1 year later...

Wow,

Can't believe I neglected my blog for an entire year!!!  My last post was right before I moved away from home and here I am going strong in Saskatoon.  I have to say the busyness of my life here is pure bliss.  I have no complaints...other than the freezing wind of the prairies, but still the outdoor skating, the hot chocolate and the cozy scarves manages to keep me positive:) 

I started university at the U of S this fall and I absolutely love it!  It has taught me a lot about myself, but I feel like it is exactly where I belong.  I'm hoping to apply for Education after another year, so for now that's the plan!

It's been a crazy year definitely, lots of ups and downs (mostly ups), but I feel like I've grown up in many ways, and though my mama might disagree, I believe it was what I needed.  I guess when I think about the fact that I'm only 19, it scares me to think I hold a whole lot of responsibilities that probably would be way better handled by someone older and wiser.  At the same time though, I feel like it's allowing me to prove myself. 

Anyways, it feels like since I moved away and grew up a little more, along with it maybe my imagination got a little lost...
It makes me so sad when I think about that, cause I still have a long story awaiting an ending and lots of words being left unsaid...I sometimes try and sit down, play some stimulating music and I manage to get a few words down, but I feel like I've lost my mojo.  The more I read however, the more I slowly become inspired, so I promise you that I am trying to find time to fit a few really good books into my schedule.  And someday, I really really hope, I will write that perfect last line to my novel and maybe I'll manage to write a short story that drives even just one person to tears, even if that person is just me.  I hope I never truly lose my imagination, or stop being able to daydream, or stop being able to fall asleep to the little movies playing in my head.  I hope that even as I grow up, my imagination will stay alive and youthful and vibrant and I hope it'll lead me to write compelling things...whatever that may be.

I am going to try my hardest to keep up on this blog, maybe it will stimulate me to write a little bit more:)

Sweet Dreams,

Brianna

Maybe Someday

I guess it was the way he could trap you with his words.  “Come here,” he’d say, holding out a hand, a little mysterious smile curling up his lips.  And why would I choose not to follow?  There was always something in it for me-whether that was good or bad I might never understand.  I will always remember though the soft, secure hold of his hand; the way one look said everything.  He was my escape from the hurtful words, the dark loneliness of my thoughts.  A moment with him was enough to keep meone more hour.  Until one day he wasn’t there anymore.  He just left.  The only thing he left me with was a broken heart and a letter that read:

I have to do this.

Maybe someday

 we’ll be right for each other,

but for now I just have to go.

And that was it.

I remember holding it in my hand, beneath my pillow as my sobbing tears soaked the blankets.  I didn’t know how any of it even happened or what I’d done wrong.  He was just gone.

I didn’t want to wait.  I didn’t want to be that girl; the one that lost herself in love. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t be anyone else.  I didn’t want to let anyone else in for fear you’d come back and see me in someone else’s arms.  And who knows if you ever will-come back that is.  But you said ‘maybe someday’ and that was enough hope for me.

So I’m just here.  Waiting. Hoping.  It must have been the way he could trap me in with his words.  Why would I choose not to follow?

Strong and Silent

This is a short story I wrote one night, inspired by the song Deep Water by The Middle East.

“I like the way you take my hand and just like that everything is so much better.”

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear and half smiles.

It’s dark outside and only our silhouettes stand out against the light of the moon.  We stand facing each other and although I only catch glimpses of his perfect face by way he tilts his head, it is still comforting to know that he is there, staring down at me. 

I like the way the silence falls between us.  Peaceful.  I fumble in the night for his hands.  The warmth pulsates from his skin to mine and I know I’m smiling.  Behind me is the red brick wall of the old abandoned school and behind him are the city lights, glistening. We shouldn’t be here, but its our place, anywhere else just wouldn’t make sense for us.  He gently pushes we against the wall and pins my arms at my side, before leaning in close.  I close my eyes to feel his breath on my neck, taking it all in, for I know one of these days I will never get to feel it again.

“Hayley,” He whispers so quietly its barely audible.

“Hmm…” I reply, keeping my eyes closed and leaning in as he rests his forehead against mine.

He stays silent a moment and I know he is thinking.  I liked that about him; he didn’t just talk to hear a voice, he said what he meant and he meant what he said.  Strong and silent and always right.  He moved his arms, so they were wrapped around my waist and I encircled my hands around his arms.  The wind whistled softly around us, swaying and gently bustling the tall evergreen trees.  He brushed his lips across mine, then pulled back and let out a breath.  I rested my chin on his shoulder and opened my eyes to see out across the ridge, where below the city was flickering with gold lights.

“You have to go.”  I heard him say finally, detecting a slight waver in his kind voice.

“What?” I whisper back breathlessly, hoping what I was hearing was only a dream; although we both knew deep down that these words hadn’t been unexpected.  He was sick.  And a month ago, they’d given him four weeks to live.  I wrapped my arms around his torso, holding on tightly.  He tucked my head against his chest and pressed his lips on the top of my head.  Tears were sliding down my cheeks, but I didn’t bother to wipe them away.  We were breathing heavily and desperately, trying to hold onto the last few seconds we were given.

“Please,” He sighed out, exasperated, but he didn’t let go and I realized that he needed me just as much as I grasped for him.

“Sam,” I began, pulling back just slightly, so I could look him in the eyes, “this time just hold my hands and don’t let go, ok?  I won’t go anywhere, I promise.”

Ever so slightly, he shook his head back and forth and I knew his reasons for letting me go were so I didn’t have to see his pain.  I was already feeling it though, as much as he did, and it would only hurt more to walk away now.  I held his head and let him sob into the crook of my shoulder.  Strong and silent, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t cry.  I admired that about him.  He was just Sam, a beautiful man with dark hair that flopped just a little onto his forehead, and piercing eyes that could see right through me and a soft smile that understood me perfectly.  His hands knew how to caress me, protect me, his lips knew how to heal me and his voice, even without saying anything, knew exactly how to sooth me.  How would I survive without him, the one who had saved me so many times?  Strong and silent, that is what I would need to learn to be, but Sam’s way of being strong and silent, the kind that was allowed to break every once in awhile, because after all even the strong and silent need a strong hand, a recognizable voice and someone to just take their hand so that somehow, just like that, everything can become a little bit better.

Saturdays With Gus

I entered this in a contest on Figment.com in which the topic was 'opposites attract.'  I knew that all the entries would be about the bad boy, good girl kind of thing and I really wanted to take a unique approach!  So, I wrote this one!  There was a word limit and I have had some feedback that it feels rushed, which is probably due to the word limit.  Anyways, I ended up in the top 10 and am looking forward to hearing if I placed or not!  Happy Reading!:)

Sometimes you find the most success in the most unexpected places, with the most unexpected people, at just the right time. 

During my sophomore year in high school, I’d desperately been trying to find a job; my parents had been killed in a car accident and left me with my single aunt, who struggled enough on her own.  I tried everywhere, but having reading books, writing books and holed up in a corner daydreaming about books I was going to read and/or write as my hobbies, no employers seemed too interested except a sales clerk who told me I should have some volunteer experience to make me at least an option.  That’s how I found myself at the Beverly Care Lodge for seniors.  The volunteer coordinator, Mrs. Reynolds had been super excited for me to join the team and had the perfect senior in mind for me.  “Everybody raves about Mr. Gus Thatcher!” She exclaimed, leading me through the hall down to wing B, “He is so friendly and has so many great stories, I know you will get along great.”  My heart thumped heavily and I cringed inwardly, wondering if it was too late to back out and run away to my familiar bedroom hideaway.  My mind was racing over all the reasons why this was a bad idea.  Even if I did have the courage to carry on a conversation, what would we talk about?  Here was an old man, his life would soon be over and there was no way he remembered what it was like to be my age.  Then there was me, shy, awkward Bailey who either hadn’t had many life experiences or was too afraid to talk about them.  I cast one last look back at the door, just as Mrs. Reynolds smiling said,  “Here we are!” her knuckles already rapping on the door, before she peeked inside and told Mr. Thatcher that he had a special visitor.  “Come on in, Bailey,” the coordinator smiled, opening the door wider and ushering me inside.  Cautiously, I stepped inside and offered up a discomfited wave.  The old man sat in his rocking chair, a card table perched in front of him and a game of solitaire splayed upon it.  His hair was snow-white, balding on the top and his skin was wrinkled and thin.  He lowered his glasses to the end of his nose and looked me up and down, before nodding and then smiling.  Mrs. Reynolds left us alone then, leaving me standing awkwardly in the entryway, until Mr. Thatcher beckoned me over, “Well, come on in girl, let’s play a card game.  Which games do you know?”  I sat down on the edge of his bed, on the other side of the table and shrugged.  It was safe to say I was an awkward person.  When it came to interpersonal skills, I was in the dark.  I preferred to just sink into the background, pass by unnoticed, because it was just so much easier than having to answer questions about my life.  I clutched my bag, hoping he’d just go on with his game and I could get out my book and read.  Instead, he folded away the deck of cards and rocked back in his chair.  “Do you ever speak, girl?” he asked curiously.  I blinked at his bluntness and opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out was, “umm…”

He laughed then, filling the whole room with sound, his potbelly bubbling up and down with every chortle.  I found myself with a little grin on my face and when he saw it he brightened, “Ah!  There we go, finally!  Tell me about yourself, girl.”

“I like to write,” I answered quietly, “I am working on a novel.”

“What about?”  He’d asked, so I proceeded to tell him of the plot between a boy and girl who fell in love on vacation.

Gus frowned and rocked slowly back and forth.  Finally, he leaned forward and looked me in the eye.  “Girl,” he started, “don’t you want to write about something meaningful, something with substance?”

I was taken aback by his bluntness, but I realized he was right.  I did want to write something that would make people think, change their perspective. 

“Like what?”  I’d asked and he smiled excitedly before beginning with,

“Back when I was young…”

I grabbed my coiled notebook and jotted down every word he spoke as fast as I could, so to not miss anything.

It continued like that for months.  I found myself looking forward to Saturday when I could hop up on his bed again and hear him telling me of life as a little boy during the war and him having to get a job milking cows at the neighbor’s farm so he could get paid with food for his family.  He told me of when his older brothers went off to war, but his mother wouldn’t let him go because he was too young and then hearing the news that his brother, Harold, had died in action four months later.  He recounted of meeting his best friend, Charlie, in third grade and the time they hopped a train to California when they were twelve to go surfing.  He’d lean back in his chair and smile as he remembered the three years he played basketball in high school, finally winning the city championships his senior year; him voted as MVP.  

The more he told me about his life, the more I found myself opening up to him.  I told him of the struggle my aunt had to provide for us and I told him about my parents and the day I found out they’d been killed when I was fifteen.  He listened, because he understood and right before my own eyes I witnessed the formation of one of the world’s greatest friendships.

“On October 5^th, 1936, I met Arabella,” He told me one day, sliding an old, black and white photo across the card table, “We got married the fall after senior year and stayed together for 71 years before she passed on.”

I admired the smiling photo of the young couple in my hands,

“Gus, I thought you once told me that love stories had no substance.”  He chuckled, but slowly shook his head,

“The stuff you read of in books, that’s what has no substance.  It’s just one person’s dream of perfect love, but real love, well, it has imperfections, and that is what gives it substance.” 

Those were the last words that filled the very last page of my coiled notebook.  I shut the cover and looked over at Gus.  We were both smiling, exactly on the same page.

Right before summer holidays, the last Saturday in June, I excitedly skipped into Gus’s room.  Surprisingly, he was lying in his bed, looking tired.  His skin was graying and worn.  He smiled when he saw me and patted a spot on the bed beside him.  I sat down and pulled out a book from my bag.

“Life on Rewind, written by Bailey Spears and Gus Thatcher.” I read aloud for him, “We wrote a novel!”

I bent down and gently kissed his cheek, his skin warm and soft as he smiled fondly, his eyes closed.

Sandra Jefferson, the editor of Life magazine stared at me, astonished.  Her mouth was open slightly.  Life on Rewind was sitting on the desk in front of her.  When she’d asked me what inspired my writing, I’d told her about Gus, because even though we’d started out on different pages of life in an unexpected place, the journey between us, two unexpected people, had proved that opposites really do attract.  I was the shy, awkward, seventeen year old afraid to stand out and then there was Gus; outgoing, funny, full of life and at the age of ninety-four, he was still young at heart.  But our paths had crossed, at the exact right time and through seizing the moments we shared, I’d had the chance to fulfill my dreams, and Gus got the opportunity to tell his story one last time.  It’s in the most unexpected places, with the most unexpected people with which you can find the most unique perspectives that give you the keys to life.  

The Mirror Lies

The light in the hospital bathroom is dim and the white walls are tinted yellow.  I wait eagerly for the next person to walk through the door, for it has been awhile since my last conversation.   As if on cue, in walks a young girl-seventeen is my guess.  She isn’t smiling, but she doesn’t look unhappy.  I watch as she rests against the door she has just come through and sighs deeply.  After a long moment, she slowly saunters over to the sink.  I can see her clearly now and she is beautiful.  The natural kind.  Delicate freckles dance over her nose and her hair feel effortlessly gorgeous around her face.  She washes her face at the sink, then dabs it dry with the paper towel and looks up at me.  “I look disgusting.”  She says, leaning in closer and running a finger over the red mark on her forehead and smoothing out her eyebrows.  “I really need to remind mom to bring me my make-up bag.”  She tells me, licking her lips.  I want to tell her she is far more beautiful than her eyes can see, but I can’t and so, once again I watch helplessly as she shuffles back out the door.

Not a minute later, the door is pushed open again and a dark figure appears.  A baggy, black hoodie is pulled over its head and dark brown bangs poke out over its brow.  I peer this way and that, trying to get a closer glimpse at this figure, but it isn’t until they come over to me and look up, that I finally can make out the masculine features of a twenty-something man, a deep scar along his jaw line.  He has a worried look in his eye.  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, “You can do it.  Come on, man, you can do this.  Tell them you deserve more.  Don’t settle.”  He seems to be overcome with confidence and determination.  He stares at me intently and I silently root for him, but all at once his shoulders stoop and the light in his eyes go out.  “Maybe they’re right.  Maybe I’m not worth it.”  He whispers.  I want to shake him, so maybe he could realize that he is worth it and no one should ever have the right to tell him he isn’t, but as much as I try, I can’t.  I just watch silently as he trails out the door, the exact same way he entered.

It doesn’t take long before another person comes bustling into the bathroom.  It is a nurse this time in her light blue scrubs with a black stethoscope around her neck.  She seems to be in a rush, using the stall quickly and then vigorously scrubs her hands at the sink.  She takes a quick peek at me and looks away quickly, but now she is moving much slower in a thoughtful manner.  She dries her hands and then leans against the sink, now taking me in fully.  She half smiles at first, but then smiles more openly as she turns to the left and right examining herself from each angle.  Then she smoothes out her scrubs and satisfied, rolls back her shoulders and heads back out to her duties.

It’s nice to finally see a contented person in this desolate place.  This is the place people come to see themselves, perhaps for the last.  But they only ever see the mistakes, never the forgiveness in the beautiful detailing of their appearance.  If only I could speak, think of all the people I could save.  But no, I am just the mirror on the bathroom wall, reflecting the person staring at me, who only chooses to see the imperfections.  If I could tell them anything, I would tell them that the mirror lies.

The Steady Hand

Here is another one of my short stories!  I wrote it not too long ago and I also used it as the backbone for a personal response essay for english class.  I think this one is a little more developed, so I opted to put this version on my blog, but if you would like to read both let me know!:)

The quietness seeps through the darkness like a secret. I try to keep still, as not to disturb it, but it seems the more I focus on keeping still, the more obvious my movements become. I don’t speak. Nobody is speaking. I feel my heartbeat quickening as my nerves tense. I hardly dare blink. Solid footsteps can be heard coming closer to the dark room we are all standing in. I feel a hand take mine and squeeze it offering comfort. Even in the black air, I know who it is, for when has he ever let me down?
The footsteps are crystal clear now and just as they become a beat, they stop. Uneasy silence again for a moment, then the door swishing open, the clearing of a deep voice and the lights flickering on. I can now see the familiar room; an old, cement walled classroom with dim, orange lights. I didn’t know what was waiting behind me and I dared not turn to get a glimpse.
The man standing in front of us was big. He wore a black suit with a crisp white shirt and plain black tie; Simple and professional- the way he always dressed. He stares us down, all five of us, and then says in a mocking tone, “One of you is missing, isn’t he?” I want to punch him in the face, but I know that will only make the whole situation that much worse. His hand squeezes mine again and calms me considerably. “How are things going to go down this time, kids?” He raises his eyebrows. “We didn’t do it, Sir.” My friend, Kyle spoke up. It was a risky move, but we all knew it was the truth. The man takes a wide step so he is face to face with Kyle, “Didn’t do what?”
“Whatever you are accusing us of, Sir.”
The man squints angrily, “How many times have I heard that excuse?” He says it as more of a statement instead of a question. I hate him, more and more every time.
“We didn’t do it.” I hear myself say sternly. In my peripherals, I see his head twist my way and then the sound of a sarcastic chuckle.
“And aren’t you one to trust, Miss. Brylee.” He says, smirking. He had reason, but this time I really am telling the truth and it kills me to think I have cried wolf too many times. “Would you like to tell me who did?” While he awaits a reply, he walks to a wooden desk at the front of the room and takes out a few things. A belt and three rings which he places on his fingers. Knuckle rings. It isn’t the first time I’ve seen them.
“We don’t know.” I answer. He starts coming towards me and I take a deep breath preparing for the blow. He comes until his nose is almost touching mine, then in a dark whisper he says, “Are you going to let the rest of your friends be punished or are you going to admit to the crime?” I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out and quietly submit, “It was me.”
“The rest of you may go.” He says as an order. The hand in mine doesn’t let go and I try to loosen it away, but then the more it holds on tight. The others were making their getaway. “John?” The man says, “You were not asked to stay.”
“It was me and Brylee.” He states nobly. I silently urge that he would just go. I have been through this; I know how to soften the blow as much as possible.
“Go.” The man orders harshly, taking our hands and ripping them apart. I can feel John eyeing me, expecting me to ask him to stay, but I can’t do that to him. He doesn’t deserve it and he wouldn’t know how to handle it. Finally, he leaves the room reluctantly, leaving me and the man face to face. It seems like the lights are diming and the mouldy smell of the room makes me nauseous. He twists the rings on his fingers and tauntingly runs his fist along my jaw line. I stay still, knowing better than to say anything or try to fight him off. He walks around in tight circles, examining me from all angles. The room is filled with a creepy silence and I hold my breath. He stares into my eyes hard, and then spits into my face. I close my eyes for a brief moment, returning to my centre, trying my best not to retaliate. I reach for the hand, but it is no longer there.
“Brylee, Brylee, Brylee…” He whispers, and then I feel the hard punch of metal knuckles on my cheek. I stumble sideways, collapsing hard into one of the desks. “Get up!” He yells, kicking me. I stand weakly, just to get hit again, this time hitting my head on the way down. I feel the pain surge through me and hear myself whimper, “Dad, no more. Please.” I am still somehow alive, yet I wish I could just die, so I wouldn’t have to feel the pain anymore. I can feel his breath close to my mouth as he sneeringly, bitterly says, “You deserve it.” I don’t react, partly because my body doesn’t have the strength to get up, and partly because I just want him to leave. It is a long moment before I hear him stand and walk to the door, slamming it behind him. I lay on the cold ground trying to regain consciousness. Then as if an answer to my prayers, I feel a warm hand in mine, a soft squeeze and the gentle kiss of John beside me, cleaning me up as he had done so many times before.

In Her Atmosphere

Wow, so sorry for not having posted anything in sooo long!  I do have another short story though so here goes.

Her giddy laugh filled the atmosphere, affecting everything it touched.  I was affected the most, because I was closest to her. Her name was Ava, my name is Jones. 

I watched as she danced through the long wheat fields, spinning in circles so her dress whirled around her legs.  Subconsciously, a smile curled up my lips.  She caught me looking and motioned for me to join in.  It was too hard to say no.  She would pick up my arms and twirl herself in and out of them, I let her.  I always did.

Suddenly, she fell to the ground giggling, “Come on!  The clouds are moving fast today!”  So, I lay beside her, trying hard not to inch my fingers over to her open palm.  She wasn’t like most girls; in fact she wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met.  She let you get close, but she never let you in.  Maybe that was why I loved her so much.

“Jones,” She said quietly after a moment.  It was amazing how quickly she could become calm.
“What?”  I asked, turning my head to see her.  She was still watching the clouds.
“Do you ever think about how insignificant we are?”
I blinked and turned to see the clouds again, “There is nothing insignificant about you, Ava Sky.”
I felt her stare at me for a long moment, before in the smallest voice she said, “You know nothing about me.”
I wanted to tell her that I wanted to, that I’d tried for eighteen years, but she never let me.  But before I could say anything, she got up, “Come with me.”

I didn’t even ask where, I just followed her wherever she wanted to go.  We drove until Ava pulled up at an overview of the ocean.  She got out and walked purposefully to the edge, where if you looked far enough, you could see the sky meeting the water.  Down below the waves crashed forcefully against the rocks.  She took a step, so her toes were wrapped around the edge of the cliff.

“Jump with me,” she commanded and I didn’t even think twice before I took her hand and stepped off the edge.  It took 3.2 seconds.

But there was no way I could have ever said no.