inlet sunset

tingling needle points tickle the soles of
my feet, as your attempts at skipping
rocks fail. They succeed, though in creating
pulsing rings that uspest the mirror,
in which a second sky, one smooth as
brass, and in constant movement resides.

The only way to catch the sunlight,
and hold it for hours, like in a fishing
net, is to summon up the clouds to do
your bidding. They look like the day's
last breath, hovering just above the trees,
clinging to the air like words do in winter.

I take a stone from your hand, bouncing
it from palm to palm, testing its weight.
Maybe I could hit the sun I say,
looking into your eyes. Try you say but
you'll have to move quick, only half is left.
I pull my arm back, hard, and throw

the gray pebble, it disappears, with no
business being in such an array of color,
on such a July day, when the air
smells of salt and something else.
It disappears and we never see where it
lands. There are no rings disturbing the sky.


Okay, so I'd like to know if you like it, but I want you to tear it to shreds. This is workshop, tell me what you hate, tell me what to change. This poem is crap, tell me why.

Heather

Hmm...comments on comments

Hello all! (two...) I know I haven't actually posted a real post in a while, so I decided to today (actually, it was even before I read your comment Caroline! Weird, huh?)

Anyways...I just read Caroline's comment on Steph's blog (see below) and felt it necessary to comment on her comment. Well, and on her comment on my blog here. On the last post. About the king of the fairies. I'll do that after the long one, though. So it'll be at the bottom.

Here it is, Caroline's (your) original comment:

Caroline said...

Because I am oh-so-creative (another sign of impopularity) I have compiled a list of the various misdemeanors throughout my school career that have led to impopularity. :D

K)Sing the ABCs when the teacher asks you to recite them. When she repeats herself, say that you can only do it singing.

1)Be the Teacher's Pet.

2)Read. Write mean things about classmates in a journal that will inevitably be
discovered and read aloud at some point.

3)Get really unflattering glasses that are bright blue in color and Harry Potter in style. Attempt to make friends in your class.

4)Spend a lot of time with one close friend. Cry when Heather rats you out for talking in the bathroom and you get detention.

5)Sing a song by the Cheetah Girls for your fifth grade talent show.

6)Confide your crush on a popular guy to Heather, because she'll repeat it a bit too loudly and the popular girl will hear you and then everyone will find out on field day and you'll have to go home sick.

7)Write a boy who likes you a list of reasons why you hate him so much. Include a limerick about his teeth. That's sure to be a crowd-pleaser.

8)Find a small group of friends who are equally uncool(but equally awesome, too) and do bizzare things. Have marker wars, randomly burst into song. People will think you are in a cult and not talk to you because you might offer them red Kool-Aid. Encourage this rumor.

9)Behave in a relatively anti-social manner when not with your friends (you know, the kids in the cult) and refuse to tell the popular people what that thing you're writing down is.

(Surprisingly enough, they still want to know.)

Email me at the Plenty of Paper address(it's on Heather's comment) and put Caroline in the subject line. :)

<3>

PS: Awesome contest idea!

June 3, 2008 8:45 PM

Here's my response: (I was originally typing it in as another comment on Steph's blog, but decided it would be better suited as a blog post.) Also, my numbers corollate with her (your) numbers...well... grades

K) You know what's really weird? I did that too! haha. My kindergarten one is...sort of like the ABCs one. Count to 483 when your teacher tells you to count to 100 (even when she tells you to stop, you just walk away, still counting)

1) Does proving your first grade teacher wrong in math because you did it the way the third graders do and that's not a first grade requirement count as being a teacher's pet? (ahh, now I'm all nostalgic)

2) I...hmm...I don't know. I guess I read, but I can't really count just a few months as a whole grade... I think leaving the class for about an hour and a half every day to do testing so that I could officially leave the class made me unpopular... sort of. *shrugs*

3) Come into the class a quarter late, a year younger, and a lot smarter (but don't be in the specialized classes--Beach--so that the people not smart enough to be in those classes spend more time with you and begin to hate you.

4) Haha...I remember that. It was a very entertaining moment...back when we hated each other...you were such a loser, lol. JK! (okay, so I'm not, but I didn't say you are now). For some reason, make Reid Simpson not like you so that you end up loosing your best friend because she's close to Reid and decides to be a conformist.

5) you will never live that down!!!! Anyway: Spend every recess in the music room with your two BEST friends in the whole world and pop blown up ziploc bags. Once the first graders come in, help them out with their instruments. Don't make any contact with another fifth grader.

6) Roll your eyes at immature popular boys. Become friends with unpopular people (ahem, Caroline). Make fun of this kid that stares at you all the time and then if you glance at him he says "Why are you staring at me???!!!???" Laugh about aforementioned kids stalker skills. Sit at a table with your dork magnet best friend for lunch. That is sure to bring those pesky dorks to your table as well. Play the Guess The Fruit game every day. (I really did set my unpopularity in stone in sixth grade, didn't I?)

7) Hmm...I can't think of anything... Oh! Always be in a group with people you don't like (and nobody else does) in english class.

8) This was a good year for us. Marker wars...random song outbursts... Mine: Sing Spice Girls songs with Allison every day outside. Say you hate Mr. Bankert's class. Say you like Mrs. Gordon's class. Make fun of popular guys for their english papers (AAAAATTTTTUUUUKKKKKAAAAAMMMMAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!). Have very awkward moments where friend of aforementioned popular guy says that you and popular guy should date because you bicker like an old married couple.

9) Do not answer when questioned. Say 'nothing' a lot. Become Nerdfighter. Don't answer questions about the song your singing (where would America be?), the binder cover your drawing (...so JOKES...), or the hand motion your making. Wear confusing (and AWESOME) t-shirts. Don't answer when people ask you about it.

It's a complicated art I've perfected.


So that's comment on comment numero uno. Comment on comment numero dos:

Caroline said...

I'm going to be extremely hypocritcal and tell you that I'd like for you to write a blog entry.

I know.

You've written one more recently than I have.

That's why I'm not rudely demanding that you write another blog entry. It's a polite request. What I am demanding is that you let me read this story (the one in the post below) because it sounds really amazing and I really want to.

<3>

PS: I really thought I'd commented on this already.

PPS: Who is this king of fairies person?

June 3, 2008 8:57 PM

You are being hypocritical. But I forgive you. I shall put said story on website (that one, that the totally unbiased civilian's name linked to? yeah, that one). I'm not very far, though. I'll be writing more in the next couple days. I really thought you'd commented on it already, too. This kind of fairies person is Oberon. I introduce you. He left a comment on The Ravenous Reader's blog. Here it is:

Oberon said...

......sometimes.....i talk to strangers.......what?

June 1, 2008 9:47 PM

Yes, and so I went to his blog and left a comment asking him if he was the king of the fairies. This was the reply:

Oberon said...

......thanks for your comments and.....yes.....i'm king of the fairies.

June 2, 2008 10:59 PM

So now we're all caught up on the commentary comments, so I'll stop saying the word comment. Right...NOW.
(comment)

Heather (I feel like Maureen Johnson now)

I encourage you to click on all the links. =D

I'm late, I'm late, I'm late

for a very important date!

I'm sorry, I felt the need to exploit Alice in Wonderland there, and I do not mean to say that I am in any way mocking the magnificent creation that is Wonderland. It's easy to do so, but I'm not.

So, I realize that I said I would post Monday, and I did have a break in the massive amounts of homework, but I also realize that I'm lazy. I'm a slacker. That's come to be known fact around people that actually know me. I'm Heather The Slacker. Okay, so you guys don't actually call me that, and some of you still expect me to do a little smidgen of my homework and madatory reading, but not quite like the rest of Waccamaw. The rest of Waccamaw just assumes (and you know what happens when you assume *wags finger*) that because I'm smart that I actually do my work. But, come to think of it, doing all my work is a very rare phenomenon, and you would have to study the species that is me for a while before you see this phenomenon occur. I'm not saying I never do my work, either. I just don't do all of it.

But enough about how lazy I am. I'm not Hassan.

Now, I promise to uphold my promise. I'll post a poem. =D


the ever-present evanescent*
quick like vapor
to come and go
as she stares it down, intense

the pen's in her hand,
the orange on her skin
as she scribbels on the page
and the glow soaks in

shafts of light catch the
dust; pollen dancing
shimmering golden specks
in the golden light

her hand reaches out
trying to catch a dot, a needle point
but it jumps back
towards the glowing source

and she's looking up, again
blinding her irises
as the others grow around her,
sprouting color

her pen stops, pauses
the ink stain enlarging
it's pulled away, a line
emerging, words have formed

a picture's painted
of the faint orange glow
with bright blue rings
and specks of dust gleam

she closes the notebook,
grips it tight,
holds it to her chest,
exhales (eyes closed)


Okay, the asterick (*) is not actually part of the poem, I'd just like to say that you, Caroline, will not call me teacher's pet!

that's all I really had to say. Have a great day. And I'm sure, the next post will contain a poem because that one I'm not just putting up for fun, I need opinions but I'm not done with it yet. So, next post, look for that. Happy Easter! (as I'm sure this is my only post before then)

♥Heather

THE Universal Questions! (and stuff)

Whew. It's great to be back in the blogosphere. I've missed it terribly. I've had computer problems that were most annoying and couldn't sign into Blogger, my email, facebook, or myspace. Now, once I get done here, I'm going to go over to facebook and have 18 million infuriating requests, notifications, and other nonsense like that.

Fun.

but, by now, I'm sure you are wondering: "Heather, made of awesome Nerdfighter, what exactly is this nonsense about 'Universal Questions' and 'stuff?' "

Well, fellow bloggers, I'm glad you asked!

I'm very excited about this (unfortunately I did forget some of the amazing Universal Questions but will ask the ones I do remember)!

Here we go:

Universal Question un!

On the Verizon wireless commercials, who is the guy with the glasses and gray jacket talking to, exactly, when he asks "Can you hear me now?"? (I had to put a question mark after his question and the Universal Question). And you cannot tell me you've never wondered this. And if you haven't (I don't know what's wrong with you, but you surely must be diagnosed soon, otherwise, I fear you might die) than you are now. You are asking yourself "Who is this incredibly shmexy person asking this question? Who is on the other line? And do they always say yes? Because he always says good, but maybe he doesn't want them to hear him? And if he doesn't say yes, but he doesn't say no, what does he say? Maybe? Possibly? Sort of?" Hmm... see, this question is worthy of Question Teusday, because it is so Universal, and not only has the question in itself, but sparks all sorts of new questions that are likewise Universal. I'll get on that.

Universal Question dos!

When you talk to someone, say, on the other side of the country or maybe the world, and they are on a different time than you, are you time traveling, or are they? Or are you both time-traveling? Because, yes, when you talk to someone in a different time zone, you are time-traveling, you just don't think about it. Ha! So, say I talked to Dante (who is in California<--so doesn't look like a word!) on the phone and I'm here in SC, am I time-traveling, is he or are we both meeting in the middle, say in Kansas or Oklahoma? Ponder that.

Universal Questiong trois!

If a Nerdfighter trips, fall, and bangs his/her head into a tree in the middle of the forest, do they make a sound, or do people just walk by and ignore them as if they were actually invisible? Now, that's a good Question Teusday question. Unless it's already been asked. In that case, 'you didn't hear anything'

Universal Question cuatro!

[insert you're Universal Question here! it will be featured and possibly answered in my next post. Well, that and if I remember the other millions of Universal Questions that I formulated while I was on a hi-ate-is (I don't know how to spell that word, so I just sounded it out, like they tell us to) so think of a question post it in a comment!]

And now, better and less important things.

I have an overflowing amount of poetry that I want to put on here because I've written a few that I think are better than previous ones in the past week or so. I can't decide which one I want to post first...hmm...ok, I'll just post the one the page is open to, and post the next one next, and the next one next, and the next one next, and if you don't get the picture by now, get out your camera, and if you don't have a camera, get a pen or pencil or marker or so on, and if you can't draw, copy and paste and if you don't do that, just give up. :D

Teardrop

finally, the crystal comes,
forms gently, on
the pupil
sparkling hope and

detereorating pain, the
crystal, it forms,
reflective of
greens, blues, and grays
of London sights
we see as we may

the crystal, it builds
shining the light,
glistening on sky in
shades of a prism

falling, the crystal
dropping, streaking, drawing
a line

the crystal so small,
so wide,
so large, it sparkles
with joy, therefore hiding
the truth

it smashes and shatters,
baby crystals have
formed
sparkling, reflecting
shining their sight

the crystalline
array:
it's the rain that must
come before
your bow


questions (only universal ones), comments (one the poem, please), concerns (actually, nevermind, if you have any, don't post them, I don't really care :D)

♥Heather

the more I previously mentioned

Ok, caroline, sorry it wasn't the same day, the computer was comandeered (sp? it does NOT look right)

That was the best concert I've ever been to. Of course, I've never been to any other concert before, but I'm sure if I had, that would have been the best concert I've ever been to. Because you guys were there and because it was amazing and because I was introduced to the amazing-ness that is Love and Theft and because it was Taylor Swift and because of the hilarious pictures we took afterwards.

It was great.

So is amazon.

I compiled a list of 12 new and used books on amazon and it's going to cost $25.88 for the whole lot plus the per-shipment charge of $3.00. I hope my mom lets me get them. I've been wanting to read some of these books forever. I hope my mom is very, very nice and lets me get them.

I'm planning on going out and looking for a job this weekend. Yes, I know it's Sunday, but I'm counting this weekend until Tuesday because we don't have school until Wednesday.

Long weekends are great when you have something to do. Like Williams party. I have to go. Courtney has to go. You go on and go to T.G.I.F.'s with John( so mean >:( ugh!) and Chloe. Go and eat the amazing chocolate peanut butter pie that you will regret for 3 days, then realize how amazing it was and it's not like you can't excersise to burn off the 1,000 calories you consumed while eating it and so you'll go for a run, or maybe even a bike ride, end up at starbucks and consume another 100 calories by getting the sugariest drink they have, then decide that didn't help get rid of the other calories you are filled with so you'll go home feeling all happy but fat at the same time.

Have fun! :D

But I'll be busy dancing to Avince and partying with Courtney and since it's Williams party, you know there will be awkward (sqwakward, wait, that looks so weird, how do you spell it, emilea?) moments but all in all it will be fun. And I won't be gaining any unnessecary weight. Haha.

mwahahaha.

ha.

haha.

hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

:D

The Host is so good. Or, at least, the first chapter. It was great. You should read it. And I should buy it. Too bad it doesn't come out until May 6. :( But Chosen comes out in...hold on...1, 2, 3...17 days! (I think) And then just 20 more until City of Ashes. Yay!

Yes, I wrote a substantial post!! Yay!

but I also have a poem. I actually have two that I want to put on here but I'm only gonna do one for today. This is gonna be a long post if I use one of them (it's a long poem) so I'm gonna use the other (I kind of like it better anyway)


solid waiting as the
hands tick--thump--by
those year long
minutes
that turn to seconds
and back again (not
slow or fast
or in-between, but all
of the above as the
hands thump(pound) by)
and other than the
clock counting the time,
rythmic beating, the only
sound
is none and all
that fill that none: the
bird, the wind whipping leaves
against windows, the
slight humming of the heat
/air conditioner
as the hands pound--tick--by
and I'm left
waiting


♥Heather
*smiles all around*

Heather is SUPER DUPER excited (and a little afraid...)

WE HAVE READERS!!!! EEEK!!!!!! I knew that commenting on Maureen Johnson blog would pay off!!! I'm so excited I can't type right now. I think I've just hit the backspace button more than any other key on the keyboard (possibly excluding e and a). EEK!!! that's so amazing. And readers leads to discussion, which leads to being well-known, which leads to interviews/advanced readers copies! EEK!! I don't think I can say that enough! EEK!

so clearly, you know what I'm excited about, but not the thing that has to do with that little nagging fear that bites at you like a mosquito. Okay, so it's not that serious. I'm talking about being afraid of getting the flu (well that's serious) and the amount of poetry. I wrote 7. SEVEN in the last 24 hours. 6 last night, 1 this morning on the bus. I'm only going to post two, the one I wrote this morning (and that Caroline has read...) and one from last night that I'm not so sure if I like. Maybe I do like it. Maybe I don't. I think by putting it on here, it will make me like it, lol.

Here goes:

Do you know where I live?
Where my heart is?
of course not, you couldn't.
I don't think you live there with me, with
us, our home. it's those
piles of print telling their story(our
story)--my story--of
fortunes and failures and
falling in love.
it's where my heart is.
is yours? is it with those
people I hold so near? with the
tales and treasures and
talking of love?
it should be. we live
together in bungalows and buildings and
barracks with love.
Do you know where I live?
Where my heart is?



the paint strokes across the canvas
gentle—and rough—thick and thin
melting the canvas into something
it isn’t, something that lies beneath:
a lush meadow

the heavy pencil scratches
the paper, leaving it’s mark behind
more scratches make eyes, a
mouth, a beautiful woman

the notes float across the
silence, as the brush and the pencil
do (as your words do) forming
something new, a masterpiece of
beauty and grace

it’s larger, more intricate than
that of the canvas and
paper. it covers the silence, swaying,
pounding, loving.

the beautiful woman dances
in the meadow


all right. what do you think of the first one? I think I'm leaning towards liking it. This obscene amount of poetry has to stop(okay, it doesn't have to stop, it's not bad. It just has to start scaring me less).
♥Heather

(I hope all is well with you and yours and if it is not, it is my sincere desire that things get better for you. I hope you are having a spectacular day, a Thrilling Thursday. Our tentative plan for today is...)

^did I get it right? Or close enough?

[Their Song]

silence
breaks free from the
tightening grip of music
and the last melodic note
hangs in the air, hovering
still ringing through her ears. she
closes her eyes--breathe
deep--and
soaks it all up, a cloth,
absorbing the liquid noise
that isn't there
but is still hidden under that
small pink but-ton
just waiting to be grasped again,
to be heard. her thumb
lingers, many sizes bigger, swallowing
it up, indecisive and waiting
for a signal, some sign or another
that tells her to press and
Release.


as much as I'm waiting for next Friday to come, it's the here and now that I am in. Here and now isn't so bad, is it? Just uneventful. Chlo-chlo! Excited for her, except she already has the natural drama that comes with that whole situation, lol. somebody was upset, it was awkward...I don't have all the details because, apparently, Kenny deserves to know before any of us and she was talking to him. I mean, I guess he's friends with Jonathan....whatever. Enough of that.

How was Mardi Gras in French? In general? At all?

going to the mounds of homework,
going to decide on a song that describes 'who I am',
going to go slummin' in paradise,
♥Heather

dedicated to you

dedicated to you who have once fallen in love with a fictional character. you who have more than once fallen in love with a fictional character. you who loves books and calls dibs on fictional characters for fun and whines when you forgot someone and somebody else took them.

here's to you:

heart pounding
breaking my ribs-shattering them
palms sweating
typical teenage love as they would say

no-it's more than that
something special
expanses of ocean
where we would float
the never-ending circles we'd make

my hand in your hair
red, brown, blonde, black
ever-changing
never need be the same

it's you, it's just you, always you
with seperate personalities
you're the same
always

I read your face
eyes
the illuminating smiles
I take it all in, loving every bit

I feel a tingle in my toes
a ripple in my blood
the flap of soft wings in my stomach

it's uncomfortably comfortable
as my mind
it wanders free
always coming back to you
never anyone else

minutes tick by
seconds to the words
jumbled on the page
spelling out your name

the letters come in waves
hitting against the ragged rocks
washing them, polishing them down
to soft gentle edges
smooth as glass

and ready to shatter
if one foul swell
should come to pass
should dare to touch me

breaking you down
erasing the beautiful existence
taking away a part
a part of me
a part they wrote into my heart

~♥~


It's amazing how, once you start writing poetry, you can't stop. You can't stop it. It's like the first brings on an entire river of words.

I've never written this much poetry. Ever. I think I've written more poems in the last few months than I have my entire life.

please comment. tell me how you like it. It is, after all, dedicated to you.
♥Heather

I really need to stay off the computer

I have one more post. Hopefully the last one for days. Hopefully, I'll be spending the next few days having an almost unbearable amount of fun. Hopefully, there will be so much laughing involved that everytime we breathe we are in pain from it. Hopefully, I'll get to spend the next few days with my best friends. But, until then...


drops of water on the pages
salt streaks on my cheeks
all are evidence to it
to my feeling for you

candy wrapper, chocolate smudges
stunning images, memorable words
never to be forgotten
in the midst of heartbreak

golden light through green leaves
illuminating every piece
unwordly glowing
I close my eyes tight

the words, the lyrics fly by
accompanying the musical eyes
haunting and lovely
glittering specks of every color

flash me a smile
bring me back to realization
as I replay what you said
and my legs give way

"I love you."


♥Heather

another poem

she said to her
"never let this end
make it go on forever
'till we're pale and cold

I don't want the time to come
of solitude and desolation
no time without the ones I have loved
right there beside me, every moment

the last should not come so soon
the first should be remembered always
but every one in between
are what makes it all worth it

the stories, the tales
the memories to come
shall not be forgotten
in all of the years

you are most important
I hope I am for you
because you will be there
the day I bond myself to someone else

the day my child is born
the day they go to school
the day they graduate
and last of all, the day I say my final goodbyes

my last will be to you"


so? Chloe says it's good, but I almost don't believe her...

Savior--part 3

final post of my story/novel:

₪ ₪ ₪

I step over the threshold. The music is blaring. Everyone has at least one partner. Girl or boy, just someone. Some have more. I, however, am left in eternal solitude. Left to wander alone and just hear scraps of other people’s conversations and never to have my own.

One girl’s voice stands out to me as I walk past the stairs. She is saying, “You need a new purse I’m tired of that one.”

I miss what the girl she is talking to says but I can hear the first girl’s laugh. It carries through the air over the music.

Other pieces of conversations reach me. Three girls are standing by the refrigerator, talking fast about a trip they are going on in a week. I think they are going to Disney World. I wish I could go with them. Be a part of their group. I’ve never been to Disney World.

I turn the corner into the living room and see two girls who seem just as alone as I am, except together—if that makes sense. One is writing in a little notebook that she has just pulled out of her over-large bag and the other is sitting next to her reading and occasionally glancing at what the other is writing.

They might be nothing like me, but their solitude makes me feel connected to them somehow. At the same time, I know I’m nothing like them. They have each other. I’m left with no one.

I’m not usually interested in joining conversations with people I don’t know, but anybody would do right now.

I make it through the entire house—upstairs and down, front yard and back—one and a half times. I turn to go—

“Hi.”

Is he talking to me?

“Hello?”

God, he must be. He’s looking right at me. Looking right at me with those gorgeous golden-brown eyes. Now that I see them up close, I see that they look like caramel. They even look like they are melting.

“Hi,” I manage to mutter. He doesn’t hear me and I can tell he’s debating whether or not to leave.

“Hi,” I say louder. He hears this time. His eyes smile.

“I’m Charlie. Brown. Charlie Brown,” he says grinning. I can’t help but laugh.

“Well, my names nothing that great, but I think it’s something special. I’m Piper Sutton,” I say. I reach out and grab his outstretched hand. Nobody shakes hands anymore.

“Piper’s a good name. I think it’s special, too. Uncommon. Not common.” He repeats things a lot. It’s cute.

I find myself staring at his mouth when he talks. It turns out, his eyes aren’t his only amazing feature. The curve of his smile, the shape of his lips, the way his teeth fit together perfectly. They are all perfect.

And it’s surprisingly easy for me to talk to him. I’ve never been able to talk to a guy. Okay, so I’ve been able to talk to the outcasts that sit at my lunch table, but that’s different. They’re not hot guys. Not like him. Not like Charlie. Charlie. What a wonderful name.

“You go to Waccamaw, don’t you?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts about him. I don’t mind.

“Yea…unfortunately,” I say, sighing. He gives a little laugh.

“I know. I’ve been here for one day and I already hate it. Hate it. But it’s getting better every second.”

My heart flutters. I can’t breathe. I really can’t breathe. Someone bumps up against me and the air comes back into my lungs. But then, I fall into him and he catches me, and my breath is gone again.

His arms are so warm. I want to stay there forever, but he stands me back up. My face is hot, and, looking up into his eyes, I feel goose bumps crawl up my arms.

Take a deep breath.

I do. The new air is helping. It’s washing out the embarrassment. Slowly I become normal again. I can breathe. I’m not shaking anymore.

We continue talking for hours. I don’t actually leave the party until almost midnight. He drives me home since I don’t have a car and Anna left me. I would normally hate her right now, but I love her.

Sitting in his car is perfect. It feels right. The whole ride is comfortable—besides my unsteady heart—and much different from the ride to the party. He is much better than Anna.

Going home feels awful now, whereas before I met Charlie, it would have felt amazing. Charlie is my savior. I’ve never believed in love at first sight before, but it must be something similar to that feeling I had when I looked into his eyes. Something similar to seeing him. To seeing Charlie.


End of chapter. End of posts. Begging for comments. This is the one I'm sending in. I've decided.

♥Heather

Savior--part two

ok, part two of the second chapter that is now titled as above. titled 'Savior'.
It hasn't been edited at all. just the regular spell check on Word.(I decided I was too lazy to edit it yet)
Please read and comment.
there will only be one post after this of my story unless I steal the separate blog idea which I don't think I will....

₪ ₪ ₪

My body is shaking. I’m rocking back and forth. No, someone else is shaking me, rocking me back and forth. I’ve been sleeping. My consciousness is just spurring into action.

I remember. I fell asleep on the bench. On my bench, and missed fourth block. But I’m not on the bench. I don’t feel the cold, black metal bars on my back. I’m not even sitting up. I’m in my bed, covers wrapped tightly around me. I had to have come home and gone to sleep. Yea, that’s it.

Anna’s hands are the ones shaking me.

“Wake up,” she says.

I groan and open my eyes. My eyes focus only enough to read the bright, gleaming red numbers of my alarm clock. 5:32. I can’t see anything other than that. 5:32. I shake off the covers and walk blindly into my bathroom. I grip the sink and look into the mirror. My vision finally clears and I see the red splotches on my face. They are a great contrast to the rest of my skin.

I unclench my fingers from the sink and turn on the faucet. I splash the icy water on my face. My senses become more alert. My hand stretches out, elbow stiff, to grab the last towel on the shelf and I dry off my face.

I make my way back to my bed and slump down on the warm covers. Tap. Tap. Tap. Anna taps her foot on the hardwood floor. Tap. Tap. Tap. Won’t she just stop? Tap. Tap! TAP!

“What?” I ask, jerking my head towards her and almost shouting.

She shrinks back form the unexpected response, then regains her composure.

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering why you weren’t getting ready for the party…” She says in her perfect taunting, sing-song voice.

“I’ve got an hour and a half!” Besides, why get ready for a party I don’t want to go to?”

“You obviously have no idea how much work it takes to prepare for a party.”

“Ugh.” She disgusts me. “Leave.”

“Fine. Whatever.” she says, walking out the door into the hallway.

I jump up from my bed and slam the door shut. I hear the muffled sound of her saying “cranky…” from the other side of the closed door. I stand there, fuming and trying to calm down. Once I’ve done so, I grab a towel from the laundry I haven’t folded yet, and go back into the bathroom. I hang the towel on the hook, take down my ponytail, and begin brushing my stubborn blonde hair. As I look in the mirror, I realize he’ll never remember me. I’m to plain and ordinary for him.

Once I’m out of the shower and dressed, I blow-dry my hair. It doesn’t take long for it to dry, but it does take a long time to make it not look bad(I’m unsuccessful and give up after almost thirty minutes).

I still have nearly forty-five minutes left until the party so I go over to my bookcase and pull out a battered and torn copy of Pride and Prejudice that I’ve read about a thousand times. I open to the first page and start reading as I walk slowly back to my bed where I plop down and wait.

By the time Anna is done staring at herself in the mirror, doing her makeup and perfecting her already perfect hair, I’ve finished half of the book. She walks in and starts yelling at me.

“What are you doing reading? We should be leaving in a few minutes. And…oh my god…you’re wearing that?” She rolls her eyes and runs over to my closet. She tears through the clothes, looking for something ‘suitable’.

I look down at my clothes. Dark jeans and a gray camisole and sweater. What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? I look up at Anna, still digging through my closet, throwing out clothes she thinks are hideous—she throws out most of them. She’s wearing a pink and white striped blouse and a mini skirt. Oh, now I know what’s wrong with mine. It’s not preppy and girly.


I refuse all the options Anna gives me, so she reluctantly leaves the room to get her car keys. It’s been fifteen minutes and so we leave way later than she wanted us to. The ride to the party is unbearable. Full of awkward silences, unspoken irritation, and evil glares. At least sixteen times—in the fourteen minutes it takes to get there—Anna looks down at my clothes with her face crumpled in disgust. I give a disgusted look right back at her every single time.

After the fourteen minutes—I was counting—of pure agony, we arrive at the party. The front lawn is crowded with people talking to each other and making their way to the front door. Some of them are drinking. Most of the kids live in this neighborhood and walked, so it’s easy to find a spot to park not too far away.

Anna cuts off the engine of her shiny blue corvette, and, with the sudden silence, the music becomes distinguishable and I can hear every word. It’s some hip-hop song I hate with a dance movie I can’t do. Anna starts nodding her head to the beast and mouthing the words. She grabs her purse and opens the door. I just sit here, staring. I don’t want to go in. Ever.

She places the soles of her pink Jimmy Choos on the pavement and starts o get up, but looks back at me, still sitting and staring.

“Are you coming?” she asks.

I sit and stare some more.

“Hello? Piper? Are you with us?”

Still sitting and staring.

“Are—you—coming?” she says, spacing out the words as if I’m dumb.

I finally move and grunt, then reach for the door handle and step out. When my converse hits the pavement, the sound is far from that of Anna’s heels.

My body moves like a robot. One small movement at a time. Not thinking about what I’m doing is the best option. I’m not walking towards my death. Just to a party where I’m not going to know anyone—or at lest, no one who know me.

The sound of Anna’s steps join mine, maybe a foot back. We get closer and closer. Someone shouts her name. She runs off to greet whoever it was, leaving me alone, walking towards my version of hell.

₪ ₪ ₪

there it is. part two of chapter two.

comment please...especially you, caroline because you were the one who told me to post this.

and emilea too.
luvya
♥Heather

Golden Brown(possible chapter title)

The 2nd chapter of my novel is possibly titled as above. It's rough and raw. Not edited at all, so beware of adverbs, nonsensical babbling and mistakes. It's not that long at all so without further ado, I present to you Chapter II Part I:


You know that feeling you get when you're absolutely dreading something, but you can't wait for it to happen? Where the time varies speeds, one day going by fast, the next slow? And the whole time, you have this queasy feeling and everything feels so surreal?

It sucks, doesn't it? I would know. The last three days of school have been filled with that feeling. I walk through the halls in a daze, not seeing, not hearing, not noticing. The only one I've payed attention to is Felicia. There is no way to ignore her. There's no way to ignore her incessant comments on my parents decision about the party.

"Your mother is seriously mental."
"How about I come with you, then you come to my house whenever we leave."
"At least you don't have to stay and can leave whenever you want."
"Why should you be more like Anna?"
"Ugh. I would hate to have your mom."

None of the penetrate my ears. I hear the words but I don't realize what she's saying. Sometimes, I wish she'd just shut-up. She always talks excessively. My own little chatter-box.

Sitting at the table in the cafeteria that we share with other outcasts, I stare at my lunch. A baked potato and salad. The salad if full of hard, white lettuce and other mysterious vegetables, and the potato is the size of my palm. Some lunch this is. I attempt to eat some of my baked potato, then push it away, disgusted.

All the while, Felicia is busy chatting away about something-or-another. I should be listening. I'm not. I have no interest in what she's saying. Some best friend I am. Instead of listening to the one person conversation, I glance around at the tables. Here and there people that I know dot the sea of ones I don't.

There's Anna, surrounded by the usual twenty or so friends, all yammering away about something useless. My eyes continue past them, following the line of people awaiting a disgusting lunch. I pity them. moving on, my eyes take in the bulletin boards tacked with notices for sports and clubs--ones I wish to be a part of--and fliers on ways to show your school spirit. Haha. School Spirit? For this school. Yea right. That's the best joke I've heard all day.

My eyes stop trailing around the cafeteria. They're stuck on someone. Someone new. Someone I've never seen before.

He's followed in the door by two others--a girl and a boy--that look related to him. They're all gorgeous. He's especially gorgeous. Even from all the way across the room, i can see his golden brown eyes. They cut into my soul. I can feel his gaze penetrate mine. He sees me staring at him, but I can't tear my eyes from his. I can't severe this magnificent connection. It's the best I've felt in a long time.

I hear a word break off halfway through somewhere near me. It's Felicia. She's stopped talking. She knows I'm staring at something. God, please, don't let her see.

She does, of course. I know because she shrieks with pleasure. I force myself to pull out of his eyes and back to reality. I look over at Felicia. Her metal covered teeth are showing in a wide grin. She looks at me.

"OMG! Piper, did you see that guy? Hot. Incredibly. The best. God. Catch your breath, Felicia. Did you? Did you see him?" she asks, yet again.

The words are caught in my throat. A bemused expression is locked in place on my face. I can't move. She doesn't care if I answer. She goes on anyway.

"Wow. It must have hurt falling from heaven like that. Wow. They must be his brother and sister. Those other two. Wow. Is that all I can say. Wow."

Finally, my voice finds it's way out of my mouth. "Yea. I saw him," I say. "And yea, wow."

That's all I can muster. The rest of her words are lost to me. My mind is still back there, in his eyes. For a moment, there was nothing but us. Nothing but our eyes, intertwined in one of those suspended-in-time, heart-pounding, palm-sweating moments. In other words, the greatest moment of my life.

I look around again. Past the doors, past the bulletin boards, past the lines, searching for him. Of course, my vision fails me. He's not anywhere.

My heart sinks. I push back my chair, pick up my books, and walk out of the cafeteria, ignoring Felicia's shouts. I go to my favorite spot in the whole school, the bench right outside. The day is sunny. I take a seat on the bench, setting down my books, and pull my knees up to my chest. I press my forehead to my knees and close my eyes.

* * *

Comments? Please?

Thank you!

luvya

♥Heather

*Charades*

Ok, so here's the story: I started with an idea. An idea for a story--sorry, wrong word...novel? yea, I'll go with that--for a novel with a pretty great plot line. The details were missing, but the plot line was there and solid. But you can't write anything without some details, can you? And the details weren't there because it was set in the Victorian Era and, well, I don't live in the Victorian Era and never have.

I started to research that time period, but, because the magic of the internet has decided to cease to exist, I couldn't anything good. My first few chapters sound like pieces of...crap(with a few momentarily spots of brilliance{yea, I sound full of myself}).

So, a new novel was born. One with a similar plot line but more vague, unfinished. But the details are all there(well, most of them). That's the important part. And so I began and here it is in all it's wordy glory, The First Chapter:


It’s too late. She’s made up her mind. I’m going to have to go to that stupid party. There is no way around it. I knew it would come to this, but I give one last feeble attempt to convince her otherwise. My voice comes out a strained sound, just above a whisper, “But Mom, why in the world are you forcing me to go to a party? Shouldn’t you be doing the opposite, trying to keep me from having any fun? Even though that’s basically what you’re doing by forcing me to go.”

I mumble the last sentence under my breath. She hears it—I can always tell—but goes on as if I’ve said nothing.

“Piper, that’s enough. You’re being ridiculous,” she replies. “Your sister is going. You can go as well.”

“But she has nothing else to do. That’s what her life is. Her thought process basically goes like this: partying, me, friends, me, pretty, me, money, me. Besides, I don’t want to go with her. Going is bad enough, but with her?”

I’m lying. I’ve found I do that a lot lately. The truth is, I am completely, and totally, one hundred percent jealous of Anna. She’s the most popular girl in school—and a year older than me. I have maybe two good friends—at the most. She gets invited to everything. I get invited to nothing. She’s absolutely beautiful and looks just like mom. I look nothing like either of them. There is no resemblance at all between my mother and I. the difference is almost abnormal, a total anomaly. My mother and sister are fully gorgeous, like angels. I wouldn’t be surprised if they sprouted wings and flew off to heaven.

They have perfect, tanned complexions. Their noses are small and straight, and their faces are heart-shaped. Their full lips are perfectly shaped and just the right shade of almost-scarlet, fitting in perfectly with the roses in their cheeks. Long, wavy, chocolate-brown hair falls in cascades over their shoulders, twisting and turning at just the right spots, always perfectly messy. Perfectly in place. Never a strand hanging in the wrong spot. How can curly hair look that perfect?

My hair could never look like that. It’s a ridiculous mess of blonde, inflexibly straight and utterly screwed up. I can never get it to do what I want it to do; I can’t pin it, put it up in a bun, braid it, pigtail it, or even keep it down without it looking pitiful. The lank strands fall where they may, and I cant do anything about it.

None of our other features are remotely alike either. My nose is nowhere near small and my lips form a thin, rose-colored line, breaking up my face, dividing chin from upper lip. My face is long and ovular and my cheeks are never rosy. My entire face is pale as can be. A ghost. That’s what I’ve been frequently called since I move to this sunny, little hell-hole people like to call South Carolina. I could attempt to tan, but no sun would ever bring color to my face. I will always be pale. Always. I can’t even get through a day of school without someone telling me I look sick or telling me that I’m pale—as if I didn’t already know. My eyes are the same way. Not a day passes that I don’t get a comment on them. They are a bright, luminescent green—almost like an emerald, hard and solid—nothing like the delicate, cerulean eyes of my mother and sister.

The only other person I’ve seen with eyes like mine is Miss Abby, my tutor. Her real name is Abigail ­­____—she actually wants me to call her Miss Abby. Weird, right? She used to be my nanny, but when I got older, and didn’t need a nanny anymore, she took her place as my tutor. My family has always had that kind of money. My dad is a lawyer and my mom is a real-estate agent. The perfect example of a Pawley’s mom—it’s too bad we’re about fifteen miles north of Pawley’s Island.

I’ve always secretly wished to look and be like my mom. I put on this façade that I can’t stand her or the rest of my family—the rebellious teen act—but just like it is with my sister, I really do aspire to be like her. I don't hate her at all. But nothing about us is the same. Nothing. We aren’t even the same size or body-type. She’s a size two. Skinny as can be, but yet still not small. She’s not because she’s tall. About five foot seven. Not small at all, but she just looks so tiny compared to me. I’m already up to five-nine and still growing. I wouldn’t call myself a monster, but I am tall. I wouldn’t call myself fat either; I’m just…not a size two. My hips are larger, and my legs are longer. My body is disproportionate. I’ve learned to live with it…to an extent.

The differences don’t stop there. They go deeper. If you compare our personalities, it’s even worse. We are farther from each other in that aspect than we are in any other. Her happy demeanor follows her everywhere. She’s one of those people you can’t help but love. I’m nothing like that. Sometimes, I try to be, but my miserable attempt at appearing cheerful doesn’t work. It doesn’t fool anybody. Everyone can see right through my charade. They know I’m not the happiest person.

I’m not depressed. I just have a lot of trouble calling this place home. It never feels right, the word ‘home’. When I say it in my mind, it’s like that one puzzle piece that never fits, no matter how hard you cram it. When I say it out loud, I have even more trouble. I try to refrain from using that word in reference to my…current living situation. Living is South Carolina is not the jolly experience it’s cracked up to be. It’s hot, humid, and has mosquitoes that eat you alive.

The day we moved here, when I was in second grade, was the worst eighteen hours of my life. We spent forever loading up the moving van and then we drove all the way from New York. That’s a lot of time to be cramped in a tiny Honda with a bunchy of bags and suitcases. The worst experience of my eight-year-old life.

New York. That’s the place I call home. That’s where my family is. My real family. That’s where we left them behind. This family here is different. Not the same. Fake.

People ask me how I remember what it was like…I was just eight, but I remember everything. Like how we used to sit in the living room after dinner and tell stories. Stories of school. Stories of work. Made-up stories. Ghost stories. Just stories. We would laugh, scream, and cry together. Whatever we did, it was always together, as a family. As a whole. It was always real. Here, nothing’s real. We never sit after dinner and tell stories. We never talk like we used to. We never do anything together. We aren’t a family. I know it sounds lame coming from a seventeen-year-old, but it’s true. I miss the ridiculous stories. I miss talking to them. I miss my family.

I look up into my mother’s sky blue eyes. They are searching mine, trying to fathom my thoughts. She’s caring. That’s important. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but I know she’s caring about me. That’s all that matters right now.

“There will always be another Saturday to go to Felicia’s house or hole-up in your room—whatever you’re planning,” she says. “This weekend your are going to go to this party.”

What is wrong with her?

“Fine,” I say, groaning. I shouldn’t cop an attitude with her. It will just make everything worse, but the frustration and resentment is building up inside of me. My blood's boiling. My skin prickles and my lips purse. I can’t just do nothing. I can’t be forced to go against my own will.

“But—”

“But nothing!” she says, raising her voice and cutting me off. “This is final. Conversation over!”

I hate it when she does this. I can’t handle the pressure. A person yelling never helps calm me down. It does the exact opposite. Shouting just makes me upset. And once I cry, I can’t just cut it out. As soon as the first tear drops, a hundred more will follow. My eyes sting with the burn of oncoming tears. They threaten to flood over the ledge, to run down my face in a pouring river, falling fast. I have to close my eyes to hold them back; my eyelids act as a dam, keeping the tears inside.

Thomas Sutton, my father, walks around the corner. I know it’s him even with my eyes closed. The way he steps, placing one foot after the other in a steady pattern. The way his presence feels. I can just feel him standing there. He has a commanding quality about him. Walking in, he stops the tears from bubbling up. I am free to open my eyes and take in the sight of him. He is tall and broad shouldered—a football players build. His hair is the perfect shade of sandy brown, matching his tanned, olive skin. Despite his rough looks, he has laugh lines etched into his face. The laugh lines that come from many years of his joyous character. He is very well known for his lively personality in and out of the courtroom. His kind nature is what I prize most about having him for a father.

“Now, what’s going on here?” he asks jokingly, as if he hasn’t heard every word from the other room. He’s trying to break the tension. It works. He doesn’t have to put much effort into it. He easily cuts through the strain in the air.

He has this effect on my mother. Before the words are even out of his mouth, she puts on this would-be charming smile and swoons over him. It’s like he’s her drug-dealer and she’s in some serious need of crack. Maybe that’s not the best way to describe it, but going to a school like Waccamaw—where there are a bunch of druggies—drug references are the first to come to mind.

But, anyway, you get the picture. It’s disgusting. Public displays of affection are not on the top of my ‘favorite things list’. When my mom is done falling all over my father, he looks at me with sympathetic eyes.

“You know, honey,” he says to my mom. “Maybe you shouldn’t force Piper to go to this party. She obviously doesn’t want to go…”

“No. I want her to be more social,” she says. “I want her to be more like Anna, and go out with her friends.”

Typical.

“But none of those people are even my friends!” I say, practically shouting. “And why can’t I, just for once, be like myself instead of Anna?”

“You don’t want to be more like yourself if yourself is a hermit. You’ll end up alone with tons of cats.”

“No. I do want to be myself. And I am not a hermit! Just because I don’t decide to act fake like all of you, doesn’t mean I’m an unsociable hermit!”

I see it. The look on her face. A look like I’ve just slapped her. I knew that it would hurt her. It just…came out. I didn’t mean it. Okay, so I did, but I didn’t mean to say it.

“Piper, please. Stop shouting,” my father says, consolingly. Then he turns to my mother. “Sweetie, maybe Piper can go and if she feels like leaving, she can. It doesn’t matter if she stays.”

I roll my eyes. My father sees it.

“I don’t care if you go for an hour, or a second. Just go. It will make your mother happy and it will stop all this god-damn arguing.”

There he goes again. Making peace. Why does he have to be so good at it?

“All right, but I am going to leave. I know I will,” I say.

“That’s fine with me,” he says.

Here, my mother joins the conversation again, “Fine. I just wish she’d be more sociable.”

There’s my cue to roll my eyes again, so I do. He sees it, again. He grins, and, of course, starts to laugh. He’s done it again and so proud of himself. He can’t help but laugh. And when he does, I’m reminded of just how much I love that sound.


That's it. How is it?

P.S. Emilea: You will be happy to know, I only edited this 1 1/2 times(it may need just a little bit more though) I did the whole thing once just for typos(errors in spelling, accidental letters--and numbers--etc.) Then, I did it again actually editing the content.(I count this collectively as once)
Then, I did the 3rd and 4th paragraphs once more because they were stubbornly adverb-filled(and still kind of are)

P.P.S. Caroline: Definitely not as good as yours but still hoping it's good. Is it? I'm dying to know. Was I mistaken in posting it for all the world to see? Was I right in doing it?

Questions? Comments? Concerns?
Comments especially. please.
luvya
♥Heather