The moon reminded Lorelei of tears.
Soft as silver, they bubbled up in the wake of the crescent moon. The lady-in-waiting who found her pillow soaked felt her forehead and called for a doctor. Lorelei, as perplexed as she, lay in bed while the bespectacled man lifted her eyelids, prodded the fleshy underside of her arms, and peered down her throat as though into a cavern. He gave Lorelei a viscous green syrup to take every three hours, and billed the castle.
Her royal parents watched from the doorway, worry in their eyes.
Soon, a steady flow of tears bathed Lorelei's cheeks. They slid down her cheeks in curling rivers, unquenched by the steady flow of people who called with offered cures. Servants stripped her bed of the salty sheets from tears she'd shed in sleep. The king and queen called in philosophers and astronomers, foreign wizards and shamans who spilled bones across the carpet and danced through smoke. Jesters came with silly stories and tumbling acts so ridiculous, the ladies-in-waiting held their stomachs and grasped at chairs to keep from fainting of laughter. But Lorelei's tears continued. She listened to the troubadours tune their instruments and hazard the first notes of sad songs about her.
"Ahhh," said someone at last, an old woman with filmy blue eyes. Her forehead relaxed with compassion. "I understand. You know that he loves you, don't you? And you feel it."
"Who loves me?" she whispered into the midnight shadows. Her lids burned with salt.
The woman smiled gently, unwrapping a handkerchief from her pocket. "The moon does. He's pining for you, isn't he? No, these tears won't stop, I think, until you climb to his kingdom."
A tear rolled off of Lorelei's nose, but she took the handkerchief and turned her face to the window. Moonlight gleamed silvery along her tear-stained cheeks.
"The question is," the old wise woman said as she rose, "how to get there?"
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
November Short Stories: Wednesday
Hopefully Lost
After their fifth wrong turn, Monica began to feel the pressure of the growing dark.
Henry chuckled quietly, steering wheel revolving beneath his hands.
"Cornfields and more cornfields," he said, nodding out the window. "I don't think we're anywhere close to Pittsburgh."
Monica laughed nervously, tugging at a wrinkle in her pantyhose. "Maybe I should call the office and let them know we won't be making it."
"Oh, we'll make it." Henry made a slow left turn. More cornfields. "The meeting isn't until eight o'clock tomorrow morning, after all."
Silence. The pantyhose were making her itch.
"Besides," he added after a long moment, "you know.....it's been nice to finally spend some time with you."
Monica's heart skittered beneath her work blouse. "I guess we had to wait for a six-hour car ride for that, huh? I mean...um, it has been. Really nice."
The Honda revolved slowly around a turn. Henry flicked his lights on.
"I've heard that the city by morning is quite the sight," he said quietly.
Monica stared at the passing cornstalks and pressed her knuckles to her mouth, trying not to smile. "Is that a proposition?"
"I'd really like it to be. Though, it should be said, only the most honorable of propositions. Breakfast and a city sunrise?"
"That," she said softly, "sounds perfect."
It was darker than dark now, but she didn't jump when the tips of his fingers curled around hers. Henry sighed. "I am sorry about that wrong turn."
Monica smiled at the window. "Let's just drive."
After their fifth wrong turn, Monica began to feel the pressure of the growing dark.
Henry chuckled quietly, steering wheel revolving beneath his hands.
"Cornfields and more cornfields," he said, nodding out the window. "I don't think we're anywhere close to Pittsburgh."
Monica laughed nervously, tugging at a wrinkle in her pantyhose. "Maybe I should call the office and let them know we won't be making it."
"Oh, we'll make it." Henry made a slow left turn. More cornfields. "The meeting isn't until eight o'clock tomorrow morning, after all."
Silence. The pantyhose were making her itch.
"Besides," he added after a long moment, "you know.....it's been nice to finally spend some time with you."
Monica's heart skittered beneath her work blouse. "I guess we had to wait for a six-hour car ride for that, huh? I mean...um, it has been. Really nice."
The Honda revolved slowly around a turn. Henry flicked his lights on.
"I've heard that the city by morning is quite the sight," he said quietly.
Monica stared at the passing cornstalks and pressed her knuckles to her mouth, trying not to smile. "Is that a proposition?"
"I'd really like it to be. Though, it should be said, only the most honorable of propositions. Breakfast and a city sunrise?"
"That," she said softly, "sounds perfect."
It was darker than dark now, but she didn't jump when the tips of his fingers curled around hers. Henry sighed. "I am sorry about that wrong turn."
Monica smiled at the window. "Let's just drive."
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
A new kind of reading
I miss the days when I had time to read. College has a knack of keeping me busy. It's a blessing, because more and more, I'm finding that I prefer to be so.
I'm not just busy with classes and assignment, but also with household, clubs, work, planning internships and getting just a little bit of breathing time in between.
But the busyness has changed the way I do a lot of things.
In the last few years, I've realized that reading has, frankly, become something that's no longer a part of my life.
There are a few reasons for the change. Firstly, of course, I'm busy. College doesn't (and shouldn't!) allow me time to lay back and doze. Except when I really need it. I've given up coffee, after all. Sigh.
Secondly, I'm finding ever-growing conflicts between what I want to read and where I am in my life. At nineteen, I sense that I'm a little too old for YA novels, but I still read them. They fill a hunger for wonder that I still have and still remember. They're universal in that way. At the same time, we need both old and new favorites.
More and more frequently, I find myself browsing the adult section of bookstores and coming away dissatisfied. I want something with substance, something that is wholesome and wonderful and well-written and enticing, but still part of the adult world. But often, I can't seem to find it.
Recently, however, reading has come into my life in a new way, and it's a way I never would have expected.
I am a lazy reader. I want to relax into a story, not work to understand it. Most brutal would be to ask me to read new stories - and yet, lately, newspapers are my reading material of choice.
Seems legitimate. I'm a journalism student! Through the semester, I've filed into the university Mac lab twice a week to learn to write news stories.
Reading the news is challenging. It doesn't allow my mind to sit back and go aaahhh at the end of a long day. Often, I struggle to understand. My eyes jump over passages when the lines blur. I have to be patient and go back, making sure I'm fully processing everything on the page.
The point is to draw my own conclusions, so I can't rest while I read.
It's a discipline to read real-life issues, and yet it's fulfilling.
To look at it from one angle, journalistic and creative writing seem two completely opposite ends of the spectrum. Journalism is pure information, stripped of poetic devices, of all the delicious language, and yet it's an art form. Moreover, it's an important one.
I'm reading about things I never would have wondered about or cared to know. Controversial vaccines. Chinese filial piety laws. I'm even dipping my shy toes into the political spectrum.
It's a discipline that's pulling me from my reader complacency. Right now, I'm growing as hungry for news as I once was - and, I hope, still am - for fiction.
I'm not just busy with classes and assignment, but also with household, clubs, work, planning internships and getting just a little bit of breathing time in between.
But the busyness has changed the way I do a lot of things.
In the last few years, I've realized that reading has, frankly, become something that's no longer a part of my life.
There are a few reasons for the change. Firstly, of course, I'm busy. College doesn't (and shouldn't!) allow me time to lay back and doze. Except when I really need it. I've given up coffee, after all. Sigh.
Secondly, I'm finding ever-growing conflicts between what I want to read and where I am in my life. At nineteen, I sense that I'm a little too old for YA novels, but I still read them. They fill a hunger for wonder that I still have and still remember. They're universal in that way. At the same time, we need both old and new favorites.
More and more frequently, I find myself browsing the adult section of bookstores and coming away dissatisfied. I want something with substance, something that is wholesome and wonderful and well-written and enticing, but still part of the adult world. But often, I can't seem to find it.
Recently, however, reading has come into my life in a new way, and it's a way I never would have expected.
I am a lazy reader. I want to relax into a story, not work to understand it. Most brutal would be to ask me to read new stories - and yet, lately, newspapers are my reading material of choice.
Seems legitimate. I'm a journalism student! Through the semester, I've filed into the university Mac lab twice a week to learn to write news stories.
Reading the news is challenging. It doesn't allow my mind to sit back and go aaahhh at the end of a long day. Often, I struggle to understand. My eyes jump over passages when the lines blur. I have to be patient and go back, making sure I'm fully processing everything on the page.
The point is to draw my own conclusions, so I can't rest while I read.
It's a discipline to read real-life issues, and yet it's fulfilling.
To look at it from one angle, journalistic and creative writing seem two completely opposite ends of the spectrum. Journalism is pure information, stripped of poetic devices, of all the delicious language, and yet it's an art form. Moreover, it's an important one.
I'm reading about things I never would have wondered about or cared to know. Controversial vaccines. Chinese filial piety laws. I'm even dipping my shy toes into the political spectrum.
It's a discipline that's pulling me from my reader complacency. Right now, I'm growing as hungry for news as I once was - and, I hope, still am - for fiction.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
September
Suddenly, it's September, and I've been gone for months and months.
I'm back at school. The leaves are beginning to change. I'm doing new things but thinking old things, and some days, my brain feels like spaghetti.
I spent my summer working at a camp. My days were full of Band-aids and hugs and a lot of laughter, and sometimes some timeouts, but I loved it. Even though those kids could run me down like a race car.
I was ready, really ready, to get back to school in August. To keep myself on my toes, I changed things up with my major and shuffled my class schedule like a pack of playing cards, but now I'm safely tucked back into college days. Life is normal again.
......Well......
If you don't count the 2:30 AM fire drills, the girls shouting down the hall, coffee and piano music, sock monkey footie pajamas, late nights every night, poetry, excursions to far-off cigar shops, meddling in one another's love lives and forgetting the papaya rotting in the fridge, lost socks and bobby pins and where did I put my binder, vanishing car keys and oh my goodness how will I finish this in time, I have no money, let's stay up all night studying and smoking--or we could just go take a walk.......
And it's so good to be home.
I'm back at school. The leaves are beginning to change. I'm doing new things but thinking old things, and some days, my brain feels like spaghetti.
I spent my summer working at a camp. My days were full of Band-aids and hugs and a lot of laughter, and sometimes some timeouts, but I loved it. Even though those kids could run me down like a race car.
I was ready, really ready, to get back to school in August. To keep myself on my toes, I changed things up with my major and shuffled my class schedule like a pack of playing cards, but now I'm safely tucked back into college days. Life is normal again.
......Well......
If you don't count the 2:30 AM fire drills, the girls shouting down the hall, coffee and piano music, sock monkey footie pajamas, late nights every night, poetry, excursions to far-off cigar shops, meddling in one another's love lives and forgetting the papaya rotting in the fridge, lost socks and bobby pins and where did I put my binder, vanishing car keys and oh my goodness how will I finish this in time, I have no money, let's stay up all night studying and smoking--or we could just go take a walk.......
And it's so good to be home.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
**Daily Short Story Update**
Hey guys! Obviously, I'm lagging behind with the daily shorts. I'm not feeling the greatest at the moment, but there will be some more up soon. :)
Monday, May 27, 2013
May Short Stories: (a late) Sunday Edition
Watching Somewhere
There once was a mermaid who lives on the salt rocks outside of Somewhere, but she never sang--though that was the typical mermaid occupation. Her voice was a husky alto. The one time she had made an attempt at a bit of siren-song, she saw the sailors glancing down in confusion, mouthing questions to one another through the spray. Embarrassed, she ducked down against the rocks and waited mute until the ship made its treacherous way onward.
Her hair couldn't even stream into the foam in typical mermaid fashion: it was cut short--for athletics--and the older merfolk got together on their front porches as she passed, shaking their heads like rudders when they saw the lipstick she wore.
One night, she met a sailor bobbing along the ocean floor.
His eyes were closed, his head floating listlessly from side to side. But he must have sensed her presence, because his eyes slowly opened.
The mermaid didn't move. A bubble slipped from his lips, and then he smiled. The lips trembled, seeming to mouth a bemused question.
She wondered later if she should have tried to rescue him.
There once was a mermaid who lives on the salt rocks outside of Somewhere, but she never sang--though that was the typical mermaid occupation. Her voice was a husky alto. The one time she had made an attempt at a bit of siren-song, she saw the sailors glancing down in confusion, mouthing questions to one another through the spray. Embarrassed, she ducked down against the rocks and waited mute until the ship made its treacherous way onward.
Her hair couldn't even stream into the foam in typical mermaid fashion: it was cut short--for athletics--and the older merfolk got together on their front porches as she passed, shaking their heads like rudders when they saw the lipstick she wore.
One night, she met a sailor bobbing along the ocean floor.
His eyes were closed, his head floating listlessly from side to side. But he must have sensed her presence, because his eyes slowly opened.
The mermaid didn't move. A bubble slipped from his lips, and then he smiled. The lips trembled, seeming to mouth a bemused question.
She wondered later if she should have tried to rescue him.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
May Short Stories: Saturday Edition
At the
age of ten, Emma asked her father to turn her into a bird.
“I can’t,
starling,” he said sadly, crumpling the curls at her neck. “I’m not that kind
of magician.”
“But
you’re a magician,” she said. “You can fly.”
“Yes, I
can fly. But you, my darling, won’t ever be a bird.” He squeezed her cheek. “I
couldn’t allow that.”
But
Emma couldn’t give up on the idea. In the evening, she hung in the window,
staring out at the great expanse of soft blue. It pulled her soul into a
glorious ache, a sting tracing shivers down her arms. Her father found her and
carried her to bed, his face tucked into a frown.
“No
more flying,” he said softly as he tucked her in.
“No
more?” Emma asked yearningly.
“No,
starling. No more, ever. You must stay my little girl. You can’t turn into a
bird.”
He
kissed her forehead and left the room, his wand twirling lazily in his hand. Emma
turned her face to the window, where the horizon glowed turquoise.
She
promised her father she wouldn’t try to fly again. But she dreamed of
starlings.
Friday, May 24, 2013
May Short Stories: Friday Edition
I am so dead, thought Alexander Craw, at 2:37 on a Sunday afternoon, just before the fuse blew.
At 10:13, Alex sat down to a comfortable, if tardy, breakfast of eggs and oatmeal. It was an awkward pairing at best, and with puffy, griddle-burned eggs that sucked the spit out of his mouth, he was soon relegated to drinking orange juice and having a staring contest with his baby sister, Chelsea, who was still young enough to stare without it being weird.
At 10:27, the kitchen window opened, and Alex' mother screamed and dropped the frying pan as their neighbor Jane ninja-somersaulted onto the linoleum.
Jane crashed into the table, making the orange juice wobble in the pitcher. She picked herself up and pointed at Alex. She was dressed completely in black, a black bandanna tied around her mouth. She looked like a cartoon bank robber.
"You," she said, "are needed on a mission."
Alex adjusted his glasses.
"To where?" he asked. He was used to Jane's dramatics.
She stuck her chin in the air and gave him a triumphant smile. "The town square."
At 12:03, Alex discovered exactly what Jane's vendetta in the town square consisted of. Their local Girl Scouts were doing a public fundraiser for an animal hospital in the city. And Jane hated the animal hospital. She took personal offense at the high number of rabbits and cats put to sleep there.
"They're nothing but moneymaking murderers," she hissed, watching the Girl Scouts, on a stage especially built for the performance, through narrowed eyes. The stage was propped up on cinder blocks, though they had been disguised--poorly--with streamers and pictures of frolicking cats. Jane and Alex crouched in the parking lot behind Alex' car, watching the activity in the square. Alex felt admittedly dubious about the mission. But then, Jane was his best friend.
Abruptly, she jumped up and opened the trunk, removing a suitcase. "It's go time. Are you ready?"
When he didn't answer, she glanced back at him and rolled her eyes. "Calm down. We're not doing anything illegal. Not in the purest sense." She threw him the suitcase, which he caught with clumsy hands.
"What is the impure sense of 'illegal'?" he asked. Jane ignored him, removing a second suitcase from the trunk.
"Now, your job is to follow me and be quiet."
Jane's suitcases were full of tomatoes.
"Tomatoes," said Alex.
"Yes," she said with satisfaction.
"Why tomatoes?"
"They tend," she said, "to be good for explosions."
He wasn't exactly sure how she got the wires hooked up with such apparent ease, crossing them over one another like snakes with biting metal jaws, until it became what would, Jane assured him, be an electric tomatoey circuit of doom. He watched her hands crossing back and forth, and they were quick and devious. He noticed she had a widow's peak.
Alex squatted beside her. "So why did you want me for the mission?"
"Your car, primarily, since I don't have one." Jane paused, her mouth pursing thoughtfully. "And the moral support. And the brains. Crap! Where did I forget to connect it?"
"Right here," Alex said, finding the alligator clip that still dangled amid the mess of wires.
"Besides," she added, "what's more fun than sabotaging Girl Scouts with someone like you?"
She completed the circuit and sat back on her heels, eyeing it critically. Alex' insides performed a tap dance. Tappity tappity tap...
At 1:49, they waited. Jane drew pictures in the dirt. She drew an owl and a sun and a crooked ring of stars, and Alex watched her again. He noticed the way her lashes curled onto her cheek, and realized suddenly that she was beautiful.
"Thanks for coming with me," Jane said softly. "There's no one else whose window I could have chosen who wouldn't have told me to get lost."
She stopped drawing and pulled her knees to her chest.
"It means something, that you've followed my crazy whim out here."
Somehow, their hands found one another. And squeezed.
"It's time to go," said Jane, letting go, and pulling her bandanna over her chin.
At 2:21, everything was in place.
They waited, their breaths scratching against the hot air. Jane had led the way, wriggling on her belly beneath the stage, and Alex followed with some confusion. Above them, the Girl Scout leader's voice droned on like a wasp. Every now and then, scattered applause responded, a bored acknowledgement. Alex suppressed the urge to join in.
At 2:29, Jane whispered, "It's time. Let's give them their finale."
The tomato bomb was enabled and ready to go more quickly than Alex could have imagined. Their hands fumbled on the wires as they nervously checked and rechecked the circuit.
"You hit the switch," Jane whispered. "You've earned it."
She scrambled away. Alex waited, his breath hot in the close understage air. His intestines seemed to be doing the worm. His hand was sweaty on the switch.
Time ticked on.
At 2:32, he felt Jane's hand on his back.
"Wait for my signal," she said softly. "It'll rain tomatoes out there. This is what we'll give them in return for all those helpless rabbits."
At 2:35, Alex whispered, "Jane."
He heard her shift slightly behind him. "Yeah."
"Thanks for inviting me on your mission. I think it's...it's fantastic that you care. About the rabbits. And about me."
Her answer was silence. He didn't mean to, but his head turned of its own accord. Jane was regarding him with a slight, sad smile.
"It's bizarre," she said. "But I'm a bizarre person."
"I think you're beautiful," he whispered.
At 2:36, her smile grew a little brighter, and she moved her hand upwards to stroke his cheek with her thumb. It was a little awkward in the semidark, but it was her thumb, after all. And he found he loved her thumb.
At 2:37, they realized they'd been staring at one another for an unusually long time.
"Now," Jane said suddenly. "Hit it now."
More clapping rang above their hands, followed by a rumble of steps as the Girl Scouts filed onto the stage. Without thinking, without breathing, Alex jammed the switch with a thumb and scrambled back, watching the tiny lights of the circuit light up one after another. One. Two. Three. They crowded into a back corner, crouching in the dirt as their hearts pounded, and her shoulder was bumping up against his, and she was there.
"Only seconds now," whispered Jane.
Their hands found one another again, and Alex realized just how much he liked her bizarre love for animal rights and ninja missions, the sweaty bits of hair that had puffed around her face in the heat and the way her eyes shone as they waited.
The lights bulbs were flashing on, and on and on and on, and his stomach was rising into his chest, and it was really going to happen, any moment now there would be an explosion and the flight of tomatoes through the air onto the Girl Scouts and the audience, defaming the animal hospital forever.
"Jane," said Alex, his eyes open. "I think I love you."
Jane's hand squeezed his. And even in the darkness, he caught her smile. And he turned his head then, because, really, there was no more convenient moment to kiss her.
At 2:38, the world exploded.
At 10:13, Alex sat down to a comfortable, if tardy, breakfast of eggs and oatmeal. It was an awkward pairing at best, and with puffy, griddle-burned eggs that sucked the spit out of his mouth, he was soon relegated to drinking orange juice and having a staring contest with his baby sister, Chelsea, who was still young enough to stare without it being weird.
At 10:27, the kitchen window opened, and Alex' mother screamed and dropped the frying pan as their neighbor Jane ninja-somersaulted onto the linoleum.
Jane crashed into the table, making the orange juice wobble in the pitcher. She picked herself up and pointed at Alex. She was dressed completely in black, a black bandanna tied around her mouth. She looked like a cartoon bank robber.
"You," she said, "are needed on a mission."
Alex adjusted his glasses.
"To where?" he asked. He was used to Jane's dramatics.
She stuck her chin in the air and gave him a triumphant smile. "The town square."
At 12:03, Alex discovered exactly what Jane's vendetta in the town square consisted of. Their local Girl Scouts were doing a public fundraiser for an animal hospital in the city. And Jane hated the animal hospital. She took personal offense at the high number of rabbits and cats put to sleep there.
"They're nothing but moneymaking murderers," she hissed, watching the Girl Scouts, on a stage especially built for the performance, through narrowed eyes. The stage was propped up on cinder blocks, though they had been disguised--poorly--with streamers and pictures of frolicking cats. Jane and Alex crouched in the parking lot behind Alex' car, watching the activity in the square. Alex felt admittedly dubious about the mission. But then, Jane was his best friend.
Abruptly, she jumped up and opened the trunk, removing a suitcase. "It's go time. Are you ready?"
When he didn't answer, she glanced back at him and rolled her eyes. "Calm down. We're not doing anything illegal. Not in the purest sense." She threw him the suitcase, which he caught with clumsy hands.
"What is the impure sense of 'illegal'?" he asked. Jane ignored him, removing a second suitcase from the trunk.
"Now, your job is to follow me and be quiet."
Jane's suitcases were full of tomatoes.
"Tomatoes," said Alex.
"Yes," she said with satisfaction.
"Why tomatoes?"
"They tend," she said, "to be good for explosions."
He wasn't exactly sure how she got the wires hooked up with such apparent ease, crossing them over one another like snakes with biting metal jaws, until it became what would, Jane assured him, be an electric tomatoey circuit of doom. He watched her hands crossing back and forth, and they were quick and devious. He noticed she had a widow's peak.
Alex squatted beside her. "So why did you want me for the mission?"
"Your car, primarily, since I don't have one." Jane paused, her mouth pursing thoughtfully. "And the moral support. And the brains. Crap! Where did I forget to connect it?"
"Right here," Alex said, finding the alligator clip that still dangled amid the mess of wires.
"Besides," she added, "what's more fun than sabotaging Girl Scouts with someone like you?"
She completed the circuit and sat back on her heels, eyeing it critically. Alex' insides performed a tap dance. Tappity tappity tap...
At 1:49, they waited. Jane drew pictures in the dirt. She drew an owl and a sun and a crooked ring of stars, and Alex watched her again. He noticed the way her lashes curled onto her cheek, and realized suddenly that she was beautiful.
"Thanks for coming with me," Jane said softly. "There's no one else whose window I could have chosen who wouldn't have told me to get lost."
She stopped drawing and pulled her knees to her chest.
"It means something, that you've followed my crazy whim out here."
Somehow, their hands found one another. And squeezed.
"It's time to go," said Jane, letting go, and pulling her bandanna over her chin.
At 2:21, everything was in place.
They waited, their breaths scratching against the hot air. Jane had led the way, wriggling on her belly beneath the stage, and Alex followed with some confusion. Above them, the Girl Scout leader's voice droned on like a wasp. Every now and then, scattered applause responded, a bored acknowledgement. Alex suppressed the urge to join in.
At 2:29, Jane whispered, "It's time. Let's give them their finale."
The tomato bomb was enabled and ready to go more quickly than Alex could have imagined. Their hands fumbled on the wires as they nervously checked and rechecked the circuit.
"You hit the switch," Jane whispered. "You've earned it."
She scrambled away. Alex waited, his breath hot in the close understage air. His intestines seemed to be doing the worm. His hand was sweaty on the switch.
Time ticked on.
At 2:32, he felt Jane's hand on his back.
"Wait for my signal," she said softly. "It'll rain tomatoes out there. This is what we'll give them in return for all those helpless rabbits."
At 2:35, Alex whispered, "Jane."
He heard her shift slightly behind him. "Yeah."
"Thanks for inviting me on your mission. I think it's...it's fantastic that you care. About the rabbits. And about me."
Her answer was silence. He didn't mean to, but his head turned of its own accord. Jane was regarding him with a slight, sad smile.
"It's bizarre," she said. "But I'm a bizarre person."
"I think you're beautiful," he whispered.
At 2:36, her smile grew a little brighter, and she moved her hand upwards to stroke his cheek with her thumb. It was a little awkward in the semidark, but it was her thumb, after all. And he found he loved her thumb.
At 2:37, they realized they'd been staring at one another for an unusually long time.
"Now," Jane said suddenly. "Hit it now."
More clapping rang above their hands, followed by a rumble of steps as the Girl Scouts filed onto the stage. Without thinking, without breathing, Alex jammed the switch with a thumb and scrambled back, watching the tiny lights of the circuit light up one after another. One. Two. Three. They crowded into a back corner, crouching in the dirt as their hearts pounded, and her shoulder was bumping up against his, and she was there.
"Only seconds now," whispered Jane.
Their hands found one another again, and Alex realized just how much he liked her bizarre love for animal rights and ninja missions, the sweaty bits of hair that had puffed around her face in the heat and the way her eyes shone as they waited.
The lights bulbs were flashing on, and on and on and on, and his stomach was rising into his chest, and it was really going to happen, any moment now there would be an explosion and the flight of tomatoes through the air onto the Girl Scouts and the audience, defaming the animal hospital forever.
"Jane," said Alex, his eyes open. "I think I love you."
Jane's hand squeezed his. And even in the darkness, he caught her smile. And he turned his head then, because, really, there was no more convenient moment to kiss her.
At 2:38, the world exploded.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
May Short Stories: Thursday Edition
You have to give him to me, the river burbled to Mirrea.
"Why?" she whispered. It pulsed a little, running over her bare feet like a dragon hungry for fingers and toes.
It's the only way he'll become a prince.
There was a pause, in which the only sound was the slow throb of the waves as they rose and fell against the bank.
You do want him to become a prince, don't you?
Mirrea clutched the jar to her chest.
"Yes," she whispered.
Then give him to me. It will be easy for you.
"It won't be easy," she said, a little louder. "I'll think of him."
He has to grow. Don't you want him to come back and fight for you?
Mirrea's grip on the jar slackened a little. "Will you give him back?" she asked.
I'm a dangerous thing, said the river. Not all creatures survive me.
"I think he'll die if I keep him. He's dying now." She closed her eyes, not wanting the river to see the droplets that leaked onto her cheeks. Then she opened them again. "You'll be...gentle with him? You'll give him a good current?"
There is a wind stirring. Lower him down now.
A slight breeze curled around her cheek. Mirrea took a breath, then crouched on the cool bank. Quickly, she unscrewed the lid of the jar and leaned forward. In one motion, water fell into water; she could just make out the dark shape of a tadpole tipping into the dark river and, caught by the current, flying away.
She stood, holding the open jar against her chest with tired hands, staring down at the green waters. A leaf spiraled on the surface. Her skirts rustled in the breeze.
"Why?" she whispered. It pulsed a little, running over her bare feet like a dragon hungry for fingers and toes.
It's the only way he'll become a prince.
There was a pause, in which the only sound was the slow throb of the waves as they rose and fell against the bank.
You do want him to become a prince, don't you?
Mirrea clutched the jar to her chest.
"Yes," she whispered.
Then give him to me. It will be easy for you.
"It won't be easy," she said, a little louder. "I'll think of him."
He has to grow. Don't you want him to come back and fight for you?
Mirrea's grip on the jar slackened a little. "Will you give him back?" she asked.
I'm a dangerous thing, said the river. Not all creatures survive me.
"I think he'll die if I keep him. He's dying now." She closed her eyes, not wanting the river to see the droplets that leaked onto her cheeks. Then she opened them again. "You'll be...gentle with him? You'll give him a good current?"
There is a wind stirring. Lower him down now.
A slight breeze curled around her cheek. Mirrea took a breath, then crouched on the cool bank. Quickly, she unscrewed the lid of the jar and leaned forward. In one motion, water fell into water; she could just make out the dark shape of a tadpole tipping into the dark river and, caught by the current, flying away.
She stood, holding the open jar against her chest with tired hands, staring down at the green waters. A leaf spiraled on the surface. Her skirts rustled in the breeze.
Monday, May 20, 2013
In Which I Speak of Summer
I'm home!
Everything is in! Papers are written! And yes, grades are received.
*slumps on the ground*
*hibernates*
Wake me when it's time to go back.
How strange, to dismantle the room and make it decidedly un-ours, putting furniture back into standard configuration for whomever will live here next. Down come the paper snowflakes, the posters from the walls, the notes from neighbors, silly pictures from vacation and letters from family.
And then, removing the pictures from the door and locking it one last time.
A road trip seemed like a good, temporary goodbye to college life, so a friend and I piled our belongings into her car and took off for North Carolina.
Then Charleston:
Then Savannah:
....which included some interesting detours to the Savannah Scottish Games, a fantastic afternoon on which men in kilts threw heavy objects to prove just how rugged they were, wore clan tartans with pride, and presented fork art -
....and the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist:
Other adventures abounded, of course, including run-ins with a squirrel, an angry mother cat, skin-staining Icees, sailors, and some free-spirited travelers in Tennessee.
Now, I'm home, and ready for a vacation. And the new free time does have some benefits.
Primarily, I'll have more writing time!
*does a happy dance*
As is plain from the activity on my figment page, college caught up to me. I've been plain out of the loop, but now I'm getting back and working on those last few chapters of TDS that have been bugging me. Lilla, I hope, will be chugging along too.
There will be more short stories coming, hopefully this week, as well! I really enjoyed working on the April ones. It was a great challenge, and now I'm up for it again!
Also, I'll enjoy being home. Home is nice, though my skin feels odd in the summer air and I miss the Hill. Home is good.
Everything is in! Papers are written! And yes, grades are received.
*slumps on the ground*
*hibernates*
Wake me when it's time to go back.
How strange, to dismantle the room and make it decidedly un-ours, putting furniture back into standard configuration for whomever will live here next. Down come the paper snowflakes, the posters from the walls, the notes from neighbors, silly pictures from vacation and letters from family.
And then, removing the pictures from the door and locking it one last time.
A road trip seemed like a good, temporary goodbye to college life, so a friend and I piled our belongings into her car and took off for North Carolina.
Then Charleston:
Then Savannah:
....which included some interesting detours to the Savannah Scottish Games, a fantastic afternoon on which men in kilts threw heavy objects to prove just how rugged they were, wore clan tartans with pride, and presented fork art -
....and the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist:
Other adventures abounded, of course, including run-ins with a squirrel, an angry mother cat, skin-staining Icees, sailors, and some free-spirited travelers in Tennessee.
Now, I'm home, and ready for a vacation. And the new free time does have some benefits.
Primarily, I'll have more writing time!
*does a happy dance*
As is plain from the activity on my figment page, college caught up to me. I've been plain out of the loop, but now I'm getting back and working on those last few chapters of TDS that have been bugging me. Lilla, I hope, will be chugging along too.
There will be more short stories coming, hopefully this week, as well! I really enjoyed working on the April ones. It was a great challenge, and now I'm up for it again!
Also, I'll enjoy being home. Home is nice, though my skin feels odd in the summer air and I miss the Hill. Home is good.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Daily Short Story, Monday Edition: Part II
Bringing back a story from April that I really like.
Riding Red, Part II
The woods aren't as dark as the dovecote. There are doves here, though. They titter to one another, wheeling above the glade where Rosie lays, her hair scattered over the moss.
Rising, she makes her way to the creek, feeling her way along the foreign objects of the ground with bare feet. Sun sparkles on the rocks. Two fat trout laze in the shallows.
Her aunts were wrong. The woods aren't a silent place.
Rosie settles on a boulder, letting the warm water trickle over her feet. Her lips still remember the goodbye kiss he gave her this morning.
"You must be hungry," she teased.
He laughed, squeezing her. "The better to eat you up."
"Eat you up," call the doves, wheeling above her.
Riding Red, Part II
The woods aren't as dark as the dovecote. There are doves here, though. They titter to one another, wheeling above the glade where Rosie lays, her hair scattered over the moss.
Rising, she makes her way to the creek, feeling her way along the foreign objects of the ground with bare feet. Sun sparkles on the rocks. Two fat trout laze in the shallows.
Her aunts were wrong. The woods aren't a silent place.
Rosie settles on a boulder, letting the warm water trickle over her feet. Her lips still remember the goodbye kiss he gave her this morning.
"You must be hungry," she teased.
He laughed, squeezing her. "The better to eat you up."
"Eat you up," call the doves, wheeling above her.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Daily Short Story: Saturday Edition
Winter
After he left, Pia named him Winter.
The winter boy treasured her heart like a robin's nest. Somehow, without her permission, he found his way in, without knocking, without her even noticing that he stood outside. Her fingers grew chilly. She pressed closer to him, shivering, begging for kisses.
The winter boy was icily beautiful, made of coolness, and smoothness, and sweetness. But he didn't fill her.
Instead, she emptied.
His going was hard and quick: a splinter, a needle, a puff of freezing air.
She laid her barricade's first bricks. Her heart stopped noticing the chill.
After he left, Pia named him Winter.
The winter boy treasured her heart like a robin's nest. Somehow, without her permission, he found his way in, without knocking, without her even noticing that he stood outside. Her fingers grew chilly. She pressed closer to him, shivering, begging for kisses.
The winter boy was icily beautiful, made of coolness, and smoothness, and sweetness. But he didn't fill her.
Instead, she emptied.
His going was hard and quick: a splinter, a needle, a puff of freezing air.
She laid her barricade's first bricks. Her heart stopped noticing the chill.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Daily Short Story: Friday Edition
Autumn
Fall turned Pia vibrant like the trees lining the street. She thrived off of romance. When he forgot it, she invented some for the both of them.
Walks quickly turned grudging, though, and she worried at the ache in her chest. She felt bruised like a fallen leaf, sap running dry and dull down her shoulders.
Maybe, a whisper suggested, it wasn't really love.
Not-real-love, as it turned out, just wore her down. The two of them faded away. She lost her autumn color.
She ducked away in a secret place, wishing she hadn't glanced his way, asked him for a midnight walk, worn a blue dress and danced.
He didn't seem to mind.
Fall turned Pia vibrant like the trees lining the street. She thrived off of romance. When he forgot it, she invented some for the both of them.
Walks quickly turned grudging, though, and she worried at the ache in her chest. She felt bruised like a fallen leaf, sap running dry and dull down her shoulders.
Maybe, a whisper suggested, it wasn't really love.
Not-real-love, as it turned out, just wore her down. The two of them faded away. She lost her autumn color.
She ducked away in a secret place, wishing she hadn't glanced his way, asked him for a midnight walk, worn a blue dress and danced.
He didn't seem to mind.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
(A Little Late) Daily Short Story: Thursday Edition
The Weather Up There
Jonah Simmons is too tall.
"Getting to be such a big boy," his mother crooned nervously to him in his infancy, hitching the diaper up around his chubby legs.
"He's tall for his age," said irritating acquaintances, eyeing Jonah as he hulked miserably beside his mother, caught in the act of shopping for extra-long jeans.
"He takes after his father's side," Mrs. Simmons whispers in the cool cucumber-sandwich air of the tea room.
The girl across the street has hair the color of milky tea. It hangs down her back like a rippling curtain, a place to hide as she peeps shyly out at Jonah. They talk over the white fence that boxes in the Simmons' yard, their fingers searching between the spaces where the paint has grown gritty with dust.
The girl's name is Mia. Her smiles flashes through the curtain of hair. He can see the curl of her eyelashes, the freckles on her nose, a smudge of makeup on her cheek.
"How tall are you?" Jonah whispers through the fence.
Mia's eyes smile a secret as she whispers the number back.
Just his height.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Daily Short Story: Wednesday Edition
Spring
"He likes you," the whisper told Pia. Her heart nudged forward, opening like a blossom in spring.
The bud strained to open. Her rib cage was outlined in vines. They snaked down her arms, tendriling around her fingers and bursting into bloom when he first kissed her.
Dizzy, she spun in breathless circles, unconscious of the blossoms in her hair. The petals sloughed off like skin.
Soon, though, Pia grew up. When he left three months later, she didn't feel terribly sorry. The flowers were already closing, storing away like sleepy eyes.
The bud strained to open. Her rib cage was outlined in vines. They snaked down her arms, tendriling around her fingers and bursting into bloom when he first kissed her.
Dizzy, she spun in breathless circles, unconscious of the blossoms in her hair. The petals sloughed off like skin.
Soon, though, Pia grew up. When he left three months later, she didn't feel terribly sorry. The flowers were already closing, storing away like sleepy eyes.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Daily Short Story: Tuesday Edition
July 16, 2:19 PM
Sharon Hicks was dismayed to recall, very suddenly one tepid afternoon in mid-July, that she was forty-three years old. The moment hit her suddenly, at exactly 2:19 PM, just as she was bending over to water her azaleas.
She had no family to speak of, save two garden koi and an elderly cat named Mark. Strangely, the thought didn't depress her the way it should have. Her birthday had just passed last Tuesday, and last Tuesday was recent enough for her to still feel significantly forty-two-ish. Her hair might be turning gray, but overall Sharon felt she had aged rather gracefully, and if she had gained a pound or two--well, the occasional midnight caramel was worth it.
She had dated a couple men over the years, and nice ones, too. Jerry, came the nostalgic whisper. Jerry had been nice--warm, romantic, a great dancer. She'd forgotten the others' names now, but she knew she had enjoyed herself.
She'd always wanted children. She loved Mark, though, a scruffy tortoiseshell with frizzled whiskers and cloudy yellow eyes. Sometimes, as she lay in bed in a delicious sunny-morning doze, she'd feel him land lightly at the foot of the bed, then the whump of air as he padded along her comforter and nosed his way under the crook of her elbow. She'd crack open an eye, see his familiar squashed-ear, crimped-whisker ugliness, then sigh and snuggle up until noon.
But it would be strange, if anything was different. Well....Sharon paused. She was sure that having a man in the house would be nice. He'd come home in the evening for dinner. Afterward, they'd curl up on the couch and talk, and if she snorted a little when she laughed, he'd press a reassurance into her palm that said he thought it was sweet. She could imagine Jerry doing that. Jerry, she recalled, had had a rather idiosyncratic laugh, himself.
Sharon stood stock-still on the edge of her driveway, watering can in hand. When Mark's wet nose touched her ankle, she jumped a little.
Strange, she thought as she patted his grizzled head. I don't know why I thought about all that.
She lowered her watering can to the ground and began to pick through her flower bed for stray leaves. She liked to keep her flowers clean; the new blooms were all the tenderest of colors.
After a while, her thoughts spiraled away like water from the sprinkler in favor of the steady, familiar work. Beside her, Mark rolled in the soil, tail flopping from side to side. When a couple of the neighborhood kids rode by on their bikes, calling high greetings across the road, Sharon lifted her trowel and waved.
Sharon Hicks was dismayed to recall, very suddenly one tepid afternoon in mid-July, that she was forty-three years old. The moment hit her suddenly, at exactly 2:19 PM, just as she was bending over to water her azaleas.
She had no family to speak of, save two garden koi and an elderly cat named Mark. Strangely, the thought didn't depress her the way it should have. Her birthday had just passed last Tuesday, and last Tuesday was recent enough for her to still feel significantly forty-two-ish. Her hair might be turning gray, but overall Sharon felt she had aged rather gracefully, and if she had gained a pound or two--well, the occasional midnight caramel was worth it.
She had dated a couple men over the years, and nice ones, too. Jerry, came the nostalgic whisper. Jerry had been nice--warm, romantic, a great dancer. She'd forgotten the others' names now, but she knew she had enjoyed herself.
She'd always wanted children. She loved Mark, though, a scruffy tortoiseshell with frizzled whiskers and cloudy yellow eyes. Sometimes, as she lay in bed in a delicious sunny-morning doze, she'd feel him land lightly at the foot of the bed, then the whump of air as he padded along her comforter and nosed his way under the crook of her elbow. She'd crack open an eye, see his familiar squashed-ear, crimped-whisker ugliness, then sigh and snuggle up until noon.
But it would be strange, if anything was different. Well....Sharon paused. She was sure that having a man in the house would be nice. He'd come home in the evening for dinner. Afterward, they'd curl up on the couch and talk, and if she snorted a little when she laughed, he'd press a reassurance into her palm that said he thought it was sweet. She could imagine Jerry doing that. Jerry, she recalled, had had a rather idiosyncratic laugh, himself.
Sharon stood stock-still on the edge of her driveway, watering can in hand. When Mark's wet nose touched her ankle, she jumped a little.
Strange, she thought as she patted his grizzled head. I don't know why I thought about all that.
She lowered her watering can to the ground and began to pick through her flower bed for stray leaves. She liked to keep her flowers clean; the new blooms were all the tenderest of colors.
After a while, her thoughts spiraled away like water from the sprinkler in favor of the steady, familiar work. Beside her, Mark rolled in the soil, tail flopping from side to side. When a couple of the neighborhood kids rode by on their bikes, calling high greetings across the road, Sharon lifted her trowel and waved.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Daily Short Story: Monday Edition
Riding Red
"Don't go into the woods," whisper the flutter of wings in the dovecote rafters. The words fall dry and cool to the floor, mingling with feathers and stale straw.
The doves are mimicking Rosie's aunts. On this side of the mountains, Rosie has heard, they're mimicking-birds, and they always mock the voice they hear the most. On Jonagold Farm, that is certainly the voices of her three aunts.
"Dangerous. Dark trees, no straight paths."
"Terrible wild animals."
"Poor Amos," whispers Aunt Miranda through tightly pursed lips. "Leaving his child fatherless."
"My father died in the woods," Rosie tells the boy. It's dark in the dovecote. All she can see is his nose, outlined in moonlight, and his eyes gleaming silver. Everything else is shadow.
"It's not dangerous," he says.
Rosie holds her breath when his hand touches hers, his palm as rough as a stone.
"I'll show you the way."
"Don't go into the woods," whisper the flutter of wings in the dovecote rafters. The words fall dry and cool to the floor, mingling with feathers and stale straw.
The doves are mimicking Rosie's aunts. On this side of the mountains, Rosie has heard, they're mimicking-birds, and they always mock the voice they hear the most. On Jonagold Farm, that is certainly the voices of her three aunts.
"Dangerous. Dark trees, no straight paths."
"Terrible wild animals."
"Poor Amos," whispers Aunt Miranda through tightly pursed lips. "Leaving his child fatherless."
"My father died in the woods," Rosie tells the boy. It's dark in the dovecote. All she can see is his nose, outlined in moonlight, and his eyes gleaming silver. Everything else is shadow.
"It's not dangerous," he says.
Rosie holds her breath when his hand touches hers, his palm as rough as a stone.
"I'll show you the way."
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Just a little bit starry-eyed
Can I just pause for a moment and talk about what a lovely weekend this has been?
Last weekend had some pretty horrendous aspects to it, discounting the Easter Vigil and its beauty. I had another paper due, and it was consuming my life. There's something kind of awful about being so busy that eating, sleeping, and bathing are no longer priorities. But, yes, that's the way college life sometimes goes.
But this weekend. Oh my.
My blog has gotten more and more personal lately, but I'm going to allow it to swing that way for a moment.
On Friday, I headed to Pittsburgh with some friends for an Owl City concert. There is something surreal about seeing someone who inspires you so much only fifteen feet away.
But get this--Saturday night was even better.
It's totally unprofessional to talk about this online, right? The internet is forever, after all, and I'm supposed to be blogging about writerish things. So I'll make it a story.
Once upon a time, a really nice boy asked a semilonely girl out. Since they were college freshmen and not permitted to have cars, he borrowed his roommate's. She borrowed a floral dress from a friend (isn't it helpful to live with so many other girls?) and skipped other commitments to get ready, long before she actually had to. By the time 6:00 rolled around, she was pacing back and forth and nervously chipping away her nail polish.
She uses the word 'lovely' a lot when she writes, but it's so suitable. Especially for this evening.
Last weekend had some pretty horrendous aspects to it, discounting the Easter Vigil and its beauty. I had another paper due, and it was consuming my life. There's something kind of awful about being so busy that eating, sleeping, and bathing are no longer priorities. But, yes, that's the way college life sometimes goes.
But this weekend. Oh my.
My blog has gotten more and more personal lately, but I'm going to allow it to swing that way for a moment.
On Friday, I headed to Pittsburgh with some friends for an Owl City concert. There is something surreal about seeing someone who inspires you so much only fifteen feet away.
But get this--Saturday night was even better.
It's totally unprofessional to talk about this online, right? The internet is forever, after all, and I'm supposed to be blogging about writerish things. So I'll make it a story.
Once upon a time, a really nice boy asked a semilonely girl out. Since they were college freshmen and not permitted to have cars, he borrowed his roommate's. She borrowed a floral dress from a friend (isn't it helpful to live with so many other girls?) and skipped other commitments to get ready, long before she actually had to. By the time 6:00 rolled around, she was pacing back and forth and nervously chipping away her nail polish.
She uses the word 'lovely' a lot when she writes, but it's so suitable. Especially for this evening.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
While I Should be Sleeping....
Today, I was drifting around my room trying to clean, and I started thinking about The Default Sweater. Draft two is coming along, slowly--I have my roommate yelling at me to finish, but right now I'm working through it backwards.
Yeah. Backwards.
I guess TDS sort of falls into a romance category. If it were a movie, it would probably be a rom-com, but I feel odd about that. I think if I approached the story with a romantic comedy attitude, I would come away feeling awkward and embarrassed and stumbling over my own feet. Though I've dated a couple guys, romance has always been a bit of a mystery to me, so the story would be silly, straight from my imagination. The thought of imaging Erin as some desperate woman on a manhunt makes me cringe.
In a way, this goes back to several posts ago, where I talked about female characters. I don't think I set out, exactly, to write a typical romance story. At the time I started TDS, I was a junior in high school. I didn't have a boyfriend. I was significantly younger than the protagonist. The only thing I really had to power the story was a familiarity with the vulnerable feeling of wanting to be loved, and wanting to learn about boys and romance and, yes, Erin's hangup, kissing. However, her preoccupation with getting her first kiss is not just to pass a milestone, and that's why she ultimately doesn't want it from just anybody.
(On a side note, I could write a whole blog post on the invention of the kiss. Kisses are so unappreciated and underestimated. What were they thinking when they tried it out for the first time? And what do you do with something that makes no sense and yet means so much?
This is why the conflict in TDS is perfect for me.)
That, therefore, is my Erin. I don't think it's a "rom-com" as much as a heart story, maybe even a bit of a fairy tale. Erin has a preoccupation with those, too! I love the idea of a contemporary, real-world story that can be written as a fairy tale, taking a measure of that sugary sweetness into a place that's so often unromantic. I love the idea that everything can mean something. There's a reason fairy tales endure, after all. We still understand them in the knock of our nitty-gritty reality, and there's that one grain of truth, and we read it, and think ahhh, there it is.
So maybe it's something in between--not a fairy tale, perhaps, but distinctly fairylike.
Yeah. Backwards.
I guess TDS sort of falls into a romance category. If it were a movie, it would probably be a rom-com, but I feel odd about that. I think if I approached the story with a romantic comedy attitude, I would come away feeling awkward and embarrassed and stumbling over my own feet. Though I've dated a couple guys, romance has always been a bit of a mystery to me, so the story would be silly, straight from my imagination. The thought of imaging Erin as some desperate woman on a manhunt makes me cringe.
In a way, this goes back to several posts ago, where I talked about female characters. I don't think I set out, exactly, to write a typical romance story. At the time I started TDS, I was a junior in high school. I didn't have a boyfriend. I was significantly younger than the protagonist. The only thing I really had to power the story was a familiarity with the vulnerable feeling of wanting to be loved, and wanting to learn about boys and romance and, yes, Erin's hangup, kissing. However, her preoccupation with getting her first kiss is not just to pass a milestone, and that's why she ultimately doesn't want it from just anybody.
(On a side note, I could write a whole blog post on the invention of the kiss. Kisses are so unappreciated and underestimated. What were they thinking when they tried it out for the first time? And what do you do with something that makes no sense and yet means so much?
This is why the conflict in TDS is perfect for me.)
That, therefore, is my Erin. I don't think it's a "rom-com" as much as a heart story, maybe even a bit of a fairy tale. Erin has a preoccupation with those, too! I love the idea of a contemporary, real-world story that can be written as a fairy tale, taking a measure of that sugary sweetness into a place that's so often unromantic. I love the idea that everything can mean something. There's a reason fairy tales endure, after all. We still understand them in the knock of our nitty-gritty reality, and there's that one grain of truth, and we read it, and think ahhh, there it is.
So maybe it's something in between--not a fairy tale, perhaps, but distinctly fairylike.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Happy Easter!
Happy Easter! I am on cloud nine today, for a lot of reasons, and life is a big Easter bunch of wonderfulness.
I was struck by the difference between my own feelings and the rest of the world's when I got onto Figment today and saw their Easter wishes--for Easter bunnies and candy and pastels and pretty things. It didn't offend me, because it's a writing website, not a Church organization, and besides, a lot of people celebrate Easter, but it definitely struck me.
It's amazing, this high holy holiday of ours. All through Lent I've kind of been lost in a muddle, with lots of anxiety about the future and the present, so that life felt Lenten even when I wasn't focusing on penance. It's been a long winter. The sun never came out. Homework grew mountainous, fasting made me grumpy, prayer felt forced, and Easter would never come.
Last night during the Easter vigil (when Easter did come, after all!), I was so struck, so moved, by an abundance of feeling that I can't describe. I was feeling something for the first time in weeks, and it was beautiful and painful, and in the candlelight and the knowledge that when I feel dead and bored with life, there will be a resurrection, I was able to truly say, "Alleluia, Alleluia!"
I'm going to still a quote from a friend of mine, because I don't think he'll mind, and because, you know, it's kinda unbearably beautiful:
The Easter Vigil is one of those miraculous glorious magnificent occurrences that makes water seem more wet, that makes walls seem more solid, and makes romance take on an even more brilliant shade of romantic. That is, life seems more real, more filled, more glorious, for Jesus Christ has risen.
I was struck by the difference between my own feelings and the rest of the world's when I got onto Figment today and saw their Easter wishes--for Easter bunnies and candy and pastels and pretty things. It didn't offend me, because it's a writing website, not a Church organization, and besides, a lot of people celebrate Easter, but it definitely struck me.
It's amazing, this high holy holiday of ours. All through Lent I've kind of been lost in a muddle, with lots of anxiety about the future and the present, so that life felt Lenten even when I wasn't focusing on penance. It's been a long winter. The sun never came out. Homework grew mountainous, fasting made me grumpy, prayer felt forced, and Easter would never come.
Last night during the Easter vigil (when Easter did come, after all!), I was so struck, so moved, by an abundance of feeling that I can't describe. I was feeling something for the first time in weeks, and it was beautiful and painful, and in the candlelight and the knowledge that when I feel dead and bored with life, there will be a resurrection, I was able to truly say, "Alleluia, Alleluia!"
I'm going to still a quote from a friend of mine, because I don't think he'll mind, and because, you know, it's kinda unbearably beautiful:
The Easter Vigil is one of those miraculous glorious magnificent occurrences that makes water seem more wet, that makes walls seem more solid, and makes romance take on an even more brilliant shade of romantic. That is, life seems more real, more filled, more glorious, for Jesus Christ has risen.
Today, life is very, very beautiful. Everything good has arrived--color and sunshine, good food and smiles. Life is back, and it reminds me that my God is a God of life.
A very happy Easter to all of you. :)
Monday, March 25, 2013
Girls with Gumption
As I've been rewriting TDS, I've been taking stock of my female characters. I'm pleased that, to a large degree, they're different people and don't fall into any sort of stereotype. Because girls are not stereotypical.
Erin, I think, is certainly not a typical heroine. While posting my first draft on Figment, I was pretty pleasantly surprised by readers' reactions to her. Honestly, I wondered if I should expect complaints along the lines of "she's not strong enough" or "she's too vulnerable". But overall, people seemed to like dipping into the mind of an atypical heroine, who, I believe, is a pretty normal girl.
This led me to a question--where are the feminine heroines?
The standard YA heroine now (though I'm not sure I can classify TDS as YA, as it deals with a much older protagonist) is independent, aggressive, and confident. She needs no one. She's a Katniss, an Arya, an Alianne. She knows what she wants and is fearless about getting it.
And that is great. We need girls like that, because books should be about real characters. We need to show girls who can be leaders, who are tough and gutsy. However, not all girls are that. We can't embrace only this kind of heroine and say to girls, "This is what you must be to be a woman".
Why can't girls be real and brave and feminine all at the same time? Do we equate being womanly with being weak? A writer friend made the comment to me some months ago: "[A heroine] can wear a dress, but she can't enjoy it". She can lead a kingdom, but she can't yearn for a king at her side.
I know all sorts of girls--loud girls and quiet girls, girls who wear sweatpants and girls who prefer summer dresses but feel at home at a table of ten boys.
Shouldn't our heroines be like that?
They should be real girls--funny and girly and confused and vulnerable and hopeful and brave.
Erin, I think, is certainly not a typical heroine. While posting my first draft on Figment, I was pretty pleasantly surprised by readers' reactions to her. Honestly, I wondered if I should expect complaints along the lines of "she's not strong enough" or "she's too vulnerable". But overall, people seemed to like dipping into the mind of an atypical heroine, who, I believe, is a pretty normal girl.
This led me to a question--where are the feminine heroines?
The standard YA heroine now (though I'm not sure I can classify TDS as YA, as it deals with a much older protagonist) is independent, aggressive, and confident. She needs no one. She's a Katniss, an Arya, an Alianne. She knows what she wants and is fearless about getting it.
And that is great. We need girls like that, because books should be about real characters. We need to show girls who can be leaders, who are tough and gutsy. However, not all girls are that. We can't embrace only this kind of heroine and say to girls, "This is what you must be to be a woman".
Why can't girls be real and brave and feminine all at the same time? Do we equate being womanly with being weak? A writer friend made the comment to me some months ago: "[A heroine] can wear a dress, but she can't enjoy it". She can lead a kingdom, but she can't yearn for a king at her side.
I know all sorts of girls--loud girls and quiet girls, girls who wear sweatpants and girls who prefer summer dresses but feel at home at a table of ten boys.
Shouldn't our heroines be like that?
They should be real girls--funny and girly and confused and vulnerable and hopeful and brave.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Thoughts on the Dance Floor
On Sunday nights, the university sponsors swing dancing in the student union. The music blares, the doors are flung open, and couples hit the floor.
I will give it to the guys there--they do their best. They go out of their way to make sure that no girl is without a partner, that each one is comfortable and enjoying herself. It's witnessing things like that--the best and most attractive dancer in the room inviting a shy, bespectacled freshman girl out onto the dance floor--that make me think, I like nice men.
It's something I increasingly take for granted, chivalrous men. After all, I go to a small, conservative, Christian university where old-school values are still going strong. There are all sorts of people here, of course, but for the most part, the men are beautiful.
There's something really cool about men, well, being men.
So I think--shouldn't I take it for granted?
Shouldn't this be our standard, this manly, courteous, gentle, thoughtful kind of man?
So, swing dancing.
I headed over to the student union late last night, never expecting to get roped into dancing. When I got there, I found a friend of mine--we'll call him John--standing on the sidelines and watching the action. On seeing me, his face brightened and he bounded over, holding out his hand.
I said, "Huh?"
Then his intention grew clear: I was to go out onto the floor with him, amid the couple twirling in graceful circles like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, and dance.
Don't get me wrong. I like to dance. I would even say that I'm a decent dancer. Growing up, I took a lot of dance lessons, mostly ballroom stuff, but it's all been filed away in my memory now. I do not like looking silly, and as I didn't know what I was doing, I pretty soon found myself being forcibly bereft of my wallet and coat and carried onto the dance floor. I probably fought a little, but I'm five foot two, and no match for two guys.
John said, "Take some risks. It's an adventure."
So I shut up. And just a side note--to John, who will never read this blog post--you are a fantastic leader. You relaxed me, you helped me follow and made me laugh. It was lovely.
I was enjoying it in spite of myself, if I ignored the couples around us who were, quite literally, flying through the air. When the dance was over, John kissed my hand (!!) and left me. A moment later he was spinning fearlessly with another partner.
Someone else asked me to dance. It was different, dancing with a total stranger (OK, not a stranger. We actually met last semester during a Pittsburgh ministry, but he didn't remember, so I didn't remind him). There was a lot more talking than twirling. When the song was over, he said, "May I have another dance? I'm really enjoying talking to you."
Whoa.
And even though I fumbled, he kept me laughing. When I left at 11:30, I still couldn't banish my smile. The exercise had done me good, and I felt flushed walking out into the chilly evening.
I know people say chivalry is dead. A lot of them even say good riddance. I get it. I do. At the same time, I think we've lost so much by doing away with that courtesy, that measure of respect for one another. There I was, standing uncomfortably on the sidelines with my clumsy shoes and my shambled heart, and the attention of these two boys--one a friend, the other a (semi-)stranger--made me feel feminine and pretty. And I even had fun.
This is why we treasure the princes of fairy tales and fall in love with story heroes. To those boys who dare to be chivalrous, thank you. You don't know how much we girls ache for real men.
I will give it to the guys there--they do their best. They go out of their way to make sure that no girl is without a partner, that each one is comfortable and enjoying herself. It's witnessing things like that--the best and most attractive dancer in the room inviting a shy, bespectacled freshman girl out onto the dance floor--that make me think, I like nice men.
It's something I increasingly take for granted, chivalrous men. After all, I go to a small, conservative, Christian university where old-school values are still going strong. There are all sorts of people here, of course, but for the most part, the men are beautiful.
There's something really cool about men, well, being men.
So I think--shouldn't I take it for granted?
Shouldn't this be our standard, this manly, courteous, gentle, thoughtful kind of man?
So, swing dancing.
I headed over to the student union late last night, never expecting to get roped into dancing. When I got there, I found a friend of mine--we'll call him John--standing on the sidelines and watching the action. On seeing me, his face brightened and he bounded over, holding out his hand.
I said, "Huh?"
Then his intention grew clear: I was to go out onto the floor with him, amid the couple twirling in graceful circles like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, and dance.
Don't get me wrong. I like to dance. I would even say that I'm a decent dancer. Growing up, I took a lot of dance lessons, mostly ballroom stuff, but it's all been filed away in my memory now. I do not like looking silly, and as I didn't know what I was doing, I pretty soon found myself being forcibly bereft of my wallet and coat and carried onto the dance floor. I probably fought a little, but I'm five foot two, and no match for two guys.
John said, "Take some risks. It's an adventure."
So I shut up. And just a side note--to John, who will never read this blog post--you are a fantastic leader. You relaxed me, you helped me follow and made me laugh. It was lovely.
I was enjoying it in spite of myself, if I ignored the couples around us who were, quite literally, flying through the air. When the dance was over, John kissed my hand (!!) and left me. A moment later he was spinning fearlessly with another partner.
Someone else asked me to dance. It was different, dancing with a total stranger (OK, not a stranger. We actually met last semester during a Pittsburgh ministry, but he didn't remember, so I didn't remind him). There was a lot more talking than twirling. When the song was over, he said, "May I have another dance? I'm really enjoying talking to you."
Whoa.
And even though I fumbled, he kept me laughing. When I left at 11:30, I still couldn't banish my smile. The exercise had done me good, and I felt flushed walking out into the chilly evening.
I know people say chivalry is dead. A lot of them even say good riddance. I get it. I do. At the same time, I think we've lost so much by doing away with that courtesy, that measure of respect for one another. There I was, standing uncomfortably on the sidelines with my clumsy shoes and my shambled heart, and the attention of these two boys--one a friend, the other a (semi-)stranger--made me feel feminine and pretty. And I even had fun.
This is why we treasure the princes of fairy tales and fall in love with story heroes. To those boys who dare to be chivalrous, thank you. You don't know how much we girls ache for real men.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
The Creature that Wanders the Halls
You know the look that people in the student union coffee shop give you?
That someone-left a paper-late look, that I-know-this-is-your-third-cup-of-coffee-today look?
I got that this week. I shrank beneath it, murmured a thanks so soft and ashamed it could have been mistaken for a cough, and escaped.
If I learned a difficult lesson from that night, it was to never venture back into the land of caffeine. Then my brain catches up, and I think, Maybe you should rethink that double major.
Goodbye for now, coffee cup. I know we will meet again.
Up until now, I've never been able to track down anything that really gives me a jolt. It's possible I reached some level of homeostasis from too many years of black tea. Then, last weekend, my friend Joe asked me to run to the cafe and get him a coffee.
Perchance I should have learned my lesson there. I should have told him to get his own dang cup of coffee.
(Just kidding. If I remember correctly, I offered to treat.)
Then he uttered the fateful words, "Tell them to add a shot of espresso."
The words stayed in my mind, and Wednesday night, when I walked over to get something before starting my paper, I thought I'd try it.
At 2:30 AM, when I decided to take a break from writing my conclusion, I wandered the halls of the dorm, pondering the sleeping breaths of my 300 fellow residents. Across the piazza, the windows of Louis Hall were dark. That was eerie.
But in the wee hours, nothing. No sound. No rustle. No boys bursting into one another's rooms to yell and wrestle. No shouts from the lobby. No girls calling to one another for hairpins, homework help, clothes, advice. None of the myriad of other sounds that constantly echo down the halls at college.
I was a ghost, just the slip of a spirit, made corporeal by coffee.
Because I could, I did a couple of pirouettes down the eerie halls. Maybe, I thought, I should do some jumping jacks. I had a teacher in high school who hauled us up for jumping jacks whenever he sensed the class was mentally less than present. Just the thought of moving that much after only dregs of sleep and too much coffee made my stomach roil.
I wandered on, caught, like Hamlet's father, in my caffeine purgatory.
At long last, I snatched four and a half desperate hours of sleep and thought, never again.
But I can hear it, that sniggering voice, the jolt of caffeine in my veins.
"Don't wait up," it says. "I'll be back soon."
That someone-left a paper-late look, that I-know-this-is-your-third-cup-of-coffee-today look?
I got that this week. I shrank beneath it, murmured a thanks so soft and ashamed it could have been mistaken for a cough, and escaped.
If I learned a difficult lesson from that night, it was to never venture back into the land of caffeine. Then my brain catches up, and I think, Maybe you should rethink that double major.
Goodbye for now, coffee cup. I know we will meet again.
Up until now, I've never been able to track down anything that really gives me a jolt. It's possible I reached some level of homeostasis from too many years of black tea. Then, last weekend, my friend Joe asked me to run to the cafe and get him a coffee.
Perchance I should have learned my lesson there. I should have told him to get his own dang cup of coffee.
(Just kidding. If I remember correctly, I offered to treat.)
Then he uttered the fateful words, "Tell them to add a shot of espresso."
The words stayed in my mind, and Wednesday night, when I walked over to get something before starting my paper, I thought I'd try it.
At 2:30 AM, when I decided to take a break from writing my conclusion, I wandered the halls of the dorm, pondering the sleeping breaths of my 300 fellow residents. Across the piazza, the windows of Louis Hall were dark. That was eerie.
But in the wee hours, nothing. No sound. No rustle. No boys bursting into one another's rooms to yell and wrestle. No shouts from the lobby. No girls calling to one another for hairpins, homework help, clothes, advice. None of the myriad of other sounds that constantly echo down the halls at college.
I was a ghost, just the slip of a spirit, made corporeal by coffee.
Because I could, I did a couple of pirouettes down the eerie halls. Maybe, I thought, I should do some jumping jacks. I had a teacher in high school who hauled us up for jumping jacks whenever he sensed the class was mentally less than present. Just the thought of moving that much after only dregs of sleep and too much coffee made my stomach roil.
I wandered on, caught, like Hamlet's father, in my caffeine purgatory.
At long last, I snatched four and a half desperate hours of sleep and thought, never again.
But I can hear it, that sniggering voice, the jolt of caffeine in my veins.
"Don't wait up," it says. "I'll be back soon."
Saturday, February 2, 2013
After January
This year, speeding up to This Month.
I remember the delicious free time of Last Year, when senioritis relaxed me, soothed me. I had gotten into college, after all. Work was pointless. I had much better write.
I did, and finished The Default Sweater in May. That was a gem of a day, what with triumphant story endings and new jobs and wonderful new beginnings and endings all rolled into one.
Then came summer, and I drifted away from my computer, moving across an ocean. That was all right, because after all, I had finished the story. It was time to let it sit and mellow before tackling it again come fall.
Fall did come, and it was exhilarating. It bowled me over with the power of a fist. Still, I didn't come back to write.
I would, I said, over Christmas break. But Christmas break was lonely and restless.
Now, January is gone.
It's a relief. I feel a little tired, a little pale and sick, exhausted from picking up pieces of paper and assignments and broken glass, and now I think, I'll write.
Soon.
I remember the delicious free time of Last Year, when senioritis relaxed me, soothed me. I had gotten into college, after all. Work was pointless. I had much better write.
I did, and finished The Default Sweater in May. That was a gem of a day, what with triumphant story endings and new jobs and wonderful new beginnings and endings all rolled into one.
Then came summer, and I drifted away from my computer, moving across an ocean. That was all right, because after all, I had finished the story. It was time to let it sit and mellow before tackling it again come fall.
Fall did come, and it was exhilarating. It bowled me over with the power of a fist. Still, I didn't come back to write.
I would, I said, over Christmas break. But Christmas break was lonely and restless.
Now, January is gone.
It's a relief. I feel a little tired, a little pale and sick, exhausted from picking up pieces of paper and assignments and broken glass, and now I think, I'll write.
Soon.
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