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

The Gardener

A moment of time elapses, I breathe the air into my lungs. Its taste is sour and reeks the of the perfume of the streets. Everything is grabbing me, pulling me to the ground. My lungs are poisoned and men with stones throw them at my arms and legs. I fall under the world.
I am the dirt, and they step on me.

Arms wrap around me, a finger strokes my cheek. The touch sends sparks of numbness through my skin. I reach for more, bringing his lips to mine. A mother's milk is replaced with a new life-giving formula. The more connected, the more I grow, but it is past my time to be weened, to be let go.
I am the weed, and I am the addict.

Words swarm my mind, they combine their syllables to form a dictionary on my tongue. A friendship is lost behind my closed lips. Frustration resonates in the right left side of my chest, and still the expectant silence will not be filled. Images appear in my mind; what if I said that? What would he do? I remain quiet, stubbornly resisting.
I am the thorn, and nothing is resolved.

My seeds will not grow in the land I have made for myself. Fragile and timid I collapse. Bruised and emotionally dry, I wither. I can not tend my own life, the soil is contaminated with fear and out from it grow my flaws. They overwhelm me. But a gentle eye watches over my growth.

He whispers my name for my comfort. He waits patiently in the morning dew. Not forcing, only probing, he coaxes me too him. I can not resist the warmth of his call. I lean toward him, but my roots hold be secure. They have been seeped too long in their dark, earthy, home. I pull, and he steps closer, closing the distance between us. Carrying a spade, and tools that I had lacked, I wilt into his hands.

He is the Gardener, and He, not I, will make me the flower.

The Storm (Attempt 1 at writing more)

The man lifted his chin and stared into the dark face. “I told you to stop going there,” the rehearsed rebuke drifted from his mouth. Having been said too many times, it had turned into a plea.

“I thought I told you to stop nagging,” A shrill voice replied.

“I care about you Marissa, what am I supposed to do?” he rubbed his temples and waited. The thunder would come.

“How about the things I ask you to do? Have you thought of that, you dumbass? When have you ever done anything I’ve wanted?” There was the thunder, the warning sign before the sharp bolts of lightning arrived.

“All the time,” he bit his lip. His mind recalled all the moments he had rendered to her will. Had she forgotten them? He knew she hadn’t; she just wanted someone to be the victim of her rage, a person she would make suffer because some event he didn’t know about had made her suffer.

But he had never seen her like this.

“Show me then,” she stormed up to him and grabbed his wrist. He felt her pristine white manicured nails pierce into his pale skin. “Show me,” she whispered viciously.

“Marrisa…” he warned as he began to feel pinpricks of pain.

Her tone took a malicious turn, “What, it hurt Jarad?” The thunder grew louder in his ears.

“Let go,” his voice quavered as he shook his arm, trying to break the hold. She slapped him to stop his efforts. She had never hit him before and a sudden anger over took him. Glaring, he found new strength and pulled his arm firmly away from her. Deep scratch marks were engraved into his forearm. He raised his hand to strike her then stopped. Gulping oxygen into his lungs for control, he lowered them to press the girl’s arms against her body. He pushed her aside and walked away from her.

Each word she spoke affected him like the wind affected the ocean. Every time she spoke a turbulent wave of hurt, anger, hate, and love crashed over him. After years of marriage, he knew he should have built the necessary barriers to protect himself, but he hadn’t.

“What are you going to do? Hurt me?” She accused, “Hurt me, Jarad. Go on, hurt me.” He slumped his shoulders and didn’t move. The girl laughed victoriously. Jarad closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound, but it entered through his ears and slowly descended into the recesses of his chest; his anger ebbed away as a new wave descended, hurt. He loved her, why was she doing this to him? His throat swelled but he refused to look at the creature behind him. He could feel the lightning forming in the air.

Breathing heavily, he walked across the room as his hands ran through his hair to disguise his shaking hands. “I wouldn’t,” Jarad whispered, knowing full well how tempted he had been.

“What would the police say if you did?” she goaded further, “Abuse? Maybe then I’d be free from this hell hole.” She twitched her fingers in agitation and looked about the room wildly. The lightning was close.

“You’re drunk.” His voiced cracked, “Listen to yourself. Why do you always do this to yourself?”

“Yes, yes I am. It’s the only time I feel sane. Look at this place. This whole life is shit. Each day I tolerate it with a small grin and a glass of wine. What a lie.” Then her face changed into an unreadable expression.

“What happened tonight, why are you like this?” Jarad begged. She only shrieked and ran at him. Violence had replaced the last shreds of sense that had inhabited her mind. The lightning had come and all he could do was run.

And so he ran.

Jarad crept behind the nightstand in the far off spare bedroom and held his knees to his chest. He could hear the sound of shattering glass down the hall and feel the silent drip of moisture from his cheeks onto his jeans. His rain would continue to fall as just as long as her lightning would continue to strike. With a locked door protecting him, all he could do was wait out the storm.

Ashes.

The heap is gathered in the field and the rancid smell of flesh permeates the nose. People travel with sacks on their backs and hunch under the weight. Their eyes are red and carry dry tears. Gently they untie the string and let their men fall over the others.

“I'll miss you,” they whisper.

“I love you,” they recite. No emotion seeps through their words. They said goodbye long ago.

I gulp for air, unable to move. The pile grows and the smell intensifies. A hand reaches for my bundle and I feel it being dragged across the path. I scream and clutch the harsh woolen sack to my chest. The woman falls back, apologetic as shouts and sounds of bullets drift to us from far away. Soon the shots fade and are replaced by a menacing silence, and I can imagine the inhuman forms creeping towards us.

“They have come. We have to light it.”the woman touches my shoulder and I flinch. “They will do worse to them than this.” I nod, understanding, but not accepting.

I can't feel my hands as I untie the string. Soft, glossy hair and glazed, green eyes peak through the cloth at me. I cradle the man in my arms. His limp form seems unprotected and childlike in his adulthood.

“Don't leave me,” I moan.

“He already left.” a voice echoes in my head.

I stroke his pale face with a finger and rest it on his cold lips. I kiss them lightly. Gingerly, I step towards the pile and lower him into the throng. A man approaches with a torch and roughly throws the flame.

Everything burns. White skin turns black; blue sky turns gray with smoke. No faces are left, no green eyes.

People rejoice, I am quiet.

We saved them. The creatures can not touch them.

I lay down besides the ashes, feeling like the grass of the field, fragile, black and ready to shatter from the gentle touch of the wind. People move and flee the area, and I am carried away.

{|Confused? Check out the companion piece: Embers|}