System Failure

Well I officially can't write anything of worth tonight, so instead I'm just going to rant about how much pain I'm in. I'm in some serious pain. My legs hurt so bad. Silly legs, they haven't even worked today! I think that's why. They are mad at me for eating chocolate and not taking them to the gym. But compared to most people, I'm probably actually doing okay. I hate feeling sick though. That was rather obvious. I don't think anyone likes feeling sick. Blah blah. Okay I'm done trying to rant. Even my rants are falling flat tonight. It has been a very, very discouraging week. I am feeling like a pricked balloon with nothing left inside of me but some leftover spit. It's gross. Angry, unhappy spit too. Not good, contented spit. There, I finally made a metaphor that I'm happy with. So here's some poetry (aka desperation writing.)

Okay well I wrote poetry. But it ended up being too personal to share. 

Goodnight world. 

You and Me

Tonight 

The stars are friends 

They laugh at me 

Because they know

They get to smile down on us both

And they know 

Everything we don't 

I'm wondering where you are tonight

And if you're thinking about me

I'm working hard and laughing 

In between 

The stars can see 

And you and me

We've got everything 

And nothing all at the same time 

So tonight 

I'll look at the stars and wonder 

Who you are

And who I'll be 

And when I'll find you

Oh you and me

You and me

3/29/14

   The day was growing older. Golden ribbons of light from the setting sun drifted through my windows as I walked in, thankful to be home for another night. I fixed an apple. Somehow the dusk was too beautiful to share with the hollowness of tv. Something about trivial reality shows or even a movie would have spoiled the tranquility beyond recapturing. So I sat in silence, listening to the the nothingness of a spellbound city. Breathless, I watched the sky as it melted into cotton-candy pinks and winsome blues, bathing the city in a glorious, rose-colored hue.
   The beauty made me lonely. It was still too soon for tv, so I turned on my radio. A rich chocolaty voice slithered into my consciousness, bribing me to remember the past. I did remember. The sun sank down lower, and I thought of everyone out walking the streets beneath its blessing. Couples growing old together, babies being born, dreams being met and houses being built to furnish new lives and new dreams as they unfolded.
   But I was alone.
   I pulled out my cell and toyed with it for a moment. If not for the voice on the radio, I would have been safe. But such songs tempt me to live life, not just exist.

I'm tired tonight. But the sunset is beautiful. For some reason, I keep wondering if you're watching it too.

   I pressed send before I could linger another moment. As I did so, the light lessened into remembrance of a day gone forever. And the sun set.

You

Take my heart 

It's yours 

Take me away now 

I'm useless 

Fill me up because I'm hopeless 

You took me broken, bent and undone

You took me when I said I was through 

You took me Home

When I had no words left to say

And You were mine

You told me everything I ever knew

So thank You

A thousand times, thank You

Your love has made me who I am 

And who you're making me 

Help me when I'm caught 

Help me when I'm lonely

Help me when I'm desperate for peace 

Fill me up

Because I'm still broken

Still bent

Still undone

Fill me up with Your love

I've none 

The light betrays me 

Hope eludes me 

Destiny 

Destroys me
But You
You save me.

Just for Tonight

just for tonight
i wish you'd stop being you
even though i love you
i wish you'd stop doing what's right
i wish you'd forget about honesty
and tell me you're on my side
just for tonight

i know everything you say is true
your words are everything i don't need
all i need is you
telling me you love me and i'm beautiful
telling me you love me and i'm safe with you
there's no end to us in sight
please, just for tonight

all i want now is to laugh and just forget
forget about the pain
forget about all of them
just you and me
just for tonight
say you love me like you really do
just for tonight,
say i'm the only one
and you will never be the same again

just for tonight
stop telling me the truth
tell me i'm right
to feel the way i do
just for tonight, let me be free of all responsibility
stop pushing me
just for tonight
let me be me
and just you be you

just us two
just for tonight
pretend you're on my side
then we won't have to say goodbye
even though i know
tomorrow will come and all of this will end
just for tonight
let's pretend

just for tonight
tell me you love me like you really do
i don't want to say goodbye
to you

My awesome chemistry homework part 2

What is pH? 

First of all, it is an example of how ridiculous the English language is. How on earth "ph" and "f" make the same sound, I shall never understand! I vote that we should all talk on fones and that the name Phoebe should be spelled like it sounds: Feebee. HOW HARD IS THAT?

But perhaps more importantly, it is a logarithmic measure of the concentration of H+ ions. Soren Peter Lauritz Sorensen (was he Soarin' over California? Probably not. He was Danish, actually.) defined it in 1909.

pH = -log[H+] where log is a base 10 logarithm and H+ equals the concentration of hydrogen ions in moles per liter of solution. pH is an abbreviation for "power of hydrogen."

What household products can be used as acid/base indicators? 

Testing for acids and bases sounds like a very tasty process:

Blackberries, raspberries, grapes, carrots, cherries, onions, tea, strawberries.

Other not-so-tasty-items that are indicators are:

Geranium petals, ExLax tablets (definitely not something you want to taste), mood lipsticks, morning glories, red cabbage, vanilla extract, washing soda, and about a hundred different types of petals (the best option for the outdoorsy chemist. I will stick with the lipstick and the tea.)

What is a universal indicator? 

A universal indicator is a solution which hasn't learned to be confident with its self image, and therefore caters to the demands of a large variety of pH values by changing colors.

Can you classify acids from their formulas alone?

Because there are very few strong acids in aqueous solutions, it is fairly reasonable to assume that most will be weak acids. It might be helpful to memorize the most common strong acids, such as HCl, Hbr, Hl, H2SO4, HNO3, and HClO4.

If you don't want to do this, you can always order your acids to drop and give you twenty. That should clear up who's strong and who's weak pretty fast.

My awesome chemistry homework

My chemistry assignment was basically a work of art today. I was instructed to answer these questions "in my own words." Let all teachers know that it is very dangerous to give a writer that kind of freewill.

Why are acids called proton doners? 

Acids are nice substances that give H+ ions away to Bases as presents for Christmas and other holidays, such as Pi day and Mole Day. Because H+ ions are really just protons, acids are called proton donors, although a much more creative name for them would be "Base Benefactors." 

Why can't hydrogen ions exist by themselves? 

In short, because hydrogen ions take "sharing is caring" to a whole new level. If water molecules shows up, hydrogen ions get really clingy and want to share electrons with them in order to form hydronium ions, or H3O. However, H+ ions are okay hanging out by themselves in gas form. (But basically everybody would rather be by themselves when they are feeling gassy. Otherwise it's just awkward.) 

Is a negative pH possible? 

Yes. If the molarity of the hydrogen ions is higher than one, you will get a negative value for your pH. But that's okay, even though it seems completely crazy. 


Also, apparently even the strongest acids don't dissociate completely at high concentrations, which is probably the most inspirational thing I have read today. 

How can you tell if a compound is an acid? 

I get asked this a lot. Usually I just tell people, "When you know, you know." with as much of a cryptic aura as possible. But I only do that because I'm embarrassed about my own ignorance. Now I'll never have to pretend again! 


There are a few different ways to distinguish whether a compound is an acid. You can use an indicator, which will change color to expose acids, or you can dissolve some of the compound in distilled water and see if the concentration of H+ ions rises, or you can use a pH meter to see if the compound's pH is lower than 7. 

Nightmare

This is a dream.

It is a bad dream, but it's almost over. In these moments my heart thrums with deadly flickering, as the nightmare grows steadily worse, and worse still. Awakening is heaven, and the dream is a prison. Mascara stains leech down the walls and accusations rise up all around me, currents of hot steam on an icy night. With each day I find my feet heavier. The monstrous slathering of a hound echoes in my ears. He is on my heels and I feel as though I cannot run much longer.

But I know nightmares. Eventually it will be too horrible to be real, and I will awake and be free. I'm close. I can tell. My fingers are shaking.

Today

  It feels so good to laugh again. I'm so thankful for good friends. It is lovely to laugh, to feel like laughing. I love  to forget for a moment, the way my heart beats to the rhythm of chaos.

  This week I felt as if I had stepped from the gates of a golden sea, peaceful and infused with the magic of hope, into a deep pool of life-sucking goo. But somehow today was better. God sent a legion of valiant soldiers to fight for me, even if they didn't know it.

  Joy is an elusive prize, but today I felt it briefly. And last week I felt it bubble up inside me like a spring. Funny, in those glorious moments, you feel as if life had always been that beautiful, and never could be anything darker again. I wish I could savor the serenity for longer than a moment. Tomorrow is a new day. But nothing is too big, not even the vast stretch of time that is a single day in this ordinary madness that surrounds me.

First Installment of Short Story

The first time I met Miss Margie, I was crying.

It was spring, and I had endured an entire autumn and winter of school trials, particularly arithmetic and little Betty Haysmill, who was a monster worse than fractions themselves. I was walking home the long way that day, in order to avoid meeting any of the others along the road, and so I went way out down by the edge of Walker’s Eddy, where the cattails were waving kindly in the wind and the birds’ songs soothed my tattered soul. That is where I saw Miss Margie.

She was standing on her front porch, a saggy affair that had probably been a beautiful old Victorian porch when Miss Margie’s father had first breathed it into existence. Now it was old, older than the hills that cradled it. The whole house was a coffee-stained color, and the front window had a cracked pane. Miss Margie wore a blue cotton dress and had her hair pinned tightly up on her head. She was barefoot.

“Hey there,” She called to me. Wiping my nose, I glanced up at her. I had never seen a woman more wrinkled and tan. Her white hair was the lightest thing about her, next to her eyes which were so blue they reminded me of the island and fishing and too much sun and not enough time to explore.

“Hey,” I called back, not eager to be on my way. I wanted to be well through with my cry before I got home, otherwise my mother would see my red nose and ask me what was wrong, and the others would avoid me all night until bedtime. No one wants to play with a crybaby.

“Was you cryin’ for?” She asked softly. There was a lilt to her voice that made it sound like music, but old music, the kind that would play out of a phonograph, all crackly and distant.

“Nothin’.” I said. I had reached that age of unparalleled wisdom when it seemed to me that grown-ups never wanted anything but to make trouble or spoil your fun if you were having any. In those days kids kept their mouths shut if possible, and didn’t waste words when it wasn’t. At least in front of most adults. But Miss Margie wasn’t most adults—that I could tell even in those first few minutes.

“Little girls don’t just cry for nothing. I was one once, so you can’t fool me. Come on up and have a cookie.” She said, smiling. Her teeth were glaringly white, like her hair.

“Okay,” I said, brightening a bit. I was still wary, but cookies where a rarity never to be passed up.

We sat down on her porch. The chair she offered me was considerably less grand than her manner in pulling it out for me. She sat down herself and wiggled her toes, sighing like all old people do when they settle into a chair after they have been standing a long while.

“I’m Miss Margie Atkinson.” She declared bluntly, sticking out an old, skinny hand. I shook it and mumbled my name lowly.

“Mary Ellen Dewberry.”

“Pleased to meet you Mary Ellen,” Said Miss Margie.

“Nobody calls me Mary Ellen, ma’am.” I said.

“What do they call you?”

“Mickey.”

“Mickey it is, then.” She grinned again, and held out a plate painted with pink roses. On it was a pleasant array of stale molasses cookies. I thanked her and chewed slowly, wondering if my nose was back to its normal color yet.

As if reading my thoughts, Miss Margie swallowed her cookie in practically one gulp, and returned to the prior subject. “Now,” She said resolutely, brushing the cookie crumbs from her hands. There was a pitcher of watery looking lemonade sitting on the table in front of us and Miss Margie poured me a glass while I chewed. “What was it you was crying for, exactly?”

I hesitated. Clearly, Miss Margie was an ally. Everything about her reeked of kindred ambition, but still, she was a stranger, and talking wasn’t my specialty, even amongst friends.

“Betty Haysmill and all them at school.” I finally choked out feeling my eyes begin to burn again. I pulled another cookie from the plate without asking. Something told me Miss Margie would understand.

“Betty Haysmill?” She didn’t seem to recognize the name or the problem, so I sought for more words.  

“She made me cry, Ma’am.” I explained clumsily.

“No, child she didn’t.” Miss Margie laughed, a gloriously rich cackle that filled the air with the smell of hope.

“What you mean?” I was confused.

“Nobody can make you cry, sweet thing. You chose to cry, an’ no Betty c’never make you.”She bit into another cookie, wincing a little at its stiffness. 

I thought of Betty and winced myself. “I can’t keep myself from crying, though ma’am. She tells the other girls I’m ugly. And she’s right.” I admitted sadly.

Miss Margie looked at me closely for the first time and squinted those dazzlingly blue eyes.

“Well, you look alright to me.” She snorted. “Now, look here, Miss Mickey.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“There’s some things you’ve got to know about women, if you’re to survive in this world.” Miss Margie ate another cookie and swept the crumbs from her lap again. I finished my own cookie and mimicked her. She leaned towards me. I leaned back.

“What’s that, ma’am?”

“Women, are at a disadvantage.” She said grimly.

“What’s a dis-ad-van-tage?” I struggled through the large word.

“It means that the world is harder on us than it is on men.” She swatted at a mosquito as it bandied about the mouth of the lemonade pitcher. I pitied the mosquito. Miss Margie’s hand was well trained and looked tougher than leather. The insect retreated to the opposite end of the porch, and seemed to be planning attack strategies. Miss Margie rose to her feet as she went on. She stood with her back to me, and peered out across the fields that must have belonged to her, and out across the street, and the houses in the distance where the town was sleeping in the shade.

“Y’see, Mickey, back when the earth was a whole lot newer than it is now, women was like cows and dogs and land—men traded them back and forth as part of a money-makin’ opp’tunity.”

“What’d they ever do that for?” I asked, wide-eyed.

“Because they didn’t know better, I s’pose.” Said Miss Margie. She sighed heavily. “Them was bad times for us women, though, Mickey. Marryin’ was like hiring, except women didn’t get paid to work for a man for the rest of her life, her father did.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” I said indignantly, the plight of the historical female gripping me strongly for the first time.

“No, it don’t.” Miss Margie sat back in her chair, in order to bat away the mosquito as he crept up on her pitcher. Satisfied with his defeat, Miss Margie smiled and went on.

“When the Lord came to the world, He taught men and women that they ought respect one another, males and females alike. Since then things got better. But y’see, that wasn’t good enough for some women, Mickey. Some of ‘em have got the idea that women should run things altogether. Now, that seems to me like taking more of our fair share.”

“Yes ma’am, it sure does.” I nodded.

“But you want to know what I think?”

I nodded again.

“I think those women are still just afraid of becoming like cows and dogs and land again. They’s afraid some man is going to take everything they’ve got an leave em’ in the dust.” She chewed on her lip for a minute. “Tell me, what’s your daddy like, Miss Mickey?”

Surprised, I smiled. “My daddy? He’s tall and he has dark hair—”

“No, no,” She interrupted, waving a hand at me. “What’s he like? He good to you?”

Shocked I nodded emphatically. “Oh yes ma’am. He is.”

“He talk to you?”

“Yes ma’am. Every day.”

“He do other things with you?”

“Yes ma’am. Right now he’s teaching me how to throw a baseball so I can play next year. And he reads to us out of a big book every night. I can’t remember the name though.”

Miss Margie smiled. “Then I think you are mighty lucky.”

“How do you figure that, Miss Margie?” I said with a flicker of sass, scowling. I didn’t think any girl who had been called ugly at school that day could be very lucky on any account.

“Because I don’t think your Miss Betty Haysmill has that kind of a daddy.” She said.

Then for a few moments we were silent, me trying to wrap my head around the thought that Betty had a father at all. I’d never given much thought to it before.

“What’s that got to do with women being like cows and stuff?” I asked. A splinter of sunlight poked its nose around the edge of the house and speared me in the eyes.

“Well I’ll tell you, but you’s goin’ to have to come back around tomorrow an hear it. I think it’s about dinner time, and your mama would be madder than a wet cat if she knowed I was givin’ you cookies. Scoot along home and come see me again after school t’morrow.” I glanced over at the hill, where my house sat placidly among the others, and I could tell Miss Margie was right. Nobody was out playing in the yard, which meant I’d have to hustle if I was to make it back in time for dinner.

“Thanks for the cookies, ma’am,” I said, hurrying to pick myself up. “And it was a pleasure t’meet you Miss Margie.”

“It was fine meeting you, Miss Mickey.” She replied.

I hurried off and watched her wave at me, a solitary figure on that lonely stretch of road. The house seemed even older than when I’d left it, but Miss Margie seemed younger. Her back was straighter than a yard stick and twice as tall. 

Random, Mentor/Protege Dialogue

“Some people are born with something extra—a special something that makes them more than just good. You have that. You have the potential to be somebody great, so why would you ever choose to be anything less?”

His eyes drilled into me, but his words cut deeper still. I wished I could escape from them.

“Because I’m afraid.” I admitted at last.

“It’s alright to be afraid.” He replied. “Remember, without fear, there would be no opportunity for courage.” 

Tomorrow

It's one of those nights when there's nothing. Tomorrow will come, and then that's it. The first day of the rest of my life. If I hate it, if I'm not brave enough, or not strong enough, or I can't make it work, then everything will change again.
There's nothing for me now. Nothing but tomorrow and wondering if I'll even get through it. The worst of it is I won't be alone, crying on a stretch of highway. Everyone will be there watching me, and failing won't be an option. I'm afraid.
And all I want is for you to make me laugh again.

Keep on Breathing

Sailing 

Far away 

Soaring high 

It's all going to be okay

Even when I'm afraid 

Not sure about tomorrow

Not sure about today

Not sure if I'm on the right road

But as long as you're with me

I know I'll be okay 

Soon I'll know

And even if I don't 

You'll be with me 

And hope will be 

Everything 

So set sail 

Across a blue sky

And fly, fly, fly...

March

Time to fly.

I'm so ready. So ready to see the world. I've got a mind palace all built with happy Redbeards to calm me down, and I think I can do this! Still, prayers would be appreciated! =D

Here's an excerpt that won't make any sense because of the lack of context. Oh well. Yolo.

The tram was dizzying.

He was reading the paper when she sat down, pulling at her gloves. Beneath the surface of the black fabric, her hands were colder than death and felt stiff, but the rest of her body was flushed with fire. After a moment he glanced up at her, and then down at the paper again, only to look up for a longer stare. His gaze drank her in as it hadn’t done in months.

Anna sat in silence, her eyes carefully trained on the night landscape as it whizzed by.

“You look beautiful, darling.” He said impulsively, an admiration in his tone that went beyond the normal compliment. Something in the statement made her pulse quicken to a thundering speed. She couldn’t remember the last time he had called her beautiful. For years it had been “ravishing, stunning, bewitching, gorgeous, delightful, lovely or exquisite.” The simplicity of “beautiful” struck her.

She smiled. He smiled. The exchange might easily have ended there, but to her surprise he went on, rather clumsily.

“I know it’s been some time since we…since you and I have talked. Really talked. And it hasn't always been easy for you." 

Anna’s thoughts raced. Why was he saying this? Why tonight of all nights? She felt faint, desperate to remain firm in her resolve.

He continued further. “But I hope you won’t forget everything. Everything that came before.” His voice lowered to a whisper, and the cold, cruel tyrant of the past months fell away and only a skeleton of the madman was left. He was hers again, with an earnestness in his eyes that was kept sacred only for her. “I love you very much, darling.”

He leaned across the partition and kissed her.

“Let’s go home tonight, directly.” He said, turning back to his war news. She paled, feverish with panic as his words struck her. The train careened over a bridge and the city lights glistened in the distance. “It’s been too long since we’ve had an evening all our own. No more work. No interruptions. I swear.” His dark eyes glowed deeply.

“What about the Antonys?” Anna rasped, fighting to keep her voice steady. “We promised them—“

He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, Antony will be livid of course. But it doesn’t matter.”

The evening was steadily evolving into a nightmare.

“It would be rude not to go, when we’ve agreed to meet them.” She murmured. 

“We’ll still see them at the opera, and Antony can make an appointment with me next week if he insists on talking business.”

Talking business.

The callousness of what he meant by "business" brought her back to her senses. 

She steadied herself, fighting frantically for an idea, any idea that would provide an alternate solution. The plan was collapsing. If they didn’t meet the Antonys then it was over before it had even begun, and months of toiling would be wasted, along with the lives of the seven Bosnians. Casting about for ideas, Anna grasped at any loose thread that could lead somewhere.

“Must we go straight home?” She said, her voice carefully clothed in nonchalance. “The phone will ring endlessly, and there will be dozens of people running about  as always.” Straightening, she looked over at him, leaning forward. “What if we went somewhere else? Somewhere quiet, private.” She was speaking, with nothing left but blind faith to ensure that her words would do any good. “What about the hill—the lookout over the river—where we used to go? Would you take me there tonight?” She realized that she was whispering now, and succeeding. He was staring at her again, his newspaper forgotten. He was entranced. For another terrible moment, it was just as if she really meant what she said, like it was enough just to be with him and be in love. Love. It was strange how one gentle word could send her spiraling back into it. 

“We could just forget everything. Everything but the moon and the stars. We could rent a car and drive out to the point; no distractions or interruptions. Please?”

He nodded.

“It sounds perfect.”

Anna dared to breathe again.

“I’ll call Lady Antony and let them know that we won’t be going to dinner,” She stood too quickly and started for the back of the car.

“Wait, don’t bother. Stay here with me.” His words were commanding, but not in the way that she feared. Everything about him reminded her of the past.

“It will be better if they know ahead of time.” She prayed silently, begging for his approval.

“Fine. You're right. Antony will be unbearable during the opera if he’s blindsided. Go ahead and call her.” Once more, he took up his newspaper and began digesting its tidbits.

Anna hurried to the phone and rang up the Antony residence. It rang once, then twice, and seemed to  ring endlessly until at last someone answered.

“Get me Lady Antony please; tell her it’s important.”

Again silence. Anna could hear the blood pumping through her veins more clearly than the sound of the tram gliding over the rails.

“Hello?”

She jumped.

“Mauve?”

“Yes,” Mauve’s voice came floating across the line full of trepidation. Anna draped herself in a singsong carelessness.

“I’m calling about dinner tonight,” She said. “I’m afraid we’ve decided to cancel.”

“Really? Oh what a shame. Antony will be so disappointed.” A wave of panic transcended the miles between them and the two women shared a moment of absolute desperation.

“Yes, I’m sorry. But we’ll be sure to do it another time.” Anna replied. “We’re going to have a relaxing evening to ourselves though.” Then, the idea struck her. “You know, rent a car. Go for a drive." Her words were pointed enough to deliver a scrap of a message. "But don’t worry, we’ll make it work somehow.”

“A drive? That sounds lovely.” Mauve understood.

The car.

The key.

The last final hope.

“Yes. It will be.” Anna said. 

Sam excerpt

Robert Kenway was surprisingly arrogant for a person who had been born with no natural abilities whatsoever. His only talent seemed to be making friends and convincing them that he was good at everything, when in reality, he was almost entirely average. His being fairly exuded normality. Somehow, based on everything I’d accumulated from my various therapists, I had surmised that this aura of blandness must have been what drew me to him. After the instability, uniqueness, and chaos of my childhood, I subsequently longed for anything ordinary. And next to the Fields, Robert Kenway was about the best friend I had in the United States.

“Hey man,” Robert said stoically as I joined him on the sidewalk that lead towards Canyon High.

“Morning,” I replied.

“How was your weekend?” Robert hurried to catch up to me, his quick, darting, football player gait sending him tripping alongside me in no time. He was quick, but I had the advantage with much longer legs, and an evenness in my step that made me practically uncatchable at a flat out run. But for me running was necessary only in the event that one was being pursued by something too dangerous to outwit. In other words, I was lazy, but at least I knew it. 

“Alright,” I answered honestly. I couldn’t quite decide how my weekend had been what with all this newfound guilt. Guilt was unpleasant, but not unbearable. “Yours?” I reciprocated politely. Then I prepared myself to be bored. Robert never had anything interesting to say, for all of his comments were usually geared towards techniques for impressing “chicks,” as he sexistly referred to girls, and every one of his ideas was so pathetically misguided that he made for a rather pedestrian conversationalist, even in that subject, on which he considered himself an expert.

“Awful,” He said. For the first time that morning I slipped from beneath the surface of my own thoughts and actually heard him speak, so unexpected was this statement. Robert hadn’t had a bad weekend since I had known him. Normally, he was anxious to tell me all about the parties he had attended or the football games he had helped win.

“Why?”I asked, genuinely concerned. As a rule, I was fond of Robert, for though I disagreed with him in worldview, we shared a common congeniality that would be hard to replace. After all, I was shy, and most of the Canyon High kids were crass and uninteresting even compared to Robert.

“Just stuff,” He said, exhibiting another abrupt shift in character. Robert never kept secrets.

“You alright?” I asked, picking up on the subtle hint of pleading in his aloofness. He wanted me to ask again, though why he didn’t just tell me, I couldn’t understand.

“No, but it’s fine. You wouldn’t care about it anyway.” He said brusquely. I said nothing. We walked on in silence until he sighed violently.

“Are you sure it’s nothing?” I said. Now it was patently obvious that he wanted to tell me, and I had no objections to listening. “You seem a bit low this morning.” I added, for extra encouragement.

“Gee, you think?” Robert snapped rather crossly, surprising me again. I had thought that I was being quite friendly. I wasn’t used to friends. Peeved myself, I kept quiet, and he seemed disappointed.

“Sorry,” He said glumly.

“No, don’t, it’s nothing.” I replied, waving a hand. “What is the matter though?”

“It’s silly.”

“Not as silly as refusing to tell me what it is.” I said drily.

“Coach cut me from the soccer team.” He sighed again, dramatically.

“That’s because you’re a rotten football player.”

Robert glared at me. “Thanks a lot for the support.”

“Well it’s true.”

“And I’m sure you could do better.” He laughed sarcastically.

“Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever actually played football.”

“Soccer. It’s called soccer here, Prince William.” He rolled his eyes. I smiled.

“Well, soccer then. I’ll try it today if you want.”

“Fine with me.”

At that point we had reached the front doors and piled into the hallway with the rest of the students. I sighed. School was dull. Everything was, in fact. But I had the prospect of football to look forward to during lunch. And that was something.  

3/914

Child of the desert far

Don't cry 

For you are Mine 

Fear is long forgotten 

In the wake of brilliant peace 

Just keep walking 

For though the road is long, 

I'm right here beside you

And these tears you cry

Cannot last the night 

You won't ever be alone 

So long as I am here

No I won't ever be alone

My King, He reigns forever 

And though there are those who keep on throwing stones

They cannot take away what I know

He's inside me 

Here inside me

No I'm not alone 

For though fear still clutches at my throat

His gift is Hope

And He'll never let me go 

Penny's Star (part 2)

   "Penelope Redburn."

    There was a clanging echo as the name was read out, like a dark bell shouting a warning for all who would listen. Penny jolted in her seat, fidgeting. She stood, wishing that she had worn shoes without a heel. For a moment, when she had been getting dressed that morning, her sensibility had abandoned her, and in a fit of vanity, she had slipped on tall black pumps, which were undoubtedly smart, but rather wobbly.
    As she rose, the room seemed suddenly full of eyes, all riveted into her back as she walked up to the front and placed a shaking hand on the Bible.

   "I swear by God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." 

   In the space of a moment, Penny was seated. For a moment she felt her heart start to hammer and feared that she wouldn't have the courage to make a sound. Then she looked out and saw one face in the crowd, and was no longer nervous, but suddenly calmer than she had ever been before. 

Penny's Star (part 1) 3/7/14

   "What is it that you want more than anything in the world?" Peter asked his sister softly, his blue eyes riveted on the moon as it sat in the summer sky, a king surrounded by a court of stars.
   Penny smiled at him.
   "That's a funny question." She replied, for she was a very sensible girl. "What makes you ask it?"
   "Because," Said Peter, turning away from the window. "I love you."
 
    Even Penny wasn't so sensible that such a genuine expression of love could be lost on her, and she bit her lip, smiling through the tight sensation in her throat.

   "That's a good reason." She said.
   "I know," Replied Peter.
   "Well, what do I want?" Penny tapped her finger against her chin, thinking. She turned towards the moon herself. Somehow moon-gazing is almost always helpful in ascertaining what it is one wants more than anything. Penny found that in this case it helped a great deal. "What I want," She said, as her own blue eyes roved across the twinkling lights above, "Is to see a star up close."

   "That's a big wish." Said Peter.
   "I know." She answered.

    For a moment neither of them said anything. They just sat there by the window together, thinking their thoughts, and each secretly wondering what it would be like to see a star up close.

   "I'll get you the star, Penny," Said Peter decidedly, his eyebrows narrowing. There was fierce determination in his eyes. Penny smiled.
   "For now Peter, I think it's bedtime. And we must not be caught whispering so late, or they'll hear us downstairs." She said. After all, she was a very sensible girl. In fact, Peter was very surprised that someone like Penny could make such a wish.
   Sometimes he thought that the reason he loved her was that Penny could be insensible, and simply chose not to be. Now, some people were hopelessly sensible. He was glad Penny wasn't, especially on nights when it wasn't sensible to drink hot chocolate, for Penny never minded it.

   She blew out the candle and Peter turned to take one last look into the night sky. A very bright star blinked back at him.

   "Penny's star." He whispered. In a few moments, he was asleep.

Sam

“Where were you born?”

It’s a question they always ask, and I was expecting it.

“Off the coast of Madagascar.” I said, and smiled as she looked up from the notepad with obvious surprise written on her face. The surprise settled into skepticism as she saw my grin. I’m about as white as it gets, with blue eyes and hair of that lovely mud color that isn’t brown enough to be called brown, but also not blonde enough to be called blonde. It sometimes looks rather green in the right light.

“I was born on a pirate ship. My dad was a swashbuckler and we were pillaging this little village when my mum went into labor.”

She frowned deeply, irritated. I couldn’t help it. Everywhere in the world there are dozens of people who are eager to take themselves and everything else too seriously. I’m not one of them. Seeing that I was about to get a huffy sigh and a lecture, I shrugged.

“Truth be told, I don’t know exactly where I was born. But hopefully it was somewhere exciting.”

“I take it that Mr. and Mrs. Field are your adopted parents then?”

“That’s right.”

“And how long have you lived with them?”

“About six months.” I replied, noticing the painting on the office wall for the first time. It was an abstract of a violin, swirled with reds and golds and something about it made me feel melancholy.

“Where did you live before that?” Dr. Lawrence had recovered from my mischief and now had that monotone, gentle, psychiatric coating over her voice once more.

“I lived in London.” I said. When she raised a suspicious brow, I added, “I’ve got the accent to prove it.” I was smiling again and she seemed to disapprove. Maybe she was wondering whether my accent was real or not. After all, plenty of people can fake a British accent.

“It’s a long way from London to Portland.” She said. “Why did you move?”

“My parents died.” I said.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Were they your biological parents?”

“No.”

“How long had you lived with them?”

“About five years I think.”

“Would you mind telling me about how they died?”

“I’d love to. But I don’t know that either.”

The carefully constructed wall of indifference dropped away for a brief moment, just as it had with all the others. The face of true curiosity peeked out of her eyes.

“Would you mind elaborating on that?” She asked as she turned back to her notepad again, with a hint of reluctance this time. She was interested now.

I studied her for a moment. She had an extra spotless aroma that the others hadn’t. I cleared my throat softly and replied, “They were found in Newport, inside an empty store at a shopping center. They’d been taking drugs.”

“They overdosed?” She asked.

I nodded.

“Did they do drugs regularly at home?”

“No, never. The cops said they were murdered.”

“Murdered?” She was enraptured now, I could see it, and I figured I’d read her right. She was a mystery fanatic, a sucker for anything that reeked of drama and ambiguity. "Well did they ever find out how? I mean, were the drugs self-administered or forced on them? Did they have any enemies?"

 I smiled.

“No actually, my mum died in a car crash on Camden Street. Todd wasn't her husband, and as far as I know, he's still alive today." 

That’s when it came.

I knew without asking that when I got home that night that Mr. and Mrs. Field would have received a phone call saying that perhaps another therapist would be a better fit for Sam. 

Don't think, just write

I'm madly in love with the thought that one week from now I will be happily snoozing away in a Florida beach house, with the sounds of the waves rustling against the sand in the back of my mind.

One day not too far away

there might be something left in me

there might be strength

unlimited hope 

I'm close now

I might make it 

if I can just survive 

the world could be a place 

where living isn't something I fear 

A random sentence

Her pensive eyes slithered from the window to the door.

3/5/14

Stuff.

Tomorrow and Yesterday

Tonight is one of those nights when tomorrow suddenly feels too close and too big.

I think maybe over the course of the past few months I haven't really been serious, at least not totally, in thinking about what September is going to bring. But on certain nights, like tonight, I know that there's going to come a curtain call when I'll get into my bed in my room in my house for the last time as a permanent resident. After that, home will be somewhere else, somewhere very far away if God blesses me with a sunshiny future as I hope. If all my dreams come true and I end up sailing away across a clear blue sky, off to new adventures and new faces, where I'll experience great hope and great disappointment and tremendous courage and deep love, it still means that here and now will be over, and yesterday is gone.

I can always come back of course, but it won't be the same. Not like when I was little. I won't miss high school; in fact, I'm planning on doing my best to forget most of these days. Nearly every good memory that I've accumulated over the past four years is now soured. But I remember a time back when everything was simple, and good and pure, and the world was a fairyland, and my worst fear was a nightmare soon soothed away by loving words. I'll miss that. I'll miss when everything seemed easy. Love used to be such a simple thing to grasp.
Picnics on the back porch. Lemonade. Cozy winter nights spent puzzling in the dining room. The gentle sound of my dad's heartbeat next to my ear.

What's coming may be a thousand times better than everything I've ever known. It will be adventure and trial and triumph.

But it won't be the same. And at least for a while, it won't be home.

I'm afraid. I've been afraid for a long time, but not as long as I can remember. No, I can still recall those cherry blossom days, and they give me courage when I need it. When there comes a wrinkle in one's soul, it seems impossible to let go, unless remembering is possible. As a child, I knew nothing but that at the end of each day, I would be safe in my father's house.

But even now, nothing has changed. I know that at the end of each day, for the rest of my life, I will be safe in my Father's house. So I will remember that and smile, and maybe then I won't find it so hard to fly away.

The Voices excerpt

                      

Graham hung his damp overcoat on the back of his door and immediately set about fixing something for tea, resolutely directing his thoughts to his case load, a stack of files which sat on the coffee table waiting for him. There was an interesting insurance fraud case going on. The suspect was a middle-aged man with three children who was low on cash after a rancorous divorce. His eyes glazed over as he sipped his tea, a bland blend of lemon and some other sickly flavor. He sighed. The next file was a man who claimed he was being robbed. There was ample evidence to support his assistant as the crook and the case was practically wrapped up from there. Graham plopped in on top of insurance fraud and moved on.

Frank Abbot. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t think of where he had heard it.

“What about it boy?” He said to Bentley, as the dog pressed his muzzle insistently into his master’s arm. “Frank Abbot.” He scratched his chin and stared out the window, his fingers moving mechanically across Bentley’s ears. The dog panted. “Frank Abbot.” Graham said again. “It’s going to nag at me all afternoon.” Setting the lemon tea aside he pulled his laptop over and began pounding on the keys. 

The Voices excerpt

    Wren dared to think about the possibility. Could she do it again? Could she intentionally send a message without words or motions?

    "If I can, I'll be the best charades player in the history of the world." She said aloud, dizzy with excitement.
Wren glanced around, searching. Listening. She heard a voice.

   Ellie.

   It was a clear message, and she knew precisely who was thinking it: the bus driver. Suddenly Wren also knew that Ellie, whoever she was, had short, dark brown hair and a sweet smile and had stuck by the bus driver through everything, even the death of his son and his alcoholism.
   Ellie sounded like a truly praiseworthy individual, but meanwhile the bus driver was so lost in thinking about her that he'd forgotten about his bus and the road and the upcoming crosswalk. Wren peered across the street where one of her fellow students from the university was waiting, his head bent over his phone.
   Everything about him seemed wrapped up in texting, and knowing what she knew about the bus driver, and the impending scene, Wren decided that if there was ever a time to attempt sending a message, it was now. She decided to make it something simple, nothing difficult, nothing long: just one word.

Bus. 

She bound all her energy into the word. She focused. Closing her eyes, she pictured each letter suspended in space in front of her. B U S.
  
   B U S 

   I can do this. She thought, determinedly. 

   Her mind tensed like a powerful muscle, coiling and ready to strike. Then she sent it, bursting open into a flurry of force in his subconscious. And for one brief moment, it was as if their two minds were working together in a common purpose.
Communication.
Preservation.
Bus.

   Wren opened her eyes and watched as the tableau unfolded. The student was already nearing the other end of the crosswalk, still texting, and the bus was barreling forward toward him. Then there was a moment of recognition and the young man dropped his phone, blinking confusedly. His head shot up and he swiveled around in time to stumble backwards into the street. A barrage of honking followed as the cars in the intersection swerved. Wildly, the student scrambled backwards as the bus crawled to a stop, sticking out into the intersection by a car length. Several people pulled the young man up out of the road as the light flashed green and the world moved on.

   Wren, her head reeling, as images and words coursed through it, hurried around the corner, afraid of something she couldn't define. Her brain roiled in the turmoil of the young man's mind as her being drifted through his. For a moment she felt as if she was standing in a theater watching a performance. She closed her eyes and saw a smiling woman with black hair: his mother. And she saw a whiteboard and a professor and another whiteboard and then suddenly there was Malchioveli, teaching. And images of Montgomery Hall. Then a fairground somewhere in the middle of a small down, Tennessee. He was from Tennessee. She saw a swimming pool and sudden fear gripped her as she realized that she couldn't breathe. She was drowning in his memory, but it passed in a flash as suddenly as it had come. In that moment, before she opened her eyes, she heard him speak.

   Who are you? 

   Before she could stop herself, Wren heard her own voice echo back.

  Wren. 

  Panicking, Wren tore open her eyes, breaking the connection somehow. She could still hear his thoughts, and knew that she had to run. She broke off in the direction of the campus, her breath coming in heavy rasps, thick and terrifying as the memory of drowning lingered in her mind. She ran as fast as she could, sneakers pounding on the pavement. She was too afraid to look back for fear he'd be following.
  Although her first attempt at a two-sided telepathic conversation had been a success, her secret wasn't totally secret anymore.
  He knew.