number of.

this is the list thing I wrote on Saturday at the library.

lakes peacefully viewed: 1

therapists seen: 2

kittens fostered: 13

kennels slept in: 1

assignments not turned in: 7

English assignments not turned in: 0

rings: 3

painted fingernails: 9

pairs of broken shoes: 1

breaths just breathed: 4

number of scratches: 85

number of freckles: 32

hours slept last night: 8

hours slept the night before: 3

brothers: 1

blue marks: 14

cookies devoured: 731

boyfriends: 1

trolls kissed: 1

times I’ve been wrong:

            something serious: 2

            not so serious: 493,026

tomatoes in a basket: 12

times swimming this summer: 1

distance to closest pool from home: 10 feet

fish dead: 16

squares on the ceiling of the kitchen in my first house: 351

phone calls:

            made: 89

            received: 54

            missed: 109

bracelets: 2

shoes under the table: 10

letters in my name: 17

birthdays had: 16

birthdays celebrated: 4

posters: 11

relatives it takes to break the sound barrier: 4

pills taken: 147

pills not taken: 167

countries visited: 8

photographs taken: 36,794

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