This is...

This is a little girl in a little pink dress
Smiling as if her life depended on it
Happiness alight in her bright blue eyes
Her hair glows in the summer sun
As she sits on the wooden porch steps

This is a dog as big as a bear
His solemn expression a stark contrast to her smile
Floppy ears flat against his fluffy head
Dark eyes always watching
Making himself her protector

This is the sweetest of friendships
Blurring the line between beings
When a child sees, not a dog, but a brother
Closer than any two humans could be
The purest of loves

This is a happiness
The innocence of childhood
Remembering when he was here
And not that he is gone

Photos of the Millenium: Lost Brother

Numbly, I drove, my heart knowing the destination before my mind could figure it out. I parked in the near empty lot and exited the car, keys jingling in my hand. The guards at the gate nodded, letting me enter without question. They knew me here. It isn't a very great place to be known, but at least they don't ask questions anymore.

I wandered through the lawn. All the stones are identical, but I know where his is. I don't even stop to read before I fall to my knees in front of it. My keys fall uselessly to the grass as my hands go limp in my lap. I don't even want to look up, but I do. Frail arms lift my trembling hands, and I stroke the engraving with my fingertips as my eyes blur the words before me. "I miss you," I croaked breathlessly. I miss him more than words can say.

I blinked and saw the procession; his casket blanketed by the American flag, men in uniforms that had served alongside my brother but met a better fate. I blinked and saw the uniformed men at our front door, giving me a letter in his place. My mother stumbled to the couch, hand over her mouth as I stood in disbelief, wishing it was a dream. I blinked and was sitting on the floor in my bedroom, back against my bed, reading one of his letters from the shoe box I kept under my bed. The last letter he ever sent me. There it was, clear as day, the promise he made to me that he didn't know he wouldn't be able to keep. I love you. I'll see you soon.

I curled up against the grass by his tombstone, pressing my face against the cold ground, my fingers digging into the dirt in an attempt to get closer to him. I let my eyes flutter closed as memories of him danced before me. His arms wrapped tightly around me, holding me close to him. The both of us wrestling over a candy bar in the living room. In the airport, when he kissed my forehead and I waved as he walked away, not knowing it was goodbye for good.

My fingers brushed the base of the cold stone as tears formed a pool beneath me. I'll see you again someday.

Music Freewrite

She dances across the floor
Feeling the music, letting it become her.
Her hair whips as she spins
Her dress flies about her
Bare feet on the wooden stage
She strikes her final pose.

Breathless. Satisfied.
But he is not
Again, he yells, again
Again she flies across the floor
Leaping, spinning, twisting, lunging
Reaching for perfection
But he is not satisfied.
She dances until her dress is torn
Her makeup smudged and her muscles sore
But he pushes her back down.
She will never be good enough
Yet she continues to dance
Sighing when her dress brushes her legs
And her bare feet hit the wooden stage
Trying to free herself

Lyric Shuffle Poem

*inspired by Ed Sheeran's Thinking Out Loud*

It's just one of those days
When her heart was stepped on and shattered
And she didn't quite know how to put it back together

She had half a mind to leave
To run away and never return
But she stayed
And let her heart continue to break

She just wanted to be loved
But he loved her too much
It smothered her
It suffocated her
And she didn't know how to fix it

Her eyes still smiled
But her soul was shattered
Her legs wouldn't work like they should
They ran toward the pain
To save him, she sacrificed herself
She tried to stop loving him
But he couldn't
He would never stop loving her

His love stole the hope from her soul
The breath from her lungs
The light from her eyes
Was gone

Just Another Nightmare

I bolted upright, startled awake by another nightmare. I gasped for breath, blinking in my surroundings, reminding myself of where I really was. Biting my tongue to keep from screaming, I tugged my knees up to my chest. The images played over and over in my head, no matter how hard I wished them away. Over the summer, the nightmares have become slightly less frequent, but haven't disappeared completely, and I've kind of accepted that they never will.

This one was a lot like all the others. I was stuck in the dungeon, that tiny, square, cement room that was my prison for weeks. I knew every detail of it by now: each tiny crack in the walls, the frigid temperature of the unforgiving floor beneath me, the single dim light bulb that rested in the center of the ceiling, and, most importantly, the metal slab of a door that had no handle, keeping me trapped. 

Like in every other nightmare, it felt as if I had never left. Like I'd been in this hellhole for ages, waiting to be rescued. But no one ever came for me.

This time, when he came in, I didn't look at him. I didn't have the will to. Everything in me was tired. Dead. Used to be that my heartbeat picked up speed whenever I heard noises by the door. My hands would get clammy and I would struggle to breathe. Now, it hardly affected me. It was inevitable. I knew I couldn't control it. I couldn't control anything. All I've done for the past, God knows how long, is sit against this cement wall on this uncomfortable cement floor and wait. And be beaten. Hit and kicked and...touched, over and over and over again. Then watch him leave and try to keep breathing until he returns. 

The masked man paced the room. I tried not to feel every bruise on my body. I tried not to feel my shattered ankle scream every time I fidgeted. I tried not to anticipate the bruises that were to come. Briefly, I spotted the knife hooked in his belt. I prayed for a quick visit this time. I hoped it would be a chat, slice, and leave. He'd done that once before. Or twice, I can't quite remember. 

I was almost right. I looked up just as he expertly whipped out the knife and, in one swift movement, stepped forward and slashed my arm. I stifled a scream. He chuckled and slashed the skin over my collarbone. I screamed through my teeth as the blood began to flow down my chest, soaking my shirt. 

"Show me your pain!" he shouted, towering over me.

"Show me your face!" I yelled back, lifting my face to look at him again, showing no fear. 

He froze momentarily. Then, he resumed twirling his knife in his fingers. He studied the swirling blade, then looked down at me. He stopped the knife, gripping it like he was going to stab me with it. My breath caught in my throat. He leaned down slowly, until his face was inches from mine and his foul breath floated across my face. I tried to turn away but his rough hand on my jaw held me there. As he breathed heavily on me, my lungs refused to operate. It's not real, I kept telling myself. It's not real. It's not real. And I pretended it wasn't real. Even though it felt more real than reality.

His eyes - those dark, evil, horrid eyes that haunted every moment of my existance - bored into mine. He peered into my soul and attempted to wither it away. I fought against him with every fiber of my being. My body was still, but my insides were on fire, twisting, turning and fighting.

Suddenly, a pain hit my thigh and spread through me. I assumed it was the knife; until I was sent into spasms. My entire body, inside and out, convulsed uncontrolably. It writhed and burned, throbbing with every movement. I was held up only by his hand on my jaw. All I could see, all I knew in that last moment, were his black, soulless eyes.

Then I was gasping for breath, my frail limbs all wrapped up together, taking up barely any space at all. I focused on my walls, the bed underneath me, my nightstand, my pillow, anything that would remind me that I am here, home. And I was thankful. Thankful that I am here, not there, and that it was just another nightmare. But as I sat, all tangled up in myself, fear reminded me of its presence in my heart. I was afraid to blink, because every time my eyes close, I see his.

Lonely Boxcar

I rocked side to side, my arms outstretched to catch the air. One foot at a time, I balanced on the metal rail of the track. On tiptoes, I began running down my tightrope, laughing at my friend who straggled behind. My loose overalls flapped as I ran, the legs rolled up so I don't trip. Jessie had her shoes on 'cause she's always afraid of getting bitten. I tell her that's what slows her down all the time. She fits her clothes better than me. She isn't so slight that a tornado wind could blow her into the sky. That's what Mama always tells me, that when there's a storm I gotta stay in so I don't get whipped up. It ain't my fault I'm the size of a sapling, I just am.

"Lizzie, slow down!" she calls from behind me. I almost pretend I don't hear her, but I stop when I see something up ahead. A big red boxcar sits alone on the tracks. I shove my hands in my pockets and look hard at it. The stale heat presses down on me and the sun beats on my back, but I ignore it.

"What's that?" she asked, finally beside me.

"Old train car, I s'pose." I shrugged, still looking at it, wondering how it got left here. "Wonder what's inside."

I walked away without looking back, knowing that Jessie wasn't following me yet. I've always been the more adventurous one between the two of us. Jessie thinks that curiosity is dangerous, that it gets  you in trouble. She says that all the time. But when I start off on adventures, she always follows. I think she really is a curious person, she just doesn't wanna tell nobody.

I turned my eyes toward Jessie, still in the spot where I left her, but a moment later, her feet start moving toward me. I smile as I swing myself into the abandoned train car, wondering what we'll find this time.

Art Inspired Poetry

 Alice
She sits and waits
Like they tell her to
She waits for answers but they give her none
Around her, the people cry
Sobbing into shoulders, wiping noses with handkerchiefs
And still she sits, silent
Wishing for answers
She is numb, forgetting to breathe if it weren't second nature
Forgetting to see as her eyes blur the world around her
Forgetting to notice that her hands are cold
And her arms are spotted with goosebumps
She looks up, blinking the world into focus
As they carry in the casket

Now, she has her answers
But she doesn't want them

The Cellist

He plays the cello

He closes his eyes to the sound of his strings

The bow moving rhythmically, loosely

Following the music, then forgetting all about it

Flying free with no constraints

His hand begins to move itself

Between strings, between notes

The bar fills with music

People silence to listen in

And watch in wonder as

The cello plays him

Freedom

Thick strokes of brown, every shade of brown, faded together like the sands of a beach, or a desert. I can see ditches and dunes in the distance, though whether they are real or a figment of my imagination I do not yet know. Off in the distance, the brown switches to blue, all shades of blue, though I cannot tell whether it is ocean or sky. White highlights appear as clouds that turn the blue space into a sky, but a green hue in the mass reminds me of sea foam and seaweed, the things of the sea. I decide not to choose which one it is, but instead to let it be both.

Whatever it is, sea or sky, it seems lonely. There are no trees, no birds, no creatures to accompany the vast expanse of color. It lies in wait, waiting for something, someone to come along and fill it with feeling, to give life to its empty space. Yet somehow, it already possesses life. The sands shift in an imaginary wind, the sea buffing in the breeze and the sky smiling down at it all. It is not void. It does feel. It is free. Free from stress and decisions. Free from constraint. Utterly, absolutely free.

Someone calls my name. Reluctantly, my eyes flutter open. I have fallen back into reality. The brown shades of a whispering sand and the deep blues of an ocean sky disintegrate and in their place rest women in tattered dresses. The shackles around my wrist remind me that in this place, I am anything but free. Dirtied faces of my young companions hold varied expressions; disdain, sorrow, fear. My expression remains blank as my eyes are lifted to the iron bars, where on the other side stands a guard in wait. This time, his gaze falls upon me. It is my turn.

Slowly, I stand, all eyes in the cell watching as the iron gate opens only for me, then locks my companions back inside. I stumble after the guard, legs sore from lack of use, my arms trapped uselessly in front of me. My eyes do not move from the floor until I feel a tug on my neck as he ties me to the gallows. Only then to I look up to see the solitary window before me, the landscape. It is their attempt to make us happier as we are unfairly murdered. Instead of keeping my eyes on the window, I squeeze them shut, seeing instead the beautiful brown sand and wide blue ocean sky. I see my freedom, and I reach for it as the veil is tugged over my eyes.

Six Word Memoirs

Acts of random kindness
change lives.

There's plenty of sense
in nonsense.

After Ever After

*Story inspired by Disney's The Little Mermaid*


"Mamma , Mamma! Look what I found!" Spirited little Trinity splashed through the tide toward her mother, waiting for her on the beach. Proudly, she displayed her found treasure; a golden seashell hung on a golden chain, spotted with algae from its time on the ocean floor.

The woman recognized it instantly and smiled both at the memories it sparked and the joy on her daughter's freckled face. She gently took it from tiny hands and rubbed the algae away with her thumb.

"What does it say, Mamma?" the little girl asked, stretching up on tiptoes to see the engraving on her treasure.

"Sound it out," her mother prompted, kneeling beside her Trinity.

Scrunching her brows together, she did as she was told. "Mmm - elle - oh - dee. Melody. Why does it say your name, Mamma?"

"Because my Mamma gave it to me when I was very little. This necklace is what connects me to the sea." Melody looked out upon the waters, then back at the palace she was raised in, where she now gets to raise her own daughter.

"What's inside?" the little girl bounced in anticipation, snapping her mother out of memories. Melody opened the shell, revealing a projection of her favorite place and playing a tune she had memorized. "Whoa, what's that?"

"Atlantis," Melody breathed.

"That's what Atlantis looks like?" Trinity snatched the shell from her mother and plopped down into the sand, entranced by the vision before her. "When will I get to visit Atlantis?"

"Someday when you're older," Melody consoled the girl, recognizing the innocence and adventurous spirit in the eager little girl that she had possessed as a child. She stroked her daughter's long red hair, inherited from her grandmother, the queen of Atlantis.

"You know, when your Grandma Ariel was younger, she thought a fork was called a dinglehopper."

Trinity laughed, and all the world laughed with her.

In Today's News

"Photographer has been working to assemble body..."

"Are you crazy?! Have you lost your mind?!" She screamed and dug shaky fingers into her scalp, her eyes wide with fear. He simply watched her, and felt her react. He knew he shouldn't have shown her. He knew she would respond this way, but he showed her anyway. Now, he's paying for it.

"This doesn't even make sense! How could you even think that this is okay?!"

He stayed silent. No response. He just let her freak out.

It started with the camera she gave him for his birthday ten years ago. He immediately fell in love with photography, taking his camera with him everywhere, snapping shots of every thing and everyone. He woke with the sun one morning for a photo shoot by his father's old fishing spot. Everything happened as normal - the drive there, following the trail and shooting shots at every step, then returning home - until he was reviewing the photos the next day. A beautiful shot of a waterfall, under closer inspection, contained a sinister object. On one of the rocks protruding from the river, there rested a hand. A human hand.

He didn't know what pulled him back, but immediately after seeing the photograph he returned to the river to find the hand precisely where it had been captured the day before. Careful not to harm it, he picked it up, taking it home with him to place in a jar above his desk. That incident began the strange obsession with human bodies, and after he started, he couldn't stop.

"911 may not find you"

Based also on the tale of Sweeney Todd

Try this new salon, they said, it'll be fun! Adelaide rolled her eyes, encompassed in her thoughts as she traversed one lane roads. "How did I even get to the middle of nowhere? And how the hell do I get out?!" Exasperated as she was, she continued following the directions to whatever desolate place her friend had recommended. Ha, some friend! she scoffed as she turned on to yet another dirt road.

Another fifteen minutes down the road, a lizard slithered across her path. Look at that! Another living organism! The first one in miles. Yet she hadn't spotted any houses or stores. Her phone alerted her that she had no service and that her intended destination was up ahead before it died, leaving her to fend for herself. Sure enough, she began to spot buildings scattered about, then down the road a bit more was the barber shop. She parked in a patch of gravel and sighed, taking note that the nearest establishment was just a speck in the distance.

Well, here goes nothing, she thought as she stepped out of the car into the static heat, taking hesitant steps up the rotting wooden stairs. The door squeaked as she pushed it open into a vacant room which only held two dusty chairs and a hopelessness that made Adelaide want to turn around and run right back out the door.

Then, she blinked and a young girl was in front of her. She had a frail frame and hair almost as pale as her porcelain skin. She smiled with soft pink lips as she approached. "Welcome, my name is Johanna."

"Addie," the traveler forced a smile.  "My friend recommended this place, so I thought I might come check it out."

Johanna reached up and stroked the visitor's hair, studying her features. "So beautiful. It's a shame."

Confusion struck Adelaide as the girl played with her hair, but she didn't speak.

Johanna met her eyes and whispered, "If you hurry, she won't see you. Leave while you have the chance."

But she didn't have a chance. With her usual perfect timing, the barber entered the room. "Trying to run off my customers, Jo?" she said with a sly smile. Unlike the first girl, she brought a dark feeling to the room. Dark hair, dark eyes, deep ruby lips, and a black dress that whispered secrets with the creaky wooden floor. The only thing that related them was their near white skin.

Johanna let her hands fall to her side and her head fell with it, a somber expression on her face. The other girl stepped forward, reaching a hand out to her customer.

"I'm Imogene. Imogene Todd. Are you ready for a trim?"

Missing Pieces

I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.

Her name is Margaret Helen Carrington; that much I know for sure. Every Tuesday morning at precisely seven minutes after nine, she enters the bakery to buy bread. On Monday and Friday afternoons she has tea with Miss Porter, the sheriff's mother, and she never misses a Sunday service at the church. These are all things I have seen with my own eyes and therefore must believe are true. The spaces between, however, are a mystery.

When my sister Louisa and I first arrived in this town near six months ago, she immediately made herself known. Within a week, young men were knocking on our door and asking for her company. She is a sight to behold, and it is for that reason only, I'm certain, that she is given everything she wishes. When she asks for bread, a loaf is baked specifically for her. When she cries that her hair is windswept by the coming storm, it is fixed up for her in the parlor, free of charge. Not long after she was labeled Town Princess, she began to pick up stories about the town. The first name she heard was Margaret's. As she grew curious, she received less and less answers. The shop owner, the mayor, even her gentlemen callers replied with silence when she spoke the girl's name.

That's when I began to watch.

Just barely too old to attend the schoolhouse for lessons and too young to work at any of the town shops, I needed something to occupy the vast amount of time I possessed. Beginning on a sunny Monday morning just two weeks after our arrival, I visited the bookstore at seven in the morning, borrowed a book, and sat in an old wicker chair outside the storefront to watch people, pausing only for lunch at the cafe and returning whatever book had accompanied me that day at four in the afternoon to return home to fix supper. That became my routine for five of the seven days of the week; Saturday was labeled market day and Sunday as resting day.

Sitting in that chair, I learned more than I thought possible. I overheard conversations between kinship and friends that alerted me of conflict as well as celebration. At first, the people were wary of me. They smiled and tipped hats as they passed, being friendly but not open, but when they became comfortable with me, my book more often rested closed in my lap. Children waved from their mother's side or stopped to chatter on their way home from school. Young Isabelle Hartley was my most precious companion, and proved to be a quite reliable source of information. On days when her mother went to market in the afternoons, she skipped across the road to sit with me and tell me wonderful tales. When she revealed her age to me, I could hardly believe it; for an eight year old she was extremely intelligent. She was a watcher, like myself, with wide eyes and a heart too big for her tiny chest.

Little Isabelle lived just down the road from the mysterious Margaret. Every week I received at least one story of the Carrington home and its strange happenings. There was often yelling at noontime, yet only Margaret's voice could be heard. Isabelle was once awakened to singing before the sun had begun to wake. These occurrences only grew more frequent, yet no one was brave enough to investigate.

Are there any questions? Of course, plenty. However, the presence of questions does not secure the existence of answers.

Memorable Passage

   "But the books are all behind bars!" she said. "It's like a literary sort of prison!"
   Will grinned. "Some of these books are dangerous," he said. "It's wise to be careful."
   "One must always be careful of books," said Tessa, "and what is inside them, for words have the power to change us."
   "I'm not sure a book has ever changed me," said Will. "Well, there is one volume that promises to teach one how to turn oneself into an entire flock of sheep-"
   "Only the very weak-minded refuse to be influenced by literature and poetry," said Tessa, determined not to let him run wildly off with the conversation.
   "Of course, why one would want to be an entire flock of sheep is another matter entirely," Will finished. "Is there something you want to read here, Miss Gray, or is there not? Name it, and I shall attempt to free it from it's prison for you." . . .
   "Well, I want novels," said Tessa. "Or poetry. Books are for reading, not for turning oneself into livestock."
   Will's eyes glittered. "I think we may have a copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland about somewhere."
   Tessa wrinkled her nose. "Oh, that's for little children, isn't it?" she said. "I never liked it much - seemed like so much nonsense."
   . . ."There's plenty of sense in nonsense sometimes, if you wish to look for it."

-The Clockwork Angel by Cassandra Clare



When I first read this book, I had to stop on this passage and read it again. I love everything about it. Despite the fact that this passage really defines the characters involved, the deeper meaning of it gets me every time. First of all, the books in the Great Library are all kept enclosed in cases, or, like Tessa describes, a "literary sort of prison." And just as Will offers to free a book from its prison for her, I believe a book is the result of an author freeing themselves of their ideas. They chase all their ideas like butterflies and trap them within the pages of a book, taking them out of their mind, and there the ideas wait until a reader comes along and frees them.

Will explains that the books are behind bars because some of them are dangerous, to which Tessa agrees. My favorite line is her words in that moment, which go far beyond books and sneak into our everyday lives: "...words have the power to change us" in so many ways. Bullying, hate, and judgement are words that change us, but also compliments and affirmations. Likewise, the words in a book can reform our thoughts, stretch our imagination, and influence our entire being.

I also very much enjoy the last line of this passage. Sometimes it seems our lives make no sense, but truly they do. Life can only be understood backwards, but must be lived forward, so the situations that we believe to be nonsense may actually be the ones that change us the most. Also, being that I love the story Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, I agree that nonsense has a deeper meaning than just nonsense. Maybe somewhere way down deep inside, the nonsense is actually what makes the most sense.

I Know Why She Doesn't Speak

Inspired by Maya Angelou


Silence speaks volumes
Silence is golden
Silence is louder than words

She sits in the classroom
She wraps herself in silence
She observes without her mouth

They ridicule her
They taunt her silence
They try to rip her from her somber home

Life has abused her
Life makes her smaller
Life locked her inside a cage

In sadness she watches
In loneliness she wishes
In silence she screams

*Original Photo*

If I Were In Charge of the World...

If I were in charge of the world
I'd cancel bad news
super photo-shopped models
ex-friends and also
all sports ever

If I were in charge of the world
there'd be free lollipops
on the street corners and
smiles for sale if you lost yours





If I were in charge of the world
you wouldn't have labels
you wouldn't have hate
you wouldn't have enemies
or "You stole my shoes."
you wouldn't even have shoes


If I were in charge of the world
pineapple whip would be
a staple of our diet
all money would be abolished
and a person who sometimes forgot to think
and sometimes forgot to sleep
would still be allowed to be
in charge of the world

Dream Threads

I see fire. It dances across the floor and disintegrates the curtains, cackling as it consumes the house. The battery powered alarm wakes me from my half sleep, knocking sense into me. This is really happening. I slide out of bed and onto the floor, remembering what they teach in elementary school about crawling under the smoke.

"Jenna!" I called, attempting to yell over the roar of the flames. "Jenna, wake up!" In the fog I felt my way to her bedroom, climbing over the toys scattered on her floor. "Jenna, wake up! We have to get out."

I shook her from her slumber. When her bright blue eyes fluttered open, panic filled them. "Ellie," she breathed, coughing and sputtering to expel smoke from her already aching lungs.

"It's okay, Jenna. Stay calm." Stay calm. I helped her slide out of her bed and onto the floor, tucking her into my side. We crawled together out of the room and towards the stairs. One by one we descended on our knees, backwards, keeping our faces low to the ground. I tried to guide her, but quickly found it hard to lead backwards. She sped up, eager to reach the bottom. "Slow down," I warned her as the crackling grew louder. Too late. The next step crumbled underneath her and she tumbled down the remaining stairs.

"Jenna!!" I slid down the stairs and gathered her into my arms. Her chest rose and fell just barely, her eyes fluttered closed. "Stay with me, Jenna."

I tucked her face into my shoulder and ran through the rest of the house. Smoke attacked my lungs, but I didn't care. I just knew I needed to get out. The heat seared my eyes and blurred my vision, so I tried to journey through the house by memory.

I burst out the front door, wheezing. My lungs felt small and weak, like no oxygen was actually reaching them, but again, that didn't matter to me. I kneeled on the ground with my baby sister in my arms, knowing that seven years wasn't enough time for her to do all the amazing things she wanted to do. "Jenna wake up."

Her eyes fluttered open, just long enough to look up at me. "Ellie," she breathed. Then, I watched as the color drained from her eyes. The essence of her left her body in colorful wisps and danced into the air, wrapping themselves around me. Her soul was in my body. I was feeling what she was feeling. And she was so scared.

Color Coded

She absorbed the feeling of blue around her. The cloudless sky pressed down on her, infecting her cerulean eyes. Violets at her feet swayed in the wind. Her blistered hands rested in the back pockets of her tattered skinny jeans as she approached the brook. Slipping off her sandals, she dipped her toes in the cool, crystalline water, her mind relaxing instantly.

Smooth, grey stones guided her downriver. Her faded jacket rippled in the soft breeze and her thoughts withered away with it. A bolder ahead signaled the end of her wading journey. She paused and scanned her surroundings, ready to reverse course until she spotted a column of smoke rising between the trees. The hem of her jeans soaked with curiosity, she followed it.

Her sandals forgotten, she stepped into soft, brown mud. The ground hardened as she ventured into the trees. Bright eyes wandered upwards, searching gaps in the branches for any sign of the smoke. Thorn bushes scratched at her vulnerable feet, but she didn't notice, her eyes glued to the sky. A fuzzy woodland animal scurried across her path, too quickly for identification. She smiled as the plume of smoke grew larger and a bend in the trail revealed two young people and their camping gear. An adventure.

The new-found couple sat by the red hot fire they had proudly created themselves. Her approach startled them, but she greeted them as a friend. The man's eyes invited her to sit with them, and the woman's ruby lips tipped into a grin. Absentmindedly, the man poked at the fire, sending sparks into the atmosphere. The scarlet sun sunk between the trees as they talked.

The trees around them turned black, and they sipped at hot cocoa to keep away the evening chill. An everlasting ebony sky was broken only by the light of the fire. I should go, she told them, remembering the gentle lady, her guardian, that waited for her return. Her pupils dilated, spotting movement between the trees. No, stay, they replied, guiding her closer to the fire and away from the darkness. Shadows danced on the ground around them. She debated between venturing into the unknown and staying within the safety of the fire circle. Then, the woman grimaced again, and a veil was pulled over her eyes.

Feeling Yellow

The tropical flowers whisper her name
Wild chanterelle encircle her bare feet
as rays from the eastern sun caress her cheek
Dressed in vintage lace
She embraces the summer
The rich scents of happiness
Worth more to her than gold

Pixie Dust

Prancing through the air
Interest sparkles
Xenia flies above the rest
Inviting them to follow across the
Everlasting sky

Dancing over clouds and
Under the sun
Sprinkling their pixie dust upon
Those who dream

Deep in the Woods

Evangeline Temperance skipped through trees and hopped over foliage. Soon after her family moved to a cottage in Ambria, the forest became her favorite place. The birds accompanied her with beautiful melodies, the butterflies fluttered in her wake, the tree dwelling and ground dwelling creatures poked out of their holes at her appearance. She found a solace in the forest that she could not describe and, as young as she was, did not fully understand. In a strange way, the forest became more of a home to her than the cottage was.

Young and innocent, she followed the butterflies, echoed the birds and greeted furry friends, believing only in beautiful things. When she returned home each night, she brought with her a bouquet of wild flowers for her mother or a circlet of daises for her sister or a tiara of vines woven gracefully into her own long, ashen hair. Day by day, year after year, she arose with the sun to visit her wild friends. The trees shifted as she passed and the forest woke only when she appeared for, unbeknownst to her, beautiful Evangeline was their queen.

One fateful morning, the woodland queen did not return to her kingdom. Somber clouds filled the sky and the forest did not wake. Upon the next sunrise, she did not return either, nor the next, and the forest began to wilt. Each day, they longed for their queen to return love to their land, but she did not come. And so, despair sent the forest into a timeless sleep.

(Object)ive Writing

Object: crushed beer can
Found on sidewalk outside of school.

"Come on, Bekah! It'll be fun!" My roommate, Kelsie, pleaded. I sighed, sprawled on my bed as she fretted over her outfit choice by the closet. "What about this one?" she asked presenting herself with a purple-gradient sundress and gladiator sandals.

"Cute."

"You've said that about the past five outfits."

"Because you look cute in everything." I rested my head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. "Look, Kels, you know how I feel about teenage parties and what they generally entail." Alcohol and drugs. Drugs. A substance that has taken lives from me.

"How many times must I tell you: it's a young adult party! Jacob said there may be alcohol, because Benny's coming to 'supervise', but I can promise no drugs." My bed shifted as she sat on the edge of it. "You can't be a recluse forever. Live a little!" She shook a smile out of me, flashing me a pure white one in return. "Plus, I hear Connor's gonna be there."

I sat up as she made her way to the bathroom, happy she didn't turn to see the blush in my cheeks. "Why would that matter to me?"

"I don't know. I know you guys seem a lot closer lately and I thought maybe..."

"No way Kels. Not gonna happen."

I went to the party in what I was already wearing; high-wasted shorts, a loose long-sleeved tee and my trusty red beanie. My bare feet rested on the dashboard as we sped down the highway in her tiny towncar, the wind rushing through the open windows blowing my hair into tangles. When we arrived at the secret beach, Kelsie immediately rushed out to greet people. I swung myself up to sit on the top of the car, studying the sun over the Pacific. This wasn't really my scene - socializing in general really isn't my thing - but it makes her happy, so I do it.

Benny and Jacob built a campfire down the beach a little ways. People trickled in, running down to the others with miscellaneous food and beverages. They cracked open beer cans before the fire was even started. I studied the waves past them, and the sand around them, trying to live a little like Kelsie said.

"You've got quite a view from up here." A man's voice spoke behind me.

I spun around and almost slid off the car. He flashed me a sly grin, knowing he had startled me out of serenity. Connor Jackson: my best friend since life decided to suck. I didn't bother responding, but instead sighed and turned back around.

"Why are you up here alone?"

"Partying isn't really my thing," I shrugged. "I just came because Kelsie begged me to."

"Well, now that I'm here, it is." He grabbed my hand and tugged me down the hood of the car. I nearly lost my balance as I landed, laughing fully for the first time in days. Not because of him, or because I almost made a fool of myself, but because I was walking toward a party where I was supposed to have fun, something that had almost ceased to exist in my vocabulary.

"What if-"

"No what if's today, Rebekah Sloan," he reprimanded me as we walked down the beach. "It's time to forget what happened and realize everything that's out there waiting for you to discover it. Life is about now, and if you spend all you're time in the past you'll completely miss the present."

I Am...ME

I am...

the "big sister," the leader of my two younger siblings, wishing I had someone to guide me instead.

a daughter of two overbearing parents who love to much and ask too much and set unreachable standards, but love nonetheless, and most importantly, a daughter of God.

entirely too innocent for my age, a little girl trapped in a teenager's body, never losing the desire to dream and explore, and often trying to escape the responsibilities and pressures of adulthood because if I had the choice, I would never grow up.

a friend to all who cross my path, passing out love in the hope that I will receive some in return just so I can give it away again.

a homeless soul, because home is where the heart is and my heart hasn't quite decided where it is supposed to be.

I am...

jazz shoes and spankies, finding solace in the leaps and turns of my routine, dancing across the stage and through life in the same way.

sweet tea consumed as though it was water, a vegetarian whose diet consists mainly of fruit and nachos.

acoustic and indie music, strumming along on my guitar, chilling out and forgetting the world, but also Broadway show tunes, belting at the top of my lungs and not caring if the entire neighborhood can hear me.

a night owl, staying up sometimes until the sun wakes up with me, grasping at the ideas that others share with me in their dreams.

independent, often wishing I had help but too scared to ask for it.

someone I am not when I step onto the stage, forgetting the troubles of life and absorbing a new personality, one that I can control within the confines of a script.

grandma's spiced tea and vitamin C drops, the actor's cure, an old blanket and a new book on cold winter afternoons.

I am...

bright blue eyes and pale skin that makeup cannot cover, a proud Irish girl, trimmed fingernails and freckled limbs.

short, and constantly reminded of it.

summertime, ignoring my sensitivity to the sun and inhaling the scents of nature, building campfires, singing songs and making s'mores with my Girl Scout friends, living in a world where boys and bullies don't exist.

headbands across my forehead, mismatched patterns, colored jeans and black shirts, bows and ribbons, hipster with an ever-changing style.

marching to the beat of my own drum, secretly absorbing what the world thinks of me and pretending not to care, a crazy, conflicted mess of a girl.

unexplainable and insecure as I step toward the future.