Lantern

     A lantern swung about in the wind after a thunderstorm's wrath struck a small, sleepy village. Clouds obscured the stars while rivulets of fallen rain trickled and tumbled through the streets. Somehow, despite the water and wind, a flame still flickered in the lantern. The hatch on the side, cast open by the wind, left the flame exposed to wicked winds and torrential downpours.
     However, in the midst of the storm, a villager was awakened. In his nightclothes, he walked into the street and latched the lantern shut. With a hand on the pole supporting the lantern, he watched the sky as the clouds dissolved into a black, starlit void.

Incandescence

     Dim, murky lights, despite how little or how much heat they may generate, look warm to me. They emit a sense of coziness. Yellow and orange hues of incandescence feel familiar and comfortable to us. But then, the bright fluorescent bulbs and tubes we surround ourselves with look cold. The photons from those lights harshly sting our eyes. They have no capacity for familiarity or comfort -- they are strangers.
     I'd rather sit with you, beneath incandescent lights and a warm blanket, than with strangers in a storm of icy eyes and cold shoulders.

The beginning of that book that I'm writing. I'm almost halfway done with almost all of it! :D

“The bunnies, the bunnies!” he sings to me.

“Can I eat them?” I question, my face merely inches, no millimeters, from his. 

“No, Fia” he whispers while brushing my hair from my eyes. “Time does not allow it.”

“Then, will you kiss me?” I say nervously, biting my lip.

“Time does not allow...” he trails off while his eyes fixed on something behind me. 

“Go! Run! Now!” he screams as he vanishes.

The thunder rolls across the sky, carrying thick, heavy rain that breaks in through my window, waking me to yet another torturous night, Startled by a banging window, I sit up in bed. My breath comes out harsh and shallow.

“The window” I breathe. 

Shakily, I climb out of bed and stumble over to my now soaked carpet just below the broken window. 

“Great. Now the stinkbugs will have a nice, damp environment.” I sigh.

I reach to close the window but then stop. There’s...something out in the rain. Barley noticeable, I squint to be sure, is a teenage boy with hair matted and tangled against his scalp. 

“Andrew?” My voice wavers, I clear it and shake my head.

I squinch my eyebrows in confusion just as the boy walks three more paces and then vanishes. Jerking backwards in shock, I slam the window down, loose my balance, spin around quickly, my ginger hair flying out of its loose ponytail, and promptly fall to the floor.

Well, that was graceful.

the source of music.

I picked up my old violin today.  I had't played in over a year, and I was very nearly surprised to find I'd missed it.  Beginning with book one, I played through my Suzuki repertoire, applying the same passion to "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star" as to Dvorak's "Humouresque".  I caught myself swaying.  Though I played the strings like a child - sloppily, notes spilling onto one another like a haphazard fountain - I was happy to do so; to behold the old, damaged-but-beautiful instrument (chipped varnish and all), to pull forth music from paper, to surprise myself by still remembering nearly every piece by heart.

I'd forgotten how potent this joy was, the joy of being the source of music.

[The  majority of my paragraphs are going to be coming from blog posts on this bloggetty blog thing.  Is that laziness, or just resourcefulness?]

tuesday afternoons.

The afternoons are colourless here.  The greens - if any exist - are pale and sleepy, the browns and greys become dominant, and the sky acts as an uncomfortable, too-warm wool blanket, drained of blueness.  The only object of interest in the blank sky is the moon at night.  It shines with an alarming intensity, too bright for the heat we've had here.  Granted, temperatures have fallen, and thank goodness for it - one can only handle sitting in a boiling pot for so long, even if it is one's home-town.

It's the summer, I have no brain.

Train of thought . . . traaaaaaaaain of . . . what happens when your train of thought crashes? Writing about ranting. No. Ranting about writing. . .? Something. Jenna and Miranda are being distracting. This is going to be so difficult to do this summer. Maybe I should try and center my thoughts. Ok so I'm seeing my mind. Big and squishy. Being pushing onto a tiny dot. It's balancing. There, right . . . in . . . the center. See, now it's balanced! It's centered on . . . jolly ranchers. Or jello. Maybe both? The door monsters are coming and you're first prize. Should you die inside out or flee to the hills of the fresh beaten yesterday? You know, the problem with mixing this and that is that the that becomes this and the this becomes that and then there's no more this and that but rather that and this and that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is how you write a paragraph.

-Haley

Paper Army

The hands laughed, joyful, full laughs, their silky palms coming together in rudimentary claps. The fair skin of these small hands was the color of uncreamed milk, a silky, smooth, white color; an unmarred surface only a child's hands can provide. their palms were pink, the color of unripened cherries, still hanging from the blossoming tree. The hands played with the fun things the face had brought them, crumpling them and listening to the wonderful sounds; tasting the rough surface, like the marbled stones that lie under the croaking frog.

Paper Army

The two hands peered around as they rested upon the worn, wooden planks. "Here you go honey." The large face with wide red lips and dark brown eyes peered down at the two small hands, and they peered back; at awe with the smile and the sweet words. Before the hands the face put sheets of rough paper, brilliant colors; purple like the blooming lilacs, green like the croaking frog. white as the great fluffy clouds that always escaped the hands, no matter how high they reached. the face put even more wonderful things before the hands; smooth little brown things, with holes that broke up the otherwise even plain. There was thin stuff taht was smooth, and brown, but creased like the small child's hands, and rough with this repetitive texture.

Another Story about Jane

For anyone who wasn't at the meeting thingity today, or if there was some kind of profound comment you needed to make.

I give you: Jane's quest for a Porsche.

.................

Jane really needed a Porsche. Not because she was vain, or materialistic, or anything. No, really - she just needed to arrive to a party in a Porsche. 

Jane didn’t have much going for her. She stole toilet paper from work, she was stuck in a cubicle with 3 men – one enormous in girth, one enormously obnoxious, and one, rude, intolerable punk – she didn’t know how to apply eyeliner, and she managed to singe off one of her eyebrows recently in a very unfortunate toaster oven accident. 

Of course, as is natural in the world, Jane’s friends were quite the opposite. One was a very successful, lesbian comedian – she had been on Ellen three times to date, and Portia wasn’t too happy to see her returning again. One was a lovely Swedish model, which really requires no elaboration. And one was a famous author of numerous self-help books, which helped millions of people worldwide except the person they were written about. 

This is why Jane had begun to lie. She invented a traveling lover who visited her all the time, except when she might be able to introduce him to people. She invented multiple episodes of intense office intrigue; including a terrible fax accident with compromising photos from upper management to various other men in the company. 

These lies were harmless, as they could never be proven true but could never really be proven false. Jane’s downfall was when she decided to lie about the Porsche. Apparently, a ridiculous bonus was given to her as hush money and she had, as any sensible person would, blown this bonus on a new Porsche.

Jane was beside herself now – she needed a Porsche to cover her tracks, to keep up the charade.

You see – when you “buy a Porsche” people tend to want to see it, and you tend to say “sure, you can see it sometime” because you think that day will never come. But it does, and then you’re screwed. Luckily, Jane may be a clumsy liar, a terrible toaster oven operator, and a generally plain, unappealing person in general – but she can be pretty clever when she reaches a new level of desperation.

Naturally, Jane understands that she can’t just walk into a Porsche dealer for a test drive, because Jane is not Megan Fox nor does she have some kind of sparkly credit card with a credible, recognizable bank. Jane is Jane and she banks with the Bank of the Mattress, located in her shoddy apartment.

But, Jane can test drive a Porsche if she turns up in a Mercedes, and she can test drive a Mercedes if she turns up in a SAAB, and she can test drive a SAAB if she turns up in a late-model Ford. Jane can likely sucker the Ford guys on foot.

Jane is successful in the Ford dealership, mostly due to poor sales and lack of women in the office, and quickly works her way up to a Mercedes, which she promptly slides into a Porsche dealership and then asks for the coveted test drive. At first, she’s greeted with suspicion, because she does not look like a typical Mercedes owner. She does not smell like a Mercedes owner. She really should not be driving this Mercedes, but, she is. And the Porsche salesman likes commissions because he’s a car salesman and they tend to enjoy such things, though the same cannot be said for Volkswagen dealers, who content themselves with stories about the 70’s and drink on the job. 

The Porsche is glorious. Jane cannot feel her butt because of the uncomfortable seats. She can barely see the road because of the odd tilt of the windshield. She nearly kills herself and countless others when she hits the gas and rockets off at too many miles per hour. Jane thinks she could get used to this. Jane is feeling very cool.

“Vendela!” Jane calls when she arrives to her Porsche’s unveiling party. She calls from the Porsche with the window rolled down, because that's what someone with a cool Porsche can do.

“Jane! So good to see you, darling!”

Vendela, the Swedish model – the blonde bombshell on the Victoria’s Secret commercials; the one’s you pretend you aren’t watching – quickly ushers Jane into her loft and loses her within seconds to a massive crowd of important people. Yes. Because when you are a Swedish supermodel you can walk around with a name like Vendela and people still want to talk to you. Designers, models, rappers, actresses, actresses’ men-on-the-side who double as gardeners, and countless other infinitely more fabulous people than Jane flittered around. Jane still feels cool – Jane arrived in a Porsche and her keys are sticking out of her “Coach for the street corner” purse.

Jane feels much less cool when she is taken from the party in handcuffs for stealing a car from a Porsche dealership. Apparently, they don’t want you to test drive a vehicle for 12 hours – they tend to believe something is up when this occurs. 

Jane hits rock bottom when she needs to acquire bail from her friends. 

Jane doesn’t think she’ll lie anymore. 

Then she thinks about toilet paper supplies at work – and decides not to lie anymore to her friends. The company is still fair game.

If You Could Touch Air

Two poems today! :)

If You Could Touch Air

all you had to do

was gasp

for Air

and the magic within

it who gives Life

intangible things seem

to disappear so quickly

and sometimes you forget

they’re there

if you could touch

Air, what would

you say? if he could

hear you,

would you ask him

why he exists?

and Life? her, too.

she seems to be an

aloof character at times

and a lack of

oxygen befuddles

your mind

it’s clear, though

how much you love

them,

and rely on them,

one and the same

isn’t each breath you

take or

don’t take

a decision?

but for every person

who calls Life a gift

and Air a necessity,

there will be another to

differ and dissent

“isn’t it strange to

think,” they’ll tell you, “that

in the end gifts and

necessities are removed from

your being

in one fell swoop?”

and so it is

that the things others will

beg you

to see are invisible and

only noticed when

taken away

Orange

I apologize for my incompetency at this posting regulary business!

Orange

for a million days

she was sitting there

twirling a strand

of her tangled hair

not that a million

days could fit in

that moment—more

likely it was just

a minute

but who gets to s

ay how long a

heart stays frozen?

ice will thaw its

white, transparent

cold

numbing

 cracked self, eventually

she had a theory

of a fiery heart

that once burned

with life

something could steal that

fire away

with the instant its

own fire went out

and so her flame

had turned into a

small kindle

it’s only as orange

as the setting sun

the setting sun that

trickles away holding

its light on the world

each second it can, until

it’s gone

for a million nights

sat there

twirling hair

dark night

heart ice

~Olivia

Ash

Where lie the shattered thoughts and bones we have let die?

Uncover the lost, unconscious minds we buried in the void.

Like rocks that circle the storming seas, they've been ground to fading dust,

but hidden in the depths of darkness are memories left behind.

Remember with all strength and courage to revive the ones who died,

pay respect to ancient kindnesses and forgotten earthly love.

If a blizzard of ash and shadow kidnaps our sunlight,

we'll rekindle the fire in our minds for the lives of the ones we've lost.

La Poem

Wow, yeah I confused myself with this one.

When there’s not much time

for the pink, pastel petal

to latch onto her glowing ember

she must become creative.

She must fly away

to the verenadant valley

so that she may sit in the sun.

She must tilt her head back

and soak up the chartreuse rays.

They’ll speak to her, these rays,

in the native nature language

that we all secretly speak,

and say encouraging things

about blossoming inspiration.

The grass blades join in, adding the

granatuous grins of other petals

while the river sings about

peeling paper which withers

slowly to the flantaniut floor. 

Hours of seconds pass

and at long last 

she must grin and laugh

but eventually say her heartfelt goodbyes.

She must raise her head to the sky

and allow the chartreusian rays,

speaking their chartreusian language,

to pull her away,

back to her safe, little cove

off the shore of the Marlania Ocean.

The blue and silver soaked waves

of the Marlania Ocean.

For Shame.

Bad

Very Bad

Shirking your obligations,

again.

Worse

So much worse

Forgetting what your obligations were,

for the first time.

Horrid

Almost morbid

Never making amends,

ever.

.................................................

See, I wrote this because I felt bad about not posting on here for forever! And then it evolved. Hehehe. Crazy how that happens.

:)

A Girl's Bedroom

My room is a curious thing

Not alive

But close enough

To where only I 

am welcomed

Into its peculiar embrace

The walls are a warm

peanut butter

Hiding humming pixies of my 

dreams that

Steal away socks

some of which can be found

Under cool ruffled sheets

Books scatter delicately 

Their wings of hidden 

magic

Fluttering quietly around my

well worn floor

Disappearing only to reappear

Some other cluttered place

Pages worn and yellow

but loved

Then there's a bed

My bed

Where I almost always rule

A squeaky mattress laughing

hoarsely as I erase

a girls eyebrow 

for the seventeenth time

A deluge of pillows 

that are my squishy throne 

Holding my infinitesimal 

dreams as I ponder the secrets of those 

Weird aliens who dare to 

walk outside

My kingdom

And my knicknacks

Chattering across a tight spaced universe

Speaking in foreign tongues of their

travels from mystical

places

Telling me secrets 

as I sift through

much used colored pencils

But sticky hands or stern commands

open that ever stoic door

and the magic

is lost

The whispers stop

The pixies freeze 

My humorous mattress 

Holds its breath

They always leave

though

Eventually

and after a hesitant wait

The magic sparks again

And we breath a sigh of relief

My room is a curious thing

Not alive

But close enough

To where only I 

am welcomed

Into its peculiar embrace

Oh, and then there's the closet...

**Ash**

Swift

Here it comes

Swift as a poisoned arrow

Embedding itself deep into my heart

Terror

I have nothing to fight for

No animalistic need to stay alive

Because everything is handed to me

But the fear is crippling

The dread and horror of the future

A future I hope I survive

The storybooks don't prepare you

The soothing of soft hands don't protect

Against my doubt and turmoil

I wish I could run

Run until all answers are provided and counted

And I can smooth everything out with well fed hands

Yet my fingers are thin and calloused

Not from work but from worry

The product of a hunched sense of retreat

Here it comes

Swift as an arrow

Embedding itself deep into my heart

Terror

**Sorry for not posting! Ash**

You Look Time Lord

Two mandatory things to remember:
     Fezzes are cool
     Bow ties are cool
But never forget
please don't forget
to not blink
don't look away
from the wibbly wobbly
timey wimey
stuff.
or the void stuff
because your child
just might have
a time head.
but everything will be
just fine.
don't cry little angel
Trust me
Just don't talk to me
when I'm cross
And yes
you may call me
Sexy
but only when we're
alone.
So hello
no
wait
the other one.

Name. Rank. Intention.
The Doctor. Doctor. Fun.
Brilliant