Friday, October 30, 2009
so, fangs, fur, and fey
Found an interesting looking site today, with a link from Melissa Marr on Twitter-- turns out, if you blog about this contest (http://community.livejournal.com/fangs_fur_fey/503269.html) you get a chance to win a Kindle Reader! or some book money :) whichever-- winning would make me happy! lol
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Thoughts and dreams
I just got back from a church vision meeting thing and was actually really thinking about my future as I listened to this great vision for the future of the church. And as much as I love my glittery, New York dreams, I have a few more domestic ideals too. So a few little known facts about my view of the future:
1. I really want to be married-- I have my standards and I don't have a groom and a wedding all picked out and planned, but I do want a husband and sooner rather than later.
2. I could be happy living in Dallas my whole life. Travel everywhere is still on my agenda, but I would love to settle down in Mansfield or somewhere close, maybe even work at a school.
3. I don't hate kids. I may have a few of my own someday. While I am in no hurry to be "Mommy," I also feel a call to help kids, especially ones that don't get that much from their own parents. I could even teach someday. Maybe. If God led me there and gave me the patience.
4. I want to be a home-maker, house-wife, whatever. If I have kids, I would like to be able to spend my days cooking and cleaning and maybe going to a karate class and keeping the house in the manner that I like to live in. This would also be conductive to Writing. Even without kids, I would like to be the little wife that stays home and writes while her husband is at work.
5. I still want to act. Whatever I do, where ever I go, I will have to find a stage-- even if it's rinky-dink community theater. But Acting is not near as important to me as Writing. So yeah.
I could happily live as a home-maker, writing for someone (fiction publisher?) and keeping the home, my garden, and my bees. I don't want to do this in heels and pearls (Mrs.T *cough* lol) but it seems like a nice life....
Of course, between my time with God and traveling and the ministries he leads me to, I highly doubt that this "quiet" little life will ever get boring! :)
1. I really want to be married-- I have my standards and I don't have a groom and a wedding all picked out and planned, but I do want a husband and sooner rather than later.
2. I could be happy living in Dallas my whole life. Travel everywhere is still on my agenda, but I would love to settle down in Mansfield or somewhere close, maybe even work at a school.
3. I don't hate kids. I may have a few of my own someday. While I am in no hurry to be "Mommy," I also feel a call to help kids, especially ones that don't get that much from their own parents. I could even teach someday. Maybe. If God led me there and gave me the patience.
4. I want to be a home-maker, house-wife, whatever. If I have kids, I would like to be able to spend my days cooking and cleaning and maybe going to a karate class and keeping the house in the manner that I like to live in. This would also be conductive to Writing. Even without kids, I would like to be the little wife that stays home and writes while her husband is at work.
5. I still want to act. Whatever I do, where ever I go, I will have to find a stage-- even if it's rinky-dink community theater. But Acting is not near as important to me as Writing. So yeah.
I could happily live as a home-maker, writing for someone (fiction publisher?) and keeping the home, my garden, and my bees. I don't want to do this in heels and pearls (Mrs.T *cough* lol) but it seems like a nice life....
Of course, between my time with God and traveling and the ministries he leads me to, I highly doubt that this "quiet" little life will ever get boring! :)
Enjoy, Heather :) cause you are the only one reading this... :P
By the time we stumble down the stairs to my basement room, the haze has worn off. I am dizzy with the effort of supporting his weight, yet instinct screams don’t let go while my mind says to drop him and run… Even in my more lucid state, my mind seems more muddled than ever. Every now and then he tries to talk, muttering about finding Jenna and getting help. Finally, I get him back to my place. While I choose to live here, the apartment is not much by any standards. It has three rooms: a bedroom, a den/kitchen and a bathroom. With the areas so small and cramped, it feels more like a cave than an apartment. But I love this place and I lived here before Weldon even bought the building. I can work with a mini-fridge, a sink, and a microwave for a kitchen. If I really need good food, I go to the deli on the first floor or the coffee shop down the street. This apartment has the one commodity I value above all else; complete and total privacy. Even Weldon doesn't have the keys to my locks.
Carefully, I lower the man onto my little couch and hurry across the threadbare carpet to get a blanket and a bottle of water. There is nothing much else I can really do for him tonight. Sighing, I turn out the lamp and turn to the bed room, as a quiet voice behind me whisper.
"Thank you…Jennavive," he murmurs in his sleep. I shudder at the use of my full name-- the one nobody but my Grandmother has ever called me-- and lock the bedroom door.
In the middle of the night, I wake to the feeling that I am being watched. Slowly, I open my eyes and turn on the lamp. The room remains empty. I open the door cautiously and shine a flashlight on the man. He appears to be asleep on the couch, though the pillows have migrated to the floor and the blankets tangled around him. He looks almost sweet, all wrapped up in yards of purple with a lock of his dark hair hanging in his face. I resist the urge to brush the wayward lock of hair out of his face as I would do with the children I used to baby-sit—(really? Am I turning into some romance-novel idiot?). Out of nowhere, the eerie feeling returns and I scurry back to the bedroom.
Carefully, I lower the man onto my little couch and hurry across the threadbare carpet to get a blanket and a bottle of water. There is nothing much else I can really do for him tonight. Sighing, I turn out the lamp and turn to the bed room, as a quiet voice behind me whisper.
"Thank you…Jennavive," he murmurs in his sleep. I shudder at the use of my full name-- the one nobody but my Grandmother has ever called me-- and lock the bedroom door.
In the middle of the night, I wake to the feeling that I am being watched. Slowly, I open my eyes and turn on the lamp. The room remains empty. I open the door cautiously and shine a flashlight on the man. He appears to be asleep on the couch, though the pillows have migrated to the floor and the blankets tangled around him. He looks almost sweet, all wrapped up in yards of purple with a lock of his dark hair hanging in his face. I resist the urge to brush the wayward lock of hair out of his face as I would do with the children I used to baby-sit—(really? Am I turning into some romance-novel idiot?). Out of nowhere, the eerie feeling returns and I scurry back to the bedroom.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Story Time!
"Jenna?" The voice floats out of the alley where a man had been loitering all day. I shiver; his voice feels wrong somehow. Not like sick or crazy, but as if a creature of another species, say Panther onca, suddenly opened its mouth and talked. If a cat deigned to speak human-speak, the sound would be in this sort of voice. Not the average little house cat, no, this feels like the voice of a panther or a creature of that ilk; large and dark, stealthy and fluid. He’s been standing, watching, in the alley all day. He hasn't done anything odd, just watched. Which, you know, is kinda creepy in its own right.
"Jenna? Is it really you?" Now, with the moon rising and the less reputable night crowd arriving, he came closer.
I've been singing in this spot for three years and never heard my actual name spoken. To my small band, I am Sapphira, the gem of our group. Practically every day I stand out here performing for small crowds of parents taking their kids home and couples starting off the evening. Five years in New Dainenmire and this was still the only job I had. Legal job anyway. Though Weldon, my boss, is supposed to be helping me with that.
The man from the alley comes closer, peering excitedly at my face. This is just another one of the crazies, I think, the ones who tend to think all the women in the city look like his dead wife. Pure luck that he called me Jenna. But, when I finally see his eyes, he doesn't look crazy. He looks perfectly sane, albeit sick. His skin seems shockingly pale yet the color in his cheeks is high, with a faint, greenish tinge to it. A raspy, other-worldly voice issues from his emaciated-frame. Despite every physical revulsion presented in his appearance, I lean toward him. Those eyes…
"Jenna, I knew I would find you. Thank the Fates you’re here." He comes forward and reaches for my hand, a hopeful look filling his features. I pull back slightly. The band left an hour ago, I felt like staying and singing a cappella. I can take care of myself, even in this city. I didn't think that I would run into a crazy person who knew my name.
"Listen," I hear myself say as I finger my small pocket knife, "I don’t know who you are or who you think you’re talking to, but I'm not that Jenna, okay? Now, why don't you just go home and leave me alone." I try to use a voice that indicates I think he is merely mistaken, not crazy. Still, I have the knife ready, just in case.
"No! No, you’re the Jenna I need. I …I can tell. Why won't you help? You must!" He sounds desperate and now looks like he's about to have a heart attack. He is over reaching his strength and beginning to sway. I find myself reaching to steady him, though I still think he is insane. He's mumbling something and I lean in close to hear what he is saying. And then I see his beautiful green eyes again and I know everything will be ok… he blinks—I blink—and I stumble back away from him, avoiding his gaze.
"Jenna," he mutters, "finally found you, but .... Need to find a place to sleep…must talk with Jenna…tell her...." I realize he is feverish and probably delirious.
"Okay, sir, we're going to get you to the hospital," I say in my falsely calm voice, avoiding the eyes this time. "You're obviously very sick and we are going to get some help." He snaps back to lucidness.
"No," he insists, "not to a hospital. I need…I need somewhere dark and quiet, away from the sun." He slumps again and I gently lay him down. I can't cart him all the way to the hospital, but it's late and the gangs and hookers have already begun to come out. I need to get him somewhere until tomorrow morning. My apartment. The thought arrows in with conviction. But why not? I ask myself. It's not like he's in any condition to hurt me. My apartment is more of a closet; the bedroom is the only room with a window.
Yet I still feel uneasy about this man. As he shifts in his delirium, I see something that shakes me to the core. A crumpled piece of paper flutters from his fingers— I smooth it out and stifle a gasp. He carries a sketch of a pendant Grandma Jen gave me; one that I never wear and have never even taken out of its box. How does he know….? He opens his eyes again and I don’t move fast enough to avoid them.
“Jenny… little Jenny…” he croons, reaching to smooth back my hair. “Don’t leave me.”
My mouth hangs open slightly and everything falls out of focus—he becomes clearer to me. The clean cut shirt and fine-woven pants along with the thick leather boots show that he's not the poor, homeless guy I originally thought. He's dressed more like a celebrity, with a celebrity's eccentric accessories. A black cloak covers him and lets him blend in with the dark wood of the boardwalk while an ancient-looking signet ring gleams on his finger. In a haze, I reach for his arm, a soft feeling that all will be well filling my veins. Slowly, I pull him up with strength not my own. Almost in a dream, I begin to think through the route back to my apartment. He stands and manages to take most of his weight, though he is still leaning heavily on me. We ponderously stumble into the darkness.
"Jenna? Is it really you?" Now, with the moon rising and the less reputable night crowd arriving, he came closer.
I've been singing in this spot for three years and never heard my actual name spoken. To my small band, I am Sapphira, the gem of our group. Practically every day I stand out here performing for small crowds of parents taking their kids home and couples starting off the evening. Five years in New Dainenmire and this was still the only job I had. Legal job anyway. Though Weldon, my boss, is supposed to be helping me with that.
The man from the alley comes closer, peering excitedly at my face. This is just another one of the crazies, I think, the ones who tend to think all the women in the city look like his dead wife. Pure luck that he called me Jenna. But, when I finally see his eyes, he doesn't look crazy. He looks perfectly sane, albeit sick. His skin seems shockingly pale yet the color in his cheeks is high, with a faint, greenish tinge to it. A raspy, other-worldly voice issues from his emaciated-frame. Despite every physical revulsion presented in his appearance, I lean toward him. Those eyes…
"Jenna, I knew I would find you. Thank the Fates you’re here." He comes forward and reaches for my hand, a hopeful look filling his features. I pull back slightly. The band left an hour ago, I felt like staying and singing a cappella. I can take care of myself, even in this city. I didn't think that I would run into a crazy person who knew my name.
"Listen," I hear myself say as I finger my small pocket knife, "I don’t know who you are or who you think you’re talking to, but I'm not that Jenna, okay? Now, why don't you just go home and leave me alone." I try to use a voice that indicates I think he is merely mistaken, not crazy. Still, I have the knife ready, just in case.
"No! No, you’re the Jenna I need. I …I can tell. Why won't you help? You must!" He sounds desperate and now looks like he's about to have a heart attack. He is over reaching his strength and beginning to sway. I find myself reaching to steady him, though I still think he is insane. He's mumbling something and I lean in close to hear what he is saying. And then I see his beautiful green eyes again and I know everything will be ok… he blinks—I blink—and I stumble back away from him, avoiding his gaze.
"Jenna," he mutters, "finally found you, but .... Need to find a place to sleep…must talk with Jenna…tell her...." I realize he is feverish and probably delirious.
"Okay, sir, we're going to get you to the hospital," I say in my falsely calm voice, avoiding the eyes this time. "You're obviously very sick and we are going to get some help." He snaps back to lucidness.
"No," he insists, "not to a hospital. I need…I need somewhere dark and quiet, away from the sun." He slumps again and I gently lay him down. I can't cart him all the way to the hospital, but it's late and the gangs and hookers have already begun to come out. I need to get him somewhere until tomorrow morning. My apartment. The thought arrows in with conviction. But why not? I ask myself. It's not like he's in any condition to hurt me. My apartment is more of a closet; the bedroom is the only room with a window.
Yet I still feel uneasy about this man. As he shifts in his delirium, I see something that shakes me to the core. A crumpled piece of paper flutters from his fingers— I smooth it out and stifle a gasp. He carries a sketch of a pendant Grandma Jen gave me; one that I never wear and have never even taken out of its box. How does he know….? He opens his eyes again and I don’t move fast enough to avoid them.
“Jenny… little Jenny…” he croons, reaching to smooth back my hair. “Don’t leave me.”
My mouth hangs open slightly and everything falls out of focus—he becomes clearer to me. The clean cut shirt and fine-woven pants along with the thick leather boots show that he's not the poor, homeless guy I originally thought. He's dressed more like a celebrity, with a celebrity's eccentric accessories. A black cloak covers him and lets him blend in with the dark wood of the boardwalk while an ancient-looking signet ring gleams on his finger. In a haze, I reach for his arm, a soft feeling that all will be well filling my veins. Slowly, I pull him up with strength not my own. Almost in a dream, I begin to think through the route back to my apartment. He stands and manages to take most of his weight, though he is still leaning heavily on me. We ponderously stumble into the darkness.
Fairy Tales
I am reading East by Edith Pattou and am remembering my love for original fairy tales as well as their modern, re-worked forms. The Grimm brothers did a great work when they collected all the traditional fairy tales, Andrew Lang with his collections as well. It constantly amazes me how all these stories are so similar-- East of the Sun and West of the Moon is actually an early form of Beauty and the Beast that can be traced back to the tale of Cupid and Psyche from the Grecians. Even similar stories lines and story types can be found in the Bible! (Ruth and Boaz can be interpreted in the light of Beauty and the Beast even...)
For more fun fairy tales, go to http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/index.html
If you wiki any story, it should tell you the related tales
For more fun fairy tales, go to http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/index.html
If you wiki any story, it should tell you the related tales
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A short tail....
Canis lupus
By Brittany Torres and Caitlin Smith
Fighting for control, I try to contain my lupine factor. Claws retract and flash out in an instant of silver; sobs fill my room. Hayden! What would you think of me now? Every part of me yearns to leap out of my miserable heap and run straight for the hills—going until speech returns. I love being loup garou and revel in my quickness and grace. Shifting would be balm for my tortured soul. Yet shifting now would be dangerous. The wolf could win—the girl lost.
Hayden has no troubles beyond the occasional sack during the football game. My volatile moon-self exists beyond his comprehension. He loves the way I sometimes suddenly shiver in his arms; he can’t see the carnal instincts warring within. So often I have tempted fate and almost lost control, almost failed to quell the rising wolf. That last kiss—the mere thought conjures butterflies and sighs—that last kiss the wolf surfaced, if only for a second. He didn’t notice the silver sparkle of my claws, but how much longer can instinct be tamed? He creates a tumultuous whirlpool in my soul…
My thoughts float back to our first date. He was so sought-after; it was unfathomable that Hayden would notice me. Rumors filled school for weeks. What’s he thinking? Quarter-back trying to get the attention of the loner chick? “She is so exasperating!” the cheerleaders proclaimed. “But she’s hot!” the rest of the team would respond. The cynic in me—who said he was doing this on a stupid bet—ignored his advances for weeks. Alas, his persistence and killer smile won, when he showed up at my door bearing cookies and flowers I begrudgingly admitted that I did kind of like him. We were sparring five minutes into the impromptu date and loving it.
“Where does a big, strong football player get the nerve to touch flowers?”
“Same place I found it to read Austen. This reminds me, you need to turn your books in sooner—I’ve been waiting for Canterbury Tales for a week!” Apparently my name is always right above his in library books.
“I don’t have Chaucer; the only English poet worth reading outside class is the Bard!”
“Right… didn’t your Shakespeare thing get you detention?” At my laugh his brown eyes dance; he’s referring to my infamous argument with our literature teacher over the authenticity of Shakespeare. Hayden continued, “I was the TA that period. When you stalked in I knew it was love at first sight. Those furiously flashing blue eyes, that wonderful, long, dark pelt of hair pulled over your lovely face…” He paused to push the hair out of my face.
“I’m not furious now…” I search his eyes, wondering what I would find. We shared our first kiss that evening, the beginning of a beautiful tragedy. Shakespeare couldn’t have written it better.
I don’t want to lose him! He is my dearest friend outside the Pack! I dream of his sweet, golden-brown curls and thrilling baritone. Yet he would never accept a wolf princess! He can hardly stand the fantasy elements of “A Midsummer Nights Dream.” Hayden will find out if we continue our current path, being with him wakes the wolf in me. I almost don’t want to be loup garou any longer if it means being separate from Hayden. The next convulsion of lupine impulse leaves me shaking and sick. I can’t hold on much longer! What to do!?! I frantically question the fast-fading girl. I don’t knoooooooow…she howls. I can’t do this! I run.
He has never noticed that I can’t wear the silver necklace he gave me or that I am never available on full-mooned nights. I laugh to myself, the short bark breaking the sanctuary of my room. Falling from my musing, I clench my teeth against the next wave of wolfishness. I don’t really want Hayden to figure this out—he would flee. Afraid of what he would do, I closely guard my secret. No boy, no outside friend has managed to discover but Hayden is dangerously near.
I should end things now, his image alone elicits dangerous emotions and desires I am not willing to acknowledge. Animal magnetism isn’t the only thing drawing me to him—he leaves roses in my locker; calls every night (even when I tell him not to); and seems totally mesmerized by me, never even glancing at another girl. I am fascinated by his inane obsession with football and entranced at how he has managed to cross the athletic/academic line. His love of books matches my own; together we have spent countless hours pouring over Shakespeare. The thought of losing him hurts physically but the ache in my stomach is nothing compared to the agony of losing him—a friend I have poured my heart into.
Tears streak my face as hiccoughs ricochet through my body. I am trying to hold my shape—I am human, a teenage girl. For the first time, I curse this part of me. Transforming has never hurt before but between my body and my heart, death looks sweet. Usually changing is pure joy! Shifting into wolf-form, I should be reveling in the powerful muscles and sleek shape. I adore my ability to run for hours on end. The quickness and grace of my lupine side brings no end of happiness. I’ve never held in my change before. I have never been afraid to be loup garou.
Internal fires of anger turn to Hayden. He may be the perfect boyfriend but he has never been able to accept anything different. Grimm’s fairy tales are strictly off limits for him; I can’t imagine what he would do with a wolf princess. He is so judgmental! Why can’t he just accept something extraordinary for once? As anger courses through my veins it becomes harder to hang on. Hayden is to blame for awakening the wolf, yet he would never accept her.
I don’t want to lose him! Yet soon he will find out if we continue our current path. The next convulsion of lupine impulse leaves me shaking and sick. I can’t hold on much longer! What to do!?! I frantically question the fast-fading girl. I don’t knoooooooow…she howls. I can’t do this! I can’t hold on! I run.
As I dash though trees and leap over boulders, the torments of the girl slide away. This is freedom, glorious and right. The euphoria fills me and instinct gains control. A rabbit sprints across my path and I take chase, not feeling hungry but enjoying the sport. The only thing that would make things better would be to have my pack around me, joining the fun. We would cavort around in our safe forest and think of nothing but the freedom.
A strange scent drifts across my path. I pause, leaving the rabbit. This is musky and sweet but not any animal I know. Nothing like my wolf-mates, the scent confuses me. It speaks of things more complicated than I know. Cautious now, I slow to a brisk trot and follow the scent. I am more curious than frightened. It’s stronger now and somehow… familiar. I wrinkle my nose—I want to sneeze. As I step from the trees onto a river bank, the scent hits me with full force, carrying recognition. I see a human! Instinct tells me to flee and I leap across the stream before I finally recognize the scent. Hayden.
Walking down the heavily wooded slope, I hear the sounds of something crashing through the undergrowth. I catch the glimpse of a silvery tail and curiosity beckons me to the edge of a brook. A beautiful wolf with streaks of golden brown entwined throughout a silvery coat is staring at me with eyes of depth.
They say that moving is hard—thankfully I’ve never had to experience it. My family has lived in the exact same spot for night on two hundred years. Maybe longer— we weren’t big on record keeping then. This town was founded in part by my ancestors and abounds with cousins and aunts and uncles and strange relations that I’ve never met but who greet me with a hug on the street. They know me by scent I guess.
My house was built at the turn of the century, with century old dust still haunting the attic. The house is on a small hill—more of a mound really—and the backyard slopes into a small wood. The entire area used to be woods; lush thick forest that sheltered the small town from civilization. It was perfect for my privacy-loving ancestors… until they discovered the love of money. A lumber company bought much of the woods and mill workers flooded the once-small town. My great-grandmother remembers when it switched from being mostly family, with a few young men and women from the next town over marrying in, to the mini- city we have today. It’s not a thriving metropolis and we are defiantly still out of the way… but it’s no longer a little backwater town where your butcher is your brother and your aunt bring bread twice a week.
I have moved schools though, several times. And that has to be more difficult than relocating. It is one thing to pack up all of your belongings and cart them to another house; another entirely to leave behind all your friends and familiar teachers for new foes, new people to let you know that you don’t fit in.
I have never fit in.
When I was in kindergarten, I bit a little girl who wouldn’t give me her crayons. She didn’t stop bleeding and had to get stitches. I was jerked out of class and home schooled for a few years, socializing only with my cousins, among whom biting was never a problem. By fifth grade I was allowed to try public school again, this time with strict rules from my parents on how to behave around the other students. I was good at kick-ball and the boys welcomed me with open arms. The girls—whom I desperately sought the approval of— shunned me as a freak who had boy cooties. Therefore, I became one of the guys. When I found out about an all-fifth-grade girl slumber party hosted by Kimberly, the queen bee of the group, I joined the boys on a TP raid. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite have the gist of TPing and stuck around too long—I was caught and blamed for the whole mess. Once the little tyrants—Kim in the lead—added all their stories of my “freaky ness” at school and how I “terrorized” them (come on! How on earth is running after you, howling, during recess terrorizing? Do you even know what terrorizing means?) I was summarily suspended and soon after my parents decided it was time to change schools. I think I was in all three middle schools in the town, before being funneled into the smaller of the two high school. By then, I had figured out what freaked people out and how to act relatively normal.
As a freshman, I still struggled to hide my secret, gym was especially hard, and there were days that I missed or dashed home “sick” because I couldn’t control it. But as I matured and observed the others I gradually began to figure things out. I had very few friends and even less confidants—no one very far from my family circle really knew more than my name.
As I grew more and more alienated as school, books became my best friends…
I hurry down the hall, staying invisible as long as I keep my eyes down and my long hair covering my face. If anyone actually notices me, I may shatter. For some reason, today my control is tenuous and I don’t know if I can survive… but another unexcused absence means I may fail English and Mrs. Durmire gives me enough trouble as is. I clutch an extra-thick novel to my stomach and rush onward, hiding in shadows and spaces between people. I flinch away from touch, my canvas jacket that is usually so protecting is less defense than a spider web. Finally, I can escape the dizzying crush of the halls and slide into my seat. Back left corner, far from Mrs. Durmire’s desk and close to the door. A rather large band nerd in front of me is the perfect cover for furtive reading or writing and the empty seat to my right allows me to breathe. I slump down low, pulling my jacket close and praying she is on a dull subject today.
A week ago she was haranguing on Shakespeare and I couldn’t stand it. For the first time ever, I had broken my cover in class and argued back to her. She is the spawn of the devil, the very soul of horror, and had ruined many fine pieces of literature for me the past few years. (Our school is large but some teachers cross grades—especially teachers of ‘advanced’ classes like Mrs. Durmire. Her vast vocabulary has dazzled the superintendent into giving her the brightest of the English students. I’m sure her aim was for golden girls like Kimberly—yes, the same one—who write perfect little papers that reflect every opinion spouted of by the Spawn in class. Not so much the more free-spirited, like me.) She has also continued to push me to the brink of failing by constantly pretending not to understand the premise of my papers, labeling them as “incomprehensible,” and failing them. Thankfully she can’t rig a multiple choice test… It isn’t my fault that most of my thoughts on any given subject are in direct contradiction to hers! It isn’t my fault that she is so blind that to be against her is inconceivable and thus a failure! It is my fault that I let my anger and frustration with her narrow-minded teaching boil over. But when she started against Shakespeare…! I could not let such a blatant and horrid rumor as Shakespeare a plagiarizer continue unchecked! I listened to it the past three years, I let her go on for three days, but in the end the large, spiky “D” scrawled across my paper defending the most glorious Bard in English history was what ended it for me. I ended up in detention, the golden boy- TA there already text-ing his friends and laughing by the time I was signed in and seated. I have no intention of incurring her wrath again and make sure I am safely hidden away before the final bell can ring.
Thankfully it is simply Shaw, easily enough ignored. I pull out my journal and begin to write, adding to a chronicle about a teen vampire girl I’ve been dreaming up. She is so cool—not gothic like a lot of vampire lit you get now days but defiantly on the counter-culture end of things. She is one of my favorite characters and I am actually writing this story with the aim of publishing. Probably just a short story at first, but eventually pulling all the shorts into a novel. Or a screenplay. I am a very diverse writer.
I am just getting into the story, sending Jenna down a dark tunnel to meet her stalker, when a note slides across my desk. Startled, I glance up then slowly pick up the folded paper. It has my name—Kaia—written on it in curly script and actually spelled correctly … who on earth would be writing notes to me? Who in this room knew how to spell my name? As I look around the room, I study each student, searching for motive to write me. None of my cousin’s are in this class—I don’t really talk to anyone in here. Could it be a cheerleader once again making a jibe at my uncool jeans or strings of beads? Perhaps a ploy to get me in trouble?
My natural curiosity overwhelms me and I hunker further down in my seat, praying that Mrs. Durmire won’t hear as I pull the folded paper into its original shape. It’s a guy—that much is obvious from the messy handwriting. The ornate letters on the front must have taken him ages... My eyes scan the missive and I have to bite back a gasp. Someone is either playing a really elaborate joke or I… I have an admirer. My head tilts forward, hair falling into a natural curtain and shielding me from any prying eyes. I re-read the scribbles words—
Haunting eyes of deepest blue,
Tawny hair hangs down.
I’ve seen her mirthful,
A smile too beautiful to look at for long,
And my heart is heavy when she wears a frown.
A poet or at least an attempt at poetry. My literary-self sees that it is really much better than most of the junk Mrs. Durmire drags up and forces embarrassed linemen to read in front of the class. And it is kind of sweet, defiantly complimentary. I allow a few wistful thoughts of romantic tryst to drift across my mind-- I’m sure a dreamy smile was beginning to form—when there is someone in front of me. I snap upright, tucking the note into my sleeve with one hand, shoving Jenna’s story into my jacket with the other. Mrs. Durmire.
“Kaia—we would love to hear your thoughts on this?” her voice is poison, sickly sweet and deadly.
I try to look as innocent as possible—I really really don’t want to fail…-- and change to my own cloyingly sickening voice.
“Ma’am? I was just pondering the raptures of Poe and missed your last statement.”
“You were sleeping!” she snarled. “I don’t tolerate slackers in my class!” Oh no, oh no… that last time she said that, James (who hadn’t turned in a paper over one page all year) was kicked out. I really can’t fail!
“I wasn’t sleeping! I…” dare I show her my writing? It might back me up… but if she read it she would rip it to shreds! I frantically glance at the other student. Most of the girls are smirking or readjusting their lip gloss. A couple of guys seem to be sleeping… no one is even trying to help me. Why did I pick the corner? I have no one to get a quick answer from…
Crash! I jump and Mrs. Durmire spins around to find a heap of books on the floor and a sheepish TA in the door.
By Brittany Torres and Caitlin Smith
Fighting for control, I try to contain my lupine factor. Claws retract and flash out in an instant of silver; sobs fill my room. Hayden! What would you think of me now? Every part of me yearns to leap out of my miserable heap and run straight for the hills—going until speech returns. I love being loup garou and revel in my quickness and grace. Shifting would be balm for my tortured soul. Yet shifting now would be dangerous. The wolf could win—the girl lost.
Hayden has no troubles beyond the occasional sack during the football game. My volatile moon-self exists beyond his comprehension. He loves the way I sometimes suddenly shiver in his arms; he can’t see the carnal instincts warring within. So often I have tempted fate and almost lost control, almost failed to quell the rising wolf. That last kiss—the mere thought conjures butterflies and sighs—that last kiss the wolf surfaced, if only for a second. He didn’t notice the silver sparkle of my claws, but how much longer can instinct be tamed? He creates a tumultuous whirlpool in my soul…
My thoughts float back to our first date. He was so sought-after; it was unfathomable that Hayden would notice me. Rumors filled school for weeks. What’s he thinking? Quarter-back trying to get the attention of the loner chick? “She is so exasperating!” the cheerleaders proclaimed. “But she’s hot!” the rest of the team would respond. The cynic in me—who said he was doing this on a stupid bet—ignored his advances for weeks. Alas, his persistence and killer smile won, when he showed up at my door bearing cookies and flowers I begrudgingly admitted that I did kind of like him. We were sparring five minutes into the impromptu date and loving it.
“Where does a big, strong football player get the nerve to touch flowers?”
“Same place I found it to read Austen. This reminds me, you need to turn your books in sooner—I’ve been waiting for Canterbury Tales for a week!” Apparently my name is always right above his in library books.
“I don’t have Chaucer; the only English poet worth reading outside class is the Bard!”
“Right… didn’t your Shakespeare thing get you detention?” At my laugh his brown eyes dance; he’s referring to my infamous argument with our literature teacher over the authenticity of Shakespeare. Hayden continued, “I was the TA that period. When you stalked in I knew it was love at first sight. Those furiously flashing blue eyes, that wonderful, long, dark pelt of hair pulled over your lovely face…” He paused to push the hair out of my face.
“I’m not furious now…” I search his eyes, wondering what I would find. We shared our first kiss that evening, the beginning of a beautiful tragedy. Shakespeare couldn’t have written it better.
I don’t want to lose him! He is my dearest friend outside the Pack! I dream of his sweet, golden-brown curls and thrilling baritone. Yet he would never accept a wolf princess! He can hardly stand the fantasy elements of “A Midsummer Nights Dream.” Hayden will find out if we continue our current path, being with him wakes the wolf in me. I almost don’t want to be loup garou any longer if it means being separate from Hayden. The next convulsion of lupine impulse leaves me shaking and sick. I can’t hold on much longer! What to do!?! I frantically question the fast-fading girl. I don’t knoooooooow…she howls. I can’t do this! I run.
He has never noticed that I can’t wear the silver necklace he gave me or that I am never available on full-mooned nights. I laugh to myself, the short bark breaking the sanctuary of my room. Falling from my musing, I clench my teeth against the next wave of wolfishness. I don’t really want Hayden to figure this out—he would flee. Afraid of what he would do, I closely guard my secret. No boy, no outside friend has managed to discover but Hayden is dangerously near.
I should end things now, his image alone elicits dangerous emotions and desires I am not willing to acknowledge. Animal magnetism isn’t the only thing drawing me to him—he leaves roses in my locker; calls every night (even when I tell him not to); and seems totally mesmerized by me, never even glancing at another girl. I am fascinated by his inane obsession with football and entranced at how he has managed to cross the athletic/academic line. His love of books matches my own; together we have spent countless hours pouring over Shakespeare. The thought of losing him hurts physically but the ache in my stomach is nothing compared to the agony of losing him—a friend I have poured my heart into.
Tears streak my face as hiccoughs ricochet through my body. I am trying to hold my shape—I am human, a teenage girl. For the first time, I curse this part of me. Transforming has never hurt before but between my body and my heart, death looks sweet. Usually changing is pure joy! Shifting into wolf-form, I should be reveling in the powerful muscles and sleek shape. I adore my ability to run for hours on end. The quickness and grace of my lupine side brings no end of happiness. I’ve never held in my change before. I have never been afraid to be loup garou.
Internal fires of anger turn to Hayden. He may be the perfect boyfriend but he has never been able to accept anything different. Grimm’s fairy tales are strictly off limits for him; I can’t imagine what he would do with a wolf princess. He is so judgmental! Why can’t he just accept something extraordinary for once? As anger courses through my veins it becomes harder to hang on. Hayden is to blame for awakening the wolf, yet he would never accept her.
I don’t want to lose him! Yet soon he will find out if we continue our current path. The next convulsion of lupine impulse leaves me shaking and sick. I can’t hold on much longer! What to do!?! I frantically question the fast-fading girl. I don’t knoooooooow…she howls. I can’t do this! I can’t hold on! I run.
As I dash though trees and leap over boulders, the torments of the girl slide away. This is freedom, glorious and right. The euphoria fills me and instinct gains control. A rabbit sprints across my path and I take chase, not feeling hungry but enjoying the sport. The only thing that would make things better would be to have my pack around me, joining the fun. We would cavort around in our safe forest and think of nothing but the freedom.
A strange scent drifts across my path. I pause, leaving the rabbit. This is musky and sweet but not any animal I know. Nothing like my wolf-mates, the scent confuses me. It speaks of things more complicated than I know. Cautious now, I slow to a brisk trot and follow the scent. I am more curious than frightened. It’s stronger now and somehow… familiar. I wrinkle my nose—I want to sneeze. As I step from the trees onto a river bank, the scent hits me with full force, carrying recognition. I see a human! Instinct tells me to flee and I leap across the stream before I finally recognize the scent. Hayden.
Walking down the heavily wooded slope, I hear the sounds of something crashing through the undergrowth. I catch the glimpse of a silvery tail and curiosity beckons me to the edge of a brook. A beautiful wolf with streaks of golden brown entwined throughout a silvery coat is staring at me with eyes of depth.
They say that moving is hard—thankfully I’ve never had to experience it. My family has lived in the exact same spot for night on two hundred years. Maybe longer— we weren’t big on record keeping then. This town was founded in part by my ancestors and abounds with cousins and aunts and uncles and strange relations that I’ve never met but who greet me with a hug on the street. They know me by scent I guess.
My house was built at the turn of the century, with century old dust still haunting the attic. The house is on a small hill—more of a mound really—and the backyard slopes into a small wood. The entire area used to be woods; lush thick forest that sheltered the small town from civilization. It was perfect for my privacy-loving ancestors… until they discovered the love of money. A lumber company bought much of the woods and mill workers flooded the once-small town. My great-grandmother remembers when it switched from being mostly family, with a few young men and women from the next town over marrying in, to the mini- city we have today. It’s not a thriving metropolis and we are defiantly still out of the way… but it’s no longer a little backwater town where your butcher is your brother and your aunt bring bread twice a week.
I have moved schools though, several times. And that has to be more difficult than relocating. It is one thing to pack up all of your belongings and cart them to another house; another entirely to leave behind all your friends and familiar teachers for new foes, new people to let you know that you don’t fit in.
I have never fit in.
When I was in kindergarten, I bit a little girl who wouldn’t give me her crayons. She didn’t stop bleeding and had to get stitches. I was jerked out of class and home schooled for a few years, socializing only with my cousins, among whom biting was never a problem. By fifth grade I was allowed to try public school again, this time with strict rules from my parents on how to behave around the other students. I was good at kick-ball and the boys welcomed me with open arms. The girls—whom I desperately sought the approval of— shunned me as a freak who had boy cooties. Therefore, I became one of the guys. When I found out about an all-fifth-grade girl slumber party hosted by Kimberly, the queen bee of the group, I joined the boys on a TP raid. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite have the gist of TPing and stuck around too long—I was caught and blamed for the whole mess. Once the little tyrants—Kim in the lead—added all their stories of my “freaky ness” at school and how I “terrorized” them (come on! How on earth is running after you, howling, during recess terrorizing? Do you even know what terrorizing means?) I was summarily suspended and soon after my parents decided it was time to change schools. I think I was in all three middle schools in the town, before being funneled into the smaller of the two high school. By then, I had figured out what freaked people out and how to act relatively normal.
As a freshman, I still struggled to hide my secret, gym was especially hard, and there were days that I missed or dashed home “sick” because I couldn’t control it. But as I matured and observed the others I gradually began to figure things out. I had very few friends and even less confidants—no one very far from my family circle really knew more than my name.
As I grew more and more alienated as school, books became my best friends…
I hurry down the hall, staying invisible as long as I keep my eyes down and my long hair covering my face. If anyone actually notices me, I may shatter. For some reason, today my control is tenuous and I don’t know if I can survive… but another unexcused absence means I may fail English and Mrs. Durmire gives me enough trouble as is. I clutch an extra-thick novel to my stomach and rush onward, hiding in shadows and spaces between people. I flinch away from touch, my canvas jacket that is usually so protecting is less defense than a spider web. Finally, I can escape the dizzying crush of the halls and slide into my seat. Back left corner, far from Mrs. Durmire’s desk and close to the door. A rather large band nerd in front of me is the perfect cover for furtive reading or writing and the empty seat to my right allows me to breathe. I slump down low, pulling my jacket close and praying she is on a dull subject today.
A week ago she was haranguing on Shakespeare and I couldn’t stand it. For the first time ever, I had broken my cover in class and argued back to her. She is the spawn of the devil, the very soul of horror, and had ruined many fine pieces of literature for me the past few years. (Our school is large but some teachers cross grades—especially teachers of ‘advanced’ classes like Mrs. Durmire. Her vast vocabulary has dazzled the superintendent into giving her the brightest of the English students. I’m sure her aim was for golden girls like Kimberly—yes, the same one—who write perfect little papers that reflect every opinion spouted of by the Spawn in class. Not so much the more free-spirited, like me.) She has also continued to push me to the brink of failing by constantly pretending not to understand the premise of my papers, labeling them as “incomprehensible,” and failing them. Thankfully she can’t rig a multiple choice test… It isn’t my fault that most of my thoughts on any given subject are in direct contradiction to hers! It isn’t my fault that she is so blind that to be against her is inconceivable and thus a failure! It is my fault that I let my anger and frustration with her narrow-minded teaching boil over. But when she started against Shakespeare…! I could not let such a blatant and horrid rumor as Shakespeare a plagiarizer continue unchecked! I listened to it the past three years, I let her go on for three days, but in the end the large, spiky “D” scrawled across my paper defending the most glorious Bard in English history was what ended it for me. I ended up in detention, the golden boy- TA there already text-ing his friends and laughing by the time I was signed in and seated. I have no intention of incurring her wrath again and make sure I am safely hidden away before the final bell can ring.
Thankfully it is simply Shaw, easily enough ignored. I pull out my journal and begin to write, adding to a chronicle about a teen vampire girl I’ve been dreaming up. She is so cool—not gothic like a lot of vampire lit you get now days but defiantly on the counter-culture end of things. She is one of my favorite characters and I am actually writing this story with the aim of publishing. Probably just a short story at first, but eventually pulling all the shorts into a novel. Or a screenplay. I am a very diverse writer.
I am just getting into the story, sending Jenna down a dark tunnel to meet her stalker, when a note slides across my desk. Startled, I glance up then slowly pick up the folded paper. It has my name—Kaia—written on it in curly script and actually spelled correctly … who on earth would be writing notes to me? Who in this room knew how to spell my name? As I look around the room, I study each student, searching for motive to write me. None of my cousin’s are in this class—I don’t really talk to anyone in here. Could it be a cheerleader once again making a jibe at my uncool jeans or strings of beads? Perhaps a ploy to get me in trouble?
My natural curiosity overwhelms me and I hunker further down in my seat, praying that Mrs. Durmire won’t hear as I pull the folded paper into its original shape. It’s a guy—that much is obvious from the messy handwriting. The ornate letters on the front must have taken him ages... My eyes scan the missive and I have to bite back a gasp. Someone is either playing a really elaborate joke or I… I have an admirer. My head tilts forward, hair falling into a natural curtain and shielding me from any prying eyes. I re-read the scribbles words—
Haunting eyes of deepest blue,
Tawny hair hangs down.
I’ve seen her mirthful,
A smile too beautiful to look at for long,
And my heart is heavy when she wears a frown.
A poet or at least an attempt at poetry. My literary-self sees that it is really much better than most of the junk Mrs. Durmire drags up and forces embarrassed linemen to read in front of the class. And it is kind of sweet, defiantly complimentary. I allow a few wistful thoughts of romantic tryst to drift across my mind-- I’m sure a dreamy smile was beginning to form—when there is someone in front of me. I snap upright, tucking the note into my sleeve with one hand, shoving Jenna’s story into my jacket with the other. Mrs. Durmire.
“Kaia—we would love to hear your thoughts on this?” her voice is poison, sickly sweet and deadly.
I try to look as innocent as possible—I really really don’t want to fail…-- and change to my own cloyingly sickening voice.
“Ma’am? I was just pondering the raptures of Poe and missed your last statement.”
“You were sleeping!” she snarled. “I don’t tolerate slackers in my class!” Oh no, oh no… that last time she said that, James (who hadn’t turned in a paper over one page all year) was kicked out. I really can’t fail!
“I wasn’t sleeping! I…” dare I show her my writing? It might back me up… but if she read it she would rip it to shreds! I frantically glance at the other student. Most of the girls are smirking or readjusting their lip gloss. A couple of guys seem to be sleeping… no one is even trying to help me. Why did I pick the corner? I have no one to get a quick answer from…
Crash! I jump and Mrs. Durmire spins around to find a heap of books on the floor and a sheepish TA in the door.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Back to the Daily Grind
School is back in session and fall is in full swing. Yesterday we went to the state fair and it was madness! Insanely huge crowds, thousands of random scents and sounds, and a good bit of fried food has sent my system into something of a shock-- I am enjoying the clear, cool, misty air on campus this morning. There are no startling fair epiphanies to share; only the honey table was really exciting. So I will share a lovely little poem featuring bees:
It's all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.
-- E.D.
It's all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.
-- E.D.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
An Ode to Autumn
What a glorious day! Cold and crisp, the air promises winter and spicy apple and pumpkin dishes just around the corner. Central Market even had hot apple cider and warm pumpkin bread to greet the customers with outside today-- of course I got two loaves of bread. And a jar of apple butter. And gelato-- but that is not so much because it's fall, more because it make life sweeter.
I love all the seasons, I love the glory God has placed in nature; but, I think that I love autumn the very best. The cool air and changing colors, the seasonal fruits and veggies and great things that can be made with them; simply every aspect of autumn appeals to me and I revel in this sublime afternoon.
In fact, Elizabeth Barrett Browning says things quite nicely:
The Autumn
Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them --
The summer flowers depart --
Sit still -- as all transform'd to stone,
Except your musing heart.
How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.
...
And now to stroll in this enchanting weather.
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them --
The summer flowers depart --
Sit still -- as all transform'd to stone,
Except your musing heart.
How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.
...
And now to stroll in this enchanting weather.
Friday, October 9, 2009
THE BEE.
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry
Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.
His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
Of clovers and of noon!
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
Of clovers and of noon!
--Emily Dickinson
I simply adore Emily Dickinson's poety-- she deftly weaves a wondrous picture of our world with words, selectively crafting her thoughts into the poetry we read today. And bees are really cool too-- more about that later!
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