The Man and the Moon

“Daddy?” The thoughts of an aging man were barely perforated by the whispered word. Taking a slow breath of smoky air, the man sitting by a dancing campfire turned to face his daughter. Tree leaves far above her angelic head cast speckled shadows across her tiny frame, and the light from the fire seemed to age her face a few years. He couldn’t help but notice how much she looked like her mother.

The man held out his hand to the child distractedly, his gaze flickering between the stars in her eyes and the stars in the sky. The little girl took a few timid steps across the dying leaves and sat down in his lap. Her bright, blue eyes, framed by tiny wisps of blonde hair, studied the large hand that cradled her own.

“What are you doing up so late, sweetie?” he asked, his voice seeming distant.

The little girl squeezed his hand with her tiny fingers. “I had a bad dream.” A tiny wind blew, like a breath of air, and she shivered. He hugged her close to himself, wrapping his arms around her.

“You know what makes me forget bad dreams?” he asked his daughter.

The little girl shook her head. He turned her in his lap so that he could look her full in the face. His mind had deserted whatever it had been previously occupied with, and now he completely devoted himself to his daughter. “Stories,” he whispered. As if his voice was a sign, the fire gave a crackle, sending tiny bursts of light into the nighttime air.

The girl wrinkled her nose like she had taken a sip of sour milk. “But daddy your stories are always about knights and dragons and kings and boys. I don’t like boys.”

The man tried to hide a smile. “There’s nothing wrong with boys.”

“Ewwww!” the girl said, rocking back and forth in protest. “Boys pick boogers!”

The man laughed now, the traces of a few wrinkles beginning to emerge from his tanned skin. “Alright, what do you want to hear about?”

The girl grinned like she had just received a new doll. “A princess!”

“Ah, princesses…” the man said, watching his daughter’s eyes light up at the word. “So be it…are you ready?” The girl nodded eagerly, curls bouncing around her face as she did so. “You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you?” She shook her head reverently, almost appalled he would accuse her of such an act. “Alright. Here we go.” He cleared his throat, took a moment to think, and began to stare into the fire. He stared so long the girl thought that he might have forgotten he had promised her a story, but then he opened his mouth and begin to weave pictures for her in the air. She sighed to herself and leaned back into his chest, inhaling the smell of the woods around her and his cologne.

“Once upon a time,” the man began, his eyes growing distant once more as he watched images flash across his mind’s eye, “There was a kingdom in the sky, full of people that floated on clouds and sailed across rainbows to get from one place to another. These sky people were beautiful, tall, and happy, and they had a beautiful king and queen that ruled over them. The queen had skin like light beams that dance in the sun, and sky blue eyes. Her beauty was unmatched by anyone in the kingdom except her own daughter. The queen and the princess had personalities as different from each other as the colors of a rainbow.”

The man paused for a moment, capturing the look of his daughter’s expectant face as she peered up at him in anticipation. The air around them was still, as if it too was waiting for him to begin again and speak of the wonders of the sky kingdom. “Well,” he started after a moment, “The queen’s daughter was extremely curious, and every day she would stare down past the clouds and dream of the land of earth she had heard tales about. You see, the people of the sky were all so beautiful and radiant that if they touched the ground, they would die.”

Slight pressure around his fingers caused the man to stop once more and he glanced down to see his daughter’s fingers clenched around his. “Is this a sad story, daddy?” she asked quietly, eyes downcast.

His heart lurched inside him like someone had tied a string around it and was trying to pull it out of his chest. “You’ll never know if you stop listening…do you want me to stop?”

The grip around his fingers loosened. “No,” she admitted before meeting his eyes once more, a signal for him to continue.

“The princess would ask her mother every day if there was some way she could go to earth, but the queen was afraid that if her daughter went to the world below, she would fall in love and never come back to her home in the sky. She lied and said there was no way.”

The firelight died just a little and the girl asked in a hushed tone, “Was the princess sad?”

“She was very sad. She was so sad, in fact, that every night she would go to her room and cry, and her tears froze in the sky and became stars.” The girl gasped and immediately glanced up in a way that was so cute her father almost forgot his train of thought.

With a small smile, he resumed. “The king soon noticed that the princess was sad, and that there was not a day that went by that she did not stare down at earth in longing. One night, he came to her room without telling the queen and he built the princess a secret door that opened on the surface of earth. If she passed through the door, a magical spell would fall over her and protect her from death on the surface. The king loved his daughter very much, but he (like the queen) was afraid that the princess would leave her home forever once she stepped foot on earth. He told her that the door would only open one time every month, and it would stay open for one full night. If she had not passed through the door before it shut in the morning, she would stay on earth and die when the sun rose.”

“Did she go to earth, daddy?” asked the precious girl, her eyelids closing half an inch.

“She did indeed,” he answered, tucking a stray strand of golden hair behind one of her tiny ears. “She left the first night her magic door opened, and she found herself in a forest. This was very strange to her, for trees did not exist above the clouds in her kingdom. She placed her pale, white hands on the rough bark. She smelled the piney scent of the woods. She walked through the freshly fallen leaves barefoot. She let the wind tickle her skin.” As if to demonstrate, the father blew gently on his daughter’s nose. She let out an innocent giggle.

“She found many things in the forest, but she found one thing she did not expect…a man.” The wind whistled through the tree leaves again, as if to remind him that the whole world was listening to his tale. “What a foolish man he was. He was no more than a mere woodsman, hunting and fishing, and resting by the river. He saw her walking through the trees… so curious and delighted by every little thing she saw, like a child just born and new to life.” The tone of his voice changed slightly, from one of mere recitation to one of recollection.

“He watched her for a while, and as he was a curious man, he began to wonder who she was and why he had never seen her before. He rose up from his resting place beside the river and began to approach her, but in doing so he stepped on a twig that snapped so loudly the princess heard and caught sight of him. She was startled and immediately ran back to her door in the forest, jumped through, and disappeared. When he ran to open the door, it had melted into the trees and was no more.”

Ancient oaks and other wizened trees loomed above and stretched out their limbs in front of him, but the storyteller saw nothing save for the images in his mind. “For the next month, the princess could only think of the earth, and the man in the trees. The woodsman, likewise, could only think of the woman in the forest. He determined the next time he saw her again, if ever he did, he would speak to her. A slow month came and passed, and the princess waited eagerly that night for the door to open. The second it did, she went through and began to search for the strange man in the woods. They met, and talked, and walked by the babbling stream.”

The father glanced down at his daughter, for she had grown quiet. Rubbing her eyes, she asked quietly, “What happened?”

The man hugged his daughter tightly, throat constricting. He fought a moment to overcome the feeling of compassion he had for his little girl, then said, “In the morning, she bid him farewell, and went back through the door once more. More slow months passed. With each new visit, the princess decided she loved the strange man, and the man decided he loved her back. They would hold hands and walk along the riverside. Sometimes the princess would sing him a quiet song, her voice as sweet as a nightingale. Sometimes he would tell her of all the animals in the forest like the funny little chipmunks that shoved as many nuts into their mouths as they could. Each time the sun rose, the princess would shed a tear to leave her strange earth man, but he would urge her home to her family so that she would not die. He promised her he would never cry, for she shed enough tears for both of them. One night, they had a wedding ceremony by their river, and the night sky above them sparkled with stars. The months grew long, and the princess gave birth to a beautiful little girl.”

“As the years wore on, the queen began to notice her daughter had changed. The queen asked questions, and eventually the princess told her mother of the magic door, the trips to earth, and the woodsman that waited with their child. The queen grew afraid and angry and demanded to see the magic door. As soon as she laid eyes on it, she tried to destroy it, but only the king could remove it since he was the one who put it there. Enraged, the queen did the next-best thing and cursed her daughter with the worst curse she could think of. The princess could not be touched by anyone on earth or she would melt into the earth and be tread upon by all the animals, nothing more than the dirt and dust of the ground.”

The firelight had now grown dim, but even in such pale light the father could see his daughter fighting to stay awake. He kissed the top of her forehead. Her smooth, young skin seemed so soft against his parched lips. “The princess was very sad; she knew she could never hold her woodsman’s hand again or rock her baby to sleep. The next night the door opened, she walked through slowly, and as soon as she saw her husband, she had to shout at him not to hold her, or she would die. Her child was a month old already, and they realized that very night that the girl would never have two normal parents. How could they explain to a child as young as theirs that when it grew, if it touched its mother, she would die? What if on accident either the woodsman or the child brushed against the princess in passing?

“She cried again that night, tears enough for both of them; she knew that she had to return to the sky for good. And for the last time, the woodsman and the princess sat by the river, untouchable. When the sun rose, the princess shed one final tear, the brightest and biggest of them all, and once she stepped through the magic door, she used her tear to seal her magic door shut forever.”

The man’s daughter was limp in his strong arms, and he rocked her tenderly back and forth, as if he held the greatest treasure in the world. His eyes were upturned to the sky once more, tracing lines between each star and connecting them all to form the face of a woman he knew once, long ago. “That tear, the saddest tear that was ever cried, is the full moon. And once a month, every month, it creeps into the heaves, covering the door to the kingdom of the sky.”

There was stillness in the woods, and peaceful silence. The world had fallen asleep, lulled to rest by the melody of the story as it had been sung through the air, a tune that time had long ago forgotten. In the stillness, in gazing at the full moon above, the man almost imagined he heard a voice whispering to him on a tendril of wind. It told him to hold her tighter, to love her deeper, to kiss her soft cheeks, to rock her back to sleep, to tell her of all the joys of the world, to laugh with her and make her smile, and to cry stars with her when she felt alone. Love her as I cannot. Love her for me.

With shaky knees, the woodsman rose, careful not to disturb the tiny person huddled in his arms. He carried her gently to their house built in the middle of an ancient forest, the trees hushing the wind’s voices so the little princess could sleep sweetly. He softly slid her out from his arms and onto the warm covers on top of her bed, then proceeded to tuck her in. Perched at the corner of her bed, he watched her sleeping delicately in the moonlight, then peered out the window at the distant sky. The girl, confusing this all for a dream, opened one lazy eye, and for a split second thought she could see upon her father’s face the glittering tear trail of a star.

it. is. time.

Hello anyone. Since no one decided to read/comment on my non-babbly post, I figured I'd make a non-non-babbly to see if anyone would read it. And, yes, I am wearing spandex. I admit I haven't been sticking to my plan of blogging every time I wear spandex, but...I'm a lazy procrastinator, what do you expect?

Guess what. I actually have something semi-worthwhile to read this time, y'all ! :) Betcha weren't expecting that...Over this weekend, I went with my friend's youth group to feed some homeless in the downtown area. We headed over there around 10 and stayed until maybe 1? I believe the event was called the "Feast of Joy".

Let me just say first of all to anyone who ever wants to do this, if you are a girl, PURPOSEFULLY DO NOT LOOK CUTE. yes. old tshirt, baggy shorts, glasses not contacts, no makeup, maybe brush your hair... because, if you look gooder than expected, random guys WILL flirt with you.

Side note aside, we got there and my two friends whom I'll name "D" and "Rae" were handed boxes of Bibles, tracts, and bookmarks to hand out to the people waiting at the tables there before the food was served. The first group we approached was like five men, one of whom had so much smoke around his face I thought he might've been Blackbeard. We handed out our stuff, and I stopped to talk to this old man on one of the corner seats.

I knelt down to hear what he was saying because he had a soft voice, but basically my friends left me there talking to him, and this man like told me all this crazy sad stuff about his family, his wife, and kids. When he was done, I was crying and was thinking "oh my gosh how can I pray for him while I'm crying?"

I took his hand and he put his old hand over mine and I somehow muttered out a prayer, and when I opened my eyes we were both crying...it was like...so sad. As I stood up, he kissed my hand, and I stumbled around for a few minutes trying to find my friends again through tears.

BUT ANYWAYS the point of all this is... so many people hold on to things so long, things that break them on the inside, things that hurt them more than they think they do, and they just keep holding them because they don't have anyone to talk to. There are so many hurting people in the world that never get a chance to be listened to...and they have a world of sorrow they're so eager to release. And we just carry on, absorbed in our own little worlds that revolve around ourselves.

Also, that whole experience really opened my eyes to the things I have they don't - family, a good home, regular meals, ... my sanity. {srsy...there were some questionable people there. lol}.

So, I guess, I hope this made you think or somehow u benefited from my story. If ever ur church group goes to feed homeless, or someone else you know, I encourage you to go in a group because seriously it's an awesome, humbling experience and God can do great things.

alright...well...i think I'm out.

OH ! btw - See You At The Pole is tomorrow... if you don't know what that is:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/See_you_at_the_pole

and........yep, that's about it. all imma say.

~ Baker

ps. for those of you who know me, I HATE crying, but i cried over that man's story...i'm such a weakling. lol

The Day Begins.

The day begins.

Ringing in your ears. Grab the phone, grunt to symbolize your consciousness. Slam it shut. Another grunt as you roll out of bed. The routine begins. Clothes, check. Teeth, check. Hair, check. Makeup? In process. Grab a waffle and a colored eyeliner. You’re out the door, mother calling words after you that you can’t quite catch. Grunt and wave, hop in the car, put on your shades, and drive to the end of the street.

Turn right. You’re out of the range of vision from the large, front windows where you know she watches every day. Music, on. Gum, in. Makeup? Still in process. One foot on the accelerator, one crunched up beneath you for comfort’s sake. Let the music push you forward. Let the beat of the drums and your foot on the accelerator tap in tune. Let your soul fly in the vehicle; don’t look at the creeps looking at you from their cars.

School’s in view. Phone, off. Shades, off. Car, locked. Dash inside to the ringing of the bell. You’re safe. Unload. Listen to the laughter echo around you, the friends encompassing you from all sides. Cram for a few minutes – the test is next period. Shove the book in your purse and pay attention. Grasp your wandering mind and pull it into submission. Listen to the girl on your right make a joke. Share her laughter. You’re safe.

Third period rolls around. Doodle on your bookmark. Meet the teacher’s eyes every once in a while, to give the illusion you’re attentive. Let his words soak into you; simply absorb. Try to keep your closing eyelids wide open. Watch his image multiply as you go cross-eyed. Muffled giggles. The bell rings. Everyone freezes, watching the pacing man at the front of the class. Finally, he raises the green flag. You’re dismissed. It’s a race down the deck.

Lunch. Grab the half-eaten sandwich you’ve been nibbling on throughout the day. Finish it off. Busy yourself with listing all your ideas for art, so no one will notice how little you ate. Tiny tidbits of conversation flash by. Food flies from across the room. Distant laughter. Annoyed teachers.

That freshman guy is back again, merged with your circle. Your bracelet is swiped. A battle for friendship occurs. Time for a breath of air. The deck calls softly to you inside the emptying room. March outside. Sun, check. Friends, check. Bracelets…one is missing. Brush it off; you’ll steal it back later in the day.

The periods fly by. Spanish class – write a story, just to see if you can. Whisper to your friend. She shakes her head. “aba, not avia.” Stupid preterit tense…History class is next. Zone out during discussion, mind still engrossed in the Spanish story. Yearbook. Crowd around the computer monitors. Practice making captions for pictures. Pride flares up – you see a picture you took. Laugh at the freshman, so silent and scared. Your bracelet ends up back on your wrist. The bell rings. Art class.

You’ve heard all the lectures before. Feet tapping, eyes closing…patiently, wait. Anxious fingers move the tiny slip of paper with your list of ideas. He’s done with art one; he addresses art two. Idea time. He stares at your list. The excitement shows on both of your faces – they will work. Bell rings. Up, out of the class. School is done.

Run down the deck after dismissal. Sing loudly with your friend who’s had “DJ’s got us fallin’ in love again” stuck in his head all day. The louder the better. He sings low, you sing high. Annoyed looks. Laughter. The rush of people, of noise.

Hop in your car again. Blare the music – on to volleyball practice. Walk in the gym, change, slip on your kneepads. Coach is missing…substitute is filling in. Let the misery begin… Miss all your spikes. You’re too slow today to dig. Call your mom because you might be failing Spanish. What? Do it anyway; you’ll explain later. Spike in rage. It hits the net, rolls down. Harmless.

Anger. Spike again. Out. Great load of use you are…try to serve. The ball flies out. Grind your teeth into each other. Serve again. Barely over. Smirk. Sigh. New drill. Didn’t move fast enough – run laps. Run again. Run until I say stop. Run until you can’t breathe. Run until you can’t run anymore. Run so much you won’t be able to play in the game tomorrow. Trains of words you aren’t allowed to say rumble through your mind, and for once, you let them. You’re past caring. For today.

A few concerned faces pop up, ask what’s wrong. Press your mask into your face. Nothing, nothing at all… smiles, smiles, smiles. You’re dead, or dying. The minutes drag on. Finally, you’re done. Parched, dart into your car and head somewhere, anywhere, for a large Dr.Pepper. Entertain thoughts of a milkshake, only for a minute, to keep your cravings happy. Dr.Pepper it is. Speed home, music drowning out all thought. There’s no time to reflect on how poorly you did, of how much you hate yourself. Only driving, on and on, the music numbing your mind.

Home. Grab your stuff, walk up the steps. Open the door and smell the cooked rice and melted cheese, broccoli and chicken wafting up your nostrils. Dump your stuff. Steal the last bites of food. Slide into your seat. “What was the deal with Spanish?” “Oh, I’ve done all the work, I’m only ‘borderline failing’. That’s what she said.” The conversation spins on. Do well, go to a good college. You have to work hard. You have to pass. Make A’s. Droning, on and on, droning, droning…

“And about that sleepover tomorrow, can I go?” “No, you have too many activities…” “But it’s completely convenient. Everything works out, and it’s near where I need to be tomorrow anyway.” “No. Stop arguing. You have too many activities…” Silence. Because surely you know what I’m capable of, and how many activities I can handle, and how well I can survive with little sleep, since of course you’re exactly like me and survive perfectly fine with little sleep because you stay up as late as i do every single night with no signs of fatigue... Bite back your words, don’t let them slip out of your mind and onto your tongue.

Say nothing – head upstairs. Grab your backpack. Dump it in the corner. Grab the computer. Music, check. Facebook, check. Homework? Maybe, in a little. You grow tired of all the talk, all the chat, all the noise…close something down just to open another. Get out a book. Labor through the problems, if only to keep your mind from other things. Work, work, work. Build calluses on your fingers from writing so much. Build calluses on your mind to keep out your thoughts. More music. More noise. More distractions. Finish your work, finish your conversations.

YouTube. Images flash before your eyes. People, the things they do, they say, they know, they way they say them, they way they do them. Watch the strangers talking to you like you’re a friend. Wonder about them, but not too long. Another video. Another distraction. Happy distractions are beginning to become bothersome. Computer, down. Homework, done. What’s left? Shower.

Grab clothes. Grab a towel. Time to check if the leak is fixed…waltz into the bathroom; the walls come down. Your mask slips off. No music. No friends. No car. No phone. No computer. The water hits the tub, drowning out all other thoughts except for a slow, soft voice. You stare straight ahead, your numb fingers searching for the shampoo and the conditioner. There’s nothing left for you to distract yourself with in this silence.

Shakily clear your throat. You begin to hum a small tune. It’s not loud enough. It’s not loud enough to drown out the thoughts you’ve been refusing to think throughout the day; the thoughts that lay in wait on the other side of that wall you’ve built in your mind.

Worthless. Pathetic. Won’t amount to anything. Whispers, whispers... You stare straight ahead, pale yellow tiles all you can see as the water around you drowns out everything but the voice in your head. Can’t you serve a volleyball over the net? You made your teammates run today. You write stories in Spanish, you finish all your assignments, you memorize all the words, and yet you’re “borderline failing”. What an idiot. The song dies on your lips before you hesitantly begin again once confronted with the sound of silence. You know you’re never going to do well in art. You saw all those other people in yearbook with cameras. They’re all better than you. You’ll never amount to anything at all. No college will want you. No one wants you.

Your tune isn’t heard over the noise of a thousand drops of water hitting the walls all at the same time. They hit your face, they trickle down your skin. Hot, salty liquid streams down your cheeks…but the faucet is off. You’re standing, shivering, your face wet with tears. There’s nothing left to hide behind now. What was that song you were singing? You don’t even know…it was just a song, plucked from the fabric of your sub consciousness…perhaps you heard it on the radio on the way home. How did the chorus go?

You whisper them softly to yourself, through unwilling lips, trembling and empty, your head in your wrinkled, prune-like fingers. “Don’t you know I’ve always loved you…even before there was time…Though you turn away, I’ll tell you still… don’t you know I’ve always loved you…and I always will.”

Your voice cracks. You grab the towel from the hanger and wipe off your dripping face, half-mumbling another song you thought you might have heard on a radio station in passing. “You’re the God of this city. You’re the king of these people. You’re the Lord of this nation… You are...You’re the light in this darkness. You’re the hope to the hopeless. You’re the peace to the restless…You are.” Why are you singing these songs? You dry off, slowly, thinking. “There is no one like our God. There is no one like our God…greater things have yet to come, greater things are still to be done in this city…greater things have yet to come, greater things are still to be done here.”

And then there is silence. You’re not listening. You’re slipping into your clothes, walking out the door, plopping down on your bed. Your fingers twitch for your phone, computer, music. But you don’t respond. You close your eyes. And wonder why a God so great…could love a human so small.

How many hopeless, peace-less, dark, lonely, angry, afraid people know about this love? This love loved you when you were hurting inside. This love loved you when you thought you weren’t good enough. This love loved you whether the volleyball made it over the net or not. This love loved you whether you took good pictures or you didn’t. This love loved you when you thought you were all alone. This love loved you when you hated your substitute coach. This love loved you when you cried in the shower because that was the only place your tears would go unnoticed, unquestioned. This love loved you when you wanted to be left alone, unloved. This love loved you when all you needed was someone to love you, someone to hold you and not say anything.

The love that loves when no one else does. The love that remains when you’re all alone and your mask is off and you’re not safe anymore. The love that isn’t based on what you say, or how you act, or what you appear to be, or what you do. The love that loves, regardless. True love. The love that you can’t understand and can hardly accept. The love that loves you when you’re mad at the world and want to move faster than you know how to think. The love that hears every word you speak in your mind when you’re angry. The love that knows everything you want to say back to the authorities when they try to control your life. The love that sees into your soul and knows every thought, and memory, and action…and still loves you. The pure, perfect, holy love that can love a stupid, dirty, lowly, proud, worthless, miserable lump of flesh like you. …And you think you can keep this love to yourself…

And then, you open your eyes. Breath of air. Chilling, calming. Piano music, on. Laptop, on. Mind, open. Another breath. An open document. A blank page. And then, you write:

The day begins.

Batman. and other things.

O. My. Gosh.
http://www.batman.wikia.com/ <- go there. now. do it. now. it'll change your life. it's amazing. i went there. and died. and came back to life. a zombie. it's great. do it. now. ... just kidding. but it srsly is amazing.

Alright, hello any-and-everyone {or no one} who still reads my blog! The procrastination monster has struck again, and I figured since I would much rather ramble to no one in particular than do algebra2, blogging would be a good place to start. Don't you feel priviledged? -wink- So, for those of you who don't know, I'm kind of married to Batman. And when I say kind of, I mean as close to mariage as a fictional character and an imaginative lunatic can get. I decided that we would be married a few months ago after watching "The Dark Knight", and we secretly eloped. I can't tell you all the details, but I can tell you IT WAS GREAT. I am totally in love with Batman. For one thing he's super-duper cool {as lame as that sounded :P}, and he's buff, and he's committed to the people of Gotham city. I think the real reason I like him though, is because he's one of those people that can take the blame for when bad things happen. He makes the choice that no one else can make. Kind of like Jack Bauer... people like that always, always, always earn my respect. They do what's right, even if it means sacrificing something dear to them.People that take the fall for someone else's mistake, or people that take the blame simply because they have to. "For the greater good." Is there a word for that? Righteous? Hm. Deep, huh?

I figured, also, that I should post a picture in this post...just for visual interest. So, here's a picture that my friend Anita drew. She's an AMAZING manga artist and when I grow up I want to draw just like her >:P {she's my age, for those wondering :) }

Isn't it cute???? :D I'm catwoman. Anita had only met me once and didn't know I don't usually wear dresses, but STILL! :D ahhhhh, Batman...

Anyways...what's up with you guys? Who all even reads this? What kinda of slacking, time-wasting, procrastinating, interesting, cool, awsome people read my blog? ...oh, those kind. ... don't mock me, I'm out of practice blogging, ok??

You know what I just realized though? I'm wearing spandex !!! I'm pretty sure I wore those in the last post too! Maybe spandex shorts automatically induce blogging. Maybe these are my blog-pants. Maybe they should have theme music... dun dun DUN BLOG PANTS... sounds formidable.

ANYWAYS! I was thinking "hm...I should start blogging again." and then "hm...I'm wearing spandex" and then, bam, revelation: "hm...HEY! What if every time I wore my spandex shorts {of which I have two pairs. o yes.} I blogged????" That would mean a new post every three days or so. Would I wear you guys out with such frequent posting? Does anyone even read these? Maybe I would just blog for myself, no one else, just to vent and/or release my thoughts. How selfish. Whadda y'all think? Anyone. Everyone. No one.

Let's see now...since I'm trying to make this post as long, pointless, and drawn-out as possible... what do you guys want to talk about? School? Ew, no. No one wants to talk about that, and yet it's always the first suggestion. I don't get it. Oh, humanity...

Well, since you asked, school has once again started...and don't get me wrong, it's nice to see everyone and everything, and I love all my friends with all my heart, but ... the rules are going to kill me. For one, we have to wear these grody, nasty-lookin clothes that are VERY VERY ugly and don't flatter anyone except the annoyingly skinny people...I hate those people. Also, we aren't allowed to chew gum. ... If you know me at all you know I cannot live without chewing something. {Maybe that's why I eat so much...?} Hello, my name is Hannah Baker, and I am addicted to gum. [I'm also past the name thing. lol}

OOHHHH! While we're on addictions...I am ALSO addicted to SPEEDING. {not SPEED, speedING...I found out from the comments on my facebook status that I was addicted to speed that "speed" is a drug....lol! I'm so naive.} I don't know who all reading this drives a car {gocart, horse, donkey, bicycle, lama...}, but DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO GO THE SPEED LIMIT??? I have to ask - if the speed limits are never over 70, why do they make cars that can go up to 160 ?? Seriously! I personally think music has to do with it...I know the more upbeat of a song I listen to, the faster I go...and if I'm listening to a slow song...I change the radio station and listen to a fast one. That's how I roll. Yo.

Oh! Speaking of music! Music is so...incredible, and beautiful, and...indescribably emotional. Have you ever had an experience where you're like in the car, or in ... I dunno... a dentist's office...or....Walmart....and, like, this song comes on, and all of a sudden BAM it hits you that the song you hear playing is just...RIGHT ? Does that make sense to anyone else? OR that the beat and the rhythm completely infect you and you can feel the chords winding their way around your soul? ...... it's those moments I wish I could dance.

But every time I try to "bust a move" or whatever, I feel like a dying fish. I kinda just spaz every apendage on my body kind-of-semi-on-beat....and that is NOT attractive. I watch "so you think you can dance" as often as I can, {and I can proudly say I saw every single episode this season EXCEPT FOR THE FINALE SO DON'T TELL ME WHO WON!} and I hear the music, and I see the dancers flying across the stage, carried by the winds of music and I think to myself... "Man I wish I could dance"... because music and dance are forms of art! They're forms of expression! And I'm ALL ABOUT EXPRESSION!

-wistful sigh- Lauren, from SYTYCD, I wish I could dance like you... ok, time fo anotha pic... hm... necesito un foto....of dancing. let me shee hur....OH WAIT I GOT THIS! I'm going to post a picture I took when one of my friends who likes to dance went to a pier with me and we had a photoshoot :)

There it is. :) Copyright of Baker Photography. Oh yeah. That's me. ... lol. My wonderful dancing friend, o if only I could dance like you...

Ok, so while I'm waiting for that to load {because my computer's network system thingie is being very slow, especially recently...} I haven't heard from anyone in a while in my little blogging community, sooooo why not do a tag? Let's see, I'll keep it short....and interesting. hopefully. IF YOU READ THIS, you MUST complete the tag, and then leave a comment telling me so that I can go read your replies :)

1. Which do you prefer - spandex or tights? O.o and WHY?

2. Do you like school, gum, or dancing? All of them? Any of them? WHY?

3. Who is your favorite superhero? WHY?

4. Do you read my blog? ...WHY?

Well....I supposed I've killed enough time for now...BUT WAIT I JUST REMINDED MY ADD-SELD OF SOMETHING! [I'm not sure if I really have ADD, but it feels like I do ALL THE TIME]

Speaking of killing things, I am working on lots of new little stories that I am very excited about! I am intending to finish that story about Arnold and that serial killer chick. I am hoping it's going to become something very cool, and I in fact have another browser open with the next segment being written in it. Woopie. Also, I have been listening to super-dramatic movie music and writing down the first scene{s} that pop{s} into my head, and I think I have the beginnings of another story coming up. AND I do want to kind of hop on the Jess-Andy-Benji train again...I really like Benji's character, and it makes me sad that I haven't written about him in a while. That reminds me of ANOTHER story I wrote/am writing about the contents of my mind................ I'm not sure if imma post that or not....y'all might not be able to handle that. It's intense.

So, in conclusion, that is all my thoughts on the matter. What matter? Every matter. -going back to chemistry- OH WAIT, ALSO, I am taking meteorology/geology this year, and I think I might start just interjecting random facts, fun or not, into my blogposts in random paragraphs. Just to confuse everyone and keep you on your toes. The first law of themodynamics states that the combined total of matter and energy in the universe is constant. I don't know how that's going to work, but we'll just try it out and see.

-sigh- Now, what you've all been waiting for since I said "hello", I think I am finally done. As much as I don't believe anyone reads this, feel free to check back any time to see if I posted something acutally worth reading and not just a random ramble tangent.

Although I happen to think those are have the potential to be enjoyed.

So, my dearies, goodnight, and I hope you got SOMETHING out of this, if only that spandex are GREAT for blogging and that I dance like a fish. :)

~ Captain Bonnie Spinner

Figured I should post something...this was oddly the first thing that came to mind. Oh, besides that I found my spandex shorts :)
enjoy n i shall try to post mo frequently i have some stories brewing I'd like to share ;) thanks guys!! :D

Hallie poked her head around the corner of her sister's door, which was open slightly. The sound of sobbing assaulted her tiny ears as her bright eyes scanned the tiny room. A metal-colored chair had fallen over as if pushed to the ground. The silver curtains were closed and let in a sole shaft of light to pierce through the dim scene. Papers, letters, and old pictures had accumulated, ripped down the middle or frayed at the edges.

Two tiny feet shuffled through crumpled balls of paper as Hallie delicately made her way through the dark room toward the shaking human sprawled on the bed. One black converse remained on her sister's outstretched foot - the other had been thrown across the room in a fit of rage. The sound of silence was so foreign to Hallie she almost didn't approach the sixteen-year-old on the bed. Her sister always had music on in her room. Always. But...she had promised.

Hallie reached out a tiny hand to the figure crying on the unmade bed. "Alyssa?" Hallie asked shakily. No reply behind the mask of red curls. "Alyssa," Hallie whispered again, poking a shoulder. "You promised."

The sniffling and shuddering stopped. A sniff. A sob. Another sniff. The form rolled over. Hallie's sister was usually pretty, at least, Hallie thought so, but today her mascara had run down her cheeks and her eyes were laced with red veins. Hallie took a step back.

Alyssa sniffed again and then replied in a broken voice, "I don't feel like a story today, Hal." She wiped a hasty hand over her face.

Hallie stuck out her lip like she usually did, her little fingers reaching out to grab Alyssa's clamy hand which still shook a little bit."Pleaassseeee? You promised. Pinky promised! And that means no take backs! No matter what," Hallie insisted, pleading with her older sister.

Alyssa stared at her a moment, then her eyes shifted upward as if looking for some words to say written on the ceiling. After hours and hours, she let out a sigh. "Fine..."

The word hardly left her mind before Hallie had jumped up on the messy bed, scrambled under the covers, and perched on her sister's knee. Hallie watched her sister's mouth almost smile...it was like it wanted to, but it forgot how.

"What'll it be today, Miss?" Alyssa asked softly, her voice rustling around the almost-empty room.

Hallie stated quickly, "A princess story please."

Alyssa closed her eyes, took a breath, and encirled her sister in her lap with her arms. "Ok...you ready?"

"Yes!" Hallie replied eagerly, hands clasped within Alyssa's.

"Ok...Once upon a time...there was a beautiful princess. She lived in a tower where her evil parents had imprisoned her."

"Why did they imprison her?" Hallie interrupted.

Alyssa pulled a blonde curl back from Hallie's face. "Because they wanted to protect her."

"From what?"

"I'm getting there, Hal. Just listen." Alyssa sniffed again, wiping a hand under her nose. "In this land, there were many dangers. Dragons roamed all over, burning and breaking things and eating people. Sorcerers and magicians made evil plans against the king. But, there were also knights who were rumored to be the bravest, most handsome people in the kingdom."

Alyssa opened her palm and Hallie absent-mindedly traced patterns in it as she listened to her sister's story. "The princess's father and mother were so afraid that a dragon or a sorcerer would eat or hurt the princess that they locked her up in a tower by herself. They made it so high that a man couldn't get high enough to reach the window and surrounded it by water, which dragons were afraid of. They thought she was safe."

Hallie's voice asked sweetly, "Did her parents live with her?"

"No, they lived in the nearby town."

"Why?"

"Because there was only room for the princess in the tower and they wanted to protect her."

"Oh," Hallie stated quietly. "Then they weren't evil afterall."

Alyssa began to weave her tale again, her soft voice and her encompassing arms making Hallie feel as protected as the princess. "So, the princess grew up alone in a tower, hoping that somehow, one day, a knight would come to save her. And, one day, a knight did!"

"Yea!" Hallie clapped her hands together.

Alyssa shook her head hastily. "No, no! This wasn't a real knight! The princess saw him from the top of her tower and thought he was, but she did not look closer or she would have seen it was a dragon enchanted by sorcerers to look human. The princess saw only what she wanted to see - a perfect knight in shining armor. The dragon tail went unnoticed."

Hallie sucked in a breath. "What happened?"

"She let him in."

"WHAT?"

Alyssa continued solemnly, "Yes. She was not looking for signs of a dragon and did not see his tail."

"What happened?"

"He chased her around the whole tower trying to eat her! A few times he almost had her, but at the last second she slipped through his grasp and ran out of the door. She was lost for the next few days. All she could do was wander around the dessert, alone! Eventually she ended up walking in a circle and she arrived back at the tower, only to find the dragon had destroyed it!"

"NO!" Hallie protested, eyes wide.

"Yes!" Alyssa insisted, squeezing her sister gently.

"What happened?"

"Nothing..." Hallie didn't notice the change in her sister's voice. "It is rumored she still sits outside the ruins of her tower, crying because she is so scared to leave what she used to call come and because she is so scared of everything that can hurt her now."

Hallie crossed her arms and said quietly, "I don't like that story."

Alyssa said nothing, only rested her cheek against her sister's.

Hallie said after a minute, "You ended it to soon."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. What the princess really does is ask the king to build her a new tower," declared Hallie.

"And then what?"

"And then he sends one of his knights to save her, silly!" Hallie laughed. Alyssa stared at her sister a moment, then wordlessly kissed her cheek.

"I love you, Hal."

"Love you, Lissa...but that was a sad story."

Alyssa nodded absently, then patted her sister's back. "Up. Dinner will be ready soon." She waited for the sound of tiny feet pattering across the littered floor and the sound of the door shutting after her.

As soon as the wood creaked back into place, Alyssa sank back onto the bed, arms draped over the covers now. Her eyes squeezed shut and she fought a sob inside her chest. Almost by accident, she scooped up a picture from next to her bed and blinked at it through tears.

In the picture, she wore a bright, yellow dress next to a young man clad in a sharp tuxedo. She bit her lip, closed her eyes again, and whispered, "You're not my prince..." And, like all the others, she ripped it down the middle so that she was on one side and he on the other. Limp fingers let the pieces slide through and fall to the floor.

Three.

A fleet pair of black shoes landed noiselesly on thick carpet. Softly they tip-toed across the darkened room and arrived in front of a dark piece of furniture. Soft snores issued from an elaborate bed across the patch of moonlight on the floor. The moon was the sole witness to what exactly happened next, for as quickly as the shadow arrived in the room, it left, and the occupant was left sleeping soundlessly.

Four hours later, the secretary of state opened his eyes on a fresh new day and stretched. He was a young man in his early twenties with sparkling white teeth and locks of soft, brown hair. Groggily, he rubbed his eyes and studied his surroundings. Pleased that his maid had remembered to clean the clutter off of his desk, he slid out of bed and over to his workstation.

Nothing out-of-the-ordinary struck him at first. His hazel eyes roamed across the smooth desktop casually and he shuffled papers around. In fact, he didn't notice that anything was different at all until he had been sitting at his desk for twenty minutes and was just about to request tea when a beam of sunlight fell onto something shiny.

Raising a well-groomed eyebrow, the man reached for the glittering object and studied the note it had been perched upon. A thin piece of notepaper clearly read in a handwritting he had almost forgotten, "Take my heart and I'll take yours. - Jenny."

His face flushed at the name. Glancing down, he recognized the golden object as the ring he had given her on their first date. On one side her name was inscribed in fading letters. On the other, his had been scratched out.

The ring slid out of his fingers as he leaned back and sighed. Weary fingers caressed his aching head as his mind re-lived the years between them. Jennifer Stone. The prettiest girl in highschool. The coolest girl in college. The only girl who had ever found out he was a cheater.

A series of images flashed behind his closed lids. Her face as he gave her the ring. The way her hair felt when he stroked it on their first date. The way he snuck out of his house to see another girl. The way Jenny screamed at him as she explained how she knew everything that was going on. The way he didn't care that she was mad at him. The way everyone stopped to stare while she created a scene and he stared stoicly ahead of him. The way her tears flowed down her cheeks.

The secretary of state sighed and opened his eyes, hesitantly caressing the piece of jewelry chiding himself for being so foolish. It was just highschool. None of that mattered now. Still...he smiled slightly to himself and slipped on the ring.

***********************************************
A world of darkness. A neverending sea of black. And then. Oxygen. Gasping, Arnold opened his eyes. Light met him full-force, blinding him for a moment so that a slight headache began to develop. He slowly sat up. Where was he? In a hallway in the White House. He glanced down at himself. The tuxedo he had rented for the occasion was puncured by a bullet hole.

Arnold frowned and took off his jacket, revealing a bullet-proof vest underneath with a fresh, new scar. Looking around, he caught sight of a body next to him. The President. His heart pumped hard in a second of panic as he gripped the shoulder of the body and rolled it over. He quickly took off the president's jacket, revealing a vest identical to his own. It rose up and down. The President was alive.

The agent raised his watch to his lips, pressed a button, and reported, "Suspect A confirmed as a lethal threat. The next target unknown." He released the button. Static. His roaming eyes stumbled across the dead bodies of the butlers as he helped the president to sit up.

The president followed his gaze, slowly regaining the breath that had been taken out of him while holding fast to Arnold for support. "Mr.President, our fears are as suspected. Your daughter, Jennifer Stone, is the murderer o--"

"Agent Arnold?" a staticy voice asked over his watch, interrupting the agent mid-sentence.

"Lighthouse! Suspect A has been confirmed. She tried to take out the president but the target has been contained." Arnold nodded to the president while swallowing. "Next target unknown."

There was a pause over the radio unit. "Not quite."
***********************************************
A hum resonated in Arnold's head as he drove the black, armored vehicle parked outside the White House to Jenny's latest hit. The President sat next to him, eyebrows etched into a frown that matched his lips too perfectly. There was no music in the car, only the hum of the engine and the grating noise of the unpaved road beneath them.

Arnold swallowed, considering what to say to the leader of the country who had just found out that his daughter was on the most wanted list. "Mr.President-" Arnold started.

Before he could say more, the President turned to him with a serious face and said, "Thank you."

Surprised, Arnold asked, "It is our duty to protect--"

"No, I'm not thanking your organization. I'm thanking you." The president's voice was solemn. Pained. Arnold met his eyes for an instant before flickering back to watch the road. "You could have chosen not to let me in on your suspicions. Everyone has been looking for the murderer of my brother. No one would have suspected my Jenny." His voice cracked on the words.

Arnold cleared his throat. Not many people would have. If he hadn't known Jenny's uncle had abused her when she was little, he wouldn't have considered it either. "Sir, we believe many more people to be in danger. She seems to be seeking revenge on anyone who ever treated her badly."

The President sighed and stared absently out of the window. As soon as the words left his left, Arnold regretted them. Surely he hadn't been too terrible of a father. Then again, when Arnold had explained that he would be required to wear a bullet-proof vest as they were setting up for the dinner, the President had seemed genuinely shocked.

"Sir, if it's any comfort, you're safe with us," Arnold said, trying to offer what looked like a smile as he pulled into a driveway full of investigator and police vehicles. "Jenny still thinks you're dead, and she can't know you're alive. That's why you'll be staying with--"

Arnold was interrupted yet again as a woman with dark hair knocked eagerly on the window of the bullet-proof van. Arnold rolled it down and she exclaimed eagerly, "We're sorry, sir, but it's the secretary of state - he's been murdered."

"Good gracious," the president murmured.

Arnold immediately got out of the car. "How did this happen?"

The woman's eyes widened as she led him over to a stretched bearing a corpse of a young, once-attractive man clad in what he had slept in the night before. "Mercury poisoning."

"Mercury poisoning?" Arnold repeated, his eyes scanning over the man's discolored frame. Bits of blood marred his otherwise flawless skin when in his last moments he had gone insane and clawed himself. "How did this happen?" Disgust trickled into his voice. How did Jenny manage this?

The woman shook her head, staring at the disfigured body. "We're not exactly sure." She pointed to the dead man's hand. "But traces of mercury were found on his ring."

One. Two.

i wrote this once {something vaguely like it} in a facebook chat, and shall henceforth share it with you all...hope you enjoy.

Arnold's careful eyes roamed around the splendid room. Men and women adorned in fabulous colors spun around him cheerfully while butlers waltzed in between them carrying silver platters of tasty bite-sized delicacies. A great chandelier stared down at the guests from below a painted mural on the ceiling depicting angels and demons in a storm-clouded sky. Arnold's eyes flickered down to his watch and then up again at the occupants of the ballroom. All of them wore masks. How strange it was, that this vital information worthy of the president's notice should come up while the president himself was hosting a masquerade ball.

Footsteps behind him caused him to casually turn around. A short, stocky man who was both well-groomed and well-dressed eagerly stuck out his hand. He pushed up a pair of spectacles, introduced himself, and immediately led Arnold down a hallway to one side and into a smaller, more secluded room.

"The President knows of your arrival, sir," the man was stammering to Arnold's half-listening ears. "And apologizes that you were so inconvenienced as to have to come to the ball."

"The inconvenience was my fault," Arnold rumbled in a deep voice, nodding slightly to a butler who passed by with an empty tray. The man avoided his eyes and walked quickly past. "But this is an urgent matter that could not wait."

The man hastily opened a door to his right, which swung upon without a noise. Inside Arnold instantly perceived that the president and his daughter were standing around a cozy fireplace on one end of the room. A table and a pristine couch decorated the other.

The president, a man well in shape for his age, motioned for the man to leave Arnold with him. His daughter, adorned in a slimming green dress, smiled up at Arnold almost in wonder. As soon as the servant left them, Arnold shook their hands in turn.

"Mr.President, I'm terribly sorry to inconvenience y--" Arnold trailed off as he met the president's daughter's eyes. "Jenny?" he asked, incredulous.

She flicked back a lock of her chestnut-colored hair and let out a light laugh. "Hello Arnold! I never imagined I'd see you again!"

The president looked at the two young people, at a loss. "You two know each other?"

Jenny smiled at her father, revealing a set of pearly white teeth that contrasted well against her tanned skin. "We went through training together." Arnold smiled. She smiled back. They both knew that wasn't the whole truth. They both knew things were much, much more complicated.

"I seem to have missed quite a lot, Jenny," the president said in a matter-of-fact way the way someone would report the weather.

Jenny's eyes narrowed only slightly as if to imply a layer of meaning he would never understand as she replied, "Father, there are many things you have missed about me."

Arnold studied the two relations. Their eyes were the same except for the emotions portrayed in them. Jenny's eyes were full of spirit, and life, and rebellion. Her father's were distant and serious. Arnold's memories shifted back to when he had dated Jenny in college. The President had never cared for his daughter. The only reason he seemed to mildly take interest now was undoubtedly because of Arnold's presence.

Arnold, suddenly composing himself, turned to the president with a quickly sobering expression. "Mr.President, please listen carefully to what I have to say. I'm with a counter-terrorist agency and we have reason to believe there are in fact at this moment five potential assassins in this building. We believe they are all connected to an attempt to take your life tonight."

The president's face melted from one of wonder to one of alarm. Jenny sucked in a breath, but Arnold continued to speak in a low, level tone. "I myself passed a butler in the hallway bearing a firearm and branded with a tattoo on his forearm he had tried to cover up with stage makeup. Do not panic; the agency I work with has a car outside waiting to take you and your daughter to safety."

Jenny's hand flew to her mouth, her ability to suppress her emotions less practiced than her father, who stared at Arnold with a clenched jaw. Arnold continued after a pause, "Mr. President. I suggest you follow me."

A second flickered by. Two. Arnold slowly pulled his gun out of his tuxedo's jacket pocket. The wizened leader nodded stiffly. "Lead the way."

Arnold nodded, gut clenching. "Stay close."

He walked to the door, gun held at the ready, stomach churning inside his body as he placed a tentative hand on the doorknob. Counting to three in his head, Arnold listened to the short breaths of the people behind him whose life he held in his hand. He pulled open the door.

Stepping into the hallway, he raised his gun up so that he could align it with his eye. He swung it down one side of the hallway, then the other. "Clear," he said softly, waving the two figures huddling near the doorway forward. The second the president had stepped foot in the hallway, a flurry of motion attracted Arnold's eye.

Something down the hall moved and immediately the sound of muffled shots could be heard filling the air. Arnold's weapon proved true as he hit one butler and then another who jumped around the corner. A third replaced the first. A body hit the ground behind him, followed by a muffled scream. Arnold felt a bullet whiz past his ear as he shot the last assassin in the neck. Whipping around, he saw the president bleeding on the ground.

Jenny had covered her face in her hands and her eyes seemed to be accumulating tears. Arnold swore under his breath and dropped to the ground. Trembling, his fingers reached out to take a pulse. "He's alive!" Arnold repeated, relief trickling through his rapidly beating heart.

Footsteps behind him signified Jenny drawing closer tentatively. Arnold began to slide the president out of his jacket, working quickly in an effort to stop the bleeding. "One thing's for sure - all of the butlers were after one thing; to make your father dead."

The sound of a gun cocking clicked behind Arnold. "They have failed me," came the harsh reply. Arnold felt his ears grow red in anger. He had time for no more. The trigger was pulled. Arnold fell across the president's body, hand clasped against his chest. Another shot was fired. Both bodies lay still.

Jenny's eyes observed two men she had claimed to love lying dead on the floor before heartlessly staring at the dead butlers. She pulled the gun to her lips, blew gently to cool the heated metal, and stowed it back in the holster she wore hidden on her calf. Without a tear, without looking back, she slipped on a mask that went perfectly with her emerald dress, and slowly walked down the hallway, into the ballroom full of people, and away.

New Post, guys!

Hey guys!
How are y'all?
How's life?
...
No seriously, how go things?

So, I suppose I should post something new...does something new that's old count? Like...I wrote this a long time ago for an English assignment "to write a symbolic story". Props to anyone who figures it o-- wait, have I posted this befo?
...hm...
ANYWAYS! I'll post it again, and if I've already posted it before, I'll just take if off soon. {Implying someone had best tell me...otherwise this isn't doing either of us good. come on now, guys. come on.}

...IN OTHER NEWS {this is like previews before movies, ok?}
I've been writing this kind-of-analogous story, similar in style to "crossroads", and perhaps it shall one day appear.
Also, in art, there's this competition thing they do every year, and for the past few weeks we've been working to come up with concepts and ideas to do - basically, just sketches of general composition before we actually get to work drawing out the actual image.
SO! For my idea, I'm trying to kind of illustrate "Crossroads", and if it comes out well {we'll know in about a month...}, I might possibly put it up here. Maybe.
Alright, you guys are pretty patient and enduring, so...without further adeau, hoohah, or koalas, ladies and gentlemen, here's an analogous story! Have fun! Bring popcorn! Hey, you, down in front!

Four silhouettes snuck across the shadowed doorway. The figures hesitantly entered the art gallery, unsure of what they would find ahead. Dark, empty walls enclosed them, bearing no decoration except for the wall facing them.

An aging man with hair as white as sheep’s wool gasped in alarm, for on the wall he saw a painting. The image sent a chill throughout his blood and froze him where he stood. His wrinkled face beheld the artwork while his lips moved as if mouthing unspoken cries of terror. Faces and eyes stared back at him, lifeless yet moving; dead yet stirring. The emotions depicted in the painting seemed to jump out of the canvas and encircle him – pain, horror, and a dreadful feeling of unfamiliarity – the feeling of walking into a pitch black forest without knowing what would attack.

Beside him, a teenage boy asked, “What are you so afraid of?”

The man stared at the painting. “Don’t you feel it? It’s like looking at a black hole – it’s like the opening of Pandora’s Box.” And he turned his face away; he could no longer bear to look at the awful picture.

The teenager glanced at the painting, a lazy smirk finding its way onto his careless countenance. He didn’t understand why the man was so flustered, for all he saw was an empty frame embracing the black wall behind it. There was no painting or portrait or landscape to fill the empty void of darkness. The boy uneasily diverted his stare from the simplistic frame, and tried to shrug off the nervous feeling he got with a comment to the woman standing next to him.

“Strange for an old man to be afraid of such a simple arrangement.”

“A simple arrangement?” The woman repeated. “That’s an understatement.” Her blue eyes were locked onto the wall, for on it she saw the most beautiful sculpture she had ever seen. Vines and butterflies entwining golden flowers seemed to breathe with life. Light danced and played upon the shiny surface of the sculpture, giving the models twinkling eyes and playful moods. The woman almost wanted to touch the piece of art, for it was so overwhelmingly wonderful she couldn’t hold back a smile from spreading across her face.

“I wish I knew what the artist was thinking,” she murmured.

The teenager stared at her, and then stared back at the painting. Its dull simplicity met his searching look, and he said, “It’s not very beautiful – it’s a terrible conclusion to the art gallery.”

The woman shook her head. “I think it’s the perfect ending. They saved the best artwork for last.”

All of a sudden, the last member of their group, who had until now been silent, asked innocently, “What is it?” He was a child no more than six.

The woman gently took his hand and pointed to the work of art. “It’s life, dear.”

Confused, the child lifted his head for a moment, giving them a glimpse of his perplexed face. Curiosity shone in his naïve eyes. “I don’t understand,” he stammered.

“Look at the sculpture, dear. What do you see?”

“That’s what I mean,” the child persisted. “I don’t see anything.”

Crossroads

Two notes, first of all.
1. Without Render, I probably wouldn't have thought of an analogy this wood, so props for that and I hope this isn't considered plagurism, however u spell it.
2. The moral of this story is NOT to hop into cars with strangers. Props to anyone who can figure it out {hopefully u can cuz it's not supposed to be that hard...}
Enjoy.

You tremble as you stare at the quivering choice before you. On one side of the splitting earth is a road that leads to a familiar path you have come to believe is real and exists, though only because of what you have heard. The other is a path you cannot clearly see, and the quaking ground beneath you does nothing to sharpen the twists and turns you can faintly make out past the crossroads sign.

The clouds above you swirl around as if they were a dark, thick batter being stirred slowly with a spoon. Your hands lifelessly seek each other and you clasp them tightly, eager to hold on to something as the earth tremors underneath you, sending you stumbling forward to the fork in the road you have just arrived at.

It’s time to choose…the earth is erupting beneath you, the sky is groaning above you, and the wind in the air around you sends a chill throughout your body, over your skin. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for your whole life – to choose your fate; to choose your destiny. What to do, what to do…choose the path you exist and believe is real, though you haven’t actually seen it yourself…or choose the path that is hidden to you, which has a few visible turns before it escapes into shadow.

You don’t have to make the choice. Well, not by yourself, at least. Another factor comes into play. A factor you have forgotten. Between the two roads, vibrating softly with each tremor sent through the ground, is a truck. Its hood is bent and broken, and mud covers the sides of the wheels and coats the bottom half of what once used to be sparkling chrome. A few broken mirrors and windows suggest something has deliberately attacked the car, but your attention is drawn to one thing: The figure inside.

With painful steps, you stumble over to the car and limply grasp the edge of one broken window. The form inside turns toward you and says gently, “Climb in.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Look into my face. Look into my eyes. You know me. You’ve heard my voice. And I have heard yours. Look at me…you know my name.”

There is something familiar in the corner of his lips…the curves under his eyes…the small hint of joy that somehow permeated onto his face though he wasn’t smiling. You frown, gripping the metal of the car harder as the earthquake causes you to jolt to the side. “You’re here?”

“As I have always been.” The man in the car looks at you and leans back slightly in his seat, inclining his head toward you as his eyes gaze into your face. He leans over and opens the car door, which creaks open like it hasn’t been oiled in ages. Firmly, he says, “Let me drive you.”

“But…I don’t know where you’re going. If I choose my path, I know where I’ll end up.”

“If you ride with me, I know where you’ll end up.”

You shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I want to go on my path. I have heard of its end: that it is wonderful. With all of me, that is what I most desire. Security. Safety from the shaking world around me. With every beat of my heart, I yearn for control. I want to go down the path I know has no difficulties, has no turns, has only an easy, controllable route; a path I have made for myself with my dreams and ambitions…You will say … that I should not cling to what I do not know is truth.”

He says nothing, only looks at you because He knows you have more to say. Patiently, as a father listening to his child offering up excuses for a deed not done, he places a contemplative hand on his chin and rubs it slowly as you speak.

“You will say…that I cannot control anything at all if I am to go with you. You will say…that the safest and most secure place I will ever have is in the seat next to you. I want to believe this…I want to trust you with myself…But…I can’t see down the path. The shadows conceal it, and it twists out of my sight.”

His eyes gleam through the darkness created by the storm clouds, who have grown closer all the while. “You may not be able to see down this path…but I can. I know exactly where you will be if you ride with me.”

“But…I know what lies on my path. It will be wonderful, I just know it.”

“You do not know that mine will not be even more wonderful than anything you can imagine.”

“But…what if it’s terrible? What if I get in your car and we end up going somewhere I’ve never been?”

“Look at me. Do you know me?”

“Yes.”

“Have I ever led you astray before when you have followed me?”

“…no.”

“Then is there reason to doubt me now?”

“But I’m scared that your path will not be my own.” Your voice seems weak now, as you’re rattled where you stand as lightning tears through the sky and the car is illuminated for a brief second.

In the brief flash of light, the man inside the car lets out a deep, joyous chuckle, as if he honestly thinks something is funny. “Of course it’s not your own. But, it will at some points cross over yours or run parallel to it. Just because you choose my path over yours doesn’t mean the things you desire on your own path are not on mine.”

“But…your car…it doesn’t look safe.”

He lets a smile spread across his mouth which is well-accustomed to speaking words of wisdom, of truth, and of love. “Have I ever looked safe? Yet have I ever led you astray? Sometimes what is best for you does not look the most attractive.”

You look at him and say slowly over the sound of your pounding heart, “You’re not safe…how can I trust you to take me somewhere safe? How do I know we won’t get lost, or stuck, or killed? How do I know that you know where you’re going?”

The man looks at you for a moment. It is obvious that many thoughts are spinning around his head, and that there are a million things he can say to you. Yet only a few words come to His lips that He speaks to you. “Trust me.” These words are utterly impossible. These words call for utter abandonment of any hope of getting to where you want to go. These words are more than you can absorb.

“I can’t,” you stammer out, your white knuckles moving from the window of the car to the door. “I can’t. How do I know you’ll take me where I want to go?”

He tilts His head slightly, and replies in the voice you have heard so many times before, “Would you rather have me take you where you want to go…or where I want you to be?”

Your eyes dance from his tender face, wise and faithful, to the dark world shaking around you. You have plans for where you were going to go…what would you become when you got there; what would you do when you first arrived…if He wants you to give up those hopes, to give up your plans and allow Him to make His own…

He continues, “Is your love for me greater than your desire for your own comfort?”

The earthquake rattles the mirrors on his truck, and the wind picks up in speed, causing you to blink rapidly because it stings your eyes.

Unsure of what he really means, you ask out loud, “You want me to give up my life? In order to follow you? You want me to sacrifice my dreams and instead travel down the path you have made for me?”

He says nothing, but a glimmer in His intense eyes confirms your statement. Your breath comes rapidly now as you feel your chest constricting inside you.

“You want me to turn away? To walk away from my own path, these dreams I have had my whole life; you want me to let them slip through my fingers; to let my path grow overgrown by foliage until no one even knows it’s there?” Your voice grows tight with emotion, and a wave of sorrow passes over you.

He leans back in his seat once more, eyes on you, and says with absolute clarity, “I want you…to give me your heart.”

Another shake; you’re on your knees, clutching the only thing stable in the shaking world: his car. “I…I don’t know if I can do that. If I give it all up…I might break my heart in giving it to you.”

He extends his hand, as if He already knows what you will decide. It is a calloused hand, like that of a farmer. Scars decorate it where nails have pierced His flesh. Veins stand out against his muscles, telling of His strength, like that of a carpenter. His skin is well known by the sun from its olive shade, like that of a fisherman who spends hours outside. But the way that He holds out His hand…like it would be of a comfort to your troubled mind, to your aching heart…is like that of a father.

“Trust me.”

Noticing He did not reply to your last comment, you state, “You will break my heart.”

“This may be true…it may not be. I may have to break you down in order to build you up the way I have designed you to be. But take comfort in this; whatever pain is necessary is only for the moment, and there is something much more wonderful waiting for you, where we’re going. You must know you need to rely on my strength and my knowledge and my plans for you. Stop trusting yourself. Stop convincing yourself you know where you’re going.”

Surprised, and eyes watering, you ask in a quiet voice, “Will it hurt?”

“Yes. In order to give up everything, it may hurt. But the joy you will receive for following me will overshadow any sorrow I will help you to endure.” His hand hasn’t moved, and He meets your moist eyes with eyes of love. “Do you trust me?”

You lick your lips, your heart quivering inside your ribs with another tremor through the breaking ground. Is your love for Him greater than your fear of being left with a broken heart? Are your dreams greater than His unknown plans? Is control over your life greater than trusting the writer of life itself?

He remains, patient, hand extended…waiting for you to give Him your dreams; to give Him your plans; to give Him your life; to give Him your heart.

Belated Afterthoughts

{of a mind scorched by marshmellows}

Hopefully by reading the title you have guessed what this post is to be about. {Sorry to shine on your rainy day, but, NO, you're not phsycic; you're just smart.} Ok, so after I got off a few days ago from being completely confused and weird, I prayed about my whole "trusting-God" issue, and guess what.
BAM! REVELATION!!!!
And usually it seems like getting an answer from God like takes a while, ya know? Like I have to endure and be patient and everything, but God is amazing, and these are some verses that just randomly out of nowhere HAPPENED to be in my devotional.

Jeremiah 17: 7-8
"But blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him. He will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream; it does not hear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit."

To me, that was like God was telling me to trust Him and trust that He has a plan. And the part about not worrying when drought comes, to me, is like how if I truely want to do His will and I'm not following my own selfish desires and plans, and rely on his strength {the whole bit aout the roots}, He's got me. He's got me. :)

:)

I forgot the other verse someone showed to me...but anyway, WILL, I hope this encouraged you the same way it encouraged me! :)

And, also, I remembered another story I have runnin about in me mind. It's about this chick, one of many, who grows up in a world where the gorvernment runs like everything. It's like in a future, hopeless, dreary world, where few have the courage to do anything. Just an idea.

SO ANYWAY! There you have it.

And now I am through.

~ Cap'n B

Updatedness!

Well...hey guys. I know it's been a while since I had a non-chapter blog post. ... so hey! :) How y'all doin? Be honest wit me!
Anyway...the point of this message will be just venting/news/whatever pops into my head like the popcorn in Mrs. D's room's microwave cuz our microwave is stupid.

I got my SAT scores, and Chair and Will {one of whom will probably never read this} always pester me about what I got, so now I can finally tell them something. Most likely I'll forget by the time I see them Sunday and shall direct them here. I'll bet anyone reading this two bucks that Chair won't read this but Will will. Observe the usefulness of predicting one's friends. :)

The three main category thingies were critical reading, math, and writings skills. In critical reading I scored 59, which means I scored higher than 92% of sophmores. In math I got 48. lol. I omitted 9 questions and got 9 wrong. I scored higher than 68% of sophmores. Figures. As I once told my chemistry teacher when told that chemistry was as easy as math, "Math is not my strongpoint." And, lastly, I got a 65 on my writing skills, which means I scored better than 98% of sophmores. So there you have it. Now that all the numbers are out of my head...

*sigh*

Is it just me or does it seem like now, more than ever, people my age are supposed to have their live planned out? Maybe it's just who I surround myself with, but it feels like everyone around me has some inkling of an idea of who they want to become or what they want to do with their lives. And it's not that I don't know what I'm NOT good at. Obviously I'm never going to be a mathmetician or chemical engineer {may I direct you to paragraph 3, sentence 3 of this very blog post}. It's just....arg....

Somehow, in my own mind, I've come to the conclusion that they don't teach the things I need to know in school, and life is too short to do everything that I have on my list to do before I die. {Yes, I do indeed have a Bucket List. ... Yes, driving on the autoban is one of them.} It seems like it's not going to be possible for me to become an animal cop, photographer, comic book artist, writer, journalist, circus freak, makeup artist, selfdefense instructor, volleyball player, singer, creative writing teacher!! I mean how can I possibley do all of that in one life? And which one of these is what God wants me to do? What does He have in mind for me? What if His plans are completely different from my own and He wants me to surrender even my dreams to Him?

...

Can I give it up? Can I let it go? I dunno....I dunno.... the right answer is yes. Just as I'd say "Sure, if someone held a gun to my head and asked me if I was a Christian, I'd say yes" easily, but the moment someone with a pistol approaches me everything starts to get a little fuzzy and my determined resolutions of a moment before seem to blend together. Black and White mix around in their pait pots and turn into one, uniform, sickening grey... I don't think I'll ever know unless it happens - unless my fears are confirmed and I find myself staring down the barrel of a gun. I don't know if I could give up all I've hoped for.

But I sure hope I can. Because, you see, God works in myseterious ways, and it would be so like Him to completely shake me so that all I can hold on to in the world shifting and rumbling around me is Him, because He is the only constant security that I have. When my dreams shatter around me, I'll be forced to cling to Him like a child and trust Him to take care of me, instead of pretending to be tough and strong like I usually do. You see, {and it's strange I'm admitting this at all...perhaps I'll delete this post quite soon} strength is my favorite masquerade - my favorite mask to hide behind to show the world that I'm strong while I quiver in my boots and hope they can't see through me.

What would I do if my hopes were ripped away from me, my strength gone, my world shaken?
I don't think I'll know until it happens, and knowing my God, it just might. Because that would mean He would be my strength. And that's the way it should be.

Wrapping up this ventage-like-post-thing I suppose I shall one day delete....um...I forgot what I was going to say. Woops! Who knows? Perhaps I won't delete it. I guess it's pretty personal, but...I guess I don't mind. I guess I'm an open person. I guess, I guess, I guess because, you see, there's a lot I don't know about me.

ENOUGH ABOUT ME! What about y'all? Did anyone read this? Did anyone care? If you didn't, it's ok; it was more of a self-benefitting get-my-thoughts-out-type-of-thing, ya know?

Well...if anyone did read this and likes to read my blog for some strange reason...I have a few more story ideas running around in the twisted head of mine that I have. {what an odd sentence.} Obviously, the one i am writing now, Jessica...
I also am thinking about this one set in our world where this kid finds this portal cuz he's part dragon or something and he can travel to this other world.
Also, u know how I write like random scenes and stuff? Well, my friend wrote a story about this chick with cancer and that kind of inspired me to write a scene where this chick tells her best friend she has cancer and they like cry together, so I might turn that into something, and who knows - it might bless someone somewhere...I should pray about that one.........
NEXT! um........one that i haven't quite developed but I had the idea for this one time, is an alagorical story about this boy who wants to become a knight and the journey he goes through {symbolic to us, in our jouney as Christians}.
Next on the list would be the one about this guy in medival-magic times who goes on this journey to find this flower to save his dying sister and he meets this spoiled princess on the way and they travel together and stuff.

...that might be it......hm....yeah, i think that's it!

OH ONE MORE THING!
I saw Avatar recently, and I TOTALLY WANT TO BE ONE! I think it would be utterly amazing to be able to jump and climb and run and all that cool stuff like they do. I want to have a tail! i want cat-eats! I want to live in a world where the flowers go "blip!" and shrink into the earth! That was so funny. I want to live in their world so bad. AND OH MY GOODNESS I WANT ONE OF THOSE DRAGON THINGS THAT YOU CAN PLUG YOUR HAIR INTO!!!! Those things are so cool, they're like totally part of you, but they're....not..... I WANNA BE AN AVATAR!!!!

So, conclusively, your pants are on fire because the marshmellows licked them.

~ the slightly delusional Cap'n B! :D