharpness of your cheekbones and
the icy dark of your eyes
the good and evil come
together in your hands, shifted into
something new entirely
pellets of rain rebounding from
hitting the glass
water rolling down
down walls of ebony
barren and alone.

breakup breakdown: rough draft

2008-08-22T20:54:00.005-04:00

I appreciate some feedback, ya'll.

reading the page from the bottom-up
and i smiled till i saw
the beginning
silver linings begin to break down
shrivel up like the world does
when i squint my eyes

i opened them again like the hope
that it was a dream
a dream like the one i had once before
wishing got me into it
now could it get me out?

i prayed instead and got what i asked for
a hazy resolution ending a bleak era
all the sun and life i thought i saw
had turned to gray when i stepped out
hard cement of sidewalk beneath me
and the hard cement of the air around me weighs me
down a pressure like no other
spent so long longing and then it becomes
a "you-asked-for-it" moment,
God's graffiti on my heart
"You let Me in," he tells me
and i know i did

my first thought is flawed
i'll escape this world, then they'll see
that'll show them, before i stop and think
i won't be able to see their jealousy
of how i got to move on and they still sit,
bleak and ugly lives in their imperfect world
to see that he's still there and i'm not

so i reserve the pounds of revenge and ridicule
for some cause worth my energy
sitting on these worn seats i know
better days ahead
it's what someone told me
it already feels so much better
sweet like a feather on my skin
to know the change in the future
when they see the end but they see my smile
a billboard for my soul:
the road is long but i can make it
life is hard but i can take it.

fifth grade

2008-08-04T13:44:00.000-04:00

the sound of music rushes through me
and i hate the way the blood feels
as it's pumping hard in my veins
i break down on occasion
but my fists stay coiled within themselves
homage to the power of the shame

and the game is, "don't touch the woodchips"
but i can't imagine
staying so far away from the prickly comfort of the ground
my heart would recede as i hid in an enclave behind a brick wall
where footsteps on concrete and voices
would echo right behind me,
but i would just hide

little bite-size pieces of sorrow
are spoon fed to me in particular amounts
for a particular amount of time
patiently dying a little bit more
with every cruel ticking of the
time spent looking past your eyes
my excuse to stare through my wicked
awesome peripheral vision

oh, it was awkward and there was no rhyme
or reason to my words
no really to say anything at all
but there go those memories
and they speak to me,
those awkward ignorant words.

I wrote a song today.

2008-07-25T23:50:00.002-04:00

But I don't have it with me. Ha! You thought you'd get a taste of my brilliance. Sorry, charlies. Not going to happen today, or possibly ever. It's a really crappy song. I don't even remember how it goes. I had been listening to way too much Disney music and catchy, mediocre rhythms were kind of in my head. So it happened.

It started out well enough... As a whole I dislike it greatly, from my high point of self-criticism.

I guess it wouldn't matter, though, if I posted the lyrics since it would mean nothing in regards to how the song sounds. I have no way of representing music through written word. Most of the time, I just write lyrics and hope I remember how they go. Today, I turned on my camcorder and sang the first verse so I would have that to go back to. The chorus is catchy enough to remember, and I probably could remember it if I thought hard enough. Word-wise.

I can't. It's too late.

But still, I thought I would at least update...I am writing still, I'm just not being very open about it. *sneaky eyes*

sometimes i hate writing

2008-06-28T20:42:00.004-04:00

respiring thoughts into a tailwind of
indestructable silence
chattering teeth on gums
as a kind of mechanism I suppose
to appear like I'm not actively avoiding your eyes
and fluttering senses
emerge when I close mine and tread back to
the cruelty of that other time
that time when I was under the naive assumption
that I knew what happiness was
and all it could be
before I'd even seen you, even knew your face
or your hair or the way you refuse
to show your teeth when you smile
and how I think that's all right.
before I knew what poetry, a non superficial beauty
could mean
when words are woven in the right way, with the right talent and mind
and words become artsy like a slew of paints on plaster
before I succumb to spoken seduction
immersing myself in an unforgiving digression

2008-06-26T22:18:00.003-04:00

discovering a faint, grey reality when
i open my eyes in the late night/early morning
of which i hope is the latter, how long i've waited
for tomorrow to be today.
i hold an open hand out to my side
just in case
you decide to stop by in my sleep
i'd hate for you to have left in despair
when you saw that you weren't wanted
so i keep my mouth wide on purpose, in such a way that my
snores turn to lullabies
and eyelids into eyes
when i'm not there to witness the night,
i long for it to be a better place
less ravenous than the sounds of the day
breaking apart my clarity, making me long
for something fresh and new
like you
someone i always knew, just by sideways glances and
that brazen laugh.
but when you appear, out of the dust of a dream and a nightmare,
shaken pasts don't matter
no more
when you're here
when you'll be here
when not if
i'm sure i'll find you here

sleepless nights cause reminiscence

2008-06-26T08:07:00.001-04:00

so little good in the world,
i wonder why as i look toward my breaking heart
i start to make fragile glances just like
you did,
remember?
you would always look and walk away.
i could lie there bleeding on the ground,
i was in my mind,
there was blood gushing everywhere,
but you just walked away.
it didn't matter what my poems said or that you
were on my mind all the time, you just
didn't know.
you would've thought it was weird.
i knew you would've thought it was weird.
i always kept it to myself, tried to gather it all
pool the blood in my palms and just hold it
close to my heart as i walk
back home.

2008-06-17T10:14:00.002-04:00

It's been a while since I've actually written anything in here, and I don't really have any reason as to why. School ended and I think all my creativity went with it. There's nothing going into my brain so there's nothing coming out. I've read one book since I got out of school. I've tried to renew my interest in several old ideas but it hasn't amounted to much. No poetry whatsoever. I forgot poetry existed. I suppose I've just been concentrated on other things. Last summer my thing was to finish a story, it didn't really happen. This summer, my thing is to lose weight. Maybe since I've got something else to focus on, writing won't be happening like it used to, at least for now. I don't know.

Maya Angelou - Still I Rise

2008-05-08T19:46:00.005-04:00

I thought I would do something different and post one of my most recently discovered favorite poems. I literally just read this one days ago, and it's one of those things that makes me just so happy and fuzzy warm inside. (: Go Maya.
________________________________________________________

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

2008-05-03T22:24:00.000-04:00

under the big branch on the tree in my backyard
it looks like
some kind of shelter i might need to use sometime
when your words get to be too much for me and i need an
escape from my ego

i'm a splattered mess like those leaves
painted on, randomly and carelessly
by the brush of some unknown artist
like i am taken by the hand and dragged in every direction
i am told to pick one spot between
your life and mine
i keep walking too close to you
and i'm losing who i am
a really long way from home
that's where i find myself
like the little leaf

off the big branch of the tree in my backyard
it looks like
some kind of shelter that i really need now
when it's a little too late to escape
from all the faulty mistakes

2008-04-29T09:41:00.003-04:00

disregarding the diluted smiles in the

remainder of the world,

i have drifted into my own, thank you

my name blazed across a stiff plaster,

a scribbled message from my heart

though true, honesty would be

a little less subtle

in texture and size

black letters would be bold and rash

and intensify, slurring when i've drowned in

my own astounding insufficiency for words

and their depth, i fear

it all means nothing to you.

that not even permanent ink will withstand

the bleak lapse of life's duration

that ink will drip and fall into glaring puddles

from the past, and when you glance at some

reflection, you won't like the now-diluted

smile

that you see.

upon looking through old photos

2008-04-21T11:56:00.005-04:00

in every frame
i see your face
in my dreams
and even in this
place where
i refuse to let anyone in
my secrets indulge you
and like a stray cat,
your memory stays
for fed-up weeks that last for
months, a voice like yours echoes within me
when i look up you were never speaking
like i'd imagined everything you said
but i've never believed you that much anyway

i know you're not there
but i see your smile everywhere,
draped in the curve of the curtains
and floating like ice in the water
it passes through the lens and becomes
spellbinding,
held onto forever in the angry fist of
permanency
like those old wholesome songs
that never rust

upon looking through old photos
i retreat to a time and a place
where things were pleasant because i had
yet to be tainted with the impertinent knowledge
of the future
and the smiles were not forced, and sparkly
eyes are fully genuine
more like a weed than a precious flower
struggling to withstand the test of time

2008-04-15T16:46:00.002-04:00

the saddest thing i ever saw
blurring across my eyelids,
i close them and a memory erases
clinging to an old feeling for hope

"hold still," you say
"there's something in your eye"
(i whisper to myself)

they're tears, idiot.
and why do you only notice
when something is wrong?

nevertheless.
i pull off more eyeliner; it's not as heavy
as when the day began
it's like the more they pile on,
the more my layers start to come
off in the distance,
a look triggers my mind
back to that time
why can't i remember?

i peer into a sinful photograph, eyeing my smile
and what has become of it now
glancing around
like maybe i've just left it somewhere
and forgotten

in my head, vague visions flash around
strobe lights in a horror flick move through me
i know i'm trying to tell myself something,
i know in the back of my mind

i'm missing something here.

this may be the strangest poem i have ever written...

2008-04-14T09:40:00.001-04:00

And that's saying something. I couldn't tell you for the life of me what it means. I just found it on here as a saved draft. It's beyond me.

breathless
in a warm room with doors that
won't open, after my eyes closed and i
prayed for a place with peace
and now i scream

in blazes of injustice,
as they run about the room and
pound against the walls, telling me to shut up
but my ears cannot process the words and
i hadn't known that i was screaming at all

blue-eyed tears fall from my brown eyes, and i need
a tissue that won't
disintegrate from shame
when i wipe them away

they burn my skin and even when i keep them closed,
the light overwhelms my eyes to the point where
i can't breathe.
but all is well in my world of chrome faucets and
sauté pans and warm bowls of soup
made from blue-eyed tears that fall
as i watch through windowpanes
the world without peace

zwei Gedichte (two poems)

2008-04-04T16:29:00.004-04:00

I may or may not submit either of these to our school's poetry anthology, Broken Silence. That's kind of why I wrote the second one, but the first one is just one I found in my notebook and liked.

endearing smiles are no match for
one angry glare of disappointment
or an averted gaze when
i need your eyes the most
like heavy snowflakes dropping over me,
pulling me into a blanket of white and
warming my cries,
comforting my chilling sighs
gasping through my teeth
like it matters

your eyelashes are spears
shedding brutally
into my own
and precious mouths touch,
but hearts don't,
and seconds of life tick
away

____________________________

his smile is empty, but power
plummets through his stare
bodies twist and flinch in some kind
of struggle around him, but he
is effortlessly still.
watching in awe, she stands
nearby, wind howling through her hair like a mighty fist pulling her down
but she is under a spell.

his courage overwhelms her in its lack,
eyes scouring the sea of broken limbs
as if to look for an answer
though his hands
do shake,
they never move

as a sky of ash graces their shoulders and lulls them;
he stands strong
she watches, and faces an eternity
swimming in death and flesh while living
with a statue
or certain death
beneath a million other graves
hand on the knob, she braces her stomach
and inhales his apathy
one
last
time

to let happiness bloom

2008-03-23T18:32:00.004-04:00

beautiful, always
radiance dropping from her eyes like tears
and loveliness
pouring from her heart like she knows
how it feels
to go without it

and then there's that genuine cry when
some spear of sadness emerges,
she can sense it
when the time comes
to be wrapped in another's arms
warm lullabies falling on your skin like sunlight
pours

wretchedly from a blanket of sky above her
and you
as it tears those drapes from your shoulder
that pull of sympathy and doubt alike
to look above and fall to your knees,
shedding her and all that shelters you,
and finding one Shelter
that covers you, that brings not an end to your sadness
draws it back, draws it back so it capitulates
to see the aged sunlight
finally dance across both
your wintry eyes,
as it should be.

2008-03-02T15:08:00.001-05:00

a black and blue feeling
intensifies
in her shoulders,
white petals dropping all around her
seas of fortitude and gladness
she bathes herself in hope and wishes
for a new color to dance
upon her sky
a child of broken hearts and infidel,
impure as she was at the very start
of a life unlived
controlled by a goddess of fate
and the dark simulation
of a happy ending.

2008-03-02T15:04:00.002-05:00

I honestly have no idea when I wrote this.

Spirit peeling and it revels in your
damp mortality,
eyes scan you in disgust and shame
not to feel afraid, though
heartache perpetuated beneath your
porcelain exterior, held and crushed by
these same godly hands
that built you into place.
Though your pointed laugh is gone, so
are your diamond cries
and apple smiles
Will you let me back in?
With these hands I still find comfort,
with them I long to restore
and heal
all that has come and passed away.

2008-01-22T17:37:00.000-05:00

And all this started back
when I was naive and confused,
when the stars that shone at night were nothing
against the blinding tears in your eyes.
Yet I can see myself, years from now
broken down even more than now
looking back and wondering
when was it that I lost my place,
how could I not know that I didn't have the world
at my fingertips after all?
So sure, always so sure
because your nonchalant gaze told me that I knew more,
and you were the keeper of my world.
Confidence rose up in me like a tidal wave
and sank back down just as quick
Pain I never could have fathomed overwhelmed me like a sharp
cry, moist beads cut down my cheeks
like hateful rivers.
Now I know your bored expression from a face that tells me something,
a face that knows it all
though mostly you know nothing
and to my surprise you knew this all along
it seems as though we both have our mistakes
they're already made,
they're already made
and since it was so fun while it lasted, why don't we take another trip
down memory lane.

Repost from "My Secrets for a Buck" - Monday, January 14th

2008-01-15T09:25:00.000-05:00

Today had already been established as a great day, considering the early dismissal and whatnot. Even cramps and seemingly endless chores couldn't bring me down, and that was before I got this in the mail: Congratulations, your poem was accepted.

A few months ago I entered Fire in a poetry contest through Creative Communications. Mrs. Rogers gave me a flier about it and I figured it couldn't hurt to enter, but I honestly doubted anything would happen because God knows I hate getting my hopes up just to have them shot back down again. So I kind of forgot about it.

Turns out I got accepted to be featured in the published anthology! I'm basically really excited. I mean, more than excited I guess. Thrilled/astonished is more like it. I have this need to tell everyone but I'm not sure how many people would care. I'm definitely telling Mrs. Rogers though, since she was the one who told me about it in the first place.

I have to send in the proofsheet of my poem and the order form for the book, which won't be ready to ship until sometime this summer, five to six months from now. I also entered myself as a final judge to decide which poets get the awards and prizes and such.

I basically just want to thank Chase, ECD, and Alicia for reading my crap in the first place. Before I started that writing blog and started getting comments on my poetry, I really did think it was crap, and I certainly never believed it could get anywhere CLOSE to being published. So this is insane, and right now I'm kind of in awe still. Like, there are so many things I've hoped and dreamed so hard for, to the point of fantasizing about what it would be like if it really happened. But I never thought I could get anything published. I didn't think it was possible. I never thought I'd have the courage to try. And now it's proof, and I'm just...eternally grateful to everyone who's been a support for me, in every aspect of life, not just writing. 'Cause when it comes down to it I couldn't have done it without all of you.

During biology. 1/9/08

2008-01-09T20:43:00.000-05:00

Protection. Like an angry wave. I have to wonder if it ever ends. The pulling motion; it won't recede. It drags back just enough to knock me off my feet. Rush of death in my nose. and then my throat. and now, my lungs. Savoring the feeling of life slipping away. Like I've always wanted. Each breath, drawing closer to the last. But then it's not. It ends like a dream. Later a breath is taken, my throat opens. lungs clear. Gasping like there's some kind of struggle, but there's not. Just zapped into a phase of fear by swelling darkness. But now it's not. It's light. It's clear. It's empty. It's Hell.

During biology. 1/8/08

2008-01-09T20:40:00.000-05:00

lying bells chime and tell me
the worst is over, future skies
are clearing up
storm clouds are gone
thunder dissipates into the distance
lightning fades into the sun
you get the point.
here I detach myself from that past
in which I no longer am
obligated to; this is gone from me.

in which i refuse to give up

2008-01-07T18:30:00.000-05:00

The dim light of a new dawn somehow
illuminates the very depths of my heart, brightly
resulting in bittersweet smiles to creep out of nowhere
depleting sorrow
enchanting love.

I have seen knives
I have seen pills
I have seen a limp body
drawn up by its neck
I have seen X's
in my eyes.

But behind a forced chord lie shaky hands
distraught with the temptation
of resignation, the temptation
pulling vocal chords in misery
straining until they no longer can offer
the only thing I ask of them -
relief.

I never find that smile painted on
when there is no warmth in my heart there is no warmth
in my life
I am as cold as a moonlit shadow.
In the wake of a dark moon I find peace
in a noose;
thoughts rattle me until they dissipate into the calm of night
and I awake to something new.

buying into what i thought you were

2008-01-06T21:24:00.000-05:00

I wrote this back in November - the end of November, to be exact. I just now found it, saved as a draft on here, and I don't know why I didn't post it then but I didn't and I guess that doesn't matter now.
______________________________________________
And I'm screaming, you know?
My words hit the bridge of your nose
and they fall off the tip like that bead of rain
once you stepped through the door there.
And when your eyes meet mine, emotion plows through them
but they simmer silently on their own
and I move aside

Daily I watch you
a movie out the corner of my eye
you move and I watch you
and you move and I watch you
and when I turn my head the credits roll.

You're a nightmare, you know?
Once dreamy eyes now turned to swords
pierce my admiration
for you
and it bleeds, it bleeds something awful
Leaving open wounds all over my chest but you
blink once
and I blink twice
and you walk away
And nothing happened, like
nothing ever does.

still under revision

2008-01-04T09:53:00.000-05:00

Words echo
Voices in a choir of demons in your mind
Destroy all evidence they were there
As you creep through the forest of your dream
Weary of each step you take
For every branch you break,
The sooner day comes, the sooner you wake.
Crisp from the struggles of the day
The dew cleanses your aching mind
Drips from the leaves like the blood on your wrists,
it reminds you
of a time
Where you'd wake to hear the birds sing
where sweet lullabies would soothe you to sleep
Where dreams were more than just fantasies -
You open up your eyes as you fall
to your knees.

2008-01-04T09:49:00.000-05:00

This is highly personal. It is exactly what I was feeling one day during lunch, sitting in Lively's room. Everything was going on around me, and I felt like I was barely there. It's the same loneliness I feel at least once every day.

Decisions fall upon my shoulders
weigh me down
In a small, bright room
the lights yelling
at me
to me
Chaining up my heart until it
burns
just to be free.
I ache in this place
eyes roam and I feel as if I,
I don't belong
Even after lights dim
and it clears
and I have nothing to fear
It resonates,
and I do not belong here.

I don't know what to call this. It's from November.

2008-01-04T09:46:00.000-05:00

Wipe the charcoal from your eyelids
swipe away your last regret
from the corner of your eye.
Amazed by what you see, a carpet
strewn with bottled lullabies and
cartons of sad songs and
tucked away in the corner,
a broken record plays from a
'nother broken body
that no one seems to see.
Stepping over a tired symphony life blurs,
as you approach the door
and as a fiery rain trembles over your shoulders,
a light switch has turned on and
the day begins
again.

This is old, but still.

2008-01-03T10:03:00.000-05:00

Rivers flow, wipe away rocks from the shore
Where are you now?
You were once my rock, there to hold
to guide
And sometimes,
just to protect
when I was in need of a place to hide.
And when I retreat back to the shore where you once sat,
I've come to find you're all but there,
you've disappeared.
And when I call your name, will you hear it?
Will the words carry across the river like bits of you have in the past?
Will they float on down till they find the right ear to land?
Where you have drifted, to hold and protect some other helpless soul
Or will they just dissipate into the wind,
cold and unknown

dedicated to anonymous

2007-12-16T18:32:00.001-05:00

A blue mask kind of overwhelms you, hovers over you
like a misty aura of
- what, sadness?
depression?
I think it is more like all you can do
to fill the many voids in your life,
in your love,
in your heart.
Nevertheless your mystery
still retains its mystery;
whether or not you are overshadowed by a cloud
and if there are specks of gold in your smile
or not,
even after it all has cleared and you've been
stripped naked and scrubbed clean
and left out in the warm sun
unanswered questions still echo off your paleness
into the expanding abyss of sky overhead.
As each second ticks by, I still know nothing more of you
and in your bleak existence, your inability to calm
my nerves, my nerves which have been strung tight via
your stubborn brown eyes, your hateful tight mouth and
your accusing glare,
I could never hate you. I could never give
you anything but unconditional love.

The Product of Listening to Duresse for the First Time in Months on a Sunday Afternoon

2007-12-16T15:10:00.000-05:00

I caught wind of your star
someone told me it was falling
but I couldn't tell until
that brush of fire lit up against my cheek
and even though my eyes were closed, I knew
it was you.
Because no one
can pierce through my eyes like you can
no one
would know just how to break through my
atmosphere and know just how
to land.
A fire's just a fire unless it's lit between you and me
like smoke is just smoke till its dread fills both our throats.
And then it turns burgundy warm like your smile,
and hatches a cool Kentucky sky blue like my eyes
and then it resembles something like love.
Something like love, what's that supposed to mean?
When we don't even know what to say or feel, but we know that it's
love, but only because that's the only word we know for
searing red flames of passion igniting behind
black-rimmed glasses, turning a brownish black when
we're not paying attention to the gasoline tears that
fall down my cheek when you leave.
It's just a guess until then,
that's close enough to what love's supposed to mean.

I don't know what to call this. It's about Cory. Yeah, him.

2007-12-08T19:14:00.000-05:00

A dead heart beats for you
across the room
Shadows dance in your eyes,
and you're no longer surprised when
I cry.
I had a feeling this time would come; a time
when you would no longer notice the pulse in my veins
even if it were to scream your name, you would not
even take the time
to cover your ears.

I once found you magical,
and once believed you thought the same of me
but someone, somewhere ripped
apart that thread that held our interests
and nothing was the same after that.

The glint in your eye fades in and out and I
wonder if it's something I've done, if I'm pulling
a cord that I can't see.
Sometimes you will speak then you will stop,
look at someone else and I am picturing
that she has taken your attention without even making a move.
Something is pulling, and I fault myself,
though every problem has risen in you.

I flip off the switch in hopes that, perhaps
when it comes back on again
our lives can start anew and you can go to her, if that is fate
and I will find someone new.
But the brightness is blinding unless I am cowering
in the wake of your shadow
and neither of us can stand to move.

My mind paralyzed, my heart in threads
a smile reaches across the corners of your face and it's
burning within me to do the same.
The question is not whether it is wise to give into my desires, but instead
whether or not it is worth it
to question anything at all.

kind of the story of my life

2007-12-05T09:37:00.000-05:00

A soul unlike any other
longs to, if anything,
simply blend into the room
Adoration, not even attention
is required. Just a speck in a cloud
of dust; a mouth moving in a sea
of voices; a petal in a bouquet
of roses.
But no, instead she is a black
in a class of whites; a curl
in a sweep of straight hair; a sample of
diversity
in a place where reality
is nothing short of
conformity.

2007-11-29T09:56:00.000-05:00

Words blink at me from the screen
like a terrified scream echoes
from an injured beast.
I love you and I'd do whatever I could,
but words can't make up for
what actions lack.

My eyelids flutter as if
approaching your grave, bodies
silent for years now laugh at me
and you
or what we have become.

Petals and a scrape in stone are all
I can say to you, now
when I return to where you rest and open my mouth,
all but the right words is what comes out.
You were cold to me in life,
so I left you out for dead
Repercussions of that old song
still vibrate through your chilled bones
I hear it when I press your limp hand to my face
skeletal remains
is such a sad, sad saying.

We spent our lives in a grave, just waiting for
Death to join us.
Every autumn we would close our eyes
drown ourselves in earth and leaves
see how long we could last so close to the other side.

Then I stopped playing games
Childhood becomes real life now,
but why are you still in the ground?
Like it always has been
you're still sitting there,
eyeing me as I hurt
uncaring and unmoved
like it always has been.
___________________________

Okay, personal opinion time.
Tbh, I don't like the ending. But I did this during yearbook a few days ago and just kinda stopped it there, so the ending isn't totally permanent, definitely. But, anyway. I don't really care. I was reading over it in English and then I started to realize how hilarious some of these lines are, when you just say them aloud. "We spent our lives in a grave just waiting for Death to join us." I was like, "How depressing is that, Sarah?" My other poem that I started and probably won't finish because it sucks was even funnier, some metaphor about rotting meat. Proof I was not in the right mindset this week, I really, really wasn't.

But it's not so bad. I've definitely done worse. I like writing about graves lately, I dunno. Strange fascination with death.

Nothing like a pre-church rant

2007-11-25T10:02:00.000-05:00

Bleh.

I get so bored with writing so quickly. Specific ideas, I mean. I had this one that was actually a recreation of another one that I was sure I was going to go far with just because I found this batch of characters so intriguing.

Ended off at about 20 pages. I haven't really "added" anything to it in over a week.

Then there are the ones swimming around in my head and barely written anywhere at all, kind of free-floating ideas that might be easier to start writing about because they're so general, but that's actually what makes them more difficult. They're so broad I don't really know where to start. So I don't.

But sometimes I wonder if I'm just thinking too much into this, and I think I am. I expect really specific things from myself and what I want hardly ever happens. I'm a...sigh. Perfectionist. I did stop saying that because I found it obvious all the ways in which I don't try at all to be perfect, but all these little things that I obsess over definitely make up for it. Details, man, details. I am obsessed with details. It's really hard for me to grasp the big picture when I'm so focused on what's going on now, what's good or bad about right now. And not just in writing, but in absolutely EVERYTHING. It's true. I'm awful.

Hmm. But anyway. What happens when I get bored with a single idea is I go back to a different one, an older one. And I end up skipping through all these documents and never really settling on one, thus never really getting anything accomplished. It's really difficult for me to just pick one idea and stick with it, because I want everything to go completely smooth right away. Even though I know it won't, when I actually think about things realistically, but I can't quite help it because it's just a part of how I think.

Mmm. I dunno. I gotta go to church now. >_< More later, perhaps.

Untitled, currently

2007-11-14T09:39:00.001-05:00

Eyes dart above the horizon
Sunrise
Bloody sun staining the night sky
Refreshing the day and starting anew
Brimming heat is depleting
my sadness
And I can smile again
Like a river washing the day away
The sun brings in a new light
A new light brings a new shadow
and I'm casting love across the ground.
Gentle clouds caress the new blue sky
Bright love opens up my arms
and eyes
and in completion, I stand and turn
Prepared
for it all, to meet the day
Flick the sunlight from my fist
Scraping smiles on my wrist.

Safety

2007-11-11T20:58:00.000-05:00

Rain pouring down outside,
An ominous fear in everyone's eyes
Commotion all around me, sounds I can't control
Movement that overwhelms me, suffocating chaos
I could close my eyes and think I'm dying,
but I don't.
You're right there, dimming the darkness for me
Through all of this, you've done nothing but comfort me
And you don't even know.
Your voice, though mostly laughter,
soothes me into a state of calmness, a state of tranquility
that no one else's gentle words could manage.
Thunder roaring from behind our backs, voices echo in screams
I can't avert my eyes from yours.
When your lips move, all I can hear
is the melodic strumming of my own heartbeat
pounding in my neck and my wrists.
And as water pelts the rooftops,
as everyone huddles in a sea of loud whispers,
as fear thickens in the air like a toxic gas,
as threat encompasses us and we are struck by a future unknown -
one more moment passes.
And you are there,
and I am safe.

Something New

2007-10-07T12:39:00.000-04:00

I'm writing something new lately; actually I just started it last weekend and just found it today, having totally forgotten about it since then. So I read it and started to add more and I think why I like it so much is because it's so different from things I normally write. Totally different perspective, different voice, and it's a bit of a challenge, honestly.

If I can remember correctly, I think it was semi-inspired by Forrest Gump. Now don't laugh, but I honestly have yet to see the whole move in its entirety. However I've seen the majority of it at least five times when it's been on TV. In fact we have it at home but I don't watch movies well. I can't sit still for that long, I have to already be in bed to watch a movie, and there's not a VCR in my room.

So basically, I adore that movie. Like I said, haven't seen it all. But every time it's on I have to watch it. I can't just not watch it. A marathon of my favorite show could be on and I'd still watch it. It's so inspiring, and the way the movie meshed with an idea I already had in my head and what I came up with in result of that was something so different, I didn't really know what to do with it. But the fact that I have something brand new and out of character for me, I feel like I can experiment with it and maybe it'll turn into something really good.

And like I said, it's a challenge. I've noticed that a lot of the things I write kind of all come from the same perspective, but this is completely different. It's written from the male perspective, for one, which is always fun. :] And then, just generally - the characteristics of my main characters are often rather similar, and this one is completely different. It's fun. I like it. Though now talking about it makes me want to watch Forrest Gump. :p

In My Eyes

2007-09-09T15:43:00.000-04:00

Your tears, how I wish for them
to fall on me.
A waterfall of purity, ingenuity,
bravery.
All these words in which I use to describe you,
all these words, none of which describe you.
In my eyes, a scraggly child
becomes the next ruler of the free world;
a seedling becomes a redwood, towering above the rest;
and you, in my eyes,
however small and insignificant to anyone you may seem -
Do they really matter?
Do they really matter, when, in my eyes
your eyes
Are like pools of truth, a central place of honesty
In my eyes, your eyes
Are beautiful, your eyes
they hold so much potential,
so much power,
so much love.

Fire

2007-08-10T08:36:00.000-04:00

Breathe life into me,
as you take my breath away.
Never has vulgarity seemed so pure,
never has something so bitter tasted
so sweet.
You hold within you a fire,
a fire no one sees but me
A fire that does not burn at the touch,
but merely heats
to a desired warmth and then disappears
onto heat the next cold and distant soul;
I know because I can feel it
constantly
numbing my icy heart, even when you are not near
that fire resides
around me like an aura
Created merely by the appreciation of your presence, this aura
is a testimony
to the invisible flames within
us all.

All For You

2007-08-10T08:32:00.000-04:00

My words are spoken kindly, sheer imagery
I collect it all in my mind
Fallen leaves of the trees in my memory
floating on the still pondwaters of my conscious
and they're all for you.
Every word and sentence dedicated to you,
in some form or another,
bits of you sprinkled across the page
and you rest,
oblivious.
Oblivious of this love we share in my farthest dreams and fantasies,
oblivious of all that I feel for you,
good or bad;
that I feel anything at all,
that I care at all,
that I'd give my all
for you.

I need to vent about this story.

2007-08-08T14:12:00.000-04:00

So I don't really need to, actually I just want to. I figure if I start writing about it maybe I'll be able to make a little sense of it all, and exactly what my problem with it is.

Actually, I guess I know what's wrong. I kind of lost the motivation to continue with it, even though I want to. Basically, I'm lazy. I still write other stuff when I'm bored, but every time I open up that story I kind of don't want anything to do with it. I think it's okay, I don't really hate it anymore. But I don't really like it much either. Probably because I've been putting it off the past couple weeks - I stopped writing by a daily goal because I associated that with making me crazy, when I had that whole mega breakdown thing, but I'm contemplating starting that up again. Just because I know that would help me get it done. 2,000 words a day instead of 2,000 words a week. Even if it does make me crazy. I kind of realized crazy isn't that bad after all, it's certainly not boring.

Since school is starting up soon I'm questioning my ability to work on anything outside of that, considering the majority of the time I have a problem with just trying to finish a few pages worth of homework on a day-to-day basis, but I guess I won't really know until I try. And at the same time I need to stop piddling (ha, piddling - that's a funny word) around with these other ideas and focus on just one at a time - I knew that, I know that, but I started them up anyway because I got tired of this one. Bad idea, I know, but oh well.

2007-07-10T21:24:00.000-04:00

I should know better,
know better than to make a big deal out of you
Sing your praises through the streets
just in time for you to take another stab at my pride
and nothing changes.

Your eyes burn through me like a laser, and yet I stare
I stare into them like the precious jewels they are
'Cause you're just my favorite thing to love and hate.

Altogether now, we're back again
Back at this same place, kind of wishing it was the same
2-hour phone conversations with 5-minute spans of silence
Is it true that we don't have that much to say?
You talk just to fill the void and I'm left speechless
Your voice is like a wind tunnel
sucked in now and I just can't get back out.
And when it's over I'm left with a dead phone and a racing heart
So many things left unsaid, regret is such an understatement.

And then, my worst nightmare
The phone calls stop
and it's the past all over again.
You're out of touch, you're out of reach
and I'm just a worried mess.
A spin into the future, there's really no use
History repeats istelf again and I'm stuck here with you.

Migration

2007-07-09T19:04:00.001-04:00

Going going gone
You, like a bird in the sky
Fluttering over the horizon
Disappearing in a blink of time
Some days I wish like the bird
You'll end up flying back
Gone though not for too long
Though I'm sure it will never happen
Just as I see the bird
Visits me again every spring
Hangs through the summer months
Till fall and departs again
You'll fly out of my mind for a while
Return in time for me to go hollow
Fill me up with your memories and love
Then once again withdraw.

You're the poem I never wrote; the song I've never heard.

2007-07-07T23:04:00.000-04:00

Every lie to roll off my lips,
wishes to float into your ear
Every note that rises from my throat
longs to tread the memories of melodies in your mind
My fingers dart back and forth across the keys,
if only for these words to enter your retinas and resonate
May they resonate with some sort of intellect in mind;
How pained I would be to discover that you had merely
Tossed them aside.
And if nothing else, I simply request
that in your mind you may store a small fleck of remembrance
A past event or memory that may provoke a longing to, perhaps,
see my face, hear my voice again
Remember me as I remember you,
Feel my presence as I wish to feel yours.

Monica [Post 11]

2007-06-23T19:28:00.000-04:00

The air was kind of frigid from then on, figuratively speaking. Kent never spoke directly to me nor did I speak directly to him. In fact, I really didn't pay much attention to anything. Kelly and I just sat along the sidelines and whispered to each other, while in the meantime trying to pretend that we were actually paying attention to what was going on.

They didn't do much practicing. Kent forgot his guitar anyway; plus, they were all too busy bickering over what the band name should be. Some really lame suggestions, too - everything Dennis suggested sounded like something he'd just had for dinner. Josh was spitting out random words left and right, and Kent finally just told him to shut up. Everything Brian suggested, we couldn't pronounce, and Max never said anything at all.

I didn't have any particularly good ideas myself, so I suppose I shouldn't be talking.

Since they all pretty much bombed there, Kent decided to move on to the next topic at hand, assigning positions. Brian, of course, was the self-appointed tech guy. Josh was in charge of taking over matters when Kent wasn't able to - that was originally supposed to my job, or so he told me, but it was obvious to me now that Kent was indeed probably kinda pissed at me - and Max volunteered to be the unofficial lyricist, of course. I smiled at him, but he didn't see me.

Kent, however, did. And the anger in his eyes was so illuminated then, even if it was only for a split-second. I couldn't help but think, what did I ever do to him?

Kelly must’ve noticed it, too. Because as soon as Kent turned away from me to again address the band, she nudged me in the shoulder and said, “Is something going on between you two?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know…I think he’s jealous of you and Max.” I looked at her. “He’s used to me hanging out with him and only him, talking to him and only him. So now he’s probably kind of pissed.”

“Oh,” she said, looking over at him with a sad face. “Poor Kent. But he’s got other friends, right?”

“Of course, he’s got tons of friends,” I said, shaking my head. “But I don’t. I think he forgets that, sometimes.”

“Oh,” Kelly said, softly. “Well, I hope we don’t get you into too much trouble.” She paused for a second. “Do you think lying to him is going to be worth your guys’ friendship?” She looked at me. “Or would it just be better to tell the truth?”

I actually thought about this for a second…she had a point. I sighed. Kent was like my brother, and I’d gone as far to say that he was my best friend, but for some reason, I didn’t really care anymore. Writing made me happy. Kelly and Max made me happy. Everyone else knowing? That didn’t really make me happy.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. I was talking to Kelly, but I was really trying to convince myself. “No…I mean, he’s got to know that I can’t tell him everything, right?”

Kelly smiled slightly, nodding. “Sure, I guess, Monica. Whatever you say.” We went back to listening to Kent, almost on cue.

“So I got all the music for the first cover we’re gonna do,” he said. “Max is gonna pick it up tomorrow, right Max?”

Max didn’t even look up from his notebook, he just nodded.

“Which song is it?” Brian asked.

“Oh, right,” Kent said. “Sweet Home Alabama. I was going to do something different, but that's what Josh wanted to do."

My jaw dropped in utter amazement - not only was this not the song that Kent and I had agreed on, but it was also one of my personal least favorite songs of all time. That was when I realized, for sure, that Kent and I were obviously not the best of friends anymore. Why? It didn't really matter to me. If he was going to be a jerk, I was going to be a jerk right back to him.

So I haven't totally forgotten about this blog.

2007-06-15T18:41:00.000-04:00

Perhaps just slightly. But not totally.

So in the past week I've only progressed about a fraction of an inch with this new story. Blah. And I'd like to say I'm trying, but quite frankly, I haven't been. Once I got home, I started writing other things and sort of lost my focus on it.

What I need to do, like major, is save this word document to a disk and transfer it over to the laptop so I can work on it whenever I want, and not just whenever my mom's not on the computer (she's nearing her last few weeks in grad school, and her final project is this mega huge research paper so, needless to say, she's on the computer quite often). Unfortunately I don't know where Jeff keeps the disks. So I'm a little stuck right now.

But I haven't totally given up on it or anything.
Which is good.

Monica [Post 10]

2007-06-09T21:24:00.000-04:00

Max is a genius. There's just no getting around that.

With Kelly, we devised a plan to make me the lead lyricist in the band. I'd do the writing and either Max or Kelly would take the credit. Of course, they could contribute to the writing all they wanted. It was a team effort, just designed to keep me in the background, which was where I preferred to be.

It was a little more relieving to know that I had some other people in on this with me. As far as I could tell, Kelly and Max were pretty trustworthy - and they were new here, so they didn't really have anybody to spill all of my secrets to. That I knew of, anyway.

Due to all the nonsensical drama, I had nearly forgotten we were supposed to have practice that day. Sure enough, by the time Kelly, Max and I had figured everything out, Brian showed up with all of his electronic gear - apparently, he'd made himself the tech guy. I decided to help Max and Brian bring all of Brian's stuff downstairs, since shortly after Brian got there, Josh and Dennis followed.

I don't like Josh and Dennis. Never have. I suppose Josh is decent, but Dennis is a pig. He kind of looks like one, too. He's one of Kent's friends, though - that's how he got in. Plus, he plays like, every instrument known to man. So we kind of needed him as a backup, if for nothing else.

Everyone just sort of sat around in the basement, waiting for Kent. We had gotten everything set up and arranged, which took a while. Brian's "vision" of how it was supposed to look didn't match up with how it looked, so we ended up having to move the instruments around into every possible position until it was perfect. After a while, Kelly and I just gave up and sat down by the doorway, out of the way.

"So," she said, "what are you doing with this bunch of morons, anyway?"

I laughed. "Well, I was pretty much drafted into it. Kent got this bright idea of starting a band this summer, so I just agreed to help out."

"Oh," she said. "What do you play?"

"Keyboards," I said. "And guitar, but, well, I suck at that."

"Oh," she said. "What does Kent play?"

"Guitar," I said, looking at her. "He's brilliant."

"Brilliant?" she said, laughing. I'd come to believe that she thought Kent was a total dork, so I could understand this.

"Brilliant," I emphasized. "At least, that's what it seems to me. But maybe that's just because I'm so horrible."

"Mhmm," she said, nodding. "I get that. That's how it is with Max. He's so good at everything he does, I kind of feel like a...I don't know. A failure or something."

I just looked at her. Her head was leaned back against the wall, and she was staring ahead, to the small window up on the other wall, not even looking at me. It was clear to me that this was obviously untrue. Sure, I didn't know much about her at the time, but it was evident that she was nothing short of amazing.

And if she wasn't, she certainly put up a good act.

Before I even got a chance to respond; to deny, to totally contradict what she had just said, someone turned the corner from the other room and totally tripped over Kelly's outstretched legs, falling face-first onto the ground. It was so dramatic; arms flailing, legs kicking up, body slamming into the concrete ground, in such slow-motion it was as if time had stopped.

It was Kent.

"Oh my gosh!" Kelly squealed on impact, covering her mouth with her hands in shock and pulling her legs out from the middle of the floor reflexively. All the guys on the opposite side of the room jumped, and Max totally fumbled his drumsticks; they fell to the floor in a shattering echo of Kent's thud.

"Kent, what the heck?" I said immediately, unfolding my legs out from underneath me and crawling over to him as he strained to get up. He pushed himself up off his arms, but didn't get very far, only turning over to his side. He didn't look "hurt", per se, but he definitely appeared to be in pain.

"Are you okay?" I asked, rubbing the shoulder that he was trying to reach with his other arm. He winced in response.

"Dude, what happened?" Josh said, bolting over to his side.

"He tripped," I said, then looked back down at Kent, "running in here like a maniac. What were you doing, Kent?"

He coughed, rolling over on his back and slowly rising up. "I was late," he said, his voice gruff. "I was looking for you." His tone was so hostile, he made it sound like it was all my fault. I just glared at him. Sure, maybe I didn't tell him where I was going, but he had to know I'd end up here eventually. I didn't say a word. I just backed up against the wall and let Josh help him up.

Eh.

2007-06-06T19:05:00.001-04:00

I went ahead and posted both posts 7 & 8 even though I'm not sure whether or not I'm satisfied with them yet. I figure I'll just keep going and go back and make changes later. Anywho...enjoy. :]

Also, Post 9 is finished & up now. 10 is in the works. Yay. :]

Ugh. So, update.

2007-06-06T11:28:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I ended up writing a lot...I have three drafts right now, but then I realized I wasn't sure if I was taking them in the direction I wanted to go or not, so that's why they're not posted. But I'll try it from a different angle today and see if I like it any better. I'll get something up eventually. :]

Monica [Post 9]

2007-06-05T12:34:00.000-04:00

On the way down to the basement, she told me she'd help explain, since it was obviously so hard for me to face the facts. I sighed a breath of relief.

Their basement was huge, and for the most part, refinished. The stairs led to a huge game room, complete with a TV, a pool table, and a DVD collection the size of Kelly's bookcase. There was a doorway beneath the staircase that led to another, unfinished room - that's where the band would practice.

And that's where Max was, sitting on the floor underneath a window, next to his drumset, scribbling into a notebook. He didn't seem to notice we were there, not until Kelly flipped on the light switch. He looked up.

"Oh, hey," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Monica?"

"You're going to kill your eyes like that," Kelly said. She turned to me. "He always does that, writes in the dark. It's kind of freaky."

"What are you guys doing here?" he said, looking at his watch. "Practice doesn't start until six, does it?"

"She needs to talk to you," Kelly said, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall.

Petrified, I walked toward him. "Yeah," I said, biting my lip. "I've kind of screwed everything up."

He closed his notebook and stuck his pen between his teeth, patting the empty ground next to him. "How so?" he said, tossing the pen and his notebook aside. I sat down.

Fiddling with my fingers, I said, "I don't know where to start." Kelly took that as a signal, and took over the conversation for me, even though that wasn't what I was implying.

"Let's start with this," she said, pushing herself off against the wall and walking forward, sitting down cross-legged in front of us. "Monica's been hanging out with me lately, right?"

"Right," Max said, following. I suddenly felt so bad for dragging him into this. At least Kelly had enthusiasm. She could deal with drama. Max just seemed depressed, and this probably wasn't going to help.

"So Kent noticed," I said, trying to keep Kelly from totally talking for me. "And I don't know, he fell under the impression..."

"That you two are together," she said, pointing fingers at both of us to clarify. I felt like a nuclear bomb had just dropped out of my chest. Max had an inquisitive look on his face, and I wondered what he was thinking. Probably about how much of a dork I am.

"How'd he figure that?" he asked, looking at me. I shrugged.

"Well, you see, he'd never expect me to hang out with Kelly," I said, a burning truth sizzling on my lips. I just glanced at Kelly, to see the look of hurt on her face. And sure enough, there it was. I decided not to elaborate for the sake of her feelings, and went on, "At least, not without any other reason behind it. And I guess he saw me at the poetry reading, with you - which was bad enough - until I realized that as long as he thought I was there for you, and not me, I could still keep it a secret. At least, for a while."

Max just stared at me. Blank, empty stare. I decided to fill in a response for him. "You're a freak, get out of my house." "This is a joke, right?" "Are you kidding? I'd never secretly pretend to fake-date you." Luckily, his actual response was a lot less hostile. And wasn't much different from not responding at all.

"Oh," he said. Then he looked at Kelly. And back at me. "So what, you told him it was true?"

I thought to myself. Not exactly, I could say. But I'd done enough cover-up anti-truthing today. I sighed. "Pretty much." He looked away. Not like, don't-you-dare-speak-to-me, talk-to-the-hand away, just away; to the ground, away. I felt like such a moron. TP'ing with Kent and Danny all over again. Another thing to add to the truckload of mistakes in my life. "Are you totally pissed?" I asked, sort of thinking aloud. Sometimes that gets me into a bigger mess, sometimes it's exactly what needs to be said. Fortunately this time, it was the latter.

Max shrugged, turning back to me. "You know, not really. If it's for the best, you know - you can still come to the readings, without feeling like a loser."

"But I still can't read," I said, just now realizing this. "I definitely couldn't do that. Word gets around fast. Everyone would know."

Plus, I'm a total chicken.

Max thought on this for a second. Kelly sat quietly in front of us; thoughtfully looking at the both of us with her chin in her hands. I couldn't believe how many stupid assumptions I'd made about her; she was a brat, annoying, nerve-wracking like nearly all the other girls I'd ever met. Actually, the stupid assumptions weren't that hard to believe. It was how she didn't match up to those stupid assumptions - that was pretty much the shocker.

"Well, if you don't mind," Max said, "I have a way you could still present at the poetry reading and write for the band..." He had my total attention now. "And nobody would even know it."

Kelly piped in. "Oh, really," she said, doubtfully.

"Yeah," Max said, looking at her and then back to me. "But that's the thing. They wouldn't know it was you, because they'd think it me."

Monica [Post 8]

2007-06-05T11:32:00.000-04:00

I once went TP'ing with Kent and Danny on Halloween. I couldn't have been any older than nine, because Danny was still in high school, living at home.
At the time, I thought it was fun. Until I woke up the next morning and on the way to school, saw our work glistening in the morning light. It was our principal's house. Suddenly, I felt like a jerk. Even though I didn't really participate, I just sat in the car a block away and watched, I still felt partially responsible.

Things are like that sometimes. You don't really realize what you've done until after you've done it - and then, it's too late to turn things around or reverse your actions - they're shining all over the front of the principal's house, for everyone to see.

So maybe not all things are like that. But this was certainly one of them. The next day - Saturday, the day of band practice - I realized that Kent believed Max and I were together. Dating. Boyfriend and girlfriend. However you'd like to word it. I was faced with the terrifying fact that I had just dragged another life into one of my lies, and there was no way of pulling him out, now.

So I went over to his house early. It took me a while to find it, but then I remembered that he lived with the Yates'. The Yates Estate, as it was sometimes called. It was one big house. Two stories and obviously, a basement. I admit, I was a little intimidated as I walked up to the door. Even more so when I realized that I was going to have to explain to Max that we now had to pretend to be secretly dating. I could already see the twisted look of confusion on his face. My heart sank. I felt like such a loser as I lifted my hand and knocked on the door.

To my surprise, Kelly answered it. I was expecting a butler or something. You're an idiot, I thought to myself. She looked just as surprised to see me - in fact, she looked at me like I was some kind of foreigner.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. The shock in her voice kind of balanced out the tint of rudeness I could here. I could - could I? - tell her I was here to see Max, or I could make up another anti-truth.

Anti-truth. I like that. But I couldn't afford any more of those, for sure.

"I need to talk to Max," I said. Anti-truth, bubbling up to the surface. "I would've called, but I didn't know the number. And I forgot you lived with the Yates'." At least there was some truth in there. I had forgotten they lived with the Yates'. But I did know the phone number. It was somewhere in my notebook. Max gave it to me when we first met.

"What do you need to talk to Max for?" she asked, looking even more surprised and confused. Forget Max, I thought. I didn't even think about getting past Kelly. As I opened my mouth to blow out another anti-truth, I realized I couldn't do this. Not to Kelly. She'd been too nice to me. Kent was another story. He had to forgive me; we were blood.

"You want the truth?" I asked, sighing. She narrowed here eyes, a little suspiciously. Utterly hoping she would say no, I shrugged. "I mean, it's pretty lame. I wouldn't really reccomend it."

"Come in," she said, stepping back and letting me in. She closed the door and I stood there, in the foyer, looking around like a dimwit. Before then, I really didn't know that houses had foyers. I thought they were just reserved for buildings and stuff.

"What's going on?" she asked, crossing her arms. I sighed, bracing myself. Come on, Monica, I told myself. Suck it up and tell the truth.

"It's complicated," I said, which was indeed rather true. It didn't necessarily have to be complicated, but I had made it that way, so it was. "It all started with..." I looked around awkwardly. "Can we go somewhere?"

"Oh, sure," she said, uncrossing her arms, beckoning me to follow her. "We'll go to my room."

Up the stairs we went, which turned at one point, and led to a hallway along the banister. I kind of scaled the wall - I'm terrified of heights.

She turned into the second room on the left, turning on the light and holding the door open for me as she did. I walked inside, and she told me I could sit wherever, shutting the door.

Kelly's room was no different from Kelly. It was like she'd been blown up and splattered all over the walls. The walls were a forest green, and the carpet was a light brown. Her bed was neatly made, a green, red, and brown plaid bedspread covering it. She had two bookcases on one wall, which were filled to the brim with books, and two big, brown easy chairs - think Barnes & Noble - on the adjacent wall.

"So tell me," she said, sitting on her bed. I took a seat in one of the Barnes & Noble chairs, seemingly sinking. I suddenly had this strange notion that Kelly was a serial killer and this was how she captured her victims - trapping them in a quicksand of comfort and then bashing their heads in.

She put her head in her hands, staring at me, waiting. I sighed. This was so difficult with Kelly - I could only imagine how hard it would be with Max. Taking a deep breath, I decided to just let it spill, and only make eye contact when I was finished. After all, it's always good to have a battle plan.

So I told her. About the poetry reading, and about my poetry. About how I was scared to death of anyone finding out, even though I couldn't really explain to her why. About how I was lying to Kent because of how totally unorthodox it was for someone like to me to like poetry. About how Kent had noticed me hanging out with her and somehow came up with the conclusion that I was going out with Max. About how I just went along with it. And about how I now had to somehow explain all of this to Max.

"So you were going to the poetry reading anyway?" she said, looking disappointed.

"Yeah," I said. "And I knew Max was coming. I just didn't realize you didn't want him there. I'm sorry."

She shrugged it off. "It's okay," she said. "I just...had no idea. About any of this."

"Well," I said, "that's kind of the thing. Nobody does. Except for Max. And now, you."

"Wait, so you told your brother you're going out with my brother?" she said, disgusted. I couldn't help but laugh. This was all so ridiculous.

"Pretty much," I said, relieved that this was all somewhat out in the open now. "Actually," I went on, trying to give myself a little credit, "I didn't actually tell him. He just assumed that it was true, because I didn't say I wasn't, either."

She laughed. "Clever," she said, smiling. She sat up. "So, let me get this straight. You need to talk to my brother."

"Right."

"To tell him that you two have to pretend to go out now?"
"Secretly," I corrected. "Kent's the only one who's supposed to know about it. Well, besides you, now, I guess."

She laughed. "Wow. I never would've known."

I shrugged. "Well, it's all a load of lies, so that's kind of the point." I looked at her for a second. "But you're in on it now. You sure you can deal with a liar like me?"

She shrugged, standing up. "The lies make the truth that much more interesting. Now come on," she said, motioning me towards the door. "Let's go talk to Max."

Monica [Post 7]

2007-06-02T16:56:00.001-04:00

I talk about everything with Kent. We're both pretty open with each other. But for some reason, I could never bring up with him the subject of my poetry. I'm still not sure. It's not like he would be totally disgusted with me upon discovering my passion for poetry. I suppose it's just because I've been untalented all my life, and it's easier to just continue with everyone expecting nothing of me than to discover something I excel at and then have them actually expect me to exert myself. So it's really not about Kent, it's about everyone. But somewhere along the line, I figured it would be better if he just didn't know.

But the result of me keeping my poetry hidden was a lot more secrets, and a lot more lies. Secrets breed secrets. Lies breed lies. I'm used to lying, but not to Kent. I knew that if there was anyone I could tell the truth to, it would be him. But now, with this poetry thing under lock, he was out of the picture. Just my cousin now, not my best friend. Which made me want to reconsider my current structure of friends - pretty much all that left me to was Kelly.

In the wake of our afternoon at Kirk's Diner, Kelly and I slowly shifted from "acquaintances" to "friends", something that's never really happened to me before. Every day after school, she would be at the park, hanging around the basketball court where she knew she could find me. We'd walk around the park together, just talking about nonsensical stuff. She'd ask about the band, and I'd ask her about her poetry. She never would bring up Max, so I never asked. She seemed to like me, though, and that was certainly refreshing. Not much of anybody wanted to hang around a dork like me - besides Kent, but I think it's just because we're related - so even though we totally clashed sometimes (she thinks country music is downright appalling and I think it's a gift from God), I could definitelly still tolerate her. And that was a first for me. And Kent knew it, too.

Or at least, I thought he did.

"Monica?" he said, poking his head into my room. I was half-asleep on my bed, the credits of Legally Blonde rolling down the TV screen. I fully opened my eyes. "Yeah?"

He came inside and shut the door behind him, just standing there, looking around. "You haven't been talking much lately," he said, eyes scanning the room. "Everything okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, sitting up, prepared to disembark from the truth a little bit. "Just, you know, finals and everything. I thought eighth grade was going to be easier, but apparently not."

He nodded, accepting this. He still kept looking around. I narrowed my eyes at him. He was acting suspicious. "Are you looking for something?" I asked.

"Actually, yeah," he said, stepping forward. He carefully tiptoed through the maze of dirty clothes over to my bureau. I raised an eyebrow. I've said we were closer than most cousins, but honestly, what was he thinking?

He eyed all of the junk sitting on the surface and then plucked something out, jerking his arm back out like he'd just grabbed a fish out of the mouth of a crocodile. He looked at the bottle in his hands, my new bottle of anti-frizz product. Kelly told me it would keep my hair from getting as tangled, and she was right. "Ah-ha," he said theatrically, as if he'd just found what he'd been searching for.

"What, do you have a frizz problem, too?" I said, raising an eyebrow. He didn't even acknowledge what I'd said. Most people do that.

"I knew it," he said, walking over to me. He finally looked up at me and showed me the bottle. In his interrogating voice, he said, "What could you possibly need this for?"

I opened my mouth, fully prepared to tell him the truth, but I held back. Secrets can do that to you. Make you second-guess yourself, think through what you're going to say a few times, careful not spill anything that could be read between the lines.

"See, I knew it!" he laughed, connivingly. I was so confused, but I tried my best not to really show it. I pulled my knees to my chest to make room for him as he sat on the end of the bed. He just shook his head, chuckling. "I knew there had to be some reason why you've been acting so weird." He turned to me, a knowing grin on his face. "You're seeing Max, aren't you?"

My jaw kind of dropped. What? I thought. How did he come up with something like that? I took a second to think on it, and with my mouth still hanging open, I decided to use this to my advantage - and just play a long.

I sighed, closing my mouth and my eyes. I turned my head down and fumbled with the remote in my hands. I smiled to myself as all the lies started to form, seemingly on their own. I softly said, "How did you know?"
Kent scooted back, leaning against the wall. "Come on, Monica. You thought Kelly was the most annoying thing on earth a few weeks ago, and now you're with her 24/7. Plus, I saw you at the poetry reading with him." He met me with his eyes, and grinned. My heart nearly stopped beating. "Really, how could you be more obvious."

"I guess you're right," I said, scratching my elbow and looking down, shyly.

"Just tell me," he said, sitting up, "Why'd you try to keep it a secret? I thought we were supposed to tell each other everything."

I gulped, trying to swallow down the guilt as I spoke. "I wasn't trying to keep anything from you," I said. "I was trying to keep it from Uncle Joe. You know he'd flip."

"Oh," Kent said, understandingly. "I guess I get that." He looked towards the ground, then up at the wall again. "How long has it been going on?"

I shrugged. "Just like, a week," I said. "Basically, since the auditions."

"That's why you wanted him in the band," Kent said, looking at me. I had emphasized that Max be in the band, but only because I knew he'd be a great lyricist.

"He's a good drummer," I said, thinking on it. "He's the only drummer."

"I guess that's right," Kent said. He smiled. "I just can't believe Monica's finally got a boyfriend."

I grabbed a stuffed animal from behind me and threw it at him. "Get out of here," I said, as he crawled off the bed, ducking his way to the door. I kept throwing things until he reached the doorknob, grabbing it.

"Kent, wait," I laughed, almost getting too caught up in the moment. He stopped, turning around cautiously, his hand on the doorknob.

I sighed. "You won't tell anyone, will you? At least, not yet."

"Don't worry," Kent said. "Your secret's safe with me."

Okay, I thought, leaning back, relieved. "Thank you," I mouthed. He nodded, turning the doorknob and disappearing down the hall. I figured it would be better to keep lies small, after all. If everyone knew about this - now that would be a definite problem.

It's seems weird, but it works.

2007-06-02T16:44:00.000-04:00

I've had an idea in my head as to where I want to go with this next part of my story, but when I try to actually sit down and write it, it's a mess. Which proves that I pretty much just don't write off of planed ideas, I write off the top of my head. I think that's why it's been so difficult for me to work with the ideas that I've tried to plan with, like Angel or Connie. I tried to pre-plan them and work everything out so it goes smoothly when I write it, but that doesn't work. I've done so much with trying to put all the pieces together with the Angel story, when what I really needed to do was just write it. When I start writing about a character, I get a better idea of how she story should go in relation to what the character is like. When I try to write about something I've already previously planned, it comes out kind of forced, and not as believable. I think it's best for me not to have a full idea of what I'm going to write until I sit down and write it.

Like the past six posts - totally unplanned. Half of the characters included I had no plans of whatsoever until they came to my mind, which was while I was writing it. Jessie, the waitress - until yesterday, she didn't exist. I didn't know Max had a younger sister that was Monica's age. I didn't know Monica was supposed to go to a poetry reading. And it's kind of better that way, it seems - that I don't really have an idea in mind until I sit down to write it. Because that's the only time that it matters, after all.

So basically, Post 7 won't be up for a while because, like I said, I was taking it in a totally wrong direction and I'll need to start it over from the top. It's already almost five now, and tomorrow we're going back to Indiana. So I don't have a lot of time to work on anything, at least, not until Monday. Expect tons of stuff next week, though. I'll have plenty of time on my hands. :]

Monica [Post 6]

2007-05-31T20:34:00.000-04:00

*I'm not sure if this is the exact direction I'm going to go with it or not, but it's what I came up with today. Nevertheless, here's the next part.

My family tends to spend a lot of time at Kirk's Diner. As a matter of fact, Kirk keeps the back booth reserved specifically for us. Which means we're always welcome, even in a full house, which was exactly the case today. We had an early dismissal at school, which meant the afternoon schedule was wide open for everyone in the neighborhood. That's why Kent got the band together for a meeting, and that's why the diner was packed; but we'd got there just before the pre-dinnertime rush, which starts around 4:30.

"Hello there, Monica," Jessie, one of the waitresses, said, sliding up next to our booth on her roller skates. Kelly jumped, alarmed. I couldn't help but smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart," Jessie chuckled, patting Kelly on the shoulder. "I see you're new to these parts." She held out her hand, smiling her infamous gap-toothed, crooked smile. "I'm Jessie. Welcome to Kirk's Diner."

According to Lewis gossip, Jessie used to date my Uncle Joe in high school. In my opinion, she looks like she never left high school. Kind of like a blurry photocopy of Molly Ringwald. She's had the same look for as long as I've known her: fried 80's perm, dyed orange; crimson lipstick and matching fake nails; caked-on blue eyeshadow and cheap, white, powder foundation that kind of made her resemble a (bad) geisha. The poster girl of white trash, to keep it frank. But don't get me wrong, that's not necessarily an insult. She'd probably say the same thing herself. She's just quite a character, is all. We love her to death.

"Hi," Kelly said timidly, shaking her hand. "I'm Kelly Kingston. I just moved here from St. Louis."

"St. Louis! Well I'll be," Jessie said, beaming. She put her hands on her hips and wagged a finger. "I went to St. Louis once. I was just a little thing. That was back when my parents had money, back when Greensboro was on the map." When I was younger, she talked about how Greensboro used to be on the map so much that I brought in Uncle Joe's atlas once to assure her that it was indeed still there. Uncle Joe still brings that up as much as possible, just to make me blush.

Jessie slapped two menus down on the table and continued conversation like we were the only ones there. "So what brings you here to Greensboro? Sure isn't often we see people come in from somewhere like that."

"Oh," Kelly said, her face lighting up a bit. I'm pretty sure she was scared of Jessie at first. But she seems to get acquainted easily, with anyone. After all, she was walking around with me. Who does that, anyway? "Well, my brother and I were living in a group home there, but we moved in with our foster parents a few months ago." I eyed her curiously to see if this was the truth or just a cover-up lie. I know I shouldn't assume people are lying, but I do it often enough, I can't help but wonder. After all, she said she moved here a few months ago, but I had just started seeing her a few weeks prior. It didn't add up.

"Mr. and Mrs. Yates?" Jessie asked. Kelly nodded. "Weren't they gone for a while?"

"Yeah, in St. Louis," Kelly said. "They had to be there to file for guardianship, and so they just stayed there until we finished up with school. Then we moved here."

Oh.

"The Yates', now those are some nice people," Jessie said, her trademark grin plastered on her face. She looked over at me, and it disappeared. "Now what are you doing hanging out with a girl like Monica?"

I laughed, just to be polite, and Kelly followed suit, nervously - of course, she didn't really know me, even if she didn't realize it. Jessie responded with a robust bawl of laughter that could only come from a redneck waitress at a diner. She chuckled it off and said, in reply to Kelly's nervous laughter and confused face, "I'm just kidding with her." She grabbed my shoulder and shook it jokingly, rustling my already messed-up hair. "I'll be right back with your drinks, girls," she said, skating away, even though we hadn't even ordered drinks yet. She glanced back just slightly to wave and say, "Nice meeting you, Miss Kelly."

Kelly waved back politely, and then turned to me, wide-eyed. "What was that?"

I laughed out loud. "That was Jessie," I said. "Don't worry. You'll warm up to her. She's real nice."

Kelly shook her head. "No, that's not what I mean. Was that a man or a woman?"

I laughed even louder. "She's a woman," I said, wiping a little tear out of the corner of my eye. "At least, I'm pretty sure. It's not like I've ever asked."

Kelly laughed, now. "That was bizarre." She opened up the ratty menu like it was a precious ancient artifact. She looked kind of unsure about this entire setup. In the meantime, I couldn't help but wonder how she and Max ended up in a foster home. She didn't look abused. Or neglected. But what did that really look like anyway?

"The cookies and cream milkshakes are really good," I said. Kelly looked up at me, then over her shoulder and back at me.

"What are you looking at?" she said. Oh gosh, I thought. I was staring off into space again.

I tried to laugh it off. "Sorry," I said, opening up my menu. "I was just thinking. I do that sometimes."

She gave me a sly look. "That's good," she said smartly, "thinking is good."

I wanted to stick my tongue out at her - I would to any other person - but I felt like being nice. After all, if the new girl was going to take the time to get to know me I figured I might as well make the best of it. Instead I just scrunched up my nose at her and went back to my menu, trying to think up a way to start a conversation while we figured out what to order.

Kelly ended up getting a cheeseburger and a cookies and cream milkshake (via my suggestion), since she apparently skipped lunch. Since we were going all-out, I got an extra-large order of cheese fries and a vanilla milkshake. Jessie brought us our drinks that we didn't order, but they turned out to be our favorites. Kelly didn't seem like a root beer kind of girl to me; her personality kind of suggested Mountain Dew.

We shared the fries and I, as subtly as possible, asked her why she ended up in foster care. She took another sip of her drink and cleared her throat before answering.

"That's actually where the poem came from," she said. "It was about our dad's alcohol problem. He was pretty abusive, and he ended up killing my mom one night." She said this without blinking, and my jaw literally dropped: how she could be so blunt about something so tragic, I couldn't even fathom.

"And Max," she said, shaking her head and looking down at her half-eaten burger, "he's got the same problem. He won't admit it, but he does. He's so good at hiding it, Pam would never know." She pulled a strand of hair out from behind her ear just to push it back again. "And he gets really upset when I accuse him of it, so I'm careful with what I say. That's why I didn't want him to read it." She looked up at me. "He would've freaked out on me if we would've went home, that's why I didn't want to go." She looked at her watch, and then around the room, her eyes finally resting on the clock on the wall. "But Jeff is probably home by now, so I should be fine." She stared at me for a moment; my mouth was still hanging open. I realized that was kind of rude, and shut my mouth.

"Sorry," I said. Kelly just smiled.

"It's fine," she said, shrugging. She looked at her plate. "Thanks for taking me here, anyway. And buying. That was really nice of you." Crap, I thought to myself. I had totally forgot I was buying. I didn't have any more than five bucks.

Luckily, when we called for a take-out box, I told Jessie I didn't have enough cash and she gave us the "St. Louis Discount". Which apparently means that whatever you buy, it's only five bucks. I hope no one else heard that, because Lord knows a rampage of kids and their St. Louis cousins would come stampeding in a week later and buy out all the food in the restaurant. But I didn't tell Jessie that. I just told her thanks and left the five bucks on the table, next to the little "Reserved for the Lewis Family" sign.

Monica [Post 5]

2007-05-31T11:26:00.000-04:00

*It might contain some typos; sorry, didn't have much time to proofread it today.

Kelly stopped midway through the park, falling under the shade of the tree, her face in her hands. Out of breath, I stopped running, in relief. She put up a good chase, slicing through the wind like a little squirrel running across the grass. I silenced my footsteps and my breath as I walked up to her, slowly crouching down to her level and putting my hand on her shoulder. She didn't even budge. I had a feeling she knew it was me.

"Kelly, are you okay?" I asked, a rather stupid question. Here she is, sobbing into her hands in the fetal position on the ground, and yeah, she's just fine.

She wiped the tears out of her eyes and some loose hair out of her face, not answering me. Instead, she just peered over my shoulder and leaned back against the tree, worry spread across her face. "He's not coming, is he?"

I turned and looked, but there was no one in sight. "No," I said, turning back to her, slightly confused. "What's the problem?"

"He wasn't supposed to read that," she said, shutting her eyes tightly and shaking her head. "I didn't know he was supposed to be here."

"He didn't know you were supposed to be here," I clarified. "That's the first thing he asked me when he came."

"Did he hear all of it?" she asked, opening her eyes and looking at me. I assumed she was referring to her poem.

"I don't think so," I said, falling back on my heels and leaning against the tree, looking over to the area we had just ran from. "But I don't think it matters. He's reading it now."

She covered her face with her hands again, huffing through the tears. You wouldn't think a normally cheery girl like this could be so upset. I certainly didn't. In fact, I was shocked by this entire situation. I didn't really know Max or Kelly Kingston before today. But I had a feeling that before the day was over, I was going to know too much.

Not sure of what to do, I took it from my own perspective and played back all the crying fits I'd had throughout the year. Kent was always the one who was there for me, assuring me that it would all be okay whether he knew what was going on or not. Taking from my own experiences, I tried to be the Kent in this situation. I rubbed her back with my hand and tried to calm her down, her exasperated sobs slowly turning into whimpers.

"I'm sorry you have to see me like this," she said finally, pulling her sleeve down and wiping her eyes. "I hope it doesn't freak you out or anything."

"It's fine," I said, slightly smiling. She straightened her back and I removed my hand. Thinking out loud, I said, "I suppose you don't want to go back there, do you?"

She shook her head, but said, "I need to, but I'm not sure if I can. I don't know if I can handle this all of a sudden. It's too much." She wasn't crying now, but her face still covered her hands. She sat curled up against the tree, her chest heaving with choppy breaths. I could only think of one thing: What would Kent do?

"Listen," I said, in a hushed voice. "I can walk you home if you want, and then-"

"No," she said abruptly, shaking her head violently. She sighed. "You don't understand. I can't go home. Not now."

I paused, a little taken aback. "Okay," I said. "Then we can go somewhere else. But let's not stay here." She didn't respond, which left me a little worried. But I was determined to get her out of there. She was mess.

"Have you ever been to Kirk's Diner?" I asked aloud, truly only thinking about myself at this point. It was hot for the end of May, and I was thirsty. And Kirk's Diner was just around the corner.

She pushed her hair out of her face and glanced up at me, a strange look on her face. I'm sure she thought I was crazy. "No," she said.

"Then we'll go there," I said, standing up and offering out my hand. "Their chocolate milkshakes are the best. On me."

She sniffed, and looked up at me wearily, unsure. "Dude," I said, beckoning her with one hand and stationing another one on my hip, "Free milkshakes. Come on."

She smiled slightly and grabbed my hand, so I pulled her up. She brushed off her skirt as we headed around the tree to the dirt path. I glanced back at the poetry reading, and it was as if nothing had happened. Max was taking the "stage" now, totally unaware of us as we walked away. But then again, Kelly paid no attention to him, either. Maybe that's just how the Kingstons worked.

"Isn't that your brother?" Kelly asked, pointing out in front of us to the basketball courts. Sure enough, there was Kent, taking a break from his game of basketball and downing some serious amounts of Gatorade Rain.

"Actually, he's my cousin," I corrected her, just as Kent caught our glance. He gave me a confused look at first, then he saw Kelly and smiled. I'd complained to Kent about her time and time again - how she seemed to think I was the best thing since sliced bread, and I thought she was the most annoying thing since caller ID (it takes the fun out of prank calls, along with the anonymity.) Even though now I knew that she really wasn't that bad at all.

He put down his Gatorade and threw a towel over his shoulder, running his hands back through his hair, spiking it with his own sweat. Hair styling by bodily secretions. Lovely. That's when I realized that he wasn't smiling because of the irony in how I was walking around with the previously-dubbed Most Annoying Girl in Greensboro in my least favorite place to be, the city park, it was because I was walking next to the New Girl, AKA, Kent's Latest Crush.

"He's looking at you," she said as we kept walking down the path as he followed us with his eyes. He's looking at you, I thought to myself, but didn't say anything.

"Just ignore him," I said, nudging her head in the side and gently pushing her back towards the exit, veering away from our diagonal beeline towards Kent. She immediately turned her head forward - she sure was an obedient one. I made up a lie just to keep them from interacting, and therefore possibly spilling the truth about why I was really here. "He'll totally try to mooch me out of another milkshake, and he already owes me five bucks on them from just this month." I had to add that last part just so that it wasn't a total lie.

"Gotcha," she said slyly, happiness slowly creeping back into her voice. I smiled. Sure enough, Kelly Kingston was pretty all right. I glanced back just to see Kent slowly inject himself back into the ball game, leaving us the ability to slip out of the park unnoticed, down Main Street and into Kirk's Diner.

Monica [1-4]

2007-05-30T15:10:00.002-04:00

I wrote the introduction (or something like that) to my Monica story today, and I went ahead and put it up on here. I wasn't planning on it, like I said, but I felt sick so I didn't go shopping with my dad this afternoon. I've been typing for the past hour at least, but it doesn't seem like that. I love writing...yet I do so little of it. I'm so glad I wrote as much as I did today. I need to write about this much every day, a few pages or so. I'm really proud. :]

Monica [Post 4]

2007-05-30T15:10:00.001-04:00

It's hard to keep anything from Kent. At least, it is for me. He's good at keeping secrets, but not good at being kept out of secrets, especially when it's something that has to do with me. As far as I know, he's never broken into my journal yet, but he can find much more creative ways to figure out what or who I'm hiding. But this poetry reading was quite possibly the biggest secret I'd been able to keep from him yet.

There were telltale signs that I was looking forward to something; the way I'd suddenly started to mark down the days on the calendar, asking someone what the date was every morning in class when he knows I'm not one to forget that it's Thursday, May 15 - especially when the end of school is nearing. Nevertheless, Kent never said a word. Which was relieving and worrying at the same time. Even Danny said something, and he could care less about me. Sure, maybe all he said was, "Why the heck are you screwing up the calendar?" in reference to how I marked off every day, but that's something rather than nothing. Kent was in the room when he said that, so all I said in return was, "I'm counting down to the end of school." Which is bogus. Kent and I do that in hours, minutes and seconds anyway - not in days.

Kingston Girl and I got there just as it was starting. We sat down on the back of the spread-out blanket, leaning back against the metal-wire fence. The reading was in the very back of the park, for privacy. The stoners claimed the opposite end, so, weary to stay away from them, they keep the reading in the northeast corner.

"I see we've got two new faces joining us," Kathryn said in her happy-go-lucky kindergartener voice. She's actually a first grade teacher, but still. A big clown smile was painted across her face. "That's just great. I'm glad all of you decided to come to our poetry reading today. Is there anyone who'd like to go first?"

Nobody raised their hand, so I nudged Kingston Girl in the side. She gave me a bewildered look. I nodded her up, but when she refused, I just grabbed her elbow and jerked it up for her.

"Monica!" she hissed in a whisper, a whisper luckily not loud enough to be heard by Kathryn.

"All right!" Kathryn said cheerily. "One of our newcomers is up first. Come on up, sweetheart."

"You'll thank me for this later," I whispered as she reluctantly stood up, brushing off her skirt. To this day, I'm still not sure if she heard me.

She timidly walked up to the front. I was only using her as motivation for myself, but nevertheless, I knew she would do great. All she needed was a little push - and obviously, nobody but me was going to push her.

Kathryn stepped aside, sitting down in her chair off to the side and Kingston Girl had the floor. She was scared to death. You could see it in her eyes; sure they weren't bulging with terror, but they were fading from their bright blue that I had originally seen, and her skin was giving pale a new definition. Or maybe that was just the shade.

She looked at me, the pusher, so I pushed. "Tell them your name," I mouthed, and she nodded. That was all she needed.

"Hey," she said shyly, taking the paper out of her pocket and unfolding it. "I'm, um...I'm Kelly Kingston, and my poem is called..." She didn't have a title on the paper, so I knew she had to have come up with it on the spot. "Pain."

Just as she finished the second line, someone came walking down the path - toward either our area, or the stoners. I couldn't tell, but they appeared to be looking our direction. I was sure when he came nearer and stopped just a few feet away from where Kelly was standing. He just stared at her, but nobody really noticed. Like me, the poem had captivated their total attention. He finally started walking again, surprisingly, over to me. And that's when I realized who it was. Max.

He sat down next to me and leaned over, his slightly spiked hair a terrifying few inches away from my face. "Did you know she was going to be here?"

I just shook my head, following his eyes as he moved his head away from mine. An attentive, concerned look was stuck on his face, but it was like a mask that wouldn't come off - because his eyes were all but attentive; for all I knew, they could've been in another world.

As she finished, everyone clapped and she smiled, the same happy smile she had when I had read it over for her. Max's clapping was the loudest, yet she still didn't see him - not until she came back to her seat with her head slightly pointed to the ground, only to find that Max was in her way.

"Max," she said suddenly, jumping back as if she'd just seen a spider. Kathryn was up asking for the next volunteer, but I was too into the situation at hand to even consider going next.

"I didn't know you were coming," he said, making room for her on the corner of the blanket.

"I wasn't planning on it," she sharply, not budging, just looking at him cruelly. "You said you were going to pick me up."

His mouth opened, but his voice fell flat. "I was at band practice, Kelly. You knew that."

She shook her head, bit her lip. Not in the shy, cute way she had earlier - this was anger, something you wouldn't necessarily expect to see come out of her. But nevertheless, it was there, glaring at Max like you wouldn't believe.

But she didn't say a word. She just tore the paper out of her pocket and threw it at him, stamping away at first, then running. Mortified, I knew I couldn't just sit there and watch her go - that's obviously what Max was doing - so I got up and ran after her.

Monica [Post 3]

2007-05-30T15:01:00.001-04:00

Our city park is quite the popular place. The bastketball courts are always the main attraction, even when it's not bastketball season. Sometimes there's a little action on the baseball diamond, but usually not much outside of the league games that sift in and out of it all summer long. There's a playground for the little kids, and plenty of trees and picnic tables for all the girls to linger around and gossip at. Me, I usually prefer to sit under one of the trees nearby the basketball court and watch Kent play - that is, when I've got nothing better to do. Today, fortunately, wasn't one of those days.

I went around the back way, just to make sure that Kent was indeed on the basketball court, and wouldn't see me if I came in. His bumbling idiot friends were picking teams, so I could easily go in unnoticed. They were all rather preoccupied.

I stopped by the fence just next to the entrance. I had to regain my composure. I really was a mess; I knew in my heart that I shouldn't be this worried about something that was, in retrospect, so trivial, but at the time, I was desperate, as well as pretty much terrified. I stuck one hand in my pocket and patted down my hair with the other, which was a tangled mass of curls, as usual. I had to remind myself every step or so to keep an even, steady pace - I didn't want anyone to suspect I was up to no good, because I wasn't. Still though, that's typically what they think.

"Hey Monica!" A shrill voice enters my ear, that of a junior high girl. I recognize it in a flash, because I know that there's only one girl who would openly communicate with me in public. And that would be the new girl, Kingston.

That's not her real name, of course, but it's easier to identify girls by last name because they're easier to differentiate. Last names seem more diverse around here. First names are way too repetitive. We have four Ashleys, three Jens, Jennys, or Jennifers, and at least two Sarahs in my class alone. I don't know which is which, so I just use last names. It's easier for me. So for now, this brown-haired, braceface girl is going to be Kingston.

"Hey," I said slowly, nodding, trying to place myself in the shadow of the nearest tree so Kent wouldn't see me. I was terrified that my cover had already been blown. "What are you doing here?" Her pale, freckled face spoke louder than words could: this was not a sunshine girl. She'd certainly burn to a crisp in a matter of minutes.

She was nervous, I can tell. The way she always has her hands clasped together in front of her and her bottom lip always ever-so-slightly bitten, it was pretty obvious. "Oh, nothing," she said cheerily, shrugging, running her heel into the dirt. "My brother told me he'd pick me up after he got back from band practice, but he hasn't showed yet..."

"Oh, you mean Max?" I asked. I knew this Kingston girl looked familiar; she was a shorter, more feminine version of our drummer. "He just left our house, headed the other direction."

"Oh," she said softly, a little disappointed. I suddenly felt very bad for her; what kind of brother forgets his sister at the park?

Danny, I immediately thought to myself.

"That's okay, though," she said, smiling again. And boy, were her braces blinding in the light. "That means I can stay for that poetry reading!" She immediately stuck her hand into her skirt pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "I wrote this one just last night," she said, handing it to me. "Would you mind telling me what you think? I'm not sure if I want to read it or not, I just came to listen."

I took the paper, but I could barely make out the words because I was so shell-shocked. Kingston Girl, New Kid, was going to the same poetry reading as me? Surely not. Well, I thought to myself, she certainly can't be any good, if that's the case. After all, what kind of girl like her is into poetry? I unfolded the paper, careful to pretend not to be too interested. But as I glanced around, nobody was looking my way. Sometimes I overestimate my popularity.

Shards of broken glass
Speaks louder than any apology could
"I'm sorry"
His voice carries on for miles, but I can't hear a thing
He's as silent to me as the steady, falling rain.
Nothing left to do but gather the ashes
Throw them away
He's got to make sure that no one can see
His shards of broken pain.

I'm not going to lie. I was in awe. This was possibly better than anything I'd ever written myself. I didn't know the story behind it, but it spoke to me. So loud and clear, in fact, I was left speechless. I just held it in my hands until the words blurred into something unrecognizabe. I looked up at her face.

"Do you think it's okay?" she asked, slowly taking the paper from my hands. "I've never read at a poetry reading before, and..."

"It's fantastic," I honestly replied, shaking my head, ashamed to even think that she was anything less than awesome. Even though a little bit of jealousy stirred within my heart, I could see a definite change of perspective in the way I saw her, now. As far as I was concerned, she was a totally different person. "You should definitely read it; trust me, the kids there will love it."

"You've been to one of them before?" she asked, about the poetry reading, undoubtedly. I opened my mouth to reply, shocked to realize that I was about to let my secret spill.

"No," I said, slowly and rather unconvincingly from my standpoint. "But I've read some of their poetry before, and yours is totally as good, if not better."

"Oh, thanks Monica," she coos sincerely. "That means a lot, truly. Say..." she folds the paper back into her pocket and looks down the dirt path to the other side of the park, where the poetry reading is getting ready to start. "Do you think you can come with me? If you're not busy, of course. It would just really help if I had a little support." She's so sweet, I couldn't bear to turn her down even if I didn't love poetry. After all, this is working out perfectly - if anyone happens to ask, I'm only there to support a friend.

A friend you don't even know the name of yet, a little voice inside me barked. I told it to hush. I could figure out her name later, after all. I had more important things to attend to just then, as I walked down the dirt path in the middle of the park, to a poetry reading with a girl I barely knew.

Monica [Post 2]

2007-05-30T12:29:00.000-04:00

"Our first practice is going to be at six on Saturday," Kent said, but before he could even draw a breath to continue his sentence, Dennis broke in - the same way he does in class - by raising his hand but not waiting to be called on.

"Six in the morning?" he said with disgust. I rolled my eyes, leaned my head back against the heavy brick wall.

Kent sighed. "No," he said breathily, "six at night, Dennis. Six at night."

"Right," Dennis said, nodding coolly as if he'd known this all along. He put his hand down.

"Anyway, like I was saying," Kent said, "six on Saturday. I need everyone to be there so we can get started on the new material I've figured up. And we're meeting at Max's, right?" Kent looked over to Max, who was slumped against the side of the wall like I was. He nodded. Max had a big unfinished basement, so there was room for everything, plus he had the drum set. So it was kind of unanimously decided that we were going to hold our practices there.

"Question." Brian said, sticking his hand in the air subtly. Kent nodded, and Brian went on. "We can bring in our own material, right?"

"Yeah, totally," Kent said. "Actually, that'd be great. That'd just take some of the pressure off Monica and I, right Mo'?" He glanced over at me. I can't say I was actually paying attention, so I just repeated what he said.

"Yeah, totally would take off some of the pressure," I said. Kent knew I was barely awake, but he played along and went back to his lecture.

"So," he said, clasping his hands together in closure. "Anything else?"

Dennis raised his hand, but didn't actually open his mouth this time, which was refreshing.

"What now, Dennis?" Kent said.

He put his hand down and pointed to me with a questioning look. "Is she single?" Everyone broke out in laughter, even Max, whom we hadn't heard a word out of since he auditioned. At least, everyone except me hadn't.

Kent shook the laugh off and tried to put his serious face on. "Single, yes. Available? No." Even though when it came to the real thing, I would've totally taken matters into my own hands, when it comes to someone like Dennis inferring about my relationship status - well, it's best that I leave that to Kent. At least he can keep a straight face.

"Otherwise," Kent said, laughter slowly dissipating, "you guys can go. We'll see you on Saturday."

And with that, they were gone in an instant. Josh jumped on Dennis's back and they were out the door, down the driveway and westbound towards the park where they play basketball. Brian and Max went the opposite way, to Lord knows where. I didn't know much about Brian or Max, except that they were supposedly prodigies when it came to music. I wasn't there when Kent did their auditions, so I wouldn't know.

"Sorry about that," Kent said, getting up closing the garage door with the little button on the wall. I realized how hot it was getting and realized I should probably get back in the house, too. "I guess I shouldn't have taken that. I don't know, you're not interested in Dennis, are you?"

I narrowed my eyes and tossed him his calendar with an evil glare. "Funny," I said, pushing him inside as he opens the door. We're greeted by a burst of cool air, thanks to our hot-natured family. Uncle Joe isn't in from work yet, and thankfully, Danny's in class. We've got nothing to do but study for finals, and a house to ourselves. It's only inevitable that Kent's going to leave, so I let go of his shoulders and he turns around, looks at me, like a puppy waiting for its treat.

"Go," I said, shooing him away. "Go play ball with your ignorant little friends. I don't care."

"You sure?" he said. "You can always come with. After all, if you like Dennis, there's a crapload of prospects just like him at the park." He smiled slyly, and I fake-pimpslapped him (yes, I do that often).

"I'll pass," I said, crossing my arms. "After all, I've got finals to study for." Lies. Nothing but lies. Kent knows I don't study for anything, but that's sort of an unofficial code between the two of us that there's something more important I've got to do. Which isn't necessarily true or untrue. Enough middle-ground to keep Kent from getting suspicious.

"All right," he said, grabbing a stray basketball on his way out the door. "I'm just telling you" - his voice always rises as he walks away, to ensure I can hear what he's saying - "you're gonna marry a stiff ol' businessman, have a million kids, look back on today and say, 'If only it were Dennis.'"

I stood around just to accept his conniving grin as he backed out the door, and to make sure he was headed down the walkway to the sidewalk before I bolted out the back door, leaving him pretty much unaware that I was, indeed, planning on going to the park too.

The most productive I've been in a while.

2007-05-30T10:31:00.000-04:00

I've always had trouble with starting and finishing stories. I'm never quite sure where to begin them and where exactly I should end them, either. I'll deal with the ending later, of course...but yesterday I realized that the best way to start a story is to just start from the top, take it back to the basics, and go on from there. So that's what I did for the one that I'm currently trying (key word: trying) to work on, and here's what I've got so far:

My mom and dad both died in a drunk driving accident. Interestingly enough, they were killed two years apart. Two different accidents. Two different cars. Two different drunk drivers. I was in the second one, in that dumb booster seat that I despised so dearly. Yet I was the only one to survive. Even though sometimes I think it would've been better if I didn't.

The first person in line to "get" me after that was my grandma, Lou. She was the one who insisted I be in that retarded booster seat in the first place. Unfortunately, since she was already 85 at the time, she and the court both decided she was unfit to parent me full-time. And that's how I ended up where I am today. In a house with three times more testosterone than necessary, Hank Williams, Jr. blaring through the speakers twenty-four seven, and enough patriotism to make Toby Keith look disloyal.

Even though they're technically my cousins, they feel much more like my brothers. Danny's the oldest, and a bit of a jerk, so I try to avoid him as much as possible. Uncle Joe's the All-American Dad, and he's the best, he really is. He's put up with me for this long, at least. That has certainly got to count for something.

And as much as I hate to admit it, Kent is probably the closest thing I have to a best friend. We're the same age, and seeing as we've been together since I was seven, it's pretty easy to imagine why. Music is the big thing that brought us together; he can play and I can sing. With the help of Uncle Joe, we turned ourselves into a clever little cover band - always impressing Uncle Joe's friends and clients at dinner parties. But that was enough of that. So, a few weeks before the end of school, we decided to start a band. A real band. We started putting up fliers around school about the second week of May. Talked around about it, told the band director to tell his students. We put a sign-up sheet on Kent's and my lockers, but of course, less than half the people who signed up for auditions actually came.

We were expecting twenty or more, but only got about nine or ten. Tons of guitar players, a few bass, and only one drummer. Kent was able to play anything, and I could do keyboard if it was absolutely necessary. Most of the guitar players weren't as great as we hoped, either. Bass was all right, but that doesn't take much skill, and we only needed one, anyway. Turns out one of the guitarists played saxophone in band, so we took him for that, desperate for the diversity. Kent and I are pretty agreeable when it comes to music, so figuring the winning lineup didn't take much debate: Kent, lead guitar and backup vocals; Brian, backup guitar; Monica (me), keyboards and vocals; Josh, bass; Dennis, saxophone; and Max, drums.

Now that's what I call a band.

That's the draft I've got together so far. And it might not even be the introduction, just the prologue, you know. It's kind of more like that. And I'm planning on starting the rest of it momentarily. No worries; the revised version is going to be so much better. I just don't have time for that right now. I'm just going to start from here and see what I can come up with.

2007-05-29T15:11:00.001-04:00

When I get some free/private time, I might start an intro to Monica, but more than likely it won't be up until next week or later. And if it's not up by next week, it probably won't be up at all. I just need somewhere to type, and this blog is really all I have. But I don't have much time to really just sit down and write. Too many other distractions. I'm totally cursing myself for not bringing that laptop. I've finally got some motivation to work with, though, so that's why I'm considering it now.

Then again, if I can get just a little time to write and then save it as a draft till I'm finished, I'd get it done a lot faster. Maybe even this week.

Turns out I'm doing better than I thought.

2007-05-28T13:34:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure what made me realize it, but I did some thinking last night, and some reading of these old blogs. I've come a long way with what little I've done in the past. I can't just give up now. I'm sure it's never going to be easy but, nothing really ever is.

I figured out what I'm going to do with Max & Monica. I have this one idea that has spurred from my first big one, Ellie Sims (but I think everything was kind of a spin-off of that one). I've tried to take it in a bunch of different directions, with generally the same group of characters, or at least roles. It's a strange concept that I think I just pulled out of the air, back when I liked to play with the characters within the family, as to who's there and who's not. (Single mother, single father, adopted uncle, adopted sister, etc.) In this one, it's a girl living with her adopted family of her uncle and two cousins on her father's side (the circumstances that lead to this arrangement vary). I didn't have anything specifically like that with any of my recent ideas, besides one, which mirrors Max & Monica so well that I think I'm just going to merge the two together and finally take off with that family plan. It'll make the whole thing more interesting, and different from both original ideas, and I think I'll have fun writing it, if I can make it the main focus of my summer.

As for Connie and Connor, it needs work. I'll save it for a later time. Dave and Angel could've gone somewhere but I might need to take it from a different approach. Focusing on after the original climax and finding another one to replace it, instead of building up to that one. Maybe. I'm not sure yet. Like I said, I'll save them for a later date, and try to focus on this new one. I have a good feeling about it. I just need to get started on it ASAP.

Still regretting not bringing that laptop, though.

So I've discovered.

2007-05-27T22:21:00.000-04:00

Not bringing your laptop with you on a two-week trip? Big mistake.

But I'll deal, via this, for now. And my notebook, which I thought I could go back to, but after trying to write by hand, it's just no use. So slow. Hand cramps. Ugh. I eventually just started to draw. Which is weird. I hate drawing.

Anyway, I'm veering off-topic. I do that sometimes.

So, anyway. My current ideas are heading nowhere as of now. Today inspired me, but not to write. Blech. I feel as if I'm drowning. I'm slowly heading back into the land of thinking-instead-of-doing where I lose myself in thought, and then I have so many thoughts but nothing good coming out of it because all I do is sit there and think. That's how I've wasted the last two years of my life. I really don't want to fall into that again.

So I'm here, writing, about writing if nothing else. I did write a few poems today, but as usual, they're pretty much a load of crap. Once in a blue moon something makes sense, but unfortunately there's not a blue moon tonight. Or anytime soon, more than likely.

I've discovered that Max and Monica aren't characters. They're a fantasy.

But Connie and Connor are (I need to change those names). And so are Angel and Dave. And Zach. I've pretty much dragged all of them into the ground, though. I think about them and there's nothing left. Unfortunately, like I said, I've spent the past two years thinking about them and not writing about them so there's nothing to show for it. I'm stalling. I think I'm always stalling. Always stalling something.

On a random note, I have this curious suspicion that I'll become an alcoholic when I grow up.
Dunno why. I think it's because I'm obsessed with people who are. i.e., Michael.

2007-05-20T13:24:00.000-04:00

Fear not, I have been writing quite a bit lately. That book did me good. I ended up close to 30 pages on this one nonsensical idea, and even managed to restart it when I realized the beginning needed work (though I totally screwed it up by leaving out some crucial details in the building of the rest of the story, but nevertheless). Rewriting has always been one of those painful-yet-elemental things that I've never been able to do, and yesterday I did it. So that's a big step for me, I'd like to think.

Anyway, right now I'm playing tug-of-war between these three different ideas. (Yes, a three-way tug-of-war.) Now, one has a very promising premise, but I can't seem to properly construct the conflict. The other has a simple conflict that can be easily toyed around with and, quite frankly, made into just about anything. It's good for me, because I've got this crave for change but an inability to mess with an already complex, yet not stable, plot. The third is what I've been writing about for the past week or so - the conflict exists, but I haven't properly planned it out yet. Right now, I'm still writing around it, sort of getting to know my characters and getting a feel for what the story may be. At the same time, I'm working on basic skills like dialogue, narration, and description, as well as POVs. So since this third one is the most basic, it's easy to experiment with, and that's why I'm focusing on it for right now. I think that if I start in with the other ones, I might end up destroying their potential and sickening myself with the idea. So, for now, I'm focusing on this one - least likely to succeed - and maybe I'll turn it into something grand, who knows.

:]

It's like olive oil in Italian cooking - you can't do much without it.

2007-05-12T20:54:00.000-04:00

I finally started reading a new book today; I'd been looking for one for the past week, just haven't been able find any that I hadn't already read. I've drained all the lessons from my Sarah Dessen books to the point of drought, so the mere idea of reading The Truth About Forever again made me rather nauseous. Last night, in a fit of insomnia, I finally realized what a good idea it might be to check out my mom's hallway bookcase - I did this morning - and eureka! I found another Jodi Picoult book, Vanishing Acts. Which was a good idea, because even though I'm heading for a teen novel regarding the likes of Sarah Dessen's work, my writing book talks about the importance of reading a wide range of books, and I agree with that immensely. I can already tell, by reading 70 pages thus far today, though I haven't written a single thing, dialogue is forming almost subconsciously in my head just like it used to, and that's more than enough to make me satisfied. No wonder this year has been so difficult for me - I've only read one new book, not including the numerous books on writing I've been so diligently studying. And from this, I've learned that no matter how many writing tips you may receive, the most important just may be the one I read in The Complete Idiot's Guide to Writing A Novel, given by Peter Straub when asked what one piece of advice he would give to an ispiring novelist: "I'd say--start reading like a demon at the age of six and never stop."

2007-05-10T20:15:00.000-04:00

It's the strangest thing, these wings,
Appearing out of nowhere, and behold -
Donned on me and made me an angel,
Proving every doubtful eye wrong.
I took so many different shots at being perfect,
Failing every chance I got.
But moving on, it made me strong,
Gave me wings, and I took flight.

Burned down, disaster zone.

2007-05-09T18:08:00.000-04:00

One look and your pride fades.
Heads bow and you walk away.
Silent, deadly scream –
a slow suffocation, bad dream.
Restless night with no sleep,
kills your soul and makes you weep.
Your whimpers, your cries cannot be found.
Don’t try to be a hero;
shut your mouth, don’t make a sound.
Balance the smile with the tears you’ve shed.
Leave no emotion trapped in, no words left unsaid.
A sad, sorry attempt at security.
One thing you never got, all you ever wanted to be.

I kind of changed my Connie Moore plan.

2007-05-01T14:58:00.000-04:00

The novel-writing book I read part of this morning talked about character motivation, something I had never really thought all that much about - but it really helped iron out the plot and where Connie's actually going. It talked about how motivation is so important, and characters can't just be moved around through the plot like pawns in a game of chess - everything has to have purpose. So I started writing in order to find Connie's purpose, and here's the deal thus far:

She's trying to change out of her troublesome, bad girl reputation once she gets expelled from school in April by getting into a fight with this kid (Joshua Brammer - WOO for random name generators) who she isn't necessarily friend or foe with, but he's the kind of guy who likes to pick fights with people, and Connie (previously) wasn't one to just back down.

So, that said, Connie's summer is ultimately spent trying to change her entire image and generally be somebody else; shed her skin.

I still need to work on the motivation for other characters, but that'll do for now.