Just Like My Mother

Alright, so I finished another entry for the seventeen magazine contest!  Here it is, enjoy!

My Aunt Dara always told me that I could do better.  She raised me since I was eight.  It felt like I heard those words, in her scratchy, bitter voice every single day.  Her words drained my confidence.  She was just like my mother, and I hated my mother. 

At the age of ten, she refused to take me to the park where all the other kids played.  I asked her every day, always optimistic that today she would agree.  From her rocking chair, she would lower the book she was reading; stare hard into my eyes and say “Come on, Saylee, you can do better, go on now.  She was just like my mother, and I hated my mother.

When I was thirteen, Aunt Dara began to repeat those words to me right before I went to bed.  She would look at me with pursed lips.  Most nights, I simply rolled over to face the wall instead of her.  She didn’t stop me, just sighed a long “hmmhmm” as she shut the bedroom door.  She was just like my mother, and I hated my mother.

The day I turned seventeen, I got dressed in my best, trying to put a smile on my face since it was my birthday.  I came down the stairs and she met me going up.  We both stopped; me awaiting her approval.  Aunt Dara looked me up and down slowly, raising her eyebrows, scoffing, “You can do better.” Then she continued upstairs, not looking back, just like my mother.

I gave birth to my baby girl five years later.  As I held her in my arms, taking in all her tiny features, those same words haunted my mind.  “You can do better.”  I shook them out.  What kind of mother thought her very own baby wasn’t good enough?  Then I remembered my mother had.

One day, after two months of grade six, my daughter came home from school, a worried look on her face.  Later that night, as I lay in bed, she came in.  “I got my report card.”  I slid it out of her small hands and looked it over.   She wasn’t doing well, that was apparent.  “I know you can do better.” I said.  She burst into tears and fell to her knees beside my bed.  “Mommy, I’m sorry, Mommy.” She got up and ran back to her room.  I laid there a moment, letting what I’d said sink in.  I was just like my mother, and I hated my mother.

Without wasting another second, I shrugged off the covers and found Carly buried in her pillows, sobbing.  I cuddled in beside her, softly rubbing her back.  “I’m so sorry, honey.”  I said, a teardrop sliding down my cheek. “I know you’re trying very hard and I will always love you no matter who you are, who you become or who you want to be.  I kissed her cheek.  I would never, ever be like my mother.

Seeking a Saver

Alright, here is my short story submission for the seventeen contest, also on figment.com.  It is quite sad, but uplifting and higlights the fact that there is so much more underneath the surface.  There are many things one might see in this short story and is left up to your interpretation.  Leave me comments of what you think!

The cold water splashed over my face and I slowly lifted my eyes.  I could now see my reflection; exhausted, dark, and lifeless in the fingerprint smudged mirror.  I looked down at the bandages on my wrists, sighed, an angry, tired breath and pulled the sleeve of my sweater tighter over my hands.  The bathroom door swished open.

“Lucy,” My mother warned, “you cannot go off on your own like this.”

I rolled my eyes, and turned slightly to look at her.  The bags under her eyes, deep and dark, she blamed on me, probably, because I was the problem child.

“Don’t worry, mom.  It’s not like I’m going to kill myself in the hospital bathroom.  I have a little more ambition than that.”  I laughed a bitter laugh.  Her lips pursed as she crossed her arms.

“Don’t speak like that, Lucy.  This is serious, not a laughing matter.  We are here to save you.

I pushed past her, out the door and moved as fast as I could with a broken leg and crutches.  She was soon right behind me again, telling me to stop, but once she figured out I wasn’t going to stop, she hurried to get in front of me and then put her hands out to push back on my shoulders.  I toppled on my one good leg, quickly losing balance and falling to the ground.  I hid my face while I wiped away trickling tears.  I hated crying in front of her.  It made me feel so weak and ridiculous.

“Lucy, look at me.” She said, a little softer.  I glared back, but the tears only continued to rise up my throat.

“Did you ever wonder if maybe I didn’t want to be saved?  Huh?” I screamed heatedly. “There is a reason I tried to kill myself, mom, and it wasn’t so I could be kept here longer.  I hate this place, all these people.  I hate myself.  I hate you.  So much.  So much.” 

Tears streamed down my cheeks.  I was screaming with such force that I began to shake and tremble as I lay on the floor.  My mother tried to pull me closer to her, but I pushed away, slapping her arms and making fists I intended to use, until suddenly, it just seemed like all my strength was gone.  I was uselessly defensive, just sobbing on the ground.  Then, I realized it was because my mother was enveloping me in her strong arms.  She took away my bitter rage, simply by caressing me.  It was the simple gesture I had been thirsting to feel.  It was the comfort that would have saved me a week ago from jumping off the bridge.  It had almost come too late, but for some reason, I was given one more chance to feel it.  I opened my teary eyes, in time to see my reflection in the glass door; refreshed, peaceful and even just a tiny bit fuller of life.

Contests

Hey bloggers,
I guess I have become pretty slack with keeping up to date on my blog.  However, I promise something good will come out of it.  I am currently continuing to work on a novel of mine as well as write a short story for the Seventeen magazine contest and the nicholas sparks contest.  I really would like to make it exceptional and if anyone even reads this blog, I hope you will comment with advice and what you think of my writing!  Hopefully they will be finished and up soon! 

The Ticking Clock

I used to always hate short stories, because they were never cut and dry and there was always knots left untied and that bugged me so much.  In english class last year however, we had to write a short story and the following is what I wrote.  It was actually really awesome to write and now I appreciate them a lot more and I have started writing more of them.  Enjoy!

Jackie sits down at the old wooden table in her dark kitchen.  She traces the many ruts and scrapes covering the table, going this way and that, following no particular pattern.  No one is sleeping in the next room or waiting for her outside.  Instead, Jackie sits in unwanted solitude, crying out to the stars, the owls, the ticking clock and the rat that lives under the front porch.

            She again contemplates calling every resource she has already exhausted, hoping maybe by some luck of the draw a friend will be there to sympathize or tell her she is not in too deep.  Jackie cannot even remember who she is, let alone who she was.  Was Jackie even her real name?

“I think it would be fun to reinvent myself.”  She told her grandmother; at the mere age of thirteen when everywhere she looked she was faced with the distorted image of ‘perfect’.  At the time, all she heard her grandma say was “Create who you want to be.”  Now, when she thinks harder picturing herself in that quiet hospital room; so pleased her grandmother was agreeing, she realizes there was something more to that reply.  A “but…”  An answer she now needs, willingly listening, but too late.

                Behind, Jackie, the clock seems to tick louder, moving one hand closer to the end of a minute, an hour, a day.  When she looks out the bay window in front of her, only one small star is in sight, flickering as if at any moment it might completely disappear.  

 A single tear glistens on her cheek.  Jackie wipes it away quickly, daring not to give herself away, even if no one can see her.   Picking up the telephone, she dials a number she has memorized, but gets the busy tone.  The next number has no reply.  And the next and the next, until all the numbers in her memory are worn out.

She walks out into the night air.  It is frigid, so she wraps her sweater closer to her body.  She listens for a siren, a coyote’s howl, conversation of a neighbour, anything to help her prove to herself she is not alone in the world.  Nothing makes a sound.  Complete silence surrounds her; so loudly she shivers and cringes as it deafens her ears.  Even the scuffle of the rodent that is always under her steps, is not to be heard.

Quickly, she escapes inside, locking herself in the smallest room, where without planning it, Jackie comes face to face with her worst fear.  It stares back at her, red faced and ugly.  Its hair stands tussled, on end: the sign of a lazy master.  Afraid, her first instinct is to look away, but a few seconds later when she looks back up; it is still staring at her.  Jackie takes a step closer, and it does too, copying her every move.  Through the crack under the door, the smug ticking from the clock grows continuously louder; more pronounced stirring up crazy thoughts in her head.  Her lips open to speak, but no words come out.  The thing staring at her is terrifying.  Its big eyes are so empty, lonely and lost.  Her breathing becomes heavier; suddenly the room is much tinier, the sound of the clock louder still and the face in front of her taunting her, it seems.  Jackie screams, throwing the closest object, an empty wine bottle, at the figure in front of her.  It shatters, but her biggest fear is still there, now fragmented into pieces, distorting the image.  She slams her eyes shut, plugging her ears and trying with all her might to push everything away, back to when she was thirteen.  Back to beside her grandmother’s sick bed, where she hears those wise words, “Create who you want to be, but never be afraid or ashamed of yourself.”

Jackie looks around her, finally landing on the broken pieces of glass, each one portraying a different person she was trying to be.  Once they had fit together, but how easily it had all been smashed.  No way in the world, would she ever be able to tell which pieces were truly herself and which ones were simply taken from someone else’s life; someone who seemed to have the perfect life.  She shook her head, ashamed of who she had let herself become.  The pieces were finally laid out before her, but the clock was barely ticking, slowly winding down, and all the past had been wasted.  She looked out the tiny bathroom window: the single star was gone.  On the floor, surrounded by pieces that made no sense, she sat.  With every bit of pressure the glass cracked just a little more, and with each crack she felt herself, too, collapsing and breaking down, no longer willing to work together.  The last thing Jackie heard was the final tick of the clock.  The last thing she saw was a reflection of her regretful eyes in a broken fragment of mirror.

Figment.com

Hey Bloggers,
So...just today I came across an awesome website where you can read other pieces of writing, write your own and post it for others to read, enter contests and so much more I still have yet to explore.  The website is http://www.figment.com/ and if you love reading and writing like I do you should definitely check it out!!  I already entered a couple contesets and I am super excited!  It seriously might have made my day!!:)
No new writing today on my part, but maybe I will come up with something soon!
My brother gave me a little Field Notes book and I know it will be so useful in remembering and tracking all the little daydream ideas I have for stories and awesome quotes and stuff!  Anyways, have a good night!

Going Deep Into The Music

It is an absolutely amazing thing how one song, so simple, can bring you back to a place, a person, a year.
I love the fact that a specific song can carry you away for a moment back to that specific memory and it is clear like yesterday.  You can remember the conversation, the clothes you were wearing or smell the air and hear the atmosphere that surrounded the memory.  It doesn't always end up being a good memory, but it was part of your past and we can't deny that there were some beautiful, extraordinary moments.  I am about to do some free lance writing.
Definition:What ever comes to mind...right here, right now...

"Take me back." She whispered, closing her eyes.  The world spun behind her eyelids and yet everything was clearer than it had ever been.  She could picture it now, 17 years old, so young and yet she'd felt so old.  She had thought she knew everything, knew what was right and it was in that mind state that she ignored the best advice she could have been given. 

Her brown hair swished delicately across her back as she turned to face him.  He smiled and took her into his arms, spinning her in circles.  Nothing else mattered, for either one of them.  All that mattered was the smile on his face and the laughter escaping her lips.  The opinions of the world, of their friends, of anyone played no part in their choices.  All they ever talked about was running away together, somewhere far, where nothing could touch them, except each other. 

But she had been so young, so small, so innocent and she had no understanding that what awaited her in the future would require so much more than what she had to give.

They had ended up in an old abandoned barn, a thousand miles from anyone they knew and it seemed so perfect.  They made a nest of blankets amoung the loose straw and shared licorice sticks as they talked about their dreams, His; to open a restaurant.  Hers; to finally be free and traced images along each others arms.

"Talk to me." He would say, wiping tear stains off her cheeks.  And she would tell him everything.  She hated her parents, her life, her friends.  She hated how no one understood her or cared about what she wanted.  She hated that no one would let her be with him.  She hated that she could never be taken seriously and all her feelings held so little influence.

"I hate you!" She pictures herself screaming now.  Her parents stood outside the open bedroom door; the pain in her mothers eyes so evident.  She pushed all she could fit into the ratty duffel bag, the whole 113$ that she'd emptied from her piggy bank.  She'd screamed so loud, through her tears as they stood silent in front of her.  "I hate you!  I hate you!  I hate you!"

And then she'd run as fast as she could, pushing past them, out the front door, down the long windy street until she reached him and all it took was four little words to bring them to where they were now. "Run away with me."

He was streched out beside her on the barn floor, fast asleep under the black sky.  She turned on her side to watch him.  She could remember every moment from when she met him, to how they got here.  Suddenly, she felt very sad and lonely.  She couldn't understand why.  Here she was, lying beside the only man she'd ever loved, the one who understood her.  They were supposed to be hidden from pain, but now she was feeling it even worse than before.  She took one last look at his stomach rise and fall with a breath and then slowly, quietly stood to her feet.  She picked up the duffel bag from beside her and took one step towards the barn door.  She forced herself not to look back and one step at a time she walked away.  Finally, she felt herself breathe and a weight being lifted off her shoulders. 

"Take me back."  She whispered to herself as she walked into the night,s and there she was, 14 years old, tucked in beside her mother.

"Someday, my baby, if you are anything like I was, you will want to run away hoping that it clears away all the hurt and anger and pain.  Promise me, baby, that wherever you go, you will remember that I will always love you and that I will be waiting for you when you return to where you belong.  Promise me."

"I promise, mom"  She'd responded earnestly and now again she whispered to the night air.  She was one step away from where she thought she needed to be, but was also one step closer to where she really belonged.

We All Have Our Days

This is a piece of writing that I wrote at like 2 in the morning.  I had just watched a movie where I had laughed, smiled and cried and I was just in this mood that got me thinking about our days and lives and so I opened word and just began typing and this is what came out of it.  Moral of the story:  Sometimes its in the weirdest moods that you do your best writing!!haha:)

Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night and you feel scared.  Scared that the loneliness your feeling at that moment will never leave you.  Then there are the mornings you wake up, look out your window and feel happy.  For the first time in a long time you feel actually, legitimately content.  It’s the feeling that no one can stop you, because you go out and get what you want.  I dream of the perfect day, the day when I take a walk outside.  The day I meet the person- my soul mate- which I know instinctively I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.  There are experiences in life for every single person that causes them to wonder if there is someone looking for them.  I wondered for fifteen years when and where and who would come into my life, change the way I see things, be the reason I never stop smiling and be the thing that I call Love. 

Everyday there is someone dying, taking their last breath and the way they lived their lives and the way they made decisions determined whether or not they were afraid to pass on or whether the last thought was that they would never replace one second of their life. 

An old man kisses the photograph he holds in his right hand.  He is dreaming of reality, although it has already passed him by. 

A young girl chases a little boy.  They giggle as they roll in the green grass, because at that moment in their little lives everything is just the way it should be.  

There are the days you lay in bed, hugging the quilt tightly to your chest and cry.  Tear drops will not stop flowing from your eyes and you don’t have a reason for any of it.  It is like you’ve bottled inside a lifetime of sadness, regret, forgetfulness and unhappiness and the cork has finally blown off revealing all the past.  And although those moments have been left in the past, there is something about them that you can’t leave behind.  There has been a scar left on a very sacred part of your heart.  You have tried healing with new love, healing with friendship, healing with new memories never realizing that those scars will never go away.  Because they make you who you are today.  They have shaped you in ways that can only be understood by looking back at the end of life. 

I lay here, staring at the ceiling and I wonder if I’ll ever have the courage to get over you.  I failed to tell you how I feel and I know deep down that that was for the better, but still I can’t bring myself to forget your face or the way you turned, looked at me and smiled. 

The stars outside are hidden by the rain clouds so instead I step into the wet atmosphere and close my eyes.  I imagine a world where only I exist and the stars fill the sky.  A world where nothing can touch me.  A kind of reality where the possibility of getting hurt is nonexistent.  At the same time, I’m glad for heart break.  It teaches me to set my sights on a goal that is high, but I can still reach it if I stand on my tip toes. It helps me see things that I need in my life or maybe more the things that I’m better off without. 

Why should anyone settle for less than the perfection they have in mind?  Every singular person will decide their destiny.  Every singular person will create their own personal image of flawless and that for them will come true...eventually.  But to get there, you need to have the bravery to face fears, have a broken heart or maybe many.  You will have to watch out for the people that want to bring you down and realize that your dreams don’t include them so to you they will have no impact on your feelings. 

There are nights when you go to sleep and wonder if you will ever fall asleep, because your mind is running wild with pictures of you and the one person you truly love.  There will be nights when you can’t wait to escape into the dream land where it seems that nothing ever goes wrong and if they do you always wake up before the worst.  There are going to be nights when the stars cannot be seen, where the light seems so far away, while on the other side of the world someone is waking up with a fresh smile on their renewed face and they will put on their favourite outfit, grin at their reflection as they skip out the door. 

We all have our days.  Some better or worse than others, but they all make up a lifetime that we can choose to spend in complete darkness or we can step into the light and see the flowers blooming on the other side. <3

Short story entry

A couple years ago, I entered a fiction contest for Seventeen magazine.  Now that I read them over and then read the winners stories, I realized more what they had been looking for and also vowed to myself to go deeper, less self explanitory.
This short story, however, was one of my favorites, because when I was writing it I could see the entire seen in my mind and putting it down in words actually became difficult.  Hopefully, with your own touch you will be able to enter into the story's world for a couple minutes and experience it for yourself.

I sat on the wooden stool, strumming pleasant chords on my guitar, as I sang.  I like to think of myself as the Taylor Swift in the making.  Even her fashion sense is an exact replicate of mine.  Every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, I come to this café in downtown Victoria.  It’s quite a neat place, very quaint, but “rocker” type at the same time.  It was in the basement of an old building, therefore windows were limited.  The only other light source was these long dangly lights that hung on the wall behind the bar.  Also, someone had managed to plant a few glow in the dark stars on the ceiling.  You might ask what an 18 year old girl is doing at a café on a Friday night.  In case you haven’t clued in, I’m different, unique.  I’m just myself, Noelle.  It was early evening, and I noticed that the blue sky had disappeared and black clouds had rolled into their place.  Nevertheless, I kept playing my guitar, and was about to launch into a new song, when I heard the cling-clang of the door opening, letting everyone know a new customer had arrived.  Out of habit, I looked up to see a tall, black haired guy come in.  He shook his head, as would do a wet dog, trying to dry himself off.  I’ll admit I was caught off guard, by his stunning appeal, but I quickly snapped out of it when someone sitting at a small round table shouted,“Are you ever going to let us in on the lyrics?” Embarrassed I finished the song then excused myself while the next performer took the stage.

Curiously, I searched around, and found the stranger sitting on a bar stool, deep in thought.  He didn’t notice me when I sat down beside him so I spoke,“I haven’t seen you around.  Where are you from?”He blinked, but then warmly smiled.“Montreal.  I’m supposed to be meeting someone, but I got lost and ducked into the first place I could to escape the rain.  Now I’m here.”

“Interesting, I’m Noelle.”  I stated, thrusting out my hand.  He shook it awkwardly.

“I’m Drew.  You know you…”  He was interrupted by his phone ringing to a playful tune.

He answered quickly, copied a couple notes down, and then turned to me.

“Sorry…Noelle…I have to go.  I got the right directions so…”  He trailed off.  I nodded disappointedly.  He grabbed his coat and headed out the door.  I followed him only until the awning, not daring to step out in the pouring rain.  He faced me, and put his hands on my shoulders.

“Will you be here Sunday night?”  He asked.

I nodded again.

“I’ll be looking for you.  Save me a song, okay?”

Those words made me smile, and then he took off into the hailing rain.  I kept watching, even as he became but a small, dark silhouette.  I didn’t want him to go, and for some reason, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

I actually ended up feeding off of this short story and made it into a novel that I completed!!  Yah!  It ended up being about a girl, Noelle, who didn't believe in love.  When she met Drew, however, he made it his mission to prove to her that love did exist.  I'm sure you can see where this is going!:) Anyways, someday it might just be on the bookstore shelf and you can read it for yourself!

Where it all began

I remember when I was younger, I loved to be read to.  My favorite book was called Bony Legs and I could listen to it over and over and over again, laughing every time and doing the same actions as the witch "Bony Legs" would do.  It was also the first book I learned to read by myself, although I'm pretty sure it was all by memory!:)
As I got older, writing became a big part of my life and I remember sitting by the big bay window in our family room with the phone in one hand, my notebook in the other and reading my own stories to my best friend who in turn would read me hers.  Back then, grade three probably, my stories revolved around diva girls whose biggest problems were in finding the perfect outfit to wear.  Hopefully, after writing for a few more years, I have increased my content quality a little bit, but I still miss the imagination I had when I was younger.  I honestly think sometimes that the fact that I love writing fiction is one of the only things that has kept me from losing my imagination completely.
People often tell you to write about what you know, and I believe that but at the same time, sometimes its good to take risks.  With knowing about your subject, the emotional descriptions can go so in depth and it can often capture you and bring you back to a place or a person.  I write teen romance and honestly I have never been in love, so it traps me sometimes.  Recently, I have learned to develop the friendship side of relationships before jumping right into the romance and in doing so can create a more realistic story line and characters.  The good thing about fiction is no one is looking too closely for the facts and that gives a lot of liberties that I take and try to imagine how I would like things to go, taking into consideration real life problems and circumstances.  I am hoping that in the next few years as I continue to write, my knowledge on the subject will increase and I can put it all on the paper exactly the way I felt it.
If anyone is reading this and are writers as well, maybe my tips helped and feel free to give me tips as well.
<3Brianna
 

First Post Ever!

Dear Bloggers,

I decided to start a blog...finally, after lusting for one a couple years.  My name is Brianna and I love to write novels of the teen romance variety.  I have written a short story and some songs as well, although I certainly enjoy novel writing. 
This is the first ever post, of the first ever blog I've had and I am super excited to get it going, figure everything out and share my writing with whomever stumbles upon this blog. 
I am hoping to make this blog a site where I can post excerpt from my stories, poems, short stories and lyrics that I have written, as well as things or writings that have inspired me.  It is motivation for me to write everyday, even if it is only a simple blog, and it could perhaps become  little sanctuary where the imagination and the world of words and fiction sweep someone away if only for a few minutes!
It is 8:51 on sunday night at the moment and since I am still in grade 12, I have school awaiting me in the AM so goodnight and I will certainly get going one of these days on posting my writing!
Love,
Brianna