Who knows, really?

I feel like I've jipped everyone (including myself) out of a few days worth of writing. So here I am again, with a few things I wrote then/thought about writing then.

A Pitiful Answer

"Tell me . . . why is life worth living when you feel like this?"

I do not
can not
know how you feel.
So maybe I am disqualified from answering that query.

Then again...
I am in a different emotional room then you
(emotional plane, if you prefer)
and maybe that makes is so I CAN answer you back.

The Love of your parents
-since before you were born.

The Love of your sister
-more then an obligation.

My love, and the love of
all your friends.

There are people
I have not even met
that love you,
relatives,
neighbors.

The love of random strangers
passed on Love,
{re}gifted Love,
hand-me-down love
from your Lover.
And His Love
is the Reason
for everything.

Most certainly for your life.

And as someone said at MAW,
or maybe it was in a hymn
(and keep in mind, this is the loosest of paraphrases)
this life is a gift from God
it is not yours to take.

And as you said before:
He has a plan for you.
You must not leave before it's through.
(It's gonna be soooo cool.)

But most of all
I won't let you.

And that
is that.

The Best Thing About PE

Is
after playing sharks and minnow
or football
and standing still
with my hand to my chest
and feeling
my heart
beat.

The Dance

I am only just learning to dance.
For so long I have clinged to my mother's skirts
and my father's arm.

I am just learning to dance solo
mixing ballet
and Jewish circle dancing
with whatever the heck that is.

And here I am:
feeling beautiful as I twirl.

But there is so much improvisation:
how in the world do people do this in pairs?

Yet I long for a partner
as all must.

But I am really don't think I can handle
a waltz
just yet.


....But I still want too.

4 days left

R.S.V.P.

My reply to Shel Silverstein's Invitation

I am a dreamer.
I wish and I lie.

I have quite a few hopes
but thousands more prayers.

I buy
baked beans
pinto beans
navy beans
blue beans
garbanzo beans
and green beans.

But I never got a ladder stalk out of any of them.

I still might;
I have a tendency
to throw them out the window
when life is particularly boring.

I pretend I'm a poet.
I pretend I'm a friend.
I pretend God is my all.
I pretend to know what I'm doing.
Is that enough pretending for you?
I can list more.

My I warm my hands by your fire?
I'll watch you with the flax-
you with your golden-story fingers-
Will you give me spinning wheel lessons?

6 & 5 days left

Interrogating Indigo

"Create a situation in which a character must defend, explain, or justify his actions."
-Writer's Digest

For Janelle and Intisar

The room is dark. One bright light shines into the face of a seventeen year old boy: the Character. He sits at a desk and squints up at the Author. The Author paces in front of the desk, her trench coat flapping ominously.

"Please state your name for the record," the Author's voice growl's out. The Author's face is shadowed by her fedora.

"Indigo Zinzan," the character replies.

A typewriter clacks from behind a mirror.

"Mr. Zinzan," the Author has a bit of a cough in her voice. "Were you on your Grandmother's bus, sometime in November?"

"I was on my Grandmother's bus for most of November," the Character's distinct vowel sounds betray his country of origin- the United Kingdom of Great Britain.

"Don't get smart with me, young man," the Author said, dropping the proverbial hammer on his head.

"OW!" the Character cursed a bit, rubbing his head. "Was that really necessary?"

The Author swung to face Indigo, slamming her fists down onto the table in front of the Character. "Was it really necessary for you to choke the living daylights out of Willow Aloysia-Everglean?"

The Character gulped. "She was hurting my little sister."

"That doesn't mean that you have to torture her." The Author said, resuming her pacing. "Just protecting your sister would have been enough."

The Character seemed to be getting over his nervousness regarding the Author. "That doesn't mean you have to bring me into a clique noir setting and interrogate me! And stop calling me "the Character". I have a name. I just stated it for the record. Surely you remember it." The seventeen year old boy was standing up, fists clenched, shouting at the Author.

The Author stopped pacing. She took off her fedora and looked straight into the boy's face. It was difficult for Indigo to be mad while looking straight into the face of a girl younger then he. True, she had an awful lot of power, but ever since the Character's half sister had come into his life, he had become very protective of younger girls.

"All you have to do," the Author said gently, "is ask nicely."

The Character sighed. "Would you please call me Indigo instead of 'the Character'?"

"Of course," the Author said. "Now, why do you get so angry all the time?"

"I don't know," Indigo said. He smiled at the use of his first name. "I... um. Well. I get angry a lot. It always seems to have a reason, but I didn't use to be so angry."

"How did you get this way?" the Author asked, doffing her hat.

"Mmmrrphmmph, mmmrph, mmmmeruph!" Indigo said. "Why can't I tell you?"

"Because," the Author explained, still pacing. "I have to censor you. I can't let people knowing all the plot twists before they read the book."

"You don't know yet, do you?" Indigo asked accusingly. "You don't know why I get angry all the time, so you are making me mumble under the pretense of not giving away spoilers."

"Ummmm," the Author said evasively.

"WEELLLLL?!" Indigo demanded.

The Author pulled out her pen (gel number 2, fine, standard black) and scrawled a few words on his head. Indigo disappeared, sent back to the rambling first draft slammed out in November.

"Feww," the Author wiped some sweat off her upper lip. "That was close." She took off her trench coat and fedora, revealing jeans and an out-of season Christmas sweater. The sixteen year old girl skipped out of the dark room, and back into the messy, colorful room where she was, amung other things, writing a novel.

8 days left

The final bit of Frogfoot's story.

The unicorn continued to live in the village of broken creatures. He ate the brambles and the mushrooms. And his life was one that invited more brokenness. His coat, which had once been white, was so covered in dirt and dried blood and old mud that it had turned a sort of grayish brown. The unicorn lived this way for many weeks. Once in a while, the thought would cross his mind that maybe this wasn't the best way to live. But he banished the thought.

One day the unicorn was walking about and he came upon a patch of grass. Frogfoot had not eaten grass in months. He stared, stupidly at it, remembering his old life. It had been so dull and meaningless. Then again, so was his life now. But at least he wasn't under the jurisdiction of the king. He could do as he wished now. Frogfoot kicked the grass, and was about to go on his way when he remembered his old friend. The young man, who was called Melek. The unicorn remembered all of their talks. And tears began to form in his eyes.

"I wish," the unicorn wispered to himself. "I wish that I could talk to Melek now." Frogfoot stood with one foot on the grass, his head was lowered so far that the tip of his horn dug into the ground. The unicorn closed his eyes as little streams of saltwater made white veins on his cheeks.

A hand was gently laid on Frogfoot's whithers. "I'm here," Melek whispered. "I'm right here."

Frogfoot turned his head around to rest it on the man's shoulder. Strong fingers gently whiped the tears out of his eyes. And when the unicorn lifted his eyelids to see the world, he saw that Melek was also crying. The young man gently ran his hand over the stump that had been Frogfoot's ear and began to cry harder.

"Why did you leave me?" Frogfoot asked.

"I was with you all the time," Melek answered.

And all of a sudden, Frogfoot remembered. He remembered Melek being with him every step of the journey and trying to talk to him. But Frogfoot could not see him and would not listen. The unicorn remembered all the way back to before he left the palace. Melek had been with him everyday then too.

"Why did you leave me?" Melek asked the unicorn. Not accusing, just heartbroken.

"I don't know," Frogfoot sniffled. "Because I wanted an adventure."

"I want you to have an adventure too," Melek said. And again, Frogfoot's memory started working properly, and he remebered all the hundreds of invitations to an adventure he had ignored.

Melek led Frogfoot to a small clearing in the woods. There was a pond, and there Melek cleaned Frogfoot till his coat was white again. The young man went over the unicorn's ear very gently, though the sight of the wound made him cry very violently.

After Frogfoot was clean, Melek fed him the first oats he'd had in weeks. The two fell asleep on the sand on the shore of the little lake in the middle of the woods.

When Frogfoot woke up the next morning he was sure it was all a dream. Or if it was real, that Melek had left in the night. But when he opened his eyes, there was Melek, laying out breakfast. After they had eaten, Melek looked the unicorn straight in the face and said, "Will you come with me out of the woods? The journey will be hard, but it will be worth it. And if you listen to me, you can live an adventure and have friends and do work that is important. I have so many plans for you."

Frogfoot looked back into Melek's face. "I would love nothing more. But," here the unicorn looked down at the ground. "I directly disobeyed an order from the king. I went into the woods. I don't think he'll take me back."

"Look at me Frogfoot," the young man said.
Frogfoot did.
"I am the king. I love you, I forgive you, and I want you back."

The End (well, not really. But you will have to continue it in your head.)

9 days left

Some more from everyone's favorite unicorn, Frogfoot. (Have you ever met a unicorn with a goofier name?)


Frogfoot cantered out of the gate and across the field, his hooves hollow beats on the grass. He stretched out his white neck, shaking his main so it flew about like snow. Oh how wonderful it felt to run without knowing you were fenced in! Soon, the unicorn reached the woods. He ran into the trees, but soon had to stop running. The trees and underbrush and thorns and things made it hard too run. Frogfoot was shaded from the sun, and he was out, out and away. He sighed contentedly, and got down to roll about in the dust and moss. Ah, it felt good to scratch his back away from his old life. And the young unicorn got up and continued on his way.

For a time he was content to just explore the woods. And there was much too explore. There were quite a few plants that the unicorn was not too sure about. The mushrooms and bramble bushes did not look like the sort of thing that the king would approve of. At that thought, Frogfoot shock his head. Why should he care what the king thought? He was no longer under his care. Still, Frogfoot didn't eat the odd plants. The grass, however, tasted just the same as always. Perhaps not quite as delicouse as the sunlit grass had been, but a little shade never hurt your food.

After a few days, the unicorn remembered why he had come to the woods in the first place. Adventure! The opertunity to help his fellow creatures. The novelty of the trees and living without hostlers had taken center stage, but now he remembered and set out to meet someone in need.

After less then an hour, the unicorn stumbled into a village full of others. There were people, and horses, and sheep, and cows. Elves, gnomes, and faires. So many creatures that Frogfoot just stared for a minute. They were all different, but yet they all held something in common. Frogfoot was so overwhelmed by the number and variety of these villagers that it took him a moment to figure it out. They were all broken in some way. Legs were broken, eyes were missing. There were holes in chests where hearts should be. Frogfoot was used to seeing brokenness, but not in such abundance, such seriousness. The unicorn stepped delicately into the houses, full of busy creatures.

"Here," he said to a passing fairy with shredded wings. "Let me help you."
The fairy looked at him, and snorted rather rudely.
Oh well, thought the unicorn and continued on to a cat with a bald tail. Try as he might, and try as many creatures as he asked, none of them took him up on his offer to help.
I might as well stay with them, Frogfoot thought. Perhaps they will come around. So the unicorn stayed with the village of broken creatures, offering his help everyday.

This went on for days and days, weeks and weeks. Perhaps a month, perhaps two.
Slowly, without even realising it, Frogfoot began to act like the broken creatures. He ate the mushrooms and brambles. One day, Frogfoot's ear got so entagled in some thorns that it came off. It hurt terrribly, and bled all over his white fur. But afterwards, the unicorn thought Good. I'm like everyone else now.

To be continued.

10 days left

Jo's heartbreak, Ben's release, Maggie's faith
Part I

"When you got there, I was sure you'd come too late." -Miracle Child Newsboys

I came down the stairs slowly, on my way to set the table for dinner. This is the fifth day in a row mom has failed to call me to set the table. When I asked her why, she smiled this spray on, plastic-y thing and said "you deserve a break once in a while."

But five days in a row is not a break, it is a trend. I do not deserve a break. And she is lying through her teeth. She fails to make me set the table, not because she wants to give me a break, but because of Jo. And Ben. I know it's because of them (or more accurately, the lack of "them"). I am sure of it. Though I fail to see why my sister's almost fiance running away is connected to my table setting abilities and responsibilities.

Saffy rubs up against my legs right before I enter the kitchen, so I lean over and pet her.

I hear silverware being rattled about in the draw, and I am about to burst into the kitchen to reprimand my mother for doing my chores for me, when mom's use of my name stops me.
"I'm worried about Maggie."

Dad, apparently, is just as confused as I am, and asks my question for me. "Don't you mean you're worried about Jo?"
"No," mom says. "Well yes. But at least heartbreak is normal. Maggie's not normal."
"She's never been," Dad, my hero, defends me. "That's why she's so great."

Saffy's black fur, alpaca soft, moves away from my fingers and I am left bent over, staring at the hardwood floor, petting the memory of a cat.

"Why is she so sure Ben is coming back? That's not normal. A good sister is supposed to be mad at the guy who breaks her sister's heart. She shouldn't be pining for his return."

"Maggie is a good sister," my champion parries again.
"I know," mom says. "She's a great sister. That's what makes it so weird."

I slip back up the stairs, the green and blue slippers Jo croquested for me making my steps as quiet as Saffy's, the resident ninja.
I shouldn't have eavesdropped.
I drop onto my bed, the patchwork quilt wooshes out around me. I look up at the ceiling, pondering my mother's words.
One thing she said was true: I'm not normal. There is nothing normal about a fourteen year old girl who is positive the man who broke her sister's heart should come back and propose. But that's exactly what I think Ben should do.
Then again, Jo's not normal either. There is nothing normal about a twenty one year old girl with her first boyfriend.

I grab my journal off the nightstand and start flipping through the notes and sketches and verses, and song lyrics I have written over the last seven days. There are a lot. I've had a lot to write about. Still, I could be wrong. I close my eyes, and almost before I can ask the question there is an answer so strong it could be described as a shout.
"BEN," and one of my favorite memories of him. The afternoon he told me he wanted to marry Jo. Somehow, that day I had reverted back to a kindergartener and Ben was my babysitter. He was chasing me around the front yard. When we finally fell in a breathless, laughing pile on the grass, he asked me for my permission.
"Meg Anderson," he said. "Would it be alright with you if I asked your sister to marry me?"
I nodded hard. I still had no air in my lungs, with which to verbalise my consent, but I gave him a really tight squeeze, and he seemed to understand.

"Stop asking," God adds. "You already know the answer."

Then what should I do? I ask.
"Pray. Love Joanne. Love Ben. Ask other people to pray."
What should I pray for? I ask.
"Pray for Ben's release," He replies.
God doesn't explain, even when I ask.
"Trust me," is all he says.
So I do.

I breath in and out and lie on my bed before dinner time, table setting forgotten. Just breathing in God's presence.
"go be with Jo," God whispers.
I sit with my sister in her sorrow until mom calls us for dinner. It's really hard not to comfort her with the knowledge Ben will be coming back some day. But she asked me not bring it up, cause it only hurts deeper.

For months I go on like this. I pray for Ben's release, even when I don't know why. I say nothing about it to Jo and put up with weird looks from Mom and Dad. I set the table every night. Once in a while I read the note Ben left for Jo. She threw it away, but I rescued it from the trash can.

Jo,
I'm leaving Decatur. I'm going to New Hampshire to visit my aunt and uncle. I'm going to try to get a job.
I love you.
I don't know why I'm leaving, so I can't possibly explain it to you.
Don't wait for me, Jo. Don't try to contact me.
I know that I am breaking your heart, but if I stayed around longer, I'd break it worse.
I love you.
Ben

When I read his note I understand. But then I think of Jo, and I don't any more. So I just go back to praying for Ben's release.

11 days left

Fishes for the poet who wears white gloves

And this fish is not lukewarm at all; it has been in the oven for years.
Simply put, it is this:
that you would walk in all that God has for you
and that you would walk in the knowledge that the love that made the moutains
-for what could have made them but love?-
will do anything for you.

But I have been sitting next to this well almost every day of my life
all I have to show for it is a few pennies
no Clydesdales yet.