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.)
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, January 29, 2010
10 days left
Jo's heartbreak, Ben's release, Maggie's faith
Part I
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.
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.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
12 days left
Self Examination after a particlarly striking line in a book
"Periodically a tree frog starts up a wave of chirping and then quiets again... For a moment she forgets and is able to fall into the stillness." -A Room on Lorelei Street by Mary E. Pearson
I think I go to beauty to forget.
I need the sunset
and the river,
a particular striking song on the radio-
or a friend's violin
to forget who I am.
That there are dishes to be washed
and homework to be done.
That my bible hasn't been opened in weeks.
I need the snap of the cold,
and so
many
stars
before I face up to facts;
she's moving.
I need to lose myself in a night of dancing
of music
of dresses
before I am pulled apart by wanting to be close to too many people
and where should I get a job?
"Periodically a tree frog starts up a wave of chirping and then quiets again... For a moment she forgets and is able to fall into the stillness." -A Room on Lorelei Street by Mary E. Pearson
I think I go to beauty to forget.
I need the sunset
and the river,
a particular striking song on the radio-
or a friend's violin
to forget who I am.
That there are dishes to be washed
and homework to be done.
That my bible hasn't been opened in weeks.
I need the snap of the cold,
and so
many
stars
before I face up to facts;
she's moving.
I need to lose myself in a night of dancing
of music
of dresses
before I am pulled apart by wanting to be close to too many people
and where should I get a job?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
13 days left
A Few of my Favorite Things
I wrote this thinking of Elizabeth, though it holds true for all of my close friends.
This is best of all:
Pressing another human being to your chest
while shards of ocean drip down her face
and whisper everything in her ear
"I know it hurts, but God heals."
This is what I like best:
sitting on her quilt,
little heaps of night clothes,
up entirely too late.
Words tumble out of her mouth
I catch them in my hands.
Later, I tuck the words into my pocket,
for safe keeping,
and fingering when I pray for her.
And this is really wonderful:
thinking of something to make her heart light up
and doing just that
with my hands and brain
sowing together bits of love into a blanket.
And then her face
is perfect.
And oh, oh, oh (!):
knowing that she will do it all for you.
Pressing another human being to your chest
while shards of ocean drip down her face
and whisper everything in her ear
"I know it hurts, but God heals."
This is what I like best:
sitting on her quilt,
little heaps of night clothes,
up entirely too late.
Words tumble out of her mouth
I catch them in my hands.
Later, I tuck the words into my pocket,
for safe keeping,
and fingering when I pray for her.
And this is really wonderful:
thinking of something to make her heart light up
and doing just that
with my hands and brain
sowing together bits of love into a blanket.
And then her face
is perfect.
And oh, oh, oh (!):
knowing that she will do it all for you.
Driver's Ed Break Time
I cannot write there
somehow, the songs inside of me
cannot break free into a place like that.
White. Pictures of death on the walls. Subduing.
Unicorns and fairies,
even human girls,
stay locked inside of me
afraid
and rightly so
of the other teenagers.
Their stories would remain untold
but I do not remain there.
And so here,
at the library,
a building filled with poems and peasants
they are free.
Thank goodness.
I cannot write there
somehow, the songs inside of me
cannot break free into a place like that.
White. Pictures of death on the walls. Subduing.
Unicorns and fairies,
even human girls,
stay locked inside of me
afraid
and rightly so
of the other teenagers.
Their stories would remain untold
but I do not remain there.
And so here,
at the library,
a building filled with poems and peasants
they are free.
Thank goodness.
Monday, January 25, 2010
14 days left
Some Very short, fictitious poems.
The music,
an emotion-inducing drug
in this silent,
white place.
Why Mondays Make Me Want to Dance
The music,
an emotion-inducing drug
in this silent,
white place.
Why Mondays Make Me Want to Dance
The future is clear
my days laid out
five total
a marching straight line.
School
school
school
some work in between
talking to my friends if I'm lucky.
And it's all I can do
not to scream
to run away
so terrified of day to day life.
So all I can do
-for I must do something-
is dance.
my days laid out
five total
a marching straight line.
School
school
school
some work in between
talking to my friends if I'm lucky.
And it's all I can do
not to scream
to run away
so terrified of day to day life.
So all I can do
-for I must do something-
is dance.
Deaths of the Young
They say
it is a tragedy. That he died too young.
Of food poisoning,
a car crash,
drowning in a lake.
They say
she had dreams.
And it is so sad
that she never got to live them out.
I wonder
if it is more tragic to die young,
without an opportunity to live out your dreams
or to live long enough
to realize
that you never realized them all.
it is a tragedy. That he died too young.
Of food poisoning,
a car crash,
drowning in a lake.
They say
she had dreams.
And it is so sad
that she never got to live them out.
I wonder
if it is more tragic to die young,
without an opportunity to live out your dreams
or to live long enough
to realize
that you never realized them all.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
16 days left
I actually did write this yesterday, just didn't get around to posting it.
Once upon a time there was a young unicorn that lived in the castle in a land not so very far away. He could remember no other life then the one which he led now. The Unicorn's name was Frogfoot, because the frogs is his hooves were unusually large. Well, compared to the horses that lived in the royal stables. Perhaps his feet were entirely normal for a unicorn, but since none of the hostlers had ever met another unicorn, they were basing his care mostly off of horses. Frogfoot himself could not remember meeting another unicorn, though he must have had parents.
The unicorn led a good life. The horses in the royal stable were pleasant enough. He always had enough to eat, and on days when the weather was good, he would be sent out to pasture with some of the other palace animals. The sheep, and the cows. The horses did not go out to pasture. They had work to do. Every single horse in the barn, from the king's mount, to the grocer's pony did work that mattered.
Frogfoot's only complaint was that his life was so boring. He didn't complain about it too much, because the horses the horses always told him he should be thankful for what he had and it was more then most. Frogfoot tried his best not to think about it too much, because the king had been extremely kind, and the unicorn didn't want to be ungrateful.
Frogfoot's greatest joy was the young man who sometimes came to see him.
"I have many names," the young man responded when Frogfoot asked him. "For the present, you can call me Melek."
The young man came about once a week, often in the pasture, but sometimes in the stables. The two talked of everything in the unicorn's world. The food, the hostlers, the other animals. But mostly, of Frogfoot's longings. To live an adventure, to have real friends, to do work that made a difference.
The two would stand in the grass, Melek's hand on Frogfoot's flank, the unicorn's head lowered. Frogfoot never thought to ask about the young man's life, and Melek never pushed information on the unicorn.
Melek never laughed at Frogfoot's longings, but encouraged him to pursue these things. This was a great relief to the unicorn, but he never listened to Melek's suggestions of what to do, because he couldn't imagine a solution.
One day, Frogfoot got fed up with the menotany of it all. That day was a pasture day and Melek day. Generally, these best of times were enough to cheer Frogfoot up, but not today. The pleasure it gave him only set the longings to ache more deeply inside of him.
Frogfoot danced around while talking to Melek. The unicorn could not seem to stand still. "I have decied," he told his only real friend," that I am going to leave. There must be adbenture over yonder." He gestured with his nose towards the woods. "And I can find someone to help there."
The woods. Dark. Very Dark. They were told not to go there, the king had forbidden it in fact.
Melek, usually quiet, was even quieter today.
"I know he feeds me, but I can't go on living like this, trying to please a man I have mever met. What the king thinks doesn't matter." The unicorn sidestepped a bit, and added in a whinney. "The king be damned."
Melek was looking a bit white in the face, and very sad. But he walked over, and opened the gate. The look on Melek's face was the same look that a woman gets when she tells a man she would like to dance with hijm, but offers an easy out. 'Go ahead and break my heart.' But Frogfoot did not see the expression on his friend's face, because he was so focusesed on his own desires, he saw only the open gate.
The unicorn raced out the gate and towards the woods without a backwards glance.
To be continued.
Once upon a time there was a young unicorn that lived in the castle in a land not so very far away. He could remember no other life then the one which he led now. The Unicorn's name was Frogfoot, because the frogs is his hooves were unusually large. Well, compared to the horses that lived in the royal stables. Perhaps his feet were entirely normal for a unicorn, but since none of the hostlers had ever met another unicorn, they were basing his care mostly off of horses. Frogfoot himself could not remember meeting another unicorn, though he must have had parents.
The unicorn led a good life. The horses in the royal stable were pleasant enough. He always had enough to eat, and on days when the weather was good, he would be sent out to pasture with some of the other palace animals. The sheep, and the cows. The horses did not go out to pasture. They had work to do. Every single horse in the barn, from the king's mount, to the grocer's pony did work that mattered.
Frogfoot's only complaint was that his life was so boring. He didn't complain about it too much, because the horses the horses always told him he should be thankful for what he had and it was more then most. Frogfoot tried his best not to think about it too much, because the king had been extremely kind, and the unicorn didn't want to be ungrateful.
Frogfoot's greatest joy was the young man who sometimes came to see him.
"I have many names," the young man responded when Frogfoot asked him. "For the present, you can call me Melek."
The young man came about once a week, often in the pasture, but sometimes in the stables. The two talked of everything in the unicorn's world. The food, the hostlers, the other animals. But mostly, of Frogfoot's longings. To live an adventure, to have real friends, to do work that made a difference.
The two would stand in the grass, Melek's hand on Frogfoot's flank, the unicorn's head lowered. Frogfoot never thought to ask about the young man's life, and Melek never pushed information on the unicorn.
Melek never laughed at Frogfoot's longings, but encouraged him to pursue these things. This was a great relief to the unicorn, but he never listened to Melek's suggestions of what to do, because he couldn't imagine a solution.
One day, Frogfoot got fed up with the menotany of it all. That day was a pasture day and Melek day. Generally, these best of times were enough to cheer Frogfoot up, but not today. The pleasure it gave him only set the longings to ache more deeply inside of him.
Frogfoot danced around while talking to Melek. The unicorn could not seem to stand still. "I have decied," he told his only real friend," that I am going to leave. There must be adbenture over yonder." He gestured with his nose towards the woods. "And I can find someone to help there."
The woods. Dark. Very Dark. They were told not to go there, the king had forbidden it in fact.
Melek, usually quiet, was even quieter today.
"I know he feeds me, but I can't go on living like this, trying to please a man I have mever met. What the king thinks doesn't matter." The unicorn sidestepped a bit, and added in a whinney. "The king be damned."
Melek was looking a bit white in the face, and very sad. But he walked over, and opened the gate. The look on Melek's face was the same look that a woman gets when she tells a man she would like to dance with hijm, but offers an easy out. 'Go ahead and break my heart.' But Frogfoot did not see the expression on his friend's face, because he was so focusesed on his own desires, he saw only the open gate.
The unicorn raced out the gate and towards the woods without a backwards glance.
To be continued.
Friday, January 22, 2010
17 days left
My Take on Twilight
This is not a book review, it is a few thoughts on the general reaction to the Twilight Series of books by Stephanie Meyer, two of which have been made into movies. So, I am sure you have met, or at least heard of, girls who go nuts over this story. Or, not really the story. More accurately, the hero of the story. So why is it that a bunch of teenager girls are going nuts over someone who doesn't even exist? I cannot be that he is physically attractive, because these books were popular long before an actor's image was ever tied to the character. So, ponder, if you will, the character attributes of this book hero.
This is not a book review, it is a few thoughts on the general reaction to the Twilight Series of books by Stephanie Meyer, two of which have been made into movies. So, I am sure you have met, or at least heard of, girls who go nuts over this story. Or, not really the story. More accurately, the hero of the story. So why is it that a bunch of teenager girls are going nuts over someone who doesn't even exist? I cannot be that he is physically attractive, because these books were popular long before an actor's image was ever tied to the character. So, ponder, if you will, the character attributes of this book hero.
- He is incredibly powerful.
- He will live for ever.
- He is totally, head over heals in love with the girl who is nothing special.
- He would die for the girl.
- He would do anything if it meant making life for the girl better.
Does that sound like anyone you know? It does to me. The only problem is that the hero, though incredibly amazing, falls short of The Hero. I wish I could somehow communicate to millions of teenage girls, that there is Someone who is real (unlike the vampire) and loves them even more then the hero of this story. Because, wouldn't it be so wonderful to be swept up in a love story, with the greatest lover of all?
Thursday, January 21, 2010
18 days left
How Guin Grew
This is my fantasy of how I could be a part of Guin's life. I think I thought of this when I first learned it was going to be a girl, or something silly like that. For Amanda and Guin.
This is my fantasy of how I could be a part of Guin's life. I think I thought of this when I first learned it was going to be a girl, or something silly like that. For Amanda and Guin.
I was raised by my parents, and I went to school of course. But it was from my mother's small group that I learned how to be a woman.
Every other Tuesday, they would descend on our house, smelling of their various homes, and workplaces, wearing jeans, and toting flour and bibles. My mother always prepared for their arrival in the same way, by putting a table cloth on the kitchen table. Her grandmother croqueted it, and it looked like lace, what with it being white, and the pattern. It was made for a round table, which was good, because the kitchen table was round, but it was made for a bigger table. So the edges always hung down about halfway to the ground. When I was three, I would hide under the table while they were arriving.
Hannah, the youngest besides me, was always the first one to get there. She always came a good four hours before the others. This was partly because she was homeschooled, and didn't have a job. But mostly, it was because my mom was her mentor. Hannah expressed her part of this relationship mostly with manual labor. For the first two hours, Hannah did laundry, or cleaning, or yard work for us. Whatever needed doing. Mom was happy to have a willing, and able bodied teenager to do some work once in a while. I often tagged along on her chores, and tried to help. I thought she was the coolest thing ever. I expect I mostly got in the way. In turn, my mother would call Hannah twice a week to nag her about doing her devotions. And for the last two hours before small group started, Hannah would talk about what was going on in her life, and Amanda would counsel her. Our book shelves were never quite full either. We were a lending library, but Hannah was the only regular patron.
Then, the rest would come in, a big lauging clump, removing coats and scarves, or muddy boots, depending on the season.
Rebecca was my mom's best friend since college. She was the mother of three boys, and an art teacher at the elementary school.
Jane, a retired woman who always wore long, colorful skirts. She was very beautiful, wrinkles and all.
Then Emily. I can barely remember going to Emily's wedding. All I remember of her husband was a man with a big smile who twirled me around and tickled me. He died in a car crash, three years into their marriage. They were both 25. For six months straight we cried with Emily at every meeting. I remember the funeral much more then I do the wedding. Course, I was eight, not five.
We still cried with each other, even before and after those six months. But there is more laughter then tears. Everyone said that the dinners were haven from regular life.
It was an oasis, filled with music- Andrew Peterson, hymns, or Skillet.
Every week a different person brought recipes and ingredients. Mom often offered to do food. But they wouldn't let her. "Amanda," the women said. "You open your house to us twice a month, rain or shine. Let us take care of the food." Pretzels, Basil Pesto on Pasta, and Greek Pizza were oft repeated favorites. We cooked, and ate. While the cooking was going on, there was dancing and laughter. Then, when the good was served, they discussed the book of the bible, or devotional material they were reading. And what was going on in everyone's life. When all the food was eaten, we prayed, hands on shoulders, asking the Holy Spirit to breath life into our circle.
Then, someone hopped up, and we started on dishes. When the dishes were done hugs and kisses were exchanged, and everyone left, making the house fell empty. Everyone took turns taking Hannah home.
From these women, I learned beauty, laughter, tears. Cooking, and work. Sitting and thinking.
Now, I am at college. Rebeca and mom are empty nesters together. They go out and paint murals on city walls, and make pottery that falls over. Emily adopted twin girls. She never remarried. Hannah is getting married in a month. The four of them keep talking about starting up small group again. I think they miss it. They stopped when Jane died, because it wasn't the same. We all visited her in the hospital. I want to die like that. So courageous. Sometimes, on Tuesday nights, I stop eating and stare into space for a half an hour, lost in the lessons that I learn. When I come back to reality, my food is cold. But I am better for the memories. They remind me to be a woman. And that I must find friends that I can share tears with, as well as the laughter.
Every other Tuesday, they would descend on our house, smelling of their various homes, and workplaces, wearing jeans, and toting flour and bibles. My mother always prepared for their arrival in the same way, by putting a table cloth on the kitchen table. Her grandmother croqueted it, and it looked like lace, what with it being white, and the pattern. It was made for a round table, which was good, because the kitchen table was round, but it was made for a bigger table. So the edges always hung down about halfway to the ground. When I was three, I would hide under the table while they were arriving.
Hannah, the youngest besides me, was always the first one to get there. She always came a good four hours before the others. This was partly because she was homeschooled, and didn't have a job. But mostly, it was because my mom was her mentor. Hannah expressed her part of this relationship mostly with manual labor. For the first two hours, Hannah did laundry, or cleaning, or yard work for us. Whatever needed doing. Mom was happy to have a willing, and able bodied teenager to do some work once in a while. I often tagged along on her chores, and tried to help. I thought she was the coolest thing ever. I expect I mostly got in the way. In turn, my mother would call Hannah twice a week to nag her about doing her devotions. And for the last two hours before small group started, Hannah would talk about what was going on in her life, and Amanda would counsel her. Our book shelves were never quite full either. We were a lending library, but Hannah was the only regular patron.
Then, the rest would come in, a big lauging clump, removing coats and scarves, or muddy boots, depending on the season.
Rebecca was my mom's best friend since college. She was the mother of three boys, and an art teacher at the elementary school.
Jane, a retired woman who always wore long, colorful skirts. She was very beautiful, wrinkles and all.
Then Emily. I can barely remember going to Emily's wedding. All I remember of her husband was a man with a big smile who twirled me around and tickled me. He died in a car crash, three years into their marriage. They were both 25. For six months straight we cried with Emily at every meeting. I remember the funeral much more then I do the wedding. Course, I was eight, not five.
We still cried with each other, even before and after those six months. But there is more laughter then tears. Everyone said that the dinners were haven from regular life.
It was an oasis, filled with music- Andrew Peterson, hymns, or Skillet.
Every week a different person brought recipes and ingredients. Mom often offered to do food. But they wouldn't let her. "Amanda," the women said. "You open your house to us twice a month, rain or shine. Let us take care of the food." Pretzels, Basil Pesto on Pasta, and Greek Pizza were oft repeated favorites. We cooked, and ate. While the cooking was going on, there was dancing and laughter. Then, when the good was served, they discussed the book of the bible, or devotional material they were reading. And what was going on in everyone's life. When all the food was eaten, we prayed, hands on shoulders, asking the Holy Spirit to breath life into our circle.
Then, someone hopped up, and we started on dishes. When the dishes were done hugs and kisses were exchanged, and everyone left, making the house fell empty. Everyone took turns taking Hannah home.
From these women, I learned beauty, laughter, tears. Cooking, and work. Sitting and thinking.
Now, I am at college. Rebeca and mom are empty nesters together. They go out and paint murals on city walls, and make pottery that falls over. Emily adopted twin girls. She never remarried. Hannah is getting married in a month. The four of them keep talking about starting up small group again. I think they miss it. They stopped when Jane died, because it wasn't the same. We all visited her in the hospital. I want to die like that. So courageous. Sometimes, on Tuesday nights, I stop eating and stare into space for a half an hour, lost in the lessons that I learn. When I come back to reality, my food is cold. But I am better for the memories. They remind me to be a woman. And that I must find friends that I can share tears with, as well as the laughter.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
19 days left
Organ Donor
When I die
from forgetting to check my blind spot
when changing lanes.
Or
out hiking in Winton Woods
a stray bullet to the neck.
Possibly even
trying to take a stray dog home,
slipping on the icy driveway,
trying to stop a fight.
Really, it does not matter which of those ways.
or when.
So long as you give away my organs.
My lungs,
to the girl in choir,
that I never met.
She quit two years before I started.
Had too,
you have to breath to sing.
Tell her to use my breath to breath life.
Go to her concerts,
and listen to her
sing, sing, sing.
A kidney each
to the twins up in Akron,
preemies,
this just one in their long line of complaints.
Get them out of the hospital and into third grade.
Go,
some Tuesdays,
for me,
and watch them getting picked up by their mom.
You don't need to tell them much.
They're too young for all of that.
But tell them I was partial to the swings,
and their new kidneys might be too.
My liver
to the man in AA
in the hospital.
He's cleaning up his life
but it was too late for his liver.
Visit him once in a while.
Pick him up from his therapist
Friday afternoons,
and drive him home.
Sit in the kitchen while he makes dinner,
and tells you stories
about camping with his kids.
Tell him about the pictures you saw,
of when I went camping with the small group,
when I was small.
Let him make you stay for dinner.
And it is OK if you
have a beer.
He won't.
There's a lady,
you know the one,
I used to see her at Kroger.
She needs my small intestine.
She's only 69, she's got a lot of life left in her.
Take her to a baseball game,
if only once.
She'll tell you about the entire history of the Reds.
Tell her about the only time we went to see them play.
I don't much care who gets my pancreas
so long as they need it.
And you read them poetry on Sunday mornings.
Mail this one to them.
And you.
You can have my heart.
Take with it all the love
that has ever flowed in
or out.
There's a lot there,
I hope,
but use it wisely.
By this
I mean,
of course,
to give love away to everyone you see.
from forgetting to check my blind spot
when changing lanes.
Or
out hiking in Winton Woods
a stray bullet to the neck.
Possibly even
trying to take a stray dog home,
slipping on the icy driveway,
trying to stop a fight.
Really, it does not matter which of those ways.
or when.
So long as you give away my organs.
My lungs,
to the girl in choir,
that I never met.
She quit two years before I started.
Had too,
you have to breath to sing.
Tell her to use my breath to breath life.
Go to her concerts,
and listen to her
sing, sing, sing.
A kidney each
to the twins up in Akron,
preemies,
this just one in their long line of complaints.
Get them out of the hospital and into third grade.
Go,
some Tuesdays,
for me,
and watch them getting picked up by their mom.
You don't need to tell them much.
They're too young for all of that.
But tell them I was partial to the swings,
and their new kidneys might be too.
My liver
to the man in AA
in the hospital.
He's cleaning up his life
but it was too late for his liver.
Visit him once in a while.
Pick him up from his therapist
Friday afternoons,
and drive him home.
Sit in the kitchen while he makes dinner,
and tells you stories
about camping with his kids.
Tell him about the pictures you saw,
of when I went camping with the small group,
when I was small.
Let him make you stay for dinner.
And it is OK if you
have a beer.
He won't.
There's a lady,
you know the one,
I used to see her at Kroger.
She needs my small intestine.
She's only 69, she's got a lot of life left in her.
Take her to a baseball game,
if only once.
She'll tell you about the entire history of the Reds.
Tell her about the only time we went to see them play.
I don't much care who gets my pancreas
so long as they need it.
And you read them poetry on Sunday mornings.
Mail this one to them.
And you.
You can have my heart.
Take with it all the love
that has ever flowed in
or out.
There's a lot there,
I hope,
but use it wisely.
By this
I mean,
of course,
to give love away to everyone you see.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
20 days left
To: docpops2@gmail.com
From: Janelle_birdy@yahoo.com
Subject: Re, the phone conversation
James,
You sounded a bit distraught on the phone, and there were a few things I wanted to follow up on. First and foremost, Lilly got here safely. She is fine. Don't worry about her. She's a bright kid (I direct your attention, ladies and gentlemen, to exhibit A, the time my client was a stand-in midwife for the presidential goat), and it's not like that's the first time she's used the bus (may I remind you of the year she spend in boarding school up here).
She can stay here as long as she wants. She could stay for years without overstaying her welcome. But I won't let her do that. I'll have her back to you in a month, tops. Most likely two weeks. Do not come and get her, James. She is perfectly safe and perfectly welcome here. I think that the running of a house hold is a little bit much for a fifteen year old girl. And I think she is still trying to figure out how to mourn her mother. The death of the government's finest spy at their own hands is especially awful, I expect. And you being buried in your work is not helping.
Use this time to get closer to Alice, and to your mom. Have everything pristine when she comes back. Figure out how to not overwhelm her again.
And leave Lilly to me and Evans.
Most of all, don't worry. It'll all work out in the end.
Janelle
The following is a note that was on Lilly's pillow at Janelle's house.
Hey sweety,
It's good to have you here again. It was very considerate of you to tell me I didn't have to clean the house. And I know already. You are family, not a guest. But I thought you would appreciate a clean house that you didn't have to clean. You may stay as long as your like. See you at dinner. Love, Aunt Janelle
From: Janelle_birdy@yahoo.com
Subject: Re, the phone conversation
James,
You sounded a bit distraught on the phone, and there were a few things I wanted to follow up on. First and foremost, Lilly got here safely. She is fine. Don't worry about her. She's a bright kid (I direct your attention, ladies and gentlemen, to exhibit A, the time my client was a stand-in midwife for the presidential goat), and it's not like that's the first time she's used the bus (may I remind you of the year she spend in boarding school up here).
She can stay here as long as she wants. She could stay for years without overstaying her welcome. But I won't let her do that. I'll have her back to you in a month, tops. Most likely two weeks. Do not come and get her, James. She is perfectly safe and perfectly welcome here. I think that the running of a house hold is a little bit much for a fifteen year old girl. And I think she is still trying to figure out how to mourn her mother. The death of the government's finest spy at their own hands is especially awful, I expect. And you being buried in your work is not helping.
Use this time to get closer to Alice, and to your mom. Have everything pristine when she comes back. Figure out how to not overwhelm her again.
And leave Lilly to me and Evans.
Most of all, don't worry. It'll all work out in the end.
Janelle
The following is a note that was on Lilly's pillow at Janelle's house.
Hey sweety,
It's good to have you here again. It was very considerate of you to tell me I didn't have to clean the house. And I know already. You are family, not a guest. But I thought you would appreciate a clean house that you didn't have to clean. You may stay as long as your like. See you at dinner. Love, Aunt Janelle
Monday, January 18, 2010
21 days left
What I should have said
For the people who were there. You know who you are.
"I feel so silly getting all worked up about it,"
she said. "Because there are so many other people who have to go through
so
much
more
pain."
And what I thought to say at the time,
but couldn't figure out how to say
and realized later that I should have said
was this:
That does not make your pain any less important.
God prepared those people for greater pain. They could handle it. You couldn't. What you could handle then was what he gave you.
And do not
feel bad
about not having more awful things in your life.
You heart was broken into bits
give it time to heal.
THEN God will give you some more pain.
I could beat them all up.
Well.
Probably not.
But I want to.
I want to yell at them.
But.
but it takes more courage to trust God to protect your friends then to try and do it yourself.
I thank God that she spoke up, when I did not. telling you that your pain was ok.
And
I forgot to tell you when we worshiping. you are fine and beautiful and brave and perfect right, right now. when He heals you, it will be great. but being broken does not make you less then loved. (or worthy.) (or anything.)
It was meant to be a poem (in case you could not tell.)
Sunday, January 17, 2010
22 days left
Lilly left these three notes on her bed.
Alice,
I love you, and I'll be home soon. Your birthday present is in my closet, back behind my winter coat. It should be safe there until you find it. Happy 10th birthday!!!
Love from Lilly
Noni,
The piano grease is in the medicine cabinet.
Lilly
Dad,
I'm sorry for leaving without telling you. I am going to visit Aunt Janelle for a week or so. I am sure she will not mind, as she is always telling me that she misses me and I need to come and visit. Try not to worry too much. Your report is done, so you will be able to run the house when I'm gone.
1) When she is looking for it, Noni's piano grease is in the medicine cabinet.
2) Take a break from reading The Hunger Games to cook meals and do laundry. If you don't clean the house until I get back, it will be OK.
3) Feed the cat on time, or she'll break again.
4) Don't forget to sing to Alice before bed. (Bedtime is at 9:30, best to get her in at 9:15, that leaves ten minutes for singing, and five for Before Bed Questions.)
I love you, I just need a break. See you soon,
Lilly
Alice,
I love you, and I'll be home soon. Your birthday present is in my closet, back behind my winter coat. It should be safe there until you find it. Happy 10th birthday!!!
Love from Lilly
Noni,
The piano grease is in the medicine cabinet.
Lilly
Dad,
I'm sorry for leaving without telling you. I am going to visit Aunt Janelle for a week or so. I am sure she will not mind, as she is always telling me that she misses me and I need to come and visit. Try not to worry too much. Your report is done, so you will be able to run the house when I'm gone.
1) When she is looking for it, Noni's piano grease is in the medicine cabinet.
2) Take a break from reading The Hunger Games to cook meals and do laundry. If you don't clean the house until I get back, it will be OK.
3) Feed the cat on time, or she'll break again.
4) Don't forget to sing to Alice before bed. (Bedtime is at 9:30, best to get her in at 9:15, that leaves ten minutes for singing, and five for Before Bed Questions.)
I love you, I just need a break. See you soon,
Lilly
Saturday, January 16, 2010
23 days left
Bedtime Story
For Daniel and Douglas, who wanted the fairy tale to go on and on. I am sorry that there are not any fairies in this one, but it's what I've got for today. I hope you do not begrudge me the use of your names.
Elizabeth kissed her littlest brother on the forehead, and was about to move on to her other brother's bed, when Douglas stopped her with a question.
"Did it really happen? Is it true about Waterlash? And the fox whisker and the first fairies?"
"Don't be silly," came Daniel's voice from the other bed. "It's just a fairy story. Fairy stories aren't true."
Douglas looked up into Elizabeth's face, and there was a sort of pleading in his face. Elizabeth, who was wise beyond her years, saw the look on his face for what it was. We all of us have that pleading, for our favorite fairy tales to be real.
"Well," she began, and you could hear Daniel listening closely, for all that he had scorned the idea just a moment earlier.
"I have never seen a fairy before, but then again, I have never seen God before, and I am Positive He is real."
She thought for a moment.
"I certainly would like to believe that my pain is inflicted by fairies. It makes it just a little bit easier to bare. You never know Douglas," she leaned down and whispered in his ear. "Maybe you'll see one."
Douglas looked at her, not quite daring to believe her, but hoping that he could.
"Anyhow," Elizabeth said, getting up to hug Daniel goodnight. "I am sure there are fairies in heaven."
"It wouldn't be much of a heaven if there weren't fairies," Daniel added.
"Exactly," Elizabeth said, slipping out of their room, and closing the door behind her.
For Daniel and Douglas, who wanted the fairy tale to go on and on. I am sorry that there are not any fairies in this one, but it's what I've got for today. I hope you do not begrudge me the use of your names.
Elizabeth kissed her littlest brother on the forehead, and was about to move on to her other brother's bed, when Douglas stopped her with a question.
"Did it really happen? Is it true about Waterlash? And the fox whisker and the first fairies?"
"Don't be silly," came Daniel's voice from the other bed. "It's just a fairy story. Fairy stories aren't true."
Douglas looked up into Elizabeth's face, and there was a sort of pleading in his face. Elizabeth, who was wise beyond her years, saw the look on his face for what it was. We all of us have that pleading, for our favorite fairy tales to be real.
"Well," she began, and you could hear Daniel listening closely, for all that he had scorned the idea just a moment earlier.
"I have never seen a fairy before, but then again, I have never seen God before, and I am Positive He is real."
She thought for a moment.
"I certainly would like to believe that my pain is inflicted by fairies. It makes it just a little bit easier to bare. You never know Douglas," she leaned down and whispered in his ear. "Maybe you'll see one."
Douglas looked at her, not quite daring to believe her, but hoping that he could.
"Anyhow," Elizabeth said, getting up to hug Daniel goodnight. "I am sure there are fairies in heaven."
"It wouldn't be much of a heaven if there weren't fairies," Daniel added.
"Exactly," Elizabeth said, slipping out of their room, and closing the door behind her.
Friday, January 15, 2010
24 days left
I wrote the beginnings of five different (happier) stories today before I finished this one. I'm still not pleased with it.
I roll over and look at the clock. 4:21 am. I am not going back to sleep. I sit up and turn on my light, rubbing my eyes. I try to read, but I cannot concentrate on the plot. I get out my notebook, and try to write a poem I have been thinking of for a while, but my pen just won't move. Slowly, it dawns on me why I cannot sleep. I'm worried about Gabriel. So I do what I always do. I write. Because I am stupid and I can't do anything else. Only idiots write about their problems instead of actually trying to fix them.
An hour later I slip the envelope addressed to my little sister under her bedroom door. I hope she reads it. I hope... I don't know what I am hoping for. It to help?
I go back to my room and write that essay for English that is due tomorrow.
Gabriel,
I see you everyday and I can't talk to you. So I am doing the only thing I know to do, I am writing. I am writing for your release. I cannot see the prison you are in, but I am more sure of it's existence then I am sure of the existence of South Africa. I don't know how to help you. I am not sure I can help you. If it was kids at school, I would beat them up for you. If it was math homework then I would tutor you. I know I cannot protect you from everything, have failed to protect you from this. But I cannot let go of this instinct to protect you. I'm eighteen Gabby, and I've been scared to do anything about this. But then this very scary thought came into my head, and woke me up this morning: Who will take care of you when I am at college?
Gabby, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Tell the jailer that I will do whatever it takes to get you out of there.
Simon
The Letter
I roll over and look at the clock. 4:21 am. I am not going back to sleep. I sit up and turn on my light, rubbing my eyes. I try to read, but I cannot concentrate on the plot. I get out my notebook, and try to write a poem I have been thinking of for a while, but my pen just won't move. Slowly, it dawns on me why I cannot sleep. I'm worried about Gabriel. So I do what I always do. I write. Because I am stupid and I can't do anything else. Only idiots write about their problems instead of actually trying to fix them.
An hour later I slip the envelope addressed to my little sister under her bedroom door. I hope she reads it. I hope... I don't know what I am hoping for. It to help?
I go back to my room and write that essay for English that is due tomorrow.
Gabriel,
I see you everyday and I can't talk to you. So I am doing the only thing I know to do, I am writing. I am writing for your release. I cannot see the prison you are in, but I am more sure of it's existence then I am sure of the existence of South Africa. I don't know how to help you. I am not sure I can help you. If it was kids at school, I would beat them up for you. If it was math homework then I would tutor you. I know I cannot protect you from everything, have failed to protect you from this. But I cannot let go of this instinct to protect you. I'm eighteen Gabby, and I've been scared to do anything about this. But then this very scary thought came into my head, and woke me up this morning: Who will take care of you when I am at college?
Gabby, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Tell the jailer that I will do whatever it takes to get you out of there.
Simon
Thursday, January 14, 2010
25 days left
Waterlash's Great Story Hat
When I was three moons and eleven suns old, it was time for The Great Story to be told to me. I had heard the Great Story before, of course. I had heard it every time it was told. But this time, the story was being told to me. For me.
I was playing in the branches of the Home Tree with two of my cousins, Shadowblown and Leafwind. "Waterlash!" my mother said, finding us giggling under an old leaf. "The Word Weaver is going to knit your Hat." We all came at once, tumbling into the hollow, wings and legs and arms all muddling together. I was very excited. After this I would get to wear my very own hat! I would be a real fairy!
My grandmother was sitting, just as she always sat, in the corner of the hollow. Her name was Legend Rosewound, but everybody called her Word Weaver. She sat in her moss cushion rocking chair all day, knitting and telling her tales. My siblings and cousins and I would bring her things for knitting with, and in turn, she would tell us stories.
There was almost always a story being told, with one or two of us flightlets listening. But it was time for the Great Story to be knit again, and all of the young ones were gathered in a great flock on the bark around her rocker. The grown ones were standing around, cooking dinner, sweeping the floor, and playing figgly twigs.
My grandmother looked around to make sure we were all there. When she was sure that we were, she reached down into the acorn top at her feet, and drew out a piece of moss. The Word Weaver began casting on.
"Once," she said, and everyone fell quiet. "The Great Creator took laughter and tears and the whisker of a fox, and breathed his breath- which is the purest magic of all- and fairies came into being. For a time, all was good. Then one day, the first fairies, who were named Petalglimmer and Stingrider, noticed Man and Woman. They noticed how The Great Creator doted on them, whispering his love into their ears all day, and kissing them often. It was then that the fairies first experienced jealousy."
My grandmother reached into the acorn cap and pulled out a human child's eyelash, and began to knit it into the hat. "And so the first fairies began to torment the humans." My grandmother looked up at me, and said, "You are a fairy, and you yourself have a bit of the fox in you. You know how to make mischief." It was true. It had always been true. I knew how to tie the tails of the mice together when they slept, and to mix up the feathers of the owl when he wasn't looking, and to confuse the fish on her way to visit her sister.
My grandmother went back to her knitting, weaving the words along with the threads into my hat. "The Man and the Woman were miserable, and they did not know what they had done to deserve such awful treatment. 'If this is what it is like to be loved by God' they said to one another, 'then we want no part of it.' And though the One Who Sees Through Time tried to woo them back, the fairies tormented more and more. When the One Who Sees Through Time learned that the faires had driven the Man and the Woman away from him, he became very angry.
"The Most Magical of All summoned the fairies, and his anger made them shake like aspen leaves in a rain storm. 'Why?!' The Most Magical of All thundered. 'Why have you driven my beloved from me?' The fairies were very afraid, but they managed to tell the Great Creator of their jealousy. 'You love them so much,' Petalglimmer said.
'You speak to them all the time,' Stingrider added.
'You always give them kisses,' Petalgimmer finished for the two of them.
"The Great Creator was still angry, but his anger was no longer a wind storm, it was calming to the fury of the summer heat. 'How could you,' he asked, 'be jealous of Man and Woman? They are human. They cannot hear me clearly, they forget about my love, and they are separated from me. I have to constantly remind them that I love them. You are fairies. You always hear me when I speak and you never forget of my great love for you.'
"Petalshimmer and Stingrider never forgot what Love said to them. And that, my child, is why I tell you this story. So that you will never forget." My grandmother was nearly finished with my hat. She picked up a piece of spider's web with which to finish the story and the hat. "Love's anger had completely abated now, and he gave to those first fairies a commission which all of us carry out after them. 'I put a fox whisker in you for a reason,' he told the pair. 'Do not waste it. But only torment the ones that I tell you can take it. For through your mischievousness , they will draw closer to me.'"
And with that, my grandmother handed me my hat.
I was wondering what a Word Weaver was, anyways. It's good to know.
When I was three moons and eleven suns old, it was time for The Great Story to be told to me. I had heard the Great Story before, of course. I had heard it every time it was told. But this time, the story was being told to me. For me.
I was playing in the branches of the Home Tree with two of my cousins, Shadowblown and Leafwind. "Waterlash!" my mother said, finding us giggling under an old leaf. "The Word Weaver is going to knit your Hat." We all came at once, tumbling into the hollow, wings and legs and arms all muddling together. I was very excited. After this I would get to wear my very own hat! I would be a real fairy!
My grandmother was sitting, just as she always sat, in the corner of the hollow. Her name was Legend Rosewound, but everybody called her Word Weaver. She sat in her moss cushion rocking chair all day, knitting and telling her tales. My siblings and cousins and I would bring her things for knitting with, and in turn, she would tell us stories.
There was almost always a story being told, with one or two of us flightlets listening. But it was time for the Great Story to be knit again, and all of the young ones were gathered in a great flock on the bark around her rocker. The grown ones were standing around, cooking dinner, sweeping the floor, and playing figgly twigs.
My grandmother looked around to make sure we were all there. When she was sure that we were, she reached down into the acorn top at her feet, and drew out a piece of moss. The Word Weaver began casting on.
"Once," she said, and everyone fell quiet. "The Great Creator took laughter and tears and the whisker of a fox, and breathed his breath- which is the purest magic of all- and fairies came into being. For a time, all was good. Then one day, the first fairies, who were named Petalglimmer and Stingrider, noticed Man and Woman. They noticed how The Great Creator doted on them, whispering his love into their ears all day, and kissing them often. It was then that the fairies first experienced jealousy."
My grandmother reached into the acorn cap and pulled out a human child's eyelash, and began to knit it into the hat. "And so the first fairies began to torment the humans." My grandmother looked up at me, and said, "You are a fairy, and you yourself have a bit of the fox in you. You know how to make mischief." It was true. It had always been true. I knew how to tie the tails of the mice together when they slept, and to mix up the feathers of the owl when he wasn't looking, and to confuse the fish on her way to visit her sister.
My grandmother went back to her knitting, weaving the words along with the threads into my hat. "The Man and the Woman were miserable, and they did not know what they had done to deserve such awful treatment. 'If this is what it is like to be loved by God' they said to one another, 'then we want no part of it.' And though the One Who Sees Through Time tried to woo them back, the fairies tormented more and more. When the One Who Sees Through Time learned that the faires had driven the Man and the Woman away from him, he became very angry.
"The Most Magical of All summoned the fairies, and his anger made them shake like aspen leaves in a rain storm. 'Why?!' The Most Magical of All thundered. 'Why have you driven my beloved from me?' The fairies were very afraid, but they managed to tell the Great Creator of their jealousy. 'You love them so much,' Petalglimmer said.
'You speak to them all the time,' Stingrider added.
'You always give them kisses,' Petalgimmer finished for the two of them.
"The Great Creator was still angry, but his anger was no longer a wind storm, it was calming to the fury of the summer heat. 'How could you,' he asked, 'be jealous of Man and Woman? They are human. They cannot hear me clearly, they forget about my love, and they are separated from me. I have to constantly remind them that I love them. You are fairies. You always hear me when I speak and you never forget of my great love for you.'
"Petalshimmer and Stingrider never forgot what Love said to them. And that, my child, is why I tell you this story. So that you will never forget." My grandmother was nearly finished with my hat. She picked up a piece of spider's web with which to finish the story and the hat. "Love's anger had completely abated now, and he gave to those first fairies a commission which all of us carry out after them. 'I put a fox whisker in you for a reason,' he told the pair. 'Do not waste it. But only torment the ones that I tell you can take it. For through your mischievousness , they will draw closer to me.'"
And with that, my grandmother handed me my hat.
I was wondering what a Word Weaver was, anyways. It's good to know.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
26 days left
Hannah and the Phone Booth
Pay phones are an endangered species these days. The cell phone has all but wiped out these beautiful creatures. Of course, because of the scarcity of Perfectly Normal phone booths, the Especially Special ones have nowhere to hide, and are dying out as well.
There is only one Especially Special telephone booth left in Cincinnati OH. I will not tell you where it is, for fear that it will be traumatized by flash photography or that the Cincinnati Zoo might take it captive to "preserve" it. Suffice to say that it is tucked away somewhere, looking like a Perfectly Normal telephone booth (which isn't exactly normal any more, considering the rarity.)
Once, not so very long ago, (just this Tuesday, actually) a girl named Hannah was wandering the streets of Cincinnati in a fog of confusion. Her friend Karen (who was generally a person with more sense) had brutally refused to give Hannah pumpkin bread. As you can understand, Hannah devastated, and had taken to the streets looking for any sort of meaning. She stumbled upon Cincinnati's last Especially Special Phone booth. Of course, Hannah did not know that it was Cincinnati's last Especially Special phone booth, she thought it was simply a telephone booth. On most days, Hannah would have simply noted the fact that pay phones were rare, and would have gone on her merry little way. However, Hannah's way was not particularly merry today, so she did continue on it. She decided to call her friends, George (who was mostly human), Lucy(who was Quite human), and Billy (who looked human, but was really a goat. You could not tell because they had filled his horns). Fortunately, they all lived in the same house, so Hannah only had to make one phone call. Unfortunately, they lived in England, so the bill would be pretty steep.
But Hannah was still in a no-pumkin-bread funk, so she wasn't taking this into account. Hannah did know that George, Billy, and Lucy would cheer her up. She deposited her money and made the call. The doors to the phone booth clicked ominously behind her, and Hannah found she could not open the doors. This was, of course, a safety feature. Because the next minute the telephone booth was hurtling through the air at a tremendous rate.
Hannah was glad that she brought her knitting.
Half an hour later the phone booth landed in the front yard of the home that Hannah had attempted to call. She stepped out of the phone booth, scarf in her hand, finished. Hannah was greeted at the door by Lucy with a plate full of pumkin bread. Billy bleeted, and George sat down Very Quickly Indeed with the shock of it all.
All too soon their afternoon of Uno and advanced club passing was cut short because it was time for Hannah to be getting home. Most unfortunatly, the telephone booth no longer took American. George, Billy and Lucy were kind enough to pool their funds to buy a passage home for their friend. Hannah gave them the scarf out of gratitude.
Hannah started knitting a pair of mittens on the way home, and she was late for dinner. But it was all right, because she had gotten her pumkin bread after all.
I blame this on Karen and George.
Pay phones are an endangered species these days. The cell phone has all but wiped out these beautiful creatures. Of course, because of the scarcity of Perfectly Normal phone booths, the Especially Special ones have nowhere to hide, and are dying out as well.
There is only one Especially Special telephone booth left in Cincinnati OH. I will not tell you where it is, for fear that it will be traumatized by flash photography or that the Cincinnati Zoo might take it captive to "preserve" it. Suffice to say that it is tucked away somewhere, looking like a Perfectly Normal telephone booth (which isn't exactly normal any more, considering the rarity.)
Once, not so very long ago, (just this Tuesday, actually) a girl named Hannah was wandering the streets of Cincinnati in a fog of confusion. Her friend Karen (who was generally a person with more sense) had brutally refused to give Hannah pumpkin bread. As you can understand, Hannah devastated, and had taken to the streets looking for any sort of meaning. She stumbled upon Cincinnati's last Especially Special Phone booth. Of course, Hannah did not know that it was Cincinnati's last Especially Special phone booth, she thought it was simply a telephone booth. On most days, Hannah would have simply noted the fact that pay phones were rare, and would have gone on her merry little way. However, Hannah's way was not particularly merry today, so she did continue on it. She decided to call her friends, George (who was mostly human), Lucy(who was Quite human), and Billy (who looked human, but was really a goat. You could not tell because they had filled his horns). Fortunately, they all lived in the same house, so Hannah only had to make one phone call. Unfortunately, they lived in England, so the bill would be pretty steep.
But Hannah was still in a no-pumkin-bread funk, so she wasn't taking this into account. Hannah did know that George, Billy, and Lucy would cheer her up. She deposited her money and made the call. The doors to the phone booth clicked ominously behind her, and Hannah found she could not open the doors. This was, of course, a safety feature. Because the next minute the telephone booth was hurtling through the air at a tremendous rate.
Hannah was glad that she brought her knitting.
Half an hour later the phone booth landed in the front yard of the home that Hannah had attempted to call. She stepped out of the phone booth, scarf in her hand, finished. Hannah was greeted at the door by Lucy with a plate full of pumkin bread. Billy bleeted, and George sat down Very Quickly Indeed with the shock of it all.
All too soon their afternoon of Uno and advanced club passing was cut short because it was time for Hannah to be getting home. Most unfortunatly, the telephone booth no longer took American. George, Billy and Lucy were kind enough to pool their funds to buy a passage home for their friend. Hannah gave them the scarf out of gratitude.
Hannah started knitting a pair of mittens on the way home, and she was late for dinner. But it was all right, because she had gotten her pumkin bread after all.
I blame this on Karen and George.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
27 days left
A letter that Lily wrote. I intercepted it on it's merry little way through the mail.
Dear Aunt Janelle,
Dad just gave me this weird wink, like we're pals, or something. I mean, we've always been close, but after I ruined his favorite pan- the one his brother gave him on their 18th birthday- he's been a little distant. He says he's busy and he'll spend more time with me after his report about Dragons in Uganda has gone into The Office. But he's always writing reports. That's how we eat. Granted, this one is the deciding factor on whether or not they keep him around, but you would think he'd make some time for his eldest daughter.
What with dad being so busy, I've had to pick up even more work around here. Alice is only nine, so she's not expected to do much. Noni is ninety, and has really bad knees, so she's not expected to do much. And Dad is freaking out about Ugandan dragons, so he's not expected to do much.
And me? I am an able-bodied, fifteen and a half year old girl, so I am expected to do nearly everything. (shopping, laundry, cooking, cleaning, dishes) On top of which, Noni is always bugging me to go back to that boarding school near you. She doesn't really understand this unschooling thing.
So, on Friday, I'm packing my bags and making my escape. Alice's party will be in full swing then, the cake will be baked, the games planned, the house cleaned, and the cat in fully working order. Dad will be in the throws of The Final Draft, he won't notice anything. Noni will be charming, and take over the running of the party. She always likes to do that. And I will slip out the door and hop on a bus to Ottawa. I think this letter will reach you just before I do. I am not running away from home! I just need a break from all this, and I miss you so much.
Love, Lilly
P. S. Don't bother to clean your house.
P. P. S. Please don't call dad. I'll leave a note explaining things for him.
P. P. P. S. (I miss mom too.)
Written with assistance from The Writer's Toolbox.
Dear Aunt Janelle,
Dad just gave me this weird wink, like we're pals, or something. I mean, we've always been close, but after I ruined his favorite pan- the one his brother gave him on their 18th birthday- he's been a little distant. He says he's busy and he'll spend more time with me after his report about Dragons in Uganda has gone into The Office. But he's always writing reports. That's how we eat. Granted, this one is the deciding factor on whether or not they keep him around, but you would think he'd make some time for his eldest daughter.
What with dad being so busy, I've had to pick up even more work around here. Alice is only nine, so she's not expected to do much. Noni is ninety, and has really bad knees, so she's not expected to do much. And Dad is freaking out about Ugandan dragons, so he's not expected to do much.
And me? I am an able-bodied, fifteen and a half year old girl, so I am expected to do nearly everything. (shopping, laundry, cooking, cleaning, dishes) On top of which, Noni is always bugging me to go back to that boarding school near you. She doesn't really understand this unschooling thing.
So, on Friday, I'm packing my bags and making my escape. Alice's party will be in full swing then, the cake will be baked, the games planned, the house cleaned, and the cat in fully working order. Dad will be in the throws of The Final Draft, he won't notice anything. Noni will be charming, and take over the running of the party. She always likes to do that. And I will slip out the door and hop on a bus to Ottawa. I think this letter will reach you just before I do. I am not running away from home! I just need a break from all this, and I miss you so much.
Love, Lilly
P. S. Don't bother to clean your house.
P. P. S. Please don't call dad. I'll leave a note explaining things for him.
P. P. P. S. (I miss mom too.)
Written with assistance from The Writer's Toolbox.
Monday, January 11, 2010
28 days left
I was poking about in Lily's things (how rude of me. Then again, perhaps not, as she is living in my head) and I found a couple of her lists (Lily is a great Maker of Lists). I thought you might find them interesting.
Lily's Shopping List
Lily's To Do List
Lily's Shopping List
- Piano grease (the kind Noni likes for her knees. NOT THE ORANGE LABEL!!!)
- 3 tins tuna safe dolphin
- power cell for the cat
- Dinner for Thursday (what do Prime Ministers' of Uganda eat, anyhow?)
- a Notebook of Power (or other appropriate gift for Alice's 10thh b-day)
- small bottle, essence of dragon breath
- explanation (for Dad, concerning Those Brownies)
- 1 medium package, assorted jokes, rated G (Alice's party)
Lily's To Do List
- call dump about Those Brownies
- fix the cat
- CALL THE ASSISTANT UNDERSECRETARY OF UGANDA REGARDING ALLERGIES
- clean the carpet (Noni's recipe)
29 days left
(Very Short Story I wrote on Sunday, January 10th, with 29 days left to live.)
The Roses
Sadie sat among the blooming roses, red, yellow, white, and pink. She smiled up at the sun, her eyes closed, hands outstretched.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked her.
The dark haired, 40ish woman started. "Terry," she said with a hand to her heart. "You scared me."
I sat down on the bench next to the woman I had a huge crush on.
"The roses," she said in reply to my question. "I envy their courage."
I said nothing, but the aerobics my face were under going must have made my question clear enough. She laughed at me. Normally I don't like this sort of thing, but I feel like taking class clown lessons from my nephew when I hear her laugh.
"I take it you've never thought about it before," she said, still smiling.
"No," I say quietly, shaking my head in consent. Does Peter think about these sorts of things? I wonder. Should I cultivate those kind of thoughts? I am trying to figure out how a rose can be courageous when Sadie explains.
"A rose bud is safe," she reaches out her hand to touch one of the plentiful ones in my grandmother's old garden. "Her armor covers up her vulnerable petals. Unfortunately it also covers up her beauty. It takes a lot of courage, and trust in the one that created her, to open her petals. To bloom. To be vulnerable, and to be beautiful. I wish I could do that more."
'You are very beautiful' I want to say, but when I open up my mouth, the words aren't there. So I close it again, and I get up to walk with a Rose among roses.
Inspired by the song that goes "And what was said unto the rose/to make it unfold/was said to me here in my chest/so be quiet now and rest."
(I didn't say it had to be good, I just said it had to be words.)
The Roses
Sadie sat among the blooming roses, red, yellow, white, and pink. She smiled up at the sun, her eyes closed, hands outstretched.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked her.
The dark haired, 40ish woman started. "Terry," she said with a hand to her heart. "You scared me."
I sat down on the bench next to the woman I had a huge crush on.
"The roses," she said in reply to my question. "I envy their courage."
I said nothing, but the aerobics my face were under going must have made my question clear enough. She laughed at me. Normally I don't like this sort of thing, but I feel like taking class clown lessons from my nephew when I hear her laugh.
"I take it you've never thought about it before," she said, still smiling.
"No," I say quietly, shaking my head in consent. Does Peter think about these sorts of things? I wonder. Should I cultivate those kind of thoughts? I am trying to figure out how a rose can be courageous when Sadie explains.
"A rose bud is safe," she reaches out her hand to touch one of the plentiful ones in my grandmother's old garden. "Her armor covers up her vulnerable petals. Unfortunately it also covers up her beauty. It takes a lot of courage, and trust in the one that created her, to open her petals. To bloom. To be vulnerable, and to be beautiful. I wish I could do that more."
'You are very beautiful' I want to say, but when I open up my mouth, the words aren't there. So I close it again, and I get up to walk with a Rose among roses.
Inspired by the song that goes "And what was said unto the rose/to make it unfold/was said to me here in my chest/so be quiet now and rest."
(I didn't say it had to be good, I just said it had to be words.)
30 days left
(A poem I wrote on Saturday, January 9th, with 30 days left to live.)
30 Days 2 Live
The crunching on the snow under my boots,
the cold air on my neck,
and the fog that comes out of my mouth scream, alive, alive, alive.
It turns out Emily was right,
when she said
-through Tonrton Wilder- that
earth is too wonderful for anyone to realize.
Alton's voice echoing in my head,
the phantom tang of keylime pie,
the crust rubbing, sandpaper rough,
-just the way I like it-
on my tongue and gums,
whisper to me, don't waste them.
30 Days 2 Live
The crunching on the snow under my boots,
the cold air on my neck,
and the fog that comes out of my mouth scream, alive, alive, alive.
It turns out Emily was right,
when she said
-through Tonrton Wilder- that
earth is too wonderful for anyone to realize.
Alton's voice echoing in my head,
the phantom tang of keylime pie,
the crust rubbing, sandpaper rough,
-just the way I like it-
on my tongue and gums,
whisper to me, don't waste them.
30 DAYS 2 LIVE
The highschoolers at my church have started a new series, called 30 DAYS 2 LIVE. We are trying to live like we only have a month left. One of the things we had to do was write a bucket list, and one of the things on my bucket list is to write everyday and share what I write. I don't know that I will share everything I write, because it might be too personal, or just plain awful, but I thought that this would be a good way to motivate me to actually write, and a good way to share (if anyone cares.)
I am now on 28 days left.
S'all for now, loves.
I am now on 28 days left.
S'all for now, loves.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
