Day 13 or 14?

I'M SLIPPING. I seem to be on a trend of writing every other day rather tehn every day. But at least I'm writing something AND eventually maybe I'll even achieve something creative. I mean to write teh second chapter of my story soon. But I don't know when. I have to do alot of planning and mapping, so if there are several days missing: this is why. I can't put my planning up for you to read. If you even read this at all.
Young Victoria is a really good film if you want to see it.

Day 12:

Yesterday I was lazy. Today I was productive. But today I was still lazy when it came to writing on this blog.
I need to write something each day. Even if it isn't a lot, or 20 minutes, it will allow me to strech my mind.
Yes there is no day 11. Like I said before, I was lazy yesterday. I'm trying to be consistent but sometimes it just happens. It litterally didn't cross my mind to blog yesterday.
But today. Today's a story.
I got up at 9 am and started cleaning my room. This means I tore open my closet, dusted, vacuumed, sorted, trashed, and finally restored my room to cleanliness. It took me 8 hours. In the heat. With a really really big fan blowing in my face.
My mom thinks its a miracle how my room looks now. It was a dump before and now, I didn't think it was possible, my room looks bigger and brighter. There is so much junk you can collect over a year.
I filled 3 trashbags. 1 completely with trash, 1 with unwanted clothes, 1 with winter clothes.
My life in bags.
Night people. Ill try not to miss tomorrow.

Day 10 : Ideas!

So today I had two creative ideas. I will list one of them here.

Tenders: Tenders are the guardians of the forest. They wander the grounds at night protecting the sacred ground. They are born by a prison of vines and organic plant material that grew from the dirt. These prisons stand erect in the soil facing away from the rising sun and towards the moon. They stand for 50 years, growing; the seed inside forming into a creature that is the organic's world only predator. Inside, the young tender is growing its legs and skin and eyes. There eyes are the most mystifying aspect of these creatures. Dark as coals (that cry crystal tears! Just joshing.) with no irises or pupils. Simply blackness. If you look into them it is as if your are looking into a void in the universe. Once fully grown, the creature will emerge into the night. It's skin is still too tender to face the sun. Now it must feed, for it is a creature. But on what? It can not absorb the water that falls from the sky. It does not have the nutrients it needs. The tender must consume blood by the 12th hour of its existence or it will shrivel from this world and nothing will be left but a husk of its body. This is the reason so few can be found, the forest they live in is isolated and wildly hunted. For although everyone grew up with the mythical warning never to trespass on the sacred land, the humans grew bold, stupid, and ignorant. Every scrap of wild game has been erased from its boundaries and each time a plant prison is seen, it is burned. It is burned from fear; for although the tenders are few in number. The few who do live have the strength and stamina of wolves and the hatred of a thousand years. They do not forgive and the only thing left to feed is the humans.
Slaughter justified by survival.

Day 8/9

Yesterday, I lost power. The lights flickered on and off for several moments and then my television clicked off for a final time. My laptop refused to charge and the air conditioner puffed its last burst of cool air.
Now, no one realizes how much their life depends on electricity. But you figure it out quickly when its gone.
Especially when its 90 degrees outside and the humidity is increasing.
The air suddenly becomes thick and every part of your body aches for a cold shower. A shower requires running water.
Or, you realize that all your entertainment disappeared with the power. The TV is gone. The computer to watch doctor who episodes is gone.
You suddenly realize that the only option is to read and that it would have been prudent to find a library and get new books before this.
I'm have delusional as I write this. I'm so tired, my eyes are wilting on my face. Marvelous picture. The beginning of this post was a story and at the end it is a journal entry. Oh well, this is about 20 minutes worth, right?
Right.
Night People. I will try not to miss any more days. I really had to motivate myself to write tonight.
NIGHT

Day 7

They are shards of memories, tossed aside in the dirt and cracking with age. The rugged stones look nothing more than upright boulders against a hillside. The grass grows in clumps in front and blocks the truth of their existence.
The names and dates are hidden.
The past visitors have long since forgotten about what lays beneath the ground. Now the gleaming lights of a highway reflect against the stones' surfaces and houses are their next door neighbors. Only the dirt remembers and cherishes its precious cargo that rests in its hands.
These stones, they are supposed to be an eternal memorial to a life well lived and the love that follows them still.
But no one stops. No one walks among the forgotten people.
It is a weed patch. A place to glance at as you drive to work.
The person at the flower stand knows my name.
Each month I buy a dozen roses.
My house is a neighbor to this memorial.
My car is the car that drives by each day.
And each day I see a single red rose lying next to each of the stones.
You are not forgotten.

Day 6

I DON'T WANT TO WRITE!!!! I'M TIRED!

She looked at the clock and moaned,
The cloak had not been properly toned,
So she went to a cliff,
And had a horrible tiff,
Where she promptly fell asleep on a stone.

AN ODE TO SHOEFLY PIE

How do you come to be?
Your sticky insides clumping together into mysterious goo
You smell like a fresh farm yard's kitchen on a raining day.
The air redolent with sugar.
Your crust is like butter melted and formed into artwork,
as a glassblower molds his craft.
Yet you dissolve so tenderly on the tongue.
I sit across the table and wonder,
how could the taste buds live without?
Yet the accursed thing called diet keeps us apart.
This love must be separated hours more.
I can not embrace you with my lips. (Awkward.)
I will wait till tomorrow.
Then I will devour you! MUAHAHAHAHA

Gee I wonder what I'm craving right now. I'm currently cutting calories and actually trying to be healthy. (It's murder) I'm currently sitting across the table from shoefly pie and candied peanuts. I really want them. Really really want them.
I'm going to write an ode to peanuts next.
This is ridiculous.
ALSO. Please if you read my blog could you leave a comment? I would like to do a sort of head count. There are people in the world who secretly read this blog but I do not know of their existence. (cough. Hannah. cough.)
The poems weren't supposed to make sense. My brain is a little fried today from the heat and making fun of Harry Potter with Steph. "Harry! Harry! I bought you a corsage Harry!" 20 minutes is a really long time if you try to write constantly for that amount of time.
oh. I also cut my hair really short today. A lil too short if you ask me; I was hoping with something less severe. But such is life and hair grows.

Chapter 1

Everyone has read fairytales. Everyone knows that Cinderella gets the prince and Beauty gets the Beast. There is nothing new to tell. Everyone can easily predict what happens. The only ones who are surprised are the people who sit in their basements like hermits who eat nothing but spam all day. And yes, at some point in each little girl's life, she goes to bed and wonders if something like that would happen to her.

But they grow up and understand that Prince Charming doesn't come to New York City.

They have to be content with someone else, a Jim or maybe a Larry. They need to find their own prince in their own world, because no man in tights will ever come and gather her in his arms and she will never enter his world to find him.
I accepted this and I had found my normal guy, and a reliable job at my parents’ waffle house to keep me happy.

I had a life.

So I was very confused when I stepped into the ballroom, hair in ringlets, and in a dress I didn't remember owning. Ornate, silver trim lined every edge and the light of the room reflected off its star-colored cloth. I had never worn anything so soft.

All around me diamonds dripped from chandeliers like crystal dew drops and the intensity of the rich reds and purples of the walls made my head swell. I stood on a velvet entry way with two, large mahogany doors behind me and grand staircase before me. Lavishly clothed dancers graced the lower floor, their steps tracing the elegant tile pattern of a rose vine beneath them. Their skirts twirled from their movements, creating a captivating collage of colors and energy.

           Every portion of my brain was yelling that this was a hallucination. But everything felt real. I could smell the sweat from all the people. I could feel the fabric on my skin. Could I sense all this in a hallucination? The doctors never told me that part.
Maybe I had gotten into a car accident, and was in a coma, dreaming. My mom would be shaking me awake any moment and all the doctors and nurses would be hovering over me with triumphant smiles on their faces.

They cured me! They’d say.

That could have been a perfect explanation except that I couldn’t remember any accident.

I remembered waking up each morning, eating breakfast, and going to work at the 34^th Street Waffle house. I made batter and served fat customers their portion of carbs for the day. Charlie, the truck driver, stopped in for his serving of French toast and coffee and my parents had left early to travel to Lake George.

No accident, no abnormality, just fat men and syrup.

Nothing happened that could have possibly sent me to this...kingdom.

Something poked me in my side.

“Ow!” I squired. That definitely felt real. Someone with a very bony finger had managed to pass all the layers of the dress and corset to find my ribs.

"Mademoiselle?" an attendant whispered. My eyes turned to look at the tall boy beside me with a glare. He had a blue waist coat and a polite smile. “I am sorry, but will you please step off the foray. We are expecting…”

I wasn’t listening; I figured I didn’t have to listen to fake people.

I considered insanity. Maybe this was a nightmare-like hallucination, emerging now because I was terrified of commitment. Or my boyfriend. Or it could have originated from tragic suppressed memory when I was a kid. But why a fairytale theme, or at least, why a medieval setting? I couldn't remember anything I had hated about fairytales that would have created this type of reaction. I liked the idea of fairies and I had always been fascinated by court life.

I had an idea. I pushed my hand directly towards the boy’s forehead. Characters from hallucinations or dreams didn’t have mass. My hand would go right through the boy like he was a ghost.

My hand smacked into the boy’s head with a thunk.

The attendant wrinkled his eyebrows and his formed a thin, tight line. I cradled my hand with embarrassment; I’d hit him quite hard.

If he was a hallucination, my imagination created men with really dense heads.

“Miss, please move. You are blocking the entryway. Move or you will be escorted to your chamber to, recover.”

Recover? To him I had been gazing out into thin air, probably swaying under the weight of the dress and lack of oxygen from the binding of the corset. And I had just hit him in the head.

I wanted to smack him again; he thought I was drunk.

“Move, miss.” I had even lost my title to him because of it. I wasn’t a mademoiselle anymore.

For the first time, I felt alone. Here, the first person I met already thought I was a disgrace. Hallucinations might be fake, but their judgment was real.

My own dream was rejecting me.

No, I fought for a calm. I am in control of this dream. It is mine after all. Their judgment only exists if I let it.

“Where?” was my pointed reply. I could be reasonable. He pointed down the steps, and my moment of confidence drained away.

I froze with fear.

I would not go down into that throb of dancers. It looked similar to a mosh pit. Once you fell down, as I know I would, I wouldn’t be able to get up. I would be trampled under their graceful movements, and since I was a stranger, no one would care. I would be the unfamiliar mass on the dance floor for the janitors to sweep away the next morning.

“No! Are you kidding me?”

Be calm. These men and woman probably didn’t have janitors.

They still had feet and hard shoes.

I could feel the bony hands again poking my ribs. The poke was followed by a stout shove.

I toppled down three steps before I regained my balance.

He pushed again. I toppled.

A third push. I toppled.

And again.

And again.

“Can’t I just stay here?” I pleaded. I was on the landing now with marble statues of men and animals lining either side. There was plenty of room for whoever would walk down the steps and for me.

The attendant wasn’t pleased and positioned his hands for another push.

This time I gritted my teeth and held on to the nearest statue.

“Stuart!” A man yelled from the top of the staircase.

The attendant straightened.

“Stuart, come here. Now. Stop flirting with the ladies and come help.” I could hear smothered giggles from other masculine voices.

A deep blush filled the boy’s cheeks which gave me sadistic pleasure.

“Stuart!”

“Sor-sorry, miss.” The flustered boy ran up the steps to the man.

I hugged my arms for security and faced the ballroom.
I didn't belong here. My dress was gorgeous, even compared to a few others I saw, but the body within it stood out like an ogre in Wall Street. Each person moved gracefully, managing to look pristine and at ease; I took one step and my ribs ached against the wood stays of my corset, and the endless cloth bunched around my ankles, making my movements unorganized and awkward.

Falling down stairs enough should me this easily enough.

Although I wondered, if this dream was real, how would it feel to float across the dance floor in this silk, my dress adding to the colors in a swaying movement? My mother would be jealous. She was the one who always wanted to visit the Celtic castles and imagine the balls that took place within them just so she could pretend to be invited.

Sound exploded from above me as trumpets played and a menacing creaking noise announced the mahogany doors swinging open.

This must have been why Stuart was called away.

The brass of the instruments gleamed in the light and livery of each musician was lined with gold trim against black velvet.

My eyes told me that there was something big and important walking towards me. But my brain was too numb to make sense of the information.

Another observation: the people had stopped dancing. Everyone was facing me, looking up, and looking at me.

What did they want? Did they want me to move, too? I tried to meet their eyes and dare them to continue. I was on the landing; they couldn’t trample me here.

Then I noticed. They were looking at something behind me. Someone.

I turned around.

Descending the staircase was a man dressed in a stiff midnight blue coat with dark hair that fell in combed back waves to chin. A clear jewel graced his left ear and a silver crown with bright green gems rested delicately on his forehead. His chest was raised proudly as his he lifted his hand in a lazy salute to the crowd below them. The crowd didn’t clap, or shout, simply held their gaze. It was routine to them. I was the only one who gaped.

Something was different. How he held himself was changing. He dropped his hand to his side and took easier strides, slowing his descent to the landing.

I could see the corner of his mouth twitch and his eyes were glazed with something unfamiliar. Was he angry? I recoiled; maybe I should have been trampled by the masses than to face this.

No, it was different, not anger.

The emotion in his eyes, they were sparkling. With mischief. He was laughing. I followed his gaze in curiosity, and realized.

He was looking straight at me.

Day 4

He was leaving, traveling to a different country. A different world.
He would trade the corrupt world of McDonalds and ChuckeeCheeses for a life of guns and missiles, a place where sand would infiltrate and spread to every part of his body like poison ivy.
It was his choice, and I supported him; but now the day was here when he was leaving. The plane would come in ten minutes and each moment together would be erased and filed into memories.
His freckles would disappear. His ginger hair would be shaved away. His brilliant green eyes would be tinted with determination and fear. Fear, because he would know mortality.
The sound of bullets whirling through the air in a violet dance only to strike into the ground, into the wall, into a chest would overwhelm the natural noise of the world.
This was the life he craved.I could picture the Nerf guns he owned and the paintball games he had participated in. The image of him in combat was too familiar.
But he was naive then.
He was naive now. And his innocence would be ripped from him, replaced by an apathetic soul to preserve his humanity during the massacre. This part of him had to be put to sleep in order to survive.
And I would be left to mourn the change.
I would be left to love the memory and cradle the hope of his return in my mind.
And I would be the one to kiss the sleeping beauty and reawaken the prince's soul.

Day 3

No inspiration is like a busy schedule. Your brain is too cramped with other information and events that it has no time to breathe fresh air and commit to creativity.
So currently, I'm sitting in front of the television watching Iron Giant, thinking about father's day and how I have to exercise at some point tonight.
So I'm sitting down and writing for 20 minutes without inspiration.
I always hated the Iron Giant when I was little. It always depressed me. Now I'm watching it again, and I find it's actually very entertaining. The robot is adorable and while I know that I'm probably going to get annoyed at the end of the movie, for right now I'm entertained.
Today was too hot to do anything. I was going to bake and make graduation presents for everyone, but I soon discovered that upstairs was like a giant sauna without the naked people. Oh yes, awesome disturbing simile. I'm telling you, uninspiration is frustrating. (Not a word, I know)
Anyway.
Night people, maybe I'll do something more creative tomorrow.

Day 2

The midnight air was thick with the dry heat that permeated the afternoon. Still the tourists lingered, their hats on their heads to protect them from a sun that was no longer in the sky. The cameras flashed into the night, trying to capture the miracle in the fields far away. I quietly observed this from my perch. A smooth rock above the parking alcove for guests. From here I could watch all the men and woman gape, the town below, and of course the magic.

That's what it was. Magic. Some actually thought it was an alien wonder planted on earth for us mere humans. The Marfa Lights, they called them. Orbs of light drifting across the smooth sand of Texas. Flying, but always hovering in the same place.

They were beautiful. 

The tourists even dedicated a festival to them. They aren't aliens. I've watched each night and the stars move towards them. Slowly. But I saw them creep closer. 

The lights are beacons. Like light houses calling to ships on a sea's tempests. 

Some believed the connection was aliens, not me. I believed it was magic. Magic flowing through the skies and tying it seamlessly to the lights. 

Lights that glow blue and purple and magenta. 

Like pixie dust. 

Day 1

The flowers danced across the couch pillow in straight lines. The red upholstery blended into the pattern and reminded me of a salsa pit in the middle of Mexico. Maybe that was the fever talking. Arms sprawled over my head in anguish and eyes half closed from delirium. I had never been to a salsa pit. Closest thing I experienced to it was Indian food in a sweltering hotel room in London.
And the flowers were dancing again. I closed my eyes fully to block out the samba taking place before me. Everyone hopes to get sick when there is something important to miss in life. The test you didn't have time to prepare for. The event you never actually wanted to go to.
It all turns to regrets in the end.
You regret not taking the test. It would have been easier to get it out of the way and have the stress behind you rather than procrastinate.
You regret not going to the event. Friends only come once and sometimes its best to take life as it is.
You regret getting sick, too. And wanting to get sick as well.
Flowers, keep dancing, it's going to be a long night.

A summer vacation, or not really

Hello friends, or who ever may be reading this. Today is June 16th, and I have two announcements or topics I need to address. Both are changes to this blog. For over a year now I have been a stuggling writer, both with inspiration and skill. I've been experiencing a time in my life that I feel very untalented and unenthusiastic towards writing.
Thankfully this has changed since the school year has ended. I've been reintroduced to an ache in the middle of my chest that I haven't felt since sophmore year.
I need to write. I want to write. I can't wait to write.
I understand that I really do care about writing.
It feels wrong to not create words with my fingers on a black sheet of paper on microsoft word.
So, I am restarting this blog. This is a new beginning. Writing is a self-motivated carreer and unfortunately, I am severely lacking in that department. (You can see me lying around in my Pjs till 5pm just watching movies these days...)
These are the changes you can expect.
1) I will be using this blog as a source to write everyday for 20 minutes. I was challenged to do this by my creative writing teacher and I am prepared to meet this challenge. This means it could be anything. Poetry, thought ramblings, story concepts, or anything relating to writing. This site will be my journal.
2) The second change is that I am writing a book/novella. I have never completed anything of this length and I need to prove to myself that I can accomplish this. If I can achieve this goal it will be potentially my senior project. In order to stay motivated, I need all of my reader's help. I will be posting chapters of my story on this blog and I need feedback, and not the nice type of feedback. I know we are all tempted to read a blog and leave commments like "that's amazing! I loved when you did this and this and this". Don't misunderstand me, I appreciate those comments too, but they aren't exactly 'helpful'. I need peer review. Tell me what is unclear. Tell me what you don't like or what just seems odd to you. Tell me how to improve my story.
With God's help, I might just be able to pull this off. Please pray for me.
Thank you all for reading this overly long post. Enjoy your summer!
- Bethany