Ashley's Creative Writing

I just want to tell everyone something....

2008-11-04T11:55:00.002-05:00

To all the seniors:

No matter what your heart is set on to do in your future, don't be afraid to change it.

Ten Reasons for School IDs

2008-05-08T12:40:00.002-04:00

10. They give you more learning capability.
They help you learn to read, and when you can read them, you can read anything.

9. They give you self esteem.
When you are having a low self esteem day, you can look down and see you still exist.

8. They help you to remember your name.
Just in case you forget what you have been called since birth.

7. They bring equality to the school.
When you wear them, students and teachers are equal. They are our school uniform.

6. They are the perfect accessory.
Its colorful photograph makes it match any outfit.

5. They are recyclable.
Use them through out your high school years, no one really checks the year on them anyway.

4. They make a great cheat sheet.
The blank white of the back works perfect for writing answers on; just don’t get caught. :-) And if someone happens to notice you, just tell them you forgot your name. (see reason 8)

3. They help protect from any illness, including Staph Infection and STDs.
The plastic contains a natural remedy to keep you perfectly healthy so you will never miss a day of school.

2. It helps people to know that you belong here.
You know, like when your teacher asks you in April if you belong here because they haven’t seen you every day since September.

AND THE NUMBER ONE REASON FOR HAVING SCHOOL IDS

1. They protect you from bullets, bombs, and child molesters.
The plastic of the ID will create a force field, which, in the event you are threatened by any or all of these occurrences, will create a barrier ten feet away from you to keep you safe.

A Comfort Place

2008-04-03T12:37:00.000-04:00

The moment you step into the deep blue of the room, the scent of boy mixed with dragon’s blood incense tickles your nose into a smile. Dragon statues stare down from every angle, watching each movement in the room. The light brown desk sites beside the bright white door, small lamps and dragons lining one side, while a computer sits along the next wall. Settled into the corner beside a lamp sits a chess set, simply collecting dust next to the computer. A knife sits beside a speaker while six photos hang in the small arch above the silver monitor. On the shelf sits CD’s as well as a birthday gift of three small dragon statues, hear, see, and speak no evil, all guarded by a miniature Goofy figurine, ready to fight. The highest tier of the desk is home to more dragons, all beside a TV which matches the computer.
Beside the corner desk, a small darker wood bookshelf sits, one of three in the room. This is home to the DirecTV box, Play Station 2, assorted videogames, and collage books. In the corner next door sits the closet, a similar white door to the entry, trimmed in brown.
Turn the corner and there sits the empty white dresser beneath a large window. An oversized, leopard print lamp stands awkwardly sits in the corner, as though trying to hide how it doesn’t match the rest of the room. Beside the lamp, two swords as simple decorations take up the space atop the dresser.
The bed lays beside the dressers, on the last of the four walls. The marble blue sheets and pillows are all that sit neatly; the navy blue velvet blanket, graduation blanket, and home-knit rainbow blanket pile around a stuffed dog and Beanie Baby leopard in the center of the bed. Beside the bed sit two more bookshelves, identical to that which houses his electronics, though these are full of DVD’s and books. A clock which shouts the time in red sits atop the nearest of the two to his bed, his main way of knowing the time. Hanging above the bookshelves is a large pirate flag, recently dug from the depths of his closet. Somehow, this once messy room always comforts me.

Characters

2008-03-19T12:31:00.000-04:00

Each star (*) is a new character thing....
----

*He sits hidden from the sunlight, yet still partly in it; an attempt to be comfortable but not fall asleep, and if he does fall asleep, it wouldn’t be the first time. His dark brown hair is in its typical ponytail rather than falling just below his shoulders where it naturally lays. The black sweatshirt that he always carries is around his waist where he sits. I still have no idea why he carries it, it could be three degrees out and he would ask for an open window. He practically generates heat. It’s a beautiful day out, and he’s not off to stock shelves after school, instead he will probably be found in the two acre year, sword in hand, being his typical show-off self. But then, I’ve always call him a show off, simply because he does things I never could, things years of practice taught him. Or, maybe he won’t even have the sword, but instead will venture into the trees in the yard and start up his photography again.
He sits there, carrying a middle name he despises and a mother he jokingly calls dad; if you ever see her you will learn why. Being the youngest and only son, he’s used to torture and makeup, and has even been known to put eyeliner on himself. His Joker Rose tattoo carries a story of brotherhood, and in it’s year on his arm, has seen breakups, arguments, and ink from his baby sister’s pen. And now, it is watching a silent classroom and a nap in the sun.

* For the longest time, all most of us knew was Brian had finally met someone. Finally. No name, no age, for a day or two we didn’t even know if it was a he or a she. Then, I at least, started to feel like a stalker. Still nameless, I learned she held the same twenty six years as he did. I saw a photo of her next. She is tiny. In the photo, her brown hair was pulled back, so I still have no idea how long it is. She was pail and fragile looking; the explanation for this came later, when I added that she has a three year old son to my list of knowledge. Slowly, I learned more about her. Her father lives in Florida, her son is a typical three year old, and then suddenly, she and Brian are engaged, how long have we known about her? She visited her father recently, who she hadn’t seen in, seven I believe, years. She has sunburn now. See? Stalker.

*He lays curled into the blankets of my bed, asleep as usual before going to work. His blonde ponytail falls neatly to his mid-back. Somehow, his sleep is motionless and peaceful after a hectic day. His glasses, which typically sit before his grey-blue eyes, sit carefully on his laptop while he rests. Two earrings sit on his right ear and a single bracelet on his left. My necklace is visible above his dark-grey shirt. A single foot is visible beneath the blue blanket; while sock bight against the black quilt he lay atop. His newly-added tattoo is visible at the base of this neck, his Pisces symbol surrounded by Celtic knots dark against his light skin. His angelic sleeping form gives the illusion he was a quiet-mannered shy, young man of twenty. I had learned that he was quite the opposite after getting to know him. His shy manner would show only the first time or two meeting someone, and then the fun-loving side would emerge. He had grown much since I met him, his childish-yet-too-adult manor had both matured and balanced; letting the child out when right, but still being his age.

*She rolled out of bed, well actually, it was more like a crawl, at six am bringing one side of her body over the other took too much effort. She threw her arm out and hit the button on her alarm to turn off the screech of music before it woke anyone else. Her face fell into the pillow as she lost the battle to hold herself up with one arm. She detangled herself from the blankets and fell with a thud to the floor in the process. She let out a curse of pain as her head hit the wood bed frame, knocking her dizzy for a moment. She pulled herself up and grabbed the first peace of clothing from the pile beside her closet she found. She smelt it, and after deciding it didn’t smell too badly, dubbed it clean, took the t-shirt she wore off, and pulled it over her head. She pulled a pair of jeans off the couch nearby and pulled them on, her pajama pants had been kicked off at some point that night, as usual. She then turned on the light above her head and looked at herself in the mirror. As she ran her fingers though her long blonde hair, she assessed the damage. Her shirt was a generic tank top. The once purple fabric was not faded to almost lilac. Her jeans had been tie-dyed from all the marker and paint stains. She shrugged. “Good enough for me,” she mumbled as she left the room.

*“Where the hell have you been?!” I shouted at the being standing before me. She interrupted my work, or attempt at work anyway, blinding me when she entered my attic workroom. I knew who she was instantly, because she hadn’t been around in days, and as soon as she arrived I felt a rush of creativity.
“Sorry,” she squeaked as she child began to play with her knee-length silver hair, twirling it nervously through her fingers. Her silver eyes dropped to the floor, as though inspecting her long light-blue dress. I rolled my eyes and returned to work. Who could stay angry at their muse when there was work to get done?

*She found her way, once again, onto the stage, the soft shoes on her feet not breaking the silence of the room. Her long auburn hair falls freely to her mid-back, held away from her face by a simple diamond clip above her left ear. Her knee-length danced around her legs as she made her way to her partner; rhinestones set in deep red glistening with every step. She reaches him and in that instant the music starts, and the couple flawlessly begins their well rehearsed routine.

Look Around

2008-03-14T08:45:00.000-04:00

Look Around
By: Ashley Green
WARNING: Some may take offense in reading any or all of this paper.
Sit in the cafeteria one day and look around. I’m sure you will automatically find the cliques sitting in the room. Really, it’s not too hard to do.
The black clothed goth-emo-90’s punk-scene kids sit in the nearby corner, as though trying to hide in the shadows away from the world. They are all similar, same dark clothes, makeup, and nails, and may well just all be called goth, because they will simply tell you they are something else; though they all look the same.
The druggies, most of who have been convicted of at least one crime, sit in the corner along the same wall as the goth group. They are too ‘far out’ so notice anything else going on around them, or how far away from them everyone pushes themselves, as though they will catch a disease.
The third corner of the room is occupied by the pimple-faced nerds, Dungeons and Dragons books open, all searching for the perfect way to level up, or talking about the newest videogame that has come out and arguing over who beat it first.
The nerds are sure that their corner never overflows into the nearby preps table, where the boys sit with collared shirts and the girls wear their hundred and ten dollar boots, perfect hair, flawless makeup which they are needlessly touching up for the fifth time today. The boys are talking about who is the hottest girl in school while the girls are planning whose car would look best to take to the football game tonight, being played by the boys two rows over, the jocks.
The jocks sit there, ruling the school in the center of the room, wearing their football jerseys or their varsity jacket. This is where all the ‘star’ athletes congregate; the captain of the basketball team, the all-star swimmer, the champion wrestler, and the fastest runner. The jocks not only are school-sports kids, but they spent all non-school time in sports that the school doesn’t offer; lacrosse, volleyball, hockey, etc. You name it, they play it. They laugh and joke, occasionally glancing to the table next to theirs, where the cheerleaders sit.
The cheerleaders watch the room, the queens of the land we call school. They are almost indistinguishable from the preps on a normal day, but today their long hair is pulled up, matching, of course, and they are all in their uniforms. There is a game tonight, what else would they be wearing? Anything they don’t like is laugh worthy, or simply not worth talking to.
Just down the row from them, the theater and arts students stake clams to the table. This is the most diverse group in the room. Here, the musicians, artists, singers, painters, and actors sit to eat on the rare occasion that they are in the room, with practices and just the right inspiration they venture off to their classrooms to continue their work though lunch.
Between the preps and the jocks sit a small group who can go by no name other than grade lovers. These grade lovers are the kids who think that an 85 is horrible, and forget an 80, it’s beneath them. They are the kids who have everything done the day it is assigned, who have never handed in a late paper, never missed a homework assignment, who obsess over a test until long after it has been taken.
And then, in the last open space in the room, in the farthest corner from the door where you stand, sit the quiet kids. The teacher’s favorite students, the ones who sit silent in the back row of class, get decent but not perfect grades, have a small group of friends, and have never been in trouble. They tend to fall victim to the jokes of the center-of-the-room crowd (the preps, jocks, cheerleaders, and even a few arts students), because of their year-out-of-date-clothes or quite attitude, but they are too passive to fight them about it.
Now, take a good, close look at these groups. What about the jock who loves videogames? Or the prep who would rather wear black and hide away? And don’t forget the cheerleader who draws behind everyone else’s backs? Oh, and there is the druggie who wants to play football, and the nerd who has the flawless makeup and hair. And then the quiet kids, who do non-school sports, them too. Where do they go?
Mix everyone together now and put them where they really belong. Go ahead, it’s okay. The cheerleader sitting next to the nerd won’t die, and the jock who touched the quiet kid won’t become mute, the prep who is between two druggies didn’t get a disease. Now, that’s better, everyone is where they should really be. Wait, that just made the cafeteria one big mass didn’t it? Exactlly.

Bedtime Whispers

2008-03-06T11:10:00.001-05:00

He stepped over the stones littering the ground as he neared her bedroom. The moon rose above the trees as he stepped into the building and placed roses beside her. “Happy Valentines Day baby,” he whispered to her sleeping form. He gently kissed the stone bed in which she lay. “I miss you.”

Red Speckles

2008-03-06T11:09:00.001-05:00

She watched the deep red dot sit on her finger and looked once again at the building covered in similar speckles. A tear fell from the child’s eye as the dot left her finger. The little girl whispered, “Go on mister ladybug, go and join your friends.”

I Am From Life (FINAL, COMPLEATE, REVISED, AND ADDED TO!)

2008-02-28T12:40:00.002-05:00

I Am From Life
-Ashley Green

I am from long summer nights; lying in the sand;
Watching fireworks over the motionless water;
Games of Frisbee played on the hot asphalt road;
Until well after dark;
Lying on the grassy hill with neighbors watching the sun set,
Turning the sky pinks and purples.

I am from the tears of leaving one home for another,
Never to return;
The loneliness of a new school,
And not knowing where to go;
The fear of a new start,
Alone and outcasted;
The pain on not being accepted.

I am from the sounds of live music
In a small overcrowded theater;
The long bike rides with a close friend,
Never knowing when to return home;
A sleigh ride in a neighbor’s yard,
On a long awaited snow day.

I am from the tears of lost loved ones,
Friends and family alike;
Arguments between us,
Some never resolved;
The scars left in painful times,
Some of which still surface;
Grudges held with no real reason,
Causing bonds never to be made.

I am from the connections made,
Through opening up for a day;
People to lean on in hard times,
Through simply knowing their ‘brother;’
A big sister and big brother,
A close relationship with each;
Stuffed friends to cuddle with,
Because they never get angry at you.

I am from the forgiveness of mistakes;
Second chances,
both given and received;
Secrets kept between us,
Two people who are sisters in everything but blood.
Nights spent on movie marathons,
Broadway plays, horror films, and chick flicks.
I am from childish tendencies,
Things like coloring and legos;
Boyish attitudes,
Desires to do things like hike and run free;
Adult advice,
Give on relationships and school.

I am from secret crushes kept silent inside;
Open love, admitted at just the right moment;
Moments spent alone, happy, calm.

I am from everything I have been through;
Every thought;
Every feeling;
Every smile;
Every tear.

I am from Life.

A Warm Place

2008-02-28T12:39:00.000-05:00

Curl into pillows
Piled on the floor.
The late winter sun
Falls across your body,
Blanketing you in warmth.
The sun falls in the sky
As daydreams drift into a deeper sleep.
You begin to stir
As the blanket is pulled
From your body.
Awake,
To find the afternoon sun
Has fallen into pinks and purples
Painting a winter sky.

She Flies

2008-02-20T12:30:00.001-05:00

She Flies
By: Ashley Green

Fly.
Away from oppression,
Away from pain,
Away from the world.
She flies free,
High above the pain
A speck of silver
Glittering on the blue sky.
Her dress flows
To become a lake
Dancing around her
Making her the bird
Everyone wishes to be.

Alone and Angry

2008-02-20T12:29:00.000-05:00

Alone and Angry
By: Ashley Green

Glowing with hatred,
Rage sits alone
Red faced,
Torn clothes,
Everyone has run from him,
Fearing for their lives.
No friends.
No family.
He sits,
Hot tempered
Alone in the destroyed room
Looking for the next thing
To turn his anger on

Orion in December

2008-02-07T12:27:00.000-05:00

Orion in December
By Ashley Green
Based on a Watercolor Painting
by Charles Burchfield

Stars look down
Through falling snow
Watching leafless trees
As they hide sleeping animals.
He watches as well,
His belt all that is easily seen.
His place as a hunter,
And his tragic story
Well known by the sleepers.
His story passed through generations.
He watches as a warrior
To keep their sleeping families safe
On any lonely winter night.

(Orion in December by Charles Burchfield)

Emonerdysexyness

2008-02-06T11:07:00.000-05:00

‘Emonerdysexyness’
By: Ashley Green
Looking back, I really have no idea why I was so nervous that night. It really was no big deal, but still I made it out to be one. Yes me; the one who will roll out of bed to go to school, the one who never cared what she looked like, the one who thought appearance was the last thing someone should be attracted to. I spent two hours getting ready that night. Two hours. What happened to me?
It was a warm September Friday night, the first week of the new school year. For once, I had plans. And even less likely in my often boring life, I was both nervous and excited about those plans. The two hours I had spent ‘prepping’ for the evening seemed like so much less, and, yet, it was still barely enough time. My nails had been painted the day before, a small sign of my desire to look perfect, especially considering how rarely I painted them. And then, to make it even stranger, I was in heels. I mean, I love dressing up, but I NEVER wear heels with blue jeans, let alone out somewhere they were not required. But I knew he was five foot eleven inches, and my measly five foot four inches would not suffice. So my long dark-blue, perfect-fit jeans were complimented by the four inch sandal-heels I had bought for my Tennessee trip the previous summer. I grabbed my favorite black lace tank-top out of my closet and pulled it on as my cell phone beeped at me; a text message from one of my friends who had set this whole event up. “On my way” was all the message said.
“Great…” I mumbled into the empty house. I dropped the phone into my purse with a heavy sigh. That meant I had twenty minutes, at most, to finish getting ready. I grabbed my makeup out of the drawer, laughing slightly at the fact the eyeliner was still in its store wrappings. I had bought it two months earlier ‘just in case.’ Carefully, I began the precise art of makeup application as my flat iron warmed itself. I know my hair is naturally straight; but that single wave in my hair needed to be gone. That, and straightening my hair had a habit of bringing the red dye in my hair to its brightest color. Once the eyeliner and silver-grey eye shadow was perfect, I ran the iron through my hair, slipped the long silver earrings into my first hole, and looked at myself in my mother’s full length mirror. Perfect myspace picture. I giggled to myself as I heard a car horn outside. I ran into my room, as best I could in heels, threw my makeup into my purse (because I knew I would touch it up at least twice) and left.
Once I sat in the blonde’s car, my nerves grew even more. “Can you tell I’m trying?” I asked her, even before hello.
“You look fine,” She replied simply, and pulled out of my driveway.
***
The next two hours became a blur. I know we returned to Michelle, the blonde’s, house. I went on her computer to find a message from him, the third I had ever received, complete with his phone number. Michelle’s friend / date for the night, Justin, showed up; Steph, the other culprit in this set up, and her boyfriend Joe were running a little late, but arrived soon enough, and we left to go see our undecided movie. We were all driven down to Rockaway Theater by the would-be-racecar driver Joe, who came complete with mumblings to other drivers and all.
The loud car ride at 75 mph down Route 15 got my mind off my nerves, until, he called Joe, or maybe Joe called him; but either way, he was definitely on the phone with the madman behind the wheel. My nerves jumped back; here I was, 10 minutes from meeting my blind date. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. It helped just enough to put the nervous, shy part of me aside, and remind me I needed to be myself.
As we pulled into the parking lot, excitement filled me. We left the car and began to walk toward the mass of people at the theater entrance. My eyes scanned the crowd as I looked looking for the long blonde hair and glasses he possessed. I had seen a picture of him, and dubbed him ‘emonerdysexyness’ in conversation with my friends.
Suddenly, with an almost vampire-like speed, he was beside me. “Hey,” he said to the mostly unfamiliar group.
Everyone replied with their hellos and introductions. I waited until last, and waved, slightly awkward. “I’m Ashley.”
He smiled with a similarly anxious look. He quickly scanned my appearance before replying, “I’m Bill.”
I grinned. “I figured,” I responded, causing him to smirk. I vaguely recognized him from somewhere at the start, yet it would be two months before I learned where; he had been the boy, five years earlier, who I had seen and thought was cute at the roller rink. He was also the boy at Hobby Town I found adorable when there with my mother one day. Weird huh?
Once in the theater, the group stopped. “So what are we seeing?” Steph asked us.
We all glanced up at the movie listings. “Halloween?” Joe suggested.
I sighed. I had expected that suggestion from someone. “Sixteen,” I said bluntly, pointing at Justin and then myself. “R means 17, and they ID everyone.”
The argument endured for a few minutes, a jumbled mess in the already loud room, before The Simpsons Movie was decided upon, and we finally got in line. “I’ll get your ticket,” Bill told me as we neared the front of the line.
“Are you sure?” I asked. I have always hated when people do that, well had always hated until just after that night, when I learned it wasn’t worth arguing it anymore.
“Of course,” he replied as we became next in line.
I smiled. For some reason, I didn’t argue as I normally would have.
The tickets were bought, the theater was found, and I sat contently between Bill and Michelle, hoping silently he would put his arm around me, or move to hold my hand. He now says he wanted to, but he never did.
***
After passing in nothing more than a blur, the movie ended near midnight, and we left the theater. Steph turned to me. “Is it okay if Bill takes you home?” She asked.
He looked at me from his place at my side, as though hoping I would say yes.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” I replied. Anything not to be in the racecar again. And I was desperate to spend more time with the older blonde.
“I’m parked over here,” he replied, a hint of excitement in his voice as he motioned to a nearby row of cars. We broke off from the group and walked where he led.
I half followed him to the dark colored Honda, and he held the passenger door open for me. This was another thing I would typically argue with, but had no desire to. He was so cute as he did it, and looked so happy about being able to, I didn’t want to shatter that. He rounded the car and took the driver’s seat. “You want ice cream?” He asked as he started the car.
“Actually, yes please,” I replied, suddenly craving the sweet.
“Okay,” he said as he pulled out of the space and headed back toward Route 15. We talked about simple things, like our shared taste in movies and music. He sighed as we approached Jefferson Dairy. “It’s closed,” he said, disappointed.
“That’s okay,” I replied as we continued straight into an area I thought I knew. That thought turned out to be wrong, and made us both lost. We followed the unknown road, not really caring that we didn’t even have the slightest idea where we were. We were having fun just talking. Unfortunately, he took a random turn that brought us back to Route 15 by sheer dumb luck. I directed him back to my house, with a bit of disappointment that the night was coming to a close. I hadn’t had that much fun in years, literally.
“I’ll talk to you in the morning?” I asked, hoping, as we turned into my driveway.
“I hope so,” he replied as he stopped the car.
I smiled, and he did the same. “Good night,” I said, reluctantly opening the car door and stepping out.
“Good night,” he replied, his voice full of warmth.
I smiled again as I let myself into my house. Little did I know at the end of that night, or early that morning (it was 1:30 when I finally got home), I found it impossible to wait to talk to him, even just hours later. I would give into temptation at 9:00 a.m. after two torturous hours of being awake. After that I would spend nearly every day with him at some point or another.
And now, thinking of it, I still haven’t gotten that ice cream…

Streaming Thoughts on Art

2008-01-18T13:15:00.000-05:00

Streaming Thoughts on Art

When I was six, fine art meant anything from first grade art class that made it onto the fridge, or got an A+ grade, something which was basically handed out. You could draw a tree with stick figure people, ‘V’ shaped birds, and there was an A and a fridge worthy drawing. And then art class turned from drawing to pottery, or so they called the clay bowls we made, mixing colors together to make ‘marble’ colors for mom’s kitchen, where the palm sized bowl still holds odds and ends. And there was painting, where smocks of dad’s old shirts were a requirement.
But then, everything changed. The always A work became B; with a try harder note. The stick figure people needed clothing, emotions, and real bodies. The birds needed feathers and bodies. The trees needed leaves. You’re A+ palm sized bowl became a C and ‘bigger next time.’ The marble colors became ‘one color only, please.’ Less work became fridge worthy and A+ ‘Great Work’ and your sloppy name; instead, magnets holding nothing.
I learned that ‘Great Work’ was never really true, and, as years passed, they became less predominant. That jump from first to second grade and beyond made art less fun. My most complex bird is still that ‘V’ in the distance, houses still uneven.
Today, I refuse to take art. I color out of the lines; I make a mess when I paint, still in dad’s old shirts; I draw stick figure people and V birds, but now, never for a grade. For friends instead, to brighten their day with a left-handed, childish, sloppy, uneven house, cloud like tree, stick figure friends, and intentionally misspelled ‘Feel Better’ (Feel Betur) or Happy Birthday (Hapee Birfday). That jump from childhood art many people make to ‘quality’ art never was something I took; and I intend to keep my childish fridge-worthy fine art, ‘V’ shaped birds and all.
Fine art means something different now then it did years ago. Rather than grades or comments, applause grades me. Not one person, many. Fine art is nine months of learning and practice, an hour a week, maybe less. My sport, because yes, my art is also my sport; my sport is practiced only once a week, school weeks only, to have one chance, just one presentation. My art can’t be redone if I don’t like it. Think about that. Think of the time painting and writing is given. Think of my time, less than two days worth of time for me. At least a month for painting, two for writing. My art is counted in hours of practice, not days of work; a single mistake-less performance, graded by applause. And some people say dance isn’t an art.

******

soon to be a Calliope Submission, any comments on it?

Haiku

2007-12-19T12:35:00.000-05:00

Moonwatch
Sit beneath the stars
And watch the moon's movement
Maybe you'll learn something

Autumn's Beauty
Leaves falling from trees
Into blue-green backyard ponds
Colors showing winter soon

Springtime Roses
Roses bloom slowly
Beneath budding willow trees
While the last snow melts

Fire
The orange candel
Flame flickers dangerously
Yet still beautiful

Writing
Words flow together
To form phrases of beauty
Stories we enjoy

Friendship
Fade through time
An unavoidable act yet,
We still want it stopped

2007-12-19T12:21:00.000-05:00

"Carus," He whispered beside her early one morning.
"Mhmm..." She mumbled from her half awake form beside him.
He brushed his fingers over her hair. "Come, I have a surprise for you."
She burried her head farther into his chest, enjoying the warmpth of his embrace, eyes still closed. She could find no more comfortable place than in his arms.
*********
Blah, I may use it in a story, likies?

***Note: Carus is Latin for beloved***

13 Ways of Looking at Beauty

2007-12-04T12:33:00.000-05:00

So I really liked this one, Enjoy.

*******************************************************
13 Ways of Looking at Beauty

I.
A smile across
Some random face
That allows any stranger
To know their happiness

II.
Warmth between
Two young lovers
Visible in their features
When in a tight embrace

III.
Quiet giggles
Of a young child
As a friend searches nearby
But still not close enough

IV.
Trees rustle above
Growing flowers
In the soft summer breeze
Enveloped in silence

V.
Blank paper shouts
To be filled with
Thoughts and art
And a mind races to obey

VI.
A family sits
At the dinner table
Laughing and telling stories
Forgetting the world outside

VII.
Silence fills the room
Just what is needed
As escape from reality
And its stress, work, and people

VIII.
Words pour into poetry
Telling our secret lives
Thoughts and emotions
For all to read

IX.
Old photographs lay
Across the soft floor
Telling stories of years past
Reminding you of each moment

X.
Curl into cotton blankets
Within the warmth of a bed
Or maybe a couch
Head resting upon a feathered pillow

XI.
Makeup colored facts
Of model-like bodies
The stereotype of beauty
Is only skin deep

XII.
The couple lay
Beneath the willow tree
Enjoying their last moments on earth
In one another’s arms

XIII.
Beyond the uneven eyes
And tangled hair
Care and compassion
Lie openly within

*******************************************************
Let me know what you think of it??

Long Goodbyes

2007-11-16T12:30:00.000-05:00

I let my head fall against my hand, trying desperately to keep her eyes open. My normally short attention span was even shorter than usual; at the worst point in the year for such a thing to happen: midterm exams. The night before had been long and painful. I glanced quickly around the silent room; my two classmates who had been with me the night before shared the same tired, worn look as I did myself. I locked eyes with the nearer of the two and he smiled feebly. It comforted me, though only slightly. I looked back to her exam and tried to concentrate; though my mind only kept drifting to the night before.
***
I searched though my closet desperately trying to find something to wear. Everything seemed to happy; to bright. Nothing I could find had just the right combination of dress and dark. I knew I could wear what I had worn last time; but the bright white mocked me; laughing silently at the tearstains down my cheeks and the puffiness of my eyes. Finally, after nearly an hour of searching my house, I settled on a pink and black striped sweater I had found in my mother’s closet; shopping tag still attached. I pulled it over my tight black shirt - a perfect fit. I brushed out my long dark red hair and pulled it into a hairclip, letting the bottommost layers hang freely. I pulled on the high black boots I had so often worn in the past and carefully put on a little makeup; although I knew it would end up off; the moment I saw him I would start crying again.
I walked silently into my living room; my dad already ready to leave. I brushed a tear from my eye as I followed him out to the car.
***
The car ride to the funeral home was near silent; only the sound of the radio could be heard. As we pulled into the parking lot, I glanced up the mountain. The skiers were coming down the hill on the man-made snow. I wondered how anyone could be happy on a day like that.
The parking lot was packed with cars; many of them which I recognized. As we walked into the home, I felt a sudden surge of sadness fall upon me; being there, surrounded by crying faces, all united for the same reason, made it suddenly all become too real; he really was gone.
My father and I took seats near the center of the room with all my friends. We were to join the Elks in the ceremony which was being presented before the funeral. People around the room were talking; yet I could not understand the words. I was in a state of emotional shock.
His casket lay at the front of the crowded room, surrounded by flowers and photographs. She recognized one immediately. It was hung in her bedroom as well; from their Antlers installation nearly two years earlier. Time seemed to slow as out Antlers advisor asked us to go line up in the small lobby. The room we had just left began to fall silent as the High Point Harmonizers began to sing a slow, quiet song. I could not understand the words. The Elks Exalted Ruler asked us to line up behind the many Elks who were there. She explained to us what we were going to be doing; we were to line up along the far wall, near the Harmonizes, as the ceremony was presented. Once it was finished we were to add a leaf to the circle upon his chest which the Elks were to start. She walked down the line, handing us each a small fabric leaf, the kind many people add to home decorations. The fabric felt different than usual, somehow softer.
The Harmonizers fell silent, and the line of Elks and Antlers began to slowly move into the room and toward the casket. I saw him as I passed, he looked so fake, his skin almost grey. He looked many years older then he seemed to act; sometimes, it felt like he was one of us; one of the teens he so often helped.
The Exulted Ruler began her speech, I could not bring myself to listen; I knew it would tell everything about him we loved, but not nearly to the extent it was true. There was no way to tell anyone how we felt about him; no one could ever feel it unless you were one of those he affected. I could hear Ryan crying, Jimmy crying, I turned to look at Jimmy, one of the few people always willing to comfort, I couldn’t ask him for it now; he needed it more than I did. The Harmonizers began to sing again, and I felt the tears I has been trying so hard to push back sting against my eyes. The line of people slowly began to move forward, Elks first, then Antlers following behind. As I neared the casket the tears began to fall from my eyes. I stood in front of it and looked silently in at it; the smile which had so often spread across his face now looked stern and rigid. The circle of leaves lay upon his chest, a symbol of an everlasting life and memory of him within each of them. I lay the small leave into the circle as a tear fell upon it, and followed the rest of the line back into the lobby.
Time blurred together; one second everyone was crying together in the lobby, the next we were outside in the cold January winds. One friend of mine was seated along the wall, outcast from everyone else, tears falling from his eyes; tears I had never seen, never expected from him. Two more were wrapped in each others embrace, using each other as a shoulder to cry upon. The three strongest of my friends, all broken into tears. I felt the familiar sting against the back of my eyes again.
***
I tried top bring my focus back to the test, yet it wouldn’t happen. Time was wearing thin as the tears stung again. I pushed them harshly back; he wouldn’t want me to keep crying; he would want me to take the test. I forced my attention back to it, desperately trying not to let him down.
***
Nothing could have made that day any better; surrounded by the strongest friends I have crying over a single loss. I guess we are all human, we all suffer loss. Everyone suffers loss; it turns even the strongest of people weak and wounded. We are all mortal, and through such, we all suffer.

Angel

2007-11-06T12:42:00.001-05:00

June 30, 2005
11:57 p.m.
She lay on her bed, curled tightly in the blankets, the cell phone close to her ear. She knew what she had to do, she knew what had to happen to stop the hell which she was living in the last few months.
The voice on the other end of the phone was steady with fear. “Honey, you have to tell me what is going on.”
She knew her silence was killing him, the one person who stood by her, every moment she needed him. She took a deep breath, thinking of how to word things. “The way to get rid of him, it’s…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it, not to him, it would kill him, he would break, and she would not be able to complete the task at hand. “You love me right?”
The question startled him yet he answered without hesitation. “I love you more than anyone could ever know. I always will, you know that.” Even at saying those simple sentences, she could hear the tears in his voice.
She did not doubt for a second what he had said. “Hold onto that, I can stop this, and I need your help for it. I need you to hold onto that love. No fear, no tears, no anything but that. Baby, please do that for me.”
“Anything for you.” His voice trembled still. She heard the clock in the next room chime. One.
“No matter what happens,” Two. “Hold onto that.” Three. “Think about only that.” Four. “I or this wont work.” Five. “I love you, o matter what.” Six. “I will always love you.” Seven.
“Baby, what is going on?” Eight.
“I don’t have time to explain.” Nine. “Just promise me you will hold onto that.” Ten.
“I promise.” Eleven. “I love you.”
Twelve.
Silence engulfed them. All that could be heard was his breathing, hers was nonexistent. Fear filled his thoughts for a mere second, before he remembered his promise. “Oh god baby, I love you so much. I really don’t know what I would ever do without you. You are my everything. I could never love anyone this much ever again. I love you…”
He stopped as he heard her coughing. She took a deep breath, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” he told her. “I love you, I cant help that. I love you and I always will.”
She smiled, even though he couldn’t see it.
July 1, 2005
12:02

Game Day

2007-11-06T12:38:00.000-05:00

There is this feeling,
It's floated inside for years.
It will surface,
Take over,
and fall back inside,
laying dormint for a month or two,
then come back,
Forceful as ever.
You play into the game,
That makes it easier.
You only live once,
Make it great,
That's out reason.
I guess it's good,
But bad all the same.
Would you let it be more?
Let it last longer than a month?
I would,
I'd try it,
I want to,
I think it could get somewhere,
Plus,
You only live once...

{I'm bad at titles}

2007-11-06T12:26:00.000-05:00

A dimond glitters
Just beyond my reach
Until I finally grasped it
Claiming it mine.

A soft stuffed-animal
I wasn't allowed to cuttle for years
Until I was finally given permission
I hold it every second I can.

A comfortable place
Locked beyond a door for so long

I found the key
I want to lay there forever.

A feeling inside
Bottled until the perfect moment

And it has now been unleashed.

I Love You

It's really old, but definately needs to be revised, any ideas?

{needs title}

2007-11-03T20:17:00.000-04:00

She sat silently beside the small bed. The bright white of the room made it seem like such a cheerful place to be. Yet, the small room contained all her greatest fears; needles, IV’s, that irritating beep that had to be there, and the one person she loved more than anything, laying, dieing, in that hospital room. She never wanted to have to sit and watch her love suffer knowing that he would just continue to fade into nothing. He was so near that point at that moment, the steady beep of his heart slowly fading by the day, his breathing becoming more and more shallow. She had sat in that same chair for months, every day, just to spend his last days with him. A tear slid down her face, she knew it could have all been prevented, yet she had kept silent, and let him gain that horrid disease he now lay dieing from. She gently touched a large tattoo on his skin, and thought about how that simple piece of art could start something this horrific.
***
The streets were too crowded, but to the young couple it didn’t matter; they were living their dream: New Year’s Eve in New York City. He wrapped his arms around her back; so much had happened over the last year, so many fights and hardships with money and family; the New Year would be much better, he promised himself that. Their wedding was just months away, and neither of them could be happier. He slipped his hand quickly into his jacket pocket to be sure that the little slip of paper was there. He had drawn it months earlier, even before their engagement; and that night, it was being put permanently with him. The sketched angel, and animated version of his fiancé, was being tattooed on his upper arm. He had found a tattoo parlor open all night, and after the infamous ball drop, they were going there.
“Ten…Nine…Eight…Seven…Six…Five…Four…Three…Two…One…Happy New Year!” The crowd rang with the sound of celebration, a welcome to 1990. He pulled her close and kissed her.
***
The crowd began to slowly thin as they made their way toward a dark street. Snow began to lightly fall into the blackness of the alleyway. He wrapped his arm over her shoulder as they walked, slowly nearing the red neon sigh that screamed “Tattoo” into the night. There was a sudden nervous flutter in her stomach, but she kept silent; who wouldn’t be nervous about someone they love having needles stuck into them?
They entered the bedroom-sized shop and she hated what she saw. Unpackaged needles covered a small countertop along the opposite wall, along with open ink bottles and bloody rags. A few chairs were sat near the door, she assumed for people like her, too nervous to get a tattoo, but still willing to come with a friend. A single black chair sat near the counter, and beside it stood a perfect stereotype of a tattoo artist. Barley any of his arms were visible skin, but instead they were multicolor murals that could easily tell a novel.
He showed the artist the drawing, and the artist nodded in response, motioning for him to take a seat in the black chair. He sat and the artist began to search through the piles on the counter. She watched as the pulled a needle from the counter and raised it into the light, making sure the coloring on the end was black, just as her fiancé wanted it. The artist rinsed the needle under water, she assumed to clean it, and began. She sat in the chair nearest the door, the nervous flutter still in her stomach through the entire event.
***
As she sat beside the hospital bed, she thought about that day. She knew now why she had felt those nervous butterflies; the needle had been dirty, and not the typical ‘just some dirt’ dirty. The kind of dirty that held disease.
That day almost three years earlier was what had placed her beside his bed the night. She carefully brought his hand to her lips and softly brushed her lips against the gold band which circled his finger, “Forever” and their wedding date were engraved onto the inner of the band, just as it was on hers. The happiness that should have been their honeymoon had instead been full of tests and doctor’s visits. The forever that they had promised has become less than three years. The steady beep that had become his lifeline was fading faster, farther apart. She began to cry again. It seem to her like that was all she had been doing lately, crying. She wished he could come out of the disease. She wished she could see his green eyes again, hear the soft whisper of his voice again, feel the warmth of this embrace as she fell asleep one last time.
The soft beep of his life faded into nothing. She sat there, beside the body, all that was left of her love, and cried. She vowed that the empty space in her heart left by him would never be filled. She would never even try to replace him. She hoped she would soon die of the same disease that had killed him. The HIV that he had given to her, his had turned so quickly into AIDS, and she hoped that it would soon do the same for her. She hoped she could soon be laying in that bed, waiting to join him in their deaths.

Murder Perfection

2007-10-29T12:52:00.001-04:00

Drag your thoughts,
From that silent mind,
And make your paper sing.
Paint the words,
Into your story,
Your memories.
Don’t look back,
Just write.
Tear the silence of a shy paper,
Let it shout.
Let it tell lies,
Add what is unneeded.
Forget to add,
That last bit of description,
And murder the perfection,
For which we all strive.

Say Something Nice for Me

2007-10-29T12:51:00.000-04:00

You’re a mistake,
You’re worthless,
Because that’s all your parents tell you.
You’re too skinny,
You’re too fat,
Because he thinks somehow you can be both at once.
You’re just a problem,
You don’t deserve life,
Because even ‘friends’ can’t give you a break.
You just want to fall,
You just want to cry,
Because that’s all you ever hear.
You feel like what they tell you,
You feel like a mistake,
You feel ugly,
You feel like you don’t disserve to live.

All simply because no one could say something nice about you.

Welcome to This World

2007-10-29T12:49:00.000-04:00

Suffocating in this asylum
Where every pebble built into this stone structure trembles with fear.
The mirror assigned to watch my every move looks for any excuse to leave.
The familiar fragrance of fresh blood floats into the room.
Another murder within these cold walls.
I wonder how it happened.
Did he do it to himself?
Or was it done, once again, by his peers?
They happen so often that every mirror fears life here.
Because one day,
They may become witness to one.