Mama's Fault

Melanie's blonde hair swung over her shoulders. Long sleeves on a warm summer day. She can leave anytime she wants. That's what they all say. She's a strong, independent woman. At least, she was before all this came her way. Two kids. Two boys. Two beautiful children from the man she hated. They're old enough to understand what's happening now. She pushed her hair all the way over her shoulders, hiding her purple bruises. She hated to admit it, but it wasn't just the swig of the bottle that set it off anymore. And to top it all of their weren't even any flowers anymore. He couldn't deny it. He knew what he was doing. Her hands had started trembling last week. She stared at her hands in disbelief, this couldn't be happening to her. Better yet, it couldn't have happened to her, again.

This is my fault.

We have to stay together don't we? How would it look if I left? He would lie, wouldn't he? Just like he's been all these years. He'll make it look like it was my fault. He'll take the kids.

This is my fault.

I'd have to send the boys away first, and then maybe I would get out, after them. I wouldn't tell him we were going. I would just leave.

She's said this before.

"Melanie?" He whispered, pushing back her hair. She snapped her focus back to the table in front of her.

"I'm just so excited you two are finally getting married." His mother said a smile across her face, ignorant to the monster she had helped to create.

The boys were staring down at their plates, waiting for their mama to finally stand up and say goodbye, not agree to marry that miserable man that they had to call their father.

This is my fault.

I should've protected her last night. She's my mother, and I didn't get up and tell him to stop even though we both could hear her screams pierce the night.

This is my fault

I'm older. I'm just about as tall as the man we're forced to look up to. He should pick on someone his own size.

I'm scared.

Don't let him touch them.

Let me save her.

I love you mama.

I love you too.

Someday, it'll happen. I won't be here by your side, and promise me, when that day happens you'll run and hide. Please don't try to be brave, just be safe. Just know your mama loves you. Ok?

I won't let that happen.

It's out of your control

"Melanie? Honey? You seem distracted. Are you nervous?" His mother asked.

Melanie stared at the boys, and turned to glance at the man sitting next to her. She held it for a moment, her courage deflating, a smile crept ,once again, upon his face as her gaze crept down to her plate. She finally looked up at his mother, not able to meet her eyes, but yet she still found the power to force a small smile on her face, slowly raising and lowering her head as she whispered, "Yes, I'm fine."

Her oldest son shoved at the table in disbelief. Melanie could hear his snarl. That ugly man stood up, full height, ready to pick yet another fight. His mother reached across the table for his hand, but he had already pulled away. He stormed from the table following his son, she could already hear the threats forming on his tongue. "Be strong, my baby." She whispered in fear. Mama, his mother, glanced up at her, ignoring strong, independent Melanie's whisper.

Only a mother's love can be so blind. I stared after my son, my beautiful son. I need to protect him. I felt like slapping the ignorance off of his mother's face. He's been doing this for years. I turned to her, she was staring at the magazine that blank stare I had seen all too many times on myself.

She knows.

I felt like slapping my hands on the table, screaming and swearing. How long has she known? Could she have saved me? Could she have saved them. I couldn't help glancing at my younger son, he was staring down at his hands, unwilling, incapable of looking up at us. He knew what we should hear next, but I don't think my boy will scream.

She was leaning on the table with her left hand she picked it up, ready to charge like any respectable Mama bear, but his mother grabbed her arm with the grip he had held her with too many times before. Melanie's hair fell over her shoulders as she stared into his mother's eyes for the first time all night, if not all year.

"You don't have to marry him." She whispered, "Don't make the same mistake I did." She let go of Melanie's arm, but Melanie held it out as if she was still holding it, keeping her close, saving her from him. Melanie tilted her head, a silent question that they both knew the answer to, "He got it from his father."

"I got what?" He came back a smile on his face, his gaze directly on Melanie, and her son nowhere in sight. She had hoped it would be the other way around.

You son of a bitch. You killed him didn't you?

Her eyes were full of suspicion, going up and down his body, looking for her son's blood on her fiancé's clothes.

"He went for a walk, Melanie." His voice flat. Her eyes darted to the window, her shoulders tense, the purple scars on her neck perfectly visible, he noticed too. He brushed her blonde hair back over her neck, her body stiffened more than even she thought was possible.

They sat down at the same time, a knock came on the door, and Melanie practically teleported to the door, and her heart dropped as she opened it, the police.

"Hi Ma'am, we received a complaint about noises coming from your residence."

"Umm..."

He was behind her, hand around her waist, "We're fine here, thank you."

"That wasn't what I said." The officer put his hand on his holster, "Are you okay Ma'am?" He asked. Melanie's face was pallid and blank, before she could open her mouth, another officer magically appeared from behind him, then sirens were roaring onto her lawn. He grabbed her by the waist, "You called the police, bitch?" That had really grabbed the officer's attention, his gun was aimed at his head, "I'll use her as a shield." He said, "I have no problems getting rid  of this piece of..." His voice, it stopped abruptly. It all happened so fast.

Glass shattering, his grip weakening, all in a matter of moments, and the worst part of it all was the feeling, something wet on the backside of my clothes, my hair, it was everywhere. He was everywhere. Suddenly, the officer had my arm. He was holding me up whispering something that resembled: "It's all okay, now."

"What the hell is happening?" I shouted across the room, into the empty air. His mother was being helped from under the table, my son was being escorted out, but I couldn't stop thinking that my son was gone. He should've come back by now, even if there was no blood on his clothes, and the next question was how had he changed his clothes so fast, unless he used a... no, he couldn't have used a... I would've heard it if he had used a... gun.

"Wait!" I shouted,  although the officer was right beside me. I was disoriented, and simply, I thought I was living in a dream, "Have you seen my son?" I practically screeched 

I could feel the confusion misting off of the officer, as he opened his mouth and pointed to the wrong son, and said, "He's right here. We saved him."

"No. Not him. The other one." Their faces were blank, "The noise!" I shouted, "What was it? Why did you all come out here? How didn't you know? You had a sniper and S.W.A.T and everything!" I stopped, turning around, searching my officer's face,  "He's dead, isn't he! No!No! He can't be!" I screamed with a force from my lungs I had no idea was possible until I saw them rolling out the lumpy black bag from the back, as if they tried to do it where I wouldn't notice. inconspicuous! But it wasn't. He's my son. I'll always find him. He just wanted to save me.
I love him.

My legs buckled from under me.

He deserved to die.

My stupid lover had planted that little voice in my head that whispered those wretched things, and I could do nothing but glance up at my youngest son. My only son, waiting for something anything for this to be a giant joke. Haha joke's on mama! But it wasn't. My son, my baby, he stared through me, past me.

There is no more family. We are nothing. He won.

This is my fault.

Raising Awareness

This is for one of my close friends who is now getting out of a bad situation. This tale is a little bit late for domestic violence awareness month, which is in October, but better late than never. Thanks fort taking the time to read this!

Here you go:

Baggage. I can handle it. You will always be my friend. Do you understand that? I am your friend unconditionally. I can’t call myself a friend and say stop because you’ve got a secret.

I have a few myself.

I will stand by you, and if you need a shoulder to cry on I’m here.

I’m sorry that I didn’t know.

I will never blame you for not telling me.

That smile of yours is enchanting, can you really cover it so easily?

Of course, so can I.

Do you remember the first time we met?

Of course you do. You’re the one who reminded me.

I said some things that I never meant it, but I never thought we’d be this close. You and your beautiful blue eyes that always escape me. You and your red hat. You and your blonde hair. You will always be beautiful to me.

I never knew.

But let me tell you a secret: I’ve seen it too, on the wall, with those fist. I’m so proud of you for being brave.

You are braver than I could ever be. I didn’t know it had gotten this bad.

I know you’re away now, and I know you’ve still got that smile, but I know what’s underneath it, and even if I’ve never seen it on you before; I’ve seen it on me.

I imagined someday I’d be telling this story, my story, to a lover who’d never understand, not a friend who had it worse than me.

I will always be there for you.

I am part of your team. Don’t give up while I’m here.

I don’t know if you’ve shed tears. I’ll imagine you have. I know I did. I know I think about it every day, and I know it’s going to follow me.

When I was little I used to sing a little song about them getting in another fight. That was commonplace in my home, and I’ve heard things that no child should ever hear. I know you share that with me, and if it’s bad on me, I know it’s worse on you, and I guess that’s why I felt the need to say this: I will be here forever. I will never hurt you as long as you promise to do the same.

I don’t want a wedding. I don’t want a marriage, and I think what I’ve seen is part of that. Maybe you think the same. I know you’ve seen the pain. There is nothing worse in the world than that pain.

It’s the kind of pain that makes you kind of wish that it happened to you. Maybe you could take it better. I can stand up for myself, she can’t. I did it, and I’ll imagine you did too. They’re so much bigger, but mine stopped when faced with me. Did yours?

Mine showed no remorse. Even now.

I never want that. Ever.

I know you don’t either.

Let me stay by your side. You can cry, and I won’t say a word. I don’t care who is trying to hurt you, let me support you. Even today, I know these are words I can probably never say to your face, but if by any chance you see this, and you know it’s me. Know I’ll always be by your side.

I will be your friend unconditionally, and forever. Thank you for being brave. Thank you for putting that smile upon your face. Thank you for being you.

Love,
Me

 

Poem #1: Greek Mythology Anyone?

So, I wrote a poem, but I must say that this story is not mine. The actual story is "copyrighted" by ancient Greeks. Anyhow, my poem is based on the story of Clytmenstra who killed her husband with no remorse. While I know she did have some reasonable reasons for killing her husband, she still should've felt a little twinge of emotion for the man she once loved. So, this is my take on the story:

Clytmenstra
Wicked Queen,
Wicked Queen you are.
Soaked in Scarlett,
Bathed in Crimson,
A smile upon your face.
He did me wrong you claim.
A life for a life you say.

You closed those castle doors of yours,
Mind set to do the deed.
We never thought,
We never thought,
You'd come into the open air.

Soaked in Scarlett,
Bathed in Crimson,
With a smile upon your face.
Your head held high,
Lover in hand,
As the last lay forever silent and hidden away.

Your son must now do the wretched deed,
Freshly ripped away from your bosom.
He must now give heed,
Spearing the breasts his head once rest upon with his own weapon.
Blood thirst!
Oh blood thirst!
The cause of all terror.
Wicked Queen,
Yes, a Wicked Queen you were.

'Shipping Characters

I think you know what I'm talking about when I say "Shipping Characters", but if you don't, 'shipping characters is when you put two characters that have that "spark" together be it in your mind or fan-fic. Anyhow, I wanted to know what you guys think when those two characters you love finally get together. For me, I sometimes feel like it ruins what they had going. It's almost as if I liked them better without the relationship. Ok, I'll just come out and say it, some of the characters we 'ship really can't be together for the sake of the story. Now, that sounds a little weird when you're thinking, "B-but, I really love them, and they would be so cute together!"

And I say to you, "NO!"

You need to love them as friends because once everything gets are "romanciful" there is no turning back. Ever. Their relationship will never be the same and it will always have the awkward tension it unless there is a magical device that wipes both of their memories of each other and they have to find each other again not just as lovers but as friends. Then, you might have a good story, if done well, but my heart has been broken by too many 'ships to even trust that method.

So, that's my rant... again. I promise I will get back to writing stories soon, but unfortunately, I have school work I also need to do, so I'll keep you updated on Life Tales, and this winter vacation, I'll start Writing Tales again. Anyways,  you guys should tell me what you think about 'shipping characters below! (It may be very far down...)

 Also, if you guys haven't checked out IISuperwomanII on Youtube, I love her, so you guys should check her out because she's only one of the most awesomely hilarious people you'll ever see.

Thanks for reading!

Help! My Story is More Revolved Around Setting than Character

The title still looks weird.

Anyhow, so I've been looking at other writers work, and I'm noticing a pattern that a lot of writers seem to hate: they can't seem to control their writing. I did address this (kind of) a few post back (I even linked you guys to Go Teen Writers!) Anyhow, my big thing is that you really shouldn't try to control your writing too much. You can do that in revisions, but when you start your first draft, you should never tell your characters no. Why? Your characters have a way of knowing what to do better than you do, and when you deny them, you typically end up with a mess.

I started to do that with G.R.A.Y. This summer as I was writing it, I decided that I didn't like the direction it was going, and without giving too much away, let me say, I think that me trying to reign G.R.A.Y into what I imagined really assisted me in NOT completing it. I'm not saying that it's going to remain incomplete forever, but I am saying that choking your characters help nothing. (In fact, I had to rewrite the entire thing from the prologue at one point.)

Books tend to move in their own special ways, and I'm not saying you have absolutely no control over your book. You are the author. Remember that, but don't think your characters don't have a say in it too. The balance as a writer is really figuring out where to control your writing and how to continue your writing. In reality, to non-writers that sounds insane, but I'm not talking to non-writers. I'm talking to you. For me, the first step to my writing is figuring out an idea, then a character and going from there. I've learned the hard way that for me, if I try to plot it out more than that it doesn't really work. Another thing, although I don't plot out exactly what I want to do for my book does NOT mean that I don't have goals that my characters have to achieve. For example, my first book, Truth in Lies (That book is by baby. I will not show it to you guys until it is beautifully published and amazing. If it gets that far), my protagonist Jessica was originally supposed to go to this "evil" school for the majority of the book, and I was going to tell her life story for only a little part in the beginning of the book. Well, guess what happened? My idea kind of changed a little bit, and most of the book is about what happened BEFORE she got sent to the "evil" school. I still reached my goal in getting her to the evil school, but I allowed the book to "write itself" for a little while, per say, and that was only through me being flexible about my goals.

So, basically the point I'm trying to get across is: don't be mad at your book because it doesn't do exactly what you want or be exactly as you planned, just go with the flow, and let your book lead you by being flexible.

That is the longest moral I've ever heard of and it really sounds like I'm more of a hippie writer than anything, but that's my rant.
Thanks for reading!

Are you Pregnant?

I feel like only a writer would be asked this question, I mean, unless you actually are pregnant, but trust me, I'm not.

Ok, maybe I should explain. It all started two months ago [insert dramatic music here]. My friend, Katie, and I were walking down the hallway talking, well, panicking about our characters (NANO!). As we were walking into the gym to meet our other non-writer friend, Rachel*, I was stuck on the idea that I would have a character named Tame. Katie, on the other hand, was arguing that I choose a different name. She hated my character's name! But, it was for good reason, her exact words were, "Tame means calm and domesticated. That is the exact opposite of everything you want in your protagonist!"

Anyhow, as we were walking to our non-writer friend, I stubbornly responded with, "But I still want to name her Tame."

Which I guess, taken out of context, does sound like I have a child. (Books are children.) I turned around, eyes wide with a face that apparently scarred Rachel for life, along with some prompt screaming, which made her begin to profusely apologize.

So, to diffuse to awkward situation, I screamed, "Tame!" across the gymnasium and walked away.

Sidenote: I'm actually (against Katie's advice) writing a story where my protagonist's name is Tame. I'll share it with you guys sooner or later.

*Names have been changed

Curly Hair is NOT all that it's Cracked up to be

First off, the title looks messed up because I was trying to decide whether to capitalize every letter, or to leave the smaller words capitalized, or only capitalize the first word. It's messed up. End of story.

Anyhow, I know most people think curly hair is amazing, and whenever I wear my hair out people are always like, "OMG! Your hair! It looks so amazing!" (I think that's an accurate example of what most people sound like, acronym use and all.) Let me clarify, if my hair is out a good couple of inches, it was because I was too lazy to tame it and/or it wasn't going to let me tame it. You see, curly hair is like a cat, sometimes it just wants to be left alone, and at other times, it's really friendly and does exactly what you want. When I have my hair in no tame mode, and I get all these comments about how beautiful it looks, I think my hair begins to get a little bit of an ego. What do I mean by that?  Have you ever tried to tame a curly mane that's been out all day? It's impossible without an arsenal of hair products! It's like WWIII. You might as well give up the rest of your night unless you want to do a bun, and even then you'll have to wrangle it into a giant scrunchie. Curly hair is basically a giant brat that has nothing better to do then screw with your day. Well, that's my rant. If you agree with me, or just plain liked it, you should check out Authoress' blog: Miss Snark's First Victim because she's pretty awesome.
Thanks for reading!

Liking vs. Passion

If you've read my other post, you'll notice I've mentioned: a) I have no idea what to do with my life b) I want writing to be a career.

I feel like that's the case for most writers, if not all writers. I think we all can agree that we want to become authors so our voices can be heard (or at least so that our writing can be read). One thing I'm noticing about me is that writing is the only thing I'm truly passionate about. I can tell because out of the ten zillion (slight over exaggeration) things I have to do tonight, (mainly because I've been procrastinating all day, mostly while messing with blogger's template) I choose to do this.

Ok, let's take for instance ASL. I like/love ASL. It is an amazingly beautiful language that I feel very blessed to be able to take a part in. I have met so many amazing people that I could've never become friends with without ASL, and I am relatively fluent in ASL (when I put my mind to it), and technically, right about now, I should be preparing for a giant ASL lecture thing (for lack of better term), but I'm not. I continue to choose writing and reading over doing what I like.

For my "day job" I'm planning on doing something in the medical field most likely forensics (unless I change my mind, again.), but as I was reading into becoming a pathology assistant, a nurse, a physician's assistant, etc. I'm noticing one pattern: I. Don't. Care. Yes, it looks cool. Maybe I'd do it if I had to, but what I really want to do is write, and that's why I'm writing this random rant here because I wanted to share with all of you what was going on in my mind: a conversation about how I have no passion for half of the things I think I want to do. Yep, so...
Thanks for reading!

My Rant About Books you Should Read

Warning: this isn't actually so as much about the books you should read as my opinions of modern day society and what they do to books.

I am very versatile in what I read. When I was a bit younger, I tended to be more inclined toward mystery, and I don't mean like Nancy Drew, (I actually for some reason always hated Nancy Drew, although I did like Encyclopedia Brown. ) I mean James Patterson. Actually, I believe he was my childhood. (Scary, huh?) That is kind of what drove me to get involved in writing darker stories, and I love it. (Side note: I've actually never read his Maximum Ride series, but I've read most of James Patterson's adult books. Fun fact: my favorite book of his is entitled: Now you see her, Now you don't.) Anyhow, as I have gone through my reading career, I've found many interesting books in various genres, so I thought I'd share some of those with you, and perhaps offer my reviews to them.

1. Divergent by Veronica Roth. You've probably already heard plenty about this book if you haven't read it, and if you haven't read it, you've also probably head that it's very similar to the hunger games. Let me clarify something, just because it is in the YA Dystopian Genre does not mean that it's like the hunger games, seriously people? Every single time I look at a somewhat recently published YA novel that happens to be Dystopian it says, and I quote, "on par with Suzanne Collin's The Hunger Games" and "A natural for Hunger Games fans." Ahem, critic. Yea, excuse me, does this book have anything to do with The Hunger Games? No? Why is Hunger Games written on the back of it? Oh, because it's the Dystopian book. One more question, did Suzanne Collins invent the genre of Dystopian novels? No? It was around before Suzanne Collins? NO! It can't be! Are you saying she's just the most recognized author for that Genre so you slap her name on the back of every single Dystopian novel? You are! Well, my faith in society just went through the earth.

Ok, getting back on topic... Divergent is not like The Hunger Games other than it shares the same Genre, like many other books. It revolves around Beatrice Prior who is one of 4 factions of society, Abnegation as she discovers that she is something called Divergent, and the book basically goes from there. (I stopped there in an attempt to not spoil too much for you.) Anyways, it is a great book that you should go and read right now!

2. Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux. Now, I know what you all are thinking (other than you Phans) wasn't that a play written by Andrew Llyod Webber? No. Yes. I mean, technically by what he did to the book it was a play written by him. (I actually love the musical, and yes I know I sound like I'm hating on him, but it's basically like that movie that takes out the characters from the book, adds a new plot, slaps the book's title on it and says it's the same. It's not regardless of whether or not they touch on some of the book's points.) Anyways, (I seem to go off track a lot, this is really more of a rant than a recommended book list.) the story revolves around Eric (The phantom), Christine, The Persian (Eric's friend) and other characters including Raoul de Changy (who is actually incredibly more wimpy than the play/movie makes him out to be.) So, check those out!

My General Statements About Life

Do I claim to know the answer to life? Umm, no. I do, however, have plenty of random accumulative advice that will in no means help you, but may put a smile on your face.

1. When writing a novel, never let your character take the reigns. They'll kill you.

This is kind of a reply to Go Teen Writer's post about how to not let your characters control you. If you haven't read it, check it out, here: http://goteenwriters.blogspot.com/2013/12/how-to-show-your-first-draft-who-is-boss.html

Now that you're finished with that, let me just say, it's far more dangerous than Ms. Morelli put it up to be. I'm not doubting her genius (Oh no, I could never do that!) but she doesn't really touch on the most important part of why you SHOULDN'T let your character's take the reigns.

What do I mean by that?

Well, you see, when you allow your character's to develop their own minds, you have to keep in mind that their mind is a stem from your mind, which is basically them taking over your mind, and when that happens, that's when we get all of those "crazy" artist/ writers. If you're not careful with this deadly artist disease (not just writers...), you could completely lose yourself, and you're characters will become you, and there will be none of the real you left. Meaning that you'll never see your family again because you created a character which took over your body and kicked you out. (Host reference? Anyone? No? Ok.)

This is especially detrimental when it comes to writers (and other artist) of dark/"murder-y"/serial killer/"horror-y" novels. I mean you CAN see why. When those characters take over your mind, or rather if you allow them to take over your mind, then you have writers going out there stabbing people. In the words of the great James Patterson, "Here's the idea for a book he's always wanted to write. It's about a novelist who is obsessed -- the kind of thing Stephen King does so well. In order to write a better book, a great book, he actually murders people to see what it's like." (Woman's Murder Club Book 1). I think it's proof enough that James Patterson thought of it (and wrote an excellent novel about an author who did. (Spoiler Alert!) If you haven't read it, go and read it now!)

That's what happens, accept it!

The Weatherman Lied to me... Again

To whom it may concern,

Weatherman, you lied to me again. I don't know how many times we have to go through this. You promise me one thing, and I get another. Are you incompetent at your job? Or do you just enjoy manipulating me? I believed you when you told me that it would snow, and this morning, when I looked out my window, I was expecting that snow! But what did I get? Nothing at all! Let me clarify, Weatherman, I know that you're not always going to be right, and it wouldn't be so bad had you not set me up with these truly outrageous false expectations, but for this week and last you promised me snow! I'm starting to think you don't know a thing about weather, and as far as I know, our entire relationship has been based off of lies too! You know what, Weatherman? We're through! See if I ever come back to listen to you!

Procrastination

In the past, I used to be one of those people that never procrastinated and got my work done twelve weeks early, but as I get older, I notice that this habit is growing upon me more and more. For instance, right now I'm supposed to be doing homework instead of blogging about procrastination. In fact, Mondays are always my busiest day, but now that I'm obsessed with blogging, who knows what I'm going to get done.

What made me start thinking about this is trying to do my homework. I'm supposed to be doing Freebody diagrams for Physics. Yet, when I draw the car that's 1000 kg and accelerating at a rate of 2 m/s^2, I spend hours drawing the car. First, the trunk is too big, then it's too small, and don't get me started about trying to figure out which car to drive, by the time I actually get the problem started, it's going to be eight o' clock.

In further news, I got invited to the school's Journalism club, and I'm really excited, only I have math when the club actually meets because the club is not so much a club as a class. Technically, I've finished all my math credits, so do I really need to stay in my math class? I know, I know tsk tsk on me, but I really want to go to this journalism club/class it seems like so much fun!

Anyways, I also just drunk a lot of coffee because it makes me hyper and I was really tired. So, yay! I hope I don't crash after this...

Act stupid. Apologize. Forgive. Repeat.

I was wrong. It was my mistake, again, and I hurt you. Why do I use my words as weapons? Take it all away. Take away everything I have, but please don't look at me with those sad disappointed eyes. I'm sorry. I should have never said that. I don't know if it makes you feel any better, but as these tears run my cheeks, I'm not just looking at the bad moments anymore. I'm sorry I couldn't just let go. I'm sorry I couldn't just be the friend you've been to me. I look strong when I've got my bullwhip out, but I'm not. I swear it; I'm not. I didn't mean to hurt you. I never mean to hurt anyone, but it just keeps happening, over and over again, and all I can say is: I'm sorry.  I know I can never take it back. I know it, but I just want you to forgive me, not just say it, mean it, in your heart.

I knew something was wrong this morning, from the very first, one glance and I knew something was different, and in the back of my mind, I knew, I knew, it had been me.

I've never seen you this way. Fifteen years and never like this, and it's all my fault. I'm sorry. Words, I use them carelessly letting them slip out my mouth. They are supposed to be an artist's tool, not a weapon. They were never intended for how I used them. I am awful. I don't deny that, especially when you've been there so many times when I cried, when I laughed, and just there.

Why? Why would I say those things?

Wetting the keyboard are my tears, and maybe you won't read this, but I just want to take everything back. Everything from yesterday. Too many times have I wished for a redo, and I would give anything to redo yesterday. To take back those stupid words. Glancing at the purple-blue winter sky next to those evergreen trees. I can't help but watch that spot in the road where they slipped out of my mouth. Please, please forgive me.

My keyboard is shaking now. I know normally, you'd take the computer I write on if I did something that stupid, but you can't. Can you?

My stupid words.

I can't make this request enough, will you please forgive me for all the stupid things that slipped out of my mouth that cold winter night. Please just forget. Please let us go back to normal like it never happened. Please just be my friend again.

I'm sorry.

G.R.A.Y. Part 4

I felt the need to put an introduction here because well, I didn't want to just  throw you back into the story, and I did give an introduction for the other three, so...

Here you go:

            “Do you hear that?” They travelled as a pact, sensing the movement together.

            “One of the ten are out?”        

            “That’s why they sent us up." 

            They communicated through facial expressions. They could not run the risk of the ten hearing more than needed. They had learned long ago that only one sound should be heard: their feet as they pounded the ground. They always started in a walk and kept pace with their prey's footsteps.

                                                             -        -        -       -

I made sure to convey nothing on my face. It was my first night serving with them, I would be feared as I always desired. I had trained for this, and I would continue to train to become as near as the elders as possible. The older ones in the pact always travelled near the front. I was in the back, no one really acknowledged our presence. We were there to observe. I had seen them act on the camera, but never in person before. I knew the others would be watching, envious of class 14’s presence among the rest of their footsteps.

I was proud. If we passed this week’s training, we could become official members, but only five would be chosen this year, less than the past. They are more efficient with less. If I did not join them, I would forever be only spare change, used only when they were in need of others to join. I proudly wore my gray coating over my skin and the black pieces of plastic I had placed into my eyes. I am one of them.

They had given us the coating and plastic to look like them. It was only temporary, but they, the true members, had the features installed into them. Their skin was naturally a much darker grey then the rest of us, and it was permanent. They would always be a Gray. Their eyes were almost complete black, piercing, awe-inspiring.

I had been trained to admire them, perhaps I was ignorant, but it didn’t matter because I was on the chase. I could be a hero.

G.R.A.Y Part 3

I'm actually trying to edit this a little bit as I post this because as I read I am finding certain parts that I don't like along with many an error, but I figured since I wasn't doing anything else, I should put up the next portion.

Chapter 1

I don’t know how bad it has gotten with the attacks. I can't really help, but I can tell you the truth. I can tell you my story.

-Love

Daddy

Daddy, daddy, why do you have to be so mean?
 
The road was cold, sprinkled with evergreen trees, and the cars were scarce. The evening sky was a winter purple, a perfect night for snow. Two hours ago, my biggest concern had been whether or not I would be able to sleep in tomorrow morning. Now, it's whether or not I’ll see their trademark red and blue shimmering behind us.
 
I can hear the banging in the trunk.
 
Daddy, I don’t want them to take you away.
 
I hold my breath like the person in the trunk, motionless, breathless. I wait until my vision gets blurry, then my mouth flies open, and I’m sucking in as much air as I can.
 
He's staring ahead. I know he won't dare look me in the eye. It doesn’t matter anyways, even if he tried, I wouldn’t be able to look into his. The windows are clean and clear, the way she always leaves them.
 
His eyes are an icy blue, the same as mine. I feel pressure on my chest.
 
He’s cold and distant because he has to be.
 
He told me to get into the car. I heard the screaming, I knew what had happened, this time it had gone too far. I pointed my own blue eyes at the wooden floor that I already knew I’d never see again. I can’t lie and say that I never knew that one day, this day would come.
 
Daddy, daddy, you make it so hard.
I want to love you. I really do, but please, please don't just give me those same excuses.
 
I glance out the rearview mirror, not a car behind us. We’re home free.
 
I look at the back of his head, his bushy black and grey hair, and I close my eyes.
 
Dear Daddy,
I never wanted to wish this on you, understand that, even the times I did, I never wanted this. I can't help but watch those evergreen trees. I am one of them, standing tall until I am taken down. You have made me strong, but I fear I am breaking.
 
I sit on the cold leather, hands tucked between my jeans and the seat. I take a quick look at him pulling my trembling hands into my lap. My face feels hot, although the car is cold. I slide my fingers over the smooth surface hidden in my palms. The gift you gave me not long ago. Can I take charge?
 
I tap the receiver 3 times.
 
I love you.
 
I turn my head towards the window, glancing at the rearview mirror, tears sliding down my cheeks. I know you can hear my breath getting sharper, shorter.
 
Daddy, I’m sorry.
 
This is the first time that I’ve got to sit in the passenger seat. Years of begging, and it’s now. I look down at my feet, my toes are just skimming the black plastic mat on the ground.
 
Someday I’ll be as tall as him. Feet planted on the ground, having to push my chair back because I’m so tall.
 
Daddy, I don’t want to be like you.
 
Or maybe I’ll be this petite little girl forever.
 
Red and blue flashing down the street.
 
Maybe I’ll be just like mommy.
 
Daddy, why?
 
“Daddy?” I whisper, “You know you have to pull over.” I can hear the tears in my voice. I can feel his eyes on me, taking me in one last time. His breaths are heavy as he pulls to the side of the road. Two officers come, one to his side, and one to mine. They wait until he’s out of the car to get me out.
 
“You’re a brave girl, you know that?” The officer says offering me his hand. My legs are numb. I bury my wet face into him, he hoists me up, although I’m much too big to carry. I know my Daddy will watch me with his icy blue eyes, but I won’t look. This will have to be our last goodbye.
 
Dear Daddy,
You shouldn't have done that, not to mommy.
 
Goodbye Daddy.

Clutz

I don't know if I'm just extremely clumsy or not, but...
Ok that was an absolute lie.
I AM CLUMSY! To the extreme. To that point where you just have to shake your head and walk away.

So, today...
I was sitting eating a dessert, which is rare because half the time desserts make me sick. So I typically don't eat them, but the thing is, once I start, I CAN'T STOP! This may have something to with my clumsiness which actually DOES tend to be around desserts...

You see, you'd think that every time that I put a cookie or a piece of cake into my mouth I would do the reasonable thing and only have a reasonable amount, but no! I act like it's the last batch of cookies I'll ever see. Did you notice I said batch? There's a reason for that. And no, it's not just the fact that I ate 12 cookies that always makes me sick. You see I get sick after two cookies and sometimes even the first one, but I continue to eat because they taste delicious, and no I'm not waddling around in a pool of fat because those desserts are a rarity.

Anyhow...
I was eating a piece of weirdly salty homemade cake when I went and grabbed a glass of milk. You think you know what's going to happen, let me tell you... YOU ARE ONLY PARTIALLY RIGHT!
THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON IS MY FRIEND ;)

Anyhow...
So I was happily drinking my cup of milk when all of the sudden, bam! I began to laugh. Here's the problem with that, when I laugh, I fall. Somewhere on my journey down, my foot knocked our wood and stone table, knocking the milk glass from the table onto me.
It spilled on my back AND the floor AND my small Chihuahua also named Aria who then proceeded to lick it up.

Two truths and a lie!
I don't have a Chihuahua.
Thanks for reading!

G.R.A.Y Part 2

So, basically I'm just going to continue from where I left off. Thank you Carol Balawyder for taking the time to look at my blog!
Sidenote: I will try to stop where I originally put page breaks into the story.

G.R.A.Y Part 1

So, this summer, I worked on a new novel that is very unfinished, but something special happened with the characters that I wrote into this story: I fell in love with them. IT WAS (and still is) THE FIRST TIME THAT'S EVER HAPPENED TO ME! While I was editing my first completed novel, I discovered my hidden truth: I loved the content of that book (and still do), but I could care less about the characters. That's what made this book so special for me. So, I really hope that you, random readers, enjoy this as much as I did!

                                                                      Prologue

What is love? In my world, it all started at birth. The earth was taken from the state with luxurious flashing screens in every household and schools for learning, welcoming to every age, to a place where everything was corrupt to bring us to where we are today. The ones I dwell with are manipulators of all that is just. Our world is grey, but this is not how it always was; it was once in beautiful color, but now, we live in broken cities of broken worlds.

 When I was born, the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a man, he was strong, tall, lean, and brave with shoulder-length dark grey hair flapping in the breeze onto his olive skin; he was my father. He looked ragged. He had brown streaks across his face, and his hair had grown unruly as he had waited for me to emerge.

The first sound I heard as a minute-old infant was my mother’s scream behind us; my father winced, but he kept running. They had let him go free into the dirt stained world away from the cottage my parents had intended for me to call home.

I was supposed to be their beautiful baby girl, born into a carefree world. Nine months before that they had been living in a perfect little house with a white fence and a golden retriever named Earth in a city not far from where I had been born. But when news spread of what the world had become, they had put giant walls around their city, and all the pregnant women were forced to move to camps. My parents had wanted to care for me, but they had no choice, except to give me up.

 At dark fall, my father slowed at our city’s giant magnificent mahogany doors, and the doors opened for him, well aware of what they were letting in. Inside the gates, it was a brand new world, an almost medieval world, the people, they were selling their goods on the sides of the street, smiling, carefree. The path we walked was separated from the dirt that everything else resided on; it was a carved gravel path; it was in preparation for them to come, my father had known. The buildings beside us were magnificently made as our ancestors had left them.

 When my father walked in, every one of the street people turned, and they rang the streets with applause. He lifted me up for all to see before laying me on the gravel and turning back to the door. The men controlling the doors smiled with tears in their eyes. The doors remained open.

My father hadn’t even walked to the heart of the opening to the world of misery, before I heard those loud bangs, unforgettable, even as a babe. I could swear that my father was smiling when the crimson bolts spread out of him. He fell to the ground, his eyes staring blankly into the light blue sky.

Lost Duckling

I don't want to overburden you with my issues or anything, but I figure, since you're on my blog... you can deal.

Let me start by introducing myself. I'm not going to tell you my real name, but you can call me Aria.

I am a girl who is at that point in my life where I have to decide what I want to do for the rest of my life.

THAT IS A HUGE RESPONSIBILITY!

And I have all those grown-up "adult-y" people who already have gone through college/ are in college/ are almost through with their lives that continuously ask me what I plan to do with the rest of mine.

Let me clarify something, I only have three things planned out for my life: Live, Breathe, and Die, and even those are iffy. I'm hoping that if those things do happen, they go in that order. For all I know, I could drop dead right NOW!

I have no idea!

I don't really understand people's obsession with planning out their lives because I did try that once upon a time. I planned to be a pastry chef, and now, I'm thinking I'll do something in the medical field, but I have a lot of other values I have to take into account that I'm not going to mention here.

I have always dreamt of working with the police becoming a detective or something. Now, I'm considering a pathologist assistant or a nurse or a veterinarian or a tree that lays in the middle of a forest wondering what in the world I'm going to do with the rest of my life.

People always expect you to come up with the answer they think is suitable for you, and when you give it to them, it goes one of two ways: they happily accept it and start planning out your "Career" for you OR they call you on your bluff. Fortunately, no one has gone to the extremes with option one so far, but I have been called on my bluff FAR TOO MANY TIMES!

I'd be all like, "Yea, I totally know what I want to be for the rest of forever."
And they'd be all like, "LIAR!"

Then, I'd have to go and retreat into my little cubby hole of doom for liars.

Storytime #3

It was dark, clammy, and cold in the all too clean room where her daughter lay on the cold slab of a table, her final resting place. Her mother stifled a cry, covering her mouth with her hand. This couldn't be happening to her baby girl. It couldn't be. Her baby girl's skin was pale, too pale, her lips were almost blue. The woman standing over her gave her a sad nod of recognition. She covered her baby girl with a blue sheet signifying death. She couldn't just stand there and sob. She rushed at her baby girl, just wanting to hold her one last time.

"You know we can't let you do that, ma'am. It's protocol. It's what she signed up for." A man said emerging from a corner.

The mother stood there screaming, bawling in agony, knowing every word he spoke is true.

"I'm told she even went out with that flame in her eye." The man said to the mother, "The same one you have in yours, no pun intended."

The mother reached out her arms, ready to claw out the man's eyes like a primitive beast. He wagged his finger in her face, mocking her with every move he made, "Mummy, you're the one who signed your precious little baby girl up for this. You can't blame me now."

"I can blame you for whatever the hell I want!" the mother screamed.

Her eyes grew wide as the man reached for his side. She knew what was coming next. She closed her eyes. It had finally caught up with her.

She didn't even let out a scream as she went down. Her final gaze at her daughter's stone cold figure above her.

"I love you." She said with her final weak breaths.

Let me tell you a secret...

What I really want to become is an author. That has always been my aspiration, and maybe I have seconds to keep your attention because you're a busy person that doesn't have time to read yet another random blog, but I want you to do one thing for me: keep reading.

I am a girl with a dream. I don't want to sound to sappy or anything, but I know we each have our own individual goals, and writing is mine. I want to be known. I want to find a publisher, and I really don't care about fame so much as I care about being heard.

I want someone, someday to look at something I wrote and say, "I want to be write something like this someday." Rather than I want to be just like her.

I am someone who cares about life along with a lot of other things. I'm someone who doesn't have the best grammar in the world, but I am someone with passion, and if you've made it this far through this, I'd like to say, thank you. Thank you for supporting a girl with a dream, and giving me a chance even if it is this small insignificant part of your day, and if I can ask of you one more thing; I'd ask if you could take a little more time and read some of my work and just tell me what you think. That's all I ask.

Let me Tell you a Secret

What I really want to become is an author. That has always been my aspiration, and maybe I have seconds to keep your attention because you're a busy person that doesn't have time to read yet another random blog, but I want you to do one thing for me: keep reading.

I am a girl with a dream. I don't want to sound to sappy or anything, but I know we each have our own individual goals, and writing is mine. I want to be known. I want to find a publisher, and I really don't care about fame so much as I care about being heard.

I want someone, someday to look at something I wrote and say, "I want to be write something like this someday." Rather than I want to be just like her.

I am someone who cares about life along with a lot of other things. I'm someone who doesn't have the best grammar in the world, but I am someone with passion, and if you've made it this far through this, I'd like to say, thank you. Thank you for supporting a girl with a dream, and giving me a chance even if it is this small insignificant part of your day, and if I can ask of you one more thing; I'd ask if you could take a little more time and read some of my work and just tell me what you think. That's all I ask.

Storytime #2

A knock came on my door. The red and blue lights flashed outside my curtained windows. As soon as I heard them coming down the street, I knew their wail was for me.

I had been pacing the floor all night. Back and forth. Back and forth.

He had told me not to worry. She would be home soon. I knew it was a lie. I knew my baby girl was never coming home. At least, not on her own two feet.

The salty water was already running over my lips. Had been for hours. The stars were still high in the sky. The moon close to retiring for the night. The sun ready to peak of the horizon, but there was just enough darkness to give that eerie feel to the blue and red lights that shone across my driveway.

I opened the door. The officers held their heads down, speaking in low murmurs. They both looked me in the eye, their eyes already spelling out the truth. My legs buckled from under me. She was my baby girl! She can't be gone. Even if I already knew.

Both officers rushed to grab me, but it was too late. I was already on the ground. I heard the woman's scream echo through my house, but I didn't realize it was mine. I heard my husbands footsteps beat down the stairs. I know that he'd be wearing nothing more than a pair of boxer briefs as the officers delivered the news. I know that my daughter won't be home to laugh with me anymore.

The flame is gone, and there's no getting it back.

Storytime #1

Hey, I'm Aria, and this is (technically) my first post! This is going to be the start of my first story on Blog Tales!

Here we go:

It was midnight, the tile floors reflecting the shine of the black flashlight that I held in my hand, my right one. The other hand was occupied, holding in the crimson. My head felt light, black dots floated around the already dark hallway. My footsteps were slow. I should have been running for my life, but I couldn't. There was glass, the white light shining through it, a temporary aid. There was pounding, in my eardrums, in my heart. The cold wind hit me first, it blew across my face, and I couldn't breathe. I tried. I tried to breathe, but the air, there was too much. I was going to die because there was too much air.

Air lights fire. If you constrict the fire's oxygen, it will die. You cannot have too much air. I am not fire. The fire was around me, the glass breaking next to my ear. I didn't have a chance to react to move, more blood, dripping down the side of my face. I move my fingers up to my face, it is my blood.

I cannot be saved.

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


It was a little past midnight, when I found her body.