Into Writing

I desperately wanted to be one of those writers that could impress with their humorous anecdotes. I wanted to have intricate, witty banter woven into my prose and poetry. But then,

my pencil broke,

my paper ripped,

I turned fourteen and my grandfather died.

The darkness began to creep in at first; just a shadow in my heart. A few years later my aunt had a routine surgery and forgot how to draw her own breath. She left too. The blackening shadows began wrapping their tendrils through my ventricles and choking my words.

A month later, my mother had a migraine, closed her eyes in the hospital and didn’t remember to open them. Little by little as death clenched its arms around me, the shadow in my heart extended into my extremities.

Now my words breathe life into paper through a haunted soul, escaping death’s reaches.

Still, humor evades me.

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Ms. Scott

Ok, ok, I know it has been FOREVER! I’m so sorry, but I’ve been lacking. Anyway, I’ve finally had the most brilliant of brilliant ideas. Here is a taste of one of my new stories. Any critiques, suggestions, ideas would be helpful. I’m not telling you what the whole story is about, because I like secrets.

 

 

“Tell us about your daughter,” the reporter jammed a microphone in the lady’s face. A cameraman inched closer zooming in on her tear-stained cheeks which looked to be permanently damp. There were crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes which extended into larger wrinkles, but she hadn’t bothered to hide them for the interview. It was as if she had given up.

The lady closed her eyes momentarily, “She smelled like brand new crayons, always, even when she was a child. The first day of school was her favorite day of the year, and she hated summer.”

The woman reached down and put her hand over a tiny fist that had clamped its grasp on her dress. “Mommy, when are we going to go school shopping?”

“Today Frankie,” she took Frankie’s hand and led her to the stairs. Now, let’s go get dressed. Upstairs in Frankie’s room together they picked out a yellow sun dress with pink flowers and white sandals. Her mother brushed her hair in the bathroom and tied it back with a yellow pony to match her dress. They went downstairs and her mother took a set of keys from a ring on the wall. She grabbed her purse and they walked outside to a white Honda Accord. After securing Frankie in the car seat they headed to Target.

“Frankie, you get to have your very own backpack for Kindergarten, are you excited?” Her mom looked at her smiling.

She nodded and ran ahead. “Come back by me!” Her mother shouted. Frankie, head hanging low walked back to her mother. Her mom took her hand, “Now, you need to stay with me, this is a big store.”

“Ok,” Frankie looked up and saw a big sign that read, Back to School! She jumped up and down, holding her mother’s hand of course. “Can we look at backpacks first?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Frankie stood up tall, trying to look a little more grown up. They walked right over to the back wall where there was row upon row of backpacks, her mouth dropped. At first, it was overwhelming, and then she saw this little briefcase backpack. Picking it up and turning it over, she thought it was ment to be. “This is the one, Mommy.”

“Are you sure? It looks a little grown up.”

“I know, it’s perfect.”

“If you say so, you can get whichever one you like.”

Frankie held it as they walked further down the backpack aisle, but then, the sparkly Sailor Moon backpack caught her eye. She dropped her briefcase bag, and picked up the Sailor Moon backpack. “I changed my mind.”

Her mom laughed, “Alright, but hang the other one back on the rack. You can’t just leave it in the aisle like that.” Frankie put the Sailor Moon backpack on her back, and stuck the “grownup” bag on the shelf. Just like the Sailor Moon backpack didn’t come off for three years.

“Ma’am, anything else you can tell us about your daughter?” the reporter pestered.

The lady snapped back, her eyes jetting open. “Her first backpack, I have it somewhere.” She became frantic. “I’ll find it.” Instantaneously, she was out of the room and into the garage searching through boxes.

Her husband stepped in, “Excuse her; she’s been like that since, you know.”

The reporter nodded, as if he knew.  “What can you tell us sir? If you don’t mind.”

He had been gazing toward the garage where his wife had disappeared to, “Wha? Oh. Well, Frankie. Frankie, she was a dare-devil, that girl. I remember, she was eight, see. She had gotten into this comic book phase. Well, she thought she was, uh, what’s her name. Oh yeah, Wonder Woman,” he paused a minute looking up at the stairs as if remembering something.

“Dad! Look at my cape! I’m Wonder Woman!” Frankie was yelling down from the top of stairs holding up a sheet she had tied around her neck. She had put on and old swimsuit and colored in a large ‘W’ in black sharpie.

“Wha? Oh, that’s nice hunny.” Her father casually glanced up at her. He was trying to fix a hole in the front door her little brother had made with his hammer. He looked up again this time noticing her swimsuit, “Frankie, what did you do to you swimsuit?!”

“N..Nothing. It’s my Wonder Woman costume.”

“Your mother is going to have a knipsht when she sees that.”

Frankie shrugged. She was going to practice her flying. She hardly had time to worry about the ‘W’ on her swimsuit. She waited for her dad to go back to dry walling the hole. Then she climbed on banister at the top of the stairs, holding herself steady on the wall. Just before she jumped she screamed, “I can fly like Wonder Woman!” Her dad turned around just in time to see her fall in a crumple on the ground.

“Frankie!”

“Owwww! My ankle!” She sat on the ground her ankle was twisted in a direction ankles normally don’t usually turn.

Her dad stood over her his eyes narrowed, “What did you think would happen?” He demanded.

“I don’t know? I’d fly?” She looked so serious; it was hard for him to keep a straight face. She was eight and she did still believe in fairies and pixie dust.

He scooped her up in his arms, “Well it’s off to the hospital we go. I see a cast in your future.”

“I’m sorry dad.” She hugged him, tears streaming down her face. He knew she wasn’t crying because it hurt.

“Sir? What happened?” the jabbering reporter asked.

“Oh that. Well uh, she jumped off the banister and broke her ankle. She imagined she would fly,” He sighed.

Inspiration

Sometimes my words are empty. They come out with too much air in between and not enough mass. I’m losing detail. My inspiration is drying like rain on a summer day in Arizona. It evaporates before it even touches the ground.

I have taken a wrong turn somewhere and now I am lost down a darkening forest path. There is no light, the trail is thorny and muddled with debris. I can only escape through writing my way out. I stand till awaiting a sound, a whisper, any clue of direction. The trees stand silent, leaves tranquil, forbidden to answer my pleas. The animals retreat to the shadows, alas I must find inspiration in darkest corner and furthest reaches. So I sit where I have been stumped and write.

I let the words guide my pencil until they dry up like the rain. Then I know, the ideas will spring forth once again, and I will light my way from this tumultuous, winding path. Where I will emerge into the pages of a story dripping with freshly spun yarns.

picture courtesy of deviantArt

Word Demons

I am followed. Words follow me around they are in the shadows of my mind. They play at my thoughts and taunt my dreams. All day lexicon begs me to write. My imagination drips with endless characters. They waltz into my lessons marching like ghosts between my students. They look back at me their silent faces and pleading eyes watch me while their bodies are covered in word vomit. Places they wish to be from, settings I will one day write.

I feel some thing wet splash across my face, and I look down at my toes. I see the words rain, and storm rolling across the carpet like tiny army ants. i stare back at my students, can they see the words too? The words they are haunting me. On my way home darkness cowers around me. Black, vile, ominous— is this another story trying to fight its way onto the pages of my notebook? Everywhere I look, the images are replaced with words.

I can no longer see a leaf. The leaf is covered with the words: floating, crisp, Autumn, golden, dying. The word demons follow me. They Invade my every breath. Until I only breathe in words and everything else has left me, and now I write.