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.