Anyone with even a slight interest in English grammar or wordplay should definitely head over to BeckyJoie's blog Rather be writing and read "Dr. Word Wielder's Wordsmithing Woes" it's very entertaining and insightful. Here's the link: Rather Be Writing
Thursday, July 30, 2009
I'm totally switching the tone from Tuesday's "The Thistle and the Daisies" here. (I did say, I didn't write anything of that nature very often, didn't I? There really isn't much to be said about it, but I guess I could give you all a warning, it's a bit gloomy.
Today, the room was more still than usual. Jonathon was no exception. His eyes were open and he could see the neon-flourescant glow of the bright bulb above him clearly. The light would have been enough to make an average human blink and look away, but Jonathon could not. His eyes were fixated forward as was his head, unable to move.
He could hear the rythmic hum of the apparatus beside him. It was comforting to him. It reminded him he was still alive and filled him with hope. Every artificial breath told him that perhaps one day, he might be able to move again. The thought to try would come to his still active mind, now and again, and he would have tried, if he could remember how. The nerves were dead. Severed and destroyed when the car had hit him.
He remembered pieces of the accident. He rememebered the helplessness of seeing the SUV barrel through the light. He remembered being unable to get out of it's berserk flight. His car rolled several times and stopped top down in a ditch. He remembered feeling the coldness of something wet pressing against him, filling his nose and his mouth. He remembered being trapped. It was the last thing he ever felt.
It was nothing compared to this. He could hear, and he could think, but he could not move. He could not communicate. He was fed intravenously through a tube he could not feel that pumped the life giving substance into his body. Another tube, sucked away his waste. The only evidence ever coming to his attention of this were the slurping sounds that he sometimes heard, and the nurse that came frequently and stood around him doing things he could not see.
It did not take him long to begin to look forward to her visits, he could hear her footsteps from down the hallway, panging and echoing from the empty walls as she would make her way to his room. He called her Samantha, and she was the most pleasent person in his mind, always asking how he was and telling him about her family.
In reality, never a word was spoken. Today, he was listening to the stillness of the room. The occasional slurp of a machine doing it's job, and over that, the constant steady in and out of the one that gave him breath. He was wondering where Samantha was. He heard two sets of footsteps begin making their way down the hall. They were both heavier than Sam's, he knew instantly. The stopped outside his door and he could hear a male's voice whispering, but he could not make out the words. The door swung open and the two footsteps entered.
Fsssh, foooh. Fsssh foooh. Jonathon still found comfort in the sounds that brought him life.
"Poor, bastard." Said a man's voice standing at the door of the room. "No friends. No family."
Jonathon could hear him move beside his bed.
"It's almost a shame." The other man said.
Fssh, foooh. Fsssh foooh.
"Almost." The man moved and a switch clicked beside Jonathon's head.
"Call the coroner. Time of death... eh, I'll give him five minutes."
"Let's say 11:38."
The footsteps left the room, the door swung silently shut.
Jonathon listened to them in horror as the footsteps faded down the hallway. There were no more sounds. There was nothing.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
I wrote this on a whim for a friend once, via an internet conversation, because they had asked for a story, and sometimes, I oblige. After reading a lot of things today about challenges and hardships, I thought it kind of fit, so here it is.
The Thistle and the Daisies
So once upon a time in a very distant land there grew a great field of daisies. Now this field was a special field, in it that all of the other daisies were just as happy as daisies could be. Which is to say, they were outstandingly happy. After all a single daisy only had to look in any direction to see that it was surrounded by the brightest and best of it's kind, exactly like its self, and the daisies were all very much in love with themselves and the soil beneath their roots and the tenderly, loving bees and butterflies that would tickle their petals and spread their love from one flower to the next.
In fact, there was no happier place anywhere to be found. All the flowers were very much in love with life and everything their simple existance contained. In hindsight they needed so little; sun, rain, insects for pollination. Not a complaint could ever be heard coming from anywhere in this field of daisies. That is, at least from the petals of the daisies.
You see, In this field of yellow and white that stretched as far as the eye could see was a single, purple thistle. Much to the thistle's dismay, he grew up tall and proud, (in thistle comparison anyway) but somehow always seemed to find himself as the ridicule of the daisies' attention.
Now, it wasn't as if the daisies made fun of this poor, lonely thistle, mind you. In fact, there was no ill will at all. The daisies were far too concerned with their own existance to ever pay attention to the single purple blight amoungst them, which was, hence, the root of the thistle's problem. No matter how tall and proud he grew he could never rise his head above the daisies and find a place for himself. Instead the thistle felt very much insecure and unwanted. After all, everywhere he looked were the bright yellow colors of all the daisies. His own purple hue was so ridiculously out of place.
So one day, after the season's heaviest rains had fallen and given all the flowers the life giving water they so desperately needed, and when the sun had just begun to peak out from behind the clouds and pleasantly warm the air; the thistle came to a very important decision.
He had decided he had enough. The thistle, with all his pride, pulled himself from the moist earth freeing all of his roots and gazed up and over all of the daisies. He waved farewell, and listened as the daisies too made their lazy good-byes and returned to basking in the sun. With his mind made up he set off across the field walking along his roots until the field of daisies was long behind him.
He was just beginning to question his motives, as he crested a very big--and tiring!--hill, but lo and behold--on the other side of the hill was a very happy and beautiful field with millions and millions of purple thistles just like him singing and praising the sun. His petals glistened with a sense of belonging and happiness he had never felt as he quickly rushed down and made his place amoungst the other thistles.
And so just when things had gotten the worst for the thistle he left, and found his kind, and unbounded happiness, just over a hill.
Take from that what you will. If you haven't already be sure to read yesterday's guest blog and head over to Brittany's page www.rhapsodizingmoments.blogspot.com where you can read all the other great things she has to say and see the guest blog that I wrote posted there. As always, feel free to leave a comment, reading them is often more fun than posting.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Hey, folks. As I hinted at on Friday, I might have a surprise treat in store for you all, and as it happens I do. SURPRISE! As you probably gathered from the title, Brittany Hart from the blog Rhapsodizing Moments and I just exchanged guest blogs for one another.
Brittany has been studying creative nonfiction and has posted some really wonderful pieces on her site. This exchange is particularly of note, because, without having read some of her things, and being inspired by her style, I never would have wrote my own nonfiction account of the weather like I did that you can now find on her blog.
Below is an example of her work. Brittany has a lot of great things to say so be sure to go and check out the rest of her stuff at Rhapsodizing Moments.
Fresh powder drifts lightly to the ground as I wait for the bus, staring at my feet. The flakes look so innocent and fragile, lightly attaching to the sidewalk without melting. But I know better—they aren’t innocent, and soon they won’t be fragile. They’ll melt just in time to freeze overnight, becoming the slick magicians that make my feet disappear into thin air, the traitorous sidekicks of gravity that bruise my backside.
I step on a small, untouched patch of snow in front of me to examine the intricate pattern of my footprint, but the snow turns brown and melts before I can fully appreciate my stamp on the world. I pat my foot again, this time dragging it back and forth, painting the sidewalk with lines of the nasty brown muck that seems so much more appropriate for today’s temperature.
I lift my head momentarily to examine the other people at the bus stop. Some look very serious, foreheads furrowed and mouths straight as they concentrate on some very important business that consumes their lives. Some look bored, and understandably so—patience is not a natural virtue. One girl speaks loudly into her cell phone while making large, animated gestures with her left hand as if the person on the other end of the line can see her. Two boys discuss how gross their roommate is for watching horse porn. Yeah...the world is an interesting place.
The bus arrives and I watch. The serious people make their way to the bus doors with haste, as if they fear there are only two seats left and someone pissed on one of those seats. The bored people follow at a leisurely pace, avoiding the loud, animated girl on her cell phone like oil avoids water. The two boys discussing their gross roommate must not be waiting for the bus at all, because they remain behind. I get on last, because that’s what I do sometimes.
The bus is warm, a comforting fact since I only wore two coats, a hat, a scarf, and gloves today. Regardless of the reviving heat, I still feel awkward on the bus. I’m never quite sure where to look once I sit down. Do I look ahead at the person across the aisle from me, or should I pretend that I’m texting someone so that I don’t have to meet anyone’s eyes? I settle for reading the ads above the seats, the ones I’ve practically memorized.
Getting off the bus is a scary prospect for me. Going down the steps can be treacherous, and stepping onto an ice-covered sidewalk is an entirely different ordeal. I grab the railing and count the steps. One, two, three steps and...sidewalk. My shoes stick to the pavement, solid and unmoving, and I let out a deep sigh of relief, watching my breath dance with the air in front of me.
Walks in the winter are definitely not my favorite thing in the world. It seems to take longer to get home when it’s cold outside. The worst part of walking home is the stoplights, because I have to just stand there and wait while the snow piles on my shoulders and wiggles its way into my bones. Today I cross the street as if on stilts—slow, steady, and deliberate, monitoring the each sabotaging step—and I notice that some drivers are taking a keen interest in me. One driver needs to turn right, but I’m in his way, which he makes obvious by riding my heels. He might as well roll down his window and shout, “Get out of my way, stupid girl.” I can understand why he doesn’t do this though—it’s far too cold to roll down the window. Another man turning left lets me know that I’m in his way, too. I’m just so glad that my presence is enhancing people’s lives today.
I finally get into my apartment and shed—coats, hat, scarf, gloves, shoes, and backpack. Everything wet comes off, excluding my pants. I plop on the couch and sit still, eyes closed for a few minutes. I try to relax, but it is hard. I have so much to do, and I am not at all in the mood to do it. My hands ache from the storm. I don’t have arthritis or anything, I just pop my knuckles.
My roommate Megan comes through the door a few minutes later, snowflakes covering her hair and jacket like lacework. I’m amazed at her ability to wear winter as a jeweled accessory. “Hey,” she says. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much. Just thawing.”
“Yeah, it’s cold out there,” she replies with a big grin on her face. The grin isn’t for the snow, it’s for me. She doesn’t like snow. “I’m gonna take a nap before work, okay?”
I smile back at her and nod. I wish winter would treat me as well as it did her. Neither of us like the cold, but winter definitely has favorites. My winter leaves me with crappy brown muck. Her winter adorns her with stars of pearl.