Bending over a pad of a paper, I sat on the couch, busily scratching away a letter I was writing as Constance Phelps, the character I'm going to play in our co-op's annual production. Creeping into the corners, yellowed light crawled over the expanse of the floor. My parents reclined at a desk, conversing with each other.
"Do you think we should tell her?" Mom said, looking at Dad. He nodded a slow, casual consent.
"Tell me what?" I asked.
She turned to look at me. "We planned a little surprise for your sweet sixteen...do you want to know what it is or do you want to be surprised?"
I wasn't sure. What do you say? If it's a surprise, then don't you want to, well...be surprised? At the same momen, however, I was held captive by an insatiable curiosity.
"Just let me guess," I finally said.
I guessed quite a few things- Jonas Brothers tickets (well, Dad DID use the hint JB in D, and by doing so claimed that for my surprise we were going to drive past the Jonas Brothers' new house in Dallas, since we were staying there at the time), Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (which came from Broadway to a local theater last week), The Phantom of the Opera (based on another of Dad's silly clues- POTO), Broadway, New York City, etc. THEN they proceeded to tell me that all of those things were indirectly related...hmmmm...sounded interesting!!!!!
"The Jollys are coming?" I finally said.
They looked at each other knowingly, making noises that communicated to me my little hunch was correct!
Saying she had been wondering how to make my birthday one that I'd remember, Mom proceeded to tell me that she thought to contact Mrs. Jolly and ask if the girls could come down. But...ssssshhhhhh! They couldn't tell- it was supposed to be a surprise!
That very day, Ellen, whose birthday is six days before mined, had been texting me, saying that it was our b-days soon and stuff like that. Completely unaware that my mother had similar intentions, I suggested that we celebrate our birthdays together. Mom said that my telling her this compelled her even further to e-mail the Jollys.
On Thursday, Ellen saw the e-mail. Calling to her mom, she asked her if they could do it. Ten minutes later, while on the phone with Mr. Jolly, she gave Ellen a thumbs up!
"I was in shock for like five minutes!" Katie exclaimed as she retold how Ellen had dragged her out of the schoolroom to tell her the news.
So now I sat in a Dallas hotel room, a huge smile tilting the corners of my lips as I absorbed everything Mom and Dad told me. It was unbelievable. Things the girls and I had been talking about but had pretty much written-off as impossible were coming true in an instant! For example, this time they'll be staying for not five days, or six days, but TEN WHOLE DAYS!!!! Also, we had for almost a year been hoping without much hope that they could come to the Spring Ball, which is a Christianized, family-oriented version of the prom that our co-op puts on every year for the teens and their parents. We're all totally excited for that, since going to the Hoedown AND the Ball was initially a "no" for the girls- and now we're all talking about possibly getting up-dos done from someone we know who does 'em cheap!
And perhaps the icing on the cake for me is the movie. Katie and I have a dream of becoming actresses and starring in movies together. And now, we have that opportunity- on a sort of smaller scale, but it's an opportunity nonetheless. The assistant director for our co-op's play sent out an e-mail to everyone saying she was in charge of getting a group of people together to do a local movie shoot. I've been trying to get Bekah to do it for a while, but she wasn't sure. It was kind of disappointing to know that no one I was super close with was going to be on set. And, then....
"I talked to Mrs. Furnish and arranged for them to do the movie," Mom announced.
By then, I wanted to scream. The whole thing was unbelievable! For months, all of these things had been simply dreams to the girls and I- right down to the very time slot being considered and like the exact number of days we had wanted to hang out together (10-14, we had been saying). And now, within a few days, they were all coming true!!!!
So the fearsome foursome (Bekah's stayin' too. She absolutely FREAKED when I told her!!!) will be complete once more. Thanks so much, Mom and Dad! You guys made my- year!!!
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
A Few Poems
"I love the sound of words," I announced a couple nights back while standing over a stack of school books in the study.
It's true. Words a certain ring- a music to them. Sweet, subtle, unobtrusive music that fills the soul with awe, sends chills down the spine spine, or soothes the weary at heart. Sometimes symphonious melody is obvious, as when one reads a work of Shakespeare, other times (most exemplified by modern day novels) it is not. But whether prettily pompous or soundlessly sly, there is magic, charm, and intrigue in reading a string of flowing words.
Perhaps the sounds of a sentence display themselves best within the rhyme in meter of a poem. Now, poetry is very difficult to compose, since differing types of stanzas require different rhymes and meters. Many times, the number of lines is regulated as well, so the author only has so much space to express their thoughts! The compact compressment of these ideas straight from the heart and soul of the author polishes and enhances the sound which trumpets forth, however, causing (at least for me) a very pleasant read to occur.
Poetry is also a good way to get your thoughts out, and lately I've been finding myself in the wee hours of the morning (knowing that I'm really supposed to be in bed and must retire into sleep's jurisdiction soon), scribbling down a sloppily metered-out poem. And I just love it. The minute my pencil touches the blank paper and I think of what I'm going to write, I feel as if to pen words is my calling, that something great will eventually come of it- and I know I'd rather spend my life doing it than doing anything else. It's the most amazing feeling in the world, and one that cannot be repeated. Through my first attempts at poetry, I have found a renewed love of words, and I thank God that He has given me this gift because it brings me complete joy. And, once all of life's complications are sorted out on paper, I have a sense of peace.
Since I'm loving this new little hobby of mine so much, I've decided to share a few of my poems with you. Now, don't count the meters because they're terrible, but I hope you will be able to at least try to enjoy my pitiful stabs at perfecting poetry.
And that is All I Ask
Pages empty, blank, and bland,
Taunting me with might,
Daring me to set in hand,
Whatever I may write.
Poem, or prose, or fiction powerful,
Flow from this daunting task.
Whatever it is, may it please God,
And that is all I ask.
I'm Not Your Love (This is actually the chorus to a song I'm writing, but I also passed it as a poem for a Valentine's Day party)
One look in your eyes,
And I know your heart's bleedin',
I've hurt you so deep,
There's no hidin' your feelins'.
I'm sorry I can't be,
What you've been dreamin' of.
I'm sorry for everything,
But I'm not your love.
The Poisoned Pen (more a proverb than a poem)
Writing writ with poisoned pen,
Is better never writ than read.
It's true. Words a certain ring- a music to them. Sweet, subtle, unobtrusive music that fills the soul with awe, sends chills down the spine spine, or soothes the weary at heart. Sometimes symphonious melody is obvious, as when one reads a work of Shakespeare, other times (most exemplified by modern day novels) it is not. But whether prettily pompous or soundlessly sly, there is magic, charm, and intrigue in reading a string of flowing words.
Perhaps the sounds of a sentence display themselves best within the rhyme in meter of a poem. Now, poetry is very difficult to compose, since differing types of stanzas require different rhymes and meters. Many times, the number of lines is regulated as well, so the author only has so much space to express their thoughts! The compact compressment of these ideas straight from the heart and soul of the author polishes and enhances the sound which trumpets forth, however, causing (at least for me) a very pleasant read to occur.
Poetry is also a good way to get your thoughts out, and lately I've been finding myself in the wee hours of the morning (knowing that I'm really supposed to be in bed and must retire into sleep's jurisdiction soon), scribbling down a sloppily metered-out poem. And I just love it. The minute my pencil touches the blank paper and I think of what I'm going to write, I feel as if to pen words is my calling, that something great will eventually come of it- and I know I'd rather spend my life doing it than doing anything else. It's the most amazing feeling in the world, and one that cannot be repeated. Through my first attempts at poetry, I have found a renewed love of words, and I thank God that He has given me this gift because it brings me complete joy. And, once all of life's complications are sorted out on paper, I have a sense of peace.
Since I'm loving this new little hobby of mine so much, I've decided to share a few of my poems with you. Now, don't count the meters because they're terrible, but I hope you will be able to at least try to enjoy my pitiful stabs at perfecting poetry.
And that is All I Ask
Pages empty, blank, and bland,
Taunting me with might,
Daring me to set in hand,
Whatever I may write.
Poem, or prose, or fiction powerful,
Flow from this daunting task.
Whatever it is, may it please God,
And that is all I ask.
I'm Not Your Love (This is actually the chorus to a song I'm writing, but I also passed it as a poem for a Valentine's Day party)
One look in your eyes,
And I know your heart's bleedin',
I've hurt you so deep,
There's no hidin' your feelins'.
I'm sorry I can't be,
What you've been dreamin' of.
I'm sorry for everything,
But I'm not your love.
The Poisoned Pen (more a proverb than a poem)
Writing writ with poisoned pen,
Is better never writ than read.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Gomorrah- First Excerpt
A pale, dusty dusk settle over the flat, Texas plain. Slowly, the stone-strewn gravel roads drained themselves of the bustling blood sustaining desolate desert life. Mothers gathered their children about them, glancing into the shadows as they corralled them into the house. For a few minutes, dark yellow lights glumly glowed from the homesteads- billows of smoke poisoning the air as they spilled from the stacks. Scents of cooking meat and roasting vegetables seared the atmosphere. Then, with sluggish languidity shades draped over the houses’ drooping eyes, extinguishing the light with its black barricade.
Connor Adams, arm resting on the wheel of an old red truck, squinted into the blackness, counting homes as he passed by. Beyond him, the country yawned on and on, deep and cavernous, waiting to swallow him whole. 1, 2, 3….
Rocks rolled under his tires, jarring his way as he bounced along, headlights plowing their way through the night. 4, 5, 6….
Tossing a nervous glance behind his shoulder, he pulled into the seventh driveway. A slight chuckle escaped his lips as his eyes lighted upon the garage door. Crisp, crimson paint contrasted sharply against the withered planks, which were washed in a cracked coat of white. The red cross, still freshly vivid, bled its pitiful tears, crying out in scarlet drops for the community that created it. Through its middle, it tolerated a terrible black slash, and beneath it, inky, emboldened words made this statement:
“Painted with the blood of the Lamb.”
Connor chuckled again, imagining what the young reverend’s reaction must have been when he saw it. The color had probably drained right out of his enthusiastic, cheery face. He might have even dropped his Bible. Now that would’ve been a sight to see!
Tap, tap!
Jumping out of his reverie, the boy peered out of his window and into the dark, dreary world. His girlfriend, Amelia, stood outside, huddled against the cold of the night. She held her hot pink purse protectively to her being.
Click!
The doors popped open with a press of his finger. Winking at the girl, he gestured to her with a flick of his head. Uneasiness echoed in her gaze, and she turned towards the slumbering house once more.
Knitting his brows together, he bit his lip. She wasn’t usually like this. Something must be wrong.
Beneath the gentle rap of his knuckles, a hollow pound resounded, resonating like judgmental gavel. “C’mon, Amy….”
She faced him once again. Beckoning her inside, he pointed to his wrist. They didn’t have much time.
Uncertainty still rang through her being. Staring at him dumbly, she wavered, swaying a bit with the blow of the wind. A little voice whispered inside her, small and still in this breathless moment- this pivotal choice. It begged her, beseeched her, to go back, to return to her parents, to listen to them, and to never look back.
Looking behind her once more, she sighed. They were sure to find out- bound to find out. She couldn’t hide forever.
Pound, pound, pound!
When she turned around, Connor gazed back at her, his big, brown eyes swallowing her in his snare. Slowly, she reached out, fingers wrapping around the car door handle. She had promised. Given her word. And she couldn’t bail out. Not now.
Pulling upon the handle, she swung the door ajar and climbed in. The worn cushions failed to comfort the squeaking seats, releasing eerie moans from the pit of the vehicle. Quickly, she thrust her purse onto her lap and reached for her seat belt. The heat of Connor’s keen gaze prickled the back of her neck, beads of sweat breaking over the surface of her skin. Sliding the belt into its little receiver, she locked herself into her fate.
She refused to look at him, concentrating all her attentions alluding to somewhere else…somewhere beyond the fragile silence fallen between them. The unknown force fettered her body in tremulous shakes. Peeling back the zipper of her bag, she dove her hands deep inside, probing at the darkness gawking at her through the gaping hole. Lipstick, coupons, wallet….
The subtle drumming of her heart escalated into a wild pound, ringing throughout the perverted night, filling it with the knowledge of their very presence. Leaping nimbly over the contents, her fingers fled about, retreating from the time she knew was not their friend.
She halted. Pressing lightly down, she explored the item found. Plastic molded beneath her touch, mounding only at the bottom. A sigh escaped her lips. It was still there.
“Right,” she said, zipping up the bag and encircling it in her arms once more. Flipping her chin into the air, she set her jaw, staring down the dark cloak smothering the windows with the lack of light. “Hurry, before they see us.”
The ancient motor sputtered and spat, grunting as it struggled to start. Shoving the key deeper into the ignition, Connor’s face convulsed into many lines as he twisted it about. Amelia looked at him, concern creeping past her nervous composure. Tense silence tautened the atmosphere, suffocating them in its close quarters.
Groaning one last time, an outburst of ire issued from the throat of the vehicle, winding its fateful spin through the darkness of the night. The thread of threat looped around the moment, constricting all into the confinements of its slight, slender, knot. Digging her fingers into the seat, Amelia braced herself. Lurching, the engine roared into life, the beams of light before them once more paving their way.
Swerving around pot holes, Connor gripped the steering wheel with a steady hand. Amelia set her jaw, eyes glued to the house hung with the awnings of blackness. Her heart fluttered like a wingless bird, wanting nothing more than to soar, to get out of this mess, to be free. With every passing second, the roll of the wheels sent the building further and further into the shadows. Just a little more now….
They pulled onto the road and, with great stealth, crept quietly away.
Connor Adams, arm resting on the wheel of an old red truck, squinted into the blackness, counting homes as he passed by. Beyond him, the country yawned on and on, deep and cavernous, waiting to swallow him whole. 1, 2, 3….
Rocks rolled under his tires, jarring his way as he bounced along, headlights plowing their way through the night. 4, 5, 6….
Tossing a nervous glance behind his shoulder, he pulled into the seventh driveway. A slight chuckle escaped his lips as his eyes lighted upon the garage door. Crisp, crimson paint contrasted sharply against the withered planks, which were washed in a cracked coat of white. The red cross, still freshly vivid, bled its pitiful tears, crying out in scarlet drops for the community that created it. Through its middle, it tolerated a terrible black slash, and beneath it, inky, emboldened words made this statement:
“Painted with the blood of the Lamb.”
Connor chuckled again, imagining what the young reverend’s reaction must have been when he saw it. The color had probably drained right out of his enthusiastic, cheery face. He might have even dropped his Bible. Now that would’ve been a sight to see!
Tap, tap!
Jumping out of his reverie, the boy peered out of his window and into the dark, dreary world. His girlfriend, Amelia, stood outside, huddled against the cold of the night. She held her hot pink purse protectively to her being.
Click!
The doors popped open with a press of his finger. Winking at the girl, he gestured to her with a flick of his head. Uneasiness echoed in her gaze, and she turned towards the slumbering house once more.
Knitting his brows together, he bit his lip. She wasn’t usually like this. Something must be wrong.
Beneath the gentle rap of his knuckles, a hollow pound resounded, resonating like judgmental gavel. “C’mon, Amy….”
She faced him once again. Beckoning her inside, he pointed to his wrist. They didn’t have much time.
Uncertainty still rang through her being. Staring at him dumbly, she wavered, swaying a bit with the blow of the wind. A little voice whispered inside her, small and still in this breathless moment- this pivotal choice. It begged her, beseeched her, to go back, to return to her parents, to listen to them, and to never look back.
Looking behind her once more, she sighed. They were sure to find out- bound to find out. She couldn’t hide forever.
Pound, pound, pound!
When she turned around, Connor gazed back at her, his big, brown eyes swallowing her in his snare. Slowly, she reached out, fingers wrapping around the car door handle. She had promised. Given her word. And she couldn’t bail out. Not now.
Pulling upon the handle, she swung the door ajar and climbed in. The worn cushions failed to comfort the squeaking seats, releasing eerie moans from the pit of the vehicle. Quickly, she thrust her purse onto her lap and reached for her seat belt. The heat of Connor’s keen gaze prickled the back of her neck, beads of sweat breaking over the surface of her skin. Sliding the belt into its little receiver, she locked herself into her fate.
She refused to look at him, concentrating all her attentions alluding to somewhere else…somewhere beyond the fragile silence fallen between them. The unknown force fettered her body in tremulous shakes. Peeling back the zipper of her bag, she dove her hands deep inside, probing at the darkness gawking at her through the gaping hole. Lipstick, coupons, wallet….
The subtle drumming of her heart escalated into a wild pound, ringing throughout the perverted night, filling it with the knowledge of their very presence. Leaping nimbly over the contents, her fingers fled about, retreating from the time she knew was not their friend.
She halted. Pressing lightly down, she explored the item found. Plastic molded beneath her touch, mounding only at the bottom. A sigh escaped her lips. It was still there.
“Right,” she said, zipping up the bag and encircling it in her arms once more. Flipping her chin into the air, she set her jaw, staring down the dark cloak smothering the windows with the lack of light. “Hurry, before they see us.”
The ancient motor sputtered and spat, grunting as it struggled to start. Shoving the key deeper into the ignition, Connor’s face convulsed into many lines as he twisted it about. Amelia looked at him, concern creeping past her nervous composure. Tense silence tautened the atmosphere, suffocating them in its close quarters.
Groaning one last time, an outburst of ire issued from the throat of the vehicle, winding its fateful spin through the darkness of the night. The thread of threat looped around the moment, constricting all into the confinements of its slight, slender, knot. Digging her fingers into the seat, Amelia braced herself. Lurching, the engine roared into life, the beams of light before them once more paving their way.
Swerving around pot holes, Connor gripped the steering wheel with a steady hand. Amelia set her jaw, eyes glued to the house hung with the awnings of blackness. Her heart fluttered like a wingless bird, wanting nothing more than to soar, to get out of this mess, to be free. With every passing second, the roll of the wheels sent the building further and further into the shadows. Just a little more now….
They pulled onto the road and, with great stealth, crept quietly away.
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