Mine

Good Day!

Finals are just around the corner and I am just now feeling the pressure1891915-202wobbuffet

I was hoping to finish my novel before the summer session begins, or at least send out my novelette, Mine.

Here’s a preview:

I

I remember hair, long and of gold, as if weaved by the gods. She was beautiful, my Toril. And she was mine. We were to live happily on the land I inherited from my father that was passed down from his forefathers. The land, though hard and barely yielding, would have been sufficient for us. It was a small plot on top of the hill, a small ways away from my village. We were to have children, many children, mostly sons. Maybe one daughter. I was going to show our sons how to hunt and work the land. Toril would teach our daughter to cook, sew, and tend the goats. We were to grow old together in that home and in the home that absorbed all our years together, we would die. But the gods have a sense of humor, or a love of tragedy. Sometimes, I wished I had left matters alone. There are things man was never meant to see, doors that were never meant to be opened. Oh, the things I have done cannot be undone.

II

I was still young the first time we met, not yet old enough to drink ale or go on my first raid. My first beard was but a dream away. She was from a village on the other side of the fjord. It was a lengthy trek, but their market fared better than ours did. Amongst the grey sky and the stench of manure, stood she. Her ragged clothes hung limply on her frame, encasing the twig of a girl. Although covered in mud, she could not hide the soft halo of golden hair and the eyes that were clear as a winter’s morn. She caught me staring at her from between the trading stalls and asked me my name. I gave it to her. I asked for hers.

“When you show me you are a real man, I’ll tell you,” she said before she ran off. I began to practice with shoddy spears made by the blacksmith’s apprentice. They were crooked and unbalanced, but I did not have enough money to buy a true weapon. Not yet. My hands were often covered in blisters, splinters, and rubbed raw enough to bleed. Sometimes I practiced in the dark by the light of the moon and the glow of my candle. I did well. Even my father seemed pleased with me, he gave me a crooked smile and a quick pat on the head. He never got to see me off for my first raid, the harvest had been getting scarcer with each passing year. It was probably for the best.

On my sixteenth summer, I went on my first raid. Our people’s focus was on battle and honor, yet there was no honor in what they did, what we did. I told her as much when I returned. I never wanted to go on one again. Long gone were the tales of victory from childhood, replaced by the gruesome reality. I would not fight, not for treasure or for glory. I could not murder another just to still my own hunger, or to fill my pockets with coin. I cringed from the gore and senseless deaths. That made me a coward, useless to my people and to the gods. For what is a man worth if not his sacrifice? Valhalla had no room for the weak and the spineless. The stench would cling to my family’s name until Ragnarøkkr scourged the Earth. I was not a man. I was a coward. I knew it. Both villages knew it. She knew it.

“Toril,” her breath felt warm against my lips seconds before she kissed me. She tasted of lingonberries and honey. I asked if she would be mine, and she said nodded. We wandered into the woods and consummated our love in sight of the gods.

III

We lay in the damp grass gazing up at the overcast sky above us. His hand intertwined with mine, and even with the pain, I had never felt so content. The pain would fade. At least that was what Gerjun told me. She told me many things, things my mother felt were not for a child. I was not a child anymore, Trygg helped me with that. I rested my head on his chest, and breathed in his scent: pine, sweat, and man.

“I love you,” he said. I replied with a kiss. The sun was disappearing behind the mountains, and shadows crept upon the land.

“Come before my father finds us.” I tossed him his clothing and wiggled in my dress.

“He would not find us here, would he?”

“I wouldn’t idle by.” He led me to the outskirts of my village where we gave our final goodbyes and quick, feathery kisses. “Do you love me Trygg?”

“Yes.” He whispered into my hair. “I will prove myself to your father. Will you wait for me until then?”

“Yes.” I sealed the promise with another kiss. “I will wait forever.”

IV

The sun had long since set since I left Toril and by the time I reached my village it was nearly full dark. I ignored the not-so-quiet whispers as I walked through the salt and wind beaten homes and trudged up the path to the lonely hut on the hill. The winds were merciless this time of year and made its lean more pronounced. Ahead, the great hall was full of drunken laughter. The men had returned the day before from their last raid and still they celebrated. I meant to sneak by quietly until Viggo jumped into my path. The eight-wheeled aegishjalmur was still dark on his forehead. Its top three tridents disappeared into his blond hair while the bottom-most one extended down the bridge of his nose. How this supposed symbol granted him invincibility was beyond me. It never did me any good. Maybe the gods forsook me.

“And where were you?” His breath stank of ale and even full of warrior’s grace, his movements were sluggish. Here was the boy my father wished he had sired, for Viggo was strong, fearless and above all a fighter. He prodded my chest with a thick finger. “I asked you a question,” he said and shoved me to the ground. “While our brothers and sisters bled, where were you?” Spittle flew from his mouth in an angry burst. His heel slammed on my hand. I cried out. The music and singing had stopped. The men sat unmoving with their tankards spilling over the brim with ale and women on their laps under the soft glow of lantern lights. My hand grasped at the dirt and I flung it into his eyes. He staggered back, and roared with rage.

“You stupid little…” he growled. As I struggled to stand, he charged and we tumbled to the ground. I was pinned beneath him, this “man” who was two years my junior. I brought up my arms to shield my face. “I’m going to kill you!” His fists came down repeatedly, each time harder than before. With each strike, my dignity bled out.

“Boys!” someone yelled and then Viggo was off me. I peeked through my arms to see Raum lumbering over us, hammer in one hand and the other on Viggo’s collar. Burned spots of hair interrupted the white of his beard. Like my hut, he favored one side, leaning heavily on his right leg. “Leave the rage for the battlefield,” Raum said.

“Don’t touch me old man,” Viggo spat as he yanked himself away from Raum.

Raum lifted his hammer, “Would you like to meet the All-Father now?” Viggo backed away into the hall, which was still eerily quiet. “And you,” he turned to me. “Get off your ass.” I did so but slowly.

“Thank you,” I whispered. He slapped the back of my head. “Ow. Good to see you too, Raum.” I could feel weight of the village’s stare. Raum noticed too.

“I can’t always be there to save you.” He shoved a wrapped bundle into my hands. The soot of his hands rubbed off on my grass-smeared tunic.

“I know.” I said.

“Be a man!” He shouted and limped back to his smithy. My shoulders hunched at the stream of guffaws from the rows of houses. I clutched the bundle to my chest and quickened my pace.

Gunther was at the gate of my hut. The icy fist that clenched my heart lifted at the sight of my old friend, my only friend. “Hail, Gunther.” He nodded in response and stepped back as I opened the gate. He walked with me across the yard; flowering cabbage dominated the left side while the right was barren. There were large pieces missing from the last rows of cabbage. “No trouble tending the garden I see.” I ruffled his hair and we entered into the empty hut. I started a fire in the pit in the middle of the sparse room. Gunther sprawled himself on the floor and rested his white head on my lap. His nose bumped the package still in my hand. With shaking fingers, I folded back the piece of cloth and almost cried at the brown block and small loaf in my hand. I brought it up to my nose and inhaled the sweet and salty scent before starting to devour it. Gunther bleated in protest and I tore a chunk of the cheese for him. He nibbled it without question. When we finished the gjetost and bread, my hand dipped into the thick white hair of Gunther’s neck. If it weren’t for Raum, we would have starved long before the harvest. Gunther licked my fingers. “No more my friend.” Gathering the worn fur skins from the corner, I covered us both, and there we slept by the dying fire.

Usually my dreams were of the my father and I doing nothing in particular, maybe ripping up weeds, casting our nets into the ocean, or chasing Gunther and the other goats from the vegetable patches. Boring but normal. After the treacherous trip across the sea, every night my dreams were filled with burning houses and screams. Oh, how awful the screams were. Pale faces screaming in their foreign tongue, as the men were slaughtered where they stood and the women dragged off into the homes to be raped. Children wailed, glued to dead fingers, until they too were struck down. Shields and swords that dripped with blood covered the city in twisting red lines, like a ball of yarn unraveling, strangling the earth. I stood in the midst of the chaos, walking over bodies of the dead and the not quite dead that clung to the earth, to life with trembling fingers caked in blood. Their eyes pleaded, ‘Don’t let me die.’ But, once we’ve arrived it’s always too late. Once our ships cross into your waters, whatever is yours is ours: your land, your food, your life. I stare at each one waiting for the light to leave their eyes. At least with dreams the smells lose their strength, I could not bear that awful reek of burning flesh with the overpowering aroma of loose bowels.

Viggo clomped down the street, brandishing a flaming sword. When he turned towards me, his mouth was smeared with blood and long red lines decorated his face. Coins, gold, silver and bronze, spilled from his pockets. He was grinning.

“The houses are full of treasure.” He waved a spoon, it shone by the light of the fires. “They eat with these!” He laughed liked it was the funniest joke he has ever heard. A toddler was crying over the fallen body of her father. She didn’t look up as Viggo’s shadow engulfed her. He lifted the spoon and plunged it into her skull. Her body jittered and there was a squishy pop. Viggo’s grin grew and showed me his prize. The tiny eyeball jiggled on the head of the spoon as he laughed. I wanted to look away as he plopped the eyeball on his tongue. He slurped up the tail and licked his lips. He offered me the second eye that was suddenly in his hand. It made squeaky sounds when he squeezed it. Since I didn’t answer, he crushed it in his hand. Our eyes met as he licked the juices from his dripping fingers. I could feel the world swimming around me, the light rippling, struggling to still itself.

A crack ran down Viggo’s face, splitting the skin. The skin peeled off, like a tree shedding its bark. Multicolored scales glistened with blood underneath. A forked tongue slithered from his ridged mouth, licking the spoon. His jaw unhinged, his bottom lip dragged across the ground.

(Run!) I shouted towards the girl. (For the love of the gods, run!)

But, she was already dead. Viggo swallowed her whole, throwing his head back and the girl slid down. She got stuck half way in, the tiny body was just a bulge against the tight skin of his throat and her dirty, bare feet poked out of his mouth. When Viggo shook his body, her legs appeared to be kicking. More sheets of skin fell off. The girl was gone. Viggo’s legs disappeared, melding into one form with his body to become a long tail. Like rope, he coiled himself before launching into the sky. Up, up he went, his tail wiggled as if swimming, pushing him further away from the ground. His mouth opened and he bit into the sky. The grey sky pulsed red and purple streaks like angry veins shot out from the wound, as his poison spread through the sky.

(The Sky is bleeding.)

The poison dripped from his teeth and rained upon the Earth. A drop fell on my arm and sunk into my skin. My arm turned blue, and throbbed with each labored breath. I staggered forward. One. Two. Nine steps before I fell. Serpent-Viggo let go of the sky and landed with a ground-shaking thud beside me. Amber eyes reflected my pathetic blue form.

“Where were you?” He hissed and released his last breath.

Tonight, after he fell, Viggo dissolved into a thin mist. The city wavered and melted away into the forest. Toril sat bare on the grass; dew ran down the swell of her breasts. She beckoned me and I went to her. Her hair lay in a fan upon the grass and when the sun danced upon it, she looked like Sif, the goddess with hair made of dwarven gold.


So this is about 1/5 of the story, I hope the sections aren’t too confusing. When I wrote this, I wrote it from the viewpoint of a short film and made scenes. This was the advice was one of my writing professors when I confessed I couldn’t see myself writing full length novels. She suggested I just write scenes and see where it goes from there. I’m so happy that I took her class, because she was an awesome mentor.

I love mythology and try to weave it into my stories, I can’t tell if it worked for this or not. Unfortunately, the people I have sent this out to help me edit this piece haven’t gotten back to me. Makes me wonder if they just didn’t see the point of editing this mess….so yea…

Oh well! On the bright side, I have commissioned my friend to design the cover. I can’t wait until its done.

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Dream Journals

When I get an idea, I was trick myself into thinking I’ll remember it later. I never do, but the lie continues.

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The reason I bring this is up is because I scrolled through my phone and found a funny note on a dream I had.

Here is the note:

Needed to keep his teeth because it held his good traits and give them to his younger brothers. Go into the past and get adopted into the family and make sure he doesn’t die. He goes to war to become a medic and dies helping people.


I think I typed that while still half asleep.

Dreams are pretty funny, though. After reading it, I easily recalled the dream, but without the note, I doubt I would have.

I’ve tried to keep a dream journal in the past, but I can’t remember why I ever stopped. Maybe I’m just lazy in the mornings (most likely). I still have the one I began in high school and I have fun remembering those crazy tales my brain conjured up.

Maybe I’ll take it up again.

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Do you keep a dream journal? And if not, would you consider writing in one?

Long Walks

Good day!

I don’t know about you, but I love the fog. It’s rare where I live to have a nice thick fog but I got lucky this morning.

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Not my canyon but still very pretty ^_^

There is a canyon I like to jog through and veiled in fog, the path took on a mysterious feel even though I know the path well.

One of the first things I noticed as I turned into the canyon was the increase in spider webs. Maybe it is the change of the seasons and they are eager to begin their hunt but there were webs everywhere; on the ground looking like dirty cotton, on the plants and all along the fences.

As I walked, the hard sand crunched beneath my feet, the fog hugged the path and became like a tunnel. A variety of birds cried out, their songs and calls surprisingly did not conflict with each other. They were like an orchestra, each knowing their cues. One bird trilled every few seconds which reminded me of a piccolo.

The fog also reminded me of my 9th grade English teacher. There was a passage we were discussing where the main character was walking on a foggy night by a graveyard. He was alone on the street and the people were in their homes, their faces bathed in the glow of their televisions. My teacher asked us what was the tone of the story.

I said it was peaceful and calming and he immediately chastised me. I was never good with analyzing stories…

The fog, however, was great for setting the mood for my job. I use the Zombie Run! app which tells a story of survivors after the zombie apocalypse. I don’t like to exercise (I habit I’ve been trying to get out of) but I’ll do anything for a good story ^_^

I love the colorful cast of characters and hearing the moans of zombies in my ears while on a foggy road was just perfect.aria-meloetta-happy-legendary-pokemon-37772481-499-518

I probably looked funny nervously glancing over my shoulder, peering into the fog as if zombies were waiting to ambush me, but it was fun.

The question today is:

What do you do to keep yourself moving and active?

Someone in my head

The funny thing about this is, I forgot I even wrote it. I opened my prompt folder and at the bottom of my list was this.


There’s someone in my head but it’s not me. I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking. I know that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve thought it many times but it’s real, well as real as a disembodied voice could be. It started with little things like misplacing my keys or notebooks. Everyone does it, no big deal right? Well, when large chunks of time began to slip away, I grew concerned. I even tried to video tape myself while I slept, sounding crazy yet? Sleep walking, that’s common. Sounded better than any alternatives, so I bought the camcorder anyway.

When I got up that morning trepidation crawled in my gut, as I rose to watch the video. I had placed the camcorder across from me on my bureau. The tape was missing. I swore I had placed a new tape into the stupid contraption. I left the room for the living room where I had left the best buy bag. The tape package was opened and housed only three of the four tapes.

Something clattered in the kitchen. I turned slowly, not wanting to check but knowing I couldn’t be a chicken. My hand flexed around the package, I’m not a good throw, not since my accident a few months prior. My steps were short but solid. The kitchen was empty but in the stove a pot bubbled and the clattering continued. I don’t cook. I gave myself food poisoning too many times to count to trust myself unsupervised in the kitchen. The pots were a housing warming gift and were nice cabinet stuffing but besides that saw no real use. With a dreaming hand I turned off the stove. It clicked.

Now that I was above the stove, I got the whiff of burnt plastic. Water splattered the stove top. I lifted the lid and in the pot were the smashed remains of the tape. Dark brown bubbles were crusted around the rim of the pot. The film looked like soggy udon noodles, the two white circles could have been onions. I let the pot’s lid fall with a clink.

I went back to the living room. I didn’t want to stare at the silver pot anymore. It didn’t make sense. Seeing it made my head hurt. I couldn’t tell anyone. How could I? I guess that’s why I’m telling you. You believe me, right?


Hmm…I like fooling around with the idea of not being in control of your actions, or at least unreliable narrators (haven’t gotten the hang of that one yet).

I really need to read more outside of this genre because I feel like I’m becoming repetitious (especially between this post and Mirror, mirror).

On another note, it’s sad to know that most kids don’t know what a cassette is anymore.

 

Time to hit those books!

Alright! Good day everyone! I’m super hyped about this year, so many plans and projects I have envisioned for this year (crossing my fingers that it doesn’t blow up in my face ^^;)

Ever since graduating high school I noticed my reading time declined significantly. If I can finish a book every couple of months I was happy. But I say no more! Most times, I was reading 2-3 books a year (egad!)

(I haven’t had sugar this time, I swear)

 

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On the Goodreads app (which I highly recommend. It’s basically a website to track books you’ve read, want to read, or are reading. It’s pretty neat.) or goodreads.com, you can set an annual reading goal. I set the goal of reading 10 books this year (not so bad). A classmate of mine saw this and agreed to the challenge. Then I found this:

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I hereby issue this challenge. I’ve already have a few books lined up that meet the criteria and roped a few buddies into accepting >:3

Yet, I still haven’t found an intimidating book…unless my accounting text book counts?

If you have any suggestions, I’m all ears (or eyes? I’m not sure how sayings work when reading actually).

Happy reading everyone.

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Listen to the Whispers (preview)

Here’s part of a story I’m working on.


 

She took a breath. One hand clutched at the metal rail of her bed, the other gripped her husband’s hand. Her nails, rough from constant biting, dug into his skin leaving white crescents. Her eyes were clamped shut as voices urged her on, “One more, just one more big push.” They’ve been repeating that for the past five minutes. Not that Luzmarie was counting as pain rolled over her and her breathing grew shallow. She gave them a push, a big push; it was the last one.

Under the stark fluorescent bulbs and even covered in bloody tissue, Luzmarie had never seen a more beautiful being. The cries pierced through her exhaustion and pain and she reached out for the child. The nurse placed the now cleaned babe into her arms and Luzmarie wept. Her husband John, silently grateful for the use of his hand, laid his arm over her shoulders.

“Good work Luz.” She gave him a breathless chuckle as he brushed the damp hair from her forehead. When her parents walked in, her mother, Josefina, began her examination of the newborn. Supposedly, she had Tio Ernesto’s ears, her grandmother Juana’s nose, and the stubby toes of her father, John.

“She’s beautiful mija,” Luz’s father Innocencio said and kissed her temple. “You did good, Luzy.”

Luz grinned, so sure her face would be stuck in that permanent grin. “Larimar made momma work for it, didn’t you?” The newborn opened her eyes and trained the cross-eyed cool grey eyes on her uncle, Tio Tulio, who stood beside his parents. He was young, still in his teens. Black stained his nails and grease streaked his once blue coveralls that faded to grey from washing. He was leaning over his younger sister’s bed. A tiny tanned hand clasped around his outstretched finger. He shared a look with his father.

“Papa?” Luz checked over her shoulder. Her father was prone to staring off into space or having conversations with himself. It spooked her as a child and now, twenty-four years later she could still feel her skin prickle with goosebumps. It would take another year or so for the four of them to pinpoint Larimar’s eyes. She didn’t get John’s baby blues (no matter how hard she prayed) nor did she get Josefina’s pretty honey eyes. That precious little one in her arms had her father’s eyes. Not the soft brown Luzmarie inherited but they were the same.


The young girl peeked through the curtains. Around her were whispers of excitement but she felt the dread build up inside her as she watched the hands of the clock fall towards the two. She fiddled with her tutu as her instructor moved them into place.

“Remember, smiles.” Their instructor, Ms. Byron said. Larimar didn’t think she could remember. As the curtain split apart, the overhead lights, hot and blinding, filled the auditorium with shadows. The music began and the girls danced. Her limbs felt stiff and her face like plastic. Between turns she peered into the shadowy faces of the audience, some were hidden behind cameras, but they all looked unfamiliar. She scanned the crowd again, but turned the wrong way and slammed into Matilda. The crowd chuckled as the two girls steadied themselves. Matilda’s face was bright red and she shoved Larimar to the side. She fell with a thump on the stage and stared out into the audience. The girls behind them kept dancing. The music kept playing. She couldn’t seem to get up, like her legs were cemented to the stage. Matilda leapt over her slumped form, twirling without a care.

Ms. Bryon whispered, “get up. Smile. Keep dancing.” She pumped her hands up and down, but Larimar could only stare. Tears burned her eyes and the spotlights were like the desert sun. The crowd began to murmur with discontent. She couldn’t make out the words but she knew disappointment floated among them.

The large door in the back of the auditorium opened, and Larimar smiled as her mother waved to her. She looked odd, Larimar thought. Twigs and leaves stuck out in her hair that was bushy and wet with mud. Her clothes were torn and dripping. Was it raining outside? It was a wonder no one complained as she shimmied into the middle of the isle. Her mother gave her two thumbs up and mouthed, ‘I love you.’

Larimar stood, her legs were no longer shaking or heavy. She moved in time with the girls. The smile on her face wasn’t faked this time and she leaped, twirled, and pirouetted. The crowd cheered when they finished. Her mother was the first to stand up and applaud.

After the show ended, the girls huddled around Ms. Bryon who released them to their families. “Larimar,the woman called. “I’m sorry, honey.”

About what?” the girl tilted her head, itching to go ask her mom how she did.

That no one came to see you dance.”

But my mom came, after we began.” She explained. The instructor glanced at the thinning crowd.

Where is your mother now?”

Larimar looked over at her mother, who waved to her. She grabbed her hand to stop from waving in return. “I guess I made a mistake,” she said. Ms. Bryon pat her head and said she would phone her home. Once alone, Larimar joined her mother off stage.

You were brilliant, mami!” Luzmarie bent down and squeezed her daughter. “Oh, if only your dad could have seen you. I forgot my camera, I was afraid I was going to miss the whole performance.” Larimar let her mother continue talking but her tears flowed freely now. “Oh mija, what’s wrong?”

Larimar shook her head. Ms. Bryon called her from the stage, “No one answered, I can give you a ride home if you want.”

No, it’s alright, I’m Larimar’s mother,” Luzmarie said. Larimar tried not to look at the woman beside her.

No, it’s alright, Ms. Bryon. My mother’s on her way, she’s just running late. I…she might have forgotten her camera.” Ms. Bryon nodded and turned to a group of parents who wanted to talk to her.

How rude!” Luzmarie stomped her foot. “I just told her all that.”

Larimar grabbed her mother’s hand. “Let’s go home momma.”


Instead of doing my usual prompt, I fiddled with this story. It has been collecting digital dust for over a year. It has undergone a few changes, which might or might not stick.

My novel, Unbound, is still in the works. It’s about 60-70% done (the story has a life of its own and I can’t tell when its going to end…) I should probably go finish that now….

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Happy writing!

Hello, again…

It’s been a while…

cat-sleeping-on-books-390x292I could easily make the excuse that school’s been keeping me busy, (it has) but it isn’t the whole truth.

And I’m tired of lies, especially ones I tell myself.

So here goes…

Really, it’s because of fear.

Alright, yep, I finally admitted it. (I can sigh in relief now)

When I first began this blog, I didn’t have to worry about people reading whatever I posted. I didn’t have any readers. It was more for me anyways, to say I was actually doing something with my writing (which didn’t really happen).

But then people actually looked at my blog, liked it, followed it. Suddenly, the blog grew its own shadow and I couldn’t escape it. I grew scared to write.

It’s weird, I know. Writers write to have things read, right?

I have to get used to people reading my writing (even the nonsensical musings on this blog).

I don’t want to give up on this blog. I’ve given up on too many things, but writing I want to keep. So, thanks with sticking with me this far.

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There’s a quote I like from Kurt Vonnegut. He said, “Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.”

I feel like I need to go back to how it was before, writing for myself. If no one likes it, fine. If someone likes it, fine. Either way, it won’t stop me from writing.


 

This is way overdue, but let’s make this an awesome year!

Have you ever wanted to stop writing or something else you loved to do?

 

 

Marmolejo

I took an unintended two week break from writing. I believed that during my time off I would break my fingers from writing…but nothing. Soon I’ll return back to school and I’m trying to not burn out again (sigh).

I was so inspired after visiting my mother’s new home in Florida. It’s beautiful and while not quite the countryside there is a lot of peace and quiet and animals ^_^

Two of my mother’s neighbors have roosters and I’ve learned a few facts during my visit.

1-Roosters aren’t that loud. I feared that their crows would have me falling out of bed. It’s actually a bit soothing. When I’m home alone, it feels nice to know the world is going on around me.

2-Roosters don’t always crow at dawn. In fact, they like to do it all day long. Sometimes the two (one from each neighbor) will carry on a conversation. One will crow and the other will respond. They can go on for about half and hour just doing that.


It took us three days of wondering up and down the streets near my mother’s home, but we found this lovely little road that my uncle likes to call “Marmolejo” after a place from the Dominican Republic. While I myself have never seen Marmolejo,  (remember, j’s sound like h’s in Spanish ^-^) the road was still cool.

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We even found two lakes near the house. My mother wasn’t so thrilled about that since she doesn’t like to live near water but had to admit it was pretty. Even my niece (soon to be 11) enjoyed the walk, but after the first day she was back to carrying her tablet (foiled again :/)

Oh! Did I mention the peafowl? They are beautiful and roaming about.

We tried to count them all. What started as two males and a female turned out to be like 5-6 males and two females. I tried to convince my mother to buy one. She says when I move back, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed!

The change in scenery helped boost my word  counts in December but in January they have been lagging. I believe this is the third time I’ve sat down to write. I hope to keep all these new experiences with me and can’t wait to finally finish school and come home.


Do you have a place that you would like to revisit and why?

Can’t catch me

I feel like my responses to these prompts are getting shorter and shorter. I really hope this isn’t a trend.


Running away isn’t as easy as they say. I bet no one ever tried to run through a marsh, having the mud suck you in, and each step is a labor unto itself. I lost my shoes a few paces back, but it didn’t make it any easier to wade through the thick mass that was trying to swallow me alive. A root extended into the mud and I threw myself onto it. With a grunt and with a mix of colorful words, I drew myself out. The earth was slow to release me, and when it did it was with a wet plop! I collapsed on my back against the root, shivering (I had lost my socks sometime ago as well), and exhausted.

Lights danced between the thickly woven trees but no sounds followed. No splashed from the murky waters, no crackle of broken branches. Nothing at all except for my breathing and the distant hum of crickets.

They didn’t need to make any sound.

I rolled over onto my knees and pushed forward. Running isn’t easy, but it is easily my least favorite thing to do. The uneven ground didn’t make it better. Each step, each time my heel stuck the ground, a shot of pain reverberated in me. The mud stiffened on my pants, locking the coldness within. My chest burned, I couldn’t breathe.

The lights burned brighter now. I couldn’t escape. The marsh looked similar no matter which directions I turned. Moonlight trickled through the dense foliage overhead but not enough to navigate by. I stopped, I couldn’t go on. My knees trembled, my blood was boiling, I had to lean against a broad trunk in order to keeping standing. I swallowed air in hungry gulps. I wasn’t made for running. They made sure of that.

The crickets stopped singing and the ringing silence fell upon me.


This is actually my second response. I stopped my first attempt after the first paragraph. You aren’t supposed to stop, I know, but it was worse than this one. One of my story ideas leaked into it and it turned into a mess. I’m a bit happier with this one.

It’s that time again…

I’m very bad at finishing projects. I still have all my beads and supplies for when I used to make key chains in middle school (all that stuff is in a box somewhere at my parents’ house). Even after giving more than half away, I still have so many beads.

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Basically something like this. I didn’t make this one though, all of mine are at my parents’ house.

I have boxes of unfinished crochet projects, cross-stitching, and earrings.

Maybe because I get bored easily?

Well for crochet, sometimes it’s because I get tired of seeing the same color. Most times, it’s because when making amigurumi (crochet dolls/toys), my hands cramp. Those types of projects require tight stitching to ensure that the stuffing won’t fall out. I remember I got calluses for crocheting three hours in a row…not making that mistake again.

So, I took up cross-stitching. It’s fun, easy on the hands, but takes a while.

As for earrings, it’s fun and quick. I can churn out a few pairs in half an hour. But my real joy comes from crochet.

I find that the closer Christmas comes, the more anxious I become. I will not have enough time to make everyone’s presents. I always say I’m going to start early in the year in order to give everyone at least something.

Yea, that never happens. Maybe that should be my New Year’s Resolution, to actually prepare ahead of time.

So far, these are the projects I want to finish for Christmas.

The first one is supposed to be a Macaw. My mother used to have a Paulie (from the movie) doll that would greet people when they came to our place. I think it broke, she had that thing forever. She loves parrots, so I figured why not make a fake one? No poop to clean (birds poop way too much), or maintenance of any kind. Basically, it’s going to be a place holder until I can buy her a real parrot. Don’t worry, it will be legal.

The second is Toadette for one of my nieces. She recently got into Mario at school. Two years ago it was Sonic, which I made for her birthday. This year, she’s into Pokémon as well (totally not my fault) and I made her a Snivy.

The third is a Leafeon, one favorite Pokémon of my best friend. He is still unfinished since last year…I’m that bad. Really the only things he needs are eyes and some accents, yet he is still unfinished…

The last two are of a cat plushie for my other best friend who moved to Colorado. She was unable to take her cat with her, so hopefully this will cheer her up.

For my nephew, I’m attempting to make a Great White Shark. Literally, all he talks about are sharks, robots, and cars. His favorite story is Goldifish and the 3 Sharks, which I have to tell him every night much to his sister’s dislike.

Yet, that still leaves my other nieces and nephew who are 13, 10, and 9 (too old for dolls?), my brothers, my sister-in-laws, my dad, my other friends, and so many others.

I like making gifts when I can, I feel they are more personal then just buying a gift, yet so many presents make my head spin.

Seriously, I have to start earlier to avoid all this anxiety.