Phenomenon

Read other Sunday Scribblings here.

It was out of the blue. When the scream cut through the thick foggy air, I can hardly contain myself. It was my own scream, coming from the far depths of some shallow well. Yet, I did not think that it was my own voice.

The road was slick that day. I was driving a rental, a blue Lexus. Out of nowhere, came a deer right on the center of the road. Trying to avoid hitting it, I had to swivel the car to the right. I hit the brakes but it didn't stop the car from smashing into a large rock causing the front wheel to squeezed into my chest. The airbag opened into my face, my lips touched the fabric. All at once there was sharp pain everywhere. I lifted my head up. My head started to spin and all I can see was a blurry image of what was in front of me.

As the image became clearer, I saw blood on the airbag. I touched my forehead and felt liquid spilling down my face. My fingers showed a liquidly red. My head throbbed so badly, I thought I might just died at that moment. I looked around me. The right side of the car door was almost pressed against me. I pushed hard at the car door handle on my left. It managed to opened. As I slowly moved my body out, a dizzy feeling rushed over me. My head still spinning and all I felt like doing was to lay down. I leaned forward, my face pressed to my knees. I tried to breathe at a normal pace. My heart was racing. For a while I was like this. As I grew a little stronger, I stood up straight.

I walked around to see that I was still on the highway. The foggy air had not clear since early that morning. I couldn't see the sun but I felt it's heat upon my back. I turned round and round. All I can see was the foggy air covering the road. I breathe a sigh and tried to clear my head. As nausea ceased, I checked once more to see if anyone was around. I tried to scream for help but nothing came out. Fright overcame me. My knees felt weak. I sat down on the ground. Everything was blurry again like a dream. Am I dreaming? Tears streamed down my face.

"Ma'am, are you alright?" came a voice from up above. I looked up to see a man in his mid-thirties all dressed in black, smiling down at me. He helped me up to my feet. I was unable to stand up by myself. I lean against him. I can see his eyes clearly. It was an odd brown shade, like the sky when the sun sets. His long lashes almost touched his cheeks as he blinked. He touched my forehead with his left hand while holding me up with his right hand. It felt cool like ice cream on a hot summer day. Such a calm feeling rushed over me. I felt my head starting to clear and the pain slowly subsiding. He slowly set me down on the ground again. My knees were still too weak even though the rest of me was feeling better. My mouth was dry and my voice seem to be stuck in my throat. All I can managed was "Thank you." He nodded his head and smiled at me. Then he walked off into the thick fog. I can see his back for a moment and then it disappeared.

I did not know how long I have been sitting there. All I knew when I woke up was I was alright and my injuries seem to be gone. When the paramedics checked me out, they said there was nothing wrong with me. It was a phenomenon that I survived the crash. They had founded me on the ground near the highway. They don't know how I got out of the car, seeing how both car doors were so badly damaged. I saw the car when it passed by me, hanging onto a tow truck. Indeed the front seat where I was sitting was nearly crushed flat with both car doors crushed inward. I never saw the mysterious man again. I did not mentioned him to anyone. Who would have believe me anyway?

Sleep Walking

Fiction Friday: Theme: Use the word afoot in dialogue.

"Afoot," I said. "Not a foot. She went afoot all the way to our house. I founded her sleeping on the grass in the morning." I sigh as I told her this. Emily was always worry about her sister, Jo. Jo has a sleep disorder and would often walk to our house in the middle of the night barefoot. It was only two blocks but the traffic between our homes are constantly moving.

"James, I told you to look after her." Emily spoke calmly even though I knew she wanted to yell at me. She had been away for two weeks for her airline job. A potential promotion she had told me. I knew she would be mad if something happens to Jo. It's not like Jo's a child. She's twenty-seven, for God's sake.

"I've told you, I can't be watching her 24-7." I grunted at her as I push my eyeglasses higher. "And anyway, she was fine. Nothing happen. She's fine."

Emily looks at me from across the table, eyes crystal clear, mouth in a straight line. "I guess I shouldn't gone. It's my fault. She's my responsibility." She takes a sip of her coffee. It was early in the morning, the dew on the grass is still wet. I stare down at them. There is no sign that anybody else's awake. As we sat in our backyard, the sky became brighter. These hard patio chairs are so uncomfortable. I re-adjust my position.

Emily calmly takes another sip of her coffee. "Alright then. I'm going back to bed." She got up and went inside. She always does that. By not saying too much, she constantly me feel guilty even when I did nothing wrong. I sat there feeling remorseful. I supposed I should have check her locks more carefully but she was fine when I'd left her.

I've drove Jo home at around 9 pm. She was in a good spirit, a bit tired. We had dinner and a movie. Even though she's my sister-in-law, she was more my sister than my own sister. I remembered I locked the front door after I've left. Then I drove off home. Early at 5:30 am, my alarm went off. It was Saturday, I had forgotten to turn it off. Not much of a sleeper, I waked up and putted on my glasses and make myself some fresh-squeezed orange juice. It was really quiet and the cool morning air drifted through the kitchen window. I went to check my car. It's a safe neighborhood but often my neighbors would yell at me for parking too close to their side of the driveway.

I looked out the front window and saw a figure on the front lawn. I figured someone must have dropped their shirt or coat. The brightly pink patten of kittens came into view as a I stepped outside in my bathrobe. As I walked closer, I can clearly see it wasn''t just a garment but a person. I lean down to take a closer look and saw it was Jo. I checked her wrist for a pulse. She was alive as far as I can tell. I tried to wake her but she was too deep in dreamland. So I carried her inside the house and laid her on the couch.

It was as if nothing had happen. She just woke up and just smile and ate some cereal and I drove her home. No mention of what had happen last night or even if she had any memories of it at all. I did not bring up the subject or asked her any questions. At her front door, she said goodbye. I drove on home.

Two days later, Emily came home. I waited until the last possible minute to bring it up. But before I could tell her, Jo called and told her what had happened. She wanted to thank me for taking her home. Emily on the other hand, thought I was being a jerk for not telling her. I told her I didn't want her to worry but of cause she make such a fuss that I just couldn't help but get mad at her.

Get the Fiction Friday code
About Fiction Friday

New destination

It was not her destination but Dawn steps off the train. She walks towards the bench and sits in the center seat. She has her dark hair all tie up in a ponytail with a black ribbon. Dark glasses hides her blue eyes from other wandering eyes. It's too early to go to work. She rubs her eyes with her left hand trying to erase the sleepiness from within her. Her face ache from the night before. Even with this much foundation, the blues still shows up here and there. She hopes no one notices.

Dawn wished she had call in sick. Then maybe she can sit here a while longer. The guy next to her is blasting his music. She can hear the lyrics being scream almost into her ears. At that moment, she thought her head might just explode just as another train arrives to the station. Dawn adjusts her bag and lifts the straps off her shoulder for a moment, shifting the weight to her hand. I hope I have better luck today, she thought as she steps inside the train.

Often her thoughts turn sentimental when she rides the train. The motions of the train reminded her of memories that she thought she had lost. Today her thoughts drift towards her boyfriend, Rex. It wasn't that he didn't love her, just that he's too controlling and often wouldn't let her accompany her friends to long-distance trips. Dawn knew she needed to make a decision. Fast. Today's the day to change everything. Dawn needs a plan but there wasn't any time to make arrangements. She lifts her head up and stare at the advertisements. Many are selling higher education, others are for train announcements. There's one for a philosophy class. It's in orange and black with a fish in a tank and another image with a fish jumping out of the tank. "Life changing" is the word they seem to be using. Maybe this means something.

Dawn misses her stop as she stood there reading the ad. As the train door closes, her sudden urge to go somewhere else ignites her thoughts of leaving Rex. She rubs her eyes again, the bruise still painful, her vision is clearer now. She's not going to work today. Nor will she return to the apartment that she shares with Rex. She doesn't know where she's going or where she got the courage but she knew she just needs one chance to seek a different destiny. She got off on the next stop and got on another train heading in the opposite direction. No more excuses, this is it.

Wicked - part 2

Read other Sunday Scribblings here.

Read the first part here.

At fifteen, Anya sometimes still feels awkward around people. It was even more apparent at school. Her love of all things black including wearing black clothes might have suggest a weirdness she did not want. She keeps her long black hair scatter around her face. Her quiet demeanor sometimes overwhelm people.

Many in the neighborhood knew her parents or at least her mother, Jane, was a witch but it was never spoken out loud. Anya had no idea of this until she was ten. She founded out when she had sneaked into the kitchen one Sunday night when she couldn't fall asleep. Her mother and three other woman all dress in their every day clothes. It looked like they were just having tea until Anya saw a book was turned into a frog. She thought she was dreaming but then the frog got turned back into a book. Anya could not keep silent. She screamed out loud. Her mother rushed her back into her room and explained the whole thing. At first she spurted some lies but Anya was too smart to have believed her. Then her mother really explain it all to her.

Anya's mother always told her not to let others dictate her actions. Even when the girls at school were teasing Anya. Particularly a girl name Genie. Anya never knew why Genie picks on her but she was sure Genie was just a bully. Anya tries not to let her or any of the other kids get to her. She chose not to respond to their ridicules and instead tries to ignore their cries. Jane had told her she will soon grown into her powers. She will teach Anya when it is time. Anya kept this thought in her head whenever she felt agitated. She forces herself to stay calm whenever possible.

Jane knew Anya was having a hard time at school. She urged Anya to be more patient and ignore those kids. She had promised her husband, Henry, she will not teach Anya magic until she was old enough. Jane feels very protective of Anya but knew Anya was not ready for magic yet. She often reminded Anya that witchcraft is not a game and that she should try to solve her problems without it. Right now Anya needs to finished her education and maybe mature a little.

Henry and Jane met after Jane came here to live with her aunt after her parents had passed away. It was love at first sight. They got engaged a month after their first date. A month after that, they got married in a small ceremony that included their unborn child, Anya and Jane's two legal guardian - her Aunt Sarah and Sarah's husband Nicholas. It was presided over by a female monk named Marian. Jane was only eighteen at the time and had promised Aunt Sarah she would only married after her eighteen birthday. The ceremony was cut short when severe thunderstorm broke out. They were outside in the garden at Aunt Sarah's house, now their home. Aunt Sarah had moved to Kansas with Nicholas. She felt that the country air will do her good.

On early Saturday mornings, Anya and Jane usually goes grocery shopping when there's less of a crowd. One Saturday as they are walking home from the grocery store, they saw Genie, the bully from school, walking towards them. Now Genie was a tall girl about five nine. She was not afraid of Anya who was still very short and Jane was not much taller than Anya. Genie has all the guts in the world or at least she thinks so. She is walking alone on the empty streets. Neighbors often sleep late on weekends. It was almost dark because of the mist in the air. It clouds the streets that make all the streetlights glow.

As she pass by Anya and Jane, Genie takes out a rotten tomato from her skirt pocket and throws it at Anya. Anya stops in her track, silently staring down at her black-stain shirt. Red mush falling down her chest. She drops the grocery bags she was carrying. Jane threw a evil look at Genie and then Jane couldn't help herself. She mutter some phrases that make Genie's face turn frightful. All of a sudden, Genie's clothes drops to the ground and she slowly turns into a frog. Anya laughs. Then Jane turns Genie back into herself. She was naked, her clothes was beside her. As a frog, she had jump out of them. Genie stands there, hugging herself. Jane picks up Genie's clothes and wraps it around Genie. "Soooo..." Jane paused. "Genie, is it?" Genie nods her head. "Will you be alright?" a wicked look appear on Jane's face. She wanted to add something threatening but knew she shouldn't. Genie nodded her head and ran off screaming.

"Wicked!" Jane and Anya turn to see a girl walking towards them. They fell silent, unsure what to say to her. "It's okay," she said, "I won't tell." The girl smiles at them. "I'm Margaret," she said as she held out her hand to Anya. Anya smiles at Margaret. Jane was glad Margaret wasn't scare by what she had just seem. She even help them carry the groceries home. Margaret had just moved here and was just walking around, familiarizing the town.

Anya was a little disappointed that her mother had turned Genie back. Jane said it was better this way. She doesn't think it's a good idea to show off. The town was small and any indication of witchcraft would cause the whole town to go haywire. It was one of the main reason that Jane chose to raise Anya here. She could have run off with Henry to anywhere in the world but Jane felt comfortable here.

Genie never bothered Anya again after that - not in school or on the streets. After the end of the school year, news travel that Genie and her family had moved away. Anya was glad that Genie had left. She can at least relax a little. Margaret's a very friend. She even made Anya a beaded bracelet. Jane was glad that her daughter had made a friend at last. She can stop worrying about her - at least a little less than before.

Wicked - part 1

Read other Sunday Scribblings here.

A tomato stuck at Anya's back as she walks home. She turn around and saw her classmate Genie running away with her two blond friends. Anya's face contours into rage. She pull the leftover tomato off her long black hair and continue walking. Dress all in black - black pants, black shirt, black socks with black boots - her standard uniform of choice for school. She carries a red bag over her shoulder. Red is her favorite color. But not today. The tomato bits still cling to her hair.

Another object flew against her stomach. It was a piece of red meat. She look left and right but could not tell where it had came from. The smell was ghastly and reminds Anya of dead cats. She stares at the meat that has fallen onto the ground. Rage fill her thoughts. When will it end? As Anya continues to walk, she notice people were avoiding her. They look down as they walk pass her. It was yet, another reminder that she was different.

Finally at her front door, Anya let herself into the living room. She flip the switch but the light bulb glow for a second before it make a snapping sound and blew out. She sigh. So this is my life, she thought as walk towards the kitchen. Her mother, Jane, was boiling something in the big pot. Ingredients surrounds the big kitchen table and spill over onto chairs. Bottles after bottles of stuff Anya had never knew existed. Some was even alive. "How was school?" Jane asked without looking up from her book, checking and throwing ingredients into the pot. Anya sigh again. She sat down in one of the unoccupied chair and dump her bag onto the kitchen tiles.

The boiling pot produces white smoke which swim around the kitchen. The smoke circles the kitchen then went out the window. Jane's finally finish putting the ingredients into the pot. She can leave it to cook for at least three hours. She turns to face her daughter. Anya sits there with her shoulders slouch, her head hang down to her chest. "Anya," she said as she walks towards her. She smile her best smile at her daughter. She hold Anya's face in her hand. The gentle warmness of her mother's touch make Anya smile. "Things will get better. Don't you worry." She kissed her daughter on her forehead and went back to reading the book. She has got to finish the potion before midnight or else her husband will stay frozen for a couple of days.

Anya turns her mouth sideways. Funny, how being at home can change her mood. "Where's Dad?" she asked her mother. Jane turn around, a sneaky look on her face. "Dad said something I didn't like. I...um...didn't mean to do that to him. I just wanted him to stop talking...and..um..then he froze. Just like that. But don't you worry, Honey, in less than eight hours, he will be good as new," her blue eyes sparkle with mischievous. Jane turns back to her book.

Her father, Henry is a fantasy writer. He works at home most of the time. His editor thinks he makes the stuff up but if he knew the truth, he still wouldn't have believe him. Henry has accepted everything that was his wife's heritage and assumed she would be more sensible with her talent. Henry loves his daughter and would often console her when kids would not necessary being nice to her. He had hope that Anya would not inherit her mother's talent but than realize it was out of his hands.

"Where is he now?" asked Anya. She can't help but smile. "He's upstairs in our bedroom. Why don't you pop up there and say 'hello.'" Jane replied. Anya picks up her bag and walks out of the kitchen. "Dinner in one hour!" Jane shouted as Anya climb the stairs to her parent's bedroom.

On the stairway, Anya pause to read the plaque that hang there. It was inscribed with the family motto, "You may be a witch but you don't have to be wicked. (Unless the occasion calls for it. Then you shall be as wicked as you want.)" The plaque of needlework was done by Aunt Sarah. The motto's origin was still being debated. Some said it was by created by early ancestors way back when. Others still think it was a joke created by mortal members of the family. Aunt Sarah had redone the plaque which was originally in stone. A wild thunderstorm had knock it down about a year ago and was beyond repair.

Each day, Anya would look at the plaque. Often it make her feel better. This time it was no different. Anya smile to herself as she walks into her parent's bedroom. She knew things will get better. If not then the occasion will call for some wickedness.

Eave - part 3

Fiction Friday: Theme: This time we're going to combine the work we've done in the last two weeks.

Do your best to drop your odd-named character into your mix-and-match scene. Write the scene in the first person Point of View (POV) of the odd-named character. Your scene must have at least two characters.

As with anything creative you can take license to make the two fit together, but try not to ditch it and start over.

Read the part 1 here and the part 2 here.

---------------------------------------------------

The night breeze climbs through my open window as I lay in bed. The cool breeze brush against my cheeks as I stare out at the full moon. It seem so quiet tonight. The neighbors must had gone to bed early because of the heat. I can hear their air conditioners running. Their humming sound echoes in my ear almost every summer. Tonight is no different. I can see the clouds moving back and forth in front of the moon. For some reason, I just could not fall asleep. I haven't done anything particularly tiring today. Just two summer writing classes and a walk around the mall with Dad.

At fifteen, I shouldn't be this restless. A strange feeling clouds my mind. Maybe it's the summer heat. The evening isn't exactly a happy one. Dad and Mom had one of those fights again. Sitting at the dinner table, trying to eat, I had kept quiet while my parents argue. Mom wasn't taking her medication but she insisted she was. Dad and I knew this wasn't true. We ended dinner early and I was sent to bed. Earlier that day, Mom had seem unlike herself. She was talkative and was roaming around the house nonstop. I had left early in the morning for class, I didn't even know if they had fought that morning. Dad reassured me he'll take care of Mom. All during class, I was not paying attention, distracted by thoughts of Mom walking around the house trashing things around. Her behavior seem to be getting more erratic every day.

I fumble my feet into my slippers in the moonlight and starts off toward the kitchen. I could hear voices as I step down the flight of stairs. I can hear Mom and Dad fighting. Mostly Dad telling Mom to calm down. Mom's words were all jumble. She seem to be crying. I walked closer to the kitchen door. Standing there, I wonder if I should go in. I peak into the kitchen. I could not see them. I widen the door some more.

There, Dad was on one side of the kitchen, looking nervous, on the other side, Mom's back was turn towards me. I couldn't see what she was doing. I silently walk inside. The door made a small creaking sound. Mom turn around then and I can see her hand with the sharp knife reflecting in the moonlight. The kitchen light is not on. Her face all covered in tears and yet she smile at me in her usual way. A frighten feeling came over me. I stood there frozen. What was I to do? Panic fill my lungs. I couldn't speak.

"Eave," Mom whispered as she came closer. I try to move but my legs seem to be glue to the floor. Horrified by the expressions on her face. Partly angry, partly sweetness. She grabs me and buries her face into my shoulder. I look towards Dad. He mouth the words, "Stay put." Mom's tears soak into my nightgown. I can smell her lemon scent hair that she had washed that morning with fresh squeeze lemon juice. She was crying silently. "My baby," were all that she kept repeating. Should try to get out of her grip? I could hardly breathe by the way she kept holding onto me.

At last I try to break free but Mom's grip are too tight. The knife in her hand shine brightly in the moonlight. I can see my reflection in it. My fearful gray eyes were so huge couple with my pale skin, I look like a cartoon character. "Pale as paper' as Dad uses to say. Dad was slowly walking towards us. He motion for me to stay still. How could I move at all? Without a word, Mom spun around and start yelling at Dad. They struggle, the knife in between them. Mom took the knife from Dad and press it against his chest. I wanted to run away but couldn't. I can see how frighten Dad is but he still manage to gesture for me to leave. I just could not move my legs. They felt like heavy steel.

Mom turns toward me again, ignoring Dad. Her expression nows is the one that I used to see everyday. I want to run into her arms and yet I knew I was in some kind of danger. With the knife held high, Mom walk slowly towards me, her other hand held out to me. Dad struggle once again to take the knife away. Again no success. Mom felt against the fridge, her back hit the fridge door causing all the magnets and photographs to fall to the tile floor.

I stare at her as she pick up a baby photo of me. I was three years old at my birthday party. I don't remember anything about that year but by the look on that photo, you could say I was the happiest child in the world. Mom stares at the photo for a long time. Tears rolls down her face again. She falls to her knees and cries out loud. The scream is so loud that echoes seem to bounce off the walls. I didn't realize what had happened until I saw the knife sticking out of her stomach. She sat there so still, I thought maybe she tire herself out like she use to when she went off her pills. Dad's staring at her like I was. We stand there for a while, not moving.

Sirens cut through the thick silent air. I guess one of the neighbor must had called the police. Two cops and two ambulance workers comes in the kitchen. I don't know how they got in. They ask Dad some questions and then takes Mom away on a stretcher. All I can do was let Dad take me away towards the living room and out the front door and into his truck. We dare not speak a word as the truck move along the road. Dad's all calm as if he had done this before. I can see the full moon from my car window. It follows us all the way to Grandma's house.

At the funeral, unable to cry I look towards the crowd for comfort. Emptiness seem to fill my lungs and body. It was just as well that it was a closed casket funeral. I couldn't have look at her face. I still remember the angry and the sweet sadness she had displayed. I guess it was the image that I've seem more often than I wanted to admit to. Her contrasting emotions almost always creates such chaos for me and Dad.

I met Mom's doctor, Dr Heath. He seem nice. His eyes were swollen and red as he spoke to me. I didn't know him well. I felt oddly familiar with him as he held my hand in his. His sincere smile brought little comfort. Dad was all business as usual. He didn't cried or talk much. He greeted everyone as if it's the most normal thing in the world. He put his arms around me as they lay the casket into the ground. I was silent and still unable to express the guilt that I felt. Dad's warm hands gently ushered me away as the earthly sand filled the hole. It was the last time I saw my mother.

Get the Fiction Friday code
About Fiction Friday

Up in the tower - part 2

Read part 1 here.

It was inevitable that I would end up here. My hair was causing all kinds of chaos. It gets in people's houses, into carriages, into people's faces. I can barely walk as it is. Half dragging my hair, half trying to avoid being step on. I tried my best but in the end Father recommended that I stayed at home instead of going to school. I was taught by a woman with small eyes and a big nose with a French accents that seem somewhat fake. From sunrise to sunset and a twenty minute break for lunch, I was taught writing, reading, history, French and various subjects. I wasn't allowed anywhere around the house. I was to stay in my room whenever possible which was on the first floor. Father and his new wife were on the upper floor. I rarely see Father now. He was always busy. If I do see him it was for only a few minutes at a time.

I realized over time, I have been a burden. My hair has cause so much trouble that when the new baby came, I was not allow to see him. I can hear him late at night, as I was laying in bed trying to fall asleep. Eventually, it was decided that I was too much trouble for the new baby. My hair, even when cut every week, has a will of its own. It crawls into furniture, curtains, and even occasionally gets stuck at the door frame. Father said I had to live somewhere else. He had found me a place just a couple of miles away from the house. I was to live there and make my living making dresses. I was only fourteen but I knew I was not wanted.

The day that I left home, I was devastated but complied. What can I do? I begged Father to let me stayed but he would not budge. He said I have cause the family a great deal of pain and embarrassment. If I leave, the family would be better off. I cried all the way to my new home. My hair was dragged along the dusty road, partially in the carriage. As I watched the road behind me, I wonder what will become of me. My hair created a cloud of dust on the road. It was a bright sunny day. Sunlight shine upon my golden brown hair. Even when it's dusty and dirty, it still shine like silk. Father was at the front of the carriage. I can see his back, straight and unnerved by the wild movement of the carriage.

The tower was at least 30 feet tall. A long ladder made from three combined ladders tied together with rope sat against the tower. The tower has only one window with no doors or other openings. I asked Father what it was used for before but he doesn't know. He ushered me to climb the ladder. He told me a servant will be bringing me a basket with food and supplies every week. I was to used the rope in the tower to get the basket up. I wanted to ask how long I was to stay here but couldn't get the words out. Father seem so stern and lately has been a worry look on his face.

As I looked down at Father, a sudden sadness came over me. Father waved goodbye and rode off in the carriage. I stare at the dust leftover by the carriage. I was alone.

Inside the tower, there was one bed, one dresser with a mirror and a couple of baskets with materials for making dresses. That was the one skill I knew I excelled at. During those long nights when I couldn't sleep, I would sit down and sew dresses until the sun rises. Each day was spent trying to figure out what I should be doing to help father. He was never this worry before.

Sometime during the night, the ladder was stolen. Gone from the tower. No one knew where it went. There was no way for me to go down now. I had wonder if Father had taken it but then I knew Father wasn't that kind of guy.

As Father instructed, a servant came each week with supplies and food. I would throw a rope down and the servant would tie it around the basket's handle and I would pull it up. It was working out alright but I was lonely and wish to see Father. But each time I ask for him, they said he was too busy. Step-mother often came to visit. I would pull my hair out of the window and she would climb up. It was painful but Step-mother was a skinny woman and didn't weight that much. She would take the dresses that I have made and told me she would sell them in the market and that half of it will be spent on food and supplies for me and the other half for the family. I was happy that I had helped the family but whenever I asked about Father, Step-mother always said Father was too busy to come.

The servant that use to bring me food and supplies had to be let go. The family has some finance problems. Step-mother said she would be the one to bring me my things. I was very suspicious of her but did not wish to anger Step-mother so I just smile. Each week the supplies were more spare. Step-mother said the family was having even more trouble with money and that I should work harder and make more dresses. She still brings me sewing supplies. I tried my best but only manage to make three dresses a week.

Then one day, Step-mother did not come. Instead a servant who I was not familiar with came and told me that Father had passed a few nights ago. I was devastated. I hadn't seen Father for over a years. The servant also said Father's ashes was scattered into the sea and that I he had left me a token. I pull up the box. Inside was the music box that Father had given mother for their first anniversary. Father used to play it for me when I couldn't sleep at night. I was happy to know at least a part of Father and Mother is still with me. At night when I get lonely I would listen to the music until I fell asleep.

The supplies were getting more spare day by day. The reason given by my Step-mother was that family can longer support itself. I tried my best to make more dresses and even had to gave up some of my own belongings to sell at the market. Still I worked hard. I've lost some weight and fell quite ill once. Still I pressed on. As I got better, my Step-mother visited me one last time. She told me I was on my own. She will still try to sell the last few dresses I have made and will do her best to bring me food and supplies.

I was so skinny and yet my hair kept growing. Each day it seem to have grow at least two inches. I've got so tire dragging my hair around that I just sat in the same spot all day. Eventually an old man came and told me my Step-mother had move away and that I would no longer receive any food or supplies from her. What was I to do? The servant, old as he was, who now does not work for my Step-mother but was kind-hearted and wished to help me. If I can make enough dresses each week, he would help me sell them and would bring me food and supplies. I was glad for the help and agree to make at least four dresses each week. His name was Sam.

Sam came each week with food and supplies. He even brought his wife, Amelia one time. She was very kind and had made a necklace out of lace and threads for me. I was grateful that someone still cares. I gave my only possession, my music box to the old couple for their kindness. I knew the old couple would not last long and yet had hope they would live long enough for me to cherished them. Soon there was no one to help me. I was left alone in this tower. What was I to do?

One day, a young man came to the tower. He said he was the old couple's son and had wanted to know if he can help me. I do not recognize him and felt he might not be who he said he was. As there was also a young man who came a year ago. A knight of some sort. I had ushered him away seeing he does not seem to have the time to stay and help me. I was not used to visitors and felt Step-mother would not have allowed it.

Now looking at this young man, I did not know what to do. I was on my own. My supplies was nearing the end. All I have left was one half of a apple. I can see from up here that he seem sincere and yet I was still very fearful of strangers. As I peer through my glasses, I can see he was alone. No horses or servants. There was no one from miles away. The day was turning into night.

The old couple did mention a son but I wasn't sure if this was him. He does have a kind face. But appearances can be deceiving. I asked him what can he do. He said can help me get down from the tower. I have often tried to climb down but the walls was just too slippery. The rope that I tied to the bedpost was too short and is too worn down. Many days I have spent thinking up ways to get down. The old couple had tried to help but couldn't find enough ladders to reach me. I was also weak with hunger.

The young man, well, maybe I shouldn't call him that after all I was almost the same age as he. It's been five years since I was here. I was fourteen then. But now still immature and unsure of myself. My bones had became weak with hunger and my skinny hands lack the strength to do heavy lifting. If I wasn't so weak, I would not have been this indecisive. Now the man stood down there and I am up here searching for signs. What would it hurt? I was already doom being up here why not take the chance?

He shouted up at me for me to throw my hair down so he can climb up. I was too tired to argue with him so I gathered my hair and threw it out the window. Weak as I was, my hair seem to have all the strength that I couldn't muster. The man seem lighter than expected. I stood there holding my hair trying my best not to move.

At last he was up here and inside the tower. Silence followed but it was not those awkward silence that often happen between people. This was just silence. He smiled at me with those crooked teeth and green eyes. I could not help but like him. Then he took out a rope from his belt and proceed to tie it onto the bedpost. He then tied together the rope that I had and the one that he brought. He wondered if he can cut my some of my hair so he can also use it to lengthening the rope. I did not hesitated. He gently cut off most of my hair using a sharp knife from his pocket. I can smell a sweet scent coming from him. It had been awhile since I was this close with another human being. It was a nice scent to breath in.

When he was done tying hair and rope together, he helped me climbed down. He tied the rope around my wist and slowly lower me down. It was slow at first, the tower wall was slippery. It had rained the night before. I press my bare feet against the wall but still slip a couple of times. My feet was swollen from the climb but I continued. I knew I had to climb if I wanted to live. The man was very strong and skillful. He managed to get me down safely. He then climbed down almost in one quick motion. I was too weak to stand up. The man pull out a handkerchief and placed it on the wet ground, gesturing me to sit. I sat on the ground feeling very tired. The sun had just set causing a ray of golden sunlight to shine upon us. It was a nice, cool evening. I felt the breeze against my cheeks like never before. I was happy.

The man smiled at me and sat down next to me. He told me his name was Joseph and proceed to take out a piece of bread from his coat and offered it to me. I was too hungry to refuse. I wolf down the bread. He then took out a square bag. It was my music box - still in good shape but worn out at the edges, the music was gone. He handed it to me and told me I can have it back. I thanked him and was surprised by how kind his eyes looked.

It was a only a year or two later but I managed to get myself together. For many years I have not appreciated my hair. It had cause me grief but now I have a new appreciation for it. I have to cut it every weak so it wouldn't grow too long. I think now it was me that was keeping me in that tower. I was too afraid to venture out for fear people would not accept me. It was also my hair that gave me the freedom from the tower. Joseph calls me his golden girl because of my hair color. Every day I was grateful that it existed. Everyday I tried to appreciated its beauty. My memories of my father remained with me along with the music box that he had left me. Joseph fixed it and now it plays sweet music for my children.

Up in the tower - part 1

Someone's down below. I could not understand what the shouting was about. I'll just ignore it until it goes away. One hundred and one, one hundred and two...wait, I can still hear the voice. Is it calling me? I put down my hair brush and slowly gather my hair and walk towards the window. I pull the blinds and open the one window in my room.

The guy was too far down, I could not understand what he was saying. I couldn't see him clearly. Where are my glasses? It was on my dresser yesterday, where it is now? Oh, if only I can remember. Why can't I remember?

Oooh, this hair is killing me! Why does it weight so much. Darn it! My hair's caught in the chairs again. What I wouldn't give for a scissor right now. Heck, I would even settle for a rusty knife. Come on hair! Ha! Dumb chair!

Where is my glasses? Come on, hair. Yikes, it's now wrap around the bedpost. Oh....come on! Down onto the floor I go. Okay, one more pull. Got it! What was I looking for again? Oh, yes, glasses! "Hey, you up there!" There he goes again. This time the voice was louder. I can understand what he was saying. Here it is. My glasses. Mmmm. I can see fine but these glasses are just too tight. My head hurts. I tuck at them. Okay, much better.

I gather up my hair and walk towards the window. Down below is some guy wearing a knights' uniform and a sword sticking out of his belt. He was still yelling up at me. His hands cup his mouth. I can't see his face. Who is he?

I adjust my glasses again, "Hello!" I yelled at him as I lean over the window's edge. "Hellooooo!" He responded. He put his hands down and looks up at me with skyblue eyes. How handsome he is. Such smooth skin. How I wish I can come down to talk to him. I smile down at him. God, I wish I was prettier.

He said something else. I could not understand him. I said,"What did you said?" as loudly as I could. He answered this time by cupping his hands to his mouth: "May I come up?" May he come up? How was he suppose to do that? I shake my head no. Not sure what else to tell him. He looked confused for a moment then, "Why not?" he said. Why not? What does he mean, Why not? How the heck is he suppose to come up? I can't let my hair down for him. I haven't got permission from Step-Mother. What will she said if I let him come up? No, no, no way. I am not getting into trouble for him. Plus it is too painful to pull one skinny Step-mother up, how much lighter can he be? He may be cute but that doesn't mean I would like him. Who knows he could be a psycho. Or worse! A kidnapper! I just can't take that chance. "What do you want?" I shouted down to him. "Just to talk," he said. Talk? Who wants to talk. It's late and it's close to my bedtime. "Come back another time," I said to him. "I can't. I am just passing by for today. I have to return to my kingdom tonight," he doesn't seem at all upset. What's with the silly grin? Ha, if he can't come back another time, why should l let him up? Why should I have to stick to his schedule?

I look down at him once more, and shake my head and shouted, "I can't let you come up! Goodbye!" Once more his face looked disappointed but not devastated. I shut the window and pulled the blinds. For a while, I heard no sound coming from below. I thought nothing of him and finish combing my hair. The devil! My hair just refuse to budge. Ouch! Darn you! One more broken brush. Good thing I have more.

After a hour, I decide to check to see if the guy's still there. I pull the blinds and open the window and peek down below. There was no one. Not even a single thing was moving around below. The moon was bright and I can see everything clearly. Shoot! He sure give up so easily. Step-Mother was right, all men are idiots and I shall not give any more thought to him. I gather up my hair and went back to bed.

Read part 2 here.

Link Story: The blog writer

I got this idea from a post in Write Stuff. A story using blog titles from a blogroll with links included. I'm just trying this out. I used the blogroll on my sidebar. It could be disastrous but it's all fictional fun!

Instead of 365 days, it's 365 fiction, that's the title of my biography. It was in a strange dream that this came to me. Someone was interviewing me for my life story. That someone was a guy all dressed in white wearing dark rimmed eyeglasses and a Caesar haircut - you know - the kind where the hair is swept up and then swept forward like you're covering a bald spot. He was very adamant in asking very, very personal questions. Questions that even I don't know the answers to. He answered the questions that I couldn't, most of which are all false answers. The guy wrote down everything I've said and rarely looked up at me. A song was playing in the background like a ballad of a giggling girl, filled with crazy lyrics weaved with laughters in between. I just couldn't figure out what the title was. Of cause I was wearing just my briefs. Next thing I knew, someone placed their hand on my naked shoulder. It felt sharp like crawls. Just as I was turning around, a bright light flashes and then I woke up.

My good friend, Blogforth said, "Dreams are just sweet rumors telling me what had happen or will happen." But then Blogforth never had dreams. He doesn't even sleep long enough to dream. He spent his nights wandering around his apartment, thinking up ideas to accomplish his goal. Blogforth likes to buy a friend a book. It is his life's goal to buy every single person he knows a book - which amounts to about 150 people. That's a big number considering he had never met them - they're all blogging buddies. I was the only person he knew in real life.

He brought me two books recently. Said he couldn't decide which to give me. One is called Engrish. It was not in plain English as I excepted. In was in a strange broken up English where all the words on the page literally is scramble like some jigsaw puzzle. The other is Foreword: A Book Design Blog, a book about a blog about book design covers from Japan. It's in Japanese. I didn't understand why Blogforth doesn't gave away books in English. Maybe it's because he doesn't like the English language. His personal blog is in English but only has two to three words per post. The blog itself has no title. It was originally called La Vie Graphite but now he just leaved a blank space where the title used to be. He said his life's a 'rough draft' and no real words can describe it. Then he paused and said, "You've got to stop conforming to other people's standard." This, from a man who rejects anyone's opinion that doesn't conform to his.

I said my life's post mediocre but somewhat still boring. I don't necessary like to say the things we think but do not say. He then go on to said I am too feminine in my voice (as in my writing voice). He read my blog and thinks I needs to toughen up. But them I reminded him, my blog's a how-to blog about writing fiction. "Try not to sound too much like She Who Blogs," who was his ex-girlfriend who he also never met in person. "All she did was write sunday scribblings with nonsensical tales and wrote reviews for The Book Design Review for books she had never read."

Of cause, I've never dated women without meeting them in person. Blogforth is very brave in that aspect. He had not only dated women on the web but also went on numerous blind dates. I often question his choice of women. His last girlfriend was the The Runaway Writer. That was her nickname we gave her. After a couple of dates with Blogforth, she wrote a goodbye letter and ran off with a writer. The fact that she even left anything is a surprise to me. She took most of Blogforth's belongings with her. Blogforth blamed the breakup on the fact that she can't commit. To him, that is.

We're not those hug-our-tears-away guys. When we get upset by women, we drink beer and watch football. No discussions about our feelings. Women often break up with us almost every week. It was too unbearable at times but we had gone through it too many times by now, our tolerance level seem have gone up over the years.

I used to date someone who's a fantasy/romance writer. She also wrote for the site: Inkgirl: Daily Diversions for Writers. Two Write Hands, I called her. She wrote two very short novels using a typewriter but then she realized how slow it was. She then decided to write from Karen's old laptop which she picked up from a garage sale. The laptop was a late 90's model with no modem and yet she write stuff on it like it's her only way of life.

She had a collection of word beads from around the word in a jar. Each bead has a word engraved on it in various languages. She would pick a bead from the jar and then go write from that word. Her other habit includes writing naked even in the dead of winter. She said it frees her from her earthly body. Without clothes, she can imagine herself wearing anything from any eras. It was the one thing that she insisted I try doing. But then being a writer myself, I felt that was stupid but didn't said so. A couple of weeks later, she broke up with me for being too wordy. She said I talked too much and that I dragged into conversations that she doesn't want to be in. I guess I believed her but then she was the one who talks even when she's brushing her teeth.

All that I write, wrote, written down were done in the writer's cafe on 14th street. That's where I've met Two Write Hands. It was one those ordinary meetings. I walked into the cafe hoping to sit in my usual table but then Two Write Hands had already taken my spot. Of cause, being the selfish guy that I am, I wanted my table. I went up and introduced myself and told her she was sitting in my spot. She wondered if we could share the table. I had no reason to decline her. She was a beautiful woman after all. How could I decline? That was the most wonderful day I ever had. We sat there talking for hours - none of which I can remember. I was too busy staring into her blue eyes and her long legs peaking out from her short skirt was also too attractive to past up.

Now I sit here in the writer's cafe hoping to see her again. Sipping cold coffee, I scan the place for any signs of her. But then I saw the guy from my dream. All dress in white, sipping coffee. Same haircut, same black-rimmed glasses. I was surprised but then I saw Two Write Hands, sitting down in front of him. I knew then why I dreamt of him. He was the guy that had stolen Two Write Hands from me. I was about to get up and walk towards their table but then I got distracted by a attractive girl in the dark corner typing on an old-fashion typewriter while listening to an iPod. All thoughts of Two Write Hands went out the window. What can I say? I'm a guy.

Hair

Read other Sunday Scribblings here.

The long stands of hair fell day by day. Each falling just below her shoulder, clinging to the back of her blouse. Each in red, gray and black all tangle and stitch together as if they didn't want to be apart. They cling to Ellen's head as best as they can but in the end, they still fell down onto her blouse and onto the ground without a sound. Ellen got so tired of picking them off her blouse that she decided to get a haircut.

Angela, being such a good friend, tried to ease Ellen into the idea. Since Ellen had never had a professional haircut before (she had always cut own hair), Angela wanted to make sure Ellen's fear of salons can be alter. So it was decided that Angela would be the one to cut Ellen's hair.

On a early Sunday morning, Angela accompany Ellen to the neighborhood hair salon that is owned by Angela, passed on by her mother, Annie. The streets are empty and the neighborhood is still asleep in their warm beds. The breezy cool morning air smooth over their faces. They laugh as they walk, arms around each other, enjoying the morning calm. No nerves of steel for Ellen. She was never the weak one but today she felt odd and not herself.

It's easy being inside a salon. The last time Ellen got a haircut, she was only eight years old. Her father, Dylan, her only parent at the time, took her for her fist professional haircut. Her mother had since long ran off with the town's only car mechanic when Ellen was only three. Her father, blessed his soul, was ever the protective but fair parent. Never letting Ellen off the hook even for little lie. He always wanted Ellen to be respectful of others and never lie under any circumstance.

Her father was not in the best of health but never let Ellen knew that. He always reassured Ellen, "Everything's okay," he would say with his crooked smile. It was a shock but yet she knew it was coming. Her father was still grieving over her mother. He never said anything but she knew he'd missed her. A heart attack right there in front of Ellen. Just as she was about to get her hair shampoo. He was standing there chatting with Annie, the owner, when he suddenly collapsed and fell on the tiled floor crutching his chest. Everyone stared at him, frozen, but they could not have save him any how. He breathed his last breath when he hit the floor. Ellen sat quietly in her seat, afraid to speak.

The town continued business as usual. You would think a small town like Rockwood would be more mournful after their mayor was buried into the ground not a few weeks ago. Everyone was doing the same thing as they usually did. Of cause, a new mayor was elected and the old one forgotten.

Ellen went to live with her grandparents, her father's parents who still lived in the small town. Their grief was apparent whenever they looked towards Ellen. You can see the sadness in their eyes. Ellen was almost a happy child but whenever the topic turns to her father, she would go numb and stop speaking for a while. It took a while but she got used to her grandparents talking about her father every once in a while. After high school, Ellen went to to town's only college. It was all she can think of to do. She did not want to leave her grandparents - capable as they were - their old age prevents them from traveling too far. It was for the best that Ellen was closed by. Ellen loved her grandparents. They treated her very well and rarely scold her for her bad behavior if any.

Ellen steps into the salon slowly, hands shaking. It was the very same salon that her father had took her to. Everything is still the same. The chairs are still the light green colors but the walls were changed from a dark red to a light blue. The photos of customers still hangs all over the walls. One was of Ellen sitting in one of the green chair, smiling, hair still uncut. Ellen smiled as she stare at the photo. Still the memory of her father makes her happy. She chose to forget the way he had died and instead remember all the good times they had together.

Ellen sat in the middle chair where she was sitting as a child. Her hair almost the same length but a bit longer. She is ready for her first haircut. At last, the memories don't hunt her anymore.

Eave - part 2

Fiction Friday: Pick one item from each column. Roughly sketch out a short scene that includes the character you selected and the situation you selected. The scene should begin or end with one of the characters performing the action you selected. Don't be too literal--there is creative leeway as long as the building blocks are still recognizable.

This scene should be generally compatible with your character from last week's challenge. For instance, in my case I wrote about someone who presides over a Wizard's Union, so if I chose the situation involving a broken down car, I'd need to make the car into a horse-drawn coach.

See the choices here.

The scene should begin or end with one of the characters performing the action you selected.

This scene should be generally compatible with your character from last week's challenge.

Read part 1 here.

Here are the three items that I've pick for this Fiction Friday:
Character -- mother who is bi-polar
Situation -- finds out his/her mother is cheating on his/her father
Action -- rips up a plane ticket


----------------------------------------------------

Just before she died, Eave's mother, Jackie, had told her that her father, Jack, has been cheating on her. Eave had no reason not to believed her mother. She wanted desperately for her mother to be happy. It was almost two years later after her death did Eave find out it was her mother who was cheating. Her mother was secretly sleeping with her psychiatrist during her weekly sessions with him. No one knew or suspected her mother of ill-behavior. She was always so pleasant. It was those pills she takes for her bipolar disorder. She had this order since she was a child. Only Eave and her father knew about this. Jackie was able to controlled it over the years. But on the night of her death, it was apparent to Eave and Jack that she was not taking them. Those last moments with her mother, Eave felt helpless and yet still believed her mother had loved her.

It was almost midnight. Silence swept over the neighborhood. It was like a dream, wrapped around itself. Shadows felled where the moonlight doesn't shined. Through the open window, gust of wind kept blowing into the kitchen.

There she was in the unlited kitchen with a knife in her hand. Jackie was wearing her nightgown, the old-fashion kind that was long with long sleeves. She was sweating all over, her red hair clinging to her face, her eyes wide with dark tears running down her cheek. Her face was all at once smiling and crying. Tears were streaking down her face. She had wipe them with her nightgown sleeves, leaving a dark smear at the edge. She stood there with a knife in her right hand, every so often wiping her face with her left hand. Eave had came downstairs for a midnight snack. It was quiet until she heard her mother screaming profanities at her father. Eave stood in the kitchen doorway. Her father, Jack, was in his pajamas, standing still not far from her mother. There were talks, mostly from her father telling her mother to clam down. Eave slowly pushed opened the door.

Jackie's eyes glance at Eave. Fear overtook Eave as she stood there staring at the knife in her mother's hand. Jackie slowly walked toward Eave. Eave could not moved. Her legs stayed frozen. As her mother steps closer and closer, Eave was quite fearful and panic was storming inside her. Jackie dropped to her knees and grabbed Eave and held her tightly in her arms., the knife closed to Eave's head. Eave could not move from her mother's grip. Jackie keep saying, "My baby, my baby..." At fifteen years old, Eave was short for her age but still she was almost as tall as her mother. Her mother's head rest against her chest, her messy hair brushes against Eave' s face.

Jack was quiet, certain his daughter will get hurt if he didn't do something. Eave tried to pry herself away from her mother but could not do so. Jackie was crying louder now. Her grip on Eave grew tighter. The knife still in her hand. Jack walked slowly towards them, hoping to take the knife away from her. Jackie turned around suddenly with anger on her face. "You want to take my baby away! You...you.." She pointed the knife at him. Jack took a couple of steps back as Jackie walked toward him. Jack's back was against the cabinet. Eave was still standing there frozen in place. Jackie stick the knife against Jack's chest. Her face now emotionless with streaks of tears down her cheeks. Then she turned around suddenly and glance at Eave with such sweetness in her face. Eave almost felt like jumping into her mother's arms. Then Jackie walked toward Eave again, the knife held high up. "My baby," that was all she kept saying. Jack tried then to take the knife away from her. They struggled, each grasping the knife, pulling in every direction. Finally, Jackie pull the knife away, her back hit against the refrigerator wall where all the magnets and pictures felled to the floor. The magnets slowly tickle their way down making no sound as they hit the ceramic tiles.

They both looked at the ground where the objects gathered like a photo album. A photo of Eave as a baby, her face all puffed up with shades of pink covering both cheeks. Jackie picked up the photo, tears started down again. She stared at the photograph, knife still in her hand. All of a sudden, Jackie stuck the knife into her stomach, screaming so loud, there were echoes everywhere. She felled onto her knees, all quiet now. Her head hang against her chest. Nobody dared to move, not Jack, not Eave. What could they have done? The sirens came crashing through the night. Stopping at their house. The neighbors all gathered around, as if waiting for something more to happen.

A few months after Eave moved out into her own house, Jack had came to visited. He had read her latest novel and wanted to congratulated her. He had then told her everything - about her mother's affair and about her twin sister, Eva, who had died at just a year old after catching pneumonia. It was a shock to her and yet what was even more shocking was what her father told her next. Jack was not her biological father. It was something that he kept to himself even when Jackie told him it wasn't necessary. Jack felt very protective of Jackie and did not her to be unhappy. He had accepted Eva and Eave as his own. He knew about the affair. Jackie was not secretive about it. And yet, Jack knew that Jackie loved him and still wanted their marriage to work. The affair was over at the same time that Eva past away. It was a loss that cause Jackie to end the affair and to seriously treated her disorder. In those times, Jackie was on and off her medication, but had since obediently taken them. She felt Eave needed a mother.

Jack spoke with such tenderness about her mother which make Eave cried. Eave and Jack had avoided talking about Jackie. But now it seem to be the right time to talk about her. He had smiled and wished her well as he said goodbye and he handed her a plane ticket.

Eave loves her father dearly but now after what he had told her, Eave couldn't help herself but distance herself from him. Eave always felt Jack was the bad guy. That he had caused her mother's death, that he stood by and did nothing. Evae didn't understood it then. At the time, she was so angry at him and had stop speaking to him. After a time, they had patched things up but things were not the same. Their once closeness was gone.

Eave had never met the her mother's psychiatrist until at her mother's funeral. With tears in his eyes, Dr. Heath, gave her his condolences. She knew then he was in love with her. Eave had just nodded her head, not sure what to said.

Now siting here at the airport waiting for her flight, Eave could not make up her mind what to do. Her father had given her a one way ticket to Boston. That's where Dr. Heath had moved to. She had talked to Dr Heath on the phone the night before, but still felt like a distance cousin. What could she hope for now? After all these years, the man who had raised her is her father. Dr. Heath is just another relative, right? After considerable time, her flight was cancel due to severe weather. Eave knew what she needed to do. She torn up the ticket and hail a taxi to Jack's house. She wants to see Jack again and not as a friend but as her father.


get the Fiction Friday code

about Fiction Friday

Writing Photo Contest No. 1

I thought I would enter this writing photo contest at Write Stuff. It was pretty much a last minute decision. The contest was to take a photo of the writer (me) while I was writing and a sample of the writing I was writing. I don't enter this for the prizes but simply for doing something new. Below is what I ended up writing - part of which was written at the subway station. The other parts were written at home. It's all a disarray of thoughts here, so, bear with me. (See collage that created with Adobe Photoshop.)

Where is my comfort zone?

On the train platform, inside a train, at home, at the office, or on the street are all the places that I write. Not all of them are comfortable but when I get the urge to write, there was no reason not to. I don't feel comfortable writing anywhere near people. And yet sometimes I do. On a crowded train or the train platform on those wooden beat-up seats which I can never tell if it's clean or not. I'm never used to carry pen and paper around but had gotten into the habit since last year. Whenever I take out a piece of paper or a small blank notebook and a pen, people often take one look at me than look away. It's not uncomfortable, just a little nerve wrecking, especially when I am writing down my thoughts. I write them down so I wouldn't have to yell at the guy with his backpack bumping into me or the lady with her short shoulder strap bag sticking into my back no matter where I stand inside the crowded train that I have just gotten off. It certainly is easier than carrying around a journal or a blank notebook.

I do most of my writing at home on my laptop. Where I'm most comfortable but often no ideas ever comes from sitting there, staring at the blank screen. My eyes are strained from looking at the screen so much. I write not only at home but also at work where I sit in front of a computer for eight hours a day. When I have free time, I would try to write. Rarely was anything brilliant written but the exercise is good for practicing my writing. It's a constant battle between just writing and trying to write something good enough for others to see. Do I want to impress people or do I want to just write? Who knows.

Lately I've been writing on pieces of paper. I think I should get a blank notebook/journal but could never find a decent one without all the glitzy covers. Those pieces of paper are from a blank notebook that I don't use or those papers that has one sided printed with stuff from work. I sometimes write on the back of receipts which it isn't easy considering how thin the paper was. I usually have some kind of receipt in my bag from a Duane Reade store. I only throw them away when I remember to clean out my bag.

The scribble on these loose papers are sometimes hard to read even if they are my own handwriting. Usually from writing on unstable make-shift tables. Other times, I simply didn't have the time and had to write really fast with mess-up spellings and words running off the edge of the paper. Often times, it's just a bunch of nonsense anyway.


What's the word for...?

Words sometimes just comes out all scramble, with no real cohesive or linear thoughts. Just one after another pushing against each other to get through. I guess that's how I would describe my writing style or it is skill?

Sometimes I'll use a word that I don't remember hearing but knew the meaning of. I would check the word and its meaning before using it. Or if I like it a lot, I would just use it and find out the meaning later. I could never remembered the right spelling. Even when it's the right spelling, it's the wrong word. That's why I have a small dictionary by my side at all times. The dictionary is just so handy. If I don't see it in the dictionary, I would have to substitute it with another word. I often go back to the original word if I can find it. Maybe I need a new dictionary, it is after all a couple of years old. I will often use the dictionaries online but I am usually not online when writing. Of cause, I cannot depend on the dictionary or the web alone to write an intelligent piece. Some pieces I just have to discard no matter how long it had taken me to write.

Other times nothing comes. Not a single word or thought, just music in my head. These songs - they just sneaks into my consciousness - usually a song from the night before or from a couple of weeks ago overheard at the supermarket or the mall or some clothing shop. It's too bad none of those songs ever turn into any real ideas I can write down.


Why write at all?

Most of the stuff that I wrote on these papers, receipts or on the computer, ever make it into any of my five (now two) blogs. I didn't think they were ever good enough or interesting enough to post. It's too easy to make edits on my laptop and I always end up making it worst. So at certain point I would have to stop editing it and just post it - bad grammar and all. I don't think I was ever satisfied with any one piece. There's always the chance for more edits. But when I kept reading and re-editing the same piece over and over, there's a point where you tell yourself - stop! That's it, no more. I've got so many drafts that I hope to resurrect later. They are after all, just drafts. I have no aspiration to write a novel or publish any of my writings. There's just too much I haven't learn yet. It's just as well. I wouldn't have been able to cope with the success anyway. Compliments from my fellow bloggers is good enough for me.

I try to write in many different voices but always end up writing about a girl/woman or from their point of view. I think any writer can write in any gender even if nothing squares out right. It's the words that make up the personality or maybe it's just a spate of nonsenses that I tell myself. I don't know but I am going to find out. I will try to write in as many unknown territories as possible. I am currently checking out some writing books. I know I need more practice. That's why this blog was created. In writing fiction, I can input realities within a fictional world or vice versa. I do often write in such a jumble state, that even editing it a couple of times didn't help. I'm terrible at editing my own writing.

So why write? I don't really know. All I know is that - I like it. That's it. There are no special meanings attach to anything that I write or will write. I have no stories from my life that can be turn into a meaningful book. None of it can be call interesting. Maybe that's why I like fiction so much.

Slippery

Read other Sunday Scribblings here.

The slippery earth slide her boots forward, causing her to almost slip. The brown sand and mud flooded the whole garden. The red and yellow roses all crushed to the ground. The purple iris has lost its petals. The pink lily's covered in dark mud. The ground was muddy and dirty, stained by the heavy rain the night before. The roses that took many years to grow now with their colorful petals laid on the ground, trampled and lose. Those that survived had fallen downward as if sadden by the lost. Close to the ground, they almost touch their fellow mates' petals, close together as if in prayer. Their greenish leafs still shine in the sunlight.

The heavy storm was unforeseen. It was as if it came just to clear out the beautiful garden. All that remains are gathered into a glass vase, showing its beauty still. The different shade of red collided and blended together. Sitting there on the brown wooden dinning table, a reminder of the loss that cannot be brought back. Her prize possession she had call them.

Red roses was always Lily's favorite. Their redness never cease to amaze her. The wonderful light fragrance that snuck into your nostril, the smoothness of the petals, the way it beautify a place setting. All those things she had loved. The night the storm came, Lily was left by herself while Lauren was attending a garden event. While the harsh rain was falling down, Lily had went out to the garden, trying to protect them. It was foolish of her to try and tie down umbrellas. The wind was just mad and did not cease to stop even when the rain did. The umbrellas had blown up into the sky sending their colorful patterns into the darkness. The ropes loosen its hold on the poles that was dug into the ground. Lily had fallen and slip on the soft mud but had manage to save a few roses. Her second attempt at picking more flowers had cause her to slip once more. That second time, her feet slip on a slimy parts of the ground. She did not manage to get up again. The neighbors find her the next morning, a bunch of roses in her hand.

It's been two weeks and yet the ground's still soft and slippery remaining untouched. Lauren touch the ground and grab a handful into her hands. It was soft and slip out of her hands easily. Two weeks and still to soon to replant. Lily's awake now. Her exuberance to replant had surprised her. Still her granddaughters' effort in saving her gardening had make her happy. The roses Lily had picked, still sitting on the dinning room table, still very much alive.

Eave - part 1

Fiction Friday: Choose one of the following odd character names and create a character sketch to go along with it. The genre, if any, is up to you. I leave it up to you to decide exactly what the sketch includes, but don’t just give us a physical description and a career, tell us about the character. Some common features of a character sketch: physical description, job, hobbies, education, family, habits, fears, dreams, history and anything else that helps you understand the character better. Make it an interesting character because we’re going to use them in a future [Fiction] Friday.

Marmalade, Zilch, Silence, Gerund, Minty, Wicked, Electron, Ism, Broke, Hex, Yule, Eave, Siren, Parsley, Tart, Deal, Ebb, Surreal, Tepid, Dime

Eave has fairy good looks and her pale skin looks like she was from the North - where everything's white and cold. Her skin is cold to the touch. Her eyes are a shade of gray couple with white specks. Her lips, a pale shade of pink. Often drape in a big white t-shirt over light blue jeans with black boots, Eave was never into fashion. Her boots are her prize possession. It was given to her by her, now deceased mother, for her fifth-teen birthday. Her mother was so kind to her and often dough out advices to her, often comforting her when she fail at certain things. Now seven years later, still Eave still misses her mother. Her father would never speak of her, not in her presence anyway. After he remarried and had another kid, a boy named Joseph, he was content to forget her. Not Eave, she will never forget.

Eave's name was a mistake. The nurse at the hospital had spell it wrong. So Eave ended up with her name instead of Eve. Eave never mind about her name. She thought it was unique and never bother to look it up. It's meaning has no interest for her.

Shy as she was, Eave never gave the impression of her discomfort whenever she had to speak. She always acted as if she's carefree and laughs at everything and anything. If they insulted her, she make no fuss about it. She just smile and pretend nothing was wrong. The only time she felt comfortable was when she was alone with her thoughts. Often she would take walks by herself. Her job as a writer allowed her to be by herself. Her editor only visits her once a month and even then, he would only stay ten to fifteen minutes.

It was habitual for her to be by herself. Her father and stepmother didn't even try to speak to her unless there was something important for her to know. Or they wanted her to be at some party they would throwing or when they needed extra help to serve food. Eave did not might all this. She was never close to her father or the new family he had created. She didn't bother to talk to him and he never bother to try to even to get to know her. After college, Eave went to live by herself in a little house that she had brought with her own money. It was just close enough to her father for her to visit once in a while.

After the loss of her mother, Eave find she could no longer be with other people as she used to. It was the first of many changes in her life that she could not control. Her mother, Jackie, was always the quiet housewife who took care of everything. Eave never saw her mother get angry or even show a slight unhappiness. She was always smiling, not saying much. Eave and her mother often spent time with each other, neither one talking much. It was uncharacteristic of either of them to speak in long sentences.