Tuesday, September 14, 2010

What would you do if you knew you could not fail?

What would you attempt
if you knew
you would not fail?

Some would think big.
He would ship
fresh water to Africa.
She would climb
Mt. Everest.

For some it is smaller.
The boy
who would ask out
the blonde
who sits in front of him
in English.
The child who would finally dig
her hole
to China.
The mother
who would inform
her drunken husband
that he is no longer welcome
in her children's home.

This was actually written on a license plate I came across. I thought it was a good prompt.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

A Home


I wish to live


In a mossy wood


The silence is only


By the buzzing of


Where the rain


Like the sky's own


To wash off


Where the cumbersome


Will cease to find

Huh. I wrote this a couple years ago, but now reading it, it seems a little dark and reclusive. It's nice though, and this is the first poem that I ever attempted to apply a rhythm to. The prompt was "Where in the world would you most like to live and why? Write your response in the form of a poem." Give it a shot!

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Second Chair!!

I didn't want to write anything today. I was worried I'd be incoherent, I'm so excited. If I wrote this how I've been talking to people today, MY BLOG WOULD LOOK LIKE THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Our conductor just posted the chairs for our orchestra. And the results are (drum roll) I'm second chair! Which is a big move up from ninth chair, or seventh of the second violins like I was last year.

For those of you who aren't in an orchestra and have no idea what I'm talking about, here's a summary. In an orchestra the violins are divided are divided into two sections, the first violins and the second violins. The first violins tend to be the better ones. Within each section there are chairs; first chair is the best, second chair is second best, and so on. I am now 2nd chair first violin. (Smothering an 'eek' here.) So that's the second best out of about twenty-five violins.

I love the violin. I thinks it's a very regal instrument when you need it to be, but put on some country music and you've got yourself a fiddle.

(To answer some questions...) Besides the violin, I play the piano and can get by on viola if I need to.

Learning guitar is right up there on my list of things to do before I die. And hopefully I can do that sooner rather than later. Guitar is such a nice instrument, because you can sing and play and it gives you a perfect harmony. But you can also play all fancy-like, and then the guitar takes center stage.

Oh, music. It's synonymous with my life.

Peace on Earth......or maybe just in my house???

Tuesday, September 7, 2010


First there is the hustle of people. Everyone crowding, crowding, a thousand different personalities crammed into one place. And everyone thinks their route is the most important. So they shove. And if you shove back, they shove harder.

Then there is the singling out. There is something in the face, one in millions, that leaves nothing to be desired. Even if you turned away then, the face would be imprinted on your mind for weeks.

Then eye contact is made. There is the flash of a sort of recognition, perhaps from a dream or past life. The eyes light up and you notice the color. The eye color is one of the most important details that you'll recall later when trying to commit the experience to a memory that will last you your whole life

The glance is held for perhaps a split-second. The longest split-second in history. It seems that it will never end. But perhaps this is just wishful thinking on your part. Your gazes seem to fit into one another like a pair of puzzle pieces, and you feel a falling sensation in your stomach. This is it. The climax of your life.

And then.

Someone else's egotism becomes more important than this. When you stop moving, someone pushes you to the ground. The eye contact is broken. A little bit of your soul has been torn out, is being carried away by that stranger, the stranger with the flawless eyes.

You never see those eyes again.

Maybe you were just another face in the crowd. But maybe that stranger fell for you just as hard as you did for them that day.

Monday, September 6, 2010

I Remember

This song was fully-formed in my head this morning when I woke up. I got up, wrote down the words, and went back to sleep. Now I can't remember the tune (meh). Here's the basic idea of it though.

Some days, we don't talk at all
Perhaps a smile, a brush of hand
Is all I've come to expect.

It seems that you're different than you were,
The things you said, the things you did
Are disappearing fast.

Maybe I should stop trying to bring it back
Cause lately, all I see is what you lack
And then,

I remember
When you said I was the sun.
I remember
When you said I was the only one.
I remember
Back to the days we used to
Laugh and dance and sing.
Yes, I remember
When you put your arm around my shoulder
I remember
When you said we'd be forever.
Whenever I want to fall apart,
I remember.

Some days I'm so mad that I could cry.
I wanted to save us, but now,
I can't remember why.

All my friends tell me to leave you
Cause if you aren't real and you can't show the world our love
Then it isn't love at all.

I look at the tattered of what we used to share
Why do I want back something that was never even there?
But then


I know that I can't keep you.
But with these memories I can never leave you.



Not the best, but not the worst either.

Thursday, September 2, 2010


I'm babysitting seven kids right now. That's too much for one person, no matter what the Duggars say.

I'm in need for some inspiration.

The continued to drag her on to a small, badly lit room off the corridor. The room was hot, almost steamy. It smelled of sweat and blood. Her nose wrinkled at the rankness.

"You will sit there," one of them said.

"Will I?" she said, hoping to ruffle and distract them a bit.

"Yes," said another coolly, "you will."

She looked at him evenly, long enough that he began to furrow his brow in confusion. He blinked and broke eye contact.

"Sit," he said.

Because this wasn't the hill she wanted to die on, she sat. Chains wrapped themselves around her wrists.

She looked up, her face openly mocking. "Really guys? You expect me to go somewhere?"

"Proper measures of security must be taken," one of them said, as unemotionally as ever. "Now, to business. We have intelligence that you are harboring a known criminal."

"You'd think, by the looks of you, that you had no intelligence at all."

That didn't phase them.

"Yes or no, young lady."

"How about....maybe?"


"I mean, I might be...."

"Are you or are you aware of the location of this young man?" They held up an image of his face, a mug shot. It didn't do him justice, she thought.

"I don't know his location right now, no." Not his exact one anyways. He was somewhere in her apartment complex.

"Have you been in contact with him?"

The room felt like it was getting hotter. "Can we turn on the air-conditioning, guys?"

"There is none, young lady. Answer the question."

"Look, stop calling me 'young lady.' " she said with a sudden bit of rash emotion. Where had that come from? "I'm just a girl. Just a girl, okay?"

She couldn't see straight.

"Young lady, are you okay?" But he was squinting too.

The room was fading to black.


She was gone.

*                 *                  *

In a faint moment of consciousness, she heard his voice.

"Thanks for protecting me," he said softly. She heard that grateful smile in his voice.

She was faintly aware of the men scattered, passed out on the floor.

She smiled back at him.

The last thing she felt was his lips brush hers.

Just a little thought I had today when I entered a really heated room. It may or may not be connected to some other stories I've written.


Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Make-It-Up-Monday Entry

I entered a piece in the Make-It-Up-Monday contest on the blog 52 Weeks of Wordage. I'm pretty proud of it so I thought I'd post it here.

The contest is this: interpret a photo that is changed each week with a piece as short or long as you would like. Here is the picture:

This is the piece I wrote:

The car suddenly made a big popping sound.

Mario’s face opened with surprise. He labored to pull the car over onto the side of the freeway.

He got out and looked to at the side of the car. “Looks like we’ve got a flat, Rhon. You wanna come out and help me a sec?”

Rhonda. One of the better names I’d made up for myself. I’d have to keep that in mind.
I climbed out of the car slowly and reluctantly. No, I didn’t really want to help him fix the flat. I’m not an auto mechanic, not even close. But I felt I owed it to the him. Not a lot of guys would pick up an eleven year old girl hitch-hiking along the side of the Arizona highway.
Leaving the air-conditioned Mustang made me realize how hot it was outside. Fortunately it was a dry heat, and I much preferred it to the humidity of the east coast, a place I’d spent a lot of time. I took a moment to roll up my sleeves.
Mario was fiddling with a long silver thing he was pressing into the hubcap of the car. I tuned out a little bit, gazing off the side of the highway into the open desert. There was a rugged beauty about the red rocks, the unwavering sunlight. Almost godly. And the complete lack of civilization. This is where I want to live, I thought. Away from all the people.
“Here,” Mario said from behind me. I turned around and saw that he had pried the offending tire from the rim. “Can you hold onto this for a little while?” He smiled and got back to work.
I got down onto my knees and rolled the tire over to me. Why was he so nice to me? Why wasn’t he like every nearly other grown-up I’d ever known, and told me I was worthless? I almost regretted not being able to tell him my real name.
Skyler. It took a moment to remember. My father used to say that it was because my heart was as big as the sky. I started conjuring a picture of my father.
No. My father was dead. No use reopening old wounds. Harden the heart.
 I pulled the tire close to me and nestled against it. I didn’t worry about ruining my clothes; the dog back in Louisiana had taken care of that.
I started thinking back to the time I first ran away, two years ago. When I was nine. When I first realized that my mother was not safe or stable, and that she was going to kill me.
So I left, because it’s the only thing I know how to do. Run away.
My gaze was drawn to a falcon soaring on some thermals, wings spread as if experiencing the most relaxing thing in the world.
I wish I was a bird. You can’t trap a bird. A bird can fly, fly away from all its troubles. And it doesn’t ever have to look back.

Please understand that the formatting in this is all messed up. It was a lot prettier originally. So the really long spaces are what are supposed to be paragraph breaks. Excuse the formatting and tell me what you think!