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.

Pinterest.com

If you are reading this and you haven't ever tried out Pinterest.com, get on it!!!  Honestly, the best website ever!  Basically, it is a giant pinboard with like thirty different categories including clothing, photography, travel, hair and beauty, humor, fitness and food!  I have found so many inspiring things and photos on there and I am so addicted in a really good way!  Everyone I've talked to loves it!  So go check it out!
Pinterest.com

Things to do before I die # 2

So, I recently made a bucket list that contains like 50+ things and considered my life is pretty much only beginning, I imagine I will find many more things to accomplish in my lifetime.

Number 2 however (for now) is play chicken in the middle of the road.  Yeah, like in The Notebook.  I don't know, there is just something exhilirating and magical about it and so hopefully I will find my Noah to complete this task with!

Things to do before I die #1

When I first started the blog, on my 'about me' colomn, I told you that there were a lot of things I wanted to do before I die and now would be a good time to start as I have no new writing to share yet.  I'll only share one today and save the rest for later!

1.  Go Bungee Jumping!
I've heard comments that its awesome and some that it isn't worth it, but hey you have to give it a go for yourself right!  I love adrenaline rushes and trying new things and I definitely want to do it off a really tall bridge!  Woo!  It is just one of those things that need to be done!  Let me know if you've ever done it!

Unspoken

I have another entry for the Seventeen magazine contest I would like to share with you!    I wasn't quite sure how to end this one as it could only be 500 words and I received some feedback that maybe it would be more suspenseful if I hadn't included the last couple sentences.  Tell me what you think as I am open to all comments and critisizm.  It is called unspoken!

Unspoken

The physiologist, Mary, gestured for Vienna to sit on the plush couch.  Mary sat across from her, a clipboard in hand.   “I want you to be honest.  What is on your mind, right at this moment?”  She leaned forward, intently listening.  Vienna had no idea why she was sitting in this office room with an unknown woman, so she answered with her go-to response, “Nothing.”  Mary wrote something on her clipboard and then looked at the young girl curiously.  “You need to be completely honest.  Pretend I’m your best friend.”  Vienna crossed her legs on the couch and shrugged her shoulders, “I don’t have a best friend.”  The physiologist started moving her pen across the paper again, then turned her head up to look at the seventeen year old, “Vienna, maybe a journal would be the best solution.  A lot of people find it easier in expressing their feelings.  Here.”  She handed Vienna a black journal who took it cautiously; unsure of what she was getting into.  

Dear Journal,

November 1, 2011

I always thought journals were for messed up people who had issues telling other people their problems.  Since I’m writing in this black journal, I guess that makes me one of those people.  The truth is, however, that I’m not afraid to tell my problems.  The thing is; maybe no one wants to listen. 

I hate it when people tell you they will be there no matter what and then when you need them the most, they’re never there.  It’s happened so many times to me, that I stopped trusting people and chose to rely only on myself. 

Three months ago, my brother died, and although my parents told me I could come to them with anything, every time I tried to bring up his death or tell them the truth about it, they just closed up.  The standard answer was, “I’m just not ready to talk about him so openly yet.”  I suffered from it.  It meant I had to keep a secret even longer and the secret bit away at my conscience.

There is a letter, a letter that could have changed the outcome of so many things, most importantly the fate of my brother.  If only…then he would still be here.  I thought about ripping it up, but then what proof would I have?  I want to tell them what it says, how he showed all the signs of suicide and how I could have stopped it if I’d only told someone.

 It’s too late now, I know that, but please mom and dad, don’t shut me out like you did to him.  You’ve already lost one child and the other one won’t be far behind if she keeps getting put away.

-Vienna

Vienna left the journal on the dresser in her parents’ bedroom, with the cover open and the letter attached.  Mary was right, writing it down made it easier to communicate, especially when spoken words had no influence.

   

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