2.13.14.

“Afternoon.” He said casually, walking into Bergman’s on a rainy afternoon.

“Afternoon.” I replied, just as casually. Then I returned to my magazine and he set his attention on his shopping. After a while I noticed something was off.

“Excuse me?” He said, nervously.

“Yes?” I answered, equally nervously.

“I wonder if you’d mind coming outside.” He said, very softly.

To which I silently responded. I stood. I walked outside, and he followed me. I left Bergman’s and I left the cash register and I left the 8.80 per hour paycheck that was coming to me and I left my magazine.

“Here, get inside.” He commanded gently, pulling open the door to the black sedan parked at the curb. I got inside.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“I have to.” He said. Lowering the gun, he slid into the passenger seat up front and the driver started forward. The zip, zip swoosh of tire spinning on wet pavement trilled beneath the car and I held my breath.

“Where are we going?” I asked quietly.

“Please don’t ask that.” He answered quietly.

“Alright.”

When he left me, I could tell he was sorry. And that almost made up for it. But not quite.

2.12.14.

Writing secrets stuffs. *Cue dramatic music.*
Here's a poem.

If this is the beginning

Then let the light come in

If this is to end in 

Darkness and Fire 

Then let my soul cry out before 

Such a destiny befalls

For I know 

Inside

You're love won't ever leave me

Even when the darkness 

Closes in around 

I'm free 

Fear has no power over me

Child of Light

Come follow in the footsteps 

Along this sandy shore

Even if this world falls away before me

You and I 

Will still be safe and sound

With the waves all around

We will walk

And follow the sound

Of His voice 

2.11.14 A Week of Years has Come and Gone

I love this day because on this day, someone I love was born. 

I loathe this day because on this day, someone I love was gone. 

I love this day because both are beautiful. 

I loathe this day because on it, I lost the peace of childhood. 

I love this day because on it, I gained wisdom. 

I loathe this day because on it, I fell apart. 

I love this day because on it, God put me back together. 

I loathe this day because it makes me remember. 

I love this day because it makes me hope. 

Who I was is gone from me 

Who I am I do not know

Who I can be, though

That is who you were

Pocket Tale

"If you can guess what I have in my pocket, you can have it." He said, his eyes narrowing in a challenge that tried too hard to be mysterious, and failed miserably.  

"I'm lost." I answered, frowning with my eyes downcast. "I haven't got time for guessing games." 

But my new friend wouldn't be put off. He gave a cackling laugh that ended in a violent wheeze. 

"Life is a guessing game, and being lost is the biggest leap of all. Sooner or later you'll have to guess where to go and what your destination will get you." He said emphatically, and for the first time I stopped fumbling with my map and looked up at him. His eyes were blue like mine and just as deep. The blueness in his called out to the blueness within me, and somehow I felt a friendship spring up inside, in spite of my reluctance. We were the same, he and I. 

"Alright," I said, laying aside my useless map and all my reservations. "You say you'll give it to me if I guess?" 

"If you guess right." He corrected with a rather aloof grin. The grin was missing a few teeth, but the fact didn't dim his smile or his apparent eagerness to begin the game. 

"What makes you think I'd want it, whatever it is?" I asked. 

"You will." He assured me, beaming brightly. 

"Something a traveler would want, then." I surmised. He looked impressed. 

"Very good." 

I met his grin and raised him several teeth. Mine were whiter, because younger teeth have less wear and wisdom alike. A train whistled by outside, and I wondered vaguely where it was headed. 

Aloud I said, "It can't be a map, because I've already got one of those." 

He nodded, apparently pleased that I had eliminated an option. 

"And it can't be a compass, because I've got one of those on my map." I added. 

"Good, good." He said, delighted. 

What else does a traveler want? I thought privately, wondering. 

A suitcase. Absurd. Who could fit one of those in their pocket? What about a ticket? Money? A glorious destination?

I didn’t want any of those things. I wanted to go home.

Home. Of course. All travelers eventually long for home.

Grinning, I realized I knew.

"You've got a key in your pocket," I said. He looked shocked, his eyes popping like tulips breaking open under a sunny sky. 

He extracted the key from his pocket and handed it over, smiling once more. The smile seemed handsomer now, and full of allure. He was handing me a home. 

"Where is the lock that it opens?” I asked, admiring the rather dull metal with its intricate curls and twists, winding into teeth at the tip.

He laughed, that same wheezing chuckle. "Now that's a whole different guessing game, isn't it?"

Snowy day poems

Just a Few Snowy Day Poems 

1.

When you ask me why

I feel my soul unwinding 

When I look out my door

I feel myself recoiling 

There's nothing out there 

For me 

Nothing out there

Not for me 

I'm 

Just

Waiting 

For an adventure 

Worth having 

2. 

The nighttime sky 

is all    a   l   i   g   h  t 

There's   f   i   r  e   everywhere tonight 

Don't look at the stars 

Or you'll    b  u  r  n   like all the rest 

Just close your eyes 

And make one more 

w   i   s   h 

3. 

There's three here tonight 

Four has flown

And one is ready

Two are together 

And two are alone 

Soon the time will come for leaving

And one will fly
Far far
Far from the world of
What might be
Into the world
That is

Wash Away

I can't help wishing that nothing would ever change. But I guess that's just not realistic. Tonight is one of those nights though, when something big just hits you, and you know that it's over and there's nothing you can do to make it last.
Life is like that. I just hate endings, especially when they're not happy. Sometimes I think that's why the stories that touch us most, aren't the fairy tales or the chick-flicks. Those stories aren't real--they lack that earthy quality that makes people think, "This could be me." Because in real life, endings aren't definite and they don't come with cute music and end credits.
They come when a friend moves on, or when you stop texting every week, or when you suddenly realize you don't know what to say, or when it's obvious that you care way more than they do. It's not a happy ending, but it's not a tragedy. It's just life.

Sometimes I think about you and worry. I worry that I'm making the same mistakes, letting people out of my life too quickly, without really thinking much of it, but the thing is, most of the people I let go, don't want to stay. Maybe I'm just being silly, but I don't think I really understand what it is to have a friend, or to be a friend. Family is different. They're supposed to stick around. I've had good friends, great friends even. But I can't help feeling like I must be doing something wrong.

There are all different kinds of lonely. Sometimes sitting in my room all by myself, isn't as lonely as being somewhere surrounded by people who don't understand.

Tonight I guess I'm realizing, you and I haven't really been like we were for a while now, but this just seems like the end of everything. I know you'll say it isn't, and you'll do everything you can to convince me that nothing has changed, but it will happen. Because I'm not your best friend anymore.

You'll always love me, of course, but not in the same way. I'm no longer the one you want to talk to first when you get good news, or when you're mad, or when you're just feeling like laughing. That's okay I guess. It's just another ship sailing away from me. This island keeps getting smaller, and it's becoming harder and harder to watch the sunset knowing I'm the only one.

Poetry

1. 

There you always were 

Standing by, standing smiling 

As I ran my silly soul 

Into a mess of lies 

Lovely little lies 

You never stopped to warn me 

No

And you never looked back 

Not even 

Once 

2. 

Darling angel 

Don't give up

You'll only win if you don't let them know 

Losing isn't in your soul

So keep on running 

Feed on the fire in your pretty heart

Don't fall down in the snow 

Don't let it grow cold 

And don't let them

Know 

3. 

Deep in the heart of the mountains 

There's a song being sung 

Like never before 

They're singing for you

But still you don't come 

Please, why don't you come back

come back home? 

Don't leave us alone 

We're singing for you 

The peace of the great kings 

is gone 

And here we are 

Still singing 

4. 

Remember the way

The water fell down 

Remember the thunder in the sky 

And the rush of the waves 

So many cried out 

So many left alone 

A promise protects us now 

Hope in the sky

The rain still reminds us 

And so does the cold 

Brother don't cry out 

You'll only fall further 

When comes the time 

For you 

Sigh

400 words written today. So tired.

Sooooo bored. Anyone else feel like playing in the snow? (:

2.5.14.

Don't let your pretty mind keep tumbling down that winding road

Your heart, sweetheart, is a lantern 

And your soul is light with hope 

Forever more

You'll see the way they look at you 

And smile

Because you know that the One who loves you

Loves you 

Forever 

And ever

And ever 

Don't cry

You're not going anywhere

And you'll always be

Where you're meant to be 

Even when the darkness closes in around 

There's still 

The sound

Of music in your soul

So sing, sweet melody, sing 

Light the trees 

Light the world

On fire 

You've got every day and the rest of your life

Pretty little mind 

Of mine 

Excerpt from NaNo

He lowered his head, thinking. “What was he like?”

“Austin?”

“Yes.”

“He was adorable. At first all I saw was his charisma and charm. He was very funny and people liked him for it. And I think he liked being a comedian, but deep down inside he was really just a shy little boy trying to figure out who he was supposed to be, and how he was going to fit into the world. Beneath the surface, Austin was very sweet.”

“Did he leave a note when he died?”

“Yes. His mother gave it to me. She said she couldn’t stand to read it and thought that maybe he’d want me to have it, since part of it was addressed to me. But I never read it either.” She looked down, shame evident on her face. “I couldn’t. But I saved it for years. Every so often I’d I pull it out and stare at, wondering. But I never had the courage to open it, so finally it made me so sick that I went out and buried it in a box at my parents’ house. It’s still there as far as I know, in that box in on the east side of the back yard, under my tree. I couldn’t open it.” She pressed her hands up against her face, feeling its warmth against her palms.

 “So that’s why, I guess. Why I’ve wanted to make a difference. Why I love writing. All of my life people have been telling me that the world is bad and that people are bad and there’s no hope for humanity. And people accept it. They seem to want to believe that there’s nothing anyone can do, and we’re all just doomed to live lives of ignorance, arrogance, and indulgence. It seems like everyone is out there to prove it to me, and convince me that no one can do anything to change the way things are. It’s like there’s no one left out there who makes the right choice. That’s why I knew—when I first heard your story David—I knew I wanted to write it.” She summoned her courage and looked up at him, her voice growing steady with the need to speak. “Because you did the right thing. That day, you showed me that there was a chance. You could have killed him right then and there and he would have deserved it too, at least, by most people’s standards. But you didn’t. Something about that gave me hope that maybe someone else in the world was trying to do the right thing too, even when the right thing feels wrong. You had your chance to get revenge but you let it pass. Why?”

His dark brows narrowed thoughtfully. It was a long time before he spoke, and for a few moments they sat there together in silence. Gracie watched him, his hands pressed together and his brows knit in thought. His voice was calm when he finally answered her.

“I s’pose because of what you said.” He replied slowly, choosing his words like carefully balanced stepping stones. The soft deepness of his voice relaxed her and she listened intently, feeling the pain ease inside as his words washed over her. “The world already has enough bad things in it, ruining it and eating away at it. Those things poison everything that is good and true and beautiful.” He paused, as the radio trilled whisperingly through their thoughts.  Continuing, David went on, with that easy steadiness that Gracie had come to love.

“It’s true I was angry that day. Maybe more angry even than when she’d died. Anger grows, you know.” He paused and cleared his throat. “But compassion is the only satisfying substitute for anger, Gracie. It was Lucy’s compassion and her love that reminded me of exactly what you just said. Everywhere in the world there are always going to be people like him, causing bad things to happen and taking the joy away from other people. And there will also be people like Austin, who allow those bad things to defeat them until they have no hope left.” Surprising her, he took her hand in his and smiled. “But there are also people like Lucy, and people like you. Wonderful people who remind those of us who aren’t sure what to do, that life is still worth living. You remind us that one person’s actions can make a difference. I guess that’s why I didn’t act on my anger. Because in that moment looking down at him, I had a choice to make: become like him, or become like you. I’m glad I made the choice I did. As you said: at the time it would have felt like the right thing to do, but it wasn’t. And I’d have regretted it forever.” He smiled. “So thank you. Thank you for being who you are Gracie Allen. Don’t ever stop hoping.” He brushed a strand of dark hair out of her face. Gracie closed her eyes. When she spoke her voice was a whisper.

“I love you, David.” 

Snow

More editing today.

Snow. 

Flurries fall in a rush of feathery white

With each flake, I feel a shiver of hope 

Hoping tomorrow will be a winter wonderland 

Freedom. 

Snow. 

2.2.14.

"I need someone who is different. Someone sort of simple perhaps, even bumbling." Colin Latterligt speculated cheerfully, and I could see his eyes roving lovingly over his new creation. "Maybe he'll have adventures with his best friend. And I'll give him a good heart and a kind smile." Latterligt declared happily, his imagination spinning.

"Stop," Mrs. Scott said abruptly. Closing her eyes, she shook her head vigorously in disgust.

"Beg pardon?" Latterligt raised his eyebrows, his pipe suspended in the air. He was so utterly oblivious. I shivered in embarrassment for him.

"You can't let stupidity be your character's differentiating quality." She insisted fervently. I pricked up my ears, so to speak, waiting for the rest of this speech, and surprised that she of all people, was making it.

"Why not?" Latterligt's pleasant face puckered in puzzlement. Clearly, he didn't recognize the woman as his hostess, nor did he want her advice. He was perfectly content to wallow in his mediocrity. Mrs. Scott laughed then, a golden sound that somehow made her seem even richer than before. Her laugh was rich. Her voice was rich. Her clothes were rich.

Her eyes were rich.

In every feature there seemed etched this permanent wealth. She held a sense of secrecy in her expression.

"Because," Mrs. Scott smiled, "It's ludicrous. A stupid person isn't different at all. Look around you Mr. Latterligt. There are idiots everywhere." She chuckled again. "You would be much better off assigning your character additional intelligence, or a physical deformity, if the quality is to be a burden for him. A foolish character is only relatable to the foolish. Bear that in mind." She gave Latterligt a last look and turned down the steps. Intrigued, I screwed up my courage and went after her.

"Miss Scott?" I asked, cringing as my nervous voice betrayed me with a violent crack.

"Mrs. Scott, actually." She said without looking back at me. A waiter passed and she pulled him aside, whispering in his ear. I saw him glance at the far side of the room where a group of older gentlemen were playing billiards and whist. The waiter nodded his head and hurried off. Mrs. Scott continued her clip-clopping waltz through the crowded party hall, waving brightly to a colorful array of characters. I followed bravely, quickening my pace to keep up. It was remarkable, the speed she possessed in such tall shoes.

"Sorry, of course, Mrs." I repeated. There was nothing of the wife about her and I had a hard time associating this vibrant creature with the title without ever having seen or heard of her husband. I cleared my throat this time, in the hopes of avoiding an outright display of my jitters.
 "Mrs. Scott, would you mind telling me a little about yourself?" Even as I spoke the words, I realized how ridiculous they sounded. I was a mouse inquiring of a lioness. I might have as easily asked, "Excuse me, would you mind not eating me alive for at least five minutes?"

Mrs. Scott whirled around, the full force of her eyes gripping me in a paralyzing lock as she surveyed me for the first time. Though I had been standing quite close by as she spoke with poor Latterligt, I knew she hadn't really noticed my existence until this moment. For almost one full minute, I was hers entirely, silently observing as she read me page by page.
Then she spoke:

"Do you know what Giles Corey said when the executioners commanded him to plead either innocent or guilty to practicing witchcraft as they stacked rocks on top of him, stone by stone?" She raised a dark brow, huffing a bit after delivering this sentence all in one breath. Her lips curved, ever so slightly, waiting to know how I would answer, and which part of her head I would be relegated to after I'd given said answer.

"I believe he said, "More weight," Mrs. Scott." I replied. Mrs. Scott smiled.

"Good. Now, first your name. No, first, where would you like to talk? There's always a flock of people gallivanting about the patio and Mr. Scott's den," She waved her hand toward the crowd of her guests, a gesture of annoyance. Trailing off, my companion glanced about that palace as if it was a simple cottage. She was just hunting for a spare corner, as any ordinary housewife might have. "There." She remarked solidly, seeing that the upper deck was nearly empty. I doubted it would be for long once our glamorous hostess had sojourned to it.

We stepped briskly up the stairs, which were neither cement, nor marble, but rather something in between. There was a bench, which was certainly constructed of marble, at the top, and she sat down upon its glassy surface, looking out towards the bay. Unsure of myself, I wished for another bench, at least ten steps away from her.

"So, sit down and do tell me, who is it who wants to know about me this time?" She tipped back her head and laughed again, tickling my senses with the very music of paradise.

2/1/14

“You can’t solve the case, Mr. Verity.” She said suddenly, surprising me. In her eyes there was a certainty of an unbreakable sort. Still, I wasn’t quite convinced. “You can’t solve it, no matter how long you drag this out trying. You’ll never know.”

“I doubt that.” I said, with equal firmness.

“You won’t prove it.” –insistently.

“Miss Popwell, in saying as much, you’ve almost admitted to me that the defendant is innocent, haven’t you?” I asked her, checking my watch. It was too late to meet Mrs. Verity for a late tea, and the realization made me cross.

The woman’s face revealed her nervousness once again, but that same dead certainty hung in her eyes in spite of her pallor and trembling.

“You can’t prove it.” She repeated.

“Even if I can’t, how will you feel?” I conceded, studying her. “Even if I don’t manage to prove Hensley’s innocence. Let’s say he’s hanged. How will you feel?”

She closed her eyes, and I could see the struggle on her face as she tried to stop her imagination from doing as I commanded it. “How will you feel tomorrow for instance, when you read the headlines in black bold on the front of your paper as you’re eating breakfast?”

“I’ll stop my subscription.”

“And what about next month when you continue to get photographers and journalists poking around your house, pestering you with reminders of what you’ve done?”

“My house has curtains, and a lock.”

“And next year, and ten years from now, how will you feel always knowing the truth and knowing you said nothing; well, not even nothing. You’ve lied, Miss Popwell. To me and to the court and to God.”

“God will forgive me.” She said softly. I frowned, surprised by this statement.

“Will He not forgive Mr. Hensley, then?”

“Mr. Hensley is a bad man. He deserves to go to prison more than most people do.”

“Maybe so. But does he deserve to go to death row, for a crime he didn’t commit?” I lit up my cigarette, watching her reaction.

“He’s a bad man.” She said simply. More and more frustrated, I shook my head.

“You may think so, Miss Popwell, but you are not the jury and you are not the judge and you are not God.” I said stiffly, squelching the end of my cig against the ashtray on the desk.

Mary Popwell spoke softly. “God will forgive me.”

1/31/14

"What do you need?" She whispered. "Tell me. I promise, I'll do everything, just tell me what you need me to do."

He shook his head. "You've done everything already."

"I have?" She repeated in surprise.

"Yes. Everything. You can't imagine, but I've seen you all the time, you know. You couldn't have done more."

"But there's something else isn't there? What else do you need?"

"Just for you to sit down and rest." He said, grinning softly. His eyelids fell half shut and their lashes draped gently across the windows to his soul.

Ainsley sat reluctantly, hugging her arms around her shoulders.The quiet troubled her. It was so absolute, as if a reminder of what was coming. Day by day the stillness grew thicker, and she hesitated in her heart, waiting with dread for tomorrow.

As if reading her thoughts, he spoke again, startling her. "Talk to me."

"What should I say?" She asked, smiling weakly.

"Whatever you want." Jim shrugged slightly, even the faint movement causing his head to reel.

"I can't think of anything," Ainsley laughed nervously. But he didn't laugh. Jim's eyes clouded over with frustration.

"Why? You always used to talk," He said, his low voice breaking. "I never used to be able to get you to shut up." He chuckled at the memory. Stabbed with guilt, she tried to laugh too, and failed.

"Well," She began hesitantly. "If I had anything to say I would talk."

"Why don't you nave anything to say anymore?" He looked up at her reproachfully.

"Because," Ainsley replied, anger burning in her chest in spite of her best efforts to squelch it.. "You tell me that the only think I can do is talk, which means soon I will have to talk always again; people will look to me to fill the long silence; it means that soon my voice will be the only one I ever hear. It means that you want me to speak up when I have nothing to say except "I love you," and nothing to feel except pain. You want my words when the only thing I want is to keep hearing your voice."