This was a stupid math assignment we had to do. Write a creative story about a number.
I learned a lot about math doing this assignment, and now think I am more prepared for my major in International Studies and Spanish. What a worthwhile thing with which to occupy my time. :)
Erika Hepburn
Math 203
10 February 2009
Journal #2
Our story begins on the other side of the world under a hazy moonlit sky. Tucked into an unknown corner of an enchanted forest, beneath a willow so weepy its limbs slowly sweep the ground, lay two hooded figures leaning over a cradle. Peacefully sleeping in this cradle is no ordinary child, but behold! A newborn numerical figure, whose parents christened him Nine.
Many moons previous to this sacred night, Nine’s parents, Four and Five, met par chance in a smoky bar in southern Andalusia. It was January and the moon was in its first quarter. A few evenings later, in a clover-covered field, Nine was conceived beneath an eerie full moon. Perhaps this is what led to his luckiness. For those who already know the old tale of number Nine know that he is the first composite lucky number.
Four, Nine’s mother, knew from the moment her little Nine became an embryo that he would be unique. She believed that he perhaps he was an enchanted number as her belly glowed and glittered. Four and Five spent many a night admiring their little Nine’s silhouette performing from within her womb — pirouetting and swimming, dancing and singing in a way only a precious, innocent fetus could.
Nearly nine months had soon passed. Four and Five made their way to the enchanted forest where they wished to give birth to their son in a tranquil environment — an environment just as enchanted as their pirouetting little fetus. The trees and forest creatures whispered amongst themselves, while the elusive wood nymphs made their ways to the tops of the trees throwing glitter and sequins into the air. They created a sparkling rain in the forest as a welcome to the soon-to-be-born number.
After nine hours of labor, on the ninth hour of the ninth day of the ninth month of the year, Four gave a final push and scream, and henceforth came noble number Nine. He was a radiant and vibrant shade of green and possessed eyes as rich and red as rubies. His parents draped him in a king’s cape. The forest’s cacophony suddenly dimmed to complete mystical silence. They waited for Nine to cry laugh or scream, but he must have already realized his importance because he composed himself with such a great magnitude of dignity.
Four, Five and Nine spent the entire day together. From 9 a.m. until dusk. They ran, laughed and played — what a happy family they were, indeed! But because numbers mature much more quickly than humans, Four and Five gave Nine an inline skate, put it on his little foot and gave him a fishing pole.
“Skate away, little Nine, skate away. Live off the land like we have taught you, and know that your purpose in life is to multiply — to create larger numbers than your we ever could,” they exclaimed. “And don’t lose Eight’s phone number!” Five cried as a final piece of advice to his departing son.
Five always tried to be a man and keep his emotions nestled deep within him, but as part of him, his precious little Nine, skated off into the sunset, a single tear could be seen glistening across his cheek. He took Four’s hand and helped her into their kayak as they drifted down the river back to Andalusia.
As for Nine, he experienced a lot of adventure in his time. He learned Portuguese and once killed a tiger with his bare hands. He caused quite a lot of controversy during his visit to Russia in the early 80s when he tried to quietly settle down with Seven (a sleek and slender beauty, already married to Six). He did finally give Eight a call though, and they still live a happy life together in a cottage in the hills of Kentucky. They make a decent living running a coalmine, and can often be seen saddling up their giant turkey and taking a ride into town for fancy dinners and ballets.
10.2.09
2.2.09
Relentless Rambling...
Once inspired by vanity, unrequited love and a grand mix of things I now find repulsive, it is so strange to look back and see how one year can change a person more than 19 other years of living in this world.
Although looking back on some things can tie my stomach into knots, I would never take it back. Without that pain, without that suffering, without all of those mistakes I made, I would not have been crafted and slowly shaped into the person I think, and the person I would like to be, for the rest of my life.
It is sometimes difficult to a person to look back on his life and not regret mistakes — to not look back and wonder what would have happened had he taken the other, easier, more practical path. What he does not seem to realize though, is that this easier path would not have had this beautiful, raw ending. Had there been no pitfalls, no fights, no bruises nor ups nor downs, he would be a useless unshaped blob — so fat and purposeless, that he would eventually be stuck in a rut and never move, never making anything of his life.
I remember loving someone so much that it hurt when I thought about it, and it hurt even more knowing this love was not just unrequited, but had been used by this person to glorify himself, to make him feel purposeful and worthwhile. While I got to sit and feel worthless.
I remember doing that more than once. I remember handing out my love like a free gift to anyone who wanted it. I wanted to love and love and give and give, and I thought I never expected anything in return. But the more my love was carelessly taken and used, and the more that what I gave was taken and trashed, the emptier I felt. The more I wanted someone to simply LOVE me in return. And after years of this treatment, I was so trampled and taken from, I had nothing left to give, or so I thought. I felt like an empty shell. Smiling, pretending to be happy, but I felt like every one had to see through me. I felt like everyone had to know that I was not really happy anymore, that they had drained everything from me. I felt like they should see what they had done! That THEY should fix it! I was there for them! I gave and I gave and I gave! And now, finally, I needed something, and where were they?
They were gone. They left. The abandoned me because there was nothing left of me for them to take. I was no fun anymore. I was worthless. Or so I felt. And I thought it was their fault.
But slowly, I realized, it was my very own fault. I let them do this to me. Of course, I did not DESERVE to be treated that way, but I let them. I never said anything. I kept quiet, not wanting to make anything chaotic or break the peace. But not "breaking the peace" kept me from ever being at peace.
And so, I slowly started crawling up onto my feet again. I realized that in order to feel better about myself, I had to give to myself a little. That taking care of myself is not selfish. I learned that you do not always have to constantly give to be loved and that you cannot do things for other people, or even have anything to offer to anyone else, if you don't take care of yourself.
I had to speak up for myself. I'd faced a lot of trying things in my life, but surprisingly nothing had proven more difficult than breaking a seemingly OK habit that was actually a nasty habit of 19 years. I had to watch people I thought were my best friends stop hanging out with me because I was different. I had to constantly tell myself I was doing the right thing, while constantly wondering how doing the right thing could feel so awful. But doesn't the "right" thing often feel so terrible at the start? But the more I took care of myself, the more I realized that friends lost over this were not really friends in the first place. And as I continued to realize this I learned even more. I saw that it is OK to set certain expectations of the people you surround yourself with. Slowly, I became happier and happier with myself. I became more confident and I was on a slow path to recovery. I started to heal... and can still feel myself healing every day.
It's a warm feeling inside of my heart, even reaching into the depths of my soul... cheesy as it may be, I can find no other words within me to describe this healing process.
As a matter of fact, my trip to the Czech Republic over winter break was such a huge part of that healing process. I went there for 2 weeks with only $250 in cash. My grandma forgot to deposit my check into my bank account while I was there, and no one in the Czech Republic knew that, until maybe the very end. But these lovely Czech (and Slovak!) people took me into their homes, they drove me and took care of me, they constantly insisted on paying for me and every single day there was chilly and cold, but all of their actions warmed my heart and healed so many unseen wounds (Wounds I am sure they had no idea they were aiding). For the first time in my life, other people were REALLY going out of their way to do some absolutely amazing things for me. (And I miss them all so very much).
The point is, since I made the decision to surround myself with people who treat me right, since I made the decision to stand up for myself — respect myself, really, my life has completely changed for the better.
Changing yourself, changing something huge about your personality, something that has identified you since you were BORN practically, is such a difficult thing to do. And for me, it was even harder, because I did not think any of those things about my personality were bad.
It's hard to see the huge flaws in trusting and loving everyone you meet. It's hard to find a flaw in always offering to pay for everything for everyone. It's hard to see the wrong in smiling without cessation, and so difficult to come to the realization that not everyone is good deep down, not everyone can be trusted, and that you are always going to get hurt. And if you aren't taking care of yourself to begin with, and especially if you never expect the possibility of being hurt, the surprise and the blow of the hit might just nearly knock you down and wear you out every time.
There is a fine line to walk with all of these things. To love with caution, but not too cautiously. To trust with caution, but not so cautiously that you keep everything locked up to yourself — never allowing anyone else into your world to see all the pleasure and beauty you behold. To smile and reveal a part of yourself, without the insane connotation of "I'll take off my pants for you in a second if you lie and say you love me for just a while." Haha.. ok... perhaps I'm taking that one a little too far, I know.
That was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life, to change myself. To change these traits that had wounded me, without completely losing those friendly qualities. And it is still an on-going process. It is still a struggle at times to speak up. I still try to speak and nothing comes out sometimes. I still make some of the same stupid mistakes. But I learn. And sometimes you do just have to make a mistake again and again and again until you understand not go to there anymore — for me it was years of the same thing before I understood... and even now I still don't completely.
But this world, ever since Eve pursed her lips around that juicy piece of mango — I like to think the forbidden fruit was a mango — has never been a utopia, and sadly, never will reach that point of peaceful perfection.
I learn and grow every day.
Webster says:
To grow up, v.
a. to be or become fully grown; attain mental or physical maturity.
If reaching a complete mental maturity means being grown-up, then I honestly do not ever want to grow up. I want to grow and grow and grow up past the giant red oaks, past that waning crescent moon, further than our burning sun and the non-existent planet of Pluto, past the Andromeda Galaxy and past all of this and all of you. :) I want to learn and attain wisdom and sculpt myself daily, all while full well realizing that it's impossible to not get hurt. But also always keeping close to my heart the idea that always from the pain, grow millions of ideas and lessons so full of pulchritude.
Although looking back on some things can tie my stomach into knots, I would never take it back. Without that pain, without that suffering, without all of those mistakes I made, I would not have been crafted and slowly shaped into the person I think, and the person I would like to be, for the rest of my life.
It is sometimes difficult to a person to look back on his life and not regret mistakes — to not look back and wonder what would have happened had he taken the other, easier, more practical path. What he does not seem to realize though, is that this easier path would not have had this beautiful, raw ending. Had there been no pitfalls, no fights, no bruises nor ups nor downs, he would be a useless unshaped blob — so fat and purposeless, that he would eventually be stuck in a rut and never move, never making anything of his life.
I remember loving someone so much that it hurt when I thought about it, and it hurt even more knowing this love was not just unrequited, but had been used by this person to glorify himself, to make him feel purposeful and worthwhile. While I got to sit and feel worthless.
I remember doing that more than once. I remember handing out my love like a free gift to anyone who wanted it. I wanted to love and love and give and give, and I thought I never expected anything in return. But the more my love was carelessly taken and used, and the more that what I gave was taken and trashed, the emptier I felt. The more I wanted someone to simply LOVE me in return. And after years of this treatment, I was so trampled and taken from, I had nothing left to give, or so I thought. I felt like an empty shell. Smiling, pretending to be happy, but I felt like every one had to see through me. I felt like everyone had to know that I was not really happy anymore, that they had drained everything from me. I felt like they should see what they had done! That THEY should fix it! I was there for them! I gave and I gave and I gave! And now, finally, I needed something, and where were they?
They were gone. They left. The abandoned me because there was nothing left of me for them to take. I was no fun anymore. I was worthless. Or so I felt. And I thought it was their fault.
But slowly, I realized, it was my very own fault. I let them do this to me. Of course, I did not DESERVE to be treated that way, but I let them. I never said anything. I kept quiet, not wanting to make anything chaotic or break the peace. But not "breaking the peace" kept me from ever being at peace.
And so, I slowly started crawling up onto my feet again. I realized that in order to feel better about myself, I had to give to myself a little. That taking care of myself is not selfish. I learned that you do not always have to constantly give to be loved and that you cannot do things for other people, or even have anything to offer to anyone else, if you don't take care of yourself.
I had to speak up for myself. I'd faced a lot of trying things in my life, but surprisingly nothing had proven more difficult than breaking a seemingly OK habit that was actually a nasty habit of 19 years. I had to watch people I thought were my best friends stop hanging out with me because I was different. I had to constantly tell myself I was doing the right thing, while constantly wondering how doing the right thing could feel so awful. But doesn't the "right" thing often feel so terrible at the start? But the more I took care of myself, the more I realized that friends lost over this were not really friends in the first place. And as I continued to realize this I learned even more. I saw that it is OK to set certain expectations of the people you surround yourself with. Slowly, I became happier and happier with myself. I became more confident and I was on a slow path to recovery. I started to heal... and can still feel myself healing every day.
It's a warm feeling inside of my heart, even reaching into the depths of my soul... cheesy as it may be, I can find no other words within me to describe this healing process.
As a matter of fact, my trip to the Czech Republic over winter break was such a huge part of that healing process. I went there for 2 weeks with only $250 in cash. My grandma forgot to deposit my check into my bank account while I was there, and no one in the Czech Republic knew that, until maybe the very end. But these lovely Czech (and Slovak!) people took me into their homes, they drove me and took care of me, they constantly insisted on paying for me and every single day there was chilly and cold, but all of their actions warmed my heart and healed so many unseen wounds (Wounds I am sure they had no idea they were aiding). For the first time in my life, other people were REALLY going out of their way to do some absolutely amazing things for me. (And I miss them all so very much).
The point is, since I made the decision to surround myself with people who treat me right, since I made the decision to stand up for myself — respect myself, really, my life has completely changed for the better.
Changing yourself, changing something huge about your personality, something that has identified you since you were BORN practically, is such a difficult thing to do. And for me, it was even harder, because I did not think any of those things about my personality were bad.
It's hard to see the huge flaws in trusting and loving everyone you meet. It's hard to find a flaw in always offering to pay for everything for everyone. It's hard to see the wrong in smiling without cessation, and so difficult to come to the realization that not everyone is good deep down, not everyone can be trusted, and that you are always going to get hurt. And if you aren't taking care of yourself to begin with, and especially if you never expect the possibility of being hurt, the surprise and the blow of the hit might just nearly knock you down and wear you out every time.
There is a fine line to walk with all of these things. To love with caution, but not too cautiously. To trust with caution, but not so cautiously that you keep everything locked up to yourself — never allowing anyone else into your world to see all the pleasure and beauty you behold. To smile and reveal a part of yourself, without the insane connotation of "I'll take off my pants for you in a second if you lie and say you love me for just a while." Haha.. ok... perhaps I'm taking that one a little too far, I know.
That was the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life, to change myself. To change these traits that had wounded me, without completely losing those friendly qualities. And it is still an on-going process. It is still a struggle at times to speak up. I still try to speak and nothing comes out sometimes. I still make some of the same stupid mistakes. But I learn. And sometimes you do just have to make a mistake again and again and again until you understand not go to there anymore — for me it was years of the same thing before I understood... and even now I still don't completely.
But this world, ever since Eve pursed her lips around that juicy piece of mango — I like to think the forbidden fruit was a mango — has never been a utopia, and sadly, never will reach that point of peaceful perfection.
I learn and grow every day.
Webster says:
To grow up, v.
a. to be or become fully grown; attain mental or physical maturity.
If reaching a complete mental maturity means being grown-up, then I honestly do not ever want to grow up. I want to grow and grow and grow up past the giant red oaks, past that waning crescent moon, further than our burning sun and the non-existent planet of Pluto, past the Andromeda Galaxy and past all of this and all of you. :) I want to learn and attain wisdom and sculpt myself daily, all while full well realizing that it's impossible to not get hurt. But also always keeping close to my heart the idea that always from the pain, grow millions of ideas and lessons so full of pulchritude.
18.12.08
PoLlY pOcKet
My eyes, my body, my flesh scream : Sleep, sleep, SLEEP!
But my spirit, my mind, my heart every sense is wide awake screaming : live, dream, do, write, write, WRITE!
About what I am supposed to write, I honestly have no idea. Must something be crushingly profound in order to be turned into script? Must I have something life changing to say for my words to be worth reading?
Why must man find parallels in most writing he reads? He picks up a novel and starts to read, something that is so far-fetched from his own life, he still can pick apart and apply to him. A man can read these simple words I have here — strange words, words that mean something only to me and apply to a life that only I know about, yet every word is picked apart and analyzed like DNA by a geneticist. Does a man do this because he is selfish? Everything must in some way be related to him? Or is it simply a manner in which to become more invested in the novel or the piece of reading? A way to feel more involved, a way to get the characters to really mean something to the reader?
Whatever it is, I am not to be analyzed. You will find no hidden meanings in what I say, because I say what I mean and I mean what I say. I have been raw for quite some time now, and it has been a beautiful feeling. But if taking my words and applying them to yourself makes you feel better, then do it. If it makes you more involved in my literature, then do it.
I have seen God in my life so much lately.
I slipped for quite some time. I was on a downward spiral, and felt like I had no way out. Every way I looked in my life, it was dark. I could not see the light at the end of the tunnel, in fact, I felt as if I were traveling away from the light. There was no OK part of my life to focus on — everything was in shambles. My friends, my relationships, my finances, my mental well-being, my physical well-being, my motivation, my school, my life was very dark and I continued to think I could fix everything myself. I continued to think that I alone could just wake up one day, make a to-do list, and fix everything in one clean sweep. And my oh my did I try to do that. I tried to heal my heart after Mexico, I tried to heal my heart after being used and stomped on by nearly all of the people I considered "best friend", I tried to change myself, I tried to get out of my depression alone, I tried to fill this hole in my heart with stupid male attention and frivolous meaningless items. Everything failed. I still felt empty, I still felt hurt, I felt abandoned and like I had no place left to go. I felt like everyone I had been there for had left me and that no one cared. I felt like I had been so strong for so many people and had helped so many others through the stormy periods in their lives — so where were they now when IIII needed help? No where near me. In fact, instead of being my friends, they were stabbing me and hurting me even more.
And about 4-6 week ago, I broke down. I sobbed. I lay on the floor for an hour and I sobbed and cried and prayed. I was SICK of that rut. I was sick of trying to fix all of my problems alone, I was sick of filling the hole in my heart with all of these different guys attention and all of the superficiality, one of the few things this world has to offer.
And God answered my prayer in so many ways. Since July, I have become an entirely new person. I have a new heart, a new soul and a new calling — a new purpose — a new reason to live. I realize what is truly important to me... and it's nothing that anyone would expect and it's nothing that most people could ever fully understand.
I no longer feel wounded or hurt about so many things. I have learned to forgive those who have hurt me, without them ever even apologizing. I have learned to see the beauty in every little thing, and I have learned to be thankful just for even being alive.
There is beauty and joy in every moment of my life, even the sad moments. God is working, I am excited, and I cannot wait to see where his intended journey for my life takes me.
But my spirit, my mind, my heart every sense is wide awake screaming : live, dream, do, write, write, WRITE!
About what I am supposed to write, I honestly have no idea. Must something be crushingly profound in order to be turned into script? Must I have something life changing to say for my words to be worth reading?
Why must man find parallels in most writing he reads? He picks up a novel and starts to read, something that is so far-fetched from his own life, he still can pick apart and apply to him. A man can read these simple words I have here — strange words, words that mean something only to me and apply to a life that only I know about, yet every word is picked apart and analyzed like DNA by a geneticist. Does a man do this because he is selfish? Everything must in some way be related to him? Or is it simply a manner in which to become more invested in the novel or the piece of reading? A way to feel more involved, a way to get the characters to really mean something to the reader?
Whatever it is, I am not to be analyzed. You will find no hidden meanings in what I say, because I say what I mean and I mean what I say. I have been raw for quite some time now, and it has been a beautiful feeling. But if taking my words and applying them to yourself makes you feel better, then do it. If it makes you more involved in my literature, then do it.
I have seen God in my life so much lately.
I slipped for quite some time. I was on a downward spiral, and felt like I had no way out. Every way I looked in my life, it was dark. I could not see the light at the end of the tunnel, in fact, I felt as if I were traveling away from the light. There was no OK part of my life to focus on — everything was in shambles. My friends, my relationships, my finances, my mental well-being, my physical well-being, my motivation, my school, my life was very dark and I continued to think I could fix everything myself. I continued to think that I alone could just wake up one day, make a to-do list, and fix everything in one clean sweep. And my oh my did I try to do that. I tried to heal my heart after Mexico, I tried to heal my heart after being used and stomped on by nearly all of the people I considered "best friend", I tried to change myself, I tried to get out of my depression alone, I tried to fill this hole in my heart with stupid male attention and frivolous meaningless items. Everything failed. I still felt empty, I still felt hurt, I felt abandoned and like I had no place left to go. I felt like everyone I had been there for had left me and that no one cared. I felt like I had been so strong for so many people and had helped so many others through the stormy periods in their lives — so where were they now when IIII needed help? No where near me. In fact, instead of being my friends, they were stabbing me and hurting me even more.
And about 4-6 week ago, I broke down. I sobbed. I lay on the floor for an hour and I sobbed and cried and prayed. I was SICK of that rut. I was sick of trying to fix all of my problems alone, I was sick of filling the hole in my heart with all of these different guys attention and all of the superficiality, one of the few things this world has to offer.
And God answered my prayer in so many ways. Since July, I have become an entirely new person. I have a new heart, a new soul and a new calling — a new purpose — a new reason to live. I realize what is truly important to me... and it's nothing that anyone would expect and it's nothing that most people could ever fully understand.
I no longer feel wounded or hurt about so many things. I have learned to forgive those who have hurt me, without them ever even apologizing. I have learned to see the beauty in every little thing, and I have learned to be thankful just for even being alive.
There is beauty and joy in every moment of my life, even the sad moments. God is working, I am excited, and I cannot wait to see where his intended journey for my life takes me.
9.12.08
Mrzzzzzzzl
A dimly lit street, she walked alone. In realistic terms of the word, she did appear quite desperately alone to onlookers. A loner — a peculiar, yet sweet and innocent old woman living in quiet solitude. But behind that mask of loneliness, and even beyond that soft, pale skin, was a young girl illuminated and full of life.
The sound of her heels on the freezing road, echoing in the falling night, took her back to the cobblestone streets of her youth, back to the house on Shmireh Drive, and then back to ... that ... and back to ... him ... No, her mind must not linger there for too long. She'd crunched it up inside of her heart and kept it there for 50 years, why let it come out now?
She pulled her shawl tightly about her bony shoulders as an Eastern wind blew frigid air into her eyes, making them water and freeze the moment they caressed her face. Perhaps if she had been like Betsy and started going to the gym when she was more nimble, the walk toward her apartment with groceries in hand would not be the struggle it was proving to be in this moment.
Her footsteps fell into a rhythm, creating an eerie symphony with the blowing wind, creaking trees and the slow, light drizzle of precipitation. Step, creak, roar, drizzle, step, creak, roar, drizzle, it continued for quite some time, for her house was located miles away from normal civilization, step, creak, roar, drizzle, step, creak, roar, drizzle... but the rhythm broke. Her foot could not gain traction on the drizzle which had begun to ice over the cement. She slid backwards in one slow, graceful, movement with her back arched and her shawl still scarcely attached by one end blowing like a kite behind her.
She lay face up on the wet cement, not quite sure if she were really still alive, and quite positive that if she were still alive, gaining the strength to levitate would prove to be a nearly impossible task. Instead of crying out for help to the empty streets, praying that there would be some other soul wandering around at such an absurd hour, she took to simply lying there.
The orange sky and eerie winds were like a book she knew by heart, she could read them so easily. But this was something he had taught her to do in their sacred nights together many moons before. She became angry that even 50 years later, she could still be constantly reminded of something so beautiful, yet so cruel and heartbreaking, so many times in a short day.
She lay there for what could have been hours. Had she wanted to pull herself together and walk home, she probably could have at this point, but there was something in that night air calling her to stay. What a fool she would have looked were anyone to pass her by.
She scooted her fragile frame to a warmer corner near an abandoned building. Her shawl became a blanket and the bag of rice from her grocery sack, a pillow. She had been right about the orange sky. The slush soon turned to beautiful thick snow — the kind of snow that stuck to everything like perfect pieces of nature's grand puzzle. She was feeling sad and nostalgic, but could not keep from smiling at the beauty before her and the precious memories flashing through her mind like an old slide show.
------------
Just got a little inspired to do some creative writing this evening... not really sure where I am going with this... already a little bored with it... not really sure what all the major aspects are behind this elderly woman and her lingering memories.
Suggestions? :)
The sound of her heels on the freezing road, echoing in the falling night, took her back to the cobblestone streets of her youth, back to the house on Shmireh Drive, and then back to ... that ... and back to ... him ... No, her mind must not linger there for too long. She'd crunched it up inside of her heart and kept it there for 50 years, why let it come out now?
She pulled her shawl tightly about her bony shoulders as an Eastern wind blew frigid air into her eyes, making them water and freeze the moment they caressed her face. Perhaps if she had been like Betsy and started going to the gym when she was more nimble, the walk toward her apartment with groceries in hand would not be the struggle it was proving to be in this moment.
Her footsteps fell into a rhythm, creating an eerie symphony with the blowing wind, creaking trees and the slow, light drizzle of precipitation. Step, creak, roar, drizzle, step, creak, roar, drizzle, it continued for quite some time, for her house was located miles away from normal civilization, step, creak, roar, drizzle, step, creak, roar, drizzle... but the rhythm broke. Her foot could not gain traction on the drizzle which had begun to ice over the cement. She slid backwards in one slow, graceful, movement with her back arched and her shawl still scarcely attached by one end blowing like a kite behind her.
She lay face up on the wet cement, not quite sure if she were really still alive, and quite positive that if she were still alive, gaining the strength to levitate would prove to be a nearly impossible task. Instead of crying out for help to the empty streets, praying that there would be some other soul wandering around at such an absurd hour, she took to simply lying there.
The orange sky and eerie winds were like a book she knew by heart, she could read them so easily. But this was something he had taught her to do in their sacred nights together many moons before. She became angry that even 50 years later, she could still be constantly reminded of something so beautiful, yet so cruel and heartbreaking, so many times in a short day.
She lay there for what could have been hours. Had she wanted to pull herself together and walk home, she probably could have at this point, but there was something in that night air calling her to stay. What a fool she would have looked were anyone to pass her by.
She scooted her fragile frame to a warmer corner near an abandoned building. Her shawl became a blanket and the bag of rice from her grocery sack, a pillow. She had been right about the orange sky. The slush soon turned to beautiful thick snow — the kind of snow that stuck to everything like perfect pieces of nature's grand puzzle. She was feeling sad and nostalgic, but could not keep from smiling at the beauty before her and the precious memories flashing through her mind like an old slide show.
------------
Just got a little inspired to do some creative writing this evening... not really sure where I am going with this... already a little bored with it... not really sure what all the major aspects are behind this elderly woman and her lingering memories.
Suggestions? :)
6.12.08
Luminescence
In this fuzzy eyed world, she came to me. My heart was pounding, my fists were clenched, a deep inexplicable anger welled up inside of me as she walked towards me and asked me if I was Erika.
But her words hit like sweet honey, and began to slowly melt away my anger. We walked and talked slowly, not sure what to say to the other — not sure why SHE was the one who had to come for me.
Two strangers brought together by one terrible thing.
When I arrived at my new home, I was still confused as to how all of this had happened. How I was going to live with these two people. How I was going to watch love unfold in front of me. I had hated without knowing why. I had loved without knowing why. Each of them, and now here I was.
As the days in this hazy land continued, I was unsure of what to do with myself. I had thought someone else would be my savior (I had someone very specific in mind), but every time, no, there she was. With a hand outstretched. Part of me still wanted to hate her, but another HUGE part of me wanted to explore her, to know her, to see everything beautiful she had to offer and to see what made her something I could never be.
One night I did something terrible to her. Why I did it, I don't know. It wasn't physical harm, I didn't say anything to her, but it's what I didn't say, and it is what my actions said more than anything. I tried to steal the most precious thing in her life away from her... and I almost did. Ultimately, she won, and that is the way it was supposed to be.
Instead of shunning me, instead of hating me as she should have, she accepted me. She wanted to still be my friend, she wanted to understand my pain. And the next morning, when I awoke feeling alone and ashamed, she was waiting for me. I walked downstairs to see her standing in the door way, a heated summer breeze blew her golden locks around her crystal sea green eyes and the sun almost eerily shone on her dress making it translucent and casting soft, beautiful shadows on the wooden walls of the room.
She beckoned for me to come, and I did, although I could not understand why she could smile at me or love me after what I had done. For so long I thought she had been the one doing wrong, but the more I thought about it, the more I really looked at what I was doing, the more I realized I was completely wrong. I was terrible, I was awful and she forgave me without me even asking.
I began to cry and tell her all of this; she wiped my tears and smiled at me and told me it was ok, that I should stop this, and that we should be grateful for and enjoy our friendship and not fuss over the small things.
But this did not seem like such a small thing, but to her it was. To her, the value of friendship and forgiveness meant more to her than this sin, this crime. She saw the beauty in the dirt, and she picked me out of it and still held on to me. She considered me precious, and I considered her the same.
But her words hit like sweet honey, and began to slowly melt away my anger. We walked and talked slowly, not sure what to say to the other — not sure why SHE was the one who had to come for me.
Two strangers brought together by one terrible thing.
When I arrived at my new home, I was still confused as to how all of this had happened. How I was going to live with these two people. How I was going to watch love unfold in front of me. I had hated without knowing why. I had loved without knowing why. Each of them, and now here I was.
As the days in this hazy land continued, I was unsure of what to do with myself. I had thought someone else would be my savior (I had someone very specific in mind), but every time, no, there she was. With a hand outstretched. Part of me still wanted to hate her, but another HUGE part of me wanted to explore her, to know her, to see everything beautiful she had to offer and to see what made her something I could never be.
One night I did something terrible to her. Why I did it, I don't know. It wasn't physical harm, I didn't say anything to her, but it's what I didn't say, and it is what my actions said more than anything. I tried to steal the most precious thing in her life away from her... and I almost did. Ultimately, she won, and that is the way it was supposed to be.
Instead of shunning me, instead of hating me as she should have, she accepted me. She wanted to still be my friend, she wanted to understand my pain. And the next morning, when I awoke feeling alone and ashamed, she was waiting for me. I walked downstairs to see her standing in the door way, a heated summer breeze blew her golden locks around her crystal sea green eyes and the sun almost eerily shone on her dress making it translucent and casting soft, beautiful shadows on the wooden walls of the room.
She beckoned for me to come, and I did, although I could not understand why she could smile at me or love me after what I had done. For so long I thought she had been the one doing wrong, but the more I thought about it, the more I really looked at what I was doing, the more I realized I was completely wrong. I was terrible, I was awful and she forgave me without me even asking.
I began to cry and tell her all of this; she wiped my tears and smiled at me and told me it was ok, that I should stop this, and that we should be grateful for and enjoy our friendship and not fuss over the small things.
But this did not seem like such a small thing, but to her it was. To her, the value of friendship and forgiveness meant more to her than this sin, this crime. She saw the beauty in the dirt, and she picked me out of it and still held on to me. She considered me precious, and I considered her the same.
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